Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  …although maybe that's a little unfair. Renton might be new to all this detective stuff, and more or less completely untested in any aspect of it - but he had been tested in other stuff in the past - and he'd come through all that pretty well.

  There was his original test, for example: his career in accountancy. And whilst possibly not the most demanding of challenges, it did have its moments. Accounting for those financial derivatives, for instance. That was an absolute pig. And then there was that standard costing. With all that variance rubbish that nobody understood. And that was just awful. But, nevertheless, he'd wopped them, hadn't he? Both of them. Along with a whole host of other horrors. He'd left them all on the floor, moaning and struggling for breath. And that meant he'd met that original challenge - and that he'd passed the first test.

  And then a bigger test, and a very different test: the test of adventure. The first one hadn't been intentional; it just sort of happened. But he hadn't run away from it. In fact, he'd run towards it. And then he'd grappled with it, and with just a little bit of help from his friends, he'd overwhelmed it. Yes, he'd come through it with flying colours - and with an appetite for more adventure. That's why there'd been the second: the adventure he'd chosen - by choosing to join the “Ticklers”. Hell, no way was joining an elite force like the League not going to get him into some new sort of thriller. And it had done. It had got him into one of the biggest thrillers you could possibly imagine. And he'd come through that one as well. And that was pretty impressive. It meant he could now add saving the universe to accounting for financial derivatives and standard costing in his growing list of passed tests.

  So why shouldn't he feel confident about this latest test? Why shouldn't he believe that he would make his mark as a detective - just as he'd done as an accountant and then as a Knight of the League? And anyway, hadn't he got the finest tutor to help him…?

  And he had. Renton was the joint junior partner in the three-strong detective agency of Aukaukukaura, Maiden and Tenting. And the senior partner in this triumvirate, Bostrom T Aukaukukaura, commonly known as “Boz”, was now an old hand at private dicking, and there wasn't a thing about detecting that he didn't know. And it helped that he was Renton's best friend as well, and the guy who had shared his adventures with him. Indeed, he was like a brother to him - even if he didn't look like his brother - on account of his being a very tall reptilian with the features of a crocodile (and the languor of a lizard). But whatever he looked like, he was the best thing since spliced wormholes when it came to all things detective - and to passing these skills on to others.

  Of course, he was teaching Madeleine as well, Madeleine Maiden, the third member of the agency, and Renton's second co-adventurer from his previous adventures. She was also Renton's lover - and not a reptilian. No, she was a fine-boned, fine-bodied, regular humanoid with luscious brown hair and an unpredictable temperament. And she was no less a whiz in the adventuring stuff than were Renton or Boz. And in some respects she was even better.

  Renton was already missing her. And if the truth were known, he wouldn't have minded seeing Boz again either. And all being well he soon would…

  For all he had to do was discharge his present mission, and then they would all meet up. And although his present mission was also his maiden mission - in this new world of private detecting - he was now pretty sure he could deal with it easily. And quickly. He was that full of confidence. Hell, how could he fail? All he had to do was find a tall, blue-eyed blonde with a tattooed right tit. And on an enclosed spaceship at that. Hardly even a real piece of detection. It would be a doddle.

  But quite how to go about it…?

  Well, it was time to give that confidence its head. And that meant forgetting all this eliminating the suspects nonsense and just getting on with going for the real target. And how to do that? Well, that was easy. Because, although he didn't know where she was at the moment, he did know where she'd be this evening. She'd be where everybody would be; she'd be at the big event, the grand gathering in the grand ballroom. It was a racing cert. And if he were there as well, he would have her. And that would be that. And the job would be done!

  It started encouragingly. He was able to install himself in a wonderful vantage point from where he could see everybody streaming into the vast hall, audience and entertainers alike. And when the blue-eyed blonde arrived, the right one, he would be able to spot her in an instant. And then recognition would be followed by confirmation; there was no way it wouldn't. Nobody kept their clothes on in this place for much longer than a few minutes - especially not in the evening, and certainly not at tonight's little shindig.

  For tonight was “Carnal-ival” night. And as the name implies, a night that was all to do with sex, sex on a spectacular scale and sex with more than a modest amount of audience participation. In essence, all the ship's passengers turned up to see a display of sexual athletics put on by some of the most professional bonkers in town. And the assembled company was then encouraged to copy-copulate - or at least to try some of the less ambitious manoeuvres - all together and no doubt in the all together - and this time without even the aphrodisiac of Brady's bar. Apparently it was never needed, such was the stimulus of the Carnal-ival's crude cavortings. And that meant bared boobs. It was a cert - and one particular bared boob, the right one on Renton's tall blonde.

  So it was spot her, trail her, wait and inspect her - and his job would be done. None too detective but all quite effective. And results were what counted when it came down to it - and not how the outcome was won.

  The encouraging start lasted about ten minutes. Then when things got under way, it deteriorated - very quickly. There were a number of contributing factors.

  In the first place, there were far more passengers than Renton had ever imagined. Where he'd expected hundreds there were thousands. The Sex Ship Lollipop was obviously a rather more capacious space-cruiser than he'd originally thought. They just kept on coming in, droves of them, and from every entrance into the great ballroom. So it was simply impossible to check every one of them - even from his excellent vantage point at the top of the stairs.

  But it got worse. He did spot a tall blue-eyed blonde - and it wasn't either of the two he'd already eliminated from his enquiries. Neither was the next one or the next one, or any of the next twenty-three. The crowd was simply peppered with them: blonde-headed, long-legged lovelies. And real or false, all of them seemed to be sporting the mandatory blue eyes of their ilk. Renton could only surmise that the propensity to indulge in the sort of raw-sex cruise offered by the SS Lollipop was more prevalent in this variety of female humanoid than in any other of whatever shape, size or colouring. They certainly constituted a disproportionate part of the ship's complement. He just didn't know where to look.

  Then it got even worse. The entertainers were now arriving, led in by that bloody laughing policeman. And there were all sorts of them. Muscular men, sculptured men, lithe-looking women, voluptuous women - and all of them recognisable as entertainers from their garb: a rich assortment of feathers, leather, latex and lace, and scarcely any of it covering anything of interest. Never, thought Renton, in the field of human costumery endeavour, has so much been worn by so many to conceal so very little. There were feathers on heads and feathers on waists. There was lace around middles and leather round arms. But only by accident it seemed, did any of these materials ever make it to an erogenous zone, and even if they did it was either something transparent or something outrageous - you know - with pins and hooks and rings and things…

  But there was an exception. It was a troupe of women, twelve in all, and all dressed identically - as sort of wet-dream bikers: silver crash helmets, long leather boots, chains around their waists (and nothing hanging from the chains) and silver studded bras, the type held together with rivets rather then stitches - and the type that wouldn't be removed, not for the whole evening. For that would have ruined the coherence of their costumes. Renton could tell. He was good at things like that. An
d this was a real blow. Because all twelve women were tall and blue-eyed, and from beneath their silver crash helmets - every one of them - flowed the blondest of blonde hair. And if one of them had a tit-placed toothbrush tattoo it would not be revealed on this night. And that one of them did was a real possibility. Renton's quarry was on the Lollipop, but she could be one of the passenger complement, or a member of staff - or one of the entertainment brigade…

  It wasn't going to work - Renton's plan that is: the spot, trail, wait and inspect routine. Apart from not being able to spot the right woman from within the assembled ranks of lanky blondes, any hope of finding her - or indeed of trailing her - went straight out of the window as soon as the show got off the ground. There was such a throng of people in the ballroom that movement between them would have been difficult in the first place. But when the entertainers got into their act, followed closely by most of the audience, the ballroom became just a solid mass of writhing flesh, interlocked and intertwined - and completely impassable. One wouldn't have got five feet before succumbing to gross exhaustion or gross temptation, and one certainly wouldn't have been able to do any waiting or inspecting - at least not of the sort envisaged by Renton at the height of his confidence.

  So that was that. His anticipated triumph had dissolved into yet another challenge, a new and daunting test for his budding skills as a novice detective. He now knew that the Lollipop was stuffed to the gunnels with leggy, blue-eyed blondes, and that by using his current approach he might just find the one blonde he wanted at about the same time that the Lollipop was due for its next fifty-year refit. He would now have to devise a different method, something a little more imaginative and a lot less hit-and-miss, something that called upon the best of techniques - indeed something like Boz would have dreamt up… But what? How? Where did he start?

  Well, not here and not tonight. That was for sure. He needed to come to terms with this new challenge just as he was coming to terms with all this extraordinary behaviour on board this extraordinary ship. All this sex, and all this display of sex. Yes, he'd wait until morning. Then he'd apply himself properly. It was the only thing to do.

  And meanwhile he'd just have a last glimpse at all the goings-on down below, the professional goings-on still being banged out on the ballroom floor - just for future reference don't you know. Heck, one never knew when some of it might come in useful. Like that chap down there with a woman round his waist and another on his head. And both of them… well, you know… And well, how the hell was he doing that? It just wasn't possible, not without some sort of deformity. It couldn't be, could it…?

  4.

  Arnal looked at his watch. He'd been on this pissy little space-launch for two hours now, two hours of enforced confinement, two hours of intense boredom in an overpadded seat. He'd had enough. In fact, he'd had more than enough. His irritation was now at a peak…

  'Hey lady, come here.'

  For a second the “lady” looked startled, but only for a second. Then the smile was back in place, the ubiquitous, pacific smile as learned by all stewardesses as part of their basic training. So whatever her real thoughts were, all that Arnal saw as she approached was that charming, almost saintly expression - which he so much despised. It pushed his irritation well beyond its peak.

  'What's taking all the time?' he growled. 'Why aren't we there yet? It's been over two hours now, and I wanna be there. Understand?'

  He glared at the stewardess. He wanted her to appreciate that he was serious - deadly serious. That he couldn't be messed around with, fobbed off with some vague reassurances. That he wanted a proper answer.

  It worked. It always did. Arnal was menace personified. He hardly had to try.

  'Fifteen minutes, sir. Then we'll be there.' There was a tremble in her voice and that smile had disappeared. 'It's as soon as we can make it. I'm afraid we're limited by the traffic regulations. They just don't allow us to go any faster. But we're nearly there now. In fact, if you look out of the window, you can see her. She's just…'

  But the audience was over. Arnal was already peering through the window - and taking in his first view of their destination, his first sighting ever of that famous, not to say that notorious, spaceship, the SS Lollipop - the Sex Ship Lollipop.

  It looked more like a missile than a spacecraft. And unlike virtually any other spacecraft in the universe, it was shiny, silver-shiny. It must have been covered in something other than regular space-paint, maybe some metalised stuff or even a chromium amalgam of some sort. But whatever it was, the effect was fantastic. The Lollipop was a streamlined wonder, a mile-long shaft of elemental elegance. And set against the blackness of space, it was now something more. It was a work of art. A statement of the sublime. A joy to behold. A special thing. A very, very special thing.

  These, however, were not Arnal's thoughts. All he saw was a posh whorehouse, a bloody great perverts' pleasure-craft, a poncy-looking dustbin for a load of oversexed plebs. And by and large he was right. That's just what it was: the biggest, most luxurious sex cruiser in the cosmos, and the only one where absolutely anything between consenting adults was allowed - and indeed encouraged. Whatever turned you on was on tap on board the Lollipop. It simply flowed with every sexual practice, malpractice, perversion and partner combination you could ever want - and no one said 'stop' and no one said 'no'. Excess was expected. Indulgence was served. Nothing was out of bounds - even what was illegal in most planet-based jurisdictions. And this was because the Lollipop was never subject to any such jurisdictions.

  It never ever came within the control of any planet or planetary federation - because it never came within their sphere of judicial influence. The Lollipop was a vagrant, forever sailing through space and never touching the soil of a planet - or even its atmosphere. The nearest it came was a high-orbit holding position - when it took on new passengers from a new planet - and discharged its spent patrons. Then it would sit just outside the planet's terrestrial space and a squadron of launches would act as a bridge.

  And most populated worlds tolerated this practice even if their own laws didn't tolerate what was on offer on board the ship. And when the launches had delivered their cargos, human and otherwise, and had returned with those who had tasted its pleasures, the Lollipop would be off into hyperspace again - until the next planet and the next switch of patrons. And there was never a shortage. The Lollipop's itinerary was posted years in advance - and its punters were in place years in advance. Demand always exceeded its capacity to supply, such was the taste for forbidden fruit - but only by humanoids. This wasn't a reptilian or an insectal thing. It was just humankind - in all its forms - who appeared to want sex in excess.

  It was also humanoids who ran the Lollipop, a bunch of secretive sorts by the name of Lagooners. They were a strange lot, and very little was known about them or their provenance. Very little, that is, other than their own taste for sex; it was completely non-existent. They never joined in. They never led by example, and they never seemed to be enjoying others doing it, or indeed even to be interested in others doing it. It was as though it wasn't part of their own lives, as though it was something they'd rejected - or something they'd just never known.

  Could it have been that they were into something far more absorbing - like arts and crafts? Or maybe it was drugs. Or maybe they belonged to a sect, a sort of secret society where sex was proscribed. And a closed-order existence like this would at least explain another of their mysteries. And this was what sustained them. What enabled them to cope with their lifelong imprisonment on board the Lollipop. Because that's what they'd accepted, and that's what they now endured. They never left the ship and they never set foot on any planet. For to do so would have been to invite certain arrest and certain imprisonment - of a very different sort - for the “crimes” they'd allowed on their ship. And this was forever never. Even retirement to a planet was never an option.

  So their space-bound destiny as part of a monastic arrangement, their entombment for religious rea
sons, had a certain appeal. And in the absence of a better explanation, it was accepted as fact by many non-Lagooners - although not by all. Arnal, for example, held a very different view. He'd heard all about these Lagooners and what they did and didn't do. And long ago he'd formed the firm opinion that they were a bunch of naffin' puffs. Well, that's to say the men Lagooners were; the women Lagooners were all either dykes or perves, and you'd have to be out of your mind to go anywhere near one of those…

  But now his thoughts were still on their home rather than on their habits. The space-launch had now closed to just a mile or so from the craft, and Arnal had spotted an access point - a docking port. And he'd decided to have a closer look. After all, no harm in starting work straightaway. And so he turned a small knurled knob below his right ear and brought up to maximum the magnification on his eyes. They were artificial, of course. His own had been sucked out in a vacuum accident when he was just a youth, and he'd had these replacements ever since. They were great. They looked like the real thing but they were ten times as good. Not only would they never fade like the real ones, but they also had a few extra features not offered as options on the natural variety - like magnification, night vision and heat detection. And you could even take them out and put then in your gin and tonic if you were that way inclined. Arnal had once, and his drinking companion had thrown up on the spot. Arnal had heard him. It had sounded gross.

  But that was all a long time ago, when Arnal's behaviour was less controlled. Now he only used them properly - for serious business - like sussing out the reception facilities at his new assignment. And yes, there they were: two of those bloody Lagooners inside the access chamber, a man and a woman standing behind a plaspex panel at its rear. And didn't they look like a pair of pansies! Long straw-coloured hair, long thin faces, narrow shoulders and long, lean bodies beneath long white robes, and him just marginally taller than her. But that was about all that distinguished them. He looked as effeminate as she looked plain, and in a dark room you'd probably only ever tell them apart with your hands. Or maybe even that would be difficult. They did look pretty sexless.