Armageddon_The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Oh yeah.’ The time traveller seemed somewhat distracted. ‘Can you bring up the sound? I want to hear the moaning,’

  ‘Yes,’ Rex continued. ‘As I remember it, there was the Reverend Al Green, Aretha Franklin, this guy called Cliff somebody, who never grew old. And a Michael Jackson, although he would be after your period. His big evangelical crusades were about to get started when he was assassinated, probably by L Ron’s lot, although it was never proved. But you, I did you of course. All the mystical stuff.’

  ‘Mystical?’ Elvis turned him a fleeting glance.

  ‘The hard-to-understand stuff. Wooden Heart, I did that. I passed through with an A grade for my “Meta-physical exposition on the socio-political ramifications of the Latin prayer sequence in Wooden Heart”’

  ‘Latin prayers, are you crazy?’ Elvis dragged himself momentarily from the erotic hologram. ‘That was German, I sang one verse in German.’

  Rex made a puzzled face, ‘German, is that another dead language?’

  ‘Wasn’t when I sang it. Say fella, what is that the fat woman has strapped to her nose? It looks like a false ...’

  ‘It is,’ sighed Rex.

  ‘Glory be,’ said Elvis.

  Rambo Bloodaxe was lodged in a small cell of no particular charm, somewhere in the sub-basement of the Nemesis Bunker. He was sore.

  ‘Eric,’ said Rambo.

  ‘I think so,’ came the honest reply.

  ‘Eric, is this what we have come to?’

  ‘It does have the appearance of being that very thing.’

  ‘A sad and sorry circumstance, old chap friend of mine.’

  ‘How are the family jewels, Rambo?’

  ‘Smarting, my dear fellow, still smarting.’

  ‘You told a jolly fine tale though.’

  Rambo sighed and delicately stroked his singed pudendum. ‘All done to save us a further whacking.’

  ‘My memory is sadly deficient, but you appeared to me to be telling a most shameful quantity of untruths, for the most part.’

  ‘Merely giving them food for thought and we a chance of survival.’

  ‘I felt your confession that we were in the pay of the Hubbard organization to be quite inspired. And all that folderol about the Nemesis security network having been infiltrated, spiffing stuff.’

  ‘I think it was the revelation that the Dalai planned to replace the station’s union representation with blackleg labour that really swung it. They switched off the power and downed tools around that time.’

  ‘I do fear that there is a good chance of us shortly being rumbled, nonetheless.’

  ‘The thought is in the very forefront of my mind, Eric. We must put escape at the top of our priority list.’

  ‘Rambo?’ said Eric.

  ‘Eric?’

  ‘Rambo, should we succeed in escape, do you feel it possible that some surgery might be made available to me in the head department? Bits of my brain are still coming away between my ringers and I feel certain that my reason is likely to become severely impaired as a result.’

  ‘Perhaps if you ceased to stand upon your head it would help,’ Rambo suggested.

  ‘Oh,’ said Eric. ‘I thought it was you doing that.’

  ‘Killer,’ Elvis made pelvic thrusts. ‘Now I have seen everything. I wonder who she is.’

  ‘She’s my sister.’

  ‘Your sister? Heck guy, anyone on this planet not in your family? I mean, no offence meant.’

  ‘None taken, I assure you, but between us both, don’t you think that we should get down to the nitty gritty as it were?’

  ‘Then you believe, right?’

  Rex put up his hands, they still needed a wash. ‘I’m not saying I believe everything, but that,’ he indicated the doodad Elvis had snatched from him, ‘that I do believe. With a thing like that, you could pull off all manner of things.’ Rex thought on, the possibilities were, to him, endless.

  Elvis looked severely put out. ‘You believe in this gizmo but you don’t believe in me.’

  For one terrible moment Rex thought he was going to smash the doodad to smithereens.

  ‘No, wait,’ cried Rex. ‘Wait, I want to show you something.’ He delved into his radiation suit and produced the photograph of Elvis that the Dalai had given him. ‘See this, am I or am I not one of your followers?’

  Elvis stared at it in amazement. He stared at Rex in amazement.

  ‘Goddamn,’ he swore, and that look of enlightenment shone once more upon his flawless face. ‘I see it all now. One of my followers, you were just checking me out to see if I was the genuine article. But you knew it all the time, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ Rex relieved Elvis of the precious doodad. ‘There can only be one King,’ said he. ‘I had to be sure.’

  ‘Then you’re with me?’

  ‘Put your trust in me,’ said Rex Mundi.

  ‘Assassinate me?’ Dan made wild gesticulations to man and God alike. ‘Assassinate little me?’ Rex nodded gravely. They were in the sanctum of the Inmost One, all swathes of silk and soaring erotically-painted columns. Blue sky to every side.

  ‘That’s about the shape of it, Dan.’

  ‘No, no, no. Madness, madness.’ Dan paced the floor with gusto.

  ‘Oh, it’s certainly that, Dan.’ Rex lazed upon the Dalai’s settee, drink in hand.

  ‘Why me? Why me? Yog-Sothoth, why me?’

  ‘The guy reckons that you are the Antichrist.’ Rex gazed into his glass.

  ‘The what???’

  ‘Ant-eye-Christ. He considers himself to be upon some kind of Divine Mission.’

  ‘I knew it. I just knew it. I felt this coming. How did you get out of there anyway?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy. Between you and me, I told the fellow lies.’

  ‘Good boy. And where is he now?’

  ‘Down in the caverns, I suppose. But you’ll never find him down there.’

  ‘Rex,’ said Dan. ‘My dear boy. My own dear boy. I am surrounded by traitors, ne’er-do-wells, heretics and bloody unions. The Antichrist! I’m a Buddhist, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Such would seem to be the case. I did broach the matter of the theological inconsistency, but he remained adamant.’

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘You are asking me, Inmost One?’

  ‘Ah,’ Dan shrugged his shoulders. Without conviction. ‘Of course not, dear boy. No, no.’

  ‘Of course not, Inmost One. You were speaking rhetorically, I understand. The Divinely Inspired One wouldn’t seek advice from lesser mortals. You were, I believe, merely enquiring my opinion of the current dilemma and suppositions based upon my personal experience of this heretic.’

  ‘Exactly. Got it in one,’

  ‘I’m honoured that you should spare valuable moments to hear the words of your humble and devoted servant.’ Rex was really warming to the situation. He could never have previously hoped to get away with such blatant sarcasm. But now, the previously alluded to goalposts had been moved. The pitch queered.

  ‘And you are sure it’s this man, the same man?’

  Rex pulled out the now autographed photograph and laid it upon the black marble desk. ‘Him.’

  ‘SUN,’ said the Dalai Lama.

  ‘Father?’ said Rex.

  ‘SUN. And you think you can get to him, Rex?’

  ‘I have his confidence, it shouldn’t be impossible to ...’ Rex’s eyes wandered toward the cocktail cabinet. It resembled the prow of an antique galleon. Rex took it to be a stylized privy.

  ‘Help yourself Rex.’ Rex did so.

  ‘Dangerous though . . .’ Rex clinked a chunky-looking decanter into the largest glass he could find. ‘A very tricky and dangerous business.’

  ‘Which means, I expect, a very costly business.’

  ‘I suppose it does. But then cost hardly enters into it. To preserve the life force of the Living God King, should it take the wealth of the entire company, would come cheap.’ Rex kept his eyes
down.

  ‘Indeed it would.’ Dan’s face was by no means cheery to behold.

  ‘Thus, in all humility, I shall ask for but a trifle. An early retirement, an apartment fitting to my needs and the services of an all-female staff to attend upon my wants. Should I live through the perils ahead, of course.’

  ‘You are a true soldier of God.’ Dan rolled all three of his eyes toward the ceiling. Rex felt that it might be wise to elaborate.

  ‘I do understand that you might consider my request over-presumptuous. But the circumstances are unique. Your security people can’t contain this man. When he makes his move he will be unstoppable.’

  Dan laughed. ‘No man is unstoppable. Other than myself, of course.’

  ‘A man who can travel through time, as this man can. He is unstoppable.’

  ‘Through time?’ Dan’s jaw dropped. Further confirmation of what he already feared. ‘Rot, no man can travel through time.’

  ‘This man can. He has some kind of implant in his head. It enables him to void time. But you know all this. You have seen him in the flesh and you have his vinyl on your machine there.’ Rex indicated the holophon.

  Dan’s eyes did a triple flash. ‘How could you know this?’

  ‘Surely it is enough to know that I do. If I can breach your security . . . then this man-’

  ‘Yes, yes. So, say that I agree to your demands?’

  ‘Demands? A fair day’s pay for a fair day’s job is all I ask.’

  ‘Please, please, Rex, I hear that from morning to night. Suppose I was to agree to your most reasonable request. Then you would deliver this monomaniac into my hands,’ Dan paused. ‘Or better still . . .’ He turned his gaze full upon Rex. Rex felt the hideous strength. The malevolence. Dan’s lips never moved but his voice howled in Rex’s ears.

  ‘No,’ Rex turned his face away, but couldn’t escape the voice. ‘No, not that. I’m no assassin.’

  Dan’s lips moved. ‘Hardly assassination, Rex. More extermination. As in vermin. You shall have your penthouse in the sky and your early retirement. I will throw in the services of the two saffron nymphettes and even a chef. How does that sound?’

  ‘All very nice. But . . .’

  ‘But me no buts Rex, only bring me his head.’ Dan’s voice was death itself.

  Rex felt his drink rising in his throat. ‘His head . . .’

  ‘His very valuable head.’ Dan smiled a terrible smile and laughed a long and equally terrible laugh.

  22

  . . . and then the CIA busted us. That would be in the summer of ninety-six. I’d been on the project for more than a year and had fooled myself into thinking it was safe. Probably would have been, but someone had to get greedy. Always happens. The country was election crazy. But no-one had any doubts about Wormwood. No-one could bust a hole in his campaign. If there were any skeletons in his closet, he’d bought them all off and sent them to Miami. The CIA were already in Wormwood’s pocket. Someone had tipped him off about the project. He wanted it killed. We’d been feeding the stuff into a COTEXT TEN computer, then selling it off. Perfect situation, mint copies. We could process them without even taking them out of the cellophane wraps. The records went out into circulation still brand new, but we’d got them into the processor in analogue. With the revenue from selling the mint copies we could constantly update our equipment. Some of those records were worth $10,000 apiece. We are talking collectors’items. So, as I say, someone got greedy. And we got busted. We should have covered our tracks better. Kept on the move, like in the old days. But with the gasolene rationed and stuff you couldn’t move about much. And the equipment was that delicate and we were all far too obsessed with the project. Because, you see, stuff was beginning to show up. Abstract most of it. Patterns, visual, audio. We were running it through a 409 CS deck overcut with a sequence analyser. We could pick up frequency levels that would never have registered on ordinary equipment. And it was there in every single one of those records. And it was all coming together.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  The lads at the motorpool gave the pale-faced Rex a rowdy send off. He had become quite a celebrity there-abouts, having now outlived any previous Religious Affairs Correspondent by two full days. The chief mechanic addressed him as Captain Mundi, shook him vigorously by the hand and wished him ‘another day’. ‘We’re all rooting for you “Ace”,’ he said, adding confidentially, ‘If you could just see your way clear to surviving until Friday, it would be very much appreciated.’ He showed Rex his sweepstake ticket. ‘Thought I was on to a definite bummer with Friday afternoon. Backing a rank outsider, know what I mean?’

  Rex applied his knee to the chief mechanic’s groin. ‘Be lucky,’ he smiled as he tore away the bunting which gift-wrapped his air car and climbed into the cab.

  He punched in a series of co-ordinates and eyeballed the small screen on the dashboard. ‘You again, Mr Mundi?’ came the silicone voice.

  Rex made a sour face. ‘Up and away,’ said he. The car took grudgingly to the air, the Nemesis Bunker diminished in the rear-view mirror and was gone. Rex addressed the computer.

  ‘Have my security team left the landing strip yet?’

  ‘Security team?’ The voice had no tone to it.

  ‘Certainly, the Dalai assured me that a security team would follow this vehicle. Could you confirm, please?’

  There was a short pause. The screen then flashed INFORMATION CLASSIFIED. Rex managed a wan grin, suspicions confirmed. He had been pretty certain that Dan would have him followed.

  ‘Heat-seeking missile approaching,’ cried Rex. ‘Red alert.’

  ‘I’m receiving no such radar warning,’ the computer complained.

  ‘Evidently, a new strain with advanced camouflage, no time to argue about it, surely?’ The air car’s computer chose not to make a fuss. It flung the car about, nearly dislodging Rex through the canopy, performed a number of stomach-loosening manoeuvres, switched off its engine and tumbled down to land in a cloud of smoke and sparks.

  Rex’s head appeared above the dashboard. His nose was bleeding. Two black-bodied Buddhavision security craft cruised by and vanished into the distance.

  ‘Beautifully done,’ said the dishevelled Rex. ‘You are a credit to your series.’ The computer kept its own counsel. It felt sure that it had just been tricked.

  ‘I don’t like this, Fergus, and that’s a fact.’ Mungo paced his private quarters, savouring the exquisite perfumes of his rare orchid collection. ‘He’s got that thing in his head. And that thing itself told us that time travel unhinges the traveller. Delusions of Godhood and whatnot.’

  ‘He seems sane enough.’ Fergus put his nose forward for a sniff. Mungo pushed it aside.

  ‘From what we have been able to salvage from the storage beds, it appears that this Presley was of a singularly religious bent anyway. Gospel music or such-like.’

  ‘All keys together rather well, sir.’

  ‘All too messy,’ Mungo complained. ‘Too many loose ends. All this end-times twaddle from Morgawr. We can’t have Armageddon on Earth, it’s quite out of the question. We’d all be out of work.’

  ‘Well, it’s not real Armageddon, is it?’ Fergus Shaman’s nose crept forward again. ‘And the revenues we can take from the advertisers can buy an awful lot of orchid bulbs.’

  ‘Yes, but what when the advertisers discover that Armageddon has all come to nothing?’

  ‘The series continues, we keep our jobs.’

  ‘All too iffy. And the virus, Fergus, what of the virus?’

  ‘The news isn’t good sir, the virus has now reached the 1990s, and is still moving forward. Geneticists have been working around the clock, but nothing seems to stop it.’

  Mungo sighed wearily. ‘Truly, truly do I weep for the errant sons of Phnaargos.’ He sniffed. So did Fergus Shaman. Mungo cuffed him about the head. ‘Keep your bleeding hooter out of my Lilium auratum rubro-vittatums,’ he advised.

  Rex parked the air car within the ra
gged crater which had once been the Hotel California and scuttled from it to the concealed entrance of the underground cavern. Here was currently domiciled the man with the sprout in his head.

  The caverns had undergone considerable refurbishment. Elvis lounged on an atrocious banana-shaped settee, his feet upon a thick-pile ‘explosion’ carpet. A cocktail cabinet, which in 1980 had vanished improbably from a Bayswater bawdy house, reflected candelabra glow within its mirrored front.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Rex. ‘Very homely.’

  ‘Thought I’d just pop back and pick up a bit of dee-cor. Elvis sipped at something tall and blue, which had a small umbrella sticking out of it. ‘So, what’s happening?’ Rex shrugged.

  Elvis stretched out on the settee. ‘Did you see the Lama?’

  ‘We exchanged a few pleasantries.’

  ‘Did you tell him I was going to kick his ass?’

  ‘That’s what you wanted me to tell him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And how did he take it? Real bad, I hope.’ Elvis laid aside his drink.

  ‘He wasn’t pleased. He said I was to cut your head off.’

  Elvis clapped his hands together and bounced up and down. ‘Son-of-a-bitch.’

  ‘Easy on the bouncing, chief.’ Rex bade the sprout the time of day and dropped on to a purple bean-bag which had escaped previous mention.

  ‘Are you still completely serious about this revolution stuff? I mean, you do know what you’re taking on? The Dalai Lama is worshipped by half the folk on this world. You give him the chop and you aren’t going to be Mr Popular.’

  ‘That is why we gotta expose him for the thing that he is. You are still with me on this?’

  Rex shrugged. ‘I have been giving the matter some thought. And what I don’t understand is why you need me at all. Why don’t you just breeze down some time channel or other and do the dirty on him?’

  ‘Good point,’ Elvis tousled his quiff. ‘Why don’t I do that?’

  ‘Not in the plot, chief. Got to be done according to the plot.’

  ‘Why?’ Rex asked.

  ‘Yeah, why?’