“There are hundreds of Barons!” the Prime said finally. “Is Balg the best you can do?”
The intruder smiled. He tilted his head as though thinking or listening. “It is the Baron’s assurance that he will be King of Demons on Earth. He has need of an ally among the humans.”
So that was it. The Apocalypse was here. The Demons were going to war. Let’s do it!
“And I’d be his puppet?” The Prime knew the Demons had been banished to the Pit with the coming of the One God-they wanted out.
“Balg is too practical to think that either of you could share power outright.” Passport wrung his long-fingered hands together. “And yet, the world is changing.” The stranger smoothed his pants leg with the back of a hand. “And as the world changes, it moves farther from what you know.” He paused. “The Baron wishes to rule his Demons on earth, and you rule your humans.”
“Rule.” The Prime’s Demon organ slid between his legs, writhing like a snake.
“There are forces converging on the City of Light that will plunge it into darkness.” Passport sauntered toward the desk, dragged fingertips along its edge. “These forces must be stopped.”
“You think I’m afraid of a pack of corpses?” the Prime growled. “I just cremated a bunch of them.”
“Indeed you have. And yet, is this a style of warfare that is safe for the people that you hope to govern?” False concern colored his voice. “Your power would be decreased with too reckless an application of these devices of yours, would it not?” Passport reached up, removed his hat. “Power is meaningless without adoration.”
The Prime didn’t speak; he was thinking feverishly. That was a good point. He’d always imagined some survivors. He’d need slaves. And it was more exciting to control the unwilling. Maybe he’d just take out the other Primes. Then he shook off the line of thought. That was his plan. His Final Solution was in place just in case the worst happened.
“It is Baron Balg’s wish to assist you in the repulsion of this band of rabble. He offers troops. It is my master’s belief that your City would be better defended with such aid.” Again the assistant to the Demon showed teeth. “It has been foreseen that your ground forces will be no match for the dead and their allies. The dead bear the memories of the old world with them, and they wear the faces of those who are gone. It will terrify the living forces under your command. And the dead are hardy, for they need nothing, nor do they fear death. Your forces will fail without the help of Balg.” He smiled. “And the dead have allies-those who would come to whom both Demons and humans pay homage.”
Angels? Fallen? If the Divine and Infernal ranks were coming, humanity and Demonkind both had everything to lose. And if he didn’t accept the Demon’s help, then he’d have another army attacking his flank. Perhaps his captive could shed some light.
“What does Baron Balg want in return?” The Prime had to know his options.
“He wants to share the earth when the battle is over. You will rule yours, and he will rule his. Together you can repel the One God’s forces.” Passport straightened his shoulders. “Demons and humans evolved on this planet together before the coming of the one.”
“I need to think,” the Prime started but Passport cut him off.
“You don’t have time,” the Demon’s servant said. “Your show of strength has forced all hands. Powers greater than the Army of the Dead are on the move.”
The Prime knew his Final Solution could still rule the day. Topp had the coordinates and the weaponry to burn it all if there was a double cross. “If I accept this premise in theory I have a question. My forces are unlikely to see the inclusion of a Demonic horde as a good thing.” The Prime thought this over. “Is it possible for the Baron’s soldiers to approach in some other form or fashion, either separate from mine, or in an appearance that would not provoke a negative reaction in my people.” The Prime enjoyed the phrase my people. He was too realistic to believe the line, but it had a ring to it that appealed to his messianic egotism. What if the Prime could lead humanity to a better place? So long as they obeyed him, what did he care? And, what about the other Primes? With a Demon army behind him, he could bomb them all back to the Stone Age, or better, relocate the Demons to lands now occupied by his enemies.
“Demons are consummate shape shifters, and darkness has always been their ally.” Passport replaced his hat. “But there is little time for debate. The Army of the Dead moves toward its first victory.”
“Not that I buy one word of what you’re saying.” The Prime slid along the wall toward the window. “But let’s just look at it in theory. This theory that you propose, I will need time to study its ramifications.”
“Very well.” Passport straightened. Passport began to walk toward the door; he paused and turned. “I will contact you in twelve hours. Perhaps by then, events will have demonstrated what I have tried to convince you of in words. Good day, Prime.” Passport pulled the door open, froze there a moment and walked out.
The Prime was across the floor in a flash. He swept the door aside. His secretary looked up at him. “Yes, Prime?” The leader of Westprime looked up the long hallway that led to an elevator. It was empty. He looked to either side of the door.
“Miss-” The Prime could not remember her name. “Whatever… Has there been anyone here to see me, today?”
“No, Prime.” The secretary’s round blue eyes reflected the overhead light and glinted like sadness. “Is there someone I should…”
“No, nothing!” the Prime said and pulled the door shut after him. His office was empty. Of course, if Passport were a Demon’s assistant, then he would have knowledge of Infernal powers-if he wasn’t a Demon himself. Suddenly, the Prime became aware of the dampness on the back of his jacket. He had sweated it right through.
58 – Stowaway
Conan lagged behind far enough that he could barely hear the Quinlan twins yakking about taking the lead. The little fighter knew he had to do something about the spooky dead girl that was still following them and it was starting to twist his underwear. He’d heard her off and on, and saw her move like a silent shadow before he crawled through the hole in the foundation of Whistles’ Bar. Sophie was not a real fighter, and he thought she might do something creepy to fuck up the Squeaker rescue. And if he could hear her, other things could listen too. So he backtracked to catch her and say: Sneak-and-peek-go-home.
After a few hours wink and snore, they left Whistles’ and dove back into the darkness. They were now deep in the crisscross-curly-spiral crust of concrete and rebar, maintenance and drainage tunnels that made up Level Three. Conan knew that the ventilation shafts were close. They gave the fighters doors into the Tower in the past. He quietly-secretly cross-finger-hoped the last information gathering sneakers had not been seen and the way was still open arms wide. Once they were into the main body of the Tower, the shafts would take them anywhere they wanted to go and peek: even the Orphanage. Kids that got away didn’t remember much about the place except that bad things happened, and they didn’t know the way out with panic screaming in their ears.
But most people were yakking that the Orphanage and the science place could be found near the bottom of the Tower.
He didn’t have to backtrack far-and was screech putting on the brakes when a sudden quiet thump brought Conan’s die-flower up and ready to carve and kill. Ahead, the vent-lined tunnel took a jog to the left around a new support structure for the upper levels. Just past the corner, the dim yellow maintenance lights could not see into the shadow.
He scurried forward and stopped. The little fighter took a quick view around into the dark. His breath caught. They were both surprised-with throat-lumps and ghaks! Sophie was there. Her mask, hands and legs seemed scare-show floating against a velvet curtain. She fast pressed herself against the wall, obscured by a heavy cable.
Conan hurried up to her shaking his head, and pointing the way they had come. Go on go! Sophie just lifted a cold white hand and pointed at her chest. Then she shook her head and with a tilt of her mask made it clear that she was coming with them. No you go on fuck off, Conan!
Frustration shook the forever boy, and he slashed the air with his blade-petal. Go-the-fuck-off-home yourself! He growled without words, then he grabbed Sophie’s arm and pointed into the shadows shaking his head. On an impulse he nudged his visor up so she could see his face mouth the words for her to go. Go. Go. No! Still Sophie
