Science Fiction


The Precarious Nature of Prophecy



By Steven Carlton







     Baal, Lord of Flies, Prince of Hell, stepped triumphantly from the 
transportation portal and pressed his cloven hooves into the moist soil of 
Earth.  He roared with malevolent glee, barely noticing the portal closing 
behind him.  With a pop, it winked out of existence.

     He stretched his long arms and legs, flexed his claws and shook his 
horned head.  It had been an eon since he had been placed into captivity.  
The heady sensation of total freedom filled him with demonic joy.

     "The prophecy is fulfilled," he growled loudly.  "I am come!"  He 
paused in sudden uncertainty.  There were no humans nearby, nor anywhere in 
sight.  The landscape was wrong, too.  Instead of a city, Baal found 
himself surrounded by the thick growth of a luxuriant jungle.

     He was turning in circles, trying to get his bearings, when the 
foliage parted and a machine rolled into the small clearing.  Baal flexed 
his taloned hands, sending blue sparks arching between his fingertips.  The 
machine had four balloon tires attached to a thin chassis.  Struts rose 
from it vertically supporting a large, glass faced cube.

     The glass flickered and the image of a human appeared.  "Hello, Baal," 
the man said.

     Power leaped from Baal's toes, churning up the ground at his feet.  
"What?" he roared, more in surprise than anger.  With a roar he raised his 
arms, and lightning burst from his palms.  The machine exploded into small 
fragments, leaving behind nothing more than a pair of smoldering tires.

     Almost instantly, the foliage parted again.  A machine identical to 
the first rolled into view.

     "Please," said the image of the man in the cube, "wait a moment before 
destroying this robot too.  We have something to discuss."

     "There is nothing to discuss," Baal roared.  "You are all doomed.  
Judgement has come, and you are all at my mercy.  I, the most magnificent 
Baal, shall