Apocalypso

  In his vegetable wisdom Dilbert opted for the latter.

  It might well be a very long wait before his spacecraft’s homing signal ever reached Eden and a great deal longer before anyone arrived from there. So Dilbert thought he’d make the best of a bad job. We’d knock these beings into shape and, though it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to change their eating habits, they would certainly learn who was the boss.

  Who, in fact, was ‘God’.

  He travelled widely in those, his first days, and by many names they came to know Him. Names of Power. He was Wotan to the Nordic race and Dadga to the Celts. He was Zeus. He was Kronos. He was Jahweh. He was Amen-Ra. And all His people knew His power and worshipped at His temples.

  He was kindly, when He chose to be. Forgiving, when He chose to be. But those times were rare. They knew Him by His wrath and at His name whole nations trembled. For He used them and He squandered them, He ravaged and destroyed them and He gorged Himself upon them, for He’d learned to like the taste.

  Great cities they raised for Him and, driven by the pain He could inflict, His armies marched across the world, subduing all. For all it seemed were His, to do with as He pleased and His excesses were awesome, spreading horror, and fear at His displeasure chilled the hearts of those who whispered His name.

  All power corrupts, they say, etcetera, and, if there is time here for yet one more universal truth, it is this.

  Most no-marks who win the National Lottery eventually return to no-mark status. And most do sooner rather than later. Fate is ever the bad bad pup that bites its master’s bottom.

  Dilbert’s bottom got bitten in Mu: His summer home, a Pacific paradise and very nice with it. Dilbert was lounging atop a mound of slave girls when the first tremor struck. Unseated from his cosy throne he tumbled headlong to the marble floor with a cry of ‘What the frigging hell?’ (He had learned the tongues of Man) and a splattering of sprout flesh unpleasing to behold.

  Shake shake shake went the ground and then, up from under, erupted the volcano. Dilbert hastened to take His leave. And as granite pavements sank and gilded towers collapsed, He lashed at His subjects with mental pain, forcing them to cart His horrid heavy body to the means of His escape.

  But He didn’t get far. The thrashing winds and the clouds of volcanic dust drove His spacecraft down from the sky and down down down into the ocean.

  Rocks and rubble fell and Mu went down, to legend and to fable.

  And that was that for Dilbert (or at least it should have been!)

  Back in cryogenic suspension and under hundreds of tons of volcanic debris, it could reasonably have been assumed that he had finally returned to no-mark status.

  But no. Fate, the old bum-biter, had other bums to bite.

  Many years passed, years that became centuries, that became millennia. The world forgot about Dilbert. The world had the legends and the religions and whatever, but the being behind them was forgotten. He was written out. He no longer applied.

  But He was there all the time. Lurking like Porrig’s dad. But lurking big time. Down all alone at the bottom of the sea. Frozen in time. Waiting.

  Until one day.

  Bang.

  Or Boom. Or dull dank thud, or whatever you like. The sound that a nuke makes when tested under water. And if Danbury was to recall his science fiction clearly, he would recall that many a good yarn begins with a nuke, rather than ends with one.

  Bang, boom, dull dank thud or whatever you like: American testing of nukes beneath the nice blue waves of the Pacific.

  Then shift went the debris; switch on went the automatic controls of Dilbert’s spacecraft. Unthaw went Dilbert. And quiet was He.

  Hungry was He also. But still wise. Many years had passed since His ship went down and before He rose again, God-like from the briny deep, Dilbert thought it best to test the water, sniff the air, judge the mood and generally make no rash moves whatsoever.

  And so He sent out His thoughts to see what His people were up to. His people. Had they forgotten Him? Had they developed? How much did they now know? How much harm were they capable of doing Him? And He sent out His thoughts to listen to theirs. And what He heard didn’t please Him one bit.

  They had forgotten Him. They had developed. They knew a whole lot more and they were certainly now capable of doing Him a great deal of harm. And there was still absolutely no sign of His real people, the people from his own planet. They had either not heard his call or they. were gone for ever.

  But Dilbert was back. And this time it was personal!

  And so He listened in, to many thoughts. He swept the planet with His mind, gathering information. And the information He received surprised Him. At first He thought that the planet’s power base lay in a land called America, a land He had once named Dilbert. But the more He listened and the more He screened out the interference caused by the babbling of millions, the more clearly did another truth emerge.

  It was not a universal truth, but it was a truth none the less. The land of America was not the seat of world power. The real seat of world power stood upon a swirly-whirly-patterned carpet in a small office in a government department called the Ministry of Serendipity, beneath an Underground station called Mornington Crescent, in a city called London, in a country called England.

  And so it was to here that He sent a little thought of His own. A little suggestion. That the someone who sat in the chair upon the swirly-whirly-patterned carpet might just carry out a satellite survey of a certain area in the Pacific Ocean and discover something star-shaped and wonderful.

  Something that must be brought at once, intact, to that very seat of power.

  And the rest was history?

  Yes, it was.

  Or, yes, it would be.

  He quite liked the look of the native fishermen who dragged His spacecraft ashore. All those firm muscles beneath the brown skin. They recalled to Him His Nubian slaves, the chosen ones of most outstanding beauty, who had carried Him upon their straining shoulders and pandered to the needs of His body. Without and within.

  As He viewed them through the porthole he nodded with approval. He would take two dozen with Him when He left the island.

  Then He saw Danbury, lazing on a packing case. He didn’t take to him. A shiftless idle type fit only to be used as a suppository. Didn’t he jump when he saw the seven-pointed craft rising from the waves. And he fired a gun!

  No guns were allowed. Dilbert threw out a thought. A compulsion. The need to obey. At once. And He smiled as He watched the shiftless youth struck down from behind. His powers had not deserted Him. If anything they were stronger than ever.

  He was not impressed by the Apocalypso. Even though it was a metal boat and powered by engines rather than oars, it did not impress Him. He was used to far better. He liked the ships that bore Him to be large and gaily painted, like the barques that long ago had carried Him in luxury upon the waters of the Nile.

  They lowered His spacecraft into the forward hold, down into the darkness and the dirt, and they set men there to guard it. Men with guns.

  He studied their minds and once more He was not impressed.

  And He heard them speak of Him. They called him alien.

  Alien!

  He, their God! They called Him alien.

  He killed them. Killed them all. Flung agony into their minds and made them shoot themselves. Good riddance too.

  He ate them.

  And then, His repast over, He sensed something.

  Something large and near. Something splendid.

  And rising to the deck upon a ladder formed from men He spied it, riding upon the night-time ocean.

  Drifting gorgeously upon the moonlit sea.

  A liner: The Leviathan, on its maiden voyage from New York.

  ‘I’ll have that,’ He said. And He did.

  There were three thousand folk aboard that ship. Three thousand carefree souls, exalting in their wealth and status. Three thousand who now were His.

  The
y screamed as He was carried aboard and some tried to fight and repel Him. So He drew Himself up and He stared down upon them and He entered their minds with His own and He hurt them. He drove them to the deck, clutching at their heads. Their heads that burst with the pain He threw at them. And they hastened to obey, to do as He commanded, to kneel and to worship and to welcome Him back.

  He called for the captain and issued His orders. They were clear and they would be obeyed. The ship’s radio was to be smashed and all communications severed. And the ship was to be brought about, to sail north-east, through the Panama Canal and across the Atlantic ocean.

  The destination was to be the British Isles.

  England, London, Mornington Crescent.

  The Ministry of Serendipity.

  The seat of ultimate power.

  The man who presently sat in the seat that stood upon the swirly-whirly-patterned carpet in the office of this ministry knew nothing whatever of just what was heading his way.

  He did not, as it happened, so much ‘sit’ in the seat, as ‘lurk’ in it. Because this man’s name was Augustus Naseby.

  Yes, indeed, and there you go. Augustus Naseby.

  But more of him later.

  For now let’s return to his son.

  10

  Rippington jigged upon the little big book. ‘Come on now,’ he said to Porrig. ‘Just one wish, that’s all I want.’

  ‘That’s all I want,’ Porrig said. ‘Or maybe two, or three at a push.’

  ‘Well, you’re the angel, dish’m out.’

  ‘I’m not an angel, I’m a person.’

  ‘It’s the same thing here, mush. You might be just a person up upon heavenly Earth, but here you’re the old rum baba.’

  ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

  ‘It’s the bestest thing there is. Come on now, just one little wish.’

  ‘I wish I was home,’ said Porrig.

  ‘No no no. A wish for me, you no-mark son of a—’

  ‘Rippington!’ The voice was that of the old bloke and Rippington drew up short when he heard it. Porrig turned and the old bloke was there. Just there. Of a sudden. In a magical way.

  ‘Ah,’ said Porrig. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘And it’s you,’ said the old bloke. ‘But it shouldn’t be, should it? Should I praise you for your ingenuity, or punch your lights out for your disobedience?’

  ‘Now just see here,’ said Porrig.

  ‘What, here?’ The old bloke ceased to be there. ‘Or here?’ And now he was somewhere else.

  Porrig stared in the direction of his latest appearance. ‘I’m not impressed,’ he said, which, although a lie, he made to sound convincing. ‘You’re a stage magician. You can do tricks like that.’

  ‘Rippington’s impressed,’ said the old bloke. ‘Aren’t you, Rippington?’

  ‘Not as impressed as I would be by an angel granting me a wish.’

  ‘I’ll knock your little grey block off,’ said the old bloke.

  ‘Oh, turn it in,’ said Porrig.

  ‘You want some of this?’ asked the old bloke, making a fist.

  ‘I just want to go home. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘You spent half of it asleep.’

  ‘I won’t ask how you know that.’

  ‘Then don’t. But, as you’re here now, I suppose I’d better fill you in on all the details, as it were.’

  ‘Oh goody,’ said Porrig.

  ‘Was that a “tone” in your voice?’

  ‘Please stop bullying me,’ Porrig said. ‘I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry that I’ve come here. I just want to go home.’

  ‘And so you shall. Once I’ve told you what you have to do.’

  ‘Then please tell me and I’ll be off.’

  ‘Quite so. Follow me.’ The old bloke turned and strode away.

  ‘Help me down from the table,’ said Rippington.

  ‘Leave him there, Porrig,’ called the old bloke. ‘And get a move on.’

  Porrig shrugged towards the imp and followed the old bloke.

  ‘And make out you’re not following me.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Porrig.

  The old bloke led Porrig down further corridors, across further balconies that looked down on to further corridors, through further rooms all filled with books and up a natty staircase wrought from decorative silk.

  ‘You can’t have a staircase made out of silk,’ observed Porrig.

  ‘You can’t,’ said the old bloke.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

  ‘Would you like us to be?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Then we are.’

  ‘Absurd.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it.’ The old bloke turned a key in a lock and swung open an ancient door. ‘My office,’ he said.

  Porrig caught up and peered in. ‘It’s upside down,’ he said.

  ‘Why yes, so it is.’ The old bloke closed the door and reopened it. ‘That’s better.’

  Porrig shook his head.

  ‘Follow me.’ And Porrig did so.

  The room itself was small and lacked for windows. Porrig realized that he hadn’t actually seen a single window since he’d arrived in this curious place. But as he had assumed that it was all underground, he hadn’t really been surprised. The fact that there was at least something he hadn’t been surprised about gave him some comfort.

  But not very much.

  As to the furnishings, this room held many and various.

  There were chairs of the vintage persuasion

  And a table of Romany caste.

  A throne for a special occasion,

  A desk with a shadowy past.

  A rug that was woven from feathers,

  A tapestry woven from cheese.

  Some pictures of ladies in leathers,

  And Porrig was taken with these.

  A view of a bay in a frame made of gold.

  A brown nodding dog that was not very old.

  A lamp with a bulb, though it wasn’t electric.

  A collection in all, that was somewhat eclectic.

  ‘A very poetic room,’ said Porrig.

  The old bloke grinned. ‘There’s lots of poetry down here,’ he said. ‘It escapes from the books and drifts all over the place.’

  ‘Poetry can’t escape from books,’ said Porrig, ‘that’s just plain stupid.’

  The old bloke shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ said he. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re talking about. I’ll bow to your superior wisdom.’

  ‘I’ll bet you will.’

  ‘That “tone” again . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Porrig. ‘But I really have had a long day.’

  ‘And it’s far from over.’ The old bloke sat down in a chair of the vintage persuasion at the desk with the shadowy past. ‘Sit over there in that throne,’ he told Porrig. ‘After all, this is a special occasion.’

  ‘Is it?’ Porrig asked as he sat himself down.

  ‘Perhaps more so for me. But then I have been waiting a very long time.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Porrig made himself comfortable. ‘Are you my uncle, and if so—’

  ‘I’m not your uncle, Porrig.’

  ‘I didn’t know I had an Uncle Porrig.’

  The old bloke sighed. ‘It’s a nervous habit, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You do it when you’re ill at ease. Like when you were in the solicitor’s office. “Death,” said Mr Phart-Ebum. And you said, “No, I can hear you just fine.”’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I put myself about, keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Please tell me about my uncle.’

  ‘Apocalypso The Miraculous.Greatest stage magician of his day. The master of legerdemain. He made the Impossible, possible, although many said that demons whispered at his ear. There is a biography about him, written by the eminent parapsychologist Sir John Rimmer, but you won’t find any other mention. His name has been stricken from the records of the Magic C
ircle. The old playbills have been destroyed. No-one even knows what his real name was.’

  ‘Why all the mystery?’ Porrig asked. ‘Or is this just part of the mystique?’

  ‘I think it had something to do with the demons speaking at his ear. It gave him an unnatural edge on the opposition. You see, stage magic is just that, stage magic. Tricks, sleight of hand, special effects, but it still holds a fascination for the public at large. They like to be fooled.’

  ‘They wouldn’t vote if they didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be cynical, Porrig. But they do like to be fooled. And they love the wonder of it all. And they actually like, secretly of course, because they’ll never own up to it, to believe that some of it might just be real magic. That real magic might actually exist.’

  ‘And does it?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘It all depends on what you mean by real. But you see it fascinates people, intrigues them, obsesses them. It obsessed your uncle. He set out to discover whether real magic existed. And now you’re sitting here, and I’m sitting here, which probably means that it does.’

  ‘And who are you, exactly?’

  ‘I’m your great-great-grandfather, Porrig.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Porrig.

  ‘Is that all you have to say, oh?’

  ‘For the time being, yes. No, hold on, it isn’t. If you’re my great-great-grandfather, then that would have made you my Uncle Apocalypso’s grandfather, wouldn’t it? And if that was the case, you’d know his real name.’

  The old bloke shook his old head. ‘No, Porrig, I wouldn’t. I’m your father’s great-grandfather, not your mother’s.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Yes, but, nothing. I was Apocalypso’s apprentice, I didn’t even know he had a sister until after he died. But your mother wouldn’t tell me his real name and there are absolutely no existing family records, she saw to that.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Because of what he discovered. Because it was a secret that no-one wanted ever to be revealed.’