Modem Times 2.0 - Michael Moorcock [4]
Major Nye knew for certain that Mrs. Cornelius had died at a ripe age in a Blenheim Crescent basement in 1976. At least,it might have been 1976. Possibly ‘77. Her “boyfriend,” as she called him, Pyat, the old Polish second-hand clothes dealer, had died in the same year. A heart attack. It had been a bit of a tragic time, all in all. Four years later, Jerry had left, been killed and resurrected countless times, went missing. After that, Nye had stopped visiting London. He was glad he had spent most of his life in the country. The climate was much healthier.
As Mo steered into the mews the major approvingly noted that the cobbles were back. Half the little cul-de-sac was still stables with Dutch doors. Mo got out to undo the lockup where they had arranged to leave the car. Nye could tell from the general condition of the place, with its flaking nondescript paint and stink of mould and manure, that they were already as good as home. From somewhere in the back of the totters yard came the rasp of old cockney, the stink of drunkard’s sweat. It had to be Jerry’s Uncle Edmund. That cawing might be the distant kar-har-kaa of crows or an old man’s familiar cough.
Major Nye could not be sure he was actually home but it was clear that the others were certain. This was their natural environment. From somewhere came the aroma of vinegar-soaked newspaper, limp chips.
3. CAPTAIN MARVEL BATTLES HIS OWN CONSCIENCE!!!!!
Knowing that we are slaves of our virtual histories, the soldiers play dice beneath the cross. A bloody spear leans against the base. A goblet and a piece of good cloth are to be won. “What’s that?” says a soldier, hearing a groan overhead. “Nothing.” His companion rattles the dice in his cupped hands. “Something about his father.”
—Michel LeBriard, Les Nihilists
“UP TO YOUR old tricks, eh, Mr. Cornelius?” Miss Brunner adjusted her costume. “Well, they won’t work here.”
“They never did work. You just had the illusion of effect. But you said it yourself, Miss B—-follow the money. You can’tchange the economics. You can just arrange the window dressing a bit.”
“Sez you!” Shakey Mo fingered his gun’s elaborate instrumentation. “There’s a bullet in here with your address on it.”
Birmingham had started to burn. The reflected flames gave a certain liveliness to Miss Brunner’s features. “Now look what you’ve done!”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jerry rubbed at his itching skull. “They’ll never make anything out of it. I must be off.”
She sniffed. “Yes. That explains everything.”
She wobbled a little on her ultra-high heels as she reboard-ed the chopper. “Where to next?”
4. ECCE RUMPO
All Nazis fear The Yellow Star,
Who leaves his card upon the bar.
And ‘scaping from their railroad car
He’s gone again, the Yellow Star!
—Lafarge and Taylor, The Adventures of the Yellow Star, 1941
JERRY WAS SURPRISED to see his dad’s faux Le Corbusier chateau in such good shape, considering the beating it had taken over the years. Obviously someone had kept it up. In spite of the driving rain and the mud, the place looked almost welcoming.
Mo took a proprietal pleasure in watching Jerry’s face. “Maintenance is what I’ve always been into. Everything that isn’t original is a perfect repro. Even those psychedelic towers your dad was so keen on. He was ahead of his time, your dad. He practically invented acid. Not to mention acid rain. And we all know how far ahead of his time he was with computers.” Mo sighed. “He was a baby badly waiting for the microchip. If he’d lived.” He blinked reflectively and studied the curved metalcasings of his Banning, fingering the ammo clips and running the flat of his hand over the long, tapering barrel. “He understood