Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  And then a peculiar thing happened. Something so far outside Rattlepitt's or anybody else's mathematics, that it was never fully explained. But it was something stemming from the alpha pattern science in his machine and the equal and similar inversion physics in the easipeas - and critically, the interaction of the two. It was as though the easipeas had become a giant magnet, and the APMP machine a small piece of iron unable to resist its attractive power. For when the easipeas passed the stage, Rattlepitt's machine took flight to join it. And it did join it. And it joined it by striking it square on its nose. And as it did so, there was a flash of light, a pulse of high-pitched buzzing, a strange smell of cheap perfume - and then eerie silence.

  The easipeas had stopped! Its noisy crashing progress through the arena had been brought to a sudden and dramatic halt, and it now sat looking faintly ridiculous a few metres from the stage. And Rattlepitt's pride and joy had disappeared completely. The union of its own physics with that of the vehicle's had pulverised it entirely. But it had left its mark. Not only had it achieved the impossible in arresting the unstoppable, but also, where it had made contact with the unstoppable, it had left a huge gaping hole in it.

  The easipeas's front had vanished. Where once there had been solid metal and then a fibre-optic screen and a control panel, there was now nothing. And through this patch of nothing, sitting upright in a black oily seat was a black oily humanoid wearing a look of surprise on his face so acute that it was visible through the oil.

  Renton stood up. Then he realised he could stand up. The clasp mechanism must have been released as a small by-product of the recent cataclysmic collision. He looked out of his new window in the vehicle at the strange sights beyond.

  'What the fuck's going on here?' he said. And as he spoke an awful lot was going on. The real party had only just begun.

  74.

  Narry had been waiting - first for Boz to do his work and then for what he considered to be the right time to unleash his forces. Well, Boz must have been successful by now - or they'd have known if he hadn't been. So now it was just a matter of choosing this “right time”.

  In the event, this wasn't so difficult - because before very long, this massive gatecrasher appeared. And what could be a clearer signal that the right time was now very close? And when the gatecrasher was brought to a halt in such spectacular fashion, what could be a clearer signal that this time had now finally arrived? Yes, this most impressive of distractions would not go to waste.

  With not a moment's hesitation, Narry fired a distress rocket into the evening sky, and as it burst into a plume of blue, things started to happen. A lot of things. For Lysaars' troops, a lot of surprising things.

  Narry's warriors had no conventional weapons, none at all. Lysaars had gone to great pains to ensure that nobody did - other than his own men. But he hadn't been able to rob the people of Dumpiter - and its patriots in particular - of their imagination and of their power to improvise and adapt - as his men were about to find out.

  In one corner of the freighter dock, a thug by the name of Bernard watched the distress signal as it soared into the sky, only to have his vision seriously impaired by a gush of sticky red paint. This blinding result had been achieved through the agency of a paint-filled balloon swung horizontally at the end of a great length of string. It was as simple as it was effective. Before Bernard could regain his composure or his sight, his balloon assailant was on him, his maser was wrenched from his hands - and his balls were introduced to the assailant's left boot.

  They had plenty of paint on Dumpiter, something else Lysaars had gone to great pains to ensure. And now Narry's men were putting this to best use - with splendid effect. The little paint weapons they'd been able to sneak into the freighter dock were proving just the job for the task in hand. Variations on the demise of Bernard were being played out with tremendous success across the entire length and breadth of the arena.

  Salusam, a bearded brute from the planet Bodassa, was pounced on from behind and a thin capsule of haze-blue electropaint slammed into his open mouth. As he choked on the mildly corrosive liquid, a metal bar to his head extinguished any discomfort he might have been suffering. And another maser was donated to the cause.

  A pair of Killigani pirates found their big round eyes a painful shade of chrome yellow as a sharp-shooting member of Narry's army found his mark - with a tiny home-made paint pistol. He was so delighted that he forgot the follow through. It was left to a couple of bystanding “civilian” Dumpiterians to finish the job - which they did willingly and unprompted - and with obvious relish.

  And that was happening everywhere now. When the majority of ordinary Dumpiter folk saw what their FRODUB colleagues were doing - and what more there was still to do - they joined in themselves. They either helped out as best they could or they just had a go on their own. And as Narry had anticipated, the freighter dock was the ideal environment for this sort of spontaneous insurrection. It was a nest of hidey-holes, obstructions and perches, just perfect for all kinds of insurgent-type encounters. And it was also full of countless chunks of metal, which provided the new people's army with any number of offensive weapons for its increasingly offensive activities.

  Fygytes are a breed of skinny insectals with an acute sense of hearing. It is their primary sense without which they are lost and helpless - and why they have such remarkably large ears. The soldier of Narry's forces who had positioned himself behind a particularly ugly Fygyte knew all about this - and about the importance of those ears. So when the time came to jump him, he made quite sure that the balloon pouches strapped to his hands were clapped firmly into these most essential of orifices. The crazed, whining shriek that then emanated from his victim assured the soldier that the grey undercoat, now splashed liberally about the insectal's head and his own, had done its work. Somewhere down in those big ears, some sensitive aural channels were nicely clogged and completely useless. It took very little effort to finish his work and commandeer yet another maser.

  Pipkim and Narry had both used paint balloons themselves. With these they'd overpowered and disarmed a duo of Lysaars' hopeless irregulars, and now they were approaching the platform, using these more conventional weapons to thin out his forces some more. Indeed the stage was now the remaining bastion of Lysaars' control in the arena. Everywhere else his hapless warriors were being mopped up by Narry's men - and his recently recruited civilians. Lysaars' men could now be counted in tens rather than thousands. They were being routed. And it had all happened within minutes.

  But Narry wanted the last of them and he wanted the stage. Because what he really wanted was Lysaars. He couldn't be allowed to get away. Boz and Madeleine, it appeared, had the same idea, and their own independent approach to the centre of the arena eventually brought all four of them together. Narry was amazed and a little amused to see Madeleine armed with a vicious looking riot cane - obviously liberated from some poor unfortunate - but less surprised to see Boz equipped with both a maser and a big grin on his face.

  But their reunion was a rushed affair. There was still some serious maser fire coming from what was probably the remnants of Lysaars' Praetorian guard - and some of it was accurate. They quickly had to seek cover behind a great pile of metal beams as a shower of maser blasts zinged past their heads, Narry making it to safety only just in time.

  'Hey man, yous sure know where to take your visitors for a wild party! This here has been jus' wonnerful! Absolootely wonnerful! What we doin' tomorrow evenin'?'

  Narry made to speak but Boz leapt back in. 'Hey, you know that sonofabitch had another bofar. He's one hell of a sneaky bastard. He sure is. Good job that there overweight traffic you got round here decided to intervene. And you know…'

  Madeleine finished his sentence for him '…that it's Renton. I mean, he's in it. He looks a bit shocked and he's sort of covered in something. But I think he's OK. At least, I hope he is.'

  Then a new voice joined the conversation. 'Well, I may not ever play the piano again
and I may smell like shit, but I think I'm alright. Mind this stuff's dreadful. God knows what you put in your lakes round here, Mr Zubfraim.'

  It was Renton.

  When he'd overcome his initial surprise, Narry was overtaken with relief and delight. And so too were Boz and Pipkim. One could see it. They were both on the point of tears.

  And Madeleine was beyond the point of tears. As she stepped forward and then hugged that evil smelling monster from the black lagoon - and then actually planted a kiss on its awful black lips - the tears were streaming down her face. And when she stepped back and wiped those tears away, there were more to take their place - and a look in her eyes that made Renton want to cry himself…

  But Narry, if nobody else, had remembered their situation. 'OK,' he said. 'All very touching, I'm sure. But right now we've still got some business to do. Over there by the stage. So how's about it, folks? Ready for a bit of a finale?'

  'You bet,' said Renton, sniffing back a snuffle. 'And, you know, I haven't even got a headache. I mean, can you believe that?'

  Narry gave him a very odd glance and then he went on.

  'OK. Pipkim and I will get a bit closer first - from over there.' He was pointing in the direction of the ruined easipeas. 'And then, Boz, you follow with Renton. And Renton, we'll get you a maser as soon as we can - as soon as one of those thugs….'

  'Get two,' interrupted a no longer tearful Madeleine. 'I'm coming too.'

  'OK, young lady,' smiled Narry. 'Your right and my privilege.'

  'Hang on,' exclaimed Renton. 'That's all very well, but can't you hear that firing out there? It's bloody dangerous. And I hardly think… Hey, wait a minute, there isn't any firing!'

  He was right. As he was speaking the firing had stopped - suddenly. But there was another noise: the sound of a hover taking off.

  Narry leapt into the open - knowing exactly what he'd see. It was Lysaars escaping. And, he suspected, with Rattlepitt - and probably Langail as well. He was abandoning what was left of his troops to save his own skin. And as soon as they'd seen he was off, these deserted leftovers had called it a day, the Praetorian prefects as well as the regular rejects. They now stood around the stage - about eighty weary looking thugs of all shapes and sizes, their hands in the air and their guns at their feet.

  Narry had now been joined by the others, and it was Renton who spoke first.

  'Shit!' he exclaimed. 'What the hell do we do now? How do we get him back? I mean, we've got to get him back, haven't we? It's Madeleine's only chance. And there's hardly any time…'

  'I know,' replied Narry. 'I know…'

  'Shit,' repeated Renton. 'To get this far. And all we end up with is this lot…' he waved his hand in the direction of the remnants '…who haven't even the decency to give us a proper fight - when for the first time in my life, I really feel like a fight - and I'm ready for one. Wimps!'

  'Hey, hang on ole man,' said Boz. 'I think one of them's heard you. Look at this so and so.' And he pointed to one of the largest of the thugs who was now marching towards them. He'd left his maser on the ground, but in his right hand he held a small black object. It could have been anything - a pistol, a dagger, or maybe even a bomb…

  He continued to walk straight towards Renton - who now appeared to be having serious second thoughts about any form of combat whatsoever. And he'd maybe even forgotten about Madeleine for the moment.

  Pipkim and Narry raised their masers and trained them on the approaching goliath.

  'Stop!' Narry shouted. But the giant didn't. He was now just a few paces away.

  'Stop, I say,' Narry shouted again, 'or we'll shoot.'

  But still he ignored them. He just continued until, no more than two paces from Renton, he jerked out his hand. In it was the black object.

  'I think this is yours,' he announced. 'You dropped it in the palace.'

  The village idiot, Chegeta, had found the owner of the lost comb. He looked as happy as a sand boy.

  75.

  And now it was just a short time later. And although Chegeta was happy, and although a whole host of victorious Dumpiterians were no less than ecstatic, there was one within their midst who was simply distraught.

  For as long as he could remember, Narry had wanted Lysaars as his prisoner. Now, with this woman standing here beside him - and with what she needed from Lysaars - that want had never been greater. And he could barely imagine what she must be thinking. Or what her friends must be thinking - after all they'd been through, and after all they'd overcome - together. So this was real pain, real anguish, despite everything that had been achieved. And there was nothing he could do about it, no way he could organise a better ending - because, as they had all just witnessed, Lysaars had already left Dumpiter.

  Even as they'd been checking each other for maser holes and lesser battle scars, they'd seen him leaving. His hover had obviously made a beeline for the Ennovator, and then the Ennovator had made a beeline for outer space. It had blasted off within minutes - in full sight of the multitude at Scorran, and in full knowledge that it wouldn't be pursued. By the time anybody could get round to that, it would be long gone and beyond their grasp. As was now any hope for poor Madeleine.

  She might have helped him win back his planet, but she'd not won herself a reprieve…

  76.

  Within just a few hours of his departure from the arena, Lysaars was light years away from Dumpiter - sitting in the Ennovator's wardroom eating another excessively gross meal - in a vain attempt to soothe his smouldering fury. Rattlepitt and Langail had both been seated at his table, not to join him in the meal, but to be abused and assaulted as the mood took him. And especially Rattlepitt. Rattlepitt, the stupid doctor whose prevarication had cost him his immortality!

  …or so he thought. For as well as intervening in the proceedings at the dock, the easipeas had also intervened in the unmasking of the revolting insectal as a complete and utter fraud. Lysaars simply didn't know that his projection into the infinite would never have happened anyway. And, as everyone knows, an unrealised possibility is always more galling than a revealed impossibility…

  He popped a whole curry pasty into his wide gob of a mouth, chewed just twice and then exploded into an attack on his erstwhile advisor, showering him with bits of pastry and cumin-flavoured meat.

  'You've cost me an absolute fortune! Do you hear? An absolute fortune! And not just a small fortune. No, you've cost me the whole damn universe! And how could you? How could you make such a hash of it?

  'You had all that time, all that soddin' time. And what did you do? You dithered. That's what you did. You dithered. And you dithered me out of my future, my wonderful infinite future…

  '…because, I can tell you now, there's no bloody way I can organise all that lot again. No way at all.

  'I must have been mad, letting you throw everything away like that. You're nothing but a fool! Do you hear me? A fool! You've screwed up everything! Everything!'

  Rattlepitt's feelers vibrated and he tried to speak.

  'Don't say a word! Not a word. If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your ugly great mouth shut! Understand?'

  Lysaars slumped back in his seat, laid his hands carefully on the table, clenched them into fists and then let out a long, terrible scream. A scream of 100% pure rage. He was beside himself with anger.

  Then Rattlepitt did something very strange, and in the circumstances, very unwise. It was guaranteed to infuriate Lysaars even further. He picked up three boiled eggs from a bowl of a dozen or so that Lysaars had yet to consume, and he began to juggle them. Well, that's to say he began to try to juggle them. Because, as was immediately apparent, even with two pairs of hands, he wasn't a juggler. And very soon, all three eggs were rolling around on the top of the table.

  But Rattlepitt wasn't to be discouraged. He reached over, retrieved the eggs and tried again. And again they fell back onto the table and rolled about between the spread of plates and dishes. And this time he retrieved them by climbing ont
o the table - kicking over a number of the comestibles in the process.

  Lysaars was shocked to his socks.

  'What the hell are you up to? What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?'

  But Rattlepitt ignored Lysaars' trio of questions and returned to his juggling practice, apparently oblivious to the wrath of his master.

  Lysaars' face was turning crimson with anger.

  'D'you hear me, Rattlepitt? Have you gone out of your mind? Stop it! Listen to me, will you!'

  But Rattlepitt wouldn't listen. He was too busy adding salami slices to his juggling act. But they failed to improve it, and soon the table was showered with pieces of cooked meat as well as with eggs.

  'Stop it, will you! Stop it! How dare you ignore me? Stop it now!'

  But Rattlepitt's response was simply to continue. This time with pieces of china.

  'You've gone mad!' Lysaars exclaimed. 'You've actually gone mad.' He turned to Langail to tell him the same. It was the sort of realisation that needed to be shared with somebody, indeed with anybody, and Langail would do. Particularly a Langail who now seemed a mite more coherent…

  'He's gone mad. It's been too much for him. He's gone completely bonkers.'

  'Yes,' replied Langail quietly. And then in a matter-of-fact sort of way he added: 'he must be more susceptible than we are. His brain being different, I suppose.'

  'Brain, my arse,' replied Lysaars. 'He's a daft old fool and he's finally flipped. That's all it is.'

  'Well yes, he may have flipped,' said Langail, 'but not in the way you're suggesting. And it's nothing to do with what happened back on Dumpiter. Nothing at all to do with that.'