Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'Thanks,' said Narry. 'We all know what this means. We'll be in your debt forever.'

  'Did I say I'd do it, young man?' scowled Boz.

  'Not in so many words,' intervened Madeleine, 'but yes, you did.'

  'Oh did I?' said Boz. 'Well in that case, better get on with it then, hadn't I?'

  He smiled at Narry and shrugged his sloping shoulders.

  ''Mazin' how things work out some times, ain't it?

  'But as they say, time moves on an' waits for no man or no reptilian or no whatever. So take me to your expert! Let's go for the bofar.

  'Let's rattle some shit, boy!'

  61.

  It was mid-morning in the Guvner's palace and Lysaars' mind was on his bowels. They had developed their own loose interpretation of perpetual motion, with the accent on “loose” and on “motion”.

  The ruler-of-the-universe designate was having a touch of the nervous squits. The significance of what he had set in train and what it meant for his own existence had finally gotten to him. He had not felt like this for years, not since he'd carried out his first and last public speaking engagement - a short speech at the sparsely populated wedding of an unpopular cousin. He had worried over what to say - and whether he would remember his lines - for weeks before the event. Then, on the day itself, his bowels, like now, had proven more active than his memory, and he'd made an intensely embarrassing hash of congratulating the newlyweds. God, how he'd hated that day!

  Well, at least this time his nerves were in a good cause, something rather more than the stuff and nonsense of dismal nuptials. This time they could be put down to the magnitude of the impending event, the mind-blowing prospect of awesome new powers, a true destiny realised. Hell, he was just about to become immortal! Heavy stuff no matter how you said it. Enough to make anyone's gut go weak at the knees.

  And, of course, things hadn't been helped by that damn fool Doggerbat and his unparalleled mastery of the art of grand blunder. Nor if the truth be known had Lysaars' meal of the previous evening, an exercise more to do with disposal logistics than with normal eating. Lysaars had stuffed himself even by Lysaars' standards. And now the stuffing was being taken out of him. His trepidation was proving the most effective of laxatives.

  He hoped it would settle itself, well before this evening's event. Although he was actually beginning to feel a little peckish again…

  A knock on the door interrupted his gastric musings. It was opened immediately and in walked the gruesome looking Dr Rattlepitt. Not that much of his ugliness was visible. Most of his head was hidden behind a long swathe of fabric. It was draped round his neck - and it was pink.

  'You'd better try this on,' he announced in his broken radio staccato. 'It should fit you, but you'd better make sure.'

  'What is it?' enquired a suspicious sounding Lysaars. 'What's it for?'

  'It's to make sure I don't kill you in the process of making you immortal, young man. That's what it's for. You have to wear it this evening. Didn't I tell you?'

  'No, as a matter of fact, you didn't. I've already chosen what to wear this evening, and it's not pink to start with. In fact, if you're interested, it's a wonderfully tailored uniform - in black and gilt. It's modelled on a classic Mehenunda high-command uniform. And it's taken months to get right, and it's cost a fortune…' Then Lysaars paused. 'But you're not interested, are you? Because I'm not going to be allowed to wear it, am I?'

  'Correct on both counts, Mr Lysaars. Military fancy dress has never been a passion of mine. And no, you won't be wearing anything - other than this.'

  Rattlepitt threw his pink bundle onto a chair and began to organise its folds as he continued to speak. 'And I mean you won't be wearing anything at all other than this. It is imperative we get all those new lives into your head - but only your head. And this will allow us to do just that. It will cover the whole of the rest of your body. But it must be allowed to do its work on its own. You must wear nothing underneath it. Do you understand? Nothing!'

  Lysaars shook his head. 'You mean I'm to turn up this evening wearing just this? I'm to become immortal in a horrible pink cloak and nothing else?'

  'You have no choice, my dear sir,' smirked Rattlepitt. 'And just remember, however disappointed you might feel now, you will have an eternity to recover. But you won't have an eternity at all if you don't do as I say. This "cloak" as you call it is no ordinary cloak. It's not made of cloth to start with. It might look like cloth, but it's nothing of the sort. It's an allotrope, an allotrope of beryllium, one I've developed myself. And it's the only material in the universe that can shield you from alpha patterns. They just can't get through it. And when they're all channelled towards you, all one hundred thousand of them - in, I'm afraid, an unavoidably wide beam - we want them just in your head - and not in your liver or your kidneys. If that happened the results would, I can assure you, be fatal - horribly fatal. So you're to wear this as an envelope around your body - and away from your body. If you wear any other clothes or if your body is in contact with the beryllium - anywhere at all - I cannot promise it'll work. And we can't take that chance. The only other thing you can wear is the standard dodge collar around your neck.

  'Dr Rattlepitt,' said Lysaars, a tone of complaint creeping into his voice, 'you make this process sound worryingly dangerous. Are you sure that this shield thing will work?'

  'Mr Lysaars sir! How can you possibly have any doubts… how can you possibly have any doubts about my professionalism - and my thoroughness - and my… my science - after all I have told you? Sir, I repeat again. I am no sloppy worker in the empirical. I prove everything to my own satisfaction - my total satisfaction. And I have proved that the beryllium allotrope works - totally satisfactorily! And mathematically! You must wear it!'

  'OK, OK,' said Lysaars quietly. 'It's just I'm… well, I'm naturally… errh, a little tense and well…' he paused and then with his brow wrinkling into folds of blubber, he continued '…errh, how do I wear this cloak - if it can't touch me? I mean, if I'm not wearing anything underneath it - to keep it off my body, I mean…'

  'That, Mr Lysaars, you will see. I suggest you try it on - over your clothes for now. And you will see how I've designed it. May I reiterate once again - I am thorough, Mr Lysaars!'

  And Lysaars was reassured of just that when a few minutes later he stood draped in the cloak - in his beryllium pinkness. He understood how what Rattlepitt had said was possible and how this magic shield could do its job safely, isolated from his fat barrel body. The “cloak” was suspended from a plastic collar, which clasped tightly around his neck. It had no contact with his skin there or anywhere else - because the peculiar pink material had spread out from the collar horizontally to form a great disc above his shoulders - and, at a radius of about two feet, it had turned through right angles to form a floor-length, featureless shroud. Lysaars was enclosed from his neck downwards in a sickly pink cylinder, which at no point touched his body. His chubby arms and even his bulbous backside were nowhere near its sides.

  Lysaars didn't know how Rattlepitt had achieved this miracle, how he had coaxed this beryllium stuff to turn at right angles and to hold this squat cylinder shape - and so well. But when he looked in the mirror he did know what Rattlepitt had achieved in visual terms. The material had a matt and very slightly crinkly surface. This combined with the relative dimensions of the cylinder - and its flat top - made his brand new outfit look like only one thing. At his immortalisation this evening, Lysaars would be wearing what everybody would see as a giant, pink toilet-roll. With the pink bobble of his head on its top. The result was fiendishly ridiculous.

  Lysaars felt dismay. What a price to pay for everlasting life! And to add insult to injury the toilet connection reawakened his bowels. He needed to get out of this damn thing and into the loo. Quickly.

  62.

  The original Rangican crew of Renton's adopted easipeas had kept, as a battle mascot, a shiny black, helium-filled balloon. Its members were unusually fastidious and they sh
unned the more commonly used mascot - as carried by most other easipeas troops: the very small and very sweet bat-eared jabajonka. These little animals were real charmers - and real toughies. But they couldn't be house-trained nor easipeas-trained. And in the confined space of an easipeas cabin this deficiency in their nature could soon be a problem. However, no such concerns with a balloon. And what it might lack in charm, it more than made up for in its non-intrusive and entirely undemanding habits.

  It did, of course, need one thing, which a bat-eared jabajonka didn't: a hook on the floor - (to anchor its string when it went off to war).

  When the Rangican crew added this non-standard option to their machine, little did they know that one day it would find itself another rôle - as the anchor point, not for a balloon, but for a curtain-caped clown…

  And of course, Renton never learnt of the history of the hook, a pity in many ways, given his present dependence on it… Indeed by arresting his violent progress around the cabin for nearly twelve hours now, it had probably saved him his life. But was life of this quality really worth saving? Renton, having now returned from his extended “with the birds” period, was feeling a terrible mix of pain, nausea, giddiness, exhaustion and helplessness. He was well past being completely pissed off with his present predicament.

  He swayed backwards and forwards, sometimes smoothly across the cabin floor, sometimes in partial flight, as the easipeas threw his body into the air - something it did with depressing frequency - and always without warning.

  And he now tried to deal with his desperate plight by applying his unwelcome consciousness to the practicalities of suicide. It was, at least, something to think about and to distract him from his many ills. And it would be a challenge. Finding a solution would be tricky in the extreme. His present situation ruled out the usual family standbys such as poisoning, self-incineration and gunshot wounds to the head. And even the most obvious choice - of simply detaching himself from the hook or the cloak - in practice, was no choice at all. The pleat was firmly married to the hook and the collar-tie on the cloak had knotted itself into a metal-hard ball, which would clearly be impossible to undo - even at rest. In his current dynamic existence it was a complete non-starter. For a DIY death that was practical too, he would have to explore a bit more…

  Self-strangulation or just plain breath-holding were given a brief mental inspection. But really only the briefest. He knew that even if he could get either of them started, he'd achieve only a brief spasm of unconsciousness. And then he'd be awake. And he'd be in the same beastly mess as he'd been in before - but now with a blinding headache as well. No, they just wouldn't do. They weren't what he needed at all.

  Head butting the pedestal? No, he just couldn't reach it.

  Self-stabbing in the heart area? But with what? There was nothing to use.

  Biting the tongue off? Yes, that was a good idea! You bled to death, didn't you? And that would certainly work… But there again, no, it wouldn't. Because Renton had this problem with tongue - and eating it - in sandwiches and the like. It was its texture, you see. And his own tongue would be the same. He'd throw up on the spot. He just knew he would.

  Then, just before his mind was flipped into the promising if not entirely disgusting area of drowning in one's own vomit, the Rangican mascot hook succumbed. The stresses and strains imposed by Renton's sustained acrobatics had finally overwhelmed it. He weighed a great deal more than any helium-filled balloon, and the fact it had held for so long was an impressive testament to the mechanical abilities of the Rangican crew. But now its time had come. It snapped off as the easipeas crashed down the steep side of an embankment. And as it broke, the downward plunge of the vehicle caused something quite remarkable: it caused Renton to be hurled through a shallow arc and straight into the eaispeas's driving-seat. The right way up.

  Renton was sitting in an easipeas seat, facing the right way, his arms resting on those of the seat and his feet on the floor. He even felt the jarring sensation on his bottom as the easipeas met the foot of the embankment. Then his very own autopilot took over. Before he was aware of his radically changed situation, his fingers had pressed the ends of the seat arms - and those clasp things had started to clasp. When Renton was finally let in on what was going on, his legs, his torso and his head were all firmly and reassuringly embraced in easipeas furniture. And he was safe.

  Well not really. When he had a chance to think things through a bit, he realised the only substantive change to his present existence was the way it might end. Rather than being pummelled to death, he might now depart this mortal coil through internal bleeding - as his organs were bashed to a pulp. Or if they proved more resilient, he might even conk out through dehydration or starvation. There was, he knew, no way that this bastard machine would stop for weeks - or maybe even months. And that was a wee bit too long.

  Of course, he might pluck up courage to attack the control panel. But not yet. To do that without the benefit of long Rangican arms, he'd have to leave the safety of his seat. And that would mean more travels around the cabin, and probably another, rather more painful death option. No, he couldn't cope with that. No, not yet.

  No, for now, he'd get back to his thoughts on suicide. Now, where was he? Oh yes, drowning in vomit. Oh no, that was really hideous.

  What about dying of shame?

  63.

  Pipkim had parked his jeeper about a mile or so from Scorran. With him were Madeleine, Narry and Boz, and now all four of them were walking the remaining distance to the freighter dock - with thousands of other souls, the not so willing guests for the evening's event.

  The plan was to remain within this moving river of humanity - and to remain as inconspicuous as possible. After all, neither Madeleine nor Boz could possibly pass for locals - and especially Boz. And they would both need to slip into the freighter dock as quickly and as discreetly as possible - and definitely without having a close encounter with any of their hosts.

  If there were any reception arrangements, any checking procedures operated by Lysaars' thugs, then they would have a problem. But Narry was working on the assumption that, despite what had been threatened, this was merely a possibility and not a probability. And if there were any such arrangements, then they would just have to deal with them in another way - and, at least, ensure they got Boz through - for obvious reasons.

  And now, as Madeleine caught her first glimpse of the freighter dock over the brow of a hill, it was this potentially problematic but entirely essential non-humanoid who addressed his companions.

  'Man,' he said, 'that's one helluva venue yous got yourselves there. It's gigrandful. I mean, it's reaahly gigrandful!'

  'Well, it was built to handle… well, the most gigrandful freighters,' said Narry. 'You know, the old hippo class, the ones that just never quite worked. It was a couple of centuries ago now. When this planet still built things. I mean proper things, not the make do and mend we have now. Even if it was a daft project for a daft spaceship, it was at least a real project. And look at it now!'

  The dock looked more like a huge amphitheatre than a freighter dock, a huge, ten-acre amphitheatre with an octagonal outline. And within this octagon, and occupying a large part of it, there was a lozenge-shaped indentation: the footprint of a hippo-class freighter. But it wasn't the size of the dock to which Narry was referring. It was its state. For the lozenge shape was barely discernible. It was as indistinct as every other feature of the dock's construction. They were all buried beneath a layer of junk. Whoever had used this dock last hadn't cleared up when they'd left. It was full of all sorts of ancient machinery - and swathes of broken hippo-bits - and assorted jetsam of every conceivable shape and size. And full to overflowing. Even its octagonal boundary was blurred by the discarded remnants of its once active life. It was a mess and a mess on a grand scale.

  It was, of course, ideal for Narry's plans. Madeleine now understood this. What had once been an enormous clear area, capable of accommodating the largest vessel ever cons
tructed, was now a massive confusion of countless nooks and crannies - every one offering opportunities and protection to Narry's own forces - when they would surely need both. It would suit his purposes perfectly.

  Lysaars had chosen this place because of the number it could accommodate. Order and control had not been his priority. After all, as soon as anybody knew what was really going on, there'd be no need for either. On account of how everybody would be dead… And whilst he may have known about Narry's little army, he'd not reckoned on it being bold enough to try anything - and therefore being in any way prepared. Madeleine was heartily grateful for these potentially expensive oversights. And she couldn't have picked a better place herself.

  Within a few minutes they were within a hundred yards of one of the dock gates. The tide of bodies had now slowed to a shuffling crawl, and Madeleine strained to see what was happening at the gate. She now knew that if a thorough identity inspection was going on, Pipkim was lined up to create a distraction - to allow her to “escape” and, more important, to allow Boz to slip his way in on his own. And that would be dangerous - for all four of them.

  Madeleine looked around. She recognised three of Narry's men close at hand. It was all as set up as it could be. And she knew exactly where to run to if she had to…

  They drew closer and still Madeleine could not see what was happening at the gate. And then they were just yards away. And then they were in the dock!

  What Narry had predicted had happened. There was no real inspection at all. So Plan B could be stood down, Pipkim and Narry could now focus on their primary objectives, Boz could no doubt start to worry about the bofar again - and Madeleine could start to worry about Boz and Renton again. And all thanks to Lysaars' arrangements…

  Yes, there may have been threats issued with the invitation to the party - to encourage the partygoers to come along. And these threats obviously implied some sort of checking procedures - to establish who'd turned up and who'd failed to do so. But that's all they were: just threats. As long as they got people along in the numbers required - and they certainly had - why bother with any tedious entry controls? They were pointless. No, just let in anybody who came along - only don't let any of the buggers out again.