Theatre of the Gods

by M. Suddain

  We arrive tomorrow.

  THE COSMIC SOUP

  When Lenore woke in the darkness of the bow-pit she knew the time had come. Her dreams never lied. Also, the bats were silent. She saw the whole nightmare laid out in a succession of terrifying images: the surprise attack, the fires, the screams, the goat. A blue lantern? A moon, fleeing for their lives, treachery, madness, supernatural children, cannibals, magical minerals, murderous vegetables, a giant monster, a great hole in the blackness of space. And a love story. Her dreams never lied. The journey to the next universe would be a trial within a storm, wrapped up in a nightmare, set on fire and pushed out across the oceans of pain and suffering. But there would also be some good bits.

  She smelled soup.

  *

  There was huge excitement on the day they came to make the crossing. The ship’s inhabitants, through some kind of neat and necessary cognitive trick, had somehow come to forget that they were about to be sent to their technical deaths. What kind of universe would they be entering? What new species of plant and animal would they find there? Would there be treasures?

  ‘For the last time, Captain, I do not know if we will find treasures! Now please let me tend to my instruments.’

  Far below them in the darkness Lenore smelled their fear and excitement. Goats, fires, screams, treachery – that was coming too. She rose and peered out into the corridor. Peered with dead eyes. The corridor was silent.

  The whole shipload rose early and put on their best clothes and there was a lot of laughter and fool-play on the decks. Even Descharge was seen to smile, and though he kept saying, ‘I really must return to my command ship now,’ he never seemed to make it to his pod, particularly when Fabrigas said, ‘Oh, but you must stay for some of my soup. It is really quite good.’

  ‘Well,’ said Descharge, ‘I suppose I could stay for a few spoonfuls. It does smell intoxicating.’

  ‘A few spoonfuls and you’ll be in bliss!’ cried the old-beard.

  The slaveys were allowed special privileges on this day, and did the best they could to sharpen up. The bosun took two huge buckets of soapy water to their bunk rooms so they could wash away the soot and filth of months at ship, saying loudly, ‘All right, my peaches, my salty doves, let’s have as if your wedding day has come early, let’s have the coal from your hands and the worms from out your ears, my pocket pennies, my milky scoundrels, my little fallen angels.’

  He leaned a mirror at the end of their dormitory, next to a comb and a monster tube of McGivven’s Fine Hair Cream, and every child crowded in to make themselves look as presentable as they’d ever been.

  The captain came out in a grand new jacket with gold epaulettes and red trim. He’d been saving it especially for this day. He had his hair neatly combed. When Miss Fritzacopple ascended the men all but lost their wits. The deaf/dumb Roberto dropped his Magic Eighth Ball and the captain walked into a spar.

  ‘Are you wearing make-up this day?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes. I was able to salvage a few small things from the Black Widow. Although I’m not to make the crossing with you I’m at least going to enjoy the celebrations.’

  ‘Oh … You will be leaving?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be passed to the barge returning to the Empire with our waste materials.’

  ‘Oh. Must look your best for that.’

  The captain bowed and strutted off.

  It was around lunchtime when the Necronaut finally rose from the shipping channel near the ruins of Akropolis, and they all gathered on the deck, even the slaveys, to toast this universe, this great and unquenchable furnace that gave birth to all of us. The nebula was a pink-and-yellow smear of flossy gas and the young stars within shone brightly. Speeches were made, and then Fabrigas announced that his soup was ready.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘It is so. Please come down to the galley.’

  ‘Well, I look forward to this soup I have been hearing so much about,’ said the cook.

  *

  No one was disappointed. The old man’s soup was a deep, rich, sensuous, almost erotic soup, and from the first spoonful the people assembled in the galley found themselves adrift upon a calm lagoon of flavour.

  ‘My word,’ said Fritzacopple. ‘This could be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘I demand to know the recipe!’ cried the cook.

  ‘The recipe is known only by myself and a dead woman from another universe,’ said Fabrigas, ‘and you have more chance of getting it from her.’

  The galley was one of the few pleasant places on the ship. It had windows revealing stunning views of the cosmos. As they ate, surrounded by scenes of the Akropolis nebula, Fabrigas rose to address them. ‘Friends!’ he said so loudly that they all jumped. The old man, many had observed, seemed to be at least two hundred years younger today. He had even given his share of the soup to the bosun. ‘For months at sea you have laboured under the impression that I planned to kill you all. It gives me great pleasure to inform you that today, in fact, I intend to save your lives. We have arrived here at the point of no return. This is the spot from which we were to make the jump to the next universe, thereby, presumably, to join the legions of the dead, although perhaps to have had many wonderful adventures along our way. Wouldn’t that have been fun?’

  ‘From which we were to make the jump?’ said someone.

  ‘Wouldn’t that have been fun?’ said another.

  The old man stood before them, arms raised. The nebula glowed brightly through the reinforced glass windows; its powerful gravity was already flinging them through space at an unfathomable speed. The hull vibrated faintly, like a kettle coming to the boil. ‘I am afraid, dear friends, that there has been a minor alteration in our intended trajectory.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ said Descharge testily, as he pushed his empty bowl away.

  ‘I was not informed of any change in plans,’ said the captain as he ran his finger around the bowl and licked it clean. ‘My fee is –’

  ‘Yes, yes, why don’t you let me explain? Unfortunately I have led you here under false pretences. I have never intended to take you to the next universe. This is all a ruse. I agreed to go on this voyage only to escape the clutches of the Queen, and the Empire which has made my life a lavish hell. The soup you have just enjoyed for your luncheon contains a sleeping toxin of my own design.’ The assembled, as one, looked down at their bowls. ‘It is important that we act quickly. Soon, you will all be sound asleep, like little babies, and so it is very important that you go to the life-pods. You will be picked up by the other boats in the fleet, and then you are free to return to your Empire and your lives. I dismiss you!’ He paused for effect and noted the stunned silence. ‘I, meanwhile, will escape in this ship and live out my days in exile on an orphan moon!’ And he flung out his arms and beamed like a man who has just said to his family, ‘I bet all our money on a squid race!’

  No one in the galley spoke for a while, they were still staring at their bowls. Then all spoke at once, and their fury fell upon the old man as he continued to beam proudly. Descharge stood and stalked to the front and called for calm. ‘People, please, shut up now. There is no need to lose our heads. This is clearly all just a joke, isn’t that right, Master?’

  ‘Oh no, young man! No, this is all completely serious. You each have roughly twenty minutes, perhaps less for smaller people. I suggest you get to your escape pods and get comfortable. Put your nightgowns on.’

  ‘Are you completely mad?!’ said the cook.

  ‘No! I am tired! I am very old and tired and all I want is to rest. I have been travelling my whole life. I have been the length and breadth of several galaxies and seen many of the wonders and horrors they contain. I have no desire to do it again. I just want to die in peace. And if you think upon it, I have saved all your lives. Travelling to another universe would have meant certain death for all of us. Or have you forgotten that my magic engine must kill us all to work? So if anything, you should
be grateful!’

  ‘Master,’ Descharge’s cabin boy, Plantamour, called from the doorway, ‘there’s something I think you should see.’

  ‘Not now! The old fool claims to have drugged us all. I should have you thrown in the brig for mutiny. Now give us all the antidote immediately.’ Descharge had to lean far back to meet the eyes of the old man who towered over him.

  ‘There is no antidote! Except to sleep! And if you lock me up you’ll still all fall asleep and heavens knows what will happen to the ship. You are better in the pods.’

  And again there was a mighty uproar as every adult tried to have their say. Several of the children were already starting to nod off. Little K. Persuivus was snoring loudly with her head in her bowl. Little J. Martinas, too, was about to pass out in her ‘supas’, without understanding what was happening to her, for she had lived on a tiny world and never learned her Internomicon. Miss Fritzacopple stood and cried, ‘What kind of ship is this? Have I boarded a floating asylum!’

  ‘Master,’ said the boy, ‘I know this is a bad time but it really is very important you see this –’

  ‘Not now! Can’t you see that we’re about to be thrown into space?’

  ‘No!’ said the boy, ‘we’re about to be blown up in space! We are under attack!’

  That’s when the first explosions rocked the ship, filling the small galley with a stinging light.

  When Descharge strode above he saw battleships streaming from the shadows of the ruins of Akropolis. Their attackers were a modest Vangardik fleet: a thousand gunships, a hundred cruisers, a command ship, a supply fleet and a wolf pack of fighters. But they had the jump on them. The child stationed in the forward lookout pod was asleep on his arm, his finger still pointing crooked at the horde of enemy ships. Other children were dropping to the deck.

  ‘They are weak,’ said Descharge, ‘and we have the weather gauge. What business do they have attacking? I will return to my command ship immediately.’ A volley of enemy fire passed over their heads, and he watched as his command ship exploded in a lovely pustule of purple light. Soon a dozen or more of his ships were drenched in flames.

  ‘The rum,’ said Fabrigas quietly.

  ‘Battle stations!’ cried Lambestyo as another salvo from the attackers filled the eternal night with lovely blooms. The blast-wave sent the Necronaut into a spin. Her pilot strode easily to the wheelhouse across the slanting deck as Fabrigas and Descharge wobbled after. ‘Pick yourself up and look smart!’ Lambestyo barked at two sailors who had fallen into each other’s arms.

  ‘So. Who are they?’ asked the captain as he grabbed the wheel and righted his ship.

  ‘The Vangardiks,’ said Descharge. ‘They were waiting in ambush. They knew we were coming here. They already had their battle colours displayed. They have raised the colours for “No negotiations”.’

  ‘Well, maybe we don’t want to negotiate either. Battle stations!’ cried the captain through his megaphone. People were running for cover as shots from the attacking force burst on every side.

  ‘Do you have a plan?’ said Descharge.

  ‘Of course I don’t have a plan,’ said Lambestyo, as he swung the wheel round. The ship cried loud as it heeled onto a new tack.

  TODAY YOU SLEEP

  Commander Mattlocke stood on the bridge with his hands behind his back, a smug grin upon his face, as his shots smashed the enemy to pieces.

  ‘The command ship is gone, the fleet is in chaos,’ said his lieutenant, whose name was McMasters.

  ‘Good,’ replied Mattlocke. ‘I warned Descharge not to cross me. Make sure every ship is destroyed.’

  This had been a fine year for the commander. He’d just been away fighting the Achaenids, a tribe so brutal, so cruel, that their seat on the United Federation of Empires had shackles on the armrests. He had defeated them soundly. Now all he had to do before he could be given the position of Supreme Imperial Commander was to destroy a fleet that had been cleverly loaded up with highly explosive liquids – and destroy in particular one small ship. But this is not as easy as it sounds. Fighting a fleet is like hunting a herd of elephants: you only need to aim in its general direction and you’re bound to hit something. An elephant, most likely. Chasing a single ship is like hunting one small rabbit. But even hunting a rabbit is easy if you have torpedoes.

  ‘Do you see them?’

  ‘Yes, Commander, they’re 47 clicks to High Starboard, declination 19.’

  ‘Prepare the torpedoes. Target their engine signature.’

  ‘The Necronaut has turned off her magnetic engines and is under full sail.’

  ‘Clever. Target manually then. Hit them in the cargo bay.’

  ‘They’re not exactly fleeing, sir.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘No. They appear to be moving into attack position.’

  ‘Scope down!’ cried Mattlocke.

  A steel tube slid from above and Mattlocke thrust his eye to the peephole. He saw only a haze of smoke and debris at first, then a dot, then a bigger dot, then the Necronaut, belching smoke, hurtling towards them at full speed, its golden sails spread wide around it like the ruff of an angry lizard. Commander Mattlocke stood back from his scope.

  ‘What the devil’s head are they playing at?’ he whispered.

  *

  ‘What the devil are you playing at, boy?’ cried Descharge. ‘We must flee, flee for our lives!’

  ‘We can’t outrun their torpedoes,’ said Lambestyo calmly. ‘All we can hope for is to get close enough so that they can’t use them. Also, our rum is stored in the aft cargo bay.’

  Descharge took a moment to consider this, was secretly impressed. Below, in the aft cargo bay he could see the bosun lifting impossibly heavy boxes of rum and hurling them out into space.

  ‘Head for their command ship,’ said Descharge.

  *

  ‘Destroy them,’ said Mattlocke. ‘Sweep them from the sky.’

  ‘They’re too close, sir,’ replied McMasters, ‘we’ll hit our own ships.’

  ‘Fire anyway!’ shouted Mattlocke. ‘Their escape is not an option.’

  *

  Through the storm of smoke and debris ran the mighty Necronaut, the former pirate ship whose speed and agility was a surprise to everyone, except Fabrigas. He flinched slightly as Lambestyo, calm as a Sunday driver, sent his ship dipping and diving like a silver needle. Beside them a Vangardik cruiser took a king hit broadside and exploded in a silent ball of fire, the flames reaching out to gently caress the Necronaut’s flank. Fabrigas, gazing up wide-eyed, his face lit by the ferocious hell-blaze, admired the exquisite ballet of fire and destruction that was suddenly happening on every side. A mammoth chunk of iron swung above and left a tail of burning oil behind. He felt like laughing. A familiar voice from over his shoulder said, ‘Master, keep your wits. Things are not what they seem. Watch closely.’

  ‘I’m starting to feel sleepy,’ said Lambestyo as he banked hard right and punched through a wall of smoke. The ruins of Akropolis appeared before them like a dream. ‘If I fall you’ll have to take the wheel.’

  But Fabrigas did not hear him. ‘I know these ships,’ he said, the faint smile fading from his lips. He ran his eye along the ironwork as they skimmed the hull of a cruiser. ‘These are not Vangardik ships!’

  Descharge looked slowly up and blinked twice. He spoke in a low and dreamy drawl. ‘What are you talking of, old man? … Then … what ships … they …?’

  Fabrigas looked again, just to check the position of the engines, the placement of the vents, the cannon array and the formation of the great black ships. The only alien thing about them was the Vangardik insignia crudely pasted on every vessel.

  ‘These are our ships!’ cried Fabrigas.

  *

  Mattlocke leaped back in fright as the tiny craft made to fly straight down the barrel of his scope, then broke off at the very last minute to streak away, leaving a rather handsome trail of smoke behind. ‘They’ve broken our line. Now they’
re entering the ruins,’ said McMasters. ‘They’re small enough to disappear in there.’

  ‘Send in the wolf pack! Don’t give up until you have destroyed them!’ cried Mattlocke.

  ‘And what if we can’t recover them?’ said McMasters.

  ‘Then we are doomed!’

  *

  The Necronaut was just a blip between the monolithic palisades of Akropolis. Fabrigas let his big, ancient eyes scan the walls. They were many hundreds of miles high and covered in scenes of battles that no one alive in this universe could remember. No one could even remember the people who lived here. Experts thought they might have been half bull, but that was speculation. The Necronaut flew through a portal and found itself in a dark and narrow maze, the crumbling walls just a frightening few feet away on either side. Their half-shredded sails skimmed the stone. On deck were people peacefully slumbering, unaware of the bedlam unfolding around them. ‘Doctor,’ said Lambestyo, ‘I’m falling.’

  ‘I know,’ said the old man as he took the wheel. ‘You did your best, but we can’t outrun these ships.’

  Descharge was asleep. Fabrigas, taking in the primordial tunnels, wondered if he too had passed into dreams. ‘Carrofax,’ said Fabrigas, ‘how far to the other side?’

  ‘The gate is five minutes at this speed. Continue straight ahead. Beyond the gate is open space.’

  ‘Old man.’ Lambestyo eased back against the wall of the wheelhouse, his eyes fluttering. ‘Why did you betray me?’ Now they flew from the end of the tunnel like a shot from a cannon and found that they were once more in a wide arcade. Behind them the wolf pack was closing. ‘I thought we were friends. I loaned you my second-best gun.’