Errata: Twenty-Fourth Episode: Theatre of War

And I got to my feet, my wounds winking shut.

‘There, there,’ the Jackpots crowed, standing face to face and slapping out an elaborate patty-cake. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re the exception that proves the rule, Jenkins – the apple going up. Ain’t it so, ain’t it so?’

Turns out the closer you get to the light, the bigger your shadow becomes. You beat back a virus long enough and it mutates into a super-strain. The denial impulse is tenacious – it’ll evolve to survive. Mine dropped a taproot into Underspace, drank up limbo-matter till it was hardwired into truth itself.

I’m inoculated against reality.

‘None of this has weight.’ Air echoing through my skull. I tuned myself through tighter frequencies and discrete objects lost their edges, melting together into particle clusters against a seething void. I tried to form composites but labels refused to stick – I called this gestalt a Jackpot twin then saw it was just the same gaps between matter as the air and the roof. No home for meaning anywhere.

Billions of bright motes all clung obedient, adhering to invisible laws. No force compelled them – they simply accepted that they were governed, acting as if it were true. This, then, was the fine print of the universe – a paucity of imagination, never once thinking to check if the cage was locked from the inside. Unreason tainted the lot like piss in a punchbowl. These rules were candle shadows.

I wound down, duller and duller till I was back on the roof, everything chunked off and crude. It was just like it always was, but I didn’t believe in it anymore.

‘The airport,’ I said, ‘and some kind of end to this.’

The Jackpots squealed, jerking to attention with mirrored salutes. ‘Yes sir! Heesh heesh! We know you can do it! We think you can! Maybe you can’t! Who knows? Does it matter? Not a jot! Just watch you don’t overreach yourself! You’re still soaking up power, becoming at last the empty dent you once were. A few stray bullets, a smashed limb, you’ll reknit no problem. Exploded head? We’re not so sure. Use your smarts – we’ll clear a path.’

I nodded, then bent the quantum froth aside like a tree branch, stepping into Underspace.

* * *

‘Say what you like about about civil war,’ snorted Figgs, thumbing a cartridge into the breech of his hunting rifle, ‘it promotes diversity. Boy, I never knew we had so many factions.’ He snapped the gun closed and took aim. ‘The local colour’s getting redder by the minute. Damn it.’ His shot went stray and punched a hole through a mechwalker coolant pipe down on the street. Super-chilled geistblood hissed from the gash in a lethal blue mist, freezing several faces into brittle deathmasks. ‘Whoever calibrated this must have two lazy eyes – the scope’s all out of goose. Yo Miguel – grab me something with a little more smooch.’

Back inside the snug of the Pavlov luxury suite Miguel was thigh-deep in death. ‘I got just the lady, Nap.’ He picked a gun off the top of the heap by its wire stock, thumped an ammo clip the size of a demi-baguette into its underside. ‘Old school pray n’ spray. Colateral damage by the coffinload.’ He tossed the gun across the room and Figgs caught it in both arms like he was cradling an infant.

‘Aww, ain’t she sweet? She got a name?’

The Moneylender stooped to light his cigarette off the thrumming power coil of a Mark 6 Jolt Bazooka. ‘Kumbaya 5000. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.’

‘Ha! And good riddance, says I,’ scoffed Brother Umberto, mag-clamping a huge metal bullhorn to the iron balustrade. ‘Nothing says more about a man’s life than his means of leaving it. Progress gifts us better, more beautiful ways to die. Would you not honour these thronging saps with an apt dose of theatre?’

Below Carnegie Drive was havoc soup – shine-bladed ninjas fought in twos and threes against toddlers cockpitted in armoured robosuits. The little angels were escapees from Errata’s Baby Genius Project, brains pumped full of go-juice and augmented by crackling skullcaps. They’d bust out of their compound hours earlier when a dino fist walloped through the roof. The mechwalkers had been lined up in a hangar next door, part of an aborted top secret Government programme to turn the City’s law enforcement over to machines piloted by trained monkeys. The scheme had fallen through months before, lab notes dubbing the chimps ‘listless, workshy bastards’. Naturally, when the kids found the armoured cache their chubby faces lit up with precocious joy.

‘You know the real reason why men hate and love war?’ Umberto said. ‘War is pure truth. One moment you’re looking at a thinking, feeling being, the pinnacle of evolution, the paragon of animals – the next it’s a heap of spoiling meat. Imagine coming back home after that, gazing upon your wife and children and seeing, for the first time, the brittle cogworks click-rattling beneath their skin, realising, for the first time, that they don’t see how they’re clammy beef on the slab. Whether it comes by bullet or bedridden brain death, that battlefield fate is one we’re all headed for. No atheists in foxholes? Don’t you believe it. Look around, you dunderheads – everywhere’s a foxhole.’

Previous estimates of Errata’s ninja population had hovered around the low twenties. Sure, you’d find the telltale signs – an alleyway littered with burnt-out smoke bomb canisters, horizontal katana scars on a wooden practice dummy, a shuriken protruding from the belly of a dead racoon – but no one had seen a living practitioner for over two decades. Down on the street, at least a hundred battled against the mechatots, tenacious and sexy as hell.

The source of the two sides’ mutual enmity was unclear, but whatever its source, they seemed oblivious to any third parties, allowing the balconied mobsters to pick them off like carnival ducklings.

Umberto gave a slow, languorous smile. ‘Now this... this is the future.’

‘Say what?!’ The Moneylender nearly swallowed his cigarette. ‘You lost your mind, padre?’

Figgs scratched his blotched and lumpen chin with the muzzle of the Kumbaya 5000. ‘Ahum. Megaphones ain’t exactly the bleeding edge, Umberto. What next – the wheel?’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ sighed Umberto. ‘Blind faith is idiocy but idiocy is sweet ecstasy. Watch and grow pregnant with envy.’ The slick-headed monk adjusted his aim then unhooked a square palm mike from the side of the cannon. He lifted it to his mouth, corkscrew cable stretching tight, and depressed a small red button.

‘Am I amazed yet?’ Figgs drawled.

‘Not yet.’ Umberto licked his lips. ‘It runs off pain.’ He closed his eyes and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

For a few seconds, he drowned out the noise of the streetfight below. A gauge ticked upwards to a thick black line, then through into red.

Umberto stopped screaming. Panting, he released the button. The bullhorn’s cylindrical core thrummed gently. He slotted the mike back into its cradle, clutched the cannon’s black handgrips and brought it to bear on a cluster of ninjas conferring on the far sidewalk. He hit the thumb triggers.

A raw, undifferentiated blast of sound tore the air. Reality flexed. Every window for three blocks shattered. Mechwalker chasses spazzed out, chucking spark fountains. The ninjas he’d aimed at blotted like paintballs. Umberto’s anguish had been transformed into a fat sonic godfist.

‘Well fuck me with a fibula.’ Figgs was pop-eyed and agog.

But something was wrong. The bullhorn’s low thrum had built to bronco-judder. Umberto slapped the metal soundcone and it started popping rivets. He had overloaded the system.

For all his felonious excesses, Garibaldi Figgs was, at base, a judicious man. He had not risen to criminality’s uppermost echelons without an ability to recognise the discordant knell of a situation in rapid decline. He ran like fuck.

‘God,’ said Umberto.

The cannon ruptured with a low, incongruous pop, ejecting the core into Umberto’s midriff. The impact lifted him clean off his feet and threw him across the suite into the far wall. Plasterwork crunched. A portrait of Figgs dressed in hunting tweeds and whittling some sort of love spoon fell from its hook and was impaled upon a bronze statuette of Figgs clad in a wizard’s cloak and conical hat, apparently furious.

Brother Umberto appeared to be resting against the wall. For a few seconds, he was motionless as an artist’s model – then his jaw flopped open and his head sagged. Blood began to stream from his nostrils.

‘Huh,’ said Miguel. He put his cigarette to his lips and took a sharp drag, squinting with the effort. ‘Would you look at that. You know that’s a crying shame, Figgs. A goddamn crying shame.’

Garibaldi Figgs emerged from behind the antique bureau, shedding his discombobulation like a false beard. ‘Meh. I suffered worse tragedies picking my nose.’ He brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder, flattened down his lapels. ‘Anyways, I got a million more down in the vault.’ He surveyed the damage, shrugged. ‘It’s just a painting.’

The suite door crashed open.

Figgs dropped back behind the bureau like his legs had been tackled from under him. Miguel clattered backward into the mountain of firearms. Scrabble-clawing through the heap he grabbed the first weapon his fingers closed around – a snub-nose Stockhausen Music Pistol. He jerked his arm straight, clicked back the hammer with his thumb and pointed it at the figure in the doorway.

‘Chimpy?’

Chimpy Dolenz shot two dozen glances round the room, wild-eyed and jitter-crazy. His suit was dirty and his fedora had a dent in it. At first he seemed not to see his old colleagues, then his eyes locked on Miguel and he spasmed with shock.

‘Good gravy! Miguel? What in Jenkins’ name are you- Nap?!’ Chimpy clutched the sides of the doorframe as Figgs stood, adjusting his tie with pointed nonchalance. ‘Oh... my...’ He began to hyperventilate. ‘Oh crap... oh crap...’

‘Hey, hey, hold your hearses,’ said Figgs. ‘Don’t work yourself into some kinda paroxysm. You know I hate those things.’

‘Oh crap... oh crap...’ Chimpy staggered, his eyes rolling. ‘Oh no... not again! It’s happening again!’

‘Chimpy!’ Miguel sat up, lowered the Stockhausen. ‘Cut that shit! Unclench those prehensile toes, disengage the hasty hindbrain. Deep breaths, come on now... You remember the exercises.’

‘I can’t... I can’t...’

Figgs shook his head. ‘Positive affirmations, Chimpy. Say “I’m in control.”’

‘I’m not in control... I’m not in control...’

‘You are! Goddamn it Chimpy!’ Miguel slapped weaponry aside in a clattering shower and sprang to his feet. ‘Four months I coached you through that program! Four goddamn months! You are not losing it now!’

‘I can’t... I can’t...’

‘Stop saying that! You’re regaining control. Repeat after me: “I’m regaining control. I feel calmer and more relaxed.”’

‘I can’t... I can’t...’ Chimpy’s breaths were tight and shallow. ‘Ah... Ah... can’t... breathe... no... no... I feel it... coming on...’

‘That does it!’ Miguel marched over and dealt Chimpy an open-handed blow across the jowl.

Chimpy’s reedy breaths sliced silence from silence. The clang of blademetal against armoured carapaces outside seemed to shrink to a dull memory.

‘Thanks,’ Chimpy said at last. He rubbed his cheek. ‘I needed that.’

‘Didn’t we all,’ Figgs said. ‘Now d’you mind explaining what in Jenkins’ name you’re doing here? I thought we’d never meet again on pain of you’d shoot us both through the throats? Change of heart? Or just a bad memory?’

Chimpy looked momentarily confused. Then he lurched forward into the room, turned and slammed the door shut.

Umberto’s corpse slumped to the floor, a doorknob-shaped indent in its bald head.

Miguel pursed his lips and took a final tug on his cigarette. ‘So come on, Chimpy – what gives?’

He threw hunted stares about the suite. ‘Dammit I thought you guys ‘d be out there fighting in the name o’ filthy self-interest. I guess this means you’re past caring if we get ruled over by another bunch o’ potty-headed morons full o’ wrongheaded ideas.’

‘Ah Chimpy,’ sighed Figgs, strolling into the middle of the room. ‘Civil war ain’t about who’s right – it’s about who’s left. We’re playing the long game here. Letting the uglies beat fifteen bells outta each other. When the dust clears we’ll stroll in and claim our rightful place at the top of the dung heap. Now, you wanna explain what the hell you’re doing in my casino?’

‘Yeah,’ said Miguel. ‘You got somebody on your tail?’

‘Guys ya gotta hide me.’ Chimpy took off his fedora and clutched it to his chest with both hands. ‘I’m serious. Sweet mother o’ crap I’m begging you. He’s coming for me. I saw him.’

Figgs tipped his head back, fixing Chimpy with the full horror of his best disdainful glare. ‘We gonna play the pronoun game all day or are you gonna tell us who “he” is?’

Chimpy ground his teeth and looked desperate. ‘I...’ He sucked in air through his teeth, braced himself, then went on in a whisper: ‘I can’t say... He’ll hear me.’

Miguel flicked his cigarette butt into the blood pooling on the carpet around Umberto’s head. ‘Chimpy if this guy’s really after you saying his name ain’t gonna make the situation any worse. C’mon, spit it out you mook.’

Chimpy closed his eyes. He balled his hands into fists, took a deep breath. His top lip settled against his bottom incisors, quivering in readiness for the first syllable.

‘Fff... fff...’

‘Firework?’ said Miguel.

‘Firework?’ said Figgs.

‘Shhh! Shhh!’ Chimpy tried to fan down the noise with his hands. ‘He’ll hear you!’

‘Chimpy Klaus Firework doesn’t exist,’ said Miguel, dipping into his breast pocket for a cigarette case. ‘He’s a fairytale.’

‘Oh he exists all right,’ said Figgs, ‘but that was just some guy you saw. Firework doesn’t let himself be seen unless he wants to be seen – the whole thief in the night schtick. What the hell made you think it was Firework anyhow?’

‘It was outside the Hokum Museum. He was killing everyone in sight.’ Chimpy stared into the middle-distance and shuddered. ‘With his eyebrow.’

‘So Klaus Firework goes on the rampage and the only guy smart enough to escape is you,’ said Miguel. ‘Gimme a break, Chimpy. Screw it – give me eleven and we’ll have ourselves a soccer team.’

‘The streets are heaving with death,’ Figgs pronounced. ‘Them’s the wages of change. Can’t make an omelette without killing a hen’s unborn children. Ahum. That’s my philosophy anyhow. You claiming you’re a hen now?’

‘I ain’t no hen!’ Chimpy advanced into the room, flinging his arms in crazy shapes. ‘And I ain’t no moron neither! Figgs I know what I saw! This is Klaus Firework we’re talking about here. Folks don’t cross that guy and live!’

Figgs sniffed. ‘Yet here you stand, stupid as the day you were born.’

‘But he’s coming for me! I just know it!’

‘Chimpy...’ Figgs facepalmed, sighed. ‘Look, if Firework is coming for you, there’s nothing you can do, right?’

‘That’s what I’m saying!’ Chimpy punctuated each syllable with a flap of his gangly arms.

‘Then calming the fuck down ain’t gonna put you in any extra peril, right?’

Chimpy stopped, went a little boss-eyed. ‘Wait... could ya repeat that, Nap? I don’t follow.’

‘Aww Jenkins,’ Miguel clutched at his hair. ‘I’ve wasted the best years of a bad life listening to your constant chin music, Chimpy. Round and round in circles like a baby in a spindryer! I swear if I have to listen to another minute of this crap I’ll-’

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

A heavy fist pounded the door three times. Before the third knock hit home, Figgs was back behind the bureau.

Chimpy staggered into Miguel, gibbering. ‘It’s him!’ He clutched at the Moneylender’s suit. ‘What ‘ll I do? What ‘ll I do?’

Miguel shoved him out into the middle of the room. ‘Hey, lay off.’ He brushed down the creases in his jacket. ‘This is your problem, Chimpy, not mine. You wanted to go it alone – well, here’s your chance.’

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The door rattled in its frame.

Chimpy dropped to his knees. His eye pouches bulged with tears.

‘Then... this is it.’ His voice was suddenly quiet. He glanced at Miguel. ‘No. You’re right. I gotta take responsibility.’ He shut his eyes, sucked a deep breath past the catch in his throat. His voice shrank to something just above a whisper. ‘I gotta do the honourable thing.’ He held out a palm. ‘Do me this one last favour, will ya buddy? Hand me... one o’ them pistols. Any one ‘ll do. Let me end this with dignity.’ His long fingers trembled, anticipatory.

At last, he felt the cool curve of a grip in his palm. He closed his digits around it, put the muzzle to his temple.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

‘So long, fellas,’ he breathed. ‘I guess... I guess I love you.’

As his lips were curling round the final syllable, the door knob began to turn. Chimpy squeezed his index finger, but instead of a trigger, he found only air. The door opened.

One of Figgs’ piano-chested goons stood clutching a large brown paper bag, its underside stained translucent and shiny with grease. He held up the bag like a severed head, grinning with dunderheaded pride.

‘AW GOT DOH-NUTS!’

‘Ah, Terrence.’ Garibaldi Figgs was already up and faking decorum. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Hand ‘em over.’ Terrence waited until Figgs had the bag in both hands then unclenched his huge meaty paw.

Chimpy opened one eye, then the other.

Figgs stood in front of him, dangling the bag. ‘Glazed or chocolate frosting?’

‘But... I thought...’ Chimpy glanced from the bag, to Figgs, to Terrence. ‘Oh man... I nearly blew my brains out!’ He took the pistol from his temple. When he looked down at his palm, he realised he was holding a banana.

Miguel was already smaning. Figgs’ mangled visage hatched into a torrent of cackles.

The banana fell from Chimpy’s grasp. He dropped onto his hands and knees. For a moment, he was silent. Then great sobs of laughter began racking his body. He slapped the floor and tears fell from his eyes, soaking into the carpet. Everybody laughed. They laughed and laughed and laughed.

‘HUH! HUH! HUH!’ went Terrence, not sure what was funny.