by Mick Farren
"A brand new, clean-slate world is some serious temptation."
Vickers had been unable to sleep. Huge, pink-fleshed steroid women stalked his dreams, reaching for him with their huge, slab-of-meat hands. Bent reptile men with black eyes advanced. They clutched bright chrome spears, like giant needles, in green arthritic hands. They lunged at the steroid women, who burst in explosions of blood and flesh. He fled through the darkness of a huge decaying building. His legs were heavy and his breathing labored. The building was coming apart and he was on a very high floor. The walls decomposed and ran down their steel supports like they were formed of some organic material that was suddenly putrefying. The ceilings also rotted and rained down on him while expanding gaps in the floor threatened to pitch him headlong into a hundred-story abyss. A steroid woman appeared from nowhere. She was all over him, smothering him. He couldn't breathe. He was going to suffocate. Then the floor gave way and they fell together. At that point, he decided that it was a very good time to wake up.
He found that he was sweating. It was probably the damn chemicals they'd pumped into the room while Lutesinger was doing his act. All the molecular persuaders had some kind of unpleasant after effect. God knows, he didn't need chemicals to kick off a cycle of bad dreams. In its own, there was enough in his subconscious just waiting to be dredged up to make him sweat. He decided that there were two possible antidotes. One was vitamin C and the other was alcohol. A series of screwdrivers might be an ideal solution. When, however, he stepped into the common room he found that he was not the only one who was awake and drinking. Parkwood sat in the deepest, most comfortable chair reading a novel by Celine and nursing a large scotch. He glanced up as Vickers came out of his cubicle.
"Sleepless night?"
"I hope a couple of drinks will put me out."
Vickers poured himself the first in the proposed series. Parkwood put down his book.
"It's probably whatever cloud they were floating us on for Lutesinger."
"You noticed that?"
"It could hardly be missed."
The two men sat in silence for a while, guarding their thoughts. This accidental moment so obviously lent itself to some sort of intimacy but neither seemed willing to be the first to drop his guard. It was hard to do without seeming less than professionally correct. Finally Parkwood sipped his scotch and smiled dryly.
"Doctor Lutesinger provided quite a spectacle."
"Didn't he just."
"He seemed particularly anxious to sell us the official philosophy."
"Anxious enough to dose us down the microdelics to help him get across."
Parkwood raised an eyebrow. "You thought microdelics?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I'd had much the same thought myself."
Again there was silence. Parkwood got up and poured himself another scotch. When he sat down again, he seemed to have made a decision. He fixed Vickers with a candidly even stare.
"You realize there's a madness down here."
"You realize that more than likely someone or something is listening into this conversation?"
Parkwood was surprisingly matter of fact.
"It doesn't really worry me very much. I've given this some thought. If they're paranoid enough to have the whole place wired for surveillance-and they probably are-it would have to be hooked into an artificial intelligence that's programmed to hear a range of concepts, actions and direction of conversations that have been deemed by someone to be treasonous, subversive or whatever. I tried to hack toward it by that route but the whole subject is monkeyblocked ever whichway, a fact that, in itself, proves they have something to hide. I figure they've probably given up on us ideologically. We're the hired guns. We've already proved we're subversive by going along with the programs only extremely grudgingly. We can cuss and spit on the sidewalk. Nobody's going to worry, we're a lost cause. If they come and cart Eggy away, I'll start to worry but until then… I'm not boring you, am I?"
Vickers blinked. It was the longest speech he had ever heard Parkwood make. He suspected that the cold, reserved corpse was fairly well advanced into the scotch.
"And what's this madness you started talking about?"
"Don't be coy with me, Mort. You've been aware that there's something weird about this whole setup since you had your first run-ins with Streicher. I've seen you looking at all those Ruritanian uniforms and the rest of the nonsense. You feel the same way I do."
"And how do you feel?"
"We're living in the middle of an adolescent fantasy. The huge surplus of women, all the fake pomp and circumstance. It's a wet dream, a teen-acne power trip. It's so bloody simpleminded. I presume you're familiar with the Charlie Manson story?"
"Everybody's familiar with the Charlie Manson story. They've made four movies about it."
"Remember when Charlie was at the peak of his megalomania and getting ready for Helter Skelter? According to Charlie there was this huge bottomless cave way out in the desert. When Armageddon came and the blacks start wiping out the whites, Charlie was going to take his people down into the cave where they could hole up until the devastation was complete and then come out and take over. The troglodytes inherit the earth."
"You think that's what's going on here?"
"The end of the world's a cheap shot in the mad prophet business."
"And you think Lutesinger a mad prophet?"
"Sure. He's so computerized that he may not know it yet, but yeah, he's one for sure. Plus, it's no secret that Lloyd-Ransom's been crazy as a loon for years."
"So what do you know about Lloyd-Ransom?" Parkwood's eyes slitted.
"I'm a little drunk but I'm not going to stand still for this cross examination much longer."
"I know that."
"This conversation's supposed to be a two-way street, a mutual exchange of confidence."
"So tell me what you know about Lloyd-Ransom and then it'll be my turn."
"I doubt I know anything you don't know. Regular British Army, the kind of psychopath who can survive in the military as long as he keeps on heading out for the edge. Lloyd-Ransom eventually wound up in command of one of those SAS Twilight groups. The kind that they feed on raw meat and vodka and keep in cages when they're not on a mission. He notched up quite a body count during the withdrawal from Ulster and a bigger one in Namibia. He vanished for a while after the London coup crisis, resurfaced in Africa and freelanced for a couple of years before he came to the US via Singapore and hooked his way into corporate security. I haven't come across him in five years, but the last time I had dealings with him, he was a real teeth grinder."
"The more I learn about this place the more depressed I get."
"It's early days yet. Wait until we finally get shut in for real down here. That's when it's going to get hairy."
Vickers was surprised.
"Isn't that a little fatalistic?"
Parkwood looked a little shocked. "Did you hear what I just said?"
"Sure."
"All through that damned lecture I knew they were hosing us down with something. For no real reason I kept feeling this absolute gut certainty that the end was right at hand. Didn't you feel it?"
"All I felt was the sweats and a headache. I've got a really high tolerance to suggestion. I just get psychosomatic fever."
"You're lucky."
"Maybe."
"But why should they go to so much trouble to convince us that the end is at hand?"
Vickers stood up and went to get himself another drink.
"I would have thought that it was obvious. It's straight back to your mad prophet theory. Lutesinger and Lloyd-Ransom can't wait for Armageddon. It would make them kings of the world."
Parkwood pursed his lips.
"Of course. You're right. I was simply holding off from the ultimate."
"At least they're in no position to start a nuclear war themselves."
"Unless there's something we don't know."
Vickers raised his glass.
> "That's always a risk."
Parkwood nodded. "Isn't it just."
The thought hung in the air. Vickers finished his screwdriver and decided he didn't need any more orange juice. He glanced at Parkwood.
"I'm going to switch to scotch, you want me to get you one?"
"Sure, why not."
As Vickers was pouring the whiskey, the main door to the group's quarters opened and Eggy walked in. His face was a picture of satisfaction.
"Still up?"
"Sure are."
"Drinking?"
"Uh-huh."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Go straight ahead."
Eggy poured himself a huge belt of Wild Turkey and dropped a couple of ice cubes into it. He turned and found that both Parkwood and Vickers were staring at him curiously.
"What do you guys want?"
"We want to know where you've been."
Eggy laughed, swallowed about half his drink and belched.
"I'll bet you do."
"Ah, come on, you can't come walking in here at this time of night and just grin at us like the cat that got the cream. Where's the cream, Eggy?"
"Yeah Eggy, what you got going?"
Eggy sat down.
"You want to know where I've been? You really want to know?"
"Sure we want to know. That's why we're sitting here staring at you."
Eggy leaned forward like a conspirator.
"I've been up in the women handlers' quarters. You wouldn't believe it. Some of those women take the five-to-one ratio very seriously."
"How long has this been going on?"
"A week. I ought to have thought of it earlier."
"You realize you're most likely under surveillance the whole time?"
Eggy shrugged.
"Fuck them. I hope they enjoy themselves. I'm not the only one. There's quite a few guys who drift up that way when they've got nothing to do."
Vickers and Parkwood glanced at each other. They both looked a little bemused. Eggy took another king-sized slug at his drink and looked around the room contentedly.
"You know something? I could almost get to like this place."
There was clearly something in the wind. Lamas and Deakin had arrived together. Both were immaculately turned out. Lamas with his height and his somewhat condescending casual sophistication, Deakin, ramrod stiff and more puffed up than usual. There was no doubt a major announcement was about to be handed down.
"What the fuck do you think Mutt and Jeff want?"
"I figure they'll be telling us pretty soon, the way Deakin's bouncing up and down."
The group gathered around the pair of uniformed officers with a single questioning expression. Lamas had obviously decided to let them sweat on the news for a few moments. He carefully fitted a cigarette into a black and silver holder.
"Gentlemen and lady…"
Debbie regarded him sourly but didn't say anything.
"… you'll be pleased to hear that, as of tomorrow, you'll be fully operative Phoenix Bunker security personnel."
"What did we do to deserve that?"
Lamas exhaled cigarette smoke straight at Eggy.
"Sometimes I wonder."
Parkwood stepped in before the exchange could be extended.
"Will we be assigned to a regular set of duties?"
"Actually no. In many respects you're all spare parts until such a time as the bunker is sealed. You'll be given missions from time to time but otherwise you'll be able to continue your life of leisure. As it happens, though, your first mission is tomorrow."
Debbie still looked distrustful.
"What kind of mission?"
"Very routine. A major celeb will be coming down into the bottoms with an entire entourage. There'll be blanket security. You'll all get individual briefings."
Fenton raised an eyebrow.
"Individual briefings?"
"You'll all be fulfilling slightly different functions."
Parkwood wasn't quite satisfied.
"How is this group going to be organized? Is one of us going to be put in charge or what?"
"You'll all have equal status under my command for the time being."
Eggy spat on the floor.
"All for one, one for all?"
Lamas smiled coldly.
"Look at it this way. You'll get to see the bottoms for the first time. They really are very impressive."
SIX
THE BOTTOMS WEREN'T impressive, they were magnificent. For a full five minutes after the group stepped out of the passenger elevator, nobody said a word. They moved as though in a dream, craning their necks like awestruck tourists. It seemed impossible that such opulence could exist in a place that had survival as a basic function. The centerpiece of this lowest, most exclusive strata of the bunker was a wide soaring airshaft that, as far as Vickers could see, extended almost to the surface and was at least a hundred feet across at its base. The style went back to the futurism of the first half of the twentieth century. Flying sweeps of molded glass, scrolls of white concrete balconies and catwalks, expanses of stainless steel and towering pylons. Much was made of lights and mirrors. Red and yellow laser beams crisscrossed between the walls of shaft and fiber optics hung in gently waving cascades. It was a luxury condominium off on a billion dollar fantasy. At the same time as with so much of the rest of the bunker's house style, there were echoes of the grandiose dictatorships-no dictator, though, had ever managed to piss away the astronomical sums of money that must have been consumed by this place. Even Adolf Hitler and his tame architect Albert Speer had done little more than dream about raising cathedrals to themselves. Lutesinger hadn't been kidding when he'd compared the bunker to the building of the pyramids. They were equal in their transcendental waste.
The floor of the bottom level was an expanse of black and white marble, an open piazza liberally dotted with rocklike abstract statues with titles like Courage, Industry or Fortitude, elaborate fountains and indoor trees kept alive by banks of growlites. There were even animals. Squirrels clung to the trunks of the trees, parrots and other bright tropical birds roosted in the top branches. Peacocks stalked across the polished marble, fanning their tails and letting go with their ugly squawks. The animals surprised Vickers, possibly more than anything else. He knew the bunker had an extensive zoo backed up by vast sperm banks. He hadn't expected to see critters running around loose. Directly beneath the center of the shaft there was a tall black obelisk and an eternal flame. It was a final and not very pleasant resemblance to a tomb.
"It's like a temple to mankind."
Deakin was positively glowing. Fenton parked his gum in his cheek.
"It's something, that's for sure."
Eggy glanced around. He seemed wide-eyed with glazed horror. He clearly didn't approve of the bottoms. There was something in its luxury that he took very personally.
Both Eggy and Fenton were hefting big.60 caliber frag guns, as indeed were Debbie, Eight-Man and Carmen Rainer. In the latter case the weapon coordinated perfectly with today's outlandish leather sado-suit. The guns worried Vickers. They were so totally inappropriate for indoor escort work. In fact, coupled with Lamas's "individual briefing," they radically curtailed Vickers' gosh-wow rubbernecking. The "briefing" had been so short and concise that it was virtually non-existent. Lamas had come into Vickers' private cubicle while he was still dressing. He'd closed the door and sat down on the bed.
"I want you to listen extremely carefully. When you get down into the bottoms, Deakin will assign you a position. Once you've assumed that position you do nothing. Do you understand me? Absolutely nothing. You remain where you are and do nothing no matter what is going on around you. I won't answer any questions. All I want to know is have you got the instruction?"
Vickers had taken a deep breath and nodded.
"What will happen to me if I decide I'm not able to do nothing?"
"It wouldn't be a wise decision."
With that, Lamas had stood up and
left the cubicle. Vickers had rejoined the others and had been issued a Yasha with two clips of ammunition. When he saw the frag guns being handed out, he realized that the individual briefings must have been fairly diverse.
There were two five-man security squads, the "hoodlums" who'd refused uniforms. They were led across the piazza to where a slight incline ran down to a huge pair of brass doors that clearly gave access to one of the main freight elevators. A ten-man squad of soldiers who looked like an honor party were lined up on either side of the doors. Deakin began positioning his people along the top of the incline in an open line. The ones with the frag guns were dispersed along the line. It only took a moment for Vickers to realize that the combination of the soldiers and themselves could be a very standard security layout for greeting a VIP but, as they were, facing down the ramp toward the doors, it was also an ideal layout for a slaughter. Anyone coming out of the elevator was completely at their mercy.
For maybe fifteen minutes they stood in silence. It was designed to be very restful down in the bottoms. Ambient sounds hummed and flauted from hidden speakers. The birds called and rustled in the trees. The fountains splashed and sparkled. For a bomb shelter it was close to idyllic. The sound of voices came from the other side of the piazza. Vickers turned his head. A small crowd was coming out from one of the main tunnels. They had to be the reception committee. They were a colorful bunch. The majority of the men were in the most flamboyant uniforms he'd seen so far. They ran to capes and plumes and the most absurd decorations. There was something almost medieval about the women with their long sweeping skirts and the high collars that framed their faces. Vickers muttered under his breath. "Sweet Jesus, it's Camelot."
As they got closer he recognized two of the women, Thane Ride the TV star and Pagan Ouspenski the tireless socialite. They might be luxurious, but Vickers couldn't see why either of these luminaries should forsake their jet-set haunts unless someone had thoroughly convinced them that the end was nigh at any minute. More important, Vickers also recognized Lloyd-Ransom. He had an attractive Oriental woman on his arm and was preceded by a dog handler pulling back on the leashes of a trio of Dobermans. Two of the dogs were young with a decidedly crazed look in their yellow eyes. The third was an elderly bitch with a graying muzzle and half of her left hind leg missing. Vickers wondered if Lloyd-Ransom had had the dog all through his career. It hardly seemed possible that he'd acquired the animal in that condition. Lloyd-Ransom's immediate escort was completed by a pair of gray-uniformed soldiers with machine pistols at high port. Lloyd-Ransom himself cut an impressive figure in a spotless white uniform. He was slim and erect with the carriage of a professional soldier and the rather old fashioned, pencil-moustache good looks of a 1930s matinee idol.
