“You idiots!” hissed the Controller, his silver skin turning a shade of bronze. “You’ve ruined it. You’ve ruined everything! We promised the system Reduk Topa. We owe them Reduk Topa! And now he’s dead?! The Prey. The Hunters. They’re all dead!”
“You’re next, motherfonker,” Mech grunted, pushing himself up off the floor.
One of the Controller’s feet smashed against his back, driving him back down again.
“SHUT UP!” the Controller boomed, stamping on Mech over and over again. “SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”
Jumping to his feet, Cal vaulted over what was left of the desk. “Hey, Controller, what’s that?” he asked, pointing past the now bronzed figure in the direction of the landing platform where the Currently Untitled stood.
It was a bog-standard distraction technique, but as it happened, a guard did choose that moment to walk through the shielding, and the sound was enough to make the Controller stop stamping and turn.
Cal swung with a punch. One of the Controller’s hands came up and caught the fist, quickly enveloping it in liquid metal all the way up the wrist. Another hand caught Cal’s left breast as it leaped to his defense, and tugged sharply until, with a schlop, Splurt was torn free.
Frantically, Cal grabbed at his front to stop his inside parts becoming outside parts, but to his immense relief the damage to his torso—while still raw and pinkish—had mostly all healed over.
The Controller flicked his arm out, launching the detached pair of women’s breasts across the room. They transformed as they flew, becoming a green blob just in time to splatter messily against the far wall.
Cal jerked his arm, trying to pull free, but the Controller’s grip was too strong.
Slowly, moving as if it had all the time in the world, the Controller’s face turned Cal’s way. The head itself didn’t move, just the face. It oozed around the side of the skull until it was glaring hatred down at Cal.
“Look, I’m sure we can discuss…”
Another movement by the forcefield caught Cal’s eye. He watched as the armed guard led a procession of little people, all chained together in a line. They chattered excitedly, their oversized heads swaying as they skipped along.
“What the hell?” he asked. “Those are Floomfles. Where did they come from?”
“From your ship, you cretinous fleshmumble,” the Controller seethed. “I told you, you were delivering food for the Sloorgs.”
Cal’s eyes went wide with horror. “Wait, those guys? That’s the Sloorg feed?” he asked. “Also, ‘fleshmumble’? What the fonk is a fleshmumble?”
The Controller tightened his grip on Cal’s hand, grinding the bones together and forcing a gasp of pain from his lips.
“You had to go mess everything up, didn’t you? You had to go screw with the narrative. Killing the Hunters is one thing, but do you have any idea how much processing power I’ve dedicated to the story of Reduk Topa over the years?” the Controller seethed. “Do you have any idea how many people I had to have killed in order to build up his legend, so that those facile lumptards watching at home would finally have the villain they so desperately crave?”
“Six?” Cal guessed, then he grimaced when the Controller tightened his grip again.
“Thousands. Tens of thousands! Reduk Topa was nothing before I found him. No one. Just another vermin pirate in a galaxy infested with them. I made Reduk Topa. I am Reduk Topa! I built his legend from nothing so that The Hunt would have its greatest villain of all. And now you’ve ruined it!”
“Right, right,” said Cal. “Sorry about that. But, can I just…?” He pointed past the Controller again. “You’re not actually going to feed those little guys to the dogs with the ballsack heads, are you?”
The Controller, sensing Cal’s disapproval, twisted his face into a wicked grin of delight. “Oh, yes. I am. Feet first. Slowly. One at a time, starting with the cutest. Something about the taste of them drives the Sloorgs into a murderous frenzy. Even more than usual, I mean.”
His face darkened again, becoming a throbbing sea of brass and bronze. “Of course, the point was to get them riled up and ready for Topa—”
“But we ruined it. Got it,” said Cal. “But seriously, you can’t feed those guys to the Sloorgs. OK? You just can’t. Look at them.”
The Controller briefly regarded the procession of Floomfles as it was cajoled toward the door. There were four guards in all now, two in front and two behind. They were all trying very hard to watch what was going on in the center of the room, while pretending equally hard not to be.
The Floomfles themselves seemed to be having a great time. They bounced and skipped happily along, those with wings occasionally fluttering into the air before the chains binding them together went tight and they landed with a bump and a giggle.
“Come on, let them go,” Cal said. “You said it yourself, you don’t need to get the Sloorgs fired up, you don’t have a show.”
The Controller’s flowing metal flesh seemed to become pliable and runny. He took a step back, his eyes darting left and right as the enormity of it all finally sunk in.
“I don’t have a show,” he whispered. “But… The sponsors. The marketing. I don’t have a show.”
“I feel you’re going to blame us again at this point,” Cal said. “And, can I just say, that we really are sorry. It was all just a big misunderstanding.”
“I don’t have a show,” the Controller said again. “No Topa. No Hunters. No…”
The sentence stopped before reaching its conclusion. Behind the Controller, unnoticed, Mizette got to her feet. Cal tried very hard not to look at her as she lowered herself on her haunches and extended her claws.
The Controller raised four of his arms. They were all holding the little round pads again.
“Unless…” he whispered, and then his thumbs began to tap. A smile played across his face, and his bronze tones became a dully, murky silver. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
Miz snarled. Her legs tensed.
Then, just before she leaped, the Controller’s body emitted a blinding white flash, and darkness rushed in to fill the space it left behind.
Twenty-Five
Cal was in a transparent tube. That was the first thing he noticed. The reason he became aware of this so quickly was because he had awoken with his face pressed up against it, mouth open and drooling, nose squished so the contents of his nostrils were on display to anyone standing on the other side of the glass.
Fortunately, at that particular moment, nobody was standing on the other side of the glass. In fact, there wasn’t much going on outside the tube at all, aside from a small windowless room with stone walls, a metal door, and glowing red panel that—once the visual translation chip in Cal’s eyes kicked in—had the words ‘On Air’ emblazoned across it.
“What the fonk?” Cal grunted. His breath fogged the glass, and his voice echoed tinnily inside the tube, making him feel suddenly claustrophobic.
The tube was just a few inches taller than he was, with a circle of metal above him and another serving as the floor below. There was no other way in or out, as far as he could tell. The narrow diameter of the cylinder meant he couldn’t move more than a few inches, so building up momentum to smash his way free wasn’t an option. Besides, his arms were stuck down at his sides, and he couldn’t bend his legs enough to deliver any sort of meaningful kick.
That left one option.
He headbutted the glass. It clonked loudly, hurt considerably, but did no obvious damage. At least, not to the tube, anyway.
“Fonk,” he grimaced, wishing he’d thought that through for a few more seconds.
“Hello? Anyone there?” he called.
As he listened for a reply, he heard… something. A voice, he thought, from somewhere close by. Someone was talking, but it didn’t sound like they were talking to him. It sounded more like they were addressing a group and, sure enough, as Cal strained his ears he heard a few chuckles, and then a burst of applause.
“Hey! Hey!” he shouted, thudding himself against the glass. “I’m in here! I’m in a big pipe!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the voice, shouting now as if for Cal’s benefit. “I give you the Scourge of the Spaceports. The Commander of the Infidel Legion. The Butcher of Piptush V. It’s the Prey you’ve all been waiting for!”
The metal plate at Cal’s feet shot sideways, and the world fell out from below him. Cal tumbled down the tube into a blindingly bright room, plunged thirty feet, still inside the transparent pipe, then was slowed to a stop by a cushion of warm air.
Throughout this experience, he didn’t once stop screaming. It wasn’t until he was standing on solid ground that he was able to wrestle his mouth shut and pull himself together.
His breathing echoed inside the glass as he squinted out through the light patterns reflected across its surface. An audience of around a hundred… people, he supposed, if you were quite flexible with the definition, watched on from several tiered rows of seats.
Five or six beachball-sized spheres hovered in the air a few feet in front of the audience. One of the spheres had a red light blinking on the front, and lines of glowing text floating in the space directly above it.
“What the fonk is this now?” Cal wondered, then he jumped back as an ice-white figure in a coal-black suit spun into view in front of him, gestured theatrically in his direction and bellowed into a microphone like a boxing announcer really milking his big moment.
“Reduuuuuuuuuk Tooooooopa!”
The crowd went wild. And not in a good way. They erupted in a chorus of jeers and boos, their faces contorting, their arms making a whole variety of aggressive gestures. Something red and squishy exploded against the glass tube at head height. Several more of them rained down around him, splattering their mushy innards across the otherwise pristine white floor.
“Great, they’re throwing space tomatoes,” Cal groaned.
He raised himself up on his tiptoes so he could see the audience over the space tomato mush on the glass, and flashed them a winning smile.
“Uh, hi! There’s been a mistake. I’m not Reduk Topa.”
“Look at him,” hissed the host, his face a mask of rehearsed disgust. He gestured angrily at the tube. “Look at him in there! Smiling. Taunting us. After all he’s done!”
“Not taunting,” Cal said. “I’m not taunting. Honest. It’s just… Wait. Can you hear me? Hello?”
“I dread to think what he’s saying in there,” the presenter said, inadvertently answering Cal’s question for him. “Can you imagine the depravity coming out of his mouth? Can you imagine the filth?”
The audience’s reaction suggested that they could imagine the depravity very vividly indeed. They waved their arms and gnashed their teeth, their multi-colored faces all reddening with rage.
Something hard cracked off the glass tube, and Cal instinctively pressed himself against the back wall. He searched the floor and saw a single high-heeled shoe rolling to a stop to the right of the cylinder.
“LET’S KILL HIM NOW!” screeched a woman from the audience. The shoe-thrower, Cal thought. She looked the type. She had legs, anyway, and so presumably also feet. “HE’S A MONSTER!”
Some of the audience—a lot of the audience—were in complete agreement. They bellowed and roared, hollered and screamed, bouncing in their seats as they seethed and raged and foamed at the mouth.
“No, don’t kill me now,” Cal said, emphatically shaking his head. “I’m not Reduk Topa.”
The head-shake was a mistake, Cal decided. The crowd, who he was already somewhat unpopular with, almost lost it at the thought of him trying to tell them what to do. Almost half of them leaped to their feet, as if to race down the steps and hurl themselves at the glass.
To Cal’s relief, none of them did. This was probably less to do with any sense of decency, and more to do with the armed guards who suddenly made their presence felt at the foot of the stairs on each side of the audience.
“Oh, come now,” oozed the host. “Where would be the fun in killing him here and now?”
Judging by the expressions on some of the audience members’ faces, Cal reckoned they’d be able to find a way to enjoy it.
“Rest assured, my friends here in the studio, and all my many other friends watching around the system,” the host continued, his voice becoming a touch more solemn. “Reduk Topa shall pay for his crimes tonight. He shall pay the ultimate price. And we’ll all have front row seats.”
He threw his arms out at his sides and smiled brightly. “But first, a word from our sponsors.”
All eyes in the audience instinctively went to one of three large screens hanging from the ceiling as the ads began to play. They stared at them blankly, their faces slack, all their rage and hatred temporarily forgotten.
With the audience occupied, the host turned and approached the glass tube. He looked friendly enough, in his own way, although his perfectly white skin gave him a cold, clinical edge that suggested he could become very unfriendly anytime he liked.
“Hello, Mr Topa. Are you ready to face The Hunt?”
“I’m not Reduk Topa,” Cal said. “I’ve been set up.”
The host touched a finger to his ear and smiled. “Yes. I know. I’m well aware of who you are and what you did.”
He wagged a finger admonishingly. “You really should have just let yourself be murdered by Topa, as intended. Then you wouldn’t be in this position.”
“I’d be in a worse position,” Cal said.
The host smiled thinly. “Well. That’s debatable.”
Cal didn’t much like the way the host said that, and shifted uneasily between the walls of the tube.
“I don’t look anything like him. They’ll see through it,” Cal said. “Maybe not these idiots, but the people watching on TV. They’ll see I’m not him.”
“That would work out tremendously for you, wouldn’t it?” said the host, smiling cheerfully. His expression took on a sad note. “But, alas, no. See, we’re very careful with what we show. Topa could’ve been murdered out in the wild at any point during the narrative, so we’ve never shown a clear picture of him, just in case he ever needed to be replaced.”
He tapped a finger against the side of his head. “That’s the network, for you. Always thinking ahead.”
The host touched his earpiece again, momentarily distracted.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re going live again in a few moments.” He raised a hand in a sort of reverse-Vulcan salute, with the two middle fingers stuck together, and the others spread wide. “Have a good hunt, Mr Topa. Die slowly. Die well. And, most importantly, die in front of the cameras. Your end will be witnessed by trillions, all cheering your demise.”
He rapped his knuckles on the glass, then turned back to the audience just as the ad break came to an end.
“Laaaaadies and gennnnntlemen,” he boomed. “Are you ready for The Hunt?”
The reaction from the audience confirmed that, yes, they were ready, and had probably never been more fonking ready for anything in their whole miserable lives.
“As you know, the rules of The Hunt are simple. This man…”
He pointed back at Cal.
“No. This monster, will be released into our custom-designed arena. Equipped only with a Preypad, he must navigate through four—” He held up four of the six fingers on his left hand. “—that’s right, friends, count ‘em, four different zones, each filled with unique obstacles and dangers.”
The host’s brow furrowed. He stroked his chin in theatrical contemplation. “And… something else. I forget. What else is waiting in those zones?”
The audience spoke in a single voice.
“The Hunters!”
“That’s right, of course! How could I forget? The Hunters!” the host cheered. “And, for this very special edition of The Hunt, we’re bringing in a whole new team of Hunters. Check them out!”
He gestured up to the screens. Necks craned as everyone l
ooked up. Cal couldn’t see who or what was on the displays, but judging by the gasps, oohs, and occasional whimpers of fright, he wasn’t in for an easy time of it.
“But let’s not forget, if the Prey successfully traverses all four zones and reaches the finish line, he’ll walk away with his freedom…”
The crowd booed.
“…ten million Viacoins…”
The crowd jeered.
“…and this handsome watch,” the host continued, draping an elegant timepiece across his wrist. “Generously provided by uTime. Isn’t it time that you enjoyed a little uTime?”
The crowd applauded, then pressed the buttons on their seat to secure their own uTimes at a special one-time-only price.
“So far this season, we’ve seen several high-profile pirates and criminals facing The Hunt. None have succeeded in reaching the finish line,” the host continued. “In fact, in the entire history of the show, no Prey has ever won their freedom. Our Hunters have a one-hundred percent success rate. How will our new stars fare in their first outing?”
He smiled and spread his arms wide. “What’s say we find out?”
The crowd cheered and hollered their approval. The host stood waving his hands, urging them to get even louder.
From the corner of his eye, Cal saw movement. The Floomfles he’d seen earlier came scampering into the studio, ushered along by a couple of harassed looking network staff. The little creatures waved excitedly at the audience, clapped their pudgy hands, and generally looked as if they couldn’t wait for whatever was going to happen next.
Only one girl—or woman, Cal supposed—looked like she didn’t really want to be there. She stumbled in, carried along by the crowd, her wide eyes gazing blankly around the studio set.
For a moment, she looked over at Cal, then her whole body shuddered with disgust and she turned away.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Floomfles,” said the host, as they were all guided onto a glowing green circle that illuminated on the studio floor. “Aren’t they the cutest?”
The audience whooped and applauded in agreement. The host held up a hand, calling for silence in his good-natured way.
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