Armageddon_The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1)

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see how . . .’

  ‘Bring him back for me, Rex. Or simply tell me where he is and you will be amply rewarded. Do I make myself clear?’

  Rex smiled broadly. ‘Would that include further indulgences with the saffron women?’ Dan nodded wearily.

  ‘Right then, Dan. I am, as ever, your man.’ Rex leapt to his feet. ‘I shall require one or two small favours.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I’d like to take the photograph with me.’

  ‘Take it with my blessings.’

  ‘Thank you. And I’ll need an air car.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But not one with the hourly check-in system.’ Dan looked doubtful.

  ‘Of course you can monitor my movements.’ Dan nodded in agreement.

  ‘And one further thing. I will want access to MOTHER.’

  ‘That,’ said Dan, ‘is quite impossible.’

  ‘For a limited period. Say twenty-four hours.’ Dan scratched his shaven head. I will do anything to help this great man, thought Rex.

  ‘Twenty-four hours then. And keep me informed of your progress.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Good then.’ Dan wrung Rex’s hand between his own. ‘Go with God.’

  Rex inclined his head. ‘It’s an honour to serve you, Inmost One.’

  Dan gave him an encouraging wink. ‘Good boy.’

  As Rex backed from the room, Dan pondered upon the wisdom of his decision. Giving any unauthorized person access to MOTHER was an extremely hazardous affair. To be on the safe side he would monitor all Rex’s requests for data retrieval.

  You are certainly welcome to try, thought Rex, but I wouldn’t rate your chances.

  The lads at the motorpool were quite warming to Rex Mundi, what with there being ever fewer air cars to service and everything. When news reached them that Rex was taking to the air once more they were not slow to open a book on the outcome of his latest jaunt. The young-fellow-me-lad who escorted Rex across the tarmac even asked for his autograph. ‘Have another day,’ he called gaily as Rex climbed into the cockpit. ‘Drive carefully now,’

  Rex closed the canopy and eyeballed the dash. ‘Rex Mundi. Special assignment. Destination Odeon Towers,’

  ‘Identification confirmed. Kindly fasten your safety belt.’

  Rex did so and the car lurched into the murk.

  Rex set the car down on the flat roof of Odeon Towers, to spare it the dismantling it would inevitably receive in the street below. He lifted the roof hatch and climbed down the short metal ladder which led directly to his own landing. Very convenient, thought Rex.

  ‘Mr Mundi has his own private aerodrome you know,’ he said in mock conversation with some station swell. Rex disarmed his door and went into his rooms. The grim hovel had about it almost a refreshing air of normality. Well, almost. Rex had seen too many things over the last two days to ever fully come to terms again with his accustomed squalor. He slammed shut the door and took himself over to his homemade armchair, tossing his weather-dome into a not so far corner.

  His plan was simplicity itself. How the Dalai hadn’t thought of it was beyond Rex. Although Dan, in Rex’s opinion, wasn’t all the God he cracked himself up to be. Feet of clay, or something like.

  Rex tweaked the controller and the TV terminal lit up. The EYESPI took up his identification and prepared to log viewing points. Rex switched to the data channel and punched in a series of instructions at the console beneath the screen. He worked with flawless precision. Calling up MOTHER he requested security clearance and was given it after a moment or two’s delay. Rex tapped at the console. REQUEST IDENTIFICATION OF SUSPECT THROUGH IRIS PATTERNS. The computer granted his request. Rex held up the photograph to the EYESPI unit. The information exchanged. Circuits mished and mashed. The words UNCLASSIFIED. IRIS PATTERNS UNREGISTERED appeared on the screen. Rex smiled. It was no more than he had expected. He tapped in a further set of requests, this time under a security code of his own invention. Then he sat back. Presently the words PRESENT LOCATION UNKNOWN came up, followed by SCANNING NOW IN OPERATION.

  Rex reached under his chair and brought out a warm can of Buddhabeer. He popped the ring and slurped the muddy liquid. Sooner or later, the mystery man was bound to watch television, even glance at a screen. And when he did, MOTHER would register it and beam his whereabouts straight back to Rex. It was a killer of a plan. He would buzz straight through to the Dalai and get him to dispatch a couple of company bullyboys to make the arrest. He had never even to leave his chair. ‘Sheer genius,’ said Rex to himself. ‘Rex Mundi, you sly dog, I don’t know how you do it.’

  Elvis had been watching television for nearly three hours. He was, to say the least, fascinated by all he saw. The floor about the set was littered with Coca Cola cans, empty Bourbon bottles, Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes and several Chinese women in varied states of undress. For those who prefer clarity to implication, Elvis was in the penthouse suite of the Hong Kong Hilton. It was a summery day in July. It was 1994.

  ‘Hey, little green buddy,’ called the King. ‘Bounce over here, they’re showing another of my movies.’

  The Time Sprout lay upside down on the bedside unit. He seemed a mite wilted. ‘Sorry, chief,’ he gasped. ‘A bit puffed here.’

  ‘No sweat.’ Elvis fiddled with the remote control and brought the sound up. ‘Don’t mess with this guy,’ came an actor’s voice. ‘He knows Karate.’

  ‘Goes with the sickle,’ the on-screen Presley replied.

  Elvis fell back in his chair. ‘Goes with the sickle, do you hear that? Goddamn, honey, shift your butt, I can’t see the movie.’

  ‘Chief,’ croaked the sprout. ‘Chief, I think we’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Look at that jacket. Was I cool or was I cool?’

  ‘Chief, I think I’m about to go to the great compost heap in the sky.’

  ‘You what?’ Elvis swung about in his chair, dislodging titties and beer. He stumbled over to the ailing sprout. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It’s all this toing and froing. I think it’s done for me.’

  ‘Hell man, I thought you were a higher life-form.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then let me get you a glass of water or something. Here, d’you wanna beer?’

  ‘Won’t do. I need a bio-enzoic top-up.’

  ‘Then I’ll ring down for one. Listen, we’re buddies, ain’t we? You’ve got me out of all kinds of trouble.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you said you’d let me meet Abe Lincoln.’

  ‘I’m dying, chief.’

  ‘I’ll ring down for the bio stuff . . .’

  ‘No good . . . I’ve got to get back to Phnaargos. Back to the germination beds and re-charge.’

  ‘I’ll get us a cab.’ ‘Wrong, all wrong . . .’

  ‘Don’t leave me. Hell, I need you, fella.’ Elvis plucked up the sprout and held it lovingly to his cheek. There was no mistake about it, it was definitely starting to pong a bit.

  ‘If I stay here any longer I’ll rot. I’ve got enough energy left to get us to Phnaargos. You’ve got to help me when we get there, okay? I’ll tell you everything on the way.’

  ‘Right, right. No sweat, okay. Let’s get.’

  They got.

  Elvis Presley’s departure from the Hong Kong Hilton was easily as opportune as any of his previous sudden departures had been. On this occasion he outran, literally by seconds, the hotel’s security forces, who had just been tipped off that their penthouse guest was none other than the notorious international five star moonlight flitter, currently wanted on five continents.

  Elvis bucketed through time and space. He was be-coming somewhat seasoned to it by now. It was merely a toothbrush in the top pocket number. And for all the Time Sprout’s early fears, he showed no signs whatever of ill effect. In fact he seemed to thrive on it. He never got any smarter, though.

  There was a crash-bang-wallop and the two fell through
a crack in the clouds and wound up suddenly in a certain research establishment at Earthers Inc. ‘Quickly,’ croaked the failing sprouty. The vat at the end of the hyperponic bench .. . bung me in or I’m a goner,’

  ‘No sweat, small buddy.’ Taking in only a blur of his fantastic surroundings Elvis stumbled along the bench. He never saw the figure crouching near at hand, nor the compost shovel as it arced through the air. It struck him a resounding blow to the top of the skull. As he toppled sideways, the sprout fell from his grip, bounced across the floor and came to rest at the feet of Gryphus Garstang. ‘Gotcha,’ said that very man.

  ‘Oh Holy Ham-bake,’ said the Time Sprout. ‘And farewell.’

  Garstang turned to Jason Morgawr. ‘I have to hand it to you,’ he said. ‘How did you know they’d come back?’

  ‘I just reasoned it out. I went through Mr Shaman’s private papers and saw the flaw almost at once. Genetics is my business. I knew that the sprout would have to come back for a top-up and that it would most likely come in the company of Mr Presley. All we had to do was to wait.’

  Garstang nodded approvingly. Smart-arsed little git, he thought. He gazed down at the Time Sprout. ‘And you . . .’ Gryphus Garstang turned his heel. The Time Sprout became history.

  16

  The universe begins to look more and more like a great thought than a great machine.

  Dr J. B. Rhine

  It was 3.35 on the afternoon of 7 June 2050. The sun wasn’t shining.

  Rex took to pacing the floor. It had never been a habit which found great favour with him. Firstly because it was a waste of valuable viewing time and secondly it involved a good deal of ducking and diving, if it was to be achieved without cracking his head open on the gilded cherub. Now seemed a good time for it though. Twenty-three hours had passed and MOTHER had told him precisely nothing. Surely no-one could go a full twenty-four hours without watching television. It was unthinkable. Rex paced and cursed, cursed and paced. Took it by rote. But it didn’t help one jaded jot. Rex checked his chronometer. Still two-thirty, he’d have to get that fixed. Heroes always managed to pull off the big one in the nick of time. Everyone knew that. Old Adam Earth, lantern-jawed wunderkind of Buddhavision’s eternal foodie New Day Dawning, always managed to pull it off anyway. Get the sabotaged food production line running again just as section so and so was on the point of starvation and the sneaky rival station was about to fly in the missionaries with the food parcels. Always in the nick of time.

  Of course that wasn’t real life, although Rex was beginning to have his doubts regarding exactly what ‘real life’ was. He gazed about his hovel. Real life was this, and time was running out.

  ‘Come on,’ Rex implored the screen. ‘Come on.’

  A sun called Rupert shone in through a boardroom window. Here it lit upon a company of fellows who sat about a golden table. This company was suddenly called to stiff-spined attention by the unexpected arrival of a portly gent with greenly dyed moustachios. ‘Out of my chair, Garstang.’ The order was no sooner issued than it was obeyed.

  Mungo Madoc seated himself before the assembly and examined faces to gauge the expressions thereupon. Satisfied that, as ever, deceit and treachery numbered amongst his board’s more noble qualities, he smiled wanly and began to speak. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You will be pleased to know that the company medics have delcared me Category A. In the very rudest of rude good health.’ There was much enthusiastic hand clapping. ‘And so the captain returns to his ship, revitalized, extensively modified and fully informed as to the way-ward vessel’s present position and uncharted course.’ Mungo dipped into his cigar box. It was empty. He frowned. ‘During my period of recuperation, confidential aides have kept me fully informed as to your separate roles in this sad and sorry affair. Oh, truly do I weep for the sons of Phnaargos.’

  The board members peeped suspiciously at one another. How much did Mungo know? Who had told him what? Which whats had they told him and were they the actual whats or other whats altogether? And things of that nature, whatever.

  ‘The ratings are up,’ said Diogenes brightly. ‘As you are no doubt well aware,’ he added for good measure. Mungo nodded and said, ‘Fergus, what do you have to say for yourself?’

  Fergus Shaman straightened the fern fronds securing the wristlets of his tunic. He had come, almost at once, to the precarious conclusion that Mungo was in all likelihood indulging in a little bullshit baffles brainery. Taking a deep breath, and having very little to lose, he set forth to test his hypothesis. ‘It is for certain,’ said he, in a manner which left no doubt that it was, ‘that having been precisely informed upon all matters concerning my role in this affair, you should find me an island of moral rectitude in a sea of infamy. Whatever rewards you should wish to heap upon me I shall accept with just humility.’

  Gryphus Garstang’s hook nose cut the air as he rose to his feet. ‘Rewards?’ quoth he. ‘You blaggard, sir. Just desserts are all that remain to you.’ Fergus looked aghast. And very well he looked it too.

  ‘Mr Madoc,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sure that I share the feelings of my fellow board members in saying that we will miss Mr Garstang, whose dismissal from the high position, that he has so sadly abused, must surely be on the cards. I, for one, take this opportunity to wish him all success in the more earthy pursuits you no doubt have in mind for him.’

  Mungo gazed towards Garstang, loving every moment of it.

  Garstang threw up his hands. ‘This man,’ he spluttered, going purple in the face, ‘this man damn near wrought complete destruction upon all of us. And now he seeks to cloud the issue by making preposterous allegations against the one who found him out.’

  Mungo Madoc snuggled down in his chair. ‘Fergus, what of this?’

  Fergus made a knowing face at his superior. ‘Unfortunately, in your absence Mr Garstang’s megalomania has been allowed its full head. The results are not a thing of joy.’

  Garstang huffed and puffed.‘I stepped in in a temporary capacity as there was none better qualified to do so. I’m the very personification of altruism. My thoughts were, as ever, only to serve the series to the best of my capabilities.’

  ‘Tish, tosh and old wet fish,’ said Fergus Shaman.

  ‘Step outside and say that.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Mungo cut in. ‘This is all somewhat unseemly. In such heated debate, truth is rarely the victor.’

  ‘Heated is a word most aptly chosen,’ Fergus concurred. ‘For even now one of your own cigars, so hastily concealed upon your entrance, smoulders in Garstang’s pocket, threatening to heat us all.’

  Garstang would dearly have loved to have been able to scream ‘liar’, but with the blue pall of smoke wreathing about him he wisely chose, ‘Incendiary! Knowing his case to be lost he seeks to burn me alive! Pyromaniac! Fire fiend!’ He danced about patting furiously.

  ‘Barking mad,’ Fergus declared. ‘Here, let me put an end to this lunacy.’ Thus saying he plucked up the water pitcher from the table and emptied its contents over the smoker.

  The silence was brief. It was about one moment long. But it was a very momentous moment. Garstang gaped at his once-proud apparel. Absorbing, literally, the state of its ruination. In this he divined a thousand-fold ignominy. Scorn, loss of face, ridicule, insult, humiliation, contempt. They were all there. And a good many more. And they all wore the same face. The face of Fergus Shaman.

  How much of it was the conditioned reflex of the professional soldier will never be known, how much of it heat of the moment, how much cold-blooded calculation, it’s impossible to conjecture. Whatever the case, Garstang suddenly pulled from concealment a small hand-weapon of advanced design and turned its snout upon Fergus Shaman. Their eyes met over the barrel as it disgorged a single pulse of red energy.

  There was a loud report. Rex ceased his pacing and pressed his ear to his chamber door. There appeared to be some sort of commotion going on upon the landing below. Scientologists partying again, thought Rex, the soo
ner I get out of this neck of the woods, the better. His stomach rumbled. He was starving, but couldn’t bring himself to open another can of syntha-food. He made further imploring motions toward the terminal.

  Dan’s face was back on the screen with the mid-morning repeat of last night’s show. The far-from-holy man dispatching further unfortunates towards whatever uncertainties lay out there in the great beyond. And all for the gratification of the viewing public. Rex shook his head, what a rotten stinking world. He slouched over to the terminal and fingered buttons. Dan’s face dissolved into the logo of the data channel. He accessed into MOTHER. Rex exercised his fingers upon the keyboard. MOTHER told him that the search was still continuing, but this time politely added that it would cease in precisely seventeen minutes and twelve seconds.

  HAVE ANOTHER DAY MR MUNDI, it put in just for good measure. Dan’s maniac grin was once more a small screen filler. Rex slumped into his chair, the very picture of despair. For such an inspired scheme to meet with absolute failure really did seem grossly unfair. He had actually begun to believe that he was destined for great things.

  ‘Come on,’ Rex shouted. ‘Give me a sign, anything.’

  Nice bit of timing, cue, coincidence? Who can say? But in answer to Rex’s request, his front door suddenly burst inward from its crumbling hinges and smashed down behind him. Rex turned in horror and gazed fearfully over his chair back. Two figures were framed dramatically in the shattered doorway. Both wore Barbour jackets and tweedy caps. Although one of them appeared now to have only half a head.

  ‘Good morning Rex.’ Rambo Bloodaxe inclined his intact cranium. ‘Glad to catch you at home.’ Eric took from his poacher’s pocket a large weapon of antique design. It was a .44 Magnum with a San Francisco license number.

  Eric viewed Rex down the barrel’s not inconsiderable length, enquired whether Rex wished to ‘make his day’ and then squeezed the trigger.