Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Best you do,’ Fergus backed away. ‘He and I aren’t really on the best of terms at present.’

  ‘Well?’ Garstang demanded.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Madoc is unable to speak to you at present. But I now have his full authority. You shall have all that you require.’

  Garstang drew the ashen face of Wisten within vision and pressed the hand weapon to his temple.

  ‘That’s a special service hand-strobe,’ Morgawr whispered to Fergus. ‘I worked on those. But he shouldn’t have one, they haven’t been fully tested yet.’

  ‘Something up design-wise?’ Fergus asked hopefully.

  ‘Just a bit. They have an alarming habit of feeding back if you don’t let them cool between discharges. Very messy.’

  ‘Oh good,’ grinned Fergus. ‘Now speak to him, he looks rather anxious.’

  Jason did so. ‘The captive is being brought up to you, Mr Garstang. Then the floors between you and the research labs will be cleared.’ The screen went blank.

  ‘So they feed back, do they?’ Fergus asked cheerfully. ‘And would Mr Garstang be aware of this, do you think?’

  Jason Morgawr winked. ‘I can’t see how he would.’

  Fergus Shaman did a big ear to ear job. ‘There are going to be one or two vacancies on the board. If this works out I might just put your name forward.’

  ‘Should I clear the floors then?’

  ‘Why not, and get Mr Presley up to him. Place your men in concealment. Don’t forget to inform them about the little gremlin in Garstang’s gun.’ Jason hurried away, rubbing his hands together in glee.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked the heavily swathed Mungo.

  ‘Everything is being taken care of, sir.’

  ‘Pardon? You’ll have to speak up a bit.’

  ‘Everything is being taken care of, sir!’

  ‘The last bit again.’

  ‘Oh, never mind, you great oaf,’ muttered Fergus, which was a shame, because skill in lip-reading was amongst Mungo’s newer modifications.

  Mungo smiled benignly. I’ll get you for that, he thought.

  ‘So, Rex,’ Dan was all smiles, ‘what do you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘Plenty.’ Rex eyed a tray of sweetmeats and his stomach made an unmentionable sound. Rex let his thoughts be felt.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Dan, ‘eat your fill.’

  ‘My thanks, Dan. Morning Gloria. Having another day, I’m pleased to see.

  Gloria made a disgusted face and turned up her nose. ‘You need a bath.’

  ‘Just had one as it happens.’ Rex began to fill his face.

  ‘So, how goes your search then? Anything to report?’

  The eater dragged a sleeve across his mouth. ‘I have a lead, yes. And a good one.’

  Dan looked puzzled. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘At considerable risk to myself, I have managed to trap two Devianti upon the roof of Odeon Towers. One is the Rambo Bloodaxe you were so keen to meet. Exactly how he and his crony managed to escape the enemy missile, I’ve no idea. Perhaps they have charmed lives also. Anyhow, I’m sure Bloodaxe can be persuaded to yield up all he knows about your mystery man. Good, eh?’

  Dan nodded dumbly. ‘Very good.’

  ‘I would suggest you send over your big lads fast. The flames lick even now about the feet of Rambo Bloodaxe.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Dan tapped the intercom and issued instructions. Rex munched on, grinning inwardly. His sister eyed him with open contempt.

  ‘He put up quite a struggle,’ munched Rex. ‘In fact, I fear that he has totally destroyed my apartment, if not the whole building.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dan. ‘That is most regrettable.’

  ‘It is,’ Rex agreed. ‘Many of my priceless family heirlooms gone up in smoke. But no matter, all in a good cause, I’m sure I will be fully compensated. And with the bonus you offered for Mr Bloodaxe, I shall find superior lodgings and in time forget the sad losses.’

  ‘For it is written,’ said Dan, quoting scripture, ‘that even should he put his hand down a toilet, it will come up smelling of roses.’

  ‘Perhaps Rex might like to demonstrate this skill upon my bidet,’ Gloria suggested.

  ‘Still not fixed, eh?’ Dan chuckled. ‘The service engineers are in dispute, I believe. I will have a word with them when I have a spare moment.’

  Rex allowed Gloria the full benefit of his undisguised smirk.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she announced. ‘The show must go on, you know.’

  ‘Oh, indeed you must. Leave us to it, men’s talk, you know.’ Gloria stormed from the room, a sensual hurricane. Such abominable disrespect for the Living God King, thought Rex, as loudly as he could, surely the Inmost One must demote her on the spot.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Rex,’ said Dan, giving the thinker the old third eye. ‘You know what I mean?’

  Two of Vance City’s finest encouraged Elvis along the corridor with the business ends of their truncheons. It’s always comforting to know that no matter where one travels to in this universe, there will always be a policeman with a truncheon. Funny that there’s still never one around when you need him, though.

  ‘You know what I think, fella?’ The youthful adventurer turned upon one of his persecutors. ‘I think your whole Goddamn planet sucks. That’s what.’

  The uniformed duo glanced at one another and came to the unspoken agreement that a short sharp shock was the order of the day. They were raising their truncheons just as Fergus Shaman appeared on the scene.

  ‘Thank you, gents,’ said he. ‘I will take our guest from here.’ He noted well the twin looks of disappointment. ‘That will be all, thank you.’ The two policemen shambled away, grumbling loudly.

  ‘And who the Holy Heck are you?’ Elvis asked.

  Fergus extended his hand. ‘Fergus Shaman, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘ Where’s my little green buddy?’

  ‘Ah,’ Fergus returned his unshaken hand to its pocket. ‘Your little green buddy. Now that is what I wanted to talk to you about. You see I have this theory.’

  ‘That to your theory,’ Elvis made a gesture which Fergus Shaman didn’t know the meaning of. It involved a thrusting movement with the middle finger.

  ‘Quite so. But it’s of great significance, nonetheless. Have they been treating you all right?’

  ‘Are you for real? One of those bozos stuck his night-stick up my . . .’

  Fergus made a pained face. ‘I’m terribly sorry. A slight misunderstanding. Now if you will kindly follow me.’ He turned to lead Elvis up the corridor. Now it wasn’t the American Way, striking a man from behind, this Elvis knew. But he’d had a rough day. And after all Fergus Shaman was an alien.

  Fergus Shaman turned in mid stride. Alien perhaps, but no fool. ‘If you want to get back to 1958 then I suggest you come with me.’

  The moment was lost. Elvis went quietly.

  Odeon Towers was well ablaze. News teams from the Big Three were covering the event, jockeying for the key positions. Fire-fighting squads stood at the ready awaiting their cues to make with the deeds of heroism. Their union representatives discussed repeat fees and residuals with the media men. Location directors shouted into handsets and prayed for the rain to keep off. Someone on fire leapt from an upper window.

  ‘Zoom in on the corpse. Hold and cut.’

  Rambo Bloodaxe peered over the parapet and sighed sadly. Eric was trying to count his fingers and failing miserably. ‘Hot for the time of year,’ he observed. Amidst the smoke and confusion a black Buddhavision security craft flopped down on to the roof. Several heavily-armed henchmen stepped from it.

  ‘Botheration,’ Rambo exclaimed. ‘It’s the Bill. Eric, me old mucker, it looks as if we are going to be next week’s special guests on Nemesis.’

  ‘Goody.’ Eric gave up the unequal struggle with his fingers. ‘I’ve always wanted to be on the telly.’

  18

  . . . always whistling. Didn’t I mention that? Maybe I forgot,
it all gets a bit jumbled some times. Like everything happened at once, not like it was spread out. Always whistling. He’d have this tune, whistle it for days and if, say, I left him on a street corner and he was whistling it, next time I’d bump into him he’d be continuing it right from where he left off. Just like there had been no in between. Used to give me the creeps. It was like I didn’t exist between the times I was with him.

  But the tunes, see. They’d get stuck in your head. Real catchy. Popular music tunes. Pop it was called back then, or rock. And then, maybe a week or a month later the same tunes would turn up on the radio. And every one went to the number one slot. Worldwide some of them. So, I know what you’re thinking. He wrote them, right? Me too. I bought the records, but they were all big guys and well known. He couldn’t have been all of them, could he?

  Although, I mean, he was a God. Still is a God for all 1 know.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  When you wanna move, its what’s in the groove that counts.

  James Brown

  Soul is when the only way you can express yourself is to go

  Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwl right.

  Same fella

  ‘So,’ said Fergus, as they reached the perforated board-room door ‘That is my theory and that is my plan. Tell me, what do you think?’

  Elvis checked out the alien son-of-a-bitch. ‘No shidoogy?’ he asked.

  ‘None whatever. I have checked out my figures again and again. Monitored your life readings and I’m certain that I’m correct.’

  ‘Well then,’ Elvis straightened his shoulders, turned up his collar and finger-combed his jet-black locks. ‘Let’s kick butt.’

  Fergus gazed along the empty corridor, thinking to glimpse the comforting glint of a multi-function riot gun as it dipped back into a far doorway. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Just call out for Mr Garstang.’

  ‘No sweat. And fella . . .’ Fergus turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You might have the decency to put a fellow’s coat upon a hanger.’ The torturers ignored Rambo and continued to strap his unclad body into the steel chair. ‘No chance of a cushion I suppose?’ An anonymous thug, who had just come on shift, dealt Rambo a specific blow to the solar plexus. Ill-mannered oik, thought Rambo. ‘Ouch,’ he said.

  The anonymous thug’s equally anonymous compatriot pressed the self-adhesive discs to the appropriate quarters. ‘This is going to hurt really bad,’ he said with relish.

  ‘First prepared is best prepared, old todger. Don’t crease the strides, there’s an angel.’ The thugs gave Rambo a perfunctory thump or two and left the room. ‘So this is Christmas ...’ sang Rambo, although he didn’t know quite why.

  ‘Rambo Bloodaxe?’ The voice crackled into the tiled room.

  ‘Present,’ said the man in the chair.

  ‘Mr Bloodaxe, we have some questions to ask you.’

  ‘Then ask away, my dear fellow. I have pressing engagements elsewhere.’ The first minor tremor loosened some teeth and scrambled his goolies.

  ‘Leave off there.’ Rambo howled. ‘No need for that surely?’

  ‘What do you know about SUN?’ Rambo hesitated. Up in the control room a dialogue began.

  First anonymous torturer: ‘Don’t be so mean, the power isn’t on ration.’

  Second anonymous torturer: ‘I’m sure Mr Bloodaxe wants to tell us all.’

  First anonymous torturer: ‘Burn it out of him.’

  Second anonymous torturer: ‘But he seems like a nice chap. Oh well. . .’

  Rambo Bloodaxe: ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’

  Rex turned his face away from the viewing panel. ‘If you will pardon me,’ he said, preparing to leave. ‘I find this quite upsetting.’

  Dan offered Rex the sweetest of smiles. ‘No taste for revenge then, Rex? Don’t you want to twiddle the dials a bit?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I know what it feels like.’

  Dan laughed. ‘Yeah, you certainly squirmed.’ He looked sharply at Rex. ‘No hard feelings I trust?’

  ‘You’ll kill him, I suppose?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. I will see how the spirit moves me.’

  Rex chewed upon his lip. ‘Just another non-person.’

  ‘That’s right, Rex. Rubbish, detritus. Millions more where he came from. He is merely a means to an end. My end. You would do well to bear this in mind.’

  Rex stared into the narrow face of the Dalai Lama and for a moment his thoughts were unguarded. It didn’t matter how much credit he built up for himself, there was very little chance of him staying around for long enough to enjoy it. Dan would simply use him up and then throw him away. So much detritus. And it all just came to him in that single moment. He was going nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.

  ‘I am handing in my resignation,’ said Rex. ‘I quit.’

  Dan laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘No-one quits, Rex. You don’t quit on the Dalai Lama.’

  ‘Well I do, and I have.’ Rex turned to leave.

  ‘Stop him.’ An anonymous torturer sprang from his chair and drew a handgun. Rex kicked the weapon from his grip, punched him hard across the chin. He stooped and snatched up the fallen gun. He turned it upon Dalai Dan. ‘I’m a dead man, aren’t I?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘You could always reconsider. Put it down now, there’s a good boy.’

  Rex swallowed. With a shaking hand he levelled the gun towards the Dalai’s face. This had all got suddenly out of control. He no longer understood what he was doing.

  ‘Put down the gun Rex.’

  ‘I think not.’ Rex squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out.

  Rex Mundi sank to the floor. A gaping wound in the back of his head. The second anonymous torturer blew into the smoking barrel of his gun. Dan gazed down at the corpse of Rex Mundi. ‘Stupid waste,’ said he. ‘Get someone to clear the mess up and get whatever you can from Bloodaxe. I shall be in my apartments. Let me know what you find out.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ The anonymous torturer turned the body over with his foot and began to root through Rex’s pockets.

  An uncomfortable trio edged along the executive corridor at Earthers Inc. Lavinius Wisten, his hands tied securely, was strapped behind Gryphus Garstang. Elvis Presley, his face wearing a nonchalant smile, strolled ahead, popping his fingers. The nose of a certain gremlin-ridden gun prodded his back. ‘Move on,’ ordered Garstang.

  ‘Can’t get a clear shot yet,’ came a voice over Jason Morgawr’s headset. ‘He’s got Wisten tied on behind.’

  ‘Stay in touch.’ Morgawr turned to Fergus Shaman. Fergus shrugged, ‘You know my feelings, it’s in your hands now.’

  ‘We could just open up on him and see what happens.’

  ‘You will not,’ barked the lip-reader. ‘You can do what you like with Garstang, but I don’t want to lose any more members of my board. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Jason Morgawr.

  God’s nose, thought Fergus Shaman.

  ‘They’ve taken the lift, sir.’

  ‘Are your teams in place in the research labs?’

  ‘Yes sir. But if we can’t get a clear shot at him?’ Morgawr glanced at Mungo Madoc. Mungo’s look was intense.

  ‘Play it by ear,’ said Jason. Mungo looked him daggers. ‘Er, sorry sir, no offence taken, I hope.’

  ‘Down the hyper-ponic bench,’ ordered Garstang. ‘Stop at the tank at the end.’ Garstang swung around, dragging Lavinius with him. He raised his gun, Hollywood fashion. ‘Stay back,’ he shouted. ‘Anyone messes with me, they both get it.’

  ‘Dead exciting all this.’ Elvis stifled a yawn. ‘Down to the end of the bench, wasn’t it chief?’

  ‘Down to the end, and don’t try anything.’

  ‘Sure thing, chief.’ The threesome reached the end of the bench. ‘Just here, chief?’

  Garstang turned his gun upon Presley. ‘What’s all this “chief” business?’

  ‘Bio-emontic integration, chief
. Failing organism maintaining stasis through neuro-enzine shift. Nowhere else to go. Came in here.’

  Elvis thrust his hand into the tank. ‘Fergus Shaman copped on, sorry you missed it.’

  Garstang’s face expressed a good many things. Surprise, shock, horror, anger. There’s a lot you can do with a Phnaargian face. ‘Treachery!’ He thrust the nose of his gun up that belonging to Elvis and pressed the button. But the electric pulse struck only empty air before fading into space many metres away. Then the Phnaargian special services opened up and there wasn’t much time left for Garstang’s face to display emotion. So he fired off his weapon again and again and again. Until it fed back and blew up.

  ‘Oh, help,’ wailed a charred and sorry Wisten. ‘A change of underlinen required here.’

  It was suddenly 3.35 on the afternoon of 7 June 2050 again. The sun still wasn’t shining.

  Rex took to pacing the floor. It had never been a habit which found great favour with him. Firstly, because it was a waste of valuable viewing time and secondly because it involved a good deal of ducking and diving, if it was to be achieved without cracking one’s head open upon the gilded cherub. Now seemed a good time for it though. Twenty-three hours had passed and MOTHER had told him precisely nothing. Surely no-one could go a full twenty-four hours without watching television? It was unthinkable. Rex checked his chronometer. Still two-thirty, he’d have to get that fixed. Rex paced and cursed, cursed and paced. He turned imploringly to the terminal. ‘Come on,’ he waved his hands frantically. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Holy rolly,’ said Elvis Presley. ‘Where the hell are you, green buddy?’

  ‘Inside, chief. I’m inside your head.’

  ‘My head? But how?’

  ‘Told you, nowhere else to run. That Garstang was about to put his foot on me. I had to transfer my consciousness into the nearest living thing if I was going to survive. I didn’t fancy his foot, so as your head was the second nearest, once he’d knocked you out, I came in here. Somewhat fortuitous all round, I’d say, chief.’

  ‘Good to have you back, buddy.’