Pantheocide: The Organized and Systematic Extermination of Gods.
Chapter One
Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, October 2008.
"That looks ominous."
"The weather bugs say that we're due for thunderstorms with heavy rain and strong winds this afternoon. The main storm line is passing well east of us, but probably coming no closer than Sedalia. We should be all right here."
"We'd better be. There isn’t a vacant hangar on the base." And that, General Walter Cochrane, thought was the truth. Once long ago, or so it seemed, the bad old days when aircraft would spend tens of hours on the ground getting fixed for everyone they spent flying, seemed to have gone. The F-14 had required 50 hours of maintenance for every flight hour, the F-111 had needed eighty and they had been considered great improvements on what had gone before. The F-18H and F-16Gs that were now entering the Air Force and Navy inventory required just five.
Now the problem was back again, and it wasn't just the fact that the F-111 and the F-14 had both been pulled out of the boneyard and returned to service. It was where they were flying. Hell was not a good environment for the operation of aircraft, the pumice dust that saturated the atmosphere clogged engines and abraded airframes, sending maintenance requirements skywards. The life of engines between complete strip-down and rebuilds had dropped by two orders of magnitude, back almost to WW II levels while the need for airframe refurbishment had soared to an intolerable degree. The result, inevitably, was that serviceability rates had fallen to appalling levels. Before the Salvation War had started, the USAF demanded 80 – 90 percent availability rates for its front-line aircraft, privately Cochrane admitted that had been an optimistic target, but now they were down in the 20 to 30 percent. For all its expansion over the nine months since the Salvation War had started, the Air Force wasn't fielding more aircraft than it had done pre-war. If it hadn't been for the museum relics and boneyard salvage filling out the numbers, the situation would be dire.
"Perhaps we ought to do it like the Russians Sir. Build the engines cheap and throw them away after seven hundred hours."
"The Russians don't get seven hundred any more than we get a thousand. And we can't just throw old engines away, we're too short of replacements. Even with the government buying every engine Pratt and Westinghouse can turn out, we're still short. They don’t even build a lot of the engines we need anymore. And as for them." Cochrane gestured at the row of B-2 Spirit bombers parked on the hard stand.
His aide knew what his General meant. If the problems were bad on the conventional aircraft, they were many times worse on the B-2. The aircraft had been designed for operations in very hostile air environments where it would be the target for multiple batteries of surface-to-air missiles. It was built so that it would be near-impossible to see on radar and that was a great achievement. Only it had turned out to be completely useless, the Baldricks in Hell hadn't had a single anti-aircraft system to their name and human aircraft flew their missions without any kind of serious opposition. Only, the same dust that wrecking engines destroyed the delicate anti-radar materials that gave the B-2 its evasive capability. B-2 serviceability had never been good, now it was abysmal. Of the twenty B-2s operated by the 509th Bomb Group, only one was operational.
"We need the C version like yesterday." Colonel Harmsworth spoke glumly. As an aide to General Cochrane, one of his jobs was tracking Northrop’s efforts to produce a B-2 that was built of conventional materials, but it was harder than it seemed. Effectively it meant an entirely new aircraft.
"We'll never see it, Bill. Bet you a hundred bucks on it. Rockwell is putting the finishing touches on re-assembling the Bone production line and Boeing is designing a version of the C-17 as a bomber. We'll see both of those before the B-2C becomes reality and the powers-that-be will decide a third bomber is just too much trouble." Cochrane hesitated. "Is it my imagination or is the wind picking up fast?" Before Harmsworth could answer, the emergency sirens on the air base started to wail and a tannoy message echoed around the hardstand area. "Emergency, General Cochrane to the tower, immediately."
It was undignified for a General to run anyway, that's why they had aides. But when the Lieutenant in the air operations center believed the situation was bad enough to warrant him giving orders to a General, running was in order. If the situation was that bad, every second counted, if it was not, there was the transfer of a Lieutenant to one of the airbases in Hell to arrange. Even as he sprinted to the steps that led down to the AOC, Cochrane reflected that many Generals in history had told incompetent junior officers to go to hell, but he was one of the first who could make that order happen.
"What's happening?" He snapped the question out as he entered the crowded room.
"Sir, the storm line is changing and intensifying. Look at the Doppler radar plot."
Cochrane had never been a meteorologist but years of watching the Weather Channel had made him familiar with the display. The brown of the map was disfigured by a green band that stretched horizontally across the display. That wasn't the problem, it meant heavy rain but that had been expected. The problem was the small section in the center of the band that went from yellow to orange and then to deep red with a small purple spot in the center. That meant a tornado. They had been expected too, but the weather pattern had meant they would be nowhere near the base. Even as Cochrane watched, the band was changing, the whole right-hand side was collapsing in on itself and reforming at an angle of almost 90 degrees to its original orientation. It was also picking up speed and the deep red/purple area was expanding fast.
Cochrane didn't hesitate. He grabbed the microphone from the alert system and thumbed the speaker button. "Severe weather anomaly approaching. Everybody takes cover in the hangars and closes the doors. Any A-10s hooked to tractors should be towed under cover, otherwise, leave the aircraft. This is not a drill."
'"A-10s Sir? What about the B-2s?"
"Screw them, they're out of service for weeks. Our boys fighting down in Hell need the Warthogs." Concrane relaxed slightly, losing the aircraft would be bad but the skilled technicians who maintained them were irreplaceable. The Air Force was as desperately short of ground crews as it was of everything else. The hangars had been designed to take anything up to and including a very near miss from a large nuclear weapon, the vital technicians would be safe inside them.
The minutes ticked by as the storm line reformed and swept down on Whiteman. The meteorologist shook his head and sucked his teeth. "Storm lines just don’t do that Sir."
"Well, watch one do it." Cochrane almost added 'You moron' to the end but stopped himself. He would save that for a private meeting with the officer later. 'Praise in public, punish in private', the old mantra ran through his mind.
"Hangar doors closed Sir." The young officer who had called him to the AOC made his report. "They got three extra A-10s inside."
"Thank you, Estrada, you did well to call me in so quickly. Good call." The young man straightened slightly and couldn't stop himself from glancing around to see his reaction to his general’s praise.
"Wind speed picking up fast." The meteorologist was attempting to make up lost ground. "120 knots now and still increasing. The anemometer goes off the scale at 165, we're going to pass that easy."
High on the AOC wall was a series of displays from the outside surveillance cameras. One of them pointed east and showed the ground out towards Sedalia. Or it would, normally, but now the scene was different. The sky had blackened over until light levels had dropped to night-time conditions. Even so, the camera was showing three massive tornadoes bearing down on the base, their fearsome funnels illuminated by the almost continuous lightning discharges. The sight was awesome, even the tornadoes that had destroyed Greenburg hadn't matched these monsters.
"They're EF-5s for sure, no doubt about it. I'd say they were F-6s on the old Fujita-Pearson scale." The meteorologist’s voice was awed. These funnels must be three-quarters of a mile across. Lord knows…" He was interrupted by an exaggerated barrage of a throat-clearing from around the room. Mentally he dope-smacked the back of his head, he came from a family that had taken its Baptist religion seriously and The Message had hit them all hard. One of his aunts had even laid down and let herself die just like it had demanded. Now the truth was known, nobody in his family believed anything anymore and they looked at their dead aunt as the worst kind of fool. Even so, changing the speech habit of a lifetime took doing. "Sorry. I have no idea what the wind speeds in those things are, over three hundred miles per hour, I'm sure of that."
The funnels swelled quickly until they filled the screen. By that time, the sky was so dark, that it took Cochrane a few seconds to realize that the television camera had ceased to function. The room was filled with a dull roar, the floor shaking despite the depth to which the facility had been buried. That, if nothing else, told Cochrane just how much energy the storm was containing. The television screens were all blacked out, he guessed the cameras had been destroyed but then he saw a shadow moving on one and realized it was just the conditions out there. "Have we got a night vision option on camera five?"
There was no verbal reply but the image on Camera Five went from black to green. It showed very little more than the normal vision had revealed, the intense driving rain was blanking out most of the imagery but what was visible went far beyond any words Cochrane had to describe it. The shadow he had seen was a B-2, picked up by the storm and thrown cartwheeling down the hard stand. Other shadows could have been the A-10s and F-5s parked there being tossed around with the contemptuous disregard malicious children showed for toys belonging to others. There were other objects as well, Cochrane couldn't recognize them, but they hurtled across the screen before Camera Five blacked out.
"That's it, Sir. All cameras are gone." The voice was quiet and awed at the brief glimpse of the destruction on the surface.
"Doppler radar has gone Sir as well." The meteorologist looked over at General Cochrane, half-expecting to be held responsible for the equipment failure. But who could have expected something like this, F6 tornadoes weren't supposed to be possible, that's why the classification for the Enhanced Fujita scale stopped at EF5. Boardman guessed that an EF6 would be added after today,
Cochrane glanced at the viewer, it was still showing the track of the storm front. It was passing Whiteman and closing in on Warrensburg, the small town to the west of the base. It was a favorite for men on leave and now it was going to be gone. No town could survive a tornado that had hammered a base designed to resist nuclear attack so badly. "How come we're still getting data?"
"Sir, we're pulling radar data from the Tornado Watch on the Weather Channel. We've got a cross-connection, when they sought permission to use input from our radars, we got input from their system in case ours went down."
"Who thought of that?"
Boardman shrugged, "It was a joint effort, sir, we were all brainstorming and the idea just came up."
The storm on the screen was slowly weakening as the trailing edge crossed Whiteman and left the base, if they’re still was one Cochrane thought, sitting in a sea of light green. By the time it enveloped Warrensburg, the purple areas had gone and the dark red had shrunk markedly. That was only relative though, Warrensburg still didn’t have a hope of surviving. It was towns beyond that now stood an honest chance of being able to rebuild. The dull roar had faded, and the floor had stopped shaking, it looked like the monsters had indeed passed.
A few minutes later, he was standing on what was left of Whiteman Air Force base. Behind him, the massive doors on the bomb-proof hangars were opening. It was still raining but the force of the downpour was easing off. Cochrane almost found himself wishing it hadn't for the rain had hidden the worst of the destruction that surrounded him. The aircraft left outside on the hardstand had gone, mostly they were small fragments of shattered wreckage scattered all over the base. 20 B-2s, Cochrane thought, at two billion dollars each. That alone made this storm a catastrophe. The smaller, lighter aircraft, the F-5Es, A-10s, and the handful of F-16Cs that had been assigned here as guards against a Harpy attack, oddly had suffered a little less than the B-2s. Perhaps because the tornadoes had picked them up and thrown them rather than just ripping them apart, some of the birds were still recognizable. There was, for example, what was a wing from an F-16C stuck in the ruins of the control tower.
It was the hardstand itself that showed the awesome force of the storm that had hammered Whiteman Air Force Base. The concrete and blacktop had been ripped from the ground in huge chunks and the fragments hurled around the base as a giant, vicious projectiles. One such chunk had hit the blast doors of a hangar and dented them It had dented a door meant to resist a nuclear blast. That alone showed the incredible force that the storm had unleashed.
Around him, the base personnel was pouring out of the hangars and bomb shelters, only to mill around, seeking direction in the face of the unimaginable devastation. Cochrane looked behind him, the areas where base housing had been built were leveled as thoroughly as the rest of the installation. That gave him his priority at least. Fortunately, he had a loud-hailer available, the presence of mind to think of bringing one as he'd left the AOC was one of the reasons why he'd made it to General.
"Listen up. Everybody who has family in the base housing area, you are dismissed now. Take whatever transport you need from the hangars and get to your quarters, help your families. Move." He hesitated while about a third of the men broke away and set off. "The rest of you, we're forming work gangs to dig the casualties out. There will be a lot of them, and we must move fast. Get whatever tools you can find and get going. Base security, get the infra-red gear and the K-9s, we'll need them to find people buried in the ruins."
As the base surged back into activity, Cochrane walked over the shattered hardstand to the runway. It wasn't quite as badly damaged as the hardstands, but it was still a mess.
"Sir." The voice sounded behind him. One of the pilots was running up to join him.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Sir, my Warthog is fuelled and ready to go, she was being prepped for a test flight when the emergency hit. I can take her up and see what the damage is from the air. I've got a FLIR pod as well, I can help look for people in the wreckage."
"Captain, just look at the runway. It’s a wreck and it’s covered with debris."
"No problem, Sir. The Warthog can handle the damage and worse. My bird still has her Hell-filters fitted so that'll stop any foreign object ingestion. Sir, after this we need everything, we can get to help us and I can do better up there than pushing a spade."
"Make it so, Captain. But steer well of storm fronts if one starts to form. And don't take the fact you are clear for granted. This one turned through 90 degrees and doubled in power in just a few seconds."
"Sir, word from the base housing." Harmsworth was looking grim. "It's gone, all of it. I don’t see how many people can have survived in there. Some in the basements and shelters perhaps, but I don't know, the houses are so thoroughly destroyed, it’s hard to tell where they were. Even the roads are all ripped up. The men are digging but it's looking bad in there."
Cochrane sighed. "Anything else?"
"Local police and emergency services are tied down at Warrensburg, the situation is as bad there as it is in Base Housing. Streets are all blocked or torn up or both, all the buildings are down. They're expecting thousands of dead, nobody even can guess how many are severely wounded. The total population minus the dead is their best guess. So, they're telling us, we're on our resources for a while."
"No, we're not. We need to get through to SecDef now."
"Comms are down Sir. As far as we can make out, our communications tower is somewhere in the Knob Noster National Park. It should be easy to find Sir, there isn't a tree left standing over there."
"Then find another way to get through. We need help down here. Is there any good news?"
"The storm front dissipated before it hit Kansas City. They got heavy rain and strong winds but that's all." Harmsworth was interrupted by the sound of an A-10 taxying out onto the wrecked hardstand, three ground crew helping it to steer around the worst of the damage. "And, Sir, it looks like we're back in business."
Half an hour later, Cochrane was on the telephone to Washington, speaking directly with Defense Secretary Warner.
"And so Sir, Whiteman is out, we can fly an A-10 or two but that's it. The B-2 force is history, there isn't even scrap metal left. Our personnel has mostly escaped, but their families have been hit hard. The base housing is like the B-2s, just tiny pieces of scrap being blown in the wind. We're going to need emergency services, disaster teams, you name it. From what we've been able to put together, we're looking at twenty or thirty thousand dead. This could be as bad as Detroit or Sheffield."
"That squares with our estimates General. I'm speaking with FEMA right now."
"Mister Secretary, please, not FEMA. We've had one disaster here today already."
Cochrane could almost hear the drumming of fingers at the other end of the phone. "That's changed, the problem that caused the mess back then isn't even here now. And there are things about this storm they need to see. I understand it changed direction and speed without warning?"
"That's correct Sir. Was heading north-east, it suddenly turned west."
"That fits some other pictures we have. General Cochrane, you hang in there. Help is on its way. President Abigor has a standing offer to send help for disasters like this. I've got a feeling he was expecting something along these lines."
"Sending Baldricks Sir?"
"That's right General. They're good at digging and shifting wreckage. And I guess you need all the help you can get."
2008 - Pentheocide
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Two
Cruise Liner “Carnival Triumph” Hellgate Bravo, Hamilton, Bermuda, November 2008.
“I can't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but thee
For there is no secret lover that the draft board didn't discover
They're either too young or too old
They're either too gray or too grassy green
The pickings are poor and the crop is lean
What's good is in the Army, what's left will never harm me
They're either too old or too young.”
The singer in the Rome Lounge finished her song with a flourish as the Carnival Triumph edged through the ellipse that marked the boundary between Earth and Hell. Captain Olsen sighed in relief as the dim, swirling red-gray skies of Hell were replaced by the clear blue of his native earth. Then, his sense of relief brought down a crash of guilt to his head. For at least half the passengers on his ship, this wasn’t going to be a happy return home or a joyful visit to a foreign port. They were evacuees from Hamilton and if the weather reports and news bulletins had been anything to go by, they didn’t have homes left to return to. It sounded like Bermuda had been swept clean.
“Any sight sir? Any sight at all?” The Right Honorable Jenny Smith’s voice was a weird, strange mix of urgent, plaintive, and wary, she was asking the question, but she didn’t know whether she wanted to know the answer.
“Not yet, Madame, but the damage onshore looks terrible. The weather reports say this was the worst hurricane the North Atlantic has seen since records started being kept.”
“Sir, off the starboard bow.” First Officer Carsten pointed to the shoreline. Olsen looked through his binoculars and was hard put to avoid gasping in shock. Two warships were hard aground, one almost clear of the water and twisted in a way that made it clear her back was broken. The other, larger, ship was still in the water but was on her beam ends and she was sagging midships in a way that showed her damage too was beyond critical.
Carsten was already flipping through his copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships. “Sir, the big one is the Alvaro de Bazan, Spanish destroyer. The other one is the Nivose, a French surveillance frigate. The hurricane must have got them while they were trying to escape through the Hellgate.”
Olsen stared at the two wrecked ships. “Make to both ships, offer them any assistance within our power. If they have wounded in need of care, we will take them in.”
That could have been the Carnival Triumph’s motto for the last few days. “We will take them in.” What had started as a routine visit on one of Carnival’s “special” cruises had quickly turned into something else. The visit to Hamilton had been a familiar trip, one where Olsen had captained a variety of cruise liners over the years. The last visit had included an innovation, a quick trip through Hellgate Beta that gave access to Naval Base Hell-Bravo so the passengers could truly say that they’d been to Hell and back. That one had gone smoothly if one excluded the red dust that had covered the superstructure and been – literally – hell to clean off.
This one had been different. The weather picture had started the same as usual, the familiar procession of low-pressure areas marching across the South Atlantic. Mostly they either were dissipated by wind shear or faded away. Only a few would reach the standard of a tropical storm and fewer still would gain the status of a fully-fledged hurricane. Few indeed, but one of them had, it had started to swing north, taking it over the warm waters of the South Atlantic, picking up strength as it went. The hurricane chasers had plotted its path and projected it would make landfall somewhere in Georgia as a Category Two or, just possibly a Category Three. They had named it Hurricane Paloma and the WP-3s and satellites had kept a close eye on it. It was lucky they did because it had made an unexpected northwards swing and picked up speed. So, much so that Bermuda had received only a few hours’ warning that the storm was inbound and that its strength was unprecedented.
Olsen remembered those few hours vividly, fortunately, the shore excursions hadn’t started so all the passengers were still on board. Instead of taking the ashore, the ship’s boats had been used for a frantic evacuation of the inhabitants of Hamilton, all 1,500 of them. To make it possible, Olson had brought his ship dangerously close inshore and dropped scrambling nets over the side. He’d got the refugees on board and then, with the winds already howling around him and the rain coming down in sheets, Carnival Triumph had fled for the Hellgate and shelter.
Olsen knew that the memory of that voyage would stay with him until the day he died, and well beyond that. It was a memory he would rather forget but he knew, as all humanity now knew, that death was no escape from bad memories. That was a knowledge already being reflected in crime and suicide rates. His ship had been fighting the winds and seas to Hellgate Beta. His bridge still had two smashed windows, now boarded up of course, from where the anemometer had been torn from its bearings and flung into the bridge. It had been reading 155 knots before it had been destroyed and that had been on the edge of the storm. His ship had been listing from the wind pressure on its high sides and swerving almost out of control as the violence of the storm nearly overwhelmed her steering gear.
Almost, nearly, those were the keywords. Few other ships could have survived such a hurricane striking in restricted waters and the mute evidence of the two wrecked warships and the unidentifiable debris that had once been private yachts, fishing boats, pleasure launches, and all the other maritime inhabitants of a resort island and a naval base testified to the ferocity of the storm. Carnival Triumph had been uniquely fitted to survive the cataclysm although that fact was purely coincidental. She had been designed to maneuver her way into small ports, to dock without assistance from tugs, and never to rely on local facilities when she made her visits. As a result, she had been equipped with bow thrusters and her screws were mounted in steerable pods that let her put all her considerable engine power into pushing her around. She could almost stop dead in the water, and she could make a complete 360-degree turn in her length.
That’s what had saved her, that and Captain Olsen had trained in the Coast Guard and had performed his tour of duty on the sailing ship Eagle. There he had learned more about the waves, the wind, and the sea than any cadet could ever have achieved on a gas-turbine or steam-powered training ship. Every bit of that knowledge had been called on to save the Carnival Triumph. He had stood, staring out of the bridge, watching the waves and the winds, sensing their patterns, how they interlocked, how they would push his ship this way and that. As he sensed them, he had snapped out the orders to counter their attempts to murder his ship, playing the bow thrusters and the stern engine pods, sometimes pushing the ship sideways, sometimes spinning her, always keeping their bows pointed at the black ellipse that offered a bare hope of safety.
Sometimes, he had looked at the track chart and marveled at how the computer had made some kind of sense out of it all. His memories were of nothing but chaos, his ship swerving and skidding before he had suddenly realized the Hellgate was but a few meters away and a surge of engine power had taken them through. Even there, the other side of the gate, the seas were ferocious, and the wind still howled from the energy passing through the gate but here at least he had sea-room and not the ever-present danger of being trapped on a lee shore. He had turned his bows to the wind and seas and as he did so, he saw that he was not alone. Somehow, somebody had radioed a warning that a civilian cruise ship was coming through and would be in desperate need. Had it been one of the two wrecked warships? Their radio operators, knowing their day was done, attempting at least to give a more fortunate mariner a better chance of survival? Olsen didn’t know. What he did know was that there were two warships there, one of the massive Russian nuclear-powered cruisers and a French amphibious warfare ship, and they had said they would stand by Carnival Triumph until the storm was done. He had watched while the Russian cruiser took green water over her bows, flooding to her bridge, and then had fought herself free.
And so it had gone on for sixteen long hours until the fury of the storm had faded, and the seas returned to tranquility. Eventually, he had bidden his protectors farewell and limped back through the Hellgate, his ship battered and torn by the violence of the storm but afloat with all her passengers, crew, and refugees still alive. Seasick, mostly, but still alive. They’d even tried to restore the routine of a cruise ship, Olsen knew for a fact that the glamorous singer in the Rome Lounge had still been heaving the contents of her stomach into a bucket ten minutes before her act, but had managed to clean herself up, change into her stage gown and give the best performance she could, before running back and continuing to try and purge the effects of a ride the cruise liner’s designers had never anticipated.
“Madame, Hamilton is off the port bow.”
The Right Honorable Jennifer Smith shook herself and tried to summon up the courage to look at the devastation that had once been Bermuda’s capital. When she finally managed it, devastation didn’t even begin to cover it. There was not a building or a tree standing, even the massive walls of Fort Saint Catherine were tumbled. The island, once lush and green, studded with white houses, was now bare, brown, and desolate. Smith picked up the bridge binoculars, swinging them on their stabilized mounting, and pointed them at the center of Hamilton. It was not hard to see where the Parliament building and Cabinet Office had been, although the buildings themselves were gone and even their sites were hidden by a massive Japanese car-carrier that had been driven ashore. With her single screw and huge, flat sides, she had stood no chance, no chance at all. Then she gave a shocked gasp.
“Captain, there are Baldricks in the ruins!”
Olsen took the binoculars and surveyed the scene. The hulking black figures of the Baldricks were crowded in the shattered town. Even as he watched, they swung the main walls of a refugee hut into place while another group lifted the roof to slide it into place. He looked a little more closely, television crews were filming them at work. “It’s all right Madame. They’re helping with the disaster relief.”
“Over here, Madame. You’ll see what they’re doing on CNN.” Most non-mariners didn’t realize that ships had commercial television receivers on their bridges. There were things on television that sailors needed to know and often couldn’t get from anywhere else with anything like speed and efficiency. The news was one of them.
“for the survivors. The scale of the disaster in Bermuda is only now beginning to sink in. It is believed that as many as 40,000 of the island’s population have died in the disaster inflicted by Hurricane Paloma. The death toll might well have been higher had it not been for an emergency disaster team who portable in directly from Hell under the command of Archduke Dagon. The demons started to clear the wreckage while the storm was still blowing and have shown an uncanny ability to find humans trapped in the wreckage. Of course, their added strength and endurance had made their efforts on behalf of the victims more effective. Asked about the prompt response to the disaster, President Abigor said ‘To provide aid is the least we can do for the humans who have rescued us from millennia of slavery.’
“And now, for a report of the Bermudan disaster from one of the victims, we go to our correspondent in Hell who has been allowed to interview some of those killed in the catastrophe. David are you there?”
First Officer Carsten leaned quietly towards Olsen. “I don’t feel easy in my mind about this Sir.”
“About the Baldricks helping? Like they did after the tornados in Missouri last month? Or after Ike hit Houston?”
“Sort of Sir, the way Abigor is sending them to Earth and refusing to accept payment for them. It’s a bit like slavery if you ask me. We took Hell to stop that kind of thing.”
“Abigor is getting paid Knut, not in cash but he’s getting paid. He’s reconstructing the Baldrick image, reconciling humans and demons to living together. Every time there’s a disaster, the Baldricks are there, helping. One day, he’s hoping, we’ll be comfortable with each other. That day, there’ll no longer need to be a human army of occupation in Hell. You know as well as I do what the people we’ve rescued from the Hell-Pit think of the Baldricks. If we pulled the Army out today, there’d be a massacre of hideous proportions in there and it wouldn’t be the humans who were doing the dying. The Human Expeditionary Army stand between the surviving Baldricks and the deceased humans they spent millennia tormenting. Sending some baldricks to help is a good way of buying back acceptance. And making us feel guilty by the way.
Carsten nodded. The people on Earth had been cheering their armies on, and still were in some senses, but the film of the battlefields in Hell had stunned them. Especially the scenes along the Phlegethon River with the piles of mangled Baldrick corpses that went on for square mile after square mile. For perhaps the first time, they realized the incredible disparity of firepower that had existed between the human armies and the Baldricks. The sight of the dead where the Baldricks had tried to fight tanks with bronze tridents had changed opinions in a subtle but very marked way. Humans now pitied the Baldricks who had stood so little chance and had died not even understanding what it was that was killing them. It was rumored that change in attitude was also causing trouble in Hell, with the refugees from the pit unable to understand why the newly dead from Earth should be sickened by the slaughter they’d inflicted.
“Madame, radio room here. We’re receiving a message from Prime Minister Ewart Brown. He says that some of the Cabinet and Parliament are in a deep shelter underneath the Cabinet Office. They can’t get out because, and I quote ‘some damned great ship is sitting on top of us’ but they’re safe and the Baldricks is tunneling down towards them. As you are the only surviving member of the Government in the open, he would like you to assume responsibility for the Government until, and again I quote, ‘the demons get their fingers out and finish digging us out of here’.”
“Thank you, is he still on the air?”
“He is indeed Madame. I took the liberty of asking him to keep the communication line open.”
“Very well, I had better speak to him.”
“We can patch you in from the bridge, Madame if you so wish?” Olsen made the offer tentatively, he had a lot to do and a politician on the bridge was the worst form of getting in the way.
Smith grinned, she knew exactly when the cruise liner Captain was thinking. “I’ll go down to the radio room Captain. Once you are docked, we may need this ship for accommodation and as an emergency hospital. Will your company allow that?”
“I see no reason why not Madame. Emergency disaster relief considerations were built into these ships although I do not think they have ever been properly used. I will ask Head Office, but you can assume the answer will be positive.”
Six hours later, Carnival Triumph was as near to being docked as the shattered facilities of Hamilton would allow. She was anchored close to where the quays had been, and an emergency set of brows had been lifted into place by a U.S. Navy helicopter. The refugees were on their way ashore, most of them looking nervously at the Baldricks working in the ruined buildings. With one exception, as one of the men from the town had been standing in the street looking at ruins that were presumably where he had once worked, a Baldrick had carefully lifted a survivor from the wreckage, a woman who must have been in an office corner where she had been sheltered from the destruction. Why hadn’t she been evacuated? Too scared to leave the building perhaps or just never got the word. She’d been put on a stretcher and carried away, the man holding her hand all the way. His wife? Secretary? Mistress? Olsen didn’t know and guessed that he probably never would.
He had more interesting things on his mind, not least of which were the two telegrams he had received from Head Office. One was commending him for the rescue of most of the inhabitants of Hamilton, an action described as being in the finest traditions of the company and the seafaring community. The other reprimanded him for hazarding his ship and passengers. He was trying to work out which one to take seriously when there was a knock on the door.
“Captain, I am Doctor Surlethe, the National Science Advisor. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the storm.”
“I’ll do what I can Doctor, you probably know more than I do. You’re still in office then?”
“I think so, President-Elect Obama has said he will keep in place the scientific and military team that won the war against Hell. The political team is changing of course, although I understand Defense Secretary Warner will be asked to stay on.”
“Florida and Ohio finally made their minds up then?”
“Nope still hung up. But McCain has conceded, even if he’d got both states, he’d still have been down by an electoral vote or two.”
“I was expecting the election to be a lot more decided than this. After all, the Republicans won the war in Hell.”
“Sure, but that was Bush, McCain didn’t gain that much from it and his attempts to use the victory looked like cheap electioneering which it was of course. The Gee-Oh-Pee had lost a lot of its religious people, that balanced things a bit although it hit the popular vote more than the electoral vote. Most of those who laid down and died did so in areas where they just reduced the Republican majority a bit. And the Democrats lost some of the immigrant votes for the same reasons. The people who do the analyses on the voting will be working for years to try and unscramble all the trends, but the upshot is, that Barry Obama is in by a narrow margin. Not that it will make that much difference given the circumstances. Now to business. You saw the way the storm changed course and picked up strength?”
“We did. Just like Missouri.”
“And just like Houston in August. By the way, we’ve looked back at Katrina and there were the same anomalous course changes and strength increases there as well. You know what that means?”
Olsen shook his head.
“Remember the old saying, once is happenstance, twice is a coincidence, three times is enemy action? Well, we’ve got four cases now of major storm systems that have suddenly changed course and picked up strength. Katrina and Ike were subtle, the storm didn’t pick up that much strength or change course by so very large a degree, but these last two were blatant. In Missouri, the storm changed course by more than a hundred degrees in less than a minute while doubling its strength and then redoubled it. The storm here didn’t change course by that much, a mere 40 degrees or so, but its strength was phenomenal. We’ve got records that suggest the wind speed at the peak went over 400 miles per hour. No hurricane had ever, ever got that close. Nor have typhoons or cyclones.”
“Four times. And three times makes it enemy action. These were not natural events.”
“No, they were not. That’s why we need your reports as quickly as possible. It looks like Yahweh is moving against us at last, we were expecting this a long time ago and we’re a bit confused why it’s taken so long. We’ll need to look at all your records and instrument readings. But we want to take down statements from everybody, impressions, thoughts all that good stuff. What sticks in your mind about your run for the Hellmouth?”
Olsen thought for a few moments. “It was warm, the temperature was going up even as the pressure went down. That’s unusual, usually, a storm like that is cold.”
“Interesting. Anything else.”
Olsen replayed the pictures in his mind. Suddenly one thing seized his mind. “Yes, the clouds. They were spinning fast but usually; hurricane clouds are gray. These were black, jet black, as black as Yahweh’s heart.”
Cruise Liner “Carnival Triumph” Hellgate Bravo, Hamilton, Bermuda, November 2008.
“I can't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but thee
For there is no secret lover that the draft board didn't discover
They're either too young or too old
They're either too gray or too grassy green
The pickings are poor and the crop is lean
What's good is in the Army, what's left will never harm me
They're either too old or too young.”
The singer in the Rome Lounge finished her song with a flourish as the Carnival Triumph edged through the ellipse that marked the boundary between Earth and Hell. Captain Olsen sighed in relief as the dim, swirling red-gray skies of Hell were replaced by the clear blue of his native earth. Then, his sense of relief brought down a crash of guilt to his head. For at least half the passengers on his ship, this wasn’t going to be a happy return home or a joyful visit to a foreign port. They were evacuees from Hamilton and if the weather reports and news bulletins had been anything to go by, they didn’t have homes left to return to. It sounded like Bermuda had been swept clean.
“Any sight sir? Any sight at all?” The Right Honorable Jenny Smith’s voice was a weird, strange mix of urgent, plaintive, and wary, she was asking the question, but she didn’t know whether she wanted to know the answer.
“Not yet, Madame, but the damage onshore looks terrible. The weather reports say this was the worst hurricane the North Atlantic has seen since records started being kept.”
“Sir, off the starboard bow.” First Officer Carsten pointed to the shoreline. Olsen looked through his binoculars and was hard put to avoid gasping in shock. Two warships were hard aground, one almost clear of the water and twisted in a way that made it clear her back was broken. The other, larger, ship was still in the water but was on her beam ends and she was sagging midships in a way that showed her damage too was beyond critical.
Carsten was already flipping through his copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships. “Sir, the big one is the Alvaro de Bazan, Spanish destroyer. The other one is the Nivose, a French surveillance frigate. The hurricane must have got them while they were trying to escape through the Hellgate.”
Olsen stared at the two wrecked ships. “Make to both ships, offer them any assistance within our power. If they have wounded in need of care, we will take them in.”
That could have been the Carnival Triumph’s motto for the last few days. “We will take them in.” What had started as a routine visit on one of Carnival’s “special” cruises had quickly turned into something else. The visit to Hamilton had been a familiar trip, one where Olsen had captained a variety of cruise liners over the years. The last visit had included an innovation, a quick trip through Hellgate Beta that gave access to Naval Base Hell-Bravo so the passengers could truly say that they’d been to Hell and back. That one had gone smoothly if one excluded the red dust that had covered the superstructure and been – literally – hell to clean off.
This one had been different. The weather picture had started the same as usual, the familiar procession of low-pressure areas marching across the South Atlantic. Mostly they either were dissipated by wind shear or faded away. Only a few would reach the standard of a tropical storm and fewer still would gain the status of a fully-fledged hurricane. Few indeed, but one of them had, it had started to swing north, taking it over the warm waters of the South Atlantic, picking up strength as it went. The hurricane chasers had plotted its path and projected it would make landfall somewhere in Georgia as a Category Two or, just possibly a Category Three. They had named it Hurricane Paloma and the WP-3s and satellites had kept a close eye on it. It was lucky they did because it had made an unexpected northwards swing and picked up speed. So, much so that Bermuda had received only a few hours’ warning that the storm was inbound and that its strength was unprecedented.
Olsen remembered those few hours vividly, fortunately, the shore excursions hadn’t started so all the passengers were still on board. Instead of taking the ashore, the ship’s boats had been used for a frantic evacuation of the inhabitants of Hamilton, all 1,500 of them. To make it possible, Olson had brought his ship dangerously close inshore and dropped scrambling nets over the side. He’d got the refugees on board and then, with the winds already howling around him and the rain coming down in sheets, Carnival Triumph had fled for the Hellgate and shelter.
Olsen knew that the memory of that voyage would stay with him until the day he died, and well beyond that. It was a memory he would rather forget but he knew, as all humanity now knew, that death was no escape from bad memories. That was a knowledge already being reflected in crime and suicide rates. His ship had been fighting the winds and seas to Hellgate Beta. His bridge still had two smashed windows, now boarded up of course, from where the anemometer had been torn from its bearings and flung into the bridge. It had been reading 155 knots before it had been destroyed and that had been on the edge of the storm. His ship had been listing from the wind pressure on its high sides and swerving almost out of control as the violence of the storm nearly overwhelmed her steering gear.
Almost, nearly, those were the keywords. Few other ships could have survived such a hurricane striking in restricted waters and the mute evidence of the two wrecked warships and the unidentifiable debris that had once been private yachts, fishing boats, pleasure launches, and all the other maritime inhabitants of a resort island and a naval base testified to the ferocity of the storm. Carnival Triumph had been uniquely fitted to survive the cataclysm although that fact was purely coincidental. She had been designed to maneuver her way into small ports, to dock without assistance from tugs, and never to rely on local facilities when she made her visits. As a result, she had been equipped with bow thrusters and her screws were mounted in steerable pods that let her put all her considerable engine power into pushing her around. She could almost stop dead in the water, and she could make a complete 360-degree turn in her length.
That’s what had saved her, that and Captain Olsen had trained in the Coast Guard and had performed his tour of duty on the sailing ship Eagle. There he had learned more about the waves, the wind, and the sea than any cadet could ever have achieved on a gas-turbine or steam-powered training ship. Every bit of that knowledge had been called on to save the Carnival Triumph. He had stood, staring out of the bridge, watching the waves and the winds, sensing their patterns, how they interlocked, how they would push his ship this way and that. As he sensed them, he had snapped out the orders to counter their attempts to murder his ship, playing the bow thrusters and the stern engine pods, sometimes pushing the ship sideways, sometimes spinning her, always keeping their bows pointed at the black ellipse that offered a bare hope of safety.
Sometimes, he had looked at the track chart and marveled at how the computer had made some kind of sense out of it all. His memories were of nothing but chaos, his ship swerving and skidding before he had suddenly realized the Hellgate was but a few meters away and a surge of engine power had taken them through. Even there, the other side of the gate, the seas were ferocious, and the wind still howled from the energy passing through the gate but here at least he had sea-room and not the ever-present danger of being trapped on a lee shore. He had turned his bows to the wind and seas and as he did so, he saw that he was not alone. Somehow, somebody had radioed a warning that a civilian cruise ship was coming through and would be in desperate need. Had it been one of the two wrecked warships? Their radio operators, knowing their day was done, attempting at least to give a more fortunate mariner a better chance of survival? Olsen didn’t know. What he did know was that there were two warships there, one of the massive Russian nuclear-powered cruisers and a French amphibious warfare ship, and they had said they would stand by Carnival Triumph until the storm was done. He had watched while the Russian cruiser took green water over her bows, flooding to her bridge, and then had fought herself free.
And so it had gone on for sixteen long hours until the fury of the storm had faded, and the seas returned to tranquility. Eventually, he had bidden his protectors farewell and limped back through the Hellgate, his ship battered and torn by the violence of the storm but afloat with all her passengers, crew, and refugees still alive. Seasick, mostly, but still alive. They’d even tried to restore the routine of a cruise ship, Olsen knew for a fact that the glamorous singer in the Rome Lounge had still been heaving the contents of her stomach into a bucket ten minutes before her act, but had managed to clean herself up, change into her stage gown and give the best performance she could, before running back and continuing to try and purge the effects of a ride the cruise liner’s designers had never anticipated.
“Madame, Hamilton is off the port bow.”
The Right Honorable Jennifer Smith shook herself and tried to summon up the courage to look at the devastation that had once been Bermuda’s capital. When she finally managed it, devastation didn’t even begin to cover it. There was not a building or a tree standing, even the massive walls of Fort Saint Catherine were tumbled. The island, once lush and green, studded with white houses, was now bare, brown, and desolate. Smith picked up the bridge binoculars, swinging them on their stabilized mounting, and pointed them at the center of Hamilton. It was not hard to see where the Parliament building and Cabinet Office had been, although the buildings themselves were gone and even their sites were hidden by a massive Japanese car-carrier that had been driven ashore. With her single screw and huge, flat sides, she had stood no chance, no chance at all. Then she gave a shocked gasp.
“Captain, there are Baldricks in the ruins!”
Olsen took the binoculars and surveyed the scene. The hulking black figures of the Baldricks were crowded in the shattered town. Even as he watched, they swung the main walls of a refugee hut into place while another group lifted the roof to slide it into place. He looked a little more closely, television crews were filming them at work. “It’s all right Madame. They’re helping with the disaster relief.”
“Over here, Madame. You’ll see what they’re doing on CNN.” Most non-mariners didn’t realize that ships had commercial television receivers on their bridges. There were things on television that sailors needed to know and often couldn’t get from anywhere else with anything like speed and efficiency. The news was one of them.
“for the survivors. The scale of the disaster in Bermuda is only now beginning to sink in. It is believed that as many as 40,000 of the island’s population have died in the disaster inflicted by Hurricane Paloma. The death toll might well have been higher had it not been for an emergency disaster team who portable in directly from Hell under the command of Archduke Dagon. The demons started to clear the wreckage while the storm was still blowing and have shown an uncanny ability to find humans trapped in the wreckage. Of course, their added strength and endurance had made their efforts on behalf of the victims more effective. Asked about the prompt response to the disaster, President Abigor said ‘To provide aid is the least we can do for the humans who have rescued us from millennia of slavery.’
“And now, for a report of the Bermudan disaster from one of the victims, we go to our correspondent in Hell who has been allowed to interview some of those killed in the catastrophe. David are you there?”
First Officer Carsten leaned quietly towards Olsen. “I don’t feel easy in my mind about this Sir.”
“About the Baldricks helping? Like they did after the tornados in Missouri last month? Or after Ike hit Houston?”
“Sort of Sir, the way Abigor is sending them to Earth and refusing to accept payment for them. It’s a bit like slavery if you ask me. We took Hell to stop that kind of thing.”
“Abigor is getting paid Knut, not in cash but he’s getting paid. He’s reconstructing the Baldrick image, reconciling humans and demons to living together. Every time there’s a disaster, the Baldricks are there, helping. One day, he’s hoping, we’ll be comfortable with each other. That day, there’ll no longer need to be a human army of occupation in Hell. You know as well as I do what the people we’ve rescued from the Hell-Pit think of the Baldricks. If we pulled the Army out today, there’d be a massacre of hideous proportions in there and it wouldn’t be the humans who were doing the dying. The Human Expeditionary Army stand between the surviving Baldricks and the deceased humans they spent millennia tormenting. Sending some baldricks to help is a good way of buying back acceptance. And making us feel guilty by the way.
Carsten nodded. The people on Earth had been cheering their armies on, and still were in some senses, but the film of the battlefields in Hell had stunned them. Especially the scenes along the Phlegethon River with the piles of mangled Baldrick corpses that went on for square mile after square mile. For perhaps the first time, they realized the incredible disparity of firepower that had existed between the human armies and the Baldricks. The sight of the dead where the Baldricks had tried to fight tanks with bronze tridents had changed opinions in a subtle but very marked way. Humans now pitied the Baldricks who had stood so little chance and had died not even understanding what it was that was killing them. It was rumored that change in attitude was also causing trouble in Hell, with the refugees from the pit unable to understand why the newly dead from Earth should be sickened by the slaughter they’d inflicted.
“Madame, radio room here. We’re receiving a message from Prime Minister Ewart Brown. He says that some of the Cabinet and Parliament are in a deep shelter underneath the Cabinet Office. They can’t get out because, and I quote ‘some damned great ship is sitting on top of us’ but they’re safe and the Baldricks is tunneling down towards them. As you are the only surviving member of the Government in the open, he would like you to assume responsibility for the Government until, and again I quote, ‘the demons get their fingers out and finish digging us out of here’.”
“Thank you, is he still on the air?”
“He is indeed Madame. I took the liberty of asking him to keep the communication line open.”
“Very well, I had better speak to him.”
“We can patch you in from the bridge, Madame if you so wish?” Olsen made the offer tentatively, he had a lot to do and a politician on the bridge was the worst form of getting in the way.
Smith grinned, she knew exactly when the cruise liner Captain was thinking. “I’ll go down to the radio room Captain. Once you are docked, we may need this ship for accommodation and as an emergency hospital. Will your company allow that?”
“I see no reason why not Madame. Emergency disaster relief considerations were built into these ships although I do not think they have ever been properly used. I will ask Head Office, but you can assume the answer will be positive.”
Six hours later, Carnival Triumph was as near to being docked as the shattered facilities of Hamilton would allow. She was anchored close to where the quays had been, and an emergency set of brows had been lifted into place by a U.S. Navy helicopter. The refugees were on their way ashore, most of them looking nervously at the Baldricks working in the ruined buildings. With one exception, as one of the men from the town had been standing in the street looking at ruins that were presumably where he had once worked, a Baldrick had carefully lifted a survivor from the wreckage, a woman who must have been in an office corner where she had been sheltered from the destruction. Why hadn’t she been evacuated? Too scared to leave the building perhaps or just never got the word. She’d been put on a stretcher and carried away, the man holding her hand all the way. His wife? Secretary? Mistress? Olsen didn’t know and guessed that he probably never would.
He had more interesting things on his mind, not least of which were the two telegrams he had received from Head Office. One was commending him for the rescue of most of the inhabitants of Hamilton, an action described as being in the finest traditions of the company and the seafaring community. The other reprimanded him for hazarding his ship and passengers. He was trying to work out which one to take seriously when there was a knock on the door.
“Captain, I am Doctor Surlethe, the National Science Advisor. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the storm.”
“I’ll do what I can Doctor, you probably know more than I do. You’re still in office then?”
“I think so, President-Elect Obama has said he will keep in place the scientific and military team that won the war against Hell. The political team is changing of course, although I understand Defense Secretary Warner will be asked to stay on.”
“Florida and Ohio finally made their minds up then?”
“Nope still hung up. But McCain has conceded, even if he’d got both states, he’d still have been down by an electoral vote or two.”
“I was expecting the election to be a lot more decided than this. After all, the Republicans won the war in Hell.”
“Sure, but that was Bush, McCain didn’t gain that much from it and his attempts to use the victory looked like cheap electioneering which it was of course. The Gee-Oh-Pee had lost a lot of its religious people, that balanced things a bit although it hit the popular vote more than the electoral vote. Most of those who laid down and died did so in areas where they just reduced the Republican majority a bit. And the Democrats lost some of the immigrant votes for the same reasons. The people who do the analyses on the voting will be working for years to try and unscramble all the trends, but the upshot is, that Barry Obama is in by a narrow margin. Not that it will make that much difference given the circumstances. Now to business. You saw the way the storm changed course and picked up strength?”
“We did. Just like Missouri.”
“And just like Houston in August. By the way, we’ve looked back at Katrina and there were the same anomalous course changes and strength increases there as well. You know what that means?”
Olsen shook his head.
“Remember the old saying, once is happenstance, twice is a coincidence, three times is enemy action? Well, we’ve got four cases now of major storm systems that have suddenly changed course and picked up strength. Katrina and Ike were subtle, the storm didn’t pick up that much strength or change course by so very large a degree, but these last two were blatant. In Missouri, the storm changed course by more than a hundred degrees in less than a minute while doubling its strength and then redoubled it. The storm here didn’t change course by that much, a mere 40 degrees or so, but its strength was phenomenal. We’ve got records that suggest the wind speed at the peak went over 400 miles per hour. No hurricane had ever, ever got that close. Nor have typhoons or cyclones.”
“Four times. And three times makes it enemy action. These were not natural events.”
“No, they were not. That’s why we need your reports as quickly as possible. It looks like Yahweh is moving against us at last, we were expecting this a long time ago and we’re a bit confused why it’s taken so long. We’ll need to look at all your records and instrument readings. But we want to take down statements from everybody, impressions, thoughts all that good stuff. What sticks in your mind about your run for the Hellmouth?”
Olsen thought for a few moments. “It was warm, the temperature was going up even as the pressure went down. That’s unusual, usually, a storm like that is cold.”
“Interesting. Anything else.”
Olsen replayed the pictures in his mind. Suddenly one thing seized his mind. “Yes, the clouds. They were spinning fast but usually; hurricane clouds are gray. These were black, jet black, as black as Yahweh’s heart.”
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Three
Heavengate, Hell, November 2008.
Corporal Dripankeothorofenex had decided, upon mature consideration, that he liked humans. In a manner of speaking, he always had in a culinary sense, but now he was working with them, he was beginning to see that the way they did things had decided advantages to offer a poor footslogger.
Take Heavengate for example. The chamber containing the black ellipse that offered direct access from Hell to Heaven was in the center of a massive fortress, one designed for the sole purpose of stopping the Heavenly hordes from invading Hell. It has served that function, and served it well, for millennia beyond counting. The problem was that the way the demons had organized the defense, there had to be a guard detail inside that chamber. This had led to a game being played over those millennia. The Angels would stage a raid, pile through the gate, kill the guard, and retreat to the other side before reinforcements could arrive. Then the demons would retaliate and stage a raid of their own. And so, it went on, millennia after millennia. Great fun for the Lords who could boast in Satan's court about it, not so much for the foot-soldiers who died.
Then the human army had come, and they'd killed Satan, destroyed his court, and put their leader into power. After a while, they'd found Heavengate, looked at the chamber, and shaken their heads sadly. Then they'd made a few modifications of their own. They'd walled up the original entrance to the chamber, leaving just a massive steel door for access. They'd built a new room off to one side, with armored glass windows so the occupants had a good view of the portal. Then they'd brought in comfortable chairs for the guards, run a power cable in from a generator outside, and even installed a refrigerator so the guards could have a cold fungus ale now and then while on duty. After all, as the Sergeant in charge had said, ‘any damned fool can be uncomfortable.’ Then they'd rigged the inside of the chamber with their dreaded weapons.
Dripankeothorofenex remembered what had happened next, remembered it fondly. He'd been on guard when a group of angels had burst into the chamber, intent on slaughtering the demon guard. Then they'd stopped dead, looking around them in confusion at the empty chamber. While they did so, Dripankeothorofenex had picked up the telephone and called the human reaction force waiting outside.
"Hi Drippy, anything happening in there?" The human voice at the other end was relaxed but Dripankeothorofenex wasn't taken in. Humans could do more killing while totally relaxed than demons could achieve with a week's concentrated effort. He was a little proud though, he'd noticed that the human soldiers tended to invent slightly abusive nicknames for each other, and the fact he had one of his own suggested they were accepting him as a comrade.
"Angel raiding party just arrived." His report was interrupted by a series of explosions as his Sergeant set off the killing machines. 'Claymores' the humans had called them. "We just blew them up."
"Good for you. We're on our way."
Dripankeothorofenex had settled back in his seat and waited for the humans. This way of warfare, sitting back and killing by remote control, was much preferable to a desperate hand-to-hand fight. He had investigated the chamber, seeing the charnel house resulting from the killing machines. Not an angel had survived. Then the humans had come, taken away what was left of the bodies, and reset the charges. "When will we stage a raid of our own?" 'Drippy' had asked the Sergeant commanding the team.
"We won't. Why should we? We don’t know what is on that side, we can guess it's probably much the same as this. Why waste lives? Anyway, they sent a raiding party through, it never came back, what would you do?"
Dripankeothorofenex thought for a second. "Send another one through to find out what happened to the first one?"
"Right, Drippy. And we blow that one up too. We could get half a dozen groups before they give it up as a bad job and that's the end of this raiding problem, right?"
That's when Dripankeothorofenex had decided he liked humans. He entered the observation room and relieved the previous watch of their duty. Once his group was in place, he visually checked the Heavengate Chamber and saw that all was in order. Next item on the checklist, he picked up the telephone and advised the human reaction team outside the fortress that he had the guard, and all was well.
At that point, he turned around, opened the refrigerator, and looked inside. There were flasks of fungus ale, some slices of foodbeast, and some metal cans of human beer marked 'Coors'. He took one of the cans, in truth he preferred fungus ale, but the beer was human, so it had to be better, didn’t it? He opened it and swallowed the contents. As he turned around, he looked again into the Heavengate Chamber, and it took a second for the change to register. When it did, he dived for the telephone. The black ellipse wasn't there. The Heavengate was closed and couldn’t be reopened. Ever.
Interstate 95, just south of Dover, Delaware. December 2008
"That's the turning, Interstate 666."
The green sign made it quite clear. "Interstate 666, Delaware City, Middletown, and Hellgate Golf." John McLanahan swung the family car onto the exit ramp and started to follow the signs for the Hellgate. The whole road was new and showed signs of hurried construction. The signs though were unambiguous. 'Military Convoys Have Absolute Right of Way.'
"Are we there yet?" John Junior sounded impatient and fretful.
"Nearly honey. We'll be seeing Grandma again soon. We'll make sure she is all right now she's dead." Naomi McLanahan and her husband exchanged slightly guilty glances, they were making this visit, one that was using a substantial proportion of their monthly gasoline ration, for reasons that were not quite so altruistic.
Ahead of them, Interstate 666 split, the main lanes curving off towards Hellgate Golf, the rest reverting to the prewar road network. Another preemptory sign, 'Civilian Traffic, Right Lane. Left Three Lanes, Military Traffic Only.' McLanahan started to swing right and felt the Toyota Corolla lurch as a ten-wheeled Oshkosh HEMTT roared past. It was followed by more of the same mixed in with tank transporters carrying Abrams tanks and Bradley armored fighting vehicles. The sign about military convoys having an absolute right of way wasn't a joke, if the Toyota had been in the way, it would have been pushed out of it. McLanahan shook slightly, being at war took a lot of getting used to. Iraq and the Persian Gulf wars hadn't been anything like this.
Ahead, the road rose before falling away to the area surrounding the gate. Cresting the rise, he could see the whole extent of the human side of Base Hellgate-Golf. There would be more on the other side of the ellipse but that was hidden behind the black shadow. "See that, Junior? That's the Hellgate. Has anybody from your class been through it yet?"
"No." Junior was staring at the lines of vehicles and helicopters parked outside. Most of them were red-stained and battered, waiting for the repairs that the vicious environment of Hell made essential.
Another sign. 'Civilian Parking' and an arrow leading off to the right. Once again McLanahan followed the indicated route to a parking lot. It was much smaller than he had thought, he had been expecting a sea of cars, left while their owners visited newly-deceased loved ones. Then reality set in, there were only a limited number of permits to visit Hell issued to civilians and the McLanahan had been lucky. Most were not. He parked the car and his family got out, looking around as they did so. There was a small shelter nearby, marked "Transit Bus". It drew them over and they stood in the metal lean-to, welcoming the cover it offered from the drizzling rain. A few minutes later, a dark green bus, looking for all the world like a school bus pulled up.
"Transit Bus for Hell." The Private driver was bored out of his mind by the constant shuttling. This was not a prized assignment and he'd upset his Sergeant at some time to get it.
The bus took them to a single-story building marked "Hell Orientation Center". The McLanahan was conducted into a briefing room, one that had around 20 seats in it. The room filled up quickly, the people eying each other curiously. Then, an Army Officer entered and stood at the podium.
"Welcome to Hell, ladies, and gentlemen. A few quick words to advise you of the conditions and regulations concerning your visit. Firstly, this is an operational military base, photography is not permitted while on base grounds. Anybody seen taking pictures will have their camera confiscated.
"Secondly, the atmosphere in Hell is not healthy. It is loaded with dust and that is harmful to your health. You must not, repeat not, take off your breathing mask any time you are in an unfiltered environment. You do, you may be back here sooner than you expect. Some of the troops we sent in right at the start of the war didn't have breathing masks either and their health is now bad.
"Thirdly, all of you are here to visit recently deceased relatives. Be aware of this, the people you will be meeting are not humans. Not quite. They look like the people you knew and have the same characters, but they are in different bodies, ones adapted to living in Hell. Think of them as flasks into which the people you knew have been transferred. So, just because they can do things here – like walking around outside without masks - don’t think you can.
"Fourthly, military convoys and personnel have absolute priority. If they are coming through, get out of their way because they will not stop." The Lieutenant looked grim for a second. "You may have heard that we had some protesters here a few days ago. They laid down on the road in front of a tank convoy. By the time the convoy had passed, they were a thousandth of an inch tall and about eighty yards long. Something like a tank convoy can't stop, understand? OK.
"Fifthly, wandering around is a bad idea. Hell isn’t linear, don't ask us why, we don’t know. If you want an answer, we'll tell you it's because the polarity is reversed but that's just saying we don’t know using different words. But it means this. If you walk in a straight line out, turn around and walk in a straight line back, you will not end up in the same place you started from. Walking distances, it’s only a small error but in the refugee camps, that will get you lost. And that will displease us.
"Lastly, when the bus comes to pick you up, you leave. You'll have about an hour or so before that happens. Please don’t make us come in and get you. That's all. Any questions? No? Excellent. Thank you." The Lieutenant left quickly, giving the orientation speech wasn't a prized duty either and he wondered what he had done that had displeased his Captain so badly.
Another bus pulled into the reception building and the visitors were conducted into it. The driver was another morose private expiating some unknown military sin but there was also a professionally cheerful young woman on board. She handed out breathing masks as the visitors entered. Once they were all seated, the bus pulled out and she checked everybody had their masks on properly. "Did you all get your lecture from the Lieutenant?" There was a mumble of agreement. "He is a bit fierce, isn't he? Still, Hell is a hostile environment, but you follow his advice, and it’s safe enough. He probably skidded you past the questions bit so if I can answer anything. My name is Elva by the way, Elva Jones."
The bus slipped through the Hellgate, and the inside darkened as the overcast Earth sky was replaced by the red gray of Hell. Junior stuck his hand up. "You're not wearing a mask."
A chuckle went around the bus at the boy's presumption. The guide smiled for the same reason. "I don’t have to Johnny. I'm dead you see."
One of the men up near the front of the bus couldn’t help but ask. "Miss, Ummm, how did you…"
"Die? I was an air hostess and my plane crashed. So, when I was rescued, I got this job." She looked at the man who was about to ask something else. "A DC-2, remember them?" The man nodded and she smiled at him, not many people knew much about old airliners.
"People, we're now entering the Phelan Plain. This is named after Philip Phelan, a mall security guard who gave his life to rescue a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick attack. We're hoping we’ll find him soon so he can come to visit us. The Phelan Plain is where everybody stays after they arrive or are rescued until they find a better place of course. Now. We're going to the American Arrivals Area, all the people you want to see are there. Just give me your ticket, I'll tell you where to get off and give you a map."
"Miss Jones, the Lieutenant said that people are different. Will we be able to recognize…"
"Certainly? If your relative died before middle age, menopause for women, they'll look just the way they did when they died. If they died much older, they'll look the way they did in middle age. To quote the Lieutenant, don't ask us why, we don’t know. Right, first stop. Mr. and Mrs. McLanahan and your son? Here you are, just follow the map, it's only a few yards."
Elva had been right, the small hut allocated to Rose Matthews, Naomi McLanahan's mother, was only a few yards away from the bus stop. Privately, McLanahan guessed that wasn't an accident, that the bus routes were planned to drop each group off close to their destination.
"Oh Naomi, it’s so good to see you. And you brought little Johnnie too. Come in, why don’t you, it’s a bit small but it's only temporary. Johnnie, would you like a drink or something to eat? You can come in too John." John McLanahan reflected that being dead hadn't affected his mother-in-law at all. Physically though, the change was stunning. When he had last seen her, she had been on a bed in the hospice, breathing through a tube in her nose and fading away as the lung cancer had killed her. Now, she looked like a well-preserved mid-forties, very much like Naomi's sister rather than her mother. And so, he followed them in and settled down
The problem was that nobody had created a set of etiquette rules for speaking to dead people. The ridiculous mummery that the fake mediums had invented when they 'spoke to the dead' was of no help at all and a lot of the normal small-talk subjects just weren't relevant. So, the conversations staggered along. Eventually, it found an interesting area where Rose Matthews started to tell her guests about the people living around her. Oddly, it had been Junior who had sparked it off when he had asked his grandmother if she'd met Jesse James yet.
"Goodness me no. Nobody around here is famous. But then, there are so few famous people and there are so many of us, I suppose the chances of meeting a famous person are very low. But if I see Jesse James, I'll tell him you asked after him." Grandmother and parents exchanged adult glances at that. She'd gone on to speak of her neighbors, of the new arrivals who exchanged news and opinions on what was happening on Earth and how they looked after those who had been rescued from the Hell pit. They'd been shattered by the experience, and it took them a long time to realize the horror was over.
"So you are staying here Mother?" Naomi asked the question delicately, but her mother's eyes twinkled. She guessed her daughter and son-in-law were finally getting around to the real reason for their visit.
"Here? Oh no, certainly not. This is just temporary until my Villa is built. Should be ready in a few weeks."
"Your villa momma?" Naomi didn't like the sound of that.
"I'm going to be a citizen of the New Roman Republic. I've even got my citizenship paper, look, it says here 'In the year of the consulships of Gaius Julius Caesar and Jade Kim, Rose Matthews being a landowner in the New Roman Republic, is accorded all the virtues and privileges due to a Citizen of Rome."
"Look Rose, we wanted to talk to you about this. When you died, the lawyers said you'd changed your will and left all your money to yourself."
"That's right John. Changed it myself. Saw the advertisements on television while I was staying in the hospice and thought, well that sounds like a good idea. So, I made some inquiries and decided it was a good idea."
"But we thought we would be the executors of your estate." McLanahan was trying to find a way of complaining about being left nothing without saying so.
"And you thought you would be inheriting everything when I was gone? Not going to happen. I'm sorry John but Mark and I worked hard all our lives to save for what we had. We owned our house free and clear, when Mark died, we didn't owe a penny to anybody. He's out there somewhere, maybe still in the Hell pit, perhaps he's been rescued already, and we just haven't found each other. That takes time you know, even with computers to help. But when he is rescued or we do find each other, I want a nice home ready for him, just the way we left our old one, free and clear.
"Oh, can I meet Julius Caesar?" Junior sounded awe-struck at meeting Caesar, it even beat the chance of meeting Jesse James.
"Certainly, the First Consul is always touring Rome, meeting the people. So, does the Second Consul, you come to stay at my Villa Johnny and you’re sure to see them."
Junior sat back, his eyes glowing at the prospect. Rose stared at her daughter and son-in-law, her eyes triumphant and just a little malicious. "How often have you two refinanced your house? To pay off credit cards, buy that new trendy in-thing you just must have and then throw away as soon as you got bored with it? Well, you'd better change your ways because you're getting nothing from me. All the killjoys were wrong, now we can take it with us and that's just what I've done. So, have nearly all my friends at the Hospice. There are going to be a lot of disappointed kids who won’t get the windfall they're expecting and serve them right. Mark and I made it on our own and now we're going to enjoy it. I suggest you start to think about doing the same because when you die – when Naomi, it's not an if – you'll need everything you've saved as well. Or you'll spend eternity living in a little shack like this and working on a road gang to earn money.
There was a long silence. Then Naomi broke it. "What will you be doing in Rome mother?"
"Me? I'll be going back to work of course. Sewing clothes, just a few hours now and then, enough to make some friends and keep boredom at bay. There's going to be factories in New Rome as well and if I get my feet under the table now, I can grow with them. And I might even buy a few shares in them, nothing like owning things is there?"
Once again, there were a few minutes of silence as the McLanahan digested the situation. They'd spent their lives working on the basis that they would be inheriting their family property in due course, now at least half of it had just gone. Probably all of it, John McLanahan thought, for it was unlikely that his father would do anything differently. Quite unexpectedly, his family had been hit with a financial crisis of unexpected proportions. Eventually, conversation resumed but it was stilted and awkward until the time came for them to leave and catch the bus back to the Hellgate.
As the door closed behind them, Naomi clutched her husband's arm. "Oh John, what are we going to do?"
"I don't know darling, I just don’t know."
Heavengate, Hell, November 2008.
Corporal Dripankeothorofenex had decided, upon mature consideration, that he liked humans. In a manner of speaking, he always had in a culinary sense, but now he was working with them, he was beginning to see that the way they did things had decided advantages to offer a poor footslogger.
Take Heavengate for example. The chamber containing the black ellipse that offered direct access from Hell to Heaven was in the center of a massive fortress, one designed for the sole purpose of stopping the Heavenly hordes from invading Hell. It has served that function, and served it well, for millennia beyond counting. The problem was that the way the demons had organized the defense, there had to be a guard detail inside that chamber. This had led to a game being played over those millennia. The Angels would stage a raid, pile through the gate, kill the guard, and retreat to the other side before reinforcements could arrive. Then the demons would retaliate and stage a raid of their own. And so, it went on, millennia after millennia. Great fun for the Lords who could boast in Satan's court about it, not so much for the foot-soldiers who died.
Then the human army had come, and they'd killed Satan, destroyed his court, and put their leader into power. After a while, they'd found Heavengate, looked at the chamber, and shaken their heads sadly. Then they'd made a few modifications of their own. They'd walled up the original entrance to the chamber, leaving just a massive steel door for access. They'd built a new room off to one side, with armored glass windows so the occupants had a good view of the portal. Then they'd brought in comfortable chairs for the guards, run a power cable in from a generator outside, and even installed a refrigerator so the guards could have a cold fungus ale now and then while on duty. After all, as the Sergeant in charge had said, ‘any damned fool can be uncomfortable.’ Then they'd rigged the inside of the chamber with their dreaded weapons.
Dripankeothorofenex remembered what had happened next, remembered it fondly. He'd been on guard when a group of angels had burst into the chamber, intent on slaughtering the demon guard. Then they'd stopped dead, looking around them in confusion at the empty chamber. While they did so, Dripankeothorofenex had picked up the telephone and called the human reaction force waiting outside.
"Hi Drippy, anything happening in there?" The human voice at the other end was relaxed but Dripankeothorofenex wasn't taken in. Humans could do more killing while totally relaxed than demons could achieve with a week's concentrated effort. He was a little proud though, he'd noticed that the human soldiers tended to invent slightly abusive nicknames for each other, and the fact he had one of his own suggested they were accepting him as a comrade.
"Angel raiding party just arrived." His report was interrupted by a series of explosions as his Sergeant set off the killing machines. 'Claymores' the humans had called them. "We just blew them up."
"Good for you. We're on our way."
Dripankeothorofenex had settled back in his seat and waited for the humans. This way of warfare, sitting back and killing by remote control, was much preferable to a desperate hand-to-hand fight. He had investigated the chamber, seeing the charnel house resulting from the killing machines. Not an angel had survived. Then the humans had come, taken away what was left of the bodies, and reset the charges. "When will we stage a raid of our own?" 'Drippy' had asked the Sergeant commanding the team.
"We won't. Why should we? We don’t know what is on that side, we can guess it's probably much the same as this. Why waste lives? Anyway, they sent a raiding party through, it never came back, what would you do?"
Dripankeothorofenex thought for a second. "Send another one through to find out what happened to the first one?"
"Right, Drippy. And we blow that one up too. We could get half a dozen groups before they give it up as a bad job and that's the end of this raiding problem, right?"
That's when Dripankeothorofenex had decided he liked humans. He entered the observation room and relieved the previous watch of their duty. Once his group was in place, he visually checked the Heavengate Chamber and saw that all was in order. Next item on the checklist, he picked up the telephone and advised the human reaction team outside the fortress that he had the guard, and all was well.
At that point, he turned around, opened the refrigerator, and looked inside. There were flasks of fungus ale, some slices of foodbeast, and some metal cans of human beer marked 'Coors'. He took one of the cans, in truth he preferred fungus ale, but the beer was human, so it had to be better, didn’t it? He opened it and swallowed the contents. As he turned around, he looked again into the Heavengate Chamber, and it took a second for the change to register. When it did, he dived for the telephone. The black ellipse wasn't there. The Heavengate was closed and couldn’t be reopened. Ever.
Interstate 95, just south of Dover, Delaware. December 2008
"That's the turning, Interstate 666."
The green sign made it quite clear. "Interstate 666, Delaware City, Middletown, and Hellgate Golf." John McLanahan swung the family car onto the exit ramp and started to follow the signs for the Hellgate. The whole road was new and showed signs of hurried construction. The signs though were unambiguous. 'Military Convoys Have Absolute Right of Way.'
"Are we there yet?" John Junior sounded impatient and fretful.
"Nearly honey. We'll be seeing Grandma again soon. We'll make sure she is all right now she's dead." Naomi McLanahan and her husband exchanged slightly guilty glances, they were making this visit, one that was using a substantial proportion of their monthly gasoline ration, for reasons that were not quite so altruistic.
Ahead of them, Interstate 666 split, the main lanes curving off towards Hellgate Golf, the rest reverting to the prewar road network. Another preemptory sign, 'Civilian Traffic, Right Lane. Left Three Lanes, Military Traffic Only.' McLanahan started to swing right and felt the Toyota Corolla lurch as a ten-wheeled Oshkosh HEMTT roared past. It was followed by more of the same mixed in with tank transporters carrying Abrams tanks and Bradley armored fighting vehicles. The sign about military convoys having an absolute right of way wasn't a joke, if the Toyota had been in the way, it would have been pushed out of it. McLanahan shook slightly, being at war took a lot of getting used to. Iraq and the Persian Gulf wars hadn't been anything like this.
Ahead, the road rose before falling away to the area surrounding the gate. Cresting the rise, he could see the whole extent of the human side of Base Hellgate-Golf. There would be more on the other side of the ellipse but that was hidden behind the black shadow. "See that, Junior? That's the Hellgate. Has anybody from your class been through it yet?"
"No." Junior was staring at the lines of vehicles and helicopters parked outside. Most of them were red-stained and battered, waiting for the repairs that the vicious environment of Hell made essential.
Another sign. 'Civilian Parking' and an arrow leading off to the right. Once again McLanahan followed the indicated route to a parking lot. It was much smaller than he had thought, he had been expecting a sea of cars, left while their owners visited newly-deceased loved ones. Then reality set in, there were only a limited number of permits to visit Hell issued to civilians and the McLanahan had been lucky. Most were not. He parked the car and his family got out, looking around as they did so. There was a small shelter nearby, marked "Transit Bus". It drew them over and they stood in the metal lean-to, welcoming the cover it offered from the drizzling rain. A few minutes later, a dark green bus, looking for all the world like a school bus pulled up.
"Transit Bus for Hell." The Private driver was bored out of his mind by the constant shuttling. This was not a prized assignment and he'd upset his Sergeant at some time to get it.
The bus took them to a single-story building marked "Hell Orientation Center". The McLanahan was conducted into a briefing room, one that had around 20 seats in it. The room filled up quickly, the people eying each other curiously. Then, an Army Officer entered and stood at the podium.
"Welcome to Hell, ladies, and gentlemen. A few quick words to advise you of the conditions and regulations concerning your visit. Firstly, this is an operational military base, photography is not permitted while on base grounds. Anybody seen taking pictures will have their camera confiscated.
"Secondly, the atmosphere in Hell is not healthy. It is loaded with dust and that is harmful to your health. You must not, repeat not, take off your breathing mask any time you are in an unfiltered environment. You do, you may be back here sooner than you expect. Some of the troops we sent in right at the start of the war didn't have breathing masks either and their health is now bad.
"Thirdly, all of you are here to visit recently deceased relatives. Be aware of this, the people you will be meeting are not humans. Not quite. They look like the people you knew and have the same characters, but they are in different bodies, ones adapted to living in Hell. Think of them as flasks into which the people you knew have been transferred. So, just because they can do things here – like walking around outside without masks - don’t think you can.
"Fourthly, military convoys and personnel have absolute priority. If they are coming through, get out of their way because they will not stop." The Lieutenant looked grim for a second. "You may have heard that we had some protesters here a few days ago. They laid down on the road in front of a tank convoy. By the time the convoy had passed, they were a thousandth of an inch tall and about eighty yards long. Something like a tank convoy can't stop, understand? OK.
"Fifthly, wandering around is a bad idea. Hell isn’t linear, don't ask us why, we don’t know. If you want an answer, we'll tell you it's because the polarity is reversed but that's just saying we don’t know using different words. But it means this. If you walk in a straight line out, turn around and walk in a straight line back, you will not end up in the same place you started from. Walking distances, it’s only a small error but in the refugee camps, that will get you lost. And that will displease us.
"Lastly, when the bus comes to pick you up, you leave. You'll have about an hour or so before that happens. Please don’t make us come in and get you. That's all. Any questions? No? Excellent. Thank you." The Lieutenant left quickly, giving the orientation speech wasn't a prized duty either and he wondered what he had done that had displeased his Captain so badly.
Another bus pulled into the reception building and the visitors were conducted into it. The driver was another morose private expiating some unknown military sin but there was also a professionally cheerful young woman on board. She handed out breathing masks as the visitors entered. Once they were all seated, the bus pulled out and she checked everybody had their masks on properly. "Did you all get your lecture from the Lieutenant?" There was a mumble of agreement. "He is a bit fierce, isn't he? Still, Hell is a hostile environment, but you follow his advice, and it’s safe enough. He probably skidded you past the questions bit so if I can answer anything. My name is Elva by the way, Elva Jones."
The bus slipped through the Hellgate, and the inside darkened as the overcast Earth sky was replaced by the red gray of Hell. Junior stuck his hand up. "You're not wearing a mask."
A chuckle went around the bus at the boy's presumption. The guide smiled for the same reason. "I don’t have to Johnny. I'm dead you see."
One of the men up near the front of the bus couldn’t help but ask. "Miss, Ummm, how did you…"
"Die? I was an air hostess and my plane crashed. So, when I was rescued, I got this job." She looked at the man who was about to ask something else. "A DC-2, remember them?" The man nodded and she smiled at him, not many people knew much about old airliners.
"People, we're now entering the Phelan Plain. This is named after Philip Phelan, a mall security guard who gave his life to rescue a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick attack. We're hoping we’ll find him soon so he can come to visit us. The Phelan Plain is where everybody stays after they arrive or are rescued until they find a better place of course. Now. We're going to the American Arrivals Area, all the people you want to see are there. Just give me your ticket, I'll tell you where to get off and give you a map."
"Miss Jones, the Lieutenant said that people are different. Will we be able to recognize…"
"Certainly? If your relative died before middle age, menopause for women, they'll look just the way they did when they died. If they died much older, they'll look the way they did in middle age. To quote the Lieutenant, don't ask us why, we don’t know. Right, first stop. Mr. and Mrs. McLanahan and your son? Here you are, just follow the map, it's only a few yards."
Elva had been right, the small hut allocated to Rose Matthews, Naomi McLanahan's mother, was only a few yards away from the bus stop. Privately, McLanahan guessed that wasn't an accident, that the bus routes were planned to drop each group off close to their destination.
"Oh Naomi, it’s so good to see you. And you brought little Johnnie too. Come in, why don’t you, it’s a bit small but it's only temporary. Johnnie, would you like a drink or something to eat? You can come in too John." John McLanahan reflected that being dead hadn't affected his mother-in-law at all. Physically though, the change was stunning. When he had last seen her, she had been on a bed in the hospice, breathing through a tube in her nose and fading away as the lung cancer had killed her. Now, she looked like a well-preserved mid-forties, very much like Naomi's sister rather than her mother. And so, he followed them in and settled down
The problem was that nobody had created a set of etiquette rules for speaking to dead people. The ridiculous mummery that the fake mediums had invented when they 'spoke to the dead' was of no help at all and a lot of the normal small-talk subjects just weren't relevant. So, the conversations staggered along. Eventually, it found an interesting area where Rose Matthews started to tell her guests about the people living around her. Oddly, it had been Junior who had sparked it off when he had asked his grandmother if she'd met Jesse James yet.
"Goodness me no. Nobody around here is famous. But then, there are so few famous people and there are so many of us, I suppose the chances of meeting a famous person are very low. But if I see Jesse James, I'll tell him you asked after him." Grandmother and parents exchanged adult glances at that. She'd gone on to speak of her neighbors, of the new arrivals who exchanged news and opinions on what was happening on Earth and how they looked after those who had been rescued from the Hell pit. They'd been shattered by the experience, and it took them a long time to realize the horror was over.
"So you are staying here Mother?" Naomi asked the question delicately, but her mother's eyes twinkled. She guessed her daughter and son-in-law were finally getting around to the real reason for their visit.
"Here? Oh no, certainly not. This is just temporary until my Villa is built. Should be ready in a few weeks."
"Your villa momma?" Naomi didn't like the sound of that.
"I'm going to be a citizen of the New Roman Republic. I've even got my citizenship paper, look, it says here 'In the year of the consulships of Gaius Julius Caesar and Jade Kim, Rose Matthews being a landowner in the New Roman Republic, is accorded all the virtues and privileges due to a Citizen of Rome."
"Look Rose, we wanted to talk to you about this. When you died, the lawyers said you'd changed your will and left all your money to yourself."
"That's right John. Changed it myself. Saw the advertisements on television while I was staying in the hospice and thought, well that sounds like a good idea. So, I made some inquiries and decided it was a good idea."
"But we thought we would be the executors of your estate." McLanahan was trying to find a way of complaining about being left nothing without saying so.
"And you thought you would be inheriting everything when I was gone? Not going to happen. I'm sorry John but Mark and I worked hard all our lives to save for what we had. We owned our house free and clear, when Mark died, we didn't owe a penny to anybody. He's out there somewhere, maybe still in the Hell pit, perhaps he's been rescued already, and we just haven't found each other. That takes time you know, even with computers to help. But when he is rescued or we do find each other, I want a nice home ready for him, just the way we left our old one, free and clear.
"Oh, can I meet Julius Caesar?" Junior sounded awe-struck at meeting Caesar, it even beat the chance of meeting Jesse James.
"Certainly, the First Consul is always touring Rome, meeting the people. So, does the Second Consul, you come to stay at my Villa Johnny and you’re sure to see them."
Junior sat back, his eyes glowing at the prospect. Rose stared at her daughter and son-in-law, her eyes triumphant and just a little malicious. "How often have you two refinanced your house? To pay off credit cards, buy that new trendy in-thing you just must have and then throw away as soon as you got bored with it? Well, you'd better change your ways because you're getting nothing from me. All the killjoys were wrong, now we can take it with us and that's just what I've done. So, have nearly all my friends at the Hospice. There are going to be a lot of disappointed kids who won’t get the windfall they're expecting and serve them right. Mark and I made it on our own and now we're going to enjoy it. I suggest you start to think about doing the same because when you die – when Naomi, it's not an if – you'll need everything you've saved as well. Or you'll spend eternity living in a little shack like this and working on a road gang to earn money.
There was a long silence. Then Naomi broke it. "What will you be doing in Rome mother?"
"Me? I'll be going back to work of course. Sewing clothes, just a few hours now and then, enough to make some friends and keep boredom at bay. There's going to be factories in New Rome as well and if I get my feet under the table now, I can grow with them. And I might even buy a few shares in them, nothing like owning things is there?"
Once again, there were a few minutes of silence as the McLanahan digested the situation. They'd spent their lives working on the basis that they would be inheriting their family property in due course, now at least half of it had just gone. Probably all of it, John McLanahan thought, for it was unlikely that his father would do anything differently. Quite unexpectedly, his family had been hit with a financial crisis of unexpected proportions. Eventually, conversation resumed but it was stilted and awkward until the time came for them to leave and catch the bus back to the Hellgate.
As the door closed behind them, Naomi clutched her husband's arm. "Oh John, what are we going to do?"
"I don't know darling, I just don’t know."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Four
Sky over Acara, Brazil. December 2008
In the dark skies of night, illuminated only by the glitter of the stars, a great figure, black as obsidian in the darkness, glided on outstretched wings. Beneath it, the activity of the world appeared to slow down, and its sounds muted as if the world and all who lived within it were pausing out of respect for the monstrous being that flew over its head. Yet Uriel was not deceived by the appearance, nor did he expect respect for his person. Those who lived underneath were humans and they had defied the almighty will of Yahweh. Not just defied it but broke it and cast the pieces back in His divine face. They had resisted His commandments, their armies had invaded the realm of the Divine Enemy and cast him down. "Blown him up to the max," as Michael-Lan had put it.
Uriel did not quite know what to make of The Eternal General, Commander of the Armies of the One Above All. He had changed in the last millennia or so, there was a levity in his persona that had been missing from the grimly determined commander who had fought the Divine Enemy throughout the Great Celestial War and led the final charge that had broken the Enemy's last great effort. Sometimes Uriel even questioned whether Michael-Lan was still loyal to the One Above All, but he had always dismissed those doubts. He had not dared raise the matter with the others in the First Tier of Archangels. Gabriel and Raphael would have laughed at the very idea. Azrael would have taken the suggestion as a personal affront and even questioned whether the very suggestion was indicative of Uriel's lack of loyalty. Raguel would have demanded proof of the accusation as was his way and when it had not been forthcoming, would have dared to judge even Uriel himself. Zadkiel would have merely stated that mercy and tolerance were the primary virtues and Uriel might do well to practice them.
It caused great frustration and anger to Uriel that he, the sword and the scythe of the One Above All, the one whose very passing caused entire nations to weep bitter tears, could have doubts about Michael-Lan's loyalty and yet be unable to voice them. Nor was that the only reason for his anger and resentment. The fact was that the humans were shutting him out of larger portions of their world. He had told his acolytes that the industrialized, developed areas of the world repelled him and he abhorred its clinical acceptance of death as an inconvenience to be wrapped in legal paper and forgotten. He had claimed that the less developed areas of the world still knew how to grieve and had their primal connection to death and mortality. It sounded good and it had much truth in it but it was still a lie.
Uriel no longer haunted the developed areas of the world because it was too dangerous for him to do so.
The change had started some sixty years before, a small change then and beneath Uriel's notice. The humans had invented something that made his skin itch and revealed his presence known to those below. From those small beginnings, the things had spread across the world, covering it with small spots where his skin had become uncomfortable. Then, the humans had linked those spots into great sheets that covered whole countries and they had built weapons that could threaten even Uriel himself. He had learned that when the humans had sent their great burning lances through the sky after him and they had sent those who flew their aircraft to hunt him down. They knew not what or who they were dealing with, but they responded with violence as had always been their way only now their ability to destroy was growing at rates the Hosts could not comprehend. He had told the One Above All of the change for all the good that had done. Lost in the surrounding miasma from the praise of his choir, the warning had gone unnoticed. He had told Michael-Lan who had simply replied "don’t sweat it, Bro."
What was a 'bro'? And why had the General ignored the warning? Was he, Uriel, the only one who understood the threat developing on Earth? Perhaps then but not now. The destruction of the Eternal Enemy's Kingdom and its occupation by humans had finally gained the attention of the Hosts and his warnings were at last justified, little reward he had got for them. Nor had the ever-growing web of human weapons and warning systems ceased to grow, they had spread from country to country, reaching out ever further, ever higher, crowding him away from the rich pastures of the developed world into the sparser, less populated areas. There, it was true that death still had its terror and mystery but in truth, the death that Uriel now feared was his own. He had never believed that humans could kill those in even the lowest levels of the Host let alone the glittering archangels, but the Eternal Enemy was dead at human hands and Uriel knew if the humans could find him, they would kill him with just as much dispassionate ruthlessness. Uriel looked at the humans and now he knew fear because they were killers with abilities that matched even his.
But, for now, here in time and space, what Uriel wanted and what he must do were the sole thing in his universe. He looked down on the small town that lay beneath him, the crowded areas where the poorest lived, the great mansions of the rich, and the smaller homes of those who lay between those two great extremes. He surveyed them and nodded as if coming to a decision, yet the fate of those people had already been decided. It was merely Uriel's vanity that implied there might yet be a decision made. His hand was already raised, and he swept it over the town below, his benison chanted in tones dire with portent. “Peace be with you and my peace I grant you.”
Once there had been a time when every single living thing in the town, down to the angrily buzzing mosquitos and the languid grace of the dragonflies would have dropped to the earth in that instant. Those days also had gone. The animals and insects die, that much was certain, but the humans did not and resisted the divine command. Uriel concentrated, stepping up the power of his assault, driving down on the minds beneath him. Eventually, he felt the weakest down below crumble and their defenses collapse. In that instant, they died. Even so, some continued to resist, and their defenses were too strong for the assault. Exhausted from the effort, Uriel turned in a slow beautiful motion and flew away, the light of the stars reflecting off the ebony wings jutting from his back. His work here was done, as much of it that was within his power. And that was the thing that drove his mind for he had never experienced the concept that his power could be limited.
Conference Room, White House, Washington D.C. December 2008
"I'm afraid you’re going to have to get used to these things Barry." President Bush looked at the President-Elect with a considerable degree of sympathy. "They're more interesting now, of course, my Daddy said that the ones in his term were incredibly dull."
A swirl of laughter ran around the room. It was crowded, there were effectively two teams present in a room designed for one. The War Cabinet itself, serving President Bush and the Transition team, preparing the way for President Obama. "Well, the Chinese did always tell us to beware of interesting times," Obama repeated the platitude with a certain degree of relish.
"True, and they don’t get any more interesting than this. General Petraeus, the situation in Hell if you please?"
General of the Armies David Petraeus, his six stars visible on the great TV screen that dominated one end of the room, shuffled the papers in front of him. Only one other American had been awarded a sixth star, George Washington himself. Washington had got him for saving an entire country, Petraeus for saving humanity. "Mister President, Mister President-Elect, the Human Expeditionary Army is continuing to grow towards its final strength. The major problems continue to be spares, equipment, and support. Our fuel and ammunition stocks are low, and much of our equipment is unserviceable and in urgent need of renovation while new production is still inadequate. The truth is, I now have on paper, five Army Groups yet in terms of available forces, I barely have more forces available than those at my disposal during major combat operations. Fewer if anything, the Russians have hit some nightmarish problems in their occupation zone that are trying down a large proportion of their Army Group. If it wasn't for the arrival of the Chinese Army group, we would be in severe difficulties."
"I thought we'd won this war?" Obama was confused, the picture he was getting was very different from his preconceptions. That applied to a lot of areas, he was beginning to realize just how unprepared for the Presidency he was.
Bush smiled in response. "Barry, don't worry about it. Everybody, but everybody who has ever sat in this office was totally unprepared for it. My daddy was Vice-President for eight years and he didn't have any idea of the burdens involved, same for Bill, same for me. You'll grow into this office, everybody does. Now, on the war, yes, we won the first campaign, and we kicked the snot out of Satan and his crew. Dave Petraeus made it look easy, but it wasn't. We ran our ammunition stocks close to zero and wore our equipment down. If Satan had hung on just a little longer, we'd have had some real problems. We've had some months to recuperate but we're still weak. Dave, you said the Russians are having problems?"
"They are Mister President, we haven't got too much in the way of details, but they ran into something unexpected and they're having Hell's job in handling it. We're expecting more of the same ourselves. Hell is a really big place; we've only occupied a small area of it, and we haven't mapped much more. The Baldricks occupied two areas, one around the Hell-pit, the other up at Tartarus and those we hold, but pretty much everywhere else, and that's around 90 percent of the land area is unexplored and, we thought, unoccupied. Only it isn't as the Russians found out. So, we confidently expect to hit something similar ourselves. The other thing is, the Heavengate we found? It's shut down. We can't reopen it it requires naga or their equivalents at both ends to open a gate between Heaven and Hell. Once co-operation was withdrawn at one end, the thing just shut down."
"General, what can my new Administration do to improve things?"
"Not very much Sir to be honest. Just keep production up and keep the equipment flowing through to us. I'm not sure there is much scope for enhancing production still further. Don’t worry about developing a wholly new kit, just keep the good old reliable stuff we have flowing through. Improve it where we can, we need better dust filters and so on. But food, fuel, ammunition, oil, batteries, all that good stuff we're desperately short of. Oh, and more of those .94-inch Martini-Henrys for the Baldricks, they're a big hit." General Petraeus's image faded from the screen.
"We're arming the Baldricks?" Obama seemed bewildered by the idea.
"Of course, we need them as militia. We even designed a special rifle for them, or rather a lady called Marina O'Leary did. It was her company that came up with the idea for the M114 and M115 rifles. The M116 is chambered for the .94 Nitro-Express round but it is fired from a scaled-up version of the old British Martini-Henry dropping block rifle." Obama looked slightly confused, as a Chicagoan, he didn’t have the Texan's finely-honed knowledge of firearms. "The one the British used in the film Zulu." That made the connection.
"Can I replace General Petraeus?" Obama spoke thoughtfully. "We could use him here."
"Not really Barry. In theory, you could but the Human Expeditionary Army is his command, with a Council of War to support him. That's comprised of the five Army Group commanders, one American, one Russian, one Chinese, one Indian, and one Frenchman. All top-rank men by the way. If General Petraeus is relieved, his replacement must receive the unanimous approval of those five. Very unlikely anybody will get that. Anyway, next issue. The weather."
"You sound like a Brit; they always want to talk about the weather." Obama's voice was suave, and it caused another ripple of laughter.
"Well, they're justified in doing so now. We've had three super-storms, all of which have hit us hard. Two were here, we had the tornadoes in Missouri, they killed a lot of people and wiped out the B-2 fleet. We haven't let on just how much of a disaster that was but we're hurting from it. If I had longer in the office, I'd cancel efforts to restart B-2 production and concentrate on the B-1 and B-3. That's a course of action I'd recommend to you Barry. The second one hit Bermuda and trashed the base there. That wasn't so bad, we lost a couple of ships and the population got hurt. The third one was the cyclone that hit India a couple of days ago. All three had the same pattern, a storm formed normally but suddenly increased in strength and changed direction. We're being attacked using weather patterns, but we don’t know how."
"This must be Yahweh of course."
"Of course. President Abigor has confirmed that using the weather is a long-standing Yahweh tactic. He used it against the Egyptians now and then. But how it's done we don't know. Ask the Baldricks and they just look apologetic and say 'magic'. That's their explanation for everything they don’t understand."
"Mister President, Mister President-Elect. If I may have a word?"
"Please Doctor Surlethe."
"We have an idea how the increase in storm strength is brought about. If one takes a hurricane, tornado, or cyclone and injects a mass of warm air into the base, that'll do it. That's basically why such storms develop power over the sea and dissipate it over land. Of course, how a mass of warm air got injected into the storm is another matter. Some sort of portal is a working assumption. Steering the storm is another matter, we haven't got a clue on how to do that. We'll just keep battering at the problem until we come up with something."
"A suggestion Doctor Surlethe?"
"Yes, Mister President-Elect?"
"If injecting warm air causes these storms to increase in strength, what would happen if we used a portal to inject cold air? Would that not diminish the storm or even break it up?"
"That's a line of investigation we're following right now Sir. The problem is that storms are hard to model accurately so we're not sure what the results will be. But that is a promising approach yes. However, we have another problem. We've had a series of attacks in South America, small towns where there have been massive, inexplicable deaths. People just struck down in very large numbers, usually between 70 and 80 percent of the population. The attacks are averaging around one every five days or so. Now, some months ago, we received a letter from a man called Jude Sanchez who claims to have met Uriel in Africa and included an account of this Uriel wiping out every living thing within the confines of a native town. He included evidence of other such incidents and we followed them up; they do pan out."
"Who is this Uriel?" Obama sounded interested if a little incredulous.
"Well, another DIMO(N) operative, one Norman Baines who's about the world's leading expert on mythology, identified Uriel for us and gave a pretty good briefing on this particularly macabre gentleman. The name literally means "Fire of Yahweh" and he's supposed to be one of the topmost ranks of Archangels. He is supposed to have been the Angel who guarded the gates of Eden with a fiery sword, and I suppose the best description of him is that he's Yahweh's hitman."
"The Angel of Death then?"
"Not really Mister President, no. Azrael is supposed to be the angel of death in the Grim Reaper sense. Uriel is more along the vengeance and punishment line. Like a loan shark’s enforcer. There's the one nasty thing about Uriel, he doesn’t just kill his victims, he snuffs out their souls as well."
"That sounds a bit far-fetched."
"Not really Mister President. We have some supporting evidence for it; there have been eight of these attacks in South America, five in Brazil, two in Uruguay, and one in Bolivia. They've killed around five thousand people. Not one of those victims has turned up in Hell. There is another oddity. In the Sanchez letter – and in the pictures he included – Uriel killed every living thing in the towns he attacked, even down to the birds, insects, and earthworms. He left the ground sterile and clean. Yet in the attacks in South America, the animals, insects and so on all died, but anywhere between twenty and forty percent of the humans survived. The survivors all speak of the same events, things seeming to slow down, everything suddenly going quiet and most of the people dying. Here's an interesting thing, all the survivors were in the top-earning brackets, the richer the inhabitants of a town were, the fewer died. Even more interesting, servants in the rich houses lived, but people living elsewhere did not, even if they were nominally wealthier than the servants. We're still puzzling over that."
"And so the war goes on," Obama spoke reflectively. The meeting had been an eye-opener for him. "We're under attack and we don’t know how it’s being done or whether we can hit back."
"We'll find a way, Mister President-Elect. Somehow, we'll find a way."
"In the meantime," President Bush had a boyish grin on his face. "we've arranged a little message for Yahweh."
National Cathedral, Washington D.C. Christmas Day, 2008
"We thought that this is the one-day Yahweh might be keeping an eye on us, so we are going to send him a message." Bush and Obama were standing side by side in the front row at the National Cathedral, waiting for the ceremony to begin. They were startled by a patter of applause at the back of the nave, but it was just a small group of soldiers in the red-gray Hell-BDUs entering. A few of the civilians quickly stood and offered them their seats. Then, as the atomic clock sent out its noon alert, across America, in every church that was still standing, the same ceremony took place.
A red flag unfurled from the spire, rippling in the wind as it burst open. Simultaneously, a group of trumpeters started a fanfare in the National Cathedral, taken from the Marine Corps band, elsewhere from marching bands, schools, and even sometimes hastily practiced amateur musicians. It was always the same tune, an eerie, wailing, discordant melody that echoed and re-echoed across the land.
As the last notes faded away, Obama turned to Bush. "I don’t understand."
"You'll never make a Texan, Barry. That's the Deguello. Santa Ana hoisted the red flag and played the Deguello just before the assault on the Alamo. Together, the Red Flag and the Deguello mean that we will give no quarter, we will have no mercy, we will take no prisoners, and we will not stop attacking until we have won the victory. And we played it on Yahweh's day. I hope he gets the message and chokes on it."
Sky over Acara, Brazil. December 2008
In the dark skies of night, illuminated only by the glitter of the stars, a great figure, black as obsidian in the darkness, glided on outstretched wings. Beneath it, the activity of the world appeared to slow down, and its sounds muted as if the world and all who lived within it were pausing out of respect for the monstrous being that flew over its head. Yet Uriel was not deceived by the appearance, nor did he expect respect for his person. Those who lived underneath were humans and they had defied the almighty will of Yahweh. Not just defied it but broke it and cast the pieces back in His divine face. They had resisted His commandments, their armies had invaded the realm of the Divine Enemy and cast him down. "Blown him up to the max," as Michael-Lan had put it.
Uriel did not quite know what to make of The Eternal General, Commander of the Armies of the One Above All. He had changed in the last millennia or so, there was a levity in his persona that had been missing from the grimly determined commander who had fought the Divine Enemy throughout the Great Celestial War and led the final charge that had broken the Enemy's last great effort. Sometimes Uriel even questioned whether Michael-Lan was still loyal to the One Above All, but he had always dismissed those doubts. He had not dared raise the matter with the others in the First Tier of Archangels. Gabriel and Raphael would have laughed at the very idea. Azrael would have taken the suggestion as a personal affront and even questioned whether the very suggestion was indicative of Uriel's lack of loyalty. Raguel would have demanded proof of the accusation as was his way and when it had not been forthcoming, would have dared to judge even Uriel himself. Zadkiel would have merely stated that mercy and tolerance were the primary virtues and Uriel might do well to practice them.
It caused great frustration and anger to Uriel that he, the sword and the scythe of the One Above All, the one whose very passing caused entire nations to weep bitter tears, could have doubts about Michael-Lan's loyalty and yet be unable to voice them. Nor was that the only reason for his anger and resentment. The fact was that the humans were shutting him out of larger portions of their world. He had told his acolytes that the industrialized, developed areas of the world repelled him and he abhorred its clinical acceptance of death as an inconvenience to be wrapped in legal paper and forgotten. He had claimed that the less developed areas of the world still knew how to grieve and had their primal connection to death and mortality. It sounded good and it had much truth in it but it was still a lie.
Uriel no longer haunted the developed areas of the world because it was too dangerous for him to do so.
The change had started some sixty years before, a small change then and beneath Uriel's notice. The humans had invented something that made his skin itch and revealed his presence known to those below. From those small beginnings, the things had spread across the world, covering it with small spots where his skin had become uncomfortable. Then, the humans had linked those spots into great sheets that covered whole countries and they had built weapons that could threaten even Uriel himself. He had learned that when the humans had sent their great burning lances through the sky after him and they had sent those who flew their aircraft to hunt him down. They knew not what or who they were dealing with, but they responded with violence as had always been their way only now their ability to destroy was growing at rates the Hosts could not comprehend. He had told the One Above All of the change for all the good that had done. Lost in the surrounding miasma from the praise of his choir, the warning had gone unnoticed. He had told Michael-Lan who had simply replied "don’t sweat it, Bro."
What was a 'bro'? And why had the General ignored the warning? Was he, Uriel, the only one who understood the threat developing on Earth? Perhaps then but not now. The destruction of the Eternal Enemy's Kingdom and its occupation by humans had finally gained the attention of the Hosts and his warnings were at last justified, little reward he had got for them. Nor had the ever-growing web of human weapons and warning systems ceased to grow, they had spread from country to country, reaching out ever further, ever higher, crowding him away from the rich pastures of the developed world into the sparser, less populated areas. There, it was true that death still had its terror and mystery but in truth, the death that Uriel now feared was his own. He had never believed that humans could kill those in even the lowest levels of the Host let alone the glittering archangels, but the Eternal Enemy was dead at human hands and Uriel knew if the humans could find him, they would kill him with just as much dispassionate ruthlessness. Uriel looked at the humans and now he knew fear because they were killers with abilities that matched even his.
But, for now, here in time and space, what Uriel wanted and what he must do were the sole thing in his universe. He looked down on the small town that lay beneath him, the crowded areas where the poorest lived, the great mansions of the rich, and the smaller homes of those who lay between those two great extremes. He surveyed them and nodded as if coming to a decision, yet the fate of those people had already been decided. It was merely Uriel's vanity that implied there might yet be a decision made. His hand was already raised, and he swept it over the town below, his benison chanted in tones dire with portent. “Peace be with you and my peace I grant you.”
Once there had been a time when every single living thing in the town, down to the angrily buzzing mosquitos and the languid grace of the dragonflies would have dropped to the earth in that instant. Those days also had gone. The animals and insects die, that much was certain, but the humans did not and resisted the divine command. Uriel concentrated, stepping up the power of his assault, driving down on the minds beneath him. Eventually, he felt the weakest down below crumble and their defenses collapse. In that instant, they died. Even so, some continued to resist, and their defenses were too strong for the assault. Exhausted from the effort, Uriel turned in a slow beautiful motion and flew away, the light of the stars reflecting off the ebony wings jutting from his back. His work here was done, as much of it that was within his power. And that was the thing that drove his mind for he had never experienced the concept that his power could be limited.
Conference Room, White House, Washington D.C. December 2008
"I'm afraid you’re going to have to get used to these things Barry." President Bush looked at the President-Elect with a considerable degree of sympathy. "They're more interesting now, of course, my Daddy said that the ones in his term were incredibly dull."
A swirl of laughter ran around the room. It was crowded, there were effectively two teams present in a room designed for one. The War Cabinet itself, serving President Bush and the Transition team, preparing the way for President Obama. "Well, the Chinese did always tell us to beware of interesting times," Obama repeated the platitude with a certain degree of relish.
"True, and they don’t get any more interesting than this. General Petraeus, the situation in Hell if you please?"
General of the Armies David Petraeus, his six stars visible on the great TV screen that dominated one end of the room, shuffled the papers in front of him. Only one other American had been awarded a sixth star, George Washington himself. Washington had got him for saving an entire country, Petraeus for saving humanity. "Mister President, Mister President-Elect, the Human Expeditionary Army is continuing to grow towards its final strength. The major problems continue to be spares, equipment, and support. Our fuel and ammunition stocks are low, and much of our equipment is unserviceable and in urgent need of renovation while new production is still inadequate. The truth is, I now have on paper, five Army Groups yet in terms of available forces, I barely have more forces available than those at my disposal during major combat operations. Fewer if anything, the Russians have hit some nightmarish problems in their occupation zone that are trying down a large proportion of their Army Group. If it wasn't for the arrival of the Chinese Army group, we would be in severe difficulties."
"I thought we'd won this war?" Obama was confused, the picture he was getting was very different from his preconceptions. That applied to a lot of areas, he was beginning to realize just how unprepared for the Presidency he was.
Bush smiled in response. "Barry, don't worry about it. Everybody, but everybody who has ever sat in this office was totally unprepared for it. My daddy was Vice-President for eight years and he didn't have any idea of the burdens involved, same for Bill, same for me. You'll grow into this office, everybody does. Now, on the war, yes, we won the first campaign, and we kicked the snot out of Satan and his crew. Dave Petraeus made it look easy, but it wasn't. We ran our ammunition stocks close to zero and wore our equipment down. If Satan had hung on just a little longer, we'd have had some real problems. We've had some months to recuperate but we're still weak. Dave, you said the Russians are having problems?"
"They are Mister President, we haven't got too much in the way of details, but they ran into something unexpected and they're having Hell's job in handling it. We're expecting more of the same ourselves. Hell is a really big place; we've only occupied a small area of it, and we haven't mapped much more. The Baldricks occupied two areas, one around the Hell-pit, the other up at Tartarus and those we hold, but pretty much everywhere else, and that's around 90 percent of the land area is unexplored and, we thought, unoccupied. Only it isn't as the Russians found out. So, we confidently expect to hit something similar ourselves. The other thing is, the Heavengate we found? It's shut down. We can't reopen it it requires naga or their equivalents at both ends to open a gate between Heaven and Hell. Once co-operation was withdrawn at one end, the thing just shut down."
"General, what can my new Administration do to improve things?"
"Not very much Sir to be honest. Just keep production up and keep the equipment flowing through to us. I'm not sure there is much scope for enhancing production still further. Don’t worry about developing a wholly new kit, just keep the good old reliable stuff we have flowing through. Improve it where we can, we need better dust filters and so on. But food, fuel, ammunition, oil, batteries, all that good stuff we're desperately short of. Oh, and more of those .94-inch Martini-Henrys for the Baldricks, they're a big hit." General Petraeus's image faded from the screen.
"We're arming the Baldricks?" Obama seemed bewildered by the idea.
"Of course, we need them as militia. We even designed a special rifle for them, or rather a lady called Marina O'Leary did. It was her company that came up with the idea for the M114 and M115 rifles. The M116 is chambered for the .94 Nitro-Express round but it is fired from a scaled-up version of the old British Martini-Henry dropping block rifle." Obama looked slightly confused, as a Chicagoan, he didn’t have the Texan's finely-honed knowledge of firearms. "The one the British used in the film Zulu." That made the connection.
"Can I replace General Petraeus?" Obama spoke thoughtfully. "We could use him here."
"Not really Barry. In theory, you could but the Human Expeditionary Army is his command, with a Council of War to support him. That's comprised of the five Army Group commanders, one American, one Russian, one Chinese, one Indian, and one Frenchman. All top-rank men by the way. If General Petraeus is relieved, his replacement must receive the unanimous approval of those five. Very unlikely anybody will get that. Anyway, next issue. The weather."
"You sound like a Brit; they always want to talk about the weather." Obama's voice was suave, and it caused another ripple of laughter.
"Well, they're justified in doing so now. We've had three super-storms, all of which have hit us hard. Two were here, we had the tornadoes in Missouri, they killed a lot of people and wiped out the B-2 fleet. We haven't let on just how much of a disaster that was but we're hurting from it. If I had longer in the office, I'd cancel efforts to restart B-2 production and concentrate on the B-1 and B-3. That's a course of action I'd recommend to you Barry. The second one hit Bermuda and trashed the base there. That wasn't so bad, we lost a couple of ships and the population got hurt. The third one was the cyclone that hit India a couple of days ago. All three had the same pattern, a storm formed normally but suddenly increased in strength and changed direction. We're being attacked using weather patterns, but we don’t know how."
"This must be Yahweh of course."
"Of course. President Abigor has confirmed that using the weather is a long-standing Yahweh tactic. He used it against the Egyptians now and then. But how it's done we don't know. Ask the Baldricks and they just look apologetic and say 'magic'. That's their explanation for everything they don’t understand."
"Mister President, Mister President-Elect. If I may have a word?"
"Please Doctor Surlethe."
"We have an idea how the increase in storm strength is brought about. If one takes a hurricane, tornado, or cyclone and injects a mass of warm air into the base, that'll do it. That's basically why such storms develop power over the sea and dissipate it over land. Of course, how a mass of warm air got injected into the storm is another matter. Some sort of portal is a working assumption. Steering the storm is another matter, we haven't got a clue on how to do that. We'll just keep battering at the problem until we come up with something."
"A suggestion Doctor Surlethe?"
"Yes, Mister President-Elect?"
"If injecting warm air causes these storms to increase in strength, what would happen if we used a portal to inject cold air? Would that not diminish the storm or even break it up?"
"That's a line of investigation we're following right now Sir. The problem is that storms are hard to model accurately so we're not sure what the results will be. But that is a promising approach yes. However, we have another problem. We've had a series of attacks in South America, small towns where there have been massive, inexplicable deaths. People just struck down in very large numbers, usually between 70 and 80 percent of the population. The attacks are averaging around one every five days or so. Now, some months ago, we received a letter from a man called Jude Sanchez who claims to have met Uriel in Africa and included an account of this Uriel wiping out every living thing within the confines of a native town. He included evidence of other such incidents and we followed them up; they do pan out."
"Who is this Uriel?" Obama sounded interested if a little incredulous.
"Well, another DIMO(N) operative, one Norman Baines who's about the world's leading expert on mythology, identified Uriel for us and gave a pretty good briefing on this particularly macabre gentleman. The name literally means "Fire of Yahweh" and he's supposed to be one of the topmost ranks of Archangels. He is supposed to have been the Angel who guarded the gates of Eden with a fiery sword, and I suppose the best description of him is that he's Yahweh's hitman."
"The Angel of Death then?"
"Not really Mister President, no. Azrael is supposed to be the angel of death in the Grim Reaper sense. Uriel is more along the vengeance and punishment line. Like a loan shark’s enforcer. There's the one nasty thing about Uriel, he doesn’t just kill his victims, he snuffs out their souls as well."
"That sounds a bit far-fetched."
"Not really Mister President. We have some supporting evidence for it; there have been eight of these attacks in South America, five in Brazil, two in Uruguay, and one in Bolivia. They've killed around five thousand people. Not one of those victims has turned up in Hell. There is another oddity. In the Sanchez letter – and in the pictures he included – Uriel killed every living thing in the towns he attacked, even down to the birds, insects, and earthworms. He left the ground sterile and clean. Yet in the attacks in South America, the animals, insects and so on all died, but anywhere between twenty and forty percent of the humans survived. The survivors all speak of the same events, things seeming to slow down, everything suddenly going quiet and most of the people dying. Here's an interesting thing, all the survivors were in the top-earning brackets, the richer the inhabitants of a town were, the fewer died. Even more interesting, servants in the rich houses lived, but people living elsewhere did not, even if they were nominally wealthier than the servants. We're still puzzling over that."
"And so the war goes on," Obama spoke reflectively. The meeting had been an eye-opener for him. "We're under attack and we don’t know how it’s being done or whether we can hit back."
"We'll find a way, Mister President-Elect. Somehow, we'll find a way."
"In the meantime," President Bush had a boyish grin on his face. "we've arranged a little message for Yahweh."
National Cathedral, Washington D.C. Christmas Day, 2008
"We thought that this is the one-day Yahweh might be keeping an eye on us, so we are going to send him a message." Bush and Obama were standing side by side in the front row at the National Cathedral, waiting for the ceremony to begin. They were startled by a patter of applause at the back of the nave, but it was just a small group of soldiers in the red-gray Hell-BDUs entering. A few of the civilians quickly stood and offered them their seats. Then, as the atomic clock sent out its noon alert, across America, in every church that was still standing, the same ceremony took place.
A red flag unfurled from the spire, rippling in the wind as it burst open. Simultaneously, a group of trumpeters started a fanfare in the National Cathedral, taken from the Marine Corps band, elsewhere from marching bands, schools, and even sometimes hastily practiced amateur musicians. It was always the same tune, an eerie, wailing, discordant melody that echoed and re-echoed across the land.
As the last notes faded away, Obama turned to Bush. "I don’t understand."
"You'll never make a Texan, Barry. That's the Deguello. Santa Ana hoisted the red flag and played the Deguello just before the assault on the Alamo. Together, the Red Flag and the Deguello mean that we will give no quarter, we will have no mercy, we will take no prisoners, and we will not stop attacking until we have won the victory. And we played it on Yahweh's day. I hope he gets the message and chokes on it."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Five
Sky over Khabarovsk, Russia. January 2009
Gliding in the skies high over the Earth, Colopatiron Lan Michael, strained all his senses to seek out threats from the humans who crowded the ground below him. The effort interfered with his savoring of the tastes of human air, the smells, so faint but still unmistakable, of human life. Savoring the senses was one of the great rewards of entering human space but it could not be allowed to interfere with the task before him. This mission was crucial but extremely dangerous for it did not just take the angel into human space but into one of the most heavily defended areas on earth. Colopatiron could feel just how heavy the defenses were here, his skin was itching madly from the strange instruments that humans used, and he knew his presence had to be known to the humans. They would be doing something about that very soon and all of Heaven had seen the destruction humans and their weapons had wrought on The Eternal Enemy and his fallen minions. Colopatiron's mission was a response to that stunning display. The consummation of the wrath of The One Above All with the people of the earth who had defied His will and continued to live a life of sin is disobedience to the Divine Message and yet did not repent was at hand.
For slung under him was the First Bowl of Wrath and already its contents were trickling out over the ground below. Soon, it would become a loathsome and malignant sore on the people who had the mark of the beast. Colopatiron was but one of twenty angels who were pouring the First Bowl of Wrath. Hand-picked by Michael-Lan himself they were striking the first substantial blow against the mutinous and recalcitrant humans who had become so saturated with pride they had even dared question the supremacy of the One Above All. And yet, his appointment for this mission was a puzzlement to Colopatiron for he had always believed that he was not amongst those Michael-Lan considered his most trusted. Still, who was he, a lowly angel to question the leader of his Choir, the one whose name he bore as part of his own?
The Bowl was nearly empty now, but Colopatiron sensed it was already too late. He concentrated his power upon his hearing and was rewarded by the sound of human aircraft, approaching fast. Now, angel or not, a bowl of Wrath or not, he would have to fight to survive.
Thirty kilometers to the north, in his Su-35BM, Captain Yahiya Saifullovich Fatkullin was flying with his radar switched off, but his infra-red tracking system was showing the angel perfectly. Far off to the south, another pair of Su-35s were illuminating the angel with their radars, decoying it away from Fatkullin's formation and diverting their victim's attention away from the vector of the true strike. Maskirovka, always maskirovka, the lesson hammered into every Russian officer from their first day of training. Deceive, misdirect, decoy. Never do the obvious unless the obvious is so unlikely nobody would take it seriously. It was a long, long way from Fatkullin's flight school in the Kurgan region of the Urals, just as his Su-35BM was a long, long way from the MiG-17UTI he had flown in the earliest days of his pilot training.
He glanced down, checking his speed. He was moving in, just under Mach one to minimize the warning given to his prey and to give his missiles the greatest possible kinetic boost. His infra-red tracking system was already feeding target information to his R-77M missiles, he would be firing them using that data and the missiles would only switch on their radar guidance systems when their computers told them the target was only in the no-escape zone. It was a deadly tactic that the Indians had used well against the Americans and given their arrogant Eagle drivers a lesson to think upon. With a little luck, the angel would never know what it was that had killed it. Another lesson from his flight school, a grim one. A successful fighter pilot was an assassin, not a warrior. Another check on his display, the angel was marked using the data from the infra-red tracking systems, the other pair of Su-35s from their transponders. Even as Fatkullin watched, the southernmost pair of Su-35s turned north and started to move in. Time for the attack.
Colopatiron saw the two human aircraft accelerate and swing towards him. This was bad, very bad. In his excess of the sin of pride, the Eternal Enemy had never bothered to learn much about humans and that was why he had died under their weapons. Colopatiron would not make that mistake. He adjusted his vision for long-range and darkness and saw the two aircraft streaking towards him. Instinctively he knew that they were the source of the infernal itching in his skin, and he acted according to his instincts. His lungs flexed, his voice drew upon all the powers of the Chorus, and he emitted a blast of pure sound at the lead aircraft, sound so pure and above reproach that it flung the fighter from the sky. Colopatiron watched it crumple in mid-air, saw it fall, and the human who flew it eject from the great transparent house that rode upon its nose. He felt triumph swell within him at the sight of those who defied the One Above All being driven from the skies, but he crushed it down. There was no time to exult over the fate of a fallen foe.
Lieutenant Viktor Matveevich Rakitin had known that, as the two most junior pilots in the flight of four Su-35s, he and Blue-861 would be the decoys. What he had not expected was for the angel they were hunting to respond to their feint so quickly. The blow that had struck Blue-861 had thrown it out of control and wrecked its internal structure, probably also causing both jet engines to flame out. The fringes of the same blow had caught his aircraft, throwing him against his straps, but his faithful Blue-863 had stood the shock and kept flying. He had a radar lock on the angel, so he selected his R-77Ms and fired a pair of them at the target before heaving back on the stick, ramming his throttles forward and soaring skyward. That had put him well clear of the course of the two missiles and so out of danger when something had tumbled them and sent them plummeting from the sky. It didn't matter though, Blue-861 and Blue-863 had done their job, the angel had spent the few seconds it had to react concentrating on them, and in doing so, it had allowed Blue-860 and Blue-862 to get into perfect firing positions.
Colopatiron had blown the two missiles aimed at it out of the sky with the same casual ease he had used to wipe out the first aircraft. Now was the time to deal with its mate, and his eyes tracked the second aircraft as it swept skywards, accelerating fast. He gave forth another blast of sound, reveling in its purity as he did so, but it was ineffective. It did not matter; the aircraft was running from battle and the skies were clear for his return home. Then Colopatiron felt the burning agony as he was enveloped in explosions, and he knew that he would not be going home again. Weakened and in agony, knowing he was dying, he tried one last shot against the humans who had outfought him.
It was a perfect assassination, his flight instructors would have been proud. The angel had never even realized the four missiles fired by the two Su-35s were inbound until they had slammed into his body and eviscerated him. Fatkullin saw the angel writhing in mid-air, saw it turn and mouth at him. His faithful Blue-860 shook in ways that rattled his teeth and caused his sight to blur but the effects of four missile hits had weakened the angel so much that the wall he felt as if his aircraft had flown into was a comparatively fragile thing. His continuously computed impact point for his 30mm gun was on the angel, so Fatkullin squeezed the trigger and pumped a long burst into the still-moving body. Once his gun had had a burst limiter but that had long been removed in recognition of the fact that Baldricks and angels were so damned hard to kill. Now, the shells stitched a line across the target and the angel fell from the sky.
"Eagle Control. This is Blue-860. Target is negated, say again, the target is negated. Blue-861 lost to an unknown weapon. Returning to base."
The Montmartre Club, Heaven.
The last strains of "Nightmare" faded away and the band leader stepped forward to a burst of rapturous applause from the audience. He cast an apprehensive eye at the great figure sitting off to one side, but Michael-Lan had risen to his feet and was applauding enthusiastically.
"Well done, Artie, great performance. You too Billie, shame you two ever split up down on Earth."
"Thank you, Excellency…"
"Hey, not so much of the Excellency, you know very well that I must put up with too much of that nonsense out there. In here, it’s Michael, Michael-Lan if you want to be more formal. And a great artist like you, well associating with us as if we are equals is just one of the benefits of the job. Anyway, you and your band have a rest now, we've got a stage act coming up and then Glen is on."
Michael-Lan walked back through the crowd, looking around him at the scene that, for all its apparent casualness, lay at the center of his plans. The air was tinged with the scent of fine cigars, and the occupants and staff of the club, a mixture of humans and members of the angelic host, were laughing and exchanging pleasantries. Cocktail waitresses in outfits that left nothing to the imagination were serving drinks. Every so often, a customer would grab one of the girls, there would be a brief conversation and then they would vanish to one of the rooms upstairs. Up on the stage, the band had finished clearing their instruments away and the scene was dressed as a room in a hotel somewhere. Two young female angels were on the stage, sitting on the bed, running their hands over each other's bodies. The audience had quieted down a little, they were becoming fascinated by the story the two performers were opening before them.
Michael-Lan got a strange feeling that if humans had designed Heaven, this was what they would have come up with. As the idea occurred to him, he got the warm, fuzzy feeling he always got these days when he thought of humans. For millennia he had despised them, looking on them with the same cold contempt for their mindless obedience and submission that Yahweh had made so obvious. Then, a few centuries ago, humans had stopped being blindly obedient beasts and started to question what surrounded them. Only a few at first, but slowly those few had opened the eyes of a few more and a few more again. Soon, a critical mass had been reached and the humans had broken out of the prison Yahweh had imposed upon them and begun to build their society.
Michael-Lan had investigated that society with the intent of tearing it down but as he had started his inquiries, somehow, he'd caught the human disease and started to question the assumptions he'd been trained never to doubt. As the questions in his mind had multiplied, he had found, to his disbelief, that he was beginning to like these new humans. More than that, a plan, complex and devious, had begun to form in his mind. A small part of that plan was here, small yet critical beyond measure. He had formed this club; he had rescued humans from torment to staff and run it. It drew on all the impressions he had gathered on his visits to Earth, part speakeasy, part bordello, part burlesque show, it was the honey in the center of his scheme.
He glanced again at the stage. The two angels were now down on the bed, twisting in simulated passion. Michael-Lan gave them top marks for innovative use of wings and imaginative application of feathers and then turned to one of his guests.
"Having a good time Gabriel-Lan?"
"As always, Michael-Lan. What did we do for fun before you started this place?" The Archangel Gabriel's voice was slurred from too much whisky. That reminded Michael, that he was going to have to do something about ensuring supplies. Earth was getting harder to visit with the war now in full swing. As if Gabriel had read Michael's thoughts, he asked, "And how goes the war?"
"The first Bowl of Wrath was poured today. The operation was successful although sadly the Angels delivering the Bowl did not survive the human defenses." Which was fortunate, Michael-Lan thought. He had carefully picked those Angels from those whose loyalties might have been conflicted enough to hazard his plans.
"Seems like a rotten thing to do to the humans down there." Gabriel was drunk. Michael would have to make sure he was sobered up before he left the club. Yahweh did not need to know this place existed. He might be all-knowing but that only applied when people didn't use extraordinary measures to stop him from finding out. Michael-Lan had been applying those measures for some centuries now and neither Yahweh nor the late, unlamented Satan had been as all-knowing as they had believed. Michael gave a small signal with one hand and the house madam gave him a knowing grin.
"Gabriel-Lan, we have got to keep the humans out of Heaven. Look, they loathed Satan for everything he did and because of that, they killed him in process of destroying everything he had built. But Satan just tortured them for all eternity. We betrayed them. Satan never pretended to be anything other than what he was or had plans for anything other than what he announced. We, all of us, acted nice, made lots of promises, and reneged on every one of them. They loathed Satan but they hate us. If they get their Army up here, they will destroy Heaven and kill us all. You heard that tune they played, it wasn't just an insult, it was a promise and humans keep their promises." When it suits them Michael-Lan added to himself. "Humans captured Dis, they will destroy the Eternal City. Our long, wide boulevards make perfect runs for their tanks, and the palaces built of precious stones are perfect targets for their guns. Mark this Gabriel-Lan and mark it well. If the humans get their Army into Heaven, we are lost, all of us."
Up on the stage, one of the angels was kneeling, bent over the bed, with her arms held, twisted up her back while her partner was holding her hair, pulling her head back while she thrust with her hips. Suddenly, the kneeling angel gasped and gave a long, panting cry of ecstasy. Then the two stood up and took their bows to a thunderous round of applause. They got two curtain calls before the stagehands cleared the set and arranged the stage so the next of the big bands could take over.
It might sound dramatic, Michael thought, but it was largely true. If the humans could get to Heaven, the war would be over quickly and unbelievably violently. Not necessarily all the occupants of Heaven would get killed, Michael-Lan had a backup plan for that eventuality as well and this club featured there as well. But the power structure that had existed in Heaven for untold millennia would be shattered forever. That was no bad thing, Michael-Lan admitted to himself, and he was not averse to shattering it himself. But it had to be done slowly and carefully and when he moved it had to be with all the cards held firmly in his hand. Satan Mekratrig had been impatient, greedy, avaricious, and imprudent. His move had started the Great Celestial War, split the Host, and caused generations of fighting. Michael-Lan had been Yahweh's field commander during that war and he well-appreciated a human saying. One that went "Short of a battle lost, there is nothing so mournful as a battle won." Well, there was, that was a battle that had achieved nothing and changed nothing.
Satan had staged his revolt before he was ready, the result had been a long, bloody war that had achieved nothing and changed nothing. Michael did not intend to make that mistake.
Gabriel-Lan was still at the table and still drunk. Over his shoulder, he could see that Lailah was approaching. She was dressed for work, with a black leather corset, fishnet tights, and high-heeled boots. The outfit was modeled on Earth originals but had been modified to allow for angelic wings although Michael noted she had dyed her wing-feathers black to match the outfit. The dye had to be water-soluble he reflected, he knew for a fact she projected quite a different persona when attending Yahweh's court and jet-black wings wouldn't suit it. Her appearance at court was a front, as was that of almost everybody who was a regular guest in this club.
"When did you think the humans will…." Gabriel-Lan was interrupted by the crack of Lailah's riding crop smacking down across the table.
"You're drunk. Bad Archangel. Bad, bad archangel. What have I told you about getting drunk? How can you pay me proper respect if you're in this condition? And where's my tribute?"
"I'm sorry Mistress Lailah, I didn’t…"
"Stop making excuses. Follow me, I'm going to have to deal with you."
She led Gabriel-Lan away to one of the rooms upstairs, one that she had had carefully soundproofed. Michael-Lan watched their departure. It occurred to him that if he'd hooked Yahweh up with a good dominatrix many millennia ago it would have saved the universes a lot of trouble. Still, the humans hadn't come up with the idea back then.
"Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand." The chorus from the audience was rousing. Michael-Lan reflected on just how different it sounded when people sang because they enjoyed it, instead of the weary, soul-destroyed chanting that Yahweh insisted on from his chorus.
"Michael-Lan, please, can you help me?"
It was one of the junior female angels. Michael looked carefully, her eyes were puffy, her nose was running slightly, and she was blinking at an excessively high rate.
"What can I do Maion?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.
"Please, I need some stuff, my supply is out."
Michael-Lan ran through the inventory in his mind. She was hooked on heroin and his contacts with the Myanmar military junta were still good. He had a lot of the stuff stockpiled. "That's going to be a real problem, the war with the humans has cut off supplies and everybody is getting short."
"Please" Maion was crying with desperation. "I've got to have some stuff. It hurts. I'll do anything, anything you want."
Michael-Lan quickly imagined a few suitable things but dismissed them from his mind. He had bigger objectives than his own personal pleasures. "Look, Maion, this stupid war Yahweh started has screwed things up. Everybody's looking for stuff. I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll give you some stuff from my private supply, just to tide you over until the war is finished. Don’t tell anybody though or they'll all want some."
"Thank you, Michael, thank you so much. I meant what I said, I'll do anything you want."
And it'll surprise you to find out what that is. Michael-Lan thought. And the caution about not telling anybody means she'll tell everybody I've got a supply. And they'll do what I want as well. "Come along, let’s get you fixed up."
Michael-Lan took another look around his club as he left. This was going very well indeed. Only, now he had to get into character and give the latest news of the war to Yahweh. Perhaps he could get another display of multi-colored lightning this time.
Sky over Khabarovsk, Russia. January 2009
Gliding in the skies high over the Earth, Colopatiron Lan Michael, strained all his senses to seek out threats from the humans who crowded the ground below him. The effort interfered with his savoring of the tastes of human air, the smells, so faint but still unmistakable, of human life. Savoring the senses was one of the great rewards of entering human space but it could not be allowed to interfere with the task before him. This mission was crucial but extremely dangerous for it did not just take the angel into human space but into one of the most heavily defended areas on earth. Colopatiron could feel just how heavy the defenses were here, his skin was itching madly from the strange instruments that humans used, and he knew his presence had to be known to the humans. They would be doing something about that very soon and all of Heaven had seen the destruction humans and their weapons had wrought on The Eternal Enemy and his fallen minions. Colopatiron's mission was a response to that stunning display. The consummation of the wrath of The One Above All with the people of the earth who had defied His will and continued to live a life of sin is disobedience to the Divine Message and yet did not repent was at hand.
For slung under him was the First Bowl of Wrath and already its contents were trickling out over the ground below. Soon, it would become a loathsome and malignant sore on the people who had the mark of the beast. Colopatiron was but one of twenty angels who were pouring the First Bowl of Wrath. Hand-picked by Michael-Lan himself they were striking the first substantial blow against the mutinous and recalcitrant humans who had become so saturated with pride they had even dared question the supremacy of the One Above All. And yet, his appointment for this mission was a puzzlement to Colopatiron for he had always believed that he was not amongst those Michael-Lan considered his most trusted. Still, who was he, a lowly angel to question the leader of his Choir, the one whose name he bore as part of his own?
The Bowl was nearly empty now, but Colopatiron sensed it was already too late. He concentrated his power upon his hearing and was rewarded by the sound of human aircraft, approaching fast. Now, angel or not, a bowl of Wrath or not, he would have to fight to survive.
Thirty kilometers to the north, in his Su-35BM, Captain Yahiya Saifullovich Fatkullin was flying with his radar switched off, but his infra-red tracking system was showing the angel perfectly. Far off to the south, another pair of Su-35s were illuminating the angel with their radars, decoying it away from Fatkullin's formation and diverting their victim's attention away from the vector of the true strike. Maskirovka, always maskirovka, the lesson hammered into every Russian officer from their first day of training. Deceive, misdirect, decoy. Never do the obvious unless the obvious is so unlikely nobody would take it seriously. It was a long, long way from Fatkullin's flight school in the Kurgan region of the Urals, just as his Su-35BM was a long, long way from the MiG-17UTI he had flown in the earliest days of his pilot training.
He glanced down, checking his speed. He was moving in, just under Mach one to minimize the warning given to his prey and to give his missiles the greatest possible kinetic boost. His infra-red tracking system was already feeding target information to his R-77M missiles, he would be firing them using that data and the missiles would only switch on their radar guidance systems when their computers told them the target was only in the no-escape zone. It was a deadly tactic that the Indians had used well against the Americans and given their arrogant Eagle drivers a lesson to think upon. With a little luck, the angel would never know what it was that had killed it. Another lesson from his flight school, a grim one. A successful fighter pilot was an assassin, not a warrior. Another check on his display, the angel was marked using the data from the infra-red tracking systems, the other pair of Su-35s from their transponders. Even as Fatkullin watched, the southernmost pair of Su-35s turned north and started to move in. Time for the attack.
Colopatiron saw the two human aircraft accelerate and swing towards him. This was bad, very bad. In his excess of the sin of pride, the Eternal Enemy had never bothered to learn much about humans and that was why he had died under their weapons. Colopatiron would not make that mistake. He adjusted his vision for long-range and darkness and saw the two aircraft streaking towards him. Instinctively he knew that they were the source of the infernal itching in his skin, and he acted according to his instincts. His lungs flexed, his voice drew upon all the powers of the Chorus, and he emitted a blast of pure sound at the lead aircraft, sound so pure and above reproach that it flung the fighter from the sky. Colopatiron watched it crumple in mid-air, saw it fall, and the human who flew it eject from the great transparent house that rode upon its nose. He felt triumph swell within him at the sight of those who defied the One Above All being driven from the skies, but he crushed it down. There was no time to exult over the fate of a fallen foe.
Lieutenant Viktor Matveevich Rakitin had known that, as the two most junior pilots in the flight of four Su-35s, he and Blue-861 would be the decoys. What he had not expected was for the angel they were hunting to respond to their feint so quickly. The blow that had struck Blue-861 had thrown it out of control and wrecked its internal structure, probably also causing both jet engines to flame out. The fringes of the same blow had caught his aircraft, throwing him against his straps, but his faithful Blue-863 had stood the shock and kept flying. He had a radar lock on the angel, so he selected his R-77Ms and fired a pair of them at the target before heaving back on the stick, ramming his throttles forward and soaring skyward. That had put him well clear of the course of the two missiles and so out of danger when something had tumbled them and sent them plummeting from the sky. It didn't matter though, Blue-861 and Blue-863 had done their job, the angel had spent the few seconds it had to react concentrating on them, and in doing so, it had allowed Blue-860 and Blue-862 to get into perfect firing positions.
Colopatiron had blown the two missiles aimed at it out of the sky with the same casual ease he had used to wipe out the first aircraft. Now was the time to deal with its mate, and his eyes tracked the second aircraft as it swept skywards, accelerating fast. He gave forth another blast of sound, reveling in its purity as he did so, but it was ineffective. It did not matter; the aircraft was running from battle and the skies were clear for his return home. Then Colopatiron felt the burning agony as he was enveloped in explosions, and he knew that he would not be going home again. Weakened and in agony, knowing he was dying, he tried one last shot against the humans who had outfought him.
It was a perfect assassination, his flight instructors would have been proud. The angel had never even realized the four missiles fired by the two Su-35s were inbound until they had slammed into his body and eviscerated him. Fatkullin saw the angel writhing in mid-air, saw it turn and mouth at him. His faithful Blue-860 shook in ways that rattled his teeth and caused his sight to blur but the effects of four missile hits had weakened the angel so much that the wall he felt as if his aircraft had flown into was a comparatively fragile thing. His continuously computed impact point for his 30mm gun was on the angel, so Fatkullin squeezed the trigger and pumped a long burst into the still-moving body. Once his gun had had a burst limiter but that had long been removed in recognition of the fact that Baldricks and angels were so damned hard to kill. Now, the shells stitched a line across the target and the angel fell from the sky.
"Eagle Control. This is Blue-860. Target is negated, say again, the target is negated. Blue-861 lost to an unknown weapon. Returning to base."
The Montmartre Club, Heaven.
The last strains of "Nightmare" faded away and the band leader stepped forward to a burst of rapturous applause from the audience. He cast an apprehensive eye at the great figure sitting off to one side, but Michael-Lan had risen to his feet and was applauding enthusiastically.
"Well done, Artie, great performance. You too Billie, shame you two ever split up down on Earth."
"Thank you, Excellency…"
"Hey, not so much of the Excellency, you know very well that I must put up with too much of that nonsense out there. In here, it’s Michael, Michael-Lan if you want to be more formal. And a great artist like you, well associating with us as if we are equals is just one of the benefits of the job. Anyway, you and your band have a rest now, we've got a stage act coming up and then Glen is on."
Michael-Lan walked back through the crowd, looking around him at the scene that, for all its apparent casualness, lay at the center of his plans. The air was tinged with the scent of fine cigars, and the occupants and staff of the club, a mixture of humans and members of the angelic host, were laughing and exchanging pleasantries. Cocktail waitresses in outfits that left nothing to the imagination were serving drinks. Every so often, a customer would grab one of the girls, there would be a brief conversation and then they would vanish to one of the rooms upstairs. Up on the stage, the band had finished clearing their instruments away and the scene was dressed as a room in a hotel somewhere. Two young female angels were on the stage, sitting on the bed, running their hands over each other's bodies. The audience had quieted down a little, they were becoming fascinated by the story the two performers were opening before them.
Michael-Lan got a strange feeling that if humans had designed Heaven, this was what they would have come up with. As the idea occurred to him, he got the warm, fuzzy feeling he always got these days when he thought of humans. For millennia he had despised them, looking on them with the same cold contempt for their mindless obedience and submission that Yahweh had made so obvious. Then, a few centuries ago, humans had stopped being blindly obedient beasts and started to question what surrounded them. Only a few at first, but slowly those few had opened the eyes of a few more and a few more again. Soon, a critical mass had been reached and the humans had broken out of the prison Yahweh had imposed upon them and begun to build their society.
Michael-Lan had investigated that society with the intent of tearing it down but as he had started his inquiries, somehow, he'd caught the human disease and started to question the assumptions he'd been trained never to doubt. As the questions in his mind had multiplied, he had found, to his disbelief, that he was beginning to like these new humans. More than that, a plan, complex and devious, had begun to form in his mind. A small part of that plan was here, small yet critical beyond measure. He had formed this club; he had rescued humans from torment to staff and run it. It drew on all the impressions he had gathered on his visits to Earth, part speakeasy, part bordello, part burlesque show, it was the honey in the center of his scheme.
He glanced again at the stage. The two angels were now down on the bed, twisting in simulated passion. Michael-Lan gave them top marks for innovative use of wings and imaginative application of feathers and then turned to one of his guests.
"Having a good time Gabriel-Lan?"
"As always, Michael-Lan. What did we do for fun before you started this place?" The Archangel Gabriel's voice was slurred from too much whisky. That reminded Michael, that he was going to have to do something about ensuring supplies. Earth was getting harder to visit with the war now in full swing. As if Gabriel had read Michael's thoughts, he asked, "And how goes the war?"
"The first Bowl of Wrath was poured today. The operation was successful although sadly the Angels delivering the Bowl did not survive the human defenses." Which was fortunate, Michael-Lan thought. He had carefully picked those Angels from those whose loyalties might have been conflicted enough to hazard his plans.
"Seems like a rotten thing to do to the humans down there." Gabriel was drunk. Michael would have to make sure he was sobered up before he left the club. Yahweh did not need to know this place existed. He might be all-knowing but that only applied when people didn't use extraordinary measures to stop him from finding out. Michael-Lan had been applying those measures for some centuries now and neither Yahweh nor the late, unlamented Satan had been as all-knowing as they had believed. Michael gave a small signal with one hand and the house madam gave him a knowing grin.
"Gabriel-Lan, we have got to keep the humans out of Heaven. Look, they loathed Satan for everything he did and because of that, they killed him in process of destroying everything he had built. But Satan just tortured them for all eternity. We betrayed them. Satan never pretended to be anything other than what he was or had plans for anything other than what he announced. We, all of us, acted nice, made lots of promises, and reneged on every one of them. They loathed Satan but they hate us. If they get their Army up here, they will destroy Heaven and kill us all. You heard that tune they played, it wasn't just an insult, it was a promise and humans keep their promises." When it suits them Michael-Lan added to himself. "Humans captured Dis, they will destroy the Eternal City. Our long, wide boulevards make perfect runs for their tanks, and the palaces built of precious stones are perfect targets for their guns. Mark this Gabriel-Lan and mark it well. If the humans get their Army into Heaven, we are lost, all of us."
Up on the stage, one of the angels was kneeling, bent over the bed, with her arms held, twisted up her back while her partner was holding her hair, pulling her head back while she thrust with her hips. Suddenly, the kneeling angel gasped and gave a long, panting cry of ecstasy. Then the two stood up and took their bows to a thunderous round of applause. They got two curtain calls before the stagehands cleared the set and arranged the stage so the next of the big bands could take over.
It might sound dramatic, Michael thought, but it was largely true. If the humans could get to Heaven, the war would be over quickly and unbelievably violently. Not necessarily all the occupants of Heaven would get killed, Michael-Lan had a backup plan for that eventuality as well and this club featured there as well. But the power structure that had existed in Heaven for untold millennia would be shattered forever. That was no bad thing, Michael-Lan admitted to himself, and he was not averse to shattering it himself. But it had to be done slowly and carefully and when he moved it had to be with all the cards held firmly in his hand. Satan Mekratrig had been impatient, greedy, avaricious, and imprudent. His move had started the Great Celestial War, split the Host, and caused generations of fighting. Michael-Lan had been Yahweh's field commander during that war and he well-appreciated a human saying. One that went "Short of a battle lost, there is nothing so mournful as a battle won." Well, there was, that was a battle that had achieved nothing and changed nothing.
Satan had staged his revolt before he was ready, the result had been a long, bloody war that had achieved nothing and changed nothing. Michael did not intend to make that mistake.
Gabriel-Lan was still at the table and still drunk. Over his shoulder, he could see that Lailah was approaching. She was dressed for work, with a black leather corset, fishnet tights, and high-heeled boots. The outfit was modeled on Earth originals but had been modified to allow for angelic wings although Michael noted she had dyed her wing-feathers black to match the outfit. The dye had to be water-soluble he reflected, he knew for a fact she projected quite a different persona when attending Yahweh's court and jet-black wings wouldn't suit it. Her appearance at court was a front, as was that of almost everybody who was a regular guest in this club.
"When did you think the humans will…." Gabriel-Lan was interrupted by the crack of Lailah's riding crop smacking down across the table.
"You're drunk. Bad Archangel. Bad, bad archangel. What have I told you about getting drunk? How can you pay me proper respect if you're in this condition? And where's my tribute?"
"I'm sorry Mistress Lailah, I didn’t…"
"Stop making excuses. Follow me, I'm going to have to deal with you."
She led Gabriel-Lan away to one of the rooms upstairs, one that she had had carefully soundproofed. Michael-Lan watched their departure. It occurred to him that if he'd hooked Yahweh up with a good dominatrix many millennia ago it would have saved the universes a lot of trouble. Still, the humans hadn't come up with the idea back then.
"Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand." The chorus from the audience was rousing. Michael-Lan reflected on just how different it sounded when people sang because they enjoyed it, instead of the weary, soul-destroyed chanting that Yahweh insisted on from his chorus.
"Michael-Lan, please, can you help me?"
It was one of the junior female angels. Michael looked carefully, her eyes were puffy, her nose was running slightly, and she was blinking at an excessively high rate.
"What can I do Maion?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.
"Please, I need some stuff, my supply is out."
Michael-Lan ran through the inventory in his mind. She was hooked on heroin and his contacts with the Myanmar military junta were still good. He had a lot of the stuff stockpiled. "That's going to be a real problem, the war with the humans has cut off supplies and everybody is getting short."
"Please" Maion was crying with desperation. "I've got to have some stuff. It hurts. I'll do anything, anything you want."
Michael-Lan quickly imagined a few suitable things but dismissed them from his mind. He had bigger objectives than his own personal pleasures. "Look, Maion, this stupid war Yahweh started has screwed things up. Everybody's looking for stuff. I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll give you some stuff from my private supply, just to tide you over until the war is finished. Don’t tell anybody though or they'll all want some."
"Thank you, Michael, thank you so much. I meant what I said, I'll do anything you want."
And it'll surprise you to find out what that is. Michael-Lan thought. And the caution about not telling anybody means she'll tell everybody I've got a supply. And they'll do what I want as well. "Come along, let’s get you fixed up."
Michael-Lan took another look around his club as he left. This was going very well indeed. Only, now he had to get into character and give the latest news of the war to Yahweh. Perhaps he could get another display of multi-colored lightning this time.
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Six
Infantry Basic Training School, Fort Benning, Georgia, January 2009
It was all grossly unfair, not the least of it being that Private Martin Chestnut was still a Private. All the other sensitives in military service had been made into officers and had their staff. Chestnut hadn’t even been allowed to eat in the Officer’s mess, his attempt to do so had resulted in him getting a not-so-quiet word from his NCO and copious kitchen patrol. He’d demanded to be made an officer and had even written to General Petraeus insisting that he be promoted to a Major at least. He’d got a polite letter back from an aide, advising him that his existence now figured on General Petraeus’s radar. Somehow that hadn’t sounded too comforting, and his assignments had become dirtier, more tedious, and more exhausting by the hour. Eventually, he had given up and done the minimum necessary to keep the authorities off his back.
Now, to cap it all, he had gone down with a sickness. It had started a few days earlier; he had woken to ache all over and with a sore throat that even the coffee from the enlisted men’s mess hall couldn’t cure. He had reported to sickbay where his illness had been diagnosed as the common cold and he’d been given a couple of aspirin tablets and told to get back to duty. The next day he had been running a fever and felt too exhausted to move. Again, he’d reported sick. Although he didn’t know it, his immediate NCO was a kindly man who felt badly overseeing a young man ruining his life by his stupidity and had tried to give him some well-meant advice. “Look kid, spend your life doing work that’s worth what you’re paid, and you’ll never be paid what you’re worth.”
Chestnut, wrapped up in his grievances and self-righteous indignation, hadn’t listened and he’d carried on doing as little as he could while descending deeper into his malaise. His fever levels were slowly increasing as well, and his muscle aches were getting so bad that he was finding it difficult to walk. When reveille blew, he tried to get up, but the effort exhausted him. He lay on his bunk, gasping for breath.
“Get your lily-livered ass off that bed Chestnut, you’ve got….” The Sergeant’s voice trailed off. Chestnut’s face was dead white, his eyes deeply sunk and heavily shadowed, his fingernails, lips, and ears blue-tinged. For the first time, it was apparent that he was serious, indeed dangerously ill. “What’s up kid?”
“Headache, so bad can’t think straight. Keep coughing. Can’t swallow and threw up. Please….”
Something clicked in the Sergeant’s mind. “Kid, I want to see your arms now.”
Chestnut flailed at his bedding, managing to extract one arm. Halfway between wrist and elbow was an ulcer, one with an ugly black necrotic center. He looked at it, stunned. “That was just a bump last night.”
The Sergeant took one look at it and stepped back, almost in a panic. “Johnson, get the medics here double fast. Tell them to bring Cipro. And get through to Fort Detrick, tell them we have a red alert here.”
DIMO(N) Headquarters, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA, January 2009
Dr. Kuroneko stared at the chalkboard, frowning. There was something strange going on here... The green board was covered with colorful diagrams and scribblings in the arcane language of tensor mechanics and diagrams; the front half of the room was covered in chalk dust from the layers of revision he had added to his thoughts over the last two hours. Absentmindedly, he rolled a fresh stick of chalk between his fingers as he pursed his lips, wrinkling his forehead. Turning, he looked back at the worn textbook, bending close to the dog-eared page to read a note scribbled in the margin.
His face broke into a smile, and he gave a little cry as he jumped toward the chalkboard, erasing an equal’s sign with the heel of his hand, and replacing it with a carat. Then he moved to the other side of the board and made some modifications to a long expansion of Christoffel symbols, muttering to himself as he did. "No, the mass-energy is different. Consider the ... " - scribbles - "... the energy of the system's curvature ..." - more scribbles - "... embedded into a seven-dimensional space-"
He nearly lost his train of thought at a polite cough behind him, but he held onto the end of it and threw up one finger behind him to forestall any comments as he finished frantically writing. Then he turned, blinking owlishly through dusty glasses at the intruders.
Two men were standing there. One, dressed in a working military uniform with two stars, looked impatient and uncomfortable in the messy office. The other, dressed in rumpled business casual with a tie awkwardly sitting at his throat, had a sheaf of folders by his side, by was craning his neck to follow the argument Dr. Kuroneko had laid out. Before the military officer could speak, his companion said, "Is that Crane's argument?"
Dr. Kuroneko smiled. "Not quite, Surlethe. I've modified it a little, so it applies to our situation."
Dr. Surlethe set down his folders and moved up to the chalkboard. "You've modified the metric tensor?"
"Not quite - the chief changes are in the mass-energy tensor. We must -"
"I'm sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but we need to get to business," said Dr. Surlethe's companion, General Schatten. "We have a change of plans for the DIMO(N) science team. Shall we have a seat in the conference room and discuss it?"
They filed out of Dr. Kuroneko's office, as Dr. Surlethe cast a longing glance back at the chalkboard, and down the stairs to the conference room next to the general's office. He took a seat at the head of the table; the two doctors sat beside him. Dr. Surlethe started. "We have a new direction for the physics team to take. The work you've done so far on portals and modeling the storm influence is excellent, but we need more actionable material on the weather."
Dr. Kuroneko nodded his understanding.
"I've come here straight from a meeting with the President and President-Elect. General Schatten has agreed that he would have pursued it anyway even if the politicians hadn't decided for us, but at this point, the portal research needs to take a back seat to figure out just what Yahweh is doing to our weather and how exactly he's doing it."
"What sort of data are we working with?"
"We have access to all of the data that NASA, the NOAA, and the NWS have collected," said General Schatten, "as well as anything that university meteorological departments have gathered on their own. There are also several governments eager to share data and work with us - Japan, India, and Indonesia since they're worried about the potential for geological assaults - and we'll put their physics teams in contact with you. If you want to share any models, though, you will need to pass by my desk. The portal modeling in particular does not leave DIMO(N).
"Do you have any questions?"
Kuroneko said, "No. By the way, speaking of portals, I think a young man on our team - a Princeton undergraduate, has reached a breakthrough just yesterday."
Surlethe leaned forward. "Do tell." General Schatten tapped his foot slightly.
"Well, I won't bore you with the mathematical details" - he glanced over at General Schatten with a slight twinkle in his eye - "but basically, we've had to rework cosmology. General relativity is still true - as far as we know - but it is a specific case of a more general theory. It looks now like the universe is something like a Styrofoam ball. We live on the outside of granules, while Hell and Heaven exist on the inside of bubbles. We’re sort of in the same space but not quite. The implications are fascinating, there could be millions of Hells and Heavens out there."
"That's great," said Schatten, "but how can we use this?"
"That's what I'm getting to. The nice thing about this model is that it makes a particular set of predictions we can test just by monitoring the opening or closing of a portal. And if it does work, it doesn't require any stellar energy densities or subatomic length scales to apply we should be able to start engineering immediately." Dr. Kuroneko smiled. "Gentlemen, we should be able to open portals straight to Heaven within two years. All we must do is to find it."
"Great," said Surlethe. "But please do bear in mind that the weather is more important than an abstract model of portal transitions."
"We'll do that," replied Kuroneko.
"Okay, gentlemen," said General Schatten, "I have a business to attend to. I'll leave you to discuss the particulars of the weather modeling." He stood and shook hands before leaving.
“All right," said Surlethe when he'd gone, "we've already talked about the rough mechanism – the body of hot air injected beneath the base of the storm. By mid-January, we need to have a pretty good idea of just how Yahweh's doing this, injecting hot air or warming it up ..."
As he left the room, General Schatten shook his head at the scientists. They were always so ... loopy. That was a good word.
As he entered the next room, he said, "I'm sorry, I was slightly detained."
James Randi, sitting in front of Schatten's desk, inclined his bald head to accept the apology. "No apology necessary."
"You wanted to see me?" asked Schatten, leaning over his desk.
Randi nodded. "Yes. I have come to tender my resignation."
"Why?"
"The war against Hell is won," said Randi. "There can't be any more need for experts in paranormal fraud; my organization has already started to shrink as people have been reassigned to other parts of the occupation effort. My work here has been done for some months, you have all the methodologies you need to find and utilize the sensitives who can punch the portals through as and where needed."
Schatten smiled. He'd been expecting something like this. "On the contrary, Mr. Randi, you may not resign."
Randi had been expecting many answers, but this was not one of them. "I may not?"
"No, sir, for three reasons. First, the war is not over. You haven't been privy to all the reports, but the war against Heaven is just starting, and we'll need all the expertise that your branch of DIMO(N) has accumulated over the last year to pursue it successfully. Second, there's speculation around - I'm sure you've heard it - that Heaven and Hell aren't the only hostiles out there, which means that we're not going to let you go even after we've crushed Yahweh. Third, even if the war ends and everything is just fine, we still need you to filter through populations and help us find people who can make portals.
“They’re a vital national asset, you know that. Portalling is a vital national security issue, as I'm sure you understand, and we need to keep tabs on everybody who's like Kitten just to make sure they don't fall into the wrong hands."
Randi looked slightly taken aback at this and blinked at Schatten. Schatten smiled back. "No, Mr. Randi, you aren't going anywhere. Other than back to your office in the Pentagon, of course, it’s there, still waiting for you.”
SecDef’s Office, Pentagon, U.S. January 2009
“So it was a concerted attack by angels?”
“That appears so, Secretary Warner. So, far, we have reports of twenty angels being detected and shot down over Europe, Russia, and the United States. All over populated areas. Six came at us, four each at Russia and Europe, two each at China and India, one at Japan, and one at Singapore. We lost eleven aircraft in the air battles.”
“Eleven?” Warner was astonished. Humans owned the air and mastered it completely. Hostile demons who flew in the skies were shot down and swatted as if they were helpless infants. Which, in military terms they were. Losing eleven aircraft in a single day to hostile action was unprecedented.
“Eleven Sir. Several more have varying degrees of damage. We got away lightly, all we have is a brace of F-22s with some structural damage but they’re fixable. The Russians had two Su-35s but their MiG-31s got in and out without loss. We think it’s because they, and our F-22s, super-cruised in and were on their targets before the angels could react. The Europeans lost three aircraft, two Typhoons, and a Rafale. Chinese and Indians put up MiG-21s, the Chinese lost two aircraft, the Indians three although one of them may just have fallen out of the sky, the Indians don’t have much luck with their ‘21s. Finally, the Singaporeans lost an F-16. The good news is that all the pilots got out. That’s really strange.”
“How?” That one word had a wealth of importance. The angel attack had caused the humans more combat losses than they’d suffered in the whole of the Hell Campaign.
“Good question Sir, we’re trying to find out. The pilot’s debriefing speaks of the aircraft feeling as if they flew into a wall. The crash investigation people are collecting the wreckage already and they hope to have an answer for us. It seems as if the aircraft broke up in mid-air, there’s no trace of fire or explosion damage before the wreckage hits the ground. Other than that, we’re going through flight recorder tapes and the other pilot’s statements but that all takes time.”
“Then see it takes less of it. We can’t afford loss rates like that. We’re flying hundreds of jet fighters against an enemy that has tens of millions of angels. We need that ten thousand-to-one kill ratio we got over Hell or we’ll go down.”
The room was silent, most civilians were out there rejoicing at the quick and easy victory over Hell, or at least the victory that had seemed quick and easy. Some were even calling it the Curb Stomp War. The experts in this room knew better. Like every task performed by true experts, the war had just seemed easy But it had been a desperately close thing. The countdown clock to when the human army would run out of ammunition and fuel had been getting perilously near to zero hour when the surrender had come in and it wasn’t that much better now. Warner knew that the people who had made the difference in those last hours hadn’t been American, Russian, or British but Chinese. If Norinco hadn’t kept flooding out supplies of both Russian and NATO standard munitions, the war might still have gone the other way.
“Can we get the Chinese some decent fighters?” Warner’s question was prompted by that last thought. “If this is going to be a standard means of attack, they’ll need something better than MiG-21s.”
“They have the J-10, J-11, and J-12. Just not enough of them. I suppose we could divert some F-15s to help. We don’t need them here yet. Problem is, most of them are in the dock being refurbished.”
“Work on it, get an answer. For the Indians too. If we can’t help, then perhaps we can lean on the French or Brits to provide some Rafales or Typhoons.”
“That brings us to another question Sir, the F-35.”
“Not a question. It’s history. We can’t afford to waste time developing an entirely new aircraft. We’ll concentrate on pouring out as many F-22s as we can.”
“That’s going to cause problems, a lot of people were depending on that bird. The Brits wanted the VSTOL version for their carriers. Can’t operate without them unless they redesign the ships.”
“Another non-problem. Got a message from MoD in London this morning. Both carriers have been canceled. Take too long to build they say and absorb too many resources. Like everybody else, they want a kit that can be turned out quickly and Navies are in third place on the priority list. Anyway, that’s all for another time. Back to those angels. Any news on what they were trying to do?”
“Not yet Sir. One thing that might be significant. There was an emergency call from Benning to Detrick this morning, an anomalous infection has turned up. One of the sensitives, a Private Chestnut.”
“Private?” Warner looked up, the active sensitives were all high-ranking and had privileges the rest of the population could only dream of. To find one as a private suggested that something odd was going on.
“Bit of a sad sack Sir. Just coasts along doing the bare minimum to stay out of trouble, always complaining. Can’t see he brings down all the crap on his head. He literally can’t be trusted with anything more than a private’s rank. Frankly, there’s been talk of retiring him, he’s more trouble than he’s worth. He’s the one who wanted a million a year back in the early days.”
“So how did Detrick get involved?”
“Sir, Sergeant who spotted the case is a recalled Operation Desert Storm veteran. He thinks the disease might be inhalation anthrax. And that’s 90 plus percent lethal.”
Warner looked up sharply. “This is not good.”
Infantry Basic Training School, Fort Benning, Georgia, January 2009
It was all grossly unfair, not the least of it being that Private Martin Chestnut was still a Private. All the other sensitives in military service had been made into officers and had their staff. Chestnut hadn’t even been allowed to eat in the Officer’s mess, his attempt to do so had resulted in him getting a not-so-quiet word from his NCO and copious kitchen patrol. He’d demanded to be made an officer and had even written to General Petraeus insisting that he be promoted to a Major at least. He’d got a polite letter back from an aide, advising him that his existence now figured on General Petraeus’s radar. Somehow that hadn’t sounded too comforting, and his assignments had become dirtier, more tedious, and more exhausting by the hour. Eventually, he had given up and done the minimum necessary to keep the authorities off his back.
Now, to cap it all, he had gone down with a sickness. It had started a few days earlier; he had woken to ache all over and with a sore throat that even the coffee from the enlisted men’s mess hall couldn’t cure. He had reported to sickbay where his illness had been diagnosed as the common cold and he’d been given a couple of aspirin tablets and told to get back to duty. The next day he had been running a fever and felt too exhausted to move. Again, he’d reported sick. Although he didn’t know it, his immediate NCO was a kindly man who felt badly overseeing a young man ruining his life by his stupidity and had tried to give him some well-meant advice. “Look kid, spend your life doing work that’s worth what you’re paid, and you’ll never be paid what you’re worth.”
Chestnut, wrapped up in his grievances and self-righteous indignation, hadn’t listened and he’d carried on doing as little as he could while descending deeper into his malaise. His fever levels were slowly increasing as well, and his muscle aches were getting so bad that he was finding it difficult to walk. When reveille blew, he tried to get up, but the effort exhausted him. He lay on his bunk, gasping for breath.
“Get your lily-livered ass off that bed Chestnut, you’ve got….” The Sergeant’s voice trailed off. Chestnut’s face was dead white, his eyes deeply sunk and heavily shadowed, his fingernails, lips, and ears blue-tinged. For the first time, it was apparent that he was serious, indeed dangerously ill. “What’s up kid?”
“Headache, so bad can’t think straight. Keep coughing. Can’t swallow and threw up. Please….”
Something clicked in the Sergeant’s mind. “Kid, I want to see your arms now.”
Chestnut flailed at his bedding, managing to extract one arm. Halfway between wrist and elbow was an ulcer, one with an ugly black necrotic center. He looked at it, stunned. “That was just a bump last night.”
The Sergeant took one look at it and stepped back, almost in a panic. “Johnson, get the medics here double fast. Tell them to bring Cipro. And get through to Fort Detrick, tell them we have a red alert here.”
DIMO(N) Headquarters, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA, January 2009
Dr. Kuroneko stared at the chalkboard, frowning. There was something strange going on here... The green board was covered with colorful diagrams and scribblings in the arcane language of tensor mechanics and diagrams; the front half of the room was covered in chalk dust from the layers of revision he had added to his thoughts over the last two hours. Absentmindedly, he rolled a fresh stick of chalk between his fingers as he pursed his lips, wrinkling his forehead. Turning, he looked back at the worn textbook, bending close to the dog-eared page to read a note scribbled in the margin.
His face broke into a smile, and he gave a little cry as he jumped toward the chalkboard, erasing an equal’s sign with the heel of his hand, and replacing it with a carat. Then he moved to the other side of the board and made some modifications to a long expansion of Christoffel symbols, muttering to himself as he did. "No, the mass-energy is different. Consider the ... " - scribbles - "... the energy of the system's curvature ..." - more scribbles - "... embedded into a seven-dimensional space-"
He nearly lost his train of thought at a polite cough behind him, but he held onto the end of it and threw up one finger behind him to forestall any comments as he finished frantically writing. Then he turned, blinking owlishly through dusty glasses at the intruders.
Two men were standing there. One, dressed in a working military uniform with two stars, looked impatient and uncomfortable in the messy office. The other, dressed in rumpled business casual with a tie awkwardly sitting at his throat, had a sheaf of folders by his side, by was craning his neck to follow the argument Dr. Kuroneko had laid out. Before the military officer could speak, his companion said, "Is that Crane's argument?"
Dr. Kuroneko smiled. "Not quite, Surlethe. I've modified it a little, so it applies to our situation."
Dr. Surlethe set down his folders and moved up to the chalkboard. "You've modified the metric tensor?"
"Not quite - the chief changes are in the mass-energy tensor. We must -"
"I'm sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but we need to get to business," said Dr. Surlethe's companion, General Schatten. "We have a change of plans for the DIMO(N) science team. Shall we have a seat in the conference room and discuss it?"
They filed out of Dr. Kuroneko's office, as Dr. Surlethe cast a longing glance back at the chalkboard, and down the stairs to the conference room next to the general's office. He took a seat at the head of the table; the two doctors sat beside him. Dr. Surlethe started. "We have a new direction for the physics team to take. The work you've done so far on portals and modeling the storm influence is excellent, but we need more actionable material on the weather."
Dr. Kuroneko nodded his understanding.
"I've come here straight from a meeting with the President and President-Elect. General Schatten has agreed that he would have pursued it anyway even if the politicians hadn't decided for us, but at this point, the portal research needs to take a back seat to figure out just what Yahweh is doing to our weather and how exactly he's doing it."
"What sort of data are we working with?"
"We have access to all of the data that NASA, the NOAA, and the NWS have collected," said General Schatten, "as well as anything that university meteorological departments have gathered on their own. There are also several governments eager to share data and work with us - Japan, India, and Indonesia since they're worried about the potential for geological assaults - and we'll put their physics teams in contact with you. If you want to share any models, though, you will need to pass by my desk. The portal modeling in particular does not leave DIMO(N).
"Do you have any questions?"
Kuroneko said, "No. By the way, speaking of portals, I think a young man on our team - a Princeton undergraduate, has reached a breakthrough just yesterday."
Surlethe leaned forward. "Do tell." General Schatten tapped his foot slightly.
"Well, I won't bore you with the mathematical details" - he glanced over at General Schatten with a slight twinkle in his eye - "but basically, we've had to rework cosmology. General relativity is still true - as far as we know - but it is a specific case of a more general theory. It looks now like the universe is something like a Styrofoam ball. We live on the outside of granules, while Hell and Heaven exist on the inside of bubbles. We’re sort of in the same space but not quite. The implications are fascinating, there could be millions of Hells and Heavens out there."
"That's great," said Schatten, "but how can we use this?"
"That's what I'm getting to. The nice thing about this model is that it makes a particular set of predictions we can test just by monitoring the opening or closing of a portal. And if it does work, it doesn't require any stellar energy densities or subatomic length scales to apply we should be able to start engineering immediately." Dr. Kuroneko smiled. "Gentlemen, we should be able to open portals straight to Heaven within two years. All we must do is to find it."
"Great," said Surlethe. "But please do bear in mind that the weather is more important than an abstract model of portal transitions."
"We'll do that," replied Kuroneko.
"Okay, gentlemen," said General Schatten, "I have a business to attend to. I'll leave you to discuss the particulars of the weather modeling." He stood and shook hands before leaving.
“All right," said Surlethe when he'd gone, "we've already talked about the rough mechanism – the body of hot air injected beneath the base of the storm. By mid-January, we need to have a pretty good idea of just how Yahweh's doing this, injecting hot air or warming it up ..."
As he left the room, General Schatten shook his head at the scientists. They were always so ... loopy. That was a good word.
As he entered the next room, he said, "I'm sorry, I was slightly detained."
James Randi, sitting in front of Schatten's desk, inclined his bald head to accept the apology. "No apology necessary."
"You wanted to see me?" asked Schatten, leaning over his desk.
Randi nodded. "Yes. I have come to tender my resignation."
"Why?"
"The war against Hell is won," said Randi. "There can't be any more need for experts in paranormal fraud; my organization has already started to shrink as people have been reassigned to other parts of the occupation effort. My work here has been done for some months, you have all the methodologies you need to find and utilize the sensitives who can punch the portals through as and where needed."
Schatten smiled. He'd been expecting something like this. "On the contrary, Mr. Randi, you may not resign."
Randi had been expecting many answers, but this was not one of them. "I may not?"
"No, sir, for three reasons. First, the war is not over. You haven't been privy to all the reports, but the war against Heaven is just starting, and we'll need all the expertise that your branch of DIMO(N) has accumulated over the last year to pursue it successfully. Second, there's speculation around - I'm sure you've heard it - that Heaven and Hell aren't the only hostiles out there, which means that we're not going to let you go even after we've crushed Yahweh. Third, even if the war ends and everything is just fine, we still need you to filter through populations and help us find people who can make portals.
“They’re a vital national asset, you know that. Portalling is a vital national security issue, as I'm sure you understand, and we need to keep tabs on everybody who's like Kitten just to make sure they don't fall into the wrong hands."
Randi looked slightly taken aback at this and blinked at Schatten. Schatten smiled back. "No, Mr. Randi, you aren't going anywhere. Other than back to your office in the Pentagon, of course, it’s there, still waiting for you.”
SecDef’s Office, Pentagon, U.S. January 2009
“So it was a concerted attack by angels?”
“That appears so, Secretary Warner. So, far, we have reports of twenty angels being detected and shot down over Europe, Russia, and the United States. All over populated areas. Six came at us, four each at Russia and Europe, two each at China and India, one at Japan, and one at Singapore. We lost eleven aircraft in the air battles.”
“Eleven?” Warner was astonished. Humans owned the air and mastered it completely. Hostile demons who flew in the skies were shot down and swatted as if they were helpless infants. Which, in military terms they were. Losing eleven aircraft in a single day to hostile action was unprecedented.
“Eleven Sir. Several more have varying degrees of damage. We got away lightly, all we have is a brace of F-22s with some structural damage but they’re fixable. The Russians had two Su-35s but their MiG-31s got in and out without loss. We think it’s because they, and our F-22s, super-cruised in and were on their targets before the angels could react. The Europeans lost three aircraft, two Typhoons, and a Rafale. Chinese and Indians put up MiG-21s, the Chinese lost two aircraft, the Indians three although one of them may just have fallen out of the sky, the Indians don’t have much luck with their ‘21s. Finally, the Singaporeans lost an F-16. The good news is that all the pilots got out. That’s really strange.”
“How?” That one word had a wealth of importance. The angel attack had caused the humans more combat losses than they’d suffered in the whole of the Hell Campaign.
“Good question Sir, we’re trying to find out. The pilot’s debriefing speaks of the aircraft feeling as if they flew into a wall. The crash investigation people are collecting the wreckage already and they hope to have an answer for us. It seems as if the aircraft broke up in mid-air, there’s no trace of fire or explosion damage before the wreckage hits the ground. Other than that, we’re going through flight recorder tapes and the other pilot’s statements but that all takes time.”
“Then see it takes less of it. We can’t afford loss rates like that. We’re flying hundreds of jet fighters against an enemy that has tens of millions of angels. We need that ten thousand-to-one kill ratio we got over Hell or we’ll go down.”
The room was silent, most civilians were out there rejoicing at the quick and easy victory over Hell, or at least the victory that had seemed quick and easy. Some were even calling it the Curb Stomp War. The experts in this room knew better. Like every task performed by true experts, the war had just seemed easy But it had been a desperately close thing. The countdown clock to when the human army would run out of ammunition and fuel had been getting perilously near to zero hour when the surrender had come in and it wasn’t that much better now. Warner knew that the people who had made the difference in those last hours hadn’t been American, Russian, or British but Chinese. If Norinco hadn’t kept flooding out supplies of both Russian and NATO standard munitions, the war might still have gone the other way.
“Can we get the Chinese some decent fighters?” Warner’s question was prompted by that last thought. “If this is going to be a standard means of attack, they’ll need something better than MiG-21s.”
“They have the J-10, J-11, and J-12. Just not enough of them. I suppose we could divert some F-15s to help. We don’t need them here yet. Problem is, most of them are in the dock being refurbished.”
“Work on it, get an answer. For the Indians too. If we can’t help, then perhaps we can lean on the French or Brits to provide some Rafales or Typhoons.”
“That brings us to another question Sir, the F-35.”
“Not a question. It’s history. We can’t afford to waste time developing an entirely new aircraft. We’ll concentrate on pouring out as many F-22s as we can.”
“That’s going to cause problems, a lot of people were depending on that bird. The Brits wanted the VSTOL version for their carriers. Can’t operate without them unless they redesign the ships.”
“Another non-problem. Got a message from MoD in London this morning. Both carriers have been canceled. Take too long to build they say and absorb too many resources. Like everybody else, they want a kit that can be turned out quickly and Navies are in third place on the priority list. Anyway, that’s all for another time. Back to those angels. Any news on what they were trying to do?”
“Not yet Sir. One thing that might be significant. There was an emergency call from Benning to Detrick this morning, an anomalous infection has turned up. One of the sensitives, a Private Chestnut.”
“Private?” Warner looked up, the active sensitives were all high-ranking and had privileges the rest of the population could only dream of. To find one as a private suggested that something odd was going on.
“Bit of a sad sack Sir. Just coasts along doing the bare minimum to stay out of trouble, always complaining. Can’t see he brings down all the crap on his head. He literally can’t be trusted with anything more than a private’s rank. Frankly, there’s been talk of retiring him, he’s more trouble than he’s worth. He’s the one who wanted a million a year back in the early days.”
“So how did Detrick get involved?”
“Sir, Sergeant who spotted the case is a recalled Operation Desert Storm veteran. He thinks the disease might be inhalation anthrax. And that’s 90 plus percent lethal.”
Warner looked up sharply. “This is not good.”
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Seven
MoD Main Building, Whitehall, London.
“Well, gentlemen the Prime Minister wants to know how it happened.” Admiral Lord West said as he looked out of the window at the teeming rain battering London. The weather forecast had been for bright sunshine. So, the Met Office had gotten it wrong, again, a hardly new experience for someone in Britain. This time though, he expected the Met Office had received some supernatural assistance in getting its forecasts wrong.
“The Preston tornado, Minister?” The Permanent Secretary wondered. “Well, it was rather more powerful than we would normally expect for this country and the damage to BAE Preston and Warton aerodrome was quite extensive. The Met Office is still looking into…”
“Not the Preston tornado, we have a good idea what caused it,” West replied. “Something much more important than that, the Prime Minister would like to know how the French got command of an army group while we have ended up as, well, an appendage of the American army group. “We now have a large army, experienced commanders and staff, and a lot of combat experience. Arguably more than the French, certainly. So, how did this happen?”
“We may have a large army, Minister by our standards.” Field Marshal Dannatt, the Chief of the General Staff, replied. " But it’s still small in comparison with the whole Human Expeditionary Army. Even then, we don’t have enough equipment, uniforms, or weapons to equip even half of them, and we are only just keeping up with the requirements of our troops in Hell as it is.”
“Indeed, our defense factories are working flat out and yet are only just meeting requirements.” Air Chief Marshal Stirrup commented. “It will be a while before we can put many more troops in the field than we have now; most of our National Servicemen are still at home waiting to be told to report to training centers.
“If we were overstretched before in Iraq and Afghanistan then we’ve gone beyond overstretch.”
Admiral West looked back at the defense chiefs. “It still doesn’t answer the question. We’ve spent the last quarter-century commanding NATO ground forces; first the Northern Army Group then the Allied Rapid Reaction Corps; and we’re not getting to use that experience. The Cabinet is not pleased.”
“With respect, Minister, the Cabinet should look beyond appearances and examine what the situation is on the ground." Dannatt pulled a file from his briefcase and opened it up. "If we look at the Human Expeditionary Army, it is very much a work-in-progress. It's important to remember that armored units, tanks, and mechanized infantry, are to be considered front-line in this war. Everybody keeps the leg infantry at home for self-defense. Second Army Group (Russian) is complete although many of its units are below strength. No surprises there, the Russians always had a big army, and it was fully mechanized. Third Army Group (Chinese) is at roughly half strength with 65 divisions out of its planned 125. The Chinese have attached extra leg infantry divisions to their armored units to make up the numbers, but we all know that in this war, its armor that counts. In both Russia’s and China's cases, they have huge stocks of war materials in storage. The Russians are pulling it out fast and they have come up with some interesting examples I can tell you. Did you know one of their divisions is getting a mix of T-34s and KV-1s?
"That brings us to First Army Group (U.S.). The Americans are cloning divisions as fast as they can equip them – and diluting their force very quickly in the process. Each of their new divisions has a cadre of veterans but that's about it, the rest of the formations consist of raw recruits, including an increasing number of conscripts. In the year since the war started, they've doubled the number of divisions they have available and then doubled it again. They now have 64 divisions in their Army Group. Again, they were able to do that because they had the reserves of equipment stockpiled. To that number, we're adding five British divisions, two Australian, three Canadian, and one Commonwealth division, 11 divisions bringing the total to 75. In other words, of the five armies planned for the First Army Group, three exist. One of those is half-Commonwealth. However, there's more to it than that. Those American divisions are big, they're about twice the size of the Russian and Chinese units. There are reasons for that including structural requirements, but the numbers remain.
"Those three Army Groups are the backbone of the Human Expeditionary Army. They are the important ones, the ones that matter. Now, the organization of those Army Groups was done to ease command and control. That was the critical constraint and it’s what put us in the First Army Group. The Big Three can be defined by language, First is Anglophone, Second is Russophone, and Third is Sinophone.
"Now we look at Fourth Army Group (Eastern). India dominates it, of course, they've thrown 20 armored divisions into the pot. Bangladesh has added one, a creditable effort for them if I might say so, Pakistan added five, Sri Lanka one, Indonesia one, Japan nine, and South Korea five. The Koreans would like to add more but with North Korea sitting on the fence, they have their defense to think about. Malaysia's sent one, the Philippines one, Singapore three, and Thailand five. Vietnam rounds off the pot with six divisions. Add that up and we can see they have 58 divisions and that's going to be about it. Those countries are straining hard to support what they have; any further force increments soon are unlikely. Then they have the Middle Eastern component, that's got Algeria with one division, Egypt with five, Iran with four, Iraq with one, Israel with nine, Jordan with two, Kuwait with one, Morocco with one, Saudi Arabia with one, and Syria with seven. Another 32 divisions have even less in common with the rest of the group. The Israelis don’t even listen to the Indians, they just wander off and do what they want. Total, 90 divisions, and again, that's it. The big contribution from the Middle East has been the stockpiles of equipment. We got more than 2,000 tanks from Libya and they only have a 25,000-man Army. They may pull some additional forces in from Africa and so on, but they won’t make much difference. They have no common language, no integrated command systems no commonality in logistics. They have no common doctrine but at least India has experience in commanding forces of this size in the field.
"That brings us to Fifth Army Group (Europe). We have much the same situation here. Certainly, the French politicked their way into command, and they put three armored divisions into the field. The Germans added five, the Czechs one, the Danes one and that took a heroic effort from them, Greece four, Italy five, Netherlands one, Norway one, Poland four, Romania one, Spain four, Turkey ten. Sweden's added two divisions, Switzerland one, the Ukraine three. Added up that makes 46 divisions, again with no common language, logistics, or operational doctrine. They are mobilizing their reserves, but they don’t have the huge stockpiles of equipment that the Americans, Russians, Chinese, and the Middle East have. So, their mobilization work is producing mostly leg infantry for guarding the home front.
"In short, the Fourth Army Group is marginally useful and the Fifth is a shamble. It is reasonably obvious to us that General Petraeus knows this as well as we do. He knows that the Fifth composes troops that, in most cases, are very good on the small unit level, up to brigade or division level, but they have no real capability of operating beyond that. If push comes to shove, he'll break Fifth up and use the units as spot reinforcements, especially for the First Army Group. The French "commander" will be left with an army group headquarters but no troops to command.
"Now contrast that with our situation, we are in the primary striking group of the Human Expeditionary Army, we have the ear of the commander of that group, and we are trusted well-regarded allies. Our words weigh heavily with them. We are an influential partner in a vital organization, rather than the head of an ineffectual one. Put another way, we may have an inferior position on paper but in terms of actual power and influence we outweigh the French many times over."
West harrumphed, knowing he would have to pass this information on to his Cabinet colleagues. Both the Prime Minister and his deputy were very keen on the idea of a British-led army group; in time Britain would probably have one but not yet. The Human Expeditionary Army, even in its present incomplete form, was just too large.
“How about this proposal to suspend construction of the Queen Elizabeth class for the duration of the war? Surely, we need these ships more than ever?” West wondered.
“They’ll never be finished on time to use in this war, Minister.” Air Chief Marshal Sir Glenn Torpy, the Chief of the Air Staff, argued. “Since the Americans have canceled the F-35 we don’t have a fighter to fly off them, apart maybe from Harriers. I would have thought that the navy would want to concentrate on building cheap, easy-to-build warships that they can use now.”
West could see Admiral of the Fleet Sir Jonathon Band, First Sea Lord, and Chief of the Naval Staff turning a shade of puce. It was no secret that Band and Torpy had disagreements over the CVF project.
“Just as you are procuring cheap aircraft like the Typhoon, Tornado, and Nimrod.” Band commented. “I see you’re also holding on to too many of those expensive museum pieces.”
“There’s a big difference, Admiral, between procuring aircraft and two massive warships. By the time a few pieces of steel are cut for these ships, I will have dozens of new aircraft in service.” Torpy countered. “Those ‘museum pieces’ you refer to, the Buccaneers, TSR.2s, Jaguars, Vulcans, and Canberras are very useful platforms until something better comes along.”
“You’ve wanted to kill CVF from day one.” Band said angrily. “I never thought a war with Heaven and Hell would give you the chance.”
Admiral West held up his hand. “Gentlemen, that’s enough. There is a historical precedent for this decision. In 1939, the Royal Navy had to cancel the Lion class battleships. They were excellent ships, greatly needed, and undoubtedly valuable additions to the fleet. The problem was that they wouldn’t be ready until after the war was over and they used resources that were needed for much more urgently required forces. So, they were suspended, the materials assembled for them were used for other programs and the labor they would have absorbed was diverted elsewhere. Today, we face the same problem with CV(F), and I must tell you the answer is the same. We cannot afford those ships; they must be suspended to allow more important programs to be pushed through. I am sorry, but that decision is final. In their place, we will be building additional amphibious warfare ships and a war-emergency version of Type 45 to escort them.
"We also need to look at something to replace the F-35 in the role of JCA. That is a problem, frankly, I see little chance of getting more aircraft from the Americans, they need every aircraft they can build."
“Looks like Hornets all round then, Minister.” Air Chief Marshal Stirrup said.
"If we can get them, a big if. One thing that is potentially good news. The Chinese have offered to reverse-engineer the TSR-2 using the experience they gained in pirating the Su-27 design. They claim they can get a prototype flying in 18 months and deliveries starting in 30. The deal is, that they'll give us the first 100 aircraft off the production line in exchange for the engines and one of the two White Ghosts to act as a pattern aircraft. We can't just keep one in service so the other TSR-2 will go back to a museum, only this time with an honorable war record to her credit.
"Can the Chinese, do it?" Stirrup was genuinely curious
"They got their copy of the Su-27 out fast, the Russians are hopping mad about it. So, yes, I think our Chinese friends can pull it off."
Band looked at Torpy with barely hidden loathing. Watching them, West couldn't help but reflect that it was a rare event that Her Majesty's Government was on better terms with the Chinese than with its Navy.
Throne Room, The Ultimate Temple, Eternal City, Heaven
Michael-Lan once more entered the Holiest of Holies and his eyes adjusted to the dim glow that contrasted so strongly with the clear, white light that saturated Heaven. Even after his millennia of experience, the sight of the great white throne, with its flashing lightning and pealing thunder surrounding the One Above All Others, never failed to awe him. Before the throne were the seven great, gold lamps, burning their ceaseless incense so that the clouds of scented smoke hung thick and hazy, the smell clinging to everything. There had been a time when Michael loved this room but that was before humans had opened his eyes to what it represented. As a showman, he admired it, as a General who valued efficient and effective administration above all else, it filled him with frustration at the wasted effort. It hadn’t always been like this, uncounted millennia before when the Great Celestial War had been fought, there hadn’t been this stress of unqualified adoration and infinite submission. 'All Power Corrupts and Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely.' The human motto ran through Michael-Lan's mind and its implications disturbed him.
At the four corners of the room flew four Seraphs, creatures with huge heads and six wings rooted in their atrophied bodies. They appeared to be nothing other than head and wings, their distorted physique making them of little use other than chanting their ceaseless cry: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.” The refrain was echoed by the twenty-four members of Yahweh's Private Choir. They were ancient even by the angels' standards, and were constantly on their faces before the throne, murmuring, “You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will, they were created and have their being." Michael-Lan gazed at them sympathetically, they had spent their lives yearning for eternity in Paradise, now they had it, they spent their time yearning for another death. They had wasted their time on Earth, building up their virtues for their afterlife and now they knew the full extent of the way they had squandered their time. That might not be as crude and agonizing torture as the ones Satan had dreamed up, but it was one all the same.
Michael-Lan had once had a choir just like this one. A century ago, he had released them from their eternal chanting and now they sang in his nightclub, choosing their program and relishing the freedom to do so. They were loyal servants, trustworthy as only those released from a nightmare could be.
Michael stopped in the middle of the lamps and knelt on both knees, prostrating himself and pressing his flawless lips to the cold, dark jade floor. As though sensing intentions, the four Seraphim quieted, and the twenty-four elders' murmurs died to whispers. From the white throne, the voice of Yahweh thundered: “Michael, my good general, what news do you bring me?”
"Oh nameless one, Lord and God of all, I prostrate myself to your presence. The First Bowl of Wrath is poured, and even now the humans who bear the Mark of the Beast sicken and die from its poison. No less than twenty of my highest servants, ones in whom I espoused a special interest, gave their lives so that your Almighty Will should be fulfilled. They went to their end, singing thy praises and filled with ecstasy at their privilege."
They were not filled with ecstasy, thought Michael quietly, he'd made sure that the doomed group had been well isolated from his nightclub and the growing web of influence it gave him. His stocks of ecstasy were limited, and he made sure it was distributed carefully. And they didn't die singing, they almost certainly died screaming because that was what human weapons did to their victims.
Michael-Lan sneaked a look at Yahweh, poised on his great throne amid the clouds of burning incense. His mind flitted to the possibility of adding some good grass to the incense but it veered away from the prospect. The risks were too high, the rewards too low. Yahweh had a dreamy expression on his face, contemplating the sacrifice of those who had laid down their lives so that his wishes could be fulfilled. Michael-Lan decided that he needed building up a little before the blow was struck
"And the rest of the humans?"
"They suffer as the elements themselves turn against them. The very winds and waters rage in anger at their defiance of your divine will. Their dead number in the tens of thousands and their weeping drowns out the words of their leaders."
That did it, Yahweh was transported with delight at the thought of the humans who had defied him being punished. He edged forward on his throne. "And Uriel does Uriel bring despair into their hearts."
"Ah yes, Uriel." Now, this was going to be tricky. Very easy to overdo this. Michael warned himself.
There was a long hesitation. "He has obeyed my wishes?" There was an ominous roll in the thunder and the lightning flickered. Still, white Michael-Lan thought. We'll have to change that.
"Would Uriel-Lan, thy sword, and spear, do any less? He has killed humans. Some, anyway."
There was suspicion and doubt in the thunder that rolled around the hall and Michael noted the Seraphim were unobtrusively drifting away. It helped to have six wings, it made moving so much less obvious. "But the human cities are laid waste? Their inhabitants and all that live therein dead, their very souls snuffed from existence?"
Now that was a good question. Michael rolled the question around in his mind. He doubted Uriel snuffed out souls, in his mind, it was more probable he simply sent them somewhere else. There were, after all, enough places to send them to. "The cities, well, yes. I suppose so. Depends on how we define cities I suppose."
"What do you mean Michael-Lan?" The clouds were gathering ominously, the lightning flickering more strongly as the clouds of incense roiled and flowed.
"Human cities have changed a lot, Oh nameless one, Lord and God of all. They're quite a bit bigger now but Uriel doesn’t seem to have realized that. He stays in the areas where the settlements are few and poorly inhabited. But Uriel-Lan has done his best in the area he stays. I believe he has extinguished a few hundreds of humans."
That did it. To Michael's delight, multi-colored lightning bolts flashed and ricocheted off the walls, sending showers of pristine diamond flakes spiraling through the air. The Seraphim gave up any hope of discretion and dived for cover. Thunder crashed, its echoes rolling down the wide, straight boulevards that divided The Eternal City into its mathematically precise blocks, shaking the great sheaths of semi-precious stone that formed the walls of the palaces glittering in the clear white light. The Ishim scurried down the alabaster streets, the more astute getting the message that Michael-Lan was making another war report. A few, secretly in their minds, half-hiding the thought even from themselves, wondered why Yahweh had started this war if the news upset him so much. Elohim and Malachim looked down upon the lowly Ishim, but the crashing of thunder persuaded them that there was, perhaps, purpose in the disorder.
"A few hundred? He has achieved nothing!"
" Oh nameless one, Lord and God of all, Uriel-Lan has done well given there are so few to snuff out in the area that he resides. Why he will not go to richer pastures, I do not know." Because if he does, the humans will put a cap in his ass thought Michael, but no need to say that Michael squeezed himself even flatter to the floor because a large chunk of diamond had splintered off the wall and just missed his head. He risked a look up, Yahweh was glaring across the throne room, furious that his sublime delight had been ruined so abruptly. Michael knew from long experience what he was thinking and the word 'treason figured prominently.
" One Above All Others, he must have a good reason. After all, none would dare claim that Uriel-Lan's loyalty is any less than my own. Surely, he is the most devoted of thy servants. Perhaps he needs a little encouragement?"
"Then send him a message that it is my divine will that he enters the realms of our greatest enemies." Yahweh hesitated for a second. "Who are they by the way?"
Michael thought for a second. It was an interesting question, one that had many answers depending on the interpretation of the words greatest and enemy. He decided that the best possible translation was 'the ones who stood the best chance of killing Uriel-Lan.' It had to be humans, in the world here in Heaven, a direct assassination attempt would probably fail and regardless of the outcome, all his plans would be revealed. Uriel was Yahweh's greatest weapon, one that could be turned on his enemies in the Eternal City just as easily as on anybody else. Uriel was too loyal and too deadly to live. Getting rid of him had to be the humans. "The Americans, Oh nameless one, Lord, and God of all. They are thy greatest enemy."
"Then order Uriel to attack their greatest city. Without further delay."
That's a message that will get through "The boss wants you to take out an American city. No hurry, in your own time. Michael-Lan rose and backed out of the throne room, bumping into an Erelim stone mason as he did so.
"You had to go and do it didn't you." The Erelim sounded bitter as he surveyed the chipped and battered walls. "I'd just got the place fixed up after your last report."
Michael looked sympathetically at him and slipped him a small package of cocaine. Then he slapped the mason on the back. "Look on it as job security," he said comfortingly as he went on his way to meet with Uriel.
MoD Main Building, Whitehall, London.
“Well, gentlemen the Prime Minister wants to know how it happened.” Admiral Lord West said as he looked out of the window at the teeming rain battering London. The weather forecast had been for bright sunshine. So, the Met Office had gotten it wrong, again, a hardly new experience for someone in Britain. This time though, he expected the Met Office had received some supernatural assistance in getting its forecasts wrong.
“The Preston tornado, Minister?” The Permanent Secretary wondered. “Well, it was rather more powerful than we would normally expect for this country and the damage to BAE Preston and Warton aerodrome was quite extensive. The Met Office is still looking into…”
“Not the Preston tornado, we have a good idea what caused it,” West replied. “Something much more important than that, the Prime Minister would like to know how the French got command of an army group while we have ended up as, well, an appendage of the American army group. “We now have a large army, experienced commanders and staff, and a lot of combat experience. Arguably more than the French, certainly. So, how did this happen?”
“We may have a large army, Minister by our standards.” Field Marshal Dannatt, the Chief of the General Staff, replied. " But it’s still small in comparison with the whole Human Expeditionary Army. Even then, we don’t have enough equipment, uniforms, or weapons to equip even half of them, and we are only just keeping up with the requirements of our troops in Hell as it is.”
“Indeed, our defense factories are working flat out and yet are only just meeting requirements.” Air Chief Marshal Stirrup commented. “It will be a while before we can put many more troops in the field than we have now; most of our National Servicemen are still at home waiting to be told to report to training centers.
“If we were overstretched before in Iraq and Afghanistan then we’ve gone beyond overstretch.”
Admiral West looked back at the defense chiefs. “It still doesn’t answer the question. We’ve spent the last quarter-century commanding NATO ground forces; first the Northern Army Group then the Allied Rapid Reaction Corps; and we’re not getting to use that experience. The Cabinet is not pleased.”
“With respect, Minister, the Cabinet should look beyond appearances and examine what the situation is on the ground." Dannatt pulled a file from his briefcase and opened it up. "If we look at the Human Expeditionary Army, it is very much a work-in-progress. It's important to remember that armored units, tanks, and mechanized infantry, are to be considered front-line in this war. Everybody keeps the leg infantry at home for self-defense. Second Army Group (Russian) is complete although many of its units are below strength. No surprises there, the Russians always had a big army, and it was fully mechanized. Third Army Group (Chinese) is at roughly half strength with 65 divisions out of its planned 125. The Chinese have attached extra leg infantry divisions to their armored units to make up the numbers, but we all know that in this war, its armor that counts. In both Russia’s and China's cases, they have huge stocks of war materials in storage. The Russians are pulling it out fast and they have come up with some interesting examples I can tell you. Did you know one of their divisions is getting a mix of T-34s and KV-1s?
"That brings us to First Army Group (U.S.). The Americans are cloning divisions as fast as they can equip them – and diluting their force very quickly in the process. Each of their new divisions has a cadre of veterans but that's about it, the rest of the formations consist of raw recruits, including an increasing number of conscripts. In the year since the war started, they've doubled the number of divisions they have available and then doubled it again. They now have 64 divisions in their Army Group. Again, they were able to do that because they had the reserves of equipment stockpiled. To that number, we're adding five British divisions, two Australian, three Canadian, and one Commonwealth division, 11 divisions bringing the total to 75. In other words, of the five armies planned for the First Army Group, three exist. One of those is half-Commonwealth. However, there's more to it than that. Those American divisions are big, they're about twice the size of the Russian and Chinese units. There are reasons for that including structural requirements, but the numbers remain.
"Those three Army Groups are the backbone of the Human Expeditionary Army. They are the important ones, the ones that matter. Now, the organization of those Army Groups was done to ease command and control. That was the critical constraint and it’s what put us in the First Army Group. The Big Three can be defined by language, First is Anglophone, Second is Russophone, and Third is Sinophone.
"Now we look at Fourth Army Group (Eastern). India dominates it, of course, they've thrown 20 armored divisions into the pot. Bangladesh has added one, a creditable effort for them if I might say so, Pakistan added five, Sri Lanka one, Indonesia one, Japan nine, and South Korea five. The Koreans would like to add more but with North Korea sitting on the fence, they have their defense to think about. Malaysia's sent one, the Philippines one, Singapore three, and Thailand five. Vietnam rounds off the pot with six divisions. Add that up and we can see they have 58 divisions and that's going to be about it. Those countries are straining hard to support what they have; any further force increments soon are unlikely. Then they have the Middle Eastern component, that's got Algeria with one division, Egypt with five, Iran with four, Iraq with one, Israel with nine, Jordan with two, Kuwait with one, Morocco with one, Saudi Arabia with one, and Syria with seven. Another 32 divisions have even less in common with the rest of the group. The Israelis don’t even listen to the Indians, they just wander off and do what they want. Total, 90 divisions, and again, that's it. The big contribution from the Middle East has been the stockpiles of equipment. We got more than 2,000 tanks from Libya and they only have a 25,000-man Army. They may pull some additional forces in from Africa and so on, but they won’t make much difference. They have no common language, no integrated command systems no commonality in logistics. They have no common doctrine but at least India has experience in commanding forces of this size in the field.
"That brings us to Fifth Army Group (Europe). We have much the same situation here. Certainly, the French politicked their way into command, and they put three armored divisions into the field. The Germans added five, the Czechs one, the Danes one and that took a heroic effort from them, Greece four, Italy five, Netherlands one, Norway one, Poland four, Romania one, Spain four, Turkey ten. Sweden's added two divisions, Switzerland one, the Ukraine three. Added up that makes 46 divisions, again with no common language, logistics, or operational doctrine. They are mobilizing their reserves, but they don’t have the huge stockpiles of equipment that the Americans, Russians, Chinese, and the Middle East have. So, their mobilization work is producing mostly leg infantry for guarding the home front.
"In short, the Fourth Army Group is marginally useful and the Fifth is a shamble. It is reasonably obvious to us that General Petraeus knows this as well as we do. He knows that the Fifth composes troops that, in most cases, are very good on the small unit level, up to brigade or division level, but they have no real capability of operating beyond that. If push comes to shove, he'll break Fifth up and use the units as spot reinforcements, especially for the First Army Group. The French "commander" will be left with an army group headquarters but no troops to command.
"Now contrast that with our situation, we are in the primary striking group of the Human Expeditionary Army, we have the ear of the commander of that group, and we are trusted well-regarded allies. Our words weigh heavily with them. We are an influential partner in a vital organization, rather than the head of an ineffectual one. Put another way, we may have an inferior position on paper but in terms of actual power and influence we outweigh the French many times over."
West harrumphed, knowing he would have to pass this information on to his Cabinet colleagues. Both the Prime Minister and his deputy were very keen on the idea of a British-led army group; in time Britain would probably have one but not yet. The Human Expeditionary Army, even in its present incomplete form, was just too large.
“How about this proposal to suspend construction of the Queen Elizabeth class for the duration of the war? Surely, we need these ships more than ever?” West wondered.
“They’ll never be finished on time to use in this war, Minister.” Air Chief Marshal Sir Glenn Torpy, the Chief of the Air Staff, argued. “Since the Americans have canceled the F-35 we don’t have a fighter to fly off them, apart maybe from Harriers. I would have thought that the navy would want to concentrate on building cheap, easy-to-build warships that they can use now.”
West could see Admiral of the Fleet Sir Jonathon Band, First Sea Lord, and Chief of the Naval Staff turning a shade of puce. It was no secret that Band and Torpy had disagreements over the CVF project.
“Just as you are procuring cheap aircraft like the Typhoon, Tornado, and Nimrod.” Band commented. “I see you’re also holding on to too many of those expensive museum pieces.”
“There’s a big difference, Admiral, between procuring aircraft and two massive warships. By the time a few pieces of steel are cut for these ships, I will have dozens of new aircraft in service.” Torpy countered. “Those ‘museum pieces’ you refer to, the Buccaneers, TSR.2s, Jaguars, Vulcans, and Canberras are very useful platforms until something better comes along.”
“You’ve wanted to kill CVF from day one.” Band said angrily. “I never thought a war with Heaven and Hell would give you the chance.”
Admiral West held up his hand. “Gentlemen, that’s enough. There is a historical precedent for this decision. In 1939, the Royal Navy had to cancel the Lion class battleships. They were excellent ships, greatly needed, and undoubtedly valuable additions to the fleet. The problem was that they wouldn’t be ready until after the war was over and they used resources that were needed for much more urgently required forces. So, they were suspended, the materials assembled for them were used for other programs and the labor they would have absorbed was diverted elsewhere. Today, we face the same problem with CV(F), and I must tell you the answer is the same. We cannot afford those ships; they must be suspended to allow more important programs to be pushed through. I am sorry, but that decision is final. In their place, we will be building additional amphibious warfare ships and a war-emergency version of Type 45 to escort them.
"We also need to look at something to replace the F-35 in the role of JCA. That is a problem, frankly, I see little chance of getting more aircraft from the Americans, they need every aircraft they can build."
“Looks like Hornets all round then, Minister.” Air Chief Marshal Stirrup said.
"If we can get them, a big if. One thing that is potentially good news. The Chinese have offered to reverse-engineer the TSR-2 using the experience they gained in pirating the Su-27 design. They claim they can get a prototype flying in 18 months and deliveries starting in 30. The deal is, that they'll give us the first 100 aircraft off the production line in exchange for the engines and one of the two White Ghosts to act as a pattern aircraft. We can't just keep one in service so the other TSR-2 will go back to a museum, only this time with an honorable war record to her credit.
"Can the Chinese, do it?" Stirrup was genuinely curious
"They got their copy of the Su-27 out fast, the Russians are hopping mad about it. So, yes, I think our Chinese friends can pull it off."
Band looked at Torpy with barely hidden loathing. Watching them, West couldn't help but reflect that it was a rare event that Her Majesty's Government was on better terms with the Chinese than with its Navy.
Throne Room, The Ultimate Temple, Eternal City, Heaven
Michael-Lan once more entered the Holiest of Holies and his eyes adjusted to the dim glow that contrasted so strongly with the clear, white light that saturated Heaven. Even after his millennia of experience, the sight of the great white throne, with its flashing lightning and pealing thunder surrounding the One Above All Others, never failed to awe him. Before the throne were the seven great, gold lamps, burning their ceaseless incense so that the clouds of scented smoke hung thick and hazy, the smell clinging to everything. There had been a time when Michael loved this room but that was before humans had opened his eyes to what it represented. As a showman, he admired it, as a General who valued efficient and effective administration above all else, it filled him with frustration at the wasted effort. It hadn’t always been like this, uncounted millennia before when the Great Celestial War had been fought, there hadn’t been this stress of unqualified adoration and infinite submission. 'All Power Corrupts and Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely.' The human motto ran through Michael-Lan's mind and its implications disturbed him.
At the four corners of the room flew four Seraphs, creatures with huge heads and six wings rooted in their atrophied bodies. They appeared to be nothing other than head and wings, their distorted physique making them of little use other than chanting their ceaseless cry: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.” The refrain was echoed by the twenty-four members of Yahweh's Private Choir. They were ancient even by the angels' standards, and were constantly on their faces before the throne, murmuring, “You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will, they were created and have their being." Michael-Lan gazed at them sympathetically, they had spent their lives yearning for eternity in Paradise, now they had it, they spent their time yearning for another death. They had wasted their time on Earth, building up their virtues for their afterlife and now they knew the full extent of the way they had squandered their time. That might not be as crude and agonizing torture as the ones Satan had dreamed up, but it was one all the same.
Michael-Lan had once had a choir just like this one. A century ago, he had released them from their eternal chanting and now they sang in his nightclub, choosing their program and relishing the freedom to do so. They were loyal servants, trustworthy as only those released from a nightmare could be.
Michael stopped in the middle of the lamps and knelt on both knees, prostrating himself and pressing his flawless lips to the cold, dark jade floor. As though sensing intentions, the four Seraphim quieted, and the twenty-four elders' murmurs died to whispers. From the white throne, the voice of Yahweh thundered: “Michael, my good general, what news do you bring me?”
"Oh nameless one, Lord and God of all, I prostrate myself to your presence. The First Bowl of Wrath is poured, and even now the humans who bear the Mark of the Beast sicken and die from its poison. No less than twenty of my highest servants, ones in whom I espoused a special interest, gave their lives so that your Almighty Will should be fulfilled. They went to their end, singing thy praises and filled with ecstasy at their privilege."
They were not filled with ecstasy, thought Michael quietly, he'd made sure that the doomed group had been well isolated from his nightclub and the growing web of influence it gave him. His stocks of ecstasy were limited, and he made sure it was distributed carefully. And they didn't die singing, they almost certainly died screaming because that was what human weapons did to their victims.
Michael-Lan sneaked a look at Yahweh, poised on his great throne amid the clouds of burning incense. His mind flitted to the possibility of adding some good grass to the incense but it veered away from the prospect. The risks were too high, the rewards too low. Yahweh had a dreamy expression on his face, contemplating the sacrifice of those who had laid down their lives so that his wishes could be fulfilled. Michael-Lan decided that he needed building up a little before the blow was struck
"And the rest of the humans?"
"They suffer as the elements themselves turn against them. The very winds and waters rage in anger at their defiance of your divine will. Their dead number in the tens of thousands and their weeping drowns out the words of their leaders."
That did it, Yahweh was transported with delight at the thought of the humans who had defied him being punished. He edged forward on his throne. "And Uriel does Uriel bring despair into their hearts."
"Ah yes, Uriel." Now, this was going to be tricky. Very easy to overdo this. Michael warned himself.
There was a long hesitation. "He has obeyed my wishes?" There was an ominous roll in the thunder and the lightning flickered. Still, white Michael-Lan thought. We'll have to change that.
"Would Uriel-Lan, thy sword, and spear, do any less? He has killed humans. Some, anyway."
There was suspicion and doubt in the thunder that rolled around the hall and Michael noted the Seraphim were unobtrusively drifting away. It helped to have six wings, it made moving so much less obvious. "But the human cities are laid waste? Their inhabitants and all that live therein dead, their very souls snuffed from existence?"
Now that was a good question. Michael rolled the question around in his mind. He doubted Uriel snuffed out souls, in his mind, it was more probable he simply sent them somewhere else. There were, after all, enough places to send them to. "The cities, well, yes. I suppose so. Depends on how we define cities I suppose."
"What do you mean Michael-Lan?" The clouds were gathering ominously, the lightning flickering more strongly as the clouds of incense roiled and flowed.
"Human cities have changed a lot, Oh nameless one, Lord and God of all. They're quite a bit bigger now but Uriel doesn’t seem to have realized that. He stays in the areas where the settlements are few and poorly inhabited. But Uriel-Lan has done his best in the area he stays. I believe he has extinguished a few hundreds of humans."
That did it. To Michael's delight, multi-colored lightning bolts flashed and ricocheted off the walls, sending showers of pristine diamond flakes spiraling through the air. The Seraphim gave up any hope of discretion and dived for cover. Thunder crashed, its echoes rolling down the wide, straight boulevards that divided The Eternal City into its mathematically precise blocks, shaking the great sheaths of semi-precious stone that formed the walls of the palaces glittering in the clear white light. The Ishim scurried down the alabaster streets, the more astute getting the message that Michael-Lan was making another war report. A few, secretly in their minds, half-hiding the thought even from themselves, wondered why Yahweh had started this war if the news upset him so much. Elohim and Malachim looked down upon the lowly Ishim, but the crashing of thunder persuaded them that there was, perhaps, purpose in the disorder.
"A few hundred? He has achieved nothing!"
" Oh nameless one, Lord and God of all, Uriel-Lan has done well given there are so few to snuff out in the area that he resides. Why he will not go to richer pastures, I do not know." Because if he does, the humans will put a cap in his ass thought Michael, but no need to say that Michael squeezed himself even flatter to the floor because a large chunk of diamond had splintered off the wall and just missed his head. He risked a look up, Yahweh was glaring across the throne room, furious that his sublime delight had been ruined so abruptly. Michael knew from long experience what he was thinking and the word 'treason figured prominently.
" One Above All Others, he must have a good reason. After all, none would dare claim that Uriel-Lan's loyalty is any less than my own. Surely, he is the most devoted of thy servants. Perhaps he needs a little encouragement?"
"Then send him a message that it is my divine will that he enters the realms of our greatest enemies." Yahweh hesitated for a second. "Who are they by the way?"
Michael thought for a second. It was an interesting question, one that had many answers depending on the interpretation of the words greatest and enemy. He decided that the best possible translation was 'the ones who stood the best chance of killing Uriel-Lan.' It had to be humans, in the world here in Heaven, a direct assassination attempt would probably fail and regardless of the outcome, all his plans would be revealed. Uriel was Yahweh's greatest weapon, one that could be turned on his enemies in the Eternal City just as easily as on anybody else. Uriel was too loyal and too deadly to live. Getting rid of him had to be the humans. "The Americans, Oh nameless one, Lord, and God of all. They are thy greatest enemy."
"Then order Uriel to attack their greatest city. Without further delay."
That's a message that will get through "The boss wants you to take out an American city. No hurry, in your own time. Michael-Lan rose and backed out of the throne room, bumping into an Erelim stone mason as he did so.
"You had to go and do it didn't you." The Erelim sounded bitter as he surveyed the chipped and battered walls. "I'd just got the place fixed up after your last report."
Michael looked sympathetically at him and slipped him a small package of cocaine. Then he slapped the mason on the back. "Look on it as job security," he said comfortingly as he went on his way to meet with Uriel.
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Eight
Air Crash Investigation Group, Wright-Paterson AFB, Dayton, Ohio, February 2009
"Well, look at that." It was more the level of bafflement in the speaker's voice that drew attention than the words themselves.
"What's the matter, Rich?" Gail Claiborne looked up from the X-ray pictures of a wing spar she'd been studying.
"I've been listening to the contents of the cockpit voice recorder tapes from Blue-861." Doctor Rich Arden was using words loosely here. In this case, "listening to" meant hearing the words certainly, but also studying the oscilloscope readings and examining the various tracks the system had recorded. It was a much more complex subject than it sounded, and outsiders only guessed at the wealth of information the tapes contained.
"Did the pilot say anything?"
"Apart from some fascinating obscenities as his plane disintegratgruelingeally. Russian's a good language for swearing. The curious bit is elsewhere. Come and have a look."
Gail walked over to Arden's work area and pulled up a stool. "Show me, maestro." Before getting into this line of work, Rich Arden had been the road manager for a heavy metal rock band and his stories of the escapades he and his group had got up to were legendary. They had also resulted in his nickname (and flight callsign) 'Maestro'.
"So, we have the cockpit flight recorder tapes, and we play them. Nothing very interesting in the words so let’s take them out." He manipulated the computer controls and the speech pattern of the pilot flying the ill-fated Blue-861 was removed. "Now, what we have left is the cockpit background noise."
"What's that?" Gail put her finger on a spike a split second before Blue-861 had fallen apart in mid-air.
"Now that's what I asked. There were two ways of looking at this, one was to start eliminating known sounds, airflow, engine noise, radar sound effects, and so on. The other was to get a cockpit to take from a flying Su-35, eliminate speech from it, and use that as a template. Fortunately, the Russians sent us copies of the cockpit flight recorder tapes from Blue-863 as well and I eliminated the pilot's speech and got a clean trace of the cockpit noise. So, I subtracted that trace from the message of Blue-861 and lookee here."
"Oh my." Gail was stunned. "Well, look at that."
"Now somebody else is going to say, 'What's the matter Gail?' and I'll have to go through the whole thing again." Arden looked around catching one of the investigators with his mouth half-open. The investigator in question promptly looked guilty and tried to hide behind his equipment. The rest of the room had been covertly listening, more in hopes of hearing a new heavy metal band story than anything else. "No? Well, we have something here that I don’t think has ever been recorded before. Want to have a look?"
Arden's work area filled up as the investigators crowded around to look at the display. The green line left on it was remarkable. The baseline showed a small amount of grass, random noise that couldn’t be predicted or ever quite eliminated but the spike that was left had, quite definitely never been seen before. It was a straight line, up and down.
"There's no sidebands, no resonance, no echoes nothing." Gail's voice was awed. "It’s a completely pure note."
"That's right. Every musical note there has ever been having been mixed up with all sorts of distortions. Look at them using this equipment and it’s a rugged peak. It goes up in a jagged line, there's a plateau at the top that shows cyclic variations, and it goes down in a jagged line. Then there are side-bands and resonances at different frequencies. Lots of them. All the energy transmitted in the note is spread across the area under that line, dispersed, weakened, and generally dissipated. Even so, sounds got a lot of punch, we broke things with it quite regularly."
"Like theater managers’ hearts?"
"Those too, although most of them deserved it. Some of them never even read the contract, hence the no-green-jellybean rule. Anyway, that's not the case here. The sound is one perfect pulse. Straight up, point, straight down. A perfectly pure note and all the energy is concentrated in that note. Talk about a slam, the energy here," he tapped the screen with a switchblade, "is incredible. This thing, its coherent sound. It's the sonic equivalent of a laser and I'd guess that it’s just as destructive. It's got about as much resemblance to a musical note as a high-powered laser has to a flashlight."
"And the walls came tumbling down," Gail spoke almost dreamily.
"Sure. Sound travels faster, and the denser the medium is. In the air, this thing shook a Su-35 apart and tumbled the gyros on two missiles. What it would do if transmitted in water or rock, we can only guess. A lot of we-wish-that-hadn't-happened would be my guess."
"Write all this up." Doctor Peptuck, the team leader, spoke sharply. "Write it up in as much detail as possible. The brass needs to know about this as quickly as possible."
Conference Room, Fort Detrick, Maryland, USA, February 2009
"You're quite sure about this?" Another investigation, another place, same disbelief mixed with a tinge of fear.
"Of course." Connor MacLeod was quite emphatic. "It helped that we knew we were dealing with inhalation anthrax and that gave us a baseline to work from. It also gave us a puzzle to answer. Why were so few people showing symptoms? If anthrax spores had been dumped over an inhabited area, a high proportion of the population would be dead or dying and there is no cure for inhalation anthrax. We can immunize, and it looks like we might have to, but we can't cure. And yet the death toll was a few here, a few there, a disproportionate number on military bases yet even there only a handful. As information came in from all over, that was the worldwide pattern. A few dead, isolated infections. Unprecedented."
"And it was this Baines guy who gave you the answer?"
"In a way, yes. DIMO(N) were interested of course, and Baines knows Revelations and all the derivative material intimately. Unhealthily intimately in my opinion, but he's the best we've got for tracking down this sort of thing. He pointed out that Revelations contains the following prophecy. 'Then I heard a loud voice from the temple, saying to the seven angels, Go and pour out on the earth the seven bowls of the wrath of God. So, the first angel went and poured out his bowl on the earth, and it became a loathsome and malignant sore on the people who had the mark of the beast and who worshiped his image.' Well, anybody who has seen people dying of anthrax knows the ulceration is certainly loathsome and malignant so that fit. That left us trying to work out what the mark of the beast was.
"We started by thinking that it was poetic or descriptive and was a reverse truth. In other words, we thought it was the writers assuming, not that the disease was infecting people with a particular characteristic but that everybody who was infected was assumed to have the mark of the beast. You know, the old line, 'they must have done something bad to deserve it.' But that didn’t correspond to the infection patterns, anywhere close. So, we had to think that there was something about these people that made them vulnerable to the disease. That led us to ask what the mark of the beast could be. You know why sensitives are sensitive?"
"Because they are Nephilim, they are descendants of humans who mated with the Baldricks."
"Exactly, and they retain a tiny amount of Baldrick DNA in their make-up and that makes them detectable to the Baldricks and capable of pushing messages the other way. The more Baldrick they have in their DNA, the more effective they are as sensitives. The odder they are as well by the way. With computers and our transmission equipment, we can boost those contacts to the point where we can open portals. Now, doesn’t have Baldrick ancestry sound like 'the mark of the beast' to you?"
"And so you compared lists?"
"Of course. With our list, the congruence was perfect. All the reported anthrax infections we had have been from people we identified as Nephilim. They're sick and pretty much all of them are going to die. Our portal engineering capability has been hit hard, I'd guess that about a third of our sensitives are dead or dying. The same picture is emerging worldwide but there's an interesting little side note. It's obvious from the infection pattern that our allies are not telling us about all the Nephilim they found."
"Oh." The word was filled with emphasis.
"Exactly. I would say that, while they are all contributing to the main portal engineering program, we run on behalf of everybody, they all have their national programs as well. From these lists, I would say that Russia, China, Britain, France, Germany, Japan, India, Israel, and Singapore are all running their portal program and have kept back some of their sensitives, probably the best ones, for that program."
"I think that's very likely." Team Leader Chris O'Farrell sounded more than slightly amused by the idea.
Connor MacLeod looked at him sharply for a moment and then the implication sank in. "And we're doing the same?"
"Of course. Have you noticed that Kitten and all the other top-rank sensitives aren't on the sick list? We've got them tucked safely away. The Navy's doing a lot of work, they’re refitting Enterprise right now to generate her portals. Can you imagine that as a naval tactic? Got some anti-ship missiles coming in? Easy. Open a portal, step through and close it. Then, wait a few minutes, open another and reappear a few dozen miles away. Or open a portal over an enemy city and drop a nuclear device through it. The possibilities are endless. Anyway, back to anthrax. So, the enemy has developed an anthrax derivative that only infects Nephilim. That's a hell of genetic engineering achievement. Are they that good?"
"Well, that's what we thought. This was a new strain of anthrax bred especially for this attack and that's a scary level of biological warfare capability." Both men looked grim, nobody knew better than the workers at Fort Detrick just how dangerous biological warfare could be. "Anyway, we got samples of the anthrax bacillus from the casualties and had a look at it. We started on the wrong foot, thinking this was a new variant and that wasted a day or so. Have you heard of mitochondrial dating?"
O'Farrell shook his head.
"Well, basically mitochondrial DNA doesn't change. It does mutate at a known rate, but it doesn’t change. So, we can track the age of a sample as compared with its baseline by noting the number of changes. It’s a bit like counting tree rings in a way. We got a surprise, the samples we have shown a lot of changes. That meant either the samples were a long way down the line from our baseline or our baseline was a long way down the line from our samples. Normally, we'd take the second possibility because we don’t get things from the future, but nothing's taken for granted these days.
"Now, anthrax is a very old disease, it may be one of the oldest still-extant diseases. There are anthrax spores found in the wrappings of Egyptian mummies and there's even a theory that the so-called curse of the Pharaohs is the result of inhaling those spores. Anyway, we got some spores from the Egyptians, ran the tests, and guess what, they're a lot closer to the samples from our victims than our baseline is. So, this isn't a new variant, it’s a very old one, one even older than the Egyptian baseline.
"Norman Baines has suggested it’s possible that anthrax was a disease specifically intended to kill Nephilim and its spread amongst humans and animals is a result of a mutation. He's got the theory that sometime in the past there was a concerted effort, presumably by Heaven, to kill off the Nephilim. That would explain why they are so rare. But be that as it may, I think we have a handle on the first of these so-called 'Bowls of Wrath'. Oh, by the way, there's an upside to all this; since this is a very old variant of anthrax, possibly the original variant, our antibiotics should work well against it.
"Very well, I'll send all this information back. It looks like Bayer is going to make itself another fortune."
Bacup Police Station, Bacup, Lancashire.
Inspector Kate Langley looked up from her desk towards the metal bucket that was catching the leak in her office roof. It was hard to concentrate on her paperwork with that infernal noise going on all the time, the sooner they moved into the new police station and out of this rickety Victorian relic the better. A knock at the door brought her back to the present.
“Ma’am, there’s been a serious landslide at the top of the town.” Sergeant Parrish said gravely. “Looks like several houses have been buried. Our mobiles, the fire service, ambulance, and Civil Defense Corps are already on the way.”
Langley stood up, reflexively taking her revolver out of the desk drawer, and grabbing her yellow fluorescent jacket and hat. “Right, Sergeant, get as many bodies out there as you can and put a call to H.Q for assistance. We’ll need all the help we can get.
“I’m going to head out there myself to take charge; I’ll need you to coordinate things from here.”
“Not a problem, Ma’am; I’ll get Sergeant Beck to go with you,” Parrish replied.
The scene that greeted Inspector Langley and Sergeant Beck on their arrival at the landslide was one of utter devastation. It looked like half of the hillside had simply given way and had come crashing down on a quiet residential street, smashing it to rubble. Where there had once been houses, trees and grass there was now nothing but black, glutinous mud.
“It’s like Aberfan,” Beck muttered, deeply shocked.
Langley stepped out of the car, putting on her wet weather gear, though by the time she had done so she was almost soaked to the skin. The three fire appliances from Baccup Fire Station had already arrived, as had a couple of ambulances and some vehicles from the re-established Civil Defense Corps. The firemen and civil defense workers had already started to dig amongst the rubble at the edge of the landslide, hoping to find someone alive. As the fire service would have primacy in this case Langley sought out the senior fire officer to offer what help she could.
“What can we do to help, Derek?”
“It’s a damn disaster, Kate.” Station Officer Derek Clarke, commander of Red Watch, replied. “I don’t think there is much you can do here, other than traffic control. I’ve requested that the brigade’s Urban Search and Rescue Unit be sent to us, but I don’t think that they will be doing anything other than pulling out bodies.”
Clarke paused to look at the bare hillside; it didn’t look too stable.
“Bronze Command to all units, withdraw now. The hillside looks like it’s about to go again. Over.” He said into his Personal Radio. “Kate, there is one thing you can do.” He said turning back to Langley. “This slip is going to be even bigger by the looks of things, we’ve got to get people out from under its path.”
Langley nodded and sprinted back to the car as she would get better reception from its radio than from her PR.
“Juliet Bravo to Control, urgent message, over.”
“Go ahead, Juliet Bravo.” The voice of Sergeant Parrish said from the radio handset.
“There’s going to be an even bigger landslide, Sergeant and we need to evacuate everyone who may be in its path immediately. Get every spare body onto it immediately and see if Captain Morrison can spare some of his Home Guards to help. Over.”
“Understood, Juliet Bravo. Out.”
Inspector Langley held on to the radio handset for a moment, rain running down her face. She looked skywards, oblivious to the rain now running down her neck.
“Damn you!” She called out. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this! First, we’re going to get up there somehow then we'll kick your arse.”
Air Crash Investigation Group, Wright-Paterson AFB, Dayton, Ohio, February 2009
"Well, look at that." It was more the level of bafflement in the speaker's voice that drew attention than the words themselves.
"What's the matter, Rich?" Gail Claiborne looked up from the X-ray pictures of a wing spar she'd been studying.
"I've been listening to the contents of the cockpit voice recorder tapes from Blue-861." Doctor Rich Arden was using words loosely here. In this case, "listening to" meant hearing the words certainly, but also studying the oscilloscope readings and examining the various tracks the system had recorded. It was a much more complex subject than it sounded, and outsiders only guessed at the wealth of information the tapes contained.
"Did the pilot say anything?"
"Apart from some fascinating obscenities as his plane disintegratgruelingeally. Russian's a good language for swearing. The curious bit is elsewhere. Come and have a look."
Gail walked over to Arden's work area and pulled up a stool. "Show me, maestro." Before getting into this line of work, Rich Arden had been the road manager for a heavy metal rock band and his stories of the escapades he and his group had got up to were legendary. They had also resulted in his nickname (and flight callsign) 'Maestro'.
"So, we have the cockpit flight recorder tapes, and we play them. Nothing very interesting in the words so let’s take them out." He manipulated the computer controls and the speech pattern of the pilot flying the ill-fated Blue-861 was removed. "Now, what we have left is the cockpit background noise."
"What's that?" Gail put her finger on a spike a split second before Blue-861 had fallen apart in mid-air.
"Now that's what I asked. There were two ways of looking at this, one was to start eliminating known sounds, airflow, engine noise, radar sound effects, and so on. The other was to get a cockpit to take from a flying Su-35, eliminate speech from it, and use that as a template. Fortunately, the Russians sent us copies of the cockpit flight recorder tapes from Blue-863 as well and I eliminated the pilot's speech and got a clean trace of the cockpit noise. So, I subtracted that trace from the message of Blue-861 and lookee here."
"Oh my." Gail was stunned. "Well, look at that."
"Now somebody else is going to say, 'What's the matter Gail?' and I'll have to go through the whole thing again." Arden looked around catching one of the investigators with his mouth half-open. The investigator in question promptly looked guilty and tried to hide behind his equipment. The rest of the room had been covertly listening, more in hopes of hearing a new heavy metal band story than anything else. "No? Well, we have something here that I don’t think has ever been recorded before. Want to have a look?"
Arden's work area filled up as the investigators crowded around to look at the display. The green line left on it was remarkable. The baseline showed a small amount of grass, random noise that couldn’t be predicted or ever quite eliminated but the spike that was left had, quite definitely never been seen before. It was a straight line, up and down.
"There's no sidebands, no resonance, no echoes nothing." Gail's voice was awed. "It’s a completely pure note."
"That's right. Every musical note there has ever been having been mixed up with all sorts of distortions. Look at them using this equipment and it’s a rugged peak. It goes up in a jagged line, there's a plateau at the top that shows cyclic variations, and it goes down in a jagged line. Then there are side-bands and resonances at different frequencies. Lots of them. All the energy transmitted in the note is spread across the area under that line, dispersed, weakened, and generally dissipated. Even so, sounds got a lot of punch, we broke things with it quite regularly."
"Like theater managers’ hearts?"
"Those too, although most of them deserved it. Some of them never even read the contract, hence the no-green-jellybean rule. Anyway, that's not the case here. The sound is one perfect pulse. Straight up, point, straight down. A perfectly pure note and all the energy is concentrated in that note. Talk about a slam, the energy here," he tapped the screen with a switchblade, "is incredible. This thing, its coherent sound. It's the sonic equivalent of a laser and I'd guess that it’s just as destructive. It's got about as much resemblance to a musical note as a high-powered laser has to a flashlight."
"And the walls came tumbling down," Gail spoke almost dreamily.
"Sure. Sound travels faster, and the denser the medium is. In the air, this thing shook a Su-35 apart and tumbled the gyros on two missiles. What it would do if transmitted in water or rock, we can only guess. A lot of we-wish-that-hadn't-happened would be my guess."
"Write all this up." Doctor Peptuck, the team leader, spoke sharply. "Write it up in as much detail as possible. The brass needs to know about this as quickly as possible."
Conference Room, Fort Detrick, Maryland, USA, February 2009
"You're quite sure about this?" Another investigation, another place, same disbelief mixed with a tinge of fear.
"Of course." Connor MacLeod was quite emphatic. "It helped that we knew we were dealing with inhalation anthrax and that gave us a baseline to work from. It also gave us a puzzle to answer. Why were so few people showing symptoms? If anthrax spores had been dumped over an inhabited area, a high proportion of the population would be dead or dying and there is no cure for inhalation anthrax. We can immunize, and it looks like we might have to, but we can't cure. And yet the death toll was a few here, a few there, a disproportionate number on military bases yet even there only a handful. As information came in from all over, that was the worldwide pattern. A few dead, isolated infections. Unprecedented."
"And it was this Baines guy who gave you the answer?"
"In a way, yes. DIMO(N) were interested of course, and Baines knows Revelations and all the derivative material intimately. Unhealthily intimately in my opinion, but he's the best we've got for tracking down this sort of thing. He pointed out that Revelations contains the following prophecy. 'Then I heard a loud voice from the temple, saying to the seven angels, Go and pour out on the earth the seven bowls of the wrath of God. So, the first angel went and poured out his bowl on the earth, and it became a loathsome and malignant sore on the people who had the mark of the beast and who worshiped his image.' Well, anybody who has seen people dying of anthrax knows the ulceration is certainly loathsome and malignant so that fit. That left us trying to work out what the mark of the beast was.
"We started by thinking that it was poetic or descriptive and was a reverse truth. In other words, we thought it was the writers assuming, not that the disease was infecting people with a particular characteristic but that everybody who was infected was assumed to have the mark of the beast. You know, the old line, 'they must have done something bad to deserve it.' But that didn’t correspond to the infection patterns, anywhere close. So, we had to think that there was something about these people that made them vulnerable to the disease. That led us to ask what the mark of the beast could be. You know why sensitives are sensitive?"
"Because they are Nephilim, they are descendants of humans who mated with the Baldricks."
"Exactly, and they retain a tiny amount of Baldrick DNA in their make-up and that makes them detectable to the Baldricks and capable of pushing messages the other way. The more Baldrick they have in their DNA, the more effective they are as sensitives. The odder they are as well by the way. With computers and our transmission equipment, we can boost those contacts to the point where we can open portals. Now, doesn’t have Baldrick ancestry sound like 'the mark of the beast' to you?"
"And so you compared lists?"
"Of course. With our list, the congruence was perfect. All the reported anthrax infections we had have been from people we identified as Nephilim. They're sick and pretty much all of them are going to die. Our portal engineering capability has been hit hard, I'd guess that about a third of our sensitives are dead or dying. The same picture is emerging worldwide but there's an interesting little side note. It's obvious from the infection pattern that our allies are not telling us about all the Nephilim they found."
"Oh." The word was filled with emphasis.
"Exactly. I would say that, while they are all contributing to the main portal engineering program, we run on behalf of everybody, they all have their national programs as well. From these lists, I would say that Russia, China, Britain, France, Germany, Japan, India, Israel, and Singapore are all running their portal program and have kept back some of their sensitives, probably the best ones, for that program."
"I think that's very likely." Team Leader Chris O'Farrell sounded more than slightly amused by the idea.
Connor MacLeod looked at him sharply for a moment and then the implication sank in. "And we're doing the same?"
"Of course. Have you noticed that Kitten and all the other top-rank sensitives aren't on the sick list? We've got them tucked safely away. The Navy's doing a lot of work, they’re refitting Enterprise right now to generate her portals. Can you imagine that as a naval tactic? Got some anti-ship missiles coming in? Easy. Open a portal, step through and close it. Then, wait a few minutes, open another and reappear a few dozen miles away. Or open a portal over an enemy city and drop a nuclear device through it. The possibilities are endless. Anyway, back to anthrax. So, the enemy has developed an anthrax derivative that only infects Nephilim. That's a hell of genetic engineering achievement. Are they that good?"
"Well, that's what we thought. This was a new strain of anthrax bred especially for this attack and that's a scary level of biological warfare capability." Both men looked grim, nobody knew better than the workers at Fort Detrick just how dangerous biological warfare could be. "Anyway, we got samples of the anthrax bacillus from the casualties and had a look at it. We started on the wrong foot, thinking this was a new variant and that wasted a day or so. Have you heard of mitochondrial dating?"
O'Farrell shook his head.
"Well, basically mitochondrial DNA doesn't change. It does mutate at a known rate, but it doesn’t change. So, we can track the age of a sample as compared with its baseline by noting the number of changes. It’s a bit like counting tree rings in a way. We got a surprise, the samples we have shown a lot of changes. That meant either the samples were a long way down the line from our baseline or our baseline was a long way down the line from our samples. Normally, we'd take the second possibility because we don’t get things from the future, but nothing's taken for granted these days.
"Now, anthrax is a very old disease, it may be one of the oldest still-extant diseases. There are anthrax spores found in the wrappings of Egyptian mummies and there's even a theory that the so-called curse of the Pharaohs is the result of inhaling those spores. Anyway, we got some spores from the Egyptians, ran the tests, and guess what, they're a lot closer to the samples from our victims than our baseline is. So, this isn't a new variant, it’s a very old one, one even older than the Egyptian baseline.
"Norman Baines has suggested it’s possible that anthrax was a disease specifically intended to kill Nephilim and its spread amongst humans and animals is a result of a mutation. He's got the theory that sometime in the past there was a concerted effort, presumably by Heaven, to kill off the Nephilim. That would explain why they are so rare. But be that as it may, I think we have a handle on the first of these so-called 'Bowls of Wrath'. Oh, by the way, there's an upside to all this; since this is a very old variant of anthrax, possibly the original variant, our antibiotics should work well against it.
"Very well, I'll send all this information back. It looks like Bayer is going to make itself another fortune."
Bacup Police Station, Bacup, Lancashire.
Inspector Kate Langley looked up from her desk towards the metal bucket that was catching the leak in her office roof. It was hard to concentrate on her paperwork with that infernal noise going on all the time, the sooner they moved into the new police station and out of this rickety Victorian relic the better. A knock at the door brought her back to the present.
“Ma’am, there’s been a serious landslide at the top of the town.” Sergeant Parrish said gravely. “Looks like several houses have been buried. Our mobiles, the fire service, ambulance, and Civil Defense Corps are already on the way.”
Langley stood up, reflexively taking her revolver out of the desk drawer, and grabbing her yellow fluorescent jacket and hat. “Right, Sergeant, get as many bodies out there as you can and put a call to H.Q for assistance. We’ll need all the help we can get.
“I’m going to head out there myself to take charge; I’ll need you to coordinate things from here.”
“Not a problem, Ma’am; I’ll get Sergeant Beck to go with you,” Parrish replied.
The scene that greeted Inspector Langley and Sergeant Beck on their arrival at the landslide was one of utter devastation. It looked like half of the hillside had simply given way and had come crashing down on a quiet residential street, smashing it to rubble. Where there had once been houses, trees and grass there was now nothing but black, glutinous mud.
“It’s like Aberfan,” Beck muttered, deeply shocked.
Langley stepped out of the car, putting on her wet weather gear, though by the time she had done so she was almost soaked to the skin. The three fire appliances from Baccup Fire Station had already arrived, as had a couple of ambulances and some vehicles from the re-established Civil Defense Corps. The firemen and civil defense workers had already started to dig amongst the rubble at the edge of the landslide, hoping to find someone alive. As the fire service would have primacy in this case Langley sought out the senior fire officer to offer what help she could.
“What can we do to help, Derek?”
“It’s a damn disaster, Kate.” Station Officer Derek Clarke, commander of Red Watch, replied. “I don’t think there is much you can do here, other than traffic control. I’ve requested that the brigade’s Urban Search and Rescue Unit be sent to us, but I don’t think that they will be doing anything other than pulling out bodies.”
Clarke paused to look at the bare hillside; it didn’t look too stable.
“Bronze Command to all units, withdraw now. The hillside looks like it’s about to go again. Over.” He said into his Personal Radio. “Kate, there is one thing you can do.” He said turning back to Langley. “This slip is going to be even bigger by the looks of things, we’ve got to get people out from under its path.”
Langley nodded and sprinted back to the car as she would get better reception from its radio than from her PR.
“Juliet Bravo to Control, urgent message, over.”
“Go ahead, Juliet Bravo.” The voice of Sergeant Parrish said from the radio handset.
“There’s going to be an even bigger landslide, Sergeant and we need to evacuate everyone who may be in its path immediately. Get every spare body onto it immediately and see if Captain Morrison can spare some of his Home Guards to help. Over.”
“Understood, Juliet Bravo. Out.”
Inspector Langley held on to the radio handset for a moment, rain running down her face. She looked skywards, oblivious to the rain now running down her neck.
“Damn you!” She called out. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this! First, we’re going to get up there somehow then we'll kick your arse.”
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Nine
Headquarters, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City, Heaven
The Eternal City, the heart of Yahweh's great empire was a gleaming translucent rectangular pearl that dazed the eyes of newcomers with its rainbows of refracted light. The buildings were made of vast sheets of precious and semi-precious stone, the streets calcite alabaster, polished smooth first by trained crafts-angels uncounted millennia ago and then by the tread of millions of sandal-clad feet over the years. Together, buildings and streets glowed as Heaven's pure white light reflected and refracted from structure to structure in a myriad of interlocking multihued spectra that constantly shifted and changed with every slight movement of the inhabitants therein
That was within the sight of Yahweh's great white throne, in the Ultimate Temple of the Eternal City. Beyond the glittering jasper walls of the inner city, which a discerning angel's eyes could see shimmering in the distance from the steps of Yahweh's stronghold at the top of the temple mount (although the angel wouldn't look so far for so long, because it would strain his eyes and because lines did strange things far away), things were different. The wide main boulevards of the Eternal City and the palaces of the most powerful archangels led to the twelve great gates that led out of the Eternal City to the great slums where the humans who served the angels lived. A realm of mud huts and straw-thatched roofs built closely together in an unplanned, interlocking ring about the Eternal City, the slums could not differ more greatly from the marble, semi-precious stones, and black alabaster that formed the Palaces where the angels lived.
It was in these slums that Lemuel-Lan-Michael, a captain of Michael's choir and a senior investigator in the ranks of the League of the Holy Court, spent his working hours. It was the duty of the League to detect apostasy, heresy, and sacrilege and to stamp them out before they contaminated the rest of the millions of humans who lived only to serve the angels. With that divine duty to drive him, Lemuel spent an inordinate amount of his time in the slums.
And so it was that, when one of his subordinates had reported that contact had a lead in the Ishmael sacrilege case out in the slums, it fell upon him to lead the investigation. He knew the case well; it was one of the oldest on the books. Ishmael had dared to suggest that there were groups of creatures that had all developed from common ancestors and were thus related. This was the blackest blasphemy for Yahweh had made it clear that he had personally created each kind of creature himself, perfect in each of its details. For his ill-chosen words, Ishmael had been hunted for decades but always managed to stay ahead of his pursuers. Today, it was different and Lemuel had, earlier that day, flown to the gates (being old enough and high enough to be permitted the privilege of flight within the walls of the Eternal City) and from there commandeered a chimera to ride out into the slums, so as not to attract any more attention to himself than his size naturally would.
After rendezvousing with a few hired men and coming to the address - a tall wooden apartment in a (relatively) nice district - it was over pretty quickly. Ishmael had been taken into custody and would be moved to the League headquarters where he would be made to answer for his crimes. They even managed not to get any blood on the apartment floor. After he had paid the thugs with golden pieces taken from the League's slush fund, he found himself walking back through the massive onyx arch of the fifth gate on his way to the headquarters of Michael's choir.
The headquarters was within a spire in the lower part of the city that reached nearly as high as the temple mount itself, a reflection of Michael-lan's exalted status. Lemuel had worked for Michael before the Great Celestial War and afterward had overseen the erection of the tower as a monument to the archangel's brilliant generalship. When the Eternal Enemy's rebellion had threatened to lap over even the great jasper walls, Yahweh himself had fought, nearly single-handedly turned back the tide with his rod of iron. Or so the story went and none would argue with it. Nevertheless, it had been Michael's leadership in the grinding war that had eventually brought the victory, or as close to a victory as it had proved possible to come. It was his leadership that had been the more prominent and stuck in angels' minds.
Lemuel-Lan-Michael launched himself up, feeling himself inflate slightly and enjoying the tightening of his back and breast muscles as his pure white wings beat the air behind him, lifting him off the pavement. The offices of the League were in the second ring of the tower, beneath only those of Michael himself. Two centuries ago, that would have been - had been - a measure of their importance in the choir and the esteem in which Michael held their leader. Now, things were slightly different in the political climate, and Lemuel had spent the last several decades on and off trying to put his finger on it. Part of it was the changes Michael had slowly introduced from the top - foreign changes, but overall, the choir now ran more efficiently than it had even in the Celestial War, but he wasn't quite sure just what those changes had been, or even whether Michael had intentionally made them.
Generally, though, he shrugged and did his job. And right now, that involved making sure he didn't bump his head or scrape his wings on the frame as he alighted in his office with a graceful swoosh. It wasn't cluttered; he had scrolls neatly lining a shelf in the corner - open cases involving powerful people - and one open on his desk, his daily schedule. Writing and record-keeping, one of the bigger changes, had made life both easier and more complicated.
But he didn't need to check his schedule to know what was next on his agenda. He went to the shelf and pulled down a scroll and unrolled it on his desk. When Ishmael had been arrested, the League had searched his hideout in hopes of finding the scrolls that proclaimed his blasphemy. They hadn't found any, something that had disappointed Lemuel severely, but they had found something very peculiar. A glass bottle full of a strange brown substance, one Lemuel had never seen before. He reached for the bottle and looked at it, a strange elixir to be certain. There was a label on it, one in English and it read "Southern Comfort. 100 Percent Proof."
It was strange, strange beyond measure and Lemuel puzzled over the label. It was an elixir that gave absolute proof of something but what? That the answer to a problem lay in the South? He shook his head, there was nothing down there but farmland. Lemuel rolled the bottle around in his hands, then put it up on the marble shelf to study later. His troubled thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it, and there was the towering form of Michael-Lan, pure-white wings folded casually across his back.
"Hey, Lemuel, I'm on my way to run an errand for the Almighty. He has a message for his Son." Lemuel nodded. Michael's close friendship with Jesus was not unknown within the Eternal City. It seemed a breach of the divine order somehow, the seven Archangels of the First Order might be the highest of The One Above All’s servants, but they were servants, nonetheless. For Michael-Lan to be friends with the Eternal Father’s only son seemed, disrespectful somehow. It wasn’t the first time that Michael-Lan had done the unexpected though. Many times, during the Great Celestial War, Michael had wanted to try some unorthodox tactics and Lemuel had advised against them as violating the code of honor, then later as they'd grown into friends. Lemuel always argued against bending the rules - if one started, where would one stop? - and generally prevailed, but on the several occasions when Michael had directly overruled him, he'd had to admit that it generally provided results, such as Michael's stunning defeat of Satan at the Battle of Megiddo Valley.
“What do we have here?” Michael-Lan was staring at the bottle on the shelf. Lemuel felt a sudden surge of guilt that cleared as he looked at the records he had just filled out. A light came on in his head at that point, records didn’t just preserve information, they protected those who kept them.
“We took down Ishmael this morning. We found that in his belongings and I was going to investigate it. Do you know what that is?”
Michael-Lan picked the bottled up and peered at it. “It looks human?”
“That’s what I thought, I thought it might be one of their potions. Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here.”
"I'll agree with that.” Michael-Lan looked at the bottle again and carefully put it back on the shelf. “This is serious. Lemuel, I want you to investigate this in-depth. Keep the information to yourself, but I want a briefing every day on this. More often if there is something important discovered. Make sure only your most trusted agents are employed and a few of them as possible, telling each of them as little as possible. But I must know everything, is that clear? You have no idea how important this could be.”
Lemuel bowed his head and swept his wings forward in assent. Michael-Lan nodded in acknowledgment and left, brushing his wings on the passage walls as he passed. Then Lemuel closed the door and stepped out into midair, his heart rising into his throat as he expanded his sacs and spread his wings to catch the fall. The four joints on his back where they hinged to his spine and scapulae strained and felt as though they were about to tear, but - as always - he slowed and began to glide.
The Eternal City was built on a smooth basalt plain around the temple mount, the stones of the city quarried from far away - other dimensions, even - and beneath its foundations, the basalt still stood. There were tunnels in the rock, tunnels that were older than the first angelic settlements here, and though most had forgotten, some, like The League of Holy Court, still used them when there was a need. Generally, that need turned out to be when someone had to disappear quickly, quietly, and efficiently, and then, after disappearing, needed to answer questions.
Lemuel glided around the tower before alighting at its base, then entered through the crowd of angels - craftsmen, lawyers, merchants, and more - going to and from work. Once inside, he slipped off into a little-used passage and took a lantern from a sconce to light his way as he descended the steps, preferring the artificial light to waste his magic.
As he spiraled down the staircase, the stone around him changed from translucent white to dusty white to red flecked with white and gray to dull black. At the base, the stair emptied into a passage wide enough for Michael to fit through, and Lemuel turned left. After navigating another maze of tunnels, he came into a room where the unlucky Ishmael was strapped down to a table. There wasn't any blood spattering the walls or pooling on the floor yet - that would come later - but Ishmael was sobbing already. Lemuel noticed a couple of fingernails stacked neatly nearby on the table.
Two of his interrogation specialists were already in the room. As Lemuel entered, they both looked up and snapped to attention. "At ease," he said. "What's the scoop?"
"Sir, he's not admitted to anything yet," said one. Lemuel raised an eyebrow, then stepped forward. "I know all about your blasphemy Ishmael. That alone is enough to condemn you. But I need to know where you got that bottle of elixir from. "
Ishmael’s eyes were wide open, wildly flicking back and forth from Lemuel's face to the ceiling behind him. "I - I - I can't -"
Lemuel sighed. Time for the usual activities, he thought, as he shrugged and stood up. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you. He turned his back and walked to the entrance of the room as one of the angels wrung out a wet cloth and fitted it over Ishmael’s face, the other raising a bucket of water. There was a second of splashing, then a howl of terror. Lemuel frowned; this wasn’t necessary; the prisoner had been pretty much broken already, and all he needed was a push in the right direction. He turned around, intending to stop them, but they were done Ishmael had already broken, he was gibbering and sobbing with raw, undiluted terror.
As he quietly noted down the information Ishmael was pouring out, the names of family, friends, acquaintances, contacts identified from surveillance, and where he'd been in the last week, Lemuel was aghast at the potential scope of the treachery. What had started as the pursuit of a heretic had turned into something much larger. For a moment, Lemuel understood why Michael-Lan held the position he did; he must have realized the full enormity of the threat as soon as he’d seen that human bottle. Michael had always said if the humans on Earth could get a foothold in Heaven for their armies, the war would be over. He must have realized the potential of that bottle to be such a foothold. That sublime insight made Lemuel proud to be his friend.
Underground Command Facility, Yamantau, Russia, March 2009
There was a time when no American President had entered the complex deep underneath the granite monolith of Yamantau. In those days, ones that seemed long ago but were only measured in months rather than years, the only thing that American Presidents had known of Yamantau was its presence in the targeting plans for nuclear strikes on the Russian Homeland, for it appeared on every such plan and it was marked as one of the targets that had to be destroyed. If it survived the initial blows, assets were diverted from other, less important targets until Yamantau ceased to exist.
Now, President Barak Hussein Obama had disembarked from Air Force One and was on his way into the massively protected command post. His limousine sped along the straight road that appeared to run parallel through the snow-covered pine trees to the mountain that towered over them. As the car swept along the road, Obama saw the installations that littered the countryside around them. His host leaned forward. “Yamantau is a quartz-containing crystal Mister President. It blocks radio, indeed any electromagnetic, transmission completely. That makes it the safest place in the world when Baldricks and Angels are on the loose. Of course, it means we cannot transmit out either, so the transmission stations must be on the outside. It is the one advantage Cheyenne Mountain has over us here. Mind you, your engineers made a bad mistake with Cheyenne Mountain.”
“What was that Minister?”
“They built the command complex in the mountain. They should have built it under the mountain. That’s what we did, there are 6,000 feet of quartz-laced granite on top of our national emergency command post. And even now, our engineers feel the urge to dig still deeper.”
The car turned off the main road onto a sidetrack that seemed little more than a logging trail. It wound through the trees into a fold in the mountain where the snow drifted high against the rock walls that towered high on either side. Ahead of them was an entrance, for all the world looking like that of an old-fashioned mine. Obama didn’t notice how the fold in the ground curved around so that any blast wave traveling down the valley wouldn’t impact directly on the entrance. He did note that, once inside, massive blast doors closed behind him. The S-shaped curves continued inside the mountain, each one designed to mitigate the effects of a near-miss from the most powerful nuclear weapons in the American arsenal. There was only one way to destroy this massive underground fortress and that was to make repeated passes, each dropping a nuclear weapon into the crater from the one before. It was that job that had once been assigned to the B-52s and then to the B-2s.
Obama left his limousine and was escorted to the elevators that led down into the bowels of the mountain. Even here, the paths were not direct, one elevator would make them part of the way, then there would be more S-curves before another took them further down. Eventually, the lifts and corridors ended in the lowest, safest levels of the complex.
“Welcome, Mister President. This is your first visit to Yamantau I believe.”
The conference room had a table, a circular one, that occupied most of the floor. There were 15 seats around the table, one for each member of the council. Fourteen were identical, the 15th was subtly larger and more imposing. Obama had already been briefed on that, in this room, the Chairman of the Council was just the first amongst equals. Nations had gained their place in this room in one of two ways. Either they had the military and economic power to demand it or they had simply been in the right place at the right time to earn it. The United States, Russia, China, Great Britain, France, Germany, Australia, Japan, India, Iran, Israel, Brazil, Italy, Thailand, and Singapore. The countries that had been in the fight since the beginning and had scored the first kills against humanity’s enemy. There was one great advantage of this council since it met in secret and its existence was largely unknown, its membership was free of politics. Mostly.
Vladimir Putin spoke from the Chairman’s seat. With the departure of George Bush, he was the most obvious candidate to take over the Chairmanship. The blood shed by the Russian Army along the Phlegethon River saw to that.
“First order of business. The angels. What do we know of them?”
At a side table, Doctor Surlethe stood up. The United States might no longer be Chairman here, but the country still overwhelmingly dominated the research and development effort and, of course, General Petraeus still commanded the Expeditionary Army. That made the American position still dominant.
“We have autopsied the Angels killed in the Anthrax attack on our Nephilim. The Angels have similarities with both us and with the Baldricks, enough to suggest that at one time we had a common ancestor. The Angels are much more humanoid than the Baldricks, they look human, they have human features, and they lack the weird and surreal mutations of the Baldricks. They do, however, have a battery of electrolytes that distinguish the Baldricks and can generate bioelectricity in much the same way. There are notable differences between Angel and Baldrick though. The most obvious is that Angels are white, most Baldricks black. Angels have feathered wings like birds, Baldricks scaled leathery wings like bats. Angel blood is white or silver, Baldrick blood can be any one of a dozen colors, except white.”
Doctor Surlethe spoke for about twenty minutes describing the anatomical and other lessons that had been learned to date. Eventually, he got around to the subject of weapons. “It appears that Angels cannot throw lightning bolts, we don’t know why. They have a sound weapon, at first, we thought it was a sound beam but we’re rethinking that. However, it is a sound pulse of some sort, in the air battle of Khabarovsk, a Su-35 outran it.”
“Do we have any concept of how this weapon works? Is it a threat?” The Indian Prime Minister spoke with beautifully precise intonation.
“It is yes, precisely because we don’t know how it works. It caught our pilots by surprise, they’d got over-confident flying against the Baldrick Harpies that were virtually defenseless against them. I understand they’re evolving tactics to cope with the situation as we speak. But this brings us to a very important point. Let me show you a film. This comes from some experiments we performed here on Earth. We took one of Belial’s best tridents and copied it, then hooked it to one of our generators. The idea was to generate a super-bolt. Could have all sorts of uses. Watch what happened.”
One of the great screens flared into life and showed what looked like a Baldrick trident being charged up by a generator. The contacts were closed but instead of a bolt arcing downrange, the charge short-circuited to the ground.
“You see that? We can’t get an earth-made trident to fire a bolt, they arc to earth every time. Oh, by the way, guns made in hell work perfectly. This is a very important conclusion that we are impressing on our people. We used to think that the theories and laws of science that existed here on Earth are universal, well the tridents show quite simply that they are not. They are similar, very similar indeed, but they are not the same. Build a trident in Hell, power it with electricity made in Hell and it throws a bolt for up to two miles. Build a trident on Earth, power it with electricity made on Earth and it arcs to the ground within a few inches. We now believe that the rules of physics here on Earth and the subtly different rules in Hell are both special cases of a general rule that sits above them. It is by understanding science in Hell and science on Earth that we can comprehend those differences and quantify them. By doing that, we can understand the general rules that previously we have only seen as our special cases.”
A patter of applause from fifteen Presidents and Prime Ministers followed the presentation. Putin tapped the table in front of him and smiled benignly at the conference. “Now, we come to the next point of the agenda. How do we blow Heaven up?
Headquarters, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City, Heaven
The Eternal City, the heart of Yahweh's great empire was a gleaming translucent rectangular pearl that dazed the eyes of newcomers with its rainbows of refracted light. The buildings were made of vast sheets of precious and semi-precious stone, the streets calcite alabaster, polished smooth first by trained crafts-angels uncounted millennia ago and then by the tread of millions of sandal-clad feet over the years. Together, buildings and streets glowed as Heaven's pure white light reflected and refracted from structure to structure in a myriad of interlocking multihued spectra that constantly shifted and changed with every slight movement of the inhabitants therein
That was within the sight of Yahweh's great white throne, in the Ultimate Temple of the Eternal City. Beyond the glittering jasper walls of the inner city, which a discerning angel's eyes could see shimmering in the distance from the steps of Yahweh's stronghold at the top of the temple mount (although the angel wouldn't look so far for so long, because it would strain his eyes and because lines did strange things far away), things were different. The wide main boulevards of the Eternal City and the palaces of the most powerful archangels led to the twelve great gates that led out of the Eternal City to the great slums where the humans who served the angels lived. A realm of mud huts and straw-thatched roofs built closely together in an unplanned, interlocking ring about the Eternal City, the slums could not differ more greatly from the marble, semi-precious stones, and black alabaster that formed the Palaces where the angels lived.
It was in these slums that Lemuel-Lan-Michael, a captain of Michael's choir and a senior investigator in the ranks of the League of the Holy Court, spent his working hours. It was the duty of the League to detect apostasy, heresy, and sacrilege and to stamp them out before they contaminated the rest of the millions of humans who lived only to serve the angels. With that divine duty to drive him, Lemuel spent an inordinate amount of his time in the slums.
And so it was that, when one of his subordinates had reported that contact had a lead in the Ishmael sacrilege case out in the slums, it fell upon him to lead the investigation. He knew the case well; it was one of the oldest on the books. Ishmael had dared to suggest that there were groups of creatures that had all developed from common ancestors and were thus related. This was the blackest blasphemy for Yahweh had made it clear that he had personally created each kind of creature himself, perfect in each of its details. For his ill-chosen words, Ishmael had been hunted for decades but always managed to stay ahead of his pursuers. Today, it was different and Lemuel had, earlier that day, flown to the gates (being old enough and high enough to be permitted the privilege of flight within the walls of the Eternal City) and from there commandeered a chimera to ride out into the slums, so as not to attract any more attention to himself than his size naturally would.
After rendezvousing with a few hired men and coming to the address - a tall wooden apartment in a (relatively) nice district - it was over pretty quickly. Ishmael had been taken into custody and would be moved to the League headquarters where he would be made to answer for his crimes. They even managed not to get any blood on the apartment floor. After he had paid the thugs with golden pieces taken from the League's slush fund, he found himself walking back through the massive onyx arch of the fifth gate on his way to the headquarters of Michael's choir.
The headquarters was within a spire in the lower part of the city that reached nearly as high as the temple mount itself, a reflection of Michael-lan's exalted status. Lemuel had worked for Michael before the Great Celestial War and afterward had overseen the erection of the tower as a monument to the archangel's brilliant generalship. When the Eternal Enemy's rebellion had threatened to lap over even the great jasper walls, Yahweh himself had fought, nearly single-handedly turned back the tide with his rod of iron. Or so the story went and none would argue with it. Nevertheless, it had been Michael's leadership in the grinding war that had eventually brought the victory, or as close to a victory as it had proved possible to come. It was his leadership that had been the more prominent and stuck in angels' minds.
Lemuel-Lan-Michael launched himself up, feeling himself inflate slightly and enjoying the tightening of his back and breast muscles as his pure white wings beat the air behind him, lifting him off the pavement. The offices of the League were in the second ring of the tower, beneath only those of Michael himself. Two centuries ago, that would have been - had been - a measure of their importance in the choir and the esteem in which Michael held their leader. Now, things were slightly different in the political climate, and Lemuel had spent the last several decades on and off trying to put his finger on it. Part of it was the changes Michael had slowly introduced from the top - foreign changes, but overall, the choir now ran more efficiently than it had even in the Celestial War, but he wasn't quite sure just what those changes had been, or even whether Michael had intentionally made them.
Generally, though, he shrugged and did his job. And right now, that involved making sure he didn't bump his head or scrape his wings on the frame as he alighted in his office with a graceful swoosh. It wasn't cluttered; he had scrolls neatly lining a shelf in the corner - open cases involving powerful people - and one open on his desk, his daily schedule. Writing and record-keeping, one of the bigger changes, had made life both easier and more complicated.
But he didn't need to check his schedule to know what was next on his agenda. He went to the shelf and pulled down a scroll and unrolled it on his desk. When Ishmael had been arrested, the League had searched his hideout in hopes of finding the scrolls that proclaimed his blasphemy. They hadn't found any, something that had disappointed Lemuel severely, but they had found something very peculiar. A glass bottle full of a strange brown substance, one Lemuel had never seen before. He reached for the bottle and looked at it, a strange elixir to be certain. There was a label on it, one in English and it read "Southern Comfort. 100 Percent Proof."
It was strange, strange beyond measure and Lemuel puzzled over the label. It was an elixir that gave absolute proof of something but what? That the answer to a problem lay in the South? He shook his head, there was nothing down there but farmland. Lemuel rolled the bottle around in his hands, then put it up on the marble shelf to study later. His troubled thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it, and there was the towering form of Michael-Lan, pure-white wings folded casually across his back.
"Hey, Lemuel, I'm on my way to run an errand for the Almighty. He has a message for his Son." Lemuel nodded. Michael's close friendship with Jesus was not unknown within the Eternal City. It seemed a breach of the divine order somehow, the seven Archangels of the First Order might be the highest of The One Above All’s servants, but they were servants, nonetheless. For Michael-Lan to be friends with the Eternal Father’s only son seemed, disrespectful somehow. It wasn’t the first time that Michael-Lan had done the unexpected though. Many times, during the Great Celestial War, Michael had wanted to try some unorthodox tactics and Lemuel had advised against them as violating the code of honor, then later as they'd grown into friends. Lemuel always argued against bending the rules - if one started, where would one stop? - and generally prevailed, but on the several occasions when Michael had directly overruled him, he'd had to admit that it generally provided results, such as Michael's stunning defeat of Satan at the Battle of Megiddo Valley.
“What do we have here?” Michael-Lan was staring at the bottle on the shelf. Lemuel felt a sudden surge of guilt that cleared as he looked at the records he had just filled out. A light came on in his head at that point, records didn’t just preserve information, they protected those who kept them.
“We took down Ishmael this morning. We found that in his belongings and I was going to investigate it. Do you know what that is?”
Michael-Lan picked the bottled up and peered at it. “It looks human?”
“That’s what I thought, I thought it might be one of their potions. Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here.”
"I'll agree with that.” Michael-Lan looked at the bottle again and carefully put it back on the shelf. “This is serious. Lemuel, I want you to investigate this in-depth. Keep the information to yourself, but I want a briefing every day on this. More often if there is something important discovered. Make sure only your most trusted agents are employed and a few of them as possible, telling each of them as little as possible. But I must know everything, is that clear? You have no idea how important this could be.”
Lemuel bowed his head and swept his wings forward in assent. Michael-Lan nodded in acknowledgment and left, brushing his wings on the passage walls as he passed. Then Lemuel closed the door and stepped out into midair, his heart rising into his throat as he expanded his sacs and spread his wings to catch the fall. The four joints on his back where they hinged to his spine and scapulae strained and felt as though they were about to tear, but - as always - he slowed and began to glide.
The Eternal City was built on a smooth basalt plain around the temple mount, the stones of the city quarried from far away - other dimensions, even - and beneath its foundations, the basalt still stood. There were tunnels in the rock, tunnels that were older than the first angelic settlements here, and though most had forgotten, some, like The League of Holy Court, still used them when there was a need. Generally, that need turned out to be when someone had to disappear quickly, quietly, and efficiently, and then, after disappearing, needed to answer questions.
Lemuel glided around the tower before alighting at its base, then entered through the crowd of angels - craftsmen, lawyers, merchants, and more - going to and from work. Once inside, he slipped off into a little-used passage and took a lantern from a sconce to light his way as he descended the steps, preferring the artificial light to waste his magic.
As he spiraled down the staircase, the stone around him changed from translucent white to dusty white to red flecked with white and gray to dull black. At the base, the stair emptied into a passage wide enough for Michael to fit through, and Lemuel turned left. After navigating another maze of tunnels, he came into a room where the unlucky Ishmael was strapped down to a table. There wasn't any blood spattering the walls or pooling on the floor yet - that would come later - but Ishmael was sobbing already. Lemuel noticed a couple of fingernails stacked neatly nearby on the table.
Two of his interrogation specialists were already in the room. As Lemuel entered, they both looked up and snapped to attention. "At ease," he said. "What's the scoop?"
"Sir, he's not admitted to anything yet," said one. Lemuel raised an eyebrow, then stepped forward. "I know all about your blasphemy Ishmael. That alone is enough to condemn you. But I need to know where you got that bottle of elixir from. "
Ishmael’s eyes were wide open, wildly flicking back and forth from Lemuel's face to the ceiling behind him. "I - I - I can't -"
Lemuel sighed. Time for the usual activities, he thought, as he shrugged and stood up. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you. He turned his back and walked to the entrance of the room as one of the angels wrung out a wet cloth and fitted it over Ishmael’s face, the other raising a bucket of water. There was a second of splashing, then a howl of terror. Lemuel frowned; this wasn’t necessary; the prisoner had been pretty much broken already, and all he needed was a push in the right direction. He turned around, intending to stop them, but they were done Ishmael had already broken, he was gibbering and sobbing with raw, undiluted terror.
As he quietly noted down the information Ishmael was pouring out, the names of family, friends, acquaintances, contacts identified from surveillance, and where he'd been in the last week, Lemuel was aghast at the potential scope of the treachery. What had started as the pursuit of a heretic had turned into something much larger. For a moment, Lemuel understood why Michael-Lan held the position he did; he must have realized the full enormity of the threat as soon as he’d seen that human bottle. Michael had always said if the humans on Earth could get a foothold in Heaven for their armies, the war would be over. He must have realized the potential of that bottle to be such a foothold. That sublime insight made Lemuel proud to be his friend.
Underground Command Facility, Yamantau, Russia, March 2009
There was a time when no American President had entered the complex deep underneath the granite monolith of Yamantau. In those days, ones that seemed long ago but were only measured in months rather than years, the only thing that American Presidents had known of Yamantau was its presence in the targeting plans for nuclear strikes on the Russian Homeland, for it appeared on every such plan and it was marked as one of the targets that had to be destroyed. If it survived the initial blows, assets were diverted from other, less important targets until Yamantau ceased to exist.
Now, President Barak Hussein Obama had disembarked from Air Force One and was on his way into the massively protected command post. His limousine sped along the straight road that appeared to run parallel through the snow-covered pine trees to the mountain that towered over them. As the car swept along the road, Obama saw the installations that littered the countryside around them. His host leaned forward. “Yamantau is a quartz-containing crystal Mister President. It blocks radio, indeed any electromagnetic, transmission completely. That makes it the safest place in the world when Baldricks and Angels are on the loose. Of course, it means we cannot transmit out either, so the transmission stations must be on the outside. It is the one advantage Cheyenne Mountain has over us here. Mind you, your engineers made a bad mistake with Cheyenne Mountain.”
“What was that Minister?”
“They built the command complex in the mountain. They should have built it under the mountain. That’s what we did, there are 6,000 feet of quartz-laced granite on top of our national emergency command post. And even now, our engineers feel the urge to dig still deeper.”
The car turned off the main road onto a sidetrack that seemed little more than a logging trail. It wound through the trees into a fold in the mountain where the snow drifted high against the rock walls that towered high on either side. Ahead of them was an entrance, for all the world looking like that of an old-fashioned mine. Obama didn’t notice how the fold in the ground curved around so that any blast wave traveling down the valley wouldn’t impact directly on the entrance. He did note that, once inside, massive blast doors closed behind him. The S-shaped curves continued inside the mountain, each one designed to mitigate the effects of a near-miss from the most powerful nuclear weapons in the American arsenal. There was only one way to destroy this massive underground fortress and that was to make repeated passes, each dropping a nuclear weapon into the crater from the one before. It was that job that had once been assigned to the B-52s and then to the B-2s.
Obama left his limousine and was escorted to the elevators that led down into the bowels of the mountain. Even here, the paths were not direct, one elevator would make them part of the way, then there would be more S-curves before another took them further down. Eventually, the lifts and corridors ended in the lowest, safest levels of the complex.
“Welcome, Mister President. This is your first visit to Yamantau I believe.”
The conference room had a table, a circular one, that occupied most of the floor. There were 15 seats around the table, one for each member of the council. Fourteen were identical, the 15th was subtly larger and more imposing. Obama had already been briefed on that, in this room, the Chairman of the Council was just the first amongst equals. Nations had gained their place in this room in one of two ways. Either they had the military and economic power to demand it or they had simply been in the right place at the right time to earn it. The United States, Russia, China, Great Britain, France, Germany, Australia, Japan, India, Iran, Israel, Brazil, Italy, Thailand, and Singapore. The countries that had been in the fight since the beginning and had scored the first kills against humanity’s enemy. There was one great advantage of this council since it met in secret and its existence was largely unknown, its membership was free of politics. Mostly.
Vladimir Putin spoke from the Chairman’s seat. With the departure of George Bush, he was the most obvious candidate to take over the Chairmanship. The blood shed by the Russian Army along the Phlegethon River saw to that.
“First order of business. The angels. What do we know of them?”
At a side table, Doctor Surlethe stood up. The United States might no longer be Chairman here, but the country still overwhelmingly dominated the research and development effort and, of course, General Petraeus still commanded the Expeditionary Army. That made the American position still dominant.
“We have autopsied the Angels killed in the Anthrax attack on our Nephilim. The Angels have similarities with both us and with the Baldricks, enough to suggest that at one time we had a common ancestor. The Angels are much more humanoid than the Baldricks, they look human, they have human features, and they lack the weird and surreal mutations of the Baldricks. They do, however, have a battery of electrolytes that distinguish the Baldricks and can generate bioelectricity in much the same way. There are notable differences between Angel and Baldrick though. The most obvious is that Angels are white, most Baldricks black. Angels have feathered wings like birds, Baldricks scaled leathery wings like bats. Angel blood is white or silver, Baldrick blood can be any one of a dozen colors, except white.”
Doctor Surlethe spoke for about twenty minutes describing the anatomical and other lessons that had been learned to date. Eventually, he got around to the subject of weapons. “It appears that Angels cannot throw lightning bolts, we don’t know why. They have a sound weapon, at first, we thought it was a sound beam but we’re rethinking that. However, it is a sound pulse of some sort, in the air battle of Khabarovsk, a Su-35 outran it.”
“Do we have any concept of how this weapon works? Is it a threat?” The Indian Prime Minister spoke with beautifully precise intonation.
“It is yes, precisely because we don’t know how it works. It caught our pilots by surprise, they’d got over-confident flying against the Baldrick Harpies that were virtually defenseless against them. I understand they’re evolving tactics to cope with the situation as we speak. But this brings us to a very important point. Let me show you a film. This comes from some experiments we performed here on Earth. We took one of Belial’s best tridents and copied it, then hooked it to one of our generators. The idea was to generate a super-bolt. Could have all sorts of uses. Watch what happened.”
One of the great screens flared into life and showed what looked like a Baldrick trident being charged up by a generator. The contacts were closed but instead of a bolt arcing downrange, the charge short-circuited to the ground.
“You see that? We can’t get an earth-made trident to fire a bolt, they arc to earth every time. Oh, by the way, guns made in hell work perfectly. This is a very important conclusion that we are impressing on our people. We used to think that the theories and laws of science that existed here on Earth are universal, well the tridents show quite simply that they are not. They are similar, very similar indeed, but they are not the same. Build a trident in Hell, power it with electricity made in Hell and it throws a bolt for up to two miles. Build a trident on Earth, power it with electricity made on Earth and it arcs to the ground within a few inches. We now believe that the rules of physics here on Earth and the subtly different rules in Hell are both special cases of a general rule that sits above them. It is by understanding science in Hell and science on Earth that we can comprehend those differences and quantify them. By doing that, we can understand the general rules that previously we have only seen as our special cases.”
A patter of applause from fifteen Presidents and Prime Ministers followed the presentation. Putin tapped the table in front of him and smiled benignly at the conference. “Now, we come to the next point of the agenda. How do we blow Heaven up?
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Ten
Suwon Palace, North Korea, April 2009
"You know that haircut is ridiculous." Gabriel-Lan leaned back and looked at the figure sharing the room with him. He was used to the fact that he towered over humans, but the difference was even more marked when he was dealing with this man who measured only five foot two. He looked a lot less than that now and the ludicrous hairstyle he had affected in earlier years had been replaced by a thinning, gray brush-cut. The man's body seemed to have caved in on itself, he was thin and stooped over, lines of age prominent in the shrunken mask that was his face.
Around them, Kim Jong-Il's bodyguards bristled at the insult, but they dared not move. Any other person who had remarked on that would have been arrested on the spot and sent to a prison camp for a prolonged and grueling execution. The guards had more sense than to try the same on Gabriel-Lan, the personal messenger of Yahweh. Kim Jong-Il's face was impassive as the insult registered; he also knew better than to argue with the great white figure before him. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that the benefits of dealing with these creatures far outweighed the annoyance of their supercilious arrogance.
Gabriel-Lan might have looked sleepy, and being honest with himself, he was still hung over from his activities the night before in the Montmartre Club. That same wealth of excesses combined with the attentions of Mistress Lailah had left him slightly reluctant to sit down but duty required him to carry out the messages. Also, he understood humans were dangerous. Satan had forgotten that and now he was dead, along with Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Deumos. Abigor was little more than the human's puppet while Dagon was even less than that. Taking humans lightly was something that put an entirely new definition on the word 'unwise'. He saw Kim Jong-Il's two female companions, one allegedly a nurse, the other certainly a female doctor, move forward carefully and quickly check on their patient. Looking at him, Gabriel-Lan concluded that Kim Jong-Il would be joining his father very shortly. One way or another.
"Have you considered that a great window of opportunity opens before you?" Gabriel-Lan tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice. "The human armies are tied down in Hell, trying to bring peace to the lands they have conquered there. They cannot be withdrawn easily, and their operations have left humans weak everywhere else. Especially south of the border. An assault now, aimed at reunifying Korea under your leadership would be exploiting this moment of weakness to best advantage."
"Much of the armor stationed in the South has indeed been withdrawn." Kim's voice was as weak as his appearance suggested it might be. "But the border fortifications remain. And the Americans…."
"The Americans are tied down in Hell, trying to pacify their occupation zone. And they have expanded their army so fast, that their corps of leadership is spread very thin. Their army is but a shadow of what it once was." And even that shadow is enough to roll over anything that gets in its way Gabriel-Lan added the thought silently to himself even as he repeated the words that Michael-Lan had given him. His official title might be The Messenger of The One Above All, but Gabriel-Lan believed it was Michael who best understood the new universe that was exploding into existence around them. He'd warned the Nameless One, the Lord and God of all that starting this war with humans was foolish and could only lead to disaster, but Yahweh had been adamant. They had dared to question his words and for they he was bound and determined to deliver them to Hell. Only, it hadn't ended that way, the attempt to deliver humans up to Satan had instead delivered Satan up to the humans.
Away from The Ultimate Temple, away from Yahweh's obsession with forcing absolute obedience and unqualified adoration from the humans, Michael-Lan had explained his strategy to Gabriel and impressed upon him the vital necessity of this mission. "If we fight the humans, head-to-head, we will lose." Michael-Lan had almost become impassioned at that point. "They have advanced so far, so fast, their armies are invincible. At best we can bloody them but the more we win against them, the worse will be our defeat in the end. There is but one force that can destroy a human army and that is another army of humans. If we can prevent them from assaulting us in Heaven and fight them with another human army on Earth, then we might survive this war that Yah-yah has forced on us."
The memory of Michael-Lan's blasphemous corruption of Lord and God of All's name jerked Gabriel-Lan out of his reverie. Kim Jong-Il was still babbling on about the strength of the border fortifications and the danger that the Americans might intervene. Gabriel cut him off sharply. "It is truly said that it is the emptiest of vessels that make the most noise. You have a reputation, Kim Jong-Il but do you know what reputations are? Words and rumors. You are great with your words and make many speeches, but they mean nothing. What matters now are deeds and where deeds are concerned yours are conspicuous by their absence. Perhaps it is time for your father to return to his homeland and for the Great Leader to show the Dear Leader what deeds are."
"But Great Leader is dead."
"So? When did that make any difference?" Gabriel-Lan reflected that Kim Il-Sung looked a lot better than his son did. Given their present state, Kim Il-Sung could be mistaken for Kim Jong-Il's son rather than his father. "And, anyway, you of all people should know that he is dead. By the way, he wants an explanation as to why you puffed him in the face with that cyanide spray. If you are unprepared to act, perhaps we should allow him to return and demand that explanation. After all, he is the "Eternal President" of this benighted country. Perhaps he should take up the reins again."
"No." Kim Jong-Il was almost panic-stricken. "You are right, the time has come for the Great Reunification Effort. We will get ready for it at once."
Gabriel-Lan rose to his feet and shook his wings to ease the cramps brought on by the confined room. "That is good news. I will watch your preparations with interest." He left the room, leaving consternation behind him. As he did, he made a quick time calculation. If he got a move on, he would be back in time for another appointment with Mistress Lailah.
Main Command Building, Naypyidaw, Myanmar
"An impressive consignment. Your people have done well." Michael-Lan checked the cargo manifest off with pleasure. Heroin number three and number four, raw opium, methamphetamines, ecstasy, and DOM, it was all there is more than adequate quantities. Generous even, the supplies would restock his dwindling stash nicely.
"We are pleased to supply our ally's needs." Secretary-General Myint addressed Michael-Lan as an equal which irked the Archangel greatly although he concealed his feelings behind a friendly smile. "We have established new factories for the synthetic products and driven our rivals for the heroin supplies out of business. We can increase supplies still further if you wish."
"That would be most acceptable." Michael-Lan paused for a second. "Can you supply cannabis as well?"
"Of course. For a price." Myint reminded Michael gently but firmly.
"Of course." Michael-Lan fished out a bag and handed it over. "These should cover this shipment I think."
The bag was full of precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Myint ran them through his fingers, extracting a few of the better stones for his supply as he did so. The jewels were supposed to go to Myanmar's ruling junta where they would be exported as if they were products of Myanmar's precious stones industry and then proceeds into the junta member's bank accounts. It was a good deal, Michael-Lan got most of the drugs he needed for his purposes while the Generals in Myanmar lined their retirement accounts. Only one General had argued with the arrangement, and he was now in Insein prison on a charge of corruption. That had amused Michael-Lan greatly, to accuse somebody of corruption in Myanmar was rather like accusing water of being wet.
"There is another matter," Michael-Lan spoke carefully. "Has it occurred to you that the Thai Army on the border is now weaker than it has been for many, many years?"
"It has," Myint spoke equally carefully. "Their armored division and both cavalry divisions have gone to join the armies fighting in hell. That means their strategic reserve has been depleted and their defense rests upon their infantry divisions alone. Many of those are in the cities to protect against attacks from demons."
"Does this not tempt you?"
Myint dropped his voice. There was no need to but the subject of the conversation seemed to demand it. "It might allow us to redress the wrongs done to us in history."
Oh, you little humans are wonderful. You can reach back into your past and find an excuse for anything. Even if you have to invent it. "If your government needs support, financial support, for such redress, there are many more where these came from. Perhaps the time has come for the redress you need."
"Perhaps. It is an idea that has much favor." Myint looked sunwards and then at the black ellipse that hovered a few feet away. "Michael-Lan, we have a small gift for you."
Michael-Lan hid his surprise with the same care as he had hidden his earlier irritation. "A gift?"
Myint waved, and some workers brought over a flat-bed carriage that made a whining noise. "An electrically-powered trolley. It will make it much easier for you to take your supplies to the other side of… that."
Michael-Lan was genuinely touched by the consideration. "That is very kind of you. Thank you so much. And good luck with your redress of historical wrongs." Whistling happily, he pulled down on the handle of the trolley and felt the electric motors in the wheels boost his effort. Then, with a cheerful wave, he pulled his cargo of street-corner pharmaceuticals through the portal back to Heaven.
USS Turner Joy, Returning from Hell Deployment
"Bell-bottomed trousers, coat of Navy Blue,
She loved a sailor and he loved her too."
Sophia Metaxas laughed as the chorus faded away, lost underneath the whine of the turbines and the roar of the destroyer's main gearing. The old destroyer had served for almost six months in Hell and was the worse for wear because of it although, oddly, she'd weathered better than some of the more modern ships. Greater tolerances in her construction probably had a lot to do with that. She'd pulled her weight as well, her three five-inch guns had made short work of some local baldrick who had tried to buck Abigor's surrender order.
Lieutenant Travis checked his instruments and then looked rather hopeful. "We should be back in Norfolk by seventeen-thirty. We're entering the approach channels now."
Senior Chief Robert 'Bob" Gaussington was looking at his engine instrumentation with an increasingly worried expression on his face. He picked up the telephone and got through to the bridge. "Commander Reynolds? We've got a problem down here. We're getting some bad readings on the water flow down here. Much more of this and we'll have problems keeping steam pressure up in the engines."
"Are those pirates of yours down there with you, Senior Chief?"
"That they are Sir. As piratical a bunch as you might want to meet." Turner Joy had a problem, as one of the very few steam-powered ships left in the Navy, people familiar with her plant and systems were few and far between. Except, of course, for the group who had pulled the ship out of a museum and masterminded her return to service. Eventually, the navy recognized they had little choice in the matter and drafted the whole group, putting them half in the Navy and half out of it. This weird status of most of her crew had given Turner Joy what was perhaps the most eccentric ship's company in the whole Navy.
"Well, get them up here. They need to see this." The tone brooked no delay.
Once on the bridge wings, Sophia Metaxas could see what the cause for alarm was. As far as she could see, the sea was blood-red, even the bone in the destroyer's teeth was crimson. It was a stunning, dreadful sight, made all the worse by the silence that surrounded it. There were no sea birds, no fish jumping, nothing. Only the sound of the destroyer as she plowed through the poisonous-looking sea.
"Have you ever seen anything like this Captain?"
"Sure. It's a Red Algal Bloom, it used to be called a Red Tide although the name's dropped out of fashion since it’s nothing to do with the tide and the color can be anything from light yellow to deep brown. I've never seen one this large before though. When I was on the old Seattle out of Naval Weapons Station Earle in New Jersey, we saw this all the time near New York. Everything was right for an algal bloom there, lots of nutrients in the water caused by runoff from the city and coastal upwelling, that's where Deepwater oceanic currents and underwater formations push them to the surface. The result is the algae grow out of control and we get this. But there, the patches are perhaps a hundred yards long and about twenty wide. We've been sailing through this one for ten minutes and there's no end to it."
"How bad is this?" Sophia looked at the blood-red sea and a memory of a chilling paragraph came back into her mind.
"Very. The algae produce natural toxins and deplete the dissolved oxygen in the seawater. That causes wildlife mortalities among marine and coastal species of fish, birds, marine mammals, and other organisms. The worst of the poisons is a potent neurotoxin called brevotoxin. That kills everything in the water. A Red Algal Bloom this size, it could be a disaster for marine life around here."
"The second angel poured out his bowl into the sea, and it became blood like that of a dead man, and every living thing in the sea died. Revelation 16:3." The verse had returned to Sophia's mind while the captain had been speaking and she repeated it grimly. "The Second Bowl of Wrath."
Reynolds looked at her suspiciously. "And just how did you know that?"
"My parents and grandparents took their religion very seriously. When the message came through, telling everybody to lay down and die, they did. I tried to save them, I cried and screamed at them, I tried to drag them up out of their beds, and I even ripped the earrings out of my mother's ears hoping the pain would bring her back. But nothing worked and they all just died, tearing me apart in the process. They left me alone and it was all a fraud. I'm just waiting now until they get pulled out of the hell-pit so I can go down there and tell them just what I think of them, make them suffer a little for what they put me through."
She caught herself and smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry Captain, it’s a sore point with me I guess."
"You guess?" Reynolds looked sad for a moment. "None of my family did that, but a few around where we lived did. One memory that I can’t get over, is the dogs howling at their owners, trying to make them wake up, fighting the only way they could to try and keep them alive. We took one of them in and the poor thing was so traumatized, that he shivered with fear every time one of us had a nap. I tell you this Sophia if I can get Yahweh under our guns, just once…"
"Sorry, Sir. Message from CINCLANT." The sparker passed the message flimsy to Reynolds.
"Well, that confirms it, I think. The whole east coast is affected by this. Copies from CINCPAC say the west coast is the same. They want us to report in from here and start taking samples. They want to try and identify what this algal bloom is. One piece of good news is it affects shallow water only."
"That makes sense." Sophia thought carefully. "All these prophecies were written in ancient times and the authors knew very little about what was going on. Sailors mostly stuck to shallow water, and deep-water navigation was almost unknown. So, when they saw this happening, they assumed it was all the seas, not just coastal waters. But this is the second Bowl of Wrath all right."
Turner Joy slowed down while the crew started trying to gather water samples. It wasn't long before the first bottles were on board and Reynolds looked at them with disgust. Normally, even in an algal bloom, the water in a sample jar was only slightly tinged but these were saturated with color and the water seemed oily somehow.
"Captain, Doc Samuels here. Warn the men gathering samples to take precautions against contact with the water. It's causing some of them to blister on their arms and legs and most of them are reporting coughing and sneezing attacks. I'm issuing antihistamines but we've only got a limited supply and if the air intakes start pulling in aerosols of that water, we could have problems all through the ship."
"Thanks, doc. Carry on."
Reynolds looked at the blood-red seawater again. "Just five minutes under my guns, that's all I ask. Just five minutes."
Suwon Palace, North Korea, April 2009
"You know that haircut is ridiculous." Gabriel-Lan leaned back and looked at the figure sharing the room with him. He was used to the fact that he towered over humans, but the difference was even more marked when he was dealing with this man who measured only five foot two. He looked a lot less than that now and the ludicrous hairstyle he had affected in earlier years had been replaced by a thinning, gray brush-cut. The man's body seemed to have caved in on itself, he was thin and stooped over, lines of age prominent in the shrunken mask that was his face.
Around them, Kim Jong-Il's bodyguards bristled at the insult, but they dared not move. Any other person who had remarked on that would have been arrested on the spot and sent to a prison camp for a prolonged and grueling execution. The guards had more sense than to try the same on Gabriel-Lan, the personal messenger of Yahweh. Kim Jong-Il's face was impassive as the insult registered; he also knew better than to argue with the great white figure before him. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that the benefits of dealing with these creatures far outweighed the annoyance of their supercilious arrogance.
Gabriel-Lan might have looked sleepy, and being honest with himself, he was still hung over from his activities the night before in the Montmartre Club. That same wealth of excesses combined with the attentions of Mistress Lailah had left him slightly reluctant to sit down but duty required him to carry out the messages. Also, he understood humans were dangerous. Satan had forgotten that and now he was dead, along with Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Deumos. Abigor was little more than the human's puppet while Dagon was even less than that. Taking humans lightly was something that put an entirely new definition on the word 'unwise'. He saw Kim Jong-Il's two female companions, one allegedly a nurse, the other certainly a female doctor, move forward carefully and quickly check on their patient. Looking at him, Gabriel-Lan concluded that Kim Jong-Il would be joining his father very shortly. One way or another.
"Have you considered that a great window of opportunity opens before you?" Gabriel-Lan tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice. "The human armies are tied down in Hell, trying to bring peace to the lands they have conquered there. They cannot be withdrawn easily, and their operations have left humans weak everywhere else. Especially south of the border. An assault now, aimed at reunifying Korea under your leadership would be exploiting this moment of weakness to best advantage."
"Much of the armor stationed in the South has indeed been withdrawn." Kim's voice was as weak as his appearance suggested it might be. "But the border fortifications remain. And the Americans…."
"The Americans are tied down in Hell, trying to pacify their occupation zone. And they have expanded their army so fast, that their corps of leadership is spread very thin. Their army is but a shadow of what it once was." And even that shadow is enough to roll over anything that gets in its way Gabriel-Lan added the thought silently to himself even as he repeated the words that Michael-Lan had given him. His official title might be The Messenger of The One Above All, but Gabriel-Lan believed it was Michael who best understood the new universe that was exploding into existence around them. He'd warned the Nameless One, the Lord and God of all that starting this war with humans was foolish and could only lead to disaster, but Yahweh had been adamant. They had dared to question his words and for they he was bound and determined to deliver them to Hell. Only, it hadn't ended that way, the attempt to deliver humans up to Satan had instead delivered Satan up to the humans.
Away from The Ultimate Temple, away from Yahweh's obsession with forcing absolute obedience and unqualified adoration from the humans, Michael-Lan had explained his strategy to Gabriel and impressed upon him the vital necessity of this mission. "If we fight the humans, head-to-head, we will lose." Michael-Lan had almost become impassioned at that point. "They have advanced so far, so fast, their armies are invincible. At best we can bloody them but the more we win against them, the worse will be our defeat in the end. There is but one force that can destroy a human army and that is another army of humans. If we can prevent them from assaulting us in Heaven and fight them with another human army on Earth, then we might survive this war that Yah-yah has forced on us."
The memory of Michael-Lan's blasphemous corruption of Lord and God of All's name jerked Gabriel-Lan out of his reverie. Kim Jong-Il was still babbling on about the strength of the border fortifications and the danger that the Americans might intervene. Gabriel cut him off sharply. "It is truly said that it is the emptiest of vessels that make the most noise. You have a reputation, Kim Jong-Il but do you know what reputations are? Words and rumors. You are great with your words and make many speeches, but they mean nothing. What matters now are deeds and where deeds are concerned yours are conspicuous by their absence. Perhaps it is time for your father to return to his homeland and for the Great Leader to show the Dear Leader what deeds are."
"But Great Leader is dead."
"So? When did that make any difference?" Gabriel-Lan reflected that Kim Il-Sung looked a lot better than his son did. Given their present state, Kim Il-Sung could be mistaken for Kim Jong-Il's son rather than his father. "And, anyway, you of all people should know that he is dead. By the way, he wants an explanation as to why you puffed him in the face with that cyanide spray. If you are unprepared to act, perhaps we should allow him to return and demand that explanation. After all, he is the "Eternal President" of this benighted country. Perhaps he should take up the reins again."
"No." Kim Jong-Il was almost panic-stricken. "You are right, the time has come for the Great Reunification Effort. We will get ready for it at once."
Gabriel-Lan rose to his feet and shook his wings to ease the cramps brought on by the confined room. "That is good news. I will watch your preparations with interest." He left the room, leaving consternation behind him. As he did, he made a quick time calculation. If he got a move on, he would be back in time for another appointment with Mistress Lailah.
Main Command Building, Naypyidaw, Myanmar
"An impressive consignment. Your people have done well." Michael-Lan checked the cargo manifest off with pleasure. Heroin number three and number four, raw opium, methamphetamines, ecstasy, and DOM, it was all there is more than adequate quantities. Generous even, the supplies would restock his dwindling stash nicely.
"We are pleased to supply our ally's needs." Secretary-General Myint addressed Michael-Lan as an equal which irked the Archangel greatly although he concealed his feelings behind a friendly smile. "We have established new factories for the synthetic products and driven our rivals for the heroin supplies out of business. We can increase supplies still further if you wish."
"That would be most acceptable." Michael-Lan paused for a second. "Can you supply cannabis as well?"
"Of course. For a price." Myint reminded Michael gently but firmly.
"Of course." Michael-Lan fished out a bag and handed it over. "These should cover this shipment I think."
The bag was full of precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Myint ran them through his fingers, extracting a few of the better stones for his supply as he did so. The jewels were supposed to go to Myanmar's ruling junta where they would be exported as if they were products of Myanmar's precious stones industry and then proceeds into the junta member's bank accounts. It was a good deal, Michael-Lan got most of the drugs he needed for his purposes while the Generals in Myanmar lined their retirement accounts. Only one General had argued with the arrangement, and he was now in Insein prison on a charge of corruption. That had amused Michael-Lan greatly, to accuse somebody of corruption in Myanmar was rather like accusing water of being wet.
"There is another matter," Michael-Lan spoke carefully. "Has it occurred to you that the Thai Army on the border is now weaker than it has been for many, many years?"
"It has," Myint spoke equally carefully. "Their armored division and both cavalry divisions have gone to join the armies fighting in hell. That means their strategic reserve has been depleted and their defense rests upon their infantry divisions alone. Many of those are in the cities to protect against attacks from demons."
"Does this not tempt you?"
Myint dropped his voice. There was no need to but the subject of the conversation seemed to demand it. "It might allow us to redress the wrongs done to us in history."
Oh, you little humans are wonderful. You can reach back into your past and find an excuse for anything. Even if you have to invent it. "If your government needs support, financial support, for such redress, there are many more where these came from. Perhaps the time has come for the redress you need."
"Perhaps. It is an idea that has much favor." Myint looked sunwards and then at the black ellipse that hovered a few feet away. "Michael-Lan, we have a small gift for you."
Michael-Lan hid his surprise with the same care as he had hidden his earlier irritation. "A gift?"
Myint waved, and some workers brought over a flat-bed carriage that made a whining noise. "An electrically-powered trolley. It will make it much easier for you to take your supplies to the other side of… that."
Michael-Lan was genuinely touched by the consideration. "That is very kind of you. Thank you so much. And good luck with your redress of historical wrongs." Whistling happily, he pulled down on the handle of the trolley and felt the electric motors in the wheels boost his effort. Then, with a cheerful wave, he pulled his cargo of street-corner pharmaceuticals through the portal back to Heaven.
USS Turner Joy, Returning from Hell Deployment
"Bell-bottomed trousers, coat of Navy Blue,
She loved a sailor and he loved her too."
Sophia Metaxas laughed as the chorus faded away, lost underneath the whine of the turbines and the roar of the destroyer's main gearing. The old destroyer had served for almost six months in Hell and was the worse for wear because of it although, oddly, she'd weathered better than some of the more modern ships. Greater tolerances in her construction probably had a lot to do with that. She'd pulled her weight as well, her three five-inch guns had made short work of some local baldrick who had tried to buck Abigor's surrender order.
Lieutenant Travis checked his instruments and then looked rather hopeful. "We should be back in Norfolk by seventeen-thirty. We're entering the approach channels now."
Senior Chief Robert 'Bob" Gaussington was looking at his engine instrumentation with an increasingly worried expression on his face. He picked up the telephone and got through to the bridge. "Commander Reynolds? We've got a problem down here. We're getting some bad readings on the water flow down here. Much more of this and we'll have problems keeping steam pressure up in the engines."
"Are those pirates of yours down there with you, Senior Chief?"
"That they are Sir. As piratical a bunch as you might want to meet." Turner Joy had a problem, as one of the very few steam-powered ships left in the Navy, people familiar with her plant and systems were few and far between. Except, of course, for the group who had pulled the ship out of a museum and masterminded her return to service. Eventually, the navy recognized they had little choice in the matter and drafted the whole group, putting them half in the Navy and half out of it. This weird status of most of her crew had given Turner Joy what was perhaps the most eccentric ship's company in the whole Navy.
"Well, get them up here. They need to see this." The tone brooked no delay.
Once on the bridge wings, Sophia Metaxas could see what the cause for alarm was. As far as she could see, the sea was blood-red, even the bone in the destroyer's teeth was crimson. It was a stunning, dreadful sight, made all the worse by the silence that surrounded it. There were no sea birds, no fish jumping, nothing. Only the sound of the destroyer as she plowed through the poisonous-looking sea.
"Have you ever seen anything like this Captain?"
"Sure. It's a Red Algal Bloom, it used to be called a Red Tide although the name's dropped out of fashion since it’s nothing to do with the tide and the color can be anything from light yellow to deep brown. I've never seen one this large before though. When I was on the old Seattle out of Naval Weapons Station Earle in New Jersey, we saw this all the time near New York. Everything was right for an algal bloom there, lots of nutrients in the water caused by runoff from the city and coastal upwelling, that's where Deepwater oceanic currents and underwater formations push them to the surface. The result is the algae grow out of control and we get this. But there, the patches are perhaps a hundred yards long and about twenty wide. We've been sailing through this one for ten minutes and there's no end to it."
"How bad is this?" Sophia looked at the blood-red sea and a memory of a chilling paragraph came back into her mind.
"Very. The algae produce natural toxins and deplete the dissolved oxygen in the seawater. That causes wildlife mortalities among marine and coastal species of fish, birds, marine mammals, and other organisms. The worst of the poisons is a potent neurotoxin called brevotoxin. That kills everything in the water. A Red Algal Bloom this size, it could be a disaster for marine life around here."
"The second angel poured out his bowl into the sea, and it became blood like that of a dead man, and every living thing in the sea died. Revelation 16:3." The verse had returned to Sophia's mind while the captain had been speaking and she repeated it grimly. "The Second Bowl of Wrath."
Reynolds looked at her suspiciously. "And just how did you know that?"
"My parents and grandparents took their religion very seriously. When the message came through, telling everybody to lay down and die, they did. I tried to save them, I cried and screamed at them, I tried to drag them up out of their beds, and I even ripped the earrings out of my mother's ears hoping the pain would bring her back. But nothing worked and they all just died, tearing me apart in the process. They left me alone and it was all a fraud. I'm just waiting now until they get pulled out of the hell-pit so I can go down there and tell them just what I think of them, make them suffer a little for what they put me through."
She caught herself and smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry Captain, it’s a sore point with me I guess."
"You guess?" Reynolds looked sad for a moment. "None of my family did that, but a few around where we lived did. One memory that I can’t get over, is the dogs howling at their owners, trying to make them wake up, fighting the only way they could to try and keep them alive. We took one of them in and the poor thing was so traumatized, that he shivered with fear every time one of us had a nap. I tell you this Sophia if I can get Yahweh under our guns, just once…"
"Sorry, Sir. Message from CINCLANT." The sparker passed the message flimsy to Reynolds.
"Well, that confirms it, I think. The whole east coast is affected by this. Copies from CINCPAC say the west coast is the same. They want us to report in from here and start taking samples. They want to try and identify what this algal bloom is. One piece of good news is it affects shallow water only."
"That makes sense." Sophia thought carefully. "All these prophecies were written in ancient times and the authors knew very little about what was going on. Sailors mostly stuck to shallow water, and deep-water navigation was almost unknown. So, when they saw this happening, they assumed it was all the seas, not just coastal waters. But this is the second Bowl of Wrath all right."
Turner Joy slowed down while the crew started trying to gather water samples. It wasn't long before the first bottles were on board and Reynolds looked at them with disgust. Normally, even in an algal bloom, the water in a sample jar was only slightly tinged but these were saturated with color and the water seemed oily somehow.
"Captain, Doc Samuels here. Warn the men gathering samples to take precautions against contact with the water. It's causing some of them to blister on their arms and legs and most of them are reporting coughing and sneezing attacks. I'm issuing antihistamines but we've only got a limited supply and if the air intakes start pulling in aerosols of that water, we could have problems all through the ship."
"Thanks, doc. Carry on."
Reynolds looked at the blood-red seawater again. "Just five minutes under my guns, that's all I ask. Just five minutes."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Eleven
Briefing Room, White House Washington DC, April 2009
"So what did you think of Yamantau Mister President?" Secretary of the Interior Salazar had wanted to go on that visit, but he hadn't.
"It is a most remarkable installation. It comforts me to think that we have something similar here."
"Actually Mister President, we don't." Secretary of Defense Warner spoke sadly. "We have proposed such an installation in the past, but funding was always denied. The nearest we have to Yamantau is Cheyenne Mountain and that is in care-and-maintenance status. We have some shallower installations that offer nothing like the protection of Yamantau of course. But given the threats we face now, Yamantau offers little in the way of protection. As far as we know."
"You think there is more to Yamantau than the Russians have let us, see?"
"Of course. But I was more thinking of the kinds of attacks we are facing right now. And what may come next, remember we had no warning of the attacks on Sheffield and Detroit."
A grim silence ran around the room. The destruction of Sheffield and Detroit still had the power to awe those who saw the fields of cooled lava that now overlay what had once been two thriving cities. Somehow, it was made more striking by the knowledge that the cities could not be rebuilt. Usually, no matter how bad the damage, the city inhabitants picked themselves up and rebuilt. In Sheffield and Detroit, that was impossible, and the devastated areas of the cities had been abandoned.
"You think there may be more sky-volcano attacks?" Obama sounded apprehensive as well as he might. The winter had been a rough one worldwide and few people believed the storms had been natural.
"I'm saying, Mister President, we don’t know what's coming."
"That may not be true Secretary Warner." General Schatten spoke carefully as befitted a military man in this epitome of civilian control. "Our resident experts in the field believe that there are likely to be seven attacks before Yahweh begins to engage us. We've had two and we can expect the third very shortly. That will see the Algal Blooms spreading to our inland waterways. The fourth is expected to consist of fire and heat, which sounds like more sky-volcano attacks to us. Details on the fifth attack are very indefinite and simply refer to darkness and people gnawing their tongues with pain. The sixth simply says the Euphrates will dry up, well, that's bad for Iraq but hardly a gruesome disaster while the last speaks of a massive earthquake and rain of giant stones. That sounds like more portal work."
"Where does this come from?"
"Book of Revelations, Mister President. Normally we would discount that as a source, but the first two attacks do make it look like somebody is sticking to that playbook."
"And just how long do we have to sit here taking it on the chin like this? We finished off Satan in less than six months once we got rolling, why can't we do the same with Yahweh?"
"Because we can't get at him." Secretary Warner reinserted himself into the conversation deftly. "We have no idea where Heaven is, we can’t find it and we can't open a portal to it. Our primary hope now is to understand the structure of the space-time continuum in which Heaven exists and then find it by exploiting that understanding. However, I am advised that it is likely we will find that the space-time continuum in question will contain large numbers of habitable entities, and even if we can locate them, finding the right one will be very difficult. At worst, we may end up visiting each in turn until we find the right one. President Abigor has said that is how Satan and Yahweh explored our dimension although they had no understanding of the science involved. Somehow, they got through to planets at random."
"This just is not good enough. We must find a way of launching a counterattack. So, far this war with Heaven has cost us more people and more treasure than the war with Hell did."
"That is hardly surprising Mister President. In retrospect, we were very lucky with the Curb Stomp War. The Baldricks just opened a portal and came straight at us. Not only that, but they did also so head-on into the biggest concentration of military power we could deploy and one that was well-stocked with munitions. They, quite literally, couldn’t have made it easier for us if they had tried. It's obvious that Yahweh watched that debacle and has decided to try a different approach. I must say, Mister President, that it is easy to overestimate the damage that is being done to us by these attacks. The anthrax attack cost us a third of our sensitives and that's limited our ability to construct new portals through to Hell. However, we have a contingency plan to deal with the shortage if it becomes critical."
"And that is?"
"To use Baldricks, especially the naga, as substitutes for our sensitives. We don't want to do that, the last thing we need is for the Baldricks to think they are useful to us rather than something midway between utterly irrelevant and a nuisance. But it is an option. Anyway, we've had a rough winter and the rest of the world hasn't been much better. The problem is, distinguishing between natural bad weather and the enhanced bad weather that constitutes a Yahweh attack. Some of the attacks are quite clearly the latter, the Missouri tornados that destroyed Whiteman AFB for example. Others may simply be normal bad weather. Britain had a very wet winter with severe rain but looking at the weather data, we can’t see any sign of enhancement to that. One thing that is clear from the NOAA studies of the winter, Yahweh can't create bad weather. He can modify it, intensify it, and redirect it but he can't create it. That's very encouraging from our point of view."
"What about this Red Tide? Tom?"
Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack leaned forward in his seat. "I'll echo what Rob said, Mister President. It’s a bad blow but we shouldn’t overestimate it. The Algal Bloom is confined to continental shelf areas and then only to isolated parts of that shelf. Those parts make up a substantial proportion of the total maritime area but by no means all of it. The bad news is, that we've lost the fisheries in the continental shelf areas and that's hit shellfish production, especially shrimp and lobster, and put the short-range fishing boats out of business. However, deep-sea fisheries and fish farming are not affected so we've got a substantial proportion of our fish supply maintained. It's the same around the world, shallow-water fishing is hammered but deep-sea fishing and fish farming are all right. It's a blow but it’s survivable."
"How did this happen?"
General Schatten glanced at Secretary Vilsack who deferred to him. "At first we thought it was another case of seeding by angels, but we've ruled that out. The Algal Bloom is a natural phenomenon that is kicked off by excess nutrients in the water. Our current hypothesis is that an underwater gate was opened in various areas and a large volume of nutrient-rich seawater was injected into the areas affected. We think, and this is a guess, Sir, that other attacks were made on deep-water areas but even with the extra nutrients the conditions there weren't suitable, and those parts of the attack failed. Another encouraging sign for us, Yahweh is nowhere near infallible.
"We know that no angels were responsible for this. We have a nationwide portal detection network, we set that up as part of the response to the sky-volcano attacks. Now and then, its detected portals forming and fading away, we are certain they're the result of angels arriving and departing. Oddly, there are concentrations of such formations around San Francisco, Las Vegas, El Paso, and New Orleans. Why that is we do not know. One last thing Sir, the Uriel attacks, the mass die-offs? They're moving north, towards us. One was reported in Honduras three days ago. Eight thousand dead."
"Thank you." Obama glanced around the room. "Now, the economy. Tim?"
Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner laughed a little desperately. "What economy Sir? We don’t have one anymore, we've got a train wreck instead. What most people don't realize is that the economy was heading for a major crash before all this happened. People had borrowed too much money and couldn’t repay it, the banks had loaned money they had little or no hope of collecting and the whole house of cards was about to come down. It would have collapsed by now if it hadn't been for the mobilization. We've been printing money like mad to pay for it, we've pumped trillions into the economy, nearly all of which has stayed here in the United States. The result, of course, is inflation which is only being stopped from reaching runaway proportions by price controls and rationing. The overall effect has been to devalue people's debts. Also, because of triple-shift working in all the mobilized industries, the reopening of shuttered factories, and so on, people have more money in their pockets. Rationing means there aren't many things they can spend it on, so they put it in the banks and that recapitalized them. After all, they can't buy cars because no cars are being made for the civilian market, they can't buy houses because the contractors are building defense installations instead. In economic terms, the mobilization is a massive stimulus program. The problem is, it’s all just building problems up for the future. When the controls come off, all economic hell will break loose."
A grim silence ran around the conference room. At last, Obama broke it. "Janet, internal security?"
"There, Barry, the situation is pretty good. The crime rate is way, way down. Spree killings and so on have virtually stopped, it seems like the majority were the direct result of demonic possession. Street crime is way down as well, partly because everybody is working all hours of the day and are simply too tired and partly because the police, U.S. Volunteers, and armed citizens are on the streets all the time. Street crime has just got too dangerous. We do have problems with what was called 'the fifth column' back in World War Two. Mostly, the remnants of the extreme religious groups who didn’t lie down and die with the rest. There have been some acts of obstructionism, trying to get in the way of military convoys, and so on. A few cases of family members of serving military personnel being harassed. Most, all short-lived, the perpetrators have no popular support and in a lot of cases, they're lucky if the police get to them before the local citizens. You heard what happened to a guy called Phlops?"
The Cabinet shook its collective head.
"Well, he was the self-appointed leader of an extreme religious cult down south somewhere. An offshoot of the Baptist church although they disowned him a long time ago. Anyway, he and some members of his congregation started disrupting the funeral of some troops who got killed on active service. Yelling abuse at the family of the slain, saying the dead got what they deserved, and so on. Anyway, the local population went berserk and lynched them. I mean really lynched. Phlop's body was lashed behind a pick-up truck and dragged around city limits as a lesson to anybody else who might have the same idea in mind."
"I sincerely hope the people responsible have been punished."
"Of course, Phlop's body started to come apart on the second circuit of the city limits. So, the police pulled the truck in and charged the driver with dumping toxic waste. No other charges, nobody saw anything or could identify anybody. Oh yes, somebody tipped off a group of deceased troopers in Hell and they were waiting for Phlops when he turned up there. I understand the attitude adjustment was emphatic. But Mister President, there is a whole load of issues that come out of this. What about capital punishment for example? Pretty much all the logical base behind many of our legal decisions has been swept away and we need to address that."
The members of the Cabinet nodded thoughtfully. It wasn't just criminal law that was being affected, the whole legal concept of death was being re-evaluated. Already the health services were beginning to ask how knowledge of Hell should affect the decisions they had to make. Did it make sense to keep a dying person alive but in a vegetative state when all that was doing was delaying their transfer to a healthy life in an increasingly comfortable Hell dimension? The philosophers were agonizing over these and many more related questions.
"Let us leave legal matters to the Supreme Court," Obama spoke decisively. "Let them interpret existing law first before we start making new ones. That's what they get paid for."
Training Camp, 1st Mechanized Infantry Battalion (Demonic), Dis, Hell, May 2009
"Spread out, don't bunch up. Stay grouped together like that and a single inbound artillery round will take you all out at once."
The Baldricks forming the skirmish line stretched out on either side of their armored personnel carrier obediently shuffled further out, spreading their line as the gaps between them opened. For warriors who had spent millennia training to fight with their shoulders touching those on either side of them, it was an aching readjustment. The problems weren't helped by the fact that all these Baldricks were veterans, some of the few survivors of Abigor's and Beelzebub's armies that were fit for military service.
Standing behind them, Sergeant Gray Anderson shook his head sadly. It was much easier training new recruits; they didn’t know anything. These Baldrick veterans were full of bad habits that they had to lose if they wanted to live on a modern battlefield. The shuffling stopped, and Anderson sighed to himself and repeated his instructions. "Spread out! Right out. At least twice as far as you are doing now. Otherwise, you will all die."
That was a grim comment, the whole psychology of the Baldricks had changed since they had come under the lash of human artillery fire. As far as anybody could tell, they were immortal unless somebody (or something) killed them. As a result, they hadn't feared death before but now, after seeing nine of every ten men in their units dying, the fact and fear of death were ingrained in their minds.
"All right, now, look to your front. The targets are set up at the two-hundred-yard mark. Two hundred yards is as far as you're likely to see the enemies you are shooting at. Beyond that range, we use area fire and suppressive fire. Load one round, take your time, aim at your target, and fire."
Taloned hands drew a .940-inch nitro-express round from their ammunition pouches. A quick pressure on the lever under the Martini-Henry rifle and the breech block dropped down. A quick pressure and the round were slid into the chamber, then the lever was lifted to seal the breach. The Martini-Henry was an old design, dating from a hundred and fifty years earlier, but it was uniquely suited to this application. It was immensely strong and could take the very powerful .940 cartridge that exploited the Baldrick's strength and size. The designers had corrected all the problems with the old version and had produced a weapon that was powerful, reliable, and accurate. It was also a single shot, so the automatic weapons carried by the humans still had the edge. Anyway, the human troops had artillery.
Each Baldrick in the line had lifted his hand, indicating his weapon was ready. "All right, in your own time, aim and fire."
Even though Anderson's ear protectors, the crash of the rifles was painful. The Baldricks didn’t seem to notice, and their big bodies absorbed the brutal recoil without problems. That was one of the things that had made Anderson uneasy, at six foot five, he was a big man, and he wasn't used to looking up at people who towered over him. He lifted his binoculars and looked carefully at the targets. Of the nine Baldricks in the unit, eight had put their shots inside the six-ring, and one had even put his in the black. A big, big, improvement. One-shot seemed to have missed the target completely.
"Hunkhalaphinarexes! You closed your eyes again!" A groan went along the line of Baldricks, unit cohesion was building up and the failure of this one Baldrick was taken by them all as a reflection on their ability. "Try again. Load up." Anderson walked over to him and squatted on the ground. "You must keep your eyes open when you fire. Otherwise, you'll wander off-target. Now try again."
The Baldricks watching were keenly aware that, in the old days, a recruit who fouled up this badly when firing his trident would have suffered a gruesome few days of imaginatively brutal torture. Hunkhalaphinarexes took a deep breath, forced himself to freeze his eyes open, and squeezed the trigger in the approved manner. The shot ripped a hole in the target, at three o'clock in the eight-ring.
"Not bad at all Hunky, not bad. We'll make a soldier of you yet. All right, fire ten rounds at your target, in your own time. Try and get a good, tight group. Remember, doing things right is what we want, doing it fast comes later."
Anderson walked over to the unit's carrier and climbed in the back. It was a highly modified version of the old M-113A3 with an extra roadwheel on each side and a new hull that had an open crew compartment in the back. A crew of nine, commander, driver, and gunner with six dismount infantry. The gunner had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the forward edge of the fighting compartment. The forward compartment had space for the driver and commander, the latter having a radio. Anderson picked the speaker up and patched through to his platoon commander.
"One-Delta-Alpha Actual here. We're finishing up on the range now. We're coming back in about thirty minutes. The boys will need feeding."
"Copy that Alpha-Actual, we'll butcher a food beast for them. How are they doing?"
"As well as can be expected. For recruits with so much to unlearn." Anderson sighed gently, it was only a few months before he'd been in a nursing home, remembering his years of military service while marking time, waiting to die. Then, there had been the day he hadn't woken up in his room but in the recovery ward on the Phelan Plain and the interview with the placement officers who had been waiting for him. One mention of the fact he'd spent thirty years training recruits for Her Majesty's Army, and he'd been found this job. The odd thing was, he was rather enjoying it and the memories of his life on Earth were becoming remote. Not fading, if he made the effort they were as clear as they had ever been, but he just didn't think of them so much. His life was here now. "Hey Mitch, do me a favor, pick out a good-looking food beast for my boys right, they've worked hard today."
Briefing Room, White House Washington DC, April 2009
"So what did you think of Yamantau Mister President?" Secretary of the Interior Salazar had wanted to go on that visit, but he hadn't.
"It is a most remarkable installation. It comforts me to think that we have something similar here."
"Actually Mister President, we don't." Secretary of Defense Warner spoke sadly. "We have proposed such an installation in the past, but funding was always denied. The nearest we have to Yamantau is Cheyenne Mountain and that is in care-and-maintenance status. We have some shallower installations that offer nothing like the protection of Yamantau of course. But given the threats we face now, Yamantau offers little in the way of protection. As far as we know."
"You think there is more to Yamantau than the Russians have let us, see?"
"Of course. But I was more thinking of the kinds of attacks we are facing right now. And what may come next, remember we had no warning of the attacks on Sheffield and Detroit."
A grim silence ran around the room. The destruction of Sheffield and Detroit still had the power to awe those who saw the fields of cooled lava that now overlay what had once been two thriving cities. Somehow, it was made more striking by the knowledge that the cities could not be rebuilt. Usually, no matter how bad the damage, the city inhabitants picked themselves up and rebuilt. In Sheffield and Detroit, that was impossible, and the devastated areas of the cities had been abandoned.
"You think there may be more sky-volcano attacks?" Obama sounded apprehensive as well as he might. The winter had been a rough one worldwide and few people believed the storms had been natural.
"I'm saying, Mister President, we don’t know what's coming."
"That may not be true Secretary Warner." General Schatten spoke carefully as befitted a military man in this epitome of civilian control. "Our resident experts in the field believe that there are likely to be seven attacks before Yahweh begins to engage us. We've had two and we can expect the third very shortly. That will see the Algal Blooms spreading to our inland waterways. The fourth is expected to consist of fire and heat, which sounds like more sky-volcano attacks to us. Details on the fifth attack are very indefinite and simply refer to darkness and people gnawing their tongues with pain. The sixth simply says the Euphrates will dry up, well, that's bad for Iraq but hardly a gruesome disaster while the last speaks of a massive earthquake and rain of giant stones. That sounds like more portal work."
"Where does this come from?"
"Book of Revelations, Mister President. Normally we would discount that as a source, but the first two attacks do make it look like somebody is sticking to that playbook."
"And just how long do we have to sit here taking it on the chin like this? We finished off Satan in less than six months once we got rolling, why can't we do the same with Yahweh?"
"Because we can't get at him." Secretary Warner reinserted himself into the conversation deftly. "We have no idea where Heaven is, we can’t find it and we can't open a portal to it. Our primary hope now is to understand the structure of the space-time continuum in which Heaven exists and then find it by exploiting that understanding. However, I am advised that it is likely we will find that the space-time continuum in question will contain large numbers of habitable entities, and even if we can locate them, finding the right one will be very difficult. At worst, we may end up visiting each in turn until we find the right one. President Abigor has said that is how Satan and Yahweh explored our dimension although they had no understanding of the science involved. Somehow, they got through to planets at random."
"This just is not good enough. We must find a way of launching a counterattack. So, far this war with Heaven has cost us more people and more treasure than the war with Hell did."
"That is hardly surprising Mister President. In retrospect, we were very lucky with the Curb Stomp War. The Baldricks just opened a portal and came straight at us. Not only that, but they did also so head-on into the biggest concentration of military power we could deploy and one that was well-stocked with munitions. They, quite literally, couldn’t have made it easier for us if they had tried. It's obvious that Yahweh watched that debacle and has decided to try a different approach. I must say, Mister President, that it is easy to overestimate the damage that is being done to us by these attacks. The anthrax attack cost us a third of our sensitives and that's limited our ability to construct new portals through to Hell. However, we have a contingency plan to deal with the shortage if it becomes critical."
"And that is?"
"To use Baldricks, especially the naga, as substitutes for our sensitives. We don't want to do that, the last thing we need is for the Baldricks to think they are useful to us rather than something midway between utterly irrelevant and a nuisance. But it is an option. Anyway, we've had a rough winter and the rest of the world hasn't been much better. The problem is, distinguishing between natural bad weather and the enhanced bad weather that constitutes a Yahweh attack. Some of the attacks are quite clearly the latter, the Missouri tornados that destroyed Whiteman AFB for example. Others may simply be normal bad weather. Britain had a very wet winter with severe rain but looking at the weather data, we can’t see any sign of enhancement to that. One thing that is clear from the NOAA studies of the winter, Yahweh can't create bad weather. He can modify it, intensify it, and redirect it but he can't create it. That's very encouraging from our point of view."
"What about this Red Tide? Tom?"
Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack leaned forward in his seat. "I'll echo what Rob said, Mister President. It’s a bad blow but we shouldn’t overestimate it. The Algal Bloom is confined to continental shelf areas and then only to isolated parts of that shelf. Those parts make up a substantial proportion of the total maritime area but by no means all of it. The bad news is, that we've lost the fisheries in the continental shelf areas and that's hit shellfish production, especially shrimp and lobster, and put the short-range fishing boats out of business. However, deep-sea fisheries and fish farming are not affected so we've got a substantial proportion of our fish supply maintained. It's the same around the world, shallow-water fishing is hammered but deep-sea fishing and fish farming are all right. It's a blow but it’s survivable."
"How did this happen?"
General Schatten glanced at Secretary Vilsack who deferred to him. "At first we thought it was another case of seeding by angels, but we've ruled that out. The Algal Bloom is a natural phenomenon that is kicked off by excess nutrients in the water. Our current hypothesis is that an underwater gate was opened in various areas and a large volume of nutrient-rich seawater was injected into the areas affected. We think, and this is a guess, Sir, that other attacks were made on deep-water areas but even with the extra nutrients the conditions there weren't suitable, and those parts of the attack failed. Another encouraging sign for us, Yahweh is nowhere near infallible.
"We know that no angels were responsible for this. We have a nationwide portal detection network, we set that up as part of the response to the sky-volcano attacks. Now and then, its detected portals forming and fading away, we are certain they're the result of angels arriving and departing. Oddly, there are concentrations of such formations around San Francisco, Las Vegas, El Paso, and New Orleans. Why that is we do not know. One last thing Sir, the Uriel attacks, the mass die-offs? They're moving north, towards us. One was reported in Honduras three days ago. Eight thousand dead."
"Thank you." Obama glanced around the room. "Now, the economy. Tim?"
Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner laughed a little desperately. "What economy Sir? We don’t have one anymore, we've got a train wreck instead. What most people don't realize is that the economy was heading for a major crash before all this happened. People had borrowed too much money and couldn’t repay it, the banks had loaned money they had little or no hope of collecting and the whole house of cards was about to come down. It would have collapsed by now if it hadn't been for the mobilization. We've been printing money like mad to pay for it, we've pumped trillions into the economy, nearly all of which has stayed here in the United States. The result, of course, is inflation which is only being stopped from reaching runaway proportions by price controls and rationing. The overall effect has been to devalue people's debts. Also, because of triple-shift working in all the mobilized industries, the reopening of shuttered factories, and so on, people have more money in their pockets. Rationing means there aren't many things they can spend it on, so they put it in the banks and that recapitalized them. After all, they can't buy cars because no cars are being made for the civilian market, they can't buy houses because the contractors are building defense installations instead. In economic terms, the mobilization is a massive stimulus program. The problem is, it’s all just building problems up for the future. When the controls come off, all economic hell will break loose."
A grim silence ran around the conference room. At last, Obama broke it. "Janet, internal security?"
"There, Barry, the situation is pretty good. The crime rate is way, way down. Spree killings and so on have virtually stopped, it seems like the majority were the direct result of demonic possession. Street crime is way down as well, partly because everybody is working all hours of the day and are simply too tired and partly because the police, U.S. Volunteers, and armed citizens are on the streets all the time. Street crime has just got too dangerous. We do have problems with what was called 'the fifth column' back in World War Two. Mostly, the remnants of the extreme religious groups who didn’t lie down and die with the rest. There have been some acts of obstructionism, trying to get in the way of military convoys, and so on. A few cases of family members of serving military personnel being harassed. Most, all short-lived, the perpetrators have no popular support and in a lot of cases, they're lucky if the police get to them before the local citizens. You heard what happened to a guy called Phlops?"
The Cabinet shook its collective head.
"Well, he was the self-appointed leader of an extreme religious cult down south somewhere. An offshoot of the Baptist church although they disowned him a long time ago. Anyway, he and some members of his congregation started disrupting the funeral of some troops who got killed on active service. Yelling abuse at the family of the slain, saying the dead got what they deserved, and so on. Anyway, the local population went berserk and lynched them. I mean really lynched. Phlop's body was lashed behind a pick-up truck and dragged around city limits as a lesson to anybody else who might have the same idea in mind."
"I sincerely hope the people responsible have been punished."
"Of course, Phlop's body started to come apart on the second circuit of the city limits. So, the police pulled the truck in and charged the driver with dumping toxic waste. No other charges, nobody saw anything or could identify anybody. Oh yes, somebody tipped off a group of deceased troopers in Hell and they were waiting for Phlops when he turned up there. I understand the attitude adjustment was emphatic. But Mister President, there is a whole load of issues that come out of this. What about capital punishment for example? Pretty much all the logical base behind many of our legal decisions has been swept away and we need to address that."
The members of the Cabinet nodded thoughtfully. It wasn't just criminal law that was being affected, the whole legal concept of death was being re-evaluated. Already the health services were beginning to ask how knowledge of Hell should affect the decisions they had to make. Did it make sense to keep a dying person alive but in a vegetative state when all that was doing was delaying their transfer to a healthy life in an increasingly comfortable Hell dimension? The philosophers were agonizing over these and many more related questions.
"Let us leave legal matters to the Supreme Court," Obama spoke decisively. "Let them interpret existing law first before we start making new ones. That's what they get paid for."
Training Camp, 1st Mechanized Infantry Battalion (Demonic), Dis, Hell, May 2009
"Spread out, don't bunch up. Stay grouped together like that and a single inbound artillery round will take you all out at once."
The Baldricks forming the skirmish line stretched out on either side of their armored personnel carrier obediently shuffled further out, spreading their line as the gaps between them opened. For warriors who had spent millennia training to fight with their shoulders touching those on either side of them, it was an aching readjustment. The problems weren't helped by the fact that all these Baldricks were veterans, some of the few survivors of Abigor's and Beelzebub's armies that were fit for military service.
Standing behind them, Sergeant Gray Anderson shook his head sadly. It was much easier training new recruits; they didn’t know anything. These Baldrick veterans were full of bad habits that they had to lose if they wanted to live on a modern battlefield. The shuffling stopped, and Anderson sighed to himself and repeated his instructions. "Spread out! Right out. At least twice as far as you are doing now. Otherwise, you will all die."
That was a grim comment, the whole psychology of the Baldricks had changed since they had come under the lash of human artillery fire. As far as anybody could tell, they were immortal unless somebody (or something) killed them. As a result, they hadn't feared death before but now, after seeing nine of every ten men in their units dying, the fact and fear of death were ingrained in their minds.
"All right, now, look to your front. The targets are set up at the two-hundred-yard mark. Two hundred yards is as far as you're likely to see the enemies you are shooting at. Beyond that range, we use area fire and suppressive fire. Load one round, take your time, aim at your target, and fire."
Taloned hands drew a .940-inch nitro-express round from their ammunition pouches. A quick pressure on the lever under the Martini-Henry rifle and the breech block dropped down. A quick pressure and the round were slid into the chamber, then the lever was lifted to seal the breach. The Martini-Henry was an old design, dating from a hundred and fifty years earlier, but it was uniquely suited to this application. It was immensely strong and could take the very powerful .940 cartridge that exploited the Baldrick's strength and size. The designers had corrected all the problems with the old version and had produced a weapon that was powerful, reliable, and accurate. It was also a single shot, so the automatic weapons carried by the humans still had the edge. Anyway, the human troops had artillery.
Each Baldrick in the line had lifted his hand, indicating his weapon was ready. "All right, in your own time, aim and fire."
Even though Anderson's ear protectors, the crash of the rifles was painful. The Baldricks didn’t seem to notice, and their big bodies absorbed the brutal recoil without problems. That was one of the things that had made Anderson uneasy, at six foot five, he was a big man, and he wasn't used to looking up at people who towered over him. He lifted his binoculars and looked carefully at the targets. Of the nine Baldricks in the unit, eight had put their shots inside the six-ring, and one had even put his in the black. A big, big, improvement. One-shot seemed to have missed the target completely.
"Hunkhalaphinarexes! You closed your eyes again!" A groan went along the line of Baldricks, unit cohesion was building up and the failure of this one Baldrick was taken by them all as a reflection on their ability. "Try again. Load up." Anderson walked over to him and squatted on the ground. "You must keep your eyes open when you fire. Otherwise, you'll wander off-target. Now try again."
The Baldricks watching were keenly aware that, in the old days, a recruit who fouled up this badly when firing his trident would have suffered a gruesome few days of imaginatively brutal torture. Hunkhalaphinarexes took a deep breath, forced himself to freeze his eyes open, and squeezed the trigger in the approved manner. The shot ripped a hole in the target, at three o'clock in the eight-ring.
"Not bad at all Hunky, not bad. We'll make a soldier of you yet. All right, fire ten rounds at your target, in your own time. Try and get a good, tight group. Remember, doing things right is what we want, doing it fast comes later."
Anderson walked over to the unit's carrier and climbed in the back. It was a highly modified version of the old M-113A3 with an extra roadwheel on each side and a new hull that had an open crew compartment in the back. A crew of nine, commander, driver, and gunner with six dismount infantry. The gunner had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the forward edge of the fighting compartment. The forward compartment had space for the driver and commander, the latter having a radio. Anderson picked the speaker up and patched through to his platoon commander.
"One-Delta-Alpha Actual here. We're finishing up on the range now. We're coming back in about thirty minutes. The boys will need feeding."
"Copy that Alpha-Actual, we'll butcher a food beast for them. How are they doing?"
"As well as can be expected. For recruits with so much to unlearn." Anderson sighed gently, it was only a few months before he'd been in a nursing home, remembering his years of military service while marking time, waiting to die. Then, there had been the day he hadn't woken up in his room but in the recovery ward on the Phelan Plain and the interview with the placement officers who had been waiting for him. One mention of the fact he'd spent thirty years training recruits for Her Majesty's Army, and he'd been found this job. The odd thing was, he was rather enjoying it and the memories of his life on Earth were becoming remote. Not fading, if he made the effort they were as clear as they had ever been, but he just didn't think of them so much. His life was here now. "Hey Mitch, do me a favor, pick out a good-looking food beast for my boys right, they've worked hard today."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Twelve
Outside CBS Studios, New York, NY, May 2009
“I see your show got renewed.” Colonel Paschal looked around the inside of the stretched Hummer limousine. It wasn’t often that one saw limousines like this anymore, not with gas and diesel fuel being rationed the way it was. But he guessed, his companion was a television star, so the studio had certainly made some special arrangements somehow. Anyway, she needed a larger-than-normal vehicle.
“I was not surprised, given my audience ratings over the first run.” Lugasharmanaska settled back in her seat and poured herself a goblet of champagne from the bar in the rear of her Hummer. Paschal caught her yellow eyes looking sideways at him and guessed that she was already trying to work out what he wanted with her and to turn it to her advantage. He also wondered if the CBS management had been fully aware of how effective her pheromones could be in a confined space. DIMO(N) was still failing to find a counter to their effect, the best that could be done was for anybody dealing with a succubus to be fully aware of the dangers and be on their guard. It didn’t always work.
Still, it might be that he was being unkind to her, ‘Tonight with Luga’ was the country’s top-rated evening chat show. Most of the country remembered fondly how she had boxed Bernie Madoff into a corner, and he’d tried to bluff his way out by claiming she would have done the same in his position. Her reply, “Of course, but I’m a demon from Hell, I’m supposed to be the epitome of evil. What’s your excuse?” had even caused the camera operators and stage crew to break out into howls of laughter. Paschal caught another sideways glance from her eyes and reminded himself that she hadn’t changed. She’d got a veneer of sophistication and style now, and her clothing sense had improved dramatically but she was still the same succubus who’d tried to play everybody around her. And was still doing so.
“You’re on four months hiatus I believe? Going to take a trip back to Hell?”
Lugasharmanaska shook her head. “I didn’t make many friends back home when I sided with humans.”
“You know Deumos is dead? She died of her injuries during the assassination of Satan. Brain got squeezed inside out and the exhaust from the missiles fried her.”
“I know that.” Lugasharmanaska more than knew it, she was intimately involved in the power plays that were going on between the various factions that were maneuvering to replace the late and not at all lamented Deumos. Not as a candidate, of course, she had far too enjoyable a position here on Earth, and being on the side of the humans brought with it many benefits. One of them was that each of the factions that did want to provide the Succubae with their new queen believed that she had great influence over the humans and could swing their support to her desired candidate. That was why she didn’t wish to visit Hell, if she did, the fact that her possession of any such power was a delusion would become all too obvious. As it was, they were competing to offer her the most tempting considerations and privileges. It was, she had decided, much more profitable and much safer to be a Queen-Maker than a Queen. Anyway, she had her audience to think of.
“So, what plans do you have for the next four months?”
“I’m going to be resting.”
Paschal snorted with laughter. Lugasharmanaska was picking up the habits and traditions of show-business with slightly terrifying speed. If she carried on this way, she’d be addressing everybody as ‘darling’ soon. “In other words, you have no commitments and nothing substantial to do. Well, I can fix that. How would you like to return to DIMO(N) for a few months, help us out with giving Yahweh the same treatment we handed out to Satan?”
“How much, and do I get a percentage of the gross?”
Yup, thought Paschal, our Luga has been in show business too long already. “Voluntary service and no percentage, I fear. Although your fans will be ecstatic to hear you’ve volunteered your service to help the war effort. Again.”
She studied his face carefully while the options ran themselves through her mind. The focus groups had pinned down her one drawback as a star was the doubts people had over her final loyalties. This was, Luga thought, unfair. She didn’t have any final loyalties. But giving up her time on hiatus to help the human war effort would convince the dubious that she was indeed on their side.
“As long as volunteering gets me on the news. What do you want me to do?”
“We’re getting a battering from Yahweh. We’re taking losses, nothing we can’t afford but irritating nonetheless. The problem is, we can’t get back at him. Over the last six months, every possible way we can get to Heaven has been methodically closed. So, we’re pulling in every asset we can get our hands on to change that. And you, Luga, are one of them.”
She nodded. One thought running through her mind was that The Eternal City was effectively a mass of precious stones and looting it would make her a fortune. Another was that poking Yahweh in the eye was always worthwhile. And if it increased the debts that humans owed to her, well, so much the better. “Right, I will rephrase my answer, what do you need to know?”
“Essentially, everything you can tell us about the Great Celestial War, how it was fought, where the fighting took place, how Heaven and Hell managed to get at each other. More than that, what sort of weaponry Yahweh brought to the party.”
“I can answer some of that right here. To get directly from Heaven to Hell or the other way is very hard indeed. It takes much effort and cooperation from both ends. There were very few such links and only one survived the war. Heavengate. Why don’t you use that?”
“It’s been closed.”
“Very sensible of Yahweh, or I suspect, Michaellanyahweh,” Luga pronounced Michael’s name demon-style, running all the parts into a single word. “Michael is Yahweh’s general. But weapons? Nothing compared to yours. He has his beasts of course and they are terrible to behold but compared to your tanks and aircraft?” Luga snorted with laughter.
Paschal thought that her laughter had a most engaging quality to it, then cudgeled himself over the head. Damn it, those pheromones were dangerous, and the confines of a limousine were perfect for them to develop their effects. He swallowed, got a grip on himself, and continued. “That’s a good start. Anyway, our experts will need to speak with you.”
“Why do you not ask Abigor? He fought in that war, as one of Satan’s best Generals. Or Belial, who was one of his worst.”
“We have no idea where Belial is. Anyway, we never rely on a single source.”
“Very wise.” So, the humans haven’t found Belial yet? Very interesting. “Driver, take us to my apartment.”
Desert, South of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. May 2009
“Does the One Above All know what He is asking?”
I don’t think ‘asking’ is quite accurate, thought Michael-Lan, screaming demands, and issuing blood-curdling threats in almost incoherent rage would be a little more accurate. “Is there anything that is beyond the knowledge of The All-Seeing Father? Yes, He does know what He asks but there is no alternative. It is the Americans who are the center of the resistance to His Divine Will, and it is they who must be made to suffer for their disobedience. The city close to here will be a suitable target, I think. It is on the border so it should be easy prey for you.” It is also in Texas, whose state motto is Shoot first, keep shooting, shoot some more and if anybody is left standing, ask some questions. You’re in for an interesting time Uriel-Lan-Yahweh.
“There is no easy prey in this world Michael-Lan. There hasn’t been for many years but now things are much, much worse. Everywhere I go, humans scan the skies with their machines, if they see anything suspicious, they send up their aircraft to investigate. Since the war started, every time they see something, they fire their missiles as well. Even the poorest and least of their countries have them now. And they have something else, something I do not understand. I have seen only hints of it, but it is beyond my understanding.”
Michael-Lan nodded sympathetically. “Humans love their machines. Some of them even give them their names and speak to them as if they are alive. Mexico is much poorer than America, come in from the south and the door should be open to you.”
“There is something else. Once, all I had to do was to will it and the humans died. No matter where no matter when they died without effort on my part. Now, it takes all my strength to snuff them out, and even then, many survive. Animals of every kind die but humans do not, not all of them. Since this war started, my task has become harder with every day that passes. Their aircraft are worst of all once I could still the lives of the pilot and the aircraft would fall from the sky.” Uriel paused, remembering the times when he had seized upon one of the great passenger aircraft the humans used and snuffed out the lives of its crew leaving the aircraft to crash. To do the same to the human fighter aircraft had often been harder but now was virtually impossible. He had used all his strength and the effect had been beneath notice.
Michael-Lan frowned mightily. “Uriel-Lan-Yahweh, do you doubt the wisdom of The One Above All?”
Uriel stepped back in sheer shock at the accusation. “Never!”
“I am pleased to hear it. You are the Fire and Sword of The Highest, his most trusted servant and the bringer of wrath upon his enemies. The All-Seeing Father would be most disturbed if he were to hear that you believed some humans were beyond his reach. You can say that again and hear it he will.
“You may tell The One Above All that tonight, Uriel will extinguish the city of El Paso.” Uriel drew himself up in a mixture of pride and offended dignity.
“I shall. Now, I must leave, I have business in the south.” Picking up a consignment of cocaine and some of those exquisite mushrooms. But no need for you to know that. Michael-Lan gathered his wings, inflated his sacs, and took off, leaving Uriel staring after him.
2nd Battery, 365th Air Defense Battalion, El Paso, Texas. May 2009
“Sarge, we’ve got a bandit on the radar.”
“Sure it’s not civilian?” There was no need to ask whether it was military or not, there was no identification friend-or-foe system response, and all military aircraft had such equipment. Of course, it could be on the fritz but that would then be a problem to sort out later. Better a blue-on-blue kill than a sky-volcano opening over El Paso.
“If it is, it’s way out of the safe lanes. Could be a druggie chancing his luck of course.” Every airport was surrounded by safe lanes that civilian aircraft had, in pain of being shot out of the sky, used. Early on, a few pilots had changed their arms and strayed out of those lanes only to have terminal arguments with missiles or fighters. The first resulting court case had gone to the Supreme Court in record time, where the Justices had ruled that responsibility for the shoot-downs lay with the pilots who had been flying in prohibited areas. Now, the only humans who flew in such areas were smugglers or the terminally stupid. The other alternatives were Baldricks or Angels and nobody objected to shooting them on sight.
“Air Force confirming. An AWACS has the contact as well, they read it coming in from the south, heading almost exactly due north. Speed 180 knots, altitude 7,500 feet.”
“Any word from the DIMO(N) net?” The landlines were already opening fast, they did every time something showed up somewhere it shouldn’t. Nobody could forget Detroit and the fifty thousand people who had died there. For a reason nobody could quite understand, the first sign that a portal was about to be opened was that cell phone reception went crazy. Monitoring the disruptions to service gave a warning to those beneath that something dreadful was about to happen.
“The DIMO(N) net reports no towers out, the dropped frame rate is nominal. There’s no portal forming out there.”
“Confirm data. That makes it either a civilian bird way off course or a hostile flying in.” Corporal Baughn re-read the data from the displays. “It’s on a direct course for El Paso, or Ciudad Juarez, take your pick. I class this one has hostile.”
The battery commander glanced at the displays. “Confirm that. If it isn’t, he’s too dumb to live. Within range?”
“Sure, those are PAC-3s out there.”
“Get ready to fire.” There was a pause. “Hold one, the Air Farce is vectoring two F-16s in.”
“Trust the fly-boys to muscle in.”
“Not so fast. The fighters will be a decoy, they’ll herd him over us and distract him. Then, when the time is right, we’ll stick four PAC-3s up him and he’ll never know they were there.”
“Works for me.”
Over the Desert, South of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. May 2009
Uriel glided silently through the darkness, savoring the signs of life that came from the bustling city beneath him. If he had his way, he would stay this far south, the city was a fat target and even the human’s newfound resistance to his touch couldn’t save them from a savage death toll. But he had his orders from The One Above All and they were not to be disputed. He would have to go further north, to the American city that lay beyond the river. It was easy to see where the divisor was; both cities were brightly lit but the part north of the river was almost garish in its multitude of lights and colors.
There was another reason why Uriel knew he was heading further north than he had been for many years. His skin was itching madly, and it got worse by the minute. Somehow, the humans knew he was here and we were already preparing one of their explosive welcomes for him. He sent out the first gentle touch of his mind, gauging reaction, and response rather than actively trying to snuff out the existences of those beneath him. As he had expected, the resistance was there, it varied in its effects from a hindrance to a complete block, but it was there. It was time to conduct his attack.
Uriel concentrated and focused his mind on the northern part of the great sea of light underneath him. His touch was rejected, blocked, and neutralized. He concentrated his willpower, pouring energy from his body into the attack, sending out great waves of his touch to blanket the ground beneath. In the part of his mind not conducting the onslaught, he visualized what must be happening on the ground below, the people simply dying as they stood or walked, slumping to the ground, their lives extinguished as if they had never been. His great wings in exultation as the power of his touch lapped the ground below. The resistance was still there, greater than in any of his attacks further south, but he could feel that at least some of the power he was emitting was finally taking its toll.
It was then that Uriel realized he was hearing something, a sky-ripping scream that was still far away but one that got closer all the time. ‘The war cry of a Sky-Chariot’ he thought scornfully, the pathetic name that Satan and the fallen that had been exiled to Hell had coined for what was simply the noise of a human jet engine. If Satan had bothered to stay in touch with humans, studied them, and followed their development, he too would have been warned of the way their knowledge and understanding had suddenly mushroomed out. Quite apart from anything else, Satan would still be alive and ruling Hell, not dead and buried with his followers living under human rule.
It was time to do something about these aircraft. Uriel made a lazy turn and headed directly towards them. He gathered his energy, redirecting it from the assault on those beneath him, concentrating it into a triumphant trumpet call that would hammer the approaching aircraft from the sky. He had heard how the lesser Angels had swept human aircraft from the skies with their trumpeting, rumor said that almost fifty human aircraft had been destroyed in that one fight. Now, the humans would see what the infinitely greater trumpeting of an Archangel could achieve. He summoned his strength, concentrated it into a single great call, and bellowed out its note.
It was as if the aircraft had sensed his purpose, for as he had turned to attack them, they had reversed course and fled away from him, their tails glowing bright red. They escaped unscathed; Uriel had the odd impression that his trumpet blast had fallen behind them as they fled to safety. He trumpeted again, this time in triumph for had he not engaged the human aircraft in single combat and forced them to flee in disgrace? He set off in pursuit, knowing it was futile since they were heading north far faster than he could fly.
It was then that the constant itching in his skin was replaced by a burning agony that convinced him that he was on fire. Instinctively, he glanced below and behind him to see four great streaks of fire closing in on him. The thoughts flashed through his mind, he had been tricked, fooled, lured into an ambush and he had but a split second to save himself before the missiles tore home. Faster than he had ever done in his life, far faster than was theoretically possible, he opened a portal and it enveloped him. It slammed shut behind him just a moment before the four PAC-3 missiles tore into the sky where it had been.
2nd Battery, 365th Air Defense Battalion, El Paso, Texas. May 2009
The thundering explosions lit the sky above El Paso, the four Patriot missiles expending themselves in an exemplary display of reliability. The question was, had they hit their target or simply exploded at the end of their flight. It was an old question and one that had confused more than a few debriefings.
“Did we get him?” It was Corporal Baughn speaking but he was voicing the question held in the minds of all.”
“There are no reports that a rain of overcooked and slightly-used rump steaks is descending on El Paso, so it doesn’t seem so.” A grim laugh ran around the battery control room.
“The DIMO(N) net is reporting Sir. They have a very small portal opening a split second before the missiles exploded. It was there for a tiny fraction of a second only but the position they have is close to our intercept point. I’d say the thing got away.”
Lieutenant Becerra sighed. “We missed him. We’ve never seen a Baldrick do that before.” He stopped for a second and went to the door of the van. In the distance, the sound of emergency service vehicle sirens wailing was distinguishable. “He didn’t miss us though.”
Outside CBS Studios, New York, NY, May 2009
“I see your show got renewed.” Colonel Paschal looked around the inside of the stretched Hummer limousine. It wasn’t often that one saw limousines like this anymore, not with gas and diesel fuel being rationed the way it was. But he guessed, his companion was a television star, so the studio had certainly made some special arrangements somehow. Anyway, she needed a larger-than-normal vehicle.
“I was not surprised, given my audience ratings over the first run.” Lugasharmanaska settled back in her seat and poured herself a goblet of champagne from the bar in the rear of her Hummer. Paschal caught her yellow eyes looking sideways at him and guessed that she was already trying to work out what he wanted with her and to turn it to her advantage. He also wondered if the CBS management had been fully aware of how effective her pheromones could be in a confined space. DIMO(N) was still failing to find a counter to their effect, the best that could be done was for anybody dealing with a succubus to be fully aware of the dangers and be on their guard. It didn’t always work.
Still, it might be that he was being unkind to her, ‘Tonight with Luga’ was the country’s top-rated evening chat show. Most of the country remembered fondly how she had boxed Bernie Madoff into a corner, and he’d tried to bluff his way out by claiming she would have done the same in his position. Her reply, “Of course, but I’m a demon from Hell, I’m supposed to be the epitome of evil. What’s your excuse?” had even caused the camera operators and stage crew to break out into howls of laughter. Paschal caught another sideways glance from her eyes and reminded himself that she hadn’t changed. She’d got a veneer of sophistication and style now, and her clothing sense had improved dramatically but she was still the same succubus who’d tried to play everybody around her. And was still doing so.
“You’re on four months hiatus I believe? Going to take a trip back to Hell?”
Lugasharmanaska shook her head. “I didn’t make many friends back home when I sided with humans.”
“You know Deumos is dead? She died of her injuries during the assassination of Satan. Brain got squeezed inside out and the exhaust from the missiles fried her.”
“I know that.” Lugasharmanaska more than knew it, she was intimately involved in the power plays that were going on between the various factions that were maneuvering to replace the late and not at all lamented Deumos. Not as a candidate, of course, she had far too enjoyable a position here on Earth, and being on the side of the humans brought with it many benefits. One of them was that each of the factions that did want to provide the Succubae with their new queen believed that she had great influence over the humans and could swing their support to her desired candidate. That was why she didn’t wish to visit Hell, if she did, the fact that her possession of any such power was a delusion would become all too obvious. As it was, they were competing to offer her the most tempting considerations and privileges. It was, she had decided, much more profitable and much safer to be a Queen-Maker than a Queen. Anyway, she had her audience to think of.
“So, what plans do you have for the next four months?”
“I’m going to be resting.”
Paschal snorted with laughter. Lugasharmanaska was picking up the habits and traditions of show-business with slightly terrifying speed. If she carried on this way, she’d be addressing everybody as ‘darling’ soon. “In other words, you have no commitments and nothing substantial to do. Well, I can fix that. How would you like to return to DIMO(N) for a few months, help us out with giving Yahweh the same treatment we handed out to Satan?”
“How much, and do I get a percentage of the gross?”
Yup, thought Paschal, our Luga has been in show business too long already. “Voluntary service and no percentage, I fear. Although your fans will be ecstatic to hear you’ve volunteered your service to help the war effort. Again.”
She studied his face carefully while the options ran themselves through her mind. The focus groups had pinned down her one drawback as a star was the doubts people had over her final loyalties. This was, Luga thought, unfair. She didn’t have any final loyalties. But giving up her time on hiatus to help the human war effort would convince the dubious that she was indeed on their side.
“As long as volunteering gets me on the news. What do you want me to do?”
“We’re getting a battering from Yahweh. We’re taking losses, nothing we can’t afford but irritating nonetheless. The problem is, we can’t get back at him. Over the last six months, every possible way we can get to Heaven has been methodically closed. So, we’re pulling in every asset we can get our hands on to change that. And you, Luga, are one of them.”
She nodded. One thought running through her mind was that The Eternal City was effectively a mass of precious stones and looting it would make her a fortune. Another was that poking Yahweh in the eye was always worthwhile. And if it increased the debts that humans owed to her, well, so much the better. “Right, I will rephrase my answer, what do you need to know?”
“Essentially, everything you can tell us about the Great Celestial War, how it was fought, where the fighting took place, how Heaven and Hell managed to get at each other. More than that, what sort of weaponry Yahweh brought to the party.”
“I can answer some of that right here. To get directly from Heaven to Hell or the other way is very hard indeed. It takes much effort and cooperation from both ends. There were very few such links and only one survived the war. Heavengate. Why don’t you use that?”
“It’s been closed.”
“Very sensible of Yahweh, or I suspect, Michaellanyahweh,” Luga pronounced Michael’s name demon-style, running all the parts into a single word. “Michael is Yahweh’s general. But weapons? Nothing compared to yours. He has his beasts of course and they are terrible to behold but compared to your tanks and aircraft?” Luga snorted with laughter.
Paschal thought that her laughter had a most engaging quality to it, then cudgeled himself over the head. Damn it, those pheromones were dangerous, and the confines of a limousine were perfect for them to develop their effects. He swallowed, got a grip on himself, and continued. “That’s a good start. Anyway, our experts will need to speak with you.”
“Why do you not ask Abigor? He fought in that war, as one of Satan’s best Generals. Or Belial, who was one of his worst.”
“We have no idea where Belial is. Anyway, we never rely on a single source.”
“Very wise.” So, the humans haven’t found Belial yet? Very interesting. “Driver, take us to my apartment.”
Desert, South of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. May 2009
“Does the One Above All know what He is asking?”
I don’t think ‘asking’ is quite accurate, thought Michael-Lan, screaming demands, and issuing blood-curdling threats in almost incoherent rage would be a little more accurate. “Is there anything that is beyond the knowledge of The All-Seeing Father? Yes, He does know what He asks but there is no alternative. It is the Americans who are the center of the resistance to His Divine Will, and it is they who must be made to suffer for their disobedience. The city close to here will be a suitable target, I think. It is on the border so it should be easy prey for you.” It is also in Texas, whose state motto is Shoot first, keep shooting, shoot some more and if anybody is left standing, ask some questions. You’re in for an interesting time Uriel-Lan-Yahweh.
“There is no easy prey in this world Michael-Lan. There hasn’t been for many years but now things are much, much worse. Everywhere I go, humans scan the skies with their machines, if they see anything suspicious, they send up their aircraft to investigate. Since the war started, every time they see something, they fire their missiles as well. Even the poorest and least of their countries have them now. And they have something else, something I do not understand. I have seen only hints of it, but it is beyond my understanding.”
Michael-Lan nodded sympathetically. “Humans love their machines. Some of them even give them their names and speak to them as if they are alive. Mexico is much poorer than America, come in from the south and the door should be open to you.”
“There is something else. Once, all I had to do was to will it and the humans died. No matter where no matter when they died without effort on my part. Now, it takes all my strength to snuff them out, and even then, many survive. Animals of every kind die but humans do not, not all of them. Since this war started, my task has become harder with every day that passes. Their aircraft are worst of all once I could still the lives of the pilot and the aircraft would fall from the sky.” Uriel paused, remembering the times when he had seized upon one of the great passenger aircraft the humans used and snuffed out the lives of its crew leaving the aircraft to crash. To do the same to the human fighter aircraft had often been harder but now was virtually impossible. He had used all his strength and the effect had been beneath notice.
Michael-Lan frowned mightily. “Uriel-Lan-Yahweh, do you doubt the wisdom of The One Above All?”
Uriel stepped back in sheer shock at the accusation. “Never!”
“I am pleased to hear it. You are the Fire and Sword of The Highest, his most trusted servant and the bringer of wrath upon his enemies. The All-Seeing Father would be most disturbed if he were to hear that you believed some humans were beyond his reach. You can say that again and hear it he will.
“You may tell The One Above All that tonight, Uriel will extinguish the city of El Paso.” Uriel drew himself up in a mixture of pride and offended dignity.
“I shall. Now, I must leave, I have business in the south.” Picking up a consignment of cocaine and some of those exquisite mushrooms. But no need for you to know that. Michael-Lan gathered his wings, inflated his sacs, and took off, leaving Uriel staring after him.
2nd Battery, 365th Air Defense Battalion, El Paso, Texas. May 2009
“Sarge, we’ve got a bandit on the radar.”
“Sure it’s not civilian?” There was no need to ask whether it was military or not, there was no identification friend-or-foe system response, and all military aircraft had such equipment. Of course, it could be on the fritz but that would then be a problem to sort out later. Better a blue-on-blue kill than a sky-volcano opening over El Paso.
“If it is, it’s way out of the safe lanes. Could be a druggie chancing his luck of course.” Every airport was surrounded by safe lanes that civilian aircraft had, in pain of being shot out of the sky, used. Early on, a few pilots had changed their arms and strayed out of those lanes only to have terminal arguments with missiles or fighters. The first resulting court case had gone to the Supreme Court in record time, where the Justices had ruled that responsibility for the shoot-downs lay with the pilots who had been flying in prohibited areas. Now, the only humans who flew in such areas were smugglers or the terminally stupid. The other alternatives were Baldricks or Angels and nobody objected to shooting them on sight.
“Air Force confirming. An AWACS has the contact as well, they read it coming in from the south, heading almost exactly due north. Speed 180 knots, altitude 7,500 feet.”
“Any word from the DIMO(N) net?” The landlines were already opening fast, they did every time something showed up somewhere it shouldn’t. Nobody could forget Detroit and the fifty thousand people who had died there. For a reason nobody could quite understand, the first sign that a portal was about to be opened was that cell phone reception went crazy. Monitoring the disruptions to service gave a warning to those beneath that something dreadful was about to happen.
“The DIMO(N) net reports no towers out, the dropped frame rate is nominal. There’s no portal forming out there.”
“Confirm data. That makes it either a civilian bird way off course or a hostile flying in.” Corporal Baughn re-read the data from the displays. “It’s on a direct course for El Paso, or Ciudad Juarez, take your pick. I class this one has hostile.”
The battery commander glanced at the displays. “Confirm that. If it isn’t, he’s too dumb to live. Within range?”
“Sure, those are PAC-3s out there.”
“Get ready to fire.” There was a pause. “Hold one, the Air Farce is vectoring two F-16s in.”
“Trust the fly-boys to muscle in.”
“Not so fast. The fighters will be a decoy, they’ll herd him over us and distract him. Then, when the time is right, we’ll stick four PAC-3s up him and he’ll never know they were there.”
“Works for me.”
Over the Desert, South of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. May 2009
Uriel glided silently through the darkness, savoring the signs of life that came from the bustling city beneath him. If he had his way, he would stay this far south, the city was a fat target and even the human’s newfound resistance to his touch couldn’t save them from a savage death toll. But he had his orders from The One Above All and they were not to be disputed. He would have to go further north, to the American city that lay beyond the river. It was easy to see where the divisor was; both cities were brightly lit but the part north of the river was almost garish in its multitude of lights and colors.
There was another reason why Uriel knew he was heading further north than he had been for many years. His skin was itching madly, and it got worse by the minute. Somehow, the humans knew he was here and we were already preparing one of their explosive welcomes for him. He sent out the first gentle touch of his mind, gauging reaction, and response rather than actively trying to snuff out the existences of those beneath him. As he had expected, the resistance was there, it varied in its effects from a hindrance to a complete block, but it was there. It was time to conduct his attack.
Uriel concentrated and focused his mind on the northern part of the great sea of light underneath him. His touch was rejected, blocked, and neutralized. He concentrated his willpower, pouring energy from his body into the attack, sending out great waves of his touch to blanket the ground beneath. In the part of his mind not conducting the onslaught, he visualized what must be happening on the ground below, the people simply dying as they stood or walked, slumping to the ground, their lives extinguished as if they had never been. His great wings in exultation as the power of his touch lapped the ground below. The resistance was still there, greater than in any of his attacks further south, but he could feel that at least some of the power he was emitting was finally taking its toll.
It was then that Uriel realized he was hearing something, a sky-ripping scream that was still far away but one that got closer all the time. ‘The war cry of a Sky-Chariot’ he thought scornfully, the pathetic name that Satan and the fallen that had been exiled to Hell had coined for what was simply the noise of a human jet engine. If Satan had bothered to stay in touch with humans, studied them, and followed their development, he too would have been warned of the way their knowledge and understanding had suddenly mushroomed out. Quite apart from anything else, Satan would still be alive and ruling Hell, not dead and buried with his followers living under human rule.
It was time to do something about these aircraft. Uriel made a lazy turn and headed directly towards them. He gathered his energy, redirecting it from the assault on those beneath him, concentrating it into a triumphant trumpet call that would hammer the approaching aircraft from the sky. He had heard how the lesser Angels had swept human aircraft from the skies with their trumpeting, rumor said that almost fifty human aircraft had been destroyed in that one fight. Now, the humans would see what the infinitely greater trumpeting of an Archangel could achieve. He summoned his strength, concentrated it into a single great call, and bellowed out its note.
It was as if the aircraft had sensed his purpose, for as he had turned to attack them, they had reversed course and fled away from him, their tails glowing bright red. They escaped unscathed; Uriel had the odd impression that his trumpet blast had fallen behind them as they fled to safety. He trumpeted again, this time in triumph for had he not engaged the human aircraft in single combat and forced them to flee in disgrace? He set off in pursuit, knowing it was futile since they were heading north far faster than he could fly.
It was then that the constant itching in his skin was replaced by a burning agony that convinced him that he was on fire. Instinctively, he glanced below and behind him to see four great streaks of fire closing in on him. The thoughts flashed through his mind, he had been tricked, fooled, lured into an ambush and he had but a split second to save himself before the missiles tore home. Faster than he had ever done in his life, far faster than was theoretically possible, he opened a portal and it enveloped him. It slammed shut behind him just a moment before the four PAC-3 missiles tore into the sky where it had been.
2nd Battery, 365th Air Defense Battalion, El Paso, Texas. May 2009
The thundering explosions lit the sky above El Paso, the four Patriot missiles expending themselves in an exemplary display of reliability. The question was, had they hit their target or simply exploded at the end of their flight. It was an old question and one that had confused more than a few debriefings.
“Did we get him?” It was Corporal Baughn speaking but he was voicing the question held in the minds of all.”
“There are no reports that a rain of overcooked and slightly-used rump steaks is descending on El Paso, so it doesn’t seem so.” A grim laugh ran around the battery control room.
“The DIMO(N) net is reporting Sir. They have a very small portal opening a split second before the missiles exploded. It was there for a tiny fraction of a second only but the position they have is close to our intercept point. I’d say the thing got away.”
Lieutenant Becerra sighed. “We missed him. We’ve never seen a Baldrick do that before.” He stopped for a second and went to the door of the van. In the distance, the sound of emergency service vehicle sirens wailing was distinguishable. “He didn’t miss us though.”
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Thirteen
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, May 2009
“Well, did you escape with your virginity intact?” General Schatten looked at Colonel Paschal curiously.
“I tell you, Sir, those pheromones are dangerous. It’s all right when there’s ventilation or the room is large enough but in a closed space like a limousine, they’re insidious.” Paschal reflected that he’d noticed all too late that Lugasharmanaska hadn’t had the air conditioning in her limousine turned on. “Even when one’s expecting them and prepared to discount their effects, they sort of sneak up on one.”
“So he did lose his virginity to her.” Dr. Surlethe put a great deal of satisfaction into his voice.
“Well, it’s not surprising. Remember that tabloid journalist? From the Enquirer or the Star, one of the supermarket things. Contacted her, wanting to do an expose on ‘Sex Secrets of the Succubae’ or something. She sucked him in, and he crawled out of her apartment two days later, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t even type for a week. He’s been singing her praises ever since.” A guffaw ran around the room, the power the succubae had to seduce people was already legendary.
Paschal went bright red which caused an even greater outburst of laughter. “I told you, I didn’t lose my virginity to her….”
“I guess you’d lost it somewhere else first then. Careless of you.” Dr. Kuroneko spoke suavely. “Of course, you realize she’s now got your sperm stored away. She’ll transfer it to an Incubus who will then impregnate a woman with it.”
“Ugh, squick.” The executive assistant taking meeting notes in the corner of the room shuddered with distaste.
“You know Colonel, you could be in serious trouble there.” The emotionless, uninflected voice sounded strange in contrast to the joking that had been going on. “The recipient of that Incubus’s attentions could well sue you for paternity. After all the courts have already ruled that a woman who impregnates herself with the contents of a discarded condom has a right to demand child support.”
“You’re joking.” Paschal sounded genuinely panicky. “Aren’t you?” Then he looked at the speaker more closely. “I thought your company had lost its contract when the new administration came in.”
“It did. But the number of people who can do the sort of work we do is very limited. So, when the old company loses the contract, we all get laid off, but the new company must hire staff to do the work. We’re the only ones available so they offer us our old jobs back. In the old days, we used to clear our desks one afternoon, go home, pick up the recruiting call and be at our new desks the next morning. These days things are much more efficient. The old company just transfers the lease on the building and our employment contracts to the new company and we don’t even have to move offices.”
“Has it always been like that?” Schatten was fascinated by the insight.
“Mostly, McNamara bought his people in from outside, the whizz-kids they were called, and they made a pig’s breakfast of everything. But they went when he did, and things got back to normal. Or as close to normal as anything gets inside the beltway. Anyway, Luga’s back on the team?”
“She is. Thanks to the brave Colonel’s sacrifice and devotion to duty.”
“Good, I like Luga.” The targeteer settled down in a seat.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Schatten opened his pad, “You all heard about the attack on El Paso and Ciudad Juarez last night?”
A ripple of acknowledgment ran around the room and the meeting got serious very suddenly.
“We have preliminary casualty figures. More than 30,000 dead, about three-quarters of them in Ciudad Juarez. Just over 6,000 in El Paso itself. To put those numbers into perspective, the population of El Paso is roughly 750,000 while that of Ciudad Juarez is 1,300,000. So, the death rate was 800 per hundred thousand or 0.8 percent in El Paso and 1,846 per hundred thousand or 1.84 percent in Ciudad Juarez.”
“That’s very interesting.” Dr. Kuroneko looked at the numbers he’d scribbled down. “The differential is statistically significant.”
“It’s more than that, look at this.” Surlethe reached up and flipped the chart over to an acetate overlay map of the El Paso/Ciudad Juarez metropolis. Some of the areas were shaded black and it didn’t take much imagination to see that the depth of the shading represented the proportion of the population that had died.
“It’s related to population density. Hardly surprising.” The monotone voice was not impressed.
“Not quite no, it’s a reasonable assumption and one we made at first.” Surlethe flipped another acetate overlay onto the map. “This is the population density distribution. You can see that it doesn’t quite fit, there are substantial discrepancies. But when we use this overlay, the fit is exact.”
Surlethe flipped a third acetate overlay into place and the attendees nodded. The fit was indeed exact. “And what is that map?”
“It’s a map of the city divided into areas by relative income. And the conclusion is obvious. Where people are rich, nobody died. Where people are poor, some died. Where they were destitute, a large number died. Even then, the number of surviving humans far outweighs the number of dead. But every cat, every dog, every rat, every bird, every animal of every sort is dead. Rich neighborhood or slum neighborhood, it doesn’t matter. The animals died, all of them. But the rich didn’t die but the poor did. What does that prove?”
“That Yahweh is a Republican?” One of the staffers trotted out the crack, then looked embarrassed at the lack of response.
“Quite.” Dr. Surlethe’s comment was withering. “It strongly suggests that it's wealth that provided the defense against this kind of attack. We’re assuming an Archangel called Uriel is responsible by the way, we’ve got circumstantial evidence for that and can tie it to a lot more attacks like this down south. They all show the same pattern, by the way, poor areas got hit much harder than rich areas.
"So, how do the rich differ from the poor?"
"They have more money." The targeteer reflected that the comment was a BLIFO, a Blinding Flash of the Obvious. "And that means they buy better things. Newer things as well, not old, or second-hand stuff. The poor do without or pick up trash. How did these people, and the animals come to think of it, die anyway?"
"That's the curious thing, the coroners and medical examiners are hard at work trying to find out. The problem is, of course, that most of the victims are poor and in poor health to start with. They had a lot of pre-existing conditions that could have caused their deaths and would have done given time, so disentangling what they died of is a problem. Then, again, some of the dead did die of natural causes, run down to give one example when a car went out of control because its driver died. The scene was a bit like the attack on Fort Knox in the film Goldfinger."
"There are much easier ways of knocking over Fort Knox than that." The targeteer spoke idly. "Anyway, do we have any reliable autopsy results?"
Doctor Surlethe fought down the intense desire to ask what the best way was to rob Fort Knox and opened a file. "We have none from the American side, but we do have some preliminary results from an autopsy of an eccentric rich resident of Ciudad Juarez. He believed that tinfoil hats were a plot by the United Nations to take over the world and refused to wear one. He did, however, cover his house in aluminum foil. According to the autopsy, he just died of not living. There was no actual cause for his death, he wasn't in perfect health, but he had no conditions that would explain how he died. He just stopped living. The Mexican medical examiner, a good doctor, by the way, the people in El Paso speak highly of her, admits to being beaten by this one. There's no reason why he died, he just did."
"Was he found inside or outside his house?" The targeteer had leaned forward slightly.
"Sort of both, he was on the patio. The roof was foil-covered but not the sides. Why?"
"We know the Baldrick's mind control powers work by biologically generated electromagnetic radiation. That's why we all wear hats these days." Unconsciously he touched his 'Nuke the Whales' baseball cap, a gesture that was repeated by several of those present. To humans, headwear had become the same sort of good-luck talisman that had once been represented by rabbits’ feet, crucifixes, and Saint Christopher medallions. "They can use that capability to project images into the human mind and make us believe, and act on, those images. They can't read minds of course, never could, but they can possess our minds. So, suppose this Uriel fellow can simply suppress the parts of our minds that keep us alive. You know, make our hearts beat, keep us breathing, all that good stuff."
The targeteer thought for a second. "I wonder if there's an eccentric old lady in El Paso who put a tinfoil hat on her much-beloved little dog? And, if there is, I bet that dog is still alive."
"But if that's the case, why the differential between rich and poor. Everybody has a tinfoil hat these days." It was the same staffer who had made the crack about Yahweh being a Republican.
Dr. Surlethe snorted. "That's easy to figure out. We covered it earlier. The rich have more money, they buy better things. I bet if we compare the tinfoil hats worn by the rich people in the area, they're a lot better made than the ones the poor have. And I bet the rich were the first to upgrade their houses to have metal screening built into the walls."
"That comparison is easy to make." Dr. Kuroneko pulled a spare cap from his briefcase. "Standard U.S. protective hat, the insulating lining is a sandwich, two layers of aluminum foil with a thin layer of foamed aluminum between them. That's pretty much what everybody has and if you buy a hat at any mall, this is what it'll have built into it. The standard aid cap, the one given out to people across the world is just a single layer of aluminum foil, it’s just folded cooking foil. I'll run some propagation tests, but I guess that our caps have an order of magnitude better screening effect on electromagnetic radiation than the standard aid cap."
"You needn't run the tests, I can guarantee that is so." The targeteer smiled. "That laminate was designed to shield military equipment, its ability to shield against incident electromagnetic signals or surges is very high. This use for it was purely serendipitous. Worked in our favor though, the sheer scale of production needed for hats has cut the cost of the laminate way down."
"EMP resistance." Kuroneko wasn't asking a question.
"You got it. Also shielding bridges on warships from their radars and other emitters."
"Well, that just about explains the differential. But there's something else that is worrying me. Why is the death toll so low? According to the Sanchez letter, Uriel killed anything and everything within his lethal radius. Here, he's achieved that against unprotected animals but his score against humans is tiny. Even against the worst-protected of our people, he's scoring less than five percent and if our distribution map is to be believed, even poor shielding cuts that to almost zero. There's something else here people, and we're missing it."
Headquarters, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City
Lemuel-Lan-Michael sighed gently and eased back in his seat. The pursuit of idolators, blasphemers, and heretics sounded glamorous, but the fact of the matter was that it usually ended up as a mass of tedious paperwork. The hunt for the source of the human potion that had been found in Ishmael's possession was turning out to be exactly that kind of hunt. The interrogation of Ishmael had been all too effective, faced with the threat of another session under a bucket of water he has spilled out everybody whose name he had even heard of. The problem had first been going through those names and eliminating the insignificant. Of course, therein lay the first problem, how could he know who was significant and who was not?
Even after the obvious candidates had been taken off the list, it was still a frighteningly long document. The next step had been to compare that list with all the others they had, ones obtained from other heretics and blasphemers, lists of those suspected of being part of idolator groups, others who had, perhaps, too elevated an idea of their position in Heaven. Some did not comprehend that even being allowed into The Eternal City was privilege enough and they should be eternally grateful for it. This had led to another problem, every time the same name appeared on Ishmael's list and one of those other lists, it resulted in a chain of linkages that spread across dozens of scrolls. Lemuel-Lan-Michael had given up trying to keep a mental note of all the cross-references and had created a chart that covered most of the wall of his office.
It was that chart that had resulted in him running head-on into the third of his problems. He had some of his Ishim clerks copy out the lists onto the wall and then he'd painstakingly drawn in colored lines to indicate the linkages. The wall had swiftly vanished behind a mass of color but the picture that had emerged was rather frightening. It suggested that all the lists were linked and cross-linked, that what the League of the Holy Court had been treating as separate cases were, in fact, part of a great underground conspiracy. It was also apparent that Ishmael himself was only a very minor cog in that conspiracy. That was chilling for one of the consequences of the chart drawn on his wall was that the conspiracy had extended to include angels in its ranks. This was not unprecedented but the precedent that existed was not one to ease the mind of an investigative angel. It reminded him all too clearly of the time, uncounted millennia before when Satan had been planning his revolt. Was he, Lemuel, looking at the battleground of a repeat version of the Great Celestial War? And did Heaven have the strength to continue the war against the humans if it was split internally by a civil war? Michael-Lan needed to know of this immediately.
"Gazardiel," Lemuel called out for one of his messengers, a trustworthy Malachim who would gain immediate access to Michael-Lan. Gazardiel-Lan-Lemuel received his instructions, bowed respectfully, and took off, leaving Lemuel to ponder the problem that he was uncovering. So, lost was he in the great chart before him that he failed to notice Michael-Lan entering the offices.
"I see you have unusual taste in wall decoration Lemuel-Lan-Michael."
Michael-Lan's friendly jibe jerked Lemuel back into the world. He dropped to one knee, folding his wings across his face as he did so. "Michael-Lan, you honor me with your swift arrival. I have uncovered something that concerns me greatly."
"This is concerned with the source for the human elixir you discovered?"
"In a way, High One. I thought the best way to start would be to find out who Ishmael knew and who would be likely to have supplied him with such a thing. In doing so, I have uncovered what appears to be a plot of the gravest dimensions." Lemuel looked at Michael-Lan and saw the cloud of concern sweeping across his face. Once again, he reflected on his great good fortune to count such a perceptive Archangel as his friend. "Look, each one of these lists came from the arrest of an idolator or a heretic. The one here, on a blue background, is from Ishmael himself. His links to others are also in blue. Links from those others to yet more members of the groups are in green, then further links again in red. See how they spread."
Michael-Lan was studying the lists, disentangling the lines, and noting the names linked and, to him, much more importantly, noting the names that were not on the lists or remained unlinked. "But Lemuel-Lan everybody in Heaven is linked like this. You know the old proverb, everybody in heaven is linked with only six degrees of separation."
"I do, High One, but this is different. See how self-contained this list is. Yes, some linkages spread all over the texts, but follow them and they remain within defined limits. Those who are linked, retain their links within the same small group and do not stray outside it. There is no link beyond that circle. Michael-Lan, this is not just a normal social network, this has every sign of a conspiracy. Worse, look at some of the names, there are Angels, Ishim, Elohim, Malachim, even Seraphim, and one Hashmallim involved. Does this not remind you of the time before the Great Celestial War?"
Michael-Lan studied the charts again. He had to agree with Lemuel-Lan, this had every appearance of being a conspiracy, in some ways worst of all, it wasn't his. "Lemuel-Lan, you have done noble work here, but this is work that demands the utmost in secrecy. Keep this chart always covered, it is for your eyes and mine and nobody else. I feared this discovery the moment you showed me the bottle of human elixir and now those fears have become very real. You are right, there is a blasphemous conspiracy here and one that must be nipped in the bud right away. I will leave you to deal with the humans involved in this while I deal with the angels who need reminding of their station in the great scheme of things."
Michael-Lan noted down the list of angels identified as being part of the rival conspiracy and decided he had his list of volunteers for pouring the next Bowl of Wrath. Then, he swept out, leaving Lemuel looking at his chart, a sense of fulfillment buoying his spirits.
"Noble One?"
"Yes, Gazardiel-Lan?"
"How could sin and corruption have spread even into angelic ranks?"
"It is the influence of humans, their accursed determination to think for themselves ever leads them into heresy and blasphemy. That is why The One Above All decided that there should be no more admissions of humans into Heaven. See what their mulishness has led them to? If only they had accepted what they were told without argument, the doors of Heaven would still be open to them." That thought made Lemuel look pensive for without humans, what would Angels use as menial servants?
Then, another thought occurred to him, and it troubled him greatly. For the bottle of elixir was truly sin and corruption but it was of a different kind to the arguments over faith that dominated this conspiracy. It was hard to imagine theological disputes over the interpretation of The One Above All's words to be lubricated by human elixirs. So, where did that bottle fit into this? Looking at his chart, Lemuel-Lan-Michael found his eyes drawn to the small number of names on Ishmael's list that were not linked to the conspiracy he had uncovered.
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, May 2009
“Well, did you escape with your virginity intact?” General Schatten looked at Colonel Paschal curiously.
“I tell you, Sir, those pheromones are dangerous. It’s all right when there’s ventilation or the room is large enough but in a closed space like a limousine, they’re insidious.” Paschal reflected that he’d noticed all too late that Lugasharmanaska hadn’t had the air conditioning in her limousine turned on. “Even when one’s expecting them and prepared to discount their effects, they sort of sneak up on one.”
“So he did lose his virginity to her.” Dr. Surlethe put a great deal of satisfaction into his voice.
“Well, it’s not surprising. Remember that tabloid journalist? From the Enquirer or the Star, one of the supermarket things. Contacted her, wanting to do an expose on ‘Sex Secrets of the Succubae’ or something. She sucked him in, and he crawled out of her apartment two days later, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t even type for a week. He’s been singing her praises ever since.” A guffaw ran around the room, the power the succubae had to seduce people was already legendary.
Paschal went bright red which caused an even greater outburst of laughter. “I told you, I didn’t lose my virginity to her….”
“I guess you’d lost it somewhere else first then. Careless of you.” Dr. Kuroneko spoke suavely. “Of course, you realize she’s now got your sperm stored away. She’ll transfer it to an Incubus who will then impregnate a woman with it.”
“Ugh, squick.” The executive assistant taking meeting notes in the corner of the room shuddered with distaste.
“You know Colonel, you could be in serious trouble there.” The emotionless, uninflected voice sounded strange in contrast to the joking that had been going on. “The recipient of that Incubus’s attentions could well sue you for paternity. After all the courts have already ruled that a woman who impregnates herself with the contents of a discarded condom has a right to demand child support.”
“You’re joking.” Paschal sounded genuinely panicky. “Aren’t you?” Then he looked at the speaker more closely. “I thought your company had lost its contract when the new administration came in.”
“It did. But the number of people who can do the sort of work we do is very limited. So, when the old company loses the contract, we all get laid off, but the new company must hire staff to do the work. We’re the only ones available so they offer us our old jobs back. In the old days, we used to clear our desks one afternoon, go home, pick up the recruiting call and be at our new desks the next morning. These days things are much more efficient. The old company just transfers the lease on the building and our employment contracts to the new company and we don’t even have to move offices.”
“Has it always been like that?” Schatten was fascinated by the insight.
“Mostly, McNamara bought his people in from outside, the whizz-kids they were called, and they made a pig’s breakfast of everything. But they went when he did, and things got back to normal. Or as close to normal as anything gets inside the beltway. Anyway, Luga’s back on the team?”
“She is. Thanks to the brave Colonel’s sacrifice and devotion to duty.”
“Good, I like Luga.” The targeteer settled down in a seat.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Schatten opened his pad, “You all heard about the attack on El Paso and Ciudad Juarez last night?”
A ripple of acknowledgment ran around the room and the meeting got serious very suddenly.
“We have preliminary casualty figures. More than 30,000 dead, about three-quarters of them in Ciudad Juarez. Just over 6,000 in El Paso itself. To put those numbers into perspective, the population of El Paso is roughly 750,000 while that of Ciudad Juarez is 1,300,000. So, the death rate was 800 per hundred thousand or 0.8 percent in El Paso and 1,846 per hundred thousand or 1.84 percent in Ciudad Juarez.”
“That’s very interesting.” Dr. Kuroneko looked at the numbers he’d scribbled down. “The differential is statistically significant.”
“It’s more than that, look at this.” Surlethe reached up and flipped the chart over to an acetate overlay map of the El Paso/Ciudad Juarez metropolis. Some of the areas were shaded black and it didn’t take much imagination to see that the depth of the shading represented the proportion of the population that had died.
“It’s related to population density. Hardly surprising.” The monotone voice was not impressed.
“Not quite no, it’s a reasonable assumption and one we made at first.” Surlethe flipped another acetate overlay onto the map. “This is the population density distribution. You can see that it doesn’t quite fit, there are substantial discrepancies. But when we use this overlay, the fit is exact.”
Surlethe flipped a third acetate overlay into place and the attendees nodded. The fit was indeed exact. “And what is that map?”
“It’s a map of the city divided into areas by relative income. And the conclusion is obvious. Where people are rich, nobody died. Where people are poor, some died. Where they were destitute, a large number died. Even then, the number of surviving humans far outweighs the number of dead. But every cat, every dog, every rat, every bird, every animal of every sort is dead. Rich neighborhood or slum neighborhood, it doesn’t matter. The animals died, all of them. But the rich didn’t die but the poor did. What does that prove?”
“That Yahweh is a Republican?” One of the staffers trotted out the crack, then looked embarrassed at the lack of response.
“Quite.” Dr. Surlethe’s comment was withering. “It strongly suggests that it's wealth that provided the defense against this kind of attack. We’re assuming an Archangel called Uriel is responsible by the way, we’ve got circumstantial evidence for that and can tie it to a lot more attacks like this down south. They all show the same pattern, by the way, poor areas got hit much harder than rich areas.
"So, how do the rich differ from the poor?"
"They have more money." The targeteer reflected that the comment was a BLIFO, a Blinding Flash of the Obvious. "And that means they buy better things. Newer things as well, not old, or second-hand stuff. The poor do without or pick up trash. How did these people, and the animals come to think of it, die anyway?"
"That's the curious thing, the coroners and medical examiners are hard at work trying to find out. The problem is, of course, that most of the victims are poor and in poor health to start with. They had a lot of pre-existing conditions that could have caused their deaths and would have done given time, so disentangling what they died of is a problem. Then, again, some of the dead did die of natural causes, run down to give one example when a car went out of control because its driver died. The scene was a bit like the attack on Fort Knox in the film Goldfinger."
"There are much easier ways of knocking over Fort Knox than that." The targeteer spoke idly. "Anyway, do we have any reliable autopsy results?"
Doctor Surlethe fought down the intense desire to ask what the best way was to rob Fort Knox and opened a file. "We have none from the American side, but we do have some preliminary results from an autopsy of an eccentric rich resident of Ciudad Juarez. He believed that tinfoil hats were a plot by the United Nations to take over the world and refused to wear one. He did, however, cover his house in aluminum foil. According to the autopsy, he just died of not living. There was no actual cause for his death, he wasn't in perfect health, but he had no conditions that would explain how he died. He just stopped living. The Mexican medical examiner, a good doctor, by the way, the people in El Paso speak highly of her, admits to being beaten by this one. There's no reason why he died, he just did."
"Was he found inside or outside his house?" The targeteer had leaned forward slightly.
"Sort of both, he was on the patio. The roof was foil-covered but not the sides. Why?"
"We know the Baldrick's mind control powers work by biologically generated electromagnetic radiation. That's why we all wear hats these days." Unconsciously he touched his 'Nuke the Whales' baseball cap, a gesture that was repeated by several of those present. To humans, headwear had become the same sort of good-luck talisman that had once been represented by rabbits’ feet, crucifixes, and Saint Christopher medallions. "They can use that capability to project images into the human mind and make us believe, and act on, those images. They can't read minds of course, never could, but they can possess our minds. So, suppose this Uriel fellow can simply suppress the parts of our minds that keep us alive. You know, make our hearts beat, keep us breathing, all that good stuff."
The targeteer thought for a second. "I wonder if there's an eccentric old lady in El Paso who put a tinfoil hat on her much-beloved little dog? And, if there is, I bet that dog is still alive."
"But if that's the case, why the differential between rich and poor. Everybody has a tinfoil hat these days." It was the same staffer who had made the crack about Yahweh being a Republican.
Dr. Surlethe snorted. "That's easy to figure out. We covered it earlier. The rich have more money, they buy better things. I bet if we compare the tinfoil hats worn by the rich people in the area, they're a lot better made than the ones the poor have. And I bet the rich were the first to upgrade their houses to have metal screening built into the walls."
"That comparison is easy to make." Dr. Kuroneko pulled a spare cap from his briefcase. "Standard U.S. protective hat, the insulating lining is a sandwich, two layers of aluminum foil with a thin layer of foamed aluminum between them. That's pretty much what everybody has and if you buy a hat at any mall, this is what it'll have built into it. The standard aid cap, the one given out to people across the world is just a single layer of aluminum foil, it’s just folded cooking foil. I'll run some propagation tests, but I guess that our caps have an order of magnitude better screening effect on electromagnetic radiation than the standard aid cap."
"You needn't run the tests, I can guarantee that is so." The targeteer smiled. "That laminate was designed to shield military equipment, its ability to shield against incident electromagnetic signals or surges is very high. This use for it was purely serendipitous. Worked in our favor though, the sheer scale of production needed for hats has cut the cost of the laminate way down."
"EMP resistance." Kuroneko wasn't asking a question.
"You got it. Also shielding bridges on warships from their radars and other emitters."
"Well, that just about explains the differential. But there's something else that is worrying me. Why is the death toll so low? According to the Sanchez letter, Uriel killed anything and everything within his lethal radius. Here, he's achieved that against unprotected animals but his score against humans is tiny. Even against the worst-protected of our people, he's scoring less than five percent and if our distribution map is to be believed, even poor shielding cuts that to almost zero. There's something else here people, and we're missing it."
Headquarters, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City
Lemuel-Lan-Michael sighed gently and eased back in his seat. The pursuit of idolators, blasphemers, and heretics sounded glamorous, but the fact of the matter was that it usually ended up as a mass of tedious paperwork. The hunt for the source of the human potion that had been found in Ishmael's possession was turning out to be exactly that kind of hunt. The interrogation of Ishmael had been all too effective, faced with the threat of another session under a bucket of water he has spilled out everybody whose name he had even heard of. The problem had first been going through those names and eliminating the insignificant. Of course, therein lay the first problem, how could he know who was significant and who was not?
Even after the obvious candidates had been taken off the list, it was still a frighteningly long document. The next step had been to compare that list with all the others they had, ones obtained from other heretics and blasphemers, lists of those suspected of being part of idolator groups, others who had, perhaps, too elevated an idea of their position in Heaven. Some did not comprehend that even being allowed into The Eternal City was privilege enough and they should be eternally grateful for it. This had led to another problem, every time the same name appeared on Ishmael's list and one of those other lists, it resulted in a chain of linkages that spread across dozens of scrolls. Lemuel-Lan-Michael had given up trying to keep a mental note of all the cross-references and had created a chart that covered most of the wall of his office.
It was that chart that had resulted in him running head-on into the third of his problems. He had some of his Ishim clerks copy out the lists onto the wall and then he'd painstakingly drawn in colored lines to indicate the linkages. The wall had swiftly vanished behind a mass of color but the picture that had emerged was rather frightening. It suggested that all the lists were linked and cross-linked, that what the League of the Holy Court had been treating as separate cases were, in fact, part of a great underground conspiracy. It was also apparent that Ishmael himself was only a very minor cog in that conspiracy. That was chilling for one of the consequences of the chart drawn on his wall was that the conspiracy had extended to include angels in its ranks. This was not unprecedented but the precedent that existed was not one to ease the mind of an investigative angel. It reminded him all too clearly of the time, uncounted millennia before when Satan had been planning his revolt. Was he, Lemuel, looking at the battleground of a repeat version of the Great Celestial War? And did Heaven have the strength to continue the war against the humans if it was split internally by a civil war? Michael-Lan needed to know of this immediately.
"Gazardiel," Lemuel called out for one of his messengers, a trustworthy Malachim who would gain immediate access to Michael-Lan. Gazardiel-Lan-Lemuel received his instructions, bowed respectfully, and took off, leaving Lemuel to ponder the problem that he was uncovering. So, lost was he in the great chart before him that he failed to notice Michael-Lan entering the offices.
"I see you have unusual taste in wall decoration Lemuel-Lan-Michael."
Michael-Lan's friendly jibe jerked Lemuel back into the world. He dropped to one knee, folding his wings across his face as he did so. "Michael-Lan, you honor me with your swift arrival. I have uncovered something that concerns me greatly."
"This is concerned with the source for the human elixir you discovered?"
"In a way, High One. I thought the best way to start would be to find out who Ishmael knew and who would be likely to have supplied him with such a thing. In doing so, I have uncovered what appears to be a plot of the gravest dimensions." Lemuel looked at Michael-Lan and saw the cloud of concern sweeping across his face. Once again, he reflected on his great good fortune to count such a perceptive Archangel as his friend. "Look, each one of these lists came from the arrest of an idolator or a heretic. The one here, on a blue background, is from Ishmael himself. His links to others are also in blue. Links from those others to yet more members of the groups are in green, then further links again in red. See how they spread."
Michael-Lan was studying the lists, disentangling the lines, and noting the names linked and, to him, much more importantly, noting the names that were not on the lists or remained unlinked. "But Lemuel-Lan everybody in Heaven is linked like this. You know the old proverb, everybody in heaven is linked with only six degrees of separation."
"I do, High One, but this is different. See how self-contained this list is. Yes, some linkages spread all over the texts, but follow them and they remain within defined limits. Those who are linked, retain their links within the same small group and do not stray outside it. There is no link beyond that circle. Michael-Lan, this is not just a normal social network, this has every sign of a conspiracy. Worse, look at some of the names, there are Angels, Ishim, Elohim, Malachim, even Seraphim, and one Hashmallim involved. Does this not remind you of the time before the Great Celestial War?"
Michael-Lan studied the charts again. He had to agree with Lemuel-Lan, this had every appearance of being a conspiracy, in some ways worst of all, it wasn't his. "Lemuel-Lan, you have done noble work here, but this is work that demands the utmost in secrecy. Keep this chart always covered, it is for your eyes and mine and nobody else. I feared this discovery the moment you showed me the bottle of human elixir and now those fears have become very real. You are right, there is a blasphemous conspiracy here and one that must be nipped in the bud right away. I will leave you to deal with the humans involved in this while I deal with the angels who need reminding of their station in the great scheme of things."
Michael-Lan noted down the list of angels identified as being part of the rival conspiracy and decided he had his list of volunteers for pouring the next Bowl of Wrath. Then, he swept out, leaving Lemuel looking at his chart, a sense of fulfillment buoying his spirits.
"Noble One?"
"Yes, Gazardiel-Lan?"
"How could sin and corruption have spread even into angelic ranks?"
"It is the influence of humans, their accursed determination to think for themselves ever leads them into heresy and blasphemy. That is why The One Above All decided that there should be no more admissions of humans into Heaven. See what their mulishness has led them to? If only they had accepted what they were told without argument, the doors of Heaven would still be open to them." That thought made Lemuel look pensive for without humans, what would Angels use as menial servants?
Then, another thought occurred to him, and it troubled him greatly. For the bottle of elixir was truly sin and corruption but it was of a different kind to the arguments over faith that dominated this conspiracy. It was hard to imagine theological disputes over the interpretation of The One Above All's words to be lubricated by human elixirs. So, where did that bottle fit into this? Looking at his chart, Lemuel-Lan-Michael found his eyes drawn to the small number of names on Ishmael's list that were not linked to the conspiracy he had uncovered.
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Fourteen
DIMO(N) Office of Nonhuman History and Research, Pentagon, Arlington VA
Norman Baines sat at his desk quietly leafing through a text in medieval French recently transferred from the Vatican archives. To be truthful, ‘desk’ was an understatement, as the main table in his office was piled with various books as high as six feet and was becoming more of a fort. There were hi-res digital scans on his computer of course, but Norman absorbed the information better if it was in his hands.
“Anybody home?” A voice called in an atrocious cockney accent, “I’m looking for Professor Dumbledore.” A knock at the doorway snapped Norman out of his work.
“Charlie!” Norman jumped up, knocking over a pile of scrolls at his left, and smiled. Rushing over, he gave his twin brother a big hug and then stepped back, “Hey, check out the hardware,” he made a motion of shining his brother’s rank insignia “Captain Baines, eh?”
“Reporting as ordered.” Charles smiled and presented a Vulcan salute to his brother. The memories from their youth made both men laugh. “After I brought your work to them and did a bit of assisting on some of the new projects DIMO(N) working on, they felt a promotion was in order.”
“Oh yeah?” Norman raised an eyebrow. “What’s your new posting?”
Charlie paused, somewhat confused, “Uh… here? Norm? Bro… I sent you an email a week ago. I’m the new military liaison between the DIMO(N) Applied Technologies at Yale and the head of the civilian researchers here.”
Norman furrowed his brow and turned around to his desk, pressing a button on his keyboard, made of brass and faux stone. A familiar chime sounded, and after quickly scanning the text Norman whirled back,
“That’s great, Charlie, it sounds like all that engineering finally paid off! Well, let’s introduce you to the rest of the department, starting at the top!” Norman went to the doorway and called to his assistant “Carol, who’s the head of R&D now that O’Shea got kicked upstairs?”
Carol sighed slightly. “You are, Mister Baines. For almost a month now.” She shook her head and smiled. “You need to stop reading demonology texts during department meetings.”
“Oh…” Norman walked back to his computer and tapped through another few e-mails, then shrugged his shoulders. “Then I guess… Welcome to DIMON, Captain Baines! We hope you’ll have a hell of a time.” He shook his brother’s hand. “Why don’t we get some dinner and then I’ll show you around.”
“It’s 10 a.m., Norman.” Charlie shook his head at his brother.
“Oh,” Norman checked his watch and Charlie noticed the numbers were a system he didn’t recognize. “I guess I did that whole staying-up-late reading thing again. Carol!” He called, “how long have I been here?”
“Almost two days, Sir. Today is Thursday. There’s a change of clothes on the hook in your bathroom. You can freshen up there.”
Norman glanced at his brother questioningly, and Charlie made a display of holding his nose in one hand and pointing with the other. Norman returned the salute and dashed off to his private bathroom while Charlie sat down, chuckling. “So, you’re the one who’s keeping my brother fed, watered, and fully dressed?”
“Yes, Sir, Captain Baines; As much as can be expected. Sometimes he wanders off through the archives and we can’t find him. We gave him a GPS tracker, but he lost it.” Carol continued reviewing and compiling reports for Norman. “He’s a brilliant man, Captain, he just tends to get tunnel vision. A good assistant knows how best to direct and guide the people they work for. You should see some of the intel he pulls out of those texts, it’s astounding.”
“Yeah, you should’ve seen him when he was a dungeon master. Memorized about forty books in under two months.” He grinned. “The adventures were fun, too.” Carol smiled mischievously and held up a small, amethyst dodecahedron, “They still are, Captain. I have a level 9 Tiefling. Tuesday night is game night.”
Just as Charlie began to ask a follow-up question, his brother returned, “Alright, let’s eat!” Norman bounded out the door, showered, and dressed faster than many would have believed possible. “I think there’s a place in the food court that has fried chicken,” He stopped short and peered into the hallway, confused, “though I don’t know where it is…”
DIMO(N) Offices, Pentagon, Arlington, VA
After an enjoyable lunch, nearly an hour away from reading musty parchment, Norman was far more social and tuned in to the world around him. He was enjoying showing his brother around the massive suite of offices in the C-Ring that DIMO(N) now occupied. They came up to a large set of double doors and Norman chuckled, “Oh, now this is a great place, man. You’re going to love these guys!” He opened one of the doors next to a sign that read ‘Innovative Universal Dynamics’ and they stepped in. Charlie stood in awe at one end of a heavily modified mid-sized lecture. The walls were rife with computer screens, whiteboards, blackboards, and even squares of cork with thumbtacks. Diagrams, parchment, maps, charts, blueprints, and unidentified documents spanning 3 millennia were plastered on every surface. Throughout the room dozens of men and women paced, strolled, stalked, or ran amongst the clutter, studying this chart or that text, conferring, arguing, and occasionally shouting. They worked at tables and on computer stations set around seemingly at random, and off to one side, there was a lounge set up with sofas and a small espresso machine where a handful of people were dozing peacefully.
“What is this place?” Charles asked in amazement.
“This,” Norman waved at the room in a grand proclamation “is where we try to make sense of it all. Since the discovery of the existence of Hell and Heaven, physicists have had to throw out a lot of what they thought they knew and start over. We’ve got people here from all over the spectrum that tries to take what’s been observed about hell with what we know about our universe and try and fit them together. It’s sort of like a mad scientist convention, only with fewer super-weapons.”
A man in his late thirties walked up to the pair of brothers and shook Norman’s hand. “Good to see you again, Norm! You here for another round?”
“No thanks, Doc. I’m just showing my brother our facilities, he’s the new liaison from Aptech.” He motioned to his brother “Captain Charles Baines, this is Doctor Junghalli, Lord of the Tank.”
“The Tank?”
“Oh yes, that’s what we call it.” Dr. Junghalli swept his arms around and up, as though he was addressing the masses of an imaginary throng. “Free-spirited discourse on the nature of existence- I suppose we could have called it a Salon but well, these things tend to go their own way. If you’ve ever got some free time, Captain, feel free to stop by. An engineer with a military mindset could help immensely.”
“Thanks, Doctor.” Charles shook his hand. “But I’m afraid my time at the Academy didn’t cover quantum mechanics or multi-dimensional math.”
“Bah, that’s not what we’re doing here.” Dr. Junghalli shook his head and grimaced as though he was tasting a bitter pill, “We need ideas here in the Tank. Good ones, and then we work them over with the applied math department to see if they fit. See that man over there?” He gestured to a figure hunched over at a table with several pads of paper and a laptop gathered around him, furiously writing, “That’s Banks, he writes science fiction and he’s got a good notion of dimensional mechanics. Went to Stirling in the UK, and never took any upper-level science.” Doctor Junghalli led them to the front of the room where they stood at the foot of three massive touchscreen displays.
The first had a sign underneath it at waist level, engraved in brass, that read “What we think the universe looks like TODAY”. It contained a rendering of a broad plane with small swirls on it. “You see, right now we think that all of existence is about two orders of magnitude older than the universe and that most of it are just white noise. BUT,” He held up a finger and Charlie had a flashback to his college physics lectures, “We think that we, and our companion universes, are merely localized reductions in the entropy that happened by chance, and that while earth and our universe are a bit more stable, we know it won’t last forever and then we go back to maximum entropy.
Charlie looked at the diagram and frowned, but before he could ask a question, Junghalli pointed to the second sign: “What do these words mean TODAY!!” There was a host of terms on the board- Universe, Portal, Gradient, Spatial Realm, and Dimension topped the list and seemed to be changing more than the others. Under ‘Dimension’ was a hand-written, asterisked, double-underlined note: Over-use of this word will result in you buying lunch for the people you confuse. “As you can see, Captain, our understanding has become very fluid. An idea we come up with today may make everything fit perfectly tomorrow and then be proven completely wrong in a week.” He tapped the screen with his knuckles, “It’s all about getting this board empty.”
He pointed to the third display; “What we still don’t know.” Underlined and highlighted several times was ‘How to target another universe from the outside.’ “Believe me, Aperture Science has their people in here a few times a day, hoping that we’ll be able to come up with something. If heaven can strike us with impunity, we’ll lose this war.”
A frustrated “Arrrgh!” echoed from one of the workstations, and a man and woman laughed as another man stalked across the room to a large empty water jug. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20, then stuffed it in. “What’s that about?” Charlie asked.
“That’s the ‘dead scientist’ jar,” Norman smirked. “When the Tank started, people used to keep saying ‘If only we had Einstein on this’ or ‘If only I could show this to Wheeler’. They wouldn’t be nearly as helpful as we think because we tend to imagine that dead scientists would still know what we know. So, to keep the frustrations down, anytime anyone wishes they had a brilliant dead scientist, they put the money in the jar. Then, on the last Friday of the month, we buy booze.” He looked at the forlorn man who had just surrendered his money, “That was $20 he put in? He must’ve been wishing for a Nobel Prize winner. Those guys are expensive.”
“Sounds like a great place you’ve got here, bro.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Baines.” Carol had suddenly materialized behind them, tapping Norman on the shoulder. “You just got a call for a debriefing tomorrow with Miss Lugasharmanaska and several military officials. 0900 hours.”
“Luga’s coming?” Norman’s eyes got wide, and he rubbed his hand across his stubble. “I need to shave.”
“Dude!” Charles shook his head.
“What?!”
“You remember how upset mom got when I married a Mormon, and now you’re trying to look nice for a demon?” He could barely contain his laughter as he tried not to conjure a mental image.
“Not just a demon, Charlie, a succubus.” Norman grinned as he emphasized the word. “They can look like ANYONE.”
“Fair point, but I’ll stick with my human wife, thanks.” Charles checked his watch. “Well, I need to head on over to Yale, why don’t you stop by my office next time you’re at Applied Technologies.”
“I’ll do that.” The two men embraced briefly with shoulder slapping all around. “See ya, flyboy!”
“See ya, nutjob.”
Destroyer "Turner Joy" off the coast of Virginia, June 2009
The old destroyer swung her bows around and lined up for another pass at the crimson-red sea that lay stretched out in front of her. Her previous path was marked by a brilliant blue streak across the water, one that made the sea look healthy in comparison with the red mess that lay on either side. Turner Joy's pumps whined, and the sprays fired out from amidships, marking the start of another pass.
"Is this going to work?" Sophia Metaxas looked doubtful; the extent of the marine disaster that had hit Earth seemed too devastating to be countered by a blue dye.
"It stands a good chance." Captain Reynolds was surveying the scene through the bridge binoculars. "The blue dye limits penetration of the wavelengths of light required for photosynthesis, and so the algae starve to death. We used a technique much like this in World War Two as an anti-submarine weapon." He glanced sideways at Sophia.
"How?"
"Now, this ain't no shit. We sprayed blue paint on the surface of the sea. When the submarine put its periscope up, the paint covered the lens and the skipper thought he was still underwater. So, he kept on going up and when he reached 150 feet in the air, we shot him down with the anti-aircraft guns."
Reynold's face was completely deadpan. Sophia stared at him for a few moments as the sheer outrageousness of the story sank in. Then she started to splutter with barely suppressed laughter. "I guess that must be what they call an old sea story?"
"One of many Sophia. Beware any that start with NTANS. But the dye thing might work. If we can kill off the deeper layers of the algal bloom, we can skim or pump and filter the surface layer. It's worked inland, there's a good chance it'll work out here. Provided the dye doesn’t disperse too fast."
Sophia's mouth twisted. As expected, the Third Bowl of Wrath had hit a week or so earlier with major rivers suddenly starting to turn red with an algal bloom. Once-rich fishing rivers had been decimated, their banks lined with the stinking carcasses of poisoned fish and the birds that had fed on them. The disaster, though, had been limited compared with the carnage at sea since governments had been forewarned and were waiting. The spread of the algal bloom had been limited by booms placed across the rivers, the application of finely powdered clay had agglomerated the algae and allowed it to be skimmed off. The battle had lasted two weeks and had been a total victory for the humans. The rivers had been cleaned out and only one area of freshwater contamination remained, in the Great Lakes. That was under sustained assault from Canadian Kingston Class patrol ships and its area was shrinking daily. Now, the lessons from that battle were being applied to the algal blooms at sea.
"At least we've won one. Out of three."
"Two out of three Sophia. Cipro is effective against proto-anthrax and the stockpiles are being increased every day. We won’t get caught by that one again. Even out here, we're getting the measure of this Bowl, bit by bit. This isn’t the only area of experimental treatment you know. There's another area off Long Island that's being used for biological control experiments. If we can make a predator that feeds on these algae, we'll have a defense in place against further attacks."
"It's the next one that worries me, the rain of fire."
"I read about that. I looked up Revelation after our last chat. Hold one. Bring her around to two-seven-zero and make revolutions for ten knots. This old girl is doing well. That does sound like Belial getting back to work, doesn’t it?"
"What I want to know is, how come Revelation predicted all this stuff so accurately? It was written two thousand years ago, and it’s been perfect up to date. Every Bowl exactly as described."
"Oh, that's easy Sophia. Yahweh didn't make the prophecies to fit future events, he's making today's events fit old prophecies. It's an old trick, been used for centuries. Either make the prophecies so vague and ill-defined that anything can fit them or manufacture events to match the prophecies. Let's just hope the city defense people can abort any sky-volcano attacks before we get another Detroit.
DIMO(N) Office of Nonhuman History and Research, Pentagon, Arlington VA
Norman Baines sat at his desk quietly leafing through a text in medieval French recently transferred from the Vatican archives. To be truthful, ‘desk’ was an understatement, as the main table in his office was piled with various books as high as six feet and was becoming more of a fort. There were hi-res digital scans on his computer of course, but Norman absorbed the information better if it was in his hands.
“Anybody home?” A voice called in an atrocious cockney accent, “I’m looking for Professor Dumbledore.” A knock at the doorway snapped Norman out of his work.
“Charlie!” Norman jumped up, knocking over a pile of scrolls at his left, and smiled. Rushing over, he gave his twin brother a big hug and then stepped back, “Hey, check out the hardware,” he made a motion of shining his brother’s rank insignia “Captain Baines, eh?”
“Reporting as ordered.” Charles smiled and presented a Vulcan salute to his brother. The memories from their youth made both men laugh. “After I brought your work to them and did a bit of assisting on some of the new projects DIMO(N) working on, they felt a promotion was in order.”
“Oh yeah?” Norman raised an eyebrow. “What’s your new posting?”
Charlie paused, somewhat confused, “Uh… here? Norm? Bro… I sent you an email a week ago. I’m the new military liaison between the DIMO(N) Applied Technologies at Yale and the head of the civilian researchers here.”
Norman furrowed his brow and turned around to his desk, pressing a button on his keyboard, made of brass and faux stone. A familiar chime sounded, and after quickly scanning the text Norman whirled back,
“That’s great, Charlie, it sounds like all that engineering finally paid off! Well, let’s introduce you to the rest of the department, starting at the top!” Norman went to the doorway and called to his assistant “Carol, who’s the head of R&D now that O’Shea got kicked upstairs?”
Carol sighed slightly. “You are, Mister Baines. For almost a month now.” She shook her head and smiled. “You need to stop reading demonology texts during department meetings.”
“Oh…” Norman walked back to his computer and tapped through another few e-mails, then shrugged his shoulders. “Then I guess… Welcome to DIMON, Captain Baines! We hope you’ll have a hell of a time.” He shook his brother’s hand. “Why don’t we get some dinner and then I’ll show you around.”
“It’s 10 a.m., Norman.” Charlie shook his head at his brother.
“Oh,” Norman checked his watch and Charlie noticed the numbers were a system he didn’t recognize. “I guess I did that whole staying-up-late reading thing again. Carol!” He called, “how long have I been here?”
“Almost two days, Sir. Today is Thursday. There’s a change of clothes on the hook in your bathroom. You can freshen up there.”
Norman glanced at his brother questioningly, and Charlie made a display of holding his nose in one hand and pointing with the other. Norman returned the salute and dashed off to his private bathroom while Charlie sat down, chuckling. “So, you’re the one who’s keeping my brother fed, watered, and fully dressed?”
“Yes, Sir, Captain Baines; As much as can be expected. Sometimes he wanders off through the archives and we can’t find him. We gave him a GPS tracker, but he lost it.” Carol continued reviewing and compiling reports for Norman. “He’s a brilliant man, Captain, he just tends to get tunnel vision. A good assistant knows how best to direct and guide the people they work for. You should see some of the intel he pulls out of those texts, it’s astounding.”
“Yeah, you should’ve seen him when he was a dungeon master. Memorized about forty books in under two months.” He grinned. “The adventures were fun, too.” Carol smiled mischievously and held up a small, amethyst dodecahedron, “They still are, Captain. I have a level 9 Tiefling. Tuesday night is game night.”
Just as Charlie began to ask a follow-up question, his brother returned, “Alright, let’s eat!” Norman bounded out the door, showered, and dressed faster than many would have believed possible. “I think there’s a place in the food court that has fried chicken,” He stopped short and peered into the hallway, confused, “though I don’t know where it is…”
DIMO(N) Offices, Pentagon, Arlington, VA
After an enjoyable lunch, nearly an hour away from reading musty parchment, Norman was far more social and tuned in to the world around him. He was enjoying showing his brother around the massive suite of offices in the C-Ring that DIMO(N) now occupied. They came up to a large set of double doors and Norman chuckled, “Oh, now this is a great place, man. You’re going to love these guys!” He opened one of the doors next to a sign that read ‘Innovative Universal Dynamics’ and they stepped in. Charlie stood in awe at one end of a heavily modified mid-sized lecture. The walls were rife with computer screens, whiteboards, blackboards, and even squares of cork with thumbtacks. Diagrams, parchment, maps, charts, blueprints, and unidentified documents spanning 3 millennia were plastered on every surface. Throughout the room dozens of men and women paced, strolled, stalked, or ran amongst the clutter, studying this chart or that text, conferring, arguing, and occasionally shouting. They worked at tables and on computer stations set around seemingly at random, and off to one side, there was a lounge set up with sofas and a small espresso machine where a handful of people were dozing peacefully.
“What is this place?” Charles asked in amazement.
“This,” Norman waved at the room in a grand proclamation “is where we try to make sense of it all. Since the discovery of the existence of Hell and Heaven, physicists have had to throw out a lot of what they thought they knew and start over. We’ve got people here from all over the spectrum that tries to take what’s been observed about hell with what we know about our universe and try and fit them together. It’s sort of like a mad scientist convention, only with fewer super-weapons.”
A man in his late thirties walked up to the pair of brothers and shook Norman’s hand. “Good to see you again, Norm! You here for another round?”
“No thanks, Doc. I’m just showing my brother our facilities, he’s the new liaison from Aptech.” He motioned to his brother “Captain Charles Baines, this is Doctor Junghalli, Lord of the Tank.”
“The Tank?”
“Oh yes, that’s what we call it.” Dr. Junghalli swept his arms around and up, as though he was addressing the masses of an imaginary throng. “Free-spirited discourse on the nature of existence- I suppose we could have called it a Salon but well, these things tend to go their own way. If you’ve ever got some free time, Captain, feel free to stop by. An engineer with a military mindset could help immensely.”
“Thanks, Doctor.” Charles shook his hand. “But I’m afraid my time at the Academy didn’t cover quantum mechanics or multi-dimensional math.”
“Bah, that’s not what we’re doing here.” Dr. Junghalli shook his head and grimaced as though he was tasting a bitter pill, “We need ideas here in the Tank. Good ones, and then we work them over with the applied math department to see if they fit. See that man over there?” He gestured to a figure hunched over at a table with several pads of paper and a laptop gathered around him, furiously writing, “That’s Banks, he writes science fiction and he’s got a good notion of dimensional mechanics. Went to Stirling in the UK, and never took any upper-level science.” Doctor Junghalli led them to the front of the room where they stood at the foot of three massive touchscreen displays.
The first had a sign underneath it at waist level, engraved in brass, that read “What we think the universe looks like TODAY”. It contained a rendering of a broad plane with small swirls on it. “You see, right now we think that all of existence is about two orders of magnitude older than the universe and that most of it are just white noise. BUT,” He held up a finger and Charlie had a flashback to his college physics lectures, “We think that we, and our companion universes, are merely localized reductions in the entropy that happened by chance, and that while earth and our universe are a bit more stable, we know it won’t last forever and then we go back to maximum entropy.
Charlie looked at the diagram and frowned, but before he could ask a question, Junghalli pointed to the second sign: “What do these words mean TODAY!!” There was a host of terms on the board- Universe, Portal, Gradient, Spatial Realm, and Dimension topped the list and seemed to be changing more than the others. Under ‘Dimension’ was a hand-written, asterisked, double-underlined note: Over-use of this word will result in you buying lunch for the people you confuse. “As you can see, Captain, our understanding has become very fluid. An idea we come up with today may make everything fit perfectly tomorrow and then be proven completely wrong in a week.” He tapped the screen with his knuckles, “It’s all about getting this board empty.”
He pointed to the third display; “What we still don’t know.” Underlined and highlighted several times was ‘How to target another universe from the outside.’ “Believe me, Aperture Science has their people in here a few times a day, hoping that we’ll be able to come up with something. If heaven can strike us with impunity, we’ll lose this war.”
A frustrated “Arrrgh!” echoed from one of the workstations, and a man and woman laughed as another man stalked across the room to a large empty water jug. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20, then stuffed it in. “What’s that about?” Charlie asked.
“That’s the ‘dead scientist’ jar,” Norman smirked. “When the Tank started, people used to keep saying ‘If only we had Einstein on this’ or ‘If only I could show this to Wheeler’. They wouldn’t be nearly as helpful as we think because we tend to imagine that dead scientists would still know what we know. So, to keep the frustrations down, anytime anyone wishes they had a brilliant dead scientist, they put the money in the jar. Then, on the last Friday of the month, we buy booze.” He looked at the forlorn man who had just surrendered his money, “That was $20 he put in? He must’ve been wishing for a Nobel Prize winner. Those guys are expensive.”
“Sounds like a great place you’ve got here, bro.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Baines.” Carol had suddenly materialized behind them, tapping Norman on the shoulder. “You just got a call for a debriefing tomorrow with Miss Lugasharmanaska and several military officials. 0900 hours.”
“Luga’s coming?” Norman’s eyes got wide, and he rubbed his hand across his stubble. “I need to shave.”
“Dude!” Charles shook his head.
“What?!”
“You remember how upset mom got when I married a Mormon, and now you’re trying to look nice for a demon?” He could barely contain his laughter as he tried not to conjure a mental image.
“Not just a demon, Charlie, a succubus.” Norman grinned as he emphasized the word. “They can look like ANYONE.”
“Fair point, but I’ll stick with my human wife, thanks.” Charles checked his watch. “Well, I need to head on over to Yale, why don’t you stop by my office next time you’re at Applied Technologies.”
“I’ll do that.” The two men embraced briefly with shoulder slapping all around. “See ya, flyboy!”
“See ya, nutjob.”
Destroyer "Turner Joy" off the coast of Virginia, June 2009
The old destroyer swung her bows around and lined up for another pass at the crimson-red sea that lay stretched out in front of her. Her previous path was marked by a brilliant blue streak across the water, one that made the sea look healthy in comparison with the red mess that lay on either side. Turner Joy's pumps whined, and the sprays fired out from amidships, marking the start of another pass.
"Is this going to work?" Sophia Metaxas looked doubtful; the extent of the marine disaster that had hit Earth seemed too devastating to be countered by a blue dye.
"It stands a good chance." Captain Reynolds was surveying the scene through the bridge binoculars. "The blue dye limits penetration of the wavelengths of light required for photosynthesis, and so the algae starve to death. We used a technique much like this in World War Two as an anti-submarine weapon." He glanced sideways at Sophia.
"How?"
"Now, this ain't no shit. We sprayed blue paint on the surface of the sea. When the submarine put its periscope up, the paint covered the lens and the skipper thought he was still underwater. So, he kept on going up and when he reached 150 feet in the air, we shot him down with the anti-aircraft guns."
Reynold's face was completely deadpan. Sophia stared at him for a few moments as the sheer outrageousness of the story sank in. Then she started to splutter with barely suppressed laughter. "I guess that must be what they call an old sea story?"
"One of many Sophia. Beware any that start with NTANS. But the dye thing might work. If we can kill off the deeper layers of the algal bloom, we can skim or pump and filter the surface layer. It's worked inland, there's a good chance it'll work out here. Provided the dye doesn’t disperse too fast."
Sophia's mouth twisted. As expected, the Third Bowl of Wrath had hit a week or so earlier with major rivers suddenly starting to turn red with an algal bloom. Once-rich fishing rivers had been decimated, their banks lined with the stinking carcasses of poisoned fish and the birds that had fed on them. The disaster, though, had been limited compared with the carnage at sea since governments had been forewarned and were waiting. The spread of the algal bloom had been limited by booms placed across the rivers, the application of finely powdered clay had agglomerated the algae and allowed it to be skimmed off. The battle had lasted two weeks and had been a total victory for the humans. The rivers had been cleaned out and only one area of freshwater contamination remained, in the Great Lakes. That was under sustained assault from Canadian Kingston Class patrol ships and its area was shrinking daily. Now, the lessons from that battle were being applied to the algal blooms at sea.
"At least we've won one. Out of three."
"Two out of three Sophia. Cipro is effective against proto-anthrax and the stockpiles are being increased every day. We won’t get caught by that one again. Even out here, we're getting the measure of this Bowl, bit by bit. This isn’t the only area of experimental treatment you know. There's another area off Long Island that's being used for biological control experiments. If we can make a predator that feeds on these algae, we'll have a defense in place against further attacks."
"It's the next one that worries me, the rain of fire."
"I read about that. I looked up Revelation after our last chat. Hold one. Bring her around to two-seven-zero and make revolutions for ten knots. This old girl is doing well. That does sound like Belial getting back to work, doesn’t it?"
"What I want to know is, how come Revelation predicted all this stuff so accurately? It was written two thousand years ago, and it’s been perfect up to date. Every Bowl exactly as described."
"Oh, that's easy Sophia. Yahweh didn't make the prophecies to fit future events, he's making today's events fit old prophecies. It's an old trick, been used for centuries. Either make the prophecies so vague and ill-defined that anything can fit them or manufacture events to match the prophecies. Let's just hope the city defense people can abort any sky-volcano attacks before we get another Detroit.
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Fifteen
Border Post 1147E, North of Maesot, Thailand
Being part of the Tahan Phran militia had its advantages. Having the opportunity to operate this border post was one of them. Technically intended to provide border surveillance and cut down on cross-border infiltration, it was also a nice little money-earner for the local militia. It was a secure, well-run stopping point for travelers and tourists who could leave their cars and trucks and walk around in perfect safety. The women from the nearby village came up and cooked food for the visitors. When a bus load of tourists arrived, it was a great day for everybody involved. The tourists would take delight in eating real Thai food, not the bland approximation that most restaurants catering to tourists served. They would buy the jewelry and souvenirs that the local people had made, take advantage of the clean latrines and wash basins, pay a purely nominal charge of course, and quite forget that what would have been a nominal charge in Bangkok was truly exorbitant out here. Especially since all the necessary supplies were issued cost-free by the Army.
There were even a few guest huts where people could stay overnight if they wished and that was both another source of income and the supply of some more basic entertainment. The Tahan Phran contingent was mostly comprised of young men in their early twenties, fit and well turned-out. The younger European women in the tourist busses seemed to find them quite irresistible and the arrival of a tourist bus for the night usually meant that at least one of the young militiamen would get lucky. The girls in the Tahan Phran outfit might have been expected to object but they had their suitors. It seemed that the male tourists found girls who handled guns with nonchalant competence equally irresistible.
Captain Momrajong "Lon" Thongtaem smiled happily at the stray thoughts, then continued his inspection of the border post perimeter. Despite the various distractions of the day, the post had continued to function as a military base, sending out patrols to check the border and establishing roadblocks so that trucks could be inspected for contraband. Sometimes drugs, sometimes people, sometimes just the small luxuries of life that were commonplace here in Thailand but unknown over the border in Myanmar. Smuggling was a well-established local tradition here. Now dusk had fallen, and the need for an alert status had increased. Lon knew that the serious smugglers only moved at night and keeping them under control meant night patrol work. Fortunately, no tourist busses were staying overnight in 1147E today and the local villagers had all gone home. That meant the base was a purely military facility once more.
"Any sign of movement out there Kip?" Like most Tahan Phran outfits, the members of this unit had grown up together and knew each other far too well for military formality to take hold.
Sergeant Charnvit "Kip" Chachavalpongpun frowned. "I don’t think so, Lon." He hesitated. "Nothing I can put my finger on but…"
"I know. Something's out there. I can sense it too." Lon joined his sergeant in frowning. One of the advantages the Tahan Phran had over the regular army was that they were locals who knew the area intimately. They knew the jungle, understood its moods and could listen to it when it tried to speak to them. The regulars couldn’t have that level of local knowledge. Now, the jungle was telling them that there were strangers around.
"You think there're Baldricks coming?" The sergeant spoke quietly but the concern in his voice was obvious. The Tahan Phran still had 5.56mm M16A1s, weapons that were virtually useless against the Baldricks. Units in the cities had heavy-caliber weapons that were more suitable for that kind of enemy.
"Not Baldricks, no." Lon peered out into the darkness. "Those attacks are over. Might be angels, but I haven't heard of them launching marauder raids."
"Thai Rath had news today, said the Myanmar mob were moving troops around." The sergeant read the Thai Rath newspaper daily, not least because his wife had been killed in a car crash about 18 months earlier and he was watching the daily list of Thai people freed from the Hellpit. Once a day, her name would be there, and he could go to welcome her back.
"So I saw. I'd be happier if we had a backup force to help us." That had always been the case in the past, usually a cavalry outfit with light armored cars that could move to help the militia out if an action turned out too big for them. But both cavalry divisions, along with Thailand's only armored division, were in Hell, part of the Human Expeditionary Army. "But the nearest reserve is in Kanchanaburi, and they'd take hours to get here. Get some of the boys together and send them out to do a sweep along the river. Might be a big drug convoy is coming over and we're in the way."
The Sergeant nodded and turned away to organize a squad-sized patrol. It was possible a big drug shipment was being smuggled over and that meant the post would come under attack to stop them from interfering. The only problem was that there had been no such shipments for two years or more. It was whispered that the Myanmar Junta had a huge new customer who was taking all the street corner pharmaceuticals they could produce. As he turned, over in the tree line beyond the post perimeter, a flock of birds took to the skies, screaming in protest at the interruption of their nightly rest. Sergeant and Captain looked at each other with their eyes widened in recognition of what the disturbance signified; Lon's hand smacked the alert button. The wail of the 'to arms' siren almost drowned out the whistle of the descending mortar rounds.
Whoever the mortar crews were, they were good. The first salvo of rounds crashed into the barracks area, shattering the timber buildings, and setting the ruins ablaze. By the light of the fires, Lon saw the men and women of his unit scattering to their pre-set defense positions on the perimeter. The warning had been adequate, just, to get most of them out of the barracks but he could see from the numbers that some hadn't made it and that his little force had already been depleted. Then the ground shook under his feet as further salvos of mortar rounds struck home. His command post had been one of the targets of the latest barrage and he saw it crumpling under the impacts. Even worse, the radio shack was also a burning ruin. Border Post 1147E was isolated from help.
Lon knew something else; the mortar fire was too precise, too accurate for this to be a normal border incident. The troops out there were Myanmar Army regulars. Not just regulars but troops from one of the few competent units in the Myanmar Army. Most Myanmarese units were a joke, a 'battalion' might be as few as twenty men, armed with light infantry weapons, and with a few porters to carry their supplies. This unit was different, they knew what they were doing, were here in strength, and had a full complement of weaponry. As if to confirm his impression, the whole post area was suddenly bathed in brilliant light. The mortars had switched to firing flares, illuminating their targets while the surrounding jungle remained in darkness. The crackle of machine-gun fire from his defenses just confirmed what he already knew, the main attack was just starting.
The damage to his command post was as bad as he had feared. He had taken a few seconds to run over to it, but the building was gone. His radio operator was dead, stretched out over her equipment, her body torn by the fragments from the mortar round. The professional part of his mind told Lon that there was hope here, she had been killed while on the air, and it was possible that a warning of the assault and a plea for help had gone out in time. The personal part of his mind was shut down, only later would he mourn the death of a girl he had known since her earliest schooldays.
Out on the perimeter, the Tahan Phran militia was blinded by the flare illumination of their border post. The white light had destroyed their night vision and the surrounding jungle was an impenetrable black shadow lit only by the muzzle flashes of the Myanmarese troops as they started their assault. There was a solution to this problem though, a well-established one. The Thai militia had pre-set firing lines worked out for their machine guns, ones that didn’t need individual targets to be sighted but simply covered the approaches to the camp in a web of gunfire. The machine gunners swept their guns along the preset marks, spraying the advancing Myanmar infantry with fire and forcing them to the ground.
Lon guessed that the commander of the Myanmar forces had expected the initial mortar barrage to catch the defenses unprepared so that a hasty attack could be into the defense perimeter before the Tahan Phran unit could react. It had almost worked but not quite and the difference was great. With the Myanmar infantry pinned down in the ground between the jungle edge and the border post perimeter, he would have to do things the slow way. The Thai gunners had revealed their positions in beating off that first wave, now the Myanmar troops retaliated by firing rocket launchers at those positions. Of course, that had been expected, and the gunners had shifted to alternate positions but the slow process of dismantling the border post defense had started.
In the end, it took almost four hours, and by the end of the fighting, eleven of the twenty-five Tahan Phran militia were dead and most of the survivors were wounded. A crippling loss for a unit that was taken from a small village and one that left that village with all too high a proportion of its children lost. Lon regrouped the survivors outside the ruins of Border Post 1147E and led them as they slipped away into the jungle. His unit had done what was expected of it, they had held an enemy assault for a few precious hours and that was enough, for now.
Headquarters, Human Expeditionary Army. Hell
"Good evening, General. You got the warning then?"
"Yes Sir, we did. May I ask how you knew? The warning from here actually beat the messages from our front-line units."
"One of the early casualties was a militia radio operator. She demanded we get a warning out as soon as she arrived here. Fortunately, the receiving staff at the Phelan Plain were on the ball and they got the message to us, and we got the message to you. Now, can the HEA offer your country assistance at this point?"
"General Petraeus, it is with deep regret that I must ask for the five Thai divisions here to be released back to Thai command. They are our strategic reserve, and we need them badly to defeat this invasion."
Petraeus walked over to the massive display screen that dominated one wall of his office. A few seconds of playing with the controls threw up a map of the Thai border with Myanmar, and a few seconds more highlighted the area of the fighting. It extended along almost a hundred kilometers of the border. Petraeus stared at it for a few seconds, absorbing the tactical reality of the situation on the ground.
"General Asanee, your forces are part of the Human Expeditionary Army. That means your fight is our fight. Just how deep penetration has been achieved by this attack?"
General Asanee shuffled her feet in slight embarrassment. "At this time, I don’t know Sir. The reports we are getting from the area are pretty confused." She paused slightly and drew her breath. "To be honest Sir, the command staff at Kanchanaburi are not the best we have. Most of our best people are here in Hell, the rest are in the south where we had that separatist problem. The border with Cambodia had the next call and Kanchanaburi got what was left."
"You need to straighten that out." Petraeus's voice was mild, but the rebuke was obvious. "You have the authority to make decisions? What does the civilian government have to say?"
"The Prime Minister is my cousin Sir. It's more a question of family relationships than military-civil authority and my cousin and I get on very well. But Sir, I must insist we have our five divisions back."
"You have a nice, well-balanced corps there. One heavy armored division, two light armored divisions, and two mechanized infantry divisions. You believe this is adequate to repel this invasion?"
"I do sir. The command staff at Kanchanaburi will need replacing."
"Of course." Petraeus zoomed the map in. "Kanchanaburi is the key, it’s a major road and rail junction and gives direct, well-built roads right into the heart of the country."
"I agree Sir, it’s a standard teaching problem at Chulachomklao. Kanchanaburi is the key to the defense of the Myanmar frontier. We've got to hold it. The problem is, all we have there is light infantry, we need the armor and even now it’s a question of whether we can get it there fast enough. We must assemble the units, get them out of the Hellgate and then ship them back. It'll take a week, ten days more likely. The Myanmar Army is on foot and our people will be fighting all the way, but the timing is still off. We may end up having to counter-attack to retake Kanchanaburi before we can do anything else. That will be bloody."
"General, why should it take that long? We're in Hell, remember? We can punch a portal through from here to anywhere we want. All we need is a sensitive on the other end. That's why we've got the Human Expeditionary Army here in Hell, we've got interior lines to any point on Earth. When this army is complete, we can open a gate to wherever Yahweh, or whoever else we end up fighting, wants to take us and hit him with every mechanized unit most of the world can put together. When this Army is finished, we'll have 625 divisions, living humans, deceased humans, and demons ready to defend Earth and Hell against anything that can be thrown at us.
"So, your divisions can be wherever you want them as soon as you want them there. You have sensitives still in Thailand, even after the First Bowl. Get them where you need the troops. At this end, you've got lucky, Kitten's here and she's the best sensitive around. She's visiting some friends of hers in the deceased special forces so we can get her here within an hour or two." Petraeus winced slightly, personally, he liked Kitten, but military customs and formalities hadn't caught up with one of his key staff members being led around on a leash by her boyfriend. It caused protocol problems.
General Asanee was staring at the map. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"
"This attack? Not quite, no. But it was obvious that something of the sort would happen all too soon. The Curb Stomp War proved that nothing in Hell, well, almost nothing, can stand against us in a head-on fight. Since Heaven and Hell were deadlocked in their Great Celestial War, the heavenly military arts can't be much better than anything down here. So, they must know they can't fight us head-on. Everything they've done points to them having taken that fact on board. So, it made sense they would try and find a surrogate-ally on Earth so they can pitch humans against humans.
"I can only think of three candidates who are outcasts, who are not part of the Human Alliance, and who have access to substantial military power. Kim Jong-Il in North Korea, Chavez in Venezuela, and Than Shwe in Myanmar. Our satellite recon tells us Kim Jong-Il is moving his units around and we expect trouble there soon. We didn’t pick up this Myanmar move, infantry movements in the heavy jungle are hard to spot but it was a fair bet Than Shwe would be looking this way, the only other option would be to strike at India and even he isn't that mad. So, when I said, the Human Expeditionary Army stood with you, I wasn't being melodramatic, although judicious use of melodrama is no bad thing in General. You must know that. This invasion is part of the war with Yahweh, defeat it and we defeat his purpose."
"I'll tell my Prime Minister we'll have all five divisions assembled at Kanchanaburi within 24 hours. That will please him greatly. We can seal this incursion off and drive it back." General Asanee thought for a second. "Then what? The Myanmar regime is a nasty one and they just let their people starve after Cyclone Nargis. That was a Yahweh hit and they are still siding with him. This invasion is a betrayal of us humans, they should be punished for that."
"And it’s a chance to pay off a few old scores, right?"
General Asanee kicked herself, she had forgotten this General was a military history scholar of notable repute. "Of course, but even so, it's still the right thing to do. And it'll give Kim Jong-Il something to think about as well."
"I agree, in many ways, we’re using this fight as a testbed. To see how commanding Hell affects strategy here on Earth."
"So we invade then." The satisfaction in the General's voice was obvious.
"Why? We don’t have to invade, not anymore. We can open a portal and just position troops close to Naypyidaw and by close to I mean on top of the place. We don’t have to fight our way up to the capital anymore, we just arrive there. That makes Hell the most commanding piece of territory there has ever been. But before any of that, you need to get your command problems in Kanchanaburi straightened out. An entire mechanized corps arriving in one place needs a lot of good staff work."
"I'll be on it, Sir." General Asanee thought for a second. "You've been thinking a lot about the use of portals in warfare, haven't you?"
"General, since taking this job, I've thought about very little else."
Border Post 1147E, North of Maesot, Thailand
Being part of the Tahan Phran militia had its advantages. Having the opportunity to operate this border post was one of them. Technically intended to provide border surveillance and cut down on cross-border infiltration, it was also a nice little money-earner for the local militia. It was a secure, well-run stopping point for travelers and tourists who could leave their cars and trucks and walk around in perfect safety. The women from the nearby village came up and cooked food for the visitors. When a bus load of tourists arrived, it was a great day for everybody involved. The tourists would take delight in eating real Thai food, not the bland approximation that most restaurants catering to tourists served. They would buy the jewelry and souvenirs that the local people had made, take advantage of the clean latrines and wash basins, pay a purely nominal charge of course, and quite forget that what would have been a nominal charge in Bangkok was truly exorbitant out here. Especially since all the necessary supplies were issued cost-free by the Army.
There were even a few guest huts where people could stay overnight if they wished and that was both another source of income and the supply of some more basic entertainment. The Tahan Phran contingent was mostly comprised of young men in their early twenties, fit and well turned-out. The younger European women in the tourist busses seemed to find them quite irresistible and the arrival of a tourist bus for the night usually meant that at least one of the young militiamen would get lucky. The girls in the Tahan Phran outfit might have been expected to object but they had their suitors. It seemed that the male tourists found girls who handled guns with nonchalant competence equally irresistible.
Captain Momrajong "Lon" Thongtaem smiled happily at the stray thoughts, then continued his inspection of the border post perimeter. Despite the various distractions of the day, the post had continued to function as a military base, sending out patrols to check the border and establishing roadblocks so that trucks could be inspected for contraband. Sometimes drugs, sometimes people, sometimes just the small luxuries of life that were commonplace here in Thailand but unknown over the border in Myanmar. Smuggling was a well-established local tradition here. Now dusk had fallen, and the need for an alert status had increased. Lon knew that the serious smugglers only moved at night and keeping them under control meant night patrol work. Fortunately, no tourist busses were staying overnight in 1147E today and the local villagers had all gone home. That meant the base was a purely military facility once more.
"Any sign of movement out there Kip?" Like most Tahan Phran outfits, the members of this unit had grown up together and knew each other far too well for military formality to take hold.
Sergeant Charnvit "Kip" Chachavalpongpun frowned. "I don’t think so, Lon." He hesitated. "Nothing I can put my finger on but…"
"I know. Something's out there. I can sense it too." Lon joined his sergeant in frowning. One of the advantages the Tahan Phran had over the regular army was that they were locals who knew the area intimately. They knew the jungle, understood its moods and could listen to it when it tried to speak to them. The regulars couldn’t have that level of local knowledge. Now, the jungle was telling them that there were strangers around.
"You think there're Baldricks coming?" The sergeant spoke quietly but the concern in his voice was obvious. The Tahan Phran still had 5.56mm M16A1s, weapons that were virtually useless against the Baldricks. Units in the cities had heavy-caliber weapons that were more suitable for that kind of enemy.
"Not Baldricks, no." Lon peered out into the darkness. "Those attacks are over. Might be angels, but I haven't heard of them launching marauder raids."
"Thai Rath had news today, said the Myanmar mob were moving troops around." The sergeant read the Thai Rath newspaper daily, not least because his wife had been killed in a car crash about 18 months earlier and he was watching the daily list of Thai people freed from the Hellpit. Once a day, her name would be there, and he could go to welcome her back.
"So I saw. I'd be happier if we had a backup force to help us." That had always been the case in the past, usually a cavalry outfit with light armored cars that could move to help the militia out if an action turned out too big for them. But both cavalry divisions, along with Thailand's only armored division, were in Hell, part of the Human Expeditionary Army. "But the nearest reserve is in Kanchanaburi, and they'd take hours to get here. Get some of the boys together and send them out to do a sweep along the river. Might be a big drug convoy is coming over and we're in the way."
The Sergeant nodded and turned away to organize a squad-sized patrol. It was possible a big drug shipment was being smuggled over and that meant the post would come under attack to stop them from interfering. The only problem was that there had been no such shipments for two years or more. It was whispered that the Myanmar Junta had a huge new customer who was taking all the street corner pharmaceuticals they could produce. As he turned, over in the tree line beyond the post perimeter, a flock of birds took to the skies, screaming in protest at the interruption of their nightly rest. Sergeant and Captain looked at each other with their eyes widened in recognition of what the disturbance signified; Lon's hand smacked the alert button. The wail of the 'to arms' siren almost drowned out the whistle of the descending mortar rounds.
Whoever the mortar crews were, they were good. The first salvo of rounds crashed into the barracks area, shattering the timber buildings, and setting the ruins ablaze. By the light of the fires, Lon saw the men and women of his unit scattering to their pre-set defense positions on the perimeter. The warning had been adequate, just, to get most of them out of the barracks but he could see from the numbers that some hadn't made it and that his little force had already been depleted. Then the ground shook under his feet as further salvos of mortar rounds struck home. His command post had been one of the targets of the latest barrage and he saw it crumpling under the impacts. Even worse, the radio shack was also a burning ruin. Border Post 1147E was isolated from help.
Lon knew something else; the mortar fire was too precise, too accurate for this to be a normal border incident. The troops out there were Myanmar Army regulars. Not just regulars but troops from one of the few competent units in the Myanmar Army. Most Myanmarese units were a joke, a 'battalion' might be as few as twenty men, armed with light infantry weapons, and with a few porters to carry their supplies. This unit was different, they knew what they were doing, were here in strength, and had a full complement of weaponry. As if to confirm his impression, the whole post area was suddenly bathed in brilliant light. The mortars had switched to firing flares, illuminating their targets while the surrounding jungle remained in darkness. The crackle of machine-gun fire from his defenses just confirmed what he already knew, the main attack was just starting.
The damage to his command post was as bad as he had feared. He had taken a few seconds to run over to it, but the building was gone. His radio operator was dead, stretched out over her equipment, her body torn by the fragments from the mortar round. The professional part of his mind told Lon that there was hope here, she had been killed while on the air, and it was possible that a warning of the assault and a plea for help had gone out in time. The personal part of his mind was shut down, only later would he mourn the death of a girl he had known since her earliest schooldays.
Out on the perimeter, the Tahan Phran militia was blinded by the flare illumination of their border post. The white light had destroyed their night vision and the surrounding jungle was an impenetrable black shadow lit only by the muzzle flashes of the Myanmarese troops as they started their assault. There was a solution to this problem though, a well-established one. The Thai militia had pre-set firing lines worked out for their machine guns, ones that didn’t need individual targets to be sighted but simply covered the approaches to the camp in a web of gunfire. The machine gunners swept their guns along the preset marks, spraying the advancing Myanmar infantry with fire and forcing them to the ground.
Lon guessed that the commander of the Myanmar forces had expected the initial mortar barrage to catch the defenses unprepared so that a hasty attack could be into the defense perimeter before the Tahan Phran unit could react. It had almost worked but not quite and the difference was great. With the Myanmar infantry pinned down in the ground between the jungle edge and the border post perimeter, he would have to do things the slow way. The Thai gunners had revealed their positions in beating off that first wave, now the Myanmar troops retaliated by firing rocket launchers at those positions. Of course, that had been expected, and the gunners had shifted to alternate positions but the slow process of dismantling the border post defense had started.
In the end, it took almost four hours, and by the end of the fighting, eleven of the twenty-five Tahan Phran militia were dead and most of the survivors were wounded. A crippling loss for a unit that was taken from a small village and one that left that village with all too high a proportion of its children lost. Lon regrouped the survivors outside the ruins of Border Post 1147E and led them as they slipped away into the jungle. His unit had done what was expected of it, they had held an enemy assault for a few precious hours and that was enough, for now.
Headquarters, Human Expeditionary Army. Hell
"Good evening, General. You got the warning then?"
"Yes Sir, we did. May I ask how you knew? The warning from here actually beat the messages from our front-line units."
"One of the early casualties was a militia radio operator. She demanded we get a warning out as soon as she arrived here. Fortunately, the receiving staff at the Phelan Plain were on the ball and they got the message to us, and we got the message to you. Now, can the HEA offer your country assistance at this point?"
"General Petraeus, it is with deep regret that I must ask for the five Thai divisions here to be released back to Thai command. They are our strategic reserve, and we need them badly to defeat this invasion."
Petraeus walked over to the massive display screen that dominated one wall of his office. A few seconds of playing with the controls threw up a map of the Thai border with Myanmar, and a few seconds more highlighted the area of the fighting. It extended along almost a hundred kilometers of the border. Petraeus stared at it for a few seconds, absorbing the tactical reality of the situation on the ground.
"General Asanee, your forces are part of the Human Expeditionary Army. That means your fight is our fight. Just how deep penetration has been achieved by this attack?"
General Asanee shuffled her feet in slight embarrassment. "At this time, I don’t know Sir. The reports we are getting from the area are pretty confused." She paused slightly and drew her breath. "To be honest Sir, the command staff at Kanchanaburi are not the best we have. Most of our best people are here in Hell, the rest are in the south where we had that separatist problem. The border with Cambodia had the next call and Kanchanaburi got what was left."
"You need to straighten that out." Petraeus's voice was mild, but the rebuke was obvious. "You have the authority to make decisions? What does the civilian government have to say?"
"The Prime Minister is my cousin Sir. It's more a question of family relationships than military-civil authority and my cousin and I get on very well. But Sir, I must insist we have our five divisions back."
"You have a nice, well-balanced corps there. One heavy armored division, two light armored divisions, and two mechanized infantry divisions. You believe this is adequate to repel this invasion?"
"I do sir. The command staff at Kanchanaburi will need replacing."
"Of course." Petraeus zoomed the map in. "Kanchanaburi is the key, it’s a major road and rail junction and gives direct, well-built roads right into the heart of the country."
"I agree Sir, it’s a standard teaching problem at Chulachomklao. Kanchanaburi is the key to the defense of the Myanmar frontier. We've got to hold it. The problem is, all we have there is light infantry, we need the armor and even now it’s a question of whether we can get it there fast enough. We must assemble the units, get them out of the Hellgate and then ship them back. It'll take a week, ten days more likely. The Myanmar Army is on foot and our people will be fighting all the way, but the timing is still off. We may end up having to counter-attack to retake Kanchanaburi before we can do anything else. That will be bloody."
"General, why should it take that long? We're in Hell, remember? We can punch a portal through from here to anywhere we want. All we need is a sensitive on the other end. That's why we've got the Human Expeditionary Army here in Hell, we've got interior lines to any point on Earth. When this army is complete, we can open a gate to wherever Yahweh, or whoever else we end up fighting, wants to take us and hit him with every mechanized unit most of the world can put together. When this Army is finished, we'll have 625 divisions, living humans, deceased humans, and demons ready to defend Earth and Hell against anything that can be thrown at us.
"So, your divisions can be wherever you want them as soon as you want them there. You have sensitives still in Thailand, even after the First Bowl. Get them where you need the troops. At this end, you've got lucky, Kitten's here and she's the best sensitive around. She's visiting some friends of hers in the deceased special forces so we can get her here within an hour or two." Petraeus winced slightly, personally, he liked Kitten, but military customs and formalities hadn't caught up with one of his key staff members being led around on a leash by her boyfriend. It caused protocol problems.
General Asanee was staring at the map. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"
"This attack? Not quite, no. But it was obvious that something of the sort would happen all too soon. The Curb Stomp War proved that nothing in Hell, well, almost nothing, can stand against us in a head-on fight. Since Heaven and Hell were deadlocked in their Great Celestial War, the heavenly military arts can't be much better than anything down here. So, they must know they can't fight us head-on. Everything they've done points to them having taken that fact on board. So, it made sense they would try and find a surrogate-ally on Earth so they can pitch humans against humans.
"I can only think of three candidates who are outcasts, who are not part of the Human Alliance, and who have access to substantial military power. Kim Jong-Il in North Korea, Chavez in Venezuela, and Than Shwe in Myanmar. Our satellite recon tells us Kim Jong-Il is moving his units around and we expect trouble there soon. We didn’t pick up this Myanmar move, infantry movements in the heavy jungle are hard to spot but it was a fair bet Than Shwe would be looking this way, the only other option would be to strike at India and even he isn't that mad. So, when I said, the Human Expeditionary Army stood with you, I wasn't being melodramatic, although judicious use of melodrama is no bad thing in General. You must know that. This invasion is part of the war with Yahweh, defeat it and we defeat his purpose."
"I'll tell my Prime Minister we'll have all five divisions assembled at Kanchanaburi within 24 hours. That will please him greatly. We can seal this incursion off and drive it back." General Asanee thought for a second. "Then what? The Myanmar regime is a nasty one and they just let their people starve after Cyclone Nargis. That was a Yahweh hit and they are still siding with him. This invasion is a betrayal of us humans, they should be punished for that."
"And it’s a chance to pay off a few old scores, right?"
General Asanee kicked herself, she had forgotten this General was a military history scholar of notable repute. "Of course, but even so, it's still the right thing to do. And it'll give Kim Jong-Il something to think about as well."
"I agree, in many ways, we’re using this fight as a testbed. To see how commanding Hell affects strategy here on Earth."
"So we invade then." The satisfaction in the General's voice was obvious.
"Why? We don’t have to invade, not anymore. We can open a portal and just position troops close to Naypyidaw and by close to I mean on top of the place. We don’t have to fight our way up to the capital anymore, we just arrive there. That makes Hell the most commanding piece of territory there has ever been. But before any of that, you need to get your command problems in Kanchanaburi straightened out. An entire mechanized corps arriving in one place needs a lot of good staff work."
"I'll be on it, Sir." General Asanee thought for a second. "You've been thinking a lot about the use of portals in warfare, haven't you?"
"General, since taking this job, I've thought about very little else."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Sixteen
Michael-Lan's Private Estate, Heaven.
"You got chopped up a bit, didn’t you?" The level of concern in Michael-Lan's voice was inversely proportional to the concern he felt for Uriel.
"I am lucky to be alive at all Michael-Lan. The humans fought back over El Paso and attacked me with their aircraft and missiles. I managed to duck through a portal in time to dodge their missiles, but the portal was small, and my wing caught one edge. It is badly broken and is slow to heal. Then there were fragments from the human missiles. A few got through the portal just as it closed, and their wounds also are slow to heal."
I could offer you a stiff drink to take your mind off your wounds, but I doubt if you'd understand the gesture. "Uriel-Lan, I have to tell you, the All-Seeing Father is not well-pleased with the attack on El Paso. Only a tiny proportion of the humans who live there died. This was far from the erasure of the whole city that he wished."
"I did what I could, the humans have changed Michael-Lan. Once my touch dropped them by the hundreds and the hundreds of hundreds but now it is hard to touch them at all and even when they feel it, they resist me. It takes time to bring my peace to them and their missiles and aircraft do not give me enough. I must take those I can and be satisfied."
Oh boy, that's going to sound good when I repeat it to Yah-yah. Michael-Lan thought with great satisfaction. 'Uriel-Lan says he'll do what he wants, and you will have to be satisfied with it.' That should get him going nicely.
"We are at war, Uriel-Lan, The One Above All understands that." Michael-Lan managed to get the words out without choking on them. Yahweh had as little idea of what war against the humans meant as Satan had, less in fact even though Heaven had kept up to date with human progress and Hell hadn't. It was an old problem, one that went back uncounted millennia, there were people who just refused to hear anything that didn’t suit their pre-existing beliefs. Yahweh still had a mental picture of humans as trusting, thoughtless sheep and he allowed nothing to interfere with it. The idea that the sheep had turned into ruthless killers simply did not register with him. Michael-Lan took the train of thought further. Even if Yahweh woke up and smelled the coffee, it wouldn’t help him. It was one thing to read about what human weapons could do, quite another to see the reality and the meaning it imposed. The way humans filled a battlefield with fire and steel had no equivalent in Angelic memory.
"Michael-Lan, you know humans. Where should I strike next?" Uriel asked the advice, half-hoping he would be told to drop the whole idea.
Michael-Lan thought it over carefully. Texas? Where people were trigger-happy and armed to the teeth? Uriel wouldn’t fall for that again. He thought briefly about sending Uriel within striking distance of Nellis Air Force Base and the Tonopah test range where the humans had killing machines advanced even beyond their standards. The problem there was that the only viable target in Nevada was his beloved Las Vegas, and no way was he going to let Uriel loose on that city. California? Now there was a thought. Suddenly inspiration hit him. A city full of Marines, surrounded by fighter bases and missile batteries and home to a large proportion of the U.S. Navy. Perfect.
"Uriel-Lan, rest here for a while. When you are fit again, I recommend you strike at San Diego."
Michael-Lan took a courteous leave of his convalescent guest, inflated his flying sacs, and took off, heading for The Eternal City and his working offices. He had to make another visit first, of course, one that Michael was looking forward to. On the way, his mind returned to the problem that was nagging at him, the second conspiracy that Lemuel-Lan-Michael had discovered. It was fortunate that Lemuel didn’t know humans nearly as well as he thought he did, for if he had, he would have recognized the pattern that his charts had revealed. A pattern that Michael-Lan had recognized instantly.
This second conspiracy was very different from his own. Michael-Lan's objective was simple, he was creating a situation where the ruling elite of Heaven was so rotten with corruption that one good kick would bring it down. His club and the activities that were centered on it had that as its primary aim. By addicting its members to the pleasures, he offered, pleasures that were strictly prohibited by Yahweh, he was creating a group that was united by its enjoyment of those pleasures and isolated from the rest of Heaven by that fact. When Michael struck, he would decapitate the leadership of Heaven and take over. It was a classic top-down takeover.
This new conspiracy didn’t work that way at all. While Michael-Lan was creating a new society, one that was slowly spreading out across the top tiers of Heaven, his unknown rival was building an underground army. La Resistance thought Michael. It was divided into watertight cells, with only those in the cells knowing who else was involved. In theory, anyway, things were never that close, and the cells always had a degree of leakage between them. The point was, that such an organization intended to challenge the leadership tiers, to face them with a mass insurrection. This new plan was a bottom-up replacement of the whole system. It would mean a civil war in Heaven, the one thing that Michael was trying to avoid. Other than seeing human tanks in the streets of the Eternal City of course. Avoiding that took priority over everything else. He had to keep the humans tied up, chasing their tails down on Earth for if they turned their full attention to gaining access to Heaven, it would only be a matter of time before the tanks arrived.
Beneath him, Michael-Lan saw a bronze-covered lodge, one of his smaller resorts that he had modified specifically for its one occupant. His back wing settled neatly on the landing porch and allowed his sacs to deflate. Then, he went inside.
"Belial. How do things go with you?"
The great demon, once a Grand Duke of Hell and the only one of Satan's crew to strike a solid blow at the humans, looked up at his visitor with petulance.
"How long must I stay cooped up in this bronze box? There is work for me to do."
"As long as I wish." Michael-Lan's voice was sharp. He didn’t know if the humans could lock in on Belial's mind, but he wasn't taking any risks. "Unless you wish to take your chances with the humans?"
Belial shook his head. "I wish to strike at them, amongst others. I waste time here."
"Time is something we have plenty of, Belial-Lan-Michael. You will be pleased to know that your ex-mate Euryale is using her time very well indeed. She had allied with an important human, one Gaius Julius Caesar, and turned that into great profit. She has even made her peace with the humans and managed to throw all the blame for Sheffield and Detroit on you. She is rich, well, and prospers along with all her kind. Of course, the humans make them keep their head-snakes covered."
Belial was almost shaking with rage. "She will die in millennia of screaming for her betrayal. And the human she allies herself with."
"Not a chance Belial, Euryale is your problem, that I agree. But Gaius Julius Caesar is off-limits. He is under the protection of the others, and they will not tolerate harm coming to him." Michael-Lan returned his voice to its friendliest tone. "Anyway, you will also be pleased that Baroness Yulupki is also prospering and is now Queen of the Naga. They have set up a delivery service and put FedEx out of business."
Belial clenched his fists and stormed backward and forwards at the idea of his erstwhile underlings prospering under the rule of humans in Hell. Michael-Lan smiled gently at his rage, demons really ought to learn to control their emotions, their inability to do so had been their downfall.
"Now, Belial, we come to business. How do we drop fire on human cities?"
"That isn't a problem, open a portal, one end in the lava pit of a volcano, the other over the target."
"That is a problem. As you should be able to tell from the air quality here, there are no volcanoes in Heaven. Somehow, I must fulfill the prophecy of the Fourth Bowl of Wrath and drop fire on their cities."
"Why didn't you make a prophecy you could fulfill?" Belial couldn't believe that the coldly calculating Michael-Lan, Yahweh's Great General, could blunder like that.
"I didn’t make them. Do you know how these prophecies happened? I'd been on a visit to South America, and I'd stocked up with some of the local products. A leaf extract that humans call cocaine. Anyway, on the way back, I stopped in what is now Mexico and picked up a load of some great mushrooms. They're good Belial, you ought to try them. Give you wild visions. Anyway, I got to wondering what would happen if somebody mixed up those mushrooms with cocaine. I didn’t want to try it on anybody important, so I went to a place called Patmos, an island that was at the back end of nowhere. I found this tramp sitting by the roadside, begging for food, so I gave him a dosed-up mushroom salad, sat back, and watched the fireworks.
"And Belial my friend, what fireworks they were. Eyes flashing, jumping around, shouting, and raving, Belial, it was a sight to behold I can tell you. How was I to know that some scribe would take all his ravings down and preserve them? I thought he'd just be dismissed as another lunatic and banged on the head with a rock or something. Instead, he becomes Saint John the Divine, and the product of my mushroom salad becomes the Book of Revelation. I tried to get it suppressed, really, I did. But the Nicaeans just wouldn’t listen. Thomas Jefferson deleted it as well, but his opinion didn't take, more's the pity. Still, no use crying over what's done. The prophecies exist and we've got to fulfill them. Now, no volcanoes in Hell, any better ideas?"
Belial shook his head. "We can't drop lava without a source. We'd have to go back to Hell and open a volcano there."
"Tartarus is occupied by humans, it’s their main base in the North. They keep a very close watch on all the volcanoes. By the way, they gave Palelabor to your human slaves, they're running a profitable mineral extraction business there now. Iron, copper, titanium, you name it.
Belial slumped, his face in his hands. His beloved Palelabor is in the hands of the humans who had once slaved in its depths. Michael-Lan reached down and patted him on the shoulder. "Don’t worry about it, Belial, you just work out a way we can drop fire on a few human cities."
The meeting with Belial had taken less time than he had thought so Michael-Lan decided that a brief visit to the Montmartre Club would be in order. He flew idly towards the Eternal City, enjoying the sight of the lush green farmland beneath him, the workers tending the fields that kept the Eternal City supplied with its food. That, of course, raised an interesting possibility. Michael wondered if it would be possible to grow some of his more hallucinogenic crops up here in Heaven and, if so, would they have the same remarkable effects as they did when grown down on Earth?
Once again, he back-winged neatly and landed on the ledge, this one of a temple devoted to Yahweh. Who else Michael-Lan thought with a certain level of scorn. Yah-yah never grew tired of people worshiping him. Still, he'd found a whole new planet full of primitive sentients he could convert into a new cult. Had things gone the way they had, the discarded humans would have been condemned to Hell, there to disappear slowly, just as they had replaced the ones who had gone before them. Michael-Lan wondered if, somewhere tucked deep in the bowels of Hell, there were still survivors of those earlier races.
He walked down through the confusing maze of passages that led to the heart of the temple. There was a trick to this, all the mazes in heaven worked on the same principle if one put one's left hand on the left wall and never took it off, one would eventually reach the center. This one was the exception, at one specific point, if one changed to right hand on the right wall, one would find the Montmartre Club.
Inside, Michael was delighted to note that his business was doing well. The music was up to standard, and he got a respectful salute from Benny Goodman as he passed. He halted for a few minutes, listened to the number, and gave an approving nod as it wound up. A quick look at the schedule showed the band had a few good numbers to work through before their shift was up. Then the center stage would be taken by some angels pole-dancing.
Once in his office, far to the rear of the concealed structure, Michael sat down with the stock inventories. He'd replenished his supplies nicely; the Myanmar Junta had come through for him. Such a nice group of people he thought genially, always willing to please and so reasonable and rational compared with Yahweh. He was working on his next liquor procurement scheme, getting good Scotch and Bourbon was turning into a real pain, when there was a knock on his door.
"Michael-Lan, I need help."
It was Maion, the young angel addict he'd been supplying with heroin. Michael frowned slightly. "You know Maion, you're using more of this stuff now."
"I know, Michael-Lan but I," she hesitated, tears in her eyes. "I need it."
"So do a lot of people Maion, and they all support their habit. They don’t come running to me asking for free supplies now do they?" A lot of them did and if they were valuable to him, they got what they needed. Maion wasn't that valuable, not yet anyway.
"I know but…"
"It's not fair to them, is it? They work to support their habits and pay their way. Why should you be any different?"
"I'll do things, for you, I promise."
Right on. Of course, you will, you just don’t know what yet. "Would you like to work here?"
"Oh yes." The happiness in Maion's voice was obvious. "What will I have to do? Serve the drinks?"
"Oh no, I've got a much better job in mind for you than that. You'd make a good dancer I think."
Maion seemed slightly taken aback. "Well, I did learn the reverential dances for the temples."
"They'll do, for a start. The others will show you how to blend them into a pole-dance routine. And work out how you can lose your robes in the process."
"Oh." Now Maion was taken aback.
"Come along, I'll take you to see Charmeine-Lan. She's in charge of the dancers."
Charmeine-Lan was in the costume room, making sure the next set of dancers were properly costumed. Michael introduced Maion to her and left them to get on with business. As soon as he'd gone, Charmeine-Lan put her wing comfortingly around Maion. "It's no big thing, really. All you must do is do your dance when scheduled. Just remember, don’t let go of the pole when you're dancing, it’s there for your safety. Hang on to it in case somebody tries to pull you off the stage. It’s never happened and if somebody tries, security will deal with them. Apart from that, remember to keep to your schedule, and be down to skin and feathers by the end of the allocated time. Don't over-run and never under-run. Keep an eye on the stage manager, that's me, and if I tell you to slow down or speed up, then do so. Sometimes we have problems and I'll need you to cover a gap or something. Do that well and you'll get a lot of extra credit. After the show, you'll meet up with the customers on the floor. Socialize with them, if they want you to, you can do a little private dance for them, up close, it’s called a lap dance. All the girls earn a lot of money that way, more than enough to pay for your habit. Finally, some of the customers will want to take you to the rooms upstairs."
"No!" Maion was horrified.
"Yes, Maion. You'll do it and like it." Charmeine-Lan's voice was harsh and relentless. "You've got a habit; you'll support it and that means doing what the customers want. Otherwise, you'll do without. You know what that feels like?"
Maion nodded her head, partly in acknowledgment, partly to hide the fact she was crying.
"All right then." Charmeine-Lan switched her voice back to the soft-friendly tone she'd used earlier. "It isn't bad, Michael-Lan doesn’t allow anybody bad in here, so they'll all be nice to you. If you're good and work hard at pleasing the customers, one will take a liking to you and reserve you. That way you won’t have to go with anybody else. Now, when a customer asks you to go upstairs, you tell me so I can get another girl to take your place on the schedule right?"
Another tear-stained nod from Maion.
"Very good, so let's get you a nice costume for your first appearance."
Michael-Lan's Private Estate, Heaven.
"You got chopped up a bit, didn’t you?" The level of concern in Michael-Lan's voice was inversely proportional to the concern he felt for Uriel.
"I am lucky to be alive at all Michael-Lan. The humans fought back over El Paso and attacked me with their aircraft and missiles. I managed to duck through a portal in time to dodge their missiles, but the portal was small, and my wing caught one edge. It is badly broken and is slow to heal. Then there were fragments from the human missiles. A few got through the portal just as it closed, and their wounds also are slow to heal."
I could offer you a stiff drink to take your mind off your wounds, but I doubt if you'd understand the gesture. "Uriel-Lan, I have to tell you, the All-Seeing Father is not well-pleased with the attack on El Paso. Only a tiny proportion of the humans who live there died. This was far from the erasure of the whole city that he wished."
"I did what I could, the humans have changed Michael-Lan. Once my touch dropped them by the hundreds and the hundreds of hundreds but now it is hard to touch them at all and even when they feel it, they resist me. It takes time to bring my peace to them and their missiles and aircraft do not give me enough. I must take those I can and be satisfied."
Oh boy, that's going to sound good when I repeat it to Yah-yah. Michael-Lan thought with great satisfaction. 'Uriel-Lan says he'll do what he wants, and you will have to be satisfied with it.' That should get him going nicely.
"We are at war, Uriel-Lan, The One Above All understands that." Michael-Lan managed to get the words out without choking on them. Yahweh had as little idea of what war against the humans meant as Satan had, less in fact even though Heaven had kept up to date with human progress and Hell hadn't. It was an old problem, one that went back uncounted millennia, there were people who just refused to hear anything that didn’t suit their pre-existing beliefs. Yahweh still had a mental picture of humans as trusting, thoughtless sheep and he allowed nothing to interfere with it. The idea that the sheep had turned into ruthless killers simply did not register with him. Michael-Lan took the train of thought further. Even if Yahweh woke up and smelled the coffee, it wouldn’t help him. It was one thing to read about what human weapons could do, quite another to see the reality and the meaning it imposed. The way humans filled a battlefield with fire and steel had no equivalent in Angelic memory.
"Michael-Lan, you know humans. Where should I strike next?" Uriel asked the advice, half-hoping he would be told to drop the whole idea.
Michael-Lan thought it over carefully. Texas? Where people were trigger-happy and armed to the teeth? Uriel wouldn’t fall for that again. He thought briefly about sending Uriel within striking distance of Nellis Air Force Base and the Tonopah test range where the humans had killing machines advanced even beyond their standards. The problem there was that the only viable target in Nevada was his beloved Las Vegas, and no way was he going to let Uriel loose on that city. California? Now there was a thought. Suddenly inspiration hit him. A city full of Marines, surrounded by fighter bases and missile batteries and home to a large proportion of the U.S. Navy. Perfect.
"Uriel-Lan, rest here for a while. When you are fit again, I recommend you strike at San Diego."
Michael-Lan took a courteous leave of his convalescent guest, inflated his flying sacs, and took off, heading for The Eternal City and his working offices. He had to make another visit first, of course, one that Michael was looking forward to. On the way, his mind returned to the problem that was nagging at him, the second conspiracy that Lemuel-Lan-Michael had discovered. It was fortunate that Lemuel didn’t know humans nearly as well as he thought he did, for if he had, he would have recognized the pattern that his charts had revealed. A pattern that Michael-Lan had recognized instantly.
This second conspiracy was very different from his own. Michael-Lan's objective was simple, he was creating a situation where the ruling elite of Heaven was so rotten with corruption that one good kick would bring it down. His club and the activities that were centered on it had that as its primary aim. By addicting its members to the pleasures, he offered, pleasures that were strictly prohibited by Yahweh, he was creating a group that was united by its enjoyment of those pleasures and isolated from the rest of Heaven by that fact. When Michael struck, he would decapitate the leadership of Heaven and take over. It was a classic top-down takeover.
This new conspiracy didn’t work that way at all. While Michael-Lan was creating a new society, one that was slowly spreading out across the top tiers of Heaven, his unknown rival was building an underground army. La Resistance thought Michael. It was divided into watertight cells, with only those in the cells knowing who else was involved. In theory, anyway, things were never that close, and the cells always had a degree of leakage between them. The point was, that such an organization intended to challenge the leadership tiers, to face them with a mass insurrection. This new plan was a bottom-up replacement of the whole system. It would mean a civil war in Heaven, the one thing that Michael was trying to avoid. Other than seeing human tanks in the streets of the Eternal City of course. Avoiding that took priority over everything else. He had to keep the humans tied up, chasing their tails down on Earth for if they turned their full attention to gaining access to Heaven, it would only be a matter of time before the tanks arrived.
Beneath him, Michael-Lan saw a bronze-covered lodge, one of his smaller resorts that he had modified specifically for its one occupant. His back wing settled neatly on the landing porch and allowed his sacs to deflate. Then, he went inside.
"Belial. How do things go with you?"
The great demon, once a Grand Duke of Hell and the only one of Satan's crew to strike a solid blow at the humans, looked up at his visitor with petulance.
"How long must I stay cooped up in this bronze box? There is work for me to do."
"As long as I wish." Michael-Lan's voice was sharp. He didn’t know if the humans could lock in on Belial's mind, but he wasn't taking any risks. "Unless you wish to take your chances with the humans?"
Belial shook his head. "I wish to strike at them, amongst others. I waste time here."
"Time is something we have plenty of, Belial-Lan-Michael. You will be pleased to know that your ex-mate Euryale is using her time very well indeed. She had allied with an important human, one Gaius Julius Caesar, and turned that into great profit. She has even made her peace with the humans and managed to throw all the blame for Sheffield and Detroit on you. She is rich, well, and prospers along with all her kind. Of course, the humans make them keep their head-snakes covered."
Belial was almost shaking with rage. "She will die in millennia of screaming for her betrayal. And the human she allies herself with."
"Not a chance Belial, Euryale is your problem, that I agree. But Gaius Julius Caesar is off-limits. He is under the protection of the others, and they will not tolerate harm coming to him." Michael-Lan returned his voice to its friendliest tone. "Anyway, you will also be pleased that Baroness Yulupki is also prospering and is now Queen of the Naga. They have set up a delivery service and put FedEx out of business."
Belial clenched his fists and stormed backward and forwards at the idea of his erstwhile underlings prospering under the rule of humans in Hell. Michael-Lan smiled gently at his rage, demons really ought to learn to control their emotions, their inability to do so had been their downfall.
"Now, Belial, we come to business. How do we drop fire on human cities?"
"That isn't a problem, open a portal, one end in the lava pit of a volcano, the other over the target."
"That is a problem. As you should be able to tell from the air quality here, there are no volcanoes in Heaven. Somehow, I must fulfill the prophecy of the Fourth Bowl of Wrath and drop fire on their cities."
"Why didn't you make a prophecy you could fulfill?" Belial couldn't believe that the coldly calculating Michael-Lan, Yahweh's Great General, could blunder like that.
"I didn’t make them. Do you know how these prophecies happened? I'd been on a visit to South America, and I'd stocked up with some of the local products. A leaf extract that humans call cocaine. Anyway, on the way back, I stopped in what is now Mexico and picked up a load of some great mushrooms. They're good Belial, you ought to try them. Give you wild visions. Anyway, I got to wondering what would happen if somebody mixed up those mushrooms with cocaine. I didn’t want to try it on anybody important, so I went to a place called Patmos, an island that was at the back end of nowhere. I found this tramp sitting by the roadside, begging for food, so I gave him a dosed-up mushroom salad, sat back, and watched the fireworks.
"And Belial my friend, what fireworks they were. Eyes flashing, jumping around, shouting, and raving, Belial, it was a sight to behold I can tell you. How was I to know that some scribe would take all his ravings down and preserve them? I thought he'd just be dismissed as another lunatic and banged on the head with a rock or something. Instead, he becomes Saint John the Divine, and the product of my mushroom salad becomes the Book of Revelation. I tried to get it suppressed, really, I did. But the Nicaeans just wouldn’t listen. Thomas Jefferson deleted it as well, but his opinion didn't take, more's the pity. Still, no use crying over what's done. The prophecies exist and we've got to fulfill them. Now, no volcanoes in Hell, any better ideas?"
Belial shook his head. "We can't drop lava without a source. We'd have to go back to Hell and open a volcano there."
"Tartarus is occupied by humans, it’s their main base in the North. They keep a very close watch on all the volcanoes. By the way, they gave Palelabor to your human slaves, they're running a profitable mineral extraction business there now. Iron, copper, titanium, you name it.
Belial slumped, his face in his hands. His beloved Palelabor is in the hands of the humans who had once slaved in its depths. Michael-Lan reached down and patted him on the shoulder. "Don’t worry about it, Belial, you just work out a way we can drop fire on a few human cities."
The meeting with Belial had taken less time than he had thought so Michael-Lan decided that a brief visit to the Montmartre Club would be in order. He flew idly towards the Eternal City, enjoying the sight of the lush green farmland beneath him, the workers tending the fields that kept the Eternal City supplied with its food. That, of course, raised an interesting possibility. Michael wondered if it would be possible to grow some of his more hallucinogenic crops up here in Heaven and, if so, would they have the same remarkable effects as they did when grown down on Earth?
Once again, he back-winged neatly and landed on the ledge, this one of a temple devoted to Yahweh. Who else Michael-Lan thought with a certain level of scorn. Yah-yah never grew tired of people worshiping him. Still, he'd found a whole new planet full of primitive sentients he could convert into a new cult. Had things gone the way they had, the discarded humans would have been condemned to Hell, there to disappear slowly, just as they had replaced the ones who had gone before them. Michael-Lan wondered if, somewhere tucked deep in the bowels of Hell, there were still survivors of those earlier races.
He walked down through the confusing maze of passages that led to the heart of the temple. There was a trick to this, all the mazes in heaven worked on the same principle if one put one's left hand on the left wall and never took it off, one would eventually reach the center. This one was the exception, at one specific point, if one changed to right hand on the right wall, one would find the Montmartre Club.
Inside, Michael was delighted to note that his business was doing well. The music was up to standard, and he got a respectful salute from Benny Goodman as he passed. He halted for a few minutes, listened to the number, and gave an approving nod as it wound up. A quick look at the schedule showed the band had a few good numbers to work through before their shift was up. Then the center stage would be taken by some angels pole-dancing.
Once in his office, far to the rear of the concealed structure, Michael sat down with the stock inventories. He'd replenished his supplies nicely; the Myanmar Junta had come through for him. Such a nice group of people he thought genially, always willing to please and so reasonable and rational compared with Yahweh. He was working on his next liquor procurement scheme, getting good Scotch and Bourbon was turning into a real pain, when there was a knock on his door.
"Michael-Lan, I need help."
It was Maion, the young angel addict he'd been supplying with heroin. Michael frowned slightly. "You know Maion, you're using more of this stuff now."
"I know, Michael-Lan but I," she hesitated, tears in her eyes. "I need it."
"So do a lot of people Maion, and they all support their habit. They don’t come running to me asking for free supplies now do they?" A lot of them did and if they were valuable to him, they got what they needed. Maion wasn't that valuable, not yet anyway.
"I know but…"
"It's not fair to them, is it? They work to support their habits and pay their way. Why should you be any different?"
"I'll do things, for you, I promise."
Right on. Of course, you will, you just don’t know what yet. "Would you like to work here?"
"Oh yes." The happiness in Maion's voice was obvious. "What will I have to do? Serve the drinks?"
"Oh no, I've got a much better job in mind for you than that. You'd make a good dancer I think."
Maion seemed slightly taken aback. "Well, I did learn the reverential dances for the temples."
"They'll do, for a start. The others will show you how to blend them into a pole-dance routine. And work out how you can lose your robes in the process."
"Oh." Now Maion was taken aback.
"Come along, I'll take you to see Charmeine-Lan. She's in charge of the dancers."
Charmeine-Lan was in the costume room, making sure the next set of dancers were properly costumed. Michael introduced Maion to her and left them to get on with business. As soon as he'd gone, Charmeine-Lan put her wing comfortingly around Maion. "It's no big thing, really. All you must do is do your dance when scheduled. Just remember, don’t let go of the pole when you're dancing, it’s there for your safety. Hang on to it in case somebody tries to pull you off the stage. It’s never happened and if somebody tries, security will deal with them. Apart from that, remember to keep to your schedule, and be down to skin and feathers by the end of the allocated time. Don't over-run and never under-run. Keep an eye on the stage manager, that's me, and if I tell you to slow down or speed up, then do so. Sometimes we have problems and I'll need you to cover a gap or something. Do that well and you'll get a lot of extra credit. After the show, you'll meet up with the customers on the floor. Socialize with them, if they want you to, you can do a little private dance for them, up close, it’s called a lap dance. All the girls earn a lot of money that way, more than enough to pay for your habit. Finally, some of the customers will want to take you to the rooms upstairs."
"No!" Maion was horrified.
"Yes, Maion. You'll do it and like it." Charmeine-Lan's voice was harsh and relentless. "You've got a habit; you'll support it and that means doing what the customers want. Otherwise, you'll do without. You know what that feels like?"
Maion nodded her head, partly in acknowledgment, partly to hide the fact she was crying.
"All right then." Charmeine-Lan switched her voice back to the soft-friendly tone she'd used earlier. "It isn't bad, Michael-Lan doesn’t allow anybody bad in here, so they'll all be nice to you. If you're good and work hard at pleasing the customers, one will take a liking to you and reserve you. That way you won’t have to go with anybody else. Now, when a customer asks you to go upstairs, you tell me so I can get another girl to take your place on the schedule right?"
Another tear-stained nod from Maion.
"Very good, so let's get you a nice costume for your first appearance."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Seventeen
Kanchanaburi, Thailand
Making an arrival is a well-versed art for those following the profession of arms. The sudden discovery that Heaven and Hell existed, followed by the rapid conquest of the latter had provided so many new opportunities for a dramatic arrival that most officers are hard put to choose which to employ. This arrival was no different, an hour or so earlier a Short 330 transport aircraft had arrived and disgorged a mass of equipment and a team of electronic specialists. Any observers with a basic knowledge of the new generation of electronic systems brought about by the discovery that portals could be opened between Earth and Hell would recognize the system they were setting up as AN/GSY-1(V)4 Mod 5 Portal Generator.
If they hadn't, their sad lack of current affairs knowledge would have been remedied when, after two hours of hard work setting up the system a black ellipse appeared in the middle of the airfield and a column of five M1114 Humvees roared through and set off down the long, straight road that led to Kanchanaburi. Following them with only a slight delay was another convoy, a mix of more Humvees and six-by-six trucks. This one had troops on display, grim-faced men and women wearing white helmets, white gloves, and white scarves. The Air Force personnel watching the cavalcade nodded significantly to each other, these were the Thai Army's military police, the notorious White Mice. That was a strong clue as to who had been in the first unit through, although that small convoy was already disappearing into the distance.
The local population was used to military convoys making their way through the streets and getting out of the way. They saw the red plate with two gold stars mounted on the front fender of each vehicle and noted the array of weapons mounted on the Humvees. They also noted that the vehicles were camouflaged in red, and gray rather than the usual dark green. The more astute realized that these vehicles had come straight from Hell and the astute guessed that the Army headquarters in Kanchanaburi was about to get a visit from Hell in more ways than the obvious one. Astute or not, they got out of the way and watched the vehicles pass with resigned patience. It wasn't as if these were politicians, after all, these were generals and generals worked for a living.
"This looks bad." Major General Asanee looked at the crowds of people at the sides of the road. They were refugees, all heading west, away from the advancing Myanmarese Army that was slowly inching its way down towards the transport nexus of Kanchanaburi.
"Backwash of a war always looks like this Ma'am." Senior Colonel Prachep was looking out the other window. "But this is worse than most."
"We're lucky this is a divided highway. We're going in, most people are coming out."
"That's encouraging, of course, if the situation were bad, they'd be using both lanes."
"That is true." Major General Asanee looked at the people on the other lane and guessed there would be more than a few deserters mixed in with them That would be for her White Mice to handle, they would already be setting up roadblocks and vetting the refugees. Genuine civilians would be allowed to continue their way, life would be easier without them in the way. Any deserters would be detained, she had seriously thought of having them hanged at the roadside but had dismissed the idea. Executing people was a bit pointless these days, they'd just end up in Hell. Instead, they would be put into units tasked with the most dangerous of operations.
The Humvee column turned sharp right, past a complex of red-roofed buildings. She gestured abruptly. "The Tantipkan Hotel. Commandeer it, we'll use it as accommodation for the sensitives. They'll work better if they have somewhere comfortable to live."
Prachep picked up the radio and contacted the White Mice unit back at the airfield. They'd detach a squad to tell the Hotel owner he now had a new set of residents. He understood exactly what his General had in mind, they'd been working together for years, and, like any good aide, he could almost think with her mind. This whole operation depended on portals being opened to and from Hell, they would take care of moving reinforcements into the region and keeping them supplied. They had another purpose as well, Myanmarese aircraft hadn't been reported this far west, not yet, and if they came, they would be in for a very unpleasant surprise. General Petraeus had made two squadrons of F-22s available to provide the Thai Army with air cover.
"This road seems clear." Off the radio after the brief message, Prachep looked around again. The Humvee column was holding a steady 50 miles per hour, an impressive sight since only a couple of feet separated each of the vehicles. The drivers were blasting their horns at anybody who got in the way, but the warnings were very few.
"It's the back way in. Most people will be on the main street, about two hundred meters on our left. The Allied War Cemetery is just ahead of us on the left." The convoy swung right, passing across a trio of reservoirs. "Sports ground up ahead. Remember it, we can use it as a portal point. They've been doing some building around here, those places with the blue roofs weren't there when I was here last."
The column swung left, then right again, once more parallel to the main road. Ahead of them was a crossroads, blocked with vehicles. The drivers didn’t slow down, they just held their hands on the vehicle horns and watched the civilians panicking as they tried to get out of the way. Two pick-up trucks collided as one backed up too hastily and a third went into a ditch.
"Purple roofs?" Prachep waved at some houses on the right.
"No accounting for taste. Barracks of the 9th Infantry coming up on the left. That should be their armored battalion." She paused for a second. "Vehicles still in laager." Her contralto voice was grim.
The road started to curve to the left. Ahead of them was a junction with the main road. The convoy still didn’t hesitate or reduce speed, it swung right onto the highway and kept on its way, leaving more stalled civilian vehicles behind them. Up ahead of them, a large dragon's head had been built by the roadside. It and the steel gates beside it marked the headquarters of the Third Army. Seeing her convoy approach, the guards threw the gates open.
General Asanee looked at them as they saluted her vehicle. "Find out who those guards are and break the entire guard detail to privates. Then assign them to mine clearance. We're at war, nobody should be getting into this base without being challenged. Make that clear to their replacements."
The Humvees swung into a car park in front of the headquarters building, a parking lot that was marked with the circular lines of a helipad. The five vehicles stopped in a neat line in front of the main entrance, the occupants debussing with the skill of long practice. It wasn't the first time that they'd taken over a command post this way.
"Sergeant Tram? Go to the Sergeant's Mess, talk to the President, and find out what is going on here. Corporal Vung? Do the same for the Corporal's Mess, find out what troop morale and standards are. The rest of you come with me."
The party burst through the doors of the headquarters, sending them slamming back against their stops. A receptionist was sitting behind a desk, she waved her hands ineffectually but did nothing to stop them. "One civilian. No armed guards." Prachep's voice was contemptuous.
"Fire her. She should have got on the telephone to warn people at least." The General led the way down the corridor that ran through the center of the building, the slam of boots on the marble floor echoing off the walls. She gave no sign of noticing, but the members of her party were keeping in perfect step with her. General Asanee knew how to make an entrance. She reached the double doors leading to the command center and two of her men threw them open while she stalked into the room.
"We really must decide what is best to be done. " Major General Thamassaret looked around in shock at the sudden interruption. "Who the hell are you?"
"General Thamassaret. You are relieved as commander of the Third Army and Third Army Region. Effective immediately. Report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment."
Thamassaret looked outraged at the terse order and stormed out of the room. The General looked around the room and then studied the situation map. Almost immediately she missed the American-supplied electronic displays and maps that equipped the Human Expeditionary Army. This map was paper even though it was covered with a Perspex screen.
"Intelligence Officer?"
"Yes Ma'am?" An unidentified Colonel spoke up from a table near the map.
"Enemy forces, positions, the axis of advance?"
"On the map ma'am."
The General took a laser pointer from her pocket and shone it on a red marker sausage with the number '100,000?' scrawled on it. "This?" Her voice was disbelieving. "This is the best you can do?"
"Myanmar MiG-29s stopped us getting recon flights over the area and…"
"You're relieved of your post, report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment. Colonel Prachep, take over his position. Logistics?" She pointed to the number on the map. "Try and explain that."
The logistics officer gulped. "Well, Ma'am, it’s our best-guess estimate of…."
"How will the Myanmar Army supply 100,000 men throughout the country that has only a handful of roads when they have no air transport, no available railway, and shift supplies using manpacks? If you can't see the blatant impossibility of that number, you've no right to wear this uniform. You're relieved of your post, report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment. General Senawith?"
"Ma'am?"
"Why are there no patrols out? What about contact with the Tahan Phran? There should be several companies of them in the area." Her voice was challenging, Senawith was a Thaksin appointee, he'd got this position due to his loyalty to the ex-Prime Minister, not any command ability.
"We decided to concentrate all our forces around this city. And you know what the civilians are like, every man they see is an army."
"You're relieved of command. Report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment." She pointed at his deputy. "Supadom, take over command of the division. Get it into contact with the enemy and keep it that way."
"You wouldn't throw your weight around like this if Thaksin were still in charge." Senawith was stuffing papers from his desk into a briefcase.
"As it happens I did, but anyway, he isn’t, he pissed on the Army's turf, and he's gone. My cousin is now the Prime Minister. And leave the papers where they are, we need to go through them. Chun, check him before he leaves." Asanee paused for a slight second, then cut across him just as he started to speak. "Yes, I am a serious bitch. Now get out and let us get on with our job.
"First Regiment. How quickly can we get it on the road east? I want it up in Chong Sadao by dusk."
"We can't do it; we've only just moved into…."
"You're relieved of command. Report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment." She looked around at her team. "Colonel Thawat, take over command of First of Ninth and get it on the road to Chong Sadao by noon. I want information on enemy dispositions and operations, not an inflated condom drawn on a map "
There was silence for a few seconds. "We need to get moving on this. How much gasoline and diesel fuel are in the city."
The local mayor was in the back of the room, trying not to get seen. "I don’t know, give me an hour and I'll have the information for you."
"Good answer. We've got five divisions arriving over the next few days. First and Second Cavalry will be in the city by evening, First Armored by tomorrow, Second and Eleventh Infantry by the day after. They're all mechanized, they'll need fuel and supplies. Also, the troops will need bivouac areas. See to it. I want to speak with the local head of civil defense. Get him here."
She looked around the room, there was an electric spark in the atmosphere that hadn't been there before. She knew what it was, she'd seen it before. All it needed was somebody to take charge and set standards and people rose to the challenge. Once they'd done so once, they'd find it easier to do it again.
Outside the main center, Corporal Kasit was sitting in front of the radio communications bank, his feet on the desk, dozing gently. It wasn't as if he wanted to spend the day that way but the inactivity while the brass in the operations room argued over what to be done had left him little choice. The crash as the door to his section was thrown open woke him and he found himself staring into a pair of black, expressionless eyes. Female eyes but still very professional
"And just what do you think you are up to?"
Kasit had been married for years and knew that when caught cold under these circumstances the best thing to do was to admit everything and throw himself at the mercy of the court.
"I was goofing off Ma'am."
Major General Asanee looked at him carefully. "I'm promoting you to Sergeant. You’re the only person I've met in this building so far who knows what he's been doing."
Mess, Camp Hell-Alpha
"So you can't get drunk?" Kitten sounded very sympathetic.
"So it appears. We've tried hard a couple of times, but it just doesn't happen. The eggheads say it’s because us dead'uns don't absorb things from what we eat. We absorb energy from our surroundings just like plants. They say eating is just a left-over thing, we don’t have to if we don’t want to. Don’t ask me how that all works, I always was just a poor dumb grunt, now I'm just a poor dead grunt and I might have got it all wrong. Anyway, if we don’t absorb the alcohol, we don’t get drunk." Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy looked positively distraught at the prospect of spending eternity sober.
"Look on the bright side. You can spend all of the eternity sampling different brews and never get a hangover." Kitten's partner quaffed down the remains of a can of beer. "Speaking of which, can I get you guys another round?"
There was a slight stir of discontent at the words, and he looked nervous, wondering if he'd said something wrong. McElroy grinned at him reassuringly. "Sorry kid, it’s just that Kitten's – and your – money isn’t good at any military base in Hell. Nobody's ever going to forget what she did to keep us all going in the early days. So, you two sit tight and the bar will bring another round over."
Kitten flushed with embarrassment and looked downwards. She was about to say something when the light over the airlock door went red, showing that somebody was coming in from outside. She could hear the machinery cycling, pumping out the dust-contaminated air and replacing it with clean. Tucker had told her that even the dead, who could breathe the dirt-laden air of Hell without ill effects, preferred to live in clean-air surroundings. For the living, of course, there was no real choice.
"Kitten, I'm sorry to have to break up your party, but we need your help over at headquarters." The aide quietly waved to stop McElroy and the rest of his unit from getting to their feet. "We need a lot of gates pushed through fast and General Petraeus wants you to look after this end of it."
"Sir, with respect sir, hasn't Kitten done enough? She needs a long rest."
"It's all right Tucker, it doesn’t hurt to push a gate through from this side." She smiled shyly, "and it’s what I'm paid for after all. Look at it this way, it gives us an excuse for another meeting later. We'd better go Dani."
Her boyfriend picked up the end of her leash and tugged it. Obediently she stood and he led her out to where a V-22 was waiting. McElroy drained his can and shook his head slowly. "Well, people, it looks like our break is over. Cassidy, get everybody else rousted out, we've got to get set up for our next job."
Kanchanaburi, Thailand
Making an arrival is a well-versed art for those following the profession of arms. The sudden discovery that Heaven and Hell existed, followed by the rapid conquest of the latter had provided so many new opportunities for a dramatic arrival that most officers are hard put to choose which to employ. This arrival was no different, an hour or so earlier a Short 330 transport aircraft had arrived and disgorged a mass of equipment and a team of electronic specialists. Any observers with a basic knowledge of the new generation of electronic systems brought about by the discovery that portals could be opened between Earth and Hell would recognize the system they were setting up as AN/GSY-1(V)4 Mod 5 Portal Generator.
If they hadn't, their sad lack of current affairs knowledge would have been remedied when, after two hours of hard work setting up the system a black ellipse appeared in the middle of the airfield and a column of five M1114 Humvees roared through and set off down the long, straight road that led to Kanchanaburi. Following them with only a slight delay was another convoy, a mix of more Humvees and six-by-six trucks. This one had troops on display, grim-faced men and women wearing white helmets, white gloves, and white scarves. The Air Force personnel watching the cavalcade nodded significantly to each other, these were the Thai Army's military police, the notorious White Mice. That was a strong clue as to who had been in the first unit through, although that small convoy was already disappearing into the distance.
The local population was used to military convoys making their way through the streets and getting out of the way. They saw the red plate with two gold stars mounted on the front fender of each vehicle and noted the array of weapons mounted on the Humvees. They also noted that the vehicles were camouflaged in red, and gray rather than the usual dark green. The more astute realized that these vehicles had come straight from Hell and the astute guessed that the Army headquarters in Kanchanaburi was about to get a visit from Hell in more ways than the obvious one. Astute or not, they got out of the way and watched the vehicles pass with resigned patience. It wasn't as if these were politicians, after all, these were generals and generals worked for a living.
"This looks bad." Major General Asanee looked at the crowds of people at the sides of the road. They were refugees, all heading west, away from the advancing Myanmarese Army that was slowly inching its way down towards the transport nexus of Kanchanaburi.
"Backwash of a war always looks like this Ma'am." Senior Colonel Prachep was looking out the other window. "But this is worse than most."
"We're lucky this is a divided highway. We're going in, most people are coming out."
"That's encouraging, of course, if the situation were bad, they'd be using both lanes."
"That is true." Major General Asanee looked at the people on the other lane and guessed there would be more than a few deserters mixed in with them That would be for her White Mice to handle, they would already be setting up roadblocks and vetting the refugees. Genuine civilians would be allowed to continue their way, life would be easier without them in the way. Any deserters would be detained, she had seriously thought of having them hanged at the roadside but had dismissed the idea. Executing people was a bit pointless these days, they'd just end up in Hell. Instead, they would be put into units tasked with the most dangerous of operations.
The Humvee column turned sharp right, past a complex of red-roofed buildings. She gestured abruptly. "The Tantipkan Hotel. Commandeer it, we'll use it as accommodation for the sensitives. They'll work better if they have somewhere comfortable to live."
Prachep picked up the radio and contacted the White Mice unit back at the airfield. They'd detach a squad to tell the Hotel owner he now had a new set of residents. He understood exactly what his General had in mind, they'd been working together for years, and, like any good aide, he could almost think with her mind. This whole operation depended on portals being opened to and from Hell, they would take care of moving reinforcements into the region and keeping them supplied. They had another purpose as well, Myanmarese aircraft hadn't been reported this far west, not yet, and if they came, they would be in for a very unpleasant surprise. General Petraeus had made two squadrons of F-22s available to provide the Thai Army with air cover.
"This road seems clear." Off the radio after the brief message, Prachep looked around again. The Humvee column was holding a steady 50 miles per hour, an impressive sight since only a couple of feet separated each of the vehicles. The drivers were blasting their horns at anybody who got in the way, but the warnings were very few.
"It's the back way in. Most people will be on the main street, about two hundred meters on our left. The Allied War Cemetery is just ahead of us on the left." The convoy swung right, passing across a trio of reservoirs. "Sports ground up ahead. Remember it, we can use it as a portal point. They've been doing some building around here, those places with the blue roofs weren't there when I was here last."
The column swung left, then right again, once more parallel to the main road. Ahead of them was a crossroads, blocked with vehicles. The drivers didn’t slow down, they just held their hands on the vehicle horns and watched the civilians panicking as they tried to get out of the way. Two pick-up trucks collided as one backed up too hastily and a third went into a ditch.
"Purple roofs?" Prachep waved at some houses on the right.
"No accounting for taste. Barracks of the 9th Infantry coming up on the left. That should be their armored battalion." She paused for a second. "Vehicles still in laager." Her contralto voice was grim.
The road started to curve to the left. Ahead of them was a junction with the main road. The convoy still didn’t hesitate or reduce speed, it swung right onto the highway and kept on its way, leaving more stalled civilian vehicles behind them. Up ahead of them, a large dragon's head had been built by the roadside. It and the steel gates beside it marked the headquarters of the Third Army. Seeing her convoy approach, the guards threw the gates open.
General Asanee looked at them as they saluted her vehicle. "Find out who those guards are and break the entire guard detail to privates. Then assign them to mine clearance. We're at war, nobody should be getting into this base without being challenged. Make that clear to their replacements."
The Humvees swung into a car park in front of the headquarters building, a parking lot that was marked with the circular lines of a helipad. The five vehicles stopped in a neat line in front of the main entrance, the occupants debussing with the skill of long practice. It wasn't the first time that they'd taken over a command post this way.
"Sergeant Tram? Go to the Sergeant's Mess, talk to the President, and find out what is going on here. Corporal Vung? Do the same for the Corporal's Mess, find out what troop morale and standards are. The rest of you come with me."
The party burst through the doors of the headquarters, sending them slamming back against their stops. A receptionist was sitting behind a desk, she waved her hands ineffectually but did nothing to stop them. "One civilian. No armed guards." Prachep's voice was contemptuous.
"Fire her. She should have got on the telephone to warn people at least." The General led the way down the corridor that ran through the center of the building, the slam of boots on the marble floor echoing off the walls. She gave no sign of noticing, but the members of her party were keeping in perfect step with her. General Asanee knew how to make an entrance. She reached the double doors leading to the command center and two of her men threw them open while she stalked into the room.
"We really must decide what is best to be done. " Major General Thamassaret looked around in shock at the sudden interruption. "Who the hell are you?"
"General Thamassaret. You are relieved as commander of the Third Army and Third Army Region. Effective immediately. Report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment."
Thamassaret looked outraged at the terse order and stormed out of the room. The General looked around the room and then studied the situation map. Almost immediately she missed the American-supplied electronic displays and maps that equipped the Human Expeditionary Army. This map was paper even though it was covered with a Perspex screen.
"Intelligence Officer?"
"Yes Ma'am?" An unidentified Colonel spoke up from a table near the map.
"Enemy forces, positions, the axis of advance?"
"On the map ma'am."
The General took a laser pointer from her pocket and shone it on a red marker sausage with the number '100,000?' scrawled on it. "This?" Her voice was disbelieving. "This is the best you can do?"
"Myanmar MiG-29s stopped us getting recon flights over the area and…"
"You're relieved of your post, report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment. Colonel Prachep, take over his position. Logistics?" She pointed to the number on the map. "Try and explain that."
The logistics officer gulped. "Well, Ma'am, it’s our best-guess estimate of…."
"How will the Myanmar Army supply 100,000 men throughout the country that has only a handful of roads when they have no air transport, no available railway, and shift supplies using manpacks? If you can't see the blatant impossibility of that number, you've no right to wear this uniform. You're relieved of your post, report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment. General Senawith?"
"Ma'am?"
"Why are there no patrols out? What about contact with the Tahan Phran? There should be several companies of them in the area." Her voice was challenging, Senawith was a Thaksin appointee, he'd got this position due to his loyalty to the ex-Prime Minister, not any command ability.
"We decided to concentrate all our forces around this city. And you know what the civilians are like, every man they see is an army."
"You're relieved of command. Report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment." She pointed at his deputy. "Supadom, take over command of the division. Get it into contact with the enemy and keep it that way."
"You wouldn't throw your weight around like this if Thaksin were still in charge." Senawith was stuffing papers from his desk into a briefcase.
"As it happens I did, but anyway, he isn’t, he pissed on the Army's turf, and he's gone. My cousin is now the Prime Minister. And leave the papers where they are, we need to go through them. Chun, check him before he leaves." Asanee paused for a slight second, then cut across him just as he started to speak. "Yes, I am a serious bitch. Now get out and let us get on with our job.
"First Regiment. How quickly can we get it on the road east? I want it up in Chong Sadao by dusk."
"We can't do it; we've only just moved into…."
"You're relieved of command. Report to Supreme Command Headquarters for reassignment." She looked around at her team. "Colonel Thawat, take over command of First of Ninth and get it on the road to Chong Sadao by noon. I want information on enemy dispositions and operations, not an inflated condom drawn on a map "
There was silence for a few seconds. "We need to get moving on this. How much gasoline and diesel fuel are in the city."
The local mayor was in the back of the room, trying not to get seen. "I don’t know, give me an hour and I'll have the information for you."
"Good answer. We've got five divisions arriving over the next few days. First and Second Cavalry will be in the city by evening, First Armored by tomorrow, Second and Eleventh Infantry by the day after. They're all mechanized, they'll need fuel and supplies. Also, the troops will need bivouac areas. See to it. I want to speak with the local head of civil defense. Get him here."
She looked around the room, there was an electric spark in the atmosphere that hadn't been there before. She knew what it was, she'd seen it before. All it needed was somebody to take charge and set standards and people rose to the challenge. Once they'd done so once, they'd find it easier to do it again.
Outside the main center, Corporal Kasit was sitting in front of the radio communications bank, his feet on the desk, dozing gently. It wasn't as if he wanted to spend the day that way but the inactivity while the brass in the operations room argued over what to be done had left him little choice. The crash as the door to his section was thrown open woke him and he found himself staring into a pair of black, expressionless eyes. Female eyes but still very professional
"And just what do you think you are up to?"
Kasit had been married for years and knew that when caught cold under these circumstances the best thing to do was to admit everything and throw himself at the mercy of the court.
"I was goofing off Ma'am."
Major General Asanee looked at him carefully. "I'm promoting you to Sergeant. You’re the only person I've met in this building so far who knows what he's been doing."
Mess, Camp Hell-Alpha
"So you can't get drunk?" Kitten sounded very sympathetic.
"So it appears. We've tried hard a couple of times, but it just doesn't happen. The eggheads say it’s because us dead'uns don't absorb things from what we eat. We absorb energy from our surroundings just like plants. They say eating is just a left-over thing, we don’t have to if we don’t want to. Don’t ask me how that all works, I always was just a poor dumb grunt, now I'm just a poor dead grunt and I might have got it all wrong. Anyway, if we don’t absorb the alcohol, we don’t get drunk." Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy looked positively distraught at the prospect of spending eternity sober.
"Look on the bright side. You can spend all of the eternity sampling different brews and never get a hangover." Kitten's partner quaffed down the remains of a can of beer. "Speaking of which, can I get you guys another round?"
There was a slight stir of discontent at the words, and he looked nervous, wondering if he'd said something wrong. McElroy grinned at him reassuringly. "Sorry kid, it’s just that Kitten's – and your – money isn’t good at any military base in Hell. Nobody's ever going to forget what she did to keep us all going in the early days. So, you two sit tight and the bar will bring another round over."
Kitten flushed with embarrassment and looked downwards. She was about to say something when the light over the airlock door went red, showing that somebody was coming in from outside. She could hear the machinery cycling, pumping out the dust-contaminated air and replacing it with clean. Tucker had told her that even the dead, who could breathe the dirt-laden air of Hell without ill effects, preferred to live in clean-air surroundings. For the living, of course, there was no real choice.
"Kitten, I'm sorry to have to break up your party, but we need your help over at headquarters." The aide quietly waved to stop McElroy and the rest of his unit from getting to their feet. "We need a lot of gates pushed through fast and General Petraeus wants you to look after this end of it."
"Sir, with respect sir, hasn't Kitten done enough? She needs a long rest."
"It's all right Tucker, it doesn’t hurt to push a gate through from this side." She smiled shyly, "and it’s what I'm paid for after all. Look at it this way, it gives us an excuse for another meeting later. We'd better go Dani."
Her boyfriend picked up the end of her leash and tugged it. Obediently she stood and he led her out to where a V-22 was waiting. McElroy drained his can and shook his head slowly. "Well, people, it looks like our break is over. Cassidy, get everybody else rousted out, we've got to get set up for our next job."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Eighteen
Section 18, DIMO(N) Field Research Facility, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
"Are you quite comfortable, Kitten?" Doctor Ilya Muromets asked the question almost on autopilot. He was too concerned with getting his equipment set up and stabilized to be interested in the answer.
"Yes, thank you, Doctor. But shouldn’t we be over at the operational base, I thought there were troop movements to get started?"
"There are, but the units aren’t ready to move yet. It'll be a few hours before the military portals will be needed so we're going to run a few experiments into the portal opening. Portal science is a big thing now, several of the big universities have opened departments to study all the new physics we're running into out here."
"Hurry up and wait," Dani repeated the time-honored phrase with gloomy relish. "What are we doing here anyway?"
"That's right, but these experiments have a long-term significance. We're looking into how the other end of the portal gets established, or more specifically, what part the contact at the other end plays. Then, we're hoping we can automate it, so we don’t need a sensitive at both ends to push a portal through."
"That's easy, I just relax and let my mind search. When I get an echo, I hold it and the equipment pumps energy into the link. That's the bit that hurts, when the power goes right up, it feels like my brain is being torn apart. Like the worst migraine you ever had. It's not nearly so bad here in Hell though."
Muromets nodded in acknowledgment. "Most of the work being done right now is insulating the sensitive from that power transmission, to reduce exactly what you’re describing. But I'm more interested in the echo you mentioned. You see, if I'm right, there isn’t a transmission of any sort from the sensitive back to you. What you're feeling is a sort of resonance of your transmission. The better the sensitive of the other end, the stronger the resonance. I believe that the resonance strength is determined by the degree of Nephilim ancestry the sensitive has. You're the best because you have a high level of such ancestry."
"That would make sense." Kitten giggled. "Where I come from, family trees don’t have many branches."
"My equipment has settled down now." Muromets sighed. "The trouble is that the signals we are getting are so weak that they're lost in the electronic noise unless we're really careful. That's why they escaped detection for so long, nobody ever believed something that slight could be so important. People saw the signals but dismissed them as artifacts of the equipment. Just random noise caused by statistic uncertainty. The evidence was there, right in front of us the whole time and nobody looked at it."
"Just like tinfoil hats." Dani tossed the remark in with quiet satisfaction. The critical, proven, the importance of wearing a tinfoil hat was a serious embarrassment to the entire psychiatric profession who had once used wearing one as a trademark of insanity.
"Just like tinfoil hats. Now, Kitten, I want you just to scan with your mind, relax and try to find a contact. There's no need to communicate with them, what we're interested in is the signal you send out and the one you get back. If my theory is right, we should be able to compare them and determine that the return is a resonance from your transmission. If that isn't the case, we'll have to dump my hypothesis and start again."
"How many times have you done that Doctor?"
Muromets paused and counted on his fingers. "We're run through eleven hypotheses so far and every one of them failed to pan out. Each time we got off to a good start, but we ran into things the hypothesis couldn’t explain and we had to start over. My hypothesis is number twelve. I'm hoping that if this one works out, we'll be able to build transponders that each resonate on a slightly different set of transmission characteristics. Then, we can build those transponders into things like cell phone towers and install them all over Earth and Hell. That'll mean we'll be just like the naga, we can open a portal anywhere we want to. Only, unlike the naga, we will be able to do it with pinpoint accuracy."
"Why don’t we study naga then, rather than Kitten?"
"Because we don’t want the Baldricks believing they are useful to us. We've got our foot firmly on their necks right now and that's how we want it to stay."
"And the Generals realize what a weapons system that will make." Dani was impressed.
"That's right, one we want to keep very much to ourselves. But there's another point to this. Now we have only got one reference point for these signals, transmissions from Earth to Hell and back. That tells us something but not much. If we can analyze these signals and understand them, as soon as we get the Earth to Heaven and back signals, we can get to work and start to develop a proper theory of why portals go where they do. And what portals are, of course, we don’t understand that yet either.
"I've got a contact Doctor."
"Well done, Kitten. Hold it, just don’t do anything with it. The equipment is making records of everything."
Section 12, DIMO(N) Field Research Center, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
"Now this is very interesting indeed." Doctor Crosby tapped the charts in front of him.
"What's up doc?" Colonel Warhol couldn’t resist the line.
"We've got power readings from vehicles and aircraft that passed through the portals. Remember that U-2 that crashed a few weeks back? Well, we all thought it lost power as it was transiting the Hell-Alpha portal and went in. U-2s are prone to that sort of thing after all. But the accident investigation board found that its engine was running when it crashed. Choked up with dust, certainly, its filters had failed. Still getting power though. It was right on the borderline of flying and crashing when something pushed it over the edge. So, amongst other things, we started measuring engine power outputs as the platforms they power to pass through the portals."
"And?" Warhol had never managed to quite understand why civilians took so long to get to the point.
"All the data is consistent; they show a slight increase in power output as the vehicle passes through. That means when something goes through a portal, there's a slight energy barrier and the engine must increase output slightly to compensate for it. There is an energy cost going through a portal and that is of immense significance."
"Well, that's just great for you people."
"It's quite significant for you too," Crosby spoke with acerbity. Why couldn't military people have any patience? When they wanted information, they wanted it now and in words of one syllable. "Look at the figures for the ships going through the Hell-Bravo portal. The power output increase is tiny, so slight we can hardly measure it. But using Hell-Alpha, the power output on vehicles is significantly greater. I bet the crews noticed an engine surge as they went through but thought nothing of it. That's what killed that U-2, going through the portal needed a tiny bit more power and the engine just couldn’t give it."
"So?"
"Think about it. Hell-Bravo is at sea level on both sides. Very little altitude differential, tiny barrier energy. Hell-Alpha has an altitude differential, there's a slightly greater energy barrier. I bet if we had an enormous altitude difference, the barrier would be so great we couldn’t cross it. And that would mean we couldn't use it to supply, for example, the International Space Station. Of course, I doubt if altitude is the constraint, there must be something else and altitude is just the physical manifestation……"
Crosby was interrupted by a wailing cacophony as the base sirens suddenly burst into life. Warhol looked around for a few seconds, then the realization dawned on him. "Crosby, move! The base is under attack."
The scientist stood in the center of the room, looking around him, uncertain what to do. Warhol dived past him, towards one of the emergency cabinets that studded the walls around the conference room. It was the work of a second to punch in the four-number code and grab the M4A5 inside. His hands moved with the unerring precision of much training as he inserted the 20-round magazine and racked the mechanism. Then he opened a second cabinet and tossed the weapon inside to Crosby. "Get to the redoubt in the center of the base. We'll deal with this. Whatever it is."
Running down the corridor leading to the command center, Warhol noted that most of the other emergency cabinets had been opened and the contents were taken. Installing them had seemed like a joke eighteen months earlier when this facility had been built, but now they seemed to be important enough. Just what was happening that could cause this level of alert?
"Warhol. Get some men together, make up a team, and head for the perimeter." The duty officer snapped the order out without looking around, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him.
Warhol saw the screen also and the sight made him stop dead. The display showed a monster, a huge one, that looked like a giant leopard. What was appalling was its head, or rather heads. The creature had seven of them and ten horns. They weren't quite heads though, it was more as if there were seven faces on the same giant, hideously distorted skull with the horns sticking out between them. Warhol couldn’t estimate the thing's size, the display didn’t have a reference in a shot that he could use to get an idea of scale, but he guessed it was huge. It had to be to cause this level of chaos.
"What are you still doing here? Get down to the motor pool, there'll be troops down there for you. Move."
It took Warhol a few minutes to get to the motor pool and pick up the men there. Once again, the non-commissioned officers had saved the situation, they had already organized the motor pool staff into an emergency platoon and set it up in a defensive position. All he had to do was to take over and move them out towards the base perimeter. They even had the motor transport to hand, a selection of Humvees, trucks, and a single experimental armored car equipped with a 57mm gun. He did not doubt that they would be needed, the barrage of gunfire from the south was a sure sign that this was no walk-over fight. Warhol did what every infantry officer had been expected to do since the invention of gunpowder, he drove to the sound of the guns.
Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
"It's taken out Domino's Pizza!" The cry was almost drowned out by the roar of gunfire while the streams of tracer formed an almost-perfect cone centered on the great beast that towered over the trees.
"Who the hell cares. I preferred Cicis anyway." It was, perhaps, a sign of the times that the Coca-Cola delivery truck was camouflaged and had a .50 machine gun mounted above its cab. The delivery team had been caught up in the attack and were now doing their level best to make a worthwhile contribution to the volume of fire that was engulfing the Leopard Beast. The problem was, they hadn't had much ammunition to start with and they were now running desperately low. So, like everybody else.
They'd achieved their first objective though, the hastily mounted defense had drawn the Leopard Beast away from the family accommodation to the south of the base and given the dependents there a chance to escape into Fayetteville. Stung by the hail of gunfire, the Leopard Beast had made its way around to the south-eastern flank of the base and tried to break through. Once again, it had been met by a barrage of gunfire and driven back. Despite the tens of thousands of rounds that had been fired in its direction, it was still alive and showed no signs of being any less lethal than when it had first appeared.
Still, the gunfire was achieving something else. The streams of tracer were serving as perfect target markers for the aircraft that were heading in. The Leopard Beast had been driven into an area that was largely unoccupied and that had opened a whole new range of possibilities. One of them was already being brought into play, the thump of heavy mortars was quickly followed by the eruption of feathered white clouds around the Beast. It screamed as the white phosphorus burned its way into its skin.
"Keep marking that target!" One of the junior officers had the presence of mind to scream out the order in case any journalists were around. After all, everybody knew the U.S. Army only used white phosphorus to lay smoke screens and mark targets, that was their story and they were sticking to it.
The Leopard Beast screamed again and leaped forward, crashing into a small fuel dump on the outskirts of the mobility testing area. The HEMTT trucks line up outside crumpled under the bear paws that served as feet. The trucks exploded in balls of fire as they were crushed and, once again, the Leopard Beast was driven back, away from the base. This time, as it fled east, away from the flames, it ran into streams of fire from Bradley armored vehicles that had been moved up to flank its position. The 25mm sabot rounds did more damage than the rifle-caliber rounds fired so far, and, for the first time, the Leopard Beast was hurt badly enough to dilute its single-minded urge for destruction. Then, the Beast heard and saw a new threat.
The four A-45s had taken off a few minutes earlier, loaded with whatever the ground crews could find immediately available. There were more aircraft being bombed up back at the base and they would be carrying loads better suited to the battle being fought at Fort Bragg, but time had been of the essence, and it was better to get something over the battlefield now rather than wait for a perfect solution that might be too late. In any case, AH-64s were on their way in and the Beast would have to be distracted while the helicopters made their runs. Everybody remembered what had happened when unsupported helicopters had tried to fight harpies in the skies over Iraq. The Leopard Beast didn't appear capable of flying but when faced with a seven-faced beast more than 200 feet tall, nobody was going to take the chance. So, the A-45s started their bomb runs, aiming to distract the beast. Of course, if they hurt it in the process, the pilots wouldn't mind in the slightest.
"We could sure use one of them Mujs and a vee-bed right now." The speaker was a veteran of the Battle of Hit and well-remembered the effects of explosive-packed pick-up trucks driven into the center of a mass of Baldricks. The U.S. Army didn’t like to admit it, but the suicide bomb trucks might well have been the factor that had turned the tide in that particular battle. The way the Leopard Beast kept shrugging off the storm of fire being aimed at it suggested they would be needed to turn the tide again. Then, the soldier got his wish for the ground around the beats erupted into a rolling thunder of explosions. The four A-45s had streaked overhead, each releasing four fin-retarded Mark 82 bombs. Sixteen-five hundred pounders, even when delivered with less-than-optimal accuracy, were something that the Leopard Beast found distinctly terrifying.
To the watching troops, the fact that the beast was seriously hurt at last was thankfully apparent. Great areas of its flanks were now torn open, dripping silver blood as it staggered from the blast of the bombs. They saw it stagger again as red lines flashed across the battlefield, an Abrams tank had appeared and was firing sabot rounds at the Beast. That was all the tank crew had, high explosive, HEAT, and HEAD rounds were completely unavailable, their supplies limited and the forces in Hell had top priority for any that were around. The crew was firing what they had, carefully, precisely, deadly accurately. They'd picked one of the faces of the Beast and were pumping round after round into it. The repeated impacts were having their effect, the chosen face was quickly losing its identity as the long bolts of depleted uranium crushed its features.
The Leopard Beast was being hurt and it knew it. It slumped back on its hindquarters, waving its paws in front of its grotesquely misshapen head, trying to fend off the bolts that kept slamming into it. The posture was achingly reminiscent of a Kitten playing with a ball of wool, but the sight didn’t decrease the volume of fire that was still being poured into it. The tank ceased fire, its partly loaded magazine empty but its place was taken by the first of the AH-64s. This one had been loaded with some time-expired Hellfire missiles that had been found at the back of a supply dump. Two of the eight failed to fire completely, one exploded shortly after launch, lashing the front of the helicopter with fragments while two more failed to guide and went off into the darkness to land somewhere kilometers away. The three remaining missiles scored direct hits on the Beast, and it went down.
Even so, the battered and bullet-peppered Leopard Beast was still alive. It had no taste to continue this fight anymore, all it wanted was out, an end, away from the humans who wished its death so devoutly. Racked with pain from its injuries, it dragged itself along the ground, its mind forming the image of the portal that would take it to the sanctuary it needed so desperately. The problem was that generating the portal needed its concentration and the beast's limited intellect wasn't capable of both forming its portal and absorbing the shattering pain of its injuries. Dimly, its mind registered more crashes and the searing pain of shaped charges burning their way into its body. Slowly, reluctantly, the Leopard Beast gave up the battle to survive.
Scrubland, Outside the Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
Warhol rubbed his eyes. They were gritty, he could feel the residues of burned powder under the lids and he wondered just how many rounds he'd fired into the Beast the night before. Ahead of him, the troops were lining up to be pictured beside the massive body that was stretched out on the ground. Just how much did that damned thing weigh he thought as the crew of a Bradley was pictured with their vehicle beside one of its paws. Could a thing like that exist? And if it did, what else was there in Heaven waiting to descend on Earth. The Leopard Beast had taken most of the resources of Fort Bragg to kill and it had come precious close to breaking in and destroying the scientific resources of the DIMO(N) center here.
"Impressive isn't it." Beside him, Doctor Crosby was also looking at the corpse of the Beast.
"It's just big, that's all. We can kill them, just a matter of learning how." Warhol's mind had trouble forming the words.
"I hope so. I think we'll see more of them in due course."
Section 18, DIMO(N) Field Research Facility, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
"Are you quite comfortable, Kitten?" Doctor Ilya Muromets asked the question almost on autopilot. He was too concerned with getting his equipment set up and stabilized to be interested in the answer.
"Yes, thank you, Doctor. But shouldn’t we be over at the operational base, I thought there were troop movements to get started?"
"There are, but the units aren’t ready to move yet. It'll be a few hours before the military portals will be needed so we're going to run a few experiments into the portal opening. Portal science is a big thing now, several of the big universities have opened departments to study all the new physics we're running into out here."
"Hurry up and wait," Dani repeated the time-honored phrase with gloomy relish. "What are we doing here anyway?"
"That's right, but these experiments have a long-term significance. We're looking into how the other end of the portal gets established, or more specifically, what part the contact at the other end plays. Then, we're hoping we can automate it, so we don’t need a sensitive at both ends to push a portal through."
"That's easy, I just relax and let my mind search. When I get an echo, I hold it and the equipment pumps energy into the link. That's the bit that hurts, when the power goes right up, it feels like my brain is being torn apart. Like the worst migraine you ever had. It's not nearly so bad here in Hell though."
Muromets nodded in acknowledgment. "Most of the work being done right now is insulating the sensitive from that power transmission, to reduce exactly what you’re describing. But I'm more interested in the echo you mentioned. You see, if I'm right, there isn’t a transmission of any sort from the sensitive back to you. What you're feeling is a sort of resonance of your transmission. The better the sensitive of the other end, the stronger the resonance. I believe that the resonance strength is determined by the degree of Nephilim ancestry the sensitive has. You're the best because you have a high level of such ancestry."
"That would make sense." Kitten giggled. "Where I come from, family trees don’t have many branches."
"My equipment has settled down now." Muromets sighed. "The trouble is that the signals we are getting are so weak that they're lost in the electronic noise unless we're really careful. That's why they escaped detection for so long, nobody ever believed something that slight could be so important. People saw the signals but dismissed them as artifacts of the equipment. Just random noise caused by statistic uncertainty. The evidence was there, right in front of us the whole time and nobody looked at it."
"Just like tinfoil hats." Dani tossed the remark in with quiet satisfaction. The critical, proven, the importance of wearing a tinfoil hat was a serious embarrassment to the entire psychiatric profession who had once used wearing one as a trademark of insanity.
"Just like tinfoil hats. Now, Kitten, I want you just to scan with your mind, relax and try to find a contact. There's no need to communicate with them, what we're interested in is the signal you send out and the one you get back. If my theory is right, we should be able to compare them and determine that the return is a resonance from your transmission. If that isn't the case, we'll have to dump my hypothesis and start again."
"How many times have you done that Doctor?"
Muromets paused and counted on his fingers. "We're run through eleven hypotheses so far and every one of them failed to pan out. Each time we got off to a good start, but we ran into things the hypothesis couldn’t explain and we had to start over. My hypothesis is number twelve. I'm hoping that if this one works out, we'll be able to build transponders that each resonate on a slightly different set of transmission characteristics. Then, we can build those transponders into things like cell phone towers and install them all over Earth and Hell. That'll mean we'll be just like the naga, we can open a portal anywhere we want to. Only, unlike the naga, we will be able to do it with pinpoint accuracy."
"Why don’t we study naga then, rather than Kitten?"
"Because we don’t want the Baldricks believing they are useful to us. We've got our foot firmly on their necks right now and that's how we want it to stay."
"And the Generals realize what a weapons system that will make." Dani was impressed.
"That's right, one we want to keep very much to ourselves. But there's another point to this. Now we have only got one reference point for these signals, transmissions from Earth to Hell and back. That tells us something but not much. If we can analyze these signals and understand them, as soon as we get the Earth to Heaven and back signals, we can get to work and start to develop a proper theory of why portals go where they do. And what portals are, of course, we don’t understand that yet either.
"I've got a contact Doctor."
"Well done, Kitten. Hold it, just don’t do anything with it. The equipment is making records of everything."
Section 12, DIMO(N) Field Research Center, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
"Now this is very interesting indeed." Doctor Crosby tapped the charts in front of him.
"What's up doc?" Colonel Warhol couldn’t resist the line.
"We've got power readings from vehicles and aircraft that passed through the portals. Remember that U-2 that crashed a few weeks back? Well, we all thought it lost power as it was transiting the Hell-Alpha portal and went in. U-2s are prone to that sort of thing after all. But the accident investigation board found that its engine was running when it crashed. Choked up with dust, certainly, its filters had failed. Still getting power though. It was right on the borderline of flying and crashing when something pushed it over the edge. So, amongst other things, we started measuring engine power outputs as the platforms they power to pass through the portals."
"And?" Warhol had never managed to quite understand why civilians took so long to get to the point.
"All the data is consistent; they show a slight increase in power output as the vehicle passes through. That means when something goes through a portal, there's a slight energy barrier and the engine must increase output slightly to compensate for it. There is an energy cost going through a portal and that is of immense significance."
"Well, that's just great for you people."
"It's quite significant for you too," Crosby spoke with acerbity. Why couldn't military people have any patience? When they wanted information, they wanted it now and in words of one syllable. "Look at the figures for the ships going through the Hell-Bravo portal. The power output increase is tiny, so slight we can hardly measure it. But using Hell-Alpha, the power output on vehicles is significantly greater. I bet the crews noticed an engine surge as they went through but thought nothing of it. That's what killed that U-2, going through the portal needed a tiny bit more power and the engine just couldn’t give it."
"So?"
"Think about it. Hell-Bravo is at sea level on both sides. Very little altitude differential, tiny barrier energy. Hell-Alpha has an altitude differential, there's a slightly greater energy barrier. I bet if we had an enormous altitude difference, the barrier would be so great we couldn’t cross it. And that would mean we couldn't use it to supply, for example, the International Space Station. Of course, I doubt if altitude is the constraint, there must be something else and altitude is just the physical manifestation……"
Crosby was interrupted by a wailing cacophony as the base sirens suddenly burst into life. Warhol looked around for a few seconds, then the realization dawned on him. "Crosby, move! The base is under attack."
The scientist stood in the center of the room, looking around him, uncertain what to do. Warhol dived past him, towards one of the emergency cabinets that studded the walls around the conference room. It was the work of a second to punch in the four-number code and grab the M4A5 inside. His hands moved with the unerring precision of much training as he inserted the 20-round magazine and racked the mechanism. Then he opened a second cabinet and tossed the weapon inside to Crosby. "Get to the redoubt in the center of the base. We'll deal with this. Whatever it is."
Running down the corridor leading to the command center, Warhol noted that most of the other emergency cabinets had been opened and the contents were taken. Installing them had seemed like a joke eighteen months earlier when this facility had been built, but now they seemed to be important enough. Just what was happening that could cause this level of alert?
"Warhol. Get some men together, make up a team, and head for the perimeter." The duty officer snapped the order out without looking around, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him.
Warhol saw the screen also and the sight made him stop dead. The display showed a monster, a huge one, that looked like a giant leopard. What was appalling was its head, or rather heads. The creature had seven of them and ten horns. They weren't quite heads though, it was more as if there were seven faces on the same giant, hideously distorted skull with the horns sticking out between them. Warhol couldn’t estimate the thing's size, the display didn’t have a reference in a shot that he could use to get an idea of scale, but he guessed it was huge. It had to be to cause this level of chaos.
"What are you still doing here? Get down to the motor pool, there'll be troops down there for you. Move."
It took Warhol a few minutes to get to the motor pool and pick up the men there. Once again, the non-commissioned officers had saved the situation, they had already organized the motor pool staff into an emergency platoon and set it up in a defensive position. All he had to do was to take over and move them out towards the base perimeter. They even had the motor transport to hand, a selection of Humvees, trucks, and a single experimental armored car equipped with a 57mm gun. He did not doubt that they would be needed, the barrage of gunfire from the south was a sure sign that this was no walk-over fight. Warhol did what every infantry officer had been expected to do since the invention of gunpowder, he drove to the sound of the guns.
Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
"It's taken out Domino's Pizza!" The cry was almost drowned out by the roar of gunfire while the streams of tracer formed an almost-perfect cone centered on the great beast that towered over the trees.
"Who the hell cares. I preferred Cicis anyway." It was, perhaps, a sign of the times that the Coca-Cola delivery truck was camouflaged and had a .50 machine gun mounted above its cab. The delivery team had been caught up in the attack and were now doing their level best to make a worthwhile contribution to the volume of fire that was engulfing the Leopard Beast. The problem was, they hadn't had much ammunition to start with and they were now running desperately low. So, like everybody else.
They'd achieved their first objective though, the hastily mounted defense had drawn the Leopard Beast away from the family accommodation to the south of the base and given the dependents there a chance to escape into Fayetteville. Stung by the hail of gunfire, the Leopard Beast had made its way around to the south-eastern flank of the base and tried to break through. Once again, it had been met by a barrage of gunfire and driven back. Despite the tens of thousands of rounds that had been fired in its direction, it was still alive and showed no signs of being any less lethal than when it had first appeared.
Still, the gunfire was achieving something else. The streams of tracer were serving as perfect target markers for the aircraft that were heading in. The Leopard Beast had been driven into an area that was largely unoccupied and that had opened a whole new range of possibilities. One of them was already being brought into play, the thump of heavy mortars was quickly followed by the eruption of feathered white clouds around the Beast. It screamed as the white phosphorus burned its way into its skin.
"Keep marking that target!" One of the junior officers had the presence of mind to scream out the order in case any journalists were around. After all, everybody knew the U.S. Army only used white phosphorus to lay smoke screens and mark targets, that was their story and they were sticking to it.
The Leopard Beast screamed again and leaped forward, crashing into a small fuel dump on the outskirts of the mobility testing area. The HEMTT trucks line up outside crumpled under the bear paws that served as feet. The trucks exploded in balls of fire as they were crushed and, once again, the Leopard Beast was driven back, away from the base. This time, as it fled east, away from the flames, it ran into streams of fire from Bradley armored vehicles that had been moved up to flank its position. The 25mm sabot rounds did more damage than the rifle-caliber rounds fired so far, and, for the first time, the Leopard Beast was hurt badly enough to dilute its single-minded urge for destruction. Then, the Beast heard and saw a new threat.
The four A-45s had taken off a few minutes earlier, loaded with whatever the ground crews could find immediately available. There were more aircraft being bombed up back at the base and they would be carrying loads better suited to the battle being fought at Fort Bragg, but time had been of the essence, and it was better to get something over the battlefield now rather than wait for a perfect solution that might be too late. In any case, AH-64s were on their way in and the Beast would have to be distracted while the helicopters made their runs. Everybody remembered what had happened when unsupported helicopters had tried to fight harpies in the skies over Iraq. The Leopard Beast didn't appear capable of flying but when faced with a seven-faced beast more than 200 feet tall, nobody was going to take the chance. So, the A-45s started their bomb runs, aiming to distract the beast. Of course, if they hurt it in the process, the pilots wouldn't mind in the slightest.
"We could sure use one of them Mujs and a vee-bed right now." The speaker was a veteran of the Battle of Hit and well-remembered the effects of explosive-packed pick-up trucks driven into the center of a mass of Baldricks. The U.S. Army didn’t like to admit it, but the suicide bomb trucks might well have been the factor that had turned the tide in that particular battle. The way the Leopard Beast kept shrugging off the storm of fire being aimed at it suggested they would be needed to turn the tide again. Then, the soldier got his wish for the ground around the beats erupted into a rolling thunder of explosions. The four A-45s had streaked overhead, each releasing four fin-retarded Mark 82 bombs. Sixteen-five hundred pounders, even when delivered with less-than-optimal accuracy, were something that the Leopard Beast found distinctly terrifying.
To the watching troops, the fact that the beast was seriously hurt at last was thankfully apparent. Great areas of its flanks were now torn open, dripping silver blood as it staggered from the blast of the bombs. They saw it stagger again as red lines flashed across the battlefield, an Abrams tank had appeared and was firing sabot rounds at the Beast. That was all the tank crew had, high explosive, HEAT, and HEAD rounds were completely unavailable, their supplies limited and the forces in Hell had top priority for any that were around. The crew was firing what they had, carefully, precisely, deadly accurately. They'd picked one of the faces of the Beast and were pumping round after round into it. The repeated impacts were having their effect, the chosen face was quickly losing its identity as the long bolts of depleted uranium crushed its features.
The Leopard Beast was being hurt and it knew it. It slumped back on its hindquarters, waving its paws in front of its grotesquely misshapen head, trying to fend off the bolts that kept slamming into it. The posture was achingly reminiscent of a Kitten playing with a ball of wool, but the sight didn’t decrease the volume of fire that was still being poured into it. The tank ceased fire, its partly loaded magazine empty but its place was taken by the first of the AH-64s. This one had been loaded with some time-expired Hellfire missiles that had been found at the back of a supply dump. Two of the eight failed to fire completely, one exploded shortly after launch, lashing the front of the helicopter with fragments while two more failed to guide and went off into the darkness to land somewhere kilometers away. The three remaining missiles scored direct hits on the Beast, and it went down.
Even so, the battered and bullet-peppered Leopard Beast was still alive. It had no taste to continue this fight anymore, all it wanted was out, an end, away from the humans who wished its death so devoutly. Racked with pain from its injuries, it dragged itself along the ground, its mind forming the image of the portal that would take it to the sanctuary it needed so desperately. The problem was that generating the portal needed its concentration and the beast's limited intellect wasn't capable of both forming its portal and absorbing the shattering pain of its injuries. Dimly, its mind registered more crashes and the searing pain of shaped charges burning their way into its body. Slowly, reluctantly, the Leopard Beast gave up the battle to survive.
Scrubland, Outside the Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
Warhol rubbed his eyes. They were gritty, he could feel the residues of burned powder under the lids and he wondered just how many rounds he'd fired into the Beast the night before. Ahead of him, the troops were lining up to be pictured beside the massive body that was stretched out on the ground. Just how much did that damned thing weigh he thought as the crew of a Bradley was pictured with their vehicle beside one of its paws. Could a thing like that exist? And if it did, what else was there in Heaven waiting to descend on Earth. The Leopard Beast had taken most of the resources of Fort Bragg to kill and it had come precious close to breaking in and destroying the scientific resources of the DIMO(N) center here.
"Impressive isn't it." Beside him, Doctor Crosby was also looking at the corpse of the Beast.
"It's just big, that's all. We can kill them, just a matter of learning how." Warhol's mind had trouble forming the words.
"I hope so. I think we'll see more of them in due course."
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Nineteen
Chong Sadao, Thailand
"Where the hell have you been? My people have been cut to pieces up here because you broke your word." Captain Momrajong was almost spitting with sheer rage. The fact he was speaking to a Senior Colonel, a rank equivalent to a one-star General in most other armies didn't register. "We were promised, promised, that if there was an invasion, we'd be relieved by regular troops within 12 hours. That was two days ago."
Senior Colonel Thawat bit back the response that would have left nothing of the captain but a pair of smoking boots and nodded apologetically instead. At one level, a rebuke would have been pointless, the Tahan Phran belonged to a different chain of command than the regular Army. They weren't even funded by the Ministry of Defense; the Home Affairs Ministry carried the cost of the militia units. At another level, Thawat knew the captain was right. The lightly armed militia wasn’t intended to confront regular armies, they were supposed to protect their villages against minor incursions and guarantee security along roads. In most areas of the country that meant looking after tourists. The Tahan Phran had no heavy weapons, no night vision equipment, and their body armor was locally made Level Two. That wouldn't stop a reasonably powerful pistol round.
"I understand your anger Captain, but we're here now. In regimental strength. My men are relieving yours all along this area of the front. The people responsible for this screw-up have been relieved. We can't change what went wrong, we can only make sure it doesn’t happen again and go on from here."
"That's fine for you to say. I had some of my wounded die because they didn’t get the casualty evacuation we were promised. Are you going to tell their families why they died?"
"No, my commander will, and she will do so personally." Thawat's voice was drowned out by a red-and-gray camouflaged V-22 sweeping in and hovering overhead. He watched while the aircraft changed, its engine nacelles swinging up so that its appearance changed from a transport aircraft to a helicopter. Then it dropped to land, the downbeat from its rotors causing the men to bend down. "As to casualty evacuation, get your wounded and the Osprey will take them straight to the hospitals in Kanchanaburi. How many men have you fit for duty? Out of how many?"
"I have twenty rangers left. My original platoon was twenty-five, but I've absorbed two other units that were too badly chewed up to stay independent. We've taken forty dead and fifteen wounded, at least five of my dead would have made it if you'd kept your word."
All right, you've made your point, now drop it. We can't bring them back. Despite his irritation, Thawat kept the thought to himself, then corrected himself. Well, we can, for a short while anyway. Hell, and Second Life had changed a lot of ways of thinking and human speech habits were slow to catch up.
"Now, Captain, I want you to show me where the Myanmarese troops are and in what strength. Then we can go about making them pay for the lives of your people."
Momrajong exhaled, his breath shaking slightly as the pent-up anger slowly faded. "The Myanmar troops are moving along here." He got out his map and his finger started to trace out the Myanmarese positions. "They came south of the Si Nakharin Lake. Most of their forces are here, our estimate is divisional strength. Say 20,000 men at most. They are light infantry; they have mortars and machine guns but not much else. This," his finger traced eastwards, "is their primary axis of advance."
Thawat nodded. The dispositions made sense, Chong Sadao was the start of a funnel that led to Kanchanaburi, a natural route towards the rich farming land of the Chaophrya river. It had been used by the Burmese many times over the turbulent history of the two countries. There was a reason why Chong Sadao was served by good, all-weather roads while further east, they deteriorated to the single-lane blacktop and then to laterite, unpaved tracks. To the north, the way through was blocked by the lake and mountains, to the south by more mountains and dense jungle. Chong Sadao was the natural blocking point for any invasion and the long-established defense plans for the area had tasked the 9th Infantry with holding it. The militia captain was right, this area should have been occupied two days ago and the defenses here should have been built and ready. Soldiers would die because they were fighting from a hasty defense instead of a prepared one. Thawat promised himself that, at least, the militia units would suffer no more casualties.
"Captain, this is a straightforward infantry blocking action. My regiment can handle it. Please give the rest of your information to my staff, then I suggest, recommend, you use some of our transport to get your people to the rear where they can rest and eat. You've done enough, done more than enough and your work has been splendid."
"Work we shouldn’t have had to do." Momrajong was still bitter over how his militia had been hung out to dry. He knew the Colonel in front of him didn't understand how deeply the sense of betrayal ran. Army units were just that, army units, assembled out of the mix of volunteers and conscripts that the Army used as its primary resource. The militia was drawn from villages and every member of each unit had known the others from earliest childhood. His losses had taken almost a generation of youngsters from the villages already depleted by those who had left to earn money in the big cities.
"I know, but now we must do the work we should have done all along."
The Ultimate Temple, The Eternal City, Heaven.
"They killed Wuffles!" Yahweh's voice was a mixture of rage and anguish. The thunder rolled around the throne room, drowning out the eternally chanting choir. Michael-Lan watched them carefully, was there a hint of malicious satisfaction in their eyes at the sight of Yahweh's grief over the death of his favorite pet.
Personally, Michael-Lan had never liked the beast. Foul-tempered, cantankerous, and ill-disciplined to the point of being antisocial. It was lucky they had humans here to clear up the mess the incontinent beast tended to leave behind him. That was the trouble with a beast that size, its droppings were in proportion and took a long time to shovel away. Still, the Leopard-Beast had served its purpose.
"All-Knowing Father, One Above All, I share your grief at the loss of your beloved Wuffles. But know that he fought bravely and inflicted great damage on the humans before they treacherously brought him down with their bombs and gunfire."
Yahweh did indeed look proud of his pet for a moment, but then grief and anger swept away the momentary lapse. The thunder cracked viciously, and a sheet of lightning lit up the dim room. Still, white Michael-Lan noted, well, we have plenty of time. Let's get back to milking this situation for all it is worth.
"One Above All, Lord of Heaven." And not including Earth, is a nice little goad, all its own. "I regret to report that Wuffles may have died because his mission was betrayed. The humans were waiting for him with all their weapons loaded and ready." Yeah, right.
"Betrayal?" Yahweh's voice thundered and the clouds in the room darkened notably. "There is betrayal in Heaven?"
"I fear this is so. Our most skilled and dedicated inquisitors in the League of the Holy Court have detected a conspiracy of threatening dimensions."
"Threatening? You say this conspiracy threatens me?" The lightning flashed in sheets across the throne room and a bolt spalled fragments of marble from the walls. In the background, the chief mason sighed and shot an accusing glance at Michael.
"Threatens you? Impossible, Lord-of-All." Michael-Lan mangled the phrasing just enough, so it was slightly unclear whether the concept of a threat or Yahweh himself was impossible. Michael had his own opinions on that subject. "But those who are involved may believe that their feeble activities are indeed a threat to Your Omnipotence. Perhaps this snare was prepared for you long ago by the not-so-Eternal Enemy. Perhaps, in his defeat, he arranged for those of his servants who had not declared for him to carry on with his great design."
Michael-Lan was slightly surprised, he'd expected a cataclysmic burst of thunder and lightning at that idea but instead, Yahweh sat silent and thoughtful on his throne. Could Wuffles getting killed have knocked some sense into him? If it had, perhaps it was time to arrange for some more of his pets to be blown away by the humans. The silence stretched on.
"Perhaps this might well be true. How high does this conspiracy go?"
"The League of the Holy Court does not know, Eternal Father of All. So, far, they have identified only the lower ranks of the conspiracy, but they are concerned with what they see. It is arranged in cells, each independent of the others and those in one know but few of those in others. They work diligently in uncovering the threat, but they must take care of who knows who else is involved? It may even be that the League of the Holy Court itself is not unstained by this treason."
"Arranged in cells. This does seem like the work of the Morningstar. The late Morningstar."
And that, boys, and girls, is why subversion is so much more productive than insurgency. Michael's thought had a distinctly gleeful note to it. "Indeed so, Eternal Father."
"Pursue this, Michael, greatest of my generals, pursue this with care. What other news is there? Do the Americans wail under the lash of Uriel?" There was more than a question built-in there.
"Well, they would, if they had reason to. Of course, his first attack was a bit disappointing. A city of nearly two million and he only took thirty thousand souls."
That did it. At last, Michael got his display of multi-colored lightning. A barrage of chips flew off the walls and the various strange creatures that danced attendance on Yahweh dived for cover. "Just thirty thousand? Is Uriel playing with them?"
"Well, One-Above-All, the humans took a pot-shot at him, and he left rather hastily. I don’t think his heart is quite in this you know. Perhaps he has spent too long on Earth and has become fond of the humans." Michael managed to get the words out without choking with laughter on them.
"I will tear out his heart and eat it!" For a second, Yahweh sounded just like Satan. Then, he got control of himself, and the family relationship wasn't so obvious. "Perhaps he should be brought here to explain himself."
Not a chance. "Your slightest wish is our most urgent command, One Above All. But Uriel is preparing another attack, this one on the city of San Diego. It also is a city of millions and perhaps he will summon enough courage to make a better job of it this time." Michael-Lan sighed theatrically. "If only Uriel showed the loyalty and dedication of Wuffles. Still, I would counsel that we allow Uriel to make this new attack and judge him on his success there."
"Perhaps it is Uriel himself who is at the head of this conspiracy?" Yahweh's voice was thoughtful.
"Surely not, One Above All, Highest of the High, Ruler of All. Uriel's loyalty had never been questioned until now. I would swear that his fealty remains untarnished."
"Nevertheless, instruct the League of the Holy Court to investigate him thoroughly." Yahweh's voice dropped and he sounded tired. "These are strange days, Michael, greatest of my generals. The Eternal Enemy was killed by humans. Those same humans defy my commands and reject the answers I give them. They kill my servants and destroy my pets. Are the Bowls of Wrath poured on them?"
"They are, O Highest of the High. The first three have already been poured and caused much grief and lamentation. Soon, the fourth shall be poured," as soon as I think of a way to do it "And then their anguish shall be multiplied many times over."
"Is it time for our Legions to overwhelm them?"
Are you out of your tiny little mind? Michael-Lan almost blurted the question out allowed before he managed to stop himself. In any case, he reminded himself that's a foolish question to which the only reasonable answer is of course. "Lord of All, the time will surely come and when it does, perhaps your son should lead them in the victorious march against the humans. The power and the glory shall forever more add luster to your Holy Name."
Yahweh settled back and contemplated the prospect of final victory and a triumphant procession through the conquered cities of Earth. Then, he remembered that his beloved Wuffles would not be there to share it with him, and grief once more clouded his mind.
Michael looked at him and quietly slipped away. As he left the Throne Room, the Head Mason spoke quietly to him. "Michael-Lan, you're slipping. We won’t have to replace all the wall surfaces this time. What was that you said about job security?"
"You just wait, the best is yet to come. Once the League of the Holy Court finds out who is behind this stupid plot, He'll go ballistic. Until then, drop down to the club for a drinkie, we've got a new angel working there. Name's Maion, give her a try."
"Maion, eh? I'll do that." The mason looked grateful. "What would we do without you Michael-Lan? You've made Heaven worth living in."
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon
"So what part did the Succubae play in the Great Celestial War?"
Colonel John Baylor forked up some mushrooms from his plate and savored them. Good portobellos, sauteed with garlic, an excellent accompaniment to lunch. The trouble with being at war was that rationing was slowly creeping across the whole spread of the U.S. economy. First fuel, then vehicles, then anything that needed steel or aluminum. Then food had started to be affected, fish stocks were low and the ration of eight ounces per serving was onerous. It was lucky Indonesia and Vietnam had donated some of the products of their fish farms to the United States or shrimp would be in even shorter supply. Of course, post-war, they'd be using their generosity to lever better trade terms for themselves.
Lugasharmanaska's teeth ripped at the raw horse's leg with relish. As an obligate carnivore, she would have been hard hit by meat rationing, so it was fortunate that Succubus taste ran to the toughest, stringiest meat that was available. 'Unfit for human consumption had acquired a whole new meaning, 'preferred diet for Succubae'. It was an odd thing, as she'd started eating other meat, her craving for human flesh had faded. Now, it was mostly just a memory, except for the odd treat of course.
"Us? We had to find the portals. Remember, most of the fighting that took place in the Great Celestial War was here on Earth. It's carried in your folk memories and earliest myths. How many of your stories have scenes of towns besieged by armies of monsters? They're us."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Baylor looked at Luga ripping her meal apart, droplets of blood staining some of the papers in front of her. The stenographer in the corner of the room looked positively ill at the display. Then again, it was lucky that the floor ventilation ducts were working at full blast or one of the humans in the room would have offered Luga a bite out of their arms if she'd asked for one. It was rumored that more than one of Luga's lovers had left with bite-sized pieces removed from their anatomy. Hence one of the new proverbs that were spreading through humanity. 'Never have oral sex with a Succubus.'
"It's near impossible to create a portal from Heaven to Hell. But it's easy to create portals from Heaven to Earth and Hell to Earth. So, to get from Hell to Heaven, we must go by Earth. Or it’s equivalent. But it's quite hard to create a useful portal from Earth to Hell or Earth to Heaven. So, say, Michael-lan would create a Heaven-Earth portal for one of his armies and we'd try and capture it. Or we'd create a Hell-Earth portal and he'd try to capture that. Just like you did with the portal in Iraq. That's what all the fighting and campaigning were about.
"Our job was to find where Heaven had its portals seduce those who were tasked with closing them and persuade them to keep them open. Heaven tended to use humans to find out where our portals were. If you read your folk myths with that in mind, you can see how the stories survived. The Garden of Eden was a portal, and the snake who seduced its guards was one of us. That's why Yahweh was so annoyed."
"So, did you ever capture a portal and get to heaven?"
"Me? No." Luga thought quickly about suggesting she had but lying to humans was dangerous. She'd learned that lesson to her bitter cost. "But we did capture portals now and then. We'd storm through them and enter Heaven, killing and looting whatever we could find. They would capture ours sometimes and they'd do the same, stealing and robbing us of what was ours, sometimes taking away slaves. That was how armies fought until you changed the rules."
"Wait a minute, you say Heaven took slaves from Hell?" Baylor couldn’t quite get his mind around the concept.
"Of course, they would use them to build things like fortresses and kill them when they were done. Unless they were valuable of course. We would do the same, only we had more fun killing the useless ones. Was your warfare then so different?"
"I guess not. What's Heaven like?"
"Much like Hell except the air is clean there, and the light is white, not red. Heaven's a bit bigger than Hell. Some think Hell is much older than heaven but why they think that I do not know."
Baylor leaned back in his seat and wondered what the scientists would make of all this. "Right, now about the fighting on earth……"
Chong Sadao, Thailand
"Where the hell have you been? My people have been cut to pieces up here because you broke your word." Captain Momrajong was almost spitting with sheer rage. The fact he was speaking to a Senior Colonel, a rank equivalent to a one-star General in most other armies didn't register. "We were promised, promised, that if there was an invasion, we'd be relieved by regular troops within 12 hours. That was two days ago."
Senior Colonel Thawat bit back the response that would have left nothing of the captain but a pair of smoking boots and nodded apologetically instead. At one level, a rebuke would have been pointless, the Tahan Phran belonged to a different chain of command than the regular Army. They weren't even funded by the Ministry of Defense; the Home Affairs Ministry carried the cost of the militia units. At another level, Thawat knew the captain was right. The lightly armed militia wasn’t intended to confront regular armies, they were supposed to protect their villages against minor incursions and guarantee security along roads. In most areas of the country that meant looking after tourists. The Tahan Phran had no heavy weapons, no night vision equipment, and their body armor was locally made Level Two. That wouldn't stop a reasonably powerful pistol round.
"I understand your anger Captain, but we're here now. In regimental strength. My men are relieving yours all along this area of the front. The people responsible for this screw-up have been relieved. We can't change what went wrong, we can only make sure it doesn’t happen again and go on from here."
"That's fine for you to say. I had some of my wounded die because they didn’t get the casualty evacuation we were promised. Are you going to tell their families why they died?"
"No, my commander will, and she will do so personally." Thawat's voice was drowned out by a red-and-gray camouflaged V-22 sweeping in and hovering overhead. He watched while the aircraft changed, its engine nacelles swinging up so that its appearance changed from a transport aircraft to a helicopter. Then it dropped to land, the downbeat from its rotors causing the men to bend down. "As to casualty evacuation, get your wounded and the Osprey will take them straight to the hospitals in Kanchanaburi. How many men have you fit for duty? Out of how many?"
"I have twenty rangers left. My original platoon was twenty-five, but I've absorbed two other units that were too badly chewed up to stay independent. We've taken forty dead and fifteen wounded, at least five of my dead would have made it if you'd kept your word."
All right, you've made your point, now drop it. We can't bring them back. Despite his irritation, Thawat kept the thought to himself, then corrected himself. Well, we can, for a short while anyway. Hell, and Second Life had changed a lot of ways of thinking and human speech habits were slow to catch up.
"Now, Captain, I want you to show me where the Myanmarese troops are and in what strength. Then we can go about making them pay for the lives of your people."
Momrajong exhaled, his breath shaking slightly as the pent-up anger slowly faded. "The Myanmar troops are moving along here." He got out his map and his finger started to trace out the Myanmarese positions. "They came south of the Si Nakharin Lake. Most of their forces are here, our estimate is divisional strength. Say 20,000 men at most. They are light infantry; they have mortars and machine guns but not much else. This," his finger traced eastwards, "is their primary axis of advance."
Thawat nodded. The dispositions made sense, Chong Sadao was the start of a funnel that led to Kanchanaburi, a natural route towards the rich farming land of the Chaophrya river. It had been used by the Burmese many times over the turbulent history of the two countries. There was a reason why Chong Sadao was served by good, all-weather roads while further east, they deteriorated to the single-lane blacktop and then to laterite, unpaved tracks. To the north, the way through was blocked by the lake and mountains, to the south by more mountains and dense jungle. Chong Sadao was the natural blocking point for any invasion and the long-established defense plans for the area had tasked the 9th Infantry with holding it. The militia captain was right, this area should have been occupied two days ago and the defenses here should have been built and ready. Soldiers would die because they were fighting from a hasty defense instead of a prepared one. Thawat promised himself that, at least, the militia units would suffer no more casualties.
"Captain, this is a straightforward infantry blocking action. My regiment can handle it. Please give the rest of your information to my staff, then I suggest, recommend, you use some of our transport to get your people to the rear where they can rest and eat. You've done enough, done more than enough and your work has been splendid."
"Work we shouldn’t have had to do." Momrajong was still bitter over how his militia had been hung out to dry. He knew the Colonel in front of him didn't understand how deeply the sense of betrayal ran. Army units were just that, army units, assembled out of the mix of volunteers and conscripts that the Army used as its primary resource. The militia was drawn from villages and every member of each unit had known the others from earliest childhood. His losses had taken almost a generation of youngsters from the villages already depleted by those who had left to earn money in the big cities.
"I know, but now we must do the work we should have done all along."
The Ultimate Temple, The Eternal City, Heaven.
"They killed Wuffles!" Yahweh's voice was a mixture of rage and anguish. The thunder rolled around the throne room, drowning out the eternally chanting choir. Michael-Lan watched them carefully, was there a hint of malicious satisfaction in their eyes at the sight of Yahweh's grief over the death of his favorite pet.
Personally, Michael-Lan had never liked the beast. Foul-tempered, cantankerous, and ill-disciplined to the point of being antisocial. It was lucky they had humans here to clear up the mess the incontinent beast tended to leave behind him. That was the trouble with a beast that size, its droppings were in proportion and took a long time to shovel away. Still, the Leopard-Beast had served its purpose.
"All-Knowing Father, One Above All, I share your grief at the loss of your beloved Wuffles. But know that he fought bravely and inflicted great damage on the humans before they treacherously brought him down with their bombs and gunfire."
Yahweh did indeed look proud of his pet for a moment, but then grief and anger swept away the momentary lapse. The thunder cracked viciously, and a sheet of lightning lit up the dim room. Still, white Michael-Lan noted, well, we have plenty of time. Let's get back to milking this situation for all it is worth.
"One Above All, Lord of Heaven." And not including Earth, is a nice little goad, all its own. "I regret to report that Wuffles may have died because his mission was betrayed. The humans were waiting for him with all their weapons loaded and ready." Yeah, right.
"Betrayal?" Yahweh's voice thundered and the clouds in the room darkened notably. "There is betrayal in Heaven?"
"I fear this is so. Our most skilled and dedicated inquisitors in the League of the Holy Court have detected a conspiracy of threatening dimensions."
"Threatening? You say this conspiracy threatens me?" The lightning flashed in sheets across the throne room and a bolt spalled fragments of marble from the walls. In the background, the chief mason sighed and shot an accusing glance at Michael.
"Threatens you? Impossible, Lord-of-All." Michael-Lan mangled the phrasing just enough, so it was slightly unclear whether the concept of a threat or Yahweh himself was impossible. Michael had his own opinions on that subject. "But those who are involved may believe that their feeble activities are indeed a threat to Your Omnipotence. Perhaps this snare was prepared for you long ago by the not-so-Eternal Enemy. Perhaps, in his defeat, he arranged for those of his servants who had not declared for him to carry on with his great design."
Michael-Lan was slightly surprised, he'd expected a cataclysmic burst of thunder and lightning at that idea but instead, Yahweh sat silent and thoughtful on his throne. Could Wuffles getting killed have knocked some sense into him? If it had, perhaps it was time to arrange for some more of his pets to be blown away by the humans. The silence stretched on.
"Perhaps this might well be true. How high does this conspiracy go?"
"The League of the Holy Court does not know, Eternal Father of All. So, far, they have identified only the lower ranks of the conspiracy, but they are concerned with what they see. It is arranged in cells, each independent of the others and those in one know but few of those in others. They work diligently in uncovering the threat, but they must take care of who knows who else is involved? It may even be that the League of the Holy Court itself is not unstained by this treason."
"Arranged in cells. This does seem like the work of the Morningstar. The late Morningstar."
And that, boys, and girls, is why subversion is so much more productive than insurgency. Michael's thought had a distinctly gleeful note to it. "Indeed so, Eternal Father."
"Pursue this, Michael, greatest of my generals, pursue this with care. What other news is there? Do the Americans wail under the lash of Uriel?" There was more than a question built-in there.
"Well, they would, if they had reason to. Of course, his first attack was a bit disappointing. A city of nearly two million and he only took thirty thousand souls."
That did it. At last, Michael got his display of multi-colored lightning. A barrage of chips flew off the walls and the various strange creatures that danced attendance on Yahweh dived for cover. "Just thirty thousand? Is Uriel playing with them?"
"Well, One-Above-All, the humans took a pot-shot at him, and he left rather hastily. I don’t think his heart is quite in this you know. Perhaps he has spent too long on Earth and has become fond of the humans." Michael managed to get the words out without choking with laughter on them.
"I will tear out his heart and eat it!" For a second, Yahweh sounded just like Satan. Then, he got control of himself, and the family relationship wasn't so obvious. "Perhaps he should be brought here to explain himself."
Not a chance. "Your slightest wish is our most urgent command, One Above All. But Uriel is preparing another attack, this one on the city of San Diego. It also is a city of millions and perhaps he will summon enough courage to make a better job of it this time." Michael-Lan sighed theatrically. "If only Uriel showed the loyalty and dedication of Wuffles. Still, I would counsel that we allow Uriel to make this new attack and judge him on his success there."
"Perhaps it is Uriel himself who is at the head of this conspiracy?" Yahweh's voice was thoughtful.
"Surely not, One Above All, Highest of the High, Ruler of All. Uriel's loyalty had never been questioned until now. I would swear that his fealty remains untarnished."
"Nevertheless, instruct the League of the Holy Court to investigate him thoroughly." Yahweh's voice dropped and he sounded tired. "These are strange days, Michael, greatest of my generals. The Eternal Enemy was killed by humans. Those same humans defy my commands and reject the answers I give them. They kill my servants and destroy my pets. Are the Bowls of Wrath poured on them?"
"They are, O Highest of the High. The first three have already been poured and caused much grief and lamentation. Soon, the fourth shall be poured," as soon as I think of a way to do it "And then their anguish shall be multiplied many times over."
"Is it time for our Legions to overwhelm them?"
Are you out of your tiny little mind? Michael-Lan almost blurted the question out allowed before he managed to stop himself. In any case, he reminded himself that's a foolish question to which the only reasonable answer is of course. "Lord of All, the time will surely come and when it does, perhaps your son should lead them in the victorious march against the humans. The power and the glory shall forever more add luster to your Holy Name."
Yahweh settled back and contemplated the prospect of final victory and a triumphant procession through the conquered cities of Earth. Then, he remembered that his beloved Wuffles would not be there to share it with him, and grief once more clouded his mind.
Michael looked at him and quietly slipped away. As he left the Throne Room, the Head Mason spoke quietly to him. "Michael-Lan, you're slipping. We won’t have to replace all the wall surfaces this time. What was that you said about job security?"
"You just wait, the best is yet to come. Once the League of the Holy Court finds out who is behind this stupid plot, He'll go ballistic. Until then, drop down to the club for a drinkie, we've got a new angel working there. Name's Maion, give her a try."
"Maion, eh? I'll do that." The mason looked grateful. "What would we do without you Michael-Lan? You've made Heaven worth living in."
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon
"So what part did the Succubae play in the Great Celestial War?"
Colonel John Baylor forked up some mushrooms from his plate and savored them. Good portobellos, sauteed with garlic, an excellent accompaniment to lunch. The trouble with being at war was that rationing was slowly creeping across the whole spread of the U.S. economy. First fuel, then vehicles, then anything that needed steel or aluminum. Then food had started to be affected, fish stocks were low and the ration of eight ounces per serving was onerous. It was lucky Indonesia and Vietnam had donated some of the products of their fish farms to the United States or shrimp would be in even shorter supply. Of course, post-war, they'd be using their generosity to lever better trade terms for themselves.
Lugasharmanaska's teeth ripped at the raw horse's leg with relish. As an obligate carnivore, she would have been hard hit by meat rationing, so it was fortunate that Succubus taste ran to the toughest, stringiest meat that was available. 'Unfit for human consumption had acquired a whole new meaning, 'preferred diet for Succubae'. It was an odd thing, as she'd started eating other meat, her craving for human flesh had faded. Now, it was mostly just a memory, except for the odd treat of course.
"Us? We had to find the portals. Remember, most of the fighting that took place in the Great Celestial War was here on Earth. It's carried in your folk memories and earliest myths. How many of your stories have scenes of towns besieged by armies of monsters? They're us."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Baylor looked at Luga ripping her meal apart, droplets of blood staining some of the papers in front of her. The stenographer in the corner of the room looked positively ill at the display. Then again, it was lucky that the floor ventilation ducts were working at full blast or one of the humans in the room would have offered Luga a bite out of their arms if she'd asked for one. It was rumored that more than one of Luga's lovers had left with bite-sized pieces removed from their anatomy. Hence one of the new proverbs that were spreading through humanity. 'Never have oral sex with a Succubus.'
"It's near impossible to create a portal from Heaven to Hell. But it's easy to create portals from Heaven to Earth and Hell to Earth. So, to get from Hell to Heaven, we must go by Earth. Or it’s equivalent. But it's quite hard to create a useful portal from Earth to Hell or Earth to Heaven. So, say, Michael-lan would create a Heaven-Earth portal for one of his armies and we'd try and capture it. Or we'd create a Hell-Earth portal and he'd try to capture that. Just like you did with the portal in Iraq. That's what all the fighting and campaigning were about.
"Our job was to find where Heaven had its portals seduce those who were tasked with closing them and persuade them to keep them open. Heaven tended to use humans to find out where our portals were. If you read your folk myths with that in mind, you can see how the stories survived. The Garden of Eden was a portal, and the snake who seduced its guards was one of us. That's why Yahweh was so annoyed."
"So, did you ever capture a portal and get to heaven?"
"Me? No." Luga thought quickly about suggesting she had but lying to humans was dangerous. She'd learned that lesson to her bitter cost. "But we did capture portals now and then. We'd storm through them and enter Heaven, killing and looting whatever we could find. They would capture ours sometimes and they'd do the same, stealing and robbing us of what was ours, sometimes taking away slaves. That was how armies fought until you changed the rules."
"Wait a minute, you say Heaven took slaves from Hell?" Baylor couldn’t quite get his mind around the concept.
"Of course, they would use them to build things like fortresses and kill them when they were done. Unless they were valuable of course. We would do the same, only we had more fun killing the useless ones. Was your warfare then so different?"
"I guess not. What's Heaven like?"
"Much like Hell except the air is clean there, and the light is white, not red. Heaven's a bit bigger than Hell. Some think Hell is much older than heaven but why they think that I do not know."
Baylor leaned back in his seat and wondered what the scientists would make of all this. "Right, now about the fighting on earth……"
Re: 2008 - Pentheocide
Chapter Twenty
Human Slums, Eternal City, Heaven
Another name crossed off a list, another contact dismissed as a meaningless acquaintance. More time is wasted, and more effort is unproductive. Lemuel-Lan-Michael had heard that on Earth, human police were sometimes called "flat-foot" and now he understood why. His feet ached and his wings were stiff, all for nothing. And it was all the responsibility of the bottle of elixir that he'd found during the arrest of Ishmael. If he hadn’t been so attentive to his duty, he could have avoided all this. Perhaps his instincts had been wrong, perhaps the bottle was associated with the First Conspiracy. That's what he had decided to call the network that was split up into cells.
He shook his head, every instinct he had said that the bottle wasn't part of that group. The first few discrete arrests had confirmed his initial impressions, the First Conspiracy was all about doctrine and beliefs. After adequate 'persuasion', the detainees confessed to spreading heresy and blasphemy. They had maintained their loyalty to The One Above All though, claiming that He had been led astray by misguided and corrupt advisors and if those advisors could be swept away, The Eternal Father would see how he had been misled and everything would be made right. Lemuel was prepared to bet that the leaders’ intentions were quite different but that's what the lower ranks thought, and a bottle of elixir just didn't fit with that pattern. There had to be a Second Conspiracy.
He flung the door of the slum open. Like the one he and his agents had raided earlier, this one was of better quality, made of wood rather than straw-reinforced mud. He looked down at the human female who was cowering against the wall at the opposite end of the entrance. By Inviolable Rule, all structures had to be large enough to allow the entry of Angels and that requirement diminished her apparent size still more.
"You are Almedha?" Lemuel read the name from his list. "Daughter of Brychan?"
"I am, Noble One." Her voice was quivering, whatever the humans had expected when they were granted access to Heaven, it wasn't what they had found. 'Salvation' consisted of eternal menial servitude to the Angels, a group who regarded the humans as being of little account and even less value. "How may I be of service to you?"
"I wish to discuss with you, some matters of importance. Your relationship with a human called Ishmael."
That comment struck home. The woman was still frightened of him but now there was something else in her attitude, a guardedness, a determination not to reveal anything. "I know of nobody by that name."
"Do not lie to me, Almedha, daughter of Brychan. Lying is a sin and one that brings down punishment upon you. Do you want to experience the punishment that the League of the Holy Court deems appropriate for those who lie to it?"
"No peerless one. But I know not of any called Ishmael."
Lemuel-Lan shook his head sadly. "Your deceit means I must caution you again and in doing so my patience with you grows thin. I must tell you; Ishmael was arrested not so long ago by agents of the League of the Holy Court, and he has made a full confession. He has admitted to apostasy, blasphemy, heresy, and sacrilege and to crimes so black that they have no name."
"No! He . . . " Almedha tried to stop herself but it was too late.
"And how would you know if you had never met him?" Lemuel landed the verbal blow quietly and deftly, but its effect was still shattering. Almedha slumped back against the wall; her face white. Even so, her jaw was thrust out with her determination not to say anything. Lemuel sighed quietly to himself, why were humans so obstinate? He needed to look around this house, but it was obvious he couldn’t leave Almedha free to leave. There was no choice. He took a golden set of shackles from his belt and fastened a cuff around one of her wrists and another around a convenient post. As he left her to search the house, it never even occurred to him that he'd left her with her feet barely touching the floor.
The house itself was remarkably devoid of interest. Before their deaths, 'saved' humans had made much of the alleged virtues of simplicity and abstinence. On reaching Heaven they found out that those 'virtues' were greatly overrated, especially when they lasted for eternity. The fact that the Angels didn't share their opinions hadn’t helped much either. The fact was, that while the angels lived in unparalleled luxury, the fate of the 'saved' was one of eternal grinding poverty. Again, the irony there never entered Lemuel's consciousness, nor did any thought that the situation could, in any way, be considered unjust. Lemuel methodically searched the rooms, turning up nothing other than the few paltry possessions he'd expected. Finally, he checked out the kitchen and there he found what he had been looking for. A small jar, one labeled 'McCormick Granulated Garlic'. Another Earth elixir.
"And how do you explain this?"
Almedha shook her head; she couldn't have answered even if she'd wanted to. Her mind was concentrated on ways of taking the strain off her wrist. Lemuel shook his head sadly and released the cuff from the sconce it had been attached to and dragged her towards him. "It pains me that you should be so obstinate. You leave me no choice but to take you to the League of Holy Court."
Interrogation Chambers, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City
Lemuel-Lan-Michael pushed Almedha into the room. The two interrogation specialists jumped to their feet as he entered. " At ease," he said. "We need some information from this one."
It took slightly longer than he expected. By the time Almedha broke, the interrogators had run through three buckets of water, her face and hair were saturated, and she was choking amid a barrage of deep, racking coughs. It took her some minutes to get the story out, but when she did, it would have been mundane was it not for its significance. Ishmael had brought her the garlic as a gift. She had found the plain, bland food available to humans in Heaven dull to the point of being unpalatable and the garlic had seasoned it to provide a touch of interest. Lemuel shook his head, humans didn't even have to eat, let alone want anything more than plain gruel. Why would seasoning be so important to them?
"Are you finished with her?" One of the interrogators nodded towards the sobbing woman secured to the table.
"For the moment, yes. We'll keep her detained for a while." The interrogators nodded at each other, and Lemuel caught a glimpse of their eyes. There was something there, something that reminded him of sight long, long ago. It took him time to place it but when he did, the memory shook him. The look in the interrogators' eyes had been the same as that in the eyes of demons taken prisoner in the war so many millennia before. That caused him to think of a single, unmentionable question. Were there demons in Heaven, even though they looked like Angels? And then that led to another question. And was he one of them?
Lemuel-Lan-Michael left the interrogation chamber and went off down the long corridor that would, eventually, take him back to the surface, his mind troubled by the questions inside it. Halfway towards the first junction, he thought he heard a human woman screaming from the interrogation chamber he had just left but he dismissed it. Just the strange sounds that filled this place sometimes, a product of wind and tunnels through the stone.
Conference Room, DIMO(N) Headquarters, The Pentagon, Washington
"And now we have a problem with dates."
"How do you mean?"
"From what we have been able to learn, the Great Celestial War took place some four and a half to five million years ago. But the information we have from Luga speaks of fighting on Earth and the legends of that remaining in human memory as folk tales. That means they must be much more recent than that.
"Simple explanation. Luga's lying. It's not as if that's an entirely unfamiliar concept to her. She tries to play us all the time. To be honest, it’s so much part of her nature that I doubt if she's even aware that she's doing it. Playing to the audience to get her way and turn things to her advantage is what she does. That's why she's such a hit on network television."
"Just like a few other so-called stars, I can think of." Colonel Paschal spoke reflectively. "It might be worth checking through some of their antecedents and see if we come up with any demonic connections."
"Would you like the job? Or are you still in thrall to our Luga?" Doctor Surlethe put the question with a bouncing lack of tact.
"I told you, I didn't. . .. " The denial was interrupted by a barrage of coughing around the room. Paschal sighed to himself; he was never going to live this down. "Oh, never mind."
A satisfied, and slightly triumphant chuckle replaced the coughing. "I don’t think the history of the performing arts is useful currently, anyway, the fact that the demons knew virtually nothing about us suggests that any contact they had with us in the last three or four centuries must have been cursory in the extreme."
"I agree." General Schatten nodded as he spoke. "Anyway, Colonel Baylor picked up on the time discrepancy. He tasked Luga with it and she confirmed that the Great Celestial War took place about five million years ago when Satan tried his coup-de-main assault on Heaven. An assault that came very close to succeeding, by the way, he broke into the Eternal City, but his Army was pushed out by Michael-Lan-Yahweh. It ended, sort of, about half a million years later with both sides too exhausted to fight on. In our terms, it's obvious Satan won that war, he got his independent kingdom which was his objective all along. However, fighting went on for a long, long time after that. Not the live-or-die, win-or-lose fighting there had been in the Great Celestial War but more like border skirmishing. That ended abruptly, about 60,000 years ago and it’s from then that our folk memories of the war originated."
"Why did it end so abruptly?" Colonel Paschal was curious. "To fight for more than five million years and then just stop dead?"
"He asked Luga why but didn't get an answer. There was something she didn’t want to speak about and didn’t. But Baylor says she was frightened. Even talking about what scared her. Just the way demons fear us."
"I think I can offer an opinion there." Hillary Clinton spoke up for the first time at one of those meetings. "I was speaking with President Sarkozy during the recent summit when he wasn't preoccupied with checking out some Brazilian girl of course, and he told me something curious. Some of the French and German troops in Hell, either referred to Satan as "the Devil" or called demons, devils. The result was strange. The baldricks made themselves absent, very quickly. Strong negative reaction."
"Could it have been an abusive nickname; you know like Hun or Frog?"
"That would imply anger or offense and we know Baldricks react strongly to that. This was something else, it was fear as if even mentioning the word could bring about a disaster." Clinton drew breath. "I don’t think demons and devils are the same."
"All the books say they are."
"And all our books are wrong, we know that. How much mythology is standing up to the discoveries we're making every day? I think that Demons and Devils are separate things and whatever the Devils are, the Demons are afraid of them."
"A threat to us?"
General Schatten thought for a second. "I doubt it, if they were then they'd have taken down the Baldricks as quickly as we did."
"Can we rely on that?"
Schatten thought again. "No, but it’s the best way to bet given what we know. Look, in intelligence and knowledge terms, we're way out of our depth here. We're crossing a river blindfolded, feeling away with our feet, and hoping we don’t step into a pothole or a nest of cottonmouths. All we can do is play the odds."
"So there might be a third force out there we'll have to deal with in due course?"
"Third? There may be dozens. The cosmology Doctor Kuroneko is developing suggests that there might be millions of bubble-worlds like Hell out there. All different ages, just like the stars in our Universe are all different ages. By the way, he's come up with a fascinating theory that might explain a lot. Our Universe is expanding, everybody knows that. But he thinks that the dimension, the next stage of existence, whatever we want to call it, that contains Heaven, Hell, and all those bubble worlds are shrinking. He thinks that explains where the light in Hell and the energy that keeps the human souls alive there comes from. That's why they don’t have to eat."
"But Demons eat." A slight shudder swept around the room at the thought of Luga's table manners. A few of the participants grinned sympathetically at Paschal. The Colonel thought about the rumors of Luga's combined eating and mating habits. The recollection made his testicles scream in terror and try to climb inside his body for protection.
"And that means that. . .. "
"Baldricks – and presumably Angels – aren’t native to the bubble-worlds either. They come from somewhere else as well."
"That might change a lot of things." Schatten thought carefully. "Could they come from other bubble worlds?"
"We can't tell." Surlethe thought carefully, the whole situation had aspects buried within aspects. "It may be that the no-eating rule only applies within their native bubble. Or maybe they come from outside the bubble level completely. But all that's getting away from the point. We have some evidence that there's a third group of beings out there and we may run into them at any time."
"Third?" Hillary Clinton's voice was derisive. "There could be hundreds of them, thousands even. Have you any idea how many religions there have been? Or are now? Suppose they are all correct, suppose at one time or another, beings found their way here from other bubbleverses and got worshipped as Gods. And Yahweh and Satan were the two that eventually won out down here? They got the upper hand over the rest, perhaps using the portal warfare that Lugasharmanaska talked about, and drove them out. The 'devils' that we've been talking about may just have been one of those other groups, probably the one that was the most difficult to defeat. If we consider continuing to explore the bubble verses, we're going to run into them."
"And that raises another question, an important one. When we do, how do we react?"
"That's for the council of 15 to say. They'll make up their mind."
"Not the United Nations?" The question came from a corner of the table, the speaker unidentified. The response was a contemptuous guffaw from the main participants.
"No, not the United Nations. They're irrelevant, been ever since Wong shot down the first Demon Herald. They're still there but they're just the talking shop for people who can't contribute to the HEA. The real decisions are taken at Yamantau." Clinton thought carefully. "My guess will be, and this will be the position of the United States at Yamantau, we'll work on a do-as-they-do basis. If they approach us with friendship and respect, we'll do the same to them. If they make war on us, we'll do it to them. With every weapon we have."
"General Petraeus, do you have any comment on that?"
General Petraeus, present only on the view screen at the end of the room looked up from the display he was consulting. It was showing the developing situation on the Thai-Myanmar border, and he found it professionally fascinating. The Thai Army simply didn't fight the way the U.S. Army did. What they were doing was, to his eyes, downright weird. "We'd be advised to keep as many options open as possible but in essence, I agree with the Secretary of State. If we run into any such bubbleverse groups that are friendly, we get friendly. If not, then we defend ourselves. And that means eliminating our opponents as a military threat."
"That's genocide." It was the same unidentified voice that had spoken about the United Nations.
Hillary Clinton looked back contemptuously. "No. That's pantheocide."
Human Slums, Eternal City, Heaven
Another name crossed off a list, another contact dismissed as a meaningless acquaintance. More time is wasted, and more effort is unproductive. Lemuel-Lan-Michael had heard that on Earth, human police were sometimes called "flat-foot" and now he understood why. His feet ached and his wings were stiff, all for nothing. And it was all the responsibility of the bottle of elixir that he'd found during the arrest of Ishmael. If he hadn’t been so attentive to his duty, he could have avoided all this. Perhaps his instincts had been wrong, perhaps the bottle was associated with the First Conspiracy. That's what he had decided to call the network that was split up into cells.
He shook his head, every instinct he had said that the bottle wasn't part of that group. The first few discrete arrests had confirmed his initial impressions, the First Conspiracy was all about doctrine and beliefs. After adequate 'persuasion', the detainees confessed to spreading heresy and blasphemy. They had maintained their loyalty to The One Above All though, claiming that He had been led astray by misguided and corrupt advisors and if those advisors could be swept away, The Eternal Father would see how he had been misled and everything would be made right. Lemuel was prepared to bet that the leaders’ intentions were quite different but that's what the lower ranks thought, and a bottle of elixir just didn't fit with that pattern. There had to be a Second Conspiracy.
He flung the door of the slum open. Like the one he and his agents had raided earlier, this one was of better quality, made of wood rather than straw-reinforced mud. He looked down at the human female who was cowering against the wall at the opposite end of the entrance. By Inviolable Rule, all structures had to be large enough to allow the entry of Angels and that requirement diminished her apparent size still more.
"You are Almedha?" Lemuel read the name from his list. "Daughter of Brychan?"
"I am, Noble One." Her voice was quivering, whatever the humans had expected when they were granted access to Heaven, it wasn't what they had found. 'Salvation' consisted of eternal menial servitude to the Angels, a group who regarded the humans as being of little account and even less value. "How may I be of service to you?"
"I wish to discuss with you, some matters of importance. Your relationship with a human called Ishmael."
That comment struck home. The woman was still frightened of him but now there was something else in her attitude, a guardedness, a determination not to reveal anything. "I know of nobody by that name."
"Do not lie to me, Almedha, daughter of Brychan. Lying is a sin and one that brings down punishment upon you. Do you want to experience the punishment that the League of the Holy Court deems appropriate for those who lie to it?"
"No peerless one. But I know not of any called Ishmael."
Lemuel-Lan shook his head sadly. "Your deceit means I must caution you again and in doing so my patience with you grows thin. I must tell you; Ishmael was arrested not so long ago by agents of the League of the Holy Court, and he has made a full confession. He has admitted to apostasy, blasphemy, heresy, and sacrilege and to crimes so black that they have no name."
"No! He . . . " Almedha tried to stop herself but it was too late.
"And how would you know if you had never met him?" Lemuel landed the verbal blow quietly and deftly, but its effect was still shattering. Almedha slumped back against the wall; her face white. Even so, her jaw was thrust out with her determination not to say anything. Lemuel sighed quietly to himself, why were humans so obstinate? He needed to look around this house, but it was obvious he couldn’t leave Almedha free to leave. There was no choice. He took a golden set of shackles from his belt and fastened a cuff around one of her wrists and another around a convenient post. As he left her to search the house, it never even occurred to him that he'd left her with her feet barely touching the floor.
The house itself was remarkably devoid of interest. Before their deaths, 'saved' humans had made much of the alleged virtues of simplicity and abstinence. On reaching Heaven they found out that those 'virtues' were greatly overrated, especially when they lasted for eternity. The fact that the Angels didn't share their opinions hadn’t helped much either. The fact was, that while the angels lived in unparalleled luxury, the fate of the 'saved' was one of eternal grinding poverty. Again, the irony there never entered Lemuel's consciousness, nor did any thought that the situation could, in any way, be considered unjust. Lemuel methodically searched the rooms, turning up nothing other than the few paltry possessions he'd expected. Finally, he checked out the kitchen and there he found what he had been looking for. A small jar, one labeled 'McCormick Granulated Garlic'. Another Earth elixir.
"And how do you explain this?"
Almedha shook her head; she couldn't have answered even if she'd wanted to. Her mind was concentrated on ways of taking the strain off her wrist. Lemuel shook his head sadly and released the cuff from the sconce it had been attached to and dragged her towards him. "It pains me that you should be so obstinate. You leave me no choice but to take you to the League of Holy Court."
Interrogation Chambers, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City
Lemuel-Lan-Michael pushed Almedha into the room. The two interrogation specialists jumped to their feet as he entered. " At ease," he said. "We need some information from this one."
It took slightly longer than he expected. By the time Almedha broke, the interrogators had run through three buckets of water, her face and hair were saturated, and she was choking amid a barrage of deep, racking coughs. It took her some minutes to get the story out, but when she did, it would have been mundane was it not for its significance. Ishmael had brought her the garlic as a gift. She had found the plain, bland food available to humans in Heaven dull to the point of being unpalatable and the garlic had seasoned it to provide a touch of interest. Lemuel shook his head, humans didn't even have to eat, let alone want anything more than plain gruel. Why would seasoning be so important to them?
"Are you finished with her?" One of the interrogators nodded towards the sobbing woman secured to the table.
"For the moment, yes. We'll keep her detained for a while." The interrogators nodded at each other, and Lemuel caught a glimpse of their eyes. There was something there, something that reminded him of sight long, long ago. It took him time to place it but when he did, the memory shook him. The look in the interrogators' eyes had been the same as that in the eyes of demons taken prisoner in the war so many millennia before. That caused him to think of a single, unmentionable question. Were there demons in Heaven, even though they looked like Angels? And then that led to another question. And was he one of them?
Lemuel-Lan-Michael left the interrogation chamber and went off down the long corridor that would, eventually, take him back to the surface, his mind troubled by the questions inside it. Halfway towards the first junction, he thought he heard a human woman screaming from the interrogation chamber he had just left but he dismissed it. Just the strange sounds that filled this place sometimes, a product of wind and tunnels through the stone.
Conference Room, DIMO(N) Headquarters, The Pentagon, Washington
"And now we have a problem with dates."
"How do you mean?"
"From what we have been able to learn, the Great Celestial War took place some four and a half to five million years ago. But the information we have from Luga speaks of fighting on Earth and the legends of that remaining in human memory as folk tales. That means they must be much more recent than that.
"Simple explanation. Luga's lying. It's not as if that's an entirely unfamiliar concept to her. She tries to play us all the time. To be honest, it’s so much part of her nature that I doubt if she's even aware that she's doing it. Playing to the audience to get her way and turn things to her advantage is what she does. That's why she's such a hit on network television."
"Just like a few other so-called stars, I can think of." Colonel Paschal spoke reflectively. "It might be worth checking through some of their antecedents and see if we come up with any demonic connections."
"Would you like the job? Or are you still in thrall to our Luga?" Doctor Surlethe put the question with a bouncing lack of tact.
"I told you, I didn't. . .. " The denial was interrupted by a barrage of coughing around the room. Paschal sighed to himself; he was never going to live this down. "Oh, never mind."
A satisfied, and slightly triumphant chuckle replaced the coughing. "I don’t think the history of the performing arts is useful currently, anyway, the fact that the demons knew virtually nothing about us suggests that any contact they had with us in the last three or four centuries must have been cursory in the extreme."
"I agree." General Schatten nodded as he spoke. "Anyway, Colonel Baylor picked up on the time discrepancy. He tasked Luga with it and she confirmed that the Great Celestial War took place about five million years ago when Satan tried his coup-de-main assault on Heaven. An assault that came very close to succeeding, by the way, he broke into the Eternal City, but his Army was pushed out by Michael-Lan-Yahweh. It ended, sort of, about half a million years later with both sides too exhausted to fight on. In our terms, it's obvious Satan won that war, he got his independent kingdom which was his objective all along. However, fighting went on for a long, long time after that. Not the live-or-die, win-or-lose fighting there had been in the Great Celestial War but more like border skirmishing. That ended abruptly, about 60,000 years ago and it’s from then that our folk memories of the war originated."
"Why did it end so abruptly?" Colonel Paschal was curious. "To fight for more than five million years and then just stop dead?"
"He asked Luga why but didn't get an answer. There was something she didn’t want to speak about and didn’t. But Baylor says she was frightened. Even talking about what scared her. Just the way demons fear us."
"I think I can offer an opinion there." Hillary Clinton spoke up for the first time at one of those meetings. "I was speaking with President Sarkozy during the recent summit when he wasn't preoccupied with checking out some Brazilian girl of course, and he told me something curious. Some of the French and German troops in Hell, either referred to Satan as "the Devil" or called demons, devils. The result was strange. The baldricks made themselves absent, very quickly. Strong negative reaction."
"Could it have been an abusive nickname; you know like Hun or Frog?"
"That would imply anger or offense and we know Baldricks react strongly to that. This was something else, it was fear as if even mentioning the word could bring about a disaster." Clinton drew breath. "I don’t think demons and devils are the same."
"All the books say they are."
"And all our books are wrong, we know that. How much mythology is standing up to the discoveries we're making every day? I think that Demons and Devils are separate things and whatever the Devils are, the Demons are afraid of them."
"A threat to us?"
General Schatten thought for a second. "I doubt it, if they were then they'd have taken down the Baldricks as quickly as we did."
"Can we rely on that?"
Schatten thought again. "No, but it’s the best way to bet given what we know. Look, in intelligence and knowledge terms, we're way out of our depth here. We're crossing a river blindfolded, feeling away with our feet, and hoping we don’t step into a pothole or a nest of cottonmouths. All we can do is play the odds."
"So there might be a third force out there we'll have to deal with in due course?"
"Third? There may be dozens. The cosmology Doctor Kuroneko is developing suggests that there might be millions of bubble-worlds like Hell out there. All different ages, just like the stars in our Universe are all different ages. By the way, he's come up with a fascinating theory that might explain a lot. Our Universe is expanding, everybody knows that. But he thinks that the dimension, the next stage of existence, whatever we want to call it, that contains Heaven, Hell, and all those bubble worlds are shrinking. He thinks that explains where the light in Hell and the energy that keeps the human souls alive there comes from. That's why they don’t have to eat."
"But Demons eat." A slight shudder swept around the room at the thought of Luga's table manners. A few of the participants grinned sympathetically at Paschal. The Colonel thought about the rumors of Luga's combined eating and mating habits. The recollection made his testicles scream in terror and try to climb inside his body for protection.
"And that means that. . .. "
"Baldricks – and presumably Angels – aren’t native to the bubble-worlds either. They come from somewhere else as well."
"That might change a lot of things." Schatten thought carefully. "Could they come from other bubble worlds?"
"We can't tell." Surlethe thought carefully, the whole situation had aspects buried within aspects. "It may be that the no-eating rule only applies within their native bubble. Or maybe they come from outside the bubble level completely. But all that's getting away from the point. We have some evidence that there's a third group of beings out there and we may run into them at any time."
"Third?" Hillary Clinton's voice was derisive. "There could be hundreds of them, thousands even. Have you any idea how many religions there have been? Or are now? Suppose they are all correct, suppose at one time or another, beings found their way here from other bubbleverses and got worshipped as Gods. And Yahweh and Satan were the two that eventually won out down here? They got the upper hand over the rest, perhaps using the portal warfare that Lugasharmanaska talked about, and drove them out. The 'devils' that we've been talking about may just have been one of those other groups, probably the one that was the most difficult to defeat. If we consider continuing to explore the bubble verses, we're going to run into them."
"And that raises another question, an important one. When we do, how do we react?"
"That's for the council of 15 to say. They'll make up their mind."
"Not the United Nations?" The question came from a corner of the table, the speaker unidentified. The response was a contemptuous guffaw from the main participants.
"No, not the United Nations. They're irrelevant, been ever since Wong shot down the first Demon Herald. They're still there but they're just the talking shop for people who can't contribute to the HEA. The real decisions are taken at Yamantau." Clinton thought carefully. "My guess will be, and this will be the position of the United States at Yamantau, we'll work on a do-as-they-do basis. If they approach us with friendship and respect, we'll do the same to them. If they make war on us, we'll do it to them. With every weapon we have."
"General Petraeus, do you have any comment on that?"
General Petraeus, present only on the view screen at the end of the room looked up from the display he was consulting. It was showing the developing situation on the Thai-Myanmar border, and he found it professionally fascinating. The Thai Army simply didn't fight the way the U.S. Army did. What they were doing was, to his eyes, downright weird. "We'd be advised to keep as many options open as possible but in essence, I agree with the Secretary of State. If we run into any such bubbleverse groups that are friendly, we get friendly. If not, then we defend ourselves. And that means eliminating our opponents as a military threat."
"That's genocide." It was the same unidentified voice that had spoken about the United Nations.
Hillary Clinton looked back contemptuously. "No. That's pantheocide."