NO.
It will all end one day in any case.
BUT THIS IS TOO SOON. THERE IS UNFINISHED BUSINESS.
And that is-?
EVERYTHING.
And, with a flash of light, a figure clothèd all in white appeared, holding a book in one hand.
It looked from Death to the endlessly massing ranks of the Auditors, and said: ‘Sorry? Is this the right place?’
Two Auditors were measuring the number of atoms in a paving slab.
They looked up at a movement.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Lu-Tze. ‘May I draw your attention to the notice my assistant is holding up?’
Susan held up the sign. It read: Mouths Must Be Open. By Order.
And Lu-Tze unfolded his hands. There was a caramel in each one, and he was a good shot.
The mouths shut. The faces went impassive. Then there was a sound somewhere between a purr and a wail, which disappeared into the ultrasonic. And then… the Auditors dissolved, gently, first going fuzzy around the edges and, as the process accelerated, swiftly becoming a spreading cloud.
‘Hand-to-mouth fighting,’ said Lu-Tze. ‘Why doesn’t it happen to humans?’
‘It nearly does,’ said Susan, and when they stared at her she blinked and said, ‘To stupid, indulgent humans, anyway.’
‘You don’t have to concentrate to stay the same shape,’ said Unity. ‘And that was the last of the caramels, by the way.’
‘No, there’s six in one of W&B’s Gold Selections,’ said Susan. ‘Three have got white chocolate cream in dark chocolate and three have got whipped cream in milk chocolate. They’re the ones in the silver wrapp- Look, I just happen to know things, all right? Let’s keep going, okay? Without mentioning chocolate.’
You have no power over us, said the Auditor. We are not alive.
BUT YOU ARE DEMONSTRATING ARROGANCE, PRIDE AND STUPIDITY. THESE ARE EMOTIONS. I WOULD SAY THEY ARE SIGNS OF LIFE.
‘Excuse me?’ said the shining figure in white.
But you are all alone here!
‘Excuse me?’
YES? said Death. WHAT IS IT?
‘This is the Apocalypse, yes?’ said the shining figure petulantly.
WE ARE TALKING.
‘Yes, right, but is it the Apocalypse? The actual end of the actual whole world?’
No, said the Auditor.
YES, said Death. IT IS.
‘Great!’ said the figure.
What? said the Auditor.
WHAT? said Death.
The figure looked embarrassed. ‘Well, not great, obviously. Obviously not great, as such. But it’s what I’m here for. It’s what I’m for, really.’ It held up the book. ‘Er, I’ve got the place marked ready. Wow! It’s been, you know, so long…’
Death glanced at the book. The cover and all the pages were made of iron. Realization dawned.
YOU ARE THE ANGEL CLOTHED ALL IN WHITE OF THE IRON BOOK FROM THE PROPHECIES OF TOBRUN, AM I CORRECT?
‘That’s right!’ The pages clanged as the angel hurriedly thumbed through them. ‘And it’s clothèd, by the way, if you don’t mind. Clo-theddd. Just a detail, I know, but I like to get it right.’
What is happening here? the Auditor growled.
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TELL YOU THIS, said Death, ignoring the interruption, BUT YOU ARE NOT OFFICIAL.
The pages stopped clanking. ‘What do you mean?’ said the angel suspiciously.
THE BOOK OF TOBRUN HAS NOT BEEN CONSIDERED OFFICIAL CHURCH DOGMA FOR A HUNDRED YEARS. THE PROPHET BRUTHA REVEALED THAT THE WHOLE CHAPTER WAS A METAPHOR FOR A POWER STRUGGLE WITHIN THE EARLY CHURCH. IT IS NOT INCLUDED IN THE REVISED VERSION OF THE BOOK OF OM, AS DETERMINED BY THE CONVOCATION OF EE.
‘Not at all?’
I’M SORRY.
‘I’ve been thrown out? Just like the damn rabbits and the big syrupy things?’
YES.
‘Even the bit where I blow the trumpet?’
OH, YES.
‘You sure?’
ALWAYS.
‘But you are Death and this is the Apocalypse, right?’ said the angel, looking wretched. ‘So therefore-‘
UNFORTUNATELY, HOWEVER, YOU ARE NO LONGER A FORMAL PART OF THE PROCEEDINGS.
Out of the corner of his mind, Death was observing the Auditor. Auditors always listened when people spoke. The more people spoke, the closer to consensus every decision came, and the less responsibility anyone had. But the Auditor was showing signs of impatience and annoyance…
Emotions. And emotions made you alive. Death knew how to deal with the living.
The angel looked around at the universe. ‘Then what am I supposed to do?’ he wailed. ‘This is what Ive been waiting for! For thousands of years!’ He stared at the iron book. ‘Thousands of dull, boring, wasted years…’ he mumbled.
Have you quite finished? said the Auditor.
‘One big scene. That’s all I had. That was my purpose. You wait, you practise – and then you’re just edited out because brimstone is no longer a fashionable colour?’ Anger was infusing the bitterness in the angel’s voice. ‘No one told me, of course…’
He glared at the rusted pages. ‘It ought to be Pestilence next,’ he muttered.
‘Am I late, then?’ said a voice in the night.
A horse walked forward. It gleamed unhealthily, like a gangrenous wound just before the barber-surgeon would be called in with his hacksaw for a quick trim.
I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T COMING, said Death.
‘I didn’t want to,’ Pestilence oozed, ‘but humans do get such interesting diseases. I’d rather like to see how weasles turn out, too.’ One crusted eye winked at Death.
‘You mean measles?’ said the angel.
‘Weasles, I’m afraid,’ said Pestilence. ‘People are getting really careless with this bio-artificing. We’re talking boil’s that really bite.’
Two of you will not suffice! snarled the Auditor in their heads.
A horse walked out of the darkness. Some toast racks had more flesh.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said a voice. ‘Maybe there are things worth putting up a fight for.’
‘And they are-?’ said Pestilence, looking round.
‘Salad-cream sandwiches. You just can’t beat them. That tang of permitted emulsifiers? Marvellous.’
‘Hah! You’re Famine, then?’ said the Angel of the Iron Book. It fumbled with the heavy pages again.
What, what, what is this nonsense of ‘salad cream’? [18] shouted the Auditor.
Anger, thought Death. A powerful emotion.
‘Do I like salad cream?’ said a voice in the dark.
A second, female voice replied: ‘No, dear, it gives you hives.’
The horse of War was huge and red and the heads of dead warriors hung from the saddle horn. And Mrs War was hanging on to War, grimly.
‘All four. Bingo!’ said the Angel of the Iron Book. ‘So much for the Convocation of Ee!’
War had a woolly scarf round his neck. He looked sheepishly at the other Horsemen.
‘He’s not to strain himself,’ said Mrs War sharply. ‘And you’re not to let him do anything dangerous. He’s not as strong as he thinks. And he gets confused.’
So, the gang is all here, said the Auditor.
Smugness, Death noticed. And self-satisfaction.
There was a clanging as of metal pages. The Angel of the Iron Book was looking puzzled.
‘Actually, I don’t think that’s entirely correct,’ it said.
No one paid it any attention.
Off you go on your little pantomime, said the Auditor.
And now irony and sarcasm, thought Death. They must be picking it up from the ones down in the world. All the little things that go to make up a… personality.
He looked along the row of Horsemen. They caught his eye, and there were almost imperceptible nods from Famine and Pestilence.
War turned in the saddle and spoke to his wife. ‘Right now, dear, I’m not confused at all. Could you get down, please?’
‘Remember what happened when-‘ Mrs War began.
‘Right now, please, my dear,’ said War, and this time his voice, which was still calm and polite, had echoes of steel and bronze.
‘Er … oh.’ Mrs War was suddenly flustered. ‘That was just how you used to talk when-‘ She stopped, blushed happily for a moment, and slid off the horse.
War nodded at Death.
And now you must all go and bring terror and destruction and so on and so forth, said the Auditor. Correct?
Death nodded. Floating in the air above him, the Angel of the Iron Book slammed the pages back and forth in an effort to find his place.
EXACTLY. ONLY, WHILE IT IS TRUE WE HAVE TO RIDE OUT, Death added, drawing his sword, IT DOESN’T SAY ANYWHERE AGAINST WHOM.
Your meaning? hissed the Auditor, but now there was a flicker of fear. Things were happening that it didn’t understand.
Death grinned. In order to fear, you had to be a me. Don’t let anything happen to me. That was the song of fear.
‘He means,’ said War, ‘that he asked us all to think about whose side we’re really on.’
Four swords were drawn, blazing along their edges like flame. Four horses charged.
The Angel of the Iron Book looked down at Mrs War.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but do you have a pencil?’
Susan peered round the corner into Artificers Street, and groaned. ‘It’s full of them… and I think they’ve gone mad.’