Bikini Planet

by David Garnet

“But there might not be anyone else,” Diana continued. “Those two could have been the last. They probably waited until the end of the journey because it gave them a better chance of escape. And if they’d killed you earlier, they’d have been without a steward.”

  Norton gripped the axe in his right hand, and it felt as if it belonged there. It was already a part of him, far more than the NLDDD. He made a practice stroke, swinging the weapon through the air, then another.

  “Top of the range weaponry for starship combat,” said Diana, as she watched him. “Strange, isn’t it? Knives, hatchet, bow and arrows, all our ancestral weapons.”

  “Ancestral?” Norton remembered something he’d kept meaning to ask. “Is Colonel Travis really your father?”

  “Biologically?”

  “Yeah. Is he really your father?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because he’s… er… coloured, but you’re not.”

  “Coloured? What colour?”

  “Black. He’s black. His skin is black. Yours is white.”

  “So’s yours.”

  “Yeah. I’m white, you’re white, but Travis is coloured.”

  “White isn’t a colour, is that what you’re saying, because it reflects all light?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “And I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your father,” said Norton, “what is he? What race is he?”

  “Race?” Diana frowned. “Ah! I know what you mean. In your era, you’d have said, let’s see… an aboriginal. Yes, an aboriginal.”

  “So he’s Australian?” That made sense, although it still didn’t explain why Diana was white.

  “No. That’s another continent. It is now, and I’m sure it was in your era.”

  “Yeah, it was halfway around the world.” Norton shrugged. “That used to be a long way.”

  “ ‘Aboriginal’ means native to a particular region. What about ‘Native American’; was that the term in your era?”

  Norton glanced at the tomahawk he was still holding. “Are you talking about Red Indians?”

  “Yes. You said that before, back on Earth. Red Indigenes. Names change.”

  “So I’ve found out.”

  “Native Americans. Tribal Nations. Aboriginals. Autochthons. Amerindians. Red Indigenes. That’s what we are, Reds.”

  “You mean—” Norton looked at Diana, at her Mohican haircut—“you’re the last of… you mean… you and your father… you’re both Red Indians?”

  “And you,” said Diana.

  Norton laughed. He took a swig from the bottle. Then he laughed again.

  “You are,” Diana told him.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That’s an opinion. But you’re a Red Indigene. That’s a fact. I verified it.”

  “Verified?”

  “You remember.”

  Norton touched his lips. How could he forget?

  “You’re not one hundred percent,” Diana continued, “but no one is. There have been no pure-blood braves for a long, long time.”

  “Are you telling me,” said Norton, as he gripped the tomahawk tightly in his hand, “that one of my… my ancestors was a Red Indian?”

  “Certainly. Where does your thick black hair come from?” Diana glanced at his head. “The hair you had when we first met.”

  It was possible, he supposed. Although it was unlikely any of them had arrived on the Mayflower, both sides of his family had lived in the United States for several generations. Family legend said that some had been pioneers, heading out West on wagon trains; others had sailed around Cape Horn and reached California during the gold rush; some had fought for the Union, others for the Confederacy; some had herded cattle, others had built railroads.

  All of American history ran through his veins, so who was to say there wasn’t some Red Indian blood in there?

  “That big nose,” said Diana, “where did that come from?”

  “I haven’t got a big nose.”

  “Alright, it’s a strong nose. And the way you shot that arrow. It was instinctive; you were born to it. Like me.”

  She walked across the cabin and picked up her bow, pulling back on the string, aiming at an imaginary target.

  “Diana the huntress,” she said. “Goddess of the Moon. That’s me. Roman mythology.”

  “What… but… what…?”

  Norton shook his head, trying to dislodge the rest of his question. He had much to ask, but he felt in no condition to understand any answers. He was very tired, completely exhausted.

  “What about Day Zero?” suggested Diana. “We remember the past through oral history. We remember Lost Vegas. We remember everything. We’re the only ones who do. The word ‘Redskin’ was pejorative, but we adopted it and became proud to call ourselves Reds. We were cheated out of our land, but then we took it all back.”

  Norton reached for his glass. There seemed to be three of them in front of him. His hand missed them all.

  “Time for bed,” said Diana.

  “Very,” said Norton.

  “Very what?”

  “Very… fication. Do you want to… very… fy me again?”

  “Not much. And I don’t think you could. Come on, it’s time to get horizontal.”

  “Very… good.”

  “On your feet, John.”

  “I want to… to… here… stay here.”

  “You must stand up before you can lie down.”

  “Can lie… lie down… here.”

  “Stand up. That’s an order.”

  “Can’t… bad… bad leg.”

  Diana hauled him to his feet and dragged him over to the bed. This was where he’d slept ever since leaving his own cabin. It was also where Diana had slept. But it was a big bed. He had one side, and she had the other.

  Every night he waited and watched and wished. He’d never even seen her undress.

  Norton felt totally weary, totally drunk. Maybe tonight was his chance. Diana would think he was so far gone that she’d peel off her clothes while she was in the same room. Maybe she would even help him remove his outfit.

  She did neither.

  He lay on the bed where she’d let him fall, trying hard to stay awake. When Diana finally climbed into the far side, he stretched out his hand toward her, but it was heavy, so heavy, and she was so far, far away. Before he could reach her, sleep overwhelmed him.

  Wayne Norton had been the oldest virgin on Earth. Now, it seemed, he was the oldest virgin in the universe.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Where are we heading?” Kiru asked the boss.

  It was best to speak to him because he was the one Grawl was least likely to be jealous of. And least likely to kill.

  Grawl hadn’t killed Aqa for himself, she supposed. If that were the reason, he’d have wiped him out months ago. Grawl had eliminated Aqa for Kiru’s sake, which proved what a good friend he was. His concern was more than that, however, different from that. It was almost like—

  Kiru tried to break her line of thought. Her father had betrayed her by committing suicide. He’d only killed himself. For himself. Whereas Grawl had killed someone else. For her.

  “Would you like some refreshment, Kiru?” said the boss.

  It was the first time he had used her name, she realised. He actually knew who she was.

  “I’d prefer an answer.”

  “Have both. You’re the only one who doesn’t know where we’re going, so I’ll tell you. Make yourself comfortable.”

  They were in the boss’s cabin on board the outlaw ship. She gazed at the wall behind him, where a huge black screen sparkled with the lights from countless stars. It was an amazing sight, capturing her gaze and seeming to draw her deep within.

  “Once you’ve travelled the galaxy, Kiru, no one planet can hold you. Not even Arazon. We’re back, and the whole universe is ours to pillage and plunder!”

  “What about me? Am I a space pirate, too?”

  “You’ve got a
wonderful reference: you were on Clink. But you might not be suitable as a professional pirate. It’s a vocation, a calling. Many are called, few are chosen. It takes years to become fully qualified. There’s a very high failure rate. You’ll have to study, go on field trips, study again, do research projects, more study, pass all the exams.”

  Kiru managed to look away from the screen. “What?”

  “Have you heard of Hideaway?”

  She shook her head.

  “The most famous leisure planet in the entire universe? The greatest pleasure asteroid in the whole galaxy?”

  She shook her head again. There had been very little leisure or pleasure in her life—until she became a convict.

  “That’s the way it should be,” said the boss. “No one should know. Hideaway was hidden away. It was our secret headquarters. A fantastic place, unbelievable, indescribable. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

  As she looked at the boss, Kiru wondered why she’d once thought of him as being old. Compared to herself, he was, but so were most people. He was also older than Aqa. Or older than Aqa had been. The boss was in his middle years, his hair thick and dark, his cheeks and jaw unlined. He was quite an attractive man, in fact. Why hadn’t she noticed until now?

  “We’re going to Hideaway?” she said.

  “Yes. It will be ours again. This time it will stay ours. And stay a secret. We have to concentrate on our core business. The miscalculation last time was to move into subsidiary activities. The start-up costs were far too great. We sacrificed most of our primary cash flow, invested too deeply in capital projects which depreciated much more rapidly than forecast. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You do?”

  “That all this could be claimed as tax losses, yes? But not when all we had was a deficit. Hideaway is one of the prime real-estate sites in the galaxy. We had it. We lost it. We lost everything.”

  Kiru nodded, as if understanding. “That’s why you were on Arazon?” she said.

  “Indirectly. It was the end result of a series of badly judged business decisions by the previous chief executive.”

  She nodded again.

  “I admit,” admitted the boss, “that after our relocation to new premises, he made tremendous progress in restructuring the company for its niche market. We were poised for expansion throughout the galaxy, negotiating to franchise our reputation as brand leader. Then almost exactly the same thing happened. We lost our new headquarters as well. Would you believe it?”

  Kiru shook her head.

  “The company was suddenly caught up in a ruthless trade war. My predecessor became the victim of corporate raiders and suffered the ultimate cancellation of his contract. We were totally downsized, and almost the entire personnel were made redundant. Those of us efficient enough to stay out of the red were given an involuntary transfer to Arazon. Thank you, Grawl. I was telling Kiru about the hostile take-over which liquidated the organisation’s entire capital assets.”

  Grawl had brought in two elaborate cocktails and a choice of savoury snacks. He paused for a moment, glancing at the boss before setting down the tray.

  “When the Algolan war fleet attacked our last hideout,” the boss explained.

  Kiru wished he’d said that in the first place.

  “Thanks,” she said as Grawl handed her a drink.

  Although everyone on the ship probably believed she and Grawl shared more than just their cabin, they were all wrong.

  At first, Kiru couldn’t understand why the boss had said there was no room on board for her. It had been cramped inside the lander, but the escapees soon transferred to the parent ship when the Monte Cristo spliced into the Monte Carlo.

  As the renegade craft set course across the universe, Grawl chose their quarters. There were two extra berths in the cabin, but no one claimed them.

  It was only later that Kiru realised no one dared.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wayne Norton gazed in awe around Hideaway.

  The entrance hall was vast, the size of an entire Vegas casino, so big that the floor curved down toward the near horizon.

  And it was full of aliens…

  Most of those he saw were humanoid bipeds, but the range and variety of colours and shapes and sizes seemed limitless.

  Despite their differences, these weird beings had one thing in common: They were all tourists, and they’d come to Hideaway to have a good time, to spend their money gambling and whoring and drinking—and indulging in whatever other “pleasures” existed on the artificial asteroid.

  But Wayne Norton was here because he was working. He was a cop, just like in Las Vegas.

  “Welcome to Hideaway, sir.”

  He looked like a man, his appearance both human and male. He sounded Terran, using fluent fastspeak.

  Norton wished there was an alien in the reception booth because he could have tried his slate. But that wasn’t how the Hideaway check-in system operated, where everyone was met by a member of their own race. Or apparently of their own race.

  Diana had briefed him on board ship, and what Norton was faced with was an illusion. He wasn’t human. He didn’t exist. He was a computerised simulation, his familiar appearance designed to reassure visitors.

  Norton felt uneasy. The only other non-human in disguise that he’d encountered had been an alien assassin. And he was the intended target.

  “Everyone’s a winner on Hideaway,” continued the man—the computerised simulation of a man—“and I hope you’ll be very lucky.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you be here long, sir?”

  “Probably a couple of days.”

  “Just for the weekend?”

  Norton nodded. He didn’t know whether it was true or not, but Diana had told him to say his visit would be very brief. All this way, countless trillions of miles, travelling for endless weeks. Just for the weekend.

  He guessed GalactiCop hadn’t found anyone to sponsor his stay and could only afford the room rates for two days.

  Anyone who could pay their fare to Hideaway was allowed on to the planetoid, which meant that spaceship crews were prohibited. It wasn’t just a question of money, Diana had said, but of security. Space crews were notorious for causing trouble wherever they went. In return for keeping their crews on board, high-ranking officers were given access to the pleasure planet.

  “Are you carrying a weapon?” asked the sim.

  Like all plain-clothes officers, Norton had a concealed weapon. Concealed in his hand. Inside his hand, in fact. Which meant he wasn’t carrying a gun. Not really.

  “No,” he replied, “I’m not.”

  “Will you follow me, please, sir? This will only take a minute.”

  “What will?”

  “A technical formality. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Norton had heard the phrase before, had used it himself, and his earlier unease now became concern.

  The simulation walked toward a wall, then through it. There was no doorway; he stepped through the wall itself. It was the kind of thing an illusion could do. Norton reached out, and his hand vanished into the wall. Maybe it was the wall which was an illusion. He walked through and found himself in a small room, empty and featureless.

  The man sat down. Norton hadn’t noticed the chair.

  “Please be seated.”

  Nor the other one. He sat down.

  “What name are you using?”

  There was no pretence. They expected him to give a false name. For a moment, Norton was tempted to give his real name. But only for a moment. He could be anyone he wanted to be. Identity documents no longer existed. There were no passports or driving licenses anymore, and neither were there any modern equivalents. They were so easy to forge that they were useless.

  Wayne Norton could be anyone he wanted to be.

  He remembered his exploits with the bow and arrow, and he said, “Robin Hood.”

  “And you’re from Earth?”

  “Ye
ah.”

  “Travelling through falspace can affect the memory, Mr. Hood. There’s something you seem to have overlooked. Any idea what it might be?”

  “No.”

  “You cannot enter Hideaway with a weapon.”

  They knew he had a gun, so there was no point denying it.

  “You will have to leave,” added the simulated man.

  “I can’t leave. I’ve come for…” Norton still didn’t know why he was here, but he added, “pleasure.”

  “This is certainly the place to find pleasure, Mr. Hood, but first you must remove your weapon.”

  Norton looked at his right hand. “Yeah, I’d love to, but…”

  “We will remove it for you. It also means removing your right hand, of course.”

  “Removing! My hand!”

  “You’ll still have the left one. You can have your other hand back when you leave.”

  “No! I’m leaving now.”

  “If that’s what you want.” The computerised man stood up, and Norton did the same. “Thank you for coming.” He offered his hand, and they shook. For an illusion, he had a very firm grip. “Now you can go on through.”

  “Go on through to Hideaway?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Hood. Your room is on level 8364, coordinates XJ-17/VF-306.”

  “What about my hand?”

  “You can keep it. It was a joke, Mr. Hood. Hideaway is a fun place. We weren’t going to cut off your whole hand. The index finger is all we need.”

  Norton glanced at his right hand. Thumb, three fingers.

  Three…!

  His forefinger was gone. The sim had stolen it when they’d shaken hands. He hadn’t felt a thing, couldn’t feel a thing. There was no blood, no pain. It was as if the missing finger had never been there at all.

  He glanced at the simulation’s hands, which were both empty. There was no sign of his amputated finger.

  “As I told you, Mr. Hood, you can have it back when you leave.”

  Norton sat down again, and the chair he hadn’t noticed was there again.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” asked the sim. “I can point you in the right direction. Even if you can’t.”

  “If I can’t what?”

  “Can’t point. That’s another joke. You’ve got to think of this detachedly.”