Armageddon_The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  The blonde rose upon her elbows and thrust out her bosom, in the manner once favoured by the Page Three Stunnas of old. She tossed back her hair and yawned silently.

  ‘We’re lost,’ said Rex, rather foolishly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Elvis agreed. ‘That’s right.’

  Fergus Shaman nodded his head. ‘What amazing nipples,’ he observed.

  Dan said nothing. But then this kind of sight was hardly new to him.

  ‘Sorry to invade your privacy.’ Rex was trying not to look, but failing for the most part. ‘If you could just offer some directions, we will be straight on our way.’

  ‘I’m in no particular hurry,’ Elvis produced a monogrammed comb and teased it through his quiff, ‘if you guys want to go on ahead.’

  ‘I think we should all stick together.’

  Fergus shook pungent aromatics of an aphrodisiac nature on to his palm and began to pat them about his chin. Dan said nothing for the second time. The blonde on the bed rolled on to her side and fluttered her eyelids at Elvis.

  ‘Sorry guys,’ said the King, preparing for action. ‘But it was really no contest, was it? Here, Rex, you take scumbag out for a walk. Say for a couple of hours.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rex pushed past the Dalai. Or at least he would have. As it was Rex pushed through the Dalai. The image faded into the air, a broad Cheshire Cat grin hovering for a moment before doing a likewise vanishing trick.

  ‘Trickery dickery,’ cried Fergus, very much impressed. There was a kind of loud pop and the entire room, blonde bombshell and all folded in upon itself and was gone. The three men now stood knee deep in raw sewerage. They began to sink. Dalai Dan was nowhere to be seen.

  31

  . . . we knew where it was for sure and it was remarkable how simple it actually was to discover what it was pretending to be. Back in the nineties, the term for what we did was ‘super hacking’. Computer gate-crashing on an international scale. Subversives hacked their ways into the mainframes of all the major institutions: the military, banking houses, religious, even the Big Three. Back doors were created whereby the hacker could override pass-codes, slip in and out at will, draw off programs, make subtle adjustments, alter records. And introduce viruses which self-replicated and spread, crashing the systems. At that time the biggest of these hacking circuses was called CHAOS. I swear to God it’s true. Now the Buddhavision mainframe, MOTHER, so called, had security blocks on it from the first. Punch in the wrong passcode and it fed back. You were fried meat at your terminal. Real mean. They took hacking very seriously. But there was a backdoor all the same. Who got it in there, I can’t say. But it was there and we took it. Called up the Department of Antiquities stock records and skimmed through to the last recorded entry. And there it was. Entry **% 78:555:2323; All we had to do now was break right in and get it.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  In the world there are two kinds of tragedies. One is not getting what one wants. The other is getting it.

  Oscar Wilde

  The surviving members of The Earthers Inc. executive board lined themselves against the wall, uncertain of what exactly was about to occur. Mungo faced them from his chair. ‘This,’ he displayed between thumb and fore-finger a small sphere which glowed, as if lit from within, ‘is a key. The key, in fact. It has lain in a secret place for over 1,000 Earth years. From the time, in fact, when it was supposed to be used the first time. But now I am informed by the backers that its moment has come for certain.’

  ‘What does it do?’ Jason asked.

  ‘In short it ties up a lot of loose ends.’

  ‘A McGuffin,’ Jason suggested.

  Mungo Madoc shook his head. ‘You are a moron,’ he said. ‘Now just stay where you are and watch this carefully.’

  Mungo took up the glowing sphere, popped it into his mouth and swallowed. The board members looked on in wonder. The possibilities were endless. There was a long and ponderous moment, during which nothing happened. Then, with a suddenness of trouser-filling intensity, everything did. Mungo’s head bulged hideously. His fingers extended. Like so many pink serpents they darted through the air to attach themselves to the walls and ceiling. Then they began to pulsate. The Goldenwood table sank into the floor and the tufted carpeting swept in from all sides to cover its departure. A great cone of light sprang up and an impossible pressure popped ears and gritted teeth. The room quivered and shook as the living thing it was.

  And then it was done. The room became still. The pressure ceased. Mungo’s fingers returned to their natural proportions, his head shrank. The cone of light remained, glittering about the edges. Mungo whistled, shook his head and flexed his fingers. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. No-one dared to ask.

  Two menials in station fatigues carried the Dalai’s portrait from the room. At Gloria’s elbow, one of a dozen telephones purred. She picked it up. The voice on the other end of the line was unknown to her. It was shouting. Gloria held the receiver at arm’s length and regarded it with distaste.

  ‘Shall I, dear?’ asked Ms Vrillium.

  ‘Please do.’ Ms Vrillium placed the thing to her head and listened for a moment. She then shouted, ‘Piss off,’ before slamming it down.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Artemis Scargill dear, chief convenor for the food and medico workers’ union. He says that unless the long-running dispute between management and the shop floor is settled at once, his members will be forced to place a vote of No Confidence in you. And that just to be on the safe side, they are preparing for an all-out strike.’

  ‘They didn’t waste a lot of time, did they?’

  The telephone purred again. Ms Vrillium tore the plug from the socket and hurled the wicked messenger into a far corner. The lights momentarily dimmed.

  ‘That would no doubt be the electrical union letting you know that they are preparing to offer their support.’

  Gloria made a pensive face. ‘What about the technicians and the production teams?’

  ‘Different unions again, dear. Although Dan never did get around to sorting out all their separate grievances. So I suppose it’s just possible . . .’

  Gloria slumped on to Dan’s settee and tinkered distractedly with the holophon headset. ‘This is something of a pain in the butt.’

  The fat woman’s eyes lit up. ‘Would you like me to ...’

  ‘Not at present, thank you. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Hardly for me to say,’ Ms Vrillium replied tartly. ‘Dan always kept them under control. It’s down to you now.’

  Gloria made sulks. ‘How’s the war going?’ she asked, brightening.

  ‘The Fundamentalists currently have the upper hand. Several of Joanie’s transmitters are already in purgatory.’

  ‘Jolly good. Then once both stations go off the air . ..’

  ‘The victory would appear to be ours, yes.’

  ‘Yes.’ For Gloria it was all really starting to sink in. When the victory was hers, what then? What was she going to do with it? She discarded the headset and rose from the settee. Crossing the floor she paused to regard the sky through one of the great sloping walls of glass. Gazing down from it, she viewed the turmoil of foul brown cloud. Beneath this were thousands of people, huddled in bunkers and now relying on her for their survival. Gloria was capable of being dispassionate along with the best of them, but on such a scale? Dan had talked about his new tomorrow. Wafting away the clouds, opening up the land. A madman’s dream of Utopia? Gloria made inward groans. Perhaps the cloud cover couldn’t be lifted. Perhaps all of it was lies. All in all it was a bit of a mess. And all in all she was very much to blame.

  Gloria Mundi suddenly began to miss Dalai Dan very much indeed.

  There was a fair amount of slurping and slopping going on down in the bowels of the Earth. Elvis dragged Rex clear of the quagmire and hastened to the aid of Fergus Shaman. ‘These magic boots were one hell of a smart move, green buddy.’

  Fergus slumped upon dry land. ‘Thanks,’ he gasp
ed.

  ‘No sweat. Rex, give me back my electronic doodad.’ Rex delved into his sodden suit and fished it out. Elvis tinkered with it but got no response. ‘Doesn’t work down here. Look at my trouser cuffs. Good guy or not, I shall do for the mother-crusher as soon as we catch him up.’

  Rex shook himself, but it did no good. The Dalai had really been saving himself for that one. From a detached point of view, it really was a remarkably clever trick, although it was hard to be detached when you smelt the way Rex did. But it was a bit of a mystery. Why had Dan chosen to dump them there, rather than over some precipice, where they might have plunged to oblivion? Perhaps he had just been strapped for time, or maybe it simply hadn’t occurred to him. Mercy certainly would not have numbered amongst his reasons.

  Fergus plucked gingerly at his knees. He had three things on his mind. Well, one, if you discarded the two amazing nipples, which he was somewhat loath to do. This one was that with him down here and out of the picture, what terrible wheels of chaos would Mungo Madoc be setting into motion? Without Fergus to guide him, Mungo’s incompetence would be given its full head. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ mumbled the unhappy Phnaarg.

  32

  . . . and so it has come to this. A hundred men went down there. They knew which ducts to enter. How to penetrate the building. Where to find the carbon. But none returned. And now he will come looking for me. He must have known they were coming. Someone must have talked. Been made to talk. When they have you in there you talk and you talk. So now I pass the Book on to Rex. He must continue the search. I will sit it out and wait. It won’t be long.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  They come from a far country, from the end of Heaven. Even the Lord and the weapons of his indignation to destroy the whole land.

  Isaiah 13:5

  ‘You are probably wondering what all that palaver was all about.’ Mungo adjusted his cuffs and snorted upon a lapel blossom. Heads bobbed in the affirmative manner. ‘Something of a point of no return. The sphere contained the final programme. It’s now interfaced with the corporate entity which is this building. All systems are now on stand-by and all channels feed directly through me. A little failsafe device employed by the backers to insure that no . .’

  ‘Improvisation should occur?’ Jason Morgawr found his voice. ‘So whose programme is it running, ours or theirs?’

  ‘As the visual scenario stands, ours. In terms of theological over-structure, theirs. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘No,’ replied Jason. ‘In all candour you don’t.’

  ‘The success of any show depends to a large part upon giving the public what they want. But not necessarily in the way they expect it. The Armageddon scenario - your version, Morgawr - will, as sanctioned, run visually. The fulfilling of certain contractual obligations, videlicet the original script, will be handled separately by the backers. Ours not to reason why.’

  ‘And all this will run directly through you?’

  ‘I’m now biologically linked to the station. My duty is to filter out whatever is deemed unsuitable for transmission.’

  ‘Such as evidence of tampering.’

  ‘You have no quarrel with that, surely?’

  Jason scratched at his head. ‘And what about our people on Earth? They will be brought out safely, I trust.’

  ‘Regretfully, no.’

  ‘But they are our people, that is murder.’

  No, Morgawr,’ said Mungo, grandiloquently. ‘That’s showbiz.’

  The umpteenth passage came to a boring conclusion. Fergus sat down and began to grizzle. Rex kicked hopelessly at the nearest wall. The sound hardly echoed. ‘Aw, shoot,’ snarled Elvis, joining Rex in the futile wall-kicking. ‘How many does that make it? We’ll never get out of here.’ They were rapidly losing all track of time. Rex squinted at his watch. Two-thirty. ‘How long have we been down here?’

  ‘Less than ten minutes, chief. Time sure do fly when you’re having fun.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any chance of you beaming us up?’ Elvis asked. ‘Sure getting sick of it down here.’

  ‘No can do, I’m afraid, chief.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Elvis. ‘Surely I can smell. . .’

  ‘Violets,’ said Rex. ‘You can smell violets.’

  ‘I would have thought you had sufficient ability to find your own way out,’ said Christeen softly. ‘But as you haven’t, you’d better follow me.’

  ‘Baby,’ howled Elvis, spinning around to view the splendid woman. ‘Baybee!’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Rex pushed past the boy wonder and took Christeen by the hand. ‘We had best make haste,’ said she.

  ‘Battle wages on all fronts.’ The newscaster loosened his tie and mopped his brow. ‘Fundamentalist forces hammer at Vatican City. Air cars equipped with the very latest in air-to-air laser cannons cut a bloody swathe across the sky in a major strike offensive. Phew, and I’ll bet those guys and gals giving their all up there are just crying out for a long cool glass of Buddhabeer. Buddhabeer, for when the going gets really hot. . .’

  Gloria switched off the news terminal. The lights dimmed once more as if to say ‘it’s make your mind up time’. Three further terminals gabbled greenly upon the black marble desk-top. They displayed alarming production figures, budget over-runs, high wastage quotients, and the like. Bit-mapped graphics ran viewing statistics and projected forecasts to the effect that Buddhavision’s slice of the market was growing by the hour. At first glance this might have appeared to be good news, but with the fall in food and medico production it was nothing short of disastrous. Buddhavision was hard pressed to supply its own followers; any increase could mean that all would starve. Gloria bit upon a black lacquered thumbnail. Cordless telephones began to ring out discordant fanfares.

  ‘Nice to see you again.’

  Christeen gave Rex a loving peck on the cheek. ‘You’re sweet. Although you smell as bad as ever.’

  ‘We ran into a spot of bother. Dan got away.’

  ‘Yes, I saw it. But I was in no position to help. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why is it,’ Rex asked, ‘that I can only remember you when I’m with you?’

  ‘That’s my little secret. But see, we’re nearly here.’ They had entered one of the sub-basements of the Nemesis Bunker.

  ‘Here,’ groaned Rex. ‘Not here. Why here?’

  ‘Because this is where all of it is going to happen. And I do mean happen. Come on.’ Christeen led the way to the lift.

  ‘Some honey, huh?’ Elvis whispered to Fergus Shaman.

  The other nodded enthusiastically. ‘Massive bosoms.’

  Mungo Madoc slid an intricate system of controls, all bulging bits and pulsating other bits and bits that glowed funny colours, out in front of him. He rattled a brisk finger tattoo upon it and a cross-mesh of laser light spun out toward the shining cone. The image of a mud-brown planet appeared, grim and forbidding, and relieved of its monotone only by two pale grey areas at its polar regions. The image enlarged and became solid. Mungo’s gaze fell upon Jason Morgawr. ‘All keyed in and ready for the off.

  ‘We shall now run your programme, Jason. Places every-one and action.’

  The lights went out at Nemesis. Gloria swore fiercely and sought objects to throw. Beyond the sloping windows the sun was going down. Between the first and second floor, the lift was going nowhere.

  ‘Aw . . .’

  ‘No, let me say it for you. Shit.’

  ‘Thanks, Rex.’

  In the darkness Fergus felt about for a switch. His wandering hands made contact with something extremely nice. ‘Urgh,’ went Fergus Shaman as Christeen’s fist made contact with his nose.

  High above in the darkness Ms Vrillium’s voice quavered strangely. ‘Gloria dear, there is someone to see you.’

  Gloria Mundi turned in fury. ‘Who?’ But then words rightly failed her.

  ‘Come at a bad time, have I?’ asked Dalai Dan.

  33

  Behold He cometh with
clouds and every eye shall see Him.

  Revelation 1:7

  Gloria might have tried, ‘Thank God you’re alive,’ for in fact that was exactly what she thought and exactly what Dan heard her think. But as it was her mouth opened and closed but nothing whatever came out.

  ‘On your knees.’ The tone in Dan’s voice contained such exquisite menace and such unquestionable authority that Gloria hastened to obey. Ms Vrillium was already on all fours and cowering into the bargain. The High Lama strode across the darkling room and seated himself behind his great desk. He flipped the open channels on the terminals and punched codes into the row of telephones. And then he spoke. But it wasn’t a single voice, it was a cacophony of voices, all his, yet all issuing separate instructions at exactly the same moment. Gloria pressed her hands about her ears. She sensed and felt the power of pure evil.

  But to the terminal operators and those poised, telephone in hand, these heard but a single voice, directed personally to them. A voice which offered encouragement, assuaged doubts, made praise, made promises. When the terrible multiple tirade was done, Dan sat back in his chair and pressed the palms of his hands together. Small sparklets of energy crackled about his fingertips. After a moment or two the lights came back on.

  ‘Did you really think you could run all this without me? Did you?’ Gloria hid her face, she was shivering fearfully.

  ‘You wretched creature. None of it ever got through to you, did it? All this! All this!’ Dan rose from his seat. And he did it with style. He rose into the air and hovered above his desk. ‘All this is mine. I made all this. I hold it together. Without me there is only chaos. I am the Living God King. Last of my line. You are nothing. Do you hear? Nothing.’

  ‘I am nothing,’ whispered Gloria. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There, I’ve fixed it,’ said Rex, as the lift rose again from the dead. Christeen gave him an old-fashioned look. Rex winked back.