by Andy Remic
Dex moved through to the bedroom and pulled on long pants and boots.
He had to get out of the hotel. Had to get to a legitimate police station. They’d respect him because he was Earth PUF - urban force. They had a reputation. They’d help him. After all, and he gave a sour grin at this; he was one of their own. Right?
He came out of the bedroom. The air seemed fuzzy. Dex didn’t feel very well. He kept thinking of Molly and Toffee. The last time he touched them. The last time he held them. His mind whirled in a maelstrom of crazy thought. I’m going to find my wife and children. And then I’m going to hurt somebody for this. For this injustice. For this sacrilege.
Dex moved towards the door, but it opened even as he approached. There was a woman. Slim, dressed all in black, shades. She registered confusion when she saw Dex, and her hand snapped up carrying a gun... Dex responded automatically, reflex, his own confiscated weapon darting up and his finger squeezing the trigger before the brain even engaged. The gun cracked, the bullet whined. It hit the woman in the chest, and a blood splatter exploded against the wall; she staggered back several steps, and her gun fired, the bullet hitting the ceiling with a tiny puff of plaster. Her mouth opened, and she panted, and staggered back to the wall in the corridor, hit it with a wet slap, and slid down leaving a white smear. Dex ran to her, mind torn, half filled with apology, half glad he’d shot her. She’d been gunning for him. She was part of this thing. This... abduction.
Dex took the woman’s gun and put it in his pocket. He pulled off her shades to see bright, bright blue eyes that burned into him, feverishly, full of tears, full of hate. She was breathing fast. Her chest was a destroyed mess.
“Tell me where my wife is,” said Dex, softly. The woman reached up, her fingers shaking, milky blood on her lips. Dex took her fingers. She licked her lips. Her breath came in short, pained gasps.
“She is... gone,” said the woman. The provax. Feyprov. Female. A damn site more deadly than the male...
“Please, tell me where my little girls are,” said Dex.
The woman’s panting suddenly halted, as if a switch had been thrown. Her free hand came up fast with a long slender dagger and Dex flinched, twisting, his arm deflecting the blade, which cut him deeply through skin and muscle. He yelped, pulled his hand from her fingers, and before he could stop himself put a bullet between her eyes. She lolled to the side like a broken mannequin.
Dex stood and stared down at her corpse.
“Stupid,” he growled.
He pocketed the gun, and strode down the corridor, past the elevator and towards the steps. He took them two at a time, heart pounding, barging through regulation fire doors with his mind swirling. Who had taken Katrina and the girls? And why? Was it something to do with his work back in London? Or maybe some twisted, fucked-up terrorist organisation out to punish tourists? Shit. Shit.
Dex crossed the reception area, saw the receptionist watching him. He burst through the glass doors and out into the sunshine. There was a taxi rank of HumCars to his right, bobbing gently on their leashes, and Dex moved to the nearest one. He climbed in.
A short man in a cotton shirt turned and grinned. “Where to, buster?”
“The police station.”
“Having problems?”
“Yeah. You could say. It’s turning into a real shit day.”
The HumCar pulled out onto the quiet street, and they hummed along under the tall, wavering trees, which offered pleasant shade. The pavements featured occasional tourists, ambling along, sometimes with buckets and spades. Dex stared out the back window, checking they weren’t being followed.
“You okay, buster? You seem a bit twitchy.”
“I’m far from fucking okay,” snapped Dex.
“Hey, okay, okay! I just work here, man!”
They came to a highway and blasted along, overtaking other HumCars and regular vehicles like trucks and tankers. High walls of rock hid the surroundings, but in the distance, overhead, Dex spied the glinting rails of massive rollercoasters, rolling and twisting through the air. They even zoomed under a chunky water ride, and the HumCar’s wipers kicked in to clear the overspray.
“You here with your family?”
“Yeah,” said Dex.
“You have something stolen?”
“You could say that.”
After a few minutes they turned from the highway, and Dex watched as they headed inland. The trees grew more and more clustered, until the rock walls gave way and they were in the midst of a deep forest. The thick green conifers were occasionally broken by the fanned branches of a tree with glossy blue leaves.
Dex stared out of the window, and a frown slowly formed - reflected in the glass. To the right, in the distance, there were logging trucks. And then they passed a long, low industrial estate, containing hundreds of thick black pipes which, with a blink, Dex realised were ride tracks. The HumCar turned right into the compound and suddenly screeched to a halt, tyres chewing gravel.
Dex was thrown forward, then back, and came up to face -
A gun.
“This is getting tiresome,” he muttered.
“Sometimes, you just need to learn how to play dead.”
“What did we do wrong?” said Dex softly, looking into the man’s eyes. He wasn’t a prov, this one. Oh no. He was human. A back-stabbing human who’d sold out his own fucking species for the aliens...
“I just work here,” said the taxi driver. “Now get out. I don’t want to ruin my seats.”
Dex fired through the back of the leather, and the bullet entered the taxi driver’s stomach low down, clawing through his bowel. He tensed, looking as if he were going to shoot, but slowly the gun slipped from his fingers and his eyes rolled up. Blood came out of his mouth and he slumped sideways, head banging off the glass.
Dex sat for long, long moments, staring out of the car’s side-window.
Outside, trees swayed in the gentle breeze rolling in from the ocean.
So then. The PopBot, the receptionist, the man in the cream suit, the woman in the corridor, the taxi driver.
Crazy. He’d been stitched up tighter than a fat man in a wetsuit.
Now what? What to do?
The police? Yes. There was no way the police could be so corrupt. This had to be the work of some kind of gang which had infiltrated the hotel. They’d taken Kat and the girls, and Dex was supposed to either pay a ransom, or go on TV weeping and begging the Theme Planet government - indeed, the Monolith Corporation - to meet whatever demands the terrorists had in mind. He had to get to the police. Had to. Out here, he was operating alone; no backup. And he couldn’t fight this sort of organisation alone... he had the heart, just not the guns.
Dex climbed out of the HumCar and stood, listening. Trees whispered. That was all.
He dragged the body of the taxi driver from the vehicle and across the dirt, grunting at the man’s dead weight. “Too many Porky Paul burgers, buddy,” he muttered, and dumped him in the dust behind a rack of old, burned ride tracks.
Burned? Odd. I thought Theme Planet was perfect...
Back to the HumCar, and using the taxi-driver’s jacket, he soaked up the worst of the blood. Looking in the boot he found blankets, and draped them over the car seat. After all, he didn’t want to march into a police station covered in dead man’s skull chunks.
Shit. Shit. He stood there, and shook his head.
Madness. Total madness.
He climbed in, wound down the window, and started the smooth, quiet engine. No noise pollution on Theme Planet! he mused, dancing along the edges of a building hysteria. He spun the car, wriggling a little at the bullet hole and charred leather in the back of his seat which dug into him like poking fingers.
Grimly, he headed back to the highway.
~ * ~
Dex parked the car and stared up at the neat, white police HQ. It looked so pristine, so smart, so noble. A pinnacle of law enforcement. Not that there were many crimes on Theme Planet. Monolith prided its
elf on its tiny, tiny crime figures. Criminals were dealt with most harshly.
Dex walked up the wide marble steps, past a proliferation of police officers, his bad nerves disappearing, confidence returning. If anybody would help him, these people would help him. He was police, they were police. They were his kind of people. They were brothers in adversity. They were brothers in the solving of crimes!
Officers filed past him on the steps, dutifully ignoring him. To these officers in their smart black uniforms, he was simply another tourist. But he would soon get some attention. Soon illustrate the gravity of the situation.
He stepped through the doors, into the heaving complex of the police precinct...
Into an ants’ nest of insane activity...
And the world came alive, with screeching sirens and bright flashing lights directed into his eyes, blinding him instantly. Reflexively, Dex’s arms came up, shielding his eyes from the harsh intensity. He heard the cocking of many weapons; a field of hardware. An arsenal.
“On the ground, motherfucker!” somebody screamed.
“Get down!”
“Down, dickhead!”
Slowly, Dex fell to his knees. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m a police officer. From London, Earth. I’m police.”
“Two pistols,” he heard somebody say.
“Room 237,” came another voice.
Then something hit him across the back of the head, and the world went black.
~ * ~
Water splashed his face, and he groaned. His head was thumping. His mouth was dry and tasted of vomit. He opened his eyes. He was in a bare grey room, seated on a steel chair before a steel table, his hands tied tight behind him. Spaghetti Cuffs, no doubt. Live Wire. Very dangerous shit.
Dex breathed deeply, and tried to focus. Two men came into view. One wore a black suit, one a cream suit.
“Well, well,” said cream suit. He carried a small DigPad, and he placed it on the steel table with a clack. “You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you, Dexter Colls?”
Dex leaned forward and spat blood on the floor. He coughed, and looked up, into the man’s eyes. And he was a man - not a provax. He was human. That was good. Very good. They should be able to connect. Dex turned to the man in the black suit, who had his eyes hidden behind shades - because the daylight hurt him, hurt his bright bright eyes. He was a provax, brought up on a dark world, a nocturne world. That was why he was so pale. Earthmen called them vampires; the provax hated it.
“My name is Rogen,” said the provax in the black suit. “Tell us what you’ve done with them and this will go easier for you.”
“Done with... with who?”
“Don’t play the smart fucking arse with us,” said the man in the cream suit. Dex saw his small, neat name badge. It read: Jim.
“If you mean my wife, Katrina, and my little girls, Molly and Toffee, then they’ve been kidnapped. Taken! And then I was attacked, first in the lift by that...”
Rogen held up his hand. “Destroying a PopBot is an offence, Mr Colls,” he said, “under the Trade and Tourism Laws. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Dex took a deep breath. “Listen, you two apes. And listen good. I am Dexter Colls, Precinct 881, London. You can call my Commanding Officer there, Jackson. He will vouch for me. I have over twenty years on the PUF.”
“Oh, he vouched for you all right,” said Jim, perching himself on the edge of the desk. “But then, murder is murder - no matter if you’re Police Urban or just little people. Isn’t that right, Rogan?”
“Damn right, Jim.”
They exchanged a long glance. Dex frowned. He wasn’t sure what that glance meant, and he was good at reading people - hell, he’d had decades of experience.
He licked his lips, and his brain hurt. This was crazy. Insane! And panic thumped him with iron fists as he thought about his wife and children. He had to find them. Help them. Rescue them! Instead, he was here, with these crazy fuckers who were intent on framing him for the very crime he wished to solve.
“Listen,” said Dex, leaning forward.
“No, you listen, sonny boy,” snapped Jim, eyes angry now and glaring down at Dex. “You fucking tourists, you come out here to Theme Planet and you think you’re above the law! If you’re not getting pissed and causing fights with each other or the locals because of race hate, or your basic human superiority complex, then you’re shagging on the beaches or trying to deviate the bloody ride drives. You’re like a virus on the face of this planet. If I were the provax, I’d kick the lot of you out.”
Dex closed his mouth with a clack at this vehement outburst. He glanced at Rogen, who was grinning.
“But - you don’t often come here and commit murders,” he said. “Tell us where you buried the bodies and we’ll go easy on you.”
“I told you what happened, and this is a bad fucking joke!” growled Dex, face harsh, eyes falling down into hate. “They’ve been kidnapped, you dumb plod, taken - so what makes you so adamant it was me?”
“We have evidence,” said Rogen, smoothly, and pulled up a chair, reversing it and sitting with a panel of steel between himself and Dexter. “Lots of evidence. An orgy of evidence. So, let’s begin again.”
“Bullshit,” snapped Dex. “You have nothing!”
“What we do have,” said Rogen, voice still calm and controlled, “is the Theme Planet Travel and Tourism Torture Laws.”
“Torture Laws?” said Dex, going cold. He could see himself reflected in Rogen’s shades. He did not have a good look.
“It’s part of Quad-Gal Statute with regards aliens, in this case you, visiting the land of a protected species, that’s us. Yes, we invite you here; yes, we take your money; but you are expected to behave. You should have read your in-flight literature, Mr Colls. It explains about our Torture Tubes, way down below the ground. Down where the rollercoasters go to die.” He smiled, and coughed, and stood up. “We have certain, if not God-given rights, then certainly Gov-given rights.” He coughed again, and nodded to Jim. “I’m going to give you a few moments to think about your situation. When I come back in, I strongly recommend you have some information for me about the whereabouts of your family.”
Rogen left the room. Jim remained standing, staring at Dex.
Dex ran his hands through his short brown hair and groaned. This couldn’t be happening! The bastards should be out there looking for his little girls! They should be doing their jobs, like all good police! Instead, he was locked up here, being threatened with torture...
Jim moved close. He seemed to be scanning the room. Dex tensed. What was this? More ‘good cop, bad cop’?
“Listen carefully. Your life depends on it,” said Jim, without looking at Dex.
“Go on.”
“Follow my lead.”
“Follow your...”
The door opened, and Rogen returned, carrying a cup of coffee, steam curling from the surface like mist from a lake. Jim turned in one swift movement, drawing his holstered police issue Makarov and firing a single shot. There was a dull crack as the bullet smashed through Rogen’s shades and entered his skull between the eyes, exiting in a mushroom shower of brainslop which splattered up the grey walls of the holding cell.
There was a moment, a hiatus in time which lasted an infinity, like stars unspooling from a galaxy reel.
Rogen staggered back, hit the wall, and collapsed suddenly in an untidy heap.
Dex, mouth open, stared at the body. Jim leapt to the dead provax policeman, reached inside his dark jacket, took out a gun. The first thought that flitted through Dex’s mind was hell, I’m being framed. How much harder can my day get? But then Jim crossed to him, pulled free a small knife and cut through the wires. Dex rubbed his wrists. Jim stood to one side, staring at the provax corpse.
“Here.” He handed Dex the dead alien’s gun.
Dex turned the small pistol over and over in his hands. He’d never seen this type of Makarov before.
“It’s prov issue. Don’t be fo
oled by its size, this fucker will bring down an Air Tank.”
“What’s happening?” said Dex.
“Just follow my lead. If we get out of here alive, I’ll explain. Just now, you’re my prisoner, and we’re going to walk out the front doors. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Jim moved to the door, Dex close behind. Jim took hold of Dex’s wrists, which he crossed as if bound, and they stepped out into the busy precinct.
The floor heaved like a disturbed anthill, a ceaseless flow of police personnel, both in and out of uniform. As Jim led Dex through the throng, moving slow with the tide of bodies beneath high arches of white marble, Dex glanced around nervously. Most police were provax, but he caught sight of the occasional human. It was the eyes, always the eyes which gave them away.