Bikini Planet Page 12

“It’s a throwing knife,” she said to Gold.

  Gold threw the knife, Diana ducked, and then Gold was unarmed.

  Diana turned and went for Silver, who defended herself with the black blade. Silver’s weapon had a longer reach, but Diana kept dancing out of range. Wounded by the knife buried hilt-deep in her thigh, Silver couldn’t follow through fast enough.

  Gold reached for the sword she had dropped.

  “No!” warned Norton, who was still sprawled on the floor, rubbing his head. He took his hand away, his right hand, and pointed his index finger at the woman.

  Gold had seized the sword in her left hand. She was two yards away from Norton.

  Two paces, one quick thrust, less than a second, and the sword would be in his chest.

  He stared at his finger, willing it to fire.

  “I surrender,” said Gold, and she dropped her blade and raised her arms.

  Keeping his finger aimed, Norton stood up. As he did, his foot became entangled with the fallen table. He tripped and was down on the floor again. Gold made a break and dashed to the door.

  “Get—” yelled Diana, as she twisted to avoid being disembowelled—“her!”

  Norton jumped to his feet, one of which came down on a liqueur bottle, and he slipped, lost his balance, regained his footing, then started running toward the cabin door.

  “Ah-ah-ah!” he yelled, as the pain shot up his leg.

  He must have twisted his ankle, and he stumbled, lurching forward, almost fell again, kept upright, but had to limp toward the doorway, where he could only watch as Gold sprinted away along the passage. For an old woman, she was very light on her feet. There was no way Norton could chase after her. He couldn’t hop fast enough.

  “Stop or I fire!” he shouted, pointing at her.

  He knocked into something leaning against the corridor wall, which fell and nearly tripped him, and he stumbled back against the wall. When he looked down he saw a bow, its string stretched taut, and a quiver of arrows on the ground next to it.

  “Shoot her!” called Diana.

  He picked up the bow, took one of the arrows, notched it, drew back the string.

  As a kid, he and his friends used to make their own bows and arrows from bamboo and sticks. Sometimes the sticks had been sharpened, with glued cardboard flights, and they had fired them at targets—and each other. Norton had never hit anything—or anyone.

  He sighted the arrow at Gold’s vanishing back, then let fly. A moment later, she raced around a corner.

  “Darn!” said Norton.

  The arrow sped along the corridor. And turned the corner.

  There was a distant scream.

  “I’ll be darned,” he muttered.

  He glanced into the cabin, where Diana had Silver backed against the wall. Picking up the quiver and slinging it over his shoulder, he took out one of the arrows and notched it into the bowstring, then hobbled along the corridor and around the corner.

  Gold lay motionless on the ground. The arrow jutting from below her left shoulder blade must have pierced her heart.

  “Get up,” he ordered. “Stop pretending. I know you’re not dead.”

  But he knew she was.

  He made his way back along the passageway toward the stateroom. Everything was silent. He peered inside the cabin.

  Over on the far side lay a motionless figure. In the centre of the room was someone else, someone moving, someone with silver hair…

  Norton drew back the bowstring, took aim.

  “What a mess,” said Diana, as she picked up the bottles from the floor and put them back on the table. “I hate this job.”

  Diana with silver hair.

  Norton unnotched the arrow.

  “Did you shoot her?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Didn’t I tell you passengers were the enemy?”

  “Er… yeah… but…”

  “Next time, listen to me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah… er… yeah… and… you know… er…”

  “Is that an expression of gratitude?”

  “Er…”

  “I’ll assume that’s a ‘yes.’ ” She took off her silver hair and showed it to Norton. “Look, a wig! Not even a proper scalp. Was yours the same?”

  “Er…”

  Diana walked out of the stateroom and looked along the passageway.

  “Where’s the body? Go and get it. Can’t leave a dead passenger out in the corridor, we’ll only get more complaints.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It wasn’t a big spaceship, just a lander, which did exactly what it was designed for by landing between the lake and the boss’s villa.

  This was not meant to happen, but it seemed everyone knew it would.

  Except Kiru.

  “What’s going on, Grawl?” she said.

  There was no point in asking. Firstly, he couldn’t reply. Secondly, she already knew the answer.

  It was a break-out.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” yelled the boss, waving his metal stick. “All aboard the Monte Cristo! ”

  He stood by the entrance to the lander. With him, encased in camouflaged body armour, was one of the ship’s crew.

  Kiru watched the group of men and women vanish inside the small craft. These were the core of the boss’s regime, the ones who had been captured with him. Space pirates. About to escape, freed by an outlaw ship that had broken through the cosmic chain which kept Arazon in manacles.

  “And you, Grawl!” said the boss.

  Everyone else had boarded the lander.

  Except Kiru.

  And except Aqa, who had been away since yesterday.

  Grawl gestured toward the ship. Kiru shook her head. He grabbed her wrist. It was the first time they had ever touched. She tried to hold back, but he was far too strong, and he pulled her toward the hatch.

  She didn’t know whether to go with Grawl or stay with Aqa. Whatever she decided, it would be the wrong choice. That was the story of her life.

  “Not her,” said the boss. “There’s no room.”

  The crewman levelled his gun at Kiru. It looked real. It was real. The most powerful weapon on the whole planet.

  Grawl released Kiru, then pretended he was counting down on his fingers, until only his right thumb remained. He peered all about, then shrugged a silent question.

  “Yes,” said the boss, “one more, but where is he? Where’s Aqa?”

  Which was what Kiru had wondered last night.

  “One minute,” said the crewman, through his visor.

  “Aqa!” shouted the old man, staring around.

  There was no sign of movement.

  “Aqa!!”

  “Forty-five seconds.”

  “Aqa!!!”

  No one else was in sight.

  Except Kiru.

  Grawl jerked his thumb toward her.

  “Want a ride?” asked the boss.

  She looked at him, looked at Grawl, looked at the ship.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “An empty berth when you happen to be around,” said the boss. “Someone up there likes you.”

  It wasn’t someone up there. It was someone down here.

  “Twenty seconds.”

  The boss threw away his stick and stepped into the lander.

  Grawl followed, then turned to look at Kiru. It was her decision.

  “Ten seconds,” said the guard, as he also went on board.

  Grawl winked at her. It was the first change of expression she’d seen him make. Like Kiru, he never smiled. The universe wasn’t funny. It was a serious place. Deadly serious.

  He’d killed Aqa. Killed him so Kiru could take his place. He must have liked her, really liked her, to do that. Too bad about Aqa. He was okay, more than okay, but their relationship had only been physical. There were plenty more like him. Plenty more in the universe. But Grawl? Grawl was different. They had a real rapport. He was a true soulmate, and she felt they could see i
nto each other’s hearts.

  She boarded the ship and it blasted free of the prison planet, out into orbit.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Who were they?” asked Wayne Norton.

  “Passengers,” said Diana. “Good passengers.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes. The only good passengers are dead ones.”

  “You said I shouldn’t have killed the Sham, so it could have been interrogated. Couldn’t you have questioned those two? You didn’t have to kill them.”

  “I only killed one of them, John. You killed the other.”

  “No, it was the arrow.”

  “Arrows don’t kill people, people kill people. You shot the arrow, didn’t you?”

  “You told me to.”

  “You were only obeying orders, you mean?”

  “Yeah. No. I shot the arrow, but then it whizzed round the corner like a guided missile.”

  They were in her stateroom, and he’d knocked back several nerve-calming alcoholic beveiages. She had drunk one glass, probably because she had no nerves to calm. Norton put down another empty glass and held out his right hand. By now, it was no longer shaking.

  He didn’t feel as if he’d killed Gold, although logically he knew he had. Maybe if he’d seen her fall because of his bowshot, it would have been different. Or if she’d died in hand-to-hand combat, the way that Diana had killed Silver, he could accept he was the direct cause of her death.

  In a similar way, when he’d killed the Sham, Norton had felt nothing. But that was self-defence, wiping out an ugly alien critter that had tried to murder him.

  Now he’d shot an old lady in the back, and it was no different from squashing a bug underfoot.

  “Were they space pirates?” he asked.

  Diana stared at him. “What do you know about space pirates?”

  “Only what I’ve seen on SeeV.”

  “While you’ve been on board?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They show dataplays about space pirates to spaceship passengers?” Diana shook her head in bewilderment. “Good. I hope it scares them.”

  “They were on the alien stations.”

  “What’s an alien station?”

  “Television for aliens. Broadcasts I picked up while flicking through the channels.”

  “What?” Diana frowned. “Oh, yes, I know what you mean. This ship used to be on the interstellar run to different worlds, which must be why there’s so much alien programming available.” She sipped at her drink. “Some of us have been too busy to watch SeeV.”

  Norton wasn’t sure what was worse, watching television all the time or being a steward. One difference was that when he watched TV, he saw people being killed; now that he was a steward, he had to do the killing.

  “Tell me about space pirates,” said Diana.

  “I’ve seen them on screen, how they take over spaceships. They start by killing the crew.”

  “That’s why you thought those two geriatrics were galactic buccaneers? To hijack a spaceship, first wipe out the stewards. I always knew we had the most important job on board.”

  “They kill all the crew, steal the ship, hold the passengers for ransom. Is that what happens?”

  “Happens? Happened, you mean. Maybe. It’s all ancient history. Although not as ancient as you.”

  “Space pirates don’t exist?”

  “What you’ve seen is very exaggerated. It’s entertainment, nothing to do with the real universe.”

  “Spaceships don’t get stolen?”

  “They do, but not very dramatically. It’s all done through fraudulent documentation.”

  “Oh.”

  “You seem disappointed,” said Diana.

  “No,” said Norton, and he shook his head in disappointment.

  He’d watched pirate-busters on SeeV and wondered if that was one of GalactiCop’s roles. From what Diana said, that was entirely possible: It sounded dull and boring and routine and monotonous enough.

  Norton studied his hand. His finger was its original length again, and the nail had grown back.

  “Why couldn’t I fire my non-lethal finger?” he asked.

  “Because it’s a defensive weapon. When you’re under threat, the reflex kicks in and blasts out a stun shot.”

  He remembered how Gold had raised her hands to surrender as soon as he pointed his finger at her.

  “What use is that?” he said.

  “Very little. You should be able to fire at will, not let your weapon decide. I’m glad I haven’t got one.”

  “It’s not standard issue?”

  “I told you, it’s experimental.”

  “Am I the experiment?”

  “Yes, you’re a guinea pig.” Diana paused. “What was a guinea pig?”

  “A small furry animal, I think it was a rodent, used in medical experiments.”

  “Did the experiments kill them?”

  “Why?”

  “Because that would explain why they’re extinct.”

  “Will I become extinct?”

  “No. Or not because of the NLDDD. Unless it completely fails, of course.”

  Norton tapped his right forefinger against his empty glass. A gun was a cop’s right hand. In his case, his right hand was a gun.

  “I’m not a steward,” said Diana. “If you want a drink, pour one yourself.”

  “Why me?” asked Norton, examining his finger—which was also the barrel, “and not you?”

  “I’m a major, you’re a sergeant.”

  Norton poured himself a drink.

  “I’ll have the same,” said Diana. “Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Norton gave an exaggerated salute. The tip of his right index finger hit his forehead, and he wondered how close he was to frying his brains.

  “So a stun shot is non-lethal?” he said.

  “Except to a Sham.”

  “What is a stun shot?”

  “A painful and immobilising pulse of energy,” she said. “I don’t know the technical details.”

  “Who does?”

  “The manufacturers. You were fitted out under a sponsorship deal. They want to see how their new defence device performs under operational conditions. In return, they paid for your ticket to Hideaway. And in return for that, you’re supposed to write an efficiency report.”

  “Am I? Anything else I should know?”

  “Don’t bother with the report. What can they do?”

  “What else have they done?” Norton asked. “My finger’s become a gun. Is there any other part of me with a new improved active ingredient?”

  Diana shook her head.

  “Not even an electric battery in my wrist?”

  “The energy comes from your own bioganic system.”

  “My what?”

  “Take a drink.”

  Norton did.

  “To take a drink,” said Diana, “you lifted your hand. To lift your hand, you used your muscles. To use your muscles, you need strength and stamina.”

  “Finger-bone connected to the wrist-bone, wrist-bone connected to the arm-bone,” sang Norton.

  “You’re drunk,” said Diana, and she sipped at her glass. “It would be interesting to correlate your degree of inebriation with the accuracy and amplitude of the NLDDD.”

  “And write an efficiency report?”

  “It must be like running. After a hard sprint, you have to stop and catch your breath. After a volley of stun shots, you’re exhausted, and your body needs time to reload.”

  “So I’d need a rest, a drink, maybe a meal, perhaps a snooze, before I could fire again? Great weapon. How can I get rid of it?”

  “It’s an implant, grafted into your nervous system, fused with your bones. You can’t get rid of it.”

  “I can’t, but you can. I’ve swallowed enough anaesthetic. Chop it off, please.”

  “You’ve numbed your brain, not just your finger. I’m not cutting it off.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it. Give
me your axe.”

  “No,” said Diana. “I won’t let you cut off your finger. And it’s not an axe, it’s a tomahawk.”

  “Tomahawk? I thought it was a cleaver from the kitchen. Not the kitchen. What’s it called? From the galley.”

  “And you thought these were galley knives?” Diana held up one of the blades she’d thrown at Silver and Gold.

  “Yeah.”

  “Could be interesting. Fighting with kitchen utensils. One hundred and one ways to kill with a spoon.”

  “A tomahawk and knives are your police weapons, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all you have?”

  “It’s not such a good idea to deploy maximum firepower on board a spaceship. In most circumstances, blowing a massive hole in your enemy is the best way to make them see your point of view, but not when it also means blasting a hole through the ship’s hull. Space travel and heavy munitions don’t mix. But this is perfect.” She put the axe down between them. “Don’t chop off your finger. You’ll have to clean up the mess.”

  “What about cleaning the cabin?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Diana glanced around. “Are you saying I’m untidy?”

  “Not here. Where we left the bodies.”

  “Forget it, John. We’re off duty.”

  “But we can’t just leave the corpses there.”

  That was what they had done with the Sham, but that was different. The Sham wasn’t human. Locking up its body in Norton’s old cabin was bug disposal.

  “We’re off duty,” Diana repeated. “Permanently. We’ve almost reached our destination. That’s why you’re getting so drunk. We’re celebrating the end of the voyage.”

  “So it’s a party!” Norton raised his drink. “Cheers!” He drained the glass and reached for the bottle. “You’re not drinking much.” He poured himself another.

  “Ship duties are over, but I’m still on police duty.” She examined her glass, took a sip. “I might have to rescue you again.”

  “What?” Norton suddenly felt very sober. “Who from?” He picked up the axe.

  “If I knew that,” said Diana, “I’d be dealing with them.”

  The first tomahawks were made of stone, then of metal, their heads mounted on wooden shafts. This was neither stone nor metal, head and handle forged into one potent piece of armament.