Theme Planet

by Andy Remic

  They’d stopped. It took her a while to realise.

  More voices drifted through, now. There were many voices. All male. They echoed around her and she shivered, in her cocoon of unreality; in her death sleep. She felt hands on her, and she knew what she felt were delayed experiences, like echoes of the real thing. She felt something wet slide across her cold dead lips and she grimaced internally. She had an idea what was going on. Had an idea what those bastards could be doing...

  Where had they taken her?

  Downwards, into basements or sewers, or into the machine workings under Theme Planet. The bowels of the rides. The city under the city, the country under the country, where all the provax - the real provax - lived. In the dark. The shade. The shadows. The cool.

  Under the shell.

  Under the crust.

  Under the fake topside tourist shithole.

  Amba smiled, deep inside her mind.

  A world within a world, a globe within a shell.

  She felt hands over her body. They removed her clothes. They probed her. Touched her. She felt a deep throb of anger within.

  Do it, said Zi.

  Yes, Amba said. And there was a click. And it was done. Her heart gave a spasm, fluttered, and restarted. Sluggishly, blood started to pump through her veins. Her eyes fluttered, but the men standing around her, where she lay on a wheeled trolley stretcher, were more interested in her naked flesh, her firm body, than in the fluttering of her eyelashes.

  Slowly, life returned. Her cheeks flushed red. Her heart set up a steady beat. And the metallic voices grew louder, gained clarity, and Amba remained motionless, listening, sucking in breath, allowing her android body to fully awake, to recharge, before she leapt into action...

  “I bet she was a good fuck when she was alive,” came one voice.

  “Yeah, look at her breasts. Fabulous. Not too large, not too small...”

  “Too small for me. I like a good handful, mate.”

  “Ha, you are a good handful, mate!”

  Laughter.

  “Come on, Janko, we haven’t got all night. What you kissing her for, anyway? She’s fucking dead!”

  “Hey, I like to get into the groove, baby. Get the full experience. And stop saying she’s dead, you’re putting me off.”

  “If it’s putting you off, you shouldn’t be here, dumb fuck.”

  Amba became suddenly aware of the tongue in her mouth, and the fingers inside her vagina, working at her, working her hard. The cold throb of anger became a lead ball of fury, but she controlled herself with infinite effort, controlled herself as the slick worm of a tongue roved around inside her face. The FRIEND. Damn! Where was the FRIEND?

  “Did you figure it out yet?”

  “Naw. It’s some alien piece of shit. Look.” There came a click, but no detonation. Amba smiled again, at that. There’d be a fucking detonation all right, real soon, right here in this dark damp stinking room on the fetid underbelly of the con that was Theme Planet.

  Her senses were returning fast. Accelerating. It was dark and damp, and smelled of old engine oil, mould, and fungus; her nostrils twitched as the man’s tongue continued to probe. Then he withdrew his tongue, and she could sense him gazing down at her. So far, she’d identified eight men in the room - but there could be more.

  So be it.

  Amba gave a sigh, and opened her eyes.

  The man’s mouth dropped open like a drawbridge with the chains cut, eyes going wide for a moment as Amber did two things. First, her vagina clamped his fingers so tight they broke with audible cracks, like the snapping of dry timber. Second, her right hand came up and two of her fingers invaded his flesh without permission. Straight through his eyeballs, popping them with soft squishes.

  The man screamed, and Amba brought one foot back and kicked him across the room, where he crashed into the wall, both popped eyes dangling on his cheeks like deflated balloons. His companions turned, following his trajectory, and stood there, stunned, mouths open, staring at his face and wobbling eyes.

  Amba swung her legs from the trolley and stood smoothly, watching as the men slowly returned their gazes to her naked form. One grinned, an old provax with grey eyes and gold capped teeth. “Hey, we’re sure going to have a party now, guys,” he said, gesturing slightly with his head.

  “You bet,” smiled Amba. She stepped forward and punched him in the throat, swayed back from a wild whirring counter-punch and stamped right, breaking a man’s knee backwards. Her elbow shot up, breaking his jaw and lifting him from the ground, and then they were on her. She punched a third man in the belly, fingers extending to push through his flesh, hook his bowel, and pull it out in a blue-grey stream through the hole. She dodged more blows, moving like a dancer, grabbed a fourth man by the hair, kicked a fifth in the face, her toes slamming his nose and pushing a knife of cartilage up into his brain. She kicked off from his falling body, twisting around, snapping the neck of the man whose hair she was still holding. An iron bar slammed at her, and she took the blow on her arm, twisting, allowing the bar to slide across her skin as she dropped to one knee, punched the attacker in the groin like a pile-driver, and took the bar. It whacked left, then right, cracking two skulls, and the final man standing went into a fast-forward reverse, hands up as she strode towards him. “No,” he said, “no!” The iron bar slammed down, breaking his fingers and driving straight down between his eyes, leaving his skull in a V-shape with brains oozing out around the rusted iron. He dropped without further sound.

  Awww, Amba! complained Zi.

  “What?” she hissed, as she located the FRIEND.

  You left none for me.

  Later, Zi. That was too easy. Trust me, it’ll get harder. You’ll get your turn.

  I wanted some fun NOW...

  Later, soothed Amba.

  Amba found her clothes and dressed, slotting the FRIEND slowly into her chest. Feeling fully whole with Zi inside her, she checked the bodies of her would-be abusers, finding the one whom she’d left alive, with military precision and a torturer’s finesse.

  He was sat, back to the wall, popped eyeballs on his cheeks, whimpering, half-in and half-out of consciousness. She moved to him, seated herself cross-legged before him, and he jerked as if stung, coming out of his well of self-pity and stretching out his hands towards her.

  “No, don’t kill me,” he said.

  “Janko. We have some talking to do.”

  “It was them! They made me do it! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!“

  “Shut up and listen, and I might let you live.”

  Janko clamped his teeth shut. Fear gnawed him like rats in his belly. He was blind now; likely he would never see again. And this strange, deadly woman - who had been wheeled down to them as a cadaver - had shown she was far from dead. In fact... his brow furrowed. No. It couldn’t be. They’d introduced them, at the end of the war; at the end of the Helix War. A sneaky fucking human manoeuvre. Androids. Androids with the ability to play dead - an infiltration device.

  “You can help me,” said Amba, voice soft now, almost caring. “I am looking for somebody. You will tell me everything you know.”

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  “One of what?”

  “The androids. They can play dead. I’ve seen it.”

  Amba considered this, then reached forward, took one of his eyeballs, and ripped it free with a squelch. Janko screamed and keeled sideways, cradling his face, sobbing, spit and snot drooling from mouth and nose.

  Amba waited for a couple of minutes, then again reached forward and helped Janko to sit up. “You’re obviously ex-military,” she said. “Good. That saves us some time. I’ll explain it to you. I’m not just an android; I’m an Anarchy Model. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” whispered Janko through his snot and drool. Amba placed a finger delicately against her lips, leaving a tiny trace of blood. “I’m looking for Dr Jmes Kooky, Professor of Ride Enjoyment at Theme Planet Central University. Now. I want to know eve
rything you know.”

  ~ * ~

  Dr Jmes Kooky, Professor of Ride Enjoyment at Theme Planet Central University, sat in his office staring at the six students before him with unadulterated distaste, loathing and despair. The fact that it was actually the students who, through their student fees, paid his salary, seemed of little consequence to Jmes. From his elitist, experienced and some would say narcissistic point of view, Jmes had fashioned a world view in which he was the core, he was the centre, he was in fact the most important organic entity to ever walk the planets of the Four Galaxies. Everybody else was just gravy. In Jmes’s world, Jmes ruled. And in Jmes’s office, students were some kind of primordial slime sent to him to simply facilitate one function - annoyance. After all, what other service did a student provide? They were lazy, useless, pointless specimens who stayed in bed all day, drank and shagged and did their utmost to do very little. It was rare Jmes came across a student who was actually worthy of his attention, and indeed these “worthy” specimens tended to be brunette, voluptuous, and with a “thing” for older gentlemen.

  On this bright, sunny day, with beams of sunlight cutting through dust motes and the distant lazy sounds of the Theme Planet rides rumbling on the horizon to the accompaniment of thousands - nay, millions - of delighted screams, Jmes focused on his little group and said, “Take out your EPads,” whilst absently rubbing at the grey bristles of his beard.

  The six students complied, and Jmes caught one young brunette, a new student to the campus, eyeing him shyly from behind her EPad, tongue licking her dry lips, big baby-blue eyes shifting coquettishly from his rotund physique and back to her work. Jmes appraised her, and with a deft flick of his eyes, checked for her name on his list. Karenta. That was a sweet name. Jmes flicked his eyes back to her, and she was looking at him again, EPen poised. She had masses of curled hair and fabulous breasts. Fabulous breasts.

  Forcing his mind back to the present, he said, “Okay, today we’re going to be looking at ride design ergonomics. As you know, Monolith Ride Systems design every single ride on Theme Planet, and of course their paramount design concern is that of safety. Safety of passengers, safety of ride controllers, and indeed - where alien organisms are used as part of a ride system - safety of the ride organism itself.”

  His eyes swept his class. The punk with the pink Mohican was dozing into his EPad. The fat girl on the left was picking her nose with the end of her EPen. The spotty teen on the right was fumbling with his cock through his pants, no doubt either: a) rearranging his tackle after an impromptu and unasked-for erection due to the benefit of the nearby Karenta’s mostly visible bosom (it was a naively sexy plastic see-through dress), or b) rearranging his tackle due to a cheap shot at covert masturbation due to the benefit of the nearby Karenta’s mostly visible bosom. Dr Jmes made a clicking sound of annoyance.

  “Is everything okay, Jmes?” asked Karenta, blinking at him with those big baby-blues.

  Jmes flapped his mouth a little, so surprised was he at being addressed thus. After all, he was a doctor with a PhD in Ride Enjoyment, and indeed, an appointed Professor specialising in research into the fields of Ride Enjoyment. One addressed him as “Doctor.” Or “Professor.” Or even “Sir” or “God” would suffice. Jmes was not used to such a slack ignorance with his mode of address, and during various avenues of study had in fact chastised many a student of all age groups on the topic. The fact that this had led to a group of students within his own cohort naming themselves “Dr Narcissist’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” did nothing to deter him, trouble him, or force him to desist in his course. Even when one boy called him “Old Permanent Doctor Cunt” - to his face - there was barely a tremble in his lip, although the drugged-up little bastard’s subsequent savage beating never made the student newspaper, Anarchy News - “For The True Anarchist! (Whilst Not Disturbing Your Studies.)”

  “Erm,” said Jmes, unable to stop himself before his anally retentive affliction kicked in, “actually, you must address me as Doctor, Professor, or simply Sir. Although I prefer Professor. Because I didn’t achieve this position without considerable effort, you know, young lady.”

  Karenta gave a small laugh, politely, behind her hand, and said with a confidence he would never have given her credit for, “Oh, come now, Jmes, we really shouldn’t stand on such formality here, in such a small group, should we? I thought when I enrolled last week we’d be like one big happy smiling family.”

  Jmes spluttered, and felt a red flush riot through his cheeks. When he’d first spotted her, she hadn’t seemed dazzlingly beautiful, not what Jmes would called a student “stunner” who all the Professors would seek to be the first to take to the little den at the back of the university campus - fondly known as “Shag Corner” - but now her confidence did something to Jmes. It brought out a blossoming in her character, an attractiveness that had been hitherto hidden behind shaded layers. Jmes didn’t want to be so crass as to use the analogy of an onion, but that was what Karenta was when it came to her beauty. Her attractiveness was built up in layers, and Professor Jmes Kooky looked very much forward to peeling back her layers. Beginning with her clothes.

  The tutorial continued, and Jmes outlined various functions of Ride Enjoyment - both physical and psychological, and how as a ride designer - or “TP Engineer,” to give the guys and gals on the shop floor their complete professional titles - was so much more than simply building units on a production line. The Engineers were a class of their own on Theme Planet, with their own guild and hierarchy and police and prison systems. Whereas some cultures worshipped precious metals, or sex (he threw a glance at Karenta when he said the word, and was thrilled to see her staring straight at him), the whole provax culture - and indeed, Theme Planet’s religion -was based around the perfection of the ride. Enjoyment, excitement, pleasure, these were things that provax lusted after, and had indeed been the social building blocks which led to the creation of the Theme Planet in the first place.

  “I’m confused,” said Karenta, at one point.

  “About?”

  “ On Earth, the humans say the provax have no emotions. They call them fish, because to humans the provax seem to display very little love or hate, fear or loathing. If that was the case, if they were so emotionless, why would they seek enjoyment, excitement and pleasure?”

  “This is a commonly-held misconception,” said Jmes, resting his chin on his steepled fingers and trying his very hardest to project an air of cultured sophistication and sexy-older-man magnetism. “Provax do not have a lack of emotions, it’s just their emotions work in a different way, and to many layman humans, seem diluted. Provax do feel emotions like humans, and in moments of very great stress or love, appear very human indeed. However, they react differently to humans - they are, after all, an alien species. Yes, many look physically similar, and share the same style of internal organs - were hammered into life on very similar worlds, evolved in very similar fashions (notwithstanding the echoes and theories surrounding molecular and evolutionary seeding from some ancient and yet-undiscovered alien culture) but provax and humans are very, very different. At a base level. Genetically, and physically.”

  Karenta nodded and made several notes, dark curls falling down over her EPad. Jmes watched her, and felt a deep stirring within.

  ~ * ~

  It was evening. Outside, the sun was sinking in a stunning violet blaze of fire. Rides still clanked and rattled, an eternal theme park aural soundtrack; riders screamed and laughed, and holidaymakers enjoyed the pleasures and thrills of the Theme Planet.

  Jmes stood at the window, looking down at the university grounds, with their mock stone and fountains, flowerbeds and manicured lawns. At the centre of the campus was a five-kilometre-high vertical drop rollercoaster called the Splat, and it was a test of nerve for every first-year undergraduate to drink ten pints, eat a kebab then do three runs on Splat. Presumably to see if a) they made a splat, or b) they produced a splat. Whatever, the rails gleamed in the light of the dying su
n, and high up, a solitary five-man CAR was cresting the summit. It paused, glinting, and then plummeted towards the university and its manicured lawns, screams wailing out over the campus.

  Jmes turned back to his study.

  The tutorial had gone on far longer than expected, with a two-hour break in the middle. It had gone on for so long, with Karenta bringing up so many interesting concepts and questions, that the punk’s Mohican had started to flop, the spotty kid’s spots had all popped, and even the fat girl seemed miraculously to lose some weight without a never-ending supply of Fatto Fat Burgers. Thankfully, Professor Jmes called an end to the torturously long session, and with his back turned, invited the students to scuttle off to whatever little hellholes of student digs they inhabited, replete with crappy little cooking facilities, dirty needles and unprotected sex.

  The door clacked shut.

  Jmes turned back, expecting an empty room, but Karenta had remained. She was smiling at him and here, now, she appeared much less innocent and naive. In fact, she seemed suddenly older than her years.