Theatre of the Gods (58 page)

‘And now we can go, yes?’ said the Pope.

Lenore walked to the balcony. She carefully sniffed the air and smiled. ‘Roberto. He is coming soon. We must go and rescue my captain.’

‘OK then.’

When the small girl and her befuddled Pope arrived at the high-security installation they found it surrounded by troops. ‘The Pope commands you tell him what happened here,’ said Lenore to a bewildered soldier.

‘There was a break-in,’ said the soldier. ‘Some crazy woman stole the box with the Forbidden Zone.’

‘You let her escape?’

‘Nothing we could do. She took off from the roof on a stolen set of rocket wings. Silly cow.’

Lenore’s eyes narrowed. She made a small gesture towards the young soldier who slapped himself in the face – hard. She closed her eyes and concentrated for a second. ‘Yes. She’ll follow that wizard man into space. He has gone up to rescue me. And I’m down here. And the whole darned thing is topsy-turvy.’ Then she turned to the Pope, who looked more than ever like a child of the universe, laid before him both her slender wrists and said, ‘I am your prisoner now. Let us go up into space and have your trial.’

OH, AND THE CAPTAIN

Elsewhere, in the space between space, in a zone neither within nor without this universe, Captain Lambestyo sat completely unaware of the eventuating chaos. He didn’t know that the universe he was in was actually inside a box, and that that box had just been stolen from a high-security facility by a sultry assassin and was now stuffed inside her top as she flew high above the city. All he knew was that, despite the odd things happening all around him, he was still unbelievably bored. Odd things, yes. For a start, the bear population had exploded. They were everywhere now, and he’d had to start locking himself in their old rocket – which still sat in its place in the glade. He’d uprooted a large circle of moss and dragged it inside. It was a comfortable enough mattress, but the rocket was very small and he had to sleep with his legs in the air. Odd things. People had started to appear and disappear: startled children, whole families. The day before an entire army had wandered through, lost, bewildered. That morning he’d come across a door. No walls, just a door. When he’d opened the door he’d found himself standing in a wide room with stone walls and another pair of large doors at the far end. An extremely well-dressed man sat in a leather armchair and nursed a glass of brandy. He looked depressed. Opposite the man, silhouetted by the light streaming in from the entrance way, was a small figure on a wooden chair. She appeared to be sleeping.

‘What on earth are you doing in here?’ said the Well Dressed Man.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the captain.

‘Well, hadn’t you better leave?’

And he had. He’d gone back through the door and found himself once more standing in a glade of red moss. When he turned round, the door had vanished. ‘Why didn’t I leave through those other doors?’ thought the captain, as he contemplated yet another night in paradise.

Just an hour before he’d seen a figure he could swear was the Emperor himself wandering among the trees, as if in a dream. He’d called out, but the figure had kept walking.

The captain lifted his bear’s-head hat and mopped the sweat from his brow with a grubby sleeve. The other thing that was happening was that it was getting much, much warmer.

THE RACE FOR SPACE

What a place we find ourselves in now. What a mad and dangerous universe of possibility.

The Black Widow had stolen a set of rocket wings from a papal guardsman and was now flying over the city towards the royal launch bays where she hoped to find her former friend M. Francisco Fabrigas and give him the box containing a universe containing a world containing the captain of a ship from the next universe – all before the poison she had inhaled killed her. Meanwhile, that former friend had met his younger self and the two were currently arguing over who would get to fly the ship they’d stolen for a mission into space to rescue a small girl from the clutches of the Pope of the universe.

The Well Dressed Man had finally regained consciousness and crawled out from the rubble the Cyclops! had nudged upon him. He stood slowly and looked with disgust upon the state of his suit. It was covered in dust and the shoulder of his jacket was torn at the seam. Something would have to be done about this. All around him was dust and fire and patches of melting snow. The papal troops were regrouping. The towers were in flames. A web of silky rocket trails led down from the black ships above.

The Well Dressed Man was still trying to take back the situation with his powerful mind, but failing. He was exhausted from his efforts to subdue the mind of a small girl. The girl. He had almost forgotten about her. Never mind, she was safe in a holding cell inside the
mountain. He let his mind run up the mountainside, felt his way back through the tunnels to where his small prisoner was … gone. The Well Dressed Man felt his heart flutter. He almost cried out. No one knew she was there. No one except … ‘Dear Gods: the Pope!’ It had to be the Pope. The Well Dressed Man strode towards the cable car. All the way up the mountain he stood perfectly still. At the top he left the cable car, walked past the discarded Cyclops! and into the cave complex. He emerged a minute later, stood by the fountain at the entrance, one finger on his lips, coldly surveying the continuing carnage in the city below. He saw a figure near the edge. The figure had a large lensed instrument on a tripod and he was using it to slowly scan the city below.

The Well Dressed Man called out, ‘Good day, Dr Dray!’ The figure turned, paused and bowed neatly. The Well Dressed Man smiled. ‘Recording events for posterity?’ Dray nodded politely. The Well Dressed Man made a faint gesture to a passing fighter craft. The ship swung round and came to land beside him. The pilot got out, walked to the fountain, and jumped in.

SPACE ATTACK

‘Let the trial begin!’ said the Pope. There was not a person in the room, the Pope included, who thought a trial was necessary. Everyone knew what the outcome would be. The girl in the dock would be found guilty of conspiring against the Church and the Queen, and being a Devil-child. She would be taken to a place of execution (it was almost always a black hole), and thrown in. The Pope had a machine capable of creating a smallish – but very powerful – black hole, if one was not available. He loved using his Glory Hole machine even more than he loved using his space-clearing Ring device.

But there would certainly be a trial first, because that was how things were done, and because the Pope also loved a trial. He’d arrived back at his palace as excited as a small boy on Festivus Day. His aides, who had been frantically searching for him, were astonished to see him step out of his small taxi-craft with the Devil Girl he’d vowed to kill. And now here they were. The courtroom was packed. Lenore stood in the dock. The Pope was in his jet-bath. ‘Do you deny before this court that you are not guilty of blasphemy, treason, gluttony, simony, parsimony, rosemary, thyme and other mortal sins?’ The judge was just making sins up. He knew that at least some of these sins were kitchen herbs, but his job was to put on a show. ‘Do you not admit this isn’t so?’

‘Um. Yes?’ said Lenore. The court exploded into shouts and jeers.

‘So you admit it! Do you, or do you not, admit you just admitted it?’

‘Um. No.’ The court erupted again. Hats were thrown. Spittle sparkled in the air. Outside, beyond the broad glass dome, the sprinkled stars above the smoking ruins of Diemendääs appeared to laugh.

‘Do you know,’ said the judge, ‘that to admit to such a crime means certain death? But to deny your guilt will also lead to death?’

‘Well, then what is the point of saying anything?’

This time the clamour was deafening and joyous. A shoe hit the step below the witness stand. ‘To death!’ they cried. ‘To death with the Devil Girl! Out into space with her! Out, out, out, out, out, out, out, out!’

‘Yes, yes. Can we please hurry this all up? Roberto will be arriving soon. He is waiting behind the moon with all the naughty shrubs.’

The jeers abated as an aide ran into the room and smashed a gong. ‘Excellency!’ he said. ‘Forgive me for gonging, but it’s a matter of utmost urgency.’

‘Can’t you see we’re having the trial?’ said the Pope as he adjusted the position of a nozzle on his jet-bath.

‘Your Holiness, we are under attack.’ The Pope stood up suddenly and all in court averted their eyes.

‘A space attack? How big is their army?’

‘Extremely small, Holiness … One ship.’ Laughter in the court.

‘How big is this ship? Vast?’

‘It is rather small, Excellency,’ said the aide, again trying not to look.

The Pope looked confused. ‘One ship?’

‘Yes, Holiness. A stealth ship.’

‘A stealth ship? How did we see it on our radars?’

‘We did not, Holiness. The men on board left their radio on and we could hear them arguing. They appear to be on their way to rescue this girl.’

VENGEANCE

It was astonishingly ironic that two of the most powerful minds of their species had come up with arguably the worst rescue plan ever conceived.

‘Attack formation!’ cried Fabrigas Two – the younger. They had argued about which ship to steal. F1 had favoured the fastest ship available – a short-range courier craft, as fast as a mid-range fighter – while F2 had wanted the strongest craft – an armoured diplomatic carrier, as slow as a domestic rhinoceros. In the end they compromised and went for invisibility – discovering in a disused bay a small naval stealth craft designed to sneak up on smugglers. They had been fighting for control of the helm since leaving the docks. Both men put their case. F2 had argued that he was younger and therefore the more able pilot. F1 had responded that he had much more piloting experience, and that F2 had recently been shot with a small cannon. So F2 had capitulated, though he was still barking orders. ‘Attack formation?’ said F1. ‘What do you mean attack formation? We’re only one ship! Just let me fly for goodness’ sake. We’ll head for the main space palaces and trust they don’t notice us. That’s where the girl will be.’ They were approaching the outer defences of the Pope’s great fleet when their radio crackled into life and they heard a voice say, ‘This is Commander Murial of the Fleet of the Nine Churches. We can hear you arguing. Change heading and leave this sector immediately or you will be destroyed.’

*

The court assembled to try Lenore for her crimes had watched through the great windows as a tiny ship approached the first ring of defence. It hadn’t gone well. Soon the craft was streaking off, trailing smoke, pursued by a thousand fighters. It was unclear who was piloting the ship on this suicide mission, but it was clear that they were as mad as a bucketful of kittens. Now several dozen grappling ships were in pursuit. Their long steel ropes terminated in hooks which swung in wide and deadly circles. It wouldn’t be long before one of them sank its hooks into the fleeing ship and pulled it in.

But Roberto would soon be here. Yes, Lenore could feel it. Soon the fun would begin.

*

Prince Panduke caught up with Kimmy in the Dedals within the mountain. He had seen the great iron giant wreaking hell and had immediately gone to get his jet-packs. ‘You stole my iron giant!’ was the first thing he said.

‘It’s good to see you too,’ said Kimmy, as she pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘We left her safely by the entrance.’

‘You left
him
by the entrance. We have to get you into hiding,’ said the prince.

‘No, we have to get
you
into hiding,’ said Kimmy. ‘They’ll be out to arrest you.’

‘No, we have to get
you
into hiding. I’m here to rescue
you
.’

No one quite knew who had built the Dedals and why. But they had been used at various times to smuggle people in and out of the city, to act as refuges during aerial bombardment – such as the one they could hear below – to conduct secret meetings, rites and rituals. The tunnels appeared to travel down towards the core of the mountain under which the city stood, holding here and there a door or drain, and now and then becoming tiny black rooms or wide, spooky arcades.

Now Panduke and Kimmy were deeper than they’d ever been, and the tunnels had shrunk to hardly the girth of a person, and there were no doors to be found. ‘Where are we?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Panduke. ‘These are the secret tunnels.’

‘So we’re lost?’

‘No, we are in Diemendääs.’ He put his hand against the mossy stone. ‘And right now I’d rather be lost than found.’

‘Shhhh,’ said Kimmy. ‘Listen.’ They were so deep now that they could hardly hear the explosions. They had turned a corner into a narrow corridor that stretched to vanishing. There was a point of light in the blackness; looking down the tunnel was like staring into a great eye. Far away they heard a soft shuffle, like someone jogging on sand, and then a foggy shape materialised at the far end, moving quickly towards them.

‘Run!’

The prince had already left. They ran as fast as their short legs could manage, driven on by fear, but the figure in pursuit was fast and gaining on them with every stride. Panduke stumbled and fell, Kimmy tumbled over him, and suddenly the footsteps were upon them. They scrabbled onto their backs but the corridor behind was empty. ‘A ghost!’ hissed Panduke.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Kimmy. They stood and turned in the direction they’d been running. They both let out girlish screams. The man who stood before them was extremely short and very muscular. He had a tremendous head of bright red hair, well oiled, and a well-lubricated moustache. He wore a red-and-white-striped leotard – the kind worn by circus strongmen – and a pair of strange rubber shoes. He was not at all out of breath, despite having run the better part of a mile in less than three minutes.

‘Sir!’ barked the man. ‘I greet you with all humbleness! On behalf of His Majesty’s Secret Service, it is my duty to inform you that His Highness, the Emperor, is missing, presumed dead. I have no time to explain further developments. Please follow me.’