Jack Yeovil - Comeback Tour

Duroc fed in the co-ordinates of the walled estate Gavin had moved into—without taking Clodagh, Tish and Reggie or Erik—and also gave the machine a map of the lucky winner's body-heat patterns.

"Keystone is accurate to the half-centimetre," Fonvielle claimed. In the past accuracy had been the problem. The curvature of the Earth and the distortion of the atmosphere got in the way. But now, with the charm of blood seeping through the works, they should have that problem licked.

The monitors showed the satellite extending its lase arm, and making minute adjustments in its orbit.

A map appeared on the big screen, with a red dot over Springfield. The map was magnified as the aiming became more precise.

Sister Addams was praying.

Duroc imagined Gavin in his new-won palace. He hoped he was alone. For some reason, Duroc felt it would not be fair to singe a GenTech supplied sexclone.

"Target: lock-on!"

Fonvielle was standing over the console.

"We have manual control, Mr President."

He lifted a little cover and revealed an unobtrusive red button.

"Simone," Duroc said, "do the honours, would you?"

With a satisfied smile, Simone walked across the bunker. Even Josephites who had abjured carnal relations couldn't stop themselves staring at her body. She was wearing something white and clinging and silky that set off her skin colour perfectly.

"Goodbye, Gavin," Duroc said.

Simone casually pressed the button, and the red dot on the map flashed.

"Firing sequence initiated," Fonvielle snapped.

There was a rising whine. Brother Astor sacrificed the other goat, almost unnoticed. Duroc was pleased with the man. He liked the way he did his part in the operation without being asked or demanding an acknowledgement.

Sister Addams had her thumbnail between her teeth.

"Firing…"

The big screen suddenly scrambled, and the map was gone. Lights flared.

"…now!"

It was unspectacular. The big screen just shut down. Astor's goat kicked and shrieked, clinging to life.

Fonvielle slumped in his chair. Simone stood away from the console.

"What happened?" Duroc asked.

The commander ripped out a fistful of his beard and chewed it like tobacco.

"Malfunction, Mr Prezz."

"The lase doesn't work?"

Fonvielle spat a hairball on the floor. "Nope. That's fine and dandy. Well up to scratch, in fact."

"So?"

"It's the targeting system we have to get the bugs out of. We don't seem to have reestablished control over the Keystone mapmaster programme."

A read-out chattered. The big screen came back on.

"Ah," said Fonvielle. "Does anyone know where Taabazimbi is?"

"It's in the Transvaal," Duroc said, "in Greater Rhodesia. Why?"

Fonvielle looked sheepish. "Ah, well, because Keystone seems to have um…"

"Out with it, commander!"

"…obliterated it."

It was getting dark. The boat was going to need gas soon, or they would be down to using the paddles. Elvis told Krokodil. "Well, there are people nearby…"

Elvis looked at her. "You can tell that from some cyborg sense?"

"No, I can tell that from simple observation. Wherever there's garbage, there are people, and look…"

There was a mud lagoon clogged with food wrappers and other disposables, sinking slowly.

"That's someone's dump."

"Yeah." Elvis reached for his Moulinex.

"Paranoid."

"It's the only way to get to be my age, ma'am."

Nevertheless, he left the gun where it was.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I suppose you're right."

"We'll try silent running from here on in."

He cut the motor, and took the paddles from the stern locker. He handed her one.

They eased the boat forwards. The swamp was thick here, more mud than water, and it was easy to get clogged with the swampgrass. They'd had to stop several times to unwind long tangles from the propellor.

Elvis could hear noises up ahead. Human noises.

"Sounds like a party," Krokodil said.

There was music. Cooking smells reached them.

"I sure hope the natives are friendly round here."

"We'll find out soon enough."

They could see lights through the hanging cypresses. Elvis felt very hungry again.

'"Old eet raight zere, mon ami," said a harsh, loud voice. The accent was backwoods French.

Elvis pulled his paddle out of the water, and raised his hands.

"We're friends," he said.

"Easy to say, 'ard to preuve."

The Frenchman leaned out of the shadows. He was lying in the branches of a cypress, camouflaged among the leaves. He wore a patchwork of oilskins and small pelts, and had long, tangled hair. He was carrying a Grand Guignol shotgun, four barrels welded together in a square. One of those things could blast a hole clear through a bull elephant.

"We're just passing through. My name is Presley, and this is…"

He couldn't think of a way of making "Krokodil" sound like a friendly name.

"Jessamyn," she said.

"Enchanté, mam'selle. Je suis Zhille."

"Where is this place?"

"It 'as no name. We float."

Zhille put up his shotgun.

"Can a feller get some gas around here? Or maybe some food?"

Zhille smiled and kissed his fingers. "If a felleau 'as ze price of ze services."

"We can pay," said Krokodil.

"Zen, come on een, get warm and get fed…"

Zhille held aside a curtain of cypress, and they paddled past his tree.

There was an island ahead, with a bonfire built on it. Elvis realized that it was not a true island, but rather a large raft built on a network of empty oildrums layered over with soil and vegetation. There were shacks and storehouses. And a group of maybe twenty or thirty people, clustered around the fire. A spitted 'gator was turning over the flames, roasting nicely, and big-bellied iron cookpots were heating up gallons of gumbo.

"You laike Cajun cookeeng?" Zhille asked, appearing to tether the boat.

"Yes, sir," Elvis replied politely.

"You laike plenty of 'ot spices, n'est-ce pas?"

"I surely do."

"Zen zis ees ze plaice for yiu."

"The natives," Krokodil whispered, "seem friendly."

Still, Elvis saw her slinging something from Donny Walton's gun collection around her waist You could never be too careful.

There was a small band by the fire, playing fast, raucous zydeco. A serious, thin-cheeked woman with a derby hat and a long skirt sawed away at a fiddle. The rest were okay, but she was good. A few barefoot children were dancing, but most of the crowd were more interested in eating just now.

Zhille introduced them to the community headman, DuFrezne, and his wife Jeanne, and to others. Places were found for them near the fire, in the food line.

Elvis watched the 'gator turning. He had never eaten 'gator before, but knew people who swore by it.

"At least they've taken its eyes out," Krokodil said.

"They're in the gumbo."

"Oh well, I've eaten raw lizard in my time. This looks appetizing by comparison."

"You need to eat?"

She shook her head. "But I should, here. We don't want anyone thinking there's anything odd about me, do we?"

The fire made strange shapes on her face. Elvis wondered just how odd Krokodil really was. He knew she was packed full of bio-amendments. But there was something else weird about the woman. Sometimes, someone else seemed to be looking out through her eyes.

The music stopped, and the eating started.

Elvis was fortunate enough to get an unidentifiable hunk of tasty, highly-spiced meat. After a day's fast, it was wonderful. And the swamp-brewed moonshine that came with it burned all the tastes out of his mouth anyway. He wondered if his tastebuds had sustained any lasting damage from the liquid fire.