Armageddon_The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Up, Lord King?’ Rambo enquired.

  ‘Up to the landing platforms.’

  Eric was bobbing his half a head about. ‘This really is exciting,’ said he.

  ‘Never a dull moment, old inseparable bosom friend of mine.’

  The lift ground to a shuddering halt and the lights went out. ‘What’s happened?’ Eric asked.

  ‘They have cut the power,’ Rambo told him.

  ‘The bounders, whoever would have thought it?’ In the darkness, Eric went to scratch his head and missed.

  ‘No sweat,’ said Elvis. The lights went on and the lift continued up the shaft.

  ‘There.’ Rambo was all smiles. ‘Is this man the Second Come, or what?’

  ‘Forward planning is all. I had Rex slot in an automatic over-ride earlier in the day.’

  ‘I shall prostrate myself before you when there is little more room, master. Rex, did you say? That wouldn’t be Rex Mundi by any chance, would it?’

  Up on the landing platform Rex revved up his air car. It appeared to him extremely doubtful that the battered craft could actually carry five people. It could possibly take three at a push, if one was prepared to travel in the luggage compartment. But five? No way.

  The lift doors to the motor pool rattled open and three revolutionaries and a hostage bundled out. The night rain was now falling hard. Rex couldn’t see a lot through the rear wind-screen. He heard the luggage compartment door open and close, then the canopy swung up and Elvis clambered into the cab. He squeezed himself in beside Rex. ‘Take her up.’ He waggled his weapon towards the sky. Rex turned his mouth into a bitter line.

  ‘You are leaving those two, then?’

  ‘Fortunes of war, Rex. And the guy with all the head ain’t no fan of yours.’ Security lasers cross-meshed the landing platform, the rattle of machine pistols put paid to any further discussion. Rex took the air car hurriedly aloft and made off into the storm-tossed darkness.

  25

  . . . you dug for stuff back then. That’s all you did. There were these schemes, job opportunities and youth training and the like, for some of us, those who weren’t just stuck in the bunkers with no hope, anyway. We were picked out to dig. I dug. I never knew what we were supposed to be digging for. Food, weapons, anything serviceable. We were never told. We just dug. Three hours a day was about all you could take. And we did it because that was what you did. That was 2001 and Arthur C. Clarke had got it all wrong. Nuclear night, no seasons and some smart-arse had come up with decimal time. Ten minutes to the hour, ten hours to the day, ten days to the week, and so on. Stupidest idea you ever heard of. So we dug and sorted and handed it in. I reckon now, looking back, that they had us searching for one specific thing. And I reckon too that they must have found it. Because one day the scheme just closed down and we were all sent back to our bunkers. Just like that. Stupid scheme, stupid time, stupid world. What a life, eh ?

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  You’re probably wondering why I’m here, well so am I, so am I.

  Frank Zappa

  ‘Am I here?’ Fergus Shaman addressed the glorious confusion of tendrils, membranes, pulsating pseudopodia and bulbous dendro-composites, with digital read-em-outs, which composed the interior of the Phnaargian spaceship. ‘It’s all somewhat sudden.’

  ‘You are now on Earth,’ came a voice of oozy user-friendliness, ‘first star on the right and keep on until morning.’

  ‘I must have been asleep.’

  ‘Indeed you must.’ It was interesting to note that the computer voice in the Phnaargian spaceship was identical to that of Rex’s air car.

  ‘Will I require a spacesuit or something?’

  ‘No sir, you just step right out there.’

  ‘Could I have a visual then, please?’

  A circular screen before him displayed the immediate panorama. Remnants of a building or two, their contours dulled by decades of acid rain, ruin and rubble. A monochrome gloom beneath a dun-coloured sky of sliding cloud. Fergus shivered. ‘Where exactly am I?’

  ‘Ten leagues north of the Nemesis Pyramid, as requested.’

  ‘Oh, really, then thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shaman, and have another day.’

  ‘Get inside . . . close the door Rex.’ Rex swung shut the bunker door. They had flown about blindly for half the night and now they were here. Aunty Norma’s. Rex closed his eyes to it. ‘Why here?’

  Elvis was lashing the Dalai into Uncle Tony’s chair. ‘Where else could it have been? Stick the TV on Rex, let’s see what’s to do.’

  Rex recalled what he had done to the terminal. ‘Can’t,’ said he.

  ‘Can.’ Elvis indicated the reconditioned terminal which now replaced it’s defunct precursor. ‘All planned for, I told you.’ Dalai Dan said nothing. Rex gave the place the once-over. Aunty Norma was no longer to be seen. Uncle Tony had been swept away. Elvis plucked up the remote control and flung it to Rex. ‘Viva the revolution,’ he said, a little too cheerfully for Rex’s liking. Rex sank un-comfortably into his aunt’s chair and thumbed the controls.

  The TV cranked into action. It jiggled and popped and then the face of Elvis Presley appeared. ‘And that,’ said the voice of Gloria Mundi, ‘is the face of the Devianti terrorist, who just eight hours ago kidnapped our beloved Dalai Lama.’

  ‘Good old Gloria,’ Dan piped up. ‘Loyal to the end.’

  ‘His demands are as follows,’ Gloria continued. ‘Close down all TV channels, cease all food and medico production to the population and impose a twenty-four hour curfew.’

  ‘What?’ Elvis’s eyes popped unpleasantly. ‘I never ...’

  ‘The Devianti terrorists have been tracked on radar to their hideout. They are known to possess a pre-NHE nuclear warhead, which they intend to detonate if their demands aren’t met in just one hour.’

  ‘They what?’ Elvis’s bottom lip became a passable bidet. ‘I what?’

  An on-screen hand passed Gloria a sheet of paper. She mimed the reading of it. ‘Ah,’ she said, all smiles. ‘We have just received a telepathic message from the Dalai. It reads: “Do not fear for my safety. Refuse all demands. I look forward to seeing you all again in my next incarnation. PS. I would like Gloria Mundi, my loyal and trusted second in command, to take over all my responsibilities until I come amongst you once more.” Message ends.’

  Dan’s mouth open and closed, but it didn’t say anything. Elvis performed likewise oral perambulations. Rex wondered if they were miming some song.

  ‘The detonation can be seen live only upon this channel, so don’t touch that dial. But for now we continue with a programme of silent meditation. Om-mani-padme-hum.’

  Rex touched the control. The screen fell into darkness, Rex fell into laughter. ‘They’re going to blow us all up,’ he gasped where he could. ‘They’ll launch a missile.’ He turned a momentary glare towards Dan. ‘Just like last time.’ Then he doubled up again into further convulsions.

  ‘No,’ croaked Dan, ‘this can’t be happening, this is all wrong.’

  Elvis looked at him sternly. ‘Shut your rap,’ said he.

  ‘But they’re going to kill us, kill me . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s not a problem for you, is it?’ Tears rolled down Rex’s unwashed cheeks. ‘Straight on to your next incarnation, eh?’

  ‘It’s not always as simple as that.’

  ‘Simple as that?’ Rex clutched at his knees, hysteria was taking over from mirth.

  ‘Shut up buddy and that means you.’

  Rex chewed upon his lip and tried to sober up. ‘What a waste of time,’ he said.

  ‘I’m perplexed,’ said Elvis Presley.

  ‘We forgot about Gloria, chief,’ came the voice from his head. ‘Can’t understand how we overlooked her. Thought it was all sewn up.’

  ‘We are all going to die,’ moaned Dan. ‘We’re all doomed, doomed.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rex agreed. ‘Really stinks when it’s your turn, doesn’t it?’

&
nbsp; ‘There’s still time. We could fly back to Nemesis. Well, I could and once I was back there . . .’ Two men were looking at him. They were both shaking their heads.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Uh uh,’ said Elvis.

  Dan looked toward Rex. ‘My dear boy, I appeal to you.’ Rex shunned the snappy and obvious rejoinder. Dan continued to speak, but through the medium of mental telepathy. ‘Come now, Rex, this is all a big mistake. Why throw away your retirement, those two lovely ladies, all that sweet food and drink, all that luxury? All for this foolhardiness. You don’t want to die, do you? Such a stupid waste.’

  Rex scratched at his stubble, he didn’t want to die, this was true.

  ‘Catch him off guard and off with his head.’ Rex turned his gun between his fingers. ‘Between the eyes?’ he thought.

  ‘No, not that, you would damage the . . .’

  ‘The Time Sprout?’

  ‘Exactly. I deplore waste. I could put that thing to great use.’

  ‘I’ll bet you could.’

  ‘Snip, snap,’ thought Dan. ‘Time is running out.’

  ‘Why don’t you simply do your vanishing act, dispatch your tulpa back to Nemesis?’

  Dan’s thoughts turned toward his nose. Rex felt the twinge of pain. ‘Screw you,’ thought Rex.

  ‘Bravo, chief,’ chortled the Time Sprout, who had been listening in upon the unspoken converse. ‘Thought we’d lost you there for a moment.

  ‘No way,’ said Rex Mundi.

  Fergus Shaman picked his way across the precarious landscape. It smelled about as bad as it looked. He fanned at his nose, but that only seemed to make matters worse. All in all Fergus wasn’t a happy Phnaarg. It was more than possible that even now his movements were being observed by the viewers of Phnaargos. All wondering who this new character might be and indeed where the plot was leading. They weren’t alone in this latter thought, as it was very much to the fore in Fergus’s mind. What had started out as an inspired idea to boost the flagging ratings seemed now to be degenerating into chaos. If only these morons would stick to the plot. If only throughout their history they had done what was required of them they would all be living in Utopia now. But Earth folk never seemed to get it right. They had been given the whole planet to play with and the end result was this. It didn’t say much for them as a race. But perhaps it wasn’t really their fault. Perhaps it was some genetic cock-up, some in-built wish for destruction. But possibly, and here a terrible thought entered Fergus’s mind, possibly it was all the fault of Phnaargos. Perhaps if the Earth folk had just been left to get on with it, rather than being nudged along for the sake of good television, they might have done very nicely, thank you.

  ‘No,’ said Fergus, ‘it wasn’t our fault, not all this.’ But it did seem a terrible shame, nonetheless. But there was still time. There was always still time. In fact time was the key to the whole issue, and Fergus, who for reasons unknown even to himself now felt an awful sense of responsibility, was certain that there was still a chance to sort it all out. The all but altruistic Phnaarg plodded on through the danger zone. And finally, there ahead of him, sighted a little jewel in the bleak and corroded setting. Rex’s battered air car, parked close to a bunker door.

  Fergus straightened his shoulders, thought positive and tripped flat on his face.

  26

  ... and now the book has come to me. Through coincidence, through chance? Forget about those, through fate. My parents taught me olde English. The archaic written word. They changed all that after the NHE, an entire new alphabet, so no-one could read the truth about the past, I guess. The terminal spoke and showed you the way. We watched and learned and clocked up credits. No other options. Only the lord high terminal. The new god. He who gave or took away, depending how long you spent at your devotions before him. So you worship in your shrine, your home, your tomb. But I had the word. The Logos. I was the last, it had to be passed to me and it was. I could confide in no-one. Hardly Norma. But then Rex was sent to us. 1 studied and I studied and at last I began to piece it all together. And I began to realize what I should be looking for and ultimately where it was to be found. And in the mean time I played the fool, the mad uncle, until I could teach the boy.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Macbeth hath murdered sleep.

  Anon

  I have done questionable things.

  Roy, Nexus 6

  Gabba Gabba Hey.

  The Ramones

  The silver spaceship still stood upon the upper deck, atop the spiral tower of Earthers Inc. In it sat Mungo Madoc; he was picking his nose. Before him screens displayed the current state of things. Three men in a bunker. One Phnaargian struggling to his feet. A beautiful woman in a control room. A curious vortex, which was probably just interference. The doings in his own boardroom. He would have to put a lock on that cigar box. Mungo examined a fingertip, made a face and applied scented drops to a now upturned nostril.

  ‘It won’t do, will it?’

  Mungo, alone of all Phnaargians, knew the speaker’s voice. The series’ backers communicated with only the station head. And to him rarely. ‘I hardly feel that I can be held directly responsible,’ said Mungo.

  ‘Oh, then perhaps you wish to step down from your position of responsibility.’

  ‘I didn’t say that exactly.’

  ‘But it amounts to the same thing. The buck stops with you.’

  ‘I would have thought that ultimately it stops with you.’

  ‘Oh, no. It never does that. Non-intervention is our policy. This is the way it has always been. Always will be.’

  ‘Well, I hardly see how I can influence events. We shall just have to see what Fergus Shaman does.’

  ‘It might all prove to be somewhat academic. You are aware, are you not, that the virus has now reached the twenty-first century?’

  ‘Word has reached me, yes.’

  ‘And it’s gaining momentum. If you can’t halt the process then it will shortly reach the present. And when it does . . .’

  ‘When it does? Yes?’

  ‘Armageddon,’ said the voice. ‘But not the one you have planned. You are going to need a veritable miracle this time.’

  ‘Hellooooeeee,’ called Fergus Shaman. ‘Anybody in there?’

  ‘I know that voice,’ said Elvis

  ‘It’s Mr Shaman, chief.’

  ‘Who?’ Rex asked

  Elvis turned to Rex. ‘Fergus Shaman, the man from outer space, I told you about him.’

  ‘And he’s just popped by for a chat. How sublimely opportune.’

  Dan felt the hand of Christeen tweak his left testicle. He wasn’t going anywhere for the moment.

  ‘Open up,’ called Fergus. ‘It’s important, honestly.’

  ‘Best let him in, chief.’ Elvis cranked the turncock and swung open the bunker door. Fergus stepped inside, grinning broadly.

  ‘Hope I’m not intruding.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Rex helped him through the hatch. ‘We have about four minutes to kill before the bomb drops. We’ve been playing a game called “I spy with my little eye”, except we seem to have run out of expletives to describe Dan.’

  ‘Just four minutes; here in the nick of time, eh?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Rex replied. ‘But if you have had any hand in all this, then I will take some pleasure in knowing that you perish along with us.’

  ‘You have a ready wit upon you, young man.’ Fergus hastily addressed himself to Elvis. ‘Mr Presley,’ he puffed. ‘You really shouldn’t be here, you know. It really would be better for all concerned if you just went straight back to 1958 and dodged the draft. As we suggested in the first place.’

  ‘No way,’ said the Big E, shaking his head vigorously.

  ‘Easy there, chief,’ howled the sprout.

  ‘Can’t you reason with him?’ Fergus addressed the rear of Presley’s head. The sprout for once had nothing to say.

  ‘I screwed up once already,’ said Elvis. ‘This time
I gotta make it right. I got me the Ant-eye-Christ here, for Chrissakes. No offence to the Good Lord intended there.’

  Fergus perused the bound High Lama. ‘He’s much smaller than he looks on TV,’ he observed.

  ‘But I ain’t no frigging Antichrist. You tell him.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, fella.’

  ‘Really, this is getting us nowhere. Rex, what do you think?’

  ‘Rex?’ said Rex. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’

  ‘But I know you. All Phnaargos knows you. You’re a big star.’

  ‘A big star?’

  ‘A real crowd-pleaser. I shouldn’t be saying this because we’re probably on camera, but it would be a sad day if we were to lose you, Rex.’

  ‘Butt out of here, Shaman.’

  ‘No, hang about. I want to hear more. A big star, did you say?’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything, but not here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dan agreed, ‘this is all most interesting, we should go somewhere more comfortable and discuss it. My place, perhaps?’

  ‘Button it, schmucko.’

  ‘Well somewhere, and now.’

  Elvis chewed upon his curly lip.

  ‘We really should, chief,’ his cerebral companion agreed. ‘Or at least we should.’

  Elvis dithered and dathered. ‘I just don’t know.’ He just didn’t know.

  ‘Nuke them out,’ said Gloria Mundi.

  ‘But your brother, dear.’

  Gloria paused. ‘Stuff him.’

  ‘But dear, blood is thicker than water and all that. And if we are going to build a better world surely we must do it with compassion. Or we will be no better than . . .’

  ‘Than men.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But we may never get as good a chance as this again.’

  ‘But he is your brother, dear. Flesh of your flesh.’

  Gloria hung her beautiful head. ‘You are right. It would be murder.’

  ‘Exactly, we must rule with love, care and feeling.’

  ‘We must, we must.’