by Darrell Pitt
This didn’t make sense. Gas masks were at the front door and Badde hadn’t put one on.
‘I was right behind him,’ Blake said. ‘How did he make it through without a mask?’
‘Beats me.’
‘Don’t tell me we’ve lost him.’
‘Okay. I won’t tell you that.’
‘Well, have we?’
‘You asked me not to—’
Blake wanted to yell at her. ‘What’s out the back?’ he asked instead.
‘It’s another set of stairs.’
‘We need to contact mall security and get this mall closed.’ Blake tried calling on his wristcomm, but couldn’t get a signal.
‘I can’t get one either,’ said Nicki. ‘It looks like this whole section of Neo City has lost hypernetivity. Badde must have found a way to disrupt the grid.’
‘So we can’t close the mall,’ Blake mused. Security forces would be pouring into the area. Badde would be cornered within the hour. Still, something niggled at him. ‘This doesn’t make any sense.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Bartholomew Badde is the most accomplished criminal of the modern age, but he’s running like a common thief.’
‘Maybe we caught him by surprise.’
‘I doubt it. This mall must be part of his escape plan.’ Blake considered this. ‘Is there an orbital lift in this building?’
‘No.’
‘What about a docking bay for flying cars?’
‘Again, negative. But there is a dedicated site-to-site transporter located on the 925th floor.’
‘That’s where he’s headed.’
Blake hated transporters, and he had never used one in a shopping centre. It all seemed too unnatural for words. Climb in at one end, get zapped into photons and instantaneously step out in another location. Literally a billion things could go wrong.
The transporter service on the 925th floor was part of a chain, a business called Trip Fantastic™, and manned by an attendant named Henry. The device was modern: a ceiling to floor chamber with half a dozen possible destinations.
Blake flashed the photo of Badde. ‘Have you seen this man? He would have been carrying a girl.’
Henry shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
Blake showed him his ID and Henry took notice.
‘Yeah, they came through a few minutes ago,’ he said.
‘Going to?’
‘The Seven Ways Space Station.’
That wasn’t good. Hundreds of vessels passed through Seven Ways every hour.
‘Then that’s where we’re going,’ Blake said. ‘Shut down the service after we leave.’
‘I’ve got to give you the standard warnings before you travel,’ Henry said.
‘Sure.’
‘You know forty-two people a year drop dead for no apparent reason while using transporters?’
‘Uh, okay.’
‘Another seventy-nine get split in two. Their intestines go to Paris. The rest ends up in some place in West Texas.’
‘Right.’
‘Three hundred and eleven become galactic dust,’ said Henry.
‘Sure.’
‘Twenty-nine get instantly beheaded. No one knows where the heads go.’
‘Okay,’ said Blake.
‘Eighty-eight get mashed together with other people transporting at the same time, fifty-seven get turned inside out—’
‘Let’s just do this!’
‘Then I’d better read you the standard warnings.’
‘Those weren’t the standard warnings?’
‘No, that was just me blabbing.’
‘Just give me the paperwork.’
Blake signed the papers, indicating he was travelling at his own risk and Trip Fantastic™ would not be held responsible for anything that went wrong, including beheadings, disembowelments or unintended gender reassignments.
‘Still, you shouldn’t be worried,’ Henry said.
‘No?’
‘It’s still the safest way to travel.’
Zeeb says:
There is a rather odd story behind the forty-two people who drop dead.
There’s a little planet in the Sygolus system that has an amazing computer with dozens of transporter pads left over from an ancient civilisation. No one knows what happened to the Sygoluns, but they left behind one of the most beautiful and picturesque planets of the galaxy.
Every so often, one of the transporter pads activates and sucks in someone at random from somewhere in the galaxy. At the same time, it creates an exact copy of the person. The copy takes the original’s place and promptly drops dead.
One rather friendly fellow was working out in the gym when he suddenly found himself on Sygolus. After the computer explained to him what had happened, the newcomer stoically threw his towel over his shoulder, spotted some friendly aliens and sat down to drink tea. As oblivion goes, it’s the closest thing to heaven you’ll find, even if you’re an atheist.
Blake and Nicki stepped into the transporter. With his heart thudding, Blake watched the attendant activate the device. Rainbow static surrounded them. Blake tried to relax as he was turned into billions of particles and transmitted hundreds of miles away.
It wasn’t easy.
32
The rainbow static faded, replaced by the Seven Ways transporter pad. Blake felt shaky as he stepped out. That was natural after transportation. What wasn’t natural was the attendant running the pad.
‘Er, are you related to Henry?’ Blake asked.
‘I was Henry,’ she explained. ‘But we had a problem with a double-split converter. You can call me Henrietta.’
Nicki held up the photo. ‘You saw this guy come through?’ she said. ‘Carrying a girl?’
Henrietta nodded. ‘He mentioned something about catching a flight to the outer planets,’ she said.
Blake and Nicki made their way across the concourse and found themselves in an enormous mushroom-shaped atrium. Seven Ways served as a transportation hub to the solar system. Regulatory requirements didn’t allow it to service faster-than-light ships. That meant Badde was limited to sub-light speed. Wherever he was going, it was local.
Aliens from planets across the galaxy packed the concourse. Tall, short, reptilian, avian, mammalian, vegetative, rough-skinned, smooth-skinned, some with antennas, some with ears, some without. They were all either pushing luggage trolleys or dragging irritable children. A woman with two heads bobbed past, yelling abuse at her husband.
But there was no sign of Badde or Lisa.
‘We can’t let Badde leave this station,’ Blake said, peering into the chaotic crowd. ‘We might never find him again.’
‘GADO should have stopped all outgoing vessels by now.’
‘Let’s make certain.’
They pushed through to the Seven Ways station-command area, located on the top floor. The commander was a stout man named Reginald Wilson.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Wilson blustered, collapsing back in his chair. The window behind him overlooked the atrium. ‘We’ve stopped all outgoing traffic, although it’s been a terrible inconvenience. You know we’re very busy right now?’
‘Why?’ Nicki asked.
‘The Interplanetary Snail Races are on.’
‘Racing snails?’ Blake said. ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’
His eyes strayed to picture vids on the walls. They depicted snails wearing racing colours, snails with trophies, snails crossing the finishing line.
‘I don’t know,’ Nicki said, trying not to smile. ‘I’ve heard it’s quite exciting.’
‘People bring their racing snails from all over the galaxy,’ Wilson enthused. ‘Certainly some people find the marathons to be a little drawn out, but the sprints are thrilling from start to finish.’
‘I’m sure,’ Blake said.
Wilson reminisced. ‘I remember the year Black Charlie took out the ten-foot race. Everyone wondered if he could come back the n
ext day for the twenty-foot charge. And he was carrying a handicap of three pebbles. Three pebbles!’
‘Three pebbles,’ Blake said, now looking for the exit. ‘Wow.’
The phone on the commander’s desk rang. Wilson took the call, his face soon turning red.
‘No! When? Just now?’ He sagged against the desk. ‘All right. I’ll get onto it straight away.’
‘What is it?’ Blake asked.
Wilson could barely speak. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Who is?’
‘Alice Cole.’
‘A murder?’ Nicki said. ‘How was she killed?’
‘Crushed.’
‘Crushed! How?’
‘A size-ten shoe, apparently.’
‘What?’ Nicki said.
‘She’s a snail,’ Blake explained.
‘Oh,’ Nicki said. ‘Tragic.’
Wilson continued. ‘And her owner was found unconscious in a stairwell.’
‘Where?’ Blake asked.
‘In the private docking bay,’ Wilson said. ‘Area 6—’
But Blake and Nicki were already out the door. It wasn’t long before they’d located the docking master, a grey Athelian armed with a clipboard and a name badge that read Konge. He looked furious.
Blake flashed his ID. ‘We’re here about the assault.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ Konge said. ‘Someone’s stealing a space yacht.’
‘Which one?’ Nicki asked.
‘The Star of Fire.’
‘Can you stop it?’ Blake asked.
‘The station’s tractor beam’s been disabled.’
‘Do you have another ship that can follow it?’
‘Nothing that fast.’
A voice came from behind them. ‘I can catch that ship.’
They turned to see a man with an electronic parrot on his shoulder, an eye patch, a pea coat and one leg. On closer inspection the parrot also had one leg and an eye patch. The man looked so filthy that Blake wondered if he was carrying any infectious diseases.
Still, the insignia on his epaulette identified him as…
‘A captain,’ Blake said. ‘You’re a ship’s captain?’
Disbelief crossed the man’s face. ‘A ship’s captain?’ he said. ‘Where have you been, man? I’m Rasmussen Goyle. The Rasmussen Goyle.’
‘Oh, that one,’ Nicki said blankly.
‘The captain of—’ Goyle paused dramatically ‘—the Rancid Cat.’
‘The Rancid Cat?’ Blake said. ‘Sounds like an Intaskian meal.’
Goyle scowled. ‘The Rancid Cat made the run between Fautus Five and Deloro Nine in only three weeks.’
‘That’s not particularly fast.’
‘Really?’ Goyle glared at him through his one eye. ‘With no engines?’
‘No engines? That’s impossible.’
Goyle cackled. ‘Some call it impossible,’ he said. ‘I call it a day’s work.’
‘The Star of Fire has jumped to sub-light speed,’ Konge reported. ‘It’s gone.’
‘Can you project its flight path?’ Blake asked.
Konge did some calculations. ‘Based on its current trajectory…Mars.’
‘We should leave immediately,’ Nicki said.
‘Looks like we need your ship,’ Blake said to Goyle.
‘I need to hear the magic words,’ the captain said.
‘Please and thank you?’
Goyle laughed. ‘They’re not the magic words.’
‘Ten thousand credits?’
‘Those are the magic words.’
The parrot squawked.
33
The feline characteristics of the Rancid Cat were a mystery to Blake, but it certainly was rancid. He had travelled in garbage barges cleaner than Goyle’s ship.
From the outside, the ship looked vaguely like an enormous cockroach. Inside, trash lined every wall. It was even stuffed under the control panels of the bridge. To make matters worse, the vessel smelt of cabbage, Blake’s least favourite vegetable.
Nicki poked around the bridge, more concerned about the mechanics of the ship than its aesthetics. The bridge looked like it had been built using the console of an old 747 and a bench from the laboratory of a mad professor. Hoses with coloured liquids ran from one part of the console to another. Some of the dials were broken, others missing. One had a fob watch jammed into the housing. Disturbingly, Nicki noted, it was ticking—backwards. She hoped it wasn’t crucial to the operations of the ship.
Blake scrubbed dust away from the navigation console, revealing some words.
Apollo 11.
Sounds old, he thought.
Taking a seat behind Goyle, Blake leant back and immediately somersaulted over it.
‘That chair’s a bit tricky,’ Goyle warned as Blake picked himself up. The parrot on Goyle’s shoulder gave Blake a wink as some plastic droplets cascaded from its rear end onto Blake’s shoes.
‘Can we go?’ Nicki asked. ‘Badde already has a head start on us.’
‘Absolutely, my dear,’ Goyle said.
‘Don’t call me my dear.’
‘Of course, my—agent…robot…girl.’
‘Steel. Agent Steel.’
‘That’s right,’ Goyle said. ‘Steel, Agent Steel.’
Nicki groaned.
Captain Goyle pushed a few buttons on the console. From deep within the belly of the Rancid Cat came a clunking sound, as though a Neanderthal were beating two rocks together in an attempt to invent music. Blake shot a look at Nicki; similarly perched on the edge of her seat, she was tightening her seatbelt.
The ship tipped sideways.
Sprot, Blake thought. Is it too late to find another ship?
The Rancid Cat righted itself and not so much flew as shuddered forward, like a spider that has had its rear legs crushed by a nasty child. It looked increasingly like the ship was attempting a slow roll out of the Seven Ways dock.
‘Don’t you think—’ Blake began.
‘Leave the captaining to me!’ bellowed Goyle. ‘I’ve flown this galaxy for the better part of half a century and I’ll not have landlubbers tell me how to fly my own ship!’
Another moment passed.
‘Captain Goyle,’ Nicki said carefully. ‘We are upside down.’
‘I know that, missy.’
‘That’s Agent Steel.’
‘Missy Steel, I know that.’ Goyle was pulling and pushing on a lever like someone trying to get water out of an old well. ‘I’m the captain here. I know what I’m doing.’
‘He knows what he’s doing! Wrrrasrrkk!’ the parrot screeched. ‘He knows what he’s doing!’
A hum started from the vessel’s rear. Blake wasn’t sure if it was the engine warming up or building to detonation. The vessel turned until they were upright and inched out of the space dock. Something that sounded like a New Year’s Eve novelty popped under the floor as a fresh stink of cabbage filled the cabin.
Blake wiped sweat from his brow. He had a vision of rendering Captain Rasmussen Goyle unconscious and locking him in his bathroom.
Just as he was convinced this was the best course of action, the ship gave a sudden surge forward and Earth slid past the front window.
‘I’m setting a course for Mars,’ Captain Goyle said, stabbing at buttons.
‘It’s the fourth planet,’ Nicki said.
Goyle spun round to Blake. ‘Can ye not turn her off, man!’
‘Turn me off?’ Nicki fumed. ‘Turn me—’
‘How long till we reach Mars?’ Blake interrupted.
‘We’ll have sub-light speed in thirty seconds,’ Goyle said. ‘Just as long as the calipers hold out.’
‘The calipers? What are the calipers?’
‘Well, they control the—oh, never mind, man.’ He pushed a lever forwards. ‘We’ll be fine as long as they don’t fail.’
‘And if they fail?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do want to know.’
‘No, you
don’t,’ Goyle chuckled. He seemed to find the possibility of failing calipers immensely amusing. ‘But try getting through life with no skin.’
‘No skin?’
‘No skin! Aarrrrrkkk!’ The parrot laughed. ‘No skin! No skin!’
The ship gave a final shudder as the engine burped and the Earth went out of view. A few seconds later they roared past the moon at a disturbingly close range. Blake could actually see Tycho City, and the flickering lights of the Armstrong Casino.
Then black space filled the screen.
Goyle gave them a broad smile. ‘The calipers are holding fine,’ he said. ‘But the juniper leads are a little hot.’
‘Which means?’
‘My cabbage is probably burning.’
Blake kept his mouth shut, pulled out his haggis and mushrooms pills and ate one.
‘Blake,’ Nicki said. ‘Give me one of those. It might drown out the cabbage smell.’
Chewing in silence, Blake stared through the window. A few minutes later, a red dot appeared.
Before the breakup of his marriage, Blake had travelled to many planets. Strangely, however, he had never been to Mars. And now he was about to step onto the red planet for the first time.
Centuries of terraforming had transformed it from a cold, dusty rock in space to a lively, thriving society. People had moved there in the early years of spaceflight, intent on building a new life on a new world, creating a civilisation free of the constraints of Earth.
The dot grew larger by the second.
Mars, Blake thought. A place of dreams. Of hopes. A place of—
Burgers?
It wasn’t Mars. It was a floating restaurant, some sort of abandoned greasy diner and service station. It was shaped like an enormous saucer floating in space and the dome at its centre had a sign with a winking moustachioed man on top. The words beneath read:
Moxy’s Service Stop!
If it’s not Moxy, it’s Poxy!
The Rancid Cat slowed down.
‘What are you doing?’ Blake asked.
‘Ye wanted to catch up with Badde?’ Goyle said. ‘He’s stopped at Moxy’s.’
‘What?’
Goyle pointed to a service hangar cut into the dome. ‘The Star of Fire just pulled in there,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m Rasmussen Goyle! I once followed a ship to the middle of a black hole and back!’