Deep Yellow

by Stuart Dodds

  “No, I would have remembered.”

  “Did you take her up to your room?”

  “Detective. I am a First Executive for Grab, I run the mining businesses there. What on earth would I be doing with this blue skinned woman?”

  The detectives shuffled their feet; the interview was not going anywhere.

  “My client is being very helpful and clearly does not have any involvement with the matter. It is very sad, of course, but my client has work commitments; unless you have any more questions, we are leaving,” the solicitor said.

  Carac smiled whilst turning his head slightly to one side and looking at the lead detective.

  The detectives exchanged glances.

  “One last question. What did you do to her in your hotel room?”

  Good question. Just as the detective sitting opposite Carac had done, Brell examined the body language. For a split second, Carac’s eyes glared and he swallowed hard; was that stress?

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Your commander is a personal friend of mine, by the way, I’ll recommend your efforts to him next week at the Miners’ Ball.”

  The interview ended.

  Forensically, there was nothing. Lulu had burnt her clothes and washed several times. Hotel security streams covering the corridors had been erased. Nothing. Brell had purposely not examined the images and room scan of Lulu’s room. She wanted to remember her alive and smiling, not sprawled across a bed with half closed eyelids. Case closed. Suicide through work related stress.

  A couple of mouthfuls of intox later, Brell viewed an official image of Lulu in full Corps uniform. A beautiful girl with a promising career ahead of her. Untouchable Carac, a man of power and influence. She finished the intox container and opened another.

  ***

  Brell awoke very early in the morning, got up and drank some water whilst pacing around her cell. It was the “Lulu” dream again.

  Chapter 31 - Death equals profits

  Williams remained upbeat and relieved in the days following the first challenge. Both deaths had gone well and viewer ratings were increasing significantly. Just like that, death equals profits. At least the method of death was fairly quick and painless. When it was all over, he would take a break and work on some ideas of a family-based version of the Challenge.

  Flip and Argenta were doing a great job interviewing guests, experts, and family members. The streams of people’s reactions to the last moments of Grock and Brookko were a hit, and surround holos of Rome world had sold well. Williams fiddled with his weed smoke before lighting it. He had just sent the Twins an encrypted message with the location of the exit doors for Challenge 2. He mentioned at the end of the message that clues could be tweaked the day before the challenge, in case of any technical difficulties. He did this just to keep some control. Call it a hunch.

  ***

  “Thank you, Brell. Great interview,” Argenta said and turned to the audience. “Brell, everyone.” She raised her hands and the audience clapped. The first thing Brell did on returning to her cell was to order a cool fruit drink. Answering the audience’s questions was draining, let alone watching excruciating interviews with so-called experts on the challengers’ survival tactics.

  “I think that Brell’s instincts kicked in best when she was under pressure with five minutes left and found the exit almost by intuition.”

  Fragging idiots, they didn’t notice that she had seen Carac running into the exit. Carac of all people! She had been lucky, fortunate, whatever, but she was here sitting in her cell, eating ice cream.

  “I still remember Brell’s first day at the education centre; she locked herself inside my transporter and wouldn’t come out. I had to find a teacher to help me. Now look at her,” Brell’s mother had said.

  Look at her? Your daughter is a convicted criminal, busting herself to stay alive on a crappy game show.

  “I remember when Brell punched one of the ladies during an altercation in the common room. Got a good right hook on her. You go, girl.”

  It was one of her old “friends” on Wing 90, which thankfully lightened the atmosphere, and Brell had laughed. Hopefully, that was the end of all the personal interviews, the raking over of the intox and Deep Yellow years. More importantly, the second challenge approached.

  ***

  Ooma rubbed his legs, which still ached from all the running around in the challenge; had he lost any weight? He sat back on the bed and reflected on his latest studio interview.

  “Ooma, a question from the audience.”

  “Yes, hello Ooma, I enjoyed following you in the first challenge. How are you preparing for the next one?”

  “Doing lots of exercise and making sure I eat a balanced diet,” Ooma answered, paused, then laughed.

  The audience hesitated, unsure if he had answered seriously or not; but laughed along with him anyway.

  “We have asked you numerous times about how you got into trouble with the whole drugs thing, and your prison sentence, but is there anything else you want to add?”

  Ooma was waiting for this question, as he knew it was coming. Since winning the first challenge, people had read his story. Their attitudes had changed from seeing him as the demon farmer who assisted in killing people, to a foolhardy, intelligent person, who went off the rails. The Beam company had been approached by an Association anti-drug campaigner, who wanted Ooma to give a clear message about illegal drug manufacture.

  “Yes Flip, a good question. I was a simple farmer, as you all know, on my family’s farm. However, I believed I wanted more. I was seduced by the city and tales of getting off-world, I didn’t realise what I had at home. Anyhow I got in with the wrong lot, grew the herbs and that’s all I did. However, I knew it was wrong and because of the pure batch produced, it resulted in deaths and illnesses. I cannot undo that, but I am sorry for what I did. I urge anyone thinking of getting involved in drugs, manufacturing, growing, etc to think again. The credits may be good, but the results are bad.”

  “Thank you Ooma.”

  “Best of luck in the next challenge.”

  The audience clapped and cheered loudly.

  Later that evening, Ooma shuffled his legs around the bed whilst flicking through some media screens and found his favourite beam news headline.

  “A simple farmer from Agrier outwits a Special Forces Space Corpsman.” The news and gossip channels enjoyed Ooma’s triumph and so did he.

  He paused the images and drank some water, feeling cheerful that he could actually see his beloved home world again. He could win all the challenges, couldn’t he? Glancing at his media cube, he considered that a champion in the making should study their opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. Carac first.

  “View. Carac’s fight,” Ooma said aloud, wondering if someone had managed to smack Carac’s smug face?

  ***

  It was an organised standing boxing event, sanctioned by the Overseer. The guards enjoyed it as much as the inmates did, especially with the amount of credits changing hands. A large square line marked out on the communal area floor. A loud cheering, jeering crowd of male inmates had positioned themselves around the square as the guards looked on. It was an unwritten rule that inmates must not cross the line, as it forfeited bets. Carac sat on a chair in one corner of a large square mat set within the marked area, gurgling water whilst being fanned by a lackey. Wearing just a pair of long exercise trousers, his upper body was sheathed in sweat and his white hair glistened. Face red with marks and scuffs from the fight so far, he stood up just before the bell rang. Smiling, he touched his boxing gloves together and stared at his opponent.

  Ding, ding. The referee motioned for the assistants to move out the way.

  Carac’s opponent, a large, blubbery man, was not the brightest of boxers, but could pack a punch. They circled each other for a while, the audience cheering and shouting. Some inmates swung punches in the air whilst shouting encouragement at their chosen boxer.

  Carac, his smile
never leaving his lips, made two quick jabs on the opponent’s nose. A heavy punch came back, just grazing his cheek. He ducked back, moving lightly on his toes. Then he darted forward with a sweeping left punch connecting on the side of the fat neck. The opponent rubbed his neck with his boxing glove, growled, and stepped back.

  “Referee, referee,” men shouted out, unhappy with the neck punch.

  Carac put a foot forward and feinted with a right punch. As the opponent moved his head back, Carac hooked his left fist around and made another punch towards the neck. The opponent roared forward. Carac side-stepped him and circled back, both fists at the ready. The opponent breathed hard as he turned and centred himself, gloves up ready. Time was running out; it would come down to the last blows. Carac came at him again with a jab that struck one of the many stomachs, and then an upper cut, which only grazed the chin. The opponent flung out his right fist and connected with Carac’s stomach. He stepped back, breathing hard, but held his composure.

  They circled each other, the crowd reaching a fever pitch. Men started jostling and pushing. The opponent was tiring and readied himself for a last attack. Holding his feet firm, he enticed Carac into his punching range. Carac steadied his breathing and balanced his toes. He jabbed forward, trying to provoke a response, then jabbed with his left and right, his gloves bouncing off the stomach and cheek. He locked his eyes on the opponent and moved in again, into the punching arc. It was coming as if in slow motion, the right elbow bent, winding up for the final punch. Carac pulled his neck and upper body back, whilst standing still. The opponent moved forward adjusting his position in order to make the punch count. Carac moved his body weight onto his left leg and clenched his stomach.

  The punch swung through and scraped against his upper chest. As the opponent followed through, Carac landed a heavy blow on the back of his head. With the force of the punch and the forward motion, the boxer could not stop himself. He fell forward onto the mat, head first, and didn’t move. It was all over. The crowd became silent as the referee held his hand up, then pointed it towards Carac.

  “The winner.”

  Carac grinned whilst casting his eyes over the other inmates.

  Ooma turned the screen off, he had seen enough. A wave of fear overtook him.

  ***

  Carac spent a lot of time in his studio cell, reviewing his tactics in the first challenge and enjoying the parts of the interview where the experts were praising his performance. He didn’t take to the alien world; it was so basic and dirty-looking. Some people leaned on sticks to help them walk, whilst others were pushed around in a wheeled chair. They were still hitting each other with swords, how could people live like that? Brell was trickier than he had expected, she could certainly pack a punch; well, a knee. He must be careful.

  ***

  Kellsa spent most of her time doing press-ups, showering, reading, answering message zaps, and doing more press ups.

  Meren, on the other hand, meditated and ate ice cream.

  Chapter 32 - Tinker Holdings Ltd

  The Tinker did not enjoy the journey between his restaurant complex and the family compound. It was, as his security people constantly told him, the weak point. He shifted in his seat inside the sleek anti grav transporter. With plenty of space within his compartment, there was enough room for a cosy couch, semi wall of screens, auto chef, and a place for Regg.

  The Tinker scanned the displays.

  “Stocks good. Twenty points up in Tinker Holdings Ltd. Down five points in Space Toys, usual seasonal dip in sales. Harvests good. Manufacturing output steady. Monthly drug sales has hit the target. No problems reported in Outer sectors. Your message has been read by the Twins.”

  “Good,” the Tinker said and took another stomach tablet. He fiddled with his pocket and then sighed, “I had the jewellery piece for Mrs. Tinker here, I thought.”

  “Sir, it is secure in the hold with a safekeeping bot. It was left on your side table.”

  “Yes, thanks, Regg. In a bit of a hurry getting ready to leave.”

  “Incoming message from Mack. Onscreen now, sir.”

  Four raiders dressed in black combat clothing from head to toe stood behind two hooded people, each tied into a chair. The room was a bare-walled concrete sub-basement.

  “Hi, hello, frag, are we live? Hello, smack the thing. Hello Boss, can you hear me?” Mack said filling the screen with his scarred face as he stared into the beam camera hovering two feet above him.

  “You are on camera, loud and clear,” Regg said.

  “I have them boss, no problems.” Mack said, pointing towards the hoods.

  “Everything secure upstairs?” the Tinker asked.

  “Yes, three others standing guard, we will not be disturbed.”

  “Good. Set up a display screen, will you.”

  “Okay, standby.”

  Mack patted his tech operator on the back, who promptly slung his laser rifle around his back and opened a suitcase that had been propped against the back wall. He set it up two metres in front of the seated pair, and within moments, a screen appeared in mid-air with a larger than life view of the Tinker smiling back.

  “Hello, everyone,” the Tinker said, showing the small gap between his front teeth. “Mack, would you mind removing the hoods from our two guests?”

  Mack bent forward and pulled off the hoods. He then stepped back next to his colleagues, rifles and guns at the ready.

  Tinker lent forward in his seat, examining the pair. The man and woman, who were natives of the planet, both wore standard brown business suits. The male stared back at the Tinker, dark red blood dripped at a corner of his mouth and his right eye was swollen.

  “So, where are the credits that you took from me?”

  The male started stuttering and coughed when slapped on the back of the head by Mack.

  “Answer the gentleman.” Mack nodded to the Tinker.

  “Thank you, Mack.” the Tinker said. “He can be very persuasive when necessary.”

  The woman lifted her head and glanced at the male. “Opened depository account, in child’s name. Can get for you. Very sorry. Family first in our culture.”

  “Tinker first in my culture. Depository details, if you please.”

  “I have chip code in pocket.”

  Mack pushed her head down with his elbow whilst searching her jacket pocket. He produced a slim metal tube and held it up towards the screen.

  “Validate, it would you?”

  Mack gave the chip to his tech operator, who, after a few manipulations on a hand held device, said, “Decrypt code.”

  In the meantime, the man stared at the woman and shook his head. She started crying.

  “The code is?” the Tinker said.

  “No. Not giving,” the man said.

  “It is …” the woman said.

  “No,” the man said.

  “Mack.” The Tinker said flatly.

  Mack swung the butt of his laser rifle across the man’s head. He went limp.

  “The code?” Mack said loudly into the ear of the now-trembling woman.

  “Daughter name. Pernill. Numbers 4577. My eye scan.”

  Mack motioned his head towards the tech, who promptly came around the front of the woman and held a scanner towards her eye. There was a confirmation beep, and a few inputs later, he nodded to Mack. “We’re in. Two million credits.”

  “Two million of my credits, indeed.”

  The Tinker sat back and waved his hand, cutting off the display camera and sound.

  “Regg, does that tally?”

  Regg’s face lit up with the reflection of his green and blue screens. The Tinker waited, steepling his fingers together.

  “Cross checked. That is the correct amount from that sector within a thousand credits.”

  “Enough for a few hats for Mrs. Tinker, eh, Regg?”

  Regg smiled and nodded.

  The Tinker re-activated the screen.

  “Okay, that is correct. Mack, we need to make th
em disappear, no signs. Sends out a better message. Uncertainty.”

  “Okay, boss. Quick or slow?”

  “Well now, I think we should have a bit of fun. Take away some of the boredom of my flight.”

  It became silent in the room, except for the crying.

  “Now, Mack, who is the newest member of your raiding party?”

  Mack’s face became quizzical, and then he gave up trying to work out what the Tinker had in mind.

  “That will be Katey.”

  “Good, now, where’s Katey?”

  A raider put their hands up and lifted off their black face covering. It revealed a young woman with short white hair, a contrast to the black clothing.

  “Katey, over to you. The male first, in front of the female,” the Tinker said, shuffling back in his chair.

  Katey stepped forward, watched on by Mack and the others. The male was slumped forward in his chair, body weight held by the restraints. She slapped the woman, gained eye contact, then pulled out a laser pistol.

  P-zap. The laser charge thudded into the back of the man’s neck, forming a perfect, slightly burned hole.

  “Good, quick and clean. Now for the woman,” the Tinker said.

  Katey, laser in hand, slapped the woman again. The woman tried to stand up in a last desperate attempt to save herself. Katey pushed the top of the woman’s head, forcing her back into the seat. Mack briefly locked eyes with the other raiders and smiled.

  Katey maintained eye contact with the woman and nodded at her. She then quickly lasered her twice, once in the chest then in the head.

  “Fragging double tap,” Mack said quietly to the others whilst nodding.

  “Good. Now, make them disappear and clean the place up. Good job, Mack.”

  “Who is this Katey?” the Tinker said once the screen had turned off.

  “From Grundine, left Space Corps after one year. Freelance. Financial problems. Recommended to Mack by one of his raiding group.”

  “Interesting. Insider, undercover, Association agent? Keep tabs, Regg.”