Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy)

by Robert Rankin

  The barman shook his head. ‘I would know nothing of such matters. I merely serve the drinks and kick out the drunks.’

  ‘I’m willing to pay handsomely for such information.’

  ‘Ah,’ the barman grinned, fearsomely, ‘then you have come to the right place. Comparative religion is my life’s work. I run this bar as a side-line.’

  ‘Indeed. Then we understand one another.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  Rex leant forward across the counter. ‘The Devianti,’ he said.

  The barman’s eye rolled into his head, leaving only the ghastly white. ‘I must be off about my business.’ Snatching up his bar-cloth, he limped down the bar to serve a dwarf, who was noisily rattling his cup.

  ‘He won’t tell you nothing mister,’ said a voice at Rex’s elbow. ‘Scared shitless he is.’

  Rex looked down at the wretch, ill-clad and foul smelling. His skin was toned a vile yellow, crudely rouged at the cheeks. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Josh is the name, mister. Rogan Josh. Your offer still hold good?’

  Rex nodded. ‘It does, but there is one small matter I feel you should know.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I suffer from an unstable mental condition which manifests itself in bouts of psychotic violence when I find myself being incorrectly advised.’

  The wretch flinched. He had that wasted, haunted look, which wasn’t uncommon. Pulling at his single lock of hair, he said, ‘I can set you straight, mister. Honest.’

  ‘Then kindly do so.’

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘Say your piece then and I shall endeavour to place an accurate monetary value upon it.’

  ‘These Devianti. I know where they hang out.’

  ‘Hang out?’

  ‘Where they live, take up residence, co-exist, assume a non-transient occupancy. The dung-hole where they do their butchery.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They’re bad boys, mister. They eat people.’

  ‘I’d rather gathered that.’

  ‘So you’d better take a food parcel, unless you wanna be on the menu.’

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ asked the barman, who had been edging back, all ears. ‘Or do you want kicking into the street?’

  ‘One more for myself,’ Rex nodded towards Rogan Josh, ‘and one for my companion, that will indeed be all.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much,’ sneered the wounded barman. ‘Would it be of any interest to learn my considered opinion of yourself?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘Not that I consider you the accidental outcome of a homosexual relationship?’

  ‘One for myself and one for my companion.’

  The barman splashed two foreshortened measures of Tomorrowman into as many glasses, overcharged Rex’s account and stood with his arms folded, grinding his tooth.

  Rex steered his informer away to a side table. Here he spoke in whispered tones. The barman, whose hearing was considerably less acute than his temper, slouched off, muttering beneath his breath.

  ‘Now,’ said Rex, ‘all I require are names and locations.’

  The wretch eyed him with open suspicion. ‘Who are you, mister?’ he asked.

  ‘Rex Mundi is the name. Whenever you think of four credits, justly earned, you will think of me.’

  ‘If you dispense credits as liberally as you do words, then I shall be happy enough.’

  ‘Quite so. Then let us begin with the local high priest. Always best to go straight to the top, in my considered opinion.’

  ‘Thinking to pay him a visit at home, are you?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Then as you won’t be coming back, you won’t miss another five credits for the information.’

  ‘I tend towards the optimistic,’ Rex replied, ‘but your point is well taken. I shouldn’t wish my murderer to gain financially from my demise. The large quantity of cash I am presently carrying upon my person, you may consider to be yours.’

  ‘Good, then I will tell you all you wish to know. There are some old warehouses about a mile north of here.’

  ‘How will I know them?’

  ‘You’ll not miss them. They are surrounded by barricades. But don’t let this deter you, just walk straight up and knock.’

  ‘Assuming that I have somehow avoided the attentions of the snipers who no doubt guard the place, who should I ask for?’

  ‘Assuming that this miracle has occurred, then Rambo Bloodaxe is your man.’

  ‘Rambo Bloodaxe?’ Rex crumpled in hilarity. ‘Don’t wind me up.’

  ‘I’m serious, mister. They’ve all got names like that. Brad the Impaler, Deathblade Eric.’

  Rex shook his head. ‘Might I suggest, that in your certainty for my forthcoming extinction, you are presuming to take liberties with my not inconsiderable intellect? I feel the red mist coming on.’ Rex clutched at his head and made a ferocious face.

  ‘Hold on, hold on mister. I’m telling you the truth. I wouldn’t lie to a dying man.’ Rex peered through his fingers. ‘Anyway,’ the wretch continued, ‘if you return to prove me wrong then . . .’

  ‘Then it wouldn’t go well for you.’ Rex looked at his watch. Whether or not Rogan Josh was telling the truth, or even a small part of it, seemed a matter for grave doubts. But it was something at least, and this was his first day on the job. If he screwed up, he would learn by his mistakes. Rex pulled a three credit piece from his purse and tossed it towards the wretch.

  Josh stared at it in horror. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I lied.’ Rex took up his weather-dome and walked.

  He returned to his car and punched the name of Rogan Josh and his present location into the console. If he never got any further than dealing with informers, he should still be able to turn a handsome profit. But what about Rambo Bloodaxe and his anthropophagous acolytes? That was another matter. But then, what did it matter? If the whole thing was simply down to the Dalai remembering a few lost souls in the meditations, surely he could punch in any old name.

  Rex pondered long and hard on this one. He wasn’t slow to conclude that the same thought must no doubt have crossed the mind of his predecessor. Rex hadn’t bothered to ask what became of him, assuming that he had found promotion. Now he wasn’t too sure. Perhaps no-one ever got out of this job alive.

  Rex shook his head, he was just being morbid. Probably the drink. But he would do well to be shrewd until he knew, for certain, exactly how the land lay.

  A flicker of movement caught Rex’s attention. Someone had left the tavern and was coming across the car park. Rex sank low in his seat and peeped into the wing mirror. It was Rogan Josh.

  The wretch, who suddenly didn’t appear so wretched, strolled across to the Rigel Charger, disarmed the antipersonnel device and climbed aboard. There was a roar of engines, a cloud of dust and a great whoosh as the car sped skywards.

  Well now, thought Rex, smacking the battered 801 into drive, the plot thickens. ‘Confirm identity and report destination,’ said the console.

  ‘Rex Mundi.’ Rex glanced at the screen. ‘In pursuit of Devianti informer.’

  ‘Identification confirmed. Have another day.’

  The Rigel Charger sloped off through a bank of low cloud and Rex followed, the 801’s guidance system locked into the heat pattern of its exhaust. Rex sat back in his seat. It was dead exciting, all this, just like the sci-fi videos he had grown up on. ‘Zoom zoom,’ said Rex Mundi. ‘And away we go.’

  Exactly why the 801’s computer failed to recognize the high-voltage power cables ahead as a possible hazard to low-flying aircraft, and take the appropriate evasive action, was a matter for the company crash crew and the accident investigators to file reports on later. For now, the mother computer simply recorded that a blip had vanished from the main-screen, and pronounced, ‘Car down, nuclear hazard, no survivors. Repeat no survivors,

  5

  There’s one reborn every minute.

&nb
sp; Dalai Dan

  ‘Shame,’ said Haff Ffnsh, ‘I had high hopes for him.’

  ‘Closedown on that one, I’m afraid. Do you want me to cover the crash? It’s quite unexceptional.’

  ‘No.’ Haff stroked an organic module and the screen’s membrane darkened. ‘Fade up on the Dalai and we’ll check the day’s doings.’

  ‘Dull, dull, dull.’

  ‘Mr Madoc’s directive. We are but pawns in the game.’

  ‘This station could do with a change of management. If I was at the helm, things would be different.’

  ‘Your views on the subject are well known to me. Constant repetition does little to improve my opinion of them.’

  ‘Just one week,’ said Jovil Jspht, ‘or even a day, you’d see some viewing figures, I can tell you.’

  ‘What, Killer Maggots from the Earth’s Core? Do me a favour.’

  ‘I’ve circulated my memorandum. It’s legitimate material, Holy Writ stuff.’

  ‘Mr Jspht, you are assistant controller of the largest network production in the galaxy. Many would envy you your position. Many, in fact, seek to take it. Why can you not simply do the job you are paid so handsomely for?’

  ‘No-one recognizes my true talents; come the revolution . . .’

  ‘It did come. Perhaps you were at lunch, you so often are.’

  ‘One day the whole world will know my name,’ said Jovil Jspht.

  ‘Very possibly, but few will be able to pronounce it. Kindly manipulate your module.’

  ‘This is the time

  This is the place

  The time to face

  What the fates have in store

  It’s double or drop

  Do or die

  And here’s the guy

  We’ve all been waiting for

  He’s the man with the most

  The heavenly host

  The holiest ghost

  In the cosmic drama

  And here he is

  The shah of showbiz

  The Dalai . . . Dalai . . . Dalai

  Dalai . . . Lama.’

  ‘A catchy little number, I think you will agree.’ The musical director raised his violet Mohawk from the keyboard and smiled hopefully towards Gloria Mundi.

  ‘It’s crap,’ she replied, ‘but I suppose it will have to do.’

  ‘There’s another verse . . .’

  ‘Have the Lamarettes rehearse it and I’ll get back to you later.’ Gloria turned upon her seven-inch heel and strode off across the studio floor. The musical director watched her depart. Certain words formed upon his pale blue lips, but they are better left unrecorded.

  The Nemesis studio was by far and away the most lavish that any the Big Three stations possessed. Nemesis was the most successful game show in pre-recorded history .The original formula had been conceived as long ago as the 1950s, possibly even earlier. But it held together now as well as it ever did. Take one charismatic host, several thinly-clad lovelies and a star prize. Then add a never-ending stream of contestants, willing to debase themselves in the holy cause of avarice. Stir well and serve weekly. No matter what variations the whim of fashion dictated, the original formula never failed. But with Nemesis it had been brought to its apotheosis.

  Nemesis had its genesis in the closing years of the twentieth century. These were pretty grim times, by any reckoning. Toxic pollution had finally succeeded in dissolving the ozone layer, the natural barrier that shielded the planet from the adverse effects of the sun’s ultra-violet rays. This triggered some very unpleasant changes in the Earth’s eco-system. Crops failed and sun-bathing became a pastime for the suicidally inclined. Doomsday looked very much to be on the cards. Plans had existed for years to construct vast underground food and medico synthesisation plants. But successive governments, daunted by the costs, had each in turn quietly shelved them. Now, with public unrest running hand in hand with spiralling inflation, it was quite out of the question.

  However, there is nothing like a good war or natural catastrophe to bring out the religion in people. And while the governments were growing bankrupt, the major churches of the day suddenly found that they had standing room only and that their coffers, so long empty, now brimmed to overflowing. Hence the underground plants, which synthesised food and medical products from waste and probed deeply into the Earth’s core to tap new sources of mineral wealth, came to be built by the Big Three. The Buddhists, the Fundamentalists and the Jesuits.

  Of course, it’s to be doubted whether these plants could possibly have supplied the needs of the Earth’s continually increasing population. So when the Nuclear Holocaust Event occurred, and production suddenly outstripped demand, many attributed this to the foresight of God. And the Big Three, now sole suppliers of the world’s needs, felt no need to contradict them. The governments of the post-NHE world sought bravely to regain control, but found themselves in for some rather unpleasant surprises. In Washington, Supreme Commander North threw open the doors of the Nuclear Emergency Supply Silo to reveal a million cable-television sets. Outgoing President Wormwood’s legacy to the post-nuclear age. In an attempt to restore the status quo, he called together every remaining member of the American Armed Forces. The minutes of their meeting remain on record. But what the thirteen men had to say to one another doesn’t make for an entertaining read.

  As a fully paid-up Buddhist, Supreme Commander North wasn’t slow to realize upon which side his syntha-bread was buttered. A quick call on the hotline to Buddha Biological and the re-allocation of one million TV sets secured him the token position of President Elect for life.

  For their part, the boys at Buddha, incapable of distributing a million TVs worldwide, struck up lucrative deals with Fundamental Foods and Jesuit Inc. to dispose of two-thirds of their unexpected windfall. Shortly thereafter, these found their way into the bunkers of the holocaust survivors. And the rest is history.

  The EYESPI modifications were added a few years later, ‘In an attempt to raise standards and morale, offer incentive and engender healthy competition.’ And competition, healthy or otherwise, was something that the Big Three, now each with its own TV station, had become increasingly more involved in. And it was the game show that became the hub of this competitive universe.

  The Jesuits’ Auto-da-fe show had its followers and the Fundamentalists’ Whoops There Goes an Atheist , made a reasonable showing. But it was Nemesis which really caught the public’s imagination.

  Hosted by the Living God King himself, and hailed by its PR department as the Ultimate Terminal Experience, it was game show magic in the grand tradition. And often a great deal more.

  Gloria Mundi pushed her way between the females who milled about the studio floor, mounted a short flight of steps and entered the Green Room. Here, in a somewhat soiled saffron three-piece, sat the golden boy himself.

  Dalai Dan was looking a little the worst for wear. With difficulty he focused upon Gloria, his bloodshot orbs speaking eloquently enough of the previous night’s revels, without going into any of the sordid details.

  ‘You look like death,’ Gloria observed. ‘Been burning the temple candle at both ends again?’

  ‘Piss off,’ said the Dalai Lama, ‘I’m meditating.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d had enough warnings. You can’t carry on like this.’

  Dan stroked his shaven head. It needed a shave. ‘Go fly a kite.’

  ‘Pope Joan’s ratings are up again. You’re slipping.’

  ‘I recall ordering a Tampa Sunrise,’ He picked a nubbin of wax from his left ear.

  ‘No more drinkies, you’re on in five minutes.’

  Dan turned the ball of wax between thumb and forefinger. ‘Drink not only water, but take a little wine, for thy stomach’s sake.’

  ‘Wrong denomination, dear.’ Gloria seated herself, across from the hung-over holy man. Dan’s eyes wandered as she crossed her impossibly long legs. She was painfully attractive. Tall, sleek, elegant and quite deadly. The kind of woman that left all bu
t the most heroic of men drooling hungrily from a safe distance. Her skin was toned a soft powder blue, a perfect match for her eyes. Her black hair tumbled away to a waist, about which the thumb and forefingers of God’s most favoured might almost meet. The remaining portions of her body all conformed to the unreasonable standards set for the heroine of some sword and sorcery novel.

  ‘You are a prize schmuck,’ said Gloria Mundi.

  Dan pulled his eyes away from her legs. ‘I never chose to become the Dalai Lama, you know,’ he said with some bitterness. ‘It’s a burden rather than a pleasure. But I’m the real McCoy, and I would thank you to show a little respect once in a while.’

  ‘Respect has to be earned,’ Gloria replied, as the phrase has always been a favourite amongst women. ‘The winning couple from last week are here. Don’t you think you should speak to them?’

  ‘What for? We aren’t thinking of letting them survive another week, are we?’

  Gloria shook her beautiful head. ‘Do you remember your eighty-second reincarnation?’

  Dan made a thoughtful face. ‘Vaguely, that’s when I had to do a runner from the Red Chinese, wasn’t it?’ Gloria nodded. ‘I remember wearing foolish glasses and giggling a lot, and,’ Dan turned his third eye upon Gloria, ‘I remember that the Maharishi got all the best girls.’

  ‘I’ve got you on video, you used to talk a lot of sense back then.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘What I’m getting at, as if you don’t know, is that even in exile you were worshipped by millions as the Living God King.’

  ‘I still am.’

  ‘You had responsibilities. You still have.’

  ‘Oh, very funny. The one hundred and fifty-third incarnation I might be, God’s chosen representative on Earth I might be, but a cabbage I ain’t. If you wish me to fulfil my responsibilities then allow me to go into spiritual retreat for about thirty years.’

  ‘Duty then, you have a duty to the station.’

  Dan closed his eyes and drew his trousered legs into a full lotus. He began to hum gently and before Gloria’s eyes, slowly levitated towards the ceiling. It was a spectacle Gloria had witnessed before, but this made it no less unnerving.