A Plague of Hearts by Patrick Whittaker (best large ereader .TXT) 📖

to understand that there’s a purpose to life, some grand design that lies behind everything we say and do.’
‘Bollocks! Life is the end result of billions of years of random chemical exchanges. There is no God. That’s something I know without having to know why or how I know. It’s instinct.’
‘There’s nothing random about you,’ said the Mad Hatter, speaking in a voice of cool venom.
‘Peregrine Smith put you together in a test tube.’
The Grey Squirrel spat. ‘Smith had nothing to do with it.’
‘Yes he did. Ask Doctor Ormus. I have.’
‘And what did he have to say?’
‘That Smith is an alien.’
‘A what?’
‘An alien from the planet Earth.’
‘There’s no such planet.’
‘Not in this universe,’ the Mad Hatter conceded. ‘But the Red King dreams many dreams. He dreams of other Red Kings, all with dreams of their own. And at the centre of one of those dreams is a planet called Earth. It’s where Julie and Alice come from. They were accidentally brought here as the result of certain experiments performed by Peregrine Smith.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ said the Mad Hatter with conviction.
‘And everything is permitted, I suppose?’
‘Absolutely.’ Removing his hat, the Mad Hatter reached inside the lining and brought out a deck of playing cards. ‘I’m going to do something now, and it’s very important that you understand it.’ He exposed the bottom card and tapped it with his finger. ‘The Red King is the key.’
‘Wait,’ said the Grey Squirrel, stepping back onto the terrace. ‘That’s not the Red King. That’s the King of Hearts.’
‘Oh? Does it look like the King of Hearts?’
‘The current one? No. But that design is hundreds of years old.’
‘So humour me. Let’s say for the sake of argument that it is the Red King.’
But the Grey Squirrel was having none of it. ‘Card games! Make-believe! Is this your idea of how to run a revolution? Are we going to spend all night discussing mythology while our comrades are out there putting their lives on the line?’
‘I’m trying to explain my plan to you.’
‘And that involves cards?’
‘Every General has his own method of planning strategy. Some use mathematics; some use astrology. Still others thumb through history books to learn from the mistakes and triumphs of their predecessors.’
‘And the Mad Hatter uses playing cards!’
‘I use philosophy and instinct. The Red King himself directs my every movement. That’s why the resistance movement is called The Red Orchestra.’
The March Hare watched in silent amusement as the Grey Squirrel’s face went through a series of bizarre contortions, expressing in turn anger, confusion and frustration.
‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ announced the Grey Squirrel.
‘Believe it,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘And accept it. No man can out-run his destiny. The Creed of the Red King defines the underlying force behind reality. We are no more than the figments of a vast imagination.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘That’s why they call me the Mad Hatter.’
‘If Ormus knew the way you see things...’
‘He knows and he’s with me all the way. He has as much faith in the Red King as I do.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Than what do you believe?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But what both Doctor Ormus and I believe is that we were always destined to fight the Panda and lead the Resistance. I was the first to know, because I saw it all in a pack of playing cards. Ormus saw it too, in his own way, but his vision was not as clear as mine. That’s why I was chosen to lead the group, and that’s why it has fallen to me to bring about the Panda’s demise.
‘Every move I’ve made against the President has been on the advice of these cards. You see, cards are a symbol system. Each one is charged with its own meaning, its own data. They’re a doorway into the mind of the Red King.’
With a deft movement of his little finger, the Hatter flicked the King of Hearts into the air. It fluttered to the ground like an injured butterfly.
The Squirrel stepped away from it. ‘Are you saying that your plans were formulated according to the random fall of cards?’
‘Something like that. Only the term "random" has no real meaning. It’s a label we tie to events when we’re unable to see their cause.
‘Here. Take them.’
The Mad Hatter handed the cards to the Grey Squirrel who held them in his palms as though they were something fragile.
‘Shuffle,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘Let’s see what your future holds.’
‘I can’t shuffle.’
‘Then just draw four cards from anywhere you like.’
The Grey Squirrel cut the pack, counted out four cards. These he gave to the Mad Hatter.
Looking all the time at the Grey Squirrel, the Mad Hatter bent forward and laid the cards face-down in a line on the floor. He turned over the rightmost one. ‘This,’ he said, ‘reveals your character.’
It was the Ace of Clubs.
The Grey Squirrel was suddenly nervous. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that a great violence drives you on. There are feelings inside of you that are so strong you dare not face them. You spend your life running away from yourself. You have no centre, no motivation other than to keep moving, never looking back.
‘The second card will speak of your dealings with others. See? The Jack of Diamonds, symbol of mercenary dealings. Someone is paying you for certain immoral activities. I wonder who that can be.’
The Grey Squirrel made no comment.
‘And this third card - the Jack of Clubs - means you intend betrayal.’
‘And the fourth card?’ asked the March Hare, intrigued. ‘What does that say?’
‘This is nonsense!’ said the Grey Squirrel, abruptly. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Maybe we should go and catch up with the others now.’
‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘You can’t leave now. Not without seeing the fourth card. Your future lies there. Isn’t that something worth knowing?’
‘I’ll know it soon enough.’
The Mad Hatter flipped over the fourth card. The Ace of Spades. The Death Card. With a startled squeal, the Grey Squirrel reached for the gun in his anorak pocket. The Mad Hatter leapt to his feet and produced a gun of his own. Bullets sang out. Echoes tumbled into the night.
The Grey Squirrel dropped to his knees, held his head in his paws. ‘Mother of Mercy,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been murdered.’
Dust flew into the air as his face crashed to the floor.
The Mad Hatter stroked his revolver. A thin wisp of smoke spiraled from the barrel. ‘Every time a gun is fired,’ he said sadly, ‘another bullet dies.’
*
Deep in the bowels of his Bunker, the Panda amused himself by reading the latest report from his Chief of Applied Technology. This one was entitled The Military Applications of the Self-Destructing Unicorn. It ran to thirty six pages of meticulously reasoned argument. Page 7, for instance, detailed a scheme whereby the creature would have its front brain removed and replaced by gelignite. The unicorn would then be sent as a gift to an appropriate party, such as a foreign Head of State or even a home-grown subversive. Three months later, the in-growing horn would reach the jelly and trigger an almighty explosion.
‘Pop,’ said the Panda, with some amusement. He was alone in his Campaign Room, surrounded by maps and charts and a brand new set of propaganda posters depicting Spadisher soldiers committing barbarous acts against women and babies. Not knowing whether it was day or night, the President wore pyjamas.
An exploding unicorn, he thought. An amusing idea. Perhaps I’ll give one to each of my Generals as a sort of thank you for all the help they’ve given me these past few years.
Lazenby can have two. With any luck, one will explode just as he’s buggering the poor thing.
The Panda’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Irritated, he slouched forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the desk. ‘Enter,’ he said abruptly.
General Lazenby walked in, carrying with him an aura of nervous intensity that made the room feel five degrees cooler. Though dressed in full uniform, he looked uncommonly disheveled. His top button was undone and there was a slight but noticeable smudge of oil on his tunic. He saluted briefly then sat opposite the Panda.
‘Well?’ said the Panda.
‘Everything’s set,’ said Lazenby. His thin lips grew thinner. It was obvious that he did not enjoy the task the Panda had given him. ‘We’ve fitted and tested the vector gauge and Smith assures us that all he needs now are the co-ordinates and a few hours to build up the power.’
‘Good. But I want everything checked and double-checked. We’ve had too many cock-ups already on this front.’ And that, thought the Panda, is an understatement.
The last time TARTS had been deployed, a relay had jammed, switching the machine into Transceiver Mode. So instead of killing, it had reached into another reality - the same one Smith had originated from - and brought back a little girl. Alice.
Lazenby wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers. ‘I’d like your permission to set up a study group,’ he ventured.
‘To what end?’
‘To map out all possible uses for TARTS.’
‘What you’re trying to tell me, General, is that you’d like it to be used as something other than a weapon. Because for someone like you, war is acceptable provided it’s fought with guns and rockets and razor-sharp steel. I don’t think you even care who wins this war - just so long as we stick to some whimsical code of chivalry.
‘Well, let me tell you something, General. We have no choice but to use that machine as a weapon. I’ve just received a report that the Duke of Pancreas has broken through our lines and is very close to Enigma. Unless we wipe out the Spadisher army within the next few hours, we’re going to see our country in the hands of foreigners. Or rather, we’re not. Because at about the same time, you and I are going to be swinging by our necks from lamp posts - hung by our own men. To the victors, the spoils. To the rest, nothing.’
‘I can see your point,’ said Lazenby. ‘But that isn’t what I was getting at. Smith beamed himself here from Earth to escape prosecution for conducting illegal experiments. Then he built TARTS, a crude duplicate of the machine that had brought him here. He demonstrated its transportation possibilities by bringing across that girl Julie - the one who’s now co-habiting with Doctor Ormus. Then when the machine went wrong, it sent out a beam to the exact same trans-spatial co-ordinates and brought back Alice.’
‘So what?’ said the Panda. ‘This isn’t exactly news for me.’
‘But here’s something that is. About an hour ago, I was talking to Smith and he let slip that he and those two girls are both from different periods of Earth’s history. That can only mean one thing - with TARTS we have the ability to not only travel to other universes, but to other times as well. We can go back and alter the past!’
The Panda leaned back in