Far above, there were various
clangs
and bangs. He could hear voices. Dex picked his way carefully across the roof
and noted an emergency ladder in a shallow recess. He started to climb, and
within a minute had left the stricken elevator and its dead, blasted PopBot
behind.
A cool wind caressed him.
As he climbed, he had a moment to
think.
Katrina, and the children, had
been taken. Why? And by whom?
What in the name of Hell was
going on? Lex, the friendly little holiday rep PopBot, had turned nasty and
foul - as so often holiday reps could, admittedly. But they didn’t normally try
to
kill
the tourists! Had its AI screwed up? Had its programming become
corrupt? Was it working alone? Or was it
bigger
than just one menial
device...
Dex shook his head, muscles
burning with the stress of the ladder ascent. It just didn’t make sense. None
of it made sense! They were on a bloody holiday! On Theme Planet! A holiday
paradise!
No. That just couldn’t be it.
Katrina and the kids had simply gone out shopping, and this mad little PopBot
bastard had burnt a circuit. Gone AWOL from the Logic Department. Got himself a
dose of silicon rot, and taken a pop at Dexter; well, he would complain to the
management, that’s for sure! To the highest authorities!
Dex reached a platform and
stopped. There were numbers on the wall and he squinted. Floor 2. His floor. He
shuffled around to the elevator doors and glanced down. It wasn’t that far, in
all reality, but certainly far enough to break a few bones. Or even a skull.
Thankfully, helpful engineers had
provided a lever for just such an eventuality. Dex pulled the lever, and it
opened the doors with a grinding, staggered mechanical motion. Panting, covered
in lift oil, Dex scrambled out through the half-open doors and stood on the
plush carpets, feeling disorientated. 237. He turned.
That way...
He started to run. He wasn’t sure
why. Why run if it was a simple case of dysfunctional silicon shit?
Dex rounded a corner, reached his
hotel suite and slapped his palm on the reader. The door opened and he stepped
in - to see a man across the room rifling through a chest of diamond drawers.
It was the man from the lobby, the man in the cream suit. He whirled as Dex
entered, and Dex froze for a moment, utterly lost. Then the man lifted his hand
and at the end of it sprouted...
A gun.
Dex gave a skeletal grin.
“So,” he said.
“You’re to come with me and not
cause any trouble,” said the man, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Oh yeah? I suppose that’s why
you sent the little bauble to smash my head in?”
The man considered this, then
opened fire - but Dex, trained in the scumbag shitpits of London’s Arse End, a
man who had stayed alive by instinct and training and sheer bloody-mindedness -
Dex had read the dude’s intentions and was already moving. He leapt across the
kitchen counter as bullets whined behind him and dented the cupboards, and
dropped into the kitchen behind them. More bullets thumped heavily into the
counter, and sparks cascaded above Dex.
“Come out, Dexter Colls. We can
do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”
Dex said nothing. He knelt up and
opened the first draw he came to on slick oiled wheels. Whisks and spoons.
“Come on, Mr Colls. We have your
wife and children. If you don’t come quietly then they’re going to get hurt.
Well. Hurt
more.
“
Dex ground his teeth. The third
drawer held... knives. He smiled a cold smile. Dex liked knives. He understood
knives. He pulled free a handful of diamond-handled blades with a faint rattle,
separated them carefully, weighing each one, then eased along the counter,
trying his hardest to make no sound. He opened the nearest cupboard, wincing at
the tiniest of squeaks, and removed a steel pan.
“I’m going to count to three,”
said the cream-suited man, “then I’m going to come and get you. And when I come
and get you, I won’t be a happy man at all. Do you understand me, Mr Colls? Do
you understand threats of violence and torture?”
Dex said nothing.
“One.”
Dex tensed himself.
“Two.”
Dex hurled the pan away from
himself and the gun yammered. Dex was up, his arm whipped forward, and a long
heavy blade sailed through the air. It slammed into the man’s throat, slightly
off-centre. Blood spewed out. The man gasped, gun falling from loose fingers,
and he went down on one knee. His hand came up and touched the blade gingerly.
Blood pumped over his fingers, down his cream suit. He dropped to his other
knee and Dex stood, leaping over the kitchen counter, glancing right to check
the door, then moving to the man and glancing down at him, another knife in his
fist, grim despair on his face.
“Where’s my wife?” said Dexter.
The man smiled. Dex back-handed
him across the face, knocking him onto his side, where he rolled, gurgling for
a moment. His sunglasses had been knocked free and his eyes were orange; and
very, very bright.
So then. A provax. One of the
aliens that ran Theme Planet. One of the “men” in charge.
Great.
The man - the
provax,
Dex
corrected - was stretching slowly for his gun as milky blood oozed from the
wound. Dex strode and scooped up the weapon, eyeing the archaic markings on the
dull black metal. Almost human. Almost.
He pointed the gun at the provax.
“Talk.”
Wheezing, the provax sat up, back
against a comfort chair, and again probed the knife. “You... you bast...ard,”
he managed.
“Where’s my family?”
The man started to chuckle, milk
blood bubbling around the wound. His hands dropped to his sides, and gritting
his teeth Dex knelt down on the rich carpet beside him and took hold of the
embedded knife.
He glanced around. This was too
weird. Too surreal. The perfect hotel suite on the perfect holiday planet.
Coffee cups still littering the worktop. Kids’ toys on the settee. Discarded
cardigans. Bullet dents in the alloy kitchen cupboards. Sunlight streaming
through balcony doors.
Distantly, the sea roared.
Too weird.
Too fucking weird
by a long shot.
“As you said, I’m going to count
to three. Then...”
“It won’t work. I don’t know
where they are.”
“Well.” Dex considered this. “I’m
going to torture you anyway.”
He pushed the knife in a little
bit more, and the man in the cream suit started to thrash, gurgling, his hands
hitting limply at Dex. Dex moved his face in close to the man. “Tell me where
they are, cunt, or it’s going to take you a fucking long time to die.”
The man started shaking, and Dex
glowered at him, spittle on his lips and a furious anger in his mind. What was
going on? What the fuck was happening to the world? And that was the problem,
wasn’t it? - this wasn’t his world. This was an alien world. And for some
reason, the fuckers had turned on him! On his family!
He realised with a start that the
provax was laughing. His bright orange eyes glazed over, more blood pumped out,
and he went slack in Dex’s hands. Dex threw him down roughly and stood, fists clenching,
shaking with fury. He lifted the gun again and stared at it. What now? Call the
police? Call his own people?
He moved to the comm and lifted
the handset, then stopped. He stared at it, and slowly put it back in its
cradle.
Paranoia. Where they all in on
it?
Of course they were all fucking
in on it! The receptionist. Lex the friendly happy PopBot. The hotel. Who else?
How far did it go? But worse, what did they want?
Dex moved through to the bedroom
and pulled on long pants and boots.
He had to get out of the hotel.
Had to get to a
legitimate
police station. They’d respect him because he
was Earth PUF - urban force. They had a
reputation.
They’d help him.
After all, and he gave a sour grin at this; he was one of their own. Right?
He came out of the bedroom. The
air seemed fuzzy. Dex didn’t feel very well. He kept thinking of Molly and
Toffee. The last time he touched them. The last time he held them. His mind
whirled in a maelstrom of crazy thought.
I’m going to find my wife and
children. And then I’m going to hurt somebody for this. For this injustice. For
this sacrilege.
Dex moved towards the door, but
it opened even as he approached. There was a woman. Slim, dressed all in black,
shades. She registered confusion when she saw Dex, and her hand snapped up
carrying a gun... Dex responded automatically, reflex, his own confiscated
weapon darting up and his finger squeezing the trigger before the brain even
engaged. The gun
cracked,
the bullet
whined.
It hit the woman in
the chest, and a blood splatter exploded against the wall; she staggered back
several steps, and her gun fired, the bullet hitting the ceiling with a tiny
puff
of plaster. Her mouth opened, and she panted, and staggered back to the wall in
the corridor, hit it with a wet slap, and slid down leaving a white smear. Dex
ran to her, mind torn, half filled with apology, half glad he’d shot her. She’d
been gunning for him. She was part of this thing. This... abduction.
Dex took the woman’s gun and put
it in his pocket. He pulled off her shades to see bright, bright blue eyes that
burned into him, feverishly, full of tears, full of hate. She was breathing
fast. Her chest was a destroyed mess.
“Tell me where my wife is,” said
Dex, softly. The woman reached up, her fingers shaking, milky blood on her
lips. Dex took her fingers. She licked her lips. Her breath came in short,
pained gasps.
“She is... gone,” said the woman.
The provax. Feyprov. Female. A damn site more deadly than the male...
“Please, tell me where my little
girls are,” said Dex.
The woman’s panting suddenly
halted, as if a switch had been thrown. Her free hand came up fast with a long
slender dagger and Dex flinched, twisting, his arm deflecting the blade, which
cut him deeply through skin and muscle. He yelped, pulled his hand from her
fingers, and before he could stop himself put a bullet between her eyes. She
lolled to the side like a broken mannequin.
Dex stood and stared down at her
corpse.
“Stupid,” he growled.
He pocketed the gun, and strode
down the corridor, past the elevator and towards the steps. He took them two at
a time, heart pounding, barging through regulation fire doors with his mind
swirling. Who had taken Katrina and the girls? And why? Was it something to do
with his work back in London? Or maybe some twisted, fucked-up terrorist
organisation out to punish tourists? Shit.
Shit.
Dex crossed the reception area,
saw the receptionist watching him. He burst through the glass doors and out
into the sunshine. There was a taxi rank of HumCars to his right, bobbing
gently on their leashes, and Dex moved to the nearest one. He climbed in.
A short man in a cotton shirt
turned and grinned. “Where to, buster?”
“The police station.”
“Having problems?”
“Yeah. You could say. It’s
turning into a real shit day.”
The HumCar pulled out onto the
quiet street, and they hummed along under the tall, wavering trees, which
offered pleasant shade. The pavements featured occasional tourists, ambling
along, sometimes with buckets and spades. Dex stared out the back window,
checking they weren’t being followed.