Deep Yellow

by Stuart Dodds

  “First, we have to set the countdown. Everyone. Are you ready?” Argenta placed her hand behind her ear and motioned to the audience as the words flashed on the screen above her.

  “It’s time to start the countdown to termination.” The audience shouted out. The doc bots sprang into action.

  “Forty-five minutes only for this challenge. Forty-five minutes,” Argenta said pointing towards the countdown clock that started with its usual bong.

  “Now for the clues. We will read them out and repeat them throughout the challenge. Ready?”

  “First one. Try shopping in the old jewel store.”

  “Number two. Where are the three queens now? Look near the sign outside.”

  “Number three. The arbalist by the old Police Corps tower.”

  “And finally, listen carefully, this may help you find the exit. The Queen lived here or next door.”

  “We provided the challengers with a copy of the clues, and there are some maps inside the world. Whilst our challengers are doing a bit of research, we will take our one and only break during this programme. Be right back.”

  ***

  Mayleth and Ayleth chose to watch events from their office, far removed from the studio. With her current levels of stress, Mayleth preferred the privacy with her brother. If they both visited the live floor during the Challenge, she knew they would just get in the way. Williams’ body language would change, sitting upright and choosing his words more carefully. Mayleth was used to people’s reactions to her and her brother. That is why she preferred virtual assistants and bots; they can be programmed not to judge.

  She had agreed with Williams about the length of the second challenge; a big build-up ensuring everyone watched on live beam. Advertisers were falling over themselves to get involved, many showing the programme within holo advert display frames. Programme replays and challenger interviews could be spread across numerous commercial breaks, so it was all building up nicely for the longer third challenge. The big studio bosses were very happy, now that approval ratings and commercial income had exceeded expectations.

  The deaths were not her taste. She had once hosted a termination party, where drinks and nibbles were on offer whilst invited guests viewed a series of live convict terminations. It was the fashionable thing to do at the time, but she didn’t enjoy it. Her brother took bets on how long it would take the unfortunate convict to enter the chamber, make his or her last speech, be terminated, and then formally pronounced dead. Mayleth hid her feelings as her brother laughed, cheered, and guffawed his way through the executions with his male friends. Of course, he lost more credits than he won, as the Tinker knew very well. Perhaps after this challenge, she would breathe in one of Ayleth’s “medical” sprays to help her relax.

  ***

  Brune sat upright within his security dome, completing security sweeps of the landing areas, hangars, and general outside areas of the whole facility. He monitored several Corps officers on patrol to check they were acting professionally and diligently, in line with his initial briefing.

  “Do not lessen your attention because you are patrolling a studio where they are hosting a game show. We must be alert to the fact that criminals may try to liberate one of the inmates or get a weapon through to them. Prison Corps are ensuring that the inmates do not escape or take a hostage. Ensure you perform equipment checks and keep your uniform smart as per regulations.”

  His door sensor chimed.

  “Enter.”

  The hard beam door faded. Scrivvens appeared, his second in command. Though fresh-faced, he was keen and had picked up a lot of experience over the years. He also kept his uniform clean.

  “Sir, all correct, I conducted a security check outside the studios and hub areas myself.”

  “Thank you, Scrivvens.” Brune glanced back towards his screens.

  “Has it started yet, sir?”

  Brune leaned forward, as if to hide the fact that one of his security screens was showing the live challenge.

  “They have just read the clues. Who do you think will win?” Brune said.

  “Well, sir, me and the team have been betting on a winner and a loser.”

  Brune considered this. Betting was not something that he enjoyed doing. Hunting, yes, but not betting.

  “Have a lot of the officers and staff put bets on the game?”

  Scrivvens shuffled his feet and looked at the floor.

  “It is quite popular, sir.”

  “Who are the credits on?”

  “Carac.” He inspected the floor again, unsure whether to speak.

  “Is he the favourite?”

  “He is the gamblers favourite.”

  “Stand firm, Scrivvens. How so?”

  “Well sir, the big gamblers back home have put all their credits on him to win. There are good betting odds on the other four, but it has not attracted many punters. Sir.”

  “Scrivvens, you obviously have a lot of knowledge about gambling. Make sure all Corps and security staff know it is just for fun and that it does not interfere with their work. Understood?”

  “Understood. Sir.” Scrivvens flushed.

  After Scrivvens left, Brune sat back in his chair and wrinkled his forehead. He had not thought about the gambling side of things. It was just a game show with a random result, wasn’t it? There would be regulators involved to monitor the show, and surely the beam studio would be playing fair, according to the rules. An inmate could easily run out of time, not find a key, or get lost, and bam that’s it. But what if they did get help? He stared back at the screens, frowning.

  ***

  Brell focussed fully on researching the clues. She gave herself ten minutes for research, then adding time for getting into the world, left roughly thirty minutes for finding a key and getting out. Having examined a Tower of London map, she saw that it was within a compact area. With no key box, someone could get more than one key; everyone will be alert.

  First, she scanned the map to see if any locations jumped out at her. Of course, the Police Corps clue was interesting, but it didn’t make much sense at the moment. She followed the onscreen almanac regarding London police history. Peelers, London police, and a reference to parish constables. Constables, patrolling police. Glancing back at the map, there was a Constable Tower. The arbalist by the old Police Corps tower. She knew that arbalist meant arc beam bowman, it was an ancient Elytian word. The Police Corps version was a heavyweight weapon used mainly during Police Corps raids. Brell had used one during a security demonstration. Once the auto tightener has pulled a span of stringed beams back, the energy bolt is placed in the stock. After the self-targeting system locks on, it can be fired through any type of wall. Very useful for taking out power conduits or individuals in a basement. A powerful weapon, but not for everyday use.

  The Constable Tower was definitely worth a look, but what if someone got there before her? She acknowledged the time and gave herself five more minutes. It was pointless just running around the holo world. Brookko had shown that.

  Three queens next. Where are the three queens now? Look near the sign outside. Executions were a theme, ha, ha Mr. Williams, so she searched on queens and executions at the Tower of London, viewing images of where the executions took place. The sign must be around the grassy area. The last sentence regarding the Queen’s House must be something to do with the exit. Have to work that out on the move or follow Ooma. Her live feed display had not shown anyone entering the Tower. Were they waiting for someone to make the first move? Time to get on with it.

  ***

  With twenty-eight minutes left on the clock, Brell entered the world. Immediately in front of her were two round, grey towers with an arched entranceway. Whilst walking underneath the towers, she realised that the walls were thick for protection. Old stone, basic building methods, but of no use against Police Corps weapons. Must have been impregnable for any Inhab-47 attackers trying to get in. The cobbled stone pathway felt hard on her soft prison shoes, and a few metre
s up on the right was a low wall. A large black gate was set back from it with a pool of water underneath.

  “Traitors’ Gate,” she read aloud.

  Taking a paper map from a pile stacked against the wall, she tried to orientate herself. It was a jumble of buildings, towers and walkways. Groups of people walked around her, oblivious to her orange jumpsuit. Orange coloured jump suit? No idea.

  She heard loud blasts of an instrument and then a heavy clanking sound. Three men in colourful clothing, blowing long metal tubes, strode up from where she had entered the world. Behind them were six people, each encased within a metal-plated protective body. Their face helmets had small slits near the eyes. Following on, was a stout man wearing an elaborately embroidered gold jacket, baggy shorts, and leg stockings. He had a ginger beard, serious face, and a yellow metal crown on his head. Accompanying him were six women wearing long flowing dresses that had a tight bodice above the waist and wide sleeves. Their headdresses were rounded or box shaped and varied in colour like their dresses. The strange group turned and went under an arch into the inner area.

  Another Williams thing, probably something to do with the history of this place. As interesting as the sight may be, it was a distraction from finding a key. With no sign of the others, Brell studied her map and ran off along the sidewall towards the Constable Tower.

  ***

  Ooma and Meren had arrived separately just after Brell had gone off in search of the Constable Tower. Meren had become confused in her research, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she had entered the world not long after Brell and just stepped to one side of the main entrance. Anyone watching carefully would have seen her face relax when Ooma entered the world; it seemed obvious she did not want to face the other two. His confident walk suggested that he had a good idea about the key locations and the exit door.

  ***

  Kellsa, frustrated at her research attempts, defaulted to strategy number one. Follow one of the soft ones and take the key off them by whatever means. Waiting until fatty and the nun had entered the world, she made her move. Pacing herself steadily in amongst the crowd, she navigated herself towards the white tower building, which was roughly in the middle of the tower buildings. Its central location ideal for cover.

  ***

  Carac strutted into the Tower, amused at all the people around him. Having performed a few searches on the clues, he actually had an idea where one of the keys may be. The fighter and blue skin would be tricky; best to let the fat one or that impossibly relaxed nun find a key and then use a bit of persuasion. Must scope out the exit doors first.

  ***

  Brune continued to churn over what Scrivvens had said about gambling. After their encounter with Carac all those years ago, he remembered Brell talking about gut instinct, not rules and regulations. He activated his comm implant.

  “Scrivvens, can you come to my office, please.” Brune stepped across to a closet, and put on his dress uniform jacket. He was brushing it down as Scrivvens arrived.

  “Monitor the internal and external areas, I’m going on patrol to check the studio areas.”

  “Yes, sir.” Scrivvens sat down at the displays and synched his implants with the console so as not to miss any security warnings.

  Brune realised that perhaps a visit to the studio during the show would not be a bad thing; keep all the Corps and security staff on their toes. Upon entering the live area, a staff member motioned for him to remain quiet. He nodded and stepped slowly behind the audience, trying not to bump into anything. Argenta and Flip were standing centre stage, giving a running commentary, whilst the screens relayed all the live action.

  Continuing further into the rear area, he saw Williams at work in his director’s room. It was a hive of activity, screens, gesticulation, and talking loudly. The adjacent room contained Technician 22’s empire. He could see the back of Technician 22’s grey head as he stooped over his screens, fingers flying left and right, screens flicking from one thing to another. Brune had never seen so many screens in one room, more than at major security events. The live action showed Brell standing in front of a stone-bricked entranceway eyeing up a sign. Brune had trouble understanding what he saw on Inhab-47, what with its basic alien equipment, buildings, technology, and languages. There appeared to be little in the way of rules and regulations.

  Brell was working her hands around a man dressed in plain, stained clothing with a metal helmet on his head. He held a length of wood with a clumsy bow-shaped contraption attached. Taking aim, he pulled on a lever, and thunk it fired a bolt. The man then put the end of the bow down under his feet and started pulling back on the fibres. At this point, Brell put her hand inside a small bag attached to the shooter’s belt and, judging by her smile, she must have found a key. Despite the years in prison, her mind had not shut down. Well done.

  As he moved his eyes off Brell, he saw Technician 22 pause, his body stiffening, and then there was another flurry of fingers.

  Brune watched the live screens for a couple more minutes, and then thought about where he would patrol next. Perhaps back to his security dome for a cup of warm Danuth tea. Just as he was walking away, he glanced back at a live screen. A group of holos, one behind the other, strode out of the Towers main gate. Wearing long black jackets embroidered with bright red markings and Inhab-47 letters, a belt, trousers, and a black and red brimmed hat, they looked ridiculous. Their faces expressionless, they were the security bots.

  Brune reflected that it was like sending in reinforcements at a security event. Did Technician 22’s flurry of activity cause the security bots to appear? He had mixed feelings regarding the Technician. His kind were remote and unemotional; it was difficult to tell whether they told the truth or not. He scratched his chin. They have little rules within the game show. It was “all about the audience” as Williams often said during meetings. They were, after all, convicted murderers.

  ***

  “Brell has the first key,” Argenta said directly to the audience, who cheered and clapped.

  “Come on, Kellsa.”

  “Brell is looking for the exit, could she be the first one back to the studio?” Argenta said.

  Chapter 36 - By the White Tower

  Kellsa sat on a bench facing towards the grass area, with the White Tower behind her. There were plenty of holos walking about or standing around in front of her. A couple of youths walked past and, reaching forward, she ripped the black cloaks off both of them. They were wearing black jackets with puffy sleeves, black hosiery leg coverings, and had blond hair. Wrapping herself in the cloaks to obscure the orange jumpsuit, she watched the movements of the other challengers.

  Her eyes played over the environment, seeking out areas in the shadows and monitoring crowd movements. Also, it would be wise to pick up something solid for a weapon. Kellsa had used her bare hands before, but preferred technology, however basic.

  There were some audience-pleasing activities for the idiots that chose to watch the show. Colourfully clad holos with puffy three-cornered hats were throwing small balls in the air and catching them. Two people were fighting, one using a metal blade, the other a long spiked pole. If the sword swingers were hard holos or the swords were real artefacts, as Williams put it, she might be in business. There was something going on a little further into the green grass area; holos were collecting around a wooden block.

  She folded her arms when Ooma and Meren came into view near the grassy area; from their body language and that they were looking around suggested that they had not found a key. Missy Police Corps was somewhere else, and Carac had wandered past recently, appearing too relaxed. At one point, he slowed his pace, and though she couldn’t quite see exactly where, he definitely stared towards the dwellings in the far corner. Then his pace quickened and he went past her, mixing in with a long queue of people outside a large rectangular building. Glancing at the sky, the countdown showed plenty of time for a quick key grab and then find the exit. The doors where Carac had just looked was wort
h remembering.

  ***

  Ooma had noticed Meren following behind. Though sure that neither of them would be capable of harming the other, he was determined to get a key. How the next few minutes played out would be anyone’s guess.

  After walking past Traitors’ Gate he took the wrong left turn and realised that he had gone too far, so doubled back. Meren was standing by the arched entrance, so he just smiled at her. She waited and then followed him again. He felt confident about the “three queens” clue, now that there was a high wall on one side and the White Tower on the other. He stopped as the grass area came into view over to his left.

  A group of people, some dressed in armour, stood by a thick wooden block. Whilst a man read aloud from a small book, a woman in a long dress stepped forward. She knelt down on her knees without stress or fuss and placed her neck on the block. A man wearing a black mask, standing beside her, swung a long axe backwards, and then pulled it straight down onto her neck. Her head rolled onto the ground. Everything was cleared up by men and women dressed in servant clothing, Ooma presumed. A few moments later, another woman stepped forward and the scene was re-enacted. As shocking as it was for Ooma, a quick glance to the sky drove him on. Near the beheading block and to one side of the main square area there was a building with high arched windows along its side and a set of white bricks on each corner.

  “The Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula,” Ooma said in a loud voice. “That’s where the three queens were buried.”

  Meren stepped out from behind a group of people.

  “Hello,” Meren said.

  “Saw you as soon as I got in here. You are not very good at hiding much, are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, so the queens were buried in that religious building,” Ooma said.

  “Buried?” Meren said, “a Guild of Jayzan member would seek vaporisation by the sun at midday.”