He leant forward to peer round, but saw nothing. Not at first. But as he turned his gaze to the right, he did see something: the nose of his Godhead, the enormous dome-covered nose of the behemoth. And something struck him immediately. It was on the wrong side. His Godhead was a mirror image of the real one!
…unless of course…
He was then overtaken by a wave of embarrassment so high it would have overtopped the Godhead itself. How could he not have suspected it? How could it not have occurred to him? How could he have been so friggin' stupid? Dead, indeed. In bloody Heaven, indeed. What a prick! What a prize plonker of the first water!
Renton had stumbled across his true situation, and not before time. Those plans in Kanker's office had shown almost every detail of the Godhead, but not absolutely every one of them. And not the rather large detail that the final version of the Godhead had a second eye. A left eye, exactly the same in every respect as its right neighbour - but just a spare. An extravagant piece of insurance that Kanker had decided on late in the Godhead's construction. Just in case the unthinkable happened and his “good eye” got punched out in some way - and with it his mote.
He would have a back-up. Another eye, with another bridgeroom and another mote, to which all the functions of the ship could be switched. He was a careful man, our Kanker, and not the sort to leave anything to chance. Of course, he never expected to use it. But you couldn't be too careful. Not even when you were a god.
Unfortunately for him, he hadn't counted on some limp-brain who couldn't tell his left from his right, first of all breaking his way into the bellows chamber, and then taking the wrong way out of it, taking the airlock on the left side of the chamber rather than the one on the right. And by doing so, ending up in the left eye - where he had no business to be, no business at all.
But hell, you can't think of everything!
67.
Back in the bridgeroom of the right eye, things were hotting up. And at the centre of the heat was Grader. He was on fire, a terrible raging fire that was consuming everything about it. Boz had never seen anything quite like it before. He was superb, another Meitchars, but with an energy that even Meitchars couldn't match. He did everything so quickly. He was a blur. A lethal, white-hot whirlwind whipping a trail of death through the bridgeroom, bodies littering his wake like so many uprooted trees. He was devastating.
Not that the other three were any slouches - and certainly not Meitchars. He was busy spreading maser and mayhem amongst Kanker's men like you wouldn't believe. And all the time he was leaping about on those long legs of his, like some supercharged thing-on-a-spring.
Together, the four musketeers were obliterating the crew of the bridgeroom. And even the first of the newly arrived reinforcements couldn't halt their extinction.
And now Meitchars was at the mote door. He must have seen Kanker glaring out at him from behind his protective walls. But he was ignoring him. Instead he was examining the lock. As soon as he could, Boz joined him, and started to inspect it himself.
He shook his head.
'Real problems, man,' he shouted above the noise of the battle - now safely in the hands of just Mad and Grader. 'This here sonofa bitch is a vari-type job. Combination done change by the minute. An' only that ole sour-faced sod in there knows how to work it. He'll have some kinda clever code or other. But weez ain't. An' that means weez stuffed. Sorry, my man, but I'm right really stumped.'
And when Boz was this stumped, then so too was their cause - as Kanker appeared to observe.
He started to laugh. He started to laugh like a madman. Boy, was he some kinda creep!
68.
When a little light on his display console told him that the bridgeroom of the left eye had been entered by force, Kanker's reaction was nothing less than god-like.
'Ah, suffer more of the little peasants to come unto me,' he said to himself, (misunderstanding the use of the word “suffer” entirely). 'For pestilence shall come amongst them!' Accurate enough in intent, but not quite as faithful to the original as he believed.
It was another mild irritation. No more than that. If anything, he was slightly amused to think of all the effort that these ruffians were putting into their work. All the wasted effort. Because they stood just as much chance of getting into the left mote as they did of getting into the one he was in now. And that was no chance at all. It was a waste of their time. And without access to either mote, they couldn't do a thing.
Nevertheless, they couldn't be ignored. He'd despatch a detachment of troops to the left bridgeroom straightaway. They could sort the buggers out - give them a good dose of pestilence. And they could do it quickly. They could take a direct route to the new irritation, a tunnel-way that led between the two bridgeroom floors of the twin eyes. They'd be there in no time at all. And then the peasants would suffer. 'Like as unto me as they've ever suffered before.'
He sighed. 'Pity really. They tried so hard. But they're such bumpkins. They haven't a chance. They haven't a hope in hell. Not a hope.'
Oh dear, another blunder in his thinking. But quite understandable. How could he have imagined that there was someone out there - a peasant at that - who saw numbers in colours - just like he did? And the same colours. The one is white, two is yellow, three is red and so on sequence. And that the someone in question, one Renton Tenting, a knight of his discarded League, was the very person responsible for this latest diversion. That it was he who was in the left bridgeroom.
And that with his happy colour coincidence he had already violated the sanctity of that other mote. He was actually in it. In the other holy of holies. And was just about to realise its potential.
Anyway, he had something else on his mind. Something far more important. Something just seconds away.
69.
Renton was still standing at the window when it started. There was a rumble first, from somewhere deep in the Godhead. Then a distant roaring sound, which grew louder by the second. Then the cloud. Kanker was breathing his breath. His monstrous creation was spewing out its filthy innards into the air above Shrubul. He had done it. The devil had done it.
It snapped Renton out of his reverie like a slap across the face. He had work to do. He was a knight. And he needed to do something. And to do something pretty damn quickly.
His training took over. He switched into assessment mode. What did he know?
First, his colleagues had “failed”. However much they'd achieved in that other eye, they hadn't been able to complete their mission. They hadn't killed Kanker. Or if they had, not before he'd managed to activate the Godhead's breath. And he had to assume they could now do nothing to stop its progress. It was down to him. Only he could choke off that terrible gush of deadly dust.
Second. He was in Kanker's mote room, his spare mote room. A room that controlled things - or at least had the potential to control things.
Third. He had no time at all. There was already so much dust. He didn't just need to act quickly; he needed to act now. While there was still any point.
'OK,' he said to himself. 'Let's see what we've got. And he leapt into the mote's central console chair, Kanker's number two throne.
What he had was mostly what he could understand: fairly standard steering gear, a hyper-drive master control, comms equipment, the normal stuff of any spacecraft cockpit. Only all a bit poncy, all a bit over the top, with a few too many whistles and far too many bells. But it didn't have anything that looked like a bellows control, something that was marked: “God's breath. Stop/Start”. And, of course, nothing that was live. The whole mote was on downtime. There wasn't a light on anywhere. Not even a dim one. And not a single buzz and not a single whir. Nothing.
But, wait a minute. There was something on the wall here… And it said… it said: “Left-eye master switch”, and it was on “off”. It couldn't be, surely. It couldn't be that simple. No. It wasn't possible. But there again…
Renton's heart began to race. He had something here. At least, he had to assum
e he had. But he knew he mustn't throw it away. He had to have a clear idea of what he was going to do before he did anything. And that meant before flicking that master switch. That would be bound to announce his possession of the mote. And he wanted to leave that until the last possible moment. So think. Think, you tosser! And think bloody fast!
And so he thought and he thought and he thought even more, conscious all the time of that dusty death settling around Shrubul below. Then he let out a loud whooping sound and leapt in his seat. He had it. He had an idea. A plan. One that might even work. And five seconds later he was putting his plan into action.
He reached over to the left-eye master switch and flicked it to “on”. It worked. The mote rose from the dead in an instant, the room filling with lights, whirs and buzzes, even as his finger left the switch.
Renton allowed himself a smile, but not a pause. He was into the star chart index within three seconds and the hyper-drive control within ten. Then the two were linked, and he had them talking to each other. And then the destination protocol was complete, and the indicator lights came on. And he didn't so much hit the hyper-drive button as punch it.
And the Godhead was gone, gone from the skies above Shrubul and into the far depths of space. But not that far. It was warping its way to somewhere only fairly close in cosmic terms - but somewhere very special, somewhere Renton had chosen from the star chart index.
They would be there quite soon. Then he would see whether his idea had been as good as he thought.
And whether his training for knighthood had all been worthwhile…
70.
Kanker was literally quivering with rage. Drifts of dandruff were shaking themselves loose from his scalp and falling like snow from his head. It was surreal.
He had never been quite so angry before. But, of course, he had never been quite so upset before, so outrageously interfered with. It was only a minute into the Godhead's great blast of dust, just sixty seconds of orgasmic excitement… And then that terrible coitus interruptus, that cold douse of hyper - and with it just pain.
And how the hell had they done it? How the hell had they got into that mote? It just wasn't possible. Not in a million years. But somehow, someone was in. In there now, sitting on his other throne and effin' well running his ship. The bastard had it in hyper and there was sod all he could do about it. When that stupid idiot had banged it into warp, he'd shorted the whole damn hyper system. The two motes were never supposed to be on at the same time in the first place. And now it was fucked. The hyper control was as dead as his dandruff. There was nothing he could do until they were back into normal space, nothing that would give him back the control of his Godhead. Not until then. He would just have to be patient - and wait. It was difficult, but at least the waiting gave him a chance to let his rage abate. And gradually he was able to restore himself to his normal sour mood - or his state of “divine calm” as he now liked to call it. And he did this with a bit of less-than-divine contemplation. He simply contemplated the inevitable. What would still be the certain end to these ruffian invaders and how their cause was a lost one, even now, despite everything they'd managed to do, and after all the havoc they'd wreaked on his beautiful ship.
To start with, there were the four marauding savages out there in the bridgeroom. He could see them now through the wall of his mote: his erstwhile big-time fall guy, Grader, then Meitchars, soddin' piety personified - and on stilts - and another two he didn't know, some bird and a bloody great reptile. Well, all four of them were done for. They'd all soon be dealt with for good. They might have survived up to now, but they couldn't keep fighting forever. Sooner or later they'd succumb. They had to. They hadn't a chance. Not with the numbers they were up against. And more were still coming - and would keep coming for as long as it took. It was only a matter of time. Then they'd be gone. No longer a threat. No longer an affront to his greatness - to his budding divinity.
Then there were the intruders in the other eye. Well, it would be the same story for them. And soon. Any time now they'd have a few visitors, a few dozen of his own men. And that would be that. There couldn't be that many of them anyway. And they'd be butchered before they could run, the whole lot of them killed where they stood.
Hell, there might even be just one of them, the one little bastard who was there in the mote and fucking things up. And, of course, that could be another little problem in itself - but a problem that was easily solved. Because even if he'd locked himself in, try as he might, he couldn't lock the Great One out. And, more to the point, he couldn't do anything in there anyway. When they were out of hyper, he was stuffed. And if he tried anything clever, like disarming the domes or deactivating the mass repulser, it just wouldn't work. It'd be countered instantaneously. Kanker would make sure of it. Only the hyper was buggered; the other systems were still accessible. And they would be accessed. And they would be used - by their rightful owner. So if he couldn't lower the Godhead's defences and he couldn't run it into a planet, just about all he could do was sweet fuckin' squit. And that wasn't going to worry anyone. It certainly wasn't going to worry Kanker.
'So, you peasants, it's just a matter of time. Just a matter of a very short time and then the Godhead's mine again. Mine alone! And you'll all be dead! Defeated and dead!
'You were never going to hurt me and you never will. And do you want to know why? Well, I'll tell you. Because you're all insignificant peasants, tiny mustard seeds, microscopic camels in the eye of a needle…'
And so he went on, dragging up more and more biblical inaccuracies as he waited for the end, the inevitable end to the violation of his Godhead - and the dreadful affront to its God.
71.
There were, however, no such inaccuracies in his assessment of events in his bridgeroom.
Indeed Boz was beginning to think that he might not be renewing his subscription to Detective Monthly. There was a tide in this bridgeroom, and it was turning against them. Even Grader was flagging. And still more of Kanker's hordes were pouring into the chamber. It was hopeless.
They needed a miracle. And quickly. Without that there was no question about it; Detective Monthly's circulation would be down by one reader. And they'd lose him forever; they'd not get him back.
72.
Renton wasn't thinking about Detective Monthly at all. Indeed he was unaware it even existed. Instead he was thinking about Madeleine. And worrying about her. Had she managed that dreadful task or had she succumbed to the dust? What was she doing now? Was she still alive? And if she were, would she be able to stay alive? Would he ever see her again?
He was becoming despondent. His interest in his plan was draining away. He wondered whether it was worth the bother. But then he chided himself…
This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all. What would Madeleine think if he lost his resolve now? She'd never forgive him. That's what. And he wouldn't deserve to be forgiven. She'd expect him to finish what he'd started and finish it properly. And she'd expect him to make damn sure that he could finish it. That he wouldn't do anything stupid and let someone stop him. Like leaving himself exposed in any way. Like leaving the mote door open, when he could have locked it and kept himself…
'Shit! The door. Stroll on, Renton, what the hell are you playing at? This is for real. This isn't Heaven. And there are real thugs on this ship. And some of them could be turning up at any moment…'
As he rose from his seat, they were turning up. They were streaming into the bridgeroom like rats on the rampage. And they were heading straight for the mote, straight for its door.
He was on to it in a flash. But not a second too soon. As it closed with a thud, its outside surface became a mist of maser bursts. He felt them judder the door in its frame. But he was safe. At least for now. No way would Kanker have given any of those thugs the key to his shrine. And without it they couldn't get in. That would take Kanker in person. And that wouldn't happen just yet. And definitely not before the Godhead was out of hyper.
He r
eturned to his seat, a little shaken but not too stirred. He would ignore the harmless-for-the-moment rabble outside, and focus instead on the about-to-start-in-a-moment challenge, the one that he'd set for himself as part of his plan. It would need all his concentration and all his finely tuned mental muscle. And all the skills that he'd learnt…
Then the moment was up. The Godhead came out of hyper. It had reached its destination, the terminus Renton had chosen - his “terminal terminus” choice.
73.
Kanker first realised they were out of hyper when he could see dust again. It was swirling about outside the window of his mote. Whatever had happened in hyper, the Godhead now appeared to be cloaked in its own foul breath - and he could see nothing of where they had come.
Then he listened. The bellows were silent. They must be in deep space somewhere. The vacuum of their surroundings had shut down the bellows prematurely. It was the only thing that could override their predetermined running time.
Then he caught sight of a monitor above his central console. It was telling him that there was some plasma activity. Some of the domes had started to pulse. A whole cluster of them on the left ear was blasting away to its heart's content. And then another cluster - at the base of the chin. Then the whole of the left cheek erupted into life. There must have been a five-mile swathe of them down there, pulsing away for all they were worth.
Then the dust cloud began to dissipate. Kanker had his first glimpse of where Renton had brought them. And within seconds, the first glimpse became a crystal-clear view. Kanker could see everything. He could see just where they were. And why the domes were excited.
They were in the middle of a bloody asteroid belt.
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