Deep Yellow

by Stuart Dodds

  It was going to be close. Perhaps, just go back for a whisky and sit in the sun. A hand touched her shoulder. Meren!

  They locked eyes. Brell sensed the warmth of her touch.

  “Have you got a key?” Brell said.

  As Meren nodded, Brell realised that the grip on her shoulder tightened.

  “Hold on. Brookko.” Meren said turning her head.

  Brookko came into view, running as fast as his limp would allow, chasing after Grock. Brell could see from his fixed gaze that he had not seen herself or Meren.

  Brell realised she must now be the last challenger to reach the arena. As she slumped her shoulders, Meren released her grip and shook the top of her arm encouragingly.

  “Through the arena entrance, first left, tunnel second right,” Meren said.

  “Exit over there by the red M.” Brell said and pointed to the other side of the road. She ran towards the arena entrance, not looking back.

  ***

  Ooma had almost hopped his bulk out of the tube transport as it arrived back at the studio. A show runner motioned him to a marked position behind the large stage doors. He could hear Flip commentating on stage. The doors silently split apart, the studio lights shone on him, music boomed, and wispy smoke appeared.

  “It’s Ooma, everyone.”

  There was thunderous applause that got louder as Ooma shuffled forward. He raised his arms up and smiled, may as well milk it. He remained centre stage in the bright lights for a while until motioned into a seat by Argenta who had turned her attention back to the live feed. As soon as he sat down, the seat tether activated, the guards taking no chances. His heart pumped and he continued to sweat, but he was safe. He was first in, the farmer they tried to write off. Bet the gamblers have lost a packet.

  Gradually, becoming calmer he watched Kellsa and Carac arriving. He was unsure who would be next.

  ***

  The Tinker kicked off his slippers, wiggled his toes, and selected one of his special delicacies.

  “Good. All going well. Message those Twins will you? As follows: ‘Good show. Presume all in place for the next Challenge?’”

  ***

  Grock eased himself into the entrance, senses on high alert. He cursed the holo alien world. A professional would have spent time acclimatising himself to the geography, people, and landscape to ensure they could get in and out without being caught.

  The cross Emperor sat here.

  He read the signs inside the tunnels and listened to a couple of holos speak in Rome language. Being fluent in Inhab-47 languages, he knew where they were going and adjusting his stride, he followed them right to the cross. One key left. Amateurs. He leaned forward and reached out to insert his finger in the sensor.

  Whack.

  His right hand lost its feeling. Brookko stood just behind him, breathing heavily, a short sword in his hand, which he had prised from a soldier re-enacting a fight.

  “No, no, that’s for me. You didn’t look around. First rule of smuggling,” Brookko said.

  He grinned as he tapped Grock’s arm with the sword edge a couple of times. He motioned for Grock to stand up and move to one side, whilst snorting under his breath.

  “Thank you so much.”

  Brookko took a step back towards the parapet to give Grock some room to stand up. Grock moved slowly, and then suddenly heaved himself up and towards Brookko’s chest. Brookko dropped his sword in surprise and attempted to push Grock’s head and torso back. Feet planted firmly on the ground, Grock pushed again. It sent Brookko backwards until his thighs dug into the edge of the parapet, the arena surface below them. As the punches rained in, Brookko started falling backwards and grabbed Grock to steady himself. However, their momentum was such that they both toppled over the parapet together, falling onto the sandy surface of the arena. Brookko punched out, quickly uncoupled himself, and got to his feet. Walking backwards, he kept Grock in his sight. Grock planted his feet wide apart and put his hands into a defensive stance.

  ***

  Brell wiped her forehead with a sleeve and kept running. There was still time, well just about fifteen minutes, but she knew it was desperate. Following Meren’s instructions, she rounded a corner, and through the tunnel she saw the two intersecting poles, one set firmly in the ground. If there was no key, then possibly there was a chance to get the exit before Grock or Brookko. Nothing to lose.

  Her attention became drawn to the noise and activity in the arena. As she peered into the arena, she did not expect to see Grock prodding a spear at Brookko, who was attempting to defend himself with a small sword. Taking a step back, she glanced down; there was a key still in its box. Placing her hands on her hips, she let out a long breath. The stupid sods, male aggression; whatever, the key was still there. Releasing it, she ran back out towards the entrance, leaving Grock and Brookko still going hard at it in the arena. The crowd cheered, as per their programming, unaware of the two real men fighting for their lives.

  Out through the entrance and to the red M. Nine minutes to go. Enough time.

  ***

  Grock made his move, feinted left, and thrust the three-pronged spear into Brookko’s ribs. It had the effect; Brookko let out a yell as Grock pushed and twisted the spear handle, followed up by a punch to the face. Brookko fell to the ground clutching his chest. Grock immediately sprang up the side of the arena and vaulted over the parapet.

  ***

  Her stomach felt a little warm; was it the whisky or the timer? Brell ran through the Metro entrance and up to a door with a keyhole. Once inside, she slapped her hand on the red button numerous times and breathed again.

  ***

  Flip realised that he had not spoken for a while, as he was getting too caught up in the live event. Argenta was the same; it was quiet in his comm implant as well.

  The sight of the large doors opening and Ooma standing there smiling to loud applause would not be forgotten for a long while. The loser in the fun challenge was the winner in the first challenge. The others had followed in behind him and were watching the final few minutes. Brell could not have appeared more relieved as she took the last seat.

  The audience were transfixed.

  ***

  The key had gone. Grock ran through the corridors out into the sunshine.

  Six minutes.

  Where could the exit doors be? The clue, “Train, anyone?” had confused him and he had spent a while researching the words. Had to be on the outside of this arena. First, he scanned the crowds for any signs of grey jumpsuits and different skin colours. Nothing. Strategically, he needed to find the exit door and take the key off another challenger. Best option was to find an outside wall, as the tube transporters ran along the interconnecting walls near power and technical cabling. Turning left, he ran towards some buildings behind the arena, up a slight incline. His insides felt warm; he ignored it.

  Four minutes.

  At the top of the slope, he scrutinised a long line of buildings, looking for any doors with keyholes. There was a “Tours” sign in one of the windows with pictures of a long line of box shaped transporters travelling on two lines of metal tracks. A train?

  Two minutes.

  With both hands on the window, he quickly realised that this place sold travel tours. The door had no keyhole. It was not the right place and there were no other challengers around.

  He sat on the ground, propping his back against the wall realising that the strategy of thorough research had become his undoing. Perhaps his instincts had slowed during his incarceration. Well, time to return to “the swamp”.

  ***

  Brell was tired, a tiredness she had not felt for some time. A physical and mental fatigue from one hour of stress. But she was alive by luck, judgement or whatever. The others appeared confident but relieved.

  She watched the instant replays of Grock and Brookko’s demise. Grock was sitting still, staring into the distance, as if replaying a Space Corps memory, when the orange-grey combustion appeared on his clothi
ng. Brookko limped and staggered around, laughing at the gladiators before collapsing.

  “We have our five winners. See you after the break,” Flip said extending his arms. There was a vague ripple of applause despite the studio manager’s energetic arm waving.

  Chapter 30 - Lulu

  Brell had been a Captain for six months when she became a mentor to Lutet Malm-ert, a new Corps recruit. Lulu was from a different district from where Brell spent her childhood. Celeste people were renowned for their sewing and tapestry skills, not Police or military-type roles. Mentoring, especially by an officer from the same community group, became a way of retaining personnel.

  They held regular stream chats, and Brell read Lulu’s progress reports. She was pleased with Lulu’s progress, though in the early days it became apparent that Lulu needed to toughen up.

  “Hi, Lulu, this is your first month on patrol, what have you been up to?”

  “Hello, captain.” Lulu’s cheery smiling face appeared. She had changed her hair colour since they had last spoke; it was now blonde and tied in a bun. “Very exciting, we had a chase, a ground level transporter used as a getaway vehicle in a theft from a shop. Marvelle, the driver, was very good, stopped the vehicle and he told me where to search, and we found the stolen property, bot parts and some drugs in a rear compartment.”

  “Takes me back a bit, chasing offenders. How was the evidence and processing side of things?”

  “Marvelle helped me with filling out the various forms and organising the first holo court hearing. I was nervous, but it went okay.”

  “Good, we can cross that one off your list. How about dwelling searches or raids?”

  “Tomorrow, early start, ha ha, I’m going on a raid. Local criminal into cloning and unauthorised DNA sampling. Should be fun.”

  Brell made an effort not to reveal any emotion. Lulu was young, and not long ago lived with her family, who were all weavers. She resided in the Weaver Farm area, where the local trees, bushes, and organic plants were processed into distinctive blue weaving thread. Lulu’s uncle, going against family convention, had joined Police Corps. On one of his yearly family visits, he filled Lulu’s head with stories of excitement and glory, the life of a weaver’s wife was not for her.

  Brell remembered the time when she conversed with a Police Corpswoman who was investigating a series of thefts at the docks. Brell had left school early and took on a boring job, logging the movements of haulage road transporters out of the dock area. The conversation had triggered feelings of needing to get off planet and do something useful.

  “Fun, indeed. In time, things may seem mundane; you know, after you have dealt with the same thing a few times,” Brell said.

  “Well, it is exciting at the moment.”

  “Everything okay otherwise, no problems with colleagues?”

  “No, everyone is treating me fine. We are a mixed group of skin colours; red, black, white, blue, obviously, and green. It’s great, really Associational.”

  “Any other Celestians?”

  “Yes, a male. He’s on another team, doesn’t talk much.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll beam you over another task list until we speak again.”

  “Thank you captain.”

  Brell closed the beam stream and sat back. Was she like that? No, she was a bit more street smart, having come from the manufacture and cargo district. Since leaving Celeste, she had never returned there. It was all plas-concrete factories, tall laser chimney stacks, and landing pads. That’s where her drunken mother and her equally drunken father had met. He picked up weaved materials and hauled them across the Association, and her mother checked cargo manifests. Well, her father checked her mother’s manifest, all right and when she declared she was pregnant, he suddenly had a “big job” hauling stuff on the other side of the star system. That was that, single mother on Celeste with a light blue child, not exactly a great start in life.

  ***

  Brell read the stream message twice, before she could believe it. Lulu was found dead in her living quarters, having ingested Terminal Spray, a drug used by care homes. Last week, Lulu had celebrated her first year in the Corps. The death, reported on news channels, showed images of her parents standing near a landing pad on Celeste wearing their blue national costumes waiting for the unloading of the coffin.

  Brell couldn’t spend much time reflecting on the incident, as she had been booked to give a speech at a Women’s Society lunch and in the afternoon serving a warning notice on the owner of a rowdy intox house. Police Corps work never stopped. It wasn’t until later that evening in her living quarters that she was able to read more on the incident. Lulu’s workplace was on Sabor, an unremarkable planet that most people travelled past on way to somewhere else. The place created plenty of work for Police Corps; the high rise dwelling estates had become a dumping ground for poorly paid citizens. Many of the huge machinery manufacturers had moved off planet, leaving a specialism in second or third hand machine parts and junk yards.

  Brell asked Lulu’s captain for a copy of the investigation record. It transpired that Lulu had celebrated her first year in the Corps by buying her team a drink after work one evening in a rear function room of a hotel that was Police Corps friendly.

  Police Corpsman Hallette statement:

  When I arrived, Police Corpswoman Malm-ert was standing by the bar, talking with other officers. She appeared in good spirits, relaxed, and was laughing and joking. She did not appear drunk, and I did not see her drinking to excess or taking any other substances.

  Brell swigged some intox and skimmed down to the last paragraph.

  When she re-appeared later, at about two o’clock in the morning, her dress was dishevelled, hair was messy, and her lipstick smudged. I asked her if she was okay, she said everything was fine, nothing to worry about, she had felt sick and had gone to the privy. I could smell intox on her breath; she was not drunk, but appeared under the influence of something. I left the party not long afterwards and went home.

  Brell read some other statements. It seems that Lulu went out towards the privy and came back about forty to fifty minutes later looking scruffy. Brell replayed the last mentor interview.

  “So, first year coming up, it’s gone quickly hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, captain.” Lulu smiled as always, but there was a harder edge. Her eyes were narrower, suspicious. She had also changed her hair back to natural black, like Brell’s. “I spent some time undercover yesterday, basically hiding in a doorway with a colleague acting as a couple of homeless people. As you know, the blue skin shows out, so I toned it down with skin changers and wore a hat. We observed a suspicious man walking back and forth, then after talking to him, we found a rogue laser device in his back pocket.”

  “I read the report from your sergeant. Good job.”

  “Captain, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Well, yes, depends on what it is. I have to have some secrets, you know.” Brell laughed.

  “I’m comfortable in my blue skin, it’s just that as there aren’t many of us in the Corps, I stick out a bit. How did you deal with that?”

  “Well, first of all undercover work is sometimes problematic. I often used skin changing tabs, like you, but I just got on with it, basically. I fended off a lot of men and women who were fascinated by my blue skin, though as you can see I am a lighter shade of blue. Anyway, Celeste is a small planet, and there are few blue skinned communities around the Associated Planets; people get curious. Of course, I had to put up with various derogatory comments, both on and off duty. But I’ve reached captain rank.”

  “I’m certainly aware of the fascination people have with blue skin; never occurred to me before on Celeste. Appreciate it, captain.”

  “Okay, speak to you soon. Keep up the good work.”

  She was upbeat, tougher, and growing in experience. What had happened?

  ***

  Over the next couple of days, Brell read the complete investigation file without thro
wing any light on the event; until she made a simple check on who stayed in the hotel that evening. Carac Montil. Though booked in under a pseudonym, his image file confirmed his real identity. He occupied an expensive room on a private corridor linked by stairs to the rear hotel area near to the ground floor privies. In her mind, she did not need to investigate any further. Something happened that made Lulu so embarrassed that she had taken her life a few days later. She became too unwell for work the day before she took her life, so she must have spent her last hours in panic and desperation, worried that her parents would find out or image streams appear on social stream symposiums. Had he threatened her that much?

  Her soft shell of excitement a year ago had slowly changed as she became street hardened. Was she unable to put up a fight? Brell had a lot of experience of dealing with assault crimes, especially against women. Sprays, psyche tablets, and remote bot injections were just some of the methods used for incapacitating people to make them more compliant. Brell did not need reminding about this. The victims invariably remembered nothing about the assault or had false memories planted. Had Carac sent her images of the assault as well?

  Using diplomacy with Lulu’s commander, she got Carac named as a person of interest, which at the very least meant he would be interviewed. A few days later, she received a copy stream of his interview.

  “Mr. Montil, did you ever meet up with this woman?” The detective displayed an image of Lulu.

  Carac sat upright and smiled as he craned his head over towards his solicitor, who whispered something in his ear. “I would have remembered a woman with blue skin. I saw a few groups of people in the hotel that evening, when I walked through to my private suite. She could have been amongst them, I suppose.”

  “Did you see the woman on her own by the privy area at the back of the hotel? It’s near the stairs that went up to your private suite,” the detective said, over-pronouncing “private suite.”