Deep Yellow

by Stuart Dodds

  “Really? We like to bury our people in the fields so that their spirits ensure a bountiful harvest.”

  “I am denied the right to vaporisation, due to my deeds,” Meren said whilst staring at the religious building.

  “Look near the sign,” Ooma said, re-reading the clue, moving the subject back to the present. “There?”

  A short walk led them to a black signboard near a tree. Meren bent down and poked around on the ground behind the sign and the tree. Ooma put his thumbs in his belt and paced around the area. Nothing on the back of the sign or on the tree. He gazed across the grassy area. Perhaps there is another signpost.

  “Got it,” Meren said, holding up the key. She smiled and held it towards Ooma.

  He picked up the key and felt its weight. For all of his desire to win, when he saw the expression on her face, he could not bring himself to snatch it off her. He dropped the key back into her palm.

  “You must get to the exit. It’s over there,” he said pointing at a line of small houses. “That’s the Queen’s House, the large black door, try that one first or the blue doors next to it.”

  Ooma had not slept much, but had awoken realising that today he would win. Whilst lacking aggression, he made up for it in quick research and clue solving. He breathed in the pleasurable smell of cut grass; it took him back to early harvesting on his home world. His father would be doing his daily maintenance routines with the bots checking equipment and machines. “Bringing in the harvest”, he would say.

  Meren was talking, but he had not been listening to her. Some security bots had arrived and instead of continuing walking around, they formed a line and stood still. Had she seen something else? He followed her gaze back across the edge of the grass area; Brell was there, studying the area intently. Her pale blue skin, black hair and orange jump suit were unmistakable. Then Kellsa appeared.

  ***

  Carac had stayed inside the moving queue of people. He found he could stay in the same position, as the holo people walked through and around him. It was enough to take the eye off his stupid orange suit. He watched Ooma and Meren bumbling about, but importantly, it appeared that they had found a key. He watched with a mixture of relief and growing confidence. Yes, the nun must have a key by the way she looked at something in her hand and then placed it in her pocket. Also, she had started walking in the direction of the exit door. He ignored the line of security bots that had just appeared.

  This was a gift. Follow her, then a quick punch, get the key, saunter into the exit, and watch these idiots fight it out from the comfort of the studio.

  He hunched down a little as he left the queue, but stopped suddenly when Ooma’s large bulk waddled in front of him. Ooma was so intent on where he was going that he didn’t notice Carac. Where is he going? Meren had stopped as well. Carac was confused. He nearly had this thing sorted, but something had changed. Where was Kellsa?

  He walked a few metres out into the open to see if anything was happening. Across in the grassy area, Kellsa appeared to be attacking Brell. Hopefully, they would take each other out of the Challenge. Pity he didn’t get the chance to meet Brell for one last time.

  Meren was now running over towards them. Stupid woman with concern for others, always a weakness. He rubbed his nose. Ooma it is then. He turned around and went after the fat one.

  ***

  Mayleth didn’t realise that she had been squeezing her fingernails into the palm of her hand. The drink in the other hand had gone cold, and she had a growing feeling of dread. Carac was in danger of losing this thing. Her thoughts passed between a happy Tinker, an unhappy Tinker or being led away by Police Corps. She sent a quick message to Technician 22.

  ***

  Technician 22 ignored the message from the Twins. The security bots were in the right area and now following Carac and Ooma. If Carac hadn’t been so lazy, he could have researched the clues properly, got a key, and then “found” the exit without problem.

  He created some more code to take Ooma down, with a delay built in. Carac could make a performance of helping Ooma against the security bots’ restraints, whilst actually searching him for the key. He should be able to manage that on his own.

  Chapter 37 - Traitors’ Gate

  Since putting the key safely in her pocket, Brell had ambled almost aimlessly, wondering whether there was an auto chef anywhere for a quick whisky. The cityscape outside of the walls reminded her of some buildings back home; in particular, the, tall slender building tapering to a splintered glass effect. To save herself getting lost, she found her way back to Traitors’ Gate, then went through the entranceway opposite. Checking her map, the White Tower was on the right, meaning that the grass area would be on the left, just around the corner.

  Rows of dwellings with front doors, some with keyholes, lined the far side of the grassy area. It had her full attention as a man marched in front of some of the houses. After a few steps, he turned and marched back again. He had a thick bushy hat, red uniform jacket, and black trousers. How did the hat stay on?

  The exit doors, where do you start? Like Rome world, the exit door would probably be at the edge of the holo world. However, she wouldn’t put it past Williams to change things around. The Queen lived here, so presumably it was a dwelling pod or house. No written signs were evident, but the houses must be important if a uniformed soldier marched outside. Where is Ooma? He would know. Keeping her eyes ahead, she started walking towards the marching man and the dwellings he was guarding.

  There was a grinding thump as her left shoulder suddenly slumped down. With the intense pain, her legs buckled, and she fell face down on the ground. Her vision blurry, she could not make sense of what had happened. A voice spoke, far off amongst her brain fog. She felt the trickle of fluid, must be blood, inside her jumpsuit around her shoulder and neck. The tips of her fingers were feeling numb.

  “I presume you have a key.”

  Brell twisted her neck a little and glanced up. Kellsa. She was standing with both hands on her hips. A large-headed axe lay next to her feet.

  “Missed your neck, you were lucky. But then again, not really. Not worth wasting my energy on you.” Kellsa kneeled down and Brell felt rough hands inside her pockets. The key was easy to find.

  “Yeah. Got it. Thought you had one. Looking at those dwellings too long.” She bent down and showed Brell the key. Unable to speak, Brell could only watch and listen.

  “Bye bye, Police Corps bitch,” Kellsa said laughingly.

  Brell felt a shot of pain in her thigh, a goodbye kick? She shut her eyes, waiting for the axe to strike again? There was something about a game, a key and a countdown turning around in her mind, mixed in with the throbbing pain.

  Then, a distant gasp and groan. Opening her eyes, she saw Kellsa crashing to the ground, her face smacking down hard. She didn’t move.

  “What?” Brell tried to say, and pressed down with her right hand, lifting her head up for a better look. An axe was buried in the back of Kellsa’s head.

  Meren stood still, arms down by her sides, smiling serenely as ever. Brell blew out some breaths, coming to terms with the sudden turnaround of events.

  “May Jayzan forgive me,” Meren said, pulling the key from Kellsa’s hand.

  ***

  It was a typically small Inhab-47 shop set inside a tower named Martin. Ooma wiped his hand across his forehead and went inside. He sweated as much from the sight of Kellsa attacking Brell as he did from running, let alone the eight minutes left. He reasoned that the last key was there for the taking, why shouldn’t he be the one to find it?

  Try shopping in the old jewel store.

  It made sense to Ooma now that he was inside the shop. The tower used to house a large jewellery collection, so was an “old jewel store” and therefore nothing to do with the secure vault nearby.

  Various glass cabinets were dotted around the shop along with other items such as clothing and images. Behind a counter with a machine for taking paper credits, was a sm
iling elderly woman wearing a white dress with a blue sash running across her body from shoulder to waist. She had a sparkling necklace and earrings. On top of her grey hair, she wore a beautifully crafted ornate hat with purple lining, fine silverwork bands with large embedded jewels. It was topped with a small ball and square design. Two small, squat animals with big ears, brown fur, and white markings stood at her feet. Ooma realised that he could not afford the time to search the whole shop, so said, “Where is the key?”

  The woman smiled and motioned with her hand towards the display cabinet on her right. On the top shelf was what looked like a crown, with large encrusted jewels. Next to it was a round, golden orb, the size of a small fizz ball, with a silver band and a cross symbol on top. The same cross shape as at the arena. Ooma did not consider jewellery that interesting, but considered that this was a beautifully crafted piece. He tore his eyes aware from the gems and examined the shelf below. The key lay in the middle of a red coloured cushion. Ooma rubbed his thumbs inside his waist band and glanced towards the shop assistant.

  “Got it.”

  She made a circular waving movement with her right gloved hand. He smiled and stepped back out into the sunshine.

  ***

  Taking some of her weight, Meren helped Brell to her feet. Brell was clearly shocked and badly wounded. Her left shoulder was a mess of blood, shredded clothing, and twisted skin. Remembering her community charity medical aid lessons, Meren ripped off Brell’s right sleeve and tied it around the bleeding shoulder. There were no mobile docs around to staunch the bleeding and glue the skin back together.

  “We have to get to the exit. There is enough time. Come on.”

  Gradually, Meren encouraged Brell’s shaky legs to walk forward, and they both stumbled towards the house that had a black door with a lamp hanging above. The uniformed man continued marching up and down. Meren remembered that Ooma had pointed at the black door first.

  Brell leant on the doorframe as Meren helped her turn the key. The door opened and Meren pushed Brell in towards the red button. She stumbled forward and almost fell on top of the thing, then slowly inched herself into the tube transporter.

  Meren quickly went to the dwelling next door and glanced around before using her key. She couldn’t see Ooma or Carac. Implant deactivated, she caught the tube.

  ***

  Carac was swift. As soon as he saw Ooma exit the shop, he emerged from a shadow and punched him on the back of the head. He followed this up with a left hook to the cheek, and then kneed him in the back leg, sending Ooma sprawling onto the ground. Standing on Ooma’s arm, he forced the hand open; the key clattered onto the paving stones. After picking up the key, Carac balanced himself and kicked Ooma in the face. Ooma lay still. Five minutes left, more than enough time.

  Carac ambled over to the exit door, smiling and waving the key towards the cameras.

  ***

  Brune watched the final events unfold from the back of the audience area. He felt relieved when Brell hit the red button. It was then that he realised how tense he had become. Her injuries, though serious, would be patched up by the hospital.

  His thoughts returned to work considerations. With only three inmates remaining, his Prison Corps Commander colleague could probably release some of his staff back to normal duties. Brune would keep all his officers to maintain strict security.

  There was something about Carac. He appeared too relaxed in the Tower and tried to make it seem as if he searched around for a key. Brune had seen enough security images to know that Carac has scoped out the exit doors first and walked slowly passed them whilst trying to look the other way. Also, the oddly dressed security bots had arrived just after he had seen Technician 22’s reaction to Brell finding a key. The bots had marched around, like reinforcements waiting for instructions, and then lined up. As soon as Ooma had run towards the shop, the bots followed him, but stood still when he was attacked.

  Interesting. He would ask the Prison Corps Commander to double-check cell security in case they had a mole. Many credits were involved in the betting stakes.

  Meren was a revelation. A murdering nun who kills again! Williams could not have written a better beam news headline.

  Chapter 38 - You know your problem?

  “You know your problem, Brell?”

  “What’s that, mother, not standing up to the bullies?”

  “No.” She dragged on her weed smoke. “You spend too much time thinking.” Her mother held up a cup of orange liquid. “It all goes round in there.” She pointed at Brell’s head.

  “Like you?”

  “You’ve got to leave things alone, move on.”

  “Bit early for your ‘juice,’ isn’t it?”

  Her mother turned up the corner of her mouth, sipped her juice, took another puff, and shrugged. She sat on a stool in the small kitchenette of their rented dwelling pod, elbow propped on the counter. Empty intox bottles lay in the broken waste disposal bin.

  The chats were usually a ramble of “how things could have been better in her life.” Brell’s father always got a mention, even though her mother had trouble remembering his name, but not his drinking.

  Her mother was right, though. Brell spent too much time thinking.

  ***

  The doc bot topped up Brell’s in-line, ensuring another twelve hours of induced sleep. The other bots checked the progress of her shoulder, bone, and skin rebuilding. Argenta occasionally popped in and sat at Brell’s bedside with her serious face to check on the patient and give updates to the audience. A guard remained outside Brell’s room.

  ***

  “My name is Gladia, and I’m a substance abuser.” Brell tightened her grip on Gorst’s hand. She sat in a quiet room within her quarters attending a virtual “substance abuse” conference. It was encrypted, private, and conference members remained anonymous. Members could alter their face and voice; Brell had chosen an Elytian persona. The holo image formed a near circle around Brell, so she could see the other session members.

  “Welcome, Gladia, what is your story?” the interlocutor asked.

  “I’m. I’m in a position of authority, a soon to become senior manager.” Brell stopped and glanced at Gorst. He nodded and pressed her hand.

  “I first took Deep Yellow years ago. It was a way of dealing with the stress. I was a very put upon manager. I enjoyed it and I worked normally, just using it as an escape every now and again. Intox, well I drank quite a bit of that, it is sociable, you know, but never a problem.”

  ***

  “So did you have permission to take the command skiff?” the prosecutor asked. The court room was silent.

  “No,” Brell said.

  “Could you fly one?”

  “Yes, well, I had recently undertaken a week’s flying course as part of the commander application process.

  “Did you pass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you drinking during your training?”

  “Yes. Err, no. I had some anti-intox tabs that masked it, and I had also started on a Virtual Rehab Programme.”

  “So you were familiar with all the controls on the craft?”

  “Yes.”

  ***

  A year after Lulu’s death, Brell, still a captain, was in charge of a large urban sector. She sat in her office, casually reading some security orders for the forthcoming week. There was a mining exposition at the conference centre. The security arrangements were in hand and utilised a mixture of Corps and private security. Just as she was about to press her finger onto the confirmation pad, her eyes skipped down the guest list.

  Carac Montil.

  Pausing the screens, she got up and turned around to observe the view from her window. Whilst the air con vent rattled, Corps transporters glided into the rear yard to deposit their struggling arrested prisoners into the custody centre. A command skiff took off from the landing pads. Soon she would be able to swap the office for the cockpit on her way to becoming a fully-fledged Skiff Commander. With a h
and on her stomach, she watched a ground transporter racing out onto the main road, holo warning signs displayed and horns blaring.

  The intox hit the back of her throat; it was tasteless but effective. Putting the bottle back in the bottom drawer, she sat down and re-read the event security plans. Carac was a notable speaker, so would be met at his hotel by a Corps transporter, which would then tail his limousine to the venue. He was staying at the Inter Association Hotel in the penthouse suite on top of the building. Bastard.

  ***

  “What were your lowest points, Gladia?”

  Brell paused and took a settling breath. She ran a hand through her hair.

  “I lied. Many times. I got the storekeeper fired for stealing when it was me that had taken the Deep Yellow from storage. He had stolen other things, though, but I was the one that reported him. That was pretty low.”

  “Once, I was trapped inside a transporter that a local gang had ambushed. Plas-explosive with a ten minute fuse was place under the vehicle. I survived, but not without other people being killed. I blamed myself for their deaths. If the Deep Yellow session had not hit the mark, I would drink and then just do another Deep Yellow oblivion.”

  ***

  Brell had a rare weekend off; her second in command had taken over captain duties. Gorst was away on a Police Corps smuggling deterrent course.

  By the afternoon, she was heavily into her session. Wearing just underpants and a robe, she turned up the music and put on all the media screens, each displaying a different channel. With empty food containers strewn around the floor, she stepped steadily over to the couch, holding the other furniture as she went. Lying down, she shuffled her legs and reached around until she found the bottle. Holding the Deep Yellow up towards the light, she admired the rich colours through glazed eyes.

  “Here we are, my beauty,” she said taking a swig instead of the usual measured amount. She then cradled the bottle with both hands on her belly.

  The menu appeared. “Thought - Carac Montil.”

  It had become dark outside by the time she came back to reality, the window privacy beam unengaged. It was a bad session, the wrong menu choice. She particularly remembered Carac’s smile, his slimy smile, his hand rubbing up her thigh, his humour, “a blue skin,” the messages and the indecent streamed images. She glugged some intox, half retched, wiped her mouth, and tried, but failed, to send a message to Gorst. She wanted tell him she loved him. Staggering around, she ended up on the privy, staring at the floor, crying. Wiping her nose and mouth, she threw some cold water on her face, stripped off for a cold beam shower, went to the kitchen, and stuck her face in the fridge. Ice cream. The carton was empty, so she threw it across the room.