Gavin Smith: War in Heaven

‘No. That’s it. I don’t want to kill any more people. Enough is enough.’

‘Oh, this is bullshit. This was the same song you sang before Atlantis,’ Mudge said, but he was calming down.

‘And we didn’t kill anyone.’

‘We tried damn hard with Rolleston.’

‘Him I’d make an exception for. He needs to die for the general well-being.’

‘So do those fuckers!’ Mudge exploded. Rannu was nodding. ‘Those silly wank-stains want to kill you because your grandmother was from Thailand; they want to kill Rannu because his skin’s a different colour to theirs. For fuck’s sake, we raise the average IQ of the race by putting these cunts out of our misery!’

‘No doubt, but I can’t do it any more. We were so close to an end to it all, so close to peace…’

‘I think we may have to fight some more first,’ Rannu said.

‘Probably, but not me. Don’t you think we’ve done enough?’

‘I think we’ve done a lot. I think we’ll know when we’ve done enough. There will be peace and my children will be free.’

‘I’m sorry, but someone else is going to have to fight this one,’ I said. Rannu nodded. I think he understood but I think he was disappointed as well. I turned to Mudge. ‘Are you going to fight?’

Mudge pointed at the huge dust storm in the distance that was Crawling Town. ‘I just want to kill the arseholes,’ he whined. Rannu and I looked at him. ‘You know me, I’ll shoot it.’ He tapped his camera eyes in a way that put my teeth on edge. ‘And if it gets too hairy…’ He rapped his legs with his knuckles. His cybernetic legs were his pride and joy. He’d paid a lot of money to be able to boast that he was built for speed. ‘I’ll just do a runner.’ He’d always said that. It was all bullshit, he never ran.

‘Vehicle incoming,’ said Rannu, the only one retaining any degree of professionalism.

Mudge and I looked up. Both of us zoomed in on the bizarre vehicle approaching us, which looked like a cross between a six-by-six pickup truck and a hearse. The front passenger side seemed to have been cut away and there was something monstrous and metallic sat there, a little smaller than an exo-armour suit. Through the magnification on my eyes I could make out the brightly coloured glowing veves painted on the side of the vehicle. These were the mystic symbols of Papa Neon’s own brand of Pop Voudun. The truck definitely belonged to the Big Neon Voodoo.

It pulled up next to us in a cloud of toxic dust and dirt. The monstrous thing in the truck’s cutaway cab was Little Baby Neon. Younger brother of Papa Neon, he had traded his soul for cybernetic power until he was a deranged, uncontrollable psychotic. His older brother had, as far as I could tell, effectively lobotomised him in an electronic ritual and turned him into a cyberzombie.

Little Baby Neon climbed out of the pickup/hearse. Actually he more sort of unfolded himself. The suspension looked glad of the relief.

We were sort of friendly with the Big Neon Voodoo, but it was more through Pagan and he wasn’t here. I had one hand in the car, close to where my Benelli assault shotgun scabbard was strapped to the underside of the roof. Mudge was doing likewise with his converted AK-47. Rannu just stood close to where his shotgun/sniper combination weapon was clipped to the dirt bike.

With Little Baby Neon watching us, the pickup/hearse moved round so its back was facing us. Dry-ice smoke started to issue from the back of the vehicle. Mudge glanced at me, his eyebrow raised questioningly. The back doors opened, then the glass roof slid back. A colourfully decorated coffin, adorned with skulls, bones and other grizzly additions, rose up to a nearly vertical position. The front of the coffin swung open.

I started laughing, as did Mudge. I’m pretty sure even Rannu cracked a smile. Papa Neon’s bass laughter joined us. He was a tall man with very dark skin. His weathered features were covered in implanted circuitry that formed veves on his face. Dreadlocks sprouted from his head where they could; the rest of it was either covered by a precariously balanced top hat, or by his military-built and black-market-augmented integral computer.

Papa Neon wore a long purple leather coat that looked heavy enough to be armoured and was again covered in many colourful symbols. As he stepped out of the coffin he leaned on his glowing neon staff. He looked every part the role of the Voudun priest and gang leader that he played so well.

He stepped down and we all relaxed somewhat. He nodded at Rannu, who nodded back and courteously stepped away from the bike and the weapon clipped to it.

‘Does that ever impress anyone?’ I asked as the smoke was clearing, carried away by the dry wind that blew across the wasteland.

‘No, but it is good fun,’ Papa Neon announced in his thick Haitian accent. He looked me up and down. ‘Are you dead?’ he surprised me by asking. Then again hackers tend to see the world differently as a result of their various net-born religious manias.

‘I’m as you see, Papa Neon. In no small part thanks to the drugs you supplied.’

After I was rescued from the Wait I had received medical treatment from the Big Neon Voodoo. This had included a substantial supply of drugs that had enabled me to cope with the symptoms of dying from radiation poisoning. Papa Neon gave this some thought.

‘This is good. I think that the Loa have blessed you. I know this because they have told me. They are pleased that Obatala is now among us in the spirit world.’ I think he was talking about God. ‘I danced when he returned.’ I knew he would. ‘But the devil walks around the sun far out in the night,’ he finished. I looked at him blankly.

‘I think he means Demiurge,’ Mudge suggested.

‘Not my problem,’ I said. Papa Neon regarded me carefully before reaching into the pocket of the threadbare finery that was his waistcoat and producing his UV monocle. He placed it in this eye and looked at me some more.

I was starting to feel the discomfort I always got when hacker pseudo-religious bullshit was brought up. Particularly when it was applied to me. I realised it was how they understood the world around them. At its heart they just had a different but arguably no less valid way of understanding things. It still always sounded like madness to me.

‘Ogun Badagris has had too much fun.’ I glanced at Mudge, who shrugged. ‘Will you not cage his horse?’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ I said, ‘but my fighting days are over.’

He moved in close to me. I tried not to flinch. I could smell rum and stale marijuana smoke. Then something occurred to me.

‘Have you been speaking to Pagan?’ I asked.

‘The Loa and the dead want to speak to you.’

‘Where is he? Where’s…’ I started and then suddenly felt very self-conscious, more about Rannu than Mudge. Though Mudge was reasonably well informed about how pathetic I could be.

‘The Mambo walks in the lair of Anansi’s twisted younger brother,’ Papa Neon told me.

I looked at Mudge again. ‘Anansi’s a spider god, I think.’ It didn’t sound good.

‘Look!’ Papa Neon shouted. I turned to look where he was pointing and could just make out a large copter speeding towards us. Its rotors were folded and it was using its jets.

‘The spider wants to speak to you,’ Papa Neon began. ‘The dead want to speak to you and the Loa have not done with you.’

Fuck. I just wanted a drink and a smoke, maybe some peace and quiet.

‘Is that a black helicopter?’ Rannu asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice. I shaded my eyes with my hands and watched as the copter’s twin rotors unfolded and started to rotate. It was a military cargo model that had indeed been painted black, its windows tinted.