Ticklers

by David Fletcher

  Boz giggled like a schoolgirl.

  'Hoosh. Didn't think I'd manage this till we wuz through with that there Kanker geezer. But wah'd'-you know; turns out I jus' got to - like right here an' now.'

  He took an enormous puff on the pipe and sent a great cloud of smoke from his mouth. Then another. And another. And yet another.

  The faces of the three humanoids were a picture.

  Then he spoke. Urgently. And for Boz this was a first.

  'Look here, you'all. This lill' ole thing we is in is what's known in the trade as a "squeeze-box". One o' my clients had one installed on his big ole space-yacht - on account of some lover type he suspected was up to no good with his wife. But anyway, these things are de-signed to kill. They build up to a pressure that squeezes the dear life out o' anythin' livin'. Like this one is doin' right now.'

  He paused to puff at his smoking machine and sent more clouds into the air. And then he started to walk around the walls of the airlock, peering at them intently.

  'Now, on account of the fact that this here device needs to do its thing proper like - whether there's forty poor sods in this room or jus' one, it needs a lill' ole pressure sensor to switch itself off - so it don't blow itself to bits like. It can't work it out from what it's forced in, jus' from what pressure's tryin' to force itself out. If you gets what I mean?'

  Another puff, some more puffs, and some more steps around the room, still peering and peering.

  'So somewhere in these plain-jane ole walls, is a tiny ofirice, an itsy-bitsy hole where some of this overabundant air is findin' its way out and tellin' some lill' ole hidden pressure gauge what's a-happnin' in here.'

  And what was a-happening in here was becoming very noticeable to the airlock's occupants. Breathing was becoming uncomfortable. Their chests were tightening and life was being squeezed out of them - literally.

  He puffed again, four times, five times, six times. The air was now a fog.

  'So, my dear friends, we gotta find this here ofirice. Like quick. So get lookin'. See if you can find a swirl in the smoke. I mean, like where it's disappearin' into the wall. Come on now, git goin'.'

  They all got goin'. The message had got through. And all the time Boz kept puffing and the clouds of smoke got heavier. But so too did the pressure. It was now into painful. Madeleine especially was feeling its weight.

  'Come on, you people. Peep your peepers. It sure is here some place. I can guarantee it.'

  But still no “ofirice”, still no swirl in the cloud. And now Madeleine looked terrible.

  'Look near the floor,' encouraged Boz. 'It might be near the floor.'

  But nothing.

  'Or near the top,' he continued. 'In fact, jus' about any ole place. So keeps yous a-lookin'. Keeps yous a-lookin' real hard.'

  The pain was getting unbearable. Madeleine stumbled, and Grader had to hold her.

  'Come on, you people. Come on now. I ain't ruinin' my health with this here smokin' for nothin'. Come on now, let's find us this hole!'

  It was getting desperate. Time had just about run out.

  'Here!' shouted Meitchars. 'I've got it. Here!'

  And sure enough, when they all gathered round, there was a tiny swirl of smoke disappearing into the tiniest “ofirice” in town. It was no more than a millimetre across.

  'That's my boy,' chirruped Boz. 'Well done. And I mean, well done.'

  And as he spoke he took a lump of grey plasticine from a pocket in his spacesuit and pinched off a small piece. It was explosive plasticine. The lump was returned to its home and the small piece was quickly rolled into a thin matchstick, less then a millimetre across.

  Five seconds later the matchstick was in the pressure “ofirice” and Boz had produced another item from another pocket. It was a tele-detonator.

  'Right folks,' he announced, 'time to fool that lill' ole pressure gauge, I reckon. Hold onto ya' ha'pennies, you all.'

  And with that, he pressed the detonator button and the plasticine matchstick exploded.

  The results were immediate. The shock wave from the mini explosion caused the pressure gauge to think that the killing pressure had been reached; the air input into the chamber was arrested in an instant; and in the same instant the floor of the chamber swung away and deposited our four heroes into a chamber below. A sort of ashtray for stubbed out intruders. And then the floor swung back into place, and the intruders were into the atmosphere they wanted and out of the danger they didn't.

  'Shit!' exclaimed Grader, as he came to terms with their new situation. 'That was some kinda magic! You have my earnest admiration. That was just something.'

  'All in a day's work for us dicks,' replied Boz. But then he went on, in a much less merry tone. 'Trouble is, us dicks are dickheads some times. I've really gone an' done it now.'

  'What do you mean?' said a recovering Madeleine.

  'This here model, my dear, has a floor-pan design, as I'm sure yous will have noticed. Like we didn't all end up out o' the regular door. I mean we're in the charnel bin now, where the dead bods are de-pos-ited for later inspection, like to keep the normal airlock channels free and clear for regular fare-payin' passengers.'

  'But so what?' observed Madeleine. 'We're all alive. And we can get out. I mean, look - over there.'

  She was now pointing to a staircase out of the “ashcan”.

  'Oh yeah, we can get out alright,' said Boz, 'but we can't get back in. I mean, back into the airlock - from the atmosphere side. An' I'll bet my britches on that. I mean, it's the way Kanker'll have set it up, you see. Let in the enemy and then kill them. But don't ever let them out - not without a code key. And we ain't got a code key, have we? So, ya' see, we might be on the right side of that there airlock, but we can't get back in.'

  'And that means we can't warn Renton,' whispered Madeleine, her face now an image of grief.

  Boz sighed a deep sigh. 'Right on the button, Mad. Right on the button. An' I should have foreseen it. I should have foreseen it.'

  One could only describe the next few minutes as a complete bummer. Boz tried to comfort Madeleine. Madeleine tried to comfort Boz. Meitchars tried to comfort them both. And Grader tried to stay resolute in their midst - but failed. It was terrible. There really was no way they could warn their fifth musketeer - and no way they couldn't go on. On and then up to the eye.

  And after a little while they did.

  And they all felt like bastards - even though Boz had given them their lives so they could feel anything at all.

  55.

  With four hours to go to doomstime, Kanker's thoughts had returned to that list of inanities, that list of questions from the elders of Shrubul. And one in particular.

  'Religious freedom,' he muttered to himself. 'How could they have asked about religious freedom? Have they really not grasped it? Have they really not seen that I am the new religion - that there isn't a choice any more? Are they really that stupid? Can they really be that ignorant?

  'Well, I'll just have to make sure that they learn, and that they learn very quickly. And that they get to understand what worshipping their new Lord is all about. And what the new rules are all about. Like what real work is. Like what real punishment means. And getting rid of all that friggin' nonsense: holidays, charities, all that sports stuff. And people always fucking thanking everybody. Why do they all do that all the time? Please, thank you, thank you, please. It makes you want to vomit. It's pathetic.

  'Well, that'll all go. It just won't be allowed. That and a few other things. Like democracy and that bloody awful consensus stuff. Hell, how I hate that "consensus way forward" - and fucking women's rights, and animal rights, and civil rights, and all those other bastard rights, the whole bloody lot of them…'

  It was at this point in his thinking that the next communication from Shrubul arrived. It was just as well he was in such a good mood. The president hadn't picked his words very well - even though this time there were refreshingly few of them.

  The message said simply: 'W
e want to do a deal. We want to meet you. We know we can work something out.'

  The reply on this occasion was a little less biblical than the previous one - but rather more succinct. It said simply: 'tossers'. Quite restrained really. But he was in a really good mood now. And it was getting better by the minute.

  56.

  It had taken Renton a very long time, but at last he was at the airlock. And, of course, there was no sign of the others. He was on his own and trailing them. He would need to get a move on. So he did. Into the airlock.

  Once inside, he checked his atmosphere gauge. And then he simply stared at it - to monitor the rising pressure. He was becoming that impatient. And as soon as it registered normal, he tugged at his helmet release. He didn't want to waste a second. He wanted to catch them…

  Nothing happened. The helmet release was locked shut. He tugged again and still nothing. And again. But it was useless. The thing was jammed solid. There was no way he could move it.

  'Oh no,' he cried to himself. 'It's that bloody drop from the silo. It's buggered it up.'

  This was terrible. Not so much the thought of eventual suffocation when the helmet's support system failed - with Renton's head still inside it - but more the prospect of meeting the enemy with his hair looking naff, all plastered down in that plastic ball. Life was just harassment and embarrassment. It just never ever came to an end.

  Well, it simply wouldn't do. He would knock the helmet release so damn hard, it would open. So there. And if he couldn't do it with his hand, he would do it with his maser - switched to its lowest energy level: the “punch” function. Then it could deliver a blow like a thump from a sledgehammer. More than enough to impress some recalcitrant helmet release. But not enough to knock his head off in the process.

  There was just one tiny drawback - Renton's life was peppered with them. The release mechanism, the little lever device that projected from the base of the helmet; it did so at the front of the helmet - where the wearer could easily pull it but where the wearer could not easily see it. Indeed the wearer could not see it at all. It was under his chin. And his chin was held in place by the helmet's inner membrane. He could not, therefore, lower his chin to peer at it. This meant Renton would have to shoot at the lever “blind”. He would have to hold the maser at neck height and pointing across his body at the space beneath his chin where he believed the lever to be.

  Renton wasn't fazed in the least. He knew it was a cinch. After all, wasn't he the long-range maser champ? Hadn't he finished top of that module on his induction course?

  He didn't hesitate. Nor did he notice that despite normal atmosphere having been reached, the airlock door hadn't opened yet; he was so engrossed in the new task before him.

  The first maser shot missed by a foot. It whizzed past the front of Renton's helmet and hit the far wall of the airlock with a dull thud. The result was a small but clearly visible dent in its metal surface.

  'Wow!' observed Renton. 'So much for the sighting shot.'

  He took three long breaths and raised the maser again. This time the shot passed at about the right height but still well to the front of its target. And another dent appeared in the metal wall.

  'Better stand a bit closer,' concluded Renton. And he did actually edge forward. But it didn't do him much good. The next shot was just as wide of the mark, and another dent in the wall was added to his score. Unlike its long-range counterpart, point-blank-range maser craft was obviously not his forte.

  'OK, this time I'll do it,' he assured himself. And still he'd not noticed the absence of an open airlock door, nor even the rising pressure in the room.

  He fired. Again he missed. But on this occasion he didn't miss a certain orifice in the far wall. The maser blast hit it square on. And part of it went on up the orifice to hit the pressure gauge within - and to fool it into thinking that squeezing-time was over.

  The floor opened. Renton fell through. He landed on his head. And the jammed helmet release jerked itself free. His enemy, it appeared, would not see him with his hair looking naff after all.

  Mind, he might have something to say to them about their bleedin' airlocks. 'What a stupid way to build them. With the floor giving way like that. And then not warning anyone. It was just bloody dangerous. Hell, they could end up killing somebody like that - easily!'

  57.

  The Godhead looked like no other spacecraft in the universe. It was also built like no other. The plans in Kanker's strongroom had made this abundantly clear.

  It was the work of a young engineer by the name of Watney, whose technical brilliance was matched only by his weakness for gambling. But as a gambler he was a duffer. He could lose money like grown-ups lose brain cells - in vast amounts and astonishingly quickly. And it was money he never had. Which is why he needed a sponsor, an understanding patron who would bankroll his habit in return for some of that unsurpassed technical brilliance. Even if said patron had some rather odd ideas and some distinctly questionable motives - and wanted Watney to turn up with his technical brilliance on some out-of-the-way dust world that he'd not even heard of. But that was his affair. All Watney had been asked to do was to put together some giant spaceship. Wherever Kanker wanted it built and whatever he wanted to do with it thereafter was entirely up to him. And anyway, when he'd got started, the spaceship had proved to be something of a challenge - and he'd been able to indulge his technical prowess as never before. Anything he needed for the craft was immediately provided. Kanker (possibly, thought Watney, because he owned a dust planet) seemed to have unlimited resources, a truly bottomless pocket. And nothing was refused - ever. So he'd actually enjoyed building it. And why not? It really was a remarkable craft, not to say a truly unique venture into spacecraft design.

  The plans showed that it was actually two craft in one, one inside the other. The outer vessel was a solid matrix of those dumb plasma domes, laid over a flexible sio-nite lattice. This was incredibly strong but also very pliable. It really could absorb explosive shock-waves, the sort of explosive shock-waves created when the domes destroyed munitions. Even the most powerful munitions - like thermite cluster bombs. And it therefore served as the perfect protection for the inner vessel, the one built to a more conventional spec - albeit an entirely novel one.

  This was essentially an enormous pressurised container designed to carry an emulsion of air and dust - the emulsion for “God's breath”. When the two were mixed together in the right proportions, the dust would flow like a liquid. And in this form it could then be fed into a giant bellows-carburettor, there to be expelled through the Godhead's mouth and into Shrubul's or anybody else's atmosphere.

  Of course, to get the emulsion into the container in the first place and for the container to then operate as a spaceship, it was useful to have a few other bits and pieces in there as well. Like the large bits of kit that needed to be housed in vacuum conditions - like the bellows apparatus, the dust-loading pumpery, the ship's power and drive units, and its all-important mass repulsion system. And this last little item couldn't be more important. For no matter how well protected your ship might be from potential aggressors, you still faced the danger of collision with a planet. But not so with a mass repulsion system. It wouldn't allow it. Try as you might you could never crash dive your Godhead onto a world like Shrubul. By using the mass of the planet itself, it would ensure that your vessel would simply “bounce off” instead - but without even touching. So make sure you have one of those…

  All this equipment was dotted around the inner container in a series of strategically placed pockets, each linked directly or indirectly through the sio-nite lattice to the vacuum of deep space beyond. The bellows was behind the nose, the pumping, power and drive mechanisms in the nape of the neck, and the mass repulsion unit in the middle of the forehead. And all these separate service chambers were connected via airlocks and through umbilical channels to the Godhead's right eye. For the Godhead's right eye was the Godhead's huge nerve centre, a four-mile-wide ball from whi
ch the whole lot was run.

  It was itself bigger than any spacecraft in existence. And it was packed to the gunnels with all those other pieces of kit that preferred an atmosphere rather than a vacuum to work in - like the computers, the navigational system, the hyperdrive unit - and Kanker's men. These were all housed in different parts of the eye dependent upon their function. If you were the enormous atmosphere generator you would be occupying a number of the lower levels at the back of the eye. If you were a key piece of navigational hardware you might be on one of the middle levels near the front of the eye - where much of the control functions were found, and where, of course, Kanker himself was installed. His “mote” was at the front of a large, secure bridgeroom, itself at the front of the eye on its very middle floor. It wasn't an easy place to get to. Especially if you were arriving from the ship's bellows chamber through an umbilical, which got you only as far as the very lowest level of the eye. And there were only four of you and more than four thousand of the enemy. And you might bump into any number of them on your way to the mote.

  Just about impossible really. In fact, your chances of getting there were so much a long shot, they were effectively nil. They didn't even constitute a gamble. Watney would have confirmed that in an instant.

  58.

  It had been a long haul up the incline. The channelway from the airlock to the base of the eye was over a mile long. And under normal circumstances, they would have used one of the little auto-buggies, which were provided for the trip. But these were not normal circumstances. They could not afford to alert anybody to their presence. And a buggy travelling along the passageway would certainly have done that. Somewhere, something or someone would have registered its use. No, they had to walk. And so they did.

  But now they were in. They were in Kanker's eye. A little bit of grit that needed to work its way around to the pupil. And there, cause all the irritation it could.