Hallucinating (28 page)
And on that note the pub discussion breaks up, and everybody begins to prepare for their various journeys home.
But something has happened in the street outside the pub. Under the cover of darkness a poster has been glued to a lamp post. The person responsible has long since moved on, for the glue is dry, but it was not there when everybody entered the pub.
Its message is simple.
There are pictures of three people, Nulight, Kappa, and Master Sengel as he looked during the assassination attempt, below which is written the legend: 'Wanted dead or alive, Nulight, Kappa Smythe, Master Sengel. A reward is offered. Light a beacon fire at midnight exactly to call Dr Aconian. Repeat once nightly until he arrives.'
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
...foos...
Reports begin arriving about increased levels of UFO activity, and this is worrying, given the identity of those in orbit. But some of the antennae of the primary station are now pointing at the heavens, and so it is decided that alien ears are listening to Tru-Rah music. An audio gauntlet has been thrown down, and the lotus pilots are descending...
(Meanwhile, the YBs have renamed Radio Green Britain
Britain Gold.
Same old same old.)
It is decided that the old haunt of Rough Tor on Bodmin Moor will be the best place to do a little foo watching, so they all head in that direction, driving a recently converted car, the alky-engine of which splutters and wheezes. For the first time since the invasion they see another working car on the road, a Jaguar it looks like, the occupants waving like dervishes and grinning as they pass. Nulight, well, he does not like it. He does not want Cornwall becoming popular again.
Atop Rough Tor, they scan moorland. Nothing moves except a few soaring birds and clouds drifting across the sky; the sun is setting into orange cirrus. A light wind moans and a few birds twitter, but otherwise all is silent. Time drifts like the clouds (slowly, and in one direction) until the first stars come out and the glowing western heavens are indigo and violet.
The clouds clear away. There is no sign of parentship wakes, those coloured lines criss-crossing the sky, but they do not want to take shrooms to see them, they want to see actual craft piloted by actual aliens.
And there! Something speeding across the southern sky, very low, a bright red dot that leaves a blue wake. A minute passes. This is like watching for meteors: you never know where to look but usually you see something, if only from the corner of your eye... there is another one, green dot moving fast, leaving a yellow wake that ripples then sends out violet sub-wakes, so that over the space of a minute a Blim-like pattern is traced out. Eventually it fades, but by then they have seen ten other foos, zipping around the sky in all directions.
Tru-Rah is attracting these aliens. Perhaps, though it seems unlikely, the aliens also cannot sense the location of the primary station. Perhaps they are in chaos, like so many headless chickens.
After a couple of hours they stop counting ships and coloured wakes. During the night the skies light up with cross-hatched rainbow patterns, then, later, these abstract designs vanish.
It is a few hours after midnight and everyone is tired. They have proved their point. They prepare to depart. But then something from Kappa.
"What's that?"
She is pointing west and a little south. Nulight looks, but sees nothing. "What?" he asks, trying to disguise his lack of interest. He continues packing his rucksack.
"Over there," Kappa says.
"I can see something," Jo confirms. "Something tiny, flickering."
"Yes, orange," Kappa says.
Nulight looks harder. Then he sees a spark of orange, high up, so small it must be many, many miles away. It is as if some aerial smoker has taken a drag on a ciggie. He shrugs. "Time for bed," he says.
"Yeah," everyone agrees.
...testing times...
After their experience on Rough Tor they develop an idea. Tru-Rah is meant to attract the aliens, and it does, but as yet they have not played Tru-Rah in the NPT style. It is crucial that the aliens' ability to hear the Falmouth Mix is confirmed. So an experiment is devised. Before the Falmouth Mix is broadcast from the primary station, a small-scale test must be made to see how the aliens react to the input of this particular material. Remembering the Elephant Fayre, they decide to re-use the device with the mohican of antennae, the Strange Attractor. Radio Free Festival reverts to an alternative programme—the Beatles, Julian Cope, Porcupine Tree, Arvo Pärt—while the device is set up on a hill half a mile from Camelford. Then, at sunset, it begins broadcasting Tru-Rah music; the first Pouncing Grapefruits album with its Tripping Granny remixes. At a distance, watchers await.
Only twenty minutes pass before the first aliens begin buzzing the device. Lotuses-a-go-go! They circle the antennae with that curious, almost drunken motion that Nulight observed so long ago, as though they were moths to a flame: four-eared blue aliens aboard, receiving this so-catchy music. Ten minutes later there are a dozen of them—it is difficult to count them in twilight. Still the watchers wait, observing the antics of the blue creatures, noting the trembling motion of their hypertrophied ears, the flickering of their elongated fingers. Then the Falmouth Mix is faded in, and the aliens' behaviour changes. No longer are they grooving to the blippy music, following invisible paths like the occupants of some surreal orrery, they are floating free, as if released from the pull of a sonic gravity; following semi-random trajectories.
Nulight understands. The profound centre of the Falmouth Mix is incomprehensible to the aliens. The experiment has worked. A simple signal fades out the Falmouth Mix and replaces it with classic Tru-Rah. Again, bound by the inescapable rules of Master Sengel's creation, the aliens are grooving.
They switch off the Strange Attractor, and, slowly, as if stoned, the aliens depart Camelford. All is calm again.
But now comes the consequence of the test. They must broadcast the Falmouth Mix on Radio Free Festival, then observe the alien response.
And this is done on the night following the test. A careful cross-fade is engineered, classic Tru-Rah fading into the Falmouth Mix, which, it is decided, will be left looping for a few days; twenty four repeats per day. This is their reply to the alien invasion. This is the moment of truth.
They return to Rough Tor under skies rippling with colour. The Nag Champa incense trails of the foos, though they are miles away, scent the wind, and it is as if the entire Westcountry is perfumed. No smell of earth, or trees or grass; just clotted alien incense.
This is xeno activity at a whole new level. Hundreds of coloured lines are visible; no need for the fresnel apparatus designed by Partzephanaiah. It is as if a rainbow beehive has been disturbed by the Tru-Rah and its Falmouth Mix coda, leaving the sky like something out of a Victor Moscoso painting. Glittering parentships are everywhere, leaving softly glowing wakes that soak into the black velvet sky like ink into blotting paper. The stars are freaking. The Milky Way is a rope of psychedelic fog. The Andromeda Galaxy is a faint smudge no more: it is a shimmering vortex of turquoise and green.
Nulight finds Kappa in the phantasmagorical shadow of a tree, and the couple speak.
"We got under their skin all right," Kappa remarks.
"We did, sweets. Master Sengel was right. Tru-Rah is the deal. It's
it.
"
"Now all we have to do is wait."
Nulight nods. "Yeah... but for what? What d'you reckon they'll do?"
Kappa shrugs. "This is the dangerous bit." She turns to face Nulight, and her expression is worried. "Have you noticed that, well, systems are returning? Mobile phones, networks... and all the rest of it."
"Have. Don't like it."
"The aliens will begin sensing economic activity again, and they'll want to remix it. We've got to succeed before the world gets to the point of no return."
"I don't think we're near that point yet."
"You don't know. What's happening in Germany? America?"
Nulight shrugs. "So we don't know."
Kappa disengages and returns her gaze to the sky. "I hope the aliens do something soon."
"You scared, sweets?"
"Yes, but I'm more scared of waiting around and nothing happening."
She's got a point.
"There's that orange light again," she adds, pointing to the west.
Nulight looks. Not so far away, course ENE and steady, he sees a tiny tongue of flame. "What
is
that?" he asks.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
...white water, red flame...
One morning, Nulight and Kappa are chilling beside the bank of the River Dart at the ancient hill fort of Hembury Castle, when something appears in the northern sky that intrigues them. A dark triangular shape is gliding across Dartmoor in their direction. Flight: another example of returning civilisation, Nulight thinks. The sky is pale blue above the aerial object, high cirrus reducing the glare of an autumn sun. The shape is too distant to read any markings, but it is aloft, certainly, it is controlling its direction and it is approaching. They can distinguish now a human shape underneath the mono-wing.
They stand up, pack away their picnic things, then walk hand in hand down to the river, where a flotilla of algae-greened boats lie, debris from some long forgotten club. They turn to see that it is a man flying towards them underneath a paraglider wing.
"Shall we wave to him?" Kappa says.
"Yeah, might as well say hello," replies Nulight.
So they jump up and down like schoolkids, waving their arms about and shouting, "Hello!" at the tops of their voices. The paraglider alters its direction, moving towards them at an extraordinary rate, as if the pilot—obviously experienced at his craft—is making use of every gust and breath of the air. In just two minutes he is only a few hundred yards away, and they can see the stark ginger of his hair, the dull red of his jumpsuit, and the flashing of his white teeth.
"Hey," Nulight remarks, as the pilot approaches, then turns, drops, and circles just yards above them. "One skilled dude."
Kappa nods. She calls out to the man, "Good afternoon! Are you local?"
In reply the man drops a few more yards and brings his right hand to his mouth. There is a flash of orange, a
whoomph
, and Nulight has fire before his face. He shrieks, drops, slaps his hands against his burning hair. Kappa tugs him aside as a second mighty burst of flame licks the ground just a yard to his right, incinerating the plants and dead wood on the ground.
Just moments to think. The man is circling, dropping again, yet he is out of reach; there is nothing they can do to counter this attack. No weapon or shield to hand.
A third jet of flame bursts from the man's mouth, fifteen feet long or more, a length and ferocity far beyond that of yer normal street-entertainer. It misses by a handsbreadth. Nulight can smell his own hair burning, though his skin is only stinging: not damaged. He stares at the landscape around him. There! The Monica Nul Art Installation, and it is not far away. Kappa has thought of it too, and she pulls him into the river, where they splash forward and scramble into one of the boats. Loosed from its mooring, it speeds away on the swift current. There are oars, but they do not need them.
But the fire-breather follows.
It is a race of a few hundred yards. Nulight, still patting his hair and wiping his face, reckons that if they can reach the Monica Nul Art Installation they will be safe, for its rotating parts will surely confound the aerial assassin. Only a couple of minutes pass before they have steered the boat into the bank and splashed out onto dry land—the Dart is flowing fast today. Their nemesis is following, but he is perhaps fifteen seconds behind. Gasping for breath, they plunge into the densest part of the Monica Nul Art Installation.
Made it. They are inside a forest of white pillars, dense here, less dense elsewhere according to the lie of the land; beautiful, smooth, branchless trees with rotors atop them. And this work of art is large, occupying five acres, its edges marked by clematis draped over willow fences. Underground cables of copper lead away from the place, heading for Ashburton and Buckfastleigh.
Nulight peers up through the pillars. He can see the paraglider pilot circling the Monica Nul Art Installation. "Looking for a way in," he tells Kappa.
"We can't stay here forever!"
Nulight grimaces. This is fucking
scary.
"Look, he can't fly forever either."
"He's only got to land and follow us in on foot."
Shit. "Yeah," Nulight asserts, "but then we could run without being flamed on."
"Maybe we can just wait here until night comes..."
That is at least nine hours away.
"Yeah, maybe," Nulight says. "Under cover of darkness, eh?"
It is not the most convincing of plans. Kappa squeezes his hand as they watch the pilot circling them. Then, suddenly, he has darted through two pillars and is hovering inside the outer limits of the piece, twisting this way and that, flying like a beast of the sky, like some unrelenting dragon.
"He's coming!" Kappa whispers.
Nulight stares. The man is navigating between the whirling parts of the Monica Nul Art Installation. He has found a safe way in. He can turn, hover, drop and dart.
"Run, yeah?" Nulight says. "Back to the boat while he's still inside this maze. We'll white-water the Dart until we've outraced him, then we'll get out and hide up until nightfall. Then we'll walk to Totnes. Ready?"
Kappa glances at him, nods, then looks over her shoulder. The fire-breather is ducking and diving, not more than a hundred yards away now. "Go!" she cries.
They sprint back to the river. At once the pilot rises out of the white forest, spiralling upwards between two whirring rotors, banking, then speeding forwards, but Nulight and Kappa have the advantage, and they are in their boat with oars in their hands while their pursuer is two hundred yards away. But then they hear a chilling sound, a wailing cry—a hunting cry—made by a human throat, yet more like the frustrated yowl of a cat. The dragon is not going to give up.
They use the oars until the current of the River Dart has their boat in its grasp, then they turn to see if their pursuer can keep pace with them. He is flying low and fast, following the river, but cutting corners where he can see bends and curves ahead; something they cannot do. In this way he catches up, but then he falls back, for the swiftness of the river exceeds his own maximum speed. And so it is a mad chase down the river, the boat ahead, the fire-breather at times only fifty yards behind them, sometimes two hundred yards adrift, yet never so far behind that the pilot loses sight of his prey.
Soon Buckfast is in sight, the Abbey standing tall and dark against the bright sky. The land here is brown and green and grey, damp from autumn rain, curvaceous, yet easily navigable by one gliding on a wing. Then the boat has sped underneath the old A38 and they are passing the butterfly farm. Still their pursuer follows.
And then he has gone, soaring upward and to the east.
Kappa curses. The river follows a bend here, a wide one that means the pilot will be able to catch up if he flies straight across land; and they are already at their maximum speed. "Use the oars!" she yells.
They do their best to urge the boat on, but they add little to its speed. Soon the river is curving around to the north-east and they are emerging from woods. Nulight scans the sky ahead, then points. "He's there already!"
And he is. The pilot is hovering above the river, fifty yards ahead, too close for them to stop or even to slow the boat.
"Get ready to duck," Kappa warns. "Use your oar to dodge if you can. I'll try to throw something at him, put him off his aim."
Kappa pulls a piece of metal off the rotting side of the boat. Nulight glances at it, seeing that it is small but dense. If she hits, it might save them...
No time to think. The mono-wing is descending, the pilot readying himself. The boat closes. At the last moment Nulight drops his oar into the river and tries to dodge to the left. Kappa, kneeling for stability, aims, then throws. The pilot's hand is at his mouth: a gout of flame. The missile misses by an inch, but the pilot is spooked, and he misses too, his flaming breath hissing on the surface of the river.
They speed on. The paraglider turns, ascends, then darts forward, following them again as the boat heads downstream. It is a straight race, now, but there is another wide bend that their pursuer can exploit, and this he does, flying south-east away from the river, disappearing behind trees. Then, five minutes later, with Totnes only a couple of miles away, he is waiting for them, lower this time, with flame already flickering at his mouth.
"Same again," Kappa says, tugging at a second metal missile.
"Yeah," Nulight replies. This time he moves to the centre of the boat, reasoning that he must be as difficult to predict as possible; he will dodge and drop his oar at the last minute. A hundred yards... closing... fifty, thirty... he moves and swings the boat to the right, but an eddy in the river slows it, and it is pulled lengthways across the current. The pilot darts forward, descends, then raises his hand to his mouth. Kappa throws. She hits! But the pilot is not spooked this time, and although he has been struck on his right arm, he drops, circles, then
breathes...
Flame covers the boat. Nulight falls onto his front and tries to cover his head. He can feel unbearable heat: stink of flammables and burning hair. Kappa is screaming.
The boat surges forward and for a second they are out of range. With eyes shut Nulight dips his hands into the river and splashes himself, dousing the flames, then opening his eyes, seeing Kappa alight. They are burned, injured, but they have water all around them, and thank Buddah for that.
"This is hopeless," Kappa says. She looks terrified, now. "He'll get us in the end."
"I know... what happens at Dartmouth? Do we go out into the sea?"
"There's nowhere to hide there," Kappa wails.
Nulight looks ahead, to see the Brutus Bridge—a couple of hundred yards further on is the Old Town Bridge. "We'll get out there," he says, pointing beyond the Brutus. "We'll have to risk leaving the boat. We know people in Totnes—they'll save us. Somebody will know where we can find an old hunting rifle or something."
Kappa gasps. "You're not going to shoot him?'
"Look, I don't see we have much option," Nulight barks back. They are both burned and hurting. This can't go on for much longer.
"All right," Kappa murmurs, quelled. There are tears in her eyes.
The bridge is closing, dark and low. They steer the boat towards the right bank. The paraglider is fifty yards behind; this is going to be close. Can they run as fast as he can fly? Already the pilot is veering towards the right bank, as if aware of their desperate plan. Nonetheless they scramble out and run up to the riverside path, ascend the steps to the road, then sprint down to the roundabout. Ahead lies a comforting jumble of tall buildings and narrow alleys where they can lose their pursuer. But their pursuer is just above them, and he has his right hand at his mouth...
Whoomph.
Another jet of flame scorches them, but they are running and the hit is minor. There are people around, and although some are running in panic, others are standing still. One, a youth, reaches for something in his pocket, and then Nulight sees a catapult.
"Shoot!" he yells.
The youth aims, then fires. A black pellet strikes the fire-breather on the shoulder, and there comes—melody!—a shriek of pain.
"Again!" Nulight cries. He grabs Kappa, hoping to run while the youth holds off any more attacks.
But he has not reckoned with the cunning and skill of the fire-breather, who darts away from the youth, then swings around the open roundabout in a huge arc, almost touching the buildings with his feet, gaining speed then flying straight at Nulight. Nulight ducks behind a bush, but the pilot rushes past him. No flame this time...
A shower of fluid splashes over him—thrown from above. He smells flammables.
"Fuck!"
He runs. The pilot swings around in the air, his plastic wing hissing under the stress. A second, then a third pellet strike; one in the face—cries of pain. But Nulight is running for his life now, a final effort, aware that a single lick of flame will kill him. The pilot screams with the desperate effort of his zig-zag flight, then drops like a stone. Twenty yards... ten... and Nulight is still running for the Eight Stars Hotel, the nearest covered shelter he can see.
The pilot is above him. There is a
whoomph—
Nulight throws himself through the open door of the hotel as the flame strike hits the welcome mat outside, which crackles as it is set alight.
He gets to his feet. Stench of flame and unburnt hydrocarbons. Moments pass. It is quiet. The welcome mat is burning, as are the pot-plants to either side of it.
Then Nulight hears the youth shout. "He's going! He's going!"
Nulight runs to a window, sees the pilot flying towards the river.
Then Kappa runs into the hotel. "Nulight!"
"I'm all right," he replies. "Gotta get these clothes off, he'll come back!"
By now a dozen people have surrounded them, and one of them, Opal Dreamcoat, the owner of the hotel, is known to Nulight. "What the hell," she begins.
"Hey, hey," Nulight interrupts, trying to calm Opal down—she's a bit of a drama queen. "I nearly got killed out there—"
"What's going on?"
Nulight explains, and the situation is turned to his benefit; shock, amazement, outrage in the house. At once the lobby is alive with people trying to help. Planning takes moments. Fifteen minutes later the couple are dressed in bland clothes, they have been washed and their burns have been dealt with, and they have both been given a bottle of upliftingade. A pseudo-beenie made from local llama wool conceals Nulight's hair, while Kappa's crimson dreads are wrapped in a rasta hat. Thus they are disguised—as far as possible.
Malcolm Segments and Gilbert Chunks are the two toughsters who lead them out of the hotel and accompany them up the hill towards St Mary's Church. Malcolm is six foot six and built like the side of a brick shithouse, but he is as gentle as a kitten, while Gilbert is all sinew, and tendons like piano wire—a human mantis dressed in jeans and tie-dye. Both are armed with no-messing laser projectors. Nulight is not certain what he should do next, but he knows he needs to find transport out of Totnes, either to the safety of the primary station, or, possibly, all the way back to Cornwall. Whatever will get the fire-breather off their backs. At the church they pause to take stock of their situation. Nobody about, nothing suspicious, and no sign of a dragon in the sky.