They Came and Ate Us_The B-Movie (Armageddon Trilogy 2)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘This does, I agree, present us with a problem. However I think I have the solution to it.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Jack without enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes. We will run a decoy for the ears of the military alone.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘From a portable deck set up in some phone booth a good distance from where we will be running our program.’

  ‘It could be done. We could set it to dial directly through to the computer at the nearest military base. There is one small problem here that I don’t think should be overlooked. We do not possess any of the equipment necessary to perform this miracle, neither do we possess another copy of the library transposition.’

  ‘We shall steal the equipment,’ said Rex carelessly. ‘As to another copy, we will use the one you keep in your house,’

  Jack’s face fell. ‘How did you know I have a back-up copy in my house?’

  ‘Come on now, Jack. You have been working on this project for five years. No computer programmer working on such a project as this would be foolish enough to have but a single copy. What if something went wrong with the disc? What if there was a fire at the university? What if thieves broke into the library, or vandals? Logic dictates that there would be a back-up copy. Common sense says that you keep it in your house.’

  ‘A regular Mr Holmes, aren’t you?’

  ‘What worries me,’ said Rex, ‘is that the military are even now ransacking your house in search of this back-up disc.’

  Jack spat egg all down his front. Rex shrugged. ‘The military mind is not fast. But it is dogged and thorough. It goes by the book, but so,’ and here Rex winked, ‘do we.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve got egg all down your front,’ he observed.

  Jack scowled. And then an evil and treacherous thought entered his normally easygoing mind. And here it began to fester.

  8

  ALOPECIA: It has long been an established fact that the so-called ‘great men’ of our time are much taken up with the cultivation of exotic hairstyles The likes of ALBERT EINSTEIN (that unprincipled scoundrel), Karl Marx and his brother Harpo, being prime examples There are countless more Beware of these men Baldness is a major step along the road to enlightenment The practice of baldness allows the cranium to absorb vital essences whilst offering mini-mum friction to the ETHER.

  Hugo Rune, The Book of Ultimate Truths

  Einstein and Rune met face to face upon only one occasion, although it is believed that they corresponded for many years When Einstein was awarded the Nobel Prize for his work on photoelectric emissions, Rune refused to go along to the slap-up nosh and wing-ding, claiming that Einstein had ‘ripped him off’.

  He did, however, bump into Einstein some weeks later at a Chinese restaurant. Accounts vary over what they actually discussed but it is generally agreed that some ‘pretty heavy debating’ went on. At one point Rune is reported to have jumped to his feet and told Einstein that he should ‘step outside and settle it man to man’. Einstein apparently paid the bill.

  Sir John Rimmer, The Wonderful World of Hugo Rune

  They called themselves the Zen Terrorists. And they now had connections worldwide. The first generation of computer kids back in the early 1980s had shown the way. Now there was no turning back. An international network of teenage computer pirates exchanging information, updating programs, cracking entry codes and making mischief with everything from the money markets to the local dry cleaners. They lacked any formal organization, recognized no leaders, knew no borders or boundaries. Their computers conversed in a single language. The language of analogue, the global tongue.

  Spike Laine cycled down toward the local Zen chapter house. She stopped off at a pay phone and dialled Jack’s home. As the number rang she placed a slim plastic unit against the receiver. Jack’s wife answered. The slim unit purred softly. Spike replaced the receiver. Jack’s phone was bugged. Something very serious was going down. And it was possibly her fault.

  For, whilst Jack had been taking his liquid lunch the previous day, Spike had been helping herself to several useful pieces of the Bio-tech hardware. She had sneaked them out before he returned. Perhaps the Dean had checked upon how Jack was doing and discovered the loss. Perhaps she had put Jack right in it.

  Although a rationalist, Spike was rarely slow to think the worst. But what was she to do? Own up? That didn’t seem a very good idea. After all she didn’t actually know that Jack had been arrested. His wife seemed to think he was out on some drinking binge. But the library was locked. And there was a soldier on guard. Something was happening and Spike wanted to know just what.

  The Zen’s local chapter house was in a basement beneath the Thelema Arcade, a video-games parlour in Lower Kingsport. Why subversives choose to congregate in cellars is anyone’s guess. They are a right blighter to escape from when the secret police come knocking. But then they do have a certain ‘ambience’, especially when they are all smoke-filled and sweaty. It is just another tradition, an old charter, or something. Spike cycled on down.

  She parked her bike in a vacant rack outside the arcade. Dropped half a dollar into the slot. Turned and withdrew the security key. Steel rods extended. Secured the bike against robbery.

  The video-games parlour was as grim as any of them are. Lots of neon. Lots of nasty machines and lots of kids who should have known better. Those playing, hunched in rows wearing headphones and goggles. Before them the holographic screens swarmed with mayhem. Everything was killing everything else. The Tec was a James Dean lookalike. If he hadn’t been working here servicing the equipment he would have probably been out somewhere stealing some. He was wiring in a new game called CARRION. He exchanged smiles with Spike as she entered.

  ‘Hi Tec.’ Never got a laugh.

  ‘Hi Spike.’ A man of few words.

  ‘New game? What’s this one do?’

  ‘Carrion.’ The Tec flung her a glossy manual. Spike read aloud the cover blurb. ‘Carrion. It bites back. New system Koshibo holophonic puts you where the action is. You are the last alive. The dead are on the attack. You have short-range maser cannon, shard sticks, hand strobe. They have teeth.’ Spike tossed it back. She had seen it all before. The holophonics relayed through the headphones let you feel it when the on-screen enemy shot you. With this one you could actually have the pleasure of feeling what it was like to have a zombie tear your throat out. Sick stuff. Some fun.

  Things had certainly come a long way since that first little bouncing tennis ball went back and forwards across the TV screen

  ‘I might just get around to zeroing Koshibo one of these days,’ said Spike.

  ‘You wish.’ The Tec adjusted the macroscopics over his eyes and delved into the microcircuitry. Spike left him to it. She danced away to the rear of the arcade, through a curtained doorway and down a flight of steps. Pressed her hand upon a concealed panel. A hidden door slid away. Spike stepped through the opening. The door slid back.

  The cellar was smoky, sweaty and ambient. But there was none of the chaos one might have expected. No cable clusters, flashing bulbs, instrument panels, crazy hard-ware, junk trappings. It was neat and clean. Four computer decks backed against one another in the centre of the low room. Each was a white compact unit with a double screen and triple keyboard. Two of the decks were occupied. Spike approached the first and peeped over the operator’s shoulder. ‘What have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘Hi Spike.’ The operator didn’t look up. ‘See those squirrels?’ Spike gazed at the small spinning discs on the screen. ‘Watch.’ Mad John, for such was his name, tapped out a numerical sequence. Coded patterns chattered up the screen. At intervals the ‘squirrels’ darted amongst them and gobbled up a number or two.

  ‘Who are you cutting?’

  ‘Nobody much. My neighbour. I was collecting for famine relief. Last night I try him. He says it’s God’s will they starve, bastard. Doing his expenses as he says it. I just happened to spy out his comp account number. Today he is making substantial gifts to charity. Sure wo
uld like to see his face when he gets his next quarterly statement.’

  Spike chuckled. ‘What’s Ella doing?’

  ‘Punishing some sod I expect. How come you’re not at the Misk?’ Mad John turned to face her. He was fifteen, cropped blond hair, even features, the body of an athlete.

  ‘The boss has gone missing,’ Spike explained. ‘The military are guarding the Misk library.’

  Mad John closed down. ‘That’s enough for today. Mustn’t get greedy. So what’s with your boss?’

  Spike shook her head. ‘We got issued a whole crate of Bio-tech yesterday.’

  John whistled. ‘Got any with you?’ Spike winked.

  ‘The Dean reckons someone is trying to cut the boss’s project. We were to set up a trace.’

  ‘You didn’t, of course.’

  ‘Of course not. I just set up a trip to let him know when he was getting cut. Now he’s gone missing. And I’m worried. I like the old guy.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘About three yesterday. I left for home around then.’

  ‘Then you missed all the fun.’ Ella Guru stuck her long pale face around her terminal.

  ‘I did?’

  ‘I was taking a little afternoon cruise through the matrix. Just to see if there were any back doors open. When out of the blue comes this mega input. Never seen anything like it before. Lasted about three minutes. Put everything else off the screen. I couldn’t get a fix on it. It must have been a Bio-tech cutter. Government or some-thing. It was no street pirate, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And that was it? Three minutes?’

  ‘That was it. And it hit the Misk, I could trace that. Come, I’ll show you.’ Spike joined the long thin young woman at her screen. ‘It showed up again a few hours ago.’ Ella punched codes into her deck. The screen displayed a revolving cone. Its colours came and went through the spectrum.

  ‘What is it? Some new kind of game?’

  ‘Some new kind of cutter! It’s a seeker. Very sophisticated. Very expensive. It’s searching for something,’

  ‘Who is putting it out?’

  ‘Can’t say. It’s working independently. Only know for sure when it’s found what it wants and calls it back to its control. If we can follow it. See this.’ She pumped away at the keyboard. ‘See. System after system, finance, home modes, industrial, telecommunication. It’s in all of them.’

  ‘Military?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s in every matrix, searching.’

  ‘Some big number. But a bit visible.’

  ‘Only to pirates like us. No straight is ever going to know it’s there.’

  ‘There has to be a connection. What has the boss got himself into?’

  ‘If I only knew what I have got myself into, I might have some way of getting myself out.’ The combination had given up the ghost and the two men were trudging across fields bound for Kingsport.

  ‘Why not just give yourself up and ask?’ Rex suggested, without humour.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it.’

  ‘After what went on back at the farmhouse? You surely don’t think they mean to take us alive?’

  ‘Well . . . I . . .’

  ‘We are loose ends, Jack. Our only chance is to find out who is behind all this. Then maybe we can bargain our way out.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just make a run for it?’

  ‘You could. But I doubt if you’d get far alone. I have nowhere to run to. I don’t belong here. I must do whatever it is I’m supposed to do. Then get home.’

  ‘That’s hardly my concern . . .’

  Rex grabbed him by the lapels. He was not by nature a man of violence. It turned his stomach. But his fuse was growing shorter. ‘Listen Jack. Somehow you got me into this and somehow you are going to help get me out. I got you out of the jail. I got you out of the farmhouse.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ Jack shook himself free. ‘All right.’

  The two men trudged on in silence. A few hundred yards ahead of them three camouflaged soldiers lay in ambush.

  At the very centre of the planet, Interrositer Prestidigitent KK Byron Wheeler-Vegan bounced along the marble floor of his gallery. He passed under an archway, along a corridor, up a flight of steps and into an antechamber. Here he paused before a door which had a nice polished brass plaque on it. The plaque said Zoroastra Findhorn Keep Out.

  Byron knocked gently. As there was no reply he marched right in. He found himself in a high-ceilinged circular room. Brass and copper tubes ran up its walls. Or down, whichever you prefer. At the room’s centre stood a control unit. A real Captain Nemo job, all turncocks and gauges. Byron’s fingers itched to have a little twiddle.

  ‘What is it, Byron?’ The voice came from above. Byron squinted up. Viceroy Zoroastra Findhorn stood upon the ceiling engaged at a control unit identical to that upon the floor.

  ‘Viceroy.’ Byron saluted. ‘I have a two-micron down-grade on a lateral augmentor.’

  ‘You always do.’ The viceroy left his work, walked down the tubed wall and joined Byron. Zoroastra Find-horn bore more than a passing resemblance to the late great Rondo Hatton. The big hands, the lot.

  ‘I need a service replacement.’

  ‘You always do.’

  ‘As of the now.’

  ‘It always is.’

  ‘Can I have one then?’

  ‘No, Byron, you can’t.’

  ‘But I must always ask?’

  ‘You must ask and I must answer. That is the way of it.’

  ‘But why can’t I have one?’

  ‘You must always ask that and I must always answer. What must I always answer?’

  ‘You must always answer “next time Byron”.’

  ‘And so I am saying that to you as of the now.’

  ‘I will return to my work then.’

  ‘You always do.’

  The viceroy turned away and plodded back up the wall. Byron watched him go. ‘I always sodding won’t,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘I had a good sniff around after Rambo’s mob left,’ said Fido. ‘But seems like they were telling the truth. Rex just vanished into thin air.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’ Christeen turned the water into wine and took a lunchtime glass.

  ‘Perhaps you should have a word with your brother.’ Christeen slammed down the wineglass. Fido took shelter beneath the table.

  ‘No offence, man.’

  ‘None taken. But my brother has had his moment. It’s my turn now.’

  ‘We’ll have to find Rex. He might be in serious trouble.’

  ‘He will be when 1 get hold of him.’ Fido flinched. Christeen sipped wine. ‘Did he say anything to you? About going somewhere, or something.’

  ‘Nothing. But he was on a real downer. Lost all purpose, know what I mean?’

  Christeen sipped further wine. ‘He’ll turn up. Probably off with some of his ghastly friends. Smoking dope and talking about the good old days.’ Fido considered that unlikely. Rex had never had any good old days.

  ‘Listen,’ Christeen stroked the dog’s furry head, ‘he’s probably having the time of his life. You can make love to my leg if you want to.’

  ‘Far out.’ Fido did what he did best. ‘Having the time of his life. Yeah, sweet.’

  Jack saw the abandoned jeep. But he didn’t see the trip-wire. As he fell Rex instinctively ducked for cover. A rifle butt swung past his head. Rex turned and caught the soldier off balance. Struck for the throat. Another sprang from nowhere. Pinned Jack down. Rex dived at him but a third man grabbed him from behind and held him in a fearsome grip. Rex just managed to kick out at Jack’s captor, caught him in the cheek.

  ‘Get to the jeep. Get it started.’ Jack crawled away.

  Rex wrestled vainly to free himself. The fallen soldier sprang up rubbing his cheek. With an evil grin he jingled the jeep’s keys toward Rex. Then he unsheathed his knife. Rex struggled but his arms were locked to his sides. The knifeman came in close
. ‘Stick him,’ said a voice at Rex’s ear. The knifeblade glittered in the sunshine. Rex gave its owner an almighty kick between the legs. ‘The keys are here,’ he shouted.

  Jack was now on his feet. He turned in mid-flee.

  ‘Jack, come on.’

  Jack considered his options. Two soldiers down. The third held Rex. Jack limped back. Plucked the keys from the cross-eyed soldier. Looked up at Rex. ‘Get it started!’ Jack dashed for the jeep. The big marine who held Rex was tightening his grip. Crushing the breath from him. Rex craned his neck forward. Sank his teeth into the soldier’s wrist. Then he brought his head back fast. The big man’s nose made that horrible crunching sound. The marine fell back. Rex made a run for it.

  Jack was fighting to start the jeep. He was shaking dreadfully. The engine coughed, faltered, burst into life. Jack slammed the jeep into gear. Rex sprang at it. Missed and rolled into the dirt. The jeep tore forward, wheels churning up the ground. Rex was up and running. ‘Jack, wait!’

  Jack’s knuckles tightened. His foot pressed down the pedal. It wasn’t the brake pedal. In the driving mirror Jack saw the running man grow smaller. Then a shot ran out and the running man fell and became still.

  9

  CONGREGATIONAL INSTINCT of inanimate objects: Metal coat-hangers passionately entwined in the cupboard under the stairs. Supermarket trollies forming vast underwater legions beneath canal bridges. Little yellow-handled screw-drivers huddled in small groups behind the books on the top shelf. Spare fuses, down the back of the armchair. What are they up to then? It is my belief, now universally accepted, that inanimate objects possess a rudimentary intelligence. They seek the fellowship of their own kind. But not necessarily where man chooses. The inanimate object is a social animal and employing man wherever possible, he sets out to some prearranged rendezvous where he can buddy up with his chums and chew the fat about the good old days.