“Get away.” Hastings laughed. “I don’t have half your technique.”
Filmour frowned a little. “Technique doesn’t mean much. You’ve got some feel the rest of us are lacking. Guy had it too. You gonna be here for a while?”
“Yeah, I’m going to stay for all the sets.”
“Well, here.” Filmour held out a bit of yellowy paper. “We’ve just been given the most outrageous acid. Far better than that weak shit they sell in the shops. Roger’s cousin makes it in his basement with a kid’s chemistry set. I don’t even remember being here last weekend — I think I was literally out in space somewhere. You look like you could use an escape yourself.”
“Thanks, mate.”
Filmour nodded in his amiably vague way, flipped his long, straight hair out of his face, and went to do his final tune-up. The Wylde Flowers were taking their time finishing their last tune, so Hastings placed the paper under his tongue. It was true; he could use an escape. The acid shouldn’t take full effect before he had a chance to talk rationally to Wyatt about the danger that faced them all.
The piece finally ended, and The Wylde Flowers lurched offstage, looking as weary as Hastings had felt after only one song.
“That was beautiful, Simon,” Wyatt said. “I’ve heard you play well before, but never like that! You’ll be happy to know that we got it all on tape. We’ll release an EP!”
Hastings rallied his energy. “That’s great, Mo. You’re a great band. I’m glad I found you here tonight — but there’s something I have tell you, and it’s not too pleasant.”
He started to tell his story for what felt like the umpteenth time, but as he did, he began to feel very peculiar; the acid was kicking in quicker than predicted. Wyatt’s face had turned a strange shade of blue, which slowly became more intense, and his blonde stubble was shining a blinding neon yellow. Out of the corners of his eyes, Hastings could swear that he saw several bright orange lizards gazing intently at him from under a table before flicking out of view just as he turned his head. As people moved in the background, their lines became badly blurred, and he thought he heard crows cawing raucously somewhere in the distance.
“Are you all right, Si?” Wyatt’s blue face twisted with concern. “Did those maniacs slip you something homemade? Some of their bloody cleaning chemicals?” He reached out to steady Hastings, who was feeling more and more unstable by the second. “Sit down for a while.”
“I’m … okay. It is some powerful stuff, though.”
“So … I get the gist. Some sort of capitalist assassin. What should we do?”
“All I can tell you … is that you should keep an eye out … and tell everyone you know … for this man. He didn’t exactly … blend in in New York, so I doubt he will here. Maybe we can catch him out. And … if you see any of the other fellows from the list … Ed Barrett … help me warn them.”
“You have had a hard time lately, haven’t you, old son?” Wyatt rested a sympathetic hand on Hastings’ shoulder. It felt like a ton of bricks.
“I’m afraid so … Mo.” He was now forcing the words out; he could no longer feel his tongue moving as he spoke. The orange lizards had ceased hiding; one was perched on Wyatt’s shoulder, staring impudently at Hastings with glittering diamond eyes. Why lizards? The very light in the room had taken on a strange, seductive red hue, and all sensation was gradually leaving his body. He staggered.
“Si? Jesus, man, sit down!”
The first beats of The Peuce Frank’s set crashed into his addled brain like a train wreck, cutting short the cawing crows that were actually their intro tape. In the uncontrolled state of his cortex, the volume was intensified until it felt like his whole skull was reverberating. Had someone got a hold of his sonic gun and used it on him?
He felt himself falling but couldn’t stop. As Wyatt hurriedly reached out to catch him, Hastings fell heavily to the floor.
He got me somehow, he thought groggily. Stupid. Wasn’t thinking. Thank God it’s over.
eleven
Though he waited for a state of merciful unconsciousness to envelop him and save him from his agony, Hastings’ mind refused to pass out, and through the nightmare hallucinations that followed, he slowly realized that what was really happening was not poisoning but instead the worst acid trip of his life, perhaps of anyone’s. He had no idea where he was, and he felt and saw nothing real as he was taken by The Wylde Flowers to their house, a rambling Queen Anne at the top of Clarendon Road.
For hours, he was tormented by visions worse and more vivid than any nightmare he had ever experienced. Against a deserted urban background, the animated corpses of Guy and Gonzalez, both vomiting unbelievable amounts of bright crimson blood, attempted to strangle him as they accused him in chilling zombie whispers of causing their deaths. Rosas and Alvarez appeared, linked happily arm in arm, dressed in devil’s costumes complete with pitchforks and horns. For some reason, The Hammer was with them, carrying an oversized beer stein that must have held a gallon of stout. The Hammer gestured rudely at him then poured the beer over his own head, urinated on a wall, and disappeared in a puff of black smoke. Multicolored lizards constantly gnawed on his limbs until there was nothing left but curiously bloodless stumps, which waved around pathetically. His beloved Gibson made an appearance, but every time he reached out with his stumps, sobbing, to gather it in, it danced away, laughing, on two black-stockinged legs. His father also briefly took a bow, ten smelly French cigarettes dangling from his mouth and a smokestack protruding from the top of his head, which belched black fumes. At last, after a seeming eternity of this torture, he finally passed out into a dreamless sleep.
When he finally woke, he found himself in a dim room. It was dark, but as he lifted his head, he could see that the walls were painted navy blue. There were no decorations on the walls, but several small tables held lava lamps of various colors. The beams mixed in a rainbow on the walls. He was lying on one of two large, soft sofas that took up much of the space. He was thankful to find a large glass of water on the floor and drank the whole thing in a gulp. He felt horrible, but he wasn’t dead.
It was the second time in three days that he had thought himself a dead man and the second time he had been rendered unconscious. I can’t take much more of this, he reflected ruefully. Then he remembered Teresa, who had been speeding across the Atlantic to comfort him, and wondered about the time.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Mo Wyatt’s head peered cautiously around the crack. “Si? You awake?”
“Yup,” he croaked.
“Jesus, mate, we were scared stiff!” Wyatt said, advancing and rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“What time is it?”
“Four a.m. You were tripping for about five hours there before you fell asleep. I’ve been catching a few winks meself for a while, but I thought I’d come and see if you were still alive! Filmour feels really bad about it; he said he shouldn’t have given you such strong stuff, considering the stress you’ve been under. Especially when I told him the whole story.”
“I thought I’d been poisoned.”
“Small wonder, Si. I thought so too for a while! But don’t worry, we’ll all be careful, and if this bastard’s around, we’ll take care of him. Our bit of London doesn’t take kindly to capitalist infiltrators and thugs. Funny.” He leaned back on the other couch.
“What?”
“This almost provides a bit of contrast, doesn’t it?”
“How so?” Hastings’ head was hurting too much for abstract conversation.
“The message must be getting out, if someone’s willing to resort to these tactics. Turns out we’re a serious threat after all. Now we’ll have to prove we’re up to the test.”
*
Hastings’ head continued to pound all the way back to his father’s place in the weak late morning light on the M7. He had slept for another six hours, but the rest and water had done him little good. He would have stayed downtown for the day to try to track down some of h
is other friends, but he had called his father first. Teresa had been true to her word and had left on a flight that arrived in London early that morning. She had called him from the airport, waking Raymond and frightening him half to death, to tell him that she had arrived and that she would be at the house shortly by taxi. His father had said that she had sounded very worried when she found out Simon hadn’t arrived home yet, news that wouldn’t have fazed her at all just a couple of weeks before. But then a bad trip (he’d had a few) wouldn’t have seemed to him like a near-death experience, either.
He remembered the gun that Alvarez had given him and checked his pockets. It was still there, an innocent-looking device you might find in a teenager’s bedroom. It was even pink. As he wrapped his hand around its sleek plastic handle, he reflected on the fact that, no matter how loathsome firearms might be in principle, the greatest pacifist in the world would still derive an almost childlike comfort from possession of one in his time of uncertainty. Of course, it was hard to take comfort from a weapon, however lethal, that looked like a miniature hair dryer. Well, Rosas would be in for the coiffing of his life if he should get up to any of his dirty tricks in London.
After another monotonous drive under an ominous sky, he finally reached the Watford exit and turned onto his father’s street. As he pulled into the drive, the little car’s engine sputtering pathetically, he could see Teresa’s face peering out the front window. A light rain had started. The neighbor’s child, whom Hastings had never seen, was throwing a ball against the garage door, making a sound that reverberated throughout the deathly silent suburb. The child looked up him with oddly penetrating, coldly luminous eyes that sent a chill through Hastings’ body; then he extended one tiny finger in Hastings’ direction in the international symbol of insolence. The boy was wearing the neon contact lenses that were in vogue with kids. They made him look like an invader from a planet of evil dwarfs. So old for their age in some ways, he thought, devoid of innocence. Damn the makers of those lenses!
Then he shook himself, returned the gesture with both hands and a grin, and turned the door handle, cursing for the millionth time his inescapably morbid thoughts.
Teresa threw her powerful arms around him as he entered. She was dressed in an ankle-length Peruvian dress, a shawl, and a wide-brimmed straw hat covering her long, dark-red hair. Teresa had an open face, large eyes, arched Italian eyebrows, and, unusual for the times, she never wore a trace of makeup.
“How are you, you bastard!” she roared with typical exuberance in her rich, low-toned voice.
“Well … not so good, actually, Ter. Had a bit of a bad trip last night. Hi, Dad.” He slumped down in a chair as his father slouched into the room. He was smoking a briar pipe and had an old felt hat on, perhaps his idea of dressing up to receive guests. He looked like a wizened version of Dickens’ classic detective, Hercules Watson.
Teresa sat down beside Simon and put a hand on his knee. “Now, you’ve got to tell me what the hell’s going on, Simon.”
Raymond looked troubled. “And where were you last night, boy? I hope you weren’t into those drugs again — remember what happened to your friend? I’ve been worried sick. I haven’t heard from your brother since our row, either, although I suppose that’s a mixed blessing.”
Hastings held up a hand. “One at a time, please. First, Dad, I’m here now, and I’m all right, and so’s the car — that’s all you need to know. Second, you probably won’t hear from my good brother until he needs something from you. Last, Teresa, I’m going to need a nice big cuppa before I can tell you everything that’s gone on in the last week. I’m exhausted and sick, and as unfair as this might seem, I’m tired of telling this story too. I’ll probably have to tell it a few more times in the next little while.”
“Well, sorrrrryy…” Teresa reached out and roughly mussed his hair. “But seriously, sorry, matey. You English and your tea. The old cure-all. If that’s what you need, go ahead.”
After several cuppas, Hastings finally felt well enough to tell her his version of events. For some reason, the telling didn’t seem like such a trial this time.
“Shit,” Teresa said. “I knew the Establishment would declare war on us sometime. Didn’t I tell you that a bunch of times? Still, I never thought they’d be so clandestine about it.”
“We don’t know who’s behind this, remember. It’s just a theory.”
“But a good one. Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s been going on in New York lately?”
Hastings shook his head. “I stopped reading the paper. It just makes me angry.”
“The gangs of hooligans? The ones, probably paid, that go downtown and attack what they call ‘hippies’ and ‘freaks’?”
Like the ones that attacked the cab that fateful night. “Yeah? So, I’ve seen them. What’s the connection?”
Teresa scowled. “You really are out of it, aren’t you? Haven’t you watched TV or read the papers at all? Haven’t you heard how capitalist right-wing politicians and their media mouthpieces are deliberately fomenting violence and prejudice by pitting common workers against their natural allies in the urban counterculture?”
“Right, yes, workers, capitalists…” he mumbled into his chest. Although he’d given more than his share of such speeches, he sometimes tired of endlessly hearing them from Teresa.
“For Chrissake, Simon, it’s gotten worse since I left on my trip, only a month ago. Just a couple of days ago, Baba Frank got beat up on the subway by some of those punks with the designer masks.”
Hastings had to stifle a guilty smile at the thought of the stoic way in which Baba Frank would likely respond to getting rolled by hooligans.
“There’s been some violence in central London, too,” Raymond offered meekly, relighting his pipe. He had shuffled back in to catch the tail end of the conversation. “Glad I live out here. The hippies and the soccer yobs have had a few battles. It’s the same lads from bad families who beat up on the Asians and coloreds.”
Teresa’s brows grew thunderous at his use of the word “coloreds.” “Sorry, I meant visible minorities,” Raymond added hastily. “Should know to mind my p’s and q’s better by this point, after living with Sunny Jim here all these years.” Teresa walked over, lifted up the detective hat, and planted a forgiving kiss right in the middle of his forehead. He blushed. “But why all this so suddenly?”
“It’s elementary, my dear Mr. Hastings. There’s a new counter-movement against the reforms that have been passed in the last few years. Certain politicians want to return to the age when workers and especially women couldn’t vote, when members of the producing classes couldn’t change jobs to better themselves but could be fired without warning. They had to listen to royal-certified music and watch approved dramas on the damn TV, while big businessmen and the government colluded to keep themselves in luxury. All the while draining the resources of our colonies and treating immigrants like slaves. Why, they even tried to brainwash us when we were kids! You must remember.”
Raymond rubbed his forehead. “I certainly do, dear.” He looked profoundly miserable and a little guilty, perhaps remembering how happy he personally had been in those times, which were dark for so many others. “But don’t blame me — I was a Labour man all my life, although they never got anywhere in the polls.”
“I’d never blame you for anything, Mr. H.,” Teresa said, bathing him in one of her radiant smiles. “You’re too sweet.” Raymond blinked back. She was certainly doing a good job of cheering him up. “But you really shouldn’t smoke so much. You’re setting a bad example for Simie.”
“Ahem, well,” Raymond said, butting out his latest. “I’ll just go put another kettle on, shall I?” He shuffled quickly out of the room, almost losing one of his slippers.
Teresa turned her smile on Simon, who had hurriedly put out his own cigarette. “So, Simon, what’s next?”
From Battle for the Pluriverse, Vol. 2
by Mort Moorhen (New Worlds Publishing, 1970)
As the mutants attack, their ruined features, hideously scarred from a thousand ritual tortures, now fortunately hidden under heavy steel masks, Jerry Carpathia can’t help regretting letting the Steel Daffodil convince him to get involved in such a messy situation in this backward corner of the Seventh Pluriverse. There she is, a few paces away, chewing on an unlit cigar as she shoots up an attacker in his mainline with her serum gun, until he falls writhing in delicious agony and is carried off by rippling, sentient pavement. Antimatter flares are going off everywhere, and Carpathia finds himself on the defensive from no fewer than three buzz-cut-wearing, scab-scalped mutants bearing primitive “machine guns.” He dispatches them quickly with a swathe of lime-green serum, and they die screaming their thanks. A dicey business indeed, but he has to keep in mind that the only reason for their attack is to gain release from the agony of the state of eternal boredom and small but painful punishments in which their masters keep them. How can he but pity those who endure such a plight?
“Having fun yet?” the Steel Daffodil yells, her golden hair and cleavage glowing in the unholy radiance. He tranquilizes another opponent into blissful oblivion but feels a tug on his coat as he does so. He turns around, and as always, there’s no one there. That pesky conscience again, elusive but ever-present, turning his days into a tragedy of ethical proportions.
TWelve
Teresa, always brimming with energy, was unwilling to let Hastings take another nap to remove the giant black bags from under his eyes, the last outward manifestations of the previous night’s ordeal. She made Raymond rush them to the Underground, grumbling that all their stinky old city needed was another polluting gas-burner on the M7. Raymond didn’t utter a single word on the way to the station, just gripped the steering wheel ever tighter and looked absolutely desperate for a smoke. When he dropped them off, he roared away, tires squealing.
The Music of the Spheres Page 11
