Pantheocide Read online

  “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 despite the fact that 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 and absolutely 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, in reality things were never that close and the cells always had a degree of leakage between them. The point was, the intent of such an organization was 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 own 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. He back-winged, 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 has made an alliance with an important human, one Gaius Julius Caesar and turning that to 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 the 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. Not before time, they lost one of my packages once.”

  Belial clenched his fists and stormed backwards and forwards at the idea of his erstwhile underlings prospering under the rule of humans in Hell. Michael-Lan smiled gently at his rage, daemons 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 have to 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. You know how these prophecies got to happen? I’d been on a visit to South America and I’d stocked up with some of the local products. A leaf extract the humans call cocaine. Anyway, on the way back, I stopped in what is now Mexico and picked up a load of some really great mushrooms. They’re good Belial, you ought to try them. Give you really 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 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 ravi
ng, 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 up a volcano there.”

  “Tartarus is occupied by humans, its 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 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 before, the discarded humans would have been condemned to Hell, there to disappear slowly, just as they themselves 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 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 good few 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 really 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?” Actually, 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 really 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 have to do is do your dance when scheduled. Just remember, don’t let go of the pole when you’re dancing, its 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 schedule, 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, its 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 acknowledgement, 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 really 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.”

  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 actually 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 chose 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 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 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, in itself, a strong clue as to who had been in the first unit through, although that small convoy that was already disappearing into the distance.

  The local population were used to military convoys making their way through the streets and got out of the way. They saw the red plate with two gold stars mounted on the front fender of each vehicles and noted the array of weapons mounted on the Humvees. They also noted that the vehicles were camouflaged red-gray rather than the usual dark green. The more astute realized that these vehicles had come straight from Hell and the really 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 actually 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.”