‘Because,’ intoned the squeaky green voice. ‘We are already messing about with the past and the present. If we start messing with the future there is no telling where it will all end.’
‘There,’ Elvis patted the back of his head. ‘That’s why.’
‘That’s no why at all,’ Rex protested.
‘Well, let me put it another way, chief. We are doing it this way because I know what is going to happen. And because if you do it this way, you are going to come out of it very well indeed.’
‘I do? I mean, I will?’
‘I’ve been there chief, I know. And anyway you want to see justice done, the Dalai killed a member of your family.’
‘My aunt.’
‘Oh no, Rex, he killed your uncle. And he did it personally.’
An hour later Rex left the caverns, he screwed on his weather-dome, slipped through the concealed entrance and gazed across the blasted landscape. The amazing revelations conveyed to him by the Time Sprout had snapped the few last worn threads which held together the tattered trouser-seat of his world. It was a very heavy-duty number indeed.
Dan left the two aspiring Lamarettes in his bed with something to meditate on. Specifically, how a single individual could possess the power to ravish them both simultaneously. Reincorporating before the bathroom mirror, Dan stuck his tongue out at himself and made a prial of winks. Being the Living God King did have its advantages, although sadly his metaphysical repertoire didn’t stretch to invulnerability. And although he had tripled his personal guard and cast a psychic net about his quarters, he couldn’t help but feel that things boded no good for his immediate future. It was so damnably unfair. Here was he, a man who had brought joy to millions, well, thousands anyway, and here too was this loonie, with powers apparently outstripping his own, out to kill him. Dan did a big shuddering number. This loonie? This was The Loonie. The one he had dreaded. SUN, the born again. SUN, whom the underground press worshipped, whom, their scriptures foretold, would be ‘welcomed by the many and feared by the few’.
‘Welcomed by the many,’ muttered Dan. ‘He’s about as welcome as a jobby in a swimming pool.’ With no further ado he girded up his loins with saffron girders and declared in a voice of gilded splinters, ‘the show must go on.’
‘The show must go on,’ said Mungo Madoc. Twelve whole hours had actually passed since the Dalai said it. But you could hardly tell that just by looking at it, could you?
‘Now, about this Armageddon,’ Madoc arranged the unruly stack of Morgawr’s memos before him on the desk, ‘exactly how much will it cost?’
Jason Morgawr sprang to his feet. ‘I have all the projected figures, I think you will find them most favourable.’ Fergus Shaman composed his long fingers into a Gothic arch and kept himself to himself.
‘We don’t have an inexhaustible budget.’ Mungo did piercing eye-stares at the board’s newest member. ‘In fact, anything but.’
‘All taken into consideration sir. FX, if you understand me.’
‘I don’t, Morgawr.’
‘Special effects, sir.’
Mungo sighed deeply. ‘Continue for now, Morgawr. I will stop you when I’m fed up with it.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ Morgawr paced about the boardroom, like a Hollywood lawyer of old. Placing his hands upon leafy chairbacks, punching the air, turning to face the window, flexing his shoulders. It was all too excruciating. ‘What we have here is a situation,’ he said at great length.
‘Is that it?’ Mungo asked.
Fergus, to whom Mungo’s glance momentarily turned, twirled his forefinger against his forehead and said, ‘Stone bonkers.’
‘A situation which offers the series an opportunity to rise to heights as yet undreamed of. To scale summits, hitherto considered unscalable. To venture into territories . . .’
‘Warily avoided by the sane of mind?’ Fergus suggested.
‘Cosmic cataclysm,’ crowed Morgawr. ‘And all live on screen.’
‘Did you have anything specific to offer?’ Mungo asked.
‘Apocalypse.’ Jason Morgawr made extravagant gestures with his arms. ‘Picture this in your minds. Earth’s final hour, battle rages, bombs go bang and boom and whoosh and . . .’
‘We have a picture of the bombs, yes,’ said Mungo.’
‘... the final showdown between good and evil. Will good succeed? Evil has the upper hand, missiles are flying, bombs going boom, fire and brimstone. And what is this? The heavens are opening, a trumpet speaks, and across the clouds the riders come. Angels with swords of fire. Michael and all the saints. Celestial chariots bearing down and at what? Up from the bottomless pit come the hordes of Hell, led by the angel of death himself. With the skull face and the horrible claws.’ Jason mimed that bit.
Lavinius Wisten said, ‘Oh, my.’
‘The battle rages across the sky, the armies of God and the legions of the Devil. And are the baddies winning? Surely not. But they are, the terrible cutting and hewing and chopping.’ Jason paused a moment to draw breath. The board members watched him, uniformly dumbstruck and open-mouthed. Jason plunged on, ‘And hacking. The saints are losing, evil crushes them. It’s terrible, terrible.’ Heads began to nod, it was terrible. ‘Then look up, what is this? The sky parts, bursts of golden rays, more angels and a great light streaming down. Can it be? Yes, yes ... it is He, upon the beryl throne, shining like a thousand suns . . . the second come . . . the second come . . .’
‘Morgawr!’ The voice was all Mungo’s. The board members all went aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw. ‘Morgawr. The second coming, fire and brimstone, angels and devils and bombs that go crash bang wallop. All these things are included in your projected budget? Your projected modest little budget? Your projected strike-me-down-I-don’t-know-how-they-could-do-that-on-the-money little budget? Your . . .’
‘Already been taped, sir.’ All eyes turned upon Jason Morgawr.
Mungo said, ‘What did you say?’
‘Already been taped.’
Fergus Shaman waggled his hand in the air. ‘I think what Mr Morgawr is trying to tell us is that he had already recorded the entire caboodle with some enthusiastic and religiously minded members of The Earthers Inc. Amateur Dramatic Society.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mungo. ‘Just as I thought.’ He turned toward Morgawr. ‘You can’t be serious!’ he screamed.
‘No, truly sir, it will hardly cost the station a bean. You see we recorded it weeks ago. It was going to be the Big-nose-mass Show. We call it Armageddon, the Musical.’ Mungo was beginning to make small grunting sounds.
‘And sir, we can holographically project it over Earth. Even the Earth folk themselves won’t be able to tell it from the real thing. It’s all Holy Writ stuff, and I’ve cut in lots of old stock footage to beef it up. All it costs is time to mix it with the real events on Earth.’
‘These actors . . .’ Fergus put in.
‘Solid, dedicated, true in word and deed to the Holy Writ.’
Mungo turned the tip of a high-flying moustachio. ‘Hm,’ said he. ‘Morgawr.’
‘Yes sir?’
‘Morgawr . . . Jason, I like this. I like this very much indeed.’
‘Oh, thank you sir.’ Morgawr preened his collars. ‘Oh, thank you.’
Fergus raised a very tentative finger. ‘If I might just ask one small question.’
Mungo nodded. ‘Make it small.’
‘Regarding the Second Coming. In fact, shall I say, regarding the Second Come. The actor playing this somewhat crucial, nay extremely crucial role. How might we be absolutely sure that he could be trusted?’
Jason Morgawr pinched reverently at his nose. ‘Because,’ said he, ‘You have my word upon it. I would never let you down.’
23
Whether you’re rich, or whether you’re poor, it’s nice to be rich.
Max Miller
Rex Mundi crept along a plushly carpeted corridor, seeking his destiny. His failings, few as they were, were forgivable, considering the circumstances. His va
lour was tried and tested. His integrity absolute. His complexion, although scabious, left his good looks romantically untarnished. His underpants, however, had not been changed since the start of this whole sorry business. Rex continued to creep along.
In the changing distances, station employees came and went about their particular businesses. Well dressed, clear skinned, keen, dedicated, enthusiastic. ‘Bastards,’ muttered Rex. He checked his chronometer. It was still on his wrist. Apart from that not much was doing. The sign on the door ahead said DO NOT ENTER, but Rex didn’t hear it. The carpet spoke fluently of a more glorious age and the walls told the informed observer that rag-rolling was back in fashion. They really needn’t have bothered. Rex was deaf to the whole damn works. For, as it has been said, Rex Mundi was a man with a mission.
Elvis Aron Presley gazed lovingly into a mirror which had once belonged to an Arab prince.
A forty-minute walkabout through the splendours which now adorned the caverns, would have had an auctioneer from Sotherbys rubbing his hands together in glee. Elvis looked good. Spotless. Although a Rock ‘n’ Roller far from home, the golden one, now sprout-invested and wised up to a degree previously considered unthinkable by the likes of Albert Goldman, was squaring up for the big showdown.
‘Shall we go for it?’ he asked his integral veg.
‘All tooled up, chief?’
Elvis was looking, as ever, good to go. His duds were white and sequined and for the most part bullet-proof. His shoes were somewhat special, the Time Sprout having permitted Elvis a brief swish into an alternative future where a wasted mannish race was unable to get about without the aid of pneumatic footware of a self-propellant nature. Elvis zipped aside flap pockets revealing an arsenal of super-weapons, mostly of Phnaargian construction.
‘Hot to trot,’ said he, springing about in his ten-league boots.
‘Then let’s make tracks and go for the Big One.’
‘I can dig it,’ said the once and future King.
Rex pushed open the door to the control room. The assistant controller looked up momentarily from his desk.
‘Restricted area. Sorry friend, try down the hall.’
Rex flashed his security tag. ‘Rex Mundi, brother of Gloria. On special assignment for the Dalai.’
‘Fair enough, friend. Stay quiet then, rehearsals you know.’
‘Yes I know. I’ll just sit down here then.’ Rex indicated a vacant chair. The AC, being aware of its vacancy, didn’t give it a glance. ‘Big show tonight?’ Rex asked, when comfy.
‘Ssssh.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Big isn’t the word.’ The AC touched lighted panels, did pannings ups and fadings outs and all manner of other technical things.
‘How big is big, currently?’
‘Not all that big when considered in universal terms, I suppose. But big for the show.’
‘Ah,’ Rex almost scratched his head, but thought better of it. ‘That big or small, as you choose to consider it.’
‘About the same. Routine for some, outstanding for others, a right bastard for couple of Devianti, and as usual, a huge ego-trip for one in particular. Hold on for just a moment,’ the AC made several self-assured button pushes. One plunged the studio into darkness, another broadcast the sounds of his flatulence to the entrance hall.
‘I have to do that every five minutes or so,’ he explained. ‘The union is in dispute with the management.’
‘Why are you always in dispute with the management?’ Rex asked. ‘I always wondered.’
The AC shrugged. ‘Never given it a lot of thought. The way I see it, it’s the duty of every working man to be in dispute. It’s our legacy. Almost a divine right.’
‘But surely you’re treated well enough.’
‘Certainly. Extended credit. Overtime bonuses. Access to the nympharium. Food’s good, too.’
‘So why are you always in dispute?’
‘A sense of duty?’ the AC suggested. ‘You’re not a scab, are you?’
‘Certainly not. Actually I’m a revolutionary.’
‘A what?’
‘A revolutionary. I’m going to help overthrow the system.’
The AC threw up his hands in horror. In doing so he cut off the studio sound and left the rehearsing Lamarettes miming foolishly.
‘Overthrow the system?’ He re-twiddled his dials. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘But I thought you were against the management.’
‘Yes, of course. But you can’t overthrow the system. Oh, my dear paws. Where would we all be? What would we do?’
‘You could go into dispute with the new management.’
‘That might take years. The thing requires a great deal of mutual understanding. You have to build up a rapport. No. Revolution just won’t do. We can’t have any of that. I shall call down to security and have you removed at once. You are obviously in need of treatment.’
‘Do you see this?’ Rex exhibited a handgun Elvis had thrust upon him. ‘I can either shoot you or bop you on the head. Which would you prefer?’
The AC mulled it over. ‘Could you not perhaps bind and gag me, or even swear me to silence and pack me off to the canteen?’ Rex raised an eyebrow which asked the question, would you? The AC shook his head gloomily.
‘I think I’ll plump for the bop on the head then. But before you do I would just like to stress the extreme folly of revolution. Firstly . . .’
Rex bopped him on the head and seated himself at the controls. He had just completed phase one of Mr Presley’s revolutionary masterplan. Where it was all going to lead now was very much in the lap of the Gods.
Mickey Malkuth stuck the business end of his electric truncheon up the left nostril of Rambo Bloodaxe. ‘In answer to your question, “old bean”, you will put on this suit because I tell you to.’
‘I see,’ Rambo said, nasally. ‘That clarifies things no end. Let’s tog up then, Eric. No need to keep the gentlemen waiting,’
Deathblade Eric perused the outfit which had been flung in his direction. ‘Khaki. It doesn’t suit my colouring. And the cut of the cloth. Inferior,’ He shook his head, spraying the onlookers with skull fragments. ‘Do you have anything in royal blue?’
‘Do you want this up your chocolate speedway, dream-boat?’ Malkuth waggled his truncheon toward the doubtful Devianti. ‘Them’s battle fatigues,’
‘We rather gathered that, dear sir,’ Rambo held his projected apparel towards his extended nostril and gave it a little sniff. ‘Are we joining up then, or what?’
‘You’re revolutionaries, ain’t you? You got to look the part,’
‘Revolutionaries?’ Rambo chewed upon the word. To him it was not toothsome. ‘We are Devianti. Tomorrow belongs to us, as yesterday once did. We are victims of a slight hiccup in the status quo. Once law and order are properly restored, then we-’ Rambo sank to the floor clutching his be-truncheoned head.
‘It hurts even more when it’s switched on,’ Malkuth informed him. ‘Now, get dressed,’
‘Might we not be permitted some privacy?’
‘You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen and thumped,’
‘True,’ Rambo slipped out of his soiled, yet spiffing togs and zipped himself into the evil-smelling fatigues.
‘Could have been made for you. Now the headband,’
‘Oh really. Headbands are so passe,’ Malkuth raised his truncheon.
Eric had his trousers over his head. ‘The sleeves are a bit long,’ he mumbled. ‘And I can’t seem to find the neck-hole,’
Dan was in the Green Room. A row of empty glasses was before him. Gloria’s voice was close at his ear. ‘Get a grip of yourself, man.’
‘I’m in total control, Gloria, thank you.’
‘You are nothing of the kind. Things are getting beyond your control.’
‘Nothing is beyond my control.’
‘And your Mr SUN?’
‘Rex has that in hand.’
‘That little cockroach. My bidet is sti
ll not fixed.’
‘The engineers are in dispute. Must you go on and on?’
‘You’re losing it, Dan.’
‘I don’t recall sanctioning such informality.’
‘Dan, listen to me.’
‘Gloria. I think it’s time you took a holiday.’ Gloria made mouths. Dan continued. ‘Frankly, Gloria, you are beginning to get on my tits. You nag me. I don’t feel that the Living God King should be nagged. In fact, Gloria, I think I will send you on a little sabbatical. A study of waste disposal maintenance in the sub-basements. I’ll arrange it all after the show. Go toss a few things into a travelling bag. Whatever you think you might need for a year.’
Gloria’s face was ashen. She opened her mouth to speak.
‘Best not,’ Dan advised. ‘Or I might extend it to two years.’
Gloria turned in fury and tore out of the room. Dan whistled a little tune of his own confection and tapped upon the house-phone.
‘Inmost One?’ came the voice of Mickey Malkuth.
‘Ah yes, Malkuth. Leave what you are doing and take yourself off to the control room. Rex Mundi has just bopped the AC on the head. Put a couple of bullets through him for me, would you? So kind, thank you.’
Losing it, thought Dan, that will be the day.
24
. . . I came into this maybe by chance. But having read these documents all through, I’m not sure what chance actually is any more. I opened my little place in ninety-four. Software, hardware, decks, breakers, peeps, intermixers, decoders. Of course you won’t find me in the yellow pages. You have to know who to ask and then some. I deal in all the stuff that the mainstreamers deny the very existence of. And I only deal for currency. A kid of twelve can milk a comp-account nowadays with the kind of gear I market. So I’d be some sort of turkey to bank my own ill-gottens. Now, the guy you’re talking about. he gets my name from a trusted friend. I, of course, run him through the works to see if he’s clean and hit a red-light classified. I dig and delve a little. Skirt around the big security areas and penetrate the police files to check him out. Like I say any twelve-year-old with nous can do this. Turns out that there is an all-points out on this guy. The CLA want him bad. Bad for him, but not so bad for me. In my books this makes him triple safe to deal with So I arrange a meet in Fangio’s. It’s a connection bar, no questions asked. The guy comes in and he’s got the craziest eyes I ever saw. And sweat, can this guy sweat. I give him a stiff drink and he tells me what he wants. Seems he has got hold of some million byte carbon and wants it transferred into something innocuous before the agency catches up with him. It’s some kind of super-duper program belonging to some project that got busted. 1 raise my eyebrows to all this intelligence Million byte carbons, K-squareds to those in the know, are about as scarce as the fertilizer which issues from the tail end of the treen pony Very much the state-of-the-art. I tell this guy that I will require big boodle for this operation, and what variety of thing does he want it compacted into? He says he doesn’t care as long as it’s no longer recognizable for the thing it is, and will I take the carbon as payment? Yes, I reply. We take a trip across town and I shan’t be putting you on if I tell you that I’m cautious in the extreme to assure myself that we aren’t tailed.