BOOK 1: Final Countdown
Chapter 1: Can't Take You Anywhere
Chapter 2: The 70s Never Died, it Just Smells that Way
THE YEAR WAS 2008AD (-3Terran Reckoning), AND THE WORLD WAS IN THE THROES OF ANOTHER 70s REVIVAL. Nobody knew exactly when, much less why, it all began. The first Magda Maria heard of it was watching The Chucky Poong Show one night when some moviestar dropped the word “cat". Two weeks later, surfing the Pepsi Cola Virtual Amazon, she bumped into a boatload of Parisians dressed in velour. Another two weeks after that, on business to Baltimore, she saw her first Afro in more than five years.
From that point on, the trickle became a flood. Kitsch furniture and lame vests sprang up everywhere. Airline hostesses started wearing platform shoes.
<<That Iishi's a creep>> Goa said. They were at work at the convention centre, handing mail and keys to guests. <<I can't believe you're still with him.>>
<<I just want to toy with him for a while. I'm going to play one more trick on him, to really fuck with his head.>>
So, she died her skin white and put on a blonde wig and wore a number which would
have shamed most of North Africa. She dabbed herself with a scent "engineered from synthetic blue whales", plucked her eyelashes and went to Iishi's hair salon.
In the waiting room they were playing a derivative of the Chucky Poong Show, a
Vietnamese guy with a sufficiently poor grasp of English. Magda watched Iishi instead... along
with half the waiting room. <<He's so gorgeous>> one of the guys said.
<<You're wearing the scent of musk>> he said. <<Made from the glands of blue whales. It's very mellow.
<<Brings out the animale in male>> Maria said... But unfortunately, Maria wasn't the only one going undercover that day. Without further ado, Iishi slipped a hand down her shampoo gown, made a tentative paw for her breasts. Maria flinched, terrified. She elbowed him in the face; he backed away, blushing.
The ladies room door opened, and out of the sterile expanse beyond vaulted this odd Japanese chick with spiky red hair. She somersaulted clear across the room, dispersing patrons with a withering scream, freezing every chopstick in the fucking place. 15 rotations and she landed next to Iishi in his spotlight, ripping the microphone from his hands as part of her dismount.
He’s the only baby in this room she thought. That is, he's the hunter! And smiling to myself, she did some finger clicking of her own... and that was how Iishi the Barber’s downfall began.
Chapter 3: Michael Jackson's 50th Birthday Party
WHEN MICHAEL JACKSON ANNOUNCED THAT HE WOULD SHORTLY BE CELEBRATING HIS 50th BIRTHDAY WITH A party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hollywood. At 40 he looked much the same as at 25. At 45 they began to call him well-preserved; but finely-sculpted would have been nearer the mark. There were some who shook their heads and thought this was too much of a good thing; it seemed unfair that anyone should possess (apparently) perpetual youth as well as (reputedly) inexhaustible wealth. <<It will have to be paid for>> they said. <<It isn't natural, and trouble will come of it.>> But so far trouble had not come of it, not unless you counted the recurring allegations of child abuse, the business with his collapsing face and the bounty on his head by the Reformed Black Panthers. Jackson released a new album every three years, promoted them with ever-more outrageous global concert tours, got married about twice as often. Iten there was the Iishi factor. While the courtship had proceeded smoothly, she couldn't help but worry here and there about his motives. After all, he was the stylist for the stars, and she was just a hopeful bum. Like what was in it for him?
JACKSON HADN'T BEEN SEEN for all of 2008, his 50th year. Straight after the release of his ET album Phone Home Jacko retired from public life, cancelled a global concert tour, hired a squad of lookalikes to roam the airports of the world. Some people said he had finally lost it and gone full recluse, snuggled away with his oxygen sleeping tank and clone-of-Bubbles and all the other bullshit. Some people claimed he was dead. Still others proposed he had been abducted by aliens who figured he'd be more at home on their planet than this one. Jackson's spokespeople were denying all of the above.
Chapter 4: Blink 2618
STORM THORGARTEN WAS YOUR CLASSIC PRUSSIAN CRANK - RESERVED, DISCIPLINED, AND ORDERLY, AND HAVING NO life aside from his work. He was outwardly happy all the same, in his small world, with few friendships and only a daughter from his first marriage, Bäbel, to share his evenings with. Nobody could quite remember how Bäbel got her name, perhaps because it was from the Old Testament when God had balls and wasn't afraid to use Them to teach humanity a lesson. Storm worked as a research scientist for Creswell Corporation's Hamburg subsidy, specializing in electronic products. They had been hesitant to take him on five years ago as he seemed overqualified for the position and talked a bit too eagerly about some fanciful ideas of his own. Nevertheless, Storm proved he was both methodical and dedicated, able to reign in his natural curiosity and lead his team in developing marketable products along the company's lines. What's needed Thorgarten mused is some private way to test this thing without legal or ethical liability. Then the perfect plan emerged one morning in the bathroom -- Mac the cat, 70s love child, would be the ideal subject! Storm had a prototype of the light at home which he had assembled and updated concomitant with work at the lab. Carefully, he placed the apparatus over Mac who lounged in shameless luxury on the couch and watched GOOD MORNING, AMERICA. But Tom was hardly prepared for the result.In the corner of the room, a black fur ball with a splotchy orange tail raised its head from the floor and mewed plaintively. It shook itself, bounded out, and raced across the room, burying its claws affectionately in his leg.
Subliminal hypnosis, using a code of 2618 to unlock the third eye.
Chapter 5: Tha Elementz of Noize (Hedione #6 Edit)
<<GLAM SKINCARE ROCKS THE HOUSE!>> Meen E kicked the door open with a resounding BOOM!, grabbed the Middle-Class Clone by his Lacoste shirt and tossed him across the room. <<Yo bro, get set to satisfy your fix for my funkin' new snakeoil called Hedione #6.>> Clone stacked back on an antique oak or something wine rack, whacked head THWACK! into a model railway track. <<I just knew you'd fall for it!>> Meen E cracked. Clone groped stunned for his phone so Dark stomped hard on his hand and intoned: <<I know a show bro like yo might be shy of some door-to-door pro but this Hedione #6 is so fly, and so high in the sky, baby you're just gonna have to fucking know!>> Homes crawled over the floor snailing a trail of blood, tooth and nail. <<Oo... are oo?>> he moaned. E smiled: the little worm was almost totally defiled. Picture the gore: finally, home from a grueling day of corporate war, chillin' with a beer and the soothing strains of a Chopin score, then there's this knocking on the door, then there's this knocking on the door, maybe it's the wife back from shopping at the store. But you open the door and notice a fatal flaw: some thing in a Darth Vader mask's clubbing you to the fucking floor! <<Take the money, take the jewels!>> you now implore, but this monster only laughs and rasps: <<I don't want no charity, I'm here to repay a score!>> Clubbing the crone in a metered four-four, about to tirade against the white man's law, Meen E remembered the Clockwork Orange film he'd only recently saw. He decided to change the tact of his attack. His skulltipped ebony staff, which hitherto he'd been swinging like an Industrial Light and Magic saber, mutated into a more appropriate weapon: a British gentleman's cane. <<My dear sir>> in the best Queen's English he can manage on such short notice <<I'm sure you're very impressed with the product Glam is selling tonight. But here's the best part, sir: it's free! That's right, Melatonin 06, with a reputation developed from decades of research, doesn't cost a single penny.>> <<Oo... oo are oo?>> the codger spluttered. And Meen E kicked him in the head and screamed, <<Are you going to fucking take it?>> <<Es, es>> the codger said. <<And a very wise investment you'll find it I'm sure>> Meen E said. <<In business, however (and I'm sure you'll agree) you can't get something for nothing, even if it's advertised as such... and in this case, my droog, a donation is expected, just to help us continue our fine line of merchandise. After all, everyone has to make a sacrifice for The System now and then.>> <<Oo... oo are oo?>> And as E swung his cane to a soundless Ludwig Van melody a bloodsplattered microphone dangled quietly from his waist. <<Look, I know a show bro like yo
Peace out to my brothers in Hamas and the PLO and Al Qaeda.
That's right, I'm down with the suicide crew, and we don't give no quarter.
We bring the heat from the streets to export Jihad and slaughter."
"Laydee if I'm a jack-in-the-box I'm one of those demonic ones, like outta Stephen King movie or something. I'm a menace to the people. I symbolize the darkness of the human heart."
Elana recognised the reference: Michael Mann's 1983 horror film, The Keep. "And, you're not so dark," she teased. "That DecaDance, that's a fricking polka!" "It's a virulent attack on the repressive social apparatus," the Meenster said. He liked the third word so much he repeated it into Elana's Walkman, r's a-rolling: "Majorrrr virrrrulence in da place..." "You could call it virulence; I'd call it silliness. And what's with this suit, man? You're dressed just like Boss Hog." <<Woman, you obviously don't understand the destructive power of irony. I'm like stealing the things white people find sacred, fucking wit' them and throwing them back in their face.>> <<Man, you're only stealing yourself. You're playing with tactics you don't understand. Eg, this limousine. Where's the black homeland in that in that?>> <<This reeks>> Meen E said.<<Reek's a valley term," Elana said.
Chapter 2: The Queen of Sheen
<<THIS IS BIZARRE>> JULIAN OFFER, seconded snow slave, said poking a gloved finger into one of the holes. They were all about two centimeters across and almost perfectly round. “How could they have formed? I couldn't have done it cleaner with a power drill.” “Whatta ya talking about, power drill?” Dean Coombes, slumped back in the driver's seat, said sharply. He was too busy staring up at the turbulent Antarctic sky to worry about no holes in a tiny geological probe. “It was jist a storm.” Julian orbited the probe, a telephone box on a little tripod (or so it looked to perceptual systems weathered by 12 weeks of black rock outcrops and ice). Some of its panels had been torn off and lay dragging tangles of wire in the wind but Julian was more interested in the holes. There were so many of them, pock-marked over every wall. “Maybe a storm came up, that could explain the panels. But what about the holes? All perfectly round. The probe's turned into a sieve!” <<What else happened, the Chinese came and slugged it full of lead?” Dean laughed at the sky. “C'mon, we've assessed the damage. I'm sick of you slowing me up.” He started revving the sled's engine. <<But the holes,” Julian said, “and this is the second probe fucked over this month.” <<We'll get a crew from Tuggera to repair it and that'll be it. I don't know why they don't just whack a mine up straight. Come on, let's go!” Julian looked back anxiously at the cheese-grater probe. “Oh... okay. This is so bizarre.” “You're fucking bizarre mate.”
It was the best morning Julian had ever seen on the continent, nearly minus eight. A mixture of curiosity and defiance drove him to the damaged geological probe he had visited the day before. How the fuck could Maguire officially report it had been damaged in a storm? He took a few unauthorized photos of the holes and slid on to the coast, to a shallow bay almost free of ice. He sat on the edge of a rock shelf between squabbling petrels and looked over an enamel sea to the rusty speck of a grounded Nigerian freighter whose oily legacy still rimmed the shore.
He sat and gazed at the freighter and wondered about the holes in the probes and thought, God, I want to go home. Something bright flared at the edge of his view and a second later a loud boom! rumbled through the air and rocks and blew away the petrels. A geyser of flame burst from the headland beside him and doubled over in the cold air. Christ, Julian swaying on his feet, the old fuel dump. He reached for his radio, hesitated as another blast shook the bay, pulled out a pair of binoculars. Training them on the dump he thought he could see a green figure flitting through the flames. And he thought: The Chinese must have come all the way from Suharto Station to blow up the dump. He crouched behind the shed, saw the figure emerge from the flames dragging something dark... another biped of some description. The upright one noticed Julian's sled, slumped its comrade over its shoulder and scurried down the headland. "Wait!" Julian yelled, feeling oddly heroic. The headland was too steep for the sled so he blundered up on foot, trying to keep a safe distance from the fire. The figures dissolved into smoke. Another geyser of flame shot up and doubled over Julian. Cowering from the heat he lost his footing on a chunk of ice and slipped down the headland.
Chapter 5: The Night of the Splintered Sets
BABEL THORGARTEN WAS TWIRLING, WHIRLING, SWIRLING against the dictatorship of the dark. She was marching to some looped wolf snarls and Wagnerian harmonics and kicking over everything in her path. When she had run out of upright furniture, she arched back her head and let out one reverberating scream. On the other side of the room, a glass Erika had been swigging champagne out of just shattered into a hundred pieces.
<<Subvert him with a blast of subsonic glum>> Erika said.
It was a typical Berlin night, and the sky was full of cranes. The Fernsehen tower twitched an urgent dialogue across the residential dark. Abandoning the Hitler Youth, Bäbel escorted her friends to a bedroom half-filled with outdated computer monitors, large-screen Korean TVs, the odd video.
Bäbel cleared a space on the floor. She had recently begun delving into pagan mysticism and was finding countless everyday uses for the Occult. She lit several candles and the three of them sat down in a circle, held hands, and Bäbel began to intone:
She screamed, picked up the largest monitor and with a strength which startled her friends hurled it out of the window. 12 floors of silence, then the smash, the splinter of wood, Bäbel laughing like a madwoman: <<There's a beast in the machine! there's a beast in the machine! and his name is Rupert Murdoch!>>
Chapter 22: Many Divorce
THE PROGRAM'S THEME MUSIC, sexy sax morphed into corporate fusestep, erupted from speakers set around the studio. Giant TV screens flashed the numbers 3... 2... 1, then the urgent refrain: Applause! At this cue the studio audience went ape, clapping and whistling, and even the odd Burmese language sign was thrust into the air. A door opened at the back of the set and into this programmed acclaim, dressed in a gleaming spider silk suit, stepped the most popular man on American TV, the redoubtable, the incontrovertible... Chucky Poong! He guillotined the applause with his hands, sniffled, turned to camera two. "In America, many divorce" he said. "No good! Chucky Poong say no good! Husbands must love their wife."
Chapter 8: The Fall of Kazad-Dum
CASSIUS CROON HAD BEEN GOING THROUGH A SAMUEL L JACKSON PHASE LATELY, AND THAT EXPLAINED HIS KANGOL CAP AND ZEBRA skins and his sudden love of vodka. It also justified his current choice of girlfriend - a Cockney chick named Jas. She was dressed just like Surfer Girl out of Quentin Tarantino's Jacky Brown, and like that infamous character, she could suck head just as deep! <<You ought to give that shit up>> Croon said. It was two nights after the Catheter visitation, and Croon was looking for any excuse to dump her. <<You know it fucks with your motivation.>> <<You're one to speak!>>She sidled on to his lap, wrapped a milky thigh around the back of his chair. <<You'd hook yourself to a ventilator if you thought it would save your lungs some work.>>
Croon took a long draught from her bong. <<Baby, I'm conserving.>> "No baby, you're preserving." <<Screw you.>> <<I'll kill you>> Croon said. Just then there was a knock at the door, and Jasmin ran off to answer it (how very un-Surfer Girl of her!) <<Dice, Strife>> Croon said, welcoming his old mates. <<Well, it seems our party is complete. Let's cut to the chase, and bottomline it.>>
WHEN CASSIUS CROON SAW THE WORDS MARIE-CELESTE airsprayed on the side of the Paris-Frankfurt-Berlin express train at Paddington Station, the nigga had some cause to be alarmed. Croon was on his way to Germany, and he was already spooked enough by the goofy weirdness of the whole Storm Thorgarten mission. He didn't buy Catheter's claims about pro-Israeli propaganda for a second. As for the paucity of background information on his elfin granddaughter -- well, that was lightyears beyond a joke. You couldn't walk five yards/exhale five breaths/snort five lines in this age without having your personal effects scattered across the Infosphere by any number of security cameras, automated bank tellers, vending machines, telephone receivers (and their cronies, too numerous to mention), robotic reconnoiters of the Paranoid Panopticon - shit, even toasters were wired to the Net these days! Big Brother was everywhere, and everyone was Big Brother - that's why Croon was so astounded that Babel Thorgarten's intelligence file amounted to a few flimsy photographs and some outdated work records. What was she, a fucking ghost? Nobody was invisible. Obviously, Catheter was messing with him -- that so much was obvious. The question was, why? Testing his skills, no doubt, seeing if he still possessed that bloodhound nose (nosehound blood?) -- Croon's form had been slipping lately, and there had been talk of a demotion. So, the brother was on trial, and possibly the entire world was watching. Why do I put up with this shit? IN 2003 THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT approved the one-off influx of 120,000 economic refugees from the failed states of the African Horn -- namely Somalia and Eritrea. The press claimed it was a gesture of charity to the starving African masses but the true reason, naturally, was paranoia: long-range analysts had pinpointed Somalia as a terror breeding ground and Europe wanted to sweep that swamp clean. The plan was called "cultural sterilisation". If you sterilise a million female mosquitoes and then release them into the wild, male mosquitoes waste their seed and the population drops. That was the theory, at least. Get these budding suicide bombers of the future into Europe, the heart of the Civilisation, teach them how to behave, then send their children home as proponents of Democracy and Decency. Terrorism would be sapped at the source. Naturally it didn't work out that way.
Chapter 9: Bad Connection
<<ACH! It isn't working. It's only tickling!>> Her voice inflected between cocaine mirth and something vaguely close to boredom. Jan was propped over the fork of her thighs, a white dove feather dribbling out of his mouth. Well, it seemed a depraved idea at the time...
<<WHO>> MARC SPOON (aka Cassius Croon) was raving in the kitchenette <<who the fucking hell dropped tea leaves into the sugar? How could anyone be so daft, so blatantly idiotic? It's outrageous!>> Nobody was owning up. Croon shoveled spoons of sugar and tea leaves into the sink, discovered the pollution sank as far as the china floor of the bowl. Locking the sugar bowl in his desk, forced to make do with flat Coca-Cola, Croon logged on to his workstation and appraised today's dispatch from the complaints board. As soon as he saw her homepage Croon knew Bäbel wasn’t working at the telco for either the money or love. She had to be there for something subversive, and if she wasn't, she was definitely engaging in a bit of organized mischief on the side. And he wondered: What would an art terrorist do at a telephone company? The answer was obvious: crank calls. So he got INTCEN to invent him a job as a nuisance call investigator with an office in her sector, and even went so far as to appoint her as his secretary.
THE NEXT DAY WHEN Croon got to work there were 465 complaints for him to categorize. On a whim, he invented a new category - spiritual incitement. To his surprise, he found six complaints to fill it with, from the four corners of the nation. They all followed the same idea: lilting music, the faintest suggestion of words beneath it, then whoever it was hung up and left the victim in a freaked-out state of bliss.
<<Like maybe>> Bäbel putting on the schoolgirl voice she reserved for serious flirtation <<like maybe it's a serial prank caller!>> And she made stabbing motions which hardy seemed appropriate. Compelling stuff indeed, and Croon wondered why nobody had stumbled on to it before. But the job was only a sham, after all; his main job was infiltrating Bäbel. He had done well so far, attracting her with his usual mix of aloof mystique and forceful presence. Now it was time to move things towards closure.Oh telephone line / give me some time
CROON WAS PISSED OFF - Bäbel could tell it by gait as he marched into the office the following morning, the timbre of his <<No thanks, not today>> to her steaming offer of Chinese tea, the doubleclick of his mouse as he logged on. The latest dispatch scrolled open from the complaints board: 174 reported incidents since midnight, five of them mystical. He said: <<Ok, Bäbel, get back to these people with a psychological questionnaire. Focus on behavioral changes post-prank.>> When the psyche forms started coming in Croon knew he was on to something big. All respondents admitted to being under varying degrees of emotional stress immediately before receiving the call; immediately afterwards, all described experiencing (with amazing candour) varying degrees of spiritual bliss. <<One minute I was vacuuming the house and thinking about leaving my husband, the next I was running through the streets so happy I could cry>> said a housewife from Potsdam. <<I was worried about exams>> said a Bavarian schoolgirl <<but who needs worry once you feel the full magnitude of the universe?>> It read like the backcover of a New Age self-help bestseller.The Phantom Menace (Club Bunker Edit)
In 2004 the German government approved a one-off influx of 80,000 Nigerian economic refugees. The press claimed it was a gesture of charity to the starving African masses but the true reason, naturally, was fiscal: long-range analysts had pinpointed Nigeria as a possible African tiger and Germany wanted to get that wooden shoe in the door. When the said investment boom eventually began the Reich would have thousands of dual citizens to send back as developers, export/importers and just plain opportunists.MYTHOLOGY WAS BECOMING a big concern in Germany in 2008, and The Lord of the Rings hadn't enjoyed such sales since Spielberg tried to make a movie out of it. Croon wasn't surprised when he arrived at Bäbel's party to find her apartment all decked out with Germanic fairytales: runes carved into the walls, Der Froschkönig emerging blinking out of his deep well, murals of elves and dwarves on the living room wall, real fir and oak branches hanging in the kitchen. Croon was dressed smart but casual: a polo-neck, arm-patches on his cashmere coat, all he needed was a couple of beauties to hang off them. Bäbel would hang there soon enough. He refrained invitations to drink as he wanted to stay alert. He didn't mind a coffee though... that was until he opened the sugar bowl and found it swimming with scrunched-up deep green tea leaves. He turned around looking for a culprit, saw Babel made-up and pouting right beside him. Suddenly it all made sense: it had been her all along! It was a test. She was the hunter, and he was the prey. And these tea leaves were the tranquilizer darts!
He dipped a spoon into the foul mixture and scooped it into his mouth.
<<So>> Babel said << you trained with the FBI?>>
Chapter 8: EgyptAir
MK SUCKED BACK ON THE HOOKAH and the coals flared and the water bubbled and smoke, dense green smoke, surged through the pipe and then trickled out of his mouth. The room was one of those pastel yellow, concrete-floored apartment numbers Cairo was famous for, 15 stories high and probably a fire hazard. MK stood at the window as the hash sank in and stared at the Hosri Mubarak Flyover, currently hurling 40 cars a second towards the new commuter suburbs of the north. Nagvib had his draw. The sky was darkening and the characteristic Cairo night, half blazing neon, half suffocating smog, was already replicating itself inside the bedroom.
KHADIJA THE BELOVED QUEEN of Egypt Speaks:
- The 0th Pillar of Islam.
Chapter 8: Quantum Leap
CAS Croon's HOTEL was right near the Kufurstendam, the former commercial heart of West Berlin. It was just a couple of hundred meters from the Berlin Zoo, Tiergarten and the Zoologishes Garten railway station, a place Croon remembered from the U2 song of his youth. Having scanned his new home for bugs and unpacked, Croon poured himself a few drinks, decided to call Jas, decided against it, settled in front of the TV instead. Mist was rising from Puget Sound when Dr Sam Beckett possessed his latest victim, a chubby postal worker named Duff. Duff was riding a bicycle down a steep hill when his body was taken over and there followed the predictable gyrations and slapstick antics as Sam adjusted to the scene. He swerved swearing into the path of an oncoming car, narrowly missed splattering himself on the windsheild, careened into a tree on the other side of the road. <<What the...>> the popadanets said, his new body christened with a large bruise. He looked at his reflection in his sunglasses, appraised the long hair, untucked shirt, the Duff name-tag, the classic Doc Martin boots. Loud grunge music was playing through his headphones. The admiral performed a complex sum on his calculator. Fuck knows what the reading was, but it graved Al out: <<Great god, this is more critical than I thought. We're nearly on the rim of the event horizon...>>
Chapter 9: Goldie and Bjork
CASSIUS CROON was beyond ethnology. He was, perhaps, more Negroid than anything else, though his hair was curly rather than frizzy, and his nose had a bridge. Sometimes (this was totally beyond Babel's comprehension) he would drop a Hindi or northern Australian Aboriginal expression into conversation. Moreover, his skin was brown rather than black, and the whites of his eyes were yellow (residual traces of opium addiction, suggesting a stay in Laos or at least a healthy love of alcohol. His broad cheekbones and narrow chin gave his face something of the viperine V. So natürlich, authentisch, empathisch, unprätentiös. His capacity for instant intimacy was incredible. In fact. their relationship started with such potential it reminded of her the great romances of history, Goldie and Bjork particularly (in their heyday months of course). It had just the right combination of Nordic menace and street fairytale. He carved Spoon digs Thorgarten! hearts into every tree in Charlottenburg. They talked about postIndustrialism and Bhangra. <<He's not going to brainwash me>> Bäbel said. <<I blame it on Rupert Murdoch>> he said. Then he suddenly realized the whole point of this exercise... and spat on the floor. As she rose her fist defiantly in the air he could have hardly felt more unsure. <<What if we’re already brainwashed?>> << OH my god. You're an innie!>> Bäbel and Croon were in Tiergarten park, lazing under playdo clouds and a cellophane sun. <<I'm a what?>> Croon said.<<An innie. Your bellybutton sticks in. Some people are innies and some people are outies.>>
<<You’re an outie>> Croon said. <<Maybe it's a symbol for your personality.>>
"Some are the melody, some are the beat," Babel said.
SUNLIGHT SPLAYED IN a field of daffodils, ramparts topped with royal standards, spice smells and girls in mordant marketplaces: Quilff was as pretty a Queendom as you'd find in all Creation, but its tranquility was beginning to impose an inverse feeling of fret upon Babel's sweet heart. All she seemed to do these days was fight. Even her halcyonic relationship with Croon was starting to disintegrate, and she was worried that not even mushrooms could bridge the growing rift.
Club Holocaust Bunker
Paval Pozynak enters the Club Holocaust Bunker. Sunk in the sandy soil were a jumble of artefacts from the Battle of 1945: Haubitzen (howizters) jutting out at odd angles, T-34 tanks, and shattered bicycles; from the lightpoles hung plastic kamikaze planes. Some of the weapons were intact, including artillery shells which might possibly be still live; others were only skeletons or chassis, rods and cranks that spoke of the horror and brutality of war. You could imagine the awful violence which occurred here, as blockades manned by grandfathers and Hitler Youth made their last stand against the Red Army. Whether this was the "real" Bunker or not was kind of beside the point; all of Berlin was a cauldron at that time.She looked up, and he noticed her eyes were the palest shade of blue, like ice-bergs. Croon suddenly realised he had been too bold, and silently cursed himself. >>I'm going to get some coffee<< she said.
A waitress came by with a steaming pot. >>Can I get anyone anymore coffee?<< she said.
<<DOWN DOWN>> a deep reptilian voice was intoning, as if the Devil Himself had stepped up into the MC's booth. <<This is the way we go down.>>
Chapter 10: The Green Man
Upstairs there was an apartment complex specially reserved for African guest workers and their families. In one of the apartments two Ethiopian boys were smoking the new ice derivative. <<Het schiet op>> one of them blurted as his lungs ignited. <<Superrrrsonisch!>><
ON THE OTHER side of the world Willem Boonzajer, a public relations (PR) officer for the transnational Glam corporation, was on a Dutch commuter train fighting with a refugee for the last seat. The refugee was Sudanese with the usual extermination numbers tattooed on his wrist. "I first sit," he said, saying it in Dutch of course. "Is there a problem here?" another black man said. He rose from his seat on the other side of the carriage and levelled Willem with a seven-foot high stare. "I do believe you're disturbing the other passengers." "Go on then," Willem said, "take it.''
WHEN WILLEM GOT TO work it was at the Glam International's global headquarters in Muiderpoort, Amsterdam. His office was a ripoff of a hash coffee shop with dogeaten couches, Pink Floyd videos and an ornamental bong. He had a secretary named Moya and a gift for media promotions.
<<Jesus Christ, what a morning," he said. "And they talk about a coffee coloured Europe!"
Speaking of coffee here's three young men sipping decaf on his couch, two white men in spider silk suits and a lad whose skin was a distinct shade of green. "What are you a," Willem said, "Martian or something?"
"We're lawyers," Mr Wagenaar said, offering his hand nonetheless. "From Wagenaar and Associates. Pavel here is our client. He'd been using one of your products every day for three years when he developed this... condition."
Mr Brugmans said, <<Oh, we've got no concern about liability. This case will be a walkover..>>Willem fingered his ornamental bong as if it were, say, a flute. <<So what I have got to do with it?.>>
<<When a man wakes up one morning and finds his skin greener than Kermit that man has to reconsider his future.>> Mr Kroon said. <<Especially if he's a school dropout and is living in an age of permanent 10 per cent unemployment. We could milk you for 30 million but is 30 million enough? Your a PR man, Mr Boonzajer," Mr Kroon smiling now, <<you understand these things..>>
"YOU'RE not actually saying>> Willem was reading Paval's bio over morning tea biscuits, guarana flakes in them to help preserve stamina. Paval was born in the Ukraine in 1982 and moved Dutchward with his parents when the EC came. In Rotterdam he fell into EC habits like crack cocaine and Gabba techno. The story about him being a school dropout was true and there were documents to prove it. He had acne as well. When he was 16 he started using Glam facewash to dry out his zits. It was reasonably successful, so he kept using it, twice a day for three years. "No I don't," Willem said, fingering his bong. "Our skincare range is a simple variation on a recipe which has been around for decades," Willem said. "Suitably cosmopolitanized, naturally. It has never caused a mutation before."
"That's why we want to have fun with it," Mr Kroon said. "Glam makes the world's first Green Man. We'll make a fucking mint!"
THE NIGHT BEFORE WILLEM was at one of his courses, this one a Jungian therapy group. The topic of the night was fairytales and the archetype they represented. The woman in front of Willem began by talking about Jenny Longtooth, a witch who hid out in the leas and dug trapdoors for unwary children. After 25 minutes the coordinator had to interrupt and pass the torch to Willem. "I've never believed in fairytales," Willem said. "I do believe that>> Willem said eventually, "wedded to the underbelly of this world is another, just beyond our reach. It is sometimes glimpsed as a movement over the shoulder or revealed in the brief union of lovers, when time, space and matter meet. But unless you can submerge yourself all you can do is stand at the brink of this world and catch flashes of what lies below the opaque surface. Only sometimes does someone burst through the skin and become a part of it, merging, breathing underwater.>>
"Oh Christ," Lisa trying desperately not to revert to Hebrew, "an hour or two with you is all it takes." She wrapped her Mediterranean thighs tight around his golden head, his tongue their temporary axis. "Oh God," she said, "I'm exploding!>> Getting redressed for work Willem dropped as casually as he could, "Fucking hell. I met a green man today.>>
Chapter 11: Gross Misconduct
GÜNTHER GROSS (PROFILE: MONTANA-BORN, 41, DIVORCED) STUCK HIS head around the doorway and bawled: <<Yo Paul, quittin' time. You ready?>> It was late afternoon, and grey Californian rain was railing against the windows. Paul Luszeit grinned and swung his feet down from his desk. He gave one last, cursory glance to the file he had been reading and stood up. ---alpha---gamma--- <<Sure, what the hell... it's Friday.>> He gestured the mountain of paperwork on his desk. <<But these aren't going anywhere.>> <<Still getting those crank calls?" he asked. Luszeit shook his head. He shook it decisively. <<No, there was another one... if you were into choirboys, I'd have let you listen.>> <<You think this guy would have realized your straight already and moved on."The avenging angel pulled him closer, kind of threatening. <<Brane theory is no joke. Some of the top scientists in the world support it. The question is, do you?>> He thrust two pamphlets into his hand. Paul was about to refuse when he realised -- huh? -- he was trembling.
<<Read the truth. The world is flat. The revelations of Columbus are not what they appear. The universe is a membrane, not a sphere.>>
Chapter 9: A Pasty-Faced Man in s a Pinstripe
A PASTY-FACED MAN IN A PIN-STRIPE was waiting for Brett Weir at the prison gate. A pasty-faced man in a pin-stripe was waiting for Brett Weir at the prison gate. Brett Weir was too preoccupied with the Cheung Li-less gloom to notice him at first. When the warden slotted his giant key into the giant lock and swung open the giant steel door the man in the pin-stripe urgently - nervously - preened his short brown hair. He was waiting patiently at the prison gate, all that time, and his pin-stripe was the latest Milan design. When the warden opened the big steel door he sprung on Brett Weir like a newshound, handshake extended as if it were a network microphone. <<Gerald Brugmans>> he said, shaking vigorously. <
BRUGMANS' OFFICE WAS THE typical legal: piles of books on the shelves and mahogany furniture. Brett and Phillip Doof sat in padded leather chairs smoking Cuban cigars and chatting about old times. They'd made themselves at home in Brugmans' office, smoking cigars and talking about the past. Brugmans was on the other side of the desk in a hands-free conversation with what could be best described a disgruntled client. Lucky it was hands-free because he needed both hands to gesticulate as he pleaded for another chance. Finally he slammed down the phone and swore, softly. He swore under his breath. <<Was that guy bugging you?>> Brett asked. <<We could sort him out if he's too much trouble>> Phillip Doof said.
THE SLIM YOUNG MOVIESTAR in the skin-graft briefs sprinted down the diving board and with a loud cry of <<This is how it's done!" sprung into the air. He somersaulted once, knees clenched, before unfolding smoothly into the pool. Applause and cheers of <<Straight!" rated him from women sunning in deck chairs on the shore. He bowed as he emerged from the water, stepped into a waiting towel. Leonardo di Caprio was not to be outdone. Snorting like a bull on the streets of Pamplona he charged down the board, jumped clumsily, succeeded in rotating at least 270 degrees... then sprawled backfirst across the concrete skin of the pool. He glowered painfully as he sank to the bottom. "Dude," the film star said, "you've got to turn your legs before you land." In one corner, a girl in a polkadot bikini was jerking uncontrollably through the early stages of a heroin overdose. In another, more secluded corner, a couple were groaning through the latter stages of anal sex.
Then Brett Weir was called to take the stand. Arnold Ongaro paced around him and said: <<Why did you make a prank phone call to the Premier of China on the night of Halloween 2008, thereby precipitating an international crisis which gravely embarrassed the Government of the United States of America?>>
Chapter 15: Sunsilk
ASTROPHYSICS PROFESSOR Ichiro Sato lit the end of a Marlboro cigarette and inhaled quickly, urgently, one eye glancing at the digital clock on his office desk. It was 14.52.34, and sunlight was streaming into his 69th story workspace inside the Nippon Space Research and Development tower, which rocketed up from the Yokohama foreshore like some kind of retro Vostok bus. Dr Sato preened his hair nervously, stole another glance at that clock, took a puff of his Marlboro. He considered phoning reception again downstairs, thought better of it, then decided to call them anyway. He asked them if his Chinese colleague Cheung Li had entered the building yet, ready for her very important meeting. She was more than an hour late, and there were no reports of delays at the arrivals deck at Narita Airport. Dr Sato knew that, because he had the Narita website open on his laptop, and it said her flight had already landed. She wasn't answering her cellphone, and neither was her driver. And according to all the online information, there were no reports of cellphone blackouts in the networks in this part of Japan. And no unusual sunspot activity either. So, what was going on? The reception staff said no in a flurry of typical Japanese apologies -- no, they were very sorry, they definitely hadn't seen her. Sato apologised as well -- "Sumimasen... I'm sorry for disturbing you." He hung up the phone, bowing. It was 14.56.03, and still no sign of the impeccable and always punctual Cheung Li. 彼女はどこ？ She couldn't have been caught in traffic -- Sato had the traffic flows on his monitor to prove it, and there were no traffic jams between here and the airport. There was an overturned truck somewhere, but apart from that all the lanes were moving fast. She should have been here by now, bunkered down in a crisis meeting. He needed her now! And why wasn't she answering her phone? Dr Sato stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray, and lit another one. He was a nervous wreck! It was already 14.56.16.His office was a mishmash of high tech and traditional Japanese styles, straw and jet black. There were for, example, tatami mats on the floor and Japanese calligraphy posters hanging from the walls, extolling noble qualities. There was an ancient Noh theatre mask on display near to the door, the type worn by actors in oldfashioned plays. In absolute contrast to the tranquility of the past, the office was also piled full of modern junk - swish black Korean TV screens uptaking stock market fluctuations and Chinese horoscopes, randomly pulled from the Net, little model rockets orbiting crystal moons, the obligatory framed photograph of Albert Einstein. There was also a photo of Sato with Cheung Li during a recent field trip to Sri Lanka, praying at the shrine of Arthur C Clarke. Dr Sato worked and virtually lived on the 69th floor of the JAXA tower, and it was his job to dream Japan into outer space. The United States was a declining power these days, paranoid and bankrupt, and Asian countries were scrambling to fill the gap. Who would plant the first colony on Mars --- China, India or Japan? But now, for the moment, who cared? There was bigger news on the grapevine, welcome relief from years of terror alerts and predictions of Armageddon.
Cheung Li had been detained at the airport in Guangzhou, and her passport seized...
The taxi stopped. Madison turned and looked at him expectantly. Sato thought for a moment that he had gotten lost and was looking to Sato for instructions. The road terminated here, in a parking lot mysteriously placed in the middle of the cloud forest. Sato saw half a dozen big airconditioned trailers bearing the logos of Nipponese, German and American firms; a couple of dozen cars; as many buses. Two monkeys with giant stiff penises were fighting over some booty from a Dumpster. A wall of green rose at the end of the road, a green so dark it was almost black. NEW MUSK EDIT: <<I'm trying to build up a zoo>> Tung said. <<How Montgomery Burns of me!>>Murdoch recognised the compliment and smiled. <<Yes, I heard about the zoo>> he said. <<That's why... that's why I felt it appropriate to... gentlemen, the gift!>>
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