Theatre of the Gods

by M. Suddain

  Today we approach the Necropolis, beyond that is the great darkness. Strange things happen when you enter this part of space. It is not a place with common natural laws.

  I feel a deep melancholy coming. But what is to be done?

  Beans and boiled greens for supper.

  *

  From the journal of Arken R. Shatterhands (MDS, BBDL, DOA)

  What an absurd bundle of cadavers-in-waiting I have been saddled with here. The boy captain brings a shadow wherever he goes. Groups that laugh and roll about fall quiet on his arrival, and on his leaving sit with heads bowed like mourners at an oceangoing wake. The bosun is a frightening meat-tower. When I asked him if I could perhaps get a second blanket for my cot, because my thin bones feel the cold terrible at night, he said, ‘Certainly! And shall I come and fluff your pillow for you too?!’ And all the men laughed.

  The old-beard is perhaps the maddest. He does little but stalk the navigation deck and rant to himself. He claims to have come from another universe, yet can provide no evidence. And now he leads us into oblivion.

  The cook seems like a fine fellow, as do the Gentrifaction, esp. the poet – whose gifts I think go unappreciated.

  In all, I would have off this barge in a heartbeat, if not for the predicament brought about by my debts, and by certain legal suits held against me by unscrupulous opportunists, and by certain duties which I must perform for the good of Queen and Empire. For all they are worth.

  I smell only death and horror on this ship.

  RIPS

  They rode on into the blackness, silence, and into the last inhabited region of the Empire. But this was not a place inhabited by the living. The crew went quiet as their fleet passed through the Necropolis: a sea of giant floating headstones spanning a lonely region of space. Some of the stones placed by richer families were the size of mountains. What point is there in such a place? Many have asked. It is a quest in life to make the soul tangible. For some their choice of monument is their family, their deeds, the quality of their life’s work. For others contemplating the end of life, there is a realisation that their dubious deeds, their nasty children, are a poor life record. In this case the towering public monument will suffice. There is certainty in the soul of a baron whose deeds haunt his sleep, but who knows that when the sun sets on his life he will be buried in an obsidian skull two hundred miles high.

  Such a man came aboard that day for a surprise inspection. ‘I will need to see your logs and manifests,’ said Descharge. ‘Our engineers say you’re running heavy. They say you lag behind the fleet.’

  ‘It is our RIPS engine,’ said Fabrigas. ‘It is extremely dense, and our ship is not as powerful as yours.’

  ‘That is your fault,’ Descharge replied. ‘I offered you a naval battleship, I offered you a qualified captain. Where is yours?’

  ‘He is … rising. He gets cranky if he does not sleep enough.’

  ‘We have no time for this nonsense. We have a schedule to keep. And there is the chance we might still catch up with the Vengeance. Skycore says that if she wants to flee this universe she must travel this way.’

  ‘Then why not let her?’ said Lambestyo. He had stumbled from his quarters, shirt unbuttoned, a patchy stubble on his ravaged face.

  ‘Because she is the property of this great Empire,’ Descharge replied without even bothering to turn. ‘Much like you were. I ought to have you arrested for desertion.’

  ‘So do it,’ said Lambestyo as he studied his stubble with the tips of his fingers. ‘Or just send the rescue team you should have sent when I crashed my bat-fighter all those years ago. I was lonely out there.’

  ‘Your orders were clear,’ said Descharge. ‘To secure the oil platforms for Her Majesty’s glory – with your life, if necessary. If you somehow survive this mission I will return you to a military court for trial.’

  ‘I will wear my best suit,’ said Lambestyo.

  ‘Well, this is nice!’ said Fabrigas, and Descharge turned slowly towards him. ‘In any event,’ continued the old man, ‘your inspection is pointless. As I explained, we are running heavy because of the RIPS engine, and nothing can change it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to running my tests.’

  ‘I still don’t know how your miraculous engine even works,’ said Descharge.

  ‘Yes, why don’t you enlighten us?’ said Lambestyo. He had been trying for days to get the old man to explain it to him in a way he understood.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to bore you,’ said Fabrigas.

  ‘No, please, bore away,’ said Descharge.

  ‘Well, travelling to another universe is very simple,’ Fabrigas said. ‘You do it every time you make a choice between whether you’ll have jam on your toast, or honey. Personally, I prefer honey.’

  ‘I hate honey,’ said the captain. ‘Too gooey.’ He was staring hard into space where the monumental tombstones floated, his brow was wrought.

  ‘But to enter a universe you don’t belong in – by the nature of your choices – is more difficult. When we come to make the crossing we will not “move” to another dimension. We will not change our place in the time/space continuum; time and space will change its place in us. In this sense, there are not infinite universes at all. There is really only one: the sum total of all that is possible. We are but travellers on a voyage through that universal ocean, walking from porthole to porthole, seeing reality from another point of view, then convincing ourselves that each view we witness represents an entirely new and separate reality. So you see, it’s very simple.’

  The two men stared at him with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Well, let me put it another way,’ he continued. ‘The RIPS theory is based upon the principle of uncertain death: an uncanny point in reality when you are free to pass into any other universe – a universe in which you survived, or a universe in which you narrowly escaped death and are crippled, or a universe in which what did not kill you made you stronger. With our own universe believing we are dead we have the opportunity to transfer ourselves to a universe in which we have all transferred ourselves to another universe. Simple.’

  ‘Oh yes, so simple,’ said Lambestyo.

  Fabrigas ignored him. ‘Since at the time of your death you exist, hypothetically, in all other universes but the one you’ve died in, the universe releases its grip and allows you to pass freely.’

  ‘And why does this universe think we’re dead?’ said Descharge cautiously.

  ‘Master, perhaps …’ said Carrofax from the shadows. The old man ignored him.

  ‘Because we will be dead. Technically.’

  ‘Come again?’ said Descharge.

  ‘It couldn’t be simpler. We die in this universe, but immediately appear in another one, thus confounding the paradox of existing in a universe in which you’ve died. Which, as I’ve explained, is impossible.’

  ‘And how exactly will we die?’

  ‘We’ll “die” because the RIPS engine sets off a frightening thermonuclear explosion! The explosion is powerful enough to vaporise the ship and everything around it. Fortunately, the engine also has large amounts of dark ooze. This ooze exists both in the engine and in all other dimensions. It therefore acts as a quantum buffer, balancing out the force of the explosion.’

  ‘Yes, you heard the man, we’re all going to die,’ said Lambestyo. ‘Explosions, ooze, dark honey. Now it’s nearly elevenses; who will have a cocktail with me?’

  ‘That is the most insane thing I have ever heard,’ said Descharge.

  ‘It is!’ agreed Fabrigas. ‘But sometimes insane things are true.’

  They heard a noise from behind a crate of machine oil as a sailor’s shadow flickered away into the darkness. ‘Now you’ve done it,’ said Lambestyo. ‘The whole ship will hear you plan to “keeeeel” us.’

  ‘He’s WHAT?!’ they heard the bosun’s voice boom from below.

  ‘So best of luck with this,’ said Lambestyo, and left. Sailors were beginning to gather on the deck.
/>   *

  Fabrigas fled to his quarters, where he found Carrofax waiting patiently. ‘Well, that seemed to go very well.’

  ‘Yes, what of it?’ He locked his door. ‘They had to find out sooner or later. To get to the next universe you must die in this one. I have solved the problem of death-perception.’

  ‘And that is how the engine works?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘So then why share the information? A tactical error, sir, I think.’

  ‘It isn’t a tactical error. It is the best available truth. I have no real idea how the engine works.’

  ‘And why not tell them that?’

  ‘Tell them that I’m taking them billions of light-years away to use a piece of technology I don’t even understand? Ridiculous. They’d laugh me off the ship.’

  ‘As opposed to setting you on fire and throwing you off the ship?’

  ‘Let them try me if they wish. I think they’ll find me hard to kill.’

  ‘As you wish. Have you figured out which one is the Queen’s spy yet?’

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ said the old man as he spread some papers on his desk and pretended to set to work. He really didn’t like it when Carrofax teased him.

  ‘I could tell you if you wished.’

  ‘I do not wish. If I require your assistance I will ask for it.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Carrofax smiled. Fabrigas stared harder at his notes. He did not need to look up to know that his servant was smiling at him. And that it was the particular smile he used when he knew things the old man did not.

  ‘Am I breaking your concentration?’

  ‘Yes, in fact you are. If you don’t mind I have some important navigation work to do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Important navigation work?’

  ‘It is so.’

  ‘Important navigation work which involves studying blueprints for the ship’s plumbing?’

  Fabrigas blinked twice at the sheet of paper on his table, then pushed it aside. ‘Don’t you have something better to do?’ But when he turned round his servant had vanished and he was once more alone.

  DARK-SPACE AUTOBAHN

  They sailed on into the darkness, through days and weeks, and on towards a nightmare.

  There are many frightening sights at sea, particularly in the morning, when seaman are known to yell, ‘Don’t look at me, I’m a hideous monster!’ and, ‘Kiss me not neither, for I have dragon’s breath.’ At night, when the ship lights are dimmed and all is black and all is quiet, the mind can begin to play tricks on you. Sometimes the men can also play tricks on you. Many captains, even, are fearful wags who love to play pranks: like wedding a man to a sea cow, or putting a sleeping man in an oily sack and yelling: ‘Jack’s been eaten by a whale!’ Captain Lambestyo was not one of those captains. He hated practical jokes. A ship was a serious place for serious business. So it annoyed him greatly that the rest of the fleet had decided to play a series of maritime pranks on the Necronaut and its teenage captain, the Necronaut.

  First, the fleet had conspired not to respond to any of his radio messages for a whole day. Lambestyo thought his receiver was broken, and only twigged to the trick when he heard giggling. Then, when he’d asked for spare machine parts, the supply ship had sent over a crateload of man-knickers. Lambestyo had flown some as flags.

  Today was a bold new joke. The fleet had sent a signal to him that they would shift to a new heading. Then, at the appointed naval hour, when Lambestyo swung his vessel onto a new tack, he’d found himself cruising on alone. The rest of the fleet had continued on the old tack. It would take days of hard sailing to catch them. They were mocking him, but he would have his vengeance, he said, and as he said it he had no idea how right he was.

  But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In the meantime, the crew endured the loneliness and tedium of space. There is little to do in deep space but play pranks and gossip. Groups came to gather in the same spots every day. The sailors slacking from their chores would slump down in the shadow of the navigation deck, out of sight of their captain’s window, and they would talk of past agonies. ‘See this?’ one sailor would exclaim as he held up four imaginary fingers. ‘Let’s just say that you shouldn’t mess with the sucker-crabs of the Azulian Sea.’

  ‘That’s nothing,’ another would say, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a set of long scars. ‘Fire rats. Got inside my spacesuit while I was chuting into a war zone to rescue my squadron from a grove of carnivorous moles. I was the only survivor.’

  ‘Ha!’ another would say. ‘I have one compound word for ye: were-kittens …’ And it would go on like this, all day, an endless reel of woe and strife. Our captain would never join in, because the one time he did he made a man cry.

  Sometimes their voices would drop very low and you would know that they were talking of another kind of agony: the wounds of the heart.

  ‘Oh, Lauraneath, I knew her. Oh, such a girl as you would ever meet. Oh, if I could describe her you would weep the seas. Oh, the tragedy! She drowned after draining back a keg before a charity swim.’

  ‘Women. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’

  ‘Words of wisdom, Lloyd, words of wisdom.’

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the deck, the Gentrifaction would gather at the crack of noon. G. De Pantagruel, G. Scatolletto and the poet Gossipibom would stand in the corner of the deck where the golden starlight bouncing in through the glass shields from the sails gathered in a lovely puddle. And there they would speak of their own tragic ailments.

  ‘I have, for an age, had my tissues made from Omnogyptian fibres by the finest papersmith in the High Orient. But oh! How it would chafe sometimes, especially if I had dined on fibrous foods.’

  ‘Ah! Do not start me up, dearest,’ said Scatolletto, ‘for I have chafed rudely for years and only found relief through silk kerchiefs for which I paid a pretty penny.’

  ‘I once stole a lady’s velvet glove and got relief,’ said Pantagruel.

  ‘But what are we supposed to do? Find a lady to seduce each time we wish to ease our sluice?’

  ‘Why no, dear sir, I simply had a thousand such gloves made to order. And it was worth every note.’

  ‘But dear sir, why go to the trouble of having them made as gloves? Why not just buy the material by the bolt?’ said Gossipibom.

  ‘My dearest, I tried, but I could not get the same result. There is something about wearing a lady’s glove which brought about an optimal degree of relaxation. And the control! Oh!’

  ‘My word! You wore the glove?!’

  ‘I did, my friend. I wore that glove. And I loved it. I have dabbed myself with all kinds of things: silk sheets, fine tapestries, a child’s soft toy, but I have found none better under these stars than a lady’s velvet glove.’

  And it would go on like that all day. They were perhaps three of the most despicable individuals ever to be born, and it should give you great comfort to know that before this book is finished they will all die horribly. ‘Tell the people they all die horribly!’ old Fabrigas is shouting at me now, in that basement on that orphan moon. So there you have it.

  Fabrigas hid himself in his cabin, away from the idle gossip and the talk of mutiny. Nine weeks into the journey there was a knock at his door and when he opened it the ship’s communications chief, Lotango, was there with a telegram.

  ‘Telegram, sir!’

  ‘Telegram?’

  ‘So.’ It was strange because this ship did not have the equipment to receive telegrams. The telegram read:

  Fabrigas. Stop. You are sailing into danger and madness. Stop. Paint the 62,500th hexagram of the Water Star around your ship and you will have protection. Stop. Over. Out.

  He screwed up the telegram and slumped back in his seat. ‘Now why the heck would I paint a sign from the Third Book of Transmutations on my ship? It is a sign of attraction. It makes no sense.’

  There was another knock at his door.
‘Another telegram for you, sir!’

  ‘What the …’

  It makes perfect sense. Stop. Why should you question our methods? Stop. Paint the hexagrams and save your people. Stop. It is that simple. Stop.

  ‘Where are these telegrams coming from!’

  Lotango shrugged.

  *

  No one could understand why the old man would suddenly start painting mysterious symbols on his ship. The general consensus was madness. The Gentrifaction was ablaze with gossip. ‘I hear he is a black magician. I hear they are symbols of dark magic.’

  ‘He is bearded. Never trust the beardy. They cast their beardy spells and listen to their beardy music and are profoundly insolent.’

  ‘And he’s a vegetarian – of all things.’

  ‘We should play an excellent prank on him. My cousin was a vegetarian. We made him a mud pie composed of garlic, asafoetida and castoreum in quantity, and of turds that were still warm.’

  *

  They sailed on. And under.

  From the journal of Captain Lambestyo

  I hate these things. I never know what to write. Whatever. We are flying through the dark-space shipping lane and the rum has already turned the men mad. They are muttering about how sick it makes them, some complain that it is beginning to give them soft hands and girlish thoughts.

  The old-beard has told everyone he plans to kill them. So that is good. I was just thinking to myself, ‘Oh, things are far too easy on this journey. What we need is a good mutiny.’ The men are angry even though this mission has a 99.9 per cent chance of death. He has taken away their 0.1 per cent chance of life, and they don’t like it.

  The fleet has played a practical prank on me by telling me a wrong heading. I totally knew it was a prank, but I sailed away anyway, because I wanted to be alone.

  PS Tried some of the ship’s rum last night and now I want to peel my own face off. Maybe I was too hard on the men.