The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  THE ORDER OF THE GOLDEN SPROUT

  Also by Robert Rankin:

  The Brentford Trilogy:

  The Antipope

  The Brentford Triangle

  East of Ealing

  The Sprouts of Wrath

  The Brentford Chainsaw Massacre

  Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  Knees Up Mother Earth

  The Armageddon Trilogy:

  Armageddon: The Musical

  They Came and Ate Us

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Cornelius Murphy Trilogy:

  The Book of Ultimate Truths

  Raiders of the Lost Car Park

  The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

  There is a secret trilogy in the middle there, comprised of:

  The Trilogy That Dare Not Speak Its Name Trilogy:

  Sprout Mask Replica

  The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

  Waiting for Godalming

  Plus some fabulous other books, including:

  The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

  And its sequel:

  The Toyminator

  And then:

  The Witches of Chiswick

  The Brightonomicon

  The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  Necrophenia

  Retromancer

  The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

  The Japanese Devil Fish Girl & Other Unnatural Attractions

  ROBERT RANKIN

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  A Gollancz eBook

  Copyright © Robert Rankin 2010

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  Gollancz

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  This eBook first published in 2010 by Gollancz.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 0 5750 8680 7

  This eBook produced by Jouve, France

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.thegoldensprout.com

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

  CONNOR

  WITH LOTS OF LOVE FROM HIS GRANDAD.

  Cut into the present and the future leaks out.

  William Burroughs

  1895

  1

  The Grand Salon of the Empress of Mars was furnished to exquisite nicety.

  The overstuffed couches, thoughtfully arranged before the tall Gothic viewing windows, were royally upholstered in the palest of Japanese silks. Tables for every occasion rose upon fluted cabriole legs to bear silver trays of sweetmeats, petits fours and fruits of exotic origin. On walls made beautiful by the fabrics of Sir William Morris, ornate crystal mirrors glittered in the light of electric candelabra. Octagonal carpets of the Jovian persuasion smothered the maple floor and orchids from the forests of Venus, rising from elegant French porcelain cache-pots, perfumed the rarefied air.

  The Grand Salon was abuzz with conversation.

  The very cream of London society, aristocrats of noble blood, rubbed suave and braided shoulders with potentates from other worlds. Champagne twinkled, amorous glances were exchanged. Military gentlemen, high-ranking officers of the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers, their uniforms of blue displaying many campaign medals, shared jokes with portly princelings from the royal houses of Jupiter.

  The men were debonair and dandified, the women pale and enchanting, their tiny waists encircled by corselets of filigreed brass, offset by flaring skirts and bustles prettied with embellishments of peacock feathers, ostrich plumes, waxen roses, jewels and further jewels. Upon their heads, nestling midst the coiffured, pampered curls, they wore the very latest thing: tiny silk top hats adorned with inlaid evening goggles.

  Beyond the Grand Salon, upon the promenade deck, ladies and gentlemen strolled and took in the views. For on the warm and tender evening of this maiden flight, the views were well worth taking in.

  Above, a clear night sky all draped with stars, and planets that might be viewed through one of the many astronomical telescopes arranged at regular intervals along the handrail.

  Beneath, the City of London.

  The Empress of Mars drifted silently over the great metropolis, a sleek silver air-form, one-third of a mile in length. The first of its kind, an aerial pleasure ship.

  Sadly, upon this night of nights the capital was wreathed in fog. Another industrial pea-souper. The dome of St Paul’s peeked above the murk, as did the tessellated tower of the Babbage Institute for the Advancement of Science. And towards the south, a golden glow as of some rich and royal treasure could be discerned atop the hill at Sydenham. From the destination of this wondrous aircraft. The Crystal Palace.

  For tonight a concert of celebration was to be held for the exalted company aboard the Empress of Mars. Titurel de Schentefleur would conduct Mazael’s Mechanical Orchestra in the performance of a cosmic operetta, created by Messrs William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan: Of Mars and Mankind

  (A stirring and exemplary tale as characterised by this Age of Moral Rectitude)

  This stirring and exemplary tale had been expressly commissioned by the Prime Minister, Mr Gladstone. This stirring and exemplary pillar of society had taken it unto himself to oversee and vet the libretto, in order to ensure that the story of how British Forces defeated the Martians and extended the British Empire to the Red Planet be told in a manner that was altogether f
avourable to all involved. A manner that laid great emphasis upon the selfless, loyal bravery of the victorious Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers and the callous cruelty and innate cowardice of the denizens of Mars.

  That such a victory might in any way have a ‘tainted’ quality about it would appear outrageous to the all and sundry who had consumed the ongoing details of this singular interplanetary campaign via the pages of The Times newspaper. But nevertheless . . .

  There were those who knew all of the truth. And others who wished to keep all of the truth from those who did not know it.

  War of any kind is never less than ugly and an inter-species war, as of Mars against Earth and the subsequent genocidal retaliation, entered realms of ugliness previously only inhabited by certain debauched human exhibits in the Celebrated Professor Coffin’s Cabinet of Human Curiosities.

  In brief, the true tale is as follows.

  It has been well recorded by the pen of Mr Herbert Wells and set down in his episodic chronicle, The War of the Worlds, all that came to pass when soldiers of Mars descended to British soil in their machines of war and wrought a terrible carnage.

  This appalling circumstance, which resulted in the loss of many lives and the destruction of much property, was luckily, if such a word can indeed be suitably applied, confined to the southern counties of England alone. As will be known and understood by those who have read the work of Mr Wells, the Martians were defeated not by selfless, loyal bravery, but by falling prey to Earthly bacteria against which their unearthly bodies held no natural resistance. The invaders drooped and died. Their three-legged chariots of death rocked and tumbled.

  Earth and the British Empire survived. Triumphed.

  Celebrations followed and folk danced gaily in garlanded streets and cheered for Queen and for country.

  In Westminster, however, behind closed doors, ministers took stock . . .

  A secret conclave met in a secret room . . . The year was 1885.

  At the table’s head sat Mr Gladstone, flanked by two fellows of funereal aspect. These two fellows’ names remain unrecorded and a matter of ongoing speculation. To the right of Gladstone and seated next to one of the anonymous fellows was to be found that eminent scientist and mathematician Charles Babbage, a jolly red-faced man, well swaddled in a great abundance of tweed. And directly opposite him, a gaunt but dapper personage of foreign extraction who answered to the name of Nikola Tesla. A surname the future would know as ‘the derived SI unit of magnetic flux density equal to a flux of one weber in an area of one square metre’. Beside him was an empty chair. And opposite this chair, next to Mr Babbage, sat Silas Faircloud, newly appointed Astronomer Royal, tubercular and frail.

  The secret conclave was called to order, and Mr Gladstone spoke.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘we meet here under what we must all consider to be the gravest of circumstances: the concern that further enemy forces might even now be amassing upon Mars, readying themselves for attack. Mr Faircloud, what think you of this?’

  ‘Ahem,’ went Mr Faircloud, a-clearing of his throat. ‘The possibility must be apportioned strong. Astronomers around the country, indeed throughout the civilised world, have their instruments trained upon that planet. As yet there are no signs of further martial activity, but—’

  ‘Pardon me,’ said Mr Babbage1, ‘but I am unaware of the existence of optical systems capable of observing the face of Mars to the degree that space-going vessels might be clearly discerned.’

  ‘I am working on such matters even now,’ claimed Mr Tesla, ‘although mine are not optics of glass, but of a more metaphysical disemblement that will penetrate the ether of space via the medium of radionic waves.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Mr Gladstone struck the table with a folded fist. ‘But we must all agree that the possibility of another attack is strong.’

  Silas Faircloud made so-so motions with the bobbing of his head. ‘We can only speculate as to whether further forces of a Martian military nature even exist. It is possible that they flung their entire might against us. That we took all they had and triumphed, as it were.’

  ‘What think you of this, Mr Babbage?’ asked the Prime Minister. ‘Would this adhere to your mathematical principles?’

  ‘Oh, very much so, sir.’ And Mr Babbage smiled. A big broad beamer bringing warmth to all. ‘Although the modes of thought employed by Martians have few echoes amongst we folk of Earth – and I have here the autopsy reports on the examinations of Martian bodies carried out at the London Hospital by the noted surgeon, and Her Majesty’s physician, Sir Frederick Treves, which suggest that the Martian brain has more in common with the shark or the porpoise than with that of the human being – regardless of these differences, logic of any kind surely dictates that if you choose to wage war upon another planet, you would do well to overwhelm your enemy as speedily and judiciously as possible. To wit, fling all you have in a great big all-out attack.’

  Mr Gladstone nodded thoughtfully. ‘Which might be to say,’ said he, ‘that should the fight be carried to Mars, an all-over British victory might be accomplished.’

  ‘Carried to Mars?’ asked Silas Faircloud. ‘How so might this be?’

  ‘Mr Babbage once more,’ said the PM, indicating same.

  ‘Through a process of what Mr Tesla here has named “back-engineering”. To put it simply, we repair and restore the Martian ships of space. Convert their controls for human piloting. Fly to Mars and wreak—’

  ‘Revenge,’ said Mr Gladstone. ‘An ugly word, I know, but war is an ugly business. It would be my proposal that regiments of the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers be put on standby. Your comments please, Mr Faircloud.’

  ‘Well,’ puffed the Astronomer Royal, ‘if it is to be done then it had best be done speedily. At this time, Mars is at its closest for some years to come. The opportunity presents itself, but fearful consequences might result.’

  ‘Specifically?’ asked Mr Gladstone.

  ‘One might only speculate. Perhaps a virulence exists upon Mars to which its inhabitants are immune, but which might well lay waste to soldiers from Earth.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Nikola Tesla. ‘My own researches suggest that the Martian atmosphere is thinner than our own, perhaps equivalent to that upon a mountain peak. As such, solar radiation cleanses the planet of bacteria. Mars, I believe, is a totally sterile environment. I would stake my reputation upon this.’

  ‘And such a reputation it is,’ said Mr Gladstone. ‘I understand that you have recently made great strides forward in the field of, what is it – teletalkation?’

  ‘Telecommunications,’ said Mr Tesla, nodding modestly. ‘The ability to communicate verbally, across great distances, without recourse to wires, cables or suchlike mediums of transmission.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ wheezed the Astronomer Royal. ‘Would that I will live to see such wonders. But I still have fear for our soldier boys. These Martian vessels must be stocked with compressed air and sufficient rations. Much planning will be necessary. And who knows what awaits on Mars? Mighty armaments trained upon the sky? Who can say?’

  ‘Who can say, indeed.’ Mr Gladstone took out his cigar case and relieved it of a smoke. This he cut with a clipper on his watch fob and placed between his lips. ‘Speed and force,’ said he, though slightly mumbled. ‘Speed and force must be of the essence, and to this end I propose that we engage the services of a young gentleman who has lately distinguished himself in the African troubles. I am putting him in command of the strike force. Mr Babbage, you are nearest – would you open up the door and bid him enter?’

  Charles Babbage rose, pushed back his chair, took himself to the door and opened it. A slight young man with the face of a baby grinned into the room.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘allow me to introduce you to Mr Winston Churchill.’

  2

  History does not record that Winston Churchill organised the assault against

  Mars. Nor indeed did the libretto of Of Mar
s and Mankind. There was some controversy.

  Mr Gladstone bade the young man enter.

  Mr Churchill entered with a smile.

  Mr Gladstone indicated a vacant chair and Mr Churchill placed himself upon it. Mr Gladstone said, ‘The floor is yours.’

  Mr Churchill rose and bowed politely. ‘I am gratified, ’ said he, ‘to be chosen for this task. One that will garner no glory for myself, but one that will be of enormous significance to the future of the British Empire.’

  Mr Faircloud coughed a little. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘we have not been introduced but—’

  ‘You are the Astronomer Royal,’ said Mr Churchill. ‘And here I see the noted Mr Babbage and the equally noted Mr Tesla. And the two funereal gentlemen are—’

  Mr Gladstone put a finger to his lips. ‘One does not disclose the names of the Gentlemen in Black.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the smiling Mr Churchill.