Bikini Planet Page 7

  “Sorry.”

  “She’s yours.”

  “Don’t want no trouble.”

  “I’m going.”

  “No offence.”

  “Please.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  They were gone, and Kiru was naked and alone and defenceless with the alien. The creature looked her up and down, down and up.

  She thought she’d spent most of her life being scared, thought she knew what it was always to live within the ominous shadow of fear.

  But she hadn’t, she didn’t.

  She’d never known total terror.

  Until now.

  She shivered with absolute fright.

  Then the thing began to strip.

  And she became more afraid, too petrified even to tremble.

  Its shirt was gone faster than Kiru could have blinked. Not that she dared to.

  The beast ripped its shirt in two and held out both pieces toward her as if they were a gift.

  She looked at it. At him. He wasn’t a monster, she realised, or at least no more than any other man was. Because he was a man. Ugly, a dwarf, but human. Kiru breathed again.

  He gestured toward her, to her breasts, to her hips. She frowned. He made another movement, holding one arm across his bare chest, the other over his crotch.

  She nodded her understanding, and he gave her his torn shirt. Her fingers shook, and it was a while until she managed to tie one piece around her waist, then the other across her torso.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, finally. “My name is Kiru. Who are you?”

  The man touched a finger to his lips before running it quickly across his throat, making a cutting motion. They had to remain silent.

  As he lowered his hand, it brushed across a silver amulet hanging from his neck. It was heart-shaped, palm-sized. He clutched at the pendant, staring at Kiru as he did so.

  Then he turned, gestured for her to follow, and walked off through the woods. She glanced around, wondering about the other three thugs. They were dangerous, but the dwarf was very dangerous. She hurried to catch up with him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Norton and Travis were sitting in a donut shop.

  Or its twenty-third century equivalent.

  This was the first time Norton had been outside since his revival, and they were on the roof of a skyscraper which made the Empire State Building look like… like a donut shop.

  “I thought you’d want to see the world,” said Travis.

  Norton gazed down, but all he could see was mist. Or fog. Or…

  “Are those clouds?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Travis. “You should have kept your eyes open during the ride up here.”

  The building was a pyramid of golden glass, and they had reached the summit via a transparent outside elevator. In the distance, he could see the sun reflecting off other peaks, other immense buildings. They were the size of mountains.

  “This isn’t Las Vegas, is it?” said Norton.

  “No,” said Travis.

  “New York?”

  “No.”

  “The United States no longer exists?” Norton was still cross-checking his information.

  “Not the one you knew.”

  Norton looked up, up into the sky. “It used to be blue,” he said.

  The sky was yellow.

  “That’s the roof,” said Travis. “It keeps the air breathable, keeps out the cold and wind, filters the ultraviolet radiation.”

  Any lingering doubts Norton may have had about his temporal journey had vanished during his ascent of the glass pyramid. This sure wasn’t 1968. The world looked amazing.

  And so did Colonel Travis.

  Tall and broad, strong and muscular, he was dressed in what must have been a uniform, with epaulettes and ribbons and braid, badges and chevrons and insignia. But his loose tunic was bright orange with green pockets and was open to the waist, and his pants were wide and baggy, lime green with orange stripes. His belt and his boots were yellow, and he wore spurs on his heels and a sword on his hip. He could have been starring in The Arabian Nights.

  Travis was black, but his shoulder-length hair was white, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes. His eyelids and lips, even his fingernails, were also white—because of his eyeshadow and lipstick and nail varnish.

  Norton was wearing a reasonably smart sweater and not-too-crumpled slacks, but he was the one who looked out of place. There was no predominant clothing style amongst the other people on the roof, their outfits varying from beachwear to fantastically elaborate costumes. Every face was painted with gaudy makeup, and there wasn’t one natural hairstyle or colour to be seen. It was as if they were all at a bizarre fancy-dress party.

  Spread around the roof were tables and chairs, almost like those of the twentieth century, except that they had no legs. People were sitting and eating, talking and drinking, just as they would have done in the twentieth century. (And they did have legs.)

  Travis led Norton to one of the tables and sat on one of the floating seats. Very carefully, Norton also sat down. The seat took his weight.

  “At one time,” said Travis, “people had to book months ahead to get a table here.”

  Norton didn’t believe him. Who would book for a meal so far in advance? “They’d have starved to death by then,” he said.

  Travis smiled. “That was before the Crash, of course. For a long time after that, no one could afford the prices here. If it wasn’t for those of us on the guest list, the place would never have had any customers.”

  “The Crash,” said Norton, remembering what Mandy and Brendan had told him, “that was when the global economy took a nosedive?”

  “Yes.” Travis nodded. “You can tell things are improving by looking around this place.” As he spoke he looked around. “Elite restaurants are an economic barometer.” He glanced at Norton. “What is a barometer? Did they have them in your time?”

  “Yeah, they did. It was a kind of… er… a device for measuring the weather.”

  Travis kept staring at Norton, and he nodded again. “So much has been forgotten,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Because most of it isn’t worth remembering.”

  “That happened because of the Crash?”

  “No, long before then. A hundred years ago. Or more. Or was it less? No one knows exactly.” Travis laughed. “There was a total data meltdown, a complete erasure of almost all the world’s information. The Crash was bad enough—we’re still living through it—but Day Zero must have been absolutely catastrophic. You want a drink?”

  All Brendan had ever offered was water. Cold or hot, it always reminded Norton of being frozen. He shivered for a moment.

  “How about a Coke?” he said. Surely some things were eternal.

  “You’re cold?”

  “What?”

  “You want a coat because you’re cold?”

  “No. I want a Coke. Or a Pepsi.”

  “What?”

  “Does cola still exist?”

  “Cola, yes, of course,” said Travis. “Cuba Cola is the world’s most popular drink. With ice?”

  “No,” said Norton, and he shivered again.

  A waitress came over to their table. She was as tall as Travis. If he was Ali Baba, she was Scarlet O’Hara at the grand ball in Gone with the Wind —or almost. Her bodice was cut very low, her long skirt was flared out by numerous lacy petticoats, but the entire outfit seemed to be made of metal filaments which changed colour every few seconds. She carried an open parasol with the same iridescent effect, reflecting a random rainbow down onto her shaven scalp.

  “One Cube,” said Travis, “and a vodsky. I’m on duty, so make it a treble.”

  The waitress glided away. Because her feet were hidden beneath her skirt, it was almost as if she were floating like the tables and chairs.

  “How did you
find me so fast?” asked Norton.

  “I’m a good cop,” said Travis.

  “Five minutes after I was on screen, three guys burst in. No one’s that good.”

  Travis nodded. “Successful police work is all about good information, you know that. I already knew about you and where you were, and my team was already on its way.”

  The informant had to be Mandy, Norton realised. That was why she’d been so calm when the masked intruders arrived. It was no coincidence that they had appeared so soon after her interview was shown. It must have been part of the deal.

  “Why did they have to free me like that?”

  “They didn’t free you. You belonged to Corpses Unlimited. Now you belong to… Cops Unlimited!”

  “You mean you… you stole me?”

  “No,” said Travis. “We’re the police. We don’t steal. We redistribute. If we could have bought you, we would have. Because of the Crash, we’re still operating under severe budget limitations.”

  “Those three cops—”

  “They’re not cops,” Travis interrupted. “They’re history professors. I paid them to check you out, then get you out. They did it the other way around.”

  Norton had heard of tough schools, but college students must have been extremely violent these days. “Do professors always carry guns?”

  “Usually only on assassination missions.”

  “What?”

  “Death threats really improve examination results.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “Yes.” Travis smiled. “Guns are dangerous. People can get hurt or killed. That’s why terminal armaments are severely restricted.” He put his hand on his sword hilt. “This is my authorised weapon.”

  “Okay, so those guys were a gang of teachers with illegal weapons?”

  “Imitation weapons, but they didn’t know that. They were armed to make sure you behaved. You could have been dangerous, a human slaughter machine from three centuries ago.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “Successful police work is all about good character analysis,” said Travis.

  “If I’d been a homicidal maniac, what use were imitation guns?”

  “No use at all. That’s why I didn’t send my own men. A few history professors are expendable.”

  “They didn’t know much history,” said Norton.

  “More expendable than I thought.”

  “Those who know nothing,” said a girl’s voice, “teach. Those who know less than nothing teach history.”

  Norton glanced around and saw the waitress. She’d brought a huge tray laden with food, which she held with one hand. Her other hand twirled her parasol. As she slid the meal onto the table, Norton realised she had been guiding the floating tray with her fingertips.

  “Great service here,” said Travis.

  “Glad you appreciate it,” said the waitress, then she bent down and kissed him full on the lips.

  Great service? So it seemed.

  “My darling,” said Travis, “meet John Wayne. John Wayne, this is my daughter.”

  Norton glanced from Travis to the waitress. His daughter…?

  He started to stand, holding out his right hand to shake hers. As he rose, she leaned toward him, her hand caressing his cheek, then sliding around his neck, stroking the back of his head. She pulled his face to hers, his mouth against her mouth. Her lips parted, and her tongue slipped between his lips and found Norton’s tongue. She kissed him deeply.

  For a few seconds, he was too astonished to respond, and then his own lips and tongue started to greet hers—which was when she drew away.

  “Very fine,” she said, and she joined them at the table.

  “Er… yeah,” said Norton.

  He’d never been complimented on his kissing technique before. Everything he knew, he’d learned from Susie.

  Susie…

  He’d tried to put her out of his mind, but couldn’t. If all historical records had been deleted, then he would never know what had happened to her. He was glad. Norton would never forget Susie, and he could never be tempted to check her biography.

  Susie had been his first real girlfriend. Until now, she’d been the only one who had ever kissed him like that.

  It seemed that kissing wasn’t what it used to be, because the girl had also kissed Travis.

  Her father…?

  At least that hadn’t been tongue to tongue.

  Travis was looking at Norton. “Verified,” he said, which Norton realised must have been what the girl had really said.

  Before Norton had a chance to ask what had been verified, Travis thrust his right hand toward him, and automatically Norton put out his own hand to be shaken. Instead, Travis’s hand gripped Norton’s wrist, and so Norton wrapped his own fingers around Travis’s wrist. Then Travis offered his left hand, and Norton did the same. The two men had their arms crossed, each with both hands gripping the other’s wrists.

  “Welcome, brother,” Travis said, as he stared into Norton’s eyes.

  “Er… thanks,” Norton muttered. “It’s always good to meet a brother officer.”

  “A superior officer,” Travis reminded him, as he released his grip on Norton’s arms.

  Travis could have been around fifty years old; the girl was perhaps half that age. He was black; under her spectrum of makeup, she was white.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Norton said to her.

  “He says he’s John Wayne,” said Travis. “I said I’m Colonel Travis. Tell him your name.”

  “I’m… Diana.”

  “Diana Travis?” said Norton.

  “Yes,” she said, with hardly any hesitation. “I thought you were a convict when I first saw you,” she added, as she studied Norton.

  “Those are the only things he’d wear,” said Travis, shrugging.

  Diana reached for one of the drinks and passed it to Norton.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You work here?”

  “Do you?” she said.

  “Er… no.”

  “Neither do I. I’m here to eat, to drink, to see my father, and to question you.”

  “You’re in the police?”

  “I ask the questions around here!” said Diana.

  Travis laughed, Diana laughed, and after a moment Norton laughed. Diana spun her parasol, closing the vanes. Then she twisted the handle, and a gleaming blade slid from the tip.

  “My official police weapon,” she said. She retracted the blade and laid the parasol across her lap, as if ready for a quick draw.

  “The major is also your superior officer,” said Travis.

  First Colonel Travis, now Major Travis. Did they also have generals in the police?

  “Was your father a cop?” asked Travis, the colonel.

  “No.”

  “Was your mother a cop?” asked Travis, the major.

  “No.”

  “These days,” said Travis, the elder, “we like to keep it in the family.”

  “Because you can always trust your family,” said Travis, the younger. “Usually always. Maybe.”

  Norton had known a few cops whose fathers had been in the force, but now it seemed that the job was hereditary.

  “Where do I fit into this?” he asked.

  “You’re one of us,” said Colonel Travis, “you’re family.”

  “Maybe even,” said Major Travis, “our godfather.”

  “Diane,” said Travis senior.

  It sounded like a warning, which Norton didn’t understand.

  “Diana,” said Travis junior.

  It sounded like a correction, which Norton did understand. In his time, it was the criminals who adopted false identities. Now, it was the cops who used aliases.

  None of the decorations on Colonel Travis’s tunic resembled a police badge, and Norton realised it would be pointless asking to see some official ID because he certainly wouldn’t recognise it.

  Even if they weren’t on the force, this was much better th
an being with Brendan and Mandy. Brendan had intended to sell him, and Mandy never intended to have sex with him.

  Norton looked at Travis, wondering. He looked at Diana, wondering something else.

  They drank, and Norton’s cola was the best he’d ever tasted. He’d waited three centuries for this. They ate.

  Norton had no idea what the food was, and he didn’t want to know. Every dish looked odd, some of them very odd. By now, this was no surprise. Brendan’s cuisine had been less than appetising, but these strange new aromas were so tempting. He watched the other two, then followed their example as they helped themselves from the various different bowls.

  “Tell us about Lost Vegas,” said Diana.

  “Las Vegas,” said Norton. “Not Lost.”

  “It’s lost now.”

  “But you had heard of Vegas? Before I said I’d lived there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? From old movies? That seems to be the way those mad professors learned their history.”

  “By ‘movies’ you mean fictional drama recorded on celluloid for two-dimensional reproduction, a few fragments of which are available in the history faculty archives?”

  “Er… yeah,” said Norton. “You got it. Fictional. There were also documentaries, films of real events, but most of it was just made up.”

  “Like most of the professors’ history,” said Travis.

  “But you thought you needed them to corroborate my story?”

  “That was one reason for using them. Their rate for abduction was very cheap. The university has funding problems, like everyone. Often a job is better done by outsiders. They’re anonymous, unknown, they can’t be traced back to you. And because they’re not family, you don’t care if something unfortunate happens to them.”

  “Like me being a psycho,” said Norton.

  “A psycho?” said Travis. “You mean a menace to society who was sentenced to cryonic imprisonment?”

  “Is that what happened to criminals?”

  “Who knows?” said Diana.

  Travis exchanged glances with her, knowing glances.

  “Because history was erased on Day Zero,” she added.

  “Recorded history,” said Travis. “All the information can still be found, from various different sources, but it’s never been collated. Like a shattered ancient sculpture waiting to be pieced back together. After Day Zero, everyone was too busy with the present to care about the past.”