Theme Planet

by Andy Remic

  Dex accelerated, cruised towards the funnel, face twisted in abject old-man horror, and-

  Ramp. Pop. Suck.

  Argh!

  Dex blinked rapidly and sucked in fresh air. He’d felt the massive acceleration of the Zip Tube, and emerged five kilometres away from another, near-identical funnel -apparently all in one piece. He cruised to a gentle halt by the side of the road, on a new island now, in a new Theme Planet Adventure Zone. He patted himself all over, as if worried he might have left an arm or leg behind.

  “Hey, mister,” said a little girl, who he hadn’t noticed before. She was wearing a swim costume and had long black hair, not unlike Molly’s. She wore a red flower in her hair and was beaming up at Dex.

  “Er, hello?”

  “Don’t worry. I did that the first time as well.”

  Dex grinned at her. “Pretty weird, huh?”

  “Yeah. Pretty weird, mister.”

  “Do you know the way to the Caves of Hades, little girl?”

  “Sure.” She pointed, then rummaged in a little white handbag. She pulled out a map. “Here. This’ll show you the way.”

  “Thanks. Don’t you need it?”

  “Nah. I’ve been here nine weeks now. I know my way around.”

  The girl ambled off, and bought an ice cream at a bobbing robotic ice cream stand. Dex studied the map, and looked up just as a police groundcar cruised past. Dex watched it out of the corner of his eye, continuing to stare at his map, and he saw the groundcar gradually roll to a halt. Then it turned around, its green lights started to flicker, and Dex groaned deep inside.

  “Not again.”

  “You THERE ON THE HOVER BIKE. DO NOT MOVE. We HAVE QUESTIONS FOR YOU!”

  Dex rammed open the throttle, the hover bike screamed, and he shot off down the road like a bullet from a gun. The groundcar growled and howled after him, whooshing past the little girl with the ice cream, who stood, mouth open, raspberry syrup on her chin, eyes wide in astonishment.

  Head down, Dex opened the throttle to full. The hover bike whined, nose lifting, and he zigzagged between slower vehicles in the road in a manoeuvre that would have got him a slap from his wife, and an instant ban in London.

  In the distance, the vast Skycloud Mountains loomed, glittering darkly.

  “Bastards,” muttered Dex, and watched the police car accelerate in his mirrors. They kept up with him no problem. Their vehicle didn’t lack power, and as they all flew towards the Forest of Iron, the loudhailer barked at him:

  “Pull over if you value your safety and the safety of OTHERS.”

  “Get fucked,” muttered Dex.

  “You are driving in a very dangerous and illogical manner. This is very dangerous. You are causing a danger. You are in breach of Theme Planet law and must suffer our justice. Pull in and you will not be harmed. I must repeat, you are being very dangerous.”

  This actually cheered Dex. He thought he’d been spotted by Monolith or some other bloody secret police service operating on Theme Planet; he hadn’t. This was just some dumb-ass SIM, he knew their sort, they’d been banned from Earth decades earlier. What was it the pedantic sons-of-bitches always used to say? He wracked his brains, even as he veered left, taking a wider and less congested road. He skimmed around more tourist traffic, shaving millimetres of alloy from one rear bumper with his footpeg. Horns, squeaky, high-pitched and nonthreatening, squeaked after him.

  That was it. “There’s no comedy in police work, son.” That had become the mantra of the terminally-pedantic Justice SIMs. They were renowned across the Quad-Gal for having the worst sense of humour of any species; human, alien or prov. And, meeting one now, Dex realised, nobody was fucking kidding!

  “PULL OVER. YOU MUST PULL OVER. WE DEMAND YOU PULL OVER. I DEMAND YOU PULL OVER! PULL OVER THIS INSTANT. YOU ARE BEING VERY IRRESPONSIBLE BY NOT PULLING OVER. If YOU DO NOT PULL OVER YOU MAY CAUSE SOME DANGER. We CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO CAUSE DANGER. THERE’S NO COMEDY IN POLICE WORK, SON. IF YOU DO NOT PULL OVER, I WILL BE FORCED TO BREAK OUT THE MINIGUNS.”

  Dex paled. Shit.

  Right, he thought. Time to see what this hover bike can do...

  He pulled back on the yoke, and the hover bike sailed up into the air. Below, the twisted iron trees from the Forest of Iron spread out like a vast carpet, a vast game map, and in one quick glimpse Dex saw the layout of the forest, with its adventure trails and forest wolves to avoid - a must for all Theme Planet thrill seekers!

  Dex checked his mirrors. The groundcar had, miraculously, unfolded its wings and, with a supersonic whump, leapt up into the air in pursuit. But it’s called a fucking “groundcar,“ he wanted to scream. How can you call it a groundcar when it flies in the fucking sky?

  Looking back, Dex nearly collided with a World Tree, a vast towering edifice that was a living, breathing, organic ride in itself. It reared from the forest canopy below, vast and towering and carrying carriages and CARs along its very branches. Riders screamed and giggled and drooled, legs kicking, arms waving, and Dex saw carriages topple away down vast branches as wide as a ten-lane freeway. Punters screamed. Tourists waggled. Great fun, thought Dex, and swung his hover bike down under a mammoth branch, then up through leaves which slapped at his face like enraged lovers. Up, under, over branches Dex wove, the hover bike whining. The SIM police car was in close pursuit. He could see green flashing lights in his mirrors.

  Dex burst free from the World Tree’s foliage, only to see ten more World Trees up ahead - part of the great Theme Planet experience within the Forest of Iron. “Great,” he muttered, and he went to veer right - he had to travel right, according to the map, out past the Lagoon of Serenity, back over The Lost Dunes and to the Caves of Hades... only then could he find the secret tunnel.

  Bullets howled and Dex ducked instinctively, veering the bike left, away from his goal. Another burst of minigun fire chewed through the World Tree ahead of him, showing Dex that the mad bastard SIM was far from playing fucking games.

  Dex slammed left, right, and lifted the bike over a succession of huge boughs as thick as train carriages. More bullets howled after him, and a ride CAR containing screaming, giggling tourists was thrown from its rails and went toppling towards the ground, blood spewing from minigun-punctured, ragdoll bodies. Dex saw the CAR fall, his face turning grim. Not only was the police SIM gunning for him with a serious agenda, he was showing his true colours and not caring for any human life. And as a PUF officer, this rankled deep with Dex. How could one be a policeman and wantonly destroy life? It didn’t fit. It didn’t work. It just wasn’t fucking right...

  “Okay, you bastard.”

  Dex yanked the bike left and right once more, dodging vast branches, then suddenly dropped towards ground level and snapped through the Iron Forest canopy. “I’ll show you how this game is played.”

  He checked his mirrors. Now there wasn’t just one SIM flying a police car after him. There were... Dex counted. Five. Five! How did that happen? How the fuck did that situation arise? But he knew with a deep sinking feeling in his soul how it had arisen; the SIMs were anally retentive to the Nth degree. Unable to stop Dex, this bastard had called in his mates.

  As Dex’s hover bike zipped down to ground level, and whizzed through the forest as if in some crazy video game or movie, the cars spread out and five miniguns opened fire. Trees screamed and groaned, and trunks from trees a thousand years old came crashing to the ground.

  Bullets whizzed and spun past Dex like hail, and he suddenly slammed the hover bike into reverse, dipping the yoke to clear the lead groundcar, then opened the throttle again, came up fast behind the SIM’s car, got the front of his bike under its rear bumper and twitched it up. The groundcar lifted slightly, then ploughed its nose into the ground as Dex pulled left, cutting between two more cars. The crashing car cut a huge groove through the forest floor and hit a tree with a wham, a spattering of debris, and a sudden, howling, rushing inferno.

  The two cars alongside Dex then opened fire behind him, minigu
ns spewing spinning steel; Bullets slapped along panels, and the two cars cut each other in half, dropping bits of steel and alloy and punctured SIM limbs to the forest floor. They hit the ground in pieces, fucked up and out of the game.

  Dex banked right, and the two final cars jigged in line to open fire at him. Shit. Shit! Bullets screamed and impacts ran along the back of the hover bike, punching through the alloy. Black smoke poured from the arse of the bike, and Dex felt the machine shudder under his fists. Oh, no. No! Don’t do this to me, baby. Don’t die on me now! Suddenly, it picked up power, and a grin spread like jam over Dex’s face. But then the engine cut, the fail-safes blipped into place, and the hover bike glided down slowly through the trees, still billowing black smoke, and came to rest with dignity on the forest floor.

  Ob, you prick-teasing bitch. Oh, I just can’t believe you let me down! I can’t believe you’ve left me at the mercy of the SIMs...

  Dex hopped from the bike, turned, reached for his Makarov.

  “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, MOTHERFUCKER. BELIEVE ME, I HAVE NO HUMOUR ABOUT THIS SITUATION!”

  The two groundcars were floating ten metres away, minigun barrels smoking, their engines purring like clockwork. The guns were focused on Dex and Dex alone. He could feel their evil eyes, tiny black holes staring into Hell and death. Dex’s mouth was dry, because he knew SIMs, and he knew them well - and Dex had been responsible for the death of their kind. There was no going back now. No talking his way out of this situation. SIMs were evil motherfuckers by anybody’s stretch of the imagination, and they could slaughter him, and would slaughter him. Probably after torture. Lots of torture.

  Dex raised his hands above his head. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled, hoping to any god that would listen that he could get them out, on the ground. At least he’d have a chance with his Makarov. As long as they were behind a set of miniguns, he was so much meat pate. “We need to talk about this!”

  He could almost feel them splutter down their microphones. He could sense their exasperation, their indignation, their feelings of listen-to-this-cheeky-motherfucker made into a physical thing.

  “You have a cheek, little man! You have caused the DEATHS OF OUR SIM COMPANIONS! FOR THIS YOU ARE GOING TO BE DESTROYED IN A MOST UNPLEASANT WAY.”

  “I’m a policeman,” said Dex, clutching at straws, grasping slivers of time like a drowning man clutching greased rope. “I’m part of the PUF in London, Earth. I know how you feel! It was all an accident... a set-up! I’m being hunted, and I thought you were the bad guys!”

  There was silence for a while. He could almost hear the muffled, heated exchange between the SIMs. Jesus, he thought, imagine giving a position of responsibility to these gun-toting, trigger-happy, crazy-eyed bastards! Is that what Theme Planet really thinks of its tourists? Legs shot off in the back of the van? Eyes put out with an ice-axe? Still-beating heart ripped from jagged chest-cavity by over-zealous justice nutcases on an ironic mission for justice? Yeah, that was the SIMs. Crazy bastards, distilled.

  “Do not move. We are coming out to discuss this situation.”

  Great. A chance at... freedom? Certainly not justice. He’d have to be fast, and hit hard. He could feel the Makarov in his pocket, a solid weight, a weight that equated to escape. It was his only chance. Dex ground his teeth in frustration. Every damn step he took, bureaucracy seemed to interject in his fate; it was as if he was cursed by policymakers. Mocked by procedure. Haunted by the very police he had once sworn to serve.

  This is not a good situation, he thought.

  This is not a good week.

  The SIMs stepped from their vehicles, which bobbed slightly as the heavy mass of SIM and associated battle armour was removed from suspended suspension. There were four of them, two in each groundcar. Their armour was black and dulled silver, and their mechanical eyes gave tiny clicks and buzzes as they focused on Dexter. All four SIMs carried SMKK machine guns, and they were pretty savage weapons even in gentle hands. In the strangler grip of nutcase nutjob killers like your average psychotic SIM, an SMKK was something truly to be feared. Not so much a tool of justice as a guaranteed one-way trip to a deep hole in the ground.

  The SIMs strode forward and arranged themselves in a line. Mechanical eyes watched Dexter with care, SMKKs presented with safety catches off. He didn’t like it one bit.

  “You have led us a merry dance, little man. You are IN THE SHIT, YOU KNOW THAT? YOU HAVE BROKEN LAW AND FUCKED WITH Gov!”

  “Listen guys, listen, it’s all been a terrible mistake!” said Dexter - and an arrow appeared in the lead SIM’s face. It stuck there, feathers quivering, as mechanical eyes swivelled down to examine the yew shaft embedded just beneath.

  “I AM NOT HAPPY WITH THIS SITUATION!” Said the SIM, reaching up and grabbing the arrow in his gloved fist. There was a crack as he snapped it off, and Dex, whose mouth was hanging open, glanced over his shoulder and saw the shit hitting the fan.

  Dex hit the ground and covered his head as a hundred shafts hissed from the dense undergrowth of the forest, peppering the SIMs until they resembled porcupines. The SMKKs rose and whined, rattling bullets into the undergrowth and cutting branches from trees, leaves from branches, churning up the greenery into damp wood shavings.

  Dex drew his Makarov and started pumping bullets at the SIMs, aware that whoever was firing the arrows was on his side.

  “Keep your head covered!” bellowed a voice in an accent somewhere between Australian, Irish and Afro-Caribbean. Dex obeyed as a rain of slow, heavy arrows whined from the trees.

  The first one hit a SIM, who looked down in sudden recognition. “Shit!” said the Justice model, who promptly exploded. Limbs and chunks of flesh flew off in all directions, as exploding arrows embedded in the three remaining SIMs and they, too, exploded with deep, grinding WHUMPS. The greenery was soon turned red, decorated as it was with skin, muscle and entrails.

  Dex climbed warily to his knees, looking around. Something had stuck to his jacket, and with great distaste he plucked free a mechanical eye. It squelched, and with a grimace Dex dropped it to the forest floor.

  “You’re a long way from home, sonny boy!” said a cheery voice, as a group of bandits strode out of the trees. They were dressed in Lincoln green, and carried longbows of hardy yew. Their eyes shone with merriment and good humour, and much to Dex’s amazement, the leader arrived and gave his thigh a hearty slap.

  Dex looked around at the twelve men. Yes, there was an overweight monk. There was a short, dangerous looking man with a scowl and angry eyes. There, hovering in the background, was a pretty maid.

  Dex groaned. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Shitting you we are not! Welcome to our forest! We are the Merry Men, and my name, good sir, is Robin!”

  “Robin? Merry Men? Is this a theme section of the Theme Park?”

  “Yes, good sir!” beamed Robin, who wore a dainty little pointed green hat. It had a feather in it.

  Dex felt an urgent need to scream and giggle well up within him, and he forced it down savagely, like drunken kebab vomit. “You’re robots?”

  “AIs,” corrected Robin. He gave a wink, and hit his thigh again, with a hearty slap.

  “And your purpose is?”

  “To patrol this fine woodland and protect the tourists! We may also rob from the SIMs and give to the needy. That goes without saying.”

  “Rob? From the...” Dex shook his head. “I don’t recall the history filmys showing Robin with exploding arrows?”

  “One feels one must move with the times,” said Robin, with a slick, neat smile. But damn, you had to admire that programming. “Come hither, brave adventurer! Back, through the forest, and away from this SIM debris before more of those nasty fellows decide to invade our privacy.”

  “Er,” said Dex. “Actually, I’m on an important mission to find my wife and children. I’ll just get back on my hover bike and leave you guys to it. Okay?”

  Robin drew back his bowstring, until the feathers of t
he arrow touched his cheek. Dex found himself looking down the very sharp steel point of an arrow. He gave a wide grin, and spread his hands out wide...

  “Hey!”

  “I fear you must come with us, good chap,” said Robin, voice warbling a little. “I do insist. Will, be so good as to remove the intruder’s weapon. And Friar?”

  “Yes, Robin?”

  “Go and put the soup on, there’s a hardy fellow.”

  ~ * ~

  Dex marched through the dense woodland, eyes narrowed, hands tied behind his back with twine. Fucking twine, he thought. The ignominy. He followed with, fucking idiots. Why does this shit choose now, of all times, to happen to me? Had these crazy AIs gone gung-ho crazy and kidnapped him for a purpose? Had they maybe flipped their programming, melted solder into their cooling slots, and basically deleted their inhibition codes? Shit. Shit.