Ticklers Read online

  Then Kanker laughed like a fishwife in a fit.

  '…cos Shrubul's got only minutes now. Only minutes. And then I'll be God!'

  He laughed again. This time like a true maniac.

  One almost felt pity.

  63.

  Renton's mission was in trouble.

  By the time he had reached the tenth level of the eye he had become distinctly uneasy. By the fifteenth level this unease had given way to a mix of suspicion and confusion. And by the twentieth he was simply perplexed, profoundly perplexed. But then it got worse, much worse.

  By level twenty-five, he felt his grasp on reality was slipping away. And by the thirtieth floor he knew it had gone entirely.

  He was standing at the end of an empty corridor, listening. Listening for the slightest noise, any little sound that would tell him that he'd not gone insane, that would tell him that he was still inhabiting the real universe. Anything. The sound of a door opening, the buzz of a phone, the scuff of a shoe on a step. But there was nothing. No reassurance. Just a silence. Just a terrible, mind-numbing silence…

  And it wasn't just that there were no sounds. And it wasn't just that he'd not encountered anyone on his ascent. It was the fact that there simply was no one to encounter - and that there never had been. This place had never been occupied. It was pristine. There wasn't a thing out of place. Not a thing. Everything was perfect - and perfectly arranged. And no clutter, no detritus, no evidence whatsoever that anybody had been here before. Nothing. Not the slightest suggestion of some pre-Renton life.

  He had slipped into another dimension, a dimension where a Godhead existed but Kanker did not - nor did his men. Just this cavernous vessel for him to enjoy. All on his own. With none of his friends. With none of his chums whom he'd known from real life. And the thought made him quake as he stood and he stared.

  Then another thought. Maybe he wasn't insane. Maybe this wasn't the land of the lost. Maybe… maybe it… maybe it was Heaven. Jesus! Yes, that was it. He was dead. He was bloody well extinct. A permanent gonner. Those plasma pulses hadn't just knocked him off his course, they'd knocked him off his perch. Full stop. They'd zapped him. Rubbed him out. Killed him. And all that getting off the silo stuff hadn't been for real at all; it was just the start of his afterlife. No wonder he hadn't seen any of the others down there - because they were still alive, still in the real Godhead, while he was here, here in… Heaven!

  Wow! This was a bit heavy. This was… well, he wasn't prepared. And not just for dying - but for any sort of afterlife. He'd just thought the lights went out and that was it. But he had to be wrong. Just look around. There were loads of lights here.

  But what did it mean - to be in a heavenly copy of a real-life Godhead? What was he supposed to do here? Wander around it forever? Spend eternity looking for his friends and never finding them? No, surely not. That sounded more like Hell. And crikey, he hadn't been that bad. Heck, he wasn't even in the same league as someone… well, as someone like Kanker…

  'And that's it! Heaven's about doing what you want to do. Realising your ambitions. Fulfilling your dreams. Achieving your goals. It's about killing Kanker!

  'Shit! He's up there, all on his own in his mote-room. And I'm here to kill him, to do him to death. And right here in Heaven. Wow! Not quite the clouds and cherubs set up, but it does seem to make kind o' sense. It does give this afterlife a bit of a purpose. Something to liven it up a bit. And if that's what the plan is, then who am I to deny it? I'd just better get on and do it. Watch out, shithead, I'm coming to get you!'

  And with the logic of the after-world fixed firmly in his mind, Renton set off with renewed vigour to conquer his Kanker, his own Heaven-side Kanker in his doppelganger Godhead. And now he could relax. There was no one about, no one to fear - no naughty people who'd do him some harm. None of those bad, sinner types. After all, this was Heaven, wasn't it?

  64.

  The three commandos were now at a critical point in their campaign. Their tactics were about to switch from the covert to the overt-aggressive. They were on the threshold of a large open area, and facing them across this open space was the bridgeroom entrance. It was a thick, plastex door flanked by two guardrooms. Through the openings of these, Meitchars had counted fourteen guards, seven in each. Even though this whole ship was built to counter an external rather than an internal threat, the bridgeroom was obviously seen as something very special - warranting very special protection. Probably from Kanker's own troops. After all, most of them were just common or garden bandits, the sort who, given half a chance, would try and grab power for themselves. But to do that they'd have to get into that bridgeroom. And that wouldn't be easy. Assuming Kanker had selected the right guards, it would be just about impossible. For these guards were heavily armed and their field of fire was immense. Rampaging forces wouldn't get anywhere near them. And even if they did, there was then that great plastex door…

  Meitchars spoke to his colleagues. 'OK, the instant a hand goes in, give them everything you've got. But not a second before - or I'm a dead man. OK?'

  The other two nodded, and then Meitchars added a rider. 'Oh, and by the way, don't fire at me. I'm on your side. I'm a good guy, remember.'

  His large pool-eyes sparkled and he chuckled softly.

  'So, only the guards. OK?'

  Boz and Grader smiled, but it was clearly all a bit tense. However he might joke, Meitchars was just about to risk his life. What he was about to do was a very close cousin of Kami the Kasi.

  But then Meitchars' expression changed. His attention had been caught by something behind Boz, something that was coming down the corridor behind him: a trio of figures, a trio of running figures. And they were all covered in black.

  Meitchars raised his maser, clicked it to “silent”, aimed it to the left of Boz's head, and fired. The two outside figures dropped like stones. They were quite clearly dead on the spot. Then the middle one dropped - but just to its knees. Then its hands joined its hips and its head gave a shake. Then it rose to its feet and it started to walk - and it started to talk as it came.

  'Jeez, Meitchars,' it said, 'how the hell did you know it was me?'

  It was Madeleine, a Madeleine covered from head to foot in a thick coat of dust.

  'How could you have known?'

  'Your pelvis,' replied Meitchars. 'It… well, it gives you a unique running style. It's very easy to spot. Believe me.'

  'And what about the other two? How did you…'

  'Wrong pelvis, both of them,' interrupted Meitchars abruptly. 'They weren't running like Renton. Neither of them.'

  'He's not here then?' said Madeleine, a hint of hope in her voice. 'He hasn't turned up?'

  ''Fraid not,' said Meitchars quietly. 'He could still be anywhere. I just hope he's OK.'

  'Me too,' said Madeleine. And she sighed a big sigh.

  Then Boz stepped forward and hugged her. 'Didn't think I'd be doin' this quite as soon as I am, my young girl. But I'm sure glad I am, an' I'm sure sure o' that.'

  'And I think you're terrific,' added Grader. 'Super-terrific. What you've done is amazing. It really is. And how the hell you've got here… well, I've just no idea.'

  'Yes,' said Meitchars, 'your improvised ending clearly worked very well. What did you do?'

  'Yes, it did work rather well,' replied Madeleine. 'And it was all so easy. You see, when I got back into the eye, I still had some plasticine left. So I nipped down a couple of levels - to where there was a bit of a dust problem - and a lot of people. And I just joined them. I mean, nobody knew who anyone was in all that dust. So it was easy to just sort of blend in. And then after a few minutes I announced that I'd found something, that I'd found some evidence that might mean that the damage was intentional. I mean, the bit of plasticine I had. And then I told them that I needed to take it to Kanker - straightaway. But I wanted an escort. Because it was so important.

  'So this boss-man chap found me those two guys back there. And they ran me all the way here. And, of
course, nobody challenged us. Why would they? And on top of that, there was the added advantage that two of us knew the way - which I didn't… And neither, of course, did I know what I was going to do when I got here. That would have needed some more improvising…

  'But then you did it for me. So thanks very much.

  'And thank God for my pelvis. Though I must say, I hadn't ever thought it would save my life.'

  Meitchars smiled. 'Ten out of ten, Madeleine. And take a star for your timing. That's perfect as well.'

  'Yes,' said Grader, 'we were just about to get up to a few things ourselves. Young Meitchars here is going to turn himself into a shooting range. So we need all the help we can get - to make sure he doesn't get himself shot.'

  The tactics that Grader had summarized so neatly were then explained to Madeleine in greater detail. And as soon as she'd absorbed them, they were put into practice.

  Meitchars left their little hidey place at the edge of the open area and walked slowly towards the bridgeroom entrance. Immediately the guards took an interest. Meitchars was not only odd looking, but with the demise of Simmercill, he was probably a unique sight on this ship. And this sight had now grabbed their attention. Four of them had already left the guardroom on the right - and all of them had readied their weapons.

  'Hi there,' shouted Meitchars, still walking towards them. 'Is this the bridgeroom?'

  'Who wants to know?' shouted back one of the guards. He looked to be the leader of their group.

  'Kanker's chiropodist,' replied Meitchars. 'I've come to do his bunions.'

  'His what?' shouted the leader.

  'His bunions,' repeated Meitchars. 'The ones on his feet.'

  He was now only a few yards from the guards. He held up a satchel he'd had at his side.

  'Don't shoot me, will you. I'm not armed. These are my instruments. My chiropodist kit. I'm only here because Kanker called me. They're playing him up apparently. His bunions, that is.'

  The leader clearly couldn't think of a reply. But he let Meitchars continue his approach - to within a few feet of where he and his helpers were standing.

  'OK, far enough,' he snapped. 'Now throw that satchel here.'

  'Can I slide it?' asked Meitchars. 'I don't want to damage the instruments.'

  'OK, just slide it,' barked the guard. 'But now, quickly. And just wait there. Don't make a move.'

  'No way,' said Meitchars. 'It wasn't my idea to come here anyway. It was Kanker's. I usually see him in his quarters - in the evening normally…'

  And as he spoke he slid the satchel across the floor. It came to rest just in front of the guards.

  Their leader regarded it with suspicion. But then he signalled to one of his underlings to open it. The underling approached, knelt by the satchel, and very carefully undid its top flap. Then slowly he opened the flap and peered inside.

  'What's in it?' asked the leader impatiently.

  'Errh, I can't quite see,' came the reply.

  'What d'ya mean; you can't quite see…?'

  'They're wrapped up,' assisted Meitchars. 'My instruments. They're wrapped in a roll…'

  'Ere, let me have a look,' ordered the leader. And he bent down to the satchel. Then he slowly put his hand in.

  This was their signal.

  In an instant, maser fire burst from the other side of the open area, and the leader and two of his men fell dead to the floor. At the same time, Meitchars performed a backwards somersault that took him well over five yards from where he'd been standing.

  The remaining guards responded a split second later. A barrage of maser rounds erupted from within and around the guardrooms, some of it aimed at their assailants, but most of it directed at Meitchars. There were maser blasts all around him. But none through him. He was up to his tricks again. Wheeling and jumping and skipping and pronking - all at the same time. It was incredible to watch - and it was saving his life. Because despite their best efforts, his three guardians, back at the threshold, had downed only four more of the guards, and the remaining seven were well shielded in their guardrooms - and still firing at Meitch.

  Then the satchel exploded. And jeez what a bang!

  Meitchars was more than forty yards away, but it still sent him hurtling through the air another twenty and into a wall. And the guardrooms had disappeared - along with the guards. And so too had the great plastex door.

  The bridgeroom entrance was now open.

  Meitchars picked himself up and shouted to his colleagues.

  'Curtain's up, folks. We're on. Let's go and look for those bunions!'

  And with that, they were off, all of them rushing headlong for the bridgeroom entrance - and for another dose of what had become a distinctly overt campaign.

  65.

  Kanker's first reaction was one of shock. Well, come on, even deities can be taken by surprise - especially if they're new to the job. And Kanker had only just started. So it was quite understandable.

  But shock soon subsided into just mild irritation. OK, some bloody terrorists had blasted their way into the bridgeroom. And that probably meant that all that damn trouble at the back of the eye was their doing as well. But so what? All they could do was knock the furniture about and help out with the redundancy programme. There was no way they could do anything more serious. Like getting into his mote. His mote was his mote. It was impenetrable. He'd made bloody sure of that, absolutely bloody sure. It was shielded from the rest of the bridgeroom by a wall of seven-ply, heavy-duty barrierplas, the strongest transparent material in the universe. And its door was of the same material - and it had a vari-numero lock in it, one that only he knew how to work. So it was an impassable door. Completely impassable. Do what they might, they would never get in. Never!

  And if they couldn't get in, they couldn't do anything. Because every vital system in the Godhead was controlled from the mote: the power, the hyperdrive, the non-hyper steering and, of course, the breathing. Well, that's to say the initiation of the breathing, the start of the routine that was now on auto, on an unstoppable course that would end in a puffing and then a snuffing; the snuffing out of all life down there on that miserable Shrubul.

  So bugger them. He might get a few reinforcements along to make sure it wasn't a fair fight. But otherwise, sod them. Sod the lot of them. No way were they going to ruin his day. No way. No, they were just a blasted irritation. More peasants. More stinking, rotten peasants. The universe was full of them. Godless clods in need of redemption.

  'Well, wait on there, you clods, cos redemption is near. And soon you will witness its breath!'

  66.

  'That must be it. Yes. Over there. A big door. And what can only be guardrooms at either side. That's the bridgeroom alright. And that's where he'll be. In there, in his mote. Just waiting for me. Well, he won't have to wait much longer. Not much longer at all.'

  Renton walked purposefully towards the plastex door of the heavenly bridgeroom. There was nobody there, no guards in the guardrooms, no one to challenge him, no one to fire at him. And no one to stop him placing a lump of plasticine explosive at the base of the door.

  He returned to a safe distance - not confident that he couldn't kill himself all over again even here in Heaven - and he set off the charge. Twenty seconds later he was standing in the bridgeroom. Apart from the blast damage, it was in as pristine a state as the rest of the ship - and just as deserted. And inside what was clearly the mote, there was no Kanker. No victim for Renton's paradise quest.

  He felt deeply disappointed. Robbed of the purpose of his afterlife. Then he felt confused again. What the hell was this heaven stuff all about anyway? Just what was he supposed to do now? Get into that mote? Become Kanker himself? Was that it? An anti-Christ? Was he to become some sort of benevolent anti-Christ? A champion who'd rise up against the self-proclaimed devil-god, kitted out with his own ethereal Godhead? Was that it? Was that what it was all about?

  Well, it sounded like a load of over-large cobblers. But what could he lose? And what
else could he do? Anyway, he might as well find out whether he could get into that mote - and then take it from there.

  But the mote was locked. There was a device on the door, a little numbered touch panel with a green surround. It was a numero lock of some sort, no doubt a sophisticated one, probably even one of those vari-numero jobs. It was hopeless. There was no way he'd get in - unless!

  Well, it was certainly worth a try. You could never be absolutely sure until you tried. So he raised his hand to the touch panel, and he placed his finger on one of its buttons, its number four button. And pow!

  The green surround changed to brown!

  Renton felt a surge of excitement. Could this work? Could this really work?

  He touched the number eight button, and the surround turned red.

  Renton gasped for breath. Then he touched number three and the surround turned to yellow.

  Another gasp, and a touch of the number two button.

  The surround became black.

  Renton was beginning to shake. He touched number nine. Orange.

  He touched five and the colour drained from the surround.

  Oh, and the door opened as well.

  'Wow!' exclaimed Renton. 'Let the fours be with you! And the eights, and the threes and the twos and the nines and the fives! And all of them colour-coded. All of them bloody colour-coded!

  'I should have known sooner. I'm in Heaven, aren't I? Where all my dreams are bound to come true - and where locks will be set so that I can get through. Especially this one: the lock to my mote.

  'My mote! My very own mote!'

  And then Renton entered his new domain, moving hesitantly at first but then with growing confidence - with the growing realisation that this was his own, his own special place in his own special Heaven. He was now at the mote's window. He would inspect the firmament, his own heavenly firmament. And then he saw it: Shrubul. Shrubul was still there. The Godhead was still in the same place. Or at least his Godhead was. Or maybe it was just close to the same place - and Kanker's ship was somewhere nearby.