

# I BELIEVE IN THE MAN IN THE SKY

by

JIM MCCOOL

Copyright Jim McCool, 2015

## About the Author

Jim McCool has been writing both fiction and non-fiction for over twenty years. His writing has been published in The Fred, The Irish Post, Force 10, and various other publications and websites. His work has also recently featured in New Philosopher magazine, and on ABC Radio National's Pocketdocs.

His short story 'The Hole Thing' won the Berkelouw Books Pittwater prize for short fiction in 2014.

Jim was born in Northern Ireland, but now lives in Sydney, Australia.

For: Lida, especially.

And for th' chillder.

And for the memory of Joseph Finn McCool, 1918-93.

## Chapter 1 - Hell's Half Acre

Prolog: Hell's Half Acre [Brief Tour Guider="Avoid"]/ Byeway of an Hintroduction/ Tropical Fish Hobbyist and BioSystem Fetish/ $adness of th' cuckolded/ Use for a Grillspoint Not in Rev. Flapjack's Thee Real GoodGrub Guide/ Yellowy-White Line Fever.

Prolog:

Hell's Half Acre festered quietly in a dusty and poisonous section of Region 7#568/9 in the Quayledan Triangle, one of a loose string of five grey-belt planets plumb Southwards of Useless, way over to the far West of Federation Territory. Swathed in searing radiation and regularly thumped by meteor downpours that determined surface settlements impassible, these five planets - Pus, Crustii, Minger, Archer's Hole, and Hell's Half Acre - had formerly been of some strategic importance through the last Great ReVival, but were now producing little of economic or military value. Long abandoned by all Blessed normal-folk, with the exception of some O'er-seers and Pit-Bosses, these string of planets had been deemed eX-spendable, and all resourcing and vitals removed. Indeed, like the other planets in the string, Hell's Half Acre had been designated a Concentrated SinnerCamp, and people'd with those unFolk whom th' Lord had chosen to mark with evident physical imperfection or mutation. Here, in solemn isolation, th' UnHoly could attempt to redeem themselves through work, through prayer, and pay for their Forgiveness.

Known as CNF_48f.34 upon discovery, and later officially entitled Hodgkinson's World, after the father-in-law of the flight astronomer on the Perseus II who first claimed it, Hell's Half Acre was the most populous, and also the most unpleasant, of the five planets in the string. Its official title had long since slipped into disuse, with the covert approval of thee Authority, after the crew of the Perseus II had come down with a STAD (Sexually transmitted alien disease) case of Greenhorn, which had left them half-dead, totally un-Blessed, and completely deserving of ex-communication. The planet's new title had grown from the freighter crews mocking reference to the frenzied prayer-meetings of the first mining colony, whose members had consumed earnest theology and bootleg narcohol with equal ferocity. Ferocious, these miners may have been, but determined enough to blast a main-shaft down through the top of the main Snake mountain plateau and deep down into the bedrock beneath, where they moled living quarters and chambers large enough for a small city.

Although other shafts had since been holed, these original diggings remained the core of Hell's Half Acre, the one enclosed enclave where life was breathable. All other colonies had been left to dust, and, with the retreat of the Normals, all that remained on Hell's Half Acre was one central warren of disintegrating tunnels. Sunless, and deep beneath the barren surface, ageing ferrocrete tenements contained the only living organisms onPlanet, some ten thousand Sinners who itched and scraped a poor living, digging and refining Hoguano to be used in beautification and perfectation [himplant and herplant] treatments for the Normals on Tectran, and further.

Down in the must of the tunnels, numbered plebcondos cluttered along the decaying pit shafts and workholes, housing families of downplanted sinners. Rounded from ghettos through all parts of the Federation workings, these had been concentrated here to perform useful service, and to keep their Marked Evilness away from the gaze of decent folk. And among these wretched out-castes, there lived the Ingordos, tenants of Plebcondo 34778.2.

The Ingordo family – Gorb, YegYo, their twin bhoys, and baby OnYa - could consider themselves relatively lucky. Their appartamento was not far from the elevator and subway hubs, and thus free from the worst of the mining dust that made the lower levels so unbreathable. Unlike many other families on the lower blocks, they hardly never went hungry, as former RuffRanger Gorb 'Pappy' Ingordo's military history [both upper limbs lost in battle, decorated for bravery – Silver Plated Star] had won him a grade two post at the mine headquarters and a relatively constant grub supply. And both parents' and chillders' physical deformities were comparatively minor; neither life-threatening, or incontinent.

Prolog end.

Nestling as inconspicuously as he could, in the darkest corner of the room, Gorb Ingordo sat with one of his metal arms cradled gently around his baby daughter OnYa, and the other holding a flatscreen copy of the latest edition of Build Yer Own BioSystem. OnYa was farting [smellily], drooling [blankly], and moving her own thick fleshy pink arms in her usual random manner, while Gorb paid as much attention as he was allowed, to an interesting article on the ultra-toxicity of the Tunnelweb Spiders of DrumCree5. Gorb, who was short sighted enough to need lenses, liked to think that he was interested in all living things, and in the ways that they connected and interconnected together. His wife, YegYo, on the other hand, was not. In fact, she was vaguely repulsed by virtually anything that walked, flew, swam or crawled. Particularly crawled. So, for her, to live inside a mine planet was no great hardship, since th' tunnels had many of the antiseptic qualities she found so reassuring, and none of the indigenous lifeform which made wide open OtherWorlds so revolting. Here, inside Hell's Half Acre, she could relax in the knowledge that she was safe from creepy-crawly type harm, and enjoy the things that she enjoyed most: the televisual treat of double or triple channel slobsters; and the warm comfort of properly multi-processed food. PROPERSHOP food, as she was constantly nag-pointing out to Gorb, not the green and slimy glop and leaves that HE was always bringing home, trying to feed it to the chillder, forcing th' bhoys to like it, and bubbling it up and spooning it into OnYa's mouth... Awwwhh, the very thought of fresh green wrinkled her belly into a quiver, and she reached out to paw another comforting choc2choc toward her mouth.

" Drop that horrible creepy thing you're reading, " she demanded of Gorb, " and pass me over the teleViber. You'll give the chillder the nightmares, wi' them horrible pictures of things. Don't bring that anywhere near me ..."

" Don't worry, I won't...."

Gorb's uniformed return from war office PR-hyped battle, as hero, had won him a marriage certificate to a short, dark, warped woman, whose shallow admiration had quickly turned critical, and who's passion had quickly flicked back to the electric soap life of the slobster channels. Thinking that Gorb would be with her for only a short while, that he would be a posthumous hero after the next battle, and that she would be left peaceful with kudos, caste promotion and a war widow's pension, YegYo had eagerly consented to the marriage. And how dreadful disappointed she had been when the war had ended so early, and she was left with a husband she now didn't want and a bellyful of babies. Yup, things had gone steadily downhill ever since, as she was, uh, often anxious to point out to Gorb. His pension had quickly leaked away, and there they were, stuck in a post-mining void. Money wasn't everything, she often pointed out to Gorb, but bhoy does it help....

With baby OnYa still in his arms, Gorb arose and moved across the dim room to where the slim black channel charger lay, just out of reach of one of his wife's twisted arms. He passed it to her silently, and returned to his chair. She could have picked it up herself, easy, saved him struggling with the chile, but he kept gubshut. Gorb was a timid man who avoided aggravation whenever he could, and, here was a clear chance to avoid it. As sure as he argued something with YegYo, pointed out that she could have picked up the teleViber herself, say, she would start off, and go on and on and on and on and on about how he never did nothing for her, and what sort of a life did SHE have, and some other PROPER man would have bought her a fitted slobsterino couch wi' intravenous controls. And some war hero HE turned out to be. Yes. Some war hero, for all his talk. And why didn't he ever SAY anything?

Still immersed in strategies to avoid any imagined confrontation, Gorb backed up to his chair and lowered himself carefully down. Carefully down onto a the razored spikehead of a kustomised wHolyTerror actionbot figure, that th' bhoys had quietly remote-manoeuvred into position. He went arse-first right down onto the pin prick sharp-sharpened metal hat spike that th' bhoys had fashioned on the head of the toy. Some weeks earlier, at an hexpense that he couldn't really afford, Gorb had brought th' twins home two wHolyTerror figures for their birthday. Immediately, th' bhoys had disembowelled and disassembled the bots' mechanismos, and total rejected one entire corpo, modifying the other till it was two-headed, like some laboratory dog; adding plainPope hat spikes and a bishop's meter, ready to gauge sinfulness and faith.

Badly stung, Gorb jumped up and yowled with pain, some hat spikes still embedded in his buttend. YEARGHHH! and FUUUGGGGGH! and curses yelped out his mouthhole. He scowled, but still kept his grip of the baby and hopped over to her cot, to place the chile inside, before pulling out two of the bloody, spikes. Meanwhiles, th' bhoys and their Ma, of course, were half drowning in hilarious cackles and hee-heee-hawws, slapping knees and revolting.

" YOUSE WEEE GITSSSS!," screamed Gorb, turning towards his twin Sins, after pulling the spikes from his arse. " I COULD HAVE DROPPED THE CHILE... AH MEAN, SHE COULD HAVE GOT SERIOUSLY HURT. SERIOUSLY NOW..."

Munchi & Culchi just grinned at him dully, as their Ma continued to screech with guffin' and chuffin' haws in the background. Th' bhoys just grinned at him in their best evil2evil grin, their faces platefuls of malevolence, their three shoulders hunched in defiance, their slouched stance on their special couchette sending him the same message of blankness that they always did. An almost spiteful curiousity to see how they could enrage him. It seemed that ever since they had been borned, the twins had baited him. As babies they had bit him severely, severing part of an ear; and another time they had knocked one of his teeth out with a hard palastic bat. Twinned - joined fleshily and bonily together at shoulder and thigh, they were united also in their blank disregard for their father. Garbling in their own self-invented language, they mumbled and chawed requests for food, toys, drinks, weapons to their Ma; but to him, nothing. And yet, he knew that they understood him.

" Look bhoys," explained Gorb, changing his tone from anger to concern, " I want you to understand. The thing is, I could have dropped OnYa and she might have gotten seriously hurt... And you wouldn't want your wee sister to get hurt, would you? NOW WOULD YOU? "

Th' two spike-headed bhoys ignored him, of course, and turned back toward their gamesets, smirking.

" Buckrake," smirked Culchi.

" Glabber, " sniggered Munchi.

To tell the truth, he wasn't sure if they did give a damn about their sister, either. To OnYa they had demonstrated neither affection nor antagonism; nothing. Not even jealousy, though Gorb lavished unfair attention on his very nearly physically perfect daughter. The lovely girl. If only she would show some sign of development, intelligence, a smile, a movement, or focus those brown eyes. No. Empty. Empty. At her med-test, Dr. Von Wunster had told them that she was either complete empty-headed, or a snail slow developer; would have to be handed over to ReControl if she didn't improve. OnYa was so gentle and empty, and th' bhoys were SO FULL of such robust contrariness and spite. He turned to them again, blustering now. ParentSpeak.

" Well, I uh, think you two bhoys should get punished. And that means NO NEW GAMESTORIES this week. Understand?"

Th' twins ignored him, continued at their clickering, flickering. Natural, they couldn't give a damn about his chokey gamestories ban, since for months they had been able to directsneak into the major line systems and download just whatever they wanted. They sure didn't need HIM to get them no gamestories. And what's more, Gorb knew it as well; sometimes he didn't even know why he said such stupit nag-nag-nag-nag things to them. Maybe just so he could hear his own voice giving out, like a family-parent was supposed to. So stupit, sounding like a real nag-Da.

" You're just mean, you are," glared YegYo. " They were only having a bit of fun, but you just can't take a joke."

She always took their side, always.

" It was just a joke," she continued," but you have to make such a fuss..."

Gorb was about to point out - defending hisself - that it was more than that, was dangerous, and what if he had dropped the baby, when the bott-bott rang. A corner of the slobsterscreen was taken over by a fuxzy image which cleared into the shiny lip-glossed visage of Lolo, Gorb's middle-manager at the mine, his boss.

" I'm almost sorry", she rasped, "to disturb you at home, uh, Ingordo... but something nearly important has come up. And I'm sure you won't mind coming back to the office for a few hours, will you?" axed Lolo sharply, using the obvious false smile that she used for underlings. Lolo, a double bossy herm [that is, borned Blessed with both male and female organs], treated Gorb like a raw servant, and often called him back to work at awkward hours. She was wearing a red wig, rotund fashion glasses and some slinky black drape, which dripped off a shiny bare shoulder; obviously, she was on her way out somewheres.

" It's the display tank for tomorrow's meeting, " Lolo continued. " It's just not quite right... That biotope. And when I looked at it again, well, I just made up my mind that the DerriFubble river biotope would look so much better... Could you change it? It would be awfully sweet if you could."

Sure. Yeah. Gorb nodded obediantly. He would do it.

" Bye then. Must rush."

And the screen merged back into full slobster mode, the televised a-comings and a-goings and laughter and tears, bodily fluid leakage, of the rich and famous and perfect.

" And for goodness sake make sure you do a good job for her, this time" whined YegYo, " take your time and get it right. You're supposed to be the hexpert in that kinda stuff. "

" Yeah."

" And don't forget to clean the dust offa your boots when you get back. I have to keep this place clean, but you don't care. Going out at all hours. You and your stupit job. Leaving me on my own with your three chillder to look after. Oh, YOU don't care."

" Yeah."

" WHAT ??"

" I mean, no... I mean, yes I do care. Anyhow, I'm sorry that I have to go out again like this. But you know how important it is for us family that I keep this job. Don't you? "

YegYo continued to whine vaguely as he went over and kissed OnYa softly on the head - the chile was sleeping softly, her little chest rising slowly, regularly - and then he kissed her wee feet, each with their six perfect little toes.

YegYo avoided his kiss, when he bent toward her, and mumbled something crossly while never taking her one good eye off the flickers on the screen. And as for the twins, well, he knew better than to even go near them. Stooping slightly and feeling old, Gorb went into the hall and took his thick night jacket off the rack, slipped it on over his prosthetic metal arms, and then he went on out into the dark.

II.

After he had un-dusted himself in the corridor, Gorb passed on through his own tatty workspace and on into Lolo's much larger section, sat down at the luxury desk. Sprawled across the luxlizard-leather top were various boxes and sex catalogues, details of new genitalia extensions and extrusions, holsters, horse-pipes and clips. Gorb settled this apparatus to one side, disinterestedly, and cleared a section for his notebooks. In the far corner of the spacious chamber, the big display tank, now in night-time doze mode, bubbled and rippled. Small black lifeforms sleepily drifted through the warm salt water. Gorb hisself, felt no tiredness. In fact, he was glad to be back at work, away from the slobsters for a while, and th' bhoys. He had known Lolo would change her mind, all along, and Gorb had prepared hisself already. That last tank set-up was just a quick rig, and he already drained and freshened the lifeforms for the new DerriFubble river set-up. Both animals and plants were ready for transfixing and it would be a reasonably simple matter to switch from one set-up to the other. Everything would be ready for the morning just like Lolo wanted; ready so that she could lick up the praises from MineBoss when he came to visit - " what an amazing tank you got there, Lolo! A whole little world! " And MineBoss would bend his fat guts and peer into the glass, screwing piggy, bloodshot, eyes to scroot the nimble catfish, the edgy crawfish, and flowing algae that Gorb had so carefully transplanted - " A DerriFubble river biotope you say ? Amazing! " - while Lolo would purr in the background. And no credit to Gorb, the poor creator.

He poured himself a cup of Nearly2Reel koffee, from the stash on Lolo's desk, thinking, yeah well, it really didn't matter. It was the kinda work he enjoyed, and that was the main thing. A chance to fit out a biotank with real life, feel real green and breathing animals, fish. Feel part of a living world. Yeah. He finished his koffee down to the sugary glop at the bottom of his chipped palastic cup and got to work. He would be finished in two hours, easy.

Gorb always liked to stick his face in the water of a tank when he was finished setting it up, so that he could look down onto the wee fishes and stuff below, and they would look up at him, wondrous and scared, just like as if he was some sort of big man in the sky. Although his official job was design engineer on mine shaft security, most of the time Lolo had him footering about with the big decorative bio tanks, that so impressed the MineBoss, project managers and Federation officials. Gorb built them so that they were just like full floating wee-worlds of their own; perfect little replicas of OtherWorld Biotopes, where small cycles of life, growth and death, circled around, continuous. Carefully balanced Microsystems where the elements of plants and small animals complemented and nourished each other. When set up, Gorb's tanks would run for years - should be forever - without maintenance or overhead interference, and all they needed was some imitation sun. He would stick his head in the water, holding his breath in, and wish that he lived in such a warm, green world, soft-edged and luxuriant. Then, when he come out of the water again, he would see the grey roofs and walls of the tunnels all around him, the thickly congested air filters and fans, the stench of spilled Pine2Fresh. So, he would keep his head in the water for as long as he could, till his chest got all sore and choked, and blots of blackness thickened his vision. And near always, no matter whether it was a Rio Negro biosystem, or some OffWorld saltpond he was building, he would find his head full of the same, same, strange visionthing when he pulled hisself up, bursting for air, and blinking, out of the water...

Soft hair of the summer sun. Warm browned skin thick with shining silver sea drops, sloshing blueblue ocean salt. Resting on the hot, sticky, white sand. Fingered hand to brush back wet hair from a smile. Gold yellow swimmer. Clung body real ripened under tropical skies. And when she opened her mouth, a-laughing softly to herself, sweet liquid words. Happy out...

Ocean ? Gorb didn't even know what type-a thing a real ocean was. Never sawed one in his entire life, never mind tasted. And a hot day ? There was no day or night, hot or cold, in the tunnels; just shifts and cycles. How come he got his head full o' this rubbitch ? From some real ancient pre-slobsterino screen-time when he was a cub? Maybe. Anyhow, damn thing was annoying, especially when he had his head up real close to the clear palastic of the tank, and he could see his own reflection, see hisself. Looked real bad, bent over and near old with all that dust-coughing, straggle-baldy with the spikey hairs sticking up from his head like stupit, and then worse, his two rough steel arms, standing there, with a pain in his trousers... What had he got to be doing, hallucinatin' about such a thing, him that had hardly never even seen a sky? Him who was legally beyond any Redemption, an offence to the very sight of decent Folk ?... Huh?

Anyway, nevermind. He had works to do. There was this tank to get perfect for Lolo, and then there were some other little jobs. One of his old friends, the Brown Bullhead Catfish in tank 5 had developed a fungal tail rot, and the damn fungi thing would eat it alive, if Gorb didn't medicate. Strictly, this was all agin the spirit of the thing, since he should let th' natural mondo take its true course, and let the fish die, to be resurrected in the tissues of scavengers and other organisms. But this fish was his favourite. This Catfish had fed, gentle whiskers feelying, from his own metal pincers when it had just been a fingerling, and he couldn't see it get ate alive, and all sore, like that. No.

III.

Turning the corner at the O'Hooligan's camp on his way home from the subway hub, Gorb chilled to see the dark golden form of Lolo's Metrolimo parked close to the kerb. One of the skeletal O'Hooligan chillder lay wrapped in swathes of card close to the limo - obviously paid some penny credits to keep a nightwatch on the expensive vehicle in this rundown area. Gorb stepped quietly past the boy without arousing him. Usually he always slipped the little O'Hooligans a wee something or two - a credit if he could afford it, a slice of green, some protein... But this time, the sight of the boy give him that bad bad BAD hairy feeling again. There was something. Something wrong. It was like the kinda feeling he had got on Eplistica when he had landed with the RuffRangers, gotten so scared that he had pissed his pants, and shrugged off from the rest of the patrol, hiding, shivering... And then, the flames and the screams and the roars as the rest of the patrol got roasted. Burnt. Little things Gorb could sometimes feel a-coming, like that DerriFubble tank change, but other times he could feel BADNESS. Like now.

And so he got quieter and more careful as he hedged onward toward home. What was Lolo's Metrolimo doing there? Had she come sneaking along to try and catch him out, catch him snucking home so early, ...or get him into some other trouble? There could be nothing good come out of it.

At the doorway, he paused and looked upward toward the windowslot. Was that two figures outlined agin the light? Was there? The door opened silently, automatically, when his hand touched the opener. And from the top room he could hear voices.... sniggering. His wife, ...and Lolo. High, too sweet, tender voicetalk, and the faint burring of some electric tool; laughter, tinkling, and gasps, coming quicker now.

They would kill him.

The most immediate and sharpest thing he could find to think was that they would kill him. He could hear it in their snickers. Get that useless nuisance out of the way. He wasn't quite sure how he knew for definite, but could see it now so plain. So clear from YegYo's recent behaviour. And from Lolo. Soon, they would have him denounced as redundant, outdated, unwanted, and cast into the far void. A waste of space. He stood silent in the in the cookery, listening carefully to their oily tinkles, from the upper rooom. A long grillspoint for slow-toasting slumps of cheeasy lay on the counter, a glistening witness as Gorb was mortified. A dull cold shower of shame and horror. Pincers gripped cold steel tight around the palastic handle of the long grillspoint blade.

He crept up the stair toward the top room, toward them, YegYo and Lolo.

And there, just a fraction from their vision, he paused on the top step; the snickering too plain now, and scent of some perfumed lubricant. He stopped. Stop.

In the little alcove, just to the right, OnYa slept. A tiny cot he had made hisself. Pink, with a handpainted flower on the bottom board. Gorb paused. He stood above the little cot and moved his ears to listen to the sound of the chile's crisp breathing. Motionless, he stood aware only of OnYa, and useless. How completely stupit and ridiculous he was! Standing there with a grillspoint in his pincer. Confronting them with that! Standing there on the stair like some kinda eejit - sure, they would only have laughed at him. They woulda just laughed at me, OnYa. Poor OnYa. Again he kissed her tiny feet, before sagging back down the stair, and stooped, back out into the night. On the street, he let the grillspoint clang to the pavement, as he slouched on back up towards the subway hub.

IV.

Grey. Grey-green, grey-black, gray-grey. Ferrocrete grey and meldmetal grey. Through the subway tunnels the shuttle charged, through shades of grey. And reflected in the shuttle window, Gorb could see the greyness in his own face, and his own reflected doom. Whatever happened now, he was heading down, doomside. Finished. Lolo would see to that. She had probably already set in motion the mechanism for Gorb's destruction; some public humiliation at work, demotion, and then compulsory transferral to the lowest mine sections, where the dust would kill him in weeks. YegYo was undoubtedly already part of the plan. These past few weeks she had been less screechy than usual in her trantrums, had complained less about his lack of status. And together in happiness with Lolo, she would have plenty of the things she had always whinged for. And access to supplementary surgery and transformation.

So.

So, Gorb was out in the cold and on his way down. Down to the grey-scaled choking dust of the bottom tunnels, Plainpak rations, and Death. At best, if he survived, he would end up in one of the reTired miner camps that lined the subway route, terraced rows housing husks of spent and battered bodies, semi-surviving on enforced narcohol, scrapes of xtra-prot, 22chews and card. At the various hubs where the shuttle paused, to enter or disgorge passengers, he could see plainly now what he usually ignored: shuffling scraps of wretched figures, bent, ragged and ulcerated, begging for food or enough credits to blot out their misery with an extra ration of Electric-Souper10s. This was his future. Disgrace and hunger, dust. Grey. Equal just exactly what had happened to his own Da. Long time ago, his own Da had ended up down there. Had long since got Dead, gone to dust. Gorb felt his flesh2steel arm connections, remembering. His Ma had told him that when Gorb had been borned, second generation unNormal, with tiny mutated armstumps, his Da had fought with the doctors to leave th' chile kept as he was, and they had agreed. Then, soon as his Da's back was turned, they had carted Gorb off and kustomised him, brought him back with two new shining steel appendages. More useful as a productive worker that way, they said... Both Ma & Da were long since gone in the dust, just like Gorb would go.

Or...

Or, or,... or slugg this for a start !! He could CHANGE, could take a CHANCE fer onced and do SOMETHING, get out and away. Maybe make it to the surface and beyond. Live a REAL life. Either that or die, done and dusted. He HAD to get a grip o' things, take a grip o' this thing by the GUTS.

Guts.

If he could just... Just, awww, Arrghhhh! And the frustration of his own impotence and FEAR double-echoechoed in a silent scream which would have shrilled through the grey meldmetal of the empty shuttle carriage, had it not stuck in a bitter and dry throat. Weak. Only minutes ago he had had the grillspoint in his hand, and standing there. Cuckcolded. Useless. Useless.

Ridiculous.

Real stupit.

Gorb's metal arms winced and pinced at his side, servos turning and returning, as he squeezed at the palastic lip of his seat.

Until.

It.

Snapped.

How had it all come to this? Whatever in the name of Slugg had Lolo ever wanted with his woman ? Some kinda kinky pervo trick, fer sure. Anyhows, all equaled capital R Ruin. They would fix it so Gorb would be divorced out and made unFamily, a creeping singlet, totally outcaste and unfamiliar.

He got off at hub 232, hardly able to hold himself together. Sobs and moans rattled in his chest and both legs were shaking, shaking. He stumbled through the Mine Headquarters foyer, trying hard not to let the shaking consume him, and alert the dormant guard-U. Up to Lolo's chambers he went, and straight over to the DerriFubble tank. Touching raised points at the tank's base, he waited, breathing tight and hard. Nothing. He bent and touched the points again, more firmly. There was a faint pause, and then the elaborate and weighty tank, with its still sleeping fish, smoothly glided to one side. And behind it was an illuminated chamber. Lolo's inner sanctum. Checking once behind hisself, Gorb entered, and surveyed the peachy-papered little room: three shelf-fulls of neatly stacked piles of embezzled credits; a sidelined stash of bottled Hoguano; two iced crates of vintage DeChancer; and a complete im2provo surgery unit, with table, tools and lights. It was toward this unit that the shaking Gorb now turned. From one of the embroidered silver metal drawers he pulled a small phial and, after checking the label, poured himself a long yellowish-white line along the smooth leatherette of the table top. Then, squeezing his left nostril with one of his pincers, and snorting with the other, he hoovered up the bitter powder up into his head. Instantaneously, a sharp stinging sensation, pinched his sinus and forehead, and a roaring red wave rolled before his vision. He stumbled, and for a moment, held tightly to the table, before the stinging wave subsided, and his head cleared.

Now.

Now, to make a headstart.

## Chapter 2 - Exscape

Exscape:/ UnParley Wi' A Hostette/ Leaving No Message After th' Tone/ Respect due for th' Nearly-Dead.

" Is this your first flight with Tidybeard Lines, sir? If you don't mind me saying so... you seem a little uh up-tight, sir. Would you like a sedative?"

" Uptight?..."

Well, of course, I'm UPTIGHT. Ya over-made up crinkled old bat. What wi' three million o' somebody else's credits here in my bag, half a headfull of Thetamine up my nose, my wife dumping me fer somebody else, my whole life lying in RUINS before me, ...and here I am taking off into the wild black yonder. And who th' hell do ya think YOU'RE kidding with all them palastic alterations to yer undercarriage? You're still a Sinner like the rest of us, re-Saved or no...

That was what Gorb was a-thinking, glaring at her, WIRED. Although what actually come out of his mouth was just a wee quiet:

" Uhmm... ".

The hostette kept smiling at him, double crossette of the Pardoned glinting goldly amid the creases of her wrinkled neck. Born with the mark of Sin, she had reDeemed herself through Prayer, generous Alms, and surgery.

" Yes, thank you" he nodded, meek. "That would be very kind."

Very kind of you, you horrible old hag.

And the hostette traipsed on down the aisle, stopping to adjust some salesman's sick bag.

That was what Thetamine did to you. On the inside you were wired to the sun, frenzy, seething; and on the outside, you were sorta calm. First time Gorb had taken Thetamine was in the army, where they lined it out before battle. Supposed to kill fear, get you up and at the enemy. Had got Gorb through it alright, not by killing the fear, but by giving him enough get up and go, to get up and go, desert. And that had saved him. While the rest had died, he got through to be a war hero. Only survivor.

And that's what he wanted to be this time too. A survivor. He wanted to survive whatever YegYo and Lolo had coming for him, and the best way to avoid that, was to GET OUT. Lucky that Lolo had been cheating her way to a whole heap of credits, lying snug there in th' chamber. The crafty thing had been doing a little bit of hustling on the side, snooking off to TullyGoonigan with stashes of Hoguano, and selling it on the Black. Doubtless aiding her upward careering, with lucky tasties and treats to the Plant Managers. Putting by enough credits on the side, to one day claim total Re-Salvation, become a Normal. Not now though, hoss. Gorb had scooped that fat pile of credits into a toolbag, and some of them there clean idpapers that Lolo had been, uh, saving for a dusty day. Yeah. And then he legged it. Down to the sub-hub and over to Farpoint 9, and exscape.

So, here he was sitting on a Tidybeard Lines flight to TullyGoonigan Outernational, where he could pick up flights onward, and upward, and outward. Here he was, sitting in the first class Sinner section, getting pills off the hostette; and getting filled up with a growing yawning real horror at what he was doing... In the terminal, he had stopped at a bott-bott point and steadied hisself, readied hisself to leave a message. He had straightened up into the mirror, composing hisself - but when he looked at hisself, at the portrait the camera would pick up... Just a sad little man, thin-stooped, baldy and sweating, wild eyes, and them metal arms. SLUG! He had always hated having to look at hisself. And anyway, what was he going to leave a message about? Goodbye forever, I hate you? Or what? What? What could he say to th' bhoys?

And so he had said null. Nowt. Better that way. And as for OnYa, well, he had to come to that one, yet. Plenty of time to think about OnYa. Plenty. The rest of his lifespan.

The engines roared, and Gorb pressed back into his padded seat as the craft prepared to blast up through the silo, up through the dead grey planet's crust and on into cold black big empty.

II.

From TullyGoonigan, he jolted on to Racis, and from Racis on to Po. Here was the bottom line for th' Sinners, here was the frontiers of Normaldom. At Po, there were a big colony of Revivalists, and they held Fundamentalist sway throughout the law there. Gorb had to register hisself as a Sinner upon arrival, and confine hisself to the grim quarter of the port reserved for thee unHoly. The constant barrage of scripture and pleading through the ducts was relentless, and peeling-paint walls were postered with tracts and Holy Ravings, begging Sinners to seek redemption through sufferation, double Dues, and surgical alteration. But all this was wasted on Gorb, who as a Sin of a Sinner, was classed 2deviant and unSalvageable. Though he, uh, didn't mention this to the two suit & tie-d ReVivalists, who as was their sacred duty, pestered him with pamphlets and begging.

All thee ReVivalism stemmed from Humankind's firstest encounter with the OtherWorlders. Those Aliens who had arrived down from DerriFubble3 had brought with them their own Gods: obvious, unquestionably miraculous, and plain to see, with no Faith required. Earth's religious leaders went and got the double jitters, especially since these plainly visible Gods happened to be horned and hoofed. When total economic collapse combined with a wave of strange births and mutations [ not impossibly unconnected with WorldWild pollution and unwise Genetic Hexperimentation ], the new Fundamentalism was borned, loudly proclaiming that the EarthFolk were being punished for their Slutful ways. Punished by a, harsh and avenging, true Deity.

Gorb, however, he had no philosophical disagreement with thee ReVivalists, no. He just nodded agreement and handed over some small change, not wanting to end up getting stake-burned as an Ultra-Unclean. Then, when thee ReVivalists were gone, he slipped into the sole, filthy, restroom and locked himself into a cubicle. From his toolbag, he took out a neatly folded pack, and from this he unwrapped his old military uniform. His own clothes he took off and discarded. Then he carefully dressed himself, sharply creased as he could. And lastly, he took his medals from their thin hardened case, and mounted them on his chest. Wearing this, he wasn't just some bottom-rung slum-Sinner, sneakin' around; he was a Vet., respect due. Nonetheless, he remained in the cubicle until just before departure time. No sense in pushing his luck; always better for a 2Sinner to avoid thee ReVivalists, and their Hellfires.

When he boarded the ship for the next shunt, on to Plurus, the hostette hurried to help him with his toolbag, but he still held tight. She was ready to usher him into the main, Normal, section at the front, was being specially smiley. But, naw.

" Naw, " he said, " I'll just duck in here".

And she was surprised - just like he thought she would be - because he had owned up to being a Sinner. In the uniform, with the medals, he could pass for a war hero Normal. Like he was some poor unfortunate Normal who had got his real arms blown off in battle. Not some Sinner Freak who had never had no proper arms never, only metal and palastic ones. Yeah. So, so far so good. He settled down and, smile, smile, took a complimentary drink offa the hostette:

" That's really most kind..."; and watched as the w-holo figure of Dick Tidybeard, head of Tidybeard Lines [and much else] welcomed them aboard, and advised them of good space flight safety practice.

As the tidy-bearded figure shimmered along the aisle, designating exit routes, and demonstrating safety equipment, Gorb felt the tool-bag secure at his feet, felt the reassuring Toughtex of his uniform agin him. Maybe he was beginning to feel a wee bit less nervy. He had got this far, no problemo. Now to hide hisself, real deep. And for that he would need dirty money. So far, he would be easy to trace - just follow the trail of credit spent. But next stop was FreeMoney and here, he could get all the dirty cash he wanted, and get himself real, real lost.

Yeah.

## Chapter 3 \- Ye Pays Yer Money `n' Ye Takes Yer Chance

Ye Pays Yer Money `n' Ye Takes Yer Chance:/ Gilded Palaces of Sin/ They Stuck Out their Tongue and the Fun Begun, etc. / Very Normal Blubbery Hellbellies/ A Very Frank Hexchange of Opinion.

The fun begun, like they said in the brochures, even afore ye got there. There were no direct flights to FreeMoney, so the Intercraft from all points up, down, and sideaways, disgorged their loads onto orbiting docks, where they were then shuttled on down to the twin planets of MortalSin and FreeMoney. There were no direct flights, of course, because the Federation, prodded by ReVivalist threat, could not be seen to condone or aid such a traffic in profound profanity. These were bad, baad, baaad places: golden crusted palaces of Sin, haunts of devils from without, ruin o' many a good Normal; and mostest popular holiday destination in all of the Federation territories.

Onced you landed on the dock, and checked in, got past the last booth of ReDemptionists amid the palastic and metasteel dreer of the lobby, urging you to repent, turn back, and oil your conscience by dropping a few credits or twenty in the bucket, well... the, uh, ambience changed. And even Gorb got swept up in the good feel of it. Soft music and lights glistened, and the scent of roses hung thickly in the air. Amid delicate blossoms and tiny-fingered ferns, growing in a hydro-garden which rich and greenly filled the floor of the chamber, there lay banks of holo-monitors, bursting with luscious displays of the pleasure which lay on the worlds down below.

" MORTALSIN welcomes you, traveller! EVERYBEING welcome ! Saint or Sinner, humanBody or OtherBeing, ALL can find rest and recuperation here; subject to ability-to-pay check, and age verification, as minors are disallowed.

Get your worries and anxiousness licked on one of our Empires of th' Sexes:

  * There's HeManWorld for her;

  * WomenWorld for th' guys;

  * Woman2WomanWorld for youse gerls;

  * Man2Man for him;

  * He/SheWorld for Herms;

  * And Fun2FunWorld for all you wild fun folks out there.

There's skin-pleasure of all sorts of tastes, for all sorts of tastes! Try a simple sample afore you buy! A full overview of each UnderWorld is available through this console.... Have fun!..."

Have fun. To funicate, thought Gorb. This was th' sorta thing that them ReDemptionists wassa always spountin' on about. Yeah. And when he looked down into the console, it a-sorta wrapped itself around hisself, and started rubbin' at him. Naw, get off ! And Gorb punched the button for the twin planet of Freemoney.

" FREEMONEY welcomes you, traveller! EVERYBEING welcome ! Saint or Sinner, humanBody or OtherBeing, ALL can find rest, and recuperation here; subject to ability-to-pay check and age verification, as minors are disallowed.

FREE MONEY !!! That's RIGHT folks, FREE MONEY !!!!. That's how we got our name, and that's what we're going to give to YOU. 10,000 free credits to spend as you like, when you come down to our Wunnerful world of FreeMoney..."

The machine kept on spountin' `bout free eats and 24 hr a night casinos, but Gorb had already punched the big red YES please! button and was goin' on towards the terminal door.

Gorb's idee was to change up the credits that he had stashed in his tool-bag there, into gambling chips in th' casinos, and play around a little bit, just to make things look good; then cash in, and pick up that bundle of good ol' dirty money, filthy and untraceable. And then, well, he could head off just wherever he felt like, like to some real world with a surface and air and plants you could touch, and animals, and livingstuff like that.

Out of th' tunnels, forever.

No roof. Just an atmosphere and stars over his head. And then he could really ease hisself down into some new kinda life. But, there was plenty time to plan that yet. First, he had to get his hands on that there dirty money.

Rolling out of the shuttle, Gorb got in line behind the weaving and excited line of other passengers. They were all blubbery Normals, slick holiday suited in jogging lime green, and running shoes that had never even broken into a trot. Wealthy Normals, with credit to burn, who never even give him a second stare after that initial - Gorshh, it's one ov our bhoys in uniformy that are allus a-fightin' and a-dyin for us, and he's give up his ARMS fer th' cause! \- and then they got back to their piggy little Dee-dreams of winning fortunes, or just managing to get home again with that 10,000 credits o' free money in their sweaty little mitts. Here they was, virtually tramplin' each other in the queue to get to the Free Money booth. And there was no need to rush. No need at all. There was no need to get all hyped up, which was what Gorb was telling hisself, yet not managing at all to keep calm, and near shaking. C'mon, c'mon, little piggys, get outta my way. C'MON. COME... ON...

The Free Money booth was built in the New Neon style, with the South Seas beach motifs which were all the rage that season. A hint of Lotus and Pineapple, crushed Palm, greased Gorb's sticky nostrils as he flicked some idpaper at the cashier, and then a thick bundle of credits - to verify his ability to pay, should he, uh, actually lose in th' casinos. A green light blipped, and a slot disgorged a chit for his free money, which quietly stated that it was only legal tender in the complex, useless elsewhere. Gorb put the chit along with the wad of credits and slipped the two into the bottom side pocket of his uniform. He picked up his tool-bag, and not really knowing where he was going, just that he wanted to move on, and away, he ambled forward. He was real real tired, but still wired, jumpy and fractured, from the last dregs of the Tetramine.

" HEY !!"

A heavy hand stopped him, hard on his shoulder, holding him from behind.

" Where in the HELL d'ye thunk YOU'RE a-going, hoss??"

Like that time in th' war when the Igfarbens had attacked in their scrabbling Crabpods, all Gorb wanted to do was just to shrivel up into some little hole. Fall down into some slimepit, duck and cover. He was too scared to turn `round, look into the voice of them strong fingers.

" Thunk ah'm a-gonna stand here and let an ol' veteran RuffRanger buddy get hisself lost? And maybe end up inna Dead-Loss casino, or only a first rate hotel? No sir !! Tell you what ah'm a gonna do... Ah'm a gonna get your ass onto that shuttle bus o'er yonder, and I guarantee you baby, you'll get THEE BEST facilities on the hentire complex. Now, look here son, let me give you a uh, ...hand."

There was a wee note of hembarassment in the voice now, and the grip loosened. Gorb spun around, slow. Good job he hadn't pissed hisself, though he had sure come near it. And when he got turned around, what he saw was a big man, a Normal, at least six feet tall and heavy. Thick-set. Black hair that receded a little, and was greying, short and neatly combed, styled. A loose bright patterned shirt, flowered with bright red and yellow in the South Seas fashion, hid a mound of gut. Casual grey slacks, no socks, brown moccasins. And a moustache. So, ...there was no doubt about it, the man was a plain clothed cop.

" Name's Murito, son. Frank Murito," he said, pressing a burly hand into Gorb's right pincer. " And I'm here to make damn well sure that you get your credit's worth out of our complex here, in FreeMoney. I'm going to personally MAKE SURE that you get PRIMO grade service in EVERYTHING, y'dig? Now, let's get you to that hotel. The TidybeardLuXxx is the bestest we got and I can tell you, ummmm-uh, it do the bestest fried squiglet and jaws this side ov the Forbidden Territories. Real good place, son, REAL GOOD. Jest a short stop from the most fun palaces on the planet. So, you can check in and freshen up a little, afore you start to paint up the town, huh ?"

Him and his shirt pushed Gorb over toward the TidybeardLuXxx shuttle bus, and he got Gorb a seat right at the front.

" Now, son. " he said, pushing his moustache right up close to Gorb's face, so that he was more confidential. " Here's my card and number, and you jest give me a holler, anytime you even THINK you need ANYTHING. And I mean ANYTHING..." Leaning even closer, the big Frank grinned up real close, and continued in a snicker, " `Specially, if you need a little, uh, female company, y'dig ? I know youse ol' RuffRanger bhoys are rascals, but HELL, youse deserve it ! " Yukking hugely to hisself, he backed off the bus, leaving Gorb with a cheery, " Don't forget 'bout ol' Frank now ! ".

No. Gorb had a kinda feeling that he wouldn't be forgetting `bout good ol' Frank, for a while. He was sweating, and his uniform shirt was wetly, coldly, stuck to him. As the shuttle bus moved off, he strained around to look back and watch through the window, watch as Murito greeted another passenger in the new neon glare of the money booth.

## Chapter 4 \- Top O' Thee World Club

Top O' Thee World Club:/ A Useless Waste, er/ etc./ Drink!!/ Th' Cure That Makes Ya Feel Worsed.

Things on Hell's Half Acre were relatively calm. Yeygo, aware that something was up, since Gorb had failed to return home, had had her suspicions confirmed when Lolo had called up on the bott-bott and broke the good news. YegYo was rid of Gorb, at last. Hopefully, she thought, he's either dropped himself down a mineshaft, or legged it off to some jungley planet where he'll get eaten alive by creepy-crawlies. And then she felt bad about thinking such a horrible thought; and reminded herself never, ever, to think about insects or wrigglies like that, again. Horrible. And with HIM being out of the way, she wouldn't have to. It was wonderful. Now darling Lolo wouldn't risk getting herself into trouble, getting rid of that waster. Useless, he was. Later, she would tell th' bhoys, and they would have a little celebration.

Th' bhoys meanwhile were busy. They had completely dismantled the little tri-motor model shuttlecraft that Gorb had brought them home, some nights previously, and were now fashioning the various pieces into a rough RPTL - randomly toxic projectile launcher. Mrs McCafferty usually let her pet Mog, Dribbles, out for a run around this hour, and they wanted to be ready.

OnYa slept. Sweetly.

Lolo was presently beginning to calm down after a period of intense pain; such treasonable action by one's trusted underling was difficult to stomach. As was the loss of such a huge stash of cash. On that first dreadful morning, she had just time to gulp down three Sed4Kalms before MineBoss had arrived. Lucky the DerriFubble tank was settled and running, and the manager had noticed nothing out of order... Still, after that appalling initial shock of hideous, loathsome, treachery, she had to concentrate, compose herselves in front of a full length mirror, head held high, and proud. This was, after all, exactly the sort of situation, which showed off her resolve and inner strenght. The way she would cope with this misfortune, she told herselves, would be a true example of her BREEDING, her manifest destiny to succeed, and to be IN CONTROL. Yes !. Triumph would yet be plucked from disaster. No one in thee Authority knew of the theft, or ever would. And, after all, they had got rid of that dreadful Gorb. What a drip of a creature - who would have thought that he had the spunk to leg it with the stash... Still, nevermind, there were more important, and more lucrative, matters in hand. And with that, crimson lipsticked lips kissed their own cold mirror image...

II

In the hotel, Gorb awoke. He needed a drink. He needed some narcohol. He needed a drink real bad. A big drink. Lots of it. Plenty. On arriving, he had just flopped into his room and crashed, ten hours straight out, head pillowed on the tool-bag. The bag was still beneath him - good. And still stiff stuffed full of credits. Good, good, better. Now, drink. Lots of drink. And maybe then he would stop shaking.

All that there T powder that he had snuffled up to get him through, was now all out of his system and yow what a head it made. Bad. Sore and thirsty, thirsty as you sweated all that bad stuff out. Lucky this was a 2Primo TidybeardLuXxx hotel and that there was a great big, big, mini-bar in the corner, fridged wi' cold nr-beer, dregs and narcohol. Yes. Th' thing wi' Thetamine was that onced you come down off it, you begun to slink into a big bad cloud of real misery and sad. After feeling so UP you got real, real down and got that whole all whorls a-coming to an end and here's HELL syndrome type a thing. Drink was a reasonable antidote; even better if you could get some of the synth stuff with the ready-detox added.

Still in his uniform, and with even his boots still on, Gorb got up and moved across to the frig-o-chiller. Sensing movement, the slobsterino screen in the corner beside the window, bleep-bleeped up into light, giving him a jump. He continued, opened the fridge up: uh-huh, that's realllll good; two six packs of Jollys and about ten Litro cans of 2Frosty. He pulled out two of the bottles of the Jolly nr-beer and popped the cap off one; in the background, that voice felt from the screen sounded familiar. It was Tidybeard again, Dick Tidybeard.

" On behalf ov Tidybeard Lines, I'd just like to take a few moments to welcome you to the FreeMoney Entertainment and Relaxation complex... I know you're anxious to get out there and have fun, but just bear with me a moment as I hexplain how to make your FreeMoney stay a more fulfilling and pleasant customer experience, as a treasured guest of ..."

The voice of Tidybeard drizzled on, as Gorb supped. This cold Jolly was GOOD. He let the sharpness of the nr-beer trickle down his throat, and begun to feel his head expanding. Tidybeard faded out, and another promo come on screen. This one was for Th' Top O' Th' World Club, huge vistas of gilt and silver-plate, a river valley of lilies and palms winding around a huge plateau of ringing and chugging and winning electrojocos, banditos.

" ...Biggest casino on the world. And th' best. Guaranteed hi-wins, 90 per cento pay-outs, and free training in every known game from NewBlackJack to Algebra. Come on down to Chamber 256/7/8 and come on up to Th' Top O' Th' World... All functions totally discreet, and NO tithe/tax records filed. ALL welcome, Normal, Sinner or OtherWorlders..."

Yeah, this casino club would do, thought Gorb. Big enough to get well hid in. Big enough to get credits changed up quick and move on. Nice and easy.

After showering and two more bottles of Jolly, Gorb felt worsed. He felt more like staying in his room and sleeping it off, than going out to some sluggy casino. But he forced himself down to the lobby and onto the shuttle-bus. Ever since the last traces of th' Tetramine had left his bloodstream, the whole aspect of this place had changed. For one thing, there was far more OtherWorlders, Aliens, around than he had noticed before. Most were NearNormals, just blue-skinned or hairy, but some were kinda crab-like, and there were quite a few Ultras, amoebic jelly and transparent. And for some reason, these he found quite threatening. But there were other things... the FEEL of the place give him the shiverings. Before, it had looked slippery with liquid bright lights and glorious; now, it just seemed shabby and pure greed. If you looked hard enough you could see that the sky-roof was peeling, patchy with grey ferrocrete and stains, and there were even evident bracing and scaffold behind some of the newer sections. Obviously, these were just facias, tempting to make the place look bigger and brighter and more a-go-go than it really was. Like creepy. And if you looked far enough up through some o' the bright white lights, you could see the dust that showed that they hadn't even bothered to 2filter the air properly. It was just the same ol' tunnels as Hell's Half Acre, wi' a bit o' paper and paint, newneon, slapped on top. Still, it would do. He had a small wad of credits in his pocket and the tool-bag with him. He would start off small, just to see how it went. Change up 100,000 credits, play around a little, change the chips back into dirty money. So, with his head a bit bigger due to the Jolly, he got off the shuttle-bus in Chamber 257 and headed up to Th' Top O' Th' World.

III.

Three days later, and he was on his last run. The tool-bag was now so full of dirty money, that he was having difficulty carrying it. One more hit and that would be it. In fact, things had goned relatively easy. Why, there was a whole section of changing-up booths on every level of the casino, and he had been able to use a different one every day, and keep as low as possible.

So, up he went to booth 3, level six, and handed over the last 500,000 credits. It was one o' them blue-skin girls behind the counterjump and they were always so nice to him, giving him the `Have a Nice Day' and `Top O' Th' World to Ye' and all that. Smiles. Yeah. She took the money - nice teeth they have, thought Gorb, and so sharp. Passed him back a tray of chips, and a good luck, sir. Yeah. Luck? No, he never had no much o' that, and that's why he had kept his gambling to a minimum, just sacrificing a few thousand here and there, to make it look good. Just on the banditos. Mixing in with all the hyped up Normals in their leisure-wear and loot-lust, all SUCKERS who were born to lose, and deserved to, wi' their piggy faces and ugly. He mixed in, on the outskirts of groups o' them, real careful not to draw attention to hisself, or catch anybody's eye. No. Usually, he just wound down around from one level of greed to the other, re-changing the chips into cash, and then safe home to the hotel.

He stuck a 100 credit chip into a bandito, and slapped the GO button. Symbols merged and emerged on the screen, colours clashed. Uh. Nothing, same as always.

" Hey! How's my bestest RuffRanger buddy?? Hope you're onna a winning streak..."

It was Murito. Different shirt. Same moustache. If Gorb had've had hands he would've been pawing and shaking and squeezing at them, all grins and a cigar. But Gorb didn't, so the big man just held Gorb by the shoulder, and pulling him closer, whispered:

" Hey, buddy, y'see that big ol' red bandito on the corner? Play that one. Pump it up, hoss. Play it to the limit. Ah bin a-watching that one and it's due to spout credit. C'ain't play it meself, seeing as how ah'm an onPlanet employee. But yew can... G'wan, play th' damn thing. You'll WIN, baby, ah GUARANTEE it."

He looked at Gorb and winked, gestured toward the red bandito.

Gord went over and played the machine. He played the machine and watched the spinning screens. He hoped he wouldn't win. The spinning stopped and the lights flashed. Jackpot.

## Chapter 5 – At Thee Broken Spoke

At thee Broken Spoke:/ Waiter! There's A Tear In My Beer!/Ah! The Great uredScents Of Memory/~I Love The Smells Of Gluebawgs In The Morning/ Stinks To Me Of Victory AhfterUshave.

Winning at the casino was the last damn thing Gorb wanted, but o' course, that's hexactly what he got. And mucho drawing attentione to hisself, natch. That bandito that Murito had pointed out, had come up with the big pay-lode and ZING!! Next thing Gorb knowed, some slugging cage [Winners Enclosure] that come out of nowheres, had landed on top of him, and bells and lights were going off all over the place. One million credits prized from th' casino vaults, yes sir. Something to celebrate. Uh-huh.

Now here he was at Th' Broken Spoke bar on level 25, drinking vintage Mexican real-beer, and trying his best to look delighted, rather than a gloomed worry-bag. Already, a cloud of despair, the slough of despondo, had settled itself on his shoulders. More cameras were flashing and crowd o' Normals were a wrastling wi' each other in a bid to get up close and rub luck offa the winning bandito champ. Some Norme wi' bad teeth and acne had come up and started axing awkward quextions - Where ya from, meester? and where's ya heading? \- and more in a probing kinda way. At least he had his cop buddy, Ol' Frank, headin' them suckers all off.

" Hey now, th' bhoy has a long night ahead a him, " growled Frank. " Kin you folks all get back, and give him a bit o' room...? "

Frank by his side, right by him the whole time, smiling and smelling o' cop ahfterUshave. Frank, right close by him the whole time. Gorb had tried to exscape, had made some weak excuses about gettin' back to the hotel and get freshened up: a bit tired, have to shuffle on home, I'll catch you up later, I'm just popping out to - y'know \- fer a minute. NO !, Frank was having NONE of that and the closer he leeched hisself to Gorb, the greater Gorb's FEAR become, a-feared that Frank was ON to him. Damn straight. Had he tagged as an outlaw fugitive? Frank was a-hangin' so tight onto Gorb, Frank and these new friends of his, two rough and over made-up women that he had called over, sayin' to Gorb:

" Now we got us a PARTY! Gurls, welcome to th' big winner ".

Winner ? With Frank a-breathing down his shirt-neck, Gorb felt more like that he was always gonna be a loser.

Th' Broken Spoke was brashly decorated from head to tail in artefacts from the old West: talking horses, attendants in fashions of the period, heavy metal pistols, dirt, cactus, tumbleweed, drunken and diseased pilgrims, smell o' cigars, opium, syphilis. Soon as you entered through the swinging doors, a red-cheeked and bosomy palastic saloon gal Yee-hawed through a little speaker in her neck and dropped a ten galloned hat on your head, clipped holsters around your waist. At the bar, behind which mirrors for Tennessee whiskey glistened, a robotic figure hacked and hawked regular globs into a brass-plated spittoon. All were encased in a protective palastic film, apart from the authentic gaming tables where Big Winners were encouraged into poker, and given close illustration of the devastating impact of under-table Derringer fire. Gorb had been dragged up here by Murito, under protest, but not wanting to make a scene or a fuss, while there was still a hope that he might be able to get away, somehow; at least Frank hadn't flashed his cop badge, yet. So, Gorb had let the over-friendly Frank pull him along and slap his back. He even let these two creatures that had somehow managed to smell their way into the picture, hustler up to him and do all their rouged and powdered grinning bit, like the stitches o' their surgery weren't showing. And Frank had grinned and grinned and more grinned like his moustache was about to take off and land somewheres else.

" Woooh- wheeeeee.!,' he yelled. " We're a gonna have ourselves a TIME. Yes SIR."

Wild hexcitement. And all these Normes had come along and rubbed up to Gorb - some kinda tradition in th' casino, Frank tole him - and he had near puked with all the aggravation and the nervy-ness of it. When it was drinks all round, all free and double too for Winner/celebrity, and nothing but the best, Gorb had ordered a triple antique beer from oldest Mexico way, the most exclusive they had, 20% proof. And Frank and th' girls had the same. And after he drunk that, Gorb felt a bit better and begun to think about ways o' gettin' out of this. Maybe he was just being paranoid and Frank wasn't really after him , for after all, why not think on the bright side... Huh?

She had dried up beach-blonde hair and a shape of a body that tole you that she wasn't what she had started out as. Some ReConstituted Sinner, Gorb thought, who had sought her salvation and surgery through works of the flesh, and hanging around in bad company. She said her name was Darlene, and the only thing interesting Gorb could find in her visage, was to try and guess which pieces of her anatomy she hadn't altered. Whatever they were, thought Gorb, and however much it was that she had spent, she still stayed ugly.

" How does it feel to win all that money?" she squeeked.

That was it. Something about her throat.

" Uh.... Just great. Hey, uh, I really don't like to be forward but," and he blushed and leant toward her, fidgiting with his pincers, " Uh.... and I'm a kinda SHY I guess, but uh, I'm a -hopin' we can get to become friends..."

" Why sure, honey," and she fluttered her eyebrows in a way that was meant to look attractive, but reminded Gorb more of two Carpet Moths a-wriggling inna Tunnelweb Spider's net. So being friendly like, Gorb went up to the low bar and ordered more drink off the bartender.

" What'll it be Mr. Big-winner ? " axed the barkeep, ridiculous in lacquered sunshade and sleeve garters. " More vintage Cerveza, shots of redeye, or moonshine? "

" Slammers all round, bartender," shouted Gorb, and then slipping over the barkeeper a handful of notes, he whispered, " make 'em triples, but just put plain fruit juice in mine, huh? ". And the barkeep looked over at the ladies, leered, and nodded.

Later, things were going just smooth. Murito and his date were already slobbering over each other; Darlene had dropped a curiously textured hand onto Gorb's leg. Her movements were getting rubbery and blurred, like she was wading through mud. They were about ready, thought Gorb.

" Uh, lissen, Darlene," he whispered, " I uh... I gotta get back to my hotel later, and I wondered if you would like to have uh, a drink, with me back in my uh, suite ?. I mean, you don't have to... but uh..." Gorb held his breath, tried his best to blush. " And then we can meet the others later. It's just, uh, I really need to shower up and put all this money away."

She looked as though she were thinking about it for a minute, like she was hesitant, and then she slow-nodded and begun to giggle.

" Welllll, I suppose..."

" I just want some company for a little while, and we can come straight out and meet Frank and uh, what's your friend's name again?"

" Dia."

" ...Dia. I just feel so unsettled what with all this cash in my bag, " moaned Gorb. "...And then tonight I intend to treat you all to the best meal on the planet. After all, I can afford it."

And around that table at th' Broken Spoke they all laughed. When the laughter cleared, Gorb made his move.

" Now Frank, uh, Darlene and myself are gonna go back to the hotel for a spell. Later, we can all meet up at six, back here, and have a big party... Huh?"

" Why hell, we'll all jest up and a come with you, Gorb baby, " roared Frank, "...We'll start that party RIGHT NOW."

And he give his lady friend a big whack on the ass, and gulldered out a guffaw! so LOUD that people on the far end o' th' Spoke turned to look. White-headed pimples of sweat and fear and nausea burst on Gorb's neck, and he had to get real careful not to grip the seat too tight wi' his pincers, or he would have cut right through it. He bent over toward Frank's now drink-red face, moustache sticky with fruit juice, spirit and lipstick, and real low, said:

" I just want to be alone wi' Darlene fer a little bit... y'dig ?"

" Why you ol' hound you," chortled Frank, tipping back the too small cowboy hat the palastic saloon gal had dropped on his too big head, and winking a bloodshot eye. " Sure, you go and have yerselves a TIME. Didn't I tell you Ol' Frank would see you right? Would I let an ol' Army buddy down? No, sir ! "

He made Gorb feel so guilty with an extended rant about ol' Vets sticking together, and how glad he was that he had won Gorb all that money, not that he wanted a single cent of it, that Gorb got up and ordered Frank and his friend some more drinks, pushed a fist full of hi-note credits down into Frank's flowery shirt pocket, before he and Darlene left.

It was such a simple and a brilliant plan that Gorb was quite proud of it. So much easier to lose one person rather than three. What a relief it would be to get away from Murito for a space. Flee. So, he took Darlene back to the TidybeardLuXxx, give her his key and directed her up to the room, and tole her to get herself more comfortable, honey. Tole her that he had gotta check all this here cash into the ultraSafe, and then he would get around to hunting up a bucket or two of ice and some label-marked DeChancer...

Sure thing, baby. Soon as he see Darlene safe in the elevator, Gorb winkled outside. Flagged down a fastcab to the terminus. At the terminus, heart pumping, and tool-bag heavy at his knee, he run into the firstest Buy-It-Hall stuff store he could find; pulled a jumbo can of 2SoberU off a rack and supped at it while he suited hisself, tip to top, in new outfits. Neutral outfits, not too plain or flash, stuff like boredom would wear onna holiday. Grey and green and pale and limpid and badly fabricated, but not too cheap, neither. Wi' a whole new nest of palastic suitcases to match, and a sports-bag. The sports-bag had a hologram of Val Bornagan, that season's champion Preacher, on each side, double-grip zippolas, and the main thing - was big enough to take all the loot. Then, when he had finished new suiting hisself, he got his uniform, medals, and tool-bag, and threw the lot into the nearest dumpster. Punched the CRUSH button.

He found a quiet restroom in a side avenue, next to a deserted Boiled-Bacon & Cabbage stall; he steadied hisself, went inside breathing deep and easy. Careful in the dirty mirror, he complete shaved his head, donned dark lenses, arranged the new idpaper he had removed from Lolo's chamber. From cling-p wrapped packs of Reel/Tissue® he removed false fingers, sleeves and glovelettes of flesh, and grimacing, fixed them firmly in place over the metal structure of his pincers. A rough job, and he hated it. Vile stuff. Smell of the adhesive swam to him back-memories of Training School and horrible. And this Flash-flesh wouldn't last long neither; but it would do for temp. cover. A Sinner with pincers would be noticed, and it was essential that steel-armed Gorb Ingordo simply dissolve. Fade into th' Big Black Empty, and away.

Twenty-five quick minutes had done it all. And if he was lucky, in the meantime, Darlene would have got herself too comfortable and got sleep. With a new name - Carl Lee Perky - and freshly tissued arms, Gorb headed through the terminal, through the All OuterNational Passengers gate, on into Payment & Papers. No looking back. Dumped down a wedge of pure cash, and was boarded onto the first available Intercraft out, an En356 heading straight through to DrumCree5.

And when the Bordello Lines ship had blasted off, and Gorb had checked through the passenger section again to make triple sure that Murito wasn't aboard, he calmed down and almost stopped shaking. Nearly.

" Hey, Hostette," he hollered. " Could you get me a sedative please? And some narcohol to wash it down? Please? ...Thanks."

## Chapter 6 – Standoff at DrumCree

DrumCree5/ Live Horse and You'll Eat Grass/ Excuse Me, While I Tune Into Sky/ Like A Candle In th' Bin/ They Haven't Gone Away, Ye Know.

Shaking. There was a hand on Gorb's shoulder. It was shaking him. He jumped.

" A-uHUH !! "

" Sorry sir, but we have already landed on DrumCree5. All the other passengers have already disembarked."

It was the hostette. Tidybeard Lines uniform. Unconvincing make-up. Wrinkly. Gorb had passed out.

" Uh, sorry. I uh.... Thank you."

Damn. Gorb had wanted to see the landing on DrumCree5. Never seen a landing on a planet with a atmosphere before. Real sky. Clouds.

Last time he had been on a real planet, had been when he was a kid, getting transportated with his family, chillder shrieking, Mas wailing, and the guard-U.s a-stomping. Da had taken a clubbing on the head. That had been A Long Time Ago.

Where as, now...

Now, the planet was his. Big bag full of dirty money seen to that. Big Money spoked in big words, in a LOUD VOICE. He called the hostette over.

" Here," Gorb said, holding out a c20 note. " Get yerself a drink, baby. Sorry to be such a nuisance."

" You were no trouble at all, sir."

The light was the first thing. Stepping off the ship, down the chute and then over into the main terminal building, Gorb was near blinded, even with his new dark lenses. Had lived for so loongggg in stinkin' tunnels, nunder artificial light, that the brightness of a real star, sun a-coming boomin' in through the windows was deafening. Windows. Real windows. Real windows. Not some stupit picture-tanks, or frames. Real windows with a whole world on the other side. Wait, the whole BigEmpty on the other side. Like air and gas and then just plain spaced, no crust. Fantabulous. Like saying a prayer and having it come through.

And he was nearly safe. Exscaped. Free. Alls he had to do was get a wee private interconnection, keep changing, new idpapers, keep a movin' on. Perfecto, From what he knew about DrumCree5 - had read up about it, in the TidybeardLuXxx in FreeMoney - it was a whole cloister of Free-Ports, all linked up, and busy with trading and a-smuggling and a-juggling of narcos and everystuff. Business was run by th' Cutehoors, mysterious, unseen OtherWorlders who big wheeled and dealed right across the Space. Complete bankers. Give `em your money and you got a good rate of interest and security double-guaranteed. ReVivalist, ReDemptionist, Saved or Sinner, if you wanted your, uh, sticky funds stashed in complete confidence and secrecy, you went to th' Cutehoors. Need credit to wage some cleansing agin a Planet dirty with an intelligence not to your taste? - axe th' Cutehoors for a loan. Need some funds to run a smear camp agin a rival fer MostReverend Holiest? - get a mortgage from th' Cutehoors, and righteousness will blow your trumpet. And no need even to dirty your eyes looking on the corpos of these alien unclean; th' Cutehoors had some sort of slimey symbiotic relation wi' a race of NearlyNormals - the O'NoLans - and it was these O'NoLans who blandly greeted the great public and counted in and out the loot. Here at DrumCree5, was rooted one of the key hubs of Cutehoorism in the sector. Apparently, in some deep base somewheres near one o' the Poles, they had an office or some kinda vaults, some nervecentre. But nobodies never got to go there. Scattered around the rest o' the DrumCree were about a ten-million booths and CC-creditpoints, though, where ATMs or th' Cutehoors' NearNorm O'NoLan pals greeted the greedy. Every ducker and diver and pirate and murderer and kidnapper and HighPriest in the sector, come here to stash their cash, or whine a loan. And they all wanted to get in and out wi' out fuss, botheration, or getting officially noticed. So there was a thriving trade in WeeRuns here and there, nippy ships that could scoot ya in, and out, and back again, with plenty of quiet. Over a thousand separate Free Ports with destinations near everywhere and outward. From here you could go kirkward into the BigEmpty. But more interesting fer Gorb were the three Free Swarms of Aughter, Clochter, and FiveMealtoon: a host of systems, where ReVivalism had not prevailed and where there were no Religion. Out there, even Sinners got treated just like ordinary second class citizens. At least, that's how the rumours went. These places were beyond the fringes of the Federation Territory, ever since the Feds had pulled back tight to the armour of the Ronaldo Line, after that there historic victory over the Igfarbens. Like, yeah. Uh, Gorb had been there at the time, and seed it all. Anyhow's all he wanted was to get onto one of these here wee private charter ships - and take off. That would be him untraceable. Lost.

But man, what a sky. A sky. Just to read the sky. There was blue and all that frozed water up theres and and look, a bird type a-thing. Firstest time ever in his whole life Gorb had seed a bird. He just stood there looking out through the terminal window at the blue, as other passengers trundled heavy trolleys straight on past him, and around him. And he moved over and felt the surface of the window, as if to touch out and taste the sky with his tongue.

To be out of those tunnels...

Tunnels. What remained behind in the tunnels, was all of what he could never go back to. YegYo was all stranger now, and forever. His family. Gone. Th' too two bhoys. And baby OnYa. Would they ever get a chance to touch the sky? He had loved them, but left them, lurched into some kind of exscape. And now he was lost, all alone and lost. Totally, totally lost. Lost, without them.

Lost, without them. And alone.

He stood there alone beside the window, for what seemed like a long time. Just looking. Looking at the outside, till his eyes, unused to the real light, watered and blurred. It was hard to wipe away the flow of water from his eyes, with his awkward False-flesh covered pincers. And because his clothes were new, and he had so rushed, there were no h-pankies in any pockets. So the water just sort of dripped down there, till he was getting all wetness. Must dry up, he thought, stop whinging and get a-moving on. But it was hard. He felt just like lying down there and yawping. Must move on. Must. And with an effort he pulled hisself into hisself and dragged at his bags, moved onward toward some sort of bar, where he could get some kinda stimulant and a good stiff drink.

There was a newneon sign for a Ye Olde Aunt Annie's Bomb Factory Porter House down at the end of the concourse and he pulled his trolley in there. It was a quiet little place, with green curtains and small, scuffed, red tables. Decor was strictly retro Nationalist chic, faded proclamations, framed sepia prints of knee-capping and riot, glass-cased dayglo Balaclava and M.16, a Wolfe Toned juke-box. Besides Gorb, there was only one other customer, a Beardee slipping down what looked like a wee glass of Buckfast, on a high counter stool. Gorb parked his baggage trolley next to one of the cleaner tables, and sat down, thinking, thinking bad. Real heavy shoulders.

" What you like to drink, sir?" axed a voice from behind him.

Uh. He shrugged. What did it really matter?

" What about," said the squeaky voice, " what about some label-marked DeChancer... and a bucket of ice, ya slugg ??"

It was Darlene, of course. In her official cop uniform. And right beside her, was Frank Murito, in his.

## Chapter 7 – Sintolerance, Hintolerance

Hintolerance/ Horrible Heavy Metal Threat Disarmed/ Bit th' Dirt/ A Hundred Thousand UnWelcomes.

" What gaineth a man if he got that there whole world, but loseth his soul? Eh, greedy bhoy? What good has all that there money done ya ? How come ya didn't wanna share wi' yore buddies, huh? Bhoy, I had yew pegged as a bad'un, a fugitve, soon as I sniffed yore stink when you got off at the terminal. A plain ol' sinner freak straight outta the tunnels, and loaded with somebody else's credit... "

Murito wassa laughin' on him, his moustache wrinkling. Frank was very happy. Very happy. Darlene was a-laughin, too. She was very happy too. Like all smiles and niceness, `cept that Murito had an ugly looking 10mm Stubbs Automatic, peeping nonchalantly out of the pocket of his cop coat. IT wasn't laughin'. Neither was the legal jargon scrolling down the screen that Darlene was holding out for Gorb to read.

" Gorb Ingordo, we request that you accompany us back to FreeMoney for a, huh, inqueery into several charges relating to..." sniggered Frank, "...travelling with forged idpapers, and suspicion of passing on stolen credit. Otherwise," and he was cracking up at this one, " we just BLAST you RIGHT HERES."

And there was no doubt, that he would. No doubt in Gorb's mind at all. What was worse, Gorb wasn't really sure that he, hisself, really CARED one way or the other. He just sat there, bent and tired, misery. Some ways, he had always knew he would get caught, somehow. UnPeople like Gorb never got away with things so easy. How could he have expected to exscape so simply? Now, there would be PAIN to come.

Capture had just come sooner, rather than later. He would always have been looking over his shoulders anyhows, waitin', knowing that they would get him. He had a knowed it in his guts.

" Otherwise, 2Sinner Gorb Ingordo," stated Frank plainly, " If y'all want to, you can take a little uh, walk wi' us. First, I gotta do something, buddy."

" I know that," sighed Gorb.

" What? You getting lippy wi' me, Sin-bhoy?"

" No, sir. I mean, no. I just knowed that you were going to do this."

What he meant was, was that he knew that Murito would be taking his servos away, to make his metal arms, pincers, useless. Arms like them were danger, could lash out and squeeeeze, too strong with metal power. Murito passed the Stubbs over to Darlene, who had folded the screen and replaced it in her pocket. She was real pleased to be able to stick the gun's cold sharp snout in the back of Gorb's neck.

" Move around jest a little bit, honey," she sneered, " Woo, feels good. Move around... And I'll blow you all the way back to that stinkin' rock that you crawled out from under."

Murito fished in his cop coat pockets and came out with a small packet of ezi-tools. Then he sliced into tissue, and peeled back.

" Now this," he grinned, " might hurt jest a little bit."

And both he, and Darlene, chortled. He removed one, two, four coupled servos from each arm. Then they just hung there, dead weight from sore shoulders.

" There," grinned Murito, " That's better, ain't it?"

II.

While they helped him to his feet and up along and out of the bar, Gorb was unaware of what was really happening to him. The pain from the nerve centres in his arms was burning, and a whole yellow mist of anguish and despair fogged his head and his thinking. It was all over, and he was dhestroyed. It was only after they had travelled a considerable distance that Gorb begun to realise that they were, in fact, travelling away from the Terminal, in the direction of the open countryside. Furthermore, they were travelling in some sort of plain unmarked vehicle, not cop-pod or scootster.

They weren't gonna bring him back, at all.

No. They were crooked. Only thing worser than a cop, is a bent cop; they have noses for loot like Armadillos have for rotten corpses, thought Gorb. These two were just gonna kill him and keep all the money for themselves. That's why they had LET him get away, so that he would bring the dirty money here for them. It was perfect. Four million c.'s of cash to bank with th' Cutehoors. No wonder they were laughing. All he was, was a mug who had carried the loot-lot for them, got it changed up... Sure, Murito had big-sussed him soon as he had arrived into FreeMoney. Cops. They can smell it. Smell that stink o' fear Gorb had, and the stench of all that loot. Yeah.

" Whaa th' slug d'ya think YOU'RE a-laughin' at?," demanded Frank, turning from the controls of the unit. " Huh? "

" Laugh this off, ya creep," snarled Darlene. And she THWACKED Gorb over the forehead with the butt of the Stubbs, bone and gristle crackling.

III.

When he come-to, Gorb found himself lying on a hot dusty road, face raw and bloody, mouth and eyes full o' dirt. Murito and Darlene had thrown him out of the unit, while it had still been nipping along quite fast. Maybe, they had thought he was dead, already. Whatever. In any case, they were gone with all his money, and that was that. In the distance, he could see their dust trail, and his four million in loot, speeding away. Yeah. And then the dust settled and everything was quiet and dusty and hot. For a time, he just lay there in the middle of the road, and then thinking, uh, that he really didn't want to die here after all, and that it might be a good idee - if he wanted to stay alive - to get out of the middle of the road. So he rolled and wriggled hisself over to the side, and after a rest, moved his head around so that he could try and see where he was. Hmnn. They had dropped him on the outskirts of a small settlement; wee little bent houses wooden and dusty and dark, some tottering water mills and rough aqueducts. Main feature of the town was a gignormous cross, made with rough timber and huge. It towered bleakly above the sagging tiled roofs, hay barns and smoky chimneys of the settlement. And right beside him, was the town sign, marking the town boundary, where Murito and Darlene had dropped him. It read, in crudely hand-painted and dribbling letters:

V I L E N E S S

pop. 2,434 Saved.

NO OtherWorlders,

NO Sinners.

Strangers not welcum !

Devils KEEP OUT !!

And on some other smaller signs, just a little further up the road, there was more instructions to thee UnHoly:

Sinners, OtherWorlders and other

dEvils, don't let us ketch youse

in Vileness aftir dark!

And on another pole, there was bunting and orange flags, looking fresh and not faded in the dusty sun. Decorations and medallions, strips of yellow cloth, curdled in the wind, and a banner fluttered:

CELEBRATION OF HINTOLERANCE,

Open up your hearts to th' Lord,

Close your minds to those not Blessed

Raise Your Voices in HolyHymnSong

O'er the screams of evil, burning.

That's why Murito had dropped him here, realised Gorb. These town Folk would do the killing for him, save Murito getting his hands dirty. This was a ReVivalist settlement, and they would be sure to burn Gorb for his Sins.

## Chapter 8 – Romance n Stuff

Ever Onward & Upward/ Romantic As Dandruff On A Black-Shirt/ Headucation & Grading, the Means By Which WE Find th' Chile A Productive Roll In Society.

" My dear..."

" Darling !"

Lolo was round with YegYo again, and they were cooing at one another. But things were getting a-kinda tense; ever since th' bhoys had snooked Lolo's fur robe out into the yard, beat on it, flamed it, and sprayed it with gunge from the putz-hole, things between the couple had not being going exactly well. YegYo had attempted to hexplain, that this was just Munchi's & Culchi's way of making Lolo welcome, ...but then there had been that unpleasant incident with th' dead Mog that they had dug up from somewheres. Uh-huh. Still, YegYo had been extra special 2nice, to make up. And Lolo had turned - for the time being - to macho only mode, to be more manly and a kind of father-figure for th' bhoys. More manly. Give them someone to look up to, like YegYo said. And YegYo liked it, with Lolo turning so big and butch.

Frankly, Lolo didn't really GIVE a damn what YegYo did or didn't like. Didn't care nowt about the hideous bitch nor her brats, those odorous, odious bhoys. No, she was only there, on sufferation, because there was something very else that she was a-hinterested in...

It was always good working practice, middle-management attention to detail and all that, to make sure that anything and everything of informational value that flowed through Lolo's section passed before her own eyes first. It was essential to always keep on top of the vital lifepulse of th' workings. By quiet-monitoring all comm.s a-going in and a-going out, Lolo could have a happy and useful time, a-listening in. Strange, the thingstuff that peoples will get up to, if they think they're not being watched. She had gathered: juicy details of the deliciously indiscreet sexual peccadilloes of various clerks; rumours of some kind of mutiny in the mine [that = a prompt Guard-U action, and a commendation from the MineBoss]; whispers of a hidden new vein of Hoguano, that had eventually been trickled into her own account. And then, there was that Dr. Von Wunster. What a joker. Thought he could pull a fly one, did he ?. Well, frankly, heh-heh-heh, no he couldn't... Lolo had caught the Doc's comm going off to headquarters, about this here new wunder-chile. Wunster had been doing the usual med-checks on the infant Ingordo, Sinner grading, whether she was a viable product or no, probable further usefulness, etc.; and he had found something. Something odd. Unusual cerebral activity. Huh, and then the old goat had the bright idee of getting on the bott bott and contacting thee Authority at BigBase, direct. Huh, like he wassa gonna lick up to them with the juicy info like he was some sorta real keen cop-sucker. Lucky, Lolo had jammed the call. And, uh, persuaded the good dottore to see reason and clam his big mouth tight shut. Did Wunster really want thee proper Authority to find out where all that Smile/Smileydrine from the company pharmacy had gone to? Did somebodys say somethin' about, uh, malpractice? And what if Lolo got Wunster's own private PERVscription for Xmg withdrawn? Doc had better put up and shut up, or he'd be crawling the walls...

Presently, Lolo had this LITTLE TREASURE right here in her pocket. Or on her knee, actually. YegYo had give her the baby to hold, and so she cradled it, at arm's length. The ghastly YegYo was gurgling and mugging at it, but it remained oblivious to her. Ridiculous. He could see nothing special about the brat, at all. It was just round and fat, and did, well, nothing... Except make nasty smells. But then, even when Lolo went into total 2Femm, allShe mode, she still didn't like chillder. Liked money though, and this little bundle was worth a PILE of credit. From the tentative feelers she had put out on the market, she knew now that even the Tidybeard labs were interested. Oh, yes. And if the Tidybeard labs were hinterested, well, that gave Lolo a key-line into ol' Dick hisself. How handsome. And with such a tidy little beard. And load-ed. Best possible connection to the worlds of NormalNess, real decency.... and SuperCredit Folk.

Th' bhoys returned, a-sniggering. Loud laughing onto her, in fact, like she was th' headbutt of some private joke o' theirs. Real chug-chug-chortling stuff. Lolo ignored them as best she could. Last time she had tried to greet them, they had bit her on the hand, quite gorily. Such a fuss YegYo had made, splashing stingy disinfectant around, and shrieking. Awful. Those two were a menace to any attempt at civilised decorum. Still. They wouldn't be around for long, after she had worked out this little plan with the lovely neat-trimmed Tidybeard... Urgghh! With a chunder, the infant on his knee evacuated her bowels. Rottenegg stench. Disgusting. And the horrible little creature actually seemed to be grinning at Lolo now. Definitely, definitely, time to GO.

Down on the street, Lolo found no sign of the wretched urchin he had paid to watch over his Metrolimo, and no sign o' the Metrolimo, either. There was just a rubbery-stink smoking heap of twisted ash and metal and dirt, where the Metrolimo had been parked.

## Chapter 9 - Trembling

UnSaved - Trembling Afore Tunnelweb Spiders:/ Care in Thee Community/ Some Slight Overstepping of Thee Mark.

" Here, in Vileness," considered the Rev. Doctor E.P. BoxingHeid, " we have a community which thrives on thee good, old-fashioned virtues of Thrift, Neighbourliness, Other-Loathing and Double-Decency. On a planet which is so plagued with doubt, fears ov thee hunknown and worship of false Gods, which is poisoned by filth and weakened by disgusting and immoral integrations, WE can hold our heads HIGH."

BoxingHeid was working on his sermon for the Sunday Roast, which was to be an especially powerful meeting, seeing as how it was Thee Time of Hintolerance; but also because the forces of Th' Lord had delivered onto them a Sinner. This was surely a SIGN from above, a sure enough certainty that soon the sweet rains would come to douse their thirst and moisten the roots of their parched crops, fill their wells, tanks and reservoirs for the year to come. Th' Lord would be good to Vileness, and BoxingHeid's own position as Pastor would be secure.

He was a big man, tall and loud, fine dark hair, slicked backaways wi' grease and dripping. He wore dark, with a long jacket, and wide black hat. Tough. Th' Lord has no time for thee weak, gives good graces to them that works in the hot fields from can to can't. Bad works comes to them that YIELDS to temptation, hiding their Sins from Salvation and Sanctification. Amen.

This was to be BoxingHeid's first Sunday Roast. His first as Pastor of the settlement. Afore, there had been thee weak Rev. Trembling, leaking toward compromise and pleasantries. Towards comfort. But BoxingHeid had put all that straight.

"What," he had asked the settlers," did we a-come here FOR? To mix? To axe for grubscraps from OtherWorlders and Sinners? Or, do we heavy-toil here in this DRY BONED LAND for SALVATION and Th' Lord's work? "

And the people had seed that it was GOOD, and had heeded Th' Lord's Words, as spoke through him, as showed through the Holy Tests. The Tests had been BoxingHeid's idee.

" If Trembling really IS so Holy, if he really IS a-doin' th' Lord's work, then Th' Lord will PROTECT him from anything. Hunger, thirst or... the bite of a Tunnelweb Spider... Is it not written in th' Holy Scripts: ' ...And these signs shall follow them that BELIEVE. In my name shall they cast out DEVILS; they shall speak with new TONGUES; they shall take up SERPENTS; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not HURT them...' Now, we ain't got us no serpents onPlanet, but we got us plenty o' Tunnelweb Spiders. And I tell you brothers and sisters, that if you TRULY ARE WITH th' Lord, then a Tunnelweb Spider will NOT hurt ye. Now, I'm a-willing to put myself in HIS hands and handle..." and at this point, to gasps from the congregation, BoxingHeid had pulled a glass jar from his coat pocket, containing a visibly over-heated and irritated Arachnid, " ...this here Tunnelweb Spider... Are ye, Brother Trembling ? Will ye take the TEST ? "

Huh.

Poor ol' Trembling had to go up afore th' people – for how could he rightly refuse - and demonstrate how Holy PRO-TECTED and faith-FULL he was... Had to paw about with a Redback Tunnelweb Spider. Haw ! He wassa deader 'n' boiled ham, in lesser than two minutes flat. Then BoxingHeid, hisself, had got up onto the platform and showed the people how Holy protected HE was. Why, BoxingHeid had CRUSHED that there Tunnelweb Spider with his bare hand. And how the people had ROARED for him, roared for further Penitence and Supplication. Had chained closed the chillders' playground, so that they too would know the good grace of denial, would work or pray, not idle. His words were GOOD. He had SHOWED it, wi' the Tunnelweb Spider.

Happen, the time BoxingHeid had paused from field-work to help that dumb boy that had got hisself Tunnelweb Spider bit earlier in the year, had not been wasted. It had been then that he had noticed that onced a Tunnelweb Spider had bit, and emptied its venom sac, it was complete harmless for two or more hours, afterward. But the other Folks, or Trembling, hadn't a-knowed that, Praise Th' Lord.

It was a Holy time, thee time of Hintolerance. Especially this year, wi' a mood of frustration among the settlers that all their good work and prayer were turning to dust, in this wilderness. There was hunger pinched on every face, with even th' town dogs stick ribbed and starving; only the flapping Vultures thrived. For too long there had been no rain; obviously there was FAULT. There was SIN. Chillder were being borned marked with EVIL, and unperfect.

Long tradition had it, that 'round this time o' th' year, some of thee more Faithful would go by night and burn out any UnSaved households around the area. This season, there had already been plenty a burnings, and the land around Vileness, had got itself A-CLEANSED. Now, there was to be the Parades of Hintolerance, when the Settlers swathed themselves in sashes of yellow, orange and gold, and forcemarched their way through OtherWorld settlements, where they were feared and unwanted. The Clan of th' Faithful would march, singing songs of Salvation, through the wretched streets and barren estates of them local pits of Evil, El Papaville & Dolesink, where the UnSaved dwelt in filth and Sin, protected by high fireproof walls, and the overhead Scootsters of them pestilential, interfering FEDCops. Let your voices cry out LOUD to Th' Lord ! Fire and Death to th' Sinners ! NO surrender, NO mercy, NO compromise with the OtherWorld dEvils... A reel genuine family celebration, where even the wee chillder could take part, singing in the Hymns, and proud to wear their little hooded robes, and sashes, embroidered wi' colourful imagery from Clan tradition, and the one Word motto: HATE.

Feeling righteous and proud, the Rev. Dr. E.P. BoxingHeid drew his musings to an end. Beneath his desk, on the rough earthen floor lay the battered and bloody corpo of the Sinner, strange metal appendages lying useless by his side. The good Rev. had rescued this poor Sinner from the gang of rascals who had dragged him into town, and who had been beating at him with sticks.

Poor unBlessed creature. That was hardly the way to treat him. Although, heh, heh, BoxingHeid could understand the lads' excitement. He was onced a young-buck full of the spirit hisself, one time. But no. No, the sinner must be nursed and washed and kept alive for the proper, traditional, rites. For such a Sinner to arrive, at SUCH a needful time, was surely a most POWERFUL sign. He would make for a Holy spectacular Sunday Roast.

## Chapter 10 \- Redemption

Redemption:/ Mould Smoke - Some Quare Craic/ Thee Headshapes/ He Turned Thee Whine Into Water/ Sisters Doin' It for Themselves.

When he was a young cub a-running around in th' caves, happen Gorb and a load a his pupmates took to scraping some of the blue type-a mould off the tunnel walls, drying the paste and upsnortin' it. It was an old miner trick, used by the deep shaft gangs when they couldn't get to their supplies of Electric-Souper10s narcohol, and got th' dry-mouth. Th' cubs had thought it mucho fun-fun and a real hootle, all diverso colour-shapes and melting heads; till one time Gorb had snooted up a bad batch that had some a-them red fungi spore in it, and got real sick. Real bad sick. Convulsions and hunconsciousness. Got woked up in the medic bay jagged full of antidote.

That's what Gorb hoped had happened again. Like headshapes. That he had just been poisoned and that none of all this Horror, outside his head, was really a-going on, at all. Hoped that he wasn't really awake, but asleep and bad-dreaming.

It was a really BAD dream. Ugly. He had been rendered conscious by the big hand of Rev. Dr. E.P. BoxingHeid, who had stuffed a bottle of snifter salts under Gorb's nose.

" Awake!," howled the Rev., " Awake, and let us hear your SONG as the flames REDEEM YE!"

Huh? Whass a-going ON ? Gorb had awoke to discover that he had been tied to some heavy and immovable pieces of Ironwood, which made up the top section of a large burnfire pile. Above him, a huge wooden cross towered into a darkening sky, blotched with heavy black cloud. And all around him thronged a large group of ReVivalists, dressed in traditional and ceremonial attire; some wore yellow sashes over their sober Sabbath suits, others wore the more rigorous white vestments and hoods, dark eye-holes cut carefully oval. These was th' menfolk, while th' wimmenkind stood off at a respect, all grey-shawled and wollen. Many of th' men had yellow flamed and smoky torches, while others had cans of what looked like oil. All seemed excited and agitated, hollering out shouts of "Amen" and "Burn that Sinner" and "Send That Sin-bhoy Back to Hell".

Their squalls was calmed by the Rev., who now stood tall and leery on the small rough platform, which had been constructed by one side of the pyre. He spanned his arms wide open for silence, and a shush at once fell over the crowd.

" Fellow Flatlanders, farmers, and citizens ov Vileness," he called, pausing to wipe a greyed wollen h-panky over his sweating neck and face, "I know that you are impatient to get on with your Devotions. It has been some quaint time now, since Th' Lord has sent us such a sign. And we are in need ov His Blessings, His kind hand to help us in our works... Already, this year that has been damned with clear skies, has tasted the first swirls of change - you can see the heavy clouds, above you. Soon our empty butts and tanks will glisten with sweet water, and the rustle of DRY BONES around our homesteads will no longer grate on our earholes.... But I say, PATIENCE... Let us take out time to enjoy our Devotions in the proper way, tonight... Now, chillder, if you please..."

At that point, two of the fittest of the surviving chillder in the area, both pale and thin, came forward with offerings to be burnt. All they had was some mangy carrots, a small bag of dusty grain, some browned apples, and a loaf of half-bread. Foodstuff gurned up, dry and twisted, like the chillder themself. These chillder were among the few offspring in th' whole area that had passed thee Authority's VALIDATION - post-natal checks for aberrant physical characteristics, those evident manifestations of their parents' SIN. After placing the offerings, bravely, as close to Gorb as they dared, the chillder piped up into song; sweet old hymns from the hill-planets, like " I Burned My Sin In My Own Backyard" and "They A-Comed From Another World, But Ah'm A-Sendin' `Em Straight On Back To Hell" and that most melancholy air, " Mama's Leetle Baby [Gone and Growed Too Many Legs] ". Even Gorb was nearly moved by the touching sincerity of the youngsters. Indeed, their music added to th' air of calm that had strangely descended down upon him. Thinking it through, and looking back, now that it had all come to this Endstate, he could think of very few things he had done in his life, that had truly been BAD. Certainly, he had never been very lucky, but at the same time, he had never hexpected much. It was just the way he was. Most of all, he had tried not to hurt people, not to do wrong. Then, he had done this Bad Thing, had gone and run off from his own chillder, only thinking of his own selfish self; not th' bhoys or lovely OnYa. ...And now, all because of that, he was a-gonna BURN. Should have stayed wi' th' chillder and got shafted in th' tunnels. Yeah.

" Now," said BoxingHeid, eyes shining happy, " I believe we can set the lower kindling fires a-going."

A white-robed and pointy-hooded figure from the crowd passed toward the bonfire and handed a torch to the Reverend, who, muttering some further prayers of redemption under his breath, set the wee sticks at the base of the burnfire sparkling into flame. The dry wind, which by now had taken up force, quick whupped the flame into fierce raging. Turning now into the wind, face stung by sand blast, and illuminated by waves of red and yellow, the big man flew his hat to the dirt, and head howling to the molten sky, hollered:

" Ah'd like to propose a TOAST," he hollered, " to RAIN, to VILENESS, and to REDEMPTION !!"

With that, the metal sky burst and cracked, orange-wired crackling to the earth, and drums pounding thunder. Sheets of clouded blackness meshed and growled, spitting fraction and broken shards of bright.

Then.

Then. The soft putter of heavy rain fell agin the dryness of the earth, first sending spores of dust spiraling. Putter. Putter. The Rev. Dr. E.P. BoxingHeid felt the soft wet agin his hard face, and felt on as the wetness grew harder and pelted, bucketing and swashing, hosing and plashing down agin him. And way, way, way, within hisself, he got all tiny and scared. Scared to see so evident, the POWER in the flame.

II.

Rain. Too precious to miss, even for a Sunday Roast, the Rev. had dismissed the crowd back to their homesteads and flatlands. There was channels to be opened, sluices to adjust, tanks to be filled, and pipes to be plugged. Chance was, there might be no more rain for 'nother year, and there was a big thirst to fill... Th' Lord's bounty was not to be wasted. Not long after the downpour had started, the little town square and pyre were deserted. Except for the soggy figure of Gorb, who remained tied to the now-soaked burnfire, fizzling and spent. Smoke had reached his lungs, and heat had charred his legs. Like he had taught hisself when he was a cub, he moved to the backness of his mind, half-turned off, dormant, like winter-sleeping, just quiet functioning and still. No pain. Like he had taught hisself when he was a cub, when bad things happened, like when they come, and took Paw away. Move to the backness of your head, where there is no pain.

From out of the wet blackness, two figures emerged. dark and swathed with shawls. Two wimmenFolk. Soaked and cold with scaredness, they shook with jitterling and fright, hands hard to untie the cruel knots that bound Gorb to the choke-smoking wood. Limp, he fell upon them, burnt flesh sticky agin their rough wollen garments. Crying and pleading, desperate, they carried him into the night.

They found him too heavy, but continued in any-way, weeping, salt tears lost in a wilderness of rain. The recently widowed Jessica Trembling at the front, and her sister Sarah at his feet. They tripped, fell and prayed, rose and tripped again. Oh, Lord have mercy! Oh, Lord preserve us! They pulled and toiled through the dark, gentle as they could agin the poor creature. And there, in the holler of a small depression, just past the town's midden and dump, they eased their burden through a narrow entrance and into the cool darkness of a hidden cave. Pillowing his head with some rough cloth that they found nearby, they softly left him, letting the sweet rain stay on him to wash his wounds and freshen him. Then, holding hands to support and strengthen themselves, good Sarah and Jessica hurried back to their humble cabin, and their anxious Mog; hurrying away, just as they had done those terrible years before, when sore and heavy, they had left their own new-borned Sins in this accursed spot.

## Chapter 11 – Purgatory and Limbo

In Purgatory And Beyond/ Th' HepCat In Th' Hat/ Never Git Offa This World Alive?/ Edgeness.

Thin anxious screwed up faces, peering right into him, through the gloom. There were two o' them, gathered around him, panting. He was back in some kinda tunnel, again. He could sense it. Confinement and no sky.

" Stranger, " said a voice from nearward in the darkness, " We's not a-gonna hurt ye, honest. You're safe, here, mister. Now, just you lie back and try you to get some rest. Easy, now. We's gonna get us some cool, wet, moss and wrap it around `em burns o' yourn'."

So, I'm NOT dead, thought Gorb, ...not yet.

The voice was Jessica Tremblings, though Gorb didn't know that, till later. Jessica was a well-seasoned woman of near forty, with her dead husband's big long brown duster coat flap-flapping round legs grown hard-muscled from scrapin' and diggin'. Except to sleep, when her fine-shine tresses were revealed, she at all times kept her hair modestly covered with a battered tall-hat, narrow-brimmed and tightened with a dull red h-panky. In the gloom of the cavern she swayed slightly, and surveyed Gorb from a distance, tired. Jessica was tired now, tired with a heaviness that had loaded upon her shoulders with the death and disgrace of her beloved man, Theobald, and the renunciation of his doctrine by the townsfolk. Ahead of her lay a future of hunger and outcaste, snubbing and insult from the neighbours she had onced counted on as friends. There was a quavering in her voice, just as there was such uncertainty in the days to come. BoxingHeid's frenzied Hintoleration had killed her husband, had cast her as an accommodating, compromising witch-bitch, and totally tainted her young sister also. It would not be too many dark nights a-forward before the torched mob would be burning for them, too.

Theobald Trembling had discovered this hole by some accident, nigh on twenty year afore, and they bunkered down here, when his beloved wife had near died in childbirth, delivering him a son, beautiful, but Marked. Refusing to give their Sin over to the Validator, they had snuggled him up in this hole. Although their own chile had foundered in that first winter, and got Dead of a chill, Theobald and Jessica had held the cave sacred in his memory and enshrined it.

The hole episode, though, had changed the couple and broadened them, tempered the strictness of their observance. Theobald had begun to preach of a Universal Love, and advised forgiveness. At first, the townsfolk concurred, but in recent years, as a big bad dry heat descended and their crops had failed, the sneerings and the doubts began...

Gorb was to get to know all the details of these theological wranglings, intimately, as he rested in th' shrine-hole, secret-nursed by the sisters through frightful weeks. For Gorb's sake, the sisters' hungry and fearful limbs worked double hard, to provide extra rations; scouring the dump for crusts, deitrus and fungi. And even the precious Vulture eggs were kept exspecially for him. Despite these privileges, Gorb lurched from one fever to another, and more than one time, Jessica prepared her sister for an End. But no, the burnt stranger survived, just; and went on keeping on, constant mumbling ramblings about his Da, about lost millions and Hell's Half Acre, th' bhoys, some girl-chile called OnYa. Th' sisters took quiet turns snucking out to him, mopping his forehead, sponging and washing him, cooling him through the day-time heat, spooning scrap-stew into him. And modest, dark-haired, young Sarah would read to him of an evening, wi' a scrap-rag blanket gathered round her; stories from the BigBook, and those favourite Rev. Theobald sermons which she had so laboriously copied onto card. After three weeks, Gorb could sit up and talk, wriggle hisself round on the cot a little. Looking round him, he felt guilty to be grub-spooning down plenty, when the sisters appeared so thinly half-starved. But Jessica scolded him, when Gorb had axed her to return half of his rations to the pot.

" You'll need them vittles, yet, son," she warned . " You've got a long-ways to go. You've been mighty sick for quite a while...You just rest up and sup up plenty of that good scrap-soup that little Sarah fixed for you, and you'll do alright... Coming in about three or four days, we'll get to movin' them moss bandages offa yer legs and we'll see how you're getting on."

At least he still had legs, which was more than could be said for his arms, which were just hanging on him, like a dead weight of steel.

Dust storm. Sand blast. Wind was a-screaming outside the holes, kinda sounding like as if the very Rev. Dr. BoxingHeid had spilt chilli pepper on his piles. Leastwise, that's what Jessica, said it sounded like. And Sarah and Gorb had all fell around a-laffin', at that. Truth was, they were all a bit nervous. The time had come for Gorb to get his bandages removed, and ... And, there was something else. Jessica had been a-doing a lot of clearing her throat, and a-thinking, drawing on the dirt floor of the cave with pieces of burnt stick. Something was up. Twiced, she had even took her hat off and looked inside, and she never did that.

" I believe that it's about time we took a look-see at them bandages o' yourn," she begun, " but afore then, I want to, uh, get some serious matters settled... Gorb, you know that we's nothing but plain hungry folk, a-struggling and a-scrabbling to git by. Jist like my husband taught me, I've allus taught the wee'un here how to scavenge for to feed herself, showed her how to git her own portion o' scraps... Even though we's wimmenfolk, we can look after ourselves and we can get by. We can dig and work, and forage; and if anything that we have breaks, usually, we can mend it... But son, there ain't nothin' that we kin do for them arms o' yourn. We don't got no access to no complicated equipment type-a thing to fix those 'uns. ...And wi'out arms, son, you cain't be no use to yerself, or nobodies else. Fact is, son, we jist cain't afford to keep on a-feedin' ye. ...Bestest we kin do fer ye, is to take you as far as th' County line and drop ye off in Neutral Territory. Happen you might know more about them type-a-Folk up there than we do. Those Folk'll be able to git you th' parts you need, and get you all fixed up, like Sabbath best... It's a risk, son, and there's no mhistake `bout that. But we jist cain't keep you here. Unnerstann...? "

" I know that," nodded Gorb, "and I'd just like to thank you for all your kindness, and wish you well."

He would have added more fancy fine word about coming back to repay them, and high praising them for their unselfishness and generosity, but coming from him lying there, pathetic in that hole, it would just have sounded stupit. Their understanding remained unspoken. They had give him a chance to live, and knew that he appreciated it.

" Well," said Jessica, relieved to get her onerous speech over, " let's get to them legs."

Sore. Jessica clipped with careful bone knife snips, but the pain increased as the moss came off. And as layer and layer of the healing green peeled off, so a stench exscaped up into the close air of the hole. Even before the last of the moss came away, they all knew what had happened.

" Bhoy, Yourn legs gone and got greened... but bad," grimaced a pale Jessica. "Makes it more central than ever that we git you on up to that County Line. Theys might be able to do something for you up there. They got ointments and potions and medicos and all that SoScience trickery. Ye'll have some kind ov a chance, son. But if you stay stuck wi' us, you're a-finished...."

Just afore dark, when the vultures had flapped back home to their roost in the dump, Sarah slipped out and checked the route to the north. The vultures were quiet on their perches, no sqwarks, regurgitations or batterings, so Sarah read this as a sign that the way was clear, and no townsfolk were round about. There was no moon, and a good bit o' wind - just right for travelling. This would be the first time that any o' the Tremblings had ever been far from Vileness, and both were real-scared, hair-standing, and edgy. Jessica sent Sarah out on ahead, snifflin' for a final check, and then the small group set off. The good sisters dragged the little wheeled cart upon which Gorb lay, him biting lips bloody to silence the pain of the bumps and ruts. When the cart stuck in the sinking dry dust of the townskirts, Jessica and Sarah pushed from the rear, pale faces sweating fear in the dark heat.

## Chapter 12 – TallyBann County Line

TallyBann County Line:/ Them Fine Folks That'll Fix Ye/Health- Some Small Matter Of A Skint Infection/ What We Need Is Ha Alternative Ulcer.

In a dusty hollow, just across the TallyBann County Line, the good sisters said their quiet goodbyes, and left Gorb. Sarah made him up a special drinking fountain kind of a drip, which he could suckle on when he got thirst; apart from that, there was nothing more they could do for him. Out here, way out in the desert, there was nobody and nothing. This was the TallyBann County Line, where the agreed territories betwixt ReVivalist settlers and Cutehoor Commerce met. All empty and hotness. Neither OutWorlder nor Saved ever a-come this way. If it hadn't a been for the CC-credit point, - built in this weary hollow for the use of the particularly canny, such as regular user Rev. Dr. E.P. BoxingHeid - Gorb could have laid there till the sun burned down, and nobody but the flies would ever have found him. But all it took was a few flings of granite banging offa the CC-point's palastic casing, and there was sure to be a FEDCop patrol, soon on its way. Them Cutehoors didn't like nobody to mess about wi' them, their machinery, or exspecially their money. So, soon as the stones had stopped flying, the Tremblings melted off into the night; Sarah was last to leave, and afore she did, she crept up besides Gorb, and kissed his stubbly cheek, putting her own scabby wee face next to his, wet. And then she huffled down into her wrap of rags, and scuttled after her kin. Gorb was alone.

Just after dawn, there was a whirrrrr of metal blades and hot engine. FEDCops. They were full of the smell of night-shift koffee and doughnuts, all mirror shades, over-badged uniform, and gun-blasters. Sensoring all around the CC-point, first, and finding no threat, they scooped up the prone figure into their big blue and yellow, flashing red light Kh2COPter. They wouldn't bother landing for this Freak, not at the end of a shift, nope. There would be hot dust, and a chance of sand-flies, and who knows what ugh-yuckness this creature carried. No. So, they just lowered down an U-Auto-Scoop, rough-picked up this vagrant stranger and then full power throttle turbo back to DrumCree City, and th' Pound. While they 'coptered, nimble metal prods probed Gorb and monitored; sedatives and saline solution were administered, as well as a full body-search for credit-rating, and possible crime2fit ID.

II.

" You have," explained the O'NoLan," a low to zero credit rating. No visible means to pay, in other words. "

" And naturally," continued her sister and colleague, " We can't expect Cutehoor Medico Industries to be able to continue to function as a successful Commercial Organisation, if they pursue loss-making operations...."

And she raised a pencilled eyebrow, as if waiting for Gorb to jump in with a counter point, an ah-but.... She stood alongside her identical sister in a small side chamber of the giant Cutehoor MedicoPound in DrumCreeCity, and sighed, impatiently. Gorb lay dying before them, white-gowned on a med-bed. Both sisters were slender smart in light blue pant-suits, hint of brown make-up over tan skin. Fine white teeth and lips, red. Glossy straight dark hair, shoulder length, and well-groomed by sister to sister, every morning. They were O'NoLans, Nearly-Normal workers, borned asexually alongside a hundred thousand other identical sisters, from a big momma they called The QueenMother, and doted on. They always worked in pairs and hated to be separated; couldn't go longer than a couple of minutes without checking on one another, ten minutes without touching, got sick if they went longer than half an hour without a hug. Here they was, doing their Natural Service Duty to th' Cutehoors, their big pals, great-aunts, and employers/hosts.

" As you have already," continued the second sister, " made considerable use of company funds, - including the cost of rescue and retrieval by DrumCree Police, some emergency treatment, and considerable administration work - we would be grateful if you could provide us with details of how you will be able to settle your account..."

" If you would let us know," smiled the first sister, " the bank details of your next of kin, before you, uh, depart the centre... Otherwise, Company security will be forced to foreclose on your corpo, and reclaim our loss by selling on your hide and useful organs, after..."

" After you pass away...", grinned the second sister, " ...which the medicos say will be in about 3-4 hours time. Maybe sooner ".

Gorb said nothing.

" On the other hand," said the first sister, moving across to lightly caress her sister on the arm, " there is an alternative. One which we highly recommend."

" Yes," said the second sister, kissing her sibling lovingly on the cheek,

" HIGHLY recommend. You can continue to live; you can regain all your functions and thrive, in fact. And all we ask..."

" All our employers ask," corrected the first sister, " is the use of your living body and mind for a few days..."

" Yes, just temporarily," agreed the second sister, " ...just for a few days. Or, very occasionally, for a longer time-period. ".

And then they both giggled.

## Chapter 13 – What Would You Give In Exchange For Your Soul?

Fungus Among Us:/Mr. Perky Goes Boppin' Th' Blues/ What Would You Give In Hexchange For Your Soul ?/ Up Down.

" Now," smiled the nurse, "is that all perfectly clear?"

Uh? The theatre nurse and her sister were a different O'NoLan generation to their siblings in ad-min/cancellation. Blonde and blue eyed, they hovered over Gorb, as he was shown a contractual clause screentape, all shining vistas of happy survivors on bronzed beaches and banana grins, soft light and music. Let th' Cutehoors have unrestricted use of your Person - for some quietly unspecified Hexperimentation \- and, if you survived, they would heal your mortal wounds, and afterwards set you up with a provided-for, comfortable, future. A Real Good Deal, for the alternative was excruciating plainDeath and a pauper's end in the Tannery pits; so, stop being sick and get cured wi' th' Cutehoors, ...all we axe is your soul.

" Obviously," gushed the nurse, " all collateral neural damage will be repaired, um, as far as possible.... And in your case, the damage to your circulatory system and tissue, which has already occurred, will be put right. We can issue you with new facsimile arms, upholstered with the very latest new microflesh2fabric..."

" NO !," croaked Gorb, as the nurse jumped back, " just put my old type a servos back !"

" I'm afraid sir, that we can't do that, sir," snapped the other nurse, sarcastically. " Those type of obsolescent corpo-motor parts are no longer available... However, we could, if you so wish, fit you with completely new newmEtal appendages, the very latest in military prosthetics...."

" Yeah," grunted Gorb, " they'll do. "

He was tired. All he wanted was for them medicos to hurry up and get on with it, whatever it was, so that he could turn off, get on to sleep. Yeah, sleep and dream, sweetness. But th' sluggs had give him a stimulant and insisted that he stay awaked. Had to go through all this Federation Regulation Sluggness, relating to Document 1Hc444.10d1, covering relations betwixt OtherWorlders and Federation subjects - code o' good conduct, and all that kinda scat. Them Cutehoors always liked everything to be legally in order. Yeah. Not to be held accountable in case of fatal injury or brain-death, ...purely the patient's own risk.... In the likely event of... bodily remains to be completely incinerated, etc. Tired, he was so tired. And real sore. Just to help him make up his mind, the O'NoLan sisters had stopped his medication, and the pain had soon come seeping back.

" Well," said the nurse and her sister, tuning in like some chiming pair o' spoons, " guess that's about it... You're aware of your obligations and what's about to happen. And the very best of luck to you. The medico will be in to see you shortly, then we'll be back after you ..., uh, after the operation is finished."

They left, arms entwined around each other's waists. All pro-starch and clean scrubbed. Gorb lay on the med-bed and ached. Around him was white tiled abattoir walls and floor, ceiling; a rack of probes and drills and tube systems, pumps and filters and monitors and scans, and a whole, whole lot of other type-a stuff that Gorb didn't even know the name of, but stuff that looked butchery sharp and sore. For cutting and peeling and scraping and gouging. Yeah. Last place you wanted to be, when you were sick, was in a hospital. Awful.

" Now, Mr um, Perky, is it ?..."

It was the medico. He was peering at Gorb's charts and false idpaper, suspiciously. A tall, thin, man with half-moon eye-specs and thick brows, his thin grey hair stretched over a too-big head.

" How are we feeling? Comfortable ?, " he axed, without bothering to wait for a reply. " Good, good... Though I'll have to warn you that during the course of this treatment your true identity WILL be revealed. And any moneys currently owing to Cutehoor Industries by you will be hextracted from your final pension payments,..." and he wrinkled a rather worried face at Gorb.

" Anyhow, that's of little concern to you now, I'm sure. In fact, I think you can count yourself a VERY LUCKY YOUNG MAN," he insisted, in his most officially patronising tone, blustering over his antique specs. He spoke s l o w l y and L O U D L Y, as if acute deafness was among Gorb's list of injuries.

" Th' Cutehoors are VERY PARTICULAR about who they choose for this uh, particular hoperation, which is only carried out here, oh, perhaps onced every ten years or so. And for some obscure reason they want you, Mr. uh, Perky... Otherwise..." and he shook his head, gravely, waved a limpid hand in the air, toward a far corner of darkness and Death. "Anyhow, I'd better introduce myself, before I get started. I'm Doctor Walter Matthausen and I'll be..." and here he cleared his throat, very pleased with hisself. " Excuse me, uh, I'll be taking care of you in the early stages of the hoperation. In other words, I'll be in charge of your initial sedation. After that, I'll leave you in the very capable hands of my distinguished Cutehoor colleagues. Your case has apparently generated quite some interest, for some reason, and one of their top uh, uh, medical operatives has arrived from Cutehoor itself, to work on you."

Gorb lay on the med-bed and said nothing, while the medico peered at him, over the top of his specs.

" Now," he said, "are you ready?"

Gorb was so sick, he found it difficult to nod his tired head, but did.

" Good. Initially, you may, feel some slight, uh, discomfort..."

The doctor rummaged on the table and came back with a d-pump, which he pressed onto Gorb's neck. It burned and hisstled. Yow!

" Are you experiencing some pain ?"

" Yeahhhh!!"

" Good, good," mumbled Dr. Matthausen to hisself, turning again to his instruments, as black night and SORE swirled and pitched around Gorb, and the bright white light of the medico chamber fast faded away.

They carefully surveyed him from some distance initially, feelers protruding warily. The sedative, which Dr. Matthausen had burned into him, had left Gorb frozen, eyes shut, but head wild wide open. They came from behind that sliding wall to the side, with feelers full stretched toward him. And then they touched him. They touched him and he could read them. Cutehoors. A bitter taste of mould in his mouth, and the prickle of some hairy appendages rustling alongside him. Fuzzy. Grey shaped and sliding, they slipped around him and onto the top of him, amorphous unfocused forms that glided and pulsed; from the racks and table, equipment moved and soft-sliced into him, as moist greygreen fungi pushed down through nostrils, into mouth, ears, betwixt toes, armpits, genitalia. Then, his lungs bursting with mould and SCREAMING, welcome quiet blackness came to Gorb. Deep in the core of him, little packages of spore were hooked into place, real gentle, and bloodless. Oozing slime enveloped his comatose corpo, and the grey-green shapes withdrew. Light-pumps and filters purred and buzzed, pale fluid siphoned from the metal and palastic hood that covered his now open skull, as the spore moistened and took root.

Blue and green and bottom of a strange, strange, sea; shards of light from some dark sun that ranged and glistened, hot above the water-top. And every cell visible, conscious and thinking, feeling, processes of digestion, and damp taste of dark wood. Rotten. Individual fibres and fragments of cellulose, melting.

Da. ...They was near happy there, all together, slave working on the mines till the mines got all worked out and the cops come and tole them to leave. Transportated from that planet in cold dirty freighters, and some died of thirst, or plain fright, and Da had got hisself whacked. Blood dripping and him telling Gorb, now son, just don't look, DON'T LOOK and keep quiet PLEASE BHOY or we'll all get worse. Ended up on the caves on Hell's Half Acre. One time, Da come home real worried and he said that his digging target that week was too high; cops come round a-shouting and dragged him out for not filling his quota. Off to the lower sectors.

Bad. Sarah Trembling? Ever seed them wee mushrooms you get on cheesey2cheesey that's gone bad? Yeah. Frank Murito urging him to play the Banditos, and them a-coming up one, two, three, four little red mushrooms. Electric eel reds and blues and shadows and shining green oooooze, sliding and slipping over you, like skinny-diving right to the BOTTOM of a lonnggg shaft and sponging into black deep mud, squelching and suffocating COLD. Drowning, slipping away into th' BigEmpty.

Dying, now. Complete Endstate.

OnYa? Flippery of wee wings flapping, gentle agin him, pushing him UP. Strength of the chile and her urging him to PUSH. Push, Pappy, PUSH! Try. Struggle to the surface and breathe DEEP. Tired now.

The spores grew for almost a month, then burst into a blanket of new fruit. Grey-greens forms, triple careful with the tender sprouts, harvested and were gone. Pumps drained and tissue healed, clamps loosened and removed, detoxification pipettes withdrew. Dr. Matthausen entered briefly, hummed and hawwed, shook a baldy incredulous head, then left. On the thirty-fifth day, the nurses entered and prepared Gorb for transferral. He was washed and dusted, re-garbed.

" Strange," said the first nurse, " I never thought he'd make it. Never saw one actually survive before."

" Yes," said her sister, " very strange. He just looked like dirt, to me, but he must have something special. I know I wouldn't do it, not even for them."

" Momma wouldn't let you...And neither would I. Remember that trouble we had with the foot-rot last year?"

Hmnn. And they shrugged their shoulders at one another, then laughed. Later, orderlies arrived and Gorb's med-bed was tight-belt fastened securely into a Far2travel flotation pod, stamped, ticketed, and genuine-ID-papered, before it got shuttled off to the terminus.

PART II.

## Chapter 14 – Personal Pension Plan

On Murphy's Reef:/Your Personal Pension Plan - Really? How Innaresting, etc/ etc./ Th' Green, Green, Grass of Loam.

The flotation tank door opened, and daylight spun in on Gorb. Sweet, fresh daylight, warm with the sun. He was absolutely landed, that was certain. But where? And how long had he been hunconscious and a-floating?? What the slugg had happened to him? What had he become?. Here, there was no more pain, no more fungi pain And that was good. Good to feel clean and uninfected, not being eaten. Yeah, like something more than good, baby. Uh-huh.

Now.

Now, he stretched hisself, feeling hisself, feeling all new. He checked hisself, looking down. Felt stranged. Feel like a newed man. He had new legs. Better and stronger than his old ones, all burned, and rotted, and then eaten away. Newed legs, but the same little prick between them as before. Seemed even smaller now, all shrivelled up into itself, till it was just like a little dried up bean. Like it had been scared and tried to exscape whatever had happened to Gorb. Aw, well. Never had been much use to him, anyhows, dribbling when it pissed. And neutered, after YegYo's last insemination.

New legs, though. Thicker muscles and stronger, seemed like. He moved them, wriggled his toes, lifted a knee. Worked good. And the arms. New kinda steelstuff, newmEtal, and double flexy. Real thick and strong, shining; not like the cheap Sinner or army issue arms he had before, corroding and chipped, weak and bending. No. These were real strong, top o' the range model A. Gorb tried to move his right arm and it moved slowly and unsteadily in the still, humid, air of the pod. These would take a bit of getting used to, a bit of practice.

Plenty o' time for that.

He moved slowly and carefully, carefully, up off the pod couch, and peered out into the world. Uh. He was in a small room, windowed with green and blue sky through nearby trees. A real world.

In the room there was a bed, some chairs, a wardrobe. On the bed lay clothes about his size, obviously put out there for him. Through the open door of the room, he could see a hallway, and other, smaller rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen. He climbed further out of the pod, with some difficulty, as he was still very stiff, and clumsy with his new arms. he jumped as a motion sensor clicked and switched to ON the big screen in the corner, at the bottom of the bed.

" Welcome! Welcome to Murphy's Reef," said an O'NoLan's voice from the screen. She was dark-skinned and business suited, with high ranking shoulder pads, a thin mouth. Her sister sat beside her, of course.

" Thank you for co-operating so successfully with our representatives. We advise you strenuously to rest and relax for at least two weeks after your awakening. Avoid narcohol, or other stimulants, and take only moderate exercise. You will find a fully detailed service pack for the care and operation of your electro-arm implants, next to this screen. Please use it, and follow the instructions carefully."

" As you have survived the operation," began the other sister, in a less severe tone, " this house and garden , is now yours, following the terms of our agreement. You will find the deeds to this property among your personal IDpapers in the green folder, along with details of how to claim your monthly pension allowance from any of the available banking systems onPlanet. Details of your pension plan - and those deductions taken for your rescue and repair - are also in the folder. Your new home has been equipped with everything necessary for you to survive for at least a month, while you strengthen and recover. Afterward, fresh food is available at a Buy-It-Hall nearby, which can provide you with all the consumer items you will ever need. Your credit rating and pension plan will enable you to exist quite comfortably for the rest of your lifespan. Also, a complete guide to the history and culture of this planet, and its current inhabitants, has been provided in a variety of formats. This property, and this planet, has been chosen for you as to fully fulfil the details of our agreement and provide you with a peaceful, healthy and balanced environment. No discussion, or further options, are available, nor can there be any amendment made to the pension plan. Officially, you have been Honourably Re-Tired to this planet, with ex-Military Nearly-Normal status; we STRONGLY ADVISE, for your own comfort and security, that you do not reveal details of your arrangement with Cutehoors Inc. to ANY other party"

Her lips were tight, not smiling. then she reached over and touched her sister, and seemed to feel a little better. So did her sister, who continued,

" This is a recorded message. Do not attempt to directly contact Cutehoor Industries or any of their associates. All business arrangements, as previously agreed by both parties, are now terminated. This is an independent planet, with no direct links to the Cutehoor Inc company, nor are there any representatives stationed here. You are now ...on your own. We wish you a long and pleasant existence. Goodbye."

And then the screen blipped quiet.

On his own? Yeah, well at least, he was alive and out o' the tentacles o' them slimy sluggsters. To be on his own, felt both good and bad, but hell, it was real good for the moment just to get away from them 'uns and breathe, live.

Still naked from the flotation pod, Gorb padded over and pulled a pair of pants off the bed and onto his new legs; then still barefooted and enjoying the taste of the tiled floor agin his feet, he went on into the hall and hexplored around a little. His very own wee house. With windows to the sky, and even green outside; a kitchen, with a heater for preparing real food, baby. And a big chiller, an ole style one with a steel handle and remnants of scuff and stickers on it. Folk had lived here. This ol' house had, one time, been someone's home. Now, it was his. He pulled open the handle of the chiller and had a peek around inside. Full of all frozed up stuff, but good; steaks of NrMeat, and fishsticks, pots of beanstew, ready to heat. He was hungry, real hungry. First, though,... first he pulled two bottles of Jolly out of the beer-rack, pulled the top off one with his teeth and glugged down a big gulper of that there cool stuff. Tree-mendous, baby. He pulled another swig out of the bottle again and grinned. Then, he went over and opened the back door, went out through to the garden. There was grass all grew long and green and rank and bushes, wild. And there was a huge big colour of butterflies fluttering over some bright yellow flowers down by a small back wall. There was a hum of yellow striped buzz bees, hidden insects creaking and chapping. Gorb sat down on the little seat, and pulled once more on his Jolly, face to the sky; then very carefully, real carefully, he reached out and pulled a strand of grass close to his face. And let it touch him.

## Chapter 15 - Crabs

15. Jimmy th' Gee, and other Heroes:/ Yellowed P-pages of th' National Geographical/ Ever Been Near Ate Alive By Crabs?/ Sands/ Hot Pot.

This place, thought Gorb, might just do alright for a while. Till I get rested up, anyhows. Here was green space, sky, and best of all, peace and quiet. According to the info-pack th' O'NoLans had left, Murphy's Reef was one of a whole system of planets that cradled around a BrightStar in the P1655/67/D sector, way, way out on the fringes of what had onced been Federation Territory; now long goned Independent and neutral, sinced the big pull-back - that great victory agin th' Igfarbens. A brief history of th' time outlined how the People population of the sector, which had grown strongly following it's discovery and colonisation, had later completely collapsed. At first, Murphy's Reef had been mere Plain settlement and colony, slash-cleared by ReVivalist farmers hungry for land and clean living. Next, the planet had been a regional Military BaseCentral VSI, of Vital Strategic Importance. And lastly, it had been a major Rest & Resort Centre, where some of the bigger Syndicates and Industrials had built vacation-station-complexes and Time-Out towns for their bonus-winning workers - and other private holiday and pension developments had sprung up, alongside. The holiday and pension Folk were long gone, now, along wi' the military. No-ones from the Normals wanted to take a risk of uninsured unprotection so far into the Independent territories. Certainly not when there was all that new, cheaper, development of SafeWorlds behind the Ronaldo line, and them with their elastic gravity and Super2Breathe atmosphere that made you live so lonngggg. That's what the Re-Tired wanted: elastic golf coursed and an antiseptic, disease-free land, among happy millions of OtherAged.

Yeah. So, that's why Murphy's Reef was deserted, a military base with no military, a holiday playground with no players. All around Gorb were small and large villas and condominiums, streets and avenues of deserted houses, empty garages, gardens now eaten back by the jungle, traffic-less highways and dry swimming pools. All this had onced belonged to the rich and Normal, the old folk who had planned to spend their happy last years here. All gone. Or nearly. There were still a very few old peoplefolk hanging around; those who wouldn't, or couldn't, move back behind the Ronaldo Line. Some were too frail for long-range travel, some just liked the place; but most were stranded because their pension or insurance schemes had got slugged when Fatsmello Inc. had gone flat broke - fatbhoy Senór Fatsmello getting his over-sized fingers stuck in the company creditpoint. So, they just hung about and moaned, food costs covered by a Rescue Inc, but no hope of ever getting offPlanet. And it was one of these, diseased with feverish crankiness and boredom, who come to ripple the sea of tranquillity which was Gorb's settling-in period.

He was a bushy beardied `oul fella, who lived bout ten blocks over from Gorb, and come noseying 'round the second evening after Gorb had got landed. He was a Fatsmello pensioner and he really liked to groan about it.

" Hi," he said, after bang-bang-banging on the door and making Gorb jump up from real quiet and tired, to wide-eyed and wired, " my name's Gushell, Barry Gushell, and I when seed alls the activity about your place, thought I'd come over and try to be a little neighbourly... Y'know son, your friends even put out a local broadcast about you on ScreenTime, to tell us Folk all about you. An' we're all real proud that a Military hero like you picked our little place to come and re-Tire to... We's reel patriotic 'round here."

He held out a hand to shake, then sorta reddened and withdrew it, when he focused on Gorb's pincers. Gushell wore a real bad contamination of big blue plaid guff trousers and a flowery shirt. The shirt lay opened enough to reveal a lardgut enclosed in a faded t-shirt, emblistered with a garishly colorated print of a porndroid. His fat head was semi-covered by a palastic sun-hat; it was sloganed with a Sunagotcha Inc. badge, and much too small for him. The whole sight of him gave Gorb a hangover, and set his guts to queasy.

" Uh yeah, we're real proud to have a, a, uh Military bhoy in th' area...", he slimed. " Slugg, I was in the Forces, meself. Never was lucky enough to see no combat though..."

Gushell stood fatly in the doorway, and a-sorta footered with his feet, peeking over Gorb's shoulder like he was waiting to be axed to come inside.

" Uh, Mr. ...er...Gushell," said Gorb very slowly and clearly, but near shaking with the fright of having been disturbed, " I'd really appreciate it, if you would just leave me alone for a spell. I need some time to recover from the exhaustion of my uh, travel. So, I really mustn't be disturbed. Need to get back to sleep... Unnerstann ?"

Gushell's face dropped.

" That sure is a pity, son, as I really could do with some company... Ever since that Fatsmello rat up and got me stranded here... Hey, and I got me some real fine ribs a-soaking, just right for the barbecue..."

" Some other time," said Gorb, unsmiling, and then he closed the door on the fat man's face.

That was the only human contact that Gorb had, in that initial month. Every morning, he woke up early, drank real nr-koffee, ate fried ez-egg and baconstuff, on the patio in the garden, watching the plants grow. After breakfast, he strolled down the palm-lined, empty, street to the deserted beach, and awkward splash-dived into a sea full of fish and rich invertebrate life. Real shame he couldn't swim, though. Never had got the chance to learn. Not one of the skills thought necessary for a Sinner to master, for a productive, mining life, no. And with NewmEtal arms it could have a bit difficult, anyhow. But Gorb liked to splash about, put his head beneath the water and watch the scurrying shoals and sidewalking crabs; he liked to taste the primeval salt of the sea in his mouth, wade through the waves like some ancient, nameless thing. Afterward, he would exercise on the wet sand, tuning movements of this arms, pincers; pounding leg muscles till they ached. When tired, he would dawdle home, taking time to dip into the gardens of deserted properties, lying sealed and quiet. Neat lawns and trim-bored hedges grew flaming green and head-high, bursting from crazy-paved walkways and concreted driveways, now cracked and ruptured by root systems and vines. It was a world of neatness tortured, of weed triumphant. Gorb liked it.

Nearly all of the houses that Gorb saw were bigger, and fancier, than his own. His was the most modest in the entire area; them Cutehoors didn't like to spend a credit more than they had too. Small, it was, but it had sky, walls and chairs, a sofa where Gorb could lie and watch the screen when he returned from the beach, study details of the Murphy's Reef biotope, or zapp through a collection of The National Geographical, which the previous occupant had left behind. At dinnertime, he ate on the patio again, pasta and fresh unfrozed salad, slices of Kountry Hamm, some potato pellets, tinned bread, and a bottle or two of Jollys. After dinner, he snoozed, and in the afternoon he worked in the garden. Not that he changed much in the garden, just poodled about, clipping off some of the spinier hard branches, so that he could move about, without getting scratched, and cutting back on some of the vines so that the flowers could breathe easier. Mostly, he just tried to ID the plants, and the insects that scuttled around him, moving from patch to patch and keying descriptive details into the small screen version of `Observers's Guide to OtherWorld Life, Vol. 210.1, that the O'NoLans had left him. But the screen could tell him little, seeing as no fully registered Biotopic survey had ever been carried out in this region.

In the evenings, he settled down in a cooled chair on the patio and watched the dark settle. This was his favourite time, growing blackness and the clatter of the crickets, rasping burrs in the long grass. And then the swirling nightime stories of the stars. Telling him that he was Free.

II.

One afternoon, when he had returned from the beach and had carefully showered all the grit, sand and salt from his arms and body, oiled himself, he felt a sudden urge to get out again; to go and hexplore. Throwing a coupla meaty breadballs, and two tins of brew, into a bag, he set off along the coast road. The settlement, which he had learned was called PineBeach, was built in a tight sprawl along the coast, flanked on one side by a river delta, and on all others by a dark expanse of Piney jungle. He headed westward toward the river, which would offer the easiest route inland. Through ten, twenty, thirty, blocks of deserted real estate he prowled, disinterested in Spanish villa style or Art Deco fascia, tower block condo. He wanted to get set right up to travel inland, right deep into th' jungle's darkness and beyond. Problem was, here on the outskirts, where the perimeter of the city met more open country, an ornamental shrub that some dumb-head green-keeper had secret imported from another biotope - just to remind him of his olde worlde home - had gone feral, and rampaged through the putting greens and driving courses that circled the living areas. It was thick evergreen and sharp nasty with spines, blocking Gorb's way forward and driving him right down to the beach again. It was less hot on the beach though, and he was able to make good going along the hard wet sand. He could see the concrete end of the city, way ahead of him, and a fringe of livid forest, where the river met the sea.

Looking far ahead of hisself, way up toward the river, Gorb was startled to discover that there was a dark manufactured blot of machine, - something regular shaped and angular, not animal - way up ahead of him on the beach. It was still, not moving, but there was a faint, faint, noise of burring electro motors and revving. Like he had been taught in the `Rangers, Gorb dropped quiet to the sand, to make hisself less visible, and belly wriggled over to the cover of the dunes. Nestled here in the sandy little hills it was hotter, no more damp coolness sea breeze, and dusty. Soft as he could, Gorb crept on toward the shape, taking a care to keep well down, and checking on it at intervals, from behind screens of tall dune grass. From closer now, he could see that it was some kind of little scootsterino, and that it seemed to have a single passenger. Closer again, and he could see that the driver was some real weebly `ol lady of a woman, all wrinkly and bent over. From right up as close as he could get on the dunes, Gorb could see that she was in some kind of trouble, that her scootsterino's wheels were bogged down in the sand, and that she was stuck. Maybe. He watched her and the little machine, for a long time. From time to time she gunned the motor, but all that did was dig the wheels in deeper. Why the slugg, thought Gorb, doesn't she get off her lazy butt, and get out and put some branches or stuff beneath the wheels? Them little scootsterino things weren't heavy, wouldn't be stuck bad. Woman coulda got herself out of that hole and got onto that hard sand, get away out in no time.

While Gorb considered just going on past her, un-noticed, forward on to the river, he took out a meat-breadball and ate it, supped on a tin of brew. And when he had finished, the woman was still there, with the motor quiet now, just waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the big tide to come surfin' on in, and cover her. Gorb waited and watched her for another ten minutes, before jumping down off the dunes and striding right up beside her. He could see her face turning to watch him, as he walked. It was a frightened face. She was scared. Gorb got tight up behind the scootsterino, and he could see that it had been adapted for use by thee UnFit. That's why she couldn't push herself out; she wasn't fit to, her legs didn't work no more.

Gorb dug some of the soft sand away from the front of the vehicle with his pincers. Then he grabbed some dry sticks and jammed a bundle beneath each wheel.

"Try it now," he said.

The woman looked at him and nodded. Then she gunned the motor again. Gorb put his shoulder to the back of the little carriage and heaved. The little wheels spun, and sand sprayed, then the tyres gripped traction and the vehicle lurched forward. Then stopped. The woman looked round at him, and she was still scared. Real scared. She was crying. Gorb just looked at her and nodded, waved her on; he didn't want to hurt her, and didn't want no sloppy thank you, neither. She shook her head and cried more, then opened up the little motor's throttle and sped away over the sand, back toward the hard metaled path that she had strayed from. Gorb watched her go, and when the scootsterino had disappeared back into the palms and quiet avenues of the city, he turned back toward home.

Heavy-footed on the wet sand, his head was filled with OnYa, th' bhoys, and quiet despair.

III.

What day of the week it was, Gorb didn't know and didn't care. Nor the date. Nor hardly anything else. He didn't shave anymore and could hardly be bothered to wash. He stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and glared at himself. Untrimmed, what was left of his hair sprouted in greasy lank tufts on a sunburnt head, hanging down past the scruft on his face. Ugly.

He just couldn't be bothered.

Any more.

It was only two weeks after he had stopped his exercises on the beach, and already he felt BAD. Arms felt wrong, and the legs weak. The torso, which had been getting tight and tanned, slumped and flubbed. Through the tan there shone a blue scar on his shoulder. That had come up after the hoperation, a tattooed reminder of what had happened to him. The scar had clotted itself into a blue amoebic tadpole, twisting a thick tale that wrapped itself up toward the newmEtal join-p/plate of his right arm.

Gorb went through to the back room and flicked the screen through to another slobsterino. If he had had any brew left, he would have popped one, but he hadn't and he couldn't be bothered to go out to get more. Naw. So, he just flapped hisself down onto the couch and ripped the top off another package of CheeseyChipps. Then, the door-bott blipped on the right hand corner of the screen. Sluggssache! He had a visitor.

It was the old woman from the beach. She had parked her little scootsterino at the end of the drive and hobbled up the path on meta-crutches. She had difficulty moving, was kinda slow and bent, but she was grinning.

" I'm glad I found you in," she said, real polite, in a soft voice that had a vestige of some lost accento, " for you must think that I'm a really ignorant and rude old woman..."

" Nope," said Gorb, " I don't ". He wasn't interested, either way.

" Anyway, I've come round to try to make amends.... You really were so very kind, so helpful, yet I behaved so uh, badly. But, you see, I was so very frightened... I thought I was going to DIE out there on the strand... If you'll forgive me..."

And her face had a real plain truth look of pleading and openness over it. It was a real nice open face. A good face. A beautiful face, though the mark of some incident had left a disfiguring scar down the right side. Hell, this is weird, thought Gorb, I'm looking at this woman like real STRANGE... She musta been some body, in her time. Living through a lifetime had aged her, but it was still shining through, you could see it, sharp. Gorb had never seed an old Folk like this, afore - th' Sinners on Hell's Half Acre never got a chance to get old.

" Uh, don't worry yer head `bout it," slurred Gorb, " and why don't ye come on in...uh..."

" Mrs DiMucci. But I'd be pleased if you'd just call me Mina."

" Well, hell, Mina, Mrs. Dannucci, whatever... Come on in... And you can can call me Gorb, if if y-you want to. "

Mina had brought along a big bag of goodstuff for Gorb, including a hotpot of clam chowder, and real vegetables. Said that she felt real bad about just scooting away from him like that, without even saying thanx, but that she was just so upset, y'see. Thought she was going to stay stuck there, till the crabs got her, and not even a chance to say good bye to her pets.

" Y'got PETS ?," Gorb axed.

" Yeah Gorpp, pets, but I'll tell you all about them, later. ...What you need, I can see, is a good hot meal down you. You been subsisting on all that frozen and double processed rubbitch, and I think it's been making you feel bad. ...You feel bad, Gorpp? "

Gorb grunted and a-sorta nodded. And she forced Gorb to sit down and eat proper, while she tidied about, scraping up all the papers and scat that Gorb hadn't been a-bothered to tidy up, opening up the windows to let the stink of him out. And when he had complete finished gulping down the delicious, she sat down a big tumbler full of 25yr old Mrs McKinley's XXXX Bourbon, down in front of him, and poured herself one the same from a litre cask she had hauled with her.

" Time we had a little talk," she said. This Mina, she was great.

Mina was great. She was so blunt. She straight out told Gorb he looked AWFUL, told him that he was obvious a-getting the lonely sickness, and had better get hisself some company. Like she said:

" Even a sunset is just a piece of boredom sky if you have nobody to share it with but yourself... And I know, I've lived here on my own, for nigh on thirty year."

Mina was great. She was so blunt.

" Seems to me," she said to him, softly, before they had even finished their first drink, " that sometime you were a family man. Did you have children? Now me, I don't want to pry and I know for a guaranteed fact that you want your privacy, but honey, isn't that so? I can feel... I think I can feel a some sorta hurt seeping out from within you...."

Embarrassed, Gorb felt sore, and slow nodded. It was true.

" You don't need to tell me, Gorb. And perhaps it's better if you don't... But I do know one thing... Sitting in this little house moping and a-watching then damn slobsterinos with all that wet-head romance and slick, isn't doing you one damn bit a good. You got to get yourself out and do things."

Seeing that he was getting all red and tensed, she quick changed the subject. She told him about her own life. Married young to a Federation Dhestroyer Pilot, she had got stationed on Murphy's Reef with her husband when they were both young and mad. Lived inland on one of the Federation bases, and Mina had been head over heels in love, right from the start. With Murphy's Reef, that was. She soon cooled on the Dhestroyer-boy, she said. He was flying missions to cleanse systems over there on the far side of 538/Vz/59 and she hated the way he would come home and brag on about it - you know the kinda guff stuff - and it real sickened her.

" You don't," she added, "seem like a real Military type to me. Not like a real search-N-dhestroyer. Guess that's why they sent you way out here, huh? Too sensitive."

And she a-sorta sniggered at that, slapping a hand on Gorb's knee.

" One of the privileges of being old and ugly," she said, " is being able to speak what's on your mind...."

And she laughed again, before continuing her yarning. They had arrived here just as thee PlainPope was coming into power, in his gory glory days. Thee PlainPope had been just a plain old Seven Star general when they had arrived onPlanet.

Somewhere in the back of his head, some foggy forgotten newscast memory, Gorb half remembered thee PlainPope, that big bleached guy with the haunch, skullcap, chest full of bright metals, and banging the table, always wanting to CLEANSE.

" Thee PlainPope?," axed Gorb.

" Sure, honey. Don't tell me you don't remember th' PlainPope? Used to run everything `round here, the whole sector. He damn near WAS th' Federation. He was th' law, everything, total. And my Din, my husband that is, I mean, was. Din usta think that the darn sun shone out of the PlainPope's beehive hat... Myself, the man made me sick. If it weren't for him... there wouldn't have been no godamn war with the Igfarbens. He started it. Those folk were just minding their own business; but him, he was cruel, mean, and plain stupit. Why honey, don't you know that it was him that made this place? It was his credit and his contacts that made all this, got all this city built. A holiday paradiso in the jungle, for thee PlainPope's faithful. Though, that was at the end, after he had built up his military empire. Years afore that, he had muscled in on the poor ol' settlers, and conscripted them to build his bases and his damn KillTheatreHall complex, out there in the jungle.

" KillTheatreHall ?," axed Gorb.

" Honey, don't you know anything? Th' KillTheatreHall was thee PlainPope's nervous centre, his Control-Point. Crazy massive great fortress complex, upriver there in th' jungledeep. All empty now, but one time it was like a real-meat circus, all crazy a-goings on and mental, and this whole sector and further, was run from inside there. Even the top FEDs wouldn't try to land there, without permission. No, sir."

" And what happened? Where is thee PlainPope now?"

" Just hold on, young man, and I'll tell you... but first, it's time you had another drink."

And she poured him another large one from the cask, real careful, and smirking.

" I believe," she continued, " that he ran into some kind of financial trouble with th' Cutehoors. Probably wasn't paying the interest onna megaloan he had taken out, something like that. The war with the Igfarbens was a-going badly and apparently he had borrowed heavily, trying to buy himself out of trouble, but... th' Cutehoors simply closed him down. War is all about money, in the end. And he didn't got none. His organisation just folded, and then, when the Federation pulled back, and all the military left... he just quietly faded away."

" And all the bases, and this KillTheatreHall, what happened to them?"

" Uh, foreclosed on, I expect. Recycled. Or just left to rot in the jungledeep.... The military literally dropped everything and ran," said Mina, staring hard into her bourbon. " Oh, I think they said they were expecting some kind of OtherWorld invasion or some such nonsense, but yes, they just dropped everything and ran. Including my husband. Him and his other woman. We had already been, uh," and she coughed, " separated for many years... I had a flying accident, you see, and lost the use of my legs, got this face... So, I decided to stay, of course. Because this is my home. "

Mina went quiet then, and Gorb felt a bit awkward. He excused hisself and went through into the bathroom. And when he looked at hisself in the mirror, he knew that he was already feeling a good bit better. For some reason, Mina's yakking about this pope-man and his complex had shot a rocket of frantic-idea stuff snootling through his front-brain. This was himportant. For him. This was what he wanted to hear. And there was some smell of OnYa about this too, for her wee head seemed right there beside him, the smell of her wee head. This was the way forward, that's what he felt, like somebody had come and drawed him a big signpost. And so he begun to feel better, clearer headed. Yeah, better minded. Gorb washed his face, and tidied down his lank hair a bit, then returned to Mina on the patio.

" Now meester Gorb," she said, the smile back on her face, " it's time to tell you about my pets..."

IV.

" Pets? More like amigos, really. I can't begin to tell you the sweet pleasure that they've give me over the years. Oh, you probably think that I'm just a silly old woman," smiled Mina, " But I'll swear that they can nearly unnerstand what I'm a-saying to them... Now look," she whispered, " look right up there in the corner. Can you see a shadow moving? That's one. You see, Gorpp, you have them on your walls and you haven't even noticed. And if we're really very, very careful, I might be able to get it to feed. Pass me over one of those clam scraps offa your plate..."

Mina had confided in Gorb about her close relationship with a colony of small reptilian animals that lived on the walls of her home. Gecko-like, semi-transparent, and very shy of humans, they had the ability to blend so totally with their background surroundings as to become virtually invisible. With a great deal of patience, and by using scraps of tasty food and juicy insects as bait, she had been able to get them to come and feed out of her hand. She recounted the double hexciting moment when the first individual, a female she had named Mrs McKinley, after her favourite bourbon, had felt relaxed enough in her company to drop its protective camouflage and appear in its true bejewelled colours of bright dazzling emerald and glittering azure. These days, the Gees - for that's what they were called - accompanied her every evening, and watched over her as she slept. Their happy broods and domestic intrigues - "We had some trouble with a rival female from next doors, last week," she laughed - brightened her days and loaded her tropical nights.

" They're really," Mina admitted, " like my best friends. And I simply couldn't imagine living without them."

Huh. Gorb was somewhat sceptical. Back on Hell's Half Acre, 'oul Mrs McCafferty had allus been a-saying the same kinda thing about her wretched mogs.

This Gee on the wall was easy spooked and too careful. Mina said that Gorb's best bet was for to ignore it for a while, just leave some tasty scraps on pegs for it and after a while, the Gee would get used to him, and would even get greedy after a bit.

" Get him some of those fat grubs that live around the Fasteriasa roots, that big plant with the wide leaves that you have there, and he'll come a-crawling down for them. Or nice little strips of shellfish, they love that. Matter of fact, that's how I got stuck on the strand, that day; I was gathering mussels for the babies..."

Just then, the shadow that had been grey as the wall moved slow down toward Gorb's outstretched pincer. Slow and real careful it crawled, till at last it had reached the thin sliver of fish that the newmEtal talons held. A pink mouth opened, and the fish sliver disappeared in a greedy little gulpful. A thin pink tongue licked lips, satisfied. And then the greyness shimmered and flickered, transparency unmerged, colours changed from dull to bright shining brilliance. A tight wee lizard like body, long tailed and sure-footed, gold and scarlet and with two wet ruby eyes, glistening.

" Never seen anything like it," hissed Mina, " usually takes months to get them as tame as that. This one must really like you."

" Uh ?," said Gorb, well-pleased. And he real slow lifted up another sliver of fish up to the eager wee mouth.

" That's a male," hissed Mina " And I think you should call him Jimmy. He reminds me offa tight boyfriend I had one time, a real handsome character..."

" Sure," agreed Gorb, " that's what we'll call him. Jimmy. Jimmy the Gee."

The wee Gee, listening, didn't think much of the name. But he supposed that it would do. There was no way these stupit peoples would ever learn to pronounce his real name, properly.

"Bampots," he lingoed to hisself, " some right pair o' sluggin' dingbats we got here. I must be offa ma brain not to stay hid."

## Chapter 16 – Dick Tidybeard Calls Thee Family Doctor

Tidybeard:/ Itchy `n' Scratchy/ Stubble In Mind/ Making Friends And Influencing Peoples.

Dick Tidybeard III. Pale and languid and tidy-bearded and annoyed. Family doctor had just been - " I'm not sure your father would have approved of your lifestyle, Dick" - and broke the bad news. There was nothing wrong with him. How boring. That livid red rash that had appeared in his groin area, was not some ghastly fatal all-enveloping horror, but merely some dull sweat rash, some common and undangerous fungal infection, probably picked up in one of Tidybeard's more unsavoury, uh, physical encounters with one of his underlings. Dr. Capol had hum-drumly prescribed some dreary ointment, nagged Dick to take less drugs and more exercise.

Pah.

Exercise ? Dick had already been there and done that: hypergym and running, all muscle and tight ligament, sailing, flying, climbing, all that kinda kick. Boring. Boring. Onced you got to fit, then super-fit, it was always gonna be downhill. No, no, he didn't have time for that sort of thing, any more. No. Now business, that was another game entirely. When you were playing with an opponent as strong as th' Cutehoors, well, there was always interest. Plenty of interest. Too much. The interest on those silly loans he was paying back to th' Cutehoors was killing him, choking further investment and innovation. But could he get the deadmeat-heads at the Federation to do anything about it? No. Those wretched unBelievers, that alien Cutehoor scum, had their tentacles into everything, everything that could be his. Oh yes, he could feel a surge of righteous RELIGION-stuff coming on. Tidybeard had never been a very religious man afore; sanctification had never been his type a drug, Holy had never been his type a spirit. But all that was to change. Th' Lord was going to guide his business hand. What was needed was a new ReVival, a clean ReFormation, and let's sweep the roasted carcasses of them Demons that are among us, burning, into the far Big Empty. Oh yes, and Amen. He had had this Spirit upon him for some weeks now, every since those nasty little O'NoLan sisters had paid their quarterly visit. Another rise in the mortgage rate? It was impossible, simply impossible. In fact, it was literally impossible. He had been uh, over-stretching hisself, just a tad; then, there had been some bad gambles, stupit, and that terrible week backing short-selling hunches on the MassMarket, worse stupit, and now Tidybeard was really in the hole. And those Cutehoors were a-gonna bury him, deep. He had to do something. He had to find some KEY, some lever or symbol he could use to splash-start a new wave of Salvation, to save the Federation from OutWorld interference, unGodliness, and Sin; to save hisself. Save hisself, dhestroy them; then righteously take over the ruins of th' Cutehoors' empire and become thee Total Banker.

There was a buzz, and an underling, dressed in the TidybeardLuXxx staff uniform, entered the chamber.

" Mr. Tidybeard, sir? Are you ready to see that Lolo character that was trying it on about the Freak baby ? Or do you want me to hand her over to th' heavy bhoys, instead ? "

" Thank you, Davis," grinned Tidybeard, " but I don't believe that will be necessary. I think I can probably handle this myself. Could be amusing, I think.... Oh, and Davis, I read your report on thee Church Elders. Very thorough. Good work. Now, there's a little job I want you to do on the Rev. Most Holiest. Just between ourselves, you unnerstann. Dig up his links with dirty money and OffWorld banking. Some pictures of him at a Cutehoor creditpoint would be nice. If you can't get them, fake them... The dossier is on the table to your left. Now, please show our, um, guest in."

In the lobby outside, Lolo was waiting, bleakly. For nearly six hours she had been sat there, waiting, getting all sweaty and uncomfortable, stubble growing. The cheek of it. And she had been so hexcited at the outset, little Treb Giorgio black dress, and perfect earrings, high heeled shoes all the way from Argos, and two hours at the perfect makeup. Then they had went and left her waiting for SIX HOURS. If it hadn't a-been the Big Tidybeard, hisself, on the other side of that door, she would have walked, HOURS ago. Now, she had to swallow her discomfort and think herself: attractive, charming, witty, clever.

" This way, please."

An underling was motioning her to come on through the door. The moment had come. She smoothed the little creases from her dress and moved forward, trying to look as elegant and unbitter as possible.

" Ah.... Ms. Lolo... or do you prefer another title?"

A pale Dick Tidybeard that looked much shorter and thinner than he did on the screen, was loosely seated on the heavy desktop in front of her. The nicely trimmed beard though, was just as tidy as she had always envisioned.

" Just call me Lolo, Mr Tidybeard," and she would have fluttered her new expensive eyelashes, if she hadn't thought that it would have looked cheap.

" Getting straight to the point, uh, Lolo, what makes you think that I would be personally interested in this uh, little software bundle that you have to offer?"

No messing. Lolo liked that. Wonderful. That's the way to get ahead. No wasting time on formalities. This was a guy she could, do uh, business with.

" The chile has an extraordinary brain, Mr Tidybeard. Invaluable for your heretical, genetical and other type a research..."

" Possibly," nodded Tidybeard, rather vaguely.

" But frankly, I believe that you will be most interested, because - as I hexplained earlier to your underling - because th' Cutehoors have already made me a quite sizeable offer... And if THEY want it, well, I believe you will, too."

" Um, not necessarily... The value that this unusual chile could have for the Tidybeard Organisation is not very clear, as yet... And anyway, what is it that YOU want out of the deal? "

This, thought Tidybeard to hisself, was EXACTLY the sort of creep that a new ReVival would root out. Messing with th' Cutehoors, climbing over their fellow Sinners' backs to get to the top, trying to mix in with ordinary decent Folk... Yes, he could already see himself, black garbed, sermonising on this very subject. An offence to the very sight of God-fearing people... And if a Sinner offend thine eyes... Now what did this creature really want? And so tacky. Didn't she know that Treb Giorgio was last year's label?

" Mister Tidybeard, sir, I just want you to give me a chance," gushed Lolo, trying to calm-steady her voice, and make the pitch in the way she had practised, so, so many times. " I just want a chance to show you what I can do. A chance to show you that I will live my lives for you to make your organisation even bigger and better, and stronger. I want to become a living part of the Tidybeard team. I want to get completely engaged in your success. Yes, I want Normal status... And I want a post in your organisation, where I can fully demonstrate to you my middling management skills. I know that if you see what I'm capable of, you'll fully realise my worth ...and my entire personal commitment. "

" Very impressive," said Tidybeard.

How dull, thought Tidybeard.

" And if I agree to give you this uh, chance...? "

" I'll deliver the chile, immediately."

"And the family? Are they of any interest? Any siblings? "

" I've already dealt with them, " replied Lolo, quickly. " They're no longer of any interest. Only the youngest one has this potential mental capability."

Oh yes. Lolo had dealt with the family. Nearly. Those damn twins had already exscaped from the training school she had arranged for them, and severly wounded three of their best bully-bhoy S-instructors in the process. Now, they were lurking around in the tunnels, somewheres. Well, nevermind, just as long as they kept well away from her. YegYo, she was already so far addicted to her expensive new slobsterino-D-luxe couchette that she was finding changing and feeding the baby a severe test; it would be a great relief for her to give up her homework and to go into permanent screen-coma hibernation. Everything had turned out perfect.

" Very well," said Branston, quietly. " I think you've got yourself a deal. Bring the chile back here and we'll find you a post, uh, ...Lolo."

Yes! Oh, yes! Strength of will and patience and determination and sheer class had done it in the end, thought Lolo. Salvation is at hand.

" Well, I'll look forward to working with you in the future, sir," fluttered Lolo. " I promise that you won't regret giving me this chance."

And smiling her best, sweetest, smile she headed for the door and out. Her finest hour.

Tidybeard, meantime, snapped on the internal, secure bott-bott.

" Davis? Davis have you gone yet? Good. Listen, quiet follow that Freak back to whatever stone it crawled out from under, and get that baby. Drop everything else. Top P, understand? Get that chile or don't come back. And super hush, too. And another thing.... Never let that Freak get near me, ever again. Make sure it gets bolted to a rock in a zero-level mine hole, or something similar. I may have a plan for that Thing later on."

Yuck. Tidybeard had turned bitter agin Hermms since that bad sexperience on the P-laygrounds of SangeM2. Gave him the creepys just to remember on it. Ugh.

Salvation, thought Lolo, real well pleased with herselves.

Damnation, thought Dick Tidybeard III, scratching at his crotch, furiously, with pale, thin fingers. This thing is itchy.

## Chapter 17 – How Many Bombs Do You Need?

Nightlife:/ Th' Lurkers' Shadow [Shad-ow, Shad-ow]/Bad Beer and Bigger Bombs/ Design Genius / Show Me th' Way.

There weren't much nightlife on PineBeach. For a start, there was only a handful of people left in the whole city, and most o' them were half-dead. Not that Gorb gave a slugg about that. He would have avoided everybody \- apart from Mina, of course, if he had his own way. Indeed, it was only because Mina had insisted, that he had agreed to go along to one of the weekly socials, meet all th' PineBeach Folk. According to Mina, he was expected.

" There's a few ladies there who are anxious to meet a strong young man like yourself," sniggered Mina, who appeared anxious to fix Gorb up with some kind of a lady friend. " And I'm sure that some of them have enough life left in them to give you a good time. Haven't you heard that the old fiddles play the best tunes ?..."

And she got even more bent than she usually was, bent over a-laffin. Gorb didn't think it was very funny, but he went along to the social to please her, anyway.

Before they left, Mina gave Gorb a quick warning.

" Gorb, you'll need to be real careful of a creepy type who calls hisself Captain Perving. He hangs around with that Gushell character. They're both bad 'uns. Keep well clear of them. As for the rest o' the Folk, well, maybes they don't think the same way as you or me, but they're basically alright. They'll treat you just fine. Of course, you may think they're a little nosy, but as you know, we don't get too many strangers round here. ...But watch out for that Perving character "

The social was held weakly, in one of the giant luxury hotels along the sea-front. Many of the remaining residents had moved to this coastal sector of the city, where the most prestigious property was centred. They had just moved into whatever empty building took their fancy, or whichever was the most automated and helpful for their particular health condition. The Royal Crown had been the most exclusive Holiday Palace onPlanet, and its deep velvet luxury had encouraged a nest of pensioners to congregate there, wallowing in comfort while they grumbled, grew crankier and more bored. To try and amuse themselves, they held socials and beauty pageants, where the most unwrinkled of the few menFolk left, demonstrated their non-virility, to a background chorus of encouraging shrieks from the women.

In the hotel, a small crowd had gathered around the bandstand, where the pensioners' own band, Thee Lurkers, roughly slam-banged out a selection of real old-tyme-religion tunes, like `Ain't Gotta Clue', `New Guitar In Town' and that particular old-tyme favourite, `I Don't Need To Tell Her [That I'm A Super Fella]'. Gorb and Mina's entrance was welcomed from the stage by the jovial big-bellied guitarist, who called hisself Arthur Sixpence, and with his encouragement the audience wildly applauded the appearance of this new hero. A group of grey-hairs, green rinses, and baldies gathered round Gorb, and petted him on the shoulders, welcome, welcome son, and Mina was axed what the bhoy would like to drink. And then they all got themselves a bit embarrassed handing over near-beer into Gorb's pincers. One of Mina's friends come over and hintroduced herself, pooking bad eyesight through very-horny-rimmed glasses. This was Ms. Martin, Mina grinned, like she was proud of him, and then Ms. Martin went into a dotty rant about what her collection of mogs what been getting up to, like Gorb would be real interested, like he was a reporter from Mog Lover News or sumthin'. But what the yell, it was a social, and in no time at all, some other, busty wild doll that had over-done it on the sun-bronzing, and had obvious discovered a dusty im2provo surgery unit in one of the hotel storerooms, was swinging Gorb around the dance-floor, squeezed to her super inflated cleavage. She slobbered in his ear, and pushed her address right rudely down the front of his pants.

Later, when the music and dancing had stopped, because the band were too old to play any longer, Gorb found hisself being approached by Gushell, and a much more sicko, meaner looking man.

" Well, HELLO again," grinned Gushell, still fat and ugly. "You jest th' type a-bhoy we need at the minute. Can you and your top military mind help us out with a little bitty game problem? Oh, by the way, I'd like you to meet a very good friend o' mine. This here's C'pn Perving, a real military man and a good soldier like yourself. Yeah."

Perving held out a hand and gripped Gorb's pincer firmly and without hesitation.

" Good to have you on board, soldier," he said, and he grinned a real evil grin with a full set of dirty and brown yellow stained teeth. His skin was meteor pitted and cratered from some ongoing pustular infection, and the pancaked layer of hide2heal, which covered his cheeks, gave his visage a mask-like appearance in the coloured ballroom light. Apart from Gorb, he must have been the youngest in the place, and he still had his own thick hair, still black, and cut in a neat military fashion. About fifty or so, Gorb reckoned, and not here on this abandoned ship for no reason. There was a definite stink of BAD about the man. The way those wet blue eyes looked at Gorb... Some kinda Spook, thought Gorb, definitely a military intelligencer kinda creep.

" Please join us," Perving said, and led the way to a side chamber where a little table had been laid out with war-gaming apparatus.

" This is a little puzzle we keep playing, Gorb," said Perving, pointing to the screenshots and maps on the table. " It's history. The second Great War. We're going back over the battles of Broadmeadow and Sweetwater, trying to figure out how to get us good guys to win. Y'dig? Iffa those pesky offWorlders hadda got their butts seared by a more thorough back-burning , the ReFormation woulda happened a whole lot sooner, huh? And we all woulda been saved a whole lot ov trouble, huh? " And he arched a thin eyebrow at Gorb, quextion-wise.

" Them good ol' Burnin' bhoys got themself a REAL BAD press, but if you've uh, studied your military history, you'll know that those flameVolk just come along with their idees at a uh, difficult time... There ain't nothing they wanted to do was worsed than what them there creatures had already earned for themselves in the pits o'hell, now was it, huh? Or what they started a-doin, to us, later ? Too many wig-hatted weaklings, that was the problem. Begging for mercy. Manifest Destiny and th' conquest of thee Beasts, well, you tell me how that was wrong... You just gotta stand up for your mankind and homeland, kinFolk whatever, and TAKE what is RIGHTFULLY yours... Just like what we did on all them OtherWorlds, right? Just like what you and your comrades was a-doin' for us, cleansing OtherWorlds for DecentFolk. Am I right, or am I right ?"

" Uh," said Gorb.

" Now, jest for the fun of it, me `n' ol' Gushell here is trying to figure out how to turn the tables on the Freaks... Very useful strategy, and practice fer thinking in a battle situation, too. Take a look-see at the mapscreens, soldier, and see what ya think. "

Perving was getting into it, and all kinda excited.

" Very useful strategy practice," added Gushell, trying to stick a fat gut in.

" Gushell, will ya keep quiet and let the bhoy have a think fer a minute ?," snapped Perving.

Gorb thought for a minute. He thought about how he would have liked to suggest a full column o' Traksters drive their sluggin' widest tank treads over Perving's head and squash the guts out of Gushell till all that was left was glar and juice that could be flushed down the sewer along with all the other excrement of the OldWorld.

Verrrrrrrmmmmmm. Slllluuuuuuuuushhhhhhhhh.

" We's thinking that top priority should have been given to manufacture of the new version Cobalt and Nitro scorchBombs. Huh? Or maybe the GroundGuys should have got priority. In any case, that whole Battle of Bloomfield fiasco should have never happened. Hell, if the RuffRangers had been allowed a free hand they could have cleansed that sector Holy by themselves. Hell, if they had played their paws right, they could have got them Igfarbens on THEIR side."

" Maybe. Maybe not," said Gorb quietly, " I really wouldn't know. I don't know much about this sort of thing. Uh, I think... I think... I think I'm a bit tired and I'd better get myself home. Goodnight."

" But hey, we's just gettin' started," protested Perving. " You cain't leave now, soldier... !"

As Gorb pushed past them and headed away from the table, he could feel Perving scowling at his back, disapointed and twisted.

" Hey bhoy, I'm gonna have to get you in for a, uh, full DEBRIEFING, sometime..."

And Perving and Gushell cracked into nasty cackles, as Gorb went through into the less poisonous atmosphere out in the main hall. Mina waited for him, anxiously.

" What did they want ?," she axed, real worried. " I warned you to stay away from them two. ".

" Oh nothing much," said Gorb, and he smiled over at the big-bosomed doll who had slobbered on him earlier. She was winking an outrageously mascara-ed eye and rattling her room-keys, beckoning. Then, he turned back to Mina, who was still standing beside him , watching, and still worried.

" C'mon, Mina... Lets get us to slugg outta here," he said softly to her, and reaching out to her, helped her gently toward the door. " All these Folk starin' at me, gives me the creepys. Lets get ourselves along home and we can have ourselves a little party of our own, huh ? "

" I got some cocomero, some real water melon, that I got from my friends out in the country. Would you like to try some, Gorb? "

" Cocomero? Sure, I'd really like that..."

Cocomero. And the sensors on Gorb's pincers picked up that Mina was leaning on him, tight. Feeling this, Gorb's heart pumped harder. His heart pumped harder, feeling that he was being a help to someone. He was not alone, had the touch of a presence beside him. He was feeling again, not useless, not dhestroyed, but now more alive than he had felt in his hole life.

Later, when they had returned to Gorb's wee house and Mina was close and quiet beside him, not moving or talking, just breathing gently beside him, they both sat staring at the stars. Gorb could feel again the close presence of OnYa and he wondered. He wondered how he could ever rejoin his family, see his own ones. He wondered till his head was getting near to bursting, and sore. He grimmaced.

" Something wrong, Gorp? " Mina axed, and sound of her, soft, and the way she purrrrrred his name, had him , to almost ready to speak, to spill all, to bawl; but he could not.

" Uh,..." and he couldn't say it, tell her anything, too stiff.

He pressed himself against the rough wood of the chair, till he could feel it hurting. away and back from him.

" I was happy with myself, alone, even wanting to be like this, but you see... "

However, Mina had fallen gently asleep, head half-lolling at the stars.

Gorb picked her up gently and laid her out snugly on the couch.

II.

Next day, with some patience and sweat, and star positioning, they tried real real good at Gorb's garden, and fine tuned into one another, through the early morning, the afternoon, and through half the following night before Mina got too tired and sore. So Gorb soft-rubbed her with oils, and footered with her feet, pressing cleverly on pressure-points till Mina ooohed and aaaaahed and um-that's-good-ed. They wallowed in each other, total luxury in each other's quiet company.

Sometime, frustrated, Mina would break out in a batch of regret, cursing herself for not having met Gorb when she was younger-bodied and abler, and especially cursing herself for not having got fixed properly after her accident – mostly to spite her ex-husband, she claimed. The incident had been his fault and she had wanted to wear the scars and injury to show how much she hated him.

All regrets. She would tut, and yawp, and Gorb would grimmace at her, and grin, crack some intimate funny at her soft earhole, till she would tickle and laugh, till happy again.

One early evening, after a long and tiring trip to the beach, Gorb sudden started out of a deep sleep, nested in a home made hammock. He arose shivering and near blue with cold fright. His legs shook and his hair stood up-ended. Mina quick threw a blanket round him, and got frightened, thinking he had took sick.

" Gorb honey, what is wrong? What is happened to you? "

" Nightmare."

" A nightmare? But, honey, look at the state of you. Are you alright?"

It had been OnYa, come to him clear as crystal in his sleep. And talking to him. The Da. Time to come and get me, Da. So clearly. Time to come and get me, Da. It's time.

" Gorb?"

" Mina, I have... I have to go and get my chillder."

" What? You're going away from us ?"

" That, I don't know yet...but..." and he reached down to her, and closed hisself in on her fragile hand, embracing. " ...I'll know that I'll always be coming back here, back to this place and you."

## Chapter 18 – Thee Graveyard Blues

18. Neuter:/ In th' Sinner's Graveyard/ Mog Got Your Tongue, Bhoy?/ Nightmare of Andrew TSB Welder's Crap UnMusic Hall, Mogs [Solo Fur th' TouristFolk].

Crazy. I must be a-going mental. I must be a-going MAD, thought Gorb. Not only am I talking to meself, but now I'm answering meself back, as well... He had been breakfasting on the patio on some delicious real eggs and real Country ham that Mina had gotten from some o' her farmer friends, and he had struck up a conversation with Jimmy th' Gee, who was idling about before taking hisself up to a crack in the roof-space, to sleep through the day. And the two o' them had been discussing Gorb's best way to get offPlanet, and back to th' chillder. Gorb had been mushing on the idee of stowing away on some supply-ship, and trying to get back to one of the major systems that way, and Jimmy had said: no, thass fuckin' useless – ye'd nivir get away wi' it, ye daft bampot. At least, it seemed to Gorb, that was what Jimmy had said. Or thought, rather; thoughts transmitted across to Gorb's head. The little jewelled eyes and coloured body clung to the wall just beside Gorb's temple, and the clever wee face focused intently. A useless basterd o' an idee. Ye'd be picked up on the Supply-ship sensors, straight away. Ye wouldn't nivir even get out of the sluggin' port.

" Well," axed Gorb aloud, "what would you suggest then, smart-ass?"

Jimmy remained still, unblinking.

" Well?"

But nothing further passed between them, except food. Though Gorb strained to clear his mind, and concentrated fiercely on the wee animal, there was nothing. Nothing. Aw well, reasoned Gorb. Probably the bestest thing to do was just to hang around here onPlanet for a while with Mina, hexplore and see what th' interior held. Play it soft and quiet. Yeah. And he held up a scrap of ham to Jimmy, who near choked, a-greedying it down.

A little later, Gorb and Jimmy were disturbed from the remains of their breakfast by a-ringing and battering at the front door. It was Mina., and she was in a fearful and agitated state.

" What in th' hell's WRONG? "

" Quick, Gorb, quick, over thonder in the old Sinner's graveyard... It's Gushell and that horrid Perving creature. They've got flameguns and they are burning down a party of lost SinnerFolk that crashlanded onPlanet last night... Martina, my friend, one of the ladies from the club is trying to stop them and ohhhhh.... Oh it's horrible. You have to do something, Gorb."

Sinner's graveyard? Crashlanded? Flameguns? It was just around then that Gorb remembered that he was no hero, never had been. Heroics was for normalFolk, and th' tough guys on slobsterino shows. The breakfast now felt heavy in his stomach.

" Quick, Gorb, quick... I would have stopped them myself, but I can't get around there, with these useless legs..."

Gorb put on his jacket, and he half-hurried out, not being in any particular big rush to get himself flamed.

" Now, where is this place? I ain't never heard of it before."

" Its that scrub-land and swamp down by the docks... Now, HURRY, Gorb, PLEASE."

Gorb headed off running, but soon slowed down to a trot and then a walk. He would be happy to arrive too late, to find Perving and his fat friend, gone. He could have not gone at all, just avoided the place, but that would have been wrong, for Mina's sake, and for his own pride. So, he continued onward, reluctantly. In fact, the graveyard was much closer, and much bigger than he had expected. He had passed it before, and had not realised what it was, though now he was looking out for it, the clear outlines of the pits made it obvious. Here lay the remains of the Sinners who had been transportated to Murphy's Reef to hard-labour construct the Military bases and Leisure Worlds. Northwards, toward the middle of the vast cemetery, stood a low warren of concrete bunkers, lush greened from dull grey by a blanket of thick overgrowth; but even the thickest creepers twining could not disguise the hideous, desperate, chimneys and gasping gas vents that sprung ugly from those killing chambers. It was here, amid low concrete on a pleasant world, that the no-longer-needed workers were un-employed. It was here that the new, bright holiday world was cleansed of those unsightly ones who had bolt by bolt constructed it. And it was here, on the roof of this unHoly place, that Perving and Gushell, stood, with their flameguns, traps, a netful of feral SinnerFolk, and a battered old lady, Martina, screeching.

Gorb made his way toward the brave hunters, forcing hard through the dense ground-growth, wet and slippery with the morning's rain. Neither Gushell or Perving had seen him yet, and he was able to get right up close, till he was almost directly under them. They were in the process of castrating one of the male SinnerFolk, one of a colony which had gone wild in the BigEmpty after their slave-owners had abandoned them in the great exodus. Perving, especially, was enjoying the work, blood and silver flashing blade and grin, a pumped up Browning Flamegun slung on over his camo vested shoulder. Gushell was making a face, and trying his best not to look, while he had one heavy booted foot on the neck of another bloodied and disdressed sinner. The hunters were so busy in their happy work, that they did not notice Gorb approaching, were startled by the clicketty of his metal pincers on the little steel ladder that climbed up to the roof. Perving stopped cutting, and, hands bloody, gesticulated around him.

" Hey, c'mon up, soldier-bhoy. You're just in time to see some sport... We's really having ourselves a fun time here, wi' these here PESTS. Y'all might say that we're doin' a public service... Let these critters breed more and they'll be all over the system before long... Then this ol' biddy comes up and starts scrooching," and he motioned toward the prone Martina. " Tries to interfere with us a-doin' the works we's legally entitled and licenced to do... Ain't that right, Gushell ? "

Gushell grinned and nodded his fat head.

" That's about right. These here sinners are a caste alien to this planet's sanctity and have to be controlled, y'see. This ol' bat axed fer trouble, and well, we give it to her alright." And he a-sorta sniggered.

Gorb said nothing, quiet. He was no longer scared, but just calm, collected. He climbed up onto the roof beside the two men, and crossed slowly toward them, careful not to trip on the nest of twisted vines and creepers that covered the bunker's roof. When he got real close to Gushell he reached out a pincer, real slow, like maybe he was going to friendly-pat good ol' Gushell on the shoulder; and then he reached out and grabbed Gushell by the crotch, squeezed tight and lifted. He lifted that ugly fat man right up by the crotch and swung him round, threw him down over the side of the bunker. There was a yell, and a crack of breaking branches, as the bushes below broke under Gushell's heavy fall.

" Are yew CRAZY, bhoy?" yelled Perving. " What'ya wanna go and do that for? Are yew another kinda sinner lovin' FREAK??"

With bloody hands shaking, Perving unshouldered his weapon and swung it round, pumping a full bore round into the chamber. Too late. It was already too late. Gorb had extended a metal arm to extra long and now held the snout of the weapon in a pincer. He jerked, and pulled the flamegun right out of Perving's grasp. Slowly, quiet, he flexed newmEtal arms and bent, twisted the weapon into a tight bow, palastic butt cracking and splintering, flamechamber mechanisms shredding.

" Ah'm a-gonna get you for this, you FREAK, if it's th' last..."

Perving shut up when Gorb grabbed him by the throat and hurled him offa the roof. He landed hard in the thick green, some distance away, impaled on a jagged branch, and was silent. Gorb let thee Sinners that were still in the nets loose, and then checked on the bloodied figure that Perving had been cutting at. The Sinner was already dead. So, lifting the bruised and semi-conscious Martina with him, he climbed down and carried her home to Mina.

After he had settled and cleaned Martina, got her sorted safely into bed, he went straight to the kitchen and poured hisself a big tumbler of McKinleys from the cask, into a glass that Mina held for him. His metal arms weren't shaking, but his whole neck and head was, and his teeth rattled off the glass, rattling, shaking. When he had drunk it, she poured him another one and when he had drunk that, he begun to feel a bit. Better. Then he went out and flopped down on the chair on the patio outside, trying to get some calm from the garden. Grass, plants, flowers, bees buzz, calm. He looked around and the jewelled head of Jimmy Gee was agin him, touching him.

" You some bright bhoy. You REAL clever. You'll have to leg it straight away," said Jimmy, not speaking, but touching. " You only half-killed one, and left the other alive, to squawk, too. And he will, He'll shout his head off and in no time thee Feds will come round here to get ye. And they'll kill YOU, sure as swamps is full of leeches. You can't stay here no more. You BLEW it."

All for the sake of a few lost Sinnerfolk, that shouldn't even have been onPlanet, anyhows.

" Meatheads," said Jimmy. " I hates them... Exspecially them two sluggers. You should either have killed them, eaten them quietly, and spat on their rotten bones... or just left them alone. What you wanna go and get yerself in such trouble for, over a bunch a'nonymous sinners , anyhows??"

" Mina," called Gorb, " can you come here and lissen to this? Either I'm totally freaking out here or... I uh, I think this godamn Gee is a-communicating wi' me, somehows..."

Mina came out from doctoring to the distressed Martina, pale and worried. She nodded, with wet bright eyes sparkling.

" Sure he is, Gorb," she nodded, serious, " sure he is. Now pick him up gently and place him agin your body. You'll be able to hear him a lot better, then. And he won't have to strain so hard to hear you."

Very gently, Gorb picked up the little gecko-like animal in his pincers and placed it on his shoulder. Th' Gee squirmed and wriggled till it found a seemingly comfortable spot, over the blue tattoo of the wound on Gorb's shoulder. There, it flattened itself tight, tight agin the skin, and tighter again, till it mingled itself into the blue dermis of the tattoo scar. And then Gorb could hear Jimmy, clear as morning mountain daylight.

" Now you're talking," said Mina, sounding real concerned for him, "and hopefully he'll look after you and guide you. Goodness knows, Gorb, you're going to need it."

Then she delicately dropped down the shoulder off her blouse and displayed the jewelled brooch of a Gee that sat so sparkling on her fish-belly white skin.

" Me and McKinley," she said, " we've been yakking together for nigh on twenty-five year."

## Chapter 19 – I Were A Teenage WasWolf

To Hide Out With thee Cartwright Family:/ A Hidden Bonanza / I Were a TeenRage WasWolf/ L'ill Housey Inna Jungledeep/ Highway To Horrible.

Mina agreed wi' Jimmy that Gorb should leave the area, immediate. She said she knowed some good friends who were farmers in the sticks, and who would be glad to hide Gorb, indefinite. She told Gorb that these Folks had trouble wi' Perving and his cronies afore, and that anybody who was agin Perving would be made jest perfectly welcome, way out there. Mina told Gorb to collect his things and get ready to make a move, that the sooner they got going, the better. Gorb didn't want to leave his own little house, which for the past while had made him feel so safe and secure, but Mina and Jimmy insisted. They said that Perving and Gushell had dangerous friends, and that they would come looking for Gorb fer sure; that they would be stirring up all sorts a trouble, and would want him Dead, or worse. So, Gorb threw some clothes into a bag, but was feeling real bad about it.

" Look here," said Jimmy, " th' whole sluggin' planet is full of empty people-homes... I can't see why you have to make such a misery ov a fuss about this 'un. Way 'n' catch yerself on, bhoy..."

" Well, it's just a-sorta special to me, for my own reasons, Jimmy... " explained Gorb, reasonably. " But I, uh, will promise to come back some day, to stay here and see you again."

" Huh, lissen to the big-timer ! Come back to see ME ? " sniggered Jimmy, " well, ain't you the big-hearted slugger !... Thass class fer ye, alright. Lissen you, ye big twat. I'm a-coming wi' ye, ya big dummy! "

" What do you wanna come wi' me for ? "

" Whaa the slugg are ye, a Federale or whaa? Any more quextions, or whaaat, offisher? ...Never you sluggin' mind whaa ah'm doin'."

Jimmy blasted this with a bad breath of such bile and conviction that Gorb shrunk, and shut up.

Mina guided them part of the way, and then gave them careful directions for the rest of the route. After they had quietly circled round the city centre, to avoid trouble, they went southwards along the main beach road; and then eastwards along a wide empty carriageway till they came to a tunnel. Here, they turned onto a much smaller road, brushed on each side by thick jungle. It looked overgrown and impassable, but Mina assured them that it was the regular route she took to see her farmer friends and pick up fresh grown supplies.

" There's a small farmer settlement not far ahead, but you'd be best to avoid it. Skirt around it, well low and don't let anybody see you. On the far side, take the left fork in the road and follow that path, till you get right to the end. Thee Cartwright place is on the very edge ov the jungledeep and there ain't noplace farther you can go, lest you wanna go right up into the interior... Thee Cartwrights is mighty fine people and they'll do right by you, Gorb. Just tell them that `ol Mina DiMucci sent you and you'll do fine. They're ReVivalists, but not mean. Tell `em that you're a military bhoy, and they'll treat you real fine. Theys good folks, real kind."

" And what about you? " axed Gorb, getting anxious. " Perving's friends bound to go looking for you, too. They knows we're ...friends."

" Don't you worry about me, Gorb honey. I can take care o' meself, sure. Me and Martina'll be doin' some quiet livin' for a while, till I get her sorted and all well again. Maybe me and my babies will have to move on to a more luxurious apartamento, but that's no hardship. And y'know, McKinley has taught me a trick or two over the years about how to hide..."

And with that, Mina faded into the green of the jungle background, till there was nothing left but a shadow in her scooterino, and the sound of her crackling laughter.

" Goodbye bhoys, and take care. And don't worry so much, Gorb, I'll be with you again, real soon. "

As the going got rough, and th' jungle closed in dark around them, Gorb got real thin-skinned and scared into hisself. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be back in his own wee house with Mina, and a cooled beer in his hand, and the gentle green of the garden outside, not a-sweatin' in this wilderness. He was afraid. He was afraid of the damp jungle and all the scrawps and shrieks and howls that a-come out of it, and he was afraid of the smell. Wet and warm and mouldy.

Mould.

In the city, the smell of the mould from the empty houses had churned his stomach, and kept him exploring only on the outside; the idee of encountering fungi stuff, brought bile up into his throat and the rotten choking taste of the horrors thick to his mouth.

" You're a-gettin' yerself worked into quite a state, ain't ya?" axed Jimmy. " Ah thunk you got yerself a wrong understanding ov th' situation.... Hold tight, and I'll try to hexplain."

They were in a little clearing, where the road had widened, and some sunlight was managing to get through the dense overgrowth that had near swallowed the route. Gorb had stopped to rest here, and now the FEAR had got such a hold of him that he felt completely unable to go on ahead, where the path seemed to disappear completely in vivid vegetation.

" Thing is, bhoy, ye got things all wrong. All WRONG. Y'hear? You're hunder no kinda threat from the fungi folks at all. Just the opposite. You were strong enough to survive their hoperation. You've PASSED through all that shit and come out th' other side, clean. If you could only relax, and understand, you could see that now you've got an OPENED MIND. And that you got wired into th' whole thing... Jist re-lax and let yerself drift into them there fungi thoughts and you'll see what you're a PART of.... Just try it. Heh ? "

There was a note of impatience in Jimmy's communication, like he was trying to hexplain common sense to a real stupit.

" Look, jest sit there," continued Jimmy, " and let your brain thoughts drift intae mine, and ah'll, uh, do me best to try and show you. TRY not to be so scared. There's nothing here to hurt ye. Nowt. Th' jungley is yer mate, not your enemy, and the only things that can hurt you are back behind you, in th' city..."

Gorb felt like crying. He felt like sitting right down and dying. Felt he should have stayed on Hell's Half Acre, because exile to even the dustiest and the deepest shaft would have been better than all this crap he had been through. Awful. Pain, but he lifted his head up as much as he could and let his head open up to Jimmy.

A lattice of fibre and nerve-fibres and pulsing, quiet cells pumping and oozing through, bursting the meniscus, division and splitting, zzzooming down through to molecule and smaller yet, falling hugely down small and small to smallest and the very nature of things bruzzing around and a-round and around and feeling it all, all part of him and him all part of it, a green M-matrix of living and he could see and smell and taste and hear the growing of all the wee spores and moulds and slimes and the thin wee white shoots of mushrooms that festered and sprung from the dead fibres, now living and bursting up again. He could see them and feel them and know all they knew and was part of THEM ALL. Like OnYa was talking to him, like she was TELLING HIM. Feel them all, Pappy. Feel them, and them all part o' me too, Pappy. Relax, Pappy, and feel safe. OnYa, pushing him onward.

Stop.

Stop. He had to stop or his brain woulda bursted, felt like. Spinning. Head spinning. And then he rolled over on his side and vomited violently.

" Bright bhoy," said Jimmy, " your mental powers are not exactly, uh, super-strong yet, are they? Uh, wake me up in a year's time when you feel better."

" Waugghhhh," said Gorb, quietly.

After about twenty minutes or so, he felt much better and his head was clear, unclouded, and not scared anymore. He stood up and felt hisself with his metal arms and everything was alright. More than alright, BETTER. Th' jungle around was cool and green and tender and safe. Just push yourself inside and you were safe, hidden. Gorb pushed hisself off the road and let the leafs and vines and bushes envelop him and it felt as good as a warm oiled bath. Just off the road, a tall old pine had tumbled over and was rotting into the ground. And just where he knew they would be, on the far, unseen side, there was a colony of yellow-tinged Bracket fungi growing thick on the decaying scales of bark. Gorb pulled at the bark, then tore off a slice of the fungi beneath it, and ATE it. He lifted it up to his mouth and ate it and it tasted real good, like he had done something real powerful and good. He ate it and chewed it and swallowed it and it tasted good. Real good.

" Well, thass a start, ah suppose," commed Jimmy.

And it seemed to Gorb that the wee Gee was grinning at him, though it was hard to tell, for it had climbed down onto the rotten wood and was munching, mouth full, on a big brown beetle, that Gorb's excavations had uncovered.

II.

" Hello. I'm John Cartwright. Now, what th' heavens are you doin' on my property, bhoy? And a-where did y'all get them there tin arms ??"

John Cartwright was a big man with a stone face that looked like it had seen an awful lot of farming and sun and wind and hard work. Higher cheekbones than was usual for a Normal, and pitch-dark collar-length hair which was greased and quiffed back in the stark ReVivalist style. He wore stiff home-made clothes of black wollen.

" Well?," he axed again. " Ah'm a-lookin' for a hanswer, bhoy..."

He held a shiny old .3006, which was pointed at Gorb's chest, and Gorb noted that the safety catch was OFF.

" Uh, Meester Cartwright, sir, I was sent here by a mutual friend - Mina DiMucci. I'm in a kinda trouble, sir. And I'd be very grateful if you could give me a little uh, help. Happen I had a run in wi' a bad man name o' C'pn Perving and I had to leave th' city in a rush."

" That's what YOU say, bhoy. What the darn are you, anyhows ?"

" I'm a re-Tired soldier, sir. Fought in th' war. Lost both my real arms, way back. Came up here to have a quiet life, but I didn't take to C'pn Perving and his way of doing things. Mina told me that Perving's friends could make things very ugly for me, told me to come on out here..."

" Yeah? What unit were you in, bhoy? Some kinda hintelligence?"

" No sir, RuffRangers, sir. Third battalion. I have some IDpaper here..." and Gorb went to rumble in his bag, but the big man pulled him up, sharp.

" EASY bhoy, EASY. Take it nice and SLOW..."

Gorb made real slow, slow, moves and emptied the contents of his little bag onto the barn floor. Then he slow and careful held out ex-miltary IDpaper to Cartwright. The man cradled his rifle, and cautiously took the paper. He scanned it, and Gorb could see that he was looking at it, upside down.

" Humphhh. I don't have much need for reading... But we'll get Mrs Cartwright to take a look at it, and check this here out."

With that, he led Gorb from the barn where hisself and Jimmy had stationed themselves, late the night before, and took them across to the little farmhouse, warm chimney smoking, in the early morning cool.

## Chapter 20 – Thee Two Headed Pup

Thee Two Headed Pup:/ Big Tam Gets On th' MainLine/Th' Good Doctor Elimintado/ And other Folk/ Cruiser Crush-Brain, th' Nasty Watch-Main/ etc./ Slice of Life.

Munchi & Culchi. Th' two bhoys had fell in wi' a gaggle of re-Tired and near-unemployed miners while they had been a-roamin' around in th' tunnels. And it was plain to th' miners that these twinned youngsters were kindred Folk and in some kind o' bad trouble. On those bottom levels, th' tunnels got cold and kinda chokey at a night-time, so th' miners got the young 'uns to come on on in to their hostel home, and shared some of their scran with them, what little that they had.

Th' miners called them th' two-headed pup, and made them the right toast-host of the hole hostel. Big Tam Nolan claimed that he could make out what they were saying, and that he could translate their lingo; but his tough mates th' Mainliners guffawed and slagged him, and EggFace O' Leavey bounced an empty Soup' tin off Big Tam's side-burned head. ThreeLegs Rafferty said, a-laffin' herself hoarse, that they were probably some spawn ov her owned, that she had neglected somewheres. And she let them share her cubicle. But there was near a fight about it, for all the other oul' miners wanted th' bhoys in along wi' them too. And, GreenFeets Dillon, he said that th' bhoys should come on down and join the session in the main sleep-hall, but they bit him on th' arm and stayed where they was.

There was Blindbhoy Loughran, Smart Alex McDo, Hank C., Wee Ma McMeeley, Joe Crow Donnelly, about five hundred others, and Spike. Sad, Spike said that it was a privilege to share with them and that they were two fine bhoys, just like some of his owned chillder that had been taken away. Fact was, all the miners were glad to see such youth and vigour, and even better, to see spite, ferocity and snarlingness, for they were all near half-dead themselves. And they knew that on the next big round-up or pit closure they would get definite unemployed and that there was zerostuff they could do about it. In the real mean-times, they still had quotas to fill, hoaking through the spoil-heaps for scraps and remnants of Hoguano to sieve, for a ree-ward of boiled cardboard stew and wee little milli-drips of Electric-Souper10s, to soothe their narcohol cravings. So, th' miners made th' bhoys double welcome and thrilled to the me-memories of the tough hides they onced had, themselves.

Of course, come lights out and a-countin' time, th' bhoys had to be hid. When ol' Crush-Brain th' watchman came down and, a-readin' the life-signs meter, thought that one of th' miners had snuggled a stray mog in there again, he decided, through pure MEANESS to teach th' oul bhoys a lesson - and turned to OFF th' drip-piped supply of Electric-Souper10s. But... He hadn't figured on th' bhoys; and later, when alls th' miners started a-writhing around, a-foamin' and a-threshing with the narcoholic withdrawals, th' bhoys thought that they had better up and DO something about it. They were good at creeping and could creep just about anywheres without getting scanned, so they creepsed up to the control tower and rigged up the by now deep sleep-sleeping CrushBrain to the mains power2power supply. Gave that nasty watchman the bestest hairstyle he EVER had. And then they wire-rigged up the pipes and supply meters so that th' oul fellas could have Electric-Souper10s on dee-mand, like mammy's milk, and not have to worry about eek-eeking it out. Too late though, for Wee Ma McMeeley and GreenFeets, who had fatal seizures when that slugg CrushBrain had turned off th' Soup'. Th' miners said they would bury them in the morning, and wake them, like at a proper funeral, wi' singing and dancing, and hurryin' th' jug from gub to gub to gub to fill the thirsts of both th' living and th' dead.

II.

Yes, dear. Lolo was so happy that he/she was allowing themselves the delicious luxury of a little fantasy. Dear, dear Dick, such a darling and POWERFUL man. And SUCH a tidy, tidy, beard. But, if they ever were to, commence a little, shall we supp-hose, romance type-a-thing, would the darling have any objections to... a tiny, tiny, trim? Was there room for possible improvement? Would it be a sore subject for them both, a source of pain, of slamming doors and tears... That would be almost too much to hope for. Ah, but the future was sooooo bright. Yes. Even on this desolate, disgusting horrorscape, close to the dreadful spot where Lolo had lost her beloved Metrolimo, to flames and those ghastly, ghastly bhoys, she felt warm and blessed. Blessed? Yes, yes, there would be much-o room for religion in her new life of Sanctification and hi-caste Normality and goodness, Salvation. Far from all this decay and sordid-ness. Cleanliness. Yes.

Lolo had the keynote for th' door, of course. And, opening up and entering the wee appartamento, she hoped that this would be the last time that she would ever use it. A warm goodbye to all this wretchedness. All she had to do was to collect the chile, since YegYo was already entombed in her deluxe slobsterino couchette. She had left the brat \- sorry, sweet little thing \- beside her mother in a tight little auto-nanny, sleeping as always. Didn't look like no genius, just all bad-smells and gurgling, but, if that's what Dick-dear wanted....

YegYo's slob-tomb was quiet and unbleeping, ready cocooned for a double century of primo screen-time. Through the clear palastic casing, Lolo could see the dumb-conscious figure, flesh already shrivelling back to mummification. That, however, was not what brought the shriek of horror to her crimson lipsticked lips. No. The auto-nanny was NOT there. Nothing. Lolo checked and triple-checked the controls of the couchette - could the damn idiot have arisen and moved the chile? ...What had Yegyo done with it? No, the gauges and screens all confirmed that YegYo had been dumbfounded since they had left, or before. She had remained in stasis, direct plugged to the channel changer and life support. YegYo could not possibly have moved the chile. Then what? Lolo feverishly smashed through the little apartment, crashing and turning, throwing over even small things that the chile could not possibly have been hidden underneath... Nothing. What had gone wrong? Had there been some kinda double-cross? Th' Cutehoors? What? Lolo was sweating and shaking and not double day-dreaming now, no dear. And then, the key-note bleep-bleeped. The key-note!...There was someone at the door. Who? Someone from the auto-nanny agency? Maybe the machine had gone wrong? Could they have the baby? No. When Lolo opened the door, she saw in front of her, a tall over-coated man, neatly grey-haired, and clean-shaven, apart from his moustache.

" Oh, officer," began Lolo, real sweet, " thank goodness..."

" Shut up, Thing," said the cop. " Just shut you sluggin' mouth and get in th' back o' th' meat-wagon. You a-goin' to get them manicured hanns o' yourn real dirty and blistered in the lower levels, Freak..."

For just a moment, Lolo thought he was joking.

III.

Dr. Elimintado was a man who loved his work, but hated his job. Hexperimentation and rational science, he could deal with, but the internal politics and intrigue of TidyBeard Inc, were quite beyond him. Not that he had any choice in the matter; he had long since learned to quietly do what he was told. Tall, ebony dark-skinned and long-dreadlocked, he was very different from the other scientists who fiddled and footered about in the vast, underground, TidyBeard laboratory complex. For a start, most of the time he actually knew what he was doing; secondly, he followed a strict moral code which outlined the parameters of his research, and prevented him from experimenting for pure experimentation's sake. Elimintado was an unreserved genius, officially listed on the IQ scale as `rotten with brains'; and, very unusually, for a person in such an elevated position, he was a Sin2sinner. It was only his intellect that had secured him this coveted post; a Sinner of his caste should have been hard labouring with his brethren in some dungeon-dark mine, or in some chemical stinkhole of a sugar-plant factory. He had just been reminded of this, by Dick Tidybeard on the bott-bott. Tidybeard had been, uh, urging him to begin the research on the chile - th' Sinner chile, pronto. And none of the kid glove stuff, either.

" I want you to find out what's special about it," Tidybeard had told him, " and then I want you to figure out how we can use it. Unnerstann ?"

Of course, working with chillder - or animals - was strictly agin Elimintado's principles. Tidybeard knew that, but warned him:

" Look Doc, if you won't do it, then I'll get one of them other numbskulls in the white coats to do it, and you know them... They're not as careful or as, uh, ethical as you are... Get the picture, Doc? "

Yeah, Elimintado got the picture. Dr. Grisly Bienvienuto and his gang of scalpel happy assistants would be on top of the chile in no time; probably transplanting her head onto a dog's body, or some other scientifically vital operation like that.... So, Elimintado reluctantly took gentle charge of the chile, moving a wee comfortable cot up into the top lab, and sending out for the finest, freshest, babyfood-stuff. After a period of close observation, he would begin with some simple brain scans and corpo checks. Not that it was going to be easy; Tidybeard and his henchmen had provided him with no information at all on the identity, or the background of the chile. He didn't even know her name... Pausing for a moment over his deskscreen, he looked down at the still sweet-sleeping chile. What would he call this innocent one? And then it came to him: OnYa. He would call her OnYa. And, he would protect this OnYa from Tidybeard and his horror. He would. He just felt it.

IV.

They had been playing golf again, and neither of the two of them had ever played worse, for they had drank too many cocktails in th' Clubhouse over lunch. Fact was, they were getting kinda tired of this rich lifetsyle. Darlene was a-puttin' on the pounds and Frank was also a-gettin' a lot more round, and cranky with it. For a start, Darlene was always moaning on about how she was worried, and what if the authorities...

" Impossible" , Frank said, " I know the system. We're not on the `Wanted' list and they couldn't catch us, even if we were. Those guys couldn't catch a cold in the winter-time. Just relax and henjoy yerself. Buy yerself another Luxleather bag or some other sort of good hexpensive stuff."

But Darlene wouldn't listen. She kept on at it, like a cheese grater at Frank's nerves, and nagging with it. Said Frank was looking at all those young girls down in reception, and that blonde over on table 32, that nice Miss Watson that had helped them with the Money2Manage Plan. Frank had just about enough, and he was a-gonna do something about it.

It was late, getting kinda dark and there was nobody on the course but themselves. Down in this section, one of the largest areas of rough was fenced off and cautioned: Danger, Do Not Enter, and beneath was a whole script of unfunny golf type-a-thing jokes to do with the fact that there was Crocodilians behind the fence. Which, in fact, there was. There were a reservation of giant 30m long Brownwater Crocthings which the club had built around, as they gave the course its uniquely dangerous and tropical flavour. And also gave the bores up at the clubhouse something more interesting than dull, to drone on about.

Frank whacked his ball a big slice and it curled nicely over the top of the wire fence and landed in the rushes, just over the far side.

" Well," said Darlene, " I suppose you can afford to buy all the balls you want." And then she stopped and a-sorta sniggered. " Maybe you SHOULD buy yourself some balls...Maybe you need them."

She was sniggering in a-sorta nasty way, like as if Frank hadn't been, uh, giving her much attention recently; and, in fact, he hadn't.

" Ah'll show YEW who's got balls," snapped Frank, and he threw down his club and marched down to the gleaming chainlink fence.

" Frank! Are you crazy? Don't! Come back, Frank! Don't be stupit ! "

But it was too late. Frank had pulled hisself up and over the fence, using the overhanging branch of an old mossy Oak.

" Frank!," screamed Darlene, " come on OUT of there." And she ran down to the fence and peered into the real dense solid thick rushes and reeds which swamped ahead of her into the growing darkness.

" Frank?," she called, her voice more plaintive and pleading now. But from the swamp, there was nothing but the surge of insect and frog-thing.

" Frankkkk?"

Frank was sitting up on a further along branch and waiting for her. He was waiting, quiet, for her to climb over just close enough, so that he could whack her and knock her out, dump her down there and then make a racket, tell the Crocs, it's feeding time, bhoys. He made a wee moan, just to encourage her. Moann. And then a wee bit more moan.

Still no sign of her. Maybe th' bitch wasn't gonna go for it. Try again.

" Unnnmmm," he moaned, softly, " Darlene, help meeee."

" Frank, is that you?," called Darlene.

" Darlene, ...pull me out," answered Frank, softly. " Quick, baby, I've fell over and banged my head...Quick, now..."

" Frank, are you alright?"

" Slugg, baby, ah need your help...."

Hmnn. Darlene stood back and studied the situation. She congratulated herself for having read it so well. Yesterday, Frank had spent far too long, looking over at them Crocs and then looking over at her, measuring the fence. Yes. That was why she had taken the precaution of administering that sedative to him at lunch. He should be freezing solid just about now, fall off that stupit branch he was a-clinging too. And then HE would get just what he had planned for HER.

" Frank?"

He didn't answer, but there was a thump as something heavy fell from the branch of a nearby tree.

" Frank?"

Yeah. Then, just like she had seen the club-bores do, when they fed the Crocthings chickens or steaks, she began to rattle at the fence, softly at first, and then louder. And then she stopped as the reeds and the rushes in the near distance began to trembling and part, as something very big and very strong, moved toward the Oak.

## Chapter 21 – Snooping In Thee Woods On A Snottery Evening

Creating Authenticity: / Interior / Snoopin' In Thee Woods Onna Snottery Evening / A Grand Canal / Th' KillTheatreHall And Further /.

Hospitable. They was hospitable folks, alright, John Cartwright and his wife Joan. Sure was, onced they had established that Gorb was authentic, and an true amigo of Mina. They hated C'pn Perving, because Perving had been one time, part o' th PlainPope's scum who had drove decent Folk offa their own land into work-camps, and worse. Evil, military intelligence, and trickery. So, Gorb was made right welcome. Jimmy th' Gee kept hid, of course, and Gorb had to be careful about what he said and done, for thee Cartwrights didn't allow no swearing or dirty talk on their property, no sir, and no n-arcohol or stimulants, neither. And pleased they were too, when Gorb said that he wasn't looking for no charity and was willing to work, sir.

" Work you will," said John," and he put Gorb, and his arms, to a-moving and a-weeding and a-cutting round the place, till Gorb thought that the sun was a-gonna drop right on top of his exhausted head. Truth was, though, he was happy at it, and proud to be able to lend an arm. After two days, John Cartwright - Joan called him "Paw" - let Gorb up onto the ol' John Deere tractor of the approved ReVivalist type, and let him chug-chgug-chug-chgug it around the place; and Gorb hadn't felt so happy since he was a pup.

They were clean-living folks and they kept a very tidy place, way out yonder on the very edge of the jungle-deep, all white-washed and swept clean, prayers afore every feed. And what feeding it was too. Mrs. Cartwright cooked fresh bread on a wood-burning stove, every second day, and cakes, her own biscuits; there was slices of real meat from their own growing tanks, steamin' hot and gravied, fruits and vegetable greens still dew-moist from the fields. All this, which had Gorb's gub a-dribblin' wi' slobbers and a-stuffin' hisself like he was entering a how-much-can-you-eat-wi' out-bursting competition, was eaten by the Cartwrights slowly, carefully, and like it was covered in a sauce of sour memories. Because it was gravy-covered in memories, of course. Each and every bite that Mamma Cartwright cooked, every spoonful that Paw Cartwright slurped on, reminded them of their own precious bhoy, the little spark that they had given life to, who had grown into such a fine, God-fearin' and responsible, young man. Priestley. They had named him Priestley because there had been a great deal of difficulty at his birth, and they had both promised th' Lord that should He spare their chile, they would train the bhoy for the Ministry, so that he would grow up to be a preacher and travel to spread the Good News. However, as Paw Cartwright pointed out, a-grinnin', that bhoy had growed up wi' a mind of his own, and there was no turning him. Paw took a deal of pleasure describing the depth of the bhoy's stubbornness.

" That bhoy was toad-headed, wouldn't move for no man," Paw said.

There was both sadness and pleasure in the way the Cartwrights spent long, long, hours, after their day's work was finished, describing the life and joy their son had brought to them. A hard worker, and keen on the tractor, he had done a man's work since he had just turned twelve. Clawed out three new fields from the jungle, all by hisself - though Paw didn't have the time to tend them now, and they had since reverted to green vine and pine swamp.

" And couldn't that bhoy eat ?," chuckled Mama. " Just like you, Gorb, he was mighty fond of roast pigsteak and frittes. G'wan, son, just you help youself to more. I'm glad to see you eat... And Paw, maybe you could get that ol' screen down from the dresser and we can show him some pictures ov our Priestley..."

They were happy that they had new ears to tell to, and be able to rekindle nuggets of recollection into bright flames of anecdote, sunnier days; but it was all overhung with a curtain of sadness, blown draughty with chills of cold fear. Fact was, they were ignorant of their beloved chile's fate, and this agony of uncertainty was much worse than having some grave to tend to. Th' bhoy Priestley had decided that he had wanted to become a man; and had joined up with the military, travelling off to some far system to Do His Dooty, to fight in some stink-putrid cleansing op., stomp-squashing some pathetic offPlanet otherWordly-rebellion

" Thing was," said John Cartwright, " we had always taught him to do the right thing and he was, uh, very serious about his Religion... A studious and Holy bhoy, we couldn't have axed for better...And so, uh..."

At that point, Paw Cartwright's voice had got so low and hoarse that it had just about downright disappeared, so Joan Cartwright took over.

" So, Priestley decided that although the Ministry was not for him, he would serve th' Lord in other ways. He was very determined about it, although we axed him to stay on here, for as you know, the farmin' is a Holy thing - providin' the Folk with good food - but no... He said, `no mamma, I know in ma heart it's what I gotta do, go and dhestroy Sin and Evil and OtherWorld devils'. So, he went, one summer... And he sent to us, many screens, and tole us he was happy and doin' th' Lord's work and for us not to worry. That's what he always said, ... `don't you be a-worryin' none, mamma, for you know ah'm a-Holy and protected...'. Yes."

She finished there, and John took up the story again.

" But he got involved in some big battle... Heck, I don't even know WHERE the place is, and a-a-a-according to a screen we got from his unit officer, Colonel Thomas Parker, he went Missing In Action, on one a them strange, strange, Otherworlds, way far over there..."

And John Cartwright passed a long, black robed arm across the table top in front of them, in some effort to demonstrate the impossible distance involved.

" The worsted thing for us, is, Gorb..." whispered Joan, " is that he might still be alive, ways over yonder, someplace. Them devils have false Gods and they can turn you head. They can turn a good man away from his Religion, them and their obvious Gods and devilry. If we just knew that he was Ended, someplace, I swear, it wouldn't be so bad.... but it's the not-knowing and the FEAR, wonderin' if he might be a-lyin' among devils someplace, corrupting his eternal soul."

At that point, Joan collapsed, weeping bitterly, and John gently carried her off to bed. While they were away, Gorb idly scanned through the screens, studying the bhoy's pictures, as Priestley progressed from fresh-faced and idyllic youth, to sullen boot-camp recruit, hair cropped and face bruised. Gorb could imagine what pleasure the sadistic training instructors would've had, with such an obviously naive and unworldly bhoy... He recalled his own brutecamp experience and cringed, still hating it, after all this time, the basic training beatings and humiliation, the pressure punching. Through the pages of the little screen album he could chart the progress of the bhoy: from kind-hearted; to bone-headed, Other-hating, boot-clicking, brute.

John came back down from the bedroom, and real, real, tired, pulled up one of their simple home-made chairs beside Gorb.

" Son, that wife o' mine cain't take much more o' this. And to tell you the truth, neither can I... You were a military man, Gorb, weren't ya? D'ya think... Could you, uh, perhaps find out something about our bhoy? Could you get in contact with somebody who might know? We're just simple country people and we don't know anything about these things; but you, you said you were a RuffRanger. Ain't that so? "

Even if it hadn't been for the kindness that the couple had already shown him, the plaintive yowl of a look on Paw Cartwright's face would surely have been enough to get Gorb a-working on it.

" Sure," said Gorb," I'll do my very best for you Folk."

" I know you will, son," said Paw, and some of the tiredness had lifted off his face. " I know you surely will. Even to know that he's Dead would be a relief for us."

" I should be able to find out something, if I knew where to look...."

" Well, a-course, all that there military stuff would be on the screens up at th' KillTheatreHall, if you knew how to access it, and if you knew how to get in. That kinda thing, well, it's way beyond me, and Joan, she could hardly get way up there in th' jungledeep."

" Yeah, but I could," said Gorb.

" You could," said Paw Cartwright.

II.

In the evenings, Gorb had long thinkings in the barn with Jimmy. Mrs. Cartwright had said that Gorb could sleep in the house, in Priestly's old room, but Gorb had said, no ma'am, and stuck to the hay. Every evening, he smuggled Jimmy out some of the juicier table-scraps and Jimmy would comm him a little bit more about Murphy's Reef and its biotope. He could talk easier with Jimmy than with the Cartwrights; he could swear, and be as unHoly as he wanted, which was a relief. Th' wee Gee didn't care for the Cartwrights much, and found their piety a bad joke.

" Thems the same ones that would have burned you afore," sneered Jimmy, " and now, you think they're yer friends. Just don't forget who you ARE, Gorb, where you come from and what you done, and survived. Ah'm tellin' ya, that religion thing is ALWAYS bad news..."

" They're good people...," Gorb began, but Jimmy stopped him.

" 'Houl on a minute till I finish this crust," and he ferociously concentrated on a drip gravied leftover, chawing.

" I suppose,... that they do believe that they're th' Chosen Ones, don't they?" Gorb axed at Jimmy, who was munching, grinning greasily. " but thee Cartwrights ain't like those other crazy Fundamentalists, though."

" Harugghh,..." slurped Jimmy.

" Them Revivalists, they think they're SPECIAL, a different creation from the rest of th' Universe, their all-powerful God's chosen pick o' the litter... They don't key into the rest ov the system. They don't join or communicate wi' it, or respect it, because it's beneath them. Us LOWER life-forms are beneath them, th' Lord's Chosen Few... Me, I'm just one ov the, different-to-them, unChosen Ones. Chosen Race, Chosen Colour, Chosen Tribe; allus th' same story. We're good, you're BAD, and our God has tole us that it's a-okay to DHESTROY you.... No networking, no merging into the big grid o' things, no open swimming in th' big sea o' all things and all lives, but gasping for breath, and struggling. Running agin th' current, instead of floating along wi' it... Huh? "

Gorb looked at Jimmy for confirmation. These revelations were coming surging through his brain, and he felt proud of this new insight, this clarity of thought. Now, he felt he could understand some. Jimmy, however, appeared complete disinterested at this, sucked at one of his own wee teeth.

"That's bollocks," said Jimmy

" Us people," Gorb told him, " are stuck wi' this crazy idee of direct linear evolution, us racing ahead of all the rest of life, and so smart... Not realising that ourselves are nothing more than just some kind ov rash, or viral infestation, which has sprung up a few scabs across the corpo of the Big Empty. Sorry to say it, but we're nothing more or less than some kinda DISEASE, pluking its nasty sluggin' way through the system. In time, though, the system will heal itself, and People'll be long gone. Long gone. Youse Gees, youse animal-things, youse so-called primitive amphibians will still be here, mind, because youse - you're PLUGGED IN. Y'dig? You're part o' things....

Isn't that right?"

" Bag o' shit, " sneered Jimmy, belching. "My arse is a primitive amphibian. And you're total wrong, as usual, but if it makes you feel better..."

It was dark in the barn. Mrs. Cartwright had given him a lamp, but Gorb had never used it. He wondered whether Jimmy could see the sadness and misery on his face, or whether he could simply feel it through his skin.

" We have to move on from this place, Jimmy. I've sorta promised Mr. Cartwright that I would go to th' KillTheatreHall and get some information on his son. It could be dangerous. It might be safer for you to remain here..."

" Th' KillTheatreHall? Now how did I know that you were a-goin' to bring that up? Huh? Musta had some sorta premonition."

And Jimmy sniggered, an insulting and rude sniggering, with another belch at the end of it, for he had been a-chawing on a piece of Mrs. Cartwright's delicious left-overs and bacon rind, for a good part of the evening.

" I suppose that was what you've been trying to tell me, Jimmy, huh?. And me, I've been babbling like an idiot. I suppose we were always on our way to the Killtheatrehall, for whatever reason.... Now, when we get to there I must remember who I am and not just a-go busting in there, searching for some Cartwright bhoy, like an idiot. Mind who I am and what I come for - to get back to MY chile, and to get MY head sorted. Lissen to that wee voice in my own head. I can feel it a-callin' me. Hain't it bin tellin' me to git along up there? I should lissen, man, lissen... Look, there's people, and then there's PEOPLE, and maybe I'm one ov the kind of People that can become part of things - MAYBE. That's what I'm a-doin' here wi' you, Jimmy, and maybe you can try and help me learn to UNNERSTAND.... Jimmy ?"

" Shut to slugg up, `n' go to sleep. I have grub to catch, and you've got a long haul ahead of ye. Tomorrow, we make plans and preparations, and we'll start out, first thing the day after."

" But Jimmy..."

Naw, it was already too late. Th' Gee had left Gorb's skin and was away off searching among the haybales and rafters for wrigglies to munch.

III.

Two days later. First light, and they were ready to go. Mrs. Cartwright had packed a big bag of supplies ready for them, including some of the real stinky fresh cheese that Jimmy had got Gorb to axe for, `specially. While they pored over the rough map that Paw and Joan had made for them, Gorb drank scalding koffee and tried to awake hisself.

" Used to be, that you could have made a raft and taken the Red River near the whole way," claimed Paw, " but that foreign weed has just about choked it up, and there's no way you're gonna push a home-made raft through that... Your best bet is to follow the banks where there's good going and skirt round the swamps... You'll have to watch real careful for the channel here," and he pointed a bony finger at the map, where a military canal joined the main river, " because its liable to be completely overgrown. But onced you find that, well, it's a direct route to th' KillTheatreHall. A course..." and he paused, real serious, " it's when ye get there that your real problems will begin... You're goin' to have to figure it all out by yourself, son. How to get in, wi' out a-getting blasted. I know there's key-codes for the gates and ditches, and things that I don't understand, that's for sure...but..."

" Don't worry, Mr. Cartwright. I have experience in these things," said Gorb, trying to sound more confident than he actually was. And then he said goodbye to Mrs. Cartwright, who wished him well, and safe home, and who told him that she would pray for him.

" Huh, that wouldn't do a sin2sinner like YOU, much good," commed Jimmy, sarcastically, who was cling-settling to Gorb's tattoo, underneath his shirt, for a day-sleep. "And there woulda been no sluggin' home cooking for you if she knew that you were borned unNormal, with the mark of Sin, as they say; if theys knew the caste you were made from..."

Then they were off. Paw Cartwright led them right to the edge of the jungledeep and pointed them in the right direction for the river, two day's trek away. He had his old .3006 with him, and he presented it up to Gorb.

" You might need this, son," he said. " That was a mighty evil place, one time, and maybe still is. You need to watch yourself mighty careful..."

Gorb pushed the gun back into the big man's calloused hands with gentle slow strokes of his metal pincers.

" No thank you, sir. This, I won't be a-needing. I got my own way of doing things."

And even before Paw could remonstrate, Gorb had turned and melted away into the jungledeep, bursting savage green and damp and mouldy, in the early light.

There were landcrabs that bit, disco-globe-eyed giant dragonflys, thickly poisonous centipedes, and pink frogs with venomous skin. There were huge and laborious snails, half-metre long slugs sliming silver trails, territory conscious bees ; but nothing bothered Gorb in the deep, wet forest . He slunk between the trees, using strong arms to haul himself over obstacles, slipped betwixt creeper and vine, was sure footed over the wet and slurpy ground. He didn't hack no path, smashing machete-wise through the thickness, but rather, he let hisself slip along sideways and forward, and squirm on through. He let hisself be a part o' the jungledeep, rather than bang agin it. He flowed with it, and through it, and made the Red River by nightfall, a whole day early.

Like Paw Cartwright had warned, the river flow was choked thick with Water Hyacinth, a stinking green carpet that flapped stagnant leaves in the foul breezes.

" How, uh, very ornamental," snarled Jimmy, just awakening, and hungry and cranky. " What a plague you Peoples are. This was a happy planet with a rich river system till you folk came wi' your damn fancy-pants plants a-spreadin all over the place... You ruined it. And I'm HUNGRY, bhoy. Now, give me a slice o' that there cheese, and turn over that log for me, pronto."

Gorb did as he was told, and Jimmy scooted down and snapped up a headful of scrabbling invertebrates, his little gold and jewelled body, crunching, lip-licking. Still with his mouth full, he climbed back up onto Gorb's shoulder, and surveyed the choked river-basin before them.

" Well bhoy," he mugged, trying to chew, swallow and comm, all at the same time, greedy, " we's not going anywhere, here..."

The exotic plants which had exscaped from some water-gardener's ponds, had completely stilled the current of the great river. And the banks were now one continuous fetid and impassable mass of black glar and decaying plant material, which had been pushed to one side by the on-going tide of the hyacinth's growth. This impossible and stenchy mush was broken only by occasional higher sandy islands, like the one they were standing on. One of the islands appeared to have some long, low, buildings, very overgrown, and the snout of a little jetty, sticking out into the stink of weed.

" Looks like it's a-gonna be a long walk through the jungledeep, Gorb. You some Bright bhoy, alright."

" Long walk? Not necessarily. That looks like some kind of little jetty or harbour up ahead, yonder. There could be boats or somethin'."

" BOATS? Do you know anything about these here boats, bright bhoy, huh?".

Naw, Gorb didn't know much about boats. Never been in a boat in his life. There weren't too many boats in the tunnels. He had only ever read about them, watched jealously on screens. But he knew that even if there was a-one wi' a motor you could get running, the damn propeller would get clogged in two minutes flat in these weeds, or the water intake would get choked and the motor would burn up. Still...

They turned back and circled wide through the jungle, stopping while Jimmy feasted on a colony of Green Ants, which he claimed were a delicacy of this sodden region. It was well dark, but Gorb was sure-footed and calm, with the wee Gee's wide night-eyes to guide him. However, by the time they had circled right around to the little jetty, Gorb was exhausted, and resolving to explore the boathouse better in the bright morning, he lay down at the side of one of the rotting hulks there, and slept. He slept peaceful and warm, while Jimmy hunted around and about him, watchful.

Gorb awoke with the day-light, ravenous, and big-breakfasted on slices of smoked pig-meat, cheese, bread and koffee; double-tasty in the clear, cool, light. Afterwards he checked the abandoned boathouse and jetty, which was now so rotten that a flat wave could have swept it away, and discovered that all of the boats there were so sad, so decayed and broken, as to be completely unusable. There was only one, a very small and antique, craft, hanging from the sagging beams of the boathouse, which was fit to go in the water, at all. While the other boats were heavy and wide hulled, this one was narrow and sharp prowed, which was good, because it could cut through the weeds much better. It had no motor of any sort, just some small knobbed palastic paddles, which sat dirty, dusty and cobwebbed, on top of it. Gorb lifted the canoe down gently, and checked the thin metal skin, luckily uncorroded. Then he slow placed it down into the water, and real awkward, got in. It was shaky, real shaky, and if you leant just a wee bit to one side or the other, it dipped and wobbled.

" You haven't got a sluggin' clue about this thing, have ye ?," axed an anxious Jimmy. He didn't mind wetness, water, but this stuff was thick and stinkfoot black.

" Don't cowp us ! Easy now wi' them blemmin' arms o' yourn..."

It was going well. The paddles gripped into the water and got extra traction from the weed , while Gorb's untiring newmEtal arms pushed them cutting along, a sharp knife through the water. After a splashy and bit-panicky start, they were soon way out in the midstream and heading up the wide green expanse of the sour Red River.

By the evening, they had reached the convergence of the KillTheatreHall canal and the river. Although the joining of the two waterways had become completely clogged by rotten weed, and overgrew with junglystuff, they were alerted to the nearness of the fortress complex by the growing number of decaying slipways and slimy hulks along the bankside. And by the closed and shuttered colonial style villas, which quietly rotted in the tropical humidity of the river basin. However, it was the clouds of abandoned bird-pets, which drew Gorb's attention to that particular stretch of water, and to the darker green of the choked canal mouth. Pushing hard through the floating mat of vegetation, the little canoe squeezed through the bushes and thick reeds, through the mass of black gluck and slime that had dammed the entrance to the complex; and on into the thick canal itself, which was lined on both sides, by the deserted big spender homes of the PlainPope's top cronies. Gorb was amazed to see dizzying flocks of Parakeets and Lovebirds, Scarlet Macaws, scrawk and flap from the palms and pines, which lined the empty boulevards and avenues. Cockatiels and Sulphur-Breasted Cockatoos burst in blooms of brilliant colour from the mossy rooftops. This had been the most exclusive and expensive sector of the settlement, with huge hotel complexes and palaces, dripping with hanging gardens, set among sculptured lakes, winding, decorative water channels, and wide, wide, carriageways. The lakes and water-channels were choked stagnant with imported pink, yellow, and purple water lilies and the omnipresent hyacinths, and among them huge coloured Carp pig-wallowed and rolled. Gorb paddled on, cautiously, as the main canal stretched straightforward into the distance, towards the huge and glooming pile that was th' KillTheatreHall itself.

Th' KillTheatreHall was circled by the canal, to make what was, in effect a wide moat, and then out of the water rose a sheer smooth ferrocrete and nu-roc bank some fifty metres high, topped with an icing of gristlespikes and electrostingers. A ring of high and low pointy roofed turrets, with their eight-barelled 20mm cannon and sensor aerial spikes still in place, poked irregular dark fingers toward the sky, while further back, incredible and cranky tall towers of granite and black marble rose disgracefully. The only entrance, now sealed, was by retractable power drawbridge and gate, an impenetrable plug of numEtal. Even under a bright blue tropical sky, shadow and dark whispers caught in the sharp corners and jagged edges of the buildings, and on the cruel barbed spearspokes which jutted from every available downspout, gable and eave. Sharkteeth lacing and shredglass mortar scraped at the dull and listless air which festered up from the surrounding moat. All of this unWelcome had been intricately designed by the firm hand of the PlainPope hisself. Or rather, was personally delegated into the painful hand of an acclaimed NearNormal architect from the NewGrange system, whom the PlainPope had ordered sandscrape-tortured into, uh, concurrence. However it was, after all, the manic grinning PlainPope, who had given the architect a detail-bustling briefing on the overall theme: Fear, Loathing and Disease.

Getting closer to the island, Gorb had noticed some movement on one of the tower turrets; most probably some of the sensors were monitoring their approach, and he real quick back-paddled over to the side of the canal and got ashore. There was a certain danger that if they went any farther, the auto-guns would open fire.

" Well bhoy," commed Jimmy, who had been sitting in the open on Gorb's shoulder, watching the area with some awe. " It's sure some bungalow, hain' t it ? Any idee how we're a-gonna get in? "

Towards the middle of the horrorhump of island - some 2km2 \- there sat a cluster of ugly fat cylinders, scabbed with electroblisters and pods, some now topped with vineweeds, and lichen, and Gorb now recognised these as shaft elevators. This island, he realised, was only the upper sector of th' KillTheatreHall, a mere fascia, while the real workings were centred safely deep below - in a network of tunnels. And where there were tunnels, they were bound to be airvents, had got to be.

" Yeah. Think I might have something."

And the two of them sat there on the garden-gone-to-jungle bankside, and ate a supper of breadcheese and beetles.

## Chapter 22 – Blood Of Thee Lamb

Blood Of Thee Lamb:/ Thee Cross, Thee Switchblade & Thee Holy D-Pump/Spare Change Please?, etc./ Aggressive Begging vs. Zero Tolerators.

Peace. Tranquillity. Satisfaction. These were all qualities which, Brother Boone reflected, his own brand of down-home ole tyme Religion had brought him. These, and a very great deal o' credit. Every day, around this time, he took time-out to reflect and meditate, to savour the success that he had worked so very hard to achieve. For more than a decade, his weekly Sabbath world2world satellite broadcast had been the most popular Holy Screen-time in the known cosmos, and it had made his the best known face in the whole history of time. His sharp observations in the `A Simple Thought for th' Weak' slot, his tasteful burnings and ritual mutilations, and most of all his own grey-wigged humility and penitence - in the face of the most savage and entertaining temptations OtherWorld devils could muster - had won him the devotions of trillions of Saved viewers throughout the WideCast® area. However, he was careful not to let this popularity go to his head, and he kept in constant touch with his own spirituality. Twice every day, in morning, in evening-time, Brother Boone cut hisself off from the outside whirl, locked hisself in his private prayer chamber, filled his head with calm and empty thought, and deep studied how he could better serve his mighty congregation, and his own career. His local staff knew well how important this quiet time was to him, and the change that this period of calm brought to his personality. Afore his prayers, Brother B. was wont to be on edge and snappy, trembling with a burden of pain; afterwards, he would be smiley, lucid, bursting with Holy originality, and prime timed P-perfect for recording his broadcast.

In the chamber, Boone studied himself in the mirrored door of the Hinspiration cabinet, and admitted that he liked what he saw. First step on the road to success is to like yourself. And Boone liked hisself. Very much. He liked his sculptured bouffant hair weave, the critical tan, the best tight and perfect skin which the most hexpensive surgeons onPlanet could cut for him, the honest blue eyes which had appealed to so many purses and pocketbooks. Now. This time o' the day, he never failed to get hexcited at his meditations; throat dry and fingers twitchy, some rather unsavoury perspiration, and groin rumbling. He pulled opened the cabinet door, and searched through the tidy refrigerated racks of labelled phials and ampoules. As always, he would have a hit o' pure Xmg first, get right down into that spine kinda hit, and a rider for the rest o' the range. He attached a small phial to a gold plated and jewel-crusted D-pump and pressed it to his neck, hitting the surge button, simultaneously. A warm black rush, that he could taste first in the back of his throat, enveloped him from wig to slippers, and the shakingness smoothly left him. A hundred and twenty-five years he had been using this stuff, daily, and he had yet to find better. Cut all pure at the time, and when measured real precise, it was as perfect as you could axe for - though a dosage like this was enough to stonecolddead kill twenty ordinary Folk; but Boone, thin lips smiling, knew he was caste like no ordinary Folk. And now, after the mainline, the second course. He pulled out drawers and files and flipped through stacks of palastic wallets, in which there were: potions for a-talking in tongues, ready made stigmata, weeping fits, foaming fits, blood-soaked tears, widely visible halos, and organic visions; there were tablets for dream-scapes, Hell-filled nightmares in the daytime, angelic visions, total apparent repentance, and sexual convulsions. Hmnnn. It was difficult to choose. Finally, because it was only a weeknight rehearsal, and not a syndicated world2world recording session ahead, he fitted a small dose of delayed release 2TotalKalm to his pump and hit the button. He would be sweet now till evening prayertime, he thought.

Whaa? It was the bott-bott a-buzzing, and young Dez, his new personal assistant.

" You're fired! " screeched Boone, rose red furious. " What the SLUGG d'ya mean interrupting me when ah'm at ma prayer? ....Well? "

" Dick Tidybeard on the line, sir, DIRECT. Said it couldn't wait."

" Tidybeard? In person?"

" Yes, sir."

" Well, I suppose you had better put him through. You're still fired though, and don't think you'll ever work on this planet again. Unnerstann? Have your desk cleared by this evening."

Boone pressed the CLEAR button, and the youngster's fallen face faded offscreen. Quickly, he turned and closed the cabinet, after placing his pump inside. What the slugg does that creep Tidybeard want, he wondered. Can't be good news.

" Boone !"

" Ah! Good to see you, uh, Dick. I was just at my prayers here, but I can interrupt them for a spell... Now, what can I do for you?"

" On this week's Sabbath broadcast, I want you to do a big special. I want to RePent and get Sanctification, but BIGSTYLE, the whole hog."

" DICK TIDYBEARD wants to get SAVED? On MY programme?"

" You got it."

" Why, this wonderful news has really touched my heart. How strange it is that my prayers have been answered so quickly. Let us now kneel down together, Dick, and give thanks to th'...."

" You can cut that scat out, straight away," snapped Dick, " this is business."

" Oh, that's different. Now, Dick..."

" That's Mr. Tidybeard to you, Boone. And don't forget it. Without my backing, you would still be mugging old miners down in the tunnels somewheres, screaming with the jags... Without my satellite net you would be nothing, a nowhere man, preaching to the perverted. I know your score, Boone. So, just shut up and listen: My man Davis is waiting in your office at the minute, and you... you are wasting my time. As far as I'm concerned, Davis is now in charge, over there. Got it? Don't slugg things up, or you'll be out on your ear... As it is, you're going to have to share your programme with a new preacher for a while, a real hick called BoxingHeid. However, we only need him for a while, and then - IF you play ball - the show will be back to YOU, again. Better the devil you know... And I know you VERY well. One false move, Boone, and that lovely collection of yours, in that cabinet behind you, will go in the nearest dumpster, and you'll be squealing your little lungs out in a dirty DETOX CELL. Play your cards right, though, and things'll go fine, old man. Big things are ahead of us. Big, big plans. We're a-gonna cut the devil horns offa those damn Cutehoors, but good. So, if you have any funds left that you haven't squandered on Xmg, I'd advise you to hextract them out of their FREAK bank, NOW. ...Oh, and breathe one word of any of this, and I'll personally see to it that you get sent to WaspeeWorld covered in sugary jam and dead fish sauce. Clear? "

Tidybeard snapped his screen off, and the image in front of Boone faded to black.

" Real nice to talk to you, too, Dick."

Boone sighed, swivelled round in his leatherette luxchair, and regarded hisself again. Older. And when you looked up real, real, close, you could see that the tan was false and that the wighair was too damn fake to be natural. Ah-hum. Times like this, Boone a-kinda thought about working out some kinda re-Tirement plan; taking up golf or heavy drinking or something. Yeah. Bit tired. So, he opened up the cabinet again and reached again for his pump.

II.

Things had been going so fast for BoxingHeid that he wasn't real sure whether he was a-coming or a-going. Firstest thing, he had been nipping back from the Tallybann County Line when he had chance bumped into a packet of Relevation: Jessica Trembling and her sister o' sin crawling back to their hole. All it took then, was some more careful discreet observation and track following, to un-nest a whole host of horror, a network of Wrongdoin', a tapestry of unGodliness which led right back to Vileness itself, centred on those embroidering females, the Tremblings... Couldn't have been worse, couldn't have wanted for any better. A sweet dream of a Revelation which, when revealed in Screams Of Praise on local screen-time, had shot him into the regional finals of the MondoVision A-Preachin' Contesto. And from there, he had been picked up on by a Tidybeard Inc. talent scout. Hey, this was the real big high-wig time, now. Here he was, in the big Bigcity, a new switchblade in his pocket to give answer to the hassle of beggars; a new fabricated twig-Cross rough again his leathery neck. Here he was, all dude-ed out in new darker and scratchier fabric-ed wollen vestments, a-waiting outside the very tabernacle of the Brother Boone hisself. Never, never, in a zillion sunsets, would BoxingHeid ever have dared to dream that his simple Faith would have taken him so far, right to the very pinnacle of P-Preacherdom, Amen. Bestest thing too, was that he still had all his ace cards up his vestment sleeve, so to speak. Neither of the Revealed Sinners had yet been Sanctified; all that had happened, so far, was that his Holy Posse had fully hinvestigated that nest o' rats near the dump, and uh, persuaded the Trembling sisters to TELL ALL; while the actual burning was yet to come. That man Davis told him that it would make primo screen-time, and better yet, BoxingHeid hisself was to be the Holy Lighter...

Now, a smooth doppiadoor slid open and a silky smiling underling appeared.

" Rev. BoxingHeid? Brother Boone can see you, now..."

" Young woman... Wipe that muck offa yourn face. Don't yew know that yourn body is a temple of th' Lord? Painting you'self up like a HARLOT will never bring you Sanctification, and drives decent men WILD POWERFUL wi' lust and badthought... Here."

And he held out a h-panky in his rough hand.

" Uh, no BoxingHeid, that won't be necessary, " she sniggered, " although, goodness, you are an interesting creature, aren't you? Now, perhaps you would be good enough to remove those, uh, boots. Brother Boone doesn't like his carpetpiles to get smudged...Can I get you some spoft-slippers, perhaps? No? Very well, then. This way, please..."

Inside the chamber, the light was as soft and lustrous as the carpetpile, and, at the end of a very long, heavy, and intricately carved, table sat Davis and Boone, both watching his entrance intently.

" I don't," began BoxingHeid loudly, " hold with all this decadence and luxury. I am a plain speaking man, with a simple faith. The road to HELL is furnished with softstuff and hindulgence. Furthermore..."

" What do you think ?," axed Davis to Boone. " He's just about perfect isn't he? I don't believe we can find anybody baser or more Fundamental than him."

" He's a real cracker," nodded Boone, with a heavy head, for he had rather overdid it with a little xxxtra shot of DeepBlue2, " that's for sure. Where the slugg did you find this relic? "

" Best thing is," said Davis, again directing his comments solely at Boone, " is that he's got a direct link to th' Cutehoors. Turns out he picked up some sinner Freak, a while back, and burned him at a big ceremony, but.... Some of his parishioners helped the Freak to exscape, and later delivered him direct to th' Cutehoors."

" Really? How interesting. And what did th' Cutehoors do with him?"

" Probably ate him, for all I know."

The two of them laughed, like treacle on a hot day.

" Naw, he was listed as D.O.A. Its on the record," continued Davis. " But it's all there. Definite conspiracy between Sinners and th' Cutehoors. We've got it all. We've got the conspirators, still alive, and uh, with a spot of your medication, they'll be ready to confess on-screen. AND we've got this Firebrand, for the final touch. We got all this, we got Tidybeard hisself doing the Salvation thing... Hey, I think we got ourselves a ready-made ReVival, and a great chance to push th' Cutehoors out of Federation & Associated Territories."

" Well, I wouldn't be so sure about that... but I must say that I have changed banks, heh, heh, just to be on the safe side. Now, you," and for the first time, Boone addressed BoxingHeid directly, " what have you got for us? Anything fancy? And I don't mean any of your old tricks with the Tunnelweb Spiders... that stuff went out with the sluggin' ark."

" I am a plain man with a simple faith," began BoxingHeid, but was immediately interrupted by Boone.

" Yeah? That's all you got? Lissen son, and lissen good. This is a HARD business and you got to act professional. So, it's better to speak clear with us. We're giving you a great chance here, heading up a world2world broadcast. Think you can handle it? If you're nervous, well, we can soon sort that out for you... But don't go off getting any notions about yourself - you either stick exactly to the script you're given, or you're OUT. Now, you think there'll be any problemos with these people of yours? We don't want any slugg-ups. ...Uh?......Well?"

However, for the moment, the Rev. Dr. E.P. BoxingHeid found hisself totally lost for words.

III.

Back in the tunnels, th' two bhoys were amusing themselves with mucho wireplay and sarcastics. Moving on from the hostel /brewery link-up, they had easy roughplugged into main Federation lines, using the code2codes they had earlier lifted from Lolo's personal screen. Using these, they had ensured that extra supplies of foodstuff and games be delivered to the hostel, and also that the Security Forces be non-alerted to such goings-on and merriment. They also ordered a new set of leglegs for DeepFried Mary, and a UnContaminant kit, to sort out those long-time ulcers that so many of the `oul ones had got from only a-eating badgrub and no c-vitamins. But most o' the time they just flitched through the System, wisely only terrorising such sections as they could manage without detection and discovery. It was on one real early-morning bleary-eyed sweep through the wires that they hit what they were a-looking for and got REAL connected. Down at the nub-end of a triplenet circuit, was OnYa.

III.

Dr. Elimintado was a-worried. Nothing was happening. He had give forth scant info to the big cheeses, but nothing moaned, yet. Not even a memo. And just a while ago, even Tidybeard hisself had seemed so interested. Now, they were left all to themselves: him, OnYa, and his assistant, Lundy. Natural, Lundy was traitorous, and completely untrustworthy, wrinkling a nervous and spotty face over Elimintado's shoulder, when any new batch of results came up. But there had been nothing, absolutely nothing, strange registering on any of the equipment. OnYa was simply a perfectly abNormal and healthy child, albeit with very snail slow physical development, and inversely high cerebral activity, and nothing, not even a complete sectioning, could have found out the reason for this. He was sure of that. Still, he would rather have OnYa safe here with him, than anywhere else, and for that reason, he had been feeding Lundy a line about how a great discovery was just around the corner.

" Look, Lundy," he said, pointing toward a microscreen. " Can you detect any unusual activity in this sample, here? "

" What is it, doctor?," axed Lundy, twisting up his weasely face into the screen.

" Nasal mucus. Can you see anything different there? "

" Uh... W-w-what sort a-thing should I be looking for, doctor? I can't see anything extraordinary here..."

Hardly surprising, thought Elimintado, since it was a piece of mucus he had hextracted from his own nose, just minutes earlier.

" Well, perhaps it's too early to say, Lundy, but I think I can discern evidence of hunusual electro-chemical activity... It just might be the breakthrough we've been looking for. This could be IT, Lundy. My bhoy, this could get your name into the PsychoScience Testament... but quiet now, let's not say anything to anybody just yet. Let's get this clear and finalised first, eh ?"

" But D-D-Doctor...."

"Yes, Lundy, what is it ?"

The bhoy had gone all red and nervous. And the blush that had risen to his face, rising up from the white lab-coat, up the neck to pulsate on the shining greasiness of his thin face, reflect from his 2doubleX2 lenses, and red-radiate around the pus-filled whiteheads that speckled his forehead, was a sure sign that something was very wrong.

" What is it, Lundy ?," the doctor axed again, this time more insistently, and impatient. " For goodness sake, speak up, bhoy..."

" The b-b-b-baby-thing is a-going to get took away this afternoon, Doctor. Th-th-they don't want to hexperiment on her no more..."

While Dr. Elimintado, head a-spinnying, had to hold onto the workbench to keep steady, OnYa stirred herself in her cot. With tremendous concentration and willpower, she slowly began to move a thick little arm, and outstretched the digits of a fat little hand. Slowly, wavering, she raised the hand up towards her mouth, and delicately moved a fat wee thumb toward her mouth. The thumb touched lip and slobber, and proceeded, inward and onward. Then greedily, the chile started to suckle nosily at the thumb. Real, real happy.

## Chapter 23 – Do Thee Fandango

Yew A-Don't Need To Be Mad To Work Here, But It Sure Helps:/ Do thee Fandango/ Very, Very Frightening/ etc.

The PlainPope had hired the best available security engineers for th' KillTheatreHall, and had paid them the very highest rates and work-bonuses. He had feted them with good grub and doubleluxx; and then, when their U-hush secret work was a-finished, he had them all buried alive, so that their hush would be shushed for ever.

" Alive, alive-o," he had laughed, and had thought of organising a Flamenco contesto over the mass gravesite, but his attention had been distracted by the WarCrimes Commission or some such other trivial matter.

In front of the entrance, near where the retractable drawbridge drew up on the bank, he had a small, sign-posted, Visitor Information Booth built, where the curious who wanted to know more about the workings on the island, could come to nosy about. Naturally, the booth was feather-sensored, under-pitted, and electro rigged with a microbot vivisection team. And it did do exactly what it said it would - provide information - but only about the unfortunate visitors, and in a one-way direction.

Gorb had enough sense to know to steer well clear of the Information Booth, but the whole evil ambience of the place frightened him. He knew that the logical way to gain entrance was through the air-shafts, and he also knew that these would be heavily defended and fortified. He half felt like turning back and going home; but there was always OnYa now in the back of his head, urging him on, urging her Da on, and calling to him. Evidently, he had to take courage and forge ahead, but the idee of descending into tunnels again, especially THESE tunnels, scared his stomach to near-retching, and the knee-shakes.

" Hey bright bhoy, if I could have a wee word..." commed Jimmy, who was squirting around in the growing darkness, " don't be disgraced at yersel' for being a-feared of this place. This place was DESIGNED to be fearful. But I can dig that you're a wee bit worried about these here tunnel things. Well, according to me, that's good...Because, if you weren't worried, I would be. This is the kinda place where you keep yoursel' alive by being worried and ultracareful... But ah tell you one thing, bright bhoy, we's best to make a move now afore it gets real, real, dark, here, for there's things here that I don't like. All them swanky buildings that we passed, well, there ain't one single Gee in the whole lot, or none round here, either, and that makes me real nervy. We need to get down into them tunnels, pronto, or get back into that there boat thing and scootsy outta here. Why don't ya have a quick snifter around and see what you can sniff."

The airshaft entrances were, of course, well hid, and Gorb knew that there would be false openings and dead ends. However, even after just a quick survey, Gorb had a fair idee of where the general location of the main shafts were. They were just where he hisself would have built them, hidden among the cluster of buildings on the right, which the jungle had now reclaimed. Sniffing real hard, and tasting, he could feel a current of fungi millionspores mill and weave around his nostrils and mouth. Sniffing, sniffling, tasting, he followed his nose along and across to the smallest of the three low buildings. Each of the buildings had an identical chimney, but the one on the end, which was obscured by a large Palm, fountain spouted million mould spores into the thick tropic air. Here was one of the main Inlet/Outlets, routed through the chimney of the little building.

" Right," commed Jimmy, " here we go. And it's a-okay wi' me, for I have a feeling that if we stay around here much longer, the two of us is both are a-gonna get sluggin' ... EATEN."

With Jimmy clinging tight, Gorb pulled hisself up onto the roof, and cautiously approached the chimney. As he suspected, the roof itself was charged with explosive and boobied. On the chimney brace, hidden in a recess, there was a small numeric keypad, which he ignored, reaching up instead, to simply unclip the chimney hatch itself. Anyone who paused to footer with the keypad would immediately have got big-banged. Real shaft engineers wouldn't have the time to mess with such numeric nonsense, having real work and other paid jobs to get on to. Then he pushed the hatch back on its palastic-coated runners, to reveal the shaft itself, cool and damp and cavernous, and, when he reached a careful hand in and hit the switch, lit right down to the first maintenance level below, half a kilometre below the surface. They were in.

Evident, the first hurdle-trap at the top of the tunnel was the bestest and most expensive military gadgetware that looted credit could buy at the time. It was triple anti-peep-plated and came with the toppest wired circuitry of its day – guaranteed maximum impact on soft targets – gauged in crucial symmetry and costing more than all of Maim Inc. previous products stuck together. Gorb looked at it careful, recognised the design. He pulled a micro screwdriver outta his pocket, poked at it, and it fell apart in a rustle of metal decay and obselete uselessness.

Below the first maintenance level there were a few other hurdle-traps to get through. There were evenly spaced electro eyes, which Gorb got Jimmy to bypass, crawling, and then turn off at the junction boxes. There were a series of rudimentary piston guillotines and netcatchers of an ancient type, which Gorb hadn't seed since he was a pup, which were simple to get through (as long as you knew how to keep clear of the trigger mechanism). And there were banks of sensor blades, which Gorb bypassed, simply, by isolating their power supply, after re-rigging their alarm circuits. It was difficult, dangerous, but all stuff that Gorb had done before, either for mine security, or as a pup, snegging through the KEEP OUT tunnels for fun. Jimmy was almost impressed. After an hour of careful climbing and un-wiring, they had reached the sump of that first main shaft, and a exit doorway.

" Well, what do we do now, eh, Gorb? How do we get through that there doorway?"

" You see that thing there?"

" Yes?."

" Well, that's what's called a door handle."

Gorb grabbed the handle and turned it, and the door opened smooth. A long lush-lit and carpeted tunnel stretched forward into a series of immense chambers. These were the internals of thee KillTheatreHall.

## Chapter 24 – A Man of Hi Principle

Marshall O'Duffy and Friends: / A Man of Hi Principle / etc./ An Hexpected Come Doon.

Pensive and lardfull, Marshall O'Duffy paused, and let the air from his massive blue-shirted guts exhale slowly, heavily. Although the air-conditioning in the Security Forces headquarters was adequate, and that in his own personal chamber triple efficient, he was perspiring heavily. All this talk of War and a New ReVival made him nervous, uncomfortable. And then there was Dick Tidybeard, and that young man was always trouble. Tidybeard was too clever, too powerful, too rich, too ambitious, and only two metres away from the Marshall, peering closely at him with those cold blue eyes of his.

" No, Mister Tidybeard, I'm afraid you're well out of your depth, here. We don't just turn round and start what amounts to a War with th' Cutehoors, just because you've got some personal vendetta planned... Oh, no. The Security Forces have no particular beef with th' Cutehoors. Quite the contrary, in fact. Just recently, we applied for new Bigfunding from that, um, direction. New equipment is needed for COIN work in the 535/74 sector - we've had a nasty outrash of rebellion there, most unpleasant. And this mutiny, this sinfection, needs to be treated, before it can spread further. I've advised total decontamination of the whole area - and y'know, that sort of heavy work costs credit..."

" I see...," said Tidybeard, footering with his little beard in a wholly unnecessary and very annoying manner. And then he lent forward, smiling, and gesturing in an improperly informal fashion. " Would it be rude of me to enquire... how much credit have you yourself stashed in Cutehoor placements?"

" Why that is an OUTRAGEOUS slander!!," blustered the Marshall. " Young man, do you know I could have you burned for such impertinence! The very idee that I could be connected with illegal dealings or financial irregularities..."

" My personal a-counters reckon that it could be in the region of 26 million credits. Would that be about right? Naturally, we have assembled more than enough proof to get you cashiered and branded. Misappropriation of Security Force funds is a serious offence."

The Marshall THUMPED the desk in front of him, thick blood vessels surging, neck purple. There was a pistol in his holster, and he was reaching for it.

" IF YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH...."

" I don't think, anything, Marshall. But I do know that you will be interested to learn that I can offer you 33 million credits and a substantial share-holding in Tidybeard Banking plc. You see, any possible losses you may make if those wretched OutWorld freaks, th' Cutehoors, are expelled from Federation systems, will be more than covered... In fact, you'll make a handsome profit."

" Lissen, you don't seem to realise what you're axing... You can't go starting a War, just when you feel like it..."

" Who said anything about a War? This is just Alien Repatriation, due to an upsurge in Religious sentiment. Look, Marshall, this just what the Federation needs... You yourself were talking about the rash of mutinies springing up all over the colonies. There's slackness and Sin all over; morale is at rock bottom. Ever since that, uh, reconciliation with those ghastly Igfarbens, the Federation has been falling apart. A New ReVival is hexactly what it needs. Glue the whole thing back together again with a dab ov SuperHate and viciousness."

" Well, there's a lot of things to be considered... Th' Cutehoors keep a tight grip on the economies of many of our OtherWorld allies, and...."

At that moment, one of Tidybeard's underlings appeared, unannounced, and she bounced over to whisper something in his ear, and then the two of them smiled and sniggered, rudely. Then, just as quickly as she had appeared, she waggled herself across the chamber, still snickering dirtily, and disappeared.

" Dammit, Tidybeard," muttered O'Duffy, " this is most irregular. Do you always have your staff prance around nudely naked? "

" Not always," grinned Tidybeard. " Pretty little thing, isn't she? She just popped in to tell me that we now have all of the Most Holys on our side, and all the Grand Bishops, too. They can all see the wisdom of a General Cleansings and Purification. Oh, and by the way, if you decide to, uh, work on our team, she'll be attached to your staff, as your Very Personal Assistant. I've told her to be ready to start right away - if that's what you want ? "

" Humph," mugged the Marshall, taking out a stiffly starched h-panky and wiping the sweat from round his thick turkeyed neck, his shining forehead.

" Of course, this means that we'll have to reactivate th' PlainPope..."

" Now that," nodded Tidybeard, real serious, " would be just perfect."

II.

The improved conditions in th' hostel couldn't last. Big Joe G and Mary BellHead knew that, and come forward to tell th' bhoys. Thing was, wi' the goodgrub and medication, but most especially wi' the super supplies o' Electric Souper10s, the hostel had become more popular with ReTired miners than a ice house in a heat wave. The place was full to bursting already, and there was no way they were a-going to be able to keep the improved conditions secret for much longer.

" Ah'm no so much worried about meself," warned Mary, keeping her heavy, strange shaped head, on one side of her shoulder, " it's youse two wee bhoys. Youse have yer hole lives to live yet. Ye'll have to get as far away from all this as ye can. Us, we're all for the big chop, as soon as the Security Forces come doon on us, and that'll no be long... Have yis no Ma or Da ye could go back to? "

Th' bhoys studied her with careful disinterest, just as they had Joe G, when he had given then the same advice. And then, they went back to their wiring, fine studying the intricate details of the Farpoint 9 security system.

It was time to move on.

## Chapter 25 - Splendour

Splendour In Thee Grabs: / Showed In WideScreen/ Sixpack to Go at Hangover Tavern/ Continental ReStyling/ Tear It Up !/ etc.

After their exertions, and the sharp danger they had been in, their emergence from the airshaft had been a welcome anti-climax for both Jimmy and Gorb. Gorb's high level adrenaline was still a-pump-pumping, nerves rattling and trousers edgy. Jimmy was double invisible, a mere nothing beneath Gorb's shirt, wee claws holding so tight, that the skin was near broke, and bloody. Not wanting to go no further without resting, the two a them flapped down on the carpetpile in the smallest ball they could make, and real quiet quiet quiet sensed, or tried to sense, what type-a-thing thing lurked, ahead. What was the presence here? On this level, Jimmy was well glad to feel nowt, only dead corridors and nothing, nothing living, everything clean and not even a cobweb, not even a tasty spider to mosh. Far below, on what seemed to be the next level down, there was a faint trace of juicy Cricketry, cheep-cheeping. And that, as far as he could trace, was the only living liveform in the hole place. Sure, there was some mechanical activity, some stupit steel and palastic non-creations scraping and rasping, screen flickers; but no important cellular electro-chemical noises. Gorb could feel nothing neither, but he wasn't sure whether that was because there was nothing there, or just because he couldn't sense all that keen. All he could get was a faint fog of mould spores, drifting on the air currents, and getting poisoned if they settled anywheres; this was all strictly antiseptic, sceptical territory. There was nothing living here; they were alone, and safe, at least for the time being, if Gorb's calculations were correct. The systems, this far down, would not be sensored or set for intruders, and at this depth, in the kernel of the complex, they should be wild-free and secure. The only danger came from the microbots, and mainly for wee Jimmy. The microbots were tiny, animated, maintenance devices programmed for x-termination, dis-infestation and ultra-clean. But as long as Jimmy glue-stuck to Gorb, he would be safe. So, they sat and rested, further, till at least some of the jitteriness died down, ate what was left of Mrs Cartwright's grubsteaks, and just plain sat and let the bone-tiredness seep and settle over them like the familiar smell of an old blanket-bawg.

After they had rested long enough for Gorb to get near sleepy-headed, and for Jimmy to get night-hungry, again, both decided that it was essential to move forward, hexplore, probe the system, find cover and supplies, perhaps weapons. There was no point in lying here in an open corridor, a-waiting. They must move forward. As they slowly and edgily edged forward, sticking close to the side of the tunnel, the automatic lighting systems opened, and closed, in front and behind them; their past was darkened, their foreways brightened. They passed through a succession of enormous chambers, zoo penned and caged, some with huge water tanks, now dry, where there had evidently been an evil menagerie of some sort. Judging from the thick grid-bars and chain, it was obvious that some wildly hungry creatures had lived here. And, emerging into the largest chamber they had discovered yet, they realised that these had been the quarters of th' PlainPope's sport-beasts, hauled raw-struggling from a hundred untamed worlds, to perform in this intimate arena, where a smirking PlainPope could entertain hisself and his luxury guests to a feast of superbly staged cruelty.

This was thee KillTheatreHall.

One end of the arena was beast-caged and gated, the other, the evident prisoners' entrance... Although the tiled and marbled floor was dust-free and micro-bot clean now, the shrieks and howls of the unsettled dead scraped at Gorb's nerves, and had him hurrying on.

The next, smaller, chamber was a CC-control point, whose desks, still active, remained untidy [though sterile] with koffee cups and plates, 2Chewchoosey wrappers, military memos, and Death warrants; all the debris of a busy Forces centre. All had been left uncleared, in the melee to exscape. Grey screens still buzzed and buxxed, panel diodes bleeped and reddened, greened. To one side of the control panel, there was a weapons rack, open, with spilled snR-82 cartridges, lying dull and brassy on the floor, beside two of the short barrelled rifles themselves. There were boxes of blastpacks, thick jellied packages of TuffTex, flasks of various types of Biotoxin. Gorb clattered through these scattered weapons and made for one of the still opened key-consoles. He waved a metal arm, slow, in front of the monitor, and the power-saving sensor blipped the screen to ON. Although there was near-everything about the system he couldn't understand, he could at least key into the layout plan, and the basic security network. Firstest thing, he short-cutted through to the microbot programme files, and tried his best to regurgitate what little he knew about resetting microbot parameters; but it was all complicated codeNcode and hogwash. And he got a-scared that he would make some real basic slugg-up and the hole thing would clamm up, and get them both plugged into real, real, real deep darkness, so... So, he a-sorta panicked and hit the switch to turn the whole microbot section to OFF. No more antiseptic ambience in th' KillTheatreHall, no. No more. Now germs and moulds and flies and spiders could settle all over, wi' out getting a-zapped by microbotic disinfecters. Now, the place was going to become organic, dusty and dirty, crawling. Filthy.

" Are yew SURE them things is all a-turned off? Positive?," commed Jimmy anxiously. " Whaa iv there's some o' them sluggers hanging around that ain't got the signal or sumthin'?"

Gorb checked through the screen and there was the warning again on the main security menu: `Microbotic Systems OFF; Danger of Infection' and it was a-flashing, like it was a-kinda hexcited.

" Sure, I'm sure, Jimmy. You're even safer than I am, now..."

Jimmy relaxed his grip, and stretched his wee legs. Then very cautiously, he got down off Gorb, and had a scurry around. He found a microbot in its niche on the desktop and stalked right up to it, then stuck out a wee sticky tongue and gulped it. He crunched, munched, and spat.

" Naw, sluggin' ug-awful. ...Hey bhoy, where is there anywhere we's can get some basterd thing to eat `round here...?"

II.

Th' PlainPope had been a country bhoy, born and bred. Came from way out in the Yonder Mountains; log cabin, and bear-steaks on a Sunday. In times of trouble, stress, whenever he couldn't think of any new punishments to inflict, reasons to dhestroy OtherWorld civilisations, he would let hisself wander back to the blue Yonder, and the cool woods, the happy days he had as a bhoy, tying SquirrelFolk to Ant-nests. So, whenever he had planned for his bigsleep, his uh, rest away from the annoying pressures of infernal politics and bothersome economics, he included many relics of his country boyhood in the screen loops which would constantly refresh his pleasantdream-time. More concretely, he had a bio-engineer quick

construct a clever biotope for a colony of Green Wood Crickets, whose singing would serenade him through his years of sleep, just as they had Yonder. The Crickets lived and thrived in a palastic tank next to the PlainPope's grand sepulchre, cheeping and chirping, their music sweet and soothful to his unconscious ears.

These were the crickets whom Jimmy had heard; and these were the crickets whom Jimmy was now D-doublegreedy to devour. Gorb and him had come down to the lower level to investigate, because as far as Gorb was able to find on any of the screens, the only lifesigns in the entire complex faint-throbbed from this sector; what's more there was triple security down there - something important. So, Gorb had got hisself all weaponed up, and quadruple-scared, left the safe feeling of the CC-control room and headed down. And on this lower level, in a vast and intricate mausoleum, they had found th' PlainPope. And that had REAL bad frightened Gorb, terrified. Not just the kooky place, all huge high-ceilinged gold, and oil painting covered, but the banks of tombs - the BIG BHOY in the middle, wi' his wimmenFolk all around.

" D-d-don't touch that thing!," Gorb hissed at Jimmy.

The big tomb was all dialled and top-job sensored, way beyond anything Gorb had NEVER seen before.

" Uh, can't ya jist turn th' slugger off, or sumthin?" queried Jimmy, who was feeling bad-starved. " Is it that difficult for a, uh, big bright bhoy like you? Ah'm a-sluggin' starving... Ah could ate a chile's arse throughthe back ov a chair..."

" Touch that thing and the hole place is liable to go up... Gives me the creepys..."

" Hmnn." Jimmy circled round the tomb, while bug-eyeing the insects, hungrily. He noticed that there was a small hatch in the palastic casing of the Cricket cage, and this, he opened with a little neat fingered paw. Then Jimmy crawled in, while Gorb scanned the room anxiously. There were no obvious eye-spys or sensors, but there was no way Gorb would risk even going NEAR the huge and elegant plinth, on which the largest of the suspended animation tanks rested. No way, baby. Meanwhile there was a rustling and a-crunching from the Cricket cage.

In his dreams, th' PlainPope turned and a-wrassled, like as if some presence had come to haunt him.

It was, a-huh, all a wee bit too much for Gorb. He had a-come a longggg way, done a lotta strangestuff, but this place and these living tombs, well, it was just too much BAD. What was more, there was all these wrong screens all around the place, that swung into go-motion as they passed; nearly all back playing tapes of some kinda sic-o-porn, or worsed, sections of Beast War from thee KillTheatreHall. There seemed to big millions of it: every horror of horror from all the many years of persecution, taped, stockpiled, and all ready for constant replay; like as though the pain-sufferation of the poor crathurs needed constant scream squealing repetition. On their way back from th' PlainPope's Deathsleep chamber, coming back down an ornate hallway, heavy with softscent and dripping with overcurtain, a widescreen blipped on. A widescreen flashing bloody reptile teethed type-a-thing, jaw-squashing and chawing, on an innocent's furry wee head, squealing. Gorb clawed pincers over his ears, and flew down to the floor, retching, and real bad sick. He fell down on his knees.

Here was a man who could just not take any more of this, not any more. No more, this poison. And though it was a real crazy stupit thing to do, he turned the blunt snout of his snR-82 rifle toward the scream-screen and jerked the trigger BAMBAM-BLAMBAMBAM-BAMBAM... It made like a real BIG noise in that quiet quiet, and the screen SHATTERED, imploded, and evaporated in a dust of masonry and plaster.

And he thought to hisself: LOOK, if you is any kind ov a man, you would take youself back there and do the same thing to that Sleeping Brute in there, and give the kiss o' Death to him, no matter what it costs to you;.. But, for one thing, Gorb was scared that it simply wouldn't work, for he was near positive sure that the tomb-womb's double casing was blast proof; and the other thing was that he didn't wanna die just yet, for he had work to do. Work - many, many things, amongst which was exorcising this foul palace. It made him feel SICK.

One of the next chambers they passed through was a kitchenette/larder, full of sealed frigos, racks of allsorts, and an electroshelving system which - according to its menulist - could recall near anything possible in the way of luxury grubstuff. Nothing had been two good for th' PlainPope staff. Gorb tapped down for two cooool cases of Jolly, and a litre bottle of 200 year old McKinley. Jimmy was anxious to get a go at this system thing, too, exspecially grub-wise, but his wee belly was still so stretched full of Cricket that he was literally unable to move. So he just hung onto Gorb till the two o' them got back to the CC-control point, where Gorb cleared a desk, and sat hisself down for a go at cleansing out the hole system of all this Pain. He poured a good many gubfuls of McKinley's into a beaker, popped open a Jolly, and gulped. Jimmy didn't like what Gorb was feeling: real bad for the digestion. So, he took hisself up to the downside of the ceiling and had hisself a wee sleep.

III.

Red flashing, BLEEP BLEEEP, BLEEP BLEEEP, BLEEP BLEEEP. Whaaaa? Whaaaaaa? There was some kinda alarm a-going off, and Gorb didn't know A-WHERE he was. He had got dead drunk, batting hard at a screen through most of the night, cleaning out all them horror-historytapes. Had drank a whole half a-bottle of McKinley's, half a case of Jollys; but you had need of it for a work like that. Jimmy, he woke up with all this sluggin' BLEEEP-ing, and near fell off the ceiling. There was all these screens a-coming on, and lights a-flashing on and off, all over the console. INTERCRAFT APPROACHING. On the big screen on the middle of the deskspace there was a visual of the intruder: some old battered freighter, careering along in swerves and curves, bouncing from one side of the sky to the other.

" What the slugg? Either that pilot is drunk, or he's taking some pretty mental evasive maneovures..."

Jimmy, curious, come down off the ceiling and took up his perch on Gorb's shoulder.

" Slugg! Who could it be? That basterd Perving? I KNEW you should have killed him" he squeaked, peering hard at the screen with still sleepy eyes. " You'd better play this well sluggin' careful. Heh?"

A new set of lights on the console, flashed on, and a targeting scope centred on the craft. The automatic firing system was now coming into operation, and outside, way up top, black cannon bristled, swivelling in permagreased turrets. Firing in five seconds, blipped the system, firing in four seconds, blipped the system, firing in three...

Naw. Gorb punched a button and uh, nothing happened Then he panicked a bit and tried another panel. Again, nothing happened. Firing in two seconds, blipped the system.

" STOP THAT," shouted Gorb, and his fist pounded the console. It stopped. On the screen, they could see the craft making a wild landing approach, way too fast. It hit the ground, bounced, scraped a long violent scrape of a path through low overgrowth, and finally, came to a very shaky halt, just short of the canal.

" Well, whoever th' slugg it is, I know one thing," pipped Jimmy.

" What ?"

" We're a-safe here. There's no way any slugger could get to us in here."

The door of the hulk opened and several figures emerged. There was a party of what, from the state of their overalls and staggering, looked like a bunch of inebriated miners; and among them, a pair o' twin bhoys, fleshly joined at shoulder and hip.

" I wouldn't, " said Gorb, seeing his own two bhoys and lighting up into a big grinning and heart bursting wi' happy, " be so sure about THAT."

IV.

Natural, Gorb Ingordo wanted to run up and out to his beloved Sins, see the crowd hembraced, tears a dribbling and mucho slobbering - " I am so glad to see you, my sons." The bhoys, his bhoys....

Naw, naw, naw, no. That was in some kinda scenario in the back o' Gorb's head, but in real-time, it was not quite like that. For in the firstest place, Gorb was so hunged-overed that to even look sideways at a screen got him pained, belly twisting; and in the second place, he had no idee how to open the gate or doorways, or turn the surface-level security systems to OFF. His head was so bad that Jimmy couldn't stand to stick besides him, and took hisself back to the ceiling.

" Whose is these peoples? For us, or agin us?"

The sore in Gorb's head was too sharp to give any kinda serious answer, so he just nod-nodded and went on, poking and a-footering at the console to see if he could get anything to WORK, slugg it. And in the meantime, some o' the miners were getting real close to the Visitor's Information Centre, while some of the others were arguing and a-wrassling and had nearly fell in the canal. Gorb kept on punching and bleeping, pulling switches and clicking, but still, nothing worked.

After about half an hour, Gorb had near give up, and his guts had got so churned up with the nervyness of it all, that he had thought he was a-goin' to pass out, altogether. But he kept on trying, and trying and trying and eventually, he hit on the right screen-panel and stuff begun to happen. The security cordon lights changed from red to green and he could see in the monitor that the drawbridge was hextending itself out and opening. Brilliant.

Gorb went away up through the shafts like a wild thing, MAD to see his bhoys. At the surface, he ran right over and out, clomping along the numEtal of the drawbridge and scaring some o' th' miners who were, quite natural - never having been hunder a sky before - were petrified forest, or shaky. Gorb comes a charging out, over the drawbridge toward them, numEtal arms swinging, and the nixt thing ye know, powPOWPOWPOW powPOW POWPOWpow, - Some of the miners had opened up, with the hotfire weaponry they had lugged from Hell's Half Acre. How were they to know who'd this crazy case was? Lucky, all them 'uns that was shooting, was more than half juiced on the XXtra supplies of Electric-Souper10s they had ported to keep unthirsty and sane. So, all Gorb suffered was some dust in his throat, and a bad case of the shakys. It was his bhoys who saved him, holding their outer hands up, and running toward him. They were followed by the Johnny Burnetter Trio, triplet miners joined at the waist, who had took a real interest in th' bhoys and give them many good tips on joined-up survival, as well as the basics of rock-a-billy guitar. There was big dark-skinned Chester in the middle, with paleface Johnny on one side, and Dorsey on th' other. Those Burnetter bhoys were No-Messers, and they come up behind Gorb and th' bhoys wi' an assortment of blasters and flameguns, primed ready to protect the young'uns.

It was a kinda awkward moment, but Munchi & Culchi signalled th' Burnetters to drop snout their weapons. And they approached their Pappy, real warmly. Gorb, he was gasping, and near witless - thought for a minute he'd been shot - but then he seed his bhoys a-coming toward him. And then, then he just knew that everything was a-gonna turn out fine. He opened his metal arms and held them out to th' twins and th' two bhoys hopped up, and into them. They turned their two wee faces up towards a hug for him, all shy smiling, then twisted and each nipped a wee piece offa his ears.

" Yargghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!," Gorb squealed, and then give over into a-laffin' guffle, which mingled with the sniggers of th' two bhoys.

His two Good Sins.

Onced Gorb had told the miners who'd he was, Pappy of the bhoys, all o' them was all anxious to shake with him, and do mucho backslappin' about what a proud Pop he should be, and what a wondrous, wondrous, pair a bhoys he was so lucky to have haved. And how PROUDED he must be. And what a good job he had done a-bringing them up, right. Well... Th' Burnetters had turned up a jug a' moonshine from somewheres - Chester got to howlin' like a wolf - and near insisted that Gorb join them for a sup. But even the near smell of it, half killed Gorb, and reminded him of how bad hungovered he felt. So, he just let the miners get on with it. Th' miners were all having a big jamboree - those that weren't terminal suffering from agoraphobic panic - sitting around the battered shiphulk, and plinking guitars and mandolins and singing the favourite favourites, while they wide eyed read the sky of Murphy's Reef. The firstest sky most had ever touched.

Gorb was busy wi' his bhoys and they had plenty to talk about.

" Now, bhoys, " he axed, feeling just real good to be able to feel them beside him, " how in the hell did yis find me?"

Culchi mungled something quiet, but Gorb couldn't made out what it was. Munchi repeated it, only louder, but still Gorb couldn't get it.

" Huh! Youse Peoples..." sneered Jimmy, who had just appeared, after - more than a wee bit scared - following the stink of Gorb up through the shafts and velveteened corridors, " you cain't even hunderstann yer own wee'uns? Hincredible! These pups o' yourn, they says... They says that OnYa sent them."

" ONYA sent you ?? "

And the two wee heads nodded, vigorously.

" They says that...." continued Jimmy, " that wee OnYa wants you and me to go and get her, right away. They says she's been a-calling you all along, but you ain't heard her, seems like. Seems like the poor wee thing is in some kinda BAD trouble."

## Chapter 26 - Dr. Morell Prescribes Thee UnWell

I Believe In Th' Man In Th' Sky: / Dr. Morell Prescribes thee UnWell/ etc./ A Rash Decision/ Eat Yerself Fitter.

Dick Tidybeard was NOT in a happy mood. That nasty little rash, which the incompetent Dr. Capol had failed to cure, was spreading, and now a crust of raw redness had sprung up around his neck. He would have to wear some kind of scarf during the B-broadcast, and that would be totally out of character from the scratch-cloth and ashes he had planned. Bah. One of those niggly little things, and it was threatening to spoil his big day. Normally, he would have been delighted with such an outcome, and would have spent feverish hours sweating through self-diagnosis screens in delicious shivering anticipation that he had contacted some alien horror-plague. Or some incurable and devastating tissue devouring virus, some dread lurgy that would have him expiring on his beloved sick-bed, while millions wept, and faithful underlings leapt from Tidybeard towers, to become sacrifice-topped pizza on the piazza, far below. Huh.

" Some mere psychosomatic condition," the dreary doctor had droned. "Obviously, your nerve endings are affected, and your auto-immune systems are not as, uh, healthy as they might be... So, this little hinfection has managed to creep in. Have you got something on your mind, Dick? Some business worries? Perhaps you're preoccupied about that feisty young wife of yours who disappeared, so suddenly? Could it be that your conscience is up-pricking you, somewhat? Haruumphh? " and at that point, he had pulled one of those awful faces of his. "In any case, I'm prescribing complete rest and recreation. And I advise you to take a longggg holiday on a Countryside. Why don't you take up golf? Your father and I often..."

Blah blah blah. Him and the elder Tidybeard had wasted manys an hour footering about, and the old fool had even squandered substantial share-holding as a gift to the doctor. The share-holding was one of the reasons why Tidybeard kept the doctor around, and another one was that Tidybeard wanted to prove the oily headed old creep WRONG. So Capol thought Tidybeard was a lesser man than his father, huh? Well, we'll SEE about that. If Dick could get, uh, an accident arranged for his father, then surely a trifling problem like Capol could be sharply dealt with....

He leant forward, and waved the bott-bott to ON, summoned Davis. The underling dropped hot koffee, and scurried in, brushing ugly crumbs from his sticky lips, nervous.

" Davis, get me Doctor Morell. Tell him I said he was to bring his special black bag over, at once. I don't feel well..."

" Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, sir...," mumbled Davis, his mouth still full of cake.

" Just shut up, you idiot, and lissen... After you've contacted Morell, I want you to do a full job on that old fool, Capol, that's just left. Find out any little weaknesses he might have. See if there's any way we could persuade him to let us have his share-holdings. Then arrange for a very subtle and VERY quiet termination. Got it? And Davis? What's that red thing on your hand ?? "

"Oh...Oh, it's n-n-nothing, sir. Just some little skin infection, sir. The doctor says it's nothing, just a little..."

" Ugh. Disgusting. Get rid of it.... Right, get out of my sight."

" Thank you, sir."

Hmnnn. Davis? Could he have got the rash from Davis? How awful, how banal. Well, onced his little bits of work was finished, Davis would have to go. Definite. Such a dull fellow, anyhow.

II.

Melvin Darling, the B-broadcast programme director, was at his wit's end. Not only was there a big problemo with Boone, who, since this whole major New ReVival broadcast plan had started, had been constantly on the nod, way over-doing it on that there stuff that was never even to be mentioned, and falling over half-dead into his soup, near all the time. Then, there was this new preacher, who was turning out to be a real prima donna, insisting that he knew how to build a better burnfire than studio technicians with forty years experience. And finally, there was this new crop of Sinners, Freak strikers, and mutineers, who sang all the time and went round a-hugging and touching each other and who didn't behave at all like the bunch of criminal a-foamin' at the mouth dEvils, that they were. Although... the a-foamin' at the mouth bit could be coped with, alright; a wee taste of poisoned special effect could soon take care o' that, and everything would be alright on the night. However, the main thing was that they just didn't act like a bunch of unFolk who were about to be burned alive. Worst was that mutineer soldier, Priestley, and he was giving wild bad example to the others. That hillbilly bhoy was not clear-headed enough to repent his ghastly fallacy and beg forgiveness. Not only was Priestley unContrite, but he was encouraging the others to quit yawping and weeping and to put on a happy face. A happy face? Why, Priestley was so wickedly hoptimistic that he had even got through to that wretched girl, Sarah Trembling, and even got her to a-smilin'. And Darling had caught the two o' them holding manacled hand to hand. Whatever next? Right from the start, Darling had known that Priestley bhoy was up to something, and he had told him so:

" Bhoy, if you're looking for trouble, you sure have come to the right place...".

But the Priestley bhoy had hardly paid him no heed, and just give him back a curled lip sneer, and a mumble. Straight away, Melvin had gone directly to Boone and complained, warning him about the problems this creature could make. Boone had been too out of it to reply, far lost in some far distant place of mind. When Darling eventually did manage to catch Boone semi-coherent, Boone would only mumbly that it was out of his hands, that all the strikers and mutineers were to go in the Frontfire, and that was on the orders of Marshall O'Duffy, hisself. Well, at least, there would be so much else a-goin on, that even if this Priestley did make a nuisance of hisself, well, the cameras could just quick cut to some other spectacle, like the Baby dEvil Roast, for instance. Man, this was a-goin' to be some show.

III.

Marshall O'Duffy paused for a moment, and stalled a podgy finger in mid-air. This was one of those Great Moments of History, and he wanted to savour it. Resurrecting th' PlainPope would be the most important action he had ever personally undertaken. True, his was a military career that had been blighted by a lack of major warfare, apart from that er, desultory affair with th' Igfarbens, which, in retrospect, they would have been well advised to avoid. O'Duffy had been one of the few winners in that campaign, mainly because he was the only one on the general staff who could control the whims of the Great Leader. It was O'Duffy who had persuaded th' PlainPope to, uh, hibernate for a while and avoid all that nasty Inquiry and Crime Commission nonsense... And now, it would be O'Duffy who would ReActivate th' Great One, brief him on their new campaign, and join him on a shining numEtal throne of power. This time... This time, there would be NO mistakes and NO interference from Cutehoor economists to spoil things. This time. And he reached on forward and tapped the codeNcode sequence into the system. To his delight, the System responded perfectly, just as it should, and began the gentle process of awakening th' PlainPope, who lay far, far, away, still unaware of the great chance fate was sending him, the chance to total dhestroy those wretched financial chains with which th' Cutehoors had so tightly bound him.

IV.

Sarah Trembling was desperately worried. Not just about the fate of herself, but even worsed about poor Sister Jessica. When captured, back in Vileness, Jessica had confessed all to BoxingHeid, swore Oaths of Allegiance, and even cursed her own compassion. All in an effort to get BoxingHeid to promise to go easy on her young sister, and, at the very least, let her End be swift and merciful. Poor Jessica had bare knee-knelt on flinty ground, and begged BoxingHeid to give Jessica herself the very worstest, the longest and the slowest and the most gorysome tortures, if only, if ONLY, he would consent to spare her young sister pain. Natural, BoxingHeid had accepted this public confession in the town square, front of a jeering mob, and then leerily P-preached that this was a fine straight-forward example of bitchcraft, of how pity, tenderness, and weakness, had infested this soft creature, played her into the hands of many dEvils, and corrupted her very soul. BoxingHeid had promised her, his voice rising to a ROAR, that he would be merciful, alright; promised her that he would keep Jessica's Sufferations till last, so that she could savour thee s-l-o-w Sanctification of her Sister Sarah. Righteousness would illuminate thee dismemberin' of the weakness that had corrupted her - and so she would come to know TRUE repentance. From then on, Jessica had simply collapsed, had refused to eat, had to be forced to sip water, and had taken no interest in the extraordinary a-goings on, which had them transportated from the dust of Vileness to the electroshock and mesh cages of Boone Plc studios in Satellite City.

Here it was, in these rusty cages, that Sarah Trembling had met Priestley. Priestley, the true soldier, who had refused to War upon the striking miners, had revolted into a mutiny, and who now was to join them in a prime-time burnfire. The sweet things that Priestley had tole her, his warm hands almost touching her against the mesh, had dragged Sarah Trembling from a state of hideous, howling, wretchedness and filth, to a calm and greened place. She had joined Priestley in his gentle memories of his Maw and Paw Cartwright, soft evenings watching the sun go down on Murphy's Reef, and scenting the smell of the nightjungle blossoms. Priestley's calm, and his courage, travelled through the group cages, as he sang the Hymns and Holy songs that his so-loving Maw had taught him; and his fellow mutineers, strikers, and Sinners stopped their self-pitying whining and crying and instead listened, intent. Soon, some were joining in, and glorious sound brought succour to their misery. Sarah Trembling's stout little heart swelled, and pumped harder, to hear Priestley's fine voice cry out loud and strong around those grisly metal and palastic pens. And just to be close to such vitality, in such a foulstink place, made her feel much stronger, and abler to cope with the horrordeal that was to come. And in the quiet of the night, she crouched low in the corner, blanketed where the eye-spy could least see her, and whispered across to the soldier. He was a fine looking bhoy, tall but fine boned, sharp cheeked like herself, with a big whop of crow-black hair which he constantly groomed and worked at, nestling it back up into a quiff-yoke with handfuls of dinner-grease. He remained proud-headed and bright shiny eyed, immune to the jeers of the sniggering Guard-U. Sarah Trembling whispered over to him `bout Sister Jessica and how sick he was, and how she didn't know what to do. And Priestley had said,

" Lissen, Miss Sarah, this is what we'll do... You tell your Sister Jessica that ol' Priestley Cartwright, here, says that everything is a-gonna be alright, for everybody. Tell her ol' Priestley's gotta sorta feelin', that says that there's Folk that's a-on their way to come and get us outta here, and not to worry. Tell your Sister Jessica that her and ALL these unFolks is all a-going to be just fine, and free as a bird. Yes, sir. Tell her, though, that YOU needs her now, to help you and to lead the unFolk, for we have a ways to go yet. Tell her that she needs to feed and git her strength up. ...And tell your good sister Jessica that I'm singing this here song for her... "

At that point, Priestley paused and looked over real close at her. He got all red and flustered and nervous, and got to stuttering.

" A-A-And it's for you too, S-S-Sarah Trembling, and I'm a-gonna axe you one favour in return... W-W-When they go to put us on that burnfire, well, I want to be close to you, miss... I want to be with you. And I want you to be looking out and looking over at me, too. Huh? "

Sarah Trembling reached out and held her hand as close to the electro-shock mesh as she dared, and Priestley did the same. And then he began to sing, and he sang, with a great liquid and strong voice.

" I believe in th' Man in th' sky,

I believe with His help, we'll get by...."

## Chapter 27 \- Thee Poor Porks That Had Been Roared

Re-Turnings : / Did You Mean, JellyBean [What You Said, CabbageHead]? / Slim Jim Figgerty Found / Graphic Needs of High End Users / Thee Poor Porks That Had Been Roared / etc./ 'Oul Crocs.

Jimmy was a-getting more than a wee bit fed up wi' the way that th' miners gawked at him, and regarded him as some kinda pet or decoration. Some of the wimmen had even axed Gorb where he had got the lovely wee animated brooch, while some of the others had wondered how Gorb had managed to teach the thing to communicate. Jimmy was thinking that he should have stayed smart and kept hid, remained a pale rider of a shadow, invisible. But he had just got caught up in the hole excitement of the moment, when he had come up to the surface. In the meantime, with Gorb's help he got the miners as assembled as he could, and using Gorb as interpreter and voicebox, gave them a talking to, try to straighten things out.

" Oi, you lot!," snapped Jimmy, crankily " For a start, me name's not Jimmy... but youse peoples is so STUPIT, that you'd never be able to pronounce my real sluggin' name," - which he tapped out using a keyboard and screen, " X t w y o o l s s, anyway..."

" Xtwyoolss !," yowled Culchi, who was sitting at the back, footering with a very sharp knife, that his father had told him he couldn't have.

" Uh, Xtwyoolss, Xtwyoolss, Xtwyoolss, Xtwyoolss...", gowled Munchi. " Xtwyoolss!."

A bit taken aback, though he now knew th' twinned bhoys were big with brains alright, Gorb got a bit flustered, and a bit lost in the lecture-plan he hisself was a-gonna give on how Peoples should have respect for other Lifeform and about how they shouldn't make silly haw-sumptions based on their own particularly wretched evolutionary path.

" Heh, very good, bhoys, " Jimmy continued, through Gorb.

" Yes, " added Gorb, trying to make an opening for his own speech. " Those who can manage it, should address him by his true title. It would certainly be more courteous, and show respect for another species."

" Aye right, Jimmy," said Culchi.

" Bang on, Jimmy," agreed Munchi.

Hmnn. Sniggering, the Gee had to admit that he had a lot of admiration for them two bhoys, and not just because of the casual abuse they showered ontheir father. They were like two little animalinos who had dug their way into the pet-treat sweetshop. In the few hours that they had been onPlanet, they had already made themselves totallyy at home, had already cracked the main codeNcodez of thee KillTheatreHall and gotten near all soft-systems under their own control. Not only that, but they had easy located the Air Base1 in the jungledeep, over to the west, and had plotted a routeplan for Gorb to get to OnYa on Satellite City. While many of the miners had the open-air fritters, and couldn't cope with the odious ambience of thee KillTheatreHall, th' two bhoys seemed completely at home, and had already started to modify the building to their own design...

" Uh xx..xt..Xy..Xtwah..wah..uh..." spluttered Gorb, hopeless, after Jimmy and him had finished their lecture, and Jimmy had returned to him complete control of his own voicebox.

" Xy..wxx...uh..."

" Just call me Jimmy," commed Jimmy, " and you'll do all sluggin' right. Them `oul thought processes of yourn aren't near as sparky as yer brightbhoys'. But that don't matter. What matters, is whether you've got some kinda decent strategy, or plan, for going to get this here chile of yourn, and not just flying off into the Big sluggin' Empty wi'out a notion, juss hoping something will turn up. Like a proper gobshite, like what you usually do..."

" Uh... Of course."

" Aye?"

" Uh..."

Gorb's plan had been to jump offPlanet as quickly as possible, and see what would turn up. All he was certain of, was that, as usual, he was scared, and uncomprehending, neither understanding, or familiar with, any of the forces, good, evil or otherwise, that were - obvious - gathering for a Crunchdown. He just knew that he was compulsed to GO, to start onwards toward OnYa. To get near her. There was a some small problemo about getting offPlanet, though; the sky-pilots that had flown/crashed th' bhoys and all their m-mates up from Hell's Half Acre were far from total sober. And according to wise Joe G, who had been sensible enough to start setting up a detox centre for the miners in some of thee KillTheatreHall Labs, there was no way they was a-going to be straight & narrow for some weeks... Not that that was worrying the pilots themselves any, who assured Gorb that they were a-okay 100% and wild willing to fly on such a worthy e-mission, just so long as they could port some swaller-stuff wi' them... They was two thirsty old Warhorses, ex-Marine pilots, that had been exiled to the deep mines for too much a-thinking for themselves, and for having the gumption to query the decontamination of entire OutWorlds. Th' miners had the greatest respect for these two, who they had renamed Cpt. ReHab and Lt. Pigeon. Yeah, these pilots might well have been goodFolk, and come through many a scrape, but Gorb doubted their ability to get off the ground, this time. And as for the `oul freighter they had lugged up this far, well, they had just about total slugged it on the landing...

" So, what are we a-gonna do?," axed Jimmy again. " Eh? "

" Uh.... "

Gorb, he was about stumped.

Natural, th' clever-brained bhoys - two headed is always better than oned, like Jimmy said - come up with a solution. While ReHab and Pigeon got some rest, and some grub down them throats, th' bhoys remote controlled a swirling UHF 563 monochopter over from the Air Base1. And, swivelling it around by double-plugged System joystick, got it to land right on the perimeter of thee KillTheatreHall. In doing so, they nearly whirly-chopped Gorb's head right off with the unpiloted twirly blades, forcing him to dive open mouth first into the dirt, and come up with a gubful of grass. Well, maybes, they didn't mean it, but it sure give them and Jimmy a good laugh. Then, onced the choppter had landed, and ReHab and Pigeon had a bit of a livener, just to get them underway, and to stop any chance of a hangover coming on, well, they was all ready to head... ReHab took the controls, with Pigeon swigging in the co-pilot's chair, and Gorb and Jimmy squeezed in at the back. Then they were up, and uh, down again, - " I haven't flown one o' these yokes fer a while," apologised ReHab - and then up again, and off to the Air Base1, to find a more suitable, and rapid, mode of transportation to Satellite City.

The Air Base1 was one of them type-a-things that thee PlainPope had done so well. It was the largest Launch-box in the entire sector, and at one time had been staffed by a largish city of mechanics, oilers, groundlings, guard-U, and aircrew. And all this, all of it, every Strikecraft and Fighter, every runway and hangar, had been immaculately conceived and hidden in the jungledeep, blessed with the grace of holy stealthness, insensitive to sensor probe or radarscan, and total invisible to overflying recce. The Base just melded perfect with the jungle, which grew in a thick, wet, tropical crust across the overtop, providing perfect cover. The cover was quick hinged in sections, to allow craft to quietly drop-land through the hatches, or be silently catapulted skyward for a blast off. If it hadn't been for th' bhoys' help, whose nimble minded fingers now picked through the System's vitals and entrails, Gorb and crew would have spent far too much hopeless time a-looking, and sniffling around, searching through deliberate dead bends. Instead, th' twins gave ReHab's unsteady hand a wee help in the right direction, and within ten minutes - some of it flying upside down - they were dropping through a hatch onto Runway 5-niner. Now, the gasping began, for in the underground hangars were big crafts and small crafts of all shapes, and BigWings, WeeWings and plain RocketNeedles. There were BH78 bombers and enormous JK90 transport hulks, thin winged F41 Spook fighters and whole flight groups of A59.2 Slammers. All lay perfecto and undusted, troubled only by the tweedlings of the microbot mainteneers who quiet checked and re-checked, kept the jungledeep pruned and tidy, left Craft sign-flagged and fuelled, ready for the beating of human hearts that would control them onced again.

" Oh, oh," worried Jimmy, " heres we goes again... Can't you switch these microbot sluggers to Dead? "

But nobody was a-listening to him. Gorb and ReHab and Pigeon were all a-gawking with wonder at the panorama of wing, engine and gun, bomb and flameblaster, that lay before them, as far as the camouflaged horizon would let them see. The sweat broke out on ReHab's forehead, and for the firstest time in manys a beer, he wished he was a Marine again.

" Bhoys, " he said, " we's a-goin' outta here IN STYLE!"

" Oh, Jasus..." said Gorb and Jimmy, a-thinking together.

The A59.2 Slammer was a beautiful swept-wing ship, all cold silver skinned, with only the Fed. markings and pilot stencils to disturb the cool shimmerings of the glimmering numEtal. Some pilotcrew had scripted the name Bonnie B just under the palastic cockpit hood, which lay rigged open and ready, ready for a scrambled take-off. Around the nose intake, like on the rest of the ships of that flight group, a garish sharkthing's mouth had been painted, with fanged bloody teeths, and a cruelly vicious eye. A small Ace of Spades card and the numeral VS9071, shone blackly from the tailplane.

" This was a Stack-O-Lee squadron ship," exclaimed ReHab, real hexcited, "and them'uns sure were a MEAN bunch o' bhoys. Why, even on the ground, if youse says an unkind word, they'd be a -pullin' out their .44s and... Hey! "

Pigeon had already clambered aboard, was taxi-ing the craft forward on low power, and motioning down to his compadre to stop a-gawking and get a-moving.

" We's need to get double extra fuel tanks for this baby, groundchief," he hollered down, over the low rumble of the turbos.

" Huh? '

Even on wheels, the Bonnie B was pure elegant, wasp waisted and smooth, needle sharp, and red hot dangerous. Pigeon bumped the ship lightly around the runway, parked her up next to a fuel dump, then hydro-jacked the undercarriage right up, till he could straddle and clamp onto one of the huge blister tanks. Meanwhile, ReHab got Gorb all proper suited up and space booted, with Jimmy zipped up into one of the pressure pockets. Then he told Gorb to go-right-ahead-sir ahead and mount up, settle in the rear navigator compartimento. And Gorb had barely time to proper strap hisself in secure, before the catapault HISSED them hurtling forward, throbbing down the runway, belting up a jump ramp and straight right UP, up through the skyhatch. They travelled bullet-wise, near vertical, till the thundermotor ROARED and they were climbing, climbing, climbing, straight up into the stratmosphere and beyond.

" She sure is a beauty," grinned Rehab, mad happy to be squeezed into a Strikecraft cradleseat, again. " YeeeeeHAAAWWW !!"

" Yeah, " double-grinned Pigeon, " does ya good to get at the wheel of a yoke like this, don't it? Huh? Reckon ol' Bonnie B'll get us to where we's wanting to go.... Now, where in the hell was that, anyhow? "

High, high above Murphy's Reef, the Bonnie B jettisoned her supplementary fuel tank, and her thick Time2Go motor screws began to crunch through the blackness of th' Big Empty. The sunstars vanished, and all became ocean trench black as the syrup of space enveloped them.

" You peoples' vulgar mechanical methods of interplanetary travel," complained Jimmy, " are sluggin' hideous."

Gorb's head was far too full to reply: too full of sick, too full of raw fear. Too full of OnYa's callings, more stronger now, and sounding scared. Too full of the sensations of gravity and force and time; and the dread sensation of trying real, real hard not to piss hisself.

Meanwhile, deep in the intricate bowels of thee KillTheatreHall, diode dials glowed, and thick tubes glubed. Slimes of hormone were secreted, and an alphabet of vitamins pumped. Tissue fluid gradual unfrosted, and plasma quiet drip drip drip dropped into a slowly enlivening carcass, far down in the desperate silence of the tunneldeep.

II.

Far down in the desperate silence of the tunneldeep, a dark figure roused itself, yawned, and stretched. It seemed to him that he had been asleep a looonnnnnngggggggggggg time, and he had no idee WHERE he was. Let's see now: he was lying on some sorta long glass type-a-table thing, mounted on a marble plinth. Hmnnn. And, aw slugg, what a head he had on him. Bah! Thirsty. Aw. Now wait a minute.... There was an antique glass big-bottle beside him. Always felt better after he had a drink. Whaaa? And this was good pure vino, too, the real cool tool stuff.

And then he minded where he was, and who he was; and that give him a bit of a shock.

He was re-Tired miner Slim Jim Figgerty, and he was down in the guts of thee KillTheatreHall. Up on top, he couldn't take that big open sky, at all. Made you feel like yous was a-gonna fall right off the side of the world. So, he had legged it, down through the shafts, and finished up down here in the cool safe blackness. More safer, down here, roofed. Slim Jim recalled that the night before - or was it daytime? - he had come all the ways down here with a couple of these grand big bottles, and had a great chat with yer man. All them dials and knobs had been spinning around. Slim Jim and this funny uniformed fella - desperate ugly he was - had had a great time, ...Slim Jim rave-yakking to him through the glass. Later, he had fell into some kinda drunken sleep, way way down here in the black ground.

Just when the third, and final, stage of th' PlainPope's ReActivation process had begun, a scrabble from Slim Jim, while attempting to interact with the agitated flickerings of the tomb's control panel, had knocked circuit-plate 344/a.421./m~line just a microfraction out of alignment. That user-interface element shouldn't NEVER have been left hexposed there in the first place: a design fault, overlooked by overworked, and overall terrified, security engineers. The engineers had warned the panel UI needed further testing - but were accused of time-wasting, dawdling to keep themselves alive.

And what circuit plate 344/a.421./m~line was responsible for... was the sweet supply of xMg to the PlainPope's nervous system. Aw, wonderful xMg, the mainline source of his initial POWER, his influence. xMg - how he had secured the complete loyalty, obedience and compliance of his elite team: total immersion and addiction was the compulsory core of brutecamp training. Then, if any dissenters raised their ugly heads, a wee shock of thee cold turkey and they would be clambering to get back into [the front] line, and double eager to serve. A dependable dependence. Ensured a totally trustworthy and reliable staff - thee Genralissimo PlainPope and his dependants. Furthermore, princely xMg had soothed th' Great One through his longed sleep, eased his irresistible urges. How cruel it was then, how heart-stoppingly shocking, to have his habitual supply chopped off, so smartly, by nothing more than the clouded fumblings of a drunken miner... Such rapid withdrawal, of course, led to seizure, and uh, quite a lot of pain. Woulda killed him stone dead, immediate, had not the rest of the deep-sleep-system been programmed to keep him alive, to compensate, to kick-start that awe-full, evil old heart again, and keep it going. ...Never mind that the whole nervous system was on FIRE, and dry silent lips were screaming out the multiple horrors of massive NEED. Th' PlainPope died, pump systems jump-started him again; he died again, and again got restarted, restarted, restarted.

And that was the reason why there was steam a-coming out of th' PlainPope's ears and nose, when Slim Jim Figgerty looked down at him, next morning. At first, Slim Jim thought he was seeing things, as he often did of a morning time, but no, even after a good few hair-o-th'-dog swallers, the bloody steam smoke stuff was still streaming out. So, Slim Jim thought he had better tell somebody all about this here thing, but when he managed to get down offa the tomb, he went and got hisself lost in the tunnel maze, twice. And some days later, when he eventually returned, with Mrs Figgerty in tow, all that was left in the tomb was a puddle of dirty slushpuppy type a stuff, around which a considerable number of large Blue Blowflies were getting quite excited.

And eeling around the marble plinth, danced a writhing conger of surgically sculptured womenFolk. These were the PlainPope's ReActivated consorts, who appeared to be very engaged in some ceremony to mark at the passing of their lord.

" Uh, hello...", said Mrs Figgerty, cautiously. She was a long-time miner, and looking at these shining and glossy women. she now became very aware of her own unaltered beauty, They were dancing around, these too-tight-skinned women, like they were holding some kind of a funereal celebration.

" Hash it, ....has he, eh.... pashed away?," asked Mrs Figgerty, conscious of her lack of remaining teeth.

Two of the women paused in their ritual, regarded Mrs Figgerty solemnly and nodded, mutely.

"Oh", said Mrs Figgerty. "I see... Well, eh, ah'm awful sorry about your trouble, ladies..." said Mrs Figgerty, because, in truth, she couldn't think of a single more suitable thing to say.

And the palastically beautified women turned to her, and embraced her, warmly. Some were silently laughing, some weeping, some weeping with joy... but none of them said a single word. For long ago, thee PlainPope had had them all surgically dumbed.

III.

There was something wrong with the ol' John Deere that morning, which was strange, since the Sacred vehicle had functioned without mishap for over 100 years and more, without blowback or nuisance. This morning, however, the tractor had been a-coughing and a-spluttering to the hextent that John Cartwright had near been driven to the extremes of using unclean language and physical punishment. By dinnertime, he had had just about enough, and instead of working on in the far fields, as he had planned, and chawing on a packaged up lunch, he decided to surprise Maw and go on homeward. Maw would be pleased that they could have a day-time while together, and also, there was a good chance that when he came back, he would be able to look at the tractor problem in a new light, and get it sorted out. Although... the ways that he was a-thinking, it might well not be the tractor's fault, but simply the double jittery-jittery, fidgetty and footery, way he had been a-drivin' at it. For some reason, John had a vague feelin' that some bad doin's was a-goin' on. Something - his worst fears - to do wi' Maw. The two a them had been together for so long now, that they could near think across one another's thoughts. So it was wi' careful feets and stealth, that he crossed back and up toward the farmhouse. And, indeed, he was mighty glad that he did, for there - in the roadway leading from the maintrack - there was parked-up a military camo style all-terrain crawler truck. Paw didn't like the smell of this, no sir. Lucky, he had a habit of keeping his ol' .3006 in the toolhouse.

There was nobody in the yard, deserted, but the hair on the back of his neck stressed up, when he heared strange evil laffin' a-comin from Maw's little kitchen. Quick now, he snuck low into the toolhouse and with quivering fingers quiet rattled a box of cartridges into the chamber of the ol' gun. Force of habit, from Priestley's young days, had him always leaving it safely unloaded. Gun in hand, he zig-zagged across the yard and low slunk up to the opened kitchen window. What he saw inside, sickened the very core of him: there was Cpt. Perving in some shiny black uniform, with an automatic pistol pointing hard into poor Maw's neck, while his other hand held a wrenchful of her hair. There was some hawful evil snickerings a-goin' on, and an empty flask of McKinley's whiskey setting on the handmade table.

On the far side of the room, sat another figure, also sniggering. This one was fat, and even worse ugly, real ridiculous bursting out of the same black uniform as Perving. Worst, worst of all, was the poor crathur that lay on the floor: looked like she had been battered, looked like she had got a truck run over her; looked like the remnants of their dear friend Mina DiMucci.

Paw Cartwright waited.

He waited - oh, maybe three or four minutes, which was a long wait to be waiting when you felt what Paw saw. He waited till Perving moved the snout of that nasty little blaster out and away from Maw's neck, and then he squeezed a hard skinned finger around the trigger of the .3006. The first round Paw fired took the top of Perving's head right off. The top of Perving's head come right off and some of the blood and brains and gore splattered on the clean wall that Paw had just whitewashed, the week before. Perving's body wriggled and writhed and TUMP-ed down upon the floor. Maw screamed, and the fat bhoy let out an unhealthy, unHoly yell that minded Paw of long many years ago when the farmers useta grow real pigs, not just pigmeat in tanks, and how they used to SQUEAL when the farmers come to drag them out to be pork-chopped. No matter. John Cash Cartwright turned and aimed and fired in one smooth, clean, move, Then he let that greedy fat bhoy have a second helping, for free. That unHoly corpo even broke one of the best chairs on its way down, to join the puddle of Perving on the floor. Hellfire to them, thought Paw.

Paw run in quick, to see if Maw was alright, though still ready wi' the .3006, in case there was any more of these beasts around. Maw, may th' Lord bless her and keep her, had already forgot about herself, and was a-kneeling down, ministering to poor Mina

" Maw! Youse alright? Did them...? '

" Paw, quick, help me to get our poor friend up onto our bed... And then... And then, then I want you to get that DIRT outta my kitchen."

She was motioning toward the carcasses of Perving and Gushell, and hearing her, Paw set to work, right away.

IV.

Darlene was getting real bored waiting. She couldn't keep this whinging and yawp-yawp-yawping up for much longer. Her make-up had gone all runny and she wanted to get back to the hotel, freshen up and git showered, git to HELL offa this place, and away. Go right on over to tropical WauiiWorld and git herself a nice little cottage. Git settled down quiet and live a comfortable, easy-peasy life in the trustworthy company of a whole shower of mogs. Frank, he hadn't liked mogs, no sir. Was allergic, he said. Well, huh... That wasn't a-gonna hold her back none, now. Huh.

She had been waiting in the manager's office for what seemed like hours, and even the very smell of the place was making her uneasy. Through the huge picture windows that looked down over the golf course, she could see lighted figures in the distance, working to retrieve what remained of Frank's body. There wouldn't be much. In fact, there shouldn't be anything. He would have been swallowed whole by the crocstuff, legs, torso, stomach contents, moustache, the lot. And there weren't no way they were gonna be able to retrieve anything, unless they cut that croc-thing WIDE open and they weren't gonna do that to no PROtected species. No.

" Miss?".

Un-noticed by her, the manager had soft crept into the room and now stood beside her. He was a squat little NearNormal alien sonfabitch, with a high greasy forehead, and prissy clothes.

" Miss, is there anything I can get you? This whole thing must be a terrible, terrible shock... I've had Dr. Nick, - who just happened to be in the bar, luckily enough - prepare you a sedative. Drink this down and you'll uh, ...you might feel a little better. "

" Sedative? " snapped Darlene. " Look mister, I don't want no sedative! I want FRANK, and I want you to get the Guard-U and dhestroy all those MONSTERS. What kind ov a place is this, anyway?"

" Now, now..." shushed the manager, nervously. " Please try and remain calm Although... I do realise that you have good reason to be upset... Here."

And with that he passed Darlene a little silver goblet, the bottom of which was covered by a spoonful of a greyish liquid. She shook her head, refused it; but when he offered it again, she took it, and drained it.

" That's better, miss. We'll soon get things sorted out. Things will soon be much clearer."

" The Guard-U," sniffled Darlene, " why haven't you called the Guard-U? "

" The Guard-U? The police ? Oh come now, there's no need for them to get dragged into this, is there? The club doesn't need a, ...uh, scandal, like this. The committee simply wouldn't stand for it. We're an old club, with some very important members and we like to keep a certain, um, shall we say, decorum... No, our own security boys can handle matters like this, efficiently and with maximum discretion."

" Matters like this? ", screamed Darlene, thinking she had better make an effort, and put on a bit of a show before the sedative took effect. " You mean your crocthings have eaten people before? What are you talking about? GET ME THEE AUTHORITY!"

" Now, I really don't think that would be wise, Darlene, now would it? "

The little slugg was calling her by her first name. What th' slugg was a-goin' on, around here? And he was looking at her, real funny.

" As you know, Darlene, we do our business with wealthy people. Very wealthy people. And perhaps some of these Peoples have not become wealthy 100% legitimately... Why some, ahem..." and he coughed, politely, as if the words were a-chokin' him, " may even have links to rogue-anized crime. So, you see, Darlene, there have been some Folk, before yourself, who thought that our crocfolk would be the perfect way to uh, dispose of a body... As a matter of fact, members of the Cornuto family - founder members of the club - built the croc pen. ...And it was initially used by them for that very purpose..."

Darlene was beginning to feel very funny. But she wasn't a-laffin', nope. She felt like her head was made of glass, transparent. She was feeling very opened and hexposed, and strange. Real strange.

The office door opened and another NearNormal entered. This one had one of the club's own tweed caps - with discreet logo - pulled down over his peaked forehead. He approached the desk, surveying Darlene cautiously, then turned his attention to the manager.

" Well ?," he asked.

" Read it for yourself," replied the manager, pointing rather rudely towards Darlene. " She's as clear as a bell... "

It was at that point that Darlene realised that neither of the aliens' lips had moved, and that neither had spoken. She was tuning in to their thought patterns, direct. Yes. That meant... That meant that they could tune into hers, too. Obviously, that sedative had been no sedative, but instead was some kinda potion that let them look right clear into her head. Quick, she tried to think of something, anything. Anything, other than her guilt.

" Got it ?," asked the manager.

" Sure. What are we gonna do wi' her, now, boss? "

" That's up to her. Isn't it, Darlene? "

Darlene was wondering if it was worthwhile trying to make a break for it, try to jump out through the window and get away.

" I wouldn't try it, Darlene," said the manager, speaking aloud. " We'll just feed you to the crocs if you mess us about. You do know that we would, don't you?....Shouldn't have started your dirty little games on a multiPath planet, should you? "

And at that, the two NearNormals laughed among themselves, lowly and evilly, tight little eyes glinting.

" Never mind, Darlene, " grinned the manager, " the high life didn't suit you anyhow. Didn't you say that you were already getting bored with it? And you don't have to worry about all that credit that you and Frank-bhoy heisted, anymore. We'll look after it for you, and give it a real good home. You'll have to get OffWorld immediately, of course, but I think we can arrange some, uh, alternative accommodation for you. Yeah, and we'll even get you a nice little hostess job on a parasite planet, set you up for your old age. Some of our uh, associates, can always use a lady like yourself. Y'know, some of these WormFolk OtherWorlders have um, kinda peculiar tastes..."

Reeling from the disgusting imagery that free floated from the now excited brain-boxes of the manager and his sidecreep, Darlene gripped her chair hard, and determined not to let them enjoy her fear. Trying her very hardest, Darlene grimaced and tried to think of the most gruesome and grotesque image that she could manage: these two little slime-balls' pointy heads in a meat grinder. You two dirty little sluggers.

## Chapter 28 - An Old Dog For Th' Hard Road And a Puppy For Th' Pavement

Studio Tan in Satellite City : / Dead Glad / An Old Dog For Th' Hard Road And a Puppy For Th' Pavement/ etc./ Who's For A Sing-Song?.

It was only ten minutes to Screentime, and Dick Tidybeard was more than pleased with the way things were proceeding. Now, he could do what he wanted. He had thee Authority... He now had the Federation behind him, thee firm support of thee ReVivalist chiefs, and, with a monster marathon televisual spectacular just about to begin, he would soon have the backing of those gross stupits, th' public. It would be good to have all this support through the tough days to come; belts would have to be tightened and sacrifices made. Sacrifices - with that in mind, used Sinners from near worked-out and hexhausted mines all over Federation Territories had been rounded up and concentrated into massive razor wired camps, on either side of the readied studio B burnfires. Also, Marshall O'Duffy had been good enough to obey Tidybeard's orders and had ordered a complete military mobilization, had his militia units on stand-by at all Cutehoor CC-credit-points in the sector. Tidybeard hisself, doubted that it would come to All-Out War. There would be no need for that; all was needed was a show of strength, a bit of a gr-gr-growling session, if you like, and then Tidybeard was sure that he could make th' Cutehoors see sense - they were sensible businessfolk, after all. In fact, Tidybeard could see it all working out very nicely:

  1. Thee New ReVival would put the frighteners on our OutWorld friends.

  2. Tidybeard could step in as the new voice of reason - Saved but not a-foamin' at the gob, like the rest o' thee Holied crowd.

  3. He would come to some reasonable compromise with th' Cutehoors, like them dropping all his debts, and letting Tidybeard Plc stand as the frontmen for all Banking operations in thee Sanctified Territories.

Yup, and there was no need for bloodshed or gore, apart from that of a few million Sinners and Freaks, some few O'NoLans and other scum that would probably be dead glad to be Dead, anyhows. Yes. It was all working out just FINE.

Now, he checked on the monitors, and with ten minutes to go till showtime, the Bordello satellites were still churning out the PurePorno that they ran piggybacked around the weekly Religious time-slot, which this week was to be a double-bubble XXXtra special. On screen, the hosts and guests of the tip top-rated `Th' Richard & Nudy Show', thrashed about among themselves like a bucket of hydrophobic eels. Soon, there would come the commercials: first, post-Porno cleansing products, wipes, soap2scrub and Powershower gels; and then as a trillion more CleanFamily Channel screens joined the transmission, for GrowURmeat tanks, Holy Tractors, ReapMore Fertilizers, screentapes of silvered Scripture in 334 weekly parts... Yes, Tidybeard could look at hisself in the mirror and get hisself pleased. Everything was a-going even better than he'd planned it, and he even had a few free minutes left, before showtime, to relax and savour hisself. Aaaaahh. So, he clambered into the luxury Orgone Accumulator Chamber, that he had ordered brought to his dressing-down room, and concentrated hard on how best to realise what a really wonderfully marvellous fellow, he really was. Really.

II.

It was Blessed Brother Mike, the Voice. It was Brother Mike, the overhead commentator. Brother Mike, the everpresent, omnipotent VoiceOver. Brother Mike, the foil of all Boone's little funnies:

" LADIES AND GENNELMEN!... TONITE, WE BRING YOU, ALL THE WAY FROM THEE TEMPLES OF SATELLITE CITY, THEE UNIVERSALLY FAMOUS BROTHER BOONE SHOW.... AND TONITE, THAT SHOW IS A XXX SPECIAL, WITH HOLY REE-VEALINGS, A DEMON-STRATION OF OUTRIGHT DEVILRY, MULTIPLE BURNINGS, AND... A NEW SPECIAL GUEST STARRRR HOST !!!..."

" But first, ladies and gennelmen, can we first observe two seconds silence, please, and fill our heads with a little PRAYER, so that tonite's show might be marked with Holiness and Grace, so that even more Folk might hear the Good Word and find Sanctification; and so that tonite's Collect-A-Credit total be bigger and GRANDER than EVER before? Praise th' Lord !!"

Silence...

And NOW, folks, a short word from our sponsor, Tidybeard Industries; but DON'T forget that we'll be RIGHT BACK after this break, with a full, full show that I KNOW you won't want to miss..."

There followed one of the dreary Tidybeard commercials which Brother Boone especially hated, for he wondered why Tidybeard hisself had to be in EVERY SINGLE ONE. That guy was SUCH a notice-box; ya just couldn't keep him offa the screen, could ya? And then, camera 1 shone its red light up and Boone was ON.

" LADIES & GENNELMEN, BRETHREN, PLAINFOLK, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THEE HOLIEST MAN IN TH' KNOWN UNIVERSE, - BROTHER BOONE !! "

Taped screams and a-hollering, mingled with hootings and riotous applause from the studio guestFolk, flooded the airwaves, as an impeccably blazered Boone took centre screen.

" Why thank you, Brother Mike... Thank you, thank you. May your swing continue to improve..." winked Boone at the audience, in another of his incomprehensible golf jokes. He waited for the grins and snickers to subside, before continuing.

" Seriously though, Mike, I'm sure the folk at home appreciate you stopping for a little prayer-pause. I know I do. Just the thing to clear our minds from the FILTH of thee everyday worlds, and help us concentrate on what's in hand. And I think that's certainly necessary, this week, folks, because we have such a FULL and HIMPORTANT show for you... So big and so important, in fact, that I sent my Prayer Pleadings out far and wide to try and trace me some strong, strong, shoulders who could help an old, old, unworthy vessel like me, to spread the Good Word. Tonight, I'm proud to tell you that my humble prayers were answered, and that A FIREBRAND WAS SENT UNTO US. Stay tuned and all will soon be revealed... But first, I want to whet your appetite for Holy Doings, with a panoply of the worshipful deeds that we have planned for you, this evening... We bring you worrying news of a new breed of triple SUPER-SINNER who comes equipped with special brain powers, whose evil purpose even our finest Holy scientists have not yet been able to reveal..."

The screens had cut to camera 5, which was hovering in front of OnYa, who sat, somewhat uncomfortably, in her pushchair. She was uncomfortable because she had somehow managed to get her thumb caught in a fold of her pyjammies, and she couldn't get it out. OnYa was wild anxious to get at that thumb. Behind her pushchair, a manacled Doctor Elimintado glowered. He looked - it had to be said - very natty, in a dark pinstriped, three-piece suit. The camera zoomed a close-up on him, and he grimaced, and turned away, flashing a shower of dreadlocks around stout shoulders.

" ... while unworthy ones have been caught, guilty-handed, ministering to this monstrosity... Luckily, this new threat to our way of life has been caught in its infancy. Please, DON'T be fooled by its cherubic appearance, which is simply a dEvilish device to drag sympathy and coercion from the simple hearts of plainFolk... But don't be afeared ! As you can HIMAGINE, we'll be sending this creature on its fiery road back to HELL, just a little later..."

There were cheers and applause from the invited studio audience, several of whom held up ignited cigarillo lighters, roaring. Boone smiled slightly, and nodded, in appreciation, and then turned once more to more serious matters.

" PLUS," he continued, in a gradually more excited tone, " we have a special CELEBRITY RELEVATION..."

Camera 24 cut to a hooded figure, so deep in shadow that only a dark Tidybeard-type outline could be seen. The figure in fact, was not Tidybeard, who couldn't be bothered hanging around the set, but a beard-wigged Davis, who had been instructed to stand-in.

" And this ReVelation is so SERIOUS that I have axed the good Marshall O'Duffy, widely admired head of our Security Services, to come into the studio tonight, so that he will be on hand to personally ACT, when the extent of this dEvilish intrusion is revealed..."

Camera 7 cut to the grandly uniformed, heavily medaled, and entirely sweaty figure of O'Duffy, who smiled weakly, and tried his best to nod his fat head.

" The good Marshall has been PAINED to tell me that our service bhoys have been suffering their own share of Sinfiltration, Disobedience, and Hideous Mutiny..."

Camera 15 swung over to where a dishevelled soldier-bhoy Priestley was a-shakin and a-foamin' at the mouth. Earlier, Boone had the youngster dragged from his cage for `a little chat'. And, after Boone had finished working on him with his pumps and potions, the Cartwright bhoy had grown crazily snarlingly tormented, rocked and rolled on his feet, jiggled at the knees, liked he was on some mysterious train which rattled over unsteady rails.

" ...And I'm sure you folks at home will agree with me that we all want to see THIS type-a-thing STOMPED ON from the greatest Holy height..."

There were more cheers from the studio audience, and the more excited among them, began to stomp their heavy feet.

" And lastly," continued Boone, " I bring you to a warm story of courage, hintolerance, and uncompromise from the little Flatland settlement of Vileness, way out there on the dry plains of DrumCree5... But I'm not a-going to bring you this news, myself, folks. No... Instead, I'm going to hand you over to a very WUNNERFUL EXAMPLE of the power of prayer and conviction; some one who describes hisself as a ` plain-speaking man of SIMPLE FAITH'... Yes, folks, humility is among his many blessings... He is thee Chosen One, who can take over thee burden of good work from my somewhat tired shoulders, and give me a chance to have thee period of Deep Prayer and Thick Meditation that I feel I need, in these strange and difficult times...Ladies and gennelmen, it gives me a great deal ov pleasure to hintroduce to you, all the way from Vileness, thee Rev. Dr. E. P. BoxingHeid !! "

Melvyn Darling was mugging and cue-carding up in the wings, and at his signal, the audience broke into a uh, spontaneous, ROAR of frenzied howling, gowling, and yowling.

" Thee Good Rev.," continued Boone, when the louder shoutings had died down, " has agreed to take over from me for a time, and to guide you through this week's programme. I leave you in safe hands, in this dangerous and Sinful age... when an old man like myself needs to rest up and pray, prepare for the upcoming battle with Evil. Have faith in this clean young man, and BELIEVE !! "

Cameras 10, 7, & 22, swung into close-up, on the brilliantly spotlit figure of BoxingHeid, who, his face turned downward, as if in the deep study of prayer, was all dark wollen and broad hat. Lifting his head, the hat rose to reveal a grim countenance, made even more cadaverous by the deft application of greyedpaint and pastel, which had been grudgingly accepted by the Rev., when it was pointed out to him that he wasn't never gonna make it in showbiz, without it. No.

" Brethren," he said softly, " I'd first like to say how humbled I feel, standing afore ye all, and give thanks to the gracious ministrations of that most Holy figure, Brother Boone..."

On Camera 9, Boone bowed politely and then quietly and gracefully left the stage, to wild applause. Once off-air, his whole figure drooped into semi-prone and all-stoned. He pulled off his black quicktie, and open-shirted fell into the arms of his new, buxomy, Very Personal Assistant. They whispered something together, chuckled, and headed off toward the VIP lounge to catch the rest of the show. Melvyn Darling, watching them on monitor, had to grin in admiration: you could say what you like about Boone, but he was always the total professional on set. What a trooper.

" Friends, " continued BoxingHeid, " I'm going to take you back, best as I can, to my own pretty little home town ov Vileness. Onced upon a time, this was a community that was full of prayer and prosperity..."

And the viewers at home got a lovely chocolate-box screen shot of a faked picture of Vileness, roses around cottage doors, corn as high as an elephant's eye, full water tanks and greenness.

" ...and then thee foul breath of SIN brought famine and disease to our farms, doubt and uncertainty to our hearts. Where as before, we had thrived in a healthy atmosphere of bitterness and rancour, opposed to even thee very IDEE of any wrong-doing, now weakness and compassion diluted our resolve, and brought ruin to our homesteads. A man who was NOT one of th' Lord's own, preached pity and forebearance, and, as weakness piled upon weakness, so the Lord sent drought and insect plague to WARN us of our peril. However..."

In the wings, Darling was winding his arms and mouthing: hurry it up, hurry it up...

" ...thee spores of EVIL had already taken root, yeah, even in thee very hearts and homes of our neighbours and fellow churchgoers. Wimmenfolk borned marked creatures, and, unwisely lissened unto thee dEvil squawkings of these beasts, even nurtured them. And in doing so, dragged their own souls down to thee very pits of fiery HELL. Is this not SO, Jessica Trembling? "

Poor Jessica. With her Sister Sarah copper-clamped in thee electroshock-stocks, stage left, she had no choice but to follow her instructions. And, weeping, she made ready to read out the full confession which a monitor now impatiently paged down in front of her. She might possibly have been strong enough to stand sufferations herself, but to bring more pain to poor innocent Sarah? No, that would have too much.

" First into the confession box, this week," gushed Mike, the overhead commentator, " is Jessica Trembling, who, shockingly, is the WIFE of thee former pastor of Vileness! Yes, folks, you'll be SURPRISED to learn what dirt this little lady has been sweeping under her carpetpile! Jessica hopes to save the her little sister from sufferation, ...and save her own soul, of course. But will her full confession be enough? Find out, just after this break..."

The gathered up Sinner-victims, grouped together in the razor-wired camps, and pocketed in various cages around the studio, were growing restless. The word of young Priestley Cartwright's calm, and dignity, in the spite of repression and torturism, had spread from gob to earhole, from chile to Maw, Maw to Paw, and drinker to drinker. All were inspired by his example, and most resolved to show defiance, respect themself, rather than just the usual plain collapse and compliance, during the X-termination which was surely to be their lot. Various groups got together, and gripping calloused palm, to calloused and blistered fingers, tried their very bestest to sing out long and loud and clear. Mostly, they sang what snatches of HolySong they knew, and of course, the old miners' favourite, Dark As A Dungeon Down in thee Mine. Priestley hisself, struggling to overcome the vile medications that Boone had administered, suffered patches of lucidity, when the horror of his situation became too real for him. Crying out against the madness that had been inflicted on his head, and searching through his hallucinatory visions for some sight of his sweetheart that he had promise-promised to overguard, he foamingly blethered and raved.

" Hunka-hunka... BURNIN'... love," he roared, " po' little baby chile, GHETTO...." and then, in one final huge heart-bursting effort, he gulldered, " BABE-BEE, ...TRYIN' TO GET TO YOUUUU......"

A despairing Sarah Trembling, way over there on the far side of the studio, braced into electro-shock stocks, and razor wired into a flammable bundle with minor miner kinderlings, heard his pleadings. She heard Priestley's gullders and shouts. And then all was clear and right for her. She stopped a-worryin' and gurnin' and a yawpin', and with unwavering voice, she SANG OUT:

" I believe In Th' Man In Th' Sky..." she sang. "I believe with his help we'll get by..."

And from all parts of the studio, the camps of Sinners joined in.

Darling got the quiverys, like he had never done before. Never had they had so many victims in the studio afore, and never, ever, had any of them acted like this. Usually, they were all supplication and moaning, begging upon anybody in earshot to spare them, ready to shove Granny to the front of the queue, to save themselves... but this. Right away, Darling motioned over to the studio Security Chief, and beckoned him to get on with thee business, straight away; that mutineer must be silenced immediate, and then see to that girl.

Three heavily moustachioed rent-a-cops, reacting to the barked instructions from their headsets, waded over toward Priestley and set about him with their batons. When he crashed, unconscious, to the floor, thick and stupit boots crunched against his skull. Luckily, some of the worst of the kicks, slipped skiddingly off the bhoy's grease thick hair-do; while others missed completely and ended up, THUNKing into the Yelp !-ing ankles of their fellow guard-U. Angry now, they took the bhoy, and threw him, bleeding, roughly into a far, dark. corner.

Seeing the bhoy collapse and half choke, helping hands quietly crept toward him, as th' other Sinners joined together in a protecting and part-hiding shield.

Fingers, that had onced been well manicured and pink-polished, but which were now blistered and raw, soothed Priestley, and tended, as best they could, to his wounds. From a well secreted smallpurse, a hism/herm miner drew out a micromake-up kit, and flushed new looking life into Priestley's battered face and tired eyes: some mascara here, a touch of eyeliner there. Yup, Miss Lolo knew the way to apply the old warpaint, and how. This little kit was all he/she had left of a very wunnerful relationship with Ignatius, the sole momento of the brief happiness he/she had had with a deep shaft guard-U, who had stuck his, ... uh, neck out, to give her this one last little luxury. Down there, in the deep blackness and killdust, the brave Ignatius, had fell tip top o'er high heels for the pitifulness of the sobbing Lolo. Behind sealed airlock doors, their friendship had blushed into blossom, and given Lolo some reason to carry on living. Her brave Ignatius had given her dignity, and even love. Now, Ignatius was goned. Transferred to some other FarWorld sector, when the overvisor got some sniff of funny a-goin's on. And a very changed Lolo had been dragged off, screaming, for inSinneration...

Th' miners' songing was getting constantly louder, and was beginning to disrupt the proceedings. Though BoxingHeid's Holy ravings grew ever more forceful and more frantic, the sea of noise behind him threatened to swamp and flood his little rant-boat, bobbing on a viscous sea of bile, condemnation and viciousness. He had no alternative, but to deviate from the script he had so woodenly learned, and allude to the chaos behind him, that was rapidly overtaking the entire studio.

" Hush, peoples," he whispered hoarsely, " and let ye lissen...Can ye HEAR how the dEvils mock our faith? Can ye not feel the vile vibrations of their chorus? Their cursed tongues wrap around Holysong, and attempt to SMEAR it... And I axe ye, where outside of the portals ov HELL itself, would ye find a better DEMONstration of the perverted and clever ruses of pure EVIL? ... We can wait NO LONGER. Come let us away, and set FLAMING the fires of justice..."

" Uh, and Brother Mike says Hallelujah, to that..." cut in Mike the voice, quite sharpishly, " but while our technicians and studio Guard-U, get thee lighting of the burn-fires ready, uh, let's take a little refreshing break from thee weight of this oppresive and ugly Sin. And let's have a lite-hearted little hymn from that middle of the road maestro, that clean smilin' twanger of th' Lord's simple woodbox geetar, J. Denver Colorado...."

Screens lit up to a retrotape of a fresh-faced UltraNormal, with fresh-washed hair, and all shiny blonde visage, duded out in the latest Tidybeard chainstore fashions, of five years previous.

Meantime, the Melvyn Darling was over on stage, having a face to face, pow to wow, with BoxingHeid.

" Look here, ya dumb crackerhead," squealed Melvyn, " YOU don't make the decisions around here! I do! ME, unnerstann? Now, okay, we're goin' to have to go into the HinSinneration sooner than we planned, to get these sluggers to sluggin' well slug up. BUT, that's MY decision, unnerstann? Next, we go the whole HOG on that there chile thing, yeah? Just stick to your script on the monitor - it's already getting changed - and we can blame this hole mess-up on her uh, evil powers or sumthin'...Y'dig? "

BoxingHeid resisted the sore temptation to punch Darling in the mouth, and gritting rottened teeth, silently nodded a gloomy head.

" Got it? Good. Okay, straight after Colorado has finished his whinging, we'll light up the baby, then go straight onto Tidybeard's Big Bombshell ReleVation. It's all in front of you, and all you have to do is READ... And you CAN read, can't you? Right, cutting back to you in 23, 22, 21 seconds..."

Seeing the Guard-U massing in his direction, Dr. Elimintado grew ever more distressed and anxious. OnYa had been crying and bawling for some time now, and these thugs on their way over, well, they sure didn't mean to do the chile and him much good. Obviously, the venomous atmosphere in this studio-studio type-a-thing was affecting the chile, and real sensitive, she was reacting to all this pain and ugly around her. Such a delicious baby. He would willingly have undergone double-burning hisself, if only it would save her... And he reached forward, though it wasn't easy, what with the staywrapts and chains that bound him, and looked down at the beautiful fat little one.

Poor little one.

A red face and wee tears and... Ah! Her wee thumb had got all stuck up in her jammies. Straining to the point where the wrist wraps were cutting into him, and there was near blood come out, Elimintado struggled and strived till he could manage to get his battered fingers in reach of OnYa's wee wrist, and near blood vessel bursting with the effort, he pulled and twisted until her poor wee thumb was freed. FREED. OnYa stopped crying, and after two missed and slobbery-slippery attempts, managed to get that there thumb into her gub. And she suckle-suckled, slurp, slurp, slurpckled, sluckle, slurkled.... as the Guard-U reached them, giving Elimintado a good blaster butt thwack! to beat him away back from the pushchair.

BLAAMMMMMMM!

There was a huge THUNDER in the sky above them, up above in the pale grey of the Satellite City drizzle.

BLAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

A slim silver ship, shark-teeth marked, blammed through the time2go barrier and turbomotor RRRRRROARING spatfire jet thrust through the fume-drearied atmosphere, and HURTLED toward the studio...

## Chapter 29 - It Wouldn't Be Suprizin' If There'd Be Another Rising

Sweet Salvation : / We're Not th' Jet-Set, We're th' Ol' Puke It Up Set/ Hurley Burley / Travellers, Not Tourists, And Other Plagues / It Wouldn't Be Suprizin' If There'd Be Another Rising / The HunBeardable Lightness of Tidybeard/ etc.

Way, way, way out there, way up in the sky above Satellite City, Gorb and Jimmy were gradually regaining consciousness. Unlike ReHab and Pigeon, who were used to this type-a-thing, had done it for a career living over many Moons, and knew how to adjust their pressure-suits properly, these two had gone all blacked out, and sick with spacefright. And it sure was a sight to wake up to: Rehab and Pigeon YeeHaa-ing and WooooHooooo-ing, as the A-59 HURTLED toward the flat-mapped layout of studio complex and prison compound, rocket engine double roaring, and no sign of any slow-down, or deviation from a straight-down accelerated FALL into the ferrocrete below.

" Hang onto yer panties, girls, " yuckled ReHab, straining in his flight harness to juke back, and wink at Gorb and Jimmy. " ...I reckon it's jist about time to apply them there brakes.... And it might happen to git a little bit bumpy."

And ending his warning, with another ferocious rebel YELL, ReHab yanked on the red air brake handle... Except that in this version of the A59, the A59.2c , - which ReHab had never been trained on, or even if he had, had long since forgotten about in a haze of liquor toxin and shellshock \- this red handle didn't belong to the air-braking system at all, but was the Main Release for the underwing Rm3755 missile launcher.

BADDD-DDOOOMM ! Three lethal rockets, tipped with Very-Anti-Personnel splinter clusters, baddd-ddooomm!, baddd-ddooomm!, baddd-ddooomm!-ed off from under the port wing; then three more baddd-ddooomm!, baddd-ddooomm!, baddd-ddooomm!-ed off from under the starboard wing.

" Oh....uh.....sluggit," muttered ReHab, quietly. And they were still hurtling groundward as before, slowed only fractionally by the recoil from the heavy recoil blast.

" Reckon we'll just have to try somethings else...", mumbled Pigeon, who was also a-sorta hoping, that them lethal weapon 6, in all, would be complete duds, or would explode harmlessly before they hit the ground, or just detonate on waste land or incinerate somebody that deserved it.

In actual fact, the fire control system of the missiles was navigating them toward the lifeforms, which had been earlier indicated as a legitimate target, by Pigeon hisself, when he banged agin the control screen while struggling to open a reluctant can of Electric-Souper10s in the co-pilot cockpit. And that is why the missiles, a well tested, well proven, and horribly effective COIN armament, had such a devastating effect when they reached the ground.

Units 34, 87, and the notorious Blue-shirted Unit 28, of Marshall O'Duffy's personal militia guard-U, were assembling on the studio perimeter grounds when the missiles hit. The militia units were, at the time, loading up with SKata2Bits cartridges, and were getting ready to move off toward the razor wire cages, where they had been ordered to UnEmploy the miners there, with immediate effect. Things around the studio had just got a bit TOO hectic, and Darling had instructed the Marshall to start the X-termination immediate, thought a bit of blood and raw killing would help to calm things down a bit, get the rest of the Sinners back to their usual pleading-for-their-lives mode.

Fact was, the shower of Rm3755s stirred things up quite lively. For a start, the splinter clusters showered the area with an inescapable rain of pain, armour-piercing darts, all of which had their own nasty little impact heads. Sharp shrapnel from the rocket casings pierced fuel tanks and munitions stores on the Militia troop carriers, and the resulting further explosions:

  * Completely annihilated all three units of O'Duffy's personal militia [and co-incidentally, also total eliminated the entire Cornutol family, who having bought tickets off a scalper-tout, were hurrying - eyeglasses all steamed up for the spectacle and saliva drooling with delicious cruel expectation - to their front-row burn-fire seats];

  * Blew down a sizeable section of the razor-wire fences, releasing a horde of Mutiny and Sin;

  * Hurled the heavy front turret section of a troop carrier some hundreds of metres into the air, to fall back down squashily upon the brutish guard-U who just then had gathered around the pushchair in Studio 4, and were attempting to hextract baby OnYa.

Dr. Elimintado, heart glad at this bloody turn of events, was nevertheless alarmed to see that his three piece suit had been besmirched with a sizeable quantity of gore. Despite the immediate danger of getting his natty outfit even more stained, the good Doctor got to work searching through the corpses for a keycode or a blaster that would separate him from his manacles...

Over in Studio 3, Darling was barking orders into headsets, right, left and mid-centre.

" O'Duffy! Get more troops in here and sort that lot out. Where was our Air Defense? BoxingHeid! Just stick to the script and DON'T ad-lib. We'll have something up on the monitors for you in a minute... Tidybeard! Tidybeard? Where's Tidybeard? Davis! Get Tidybeard ready... We're putting him on straight away. Mike! Cut to a commercial, pronto. ...Okay everybody, everything is under CONTROL."

Davis found Tidybeard ensconced with Boone in the VIP lounge. They were both grinning, like their mouths were about to twist around into a complete circle. Certainly, there was nothing natural about these smiles, they were all chemical and fixed. The Very Personal Assistant whom Boone had earlier been fondling, had already been trundled away on a med-trolley, stone cold blued. OverDosage had always been one of Boone's favourite wee games, and Tidybeard, well, he was always up for such a challenge, and had the head for it, or so he thought. So, when Boone had pulled out a solid gold boxette containing 3g of pure, vintage, WhiteFalcon xMg and offered Tidybeard a taste, just to be all-friend, like, Tidybeard had done his best to outPump the old master. Well, huh-huh, hell...why not? Thing was, as Davis now realised, was that Tidybeard was in real poor shape to go before the camera bank.

" Uh...Boss, " whined Davis, getting real, real, nervy, " you're wanted on stage right away...Maybes you need to take a little shot of, uh, antidote, or something...?"

" An antidote?," snapped Boone, " for this stuff? Do you know how much this cost me? More than you'll earn in your lifetime, you little worm. Tell that foghead Darling to just run the rehearsal tape that Mr. Tidybeard filmed earlier... That was a perfect take, wasn't it? Well, what are you WAITING for? "

Tidybeard hisself, was wordless. His head was filled only with the wonder of the WhiteFalcon and the majesty of his own greatness. Why, oh why, oh why, he wondered, why hadn't he filled hisself up with this great stuff before? It gave him such a clear overall picture of his true GREATNESS, his natural position as a RULER of mortal men. Yes...

As far as Boone was concerned, the trouble and the credit he had splashed out on the vintage WhiteFalcon was money well spent. At the very least, it had got him right up there in Tidybeard's goody-goody books again, and, watching Tidybeard's reactions, it would be worth it for the sheer entertainment value, alone. Okay, the stuff was dearly bought, but it WAS real special. Who knows how many wretched underFolk had already perished to provide them with this delicious luxury? Made from the many-times refined wing bones of the - now extinct - Sacred WhiteFalcon from Palomino3, the drug was fierce-guarded by the BuffaloHead tribe, whose shamen used microscopic quantities of the drug in ancient ritual. More than two-thirds of the tribe had been massacred by back-packing Thrillseekers, prospecting for Brand New Kicks, and in turn, most of these prospectors had been done-in by their own compadres, fellow travellers, who saw no reason why caring & sharing should be thought of as a virtue. Boone hisself, had been offered the substance by a pale alien from Kebaba, whom he had followed and eliminated. And all had went well, till the renegade cop he had hired to do the job, had decided to go private. Him and his stinking hairy lip. Turned out, Boone had to go and get his own hands dirty, in the end. And lash out enormous credits to them 'uns in high Authority, to keep it all quiet. Still... Life would be so tiresome without some ups and downers.

II.

Up above, ReHab and Pigeon were having some problemo with their fellow crew members, Gorb and Jimmy, who were beginning to Panic.

" Look, " calmed ReHab, " y'all jist lie right back and LEAVE IT TO TH' MARINES, y'hear. Pigeon `n' me have safe-landed crates like this 'un about a million times."

And with that, he pulled right back on the joystick, pushing them out of the steep death dive, and getting them up for another run at the landing. And while he did so, Pigeon had a go-go with the af30 rotary cannon at the annoying flick-flak units that had started to worry black puffs of steel splinter all around them. All Gorb wanted to do, was to get out and walk, and he would have done so, woulda pulled the emergency ejection handle, if had known where it was. Jimmy – he had not only got his own fear to scare him, but also the waves of petrifaction that stone cold sweated off Gorb. He would have retracted his claws and moved off Gorb's - now bloody - shoulder, had he thought he could have found a spot that was more secure. But due to the strenuous, uh, evasive manoeuvres that ReHab was now making, the whole craft was trembling and shaking, like as if it was just as scary-scared as its passengers. On the third attempt at landing, and missing it again, one of the flak bursts caught a wing control panel, and that, that was it.

" Like it or lump, girls, we's a coming down this time!," hollered ReHab, who helped hisself to a further ration of Soup10s; he had always preferred flying to landing.

Though the two Marines had done their bestest to slow the A-59 down , it still hit the ground with a hell of a WHUUUMPH! There had been no point a-lowering the wheels, ReHab knew, and they belly-plunged into a big deep scarp in the ground. When they finally come to a stop, and the dust and smoke cleared, Gorb could tell one thing for sure: there was no way that they was ever a-goin' to get this wreck off the ground again. And for the time being, Gorb was very grateful for that, indeed.

III.

Marshall O'Duffy was upset to the very point of hub-bub-bubbing and bawling like a baby. Not only had his finest, favourite, individually decorated for obedience, units been sliced into flesh fragments by a weapon he hisself had pushed through the research funding for, but... there was NO sign of the emergence of th' PlainPope. The urgent botts he had commed through to Sintelligence had only told him that, according to them, there was some kinda System2system disturbance up at thee KillTheatreHall, and no way of finding out exact, what was a-goin' on. Worse, was the way these screentime production people were treating him. No respect for a man of his standing; and the way that Darling person had been growling at him... Insolence. No, it was time to take complete control, restore ORDER. Time to stop all this mess, and that was a job for thee Security Forces. Already, three full groups were on their way, with loaded air cover support. O'Duffy would have this wildfire stamped on, stomped out and completely inert, shortly. If necessary, he would have the entire area decontaminated - once he got hisself evacuated, of course. In the meantime, there was much to sort out, and shout orders about. He could see Tidybeard now, drifting through the studio in a very strange and smiley fashion. That young idiot had a lot to answer for.

" Tidybeard!," he roared, " this situation is getting completely out of control..."

Tidybeard, hearing him, widened his smile, and changed direction, floating over towards the Marshall.

" Tidybeard? Have you ANY idee what the HELL is going on? Tidybeard? Tidybeard??? Good Lord, bhoy, have you gone mad? "

In a polite and ever-smiling reply to the Marshall's queries, Dick Tidybeard pulled a jewelled 3mm RTmicroblaster from his scratchclothed robe and fired a tightly spaced burst into the fat man's head.

" Marshall," purred Tidybeard, who had just regained the use of his mouth after a period of paralysis, " everything IS under control. All under MY control. But ...thank you, Marshall, and bless you for your concern."

Behind him, on a bank of monitors, Tidybeard's own earlier, serious, face, mithered on about thee Cutehoor Threat and thee Federation's Desperate Need for Salvation, Cleansings and ReNewal. On screen, he tore at his robes and punished hisself, begging for thee Folk's forgiveness for his hideous past sins of Fraternising with Thee Enemy, Unclarity of Faith, and Compromise; he urged HOLY WAR agin thee UnClean, and a new stricter obeyance of Anti-OutWorld legislation... Tidybeard, laughing, watched hisself on the screen, and he saw that it was GOOD.

IV.

Dr. Elimintado had nearly made it to the studio door, with OnYa well hidden under his suit jacket, when he noticed that there was a micro eye-spy hovering just over his head. He now realised that his flight had been in vain, that in fact, he had been on live camera the whole time. And that his attempted exscape had been mere entertainment for the masses. From the other side of the door burst a posse of guard-U thuggers, while the voice of BoxingHeid boomed from a nearby speaker.

" Chaos and anarchy!," he roared, " here is the very ROOT of it all!... From this little monster, springs a flood of evil, enveloping even the Holy Temples of Boone! "

From across the studio, strode the dark figure of the Preacher, close followed by Darling, who had picked up a hand-held camera and was zooming in on this, the most important of the action, hisself, so that it wouldn't get all-slugged up by some useless incompetent.

" And see what DEVIOUSNESS it uses, in its scramble to FLEE the righteous flames of th' Lord! Away wi' ye! Let natural Justice take its course...We'll soon have calm, and a sea of tranquillity onced again, when this beast has been slain!"

Strong arms grabbed Elimintado, while BoxingHeid deftly slipped the chile out from under the good doctor's jacket.

" For the love of mercy," screamed Elimintado, " take ME instead..."

" Mercy? Mercy, you axe for? " queried BoxingHeid, holding the chile up to the camera with one hand, whilst searching through his pockets for his blade, with the other. " It'll be a mercy to GoodFolk to see both your rotten corspes burn..."

OnYa, big and round, fat faced and gentle, plump armed and waddle-legged, smiled her mouth open, and plopped a sticky thumb inside.

" And NOW, " roared BoxingHeid, triumphantly, " to HELL wi' you..."

And he stretched up his wiry arm, quick ready to plunge down a flashing blade.

" Nope," said a quiet voice from the side. " I don't think so, mister."

A newmEtal pincer was wrapped full around the sharpness of the blade, and squeezing, shattered it into a thousand shimmering, tinkling pieces. The other pincer gently poked OnYa from BoxingHeid's grasp, and brought her safely to her Pappy's side.

" YOU !!, " screamed BoxingHeid, " `tis th' Evil One hisself! Quick, DHESTROY HIM, brethren."

The Guard-U made some kinda fumbling attempt, but Pigeon already had them covered with one of the weapons they had recovered from O'Duffy's massacree-ed death Units. More dangerous was Darling, who slipped out an upholstered pistol, and who moved to take a pot-shot at Gorb. Might have got a shot in, too, if it hadn't a been for ReHab, who sussed him, and who gave the sucker a full round of SKata2Bits... This action radically altered Darling's career path, from executive underling to, uh, flecked wall-covering, BoxingHeid took a guldering charge toward Gorb but was thumpily thwacked back again the doorjam by a mEtal arm. ReHab quick turned his gunsnout on the prone figure...

" No, NO," pleaded BoxingHeid, " I have too much work to do, to be called away now!... Wait! I can bring the warmth of salvation and forgiveness to your wretched souls! DON'T SHOOT! ...Wait! ...I can bring you peace of mind. Spare me my life," he begged, " and I will, ...I will uh, give you your ...freedom."

" Thanx," said Gorb.

" Much obliged, Captain," snortled ReHab. " Do ye want me to pump th' ol' bhoy off now, Gorb? "

There was no need. On falling agin the doorjam, BoxingHeid had fractured the thin glass phial in which he had ported a nest of Tunnelweb Spiders all the way from Vileness, thinking they would come in useful for all sorts of Holy Medicine. And th' Tunnelweb Spiders, already hot and bothered after a long and hungry day in a boiling studio, hadn't been exactly happy to be slam-squashed into sweaty wollen trousers, no. So...

" What's he a-sayin' ?" axed Pigeon, pointing to the white and shaky figure of BoxingHeid, who had begun to mumble, incoherently.

" His prayers, I think..." answered Gorb, who was cradling sweet OnYa real careful, and getting ready to move on.

V.

From the VIP lounge, Boone was having an enormously entertaining time watching the a-goings on. He had to fight back waves of WhiteFalcon-engendered bluster, which suggested that all this wondrous mayhem and slugg-up was as a result of his own careful planning, his own clever design. In fact, as he well knew, it was simply a slice of luck that he was so well out of it. Onced all this was over, he could easy pick up the reins of power again, and be better off than ever he was. And Tidybeard would no longer be able to spout off and order him about; that bhoy was heading for disaster, or a rubber-cell brain-scrub, at the very least. Boone could see him now on the monitor, totally serene, floating about among the chaos like some ghost that had smoked an overdose of stupit.

Totally serene, Dick Tidybeard had not realised before that he had possessed these special powers of invisibility, invincibility, and flight. What a dreary little man he had been, not accepting his own true potential. Here he was, in the middle of some kind of awful scrummage betwixt exscaped and rampaging Sinners, and the Guard-U, who were backed into a corner and fighting for their worthless lives. Really, how incredibly uninteresting these little peoples were. But wait, who was this thing emerging from the struggle, this over-painted and perfumed figure? That Freak ! How did she get here? How amusing. Ahhh! Aha! Now, here was someone from the recent past, an almost worthy underling, ready and eager to serve... A decent target, at last.

It was Lolo. Hollering a WHOOP, she dived through a stack of gutted Guard-U corpses and flung herself on top of the beatific Tidybeard.

" What the slugg..?" screamed Tidybeard.

Already brutally wounded in the firefight, Lolo was bleeding heavily and weak, but he/she was still strong enough to extract her secreted purse, and quickly draw out small scissors and a micro LadyFemm razor. Swiping with snips, slicing with shaves, Lolo tore into Tidybeard's tidybeard ...And nasty, short, sink-blocking type of beardy hairs, as well as some wee bits of chin, fell yonder and asunder among the carnage around them. The near entire surface of the upper lip was swiped bloodily baldy with one deft shave-swoop, while nimble fingers thoroughly hack-scissored hairy sideboards ... In seconds, Tidybeard was transformed and disfigured. The tidybeard which had shielded his visage since adolescence, was GONE and he was nude-faced before the Universe. Screaming with fright and rage, Tidybeard grabbed the still scrabble-shaving Lolo and FLUNG her to the guts-smeared ground. Already grievously wounded, the strain of force-shaving had been too much for Lolo. And the impact of rough whacking into the ferrocrete studio floor, drove the last breath from her body, the breath of which carried the one last faint word, " Ignatius! ", from the now soft-smiling lips.

Tidybeard wasn't aware of whether the Freak was Dead, or not, but he sure wasn't about to wait around and find out. He pulled out his 3mm RTmicroblaster and fired, and fired, and kept on firing, until the charge chamber was total empty. He emptied that microblaster into Lolo, and made such a job of the body that, much later, when Guard-U came in to clean up the studio, they couldn't even tell if the corpo had been man or woman.

Watching Tidybeard's gashed and bloody naked faceness on the monitor, Boone was worried that he was gonna laugh hisself into some kinda coronary attack. His eyes were streaming like he'd been sniffling on a dozen onions, and both his sides were raw sore. He could just see hisself watching a tape of this in his Private Prayer Chamber, later, while ministering to his own intimate needs. In fact, it was almost too good to savour now, should perhaps be tackled with a little more taste and reserve. And maybe it was about time he got hisself down on the studio floor and took charge. He was a professional, after all, and there was work to be done. So, dragging an elaborately hembroidered h-panky from his pocket, and wiping the funtears away from his besmudged face, he headed off toward make-up. It was especially important to look your best, at a time like this. Yes.

VI.

ReHab and Pigeon moved off to the side to give Gorb some little space. The poor man was hubbling, and bubbling, and yawping so much, that he was becoming downright hembarrassing. He was holding his daughter up to him, and cry-ba bawling, for all he was worth.

" I'm SORRYEE", Gorb bubbled. " I'm sosorry, OnYa," he hubbled, " I should never have left you...".

OnYa herself was looking round, perplexed at all the bigbang noises, and coloury flashes, that wassa splashing sound and vision all around her. She had a big round rubbery face and too deep dark, shining little eyes. Gorb pushed his face agin the smell of her head, and slobbered further.

" Oohhhhh OnYa, my poor wee thing."

Sniffling slightly, the chiles wee nostrils flared and inhaled, again, as if second sampling that first sniff. Then, very slowly, chubbily, the head turned and examined her father. She smiled a big fat wide grin, and thick little thick fingers reached out to touch him.

" OnYa ?," whispered Gorb, who had stilled his yawping to a snivel, and fascinated, watched OnYa's lips move into the form of a word.

" Xtwyoolss," mouthed OnYa. And then she giggled, goo-goo-googled, and a long silvery strand of saliva dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, and stretched wetly down to Gorb's sleeve.

The wee Gee, who had been keeping his gob well shut for this past while, complete-disgusted with the inhumanity of people to people, now moved up along Gorb's shoulder and reached out, so that his brightly jewelled snout touched the strand of saliva, AND in that electric instant, ALL became CLEAR. The studio System blanked, and all world2world screens hissed into static.

VII.

In the dirty skies overhanging the studio, a grim armada had assembled. More than thirty troop transports, a complete section of fully-weaponed attack craft, and an enormous Battle Station, with its own squad of AttakM-Chopters, had come on-line. The last of the weary Guard-U, fighting a desperate rearguard action agin the hordes of rebel Sinners, looked up and cheered. Which, in fact, was a BIG mistake, because at the remote nervy-centre of the giant Battle Station flitted the four-armed might of th' Two Headed Pup. Moving rapidly over a bristling pincushion of joy-sticks, deep in their KillTheatreHall chambers, Munchi and Culchi guided both the whole flotilla of crafts, and also a Hot R-bank of missile systems, which even now plunged a wave of destruction toward the last of Marshall O'Duffy's men.

Boone, who had just appeared on the studio floor, freshly dusted, bewigged, and groomed, was all ready to smile confidence and calm back into the cameras, when this new onslaught began.

" Quick," he screamed, " use the scramblers! Deflect those missiles! "

Just before the first of the missiles hit, one of the studio underlings made it to the control panel and turned the scramblers to ON. Microwave transmissions beamed toward the incoming hostiles, mostly too late, but one of the last was deflected way off target, and smashed into the PentiHouse quarters way over on the tower block, hexpoding in a huge ball of narcotic and poison flame as Boone's own private apartimento, Private Prayer Chamber and Hinspiration Cabinet were total dhestroyed.

Tidybeard didn't care to bother hisself with the continuing collapse of Federation Forces, and the dissippation of ORDER. Instead, he was zoning through inner OutWorlds in new Deep Hexplorations. He was careering over sharp frosted mountaintops in a hot-air balloon, he was vvroooming through iceberged oceans in a huge powerboat, he was setting things firmly right with dissident youth. His head, in fact, had become quite detached from groundReality, and where his feet carried him, he no longer hardly cared. The shock of his close shave with Lolo, had completely unhanged his hinges, and he was floating in a free fall emulsion of oily hallucination, and watery fantasy. Worse, bursting from his throatline was a firm collar of fine and healthy Bracket fungus, only one of many species which were now beginning to protrude, rudely, from his corpo: some small button mushrooms were growing steadily on his forehead; while slime moulds were already oozling from his nasal passages. Tidybeard remained happily unaware of his fungal predicament, until a chance encounter with Davis, who was suffering a similar [indeed, mirror-image] attack, made him aware, after a cursory body-check, that uh, something appeared to be wrong.... Certain that Davis was the primary source of hinfection and must be dhestroyed, Tidybeard set about the execution, with gusto. He grabbed the underling, already near half dead, what with woundings from the battle going on all around him, plus an ever hexpanding fungal infestation, and throttled him, squeezing WhiteFalcon crazed hands around the now-mushy neck, till Davis hexpired in a last gurgle of slime and spores. And yet, even after the destruction of Davis, the damn fungus kept on growing. New sproutlets tenderly emerged from the scrape-shaved areas on his face, a Ladies Pleasure pooked obscenely from his trouser, while horrendous dusty puffballs ballooned from his groin. Staggering around, almost blinded by a film of greenmould which was spreading across his eyes, Tidybeard blundered across the studio, tripping up on bloodied corpos, slip-sliding in puddles of butchery and extruded intestine, while out-reaching for safety. He came across an exit corridor and feeling his way, moved on into a brightly lit dressing-down room. There, in the fluorescent glare of the make-up mirror, he was able to survey himself, observe hisself plainly even through the dim green film of his vision. Tidybeard could see that he was now one total mass of fungi, species piled upon species, glistening and moist, and visibly growing. This was Tidybeard's last vision of hisself: repellant, repulsive, parasitic. For a brain complete obsessed with White Falcon vanity and selfness, this horror overload was way over manageable levels and so, all major electro-chemical cerebral activity fused and ceased. Tidybeard slumped to the floor with a squelch, as a thicket of toadystools on his backside got squashed. He lay there twitching and jerking, slimily, till jellied rootlets swarming greedily into the skull area, swelled, hexpanded, and BURST the cranial case wide open. Then Tidybeard was still.

Peeping through the dressing-down room doorway came a handful of sinner chillder: Hambone, Deadleg Bob and his sister Peg, Blind Job, Pignose, Little Frank, Twinkle, and Scarface O'Hooligan. They was all hungry for proper vittles, not having got no proper chaw since Hell's Half Acre. They didn't care for this real processed gaol food too much, and longed for the good smell of tunnel mould. Little Blind Job had sniffed it first, feeling Tidybeard pass by, and the troupe had followed their noses after the great fungaled leader. And there he lay, a real feast afore them. Ultrafresh and tasty, high in proteins and rich in goodstuff. Cautious, they waited, checking for no movement, till the brave Hambone reached forward and tore a Saffron Milkcap, Lactarius deliciosus, off Tidybeard's thigh. The rest of th' wee'uns watched him as he wolfed it, and then, seeing it was good, they all sat themselves down to feast.

VII.

Mesmerised by the appearance of two giant black vultures who had swooped down from the overheard gantrys of studio 3, Boone struggled to retain his poise and professionalism. There should be, he realised, no vultures onPlanet, certainly none within the urban confines of Satellite City; these gruesome twosome must therefore be mere manifestations of his own paranoia, his fear, now that all his major drug supplies had been eliminated. There was no reason for such panic just yet, however. Boone always had emergency-stash supplies hidden for just such a disaster, and there were always ways around such a problem.

" Folks, " he appealed to the camera, in his most pleadsome and sugar sweet tone, " we seem to have had a little accident in the studio, here. Is there a pharmaceutical supplier in the audience? "

Although the red 'on-air' lights were still a-blinking on the bank of cameras and eye-spies that filled the left side of main studio3, total system disruption meant that all signals dissipated into mere static and buzz. Boone was pleading to no-one but his own reflection in the polished glass of the lenses. Although he was aware that the monitors had gone pure blank, he was eager to continue; in all cases, the show must go on... Holding up-stretched arms above hisself in a futile effort to calm the din of blaster fire and screams that rampaged around him, Boone continued to preach and rave.

" Friends, " he hollered, " I want you all to put your hands together, and join with me now... Times like these, we all need the POWER of HolySong... I was standing by my window, on one cold and cloudy day..."

In front of him, a puzzled Sarah Trembling stood, watching the sweat break on the forehead of the old man. She had come across to scan the two vultures, who had squawked down to the studio floor and were getting grizzled into a puddle of Guard-U entrails, necks bloody and feathers flapping. BoxingHeid had transported the birds up from Vileness, marked as decoration for the burnfire; but here they were, free, and happy out. Boone, seeing the girl before him, and aware that the studio audience had long since fled, urged her to join him.

" Sing!" he screeched, " Sing, you little bitch, sing! "

Sarah Trembling caught the craziness in Boone's voice and begun to back away, turned to run, but as she turned, he reached out and grabbed her.

" I'll make you sing, " he hissed, " you'll sing for the Folk, or you'll burn."

From a hidden pocket he produced a D-pump, and quick adjusted it's dials with his free hand. Seeing what he was doing, wee Sarah Trembling wild struggled and scratched at him, ripping at his stretched skin face. He howled and momentarily relaxed his grip of her as just then a thick blaster butt SMACK-ed off Boone's wig-hair, and knocked him flying backward into a camera. It was Priestley, still weak and bedazzled, but roused by the sight of Sarah Trembling in trouble, able to summon up enough strength to thwack the wretch who had earlier filled up his head with poisons. Priestley then limply collapsed onto Sarah Trembling's gentle bosom, total hexhausted by the effort of swinging the heavy blaster; she held him sweet and softly tight, and let her lips caress the coolness of his pale head.

Boone's skull had proved fragile agin the tough palastic of a camera stand. He lay, winded and painful, under the camera for some time; then dragged hisself up for one last final effort, and threw hisself toward the lens-eye.

" Friends," he semi-concscious pleaded, bloodgore pishing from a hole in the back o' his head, " my friends and brethren...have mercy on my..." and at that, his conscious faded out toward the semi side, a bloodclot pushing his mindful toward distant, happier days.

" N' thee totaliser reads at one trillion credits, folks - all down to personal donation, thee good work of poorbhoy Terri the soft-toy catalyst, and your own Whisshtt!-drives and local sinner-burnings all over the territories... Thankee, kindly folk, and now back to some of our fun-time celebrity codology in th' studio – J. Denver Colorado has readied a comical version of his top pop hit, " Ah'm leaving onna jet plane "... Uh, unmericiful vipers...No, LISSEN... LISSEN... Lissen to me and send me credit, or you'll die burning in the pits of eternal hell..."

Frantic, Boone was battering what was left of his brains agin the camera stand, head ketchuped wi' his own cerebellum, oozing.

" Lissen to me and send credit, for I can bring you peace, tranquilty, and... sal..."

He gripped th' camera in a clinch, convulsing in a raw-red final tremor of orgasmic jitterling and drool. Gas passed out from his guts, and then he flopped, wetly, to the floor. Total Dead.

" That does it, " said Sister Jessica, who had come searching for her sister, quietly. " No need for you kids to stare around and look at that... Now you two come along wi' me and we'll get you home and get you all settled."

And with that, she moved over and helped Sarah Trembling carry Priestley along through the gutted wreckage of Satellite City, to where Gorb and his bhoys were uploading the Sinners and Rebels into the bowels of the giant Battlestation, preparing for th' move offPlanet.

## Chapter 30 \- Abominations

Intrusions : / X-trusions / Abominations / Self-Determinations / Floating Inna Free State / Called Him A Paw / Come Away Wi' A Diverse Point of View.

Maw Cartwright pulled thee old HolyScreen down from the top dresser shelf, and flickering through its plainscript pages, sought a suitable passage. She was a-looking for some uplifting and precious Words to help them guide Mina through to thee Otherside. That was the best they could do for her, now. Up in the little bedroom above, Paw sat tight beside Mina and held her bird-thin hand, a-praying and a-whispering good Holystuff to those unconscious ears; Maw herself had sat there all through the night, and would take no leave, insisting that such a good woman would not die alone, but would pass over in thee company of decent Folk, and feel thee warm touch of love, as her gentle soul took flight. Paw, of course, had stuck beside them, but now in the gathering whispers of dawn, it was obvious that Mina was slipping away. Her breathing had turned whiskery and uneven, and the pulse was nearly gone. The pallor of Death had enveloped her, and so, Maw went on down to the kitchen to get thee HolyWritings, so that she would have some Word ready, when thee Time came. She was still a-flickering through plainscript passages, when she first heard the rumble of turbo motors, distant at first, then closing, and now unmistakable; a craft was landing in the near field.

II.

Even with the rapid detoxification shot that Joe G that sorted for him, after th' Sinner armada had got itself landed on Murphy's Reef, Priestley remained considerably groggy and confused, weak. Matter of fact, it was a testament to the bhoy's stamina, strength of will and character, that he was alive, and sane, at all. Sarah wanted him to rest up and take it easy; but he INSISTED on going on homeward along with Gorb and Dr. Elimintado, when he heard they were travelling on to the Cartwright place. News had come through the Gee network to Wee Jimmy, that Mina was mortal ill. And natural, Gorb had set off at onced, axing the good Doc to come with him. Sarah Trembling had tagged along as Priestley's nurse, for there was no way she was a-gonna let that big-quiffed bhoy go anywheres without her, in any case.

Rehab jet-scooted them over in a Rb211 transport, and when they got close to home, Priestley had come up front to show off to Sarah the patches of bright hoed green that him 'n' Paw had hacked from the jungledeep wilderness. There was the farm, with its outbuildings and growingtank-yards, and the little cabin, a brown curl of smoke drifting up from the chimney. They landed in the nearfield, as Priestley had advised, and just as soon as the doorseals was broke, the bhoy was up on his feet and out, bouncing and a-hobbling away in front toward the yard, all excited, with Sarah a-nagging at him to slow down.

All looked just as Priestley had left it, though he spotted that there was paint work and maintenance that needed a-doin', and them crop of neeps in the kitchen garden needed weedin'.

" HALT! Don't come not one more step nearer, RANK STRANGERS, or I'll drop youse where ye stand! You're a -trespassin'. Get off my property!"

It was Paw. He was crouched down behind the low barnyard wall, with the longsnout of his .3006 stickin' out, pointing straight at Priestley's belly. The way the sun was that time of the morning, sharp and blinding - especially to well tired eyes that had seen no sleep through the night before - Paw could make out little in his gun-sight but dim silhouette. Far as he could see, this could well be more of Perving's creepys, maybes come to see what had happened to their Captain. Paw was determined to keep them away from the house and the wimmenFolk, and send them on to HELL, if possible.

" I say again, strangers, " he shouted, " Get off my land! I'll give you FIVE seconds ...and then I'm opening FIRE."

Priestley stood, dumbed, and transfixed in his tracks. He wanted to speak, say something, scream and roar, but the word stuck glued in his throat; this was his FATHER before him, sounding so scared and tired, sounding so OLD. Paw. He wanted to scream Paw ! and throw hisself forward, lift up the old man from his weariness, but could do nothing but just stand there and waver. He stood there wavering, as long thick seconds ticked by, seen Paw's shoulder hunch as he prepared hisself for the recoil.

" PAW !!," he roared.

The old farmer flinched, and momentarily slipped his finger off the trigger. What kind of dEvilishness was this? That sounded like our Priestley's voice. How could it be? Were them demons trying to trick him? The Beast he comes in many forms, some of them familiar.

" Paw! It's ME, Priestley! "

Paw said nothing, but continued to draw a bead on the stranger. Let him talk and reveal hisself for what he was, and then, snick...

Gorb and Dr. Elimintado were hurrying up as fastest as they could, but it took some time for them to get OnYa out of her harness, and for the doctor to get his medical kit hextracted from where Rehab had a-stashed it. Then, when they did get out and down on the ground, there was Priestley standing, all frozed up like an ice block, and Paw behind his ol' .3006.

" Uh, Mister Cartwright, sir," called Gorb, " is there some kinda mhistake here? "

" Gorb ?," queried Paw, his low voice hoarse and tremulous, sensing the implications of Gorb's return, " is that really you? Have you brought our bhoy back to us? Speak out strongly now, son..."

" It's me, alright, Mister Cartwright. And yes, this is your son... But we're in a real hurry to get to Mina. We've heard that... "

" HOLD IT !," snarled Paw. " Way things is, I cain't take no chances. Maybe youse is who youse says you is, and maybes you hain't... How come youse knowed 'bout Mina getting hurt, huh? There's been bad doin's around here, real bad. And if youse is bad 'uns in disguiseness, I intend to take as many of you with me as I can... Hold yer arms up there where I can see 'em. And you, you dark one at the back with the hairlocks, you remember I'm watching you, too."

It was at this point that Priestley cut in, and began to give out scoldings.

" Paw, I'm 'shamed of you," he scolded. " These is Folk who saved my life twiced over. If it wasn't for these 'uns I'd be nothing but a pile of ash and cinders... Put that damned ol' peashooter back in the toolshack and make these people proper welcome. This here at the back is the good Doctor Elimintado and he's travelled a long, long ways to see what he can do for Mina. You're GONNA let him through, Paw. You're gonna let him through - shoot me first if that's what you want - but you're gonna let him through, I guarantee ya... I'm a-comin' forward, now, and I'm a-gonna make you put that ol' gun down. If you shoot me, well, then you can come and see the face of you own son in the dirt; feel you own kinblood, red and hot on the ground. Maybe then, you'll know what it is you've done. "

" My son!" bawled Paw, sure now that such stubborn toad-headedness and grit guts, could only come from the bhoy's own true flesh. The leathered face creaked and cracked, leaked thin salt tears, as Paw Cartwright collapsed, total overcome. The gun fell off the wall, clattered onto the ground, as Priestley moved forward, to tenderly embrace his Paw.

Moving on quickly, an anxious Gorb and Dr. Elimintado, entered the house and went on through to the bedroom. Telling Maw to brace herself, they sent her \- near blue breathless with great expectations - on outside, to be wi' Paw and Priestley, while the doctor set down and got to work. There was little Dr. Elimintado could do, however; and after only a few minutes, he turned around to Gorb and shook his head.

" We're too late. It's hopeless. The tissue and organ damage is irreversible, even if I had the best facilities available.... Best thing I can do, Gorb," he said quietly, " is to let her go... I could fiddle and footer about with her for a while; maybe even keep her alive for a few more hours, maybe even days... But what would I do that for ? - other than to flash my medical skill?. Bestest thing to do, is to let this poor body alone. She's not in any pain, now. I'm sure of that. She'll soon just drift off, real peaceful. So, uh...." Elimintado got up and moved away from the bedside chair, clicked his med-bag closed. " I'm sorry, Gorb."

Gorb sat down heavily in the solid little chair that sat beside the simple bed. He had OnYa in a carry-pouch on his front, and two little brown eyes peeped out, curious at him, as he stretched and held the faint white hand of Mina. It was cold and near clammy to the touch, so he tried to rub a wee bit of warm life back into it, and maybe just let Mina know that he was there beside her. While Gorb sat there, holding her, Wee Jimmy crept quiet along, and crossed over, crept up her arm and onto the chest. There lay th' Gee McKinley, as mortally wounded as her host. When Mina's life Ended, she would End too, so intricately had their lives become enmeshed. Jimmy folded hisself alongside the other Gee, and delicately embraced her, his tail tight to hers. Like this, they sat in silence, while OnYa watched wide-eyed, and feely-felt all that was around her, feeling the closeness of her Pappy, and Jimmy, and the closeness of Mina and McKinley's imminent End. The chile wriggled and gurgled in the carry-pouch, and for a moment, Gorb thought that he would have to rise and leave, if she was getting so uncomfortable; but no, OnYa was only wriggling to hextract one of her fat little arms from a side pocket, and when she did so, she plopped a thick little thumb in a slobbery mouth, and suckled hard. Soon, the bright wee eyes dulled and faded into a sleep, deep dreaming of her strange sisters far, far, away, drifting and moulding in their own strange, strange ways...

Tight family that they were, the Cartwrights, seeing that goodFolk were in trouble, put off their embracings, celebrations, and explanations, and huddled around to see if they could be of any help. On hearing the grim verdict from Dr. Elimintado, Priestley took a hold of his Maw and Paws' hands and kneeling down on the rough boarded floor, led them in honest HolySong. They sang There's A Higher Power, with the good Doctor Elimintado, kneeling too, joining in as best as he could, and Gorb just humming along. Sarah Trembling remained silent in the rear, but thought that that high and lonesome sound was the most beautiful and precious noise that her ears had ever heard.

A little later, after Maw and Sarah Trembling had worked together to prepare some feeding for the Folk, especially Priestley and Paw, who were both still weak and shaky, the women went and unstrapped little OnYa offa Gorb and took her - still sleeping - out with them to gather jungley flowers for Mina's bedside. Sarah Trembling took natural to the chile, and Maw commented on how good she looked with the babby on her, and the two of them smiled. And then Maw told young Sarah not to be too scared of Paw, for he was just old and set in his ways, and that after a while, he would surely come up with a different point of view. She told her that, in any case, she would always be right welcome, and to use the place as her own home, for she was, obvious, someone special to Priestley.

On their way back from the jungle-edge, OnYa awoke from her snooze, and seemed real agitated to be away from Gorb and Jimmy. She started to cry and wouldn't be comforted, so the two women hurried back, and the closer they got back to the house the more content OnYa became. And when OnYa saw the O'NoLan craft parked up in the nearfield - getting a good lookover by ReHab - she stopped crying altogether and began gurgling and bubbling, instead. Maw and Sarah Trembling, however, were made more than a wee bit nervous by this new craft's arrival. When they carefully entered the house, and peeped in the bedroom, they saw that two near-Normal O'NoLans were working with Elimintado and Gorb, helping load Mina onto some kinda weird medico-pod, flickering with luminous green tube-pipes, and freezing streams of Cryogen gas.

" Has she gone? " whispered Maw, real anxious. " What's happening? "

" Its... OnYa, Maw " explained Priestley, " Gorb thinks she musta got in contact with uh, these peoples... She has some kinda LINK, Maw. Something we don't, uh, hunderstand... But, but, b-b-but that don't mean it's evil, Maw, no. OnYa just don't want Mina to die, Maw, is all. And so, uh, she a-kinda sent for these here Folks to SAVE her. Seems as how theys is the only ones who can..."

And with that Priestly put a nervous hand to his head and fingered through a greasy handful of his quiff hair. " Maw, Paw, you're a-gonna have to be open-minded, and I know that you reckon that open-mindedness is a Sin. But, I tell you this, ...I seen many, MANY things that has learned me, that has showed me that, uh, some of the Folk that was supposed to be Holy, was leading us WRONG. They was, Paw. We gotta stop lissenin' to other Folk ranting and instead, FEEL what's in our own hearts. Ain't that true, Sarah Trembling? Gorb? "

Maw was distracted and anxious, downright worried. How could she be hexpected to change a lifetime of ReVivalism in an instant? And yet, there was a common-sense kernel of some type-a light within her, that shined up and showed her, showed her that in time, the words of her precious son would become clearer.

" Paw? " she asked, turning to her husband, who was standing, somewhat uncomfortably, at the back of the busy O'NoLans, " Can you comprehend all this? "

" I cannot," Paw replied, " but ah'm a-willin' to give Priestley's way a chance. Seems to me there's a lot o' stuff 'round here we plainFolk cain't figure... But, I just know I'm right glad to get my own bhoy back, and if Gorb here can do that, well, him and his wee'uns is alright by me. Although, " and here he stiffened and cleared his throat, awkward, " I'm not a-gonna put up with no unHoly nonsense, mind... But Gorb and his kin will always be welcome in my home, and I'll fight to protect them if I have to. And that welcome includes you too, young lady..." He glanced over at Sarah and blushed. "Seems to me like we've been needin' new life and new idees 'round here for a LONGGG time."

Joan Cartwright crossed the room and warmly embraced her husband. It seemed to her that Paw's faultless and good way of life, the pain that he had suffered through years of not-knowing, the agonies of absence, were to be finally rewarded. At last, they could live and breathe again.

With a curious OnYa again in his arms, Gorb was observing the O'NoLan sisters carefully. These two were from an elite brood: dark, leather-trousered and perfumed; special tender tendril-picked by th' Cutehoors, to carry out the most important and delicate of tasks. To both Gorb, and especially to OnYa, they had shown nothing but reverence, and they way they handled Mina was entirely in contrast to Gorb's own horrendous experience on DrumCree5. Working quickly but precisely, they silently transferred the limp body to the med-pod, and connected up system supports and life-wires. Dr. Elimintado watched, open-mouthed over their shoulders, but had to retreat, to avoid getting in the way. In less than ten minutes, they had Mina stabilised and ready for transferral. After securing the med-pod closed, they paused then, and ignoring their audience, came round from behind the pod to thickly grip each other. From the corner of his eye, Gorb could see Paw Cartwright reddening, and Maw desperately trying not to notice. Apparently refreshed, the O'NoLans then came forward, and reported.

" It is a great honour to meet you," smiled the sisters, dipping their carefully trimmed heads in respect, " We bring salutations from Everysister."

" The Process will be immediately set in motion. Although a special Process," stated the first sister.

"... Such as this, given the nature of these injuries," continued the second sister.

" ...Will take some considerable time," finished her sibling.

" Now we must go, " they said, together. " It has been a privilege for our selves to have met you, little sister."

And then, they both bent forward and kissed the top of OnYa's baldy little head, leaving behind them two scarlet lipsticked 0s. In reply, OnYa wriggled and broke wind, which eased the tension in the room and gave even Paw Cartwright a grin, while Sarah - she couldn't help it - broke into a outright snicker.

With that, The O'NoLans departed with their hovering med-pod, out to the near-field and onto their Intercraft, and away.

Mina was gone.

II.

Gorb, stretched long on the languid beach, was feeling the bright sun too hot on his newMetal arms. It was a brilliant and gorgeous morning, made even more glorious by the delighted squeals and shrills of OnYa, behind him, as she played in the sand with her brothers. Th' twin-joined bhoys had flew themselves down from their base at thee KillTheatreHall the night before, and stayed over with Gorb at the house in PineBeach. During the course of the previous evening and on into the wee hours, they had give him plenty o' trouble: savagely psycho-collaging his collection of National Geographicals into a bloodied blob of abstract shreds; letting loose his store of worm-flys; warming up his beer cooler; and completely re-modelling the bathroom to their own particular requirements. Worse, to Gorb's acute annoyance, Jimmy and Mina had found their antics wildly amusing, and had yuk-yuk-yukked with th' twinned bhoys through half the night.

Through Jimmy's translation, Gorb was able to find out from th' bhoys about the continuing events up at their headquarters: about how they had traced Yegyo, plumbed her direct into thee PlainPope's abandoned pipeworks; about how the miners were thriving, and how Joe G's detoxification plan was going well - most of the miners were now nearly sober, uh, most o' the time; about how work on the new tunnels was going; about how Sister Jessica's fungi farms were growing more than enough food to feed all the relocated peoples; about how ReHab was working with th' bhoys to build a newly impenetrable De-fence network, using idees he had borrowed from that O'NoLan craft he had, um, surveyed. All was well, and tasty, and Gorb's own plan to harvest the plague of Water Hyacinth from the Red River, use it as compost on Sister Jessica's underground farms, was apparently working even better than hexpected. Meantime, Priestley and Paw Cartwright were settling in Folk that wanted to try a hand at a-farmin' on the deserted homesteads up by their place; and Maw was givin' crash courses in the preparation of real food. Everything onPlanet was clicking together, real good, and even some of the other inhabitable planets in the sector were getting surveyed for possible colonisation or De-fense use.

Despite all this good news, Gorb still felt a bit grey and a bit hollow, felt that there was something missing. Since the return of Mina, fragile but complete, he had spent most of his time converting a seafront villa to meet her accessible needs. Since that work was now over, and the reconditioned Mina remained as independent and obstinate as ever, he found hisself at a loose end. Overall, he was happy in his own little shack with OnYa and Jimmy, but even them two had lately seemed listless and depressed. OnYa now point blank refused to let Gorb out of her sight, even if Jimmy stayed with her, and would only let Mina baby-sit if she knew that her Pappy was real near-by. Gorb put it down to a side effect of Onya's recent growth spurt and expected her to settle down again soon. Her brothers certainlyseemed to have a calming effect on her.

POOOM!

A catapaulted sand-bomb caught Gorb right on his baldy spot, and showered his face and remaining hair with bitter, sharp, grains.

POOOM!

Another sand-bomb caught him on the back of the neck, as he lifted hisself up from the beach. Behind him, he could hear the huge snortles of Munchi, Culchi, the sniggerings of Jimmy and the delighted gurgling of OnYa.

"Pappy!"she gurgled. "Haw!"

She was sitting up in the middle of them two, Jimmy stuck to her neck, her wee chubby face all lit up, with slobbers dribbling down onto the new lacework dress that Maw Cartwright had so delicately stitched up for her. Gorb was going to get up and give out, curse, gurn and fuss, tell them there bhoys a thing or two, showing their wee sister such bad hexample, but...

What the hell...

They were two good bhoys, they looked after OnYa so well. And she was so content in their company. So, instead of boring on, and getting all wrinkled up with rage, Gorb just shrugged the sand off, made a stupit face at th' bhoys and headed on up the beach. At least, when th' bhoys were with OnYa, he could get a little time to hisself, have a walk.

Gorb walked away on up the beach, deep thinking as he sploshed through the surf. The sea-front looked like it was becoming lived in again. From some of the beach-house mansions, washing-lines of tattered clothes, flapped, while cooking smoke smells dawdled from late-morning chimneys. In front of him, on the strand, a nest of young O'Hooligans were rampaging through the suds, scraping up shellfish into battered buckets, and wrestling one another through the waves. Their wee bellies were rounded and full now, full of goodgrub and the fungistuff from Sister Jessica's farms. They would hunger no more. And that was good.

Way, way, in the far distance, he could just make out the thin black lines of casting poles against the skyline - some of the older miners had took up fishing - and that started him to thinkin' again. Besides attempting to proper repopulate the Red River, he had set hisself the lifetime task of studying the fish species onPlanet. So, he turned and waded out into the ocean, shading his eyes agin the glare, and carefully surveyed the waters. Wading back down towards OnYa and th' bhoys, he found several interesting colonies of purple algae, with an attendant ecogroup of grazers and predators. Just close to one of the old city outlet pipes, he found a new type of flatfish, pink-spotted and placid, feeding among the shrimp shell debris that had gathered with the tide. Eager to study this Flounder fish, he gulped air, then dipped himself, head first, beneath the surface. He stayed under for as long as he could, till black dizziness spun between his eyes, and his chest ached. Struggling, Gorb pushed hisself through the shallows and up onto the beach.

It was only then that he noticed the O'NoLans'craft circling overhead.

It was long, and graceful ship and it seemed to Gorb to take a long, long time to get itself settled and ready to land. They chose a patch of grassland, some way back from the beach, probably to avoid the motors creating a sandblast.

A concerned Gorb was right there on the grass when it landed, but when the O'NoLans descended, they walked right past him. Theywalked right past him and went on down the beach toward OnYa. He followed, worried.

He watched in silence, as, in the foreground, the two elite O'NoLan sisters prepared to approach and pay their respect to OnYa. They circled warily around behind th' bhoys, unsure of what they were. On closer inspection, they much approved of such natural closeness, and came right up alongside th' twins.

" We bring salutations from Everysister, " they chimed.

" Your brothers...? " began the first O'NoLan.

" Are joined together ? " finished the second.

OnYa gurgled happily, keeping her whole bright attention on the figures of the sisters, who were now becoming entangled. Th' bhoys, sniggering, mumbled to one another.

" Dunghill, " mugged Culchi.

" Slurrytank, linkbox, " agreed Munchi. " High Chaparral haircut." And then the two of them laughed a full deep and phlegmy holler, while moving with the O'NoLans, taking OnYa right past him, on up the beach and toward the dark figure of the parked craft.

Gorb called after them, but they ignored him.

They left Gorb a-standing there, in the blazing sun, alone himself on the white sand, a-studying and a-wonderin' to himself. Watching the figures as they moved further and away from him, across the sands, and towards the opened hatchways.

They had reached the hatchways and were climbing up into the guts of the ship. They were going away from him. Leaving him, as he had left them.

Lights brightened the interior of the ship, the motors moved to warm up phase, and the silvered rod hydraulics of the hatches began to glisten.

Gorb stood there, silent, frozen.

He stood there frozen till an O'NoLan appeared at the hatchway.

"Pappy!,"she said, "Do come ON."

"You'd better get aboard quick, Pappy," said her sister, beside herself. "We have a lot of work to do and a VERY long way to go."

Gorb 'Pappy' Ingordo scurried forward and scrambled up the ramp of the closing hatchway. As he scrambled and slipped, frantic, he could see the jewelled snout of Jimmy th' Gee, pressed tight against the portal window, and the grinning faces of his three chillder, watching him, and laughing.

[END of Book One.]

## Afterword

I discovered I BELIEVE IN THE MAN IN THE SKY lying around on an old floppy disk in the garage, in 2014. The story was originally written in Italy, in the long, hot summer of 1996 (I think) on a wreck of an old mono laptop which I bought for fifty quid in London's Tottenham Court Rd. I had to search for a floppy disk reader on Ebay to bring it back to life again - and that wasn't without problems, since the data on the floppy had become corrupted. I had to use recovery software to try and copy the file over and it choked so many times that I very nearly gave up.

However, the story had a kind of a lifeforce and a resurrection of its own. And so here it is.

Hope you enjoyed reading it.

Jim McCool,

Sydney, Australia, 2015.

@coolmccool

 From first light in the morning, when you CAN see, to the onset of darkness at night, when you CAN'T

