by Heide Goody
The skrendul roared in pain. It was a surprisingly dry and pathetic roar for a creature of such size, but the fact Rod could hurt it was the best news of the day. Its mouth widened, gagging at the shock. Rod slid his hand forward to the grenade launcher trigger. At this range, accuracy was not a problem. The grenade struck right in the tonsils (if the thing had tonsils) and the force of the initial impact and surprise caused the skrendul to snap its mouth shut around it.
The explosion, a hollow deep rumbling, did not escape through the skrendul’s tight lips. Its eyes bulged, showing the pond green pupils fully for a moment and then the eyes popped from their sockets, propelled on jets of pinky-white gore.
The skrendul rocked on its feet, then tumbled forward, one foot taking a final post-mortem step before it fell head first against the bank of lifts. Marble panelling splintered and more of the ceiling fell down. Steve the Destroyer bounced gracelessly on the floor and skidded to a stop just in front of Rod.
Rod kept his aim on the skrendul until he felt certain it wasn’t going to move again. It lay against the wall, completely blocking the lift doors. Several of the dead soldiers were now buried under its bulk.
Steve coughed the dust away, even though Rod was sure the little thing didn’t have any actual lungs. “I didn’t need your help you know,” he spat.
Rod held in a sharp reply. “Is that your general tactic?” he asked. “Fly in like an irritating distraction and expect others to clean up the mess you started?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Steve, wounded.
“I do,” said the King in Crimson.
Rod stood and considered their lot. There were three of them. One who was useless in a fight, one who wouldn’t fight unless it amused him, and Rod. Above them were twenty-five storeys with at least one god, Kathy Kaur and at least one Miss Murray waiting for them.
“Looks like we’re taking the stairs,” he said.
06:08am
Vivian did not get distracted from her task of writing the Bloody Big Book. If she could continue to write through the devastating battle back in Hath-No, and the continuing destruction of the human world in her present situation, then the mundane comings and goings of the humans who shared her space were very easy to ignore. Normally. What had penetrated her consciousness was a smell. It was stronger than the sulphurous blasts of the Venislarn onslaught which shook the building and provided a muffled symphony of destruction here in the basement. It was stronger and very much more pleasant, like the baking of a cake.
Vivian sniffed the air. It was baking cake. Nothing else would create a smell like that. She got up from her seat, carrying her papers with her. Walking and writing was sub-optimal, but she had to see for herself. Of course she knew a cake was being baked, but the words flowing from her hand failed to adequately convey the delicious allure of the smell.
“This kitchen has no oven,” she said to Mrs Seth, who was busy in the small catering nook. “Yet you have created the smell of baking.”
“This is not the first time I have been without an oven,” said Mrs Seth, turning around and moving aside so Vivian could see her handiwork. “The gentleman from the council found me everything I needed to make one. A pity he could not be so dependable with the emptying of my bins.”
The metal draining board accommodated a home-made oven. The metal box had previously housed a desktop computer, but now it lay on its side, propped up with tins of baked beans. The heat source underneath was an array of tea light candles. Vivian was mildly appalled at the sight of naked flames in an office, but it probably wasn’t the riskiest thing happening in their current environment. Within the open slot of Mrs Seth’s PC-based oven, Vivian could see a cake rising up out of a tin that looked as if it might once have held shortbread.
“Remarkable.” Vivian nodded.
“Thank you,” said Mrs Seth.
“That was not intended as a compliment, you understand, but rather as a comment upon the idea that this is the time for cake.”
Mrs Seth scowled at Vivian, drawing herself up to her full height – which brought her roughly in line with Vivian’s shoulder. “Who appointed you the expert on when it is time for cake? If I say it is time for cake, then I have my reasons.”
“And in the face of an impending apocalypse, what could those reasons possibly be?”
“There are those of us, Mrs Grey, who would prefer to face the impending apocalypse with a piece of cake! I look around this place and I see a group of people who do not look as if they are having a good time. You, of course, have a better idea for fixing that, yes?”
Vivian shook her head at the notion she would even consider the mood of others a priority for her problem-solving skills. She returned to her seat in the conference room, but before she sat down, the doorway was blocked by a breathless Mr Seth.
“I return with pens!” he gasped.
“Very good. Put them down here, if you would.”
“No, no, no. I need to show you a few things first.” Mr Seth failed to notice Vivian’s deliberate attempts to ignore him. She turned to her work, confident she could block out his chatter. She was dimly aware that he had taken a seat next to her and was somehow very busy with his stationery. She reasoned he would leave eventually.
“I shall walk you through some of the choices that I have made for you,” said Mr Seth. “You should know I have always had a keen interest in fine penmanship. For many years I had the honour of filling out all of the certificates awarded to the Brownies and Rainbows in our area.”
Vivian looked up at him. “Nina was in the Girl Guides?”
“Oh no. Well only for a few weeks. There was an ... incident. But they asked me to carry on writing the certificates after she left, once they saw how beautiful my writing was.”
“Yes, I’m sure they did. Now, can we please hurry this along? I do have work to do.”
“Yes you do, and may I compliment you on your work? To maintain such a meticulous style, and to write so quickly, is a skill to be much admired.”
Vivian said nothing. He was correct.
Mr Seth coughed and continued. “Right, well I got the security guard to take me round all of the offices in this building. I searched the desks and the stationery cupboards. I can confidently say that I found the best pens available.”
Vivian was mildly intrigued, so she turned to see what he had brought her. It was arguable that a few moments invested in securing better equipment would increase her productivity.
“I have written some small samples with each pen. Now, you will see I have brought you some good quality ballpoint pens, because I found only two fountain pens. Let us look at the ballpoints first of all. Can I draw your attention to this vintage Paper Mate? I am not sure when they last made this sleek steel version, but it has a nice smooth action. I also found a Waterman, which is, of course, a premium brand, but I believe the Paper Mate contains a fresh refill.” He looked up to check she was watching. He seemed satisfied he had her attention. “Now, I don’t know if you’re going to need to use colour in your work at all, but I brought you a couple of these.”
He demonstrated a pen with sliders that could change from blue to black and red, making a little scribble with each colour. He glanced up at Vivian’s face.
“No? No. Perhaps that is not for you. A little childish, I would imagine.” He set those aside. “I brought you a total of six of these Parker ballpoints. I can only assume they were given out as a gift to employees at some point. They will serve as decent enough workhorses, although personally I find them a little pedestrian.” Vivian permitted a small part of her mind to speculate on whether she herself had favourites when it came to pens. She concluded she probably did, but those memories were just a faint notion that she had once delighted in a nicely crafted tool, whatever it might have been.
Mr Seth grinned widely. “I have saved possibly the best for last. Two Schaeffer fountain pens. One of them is paired with a propelling pencil, which could be a pleasing alternative i
f you wanted a break from—”
“—The Bloody Big Book cannot be written in pencil,” snapped Vivian. “That would invite disaster.”
“I see.” He set aside the pencil. “I made sure to bring you a bottle of ink as well, but let me assure you I filled the bladder on both of these pens, so they are ready to go.”
Vivian picked up one of the pens. It was a marbled red and black colour. Probably a good match for the sky outside by now. She removed the lid and it sat comfortably in her hand, much chunkier than the pens from the gift shop. She wondered why it felt familiar somehow.
“Where did you find this, exactly?” she asked.
“It was on the seventh floor. In a box with some other things.”
“I see.”
She was certain this was her own pen, put in a box but not discarded after her death. Foolish sentimentality, but at least it meant she had a dependable pen to work with. “Good work. Thank you,” she said to Mr Seth.
Mrs Seth entered the room with a plate. “I have brought you a slice of cake.”
“Did I say I was hungry?” said Vivian.
“No. The consumption of cake has little to do with hunger. You doubted the need for cake, but I challenge you to eat a slice and tell me it was time wasted.”
“Time,” said Vivian, looking around. “What time is it?”
“It is six ten,” said Mr Seth, consulting his watch.
“Well, you should know this building is going to be reduced to rubble in just over an hour. You should both make your way out as quickly as possible.”
Mrs Seth bustled forward, holding out the plate. “So, are you going to eat this cake or what?”
“I’m sure others would appreciate it more. Have you offered a slice to Mrs Fiddler?”
“Who?” said Mrs Seth.
Vivian grunted. “…The Cha’dhu Forrikler are here.”
“Who?”
Vivian shook her head and returned to her work. She was aware of cake being placed by her elbow but did not touch it.
“This book seems strangely important to you,” said Mr Seth eventually.
“This is everything,” said Vivian.
“It can’t be everything,” said Mr Seth. “It’s just a book.”
“The pages are surprisingly thin. It is a recollection of everything that has happened, is happening and will happen in this reality.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“I started from the edges,” she explained. “It took me a while to realise what I was constructing. I thought I was writing a commentary on the Bloody Big Book. Then I realised the commentary was the book, and the book contained the world. Once I realised what I was doing, I started at the edges, like a jigsaw, and worked my way in towards these tricky final details: the moments in the here and now.”
“You are writing what is happening now?”
“Nearly,” she said. “I have covered the broader details. For example, the Cha’dhu Forrikler are descending. They are the arbiters of reality. Perhaps I am only transcribing what they already know. Portions of our world have already been consumed in their edit.”
“That doesn’t make sense, madam.”
“Things become harder to explain when there are no human points of reference. I say that the Forrikler are descending but, in truth, they approach along a velakh plane – a flickering through the the-agh sheafs. Hath-No, the fortress which was once my home, comes through a much more conventional hole in the lo-frax membrane. It will be here in a few minutes in fact. The unfound Esk’ehlad brotherhood travel by the vocalisation of their choir. Do they sing their way here, or is this world the song they sing? There’s no distinction for them. Yo Chi’ented, who consumes probabilities and causal events, is sieving his way to this juncture, winnowing worlds and gnawing his way around the thread of inedible truth.”
“You speak in English, but it is all nonsense.”
“Very well,” said Vivian. “Or I could speak of what is happening in the mundane world which remains. Things become more concrete as I write them. Nina, your daughter, is alive by the way. She is less than a mile away. She is travelling with a samakha called Pupfish and my husband who is a donkey.”
“You married a donkey?”
“He wasn’t a donkey when I married him. But then he did something unforgiveable and so I transformed him into one. Now, Nina thinks I will lift the enchantment and allow him to perform the kaat-bed sho ritual. He thinks, and she thinks, that will drive the Venislarn back and save the world.”
“Will it?”
She allowed herself a small, pained expression. “Death is inevitable. But people still expect to triumph over it, to find a final victory and a happy ending. The only victory is in avoiding an end, in keeping going. The next footstep is a victory. The next breath is a victory. But this world is doomed.”
“We are in the Kali Yuga,” said Mr Seth.
“The end times,” nodded Vivian. “The bull of Dharma has only one leg.”
“You know Hinduism?”
“I used to know everything,” she said. “Sometimes I think I still do.”
“Then you also know that the gods destroy this world so that it can be remade. As one book closes, another is opened.”
Vivian was silent and even tried to keep her thoughts neutral. She did not know what beings, powerful beyond reckoning, might be observing this moment through unseen methods.
“Your daughter is doing her best to avert the end of the world,” she said. “She will be here soon. Meanwhile, her former colleagues are trying to undo it all in their own way. Morag Murray thinks she can bargain our way out of hell, but she is going to be disappointed. Kathy Kaur thinks she can terrorise Yo-Morgantus into calling off the invasion, which is just as ludicrous. And Rod Campbell—”
“Oh, we have met Rod,” said Mr Seth. “Big chap. Always wears a tie. Very well presented.”
“He’s rushing in with a gun and no plan and thinks he can save some fraction of humanity from the final hell. A foolish endeavour.”
Mrs Seth grunted, unimpressed. “You think he’s a fool.”
Vivian considered her answer before speaking. “No. He’s not a fool. He’s a good man. But it’s almost impossible to tell the difference between the two.” She bent to her work for a moment. “Having said that, he has found the lift doors on the ground floor to be blocked and so has decided to take the stairs to the twenty-fifth floor of the Cube building. If he thought about it for a moment, he could just go to the second floor and take the lift from there. So, who can say?”
06:11am
It was not only the sky that was changing colour minute by minute. With the irregularity and untrustworthiness of a dream, the world immediately beyond the city centre was shifting out of true. As Morag watched, the distinction between the shield over the city, the distant suburbs and the horizon blurred and melded.
“The Nid Cahaodril are nearly here,” said Brigit. “The fields of my parents.”
“Morgantus’s secret gods,” whispered Omar. “What we know about them…” He shook his head at his own ignorance.
Brigit stood on her fleshy dais to watch the slow but certain collapse of the world. Morgantus spoke through her. “The way has been made soft and edible. Feel them come. Feel their gratitude.”
“Send them back!” commanded Kathy Kaur, pushing through the doors from the lobby.
Morag’s emotions towards Kathy were complex, and had hardened recently. They came rushing back to her as she saw the woman enter. Kathy wore a heavy backpack that just screamed ‘bomb’. Wires joined to a wrist unit only confirmed that impression. In one hand, she held a short pistol, possibly the same one with which she’d killed the August Handmaiden, Shala’pinz Syu, what felt like a lifetime ago, but was only yesterday. Tied to her other hand, was Morag’s little girl, Prudence.
Morag’s heart leapt and broke in one action. How Prudence had grown! A prepubescent slip of a thing, narrow legs poking out of those stupid adapted shorts M
orag had dressed her in back she was a toddler, a few short hours ago. Her feet were filthy, her face smeared with dust and soot.
“Mummy!”
Prudence tried to pull forward, but Kathy held her in place. Morag dashed forward and Kathy raised the pistol.
“Don’t!” she snarled.
Morag had to fight her almost overwhelming emotions to halt her charge. Monsters hissed and gurgled. A Uriye Inai’e wheeled through the rafters to drop on Kathy. She saw it and shifted her aim.
“Cuda’nih, fnah-yo!” Kathy called. “Fa’slorvha pessh khol-kharid!”
The many-tentacled Uriye Inai’e didn’t quite back off, but heeded her warning enough to hold its position.
Red-haired courtiers jostled, some to get away from Kathy, others to get a better look. The remaining Venislarn shifted and repositioned themselves. The Handmaidens hovered close to Morag; their petty desire for revenge was not forgotten.
“Give me my daughter,” said Morag. It was an obvious, trite and pointless thing to demand, but it was the only thought in Morag’s head. It burned inside her.
Kathy raised the hand tied to Prudence’s. “I have the kaatbari!” she announced to the court. She turned slightly to show them all the device on her back. The blue stone, formed from the toxic secretions of the renegade Crippen-Ai, shone faintly. “I have the means to kill every single being in this room. Enough explosive to rip the top off this building.”
Omar placed a hand on Morag’s shoulder as he hobbled forward. “Mad or brilliant. It’s so hard to decide,” he whispered.
Kathy gestured to the device on her wrist and turned so that all could see. “Gue-am-bhun, yo cad yoth. This is a dead man trigger. You kill me, the bomb explodes. You all die.”
“Mad and brilliant?” suggested Omar quietly.
“I’m going to kill her,” whispered Morag.
“She’s going to kill herself.”
Kathy turned so she was facing Brigit and Yo-Morgantus. She spoke with powerful confidence, but Morag was near enough to see the tremor of fear in her legs.