by Silent Draco
I
Something unusual happened at the Gates of Heaven. Peter had been called for a special question, so James the Lesser was minding things for a half-eon. Outside, there appeared a burnt blood-red tumescence in the continuum. A lesser demon emerged, keeping its nether portion firmly toward the Gates. It backed carefully in their direction, making James’ eyebrows rise. Its hooting and guttural gurgles changes to something approximating human speech. “Peter,” it croaked, “I bear only a message from The Boss for … Him. See? This is not trick or joke.” It laid the folded, sealed parcel on sacred ground, but nothing flashed to dust. “Written fair, real paper and ink.” James frowned, “I see but what mischief are you up to? In the Name of …” “PLEASE!” the imp whimpered, “not The Name. I’m already smashed. Just, please for the love of … ah, er, ulp, please send the message Inside.” James took a closer look at the Imp, and indeed, it looked like someone tried convert it into a kobold the hard way. “Very well, depart in peace.”
James watched the imp and tumescence vanish, and politely called for a Dominion. “I have the duty for Peter,” he conveyed, “but a lesser Evil left a message for Him. Would you please bring this before a Seraphim, and determine if this goes to The Throne?” “Gladly!” replied the Dominion, signaling with two of its arms while reaching for the missive with two more. Its eyes inspected the letter on all sides and five additional energies. “It appears harmless, but best for the Seraphim to examine for one of the Fallen’s tricks. Praise and Glory Forever!” The angel vanished, exceeding the speed of thought.
The Seraphim greeted the Dominion (Karastikas by short identifier) with formality, “Blessings be on us in the Now which is Forever. Praise the LORD!” Both knelt and trumpeted. “Now, Karistikas, what …” (sniff) and a dour expression, “rather, why does this come?” Karistikas conveyed the request from James and imparted the event. Saghiel (the shorter identifier for the Serpahim) looked as if it had chewed ambrosia wrapped around medium-well brimstone. “If neither of you know the contents, I had better examine the inside first. No obvious mischief, harm, or trickery, you said?” “No sir” replied Karistikas. Placing its third wing on a silver wafer, Saghiel noted that it took responsibility for opening the missive for examination. Then he broke the seal, inside seven spheres of angelic light and adamant. It began to read, but then stopped in wonder, consternation, and amazement. “Of your courtesy,” it blinked to Karistikas, “please ask the Prince of the Heavenly Host to confer with me, when convenient.” As Karistikas flashed away, Saghiel rotated back in amazed thought. Someone has played a very, VERY large joke. It could be only… two entities.
Archangel Michael appeared a split-eon later, armor and spears resplendent in the glory. “Hail, Saghiel, I find you are filled with joy.” Although Prince of the Host, he was technically a subordinate rank to the Seraphim. “We have a missive from …” began Saghiel, who conveyed the remainder in four wing tipovers and two Major Thoughts. Michael flapped back a half league and circled, a slight frown creasing the perfect face. “I think I have a personnel issue. I hadn’t realized that any here could be in a state approaching boredom.” Saghiel, for lack of a better concept, boggled at the wildly inappropriate idea: here, here, of all possible states? “We had best bring this to the attention of the Lamb, immediately. I See …” Michael paused a moment, golden beams flashing from his eyes, “some requested leave notes left in place?”
Swift as thought, they ascended three gyres to the Great Courtyard before The Thrones. Here, the elders, the Saved, the martyrs, and the Living Creatures alternately stood, knelt, and prostrated in praise and worship. None stayed a Seraphim or the Prince in performance of their duties. A quick request winged to the Lamb, Who was weighing and pronouncing judgements. His Mother, as always, was at the right of His Throne, advocating and interceding where needed. The pleading of souls was suspended a half-million cycles, as He beckoned them close. Both knelt in homage, and bent their heads in humility. “O Lord, O Lamb of God, we begged immediate review of this, which was conveyed from Below. It was checked by Dominion and Seraphim, and found to be without trickery that we could find.” His Eyes pierced their innermost selves, and received the total story; then He took the missive, pronounced a Blessing, and began to read.
After the second page, he could no longer contain His Mirth, but began laughing in a clear and ringing voice. With a sigh he looked over, querying His Blessed Mother. “I am sorry, Son,” she said, “they were most earnest in wishing some off-duty time, that I interceded for them to have a few millenia off. Has something ill come of this?” “No, Mother,” he replied, “only what could be expected of superb warriors and guards. Michael … all of them?” “Ah, someone will have a more succinct answer, LORD.” Two breaths later, with a choir of Thrones parting before him, Lt. Gen. Puller marched ramrod-straight before the Throne, made a precise left pivot, and snapped to attention: “Reporting as ordered, LORD of All!” “Chesty … stand at ease … no, fall out!” Michael sighed, and continued, “we have a minor situation, and some of your lads may be up to No Bad.” Puller looked over, curious, and Michael spoke, “Please read this, and tell me what happened.” “Chesty” Puller began reading by the glorious light reflected off his ranks of medals; at first frowning, he finally guffawed, “McIntyre, you magnificent … Gunny, ma’am,” at a chastising glance, “Only he could have come up with a System D that would operate Here! They’re on a three millennium pass, Prince of the Host. Not to worry, they’ll return in two millennia, unless recalled sooner,” smirking, “or if anything is in condition to try stopping them.”
The Missive began quite formally and rudely, but quickly regenerated into plain language and pleas.
“We LUCIFER, Prince of the World, Ruler of the Abyss, Greatest and Most Dire …
… As is Our Custom, Do Defy and Mock the Insipid Ones, and Demand their surrender to Our Will.
We have a Major Complaint to file with the one hiding on his Cloud, turning a back to us. Someone recently deposited a Soul at Our Ruined Gates (and yes you shall pay dearly for their reconstruction).
The missive continued in a distinctly more subdued tone …
As is Our Wont, We assumed it to be one of our treats descending from the Human world, to delight Us by endless torment, spindling, and mutilation. Zigbug, a greater Imp, attempted to drag it in as the guard parted, to throw it into the First Trough of Woe. It would not be dragged. Instead it shoved Zigbug into the Trough, shouted “DowanFiHunderMaggo!”, or something similar, and turned its attention to Our guards. By this time, the lesser demons were quite irked and intended to pincushion it as a first disciplining. But …
Would You recall the Soul and its comrades, please? We fear …”
II
Master Gunnery Sergeant Thomas F. McIntyre, USMC (ret, await. recall) took one step back from the thing it mashed into the mudhole. Espying the ranks of guards, he called in his parade-ground voice, “You! Where is your CO!” The demons looked in confusion. No one challenged them, not here! They stepped forward, spears lowered, about to teach the mortal a lesson. One deft bayonet-drill move later, McIntyre had a spear in hand, and proceeded to disarm and deflate twenty demons. “Up! UP! You, Do, Not, Sleep, On, Duty!” he shouted, punctuating each word with a heavy thump of the spear. “Where is your commanding officer? And …” looking at the spear in disgust, “Is that ichor that you snaggle-nosed excuse for a brownie dripped ON YOUR WEAPON? IS IT!?”
“All of you, DROP AND FIVE THOUSAND, ON MY MARK. MARK!!”
Striding through the ruined gate, McIntyre called to the imp, “You! Five hundred, then finish the five thousand with your buddies! I saw that look. TEN THOUSAND PUSHUPS, courtesy of Mister Weenie! MOVE!” Not an infernal being moved to stop him; they were too busy doing magma pushups to dare raise an eyestalk. Muttering about “… sorriest excuse for … time at Lackland … even the French …”, he carried on down the corridor to the Punishment Bar.
F’zurggh’llksh, a greater demon, lurked with its nearest equivalent of pleasure behind the Bar. Usually the souls were dragged, pleading and wailing, before Its five and a half eyes. Only the most proud, the ones in greater need, would come like this. It gnashed the fangs in its second mouth and rumbled “Doomed one, come before the Bar and name yourself for punishment.” The last thing it expected then occurred: the human stepped forward, stopped three paces before the Bar, and with Silent Insolence took the position of Parade Rest, glaring back balefully. “Fool!” shrieked the demon, reaching for its poison whip, “a touch of the Acid Lash will begin teaching you manners! Down on your belly!” and the whip cracked to arc around the human.
McIntyre grasped the oily whip in both hands, flexed and pulled. F’zurggh’llksh was taken by surprise, and tipped forward over the Bar to flop onto the cavern floor. To its astonishment, the human stood there, eying it in contempt, with a cold steel blade in one hand and a Crucifix at its neck. It burbled and its waste expulsion tract involuntarily moved, spreading sulfurous sludge on the coldly gleaming stone. “Oh, you did not just do that … what is your name?” the human demanded in a voice colder than the Ninth Circles’ entrance. “F-f-f- …” finally it hooted out its symbol, adding “s-s-sir.” “DON’T call me sir, I worked for a living!” McIntyre snapped, “and from the looks, you have done nothing for eons! Now, where is your superior officer?” “F-f-four caverns farther in behind-d-d the B-b-bar, S-s-.” F’zurggh’llksh cringed, and hoped it had stopped in time. “Well, demon, I won’t dry-shave your ugly features with my Blessed blade. Instead, Gunny is gonna be nice. Some of that sloth and incontinence needs to be worked off your worthless carcass. Pick up that big stone,” pointing to the standing half of the Bar. “Hold it in both major claws. March in place. More … now, left face! At the command, quick time march … March! You will circumnavigate Hell and return to this place, Now, move!” The demon surged out of the room, crashed through a basalt barrier, and let lurid light sift in.
Shaking his head, McIntyre growled “How they even got started, with that … never mind. Looks like a truly messed up training situation. Boys, could use some other hands on deck!” he called upwards. Six other men, all in sharply creased fatigues, appeared a heartbeat later. “This all of us?” he asked. “Naw, Mac, only the first transit. They have some weird rules on how many at a time, worse than the squids.” McIntyre grinned, “Got it, Shiv. Now, we’re working our way up to the CO, looks like the orderly room way. Stephen “Shiv” Reilly, also Master Gunnery Sergeant, USMC (ret, await recall), snorted and had the party fall in. From the mess so far, there was a lot of Entity Motivational Instruction awaiting the denizenst. Just like old times on Parris Island, but hotter, he thought. Forming up in column of twos, a detachment of forty senior Marine NCOs marked time, and marched into the bowels of Hell.
III
Two caverns ahead, the left wall crumbled and fell in their path, blocking progress. A legion of major Imps, all shrieking and wielding jagged spears or obsidian blades. Ray Hauser (GySgt, DI, USMC, ret await recall) eyeballed the shrieking horde, and noted calmly, “Five thousand to forty. Lousy odds,” he noted. He pulled a scintillating scarlet object from his web gear, and called out; “Grenadiers, two throws! Ready one! On my mark, throw! MARK! … Ready two! On my mark, throw! MARK!” Ordinary explosives wouldn’t hurt; however, two volleys of holy water grenades, direct from the Font of Life, was a different story. About three thousand Imps went down, unmade or severely decomposed. The column drew blessed Mameluke swords, moved forward with a shout of Praise, and hemmed the dazed survivors into a knot, dispatching another five hundred. “Weapons down and appendages UP!” bellowed McIntyre, “before I get angry!”
The column reformed after treating casualties (a few cuts, two spearings, and one Unholy Wording, all healed with manna). Proceeding at slow march they herded prisoners before them; this was a prudent move, because the third cavern had an field-expedient pit dug, leading to a Greater Find’s maw. “Well, so much for them. Jackson, do you boys have the …” WHUMP!! “… very nice trail! C4 was one of His best gifts! Detachment, single file, pro-ceed at best pace!” They picked their way over a heap of broken granite, to the next overlord.
Ghuulgh’zzignarb the Flayer awaited them, in the next cavern, the portal to the Third Circle. A Major Devil, subordinate only to the One Below, it grinned in a way the made the strongest mortal souls, ones resilient to survive this long, gyrate in abject terror and misery. The fangs-on-fangs, in tasteful yellow and green tones of decay, always worked. “On your bellies, mortals, and beg to be spared. I shall not, but I enjoy the wailing and begging. And soon you will sing a new song of pain as your souls are slowly flayed and pressed into …” It stopped, and blinked five major eyes. Three whip tentacles paused in mid-arc. These made no effort to fall prone and beg … where were the Imps escorting them? “What do you think you are? You sniveling mortals, you are forfeit to the Master! I prepare you for his delight!”
“Detachment Pree-sent! Arms UP!” At McIntyre’s command, forty crucifixes appeared at their throats. Shields with St. Michael’s sigil were unslung and deployed in protection. They deployed in two ranks, dressing left, blocking the cavern. The Flayer hissed in anger and fear. That sigil! Only … He … was feared more. It shrieked; four major demons appeared, clawed and armed with dreadful spiked mauls, and they formed a wedge to strike and destroy.
“Richardson, dust them! All hands, Psalms, … SING!” A single grenade soared high, bounced from the roof, and detonated, casting dust from the Thrones. All hands began singing Psalms of praise and joy, as instructed by the Cherubim. In two ranks, the Marines advance to engage their foes in close combat, shields bright and swords glowing with cold fire of the Spheres. Two major demons went down quickly, partly dissolved by sacred dust and hacked down by ten swords. Another broke and disapparated, leaving only Ghuulgh’zzignarb and a single demon to face them. Both backed away from the detachment, slowly, howling for reinforcements from Below. McIntyre was about to order the charge, when a deeper voice from behind them rang out:
“DEE-tach-MENT, HALT!”
A single set of boots crunched on the uneven basalt floor behind them, making their way around the right flank. Resplendent in mess dress and medals, scarlet-lined boat cloak clowing in the infernal light, a Senior Officer approached. McIntyre glanced, and bellowed “General Officer on Deck!” All forty snapped to attention, shields up and blades in salute.
Chesty Puller marched forward, pivot-turned, went five more paces, and pivoted to face the Marines. “PA-rade, REST!” he ordered, ignoring the devil behind him. “McIntyre, REPORT!” “All present and accounted for, Sir! Three wounded!” he barked. Puller replied, “Very well, McIntyre, at ease!” In a lower tone, the general continued, “System D, really?” McIntyre shifted in his boots, “Uh Sir, the dogfaces and squids are behaving, and the boys were getting bored. Well, we thought a three-day pass and …” Puller’s mouth barely twitched. “Boss is laughing – good one, Mac. But R&R is over, before you run athwart the Boss’s Plan.” Raising his voice, he called: “Time differential means passes are over. Well done, Marines! Report For Duty!”
With a golden gleam and ringing tones, they sang the Marine Hymn, then returned to post.
“Should the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven’s scene,
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.”
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