Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Lysaars' men at the gate didn't even look at Boz or Madeleine as they passed. They simply weren't interested. Indeed, they weren't interested in any individual - just in the crowd. They were netting fish. And as long as the shoal was big enough they couldn't care less. They couldn't care less what they'd caught in their net.

  Well, more fool them. They didn't yet know it, but the net now contained a few very unwelcome species. They might even spoil the whole catch.

  64.

  At the centre of the freighter dock, resting on a stack of girders, was a great sheet of niobium. It had once been the loading door of one of those hippo-class spaceships. Its size and just the slightest curve in its profile bore witness to their scale; they were truly colossal.

  The giant door now had a new purpose. It was to be the stage on which Rattlepitt would give the premier performance of his unique magic show. For the first time in history a man would be transmuted into an immortal. And you could catch the show here, folks! At the Scorran bowl! Come along and witness the experience of your life, the last experience of your life!

  Dr Rattlepitt was standing on the niobium platform - waiting for Lysaars to arrive. In most respects, he was pretty happy with all the arrangements - although he still had some reservations about the venue. An oversized junkyard was not, in his mind, the ideal choice for such a momentous occasion. Neither was he completely comfortable with all the armed thugs around. He knew they were needed. But, all the same, they seemed out of place. After all, this was supposed to be a mystical experience, not an exercise in coercion and menace. And he just wished they weren't here.

  But the stage… well, that was fine!

  In the first place, its surface area was vast. There was going to be plenty of room for Rattlepitt, for the APMP (his alpha pattern monitor/projector thing) - and for Lysaars - even a Lysaars masquerading as an overgrown toilet roll. The performance would be played out on a stage of suitably impressive proportions.

  It would also be easily seen. The girder piles held the niobium door nearly twenty feet from the floor of the dock. Nobody in the house would have a bad seat. And finally a tunnel between the girders provided an ideal backstage for Lysaars, as well as a nice hidey-hole for the bofar. No point in alarming the audience by setting it up on the stage. Especially when it was controlled by a little remote, which lived in Rattlepitt's pocket. Hell, somebody might know about bofars, and that could really spoil the show. In fact, it could completely ruin the show. No, better to keep the microwave stuff well out of sight.

  He was finally satisfied that everything was now in place. He had checked all the equipment needed for his magic. Everything worked perfectly. He had ensured everybody who was supposed to survive the evening would do so. Every one of Lysaars' cutthroats now wore a mini bofar around his neck - but hidden discreetly. And Lysaars could arrive safely to join the entertainment. A space had been cleared to one side of the stage where his hover could land. It was guarded by a ring of his thugs, and others formed a short corridor to his changing room, the void 'neath the stage where the star could reside - and where his pink cylinder awaited him.

  All was now ready. Everything was set up for the snuffing out of countless lives in the name of glory and science. Rattlepitt was finally going to show everybody the proof of the mathematical certainty of his pioneering work. He could hardly wait!

  65.

  Renton's mental deliberations on self-annihilation techniques were getting nowhere fast. He'd met cul de sac after cul de sac in his search for a suitable suicide. And these morbid musings now had to compete with scenes on that fibre-optic screen, scenes of the easipeas's impending and actual collision with everything in its path.

  The terrifying drama of the visual soon won out. Renton became captivated by the images before him - and how they might translate into physical sensations.

  A small mountain of thin plastic ductwork lay just ahead. Then the machine was through it. There was barely a flicker in the easipeas's lurching motion. It was as if the mountain had been a mirage.

  Then it was a huge pile of assorted metal-mongery, partially fused together and laced with concrete debris. This time there was a jolt, a truly stupendous brick-wall jolt, as the pile turned to dust.

  Renton felt stunned and was quite ill-prepared for the next assault on his body. There looked to be another, smaller pile of jumbled junk in the vehicle's path, and Renton braced himself for what he hoped would be a lesser battering. It started that way; the brick-wall jolt was a fraction of the one before it. But the pile had obscured his view of another pile immediately behind the first and then another and another - and then even more… The easipeas had managed to find a rank of scrap heaps, and was travelling along its length, exploding heap after heap. Renton felt positively corrugated as each successive blow shook his innards, his teeth and his brain.

  'God,' he thought. 'Is there no end to this hell? Will this ride ever stop? And what will this beast find me next…?'

  It found him a lake.

  This was no problem for a fighting-fit easipeas, designed to cope with every imaginable obstacle in its path - whether solid, sticky, explosive or liquid. It would simply scoot across the bottom of the lake and emerge wet but otherwise unscathed at its other side. Water was really no obstacle at all. But that might not be the case if the easipeas in question was not entirely fighting-fit, and had indeed not been entirely fighting-fit for several decades. If its sealing mechanism had deteriorated so badly that it let in water like a sieve, then it was certainly not the case. The easipeas would still plough along happily in a submerged state, but its crew would get more than a little damp - as Renton was about to find out.

  Within seconds of the machine's plunge into the lake, Renton could smell the water and whatever it was poisoned with. It was a dreadful mix of sewage odour and oil stink. Then, a few seconds later, he could see the “water” and why it smelled so bad. It was streaming across the floor of the cabin. But unlike normal water, it was black and it had a viscosity more associated with re-heated porridge than with H2O. And there were lumps of things in it.

  Renton heaved.

  The gunk quickly covered the entire floor, slurping backwards and forwards with the motion of the easipeas. Then it started its climb up the walls. Slowly but remorselessly the black evil-smelling sludge was filling up the entire vehicle.

  Renton looked on in terror as first the ooze covered the feet of his wellies and then, horrors upon horrors, it rose to their tops. The coldness of the unspeakable mess trickling into his wellies took his breath away. For a brief moment it proved an almost welcome distraction from the awful smell and the more awful prospect of what was to come.

  Renton was terrified. In all his thoughts on one hundred and one ways to die, drowning in an enclosed space in hideous industrial sewage had simply not featured. And not surprisingly. It was clearly an awful way to go…

  The stinking black mess continued to rise. At about the time it started to soak into his underpants, Renton began to feel he might not be able to breathe for very much longer. The atmosphere in the remaining space of the cabin was now foul.

  He started to hyperventilate. Or that's what he thought it was anyway. Uncontrollable, short, shallow breaths interspersed with a sort of painful gagging.

  'Shit,' he thought, 'what do I do now? I mean, what the hell do I do now!?'

  The ooze was now past his waist and beginning to slop over his hands.

  'Ah hands! Press the damn seat arms,' he thought. 'Stand up. For God's sake, stand up!'

  He pressed the ends of the seat arms. When not overridden by remote commands, this action released the constraints just as it applied them in the first place. But nothing happened. The clasps remained in place. He was firmly anchored in that sitting position. He pressed and pressed but to no avail. The black liquid must have buggered up the release mechanism. And it was now nearly chest high.

  'Hell, what I'd give for some milk - some lovely warm milk! How could I ever have thought tha
t drowning in a milker could have been something to be frightened of? What a joyous prospect. What heaven! If only…'

  Something long and slippery, with a sweet smell that transcended the stink that surrounded it, slid below Renton's chin. Its inanimate slither was so indescribably hideous that Renton thought for a moment that it might be alive. But he knew nothing lived in this gruesome swill, and at the current rate of knots, that would include one Renton Tenting in about a minute or so. But he had to look on the bright side. The hyperventilating, which was now more gagging than breathing, might do for him first. He really thought he might go at any second now. He had reached the truly unendurable.

  He pressed and pressed at the ends of the chair arms but still nothing happened. The black stuff splashed into his ears. It swirled about his chin and he tasted its evilness on his bottom lip.

  Stretch the neck up? Head to the side? Duck into the stuff and swallow - get it over with now? God, decisions, decisions. There were always friggin' decisions in this life - even when you were about to leave it.

  What a bummer!

  66.

  Boz was with Narry and Madeleine. They were all crouched together in a depression in the rubble. Then Pipkim leapt in to join them. 'It's under the stage,' he announced. 'Just where I thought it'd be.'

  'Hey, that's real good, man,' said Boz. 'Anywhere else coulda been jus' so darn easy. An' I do so much like a challenge. Where better than at the centre of things - where it's all a-happenin'? Great! I'll just pop over there and sort the thing out. Right now. And then I'll be back for some tiffin!

  'Awe, sorry folks,' he continued in a rather more sober tone, 'but hell, I'm scared shitless!'

  'We all are,' whispered Narry. 'But we've just got to get on with it. So just follow Pipkim and do what he says. And good luck. We'll meet again soon.'

  'And cool down,' added Madeleine. 'Remember your body temperature. Don't forget why you're the one doing this. Oh, and come back safely. The party wouldn't be the same without you. And anyway, I'm about ready for another fish pie…'

  She hugged him, and Boz responded with a substantial sniffle. He had no words to cope.

  'And Renton'll expect you back as well.'

  'OK kid,' he managed. And with that he was away with Pipkim and off in the direction of the improvised stage.

  Progress was slow. There were little alleys and tunnels between the strewn junk, but as often as not these were crammed with massed Dumpiterians, and much squeezing past and stepping over was the order of the day. And there were Lysaars' thugs everywhere. Initially they appeared totally unconcerned, but nearer the stage they started to take an interest. And some of them, a lot of interest.

  'Wait here,' ordered Pipkim. 'And when I say go, just walk slowly to the stage and get under it. You'll see the bofar. It's just to the side. And remember your body temperature. Don't touch the damn thing until you know you've cooled down. OK?'

  'Jus' walk slowly, eh? Jus' like that?' enquired Boz incredulously. 'Yous gonna hypnotise these guys or somethin'?'

  'I hope we're going to somethin' them,' replied Pipkim. 'Any moment now.'

  And as he finished speaking, an ear-piercing whistle erupted from the crowd. It came from the other side of the stage - a really impressive barrage of high-pitched noise, made with what sounded like hundreds of little dobie-whistles. And it had a remarkable effect. It caught the attention of every last one of Lysaars' men. They were now all craning their necks to see what was going on - in the direction of the noise. And some were even moving off to have a better look.

  'Go now, Boz. Go now!' shouted Pipkim above the noise of the whistles.

  And Boz did. And before the whistling stopped - as the whistlers swallowed their dobies - he was next to the bofar and still. He was hidden between it and what had once been a hippo's cubicle loo. Boz felt he might need to use it. But first there was work…

  Could he really pull this off? Could Bostrom T Aukaukukaura really save the lives of one hundred thousand humanoids?

  He'd soon find out.

  67.

  Rattlepitt had heard the whistling but had seen nothing - even from his elevated vantage point. It had left him feeling distinctly uneasy. There had been a purpose to that disturbance. But what? What was going on? Was somebody trying to spoil his show? Then the sound of a hover drew his attention. Lysaars' machine was landing in the freighter dock. The fat man was arriving for his party.

  Thousands of heads turned to observe the arriving craft. Silence descended on the arena. The only sound was the hover's own. Then a murmur began, a soft reverberating murmur as thousands of whispered thoughts were exchanged within the crowd. And then the murmur, magnified by a million reflecting surfaces, built to an eerie roar - a disconcerting reminder to Lysaars' men of the power of the multitude in their charge.

  The hover settled on the ground - out of sight of the crowd. And after a theatrically long minute and a half Lysaars emerged from its innards. He was dressed in his classic, not to say unique, Mehenunda high-command uniform. It seemed that if he couldn't wear it to the party, he was bloody well going to wear it on his way to the party - so there!

  He placed his hands on his rounded hips and surveyed his protecting ring of thugs. Behind him a second passenger emerged from the hover. It was Langail, looking pale and ever so frail. And distracted. He seemed barely to realise where he was and what was going on - apparently oblivious to the vast number of his subjects who were gathered all around - more than there'd ever been gathered in one place before.

  Lysaars now turned to Langail and beckoned him forward. Langail responded slowly, shuffling at the pace of a sick snail. He followed Lysaars towards and then beneath the niobium stage. Rattlepitt climbed down some improvised steps to join them. He shivered with anticipation. It would be soon now. His audience had only a little time to wait - and a little time to live.

  68.

  Renton didn't so much decide that he wouldn't duck his face into the black brew as not decide on any course of action at all. And, for once, his characteristic indecisiveness was inspired and its associated prevarication saved his life. The “water” level had stopped rising. He was not able to appreciate it immediately, but the easipeas had reached the shallower waters on the other side of the lake and the vehicle was now draining. Very slowly the black tide of filth was subsiding. He was not going to drown.

  He might however still suffocate. Noxious air still filled the cabin. Breathing remained a difficult pastime with gagging now featuring heavily between the shallow breaths. But gradually the gagging seemed to be lessening. Respiration was returning to his control. His breathing became deeper and less painful. Then barely painful at all.

  The liquid too was in full retreat. It was now well down his oily dipstick of a body. Indeed, his hands were just visible - covered in sludge. And the same brown-black goo covered his neck and his clothes right down to his waist. Even the gold threads on his dark green cloak had succumbed to the foul liquid. But despite the assault on his appearance, things looked to be improving. His environment was definitely changing for the better. Then the easipeas located its first sizeable obstacle on the other side of the lake, a discarded metal-cutting machine, as solid as it was large.

  The brick-wall sensation slammed into Renton's frame and, on this occasion, it also slammed into the great bath of slimy glop that still filled the bottom half of the cabin. It caused a miniature tsunami, a black, frothy-topped tidal wave that travelled up and down the length of the cabin, each time at a slightly lower level, but for the first five passes, still high enough to cover Renton's head entirely.

  It was in his eyes, it was in his ears, it was up his nose - and it was in his hair! Would he ever get it out? Or would it simply dissolve away his wayward locks? Would he be bald if he survived? Then the next obstacle was encountered and the whole revolting process was triggered once again.

  An appallingly long part of his life passed in what was only a relatively short period of standard Einsteinian time.
For Renton, the series of filthy tidal waves that immersed his whole body and then gradually just the lower parts of his body, took an absolute eternity. He felt he had grown old by the time a brick-waller did nothing more than swirl the shallow slick of remaining filth around the cabin floor - as well, of course, as providing another hammer blow to his battered body. And, like an old man, he felt exhausted, barely able to cope with his present situation. His tsunami torture might be at an end but his position within this cabin still remained rather less than enviable. The air still stank. Still he had to endure this dreadful ride in this awful machine - and he was now coated from head to foot in black effluent. It dripped down his face from the top of his bonce. It clung to every fibre of his clothes, pasting them to his wet body in a clammy embrace - and it swilled around inside his wellies. And that was probably the worst sensation of the lot. He wanted nothing more than to take them off. But even such a simple task was beyond him. He couldn't reach them with his hands, and his feet on their own couldn't cope with de-wellying. Passenger comfort, it seemed, remained as low a priority as ever…

  Passenger-pummelling on the other hand was in the ascendancy. He became aware that the easipeas hits were becoming harder and more frequent. There were phases when the corrugated sensation took over again. It was as though the machine, after hours of aimless meandering out in the wilds of Dumpiter, had eventually strayed back into a built-up area, one filled with a great deal of especially heavy space junk. But Renton couldn't be sure. Because the fibre-optic monitor had a curtain of lake slop drawn across it. He was riding blind again. He was on a brand new mystery tour. A journey to who knew where?