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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I’m a genius, you see.’ The boy said it in such a manner that it left little doubt. That’s me up there. See those?’ Rex’s attention was drawn to numerous framed photographs, front covers of Time, newspaper headlines ‘Jonathan Crawford’s my name. Child prodigy. Boy millionaire. Super whizz. I’m probably the most hated kid in America. Strange that.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Rex. ‘I’ve only known you minutes and I hate you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that. I want us to be friends. I want to help you.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘We can help each other. You’re from the future, aren’t you Rex? What’s it like?’

  Rex sank into his chair.

  ‘Oh, here’s Sandy. Don’t say anything now.’ Sandy returned in the company of a chef and several nurses. These, respectively, served food, removed most of Rex’s clothes. Bathed and dressed his wounds and then re-clothed his body in sweet-smelling white linen. And then they were gone. Rex set about his meal. It tasted very good.

  ‘The future, Rex. Tell me about it.’

  Rex eyed him with suspicion. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Futures,’ said Jonathan. ‘You see Rex, the past and the present are all used up. It’s the future that matters.’

  ‘Did you bring me back here?’ Rex stuffed food into his face.

  Jonathan looked thoughtful. ‘Not exactly me.’

  ‘Then you know who. And why?’

  ‘I don’t know everything. Most things. A whole lot of things. But not all. I’m nineteen. Did you know that?’

  ‘You look much younger.’

  ‘Yes I do, don’t I? And do you know why?’

  ‘You have no doubt concocted the elixir of life from your chemistry set.’

  ‘Almost. Almost.’ Jonathan crowed with laughter. ‘Oh I do like you, Rex. You’re terrific.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But the future. Tell me about it.’

  ‘It stinks,’ said Rex. ‘And you’re not in it.’

  ‘No,’ Jonathan said. ‘I rather feared not.’

  ‘In fact I for one have never heard of you.’

  ‘What year are you from Rex?’

  ‘Two thousand and sixty.’

  ‘And when were you born?’

  ‘Twenty-seventh July two thousand and thirty.’

  ‘You don’t look thirty.’

  Rex smiled broadly and wiped food away with his knuckle. ‘You might know some things. But I know a whole lot more.’

  ‘I can get you back there. Or should I say forward there.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rex said. Then you are really the man I want to talk to.’

  ‘Then let’s talk business.’

  ‘Let’s do.’ Rex belched mightily. ‘Excuse me.’

  Jack cycled unsteadily through Kingsport. He was plotting and planning and reasoning out. Spike went to the university. I wasn’t there but trouble was, so she phoned my home and took off. Where could she be now? Jack didn’t know her address but he knew about the Thelema Arcade and the chapter house beneath it. If the military didn’t have her, it was most likely that she would be there.

  And she was. Jack puffed and panted and threw his neighbour’s bike into the rack beside Spike’s. He did not trouble to lock it up and within five minutes it had been stolen. Jack entered the arcade. The Tec looked up from his console. ‘Piss off,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s Spike? I have to speak to her.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Her bike’s outside.’

  ‘Not here.’

  Jack drew out his improbable weapon and pointed it at the young man. ‘This way,’ said the Tec.

  ‘You have Jack Doveston’s K-squared carbon,’ said Jonathan. ‘Might I see it please?’

  ‘I don’t have it. Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Please Rex. I saw you palm it when your clothes were being changed. It’s in the right top pocket of your jacket.’

  You’re a smart-arsed little sod, thought Rex.

  ‘Yes I am, aren’t I? Could I see the carbon please?’

  ‘It surely can’t be that important. Your troops were prepared to shoot it to pieces.’

  ‘They got a little carried away. I gave no orders for them to harm you.’ As Rex had no reason to believe a word Jonathan said, he chose not to start now. ‘The disc please, Rex.’ Rex pushed it across the desk.

  ‘It will be of no use to you. Jack Doveston has the entry codes and I have no idea where he is. In case you were thinking to beat it out of me.’

  ‘According to my calculations, Jack will now be at the Thelema Arcade. I took the liberty of tagging him internally whilst he was in custody. Ever so clever really. He was irradiated upon capture. Little device no bigger than a hand torch. One of my inventions of course. Jack blips away like a beacon. I can track him wherever he goes.’

  ‘Happy Jack. But tell me. How does someone of your youth hold such sway with the military?’

  ‘Fair question, Rex. I design defence systems. I don’t modify existing ones. I start from scratch and mine always work. I am the most valuable asset the military possess. They can’t do enough to please me. So they made me a general and they let me play soldiers once ina while.’

  ‘Sounds singularly unlikely to me.’ Rex sniffed at the glass before him. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Nutrient solution. Build you up.’

  Rex pushed it aside. ‘How was I brought back through time? Do you know?’

  ‘Glitchcraft,’ said Jonathan. ‘Do you believe in Magick?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Good. Now, Magick functions on the principle that certain words of power exist. When these are spoken correctly under the right circumstances they effect cosmic change. In some so far unfathomable way they weave space and bring about that which is sought. Such is the principle. The secret is to discover these words and to speak them with an unwavering exactness.’

  ‘And you can do this?’

  ‘Not as such. Not yet. But I have been working on a program to do this. The precision of the computer program makes it ideal to tackle the task. Human error has brought down many a good magician, if good is not a contradiction in terms.’ Jonathan chuckled, Rex didn’t. ‘No, someone has beaten me to it. Someone has perfected the Glitchcraft program. That’s what brought you back. Imagine the power of something like that.’

  ‘I can imagine the catastrophic potential.’

  ‘In the wrong hands.’

  ‘Yours being the right ones, I suppose? So who perfected this Glitchcraft program?’

  ‘I don’t know. But you could find out.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because you want to go home and the only way you can go home is to get your hands on the program. And the only person capable of running the program for you is me.’

  ‘What about the person who has the program now?’

  ‘They don’t have this.’ Jonathan held up Jack’s carbon. ‘This is the library. All the words are in here. The Glitchcraft program is just a lump of useless software without this.’

  Rex mulled it over. ‘I assume that you are the inventor of Bio-tech.’ Jonathan nodded brightly. ‘Then why can’t you just hack into this program and locate the brains behind it yourself?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t tried that. I hate to admit such a thing but the program actually has me baffled. I have never seen anything like it before. It’s like a ghost in the machine. Something actually alive in the matrix of the computer network.’

  ‘Artificial intelligence? I think not.’

  ‘There’s none of that where you come from then?’

  ‘None. And never any record of it being perfected.’ Rex chose his words with care. ‘It never got off the ground.’

  ‘No, I rather thought not. But see Rex, there are certain possibilities. Firstly that your being brought back here was the product of sheer chance. Personally I discount this. Secondly that you were brought back to serve a specific purpose. This I find plau
sible. But it poses another series of unanswerable questions. How could anyone in this day and age select someone, as yet unborn, from the future and transport them back into the past? What could a man from the future do that a man in the present cannot? And what will happen to the future if he does anything?’

  ‘Such questions have of course crossed my mind. Clearly you know as little about this as I do. I will now, I think, take my leave. Should I come up with anything of importance I will not hesitate to contact you. You have my word of honour on this. Good day.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think I would let you just walk out?’

  ‘You have Jack’s disc. My plan was to run it and then attempt to locate the cutter. You can do the same. If I have been brought back here for some specific purpose, then whoever brought me back will be searching for me. They won’t be able to find me if I am locked up here. You serve no useful purpose by detaining me further.’

  ‘There is much you might tell me about the future.’

  ‘You have no actual proof that I come from the future. It is my guess that your supposition is based on the testament of Jack Doveston. Given up under torture. A man to my experience notorious for saying and doing anything to save his own skin. Although this is not an altogether admirable quality, it is one which he and I share to a heightened degree.’

  ‘Well.’ Jonathan chewed upon a fingernail. ‘You had better just drink up and go then.’

  ‘I’ll pass on the drink if you don’t mind. Irradiation does not agree with me.’ Rex made for the door. He didn’t actually expect to get to it just yet, of course.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  Rex half turned. ‘I don’t know. Search for whoever brought me here. Let them find me. I have no money, perhaps I’ll look for a job.’

  ‘You could work for me.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘I would supply you with a car. As much money as you need. An apartment. In return you merely keep me informed of your progress. We share a common goal.’

  Rex made a considerable show of thinking the matter over. He had hoped to worm some money from Jonathan, but he expected at least a token struggle over the car and the living quarters. All at once caught him a mite off guard. ‘All right,’ he said at length. ‘We have a deal. You will pardon me if I do not shake hands on it.’

  Jonathan made with the major grins. ‘Excellent. Excellent.’

  ‘I shall need one or two other things,’ said Rex. ‘It’s a jungle out there you know.’ Jonathan nodded. ‘Strictly for home defence,’ Rex continued. ‘Did you ever see the movie Predator?

  Shortly thereafter Rex Mundi drove away from the red-glazed Crawford Corporation building in a very snazzy red Porsche. From his office on high Jonathan watched him streak away.

  ‘Are you sure that was altogether wise?’ The lad turned to view the woman who had entered his office un-announced. And the view was considerable. She was tall and statuesque. Her long black hair, interwoven with coloured shells, was drawn back from a face of quite striking beauty. She wore skin-tight yellow trousers over painfully long legs, A soft amber leather jacket bulged in only the right places. Her eyes were an almost luminous green.

  ‘Wise?’ Jonathan reseated himself. ‘He doesn’t know why he’s here. But he is determined to find out. And when he does . . .’

  ‘When he does you had better have Cecil and his team in a nice tight circle around you,’ said Gloria Mundi.

  11

  COSMIC KIDNAPPERS: The disappearance of famous folk at the very zenith of their careers is a funny old business, isn’t it? And has long been a thing of mystery. But no more. Now it can be revealed that these famous ones vanish into the future, kidnapped by beings possessive of their talents.

  The list of vanishing folk, some seemingly of no talent (eleven people vanish each day in London alone), appears to be on the increase. It is suspected that severe under-population, probably stemming from the forthcoming Nuclear Holocaust Event, is to blame.

  Hugo Rune, The Book of Ultimate Truths

  ‘Visitor,’ said the Tec. Jack entered the basement cellar. Aware of Spike’s look of horror, he hurriedly tucked away the home defender. The Tec slid off. ‘He’s cool,’ Spike called after him. ‘It’s OK.’ Jack wiped sweat from his brow and fell into a vacant chair. Mad John eyed him with open suspicion. Ella Guru said, ‘He shouldn’t be here, Spike.’

  ‘What’s the deal, boss?’ Spike knelt before him and put her hands on his knees. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Got busted. The military are trying to kill me.’ Jack put his hands upon hers and held them tightly.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing. You’ve got to help me.’

  Spike pulled away from him. ‘Were you followed here?’

  ‘No, I gave them the slip. Will you help?’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I can trust you. I can trust you, can’t I?’ The elf grinned. ‘Yeah, I guess. But first you have to tell us everything. And I do mean everything.’

  Rex drove very slowly through the streets of New York. As a newcomer to the metropolis the traffic system was a thing of great mystery. He had already passed through several stop lights, been clipped by a yellow taxicab and been roundly and precisely abused by numerous fleeing pedestrians. He now felt it prudent to keep the speed down until he was able to acquaint himself more thoroughly with the subtle nuances of New York driving. A near-death experience had already put him straight regarding which side of the street you drove on.

  Now, at a steady fifteen miles an hour, he led a cavalcade of wildly hooting traffic along this street and that. Slow driving was evidently much admired by scantily clad young women. For small knots of these hailed him from street corners and seemed eager to make his acquaintance; Rex waved to them gaily. How charming, he thought, as he steered this way and that through the piles of rubbish which littered every street. I know I am going to like it here.

  An hour later a sadder but far wiser Rex was trudging the sidewalks. This was a Rex who had stopped off in Harlem to purchase provisions. A Rex who had left his keys swinging in the dashboard. A Rex who had been pursued for several blocks by associates of the felon who had made off with his car. A Rex, who having made good his escape, then made loud his protests to a patrolling cop. A Rex, who now knew that the man with no ID or driver’s licence, dressed in the garb of an asylum inmate and bearing obvious handcuff scars, really should know better than to make loud his protests to a patrolling cop. A Rex whose description was even now being circulated in connection with an assault upon one of New York’s finest.

  This Rex was a well-dressed Rex. A respectable-looking Rex. He blended easily with the crowd in his nice newly bought clothes. Although the looks of puzzled recognition which appeared now and then upon the faces of folk he passed alarmed him no end. And outside a cinema showing Indiana Jones 4, a child had asked him for his autograph. Rex had been happy to oblige. But then the child burst into tears and his mother clouted Rex over the head with her handbag.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to like it here,’ said Rex Mundi.

  He was halfway either up or down East 42nd Street when he spied out a neon sign which read FANGIO’S. The way one of them does. Now, a bar is a bar is a bar, thought Rex Mundi.

  And so he stepped inside.

  Fangio’s was long and low and narrow. Ill lit and grimy, it smelt of spilt beer and stubbed cigar butts. Hundreds of framed boxing photographs fought for space along one wall. Beneath them rough-looking men hunched about small tables and conversed in Neanderthal tones. Opposite these a single polished bar-top ran the length of the room. Behind this, glass shelves supported countless bottles of intoxicant. Before these, wiping his brow with an over-sized red gingham handkerchief, stood Fangio. In stark contrast to his bar, he was wide and fat and highly mobile. He winked at Rex with his one good eye and bade him the time of day. ‘What’ll it be, bud?’ Rex peered through the fug. A patron sat at the bar. He was sipp
ing a cool beer and chewing a hot pastrami on rye. ‘Whatever he’s having,’ said Rex.

  ‘Coming right up.’ A television, bolted near the ceiling above the bar-top, relayed the day’s sport. Indoor wind-surfing, dwarf tossing, a pony girl gymkhana broadcast live from the UK. Rex kept his eyes down. The sight of a TV screen still filled him with dread. Eighteen years in a bunker were not easily forgotten. The concept of casual viewing for pleasure was totally alien to him.

  ‘You been catching the game, bud?’ The bulging barman placed a plate of sandwiches and a long cool beer before Rex.

  The game? No.’ Taking this as his cue, the large one now began an eager discourse upon baseball. For all Rex knew he might have been speaking in tongues.

  ‘MTWTV. News on the hour. Every hour,’ the TV announced. The barman ceased his outpourings mid-flow. He swivelled his bulk toward the screen. ‘Let’s check this out,’ said he. ‘See who’s shooting who today.’ Rex sipped his beer and said nothing.

  ‘News just in concerns New England Shaker Ebenezer Stuart who claims he was the victim of an unprovoked terrorist assault. Ebenezer claims that Russian agents dressed in US military issue shot up his farmhouse with one of those amazing rotary machine-guns like Blaine had in Predator.’ Rex munched his hot pastrami. ‘Here in the Big Apple speculation continues to grow concerning mystery man Wayne L. Wormwood.’ Rex spat hot pastrami over the bloated barman. ‘Easy fella!’ croaked the fat boy.

  ‘Shush. Wait,’ Rex flapped foolishly.

  ‘Wayne L. Wormwood will be appearing exclusively on this channel. Live at eight tonight. So stay tuned.’ Rex stared at the screen, there was a face he knew and loathed. The face of Wayne L. Wormwood. It was the face of Dalai Dan, last in a long line of aspiring Antichrists.

  ‘But of course,’ said Rex slowly. ‘That must be it.’

  Fangio was plucking hot pastrami from his apron. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘Him. Up there. Wormwood. Is he the president?’

  ‘President?’ The fat boy crumpled in hilarity. ‘Shit buddy. I don’t know who he is, but he sure ain’t the president. Where have you been for Chrissakes?’