Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'Well that's pretty conclusive,' said Madeleine. 'There's no denying you're anything but hostile. And you've certainly got style. So, you must be right.

  'Oh, and I found a bump - just here above my ear - when I was showering. So I'm afraid there's no doubt about it. And I think that means I've got about…what…?'

  'When d'you think he did it?' asked Boz.

  'It was yesterday. It must have been. When I saw him in the evening.'

  'Six days,' said Boz quietly.

  Which was when Renton found his voice again - if not his conventional diction.

  'Whaaahh?' he said. And then he said something which sounded like the extended 'Ohhhh' one hears when one stands next to a roller-coaster - but with more of a wobble towards its end.

  And only when they sat down to eat Boz's excellent fish pie, did his ability to speak more conventionally return. And not until the next day did his full composure reappear…

  37.

  Langail was seated on his tarnished throne. He looked deeply resentful. 'It's just not possible,' he said. 'Five thousand would be bad enough. But a hundred thousand? Well, it's simply out of the question. Where could we seat them? Where on this world could we seat anything like that number? And anyway, why? Why so many? What's so important? And why now? Why such haste?'

  Lysaars' mouth was a straight, very thin line. He adjusted his expansive buttocks on the inadequate seat of his shooting-stick, and the thin line became a sneer. For reasons Langail never fully understood, meetings with Lysaars were always conducted in this manner: as a parody of a royal audience - with his visiting tormentor invariably perched on the end of that ancient, outlandish contrivance. And even though he was allowed to retain his throne in these exchanges, he was allowed to retain none of his authority. He might still be Guvner in name, but everyone knew who was really in charge.

  Lysaars was still sneering as he disengaged his rear end from the seat of the shooting-stick - and as Doggerbat moved in to grab it. And only when he was fully upright did that sneer disappear - in a torrent of abuse.

  'You simpering old dolt!' he spat. 'You mindless old dullard! You ungrateful, stupid, silly, weak, gibbering geriatric! For how long now have I been applying my considerable talents to helping your dustbin of a world? How many months and years of my precious life have I invested in giving some hope to your miserable subjects? How many nights have I toiled whilst others slept?'

  Lysaars' forearm rose to his temple in an overdramatic and entirely unconvincing gesture of hurt. 'And what do I get? Just negatives! That, sir, is precisely what I get: negatives! Negative thoughts, negative ideas, negative observations, negative responses and negative attitudes.'

  Lysaars approached and squatted as if sitting on Langail's throne. Then he mimicked its incumbent. 'We cannot do this! We cannot do that! And why should we do this? And why should we do that? Why? Why? Negative! Negative! Well, you old goat, you understand this and you understand it well. My friends and I are here on this miserable planet of yours to help it whether you like it or not. Your…'

  'What help?' interrupted Langail, with uncharacteristic vehemence. 'We've seen only duplicity and dishonour. We've seen no help at all. And no gain. None whatsoever. All this wrong doing and…'

  'Be quiet, old man!' shouted Lysaars. 'You know very well that things take time. There will be money soon. More than enough money. And then we can start rebuilding this pile of a planet. But you must be patient. You must trust me!' His voice lowered. 'And if you can't trust me, tough titties, if you'll pardon my expression. You'll just have to grin and bear it, won't you? And you'll just have to wait a little longer for your promised land. Eh?'

  Lysaars presented Langail with one of his more unpleasant grins. And then he replaced it with a cold stare as he continued. 'As I was saying, despite your negative attitudes, our good works will prevail. And to facilitate their progress, a number of your citizens will be required. In fact, as has already been made plain, one hundred thousand of your citizens will be required. They are essential. Indeed, they are no less than vital to our purpose.'

  'Our purpose?' interjected Langail.

  'Yes, our purpose!' retorted Lysaars. 'And as far as your negative observations are concerned, one hundred thousand people can be gathered together. And they will be gathered together. And in five day's time. And, my dear Guvner, I even know where we'll put them…

  'We'll put them in the freighter dock at Scorran.'

  'The freighter dock at Scorran?' exclaimed Langail. 'You're mad. You can't seat a hundred thousand people in that old place. It's derelict. It's full of rubbish. It's… well, it's completely unsafe. You couldn't possibly use there.'

  Lysaars placed his hands on his hips and leant his head to one side. 'There you go again: negative, negative. Who said anything about seating all those peasants? I just want them in one place. I couldn't care less whether they sit, stand, lie down or squat. I just want them there. And what, my dear monarch, is so peculiar about the dock being derelict and unsafe? The whole of this bloody planet is derelict and unsafe. Remember?'

  He shook his head and then went on. 'In five days' time there'll be one hundred thousand of your dutiful citizens in the freighter dock at Scorran or you will be responsible for the consequences. And you do understand what I mean, don't you?'

  'Oh yes, I understand only too well.'

  Looking at this pile of blancmange in his throne room, Langail wondered how he had ever believed anything Lysaars had ever told him. How he had possibly been persuaded by this man to set out on such a tortuous path - and to such an obscure destination. But there had been a time when he and many of his court, his officials and his people, had believed in what they were doing, and the future it promised - for Dumpiter. Even if the means were a little questionable, the end surely justified… well, whatever they had to do. Who could argue that converting the scrap-heap of the universe into a decent place to live - for all those poor souls just existing on this planet - was other than the most honourable of goals?

  But now there were few who held that early enthusiasm. Most were now entirely disillusioned with every aspect of what they'd begun, and felt only shame for their past involvement - and their continued involvement. For even though Lysaars' venture now had no popular support, and despite its failure to deliver any tangible benefits of any sort, it rolled on. Indeed it was still growing. Still sucking in more of the people of Dumpiter - more people to share in the shame.

  And Langail knew that it was his weakness that was the reason for this continued acceptance of the unacceptable. He still gave his official support to Lysaars and to all his works. What this bastard was doing was still a legitimate project on Dumpiter. And who, amongst his loyal subjects, would defy that legitimacy, and thereby defy the legitimacy of the Guvner himself? And, more to the point, who, amongst his loyal subjects would defy Lysaars - when he himself failed to do so - and when he even failed to show any leadership to those who were braver?

  But what could he do? Lysaars and his enterprise on this planet now enjoyed the protection of an increasing number of “advisers”, a bunch of indolent thugs scraped from every dark corner of the universe, fit for nothing other than vicious and mindless bullying. There had already been a number of “accidents” at the work sites. And he knew that if any real challenge to the project emerged, there would be more of them. Probably many more. And he couldn't allow that. He just wasn't strong enough.

  And now he was being “asked” to lend his official blessing to some harebrained idea that he neither welcomed nor understood. He was being asked to provide a huge number of his subjects for some purpose that he doubted had anything at all to do with their work on the freighters.

  He would, of course, comply.

  And now that fat pig was stuffing his mouth with that disgusting oefedge. He scrunched the shells as he issued a series of short commands.

  'Get on with it, Langail. Time is short. Keep Doggerbat informed. Don't think. Just do it.'

  Then th
e commands stopped as one of his pudgy fingers was poked into his mouth to dislodge some offending eggshell within. It was withdrawn, inspected, wiped on his shirt and then ignored. Then he went on: 'Oh, and there'll be a Doctor Rattlepitt arriving tomorrow. Make sure I'm told immediately he's here. And treat him very well. He's very important. Understand?'

  'Lysaars, you know very well that my powers of understanding are now developed to the highest degree. I have had so much practice of late. I understand everything.'

  'Good, I'm very pleased you have some of your facilities intact. Eh? Eh?' Lysaars giggled, turned and waddled out of the throne room, Doggerbat and the rest of his retinue falling in behind.

  Langail was left to face his despondency and his utter despair. And then he realised something. For the very first time in his life, he realised he was dying from within.

  38.

  Boz had explained how it worked. First you implanted the receiver device in the subject's brain - with the help of a little sedation and a little pseudo-surgery. Then, with a transmitting device, you turned it on. And this meant it then started to identify all the memories you wanted to eliminate - and to receive from the transmitter all the replacement ones you wanted to install. And eventually, when all this was done, you sent the receiver a final command, and the switch was made. The job was done - instantaneously. Oh, and the receiver was tamper-proof. Any attempt to remove it after the process had been initiated would prove fatal - intentionally. So you didn't tend to do that. Instead, if you wanted to arrest the process before it got to that critical final command stage, you had to track down the transmitting device and disable it. And in Madeleine's case, that meant you had to make a night-time visit to the Red Inc premises - in the hope that you could convince the custodian of the transmitter therein, to desist in his dastardly deeds - and turn the damn thing off.

  Or rather, that would have been what you'd have done if Boz hadn't already been there to find the whole place deserted and Lysaars and all his cronies gone. And not just gone from the compound, but gone from Crabbsbab as well. Not a single one of Red Inc's workforce remained. And when Boz checked at the spaceport, no one knew where a single one of them had gone. They'd all been in a bit of a rush apparently, and none of them had found the time to log where they were going. Not quite in accordance with normal space-flying practice, but given their unprecedented mass withdrawal, not unexpected.

  So Boz set out what they had to do instead. Because, as Boz explained, the unremembering process would still be grinding on. The process was a long-winded one. So to cope with the possibility of the transmitting device and the receiving implant becoming separated, they worked on what was essentially the same technology as was found in a Bastard - which allowed them to maintain their necessary contact even if they were light years apart. And what he set out was his intention to find out where Lysaars had gone, then to track him down, and then to convince him to turn the damn thing off.

  Now, this was a bit of a tall order - given that he could now be practically anywhere in the universe. But Boz had thought of this, even before he'd left that Red Inc compound to go to the spaceport. And it was by using that same ancient Bastard machine that Renton had found off reception…

  Renton's memory was, at best, poor. If tasked with the uninteresting, it could, at worst, raise medical curiosity. And it certainly was not up to remembering a single name from the entire roll call on that Bastard register. Boz's memory was, however, a far superior model. It was able to remember a whole sheaf of these names - to be compared with the names on a file of freight manifests he “found” at Tousselok spaceport. He wanted to identify a couple of Red Inc's “trade” customers, and preferably a couple of live accounts. If nobody on Crabbsbab knew where Lysaars had disappeared to, then maybe one of his commercial clients might just have an idea. And with two spacecraft at their disposal, they should be able to follow up two such lines of enquiry.

  Boz was adamant that this was what they should do. Renton had very grave misgivings, but could see no honourable alternative. And Madeleine was in no mood to argue. In fact, she was quite keen on the proposition, especially as it wouldn't just be Renton now. There'd be this wonderful reptilian as well. And he seemed more than a little capable.

  And, on top of that, she had absolutely no desire to have her memory interfered with, or indeed her very existence - which was far from being a remote possibility.

  So she signed up to every aspect of the deal, even that part of it which paired her with Renton - while Boz went off on his own. She would have to wait until their rendezvous before she could enjoy his more competent company. And meanwhile she would have to share this Boeing monoflight with Renton the Improbable for the twelve hours it would take them to arrive at a planet called Iacouvou, where they would pay a call on a certain Professor Polisible who, according to the manifest data collected by Boz, looked to be a big user of Spazum electropaint.

  And now they were on their way. It might be a little cramped in a space vehicle made for one, but that was a minor concern. They had left Crabbsbab without a hitch and they were now on course for Iacouvou. It had all been a cinch.

  However, it was now also three and a half minutes into the flight, and time for the inevitable hypertravel to be engaged. This wasn't going to be quite such a cinch.

  In sorting out the flight arrangements, Renton had nearly suggested that Madeleine went with Boz. In that way, if his blurting curse made a reappearance (which it hadn't done on the way to Crabbsbab), he'd be free simply to blurt to himself. He'd have no travelling companion to witness his unguarded thoughts on the subjects of anatomy and make-up - or even on ingratitude and latent contempt. And the cramped accommodation on board his monoflight would have assisted him in this suggestion. But it just wasn't right. He and Madeleine had come this far together, and it was inconceivable that they shouldn't go further together - even if this was a view that might not be shared by Madeleine.

  So he hadn't made that suggestion. And that's why he was here now, sweating with trepidation and struggling to come to terms with what might happen when they entered hyperspace. How he would cope with the exposé of his naked thoughts should the blurting show up. And how he would cope with the fall-out of such an exposé…

  He lay in the cabin hammock looking at Madeleine. She was sitting in a smaller, emergency hammock, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Then he spoke.

  'Madeleine, we're about to go into hyper.'

  Madeleine responded almost mechanically.

  'Well yes, I expect we are. Thanks for telling me, but I have done if before, you know. Not many times, but quite recently actually. In a paint vat. I think I'll be OK.'

  Renton opened his mouth to say more. She didn't understand, and he needed to explain. He needed to prepare her. Just in case. But he couldn't. His voice just wouldn't work. Even though he had a fair idea of what he wanted to say, it just wouldn't help him. And he knew why. It was because he wanted to wing it. Yes, better to hope the damn thing didn't arrive and deal with it if it did when it did, rather than opening up a can of worms now - when he didn't need to. Or at least when he couldn't be sure he needed to…

  So he closed his mouth, turned away from Madeleine and applied his silent thoughts to the routine he'd been taught as a space-pilot, which would propel their small spacecraft into the realms of quantum mechanics. That's to say he leant across the control console, opened a tiny panel at the very back of the console and pressed the red button that lived there - next to the green button that would return the craft to its normal space-time operation as and when required.

  The red button engaged. Nothing happened. Nothing that is that could be experienced by Madeleine and Renton. As always, hypertravel was something happening “out there”. It transferred to the inside of the craft no sensations whatsoever.

  It was, however, capable of triggering a few minor physiological effects. Like rampant blurting.

  Ten seconds after the red button had been depressed, a series of words wer
e launched into the quiet of the cabin. And the words then hung there, like a string of improbable decorations. For the words were: 'You know, you're really not my type. But try telling that to my libido.'

  Renton was aware that his jaw had dropped, possibly further than it had ever dropped before. But Madeleine's had not. Nor had there been even a flicker of surprise in her eyes. And this was probably because it was her who had launched these words into the space between them. And then, not content with just one assault on the reserve of their relationship, she went for another. And this one consisted of a question. It was: 'How can I feel so horny - when I'm in such a mess - and so horny for you?'

  Madeleine now looked completely wicked. As completely wicked as she had been less than completely honest in telling Renton about her previous hypertravel experience. When she had told her host that she had done it before – “not many times”, she had been bending the use of normal English to breaking point. The reality was that her parents had taken her on a hypertravel trip to visit relatives on Margaraje, a planet fairly close to Corcul - when she was just ten months old. And that trip, there and back, constituted her entire hypertravel experience prior to her unplanned excursion on the Ennovator as Lysaars' guest. On that occasion, the stress of her confinement, the smell of the paint vats - or something or other - had suppressed her normal reaction to hypertravel. That's to say an effect experienced by a small minority of hyper-travellers - namely repeated blurting.

  'Christ,' announced Renton, 'I haven't even made a pass. In fact, I haven't even passed a comment on your boobies - despite their being refreshingly perky…'

  'Stop looking at me like that,' interrupted Madeleine. 'Or I may have to rape you.'

  'Blimey. That sounds fantastic. But I'd want to be on top.'

  'You can be anywhere you want, big boy. And as many times as you want. Just as long as…'