'So come on, Missy, get to it. Show me how you can patch up your wizard plan so that it stands more than a twat in Hell's chance of coming out good. Because you see, my dear Missy, I think you've blown it. And I mean, I think you've blown it completely.'
She glared at Cristalina with those dollop eyes and then she spat out her final tidings. 'You find him or you're stuffed - forever!'
And with that she waddled off in the direction of the lifeless Lagooners, no longer shivering with excitement but instead simply shaking with rage. She was now just a little bit angry…
42.
Orphenia had appeared from nowhere. Madeleine, Boz and Renton had been making their way to the Lagooners' domain, and there she was - as if she'd known they were coming. And, of course, she had known. It was her job to know. And now it was her job to intercept them. This encounter was intentional - despite Renton's belief to the contrary.
'Orphenia, it's you,' he informed her urgently. 'I can't believe it. You're just the person I wanted to see!'
The diminutive Lagooner responded with a quiet: 'Hello, Renton.' followed by a courteous, 'Madeleine, Boz, I hope you're both well…'
'You know them?' asked Renton. 'You've met them before?'
'Well, of course she has,' advised Madeleine. 'Orphenia's been one of our main contacts. Although, I must say, I didn't know you knew her as well…'
There was just the slightest hint of irony in Madeleine's tone. But really only the very slightest; it was almost hidden behind the heavier hint of suspicion. But Renton ignored both. Instead he just carried on…
'So I don't need to introduce you,' he said. 'You already know them. In fact, I suppose you knew them before you knew me. I…'
'Oh shut up, Renton,' interrupted Madeleine. 'We haven't got time for all that. There's a job to do, remember? We've got to find the source thing - and quickly. There's no time to…'
'Yes OK, OK,' re-interrupted Renton. 'I was just going to…'
'I think what you mean is that you want to see our leader,' announced Orphenia. 'Our "Master". And you want to see him because you know he's being threatened. That troupe of women. And you're right. They're on their way now. And they're using masers. There is danger, very real danger. We hope you can help us.'
Renton was immediately lost for words. He hadn't been expecting such directness. And he certainly hadn't been expecting the source to be a person. And presumably a Lagooner sort of person at that…
It was therefore left to Boz to respond to Orphenia's statement. He was not lost for words - and he also appeared totally unfazed at the news that his theory was correct - or at the news that his “id” was in fact a goonie. Clearly, he would only have been fazed if his theory had been wrong.
'My dear,' he intoned gently, 'we are real de-lighted. And I mean real brightest-of-bright-lights de-lighted. Cos we know what this means…'
His eyes closed for a second.
'We know that it means that you trust us. An' o' course, it means that so too does your boss. An' that, my dear Orphenia, is right real warmin'. And I knows I'm speakin' for my two colleagues on that one. No way they don't think the same. An' you know that so far… well, like we've only been workin' for you… like, you know, you been payin' us an' all. But now, well we'll be punchin' for you as well. I mean, we'll be punchin' like we're on your side… Like we're one of you. An' well, we're pretty damn good at punchin'. An' I mean pretty damn good indeed…'
Then Boz hesitated before he went on in a more subdued tone.
'An' now… well, what can I say? Other than, Orphenia, Orphenia my dear, take us to your leader.'
This brought a smile to everyone's face. Even Orphenia's. And to Renton it also brought a realisation. And this was that he was now into one of those wonderful single-purpose periods of his life, where his whole existence had been pared down to the pursuit of a single goal. And what a goal… Nothing less than the salvation of a people - through the salvation of their leader - and with a bit of luck, the incidental comeuppance of a bunch of fairly unpleasant bruisers.
Renton also realised that he now identified with the Lagooners in a way that he simply hadn't before. And rather than regarding them as a bunch of ghouls, he'd now returned to appreciating them for what they really were: a mysterious and precious people whose existence needed to be cherished. And that's exactly what he'd do - and in any way he could.
So when Orphenia beckoned them to follow her, it was Renton who was the first off the blocks - and absolutely single-mindedly. No nagging concern about the implied rebuke in Madeleine's tone, no irksome embarrassment in still having to wear that dreadful green tracksuit, and not even a thought about his wayward hair. No, there was none of that, none of that at all.
Oh, and no hesitation, no regard for the perils that lay in store. Because he was now with Madeleine and Boz. And that made him invincible, untouchable, something beyond the reach of any danger.
So, all in all, he was pretty happy. In fact, he hadn't been this happy since his experience in the Bureau de Change - even if on this occasion, he knew that whatever lay in store, the climax bit couldn't conceivably be in the same league…
43.
The anger had subsided and Bessie now felt excited again - but also apprehensive. In fact, not since she was twelve had Bessie felt so excited and so apprehensive both at the same time. And that was when her mother had taken her to audition for the part of Tinkerbell, the queen of the fairies, in that most famous of screen-classics: “Pan-man III, The Reckoning”. They were making a new version of it, with all the cyborgs played by famous soap stars, and all the fairies and all the toadlets by young unknowns.
This was Bessie's “big chance”, her first real opportunity to break out of the anonymity that both she and her mother loathed. Because they both knew. They both knew that dear little Bessie was destined for great things, and that this would be the start, the launch pad to the big time. And God, was Bessie excited. She was almost slavering at the mouth. She just couldn't wait to get in front of those judges - and dazzle them with her brilliance. But there was apprehension there as well - mostly to do with the process, the fact that she would have to strut her stuff not only in front of the judges, but also in front of the deadbeats, all the other kids and their mums who were wasting an entire day of their lives in a futile attempt to outshine her brilliance. Silly really. After all, they didn't matter a toss. But, nevertheless, Bessie's apprehension remained.
It only disappeared when she walked out onto the stage to start her very own rendition of Tinkerbell's acid house lullaby - and the principal judge shouted out: 'No, no, it's toadlets in the afternoon. And anyway, young man, you're far too big for a toadlet. Far too big. If I were you, I wouldn't even bother…
'Next please. And get a move on…'
And that's all that Bessie ever remembered. Her excitement and her apprehension had been smothered by shock and disbelief - and with them her senses. She simply couldn't take anything in, not even the chorus of howls from the deadbeats, nor the sight of her mother assaulting the judges with her handbag - nor the trickle of warm as it ran down her leg…
But now it was all very different. Bessie had now proved herself. She didn't need a panel of judges to launch her into the firmament. She was there already. A business star. A commercial supernova. No, now it was something completely different and something far more important, something that would make her one of the very brightest features in the known universe - if not the brightest. And if that didn't warrant some excitement, then what the hell did?
And what's more, it was now all so close. It would start the very moment she got her great chubby hands on the guy in charge - who was also the guy with the knowledge. But there too lay the apprehension. Because Bessie knew that he'd now know that they nearly had him. He had to. They were killing any number of his minions. And there was no question about it: as each one went, he could see where they were and how close they were getting. And if he had any sense at all he'd be making a tactical
withdrawal, maybe to another part of the ship or maybe even away from the ship - in a life-launch or an escape pod. Bessie was really scared that he might still slip through her fingers. Indeed, only the sight of repeated Lagoonercide at the hands of her henchmen was keeping her anguish in check.
'Come on, you bastards,' she shouted as she waddled behind her troops. 'Come on and get a mouthful of maser, you weirdo faggots. You fuckin' apologies for people. You… you toadlets you!'
But it didn't register. There was some subconscious link going on there, but the memory was too deeply buried to make it to the surface. Even if Cristalina had launched into Tinkerbell's acid house lullaby at that very moment, Bessie wouldn't have got it. She just wouldn't have made the connection.
And anyway, the version of Pan-man III they ended up with was a flop. Apparently it lacked enough violence. Just like Bessie's progress at the moment didn't.
44.
Renton had expected some sort of throne room, with the Master on a suitably Master-type throne. And that the Master would have a suitably Master-type bearing. And a suitably Master-type calmness - even in the face of imminent mortal danger. Masters like him always did.
So it was a bit of a shock when Renton followed Orphenia into what looked more like a laboratory than a throne room, with not even a stool in sight, let alone a throne. And it was even more of a shock, when he then saw, cowering in a corner of the room, a very ordinary looking Lagooner, half hidden behind three others. Because this was the Master. Orphenia confirmed it - by giving him a deferential nod and then a sort of ritualised bow.
As Madeleine and Boz joined him in the room, Renton indulged in just three seconds to adjust his expectations to the actual, and then a similar time to absorb the detail of this actual.
It was indeed a laboratory. There were laboratory benches around its walls. And on these benches were various machines and containers, with, here and there, an odd bottle of chemicals, and in one corner, a very recognisable centrifuge. And in the middle of the room, there was another bench, and at its centre a rather large pot, a sort of silvery cylinder with a dome-shaped silvery lid. It was the only item in the whole room that was other than very ordinary.
Yes, there was no doubt about it; the Master and everything about his surroundings were all a bit of a let down. And, as so often is the case, not in the least like their PR had promised…
And now six seconds had elapsed since Renton had entered the room - and not a word had been spoken. And just as he was about to break this silence - with a greeting - he was stopped by a sound. It was a sound outside the room, and a sound he'd hoped he'd not hear - not this soon anyway. For it was the sound of masers, a number of them. And they were very close.
Renton deferred the planned salutation, and instead he began to worry. He worried about his maser, the maser he didn't have. What a clot! How could he have walked into this sort of situation without a weapon? And now it was second number ten, and the sound of running feet had replaced the sound of masers. It appeared their owners were nearly at the room.
Second number eleven was the climax of this saga. It contained a fraction of a second's relief as Renton saw out of the corner of his eye that his partners did have their masers, and then a nano-second of extreme shock as he realised that he and his partners were all being actively pipilled. And the shock was in part due to the identity of the pipillers; it was the three Lagooner guards. They each had a pipil drawn and they were each using its pipil power to hold one of the detectives in a state of frozen animation. Renton and his colleagues were all helpless, entirely incapable of doing anything at all with their bodies. And therefore entirely incapable of protecting themselves - or protecting the blasted owner of those stupid guards: that Mister might-miss-him-in-a-crowd Master.
But second number eleven still had a little time to go. And whether it was the power of the pipil mixed with all that telepathic flux, or whether Renton was just becoming sympatico with Orphenia, he couldn't tell. But he had a flash of revelation - about why they'd been restrained by those pipils. And it was all to do with not wanting the Master hurt. Those guards knew as well as Renton did what damage a maser could do, and how easily such damage could arise in crossfire - and especially crossfire in the very close confines of a room. Better to capitulate than to risk such a calamity. But to be able to capitulate, the guards needed first of all to neutralise their potential defenders. Quite simply, Boz, Madeleine and Renton had all been pipilled to prevent them from putting the life of the Master at risk - by trying to defend him.
So that was that, the game was over and so was second number eleven.
Then it was second number fifteen. Not immediately, of course. But well… you know, four seconds later. And if second number eleven had been the climax, then second number fifteen was the willy-shriveller. And it earned this title because it contained Bessie's entry into the room.
She was so repulsive. Renton couldn't remember seeing anything quite so repulsive since that verruca he'd had… But you couldn't put a plaster on this thing. And pipilled like this, you couldn't even look away.
She was with a posse of blondes - including the stunning one. And with no spare pipil power to hold them, they were soon in control. Renton's joint effort to save this tribe of Lagooners had been reduced to a shambles. And the process of reduction had been helped on its way by the Lagooners themselves. And all in all, that was even more of a let down than the absence of a throne and the less than inspiring features of the Master.
And it was really quite dispiriting as well…
45.
The last time Renton had been pipilled, things had become just a little bit uncomfortable. It was early on in his Dumpiter adventure, and then the pipil had been applied for a dangerously long time. Renton's brain had been on the point of rupturing. But on this occasion, things were very different. As soon as Bessie's broads had relieved Mad and Boz of their weapons, the pipils were disengaged. The Lagooner guards were clearly only interested in avoiding a fray, not in restraining their visitors indefinitely - and certainly not in doing them any harm. Renton and his friends soon had their willpower back - but unfortunately not their liberty. They were now Bessie's prisoners and entirely at her mercy. And entirely at the mercy of her siren of a voice…
'Right, just who the hell are you?' she shrieked. 'And what the fuck are you doing here?'
This enquiry didn't appear to be addressed to any of the three detectives in particular. So it was Boz, as their senior partner, who provided her with an answer.
'Well, my dear lady, I can understand your cautious-type curiosity. I really can. But may I assure you that there is no need to adopt such a demandin' tone. There really isn't. You see, weez are merely visitors here. Jus' like yourselves. An' we jus' happened to get ourselves…'
'Bullshit,' interrupted Bessie. 'Absolute fuckin' bullshit.'
'Always the optimist,' thought Renton. 'There was no way he was going to get away with that one. But, there again, it was worth a try. She could have been acutely simple as well as acutely ugly. Well maybe…'
'You take me for some sort of dickhead?' echoed Bessie. 'I wasn't born yesterday, you stupid pile of lizard shit. So you'd better stop pissing me about - and tell me who the fuck you are. Or you're in big trouble. I guarantee it.'
It was already apparent that what one had here was something less than a promising exchange. And it fell to Madeleine to extricate Boz from any of said “big trouble”. She did this by playing the honest-factual card. It was the only card in her hand.
'We're detectives,' she announced, 'and we're working for the Lagooners. They wanted us to find out who'd kidnapped two of their colleagues. And I think we have. Although I must confess, we don't actually know your name…'
Now, at this point, Renton was quite convinced that Madeleine's admission would lead to some further foul-mouthed enquiries. But it soon became apparent that Bessie was more interested in their ignorance of her identity than she was about their work. Her response made
this only too clear.
'Oh, you don't actually know my name?' she sneered. 'And I suppose you'll be telling me next you've never heard of a tiny little business called the Trampul Corporation. I mean, it's only the thirteenth biggest corporation in the universe. So it's a bit much to expect that a bunch of top shot pricks like yourselves might ever have heard of it. And as for knowing who runs it, who's been its chief executive for the last seven years - during which time, I might add, it's enjoyed a period of remarkable not to say unprecedented growth - well, I suppose there isn't the remotest effin' chance that you'd ever know that. No, that's about as likely as one of these effin' goonies getting a stiffy. So no chance at all. Not a halo's hope in Hell.'
'How strange,' thought Renton. 'Interrogator to informer. And all in thirty seconds. And what a thing to tell us - if it's true - that she's the boss of the Trampul Corporation. And if she is, what the hell is she doing here - and mixed up in all this sort of stuff? She's either lying of she's crazy. Or maybe it's not quite crazy. Maybe it's just that she's so bloody full of her own importance that she can't keep quiet about it. It's amazing, quite amazing. I wonder what she'll tell us next…'
…she told them quite a lot…
'Well, just so you know who you're dealing with,' she pronounced, 'let me remind you that the Trampul Corporation happens to be the pre-eminent life-cycle business in the universe, offering services in birth care, child care, education, training, entertainment, food, medicine - and funerals. It's what's called, you see, a consumer intensive business. It's about consumption in all its forms. And I'm Bessie Broperhoperen, its chairman and chief executive officer. So don't you mess with me. Because if you do, you'll soddin' well regret it!'
'Well, that's all very interesting,' thought Renton. 'But where do we go from here? You're calling the shots. Hadn't you better do something with us, or maybe ask us another question…?'
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