by Adam Roberts
But almost at once the power of the Farce began to make itself obvious. The pram carrying Jane Seespotrun hit some sort of snag, perhaps a slight chip in the stone of the steps; but rather than merely rattling over this minor glitch as the laws of physics might suggest, the pram flew high and wide. It soared through the air, vaulting over the intervening prams (again, rather in contravention of the physics governing bodies in effective free fall), bounced on the hood of the lead pram, flipped right over, and landed in the lead position.
The pram whose lead had been usurped jockeyed for position, lurching forward, swerving to try and pass Seespotrun’s chariot. It bounced and jiggled a little faster downhill and pulled alongside young Jane’s pram, and swerved violently, trying to run him off the stairs entirely.
Suddenly, two curving blades popped from the hubs of the right-side pram wheels. With another swerve, the whirling metal bit into Jane Seespotrun’s pram-wheels. Plastic flew upwards in shreds like sparks, and Jane’s pram tipped forward. But, instead of crashing and stopping, the pram body spun through the air, rammed the aggressor pram from behind, shunting it off its own wheels.
The other baby’s pram body crashed to the ground, hitting the steps, flipping end over end and finally bashing into the metal balustrade and coming to a full halt. Meanwhile, to enormous cheering, Jane Seespotrun’s pram rattled down the last few stairs and rolled smoothly over the finishing line.
The rest of the prams – those ones which had not collided with obstacles or otherwise come to unlucky ends – rolled over the finishing line some time behind them. The adults came trotting down the stairs to recover their prams, and collect their winnings.
‘Your young son is very strong in the Farce,’ observed Kwai Gone Bridge to Dick Seespotrun.
‘Sure he is,’ said Dick Seespotrun, lighting a cigarette. ‘Farcical – yeah.’
‘Waaaaah!’ put in Jane Seespotrun.
‘I would like to take him away from you, fly him halfway across the Galaxy, and train him as a Jobbi. He would be trained in all the Farcical arts, and would thereafter be expected to devote himself to the Jobbi order forever.’
‘Would I ever see him again?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Ach well,’ said Dick taking another drag. ‘Easy come, easy go, that’s what I always say. Take him, if you like.’
Chapter Three
Before the Jobbi Council
The ship flew on, flew all the way to Metropolanet – the centre of the Galactic Federal Consolidation. Metropolanet was, as I’m sure you know, a world whose entire surface was covered by one enormous city; as far as the eye could see there were buildings, towers, factories, chimneys, steel, concrete and plastic. It was a wonderful place, with more estate agents per head of population than anywhere else in the Galaxy, although precisely how its ecosystem processed enough oxygen into the atmosphere to make the air breathable was something of a mystery. It might have had something to do with all the pot plants on the windowsills. But we can’t be sure.
Kwai Gone Bridge brought Jane Seespotrun before the Jobbi Council. Wobbli and Pkme stood a little way behind him. Yodella sat in a very large chair, a chair whose very spacious body was somewhat at odds with the tiny frame of the person occupying it. Various Jobbi elders sat around him.
‘Master Yodella,’ said Kwai Gone, holding the wriggling form of Jane Seespotrun in his arms. ‘I seek the Council’s permission to train this youngster in the ways of the Farce.’
‘Too old, he is!’ shrieked Yodella. ‘Too old for the training.’
‘Too old? He’s barely seven months old.’
‘Waaa-aaaaaaah!’ confirmed Jane.
‘No! Too old!’ said Yodella.
‘You didn’t say that,’ put in Wobbli K’nobbli, stepping forward to support his master, ‘when that seventeen-year-old Danish exchange student put herself forward for training last Thursday. What was her name again?’
‘Question him, I will,’ said Yodella in a loud voice, as if wishing to curtail Wobbli’s speech. ‘Decide will I whether capable of becoming a Jobbi he is.’
‘Waaa-waaa-waaa,’ suggested Jane.
‘Youngling!’ said Yodella, peering intently at the tiny form. ‘Much fear I sense in you!’
‘Wa-a-ah! Wa-a-ah! Waaaaaaaaaaah!’ countered Jane.
‘Fearful is he,’ pronounced Yodella.
‘I think he may just want his nappy changing,’ said Pkme.
‘No! Fear, it is! Fear! A Jobbi must feel no fear! Fear leads to anger,’ said Yodella, in a voice fraught with meaning. ‘Anger leads to hatred. Hatred leads to suffering. Suffering leads to the Dark Side.’
‘So let’s say, for example,’ said Pkme in a ‘time for a recap’ sort of voice, ‘that I am afraid of dying. This leads me to be angry at the thought of my dying. Inevitably this leads to hatred of death. Which leads to suffering, because . . . um. How does the suffering come about?’
‘No,’ said Wobbli. ‘A better example would be: let us say that I am afraid of spiders. This leads me to be angry with spiders, which in turn compels me to hate spiders. This then leads to suffering.’
‘For the spiders?’
‘For me – I think. Is that right, Yodella?’
‘No no no. Spiders, no, yodel-ay-i-hee-iiii,’ returned the tiny green fellow. ‘Learned nothing you have. Banishment too soon cannot come – important solo mission too soon cannot come, I mean.’
‘Let us say,’ said Kwai Gone, shaking his head indulgently at the ignorance of his apprentice, ‘that I encounter an Arcturan tiger in the forest. I am afraid, and run away. So my life is saved? No – because my fear makes me angry with the tiger. And my anger leads me to hate the tiger. So that I then return to the forest to confront the tiger, thereby precipitating suffering.’
‘For you? Or the tiger?’
Kwai Gone pondered this question, apparently wavering between one answer and the other. Finally he said, nodding significantly, ‘both.’
‘So what should you do, when you meet the tiger?’ Pkme asked. ‘Not be afraid?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But then you wouldn’t run away.’
‘No.’
‘Wouldn’t that just fast-forward you to the suffering part? At least if you run away you get a breather.’
‘Getting bogged down in this discussion, we seem to be,’ interrupted Yodella. ‘Losing ourselves in less important business we are. Councillor Palpating has asked us to meet with him! Important information he says he has about the Fans-of-Tron.’
‘And the boy?’
Yodella peered at him again. ‘Train him, if like you. Or train him not. Bothered am I,’ he concluded, ‘not.’
The Jobbi Council, with Kwai Gone, Wobbli and Pkme in attendance, made their way through the corridors of Metropolanet to the official residence of Councillor Palpating.
Councillor Palpating did not have a very euphonious name. He knew it. Everybody around him knew it. It made people think of a large, ill-defined mass of flesh quivering on a slab. Of course, Councillor Palpating looked nothing like this; looking, in fact, rather fresh-faced and young-looking, with a cheery, round, open face. But the name influenced his destiny. Put it this way: if you had been christened ‘Nogbad the Bad’, would you have chosen the paths of righteousness? Mind you, nobody at this time knew that Palpating was going to become an Emperor of Evil. They couldn’t see the future, after all. They all thought he was a jolly decent sort of chap. I mean – perhaps he was. Perhaps he doesn’t become an Emperor of Evil. I’d like to preserve some narrative mystery and suspense.
Be honest: you can’t be sure that Councillor Palpating will become an Emperor of Evil, can you? I mean, absolutely sure?
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ said Palpating. ‘And who is this little chap?’ He walked towards the baby in Kwai Gone’s arms.
As he reached forward to pet the child, his foot somehow went into a waste-paper bin. Wrongfooted, he lurched forward and landed, head-first, in a seco
nd waste-paper bin.
‘My,’ said Palpating, extricating himself with some difficulty. ‘He is extremely strong in the Farce, isn’t he?’
‘The strongest I’ve yet seen,’ said Kwai Gone.
‘Interesting. Is he to be trained as a Jobbi?’
‘He is.’
‘Interesting,’ Palpating repeated. ‘Anyway. Let me tell you why I asked to see you. In fact, I have alarming news. It seems that one of the agents of the Psmyth, a senior fan in the Fans-of-Tron, is here – on this very world.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Yodella.
‘Indeed. He is called Dark Mole. You will easily recognise him by his star-shaped nose and the fine covering of black hair over his whole body. But do not be deceived – he is a deadly killer, a vicious monster. Being a mole, and shortsighted, and accordingly liable to bang into things, he has a head start in the business of the Farce.’
‘We must confront him!’
‘Yes. I shall alert the Metropolanet police force of his description, and hopefully we shall soon know his whereabouts.’
Shortly afterwards the meeting broke up. Yodella and the Jobbi Council returned to their luxury high-rise. Kwai Gone Bridge and his young apprentice took a different path, to a reasonably cheap bed and breakfast.
No sooner was he alone, than Palpating summoned a holographic image of – yes, you guessed it – Dark Mole. The terrifying figure appeared: though small of stature and rather blinky, he emanated evil power. He wore moleskin trousers and a moleskin cloak (the equivalent of a human assassin dressing in humanskin trousers and cape; nasty, yes?). He squinted into the holographic projector.
‘Yes my Lord?’
‘The Jobbi knights,’ said Palpating, ‘Kwai Gone Bridge and Wobbli K’nobbli will shortly be passing through sector seventy-eight, on their way to their lodgings. They have with them a young child. You must seize this baby, Dark Mole. Carry him away – it is imperative that he be raised by the Dark Side. He is stronger in the Farce than any child I have seen. He will be a tremendous asset to the Psmyth.’
‘Very good, my Lord. And the Jobbi knights?’
‘Kill them.’
A smile passed over the furry face. ‘Yes, my Lord.’
Chapter Four
Ah, a lightsword duel! We haven’t seen one of those in ages, have we. Excellent. I’m looking forward to this. Let’s hope it’s an exciting one, long-drawn out, and with graceful stunt-work and exciting music, dm-dm-diddle-um, dm-dm-diddle-um, DMDM-DIDDLE-UM DAH-DAHHH!!
Dark Mole ambushed Kwai Gone and Wobbli as they passed through sector seventy-eight. The battle was fierce. Kwai Gone was stabbed fatally in the chest, but Wobbli managed to kill the sinister Fan-of-Tron.
Chapter Five
Oh. Is that it then?
As he lay dying on the metal floor of sector seventy-eight, Kwai Gone Bridge breathed his last breath. ‘My Thog,’ he gasped, ‘what have I done?’
‘Got yourself killed, master,’ said Wobbli, rather crossly. ‘That’s what.’
‘Raise the child, Wobbli,’ said Kwai. ‘Raise him as a Jobbi. He will bring comical unbalance to the Farce.’
‘Right,’ said Wobbli. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not that I can think of right now. Oh – I remember. You know that packet of biscuits you bought? Then you couldn’t find them? You looked everywhere for them?’
‘I remember, master,’ said Wobbli. ‘You told me that the Dark Lords of the Psmyth had stolen the biscuits, to feed the Fans-of-Tron.’
‘No,’ rasped Kwai Gone. ‘I ate them. I had a sort of piggish moment, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s alright, master,’ said Wobbli. ‘I can always just buy another packet of biscuits.’
But it was too late. Kwai Gone Bridge was dead; and the mystery of the Fans-of-Tron was no nearer solution. Wobbli K’nobbli picked up the sleeping infant, tucked its blanket more tightly about it, and made his way out of sector seventy-eight.
Episode Two:
ATTACK OF THE CLICHES
JANE SEESPOTRUN HAD BEEN ACCEPTED INTO THE JOBBI ORDER, TO BE TRAINED BY WOBBLI BENT K’NOBBLI. MEANWHILE, THE ACTIONS OF THE FANS-OF-TRON HAD BECOME MORE DESPERATE. CO-ORDINATED BY A SHADOWY FIGURE CALLED LORD TYRANNICAL, THESE OPPONENTS OF THE JOBBI ORDER CLAIMED TO HAVE ACCESS TO A HIGHER PERCEPTION OF THE NATURE OF REALITY – THE TRUE NATURE OF REALITY, THEY CALLED IT. IT WAS, ONE MIGHT SAY, A MIGHTY SECRET. WHICH REMINDS ME OF SOMETHING . . . WHAT WAS IT? . . . HMM HMM HMM . . . AH YES, I REMEMBER. THE GREAT SECRET HIDDEN INSIDE THE DROID AT THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST PORTION OF THIS WORK. COULD THIS LATER (ACTUALLY EARLIER) SECRET BE RELATED TO THAT EARLIER (ACTUALLY LATER) SECRET? COULD THEY IN FACT BE THE SAME SECRET? TIME WILL TELL. WINK WINK. ALRIGHT?
MEANWHILE, JANE SEESPOTRUN HAD GROWN INTO A HANDSOME YOUTH. HE AND HIS MASTER K’NOBBLI HAD BEEN SUMMONED TO THE CITY-PLANET METROPOLANET, TO JOIN A JOBBI ARMY THAT YODELLA AND AND COUNCILLOR PALPATING PLANNED TO SEND TO DESTROY TYRANNICAL . . .
Chapter One
On Metropolanet
Many years passed, and Jane Seespotrun grew to full manhood. At sixteen he stood six feet six tall, which I’m sure you’ll agree counts as full manhood, fuller than most and only two inches short of fullest manhood. He was as gangly and loose-limbed as you might expect a sixteen-year-old six-and-a-half-footer to be; but he was gifted with the Farce, such that his physical stupidity approached genius. He would stumble over a doorstep when coming into his house: but instead of falling flat on his nose, he would instead – spontaneously – perform a Level 8 ‘flailing arm, head down’ tap dance across the hallway and into the kitchen. He could juggle four empty crystal vases without even thinking about it. If he put a wooden plank over his right shoulder and walked forty yards with it, turning from time to time, he could produce more devastation than a small neutron grenade.
It was clear that his skill surpassed that of his master, Old Wobbli K’nobbli.
The two Jobbi knights met with Pkme on Metropolanet, where she was attending the last of her scheduled Accountancy and Interplanetary Tax Law Seminars.
‘Good to see you again, Wobbli,’ said Pkme as she stepped from her spaceplane. ‘And you too Janey – how you’ve grown!’
‘Gosh,’ said Jane Seespotrun, turning the colour of raspberry sorbet. He clasped his hands tight together behind his back and thrust them as far down as his arms would allow. He turned his right foot through ninety degrees, and looked down at a piece of ground twenty feet away to the north-north-east. ‘Gosh,’ he said again.
Pkme and Wobbli walked towards the conference hall. Jane fell into a loping stride behind them. ‘Councillor Palpating has addressed the Council,’ Wobbli informed her. ‘It seems that the Fans-of-Tron are gathering strength. They intend to break away from the Galactic Federal Consolidation, and they repudiate the Jobbi order. Their slogan, somewhat mysteriously, is “Kill or Cure”.’
‘Sounds nasty.’
‘There’s little chance they will be able to do the Consolidation any real damage,’ said Wobbli. ‘We hold all the central positions. Indeed, Councillor Palpating is hoping to get himself elected Military Commander. He seems confident that it would be an easy matter for somebody in the centre, here, to overwhelm any opposition. Master Yodella agrees with him.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ said Pkme.
‘Gosh,’ said Jane behind them. He seemed to be about to add something, but his tongue had cloven to the roof of his mouth.
‘I must go in to hear whether the vote has gone our way. If it has, we’ll soon be leading an army of Jobbi and yellow- and green-armoured troops to the planet of Gstritis to confront the Fans-of-Tron directly.’
It was a heated meeting, and there was much heckling from those delegates to the Council who opposed Councillor Palpating’s plans. Luckily for Palpating, an ancient statute declared that councillors had to attend all meetings in person. Although the technology obviously existed whereby all the forty thousand councillors could relate with one another in a virtual mode, this
technology was banned within the Council chamber itself. This chamber was, therefore, an absolutely titanic space: nearly eighteen kilometres from roof to its deep-sunken floor. The array of transparent cubicles holding the hordes of councillors stretched like a massively extended piece of optical art, like a vast sheet of chain mail curved around the inside of an empty barrel.
Heckling could only be heard from the Chair’s cubicle if it originated from the cubicles immediately to the left, right or the one below. None of these councillors (who were all Palpating’s friends) heckled.
‘Since there is no opposition to my proposal,’ Palpating spoke into the voice amplifier, ‘there seems little point in delaying matters with a vote.’ Far below him the faces of councillors distorted in rage and hatred were only visible to those who carried telescopes. Palpating inserted his own ear plugs, pressed a button in his cubicle, and his voice was projected through the enormous ceiling speakers at a volume loud enough to carry through the entire hall.
The Councillor’s cubicle was protected by a speaker mounted on its top, that broadcast an inverted waveform of his words. This cancelled out the wave front of the shock-boom caused by the amplification. Few other cubicles had any protection. As their reinforced glass shattered, the councillors’ many ears (on many parts of their alien bodies) started bleeding like that final slap on the glass bottom of the ketchup bottle that finally dislodges gouts of the red stuff.
‘Excellent,’ said Palpating, rubbing his hands together as he left the scene of carnage.
Later, Pkme presented her end-of-session accounts to Yodella himself, in the Jobbi central building. ‘I think you’ll find that I have been able to maximise your tax-deduction threshold,’ she said.