Theatre of the Gods Page 4

  ‘What is that?’ asked Fabrigas.

  ‘This? Oh, thank you for asking. This is my little friend. He is a cannonball filled with WD40-X. You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘Heard of it? I invented it, boy. It is an extremely volatile and powerful explosive activated by contact with water. Why would you bring this here?’

  The boy pouted. ‘I hear you have many traps set. This is my “get out of the jail card”.’

  ‘There’s no such thing. Where did you get such an idea?’

  Again the boy shrugged. ‘It is only unsafe near water anyway.’ He picked up the sphere, tossed it lightly from hand to hand and into his coat pocket. Then he said, ‘What’s in that box?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ said Fabrigas. ‘Oh. This is the map. I spent an age perfecting it. To make it I had to send several million lanterns into the next universe, to each of which were attached mechanical eyes and ears. No one but me and my manservant have ever seen this map. It shows the way to the next universe with only an 80 per cent chance of death.’

  ‘Those are good odds,’ said the boy. ‘May I see it?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Fabrigas, ‘but you should know that it will blow your mind out through your face.’

  WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS

  The box at first seemed empty, black. The boy pilot squirmed impatiently. Then a pair of brass spheres rose slowly, almost shyly, from within, peeking out like a pair of rising suns, whirring faintly. The two spheres of equal size began to orbit each other, filling the corner of the room with a honey light. ‘This is our universe,’ said Fabrigas, his voice a whisper. He pointed a long, thin finger towards one of the spheres. ‘This,’ he said, moving his finger to the second sphere, ‘is the universe I came from.’

  ‘You came from another universe?’

  ‘I did. In a saucer craft of my own design.’

  ‘What is your universe like?’ whispered the young pilot breathlessly.

  ‘It is identical to this one, except it does not contain me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A third, smaller sphere rose to join the twins. ‘This,’ he said, pointing a finger to the smaller sphere, ‘is Universe Hypothetical 4QF10. It is possible, though not certain, that this universe exists.’

  ‘What happens if you try to enter a universe that does not exist?’ whispered the young pilot. Fabrigas fixed him with a deathly stare. ‘I see,’ said Lambestyo.

  Soon, two more spheres rose from within and the five spun lazily together, their soft light leaving silky traces in the air. ‘These are other hypothetical universes, each with their own unique character. Some are almost exactly like our own universe, some are so different that to enter them would mean certain death.’ Fabrigas spoke so softly now that he was barely audible.

  Five smaller spheres rose; the ten came together to perform an exquisite ballet. The music of the spheres was like ten heavenly bells softly ringing in the blackness. ‘And this is just our local neighbourhood, our street,’ said Fabrigas. ‘To chart the Infiniverse would require a map that went on forever. Almost.’ The universe itself seemed to have come to a stop.

  ‘I think,’ said Carrofax, not bothering to be impressed, or to lower his voice, ‘that you should perhaps pay some attention to your surroundings.’

  The boy and the old man rose out of their trance and became aware of several dozen more spheres in orbit around them. Every greedy, thieving, bloodshot eye in the tavern was upon them, or, to be precise, upon the box. ‘You should not have brought this here!’ hissed the pilot as he slammed the lid shut with his hand. ‘Come!’ The boy grabbed the box and the wizard’s sleeve and hauled them to the rear door. Carrofax followed like a shadow.

  ALL TRAPS SET

  Through a small door on howling springs, through a filthy kitchen where a row of rusty TX400 auto-scrubbers worked away at blackened pots, the pilot kicked a wooden door from its gudgeons and they flew down an alley so narrow they could hardly fit, through sheets of oily spiderweb. Rounding a corner they stumbled upon two naval cadets dressed as prostitutes who were touching up each other’s make-up. ‘Stop moving, you’ll smudge it!’ one said before they looked up to see their quarry. The painted cadets panicked and dived into a delivery hatch.

  ‘If the Procurement Agency’s traps don’t get you, those bandits will,’ said Fabrigas, out of breath. ‘I’m sure if we explained to the thugs that my map is worthless to them –’

  ‘They’ll kill us anyway,’ the boy grunted as he turned his ear towards the alley. They heard a public address system in the distance …

  ‘PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE LUGGAGE UNATTENDED IN THE AIRPORT AS IT MAY BE DAMAGED OR DESTROYED OR FLUNG INTO SPACE …’

  Then they heard the first calls coming from the Bells, then the boot-steps scrabbling crab-like down the alley, the soft sounds of the servo motors in the elbows, knees and necks of the bandit sailors. Then a scream which made the hairs on their necks rise, and another: the long, thin squeal of steel blades drawn along iron pipes. Soon it was a chorus. ‘Come on!’ said the boy, and they ran.

  On the catwalks above they heard boot-fall, the sszzt, sszzt, sszzt of android legs, and the shrill squall of blades, like the coming of a flock of evil gulls. At least four of these bandits were tracking them, hunting their treasure. Their quarry fled through passages, over baskets, ropes and sleeping men. An enormous shadow uncoiled from the catwalk above like a snake in ambush – it dropped to the ground, dwarfing the boy pilot, raised his four steel arms and said, ‘I’ll be taking your b—’ That’s as far as he got, because the boy they called the Necronaut pushed a short knife to the man’s chest, took his huge weight on his shoulders, and lowered him quietly to the ground. Fabrigas had not seen speed and strength like it. Then the boy dropped to one knee and sniffed the air flowing from the ducts above.

  ‘They’re using the flow from the ducts to hide their stench, no?’ said Fabrigas. ‘They know this place like their mother’s oily face.’

  ‘Let’s go and see how good these traps of yours are,’ said the boy, and he ran on. The small box had vanished into his coat, his eyes seemed to have mutated: where before they were black, they were now blade-blue. Fabrigas, a half-smile on his face, exchanged a look with Carrofax, and they followed. The drum of boots on the scaffold above was deafening now, shouts and calls rang up and down the alley. Soon the whole dreadful hood would be out.

  ‘Would it not be faster if we took my hoverpad?’ said Fabrigas. The boy said nothing. He made for a purple door hung with flowers and a sign: ‘Any Which Way’. ‘I would not enter that particular bordello,’ called Fabrigas, but he was too late. The Necronaut bashed through the door as if it were paper, raising a storm of whorish screams from within. The old man heard the whip and clang of the agency’s traps unleashing – and several more screams. By the time he entered through the shattered purple door, the Necronaut was standing on top of a cage which had fallen from the ceiling. The cage had descended upon an elaborate-looking ‘fun seat’ and several irate prostitutes. ‘Please try to keep up,’ said the boy Lambestyo. ‘This is hard enough as it is. Even though it’s totally not hard at all.’ He leaped from the cage and dropped to one knee to retie his boot, ducking, as he did, a double-headed meteor hammer which came spinning from the sordid shadows. Then he set off through the love hotel’s dank passages, leaping and ducking Procurement tripwires, slashing through nets as if they were spiderwebs, and knocking unconscious the whorishly dressed naval recruits who came at him from their hiding places. Fabrigas followed, stepping through the traps, shouting useful hints like: ‘Flying bolas to your left.’

  Now the bandits from the Bells were streaming in to join the fun, but none of them were prepared for this bordello. The horde let out rusty howls as they were picked up in nets and nooses, slammed against the walls by swinging logs, dropped through trapdoors, or knocked unconscious by spinning bolas. They heard Captain Nezquix’s voice through a loudhailer crying: ‘Code Amber! The snake is in the basket! Seal the place! Seal the place
!’ and then the sound of iron walls descending to encase the greasy house inside an impenetrable box.

  Then, silence. Our friends had almost made it to the front entrance.

  ‘So we caught you after all,’ said Fabrigas. They could hear the sounds of groaning and weeping bandits from all directions. The Necronaut took a glance through the door which led to a small reception area at the front of the bordello where customers arrived to ask questions like: ‘Do you charge by the minute?’ and ‘How much if both women are dressed as mermaids?’ He observed a bandit who had broken through the front door and been swept up in a net. They heard Nezquix’s amplified voice from outside: ‘Pilot called the Necronaut. This is Captain Nezquix of procurement. We have you sealed and surrounded. Surrender immediately to us and declare your capture!’ Lambestyo considered the captain’s words with a nod. Then he took the small WD40-X cannonball from his coat, tossed it into the reception area, and yelled, ‘Grenade! Prepare to die!’

  It is not certain whether the murderous bandit who hung above the enquiries counter, knowing that this grenade was activated by contact with liquids, would have been able to hold his bladder. We will never know, and it is moot, Jessie, for he did not. His stream of fearful piss set off a chain reaction which sent the entire front edifice of this fake bordello smashing down like a drawbridge gate. Fabrigas and the young pilot both ducked for cover as the blast sent a typhoon of smoke and ash back through the corridors. The two men came together where the reception room had been, staring out into a wide market plaza where scores of women were weaving nets. They heard Nezquix’s hailer squall to life: ‘All hands, get him!’ and the women rose as one to shriek and howl like a tribe of monkeys, pointing long, metal fingers. ‘Not so crazy now, am I?’ said Lambestyo. Then this strange and indomitable boy stalked out into the plaza, back into the chaos, skipping easily away from a trapdoor as it opened, ducking another storm of flying bolas. For Fabrigas, time slowed, as it is inclined to do in serious spots, and the grubby, fleshy mouths of the weaving women seemed as big as caves. Fabrigas could see everything with perfect clarity: a horde of navy agents storming from the shadows with hefty procurement clubs, and still more bandits arriving, attracted by the chaos, swinging down from above on ropes and hooks. ‘Not so crazy now, am I?’ The words echoed in his mind as Carlos Lambestyo, a dagger in each hand, caught bandits with his blades while they were still off balance, and sent agents flying back into the shadows with the soles of his boots. Fabrigas saw the faces of bandits snatched in a moment of utter disbelief – the look you have when the victory you thought was certain vanishes, when the dark mix of blood and oil begins to ooze between your fingers and the world becomes cloudy. But still they kept coming, swinging from the gloomy heights, others coming up as fast as spiders from below, their black, shiny faces set in grimaces, oily knives clamped firmly in their teeth. Carnassus is a great cage which holds the most terrifying and merciless creatures. Once they smell blood they come from everywhere.

  ‘There’s too many!’ cried Nezquix. ‘Retreat! Retreat! They can have the pilot!’

  Lambestyo flung both his knives and two more bandits slammed into the deck. Then he pulled a cannon pistol from its holster. He picked one bandit from the air just as he swung towards Fabrigas – the goon’s black guts exploded with the force of the round and splattered the old man’s cloak. The boy aimed his second shot at one of the struts that held the catwalks up. He never even flinched as a mountain of steel and bodies came crashing down around them with a thunder that could have roused the gods.

  ‘That noise should wake all the other pirates,’ said Carrofax.

  ‘PLEASE NOTE THAT FIREARMS ARE NOT TO BE DISCHARGED WITHIN THE AIRPORT,’ said the voice across the public address system, ‘EXCEPT BY QUALIFIED SECURITY STAFF AND AIR MARSHALS.’

  Lambestyo smashed open an airport guardhouse where a lone officer was sleeping through the utter carnage around him. He picked up a heavy sonic cannon used to destroy abandoned luggage, kicked the oily filth from the barrel with the heel of his boot, dropped the priming trigger with his thumb. He hoisted the weapon over his shoulder by the leather strap and pointed it at the door to a biscuit factory. The door splintered into a cloud of pieces, a jet of hot and deliciously scented air came streaming out. The boy put his arm up to his face, his eyes burned orange as he leaped into the smoke and heat. Dancing along a narrow catwalk between a row of great ovens where ship’s biscuits were made they felt their eyebrows sizzle, and the children below briefly stopped their singing. A sea of grubby faces turned up as they passed overhead. Behind, two bandits screamed shrilly as their synthetic faces melted off in gooey lumps.

  Then out and into the steaming coldness of the fish markets. The Necronaut slung the compact cannon around his back, patted himself down, realising he’d flung his last dagger. He broke the razor-sharp prow from a bladefish, swished it twice through the air. And still the bandits came thick from the shadows. The boy cleared a path with his sonic cannon. The sound of exploding sailors brought haunted faces to the windows of the morphium dens. The trio made it halfway through the market before the baggage cannon’s charge ran out and they were completely surrounded. Fabrigas saw piles of sea creatures: red, yellow, orange, purple, high and rounded like drifts of brightly coloured snow. He saw the starfish in a heap. He saw the startled vendors, the frightened children. He saw the bandits, now numbering at least a hundred, close around them, tattoos flexing on the islands of flesh left on their steel bones. They showed their teeth – iron, bone, and filed sharp. All the navy agents had vanished, there was no one there to help them now. He saw the Necronaut stand tall and say, in a voice a notch too shrill to be forbidding, ‘Begone, dogs!’ He saw the murderous sailors roar and roll their shaggy heads. Fabrigas saw it all. He was falling through space, the world was dropping away beneath him. Then, just as the men raised their curved swords to strike Lambestyo down, the old man stepped forward, and the universe shrunk to a burning white point, a shimmering diamond in which everything was contained and anything was possible. He saw it all: he saw his mother, he saw his room. He saw a ship. He saw bloodshed. Mayhem. Plague and starvation, the fire and the flesh. In a flash he saw it all: the city, the prison, the general, the cannon’s mouth. He went tumbling back into the terrible black maw of infinity.

  A SHORT INTERLUDE

  We never did finish the story of how M. Francisco Fabrigas cheated death at the cannon’s mouth.

  He was really just a boy himself at that time. A boy in a foreign empire a long way from home.

  Fabrigas had known that the cannon would misfire, killing the firing squad, the general, the spectators, the scarlet bird with her newborn chicks in the tree above, but leaving him alive. He had wriggled from his blindfold and announced their imminent dismemberment. The cannon trick was certainly not magic. As he’d stood, blind, he’d felt the burning sun on his face and a frail breeze fondling his hair. Within the red rag around his head he’d heard, with delight, that the eggs in the tree near his balcony had finally hatched, and that the new chicks were crying out for food. He could hear the calls and chants in the market far away. He could also hear the cannon being mounted and pointed towards his chest, he could hear his own heart, the blood surging through his ears, he could hear the ball filled with shot roll along the barrel and stop with a dull thunk, and he could hear, with those well-trained ears, that the young soldier in charge of the gun had used the wrong gauge shot. The cannon was jammed. And so he’d struggled into the light to tell the general, proudly, but politely, that if he fired his cannon it would explode and kill them all. The assembled soldiers had laughed and General Ahksant had snorted like a bull. ‘Boy! You can only delay for so long! Then, ka-boom-ba! No more!’ But when the long-beaked general levered at the waist, monocle raised, to check his gun, he found to his delight and dismay that Fabrigas was right! The general fell to his knees and wept. Then he untied Fabrigas, swept the grey dust from his shoulder with his own kerchief. He not only forgave him fo
r making out with his wife, but also convinced his emperor to make him Philosopher General. The people had cheered, the new birds had cheeped. And that’s how Fabrigas became a famous wizard.

  Wizard.

  It wasn’t long before the story of the firing squad, as well as many other fantastical rumours, got back to the Holy Neon Empire. By the time he said farewell to the general (and his wife) he was a celebrity. His fame took him to extraordinary parties, brought him exotic gifts from beautiful starlets, saw him reading his dramatic adventure stories to radio audiences numbering in the billions, even granted him an audience with the Queen. To his horror the Queen made him Magician Incarnate of her court. ‘I would rather die!’ he would whisper later to his loyal servant, Carrofax. His great deeds took him to the height of stardom, and the depths of despair.

  Even on the night of his release he had not rested like a happy man. He slept feverishly, like a man withdrawing from a morphium habit. He’d dreamed that on another identical planet there was an exact copy of him who had not heard the sounds, and had been shot; and on another world a merciless version of himself who had heard the sounds but remained silent, allowing the men to be blown apart; and on another world it wasn’t a cannon at all, but a giant crossbow; and on another he’d worn a cape of silver and had called himself Magnifico; and on and on until dawn, his dreams intermingling with his waking visions. He woke with a bright beam of sunlight hitting his chest from a slit in the curtains and the chorus of the birds once more calling his mind to order. He woke and wandered about his apartment, lifting objects from the shelves and saying, ‘This is not my ornamental vase with bird motif. This is not my beautiful lamp.’ But by the time the sun was high he had a theory, and his theory was grand, and his theory was mad, and his theory was this …