Theatre of the Gods (5 page)

He waited.

The clock above the bar struck ten bells. The lights across Carnassus dimmed briefly, then rebooted.

*

It has been estimated that more pockets are picked during the ten seconds of darkness when the airport’s generators reboot than the rest of the day combined. As the lights rose again Fabrigas saw that a boy was sitting at their table. ‘Begone, child, this table is taken!’ shouted Fabrigas. He had finished his tea, but he hated being rushed. Astonishingly, the boy did not scurry away. He removed his hood. His face made Fabrigas all but gasp aloud.

THE NECRONAUT

The boy put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhhhhhhhhhh.’ He had a young face. A hard-eyed, weathered and dreadful face. The boy spoke and Fabrigas was struck dead by his black eyes and defiant jaw. It was a face to break a mother’s heart, or any heart. He wore gun belts that criss-crossed his torso under a heavy leather coat; the brass cartridges twinkled in the half-light. Fabrigas was so stunned that he watched the boy speak for a full minute before he removed his earplugs, placed them on top of his wooden box, and said, ‘Pardon?’

The stranger blinked, then said: ‘My name is Carlos Góngora Lambestyo. I was a cadet in Her Majesty’s Elite Black Squadron. During the invasion of Manchurious V my bat-fighter was hit by a rocket and I crashed. I was captured by the enemy. I escaped by holding down a guard and rubbing his head until he gave me his keys. That is all you need to know about that time. I found a refugee ship and drifted through space for a full year, fighting for my life, surviving on rats and other small creatures. I got aboard a ship by pretending to be a beautiful lady. Then I threw the captain overboard and took his ship. The crew was ready to kill me until I proved I was not a lady.’ The boy had not said ‘kill’ like you or I might. He’d said ‘keeeeel’, ‘… to keeeeel me’. Looking into the boy’s eyes Fabrigas suddenly found that, yes, he felt like dying.

The boy held the old man’s eyes in his, leaned closer.

‘I have seen things and been places you wouldn’t believe, old man.
Many times I have wished for death myself, but it never came. Now I hear you are trying to catch a pilot for a dangerous mission of almost certain death. That pilot is me.’ He took a small sphere from his coat and placed it on the table. It made a dull thud. ‘I usually only tell my story once.’

The young man’s tale filled Fabrigas with utter despair, and he thought about just fleeing. But he stayed fixed to his chair, trying not to stare. Carrofax, he noticed, was staring, bemused. This was the infamous mercenary pilot whose very name struck fear into the heart of every sailor?

‘
He
is the Necronaut?’ said Carrofax.

‘
You
are the Necronaut?’ said Fabrigas.

‘That is a name given to me by others; I did not choose it for myself,’ said the boy. ‘“Necro” means “Death”. “Naut” is a word for the number zero, I’m told. So “Necronaut” means “No death”.’

Fabrigas made to speak, then thought better of it.

‘Do you mind?’ said the boy. He pointed to the teapot. Fabrigas blinked twice. The boy poured himself a cup of jasmine tea, sipped and nodded thoughtfully. His leather gun belts croaked. ‘I once piloted a ship smuggling jasmine from the Black Isles. Our cargo caught fire. I smelled like jasmine for months. Whenever I smell jasmine I think of that time. It is not relaxing. But I never cry.’

He took another sip. ‘I see you look at my scar. You are perhaps wondering how I got it?’ The boy’s forehead carried several deep marks, and a long scar ran from his temple, down his face, down his neck, to the collar of his cloak, and on to God knows where. This boy’s face looked like a map – a map of a land called Pain. ‘I have fought many, many monsters,’ said the boy pilot. ‘Zombies, Cyclopses, Triclopses, serpents, vampire owls. But the creature who gave me this was a woman. We are not together any more. I could tell you the story but when I finished you would surely want to
keeeeel
yourself, so I won’t.’ He put down his cup and pushed it away with his index finger.

‘My boy, how old are you to have had such dreadful experiences?’ said Fabrigas, who had been trying
not
to look at the scar.

‘I am no boy,’ said the boy, ‘I am eighteen and one-quarter years old. I have whiskers, see?’ He pointed to a faint copse of stubble on his chin. ‘I have my own ship, the
Fire Bird
. At least I did, until it caught fire. I have many terrible stories like this. One day I think I should write a book.’

‘How much flesh are you, boy?’

‘… Ninety-five per cent. But my military enhancements make me very strong. Would you like to arm-wrestle?’

The servos in the young man’s elbow whirred softly.

‘So you’ve lost no organs to plague?’

The boy pouted. ‘I almost lost a kidney in a game of cards. True story.’

Fabrigas pushed aside his own cup and looked at Carrofax. Carrofax shook his head. ‘Young man,’ said Fabrigas, ‘your story is very moving, and yes, we do need a captain who can pilot our ship on a mission to the next universe, by order of the Queen. There we will find a new dimension with its own properties, laws, monsters –’

‘Treasures?’

‘Perhaps. But you will not be there.’ The boy pilot squinted, then took his elbow off the table. ‘Stories of your bravery are legendary, but we require more than bravery for this mission. We need experience. You are just a boy. I’m sorry, but we cannot offer you this job after all. More tea?’

The boy set his weathered eyes on the old man. Then he scratched the back of his head, looked around for the first time, taking in the stained walls, the sailors, now silent. Fabrigas hadn’t noticed at first, but the men had stopped singing when the boy entered.

‘This is a nice tavern,’ continued the Necronaut, ‘if you like the bar scene. I do not. I have seen taverns so dreadful that you would weep tears of blood.’ He pointed to his left eye. ‘I was once in a tavern that served only blood. Why would you do that? Serve only
blood? Well, in any case, you would need to catch me first. You have not.’

‘Have we not?’ said the old-beard.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘If you are speaking of the auto-cuffs around my ankles, I have disabled them.’

‘Have you indeed?’

‘Yes. Shackles can’t hold me. And nor can any of those traps you have waiting for me outside.’ The boy patted the small black cannonball which sat upon the table.

‘What is that?’ asked Fabrigas.

‘This? Oh, thank you for asking. This is my little friend. He is a cannonball filled with WD40-X. You’ve heard of it?’

‘Heard of it? I invented it, boy. It is an extremely volatile and powerful explosive activated by contact with water. Why would you bring this here?’

The boy pouted. ‘I hear you have many traps set. This is my “get out of the jail card”.’

‘There’s no such thing. Where did you get such an idea?’

Again the boy shrugged. ‘It is only unsafe near water anyway.’ He picked up the sphere, tossed it lightly from hand to hand and into his coat pocket. Then he said, ‘What’s in that box?’

‘Beg pardon?’ said Fabrigas. ‘Oh. This is the map. I spent an age perfecting it. To make it I had to send several million lanterns into the next universe, to each of which were attached mechanical eyes and ears. No one but me and my manservant have ever seen this map. It shows the way to the next universe with only an 80 per cent chance of death.’

‘Those are good odds,’ said the boy. ‘May I see it?’

‘Certainly,’ said Fabrigas, ‘but you should know that it will blow your mind out through your face.’

WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS

The box at first seemed empty, black. The boy pilot squirmed impatiently. Then a pair of brass spheres rose slowly, almost shyly, from within, peeking out like a pair of rising suns, whirring faintly. The two spheres of equal size began to orbit each other, filling the corner of the room with a honey light. ‘This is our universe,’ said Fabrigas, his voice a whisper. He pointed a long, thin finger towards one of the spheres. ‘This,’ he said, moving his finger to the second sphere, ‘is the universe I came from.’

‘You came from another universe?’

‘I did. In a saucer craft of my own design.’

‘What is your universe like?’ whispered the young pilot breathlessly.

‘It is identical to this one, except it does not contain me.’

‘Oh.’

A third, smaller sphere rose to join the twins. ‘This,’ he said, pointing a finger to the smaller sphere, ‘is Universe Hypothetical 4QF10. It is possible, though not certain, that this universe exists.’

‘What happens if you try to enter a universe that does not exist?’ whispered the young pilot. Fabrigas fixed him with a deathly stare. ‘I see,’ said Lambestyo.

Soon, two more spheres rose from within and the five spun lazily together, their soft light leaving silky traces in the air. ‘These are other hypothetical universes, each with their own unique character. Some are almost exactly like our own universe, some are so different
that to enter them would mean certain death.’ Fabrigas spoke so softly now that he was barely audible.

Five smaller spheres rose; the ten came together to perform an exquisite ballet. The music of the spheres was like ten heavenly bells softly ringing in the blackness. ‘And this is just our local neighbourhood, our street,’ said Fabrigas. ‘To chart the Infiniverse would require a map that went on forever. Almost.’ The universe itself seemed to have come to a stop.

‘I think,’ said Carrofax, not bothering to be impressed, or to lower his voice, ‘that you should perhaps pay some attention to your surroundings.’

The boy and the old man rose out of their trance and became aware of several dozen more spheres in orbit around them. Every greedy, thieving, bloodshot eye in the tavern was upon them, or, to be precise, upon the box. ‘You should not have brought this here!’ hissed the pilot as he slammed the lid shut with his hand. ‘Come!’ The boy grabbed the box and the wizard’s sleeve and hauled them to the rear door. Carrofax followed like a shadow.

ALL TRAPS SET

Through a small door on howling springs, through a filthy kitchen where a row of rusty TX400 auto-scrubbers worked away at blackened pots, the pilot kicked a wooden door from its gudgeons and they flew down an alley so narrow they could hardly fit, through sheets of oily spiderweb. Rounding a corner they stumbled upon two naval cadets dressed as prostitutes who were touching up each other’s make-up. ‘Stop moving, you’ll smudge it!’ one said before they looked up to see their quarry. The painted cadets panicked and dived into a delivery hatch.

‘If the Procurement Agency’s traps don’t get you, those bandits will,’ said Fabrigas, out of breath. ‘I’m sure if we explained to the thugs that my map is worthless to them –’

‘They’ll kill us anyway,’ the boy grunted as he turned his ear towards the alley. They heard a public address system in the distance …

‘PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE LUGGAGE UNATTENDED IN THE AIRPORT AS IT MAY BE DAMAGED OR DESTROYED OR FLUNG INTO SPACE …’

Then they heard the first calls coming from the Bells, then the boot-steps scrabbling crab-like down the alley, the soft sounds of the servo motors in the elbows, knees and necks of the bandit sailors. Then a scream which made the hairs on their necks rise, and another: the long, thin squeal of steel blades drawn along iron pipes. Soon
it was a chorus. ‘Come on!’ said the boy, and they ran.

On the catwalks above they heard boot-fall, the
sszzt, sszzt, sszzt
of android legs, and the shrill squall of blades, like the coming of a flock of evil gulls. At least four of these bandits were tracking them, hunting their treasure. Their quarry fled through passages, over baskets, ropes and sleeping men. An enormous shadow uncoiled from the catwalk above like a snake in ambush – it dropped to the ground, dwarfing the boy pilot, raised his four steel arms and said, ‘I’ll be taking your b—’ That’s as far as he got, because the boy they called the Necronaut pushed a short knife to the man’s chest, took his huge weight on his shoulders, and lowered him quietly to the ground. Fabrigas had not seen speed and strength like it. Then the boy dropped to one knee and sniffed the air flowing from the ducts above.

‘They’re using the flow from the ducts to hide their stench, no?’ said Fabrigas. ‘They know this place like their mother’s oily face.’

‘Let’s go and see how good these traps of yours are,’ said the boy, and he ran on. The small box had vanished into his coat, his eyes seemed to have mutated: where before they were black, they were now blade-blue. Fabrigas, a half-smile on his face, exchanged a look with Carrofax, and they followed. The drum of boots on the scaffold above was deafening now, shouts and calls rang up and down the alley. Soon the whole dreadful hood would be out.

‘Would it not be faster if we took my hoverpad?’ said Fabrigas. The boy said nothing. He made for a purple door hung with flowers and a sign: ‘Any Which Way’. ‘I would not enter that
particular
bordello,’ called Fabrigas, but he was too late. The Necronaut bashed through the door as if it were paper, raising a storm of whorish screams from within. The old man heard the whip and clang of the agency’s traps unleashing – and several more screams. By the time he entered through the shattered purple door, the Necronaut was standing on top of a cage which had fallen from the ceiling. The cage had descended upon an elaborate-looking ‘fun seat’ and several
irate prostitutes. ‘Please try to keep up,’ said the boy Lambestyo. ‘This is hard enough as it is. Even though it’s totally not hard at all.’ He leaped from the cage and dropped to one knee to retie his boot, ducking, as he did, a double-headed meteor hammer which came spinning from the sordid shadows. Then he set off through the love hotel’s dank passages, leaping and ducking Procurement tripwires, slashing through nets as if they were spiderwebs, and knocking unconscious the whorishly dressed naval recruits who came at him from their hiding places. Fabrigas followed, stepping through the traps, shouting useful hints like: ‘Flying bolas to your left.’

Now the bandits from the Bells were streaming in to join the fun, but none of them were prepared for
this
bordello. The horde let out rusty howls as they were picked up in nets and nooses, slammed against the walls by swinging logs, dropped through trapdoors, or knocked unconscious by spinning bolas. They heard Captain Nezquix’s voice through a loudhailer crying: ‘Code Amber! The snake is in the basket! Seal the place! Seal the place!’ and then the sound of iron walls descending to encase the greasy house inside an impenetrable box.