‘I have to kill Wormwood. You know that.’
‘So you keep saying. But what good will it do? Genetics keep the grass growing. Maybe things will change. Who can say? Wormwood will die sometime.’
‘Crawford will come to power.’
‘Will he? You never told me the truth about that.’
‘I don’t think I know.’ Rex drank up. ‘Get me another drink, Jack.’
‘Do you still hate me, Rex?’
‘No. Not at all. I never did. Get me another drink, eh?’
Jack went up to the bar; when he returned Rex had gone.
23
There is only the past and the future. There is no present.
Buddha
The past sure is tense. The past sure is now.
Captain Beefheart
It must be Christmas. We’ve got police presence.
John Spencer
Rex drove home. He didn’t know how. Perhaps the car was on automatic pilot, but as he didn’t know how, neither did he care. And it was all so familiar. The bunker. Just there waiting for him. The TWENTY-FIRST-CENTURY ECO-HOME. He sat a long time in the car staring at the door. The paintwork was nice and bright and green. The cogs gleamed a dazzling chrome in the overblown sunlight. He could see himself as a small child, swaddled in a polysilicate cape, venturing out whilst his parents slept to poke at the charred soil. Rake up little castles from the filth.
Rex stirred himself from his dismal reverie. Ducked from the car into the shade at the bunker door. Turned the cog and entered.
‘Rex.’ Spike smiled up at him from a battered couch, laid her book aside. ‘You’re back.’ She saw his strange expression. The troubled eyes. ‘You are back, Rex?’ She took him in her slender arms.
And then they were naked upon the couch. And he felt the fierce passion for this girl he did not know. Her body pressed tightly against his. The smell of her flesh, a scent fresh as a child’s. The moistness of her mouth. She kissed him again and again.
And when it was over she cradled his head and stroked his beard. And she asked the question he feared that she would.
‘Where have you been, Rex?’
‘I don’t know,’ he told her. ‘I just don’t know.’
And then he slept.
He was in the shadow of an arch, within the broken city. He adjusted his goggles, brought distant forms into focus. Something moved amongst the rubble. The sun’s glare made it a shimmering mirage. It walked upon crooked legs. Like a bird. But it was no bird. A machine? A robot? It picked its way from place to place, as if searching for something. A craft buzzed low overhead. Rex ducked back into the curtain of darkness. The craft shot away. Rex focused his goggles, adjusted the niters. It was a curricle. An ancient tinkered with long control rods, rode the outré carrier. And then it stopped. Cocked forward. The occupant gazed down. Stared at something. Rex clambered to a higher vantage point. Sought to make out a distant glimmer. A wheel chair?
‘Over there. That’s him.’ He heard the voice and now he saw the face. Wormwood. The face expanded to fill all vision. Before it the weird curricle strutted forward! ‘Is he the one?’ Rex did not know the voice. Old and crabbed. ‘Is he the one?’
‘Adjust him out!’ cried Wormwood.
‘Adjust him out!’
‘Adjust him out!’
‘Adjust him out!’
Rex fought to escape. He turned and ran, but his legs gave him no support. He fell and he screamed and screamed and screamed.
‘Hold on buddy. Hold it. It’s okay. Come on now.’ Rex woke, cold in his own sweat. ‘Again?’ said he.
‘Again,’ said Elvis. ‘Take some coffee. Loosen. You know what I mean?’
‘Thanks.’ Rex took the cup. He smiled up at Elvis. Thanks.’
The King’s left arm hung loosely in its sling. His head was also bandaged. ‘Anything new?’
‘I don’t know. A thing on legs. A metal curricle. And Wormwood.’
‘We gotta move,’ said Elvis.
‘He’s right, chief,’ said Barry. ‘It’s now or never, to quote the classics.’
Rex swung his legs down from the penthouse bed and sipped his coffee. ‘Is everything set?’
‘Sure thing and it has to be today. The talks. This summit at the UN, Wormwood’s single world government, bad idea. It’s our last chance to stop him.’
‘OK. How’s the arm?’
‘Not good. Barry’s doing his best. I can have the bandages off for an hour or two. But I’m rotting Rex. My hair is . . .’
‘Yes, I know. All right then. Let’s do it right.’
It was 27 July 1993 and the crowds were out in force. There was major flag-waving and all of it stars and stripes. The banners were up and the chanting had begun early. ‘Wormwood,’ went the chant. ‘Wormwood... Wormwood . . . Wormwood . . .’ It was some event.
‘I sure am glad you’re here, Rex. You straight on everything that’s happening?’
‘Straight. As long as your people don’t let us down.’
‘Gotta trust someone, I guess.’ Rex and Elvis were dressed in the military manner. High-ranked to boot. They moved through the crowd. The UN building made a splendid sight, coloured with the sky. Proud it looked, very proud. The twelve most powerful folk on Earth were to put their pens to paper and sign the agreement for a single world government. Much the stuff of dreams. Or nightmares. World government. Peace on Earth for all mankind. A flourish of the pen and lo the deed is done.
‘Are you ready, my pretty?’ Mother Demdike raked her sticky fingers through Wormwood’s hair.
‘Let go my barnet, you old ratbag.’ Wayne straightened his hair and tapped on the briefcase resting on his desk, within it a portable computer contained the life essence of LEGION. The occasional brief wisp of sulphurous smoke escaped from the keyhole. ‘The boys are all aboard.’
‘What bliss.’ Mother Demdike let out maniacal chuckles. ‘Let them free one at a time and order them whom to possess. And don’t get them all excited, will you?’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘Of course you do. Of course you do.’ Demdike thumbed her nose. A bat’s face poked out from her left ear and went Tsssk. ‘Just don’t cock it up. We have old scores to settle.’
‘I said I know what I’m doing, you stinking carcass.’ Wormwood plucked up the briefcase and strode across the room. He threw open the great doors. Sunlight blazed through them, casting a long dramatic shadow out behind him. He turned, framed in the portal like the demon prince he was. It looked a treat.
‘Let’s kick ass!’ cried Wayne L. Wormwood.
Bang! went the big drum. The baton came up and the massed band of SAG-COM the 117th under Hartog, launched into a medley of Dusty Springfield hits. The president’s limousine slid along the boulevard. Motorcycle outriders, armed and dangerous, communicated through headsets and saw all the world as the enemy. It was all very Judge Dredd. Further limousines appeared, exotic pennants fluttering gaily. But let’s have MTWTV put us in the picture.
‘Thanks Bob. And what a day this promises to be. If pens go to paper and our political sources seem mighty sure they will, then a single one-world government will be formed. The president’s ‘hands around the world’ promise will be fulfilled .The final borders will come down. Nation will speak peace unto nation. Man will love his fellow man. The lion will lie down with the lamb. Auld acquaintance will be forgot and a trouble shared will be a trouble halved. Which can’t be bad whichever way you look at it. This is the Dalai Lama saying a big fat Om and handing you back to the studio.’
‘And thank you, Dalai. What a character.’ The female talking head had had her hair done and was looking pretty chic. ‘Now, throughout the day we will be playing host to a veritable galaxy of stars like the Dalai, who will be adding their commentary to this momentous event and giving us the latest lowdown on Tinseltown’s steamy sex scandals. But with me right now is Doctor Wolfgang Steiner, lecturer in political history, adviser to three presidents and winner of th
e Nobel peace prize. Doctor Steiner, what exactly does this summit mean to you?’
‘To me it means the very apogee of President Wormwood’s syncretic overview. Success through simplification. A planet governed by twelve good men and true. Shared knowledge, shared wealth, shared resources, shared vision. This expression, “the global village”, has been with us for years, but only now can it become a reality. A truly great day for us all, I think.’
‘And oral sex, Doctor Steiner, where do you stand on that?’
‘I generally stand on the bedroom carpet with my knees slightly bent. Shall I demonstrate?’
‘Please do.’
He does.
‘And back now to the cavalcade approaching the UN building, where Hi Holiness the Pope is counting in the cars. Are you there, Emile?’
‘I sure am, babe. Emile Juan Jose Garcia. The Pachuco Pope. And no shit, these mother fuc . . . scuse, I can see the limousines approaching even now. And are dese cars or is they cars? I give you the rundown as they run by. And ho, here comes de first head of shit. I gotta read from the card, cos I don’t know most of these sons of bitches to speak with, dig? okay . . .
‘Car one. Kurosawa Koshibo. Head of the Koshibo Corporation who make all that mean computer games and shit. Him de president of old Japan, fact I think he own Japan, but whatever.
‘Car two. Car two got a real old wrinkly Chinese cat in it. Ho Chi Minge or something, I can’t read that. He de King of China or whatever they called.
‘Car three. And ho. This guy I know. Generalissimo Lucozade de Guano. Panama, Peru, Chile, Brazil and all points down. You dig?
‘Car four? Dis de woman primeminister of London England, dat we all know is a man under the frock, all right? She gonna be dere till dat little country sink under the waves. And ol Emile hear say dat she real pissed off dat de summit not held round her house and wanna ride in de lead car and everything. Word to the wise is all.
‘Car five. More European biggies. Dis de Europrime Kasper Hauser. Least said about dis slimeball de better. He got all de Eastern bloc droppings that de guy in the next car dropped on him.
‘Car six. And here come the guy in de next car. De pres of Mother Russia and all de bits what didn’t wanna split to the West. Borzoi Potemkin. Hey,’ de cat’s waving to me. Nice one Borzoi, all right!
‘Car seven. Hey and it’s camel jockey time, the ol tea towel and fan-belt job, you cool? Lock up your ol lady and your goats, bro, it’s Sheik Abdulla some shit I can’t read either, but we know who you are. How about an oil well for de Vatican, eh Abdul?
‘Car eight. And right behind him, though not for long by the look of it. The Cadi with the Star of David is trying to overtake. And yes it’s a side swipe. Hailing from de Holyland and ready to kick ass, De guy who sink the Titanic. Or was than an iceberg? Still, iceberg, Goldburg, it all the same to me. Israel Goldberg, dats his name and de kosher home boys.
‘Car nine. And dere’s another cat waving up at me. Who’s dis? Right on bro, it’s de pres of Australia. He’s an all right dude, know what I mean? Him and me shoot pool together when I on de papal missions down his way. Yo Larry. That Larry Minogue. See you later, cool?
‘Car ten. Dis cool too. Dis Napoleon Mandela. United States of Africa. I got all kinds of stuff here about him. Kickin out the fat white cats and freeing de people and shit. Right on Nap.
‘And who we got left? Car eleven. Here he comes, Finn MacCool. King of Eire it says here. Only independent state in the world. Big kudos to you, Finn. And that looks to be the last of them. Can’t see how they can carve up the whole shooting match between them. But I guess if that bunch party, who gonna call de cops to get the noise turned down, huh? Dis Emile Juan Jose Maria Garcia, de people’s Pope, saying kiss my ring and back to the studio.’
‘Thank you Emile. And there you have it. A lot of witty names, a helping of satire, a possibility of casual racism and eleven two-dimensional stereotypes that we probably won’t be seeing much of later. And as they’re all going to be moving mouth for at least two hours we’ll take a break right there and be backin just a moment with Zsa Zsa Gabor.’
‘This way gentlemen, and lady. Yes certainly madam, you may go first of course.’ Major Mundi ushered the heads of state through the plush entrance hall of the UN building (I can’t describe it because I’ve never been there, but it must be pretty plush). ‘Just on to the escalator.’
Wayne’s mum had been hard at it all night dealing with the decor of the summit room. This day’s colour was all-over black. The circular table was of malachite engraved with a cheery pentagram. Its seven clawed feet stood upon a carpet of black suede. The thirteen chairs surrounding it had once been the property of Aleister Crowley. The walls were not black, they were mirrored. Eleven tall mirrors angled down. Not every world conference is candle-lit, in fact none of them are, or are likely to be, but this one was, which just goes to show.
‘Through here, please,’ said General Presley. ‘President Wormwood is expecting you.’
‘Do you always wear your sunglasses indoors, young man?’
‘Sure do, ma’am.’
And then they were in. Rex and Elvis hovered outside the door. They heard keys click in various locks. ‘What now?’ Rex asked.
‘Let em rap awhile. Guys have got to get thirsty, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So we’re gonna come in with the coffee and zap.’
‘Zap. Now allow me just to recap if you will. A few points that I feel should be made clear.’ Elvis winked beneath his mirrored shades. ‘Mr Russell and his associates have arranged our fake security passes and removed from circulation the military whom we have replaced. It is proposed that we enter the summit room and serve drinks laced with a soporific. Whilst the world’s leaders sleep, President Wormwood will be removed and disposed of.’
‘By me.’
‘If you wish. The remaining eleven will be ... what?’
‘Huh. You got me on that buddy. Mr Russell said “influenced”. I guess he’s gonna have a word with them. Do some kind of deal or something. It’s cool for him. Not our problem, right?’
‘Wrong,’ said Rex. ‘Very wrong. Have you considered one obvious possibility?’ Elvis made headshakes. He hadn’t. ‘That Crawford has lied to us all along? That he knew about Project Wormwood from the start? Financed it himself, instigated it in fact?’
‘Well, if you put it like that . . .’
‘Surely we could have hit Wormwood in some way that did not mean incapacitating every world leader at the same time?’
‘Well if you put it that way also . . .’
‘Scuse me, chief.’
‘Hey Barry, what’s happening?’
‘If I might just interject.’
‘You do that green buddy. Whatever it is.’
‘Elvis and I agree that our mission is to destroy Wormwood. Nothing more. History must then be allowed to take its own course after that.’
‘I know what you’re saying, but . . .’
‘We must not interfere further, chief. It’s all in the lap of the Gods from then on. We can only do our bit.’
‘And mine?’
‘We both figure that when Wormwood gets what’s coming to him, the power he has over you, which keeps you here, will dissolve. You will return to the future and things will level out. He is undefended in there and if we can catch him off guard. Zap.’
Rex nodded. ‘Right,’ said he. But it was wrong of course.
‘Gentlemen . . . and lady,’ said President Wayne L. Wormwood. ‘We all know why we are here. We are here to sign this piece of paper that I hold in my left hand. You all know what it says. It is extremely simple. You each have a copy. Is there anybody who wishes to say anything before we all open a vein?’
‘Open a what?’ The voices came from all around the table, but most loudly from the woman prime minister of England.
‘Open a vein, madam. The treaty must of course be signed in blood.’
There was a great deal
of humming and hahing. It was liberally distributed about the table. It expressed grave doubt, a fair portion of outrage, a helping of horror, a smidgen of suspicion, a courgette of concern, a dumpling of dither.
‘Stuff you,’ said Larry Minogue.
Wormwood held up his hands as outcry became the norm. ‘Before you are surgical scalpels, sterile and sealed in plastique. You won’t feel anything except a little prick.’
‘I’m listening to one,’ said Mr Minogue. Which just goes to prove that you can use the same gag twice in a book if you are prepared to scrape the barrel. ‘Count me out, matey.’
‘You all know me,’ purred Wormwood. ‘You know my policies. I am restoring this country. I have taken all matters personally in hand. You know my philosophy: if it can’t be worked out on the wrapper of a Snickers bar, then it’s too complicated. We all swear an oath of allegiance. Sign in our blood and together sort out all the problems of the world. Is this simple or is this simple?’
‘I have a biro we all might share,’ Kurosawa Koshibo spoke. ‘In fact it is more than a biro. It is the Koshibo 2000 Ultrapen. It works on the principle of negative light transference, is solar powered and never runs out. I have samples here if you would all care to try. My company plans to . . .’
‘We have them already,’ sneered Wormwood. ‘The Crawford Corporation markets a cheaper and more efficient version. I will lend you mine. But now it is blood I want. Your blood,’ Wormwood opened his briefcase before him. The computer within flashed into action. Eleven images of his face appeared on the screen. They all looked eager. ‘Will we do this the easy way or . . ,’
‘Or what?’ The English woman rose to her feet. ‘We do not feel that the time is right to finalize this agreement at present. Perhaps next year when I shall be hosting…’
‘No madam. There will be no next year when you will be doing anything.’ Wormwood’s finger hovered above a button on the computer keyboard marked RELEASE. ‘When you leave this room,’ he continued, ‘you will all be, how shall I put this, changed men. I am going to give each of you something to take back to your countries. Call it a knowledge. Call it an inspiration. Call it a way of being. Call it simply “a being”.’