Theatre of the Gods

by M. Suddain

  ‘Don’t worry, child,’ said one of the hulks. It won’t be long now. You’ll be down with the Dark Lord before you know it.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ said Lenore. ‘It should be you that’s worried.’

  A guard chuckled. ‘And why exactly should we be worried?’

  ‘Because,’ said the green-skinned girl, ‘I can smell your future.’

  *

  ‘You’ve already won,’ said Fabrigas. ‘You’ve got the girl. You got what you came all this way to find.’

  The Well Dressed Man laughed drily. ‘My dear idiot, she’s not the one I’ve been hunting. How absurd.’ He studied a nail.

  ‘She isn’t?’

  ‘My dear, sweet fool, no. She was just a minor diversion. It’s the boy. The boy is the file I was sent to delete. Oh, of course they want her dead as well, but the Router with the code to the Infiniverse in his head, he’s the big deal. Not some green mini-goth with an uncooperative brain.’

  ‘You never broke her.’

  ‘And I never could. Not if I tried for a thousand years. But I got a taste of what’s inside her mind, and that’s enough. Now no one will be ready for my power. Especially not Electro the Wonder Boy. He’ll be here soon, drawn like a moth to a beacon, and I’m sure his entrance will be just adorable. How about we kill a little time while we wait?’ The Well Dressed Man led him back into the main room and over to a low table on which was draped a cloak, and in front of the cloak was laid the entire collection of the old man’s instruments.

  ‘I feel privileged to be one of the few to see the mysteries within the cloak of the mighty Fabrigas.’ The Well Dressed Man touched a long finger to a brass reed.

  Fabrigas stepped forward. ‘Those things aren’t for tampering with. Some of them are very dangerous.’

  The Well Dressed Man let his eyelids flutter contemptuously. ‘Frankly I’m disappointed. These seem like crude tools: a compass, a joy-buzzer, a starfish? Are you conquering the universe or putting on a magic show for children? My own mother used to say never trust a man who carries a starfish.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘She might have.’

  ‘And just where is your mother?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘You may as well let us go. We still have time to escape this ship before it gets blown up.’

  ‘Our Pope seems to be managing. And I have plenty of time to leave the ship. Well, enough chat. To business. I have been inconvenienced, and when I’m inconvenienced I get very … killy. Woman! Wake!’ The Black Widow rose and stood on wobbling legs. ‘Even with all your training you can’t hide from me. Now, the wizard here is going to murder you. I’ve disabled the parts of your mind which tell you how to fight, but not the parts which tell you how to run. And scream. You have two minutes. You’ll need every second. Off you pop.’ The Black Widow looked to Fabrigas, who nodded twice, and when she saw the look in his eyes she turned and ran into the mist; they heard her boots on the ladder running up to the catwalks above.

  While the Black Widow’s two minutes elapsed the Well Dressed Man took Fabrigas over to the windows. From here they could see the battle unfolding in all its horrible magnificence. The Diemendääs fleet, thanks to the element of surprise, had done great damage to the Pope’s outer defences. But the Pope had rallied, and the Fleet of the Nine Churches was raining heaven’s-fire upon them, while preparing to outflank them with its mobile fleet. The Glory Hole lit the carnage from behind.

  ‘No surprises here,’ said the Well Dressed Man. ‘These people aren’t the first to underestimate the Pope’s power. They’ll wear themselves out on his forward defences. Then he’ll send in the Wreckers and it’ll all be over. And down there, look …’ Beside them was the Pope’s command palace, and from the palace stretched a long, narrow walkway, and at the end of the walkway was a platform in the middle of which stood a small girl surrounded by priests. ‘If they miraculously manage to penetrate the Pope’s defences she’ll be destroyed. If not she’ll be thrown into the black hole. That’s that big swirly thing over there. I have to say, this is all working out near-perfectly. For me. From the very beginning all I wanted was … Old thing, are you quite all right?’

  Fabrigas had turned a shade of green. His knees shuddered and he slumped, then rose again. ‘I am … quite fine enough, thank you well for asking.’

  ‘Why are you talking like that? Are you having a stroke?’

  ‘What? This is just my natural voice. Absolutely.’

  ‘Hmmmm. Well, that’s two minutes anyway. Time for death. Try to stall yours till after hers if possible.’ The Well Dressed Man strolled back to Fabrigas’s possessions and swept his thin right hand along the row of instruments on the table. ‘I’m sure you have enough to work with here.’ There was a dart-gun whose poison-tipped needles could seek the body heat of their victim. There was a nerve-gas grenade, and a lovely set of knives. ‘I like nothing more than a clean, fresh knife.’ The Well Dressed Man held a blade to the light and admired the way the beads of steam water gathered along its deadly edge. ‘Magic. Of course we’ll need to eliminate the fake one. Which is …?’

  ‘There is no fake knife,’ snapped Fabrigas. But his face grimaced as he strained to stop his hand from moving across, his long index finger extending to point at the knife upon the table. ‘Good, then we won’t be needing that.’ The Well Dressed Man tossed the fake over his shoulder and tested the knife he’d been holding against his palm before handing it to Fabrigas. ‘You need to work harder on your misdirection, old man. Not to worry. Show must go on.’ He turned back to the misty room and said, ‘Dray! Turn on your lamps, prepare to roll camera.’

  Fabrigas heard a familiar chank and suddenly the dazzling blaze outside was overcome by the hard, steady light of Dray’s cine lamps shining from the catwalks above. Fabrigas shielded his eyes against the glare and saw the unmistakable silhouette through the mist. ‘Dr Dray! What are you doing up there?’ Dray gave no reply, but the Well Dressed Man said, ‘Oh, I found him below and couldn’t resist inviting him along. We just had to record this night for posterity. What good is a grand finale if nobody gets to see it?’

  Kissssssss-Shoooommmmm!

  ‘Now. Why don’t you put on your magical, murderous cloak and we’ll do some hunting?’

  SOUNDS OF SILENCE

  It is a fact of human life, if not the fact of human life, that things seem hopeless until they’re not.

  ‘Prince Panduke,’ said General Spatz, ‘the Pope has regained the upper hand. Our advanced attack has been routed. We should consider falling back to a defensive position.’ From the bridge of the command ship the Pope’s firepower seemed close enough to boil the liquid from their eyes.

  ‘We can’t allow them a tactical position above the city again!’ said Panduke, who everyone agreed had grown several feet that day, even while his city had lost a few hundred. ‘Prepare to regroup!’

  ‘It is hopeless, Your Highness. He will crush us in minutes. We should negotiate a surrender. The Pope may still show us some mercy.’

  ‘No chance,’ said Kimmy. ‘That man is a nutcase.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the radar operator, ‘there’s something new on our scope. Something rather big.’

  And it was. Something unbelievably huge and swift was drifting silently across their scopes. From behind the ravenous moon of Bespophus, where the mighty jungle gnashed, came a stream of black shapes, barely visible until they passed across the whorl of dying light around the new black hole, and then their features came to light, their smooth, black hulls, their many, many guns. They covered the distance to the battle at a breathtaking speed, and fanned out behind the Diemendääs ships.

  ‘Friends or enemies?’ cried the heavy-fleet commander.

  As if in answer, the mystery fleet released a silent stream of fire. It passed over the startled heads of the Diemendääs pilots, casually parted the Pope’s forward defences, and smashed into the ranks of the papal fleet, setting off a chain of sun-bright explosions. />
  ‘I think …’ ventured Panduke, ‘… friends?’

  *

  The Klaxons, during their time in silent exile, had built some frightening and fascinating weapons. They had managed to build (ironically) a sonic weapon which sends rippling beams of sound to shake the enemy to pieces. Also, a fear-seeking rocket which is inversely attracted to a ship according to the bravery of the crew. They had worked feverishly to prepare their arsenal for the Sweety, but now that a substitute enemy had been presented – a Pope, no less, and heavens knew they despised their own Pope – they were able to throw the full weight of their fury against it, and the effect was stunning. Almost immediately, the Pope’s forward lines crumbled and he was forced to fall back even further towards the Glory Hole. Now the giant engines of the palaces were working frantically to keep them from sliding into oblivion. ‘Where did those new people come from?’ the Pope said. He was back in his bath now, observing the frantic activity on the bridge through slitted eyes.

  ‘We don’t know, but they are very powerful,’ said Mothersbaugh.

  ‘Well, they will learn not to mess with me. Did you send in the wreckers?’

  ‘Yes, I sent in the wreckers. Now, if you don’t mind, Holiness, I am slightly busy.’

  He’d never raised his voice to the Pope. No one had. He took a quick glance over his shoulder to where the Pope, with a large red ship in his right hand, wore his upper lip behind his lower. ‘I’m the Pope,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mothersbaugh. ‘Yes, you are.’

  The wreckers are a fearsome sight: unspeakably massive spheres of blackened steel with spinning blades around their circumference. When they spin, the diamond-coated blades become a blur of destruction. The effect is like being attacked by a gang of angry young moons. Whole fleets had been sliced to pieces by these weapons. But Descharge, standing on the operations deck beside the Klaxon commander, felt that the Pope’s command had made a tactical blunder.

  ‘They’ve had to stand down their forward guard to make room for the wreckers. Send your compact fighters through the gaps between the blades.’

  The Necronaut was already ahead of all of them. Descharge had removed himself to the bridge of the Klaxon command ship where he could be of most use. Now he saw the small, familiar shape of his old ship streak towards the enemy lines. ‘What is that fool boy doing?!’ But he already knew exactly what the Necronaut’s new pilot, Roberto, was doing. He was going to rescue his friend.

  Stupid boy.

  *

  ‘I wish you would not be so impulsive, boy!’ said Fabrigas Two. When he had ditched his crippled craft and climbed aboard the Necronaut he was surprised to find it being piloted by a lone boy. The remaining sailors and slaveys had all opted to abandon it for the comfort and safety of the Klaxon cruisers. Only Roberto had refused to leave, and now he sent the craft skidding over the frightening blue disc of a wrecker. But where to find his friend in all this mayhem? As he flung the ship through a gap between the spinning balls and left the wreckers behind he found a zone of calm filled with smoking remnants. He had travelled through dimensions to find his friend, and now he didn’t know where to go. He had the map to the entire Omniverse inside his head, but there was nothing in his head to tell him exactly where his little green companion was. He closed his eyes, searching the darkness for a clue – just as Dark Hand had taught him to do. He searched his subconscious for details of the papal fleet, their prisoner management systems, their justice and execution protocols. He cut the whole fleet down to just a few possible places she could be. Then he saw her. In his mind he saw Lenore standing in space, but not in space. He saw her standing on the platform, and when he opened his eyes, there it was. He saw a palace, and from the palace stretched a slender thread, and at the end of the thread was a platform. She stood like a bright chunk of flesh on the end of a hook. Roberto pressed his hands against the windows of the Necronaut and cried out; it was a cry straight from his soul. ‘Don’t fear, boy,’ cried F2. ‘We’ll rescue your little friend,’ but when he turned again the boy was gone.

  *

  Lenore was running out of time.

  ‘And now, by the power invested in me by – gah!’ A fuel tank bounced off the platform deck with a ringing tong-ong-ong, then flew off in the direction of the hole, and the judge suddenly forgot what he was doing. ‘I pronounce you ready to die. You may now kiss the … sky.’ There was a rocket’s roar as another piece of debris punched through the bubble, only this one didn’t hurtle on towards the abyss, this one pulled up and landed in a cloud of purple steam. Lenore caught the scent and cried, ‘Roberto!’ Roberto shrugged off the emergency jet packs, looked around the deck at the gang of heavily muscled papal goons, then held up a hand, shrouded in blue energy, and spoke, in a voice he hadn’t used in years. It was a breathy, husky slip of a voice, from a small, scruffy slip of a boy. He said, ‘I am Roberto, and I am here to kill you all.’

  The guards roared.

  ‘It’s kill or be killed here,’ laughed the judge as a large gas cylinder caromed off the deck. ‘Right then. I’m off.’ He straightened his wig. ‘Throw them in the black hole. But butcher them with your knives as well, will you? Can’t be too careful.’ And he trotted back down the catwalk on his fat little legs.

  ‘Oh, we will,’ called a guard. ‘It’ll be our pleasure.’ They each drew a long knife from their cassocks.

  ‘Well, Roberto, even though you can’t hear me, I’m happy you came back to rescue me. I wish you could only buy me a few minutes. I’m trying to speak with someone. With my mind.’

  As the guards came grinning towards him Roberto raised his hand, arcing blue, and sent a bolt of energy into the chest of the nearest guard who went skidding back with a grunt. As two more guards rushed him the boy thrust his free hand into his pocket, removed a small packet, and sent a haze of silver sparks across the shiny deck. When the guards trod on the diamonds with their heavy boots they found their legs flying out from beneath them.

  ‘Good work, Roberto,’ said Lenore. ‘Just another minute, please.’ But more guards were circling and the boy was almost out of tricks. That’s when the children each felt a giant hand upon their shoulders. Roberto spun round, ready to deliver a blue bolt of death, and froze in amazement.

  ‘Welcome back, my friend,’ said Lenore.

  The possessor of the giant hands leaned down and whispered in her ear, ‘Hello, little peach. You’ll have all the time you need. At least if I’m to have a say.’

  MY MASTER THE MONSTER

  Of course, you know that when a person is close to death – as so many of our friends are right now – the events of their life flash through their mind at a phenomenal speed. It happens as their mind scans its database for information, playing their life back like a high-speed cine play, searching among the flickering moments for an experience that might offer a way out of their predicament. Can you imagine what that’s like for Roberto, whose mind was filled with a universe of information? Or for Bosun Quickhatch, whose memories from birth to death were mostly, though not entirely, terrifying?

  Jacob Quickhatch had been grabbed around the legs by the Makatax and tossed against the cave wall like a broken puppet. He’d woken on his back in the monster’s den, astonished to find he’d not yet been eaten. He’d watched red shadows sway drunkenly on the walls. He’d quickly pieced together the events of the past few hours: the cannibals, the slide, the all-too-brief encounter with the Makatax. He’d known he didn’t have much time; monsters seldom leave their den for long. He’d heard a voice: ‘Go back. Go back on the pile. There’s a good thing. Back on the pile. With the bones and worms. My Master Makatax will soon return.’ Bones, worms, he’d felt them wriggling under his back, the fat, maggoty worms. The smell was fierce, the kind so bad that you can taste it. ‘It’s a miracle you survived.’ The voice, high-pitched and dull. ‘No one has ever survived his attention. But you’re hurt badly.’ The red glow-worms hung in clumps, they shone like coals. He had tried to lift his he
ad. Pain. Nearby he’d seen Albert the Worm lying, eyes open, neck at a whimsical angle. Jacob had struggled to all fours, wobbled, heard a laugh from the shadows. ‘Don’t try to move or I’ll call my master the monster. He comes when I call.’

  So that was who the voice belonged to: the monster’s servant. Helping the beast in return for treasures pilfered from victims, perhaps. ‘If you help me escape I’ll give you a treasure,’ said the bosun. It hurt to speak. ‘It’s true silver.’

  ‘I am sure it is!’ said the voice in the shadows. Quickhatch saw a gleaming moon swinging in the dimness. ‘I stole your watch while you were sleeping. You have nothing to bargain with, giant.’

  ‘That is not the treasure I was speaking of, devil. That is the watch my father gave me. It is more precious to me than anything in the universe, but worthless to you. It isn’t even true silver.’ The bosun dangled a sacred silver circle on its chain in his bloody, trembling fingers. ‘But this is.’

  ‘What is that?’ the voice had said. ‘What have you hid from me?’

  ‘It’s a Holy Circle, given me by the Pope the day I joined his guards. It’s silver from the Church’s mines – the purest there is.’ A circle: because in life all paths lead back to the Pope. ‘This object, and anyone who has it, is blessed.’

  ‘You are a priest?’

  ‘I was drafted. But I escaped.’

  ‘Lie! No one escapes the Pope’s mercies.’

  ‘I did, after they went to pillage my home. They burned our villages, killed many of my old friends. So I escaped. I escaped and went off into space alone. And the Pope, you’ll find, has no mercy.’