The men and women of Christiana developed a straight edge ascetic dogma of simple and violent living with which they sought to create a permanent sovereign state. The first converts were urban explorers genuinely under the impression the base was deserted; over weeks of interrogation, Stockholm syndrome worked its magic and it they became reinforcements. Others heard of them and the growing community absorbed a form of muscular Christianity not seen since the dark days of Empire. By God and his Right the self proclaimed Archbishop Angon Duke ruled his subjects, driven by bitter hatred of the Navy, Britain and all she stood for. He had not always been a soldier; once he was a shipwright like his father and grandfather before him. Abadios Duke was chief architect of the Deus Vult and his grandson showed all his promise but none of his piety, for Angon was a mystic. The machinery of death alone fired his imagination and he rose through the ranks of the Kings Engineers to unleash his greatest creation; a source code to the doom of mankind hidden in plain view within a warship five miles long. This illustrates an inescapable consequence of the Rule of Large Numbers; once an organisation reaches a certain size, somebody somewhere is guaranteed to be doing something bloody stupid.
End of Days was built to be the most impressive thing to leave Earth since the Ascension and from day one it was a death trap. It was big for a reason, it was crap for a reason, and the reason was pure evil. When the Navy learned they had a spaceship of pure evil on their hands they called in the Brotherhood of Stellar Friars. The Brotherhood is an Anglican organisation charged with pastoral duties among the Outer Colonies; their original purpose was to formulate a measured, level headed and above all bet hedging position for the Church to take re the possibility of alien life. The mandate of the Order changed radically when they made first contact with Alpha Centauri Bd, and has expanded ever since. The Friars pronounced the evil ticklish, but do-able on two conditions; firstly a change of name was required for the possessed vessel, a name of daring and courage great enough to cast pure light upon the evil and shame it into retreat. Once routed, the evil can only be contained by ensuring a crew of the highest moral and professional standards; virtual superheroes. Christ on a bike you don’t want much exclaimed the Navy, to which the Friars replied the Navy was welcome to melt the whole ship down for scrap; that’d work just as well. The Navy thanked the Friars and retired to discuss their evil spacecraft over drinks. The name change sounded like bollocks but was voted worth a try; superheroes were another thing entirely.
The End of Days was renamed the Eric ‘Winkle’ Brown and fobbed off onto the Outer Infantry. If pure evil comes after those people, the Navy reasoned, at least they’ll eat that night and maybe restock the freezers. Angon Duke was sent to spend his life quashing mutinies among similarly disgraced subordinates in the most pointless posting ever posted; a decommissioned bunker trapped within an acid atmosphere.
In those situations you just have to make your own amusement.
Angon the Mystic heard a sound behind him in the shadows but did not start; he was after all expecting a visit. The young man who casually strolled into Angon’s own dimension went by any name he pleased and here he was the Zigeuner; it was a slur from an adversary, but one he accepted with good grace as largely true. He sniffed the fetid air in the claustrophobic chamber.
“Still not giving in to the old soap and water then, boss?”
“The abandonment of bodily vanity concentrates the intellect upon the infinite” Angon intoned automatically. His fasting breath was pretty concentrated as well, thought the Zigeuner; food scarcity had brought down more than one previous ruler, but Angon made borderline starvation a virtue.
“And Panacea destroys your sense of smell.” Duke ignored this; olfactory failure took eighty percent of taste with it and gluttony was a deadly sin, but you couldn’t expect an infidel to appreciate the finer points.
“You bring news?”
“Yeah but you’re not going to like it.”
“How many have returned?”
“Three.” Duke ground his teeth in frustration. He had such hopes when he first realised the potential of this being; a personal Djinn enslaved to his command, leading his troops in an onslaught of anarchy from which he, Angon, would arise the natural and undisputed ruler of the three systems! Reason would fall to technomancy, but first the old order must be swept away in fire! The Zigeuner had his own agenda, regrettably, and it was this simple question; what if you could kill Hitler?
Drawn to Angon Duke by a sense of history building around the man, he agreed to lead troops via separate microdimensions, wherein a government building may be open meadow or industrial wasteland; it was a rare ability among Homo sapiens, although Centaurians and Barnards had the knack. The trouble was twenty well equipped and fanatical warrior monks had a habit of arriving at the other end as two or three terrified recruits under the sole command of the Zigeuner, resulting in a handful of low key deaths of seemingly random persons in backwater places. Vengeful God only knew what he’d done with the others, but Angon had received reports of some being returned to their families.
“Our… relationship is not working to my advantage.”
“Suits me; I’ve seen all I need to see.”
“Ah, your true purpose among us has long eluded me. Will I even now learn what you have learned?”
“I have learned no individual is important; events transform worlds but figureheads are interchangeable.” Angon suppresses a chuckle at the boys’ ignorance and naivety.
“Then you have learned a lie for all your powers; there exist men of destiny! Great events stem from great men; you cannot achieve the former without the latter!” The Zigeuner shrugs, hands in pockets he smiles as he steps back from the picture. If he thought as Angon did he would have to kill him, but someone else would inevitably fill the hole in history.
“Whatever works for you, old fellah.”
Every megalomaniac needs a noble cause, a banner under which to rally the troops and Angon Duke maintained the relationship between Bd and Earth was of slave and master, casting himself as saviour of the Alpha system. A young acolyte named Selim, one of many born in Christiana, is helping the Igniters set up while espousing their creed to Miles.
“It’s quite shocking how Bd has been opened up to non-native peoples who destroy its beauty and steal its wealth! Archbishop Duke says we have a duty to resist exploitation on behalf of those who are too weak and disorganised to protect their own culture!” Miles considered the Centaurians. These were the people who had taken Mankind to the moon and opened the systems to everyone with the StringStreamer drive; it was difficult to square them with the acolytes’ description.
“Um, you do know we’re all miners, right?”
“Ah yes, but native born! We’ve nothing against a true Centaurian working the blessed land we all share in comradeship; just look to our art!” Selim flings out an enthusiastic arm; the hall is indeed bedecked with murals depicting muscular workers engaged in the godlike state of honest labour. Miles took in one ripped Adonis operating his jackleg with an expression of stoic piety. Miles very much doubted he personally had ever looked that noble, but it was a stirring image; kind of made you want to grab a drill, leap down the shaft in one bound and blast out rock for the Motherland. The sudden racket of Deadman testing a snare drum through a four kilowatt public address rig shook him from his patriotic reverie. Christ he thought, that was a close one!
Proxima Road, Port Alpha
Some Way Off is Now
Anna could always move back in with the girls, but the flat meant a lot to her. Ever since she crossed the threshold it’s been a world of their own; when she shut the door there was the sofa and warmth and vlogs and eventually bed and possibly sex if she felt like it, but those increasingly frequent months when Miles couldn’t find the rent nearly wiped out her own earnings, leaving little for food and utilities.
“It’s not just the prison time; you hold down a job for a week then jack it in because you can’t get time off for a g
ig.”
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t do it anymore; your band isn’t my bus, it’s just something I hitched a ride on. It was different when we were both working; we didn’t have much but I had a partner, now I just have a pet and...”
“What?” Anna stares at the ceiling; Miles can see her eyes are reddening. She drops her head, hair hangs over her face and her voice is barely audible.
“I’m losing respect for you.” Her words stung and he didn’t even know why; it had never occurred to Miles she respected him.
“We’re so close; with a bit more time we can start to make some real money.” Even as he spoke he knew the words lacked conviction. It was never about money; money was just an excuse. Miles didn’t know anything about art but he knew who Van Gogh was, everyone did, and the man only sold one painting in his life.
“I’m going back to Earth. You should know there’s a job waiting for you, and I don’t want to lose you.” She knows he’s not coming.
“I love you.” They said it together for the first and last time and it couldn’t change a thing. Miles knew he would always be hers; the only difference now was she would no longer be his.
Countless teenage romances crash and burn and of course it feels like the end of the world; why wouldn’t it? Every gene in your body is telling you there should be a mate. Where, the genes want to know, is the mate? We know you had one and now they’re not here! What do you think you’re playing at?! When your own DNA holds you in contempt you’re going to have a bad time, and it is true Miles never properly mourned his mother and sister, so all that had been bricked up somewhere waiting for the worst possible moment. Foundling Hospital had been no place for a weepy eleven year old, and his loss was hardly unique when all’s said and done.
Anna’s departure didn’t break the camels’ back; it smashed it clean through the desert floor. He’d come to define himself by the relationship; they were a whole, he was something less and the loneliness was killing him. Her colourful clutter disguised the Spartan sticks of his material existence; with it gone, grey shapes devoid of context stuck out here and there like broken teeth. Intermittent patches of dust free carpet referenced a previous life.
When Miles was little he had a book of quotes, a stocking filler from some Cliffmas past. One in particular always puzzled him; sometimes goodbye is just a painful way to say I love you. With Anna gone he gets it now, and takes to the drink; alcohol made space for happy thoughts by keeping the bad thoughts away. His horizons were expanding in all the wrong directions, mostly downwards.
They do mushrooms again one night, just the four of them alone in the clubhouse after hours; psilocybin can have a defragmenting effect on troubled minds, and for some it’s the ultimate fresh perspective. They hike to the edge of their world where the dome meets the ground; this far out, with zero light pollution, the view of fixed and wandering stars is astonishing. Dangerous atmospheric gases penetrate the aerogel here, making limbs heavy and voices slurred. When they were kids they’d come this way and breathe into paper bags until they fell over laughing; substitute bags for Kush and little has changed.
“Should have bought a cooler” notes Deadman “these beers are going to get warm.”
“Put ‘em in direct moonlight; it’s colder there” suggests Miles. Artificial daylight is slowly dialled back through early evening, revealing the weak light of three small moons.
“No it’s not; moonlight’s reflected from the sun, they’ll be better off in the shade.” Miles shrugs.
“Do what you like, but me and Jimbob took a bunch of thermometers outside one night when we were seven; stayed up all night checking them and it’s colder in moonlight.” Jimbob nods.
“S’right; I’ve still got the notes somewhere. We wrote down the locations and checked each one every hour.” Deadman furrows his brow.
“I’m calling bullshit on this; why would you stay up all night when you could just check them in the morning?”
“Dude, we were seven and it was an excuse. It’s true though; moonlight’s cold.”
At two a.m. they take up positions on the ground staring upwards and wait for the spectacle of the BMC Earth Freighter, an impressive sight even when you’re not tripping balls; up into the night shines a narrow laser beam which will heat the spinning craft to cushion her descent. Then comes the first faint flash of light, then another and another; they could hear the superheated atmosphere exploding beneath the giant saucer’s mirrored hull now, louder and faster as the descending spacecraft obscures the stars and fills their vision with her great electroplated art deco image of Britannia. Miles had always fancied that particular Britannia; she’s got great hair and her own lion, which is pretty badass. He wouldn’t kick her out of bed for Lady Liberty, he could tell you that much. He is prevented from objectifying further coinage by Deadman suddenly screaming into the silence at the top of his lungs.
“The Martians are invading! They’ll probe us all!” Everyone is pulled back from the cosmos in fits of giggles; there is not one shred of evidence to prove the Martian people have ever performed anal examinations on humans, but still this kind of talk persists, and it says a lot more about humans than it does about Martians.
Over the course of the night Miles does get some perspective, but it’s pretty bleak. He realises even if Anna took him back she couldn’t take him back two years; he wanted to be where he felt safe and happy but that was a time, not a person. He can’t shake the feeling she took something when she left; he can’t imagine what it could be but it feels important, like he’d spend his life looking for it if he only knew what it was. He can’t shake the delusion she’s important, but has to accept he’s grasping for patterns in the chaos and she’s just an old girlfriend. In all likelihood, Miles pondered, nothing I do or feel is ever going to be important. That should be a downer, but a weight lifts from his soul; the outside world can get along without him, nobody needs him and nobody will be betrayed if he doesn’t have a bad time in their absence. Stand easy, private; the war is over.
The experience hauls him off the ledge for a while; making new memories can do that for you. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t always last; a breathing space is a breathing space and a rare and valuable resource in its own right, whatever the cause. Come daybreak they douse the campfire and head for the pithead sharing a jug of amphetamine wine on their commute, temporarily putting their lives on hold in order to pay for them. Another day, another dollar. Minus tax and insurance, of course.
“Second wind in a bottle” notes Jenny. Deadman takes a draught and nods. One by one they’d lost permanent employment status due to musical commitments and just turned up each day hoping the shift would be understaffed enough to take them all. When it wasn’t they drew straws.
“Speed for breakfast, Blue Cheer for lunch and we all eat something this evening; agreed?” Fists are raised in consensus.
Port & Sunlight Police Cells
Teatime
“You bleeding splitarse!” Deadman is on the phone to Miles “You were supposed to be covering Thursday!” Miles was the first to admit it did sound like the sort of thing he was supposed to be doing, but was taken aback somewhat by Deadmans’ tone.
“Well obviously I’d sooner drive a hauler than do time but it’s rather out of my hands! If it’s any consolation I’ve left three other guys in the shit as well so it’s not like it’s, y’know, directed at you or anything.” Deadman hung up and Miles stared blankly at the purring receiver. Sometimes he seriously worried about Deadmans’ priorities; here was he, Miles, unjustly banged up for ten days with a chemical toilet and three snoring bag snatchers and all that prick cares about is the rota!
Ah.
Thursday may just possibly be Deadmans’ Grans’ funeral.
Bugger.
It was getting increasingly difficult to stay on top of every little thing.
We have desires we do not always desire, and wants nobody should want; we deny or indulge them, and a righ
twise place on the spectrum has long concerned our greatest minds. Epicurus advocated a path of moderation to intensify enjoyment; whatever your pleasure, the curses of compulsion and physical tolerance condemn wonder to fade and palates to jade. Miles doesn’t do medium and it’s all or nothing with people like that; they’re cursed to burn through what should last a lifetime in the blink of an eye and are never sated, everything is reduced to a temporary sticking plaster over some gaping wound. The Crossroads is not and never was a physical place; it is of the soul.
“I fully appreciate there are people with worse problems than mine” he explained to Jimbob in the lift one hungover morning “but theirs cannot be solved by alcohol; mine can.”
“Are coming out this weekend? We’re taking the bikes to Speedway One on the maglev.”
“Wasn’t it abandoned years ago? There’s not even air in there.”
“Bunch of rich pod guys bought it up to race and hire out; they’ve got timing lights and a three mile track. We’re going to find out what the bikes can really do; standing quarters, top speed, nought to sixty; you name it.”
“Nah, there’s something up with mine.”
“Man, there’s always something wrong with it you can’t be arsed to fix these days! I’m going to start stripping it for spares; I don’t imagine you’ll notice.” It wasn’t lack of desire to move on. Miles yearned to move on, but in all the bustling mayhem of Port Alpha and the vast social experiment which is New Sunlight nobody came close. On stage he became haunted by music in his head, which he found harder and harder to push out through the speakers; polyrhythmic and multi instrumental it defies expression. One night he punches a wall in frustration so has to play the next few shows with his lower arm in a cast, forcing his style into aggressive downstrokes. The weight makes it easy to whirl his arm like a windmill, hitting the strings on every revolution to produce a staccato barrage of power chords like an underground detonation, but his relationship with the audience becomes antagonistic and the shows develop a reputation for violence; an increasing number of venues ban the new sound.
The Only War Page 7