by Darrell Pitt
‘Surely you wouldn’t detonate the device.’
‘Crime is a form of art. Mere mortals such as yourself think in terms of good and evil. I am beyond that. Evil must be committed for evil’s sake. And the title of history’s greatest criminal hasn’t been claimed in so long. Where are the Attilas, the Hitlers, the Babagandrionas? My goal is to be the most successful criminal in history. If you don’t think I’ll detonate the device, then try me.’ He paused. ‘And then there’s your daughter.’
‘Why have you got her?’
‘I need your help and I doubted you would willingly assist me,’ Badde said. ‘You are familiar with Maria?’
‘The girl from the musical? She leaves the abbey and marries the Austrian guy?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Blake did know. He’d heard rumours for years about the most powerful computer virus ever developed. Maria could crack any firewall and scramble any operating system within minutes. GADO—the Global Arms Defence Organisation—had it classified top-secret, but things had a way of filtering through.
‘I want Maria and you’re going to get it for me,’ Badde continued. ‘If you contact your friends at the PBI, you’ll never see Lisa again.’
‘You harm Lisa and I’ll feed you to a Rastarian dragon!’
Zeeb says:
Take my word for it: you don’t want to be fed to a Rastarian dragon. They are one of the nastiest creatures in the galaxy. They have bad breath. Really bad breath. People have been known to suffer brain haemorrhages from simply standing too close.
And if you are unfortunate enough to be actually fed to a Rastarian dragon, you will die a long and horrible death. They have no teeth, so rather than being munched into a thousand pieces, you’re sucked into their stomach, where you languish for decades, slowly dissolving in a pit of gastric juices.
But that’s not the worst of it.
Only those who have heard the singing of the Rastarian dragons can tell you of the horror of their song. It’s like nails being drawn across a blackboard. Except it never ends. Ever.
‘You’ll do exactly what I say,’ Badde said. ‘Or your daughter will suffer a fate worse than death.’
Blake expected the next sound to be Lisa’s screams, but instead he heard something far more horrible, far more insidious. Even Blake could not believe Badde would stoop to such evil.
‘Here’s the story, of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very…’
‘That’s right,’ Badde said. ‘I have the entire box set of The Brady Bunch and I’m prepared to use them.’
‘No!’
‘Even the telemovies.’
Not the telemovies, Blake thought. No one could survive the telemovies.
Zeeb says:
BBP—or Brady Bunch Psychosis—has long been recognised as the end result of watching every episode of an old 20th-century television show known as The Brady Bunch. Studies conducted by Doctor Hans Baird show a correlation between watching the program and serious health issues. The first symptoms are a slurring of words, followed by drooling, a vacant expression and—finally—brain death.
The telemovies seem to be the clincher, although Blake is wrong about the episodes always leading to physical death. Ruth Hempsinkle, a housewife in Melbourne, Australia, once watched every episode of The Brady Bunch—including the telemovies—and survived the ordeal.
But only just.
She later ate her meals through a straw while winking at inanimate objects. This did not stop her from pursuing a successful political career.
Blake shot a look at Nicki, who was sadly shaking her head.
No luck on the trace.
‘How am I supposed to break into GADO?’ Blake asked Badde. ‘It’s one of the most secure facilities on Earth.’
‘You’re inventive. You’ll think of a way.’
‘Let me speak to Lisa.’
‘All right, but I will insist on laughing in a really evil fashion when I sign off.’
Silence followed, then—
‘Dad?’
The sound of her voice almost broke his heart. ‘I’m coming for you, Lisa,’ he said. ‘I won’t give up.’
‘I know, Dad,’ she said, swallowing. ‘He’s already forced me to watch two episodes!’
‘No!’
‘There’s one where Bobby gets a zit—’
‘No!’
‘And another one where Cindy learns how to bake a sponge cake.’
Oh no, Blake thought. Not the sponge cake episode!
Badde’s voice came back on the line. ‘I’m giving you two days,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, we’ll see how much little Lisa can take.’
He started to laugh. It was a helpless chuckle that grew into an out-of-control roar. He even did the horrible giggling thing that maniacs do, ending in a gurgle like something going down the drain.
The sound rang in Blake’s ears long after Badde had hung up.
11
It took Blake a moment to realise Nicki was talking to him.
‘I’ve tried tracing the call,’ she was saying. ‘I got as far as a pasta bar in Japan, but it was relayed through an insurance office in Hong Kong, bounced off a sheep station in Australia and then a taco joint on the moon.’ She shook her head. ‘I lost it after that.’
‘Where was the phone purchased?’
‘A delicatessen in Dubai.’
‘They might have security cameras. But it’s unlikely Badde would have made the purchase himself.’ Blake shook his head. ‘He’s got Lisa.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Get her back. Which means I need to get into GADO.’
‘What do you mean, you need to get into GADO?’ Nicki said. ‘I’m not a pencil sharpener. I’m your partner. That means we work together.’
Blake stared at Nicki. She had obviously short-circuited.
‘Agent Steel,’ he said, ‘I appreciate the offer, but I’m talking about breaking into GADO, the most secure facility on Earth.’
‘All the more reason you need me.’
‘You know what you’re saying? If we get caught, we’d be charged with treason. Our reputations would be ruined. And it’s a mandatory life sentence.’
‘That could be a problem for me,’ Nicki admitted. ‘Theoretically, I might live forever. You, on the other hand, are a short-lived lump of carbon with your best days behind you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘So you’ve got two choices: you can include me on this assignment and dramatically increase your chances of success, or—’
‘Or?’
‘I contact the assistant director and tell him what you’re planning. It’s up to you.’
Blake rubbed his chin. Nicki was right. Having her along would turn an impossible mission into…well, a slightly less impossible mission. Two heads were probably better than one, even when the other was made from metal and plastic.
‘Why do you want to help?’ he asked. ‘You barely know me.’
‘It’s how I’m programmed.’
‘Don’t blame me when you spend the next million years in jail.’
She shrugged. ‘With good behaviour I could be out in half that time.’
Blake frowned. ‘We just need to work out how to break in,’ he said.
‘I’ve already formulated several plans.’
‘What?’
‘Blake,’ Nicki said, patiently, ‘my brain is capable of twenty-four gazillion calculations per second.’
Zeeb says:
A gazillion is a really big number, but it’s not the biggest. Even if you put a nine at the front, there is a bigger number and that number was first calculated on the planet Trian Four.
It had long been rumoured that the Trians had discovered the largest number in existence within a deep cavern on their planet. An ancient civilisation known as the Gaarrggg (I think it’s a silly name too, but people can call themselves whatever they want) had grown a giant mushroom to use as a calculating machi
ne.
Yes, a mushroom. The Gaarrggg had long since discarded synthetic materials and grew their computers from biological waste.
When the Gaarrggg prime minister, Bastmuffin Gelda, confronted the mushroom, demanding to be told the largest number in existence, the mushroom asked, ‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Prime Minister Gelda.
‘Really sure?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Are you positively certain—’
‘Just tell me the sprottin’ number!’
‘Well, okay,’ the mushroom said. ‘It’s—’
And it told him.
The prime minister stood, thoughtful, for about five minutes. Then the left side of his mouth began to twitch. Shortly after, his whole face started moving uncontrollably. Then his right eyeball popped out as he laughed and repeatedly punched himself in the jaw.
By the time his advisers checked to see how he was doing, they found him on the floor chewing his left foot.
The whole incident was all rather unexpected. The mushroom, meanwhile, had said nothing more, and sat in the cave, looking rather pleased with itself.
‘What the sprot happened?’ the deputy prime minister asked. ‘What went wrong?’
‘I told him the largest number in existence,’ replied the mushroom.
‘Which was?’
Not really a very clever thing to ask, because the mushroom told her. Some hours later they found the deputy prime minister sitting alone on the floor of the cave with Prime Minister Gelda’s right arm poking out from her mouth. No one was sure what had happened to Gelda until they realised most of him was now inside the deputy prime minister.
It was quite a disappointing result all round, and the cave was sealed up shortly afterwards. I’ve often wondered what happened to that mushroom. Did they cook and eat it? Personally, I like mushrooms with a little butter and—
‘How many plans have you come up with?’ Blake asked.
‘Twelve,’ Nicki said. ‘However, I would rate nine of them as nothing short of suicidal. And our chances of succeeding in two of the others are no better than surviving a jump off the mile-high Wobontom Tower—without a parachute.’
‘And the remaining plan?’
‘Still not great odds,’ Nicki admitted. ‘We would need help from someone who’s good with a jet pack.’
‘You mean,’ Blake said, ‘a scarmish jet pack?’
‘That would do.’
Sprot.
12
Astrid Carter was worried sick. Lisa still hadn’t come home.
Astrid had rung the police, but they had said a missing person’s report couldn’t be filed until two days had passed. Then they had suggested that Lisa might have run away, so Astrid had angrily hung up on them.
Lisa wouldn’t run away, she thought. But where is she?
It wasn’t like her daughter to go off without telling her. They had planned to go out and get their hair cut; a great new salon had opened on level 800. And besides, Lisa had no reason to leave. She was perfectly happy at home. Wasn’t she?
Astrid stared gloomily out her living room window. They lived on the 600th level on the north side in a nice apartment. It had a view of a park, which was pleasant, as far as high-rise parks go, with trees, shrubs, flowers and a grassy lawn. They were all synthetic, but so was everything these days.
A bubbling stream, lined by benches, ran through the park. On one of the benches was a plaque that paid tribute to the ancient indigenous people who had once lived in the region, albeit several hundred feet below.
Zeeb says:
Sadly, there is little else to mark the end of their grand civilisation. If archaeologists were to dig under Astrid’s building, they would find stone tips from their arrows and markings on a cave wall. Under that layer of civilisation they would find a plastic rhino from a 21st-century time-travel experiment, and twenty feet below that a crashed spaceship from the planet Xanthros.
I’ve got to ring Blake again, Astrid thought. He knows people, and can make things happen.
It had been strange speaking to him yesterday. Unlike Lisa, she bore him no ill will. What was done was done, and they all had to get on with their lives.
What would he think of the apartment? The carpet was different, decorated with a print of Yuri Gagarin’s helmeted head. A television screen covered the whole west side of the living room, with family picture vids on the other side. They made the place seem like a typical family home, even though one member was conspicuously absent.
Books—ones made from paper—covered another wall. As a literature professor for the 99th Block University, Astrid had been teaching for years. The students were always amazed when she pulled an antique book from her bag. Most of them had never seen one.
Astrid glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still black, her curves more or less intact, and her eyes still olive, unlike most people these days who were getting their irises changed monthly.
The front door sneezed. The sneezing door was not her idea. It had come fitted with a variety of sound effects: sneezing, farting, wheezing, screaming, laughing, crying, giggling. Astrid was an old-fashioned girl. A simple ding-dong would have sufficed, but kids always wanted the latest and greatest.
‘Ah-choo!’
She hurried to the door, expecting to find her daughter wearing a sheepish expression. Instead, she found her ex-husband and a rather attractive-looking golden robot.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Zeeb says:
No, her heart did not really leap into her throat. That’s just a cliché, which is a way for a writer to avoid being original.
Interestingly, a weapon on Diondrax Major was actually designed to make your heart leap into your throat, which is a rather nasty thing to do to someone. One minute you’re racing across a battlefield, the next instant your anatomy has been rearranged so that one of your vital organs is blocking your windpipe.
As methods of dying go, this is one of the more gruesome, and it makes me wonder why people can’t do more worthwhile things with their time. Painting, for example, or stamp-collecting.
‘No,’ she muttered. ‘Is it…?’
Suddenly the strength went from Astrid’s legs and she fell against the doorframe.
‘Lisa is okay,’ Blake said, grabbing her arm. ‘At least, for now. Can we come in?’
They followed Astrid into the living room, where she folded her arms and glared at them. The robot’s blue eyes were disconcerting, as if something were alive in there other than chips and circuits.
‘What the hell is going on, Blake?’
He explained about Badde and his theft of the Super-EMP, and then Lisa’s kidnapping. Astrid listened in silence. She did not interrupt. She did not yell. She did not dredge up their past.
She did, however, punch Blake in the face.
Before she could do it again, Nicki forced her down onto the lounge. ‘I can understand you wanting to kill him,’ she said, ‘and I’ve only known him for a day. But this isn’t Blake’s fault.’
Fighting back angry tears, Astrid scowled at him. ‘It’s always Blake’s fault!’ she snapped. ‘He’s always rubbing people the wrong way!’
Zeeb says:
They have some rather odd expressions on Earth. ‘Rubbing’ someone or something ‘the wrong way’ is just one of them. Another is the expression ‘having a Gladys’, named after Gladys Olsen, who lived in what used to be Renshaw, Nebraska. Gladys became known as the unluckiest person on Earth.
While walking to school at the age of seven, Gladys was hit on the head by a falling meteorite and knocked senseless. But this was just the start of her troubles. At fifteen, she was struck by lightning. When she was nineteen, a falling tree branch broke her left arm.
By the age of thirty, Gladys had ended up in hospital on no less than thirty-seven separate occasions.
Possibly the most bizarre incident involved a stampede of gazelles as Gladys strolled to churc
h. How the gazelles came to be charging down a back street in Renshaw, Nebraska, has never been established, but she broke both legs in the incident.
Finally, a television program called Lucky to Survive decided to give Gladys an award as recognition for her extraordinary run of bad luck. Stepping onto the stage to accept the award she began, ‘I just want to thank the producers—’
Which was as far as she got. A long defunct satellite happened to fall from the sky at that moment, killing her instantly. The only part of her body recovered from the scene was her left hand.
To this day, there are still left hands being sold on gBay as good luck charms, all claiming to be the real deal. I doubt their authenticity. The one I bought certainly hasn’t done me any good.
‘Nicki’s right,’ Blake said. ‘And we need to focus on saving Lisa.’
‘You haven’t rung the authorities?’ Astrid asked.
‘We are the authorities,’ Blake reminded her. ‘And Badde made it clear we’d never see Lisa again if we brought in the department.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We’ve got a plan. Or Nicki does.’
‘The robot?’ Astrid said, eyeing her sceptically. ‘You do more than play chess and vacuum under lounges?’
‘I’m a cyborg,’ Nicki said, more patiently than she was feeling. She glanced around the room, her eyes settling on a picture vid of Astrid competing in the 2493 Interplanetary Scarmish Final. ‘I have a way to get us into GADO, but we’ll need your help.’
‘What do I have to do?’
Blake leant forward. ‘Do you still have your old scarmish gear?’ he asked.
13
Milton Xanthrob was surprised when the doorbell tinkled and three people walked into his shop. Perkins Antiques was located on the 336th level of Neo City’s south side, far away from most foot traffic, and customers were rare.
It was early and the street outside was dark. There was only artificial lighting down here, and mostly it didn’t work too well. An odd fungus had started to grow in the crevices of the buildings. Milton had lived here for so long he half expected it to start growing on him, but he didn’t mind. His life was simple, and if he had to contend with a little mould, well, so be it.