Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  “I have the means to kill us all. I have the kaatbari, the key to the kaat’zhedu. We have—” she consulted her wrist “—thirteen minutes until Yoth-Bilau arrives and the Soulgate closes around us for good. You will hear my demands.”

  Brigit stepped forward from her throne. She hesitated. There was true fear on her face. A tassel of skin snaked out from Morgantus’s mass and wrapped itself around her ankle. The fear vanished. “What are your demands?”

  The Handmaiden Shara’naak Kye began a bitter complaint. Brigit silenced her with an upheld hand. “What are your demands?” she repeated.

  Kathy adjusted her stance. Nervousness rippled through her. “You, Morgantus, leave. Take your retinue with you and abandon the Earth.”

  Kathy waited for a response, but Brigit gave none. A streamer of flesh was moving silently across the floor towards Kathy. One touch and she would belong to Yo-Morgantus.

  “End this invasion. Leave this planet. Leave us alone to rebuild.”

  Brigit nodded slowly. “I see.”

  Kathy fired her gun at the strip of sneaking flesh. It recoiled like a stretched spring. The Uriye Inai’e dropped from the ceiling. With luck more than skill, for she was no soldier, Kathy sidestepped and shot it. The creature clawed itself in a pitiful frantic circle as it died, a bubbling wound in its teeth-covered underside.

  Prudence was crouched as much as her bonds would allow, her free hand pressed to her ear.

  “Don’t do this. Let her go,” said Morag.

  “My demands,” said Kathy simply.

  There was a flat roar from outside as a new shape appeared in the sky over Birmingham. Its massive curved underside was just about visible through the hole ripped in the wall. For an instant, Morag wondered if this was Yoth-Bilau and they were all now trapped in hell for eternity. But no. To look on Yoth-Bilau was to experience pain, and this new arrival, this crazy huge impossibly hovering moon thing was just a ball of hole-studded mud.

  “Hath-No is here,” sang Shara’naak Kye. “The hordes of Prein are here. Morgantus, relinquish your post and surrender the Murray women to us. Morag Murray is a murderer.”

  “That woman killed your sister, Shala’pinz Syu,” said Morag, pointing at Kathy. “With that very weapon.”

  The Handmaiden whirled and shifted her plates furiously.

  “Do not interfere!” Kathy retorted. “I am in charge!”

  “No!” said Brigit with smooth magisterial authority. “No.” She put her hands on her hips, legs akimbo in a Peter Pan pose that might have looked domineering and powerful, if she wasn’t naked and her arms’ position just drew all observers’ eyes to her ginger pubis.

  “I am prince of this city,” Morgantus spoke through her. “I have kept the balance and my will is law. Has been law. The apocalypse has been ushered in with all the rituals and preparations. The way has been softened and made edible and the Nid Cahaodril are here and my role is complete.”

  “Oh, I don’t like the sound of this,” said Omar, but Morag had other things on her mind.

  “I will abandon the Earth,” said Brigit. Kathy gave a sudden and surely involuntary gasp of laughter. “I will abandon the Earth and follow the declining path. This earth with its rivers and mountains and motorway interchanges; its hair mascara, AstroTurf and labradoodles. Humanity crawls like a rash upon its surface, deluded in its presumption of mastery when it has failed at the most basic elements of housekeeping. I will wait the approval of my lords. My role is complete and I will walk the declining path.”

  “He’s leaving?” said Morag.

  “He’s had enough of being in this colonial backwater,” said Professor Omar. “Perhaps he feels the call of the Venislarn Home Counties, the sound of leather on willow, and the smell of linseed oil and cucumber sandwiches at four.”

  “What?”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I am dying, you know.”

  Morgantus drew himself back into a tall bulk. At the sight of him, Morag was unaccountably put in mind of the pink blancmange served for school dinners at Avoch Primary School when she was a girl. The mental recollection did not improve her opinions of either blancmange or Morgantus.

  Brigit gasped suddenly, her conscious will returned to her. “Lord? You are leaving us?”

  “And take the rest of these vangru with you, too!” said Kathy.

  “You cede the city to the Prein and the blind gods of Suler’au Sukram?” said Shara’naak Kye.

  Ribbons of flesh flicked among Yo-Morgantus’s human pets.

  “—With my duties discharged,” said a woman.

  “—I will take the declining path,” said another, whose red hair was streaked with grey.

  “—The city does not need me to oversee it,” said a man.

  “Look!” cried another. A dozen fingers pointed to the window.

  As a hundred forms, shapeless at such distance, began to drop from the moon-fortress of Hath-No, other shapes moved into sight. Tall fiery tornados – the children of Kaxeos – whipped across the city to the south. A shape surged in the canal waters, and the frilled limb of Daganau-Pysh appeared. The creaking, leaf-shedding army of Yoth-Thorani were just visible moving through the buildings around the National Indoor Arena.

  “Gods come,” spoke Yo-Morgantus through more than one voice. “Petty rivals with petty claims that you, Morag Murray, have stirred in them.”

  Something warm brushed Morag’s neck. She was plunged into another state of consciousness. She was still here, but now she perceived her body as though through an intermediary, something seen on television or a movie screen, but not experienced. While she knew Morgantus had taken control of her, driving her body with his thoughts, she did not think that thought with her own mind; there was no mind belonging to her anymore. She perceived as a conduit: sight and sound passing through her to elsewhere.

  Morag Murray approached the flesh mound of Yo-Morgantus and spoke, her voice in unison with many others.

  “I will take the declining path. I relinquish this city. Morag Murray has set the gods against one another. And so she will receive them and she, the mother of gods, the kingmaker, will arbitrate between them and rule as my successor.”

  Morag stood on the first step, her feet sinking in the warm, sweaty flesh of her god. From on high, flayed from some portion of his body, Morgantus lowered a cloak of skin across her shoulders. It was coarse and gnarled, marked with sprouting hairs and goosebumps, and very much alive. The coronation robe folded itself over her. It insinuated itself inside her loose clothes, tore them away and wrapped her body in its pleats and layers. Cloak became robe became the dress and accoutrements of a queen.

  “No!” yelled Kathy and the Handmaidens together.

  “You mock us!” said Shara’naak Kye.

  She was correct. Morgantus allowed the knowledge to flow through Morag. With his gods’ approval, he was departing. And as a final joke (as much as he understood human humour), he was placing Morag on the metaphorical throne as his successor.

  “The city is given to Morag Murray as long as it stands,” she announced.

  06:14am

  Rod stopped to catch his breath at the twenty-fifth floor. As he had stated many times to any who would listen, he was built for endurance running rather than sprinting, and even at a steady jog, twenty-five floors was too much of a sprint for his liking.

  “Don’t tarry, worm!” said Steve, dangling from his combat webbing. “Seize the moment and charge in.”

  “I’m checking the approaches,” Rod gasped. He angled his rifle up the stairwell leading to the roof level, then checked the stairs below for any pursuers. He took his own sweet time about it. Yes, methodical operational practices were key, but he was also too knackered to seize anything at this very instant. He wasn’t charging anywhere until he was good and ready.

  “The way to the roof is clear, patron,” said the King in Crimson. “And no one has followed us.”

  “Oh, you’ve finally decided to be helpful?” said Rod.
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  “I am keen to see what happens next,” the ghoul offered.

  Rod wasn’t too clear on what should happen next. A hall full of individual humanoid hostiles he could handle – well, not exactly handle, but he would know what had to be done. There were few problems in life which couldn’t be solved with explosives and high-speed projectiles. A hall full of weird god things and oddities from beyond doing unspeakable things in other dimensions … that was trickier.

  He moved through the swing doors into the lobby area. A wide window overlooked the city to the north. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what was happening with the sky. Something was swimming powerfully down the canal, a great bow wave washing up over the towpath and crashing against the pubs and businesses along its length. There were puffs of explosions and the flutter of activity suggesting the battle between Kathy’s renegade forces and the Venislarn was not yet concluded. The radio chatter was now more sporadic.

  He moved to the large doors which led to the court of Yo-Morgantus. “No attacking anyone unless I say so,” he told Steve.

  “Steve makes promises to no one,” the little creature replied.

  There was no point trying to press the point further. He pushed the door open and slid in, gun raised.

  Nothing attacked him. Nothing and no one even noticed him.

  In a massive hall that was a fair bit emptier than he expected, all eyes and faces and weird blobby things were directed to a tall, pinky-grey platform at the centre of the room. Strutting insectoid shapes and shapeless sluglike forms were all focused on the woman on the throne-like dais. Maybe a hundred of Morgantus’s naked slaves were also watching. And standing close by were Kathy, Omar and that red-haired girl who must be Prudence Murray (even though she couldn’t be). And the woman on the stage, dressed in what looked like a wedding dress that had been rinsed in cow’s blood, was Morag.

  And still no one had noticed him.

  He coughed politely. Finally some of them turned. “Ay up,” he said in greeting.

  There was a burbling complaint from some slimy beast.

  “Rodney!” cried Omar, with a delight Rod had never elicited in the man before. Omar looked pale and hunched, as if old age had come upon him all at once.

  Kathy Kaur, finally noticing, raised her compact Sig Sauer pistol.

  “Don’t,” said Rod, his rifle already aimed for a headshot.

  “Shoot and we all die,” she said.

  “Do it!” squeaked Steve from his shoulder.

  Rod squinted at the device on her wrist. “Dead man trigger?”

  “Yes,” said Kathy.

  “Stupid,” he said. It was a heartfelt comment. Such devices, only favoured by desperate terrorists and their like, were as prone to killing friend as they were foe.

  “Rod Campbell,” said Morag. Instantly he knew it wasn’t Morag – his Morag – speaking those words. “Put down your weapon. It is not needed. Our business here is almost concluded.”

  “It is not!” said one of the ghostly-white crab monster Handmaiden things. “We do not recognise your decision to give the city to the Murray woman.”

  “To Morag?” said Rod.

  “Yo-Morgantus, having decided he’s had enough of Earth and is going to ask his masters to return him to some other realm, is playing some last-minute shenanigans before he leaves,” said Omar.

  “You cannot leave us, lord,” declared a young naked ginger. She flung herself at the wobbly bouncy castle that was her god. She pressed herself into its rolls of fat.

  “If you’re making last minute requests,” Rod called, “then let these people go.” He released his supporting hand from the rifle for a moment to wave at the ginger crowd.

  “Let them go?” said Morag with imperial aloofness. “They are my willing servants.”

  “Aye, well I didn’t say they weren’t stupid.” He stepped forward, eyes flicking to his peripheries. “You can do that thing, can’t you? You can change their minds, put a bit of fear in them.”

  “This is a decision for your new regent – Morag.” This was both a superficially and deeply odd thing to say, since it was Morag saying it. There was a twitch of emotion on Morag’s face, an internal conversation between her and the god pulling her strings.

  From the throne pile, tendrils of the god shot out and connected with the nearest redheads. Hands reached out, touching others. A rippling web of ginger interconnectedness spread out and – almost immediately – it collapsed in a series of groans, gasps and cries.

  Those nearest to the towering mass of Morgantus tumbled away from him in sheer panic. Others clutched at their nakedness or stared at one another.

  “Why are you naked? Hey, how come I’m naked?” said one.

  “I told Mary I was just popping out for milk,” said another.

  “I think the drugs have worn off,” said another.

  And, in a tide that started in stutters but swiftly galvanised into a stampede, the mass of gingers ran for the door. Such was their haste they barely noticed Rod or his rifle. He was buffeted by them as they fled.

  “Let them all go,” he said.

  The young woman who had thrown herself against Yo-Morgantus’s side was still there. The fat body puffed out, like a belly stretching after a hearty meal, and ejected her from its embrace.

  “Go, Brigit,” said Morag. “You are released, your memories returned.”

  Brigit stood, frowning. She glanced about, seemed to be trying to shake something from her mind. “No, lord,” she said. “You cannot do this to me.”

  “Go!” commanded Morag, but Brigit – Rod heard her sob, but could see no tears at this distance – stood her ground.

  “All of them,” repeated Rod and advanced on Kathy. He shouldered his rifle, taking out a combat knife. With firm gestures he made it clear he was going to cut Prudence Murray’s straps.

  “No fucking way, Campbell,” Kathy said. She shook her pistol in case he’d forgotten about it.

  Her sharp, beautiful face was screwed up in an ugly, unhappy frown, her eyebrows mashed together. Rod had once thought he could fall in love with that face, perhaps even had. Now it seemed out of place. She did not belong here. She should have known she could not stand among the Venislarn gods and bully them into submission.

  “You will not derail this!” she said.

  Omar gave a tired chuckle. “You’ve already lost, doctor.”

  Her gaze and aim shifted for a split second.

  Rod stepped forward and to the side, a knight’s move. The pistol was parallel with his waist, but off to the side. Kathy faltered, then fired anyway. He grabbed her wrist, twisted it, and snapped the Sig Sauer from her grip. He threw it behind him and brought his knife down to snip the plastic tie holding Prudence to Kathy’s wrist. He stepped away cleanly, pushing Morag’s girl behind him, and kicking the gun further away before Kathy even had chance to get over her surprise.

  Something clattered on the floor behind Rod. He glanced back. Omar bent over, clutching himself. Snapping silver whelk things trickled from his shirt and bounced on the floor, like coins slipping from a cut purse.

  “Shot,” he said to Rod.

  Rod’s head swivelled from Omar to Kathy and back. Her one wild shot.

  “Shot twice in one day,” Omar grunted.

  “Messing with my plans,” said Kathy, finding her voice. “All you’ve done—” Her mouth froze around a syllable. She had become a statue. Rod saw the strip of Morgantus’s flesh which had slithered across and touched her lower leg.

  Prudence pulled away from Rod and ran to Omar as the professor collapsed to his knees, then his side. Silver shellfish poured out in their dozens, abandoning him.

  “Don’t,” said Prudence.

  Rod looked round for the King in Crimson. “Do something!”

  “Three wishes is all, patron,” said the King.

  Rod dropped to his knees next to Omar and opened the medic pack on his webbing. There was an Israeli combat bandage. Quick and easy to use.

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bsp; “Hang on,” said Rod and ripped Sheikh Omar’s shirt open. The man’s chest was a mass of wounds, nibbled away by the magical energy-giving whelks. White, gnawed rib bones broke the surface on both sides. There was so much blood that Rod couldn’t even see where Kathy’s shot had struck him.

  “Could have been worse,” Omar whispered. “There’s this tribe in the Bay of Bengal—” He took a breath to continue, and died, to the sound of angry whelks clicking their shells.

  Prudence looked at Rod, a wretched look on her face. “He gave me pink wafers. I think. It was a long time ago.”

  “He said I didn’t have a mouth,” added Steve.

  “But we must scream,” said Rod automatically.

  The tap of bone claw on floor told him that the August Handmaidens of Prein were stepping closer. One had raised itself over Kathy Kaur, the pink wet mouth on its underside shuddering in anticipation.

  “Don’t do it,” said Rod, simply. “You kill her. She explodes.”

  The Handmaiden hesitated. Rod looked at the backpack bomb Kathy wore and quickly calculated what kind of blast radius the thing might have. He stood, gently pulling Prudence to her feet beside him.

  “Relinquish the woman and grant us the city,” one of the Handmaidens said. “The Nid Cahaodril are not here. Your gods have forgotten you, het Morgantus. You are a seed on the wind, a jezri pah ng’eyoll.”

  Rod’s Venislarn was almost non-existent, but he recognised a major diss when he heard one.

  “You challenge me, Shara’naak Kye?” said Morag.

  “Hath-No has brought our armies and the blind gods here,” said the Handmaiden. “Yield to us.”

  Steve the Destroyer cackled in sudden glee. “Shows what you know, you foolish crones!” He swung onto Rod’s shoulder and strutted (as much as a cloth doll can strut) along his upper arm.

  “What are you doing?” said Rod.

  “That’s right!” Steve shouted to the hall. “It is I! Steve the Destroyer. Former outrider of the entourage of Prein!”

  “It’s a kind of postman,” Prudence explained to Rod. She held an angry whelk in her hand and was stroking its shell.