Hallucinating (27 page)
"Time for a drink," says Steven—and there is a glint in his eye.
"Sure... whatever you say, man." Nulight is still shocked.
"You pour."
Nulight walks over to the table, to see that the milk is rainbow coloured. He pours it into the two cups. Steven watches, those eyes intent, and somehow their power is intensified by the specs...
"That'll be enough," Steven says.
Nulight does as he is told. He stops pouring.
"Now drink."
It is as if Nulight is hypnotised.
Steven says, "You know the old saying? All Cretans are liars. Said by a Cretan."
Nulight nods. "Rings a bell, man." He is sipping the rainbow milk. It is strong and sweet, natural, yeah, but benefiting from some extra ingredient... those swirls of colour like oil on the surface of the liquid...
"Hey, this is good stuff."
"I know, I know," Steven remarks.
"You do?"
"I'm not part of the festival scene, Nulight. But I remain psychedelic in light. And, well, if you believe in the concept of a soul—"
"I don't."
"...then that is what shall be shown to you. Psyche delos:
soul, make visible.
There is far more inside humanity than there is outside it, Mister New Light. I'll bid you goodbye... but not forever."
Nulight glances up from the cup wavering in his hand. Steven's face and body are full of tiny cracks, like ancient porcelain, and now he is expanding, fragmenting, changing into a form composed of wriggling caterpillars, tiny, furry, now getting larger and larger—suddenly frozen into a sepia statue, face, specs, clothes, wrinkled old hands dark like chrysalids—soundless explosion of the man into a hundred butterflies that flutter ticklish into Nulight's face.
plebejus argus
Slapping at his face, Nulight screams and stumbles out of the cave.
Hallucinating, hallucinating... ohmybuddah, hallucinating?
...the debris of war...
Although Patchouli Zane has been captured, Greenstyle has escaped. Master Sengel, standing nervous now by his lotus, is ordering people about; strict instructions, do this, do that. It transpires that the leather dude on the Harley is hunting Greenstyle with the aid of metal falcons and a bunch of Hawkwind albums.
But Master Sengel is close to tears. "We will have to leave Glastonbury," he says. "An era has ended. My headquarters will have to be moved."
Kappa and Robbie are standing nearby. "Where to?" they ask.
Master Sengel turns to face the west. "We will follow the sun. What matters now is that Radio Free Festival remains secure and hidden. Soon, the vehicle that I have prepared will meet the message that we must send, and a final reckoning will be made with the aliens. We must overcome them."
Kappa nods. That wish remains true. "But... what happened here?" she asks.
"Cunning bastards," Master Sengel replies. "They created a force that, when it first arrived, was harmless, but which grew into something monstrous."
"The petals?"
He nods. "Each one a tiny fragment of a whole, like a colony of ants. The techno petals used pheromone knowledge to map out Glastonbury, adapting all the time, focussing on a place that seemed empty to them—me. An emergent phenomena was created by that petal swarm. Each one was mindless, soulless, and yet acting in harmony they learned from the Glasto environment. Then came a second drop of high tech petals—they already knew the Chalice Well was my home. They acted in the same way. Had we dissected them we would have learned nothing, except perhaps their loyalty to the Chalice Well. But together, evolving over those few hours, they located me and then passed on their single piece of information."
"Your identity," Kappa whispers. "Your
smell.
"
"Exactly. Thus Greenstyle Patel learned which man was me. He knew Patchouli Zane, of course. I need not detail how you were duped... I'm sure you have realised."
Kappa hangs her head, appalled at her mistake.
"You are not to blame," Master Sengel says. "Nobody here is to blame."
The rest of the day passes, fractured and blank, everyone stunned by the cunning of the assassination attempt, by its boldness, by the fact that it almost succeeded. There is a black mood abroad, an understanding that Glasto will be diminished, that an era has indeed finished, that something, some fascinating heart, has been plucked from the town. The fact that nobody, not even the owner of this heart, knows where rest can be found makes the trial so much worse.
The emotions of the people are leaden, and dejection is the order of the day. When night falls, well, that is something people really
feel.
Like an ending.
Next day, the removal men arrive.
Kappa watches all. She realises that Britain is changing—that now two years and more have passed since the invasion, things are returning. Mobile phones, lorries (albeit alky powered), cars, networks, data... guns. Government, aggression, shallowness. The stamping of large-scale organisation upon the small-scale. Tears are trickling down her cheeks.
Much equipment is loaded into the anonymous grey lorries: the remains of the alien parentship, scores of computers, miles of cables, data disks, personal possessions, food, water, medical supplies, drugs, chemicals. A community in miniature is moving away.
The drivers are tough dudes, all of them wearing bullet-proof vests and wraparound sunglasses. Even though it's cloudy. It's so depressing. Kappa wants to speak to Master Sengel, but something stops her. Then she catches a glimpse of him behind one of the lorries, planting a quick kiss on the lips of van der Woofer.
The lorries depart Glastonbury in convoy, their enormous wheels easily coping with the pot-holes and bumps in the road. Van der Woofer stands alone, waving goodbye. Of Master Sengel there is nothing to be seen.
Kappa puts a call through the vid phone.
It is not answered by Greenstyle. Instead, there is a click, silence, static, then a pop and another click, and it is the face of May Dee Ash that she sees.
"Where's Greenstyle?" Kappa asks. "Bastard."
May Dee Ash keeps her face expressionless. "What do you want?"
"To tell you that we the underground utterly reject your offers of collaboration. We won't have anything to do with you. Forget what I told Greenstyle in Sidmouth, forget everything. It's over. We're enemies now. If you call yourself a government, which you can't—"
"Don't make me laugh," May Dee Ash interjects. "We're growing and you're shrinking—you're running away. It's only a matter of time—"
"Before what?"
"We're dangerous, Kappa, and we'll
have
you. I promise you that, if nothing else."
Kappa cuts the connection by throwing the vid phone to the ground and stamping on it.
...reunited...
In Cornwall.
Sitting on flat lichen-covered rocks at the edge of the crashing sea, the nucleus of the resistance sits watching a crimson sun set into the perfect straight line of the ocean horizon: Nulight, Kappa, Jo, Sperm, Master Sengel, Sir Trance-alot, Deputy Smark. Not the leather dude, who is hunting up-country, nor van der Woofer, who is seeing to some melodic business. A few others have been and gone: Kappa's parents, Zhaman, some dudes from Tintagel, a mobile phone fixer from Camelford.
As the light dies, people drift away, until only Nulight and Kappa remain.
"Sweets?" Nulight says.
"Yeah?"
"You and I have been forged by aliens, first when we didn't know they were up there, and now because we know they are. Is that all we are?"
"I love you, Nulight."
"I love you too... but the aliens, sweets, they're
in the way.
I gotta get them out of my head."
"Me too," Kappa agrees. "I was investigating them way before you were."
"Yeah, I know. So we're back together... we really are."
"Yes. For the final push."
And the sun has set.
But in Kappa's mind there is hope.
And in Nulight's mind is the echo of a resounding
No.
He has not yet mentioned Steven Wilson's answer to the third question, and he does not think he will.
Night is falling.
...PART FIVE: THE STRUGGLE...
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
...thisisvengefulbastards.co.uk...
A room in a house in Lyme Regis: sunny, spacious, muslin curtains swishing in a cool autumn breeze—open windows, the sun low over the ocean. A few floors up: treetops at eye level.
The Cabinet are meeting, nine people arranged around a low, circular table on which are placed bottles of sparkling wine, blue glasses with twirly stems, plates of white bread sandwiches. Their chairs are soft leather, with headrests. It is about three in the afternoon.
"All right," says PM Kensington Forbes. He brushes back an elegant wave of pure white hair and adjusts his half-moon spectacles. "We need to locate Master Sengel, Nulight and Kappa—they are our three most wanted. There are a handful of others—please, all of you check your portfolios for details—but those three
must
be captured. They'll be slung in solitary, underground, where nobody can find them."
All is agreed so far.
"I have in mind a certain agent... Fraser Lawless manages him."
Kensington Forbes' glacial manner has ensured full attention. Home Secretary Copper Smythe sits upright as she murmurs, "Special Ops? You're not going to set one of their goons loose, are you?"
"In times like this," the PM replies, "only a ruthless freebooter who won't let go will do. A pit-bull, in fact. I'm sure you all know who I mean."
Copper Smythe blanches. "Not Dr Aconian?"
The silence of the PM is reply enough. He takes a green mobile from his shirt pocket and presses a button. Seconds later the door opens and two men step into the room, Fraser Lawless, and, a pace or so behind him, Dr Aconian.
Dr Aconian is tall, his wiry ginger hair swept back from a receding hairline, ginger-white stubble a few days old on his weatherbeaten skin, his mad eyes the palest sky blue. His build is of an athletic labourer: gnarled hands, broad shoulders, thick thighs. He wears a red/orange jumpsuit, muddy lace-up DMs, and there is a watch on each wrist. On his back he carries a slender aluminium framework attached to what looks like a rolled-up kagoul. He stinks of sweat and flammables.
Kensington Forbes stands up and says, "Please welcome our bounty hunter. Posters will be going up around the Westcountry in due course."
Nobody speaks.
Then Fraser Lawless says, "Dr Aconian has been fully briefed."
All gazes are fixed upon the bounty hunter as in a harsh voice he says, "And the price on their heads is?"
Kensington Forbes smiles. "Shelter, food and water for life. Guarenteed for you."
Dr Aconian nods. "I'll have them back here as soon as possible."
The PM lifts one hand, holding it palm outwards: stop. "Dead or alive," he says.
"I'll aim for alive," comes the reply. Without warning Dr Aconian runs at the open window and throws himself out, but as he falls the fabric on his back unrolls and expands into a paraglider of marvellous construction. The last sight of him comes as he flies west into the sun, and as if to echo the golden glow across the sea he brings his right hand to his mouth, to issue a jet of flame twice as long as he is tall.
...and the message meets the medium...
On the same day as the governmental gathering in Lyme Regis another group meets in a little, run-down hut just outside Taunton. Again there are nine people present, Master Sengel and his five, plus Nulight, Jo and Sperm. But in contrast to the Lyme atmosphere the Taunton air is gloomy, dejected, and although there is hope abroad, it is weak and unfocussed. For these are people on the run.
ZAII it is who provide the safe-house. All the Chalice Well gear has gone west, to a secret destination in Cornwall known only to Master Sengel. They are preparing now for the last gasp, the final struggle that they suspect will be against both the aliens and the government.
"We must think of a better name for all them in Lyme," Kappa mutters.
"Call 'em the Yellow Brigade," says Sperm.
?
"The luminous jacket brigade," Sperm explains. "The YBs." And then, in a mournful performance that has clearly been rehearsed, he sings the Space Goats' 'Touch The Land' accompanied only by his mandolin. It is a moving moment, a thought provoker:
The peoples' heart, though it is torn, must reach out and touch the land... and the land's been sold by the ton, trees to breathe there's a price on every one... reach out, reach out, reach out and touch the land.
As ever, cue the Space Goats.
The YB nomenclature is agreed by the nine, and so the discussion continues. The main question concerns the viability of the Tru-Rah scene and Radio Free Festival.
Master Sengel says, "The YBs have not managed to suss out where the primary station is, and the secondary station moves too quickly for them to pin-point its location. We have time to act. I believe we should now prepare new programme material in my Cornwall studio. This is the music of which I spoke before, which we must immediately broadcast, knowing that the aliens will pick it up. What happens then is anybody's guess. If the YBs catch us, our resistance is over, but if they don't we will be facing the aliens."
"Either way," Jo comments, "not a pleasant prospect."
Nulight says, "Programme material? Like what, man?"
Master Sengel turns to him. "Nulight, you are attuned to Tru-Rah now—"
"Yeah, yeah," Nulight interrupts, waving for him to continue.
"—and so it is time to merge the pure human melodies of the eight New Pagan Troubadour songs with the mellifluous carrier wave that is Tru-Rah. This, as I proposed before, is what we shall be broadcasting through Radio Free Festival. Our day is at hand. But what the aliens will make of it must remain an unknown... for now."
Nulight shrugs. "Then we give it our best shot, man. I'm on board."
Everybody agrees.
They travel down to Cornwall in separate groups, not daring to use the lotus fliers in case the YBs are tracking UFOs. One of the local ZAII agents is Kirsty in her trusty VW LT camper van Daisy, and she it is who accompanies Nulight and Kappa. Evenings, they chill out around a camp fire, drinking real ale; roll-ups all round. Behind Daisy's red velvet curtains lies their gear. But the roads and the skies are empty, no sign of trouble.
Daisy transports them into the western tip of Cornwall. It transpires that Master Sengel has set up his secret base in Falmouth, and there, in a sound studio built as a circular chamber covered with a glass roof, a multitude of people gather for this final, and most crucial of recordings. Master Sengel is present, also van der Woofer and Sir Trance-alot, alongside the four NPTers. And here also is the cream of the ZAII audio facilitations department: Ed Wynne, Toby Marks, Merv and Joie, while, from Dorset, Simon Posford has travelled. Other folk make up an informal audience: Phil Thornton and Simon Williams, Zhaman, Michael & Richard & Nick of the Druids Of Albany, Dice George (minus Karelia, which is too visible a sign to risk having around), also Kappa's parents. This immensity of earage is required so that the final mix of message and carrier be as human, as pure, as
perfect
as possible. No one person has a monopoly on the truth of the human condition, yet this profundity is what will baffle the aliens and send them away.
So 'tis hoped.
The essential parts of the Glasto studio are all here: the Macintosh Phase9 UltraTower with its K-GLASS chip, the 47" Yamaha flatscreen monitor glowing blue and green, the kinked software running 4096 separate audio channels, the SoundCraft mixer with its semi-intelligent voice controls and stereo buss in the terabyte range. In the bright and airy studio this glittering focus acquires a heavy, almost menacing quality; constructed, you would think, by some divine yet technological sculptor. And the outboard kit is here too, the MIDI sound modules, the noise generators, the samplers, the effects units. The surround-sound monitors.
The eight melodies have been pre-programmed by van der Woofer. Work begins at dawn. Because the notes are inviolate, it is a matter of arrangement, orchestration and mixing. Slowly, the immense and seamless mix comes into being, created from a dozen sound modules and samplers, mixed, reverberated,
forged
into an hour of melody that carries both its own profound truth and that of the Tru-Rah form. When this hour is accepted by every single person in the room, when it has caused tears to be shed and angry words to be spoken, when it has enthused and perplexed, when it is
ready...
then, only then, at dusk, is the mix copied to data CDs and entrusted to the inner pockets of the leather dude on the Harley.
The deed is done.
The leather dude departs Falmouth with a growl of his engine, sending grit and dust into the air, his goal the house on Dartmoor where the primary station is concealed.
Meanwhile, somewhere over the Westcountry, a man is flying on a plastic wing.
...in the pub afterwards...
Falmouth is reassembling itself after two and a half years of the post-invasion blues. A community is discovering itself again. Into this community come the various studio folk. They find a pub, where they buy beers, ciders, shorts, mineral waters. A free-for-all discussion develops.
"You see," Jo says, sipping her screwdriver, "what we don't realise is what we've done today on the human scale."
"Tell us, do," Sir Trance-alot remarks. He's pissed on Crippledick.
"What is music?" Jo asks the assembled drinkers. "You see, music isn't just a sequence of notes in pleasing textures—although it is that. It operates on many, many levels, including a level so deep it basically
is
the level of the human condition. If you strip away the fashionable level, then the sub-cultural level, then the cultural or social level, and then if you peel back..."—Jo does all the mimes—"... peel back the emotional level, until what you see is the hard, pristine mathematical level—the level of physics—well, what remains is the level of meaning, which is the most profound of all. And
that
is the level we touched in the studio today." Jo pauses, sips, then continues, "What is the meaning of what we did today? The meaning is this—we authenticated in the most profound way what it is to be human. In other words, the authentication of our humanity was its own meaning. Emotions, after all, are expressions of knowledge by the conscious mind, expressions that, because the knoweldge they convey is so important, must on no accounts be missed—which is why they always have irrepressible physical components."
"Like tears," Kappa remarks.
"Exactly. Now, emotions convey crucial knowledge such as loss, frustration, ostracism and so on, but below that is the level of meaning from which emotions spring. We all live inside mental structures—the models of the world that our minds build. These structures exist as a framework, without which social life would be impossible. Today, in the studio, we affirmed the framework that we live in—a framework of connection, of individuality and of understanding. These are the most fundamental concepts of all. Music exists at many levels, but at heart, when it is working at its best, it is an expression of the ultimate framework that we can aspire to."
Master Sengel, quaffing a pint of mild, says, "Perhaps you could illustrate your notion with an example."
"Certainly," Jo replies. "Let me take the example of 'Theme One' by Van Der Graaf Generator. Now, at the most immediate level, 'Theme One' is an instrumental piece of music by a nineteen-seventies progressive rock band, but of course it works on many other levels. Strip away the associations offered by the particular sub-culture of that band, by which I mean the artistic, the challenging, and some would say the overblown pretensions of progressive rock music, and what you see is the cultural level at which 'Theme One' operates, which is to say, it is a melody with associated harmonies based on the even tempered scale of Western music, propagated in an electro-acoustic format by a collection of highly talented individuals. But below that is the emotional level of 'Theme One', which I think everyone here can see is one of joy, perhaps of awe. This is to say that the knowledge conveyed by the combination of melody and harmony is in this case knowledge of the sensation of living—joy—and also of the experience of vastness in comparison with the human scale on which we live—awe. 'Theme One' generates these emotions because it resonates with knowledge that we can perceive. We can perceive ourselves living, and we can perceive the huge difference in scale between ourselves and, say, the solar system or the galaxy. I believe the writers of 'Theme One' also made these observations—hence the emotional knowledge conveyed. But below even that is the most profound layer of all, which is that of human meaning. 'Theme One' exists because, like all the best tunes, it both describes and affirms the deepest framework in which we live. On this analysis, it is a milestone of understanding as important as, say, Erich Fromm's seminal 'To Have Or To Be?' or Monet's paintings of the lily pond at Giverny."
There is much nodding at this, and drinking of beverages. Then Master Sengel says, "So you are not a moral relativist, Jo?"
Jo shakes her head. "I believe that the human condition can be described and I believe that it is fixed. That's not to say that human nature is fixed—human nature is socially dependent, whereas the human condition is inviolate and unchanging, deriving from the particular physical actuality of consciousness."
Master Sengel nods. "The problem with that view is that it can be set up as a single correct solution to all human problems, and down that path lies fundamentalism and intolerance."
Again Jo shakes her head. "But I don't offer one answer, though what I describe is, I won't deny it, one thing. My single description of the human condition provides not one answer but a set of answers, which can be taken as social conditions allow. I don't believe in utopia, Master Sengel, I believe in a sequence of utopias, all different, all relevant to particulars of time and space—not abstract ideals at all."
"But is your set of answers just another way of presenting one answer?"
"No, because one answer can never be relevant to variable social conditions, whereas my set of answers derived from the human condition must, in every single case, be relevant to social and moral conditions. So you see—'Theme One' could never be the ultimate expression of joy and awe. It is merely one of a set of pieces of music, the vast majority of which have not yet been composed."