Роберт Грант - The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

Then there was nothing left of him but a mound of grit, an empty safety suit and a pair of jackboots.

I found it surprisingly distressing to see my namesake and her paramour also sinking into heaps of their own detritus. Though it was rather touching that, even at this grimmest of moments, they had eyes only for each other.

‘I loved you, Bri-Bri,’ she whispered.

‘And I you, Gem-Gem…’ But she had wafted away.

To my surprise, at this terrible moment, he turned his decaying head to Brian. ‘You! Come closer,’ he rasped.

Brian looked at me, shrugged, then knelt beside his dwindling form. ‘What is it, old chap?’

‘Closer still,’ the moribund duplicate croaked.

Brian put his ear to the remains of the ruined mouth. The duplicate whispered something into it, which I couldn’t hear, then he, too, was gone.

Brian was very still for a moment or two. Then he slowly stood.

‘What did he tell you, Brian?’

But Brian said nothing, just shook his head.

Guuuurk broke the spell. ‘Now, are we going to take this bucket, or are we going to stand around all day knee-deep in piles of old eczema?’

I reached up and grasped the relic’s handle. It seemed to be slightly embedded in the stone plinth. ‘I think I’m going to need some help!’ I called. Then all of a sudden, it seemed to free itself. There was an ominous click.

‘Gemma!’ Brian yelled. ‘You’ve triggered something.’

It was a trap after all!

I froze, unsure whether to move or stay where I was. There was a swishing noise, and too late I saw the arrow heading straight for me.

And then the world was upside down.

I hit the floor, and simultaneously heard the terrible thwack of the shaft embedding itself in flesh.

I looked up to see Brian swaying with the arrowhead buried deep in his chest.

The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (forcibly retired), Sunday the 6th of January, 1952

Obviously, that fake Prof ain’t going to shovel himself up, is he? I might eventually use him to grit the front steps – I reckon it’s what he would have wanted. But first things first: I has to call the real Professor and warn him about this disintegrating duplicates business.

Just as I’m reaching for it, the walkie buzzes of its own accord, and it’s Himself.

‘ Interesting development, Jenkins ,’ he says. Well, any conversation what starts off with that usually entails disinfectant and a mop. ‘ That Neanderthal Churchill has launched a squadron of lab-busting bombers, and they’re headed your way.’

Beggar me, that’s going to need more than a mop, I thinks to myself.

And right on cue, the tocsin starts up, and that flippin’ woman announces: ‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron six minutes away .’

‘But what about your Alien Arctic Cat of Immense Power, sir? Have you got it yet?’

‘ I’m afraid we’ve completely lost communications with the ziggurat. But I have every confidence those excellent improved duplicates will get it to us in time.’

‘Ah. That’s what I was wanting to tell you, sir,’ I says. ‘There ma-a-a-ay be a problem in that department.’

‘ What sort of problem, man?’

I looks at the sack of dust beside me. ‘How can I put this, sir?’

‘ We don’t have time for you to search through your colourful but limited selection of similes, Jenkins. Put the other me on.’

‘That’s just it, sir. He’s crumbled.’

‘ Crumbled?’

‘He’s basically Harpic now.’

There’s a long pause. ‘ I see.’

‘Chin up, sir. There’s still the Originals to rely on!’

Even saying it, my heart sinks. Poor comrade Brother Nylon. Nice enough bloke, but he stands about as much chance as Rin Tin Tin in a Korean restaurant.

The Rational Scientific Journal of Dr. Gemini Janussen, Sunday 6th January 1952 (Again) – [cont’d]

Brian stared at the arrow buried in his chest in what looked like amused disbelief, then suddenly toppled onto his back, his shirt drenched in blood.

I scrambled over to him. ‘Brian!’ I cradled his head in my arms. ‘Don’t worry – you’re going to be all right.’

‘Of course he’s not going to be all right’ Troy exclaimed. ‘He’s got a dirty, great arrow in his chest, and he’s gushing blood all over the— Owwwwww .’ I horse-kicked him in the shins to shut him up.

Brian moaned and his eyelids fluttered.

‘Can you hear me?’ I coaxed. ‘Stay with us.’

Troy whispered loudly: ‘Nobody tell him he’s dying.’ He knelt down tenderly next to Brian, put a hand encouragingly on his shoulder and said: ‘Brian, you’re dying. Damn !’

‘He’s right, Gemma.’ Brian smiled sadly, looking down at the awful wound. ‘I’m afraid there’s no happy ending to this one.’

I blinked back a tear. What good would lachrymosity do?

He met my eyes. ‘Gemma, I have to know… If I’d ever mustered enough courage to ask… would you have married me?’

I smiled. ‘In a heartbeat, my darling.’

Brian’s voice was getting weaker. ‘I can’t feel my chest any more…’

‘Well,’ Guuuurk crooned, ‘just a theory, but that may be because it’s now crawling across the floor, spluttering…’

I glanced over. It was, indeed.

Of course – it was the bra!

Guuuurk peered warily at the stricken creature. ‘The arrow’s finally made it lose its grip! Look, there’s not even a mark on your actual chest.’

Brian sat up groggily and looked down. ‘The Living Bra! I’d forgotten I still had it on – it was so comfortable .’

‘The poor thing’s cowering behind the plinth, coughing up blood,’ Guuuurk announced, tugging on the jackboots. ‘I’ll put it out of its misery.’

He chased over to it and started trying to stamp it to death. It snarled and snapped back at him in wounded fury.

‘It’s a resilient little devil! Naaaaaaaaaah! It’s crawling up my leg!’

We ignored him. Brian struggled to his feet. ‘Uhm, about that getting married business…’

‘Ye-e-sss, well, of course I thought—’

‘Yes. So did I.’

‘It’s not that—’

‘No, no, no. Of course not.’

‘I t’s worse than the duck! It’s worse than the duck!’

‘But under the circum—’

‘Yes, yes, yes. You don’t have to say anything.’

We both looked at each other. Had we meant it?

I smiled at him gently. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get out of here. We’ll have all the time in the world.’

‘It’s on my face ! Mah muhn mah fuuuumn!’

There was a tremendous clang as Troy hit Guuuurk in the face with a shovel. The bra fell off, stone dead.

Guuuurk was clutching his bloodied nose. ‘You absolute stinker !’ he snarled.

‘You’re welcome.’ Troy picked up the bucket. ‘Hadn’t we better get this to Pops?’

As he raised the relic into the light, it seemed to glow, and that strange, ethereal polyphony resounded again.

The floor beneath us began to rumble and shake.

We staggered against each other. ‘Hang on, everybody!’ Brian yelled.

The plinth slid down into the staircase, and then the staircase rumbled and began to concertina and descend into itself.

When it came to rest, we found ourselves at ground level of the chamber, facing two great golden doors, hitherto obscured.

‘It’s the final test.’ I fought not to show my frustration. ‘We had better choose wisely.’