‘An hour late.’ Elvis pulled the weatherproof cape about him and loped over to the car. Rex took a final look at the smiling hologram, cleared a blocked nostril, plucked up a bulky-looking holdall and fought his way through the rain.
‘Hurry up. Mind the upholstery.’ Jack flipped the switch and the door dropped back into place with an expensive click. ‘What a night, eh?’ said Jack Doveston. Elvis scowled from the back seat into Jack’s neck.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I just couldn’t get away. You know how it is sometimes.’
Rex controlled his anger with considerable skill. ‘You do have a pass to be out this late?’
Jack made an O with his fingers. ‘I’m a celeb.’
‘You’re an butt-hole,’ said Elvis. ‘Nice wheels, though. You checked out the glovie?’
‘Sure thing.’ Jack sprang open the glove compart-ment. There weren’t any gloves, but then there never are. Elvis’s exclusive sunglasses winked up at him. ‘You looking for these?’ Jack handed them over his shoulder.
‘Ah,’ said the King, giving them a polish before positioning them upon his nose. ‘Now we’re ready to rock and roll.’
‘Let’s move,’ said Rex.
‘No hurry. The party doesn’t begin until nine. Some shindig, eh? Not every night you get to see in the twenty-first century with the world president.’
Elvis groaned. ‘And I thought I had the copyright on the dumb remarks.’
‘This is the final chance.’ Rex unzipped his holdall and brought out an advanced handgun. He inserted slim black cartridges, slapped the power pack into the stock, peered along the inevitable laser sight.
‘Put that away.’ Jack flapped his hands about. ‘We might be stopped.’
‘Drive,’ said Rex. Jack drove.
‘When we get there remember, you’re with me. I have a reputation to keep up. Nothing embarrassing please.’
‘Jack, we are going to assassinate the president. How much embarrassment can you take?’
‘Just keep me out of it.’
‘If you sell us out.’ Elvis prodded Jack’s neck with a rigid digit. ‘You will be out of it for good and all.’
‘Please don’t poke the driver. I’m playing straight with you. I won’t let you down.’
Rex said nothing. He stared through the windscreen. The city was already behind them. Little of it now remained but for the haunts and storehouses of the rich. The rest was a sprawl of bunkers. Housing for the poor. No landscaping here. Just mud and garbage and rain.
‘Have you seen the presidential manse?’ Without bothering to acknowledge the shaking heads, Jack went on, ‘Crazy stuff. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s got to be a couple of miles across. There’s a whole city in there. Some pleasure palace. Anything Wormwood wants, Wormwood gets. The stories I’ve heard. The place is a fortress, bomb-proof, assassin-proof. You’ll not get him, you know.’
‘We’ll try,’ said Rex. ‘We have an edge.’ Nothing more was said and the Koshibo Tiger plied its way across the rutted tracks and broken highways, bound for the presidential manse and the party of the century.
‘And how do I look?’
Wormwood turned to view auld Demdike. ‘You look like shi. . . you look, well. . . yes indeed.’ Demdike had become the unspeakable Kim of evil memory. She wore a transparent film of material, buckled at the neck, waist, wrists and ankles by studded leather straps. Thepointed shoes had five-inch stiletto heels.
‘Hardly subtle for the president’s mother. But then who gives that for subtle.’ Wormwood made a curious gesture, the obscene nature of which could hardly have been in doubt.
‘That’s the stuff, little Wayne, and how are the boys then?’
‘We’re fine.’ The words came from Wormwood’s mouth, but he didn’t speak them.
President Wormwood examined himself in the mirror and found much to his satisfaction. A vision in cloth of gold. ‘What do you think, Mr Russell, will I do?’ He turned suddenly to face a steel cage which hung from the ceiling. In it were four naked men, little more than skeletons. They were heavily bearded, long of hair and running with open sores. They gazed back at Wormwood with terrified eyes. ‘Well, Mr Russell? Speak up. Lost your tongue?’
Mr Russell opened his mouth. The teeth were gone. And the gums. And the tongue. Wormwood laughed. And he laughed and he laughed and he laughed.
The presidential manse,’ Jack announced. Upon the horizon a great dome rose from the blackened landscape. It blazed with lights. Spires and cupolas glittered gold.
Tiny flecks of light moved between them. Lighted vehicles darting across skyways.
‘Some number,’ Elvis observed. ‘What’s all that? Around and about?’
‘Outer defences. Armaments. I told you, it’s a fortress.’
‘And you told us you could get us in.’
‘You’re my guests, no worry.’
As they drew closer other cars came into view. A steady stream, steering towards the pleasuredome. Hundreds, long, sleek and very expensive and all moving in a single direction. Jack joined the tailback.
Overhead shapes turned amidst the rain. Helicopter gunships. Rotary blades spinning above inverted porcupines of weaponry. Searchlights fingered down. Elvis sank lower into his seat. ‘This is deep deep doody,’ said he.
‘In the words of my dog, I know where you’re coming from. Here take this.’ Rex passed him the handgun. ‘Hide it somewhere.’
‘We ain’t gonna get in there with these. We’ll be searched for sure.’
‘Trust me,’ Jack implored. ‘Trust me.’
‘I’m dumb perhaps. But not that dumb.’
‘Hey, chief,’ said Barry. ‘Look up ahead. What do you make of that?’
It towered into the sky. But it was not a solid thing. More a column of light. It should go without saying that it was no light of Earth.
‘What the ... what is it Barry?’
‘I hope it’s our edge, chief. Cos if it isn’t . . .’
‘Passes?’ A soldier in a plastique coverall whacked the windscreen with the butt of an automatic weapon. Jack wound down the window. ‘Jack Doveston,’ he said cheerfully. ‘My name is on the guest list. Here, let me show you my tickets.’
‘Who’s that with you, Mr Doveston?’
‘Two of my employees. Mr Mundi, my editor, and Mr Never, my spiritual adviser.’
‘You bum-hole,’ whispered his spiritual adviser.
‘You carrying any firearms, Mr Doveston? Any EX-34 chain-guns, 5.56mm M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, 7.62 Ares externally powered NATO machine-guns, M50s, M60s, high-velocity tactical ground to air assault cannons, short-range Maser rifles, bommy-knockers . . .’
‘Bommy-knockers?’ Jack asked.
‘Bommy-knockers. Knobkerries, sticks with nubbly ends for hitting people on the head with.’
‘Oh no,’ said Jack. ‘None of them.’
‘Barlow knives?’
‘No.’
‘Salmon coshes?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. No Barlow knives, salmon coshes, boomerangs, nunchuckus, Ashanti throwing staves, Ukit Indian blow-pipes, Pre-Columbian stone daggers, shillelaghs . . .’
‘That’s the same as bommyknockers.’
‘Sorry. But we don’t have any.’
‘What about swords?’
‘No swords.’
‘No claymores, glaives, cutlasses, sabres, scimitars, dirks, kukris, poniards, fencing foils, parangs or Bowie knives?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘Any axes?’
Jack shook his head. ‘No battleaxes, poleaxes, tomahawks, halberds or choppers. No.’
‘Any gisarmes?’
‘Any what?’
‘Gisarme. Long-shafted battleaxe with a sharp point on the back of the axe head. Thirteenth-century French. The word derives from the Germanic getisarn, a form of weeding tool.’
‘You sure know your weapons.’
‘It’s a hobby of mine. Well???
?
‘Well what?’
‘Any gisarmes?’
‘No,’ said Jack.
‘Thought not,’ said the soldier. ‘I’ve been asking all evening. Haven’t turned up a single one yet.’
‘Don’t ask him what he has turned up,’ Elvis whispered into Jack’s ear. ‘Just say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye then,’ said Jack.
‘Goodbye,’ the soldier waved them on. ‘No yataghans or falchions I suppose?’ he called dismally.
‘No.’
‘Go on then. And keep in line. We have a Red Alert. Zen Terrorists.’
Jack wound up the window. ‘Zen Terrorists. Impossible.’
‘Beware your sins will find you out,’ said Rex.
‘No.’ Jack shook his head violently. ‘There’s none left. Just a scare is all.’
‘Move right along. Keep in line.’ The instructions issued from above. Jack kept his head down and followed the car in front. Elvis adjusted his sunglasses and patted the weapon bulge in his pocket. There was no way security could be that lax, but as it was all hoo-haa anyway, he wasn’t going to argue.
The pleasuredome swelled above, before and beyond, filling the skyline.
‘It’s big, isn’t it?’ Jack gaped in wonder.
‘It’s all got to go,’ said Rex. ‘And tonight is the night. You’ve got what I asked for in the back, haven’t you Jack?’
‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘And it weighs a ton.’
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Elvis asked.
Rex did a big ear-to-ear job. ‘Did you really think we were going into action without the 7.62mm M134 General Electric Minigun?’
‘But I thought you hated the running gag.’
‘I do. But I’ve never had a chance to fire one of those things yet.’
‘That’s cool,’ Elvis grinned. ‘It’s cool, ain’t it Jack?’
‘It’s cool.’ Jack’s thoughts were currently his own.
Rex caught his reflected eyes in the rear-view mirror. Just one wrong move, he thought. Just one.
27
GOD: Atheism is the only true religion.
MAN: I don’t believe you.
Zenophobia: Morbid fear of Buddhists.
It’s a lonely way, you know, the way of the necromancer.
Merlin
‘LISTEN. I’D REALLY LIKE TO STICK AROUND AND CHEW THE FAT WITH YOU GUYS,’ said the Thunderbird. ‘BUT I HAVE TO DROP THESE GODS OFF AND MAKE TRACKS. WHICH ONES DO YOU WANT THEN?’
‘None,’ said Christeen.
‘Now just hold on.’ Eric put his hand up to speak. ‘As usual the plebs are the last to know what’s going on. Might I ask a question or two?’
‘WHO ARE YOU ASKING?’
‘You.’
‘Do be quiet,’ said Rambo.
‘Yeah, shut up,’ said Christeen.
‘No. I really must protest. Before we get a lot of displaced Gods dumped on us I want to know what’s going on.’
‘GO ON THEN.’
‘Eric!’ said Rambo.
‘Don’t Eric me. I want to know.’
‘Don’t tell him anything,’ said Christeen.
‘SHALL TOO.’ Christeen turned away in fury. ‘ASK ON, WEE MAN,’
‘Firstly. What is a big flywheel?’
‘I asked that,’ said Rambo.
‘HE DID TOO. BUT I CAN’T TELL YOU. IT’S A SECRET. ASK ME ANOTHER,’
‘All right. What’s a Tomorrowman?’
‘IT’S A SORT OF AN ENGINEER. A FACILITY ALL TO DO WITH THE BIG FLYWHEEL THAT I CAN’T TELL YOU ABOUT,’
‘Most helpful,’ said Eric. ‘So, what does he do, exactly?’
‘WELL, YOU SEE, WHEN THE CONTROLLER, HE CONTROLS THE BIG FLYWHEEL THAT I CAN’T TELL YOU ABOUT, WHEN HE FINDS THE GOING GETTING REAL TOUGH, THEN HE CAN CALL IN THE TOMORROWMAN. IT’S A BIT OF A CHEAT REALLY, LIKE A DEUS EX MACHINA ENDING,’
‘We had one of those last time,’ said Christeen. ‘Most unsatisfactory,’
‘YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE EVERY TIME,’ said the Thunderbird. ‘YOU CAN’T REALLY HAVE ANYTHING ELSE IN THIS SORT OF BOOK, CAN YOU?’
‘I am perplexed,’ said Eric.
‘WE’RE ALL PERPLEXED. BUT IT’S BOUND TO ALL GET EXPLAINED IN THE END,’
‘Oh, it does have an ending does it?’ Christeen asked. There was another of those really pregnant silences.
‘God’s daughter just asked a car the ultimate question,’ Fido whispered to Eric. ‘Some dic …ouch!’
‘Just watch it,’ Christeen advised.
And he gathered them together in a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon.
Revelation 16:16
One by one the cars passed from the dark and stormy night into the great pleasuredome. Here they steered along a short glass corridor. A car wash hosed and lathered, buffed and pampered, dried and dusted.
Pristine and polished, the wheels of the wealthy turned upon artificial gravel in what appeared for all the world to be a pleasant summer’s day. The three men in the white Koshibo Tiger went oooh and ahhh and things of that nature. An attendant, richly fitted out in red velvet frocked coat, white lace cravat, matching stockings and buckled shoes, inclined his peruke towards them and beckoned with a gloved hand to a vacant parking space.
Jack steered in, offering the attendant the benefit of his cheerful grin. He pulled the car out of gear and his Americard out of the dashbord. ‘And now what?’ he asked.
‘Let’s rock ‘n’ roll,’ said Elvis Aron Presley.
Jack turned to view the rear seater. Elvis had doffed his weatherproof and was now resplendent in the ever-legendary gold lame zoot suit. The hair was in perfect shape, the sideburns, killer. Elvis winked at Jack and turned up his more-than-exclusive shirt collar. ‘Pretty goddamn pretty, huh?’
‘Ye gods.’ Jack turned to Rex. ‘I ask you ...’ His words trailed off. Rex was wearing an identical suit. ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Listen,’ said Rex. ‘This might be the last in the series. So I intend to shoot the big gun and wear the big suit. Any problem?’
‘Problems? Me? Perish the thought.’
‘We’re the Fabulous Presley Twins,’ said Elvis. ‘And what are you coming as?’
‘I have a costume in the back. It’s a surprise.’
‘It’s not the Fabulous Presley Triplets, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t. Come on, let’s get going.’
The Tiger’s electric doors swung up and the three men climbed from the car. Elvis took deep breaths. ‘Smell that air, like springtime in Tupelo.’
Jack took his costume case from the boot, carefully rearranging a car blanket over a certain big gun which lay beneath. He slammed shut the boot lid. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Let’s do it.’ They were parked about a quarter of a mile from the palace proper and so were able to take it in to its very best effect. There was much of the cathedral about it. A fair helping of the Taj Mahal. A more than even measure of Disney World. And a greater part to which the words flagrant, shameless, grandiloquent and pretentious might be applied without fear of over-statement. It was a great big pompous gaudy monument to power, greed and bad taste, not unlike a lot of other palaces really.
The intricate conceits of architecture, the gothic vaulting and rococo laceworks of cherubim, carved from the rarest marbles on Earth, had been plundered from far and wide, for certainly no artisan of this present dystopia could work such miracles. This megalomaniac structure was pieced together from the finest craftsmanship the old world had to offer. The combined effect was not pleasing to behold. But if the wealthy party-goers cared a damn, they weren’t letting on. They had come to enjoy the privilege of privilege and for the most part considered Wormwood’s monstrosity pretty tasteful.’
‘Pretty tasteful, huh?’ said Elvis. ‘Sure got the edge on Graceland.’
Rex shook his head. He could see it for what it was. And, he wondered, why didn’t the gravel crunch when you walked on it?
Jack recognized the fr
ont doors. They had come from St Peter’s in Rome. A present from the latest pontiff, Pope Peter the second. Jack had his doubts about the new colour scheme. A bit of a bright yellow.
And it got worse. If there had been any expense spared within, then it was not immediately apparent just where. The entrance hall was a great concourse, carpeted in golden fleece. Numerous fountains played with scented waters and about these clustered party guests, exclaiming and admiring. For the complex groupings of naked statuary over which the waters tumbled, the heroic men, voluptuous women and plump children, were not of carven stone or precious metal. They were of living flesh. Rex looked up. High above chandeliers glittered. Amidst them more naked bodies dangled. Dyed in violent hues of green and red, they clung to electric torches. Rex shook his head. Jack whispered, ‘Sicko.’
‘May I take your invitations, sir?’ It was the tallest woman Rex had ever seen. She was birdlike. An ebony swan. Her nose long, narrow and elegantly curved. The eyes were large brown almonds, the pupils glowing from within. She smiled, her wide mouth exposing wonderful teeth. Although slender almost to the point of emaciation, there was a fierce energy about her which Rex could not wholly understand. Drugs? He wasn’t sure, but some-thing was very strange indeed. Jack pushed the gawping Rex aside. ‘I am on the guest list. Free tickets. Mr Doveston. The Mr Jack Doveston.’ The high woman engaged her fingers upon a sculptured hand monitor. ‘Your thumbprint please.’ Jack pressed his thumb to the monitor. There was a chime and a green light flashed.
‘Welcome to you all. Enjoy.’ She passed on to further guests.
‘I hate being around “disposables”,’ muttered Jack. ‘They make me uneasy.’
‘Disposables?’ Rex queried.
‘That gaunt object. The fountains. The chandeliers. Look Rex, even the furniture.’ Rex looked. He didn’t like what he saw.
‘They’re vat grown. Bio-tech. Genetically engineered. Mostly for prostitution, exclusive client use, no risk of infection. They have all the working parts, but they don’t last. No digestive tracts. Rich men’s playthings. Disposable.’