“I still find it hard to believe that something that’s so different from us could be related to us. DNA shifts and mutation rates can’t explain that level of difference.”
Protect us from intelligent, well-read generals Surlethe sighed quietly to himself, life had been much easier in the old days when Generals knew how to destroy armies and nothing else. Then, they just accepted everything a scientist said. Put on a long white coat and they were as good as gold. This one had an annoying habit of arguing with scientists and, even more annoying, was very often right. He quickly realized that it was about to get worse.
“I’ve been reading up on the Human Genome Project. According to their findings, the useless repetitive sequences, the junk DNA make up at least 50% of the human genome. According to the people working on that program, the junk DNA doesn’t have a direct function, but they reshape the genome by rearranging it, thereby creating entirely new genes or modifying and reshuffling existing genes. It also appears that something quite drastic happened around 50 million years ago that caused all our junk DNA.”
“That’s correct General. Our working hypothesis is that somehow we and the baldricks split away from each other way back then. We went our way, they went theirs. Perhaps we all came from somewhere else and the ‘something quite drastic’ was that we stayed here and they went to the hell-place. We each used different parts of our junk DNA and activated different strings. The difference may be only one half of one percent but it’s a very important one half of one percent. There’s more to it than that of course; it looks to us like the baldrick DNA itself has been corrupted, either by selective breeding, prion infection, both or something else.”
“So, how can you help me look after the prisoners we’ve acquired.”
“Well, we know from other sources that they are exclusive carnivores. Its probable that they’ll eat any sort of meat, they’ll eat in large quantities but at irregular intervals. Without need for major physical exercise, they’ll probably eat only once a week or so. Won’t be a pretty sight when they do though.” Surlethe thought back to the sight of the succubus eating and shuddered. “Medication might work on them, we’ll have to be careful and take it by stages. Oh, and General, their metabolic pathways are almost identical to ours. Chemical weapons should work on them just fine.”
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
The archangel Michael strode forward into the Temple. All about him, the people sang; he could feel the 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.
It awed him every time without faiclass="underline" 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. On one Michael loved it, the pomp and circumstance, the splendour all appealed on a very basic level, as they were supposed to. On another level, Michael-lan found them disturbing and slightly repulsive. There was something very unhealthy about the whole set-up and the mentality behind it. It betrayed a fundamental lack of balance.
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.
Michael stopped in the middle of the lamps and knelt down on both knees, prostrating himself and pressing his flawless lips to 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. The messengers of Gabriel have returned, save one – Appoloin – who was killed in your service." As he related the information, he couldn't help the quiver of surprise that crept into his voice; the idea that humans, of all things, could destroy demons or angels, let alone the merciless slaughter to which they had apparently subjected the demonic army, still confused him. If he were capable of admitting it to himself, he might even have said that the prospect scared him. But had he not seen for himself, on his visits to Earth just how far humans had advanced? So to be surprised at their lethal killing powers didn't make much sense at all.
"My Lord, the army the Morningstar sent forth has been utterly destroyed. The human magic has proved far beyond the capability of the fallen ones."
Yahweh was silent for a moment, then spoke. "Interesting. And what of the rest of Satan's hordes?”
"My Lord, the delegation you sent to Dis has not returned; it is several choirs overdue. It is not known if the messengers we sent have been received."
"Is Uriel prepared to go out into the world?"
"He is, my Lord.”
"Summon him to me, Michael." At the decree, Michael's fist clenched and lightning sparked around it as he bit down on his excitement. The chance he had been waiting for was finally arriving.
Camp Echo, New Amarah Airfield, Al Amarah, Iraq
The truck convoy, a long line of the eight-by-eight HEMTTs, pulled up at the long line of huge hangars that were half-buried in the ground. This was one of Saddam Hussein’s airfields, one disused until recently but now put to a use that the deranged dictator could never have imagined. The great buried hangars were perfect as a detention area for captured demons. Some of the baldricks sitting in the trucks looked at the razor wire that surrounded the hangars and shuddered. Many bore the scars of that infernal wire.
Abigor had a truck to himself, his size and weight made that essential, and the truth was that he had thoroughly enjoyed his ride. The great truck had moved faster than he had ever dreamed possible, carrying him away from the Hellmouth and towards wherever it was that the humans would take him. The trip itself had been an eye-opener. The black strips the humans laid across the desert were crowded with chariots, nose-to-tail convoys of them, mostly heading west. He had, at last, seen the Iron Chariots, ‘tanks’ they were called apparently, at close quarters. Many different types of them, some looking similar, others very different. Long lines of them moving west and he noted how everybody got out of their way. He’d seen the humans inside them and they’d waved at him, shouting things as they passed. Some had been abusive, Abigor recognized curses when he heard them, but most were almost friendly. Once or twice he’d waved back and that had caused the tank crews, even the hostile ones, to behave in a more friendly manner. It seemed that humans had a strange attitude towards their enemies.
He’d also looked at one of the homes of the Flying Chariots as the convoy had made its way East. Two of them had been taking off, the howl they made painful to the ears. ‘Warthogs.’ One of the truck drivers had shouted. ‘Wait till you see them babies at work.’ They were babies? What did the parents look like? A few minutes later, Abigor had his answer, a great chariot many times the size of the warthogs landed and started to disgorge tons of cargo. Another followed and by the time their convoy had moved on, two more. The movement at the flying chariot base was constant, if the chariots weren’t taking off, they were landing.