The Coming of the Teraphiles Read online

  MICHAEL

  MOORCOCK

  BOOKS

  For all the Chabons

  WHOEVER NAMED THE PLANET Venice named her well. Her golden

  surface was crossed by a million regular waterways so that

  from space she resembled a papal orb. Clouds followed the

  canals in season and emphasised rather than obscured her

  geometric character. Venice was a rich and lively world.

  More space travellers deserted to her than to any other of

  her nine or so rivals in the star system of Calypso V, whose

  ranks included Ur XVII and the extraordinarily beautiful

  New Venus where colonists risked every danger to enjoy her

  yearningly lovely landscapes.

  Like all inhabited worlds, Venice was forbidden to the

  great rockets of the IGP and the larger interstellar mercantile

  vessels of the Terran service, whose routes were frequently

  challenged by privateers in their subtler, sometimes faster

  ships, some of which still used the increasingly erratic solar

  winds for power. The twelfth intergalactic war, which had

  destroyed whole star systems, left by common consent

  the planetary prizes unspoiled, and surface conflicts were

  confined to the legally conventional weapons of the region.

  In Venice's case, these included battle barges of enormous

  dimensions, their hulls driven by massive sails whose

  canvas covered distances measured in fractions of square

  miles rather than cubed metres, and speedy little gondolas

  employing oars as regularly as they used wind. These boats

  darted along the wide natural waterways like bugs, their

  sweeps so many articulated limbs. From space, on the great

  V-screens, they appeared as creatures endowed with minds

  and purposes of their own. Cornelius the pirate had once

  employed those gondolas very successfully in pursuit of his

  trade, taking full advantage of the confusions and disguises

  offered by war. For the past half-century, however, he had

  made little use of them.

  There were few land wars on Venice, few conflicts of any

  kind now. All traffic was conducted by water. Canals occupied

  four-fifths of the planet's surface. Venice was not one of the

  many terraformed planets created by the great commercial

  world-building companies. Whatever gravities had shaped

  her had done so naturally. People had long since discovered

  that symmetry was characteristic of most planets, formed

  in the nativity of their geology. Even the howling, fruitful

  terraces of Arcturus-and-Arcturus owed their existence to

  this familiar phenomenon and were merely exploited by the

  commercial terraforming families who created mainly Earth-

  like worlds for a planet-hungry universe.

  In his long Epiconeon, Cornelius, nicknamed 'the Dutchman',

  wrote:

  Catching the solar winds, the vessel brakes and turns

  Upon the brane and all the multiverse is hers.

  The yearning void calls out, gloriously perverse,

  She spurns a dozen planetary advances.

  This latticed orb of silver, gold and glowing pearl

  Sustains all reverses and her purse remains

  Both threatening prize and perilous temptation.

  Yet still my patronage and brain are hers.

  To drive me from my chosen station.

  His ship is called Paine. His hand light on his great wheel,

  he stands at her bridge, proud and insouciant, glorying in

  the beauty he commands. She is the most peerlessly perfect

  light-powered vessel in all space-time.

  Her sails strain against the pressure of countless billion

  winking photons; her holds are already crowded with the

  invaluable and exotic booty of a hundred beautiful worlds.

  Within her mysterious envelope of atmosphere, created from

  stolen technologies, her multifarious crew, flesh, metal and

  petal, drawn from almost all the sentient creatures of the

  galaxy, crowd her decks to look down on a world they have

  come to consider their own.

  'Ironface' is their name for the man who wears a Pierrot

  mask of brazen metal in the style of the ancient Italian

  comedy. Cornelius the pirate, ruthless poet, courteous

  thief, commander of a vessel feared and familiar, envied as

  much for her ethereal loveliness as for the accuracy of her

  destructive arsenal, motions with his hand, giving the order

  for his men's descent. Only Remembered Lombardy under her

  buccaneer captain Hong Hunter could hope to challenge

  Paine in open space. It is with relief that Venetians, training

  their radio-optics upon her as she appears in their upper

  stratosphere, understand how firmly her captain honours

  the conventions of his trade. She comes to take her tribute

  fair and square, according to the articles signed by all the

  brotherhood save the rogue Cervantes. Cervantes claims to

  own the one thing Cornelius covets, but neither pirate will

  describe it or admit they know what it is.

  Captain Cornelius remains as mysterious a figure to his

  men as to his mistresses. His posted verse, studied so they

  might know him better, only serves to add to his mystique.

  It says little of his character save that he favours beauty over

  sentiment. A lonely figure, he stands chewing a stick of oily

  black tope, offering his commands with quiet economy. He

  dines alone or with his bosun Peet Aviv, a woman almost as

  distant from the crew as himself, and as respected. None can

  say they like their captain or his bosun, but they obey both

  with a confidence they offer no other commanders and their

  loyalty is well rewarded. When the Paine completes her long

  tour of violent adventure every member of her crew will be

  worth a fortune great enough to buy presidents and kings.

  But Cornelius, they are sure, will not yet have found what or

  whom he seeks. Most say it's a woman, maybe his vanished

  wife. Some say it's an artefact, once the plaything of a god.

  Cornelius gives the order. The ebony boats break free

  of their mother ship and sail down, through blazing, sun-

  tinged clouds, to fill Venice's morning with all their sad,

  commanding dignity.

  The pirates, drawn from a hundred worlds and a dozen

  space-time continua, have come at last. Only a few, watching

  them from their decks and towpaths, refuse to acknowledge

  their power. Some even drop to their knees, bowing in

  respect to the inevitable, as peasants paying homage to a

  feudal lord.

  By evening Cornelius is among them, broadcasting his

  formal greeting to all the rival factions on the planet, telling

  them, canal by canal, how much they must give and in

  what form, be it an ingot of newtonium, platinum bullion,

  provisions or crew. (Always he requests that ingot. Surely he

  knows there is not that much newtonium in existence?) His

  pric
e is high, but the price of defiance would be higher.

  When the barges are filled and brought to the great central

  basin called Grande Bayou, inventories are carefully made

  and receipts supplied. Then the recruiting begins to replace

  any skilled complement killed in battle or retired.

  prosthetics, making notes, quietly relaying orders, while

  Cornelius, his features engulfed within the plain, etched

  mask he always adopts in public, sits to one side of her desk,

  his glowing, melancholy eyes fixed on the distance, looking

  towards Saint Marx's islet where once, it is said, he courted a

  novice and lost her to the only enemy whose superiority he

  has ever acknowledged and whom he calls God.

  One burgher, in a hasty attempt to demonstrate his

  compliance, offers to show off a marvel to the captain alone.

  He leaves a wealthy man, but perhaps a marked man, too.

  Captain Cornelius frowns and puts what could be a string

  of beads into his pocket, rattling them while brooding on

  another matter.

  At last, after a week, the peaceful tension is dispelled

  and the pirates prepare to leave, their tolls all gathered,

  while Saint Marx's bells sound the end of the tax-taking. In

  return for this price, Venice will know protection for another

  decade. Captain Cornelius nods to Peet Aviv. The ledgers are

  signed off by pirates and canal captains in a flurry of silken

  pomp and brilliant armour. Then the skiffs rise skyward and

  are gone amongst the broad ribbons of cloud. And those

  whose eyes strain at their scopes see the Paine standing for

  a moment to catch the solar winds, her wide sails filling, her

  instruments glowing and winking in the shrouded, perpetual

  twilight of her decks. Then she's gone, too, a vast and fleeting

  glow against the black glare of space, no doubt making for

  her home base in the dwarf galaxy of Canis.

  A memory of loss and glory. As if the multiverse had

  allowed Venice an audience with her own proud, cold soul.

  Captain Cornelius inspects certain items of treasure,

  searching for that fabulously valuable ingot of newtonium,

  puzzles over his data and his charts, confers with Peet Aviv

  and begins to understand that fear he has always exploited

  but never until now known. For there are dark tides running

  through the universe; currents so powerful they drag whole

  galaxies with them, streaming gravities so strong they swallow

  light and threaten Captain Cornelius's familiar existence;

  ultimately they threaten every form of sentient existence

  and if unchecked will absorb the whole of Creation. But for

  now the photons press against his sails as he once presumed

  they would do for ever, and he tacks into the solar winds,

  continuing his long search for the one artefact which might

  lead him to something and guarantee his life, his ship's life

  and the life of the universe he loves. He sails in from the Rim,

  daring the drag of the galactic Hub, still searching. Searching

  for the only being he acknowledges as his peer, who might

  join him or at least help him; who is known simply as 'the

  Doctor'.

  Chapter 1

  Green

  SPRAWLING BACK IN HIS brightly coloured lawn chair and tipping his

  panama just a fraction lower over his eyes, Urquart Banning-

  Cannon decided there was nothing like the crack of oak on

  willow and the smell of new-mown grass to make a chap

  feel that all's well with the worlds and probably nothing

  too much wrong with the universe in general. His sigh of

  contentment was considerable, if a trifle cautious; he feared

  that Mrs Enola Banning-Cannon might lift her head 'as a

  questing deer' and draw the natural conclusion that he was

  not sufficiently busy, for it is a truism in the lives of most

  wives that if a man is content then he is not doing enough

  to take care of his spouse. A wary glimpse from under his

  hat's brim reassured him. Mrs B-C's substantial bosom was

  rising and falling at a regular rate and what could reasonably

  be called a soft, ladylike snore indicated that she was taking

  a short sojourn in the region of semi-consciousness she still

  liked to call 'the Land of Nod'. So far this holiday, he had to

  admit, was delivering its promise like a champ.

  Before the happy pair a game was being played by sports

  people of an unusually high level of skill and watched in

  the main by a bunch of experts who, at irregular intervals,

  would murmur praise or clap in polite acknowledgement of

  a particularly well-played moment in a match by now in its

  third day and coming to a stately close. This was galaxy-class

  sport enjoyed by super-dedicated aficionados.

  The greens and whites of the men were brightened by a

  flock of top-class pretty girls in lavender, rose, buttercup and

  apricot wearing hats mostly of straw known in the millinery

  trade as 'cloche'. Mrs Banning-Cannon had already given

  this headgear an expert once-over and determined it to be

  beneath the interest of a true connoisseur.

  Amy Pond was thoroughly enjoying what was a bit of a

  holiday for her, too. She liked her comfortable cloche bonnet

  and her silky frock, and was even learning the Charleston.

  She and the Doctor had spent the past week on Peers while

  he got some solid practice in. He was due to shoot next.

  She glimpsed him among the players on the veranda of the

  pavilion as she came to watch the game. An armoured Judoon

  ambled down the pavilion steps and onto the pitch swinging

  his whackit and acknowledging the odd bit of polite clapping

  from the spectators, while, heading to the other end, trotted a

  six-limbed dog-man from Chardone, a bow in his forepaw, a

  quiver of tournament arrows on his back.

  Amy had to admit she was finding it hard to get used to all

  the races of the galaxy taking part in this essentially British

  game. She was rather glad the Doctor had proven to have

  enough pull to bring her on tour with him. She'd fallen in

  love with this bizarre mish-mash of misunderstood mostly

  early twentieth-century English culture.

  Had they only been doing this for a few days? Was it less

  than a week ago that she had been woken up on board the

  TARDIS by the sound of loud static? A crackling voice had

  been speaking a tongue she could not get her head around

  but which the Doctor, or someone sounding like the Doctor,

  was answering using the same language:

  and pop; hiss, wow and flutter; shriek, scream and twitter.

  Zekuneefer. Harrow after me. Sagging lorries. I am a...'

  It wasn't a fun mixture of noises to unglue your eyes to.

  By the time she joined the Doctor at the TARDIS console,

  Amy had swigged some coffee and munched some muesli

  and was better equipped to face the barrage of sight and

  sound which had his attention. He signed for her to help.

  He was speaking English again or at least something

  similar to English, playing his nouveau retro control boards

  and typewriters and clapometers
like a Wurlitzer organ,

  desperately trying to keep the images and voices coming,

  but he was losing them rapidly. He ripped off his jacket and

  threw it to the floor. He rolled up his sleeves while she held

  the coordinates steady.

  'No!' The breakup finally came with a horrible shriek

  which sounded to her as if it had issued from a metallic throat.

  'Hey! Duroo!' cried the Doctor, both hands struggling to hold

  down a big plunger. 'Don't fade on me now! Dor - ic - valley

  - rum - ginnan Tom Mix. You're still not coming through

  properly. Was that something about the colour pools?' The

  chilling shriek sounded again and then slowly faded. 'No.

  No. No. No.' He glanced over to where she was standing. 'I'll

  swear they said Tom Mix. He was a silent movie film star.

  You know him?'

  'Never heard of him.'

  'We know where they are. Now we need to know who!'

  Grimly he tried to re-establish contact for a while until in

  the end she brought him a cup of tea and some pop-tarts.

  Despite his protests, she made him sit down. Surely those

  weren't tears in his eyes?

  From what she could tell he was worried about some bad

  guys called General Frank/Freddie Force and his Antimatter

  Men, who had ventured over to our side of a super-dense

  black hole in Sagittarius. They had been there in the far, far

  future for some time, apparently, and their malign influence

  was spreading backwards to the here-and-now.

  'Up to their old-fashioned dirty work,' the Doctor said,

  'those Antimatter Men. Dipping in and out of the "Second

  Aether". And my guess is they're probably not the only ones.'

  He chewed thoughtfully on his pop-tart. 'Someone's messing

  with the normal rules of energy flow. Time and space are all

  over the place. Quite literally, I mean. Growing increasingly

  unstable.'

  The Doctor leaped to his feet before Amy could tell him he

  was talking what was to her nonsense.

  'I suspect,' he went on, stabbing an accusing finger at her,

  'that the General's old girlfriend Peggy Steel - the Invisible

  Lady Steel - is with them, too. A pretty unsavoury gang. And

  Quelchy's up to something, no doubt. You never know what

  side hell take. This isn't looking good for us, no matter how

  you look at it.'

  He went back to munching his pop-tart, worried eyes

  returning to the screens. 'They must know they're risking their