Authors: Stuart Slade
“You
like the term Baldrick then Condi?” Department of Energy Secretary Bodman
seemed to favor the expression as well.
“I
do Sammy, it has a nice, contemptuous ring to it. But, much more importantly I
think it is very important to distinguish between the mythological demon and
the creatures we face in reality. There is little doubt that the monsters we
face today are the source of the myths we have all read about but I believe we
must make the difference between the two very clear. There is nothing ghostly
or ethereal about the Baldricks, they are very solid reality. As to what their
powers are, that we must find out.”
“On
that note, we need some scientific input. Thank you Condi. I have asked the
Department of Defense to coordinate the scientific research into these
Baldricks. Secretary Gates has resigned from his position as head of Defense, I
have appointed, subject to confirmation by the Senate, Senator John Warner to
be the new SecDef. John?”
“Thank
you Mister President. At the moment we know very little about these creatures.
Factually, we have identified three separate types which have very different
characteristics.
“The
first are the flying Baldricks we shot down off California. They’re the same
ones that were whacked in Singapore and Bangkok. Working on camera gun footage
from the F-18s, we can size them at around 30 feet long from tip of horns to
root of tail with a wingspan of around 60 feet.” Warner gestured and a picture
was projected onto the screen at the end of the Cabinet Room. “As you can see,
they look rather like the traditional depiction of a demon or a cartoon devil.
Horns, tail pointed beard. Two arms, two legs, two wings. This raises an
interesting point, the combination of weight and musculature mean these things
can’t possibly fly.”
“Just
like a bumblebee?” Education Secretary Margaret Spellings tossed the quip in,
one that gained her a reproachful glance from the President.
“In
a way yes. You see, the musculature of the back doesn’t give any great strength
to the wings, it can’t the bone structure won’t support it. The only way this
thing can fly is if it weighs virtually nothing so its wings provide propulsion
and lift, not steerage. The only way we can think of doing that is if the body
contains a lot of very light gas, probably hydrogen. We think that is why they
burned so fiercely when they were hit. The pilots reported that the creature’s
blood set them on fire, we can only think that there’s some sort of body
process in there where very acid blood reacts with a mineral to give off the
hydrogen needed. That would allow the Baldrick to breath fire as well. There
are things about these flying Baldricks that are reminiscent of humans, its
almost as if they were a parallel evolutionary path from a common ancestor
somewhere.
“The
second class we’ve run into are the aquatic ones. According to Astute, the one
they killed was more than a hundred feet long, about 20 feet in diameter and
has flipper-like legs, six of them. They did careful pH testing on the water as
they closed on the corpse and detected no sign of acidity. Also, note, despite
being hit by two torpedoes, it didn’t burn. So, our working hypothesis is that
this one doesn’t have acid blood. The one that came ashore near Tokyo walked on
its flipper-legs, all six of them. Apparently it fought by shooting jets of
water at things. Anyway, the JMSDF-GF will be sending over information as it
develops. One thing they have said, apparently the flesh doesn’t make good
Sushi. I’m not sure what worries me most about that, the fact that doesn’t make
good Sushi or that somebody tried it. Either way, at the moment we’ll know more
about the Aquatic ones than the others soon.
“The
third group are the land ones. These have just started to appear. According to
the Russians, they’re over a hundred feet tall. They’re tough, they walk on
their hind legs using their forearms to strike blows. They have vestigial wings
only. No acid blood again. The ones that appeared have been killed so quickly
we have no idea whether they breath fire or what.”
“We’re
going to need names for all these types. Baldrick’s good enough for a generic
name, I agree with Condi, we have to distinguish between the mythology we’ve
all read and the reality we have to fight.” President Bush leaned back in his
seat, rubbing his eyes. “Does it seem to anybody that these Baldricks are
getting tougher.”
“Certainly
Sir.” Senator Warner tapped the pictures of the three types of demons. “There’s
a definite progression here. There’s another thing, we have people going
through ancient records, demonologies, grimoires that sort of stuff. Now, the
information in there is undoubtedly corrupted and distorted but we’re hoping it
gives us some form of clue as to what we can expect. One thing we have noted.
You’ll note that these Baldricks haven’t come in blasting. We would, under the
same circumstances, we’d be advancing behind a wall of missiles, tactical air
and artillery fire. These just cruised straight into our defenses and died on
them.
“We
think we may have discovered the reason for this. One of our early readings
found a mention of demonic heralds who were supposed to carry the word of their
master to his new subjects. Apparently they would just appear in a population
center, announce that all within were now subjects of their master and carry
them off to hell. As far as we can see, nobody ever resisted. There’s even a
suggestion that, by some sort of celestial Geneva Convention, these heralds are
immune from attack.”
Bush
frowned. “Attorney General Mukasey, has the United States ever signed an
agreement to that effect.”
“No
Sir, we have not.”
“Good,
doesn’t apply to us then. Tell everybody to keep shooting. A question John,
does ‘immune from attack’ mean that they can’t be shot at or that they are
immune to weapons fire?”
“Our
guess at this time Sir is that the second lead to the former. People found
their bows and arrows and so on didn’t work against them so they rationalized
it by creating the former. Of course, we could be wrong on that. But the key
point is, if these are the heralds referred to in the Grimoire, the real armies
of hell are still to get here. We have to stack our defenses ready.”
“I
agree, Henry.” Treasury Secretary Paulson started. “Henry, we need
supplementals, huge ones. This is a war, we have to fund it as such. We’re
going to be spending serious money. Organize it. Elaine, Carlos, get to work
shifting our industry to a war footing, get the missile factories and tank
lines on triple shifts. Tell Boeing we’ll take every F-22 they can build, cost-plus
basis. I believe the B-2 jigs and tooling are still in storage, if they are,
get the Spirit back into production. Same with the Bone. What we can’t build,
we’ll buy from abroad.
“Oh
and John. Defense is fine but nobody ever won a war by defending. We have to go
onto the offensive and attack. Find out how.”
Throne
Room, Infernal Palace of Dis, Hell.
“They
have done what?” The infernal voice boomed across the hall, making the thick
red vapor boil and eddy as the banners of long-forgotten kingdoms twisted and
furled in the smog.
“Your
Eminence, I cower at your feet.
“I
know. Do it some more. Then tell me what you meant.”
Abigor
cringed on the ground at Satan’s feet, his tongue flicking over the great
hooked claws. “Sire, forgive me”
“No.
But continue.”
“Sire,
they killed your heralds.”
“My
gentlemen!” The scream of anger made the very foundations of hell shake. Across
the fields of burning rock where the souls of the dead were forever held in
torment, the devils looked up from their work and shuddered in fear. “They
killed my gentlemen. It is laid down by our immortal will that the heralds
shall be forever immune from attack.”
“Sire.”
Abigor whimpered and abased himself still further. If he had been human he
would have lost control of his bowels several minutes ago. “We believe that one
of the heralds may have lived long enough to say that.”
“And
what did those insignificant humans say to that? Do they cry for my
forgiveness? Not that they’ll get it.”
“No
Sire. It is reported they replied ‘screw you and the horse you rode in on’. We
don’t quite understand that Sire.”
“Then
they must learn obedience. I blame this all on Yahweh. He was supposed to have
softened this lot up, got them to believe anything and obey everything. I
thought he had too. Abigor, you will rectify this. You command 60 of the 999
legions of Hell. You will take them and wipe these upstarts out.”
“Sire,
may I beg your indulgence for one moment of your time.”
“No.”
“But
Sire, the heralds are dead and we do not know how or why. The impossible, the
impermissible, the unforgivable has been done and we know nothing of this.
Sire, we should find out before we invade, then we can inflict yet greater
suffering and despair upon them.”
“Greater
suffering and despair, I like the sound of that. What do you propose?”
“Sire,
I suggest that I ask Deumos send the comeliest and most seductive of her
Succubi to Washington, capital of the greatest nation on Earth. There is one
there, peculiarly susceptible to her charms who might be seduced into telling
us what we need to know. Think, Sire, of his grief when he learns his lusts
have betrayed all humanity.”
Macdonald’s
Restaurant, just off Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.
Former
President William Jefferson Clinton jogged up to the restaurant and headed
through the doors, his Secret Service detail following behind. He stopped to
mop his forehead, his sides heaving with the exercise. He carefully did not
look at the two Secret Service agents, he guessed that they were unmoved by his
evening routine. In fact, he doubted if they were even breathing heavily.
Fortunately, the place was empty, or nearly so. It pretty much always was this
late at night.
“Can
I help you Sir?” The young Latina girl behind the counter was too tired to
recognize the former President.
“I’ll
have a double quarter-pounder with extra cheese, two super-size portions of
fries, oh and a small diet soda please.”
“Coming
right up Sir.” The girl got her order from the pass and gave it to Clinton. He
paid his bill and went to a table.
“Hi
Sir, mind if a girl sits with you? Don’t want to be on my own this late at
night.” Clinton glanced up. The woman waiting politely by his table had a mane
of jet-black hair that fell in curls half way down her back. Great, luminous
black eyes and a mouth that promised everything imaginable without saying a
word. “I’m Sheba, please I won’t bother you, your such a big, strong man. I’m
sure I’ll be safe with you.”
A
few feet away, the two Secret Service agents registered the scene with horror.
How in hell had she slipped in there? It was appalling, a total breech of
security, one which the senior agent had to do something about.
“Hey
Lady get away from here. Don’t you know who….” Sheba looked at him her eyes pleading
for understanding. “Well, alright I suppose it’ll be OK.”
Clinton
finished his snack, leaving the garbage to be thrown away by one of the Secret
Service men. As he left the restaurant, the girl was trotting along beside him.
Clinton kept throwing calculating glances at her, she was, perhaps, a little on
the heavy side but that mouth was so enticing.
“This
is so wonderful, what is it?” Sheba was stroking the great black wheeled
vehicle that stood on the road.
“A
Chevvy Suburban. It belongs to my bodyguards.” Clinton threw another
calculating glance at Sheba. “Would you like to see inside.”
“Ohhh,
yes please.” Sheba peered in, the front seat was like any other automobile,
controls, a steering wheel, pedals on the floor. “How many horses does it take.”
“Three
hundred and thirty five.” Sheba blinked trying to imagine the sight.
“The
front’s standard, all the good stuff is in the back.” He turned to his Secret
Service men. “Open up the back please?”
“But
Sir..”
“Open
it up please.” Clinton’s voice was insistent. The agent sighed and did as he
was told. A lot of the equipment in the back was classified. “Isn’t that one of
the new automatic shotguns?”
Clinton
took the nod for an answer and reached in, picking the heavy weapon up. With
slickness born of long practice, he spun around, racking the mechanism as he
did. Then, with the barrel less than a foot from Sheba’s stomach, he pulled the
trigger.
The
long roaring burst drowned out her scream and the blasts of buckshot hurled her
backwards across the sidewalk, rolling her over as she started to fall apart.
The Secret Servicemen’s faces were expressions of utter horror at the scene,
horror that was replaced by revulsion as the figure sprawled on the ground
began to change, its flesh going black, horns growing from its head, a tail
sprouting from under the absurdly-short skirt. Their reactions were, under the
circumstances commendable. They stopped their dive for Clinton in mid-lunge,
spun, drew their SIG-Sauer P-229s and each emptied all twelve rounds of .357SIG
into the writhing demon. Clinton had dropped the empty magazine of his shotgun,
loaded another and a second roar finished the job. The demon was dead, its
bright yellow blood spreading across the sidewalk.