PROLOGUE
The top executives at CBB House (W12 8QT) were as torn as Natalie Imbruglia but not quite as wide awake. On one hand they had been trying for years to put ‘Professor Howe’ out of commission by poor casting, an ever-reducing budget and a terrible timeslot. On the other hand, its inexplicable success had done the CBB a favour with overseas sales and a feverish group of supporters who loved everything about the show without question. Today, however, even the most cynical executive was wearing a fake ‘Howe does he do it?’ pin badge, a fake woolly scarf and a fake smile. Clearly this wasn’t normal.
The meeting due to take place was an extraordinary event. If there had been a red carpet lurking in the store that wasn’t covered in cobwebs and guano, it would have been laid out. There hadn’t been a semi-important visitor for at least seven years and the red carpet hadn’t been rolled out for fifteen when Oliver Postgate pitched the Clangers to a disbelieving CBB controller.
This was an even bigger event. It wasn’t often thatHollywood royalty visited a mere television station. Having one of themost acclaimed directors actually asking to direct a CBB TV show was frankly more unheard of than having a British film without a token American in it. Of course, the CBB bods wished with all their hearts it was something with more kudos than ‘Professor Howe’, but sadly for them the superstar had only that on his mind. He wasn’t going to visit anywhere outside of London, let alone direct an episode of ‘Bergerac’ without plenty of alcohol
The arrival itself was very understated. The loudspeakers were playing ‘Little Green Bag’ by the George Baker Selection ashe walked in wearing a smart, yet probably one size too small, black designer suit and dark sunglasses. He strode into the entrance lobby like the King of Hollywood and yet no one mingling around or the folks on reception gave him the slightest glance. They were too busy engaged in their usual drudgery in half a daze to spot anything remotely noteworthy.
In truth, he didn’t expect to be greeted. He knew thekind of people he was going to be working for and normally he would rather vomit than set foot in the same room as them. Most of these people in executive positions were talentless hacks who couldn’t even wipe their own asses and he despised almost every last fothermucking one of them. These people didn’t understand talent and couldn’t appreciate genius if it stood up and bit them. He had bitten a few studio moguls in the past and they had the scars to prove it. Mostly though, even when genius did bite, the executives were like bad fishermen and by the time they had wound the line in the talent had swum to fresher waters.
Unlike those amateur anglers, Tino had bigger fish to fry. He wasn’t interested in the incompetent suits who would schedule meetings just to decide when to have their next cup of tea. He had seen genius in the ranks of the CBB minions and it drove him forward and motivated him. He had found someone who made violence poetic. They made gore glorious, death dazzling and slaughter splendid. His cold empty heart had fallen in love and he couldn’t wait any longer to work with the most talented writer of this generation. As he wandered through the maze of corridors that ran through CBB headquarters, he smiled. Room 6P. This was the one.
Nervelessly, he opened the door and looked inside. Sat at the table were six individuals, all senior members of the CBB. Five of them were corporate types; they had no character, no conscience and had no wrinkles and no expression. There wasn’t a trace of an idea in their brains and the room should have seemed dull and uninspiring because of that, but it wasn’t. Sat to the left of the table was the sixth member of the cabal. Instead of a drab, faceless suit was a woman in a floral dress whose eyes sparkled with intelligence and whose brain functioned at a level far in excess of the poor, unfortunate CBB executives.
Ignoring the others, he reached out his hand. “I’m Quinten. Tino Taran-Quinten. And you must be…”
“Erica,” said the woman. “Erica Sword.”
ISLE OF RESERVOIR DOGS
Professor Howe stood like a statue or a relic of the new romantic movement in his high collared jacket. His hair was long with blond highlights and almost mullet-like and he looked for all the world like he was either the enemy of Barbarella or someone from Brazil who dances on the sand. He coughed to focus everyone’s attention.
“Nominative determinism,” said Professor Howe importantly. The others stood open- mouthed, hardly believing the Professor had spoken two words of ten letters or more in a row.
The others were certainly an odd trio. The first, Riley, was Australian who bore a striking resemblance to a reject from an 80s soapopera, a heavily permed teen pop idol or possibly both. She had been travelling with Professor Howe for some time. For the most part she enjoyed it, the drawback was all this standing around waiting for the Professor. These delays were exactly why she was reading a rather poor excuse for a newspaper in a desperate effort to relieve the current boredom.
The second person was Duko. He was an oily guy who halfbelieved his own arrogance. He was in his final years in an Americancollege until he was whooshed off in travels through time, space and pointlessness in the Professor’s saucer. Although physically a man, he was barely one. Immature and often childish, he hated every minute of his travels and though he wished he could go back to his former life, he didn’t. Riley was always suspicious of him and was certain he wasn’t quite allhe seemed.
The final member of the team was DOD-G. Quite what DOD-G was – other than a badly functioning robot – was a question that would be asked for millennia and would never get a satisfactory answer. Sometimes the thing looked vaguely human while at other times it looked like a pile of junk in the corner. It was such a conundrum for Professor Howe that often the damn thing just vanished deep into the non-existent bowels of the ship with no explanation whatsoever.
They were all standing inside the control room of the Professor’s flying saucer which was incredibly advanced. There werecopper pipes running up and down and across the walls peppered with lots of knobs, flashing lights, and buttons. There were even a few levers beside the craft’s main controls and, to top it all, a TV was acting as a scanner on the shelf about the door. However, it was not a spaciousenvironment. With only two metres from one side to the other, it could be best described as very small. Naturally this provided problems and getting three people and a pile of recycled junk posing as an advanced automaton inside was a tight squeeze.
“Nominative determinism,” repeated Professor Howe who politelyreminded everyone what he’d just been talking about. “I’ve often wondered…”
“Thomas Crapper,” interrupted Duko. “I know all aboutthis.”
“You do?” questioned the Professor shocked.
Duko’s college education had been somewhat lacking by allaccounts and he showed more interest in the girls instead.
“Yes,” his voice was confident and firm. “People whosename maps out their career path. I know all about old Crapper and hisinvention.”
Riley laughed. “You know all about toilets?”
“Erm.” Duko blushed slightly. “My teacher was obsessed with hygiene and when I got into trouble at school I would have to do a heck of a lot of cleaning. I got tired of sorting out Miss Newton’s johns.”
Professor Howe sighed loudly. It was long and weary and hung in the air like a badly strung hammock. “I wasn’t talking about MrCrapper, Duko. I was talking about me.”
His fellow companions opened their eyes wide in disbelief and Duko made it clear he had had enough of the Professor’s nonsense. He pulled a large ready-rolled spliff fromhis pocket and a lighter quickly followed. A few puffs and he would at least feel better.
“Oh no, you don’t!” screamed the Professor snatching the roll-up and the lighter from Duko and confiscating them. “You can’t smoke that in here.”
“Hey! That’s mine! And why can’t I have a smoke?”
Professor Howe’s voice was stern and solemn. “Your Class B drugs have a very strange effect on an Infinity Tsar. I have told you about this before.”
Duko frowned. He wasn’tsure the Professor had every told him before about his vertigo or aversion to gethigh. “I don’t think you have evermentioned it…”
“Of course, I have,” Professor Howe insisted. “It’s Nominative Determinism I’ve not talked about before and I was wondering if it applies to me.”
“You?” wondered a puzzled Duko aloud. “Your name is Howe.”
“Indeed,” agreed the Professor, “an unanswered question. A mystery within an enigma within a conundrum. It sums me up a treat,don’t you think?”
No one was convinced, but not one of them was brave enough tosay anything. As the silence developed from awkward to full tumbleweed, Riley turned her attention back to the newspaper in her hands. She shook her head sadly.
"This paper's crazy," exclaimed Riley, throwing it down in disgust. "There's no way an Australian cricketer would ever beseen dead in a place like that. I can't believe they print these lies."
"Ah yes, I bet nominative determinism applies here too," said the Professor. "It applies to a lot of newspapers. The Clarackian Daily Star finds itself reporting entirely on astronomy. The Sarturian Daily Express mainly features outraged articles about breastfeeding. The Newcastle upon Tyne Weekly Gazette mainly features articles about Gazza."
"Streuth"
"The only time it doesn't apply is when the paper pretends it's telling the truth. The Nuralasian Daily Truth: entirely lies. The Polish Fakt, more 'Opinion'. Bizarrely, though, the West Midlands Fiction Society's Monthly Magazine has never once strayed from objectively proven facts. So, what's that paper you have been reading called?"
"The Daily Fail..."
* * *
On Earth in another time, where rivers were overflowing with milk and honey, lay the country of England, the city of London and somewhere,just off Fleet Street, the Daily Fail offices. In one of thesenon-descript, non-inspirational, non-female-friendly meeting rooms sat the owner, one Roland Ransom, multi-millionaire and thoroughly loathsome individual. He was the J. Jonah Jameson of newspaper magnates, but without the likeability.
Sitting behind his over-elaborate Victorian desk, Ransom was a big man. Both physically and by reputation he had an aura of importance. In normal circumstances he appeared to be a jolly and affable fellow, even though inside he was scheming about who he could screw over next, but today was different. He was looking haggard and his composure had abandoned him. He stared into the eyes of the two people opposite him as the meeting he was holding was not going to plan.
Picking up the piece of paper that sat atop the desk, he wavedit angrily at the two men and blasted them with Grawlix.
“What the @#$*!” screamed Ransom. “Are these *$@% figures for real? I haven’t been running a paper for twenty-five years to find our circulation has dropped by @#$%£*. Is losing two hundred thousand readers in the last month acceptable?”
The silence which followed the outburst was broken by the Editor. He was a small bald man in a grey suit who, although once capable of making his own decisions, had been Ransom’s yes man for years. “Sir, if I could just explain…”
“Explain $@!*!*# what?” Ransom’s face was redder than a pickled beetroot and his tongue was twice as acidic. “This is anu nmitigated disaster. I’ve lost millions because of this. Millions! That twenty-four metre luxury super-yacht I was going to buy tomorrow is now out of the window thanks to your %$&*# incompetence!”
“I was only taking the Daily Fail in the direction you suggested, sir.”
“It’s true, sir,” replied the assistant editor who although ten years younger than the editor, could have been mistaken as his clone. “We were looking for the Yuppie market just like you suggested. We focused on articles for singletons and the young professionals and cut storiesfor working mothers and families. It seems to have backfired a little.”
“A little?” Ransom could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You’ve lost 15% of our readers in three and a half weeks. It’s £@$*$# diabolical! Don’t say another word. You’re both fired. Get out of here now and don’t think you’re getting any generous settlement – I wrote your contract and you’re not getting another penny from me.”
The two newspapermen’s jaws dropped and left them resembling goldfish. They stood and shuffled out of the room, shocked to the core. They knew it was inevitable that they would never work again –Ransom would make it impossible – but that was always the danger of working for someone who was so ruthless and had no morals.
After the door had closed behind their hasty retreat and the newspapermen no longer darkened his presence, Ransom picked up the readership figures again. It looked bleak. The newspaper was down in every demographic and plunging fast. Another month of this kind of fall and the company would be severely in the red and unsustainable. Ransom could afford to lose money; he had more money than sense and he had a lot of sense when it came to money. The loss of cash wasn’t the major issue but the loss of influence. He had been the de facto Prime Minister of the United Kingdom for the last five years and he wanted it to continue into perpetuity. If he wanted this to continue then there was only one thing for it. He would have to take over as editor and get ‘The Daily Fail’ back on the rails. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Come in,” said Ransom desperately hoping it wasn’t those two useless editors who he had sent packing only moments before.
The door opened and ‘Libel’ Len appeared. He was small, slight and unimpressive. Underneath a greasy mop of graying hair were small squinty eyes, a sharply pointed nose and two buck teeth protruded from his mouth. His colleagues, unironically, often compared him to a rat, and despite his appearance, he was the Daily Fail’s top reporter. He had all the qualities necessary to be successful; he was unscrupulous, immoral and with a bloodhound-like sense of smell for a top story. Typically, he wore a brown trenchcoat, had a pencil behind the ear and carried a tatty notepad covered with indecipherable scrawl. To top off his outfit he had a battered fedora and a card with ‘Press’ on it tucked into the band.. On a good day he smelt only a little of piss and was only half-drunk. Today was one of those days.
“Ah, just the person,” said Ransom trying not to breathe in too deeply. “We need something epic for our readers and to give those idiots over at Burdock’s a wapping. Do you have anything for me?”
“Well, sir,” snivelled Len, “I have a few fings on my plate. An exclusive interview with Martha Scarhill lined up next week and my sources are working an exclusive with some musicians to send stickingplasters to Africa.”
“Is that the best you have got?”
“Slow news week – and editorially we can’t run a negative story on the Thatch.”
“No – you can’t.” Roland Ransom was defiant. “We need something else. Something more high profile and that will make headsturn when they see The Daily Fail on the newspaper stands.”
“Well I could get a one on one with the pope…”
“The Pope? Do you think we are Fae a few fings on my plate. An exclusive interview with Martha Scarhill lined up next week and my sourc es are working an exclusive with some musicians to send sticking plasters to Africa.” rage Brit doesn’t speak Latin. No. What we need is something altogether more epic – an interview to break all records. Something that has never been done before.”
“Who do you have in mind, sir?”
The brand new editor smiled. “Have you ever heard of Doctor David William Ross?”
* * *
Two people who had heard of Mr Ross were Lolem andLewes. To some they were just a couple of likely lads, but to the band oftrained assassins tracking them down, they were wanted men. This probably explained the situation which was taking place on the north bank of the Thames not far from Central London.
It wasn’t just Lolem and Lewes who were being hunted. A group of close to eleven other people were also in the streets between theabandoned warehouses, and they too were running, breathless and fearing for their lives. Their body language, their stride and the panicked faces said nothing about their character; it spoke only of their terror. Behind them, calm and unconcerned, were a smart looking group of individuals. They were wearing black suits and dog collars and carrying serious hardware. In parts of the universe they were known as Rev-Enge, others as Heavengance, but in this galaxy they were known as the PASTORs.
The PASTORs themselves were extremely dangerous. Theirneo-evangelist doctrine allowed them to feign benevolence, bypass thelocal laws and deal out their hatred with the power of the gun. Their fame had spread throughout countless galaxies as being ruthless, intolerant and efficient assassins who would do absolutely anything for money.
Since they had arrived less than an hour ago, gunshots echoed through the abandoned streets as the PASTORs picked off their prey one byone. Lolem and Lewes somehow managed to avoid the PASTORs’ shots but their fellow escapees were dropping like flies. The PASTORs were relishing every kill. Their only thoughts were on the remuneration from their employers and not on the carnage that they were letting loose on the streets of London.
Among survivors of the fleeing group was Ralph who threatened to McTell all. He had changed his mind and stopped running when he hadfallen behind the others, primarily because he had been shot in the leg. He staggered behind a wheelie bin and did his best to hide, hoping that the PASTORs would continue pursing the others. He curled up in a ball, bleeding on his worn out shoes and praying that he wouldn’t be noticed.
As the PASTORs walked past, for a brief moment Ralph though the had evaded them, but the moment didn’t last more than a nanosecond. The PASTORs had a reputation that no one ever gets away and, in this case, he didn’t. It was his own natural sigh of relief that was just a few decibels too loud and too early and that was all the PASTORs needed. Their senses had been tuned to the highest levels and that was why their talents were employed from Betleguese to Andromeda. Ralph covered his face in the anticipation of discovery as one of his pursuers turned and caught sight of him.
The man with the dog collar was tall, black with an afro and looked a lot like Samuel L. Jackson. Of course, it wasn’t – there was no way the CBB budget would have been able to fund an actor of such calibre. Instead they had managed to get someone from the lookalike agency down the road and he could do a passable impression. Ralph raised his hands in a bid to surrender.
“Do you read the bible, boyo?” asked the PASTOR in his Welsh/American accent, “because you shoulda.” He raised his gun relishing his hypocrisy.
Ralph shook his head and tried to speak. “Nooooo, sir,” managed to come out of his trembling lips.
“Tidy. Because I really like this bit.” Hecoughed, polished his name badge, which had ‘Julian’ neatly printed on it andsmiled with pure malice as he pointed his gun at the unfortunate Ralph. “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.” The Welsh twang had vanished now almost as if he had rehearsed this many times. “Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children.” He stood tall and hammed for all he was worth, it wasn’t perfect but it sure was memorable. “And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”
Julian’s eyes glinted with pleasure. As his finger tightened on the trigger, the mercenary smiled...
TO BE CONTINUED...
