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Synopsis
December 2012. There is global paranoia surrounding the predicted event described in the ancient scrolls recently discovered in the Sphinx: the resurrection of ancient malevolence in the form of Halford. His body has been preserved for 12 millennia in such condition that reanimation might be possible using the genesis procedure.
Release date: April 27, 2017
Publisher: Accent Press
Print pages: 45
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The Genesis Glitch
Stewart Ferris
The world failed to end on 21st December 2012. This upset many people and was regarded by some as a cataclysm.
Three days later, an archaeologist barged past security at the Sky News headquarters in Isleworth, west London. She needed to find the live studio. It didn’t matter to her what laws she broke to get there.
Unaware of the commotion elsewhere in the building, a breakfast news anchor questioned her tall and bony guest.
‘We laugh at those people who want to sue because they spent their life savings thinking the world was about to end,’ said the presenter. ‘But Lord Ballashiels, you were part of the team credited with the discovery of the famous “Sphinx Scrolls”.’
‘Ratty,’ replied the guest.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ratty. My soubriquet. Less of a mouthful than that Lord nonsense.’
‘Right,’ she continued. ‘Not everyone believed the scrolls were true. A Mayan despot cryogenically preserved and sent into orbit? I mean, come on, it’s hardly likely, is it? The scrolls talked about him returning to earth, reanimating thanks to something called the genesis procedure, and wreaking havoc on the planet. Even if you believed in it, you should have been happy for the predicted catastrophe not to occur.’
Ratty stared into her eyes, temporarily mesmerised by the coiffured irresistibility of a woman who knew better than to split an infinitive on live television. He squirmed within his leather jacket and looked self-consciously into the camera as he replied.
‘Goodness, yes, well, swings and wotsits, I suppose. Rough with the … six of one, half a doodah of the—’ He paused his flow of incoherence. ‘Me paenitet,’ he mumbled, ‘public speaking, not my thingummy.’ He scratched his long nose, gulped a lump of air and tried again. ‘When I realised the Mayan predictions were about as accurate as a … gosh, er, or about as imprecise as a … well, I felt a tad inconvenienced.’
‘Why was the survival of our planet an inconvenience?’ asked the presenter.
On the floor below, the archaeologist was out of options. She had taken a wrong turn and was now cornered by a portly security guard who sensed imminent triumph as he edged closer. She checked the Timex Expedition on her wrist. Too many minutes already wasted. It was vital that she find the news studio. Taking advantage of the guard’s outstretched arms, she head-butted him in the stomach. He fell to the floor.
‘As accurate as … bear with me. Anyway, I hadn’t bothered getting a turkey for Christmas. Too late now. Have to make do with a swan. Dashed inconvenient. Especially for Engelbert.’
‘Engelbert?’
‘My swan.’
The interviewer fought to resist expressing her distaste at the swan anecdote, not realising that the burbling of her guest was a fictional ruse aimed at avoiding two revelations: what he truly felt about the doomsday predictions in the ancient scrolls, and that he was planning to enjoy nothing more avivorous than a cheese sandwich for his Yuletide lunch.
‘You describe yourself as a historian,’ she continued, looking at her notes, ‘but really–’
‘No,’ said Ratty.
‘You’re not a historian?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘How do you describe yourself?’
‘I am an historian.’
‘Is that not what I said?’
‘Spiritus asper, you see?’
She shook her head and returned to her notes.
‘But really you seem to be a treasure hunt—’
‘About as accurate as a blunderbuss at fifty yards,’ he blurted.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When shooting malodorous poacher chaps. Imprecise. Like the predictions in the scrolls.’
‘You shoot poachers?’ she asked, sensing a worthy tangent to the interview.
‘No, no, no. Never. No. Absolutely not.’
‘What’s your next project as a treasure hunter?’
‘Well, hardly ever.’
His latest non-sequitur left her speechless. She felt as if she were drifting out of synch with her guest. She shrugged at the camera, seeking to bond with a million similarly bemused viewers.
‘Nothing left to poach,’ Ratty continued. ‘Engelbert excepted, of course. The estate is a pale vestige of what it was when it was, if you see my thingy.’
‘Right,’ she said, not really paying attention. ‘And your next venture as a treasure hunter: where will that take place?’
‘Home,’ he answered, adjusting the fringe of his artificially jet black hair. ‘Second floor. Granny wrote in her diary about a bedroom she locked in 1937. No one’s been in there since.’
‘Your house is big enough to ignore a whole room?’
‘I think there’s possibly an entire wing in which I have yet to venture.’
This time she recognised deliberate exaggeration.
‘What do you expect to find in that locked room?’
‘Granny left clues in her notebook; well, sort of a diary, really. Actually, more of a list of which servants deserved a thrashing on any particular day.’
‘What did she write about the locked bedroom?’
‘Mainly warnings about never entering the room.’
‘Warnings?’
‘She was rather keen on writing curses, maledictions, that sort of thing. Shopping lists. Voodoo spells. Recipes. Incantations. However, she gave no reason for locking that accursed door. But I know 1937 was the year in which she became chummy with a moustachioed painter and decorator. Catalonian chap by the name of Salvador Dali. If there are some Dali doodlings in that room I shall be chuffed as a … gosh, mind’s gone blank as a … having trouble summoning an apposite simile. Is there any tea in this place?’
‘Talking of your house, some claim your house is mentioned by Aristotle. The prophecy relating to the end of the world, and the power that will come from the ruby tower. You have a turret made from ruby-red Elizabethan brick, known as the ruby tower. Is that right?’
‘And a chum by the same name. Give or take. I don’t mean her name is give or take. Would be weird. Anyway, Aristotle can’t have known about either of them, since Ruby Towers the chum is of a relatively recent vintage, and even the oldest part of the manor is barely a thousand years old. A mere coincidence or something or other.’
The interviewer had ceased paying attention to the rambling aristocrat and was pressing an intercom tight against her ear.
‘We’re getting unconfirmed reports of an explosion off the coast of Myanmar,’ she announced, her tone instantly sombre.
‘Burma,’ mumbled Ratty, with quiet indignation.
‘Eyewitnesses suggest it could have been a meteorite. Tsunami alerts have been issued for the region. More on that story as it comes in.’
The archaeologist ran into the studio and grabbed Ratty’s arm.
‘We have to go,’ she ordered, dragging Ratty from his swivel chair and ducking the swipe of the guard who had followed her. A studio monitor distracted her with a shot of her dishevelled hair. She straightened her fringe. The security guard withdrew to the side of the studio, unsure whether it was appropriate for him to continue to tackle Ruby Towers on camera.
‘Ruby?’ Ratty sounded pleased to see her despite her chaotic arrival. ‘Did you hear that? Per chance our scrolls were right. Maybe the world is about to pop its bucket! Do you think it’s too late to cancel the heating oil? Why aren’t you digging up Iberian bones?’
‘Forget about. . .
Three days later, an archaeologist barged past security at the Sky News headquarters in Isleworth, west London. She needed to find the live studio. It didn’t matter to her what laws she broke to get there.
Unaware of the commotion elsewhere in the building, a breakfast news anchor questioned her tall and bony guest.
‘We laugh at those people who want to sue because they spent their life savings thinking the world was about to end,’ said the presenter. ‘But Lord Ballashiels, you were part of the team credited with the discovery of the famous “Sphinx Scrolls”.’
‘Ratty,’ replied the guest.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ratty. My soubriquet. Less of a mouthful than that Lord nonsense.’
‘Right,’ she continued. ‘Not everyone believed the scrolls were true. A Mayan despot cryogenically preserved and sent into orbit? I mean, come on, it’s hardly likely, is it? The scrolls talked about him returning to earth, reanimating thanks to something called the genesis procedure, and wreaking havoc on the planet. Even if you believed in it, you should have been happy for the predicted catastrophe not to occur.’
Ratty stared into her eyes, temporarily mesmerised by the coiffured irresistibility of a woman who knew better than to split an infinitive on live television. He squirmed within his leather jacket and looked self-consciously into the camera as he replied.
‘Goodness, yes, well, swings and wotsits, I suppose. Rough with the … six of one, half a doodah of the—’ He paused his flow of incoherence. ‘Me paenitet,’ he mumbled, ‘public speaking, not my thingummy.’ He scratched his long nose, gulped a lump of air and tried again. ‘When I realised the Mayan predictions were about as accurate as a … gosh, er, or about as imprecise as a … well, I felt a tad inconvenienced.’
‘Why was the survival of our planet an inconvenience?’ asked the presenter.
On the floor below, the archaeologist was out of options. She had taken a wrong turn and was now cornered by a portly security guard who sensed imminent triumph as he edged closer. She checked the Timex Expedition on her wrist. Too many minutes already wasted. It was vital that she find the news studio. Taking advantage of the guard’s outstretched arms, she head-butted him in the stomach. He fell to the floor.
‘As accurate as … bear with me. Anyway, I hadn’t bothered getting a turkey for Christmas. Too late now. Have to make do with a swan. Dashed inconvenient. Especially for Engelbert.’
‘Engelbert?’
‘My swan.’
The interviewer fought to resist expressing her distaste at the swan anecdote, not realising that the burbling of her guest was a fictional ruse aimed at avoiding two revelations: what he truly felt about the doomsday predictions in the ancient scrolls, and that he was planning to enjoy nothing more avivorous than a cheese sandwich for his Yuletide lunch.
‘You describe yourself as a historian,’ she continued, looking at her notes, ‘but really–’
‘No,’ said Ratty.
‘You’re not a historian?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘How do you describe yourself?’
‘I am an historian.’
‘Is that not what I said?’
‘Spiritus asper, you see?’
She shook her head and returned to her notes.
‘But really you seem to be a treasure hunt—’
‘About as accurate as a blunderbuss at fifty yards,’ he blurted.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When shooting malodorous poacher chaps. Imprecise. Like the predictions in the scrolls.’
‘You shoot poachers?’ she asked, sensing a worthy tangent to the interview.
‘No, no, no. Never. No. Absolutely not.’
‘What’s your next project as a treasure hunter?’
‘Well, hardly ever.’
His latest non-sequitur left her speechless. She felt as if she were drifting out of synch with her guest. She shrugged at the camera, seeking to bond with a million similarly bemused viewers.
‘Nothing left to poach,’ Ratty continued. ‘Engelbert excepted, of course. The estate is a pale vestige of what it was when it was, if you see my thingy.’
‘Right,’ she said, not really paying attention. ‘And your next venture as a treasure hunter: where will that take place?’
‘Home,’ he answered, adjusting the fringe of his artificially jet black hair. ‘Second floor. Granny wrote in her diary about a bedroom she locked in 1937. No one’s been in there since.’
‘Your house is big enough to ignore a whole room?’
‘I think there’s possibly an entire wing in which I have yet to venture.’
This time she recognised deliberate exaggeration.
‘What do you expect to find in that locked room?’
‘Granny left clues in her notebook; well, sort of a diary, really. Actually, more of a list of which servants deserved a thrashing on any particular day.’
‘What did she write about the locked bedroom?’
‘Mainly warnings about never entering the room.’
‘Warnings?’
‘She was rather keen on writing curses, maledictions, that sort of thing. Shopping lists. Voodoo spells. Recipes. Incantations. However, she gave no reason for locking that accursed door. But I know 1937 was the year in which she became chummy with a moustachioed painter and decorator. Catalonian chap by the name of Salvador Dali. If there are some Dali doodlings in that room I shall be chuffed as a … gosh, mind’s gone blank as a … having trouble summoning an apposite simile. Is there any tea in this place?’
‘Talking of your house, some claim your house is mentioned by Aristotle. The prophecy relating to the end of the world, and the power that will come from the ruby tower. You have a turret made from ruby-red Elizabethan brick, known as the ruby tower. Is that right?’
‘And a chum by the same name. Give or take. I don’t mean her name is give or take. Would be weird. Anyway, Aristotle can’t have known about either of them, since Ruby Towers the chum is of a relatively recent vintage, and even the oldest part of the manor is barely a thousand years old. A mere coincidence or something or other.’
The interviewer had ceased paying attention to the rambling aristocrat and was pressing an intercom tight against her ear.
‘We’re getting unconfirmed reports of an explosion off the coast of Myanmar,’ she announced, her tone instantly sombre.
‘Burma,’ mumbled Ratty, with quiet indignation.
‘Eyewitnesses suggest it could have been a meteorite. Tsunami alerts have been issued for the region. More on that story as it comes in.’
The archaeologist ran into the studio and grabbed Ratty’s arm.
‘We have to go,’ she ordered, dragging Ratty from his swivel chair and ducking the swipe of the guard who had followed her. A studio monitor distracted her with a shot of her dishevelled hair. She straightened her fringe. The security guard withdrew to the side of the studio, unsure whether it was appropriate for him to continue to tackle Ruby Towers on camera.
‘Ruby?’ Ratty sounded pleased to see her despite her chaotic arrival. ‘Did you hear that? Per chance our scrolls were right. Maybe the world is about to pop its bucket! Do you think it’s too late to cancel the heating oil? Why aren’t you digging up Iberian bones?’
‘Forget about. . .
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