Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Renton certainly didn't.

  69.

  Sandwiched between the bofar and the junked loo, Boz could see nothing. Only his ears could tell him what was going on around him. And first they'd told him that a hover had landed. And now they were telling him that there were some new arrivals beneath the stage. He heard their voices - and their voices told him more.

  The aggrieved tones of one could only be those of Lysaars. And the strange insectal cackling of the other could mean only that he was accompanied by the famous Dr Rattlepitt. Boz was unaware of the presence of the third arrival, the silent Langail. He heard only a conversation between the two villains.

  And it was a conversation that made little sense. It concerned something they were doing, something peculiar.

  'There's no need to look!' he heard Lysaars saying, followed by a sound that must have been Rattlepitt laughing - but it wasn't that easy to tell.

  'If I don't look, how can we get it right? You're being absurd. Act your age!'

  It was Rattlepitt's voice. And he was talking to Lysaars as though he were his infant son.

  'Don't do that!' squeaked Lysaars. 'I don't like it!'

  'Well you'll just have to,' snapped Rattlepitt, 'else we'll be here all night. And I'm getting tired.'

  And so it went on - a crusty father getting more and more impatient with his irritable brat son - a brat preparing for immortality.

  Well, this was all very intriguing, in a sneaky, eavesdropping sort of way, but it wasn't getting the ironing done. Boz had to remind himself of what he was here to do: the bofar. He had to neutralise that thing and quickly, before it had a chance to neutralise him - and the thousands of others as well.

  So he closed his eyes and he began to push the sound of the continuing conversation from his mind. Then he started to turn down the thermostat in his body. And his body responded. Its temperature began to slide down to the chilly, a chilliness that would allow him to tamper with the bofar - without activating its surface heat sensitivity. In three minutes he was there. He felt strange and lethargic, but still in full command of both his senses and his thoughts. His purpose remained clear.

  Slowly he adjusted his position so that he was square on to the back of the bofar and he began to run through the mental list of instructions he'd been given - designed to dismantle its threat. Then he took a deep breath and began to put the instructions into action. He stretched out his scaly arm, and with one finger he very slowly and very gingerly touched the bofar. Nothing happened. Boz was still the living Boz. He hadn't triggered the heat sensitivity. Not yet anyway.

  'Stay cool, boy,' he whispered under his breath, 'stay cool.'

  He placed another finger then another on the casing of the machine until the whole of his claw-like hand was flat against its surface. Then he slid his hand across the casing and, as promised by his instructor, an access panel materialised - magically - from a seamless expanse of metal. And the panel opened.

  Inside the panel there was an abbreviated keyboard. Boz paused before he withdrew his hand from the outside casing. Then he poked it carefully through the opening to engage his stubby index finger on the letter “G” of the keyboard. He pressed the key.

  There was a small whirring sound and above the keyboard an inner panel opened to reveal a small white cube. It was an insignificant but perfectly ground crystal of salt, the simple but essential active ingredient of a bofar. The machine's awesome genocide-scale killing powers rested solely on the microwave potential of this simple culinary accessory.

  '"G" for gotcha, I think,' whispered Boz to himself as he reached in and took the cube. Then he popped it into his mouth and sucked. 'Bye bye, bofar,' he smirked. 'Yous ain't gonna take too much lickin'! In fact…' he opened his mouth to show to the machine his empty tongue, '…yous are completely licked al-ready, ole son. An' I'm sorry, but Boz here has won!'

  It was beginning to look as though Bostrom T Aukaukukaura did have it in him to save one hundred thousand lives. A hero at last. And so easy! Renton would have been so very proud of him. Then his delight evaporated. He'd just reconsidered that last thought. 'No,' he said out loud, 'he will be proud of me!'

  Fortunately neither Lysaars nor Rattlepitt heard this unintentional exclamation. They were both too busy preparing for their ascent to the stage above. The show was about to start - albeit without the Boz-licked bofar.

  70.

  Rattlepitt remounted the stage and walked over to the APMP machine. There he waited for the other players to join him.

  Langail was first. A pair of Lysaars' men had to help him up the steps. He tottered towards Rattlepitt, and as he did so, a renewed murmur arose from the crowd. His people were apparently acknowledging his presence. But it was the sort of acknowledgement that was very difficult to associate with any feelings of affection - or even respect - for the planet's Guvner. If the position he occupied as ruler of Dumpiter still held any esteem, then, very clearly, Langail the man retained none.

  Then Lysaars appeared, slowly and awkwardly, and with the help of a whole squad of his men. Rattlepitt's planning had not dwelt too long on the practicalities of a fat man clothed in a vast barrel-cloak having to ascend a steep set of steps.

  His arrival caused nothing less than pandemonium.

  Initially there were loud hoots of laughter. Then the hoots built to a chorus, and it was as though the vast freighter dock itself had fallen into a fit of wild and unbridled hysteria. The noise was overwhelming. Then some of the crowd must have recognised the face on top of the giant toilet roll, and they stopped laughing and instead they started to jeer. This recognition soon spread around the arena, slowly at first and then more quickly. And there then followed a spine-chilling transformation of good-hearted amusement into ill-willed vocal hatred on an enormous scale. It was eerie - and frightening - quite frightening enough to shake Lysaars to his boots - even though he wasn't wearing any. Immediately he felt very vulnerable - naked under the flimsiness of that stupid shield. It offered him no protection whatsoever from the sense of menace that now filled the dock.

  Suddenly, all he wanted was for this thing to be over - him immortal and all these peasants dead where they stood. Forget the event itself and everything that went with it. Just get a move on and get the job done. Now. Immediately. Without any poncing around. And so he began to nod violently at Rattlepitt, desperate to encourage the old fool to get going, desperate to convey to him his preference for speed…

  And Rattlepitt got the message. He began to fiddle with his machine. Then he fiddled some more. And then some more. And finally he succeeded in getting the thing working. His little box of tricks was now monitoring and replicating the alpha patterns of every sentient being in the arena. Now all he needed to do was get Lysaars to a mark on the stage, the machine's focal point. So, when all those lovely patterns were switched into project mode, his client would get a full dose…

  Then on with the bofar. And then bye bye mortality - and bye bye local peasantry.

  71.

  During all this commotion, Boz had been wriggling his way back to where he'd left Pipkim. He had no more business under the stage and he also wanted a better view of what was going on. It was as Rattlepitt was setting Lysaars on the appointed mark, that his winding escape route brought him into sight of the second bofar. This one was ringed by a solid phalanx of Lysaars' Praetorian types. It would be impossible to deactivate it. He wouldn't be able to get near it. His body temperature was now too high anyway and time had run out. It was a no-no.

  A cold sensation ran up his spine. He knew for certain that both bofars were available for the deadly purpose required and he also knew that just one was sufficient for the job. It wouldn't make a blind bit of difference that he'd neutralised the other one under the stage. This one would be enough on its own. The guests at this party would soon all be dead. He had failed - and he was going to be among the dead himself. The cold sensation in his spine intensified.

  He was right on all counts. The hideous ins
ectal, Rattlepitt, would only trust his own technology. One alpha pattern machine was enough because he had built it, and his conceit would not allow him to believe that it wouldn't work. But the bofars? Well, they were built by mechanics not scientists! He wasn't going to have one of them fail on him and ruin the whole evening. Two was the minimum he was prepared to work with - one under the stage and a reserve hidden just a little way away from the stage. Just in case. Both fired up, and each with the capacity to do the necessary - with or without the help of the other. One couldn't be too careful.

  And in the event his precautionary approach looked as though it was just about to prove vital to the successful conclusion of the evening's proceedings - albeit without his knowledge and not for the reason he'd envisaged. Lots of people were soon to be wiped out and there was nothing that could be done about it. And certainly not by Boz. It would need a miracle now, an act of near divine intervention.

  It wasn't possible. Who could conceivably provide that?

  72.

  Renton had just made a resolution. He'd promised himself that, in the unlikely event of his surviving this terrible ordeal and his then finding himself in another adventure, this next adventure would be a little less slapstick and a little more satirical. Slapstick could be OK, but it could also be just embarrassing - or even friggin' demoralising. Whereas satire was almost always amusing and very rarely entailed physical misery for its exponents or its victims. And who's ever heard of an easipeas as a satirical vehicle? No, there was no doubt about it; adventure number 2 would be far more subtle and it wouldn't involve any of this clowning around in an ancient war-wagon.

  And then he made a second resolution. He'd turn his back on this “torment by slapstick” and concentrate on…well, what else? Why, on some list making, of course. And why hadn't he thought of it before? Wasn't it the obvious way to find himself a refuge from all this suffering, and a little respite from all these trials?

  So he did. And the list would be of all his blessings, all the good things in his life - in the hope that they'd give him the strength to go on and the strength to believe that it was still worth going on - even if perhaps it wasn't…

  And so he started. And he started with “survival”. He had survived so far, hadn't he? And no matter how miserable his condition might be, he thought it would be a little bit churlish not to regard life as a plus point. Thoughts of suicide or not, he knew he preferred the status of the living to that of the dead. He just wished the existence he was still clinging onto were a mite more appealing…

  A huge hammer blow juddered through his frame. The easipeas had found a whopper to explode through. Renton had to concentrate to continue his list.

  • He had friends. Somewhere there were people who knew him and loved him. Just now they might not be able to do a great deal for him. But they would still be concerned for him. And that was a real comfort.

  • He had a special friend. A new special friend. A woman! And what he wouldn't give to be with her now - to tell her he'd acted like a bastard when she'd done her confession bit. And to tell her that he cared for her - a lot - and that he'd even got to like that bobbed hair of hers. And he'd never felt like this about anybody else before - with or without bobbed hair… And before this all got too heavy…

  • He had another special friend. A reptilian! The best reptilian in the cosmos. And how cool was that?

  • And he hadn't a headache! Incredibly, after all the suffering he had endured and was still enduring, his head still felt really good. It was bizarre in the extreme but very welcome. And quite beyond his understanding.

  Another brick-waller struck. Then two more in quick succession. He redoubled his efforts to concentrate, but he was running out of items for his list. Not having a headache was legitimate on the basis that he should certainly have had a corker by now. But the absence of other ailments might be stretching it a bit. Not having hepatitis or a rumbling appendix couldn't really be classed as positive good news. Although he was tempted. He really was getting short of material.

  What else about hurtling along trapped in a giant tin can could possibly be good? Was there anything of any merit that he could possibly salvage from this mad excursion, anything at all that could be counted as desirable or beneficial on any scale or by any measure?

  Well yes, there was one thing and it was just about to happen.

  73.

  It was the noise that caught Lysaars' attention first. It was almost meteorological in scale. But the approaching storm had nothing to do with the weather. It was the easipeas - and some easipeas thunder he'd heard.

  As it crested a hilltop above the freighter dock, it was clear that its next stop - and its next series of collisions - would be within the dock itself. Few people took this prospect calmly, and those who gauged they were directly in its path acted as though they had never heard of the word calm. It seemed the only words in their mental vocabulary were panic and those others that qualified this state, like blind, unbridled, extreme and sphincteral.

  It was astonishing just how many people could vacate a space so quickly, especially when that space was a long wide corridor through a heap of jumbled metal litter. The crowd opened like some mythical sea, parting to let through, not a wandering tribe, but a terrible monster machine. And its path was that obvious.

  Easipeases, especially old, driverless easipeases, might wander about a planet's surface in great curving loops, but over a short distance their path is a straight line. And they are never deflected. And so it was easy for everyone to see exactly where it was heading - into the arena and then through its centre, but just skirting the central stage - by just a little. A ring of guards could see this as well, just as they could see what the easipease would fail to skirt. These were the Praetorian guards of the second bofar, the still-functioning bofar, the bofar the easipease would obliterate as it sailed past the stage. It was as directly in its path as it could be. And there was no time to move it, only time to save their own lives… Its own life expectancy was really that short. If it was to commit genocide this evening it had better get on with it. Like quickly.

  Lysaars watched the easipeas cavalry as it came charging down towards the dock. He knew he was safe on the stage, but what he didn't know was where the two bofars were - nor, of course, that only one of them remained operative. He was also getting concerned that the panic around him might have uncontrollable consequences. For all he knew this giant mechanical onslaught was the start of some organised assault on his own forces - an attack designed to usurp his hold on the planet - and timed badly enough to mess up his imminent enthronement on the seat of eternity in the process. He knew that they had to get on with it - and that they had to get on with it now. There were only seconds to play with.

  He screamed at Rattlepitt. But Rattlepitt had become transfixed by the sight of the hurtling easipeas. It was now very close - almost at the wall of the dock.

  'Get on with it! Do it! Do it! Do you hear, Rattlepitt? Do it now! I mean now!'

  His scream rose to a shriek and his bulbous head seemed to inflate with rage. His body began to tremble violently, the toilet-roll cloak amplifying his twitching movements into a weird and wobbly dance. It could have been what the pink cloak was made for: an appeal to some tribal god for more rain or more babies or the like. And the dance was not a stationary one. By the time he'd finally managed to attract Rattlepitt's attention, his agitation had caused him to move off his mark. So much so that when the mad professor then engaged his machine's “project” mode, the thousands of alpha patterns it was replicating failed to find their intended target.

  Rattlepitt looked confused.

  'Is it working?' screamed Lysaars. 'Is it on?'

  Then the look of confusion was replaced by one of realisation. He shouted back to Lysaars. 'The mark! Get back on the mark! You're missing the projection!'

  Lysaars just caught the last word as an enormous blasting sound erupted from the edge of the dock. The easipeas had just demolished a section
of the dock wall and was now ploughing on through the scrap-patch within.

  But despite this distraction, Lysaars realised what Rattlepitt had said, and he immediately scrambled back to his mark. It was very obvious when he'd done this, when he'd re-secured his original position and was at the focal point of the projector. Yes, it was nothing less than crystal clear - as clear, in fact, as his pink cloak had now become. For it seemed that projected alpha patterns, in the numbers now being used, had a novel and entirely unexpected effect on Rattlepitt's beryllium allotrope. They modified the allotrope into a different allotrope, one that was not pink at all - but clear, shiny and entirely transparent. Whilst his vital inner parts were still enjoying the protection of the beryllium armour, his white flabby outer parts were being afforded none at all - from any with eyes who could see. His horrible fat body was as naked as the day he was born. He was mortified. And a split second later he was furious.

  Rattlepitt should already have used his remote to fire up the bofar. He should now have created that host of homeless life-forces, that horde of prospective new tenants for Lysaars' brain, (or so Lysaars thought). But Rattlepitt had been well and truly confused by all the goings-on. And now he was confused further by the reaction of the beryllium. He hadn't predicted this. It was outside his mathematics. It was deeply disturbing, and easily disturbing enough to put him entirely off his stroke.

  Lysaars saw this and fury overtook his desperate embarrassment. He'd just have to jump start him. He'd have to jump start him with his voice.

  'Rattlepitt!' he shrieked, 'Kill them! Kill them! Do it now!'

  The message hit home. Rattlepitt was switched on again, and he took from his pocket the bofar's remote - and pressed down its buttons. But the easipeas was now within metres of the bofar. And as quickly as he pressed, he just couldn't manage… Maybe a second sooner and he would have obliterated the thousands in the arena. But the only obliteration was of the bofar itself - as it was hit by the easipeas and smithereened into a million pieces.