Ticklers

by David Fletcher

  'Well, they've certainly had their money's worth. That's for sure. I think you might just have yourself one satisfied client there. Talk about "exceeding their expectations".'

  'They'll want a discount,' said Meitchars quietly.

  'A discount? What do you mean, a discount? They've got what they want, haven't they? Why the hell would they want a discount? You're having me on.'

  Meitchars regarded Renton with his large black eyes, and in a voice tinged with weariness, he began to explain to his new partner why their friends at IFOP might indeed want a discount.

  'They'll not be happy about the Pei Valley…'

  'What?' interrupted Renton. 'They can't possibly hold that against you… against us. Hell, it wouldn't have been…'

  Meitchars interrupted the interruption.

  'When they negotiate the fee, they won't be happy about the Pei Valley. Their unhappiness, whether real or supposed, will be a bargaining chip, something to knock us down with. And before you ask, they will want to knock us down - because they'll be resentful. They certainly won't be grateful, I can assure you.

  'Think: how would you feel if something you'd been hacking away at for years - and not succeeding with - was cleared up by some smart-arse Ticklers within hours? Happy? Ecstatic that somebody had exposed your shortcomings? Well?

  'And it wasn't the guys who've been chasing Sereza that asked us in anyway. It was whoever they report to. Somebody upstairs. No, these "clients" may have had their expectations exceeded, but for expectations read something like "misgivings" or "resentments".'

  Renton had now sobered up from his apres-skirmish intoxication and was becoming more indignant by the second.

  'But why should it matter what they think?' he asked. 'As you've just said yourself, it's the guy they report to who hired us. So he's the real client. He's the one who'll judge what we did.'

  'Sound logic, but it ignores the reality of the situation. In the first place, whoever upstairs brought us in, did it through his minions. And they'll be the ones who'll now deal with the fee. And on top of that, this character in the background, the boss… well, I can tell you, he'll just want to wash his hands of it. He won't want to know.

  'Bear in mind, we haven't delivered anything you'd call good to these people. We've not given them a nice new shiny monoflight, or a cellar full of fine wine, something they can cherish or enjoy. No, all we've done is extinguish something. Something they didn't want. And who wants to pay a premium for something that's not there anymore? That was "well, OK, we didn't want it, but was it really that bad? Come on, it was just some nutter with a fixation on fire. He'd have probably stopped of his own accord anyway. So why such a bloody great fee?".

  'And that, my dear Renton, will be the approach taken by everybody at IFOP, minions and top guys alike. So don't expect any gratitude from anybody, because there won't be any.'

  Renton was now past feeling indignant. He felt entirely deflated and not a little hurt. After all, he'd had a part in their efforts - their remarkable efforts - whatever Meitchars might say…. Then he had a thought.

  'OK, I can't argue with anything you've said,' he began, 'but what about the way it was achieved? We may only have got rid of something they didn't want, but look at the way it was done. Your tracking! The way you zapped him with the acetylene…'

  'Even satisfied customers pay for the product, Renton, not the way it was produced. You're not telling me that the clients you had when you were an accountant were in the least bit interested in the way you produced a report or an opinion or whatever it was you did. They just wanted the final product. That's what they paid for. You know that as well as I do.'

  Renton's deflation had metamorphosed into a budding despondency. But he wasn't entirely beaten. Not yet.

  'OK, we've got crap clients,' he said. So what's new? But I still won't believe you're not happy with what you've achieved. And then there's the League. And you know what they'll think. They'll think what I do: that what you did was fantastic. And you and the League are easily the most important people around. I mean, for when it comes to judging something like this…'

  Meitchars stared at Renton. He said nothing for a few seconds as if ordering a list in his mind. Then he delivered the list, in the order he clearly thought Renton would most easily understand it.

  'I am not happy with what happened in the Pei Valley. I regret that more than you can ever know.'

  He paused. Renton gulped.

  'I am happy with Sereza's demise - and the way we secured it. And I do mean we.

  'I am very happy that you believe I performed well on this mission. Although I still believe your assessment is a little on the generous side. And I know For-bin-Ah and our other colleagues in Pandiloop will be well pleased with what we've both achieved on this mission.

  'But "the League", if by the League you mean our League management, the knights at the very top, then I can tell you for nothing, they won't give a toss. In fact, if we hear anything from them at all, it'll be about the Pei Valley, or more likely about what we've ended up giving away in fees. And that, Renton, is what I think.'

  At which point, Meitchars rose from his seat, clearly signalling to his colleague that there was no more to say.

  Renton's recent despondency now burst into full flower. His partner must be a melancholic. He painted such a dismal view of everything. And just too dismal. He knew he was wrong about the League - and its top managers. He had to be. It simply couldn't be like that. So what had happened to this guy to make him this way? Too many missions? Too many Pei Valley “failures”? Or just too many years in the Ticklers?

  There again, perhaps Meitchars just needed a rest. Maybe he was just a bit over-stressed. Too much work, too little relaxation…

  And it was just at this stage in Renton's psycho-analytical musings that Meitchars made a further observation. He announced in his unnervingly even tones that: 'we've got company'.

  Renton's first thought was that it was Sereza's dad. Sereza's big angry dad, come to avenge his abused son. Then he surfaced into reality and began to wonder who the hell would want to join them on this most miserable of planets. Who in their right mind?

  Meitchars and Renton studied their instruments together. Well, whoever it was had a pretty sizeable spacecraft, and was in the process of landing it on the upper disc of the tap. It was no doubt far too large to fit within the space between the two discs - where our heroes' scudder and an immobilised skipper were resting. And that was good. It meant that the new visitors to A-402-C would be unaware of the earlier arrivals on the planet - whether of the dead variety or the live.

  'Their ship's showing no identity code,' reported Meitchars. 'I don't like it. We need to find out what they're up to. And before they discover us. Come on. Let's get ready.'

  'Oh balls,' thought Renton. 'Not that bloody space-helmet again.'

  His hair had needed some extended intensive care after it had been released from that awful hairnet first time round. Now he was going to have to subject it to the same cruel treatment for a second time. And if he survived this second encounter of the day, there'd be more intensive care… He was already annoyed with their new guests. And when he saw them he certainly didn't like the look of them at all. There were about twenty of them, mostly insectals, but with three or four humans as well. They were all trudging around the upper deck of the tap in their ubiquitous fishbowls and all-in-one jump suits, which were so much a feature of the A-402-C fashion scene this season.

  Meitchars and Renton were observing them from the cover of a stack of metal panels. They had climbed up to the tap's upper disc using one of the many ladders dotted around the floor of the lower disc, and providing access to the floor above. Before they had seen the new people there, they had seen the new spaceship that had brought them. It was a huge, generously armed cruiser, requiring a great slice of the upper deck to accommodate its massive proportions. In fact, it needed the whole of the single clear space on the upper deck that was just big enough to
take it. And that was interesting in itself. Everywhere else was littered with the detritus of interrupted construction. The fact that there was a large clear space at all was very odd. Or maybe very informative. It occurred to Renton that quite possibly this wasn't the cruiser's first visit to these shores. That the space had been cleared for earlier visits… and just possibly that those visits had been designed to relieve this outpost of civilisation of its construction team. Just a hypothesis, of course, but one that was soon reinforced by the cruiser-crew's present choice of pastimes. They were stealing what a gang of abducted construction workers might feel a need for in their enforced confinement somewhere else: construction equipment. They were assembling and loading onto the cruiser every crane, dumper and generator and every piece of formwork, shuttering and scaffolding that they could lay their hands on. They were picking the tap clean of its construction kit piece by piece. And even if it wasn't to do with the earlier disappearance of people, it was illegal. Renton wondered what Meitchars would do.

  The answer, of course, was nothing. He and Renton had no right of law enforcement in this neck of the woods. And they had no cause to risk life and limb to prevent a band of pirates filching a load of boring old machinery. And nobody would pay them for their pains anyway. So it was just observe and report the incident in the mission log, as per standard practice. Or it would have been had not Renton knelt on a bolt as he adjusted his position behind the metal panels and then knocked noisily into the panels as he attempted to unbolt himself as quickly as possible - but not as carefully as possible. This time the clumsy incompetence wasn't an act. And it wasn't the right time to revert to type.

  Renton felt a complete prat. But Meitchars seemed totally unconcerned. He just treated it as another item on today's agenda - to be dealt with in the usual businesslike manner. Albeit it did need to be dealt with promptly.

  'Go and ready the scudder, Renton. My turn to do a bit of distracting.'

  And with that he was away, his wondrously long legs propelling him across the upper floor of the tap like some cartoon sprinter. As maser blasts began to burst around his speeding form, Renton attended to his own new responsibilities and ducked out of sight and out of the fray - eager to salvage the rest of this day.

  But even as he made his way down to the lower level of the tap and towards the scudder, he began to fear the futility of his mission. Even if Meitchars survived the maser bombardment above and managed to make it to their ship, and even if they managed to get the thing airborne and away, their chances of escaping the cruiser were minimal. One of a cruiser's functions was rapid pursuit-and-destroy sorties - and they'd be firing theirs up already. He knew they would. And he was right.

  If Meitchars had the same concerns, he wasn't letting them show. His style remained entirely uncramped. And it wasn't the blundering-foolery style employed by his partner earlier that day. It was his very own not quite credible acrobatic style, one that transformed his shambolic, long-limbed form into something that moved like the wind. It certainly distracted his band of maser-wielding assailants, and it certainly made the buggers keep missing him. He'd managed to run and cartwheel across nearly the whole diameter of the upper deck without a single maser blast getting anywhere near him. And now he was dropping down to the lower disc of the tap. And he even had enough time to extract something from his belt, turn a small dial on its front and press a red button on its top. Then he was away again towards that massive central column.

  Meanwhile, Renton was on board the scudder, out of his fishbowl and preparing for flight. And he was psyched up. Indeed he was so psyched up, that he'd even forgotten the state of his hair.

  But now it was raining ugly brigands in the sandwich space between the discs as Meitchars' gambols took him nearer to the tap's centre. They were dropping down access points in the upper disc all over the place. And as they dropped they started to shoot at poor old Meitchars. It was real crossfire stuff now. And it was becoming increasingly difficult for the running knight to avoid a lethal rendezvous with some mindless piece of ordnance

  But now he was at the central column. Renton could see him from the scudder. And to Renton's amazement he stopped. He stopped at the hole that Sereza had found - and above where his body still lay. Meitchars had decided the evidence of his demise might be better left where it fell - for IFOP's inspection at some later date. And now it looked as though he was performing that last inspection himself - at the most inopportune of times. He was ringed with maser blasts.

  Then he was running again, but now without that something with a dial and a red button on it. His acceleration was breathtaking.

  Renton was transfixed by the scene. Maybe Meitchars was going to make it after all. Maybe all would be well despite… But then two bruisers appeared from nowhere, right in Meitchars' path. His flight was comprehensively blocked. There was no way round. They both raised their masers to fire. It was all over.

  Then Meitchars was over. He'd jumped clean over their heads the way Renton might have managed to leap a small stool. And it wasn't any reduced gravity on this planet that had allowed him to fly in this way. It was those damn legs of his. And maybe the arms helped as well. But whatever it was, it was stunning. Renton certainly thought so. And he suspected the two chaps making up the hurdle might have thought so as well.

  That was it really. It was as though all the bad guys knew they couldn't match that sort of performance, and the maser bursts came to a stop. Seconds later Meitchars was appearing from the airlock into the scudder cabin. He didn't even look out of breath. 'You've seven seconds to clear the tap,' he announced.

  Renton used one of these precious seconds to assimilate the absolute sincerity of this statement, and the next five point five seconds to achieve the implied command. He did it superbly. And he had the scudder into an upward glide path just in time - just in time to avoid the explosion, and just in time to avoid that huge pulse of red…

  Sereza had achieved his grand finale after all. He'd done it with the help of a delayed action grenade dropped accurately onto the bomb pack still strapped to his ledge-bound body. Not that there was a body any more, nor a ledge any more, nor a large part of the central column below the tap's bottom disc. And enough of the super-strong construction had been blown away to cause the head of the drawing pin to start to tilt and then to continue to tilt, spilling materials and equipment - and dead and dying villains - into those all consuming “waters”.

  The cruiser wasn't quite quick enough either. It slid into the giant bath of acid like some great sea-going vessel holed below the waterline. Only, of course, most sea-going vessels don't start to hiss and dissolve as they sink 'neath the waves.

  'I hope they were comprehensively insured,' said Renton. And then in a far more serious tone, 'And I hope your insurance is up to date as well, Meitchars. You may need it, you know - if you stay around me.'

  Meitchars giggled. It was the first time Renton had seen him really amused. The first time there had been even a shadow of amusement on that expressionless face of his. But it was there - in those big black eyes. And Renton knew his earlier clumsiness had already been forgotten.

  So on balance the day had ended well despite the unscheduled excitement that had made it a longer day than ever.

  However it wasn't over yet.

  Renton's last duty before they retired to their bunks was to check any prompts on the comms equipment, to find out whether there were any messages they needed to respond to or take notice of now rather than in the morning. It was when he was nearly through this routine that he found an intercept record. It was the record of the very last transmission from the stricken cruiser - before it had been consumed by that dreadful ocean out there. It was not a message, only the start of a message. No more than the words: 'Need assistance on A-402-C at…'

  But whoever had sent it was understandably in a state of acute panic, and had forgotten to transmit in open status. His last desperate call for help was still in encoded form, presumably the code he'd been
using to transmit messages to his fellow villains or to his mafia boss - to whomever had known he was here.

  All barely interesting really. Except for one small point: the fact that Renton had been able to decipher the message fragment meant that the code he'd been using was a League code. He'd almost certainly been communicating with a knight somewhere - probably on a fixed-axis basis to lower the chances of intercept, something which the scudder had done only because the two craft were so close together at the critical time.

  So if these bandits were sending messages to a Tickler, were they working for a Tickler? And was he a renegade Tickler? Could it have been Grader? And if so, could Grader be graduating from a lone psychopath to an organised warlord?

  Just one day in this job and it was intrigue piled upon excitement piled upon adventure.

  'Jeez,' thought Renton as he finally dropped off to sleep that night, 'how can you possibly become a melancholic on a diet of this sort of stuff? I really need to find out why Meitchars is such a misery. And I will.'

  And he did. Although not straightaway.

  14.

  Gleeze cast his eyes around the table. Save for Kanker, the League Council was now assembled. There they sat: twelve of the most important knights of the League awaiting the arrival of the most important knight of all - and the start of the Council's monthly management meeting. And as was usual at these times, Gleeze was considering some of the qualities of his fellow Council members. After all, as the Council's chairman, it was part of his job. He had to be aware of their strengths - and of the contribution each of them might be able to make to the Council's business. And, of course, he also had to be aware of their limitations. And one couldn't get away from it; they were all fairly limited…

  Take Smegerill, for example, the guy across the table who, had he thought about it, could have laid claim to the ugliest mouth in the universe. But, as Gleeze well knew, Smegerill's mind, these days, was rarely on his features. Instead it was generally on his future. On the day that Kanker would move on and the League would need a new Senior Knight. Hardly an imminent event, but it would happen some time. It had to. And until then Smegerill would hang on in there - with that winning combination of nominal immeasurable responsibility and minimal measurable activity - until the top-ography changed. Then he'd move in.