“How long must I stay cooped up in this bronze box? There is work for me to do.”
“As long as I wish.” Michael-Lan’s voice was sharp. He didn’t know if the humans could lock in on Belial’s mind but he wasn’t taking any risks. “Unless you wish to take your chances with the humans?”
Belial shook his head. “I wish to strike at them, amongst others. I waste time here.”
“Time is something we have plenty of, Belial-Lan-Michael. You will be pleased to know that your ex-mate Euryale is using her time very well indeed. She has made an alliance with an important human, one Gaius Julius Caesar and turning that to great profit. She has even made her peace with the humans and managed to throw all the blame for Sheffield and Detroit on you. She is rich, well, and prospers along with all her kind. Of course, the humans make them keep their head-snakes covered.”
Belial was almost shaking with rage. “She will die in millennia of screaming for her betrayal. And the human she allies herself with.”
“Not a chance Belial, Euryale is your problem, that I agree. But Gaius Julius Caesar is off-limits. He is under the protection of the others and they will not tolerate harm coming to him.” Michael-Lan returned his voice to its friendliest tone. “Anyway, you will also be pleased that the Baroness Yulupki is also prospering and is now Queen of the Naga. They have set up a delivery service and put FedEx out of business. Not before time, they lost one of my packages once.”
Belial clenched his fists and stormed backwards and forwards at the idea of his erstwhile underlings prospering under the rule of humans in Hell. Michael-Lan smiled gently at his rage, daemons really ought to learn to control their emotions, their inability to do so had been their downfall.
“Now, Belial, we come to business. How do we drop fire on human cities?”
“That isn’t a problem, open a portal, one end in the lava pit of a volcano, the other over the target.”
“That is a problem. As you should be able to tell from the air quality here, there are no volcanoes in Heaven. Somehow, I have to fulfill the prophecy of the Fourth Bowl of Wrath and drop fire on their cities.”
“Why didn’t you make a prophecy you could fulfill?” Belial couldn’t believe that the coldly calculating Michael-Lan, Yahweh’s Great General, could blunder like that.
“I didn’t make them. You know how these prophecies got to happen? I’d been on a visit to South America and I’d stocked up with some of the local products. A leaf extract the humans call cocaine. Anyway, on the way back, I stopped in what is now Mexico and picked up a load of some really great mushrooms. They’re good Belial, you ought to try them. Give you really wild visions. Anyway, I got to wondering what would happen if somebody mixed up those mushrooms with cocaine. I didn’t want to try it on anybody important so I went to a place called Patmos, an Island that was the back end of nowhere. I found this tramp sitting by the roadside, begging for food, so I gave him a dosed-up mushroom salad, sat back and watched the fireworks.
“And, Belial my friend, what fireworks they were. Eyes flashing, jumping around, shouting and raving, Belial, it was a sight to behold I can tell you. How was I to know that some scribe would take all his ravings down and preserve them? I thought he’d just be dismissed as another lunatic and banged on the head with a rock or something. Instead he becomes Saint John The Divine and the product of my mushroom salad becomes the Book of Revelation. I tried to get it suppressed, really I did. But the Nicaeans just wouldn’t listen. Thomas Jefferson deleted it as well but his opinion didn’t take, more’s the pity. Still, no use crying over what’s done. The prophecies exist and we’ve got to fulfill them. Now, no volcanoes in Hell, any better ideas?”
Belial shook his head. “We can’t drop lava without a source. We’d have to go back to Hell and open up a volcano there.”
“Tartarus is occupied by humans, its their main base in the North. They keep a very close watch on all the volcanoes. By the way, they gave Palelabor to your human slaves, they’re running a profitable mineral extraction business there now. Iron, copper, titanium, you name it.
Belial slumped, his face in his hands. His beloved Palelabor in the hands of the humans who had once slaved in its depths. Michael-Lan reached down and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Belial, you just work out a way we can drop fire on a few human cities.”
The meeting with Belial had taken less time than he had thought so Michael-Lan decided that a brief visit to the Montmartre Club would be in order. He flew idly towards the Eternal City, enjoying the sight of the lush green farmland beneath him, the workers tending the fields that kept the Eternal City supplied with its food. That, of course, raised an interesting possibility. Michael wondered if it would be possible to grow some of his more hallucinogenic crops up here in Heaven and, if so, would they have the same remarkable effects as they did when grown down on Earth?
Once again, he back-winged neatly and landed on the ledge, this one of a temple devoted to Yahweh. Who else Michael-Lan thought with a certain level of scorn. Yah-yah never grew tired of people worshiping him. Still, he’d found a whole new planet full of primitive sentients he could convert into a new cult. Had things gone the way they had before, the discarded humans would have been condemned to Hell, there to disappear slowly, just as they themselves had replaced the ones who had gone before them. Michael-Lan wondered if, somewhere tucked deep in the bowels of Hell, there were still survivors of those earlier races.
He walked down through the confusing maze of passages that led to the heart of the temple. There was a trick to this, all the mazes in heaven worked on the same principle, if one put one’s left hand on the left wall and never took it off, one would eventually reach the center. This one was the exception, at one specific point, if one changed to right hand on right wall, one would find the Montmartre Club.
Inside, Michael was delighted to note that his business was doing well. The music was up to standard and he got a respectful salute from Benny Goodman as he passed. He halted for a few minutes, listened to the number and gave an approving nod as it wound up. A quick look at the schedule showed the band had a good few numbers to work through before their shift was up. Then the center-stage would be taken by some angels pole-dancing.
Once in his office, far to the rear of the concealed structure, Michael sat down with the stock inventories. He’d replenished his supplies nicely, the Myanmar Junta had really come through for him. Such a nice group of people he thought genially, always willing to please and so reasonable and rational compared with Yahweh. He was working on his next liquor procurement scheme, getting good Scotch and Bourbon was turning into a real pain, when there was a knock on his door.
“Michael-Lan, I need help.”
It was Maion, the young angel-addict he’d been supplying with heroin. Michael frowned slightly. “You know Maion, you’re using more of this stuff now.”
“I know, Michael-Lan but, I,” she hesitated, tears in her eyes. “I need it.”
“So do a lot of people Maion, and they all support their habit. They don’t come running to me asking for free supplies now do they?” Actually, a lot of them did and if they were valuable to him they got what they needed. Maion wasn’t that valuable, not yet anyway.
“I know but…”
“It’s not fair to them is it? They work to support their habits and pay their way. Why should you be any different?”
“I’ll do things, for you, I promise.”
Right on. Of course you will, you just don’t know what yet. “Would you like to work here?”
“Oh yes.” The happiness in Maion’s voice was obvious. “What will I have to do? Serve the drinks?”
“Oh no, I’ve got a much better job in mind for you than that. You’d make a good dancer I think.”
Maion seemed slightly taken aback. “Well, I did learn the reverential dances for the temples.”