by David Garnet
Norton watched himself answer, “Well… not exactly a cop. That was just my cover. I was a private eye, you know. More of a spy, really. A secret agent.”
Mandy’s questions had been purely professional, with one exception.
“The women of your day, Wayne, what was the period’s predominant fashion statement, and were accessories colour coordinated?”
This was the one question which was was edited out, perhaps because he’d been unable to invent much of an answer.
Apart from that, neither Mandy nor Brendan showed any interest in the past. If Norton had met someone from the seventeenth century, would he have cared? Probably not. What could they have talked about? Probably nothing.
“Let’s watch it again,” said Mandy.
“What? You mean it’s over?” Norton glanced at the spinning carousel of colours on the screen. “But… er… what about… ah…?”
“My feeling is good, very good. The feeling will be even better after a repeat. And during a repeat.”
While she spoke, Mandy undid her jacket. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
She was looking at Norton, the version of him on screen, watching as Norton’s eyes opened for the first time. Or the second time. Meanwhile, his non-screen eyes were gazing at her. In the flesh. The flesh between the open edges of her jacket.
“Take your clothes off,” she told him.
Norton began to undress. Over the last few centuries, it seemed, zippers and buttons had been uninvented. He wasn’t wearing much, and even though he did it as slowly as possible, it didn’t take him long.
He sat on the edge of the bed and kept his back turned toward Mandy, feeling very shy even though she’d already seen him naked.
Not that she was watching. She was far more interested in what was on screen.
“Now you,” he said.
Mandy shrugged off her jacket. Her back was to him. Her naked back.
Norton looked at her, but she was still watching at the screen.
Until it blanked.
Then the room became black.
The door suddenly flared open.
And a dark figure stood there, silhouetted against the light. A man with a gun.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hey! Can you hear me?”
Kiru could hear. And if she could hear, she was alive.
They hadn’t killed her.
Yet.
She opened her eyes and stared up at the sky. It was grey, cloudy—and alien.
“Anything broken?”
She moved her left arm slightly. It didn’t hurt. She tried the right, then her legs. There was no pain.
“Not you! Have you broken any of my stuff?”
Kiru looked around. She was in the middle of a junkyard. If something was junk, it was already broken. She kept on looking, further around, and saw a man standing at the edge of the waste tip.
She coughed. Coughed again. Tried to inhale. Couldn’t.
No air. Couldn’t breathe. No oxygen in her mask.
Was this their final joke? Letting her survive the fall, then choke to death on the poisonous atmosphere?
The man seemed human, seemed alive. Kiru was human, and had to breathe to be alive. She tugged the mask away from her mouth. Then breathed. In. Out. In. Out. In. She lived.
Carefully, she stood up and slowly picked her way through the debris. Like the air, the gravity was the same as on Earth. Two reasons why this world had been chosen. She halted a few metres away from the man.
He must once have been tall. Now his shoulders were stooped, his back bent, and he leaned on a metal stick. His long beard was pure white, and he was almost bald. He must once have been young.
“Just landed, son?”
Kiru had been called a lot of things, but “son” was not one of them. Her face was still mostly hidden by the air-mask. She pulled it off over her head, ran her fingers through her hair.
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“A wild guess,” he said, watching as she dropped her mask and shrugged off the gravpak. “Where you from?”
“Earth.”
“Earth? Ha! What a dump.”
Kiru glanced around.
“This may be a dump,” said the old man, “but it’s my dump.”
He was a fool, Kiru realised.
She hadn’t been alone, but there was no sign of any of the others. Having fallen such a long way, they must have been scattered over a wide area. She stared up into the alien sky.
“The ship’s gone,” he told her. “Cheap tin trays to the far ends of the universe.”
“What?”
“You weren’t even cargo. Just a piece of flotsam thrown overboard. Or maybe I mean jetsam.”
Kiru looked at him. “You from Earth?”
“Why do you say that?”
“First, you know it’s a dump. Second, you look human. Third, we talk the same lingo.”
“First, every world is a dump. Second, never believe what you see. Or hear. Or touch. Never believe anything. Third, we do. There are no slates here. Or none that work. Nothing works.”
Kiru glanced back at the tip again, realising it consisted almost entirely of abandoned technoware. Everything from autocams and biodeks, comsets and datascreens, through to things she couldn’t identify. There were also facemasks and gravpaks, which must have come from others who had arrived by the same vertical route. Hundreds of them. Thousands. They’d been dumped because they were depleted, but everything else?
“If none of it works,” she said, “why’s it here?”
“Because the people who smuggled it hoped it would work.”
“Smuggled?”
“What comes here has to come down.”
“How did they smuggle it?”
“Inside some convenient personal orifice.”
“Inside?”
“It doesn’t have to be a natural orifice. Artificial apertures can be made to measure.”
“No one could have brought any of that inside them. It’s far too big.”
“Depends which planet they’re from,” said the man. “Sometimes new guests bribe the space crew to send down their excess baggage. To prevent that happening, there’s only one gravpak for each arrival. Often the equipment lands safely, but its proud owner doesn’t. Life as a spacer is very dull, and making the switch gives them some amusement.”
“It’s all been dumped because it’s damaged?”
“Even the undamaged stuff doesn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve been liberated from the technological tyranny which enslaves every other world. You’ve reached a cultural and harmonious oasis within a savage universe, son, where every inhabitant is a free spirit, and we spend all of our time discussing philosophy or painting the spectacular landscapes with which we’re blessed or composing verses to celebrate our good fortune or creating symphonies and operas in honour of this magnificent planet, pausing only to reach out to pick the succulent fruits of nature’s bounty, which are our nourishment. On this idyllic world, we may have little—but we want for nothing.”
While she waited for the old fool to stop, Kiru glanced around. All she could see was the old man, his piles of technojunk, and the endless trees which surrounded them.
“If none of it works,” she said, “why do you keep it?”
“I’m a collector. A man has to have a hobby. What else am I going to do with my time?”
“Paint,” she suggested. “You could paint all that junk, make it look like new, then write a song about it.”
The old man smiled.
“What are you here for, son?”
“Five years.”
“You mean life.”
“No. Five years.”
“Life. No one ever goes back.”
“But…” Kiru shook her head. “You mean…?”
“Yes. Once you’re here, you stay here. But it doesn’t make any difference because you’ll probably be dead long before five year
s are up. It’s tough here. That’s the idea. Very few survive. I asked what you were here for. Murder?”
“No!”
“What’s wrong with murder? That’s why I’m here, although it was self-defence on each of the twenty-three counts. Arson?”
“No!”
“Some of my best friends are arsonists. If you survive until winter, you’ll be glad of anyone who can light a fire. Abduction?”
“No!”
“Abduction gets people out of the house, gives them a change of scenery. Lese-majesty?”
“What?”
“What’s wrong with lese-majesty, you say? Exactly my own sentiments. I wasn’t given a fair trial.”
“I wasn’t given a trial,” said Kiru.
“That’s Earth for you, son. It was better in the old days, when they could afford such luxuries as trials, before the Crash.”
Kiru’s mother used to say the world had been different before the Crash, which Kiru always imagined was the sound of her father going through the window. The Crash had affected not only him, but everyone on Earth. A dramatic economic slump had made the rich poor and the poor very poor. Although Kiru’s father was rich, he never became poor. He became dead.
He hadn’t been killed by a red demon; he’d killed himself.
All he left behind were his debts. Debts which, because of interest charges and inflation guarantees, increased every day, every year. Debts which could never be repaid—but which his family had to keep on paying, every day, every year.
So when her mother died, Kiru owed a lot of money. And her children would owe even more. Not that she ever planned to have any. Life was hard enough without paying off an infinite debt. Not that she ever planned to.
Which was why she was here now.
If she’d had a trial, she’d have had to pay the cost—whatever the verdict. Just like they’d added the cost of the space voyage to her list of debts.
“What heinous crime did you commit?” asked the man.
“Terrorism,” said Kiru.
“That’s nice.”
“Sabotage. Counterfeiting. Spitting without a license.”
“What did you really do?”
“I opened a door.”
“What door?”
“I was looking for somewhere to sleep, something to eat.”
“What door?”
Kiru shrugged.
“What door?”
“A police base.”
“You broke out of a police base?”
“No. The opposite.”
“You broke into a police base?”
Kiru nodded.
“Looking for food and shelter?”
She nodded again.
“How appropriate. Because that’s exactly what you’ll be looking for here.” The man laughed. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.”
Stupid old fool, thought Kiru.
“You could at least smile,” he said.
But Kiru couldn’t smile; she’d never learned how.
“Earth only resumed exporting convicts recently,” the man continued. “Couldn’t afford it. You said you had no trial?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“They’re making up for lost time; they’ve got quotas to fill. There must have been an empty berth when you happened to be around. Someone up there hates you.”
That was nothing new. Everyone hated her.
“What did you smuggle down?” he asked.
She’d had nothing on Earth, she had nothing here, and she said, “Nothing.”
“You’ve nothing to give me?”
“You want me to give you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I?”
“Because of this.”
The old man pointed a gun at her.
“You said nothing works here,” said Kiru.
“Never believe what anyone says,” he said. “I told you that.”
“I didn’t believe you.”
Kiru looked at the gun, which seemed to have been built from salvaged junk. Unless she was very unlucky, she could probably dodge any primitive projectile—but she was always very unlucky.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because it’s my job. I’m a thief. I rob people. It’s nothing personal. That’s why I’m not going to kill you. Unless I have to. It’s your choice. Give me what you’ve got. Or I’ll kill you and take it.”
“All I have is this,” she said, offering her survival rations.
“Your starter pack. I’ll take it. And your clothes.”
Kiru peeled down to her skinsuit.
“Everything.”
She stripped naked.
“Welcome to Clink, son.”
He wasn’t just a stupid old fool, he was a blind stupid old fool. She should have tried to run when she had the chance.
“Thanks,” she said.
Clink. Real name: Arazon—the prison planet.
“Off you go,” said the old man, gesturing for her to leave.
“Which way?” she asked. They were surrounded by woodland in every direction. “It all looks the same.”
“It is.”
Kiru turned about-face, then began walking away.
“Take care,” said the man.
For a while, just for a very brief while, Kiru had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, things might be better here. She’d expected to die, but she was still alive.
So what? She’d been alive all her life. And all her life had been bad. The only time things hadn’t been bad was when they were worse.
The world had never been fair. Neither, it seemed, was the universe.
The fact that they weren’t able to kill her had fooled her for a moment. Having been robbed, she felt reassured. It proved her life was getting back to normal.
The old man had mentioned winter, but this was a warm day. The climate was a third reason why Arazon had been chosen as a penal planet. Prisoners couldn’t serve a long, hard sentence if they were frozen to the bone or baked alive as soon as they arrived. They had to be given the chance of living long enough to suffer real punishment.
Kiru was naked and alone and defenceless, lost on an alien planet.
Then things got worse.
Because she was naked and alone and defenceless, lost on an alien planet inhabited by convicts.
An alien planet inhabited by dangerous convicts.
Dangerous male convicts.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hey, what is this?” yelled Mandy.
“Your next word,” hissed the man, “will be your last.”
He stepped into the room, followed by another man. The first one turned his head slightly, and Wayne Norton glimpsed his face in the light from the corridor.
It wasn’t human.
He wasn’t a man.
He was… it was… an alien!
“You,” said the first alien to Norton. “We want you.”
Norton didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He didn’t move, couldn’t move.
The alien beckoned to him. It looked like an arm, but must have been a tentacle.
“Come with us,” said the second alien.
“Why?” whispered Norton.
“We are here to rescue you,” said a third humanoid shape as it materialised in the doorway.
“I don’t want rescuing.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
Norton glanced toward Mandy. She was almost naked, he knew, but it was too dark to see her.
“You are a prisoner,” one of the aliens went on, “your senses have been deprived, you have been held here in the dark.”
“It wasn’t dark until you arrived.”
“They keep you naked.”
“I’m not naked.”
“You are.”
“No. I just haven’t got any clothes on.”
“That is the definition of naked. Your mind as well as your body
has been held captive. Follow us.”
Norton had soon recovered from his initial shock. Menaced by three armed aliens, he should have been terrified. Instead, he felt angry that they’d burst in on him and Mandy. Why now? Why not a few minutes later?
“Why should I?” he asked.
“Because—” began one of the aliens.
“Do not explain,” a different alien said. “We are not here for a debate. Follow us. That is an order.”
“We will not hurt you,” said another alien.
“Don’t say that,” said yet another one.
“We will hurt you,” said the first (or second, or third).
“And don’t say that,” said the second (or third, or first).
The aliens were the size of humans, with the same number of limbs and a similar body shape. They even moved like humans, sounded like humans. What was different was the size and shape of their heads, which resembled masks.
They were masks, Norton realised.
These weren’t aliens. They were three men, each wearing a bizarre face mask, each carrying a lethal weapon.
“I think we should have a debate,” said one of them. “Do you prefer to stay here? A prisoner? Naked? In the dark?”
“Your only future is to be sold to the highest bidder,” said another.
“Like some valuable antique,” added the last of the trio.
“An excellent analogy.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it.”
“If you are a genuine antique, that is. Not a recent fake.”
“I want to stay here,” said Norton, and he glanced at Mandy again. His eyes were becoming used to the gloom. She was sitting on the end of the bed, gazing at the blank television screen, pressing the control buttons.
“With her, your jailer?”
“Yes,” said Norton.
“You are the victim of a psychological syndrome whereby a prisoner becomes emotionally bonded with his captor. You’ll soon forget her when you’re liberated.”
“You’ll soon forget her when she’s dead. We want no witnesses. Shall I kill her or would one of you particularly enjoy the experience?”
“No!” said Norton.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Don’t kill her!”
“Come with us, and we won’t.”
“How do I know that? She can come with us.”
“No!” said Mandy, turning her head. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to speak. It just slipped out. Don’t kill me. Please. I’ll be truly, truly grateful if you let me stay alive.”