Eventful Times: A Fantasy Satire: The Slightly Unfeasible Tales of Landos, #2

By Chris Whyatt

When important people simply vanish from The Bible, there had better be a damn good reason.

The demise of a planet creates a freak event and it's even a new one on Death. Spotting a promising chance to loom menacingly over future humanity (nothing beats a seriously good 'loom') he tags along for the ride - intertwined with the monotony of the 'day' job.
When the unknown - possibly impending doom - threatens the world, the rulers of Anglost turn to the experts for help. The School of Science, aided by The Miserable Tricksters and Decidedly Dodgy Artists' (the provisional title given to the as yet untrusted wizards) quickly come up with two solutions... ignorance and brandy - possibly one solution, as ignorance can't be quaffed.
Numerous religious groups blame non-tangible disbelievers for angering (insert here) and pray for forgiveness and mercy.
In the background, someone of high standing turns to the unlikeliest of saviours... Gord excepted. But, is clumsy, reclusive inventor Albert Sonny ready for such a challenge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Whyatt
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223369530

Book preview

Epilogue

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The lusciously fertile planet hurtled through the infinite blackness at an incredible pace. This was perfectly acceptable to the scientifically advanced beings inhabiting its surface as they were well-versed in the precise clockwork movements of the solar system. The data had been compiled meticulously and passed on systematically for generations.

However, despite taking great care in preserving the beauty of their natural environment, something was wrong. The globe millions had called home for thousands of years was not orbiting its sun but spiralling towards it.

Advanced as they were, the best minds on the planet were powerless to avert their impending doom, and thus, Death loomed large. It wasn’t that he’d put weight on, but with the inevitable demise of millions, he thought it best to don his game face. After admitting defeat with that brave effort, he tossed the hand mirror aside and settled for towering grimly, arms folded, over the entire planet.

Long after any remaining life had been scorched to a cinder, the doomed rock inevitably fulfilled its destiny, hitting the solar giant with no more impact than a tiny pebble dropped into a lake. But even the smallest of stones can cause ripples. Time slowed, distorted, and then sped up again, trying desperately to catch up with this new development. Although the sun had easily absorbed the planet, it didn’t seem very comfortable with this new arrangement, and lo! A ghost world was born, emerging from the dark side. Of course, one system’s dark side is another system’s...

Observe another world. Remarkably similar, yet younger. This beautiful and relatively small planet revolves elegantly and effortlessly through space, cleverly disguising the furious internal mechanics at work. She is reminiscent of a magnificent ship—if viewed from high above, she appears to glide and cut through the waves effortlessly. Try telling that to the poor bugger with the shovel, though.

Through it all, despite the unbelievably technical stuff occurring way beyond the imagination of the occupants, this world was evolving. The microscopic changes taking place at a level far beyond noticeability would not affect the current populations but those of generations to come. Some, though, are in a position to make evolution get a bit of a move on. Where the changes are tangible and affect the here and now.

Progress...

Another Brick

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Natonya Nelly sat at her dressing table, brushing her long black hair. Another day fronting the committee lay ahead. She stared at the face looking back at her but refused to acknowledge it. She certainly wasn’t unattractive, just older. She looked deeper. Beyond the dark, knowledgeable eyes and faint lines, beyond the mirror. Back. Back to the newly graduated young woman arguing with her father...

But, Natty, it is simply not allowed!

"Well, it damn well should be! When I began my studies, I hoped we would be past all this nonsense by the time I had finished. We are not moving forward."

"My darling. Although you are now a master of the written laws, to become a sentencer, one must also serve three years as an officer on the streets. Not only are women unable to join the... er... I hesitate to say force, but it’s unheard of for a female to become a sentencer of the courts."

Does it not strike you that force enrolment regulations may have some bearing on the absence of women ruling in the courts?

I don’t make the rules, Natty. Look, you have achieved great things, don’t forget your training as an engineer.

I did that to prove a point.

Still... a very worthwhile career...?

I want to make a difference.

And that you shall, I’m sure of it. These are immovable barriers, Natty, barriers which probably won’t be broken even in your lifetime. Please... don’t cry...

Anglost was changing, and The Committee of Council Servants had an important day ahead. Usually only speaking on behalf of Landos, they prepared themselves for a debate concerning a tricky issue that would affect the whole country.

A few months previous, Deputy Pry-minister, Brutus Stratus, had used all his powers of charm and persuasion to convince the chairwoman to return. The thought of the committee without her at the helm made him shudder... and trolls don’t even have skin. At least, nothing sensitive enough to feel anything smaller than a six-inch nail being hammered into it. Sitting in his private office waiting for the committee members to start filtering into the meeting room, he recalled a conversation held many years before with a since-departed friend...

Can anything be done, Brutus?

"Your daughter is a fine young woman, Norton, and a credit to you. She is certainly a match for most men in every relevant department, but I cannot change the law, at least, not to that extent."

But she has worked so—

"Leave it with me, my friend. Her engineering qualifications will be a major bonus to the role I have in mind, but that is a side issue. She may not have the physical make-up to be an officer or a sentencer, but I’ll wager she has all the attributes to keep them in their place."

To his growing army of admirers, Albert Sonny was considered a scientist. Not without good reason. He had passed every course at The School of Science with flying colours and was the best student the school had ever seen. His exam grades were among the finest on record, and they had offered him a teaching position. Although flattered, he’d politely turned them down.

Albert didn’t want to repeat and re-teach lessons that had already been learned—he wanted to discover new things. He didn’t like the fact that, as a species, they knew so very little about anything. He wanted to learn more about the planet they inhabited and, most importantly, what existed beyond that.

Since leaving the school, he had taken to inventing things. Mainly small labour-saving devices designed to make everyday life easier. His impressive little workshop was full of half-finished projects, most of which had been discarded when a new idea popped into his ever-whirring mind.

Standing on his viewing platform under the skylight on the roof, Albert looked across to the spire of Tiny Tone. The top half of the massive clockface was visible from his viewpoint. Time. What if you wanted to know the time, and there wasn’t a clock for miles around? A small timekeeping device for people on the move... travellers. But most clocks are big, heavy, and certainly not portable—the sheer size of the cogs, moving parts, springs, balancers, weights! How do you make Tiny Tone ever-visible? Simple. You take all the components and scale them down... way down. Some of the parts would be tiny, though, almost beyond sight! Impossible. There simply aren’t the tools to make such small precision parts. Back to the drawing board.

He descended the ladder into the workshop and strolled over to the hot kettle, pouring water onto a selection of aromatic leaves in a cup. Sitting at his workbench, waiting for the liquid to cool slightly, he reached over to grab a quill and knocked one of his makeshift paperweights, which were nothing more than old pots filled with sand. He sighed and started scooping it back into the pot... then stopped. Albert tipped the sand into his cupped hand and let it fall slowly through his fingers, back into the pot. He repeated the process several times, staring at the shifting grains. Sand.

A knock at the door interrupted the forming notion, and the moment was lost as he headed over to open it. Although, nothing is ever truly lost once it has been imagined. Some minds are just better at storing things away and later remembering where they had put them. In Albert Sonny’s case, he could be described as the best concierge in Anglost, with the keys to thousands of rooms. And he knew what lay behind each and every one of them.

It was lunchtime, and Albert’s legs automatically followed the well-trodden path to Dogban’s Diner. They were well used to operating without instruction, as the uppermost section was usually too full of technical stuff to be concerned with menial motor applications. Albert’s eyes told him to free up a tiny part of his brain for a while as Dogban’s Diner came into view. It had almost become a lunchtime ritual, partly because it was the only eatery for miles around that made his favourite kabab, but mainly because it was the only eatery for miles around.

Albert! Come in, come in. I’m-a very much want you to try a spesh kabab, innit!

Obviously, Albert knew Dogban was a foreigner but wasn’t sure exactly which part of the world he was from. His inquisitive nature had got the better of him once, but all he managed to get out of Dogban was—where he came from—the name translated to ‘A God’s Gift’. After applying logic to the puzzling explanation, Albert assumed it was a reference to the kabab man’s mother because he didn’t appear to be a divine offering to any other females—and certainly not to the culinary world.

The word ‘kabab’, Albert learned, related to the method of cooking rather than the ingredients. This involved impaling bits of meat on a metal spike and searing them to a perfect finish over an open-flame grill. Without the means to regulate the heat effectively, the ‘searing’ process took a bit of a back seat to ‘burning to a cinder’. Considering Dogban never mentioned or advertised what type of meat was on offer before the cremation ceremony, it was probably for the best. Though, Dogban always assured Albert that it had been of the finest quality.

Think I’ll just stick to the usual thanks, Mr Bogdanov.

Please, please, Albert. I’m-a promise you’ll love it or... your money back.

Ah, I’m glad you brought that up, Mr Bogdanov. You never refunded me for the last—

"Albert, Albert. You’re right, of course. Let’s not bring money into it. You’ll love it or... a free kabab!"

Go on then. I’ll give it a go. What’s special about it?

It’s all in the marinations, innit! Mama’s secret recipe. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.

Albert sat at one of the small tables, and Dogban placed a drink in front of him before disappearing into the kitchen. He picked up the menu—more out of habit than expectation—and the crumpled piece of paper read thus:

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DOGBAN’S DINER

Kabab.......... (small, large, or extra-large)

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Lemon tea.......... (seasonal)

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Dogban ventured to the larder and selected the latest batch of meat hitting ideal maturity. He had always promised himself that his professional standards in the art of maturing would never slip, which is why the process was measured in months. Perfectly-aged meat called for extra-special treatment, hence ‘Mama’s secret recipe’. There it stood, proudly labelled, just to one side of the grill. Beneath which, incidentally, sat a bottle of torch fuel and a funnel. Whatever criticisms were levelled at Dogban’s kababs, nobody had ever suffered from food poisoning.

Albert sipped his lemon tea to the familiar sizzling sound of the kabab hitting the grill. This was quickly followed by the equally distinctive whooshing sound of the ‘marinations’ igniting quite robustly. Then the smoke... ahhh, the smoke. Although Albert had never actually witnessed a slice of lemon gracing his daily dose of the cloudy liquid, Dogban insisted the beverage was symbolically native to his country—at least, lemon tea was. Most of the time, he had little choice but to work with ingredients native to Anglost, and lemons were almost impossible to come by. Fruits of the plough, however...

A short while later, Albert thanked Dogban and assured him it had been a welcome change.