The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “Sounds suspicious,” said Tom. “Most of these type of sites grab their pictures of the girls off ‘Twitface’, the combined social media outlet, sworn to provide misinformation and pictures of what people are eating.”

  “I hated the internal stomach shots on there,” said the Magus, “but I can confirm that actually, all the girls are chat-bots, machines, programmed with nice voices and adaptive speech sequences. Rannie said it was cheaper than using real people.”

  “But there must be someone who meets the punters, otherwise there would be a stream of refunds?”

  “There is. Rannie employs Mrs Elsie Sponge, who turns up at all romantic meetings. They change the picture on the Mesh page the moment she leaves the stable. The guys have had their date as promised, and the dreams are actually nightmares, so they can’t claim compensation. Most of them are looking for a bit on the side anyway. Elsie provides quite a large bit, and any problems afterwards are dealt with via blackmail and compromising videos.”

  “That’s not very ethical, is it?” said Tom, as they walked towards the headquarters building, a seedy-looking bar with a neon sign proclaiming ‘Dearheat’s Burgers and Billiards’. “I didn’t know Rannie ran a B&B.”

  “She is a multi-talented woman. That’s why I love her.” The Magus tipped his hat slightly further down over his face, and pulled his overcoat collar up. “When we go in, don’t drink anything,” he said, “and don’t sit down, and don’t let anyone stand behind you with a cosh... and do let me do the talking...”

  “Stand.” They were greeted inside by a dangerously tattooed hulk somewhat lacking in the extremities of one hand.

  “You must be Luigi,” the Magus said, shaking the man’s damaged arm vigorously.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Rabbit droppings on your shoes. I used to be a P.I. you know. First rule of private investigation: always look at the shoes. They say a lot about a person.”

  “I had a pair of those ‘Dearheat Talking Shoes’,” said Luigi. “They were a best-seller for a while, being linked into the Galactinet of Pointless Things, and it was okay while they simply told me the football scores and the weather, but once they started blabbing about where I’d been and who I’d been seeing...”

  “We’re here to see Rannie,” said Tom. “I presume she’s in?”

  “Sadly, no.” Luigi shook his craggy head. “She was granted amnesty by the last Emir of Sapristi, on the condition she went in person to sign the papers. I haven’t seen her since, or any other part of her for that matter. I’m worried. If it wasn’t that the bunnies need me, I’d be out looking for her myself.”

  “We will find her,” said the Magus. “We should start on Sapristi.”

  “But STOP is scouring the galaxy for us,” said Tom.

  “They won’t find us if we’re on the planet itself, then, will they?”

  “I’m not sure I appreciate your logic.”

  “First rule of private investigation: always do the unexpected.”

  “You don’t think it’s a trap then?”

  “Why would it be? They think we’re fugitives...”

  “We are fugitives.”

  “That can change,” said Luigi, rubbing his fists together. “I will come too. I’ll call Little Five-Fingered Nicola from ‘Beechsquirrel Rabbit Support and Debt Collection’ to take over while I’m away.”

  “According to the Galactinet of Doobries,” said the Magus, fondling his information screen as the Fortune headed for Sapristi, “there have been a lot of deliveries of ‘Swedwayland Alert Football Shirts’ to the State Penitentiary.”

  “And that means?”

  “Rannie is there, and still conducting business. Either she is running the prison, or she is an inmate. Each would give her the opportunities to tout her wares. It could even be some plan of hers. Everyone knows it’s easier to get most things illegally in prison than buy them honestly in the outside world.”

  “Can you track her down and be sure?”

  “Here we go.” The Magus looked up from another screen of information. “Her perfume has been reported in the Prisoner Internal Secure Transportation logs. It was causing problems amongst the male prisoners because of its erotic properties, and they kept getting stuck in the cubicles in the vans. There is only one antidote to thoroughly purge it, and that has been ordered by the Delicate Prisoner Care unit in the west wing of the State Pen. That’s where we will find her.”

  “And how do you propose to bust her out?”

  “I have no idea, but a nice ale might help.”

  “Is there one?”

  “I’ve found a place near the prison.”

  The bar of the ‘Bee and Incarceration’ was buzzing with activity. On a table near a hive in the centre of the dimly lit room, Tom, the Magus and Luigi, of three-fingered and rabbit-tending persuasion, were discussing how they might be able to rescue Rannie from the clutches of the Sapristi penal system.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Tom, “is how they managed to capture her in the first place. As far as I can tell, policing here is by surveillance, and people are then sent emails asking them to give themselves up. That way, the gaols are full of polite and compliant people, and prison officers are likewise. It is one of the safest jobs on the planet.”

  “That’s true,” said the Magus. “Only people who are stupider than the police ever get caught, so it is a real mystery how they could capture Rannie.”

  “They might have been sneaky. Don’t forget that Montague Errorcode now has connections to STOP, and presumably the government to boot. It was probably one of his devious tactics. We will need to be smarter.”

  “What do you think, Luigi,” said the Magus, taking a sip of his pint and grimacing as the fine aroma of hops, malt and toilet-cleaner hit his nostrils. “You were big in the criminal underworld before you lost your fingers...”

  “It was never proved,” said Luigi, “but I believe there was a crime lord called Big Five-Fingered Luigi. That wasn’t me.”

  “Of course, but you must have busted people out of prison.”

  “No, that was another crime lord, Big Four-Fingered Luigi, but if I was him, which I’m not, what he would probably do is bribe the ‘screws’. That must be some of them at the table over there.”

  “Don’t call them screws,” said the Magus. “They are apparently very sensitive and compassionate, seeing themselves as care-home workers for the legally misguided. I was listening to their conversation when I got the last round with Luigi’s money... thanks for that, by the way.”

  Luigi shrugged. “They wouldn’t serve me.” He pointed to a sign over the bar. “I showed them my bunny screen-saver and my membership card for the petting zoo, but apparently, because I wanted to order a triple Scotch, and have a few tattoos, that automatically makes me deficient in the digit area.”

  “I suppose the ‘tats’ are a bit of a put-off,” said Tom, regarding the gory battle-scene tattoos working their way up his arm. “And that haircut of yours, and the bone through your nose, and the necklace of what look suspiciously like human teeth, and the biking leathers with the words ‘Sex, Glory and Death’ embroidered on the back in ‘skull stitch’... and the damage to your hand.” He looked sympathetically at Luigi’s mutilated left arm. “I suppose your moniker doesn’t help.”

  “Yes,” Luigi nodded sadly. “I only got the nickname because I order my whisky in triples. It is known as ‘three fingers of Scotch’. I used to drink a lot more, when I was a leader of organised crime, which I wasn’t. Being so large, it never affected me, and hence the nickname.”

  “Oh, I thought it might be your missing fingers.”

  “Missing fingers?”

  “Do you feel like telling me how that happened?” Tom pointed hesitantly at the maimed left hand. It was always difficult discussing people’s deformities. Luigi was a big man and Tom had no idea how he might react.

  “Oh, those. It was a rabbit-related i
ncident,” said Luigi. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “And so you should. Until you mentioned it, I hadn’t really noticed I was mutilated. That might be why they wouldn’t serve me. I never realised until now. It doesn’t affect me, though. I still have the opposing thumb, so I deserve recognition as one of the higher species.” He picked up his whisky tumbler, and drained the liquid in one gulp. “You’ve made me sad now, realising I’m abnormal.” He picked up another tumbler and drained that too, despite the protests from its previous owner on the table next to them. “Now I’m starting to feel angry. How dare they discriminate against physical deformity...” He stood up and knocked his chair over. Tom spotted the landlord worriedly speaking into a vintage telephone on the bar.

  “Shush,” he said hurriedly, putting his hand on the representation of the violent bit of the Battle of Gettysburg on Luigi’s arm. “Don’t draw attention to us. Remember, we are here to rescue Rannie, not stand up for mutants’ rights.”

  “Apologies, Boss,” said Luigi, sitting down again. “That sort of discrimination really gets my rabbit.”

  “I think the word is ‘goat’. ‘Gets my goat’, you mean?”

  “I’ve known some real savage lagomorphs in my time. Anyway, where’s the Magus gone?”

  “He disappeared the moment you started to rant. He’s good at that.”

  “But he simply vanished.”

  “He teleports when he’s scared, which is a lot of the time in this situation. Oh dear, the landlord is coming over. He seems to be bringing a tray with some drinks on, and the bar-phone.”

  “Excuse me.” The man sidled up apologetically. “I’ve brought you a round of drinks on the house, and there’s someone who needs to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

  “Very kind,” said Luigi, helping himself to two of the glasses. “But I wonder who could be calling us.”

  The landlord put the receiver into Luigi’s good hand and skidded back to the safety of the bar. Tom listened in as Luigi put the phone on the table and the amplifier operated.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes?” Luigi peered the device.

  “Is that the big guy with the body art and the missing fingers?”

  “I hadn’t noticed until right now, but yes, I suppose so, if you’re not going to discriminate against me for it.”

  “This is the police, Instant Response Unit. We have to ask you to vacate the premises. You are causing a disturbance.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “We cannot tolerate your sort of overdeveloped, mindless ape in here, no offence. You are respectfully asked to leave.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “The management reserve the right not to serve you, as long as it does not risk their personal safety.”

  “If I threaten to punch his teeth in, would he serve me?”

  “Maybe. Health and safety guidelines do suggest avoiding danger.”

  “And if I don’t leave?”

  “You will receive another phone call, and we will be annoyed with you and may have to use stern language.”

  “You’re not coming round to stop me?” Luigi sounded disappointed.

  “Good heavens, no. Not only would that risk your own wellbeing, as I’m sure you would resist arrest and could possibly get hurt and then sue us for the personal damage, but we haven’t the insurance to suffer physical danger either. We can only offer you another telephone call, from my captain next time, and you don’t want that now, do you? He can be very stern.”

  “You are right,” said Luigi. “Thank you for explaining it to me. I’ll go quietly.”

  “We appreciate that.” The relief from the man on the phone was almost tangible. “Then, please leave the bar... in your own time of course... don’t feel we are rushing you.”

  Luigi disconnected the call and took the telephone back to the bar. “I’ll have another three fingers,” he said. “I believe we are on complimentary drinks until we leave.”

  Luigi returned with a tray of glasses, and a large packet of something described as ‘cheese-flavoured snacks’, but tasting of wet cardboard as most of them seem to do. The Magus reappeared in his seat and grabbed a glass of ale.

  “Thanks for your help back there,” said Tom.

  “I was working,” said the little man, looking affronted. “I hid behind the partition over there and listened to those prison officers talking...”

  “Screws,” said Luigi loudly.

  “Detention Guidance Facilitators, now,” said the Magus. “They were talking about the new prisoner and the various supplies they know she is smuggling into the prison. They also mentioned where they were keeping her. She has talked her way into the low security house. Finally, they said they were going off-duty and would be sleeping off their drunken stupor in the back room, using the sleeping clothing provided, and that their uniforms would be hanging in a locker, unlocked and unguarded for the next eighteen hours, because there would be no crime this close to the prison. There are also hangers for their security passes and masks.”

  “Masks?” said Tom.

  “All Detention Guidance Facilitators have to wear masks to maintain their anonymity, so that in the unlikely event they upset one of the inmates, there could be no repercussions against their friends or families.”

  “That gives me an idea,” said Luigi.

  “Where are these uniforms going to be? We might use them to get into the prison,” said Tom. “We could even succeed.”

  “Yes, I suppose we could do that, instead of what I was thinking,” said Luigi, putting his Gatling-gun back into its double-bass case.

  Later that evening, to the heartfelt relief of the bartender, who shook hands warmly with them all, and in gratitude gave Luigi a bottle of wine to take away, the three optimistic liberators left the pub with the prison uniforms under their arms. After a quick change, where they found that the uniforms fitted perfectly, one small and chunky, one normal, and one large with extra space for the biceps, Tom started the engine of the prison van with the key left in the pocket of his stolen outfit. They drove the short way to the gate of the prison, and were waved through without any inspection of their passes. They abandoned the van at the bottom of a muddy hill when the engine refused to struggle any further, and hid in the bushes. The powerful beam of the security searchlights failed to locate them, because it had been switched off to save electricity.

  “Up there,” said the Magus, pointing to a large house. “The Detention Guidance Facilitators described it in detail as I was listening, so we should be able to find Rannie without getting lost in the corridors and being captured.”

  As they slipped and skidded up a muddy footpath towards the impressive mock-Sixties house on the top of the hill, there was a challenge from one side, and torchlight picked them out.

  “Please to stop. Require review of security documents for people to proceed.”

  “I know that accent,” said Tom. “You are not from around here, are you?”

  “How you tell? I told I speak Sapristi language very good. Got university degree from main teaching hospital in Musoketeba. Told I am a natural.”

  “You work for the Nishant corporation?” said Tom.

  “Oh yes, all detention services outsourced. You not know?”

  “How is Mr Nishi?”

  “He is most agreeable, but how you know Mr Nishi? You are merely Detention Guidance Facilitators, I seem to think.”

  “We are,” said Luigi, bringing his fist down on the man’s head. He caught the man as he crumpled, and carried him into the bushes. “But we are not mere anything,” he said. “Where now?”

  “The torch is useful,” said Tom. “We can see where we’re going now. I guess security isn’t big on the agenda here. Oh, what’s this?”

  “A ditch with a plank across it,” said the Magus. “This must be one of their security measures. The plank looks greasy.
Perhaps they are expecting us.”

  “And there are more guards over there,” said Luigi, pointing.

  The lights around the house came on, and there were shouts in the Musoketeban language.

  “That’s done it,” he said. “They’ve seen us.”

  “They have to cross the plank,” said Tom. “Can you hold them off, Luigi? Magus, they all seem to be coming this way. Perhaps you can MUPPET behind them... oh, he’s gone.”

  “Halt.” One of the guards waved a gun at them.

  “Oy, I thought firearms were banned here, for safety reasons,” said Tom, putting his hands up.

  “Ah, but we from Musoketeba. In glorious fatherland, we have no safety. Only namby-pamby capitalists require safety and health. In deference though, we only have one gun and no instruction book. You come without struggle?”

  “Try me,” said Luigi, taking up an aggressive stance at the end of the plank.

  “Oh good. We like scrap. Chance to practise Hageshido…”

  “Hageshido?”

  “Is ancient Musoketeban, meaning ‘The Violent Way’. We like to try it out on unauthorised nocturnal visitors. You keep still now.”

  “But we are Sapristi prison guards. We have every right to be here.”

  “From uniform, you day shift. Should not be here now. If you come in daytime, would be no problem. You give up yourselves and we have no enjoyment in mortal combat.”

  “Oh look,” said Tom out of the corner of his mouth. “The Magus has cunningly materialised right on top of the man with the gun. He’s taken the weapon off him.”

  “I’ll handle these little chaps coming our way,” said Luigi.

  Several of the guards ventured out on the plank and performed theatrical fighting moves meant to throw terror into the hearts of their enemies. Luigi bent down and lifted the end of the plank, flipping them into the clinging mud below. The others backed off, so he ventured across the plank himself. There was a flurry of activity at the far side as the entire squad leapt at him, kicking and punching. Tom went to try to help, but Luigi emerged from the melee with a pile of the men under each arm. He staggered to the edge of the ditch and dumped them all on top of their struggling comrades.