Deep Yellow (20 page)

“Let’s have a look at
the betting stakes and audience reactions.”

“It shows Kellsa first
and Brookko now demoted to last; his security bot episode has
affected his ranking.”

“Most people point
towards the keys being in the large arena and the exit nearby.
Let’s return and see how they are getting on.”

***

Brell did not want to
say that she was lost. Carac had thrown her concentration and she
had lost her bearings. She believed she was far enough away from
him, but kept glancing around just in case. Looking at the sky
countdown timer didn't help. It felt hotter and her mouth was dry,
no temperature-controlled clothing here. Certain that the arena was
nearby, she looked at the horizon and saw what appeared to be one
of the rounded edges of it poking out behind some ruined buildings
ahead. A pathway leading to the left should take her back to the
main thoroughfare in case the route ahead through the ruins was
blocked. After a short walk, she saw the main roadway ahead with a
café situated nearby.

"Tourist stop," she
read out aloud.

A drink, perhaps some
water, would help. People milled around; some sat on benches and
seats holding cups of liquid or eating a colourful mush inside a
cone- shaped object. Walking through a couple of empty holo people,
she reached a counter inside. A gleaming auto chef, its company
logo in large letters on the side sat, on top of the counter.

"Gelato?" One of the
hard holos said to her. Brell was taken aback at being spoken to.
The accent was very thick and in Rome language. He wore real
fabrics.

"Just getting myself a
drink," Brell said in main Inhab language. She turned to the auto
chef.

"Gelato, good," the
holo said.

"Do you know where the
Emperor used to sit in the big arena?"

"Caesar, Emperor.
Colosseo. Crociera, Cross," the holo said.

"How about the
train?"

"Metro?"

"Metro? What's
that?"

"Gelato?"

The holo had gone back
to the beginning of its routine, but as basic as it was, the
answers might be useful. Now for a drink.

"Real water."

Beep
. Brell reached in and took a cup
of water. She drank it straight down then paused and
frowned.

"Intox straight."

Beep
,
beep
. “'Not available.” Brell stroked
her hair and glanced around the cafe. There were paper adverts on
the wall. Soft drinks, Gelato, oh, it's ice cream. Beer, Whisky,
Chocolate, Coffee, Tea. Her eyes stopped on the word whisky. Of
course Inhab-47 drinks and food only.

"Whisky?"

Beep
, the auto chef whirled into
action. Seconds later, Brell reached in and took out a cup of
golden liquid. Not quite Deep Yellow or her normal choice intox,
but she downed it in one. Wow, strong, wood flavours. She put her
cup down.

"Whisky, large."

Beep
. The auto chef delivered a
larger cup. Brell sipped it, allowing the intox to flow through her
more steadily. It had been a while since she had drunk intox
properly, apart from a swift small illicit one during free
association. She held her cup up in the air and made a mock
salute.

"Here's to all the
girls back on Wing 90." She took another swig.

"Carac, you are a
fragging bastard."

A small group came
into the cafe and one of them asked for “caffe” and sat down. Brell
wandered outside and sat on the grass, watching the holos walking
by. She extended her arms behind her and leant back. It was quiet,
calm, and warm. Sitting forward and draining her cup, she sat back
again. This was the perfect place away from the cell, prison, and
her own life. She could have another drink, a large gelato and go
out in a blaze of glory at least believing it was on her own
terms.

But no, frag it
all.

"Frag it all," she
said, shouting it out at the holos, who made no reaction. She got
up and walked back inside the cafe.

"Coffee, err,
Caffe"

Beep
. It tasted bitter and gave her a
jolt. No intox, but stimulant?

"Coffee, caffe,
large." She ordered another one. The Arena, Colosseo, should be
just up the road.

Grock was unsure. Since emerging into the
sunshine, he found himself walking around a circle of ruined
columns near to the entrance building and well away from the main
roadway. He had taken the clue literally, as if it was a Space
Corps Special Order.
From a prison for execution to an arena of
execution.
This must mean a place in-between. Strategically, it
would be best to explore the ruins first, before going towards the
arena.

Giving no thought to
the other challengers, he was satisfied that he had guessed
correctly that the door into Rome was in or near the prison shown
on the map. He set out to find a set of stairs where history
records showed that executions took place. His thoroughness whilst
researching the clue in his cell had taken quite a few minutes.
“Fail to plan, plan to fail,” the Special Forces used to say. If
the clue was about guns, planning security operations, or
assassinations, no problem, but all this cryptic crap.

Shielding the sun from
his eyes, he licked his lips, never comfortable in warm climates.
He continued searching around the area, rationalising that it must
be checked in case the clue setter had written a double bluff.
Having not found anything useful, he moved onto the next strategic
point by walking at a steady pace towards the main roadway. There
was more than enough time to reach the arena.

***

Ooma wiped the sweat
off his brow, not used to walking fast or as far. The arena was
nearly two kilometres from the Living Room. A large open concrete
walkway surrounding the arena came into view. There was an
increasing sound of a crowd stamping, cheering and clapping.
Glancing back up the main road, he could thankfully not see any of
the other challengers in their grey jumpsuits, but they may be
obscured inside the crowd. He may be in with a chance.

Lines of people
wandered towards a queue which, Ooma guessed, must be going into
the main entrance. He admired the building and the use of arches to
displace weight. There were some arches in a building in one of the
old towns on his home planet. This arena was small, though,
compared with the mega stadium at Hablar.

He
passed
people wearing white sheets folded
around their bodies. Next to them were a group of men in rounded
metal armour with face helmets. They were clashing their swords in
a mock fight. A couple of people stood next to the men, whilst
someone else held up a metal case towards them.

Ignoring all the
activity and people showing a paper ticket, Ooma went straight
through the entrance and into a low tunnel. A quick look around,
showed no one behind him. He quickened his pace. Walking straight
through some holo people, he bounced off a couple of solid ones. He
recalled the internal map of the arena that he had read in his
cell. It was similar to a basic engine power node schematic.
Through an oval tunnel, he could see the religious emblem at the
end of it. He felt a lightness in his chest. The cross symbol,
where the Emperor sat. As he walked forward, he saw all the key
boxes lined up. He was the first one there.

"Yes," Ooma said aloud
and raised his clenched fist to no one in particular.

Hitching up his
trouser belt, he leaned forward and poked his finger in the
security device.

Click
.

The key felt heavy in
his hand, and as he put it in his pocket, he became more aware of
the crowd noise. With his sole attention on finding the key, he had
not looked into the arena itself.

The arena floor was
full of people, clashing and fighting like the men outside, but
this appeared more realistic. Gladiators in armour were striding
around, threatening unarmed men, women, and children with their
swords as if it were a game. One type of gladiator had a net and a
long three-headed spear. The helpless victims ran around
haphazardly trying to avoid tripping over unlucky ones lying on the
ground, covered in red blood. Other pairs of gladiators were
attacking each other with menace, trying to kill each other. A
large audience filled the upper tiers of the arena.

"Emperor."

Peering over the
parapet, he saw a gladiator standing over another man in armour
lying on the ground. A foot was firmly planted on the prone
gladiator’s chest whilst he shouted up towards Ooma.

"Emperor."

Ooma realised he was
the one being shouted at. The gladiator held a short sword to the
throat of the prone man whilst his other hand gesticulated towards
Ooma.

"Emperor?"

"Hello." Ooma said and
gently waved his right hand at him. At this, the gladiator slipped
the sword into the throat of the prone man who went limp. Ooma
gulped and quickly walked away. They are only holos he said to
himself. Better get out of here, find the exit door. He decided it
would be safer to find an exit out of the arena away from the
entrance.

***

Williams remained
tense but relieved. The challenge was working well, judging by the
audience’s reactions and the data zaps coming in from live viewers
across the Association. The clue had not been too difficult, though
he was surprised that Grock had gone off track. He had him as a
definitive finalist. As for Ooma, just goes to show all the
reading, research, and sleep hypnosis programmes must have worked.
The holos were holding steady and the re-enactments worked
well.

He felt relieved that
a challenger had found a key. In the planning period, weeks ago, he
had held a “what if” session.

"What if the
challengers kill each other on the first challenge?"

"What if none of the
challengers find a key or exit door within the countdown
period?"

"What if a bot goes
berserk and sets fire to an auto chef, causing an explosion which
burns a hold in the floor through which the challenger then falls,
thereby, denying them the right to take part in the challenge?"

Williams and the
technicians had already considered many of the suggestions. If it
appeared unlikely that anyone was going to find a key, then with
fifteen minutes, left, the exit door location would be revealed.
This, backed up by security bots, would cause a frantic, yet
exciting, race to the door.

One of the earlier
versions considered was a race format, but in Williams’ mind it
lacked subtlety and interest. Might as well just line up some
convicts, give them a weapon, and see who get past the finish line
first. Other shows were doing that already.

The image quality was
excellent in all beam and stream mediums, including the immersive
“sense surround” which was first rate. Static and floating cams
were virtually everywhere except on the challenger themselves.
Enthusiastic audience members could dial into any camera, auto
follow their favourite, and see the vital stats, as well. People
watching from eating and intox houses could view the show in the
background via a single edited stream.

Williams had come up
with the idea to beamcast two versions of the Challenge. Apart from
the live feed, they would have another with a built-in five minute
delay that younger audience and families could watch. Any extreme
events and deaths would be edited out. The Twins were happy with
that option, as it encompassed a wider audience, which meant higher
ratings.

Williams rubbed his
chin; perhaps it may be time to grow another Inhab-47 style
beard.

"Flip, Argenta, good
job. Keep it up," Williams said directly to their comms implants
and sat back, waiting for the events to unfold.

***

Technician 22 was
satisfied that the security bots followed their programming as per
his instructions. It was a useful exercise and the incapacitation
of Brookko had been efficiently carried out and an audience
pleaser. The clothes were ridiculous; one of Williams’ jokes
perhaps, security bots in skirts? Turning his attention back to the
Challenge, he sent the bots off towards the arena and placed them
on standby. A backup, just in case the “favoured one” could not
find a key or exit door.

***

Meren had waited for
the others to go into the holo world first. Her intention was to
follow Ooma as he seemed sensible and harmless. The research was
difficult for her. It was one thing reading Jayzan and library
texts, but delving into ideas and concepts based on an alien world
was complicated. Racing against the clock did not help. Emerging
from the prison building, she saw Carac rubbing his groin and
shaking his head. What's he been up to? Keeping her distance, she
stepped lightly along, following him to the main roadway, staying
behind groups of people as best as possible. She had an idea that
the keys were in the arena, as she had found some information about
a cross representing a religious symbol. That made sense at a place
of slaughter. Half running, half walking, she kept her eye on
Carac. Not difficult to notice, with his white hair, grey jumpsuit
and athletic style of running. By controlling her breathing, she
used only as much effort as was required. The surroundings and
people were interesting to look at, but she had closed the
inquisitive part of her mind. Find a key; she owed herself that, at
least.

***

Kellsa was fast on her
feet and saw Ooma a distance ahead, as he negotiated the Arena
entrance. Good boy. There were numerous people milling about, many
of whom had the same skin colour as herself. This was just like a
hunt, but within a different type of environment and only one main
objective. She would step over, kill, or do whatever it took to
win. No problem. In fact, she could wait for that fat oaf Ooma and
just steal his key. Problem being that she had no idea where he
would exit and didn't want to waste time. If correct, she was
second or third behind fatty. She could actually get a key
legitimately. Finding the exit door was the next thing, but she
would hide and follow one of the others.