They Came and Ate Us_The B-Movie (Armageddon Trilogy 2) Read online

  PART TWO

  13

  . . . which brings us to President Wayne L. Wormwood. Political observers who mapped out his course to the presidency are all in agreement that he could never have achieved his rapid succession to such high office had it not been for uncommon luck. Although you will never find a successful politician willing to admit to it, a glance through the pages of history always reveals that they remained for as long as they did through luck rather than judgement.

  As there has never been a political system that actually worked (the concept of the many being fairly governed by the few being a logical impossibility), each survives until its inefficiencies can no longer be tolerated. That is, until its luck runs out.

  Wormwood’s appearance on the world stage had all the hallmarks of a man with supreme luck on his side. ‘The right man at the right time in the right place’ ran his campaign slogans. He became a White House aide on the strength of a single television speech, popular support for him being so huge that the ailing president wisely took the hint that here was a man who would make a better friend than an enemy. That within several days, the president would be dead, and the vice president scarcely sworn in before the damning scandal of his international drug dealing was exposed - by Mr Wormwood, it is to be noticed - could hardly have been foreseen. Wormwood was indeed the right man in the right place at the right time. Luck absolute.

  Sir John Rimmer, Lucky Bastards of the Twentieth Century

  The enigmatic Byron Wheeler-Vegan did not return to his Inter-Rositer. Having left Zoroastra Findhorn he took himself off to the senior viceroy-in-chief. His apartment door was ‘lower-grand’, its brasswork and furniture burnished. The name plaque read HARMAN KARPER s.v.i.c. Byron knocked. A voice urged him to enter. Byron entered. The room was identical to that of Zoroastra Findhorn. Harman Karper was tall, gaunt and peevish. He looked up from a sheath of papers and regarded Byron with bewilderment. ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘I knocked and you said enter.’

  ‘Perplexing.’

  ‘I have a two-micron downgrade on a lateral augmentor.’

  ‘You must speak with Mr Findhorn. Proper channels you know. Goodbye.’ The senior viceroy returned to his papers. Byron stood his ground. The senior viceroy looked up from his papers. Byron continued to stand his ground. ‘Who let you in?’ asked the senior viceroy.

  ‘I have a two-micron downgrade on a lateral augmentor.’

  ‘Another?’ Karper’s eyebrows rose. ‘I told the previous fellow he must put it through proper channels. You must do the same.’

  ‘I am the previous fellow.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense. Goodbye.’

  Byron decided upon a new tack. ‘The viceroy, Zoroastra Findhorn, said I was to approach you,’ he lied.

  ‘Approach me? Unthinkable. Had a request for a service replacement come from the viceroy then I should have dealt with it as of the now.’

  ‘Perhaps it is amongst your papers awaiting action.’

  ‘Of course it is. Where else would it be?’

  ‘Perhaps you should deal with it as of the now.’

  ‘I have. So back to work you go.’

  ‘But I have a two-micron downgrade on a lateral augmentor.’

  ‘Then you must put it through the proper channels. Goodbye.’ It was a very firm goodbye.

  ‘What are the proper channels?’ Byron asked.

  ‘Chain of command. Order of hierarchy. Your request is put to the viceroy. His to me.’

  ‘And yours?’

  ‘Mine are to a higher body.’

  ‘Which is whom?’

  ‘The level manager of course. Felix Embalon.’

  ‘And where might I find him?’

  ‘Find him? Find him?’ Harman Karper’s voice rose to a tremulous quaver. ‘You might not find him. The very thought. Back to work you go.’

  ‘I cannot go back to work, I have a two-micron . . .’ Byron did not bother to finish that. ‘If you will give me the order for the service replacement, I will deal with the matter myself and spare you further paperwork.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do you any good.’

  ‘One can but try.’

  Harman Karper mulled this over. The concept was evidently new to him. ‘Paper chasing paper,’ he said, when he had given the matter as much thought as he considered it to merit. ‘Here. Take them.’ He handed the sheaf to Byron. Byron flicked through it. Each sheet was an order for a lateral augmentor. His.

  ‘Up the stairs. First on the left. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Byron.

  Up the stairs and first on the left there was yet another door. This was slightly larger and grander than its predecessor, but it came as little surprise to Byron to find the room which lay beyond identical.

  ‘Who let you in?’ asked Felix Embalon.

  ‘Senior viceroy Harmon Karper.’ Felix Embalon was tall, gaunt and peevish. ‘Impossible,’ said he. ‘Karper reports directly to me. I sanctioned no intermediary. Goodbye.’

  Byron was now warming to each new challenge.

  ‘Actually I am acting under the express orders of the controller himself. He demands that a service replacement for a lateral augmentor be issued to me as of the now.’ He flung down the sheaf of order forms before Felix. Most of them went on the floor.

  ‘Would that I could,’ said Felix. ‘But my hands are tied.’

  ‘But the controller demands . . .’

  ‘I am merely doing my job. If the machine shop cannot supply the part, what am I to do?’

  ‘Why can’t the machine shop supply the part?’

  Felix shrugged. ‘That is a question I have never thought to ask.’

  ‘Then I shall ask it for you,’

  ‘Up the stairs and first on the left,’ said Felix.

  The machine shop was not the hive of industry Byron had expected it to be. Three swarthy gnomish men sat on unpacked packing cases in a low dirty hall. They were playing a game which involved the movement of coloured beads about a wire frame they held between them. The hall boasted an abundance of intricate machinery, yet none appeared to be in operation.

  ‘Who is in charge here?’ Byron asked.

  The three gnomes considered one another. ‘Hard to say,’ said one. ‘We are each a specialist in some particular field of operation. Each interdependent on the next. An interesting question. Who let you in?’

  ‘The controller sent me. I am to collect the service replacement for a lateral augmentor.’

  ‘It’s over there,’ said another gnome. ‘On the lathe,’

  ‘I shall take it as of the now, then.’

  ‘It lacks the flange,’ said the third gnome.

  ‘Then kindly attach the flange as of the now,’

  ‘The flange has not, as of the now, arrived from the depot,’

  Byron did not trouble to notice which of the three said this. ‘And the depot is where?’

  ‘Up the stairs. First on the left.’

  The head of the depot was amiable enough. He explained to Byron all about flanges. They were composed, he said, of four separate sections, each originating from a different department. He had in his possession three of these sections, but the fourth eluded him. As soon as the storekeeper let him have this missing section he felt sure that all would be well.

  The storekeeper, first on the left up the stairs, was profuse in his apologies. The missing flange section, he confessed, haunted his dreams. It played havoc with his stock balance pro formas and was a blight upon his existence. As soon as the chief engineer made the part available he would gladly pass it on to the depot. Byron could rest easy on this account.

  Byron’s wrath, which had been gathering like a dark storm about his head, fell in a torrential downpour upon the chief engineer. The poor man wrung his hands and seemed on the point of tears. Without flux it was impossible to machine the flange section. He had all the necessary components, which he would gladly show to Byron, but the section could not be machined without flux.


  ‘Who supplies this flux?’ Byron demanded. ‘Tell me as of the now if you wish to live.’

  ‘The storekeeper!’ burbled the quivering wreck.

  Now, the reader might reasonably be forgiven for thinking that this might be the ideal time to find out what Rex and Elvis are up to. But no. Byron’s predicament does play a very large part in the overall scheme of things. Thus, his search for the flux which lubricates the machine, which machines the section which makes up the flange which fits the service replacement which governs the precision of the Inter-Rositer which Byron prestidigitates, must be seen through to its dire conclusion. Sorry but there it is.

  ‘Flux!’ screamed Byron.

  ‘Flux,’ sighed the storekeeper. ‘The bane of my life.’

  ‘Where?’ screamed Byron.

  ‘The depot of course.’ The storekeeper smiled encouragingly.

  ‘The depot.’

  The head of the depot was amiable enough. He explained to Byron all about flux. Flux was a compound without which machines could not be operated. It was processed in the machine shop. But surely this was common knowledge? Everything came through the machine shop.

  The gnomes were still at play. They didn’t look up from their game this time. It was almost as if they had been expecting Byron.

  ‘Who is in charge of flux processing?’ Byron’s voice had an unpleasant cracked quality to it.

  ‘No-one is actually in charge of flux. The processing is a simple enough matter. We take it by rote.’

  ‘Give me flux!’ Byron made manic gestures. ‘As of the now!’

  ‘Gladly. As soon as we have received the binding fluid for it from Felix Embalon.’

  Felix Embalon received Byron without enthusiasm. ‘Who let you in?’ he asked in a gaunt and peevish manner.

  “The machine shop require binding fluid as of the now.’ Byron did not recall picking up the spanner, but as he evidently had, he waved it at Felix in a threatening manner.

  ‘Would that I could,’ Felix made a sorry face. ‘But my hands are tied.’

  ‘Where does binding fluid come from?’

  ‘It’s a by-product. Harman Karper’s department. I merely expedite its distribution. He is in charge of supply.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Byron. ‘Indeed.’

  Harman Karper s.v.i.c.. would not come to the door. ‘I am accepting no callers as of the now,’ he shouted through the keyhole.

  Byron waded into the door with his spanner. ‘What is binding fluid a by-product of?’ was all he wanted to know.

  ‘Inert natural gases which condense on the outer rimmels of the big flywheel. These are split into their base elements. One of these constitutes a friction-free binding fluid used in the manufacture of flux. But I am only in charge of supply.’

  ‘Then who is responsible for the manufacture of binding fluid?’

  ‘Zoroastra Findhorn.’

  ‘That does it,’ said Byron Wheeler-Vegan.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said a short fat fellow in a stained overall. ‘You just missed him.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m nobody, just a sweeper-upper.’

  ‘Binding fluid.’ Byron threw himself on to the newly swept floor and began to thrash about. ‘I must have binding fluid!’

  ‘Is that all you want?’

  Byron fixed him with a baleful eye. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Binding fluid. I know all about binding fluid.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Certainly, in my job you see it all, this department, that department, this process, that process . .’

  ‘Just tell me about binding fluid.’

  ‘You can’t get any! It’s a special process you see, very exact. Certain gases condense on the outer rimmels of the big flywheel and these . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know all that. So why can’t I get any?’

  ‘There’s a malfunction on the Inter-Rositer. I suspect a two-micron downgrade on a lateral augmentor. Someone should put in for a service replacement. Typical, isn’t it?’

  14

  PRESIDENT’S HORSE EXPLODES

  National Enquirer

  Elvis flung down the newspaper. ‘And he walks away without even a sore ass,’ They were in Presley’s penthouse. Elvis flung himself down on to the Terence Conran settee

  Rex stared from the window. Night was falling and so was the rain. ‘Perhaps it can’t be done.’

  Elvis made a bitter face. ‘What do you mean?’

  Rex turned to meet his eyes. ‘Perhaps it is impossible to change history. The Phnaargs tried it with you but it didn’t work.’

  ‘But I fooled the Phnaargs. I am here and now.’

  ‘Perhaps you would have been here and now anyway, which is why you are. If you follow me.’

  ‘I surely do.’ Elvis surely didn’t.

  ‘Perhaps it’s me then. I’m from the future. If Wormwood was to die before 1999 then the future would change. Perhaps if it changed I would not be in it. So, if I wasn’t in it then I couldn’t come back here. Which I have. Do you follow that?’

  ‘I can dig it, chief,’ said Barry the Sprout. ‘It’s a conundrum, ain’t it?’

  ‘How many times have we tried to hit Wormwood now?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘Eight times. Perhaps . . ,’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ Elvis poured two large drinks. ‘We can get that sucker. I just know it,’

  Rex was doubtful. He accepted his glass and took sips. ‘There has to be another way. We are going about this all wrong.’

  ‘I had me another revelation this morning in the shower.’

  Rex made a pained expression. ‘Let me put this to you and tell me what you think. You had been trying to locate Wormwood for fifteen years. Then on the very day that he appears as if from nowhere, I am thrown back in time and wind up on his doorstep, so to speak. There can surely be no chance of coincidence being involved here.’

  Elvis shrugged. The sprout said, ‘None, chief,’

  ‘Now, if I am right that history cannot be changed whilst a man from the future is in it as living proof, then the conclusion is obvious.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Elvis nodded blankly. ‘I guess it is.’

  ‘Wormwood cannot be harmed as long as I am here. I am his living insurance policy. I must get back to my own time. Then you can dispose of Wormwood. If then the future changes and I am not in it, that will be neither here nor there. You will have saved the world from the Nuclear Holocaust Event. This is no small matter.’

  ‘Bravo chief. Heroic stuff.’

  ‘Don’t let me be the party-pooper, Rex.’ Elvis drained his glass. ‘But how are we gonna get you back to the future? Barry can’t take you, he don’t do that kind of stuff no more.’

  ‘What do you know about Jonathan Crawford?’

  ‘The golden boy? Not too much. Some kind of genius. Very big in the military. Time said he was the military. Designs all kinds of programs. This the guy who’s been paying your tabs, right?’

  ‘Right, and this Crawford seems pretty obsessed with the future. He’s in all this right up to his neck. Although I’m not altogether sure quite how.’

  ‘So we should go lean on him a little?’

  Rex grinned. ‘I like you, Elvis, I really like you.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ Elvis picked distractedly at his bandaged left hand. The infection was spreading up his arm. ‘We’re buddies, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then let’s go kick ass.’

  ‘Yes, let’s do.’

  The storm was gathering strength. The winds tore at the stacks of never-collected garbage and flung them about the streets.

  ‘Not a fit night out for man nor beast.’ Jonathan tapped a sensor and a blind drew down his office window. ‘Three people killed by rats this week,’ he added cheerfully. ‘The new president has a lot on his plate.’

  More than you know, thought Rex, wondering about the connection.

  ‘I’m glad you called by.’ Jonathan tapped on a small hand computer
of his own design. ‘I’ve just had your monthly bank statement delivered. Two more Porsches last week alone. What do you do with them?’ Rex recalled that he had given one to Elvis as a present. He wasn’t quite sure where he’d parked the other one.

  ‘All part of my tireless search for your Glitchcraft program,’ said he.

  ‘Indeed. But after four weeks you still have nothing to report.’

  ‘We are on the case night and day.’

  ‘We? And who exactly is this with you?’

  ‘King,’ said Elvis. “Thomas Henry Edward King. That’s THE King. Pleased to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand for a shake.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ cautioned Rex.

  Jonathan smiled. ‘Why the false moustache, Mr King?’

  ‘That’s for me to know, fella.’

  ‘No offence meant. So Rex, you bring me good news, I trust.’

  ‘I should like Jack Doveston’s K-squared carbon back please. I am sure you have had enough time to make a copy.’

  ‘Actually not as it happens. There is a glitch in the system.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Rex asked.

  Jonathan eyed the man in the false moustache.

  ‘He can be trusted,’ said Rex.

  ‘It’s a big number.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Jonathan plumped into his chair and composed his long fingers before him. ‘It really is most annoying and very much the fault of your erstwhile cahoot Jack Doveston. He took it upon himself to trace the hacker who had cut into the university system. Linked up with half the street pirates across America. The result was a massive feedback which scrambled the network. Since then systems have been crashing everywhere.’

  ‘Government systems as well?’ Rex asked.

  ‘Not as yet, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. But corporations and conglomerates and banking houses. It’s a major crisis.’

  ‘None of this has reached the media,’ Elvis said.