Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One

by Catton John Paul

  "So I could fulfill my dream of snogging Marilyn Monroe? That's nice of ya!"

  She turned her face towards him, her expression as cold as the metal she wore. "Of course, this is not for your own benefit. Think of us as deep-sea divers, putting on suits and carrying oxygen to survive beneath the ocean. We have assumed these bodies, so that we can operate in this environment. Our planet is dying. The atmosphere's composition of toxic gas and liquids has reached chaotic, untenable levels, and so we are the advance guard, charged with initiating the transfer of the Venusian race to your planet Earth."

  Jimmy paced up and down the room, trying to look as if he didn't give a toss about dying planets or invasions or anything. "Bloody typical. The first alien race we make contact with are invaders, just like in the movies."

  "The children of Venus must be granted the gift of rebirth," she continued. "The continued existence of humanity jeapordizes the stability of the Solar System itself."

  "So what did you want the Prof and his daughter here for, eh? Wossall that about?"

  Venus extended her hand. "For this."

  She held one of the transistor radios that she had given Jimmy earlier that day. "Radcliffe is perhaps the leading expert on what you, in this world, call digital technology. There were design flaws in our equipment that we needed to overcome. We offered him membership, but he refused, so we kidnapped him and killed his partner to silence him. Radcliffe still refused to cooperate…"

  "So you kidnapped Rita to pressure him," Jimmy finished for her. "What nice people you are."

  "We needed his knowledge for the final modifications to our activation equipment. You see, concealed within this radio's plastic casing is a digital replicator cannon."

  "You what?" Jimmy sneered.

  "Your primitive mind would compare it to a 'camera'. Do you still have the device I gave to you, Mr. Diamond?"

  "Yeah, I kept it as a souvenir after you cocked up the attempt to kill me, didn't I?" He fished it out of his pocket and threw it over to the silver-suited femme fatale. She plucked it out of the air with the minimum of effort.

  "Once you have touched it," Venus said with pride, "the device records your DNA by sampling the tissue residue in your fingerprints. That means it has locked onto your phenotype, and only yours. The replicator takes a multi-dimensional digital photograph, recording every aspect of your body and internal organs. Having done that, and saved the image to its power core, the device can then reproduce as many images as necessary. Allow me to demonstrate."

  She held up the radio with one hand and placed the other on her hip. Jimmy heard a small click, and then…

  And then…

  "Bloody Hell!" Jimmy cried in genuine shock.

  The platform was full of Jimmy.

  There was a sharp, rippling sound in the air, like a giant deck of cards shuffled by invisible fingers, and the platform was full of twenty, thirty, maybe forty Mods. They all looked identical; short, dark-haired males, in jeans and Harrington jackets, with beady eyes and thin druggy faces.

  And they all looked like Jimmy. No: all of them were Jimmy.

  "Do I really look like that?" the original Jimmy blurted out.

  "So you see," Venus continued with a tigerlike smile, "we can use this to reproduce as many bodies as we want. Only the physical shells, however; this machine does not record or reproduce consciousness. Perhaps that is technologically impossible; it is no matter, because we only need physical vehicles, for our own minds to inhabit. Is that not correct, Mr. Diamond?"

  "Yes, mistress," said all the Jimmy-copies in unison, their collective voices echoing from the shelter walls.

  "Oh, I get it!" Despite the fear, Jimmy was genuinely impressed. "Instant invasion army – just add water!"

  "Our replicator devices are now in the hands of politicians, business tycoons, newspaper owners, commanders of the armed forces, TV celebrities. Once we have duplicated their likenesses, our minds shall occupy our ready-made servants. We will be the prototypes for the gestating beings in the life-cylinders, orbiting the Earth…genetically superior beings, the first children of Venus created here on this planet! We shall be everywhere at once; we shall take charge of this country's government and media…"

  Venus gazed at him, her eyes huge with lust for conquest.

  "Then we shall take charge of your entire world…"

  "Bollocks!"

  Everyone turned at the angry shout, to see a Rocker standing in the doorway who was definitely not one of the Elvis knock-offs…because the Venusians didn't wear urshankas and hammer and sickles. And they definitely were not armed with cricket bats, chains, and monkey wrenches.

  Red Fred and his Tovaricks ran down the stairs. "Fraggin' Hell!" he yelled. "This place is full of fraggin' Mods – and they all look like Jimmy Diamond! Get the bastards!"

  Jimmy watched in fascinated horror. Every time a Rocker swung his weapon at the Jimmy-copy, they ripped apart like paper. They hadn't stabilized yet; there was no substance to them – just eyes and smiles and clothes over air and shadow.

  Jimmy took the better part of valour and scarpered past two Rockers at the door, who didn't know which Jimmy to hit. He bolted onto the platform, but two of the Elvis – Venusians were on his heels. One of them grabbed Jimmy by the shoulder of his jacket…

  Then collapsed as someone who'd been hiding behind the door smashed a bottle of Nukie Brown over his head. The sound was shockingly solid and the Elvis-copy kept his shape as he fell to the floor. The figures who'd been hiding stepped out, and one of them dealt the second Venusian a roundhouse punch to his perfect American jaw that put him down.

  "Jimmeeeee!"

  "Chaz! Tinny! Cosmo! Maisie!"

  Jimmy hugged the four mates in a tight, hysterical knot as they all shouted at each other at the same time.

  Cosmo was the loudest.

  "Fraggin' hell Jimmy, who're all your friends?"

  "I'll tell ya later."

  "We did what you said, Jimmy," Tinny said between his nervous laughter. "We went to Red Fred's gaff and we told him we had a major fallin' out with you. We said he could have the tracking device for a crate of Nukie Brown and a few packets of Woodbines. He fell for it!"

  "Yeah, the whole gang took off after you and said they were going to give you a right kickin'!"

  Jimmy jerked his head towards the hidden chamber. "Sounds like they are. Shame it's not me!"

  "'ere," said Maisie, trying to wrap her arms around Jimmy's neck, "Mods and Rockers fighting on the same side? Against aliens from space? That's fraggin' mental, that is!"

  "Let's get in there and fraggin' have 'em!"

  "Yeah, we have to rescue that dolly bird and her old man!"

  Jimmy had just opened his mouth to reply when the platform floor suddenly trembled beneath their feet. The tremor grew stronger, with the floor shaking and buckling, and they heard a great straining of abused metal and concrete. Through the door to the secret lab they saw the Rockers and the Venusians looking around to see what was happening, all holding on to pillars and railings to steady themselves. What now, Jimmy thought…

  There was another great shudder, and dust and plaster shot upwards through a sudden rupture in the lab's floor. A huge revolving drill appeared through the gap and worked its way upwards, throwing chunks of earth in all directions and scattering Mods, Rockers and Venusians alike. Behind the drill, a dull yellow steel cylinder the size of a minibus appeared, sliding up vertically onto the platform.

  The noise of the engines stopped, and the drill gradually slowed. Jimmy and the Mods cautiously entered the lab, stepping over groaning Rockers and deflated Mod-copies.

  A door in the machine's side swung open and Harry Nightingale stepped out, his glasses steamed up and a Woodbine dangling from the corner of his mouth. He climbed out of the mole-machine and straightened his tie. "Well, well, well," he said. "Earth's first contact with an alien race and they turn out to be a right bunch of wankers."

  He stepped over the chunks of rubbl
e, followed by Callum and Quill emerging from the mole. He reached the operating tables where Dr. Radcliffe and Rita were lying, unconscious, and gestured for his colleagues to undo the straps.

  "Alright, lads?" he said to the Mods in the corner, giving them the thumbs-up. "Now where's the space maiden?"

  "Over there," Jimmy and his pals all said at the same time.

  Venus stood in a corner of the room, her voluptuous body quivering, her lip curled in a sneer of anger and contempt. Her platinum hair shook and her whole body, wreathed in flexible strips of metal, glimmered as it caught the light.

  "Miss Venus Jones, I presume?"

  Nightingale raised his blaster, but before he could do or say anything, the woman collapsed upon herself. Her body sank to the stone floor and lay in a wrinkled heap of skin and cloth, as if the guiding intelligence within had suddenly and catastrophically disappeared – or returned from whence it came.

  Nightingale threw his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. "Venus has left the building," he said.

  EIGHT

  "They're calling it the Second Gunpowder Plot," Harry Nightingale said as he poured the tea into six china cups. "It'll all be over the headlines tomorrow morning."

  They were sitting in an office somewhere in Thames House, the home of MI5, in an atmosphere of muted calm that Jimmy was finding very hard to cope with. He was coming down off last night's Blues, and that, combined with the thwarted alien invasion and the gorgeous Georgie sitting next to him, was making him fidget.

  "You're going to say it was the Soviets," Jimmy said.

  "Fifth Columnists. A bunch of young, misguided extremists who were acting independently, and who will be held by the Ministry for…re-education."

  "That'll keep the diplomats happy," Dr. Radcliffe said with a sour face. Georgie had asked to accompany her father, but Rita was still in hospital for observation. At her own request, by the sound of it.

  Nightingale smiled, looking fully at ease in his polo neck sweater and sports jacket. Next to him, Callum and Quill sat in the civil service regulation chrome and leather chairs, quietly watching the proceedings.

  "So are we going to fight Venus instead of Russia, then?" asked Georgie.

  Nightingale pursed his lips. "I think after yesterday's little fiasco, the Venusians won't try anything else for a while."

  "They might not be able to do anything at all," Radcliffe added. "Miss Jones said the planetary ecosphere was collapsing. Within a very short time, they may be extinct."

  "Oh, that's awful," said Georgie.

  Quill turned around in his chair. "Well miss, they did kidnap you, try to steal your bodies, and wipe out the whole human race."

  "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

  "We've cleared out the Northern Line and closed the building in Knightsbridge," Nightingale continued. "We're quietly recalling the transistor radios from former BVS members, and to that end, we have…a proposition for Dr. Radcliffe."

  They all looked at each other.

  "We'd like you to continue your research into digital computing, with an emphasis on reverse-engineering the technology we've…er…acquired from the Venusians. I've been asked to provide you with the necessary funds."

  Nightingale stood up and handed a cheque over to the surprised scientist. Dr. Radcliffe read the slip of paper, his bushy eyebrows going higher and higher.

  "Why, this is extraordinary! Are you quite serious?"

  Georgie looked beside herself with suprise and Jimmy gave her the thumbs-up. "That's nice, innit?"

  "I haven't forgotten you, Jimmy." Nightingale sat back down and gave the gumshoe a wry smile. "There's going to be some renumeration from HMG coming your way, for your trouble."

  "Oh, great!" Jimmy's face flushed and he realized he was grinning like a maniac. "That means I can give you your savings back, Georgie!"

  She looked on the verge of tears. "I don't think we need them now!"

  Jimmie's heart started dancing even harder when Nightingale asked Dr. Radcliffe to stay behind for some technical chit-chat. That left him and Georgie on their own in the lift up to the aeropad and Jimmy's Vespa.

  They stepped out onto the grey concrete, painted with parking zones and ADJUST SPEED NOW signs, and looked out over Lambeth Bridge. A stiff wind blew in their faces.

  "So," Jimmy said, trying to sound casual, "you and your Dad can get back to work, yeah?"

  "I think we need a holiday first," she said happily. "We can afford to go somewhere nice now – maybe even a lunar resort! Farside Five, or somewhere like that!"

  "Yeah well, before you fly off to the Moon…can I give you a lift back to your place? It's a bit lonely going back in an aerocab on your own."

  She looked at him slyly. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

  "We could even, you know, go for a drink or something. I mean, stopping an alien invasion doesn't happen every day does it?"

  "Yeah." She looked away. "It'd be nice to have someone to celebrate with."

  They both climbed onto the Vespa, with Georgie settling back into the saddle and putting her arms around Jimmy's waist.

  "So," he said, looking over his shoulder, "You got a boyfriend?"

  She grinned at him cheekily. "I might have!"

  Jimmy kicked the anti-grav engine into life and they rose into the air above Millbank. London lay beneath them. Cars whizzed by overhead, with traffic-control robots on anti-grav platforms waving their flexi-tube arms, signal lights flashing. They overtook two businessmen puttering along on old-fashioned Bell Aerosystems jet-packs, their attaché cases fastened under their anti-grav generators. Jimmy felt as if he and Georgie were flying like birds. Or on a rocket, shooting to the sun.

  It was a good day to be a Mod.

  Luke Cambridge stared out of the observation window into the darkness that had fallen over Manhattan…

  ONE

  Manhattan. He had always loved it.

  He stood in the graveyard of Trinity Church, not far from Wall Street, and felt himself at the intersection between past and future, between ancient faith and the modern religions of speed, wealth and information. The city saluted him with its angry car horns and sirens. It winked at him with sunset reflected from thousands of plate glass windows adorning the skyscrapers. It breathed upon him with its odors of burgers flipped on short-order plates, exhaust fumes, tobacco smoke, discarded trash.

  It was a hot day. The summer of 1977 had been very oppressive; like an unwanted relative, it had dropped in without warning and then outstayed its welcome. The city's children had been opening fire hydrants, running under sprinklers, diving into pools with feral glee. Today, however, had a special electricity in the air. Soon, the storm would break.

  These were the thoughts that went through the mind of Lewis LeBeau as he waited for his guests to arrive.

  Trinity Church held the tombs of the LeBeau family, a Gothic clan whose genealogy could have been written by Hawthorne or Poe. A long line of surly and treacherous power brokers, with faces like slabs of New England granite, they had owned most of Manhattan since the days of wagon trains and six-guns. Over the generations their millions have grown to billions. They were the American royal family. This particular generation had produced a United States senator, a State Attorney General – and Lewis.

  He stood at the obelisk marking the grave of his ancestor, Judge Benedict LeBeau. It was placed at the center of concentric rings of other entombed ancestors – so designed that the LeBeaus would see only other LeBeaus as they rose on Judgment Day.

  And this was the day.

  "Mr. LeBeau." He turned to see Bishop, his chauffeur, standing at the cemetery gate. "The last of your guests have arrived, and are waiting out front."

  "You can bring them through now."

  He heard them approach, heard their mutterings of bewilderment, resentment and mocking laughter. He saw them walk down the driveway and file in through the gates; the rich and the beautiful, the cream of New York City's society. Senators, senator's wives, company d
irectors, TV anchormen, judges, District Attorneys, hospital directors, athletes…led by the immaculately dressed and coiffurred Walter Yurick, Vice-President of the United States, striding across the gravel, his face dark with anger.

  "Mr. LeBeau," said the Vice-President, "We're supposed to be attending a Manhattanhenge party at Toby Weaver's penthouse. Why have you called us here?"

  "Ah, yes," said LeBeau expansively. "The Manhattan Solstice. Manhattanhenge. The phenomenon where twice a year, the sun aligns with the east and west streets of the Manhattan grid. Interesting, is it not?"

  The DA cleared his throat. "Mr. LeBeau, when you summoned us here for this meeting, we assumed you had a point."

  "One moment, gentlemen. Let us just review what brought us to this point today. The streets of Manhattan follow the Commissioners Plan of 1811, forming a geometric grid. As all of us gathered here are above the third order of the Great Western Lodge, we know that the purpose of this is to tap the natural currents of earth's power, what our Oriental brothers call the Dragon Lines. This was the Elders' attempt to impose order on the universe; to create a world where America, and most especially Manhattan, would be the center around which all things revolve."

  "We are not here for a history lesson," said a well-dressed woman behind the Vice-President.

  "Really?" LeBeau looked up, his brows drawn together and his eyes feral. " Well, you should be. There are some things that have been deliberately kept from you – until today. Vice-President, would you care to enlighten them?"

  "About what?" he snapped.

  LeBeau opened his mouth wide and formed gutteral sounds in his throat. "Aweka Patuu Suuba."

  The Vice-President stared at LeBeau in disbelief; then, at the rising confusion to the other guests, he began to speak.

  "Very well. You see, ladies and gentlemen, the grand patriarch of the LeBeau clan, Judge Benedict, made his fortune after crossing the California Trail. His party was one of the few that survived the long trek across the Forty Mile Desert. Folks said it was a miracle, but we know that he had some…help."