Foul Ball

  Bellingham was upbeat in her pep talk. Frankly she didn’t care if she won or lost. She would be close enough to the Emperor at the presentation to blow him and herself up whatever the outcome.

  ‘We will beat the buggers. We just need to apply sufficient pressure from the rear into midfield and mark the left wing a little tighter,’ she said, chewing the half-time orange.

  The team were subdued and listening intently. Respect had returned because they were as sure as she of her death the moment the Emperor had announced himself as the Zargonic captain. But still they wanted to win for her.

  The Zargons formed a equivalent but stranger semi-circle in the opposite half – stranger because they were huddled in silence, no one wishing to speak before the Emperor but the Emperor staring silently at them. In fact, he was communing with the hive-mind and might have been by clinical definition beyond consciousness, but they weren’t to know that, and it might be fair to say that even if he could have talked to them, he wouldn’t have, because his contempt for them at that moment was extreme. He was a prodigy, trained on a simulator, unsure of the extent of his skills and in a little in awe of the men who did the thing for real – and now, having been given the opportunity to apply his talent against them at last, he had found it to be genuine, and them to be wanting, and he was now wondering what hollow men these heroes had turned out to be.

  The second half began with the whistle, and there was an immediate breakaway by the Zargons, the Emperor having moved from the centre circle to a position just outside the box that was only onside because of a defensive lapse. He had the spandrill close to the flank of his massive pony, and beat it into submission in what was a new and unorthodox tactic that drew gasps from the crowd. Properly controlled, it was scooped past a central defender and round the centre back so that there was only the goalkeeper to beat. The Emperor lined it up, raised his mallet for a massive shot and thwacked the club down, sending the spandrill flying towards the top left hand corner of the net. There was nothing the goalkeeper could do about it, although he threw himself at it and almost got a finger to the tail. One-nil to the Zargons.

  The crowd went wild. The Zargons went wild and several of them rode towards the Emperor to congratulate him. Then, on seeing his leaden face and disdainful sneer, they remembered themselves and left him alone. He squeezed his pony with his stirrups and rode slowly back for the restart.

  Mrs. Bellingham decided on a quick change of tactics, and repositioned herself somewhere wide of centre, sending Frantic squarer so that they were now flatter as a whole and in a more defensive formation. It was a wise move, because the ten minutes after the restart was a period of frenetic activity, with the Zargons sensing blood and searching for a second goal that would have put the Cramptonians out of contention. Mrs. Bellingham was formidable in midfield, in and out of the opposition like a rat round a whippet. Her pony was holding up well, its early fatigue had been thrown off, and it had adjusted to her weight by affecting a sort of tippy-toed gambol.

  The Cramptonians soaked the pressure up, and the Zargons having given it their best, began to tire. Half-opportunities that had not been there for most of the second half suddenly began to present themselves. And then they got the breakthrough. Mrs. Bellingham found the left wing with a beautiful looping lob that stunned the spandrill unconscious, and it was safely thrashed forward, then crossed back hard into her path, and finally smashed into the Zargonic net. One-all.

  The Zargons were as stunned as the spandrill and for a while it looked as if the Cramptonians would get the winner there and then, but the referee, sensing danger everywhere, blew the whistle for full-time a full three minutes early. It was to be extra-time after a short break.

  Bellingham’s late equalizer was announced on the uniSwarm.

  The ratings were fabulous.

  ***

  Chapter Forty Two

  ‘Ordeal by Fire,’ said Bernard reassuringly. ‘We’ve never gotten this far before so this is as much new territory for me as it is for you.’

  He was consulting a yellowed scroll and had his glasses on, half-moons that made him look at once impish and even more ancient.

  ‘Now it’s back to the volcano, I’m afraid. We’re going to lower you in a cage over the fiery pool of boiling lava.’ Bernard peered at Cormack over the half-moons. ‘There’s an element of repetition here that I hope you’ll excuse. I’ll mention it to the Shamanic Throat and see if he can’t come up with something more exciting for future Candidates.’

  ‘There’ll be no future Candidates, Bernard,’ said Proton, who was standing next to Cormack with an arm around his shoulder. The spandex bodysuit had made a surprising reappearance and Proton’s plastic codpiece was very much in evidence. ‘Cormack here’s the real deal. Aren’t you, Cormack?’

  Proton continued before Cormack could answer, ‘No need to answer that, Cormack. You’ve proven enough by your actions already. You are one formidable fuck of a Negus. Carry on, Bernard.’

  ‘As I was saying, we’ll be lowering you in a cage over the fiery pool of boiling lava within the volcano. The cage will be lowered until it is completely submerged in the boiling lava and then will be slowly withdrawn. It’s really quite straightforward, but I must say it’s proving to be a little challenging for our logistics. As I’m sure you’re aware by now, we run a pretty tight ship around here. But we are self-sufficient, by necessity given our location, and the cage, which has never been used before, has been misplaced. The Shamanic Throat has an idea where it might be and we’re pretty certain we’ll find it soon, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to delay a day or two until we can get our hands on it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Bernard!’ said Proton. ‘We don’t have a day or two!’

  Cormack looked relieved.

  The cow was excited.

  ‘Ooh, Cormack,’ she said. ‘Let us spend some time together away from the camp and these people and their sordid talk of Ordeals.’

  They decided on a picnic far into the forest beyond the glade, in the opposite direction to where the Fractious Jub-Jub tree grew. Cormack, breakfasted on carminatives, was now fully recovered, the last of the diarrhoea having dribbled from him the previous night, and was in fact, perhaps for the first time since he had been abducted, in a good mood.

  ‘How’s Stanton Bosch?’ he said.

  ‘Not good, Cormack,’ said the cow. ‘The things that man has gone through.’

  ‘I’m most awfully grateful.’

  ‘I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Is he about here?’

  ‘He moves silently through the camp when the Captain sleeps. We communicate through whispers and stolen half-glances.’

  ‘What’s his plan for the Ordeal by Fire?’

  ‘He’s making some sort of modification to the cage.’

  ‘Oh, he has it…’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘He’s very well organized.’

  ‘We are part of a large organization that is very well resourced. As is the Shamanic Throat…’

  ‘What is the Shamanic Throat by the way?’

  ‘Why, he’s a frog!’

  ‘Oh!’

  The picnic continued pleasantly enough. The cow had packed sardines that she had secretly carried from Bartislard, and there was salami and a salad that she had made from fruits collected from around the tent in her mouth. They had planned for a little cold chicken, but Bernard had said none was left.

  The cow was feeling frisky and Cormack was enchanted by her company. She was upbeat and girlish, a welcome change from Proton's manic intensity and Bernard's stiff precision.

  When they had finished eating, they ran and slithered together in the woods like small children, dodging behind the ancient hardwood trees, and playing games of tag and hide-and-seek, scrawling messages to each other with twigs in the soil. They carved their names with spoons on the bamboo.

  It was the first chance they had had to be alone together since they had met in the Prison Whale a
nd all the cares of those and the subsequent days fell away at last, sloughed off like the cow’s legs had been at the start of their long journey.

  When they were done running, and were quite spent, they fell to the forest floor together. The cow was panting from thirst, her eyes bulging huge with the dehydration, and Cormack suddenly rolled on top her, straddling her midriff, and grabbed her by the shoulders, looking her square in the eyes.

  ‘Cow, what’s going to happen after the Third Ordeal?’ he said.

  ‘The Throat will pronounce you, Cormack,’ she said.

  She was taken aback by his sudden change of mood.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You will be declared as the Negus.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We will make our move. Me and Stanton Bosch.’

  She could feel the fear in him, how he was tensed above her, the insistent pressure of his fingers on her bristled hide.

  ‘Don’t worry, Cormack. Everything will be all right,’ she said softly. ‘You’re protected now. You’re one of us. A proper Pantheistic Syllogist.’

  She held out a stump and stuck out her tongue.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’ve never done this before. To anyone.’

  She took Cormack’s hand carefully and moving it towards her mouth with the stump, licked it hard.

  He could feel the roughness of her tongue like sandpaper on his skin, and then the heat of her saliva coating his hand with her sticky wetness, and he lay back on the soft grass and closed his eyes, and gave a little gasp.

  ‘See,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Cormack. Everything’s going to be just fine.’

  ***

  Chapter Forty Three

  The Emperor was unprepared for extra-time, it not being one of the settings on his simulator, and didn’t know what to do, and had to be told by the centre right that there were two halves and another half-hour to go. It seemed to intensify his catatonia, and he left to take his position in the centre of the field with a mechanical resignation that seemed more appropriate to an android.

  Bellingham was, by contrast, energized and baying for blood. She had her team in a huddle again and wanted them to try a new tactic.

  ‘Leave the Emperor unmarked,’ she said.

  ‘But he’s their best player,’ said Frantic.

  ‘Leave him alone and we will have an extra man up front. He’s tiring and they are being solicitous to him. He won’t know what to do with a brand new spandrill.’

  It was fighting talk and she backed it up by having the referee inspect the spandrill. In consultation with the Emperor, they agreed it was just about dead and would do with changing. They sent for the replacement and a small spare was found and coerced into service by spanking with a mallet. Then they were off again - extra-time.

  The play was desultory to begin with, both sides aware of the magnitude of what was at stake. Bellingham, with the most to lose, was, ironically, the least nervous, and found a lot of space on the left flank, but the midfield were having problems servicing her and were getting bunched in their own half. The Zargons were sitting back somewhat and hoping for the breakaway goal. The Emperor, unmarked now as planned, didn’t know what to do with his new found freedom and mounted a series of flashy sideways runs across the box that would have been obviously offside if the midfield had found him, which they didn’t, and then he sat back in a kind of sulk towards the halfway line.

  There was no score at the halfway mark.

  The second half was more frenetic. The ponies were very tired now, and had to be urged on with whips and hard kicks to the ribs. The game was favouring the better conditioned animals which tended to bear the lighter mounts. That evidently excluded Bellingham and her haggard steed, and she was effectively sidelined, which meant the rest of her team had to work doubly hard to counteract the surge from the Zargons, who had had a second wind and were charging hard.

  Two minutes from the end came the decisive play. The Zargonic centre midfield had the spandrill and was unmarked in the first third of the Cramptonian half. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the Emperor begin a long loping run down the left wing, and his first instinct was to serve him up the spandrill with a fluid thwack. But he hesitated, considering his other options such as the centre forward well marked on the outside of the box, and whilst he hesitated the Emperor jinked goal-ward and lost his man, and it was a simple matter to roll the spandrill through the gap in the midfield and into his path. He was clear on goal with only the keeper to beat.

  The Emperor let out a mighty howl, the only sound that had come from him throughout the game, and rose in his stirrups, tightening the throat cable which rocked the box that contained the hive-mind strapped to his head, and something seemed to move inside because it had him reeling, and instead of flowing forward over the ball and guiding it into the net, he topped the shot, so that the spandrill took a nasty tickle on its rear and shuffled into touch.

  ‘Blasted hive-mind!’ he roared aloud. ‘Blasted box of bots! You made me miss!’

  The hive-mind was in no position to respond. It could sense that the box was slipping off the Emperor’s head, and that the throat cable was getting taut, and that it might snap if it fell, and that the Emperor, the only individual that could do something about it, was going to do nothing. The hundreds of millions of nano-bots inside lurched collectively to one side in a desperate effort to counterbalance the fall, but it was too late. There were not enough of them and they were so small.

  The box dropped off the Emperor’s head.

  The cable tightened violently when it was at full extension, half way down the chest of the polo pony, and it jerked the Emperor’s head forward viciously, and pulled him down and onto the pitch. He felt something wet at the back of his throat, and saw a dribble of blood that had leaked from his mouth onto the grass. The box was on the ground too, buzzing noisily.

  Eventually, after his head cleared, the Emperor picked himself and the box up and dusted himself down. He felt along the throat cable to where it entered his mouth. He could feel a small flow of blood in the back of his throat. It filled his mouth and he retched. Then he pulled at the cable.

  It came right out.

  He had the most God-awful headache. Everything about him degaussed. The pony over him in yellows and reds, looming as if he was flattened on a chessboard, the knight bearing down. An absence. Up in the sky. The sun – darkening, not illuminating. Pain in his mouth. A roar. The noise of the crowd like static.

  He smelt grass.

  ***

  Chapter Forty Four

  The Sibyl had at last located the cage.

  It had been found close to where the Shamanic Throat had suggested, partially buried amongst a pile of rubbish that disfigured the far side of the glade and marked one hundred and sixty years of the Throat’s and Bernard’s inadequate bachelor housekeeping. The Sibyl determined it was serviceable by pulling at it a little. He didn’t remember it being quite so huge, and it had appurtenances and pieces that seemed superfluous, but the Throat was convinced of its authenticity after a brief demonstration with Proton standing in for Cormack and a patch of nettles for the raging volcanic fire.

  ‘Good to go again,’ said Bernard, noticeably relieved.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, Bernard,’ said Proton.

  ‘Absolutely. Ordeal by Fire. The Final Ordeal.’

  The cage was moved into position that night, and so, the next day, they began the long walk up the secret path with little in the way of baggage. The cow decided to stay behind in camp, sensibly considering the long slither might be too much for her. The Sibyl was not in the best physical condition, being over two hundred years old, so it was slow going through fields of bright blue cornflowers and strange weeds the colour of rape and low cut grass that was grazed by sad looking oxen, but at last they were up against the side of the volcano, smaller on this side because the ground, rich with vegetation, rose up
to it, and Cormack could see the path wind up and round to a small dark arch that led inside. Proton led the way, this being familiar territory. Once they had passed through the dark arch, they went through a succession of antechambers, full of stalagmites and stalactites that dripped foul smelling water on them. They stumbled along, minding where they trod, and at last they came to a large open chamber, and Proton led them upwards, along a winding staircase cut into the rock to a further chamber that led to a long platform like a diving board that hung over the lava pool below. At the top, Cormack looked down to the floor of the volcano and felt the heat rising, reddening his face.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Sibyl. ‘Unfortunate really. Rather frying pan into fire for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Cormack.

  ‘As I said before, I’ve lodged a recommendation with the Throat to see if he can’t liven it up a bit for future Candidates but he’s reminded me that the volcano really is a lot of the reason for our being located here so things are unlikely to change in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘I see. It’s really not a bother,’ said Cormack and the Sibyl smiled back weakly.

  The hoist and winch were already in position and it was a small matter to attach the cage.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Bernard to Cormack, indicating the entrance to the cage.

  By now, Cormack was confident enough in Stanton Bosch’s amazing ability to extricate him from the Ordeals that he only offered token resistance as a matter of form and so as not to arouse suspicions. Proton in turn reciprocated by fingering his laser gun half-heartedly and, formalities having thus been observed, they were ready to go.

  The cage was shut with a clang, padlocked, and then attached to a chain that led over the winch and through a pulley. With an enormous effort from the Sibyl – Proton’s offers of help were refused as bad form – the cage was raised and locked in position.

  The Sibyl stood back, breathless, and gave the final instructions.

  ‘Candidate,’ he said. ‘This is the Final Ordeal. Ordeal by Fire. As I say, this is a first for us. No one has ever completed the Second Ordeal before, so we are a little unpractised as to the mechanics of the thing. But the Throat and I do take an enormous amount of pride in our ability to work these things through and we think everything is thoroughly in order according to all the Ancient Texts. So there really should be nothing to worry about at all. Unless you’re not the Negus of course. Then you would have to be very worried indeed…’