Profundis, p.2
Profundis, page 2
’Excellent, HG. You’ll put that in hand straight away, will you? Oh, just one other thing. What did you get for twelve down: “Exceedingly or merely confused Manx cat”?
‘“Supremely”, Omnipotence. It’s an anagram of “merely” and “pus” - which I presume to be “pussy” without its tail -hence Manx.’
‘Prot, you’re a genius.’
‘I just try that little bit harder, Bunjie.’
By lunch time Proteus had produced a serviceable identikit picture of the Messiah and the primary ‘physical characteristics’ sift was set in motion. Within ten minutes the twenty-eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty-seven unwitting candidates for the post of Only Begotten Redeemer Mk II had been whittled dow to a mere six hundred and four. Proteus reported back to Admiral Prood.
‘But dammit, we only want one, HG. And between you and me we don’t really want him either. Still, I suppose we’ve got to do things according to the Book. Let’s see now, the last one was a carpenter, wasn’t he?’
‘All our low-grade technicians are android, Omnipotence.’ That’s out then. And of course all our candidates were conceived in vitro V ’Every one of them.’
Admiral Prood tapped his teeth with a silver propelling pencil. ‘Difficult, Prot. Damned difficult.’
There’s always random selection, Bunjie.’
‘I don’t like it. Doesn’t fit the Divine Image I have in mind.’
‘You’re not forgetting you work in a mysterious way your wonders to perform?’
‘Not that mysterious, Prot I’m not going to have blind chance sticking a finger into my cosmos if I can help it How about the miracle working?’
‘Well, frankly, Bunjie, I think the anti-establishment line would prove more productive.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it would, but I don’t want to stress that side of the operation more than we have to. It could prove damned awkward. I’ve always thought the other outfit made a bit of a balls-up there on the first run. Lot of quite unnecessary political friction. If we have to we have to, but I’d rather explore the other avenues first’
’OK. It’s your trip, Bunjie.’
’Ours, Prot Ours. We’re in this thing together, remember. I’m counting on you one hundred per cent’
‘Say no more, Bunjie. Miracles it is.’
*1 think I’m right on this one, Prot. By the way, just between ourselves, technically speaking what does constitute a miracle?’
‘An abnormal event or occurrence which cannot be explained by any known natural law of cause and effect and is therefore assigned to supernatural agency.’
‘Hm. I see your point There can’t be very many of those around, can there?’
‘We could try. sifting for conjurers, I suppose.’
‘And end up with some damned lower-deck card sharp? Tone, Prot Tone.’
‘Just a minute, Bunjie. I’ve had an idea. Leave it to me.*
■ ‘Well?’
‘I’ve got you one.’
‘You have? Splendid! Who is he?’
‘Mammal (Aquatic) Communicator Grade 3. Jones, T. Age 17 years, 2 months.’
‘He can work miracles?’
‘He can talk to dolphins.’
’Is that supposed to be a joke? Of course he can talk to dolphins, you bollard I It’s his job.’
Terms of reference, Bunjie. You’re forgetting your terms of • reference. Within our parameters I’ll lay you a thousand to one it’s a bona-fide miracle. They just haven’t caught up with it yet, that’s all.’
‘By Jove, HG, I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at!’
‘Arid there’s another thing.’
‘Yes?’
’There’s absolutely no indication of any anti-establishment tendencies whatsoever.* * •
‘Better and better,’ crowed Admiral Prood. ‘Dammit, Prot, that almost qualifies as a miracle on its own account! Do you think he’ll prove amenable?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Well done, Number One! I’ll have a word with Jo-Jo Bonze right away about getting the lad vetted. A chip off the old block, eh? My only begotten first born son! ’
‘Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Omnipotence.’
three
At sixteen hundred hours Tom laid down the brush with which he had been scrubbing Wilbur’s flukes, sighed heavily and said: T may not be here when you and Judy get back, Wilbur. If I’m not, you’ll have to make your report to Arthur.”I thought Arthur was supposed to be on transfer to Admin,’ replied the dolphin.
’He is. At least that’s what Taper told me. I don’t know when, though.’
‘And where are you off to?’
‘RH6.’
’Oh yes?’ said Wilbur. ‘I don’t know that I like the sound of that. What’s it all about?’
‘Sarge told me I’ve got to report to someone called Commander Bonze.’ x
‘Bonze?’ repeated Wilbur revolving his starboard flipper in a gesture which Tom instantly recognized as the dolphin equivalent to a human’s scratching of the head. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing tome, son.’
‘Nor me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sure there’s been some mistake.* Wilbur wriggled himself backwards down the scrubbing chute, plunged tail foremost into the tank and emitted a rapid fusillade of staccato clicks. The other dolphins immediately gathered round and for twenty seconds the tank sounded like the venue for a convocation of inebriated crickets. The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started. Wilbur surfaced. ‘He’s no part of liaison,’ he said, ’or one of us would have heard of him for sure. Why don’t you try raising Taper?’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘JONES!!
‘Yes, Sar’nt Major?’
‘Stop chewin’ the rag wi’ them bleedin’ fish an’ getcherself movin’ up t’ RH6. Attadouble!!’
‘Yes, Sar’nt Major.’
‘And, Jones…’
‘Sar’nt Major?’
’Fer Gadwsake smarten yerself uppabit, lad. Try’n’ unner-stand yer goin’ uppiner world. So getincher number one fatigues an’ comb yer filthy ’air.’
‘All right,’ said Tom.
‘All right WHAT, Jones?’
‘All right Marine Sar’nt Major (A) Goff, SIR! Goff’s plastic lips parted in a ferocious grin. His metal teeth bristled like a tank trap. Tom fled.
He fled to the mess deck which he shared with twenty-four other ratings. It was numbered ‘M7-29’ and was situated only two hundred paces from Tank Section No 4, but to reach it Tom had to walk and clamber for at least five hundred yards and to negotiate no fewer than six sealed bulkheads. He assumed (correctly) that there must be a reason for this, though it had never occurred to him to wonder what that reason might be. It was, in fact, a method of ensuring that his undernourished body got just sufficient physical exercise for him to carry out his specified duties with passable efficiency. Unbeknown to him his weight was recorded at least twice each day, as was the time it took him first to card decode and then open and close each of the six watertight bulkheads. Unfortunately the correlation between these figures and the amount of low grade protein he received daily lay ultimately at the mercy of the capillary outlets of the arterial nutrient-servo-system and these had the regrettable tendency to go on the blink from time to time. In the long run things tended to even themselves out and, anyway, Tom was in the privileged position of being able to supplement his meagre rations by gnawing surreptitiously at the odd sprat or mackerel before he passed it on to the dolphins. On the whole - and probably rightly - he considered himself fortunate. The dolphins for their part bore him no ill-will.
Its number apart ‘M7-29’ was no different from the hundred or so other residential quarters on ‘M’ deck. It consisted of twelve two-tier bunks ranged down either side of a flat-bottomed metal tube. Between each pair of bunks was a narrow metal locker. Inside each locker were two identical metal shelves and two metal drawers. Each drawer was 10 cm deep and 20 by 30 cm in surface area. Each section of the cupboard below and above the shelf measured 30 by 30 cm. The lockers were all painted grey. Ever since he had -first been drafted into ‘M7-29’ four years before Tom had occupied bunk No 14. Below him was bunk No 13 which for the past six months had been occupied by dolphin-handler and undercover agent provocateur Arthur Crow.
When Tom entered the mess shortly after four o’clock he found it deserted except for Arthur, an unprepossessing, sallow faced character who was lying stark naked (apart from an evil pair of socks) on the lower bunk, licking his lips over a grubby packet of stereo pom stills and abusing himself lethargically. He looked up as Tom came in, changed hands and said: ‘Hey, I thought you weren’t off till 1800, kid.’
‘I’ve been ordered to report to RH6,’ said Tom.
‘No shit?’
Tom shook his head dismally.
Arthur frowned and heaved himself up into a sitting position. ‘RH6?’ he mused. ‘Hey, that’s Top Security!*
‘I know that,’ said Tom, opening his locker and dragging out his best set of overalls. ‘I’m sure there’s been some awful mistake.’
‘Between you and me, so am I,’ said Arthur. ‘But if you want a tip from an old buddy, admit everything. The chances are they’ll give you a ten point brain-wipe and shunt you right back again. They can’t afford to waste a commo with your talents.’
‘But admit what, Arthur?’
‘You leave that to them, kid. My guess is they’ve got you nailed for sabotage.’
‘Sabotage!’ Tom’s voice trembled. ‘But that’s imposs…’
‘Well, we both know someone got at Goff’s input last week,’ said Arthur, ‘and I know it wasn’t me.’
‘It wasn’t me, Arthur! You know I’d never do a thing like that. I .wouldn’t dare*
‘I bet you’ve been tempted, though. Let’s face it, kid, S/M Goff’s just about the most poisonous plastic turd in the whole
Em. Aq. Div. Short-circuiting that mechanical baboon practically qualifies as an act of patriotic duty worthy of the Victoria Cross.’
Tom darted a wild and terror-stricken glance around the deserted mess, seized his towel and bolted for the shower. As he vanished inside the ablution cubicle Arthur sighed disgustedly and returned his attention to the task in hand.
Ten minutes later, scrubbed, combed and sheathed in his best and cleanest set of pea-green overalls, but still with a faint, ghostly aroma of fish lingering about him, Tom stepped on to the *M’ desk arterial pedaway and rode it to the nearest service elevator. The cage was crowded with an assortment of humans and androids. They were differentiated by the colours of their overalls and the insignia denoting their technical categories - red for Medical; grey for Neucs; blue for Communications; brown for Defence - not to mention at least a dozen others which Tom did not recognize at all. At each deck level some shuffled out and others squeezed in. The gates clashed shut and the indicator lights flicked off and on. Tom peered at his yellow warrant card and scanned the illuminated display panel above his head.
‘Where you headed for, son?’
A bald and genial android with a faucet insignia stitched on the shoulder of his denims denoting the trade of plumber was regarding him with mild sympathy.
‘RH6,’ said Tom.
‘Ah, then you’ll want “S” deck. Ride the port ped. to Terminus 9. They’ll put you right there.’
Tom nodded and returned a wan smile of thanks.
‘It’s the next but one,’ said the plumber, edging past him and stepping out of the cage. ’Terminus 9.’
By now Tom’s already profound sense of foreboding had intensified to the point where his stomach had begun relaying urgent ‘Abandon Ship’ alarms to his colon, and his knees were trembling. In lieu of any other possible transgression he had almost succeeded in convincing himself that Arthur was right and that in some fashion wholly unbeknown to himself he had been responsible for short-circuiting. the Sergeant
Major’s energy supply and rendering the robot silent and inoperative for the whole of one blissful forenoon watch. If the wish was father to the thought then he was certainly guilty, but he knew that he could no more have done it than he could have fiddled himself that second ration of krill soup.
The ‘S’ light blinked on and off; the doors clattered open; and Tom stepped out onto the steel landing. It was the first time in his life that he had ever penetrated to this level and ihe sheer dimensions of the conduit stunned him. He looked up and saw the roof soaring to its fabulous apex a full five metres above his head and he experienced the sort of shrinking awe which must have overwhelmed many a medieval peasant as he first set foot within the nave of Salisbury or Chartres. For a moment he forgot his fluttering bowels and simply gaped, hardly conscious of the blast androids who cannoned into him and swore as they jostled him towards the pedaway turnstile. His wondering eyes, so long accustomed to the all-pervading drabness of the lower decks were hypnotized and dazzled by the 3-D psychedelic mobile posters which lined the tunnel walls alongside the main pedaway, advertising everything from restaurants to sex-parlours, from dream resorts to gambling casinos. *Spend Your Leave On Me In The Arcady, Honey.’ crooned a bare-bosomed Creole, stretching out her arms to him as he drifted past. ‘All Heaven And Me Too, Waitin’ Here at E-22. Prices From 50 T With Full Union Discount’: 4Eat Real Meat At Pete’s On E-18,’ whispered another. ’Treat Your Tastebuds And Sample Our A la Carte Sizzler at only 5.50. Fully Licensed:. Service Included: Eat at Pete’s’: ‘Win! Win! Win! At Bentini’s ‘Black Jack Saloon,’ urged a third. ‘Credit Accounts For All Commissioned Ranks. Lady Luck Awaits You at Bentini’s Black Jack on E-45’: ‘You Describe It. Sailor, And We’ll Perform It At Sexobatics. Your Wish Is Our Challenge. Realistic Prices. Mess Parties A Speciality At Sexobatics. E-18’: ‘We Beg Your Leave, Jack. Spend Your Pass At The Brown Hatters On E-37, And Learn What It’s All About. Your Leisure Is Our Pleasure. Remember Fairyland. Remember The Brown Hat…’
Long before he had reached the terminus the subliminals had had their calculated effect upon Tom, even though .the only sign he could consciously recall was a blank placard bearing the inscription ’This Space For Hire’ across which some anti-android dissident had scrawled ‘Strike a Blow for Human Dignity - Clobber a Can!’ With his mouth watering and an unfamiliar feeling of constriction about the loins, Tom was bumped up against the terminal barrier where he clung bemusedly for a few seconds then blinked, came to, and edged his way off the track.
Tunnels radiated out in all directions but on none of them could he see any reference to RH6. As he gazed about him, wondering whom to ask, his green uniform was spotted by two steel-helmeted and black-overalled Security robots who nodded to each other, twirled their truncheons and clomped across the rotunda towards him.
‘And where do you think you’re going, sailor?’
With a trembling hand Tom proffered his warrant card.
One of the androids took it, glanced at it and said: ’Lessee the Order.’
’Order?’ Tom’s voice was a mouselike squeak. ‘Wh-what order?’
The second android swung his truncheon and brought it down in a high-voltage swipe across the boy’s kidneys. The jolt was so powerful that Tom was completely winded. Tears of anguish gushed from his eyes. ’Eee-eeeh!’ he choked, sinking to his knees and fighting to muster sufficient breath for a decent scream. ’Eeeh-eh-ik! ’
’Obvious desertion of post,’ commented the first, drawing back his steel shod boot ‘Swanning off to some “E” Deck clap house. They never learn, do they?’
His boot swung in a gleaming arc and caught Tom just below the left knee cap. It hurt more than the boy could have believed possible. It also unlocked his paralysed vocal chords. ‘Please, sir, no!’ he begged, squirming on the steel deck with his eyes spouting like fountains. ‘Sergeant Goff didn’t give me the order. It came through on the ticker. He just gave me the warrant and told me to report to Commanded Bonze in RH6 at one six four five hours and I don’t know how to get there.
Oh, please believe me, sir! Don’t kick me again, sir! Please, sir! I’ll do anything you say, sir, only don’t kick me again!’ ‘RH6?’ said the robot. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so right away, lad? You know you only have to ask. After all we’re only public servants. We’re here to help you. So up on your feet, sailor boy, and look smart about it.’
Tom contrived to scramble upright only to find that his left leg was still completely numb. He promptly keeled over again. The robots bent down and hoisted him back on to his feet. One of them tapped Tom’s left knee with the end of his electric truncheon. The shock galvanized the lad into a wild, almost exultant, leap of pure agony. It also caused him to wet himself.
‘Well now, lessee,’ said the truncheon wielder thoughtfully. ‘Your quickest way to RH6 is over there down Regent Street Then take the second on the left and the first on.the right That’ll bring you slap into the RH sector. So off you trot, my son. ’Ere, don’t forget your warrant.’
’Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed,’ said Tom, taking back the card and wiping the tears of gratitude from his cheeks.
‘Don’t mention it, lad. Any time.’ So saying the two androids strode off to vanish down the tunnel labelled ‘New Oxford Street’.
Tom hobbled off down Regent Street with one hand pressed into the small of his aching back, praying that he would not have the misfortune to encounter any more friendly neighbourhood ‘Sekkies’. He suspected that Sergeant Major Goff had purposely refrained from handing oyer the official order tape just because he had been counting on something like this happening. ‘Strike a blow for human dignity,’ he sniffed. ‘Clobber a Can.’ The trouble was that the cans were so much more adept at the clobbering than he was. If only someone had thought to build an easily accessible pain button into them somewhere. He leant up against the wall of Regent Street, massaged his still throbbing knee, and poulticed his bruised ego by imagining that he was thumbing those two Sekkies’ pain buttons to the point of unendurable agony. He imagined hearing, faint in the distance, their long drawn out howls rising and falling like demented call-out sirens. He shivered, gave his poor knee a final consolatory pat, and limped on his way.
