Wish You Were Here (31 page)

‘They did?'

‘Oh yes.' The beetle see-sawed backwards and forwards on its middle legs, as if nodding. ‘They grew, for a start. Ten feet high at the shoulder they are now, fifteen some of them. And of course there was precious little grass left for them to eat, so they had to turn carnivorous. '

‘Car—? You mean, they eat
meat
?'

‘Most definitely,' replied the beetle, repeating the middle-legs manoeuvre. ‘That's why there's no humans at all left in New Zealand. Plus, all their hair fell out, so they took to wearing human skins to keep themselves warm.'

‘Dear God!'

‘Very good at it, mind,' added the beetle. ‘They make lovely thick coats and warm fleecy gloves and manskin-lined boots and everything. In fact,' the beetle went on, waving its mandibles at Wesley's abundant hair, ‘I don't really think you'd want to meet a sheep right now. You know what they say, temptation beyond endurance. First thing you know, they'd make a three-piece suit out of you. Jesus, they're almost as bad as the lemmings.' The beetle rubbed its back legs together in an agitated manner. ‘Believe me,' it said. ‘You
don't
want to meet the lemmings.'

A surge of horror coursed through Wesley's nerves, like a bolt of lightning shinning up a strip of copper. A nanosecond behind it, taking its time and refusing to get excited, came a small detachment of cynicism.
Just a minute
, it was saying,
it's sheep we're talking about, right? Piano-stool-sized woolly nitwits who make town hall clerks seem intelligent, and the electorate look like they have a mind of their own. Come on
,
now, think about it.

Wesley thought about it.

‘This is one of those alternative futures, right?' he suggested cautiously. ‘It hasn't happened yet, but it might
if
. Any minute now, Dr Sam Beckett will appear in a cloud of blue sparks, looking confused.'

The beetle vanished, and was replaced by a girl. Wesley was starting to feel fed up at the sight of her.

‘Well done,' she said. ‘That's more or less it, though I don't quite get the Beckett reference. Didn't he write gloomy plays about men in dustbins?'

Wesley shrugged. ‘I don't think they showed that one in the UK. Anyhow, the point is that I
haven't
been asleep for a hundred and something years, and the world
isn't
terrorised by giant mutant killer sheep. Or at least,' he added, before the girl could speak, ‘not in my universe it isn't. Please tell me I've got it right.'

The girl nodded. ‘But,' she said, ‘this is what
will
happen, unless something's done about it.You might say this future hasn't actually gone into production yet, but they've commissioned the script and started auditioning for the leading roles.'

Wesley mused on this for a moment. ‘When you say something's got to be done about it, I have this awful feeling that what you really mean is that
I've
got to do something.'

‘Not just you,' replied the girl, cheerfully. ‘There's the others too. Well, two of them.'

‘Ah yes.' Wesley frowned thoughtfully. ‘I've been meaning to ask about that. Who are these others I keep bumping into? There's that lawyer I nearly had the fight with—'

‘Calvin Dieb.'

‘Right, yes. And the, um, girl.'

‘Janice DeWeese.'

‘Thank you. And the mad woman with the submarines, and the Indian, Talks To Squirrels . . .'

‘The submarines lady is Linda Lachuk, and she's the fourth. Talks is, like, staff. So are all the others. It's just the four of you that's customers.'

‘I see.' Wesley chewed his lower lip. ‘And we're all sharing this horrible game, are we?'

‘Not quite,' the girl said. ‘You each get a set of experiences custom-fitted to your own problems and inadequacies. But we use the same sets and the same cast, is all.'

‘Bit cheapskate, that, isn't it? Touch of the B-movie syndrome there, I'd have said.'

‘Not at all,' the girl replied severely. ‘Let's just say we're economical with fiction. And all that's beside the point. The point is, Phase Four involves saving the world, otherwise you don't get your grades.'

‘I love your sense of perspective,' Wesley muttered. ‘You're saying that unless we save civilisation as we know it, you'll send us to bed without any pudding. Anyway, what've we got to do? And I might as well warn you, if it involves dogs or spiders, you can count me out. Let the lawyer do it.'

‘No dogs,' sighed the girl, ‘and no spiders. Look, do you want me to explain, or would you rather we spent the last few hours before the point of no return finding fault with each other? It's all the same to me, because I can be a sheep just as easily as a human.'

‘Explain,' Wesley said. ‘Please.'

The girl shrugged. ‘I was trying to,' she said. ‘But you kept talking. The point is, doubleyou-doubleyou Five was a direct result of doubleyou-doubleyou Four, and doubleyou-doubleyou Four was the inevitable consequence of doubleyou-doubleyou Three. And doubleyou-doubleyou Three is due to be caused in about nine hours. Here, in Iowa.' She smiled, and added, ‘Oh, and in case you were wondering, this is for real. Not a drill. OK?'

Wesley closed his eyes, trying to get his mind round it all. It was a bit like trying to fit a grand piano in a sock, but he did his best. ‘All right,' he said. ‘And what's going to happen in nine hours?'

‘Quite simple,' said the girl. ‘A top-flight attack journalist, writing for a leading schlock-horror New York tabloid, will put out this beautifully crafted, absolutely convincing story about global conspiracies and illicit arms shipments and Papal Armageddon and organised crime infiltration of Government and Lord knows what else. And, because the sheep and the lemmings actually inherited the Earth a long time ago but keep getting mistaken for people, the story goes over big. Networks all over the world pick it up. It gets splashed all over everywhere; which is a pity, because there's a lot in it you could take offence to if you happen to be, say, a small but well-armed non-aligned nation. Next thing you know, governments in all continents are issuing categorical denials, which is like having an affidavit from God that it's all true, as far as the media's concerned. In a frighteningly short time there's the usual media-induced hysteria - did you know it was that bunch of criminal psychotics who actually decide what happens on this planet, by the way? Not so much a democracy as a mediocracy. Then there'll be diplomatic incidents, and trigger-happy border patrols coming to blows all round the edges of four continents. After that it's only a matter of time before buttons get pressed, and, hey presto, the thing that just whizzed by in a puff of black smoke was the Third World War. Very short war, that was. Forty minutes after it had started, there wasn't much left to blow up.'

Wesley sat still for a long twenty seconds. ‘I see,' he said. ‘And this pillock journalist, the one we've got to stop; that wouldn't be the submarine fancier - what was her name again?'

‘Linda Lachuk.'

‘Fine. And how are we supposed to stop her sending in her copy?'

The girl grinned. ‘That's easy,' she said. ‘You kill her.'

 

Calvin Dieb opened his eyes.

For a moment, he was confused; but, active as ever, his brain was ready with two alternative explanations, both of which fitted the available data like a Florentine glove, almost before his eyelids were fully up.

Explanation One was that he'd died and gone to Heaven.

Explanation Two was that - finally - he'd woken up, and normality had been restored, we apologise for any inconvenience.

He looked again. Both explanations were wrong. Damn.

It had seemed promising at first, because the first thing he'd seen had been a judge's table on a raised dais under the good ol' Stars and Stripes. He was, in other words, in a courtroom; and yes, there was the jury hutch, there was the witness box, there were the cops and there were the cameras.

And there, unfortunately, was where the comforting illusion of reality faded; because he was sitting at the defendant's table and the man he was sitting next to was also, apparently, Calvin Dieb. Likewise the prosecutor. As far as he could see, he was the one on trial here. The good news was, he had Calvin Dieb to defend him. And the bad news was, Calvin Dieb was the prosecutor.

He tugged the sleeve of the Calvin Dieb next to him; the one who was lolling back in his chair doing the crossword. ‘Hey,' he whispered urgently, ‘what's—?'

‘Shh.' He looked back at himself. ‘Like I told you, stay cool. I got everything under control.' That smile; the one he'd practised in the mirror, all those years ago. ‘Trust me,' he heard himself say. ‘I'm your attorney.'

‘Yes, but—'

Before he could complete the sentence, the usher called out, ‘All stand,' and an automatic reflex operated the muscles of his knees.

Enter the judge.

In a way, he was relieved to find that the judge, unlike virtually everyone else in this nightmare, wasn't Calvin Dieb. Nor was he particularly surprised to see that the judge was, in fact, an otter. He wasn't even mildly perturbed when the otter, having taken its seat and found it couldn't see over the desk, shook itself and became a beautiful brown-haired girl.

The usher cleared her throat. ‘In the matter of the Universe versus Calvin Dieb, Ms Justice Okeewana presiding. ' Cameras started to whir. The judge leaned forward, and smiled.

‘Mr Dieb,' she said, ‘maybe it strikes you as odd that you've been executed first and tried afterwards. Let's just say I'm on a schedule, and this is the only way I could fit you in.' She turned her head, and nodded to the prosecutor. ‘OK, Mr Dieb, you may begin.'

‘Thank you.' The version of him on the other end of the table rose; and yes, damnit, it
was
Calvin Dieb; same smoothly oiled manner, same tactically perfect mannerisms. A stray thought, parked illegally in the back lots of his mind, wanted to know whether, since he was prosecutor, defendant and defence attorney, he'd be getting three fees, and if so, was there more of this kind of work available? A moment later, the stray thought was grabbed by the rest of the contents of Calvin's brain, and lynched. The prosecutor cleared his throat, as if he'd been conscious of the stray thought and had been waiting for it to subside, and placed his hands on the table, palms downwards. Do I do that? Yes, come to think of it, I do.

‘Your honour,' the prosecutor said, ‘the People's case against this man is exceptionally strong. We've all seen the evidence; from his business partner Hernan Piranha, who described him as, I quote, “a coyote”. From his former wife, who referred to him as “pathetic” and told this court that he'd “always be nothing”. From the victims of his ruthless ambition; the pharmaceuticals victims he cheated out of the compensation they so desperately needed, and his early guide and mentor, Leonard Threetrees, whom he callously ousted and, indeed, cold-bloodedly killed in front of this very court. We even have the testimony of Calvin Dieb senior, who cheerfully sent his own son to the electric chair.'

At Calvin's side, the defence attorney sprang to his feet. ‘Objection,' he called out. ‘In sentencing my client, witness was merely abiding by the rules of the game. There is no evidence to suggest that he did so cheerfully.'

Way to go, Cal,
Calvin thought; but he didn't like the look on the prosecutor's face. It was his own malicious grin. Ah shit!

‘Indeed,' the prosecutor said. ‘As I recall, Mr Dieb senior's last words were, “Serve the little bugger right.” ' Oh Christ, Calvin thought, there's my very own triumphant smirk at the jury when I've just scored a really telling below-belt hit. ‘Coming from the man's own father, members of the jury, don't you find that just a bit significant? Just a tad?'

Calvin looked round. The jury-box was, in fact, empty; but he felt he knew why without having to ask. It was because, no matter how weird the laws of physics might be in this lousy place, there's still no way you'd fit the entire population of the Universe into that little thing.

‘But,' the prosecutor went on, ‘the testimony I intend to rely on is that of the defendant himself. We've all seen and heard it, members of the jury. It speaks for itself.' He paused, like a lazy but skilful lion about to spring. ‘That's what really makes this guy so much worse than all the other creeps and low-lifes we get in this court, because basically, even after everything he's been through, everything he's put everybody else through - and let's not forget those Vikings, members of the jury, for whose deaths he's solely responsible - he hasn't changed a bit. He's been scared, but he ain't sorry. The only thing that's been on his mind all along is to get his keys back and get the hell out of here, fast, before he wastes any more valuable, chargeable time. Even now, right this minute, there's a part of his evil little brain that's working out how he's gonna stick the last seven hours on Mr Lustmord's bill.'

Hey, how did he know that? Calvin wondered, and in so doing, knew the answer. Oh, but it was
depressing
. He glanced sideways at his defence attorney, who grinned back.

‘I know,' his image whispered. ‘But it's worse for me, 'cos I'm on a contingency fee.'

He was about to reply when he realised the prosecutor was looking straight at him. ‘You heard that, members of the jury?' he said, with savage delight. ‘Doesn't that just say it all? He hires himself to defend him, but he'll only get paid if he wins. I know he's a lawyer, sure, but what kind of guy sinks so low that he goes around ripping
himself
off? I don't think I really need to answer that one, folks. Just take a look and see for yourselves. The Universe rests.'