Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy)

by Robert Rankin

  No doubt in a horizontal capacity, Rex concluded, inaccurately.

  ‘I have an appointment to see Ms Vrillium.’

  The receptionist gave her terminal console a desultory tap or two.

  ‘Ah yes, you’re . . .’

  ‘Late?’ Rex said. ‘Perhaps if you would be so kind as to direct me to the office of the lady in question, I might make up a few lost minutes.’

  ‘You’d never find it,’ said the receptionist, sighing hopelessly. ‘Others have tried. Men, what good are they, eh? One brain between the lot of them.’ Rex examined his finger nails. They didn’t bear examination.

  ‘Possibly someone might be kind enough to show me the way then.’

  The receptionist peered about the otherwise deserted entrance hall. ‘It would seem,’ said she, at length, ‘that all are engaged in their various business pursuits. Perhaps you’d better come back some other time.’

  Rex stared into the smiling face. He could always make it look like an accident. Say she just fell and broke her neck. But then, what if he was discovered? It could very easily spoil his chances of early promotion. ‘Is my sister Gloria about?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Gloria?’ The name took a moment or two to sink in, but when it finally did, the effect was nothing less than magical. ‘Gloria Mundi?’ said the receptionist in a still, small voice. ‘Station controller?’

  ‘Got her in one,’ said Rex brightly. ‘My sister, if you could just give her a buzz, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind showing me the way. It was she who arranged the interview, you see.’

  The receptionist who now personally conveyed Rex to the door of Ms Vrillium’s office appeared to have undergone a miraculous transfiguration. Having provocatively wiggled down the corridors before him, she now took her leave with a comely wink and a husky, ‘See you later, big boy.’

  Rex watched her depart. What a charming woman, he thought, I know I’m just going to love working here.

  It’s surprising just how utterly wrong it’s possible to be, at times. For whilst Rex stood in that corridor, regarding the receptionist’s receding rear-end and considering the engaging possibilities of nepotism correctly applied, dark clouds were gathering upon the already darkened horizon. Great forces were stirring beneath the Earth’s surface, and in a distant part of the galaxy, plans were being hatched that would ultimately threaten the very fabric of universal existence.

  As can sometimes be the case.

  2

  If it’s God’s will, who gets the money?

  Tony O’Blimey

  If there is one factor which binds together all the really great religions of this world, it’s that God created man in his own image. Many cynical atheists loudly assert that the reverse is really the case, putting the whole thing down to egocentricity on the part of the believer. But then what do atheists know about God anyway? What these doubting Toms have failed to grasp is the hidden truth: God created man in his own image, because he had to. The erect biped, head at the top, feet at the bottom, wedding tackle about halfway up, represents the universal archetype, when it comes to the ‘intelligent’ being. This fact has long been known to science-fiction aficionados and UFO contactees. Alien beings, from no matter which part of the galaxy they might hail, inevitably bear a striking resemblance to man. There are the occasional variations in height and cranial dimensions, but for the most part our cosmic cousins are a pretty reasonable facsimile of ourselves. Many even speak good English, often with a pronounced American accent. Such facts can hardly be argued with. They are evidence, should any really be needed, of a cosmic master-plan, and sufficient in themselves to serve friend atheist up with a wok-load of egg. Faces, for the use of.

  What it all comes down to, as it so often does, is the very beginning of the universe. This, say the big-heads of the scientific fraternity, all began with a big bang. Wrong! The universe, in fact, began with the sound of a duck call, followed by a whistle and an enormous cosmic wind-break. Had anyone been around at the time to overhear these sounds, they would probably have received a pretty good indication of what God had up his sleeve, amongst other places.

  About five minutes after the burst of celestial flatulence, when the air had begun to clear a bit, things began to settle down into the shapes which were most comfortable and efficient for them. And so they remained. No-one has yet improved upon the sphere as a planetary shape, nor the erect biped as its ruling species. That’s the way it is. Like it, or lump it. QED.

  Certainly, some races evolved mentally a lot quicker than others. The reason for this has come to be known as Duke’s Principle, ‘a man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do’. Or to simplify it, they evolved quicker, because they had to. It all depends very much upon what a particular planet has to offer in terms of pickable food, huntable animals, farmable lands and whatever. The Trempish of Trempera, for instance, found themselves competing with huge armour-plated reptiles, carnivores with virtually impenetrable hides and seemingly insatiable appetites. If the Trempish hadn’t had the ingenuity to dig a series of baited dead-falls, distil an acid from the bark of a rare tree, tip their arrows with it and shoot the trapped beasties in their exposed pineal glands, they would surely have died out.

  As it was, they hadn’t, so they did! Thus proving, that when a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, he’d better pull his finger out and get on with the doing of it.

  And so it was with the Phnaargs of Phnaargos. Their ‘gotta doing’ was not immediately apparent. They lived upon a gloriously verdant world, devoid of killer reptiles and flying scorpions, rich in natural vegetation, with a mild climate and some really knockout sunsets. However, to wax biblical, this Eden was not without its serpent. Only here it came in the form of the cathode ray tube. Mankind didn’t come across this miracle until its closing moments, but it wasn’t so on Phnaargos. For on Phnaargos, the cathode ray tube grew wild. And so, at a time when humankind was still tossing rocks at the hairy elephants and experimenting with DIY in the family cave, the Phnaargs were watching TV.

  Now, if it was strange that the cathode ray tube should grow wild upon a planet, then it is surely stranger still that the botanical equivalents of the video camera, the microphone, the mixing desk, the spotlight, the little monocular thing that a really duff director wears around his neck, and all the other paraphernalia necessary to television production, should similarly be blooming away, ready for the harvest. In fact, many might be forgiven for finding it unlikely, to say the very least. But the Almighty moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. And who are we to question his motives?

  Now, with all this technology sprouting around them, one might also be forgiven for thinking that the Phnaargs were a ‘race blessed of God’. But, you’d be wrong on that one too. For nothing could be further from the truth. The Phnaargs were the first race ever to become irrevocably hooked on television, the first to fall victim to the dangerous and terminally addictive radiations of the cathode ray tube. And once infected at such an early stage in their development, they were well and truly done for. Within a few short years of their discovery, the planet was literally forested with cultivated TV stations and the Phnaargs, almost slaves. Those not engaged in full time viewing strove to supply the needs of those who were. The needs soon became demands and the demands were wild. For this was a young and primitive stock and it liked its TV meaty!

  And so Duke’s Principle came into effect upon Phnaargos. The Phnaarg TV execs, finding that supply was far outstripped by demand, were forced to do something. To boldly go where no Phnaarg had gone before. To seek out new worlds and new civilizations. And televise them.

  And such it was, that by a rare freak of chance, which suddenly makes all the foregoing relevant, the Phnaargs came across Planet Earth. Here they found man, still stoning the mammoths, whacking up the murals and generally minding his own business. Had he been allowed to carry on with these trivial pursuits, he would probably be doing so even now. But the visiting Phnaargs were not slow to realize the pot
ential of mankind’s development as great TV material. They wasted little time in setting up their horticultural transmitters and getting on with the show. And the rest, like it or like it not, is history.

  The series became an overnight success. The very first “Reality TV”. The Phnaargian viewers took to this ‘everyday story of simple folk’ like Teds to a tapered trouser, and The Earthers became the most popular series in the history of the universe.

  Now, on the face of it, this might appear to be harmless enough stuff, a race, hopelessly addicted to television, watching the exploits of another. And so it might possibly have remained, but for the Phnaarg viewing public’s fanatical craving for ‘a bit of action’ .Much against their better judgement, the producers of The Earthers found themselves forced to help things along a bit.

  It all began in a small way, with fire, the wheel and language. The Earth folk just didn’t seem to be getting the hang of them. And as the series was now running prime-time, there seemed good reason to slip all these into one weekly episode, to get the ball rolling.

  The fact that this was done has always been vigorously denied by the producers, as have suggestions that they have been doing likewise ever since. Continually tampering with Earth history to keep the ratings up. The Phnaargian tabloids have made scandalous assertions that certain popular figures have been ‘reincarnated’ over the centuries, and even that some of the major roles have been played by Phnaargian actors dressed up to look like Earth folk.

  Whether there is any truth in this isn’t easy to say, the producers of the series wisely having kept the precise location of Planet Earth to themselves as a simple precaution against nosy parkers. But the fact that next week’s episode of The Earthers is always previewed in the television papers should be enough to raise the occasional suspicion.

  However, by the Earth year 2050 viewing figures on Phnaargos were tailing off dramatically. And viewers, miffed that most of their favourites had died in the Nuclear Holocaust Event, an episode which achieved the biggest ever ratings and won several much-coveted awards, were switching off in droves. The idea of watching a rather undistinguished cast of scabby-looking individuals, whose lives apparently revolved around watching television, was of very little interest. It was so far-fetched, for one thing.

  And so it came to be that on a May morning, when summer was the season, the executive team of Earthers Inc. held a very special meeting. The boardroom perched, high in the spiral leaf-bound complex. The Phnaargian sun, Rupert, nudged a golden ray or two down towards the broad and membrane picture-window, where, tinted to a subtle rose-pink, they fell up on the exquisite table of Golden-wood which grew in the centre of the room. The room itself was another marvel of horticultural architecture. A masterpiece, designed and grown by the leading ‘hortitect’ of the day, Capability Crabshaw.

  Crabshaw’s current passion was for the work of the late and legendary Vita Sackville-West. This was reflected in this year’s boardroom ‘look’. The chairs were the product of painstaking topiary-work, performed upon box hedges. The svelte grass carpeting the floor was sewn with thyme, camomile and other fragrant herbs, which released aromatic essences when stepped upon. Acacia Dealata and Aibizia Julibrissin flowered in weathered terracotta pots, arranged in pleasing compositions to every corner of the room. It was all very much just so. But whether the members of the board, hunched sullenly in their box-hedge baronials, had any appreciation whatsoever for this Sissinghurst in the sky, must remain in some doubt. For these were desperate men. And he who had the most to lose was the most desperate of them all.

  Mungo Madoc, station controller, surveyed his troops with a bitter eye. Mungo was ‘Earthish’ to the very nostrils. But for the greenly-dyed mustachios, waxed into the six points, befitting to his status, and the extraordinarily lush three-piece, clothing his ample frame, one might have taken him for an Earthman any day of the week.

  Of the executive board, little can be offered to the reader in terms of their variance from established Earth type. They averaged around the six-foot mark, some corpulent, others of that lean and hungry look once alluded to by a certain Phnaargian copy-writer of days gone by.

  There were six of them in all, and a right surly-looking bunch they were too. It may be of interest to note that while, at this time, all media on Earth was run by females of the species, here on Phnaargos, male chauvinism held sway. And a woman’s place was in the greenhouse.

  Mungo tapped his trowel of office upon the shining table-top. All conversation ceased as he drew breath and launched straight into the meat of the matter. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, his voice having the not unexpected nasal quality of one addicted to the pleasures of orchid sniffing, ‘gentlemen, we are in big schtuck here.’

  Executive heads bobbed up and down appropriately. At the far end of the table Diogenes ‘Dermot’ Darbo, naturally bald, but resplendent in a vine-hair-toupé said, ‘Yes, indeedy.’

  ‘Viewing figures have sunk to a point beneath which even the Fengorian Flatworm might find squeezing a somewhat hazardous affair.’

  There were some nervous titters amongst those few who hadn’t heard the remark before. ‘And so I’m holding this special council, that you may favour me with your propositions for the revitalization of the series.’

  Mungo’s team made encouraging faces. But nobody spoke.

  ‘You will offer me your proposals, I will mull them over and almost upon the instant decide who remains on the team, enjoying all the privileges, and who seeks new employment turning compost in the nursery beds, enjoying the fresh air.’

  The heads remained nodless but the brains within them pulsed with activity.

  ‘I’m waiting, gentlemen.’

  Hook-nosed Gryphus Garstang rose tentatively to his feet and raised an arm, gorgeously encased in spring-flowering cyclamen. ‘What do you say to another war?’ he asked brightly.

  Mungo Madoc eyed the young man almost kindly. ‘Another war?’ said he, tucking a soft green sapling behind his left ear. ‘If it hadn’t been for your brilliant concept of World War Three to celebrate the arrival of the twenty-first century, we wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

  ‘I seem to recall that being a corporate decision,’ Garstang replied, rattling his foliage in an agitated manner.

  ‘And I seem to recall you insisting that you accept the TV awards at the celebration dinners.’

  The hooknose reseated himself as Mungo continued, ‘Garstang, you have been on the team for, how long is it now?’

  ‘One hundred and eighty-seven Earth years.’

  ‘And during this short period there have been no less than three world wars.’

  ‘They’ve been very popular with the viewers.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but it surely can’t have escaped your attention that the Earth people are a little hard-pressed for weapons at the moment. What do you suggest they do, sling food tins at one another?’

  Gryphus Garstang maintained a sulking silence.

  ‘I think we should go for the love angle.’ The voice belonged to Lavinius Wisten, a pale willowy wisp of a man, with the bearing of a poet and the sexual habits of a Fomahaunt Marsh-ferret. ‘Passion amongst the shelter-folk. My team and I have come up with a scenario in which two proto-embryos become separated accidentally at the sperm bank. They grow up in separate shelters, then meet and fall in love, finally to discover that they are twins. I’m also working on the possibility that they have a genetic mutation that makes them immune to radiation. They leave the shelters and repopulate the Earth. I thought we might call it Earth Two, The Sequel.’

  Mungo Madoc sank into his chair and made plaintive groaning noises.

  ‘Well, I think it’s got everything going for it.’

  ‘But it’s not in the plot.’

  ‘We could weave it in.’

  ‘Weave it in?’ Mungo raised himself up to an improbable height and blew exquisite pollen from his left nostril. ‘How many times must I remind you that this series has an original script?’
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br />   ‘Oh, that again,’ said Garstang, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  ‘When our founder drew up the original script for The Earthers, it was written into the contract that, although a certain degree of creativity was allowable, the basic plot wasn’t to be tampered with in any way. This, you will recall, is referred to as Holy Writ.’

  ‘And if I recall,’ sneered the hooknose, ‘it ends with a world war.’

  ‘And if I recall,’ said Calvus Cornelius, who felt that it was his turn to stick two pennyworth in, ‘it was scheduled to end in the Earth year 999.’

  There was a long silence; this was one of those things that it was not considered seemly to touch upon. Cornelius could suddenly hear the call of the compost beds. ‘Or so Garstang is always saying,’ he said rapidly.

  ‘I never have,’ Garstang rose with a flurry of heart-crossing.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is getting us nowhere. Surely one amongst you has something constructive to offer.’ Mungo Madoc gazed at the blank faces. His eyes soon caught upon that of Fergus Shaman, which appeared a little less blank than the rest. It was smiling broadly.

  ‘Fergus,’ said Mungo, ‘Fergus, do you have something to tell us?’

  Fergus nodded brightly. He was a curious fellow. Somewhat lop-sided of face and bent of body, he carried about with him a mysterious air which, real or imagined, gave him a certain authority. Mungo Madoc could never quite bring himself to call him Shaman, at least not to his face.

  ‘I have the solution,’ said Fergus Shaman. That is all.’

  ‘Then the floor is yours.’ Mungo reseated himself, clasped his fingers before him on the table top and smiled the sweetest of smiles.

  ‘Whether or not The Earthers was scheduled to end in 999, I don’t know; neither in truth, do I care.’ Ignoring the raised eyebrows, he continued, ‘One thing I do know, is that it remains very much in all our interests to see that it doesn’t end in the foreseeable future.’ Eyebrows lowered, heads nodded slowly. ‘The so-called Armageddon sequence must be postponed for as long as possible. Indefinitely, if needs be.’