Legends From the End of Time by Michael Moorcock (best thriller books to read TXT) 📗

"Armatuce! The Future holds Despair! Send no more ships!" She stood half out of the hatch, waving to attract their attention, but they remained absolutely immobile. None saw her, none heard her, none breathed. Yet they were not statues. She recognized her husband among them. They lived, yet they were frozen!

"Armatuce! Beware the Future!"

The machine began to shake. The scene wavered and she thought she detected the faintest light of recognition in her husband's eye.

"We both live!" she cried, anxious to give him hope.

Then the machine lurched and she lost her footing, was swallowed by it. The hatch slammed shut above her head. She crawled to the speaking apparatus. "Armatuce! Send no more ships!" The pink light flared to red. Heat increased. The machine roared.

Her mouth became so dry that she could hardly speak at all. She whispered, "Beware the Future…" and then she was burning, shivering, and the red light was fading to pink, then to green, as the machine surged forward again, leaving Armatuce behind.

She screamed. They had not seen her. Time had stopped. She dragged herself back to the chair and flung herself into it. She tried to pull her harness round her, but she lacked the strength. She pressed the four buttons to reverse the machine's impetus, forcing it against that remorseless current.

"Oh, Armatuce…"

She knew, then, that she could survive if she allowed the machine to float, as it were, upon the forward flow of Time, but her loyalty to Armatuce was too great. Again she pressed the buttons, bringing a return of the pink light, but she saw the indicators begin to reverse.

She staggered from her chair, each breath like liquid fire, and adjusted every subsidiary control to the reverse position. The machine shrieked at her, as if it pleaded for its own life, but it obeyed. Again the laboratory flashed upon the vision screen. She saw her husband. He was moving sluggishly.

Something seemed to burst in her atrophied womb; tears etched her skin like corrosive acid. Her hair was on fire.

She found the speaking apparatus again. "Snuffles," she whispered. "Armatuce. Future."

And she looked back to the screen; it was filled with crimson. Then she felt her bones tearing through her flesh, her organs rupturing, and she gave herself up, in peace, to the pain.

9. In Which Miss Ming Claims a Keepsake

"Adaptability, surely, is the real secret of survival?" The new Margrave of Wolverhampton seemed anxious to impress his unwilling host. Lord Jagged had been silent since Dafnish Armatuce's departure. "I mean, that's why people like my mother are doomed," continued the youth. "They can't bear change. She could have been perfectly content here, if she'd listened to reason. Couldn't she, Lord Jagged?"

Lord Jagged was sprawled in an ancient steel armchair, refusing to give his affirmation to these protestations. Miss Ming had at last dried her eyes, hopefully for the final time. She inspected a 40th-century wall-hanging, feeling the delicate cloth with thumb and forefinger.

"I mean, that whole business about controlling the population. It wasn't necessary in Armatuce. It hadn't been for hundreds of years. There was wealth everywhere, but we weren't allowed to touch it. We never had enough to eat! " This last, plaintive, remark caused Lord Jagged to look up. Encouraged, the margrave became expansive: "The symbiosis, the ritual passing on of the life-force from one to another. It came about because children couldn't be produced naturally. I was made in a metal tub! She threw in a bit of her — what? — her soul? Her 'self'? Call it what you like. And there I was — forced to remain, once I'd grown a little, a child for sixty years! Oh, I was content enough, certainly, until I came here and saw what life could be like. If it hadn't been for Miss Ming…"

Lord Jagged sighed and closed his eyes.

"Think what you like!" The margrave's silks rustled as he put a defiant hand to his hip. "Miss Ming's done me a lot of good, and could have done mother good, too. Whose fault is it? I was doomed to be linked to her until some complacent, ludicrous committee decided I could become an adult; but my mama would have to die so that I could inherit the precious — and probably non-existent — life-force! I'd have been a copy of her, little more. Great for her ego, eh? Lousy for mine."

"And now you utter the coarse rhetoric of a Miss Ming!" Lord Jagged rose from his chair, an unusual bitterness in his tone. "You substitute the Maxims of the Armatuce for the catch-phrases which support a conspiracy of selfishness and greed. There is dignity here, at the End of Time, but you do not ape that, because your mother also had dignity. You are vulgar now, little Snuffles, as no child can ever be vulgar. Do you not sense it? Can you not see how that wretched inhabitant of Doctor Volospion's third-rate menagerie has used you, to further her own stupid, short-sighted ambitions? She lusted for Dafnish Armatuce and thought you stood between her and the object of her desires. So she turned you into this travesty of maturity, with no more wit or originality or intelligence than she, herself, possesses."

"Oh!" Miss Ming was sneering now. She caught at the young margrave's arm. "He's jealous because he wanted her for himself. He's never kept guests here before. Don't take it out on the lad, Lord Jagged, or on me!"

He began to walk away. She crowed. "The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

Without looking back, he paused. "When couched in your terms, Miss Ming, it must always hurt."

"Aha! You see!" She was triumphant. She embraced her monster. "Time to go, Snuffles, dear."

The youth was unresponsive. The ruby lips had turned the colour of ivory, the lustre had gone from the huge eyes. He staggered, clutching at his head. He moaned.

"Snuffles?"

"Marg — I am dizzy. I am hot. My body shakes."

"A mistake in the