Scum of the Universe Page 16

  “Why?”

  The guards looked at each other again. Guard one pulled a weird facial expression, which the other guy answered with an angry hiss and a meaningful glance at Tuesday. A short exchange of lowered voices and shaking heads went on for a few seconds as the pair did their best to figure out how to answer this very simple question. Finally, the first guard decided to go with what he knew.

  “Come with us, sir.” The cop twitched. “Please?”

  *

  It was the shortest of trips from his hospital room to the closest transport, as it seemed that every segment within this blindingly white complex was able to detach from the backbone of the building and move about at will. What had previously been an empty ivory corridor transitioned to an endless expanse of curved, ivory cityscape, the sort of utopian hive that would make Gene Roddenberry cry tears of elation, but that glowing chasm of solid habitation was soon eclipsed by what was best described as a futuristic Winnebago. The distance from blanket to shuttle was about fifteen steps.

  The cops indicated that Tuesday should go first. Looking through the hatch, Tuesday saw that the interior of the communal transport had a lot of similarities to a plush pool room, complete with foot-deep shagpile carpet and marshmallow-soft leather recliners. Both cops trembled a little bit as Tuesday got within arms’ reach, but once their prisoner had taken a seat on a Lay-Z-Boy they visibly relaxed. Both officers took a seat on identical lounges directly opposite their prisoner.

  And then the world dropped like a brick.

  It kinda went without saying that Tuesday may have appreciated a warning before the transport plunged more than two hundred storeys, even though the dive was smoother than peanut-butter due to some sort of anti-vertigo system. After recovering from five seconds of total shock, Tuesday could see out the window that they were still more than a kilometre above the distant surface of Seven Suns. No matter how far he looked through the labyrinth of creamy, interconnected starscrapers in the distance, Tuesday couldn't make out a single shadow anywhere.

  There was the sound of a harp, and a polite voice with an accent just like Melchor’s sounded from an unseen speaker.

  “Eight minutes to destination.”

  Looking down, Tuesday noticed somebody had left a digital newspaper on the next seat. Admittedly, this would usually be of zero interest to somebody with the literacy level of an especially bright Pomeranian, but the square of 100% recyclable plastic registered Tuesday's interest and kindly voiced wherever section his line of sight crossed. Craning his neck a bit, Tuesday was informed through a minuscule speaker that he was looking at the Third Afternoon Edition of the 34th of April, but he was disappointed to find that most of the newspaper consisted of funny stories about cats. There was also a puff-piece story about how there had been some sort of inexplicable mass-disappearance of faulty hardware from all over Seven Suns, and how nobody knew where any of it had gone. One story that piqued Tuesday's interest was an announcement that the MacDeath fast food restaurant chain had won its appeal to open a total of nine franchises across this planet, despite a series of credible death threats and assaults by members of the Nutritionist Guild...

  Feeling a pinch within his bladder, Tuesday looked up to see the universal sign for a unisex toilet.

  “Mind if I use the facilities and stretch me legs?” Tuesday asked, feeling stiff.

  The cops looked at each other. One of them shrugged, and so the other nodded at Tuesday. Both police officers gripped their tiny weapons a little tighter as he got to his feet, and their eyes remained locked onto him the whole time.

  Tuesday found that the transport’s lavatory had all the finest comforts, including a bidet with twenty-seven settings and large one-way bay windows that provided a breathtaking view of the bustling heart of the extensive urban landscape. Just to ruin things, though, instead of a television wall there were (shudder) books. Tuesday ran his eyes over the titles: The Comprehensive Cabbage Cookbook, One Hundred Things To Do In Belgium, Erotic Origami For Beginners, Fifty Shades of Grey…

  Tuesday backed away from the shelf. Those books seemed like a fate worse than death.

  Feeling relieved, Tuesday got back to his seat just in time to be served cold potato and leek soup for his “third lunch,” according to the polite transport AI. Totally confused as to why people on this stupid world would have lunch three times a day, Tuesday had to fight the urge to retch at the sight of one of his greatest enemies: a salad. He spent three solid minutes carefully picking out all the anchovy-flavoured crickets and bacon-flavoured crickets from his Caesar with a tiny spork, and after mustering some considerable courage Tuesday hesitantly crunched on a mouthful that consisted of eight different kinds of lettuce. He survived the first bite, but saying he enjoyed it would be a stretch.

  “Fancy food, this,” Tuesday noted.

  The not-quite-as-nerdy guard sighed. Cop number two looked back and forth between his colleague and Tuesday, torn about what he should do.

  “I don't know what armpit of the galaxy you scummed out of, sir, but here on Seven Suns we eat a precise regime of foodstuffs designed to lengthen our average life expectancy to an optimal level. And no, sir, you cannot smoke, sir!”

  Tuesday cackled and lit a chlorine-flavoured cigarette in his mouth by drawing back on the suck-burner auto-ignition tip. The guard was stuffed if he could figure out where Tuesday had gotten the cancer stick.

  “What are you going to do?” Tuesday sneered. “Put me in a double cage? Maybe introduce me to your Mum for some real punishment?” Tuesday gave him the finger. “Punch it, spughead.”

  “You need an attitude adjustment, Mister Tuesday,” the guard coughed and put down his newspaper, waving at the pall of gathering smoke. A fire detector gave a hesitant beep, apparently too polite to do something as vulgar as shriek.

  Tuesday jabbed his cigarette at the sky above.

  “What’s with all the suns up there? I’m no wossaname, a psychiatrist, but I know that it isn’t possible for there to be a habitable planet if there’s seven spugging suns in the sky.”

  The guard looked at Tuesday like he was an imbecile. Tuesday was very, very used to that particular facial expression.

  “Don’t you know anything?” the more talkative guard chuckled stupidly, but the silent one gave a strained smile. “Every kid is taught this stuff! Look, when this planet was discovered it was far too cold to support human life. It possessed naturally-occurring supplies of water and oxygen, though, as well as optimal gravity, which meant it was definitely worth finding some way to make it suitable for colonists. After weeks of planning, the astroengineers came up with an idea: as this planet had five moons made out of near-pure silicon, they decided it would be easy enough to nuke them into giant glass balls that could, in theory, reflect the local sunlight. A lot of sunlight.”

  Tuesday was still snickering at the “giant glass balls” part by this point, but regained his composure in time for the cop to continue his story.

  “It took hundreds of nukes to sculpt the moons in just the right way, but once they'd literally glassed all five of them they shipped in an army of craftsmen to shape the moons into giant lenses. It took hundreds of thousands of man hours, sure, but the lenses ended up working as planned. By concentrating the sunlight from moon to moon before it hits the surface of the planet, all the snow and ice melted in a matter of hours, and now the temperature stays at a lovely twenty-six degrees Celsius all year round.” The cop twitched, and looked up at the sky. “Problem is, this means we never experience night….or morning…”

  “Just seven afternoons, one after another.” The other cop added quietly, his voice so low that Tuesday almost didn’t hear him. “It never ends.”

  The first guard expanded his hands.

  “So there you go. Two suns get reflected off of five moons, so it looks like we have Seven Suns. Get it?”

  Tuesday’s eyes darted back and forth between the cops. He’d already lost interest in the story as soon as the officer had
used the term “astroengineer,” and thanks to his minimal attention span something else had already occupied Tuesday's mind. In his typical blunt way, he said it out loud.

  “You guys aren’t really cops, are you?” Tuesday snickered. “Seriously, you look about as intimidating as a Dachshund puppy in a My Little Pony bumbag.”

  Tuesday’s tactless question was greeted with frowns and obvious offence.

  “Mister Tuesday, we became police officers just like every other cop in the last two hundred years: our numbers came up in the annual civil service lottery. This is a planet of philosophers and mathematicians, but profound insights into the human condition don't fill our bellies, or keep our garbage trucks running. Like everybody else, even though we spend much of our time doing what we do best, we also have to get our hands dirty.” The more verbal cop lifted his weak chin in an attempt to look tough. “I'm actually the greatest expert in the genetic sequencing of amorphous Titan Slugs in The Unison, while Derns over there,” Derns flinched at the mention of his own name, “is an acclaimed polymath.”

  “Leave me out of it, Priddle,” Derns sulked.

  Tuesday gaped a little at this news.

  “You…so you…” Tuesday waved away his confusion. “Wait, wait…so to become a cop on this world, you need to draw the short straw?”

  At these words, the cops glanced at each other again. Their blank expressions revealed that they weren’t familiar with the term “short straw,” so Tuesday tried to penetrate the confusion by rephrasing his insult.

  “So you guys are police officers because of bad luck?”

  Priddle and Derns both laughed. Priddle laughed a lot louder, though.

  “No, of course not!” Priddle chided. “Law enforcement is a pretty sweet win. After all, Seven Suns is renowned for having the lowest crime rate in The Unison. There are much worse civil service positions you can get stuck with, like working in the cricket farms, or being a politician, but you need a serious black mark on your file to be eligible for that kind of scummery.”

  “But your criminals get punished in other ways, too, right?”

  Priddle nodded.

  “It’s common for minor criminals to suffer some kind of ironic restriction based on what they prize in life. For instance, a gourmand may have their sense of taste and smell confiscated for a time, or an artist may have their creativity deactivated for a few weeks, or…”

  “What about more serious stuff?” Tuesday interrupted, blowing a nervous smoke ring as he tried to remain calm.

  Their transport jolted slightly. Tuesday looked out the window to see they’d stopped against yet another white starscraper like all the others. The vanilla glow made his eyes water. When he looked back, Priddle gave a smile that dripped smugness.

  “I’m afraid this is where you get off. Buh-bye, Mister Tuesday. And remember: we'll be waiting right here in case you do anything stupid.”

  The geek taunted him! Unlike in his foolish youth, Tuesday didn’t automatically start biting people’s ears off in such situations, even if those ears belonged to a weedy poindexter like this gimp. Tuesday had discovered the hard way many years ago that this invited pain and small cages. However, he couldn’t resist one last jab to even things up.

  “Thanks for the lift...you pork-brained clot.”

  Priddle’s face fell, but a hiss of pneumatics slammed the plastic door shut before he could respond.

  Another five points for Bob Tuesday.

  *

  Unlike the featureless ivory expanse that had hosted his remarkably unpleasant conversation with Travis Melchor, Tuesday found himself in a bright, colourful area full of loud children who seemed to have nothing better to do than run in circles and find new ways to get their hands sticky. Tuesday gritted his teeth at the sight of the kids. These little brats had it too easy. At their age, Tuesday was eating seven-legged cockroaches and fighting hydras. Well, one hydra, anyway.

  Looking down at a sprog who was wearing rainbow-coloured overalls, Tuesday did a double-take at what the child was hugging: it was a Mister Drizzle plush toy made from royal purple velvet, the exact kind Tuesday had spent his ruin of a childhood stuffing and stitching as a slave on the Dream Factory. He could clearly see the “DF” stamp on this Mister Drizzle's foot, proving its point of origin. Looking up at a skylight that loomed a hundred metres overhead, shaking and doing his best to remain in control, Tuesday managed to resist backhanding the kid, and even held back a swear word. If he ever met the parent that had purchased that slave-made toy, however…

  Tuesday suddenly hated this planet a lot more.

  “Your trip was uneventful?”

  Tuesday spun around at the familiar voice, forgetting his rage due to pure surprise. Somehow Melchor had materialised out of nothing. To make things even more confusing, he was still sitting in that same ergonomic chair.

  “How do you do that?” Tuesday demanded over the infernal riot of irritating squeals and high-pitched laughter.

  Melchor shrugged.

  “I have top-of-the-line teleconferencing hardware installed in my home. It is equipped with the very finest in applied holographics, meaning I can project myself anywhere on the planet without so much as leaving my bedroom. I can also take on a variety of appearances and interact with any physical system I come across in every way I could in the flesh.” Melchor gave an indulgent wink. “However, my real body is currently sipping four-hundred-year-old brandy while wearing nothing but a red silk bathrobe and bunny slippers.”

  Melchor’s eyes lit up in recognition as he looked over Tuesday’s shoulder. The moment Melchor got to his feet the chair vanished.

  “One moment, Mister Tuesday. Ms Humple!”

  A strict-looking woman in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit turned to regard Melchor. She grimaced as though Melchor was somebody she saw as nothing more than an acquaintance, but who obviously wanted far more from her. Ms Humple's initial facial expression could have filled a library. In addition to all this, Ms Humple seemed totally immune to the painful screeching of a hundred human larvae, despite the obvious chaos of what must be the equivalent of a kindergarten on this world. Tuesday was too busy staring at her breasts, and missed all of this subtlety.

  “Theodore, was it?” Ms Humple asked Travis Melchor with a deliberately painful lack of recognition.

  Although Melchor managed to look unaffected by this gaffe, Tuesday almost felt bad for the Legalitor.

  Almost.

  “Actually, Ms Humple, I need to speak to you about-”

  “You are aware that today's ninth intake is only a couple of minutes away, yes?” Ms Humple snapped in an abrupt way, not allowing Melchor to finish. “Do I need to inform you that interfering with the AutoEducation of a single child, let alone the very first session of an entire class, has been a serious felony for centuries?”

  Her eyes darted to Tuesday, then back to Melchor. She cut off Melchor’s words before he could stutter another syllable.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas, but I don’t have time for whatever this is. I’m about to put these kids through their very first upload, and it can be a delicate process trying to keep all of them calm. Please leave your card on my desk and I’ll get back to you at my first convenience within the week…a month at the most. Feel free to see yourself out. Thanks!”

  Without so much as a second’s pause Ms Humple turned away, showing her back to the two men in a supreme lack of giving-a-damn, and clapped her hands together. Unlike most claps, this one produced a burst of sound so loud that Tuesday’s ears rang like a telephone for the next ten seconds. For a moment it felt like his eardrums had exploded. This almighty bang stunned the children into total stillness and silence just as effectively, and half of them actually fell over in shock. Around a quarter were quivering their faces in preparation to bawl at top volume.

  Well, that's one way to get their attention...

  Ms Humple clapped again, but this one didn't break any windows. Tuesday still flinched, though.

 
“Children, file through the doorway and take your seats. Be sure to remove all jewellery, switch off any Link devices, and count backwards from ten.”

  The indicated wall split like an aircraft hanger to reveal hundreds of what looked like a cross between leather recliners and dentist's chairs. Still in shock, the stunned kids waddled over to the neat rows and climbed onto what looked like the plushest seats Tuesday had ever seen. The children sank a little into the recliners, and full-headed helmets immediately slid out to entirely cover their fat heads.

  “Ms Humple?” Melchor finally managed.

  She turned on the spot in apoplectic fury. The fact that Ms Humple's order hadn’t been followed to the letter seemed to be so offensive to her that nothing short of live skinning would sate her rage.

  “What are you still doing here?” she ground out, apparently moments away from indulging in one of the all-time-great screaming tirades.