Why had the soulbomber demanded to speak to me, and only me? Julien had shown me a photo of the guy before I left; but I didn’t recognise him. There was nothing special or striking about him. If anything, he’d looked almost defiantly average. Did he want to lure me in, to be sure of getting me? Did he need to look me in the face, to tell me something important to him, before he could destroy himself? Or had he heard of my ability to work miracles on a budget and drop-kick victory from the jaws of defeat, and was hoping to be talked out of it? Or possibly even rescued if this hadn’t been his idea in the first place ... It’s amazing the things a man will do—for money or fame or if his loved ones are threatened.
My footsteps echoed loudly on the quiet, I could actually hear my own breathing, and my heart was hammering in my chest. Malls aren’t supposed to be quiet or empty. It felt unnatural. And then I stopped abruptly as I heard footsteps up ahead, coming my way. I slipped my left hand into my coat-pocket and let my fingers drift over certain useful items ... and then took my hand out again. It was the Nightside CSI—first in, last out, as always. He came round the corner, stopped when he saw me, then smiled and nodded amiably enough. The Nightside CSI is only one man, pleasant enough, calm and easy-going, and very professional. It probably helps that he has multiple personality disorder, with a sub-personality for every speciality and discipline in his profession. (One to handle fingerprints, another to examine blood spatter, or look for magical residues ...) He’s really quite good at his job though he does tend to argue with himself.
Between himself, he knows everything he needs to know.
Each sub-personality has a different voice. Some of them are women. I’ve never asked.
“Alistair Hoob,” I said. “As I live and breathe heavily. No-one told me you were still in here. How are we doing today?”
“As well as can be expected, Mr. Taylor. Not much in the way of evidence to offer you, I’m afraid. (You didn’t check for fingerprints!) (What was the point?) (Hush, we’re talking.) All the soulbomber brought in was himself, and he wouldn’t allow me to get anywhere near him. (Has anyone seen my wetwipes?)”
Alistair Hoob is a big blocky type with a shock of bushy red hair, one green eye and one blue, and a reasonably sane smile that comes and goes according to who’s talking. He always wears the same baggy white sweater with holes in it, grubby cream slacks, and cheap knock-off trainers. He carries a battered old briefcase that unfolds and unfolds, to contain all his (very) specialised equipment. I once saw him open it wide enough to pull out a chemical lab, an X-ray machine, and a rather surprised-looking rabbit.
“Have you spoken to our soulbomb, Alistair?” I said.
“Oh, of course. (Seems sane enough, if a bit gloomy.) Bit frustrating, really, as he didn’t want to talk to me. (Smells funny.) He was quite insistent that he would only talk to John Taylor; but he wouldn’t say why. And he wouldn’t let me get close enough to run any useful tests. (Elephant!) (Shut up!)”
“But you are certain he’s a soulbomber?”
“Unfortunately, yes. You wouldn’t believe the state of his aura. Even sitting still, he’s giving off so many negative vibrations he’s contaminating his surroundings. It’ll take weeks to scour the psychic stain out of the area. Assuming you can talk him down, of course. (Oh, well done, Mr. Tact.) I’ve run all the usual tests on the Emporium, and I can tell you that no-one else is in here with us. (No life signs anywhere.) (Except for the exotic pet shops on the thirteenth floor, and they’re all securely locked down.) (Spiders shouldn’t get that big. There ought to be a law. It’s unnatural, and it might give them ideas.) So once I’m gone, you’re on your own, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. (Bye-bye.)”
“Are all the dimensional doors and gateways properly shut down and closed off?” I said, when I could get a word in edgeways.
“For the moment, yes. But if the soulbomber should go boom! all bets are off. We can’t predict the outcome because there’s never been a soulbomb explosion next to a dimensional door before. (I checked before I came in here. Went to the Library, and everything.) There was a soulbomb explosion some twenty-odd years ago, in Tokyo’s fabled Sinister Zone. Blew it right out of reality. Just a bloody big crater now, with energies radiating in all directions that can mutate your DNA if you even think about going to take a look at it. The Japanese have been throwing all kinds of lizards into it, hoping they’ll mutate into giant forms ... They do love their cinema, the Japanese. (I like the Muppets.) (Has anyone noticed it’s getting cold in here? I should have brought a scarf.)”
“Has a soulbomb ever exploded in the Nightside?” I said, frowning.
“Not ... as such, Mr. Taylor. In fact, I’m really quite curious to observe what might happen here. (From a distance.) (A safe distance.) (Why are we still standing round talking?) I could learn all kinds of fascinating things. (From a distance.) (Yes, we’ve established that.)”
“Can you tell me anything about the soulbomber himself?” I said desperately. “What kind of a man is he?”
“Troubled, clearly. (Looney Tunes.) (Bit harsh ...) The subject is male, middle-aged, no wedding ring. Could be a midlife crisis. (Should have bought a Porsche, like everyone else.) Didn’t have much to say for himself, just Go away and Where’s John Taylor? He seemed determined enough, in a quiet way. (Stubborn.) No signs of fear or uncertainty. No hysterics. I couldn’t get close enough to run medical scans, but he seemed physically sound.”
“Do me one last favour,” I said. “Run one last scan of the Emporium; check for mechanical or magical booby-traps.”
“Way ahead of you, Mr. Taylor. Done and done. I am a professional, after all. It’s all quiet; nothing here that shouldn’t be. And I am now leaving the Emporium, while the leaving is good. (I’m gonna leave old Durham town ...) I may even leave the Nightside, to be on the safe side. Not that I doubt your abilities, Mr. Taylor, but there are limits to how professional I’m prepared to be. If the dimensional doors go down ... (There are those who say ...) (No, there aren’t; you’re thinking of something else.)”
“The Emporium does have a lot of protections in place,” I said.
“Oh yes, Mr. Taylor. Absolutely and quite definitely, there are many protections in place. First-class protections, magical and scientific. Unfortunately, someone has shut them all down. Every last one of them. In advance. (Makes you think, doesn’t it?) Good-bye, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. Soulbomber’s down that way; keep going, you can’t miss him.”
“Any last advice?”
“Try not to upset him.”
He hurried off, and I was left alone in the Emporium. Just me, and the soulbomber.
I’d never known the Emporium to be so still, so silent. Like the calm before the storm. I headed for the centre of the mall, following Alistair Hoob’s directions. My footsteps seemed to echo increasingly loudly on the quiet, carrying news of my progress. The lights shone as brightly as ever, fierce and characterless fluorescent light, and there were no shadows anywhere. But it felt as though there were. For all the intense illumination, it felt like I was walking into darkness.
I could feel the weight of Excalibur, invisibly scabbarded on my back. It was a comforting feeling, like it was watching my back and holding my hand, a companion in my time of need. But it also felt like it was trying to warn me of something. No words; only this feeling that there was something very bad here, apart from the soulbomber. But sometimes you have to suck it up and walk into the trap if that’s what it takes to get to the heart of the matter. I slowed my pace, wandering along quite casually, looking into the shop-windows. Never let them know they’ve got you worried. I surreptitiously checked every doorway and every side passage as I came to them, just in case; but there was never anyone there.
Some of the goods on display were quite interesting. The Elizabethan Goode Foode Shoppe, offering hedgehog in clay, coney on a stick, hedgerow salad soup (every dish a surprise!), puffin flambé. And jugged venison, in very large jugs. Given what some of our ancestors ate in the past, it
amazes me that any of us are here.
The Twenty-Second Century Magik Shop had a special sale on Pickled Pixies, Flying Slippers, Old Ones Repellent, and a new exorcism plug-in for your computer. I lingered a while before the window of a specialist bookshop called Pornucopia, which sold specially bound editions of the private pornography written by famous authors, for their own pleasure, never intended for publication. But once you’re dead, it’s all fair game, so ... Miss Marple at the Isle of Lesbos, Lady Chatterly’s Gang Bang, and Barbara Cartland’s Strap-on Frenzy.
Sometimes I think if it wasn’t for bad taste, the Mammon Emporium wouldn’t have any taste at all. I made a mental note to look back later. If there was a later.
I realised my path was taking me right past the Emporium’s one and only real oracle, so I decided to pay it a quiet visit. On a mission like this, information is ammunition. The oracle doesn’t look like much: just a traditional stone-walled wishing well, with a circle of stained glass round it, a patchy red slate roof, and a bucket on a chain. It couldn’t be more tacky if it tried. A sign in appallingly twee language invited you to throw a coin into the well, make a wish, and toss your worries away. Whoever wrote that clearly knew nothing about oracles. Officially, it was all a harmless bit of fun for the kiddies. What better disguise for one of the few truly reliable oracles in the Nightside? I had approached it for help once before and knew better than to expect anything actually helpful. Like everyone else in the Nightside, the oracle had its own agenda.
The well knew I was coming before I did. I hadn’t even turned the corner when it called out to me.
“Well, well, the one and only John Taylor; which is just as well because I don’t think I could stand it if there were more of you. Your entire existence plays merry hell with the time-lines. Look over there in the corner; see that woman, crying her eyes out? That’s Fate, that is. Hello again, John. Knew you’d be back.”
“I never knew an oracle that was so in love with its own voice,” I said. “Now do me a favour and keep your voice down. The soulbomber isn’t far from here, and we really don’t want to upset him.”
“I know! I know he’s there, and I know why he’s there, which is more than you do. I know everything. Or at least, everything that matters, and I fake the rest. I even know what you’re going to ask before you ask it, and you really aren’t going to like the answers.”
“Tell me anyway,” I said, leaning heavily on its stone wall. “What can you tell me about this soulbomber?”
“Cross my palm with silver, sweetie, and I shall unfold wonders and marvels ...”
“Cut the crap. I’m not a tourist. You haven’t got a palm, and no-one’s used silver coins for years. You get the usual—one drop of blood, and that’s it.”
“You have no sense of drama.”
I pricked the tip of my left index finger with the sliver of unicorn’s horn I carry in my lapel to warn against poisons and let one fat drop of blood fall into the dark interior of the well. The oracle made a really disgusting satisfied sound, and I winced despite myself.
“All right, you old ham,” I said. “You’ve had your payment, now answer the question. What do I have to do to stop the soulbomber?”
“There’s nothing you can do. The soulbomb will detonate some forty-one minutes from now.”
I blinked a few times. “That’s it?”
“Afraid so. There isn’t a single possible future where the soulbomb doesn’t detonate.”
“No way of avoiding it?”
“None at all.”
“Can’t I try talking to him?”
“If you like.”
“Will that help?”
“No. Doesn’t matter what you do or say: Mr. Soulbomber, he go boom.”
“Well, you’re a lot of use!”
“Lot of people say that to me ...”
“All right,” I said, searching desperately for some solid ground. “Let’s try something else. What can you tell me about Excalibur?”
“You mean that appallingly powerful thing hanging off your back? Burning so brightly I can’t even look at it? Well, to start with, it’s not really a sword. It only looks like one.”
“What is it, then?”
“Reply cloudy, try again later. I told you, it’s so potent I can’t even get a good look at it. You could cut the world in half with a weapon like that.”
“I thought you said it isn’t a sword?” I said.
“It isn’t. It’s much more than a sword. More than a weapon. It’s the lever you turn to move the world.”
“Can you tell me why it’s entered my life?”
“I see you going on a long journey ...”
“If you tell me I’m going to meet a tall dark stranger, I swear I will unzip right here and now and piss into you.”
“You would, too, wouldn’t you? Bully ...”
“Hold everything,” I said. “You’re predicting a journey in my future. How can I have a future if the soulbomb’s going to go off in forty-one minutes?”
“Actually, rather less than that now. But yes, I see your point.” The oracle hummed tunelessly to itself for a moment. “Look, your whole existence is so unlikely it gives me a pain in the rear I haven’t got just thinking about it. It’s hard to be sure about anything where you’re concerned.”
“Because my mother was a Biblical Myth?”
“That doesn’t help, certainly. But it’s more that you’re involved in so many vital, important, and earth-shaking things, that every decision you make changes not only your life but everyone else’s as well.”
“It’s the destiny thing, isn’t it?” I said.
“See that sacred-looking guy over there, with the nervous twitch, trying to comfort Fate? That’s Destiny, that is.”
“Whatever happened to free will?”
“I do have an answer to that,” said the well smugly, “but it would make your head explode. I could tell you a lengthy but complex parable if you like.”
“Would it help?”
“Not really.”
“But you are completely certain that the soulbomb is going to explode?”
“Oh yes. In thirty-nine minutes.”
“I hate you.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
I ran through the rest of the corridors to be sure of reaching the soulbomber in time. The oracle is shifty, crafty, and absolutely glories in being spitefully obtuse; but it’s never wrong. My only hope was that it had seen some kind of future for me afterwards. Otherwise, I’d have said, Sod this for a lark, and legged it for the nearest exit. There had to be something I could do. Contain the explosion, perhaps, using the mall’s shields? Throw the soulbomber through one of the dimensional doorways? I told myself I’d think of something, and tried very hard to believe it. After all, I wouldn’t lie to me about something like that.
I found him sitting quite casually on the floor, in the very centre of the mall. A balding, dumpy, middle-aged man in shabby clothes, with sad eyes and a tired mouth. Sitting on the floor, doing nothing in particular, waiting for me to turn up. I let him have a good look at me before I moved cautiously forward. I was a bit concerned that the sight of me might be enough to set him off; but he didn’t look scared, or angry, or impatient. He just looked ... relieved, that his waiting was finally at an end. He nodded to me, briefly, and I stopped a careful distance away from him. He didn’t look like a terrorist, or a fanatic. Maybe I could still talk him out of it.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m John Taylor.”
“I know,” he said. His voice was reassuringly calm, and normal. “He showed me several photos of you before they sent me in here, so I could be sure it was you. I’m Oliver Newbury. You won’t have heard of me. No-one has. I was an ordinary, everyday guy, and I liked it that way. I didn’t ask for much, didn’t want much; but the world took it all anyway ... You wouldn’t think you could get bored, waiting to die; but you can. Feels like I’ve been here for hours. And no; you can’t talk me out of this. My
wife is dead. I’m crippled with debts I can’t pay and a family I can’t support any more. This is all that’s left—one last act of rage against a viciously unfair and uncaring world. He’s promised to pay off all my debts, you see, if I do this thing. He’ll see my children are protected and cared for. It’s all I can do for them.”
“If you’re so determined to die,” I said, “for revenge, for money ... why have you waited to talk to me?”
“That was part of the deal,” he said, not unkindly. “To lure you in and take you with me when I go. He said you wouldn’t be able to resist a trap baited with your name. He said you were arrogant and predictable. And you’re here, aren’t you?”
“Don’t go off bang just yet,” I said. “I’m also curious. What’s the point of all this? What does your benefactor hope to gain from your suicide?”
“Apparently, when I explode, the energies released will destroy every dimensional door in the Emporium,” Oliver said calmly. “Blow them all right off their hinges and allow Things from Outside to come in and destroy the Nightside. And please: yes, I do know what I’m saying. Don’t try and appeal to my better nature. I don’t care how many people die, or how much of the Nightside gets trampled underfoot by the Outsiders. No-one cared when I lost my wife, and my job, and couldn’t look after my children any more. I’m a suicide, Mr. Taylor. My life is over. I volunteered to be made into this awful thing, a soulbomb. It hurt like hell, but it was worth it because I can’t feel anything any more, only cold. I’m always cold now. At least this way, my death will mean something. It’ll make a difference. I get to show my anger and contempt at a world that let me down, then kicked me while I was down. I get to punish it as it deserves.”
“Do you know the kind of Things from Outside we’re talking about?” I said carefully. “They exist in dimensions far from ours, far from reality, as we understand it. They’re not even life, as we understand it. They hate life, and destroy it wherever they find it. They want to destroy the Light, until there’s nothing left but the Darkness they hide in.”