Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

As I walked, I had a sudden image of what Leviathan must look like in full, of how it must appear in motion — in flight. I saw the beast in all its grisly majesty, gliding through the infinite nightmare of space, and in a sickening flash of vision, I knew how many worlds it had consumed. I heard the pitiful wails of its victims, saw the inhabitants of unimaginable places look up when the shadow of Leviathan passed over their lands, and like them, I knew with a terrible certainty that the end had surely come.

Ah, the glorious peripatetic offices of Leviathan! Soaring over world after world — utilizing raw materials in a responsible and sustainable manner without ever losing sight of the economic imperative. Ignore the words of Henry Lamb — a hopeless naif who never understood the necessities of business. One would find very few indeed in our stretch of the universe who would say a word to impugn the working practices of Leviathan. Or, indeed, given the litigious humor of our attorneys, who would dare.

I reached the end of the corridor. On the door to which I had been directed, there was a corporate logo — a circle of color — and, beneath it, the name of the company in whose headquarters I stood.

LEVIATHAN

But it was what was written below, those four horrific words, which really sent volts of panic shooting through me.

STORAGE AND RECORD RETRIEVAL

When Arthur Windsor opened his eyes, he too was sitting down, clean, warm, dry and comfortable — if slightly bored.

Not that there should be anything surprising in most of this. We have always prided ourselves on our unimpeachably high standards of hospitality — although we remain disappointed that our guests continually fail to appreciate quite what fascinating work we do here at Leviathan.

The prince was sitting at a long trestle table in a clammy, strip-lit room, devoid of natural light. There was a fat woman next to him, sorting with mechanical efficiency through teetering stacks of folders.

Given the considerable pounds she had acquired since their last meeting, it took a second or two for Arthur to recognize her.

“Mother?”

“I was wondering what kept you,” said the Queen, without troubling to look up from her work.

“Mother,” said the prince again, “what is this place?”

The monarch smiled and Arthur recognized in that expression of satiated giddiness something of the terrible elation he had seen rising behind the eyes of his ancestor. “Why,” she said, “this is Leviathan. We’re part of the beast now.” She shoved a stack of files into his arms. “Make yourself useful, will you, and sort these into alphabetical order.”

Arthur stared forlornly at what he’d been given, at what seemed to him to be alien hieroglyphics. “Mother, I don’t recognize this alphabet.”

The Queen tutted. “Then learn.”

“Why are we going along with this? Why are we collaborating with this monster?”

“Leviathan is the future, Arthur. He will guide us, keep us, protect us. Our empire will flourish. He will keep our borders safe and render us inviolate against invasion.”

“No.” Arthur stumbled up. “This is all wrong.”

“Wrong? How can this possibly be wrong?”

“Look what it’s doing to our people.”

“As I understand it, Leviathan is merely giving a little structure to their lives. Lord knows, most of them need it. I think of it as a kind of return to National Service. And you know how fervently I approved of that.”

“For God’s sake!”

“Very well then. Don’t just take your mother’s word for it. See the manager if you must. He’s a reasonable creature. His door is always open. Sixth floor, end of the corridor, second door on the right.”

“Perhaps I shall. I am the gun, after all, and he is the bullet.”

The Queen squinted suspiciously. “What’s that?”

Arthur pushed back his chair. “Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You set this up, didn’t you? That business with Mr. Streater. Trying to make me a slave to ampersand.”

“What of it?”

“Did you want me to kill Laetitia? Why would you want that?”

The Queen smiled simperingly. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Of course, Arthur said that he did.

“Your wife is with child. I’m afraid I simply couldn’t bear the thought of any heir of mine being born to that fraudulent bitch.”

“Is that true?” Arthur said wonderingly. “A baby?”

“I believe that she was keeping it from you until she was absolutely certain. Such a shame you lacked the courage to finish her. But then, failure is what we’ve come to expect of you.” She hiccoughed and her face was stained a deep shade of ampersand pink.

Arthur got up and strode away from his mother, blocking out the sound of her jibes, past trestle tables filled with workers whose faces were perpetually out of focus. He called back over his shoulder as he reached the exit. “The war ends tonight.”

The Queen cackled. “Oh, Arthur.”

Her face was a bright purple now and it seemed to the prince that something was moving beneath her skin, that sores and boils were rising to the surface with unnatural speed. She started to laugh and Arthur was reminded of the sickening death of the woman from the Eurostar, the doomed mule who had expired before his eyes with the sound of the hearty impact of a water balloon on a hot summer’s day.

The Queen’s face had begun to bloat and bulge and postulate with an excess of ampersand. Arthur could not bear to be in the same room as her. He had a horrible suspicion that he knew precisely what was going to happen next.

“Oh, my dear boy.” His mother giggled, her body racked with some unendurable internal pressure. “Don’t you see?” She whinnied in hysterical laughter. “The war’s already won.”

I knocked on the door and three voices called out from within — “Come!”

It was a small office, its centerpiece a long ebony desk at which sat three men in Victorian black. Behind them was a jade-green door — and what lay beyond that door, I wished fervently never to know. Just at the sight of it, I knew that I’d give absolutely anything never to have to pass beyond it.

But I wasn’t the only visitor. Sitting with his back to me, hunched and chastened, slouched in his chair and sipping miserably at a cup of tea, was Joe Streater.

The first of the men looked up as I came in. He spoke with a cut-glass English accent, like an aristocrat in a comedy sketch. “Who are you exactly?”

“Oh, I’m nobody special.”

The man next to him looked up at me. When he spoke it was with an Irish lilt. “But who are yer?”

“Just a filing clerk.”

When a third man spoke it was in a thick Scots brogue. “Ye don’t seem tae be affected by the snow.”

“I want some answers,” I said, trying to be bullish. “People are dying out there and I need to understand what’s going on.”

“We’re a transparent organization,” said the Englishman. “Ask us anything you wish.”

“Why is this place an office?”

“Naturally, we’re an office. Peripatetic, perhaps, but an office nonetheless. It was only a branch which was trapped on Earth. On its release, Head Office was summoned and I’m delighted to report that they’ve arrived most promptly.”

“I’ve waited years tae see this place,” said the Scotsman, “and I have tae say I’m not disappointed.”

“It’s an office,” I said again, redundantly. “Leviathan’s a bloody office.”