Theatre of the Gods (13 page)

‘Oh well. We will meet again, I’m sure.’ The captain turned his
adoring eyes up towards the motionless iron face. The face ignored him. He shrugged and returned to his flight deck.

Soon the ship joined the fleet and dropped into a cruising formation known informally as ‘Sleeping Dragon’. It was hard not be awed by the sight of such a battle fleet spread out across the eternal night.

Then the boy captain called for attention and addressed the crew.

‘Men. Ladies. Spies for Her Majesty.’ His voice of a sudden had a gravity that defied his age. ‘We begin our journey today with the sun in our sails and an empire behind us. We go, to be sure, to our certain deaths. All that is to be decided is the exact nature of our deaths. But we will go to our deaths with our heads held high, and we will not let our heads drop, or lose our heads, even if we do in fact come to eventually lose our heads.’ He paused to raise his chin and turn his black eyes to the stars. ‘And if by some twist of misfortune I should come to survive you all, and based on my past luck that seems likely, then I will speak loudly of your courage, and your names will not be forgotten. Please sign your names in the register so that I may learn them.’ He finished his speech and there was silence.

‘Good lord,’ murmured Shatterhands. ‘Is that his idea of raising morale?’

Then the poet Gossipibom announced that he’d written an ode to their journey. There was a rush to leave the deck. ‘I’m too busy,’ said the captain, and stormed off. ‘Does sir wish me to fetch the earplugs?’ said Carrofax. Fabrigas said nothing and followed after the captain, but those who were too slow were forced to listen to the poet as he began to shriek in a high-pitched, nasal twang.

’Twas the eve of Hallig Nae’n

Thon braced leguh it trembled, stang

Upon the crux its leagured sheen

Did mix betwix the kild ’n keen

Nor eighty shanks upon its …

… Bree’r

To drift in seatop’s tip and tear

Its mission wrote up’n this …

… morn

T’boldly gae where ne’r’n has gorn
…

He paused for breath and people moved to applaud. But he wasn’t finished. Not for seventeen more verses.

From the journal of M. Francisco Fabrigas

The World, the Frame, the Cosmosie, the Panarchy, the Macrocosmos, the Megacosm, Old Smokey – whatever you choose to call it we are sailing into its reaches. We move outward through the sphere towards the edge of the Holy Neon Empire, bearing 142 degrees by 19Q through the Triton Cloud, dropping to cruising speed for a pass around the Nebula Asturius to pick up favourable winds from her currents. To portside lies the Great Wall of Peace, the zone which separates our Empire from her enemy, the Vangardiks. Because of my long incarceration this is the first time I’ve seen it. It is less a wall, in fact: more a twisting helix of mines and traps which materialised suddenly some centuries ago on an evening commonly referred to as Shutternight. The Wall is some 245 light-years long and cuts the former Empire in two, allowing the Vangardiks to protect themselves from what they call ‘terror incursions’, and to stem what they also call ‘wanton mass-migrations.’ To starboard are the Floating Worlds, the territory of the mysterious Xo. We will shortly join the shipping circuits via the dark-space autobahn. There we will be propelled like atomic bits – only much, much faster than the speed of light. This will allow us to carve off the enormous distances needed to reach our jump-point near Akropolis. The ship has a ‘funky’ smell which I cannot place.

The larger the object, the more difficult it is for it to reach the next universe. For a fleet our size to cross over it needs to reach a minimum of a quarter of the speed of light – and for that we will be relying on the winds at Akropolis. The plan has
always been to engage our RIPS engine at this part of space, and to enter the Interior. I have some necessary adjustments to make, so tomorrow must work all day to prepare.

The Queen would not agree to increase our funding for this venture, thus we have needed to cover the shortfall through corporate channels. Things were looking desperate until, at the last minute, a distillery came aboard as sponsor. And so our epic voyage is made possible thanks to the support of a Dr H. W. Sackwell’s Invigorising Tonical Rum. The fleet has been compelled to take roughly 400,000 cases of a beverage that, in my opinion, is only good for cleaning drains. The crew is on the verge of mutiny. ‘Gah! It be poison!’ they say, and, ‘It tastes like me armpits!’ Whatever the taste of the sickly green goop, it serves its main purpose: to make the men merry, though the following day they feel like killing themselves.

Terrible news today of the super-liner
Colossus
, the Empire’s unsinkable mega-ship, which yesterday collided with a space-berg, leading to a catastrophic leak and the death of almost all 547,000 passengers. It is a tragedy that just a day earlier we were within range of the ship and might have been able to offer assistance.

There have been no other incidents to speak of. We were attacked by a serpent, but it was only a baby, it could hardly wrap itself around our ship. Everyone came on deck to coo and gurgle.

Today we approach the Necropolis, beyond that is the great darkness. Strange things happen when you enter this part of space. It is not a place with common natural laws.

I feel a deep melancholy coming. But what is to be done?

Beans and boiled greens for supper.

*

From the journal of Arken R. Shatterhands (MDS, BBDL, DOA)

What an absurd bundle of cadavers-in-waiting I have been saddled with here. The boy captain brings a shadow wherever he goes. Groups that laugh and roll about fall quiet on his arrival, and on his leaving sit with heads bowed like mourners at an oceangoing wake. The bosun is a frightening meat-tower. When I asked him if I could perhaps get a second blanket for my cot, because my thin bones feel the cold terrible at night, he said, ‘Certainly! And shall I come and fluff your pillow for you too?!’ And all the men laughed.

The old-beard is perhaps the maddest. He does little but stalk the navigation deck and rant to himself. He claims to have come from another universe, yet can provide no evidence. And now he leads us into oblivion.

The cook seems like a fine fellow, as do the Gentrifaction, esp. the poet – whose gifts I think go unappreciated.

In all, I would have off this barge in a heartbeat, if not for the predicament brought about by my debts, and by certain legal suits held against me by unscrupulous opportunists, and by certain duties which I must perform for the good of Queen and Empire. For all they are worth.

I smell only death and horror on this ship.

RIPS

They rode on into the blackness, silence, and into the last inhabited region of the Empire. But this was not a place inhabited by the living. The crew went quiet as their fleet passed through the Necropolis: a sea of giant floating headstones spanning a lonely region of space. Some of the stones placed by richer families were the size of mountains. What point is there in such a place? Many have asked. It is a quest in life to make the soul tangible. For some their choice of monument is their family, their deeds, the quality of their life’s work. For others contemplating the end of life, there is a realisation that their dubious deeds, their nasty children, are a poor life record. In this case the towering public monument will suffice. There is certainty in the soul of a baron whose deeds haunt his sleep, but who knows that when the sun sets on his life he will be buried in an obsidian skull two hundred miles high.

Such a man came aboard that day for a surprise inspection. ‘I will need to see your logs and manifests,’ said Descharge. ‘Our engineers say you’re running heavy. They say you lag behind the fleet.’

‘It is our RIPS engine,’ said Fabrigas. ‘It is extremely dense, and our ship is not as powerful as yours.’

‘That is your fault,’ Descharge replied. ‘I offered you a naval battleship, I offered you a qualified captain. Where is yours?’

‘He is … rising. He gets cranky if he does not sleep enough.’

‘We have no time for this nonsense. We have a schedule to keep.
And there is the chance we might still catch up with the Vengeance. Skycore says that if she wants to flee this universe she must travel this way.’

‘Then why not let her?’ said Lambestyo. He had stumbled from his quarters, shirt unbuttoned, a patchy stubble on his ravaged face.

‘Because she is the property of this great Empire,’ Descharge replied without even bothering to turn. ‘Much like you were. I ought to have you arrested for desertion.’

‘So do it,’ said Lambestyo as he studied his stubble with the tips of his fingers. ‘Or just send the rescue team you should have sent when I crashed my bat-fighter all those years ago. I was lonely out there.’

‘Your orders were clear,’ said Descharge. ‘To secure the oil platforms for Her Majesty’s glory – with your life, if necessary. If you somehow survive this mission I will return you to a military court for trial.’

‘I will wear my best suit,’ said Lambestyo.

‘Well, this is nice!’ said Fabrigas, and Descharge turned slowly towards him. ‘In any event,’ continued the old man, ‘your inspection is pointless. As I explained, we are running heavy because of the RIPS engine, and nothing can change it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to running my tests.’

‘I still don’t know how your miraculous engine even works,’ said Descharge.

‘Yes, why don’t you enlighten us?’ said Lambestyo. He had been trying for days to get the old man to explain it to him in a way he understood.

‘Well, I wouldn’t want to bore you,’ said Fabrigas.

‘No, please, bore away,’ said Descharge.

‘Well, travelling to another universe is very simple,’ Fabrigas said. ‘You do it every time you make a choice between whether you’ll have jam on your toast, or honey. Personally, I prefer honey.’

‘I hate honey,’ said the captain. ‘Too gooey.’ He was staring hard
into space where the monumental tombstones floated, his brow was wrought.

‘But to enter a universe you don’t belong in – by the nature of your choices – is more difficult. When we come to make the crossing we will not “move” to another dimension. We will not change our place in the time/space continuum; time and space will change its place in
us
. In this sense, there are not infinite universes at all. There is really only one: the sum total of all that is possible. We are but travellers on a voyage through that universal ocean, walking from porthole to porthole, seeing reality from another point of view, then convincing ourselves that each view we witness represents an entirely new and separate reality. So you see, it’s very simple.’

The two men stared at him with unblinking eyes.

‘Well, let me put it another way,’ he continued. ‘The RIPS theory is based upon the principle of uncertain death: an uncanny point in reality when you are free to pass into any other universe –
a universe in which you survived, or a universe in which you narrowly escaped death and are crippled, or a universe in which what did not kill you made you stronger. With our own universe believing we are dead we have the opportunity to transfer ourselves to a universe in which we have all transferred ourselves to another universe. Simple.’

‘Oh yes, so
simple
,’ said Lambestyo.

Fabrigas ignored him. ‘Since at the time of your death you exist, hypothetically, in all other universes but the one you’ve died in, the universe releases its grip and allows you to pass freely.’

‘And why does this universe think we’re dead?’ said Descharge cautiously.

‘Master, perhaps …’ said Carrofax from the shadows. The old man ignored him.

‘Because we
will
be dead. Technically.’

‘Come again?’ said Descharge.

‘It couldn’t be simpler. We die in this universe, but immediately appear in another one, thus confounding the paradox of existing in a universe in which you’ve died. Which, as I’ve explained, is impossible.’

‘And
how
exactly will we die?’

‘We’ll “die” because the RIPS engine sets off a frightening thermonuclear explosion! The explosion is powerful enough to vaporise the ship and everything around it. Fortunately, the engine also has large amounts of dark ooze. This ooze exists both in the engine and in all other dimensions. It therefore acts as a quantum buffer, balancing out the force of the explosion.’

‘Yes, you heard the man, we’re all going to die,’ said Lambestyo. ‘Explosions, ooze, dark honey. Now it’s nearly elevenses; who will have a cocktail with me?’

‘That is the most insane thing I have ever heard,’ said Descharge.

‘It is!’ agreed Fabrigas. ‘But sometimes insane things are true.’

They heard a noise from behind a crate of machine oil as a sailor’s shadow flickered away into the darkness. ‘Now you’ve done it,’ said Lambestyo. ‘The whole ship will hear you plan to “keeeeel” us.’

‘He’s WHAT?!’ they heard the bosun’s voice boom from below.