Armageddon?? (53 page)

Sleeping
Chamber, Palace of Deumos, Hell.

For
a moment, Deumos did not recognize the black ellipse that was forming in her
bed-chamber. By the time she did, four humans had stepped through it. Their
leader, his features strangely obscured by a mask that covered his nose and
mouth looked at the great figure that was sprawled on the couch, and lifted a
tube to his shoulder.

“Whosh,
blam, thank you Ma’am. You’re dead.”

Then
they stepped back through the ellipse letting it collapse behind them. The
whole attack had taken less that five seconds and Deumos had never had a chance
to react.

“Highness,
they could have killed you if they had wanted to. They can kill you any time
they want to. They can kill anybody any time they want to.” Lugasharmanaska’s
mind-voice was very weak and shaky. “To join them is your only chance.”

“Very
well kidling. I will think on this. You have done well to tell me of these
things.” Deumos leaned back on her couch, her mind just beginning to absorb how
easily she could have been killed. And Satan was lying, hiding just how
powerful humans were. She had a lot to think about.

Headquarters,
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA

Lugasharmanaska
was gray, her normal shiny black skin, dull and faded. That alone told anybody
watching what she had gone through. Her mind was weak but still calculating,
assessing the result of this, the greatest gamble she had ever made. As soon as
she had heard Abigor and a Herald had defected, she knew that her usefulness
was diminished to almost nothing. She had to find a new role for herself if she
was to continue in her privileged position. This was her throw, her attempt to
do so.

“Did
it work?” Randi was speaking.

“Sure
did. Never seen anybody so stunned. We could have put the AT-4 into her and
there was nothing she could have done to stop us. Perhaps we should have done.”
The Marine Lieutenant sounded quite regretful.

“Perhaps.
Luga, your side of this. Did it work?”

“Perhaps.”
She had thought to exaggerate the effects of her message but she decided not
to. Only the truth would serve her now. “Deumos will think on what I said and
the demonstration. I would not expect her to do more. Once we make a few more
demonstrations of power, then she will join. But she will join I think.

Chapter
Thirty Eight

Camp
Hell-Alpha. Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell

“The
dimensions are all screwed up.” Captain Keisha Stevenson was watching the
mechanics take the dust filters off Alpha-Alpha-One and take them away to the
cleaning area. The building they were in was a garage large enough to hold all
four Abrams tanks with room to spare. It was pre-fabricated, the parts flown in
using one of the massive Russian Mil-26 helicopters and then brought through
the Hellmouth and assembled. It was one of four such buildings in the complex
with more to come. At the moment, Battle Group Alpha was the only portion of
the US Army permanently stationed in Hell. A lot more was coming in and out,
but Alpha was the only unit that actually stayed there. Once again, she
thought, her unit was ending up as the sacrificial goat. She was beginning to
regret blasting that angel, the act that had brought her on to General
Petraeus’s radar. The she thought about the scene in the hut and decided that
she didn’t regret firing that canister round at all.

“The
beacon worked though?”

“Sure,
but it was weird, we were steering straight line, not deviating a degree, but
we could see the beacon behind us slide slowly away to one side.”

“It’s
not just bearing, it’s range as well. We took the data out of your navigational
computer and analyzed it. The speed you were doing, the time you took and the
distance you covered don’t add up. I needn’t tell you the problems that causes
the artillery boys. It’s not just you, all the other units are reporting the
same thing. Bearing and range are all out of whack. We’re going to have to find
something to pound on in order to see how significant it all is. Before that
we’re going to establish another beacon, about 30 miles out from this one. Get
a cross-bearing and navigation will get a lot easier. Also, we can compare our
data with the on-the-ground data and that’ll give us a handle on what is going
on. If there’s a mathematical relationship, we can program the navigational
computers to handle it.” Major Warhol didn’t look that convinced. But then he
hadn’t been on the Thunder Runs and didn’t appreciate how disturbing the
distorted dimensions were to crews who wanted to get back home. That was one
reason why he was here, to see how the real conditions of Hell compared with
his simulated Helljars.

Home,
now that was an interesting word, Stevenson thought, looking around the base.
At the moment, this was home. Four garages for her armored vehicles, all with a
positive pressure system to keep the unfiltered Hell atmosphere out and
dust-trap doors to let the vehicles in. Massive filters on the roof to clean
the air before that got in. Workshops to keep her tanks and armored infantry
carriers running, and that meant scrubbing the engine air filters every time
they went out. As a start, there was much else as well. Torsion bars had to be
cleaned, the maintenance list went on and on. Still, at least the pumice was
softer than the hard sand of the Iraqi desert. Then there were the barracks.
The living accommodation wasn’t bad but it was Spartan. At least the air was
clean there as well although that had its disadvantages. Two days ago, the
cooks had tried to raise morale by serving good old American hamburgers, comfort
food for the crews. The smell of fried onions had lingered for hours and hours,
constantly recycled by the air purification system.

The
whole lot was surrounded by razor wire and there were anti-harpy systems all
over. Russian Tungaskas for long range defense, twin .50 machine guns in
old-fashioned, but still power operated, turrets on the building roofs for
close-in work. More loot from the museum stripping exercise she guessed.
Outside the razor wire were minefields. The next unit in would be an artillery
battery that was being attached to Alpha for the duration of its stay in Hell.
Stevenson was in no doubt that Hell-Alpha could put up a devastating fight if
it had to but the baldricks operated in such large numbers, devastation might
not be enough.

“You’re
worried about the defenses?” Major Warhol had caught her unconscious glance up
and out.

“Aren’t
you? Abigor hit us with nearly 400,000 baldricks and it took five divisions
plus to stop him. We stopped him cold, sure, but you and I both know how many
more legions Satan’s supposed to have. How are we supposed to stop them with
just a reinforced company?”

“It
won’t come to that. Anyway, the hellmouth is right behind you. If you look like
getting overrun, you can just back out and there’s those five divisions still
covering you.”

“That’s
another thing. How can we be sure that thing is going to stay open?”

“It
will, Captain, we think so anyway. We think the baldricks made a huge mistake,
they opened a portal so large they can’t close it again. We’re working on a way
to close the things but we think they can’t.”

“Major,
no disrespect sir, but its our ass that’s hanging on your think.”

“None
taken. If its any consolation I’m going to be here for some days so its my ass
hanging as well.” Warhol glanced around and dropped his voice. “And Dave
Petraeus is moving here as soon as we can get an HQ building put together. And
even if the Hellmouth closes, we already know we can open new ones, small ones,
to get people out. We’d have to blow up the equipment but we’re sure we can get
you and your people out. Anyway, when you going out again?”

“Tomorrow.
The map shows a river not so far from here. We’re going to push right up to it
and see what it’s like. See if it really is boiling blood like the legends
say.”

“The
Styx?”

“Nah,
not according to our map. It’s called the Phlegethon according to Abigor.
Deepest penetration we’ll have done. Want to come along? You can ride in one of
the Tracks.”

It
was a challenge and Warhol knew it. One he couldn’t resist. “Sure, a day by the
river? What more could a man ask?”

North-West-Upper
Gallery, Shaft 18, Slocum Mine, Tartarus

Publius
Julius Livianus had long since lost track of when he had last seen the sky.
From what he recalled it wasn't a great loss. The diffuse reddish light,
constant choking smoke, jagged volcanic landscape and demons, demons everywhere
the eye could see, all combined to make the surface a living nightmare. Down
here in the flickering torchlight existence was almost tolerable. The demons
still came and on each visit they lashed him with their barbed whips, but
rarely more than once a day. As long as he kept up a steady rhythm with his
pick-axe, then the ore crates filled up. If the ore-crates were full, he
received only a single lash. In all it was far superior to the earlier place,
where for uncounted centuries he had lain pinned to the ground on an endless
plain of burning sands, his flesh continually scorched but yet never dying.
Publius shuddered. The only reason he still thought of the place was to remind
himself that progress was still possible. Through sheer will he had maintained
his sanity and eventually managed to meditate on virtue even in that place, and
he had ascended to this less tortuous level of Hades. It seemed logical that
with sufficient effort he would be released to the next level. At least, that's
what he told himself and any fellow prisoner who would listen.

Suddenly,
Publius became aware that the general din of the mine workings had changed
subtly. Every alert for the approach of an overseer, every human in the gallery
began to lighten their strokes and raise their head, listening intently. There
was a commotion of snarls, shouts and the clang of dropped tools, punctuated by
the occasional scream. The source soon became apparent as a demon entered their
gallery, bellowing orders and lashing his whip idly as he went.

"Go
to the loading area. All of you, now. Leave your tools. Go."

None
of the humans waited to be lashed and Publius ran with the others until he
reached the loading area. The large gallery was normally where the crates of
ore were tipped into carts to be dragged up to the surface, but it doubled as
an assembly area when the demons wished to 'motivate' the workforce, usually by
eating whichever unfortunate had missed their quota that month. With all the
workings on this shaft emptied several hundred humans were crowded into the
cavernous space.

This
time however the scene was a little different. A dozen demons were gathered on
the platform and some of them carried bronze tridents instead of whips. One of
them was quite different from the rest; obviously female, she was covered in
fine coppery scales that glittered softly in the torchlight. A snakelike tail
coiled around her feet and great bat-like wings were folded against her back.
However her most distinguishing and terrifying feature was the mass of
snakelike growths that took the place of hair. Publius had heard the rumors
many times; the black snakes could freeze a man rigid, the red ones could
enslave his will. The rumors weren't clear whether it took a bite or just a
look, but just to be on the safe side he avoided looking at the snake-demon
directly.

The
largest overseer spoke first. "You vermin are here to answer a simple
question. As long as one of you answers it correctly, you can all go back to
work. Fail to answer and you will all be thrown back into the hell from which
you came. Do you understand ?"

The
humans seemed dazed. Some were nodding, others just stared at him. Moronic
beasts, Oodusjarkethat thought I wonder why are the brass are bothering with
them. Surely if the rulers of hell needed to know something about the human
world they could just send a succubus to find out.

Lakheenahuknaasi
wasn't sure why they were bothering either. She felt claustrophobic down here
and her wings kept fluttering involuntarily. Fortunately the non-fliers were
unlikely to understand why. The humans seemed to be trying to stare at her
without actually focusing on her. They were pathetic, with their corpse white
skin, sunken pink eyes and wild unkempt hair, yet their mass gaze was strangely
unsettling. She shook her head. Their minds were dull, expressing nothing more
than unfocused despair and hatred tinged with a slight curiosity about her
presence. They were just humans.

"We
desire to know where humans make your weapons. What towns make the flame
lances, sky chariots, fire arrows, thunder sticks and iron chariots. Where are
these weapons stored. You will tell us or suffer the consequences."

Lakheenahuknaasi
waited. Silence. The humans looked at each other, then the demons. There was a
murmur, indistinct and almost subliminal. She struggled to distinguish words
from the diffuse babble but it defeated her. The mental activity jumped up an
order of magnitude, as if the humans were shaking off a stupor. The noise
started growing, chaotic, unformed, unstructured and somehow threatening. It
swelled and broke up into distinct fractions, some just an undifferentiated
mumble but other parts clear and distinct. Some of the humans began to shout
names.