Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  What was left of it was manageable. So that when the bottom saw was through, there was merely a minor lurch in the monster's stance as its claw took the weight. And there would be little trouble in carting it away to the camp and to the other machines that awaited it there. And from there it might go anywhere. Who could tell? It might end up as a jetty or as some piling in a mine. Or if the market was poor, there was always a need for scaffolding - the cheap wooden sort they used in the east…

  And at least it wouldn't be burnt, not here where for years it had stood. That, after all, was why it was being taken: to save it from the fire, to salvage its “value” before the clearance. That would have been a waste, an appalling squandering of a scarce resource. Yes, it was only right and proper that it was saved, and that it was put to a good use - a good human use.

  And the sloth? What of the sloth?

  Well, he was dead.

  A branch of the tree's falling crown had brushed him to the ground. He'd fallen to his death before his head had left his chest. And now he lay in a crumpled mound amid the debris of his heaven. He'd slowed to a complete stop, just as in a short time would the forest. But at least he wouldn't witness that.

  And then the image began to fade and the subdued lighting in the small theatre became a little less subdued. And there they were: the three Lagooners who'd been watching these scenes. They sat motionless, all three of them - and grim-faced. They were like mourners at a funeral. And then, just as at a funeral, when the business is finally done, they began to move away, slowly and silently, and still grim-faced - each with a death mask to hide their inner thoughts. Or maybe even to hide their emotions. Well, with Lagooners, it was so hard to tell…

  14.

  It was a new day on the SS Lollipop and Renton was feeling smug. There were two reasons for this.

  In the first place, he had conceived a really clever plan, one that stood a very good chance of working. In fact, there was simply no way it wouldn't work. And furthermore the difficult part was over. He'd planted those blasted programmables in the air-duct, and all he had to do now was to collect any images they'd recorded - but not physically. No, he could collect them remotely - with a “pic-pac”. Like all modern cameras, those he'd hired could transmit their output electronically - to a suitable receiver. And in this case, to his own little pic-pac. And when they'd done this, and when this tiny little photo-generator was then switched to print mode, it would spew out all the “snaps” that the cameras had taken - all those snaps of his over-tall blondes. And even though he'd have to pay the pharmacy for not returning what he'd hired, he'd not have to tangle with that dreadful duct-way again. He'd just have to tangle with the photies. And that made him as smug as could be.

  But there was a second element to his smugness. It was the Lagooners - or rather his awakened interest in the Lagooners, and the fact that only he appeared to have realised just how interesting they were. Everybody else just seemed to take them for granted, as part of the furniture of the Lollipop - as he'd done himself. But now the scales had fallen from his eyes, and he could see them for what they really were: one of the most challenging enigmas of his life. And very definitely a very private enigma; nobody else was in the least bit interested. Well, when he'd sorted out this blonde nonsense, he'd waste no time at all in turning his attention to this new mystery. He would apply his growing detective skills to a bit of real research. There was no telling what he might find…

  So his smugness was huge. It had simply never been bigger.

  But, of course, it could never last. Something was bound to come along and reduce it. Something like despondency or guilt - or possibly that special sort of embarrassed regret he often indulged in. And so it was on this occasion. His smugness was about to be shrunk - but not by regret.

  He was in his cabin. He hadn't yet had his breakfast, but he was eager to reap the fruits of his labours - and so he'd just switched his pic-pac to print mode. It made a whirring sound and then it delivered three prints, one from camera one, one from camera two and one from camera five. Clearly no giant blondes had passed by the lenses of cameras three and four.

  And there on the very first picture was a splendidly tall blonde. It was fantastic. She looked to be the perfect fit. And the image of her face was wonderful. It was as though she'd been looking directly at the camera. It couldn't have been clearer. His smugness grew even bigger.

  And number two! Wow! It was like a staged portrait. Brilliant. And the woman was a corker! She was absolutely stunning, quite unforgettably beautiful. Renton would be able to pick her out at a hundred paces. And so his smugness was now enormous. And so swollen, it almost hurt…

  Then the shot from camera number five and his smugness shrivelled in an instant. Where before had stood Smug the Impaler, a veritable erection of self-satisfied smug-excess-essence, there now lay a withered sac of scrotal membrane. Nothing was left of the monster member. It had been entirely obliterated. And the culprit, the deflater of King Smug, was shock, shock and its cohorts of fright. For what Renton had seen in this third and final pic, the one shot from camera number five's uncertain vantage point, was not a tall blonde but a long blonde. And she was long because she was lying down. And she was lying down - on what looked like an operating table - because she was having some sort of probes inserted into her head - by one of those Lagooners. And Renton just knew this was bad - that this wasn't being done for her good.

  What the hell was going on? Just what part of his private Lagooner mystery had he just unravelled? And at what cost - to the girl on the table - and to himself? They could have found that camera, the one he'd left pointing into that dark room. And they could have tapped its contents. Hell, it wouldn't be that difficult. And they could now be doing anything: disposing of the evidence - the girl, tracing the camera to the pharmacy, picking up the details of the hirer. Jesus! They could be knocking on his cabin door in the next few seconds. This was serious and it might be immediately serious.

  So shock was now turning to panic. And panic would then turn to fear…

  'Hey, but wait a minute, I'm an ex-Intergalactic Knight. I rationalise. I react purposefully. And I certainly don't panic. That was for my earlier version. So cool it. Think what to do, and think calmly. That way lies the solution…'

  It worked. Renton deferred any consideration of what he had found in favour of deciding how to cover his tracks. That way he might just remain at liberty long enough to deal with the consideration bit later. And it was obvious. He had to retrieve that fifth camera and as soon as possible. If they'd already found it, he was probably doomed anyway. But there was a very good chance that they hadn't. And that was a chance he just couldn't ignore.

  And then it was there: a new feeling, a feeling of dread. Because he knew what his decision involved. Another voyage into that damned air-duct. More discomfort. More pain. Oh shit, if this is what smugness could lead to, then he'd never court smugness again. Never ever again. What he'd already had would do fine, thanks. And if he managed to retrieve that damned camera he'd settle for a big dose of just simple relief. Smugness wouldn't get a look in. Not so much as a chance…

  15.

  Arnal was confused. What had started out as a straightforward assignment with a very clear purpose had quickly turned into some horrible sort of mind game. And poor old Arnal wasn't very good at games. And in matters of the mind he was worse than hopeless. Mind meant intellect. And you couldn't bludgeon intellect. So, where could you start? Where could you get the upper hand? It just wasn't fair. And it was all so confusing.

  The Lagooners were blackmailers. He knew that for a fact. It was what this ship was all about. A load of perverts enticing other perverts into their disgusting web of depravity, and then ensnaring them with the evidence of their dirty deeds: holofilms and stills of their carnal misdoings. Just the sort of stuff they'd pay a fortune to keep concealed. And they did. They paid an absolute packet. And now these loathsome Lagooners had grown wealthy on this stream of extorted lucre, fabul
ously wealthy.

  And the stream was still in full flood. With their files of names and their files of what those names had been up to - and with the evidence to support it - they had a vast income, and a permanent income. And that was what he'd come to discover. Not for himself, but for his mystery paymaster, his mystery employer who'd supplied him with all this info in the first place. He would be paid handsomely, of course. But his master, whoever he was, would make a fortune, an absolute pile. But that was OK. That's how his business worked. Someone provided the information and he provided the menace. It worked perfectly. And it had done for years. But not any more, not now with this voice in his head…

  It was during the night, the night after his capture. He was lying in his cell… well, in a rather nice secure cabin actually - when the voice first arrived.

  It was a woman's voice, a rather shrill woman's voice. And it started telling Arnal what to do - really quite rudely.

  'Forget the blackmail stuff,' it snapped. 'If you want us to get you out, forget it entirely. If you don't, you're dead. Understand that and understand it good. You've never heard of any blackmail stuff. It doesn't exist. You just dreamed it. It was never real.'

  This took Arnal aback. Not only did he know that this was all wrong, but whoever was telling him these lies was not in his room but in his head. He wasn't hearing it with his ears; he was hearing it with his brain. Somebody had a direct line into his grey stuff. And he didn't much like it.

  Then it went on.

  'They'll interrogate you. And when they do, just say "Gutto and Paulino, I know where they are". That's all. Nothing more. Nothing about any blackmail stuff. Or about your being paid to find it. Just those eight words: "Gutto and Paulino, I know where they are". And whatever they ask you, just those same eight words. Over and over again. Every time they ask you a question. And so you don't forget what to say, I'm gonna say it again, only real slow this time. So listen. "Gutto… and… Paulino… I… know… where… they… are".'

  Arnal shook his head. This bitch had a wrong number. She must have. He'd never heard of any Gutto or Paulino. Never in his life. It was just nonsense - just like the blackmail stuff not existing.

  He shook his head again and the voice came back, this time louder than ever.

  'You're in deep trouble, Arnal Cassides. Your only way out is to do what I've said. You do anything else and you're dead. I repeat, you're dead. So remember, forget the blackmail business, and just say those eight words. Again and again - until I tell you to stop. And I will. I'll talk to you again. I promise.'

  Arnal found himself sitting up in bed with his mouth open. This witch in his head had addressed him by name: “Arnal Cassides”. And there couldn't be two of him, surely. So it couldn't be a crossed line. Not with all that stuff about the blackmail as well. So somehow his brain had been hijacked - as if being nabbed by these Lagooner creeps wasn't bad enough on its own…

  Then the voice again. Louder and more deliberate than ever. 'Remember: "Gutto and Paulino, I know where they are".'

  'Jesus, OK, OK. I heard you. I heard you. “Gutto and Paulino, I know… I mean, I know where… errh… where they are.” I got it. I got it. Now just leave me alone.'

  And she did. Arnal was left to ponder on the message - and what the message could possibly mean.

  Not that pondering was one of his strengths. And after almost five hours, all he'd concluded was that he'd had a nightmare and he would now ignore it completely. As soon as one of those goonies arrived he would either attack him or challenge him about the blackmail, depending on the circumstances and how many other goonies arrived with him.

  There were three of them and one had a pipil in his hand. It would be a verbal not a physical challenge. So before they said a word, he was in.

  'Right, you bastards, you dirty blackmailing bastards, don't think I don't know what you're up to. I wasn't born yesterday. I'm here for a purpose, and don't you forget it. Now before we go any further, what I want to know…'

  It was as though his own truncheon had been shoved down his throat. It was her again and she wasn't pleased.

  'Stop now. This instant. Or you're dead.'

  He did. He didn't need to ponder this one.

  'OK, now the eight words. And nothing else. You've got just ten seconds. If you haven't said those eight words in ten seconds, you're dead.'

  Arnal tried to grin at his captors, but nothing much was working. He tried to open his mouth, but it remained obstinately shut. His jaw must have seized. Then he panicked - like he'd never panicked before. And as the seconds ticked away he launched the biggest panic belch of his life. It shot up his gullet like a rocket, burst out of his mouth like a gale, and before his mouth knew much about it, so did some words, eight of them: the Gutto/Paulino address. Rushed and barely intelligible. But done. And he was alive. He was still alive!

  The tallest of the three Lagooners spoke. But Arnal didn't hear him. He was now in a state of shock, and the real world around him had become remote and was receding even further. It would be a good few hours before contact was re-established.

  Then, when it was, it wasn't quite normal. Because it was now all one way - and it was inside his head. The mind game was now all there was.

  'So where are they?' said the man's voice. 'Where are Gutto and Paulino?'

  'Ask him his name,' said the witch. 'Say you won't answer anything until you know his name. And find out who he is. Is he the captain?'

  'Why don't you talk?' said the man's voice. 'Are you afraid?'

  'Go on, ask him his name - and whether he's the ship's captain.' The witch's voice was now shriller than ever.

  'Take your time, there's no need to hurry,' reassured the man. 'Take all the time you want.'

  'Ask him his name, you idiot - or you're dead. Understand? Dead. Kaput. Now go on and ask him.'

  No, this was no good. Arnal just didn't like these games of the mind. How did he get a say in? And more important, how did he get to win? How could he make this nice man cringe? And how the hell could he strangle the life out of this bastard bitch, this bastard crone who was giving him all the grief? No, he didn't like it. And he was confused, more confused then he'd ever been in his life. He was going to shut down. That's all he could do. He'd switch it all off. Let them get on with it without him. He'd only come back when he could be in charge again, when he could have the bat and when he could beat them with it, beat them until they were both fucking senseless…

  Boz put his claw on the man's shoulder.

  'It's no good. He's gone in too deep. Weez jus' wastin' our time now.'

  'Yes, you're right,' sighed the man. 'We'll never find out who sent him, this way. It's hopeless.'

  Boz nodded.

  'Yep. An' that ain't good news. That ain't good news at all.'

  So Arnal had done it. He'd walked away from the mind game, and he'd stopped hearing those voices - both the witch's voice and the man's voice. Problem was, he'd stopped most everything else as well. She hadn't killed him, that witch, but she might as well have.

  Early on, there had been a couple of near surfacings. But as soon as he'd set eyes on Rafita - walking round his room and looking more alive than ever - he'd subsided again. Hell, he'd killed that bastard, hadn't he? How could he still be in the game? If that's the way they wanted to play it, he just wasn't interested.

  'So goodbye, all you bastards, all you bastard perverts and all you stinking weirdoes. I'm off for good!'

  And he was. And he never returned. Never ever.

  16.

  Renton was happy. His second expedition into the airway had been a complete success. He had retrieved the fifth camera. And without any further harm to his person. And furthermore, by measuring the gap between each of the airway's internal corrugations, and then by painstakingly counting every last one of them, both along its length and down that vertical bit, he'd been able to obtain a really good fix on the whereabouts of the “operating theatre”. Yes, he'd worked out the exact location of the mys
tery room - which, just as on the first occasion, had been in total darkness.

  There was also a bonus. It was a poster. He'd spotted it on his way back to his cabin. It was advertising one of the ship's nightclubs, and one of its acts: a lady by the name of Angelica Spreadeagle - whose act, the poster promised, combined “crudity and nudity - like you've never seen before”. It showed her face. And it was the face of the woman in his first photo, the photo from camera number one. There was simply no mistaking it. He had identified one of his prime suspects. And not only that. Because, if the poster were to be believed, she would be revealing her entire person this very evening. And that meant she would also be revealing, amongst other things, her right bosom, a bosom which might just be decorated with the sought after sign of the brush. And if it was, hey presto! Renton's job would be done. He would have succeeded in his quest. He would have located his quarry.

  Understandably, Renton felt pretty pleased with himself - although not smug, definitely not smug. He'd learnt that lesson very well indeed. But his delight in his discovery had to contend with his current preoccupation: his intense interest in the Lagooners, and specifically what they'd been up to in that room, what they'd been doing with those damn probes. So Angelica and her act were parked for the present, and Renton turned his entire attention to this more immediate task, his unofficial and distressingly personal one. And that meant finding that secret room as soon as he could.

  It took a lot of concentration, and a lot of measured paces, all the way from the doorway of Captain Cop-You-Later and down through three decks - and a lot of funny looks on the way. But eventually he was there: at the calculated coordinates of the “probe-room”. Yes, he was at the exact point where, by his dead reckoning, he should have been in the sought after room. However he wasn't. He was still in the mall and there wasn't a brain-probe in sight.

  'Shit,' he mouthed to himself, 'I must have miscounted.'

  And it certainly looked as though he had. But then he noticed a colourful mosaic on the wall to his right. It was of the outline of a vast brain. And within this outline were two naked figures, one male and one female - and both with very public private parts. Indeed it was difficult to imagine how they could possibly have been more public. They were picked out in bright scarlet against the amber-orange colour of the rest of their bodies.