Armageddon?? (60 page)

Bob
Reed recited his pitch by rote. “Well sirs, if it's quality you're looking for,
dee-troyt has the finest workforce and the most modern production lines in the
world. No need to worry about capacity either, we built twenty thousand tanks
for uncle sam in double-u double-u two. Don't let the guys from cry-slur fool
you, with our boys fighting the gooks in core-rea, their lines are tied up
turning out em forty sevens for the feds. It stands to reason, if you've got a
big order, gee em are the logical choice. We can get a plant switched over for
you in...”

The
demons were throwing baffled glances at each other. Could this 'uncle sam'
really afford three legions worth of chariots for his troops? More likely the
human was inflating the figure to impress. 'Tank' seemed to mean 'iron chariot'
but what was an 'em forty seven'? Their lord seemed annoyed and that never bode
well for the source of the annoyance.

“Enough.
Human, you were asked a simple question. Is this 'Dee’Troyt' a major source of
weapons for the human resistance?” Belial's tone oozed with the promise of
horrible consequences should this question not be answered promptly.

Now
it was Bob's chance to be confused. His eyes remained unfocused as he
continued; “Why haven't you heard? Detroit is the arsenal of democracy. Eff Dee
Arr said so himself.”

Belial
couldn't resist taking over. “So Detroit makes all the chariots for the state
of Democracy? Which is ruled by Uncle Sam and populated by Feds? And your great
general Eff'dee'ar is leading your armies against us, the ones you call the
gooks?”

Bob
was saved solely by his loyalty to Selfridge's mantra; 'the customer is always
right'. “Well, yeah, I suppose you could put it like that...”

The
tension was over now that Belial had made sense of it for them. The barons
abandoned the hard task of trying to comprehend the insane humans and slipped
back into familiar territory; a flattery competition.

“Excellent
deduction my lord!”

“Masterful
interrogation, Count Belial!”

Belial
allowed this to continue for a few more seconds before silencing the court with
a chopping gesture.

“You
have pleased me...” there was a slight pause as the count pulled the name from
the man's mind... “Bobbreed.” He turned to one of his ubiquitous minor demon
servants. “Take them both to the guest rooms. See to their needs until I
require them again.” The two humans were led away.

“Excellent.
Euryale, you have surpassed my expectations. We now have the location of the
two most critical arsenals supporting the human resistance. Once they are
destroyed, the human armies will find their reinforcements either severely
diminished in number or lacking the enchanted weapons that allow them to
challenge us.”

Belial
had been concerned that the intelligence would be dangerously out of date. The
constant stream of unpleasant surprises since the heralds had first arrived on
earth had driven home how much the humans had changed since the demons last
visited earth in strength. But the first informant had been dead less than two
human lifetimes, the second barely one. Save total destruction by war, great
cities could not change significantly in a mere handful of decades.

Euryale
half-spread her wings, holding the leathery membranes low in folds that touched
the ground, and lowered her head. It was a gesture that implied respect and
submission without the admission of inferiority that the more usual forms of
groveling involved. “I am most glad that my humble efforts please my lord.” she
said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.

'I
really shouldn't let her get away with that' Belial thought, 'but I suppose
this once she's earned it.'

The
gorgon continued, “There were a few other traitors who I thought might be of
use to you. They did not seem to know where the enchanted weapons were
produced, like these two. But they did claim to know how to make them.”

Belial
looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. “Move them to the
palace. Keep them isolated and under guard. Perhaps they can be of use to
Trajakrithoth, perhaps they are best used as wyvern feed, but that can wait. We
have only three days left to meet Satan's deadline.” Actually it was five, but
he had already decided to keep the two extra days in hand as his last reserve.

His
gaze shifted to the serpentine form of the leader of the Tartaruan naga. She
looked distinctly uncomfortable, her tentacles twitching and her coils shifting
irritably on the flagstones. “Baroness Yulupki, your naga are ready of course?”

“My
lord, the chorusss will have no difffficulty with the firssst portal...”

Belial
frowned. “And the second?”

“It
isss not my fault, my lord, the additional naaaga I was promisssed, only a
quarter of them have arrived. From the rate that they are arriving, three
daysss hence we ssshall ssstill have barely a third.”

Belial
slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne hard enough to crack the stone.
Nearly every demon in the hall startled at the noise, excepting the court mason
who merely sighed at the thought of having to carve yet another throne.
“Naturally, the dukes seek to sabotage me, claiming honestly that they sent
naga while knowing all the time they will not arrive quickly enough to do any
good. But I shall not be denied.” he thundered.

The
count pointed at Hipparferstiphasus, the leader of his meager flock of harpies.
“You will take every demon that can fly and you will search out the witches we
were promised. Then you will take every wyvern we have, snatch up the naga and
fly them directly to Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath.”

“Of
course my lord.” The harpy bowed low, wings spreading on the floor, then ran
from the throne room.

Yulupki
writhed. “My lord, without time to harmonissse the chorusss, we risssk...”

Belial
smashed his fist down again, this time hard enough to spall splinters of
adamantine from the side of the throne. “No excuses. Why are you still here?
Take your naga up to the first portal site immediately and make ready to open
it up.”

Yulupki
bowed, whirled around and slithered away through the great bronze doors.
Euryale didn't even bother to hide her smirk.

“And
you, Trajakrithoth?” Belial continued ”Tell me you have the shrines ready.”

The
baron charged with running the main forges and workshops was a huge demon with
streaky brown fur, little of which was visible under his massive bronze armor,
and a voice like a stone grinder. “Almost, my lord. The shrines on Okthuura
Jorkastrequar are complete. I am allowing my demons no breaks, no respite. The
shrines on Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath will be completed within two days.”

Belial
sat back contentedly, but the forge-master had not finished. “I must warn you
though, between making the shrine rods and the rebelliousness of the humans,
trident production has been completely disrupted.”

Baron
Guruktarqor cut in. “Stocks of refined copper and tin are running low sire,
half of our smelting furnaces are out of operation. Plenty of ore in the silos
sire but output from the mines is also down to less than half.” The baron was
small and runtish for a demon of his station, speaking in a voice reminiscent
of a squealing boar; most of the court found him intolerable, but Belial found
his talent for keeping track of the minutiae of Tartaruan industry useful.
“Euryale's manipulations have stopped the rioting but we need more workers
sire, demon and human.”

“You
shall get them. Already messengers have arrived from Beelzebub, Merihem and
Gressil, demanding our best tridents to equip the legions they are mobilizing.
I expect there will be more shortly. I have demanded twelve humans and one
lesser demon per crate. They will have no choice but to pay the tribute, unless
they would rather leave their legions helpless against the humans and their
magery.”

“If
I could make a request, my lord?”

The
count tilted his head, inviting Euryale to continue.

“I
have some ideas on how to improve the humans' enthusiasm for their work. But I
will require some females. A few dozen should do to start with.”

Belial
snorted, a reaction shared by most of the demons present. Tartarus had always
levied male humans in return for its wares, as both sexes were equally useful
to the torturers but males were obviously far superior manual laborers. There
was only one thing Euryale could want the females for and Belial didn't like
that notion at all.

“Have
you forgotten that we still need the psychic energy of the humans? It hardly
matters if we produce a few more tridents, if my serfs are rebelling because
your pampered humans no longer give up enough energy.”

“My
lord, I am confident that will not be the case. You see, recent events have
shown how acclimatized to their condition the humans had become. When a human
has nothing left to lose, the quality of anguish we can inflict is limited. For
a few decades they rage and hate, but then their minds decay into apathy. By
mixing in a little pleasure with their pain, by giving them something to lose
again, I will heighten their suffering and inject fresh desperation even as they
toil ever harder in your service.”

Again
Euryale had caught the attention of the whole court and they were nodding in
appreciation of her logic. 'She does have a talent for speeches', thought
Belial, 'I will have to find a way to make use of that.'

“Very
well. I shall permit you to continue your games... as soon as Sheffield and
Detroit have been reduced to glowing slag.” Belial settled back in his damaged
throne with a question left unanswered. Why did the humans refer to demons as
gooks?

Chapter
Forty Three

The
Hellmouth, Martial Plain of Dysprosium

“Let’s
have any HEAD you have on board.” The voice from outside the tank combined
urgency and boredom.

“Would
you care to repeat that soldier?” Major Stevenson peered over the edge of her
turret. She and her combat group had been waiting in the traffic jam by the
Hellmouth for nearly four hours and she wasn’t in the mood for any
insubordination. Besides, she was hot, tired and sticky from being inside a
tank too long and chewing out a subordinate would be welcome relief. As the
thought crossed her mind, she decided she’d probably been in Hell too long.

“I’m
sorry Ma’am, but its orders. All outgoing armor is to unload any HEAD
ammunition on board for reissue. Its in short supply and the units up on the
Phlegethon are going to need it.”

“HEAD?
You mean HEAT?”

“No
Ma’am. High Explosive Anti-Demon. New round, just started getting the first
shipments. Got an iron liner instead of copper. Baldricks surely do hate iron.
If you got any Ma’am, we’ll unload it for you.” The Sergeant had noted the
battered vehicles and suddenly decided that these units had been in Hell a lot
longer than he had. And messing with this Major might be a very bad idea.
Especially if the scuttlebutt about a battle brewing was true.

“Hokay.
Sergeant, we’ve none of that on board. Any idea how long we’ll be hung up for?
I kinda hanker to see a blue sky again.”

“Dunno
Ma’am and that’s the honest truth. There’s stuff pouring in all the time. The
Russians have been coming in all morning and we had an Israeli armored division
before that and I’m told there’s a European armored division behind them. And
then there’s the aircraft the brass are towing in. There’s more of our boys
unloading down South, or their equipment is. Guys themselves being flown in.
Look over there ma’am.”

‘Over
there’ was the road leading through the hellmouth. The stream of Russian armor
had stopped for a few minutes, their place taken by aircraft tractors, each one
towing what looked like an A-10. Only, they were now painted red-gray and they
had a mushroom-shaped filter over the engine intakes. Stevenson lifted her mask
slightly and took a cautious sniff of the air. It was a lot cleaner here than
further into hell, presumably there was some gas exchange through the
Hellmouth, but there was a new smell as well. One that achingly reminded
Stevenson of home in Bayonne. The smell of tar and oil refineries.

“A
blacktop road in Hell. Whodathunkit.”

“Engineers
all over ma’am. You should see the roads their building down from the north and
up from the ports in the South. And the airfields, they’re sproutin’ like weeds
after a thunderstorm. Some of the fighter jocks flew their birds through the
‘mouth but brass put a stop to it. Too risky they said. Look, ma’am, keep your
engines running, I’ll get my boys to make a hole for you. Slide you out as fast
as we can.”

The
Sergeant did his best but it still took more than an hour to get Stevenson’s
unit out. Finally, they managed it, sliding her out between the end of the A-10
unit and the start of a Hungarian Su-25 outfit. But, the military police
managed it and, once again, there was the silent, undramatic transition as the
cloudy red and gray overcast of Hell was replaced by the clear blue of the
Earth sky. Just looking at it made Stevenson very happy. Ahead of them, a
traffic direction private waved them off the road into a vast parking lot, full
of Bradleys, Abrams and Paladins. Plus all the other vehicles that made up the
order of battle of an Armored Division. Stevenson recognized the markings, they
were all First Armored.