Simulation Bleed

Due to certain peculiarities in the manner of their lives and deaths, Mixt and Nakishdan hunt through time for Geeda Lala, a mysterious interloper with a penchant for punk rock gigs in the 70s. Accompanying them is Rainith the Red, an unfriendly fairy with a sharp sword. Hindering them are psychological problems, hostile flying snakes, and 102 Wuu.

London, music, time-travel, fighting, monsters, 1967, 1977, compulsions, therapy, swords, naginata, depression, alcohol, punk rock, prog rock, gaming.

Rainith the Red - Hostile Fairy Disorder.

Mixt - Sacrificed at Stonehenge, survived the experience.

Nakishdan - Psychic. Vain. Historical scoundrel.

Simulation Bleed © Martin Millar 2020

This edition published 2020 by Martin Millar

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holder.

All characters in the publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781098329907

Table of Contents

Introduction

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Introduction to Simulation Bleed

I wrote Simulation Bleed as a weekly serial on my website. There were three parts made up of 211 short chapters. I always enjoyed writing it. I’m fond of the main characters: Rainith, Mixt and Nakishdan. Rainith the Red is a particularly bad-tempered and anti-social fairy. Mixt and Nakishdan are two people with many problems who’d much rather be left alone to play video games. None of them are suited to working as government agents. But it happens, and they’re stuck with it.

Because it’s a serial, it is slightly rambling. I couldn’t say it was tightly plotted. Several threads are not pursued and some occurrences are not resolved. However, I did resolve the main events, and as the story involved various timelines, I could claim that any sub-plot that wasn’t resolved simply disappeared when history was changed.

When I started Simulation Bleed I planned to write about things I knew about. Firstly, early punk gigs in London. I went to a lot of these, and most of the gigs in the serial are based on concerts I was at. I’ve seen most of the bands whose records are mentioned. The video game that Nakishdan and Mixt play in the book is mostly based on Mass Effect. I played that trilogy a lot, with great enjoyment. As it turned out, there’s a lot of therapy in Simulation Bleed as well. That’s not what I’d call a favourite topic of mine but I do know quite a lot about it, from experience.

Several elements of the book such as the gaming, and Nakishdan’s liking for all things kawaii, did go on to feature more in the next novel I wrote, Supercute Futures. That’s fine, I find both topics very interesting. Despite the occasional loose ends, and some small overlap with a later novel, I haven’t revised the serial, preferring to publish it as it was originally written. So here it, Simulation Bleed.

Martin Millar

www.martinmillar.com

Simulation Bleed

Part One

001

‘It really makes a difference which way you eat a Kit Kat.’

Nakishdan looked at Mixt. ‘Pardon?’

‘If you don’t eat it the right way, it doesn’t taste right.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Yes it does. A Kit Kat comes in four fingers. If you break a finger off and put it in your mouth, that’s fine. But if you just take a big bite from more than one finger, it doesn’t taste right.’

‘It’s hard to believe a Kit Kat can change flavours depending on how you put it in your mouth.’

‘You’ve never studied the subject,’ said Mixt.

They were shopping for food before their group therapy, knowing they’d be too stressed to do it afterwards.

‘It’s the same with polo mints,’ continued Mixt. ‘If you crunch one in half, it’s hopeless. It only tastes right if you suck it whole.’

‘Do you want gin?’ asked Nakishdan, as he loaded eight bottles of sake into their shopping trolley.

‘Yes. Two of these litre bottles. Are you buying that Japanese beer again? You know it’s really brewed here in England?’

‘I still like it,’ said Nakishdan, stubbornly.

They pushed their shopping trolley towards the checkout.

‘What about a Twix? That comes in two fingers. Would it taste wrong if you took a bite out of both at once?’

Mixt looked horrified. ‘Of course. Who would even do that?’

Nakishdan paid at the checkout. Mixt didn’t like to handle money as the coins and notes had been touched by so many people. They wheeled their trolley through the car park towards Mixt’s car.

‘I wonder if Kit Kats were bigger in the 70s?’

Nakishdan considered this. ‘Maybe. Chocolate bars do become smaller over the years. Next time we travel back in time, we should check.’

Mixt took off her coat as she settled behind the steering wheel. ‘Do you like this t-shirt?’

It was the sixth time she had asked the same question. Nakishdan smiled kindly, like a good friend. ‘Yes, I do.’

Mixt smiled back. ‘Good. I like to be sure.’

002

The fairy and the ex-intelligence agent met as they arrived beneath the hidden arch at Vauxhall Station. Neither greeted the other. They stood in silence beneath the red brick dome, waiting. The man was expressionless. The fairy scowled. Rainith the Red didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Even in her human form, Rainith was not tall, only slightly over five feet. Her long red hair hung over a shabby brown coat. Glade was unshaven, and wore the same dark green combat jacket as always. The door opened behind them. Mixt and Nakishdan came in. Still no one spoke. They waited in silence in the bare, brick room. Mixt stared at the blue door in front of them. There was no point trying to open it; it was always locked. She too was irritated by being made to wait, though unlike Rainith, she didn’t show it. Mixt had recently cut her blonde hair short. She looked boyish. Neither Rainith nor Glade commented on the change.

Nakishdan stared at his feet. For a second, his shoes flickered into a vibrant shade of pink, before turning black again. Nakishdan wore some very unusual clothes but he normally used his powers to disguise them in public.

The blue door opened. Agent Duluth stepped out and greeted them. ‘Sorry to make you wait. There have been some last minute complications.’

‘You always have complications,’ said Rainith. The pommel of a short sword peeped out from beneath her coat. ‘Just show us the flying snakes and we’ll kill them.’

003

Agent Duluth smiled, very faintly. ‘It seems it was a false alarm. We’re still checking it out, but headquarters are sure there are no flying snakes.’

The four hunters stared at Duluth. He noted their hostility, but took it calmly. ‘It happens. We’re sorry to have wasted your time.’

‘Damn you,’ muttered Rainith.

‘You’ll still be paid your call-out rate.’

The fairy scowled. So did Glade, the ex-secret agent. The call-out rate was a good deal less than they’d earn for completing a mission. Rainith the Red held out her hand. Unlike the others, she would not, or could not, be paid into a bank account. Rainith only accepted gold. Duluth took out a small purse and handed it to her.

‘The agency appreciates your service. I’ll see you again on Wednesday. Three of you, anyway.’

Glade, one time MI5 agent, now technically unemployed, nodded in Duluth’s direction, though not quite at him. He turned and left. Glade’s services would not be required on Wednesday. Unlike Mixt, Nakishdan and Rainith, he could not be sent back in time.

‘Do you know where we’ll be going yet?’ asked Mixt.

‘Presumably a gig in the 60s or 70s.’

‘We know that already. Which gig?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘We need to dress appropriately.’

Agent Duluth looked at Nakishdan. His black kimono hardly seemed appropriate for anything. ‘Sorry. We can’t tell in advance.’

Rainith the Red left without a word or a backward glance. Duluth nodded politely to Mixt and Nakishdan, then disappeared through the blue door. Mixt and Nakishdan lingered a few moments, having no wish to encounter either Glade or Rainith outside.

Mixt frowned. ‘These people are always rotting us. They’re rotters.’

‘Well, if there’s nothing to kill we can go home and watch TV.’

‘We’ve got an assignment to complete.’

Mixt and Nakishdan attended group therapy together.

‘We can do it in the morning. There’s plenty of other people who can’t wait to talk about their problems.’

Mixt put on her gloves to open the door, not wanting to touch the handle. Then she and Nakishdan exited the arch, into the cold grey south London street, heading towards the discretely hidden mansion they shared by the riverbank.

004

Group therapy was never enjoyable. Mixt spent half her time hating everyone there, and half her time wondering what would happen were she to tell the therapist the truth about her past. She’d be re-classified as insane, she supposed. Unless the therapist took it in good part and admired her for her imagination. Mr Baker was quite an encouraging man, in his way.

Molly, the young woman with bandaged fingers, laughed as she recounted her struggles to stop washing her hands every ten minutes. The group laughed with her, appreciating her honesty. But suddenly Molly stopped laughing, and began to cry.

‘Oh God,’ thought Mixt. ‘Not again.’

Nakishdan looked uncomfortable. He didn’t enjoy other patients’ tears any more that Mixt. Besides, he was worried that the therapist might ask them about their assignments. They hadn’t done them; Nakishdan hated to be told off about anything.

Mixt looked down at her hands. Like Molly, she suffered from a fear of touching things; anything in public was liable to be dirty and contaminated. She didn’t suffer this as badly as Molly but she didn’t like to think about it too much, in case thinking about it made it worse. Other symptoms had worsened. Without Nakishdan to help her, she’d barely be able to make it out the house, with her constant checking that the windows were closed and her keys were in her pocket. Mixt pursed her lips. She’d lived almost four thousand years without any serious mental problems, but the First World War had affected her badly. The amputation tent would have driven anyone insane.

‘How have your symptoms been?’ Mr Baker was talking to Nakishdan. ‘Better?’

‘Not really.’

‘Would you like to tell the group about it?’

Nakishdan shifted uncomfortably in his hard wooden chair. Group therapy was held in an old schoolroom with a bare floor and ancient, dilapidated furniture. The council’s mental health services were very poorly funded.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ mumbled Nakishdan.

005

‘How did Search Unit Sigma take the cancellation?’

‘As well as you’d expect,’ said Duluth.

His superior, Ms Darben, smiled. ‘Do you think they might be the unhappiest four individuals in the country?’

The negative emotion that shrouded Search Unit Sigma was well known at headquarters, as were many, though not all, of their eccentricities.

‘I have seen Rainith happy on occasion.’

Ms Darben couldn’t imagine Rainith being happy, but let it pass. She was aware of Duluth’s feelings for the fairy.

‘I wish we weren’t so dependent on them.’

The peculiarities of Mixt, Nakishdan and Rainith had been discussed many times at headquarters. None of them were ideal as government employees. They were, however, the only three individuals who could be sent back along the Kesh emergency timeline.

‘Even on missions in the present they perform better than anyone else. Better than the search units made up of regular troops or special forces.’

Ms Darben frowned. ‘A fairy who can change size, a young man in a dress, and a woman who claims she was sacrificed at Stonehenge. It’s not ideal material.’

‘They do have a lot of fighting skills,. And Nakishdan is a powerful psychic. That helps.’

‘Did we ever find out how old he is?’

‘The best we can guess is around one hundred and fifty.’

‘The why does he still look nineteen?’ It was another thing that disturbed Ms Darben. ‘And why does he wear these girly Japanese outfits?’

Ms Darben could still remember her surprise the first time she saw Nakishdan. She couldn’t remember seeing so much pink in one place before.

‘At least he’s clean. And he changes his clothes. Unlike Glade.’ There was a strong note of disapproval in Duluth’s voice. Glade belonged in prison, and if it hadn’t been politic to put him there, he shouldn’t have been allowed to work for a government department, even as a freelancer.

‘We need Glade. He fits in with them. If we tried teaming them up with a proper agent they’d just sulk and go home.’

‘The Kesh Ven Ven Lar say they’re working on helping us send someone else back,’ said Duluth. ‘I wish they’d get a move on.’

‘Do you? I’m not so sure I want the Kesh meddling in our past.’

‘Could it be any more risky than sending Mixt, Nakishdan and Rainith?’

Ms Darben shrugged. ‘Well, they haven’t destroyed the world yet. That’s something.’

A gentle beep signified the arrival of a message on Ms Darben’s screen.

X-Ray Spex, White Horse pub, Putney, March 1977.

She frowned. ‘Agent Duluth. If you were a criminal mastermind and you escaped into a different dimension, would you spend your time traveling into their past to go to obscure gigs?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘As do I. It barely makes sense.’ Ms Darben, head of the newly created Historical Disturbance Department, frowned. ‘Nothing makes much sense since the Kesh Ven Ven Lar appeared.’

006

Rainith and Glade both lived alone; Rainith the Red in a council flat in an old block near Walworth Road, Glade in a small rented flat in Brixton. Since arriving from the Fairy Realm, Rainith had never lived anywhere else, but Glade had once owned his own house, an expensive property in Hampstead. Now it was occupied by his ex-wife and her new husband.

Glade stared in the mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. His hair, jet black, had reached his shoulders. He was unshaven for a fortnight. He still wore his old, dull-green combat jacket. It wouldn’t have been such a bad look for a student, but at thirty five, Glade realised he was starting to resemble the homeless beggar who sat outside Tesco every day. When he was working for the intelligence services he’d dressed well. He was a good-looking man. Then there’d been all that trouble. He’d lost his job, and his family. Now he could hardly remember how he’d ever made himself look smart. Glade poured himself a drink. He shouldn’t drink before therapy, but he could hardly bear it otherwise. He knew he had problems but he didn’t want to talk about them. Unfortunately, he had no choice. It was part of the deal that had kept him out of prison.

Tomorrow Glade would meet his twelve year old son. Glade saw him for one afternoon a week. Even when relations between them had been very bad, Glade’s ex-wife had wanted their son to remain in contact with his father. Glade appreciated this, but these days, though he would not admit it, he was finding the meetings a strain. Somehow, seeing his son wasn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

Rainith the Red, fairy assassin, sat on her old sofa, staring at the bare wall. She’d released the spell she used in public, the spell which hid the large scar on her face. She was angry at Duluth for wasting her time: Calling her to a hunt and then cancelling it. Rainith was usually angry at someone, or something. Or just angry at everything. Since being banished from the fairy realm by the Fairy King, Rainith had been a very angry fairy. When her anger eventually faded, she went blank and felt nothing.

007

As far as Mixt and Nakishdan understood, they were paid for their work by MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service. It was an odd co-incidence that Mixt’s mansion was so close to MI6’s headquarters by the Thames, on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge and the Albert Embankment. Though as Mixt said, she had got there first. Mixt’s house, which she claimed to have won in a card game in 1920, had been built long before MI6 even existed. The front of the house did not give a true idea of the size of the building. The tangled mass of unkempt garden rather gave it the appearance of an abandoned dwelling. Inside it was huge, and there was a comfortable air of faded luxury. Mixt hadn’t renewed much since 1940. As she told Nakishdan, it hadn’t seemed worth buying new furniture when they were quite likely to be bombed at any moment.

Mixt had played no part in world war two. Her efforts in the first world war had taken too much out of her. ‘It was around then that my OCD really came on badly. The blitz reminded me of all the trauma I suffered in 1916, I think.’

‘You’ve lived for four thousand years. Didn’t you have other traumas before that?’

‘I haven’t lived for four thousand years.’

Mixt had been born, by her best estimates, four thousand years ago, but there were long gaps in her memory. She didn’t think she’d lived continuously for all that time, though she’d certainly had an incredibly long lifespan.

‘Anyway, nothing matched the amputation tent at the Somme. Every possible way a human body can be mangled, I’ve seen it. And touched it. And put it in the waste bin.’

The kitchen floor was covered in green patterned tiles from the 1930s. Mixt and Nakishdan unpacked their shopping.

‘What’s this bread?’ Mixt was suspicious.

‘Relax,’ said Nakishdan. ‘It’s the same bread as always. They just changed the packaging.’

‘I can’t eat it.’

‘You can, it’s fine,’ said Nakishdan. ‘Look, I kept the old wrapper. Check the ingredients, they’ll all the same.’

Mixt took old wrapper and compared it with the new one, carefully reading every ingredient. They were the same. She still didn’t look happy.

‘What if they’ve changed something without telling us? That could happen.’

Nakishdan put his hand on her arm, reassuringly. ‘It’ll be fine, really.’

Mixt looked very unhappy. The whole thing was far from fine in her opinion. She wondered if she could possibly eat the bread. Her phone rang. She fumbled in her pocket.

‘Hello?’ She listened for a few minutes, then rang off. ‘Duluth has our assignment. We have to go.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be till Wednesday.’

‘It changed.’

It took them only moments to prepare themselves, concealing their weapons beneath their coats. It took longer to leave the house. Mixt had an unbearable urge to check that every window was locked, and that everything was switched off, except the radio, which she left on at exactly the same low volume every time she went out. Eventually Nakishdan managed to shepherd her outside.

‘I wish they’d give us more warning. I hate rushing.’ The garage door closed automatically as they left. Mixt got out the car to check it was closed properly. Then they drove towards the hidden arch at Vauxhall station. That itself was very close to MI6 headquarters. Whether that was just a coincidence, they weren’t certain.

008

The empty tube train rattled along the central line.

‘Back to 1977,’ said Nakishdan. ‘There’s definitely something funny going on here.’

Mixt stared at him. ‘We met because you recognised me with your psychic powers. It turned out we’d both died in the past but somehow didn’t die. Now MI6 is sending us back in time to look for some mysterious person who’s endangering all reality. And you’ve only just realised there’s something funny going on?’

‘I suppose it’s obvious when you put it like that. I never analysed it before.’

‘Also there are flying snakes with big teeth.’

‘I hate the flying snakes.’

Nakishdan’s hand strayed to the sword concealed beneath his kimono. He knew how to use it; he’d been a cavalry cadet before the Napoleonic war. Recently Mixt had been encouraging him to practice more.

Mixt studied her reflection in the window. ‘I didn’t mean to cut my hair this short. I look like a boy.’

‘Quite a pretty boy.’

‘Thank you. You also look like a pretty boy. Because you are, I suppose.’

Nakishdan has been eighteen when killed at Waterloo. Now revived, he still seemed to be eighteen.

‘Is that kimono suitable for a punk gig?’

Nakishdan shrugged. Like Mixt, there were various parts of his life he couldn’t remember. The 70s was one of them. He wasn’t sure if he’d been alive then or not. Mixt had been, but she’d been in Las Vegas, gambling heavily. Neither of them knew much about British culture of the time.

‘Did you ever cut your hair short, Rainith?’

They looked towards Rainith, whose bright red hair was particularly long and luxuriant. Rainith didn’t reply. She would never talk about hair, or clothes, or anything. Polite conversation was practically impossible.

Nakishdan frowned. ‘I hate time problems. I hate it in stories when people go back in time and it makes problems. Like paradoxes, you know? I don’t want to be meeting myself or something.’

‘Duluth says the Kesh can look after it. As long as there’s no mass slaughter or anything, they can sort it out.’

The train slowed as it approached the station. Mixt leaned forward to whisper to Nakishdan. ‘Did you see the fairy’s eyes light up when I said mass slaughter? I’m convinced she’s a psychopath.’

‘Nice wings though.’

It was true. While in her fairy shape, Rainith had beautiful wings. Now, as human, in her shabby brown coat, they weren’t visible. Whether they disappeared, or were just cunningly hidden, neither Mixt nor Nakishdan were sure.

009

Aldwych tube station opened in 1907 and closed in 1994. When Mixt, Nakishdan and Rainith emerged into early evening drizzle it was March 1977. Mixt wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s late. We don’t have time to go to the flat.’

‘Do we have time to eat?’

The carried money in their pockets, banknotes from the 70s provided for them by Agent Duluth.

‘Probably not. We have to get to Putney before the gig starts.’

They walked the short distance to Holborn tube, buying chocolate on the way.

‘You notice how the chocolate bars are bigger in the 70s?’ Nakishdan carried an old A-Z map book. He studied it as they rode down the district line.

‘Does anyone know what X-Ray Spex were like?’ asked Rainith, unexpectedly.

Mixt and Nakishdan shook their heads.

‘I hope they’re better than that other punk band we had to watch.’

‘I liked them,’ said Rainith, which again was unexpected. She had never expressed a liking for anything before. They travelled in silence down the district line to Putney Bridge station. From there, the White Lion was only a few minutes walk. Mixt looked at it dubiously.

‘It’s just a little pub.’

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Somewhere bigger.’

‘I think being small is the point,’ said Nakishdan. ‘It’s still quite early days for punk bands.’

A few people passed them, on their way in. Two boys and two girls. They had short dark hair and narrow jeans. One of the girls wore heavy make up; otherwise they seemed unremarkable.

Mixt turned to her companions. ‘Duluth said I have to repeat our instructions. He thinks we’re too stupid to remember them.’

‘I do have a short attention span,’ admitted Nakishdan.

‘We’re looking for someone who doesn’t belong in this time. Or this universe. If we find them we’re to take them back with us. And if anything weird happens we’re to deal with it.’

Nakishdan frowned. ‘As instructions go, that’s pretty useless. How are we meant to recognise this person?’

‘Your psychic powers, maybe. You recognised me as being different. And you knew Rainith was strange.’

‘What do you mean strange?’ demanded Rainith.

‘You’re a fairy.’

‘That’s not strange if you’re a fairy.’

‘Fair point. It was a poor choice of word.’

‘How about uncommon?’ suggested Nakishdan.

By now people were streaming by. They followed them into the pub and through to a small room at the side.

‘The stage is really tiny.’

‘It would be chaos if flying snakes arrived.’

So far the vicious flying snakes had only been encountered in the present day. It was not known if they might appear in the past. Mixt looked around. With her short blond hair and unremarkable clothing, she fitted in well enough. So did Rainith, with her old coat, though her glossy red hair was conspicuous. Not, however, as conspicuous as Nakishdan. His shaggy hair was longer than any other male in the pub, and his black kimono seemed like the most inappropriate thing he could have worn. Several people nearby openly sneered at his appearance.

The support band appeared on stage. ‘We’re the Killjoys,’ said a dark-haired young man in a brown flying suit.

010

Ms Darben had a faultless record of service, both in the field and in the office. She’d been made head of the newly-created Historical Disturbance Department at the age of only thirty six, and was a confident woman, rarely given to self-doubts. Despite this, she couldn’t quite ignore the feeling that the affair was not going to end well. It was too strange and they had too little information. The department was not in control of the situation, and it was difficult to see how that could be rectified.

She stared at the message that had appeared on her screen.

Beware. 102 Wuu are on their way.

‘What does it mean? What’s a Wuu and why are 102 of them on their way?’

Agent Duluth, equally nonplussed, could offer no suggestions.

‘And why has it appeared on this terminal?’ Ms Darben frowned. ‘The only people who can contact us here are the Kesh, but this doesn’t seem to be from them.’

‘It must be.’

‘It doesn’t have their usual signature. IT say it’s from a different source. They can’t identify where.’

‘Could Wuu be a code name for the flying snakes?’

‘Why not just call them flying snakes?’

‘Maybe it’s something worse.’

That was a worrying thought. The department was already struggling to prevent the public from encountering the dangerous creatures.

‘If dinosaurs start crashing through, we’re not going to be able to hush it up.’

Ms Darben glanced at the clock on her screen. ‘Search Unit Sigma should be in position by now.’

Neither Ms Darben nor agent Duluth were particularly expressive, but they both looked worried.

‘I’ve never thought Nakishdan was that bright. If he were to kill the future prime minister, I wouldn’t really be surprised.’

‘Hopefully he won’t have the chance to do that at a punk concert.’

‘I suppose not. But who knows? Perhaps some people went to these gigs who went on to be important.’

Ms Darben scowled at her screen. ‘102 Wuu. If someone without proper access has to send us messages, they could at least make them intelligible.’

011

Mixt felt some confusion. She was in a crowded space, very close to the small stage. There was cigarette smoke in the air and the band were making a lot of noise. People were jumping up and down, banging into her. She found it all difficult to process. Nakishdan had retreated to the back of the room, though Rainith again seemed to be enjoying herself. She stood at the front, unaffected by people barging into her.

Mixt watched the young singer in the brown flying suit. There were moments when his voice came over tunefully, but often he just seemed to be shouting into the microphone. Beside him was another singer, a girl, also screaming into her microphone. At one point they both collided with the guitarist and went down in a heap onstage, still making noise. The audience liked that.

‘We’re the Killjoys and this is our single,’ shouted the singer. Mixt was surprised they’d made a single. The audience cheered. Beer flew over the crowd. Mixt winced as it touched her face. She was still wiping herself dry as the band left the stage. For a support act, they’d been well-received by the audience. Mixt made her way to the back of the small room where Nakishdan was leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand.

‘I don’t really understand this. Could they even play these instruments?’

‘Hardly,’ said Nakishdan, who had not enjoyed it at all.

Mixt noticed the girl beside her, with short spiky red hair and a safety pin through her ear, around which a few drops of blood had congealed. Rainith appeared. Mixt asked her if she’d enjoyed it.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

The fairy shrugged, and was not forthcoming.

‘Something’s happening outside,’ said Nakishdan. ‘I can feel it.’

They hurried towards the entrance. Outside they stood in the rain for a few seconds.

‘In there.’ Nakishdan headed for a small alleyway beside the pub. There they found a young man urinating against the wall.

‘You brought us here to see someone pissing?’ said Mixt. ‘Is this another of your freakish perversions?’

‘What do you mean freakish perversions? I don’t have any freakish perversions.’

‘You’re wearing Japanese female underwear.’

‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Nakishdan looked annoyed. ‘I’m not the one who holds degenerate sex parties.’

‘There’s a place for degenerate sex parties.’

‘Snake,’ said Rainith.

‘What?’

Rainith was already running up he alleyway. Coming out of the darkness was a huge grey snake, flying a few feet off the ground, flapping its short scaly wings and baring its fangs.

‘Suppress this,’ muttered Mist to Nakishdan. She whipped her naginata from beneath her coat, snapping it together in one smooth movement. By this time Rainith was halfway down the alley, her sword in her hand. The young man, still zipping up his trousers, looked round in alarm at the two women with bladed weapons rushing towards him. He didn’t see the snake until it was rearing up over him, hissing furiously.

012

Rainith the Red changed into her small fairy shape and flew at the snake but she couldn’t get there in time to prevent it from biting the young man’s neck. He sank to the ground. The snake saw Rainith approaching and twisted to avoid her, snapping its jaws. Rainith was too quick. Her sword, now four inches long, gouged a deep cut between the creature’s eyes. It shrieked in pain and arched its body in flight to attack. At that moment a bright silver blade sliced its head from its neck. Mixt had arrived, dispatching the creature with one sweep from her naginata. The long curved blade decapitated the snake with ease, though it was a large, strong beast.

The snake’s head and winged torso fell to the ground. There was a muted flash as they disappeared. Rainith flickered back into her human form. Nakishdan, who’d remained at the end of the alley, using his psychic power to dampen perceptions and prevent anyone else from seeing what was happening, ran towards them. All three were shocked. They’d encountered flaying snakes before, and seen them disappear after they were killed, but never in their journeys to the past. They’d never seen one attack an onlooker before. They were meant to prevent that from happening.

Mixt knelt beside the young man. Blood seeped from his neck, mingling with the rain. The snake’s fangs had gouged a deep wound in his neck. She felt in her pockets for the emergency dressing she carried.

‘We need an ambulance,’ said Nakishdan. ‘I saw a phone box along the street.’

‘It’s too late.’ Rainith pointed. ‘He’s fading away.’

‘What?’

The young man was sitting on the ground, paying no attention to Mixt, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood. His right shoulder was becoming transparent.

‘What?’ said Nakishdan, again.

‘He’s fading away. Like he never existed.’

‘How do you know that?’

Rainith shrugged. She just knew.

For a moment the youth became aware of his surroundings. He looked down at his torso which was now also becoming transparent. A look of anguish crossed his face.

‘No. I don’t want to–’

He stopped speaking. His features became expressionless. In a few moments he’d faded from sight. Mixt, Nakishdan and Rainith were left staring at an empty space.

Mixt shuddered. ‘This is bad.’

‘How could he just fade away?’

The young man had vanished, leaving the world as if he’d never been born. From the window of the pub they heard the audience cheering as X-Ray Spex walked onto the stage.

‘We should go back inside,’ said Rainith. ‘There might be more of them.’

013

Outside View by Eater was playing as they trooped back into the pub. A roadie was making adjustments to the mics. Rainith scanned the crowd for signs of anything strange. Mixt attempted to do the same though she’d been shaken by events in the alley. She was distracted by Nakishdan’s expression, and the way he was staring at his fingers. They were symptoms she had come to recognise. She tried to distract him. ‘We should look out for more snakes.’

‘Do you think we might meet clones?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t like clones. I hate it in stories when they have a clone and it makes things confusing because you don’t know which is the real character and which is the clone.

‘Not–’ Mixt halted herself. She’d been about to say not now, but swallowed it. Nakishdan was always supportive of her problems; she tried to do the same for him.

‘I don’t like it in games either. Sometimes they have clones in games. I don’t like them.’

Nakishdan looked at his fingers. Mixt knew he was suffering from an attack of the obsessive thinking that tormented him at times. His fear of his fingers being damaged could come on extremely strongly. When it happened he’d start talking about anything.

‘I didn’t like the clone in Tomb Raider.’

The band appeared at the side of the stage.

‘They shouldn’t have clones. I don’t like them. What if we meet clones?’

Mixt pursed her lips. If a flying snake appeared above the crowd they’d need all of Nakishdan’s powers to suppress the event but there was no way he could do that at the moment.

‘We’re X-Ray Spex!’

Mixt glanced at the stage. She was surprised by the appearance of the singer; by the braces on her teeth, and by the outfit she wore, a metallic top somewhat reminiscent of a costume from Star Trek, with a military cap perched on top of her unruly, black, curly hair. Beside her, another young woman with a saxophone also sported a military-style cap.

‘What if we meet clones? I don’t want that to happen.’

‘Shut up about clones,’ snapped Rainith, and disappeared towards the stage.

Nakishdan fell silent, and looked downcast, and very anxious.

‘Who’d have thought a fairy would be such a rotter?’ said Mixt. ‘She’s a cad. Unless only men can be cads. Can women be cads?’

‘No one’s a cad nowadays. The word hasn’t been used for about fifty years.’

Mixt grinned. ‘I still like it.’

Nakishdan managed a faint smile. The exchange had started to bring him out of his obsessive spell.

‘Oh Bondage, Up Yours!‘ screamed Poly Styrene, as the band began their set.

014

‘Why should I visit a therapist about being depressed if visiting the therapist is the most depressing thing I do?’

Glade drove home from his session feeling more depressed than when he’d arrived. He regarded the whole process as hopeless. He didn’t like the clinic, even if it was expensive, paid for by his ex-employers. Nor did he like his therapist, a woman with whom he felt nothing at all in common. As far as Glade could see, she was more interested in herself than him. He wondered what would happen if he stopped going. There would be some sort of trouble, he supposed. Therapy was one of the conditions that had prevented him fro being prosecuted.

He manoeuvred his car into the underground parking space beneath the concrete block of flats in Brixton. He felt in need of a drink. As he walked towards the stairs his phone rang. It was a surprise to see the screen light up for a facetime call. He hadn’t authorised facetime. There was no indication of who was calling. That shouldn’t be possible. Glade was puzzled.

A fuzzy outline appeared on the small screen, too faint to make out. Next came a woman’s voice, quiet and heavily accented. ‘You have to save–’

The voice disappeared in a blur of interference.

‘What? Who is this?’

‘Save Geeda Lala.’

Glade was mystified. ‘Who’s Geeda Lala? Who’s trying to harm her?’

Again the voice was almost drowned by static.

‘ - protect her. They’re sending 102 Wuu to kill her.’

The phone cut off. Glade was thoughtful as he put it in his pocket and turned toward the concrete stairs. There, in the air, only a few feet away, travelling fast, was a winged snake. For all his problems Glade had once been a highly-trained agent. His instincts had not disappeared. He flung himself down. The snake zipped over him, jaws snapping furiously. His gun, returned to him when he was assigned to Search Unit Sigma, appeared in his hand in an instant. The snake circled round and dived towards him. Still on his back, Glade fired. The bullet entered the creature’s open jaws. The snake exploded . Before the fragments hit the ground, they’d vanished.

Glade rose swiftly, looking round for more. ‘Obviously the phone call was connected to the Kesh. Anything connected to them brings on something bad.’

Glade hurried upstairs to his flat on the third floor. He was unshaken by the attack. He’d dealt with a lot of snakes already. Even so, he felt a strong need for alcohol.

015

Mixt liked the cheerful way the singer yelled out the name of each song.

Oh Bondage! Up Yours!

Rainith elbowed her way to the front. The fairy was strong for her size. She was smiling, something she’d rarely done since arriving in the human world. Something about X-Ray Spex was resonating within her.

Obsessed With You

Mixt checked to see that Nakishdan was all right. She was very protective of her friend, even if their personal relationship had occasionally gone off course in the past few years.

Identity

Nakishdan scanned the small, crowded room looking for any sign of their quarry. It still seemed an impossible task, when they knew so little about the person they were looking for.

Let’s Submerge

Rainith succumbed to the weight of two hefty, young men beside her, who, leaping around with careless enthusiasm, knocked her down. She fought her way to her feet, pushed them out of the way, and didn’t seem as furious about it as might have been expected.

Plastic Bag

The young man in front of Mixt had spiky hair, dull blue, as if dyed some time ago. He was wearing a t-shirt made from a black plastic bag. Mixt couldn’t understand why he’d do that. Although, she thought, it didn’t look so bad on him.

I Live Off You

Mixt, Nakishdan and Rainith were paid well for their work. They’d earn an extra bonus tonight, as they’d been obliged to fight. Mixt wished they hadn’t had to fight, but admitted to herself that she’d be pleased with the money.

‘I kept my fortune all through the depression in the 30s. I really shouldn’t have gambled it all away in the 70s.’

Mixt frowned. She was back in the 70s now. Presumably her past-self was at this moment in Las Vegas, gambling heavily. That was a very strange thought.

I Am a Poseur

‘I am a poseur and I don’t care. I like to make people stare.’

Nakishdan wondered if those lyrics might apply to him. He’d certainly attracted some attention during the evening, none of it sympathetic. He was sure he’d heard the people beside him describe him as a hippy.

‘I don’t care how many punk gigs they send me to. I refuse to cut my hair and I’m not taking my kimono off either.’

The Day The World Turned Day-Glo

‘The world certainly became strange when they started sending us back in time. I suppose my life was strange before that. I was born four thousand years ago and I’m still here. And now there are flying snakes.’

Mixt like the band better than others she’d seen. She liked Poly Styrene, and the woman playing the saxophone. Nakishdan wasn’t so enthusiastic and was eager to leave. He was feeling the heat in the room, and the noise, and the smoke. But the audience was calling loudly for an encore, and they had to wait till the end in case anything happened.

‘Look at Rainith. She’s cheering them back on.’

‘Stupid fairy,’ muttered Nakishdan.

Oh Bondage! Up Yours!

‘Didn’t they play that before?’

‘Maybe they don’t have another song for an encore.’

‘I don’t like them.’

‘I do,’ said Mixt.

The gig ended, and the audience filed out in to the rainy South London night.

016

As the crowd filed out of the pub, Mixt found herself walking beside the two girls she’d seen arriving with the boy who’d later disappeared in the alley.

‘Did your friend find you?’ she asked.

‘What friend?’

‘The guy you arrived with. He was looking for you.’

‘We didn’t come with anyone.’

Mixt nodded. They didn’t remember their friend. He really had faded away as if he’d never existed. None of the people who’d known him would ever remember him. Mixt found that a very depressing thought. She walked swiftly to the underground with Nakishdan and Rainith. The 70s tube trains didn’t run as late as they did nowadays, and they didn’t want to be stranded. There was a flat in London they could use, but Agent Duluth had emphasised it was for emergencies only. They were to spend no more time in the past than necessary.

The train was quiet on the way back to Aldwych, though various punks from the gig were dotted around their carriage. Mixt and Nakishdan were disturbed by the night’s events. Nakishdan looked particularly gloomy, having suffered a bad attack of obsessive thinking.

‘I’m sorry that happened,’ he mumbled to Mixt.

‘It’s OK, you couldn’t help it.’

‘After the snake attack I should have been alert. Not having some stupid obsessive problem.’

‘Stop worrying. You were there when it mattered.’

‘Now I’m feeling useless.’

Mixt didn’t like to see Nakishdan unhappy. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Useless? With us fighting monsters all over London? You’re a hero.’

‘I still feel useless.’

‘You’re not useless. Who was it spied for the British at Waterloo? And bravely faced up to a firing squad?’

Nakishdan’s exploits at Waterloo were some of his favourite stories about himself. When Mixt cleverly reminded him of it, he managed a smile. Rainith however, turned to face Nakishdan. She put her face very close to his, as if studying him.

‘Ha!’ she said. Then she turned away.

There was no more talk on the journey. Rainith left them at Aldwych tube station, refusing the offer of a lift home. She wanted to fly because she was in an uncharacteristically good mood. She’d enjoyed the band. She’d also enjoyed being able to use her sword. She took on her tiny fairy shape, and disappeared upwards into the darkness.

Rainith’s improved mood lasted through her flight but ebbed as she reached her council estate. When she arrived at her flat, and released the spell which hid her scar, it brought on bad memories of her past, as it usually did. She scowled at the mirror, and thought bad thoughts about the Fairy Kingdom of Mercia, and the fencing master, and the King. Soon she felt angry at everything. But as she sat on the couch, staring at he walls, she did remember that she’d enjoyed the music at the gig. She wondered if it was possible to listen to it again. The music was thirty five years old. Did it still exist? She didn’t know. Rainith wondered who she could ask.

017

Deep in the forest, in the Fairy Kingdom of Mercia, not far from the Palace at the Waterfall, Princess Sorena exuded charm as she led the new Elvish Fencing Master on a tour of their practice grounds. It was a task given to her by her father the King. Though King Talan had many dignitaries who could have accompanied the Fencing Master, he’d asked the Princess to take care of it personally.

King Talan had a reason for wanting to make a good impression. The Elves were important allies. Unfortunately, relations had been strained recently. When Rainith the Red killed their fencing master, the Elves had taken it very badly. Furious messages had been exchanged, ambassadors had been withdrawn, and trade had ground to a halt. Rainith had been banished for her actions. The Elves might have wished for a more severe punishment, but had let the matter drop, providing her face was never seen in these parts again. The new fencing master, Alvignar, cousin of the unfortunately departed Alavasti, did not bring the subject up. Nor did the Princess. Rainith’s name was never to be mentioned, at least when there was an Elf around.

As they finished the tour, they found King Talan waiting for them at the edge of the glade. Behind him was a troop of fairy archers, drawn up in good order.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Fencing Master Alvignar?’

‘It is.’ The Fencing Master seemed in a good mood. The King was relieved. If the Elf settled in contentedly in his new position it would go a long way to repairing relations.

‘A new class of young fairies are awaiting your instruction very eagerly. Our blacksmiths have been busy, sharpening their swords.’

‘I’ll be ready to–’ began Fencing Master Alvignar. He got no further, for at that moment, a winged snake appeared out of nowhere. The Elf, taken by surprise, managed to draw his sword but could not strike a blow before the snake buffeted him with its body then bit his neck, instantly killing him. The snake reared in the air then started toward Princess Sorena. Its progress was abruptly halted by a volley of small arrows. The King’s bodyguard were experienced troops and quick to react. The snake, though huge in relation to the fairies, reeled under the onslaught as the archers fired volley after volley. It hissed in rage, and as it did so several arrows flew into its open jaws. The snake cried in agony, fell towards the ground, then vanished in a flash.

There was a moment’s stunned silence.

‘What was that monster?’ said the Princess.

No one could answer. Such a creature had never been seen before in the Fairy Kingdom of Mercia. The King looked down at Alvignar, now dead. He shook his head.

‘I can’t believe we’ve lost another fencing master. The Elves are going to be furious.’

018

‘I don’t like any odd numbers apart from one. One is OK. Two is fine, in fact two is maybe my favourite number. But I don’t like three. There are a lot of threes in the world but I’m suspicious of them. Four is good. Five isn’t so bad, though it’s an odd number. But as odd numbers go, it’s all right. Six is OK but not great because it’s two threes. Seven is bad. I’m uncomfortable having anything to do with seven. Eight is good, I feel fine about eight. Nine is bad. Ten is very good. Eleven is dreadful, I don’t like it at all. Twelve is OK but then there’s thirteen which is one of the worst numbers. I could never do anything which involved the number thirteen. Fourteen is fine although it does equal two sevens which is not ideal. Fifteen is not dreadful though not great. Sixteen is good, one of my favourites. Seventeen is terrible, it’s a really bad number. Nakishdan once set the TV volume to 17 and I had to run out the room. Eighteen is all right, being even, but it’s two nines, which can make me uneasy, depending on my mood. Nineteen is positively scary, one of the worst numbers. Twenty is good. Twenty-one is fairly bad - it’s an odd number, and it’s seven times three. But it’s not as bad as it might be, for some reason. Maybe because there are some good things associated with twenty one, like an important birthday. Twenty-two is all right but twenty-three is awful. It’s such an ugly, odd number. And it doesn’t divide by anything which is weird. Twenty four is good, twenty five not so bad. Twenty six should be OK as it’s even, but it’s two thirteens so that’s not so good. Twenty seven is really bad. Twenty-eight is all right but twenty-nine is even worse than twenty-seven, it’s just a terrible number. Thirty is - ‘

‘Shut up!’ yelled Rainith. ‘Stupid numbers!’

Everyone in the small cafe turned and stared. Nakishdan looked embarrassed. Glade looked weary. Mixt was unabashed. She grinned. ‘Sorry. Was I going on?’

‘Just a little.’ Nakishdan laughed.

Mixt laughed too. ‘What was I talking about?’

‘You were telling us why you couldn’t order scrambled eggs because they’re number seven on the menu.’

‘Ah. Well, you can see it’s a problem. Would you order them for me? But pretend they’re for you, then sneak them onto my plate.’