‘Do they . . .’ Rex paused. ‘Do they . . . feel?’
‘Debatable. They have a rudimentary intellect. But only what is programmed into them. They are not capable of independent thought. They have no time to assimilate or conceptualize.’
‘But the tall woman asked us questions.’
‘Very simple ones. And didn’t you notice the optical implants? She wasn’t looking at us. Someone else was pulling the strings.’
Rex gave his head another shake. ‘When did all this start?’
‘A year or so back. Another of Mr Crawford’s little innovations. But surely they’re not new to you.’
‘Fraid so. No human disposables where I come from. But tell me, if they can’t eat, what happens to them?’
‘I shudder to think. You hire them for a ten-hour maximum. Then a corporation truck calls to pick them up. They probably go into the food chain.’
Elvis, who, having caught the eye of a passing waiter, was now delving amidst a tray-load of tasties, thought better of it and hurridly waved the food bearer away.
‘Not here,’ Jack laughed. ‘Manual worker level. Non-person.’
Rex took Jack gently by the elbow and steered him to a place beyond public view. Here he smote Jack verily upon the ear. ‘Now why don’t you slip off and put your costume on?’ he said.
Jack made a sour face, rubbed his throbbing ear and stalked away clutching his costume case.
‘You think that’s smart, letting him go off on his own?’ Elvis had been watching Jack’s summary punishment.
‘We can’t keep an eye on him every minute. If he intends to betray us he will find the means.’
‘But smacking his ear ain’t gonna help him keep the faith.’
‘Negative psychology.’ Rex made a hopeful face. ‘What time do you have?’
‘Nine sixteen.’
‘Me too. Shall we party?’
‘Let’s do that very thing.’
The entrance hall became the dance hall, but it was impossible to see the join. There was a major light show in operation, a very great deal of heavy noise and up on a far stage. Well, snatch me vitals if I’m telling one word of a lie ...
‘It’s the Gadarene Swine!’ said Elvis.
I think it was Stockhausen who once said ‘music is a funny old game, Brian’. Or perhaps it was Stock Aiken and Dennis Waterman. Most footballers look the same to me, but as they say: ‘The beat goes on, don’t knock the rock, boogie with a suitcase, won’t you rock me daddio and a wop bop a loo bop a wop bam boom!’
‘Rock and roll!’ cried the golden one. ‘The Gadarenes. I own a piece of them. Or did. Some SOB has probably bought me out by now. They do a lot of my old numbers. Three at a time mostly. I’ll put in some requests.’
‘See anyone else you know?’
Elvis peered into the throng. There must have been a thousand people on the dance floor, all going at it with a will. Most looked determined to end the century on a notably chemical high.
The costumes were suitably imaginative and echoed the bodies within them. These were exaggerated by surgical implants and cosmetic prosthesis. Flight-deck shoulders were currently enjoying a renaissance. Extended necks and sculptured cheekbones also found favour with the have-it-alls. Fearsome members strained at velvet codpieces. Bra-busting bosoms scorned reason and gravity alike. The motto was as ever, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Or, if you haven’t got it, then buy it and flaunt it. It was all very Sodom and Gomorrah.
‘All I can see is boobys,’ said honest E.
‘This is so very wrong,’ Rex told him. ‘You don’t suppose that Mr Smith’s big flywheel is running out of control?’
‘I still don’t rightly know if I believe any of that hop-de-doodle. But we got here somehow, which proves something. I mean, if we weren’t here then we’d be somewhere else, right?’
‘Very profound. What do we do next?’
‘Well. Hows about let’s mingle? You-know-who is bound to show up soon.’
You-know-who was preparing for his big entrance. The throne chair had once belonged to Rodrigo Borgia, who had paraded about St Peter’s Square in it back in the days when popes really knew how to put themselves about. The current pontiff helped Wormwood into it.
‘It’s come up very nice with the new paint job,’ said he.
‘Glad you like it.’ Wayne settled himself amongst the inflatable scatter cushions.
The chamber they now inhabited was worthy of a small mention. It played house to the largest collection of fine art on the planet. The masterworks of da Vinci, Richard Dadd, Burne Jones, Don Van Vliet, Dali and Ernst, hobnobbed with those of Peter Blake, Andy Warhol and the now legendary Dave Carson. Each had been imaginatively customized by the president himself. That personal touch.
Stuffed beasts were also much in evidence. Again here Wormwood had chosen to make the necessary improvements. The winged bears and croc-headed tortoises might have looked strange to many, but where Wormwood came from they were regular everyday household pets.
Burning censers, held high by more naked disposables, added their fragrances to the overcharged air. Musk, sandalwood, orris root, bergamot, citronella, frangipane, frankincense, chypre, civet and camphor. All the usual stuff.
‘About the telecast,’ the pope wheedled. ‘I trust that Jesuit Inc has exclusive coverage of the party. As we agreed.’
‘Would I lie to you, Pete?’
‘Oh no, of course not. It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing Fundamentalist news teams and more than a few Buddhavision execs milling about out there.’
‘Guests is all.’ Wormwood adjusted the diadem on his head. ‘Fun for all. The last night of the century. Remember this is the biggest bash that ever there was. We are going to go out with a bang, not with a whimper. Believe you me.’
‘Oh yes. Indeed, indeed.’ Pope Peter wrung his ringed fingers. ‘The shoes are nice,’ he added.
‘You like them? They are rather chic, aren’t they? Not too heavy on the diamonds, do you think?’
‘Oh no. Hardly ostentatious.’
‘You think not?’
‘Well, perhaps a smidgen.’
‘I should think so! I’ll have a pair run up for you. Leave your foot size with the major-domo. Now, where are my horses?’
‘What do you think?’ Jack Doveston lifted a ludicrous floor-length cloak and did a little twirl. He was wearing something beneath, but it was difficult to see just what. The dance hall came and went through him. At times he was solid, at others inverted, swimming with strange images.
‘Lord have mercy.’ Elvis took two steps back. ‘What do you look like? Or what don’t you?’
‘Oh, very good.’ Rex nodded approvingly. ‘I should have realized.’
‘Do you know what it is then?’ Jack asked.
‘I think I do,’ said Rex.
‘I think I don’t,’ said Elvis. ‘But I want me some of those duds.’
‘He’s the Tomorrowman.’ Rex gazed Jack up and down and through. ‘It’s a twenty-first-century legend. Mentioned in The Suburban Book of the Dead. A cult grew up about him, but I never thought it was actually true. The Devianti thought it was you, Elvis, don’t you remember?’
‘Me?’ Elvis did double takes. ‘I never looked like that. Whatever that looks like.’
‘But I don’t understand. How did you come by the suit, Jack?’
‘Mr Smith gave it to me. He called at my office last night.’
‘And he said that you were to wear it?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You’re coming and going man.’ Elvis rubbed his eyes. ‘How do you do that?’
‘I don’t know. It feels pretty strange.’
‘Jack,’ said Rex. ‘What did Mr Smith say to you?’
‘I can’t recall his exact words.’
‘Try.’ Rex made an unpleasant face and seized Jack by the ear.
‘Oh, look who’s over there.’ Jack pointed into the crowd.
Elvis spied out a diminutive figure in a tat
tooed gown. ‘It’s that little skuz-bucket Crawford.’
‘I’d better say hello,’ said Jack, detaching his ear from Rex’s fingers.
‘It’s now or never,’ sang the Gadarene Swine. ‘At the county jail.’
An implant purred in Jonathan’s left ear. He excused himself from the company of his concubines. ‘I just heard my name being taken in vain,’ said he. ‘And well hello.’
He hopped through the crowd and reached forward to shake Rex’s hand. Rex hurriedly withdrew it beyond range. ‘How nice to see you. And Jack and Elvis. The unholy trinity. And after so very very long. Tell me Rex, do I look any older to you?’
‘Not a day.’
‘Nor you. How do you explain that?’
‘We have been in the realm of the faerie,’ said Rex. ‘Whatever your secret is you have yet to explain. No doubt you will do so later.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Some party, eh? What do you think of the fountains and stuff? A little innovation of mine. Very popular. Very cost-effective. What do you think?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
The lad danced upon his toes and stared hard up at Rex. ‘I’ve a bit of a bone to pick with you. Youngest-ever president you said.’
‘I didn’t say when.’
‘No. In truth you didn’t. So where have you been? It must be nearly seven years, although it seems like only yesterday. How do you explain that?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Well. I must mingle.’ Jack prepared to do just that.
‘Some suit, Jack. Holographies? No it isn’t, is it?’
‘A trick of the light.’ Jack wrapped his silly cloak once more about himself and pushed past the bobbing youth. ‘See you later.’
‘Yeah, we will. And you know when, Rex.’ Elvis took off into the crowd.
‘Now whatever do you think he meant by that?’ Jonathan plucked two drinks from the tray of a passing disposable and handed one to Rex. Rex sniffed it suspiciously.
‘Smell trouble?’ Crawford asked. ‘We really should go somewhere and have a quiet little chat. It’s so noisy here.’
‘I don’t think we have much to say to each other.’
‘Oh, but I do.’ Jonathan snapped his fingers. Rex felt something hard dig into his back.
‘Happy new year asshole,’ said Cecil.
‘A little chat would be just fine with me,’ said the man with no alternative options.
‘Good, good.’ Jonathan led the way. Rex glanced over his shoulder.
‘You’re losing your hair, Cecil. Too much work and no job satisfaction, or trouble with your steroids?’
‘Just keep walking,’ said the balding bully-boy.
‘Sit down Rex.’ Jonathan indicated the lone chair in a room the size of a closet. ‘Close the door, Cecil. We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?’
‘I’m easy,’ said Rex.
‘I’m not.’ A horny hand on his shoulder encouraged Rex to take a seat.
‘What do you want, Jonathan?’
Crawford turned back his cuffs exposing an intricate webbing of circuitry grafted to his wrists. He tinkered amongst it.
‘I’ve made considerable improvements to my defence systems. The best form of defence is always attack, isn’t it? This is all to do with vibration. Everything vibrates, Rex, did you know that? Atoms and molecules, they all pulse away at particular frequencies. The human body is never still, even at rest, all its little components are bouncing away. Once you’ve worked out the frequency you can do almost anything with it. Stretch it this way and that, mould it like clay. It really hurts I can assure you. So tell me. What are you doing here, Rex?’
‘Just visiting. I’m a guest of Jack Doveston.’
Jonathan made several precise adjustments to his wrist. ‘As you please,’ he said, darting forward and thrusting his electric finger up Rex’s nose.
The scream cut into the feedback from the Gadarenes’ speakers. A well-tried cinematic device to get past the censor. The uncut versions usually circulate on second-generation videos at sci-fi conventions. Although this one never would.
‘Well, hello baby,’ crooned Elvis. ‘If I said you had a beautiful body would you let me jump all over it?’
‘F**k off.’ The young woman with phenomenal pneumatics replied.
‘Your technique never fails to impress me, chief.’
‘Too subtle, do you think, Barry?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Check this out.’ Elvis boogied closer. ‘Don’t I recognize you, honey?’
‘No,’ Honey replied.
‘Sure I do. You been in movies right?’
‘Well, as it happens . . .’
‘I knew it. You were Jabba the Hutt, right?’
‘Wrong, chief.’
‘Straighten up,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Just act natural.’
‘He’ll know what we’ve been doing.’ Byron was throwing the proverbial wobbly. ‘Look at all this mess.’
‘Bluff it out. Greetings lordship.’
The curricle staggered up. It was looking somewhat the worse for wear. One leg was dragging badly. ‘Give us a wind-up then,’ said the controller. ‘Byron, why are you clutching yourself?’
‘I want the toilet,’ the youth explained.
‘Stupid boy. Come on Smith, put a bit of lustre into the performance.’
‘The key is a bit stiff, lordship. Needs a bit of flux.’
‘Don’t talk to me about flux. Where are my retainers?’
Byron peeped between the curricle’s legs. ‘They’re back along the gallery. They look a bit puffed.’
‘Puffed! What is puffed?’
‘Exhausted.’
‘Can’t be.’ The controller twiddled at his knobs. A metal foot twitched, kicking Byron to the marble floor.
‘Get up boy. Pull yourself together.’
‘Sorry lordship.’
‘Why are you not at your Inter-Rositer?’
‘I just was. I mean I now am.’
‘Just was. Now am. And will be what? Confusion. Smith, is that key wound?’
‘It is, lordship.’
‘Then back to your broom. Byron.’
‘Yes lordship?’
‘Byron, you had better make an adjustment or two pretty damn fast. Rex Mundi is having his brains stewed.’
‘Lordship?’ Byron made with the open mouth.
‘Get to it boy. As above so below. You can’t teach an old dog how to suck eggs. Do I look like a cabbage, eh? Hiyo Silver and away.’
They watched as the curricle limped off down the gallery.
‘He knows,’ whispered Byron. ‘He knows everything.’
‘Spin the frigging turncock and fast!’ cried Mr Smith.
‘You all right Rex? You look a bit peaky.’
‘No, I’m fine, Jack. Another drink?’
Rex found himself now leaning upon an onyx bar-top. ‘I think the “edge” is already paying dividends.’
‘I’m getting some funny looks in this suit.’
‘Ah yes. Now about that suit . . .’
‘A woman with enormous Charlies just punched Elvis on the nose,’ said Jack. ‘Two drinks over here please, bartender.’
The one-eyed barkeep hastened to oblige. ‘Tomorrow-man Brew?’ he asked.
‘Two,’ said Rex. ‘Large measures.’
‘Evening Rex. A night to remember, eh?’ The barman shuffled off to do the business.
‘It’s coming apart, Jack. I know that man. He shouldn’t be here.’
‘You want to tell me about it?’
‘So you can write it up? Give yourself the best part again? My part. Not this time.’
‘You guessed.’
‘Jack. I didn’t guess. Your books were read to me when I was a child. What I didn’t know then was that they were about me.’
‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘But there won’t be any more will there?’
Rex shook his head. ‘No. You don’t write any more.’
‘I know.
Something you said a long time ago. I die tonight, don’t I?’
Rex turned towards him, suddenly full of guilt. ‘We all die tonight.’
‘I thought so. Jack Doveston, famous author. Born 27 July 1949, died 31 December 1999. RIP.’
‘It’s not my fault, Jack. It’s history. You had your fame. What else do you want?’
‘I want to live.’
‘Perhaps you will this time.’
The barman returned. ‘You want to eyeball the screen station, boy?’ Rex took his drink. The one-eyed barman dissolved, became a peroxide-blonde disposable. She smiled lamely and wandered off to serve some gilded youth at the counter’s end.
‘It’s coming apart.’ Rex took up his drink and drank.
And the band played ‘Believe it if You Like’.
28
What’s it all about then, Guv?
Taxi driver to Bertrand Russell
Gort! Klaatu barada nikto!
Patricia Neal
In a far country Christeen paced the hut floor. Overhead, the Thunderbird went BRRROOOM BRRROOOM impatiently. Christeen ceased her pacing to throw furniture. Fido took to his furry heels. Christeen flung crockery.
‘You’ve got to go for some help,’ the dog called from a place of safety.
‘No!’ Christeen stamped her foot. ‘If I do that then I’m not even history.’ She kicked the table over.
‘There is something you might try.’
‘Oh yes? And where are you?’
‘I’m up here. Stop throwing.’
Christeen let something priceless shatter at her feet. ‘Say it.’
‘It’s only a small thing.’ Fido cringed upon a high shelf.
‘Say it!’
‘Well man. I mean, you’re ever-present, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Like you’re here today and here tomorrow. And yesterday.’
‘Obviously.’ ‘Right. Then what say you and me go walkabout? Find out exactly where and when the problem is. I’ll just betcha that it’s where Rex is.’
‘But we don’t know where or when he is.’
‘You could find out, though, if you tried real hard. I mean, all you really gotta do is go and check it out with the controller.’
Christeen raised her eyes to the mutt. ‘And how do you know about the controller?’