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, 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, the other had her arms twisted up her back and was holding her hair, pulling 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 stage hands 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 back-up 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 for ever. That was no bad thing, Michael-Lan admitted to himself and he was not adverse 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, had 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, black leather corset, fishnet tights, high-heeled boots. The outfit was modelled 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.
“Why 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 a lot of 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 Myamnar 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 really 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 ‘anythings’ but dismissed them from his mind. He had bigger objectives than his own personal pleasures. “Look, Maion, this stupid war Yahweh started has really screwed things up. Everybody’s looking for stuff. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll give you some stuff from my own 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, lets get you fixed up.”
Michael-Lan took another look around his club as he left. This were really 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.
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 own 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 some kind of sickness. It had started a few days earlier, he had woken aching 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 over seeing a young man ruining his life by his own 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 tailed off. Chestnut’s face was dead white, his eyes deeply sunk and heavily shadowed, his finger nails, lips and ears blue-tinged. For the first time, it was apparent that he was seriously, indeed dangerously ill. “What’s up kid?”
“Headache, so bad can’t think straight. Keep coughing. Can’t swallow, 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. Half way 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
