local protection the analogue synthesizer (genuine, eighty years old) so people realise they are coolstuff and not to be molested.
About eleven they approach the alley in which the Gesang Der Junglinge lies. It is time for the hit.
"Remember," Nulight says, "no violence to people. Such violence is uncool. We're hitting the basement computers. There's to be no deviation from the plan."
The four have put on their UHF helmets. Laser-wiggles flash before their stern faces. It is like dealing with robots. Kermita nods at Nulight and says, "Sure," but with trepidation he sees her fiddling with the semtex croissants in her pockets.
Nulight jacks the UHF lines into his headset, then pulls tight his anorak hood. "OK," he says, "go for it!"
The four run down the alley, Nulight following just behind. They duck under the club door and enter reception. Telemusik just has time to draw breath to scream before a gob-rag is flung into her face, and she falls to the floor. The rest of the hallway is empty. Nulight watches from the front door as Gloria bungs the interior doorway with Almax, the glitter paste frothing up then setting like rock.
So far so good.
But then two men clatter up from the basement. Their heads appear over the top of the stairs. Franc hits them with gas helmets that shrink over their heads like suicide bags, but then he attaches O2 capsules. Nulight nods.
Franc, Kermita and Gloria descend the stairs at top speed, Nulight following, while Zipperdie is left to deny entrance to new clubbers. He is wearing a Schulze Audentity T-shirt, so he looks the part. Down one flight they encounter resistance, the first of the Zyklus Mensch, and Franc is wounded in the arm by a gunshot. Gloria takes out both guys with her Blinderama, but the lasertube wheeze alerts others, and they can hear Teutonic yelling. Franc bags the ZM pair, then they all crouch down to wait.
After a few seconds it goes quiet. The music upstairs is in spaced-out mode, no beats, so down here in the stairwell they can hear enough to make them worry. A lacuna seems to have developed.
Nulight orders them, "Down, now. Go get 'em."
The trio go forward into the dark. A shot. Another. They reply. In a few flicker frame seconds Gloria has been shot in the thigh, but the Zyklus Mensch are all on the floor. Gloria slaps a morphinoplug on her wound, grunting as the chemsoup kicks in. Then they go forward, and see at last the door to the computer nest.
Inside is not what Nulight expected. It is lit green—Evil Dead style—and spooky, with lots of cables and hardware arranged around the walls. But centrally a crouched figure watches him. At first Nulight thinks it is the last of the Zyklus Mensch, but then he sees movements that suggest... maybe not human? He falls back, uncertain of what he is seeing, freaking out. Hallucinating?
"No, no!"
The figure is floating towards him.
He orders the others, "Get outa here!"
Paranoia grips his mind like a clammy hand on his scalp. The person, creature, whatever it is, speaks over the frantic noise of the others escaping. Nulight cannot see much as it has gone quite dark, but he glimpses a mouth moving in a blue head.
"Nulight, this is not for you. This is ours. If you remember anything at all, remember our compassion, our concern for you back in Tibet. Do not annoy us any more."
Raving, drooling, Nulight staggers back to the stairs; then he runs up, shrieking. An alien! Fear and pain and trippy paranoia make his limbs as efficient as a robot's. In seconds he is topside, out in the streets. The others have vanished. Makes sense.
Nulight runs down the alley. He passes people. Some of them seem to be aliens and they laugh at him, high-pitched sniggering that seems to accentuate his loss, his failure. Ha ha ha ha! they go, as he goes.
...doing the free festi circuit...
Summer.
Wales, Scotland, bits of England.
It is hot and it is the time for psychedelic bands to come out of their mushroom-fuelled studios and stand, or
About eleven they approach the alley in which the Gesang Der Junglinge lies. It is time for the hit.
"Remember," Nulight says, "no violence to people. Such violence is uncool. We're hitting the basement computers. There's to be no deviation from the plan."
The four have put on their UHF helmets. Laser-wiggles flash before their stern faces. It is like dealing with robots. Kermita nods at Nulight and says, "Sure," but with trepidation he sees her fiddling with the semtex croissants in her pockets.
Nulight jacks the UHF lines into his headset, then pulls tight his anorak hood. "OK," he says, "go for it!"
The four run down the alley, Nulight following just behind. They duck under the club door and enter reception. Telemusik just has time to draw breath to scream before a gob-rag is flung into her face, and she falls to the floor. The rest of the hallway is empty. Nulight watches from the front door as Gloria bungs the interior doorway with Almax, the glitter paste frothing up then setting like rock.
So far so good.
But then two men clatter up from the basement. Their heads appear over the top of the stairs. Franc hits them with gas helmets that shrink over their heads like suicide bags, but then he attaches O2 capsules. Nulight nods.
Franc, Kermita and Gloria descend the stairs at top speed, Nulight following, while Zipperdie is left to deny entrance to new clubbers. He is wearing a Schulze Audentity T-shirt, so he looks the part. Down one flight they encounter resistance, the first of the Zyklus Mensch, and Franc is wounded in the arm by a gunshot. Gloria takes out both guys with her Blinderama, but the lasertube wheeze alerts others, and they can hear Teutonic yelling. Franc bags the ZM pair, then they all crouch down to wait.
After a few seconds it goes quiet. The music upstairs is in spaced-out mode, no beats, so down here in the stairwell they can hear enough to make them worry. A lacuna seems to have developed.
Nulight orders them, "Down, now. Go get 'em."
The trio go forward into the dark. A shot. Another. They reply. In a few flicker frame seconds Gloria has been shot in the thigh, but the Zyklus Mensch are all on the floor. Gloria slaps a morphinoplug on her wound, grunting as the chemsoup kicks in. Then they go forward, and see at last the door to the computer nest.
Inside is not what Nulight expected. It is lit green—Evil Dead style—and spooky, with lots of cables and hardware arranged around the walls. But centrally a crouched figure watches him. At first Nulight thinks it is the last of the Zyklus Mensch, but then he sees movements that suggest... maybe not human? He falls back, uncertain of what he is seeing, freaking out. Hallucinating?
"No, no!"
The figure is floating towards him.
He orders the others, "Get outa here!"
Paranoia grips his mind like a clammy hand on his scalp. The person, creature, whatever it is, speaks over the frantic noise of the others escaping. Nulight cannot see much as it has gone quite dark, but he glimpses a mouth moving in a blue head.
"Nulight, this is not for you. This is ours. If you remember anything at all, remember our compassion, our concern for you back in Tibet. Do not annoy us any more."
Raving, drooling, Nulight staggers back to the stairs; then he runs up, shrieking. An alien! Fear and pain and trippy paranoia make his limbs as efficient as a robot's. In seconds he is topside, out in the streets. The others have vanished. Makes sense.
Nulight runs down the alley. He passes people. Some of them seem to be aliens and they laugh at him, high-pitched sniggering that seems to accentuate his loss, his failure. Ha ha ha ha! they go, as he goes.
...doing the free festi circuit...
Summer.
Wales, Scotland, bits of England.
It is hot and it is the time for psychedelic bands to come out of their mushroom-fuelled studios and stand, or
Similar Books
