Foul Ball

  ‘What is that?’ said Cormack.

  ‘A communication device. Keep it about you. He’ll be calling you when we get to Kabbal.’

  ***

  Chapter Fifty

  The death of the Emperor was all over the uniSwarm, all over all the channels, all over everywhere. Nothing quite so sensational had happened in the Universe for a good long time – not since his father had poisoned the Senate and laid the blame on his aunt and had her disembowelled over the course of a week by Proctors using razor wire threaded on a mangle.

  Mrs. Bellingham’s final belly flop, his blowing up, the chaotic scenes that followed, were all endlessly replayed on the media outlets. Conspiracy theories were expounded; political scientists were inveighed; the resulting power vacuum was analysed beyond anybody’s capacity to take it all in.

  In short, the Empire, just as Mrs. Bellingham had planned, was in chaos.

  The hive-mind was picked up piece by piece and there was an attempt to reassemble it, which was compromised when the nano-bots, finally released from the confines of their box, all ran away at once. Nothing could be salvaged. Mrs. Bellingham’s duct was found, inert, in the front row of the main stand. Then it was discovered the Emperor had not been properly backed up, too much reliance having been placed by the technicians responsible on a hive-mind that had proved itself dangerously unreliable. So it really was sayonara for the lot of them.

  The Senate wished to announce a new Emperor immediately, but the obvious candidate, the Emperor’s eldest son, was dithering. Frightened of assassination, he had gone into hiding by closing his eyes tightly in a loft on a Pleasure World, and they played along, politically, by pretending their search drones couldn't see him.

  There were numerous other pretenders, but none could gain sufficient support from the Senate, and there was nothing to be done except to wait it out until a consensus could be formed around a new candidate that might be acceptable to a majority.

  The Opikarp, himself, had initially expressed a wish to be nominated. But support for an Emperor confined to a fish tank was not likely to be overwhelming, and he had eventually decided to withdraw his candidacy and perhaps try another time, when the new Emperor was killed, he supposed, which would surely happen quickly. The long, stable periods of Imperial Rule represented by the Emperor and his father were now over for good, he was sure - unsustainable periods of quietude in a Universe of flux.

  In any case, he was under arrest, which in his case meant little change in his living conditions, his tank still being surrounded by armed guards much as it was before, only now their guns were pointed at him. He was accused of complicity in the assassination of the Emperor – a charge, given the circumstances, it was proving hard to deny. He had already fingered Traction, and Traction was likely being tortured, but the fact that Mrs. Bellingham had managed to get to the Emperor with a loaded mallet, and the fact that she was on Zargon 8 with the connivance of the Opikarp, and the fact that the Emperor and the hive-mind were not around to support his alibis, made the Opikarp’s position very dangerous.

  Still, he thrived on danger, he thought. It surrounded his fish tank, corrupted his fish weed, and made his fish food piquant. He would survive this latest calumny.

  His only thought was to turn it to his advantage.

  ***

  Chapter Fifty One

  Cormack, the cow, the Sibyl and Proton reached Kabbal a little before nightfall. It had not been a difficult journey - the Sibyl’s estimate of a day was, after his manner, conservative - because they had fashioned a little sled for the cow from two bamboo branches that they pulled with thick vines they had found in the forest so they could walk apace.

  All the same, they were exhausted when they came upon the little settlement of a few hundred huts.

  The huts were circular, with straw roofing, and constructed from wattle and daub. Smoke rose from their high chimneys, and, as they passed, they could see great fires roaring within, and women cooking, boiling stews in black iron cauldrons. Outside, ragged children, caked in mud, played with skinny dogs, and skipped in front of them as they walked down the narrow streets.

  They came across a storehouse, a granary, and several workshops, with smiths inside wearing leather aprons and hammering at red hot irons. Pleasing smells of freshly cooked breads and pastries announced a bakery, and there was a butcher’s, and a smokehouse, close to the slurries that ran to cesspits.

  There, they found a leatherworker, lifting a pelt to carry to his liming pit. He was clothed from head to foot in dirty bandages so that he looked leprous and ruined. And there was an inn, empty save mine host.

  Everywhere they were greeted with scowls and sneers and nobody was happy to see them.

  Proton had them walk right across the town, and then, when he realized he had gone too far, and the village was gone and the jungle was around him, he started to lead them back in again.

  ‘Are we going anywhere in particular?’ asked Cormack.

  ‘Searching for signs of civilization, Cormack,’ he said resignedly.

  They marched around the huts again, kicking at the piles of offal raked in untidy heaps.

  ‘Well, I’m going to have to leave you here,’ said Bernard, sounding like he had had enough. ‘My work is done.’

  ‘Really?’ said Proton. ‘You’re off now?’

  ‘Yes, I need to be heading back.’

  ‘Regards to the Shamanic Throat.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Sibyl, glorious in his multi-coloured caftan, sloped off back down the path and with a last languorous wave was lost into the dark of the forest.

  ‘Right,’ said Proton, looking bereaved. ‘These people must have a leader or something, mustn’t they? Mustn’t they? They’re so…disappointing…’

  ‘I expect there’s a Village Chieftain,’ said Cormack brightly.

  ‘Yes, a Village Chieftain. That might do,’ said Proton.

  He accosted a bearded individual who was staring in disbelief at the cow.

  ‘Excuse me, young sir,’ he said. ‘Could you take me to your Village Chieftain?’

  ‘Over there,’ said the man, pointing to a large hut they had passed by earlier.

  It was centrally located, another wattle and daub construction built around an enormous stone chimney, square like a turret, from which beams were hung like umbrella spindles to form a frame for its thatch of straw.

  The floor was of baked mud and the man who stood on it, according with the prevailing sentiment within the village, was not pleased to see them.

  ‘Full up!’ he cried. ‘You’ll have to clear your own spot in the forest. Here!’

  He tossed them an axe that Proton caught deftly by the handle.

  ‘We’re not staying actually,’ said Proton.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘No. We’re mobilizing.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I bring you the Negus! Cormack, stand up straight!’

  ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

  ‘You know, that’s what I was thinking…’ said Cormack.

  ‘The Negus!’ said Proton, with some distaste. ‘Not yet come to terms with his new position. Do stand up straight, Cormack! This is important!’

  The Village Elder looked Proton up and down.

  ‘I suggest you take the axe and clear yourself a spot in the forest. You can sleep there tonight. We’ll see that you are unharmed. You can leave in the morning.’

  ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘See, we don’t take too kindly to people that come here and make jokes at our expense.’

  ‘No, no! You have us wrong. This is no joke. This is the Negus. He’s certified by the Shamanic Throat. See.’ Proton took Bernard’s scroll from his coat and showed it to the Elder. ‘We’re here to mobilize you.’

  The Elder was reluctant to accept the scroll, but he eventually took it, opened it, and read it punctiliously, from top to bottom twice.

  ‘It looks authentic,’ he said at l
ast.

  ‘It is authentic.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From the Shamanic Throat. Look, Bernard…’ said Proton, forgetting that Bernard had already left. ‘Damn!’

  ‘Well, the procedure is very straightforward with any claimants like this,’ said the Elder.

  ‘I’ve gone from being a candidate to being a claimant,’ said Cormack.

  ‘We have to send it for verification to Shambalah.’

  ‘The Throat is packing up. He’ll be gone by the time you get there.’

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ said the Elder. ‘So many phonies pass this way.’

  Proton stayed, arguing with the Elder, whose name was Dennis, for a quarter-hour or so, but even he had to admit defeat in the face of such stolid opposition, and they repaired across town to cut a bed in the trees.

  ‘It would help if you could perform a miracle or something,’ he said to Cormack.

  ‘I’ve already told you, I’m not capable of any miracles.’

  ‘It’s so disappointing, your general unwillingness to help out in situations like this. It's dangerous to get these people's backs up, you know. We’ve been through so much together, Cormack. Why won’t you help me?’

  ‘I’m not the Negus, Proton.’

  ‘C’mon on, mate!’ said Proton. ‘So, who the hell was it who performed the Three Ordeals then?’

  Cormack felt a tingle in his leg. It was the relay stick given him by the cow, vibrating to let him know that Stanton Bosch was on the line.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Proton, ‘Need to pee.’

  He walked a little further into the forest until he was hidden from view.

  ‘Yo there, skinny man!’ said Stanton Bosch on the phone. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘You don’t mind me there, skinny man,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘I is not the focus of this here operation. That there evil Captain Proton is treating you right?’

  ‘Everything is fine so far.’

  ‘Now, listen to me good. The Emperor has been killed.’

  ‘The Emperor is dead?’

  ‘Yes. But Proton must not be told. Have you got that?’

  ‘The Emperor is dead? It was very sudden.’

  ‘Listen to me, skinny man. You must not let Captain Proton find out that the Emperor is dead. Your life depends on it. The cow will help you in your task.’

  ‘Why does my life depend on it?’ asked Cormack, but Stanton Bosch had hung up.

  Cormack put the relay stick back in his pocket and went to join the others.

  They had found a good spot, not too far from the village, and had begun to clear it. Proton was slashing at the vegetation furiously and grumbling to himself.

  ‘You know, Cormack,’ he said when he saw Cormack was back. ‘Do we even need these losers?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Let’s get back to Bartislard and off this planet and get a connection to the uniSwarm.’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  The cow was trying to help them clear the area by chewing at the thicker grass.

  ‘I don’t mean to interrupt or nothing,’ she said, looking up, ‘but the prophecies do say that the Negus will march from this here Kabbal, don’t they?’

  ‘We could march from here to Bartislard, I suppose. Maybe that would fulfil the prophecies,’ said Proton, but seeds of doubt had been planted in his mind by the cow’s objection and he resumed hacking at the undergrowth in grim silence. They would rest there for the night and hope that Bernard would have send word to Dennis of Cormack’s authenticity by morning.

  ***

  Chapter Fifty Two

  In fact, Bernard was in Dennis’ hut enjoying a mug of steaming cocoa. He had gone a little way down the track to Shambalah, and then the sun had begun to set, and he hadn’t really felt like walking all that way in the dark, so he had turned back to Kabbal. He had watched Proton arguing with Dennis from a distance far enough away that he couldn’t be seen, and then he had waited until they had all gone before going inside Dennis’ hut.

  Dennis was, in fact, his cousin.

  ‘Why did you give him the scroll, Bernard?’ said Dennis, munching on a crumpet he had toasted on the blazing fire. It was filled with honey, so that the innards had slopped out and congealed round its outer circumference like fresh cement burst from its boarding.

  ‘His Candidate passed the test. There was nothing else I could do,’ said Bernard. He had taken off the multi-coloured caftan at last and revealed a dirty grey vest beneath.

  ‘The Throat has certified him?’

  ‘Indeed. Well, I didn’t note any objections. It’s very difficult between me and the Throat at the moment. I mean, this business you’ve got me in to of just picking up a frog from the Luminous Pool when the previous Throat has expired – are you completely sure there’s a valid theological basis?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s in one of the Texts. I’ll find the passage for you if it’s bothering you.’

  Dennis moved to the bookcase, curved to fit tight against the wall, and pulled a book, red and leather-backed, from a row.

  ‘Well, anyway, this latest frog is certainly a dead loss,’ said Bernard. ‘Almost had me in a deal of trouble with Captain Proton. It’s quite inscrutable. There’s only so much palaver one can do if it won’t move at all.’

  ‘The Captain seems to be insisting that we mobilize,’ said Dennis, putting the book back quietly.

  ‘Yes, it’s a bugger.’

  ‘So we will mobilize. Nothing for it. The whole bloody enterprise has gone arse over tits, cousin.’

  ‘Brave new world...’

  ‘I suppose. We’ve had it cushy here for too long. Time for a change.’

  ‘Drastic, though.’

  ‘Could we spin it out a bit longer? I could pretend that you can’t be found or something.’

  ‘Really rather not. We must have some respect for the prophecies. We are not charlatans.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Bernard. You’re quite right of course. It’s just so unexpected. That a successful Candidate could have come forth after all these years.’

  ‘You know, I was telling the Captain the same thing myself just yesterday.’

  ‘Back when we were young, one hundred and eighty years ago, when we were on fire with religion. Then we would have welcomed him.’

  ‘But he couldn’t be found.’

  ‘It was so disappointing.’

  ‘And now when we’re quite settled.’

  ‘And have roots…’ said Dennis, looking at the mantelpiece on one side of the fireplace, filled with gaudy knick-knacks, and deft little potteries, and worn keepsakes with bits broken off them, and Hummels.

  ‘It’s just a total bugger, but we must get on with it,’ said Bernard emphatically.

  ***

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Cormack had had a torrid night – the cow couldn’t sleep and had kept rolling over him and he had had dreams of being smothered by a leathery sea lion until he woke dripping with sweat and pushed her off.

  Proton was flustered too. His survival skills had once again proved wanting and he had made his bed in a nest of fire-ants which had crawled into his spandex bodysuit through a tiny point of entry near his armpit, one at a time, stinging him just enough to keep him awake but not enough for him to rise and destroy them, all throughout the night.

  There was nowhere to wash and the cow was livid.

  ‘This here ain't good enough for us, Cormack. We ain't be so badly treated since we did leave Zargon 8.’

  ‘I’m going to see Dennis again right away and see if we can’t get this thing sorted out,’ said Proton angrily.

  He marched in a fury to Dennis' hut, determined to have it out with him, and, on being allowed ingress, was surprised to see Bernard in the hut, drinking a cup of cocoa.

  ‘Hello, Captain Proton,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’

  ‘Bernard!’

  ‘Yes, and
how are you? How’s the Negus more importantly?’

  ‘Cormack, mate! Come in - Bernard’s here! Did they fetch you from Shambalah, Bernard?’

  ‘Ummm…No…’

  ‘Well, it's wonderful to see you,’ said Proton, still assessing the situation. ‘We need your help. See, we were having a problem with this fellow here.’ Proton pointed at Dennis, who was fetching hot snacks from a tiered dessert tray that hung in a cage with a bell. ‘He seemed not to recognize the Negus.’

  ‘I never said I didn’t recognize him,’ said Dennis, setting his tray down. ‘I just needed further confirmation from the Sibyl himself. A scroll can be forged, you know.’

  ‘Well, here is your Sibyl now. What say you, Sibyl?’ said Proton.

  ‘The little misunderstanding has been ironed out. Dennis is now convinced.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘We’re mobilizing around eleven. I just want to have a refreshing cup of tea before we get started,’ said Dennis.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Very disruptive for everybody, you know. It’s going to take a bit of doing.’

  ‘Dennis!’ growled Bernard.

  Dennis shuffled back to the fire.

  ‘You know each other?’ said Proton.

  ‘Dennis is a cousin,’ said Bernard.

  ‘What cosy little arrangements you have here on Foul Ball,’ said Proton.

  ***

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Mobilisation seemed to consist of the moving of tents and shifting of gear and packing away of bits and pieces to be put on carts and in wooden trailers under tarpaulins and sheets. The fires in the smithy were dowsed, and the baker had produced a final round, which sold out within minutes, and he shut his oven, bricked round the furnace, and joined his friend the leatherworker to slop out the tannery and drain the slurries. The children were washed and dressed and blessed by the Elder, then separated from the adults to form a squad by themselves. The carts were corralled, one for two families, and the things they had packed, bound in sheets or held in stout wooden trunks, were brought from the huts and laid on the ground and they decided in loud voices what needed to be taken and what they would leave. Then they boarded their doors and set the dogs loose to roam.