‘But the viewing figures . . .’ said Mungo.
‘I am, of course, well aware of our dilemma. The viewing public is a fickle creature, it loves its heroes and hates its villains. Through the medium of constant re-runs it is also well aware of the story so far. Let’s not pretend that we haven’t tampered with the plot. We have, time and time again.’
‘Out of the purest motives,’ said Mungo Madoc.
‘Be that as it may. What I’m suggesting will come as a shock to some of you, but we are in a desperate situation. It’s a somewhat revolutionary approach, but I think it will pay off in the long run.’
‘Go on then,’ said Mungo, ‘say your piece.’
‘I’m proposing that we skip back one hundred years and change the plot.’
There is always a silence before the storm and indeed there was one now. When the ensuing storm broke, it was a real belter. Sheltering beneath an umbrella of facts, only known to himself, Fergus Shaman weathered it out.
‘How?’ said Mungo, when he was finally able to make himself heard.
‘In the simplest terms available, we pick upon a popular character of the time, allow him to view the future, his own in particular, and offer him another chance.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well,’ said Fergus, ‘back in the 1950s there was a certain Elvis Presley. Perhaps you recall him?’
‘Big fat Northern Irish fellow, always shouting "down with the pope".’
‘No,’ Fergus shook his head, ‘that was someone else entirely.’
‘Sorry, they all look the same after a while.’
‘This Elvis Presley was a leader of the nation’s youth. In 1958 he joined the American Army. Many historians agree that this was the downfall of his career. The expression "sold out" was one in popular use at the time. However, in my new scenario, Elvis refuses to take the draft. He is arrested and spends a short time in prison. But the outcry from the teenage population is so great, that he is soon released. He becomes a figure in American politics and in 1963 becomes president of the USA.’
‘I know this Presley,’ Garstang piped in, ‘he was a talented and charismatic performer by any account, but something of a buffoon also.’
‘I have no wish to be flippant,’ Fergus replied, ‘but I hardly see why that should affect him becoming president.’
Mungo chuckled. ‘Sounds like a president in the grand tradition to me. But I don’t see how this Presley can be held responsible for the events in the latter part of the twentieth century.’
‘Simple politics,’ Fergus said. ‘If Presley had never joined up, then, by example, nor would half a generation of the American nation’s youth. There would have been no war in Vietnam, the American hierarchy being unable to raise an army of teenage conscripts. You can’t fight a really decent war without conscripts.’
‘It still sounds a bit iffy, even if it was possible, I can’t see how we are going to get away with it.’
Fergus did a bit of smiling. ‘Back in the eighties there was a soap opera on Earth. It was very big indeed, but the producers made a grave mistake by killing off one of its most popular characters. In order to revive viewing figures they did likewise to him a series or two later, by simply having him turn up in the shower one morning as if nothing had happened. It was then revealed that the last umpteen episodes had just been his wife’s bad dream.’
Looks of disbelief were passed around the table. Someone said, ‘Come on now.’
‘As true as I’m standing here,’ said Fergus, ‘I won’t mention the name of the series, but the Earth folk are still watching it now. Although it is presently set in a millionaire’s bunker and has only three characters left. My plan is a case of life imitating art. After all, our viewers consider The Earthers to be a reality show.’
‘Which it is,’ said Mungo Madoc.
‘And so there you have it. Presley for president, the Nuclear Holocaust Event postponed for another hundred years, the Armageddon Sequence for another thousand. I’m not saying that this Presley is an all-round good guy; on the contrary, his reign as president will be a colourful affair. Plenty of sex and drugs and rock and roll.’
Wisten grinned enthusiastically. ‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Mungo agreed. ‘But I foresee certain small flaws in the scheme. Firstly, as we all know, the Earth folk are a contrary bunch. One can never rely on them to carry the plot. We come up with all kinds of grand scenarios but they inevitably cock it up. Sometimes I wonder who is running this show, them or us.’
‘There are no absolutes in this business, I agree, but I have done my research, and barring some, dare I say it, act of God, I’m certain that it will work. I have all the facts and figures right here. You are all welcome to look them over.’
‘As indeed we will.’ Mungo stroked the table-top with a wan digit. ‘But there is one minor point that I should like to raise. It’s a small matter, but one which I think shouldn’t be overlooked.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Fergus, ‘and that is?’
‘That is the simple matter that time travel is an impossibility, you craven buffoon!’
Fergus shook his head. He was still smiling. ‘Not any more,’ said he, winking lewdly. ‘Not with the latest miracle of modern horticulture.’
He dug into his trouser pocket and brought out a spherical green object, which he reverently laid before him on the table.
‘Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to THE TIME SPROUT!’
‘Pleased to be here,’ said the vegetable in question.
3
A stairway to oblivion is better than no stairway at all.
The Suburban Book of the Dead
The interview with Ms Vrillium went remarkably well, all things considered. Rex put this down to the element of surprise. He had evidently earned some big kudos in getting past the receptionist. Now he listened with growing interest as the nature of his post was outlined to him.
‘Religious affairs correspondent,’ said Ms Vrillium. ‘As you are no doubt well aware, Buddhavision is the biggest of the Big Three stations. We are a religious organisation, linked to Buddha Biological and Buddha Wholefoods International. It is our duty to bring enlightenment to the-masses. This we do by providing superior entertainment, embodying elements of theological doctrine couched in terms that the layman can understand. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Rex. What an ugly woman, he thought.
‘You are practising, aren’t you?’
‘I’m trying my hardest.’ Their eyes met. ‘Ah, I see, a practising Buddhist. Yes, cross my heart.’
‘Adherence to doctrine must forever be uppermost in your . . . mind.’
It was only a slight pause, but Rex got the message.
‘Clear as a temple bell,’ said he. What an exceedingly ugly woman, he thought.
‘Unfounded accusations have been levelled at us by the other channels, that we pander to the lowest instincts of the vox pop.’
Rex tut-tutted and shook his head, ‘Get away.’
‘It has been suggested that Nemesis, hosted by-’ Ms Vrillium’s gaze wandered towards the ceiling; Rex followed it with his own, but couldn’t see what the attraction was, ‘-hosted by our divine holiness, the one hundred and fifty-third reincarnation, the Dalai Lama.’
‘God bless him,’ said Rex. ‘The man is a saint.’
‘It has been suggested that the high mortality rate amongst contestants on the Nemesis show and the explicit sex between the presenter . . .’ Ms Vrillium’s gaze went skyward once more, but Rex gave it a miss ‘the Dalai Lama and his hostess is in some way immoral.’
‘Sounds like religious bigotry to me. That new lady Pope on the Auto-da-fe Show is hardly reticent when it comes to putting the flaming torch about.’
Ms Vrillium made an even more unpleasant face. ‘And look at the way she does her hair. And those vestments, do they, or do they not, clash with the set?’
‘I’ve never watched it,’ said R
ex, who had no intention of being caught out that easily. ‘But they do say it’s a man in drag.’
Ms Vrillium didn’t smile. ‘As I was saying, by demonstrating the joys of pure love and the punishment of sin, within the boundaries of a single show, Nemesis provides the viewer with an experience which is ecstatic, cathartic and instructional. That is the essence of good television.’
‘It certainly is,’ Rex agreed. ‘Now, about the job?’
‘You will concern yourself with fringe factions.’
‘Fringe factions?’
The ugly woman looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Fringe factions. Divine enlightenment is the preserve of but a happy few. Most grope in the darkness, blind-folded by misunderstanding and misinterpretation. They wander along paths which lead towards fragmentation and chaos.’
‘You want me to go out and spread the good word then?’
‘Hardly. We are not expecting you to act in a missionary capacity. After all, what do you know of the higher truths.’
As that was a statement rather than a question, Rex said, ‘I’m perplexed.’
‘Subversive religious elements exist. Underground organizations practising all manner of unsavoury rites and damnable heresies. We wish merely to learn names, details, locations of chapters, meeting houses and so forth. You will furnish us with such information, so that the Dalai can remember these unfortunates in his prayers and meditations. In the hope that salvation might ultimately be theirs. Are you following all this?’
Rex removed the finger which was ruminating in a blocked nostril, and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Bringing the lost sheep back into the fold.’
‘Sheep? What has this to do with sheep?’
‘I was speaking metaphorically.’
‘Indeed. Well, if metaphor is your forte, then just let me say that the station does not require any dead wood.’
‘You can rely on me.’ Rex straightened his shoulders. ‘Just lead me to my office.’
‘Office?’ The ghastly noise which came from the woman’s throat bore a vague resemblance to laughter. A very vague resemblance.
‘Do you have your own transport?’
Rex shook his head.
‘Then we will issue you with some. You will report in from the in-car terminal hourly. Hourly, do you understand?’
‘What if I have nothing to report?’
‘You will nevertheless report in. Company vehicles are very expensive. Should an operative fail to report in, it will be assumed that he has absconded with the vehicle. The mother computer will therefore immobilize the vehicle and reverse the environmental controls. Simply a precaution which in your case, I trust, will never be applied.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘We haven’t discussed salary, hours or expenses, as yet. Perhaps these matters should be thrashed out now, to save you any inconvenience at a later date.’
Ms Vrillium held up a small transparent cube. ‘This will furnish you with all the information you should require regarding your first assignment.’ She tossed the thing to Rex. ‘You will be paid on results, legitimate expenses will be covered.’
Rex turned the cube upon his palm, he was not altogether convinced. ‘Is my sister Gloria about?’
‘Gloria is far too busy to speak to you now. But if it’s anything important I might mention it to her tonight. We live together, you know.’
‘How charming,’ said Rex. ‘Do you think I might use your lavatory?’
4
Everything for the state, nothing outside the state.
Mussolini
Careful with that axe, Eugene.
P. Floyd
Half an hour later, Rex Mundi sat at the controls of company vehicle 801. It was a Spartan little craft, two speed, closed environment, single-seater, automatic guidance. Powered by a nuclear reactor the size of a matchbox. ‘A child could fly it,’ he had been unreliably informed. The dashboard housed a computer console, but to Rex’s chagrin, lacked a TV terminal.
Rex delved into the breast pocket of his radiation suit and drew out the small transparent cube. He slotted it into its housing and the narrow console screen sprang into life. It formed the station logo, three tiny tadpoles chasing each other’s tails, then crackled uncertainly with the out-speak of its selective memory. ‘Rex Mundi, religious affairs correspondent seven, please identify.’ Rex pressed close to the screen. ‘Identification confirmed. Work schedule one. Proceed to section four, north quarter. Investigate recent unconfirmed reports of cannibal cult, Devianti.’
‘Cannibal?’ Rex punched the co-ordinates into the directional guidance system and the knackered craft lurched aloft.
‘Hourly reportage to be strictly observed,’ the voice from the console continued. ‘Credits allotted for this assignment as follows: informer twenty-seven, acolyte thirty-five, high priest one hundred. Have another day.’
‘High priest, one hundred credits.’ Rex’s eyebrows rose to meet his spirits. ‘Further rehousing, with access to the state nympharium thrown in.’ A big bonus indeed.
The car swung up and Rex peered down at the blasted landscape. He could make out the Nemesis Bunker, which wasn’t difficult as it covered about thirty acres, the subway terminal, the ranks of hardly-built rehousing, the rubble-strewn roads. A grim enough vista. He hit the clouds at about 500 feet and travelled a while in darkness.
Rex considered circling Odeon Towers, just to see what it looked like from above, but the thought of one hundred credits kept his mind firmly on the job. He had definitely fallen on his feet here. A job with prospects, firm’s car, expense account. This was the big time. Good old Gloria, and he had thought she didn’t like him much. It was wonderful.
A series of diminishing circles appeared upon the blued screen of the console. The voice said, ‘Descent locked. In case of malfunction please remember that we are all part of a cosmic master plan and that even in the moment of your extinction you are following your Karma and that the Dalai’s thoughts are with you. Let’s both sing together, Om-mani-padme-hum . . . Om-mani-padme-hum . . .’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Rex switched off the console as the car fell heavily towards the overgrown car park at the back of the Tomorrowman Tavern. Here it struck the ground with a sickening thud. Rex felt at his teeth, none seemed any more loose than usual. He screwed on his weather-dome, released the canopy and stepped out to view the hostile landscape.
The pub looked about as wretched as any he had encountered before. A jumble of corrugated-iron sheets, welded together and sealed against nature beneath a plasticised acid-proof shell. A neon sign winked on and off, lamely advertising the establishment as ‘The morroma Tav’.
Rex wandered across the car park. Two other vehicles were parked. One, a rather snappy Rigel Charger, probably the perk of some TV bigwig, the other, a clapped-out Morris Minor converted into a half-track, anyone’s guess.
The airlock and decontamination systems at the Tomorrowman seemed to be largely symbolic in nature. A double plastic entrance-flap, between which crouched a lounge boy, who tossed tubs of anti-bacteriant at the visitor as he passed through. The grim expression upon the lad’s face informed Rex that job satisfaction wasn’t part and parcel of the post. Inside, the bar was everything that might reasonably be regretted. It was low and long and loathsome. Rex sought a mat to wipe his feet on, but there was none, so dripping profusely, he cradled his weather-dome and put on a brave face.
Several patrons hunched before the bar-counter, sipping dubious-looking cocktails and staring into TV terminals, Rex found a vacant bar-stool and climbed on to it. The barman behind the jump regarded him with passing interest. He was scabious fellow, in leathern apron and gloves. He lacked an eye and glared at the world with that remaining in a manner which, Rex felt, lacked a certain warmth.
‘Good day to you,’ said Rex encouragingly.
‘Possibly your definition of the word differs from my own’ replied the barman, idly dabbing at the counter with a ra
g unfit to swab latrines. ‘But if you’re buying liquor it’s all the same to me.’
‘Quite so.’ Rex drummed his fingers upon the counter-top. ‘Now, what shall I have?’
‘The beer tastes like bog water and the liquor is distilled from rat turds.’
‘Do you have a personal favourite?’
‘Tomorrowman Brew is perhaps less noxious than most.’
‘A double then.’
‘As you please.’ The barman decanted a small measure of the demon brew. ‘Eyeball the terminal. Those I find to be without credit generally leave the establishment with a dented skull.’
Rex stared into the counter screen and much to his surprise it flashed up twenty credits to his favour.
‘A man of means,’ said the barman, punching in Rex’s account to date. ‘Drink your fill.’
Rex placed the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. It wasn’t as bad as all that and the nausea which normally followed any kind of intoxication didn’t come.
‘Cheers,’ said Rex, raising his cup. ‘Will you have one yourself?’
The barman eyed him with curiosity. ‘You are asking me to take a drink at your expense?’
‘Certainly.’
‘The mad shall always be mad, such is the way of it.’ The barman poured himself a large measure and knocked it back with a single movement. ‘So,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the bar-cloth. ‘What do you want to know?’
Rex finished his drink and stared into the putrid bottom of the cup. ‘I’m a wanderer, a seeker after truth, if you like.’
‘I don’t like, but continue.’
‘I’m driven by a single compulsion. An unquenchable thirst for religious dogma in its each and every form.’
‘Then watch the screens,’ said the barman, ‘there’s dogma enough for anyone there, crap it all is.’
‘Quite so, but a whisper has reached me that there are others hereabouts of alternative persuasions. Non establishment.’ Rex gave the barman a knowing wink.
Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy) Page 3
