Orion Arm

by Julian May

  "Wait just a nanosec," said the tallest bitch, a vision in pansy-purple with a baritone voice. She went behind a counter and used a phone. The other hostesses pouted at us.

  "Go right in," the baritone said. "Follow the arrows. The king will come to meet you."

  An unobtrusive door slid open briefly to admit us, then closed with a solid clunk, secured by an old-fashioned solenoid lock. Dan herded us down a ramp to a wide, curved corridor that seemed to encircle some central architectural feature. It was dimly lit and dirty. The inner wall was full of closed doors with numbers on them, and murky secondary hallways. Green arrows blinked on the outer wall, showing us which way to go. This area of the funhouse had none of the trashy splendor of the foyer upstairs. Its ramshackle plastic and wooden structural members, wiring, and plumbing were largely exposed. I had the impression that we were behind the scenes of a firetrap theater.

  The tumid rhythms of Ravel's "Bolero" came faintly through flimsy walls of particle board. I heard a distant spatter of applause.

  Then the creature appeared, slithering—there's no other way to describe his means of locomotion—out of one of the dark side passages like some mythological caricature. Simon and I stopped in our tracks, gaping.

  He was only about 130 centimeters tall, with the dried-apple face of a little old man—nose and chin almost touching, squinty black eyes buried in puddles of wrinkles, a mouth full of tiny, artificial-looking teeth. His body, in contrast, was elaborately muscled. He might have been an over-inflated action-figure doll wearing the wrong head. He was dressed in a skintight garment and crested hood of some remarkable reflective material that gave him the appearance of having been dipped in iridescent molten metal. The suit featured an undulating whiplike tail and a glistening ithyphallic codpiece with obscene motility. At least I hoped the damned thing was fake...

  The creature said, "I am King Farley. I own the Silver Scybalum." He oozed closer to Simon and me, eyeing us with horrid appraisal. My father shrank back in loathing. "Are these the two subjects?"

  I tensed instinctively, ready to jump the little abomination and use him as a hostage. King Farley pointed an index finger at me and a blue spark did aTinkerbell hop from its electrode tip to my breastbone.

  An invisible branding iron seemed to sear my flesh. I let out a scream, staggered, and would have fallen if Simon hadn't caught me in his wiry arms. He uttered a volley of profanity and asked if I was badly hurt.

  I told him I was okay and regained my balance within a few moments. The tiny bastard in the silver lizard suit was a walking laser. It was the same electroshock technology Captain Ziggy Cybulka had used to knock me ass over teakettle back at Mimo's place.

  Dan was saying, "This is the pair I spoke to you about, King. Before we conclude our negotiations for their—urn— sojourn, I wonder if you might show them some of the transform possibilities?"

  "Why, sure!" shrilled the manikin. "Today's pretty slow. Most of the pets are just hanging out in the bullpen. Just take a peek through here." He threw open a ramshackle pair of shutters that covered a grubby window on the inner wall. "Every single one an authentic reproduction! Every single one available..."

  Dan motioned with the Ivanov. "Look carefully. Imagine the possibilities! Then decide whether you want to give me your voting proxies or not."

  We looked.

  Hieronymus Bosch would have loved it.

  During my tour of field duty in the ICS, I'd seen a considerable number of grotesque xeno life-forms. Simon, a veteran galactic traveler, had also encountered his fair share. But King Farley's crowded "bullpen" was a revelation to both of us, simultaneously fascinating, stomach-turning, and pathetic. The dismal holding area imprisoned at least fifty beings—all different, most having not the slightest resemblance to anything human—resting apathetically or moving about in frenetic agitation.

  "Takes only about three months in dystasis to do the makeover job," Farley said chattily. "I got talented staff."

  As my father and I watched, a hatch slid open at one side of the pen and a hulking Bitch Gal armed with a high-tech cattleprod moved into the nightmarish throng. She beckoned to one of the creatures, a thing with long silken hair and garishly colored ischial callosities that resembled a cross between a dwarf mastodon and a mandrill baboon. It meekly followed the hostess out to whatever duties awaited it.

  King Farley closed the shutters. "That's enough, I think." He folded his shimmering pneumatic arms and said, "Well?"

  Simon was aghast, his gaze darting from his impassive older son to the smirking pimp. "Dan, you can't be serious—"

  My brother reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out an electronic document slate with an iris-reader. "Here's the proxy form. Both of you imprint it. Then you can spend the next two years wearing your own bodies, living in one of the king's town houses."

  "Not a top squat," Farley remarked with a shrug, "but comfortable enough. Decent food, warm in winter. Better than most of our Coventry Blue inmates enjoy. Otherwise, into the tank—presto, change-o! Makes no nevermind to me. I get paid the same, either option."

  Silently, I held out my hand. Dan gave me the slate and I lifted it to my eye. My brother smiled broadly and handed the document to Simon.

  The old man was staring at Dan in sad astonishment. "For Ramparfl You want to be boss-man that badly? Everything you've done ... your mother's death, what you were ready to do to Eve ... and now this. Just so you could run Rampart! Daniel, I just don't understand."

  "You never did," my good, gray brother said, thrusting out the proxy slate. He wasn't smiling anymore.

  Simon eyeballed it.

  Suddenly, two of the muscular transvestites from the lobby were standing in the corridor. One wore a bubblegum-pink costume and the other was clad in turquoise satin. Both of them held prods.

  "Our business is concluded, Citizen Frost," the kingpin convict said to Dan. "I'll expect the agreed-upon emolument at your earliest convenience. You can go out the way you came in. Chantal and Pepper will escort the other two gents to their accommodation in Dannemora House."

  King Farley slithered away with amazing rapidity, waving his tail, and Dan turned to go.

  "It's not over," I told my brother.

  "Alistair Drummond will be at the board meeting in Arizona to present his latest tender in person." He glanced at his watch. "Just a little over two hours from now. I '11 give your regrets to him and the others. They'll understand why you didn't care to be present. Goodbye, Asa, Simon. We'll talk again in a couple of years and discuss your future."

  Then he was gone.

  My father and I exchanged glances. His rangy trail-boss features had gone flaccid. He looked dazed and old.

  "I'm Pepper!" chirped the pink Bitch Gal. She topped my height by nine or ten centimeters.

  "I'm Chantal!" said the turquoise slut. She was a bit shorter, but still had maybe fifteen kilos on me. "Let's move right along to your new home, dahlings."

  "You guys take bribes?" I asked hopefully.

  They burst into merry chortles. "Isn't it precious" said Pepper. Then she zapped me in the groin with the cattleprod.

  I collapsed on the filthy floor, moaning.

  "Now, now," Pepper crooned. "That was only the minimum setting, sweetie. Hardly enough to toast your tiny chestnuts. Upsy daisy!"

  I rolled over, fumbled onto my hands and knees, head down, still making doleful sounds. Pink Pepper was telling nothing but the truth; the shocker had delivered small voltage, and it had missed my family jewels and hit my inner thigh—a distinct owie, but hardly enough to disable a fit male human.

  "Up up up!" urged Pepper cheerily.

  "Oh, Jesus," I wailed. "Gimme a minute. Oh, God, that hurts."

  "Poor baby." Chantal laughed. "You should wear them ring-tucked, as we do, and they wouldn't be so vulnerable."

  Shaking my addled head, I caught a glimpse of the turquoise bitch standing next to Simon, baton hanging carelessly at her side.

  I got up, Mr
. Wobbly, face all squinched with pain. Pepper had her stick raised, buzzing gently, ready to deal me another zotz if I misbehaved. Praying the thing had a deadman switch that would deactivate it when dropped, I stepped close, used both my forearms to clobber her weapon arm, and got a two-handed grip on her wrist. Then I pivoted sharply, bringing her arm over my shoulder and shattering her elbow. The prod fell out of her hand. I kicked the back of her knee and Pepper went down howling. Then I stomped the bridge of her nose with the heel of my heavy snakeboot.

  No more noise. Maybe no more Pepper, if I'd managed to drive her broken nasal bone into her brain.

  Snapping out of a state of momentary bamboozlement, Chantal came at me like a fury, swinging her hissing baton like an electrified baseball bat. One touch and I was fried. I dodged and flung myself at her, encircling her upraised arm and neck while locking my hands and squeezing with all my strength. Her silly helmet went flying. She fell over backward with me on top of her, forcing the pinioned arm and head forward.

  A noise like a wet stick cracking.

  Chantal went limp.

  "Holy fuck," whispered Simon.

  "Yeah." I climbed to my feet and went about retrieving the cattleprods. "That one's neck is broken. You want to check out the other?"

  Simon complied. "I don't think she—he—whatever—is breathing."

  "We're outta here, Pop." I gave him one of the weapons. "Move! And for God's sake, watch where you wave that prod."

  Bless King Farley's villainous heart, he'd forgotten to turn off the green directional arrows. We found the ramp without getting lost, dashed up it—

  —and came smack against the locked lobby door.

  I rapped on it with my weapon: shave-and-a-haircut.

  "Who's there?" a voice fluted.

  "It's Pepper and Chantal, dahlings!" I called in falsetto. "And you'll never guess what kind of goodies we've got!"

  Buzz. The old-time lock let go and the door opened. A Bitch Gal in golden lame managed one terrified squeak before I jolted her full-power between her hormonally enhanced boobs. The tall dollie in purple tried to flee into the street, but I grabbed her by her gem-studded belt and delivered an electrical goose.

  "Okay," I said to Simon. "I'm going to yank open these front doors. You burn the left-hand doorman and I'll do the other one."

  His green eyes were glittering with vitality again. "Got it. But dammit-all, Asa, how're we gonna get shut of this fuckin' calaboose? They got walls with razor wire, Kagi guns—"

  "And tourists. Just do as I do. On three. One... two..."

  We burst through the doors, delivered the volts, and watched the spacesuited gorillas topple like a pair of silver-clad refrigerators. The thrillseekers gathered at the display window watched with their jaws hanging open. A couple of cars slowed and the occupants lowered their windows to see what was happening.

  I waved my baton in salute. "Just part of the show, folks. There's always loads of funl At the Silver Scybalum!"

  I grabbed Simon's arm and dragged him toward a smelly gangway that led around to the back of the building. "Now run like your pants are afire."

  We took off at a gallop. The area behind the Blue Strip was a far cry from the tarted-up main thoroughfare. Aside from the parking lots and guarded lots for visiting hoppers, the buildings were shabby and bleak, dormitories or structures originally dedicated to various inmate services in the failed experiment of a "village" governed by the prisoners themselves. Of course there wasn't a guard to be seen. They almost never left the area around the main gate unless a visitor called for help on a pocket phone. Sometimes not even then . . .

  Nobody followed us—but that didn't mean we were home free. I had no doubt that King Farley and his freakish court had already discovered our escape, but they had to find a way of nabbing us without frightening the paying customers. I figured we had a few more minutes before the balloon went up.

  The first hopper lot we passed was nearly empty, except for a raggedy attendant snoozing on a stool outside a shack. The few aircraft sitting in it had their security fields turned on. The second lot, where Dan had landed the Garrison-Laguna, looked more promising. The G-L and my wayward sibling were gone, but another pair of visitors were entering the gate on the way back to their transport. The man and woman were middle-aged, wearing identical Hawaiian shirts and woven palm-leaf hats with feather bands. They had loaded carrier bags bearing the logo nanki-poo's toy shoppe.

  "Yo!" I called out in a friendly fashion. "Hey, there, folks. Hold it just a minute, please. Did you enjoy your visit to Coventry Blue?"

  Expressions of guilty apprehension. Nobody ever wants to answer a customer survey. They scuttled toward a sleek Mitsubishi-Kondo that sat isolated in a far corner of the lot.

  The attendant, half zonked on some intoxicant, regarded us without interest.

  I said to Simon, "Let's cut out those two dogies and grab their ride. Cattleprods on medium zap."

  "Christ!" He was staring over my shoulder, appalled. "What the bloody blue blazes is that?"

  I turned to look. On the Strip about two blocks away was a tall building crowned by a revolving neon sign: casino royale—lowest odds on earth. Skidding around it onto the back street came a scarlet motorcycle with a cowl shielding the rider. Flickering strobe lights of red, white, and blue decorated the thing from stem to stern.

  I heard high-pitched hornet screams. A brace of small missiles smacked into the fuselage of one of the parked, field-screened hoppers and set off its intruder alarms and more bright flashing lights.

  The loopy attendant grinned. "Far out!"

  "Allenby magnum stun-guns!" I yelled to Simon. "Do the jackrabbit! We can't let those people take off without us."

  Stun-flechettes flew around us as we dodged and sidestepped, doing a zigzag run across the lot. The terrified tourists had dropped their shopping bags and were fleeing toward the Mitsubishi.

  I heard the roar of the motorcycle growing in volume and glanced back. The machine must have been traveling at 120 kph over the broken, potholed pavement, bouncing a meter or more into the air whenever it hit a bad patch, each time returning safely to earth with a resounding wham. Fortunately for us, the maneuvers of the daredevil driver played hell with his weapons targeting system, and the parked hoppers partially shielded us.

  The Hawaiian couple were climbing into their aircraft as I reached them. The missus cried out, "Willis! Hurry! Hurry!"

  The hatch was almost shut when I blocked it with my cattleprod and began wrenching it back open. Once again my mighty muscles did their stuff. A string of stun-flechettes hosed the hopper hull a couple of centimeters above my head but the door was slowly yielding.

  "Go away!" the tourist lady wept, kicking at me hysterically with her sneakered foot. "Oh, I knew coming here was a mistake!"

  Her husband had the engines turned on. I felt the Mitsubishi lurch as the antigrav engaged. Simon was on top of me as both of us shoved our way inside, pushing the poor woman from her banquette onto the deck. "Willis! Willis!" she screamed. "Help!" He looked over his shoulder, his face irresolute. I was afraid he'd abandon the controls and come to his wife's rescue. The door had shut.

  "Lift off!" I yelled, "Lift off, for God's sake, or we're all dead!"

  The hopper jolted skyward at an oblique angle like a badly aimed bottle rocket, coming to a halt at the 200-meter emergency holding level when Willis's frantic pawing at the controls threw the navigator into Reboot mode. He tumbled out of the pilot seat and came at me with his fists cocked.

  "Whoa, there, pardner!" I seized his wrists and held him firmly at bay. "We're not crooks or convicts. We're innocent tourists like yourselves. The bad guys are trying to kill us. They stole our hopper."

  Willis was getting a close look at us for the first time—me with my gaudy fire-opal bolo tie, Simon in his once-elegant suit, now much the worse for wear.

  "How do we know you're telling the truth?" wailed the lady on the floor.

  Simon reached down and tend
erly helped her back onto the seat, switching on his charm like a megawatt floodlight. He pulled out a business card and presented it with a flourish. "Ma'am, I do sincerely apologize. And to you, too, sir, for commandeering your aircraft in such a boorish fashion. My name is Simon Frost and I'm the Chairman of the Board of Rampart Starcorp. This other gentleman is my son, Asa. I'll just ask him to unhand you now."

  I let the tourist go, giving him my friendliest smile. He was about sixty years old. His features had a slight Polynesian cast, he was in excellent physical shape, and he wore a professional spacer's chronometer on his wrist. His wife passed him Simon's card and he looked at it with suspicion. "May I ask your name?" my father inquired suavely. "I'm Willis Kanakoa. This is my wife, Leilani Peterson. What's this all about?"

  "You're in North America on vacation?" I asked.

  "Yes," said Leilani. "Who was that brute on the motorcycle shooting at us? Are his confederates going to come after us in a hopper?"

  "No, no," laughed Simon. "Convicts don't dare try to follow decent folks out of Coventry. Their chip implants would set off alarms. We're all perfectly safe now."

  "Hmph," Willis grunted dubiously. "Well, I think you two—"

  Simon broke in. "Citizen Kanakoa, would you be interested in making a great deal of money just for taking my son and me someplace we have to go? A brief two-hour flight. You might even like the place well enough to stay and visit."

  "Where's that?" Willis asked.

  I said, "Arizona. You'll love it there. Much quieter than Toronto."

  "Baldwin?" Alistair Drummond barks into the vidphone. "I'm having a serious problem with our agents assigned to this area."

  "What's the trouble, sir?" The Galapharma Security Chief is speaking from Concern headquarters in Glasgow.

  "Insubordination. Your bloody bastards here in Phoenix won't carry out my orders."

  Tyler Baldwin's eyes narrow and his voice changes its timbre, becoming less obsequious. "Sir, I've actually been informed about that matter already. A request of particular delicacy."

  "As a matter of fact, it was. I asked for a certain piece of equipment that I need for the Rampart board meeting at the ranch this afternoon. Your people won't give it to me. Flat out refused. They referred me to youl"