Botchi

The trio arrived at the Ford, and with the situation as it was, got clearance to bypass the security measures and enter the lift systems immediately. They took on and beat corridor 8C, funnelling into the room where the other members of the Ford’s staff were gathered. The group of Lozike, Boron, the Chief, McMillan and Mar shook hands warmly as they convened.

“The Psion Cannon is to be charged, man your stations” The Formula commanded. All served their master well, physically plotting the arc of a half rainbow in front of The Formula.
“They will flee to…”
“Admiral Lozike here, the idealists are realigning into attack formation. They are armed. Set cannon to counter-force!!”
“Good work, Admiral Lozike’’ commented the pleased Chief. And with this the stations were cemented, the cannon was set. A fizzing blue charge rose up through all of the human components of the cannon, Boron Jetwell experiencing particular pleasure at the electric charge permeating her body. The build up was slow, incremental and rhythmic, the setting of the cannon particular to a large and deadly charge. The plumes of blue crackling force collected directly underneath The Formula, creating the visual effect of a quarter bike wheel with spokes.
Each shook violently as the massive wattage gathered power and torque, the atoms of the force packing tighter to generate a more cutting shaft of weaponry. A counter-force beam was packed more neatly and efficiently than a Primary shot, and asked more of time. All screamed as the charge reached its finality, accelerating through The Formula and into the triple barrels of the Psion machine.

Kluzens and his crusaders could be discerned through the opaque blast-shield of The Formula’s temple. They were approaching the outer perimeter of the Ford through the Place de la Plage. Turnips landed innocuously near the bemused Ford security tenders, hard brie ricocheted from the reinforced concrete walls of the perimeter. Nash was holding point with the determination of a fierce terrier; Pieways was ensuring equilibrium of shift amongst the second unit. The Ford was within their grasp. Nash raised his blunderbuss and took aim.

The Psion cannon’s charge ripped from the triple barrels towards Kluzens’ band, slicing Nash vertically in half. Flesh torn from bones, flying ankles and slabs of heart became commonplace. With one explicit blast, the band was exterminated. Only Kluzens managed to survive, although he lay without his left leg, a small stump remaining. With serrated flaps of charred skin due to the shrapnel of Nash’s’ blunderbuss, Kluzens knew that his toast was almost toasted.

Inside, jubilance bounded around the chamber at the end of corridor 8C. The charge had announced itself with a bulls-eye, vanquishing the pathetic resistance for evermore. Admiral Lozike systematically hugged each of his comrades, saving the most personal shade for Cosatch McMillan. Boron Jetwell wept like a sodden puppy with joy, overcome at the team’s efforts and success. The Formula laughed and laughed, spinning like a top aboard the raised platform, whilst Mar and Chief V passionately embraced. The realisation of the moment was not merely egoistic to the group of staff manning Three Mile Ford, it carried with it a heavier meaning: that of materialistic and technological supremacy and political might.

“Best go and gloat in victory, such is the arrogance of the aforementioned” propheted the Chief, who along with Cosatch and Mar proceeded to exit the Ford and descend onto the Place de la Plage.
“See you in a bit” wailed Admiral Lozike, waving excitedly with both arms.

They descended to ground floor upon the external travelator. Once grounded, they strode purposely from the prism through zone sixteen, graciously acknowledging the applause being heaped upon them by the wardens and security tenders.
“I wonder what prompted Kluzens to attack. The resistance was as predictable as it was pathetic,” said Mar.
“You can ask him yourself,” replied the Chief as she spotted him writhing on the floor outside the fence. A proud security man unbolted the huge hydroxide soaked gate and patted the threesome on their backs, (the breach of etiquette overlooked whilst all were submerged in the glory of victory), as they ventured towards the dieing body of Kluzens.

Mar stood over Kluzens triumphantly. “I am a little nonplussed as to your actions. In a way I will miss the comedic presence of your petty band of idealists. Your arguments are thinner than the thinnest of wafers. Why do you think your nose is glowing green? Because the sulphur vapours are interacting with the golgi nodules of Welko Point. Idealists have five times more golgi nodules than rigorous practitioners. Face it Kluzens, materialism is the truth.”
“I refute it thus,” replied Kluzens closing his eyes, but rapidly opening them again as he could see Mar’s knickers. “The goalposts have shifted off the pitch Mar. Your words are meaningless and will soon be consigned to the tabula rasa of no time. I knew the attack was futile but I wished to fully embrace the brutality of humanity to finally establish that the act I am about to commit is benign. A new era is upon us. A gentleman was kind enough to highlight the misplaced intent of our desperate scientific shenanigans. Your efforts to build a Duffield reactor at Base 1 are in fact quite laughable. The Duffield question is of a quite different nature and I hold the key and I decide who goes in and who doesn’t. I am going to take us to the best of all conceivable worlds. Natural selection cannot accommodate time any longer; a superior alternative is about to spring forth from the aggressive march of evolution.”
“Kluzens you are ranting. Please spare us…”
“Oh Mar, your symmetry so ferally prized within time will have the just reward of indifference within the new order – an order of complete harmony and symmetry. I can no longer accept this world, with its suffering and hierarchy. Oh the gut wrenching inaccessibility of ripe flesh wrapped in a mini-skirt. The new epoch will end the crime of existence. Sexual liberation will no longer be a laughable oxymoron. We are about to realise the unification of mind and matter, art and science, man and woman. Equity and equality will finally conjoin. I now know that the only transcendental act available to humanity is the annihilation of immanence. Now let us broach Duffield. Did you ever suspect that the answer would be contained in verse? The completion of the conundrum empties time of its content. Impressive no? The new realm I am taking us to is nothing. Come let us sing.”
The Ford team desired to leave Kluzens alone to suffer his final contortions of life but found themselves frozen in a transfixed state, mesmerised by the crisply delivered pentameter.

“I saw a small boy sitting in the fire
He turned and smiled
Because I could see mercy in his eye.
A pickled liar, a friesian cow
Time no longer, a passport to where?
Maximum lisp, a heady mix
Crimson flesh quite tempting to pinch
Buy one, get one free,
Deal with me, Steal with me
Take the chance of a dream or three.
Releasing the inner boat of the Nordic rush,
Pleasure yourself, do not measure yourself
Against the western pizza, it is futile.
Complicate the issue with a stolen frock,
Meeting the uncle, killing the aunts.

Mar and the Chief’s eyes met, their jaws agape in wonderment at the dreamy verse. They began to sing-a-long, unable to resist, the words tumbling from their lips like water. Soon people began to spill from their houses, entranced by the sweet melody. They too joined in and soon the whole town was joined in the rapture of the Duffield song.

Shore up the alley of compartmentalised dreams
A call to arms for the wealthy it seems
But not before division
Of the old man’s gate
Standing with doubt betwixt number and word
‘Take it, commit it to history’ she wailed
As the doctor refused to budge,
The cardiac arrest quadrupled in length
Heaping biological rhythm upon the crisp snare,
Loosen your limbs, loosen your limbs,
Watch without care as the world turns to stare,
Listen to the people, listening to you,
Growth is a word more powerful than glue
Triumphalism shines, the beacon of hope
A disregarded Saint, a rejuvenated Pope,
Comment no further and save us all time,
Remember your father and his hideous crimes,
Both spades he used, the contact so sweet
The muscular tissue removed at the teat,
Repentant no no, his work was his joy,
The meticulous theory just part of his ploy”.

Time (played by Brian Blessed) enters in a chariot of ice of fire

“And now my friends we must…”
Time could not continue his speech as he battled to rein in his ethereal steeds, (all were winners of the Prix du Jockey Club in the 19th century), who were galloping out of control. Time circled above Kluzens who continued to lead the song, tears rolling down his cheeks.

A cambered track of frozen chance
A choice for those who think they can’t
Liquid seeps from the semi-permeable whole
The workman, the workman we must cajole
Disclose the nature of your animal charms,
Build upon my faintest of hopes
Discuss the impact of crofting farms,
Let us see how the blind man copes.

Gradually the people below began to circle also, matching Time’s pirouettes. First Mar, Cosatch and Kluzens, then the town, then Europe, the world, the solar system and finally the whole universe became embroiled in a feverish spin. Space was torn from its foundations and formed a spiral like shredded orange peel. They rotated and rotated on the arms of the spiral as Time lay slumped knackered over his chariot, powerless to stop the bolting nags.
“Look Kluzens,” yelled Oppz as he dodged a church that was inexplicably rotating in the opposite direction, “Time is knackered and has lost control of his steeds, we are doomed.”
Kluzens, as the entire universe compacted into an infinite point of absent regrets and the need for a better postal system, reached over and tearfully planted his yearning lips onto the forehead of Oppz’s head.

Nothing.

Fin

Next chapter…