Apocalypso (35 page)

Above
the rotor blades CHB CHB CHBed.

In the
cockpit area there was silence.

Porrig
glanced at his watch. It was twenty past four.

‘Have
you ever noticed that?’ said Porrig. ‘The way if there’s ever a lull in the
conversation and it all goes quiet, it’s always either twenty to, or twenty
past the hour. I wonder why that is.’

‘It’s a
tradition, or an old charter, or something,’ said Sir John. ‘Although on this
occasion I feel it is something else entirely.’

‘Oh?’
said Porrig. What?’

‘Sheer
bloody horror!’ screamed Sir John.

‘You
cannot be serious, you just cannot.’ Why?’ asked Porrig.

‘Because.
because…’

‘I
think,’ said the old bloke, adjusting the throttle and fiddling with the gears,
‘that Sir John is just a little concerned about the scale of your plan.’

‘It
will take a big plan to stop a big monster.’ Yes, I’ve no doubt of that. But
what you’re suggesting is a tad ambitious.’

‘Mali,’
said Porrig. ‘Piece of poo. It’s all here in Apocalypso’s book. I can do it all
by myself. Easy peasy.’

‘No no
no.’ Sir John waved his long hands about. You don’t grasp the complexity. A
trick like this—’

‘Illusion,’
said Porrig. ‘Call it an illusion. It sounds much better than trick.’

‘Illusion,
then. An illusion like that would take days to set up. It would require a team
of skilled technicians. Cost thousands of pounds. Need to be—’

‘Nah,’
said Porrig once more. ‘There’s no need for all that fuss and bother. I can
probably find all the bits and bobs I need right here in the helicopter. And
Rippington will help me.’

The imp
bobbed up and down on Porrig’s knee. ‘I certainly will,’ he said.

‘Tell
him,’ Sir John implored the old bloke. ‘Tell him it can never work.’

The old
bloke double-declutched and changed down. ‘I don’t think he’d listen,’ he said.
‘And Rippington’s keen, aren’t you, Rippington?’

Rippington
nodded his little grey head. ‘I think Porrig’s plan is the polecat’s purple
plonker.’

‘And
that’s good?’ Porrig asked.

‘The
very best. It outshines the bee’s bollocks and the tom cat’s testes and ranks
alongside the lion’s lingam and the elephant’s cloakroom ticket. It is an
inspired plan.’

‘He
likes it,’ said Porrig.

‘I do,’
said Rippington. ‘But it’s all somewhat academic really, isn’t it?’

Why?’
Porrig asked.

Well,’
said Rippington. ‘Do you see that little telescreen jobbie on the instrument
panel there?’

‘I do,’
said Porrig.

‘And
you notice it has the nuclear symbol above it?’

‘I do,’
said Porrig.

‘And
the words INCOMING MISSILE in capital letters flashing on and off?’

Yes,’
said Porrig, ‘I do.’

‘And
the little digital clock counting down? Do you see the little clock?’

‘I
do
see the little clock,’ said Porrig.

Well,
that’s
why it’s somewhat academic.’

‘Academies of learning,’
said Dilbert Norris, who hadn’t finished speaking; who, in fact, was only
warming up. ‘Great seats of higher education. And when I talk about great seats’
— he waggled his bottom — ‘I know just what I’m talking about.’

Dilbert
paused. ‘I didn’t hear laughter,’ he said. ‘I made a funny and I didn’t hear
laughter.’ He folded his brow and thought very bad thoughts and the whole world
that was watching laughed out loud.

‘That’s
better,’ said Dilbert. ‘Try to keep up, it’s less painful. You’ll soon get the
knack. Yes, indeed, academies of learning. We will do away with those. Mankind
has become over-sophisticated, which, considering how stupid you all remain, is
perhaps somewhat oxymoronic. But you’ve lost your roots. And when I talk about
roots, I know what I’m talking about.’

Gales
of laughter blew in Dilbert’s direction.

Dilbert
sighed.
‘That
wasn’t a joke, you dimmos. That was a statement of fact.
You have entered the computer age. You could be moving outward to the stars.
But what have you done with your computers? Turned them into mindless games and
weaponry. I despair, I truly do. But we’ll have no more of it Back to the land
with you, I say. But for a few. A chosen few, who will work on a little project
of my own.’

Dilbert
grinned greenly into the nearest camera.

‘I am
going to have myself cloned,’ said Dilbert. ‘Produce a crop of little Dilberts
and Dilbertas. Seed the planet with my kind. You lot will be farmed the way
that you farm chickens. He who is top of the food chain is top of the tree of
life.’

We’re all gonna die!’
Danbury flapped his hands about, and Sir John Rimmer flapped
his
hands
about The old bloke did not flap his hands about, be-cause he was holding the
joystick. Rippington didn’t flap his hands about, because he was afraid he’d
fall off Porrig’s knee. And Porrig didn’t flap his hands about because he
thought it was really uncool.

And Dr
Harney didn’t flap his hands about because he was unconscious.

‘Stop
flapping!’ ordered Porrig.

‘I wasn’t,’
said Rippington.

‘Nor
me,’ said the old bloke.

‘Danbury,
wake up Dr Harney,’ ordered Porrig. ‘Make him fish out his radio from its…
er… hiding place and call up his American base. Have him tell them that the
situation is under control and they must disarm the missile.’

‘Okey-doke,’
said Danbury.

‘Bravo,
Porrig,’ said the old bloke. ‘So are you still going ahead with your inspired plan?’

‘Absolutely.
If we can stop the nuke, we’ll still have to deal with the monster. And if we
can’t stop the nuke, and it’s all academic, we’ll still have had a bloody good
try.’

‘Bravo
once more. I am proud to call you my great-great-grandson. So what would you
like me to do?’

‘Land
the helicopter, so that I can make all the necessary adjustments. Then on to…’ Porrig paused. Where exactly is the monster now, Rippington?’

‘Somewhere
called Trafalgar Square,’ said the imp. ‘I can hear his thoughts and they’re
very very noisy.’

It was
very very quiet in London. Very quiet. Deathly so. No traffic moved and no
hooters honked. No hawkers hawked and no pedlars peddled. No gits with mobile
phones stood in shop doorways showing off And no rich bastards minced out of
their chauffeur-driven motor cars parked on double yellow lines and swanned
about in Harrods. Streets and pavements were deserted. Shops and businesses
abandoned.

The
rich and the poor, the great and the good and the godless, moved and weaved and
meshed together no more.

Those
who could flee, had long since fled.

Those
who could not, now knelt.

The sun
shone down upon Trafalgar Square. A light breeze ruffled some pigeon feathers.
And the great fat green and sprouty sod lounged upon his human hillock, farting
mightily.

‘Must
be someone I ate,’ said he. And the silence broke to huge cries of mirth,
though none with a trace of amusement.

Well,’
said Dilbert. ‘I really would like to sit about chatting with you people for
the rest of the day, but I regret that I must leave you for a while. You see,
being the kind of God that I am, the all-seeing and all-listening kind of a
God, I am ever alert to potential danger. And you will never guess what is
heading this way. Nuclear missile, that’s what.’

A
terrible moan rose up from the kneelers. The terrible moan of the damned.

Dilbert
nodded his big bulbous head. ‘It’s true.

Launched
by the Americans from one of their secret satellites. Can’t trust anyone, can
you? Except for me, of course. Yes, the Americans. I heard it from the Ministry
of Serendipity, you know. That’s the secret organization that really runs your
planet. I can hear their tiny minds at work. They’re scurrying about beneath
the ground like little rats, trying to escape, even as I speak.

‘I wonder
if they’ll make it. I know that I will.’ Dilbert reached down into his human
hillock and tore off an arm with a wrist-watch on it. ‘Let’s see,’ he
continued. Yes, I have a ten-minute margin of safety. Kindly convey me to my
spacecraft and I’ll prepare for the off’

He cast
out his terrible mental pain and the kneelers rose and gushed towards him,
sweeping up over the human hillock, bearing his enormous weight upon their
straining shoulders, lowering him gently down to his waiting spacecraft. And
Dilbert gazed up into the clear blue sky and smiled and then said, ‘Hang about.’

The
strainers and lifters and carriers and shifters halted and hung about. And
gazed up also.

Dilbert
pointed and all the people stared.

Because
something was coming. Something quite wonderful.

It was
coming in low from out of the sun and it glittered and twinkled and twirled as
it came. It didn’t look like a nuke and it didn’t look like a fighter aircraft
or a long black secret Ministry of Serendipity helicopter. It looked like a
silver seven pointed spacecraft.

Just
like Dilbert’s in fact.

Dilbert
rubbed his eyes and Dilbert squinted. And Dilbert sent out thoughts and
thoughts came back to him. Then Dilbert shouted, ‘Clear the decks, make room,
make room,’ and he fluttered his fingers and sent people running and he gazed
on as the craft gently settled.

And
Dilbert said, ‘Mum, is that you?’

24

Dilbert’s mum was smaller
than her son. Much smaller. But then mums so often are. Because with mums it
really is the case that size doesn’t matter. The smallest mother can have the
largest son. In fact the smallest mother often seems to. And no matter how
large that son may be, he grows really small in the presence of his mum.

And as
the dome of her spacecraft opened and Dilbert’s little mum climbed carefully
down, you could almost feel Dilbert shrinking.

You
could almost see it as well.

Dilbert’s
mum was a sproutish little body. She wore a little pinny, as mums used to do.
She had mean little arms and mean little shoulders, a mean little mouth and
mean little eyes too. She walked with a shuffle, on mean little feet. And she
fretted as she shuffled; in the way that mums still do.

Dilbert
gazed down upon his mum, and his face took on that anguished expression that
big sons’ faces always take on when confronted by their mums at quite the wrong
moment.

Well,’
said Dilbert’s mum. ‘Aren’t you going to give your mum a kiss?’

Dilbert’s
big mouth opened to emit a strangled croak. His big fat fingers fluttered and
he waved away his people.

‘Go on,’
he muttered, between clenched teeth. ‘Go on, bugger
off.’
He flung his
pain this way, that way and the other and people took to hurrying away. At
considerable speed.

‘Come
on then,’ said Dilbert’s mum. What are you doing there?’

‘Just… er…just… er.

‘And
what is all
this
about?’ Dilbert’s mum pointed a mean little finger and
Dilbert knew just where it was pointing.

‘Dead
things,’ said Dilbert’s mum. ‘A big pile of dead things. You’ve done this,
haven’t you?’

‘Speak up, speak up. I let
you out of my sight for a couple of hundred thousand years and this is what
happens. You just wait till your father gets here.’

‘My
father…

You’re
in big trouble, my lad.’

‘Big
trouble?’ Dilbert’s mouth fell horribly open. ‘Big trouble,’ he said once more,
then he held up the arm with the wrist-watch on it. ‘Mum, you have to go. You
have to go
now.’

‘Go
now?’ Dilbert’s mum folded her mean little arms. ‘Go now? I’ve only just
arrived and I haven’t even had time to stretch my old legs.’

‘Mum,
this is very important. You are in great danger.’

‘Stop
it at once, you silly boy, and give your mother a kiss.’

‘No,
Mum, really. You really shouldn’t be here.’ And it was quite true, wasn’t it?
Dilbert’s mum really shouldn’t have been there. She really wasn’t part of the
equation. Dilbert did have a lot on his plate. Things to do, people to conquer.
And there was that nuke approaching.

‘Mum,
you have to go. You really do.’

‘I’ll
go when I’m good and ready and not till I’ve had a kiss.’

‘But,
Mum … I . .

‘Kiss,’
said Dilbert’s mum, indicating her mean little cheek with her mean little
finger.

‘Then
you’ll go? You promise you’ll go?’

‘I
promise.’