The Hunt for Reduk Topa

by Barry J. Hutchison

  Floomjin, the red-haired Floomfle who’d done the interview, was the first to go, encouraged by a shove in the back from his bearded companion.

  “Here I go!” Floomjin hollered, waving his arms above his head in triumph as he raced at the Sloorgs.

  Cal could only watch in mute horror as the Floomfle leaped at the largest of the creatures.

  “I’m gonna be famous!” Floomjin announced, before a set of Sloorg jaws clamped down on him and his legs fell to the floor.

  Silence descended as the other Floomfles stared down at the legs. It was broken by the crunch of Floomjin between the Sloorg’s teeth.

  And then, almost unanimously, they erupted into cheers and all raced toward the jaws of death, laughing and whooping as they hurled themselves into the waiting mouths of the monster-dogs.

  “No, wait, don’t!” Cal pleaded, but it was too late. The Sloorgs fell upon them at once, clawing and ripping at their little bodies, hungrily devouring them, bones and all.

  Only one Floomfle hung back, her head shaking, her pudgy little fingers flexing in and out as her chest heaved in panic.

  “Gotta do it. It’s an honor. It’s an honor,” she whispered, steeling herself. “Gotta do it.”

  “Yoink!”

  Cal caught her by the scruff of the neck and jerked her off the floor. She kicked out at him and grabbed for his fingers. “Hey! Leave me alone, you murderer! I want to be eaten by the Sloorgs.”

  “No, you don’t,” Cal told her. “We’re getting out of here.”

  The female Floomfle made a few grumbling noises, but didn’t put up too much of a fight.

  Cal considered the door. It was still ajar, but the path to it was full of Sloorgs and gristle. Besides, it was too obvious an escape route, and so probably a trap.

  Fonk it. The window, then.

  He pulled the Floomfle close to his chest. “Do you trust me?” he asked her.

  “No! Of course I don’t! You’re a murderous pirate!”

  “Well, tough shizz,” Cal said. “Brace yourself.”

  He set off at a sprint toward the window, wrapping his arms across the Floomfle and cocooning her against his chest.

  Just before he reached the window, he twisted and threw himself backward at the glass.

  He wasn’t sure which he’d been dreading more—the hollow thonk that would follow if the glass turned out to be unbreakable, or the crash that would arise if it turned out not to be.

  He got the crash, and was both relieved and dismayed to find himself tumbling through the open air toward the ground below.

  Opening his arms, Cal grabbed the Floomfle by the feet and held her above him. “Now fly,” he urged. “Fly us to safety.”

  “What are you talking about?” the Floomfle yelled. “I can’t fly both of us!”

  Cal glanced at the woman’s tiny transparent wings. He looked past her, to the window he’d just thrown them through.

  “You can’t?”

  “No!”

  “Well, why the fonk didn’t you say that before I—?”

  Cal hit the ground, and what was left of the sentence exited his body through his nose.

  As ground went, it wasn’t the worst he could’ve landed on. The grass was moist, the soil below it soft and springy. There were no large rocks, and while several large pieces of broken glass were sticking upright from the grass, he miraculously managed to miss most of them.

  One particularly nasty-looking jagged piece snagged his shoulder as he landed, cutting a slit in the bodysuit and drawing a red line across his skin. Nothing major, and his fast-healing ability would have it squared away in no time.

  All things considered, he’d gotten off lightly.

  A Sloorg’s head appeared from the window three floors above. It twisted and turned this way and that, searching for him. Even at this distance, Cal could hear the snuffling of its nose hole.

  “We need to go,” he whispered, easing himself up onto his feet.

  “I’m not going anywhere with—”

  “Shh! Shut the fonk up,” Cal hissed, clamping a hand over the Floomfle’s mouth. “Do you really want to be eaten by those things? Is that really how you want to bow out? Gnawed on by a sentient testicle?”

  The Floomfle stared defiantly at him from behind his hand. Then, some fire inside her died away—or perhaps spluttered into life—and she gave a single shake of her head.

  “Good. Then stay quiet,” Cal urged. He looked up at the window again, where the Sloorg was still searching for them.

  The building was a tall white tower with The Hunt logo illuminated in red near the top. The only window was the one Cal had jumped through. There was no door, as far as he could tell, reaffirming his instinct that the door out of the room they’d escaped from had been a trap.

  Pressing himself against the tower wall, Cal took in his surroundings.

  Were it not for the imminent threat of being torn apart by dog-monsters, the area would actually be rather pleasant. The grass was green, the sky was blue, and there was a forest over on the left that could almost have been transplanted straight from Earth.

  Across from the forest on Cal’s right was a little lake. A small boat bobbed up and down by a mooring, the soft lapping of the waves against its hull quite soothing, despite the circumstances.

  Between the forest and the lake was a path. Lights illuminated along it like stepping stones, each one blinking on for a split second before passing the baton to the next one along. The final light took the form of an arrow that pointed to a sign marked, ‘ZONE ONE. THIS WAY.”

  “Guess they want us to go that way,” Cal whispered.

  He made for the forest instead, keeping low and sticking close to the tower until there was no choice but to leave its cover.

  The clearing between the tower and the forest’s edge was sixty feet, he estimated. He was halfway across it when he heard the Sloorg roar triumphantly. The Floomfle gasped in his arms, and Cal went from a bent-double sneak to an upright sprint, throwing himself toward the trees and the salvation he hoped lay within.

  He reached the forest’s edge just as the first of the Sloorgs landed on the grass. He made it six feet into the tangle of branches before one of the trees punched him.

  Not whipped at him. Not struck him accidentally. Punched him.

  On purpose.

  “What the fonk is this now?” he grimaced, staggering as the knotted end of a sturdy branch took another swing at his head.

  “Bamtrees, obviously,” said the Floomfle.

  “Bamtrees? What the fonk are—?”

  BAM. A wooden fist hammered into his jaw.

  “Jesus!” he groaned. “Is everything in this place out to kill me?”

  “Yes! That’s the whole point!” the Floomfle cried. “Why didn’t you take the path?”

  “Because I thought it was a trap!”

  “No! It’s the route to the start! You just have to outrun the Sloorgs,” she told him. “You’ve literally just given yourself another obstacle. Duck.”

  Cal ducked. A branch whummed across his head. “Well, why didn’t you say something?!”

  “You had your hand over my—Sloorg!”

  Cal spun in time to see the first of the Sloorgs come bounding into the trees. They seemed to part for the Sloorg, while closing around Cal as he stumbled on.

  “Shizz, shizz, shizz,” he babbled, fighting his way through tangles of twigs and ducking the swinging right-hooks of branches.

  Another Sloorg let out a roar as it barged into the forest. Cal glanced back, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The ball-headed dog creatures were weaving easily through the woods, quickly gaining ground. He had fifteen seconds to come up with something clever.

  He wasted three seconds saying as many swear words as he could think of, then got down to business.

  Trees. Sloorgs. Think.

  He patted his chest, on the off-chance that Splurt was deep undercover.

  Nope.

  Ten seconds. Think.
r />   He could feel the heat of their breath now, smell the blood of the Floomfles, hear the excited grunts ejecting from the closest monster’s cavernous throat.

  “Well, this is going to be a disappointing episode,” the Floomfle remarked.

  Of course! That was it!

  Cal stopped. He turned to face the oncoming Sloorgs, his eyes searching the trees above until he saw what he was looking for.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the Floomfle.

  Five seconds.

  “I give up,” he told the camera. “I don’t want to do this. I quit.”

  Three seconds.

  “It can go ahead and eat me.”

  Two.

  Cal resisted the urge to jump clear. He stood his ground, eyeballing the camera as the closest Sloorg pounced, jaws wide.

  The forest snapped shut around it, pinning it in place just inches from Cal’s face. It hissed and burped in rage.

  Cal tried not to show his relief.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he shouted to the camera. “You want a show? I’ll give you a goddam show.”

  He gave it something else, too—the finger.

  That done, he turned away from the trapped Sloorg and regarded the rest of the forest. Up close, the trees didn’t look much like Earth trees, at all. A canopy of leaves and branches was tangled together high overhead, allowing only the odd beam of light through to the uneven forest floor.

  Something moved far above, and Cal’s head was suddenly filled with visions of space squirrels.

  “Fonk. OK, how do we get out of here?” he asked with a renewed sense of urgency.

  Fonking space squirrels.

  The Floomfle rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Have you even watched the show?”

  “No,” said Cal. “So, if you could maybe dial down the sass and help me out, there’s a chance we’ll get out of here alive.”

  “Preypad.”

  Cal frowned. “Huh?”

  “In your bag. There’s a Preypad. It’ll show you the way.”

  Up until that moment, Cal hadn’t even been aware that he had a bag, much less anything contained within one. He found it slung across his back and, after eventually managing to untangle himself from its straps, he rummaged inside.

  The contents of the bag were as follows:

  A tiny telescope.

  A plastic straw.

  A piece of rope, approximately fifteen inches long.

  A pouch containing something that might have been yogurt.

  A device that was much like a Swiss Army Knife, albeit without the knife part. Where the knife should have been was an extra spoon. (Quite what he was supposed to do with one spoon, much less two, he had no idea. He felt for example that, even with the help of the additional one, he was unlikely to be able to spoon a Sloorg to death, even if they agreed to let him try.)

  A circular gadget with a metal back and a glass front, roughly the size of his palm.

  “That’s the Preypad,” said the Floomfle. “It has a map. It shows you where to go.”

  “OK, that’s handy,” Cal said, stuffing the rest of the items back in the pack.

  After a moment’s thought, he stuffed the Floomfle in, too, and pulled the strap tight around her neck so only her head was visible.

  “Hey! Let me out!”

  “It’s for your own good,” Cal told her, swinging the bag up onto his back. He grimaced as the strap rubbed against his shoulder. A quick glance at the hole in his bodysuit confirmed that the shoulder wound had not healed up. It hadn’t, as far as he could tell, even made an attempt to heal up.

  Fonk.

  That was something to worry about later. The closest Sloorg was clawing frantically at the branches that held it now, and it was only a matter of time before it got free. They had to get moving, and fast.

  Cal turned the Preypad over in his hands. “OK, so how does this thing work?”

  “You tap it twice,” sighed the Floomfle, as if this should’ve been the most obvious thing in the world.

  Cal tapped the screen twice. As he watched, a series of lights blinked on—random, at first, but quickly forming a recognizable pattern.

  Oh God, no, Cal thought. As if his day wasn’t already bad enough.

  “Hi, I’m Perko! Your friendly animated assistant,” chimed the animated face on screen. “How can I help you survive today?

  Twenty-Seven

  “Forward. Forward. That’s right! You’re doing great! Forward!”

  Cal shook the Preypad, trying to shut it up.

  “I’m going forward. You’ve been saying ‘forward’ for the past ten fonking minutes. I can’t go more forward than I’m going.”

  “That’s right, you’re right on track!” announced Perko. “Forward. Forward.”

  Cal threw the Preypad away. It was not the first time he’d done this since they’d left the Sloorgs, and it wasn’t the first time the Floomfle had told him the same thing.

  “You’re going to need that.”

  “Yes! I know!” Cal snapped. He looked up at the canopy of branches above them, puffed out his cheeks, then went to retrieve the device.

  “Ah, there you are!” said Perko. “I thought we’d lost each other, chum! Now… forward.”

  Cal resumed his trudge through the forest. The branches hadn’t tried to take a swing at him since he’d called the Controller’s bluff, but he kept an eye on them anyway, just in case they decided to try any funny business.

  “So,” said Cal, weaving around a patch of rough bracken. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Perko! Your friendly—”

  “Not you!” Cal said, clamping his other hand down over the screen so it was sandwiched between his palms. It didn’t silence the infuriating digital bamston, but it at least muted him a little. He craned his head around. “I meant you. What’s your name?”

  “Why should I tell you, murderer?”

  “Uh, maybe because it’s polite, and I saved your life,” Cal said. “And because I’m not a murderer.”

  He raised his head and shouted. “You hear that? I’m not a murderer! I’m not Reduk Topa. This is all a set-up.”

  “They can’t hear you,” said the Floomfle. “Not live, anyway. If the Prey talks, they save it for the edited highlights. Sometimes they make these little clips of them begging or crying. It’s, you know, funny.”

  The way she said the last word suggested she didn’t really get the humor.

  “Great. So, no one can hear me? Of course they can’t. That’d be too easy.”

  He looked around at her again. “I meant it, though. What I said. I’m not Reduk Topa. I’m the captain of the ship that delivered the crates with you guys in them to the station.”

  From the corner of his eye, he caught her expression change. “Not on purpose. I mean, if we knew what was in the crates, we’d never have brought you.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe King Floomf would just sell you all out like that. He seemed like such a nice guy.”

  “It is a great honor to feed oneself to the Sloorgs,” said the Floomfle. Once again, though, she sounded like someone hadn’t yet let her in on some secret that would explain why this should be the case.

  “It’s Floora,” she said. “My name.”

  “Nice to meet you, Floora. I’m Cal. Cal Carver.”

  Floora squinted at him. “You’re serious? You really aren’t Reduk Topa?”

  “Reduk Topa’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cal thought back to the way a quarter of the pirate’s skull and its contents had slid off and flopped to the floor.

  “Pretty sure.”

  From between Cal’s palms, Perko let out a high-pitched shout.

  “Jesus, what now?”

  “…current rate, we will be exiting the forest in fifteen seconds. The route I plotted will take you out right at the entrance for Sector One. How’s about that?!”

  Cal clamped his hand down over Perko again, muffling him.


  “There’s a pocket on the front of the suit,” said Floora. “It’s soundproof, so that the Preypad can’t give you away.”

  After a moment’s search, Cal found the pocket.

  “You won’t be able to hear it, though,” Floora pointed out. “If it tries to warn you of anything.”

  Cal didn’t even hesitate. He shoved the Preypad into the pocket, then fastened down the little fold-out covering above it.

  Silence. Blessed silence.

  “Thank fonk for that,” Cal said. He peered ahead through the tangle of trees. The glowing path was out there just beyond the forest’s edge, leading up to an archway made of what looked like ivory, or maybe white wood.

  “What’s in Sector One?” he whispered, scanning the treeline for danger. Somewhere, far behind him, a Sloorg howled.

  “It’s random. There are dozens of different arenas. Hundreds, maybe. No one knows what’s coming up next,” Floora told him, her wide eyes searching the trees behind them. “It’ll tell you on the gate, but that’s the only warning you’ll get.”

  Cal groaned. “Is there anything useful you can tell me? Any tips? Anything at all?”

  Floora thought for a moment. “Don’t die?” she suggested.

  “Right,” said Cal. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  As far as he could tell, there was nothing lurking out beyond the forest’s edge. Besides, this was still far too early in the game for the Controller to let him die. After all that expense and those years of effort, he wasn’t about to let Reduk Topa bow out before the hunt had technically even started.

  He hoped.

  “Fonk it, let’s do this,” Cal muttered, pushing his way through the branches in the direction of the path.

  He wished he’d kept hold of the spoon. As weapons went, it was way down his wishlist, and yet he’d have felt more comfortable having it in hand. He contemplated stopping to fish it out of the bag, but another Sloorg howl—closer this time—made him reconsider.

  “You know you’re bleeding, right?” said Floora. “Your shoulder.”

  “Shizz. Still?” said Cal. “That should’ve healed by now.”

  “Well, it hasn’t.”

  There was no time to dwell too much on that now. As Cal neared the edge of the trees they parted before him. A branch shoved him in the back, ejecting him out onto the path.