Theme Planet (22 page)

Let me,
said Zi, and Amba allowed her
access and entry and total, utter control, for if she’d tried it herself then
her brain would have twisted in upon itself with the sheer scope of thoughts
and emotions, of an entire life within her own life, a mind within a mind
fighting to be free.

Zi searched and channelled and
worked.

And Zi smiled at her, and her
teeth were glossy black, her tongue black, her eyes black, glowing, shining
with the light of an alien place. Zi squeezed Amba’s hand, reassuring the
Anarchy Android.

You’re safe,
that hand said.

Safe with me...

~ * ~

Amba opened her
eyes
with a start. She shivered, as if somebody had walked over her grave.
Everything, the world and life and evolution, was a blur. Gradually it cleared,
and Amba shook her head. She coughed once and stared at Jmes.

He was swaying a little, where he
sat, slumped against his desk. He seemed conscious but dazed, which was
probable, for he had a bullet in the brain. As Amba watched, another trickle of
blood slowly rolled from the bullet’s entry wound and down the professor’s
forehead. Then, like slow-mo filmy in reverse, a circle of steel appeared at
the dark hole, filling it. There was a tiny grating sound, of metal on bone,
and the bullet reversed from its path, from its worming exploration, and Jmes
lifted a hand and, with a tiny
squelch,
removed the bullet from his own
skull.

He looked down dully at the tiny
sliver of steel in his hand. His mouth worked spasmodically, jaws opening and
closing, before he finally looked up at Amba and cocked his head to one side,
eyes full of questions, pain haunting his features.

“You know?” he said, finally.

“I know. Lady Goo Goo is
currently in hiding, under protection at Monolith’s Firelce Mountain
High-Security Military Facility.”

“You’ll never get to her,” said
Jmes.

“We’ll see.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“Huh?” Amba had turned away,
scanning the darkened room. Outside, the sun had fully dropped below the
horizon. Still the permanent party of the Theme Planet went on. People were
laughing and cheering.

“I won’t say anything. If you let
me live.”

Amba stood. Fireworks erupted in
the sky, sparkling streamers as wide and high as cubescrapers, roaring into the
heavens and filling the world with stars. Silver and gold petals glittered.
Firework horns sheared off and faded into nothing.

There was a deep darkness after
the display.

Amba lifted her FRIEND and fired,
point blank, into Professor Jmes Kooky’s face. This time it was a
real
bullet, and it detonated his brain and skull across the side of his desk.

“Nobody gets to live,” said Amba,
and holstering the FRIEND in her chest, turned and left the room.

~ * ~

CHAPTER SIX

LABYRINTH

Dex stood under
the
shade of turquoise trees, leaning against a slick, glossy trunk, watching the
hotel. Everything appeared normal. There were no heavy-handed tourist police,
no forensics, which was incredible because, technically, both kidnap and murder
had happened under that very roof. Dex had worked PUF for years, he knew the
protocols, and the whole damn place should have been shut down and crawling
with forensics. But then, this was a
tourist-
fueled world. He’d read
reports about Theme Planet. Once, a provax terrorist organisation called The
Sons of Reality demanded that humans were not allowed on their theme park world
due to atrocities committed during the Helix War. They had waged a war via
planted IEDs which left various holes in various landscapes, and derailed a
fair number of high-speed theme rides. Monolith Corporation’s first response
had not been in Dex’s eyes the logical one -which was to communicate with the
terrorist group. Instead, Monolith had deployed a veritable army of
quick-response drones with the sole purpose of doing quick “cover-up” jobs, the
ability to sniff out IED traces from a thousand klicks, then deliver to the
perpetrators swift bloody retribution.

Dex rubbed at his tired eyes, and
then the back of his neck where he’d been
stung
by Jim. The bastard.

He’d awoken a few streets away,
lying on a bench in the sun, mouth tasting of metal.

What to do, what to do?

Had Jim been right? Get his gear
and clear off TP? Was that the only thing he
could
do?

And what the hell was wrong with
Police Urban Force officers visiting the damn planet in the first place? Dex
had never heard of anything in news or papes with a negative spin on PUF
visiting the theme world. Why would it matter? Who would care?

Questions upon questions upon
questions, each one leading further into a labyrinth of questions. But the
simple, glowing fact still remained - should Dex trust Jim and get the shit off
the planet? Or should he try and get things done himself? Dex grinned, and it
was a nasty grin, a bad grin, the grin of a man teetering on the knife-blade of
insanity. After all - you could only push somebody so fucking far. And Dex’s whole
world had turned to rat-shit. He could trust nobody. Fuck everybody. Everybody
was a potential enemy. Dex wouldn’t get caught with his pants round his ankles.

He rubbed at his eyes. Shit. The
only way Kat and Molly and Toffee were leaving Theme Planet was if Dex put in
the groundwork.

Okay.

Backtrack.

Jim wanted him to leave, and had
happily turned on his own. Did he really work for the police? For Monolith? Or
was he part of the same organisation as had kidnapped his family? Had he helped
Dex in order to help himself? But why would he do that?

Dex’s eyes narrowed. He, himself,
was trouble. The Earth government knew he was on Theme Planet, and he was PUF,
which meant Big People. Important people. People it was certainly harder to
make disappear.

Okay. Assume, then, that Jim was
helping him
for a reason.
But not the same reason Dex really thought.

Back up further.

Dex could trust
nobody.

It had been suggested he pack his
stuff and leave Theme Planet voluntarily. Which meant this had the sanction of
Monolith - who else could clean up the hotel and allow him to waltz in, gather
his shit, and leave? If that
was
the case, then he had to play the game
for a little bit...

Okay. Play the game... see what
happens.

He crossed the road and mounted
the steps, wincing a little as he waited for the sniper’s bullet. But no. To
kill him in broad daylight on the steps of the hotel - too risky. Anybody could
see. They had back-pedalled themselves, now, and were treating him differently.
His would not be a death on the street, or a clumsy bomb in a car. Amateurs had
done their best to fuck it all up, and Jim had been called in to correct the
situation. Dex was sure of it.

He crossed reception. He smiled
at the receptionist, now a lady with bright green provax eyes, and Dex stopped
at the lift. It had been repaired. Gods, that was fast! But then, Monolith were
experts at the cover-up, ever since The Sons of Reality started blowing the
tracks on rollercoasters.

He got in the lift, feeling
strange. The last time he’d been in the lift he’d been battling for his life
with a cross-wired PopBot. The doors closed with a
bing
and Dex studied
the panels carefully, searching for a dent, a mark, a scorch from live wires,
anything. But he could spy no evidence whatsoever. He started to consider the
possibility that he’d gone crazy, and was currently paddling upstream through a
mire of his own insanity, when the doors opened and he caught the
whiff
of fresh paint. Dex licked his lips. Not going mad after all.

He moved to his room, and it had
been repaired, tidied, the corpse removed. Great stuff. Even the doors of the
dented kitchen cupboards had been replaced. Even the bullet holes had been
filled and painted. Dex crossed, frowning, and touched the wall. The paint was
dry.

“Those fuckers.”

He moved to his room, dragged out
his small case (he always had his own small case, so that when his wife
inevitably overloaded their family case to five times the baggage weight
allowance, he could justifiably allow her to pay the extra charges herself; she
called him an old skinflint bastard; he called her a wilfully decadent baggage
stuffer). He filled it with a few clothes and anything he thought might be of
use. His police issue gun was gone, no doubt taken by Jim, or some other Monolith
spook. Dex went back to the kitchen, removed various hefty chopping blades from
their diamond block, and wrapped them in clothing inside his case. But what he
really needed was a pistol. No, a machine gun. No, a fucking
rocket
launcher!

Plan. Plan. What to do?

He had to appear to be playing
ball, then disappear off the grid.

But then what?

Jim. It had to link back to Jim.
Jim, the
human
policeman. The bastard knew what was happening. He knew
where Dex’s wife and children were. So, it would just be a matter of gentle
persuasion. Right?

Dex stared down at the blade.

He changed, pulling on muted
green cargo pants and black boots. His wife always,
always,
mocked him
about his insistence on taking his boots on holiday.
Why in the name of
arse,
she would say, usually brandishing a chopping knife in his direction,
would you want boots on the beach? Sex on the beach, I’ll grant you, but
bloody big fat stomping army boots? Have you got a screw loose? A joker missing
from the pack?
But Dex would grind his teeth and thrust out his lower jaw
and absolutely adamantly take his damn and bloody boots. They were a part of
him. Comfortable. As much a part of Dexter Colls as his chest hair. And that’s
what you got for years on the streets of London, walking the beat and beating
the crims.

Dex pulled on a long-sleeved dark
top without any fashion insignia, something he’d brought along for the chilly
nights (or so he reasoned) but now something which would be an aid to
night-time subterfuge. Over this, despite the heat outside, he pulled on a
brightly coloured orange and pink Hawaiian comedy shirt, the type of item he
usually wore to PUF officer stag night drinking sessions.

He moved to the bathroom mirror
and looked at himself. His eyes bore dark rings, his brow was creased with
stress, and there was no smile in his eyes. As he turned, he caught a glimpse
of a small framed photograph of Molly and Toffee, and his heart leapt. It
depicted both girls, their arms draped over one another, laughing. Katrina took
it everywhere with her. Dex lifted it, slid off the back and removed the
photograph. As he watched, slowly the photo dissolved into another image, of
the girls in costumes on a sunny beach in Clearwater, Florida. This was Kodak
Multi-Paper, and could display up to a thousand images. Katrina kept just three
on it: the second image dissolved and became the four of them, sat around a
table for Molly’s seventh birthday. There was a cake in the shape of a princess
(with black hair, moody eyes, black fingernails and mosh boots - a kind of
anti
-princess)
and sparklers sparkled and they were all laughing. Good times. The best of
times. Happy times. Dex folded the paper and tucked it inside his shirt. His
face went grim and he straightened, looking at the door. He touched the hilt of
the knife in his belt, under his brightly coloured vomit shirt.

Time to go to work,
he thought.

~ * ~

The trip to
the
Shuttle Port was an uneventful one. In the taxi (an automated one this time;
Dex didn’t relish the prospect of killing
another
taxi driver) he was
deposited at the loading ramps, and he moved through into the first waiting
lounge, taking his time, eyeing up everybody he passed. There were thousands of
people checking into desks, which were moving swiftly, fluidly. Theme Planet prided
itself on not fucking its customers about. Their bureaucracy was a well-oiled
machine; their organisation second to none.