Ian McDonald - Desolation Road

What then, were the names of those Limaal Mandella defeated to become champion? It is soon told.

Tony Julius, Oliphaunt Dow, Jimmy “Jewel” Petrolenko, “Aces” Quartuccio, Ahmed Sinai Ben Adam, “Sack” Johnson, Itamuro (Sammy) Yoshi, Louie Manzanera, Raphael Raphael Jr., “Fingers” Lo, Noburo G. Washington, Henry Naminga, Bishop R. A. Wickramasinghe, Mr. C. Asiim, “Jaws” Jackson Jr., “Iceman” Larry Lemescue, Jesus Ben Sirach, Valentine Quee, Mr. Peter Melterjones, “Frenchy” Rey, Dharma Ailmangansoreng, Nehemiah Chung (The Ripper), Mr. David Bowie, Mikal “Micky” Manzanera (no relation), Saloman Salrissian, Vladimir “The Impaler” Dracul, Mr. Norman Mailer, Mr. Hairan Elissian, Mercedes Brown, “Red” Futuba, Judge (Judge Dread) Simonsenn, “Prof.” Chaz Xavier, Black John Delorean, Hugh O’Hare, Mr. Peter Melterjones (again).

In victory Limaal Mandella was a modest man. He scorned the expensive affectations of his opponents; the mink-lined cue cases, the diamond-filled teeth, the mother-of-pearl inlaid cues, the shop-built bodyguards, the solid gold flechette pistols: all the trivia of losers. Of the fortune he amassed, sixteen percent went to his manager, Glenn Miller, who launched his own “American Patrol” label for new underground bands and built a studio for them to record in, he kept enough to hold body and soul together and gave the rest anonymously to charities for the relief of retired prostitutes, hot stew for Belladonna’s 175,000 registered mendicants, and the rehabilitation for alcohol, narcotic and pornography addicts.

However modest, even charitable, his personal lifestyle, Limaal Mandella could not be said to possess a surfeit of self-effacement. He believed he was the best with a conviction unshakable as heaven. He grew zealous, he grew thin, he grew a beard which only highlighted the steely tint in his eyes. Concerned at his protege’s fanaticism, Glenn Miller watched him one morning after the band had packed up and gone home, potting ball after ball after ball, practicing practicing practicing, perfecting, honing, never satisfied.

“You drive yourself too hard, Limaal,” said Glenn Miller, resting his trombone on the table. Balls clunked into pockets, impelled by relentless mathematics of cue. “No one could do more than you. Look, you’ve been here, a year, yes? Just over, twenty-six months, to be precise; you’re not long turned eleven, you’ve beaten men years more experienced than you; you’re the champion, the toast of Belladonna, isn’t that enough? What more can you want?”

Limaal Mandella waited to clear the table before answering.

“Everything. It all.” The white rolled to rest in the centre of the table. “Best in Belladonna’s not enough while there’s someone out there who might be better than me. Until I know that there either is or isn’t, I can’t rest.” He picked the balls out of the pockets and squared them up for another match against himself.

The challenge was born. To the man who could defeat him Limaal Mandella would give him his crown, half his personal riches, and his word that he would never touch a cue again. Of the man he defeated he asked only that he bow and acknowledge the victor. The challenge went out on the airwaves of Glenn Miller’s Sunday evening Big Band Hour and the nine continents rose to meet it.

And the challengers, they are another list.

There were young men, old men, middle-aged men, tall men, short men, fat men, thin men, sick men, healthy men, bald men, hairy men, cleanshaven men, bearded men, men with moustaches, men without hats, black men, red men, brown men, yellow men, off-white men, happy men, sad men, clever men, simple men, nervous men, confident men, humble men, arrogant men, serious men, laughing men, silent men, men who liked to talk, straight men, gay men, men who were both, men who were neither, blue-eyed men, brown-eyed men, green-eyed men, radar-eyed men, bad men, good men, men from 0 and Meridian and Wisdom, men from Xanthe and Chryse and the Great Oxus, men from Grand Valley and Great Desert and the Archipelago, Transpolaran men and men from Borealis, the men of Solstice Landing, men from Llangonnedd and Lyx, from Kershaw and Iron Mountain, men from Bleriot and Touchdown, men from great cities and tiny hamlets, men from the mountains and men from the valleys, men from the forests and men from the plains, men from the deserts and men from the seas; they came and they came and they came until the towns were emptied and the machines stood idle in the factories and the crops filled and ripened in the fields under the summer sun.

The old men came, the old ores with death in their eyes who reminded Limaal of his Grandfather Haran, and the women, the wives and lovers and strong ones who bore the weight of the world on their backs, the great, strong women of the nine continents and the children came, out of the schools and nurseries and play groups, with cut-down cues and beer boxes to stand upon as they took their shots.

Limaal Mandella beat them all.

There was not a man, woman, child on the planet who could beat Limaal Mandella. He was the Greatest the Universe Had Ever Known. And when the last challenger had fallen, he stood upon the table, held his cue above his head in his two hands, and proclaimed, “I am Limaal Mandella, the Greatest Snooker Player the Universe Has Ever Known: who is there, man or god, who will challenge me, who is there mortal or immortal, sinner or saint, that I cannot defeat?”

“I am the one, I am he. Play me, Limaal Mandella, and learn some humility, little crowing cockerel.”

The speaker stood up so that Limaal Mandella might see his challenger. He was an elegant olive-skinned gentleman, dressed in red satin and leaning on a cane as if a trifle lame.

“Who are you who would challenge me?” boasted Limaal Mandella.

“I am not required to give my name, only to challenge you,” said the elegant man; indeed, he did not need to give his name, for a momentary flicker of hellfire in his black satin eyes identified him to all: Apollyon, Put Satanachia, Ahriman, the Goat of Mendes, Mephisto(pheles), Archfiend, Antichrist, Hermes Trismegetus, Old Clootie, the Adversary, Lucifer, Father of Lies, Satan Mekratrig, Diabolus, the Tempter, Old Nick, the Serpent, Lord of the Flies, the Old Gentleman, Satan, the Enemy, the Devil, the evil which needs no name to cover it.

Perhaps Limaal Mandella was too drunk on victory to recognize his enemy, perhaps his rationalism forbade him to permit the gentleman’s infernal incarnation, perhaps he could just not resist any challenge, for he cried, “How many frames? By how much do you wish to be humiliated?”

“The best of seventy-six?” suggested the Enemy.

“Done. Toss for break.”

“One moment. The stakes.”

“Same as for any other challenger.”

“Not quite enough, if you’ll pardon me. If you win, Satan Mekratrig will bow the knee to you, Limaal Mandella, but if you lose, he will take your crown, your riches and your soul.”

“All right, all right. Enough theatrics. Heads or tails?”

“Tails,” said the Enemy, smiling to his Infernal self. Limaal Mandella won the toss and broke off.

Very soon Limaal Mandella found himself pitted against an opponent the like of whom he had never met before. For by his once-divine nature, all human wit and science were the Enemy’s to use and abuse, though for reasons of demonic honour inexplicable to humans but binding upon devils and Panarchs, he could not use these supernatural wisdoms to improperly influence the game. His natural powers were still sufficient to battle Limaal Mandella to a standstill. The tide of combat surged back and forth across the green baize; here the Enemy led by two frames, there Limaal Mandella pulled back the deficit and went one ahead. There were never more than a handful of frames separating the combatants.