RELENTLESS
Tling tling! Tling tling!
Ask not for whom the bell tolls, just jump out of the way quickly. Shoppers scattered right and left as the bicycle of "Byriani" Willims took its regular short cut through the aisles of Horrids. It was a good way of avoiding the traffic; cars and buses tended not to veer off when faced with the feeble onslaught of a pair of wheels connected by a flimsy metal frame, running on the puny power of its passenger's leg muscles, but pedestrians were easily startled and almost always opened up a path before him; occasionally one would fall beneath his tracks, but it was simple enough to hop over them. Besides, it helped him to warm up for work, which is where he was heading.
As he shot out of the main doors he caught sight of his colleague Po on the opposite side of the street. He aimed for a convenient advertising executive, rode up his sandwich board and leapt the traffic in a single bound before dismounting beside his friend.
"Ho Po! I see you have your copy of the Bearo featuring your favourite character Boffo the Bean!"
"Yes, Byriani, today is a good day! Bearo day is always a good day, for that is the day the Bearo comes out. I can hardly wait for lunch so I may relax with sandwich and beverage and chortle at the antics of such luminaries as Sally the Strumpet and the Whack Lane Juveniles."
"After a hard morning's work that will surely reinvigorate you for the hard slog of the afternoon."
It was pointless morning conversation of no moment but its own, with no foreboding overtones and devoid of omens. Unless you count the bit where they assumed it was going to be a good day.
They arrived at the portals of their place of business. Byriani parked his bicycle in the bicycle cupboard and they advanced to their alcoves.
"Be sure to secure the seals tightly," advised Byriani, as he did every morning whilst slipping into his protective suit, "for tales have been told of those who did not and were accordingly delivered to the canteen and served with custard for pudden."
"I thank you as always for your concern," replied Po, "Yet it is heartening to know that our employers follow a policy of conserving resources. It would be a shame to waste such well-prepared delicacies."
Any ensuing conversation would have been lost to view as they donned their helmets, so they marched to their separate stations in companionable silence. Po joined the others on the main floor, whilst Byriani took up his exalted position at the wheel and plugged into the oxygenator.
Already the building was beginning to gear up for the morning's work; steam hissed from the pipes and smudged the view. Byriani could just make out figures in the distance slowly disappearing in the mounting haze, and even through his steamsuit the slow rise in temperature was noticeable. Soon they would begin, so he clamped the speakerphones in his helmet flush to his lugs in readiness. The muzik swam through his ear canals and beat on his drums, seeping into his brain almost osmotically, relaxing his mind and muscles for the task ahead. The others would be hearing the same, but later the programmes would diverge; the wheeler show would be geared towards improving focus and concentration, whilst that for the grey-collar labourers among the chains and pulleys would be calculated to inspire them towards ever greater physical efforts at their levers and treadmills. It was rumoured that an element of performance-enhancing drugs was present in the air supply, but then, it was also rumoured that Po had once seen a conger eel swimming past one morning when the steam was particularly thick. This latter had, of course, originated with Po, so perhaps the first rumour was right after all.
As he flexed his gloved fingers upon the wheel and gazed upon the screen before him, idly watching the street outside and preparing himself for action, he was startled from his reverie by a staff announcement.
"This is a staff announcement," it said, which was how he knew, "Mr Byriani Willims, please report to Ms Jude immediately. Mr Po, please report to Mama."
Ms Jude! He knew the name, of course ; it was spoken in tones throughout the company. He also knew the face; it had looked back at him from at least one photograph in every issue of the Relcorps Bulletin, and more importantly looked down on him from the Relcorps lobby, twenty feet high, and it seemed it was now to look down on him in person. He felt a strange thrill at the prospect. If there was anyone higher up in Relcorps who could look further down on him, nobody seemed to know who it was. Shaking, he unplugged himself and strode back to the locker room where he divested himself of his protective clothing. One could not meet Ms Jude in such attire; no, far better to make his appearance in his kneehole jeans and bright purple shirt.
A clerk was waiting to show him up, which she accomplished successfully with no more than an appraising glance followed by a slight raising of an eyebrow. Byriani followed her to the lift with a suitable hanging of the head, which gave him an unexpected bonus in allowing him to oggle her lower half from the rear without seeming uncouth. Control yourself man!
Po fought to remain in control of his bodily functions as he obediently approached Mama, the fearful steamfloor supervisor. Her office was situated high on one wall, the wide glass window affording her a panoramic vista of her dominion, the bright lights rendering it visible even through the densest murk Sometimes she would stand by the window surveying the dozens of menials with a steely eye, or rather, with the other eye, which was the original (the steel one merely glinted); sometimes she would sit at her desk apparently engrossed in work, only for some unwary labourer who had relaxed hir guard and taken a second's pause to regird hir loins to be vigorously spurred back into action by an unexpected blast in hir ears from the froghorn Mama kept by her side, fed through the PA system which was so powerful it even broke through the rhythms of the speakerphones. And sometimes… this was the scary part… she would emerge from the floor-level hatch to stroll amongst her inferiors, unprotected from the heat and fug except for her vast bulk and hideously floral mu-mu, dweezil stick in hand. At these times even those minions who habitually turned, wound and pedalled at full pelt would find the resources to increase their labours, lest they be mightily smote. It was a testament to the inner strength of the human psyche that even those unlucky enough to be battered with enough force to fell an oxymoron would muster the strength to resist the temptation of blessed unconsciousness and even redouble their efforts.
So it was with great dread that Po approached his manager, expecting at any moment, also expecting at the given time that he arrived in her immediate vicinity. He wasn't sure what the first expected thing was, especially as it didn't arrive, but the second expected thing was the notorious Mama Glare, designed to strike terror into the least easily terrified subject (which makes it pretty terrifying, although not, alas, terrifyingly pretty). In fact, the mere thought was in itself an unconscionably terrifying thing.
What was ironically even more terrifying was that Mama greeted her underling not with the Glare, but an expression that had to be a smile, on account of her cracked oily lips being turned up at the corners. Amazingly, it also seemed to be natural. In all Po's experience of Mama, he had not even considered the possibility that she might have the capacity to feel actual pleasure. It just went to show, didn't it?
"Ah, Mr Po… you can get up off your knees."
No I can't, he thought, but somehow managed to convince the jelly his legs had turned into to set to a firmer consistency.
"Good news, Mr Po! In the absence of our usual wheeler, who it seems has been summoned to greater things, you have been chosen to take the helm, which means you get the wheeler's perk of a free lollipop at Friday lunchtime!"
"A f-f-free lollipop! Oh my! But but but I haven't had proper wheelie training!"
"Not to worry, I'm sure you'll do just fine, my little buttercup. Now off you toddle and settle in."
"Er yes Mama, thank you Mama, right away Mama."
"Good boy!"
As she watched him go she continued to enjoy the unaccustomed smiling thing. It felt good. Personally, she wouldn't have picked such a feckless creature for the vital position of helmsman, but the decision hadn't been hers, and it was a moot point for her now anyway. She returned to her office and opened the desk drawer, taking the manila envelope which lay therein and peering inside. Yes, it was real all right. She left everything else, even the framed picture of Flakie Snood, and exited via the rear door, down the back stairs which allowed her access and egress privately from the hordes. Emerging squintfully into the light, the precious envelope safe in her baggie, she headed for the Choob station. Given the nature of her last place of work, she knew this was a safer option than surface transport during hours of business. She would head straight for the airport with her booty; there was nothing worth fetching from her one-room apartment that she didn't now have the wherewithal to replace when she reached her final destination, which she hadn't decided on yet, but it would certainly be somewhere with beaches, sunshine and air you could breathe without gills, and far from the horns and howls of Lumpen traffic, and especially from loonies riding their bicycles through food halls. The prospect went a long way towards assuaging her worries about the source of her new fortune. She didn't know who the woman of indeterminate age with the sensible glasses and business suit was, or why she had made the welcome offer, and she didn't really care. After all, if she had stopped to question the morals or purpose of every opportunity she came across, she would never have joined Relcorps in the first place.
*
"Your visitor, Ms Jude."
"Thank you, Caramel. Come in, Mr Willims. Let me introduce you to our business consultant, Ms Katrina Wagner."
"Pleased to meet you, Ms Wagner, Ms Jude." Byriani advanced into the room on his bestest behaviour.
"I expect you're wondering, Mr Willims."
"Yes, ma'am." It seemed the safest response, also honest.
"And what are you wondering?"
Eek! A trap! He had no idea what he was being trapped into, or why; maybe it was some executive game to which he didn't know the rules. He decided to stick with the honesty gag.
"I am wondering:
"a) Why was I sent for?
"b) What is a business consultant?
"c) Is this some sort of executive game to which I don't know the rules?
"d) How on earth did you get that huge fountain with mermaid carvings and curlicues into this room on the 13th floor?"
Jude strode around the executive fountain to face him with that special executive combination expression of smile and scowl. "Mr Willims, you seem to have the idea that honesty is the best policy. That may have served you well among your fellow underlings, but you're farther up the building now and you may find it profitable to learn the rules of the executive game. You have, after all, been selected upon the advice of Ms Wagner and against the advice of ME to be inducted into the ranks of the Faceless Ones, ahead, I may add, of those who have served faithfully in a higher capacity for the past tumpty years."
So… it seemed there was after all someone higher up than Jude, and he was one of them!
"But… I am just a humble wheelieman! Why me?"
Ms Wagner spoke for the first time.
"There are more significant things than length of service and loyalty, Mr Willims. Your work at the wheel has indicated other capacities, which suit you ideally for the position to which you have been promoted."
Byriani gazed at the figure through the spray of the fountain. He couldn't see her clearly, nor understand her at all, but she appeared no different from the other businesswomen he had seen at this level.
"And what are they?"
"All will become clear, Mr Willims." That was a good standard answer when a bit of fobbing-off was needed. She glanced at Jude, mentally urging her to send the man on his way before he asked too many more awkward questions. Surprisingly, it worked.
"Time's a-wasting, Mr Willie! Let us have no more banter, but instead, send you on your way!"
She must have pressed some concealed button, for a section of wall slid open to reveal a plush elevator lobby beyond, with thick carpet and big ferny plants, and a single set of lift doors. Jude encouraged him in with a hearty push. The door behind slid closed, the ones before opened. Well… as puzzles went, this was an easy one. Byriani entered lift.
*
Po at the wheel felt very comfortable in the Comfibode Recliner, now his. Today is a good day, he had told his predecessor, and it seemed he had been blessed with the gift of precognition at that moment. He felt less comfortable when he looked at the clock and saw the minute hand drawing ever nearer the half past mark, for then he would bear the responsibility of the wheel. He knew the ropes, of course, but that was not the same as tying the actual knots. Instead he looked lower, peering through the double glazing of his pebble glasses and visor at the screens and the dials which would guide his way, and tried to imagine how they would look in a couple of minutes when in addition to the current street scene they lit up with the vital information he would need.
The pumps and bellows were hissing and wheezing in full spate now; all systems were go, merely awaiting the signal. There was no more time for nerves. Po attempted to regulate his adrenaline glands; his Instant Meditation classes were paying off now.
Then the timer ticked to zero and the siren sounded, echoing through the cavernous workspace. The Breakfast Show in Po's ears changed to The Morning Show, the wheelie version striking him instantly with its difference to the more accustomed dogsbody edition; the screens flashed into life with today's route map clearly marked out, and Po was peripherally aware of a intensification in the activities of his erstwhile colleagues on the floor. This was it! The very first step on the road of his new career!
He released the brake.
*
Katrina felt the lurch as the building started. She was a little behind schedule; it had taken some time to calm Jude down when she had received the news, and at one point she was worried they might miss the deadline, but a sharp slap across the face had soon sorted things out. While Jude was in the daze of not quite believing it had happened, Kat had been able to point her in the right direction, although it was dismaying to find the other was still compos mentis enough to waste time with her executive games, shamefully with someone who didn't know the rules. Now the executive wore a puzzled expression as she sat behind her desk toying with her executive toys; the slow flow of particles in the sand picture, the undulations of the wave machine, seemed to be calming her down. It was just as well Kat had another task to perform; she had best get out before Jude came to her senses. She sneaked out quietly and made her way to the Narrowcast studio a few floors down, where a bored technician sat reading his Bearo.
"Good morning, Hertz," for she had sharp eyes and had read his badge, "Are the antics of Otto the Otter as amusing as always?"
"Otto the Otter?" Hertz looked up at the stranger as if at one whom he knew not who it was, "When was the last time you read the Bearo? Otto the Otter was replaced by Boffo the Bean many moons ago!"
Damn! She really had to take more care with her research. Never mind, people usually let little details like that slide. He would probably just classify her as hopelessly out of touch. Maybe it was better this way; if somebody thought you were stupid they were less likely to challenge you.
"Tell me," feigning ignorance, "What for is this place?"
"In answer to that," replied Hertz, "What for are you, that you ask such a question?"
"I, young student of illustrated literature, am business consultant to Relcorps, and seek knowledge of its workings that I may better advise."
"You what?"
"I am the woman who will punch you on the nose if you don't take it out of that damned comic and show me the tape decks."
"Oh, right, I get you. They're here. This is the main programme playing now, and the one next to it is the wheelie one."
"Thank you. What does this button do?"
To the techie's credit, he didn't bother with the token "Don't…", but simply reached out to grab the poking hand. To his shame, he realised too late that it was not there; he had reacted instinctively, being used to the habits of the uninitiated when awestruck by the studio environment. But it was too late to stop himself and his clutching hand crashed down on the panel in full fist, while the woman simply stood there with her arms folded, watching as the wheeler's tape shot out of the player and across the room. He really should have a look at that eject mechanism.
"It's OK, I'll get it." Kat moved swiftly to retrieve and hand it back.
"Quick quick!" The room seemed to move a little unsteadily.
"Is it important?"
"Yes!" he slammed it in the slot and pressed play, holding the headphones to his ear to check it was running correctly. "Phew, it's all right." The room ceased its faint sway. "Now, what else would you like…"
But she was gone. Strange woman, he thought. Fancy not knowing about Otto the Otter.
*
The most salubrious of establishments. A phrase often used by the lazy, with the prefix "not", usually to describe those eateries offering low cuisine - that is, the sort of food people really like to eat - without actually understanding the meaning of the word "salubrious". More easily comprehensible synonyms would be: wholesome, respectable, hygienic. BooBoo's was all three of these, so to describe it as outlined above would not be accurate, and anyone who described it thus would be exposing their ignorance, although the phrase is logically correct; it has not been established which café or restaurant holds the honour of being the most salubrious, but it probably wasn't BooBoo's, or the food would not be as reasonably priced, which was the main attraction for Soob Eavis and Dennis Denizen. Soob had won the trip to Lumpen to join the HotCha! studio audience for one lucky winner and a friend in a competition in Pop Tart, the chart lyrics magazine popular with those too lazy or cloth-eared to listen to the record and write down the words (mind you, you can't make out the words these days, can you, and these pop groups seem to spend more time jumping up and down on stage than actually playing their geetars, is that a boy or a girl, can't tell the difference any more what with everybody having their hair cut short and dyed in funny colours and everybody wearing make-up and not wearing badges proclaiming their gender in no uncertain terms…). Well, anyway, so she won the trip but being still at school they didn't have a lot of spending money what with their parents being skinflints and disapproving of two young people going so far away on their own and all. So they had saved their meagre pocket money and skipped off on the naughty.
"Fancy that band from Pilmo being on the week we were there," said Soob for the umpteenth time, having forgotten she'd said it at all due to being up all night strolling round the Best End marvelling at the sophistication of a street life that didn't go to bed after the pubs shut. You'd think a successful magazine would have provided hotel accommodation wouldn't you?
"Yes, and they were… quite unusual, weren't they?" answered Dennis, having similarly forgotten the other pre-umpteen times he had replied in the same vein. "I've seen The Masked Martians advertised on posters and in the Watsons in the Evening Harold, but I had no idea they were hitmakers, and of course I've never seen them being too young at this point to be allowed into pubs and clubs."
There followed a bit of business with the condiments. They had finished their toast and were just waiting for it to be time to go and catch their train, so there followed a bit more business with the condiments. Then they gave up and stared out of the window, watching the working day moving into gear.
The building across the road was giving off small hisses of steam.
"What do you suppose that is?" Soob was the more inquiring of the two.
"Pressure release valves." Dennis was the more knowledgeable of the two, although in this case he was bluffing. He didn't have a clue. He'd never seen such a thing before.
He'd never seen a building lurch in quite that way before either.
Nor had he seen before any of the things which happened next. The building rose from the ground on hydraulic legs, revealing a massive pair of caterpillar tracks underneath. Pipes protruding underneath sealed off with a series of clunks. When the building was a storey clear of the ground, a sub-floor rising to fit flush with the gap left behind, the legs retracted and it began to move slowly but steadily, lumbering across the pavement and into the middle of the road to a background of screeching brakes and a few metallic crunches. By this time the rest of the street had ceased all movement as eyes stared and brains sought to regain control of reality.
For a few seconds all was still and the building stood, as buildings were supposed to, blocking the road entirely, as buildings are not supposed to. Then the tracks began to roll again, swivelling the structure on its axis, apparently turning to head down the street. There was a moment where it seemed to change its mind, swaying threateningly, but it reasserted itself and completed its rotation.
Still the populace was transfixed as the edifice loomed above them. Of course, it would have loomed above them had it remained where it had started, but it wouldn't have seemed quite as loomey among its neighbours as it did in the middle of the thoroughfare.
Then it started again, trundling forward over a taxi. The driver bolted hurriedly from his cab and wisely scurried away hurling abuse and taxi driver gestures in his wake. This broke the spell and all the citizens in the building's path joined gleefully in general panic, whilst those behind breathed a token sigh of relief and joined in anyway, just for the hell of it.
Soob and Dennis turned from the scene, eyes locking, each daring the other to speak first. Dennis, as usual, lost.
"Perhaps we should have tried to get some sleep last night."
Sweating in his steamsuit, Po nevertheless breathed a little easier. He'd thought he was going to lose it there, jolted by a sudden silence in his speakerphones, but he'd held it together and the music had come back to him, blotting out the hubbub from the screen and concentrating his attention on the steer. He was going to be all right! The little red blob on the route map marked his steady progress. As it reached a corner it blinked to signal a turn. Po fed the wheel through his hands in approved fashion, and watched as the façade of a rival building hove into view on the monitor. There would be some resistance here, so he pressed the button to indicate yellow alert and risked a glance to his side.
As the siren went into woop-woop mode, the floor-level labourers switched up a gear as Po himself had done so many times. The bricks grow larger on his screen until suddenly there was a palpable crunch; the floor rocked as the adversary resisted, but it was no match for Po and in a second they were making headway again. Now the display showed a mass of figures fleeing comically as the engine progressed through the block. Po hoped they had the sense to head downwards where there was plenty of headroom, as long as they stayed clear of the tracks. But his mind was wandering, he must focus…
Finally the building cleared the block, leaving a swathe behind, people milling about in the emptiness. They all seemed to have survived, thus keeping the tone light. It was just as well for them that Po had forgotten to switch on the hammers.
He'd forgotten to switch on the hammers! Quickly he flicked the switch and hoped nobody had noticed, especially the labourers in the steam, many of whose straining endeavours would have been going straight out the release valves. The safety zone between the tracks was filled with pounding pistons stamping from the building's underbelly, pancaking everything from bicycles to articulated articles beneath and thwarting the plans of any who would attempt to race through the gap seeking safety beyond. Woe betide anyone who got caught now!
*
Byriani hoped Po would do all right. He had exited the lift into what seemed to be the same lobby he had entered at, but on opening the doors he found himself among trees and bushes. Looking up, he could see the high glass roof, but the sky beyond… it was not a Lumpen sky, grey and forbidding. It was a swirling mass, pink and forbidding. It hurt his eyes a bit, so he didn't look up again. It must have been a projection or something.
He had expected somebody to meet him, but there was just the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of a small furry animal, so he had spent a few minutes on a stroll and a think. Who were the Faceless Ones, and why did they choose anonymity? Still, they must be his kind of people, to have chosen him to join them, and his friend had benefited too. And yet… there was a nag at his mind back when he thought of Po at the wheel, and tried to remember how himself had felt on his first day. He couldn't remember who he had inherited the job from, nor could he remember his days on the pistons and cranks, although all wheelers came up through the ranks. Worse, he couldn't even recall any of his excursions. He knew he had steered his way through many a day, but it all felt like dreams rather than memories. Something was very wrong.
A rustle too loud for a little scurrying thing to his left. He turned, saw nothing. A faint suggestion of… laughter? How very trite. But still a bit scary. Perhaps they were testing him. Damn these executive games!
"Byrrrriaaaanniii
Wiiiiillllllimssssss"
Oooh, spooky. A thin voice like a breeze through a chimney, hollow of character. He could not tell whether the speaker was man or woman, happy or sad, fascinated or indifferent… well, et cetera. But it was certainly requiring acknowledgement.
"I am he," he proclaimed.
"Advaaancccce to the sssstonessss." The vowels were shorter this time, but the sibilance still thought a lot of itself.
"Which way are they?"
"You have an
inquiring mind, Byriani Willimsssss.
Consider ye whether this be boon or hindranccccee."
Pause.
"Oh, left at
the muzzypunkle tree."
Byr turned left at the muzzypunkle tree, and found himself in a clearing. He also found a henge of the usual grey stone, centred around the largest. It looked familiar, as much as a slab of rock can.
The other stones each seemed to have somebody hiding behind them.
"Hello?"
"Greetings,
Byriani Willimsss. Approach ye the
Stone."
"Er… which stone? There are seven of them."
The hidden inquisitors emerged from their places of concealment. The group wore the traditional flowing robes, and were hooded, covering their heads in shadow. All pointed to the centre stone.
"THE Stone,
Byriani Willims! The one with the
capital S! Art thou buffoon that thou
canstnot see that the biggest and therefore most importantest one is the one in
the middle? The Scringestone!"
"The Scringestone! I thought I'd seen it before! But how… ? It's meant to be in Armadillo Grove!"
"The
Scringestone has many facets, Byriani Willims.
Approach now! Go on get on with
it, lest we reconsider your candidacy!"
Well, it was nice to meet an old friend in such strange surroundings, especially after all the years that had passed since his last visit, so Byriani advanced to his chum the Scringestone.
"Place your
hand on the Scringestone, Byriani Willims, that we may divine the truth of your
statements."
Complying, Byr was surprised to feel the Stone humming beneath his palm. It had never done that before.
"Feel the power
of the Scringestone, and allow it to bring forth the candour of your thoughts,
Byriani Willims, as you answer our questions.
First question: Byriani Willims,
what is your name?"
"Bryn Gordano."
"No!
The other ones!"
"Oh, all right. 'Wafter' Willims aka Druid Woodlice aka The Natterjack Toad aka The Forgotten Man aka Byriani Willims."
"Accepted. Second question: Are you ready to be inducted into the ranks of the Faceless
Ones?"
Well… he wasn't sure about that one. But he said, "Yes."
"Accepted. Third question: Are we ready for you to be inducted into the ranks of the
Faceless Ones?"
Fool that he was, he opted to try the honesty thing again.
"I don't know," he said.
There was a bit of muffled discussion.
"how do we know
if that's right or not?" "I
told you we shouldn't have asked that"
"shh! he might hear us!" "hang on, I've got an idea"
"There is no correct
answer, Byriani Willims."
"Was I wrong then?"
"Er… neither is
there a wrong answer, Byriani Willims.
Final question: Are you ready to
be inducted into the ranks of the Faceless Ones?"
"You asked that one before."
"ARE YOU
READY? ANSWER!"
"Eek! Yes!"
"Byriani
Willims, prepare to be inducted into the ranks of the Faceless Ones. All right, gang -"
The speaker threw back his hood, the others
following suit, to reveal that they did indeed possess grey featureless
toppings resembling wig stands.
"RIP HIS FACE OFF!"
Aaaaagggggghhhhh!!!!!!!!
*
Returning to the thirteenth floor, Katrina entered the office to find Ms Jude at her desk, fortunately still in a bemused state.
"Come, Ms Jude. We must leave here now."
"Ridiculous! I have work to do!"
"What work, exactly? What is your function here?"
"Well, I… I sit at this desk and I… I'm an executive! I execute! No… that can't be right…"
While she was pondering, Kat took her by the arm and led her towards the wall. She must have pressed some concealed button, for a section of wall slid open to reveal a room beyond.
Jude was further confused.
"Didn't that used to be over there?"
"Your memory must be playing tricks. Come."
And the two disappeared into the room, the doors sliding closed behind them, leaving the wall looking as before, though an observer might have noticed a slight change in its surface a minute later, as if some element of its appearance had just departed.
*
Groovin to the muzik in his speakerphones, Po wheeled to the rhythm. They were heading towards Basin Wharf now, that vast expanse of wasteland beloved of music videos for its urban bleakness and municipal cheapness. As Relcorps House crushed its way through the token fence that provided the location's boundaries, he caught a glimpse of a group of matchstick figures in the distance. According to the route map he was heading that way. Ever thoughtful, he fingered the klaxon button.
AWOOOOGGAAHHH!
That should give them plenty of warning. Of course, he couldn't hear it himself, ensconced as he was in his steamsuit and phones, but it wasn't as if the button would be a dummy or disconnected or something or it wouldn't have been put there. Although the figures didn't seem to be taking any notice. Perhaps they would move out of the way as he got closer.
Po wondered why he had never felt this concern before about the wholesale destruction and danger to life involved in his chosen employment. He couldn't remember ever questioning it before. In fact, now he thought about it, he couldn’t remember much about his days on the floor… he knew he'd worked there for quite a while, but it all seemed like dreams rather than memories.
He was startled out of his reverie by a sudden change in the muzik. From mellow cadence and swooping pulse it suddenly became all jagged edges, spikes of sound jabbing into his earoles. His arms jerked reflexively on the wheel, blighting his steer. And his vision was growing fuzzy. He realised his glasses were steaming up. Glancing down, he noticed a gaping hole had materialized in his air hose. The miasma of his surroundings was getting in! The monitor and route map slowly faded from view, leaving him blind to his course.
*
The Masked Martians were being approached by a tall building. This was not quite the last thing they expected. The Five Amblers of the Apostrolypse were closer to that honour. But it wasn't one of the most likely scenarios either. Buildings weren't supposed to do this sort of thing. They were supposed to just stand there. Although if they all had caterpillar tracks and steamhammers like this one did, things might have been different.
It was a pity Bilson had decided to film the band in the remnants of an old grain store. The Martians were enclosed on three sides by unclimbable brick walls, the building looming on the other. They were trapped.
The crew were still standing in stunned disbelief, leaving Bilson himself to summon the presence of mind to grab the nearest camera and turn it on the threatening edifice. Opportunities like this don’t just run up every breakfast time and pound their fist in your cornflakes, running away laughing as you sit there covered in milk and cereal.
*
Aaaaagggggghhhhh!!!!!!!!
" Aaaaagggggghhhhh!!!!!!!!"
The Faceless Ones echoed Byriani's thoughts, reinterpreting them as a sort of war cry as they rushed him. Byr instinctively curled himself into the foetal position, his arms behind his head to protect his precious features. The Ones piled upon him, talons flashing.
*
Po went into blind spasm. Every time he tried to reach his helmet to pull the speakerphones from his ears, the wheel began to spin wildly and he had to reassert his grasp, although this didn't help much as his arm muscles were convulsing wildly as if by electrical stimulation. There was no denying it.
He was out of control.
*
The eyes of the Martians and the camera of Bilson watched helplessly as the building encroached on their personal space. Then, when it was almost upon them, it shuddered violently and thanks be to the thanking thing, swerved away towards the river, wobbling wildly.
Bilson ran after, pushing the camera trolley before him. He hoped there would be a suitably impressive denouement.
His wish seemed about to be granted as the building crept over the banks, crushing the impotent railings which sought to provide its safety.
*
Po fought through his confusion to initiate emergency procedures. At least that's what he decided he would tell his superiors afterwards. In fact, his kicking legs accidentally knocked the brake lever, bringing the building to a halt. He was disconcerted to find that he could still feel the structure rocking.
*
Relcorps House rocked on the edge, pitching back and forth between the security of terra firma behind and the anxiety of the river before, threatening to topple at any moment.
Then it stopped threatening, and delivered, spinning all the way.
The river Shimmy has received many things in its life, from shopping trolleys to the more dispirited members of society, but this was the largest offering ever, which it received with a satisfied gulp, reciprocating in its satisfaction with an impressive mass of its component parts. Great globs of oily splodge flew into the air, rolling and tumbling gracefully to a splatful finale on either bank.
As Bilson was to feebly pun later, the Masked Martians' first video created quite a splash.
*
Byriani's world revolved. At first he though this was a metaphor, but then he realised it was physically true. Curled tightly beneath a pummelling mass, he felt the floor tilt, then he was engulfed in the sensation of falling. Before he could come to terms with it, he heard beyond the wailings of his aggressors the sound of smashing glass as though the roof above him had given way, then the gods of mercy saw fit to grant him unconsciousness as he was swept up in a tidal wave.
*
The Masked Martians and their crew, sticky with gunk from the spray, followed Bilson to the water's edge. The building lay face up in the ooze, windows breaking the surface staring at the sky. Presently its inhabitants began to emerge from these, mostly strange figures clad in dirty white suits, those who had removed their helmets looking dazed and bewildered, and began to walk across the face of the building, making their way towards land.
Byriani came up close to the opposite bank, spitting and spluttering. He couldn't quite work out why he had woken up in the water when the last thing he remembered was snuggling up with his teddy. It was true he had gone to sleep last night in the bathtub, but glancing around he saw no sign of tile or sanitary facilities; in fact the taste in his mouth was decidedly unsanitary. There was a vast bulk lying off to the west which appeared to be a very low bridge as people were walking along it. He decided he didn't want to know, and swam to the shore where he climbed out to drip dry and pull bits of weed and gunge from his clothes.
He dragged something from his shoulder. It seemed to be a grey hood, rather like a sock for the head. Flip knows where that came from. He tossed it back into the river with the rest of the rubbish.
*
Inspectrix Vectrix studied the big oblong space in the middle of the block. Between two buildings where there should have been another one was a large chunk of nothing bounded on three sides by blank walls. She turned to her Sergeant.
"This is obviously the work of a criminal mastermind," she posited. "Your average no-gooder rapscallion doesn't have the brights or the big enough pockets to pull off a heist like this."
Sergeant Barjent knew her duty as sidekick; it was to make ill-thought-out comments so as to expedite exposition. "Couldn't it a natural phenomenon, ma'am, or an accident or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Barjent, there has to be a yuman bean behind this caper," scolded Vectrix, and uttered the words that would haunt her for the rest of her career.
"A building doesn't just get up and walk away!"