playing. That’ll keep everybody’s mind in synch so I can draw on your power. Think of this place as a hose and me as the nozzle. When everything stops, it’ll all be over. Then, once Yahweh has lost that battle, I’ll put out a call and we’ll get the new government set up. Once it’s in place and running, there’ll be very little opposition. The Host is conditioned to accept absolute leadership from the Ultimate Temple. As long as Yahweh is dead, there will be no trouble, the Host will accept new leadership as an alternative to no leadership. We’ll have our people out there of course, making sure that line gets pushed hard. Then, once our power is solid, Gabby, you and Raffie get through to the humans and tell them we want to surrender.”
“Suppose… you lose?” Leilah-Lan was uncertain and frightened at the prospect.
“Me? I’ll be dead. Very did and probably crushed out of this and any other existence. You lot, you’ll be safe here for a little bit. Yah-yah has no idea this places exists or that he has any reason to find it. You’ll have a few minutes before that idea sinks in. That’s why I don’t want you in the temple with me. Use that few minutes to run like hell. To Hell, or better still to Earth. Try and get the staff here out as well. It’ll be a real panic so do the best you can. Then get out. Trust me you don’t want to be in this city when Yah-yah goes berserk and especially not when the humans blast their way in.”
The other members of Michael’s inner circle exchanged glances. Nothing that had been said before drove the dangers of what they were about to try home so clearly. Michael looked around the room and nodded. “If there is nothing else, I’m off to the Ultimate Temple. If you do nothing else, keep the music playing right?”
Michael-Lan left the room and started wandering through his club. He had conceived it the day he had realized that human development would eventually lead into direct conflict with Yahweh and that the rapid escalation of human abilities meant that conflict would be immensely destructive. The Montmartre club had been modelled first on a Paris night club but had grown to include features from American speakeasies and Las Vegas casinos. At some point during its growth, the club had ceased to be a tool that Michael intended to use and had become something he loved. Now, he was very well aware that he might well be seeing it for the last time.
He left through the front entrance, winding his way out of the maze into the open air. Then, he inflated his flight sacs to the full and took off, climbing high above the city. Stay clear of the cloud he reminded himself. It might be hotter than you like. Underneath him, the shadowed Eternal City lay in its splendor. Splendor? Michael looked down again and once more saw the shabbiness and ill-repair that lay underneath the superficial gloss. Poor city, your problem is that nobody really loves you. We’ll have to fix that. If I survive of course..
Ahead of him was the great Lake of Placid Contemplation that formed the centerpiece of the city. Fed from a river that started in The Ultimate Temple itself, the vast expanse of water was Yahweh’s own private park, one where others were only allowed as an extreme sign of favor. Michael had plans for that lake, ones in which the words “Yachting Marina” figured prominently. Of course, he would still have to win the impending battle first.
He circled above the great square of the city. 1,500 kilometers on each side, the walls pierced by 12 gates. Michael knew well that some humans believed that the gates were named after the tribes of Israel but that was just a human legend. Their names were older than that. In fact they pre-dated humanity completely. They pre- dated humans but they would not post-date them, not unless Michael’s plans worked. He had a brief vivid mental picture of the city below screaming as the great mushroom-shaped clouds rose over it. The humans would not even try to take the Eternal City by storm, they would destroy it utterly. Michael knew that as surely as he knew his own name.
He paused for a second. Did he know his own name? Was he still Michael-Lan-Yahweh or had he in truth become Michael-Lan-Michael? He mused over the point for a few seconds while his eyes took in the sights that he may never get the chance to see again.
Michael sighed and backwinged, dropping through the air towards the forecourt of The Ultimate Temple. There had been a time when this place had filled him with superstitious awe. Now, he viewed it with little more than contempt. Yet, it was still an impressive enough building, one that would make an excellent tourist attraction. Briefly, Michael contemplated installing a ‘What the angel saw’ machine in the forecourt and the idea made him chuckle. That, at least, broke the mood of apprehension that had been gathering within him.
“Welcome Mighty General.” The gatekeeper genuflected in front of him. Michael acknowledged the obeisance with a curt nod and entered the forecourt itself. Once again, he looked around, gathering in the sights that might soon be eternally denied to him. Then, he squared his shoulders, tucked his wings into place and started the climb up the alabaster steps towards the throne room where Yahweh awaited him.
Chapter Seventy Three
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
Michael-Lan strode forward into the Temple. All about him, the people sang; he could feel the artificial ecstasy of the choirs of angels, of those few, fortunate saved humans. As he entered the Holiest of Holies, the thick marble of the temple walls drowned out the beautiful music outside; reduced to a dim glow, he focused his attention on the sight before him.
He knew the sight was supposed to awe him, every time without fail: the great white throne, with its flashing lightning and pealing thunder surrounding the giant figure who sat on it, the One Above All Others. 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. Once, Michael loved it, for it appealed to his sense of the ridiculous. Now he’d just about had enough of it and of the pretensions of that throne’s occupant. There was one consolation to his chosen course, one way or another he would not have to visit this place after today.
At the four corners of the room stood the four living creatures, chanting their ceaseless cry: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come;” and the twenty-four members of the 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.” Time was, their voices had outstripped even the living creatures in volume, but even here they were not free from time’s ravages. An astute observer might look closely into their eyes and see the misery and despair there. Singing the same praises for untold millennia was not as heavenly as it sounded. Soon, their misery would be ended, one way or another.
In the back of the hall, Archangels were gathered around the Master Mason but watching Michael. They gauged his mood, was it good? Or bad? Was there going to be a thunderstorm and flying rock chips or a quiet and peaceful meeting. Did they need to buy tickets for the mason’s bunker? Or could they save the gold? With more and more humans pouring into Heaven and occupying the land around the City, the prices of food and other supplies were already beginning to rise. Rise enough to make even angels careful with their money. They held their breaths as Michael-Lan made his entrance. What to do?
All right, here we go. The only thing left is to hope he gives me the one opening I need. Michael stopped in the middle of the lamps and knelt down on both knees, prostrating himself. He pressed his lips, still scarred from the times he had been exposed to human weaponry, against the cold, dark jade floor. As though sensing intentions, the four living creatures 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. I have to tell you that The Incomparable Legion Of Light has been utterly destroyed. It was wiped out within the blink of an eye. Your son is dead with hundreds of thousand of human levies and tens of thousands of angels beside him. Few survive the human firepower that destroyed them. Those that did are maimed and sick. A circle twenty miles across burns with the fires the humans created and the clouds of smoke darken the city and chills its air. All this they did with one weapon, with one blow of their fist. The warmaking ability of the humans has proved far beyond the capability of the fallen ones and beyond ours.
Yahweh was silent for a moment, then spoke. “They failed me. It was my irresistible will that they defeat the humans. How dare they not do so.”
You bastard. They died for you and that is all you can say about them? Not one word of regret for their deaths or gratitude for their service? Through his outrage at the casual dismissal of the Incomparable Legion’s destruction, Michael-Lan felt his heart skip a beat. Yahweh hadn’t failed him, he had the opening he was hoping for. All the maneuvering, all the scheming, all the corruption was about to pay off. That knowledge filled him with a strange,
