Black Tattoo, The

by Enthoven-Sam

"Don't you know anything?" said God. "The Scourge can be faster than light. The molecules simply part around it: the very fabric of reality would get out of Khentimentu's way if that were its wish. And here's you, arguing with me about what's possible."

  "Hang on," said Esme. "You're saying I can be as fast as the Scourge?"

  "Hallelujah," said God theatrically. "I do believe the penny is starting to drop."

  "Faster than light?" echoed Esme.

  "And things like walls won't stop you either," said God. "Now, are you going to get a move on or aren't you?"

  Esme bit her lip and thought about it.

  "All right," she said. "I suppose I could try. But there's just one thing. If I can really be as fast as you say, how will we know where we're going?"

  "My dear girl," said God. "You just keep to your side of things; and I'll worry about mine. All right? I just need you to get up to speed."

  Esme shrugged. "Okay, then. Let's go."

  "And put your back into it this time!" squeaked God.

  But suddenly, they were going so fast that the wind whipped the words from his mouth.

  Still frowning, Esme took herself up to what she'd considered up till then to be her top speed and stayed there. Words echoed and spun in her head.

  The Scourge could move faster than light.

  There's something a bit special about you.

  Strength without limit. Power beyond imagining—

  Was it true? she wondered. Was it really true that all along she had only been using a fraction of her potential? Perhaps it was. But if she did let her power out, if she did use her potential, wasn't that... well, dangerous? If her power came from the Scourge, then perhaps she wouldn't be able to control it. Perhaps it might make her evil: perhaps it might mean that the Scourge could control her. Even now, with so much at stake, that was too much of a risk. It was just too dangerous — wasn't it?

  But...

  A real chance against the Scourge.

  You still think you can defeat me.

  You're not human!

  Remember your mother.

  Esme concentrated. She felt the air resistance on her face like a weight, pressing at her all over, but she forced herself to ignore it. She ignored the strange old man with his hand in hers, she ignored the walls of the great chimney flashing past — she ignored everything, in fact, and turned her attention inward, forcing herself to concentrate only on each moment and the moment that followed it, one at a time. She closed her eyes, feeling the tension of the air, its reluctance to let her pass.

  And she let her mind find a way through it.

  Suddenly, every molecule in her body began to dance and tremble. It was a little like the sensation she'd felt in the heart chamber, only this time it was stronger. She could feel, inside herself, the power that had waited all her life as it began to wake, uncurl itself, take hold.

  Now Esme let that happen.

  "Yes!" shrieked God. "Yes! Yes! "

  But Esme didn't hear him. All she could hear was the rushing scream of the air as it grew red-hot — then white-hot — then finally, as it gave up its resistance and let her through.

  There was silence.

  Black wings closed around them both.

  And when Esme opened her eyes, she was somewhere else.

  * * * * *

  "Not bad!" said God, grinning at her slyly. "Not bad at all. For a beginner."

  Esme didn't reply.

  "Set us down over there," God suggested, gesturing past the large stone balustrade that had appeared around them. "Go on. Take a moment to get your bearings."

  She did as God said, slipping smoothly through the air, over the balustrade, bringing them both to rest, gently, on the cool marble floor that lay beyond it.

  Blinking a bit, Esme looked around herself.

  "Welcome," God announced, "to the Halls of Ages! The single greatest repository of history in the universe!"

  A deep rumble from below them greeted his words, and God suddenly turned rather pale.

  "Whatever you've brought me her to see," said Esme, "you'd better show it to me right now."

  "Yes," said God, grimacing. "I think you may be right. This way, please." And with that he scuttled away, down one of the vast, arched corridors that led away ahead of them.

  Esme sighed, but she set off after him.

  THE PLUNGE

  Number 2 picked himself up from where he'd landed, brushing nonexistent dust off his uniform with great care, while the other Sons and Jack watched him apprehensively.

  "The device," he said finally, snapping his fingers.

  Number 9 frowned. "Sir?"

  "The pack, soldier!" growled Number 2. "Give it to me! On the double!"

  "Sir! Yes, sir!" said Number 9.

  "Now," said Number 2, when the giant black pack's mysterious weight was settled on his back to his satisfaction, "I want you all to listen to me very carefully."

  He looked at his men one at a time, conspicuously ignoring Jack and the Chinj.

  "In view of current, uh, circumstances" — he eyed the narrow, moist, pink-walled tunnel they'd appeared in with distaste — "I'm going to pass over what happened just now and pretend that it never took place. But I will say this." He fixed each member of his team with a glittering glance. "If any one of you punks even thinks about pulling a stunt like that again, you'll have me to answer to. And believe me, when I'm done, Hell's gonna look like the teddy bears' picnic. Clear?"

  "Sir. Yes, sir," said the other Sons.

  "I am ranking officer here," said Number 2, with great emphasis. "I'm in charge. That means no one decides what we're going to do except me. Understand?"

  "Sir, yes, sir."

  Number 2 sighed, turned, and looked at the Chinj, who was now perched on Jack's shoulder. "So, uh, where to next?" he muttered.

  "That way," said the Chinj, stifling a smirk and pointing down the tunnel with one wing. "In my opinion," it added politely.

  "This way, people!" Number 2 announced loudly, gesturing in the direction the Chinj had just indicated. "Come on, let's move with a purpose."

  They set off.

  The tunnel was quite narrow, so the group had to walk in single file.

  The floor sank slightly with each step, a little — but not quite — like wet sand. Jack, touching one of the walls briefly with one hand, couldn't help noticing that as well as being rather slimy, it was also unnervingly warm to the touch.

  "The passage," he whispered to the Chinj. "It's almost like... like it's alive."

  "It is," the Chinj replied.

  Jack turned to the creature perched on his shoulder and gave it a level look.

  "Okay," he said, "you're definitely going to have to explain that one."

  "With pleasure." The Chinj cleared its throat. "Over the millennia since the universe began," it announced, "Hell has vastly outgrown its original size. Its foundations, nonetheless, were built on a system of living tissue."

  "What living tissue?" asked Jack. "Not..." He thought about it for a moment. "Not the Dragon?"

  "That's right," said the Chinj encouragingly.

  "So Hell is part of the Dragon?" asked Jack, doing his best.

  "A very small part, yes. A bit like a mole, or a ..." The small creature paused, obviously struggling to find the right word. "A growth."

  "Wait a second," said Jack. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that the whole of Hell is just, like, a spot on the Dragon's bum? "

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said the Chinj icily, "but the heartland of the Demon Empire is rather more significant than a — what did you call it? A 'spot.' And as to which part of the Dragon's anatomy Hell is situated upon, why, that's one of the fundamental mysteries of the universe. The greatest Chinj theologians have debated that very point for—"

  "But Hell grew out of the Dragon," pressed Jack, interrupting, "and this Dragon is so big that it didn't even notice — right? That's what you believe?"

  "It's what I know."

  "How do yo
u know?"

  "Because I'm part of it too."

  "You're what?" said Jack.

  The Chinj sighed. "Look," it said. "In your body you've got all sorts of... pathways. You have a nervous system, blood vessels, digestion — right?"

  "O-kay," said Jack slowly.

  "Well!" The Chinj gestured at the pinkish-red walls around them and at the sloping floor that was becoming increasingly warm and moist and squelchy the further down they progressed. "That's what we've got here! Now, when we first met and I took that sample of your blood, I noticed that it contains a number of specialized cells that ferry essential supplies around your body — oxygen, that sort of thing. Correct?"

  "I guess."

  "Well, that's what we Chinj do for the Dragon," said the creature.

  "Sorry," said Jack. "You've lost me."

  "But it's simple, sir!" squeaked the Chinj exasperatedly. "Think about it: think about us and what we actually do. We carry essential nutrients to the various parts of the demon population. We feed the body politic! In essence, there's no difference between Chinj and your blood cells — it's simply a matter of scale."

  Jack gave this his best shot — and failed.

  "No, I'm not getting this at all," he said. "How come you're awake and the Dragon isn't? How come, if you're part of the Dragon, it was okay for you to leave and come to Earth to get me?" And how come I'm even asking questions like this? he added, though not aloud.

  "I told you," the Chinj replied. "If you'd stayed away, I'd just have to come back here every day. And to answer your other question: well, your body keeps going when you're asleep, doesn’t it?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "You remain alive even when you're not awake, don't you?"

  "It's not the same thing. We're talking about being asleep since time began."

  "That's true," said the Chinj, "but the Great Depositories — the stores of eternal nourishment to which all Chinj must return to replenish themselves — are bigger than you can possibly imagine. They're a long way off running out yet. Perhaps," it added, with a mischievous nudge of one leathery elbow, "one day, if we survive this, I may even show them to you. But there, now: I'm talking about secrets that even demons do not know."

  "Really?" asked Jack, frowning. "The demons don’t even know this stuff?"

  "Of course not," said the Chinj, shocked. "Why, none but the Chinj may know the secrets of the gruel. In fact," it went on, its small furry face taking on an unmistakably guilty expression, "strictly speaking, it's only the Chinj themselves who are allowed to enter these tunnels. On pain of death, actually."

  Jack gave the Chinj another long look.

  "Well, I'm sure it won't happen in this case," said the Chinj, a little too enthusiastically for Jack's liking. "I mean, these are rather particular circumstances, don't you think?"

  "Hmmm," said Jack. "Who's in charge down here?"

  "The Grand Cabal," said the Chinj loftily. "The Parliament" — it paused — "of the Chinj."

  "Oh!" said Jack. "Just you Chinj, then."

  "Naturally."

  Jack let out a sigh. "Phew. That's all right, then. I thought for a second you were telling me we were in trouble here."

  The Chinj flared its tiny nostrils and shot Jack a look of surprising venom.

  "Do not," it said, "underestimate the power of the Grand Cabal. We Chinj have guarded our secrets for longer than you could ever understand. Why do you think the demons are afraid to come down here? Because only a fool would risk the wrath of the Parliament of Chinj."

  "Sure," said Jack distractedly. "Right."

  He was concentrating on the floor. The passage was now so steep that he was finding it hard to keep his footing — and the Sons were having the same problem. He looked ahead, just in time to see Number 2—

  "Gah!"

  —slip, and bring the full weight of the pack down with him as he fell. Wham!

  "I'm all right!" he said, flinging off the helping hands of Number 3. He shuffled around to face Jack and the Chinj; Jack struggled to wipe the smile off his face in time, but he wasn't quite fast enough.

  "Mind telling me how much more of this stuff there is to deal with?" Number 2 growled.

  "These passageways are not usually navigated on foot," the Chinj replied sniffily.

  "Is it going to get much steeper?"

  "Yes," said the Chinj. "I'm afraid so."

  "Terrific," said Number 2. "So how do you suggest we continue? Besides on our asses, I mean."

  "That," said the Chinj, drawing itself up to its full height on Jack's shoulder, "is your problem."

  For a long moment, the man and the Chinj looked at each other.

  "Let's keep going," said Jack quietly.

  "What did you say?" asked Number 2, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  "I said, let's keep going. We can't solve anything by standing about here."

  "You know," said Number 2, "I think I've had just about enough of you. You're not here to give orders. In fact," he added, "why are you here? I wish someone would tell me why we've got to have a kid along, because I'd really like to—"

  "Jack is right," said Number 3, from up ahead. He shrugged. "Let's go."

  For a second, Number 2 seemed so enraged that Jack thought his eyeballs were going to pop right out of his head. This was no figure of speech: Jack had seen it happen to someone once before, after all. But when Number 2 had got himself and the pack turned back round again, all he said was, "All right, Let's keep it moving. But watch your step now."

  They continued in silence down the passageway.

  Now Jack found himself having to turn his feet sideways to stop himself from slipping completely: the sides of his trainers seemed to bite a little way into the soft pink surface of the wall, giving him a precious bit of extra traction, but soon just trying to stay upright became a hard enough task, even without the effort to keep going. The walls were close enough for him to support himself with his hands: the passage was now so narrow that Jack could barely see past the struggling figure of Number 2 and his pack.

  Jack was looking at the pack, still trying to guess what it might contain, when, suddenly, Number 2 lost his footing again. His big boots slid out from under him. The pack hit the floor, and in another second he was plunging down the tunnel.

  Number 3 didn't stand a chance: Number 2 scythed helplessly into him, then the pair of them vanished from sight.

  Jack looked behind him at the two remaining Sons — Number 9 and Number 12. Both were wearing identical horrified grimaces on their faces.

  "Great!" said Number 12. "Now what're we going to do?"

  "We go after them," said Number 9. "Obviously."

  "Wait!" said Jack. He turned to the Chinj. "What's down there? Is it safe?"

  The Chinj shook his head. "I—I couldn't say. I've always flown this way before. Perhaps the impact might—"

  "Look, we've got to go after them!" Number 9 repeated. "We've got to. Right?"

  "I think the landing should be soft enough," said the Chinj. "I'm just worried that all this noise might—"

  "Kay," said Number 9. "Let's go." He shoved past Jack. He reached his hands out to either side of him and took as good a grip of the slippery pink walls as he could. Then he swung himself once and set off.

  Jack and Number 12 exchanged a look. Sheepishly, the last Son squeezed past Jack, shrugged, sat down, and gingerly pushed himself off, following his comrades out of view almost instantly.

  There was a pause.

  "Humans," said the Chinj. "So impetuous. As bad as demons, really."

  "I guess we're going to have to follow them," said Jack.

  "I see no other option," the Chinj replied. "They'll definitely get into trouble without us."

  "Why? What's down the end of this thing?"

  "It's not what's down there," said the Chinj. "It's what all their noise is going to bring. Look," it added distractedly, frowning and gesturing with one wing. "you'd better go."

  Jack looked down the tunn
el.

  "Oh, Hell," he said, but he sat down.

  "Piece of advice, sir," said the Chinj into his ear from behind him. "There's a bit of a drop at the end. My guess is that you'll minimize any injuries you sustain if you keep as relaxed as possible. All right?"

  "What?" said Jack.

  But with a sudden leaping movement, the Chinj had knocked Jack's hand away from the wall. Jack scrabbled to get his grip back, but already, inexorably, he had begun to slide.

  "Good luck, sir!" Jack heard the Chinj call after him. "And remember! Do try to relax!"

  Jack picked up speed quickly. Once he'd forced himself to take his hands in from the sides and fold them in his lap, he began to go faster still. The tunnel was now almost vertical: the walls were accelerating to a smooth pink blur — and Jack found, to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself.

  It was better than any water chute he'd ever been on. Still the tunnel continued, an apparently endless tube of glistening fleshy red. The only sound was the soft hissing from where his jeans and T-shirt were still making contact with the sides — and soon even that had faded away, because the chute was now so steep that he was barely touching them. There was a long, drawn-out moment of absolute silence, a silence in which Jack had time to reflect that whatever was at the bottom of this thing had better be unbelievably soft, when, suddenly, without warning, the pink walls of the tunnel abruptly vanished, to be replaced by — nothing.

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! said his brain, not unreasonably. Darkness and emptiness gaped around him. The trickles and droplets of thin, clear slime that had eased his descent seemed to thicken in the air, drifting up past his face as he fell. His arms began to paddle and flap. He waited, plummeting for long, aching moments, and then—

  WHUDGE!

  He hit something.

  There was a thrashing of darkness, warm and wet. It streamed past every inch of Jack's body. Gradually, he felt himself slow, then stop falling — and then, of course, he had another problem. He couldn't breathe. His chest was going tight and his ears were beginning to sing. The thick, squidgy liquid seemed reluctant to let him through. Jack struggled and kicked, struggled and kicked. Then, suddenly, he caught a glimmer of light. He flung himself upward. Strong hands had grabbed him. The dreadful slime burst over his head — and he was out.