Maybe some other bad news might cheer him up. Time to move on to the next negative on his list. There was no hesitation. It was that little exception from the first list: his knowledge that he was a knight who had not killed and he might be a knight who would never kill. Not when the crunch came - and when there was no Meitchars around.
This was a real pisser. As well as not knowing whether he could kill or not, he didn't even know whether he wanted to or not - but he suspected he didn't. What an enigma. Who else would worry about not being able to do something he didn't want to do? It was ridiculous. But it was real. And just being a knight made it real. How could he not discharge every aspect of being a Tickler and still regard himself a true member of that most exclusive of clubs?
It gnawed away at him incessantly, a doubt that would disappear only when he'd taken another's life - if he ever did. What a prospect. What a dreadful, dreadful prospect. He didn't even know whether he should be pleased or appalled that this doubting might soon be resolved. Because if he lived through their crazy assault of the Godhead, there was every chance it would be. There was no way somebody wouldn't be trying to kill him. And then he would find out. Or he might find out if Meitchars hadn't got there first…
He was into a loop. He'd better move on to the next negative. And that was a simple one: Kanker was still extant, and despite all they'd planned, the odds were on his remaining that way. If he did, God - the real one - help the universe. Because there was no doubt about it - Kanker was going to make it a bad place to be. He'd do to civilisation what he'd done to the League: corrupt it and ruin it. And good men everywhere would suffer. And many of them would die.
That was it. There couldn't be any other bad news to match such a gruesome prospect. The list must stop there. The job was done. Only it wasn't. In attempting to relieve his anguish through some steadying list making, he'd done quite the reverse. He'd ended up including the very cause of his anguish and then embellishing it - with two more totally unsustainable concerns. He was more screwed up than ever. It was a flop. The listing had failed. Better get on with real life. Better get on with having a go at that obscene Godhead contraption. And then, just maybe, at that obscene bastard bighead inside it.
Kanker, we're coming!
48.
Kanker knew they were coming. But he didn't care. Why should he? They couldn't do anything. Nobody could. He was already the master. Not yet acknowledged maybe. But in a practical sense he was already there, already in control. He could do exactly what he wanted, and no one could stop him - least of all a bunch of out-of-town cowboys with mud on their boots. They might have put the wind up those nerds back on Korpulund. But who couldn't? He'd done it himself - day after day and for years - and without the help of a photon pistol and a dose of nardane. Well, let them try the same sort of stunt with his Godhead. Then they'd see. Then they'd see just how feeble and useless they were.
Kanker gazed through the window of his mote and considered their folly. Because, without a shadow of doubt, they would try something stupid. They would hurl themselves against the ramparts of his Godhead and they would die. He was sure of it. Glory boys chose glory ways to go. And they'd not hesitate, not for a moment.
Pity really, because then they'd miss the best bit of the show. They were likely to arrive at any time now, but there were six hours to go before Shrubul's ultimatum was up. And, of course, even if the dummies down there met his demands - which they were apparently still debating - he would still give them a lethal taste of his breath. How else could he convince all those other planets that he was serious? They'd need proof of his power, and he'd have to give it them. That way they'd soon skip all this debating nonsense and just get on with all the submitting stuff.
But Meitchars and his merry men would miss all that. They'd not see the unique sight of a world being shrouded in his holy breath, blues and whites being sucked into grey - and then the grey into terminal black….
He could warn them, of course. He could spell it out to them: the futility of their intentions. And he might even get the message through. Then he could invite them to just sit back and watch the performance. He really would like that. The bigger the audience for his show the better. And after all, they were some of his old League chums, weren't they? It was only right. For old times' sake, if nothing else…
Kanker smiled and then he chuckled like a cretin.
'For old times' sake, my arse. And me, Kanker, trying to persuade a group of clods like that not to kill themselves. Imagine me, the new Lord, stooping to such things. What a suggestion! What an affront! Ha! The quicker they get here and the quicker they've gone - for ever - the better.'
And immediately they had got here. Twenty of them. Twenty scudders roaring down into Kanker's view. Roaring into action. Roaring into oblivion.
Kanker chuckled again and then made a noise like a donkey. He was happy, very happy. It was such fun being a god, a real one, the sort with the power of life and death. And especially death. That was the best bit. That's really what it was all about. And now it was just about to start. His first willing victims had arrived. The sacrificial homage could begin.
49.
For-bin-Ah regarded the Godhead. It was fantastic. But it was also ridiculous. How could anybody take seriously an enormous spaceship modelled on the head of some boring old fart? Because that's what it was: the image of some middle-aged twerp. And one who, For-bin-Ah noticed, had taken his glasses off as if to make some sort of macho statement. Amazing to think that the idiot who had conceived this thing had for years been running the League. No wonder it had gone downhill. The man was a lunatic. But he was also a dangerous lunatic. And he had a machine that was as deadly as it was comical. And For-bin-Ah had a job to do, which involved avoiding that lethal potential. He'd better get on with it. Now.
First he ordered all his pilots to break from their approach pattern and to use the next fifteen minutes to make as many passes of the vessel's ugly face as they could. He wanted them to get a feel for its scale and its contours - and as quickly as possible. And he also wanted to give his enemy no clue whatsoever as to what their next move might be.
There was no risk of their being attacked. Their rummage through Kanker's secrets back on Korpulund had provided them with just about every detail of the Godhead's construction and operation. So For-bin-Ah knew there was no way that any craft would be launched against them. It was simply not possible - not when the plasma domes were primed. And, in any event, there was no need. Why would Kanker feel threatened by them anyway? They were only like flies buzzing round a cobweb. The spider, Kanker, would fear nothing and would do nothing. Only if they chose to visit his web, would he stir. Then he would be delighted. Then he would welcome them! But meanwhile, they could buzz around as they pleased. And as long as they kept their distance they'd not be molested.
The Pandiloop pilots made the most of this freestyle session, each one pushing his craft to the limit before the face of adversity. Fifteen minutes was a short time to acquaint themselves with the battleground, but they made the most of it. As quickly as they could they got on with absorbing the curves of the cheeks, the line of the lips and the spread of the nose. In fact, if one observed closely, they were paying very special attention to the nose. Even though it was a remarkably ordinary nose, it seemed to hold a particular fascination…
Then the fifteen minutes were up, and For-bin-Ah delivered his next order.
'Formation Foxtrot. I say Formation Foxtrot. Follow your blue leader now.'
And with that, all the scudders began to pull away from the Godhead, most taking a downwards flight path towards For-bin-Ah's own craft, with the remainder, just five vessels, adopting an upwards course. Then the two groups began to order themselves into two patterns, the smaller, higher one into a standard circling formation, and the larger, lower one into a very non-standard vertical formation. Within a minute, For-bin-Ah's group was a tower of fifteen scudders flying as if tied together, with hardly a cockpit's width between
them. This, children, wasn't something you should try at home. It was the flying equivalent of black-belt synchronized swimming - without the nose pegs. Although, of course, it wasn't swimming that had been its inspiration; it was that ballroom dancing nonsense…
For-bin-Ah's craft was at the top of the tower. It and the fourteen scudders beneath it were now locked into a preordained choreography - where each pilot knew every movement of the dance - perfectly. And where each pilot trusted his fellow pilots not to put a step wrong, not to waver from the tower formation by so much as an inch.
And now the tower was approaching the Godhead's face. It was on an inward and upward trajectory which would take it past the jut of its chin and on up towards its rather unpleasant mouth. Not close enough to activate the plasma domes but close enough to make the flying just that much more interesting. And the tower held. Not a foot out of place. And now they were already near the bottom lip. Time for For-bin-Ah to deliver the next command. 'Ladies to the right, gentlemen to the left,' he announced. And immediately the tower of fifteen scudders unzipped itself to form two new towers, alternate scudders moving to the left and to the right - but with not more than a scudder's length between them. There were now eight ladies and seven gentlemen flying in two vertical columns, no more than fifty feet apart.
And then the top lip appeared in front of them and For-bin-Ah snapped out a new command. 'Fire!'
It rather let down the ballroom dancing theme adopted previously, but it was accurate and to the point. And its effect was immediate. Each column of scudders began to spit out a fusillade of ion bolts. They were close-formation fusillades, directed at two invisible lines fifty feet apart, which ran from the Godhead's top lip up to its cavernous right nostril. The response was instantaneous. The plasma domes switched into plasma pulse mode and commenced their annihilation of the ion bolts - without mercy. Not one was getting through. The plasma domes were nothing less than clinical in their efficiency. But they were also automatic and for that reason automaton-like. Because as For-bin-Ah could see, they were doing just what he'd hoped they would do, just what dear old Renton had predicted in his plan. All of them in a sixty-metre swathe, which encompassed the two target lines being fired at, were busy neutralising the ion bolts. In fact, there was some ion bolt over-kill going on. But the plasma domes were not smart, they were just efficient. And if an ion bolt was in range, even though it was in your neighbour's range as well, you gave it a pulse of your plasma. So they were all at it, a sixty-metre carpet of domes - all belching out plasma as the double tower rained down its fire - its barrage of fire on the face of the fiend.
For-bin-Ah sighed. 'It might work after all. It really might. It might be the end of him yet.'
And then the right nostril loomed above them, and it was time to give the final instruction. Time to disengage his forces for the moment. 'Dance!' he shouted into his mouthpiece. And within a second, each pilot had taken his optimum flight path away from the face and away from its threat. They were superb. Their recent acquaintance with the Godhead's topography had served them well. They all wheeled away to safety and up towards the five scudders above, the five that had missed the first dance…
For-bin-Ah addressed his squadron. There was excitement in his voice.
'Foxtrot was perfect. I say Foxtrot was perfect. Military Two Step in two minutes. I repeat, Military Two Step in two minutes. Red leader take up position and follow me in.'
It was time for the five wallflowers to join in the show. As the Foxtrot steppers came up and then past them, they broke from their holding positions to follow their own red leader. And then they were in the wake of For-bin-Ah's pack as it banked and plunged down to the Godhead and then down past its chin.
When the appointed two minutes were up, his ships were again in tower formation and at the start of their approach path, the same approach path they'd adopted before. They were set for some sort of encore of their first performance. But this time there was a second tower beneath them. The five wallflowers were mimicking their formation and were going in with them.
Then the twenty craft were closing on the chin of the beast. Then they were under its bottom lip. Then they were at the bottom lip, and For-bin-Ah gave the command to: 'Military One Step'. This caused the leading fifteen craft to peel into their two columns again. But this time, after a very short pause, there was a further command from red leader. He invited his following group to: 'Military Two Step'. And within a flash, the five wallflowers had accelerated to place themselves within the space between the two towers. They were now the meat within the sandwich of the two towers. Or, to use a more fitting description, a new line of dancers between the ladies and gentlemen of the original formation team. It was black-belt flying again, only more so.
'Fire!' snapped For-bin-Ah. And again lines of ion bolts streamed from his scudders. But only from the outer scudders, from the ships who'd competed in Foxtrot round one. The new guys weren't firing at all. Then, as they got closer to the nose, they did fire. But not ion bolts. But, instead, large plastic balls, people-sized plastic balls. One from each ship. Directly towards the right nostril and with ion artillery to both sides. Ion artillery that was tempting the dumb plasma blasts.
It was working. The domes were again over-killing the ion intruders. And in doing so, they were neglecting the five plastic packages sandwiched between them. These were being allowed to proceed towards Kanker's giant konk unscathed. And within seconds they'd be right up his nose. But now it was time for For-bin-Ah to call off his ships. They needed to break off or be doomed. And he could wait no longer. 'Dance!' he shouted. And the scudders peeled away past the nose and out into space. And with them, went the ion-bolt cover. The balls were now on their own - but with just metres to go.
The first one was in, right up Kanker's right nostril like a treat. Then the second, then the third - all totally unscathed. But then an ion pulse found the fourth. But it glanced off. And then it too was up the nose hole.
Number five took a hit, then another - and another. And although the magical hardon deflected these as well, the ball began to wobble. And then it moved away from its intended course, until yet another pulse glanced off its shell, putting it more or less back on course. And then it too was up that nasty nez. Up there where there were no more plasma domes - and no more plasma pulses…
So they'd done it - all five of our heroes. They were in. And they were intact. And they were ready for anything!
Well, the one in the last plastic ball might not be quite ready for absolutely anything - not just yet anyway. It was Renton. And he'd taken quite a battering. But worth it probably - for getting quite so conclusively up Kanker's nose!
50.
The ex-Senior Knight's intellect told him that the pinprick assault must have had some purpose. But it was overruled by his conceit. He just could not accept that a puny band of raiders had achieved anything, anything that would have compromised the integrity of his Godhead. It was inconceivable. A nonsense. He would dismiss it from his mind. He would return to the real business of the moment. To the little matter of cloaking a world in his breath…
So, what he didn't know and what he didn't seek to know was just how successful the Pandiloop bandits had been. He was unaware that Renton's mad plan had worked, and that by launching, under the cover of fire, five giant hardon spheres - modelled on those dreadful hardon space-helmets - our heroes had injected five of their number into his Godhead. Not only was there a passage up its right nostril to allow this ingress, but also the opening of this passage was out of sight of the mote. The Godhead had an Achilles heel under its nose. And For-bin-Ah and his band had exploited it beautifully.
Being fired into space as a human cannonball had been no picnic for Meitchars, Madeleine, Grader or Renton. And as for being a reptilian cannonball, Boz was entirely unimpressed. But they were in; they were inside the fortress and they were alive.
Renton was very relieved they were alive.
51.
The open nost
ril had an important function. It was an exhaust route for the giant bellows that blew God's breath and God's dust from the Godhead's mouth. It was therefore ill equipped to deal with the demands of arriving cannonballs. Its reception facilities were simply a disgrace.
So instead of plunging into a deep bed of goose down or into a suitably suspended safety net, the hardon spheres ended their flight by crashing into and then through a lattice-work of thin metal ducting. But it could have been a great deal worse. The hardon spheres had the same features as the hardon headgear they aped; there was an internal membrane which moulded itself around its occupant to cushion any impact. And the impact itself was not that severe. The Godhead had an upward gravity. That is, its gravity system was set so that objects were attracted to its base: the neck area. From there to the top of the head was up; back from the top of the head was down. This meant that the five cannonballs, when they entered the Godhead's nose, were already fighting against the vessel's gravity. And by the time they struck the duct-work, they had already decelerated appreciably. Indeed their release speed had been calculated precisely. If too low it could have resulted in the spheres dropping back down the nostril. Not the best of rewards for all that effort and all that danger. And a bit of a pisser for the cannonball occupants.
However, that wasn't the outcome. And all five balls were now somewhere in the depths of the bellows' machine room, a huge machine room, full of pipes, tanks, more pipes and, of course, machines. And it was gloomy and it had no atmosphere. So when the interlopers eventually abandoned their hardon vessels they would still need to retain their hardon helmets. They'd all have to endure the discomfort of Renton's favourite headgear for just a little while longer.
Ticklers Page 25
