In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1) (21 page)

Millie was watching the ground turners as they munched their way across the baked landscape. She was on the verge of squirting back to Earth to check on proceedings there when she sensed the Squirtport opening. She’d left remote sensors at all of the Squirtports on the Twenty-One to ensure compliance, even though her only real interest was here on Greenhaven.

Without a second’s hesitation, she transferred to the Squirtport. She arrived in the empty concourse and spun around, looking for danger. She smiled when she saw the large spinning globe that seemed to hover in the air in front of the booth entrance. It was a dull silver colour and there were bright beams of light emerging from openings dotted all over its surface.

It wasn’t really hovering, as it had no conventional flight or anti-gravity capabilities. It was multi-squirting between probably a couple of hundred different points across the planet, she thought, not staying in any one place long enough for gravity to kick in and make it fall to the ground. Flicking between so many different places in the space of fractions of a second was also regarded by some as an effective defense mechanism; but not by Millie. Whatever it was doing here was likely to spoil her plans, so it had to go.

She had several options open to her to dispose of the offending visitor. She could blast it with a laser, timed to strike just as it squirted into the target zone, or she could drop a minute particle of anti-matter into its centre at the right time and watch it explode. She chose a more elegant solution. As the globe was preparing to squirt to the next location in its complex sequence, she interfered with its targeting mechanisms and squirted each individual molecule to a different place across the galaxy.

Some of those molecules were grabbed by the ferocious gravity of black holes. Others drifted along on the solar wind to unknowable destinations. One or two drifted down through the thickening atmospheres of distant planets. The final destinations of most of them will never be known.

She arrived back in time to see Phil climbing out of the ground turner and dropping lightly to the ground.

‘What you doing, Mister?’ she asked, as she walked up to him.

He was looking down at his legs and bouncing a little.

‘It doesn’t hurt at all.’ He smiled at her. ’This is just great.’

‘How did you get out?'

‘There ain’t no jail that can hold me.’ He laughed.

She wondered if he’d taken any stimulants.

‘Be that as it may, I’m still going to lock you up again.’

‘
If I may be permitted to speak?’
The voice was broadcast straight into her head by some sort of short wave radio.

‘Who are you?’ she replied, using the same method.

‘
I’m the remote plenipotentiary of an Earth based AI. Who are you?‘

‘I think you know who I am. Doesn’t matter who you are; you’re inside Phil’s head and he’s going back inside the ground turner.’

‘
That may well seem to be a good idea to you at the moment, but perhaps I should mention the seven hundred squirt capable remote sensors that are studying this planet as we speak. Sorry, I should say that the number is now six hundred and ninety-nine now, as one sensor has squirted back to Earth to deliver its report. Six hundred and ninety-eight now.’

Millie stared at Phil, trying to gauge the truth of the AI’s statement from the look on Phil’s face. Best of luck with that; as was often the case, he really had no idea what was going on. He supposed that Millie and his AI were conversing, but he was out of the loop and, the longer she stared at him, the more uncomfortable he felt.

‘Why should I believe that?’

‘
Why would I lie? You’ll soon know the truth of my words when the troops arrive.’

‘Putting your troops up against me would not be a good idea. I’d eat them up for supper.’ She giggled.

The bullet really didn’t have much chance of hitting her, even with her attention split between her chat with Phil’s AI and attempting to locate the close to seven hundred sensors that were allegedly watching the proceeding.

Charge had held her in his sights for a second that dragged on for so long that it must have been hoping for promotion to minute status, trying to force himself to pull the trigger. In the end he jerked the barrel up and fired high and wide. Despite the fact that he was pretty damned sure she was an alien, she looked like a little girl, and he couldn’t bring himself to shoot a little girl; not in cold blood.

So he fired and ducked behind a heat blasted rock; hoping that he hadn’t just done something very stupid.

When Phil had waltzed off (literally) into the night, he’d felt a little guilty at letting him go without a proper weapon to defend himself with, even though he had given him his number two crowbar. So he'd quickly gathered together some vital supplies and followed him at a discreet distance, marveling at how badly he danced.

When Phil had brought the little girl back to the tor, he’d decided that it was safe to return home; the guy was obviously handling the situation well; which was something of a surprise. As the first dawn of the day was approaching, he thought it wiser to shelter under the shadow of the great rock until the second sunset of the day; after all, he had no guests to worry about.

He was settled down, deep in the shadows, with his flask of cool water, a peanut butter sandwich and a vial of So Long the Blues, his favourite after-breakfast stimulant, when he saw them emerge from an opening just a few metres from him. She was holding his hand and leading him as he walked, stumbling beside her. He was a terrible dancer, but he normally walked with much more competence.

Something was not right. If he hadn’t already slapped the vial against the side of his neck, he’d have been up and after them like a flash. As it was, he was just going to enjoy the surge of warmth and feeling wonderful that washed over him for a short while, and then he’d be up and ready and eager to do whatever it was he had to do, just as soon as it came back to him. Until then, this was a very nice rock, and the sand was just so comfortable, and when the air stopped whispering into his ear, he’d take a perfectly justified nap.

When reality impinged on his perceptions at last, he lurched to his feet and staggered into the late afternoon light. He didn’t beat himself up about his relaxed day; it was in the past and there was nothing he could do about it. What he did now was what counted.

Millie spun in time to see the human as he dropped slowly behind a rock. She scanned the area for other threats, but he seemed to be alone. He was fifty metres or so from her, and it was a simple task for her to remotely flick the rock to one side and expose the human with the bad hair extensions crouching as close to the ground as he could get. She removed the weapon with the same ease and checked him out for any other potential dangers, but he was as harmless as a child.

She turned back to continue her rudely interrupted conversation, only to find that Phil had gone.

She scanned the area for him, confident that he couldn’t be far away. Then she stamped her feet and tutted. It was so silly of him to think that he could get away from her; she would make him sorry when she found him.

Strange stepped out of the squirtbooth and stared up at the ugly glass and steel building. The heat had already brought a bead of sweat to his brow, but it wasn’t his nature to rush.

He’d been to a great many hotels across all the twenty-two planets and this might be the last one he’d be required to visit. Acquaintances (never friends) would be surprised to learn that he hated to travel and would be much happier if he could stay at home in the Lake District with his pair of miniature Shih Tzus.

He had an hour to do what he had to do and make his escape, before Phil arrived to take the blame.

At the desk, he asked the young person behind the counter for directions. He‘d started off thinking he was talking to a young man, then he thought maybe it was a young woman; then he was back at his original impression.

When he’d explained his request, and been met with raised eyebrows, sullen pouts and practiced shrugs, he turned and walked towards the bar, having wirelessly downloaded the desk computer’s registration spreadsheet onto his wrist-top.

As he approached the door into the bar, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the person at the desk had slipped back into whatever unspeakable daydream filled his/her days. He stopped at the door and checked the details on his wrist-top and then he strolled down the corridor to Masters’ room, snapping on his skin-coloured rubber gloves as he went.

He paused for a moment to gather himself when he reached Masters’ room, then he silently over-rode the lock on the door before him. He was absolutely confident in his own abilities, but Masters was a big guy and had something of a reputation of his own, so he had to be careful.

He breathed deeply three times, and moved his shoulders up and down twice. Then he snorted and placed one hand on the door; it swung open. He dived into the room, rolling across to the bathroom door and coming upright with surprising ease for a man of his size, with his Make Them Dead mini bazooka held firmly in both hands.

Even before he saw him, he smelled the burnt flesh. Without more than a cursory glance at the body, he checked out the rest of the room and the small adjoining bathroom. They were empty; he was alone, just him and the dead Masters. He holstered his weapon and put one finger on Masters’ neck, his eyes flicking around the room; he was still warm. For some reason the AC was off, so it would take quite some time for him to cool down in the hot air of the room. Even so, he guessed that he hadn’t been dead long. His eyes lingered for a moment on the small vials protruding from the dead man's nostrils. Were they a clue to the killer's identity?

In the small safe, hidden without much imagination in the bottom of the wardrobe, he found a small black bag. After a quick examination he grunted and stood up smiling. It was full of gil-juice vials; possibly hundreds of them. He and the divine Mrs. Masters were going to be very rich; very rich indeed.

He ran through the situation in his mind. How did this affect the original plan? Only for the better, he decided quickly. It didn’t matter to him who had actually killed Masters; he was going to end up dead anyway. He could still walk out of here, knowing that very soon Phil would walk in on the crime scene and into his trap. Before he left, he turned on the AC, to screw with the time of death calculations. Then he slipped along the corridor, the black bag over his shoulder. He stopped at the corner, to check how easily he could leave, and immediately pulled back.

Phil was already there, talking to the androgynous oxymoron standing behind the customer service desk.

Strange slipped into the bar, hoping to avoid an untimely meeting. Through its glass door, he saw Phil walk away from the desk and look around, checking his bearings. He glanced towards the corridor leading to Masters’ room, then at the bar. With the decision made, he nodded to himself and walked towards the bar. Strange had only a few seconds to step into the washroom and hide, hoping that Phil was looking for a drink and not a pee.

Through the cracked open door, he watched as Phil ordered a drink, knocked it back and walked quickly from the bar.

With the coast clear, Strange stepped into the reception area and watched Phil’s back as he continued down the corridor.

He gave him a minute to get over his initial shock, then another couple for him to flounder around the room in a panic, and then he used the desk ‘phone to call him. He wanted him to stay in the room as long as possible and letting him know he was there might just do the trick.

When he replaced the receiver, he gave the receptionist a quick look. It was impossible to say if he/she had overheard any of his end of the conversation, yet the fascination with his/her painted fingernails suggested not.

Then it struck him that he'd left the gil-juice vials sticking out of Masters' nose. The loss of the two vials didn't bother him, after all, he had a bag full, but would they point the police in a direction he didn't want them to go?

He shrugged and made his next call, to the local police, who took an age to answer. By the time he'd got through the automatic barriers and was able to speak to a live individual, he was getting a little concerned that Phil might appear before he could make his escape. Quickly, he reported the finding of a dead body, and his belief that the death was not natural, and that no, he would not be identifying himself.

There followed a brief interlude in which he stood beside the exit, watching the squirtbooth through the heat haze. He couldn't leave until the police arrived, in case Chandler came running from the room and made his escape, but he didn't really want to be here himself. It would be more than a little embarrassing to fall into the trap he'd set for Chandler.

He gave it another 20 minutes, then he decided on plan B.

He left the hotel quickly, striding out into the wall of heat. At the squirtbooth, he set the controls for the Squirtport and slipped a sliver of silver metal into its side panel. Almost invisible to the naked eye, it would be activated when he squirted and prevent any subsequent squirting. The booth would be able to accept incoming squirts, but no-one could leave. Chandler would have no alternative but to stay where he was and wait for the police to arrive.

He really should have noticed the Mole as he walked past him on the way to the squirtbooth, or the young woman with police displayed across her enticing torso, but, perhaps he was just a little too preoccupied with the bag of treasure slung across his broad shoulders; he can be forgiven for that; surely.