Version 43

by Philip Palmer

  the Universe as ’twas at “Big Bang.”

  a Dragon Fierce,

  And thus, entirely inadvertently,

  nor Monstrous Schaq, or Pil,

  created a whole new Universe

  nor any devilish 1

  which irrupted into their own.

  What gutless worms!

  And thus was born

  Unlike ourselves.

  the Pala 2

  A race of Heroes!

  who found themselves

  Tall and brave and beautiful.

  in Milton Keynes

  Our men are handsome, brave, and bold;

  with swords and axes

  our women beauteous, brave, and bolder.

  and armoured beasts

  We kill our enemies

  and blazing eyes.

  and know no “math,”

  And Smith and Blake

  for magic is in our blood!

  were flayed and disembowelled

  And magic never fails!

  after they had told their tale,

  Our swords cut through dimensions

  and were allowed to die

  and bullets kill us not.

  eventually.

  The glory of the Pala!

  Glory.

  The rage of the Pala!

  Rage.

  The hate of the Pala!

  Hate.

  The Pala Victory!

  Victory.

  Rejoice!

  Salute!

  Salute!

  Rejoice!

  Succumb.

  And then the War began

  Bullets kill us not.

  twixt the Humans and our Pala-kind.

  Missiles kill us not.

  A hundred Pala warriors brave

  Poison gas kills us not.

  against a million Soldiers of Earth,

  Submachine guns kill us not.

  so brave, and yet so vexatious,

  Assault rifles kill us not.

  so small and pitiful,

  Grenades and mortar shells kill us not.

  so swift to violence and yet

  Electric harpoon bolts kill us not.

  so very easily killed.

  Atomic bombs kill us not,

  And thus we slew

  but are very loud.

  and slew

  With sword and axe,

  and slew

  with lunge and thrust,

  and slew

  and stab and sweep,

  and slew

  and hewing of heads,

  and slew

  and lopping of limbs,

  and slew

  and evisceration,

  and slew

  and much yelling,

  and slew

  and singing

  and slew

  of songs

  in blood-spattered glory.

  of glory.

  Hear my song!

  Hear our song

  We fought

  of how

  and won.

  we fought

  and won.

  Our hundred warriors

  We knew of course

  rode forth all night

  the humans lied

  on armoured beasts

  when they surrendered

  ’neath the gleaming Moon.

  unconditionally.

  The stars, they blinked

  The British Minister Prime

  in glittering glory,

  so humbly begged

  and thundering hooves

  for mercy mild

  announced our path

  for all his kind

  to London.

  but especially English toffs.

  Our warriors bold!

  And naturally we knew

  Declaim their names!

  that lying knave

  Maralolo,

  had trickery in mind

  Dagargag,

  and foul deception.

  Pfiussfss,

  An ambush, feared we,

  Zogfiarzpprrhh,

  but yet we feigned

  Merolingiani,

  credulity

  Thockouruf.

  and trust.

  Pala!

  And thus

  And thus

  we came

  we came

  to Parliament Square.

  to the Square of Parliament,

  And there

  where the Minister Prime

  we found

  mockingly announced

  an army vast

  that he had fibbed

  and huge

  about surrendering,

  and monstrous large.

  for he had been

  A thousand, nay, ten thousand,

  advised on how

  nay, a hundred thousand,

  to vanquish us

  nay a million, mayhap more,

  without recourse

  of warriors armed

  to scientific weaponry.

  with swords.

  We later learned

  The PM fled

  a bearded mage

  by helicopter

  called Alan Moore

  pursuèd by our mockery

  had told them thus:

  and much disdain.

  Fight fire with fire!

  Fire.

  Fight sword with sword!

  Sword.

  And fight alien magic

  Magic.

  with earthly Wizards,

  Wizards.

  Warlocks,

  Warlocks.

  and Witches,

  Witches.

  and Fantasy Writers.

  Book-Mages!

  And so gathered there

  Behold the throng!

  were warriors armed

  The terrifying horde

  with sabres, cutlasses,

  of warriors murderous

  épées, and samurai swords,

  all armour-clad

  and bayonets.

  and snorting rage

  The SAS, the Paras, the kendo clubs,

  and yelling, “Alien scum!”

  the ninja wannabees, the Marines,

  and chanting, “Eng-er-land!”

  and France’s Foreign Legion,

  and “Bring it on!”

  and historical re-enactment Societies,

  and “Merde!”

  and devotees of Dungeon/Dragon games,

  and “Shit, they’re tall!”

  and black-caped Witches,

  We feared them not.

  and Warlocks in purple gowns,

  Though they were many,

  and Gryffendor pyjamas,

  and we were pitiful few.

  and tweed-jacketed Professors

  They were as plentiful

  clutching ancient tomes,

  as grains of sand upon a beach

  and Goths with piercèd eyebrows

  as stars in the firmament

  and Black Sabbath lookalikes,

  as smiles upon a sunny day

  and all the masters of

  and we were few.

  Earth magic lore.

  So few, and yet

  The acolytes of Aleister Crowley,

  so very

  the Order of the Golden Dawn,

  very

  the Wiccans and the Pagans

  very

  and the Satanists, and the

  very

  Pope;

  very

  Philip Pullman, Rowling, Graham Joyce,

  dangerous.

  Le Guin and Tanith Lee. 3

  Unleash the power

  Poor fools!

  of Pala!

  Hear my song of how we killed them all. Hear our song of how the Earth succumbed.

  A few survived

  We spared a few

  to serve as catamites and slaves

  for we are merciful

  and scribes.

  and just.

>   For Pala have

  And we were getting

  no history

  tired.

  or sense of self.

  Our arms and shoulders ached.

  We are Heroes with no past,

  And blood clogged our eyes

  no history, no lineage,

  and nostrils.

  no tales of derring-do

  and the blood-red haze

  that were done in ancient times.

  of a million warriors dead

  We have no sagas of past glory,

  filled the air like fog

  we have no epic tales.

  on a winter’s morn

  For we are a new-born race,

  on an ice-cold lake

  the progeny of a Universe

  in Hell.

  fresh-minted in Milton Keynes.

  For we had killed

  We dream of days gone by

  the creatures who

  that we never had.

  had birthed us

  We long to be

  and made us Real.

  Authentic, Real and True.

  If indeed, Real we are.

  And thus our scribes

  What destiny it was!

  are charged to write

  To massacre and slaughter

  our tales of courage and of glory

  our father and our mother

  in heroic epic poetry that evokes

  the human race!

  our non-existent heroic epic past.

  Hear my song And thus the scribes

  of a world gone wrong devote their lives

  of a universe amiss in wretched slavery

  and reality gone awry writing poetry

  and a master race about a master race

  called the Pala. that bitterly regrets

  The glorious Pala! that which it has lost.

  The wondrous Pala!

  What fools were men

  The victorious Pala!

  with all the power they had

  The bloodthirsty Pala!

  to wreck their Universe

  The all-that-is-left-on-Earth Pala!

  and thus be left

  The Pala proud, who vanquished all,

  with nothing.

  and now have nothing.

  extras

  meet the author

  Charlie Hopkinson

  This is PHILIP PALMER’S third novel for Orbit; he is also a producer and script editor, and writes for film, television and radio. Find out more about the author at www.philippalmer.net.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  VERSION 43,

  look out for

  HELL SHIP

  by Philip Palmer

  Jak/Explorer

  Is this it?

  I believe so.

  It’s a beautiful system.

  Eleven planets. Four gas giants, three with rings. One planet with a methane atmosphere. Six planets with no atmosphere. Eighty-three moons around nine of the planets. A comet in transit.

  As I say, beautiful.

  Why?

  What?

  Explain why it’s beautiful.

  Well… It’s the rings, I suppose. That purple gas giant, the four rings, the sunlight dancing on them. That’s beautiful.

  If you say so.

  I do.

  We will take our position behind an asteroid in the midst of the C ring around the largest gas giant. We will be shielded from visual and radar sensors. We will from a distance appear to be part of the ring.

  For how long?

  It is forty three point five four years since last sighting.

  A half a century to wait.

  Sixty-five point four six years.

  It’s a long wait, then.

  A very long wait, I guess.

  Wouldn’t you agree?

  I have already stated the fact; clearly I agree with it or I wouldn’t have stated it.

  Yeah I was just trying to—you know.

  Clearly I don’t know, for your sentence was incomplete and the potential meanings are limitless.

  I was just trying to make conversation.

  Why?

  Beats me. Talking to you is like—

  Ah, forget it.

  I’m bored okay. Extremely bored. Nightmarishly bored.

  Suicidally bored.

  Ah. This again.

  Yes. “This” again. I need to talk. About stuff. Shoot the breeze.

  I accede to your request to “shoot the breeze.”

  Great. What shall we talk about?

  We could swap anecdotes about our personal life.

  You have no personal life.

  Then that would clearly be a conversational dead end.

  Yeah. I guess. Look, why don’t you just tell me something? Anything. Something that you know about. Something that interests you.

  The albedo of this planet is four point five six two.

  Really?

  Yes.

  That’s fascinating!

  It is a fact that I know. How does that make it fascinating?

  Well it tells me that… you like data. Facts. That tells me some-thing about you, something admittedly that I already knew, but even so—good start! This is really helping me. Tell me something else.

  The orbital velocity of this gas giant is eight point nine six three palas per second.

  Could life develop on this planet?

  Possibly.

  Can you detect it?

  No.

  Have you tried?

  Yes. Every time I approach a planet I scan for traces of organic life, electromagnetic patterns, and space-manifold substrate data caches. This system is devoid of life and there are no substrate messages.

  And where is the centre, the very centre of the universe? Is it here? Where we are now?

  It is impossible to know the position of the centre of the universe with any absolute precision or certitude; the equations of sub-spatial science forbid it.

  But is it near to here?

  In this general region of space. We are close.

  We were close last time. But we failed.

  We had a sighting.

  We didn’t engage.

  My rift drive is now more powerful. My sensors are more acute. My weapon systems are calibrated to fire missiles with ninety four point five per cent accuracy and all my missiles and energy rays have been enhanced in power by a factor of twelve. Thus, in a blink of an eye, I will be at the enemy’s throat, if I may be allowed so colourful a phrase, and I will be armed with weaponry sufficient to achieve our goal, namely the complete and irrevocable destruction of the target vessel.

  So this time, we really are going to rip the arse off these evil parent-fuckers.

  And this time we will, as you put it, rip the arse off these evil parent-fuckers.

  Yeah. Yeah!

  This place terrifies me.

  This planet?

  No. This patch of space. The centre of the universe. There’s an evil feeling here.

  Space can not emanate evil.

  You think I’m imagining it?

  The likelihood that you are imagining it is high.

  You wouldn’t understand. I am Olaran. I am sensitive to… things.

  You are delusional.

  Not any more. That was a phase.

  A phase that lasted for half a century.

  I did what I had to do.

  You were insane.

  I functioned. I got through it. Give me some credit, can’t you?

  I accede to your request; I give you credit.

  Is this God, do you think?

  Is what God? This planet? Our conversation? Our symbiotic relationship?

  Are you being sarcastic?

  I’m attempting that mode.

  Nice try. By “this” I mean the Source. The place that all the evidence tells us is the centre of the universe. Is it God?

  Define “God.”

  The beginning and the end; the all and e
verything; the origin and the cause of life; the reason for reality.

  By those criteria, the Source is God.

  I don’t believe in God.

  Then your question is idiotic.

  It all began here. This is the womb that spawned a million universes.

  This is not a womb. Wombs do not spawn. The number of universes is considerably greater than a million.

  Piss all over my banter, why don’t you?

  I am a type 5 Explorer Ship, model number 410: I do not piss.

  Fuck you.

  I have no comment to make.

  You humourless fucking machine.

  I have no comment to make.

  I’m afraid. I’m actually terrified. I’m afraid of this place, and what it means, and I’m afraid we’ll fail again. Explorer, I can’t endure it. The fear is suffocating me; and the hate, the hate chokes me too. You know I still yearn to kill each and every one of those bastards and destroy forever their appalling black-sailed ship. But revenge is a cold-hearted bitch who steals the souls of those she fucks; and I fear that she has stolen mine. Explorer, I don’t think I can cope for much longer.

  I have no comment to make.

  Book 2

  sharrock

  I could see flames in the night-time sky; and a painful-as-a-dagger-thrust fear for those I loved burned in my soul.

  I had been riding for five days and five nights through the red and lonely desert. My throat was parched, and my skin was like ash. And I had been dreaming, vividly, of sensual pleasures I would soon enjoy: a lazy bath in warm and perfumed waters; a slow massage of my taut and angry muscles; a fast frenzied fuck with my beloved wife Malisha; a long draught of rich wine; and, finally, a deep, soul-enriching sleep on a mattress filled with shara feathers.

  All these dreams ended when I saw the glow in the sky. The clouds above and beyond the gnarled escarpment of grey rocks were bloodied by red flame; they were white floating pillows now transformed into ghastly red carcasses.

  And I knew that my village had been torched.

  I dismounted my cathary and knelt, and put my ear to the soft sound-conducting sand. And I waited, until my mind and ears were in tune with the planet and its hidden truths. And then I heard:

  A faint humming noise, like the murmur of blood running along a warrior’s veins, and I guessed that it was the sound of a skyplane hovering.

  Shrill receding cries, remote, celebratory, in a language I did not recognise.

  The hooves of riderless mounts, aimlessly pit-pattering.

  The low moans of warriors and wives and husbands and children; sad cries of dying grief that mingled agony with impotent rage.

  I heard, also, faintly but unmistakably: the soft, hoarse death gasps of throats burned by the scorched air of sun-fire blasts; the HuhHuhHuh! grunts of those shot or stabbed fatally in the guts; the angry whimpering of men and women stabbed or raped; the slow wretched sobs of wounded children; the despairing howls of mothers cradling their lost beloved.