Theatre of the Gods

by M. Suddain

  ‘Let me be very clear,’ said the Man in the Shadows, ‘my associates and I are captains of business. We don’t care for sentiment. Whether this child has a claim to freedom is no concern of ours. Our only concern is to preserve our interests.’

  ‘I am not a sentimental man. So you want me to hunt a child?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘An ordinary child?’

  ‘Far from it.’

  ‘And the current whereabouts of this creature?’

  ‘We have no idea. That’s why we’re asking you to help. If you’re as good as they say then you can find the answers to your own questions.’

  ‘You are a child, essentially. Maybe I should hunt you.’

  ‘Do not be cute.’

  The Well Dressed Man smiled faintly at the Man in the Shadows. He sipped his tea from an old, chipped bowl with a pair of swallows painted on it. The Well Dressed Man gulped, his throat nugget pulsed like a fat slug. His hands were pale, exquisite, the fingers as long and startling as snakes; they curled themselves around the bowl. You would struggle to see a mechanical part within his form. ‘Alive, or dead?’

  ‘Dead. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘A youngster alone in this universe will die without my assistance,’ said the Well Dressed Man as he flicked a piece of ash from the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘Ordinarily,’ said the Man in the Shadows, ‘but Skycore’s calculations tell us that an escape is possible. There is a new player in the sphere. An extremely powerful one. This new player would be extremely disappointed if the escape happened.’

  ‘You’ve hired other assassins for this mission?’

  ‘Six in total.’

  ‘Expensive.’

  ‘Necessary. We think this child has escaped with an important file.’

  ‘How important?’

  ‘Extremely. It was taken from one of our Postal Service hubs some weeks back.’

  ‘A break-in at a hub? I saw nothing in the papers.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ The Man in the Shadows lifted a grimy teacup to his young lips, thought better of it, put the cup back on its saucer. ‘We believe Dark Hand played a role in this leak. The information in this file could do enormous damage if the wrong people got hold of it.’

  ‘And what are the chances of that?’

  ‘We don’t know. But we can’t take chances. We must protect our interests at all costs.’

  Outside in the gloom the red coals of the barbecues lit the smoke that curled and clutched the steel beams above. This deep in Carnassus the air was as thick as smoke, and the smoke could be caught like carnival floss. Through the filthy windows of the tea house a shadow in the gloom held his broad hat as he stooped to draw water from a bucket. A bamboo water-charm tockled gently, and somewhere out in the darkness a young woman sang in a high, clear voice.

  ‘I don’t care about your interests,’ said the Well Dressed Man. ‘And we’ve discussed the costs.’ The Man in the Shadows smiled and placed a yellow envelope on the rotating wheel with a pink porcelain crane in the centre. The wheel murmured softly as it turned. In the centre of a centreless city a porcelain crane nodded. The Well Dressed Man plucked the envelope delicately; it disappeared inside his breast pocket.

  ‘You would like me to retrieve the data?’

  ‘We would like you to erase it. And this child who has it. And anyone else you see fit to eliminate.’

  ‘And why would your beloved Postal Service not take care of this matter?’

  ‘They are restricted in this case, since neither target has a tracking system.’

  ‘No tracking system? Everything has a tracking system.’

  ‘This file comes from the most secure facility in the Empire. Since a leak was seen as impossible no system was ever installed. That’s why we’ve hired you.’

  ‘May I view the data?’

  ‘You may not, and cannot. The file is protected by a firewall. You could not burn through it in an age, and it would be dangerous to try.’

  ‘Such a shame. I do love a challenge.’

  ‘The file cannot be read by anyone but us. It would take millennia to crack the encryption. But it can read itself, and therein lies the problem. With the information it holds it can make intelligent decisions to avoid detection and destruction. Yet it also has a weakness: it is very much attached to the youngster who accompanies it.’

  ‘Loyalty, the ultimate weakness. Who else knows about the contents of this file?’

  ‘Outside our circle? No one. It is vital nobody knows. Not even the Queen. Prince Albert did.’

  ‘And that’s why you killed him?’

  ‘He killed himself. Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘No.’ The Well Dressed Man took a sip of his tea. ‘I was sure you’d be at the launch today. Why would you miss such a grand occasion?’

  ‘I don’t care about the mission. The wizard is a fraud and a fool. My intelligence says he’ll burn.’

  ‘Really? My intelligence says you just purchased a distillery and had it sign on as an expedition sponsor.’

  The Man in the Shadows could hardly hide his surprise. He gathered himself. ‘Why don’t you save your tricks for the cabarets? I want you to know –’ he leaned in closer across the table – ‘that I don’t trust you. I don’t think you’re a team player. And I think your so-called “mind skills” are the pranks of a cheap magician.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’

  ‘I do. But in this matter I was outvoted.’

  ‘The well is deeper than your bucket. There are many strange and unfathomable things in this universe.’

  ‘There is nothing in the universe which can’t be explained with science and reason. Man is in charge of his destiny. He is the hero of his story. Achievement is his goal, reason his absolute. His senses tell him everything he needs to know, and my senses tell me you are a fraud. If it were up to me I would have hired a real assassin to join the group.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said the Well Dressed Man.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the Man in the Shadows.

  Outside the tea house the silhouette let the water scoop drop into the bucket with a loud plop. The woman’s song ended, her voice vanished like a memory.

  ‘Of course, I’ll do my very best to fulfil my mission,’ said the Well Dressed Man as he put down his bowl.

  ‘You’ll do your best,’ said the Man in the Shadows.

  ‘I’ll try not to disappoint.’

  ‘You’ll try not to disappoint.’

  ‘You’ll try not to be a total failure,’ said the Well Dressed Man.

  ‘I’ll try not to be a total failure,’ said the Man in the Shadows.

  ‘Even though you are.’

  ‘Even though I am.’

  ‘A total failure,’ said the Well Dressed Man.

  ‘A total failure.’

  ‘And a fool.’

  ‘And a fool.’

  ‘An ugly stupid fool. What are you?’

  ‘An ugly stupid fool.’

  ‘You should ram this chopstick into your eye.’

  ‘I should ram this chopstick into my eye.’

  ‘Deep, deep into the centre of the eye. Push it right through your eye until it touches the meat of your brain.’

  ‘I should.’

  ‘But you won’t.’

  ‘But I won’t.’

  The Well Dressed Man picked up his bowl again. Outside, the silhouette stoked the coals and fanned them with his broad hat, sending a shower of sparks dancing through the steel. Beyond him was a universe of people whose brains were so simple that they would do anything you asked – provided you asked it in the right way. The Well Dressed Man looked back towards the Man in the Shadows.

  ‘Maybe you should pay the bill,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe I should pay the bill.’

  THE DEARLY DEPARTED

  The bosun took his prized silver watch from his pocket, glanced at the time, kissed the elegant inscription on the back, and said, ‘Slaveys! C
ast off moorings!’ They felt the magnetic mooring pads release. ‘Seal the ship!’ Slaveys flocked like mice from holes and spat on their hands before straining against the wheel locks, shutting tight the hatches which would seal them in this unholy sepulchre for months to come. Alarcon, A.; Alonso, F.; Amandola, G.; Apfelbaum, D.; so many tiny lives – a tragical roll call of hell-bound juveniles embarking on a nightmare spin into what-the-heck. Ayala, J.; Brossolette, P.; am I to list them all for you? No, there is not time.

  The Necronaut’s solar wings fanned out and flexed against the sunlight. Fabrigas felt his ears thicken as the vessel prepared to leave Carnassus for open space. The fleet of naval ships had already cleared the city and was heading out through the spheres in a seemingly solid black diamond. Fabrigas felt a putrid nausea as he watched the monster Carnassus recede, waving its gantries in farewell, and he remembered the many nightmare journeys of his past: the sickness, the monsters, the death and starvation. People came forward to pay their respects. He met the ship’s physician, Shatterhands, who returned a limp, clammy handshake and said, ‘Most charmed.’ He met Huxbear, the ship’s chef, who smelled of garlic and singed hair, and Quickhatch, the bosun, whose muscled body was a roiling sea of tattoos – birds, ships, sea creatures and green-skinned ladies entwined in sensual tableaux. The tattoos were his only visible mod – but as he often said himself, ‘Why tamper with perfection?’

  The Gentrifaction was a sight to behold, dressed in lavish frocks and wigs. It was common for every voyage to have attending members of the aristocracy. Some were lower aristocrats seeking to raise their status through a famous voyage. Some were melodramies: a peculiar kind of aristocrat who seeks a life of drama and, preferably, a tragic and legendary death. The poet H. Q. Gossipibom was one of these. He stood on the far side of the deck with his two acquaintances. This voyage, being so dangerous, had attracted just three aristocrats in total. The poet was dressed in a lavishly embroidered coat and platform shoes. Morphium had given him a faint scarlet muzzle, but his hair was glossy, coloured, as it was, with the finest imported crocodile shit. Beside him was G. De Pantagruel, whose features were so distorted and bulging that it seemed as if his body was struggling to contain gases of enormous pressure.

  There were unspeakable mysteries inside G. Scatolletto’s garments, they said. Scars that told of merciless sexual hobbies; buttocks so calloused by recreational whippings that you could have hauled him aboard by his rear on a cargo hook and he wouldn’t have cried out. (In fact, he was carried up the gangplank by two strong sailors, raising his arms when a slavey scuttled too close and emitting low groans of alarm.)

  In all it was a strange group, though there were no surprises.

  ‘But which one is Her Majesty’s spy?’ thought Fabrigas.

  Then the crew struck up a shanty to shake the iron bones of the ship.

  I took me love down to the City,

  Where grass be green and boys be pretty,

  Oh won’t you take me home, John Brown,

  Oh won’t you take me home – Oi!

  Presently, the door from the ready room was kicked open and Carlos Lambestyo, in uniform, strode to the wheelhouse. His coat was deep blue with gold epaulettes and he had put aside his elephant guns for a pair of delicate silver pistols. His boots were far too big. Everyone was surprised to see him walk past the wheelhouse and over to the cargo bay where he found what he was looking for. In one corner, standing on legs which each weighed a ton, was a Giant Gas-Powered Titanium Bionical Crashproof Exoskeleton …

  … or, GGPTBCE.

  Of course, you would not have heard of this machine, because it is the very latest in military technology, and you are not. The GGPTBCE is a (virtually) indestructible human-driven robot designed to withstand (virtually) any assault. And by ‘(virtually)’ I mean that if Prince Albert had decided to climb inside one of these machines and steer it into the sun he would have at least stood a chance. This pilotable war-robot could withstand rocket or cannon attack, it could pluck the uranium core from a stricken supertanker and fling it a safe distance, it could walk inside a blast furnace, it could detonate a massively powerful explosive device in its own hands and remain unharmed. It represented the very apex of military hardware, and every ship in the expedition fleet had been given one (even though each single GGPTBCE cost more than the ship which carried him). Yes, Captain Lambestyo was very excited. He remembered the first time he strapped himself into a P1Q9 Scramjet Bat-fighter. He was only nine years old then, and this was even more exciting. ‘So the rumours were true,’ said Lambestyo. ‘We do have a GGPTBCE.’

  But the GGPTBCE’s licensed operator, a Corporal Bortis, was not happy to see the captain. ‘Please don’t touch him, he’s very valuable.’

  ‘Don’t touch him? She is indestructible, is she not?’ Lambestyo withdrew his finger from the robot’s gleaming black thigh.

  ‘He is. But I don’t want even a scratch on him. Only a licensed military operative may deal with him, and you are … ex.’

  ‘Oh well. We will meet again, I’m sure.’ The captain turned his adoring eyes up towards the motionless iron face. The face ignored him. He shrugged and returned to his flight deck.

  Soon the ship joined the fleet and dropped into a cruising formation known informally as ‘Sleeping Dragon’. It was hard not be awed by the sight of such a battle fleet spread out across the eternal night.

  Then the boy captain called for attention and addressed the crew.

  ‘Men. Ladies. Spies for Her Majesty.’ His voice of a sudden had a gravity that defied his age. ‘We begin our journey today with the sun in our sails and an empire behind us. We go, to be sure, to our certain deaths. All that is to be decided is the exact nature of our deaths. But we will go to our deaths with our heads held high, and we will not let our heads drop, or lose our heads, even if we do in fact come to eventually lose our heads.’ He paused to raise his chin and turn his black eyes to the stars. ‘And if by some twist of misfortune I should come to survive you all, and based on my past luck that seems likely, then I will speak loudly of your courage, and your names will not be forgotten. Please sign your names in the register so that I may learn them.’ He finished his speech and there was silence.

  ‘Good lord,’ murmured Shatterhands. ‘Is that his idea of raising morale?’

  Then the poet Gossipibom announced that he’d written an ode to their journey. There was a rush to leave the deck. ‘I’m too busy,’ said the captain, and stormed off. ‘Does sir wish me to fetch the earplugs?’ said Carrofax. Fabrigas said nothing and followed after the captain, but those who were too slow were forced to listen to the poet as he began to shriek in a high-pitched, nasal twang.

  ’Twas the eve of Hallig Nae’n

  Thon braced leguh it trembled, stang

  Upon the crux its leagured sheen

  Did mix betwix the kild ’n keen

  Nor eighty shanks upon its …

  … Bree’r

  To drift in seatop’s tip and tear

  Its mission wrote up’n this …

  … morn

  T’boldly gae where ne’r’n has gorn …

  He paused for breath and people moved to applaud. But he wasn’t finished. Not for seventeen more verses.

  From the journal of M. Francisco Fabrigas

  The World, the Frame, the Cosmosie, the Panarchy, the Macrocosmos, the Megacosm, Old Smokey – whatever you choose to call it we are sailing into its reaches. We move outward through the sphere towards the edge of the Holy Neon Empire, bearing 142 degrees by 19Q through the Triton Cloud, dropping to cruising speed for a pass around the Nebula Asturius to pick up favourable winds from her currents. To portside lies the Great Wall of Peace, the zone which separates our Empire from her enemy, the Vangardiks. Because of my long incarceration this is the first time I’ve seen it. It is less a wall, in fact: more a twisting helix of mines and traps which materialised suddenly some centuries ago on an evening commonly referred to as Shutternight. The Wall is some 245 light-ye
ars long and cuts the former Empire in two, allowing the Vangardiks to protect themselves from what they call ‘terror incursions’, and to stem what they also call ‘wanton mass-migrations.’ To starboard are the Floating Worlds, the territory of the mysterious Xo. We will shortly join the shipping circuits via the dark-space autobahn. There we will be propelled like atomic bits – only much, much faster than the speed of light. This will allow us to carve off the enormous distances needed to reach our jump-point near Akropolis. The ship has a ‘funky’ smell which I cannot place.

  The larger the object, the more difficult it is for it to reach the next universe. For a fleet our size to cross over it needs to reach a minimum of a quarter of the speed of light – and for that we will be relying on the winds at Akropolis. The plan has always been to engage our RIPS engine at this part of space, and to enter the Interior. I have some necessary adjustments to make, so tomorrow must work all day to prepare.

  The Queen would not agree to increase our funding for this venture, thus we have needed to cover the shortfall through corporate channels. Things were looking desperate until, at the last minute, a distillery came aboard as sponsor. And so our epic voyage is made possible thanks to the support of a Dr H. W. Sackwell’s Invigorising Tonical Rum. The fleet has been compelled to take roughly 400,000 cases of a beverage that, in my opinion, is only good for cleaning drains. The crew is on the verge of mutiny. ‘Gah! It be poison!’ they say, and, ‘It tastes like me armpits!’ Whatever the taste of the sickly green goop, it serves its main purpose: to make the men merry, though the following day they feel like killing themselves.

  Terrible news today of the super-liner Colossus, the Empire’s unsinkable mega-ship, which yesterday collided with a space-berg, leading to a catastrophic leak and the death of almost all 547,000 passengers. It is a tragedy that just a day earlier we were within range of the ship and might have been able to offer assistance.

  There have been no other incidents to speak of. We were attacked by a serpent, but it was only a baby, it could hardly wrap itself around our ship. Everyone came on deck to coo and gurgle.