by Dave Barsby
We all take this as a good sign to retreat. As Sanshar dashes past us towards her monitoring station in the cockpit, the rest of the crew scramble madly for my storage compartment. For a brief moment I panic as Dirk unfolds because I had convinced myself he really is a couch.
We all bundle into the cramped metal storage area, knocking into unlabelled tins and each other before Rogdo cleverly closes the door. For around three minutes we say nothing – feeling frazzled all we can do is sit down and take deep breaths. From our vantage point we can hear the occasional piercing howl of pain from the beast. Each howl is immediately followed by a scream of desperation from Larisa. We don’t know if she is being attacked, or just venting her fear at the creature roaming outside her cabin. It seems as though Sanshar should have been in touch by now. As no one else is speaking, I swallow my nerves and attempt a few words.
“Do you think Sanshar is okay?” I ask, more a rhetorical question than anything useful. However, speech helps my fears to quell a little. The most action I’ve ever witnessed before was a bar-room brawl. This incident romps jauntily into the number one spot on my Top Ten To Never Experience Again list.
“What about the Princess?” Bolland asks. “It would be a bit ironic if we are the ones to end up killing her.”
“Whatever happens, it isn’t our fault,” Rogdo points out unnecessarily. For one, we all know deep down it wouldn’t be our fault, and for another, that knowledge won’t really make us feel any better if we exit the storage area to find the corridor painted with royal guts.
“What are we going to do now?” Tima asks.
“You could go out and check,” Drift offers. His suggestion is answered with the single-finger salute.
“Good shot, H,” Rogdo tells Hiaelia. She nods appreciatively.
“Yeah,” Bolland agrees. “I never thought that weapon would really work.”
My mind is working overtime, trying to catch up with recent events, and the titbit of information it has just given me makes me feel sick again. “I don’t want to be the thinking-things-through-and-coming-up-with-nothing-but-doom member of the group here, but how sure are we that it is the only beast aboard this ship?”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Drift utters. “I was just starting to feel a little bit better then.”
“There aren’t any more,” Sanshar’s voice suddenly booms out over the intercom, causing us all to jump.
“Jesus Christ!” Rogdo calls. “You could have warned us before you did that!”
“Maybe I should have started whispering then slowly built up?” Sanshar offers sarcastically. “I’ve checked out the whole ship, and it looks like there’s just the one critter.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Moping around not feeling too well.”
“It isn’t dead yet?” Drift asks, exasperated.
“No, it isn’t dead yet. Can’t you hear it wailing?”
“I thought maybe that was its death rattle,” Drift points out. His point is met with silence and blank looks. “I…” he begins before shrugging apologetically, having realised nothing he can say will suffice.
“How about the Princess?” Rogdo asks.
“She’s fine,” Sanshar answers.
We hear Larisa shout, distant but audible. “I am not fine!” she calls. “Perhaps you should have fed me to the monster! Then it could choke on this bloody corset!”
“Yeah, she’s fine,” Rogdo mutters. He clicks his tongue. No one quite knows what to do now. The brief conversation seems to have run its course, and now all we can do is wait and see what happens. Maybe the beast’s body takes a while to react to death. It has been known before – the flightless Sentinel Korpa bird in the Herzon system actually keels over eleven years after it dies. Though that is possibly because it moves less than five inches a year.
“We were all going a bit mad before this, weren’t we?” I say, desperate to drown out the Dupper Beast’s persistent wails.
“Well, I think you lot were, but I was fine,” Rogdo insists.
“All that humming?!?” Tima says. “You were definitely nuts. I was the only sane one around here.”
“Uh-uh,” Drift disagrees. “You spent all your time shouting at the walls because you thought you could hear scurrying…ah, bollocks.”
“Thank you,” Tima nods proudly.
“At least I made that weapon,” Bolland points out, wanting a little of Tima’s kudos to rub off on him.
“And I hit over eighty decibels,” Hiaelia adds.
“Yeah, and look what happened there,” Drift says.
“Okay, we all went a little stir crazy,” Rogdo says. “Let’s just leave it at that. When we get to Camera-7, we’ll raise some money somehow and buy books or music or something for future journeys.”
“When will we get there?” I ask.
“Six days. Not too bad, I don’t think. I’m sure we can all cope with that. What we’ll do when we get there is a bit more vague, though.”
“Aren’t we going to find this Senator Vitari?” Drift asks unnecessarily.
Rogdo scowls at him. “Of course we are, you idiot. But if we just kill him, who’s to say those on his payroll will immediately stop trying to kill us? Look, I think we’ve all figured out by now what Vitari is up to, yes?”
We all nod in agreement, but Drift’s is spectacularly unconvincing. Rogdo decides to explain just in case.
“So Vitari hired Colonel Kwik to hire us to blow up the-”
“Whoa, hold on, slow down a bit,” Drift insists.
“You want to take notes?”
“Well, just…no.”
“So we kidnap the Princess and destroy the Senate. Until Larisa is returned Vitari holds sole control over Almudena. When we hand Larisa over to Kwik, he kills her, we take the blame and are hunted down and destroyed before we can declare our innocence. That sound about right?”
“Pretty much what I got,” Tima answers.
“It just seems a bit too complex to me,” I say. “All this kidnap and pin the blame on mercenaries thing is a bit too elaborate, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s a senator. He holds a lot of power. With power comes arrogance. With arrogance comes a need to be flashy.”
“Fair enough,” I answer.
“Umm, people?” Sanshar interrupts over the speakers. “I think the beast is deaded.”
“Deaded?” I ask – being a writer who needs to be word perfect (don’t say it) I am often thrown by a particularly bizarre piece of slang or purposeful misuse of grammar. “Oh right,” I continue, seeing the light. “Dead.”
“Dead?” Rogdo asks. “Are you sure?”
“I’m watching the creature over a monitor. It doesn’t exactly allow me to check for a pulse. But it has stopped moving and I can’t see its chest going in and out. I suggest a volunteer has a look.”
“Good man, Drift,” Rogdo says. “I knew we could rely on you.”
“Bugger off, I’m not going out there.”
“What exactly have you contributed so far? You’ve flown us around a little.”
“What?!? I went into the forests on Pilatara! I managed to get us away from seven fighters and a nuclear explosion…through rush-hour traffic I might add!”
“Drift, you don’t really think there is any point in arguing your case do you?”
“Shit,” Drift mutters, defeated. “Why’d we have to get rid of Yew? This should be his job. I’m at least going to get some kind of clubbing weapon from the kitchen.”
He stands, sucks in a deep breath and makes his way to the door. Before he opens the hatch he turns back to us. “Is anyone going to come with me?”
“I suppose we could stay five yards behind him,” I point out. My curious nature wants to join Drift on his excursion, but my survival instincts need the buffer zone of not being caught in the crossfire if the Dupper Beast decides to wake up and eat him.
And so it is that, bunched up together, most of the crew peer round the corner of the corridor wall whil
e Drift gingerly pokes the Dupper Beast corpse with an overripe marrow.
Day twenty eight. Just one more day to go before we can sample sunlight and fresh air again. Bolland’s haphazard autopsy on the Dupper Beast has finally produced results – the creature died of ink poisoning. Drift has managed to snap off the ship’s control stick and now has to prod a spark plug at an exposed wire to make the Diablo IV move in a particular direction. It promises to make the landing very bumpy. Larisa is finally coming round to forgiving us for abandoning her in her cabin. I have destroyed my poems before they do the intellectual mind serious damage.
I am looking forward to tomorrow. We will arrive on the most stunning planet in the galaxy, kill a very nasty man and part ways. Finally, this relentless barrage of excitement and mortal danger will be over. Sod the book, I’ve chosen life instead.
If only it is that simple.
13. CAMERA-7
Camera-7, as I may have mentioned before, is the most beautiful planet in the galaxy. It should be, that is what it was designed for. Not that the entire planet was knocked up from scratch, mind. It probably would have been cheaper and quicker to do that.
Before its name change, Camera-7 was Doontala, a rather average planet with a variety of semi-interesting environments, haphazard seasonal climates and plenty of wasteful ocean expanses. It first deserved a mention in the history books when early settlers rapidly bored of the place and decided to auction it off. However, these settlers were crafty fellows and realised they could make more money selling the planet piece by piece than as a job lot, so auctioned 12,762 pieces of the planet on the online galactanet auction site gBay.
Several of the richer clients at the auctions formed a conglomerate and pooled their resources in the hope of gaining a controlling interest in the planet, if not the world as a whole. They nearly succeeded, outbidding all others in every auction. However, they failed to notice one final, quiet auction taking place, so while they were out celebrating buying an entire world a lone bidder – Stanley Jobson – managed to purchase rights to Doontala’s air supply for 47 tabs.
Stanley Jobson’s estate is now one of the richest in the galaxy, charging every person on or visiting Camera-7 10 tabs a week (or 2 tabs a day) to breathe. Quite how they’d deal with a non-payer, I don’t know. I can’t quite see how they could turn off the air supply to one person. But, thanks to a sound investment, the estate rakes in the cash from billions of visitors each year.
To digress…the conglomerate bought (almost) all of Doontala, then set about terraforming it into the perfect paradise. Their first task was to rip out the upper crust, the first twenty miles below sea level of planet. They then coated the sphere in a specially-designed flexible, porous rubber-concrete composite. This concrete not only allowed for a sound base upon which to sculpt the new planet’s topography, but it also quelled any turbulent activity from deeper within the planet which could result in earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.
Before work began on the planet’s topography, a few carefully-timed nuclear explosions subtly altered the orbit and rotation of the planet to ensure every square foot of the world garnered an equal share of daylight at an optimum temperature. With the entire planet now geared up for a tropical climate, the topographical terrforming began. Suffice to say that the original vision of a tropical island paradise was achieved with great success. The planet from orbit resembles a blue canvas pockmarked with green – the largest expanse of sea is 50 miles across and the largest island roughly the same, making the world sprinkled solely with a never-ending stream of island paradises.
So beautiful are the white beaches, clear blues waters and fertile green forests, the Camera name is pretty self-explanatory. The only thing no one has ever figured out (including the conglomerate who renamed the planet) is why there is a number ‘7’ suffix. There are no other planets called Camera, this is not the seventh planet in the system, nor were there seven members of the conglomerate. The number 7 bears absolutely no relation to anything connected to the planet, and the fact that even those who chose the name didn’t know why only deepens the mystery.
Our destination is one of the larger islands in the South East chain. At around 20-miles wide and almost a perfect circle, Jubogo Beach is fairly exquisite and exclusive even for Camera-7. A ring of sand and fronds of palm neatly blend into rich grassland with clumps of tropical trees tickling the base of a high peak rising proudly in the centre of this man-made paradise. The island bears a close resemblance to a very colourful witch’s hat.
Nestling a few hundred yards from the beach is the Nimbus Hotel. Backing onto a small forest, this nine-star hotel has its own dainty spaceport with space for four hundred or so guests. It is a large hotel, coloured in muted oranges and yellows with majestic, pointed turrets piercing the sky and a long raised causeway leading from the open-air reception area to the front gates. It is, in short, a one-to-one scale castle. And not just any kind of castle. It is a full scale version of those most special of castles – the bouncy castle.
Yes, it sounds ludicrous, and popular gossip indicates that the rich and elite find the novelty of holidaying in a massive bouncy castle wears off rather quickly, and rooms are usually vacated within one week. However, this is as nothing compared to the kudos of actually having holidayed in the Nimbus Hotel (slogan: “If you bounce high enough, we’ll take you beyond the clouds.”) The hotel’s entire business is based around that old concept of a toy that all the kids want for Christmas, but those who get it are bored with it by Boxing Day. Saying “Yeah I got [name of toy], but it’s crap,” only garners you more cool points for dismissing what everyone else wants. Hence, despite it creaking, swaying and being very awkward to walk around in, the Nimbus Hotel has a waiting list of 3.4 years. Even though they know they’ll hate it after a few days, people are so desperate to stay at the hotel there have been reports of assassinations being sanctioned just to move two places up the list.
Considering this, it is extremely surprising that there is minimal security at the hotel, as we discover after we have alighted from the Diablo IV in the hotel’s spaceport. At least, this is what we believe. Though we never discover this during our stay on Camera-7, we later learn that the single, wiry, balding old man in the solid, marble-coated reception area is actually a fully-qualified grand master of mind control techniques.
True, his questions probe only the surface, and if we were to lie, this interrogation would be as tricky to overcome as your spouse demanding to know if you or the pet ate the last sausage on the plate. “I see. That’s terrible. Must have been the dog.” That easy. Except, though we are unaware of this at the time, we cannot lie.
The clerk stares at us with disbelief. If he wasn’t so polite, I expect he would ask us: “What the hell are you lot wearing?!?”
“Can I help you?” the clerk asks instead, in a wavering voice that indicates he is a quick “Boo!” away from a cardiac arrest.
“No,” Rogdo tells him. “We’re just visiting someone.”
“Who will you be visiting?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m afraid I have to register every visit, Sir,” the old man tells our captain.
“Oh, right,” Rogdo answers. He rests atop the dark brown marbled counter and smiles at the clerk. “Senator Vitari of Almudena.”
“Very good, Sir. Before I allow you entry to the Nimbus Hotel, I will require any sharp objects you may have about your person.”
“Sharp objects? Why?”
“So you don’t puncture the hotel, Sir. Light-based or carbine projectile weapons, knives, forks or other pronged or bladed cutlery or weaponry, glass of any form, needles for legal and illegal medicinal purposes, earrings, brooches, stiletto heels, pens or pencils, hair clips, bejewelled rings, necklaces, tiaras, bracelets or other jewellery, pins of any form, keys, keyrings, tooth picks, corkscrews, bottle openers-”
“Okay, we get the idea.” Rogdo looks around at us. “Anyone got anything sharp on them?”
&nb
sp; Tima and I are forced to hand over our studded collars and my wrist band, Bolland his two remaining biros, and Drift his studded leather jacket. Hiaelia notices for the first time that the Dupper Beast must have swallowed her nose ring when it attacked her.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow entry to your Cat friend,” the old man tells us in his slow, rambling drawl. “Unless you wish to pay 350 tabs to rent some rather fetching Cat shoes to cover her claws.”
Rogdo turns to Sanshar. “Better wait outside for us then.” He thinks for a moment. “Actually, take Larisa with you.”
“Why?” the Princess whines, while Sanshar just looks glum.
“This is a man’s job,” Rogdo explains. Tima coughs impolitely. “And a woman’s,” Rogdo continues. “And a giant caterpillar’s. But not a princess’s job.”
“Very well,” she mutters. “I will just…see the sights. On my own.”
Rogdo briefly thinks about arguing against this last point, but caves in fairly quickly. “Fine,” he sighs. “Do what you want. We’ll track you down later.”
“Any cigarettes, cigars and/or lighters?” the old man at the reception asks as we are about to walk out. Sanshar and Larisa ignore this questioning and step back out through the entrance.
“Not anymore,” Rogdo answers sullenly.
I quickly step in to cover our tracks. “I am a law-abiding citizen and do not engage in such practices,” I add.
The old man smiles condescendingly at me. “You may go through,” he tells us. “Senator Vitari is in suite 612.”
We can all tell we’re going to have problems moving about the hotel as soon as we exit the reception area and take our first steps on the 100-yard pliable polythene walkway. The raised walkway is fairly wide, but even so I fear I may stumble on the bouncing ground and pitch over the side. Fortunately, the entire hotel including the walkway is surrounded by a 20-yard skirt of similar material before it dips towards the lawn gardens and exterior promenades.