They Came and Ate Us: Armageddon II: The B-Movie

  ‘Of course not, Mr King. That would be financial suicide. What multinational is going to admit that it no longer has complete control of its own computer network? Think of the stock market.’

  Elvis was. Most of his fortunes were tied up in it. ‘Foo-ee,’ said Mr King.

  ‘Then you cannot run the university program?’

  ‘Not while that thing is still in there.’

  ‘What thing?’ Rex asked.

  ‘What thing?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘Let me show you.’ A full-sized computer terminal rose up from the wafer-thin desktop. ‘Clever that, isn’t it?’ Jonathan savoured the twin expressions of awe. ‘A little invention of mine. Won’t tell you how it’s done. But look here.’ Jonathan cranked up the system. A spinning white cone appeared. As they watched colours danced through it, running up and down the terminal screen.

  ‘What’s that?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘What indeed? It looks like a Bio-tech seeker, a hacking device, but it is a great deal more than that. This thing has a mind of its own. You tell me what it is. The ghost in the machine? Some kind of virus? AI?’

  ‘Is that what entered the university system when I made my . . .’ Rex hesitated.

  ‘Made your appearance? Probability falls to its favour. It is using my Glitchcraft program. That is why I dare not run Jack’s disc.’

  ‘I understand. But where exactly is this thing located?’

  ‘Where are the words in the telegraph wire or the TV pictures as they beam through space? Where does the music go once you’ve heard it? Or the . . .’

  Elvis curled his lip the way only he could do. ‘Looney Tunes,’ was his opinion.

  ‘It is in no absolute place. It inhabits an abstract world within the computer matrix. It is everywhere and nowhere.’

  ‘Have you tried talking to it?’ Rex asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why not simply ask it what it wants?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Elvis agreed. ‘And who it is.’

  ‘It’s not a who, it’s an it. You don’t understand. It’s quite impossible.

  ‘Do it,’ said Rex.

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘Mr King, show Jonathan what you’ve got in your pocket.’

  ‘You can’t bluff me. I had you scanned when you entered the building. You’re not carrying any weapons.’

  Elvis displayed a short plastic tube into which a glass phial fitted snugly. ‘Rex said you were heavy on security. This little doodad got no metal parts. I just blow in this end and what comes out of the other blows you away.’

  ‘It’s a high-impact charge with a cyanide cap,’ Rex explained. ‘Ideal for home defence, I understand. I doubt whether he could miss you at such close range.’

  Elvis put the tube to his lips and puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Jonathan ran a trembling finger about his nice clean white collar. He was getting a most unhealthy sweat on.

  ‘Ask it for access.’

  Jonathan tapped at the keyboard.

  ACCESS DENIED

  ‘There, see.’

  ‘Request its function.’

  Jonathan made further taps.

  ACQUISITION

  ‘Ask it of what.’

  Jonathan did so.

  DATA

  ‘What data?’

  ALL DATA

  Elvis whistled. ‘Greedy.’

  Jonathan cowered in his chair

  ‘Ask it who it is.’

  ‘No!’ Jonathan was shielding his face. ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘Then I shall.’ Rex fingered the keyboard. The terminal screen blanked and then words appeared upon it. They were in red. Big gothic letters.

  I AM LEGION WE ARE MANY

  ‘Bad news!’ Elvis said. ‘Look out,’

  ‘Look out.’ Rex pushed Jonathan from his chair. Sparks crackled from the boy’s shoulders bucketing Rex from his feet. And not a moment too soon. The terminal screen exploded. A torrent of icy wind tore out from it, smashed through blind and window and into the night. A terrible cry which issued from no human throat rose to a deafening pitch. The room began to vibrate as if the whole building was being fiercely shaken. Rex rolled under the desk and ripped the terminal’s plug from the wall socket. The scream died away. The room became still.

  Elvis Presley’s head rose above the desktop. ‘Some big number.’

  Jonathan was curled into a tight little ball, gibbering quietly. Rex climbed to his feet and nudged him with one of them. ‘You’ve got a short circuit,’ he said, hauling the blubbering boy wonder aloft.

  ‘It’s not my fault. I didn’t do it.’

  Rex righted Jonathan’s fallen chair and flung him into it. ‘You will now tell us everything you know about this. You will omit nothing and you will speak only words of truth. If I do not consider you are doing this I will strike you hard.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Rex span around. In the doorway stood Cecil.

  ‘Ah,’ groaned Rex. ‘It’s that gun again.’

  ‘Shoot them both,’ Jonathan ordered. ‘Especially him.’ A multiplicity of muzzles swung towards Rex.

  ‘Now hold on.’ The target put up his hands. The gravity of this situation was not lost upon him. ‘You can’t just shoot me like that.’

  ‘No?’ Jonathan made with the big smirks. ‘And why not?’

  Elvis glanced towards Rex. And why not indeed? The sprout giggled his thinking processes.

  ‘Rex means you gotta spill the beans first,’ Elvis piped up.

  ‘I have what?’

  That’s right. Before you shoot us,’ Rex hastily added. This was what was called thinking on your feet. ‘You have to tell us all about your evil scheme and gloat a lot. Then you say “and so you die, puny insects” or some-thing like that. Then you have us shot.’

  Elvis nodded in agreement. ‘That’s the way it’s done.’

  ‘Gloat.’ Jonathan straightened his tie. ‘I like gloat.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘OK. But I do have you shot at the end?’

  ‘Of course. “And so die puny insects” or whatever you like.’

  ‘OK then.’ Elvis shook his head, the kid was completely out to lunch.

  ‘Should I stand here and say it, or up on the desk?’

  ‘Up on the desk.’ Elvis made gestures. ‘Much more dramatic.’

  ‘More dramatic. I like that too. Up on the desk then.’

  ‘Shall I help you up?’ Rex asked.

  ‘No, thank you, I can manage.’

  ‘As you please.’ Jonathan climbed on to his desk. He stood defiantly with his hands upon his hips. Lightning flashed behind him and rain thrashed in through the broken window. The effect wasn’t bad. ‘And so . . .’

  ‘He should glare,’ said Cecil, who had seen all the right movies. Or the wrong ones, depending on your point of view. ‘Like this.’ Cecil glared. Rex flinched. Jonathan glared.

  ‘And so . . .’ he began again.

  ‘And rant,’ said Cecil.

  ‘Rant yes . . . And so . . .’

  ‘And stamp his foot.’

  ‘Cecil,’ said Elvis, ‘why don’t you butt out? We don’t have all night.’

  ‘He should stamp,’ said Cecil petulantly.

  ‘And so . . .’ There was a definite rant to it this time, and a glare and a stamp.

  ‘Nice,’ said Cecil.

  ‘And so, I’ll tell you my evil scheme, why shouldn’t I?’ Rex nodded encouragingly. ‘It was all my idea, my genius. I invented the Glitchcraft program.’

  ‘You told us that, go on . . .’

  ‘Well that’s about all really. And so die puny insects.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Rex shook his head. That’s not about all at all. What about this thing in the computer matrix that calls itself LEGION?’

  ‘How should I know? If I knew what it was, do you think I’d be employing you?’

  ‘Seems like he don’t know diddly-squit.’ Elvis tossed Jonatha
n a serious lip curl to add weight to his words. ‘He can’t do the puny insects speech on them apples.’

  Rex shook his head. ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘You could tell them how you planned to take over the world with the Glitchcraft program,’ Cecil suggested.

  Jonathan shushed him into silence. ‘I can’t tell them about that.’

  ‘Sure you can, general. Then I drill them but good.’

  ‘Oh, all right. But let’s make it quick. I’m catching my death of cold up here.’

  The American public will never buy this, Elvis thought. And how right he was.

  ‘Yes it’s all true. Whoever controls the Glitchcraft program controls the world. And it’s mine, all mine.’

  Rex and Elvis exchanged glances. ‘No it’s not,’ they said.

  ‘No it’s not. This is ridiculous. Cecil, drill them, but good.’

  Cecil flipped the cover from the firing button. ‘And so die puny insects,’ he chuckled.

  Rex flapped his hands about. ‘You can’t have us shot here in your office. Think about all the blood, all over your new carpet. And the incriminating evidence. You have to drive us out to some deserted spot . . .’

  ‘A quarry or an old steelworks,’ Elvis put in. ‘Rusting iron scaffolding stark against the dawn sky. Long shot as the black limo swerves in amidst a cloud of dust.’

  ‘Nice touch,’ Rex agreed.

  ‘The kid’s got no style.’

  ‘I have too got style. Cecil, throw them out of the window.’

  ‘Hubba hubba,’ said Elvis. ‘I can dig that. Hey Cec, throw Rex out first. I’ll hold your big gun.’

  Rex shook his head.

  ‘All wrong. I should be thrown out last. Made to suffer while my dearest friend dies before me through no fault of his own. Cecil, throw Elvis out.’

  ‘Elvis?’ said Cecil.

  ‘Elvis?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Elvis,’ said Elvis, pulling off his bushy moustache and pocketing his mirror shades. ‘But you can call me the King. T.H.E. King.’ He bowed theatrically. ‘Pleased to be here.’

  ‘It’s Elvis,’ Cecil gaped and pointed. ‘Elvis.’ He put aside his 7.62mm M134 General Electric Minigun and moved in close for a hearty handclasp. ‘I read all about you in the National Enquirer. I thought you were living in a bus on the moon with Lord Lucan. Can I have your autograph?’

  Jonathan buried his face in his hands and began to weep bitterly. ‘They’ll cut this whole scene from the movie,’ he sobbed.

  ‘And a good thing too,’ said Barry the Time Sprout. ‘I never got a single decent line in it.’

  Considering the low credibility factor of the previous scene and by way of a reward to the reader for struggling through it in search of a clue, we now move surprisingly to the bedroom of Miss Spike Laine, where Jack Doveston is currently receiving the blow-job of a lifetime. Which he certainly does not deserve.

  Jack’s hands were tied to the headboard. His eyes were blindfolded. He was naked. Jack had a forty-year-old body, which was long and lean, if a little paunchy, but not in bad condition. And he was extremely well endowed. Spike had, at Jack’s request, inflated his scrotum. (Surgical scalpel, drinking straw, Band Aid dressing. Remember that?) And now she knelt between Jack’s legs, stroking his long thick penis into her mouth, whilst kneading Stud for Men aftershave into his swollen sac with her free hand. There was no way any censor was ever going to leave it in. The telephone rang.

  ‘Don’t answer it!’ cried Jack.

  Declining the obvious ‘it’s rude to speak with your mouth full’, Spike spat out the ice cubes and picked up the phone. ‘Yep?’

  ‘It’s John,’ said Mad John. ‘You’d better come over.’

  ‘You got a fix?’

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘On my way.’ Spike sprang up. Zipped her boyish body into a rubberized jumpsuit and her feet into a pair of synthaskin knee-boots. She planted a kiss upon Jack’s upraised member and made for the door. ‘Shan’t be long.’

  ‘Spike,’ called Jack. ‘Spike, don’t leave me like this.’

  The Zen den had undergone extensive renovation work. Decks had been hobbled back together with anything serviceable. As soon as the military surveillance had been dropped at the Miskatonic the Zens had broken in and grabbed whatever they could. Spike joined Mad John at his screen.

  ‘The seeker got called in. Its homebase requested access. The seeker denied it. Sodding thing has a mind of its own.’

  ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘The Crawford Corporation.’

  ‘Jonathan Crawford?’

  ‘The same. Crazy stuff. He actually asked the seeker its name. Can you figure that?’ John’s hands danced about his keyboard.

  ‘See look.’

  I AM LEGION WE ARE MANY.

  ‘Freaky deaky. What happened then?’

  ‘The system closed. Feedback. Hit him this time.’

  ‘Serves him right. Jonathan Crawford, eh?’

  ‘Had to be, didn’t it? He invented Bio-tech. He is the military.’

  ‘So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Close him down, what else? His seeker trashed pirate rigs up and down the country. I’m going to put his name on the network. Hit his corporation from every side.’

  Spike rolled up her sleeves. ‘Let’s get to it then. We’ve got a long night ahead.’

  ‘Spike,’ called a voice, crying in the wilderness. ‘Spike, untie me. Come back.’

  Spike’s mum pressed open the bedroom door.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she whispered. ‘Oh my!’

  15

  The annals of occult history bulge mightily with tales of many a colourful character, but the enigmatic figure of Hugo Rune stands head and shoulders above the rest. For if not the most greatly revered and widely chronicled, Rune was certainly the tallest, standing nearly six feet seven in his ‘cosmic cottons’.

  Of his remarkable powers, much has been written, and of his abandoned womanizing, countless legal battles and love of Chinese meals, a great deal more.

  Rune was the exaggerated shadow cast in the fashionable places of his day. Certainly the charges of living from immoral earnings, and his penchant for gross physical brutality (what he called the ‘Cruel to Be Kind Principle’) are not wholly without foundation. But of his extraordinary control over his awn body (he could give himself an all-over suntan through willpower alone and once grew a pair of sideburns over-night to win a bet with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) there remains little doubt.

  He had met and talked with the Secret Chiefs, he claimed, and his skills as a mathematician are as yet unparalleled. Scientists are only today coming to realize that Rune’s theory of relativity puts that of Einstein (whom Rune referred to as ‘that unprincipled scoundrel’) in total eclipse.

  But it is for his claim that he could make himself invisible and the extraordinary controversy which surrounds the public demonstration of this, that he is best remembered. In his book The History of Mr Rune (now sadly out of print) H. G. Wells, a lifetime friend, gives his account of the affair, which he openly admits gave him the inspiration for his novel The Invisible Man. Wells witnessed the demonstration and also the notorious ‘leg-biting incident’, which scandalized Europe:

  ‘We were assembled this particular morning in the Cafe Royal [Paris, France]. There was H [possibly Rudolf Hess], several of the Surrealist poets, a gentleman named Crowley, who claimed to be one of Rune’s disciples, and the blaggard Koeslar.

  Koeslar was as usual remonstrating with Rune. It was scientifically impossible, he declared, for a man to become invisible. Rune had a faraway look in his eyes at the time (he later informed me that he was testing his X-ray vision) but at length drew himself up to his full and awesome height, gazed down upon Koeslar and declared: “Invisibility is a piece of gateau, if you have the know of it.”

  Koeslar demanded to know how it could be achieved, but Rune declared that should such a secret fall into the wrong hands (namely
those of Koeslar) the outcome would be disastrous. Koeslar threw another glass of absinthe down his throat [Wells claims that Koeslar was an “immoderate drinker”, Rune however refers to him as “that drunken maggot”] and shouted “Go on, show us then”.

  Rune sighed, put his great hands to his temples and began to rock to and fro on his heels. As we looked on expectantly, a perceptible chill ran through the air and I noticed that the smoke from Rune’s Sobranie cigarette was held motionless in the air. To our utter amazement the mystic began to grow fuzzy about the extremities and within a few short seconds had vanished completely. Koeslar had fainted dead away and was only revived when the contents of a nearby spittoon were emptied over him.’

  So ends Wells’s account of the episode. Koeslar’s version, however, differs substantially. In his book Hugo Rune, Wife Beater and Fraud (now happily out of print) he tells it his way:

  ‘Rune as ever clinging to the shirt-tails of his betters, had insinuated himself into our company. Being drunk, he began to belabour our senses with more of his fantastic claims. “Make yourself invisible Rune,” I quipped, meaning for him to depart us with haste. “I shall,’ he drawled, “I shall do it here and now.” Realizing that he meant to perform one of his ex-cruciating parlour tricks and knowing full well his skills as a ventriloquist, I had a pretty good idea of what to expect and so watched his every move with great care. Thus when he suddenly cried out, “Over there! Zulus, thousands of them!” and pointed madly towards the door, I alone saw him duck beneath the table.

  At last 1 had the God-given opportunity to publicly unmask this charlatan and so took it. Stepping smartly around the table and calling for the others to observe me, I levelled my foot at the cowering con man. To his eternal shame and discredit, Hugo Rune sank his teeth into my ankle.’

  The two accounts of this incident are at such variance that the reader might feel some degree of doubt as to what actually happened upon that fateful day. Happily a copy of the transcript from the resulting trial still exists and Rune’s own evidence, given under oath, remains:

  ‘It was the first time 1 had made myself totally invisible and had not fully anticipated that whilst in a state of non-matter I should no longer be subject to the forces of gravity. I thus remained perfectly still in time and space, whilst the Earth continued to roll on without me. Almost at once 1 became aware that I was sinking into the floor of the restaurant and had I not hastily rematerialized I should no doubt have been tragically lost to this world. It was upon the moment of my materialization that I found myself being violently kicked. 1 merely did what I could to defend myself. I am innocent of all the charges, your honour. May the great architect of the universe strike me dead if I am telling a lie.’ The verdict upon this occasion, as upon many others, went against Rune and he was led away to the cells.