Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy) Page 24

  ‘I am nothing,’ whispered Gloria. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There, I’ve fixed it,’ said Rex, as the lift rose again from the dead. Christeen gave him an old-fashioned look. Rex winked back.

  ‘Nice one, Rex.’ Elvis was cocking a selection of brutal-looking hardware. He thrust what appeared to be a ray gun into Fergus’s fist.

  ‘You’ve got a bogey hanging out of your nose,’ he observed.

  ‘It’s blood.’ Fergus made an unhappy face at Christeen and wiped a sleeve collar across his begored nostrils. The lift passed the eighteenth floor and continued upwards.

  Upon the eighteenth-floor landing two young gentlemen, now beautifully turned out in Barbour jackets and tweed caps, were enjoying an early supper. This came in the form of a Nemesis continuity person.

  ‘Pass the salt, old boy,’ said Rambo Bloodaxe.

  ‘Oh,’ said Deathblade Eric. ‘It’s us, I thought we were dead.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. We simply went to ground when Rex’s air car went off without us. We’ve been hiding out here ever since.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Eric again. ‘It wasn’t made clear, but I suppose it’s remotely possible.’ He felt at his head. ‘Half my brain is still missing, I regret.’

  ‘Keep your pecker up, me old cock sparrow. If we are back in the plot there is sure to be a reason for it. Now do tuck your napkin in. You’re getting giblets all down your front.’

  After this I looked and beheld a door was opened in Heaven and the first voice which I heard was as it were a trumpet talking with me.

  Revelation 4:1

  ‘And cue the trumpet,’ pronounced Mungo. Above the planet, hovering in the cone of light, a trapdoor creaked open and the bell of a battered bugle poked out. ‘Taraa Taraa,’ it went, somewhat discordantly. ‘Now hear this, now hear this . . .’

  Jason Morgawr chewed upon his knuckles. ‘It comes across a lot better on the small screen,’ he ventured.

  ‘The balance of equipoise-’ Dan was once more standing upon the floor, but he looked no less impressive for it ‘-fragile, precise. The perfect balance between love and hate, peace and war, sanity and insanity, life and death. And so forth. Tip the scales but a fraction to either end and the balance is lost. The harmony is gone, and then . . .’ Dan searched for an example. Far off there was a sickening squelch as the lifeless body of L. Ron Hubbard the twenty-third hit the floor.

  ‘Like that,’ said Dan. ‘Squelch.’

  ‘Squelch?’ queried Ms Vrillium, still cowering.

  ‘Squelch. Crash bang wallop, whatever you please. Chaos, disorder. But harmony and peace has existed between the Big Three for fifty years and why? Because I wanted it so, that’s why. Those ants in their bunkers, propped up before their terminals, we need them as much as they need us. Singularly they are just rubbish, expendable. But en masse they represent a nation, an empire. But we could never have hoped to feed them all. You’ve seen that for yourself. The balance between the Three had to be maintained. Until I chose it otherwise. I could have destroyed Hubbard and that papal harpy whenever I wanted. MOTHER hacked into their networks years ago. She could have closed them down whenever I ordered it. I’m in control here. Do you understand that? I run this planet.’

  ‘I would like to bear your children,’ said Gloria, which was unexpected, if nothing else.

  The lift doors opened to announce the arrival of Rex and his fellow revolutionaries.

  ‘Hello there Gloria,’ said Rex Mundi. ‘How’s your luck?’

  Dan closed his eyes to them. ‘What is done cannot be undone. You die now.’

  ‘Rex,’ said Gloria, ‘oh, Rex, I’m so sorry.’

  Mungo, totally disenchanted with the naff trumpet, keyed in the next bit.

  And I saw the horses in the vision and those that sat upon them.

  Revelation 9:17

  The four housemen sprang out upon the clouds of Earth. Mungo’s face fell. ‘Those are pantomime horses!’ he screamed. ‘Morgawr, you idiot!’

  ‘They’ll be all right. Patch this through to the Earth networks, the folk in the bunkers should watch all this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mungo actually agreed. ‘They should.’ He punched out sequences amongst the bulging bits and bobs. Vision blurred upon Earth terminal screens. The interior of the Dalai’s apartments suddenly appeared.

  ‘And what’s all this then?’ asked the bunker-bound, popping cans of Buddhabeer and leaning forward in their seats.

  ‘Ant-eye-Christ!’ cried Elvis, pointing his gun at Dan and shooting off a charge. The gun spat a line of crimson energy. But inches from the Dalai’s head it crumpled, dissolved and was gone.

  Rex came up from the cover he had instantly taken as the gun went bang. ‘He’s not the Antichrist, I’ve told you.’

  ‘Oh yes he is . . .’

  ‘Oh no he’s not. . .’

  ‘Oh yes he is,’ said Christeen.

  ‘Oh yes I am,’ Dan agreed. ‘You never got it, either, did you Rex? No-one ever does. That’s the way it goes.’ The third eye opened in Dan’s forehead. All three eyes glowed a bloody red. ‘The end time approaches. But this time I prevail. All this is mine and I’m keeping it.’

  ‘Cor, look at them.’ Ms Vrillium was pointing furiously. ‘Dirty big . . . what are those things called?’

  ‘Horses,’ Gloria told her. ‘They are horses.’

  ‘Horses, what?’ Dan turned to view the unlikely spectacle. ‘No, not yet.’

  The cameras panned over and those in the bunkers were offered a good look too. ‘Crikey,’ they said and things similar.

  ‘Your time is up.’ Christeen advanced upon the Dalai Lama. ‘The reckoning is at hand.’

  ‘You.’ Dan’s red eyes widened. All three. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His tall spare frame trembled and shook. Veins stood out upon his naked shaven head. They formed the triple tadpole station logo. Six Six Six. The number of the Beast. His long fingers were cruel inhuman claws. Dan turned slowly away and vanished.

  ‘Where’d he go?’ Elvis plunged forward, to stand a brave heroic figure, two guns raised like the Duke of old.

  ‘Fergus, close the lift.’ Rex ordered. ‘It’s the only way out.’ Fergus did so and stood with his back to the doors, brandishing his gun with forced conviction. That Gloria looks even better in the flesh, he thought.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ called Rex. ‘Come and get your medici . . . urgh.’ He doubled up, holding his groin. Elvis fired, blindly destroying priceless artefacts.

  ‘Hold on.’ Rex climbed unsteadily to his feet. He took a deep breath and gazed about the room. As with Gloria he had seen it all before. But never really seen it. Each and every item seemed threatening. Cloaked by a sinister gloom. The word ‘eldritch’ sprang into his mind. The four central columns with their frantically erotic frescoes appeared top heavy, ready to fall. The carved furniture was too large, oppressive. The great desk was now the tomb slab of some titanic sarcophagus. The woven faces upon the carpets yawned, open mouthed, waiting to swallow him up.

  And then Rex knew. He had come here to die. The thought was strong in his head. Stronger than anything else. He had been shoved about, tricked, lied to and manipulated for long enough. It had all led him to this. And now there was nowhere left to run to. Nowhere left to hide. Here he must die. To fight further was out of the question. He must give the whole thing up. Submit to the Dalai and his fate. To power far greater than his own. Tell Elvis to lay down his weapon. . .

  ‘Tell him yourself!’ Rex struck out with his fist. It pounded something in the empty air before him.

  Dan materialized upon the floor clutching his face. ‘My nose again,’ he wailed. ‘But how?’

  ‘If you are going to do my thoughts for me,’ replied Rex, examining his skinned knuckle. ‘Then you might at least have the courtesy to do them in my own voice. And your breath smells.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’ Dan blew into his palms and sniffed through his unbloodied nostril. ‘A mite sulphurous perhaps.’

>   ‘Bravo Rex.’ Christeen was once more at his side. ‘I had to let you do it for yourself.’

  Dan raised himself upon an elbow. ‘Who are you? You murder my sleep. Who are you? I’ve got to know.’

  Christeen rose above him. Clothed as with the sun. Upon her head was a crown of twelve stars. Beneath her feet, a crescent moon. Rex stepped back, taking in the wonder.

  ‘I am Christeen,’ said Christeen. ‘Twin sister of Jesus Christ.’

  ‘You are what?’ the Dalai’s question was heartily enjoined by Elvis, Fergus, Rex, Gloria and the fat woman who had quite lost all interest in horses, flying or otherwise.

  This was one major revelation by any account.

  ‘I am as I say, and this is my time.’

  Dan curled his lip and glared her a prial of daggers. ‘You wish,’ said he.

  Elvis stepped forward. ‘Let me blow this sucker away.’

  ‘No,’ Christeen raised her hand. ‘He must hear this. Everyone must hear this. The truth must now be told.’

  The bunker-bound popped further ring-pulls. ‘It’s good this,’ they agreed.

  Mungo shifted uneasily at the controls. ‘It’s not good this,’ he said.

  ‘In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth . . .’ Dan groaned. Stooping, Christeen clouted him one in the ear. Dan kept further groans to himself.

  ‘Pardon that,’ Christeen dusted her hands together. ‘A touch of PMT.’

  ‘PMT?’ Rex asked.

  ‘Pre Monotheistic Tension. Now where was I?’

  ‘Your daddy created the Heaven and the Earth.’ Elvis tried to make his tone convincing.

  ‘Thank you. And it’s all here.’ A large black Bible had appeared miraculously in her hands. ‘Nearly all. There is an essential point about this book which mankind has never come to realize. This isn’t a record of events which occurred. This is a record of events which were scheduled to occur. In short this a script. The Big Script. Isn’t it, Fergus?’

  Fergus Shaman hung his head. ‘Some say. The backers . . .’

  ‘Backer. There is only one. On Earth here, Dad sold the thing originally to the Jews, through Moses. One of your first “script advisers”, Fergus. The Jews were well chuffed. They were to be the Chosen People, blessed of God. Nice work if you can get it. And so they went along whole-heartedly. But of course what they didn’t know at the time was that it was a two-book deal. And that the sequel had already been written. Bible Two. The New Testament. Dead peeved were the Jews when they discovered the consequences of killing my brother. They’ve been getting it in the neck ever since. Simply victims of circumstance. Just like me.’

  ‘Just like you?’ Dan flinched in advance. ‘You’re not in the New Testament. Never were.’

  ‘Oh, yes I was. When mother Mary gave birth it was to twins. But the small print in my brother’s contract gave him overall artistic control. He only got his part through nepotism. The New Testament was nothing more than a vehicle for his stardom.’

  ‘Scandalous,’ said Rex.

  ‘So I got written out,’ Christeen continued. ‘A victim of male chauvinistic editing.’

  Dan was climbing warily to his feet, the muzzles of deadly weapons upon him. ‘So then,’ said he. ‘If any of this is true, how come you are here now? You’re not in Revelation.’

  ‘Am too. Chapter twelve, verse one,’

  ‘Bah humbug. You can read anything you want into Revelation. John was stoned out of his mind when he wrote it.’

  ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you.’

  Dan made a grumpy face. ‘And so where does he-’ the gesture was aimed at Fergus ‘-and his backer come into all this?’

  ‘Father’s little helpers,’ said Christeen scornfully. ‘Dad, as my brother might tell you, has a very large ego and an extremely perverse sense of humour. He thrives on flattery, worship and applause. He created man in his own image. So he’s only human after all. Dad created another planet called Phnaargos and a race, the Phnaargs, whose job it was to stage-manage the whole show. They were to see that the controlling idea of the plot remained intact. And so they did, for a while, until it was time to close the show down. Armageddon was scheduled to take place in the year 1000 AD. You see it is Dad’s policy never to get personally involved in anything. He just starts the ball rolling, sits back and watches. But back in 999 someone tipped the Phnaargs off that this was the case. Didn’t they, Dan?’

  Dan made a ferocious face. ‘And what if they did? You admit that you’ve got nothing out of it, and you are his only daughter. I have a major role, and I don’t intend to be written out.’

  ‘Hubba hubba,’ said Elvis, ‘he’s going to spill the beans.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Rex.

  ‘Yeah,’ snarled Dan. He was standing and he was mean. ‘Major role. I was there back in the Garden of Eden tempting that silly woman without the navel. I had all the best parts back then, Tower of Babel, Sodom and Gomorrah. I was really rolling. Then along comes her brother with volume two and it’s get thee behind me Satan and sorry Mr Beelzebub, you get the chop in the last chapter. Do I shit, says I. Because there ain’t going to be no final chapter. This series is going to run and run, because your dad ain’t going to step in and stop it.’

  ‘Does this mean the wedding’s off?’ Gloria asked.

  ‘Sure I tipped off the Phnaargs,’ Dan went on, ignoring his opportunity of the honeymoon of a lifetime. ‘Slipped them a few home truths. They weren’t too keen to kill off their golden goose. Especially when they’d seen my new script. Give ‘em what they want, I said, plenty of sex and violence. And for the last thousand years this world had been running on my script. Anyone with any intelligence at all could see that. And I got all the best parts, Attila the Hun, this king, that emperor, the other dictator, wherever the power was, I was it. Century after century and nobody knew. Why, only fifty years ago I was . . .’

  ‘President Wormwood,’ said Christeen.

  Dan stroked his chin. ‘Yeah,’ said he. ‘The Nuclear Holocaust Event seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  Rex was speechless. There are disclosures and there are disclosures, but this . . .

  Elvis wasn’t speechless. ‘Let me put a bullet through this mother-thumper . . .’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Dan was once more behind his desk.

  ‘How does he do that?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Don’t anybody move,’ crowed Dan. ‘Or I press this button.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Christeen. ‘Or I press this button. What a cliche.’

  ‘Be that as it may, once pressed not even you can halt the consequence.’

  ‘I’m trying to guess this one,’ said Rex. ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘It controls the artificial cloud-cover. I need but to press the button to increase the density and bring the whole lot down. It will suffocate everyone on Earth. No-one will survive.’

  ‘No shit?’ Elvis was impressed.

  ‘You fiend,’ cried Ms Vrillium. And quite rightly so.

  ‘And then what?’ Christeen stepped before him. ‘Lord of a barren planet? No-one to rule? No-one to worship you?’

  ‘It’s a demonic stratagem, Dan argued. ‘I never said it was perfect.’

  ‘Holy cow,’ whistled Elvis. ‘Look at these dudes.’

  Fergus Shaman had been nothing if not correct regarding Mungo’s incompetence. For Mungo, who had been fuming away that between them Dan and Christeen had now given the whole game away, had quite forgotten that whatever he was watching the entire viewing populations of two worlds were also watching. So when the terrible realization finally dawned, minutes before, he had given the all-systems-go to the final Armageddon wipe-out.

  Down from the skies of Earth came Michael and all the saints. Flaming swords, wild-eyed war-horses, thunder and lightning and the whole damn shooting gallery.

  ‘Boo boo,’ went the bunker-bound, kicking their terminals. Their one-time messiah was up in the Nemesis building planning to snuff them all
out. They didn’t want to see all this rubbish. ‘Boo boo,’ they went. ‘Bring back Christeen.’

  Jam, jam, jam, went the newly-staffed switchboard at Earthers Inc.

  ‘The show must go on.’ Mungo rammed buttons willy nilly. Stock footage jumped through the system. Michael and all the saints were met head on by the Charge of the Light Brigade (the 1930s black and white version). General Custer aimed his six-shooter at the wildly circling Indians. Zulus bore down upon Rorke’s Drift, thousands of them! and chariots raced about the Circus Maximus.

  ‘Morgawr!’ screamed the apoplectic Mungo. ‘Stop him someone. Don’t let him jump.’

  Down through the chaos of holographic projection, through the Zulus and the seventh cavalry and the Great White shark, which was circling a sinking lilo, shone a beam of golden light. The Heavens opened, and upon high angelic hosts made with the harp strumming and the songs of praise.

  And I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps.

  Revelation 14.2

  Upon a throne of beryl surrounded by beasts of mythical origin, but undoubted authenticity, a shining figure descended. Mungo smiled approvingly. ‘There,’ said he. ‘That is a lot better. That really looks the business, Morgawr.’

  Jason Morgawr, now under heavy restraint, gazed into the hologram. A foolish titter of laughter escaped through his lips. ‘That’s not me,’ he whimpered. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ cried Dan. ‘Everybody gets theirs. Everybody.’ He thrust his fist down upon the blood-red button. Amidst the swirling confusion there was a terrible hush. Pope Joan and the minions of the late L. Ron looked on. They had long ago run out of weaponry and had given it all up, anyway, to watch the show. In the Dalai’s apartment the players became a frozen tableau: Dan, grinning like the very Devil he was; Christeen, her hands locked in prayer; Fergus comforting Gloria somewhat more than was necessary; Ms Vrillium cowering once more; Elvis standing noble and defiant; Rex doing likewise, perhaps a little more so.