Stuart Slade - Pantheocide

Michael-Lan got a strange feeling that if humans had actually designed Heaven, this was more or less what they would have come up with. As the idea occurred to him, he got the warm, fuzzy feeling he always got these days when he thought of humans. For millenia he had despised them, looking on them with the same cold contempt for their mindless obedience and submission that Yahweh had made so obvious. Then, a few centuries ago, humans had stopped being blindly-obedient beasts and started to question what surrounded them. Only a few at first, but slowly those few had opened the eyes of a few more and a few more again. Soon, a critical mass had been reached and the humans had broken out of the prison Yahweh had imposed upon them and begun to build their own society.

Michael-Lan had investigated that society with the intent of tearing it down but as he had started his inquiries, somehow, he’d caught the human disease and started to question the assumptions he’d been trained never to doubt. As the questions in his mind had multiplied, he had found, to his own disbelief, that he was beginning to like these new humans. More than that, a plan, complex and devious, had begun to form in his mind. A small part of that plan was here, small yet critical beyond measure. He had formed this club, he had rescued humans from torment to staff and run it. It drew on all the impressions he had gathered on his visits to Earth, part speakeasy, part bordello, part burlesque show, it was the honey in the center of his scheme.

He glanced again at the stage. The two angels were now down on the bed, twisting in simulated passion. Michael-Lan gave them top marks for innovative use of wings and imaginative application of feathers and then turned to one of his guests.

“Having a good time Gabriel-Lan?”

“As always, Michael-Lan. What did we do for fun before you started this place?” The Archangel Gabriel’s voice was slurred from too much whisky. That reminded Michael, he was going to have to do something about ensuring supplies. Earth was getting harder to visit with the war now in full swing. As if Gabriel had read Michael’s thoughts, he asked “And how goes the war?”

“The first Bowl of Wrath was poured today. The operation was successful although sadly the Angels delivering the Bowl did not survive the human defenses.” Which was fortunate, Michael-Lan thought. He had carefully picked those Angels from those whose loyalties might have been conflicted enough to hazard his plans.

“Seems like a rotten thing to do to the humans down there.” Gabriel was definitely drunk. Michael would have to make sure he was sobered up before he left the club. Yahweh absolutely did not need to know this place existed. He might be the all-knowing but that only applied when people didn’t use extraordinary measures to stop him from finding out. Michael-Lan had been applying those measures for some centuries now and neither Yahweh nor the late, unlamented Satan had been as all-knowing as they had believed. Michael gave a small signal with one hand and the house madam gave him a knowing grin.

“Gabriel-Lan, we have got to keep the humans out of Heaven. Look, they loathed Satan for everything he did and because of that, they killed him in process of destroying everything he had built. But, Satan just tortured them for all eternity. We betrayed them. Satan never pretended to be anything other than what he was or had plans anything other than what he announced. We, all of us, acted nice, made lots of promises and reneged on every one of them. They loathed Satan but they hate us. If they get their Army up here, they will destroy Heaven and kill us 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.