Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'I think maybe separately but close,' ventured Renton. 'The last thing we want is to find that we've lost each other when we've got inside.'

  'Mmm, I tend to agree,' added Boz. 'An' I think I should go first…'

  'Why?' interrupted Renton, indignantly. 'Why not me?'

  'Because you're wearing a curtain,' advised Madeleine. 'Remember? Whereas Boz has got a real cloak. Just like mine. And if you want my opinion, you shouldn't be going with us anyway. You're just asking for trouble.'

  Renton bit his lip. If Madeleine had expressed this opinion only yesterday, he would have ascribed it to her simmering resentment. But now he knew it was different. Now he knew it was because she was genuinely concerned - for him. And she understood as well as he did that wearing a green curtain - with or without burgundy wellies - was just asking for it. So he acquiesced without a fight, and instead conceded that he'd just follow up the rear - at a safe distance from his colleagues in front - and with Boz in the lead. And he'd be able to keep an eye on Madeleine that way anyway. So he wasn't too upset.

  However, he was upset when they alighted from the jeeper. Because it was in a sort of piazza and it was disgusting.

  There was rubbish everywhere, the smaller-scale jetsam of spaceship demolition, which must have been accumulating here for years. There were bent bushes, there were broken brackets and there were busted bolts - and there were a million other pieces of assorted junk. And between all these fragments, and hiding the ground completely, there was a carpet of dirty-white styrene - like some off-colour blanket of snow.

  What they'd driven through was bad enough: streets that were no more than tracks between hovels and rubble. But this was just desperate. And Renton could only think of what it said of the people of Dumpiter: how demoralised they must be - and how defeated they must be.

  'Yes, it's gruesome, isn't it?' said Pipkim, appearing to read his mind. 'And there's much worse than this.'

  Renton wanted to ask why, why it had to be as bad as this, why it had been allowed to slip this far. But there wasn't time. And Pipkim was already into some instructions.

  'Take that alley up there,' he said, pointing to a corner of the piazza, 'and go straight on for about half a mile. Then you'll come to the palace, straight in front of you. You can't possibly miss it. And then I think it's up to you.'

  'Good,' said Madeleine, a word that seemed remarkably inappropriate in their present circumstances. 'And thanks for bringing us this far. We really appreciate it.'

  'Yeah,' said Boz, 'An' we really 'ppreciate that it weren't in that god-awful easipeas thing either. Take my advice, young man, trade that damn thing in, an' get yerself a few more o' these here jeeper things. Hell, they might not be quite so impressive to look at, but they sure don't shake your teeth out. An' they leave you right ready for action as well, an' right rarin' ready to roll…'

  …which sounded like their cue to take their leave of Pipkim, and to make their way to the palace - two cloaked around like assassins and one curtained round like a fool…

  53.

  As with Lysaars' doctored spaceships, to start with, all went well.

  The sun had already set and it was therefore helpfully gloomy and getting gloomier by the minute. It was also, it appeared, not the time of day for strolling in this city. Or maybe few of its inhabitants had the stomach for the scenery. But whatever the reason, the road to the palace was virtually deserted, populated only by more and more rubbish and more and more filth.

  'Chisel my pizzle,' observed Boz. 'I ain't seen nothin' as mucky as this since some o' that there porn stuff I see'd at the Tak place. An' come to think of it, this might be even muckier. An' believe me. That's mucky. That really is.'

  'Yeah,' said Renton. 'You can see why they went along with Lysaars, can't you? If they thought it'd get rid of this lot.'

  'Ummm,' agreed Madeleine. 'But it didn't, did it? And it makes you wonder what Narry is planning. Or, at least, it makes me wonder. Because he is planning something, you know. You could tell it from what he said. And from what he didn't say, come to that. And my money's on him doing something soon. While Lysaars is still here.'

  'Maybe,' responded Boz. 'But as I think he said, that's his concern. An' we've got concerns of our own. An' talkin' o' which, look at this stuff here…

  And now he was pointing - to a dim pool of light just ahead.

  '…it's somethin' that's workin'. An' that might just mean…'

  'The palace,' finished Renton. 'It must be, mustn't it?

  And indeed it was. The weak pool of light - in what was now almost night - was the combined light of a dozen or so crappy little searchlights, dotted around a large open square, and shining towards the object of their excursion: the Guvner's palace.

  And one could tell it was the Guvner's palace, not only because of its position at the centre of the square and its novel illumination, but also because it was something recognisable as a building. It had not been cobbled together from spacecraft fragments and rough concrete. But instead it had been constructed with real building materials - and to a design, a plan that had envisaged an end at its inception - an altogether foreign concept for most of the buildings on this benighted world. Yes, this was different. And whilst it was far less than handsome, it was clearly a most special place.

  Renton was first to speak.

  'I've seen better,' he said.

  'Yes,' said Madeleine. 'But not many so deserted. There's hardly anybody around.'

  'No, there ain't,' agreed Boz. 'Which puts me in mind o' that there sayin' about he who hesitates is toast.'

  'You mean we go for it now?' questioned Renton.

  'You bet. No point in hangin' round. An' anyway, I ain't never been in no palace before. An' I'm like curious to find out what it's like in there. An' whether it's got any of those there croupiers an' things.'

  'I think you mean courtiers,' corrected Madeleine. 'Unless you're expecting a bit of a gamble in there.'

  Boz looked at her, an evil grin spreading across his great, scaly face.

  'You said it, my dear. You said it.'

  And with that, he was off, striding towards the regal pile with what looked like unbounded confidence - to be followed, at a predetermined interval, by Madeleine and then by Renton - who had decided immediately that the unbounded confidence was an optional extra that he could well do without.

  Indeed, he was feeling pretty scared, a feeling which intensified when Boz disappeared into the entrance of the palace.

  'But come on now!' he thought to himself. 'Boz has made it. And nobody has stopped him. There might be a few guards at the entrance, but it looks as though none of them could care less. Maybe Narry got this one wrong. Maybe it is going to work!'

  Then Madeleine was in. She'd wrapped her cloak over her head, and with her head bowed she had simply walked straight in. And as with Boz, she'd not been challenged or even glanced at. More and more this looked as though it could be a complete doddle. And Renton's confidence began to grow.

  Just as well. Because, as he made his approach to the entrance, several guards turned to observe him. Or perhaps they were observing his “cloak”…

  'Oh god,' he thought to himself. 'It's this bloody curtain. I knew Mad was right.'

  And sure enough, it was his soft furnishing that was attracting their interest, a fact that was confirmed when one of their number shouted a question at him.

  'Somebody drape you, mate?' he asked. 'Or did you like consent to it?'

  This caused all his fellow sentries to burst into laughter - and to forget entirely their purpose for being there. They'd found Renton a source of amusement, but they hadn't stopped him. And now he was in as well. He was in the palace.

  And although he didn't yet know it, he was also at the end of that start - the one that had all gone so well…

  54.

  Meanwhile, in the depths of the palace, another little drama was under way. And the principal of the piece in this one was none other than the Guvner himself, Lord
Langail III. Not that he was playing a very regal rôle in it. In fact, quite the reverse. He had, instead, the part of a wretched and desolate man.

  Lysaars had imprisoned him. He had confined him to his quarters in the palace, lest he should interfere with his planned “entertainment”. And now he was allowed access to only a few personal servants, and no access at all to the outside world. Lysaars' puppet king had been packed away in his box. And might never again be taken out…

  He sat now, on a massive couch, its colours faded and its fabric crumpled, a sad parody of the Guvner's own demeanour. He felt a thousand years old, and his body ached with despair. The very will to take his next breath was now dwindling within him.

  'What right have I to stay?' he thought. 'What right have I to share this planet with all my people - when all I've done is cause them pain, when all I've done is bring them misery? And what for? For stupid dreams and futile hopes. That's what for. And they're my stupid dreams and my futile hopes - for a better world. For a world that's not blighted and scarred. For a world that's not poisoned and ruined. For a world that has beauty and charm. And for a world to be proud of.

  'God, how could I have been such a fool? And how could I have been so weak and so feeble for so long? When all the time I knew it was wrong. When all the time I knew I needed to do something…

  'But now it's too late. It's all lost. And it will get even worse. And I just can't bear it…'

  He slumped forward on the couch and began to sob. It looked for all the world as though his life was draining away - in a stream of tears.

  But this was billed as a drama, wasn't it? Not just as a tragic ending. And so at this point, something remarkable happened.

  Yes, from the dying embers of this failing life, a flame leapt up. He'd just had a thought. And it was a thought that spoke not of despair and capitulation but of action and resolve. Where it had come from he didn't know. Nor why he hadn't had it before. But he did know he needed to shield it - from that draught of his own self-doubt that could so easily snuff it out. And that, before this happened, he needed to use it - to ignite a decision. As quickly as he could. And he needed to act on this decision - immediately - before it slipped from his grasp and slid back into that pit of despondency and hopelessness.

  So he called for Trelahell, his oldest and most trusted retainer. He would do it straightaway. While he still could. Before it was too late. And he even rose from his couch and paced around the room - lest he succumbed to sleep or an even longer slumber before his servant arrived.

  And then he was in the room with him: Trelahell, a man who looked as wizened and frail as Langail himself, but a man who, unlike Langail, was free to leave the palace unchallenged.

  Ten minutes after he'd been briefed by his master, Trelahell was doing just this. Langail had completed the first act of his little drama - which could still prove to be a hopeless tragedy, but which, at the same time, could now earn its principal player some heroic rewards.

  And anyway, for the first time in a very long time, Langail felt good about something he'd done.

  55.

  The first sign that events might be about to take a turn for the worse was in a mirror.

  It was a big mirror at the end of the grubby tunnel that formed the entrance to the palace. And although its purpose there was not clear, the images it reflected were glaringly clear, illuminated as they were by a cluster of arc lights. And the image it reflected now was of a terrified looking beanpole, who could have been a credit controller or a dentist - or an accountant or an apprentice make-up assistant - but never in a million years, a gangster or a thug. And what gangsters or thugs go about their business with a green curtain tied round their necks? And especially, as was now apparent under these arc lights, a green curtain, shot through with gold thread?

  'Oh my god,' thought Renton. 'This is ridiculous. And look at my hair as well. It's all over the place.'

  Well, it was far too late to do anything about his stunningly unconvincing disguise, but he could still do something about his locks. So he took out his comb, and as he came to the mirror he began to drag it across his head in a vain attempt to bring about a little order up there. And it was while he was doing this that he noticed that the tunnel had two exits, a corridor leading into the palace off to the left and a corridor to the right. And in neither of them was there a view of either Madeleine or Boz. He had already lost them, and this second sign that all was no longer very well was even clearer than his reflection.

  'Bugger,' he concluded. 'What the hell do I do now?'

  He had no idea. But he need not have worried. He was, after all, “Renton the Reactive”. And something was about to happen to which he would have to react. And that something was Chegeta. And Chegeta was approaching him along the corridor to his left.

  Chegeta would have been seven foot eight inches tall had he bothered to grow himself a neck. But because he hadn't, he was a mere seven foot two. And he had the appearance of a castle wall. His huge head, simply spreading out into battlement-size shoulders, and a slab of a chest and two bulging arms, created a very creditable impression of towering ramparts. And even his massive legs had a certain “buttress” quality about them, reinforced in no small measure by his size thirty feet…

  He was, in fact, the perfect specimen for Lysaars' needs: powerful, intimidating, effectively invincible and fearless to the point of stupidity… For Chegeta, for all his size and strength, was… well, he was simple-minded. And he also loved his mother and was generally thoughtful. And no wonder then, that when he saw that the stranger, who had now just rushed off, had dropped his comb, he should want to return it to him.

  In his haste to avoid a meeting with a walking castle, Renton was entirely unaware that he had lost his comb. He'd been that focussed on making himself absent - by scooting off into that corridor on the right and away from this fortified giant. And soon, therefore, he was out of sight or Chegeta, running as fast as he could - and completely comb-less.

  Chegeta, meanwhile, had picked up the comb and was about to attract its owner's attention in the only way he could - which was certainly not by chasing him. After all, his enormous frame did not bring with it the gift of speed. But it did bestow on him another gift: a stupendously loud voice. So 'Comb's here!' he shouted. And then again, at the top of his voice: 'Comb's here!'

  The amplified words reverberated around the walls of the palace, bouncing backwards and forwards and forwards again. Until, when they came to the ears of the running Renton, they sounded all too like a vaguely Teutonic: 'Komm' sie hier!'

  'Shit, they're on to me!' screeched Renton. And he ran like the wind.

  Chegeta began to feel a little dejected. Simple-minded as he was, he still knew that the funny man must have heard him. And he couldn't understand how he could have been so thoughtless to ignore him - and so rude.

  But, there again, it wasn't the first time he'd experienced thoughtlessness and rudeness. And he'd learnt to just accept them. After all, people weren't perfect. So he simply indulged in a loud sniff, placed the comb in his pocket, and continued on his way - out of the palace. When he was less busy he would track down the owner - because there can't be that many people who wear curtains these days - and he would give him back the comb. Even if he proved to be completely ungrateful, it was clearly the right thing to do.

  Just as running as fast as he could was clearly the right thing to do for Renton. Even if he had no idea where he was going and he was beginning to run out of puff. And, as would soon become apparent, luck as well. Yes, things were about to descend from the just “not going very well” to the downright “going badly”. And Renton knew this when he saw them up ahead: a bunch of cutthroats waiting to greet him, and no doubt waiting to ask him what he was doing in the palace - without an invitation and without even a proper cloak.

  He came to a sliding stop and turned to run the other way. And that's when it happened. When the “going badly” reached the depths of the “completely gone”, or maybe t
he “completely up the creek without even a canoe, let alone a bloody paddle”. Because there, blocking his retreat was another gang of cutthroats. And standing before them was somebody he knew. Yes, it was Doggerbat!

  'Good evening, Mr Tenting,' said the pipil-master. 'Nice to catch up with you again. And, I have to say, even nicer to catch you!'

  And that was it. As he was led away, Renton felt not only scared but also truly despondent. There was no way, he thought, that things could now get worse.

  But, of course, there was, wasn't there? And this was only too obvious when the third gang of cutthroats made its appearance - the gang that had in its grasp his two cloaked companions.

  Madeleine and Boz might have been more convincingly covered up than Renton. But when it came down to it, whether t'was curtain or cloak, they had all been exposed just the same…

  56.

  As they were marched through the long corridors of the palace, Boz engaged Doggerbat in conversation. He was trying to find out how they'd been so easily caught. And Doggerbat told him!

  For Renton, this meant that either Boz had subtle powers of persuasion that could barely be imagined or that they were now in an irredeemably awful fix, which, unfortunately, was only too easy to imagine. That Doggerbat had decided that whatever they knew now would simply not matter - because they were done for. And certainly Doggerbat did seem to relish it: telling Boz how he'd been outsmarted.

  It was very simple, really. And although Doggerbat didn't admit it explicitly, it was all down to the general uselessness of most of Lysaars' warriors, and the fact that they couldn't be relied upon for anything other than bullying and browbeating - and, of course, causing harm when required. They were exemplified by those low-lifes at the palace gate - who were simply just not interested in anything other than intimidation and violence, and certainly not in stuff like sentry duty or guarding a palace. And so Lysaars had a “Praetorian Guard”, a small and select band of villains, based here on Dumpiter, who could be relied upon. Who, with the aid of some sophisticated technology, could be relied upon to detect the arrival of strangers on Dumpiter, even in far away places like the Pummisson Plateau. And who could then identify them, and who could then predict when they would pay a visit to the palace. And who could even set up a trap to ensnare them as soon as they arrived. Or, at least, as soon as they arrived if they didn't go running off like a scared rabbit, and have to be caught somewhere else.