That left one option.
He headbutted the glass. It clonked loudly, hurt considerably, but did no obvious damage. At least, not to the tube, anyway.
“Fonk,” he grimaced, wishing he’d thought that through for a few more seconds.
“Hello? Anyone there?” he called.
As he listened for a reply, he heard… something. A voice, he thought, from somewhere close by. Someone was talking, but it didn’t sound like they were talking to him. It sounded more like they were addressing a group and, sure enough, as Cal strained his ears he heard a few chuckles, and then a burst of applause.
“Hey! Hey!” he shouted, thudding himself against the glass. “I’m in here! I’m in a big pipe!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the voice, shouting now as if for Cal’s benefit. “I give you the Scourge of the Spaceports. The Commander of the Infidel Legion. The Butcher of Piptush V. It’s the Prey you’ve all been waiting for!”
The metal plate at Cal’s feet shot sideways, and the world fell out from below him. Cal tumbled down the tube into a blindingly bright room, plunged thirty feet, still inside the transparent pipe, then was slowed to a stop by a cushion of warm air.
Throughout this experience, he didn’t once stop screaming. It wasn’t until he was standing on solid ground that he was able to wrestle his mouth shut and pull himself together.
His breathing echoed inside the glass as he squinted out through the light patterns reflected across its surface. An audience of around a hundred… people, he supposed, if you were quite flexible with the definition, watched on from several tiered rows of seats.
Five or six beachball-sized spheres hovered in the air a few feet in front of the audience. One of the spheres had a red light blinking on the front, and lines of glowing text floating in the space directly above it.
“What the fonk is this now?” Cal wondered, then he jumped back as an ice-white figure in a coal-black suit spun into view in front of him, gestured theatrically in his direction and bellowed into a microphone like a boxing announcer really milking his big moment.
“Reduuuuuuuuuk Tooooooopa!”
The crowd went wild. And not in a good way. They erupted in a chorus of jeers and boos, their faces contorting, their arms making a whole variety of aggressive gestures. Something red and squishy exploded against the glass tube at head height. Several more of them rained down around him, splattering their mushy innards across the otherwise pristine white floor.
“Great, they’re throwing space tomatoes,” Cal groaned.
He raised himself up on his tiptoes so he could see the audience over the space tomato mush on the glass, and flashed them a winning smile.
“Uh, hi! There’s been a mistake. I’m not Reduk Topa.”
“Look at him,” hissed the Host, his face a mask of rehearsed disgust. He gestured angrily at the tube. “Look at him in there! Smiling. Taunting us. After all he’s done!”
“Not taunting,” Cal said. “I’m not taunting. Honest. It’s just… Wait. Can you hear me? Hello?”
“I dread to think what he’s saying in there,” the presenter said, inadvertently answering Cal’s question for him. “Can you imagine the depravity coming out of his mouth? Can you imagine the filth?”
The audience’s reaction suggested that they could imagine the depravity very vividly indeed. They waved their arms and gnashed their teeth, their multicolored faces all reddening with rage.
Something hard cracked off the glass tube, and Cal instinctively pressed himself against the back wall. He searched the floor and saw a single high-heeled shoe rolling to a stop to the right of the cylinder.
“LET’S KILL HIM NOW!” screeched a woman from the audience. The shoe-thrower, Cal thought. She looked the type. She had legs, anyway, and so presumably also feet. “HE’S A MONSTER!”
Some of the audience—a lot of the audience—were in complete agreement. They bellowed and roared, hollered and screamed, bouncing in their seats as they seethed and raged and foamed at the mouth.
“No, don’t kill me now,” Cal said, emphatically shaking his head. “I’m not Reduk Topa.”
The head-shake was a mistake, Cal decided. The crowd, who he was already somewhat unpopular with, almost lost it at the thought of him trying to tell them what to do. Almost half of them leaped to their feet, as if to race down the steps and hurl themselves at the glass.
To Cal’s relief, none of them did. This was probably less to do with any sense of decency, and more to do with the armed guards who suddenly made their presence felt at the foot of the stairs on each side of the audience.
“Oh, come now,” oozed the Host. “Where would be the fun in killing him here and now?”
Judging by the expressions on some of the audience members’ faces, Cal reckoned they’d be able to find a way to enjoy it.
“Rest assured, my friends here in the studio, and all my many other friends watching around the system,” the Host continued, his voice becoming a touch more solemn. “Reduk Topa shall pay for his crimes tonight. He shall pay the ultimate price. And we’ll all have front row seats.”
He threw his arms out at his sides and smiled brightly. “But first, a word from our sponsors.”
All eyes in the audience instinctively went to one of three large screens hanging from the ceiling as the ads began to play. They stared at them blankly, their faces slack, all their rage and hatred temporarily forgotten.
With the audience occupied, the Host turned and approached the glass tube. He looked friendly enough, in his own way, although his perfectly white skin gave him a cold, clinical edge that suggested he could become very unfriendly anytime he liked.
“Hello, Mr Topa. Are you ready to face The Hunt?”
“I’m not Reduk Topa,” Cal said. “I’ve been set up.”
The Host touched a finger to his ear and smiled. “Yes. I know. I’m well aware of who you are and what you did.”
He wagged a finger admonishingly. “You really should have just let yourself be murdered by Topa, as intended. Then you wouldn’t be in this position.”
“I’d be in a worse position,” Cal said.
The Host smiled thinly. “Well. That’s debatable.”
Cal didn’t much like the way the Host said that, and shifted uneasily between the walls of the tube.
“I don’t look anything like him. They’ll see through it,” Cal said. “Maybe not these idiots, but the people watching on TV. They’ll see I’m not him.”
“That would work out tremendously for you, wouldn’t it?” said the Host, smiling cheerfully. His expression took on a sad note. “But, alas, no. See, we’re very careful with what we show. Topa could’ve been murdered out in the wild at any point during the narrative, so we’ve never shown a clear picture of him, just in case he ever needed to be replaced.”
He tapped a finger against the side of his head. “That’s the network, for you. Always thinking ahead.”
The Host touched his earpiece again, momentarily distracted.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re going live again in a few moments.” He raised a hand in a sort of reverse-Vulcan salute, with the two middle fingers stuck together, and the others spread wide. “Have a good hunt, Mr Topa. Die slowly. Die well. And, most importantly, die in front of the cameras. Your end will be witnessed by trillions, all cheering your demise.”
He rapped his knuckles on the glass, then turned back to the audience just as the ad break came to an end.
“Laaaaadies and gennnnntlemen,” he boomed. “Are you ready for The Hunt?”
The reaction from the audience confirmed that, yes, they were ready, and had probably never been more fonking ready for anything in their whole miserable lives.
“As you know, the rules of The Hunt are simple. This man…”
He pointed back at Cal.
“No. This monster, will be released into our custom-designed arena. Equipped only with a Preypad, he must navigate through four—” He held up four of the six fing
ers on his left hand. “—that’s right, friends, count ‘em, four different zones, each filled with unique obstacles and dangers.”
The Host’s brow furrowed. He stroked his chin in theatrical contemplation. “And… something else. I forget. What else is waiting in those zones?”
The audience spoke in a single voice.
“The Hunters!”
“That’s right, of course! How could I forget? The Hunters!” the Host cheered. “And, for this very special edition of The Hunt, we’re bringing in a whole new team of Hunters. Check them out!”
He gestured up to the screens. Necks craned as everyone looked up. Cal couldn’t see who or what was on the displays, but judging by the gasps, oohs, and occasional whimpers of fright, he wasn’t in for an easy time of it.
“But let’s not forget, if the Prey successfully traverses all four zones and reaches the finish line, he’ll walk away with his freedom…”
The crowd booed.
“…ten million Viacoins…”
The crowd jeered.
“…and this handsome watch,” the Host continued, draping an elegant timepiece across his wrist. “Generously provided by uTime. Isn’t it time that you enjoyed a little uTime?”
The crowd applauded, then pressed the buttons on their seat to secure their own uTimes at a special one-time-only price.
“So far this season, we’ve seen several high-profile pirates and criminals facing The Hunt. None have succeeded in reaching the finish line,” the Host continued. “In fact, in the entire history of the show, no Prey has ever won their freedom. Our Hunters have a one-hundred percent success rate. How will our new stars fare in their first outing?”
He smiled and spread his arms wide. “What’s say we find out?”
The crowd cheered and hollered their approval. The Host stood waving his hands, urging them to get even louder.
From the corner of his eye, Cal saw movement. The Floomfles he’d seen earlier came scampering into the studio, ushered along by a couple of harassed looking network staff. The little creatures waved excitedly at the audience, clapped their pudgy hands, and generally looked as if they couldn’t wait for whatever was going to happen next.
Only one girl—or woman, Cal supposed—looked like she didn’t really want to be there. She stumbled in, carried along by the crowd, her wide eyes gazing blankly around the studio set.
For a moment, she looked over at Cal, then her whole body shuddered with disgust and she turned away.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Floomfles,” said the Host, as they were all guided onto a glowing green circle that illuminated on the studio floor. “Aren’t they the cutest?”
The audience whooped and applauded in agreement. The Host held up a hand, calling for silence in his good-natured way.
“Not just cute, but brave, too. See, these Floomfles are willing sacrifices—no, grateful sacrifices—to the Sloorgs.”
Gasps and thrilled-sounding murmurs went around the studio. The Host produced a small thin microphone from his pocket and approached the Floomfles. They all shuffled anxiously, nudging each other and giggling as he squatted beside them.
“Hey there, little fella,” he said, ruffling the red hair of a short, stocky Floomfle. They were all short and stocky, but this one was notably more so than the rest. “What’s your name?”
“Floomjin,” said the Floomfle, barely able to contain his excitement as the Host shoved the microphone close to his face. “I can’t believe I’m here! I’m a huge fan of the show!”
The Host winked at the audience. “Must have a different definition of ‘huge’ where he comes from!”
Everyone laughed. Even, to Cal’s dismay, the Floomfles themselves.
“And tell me, Floomjin. How are you feeling about being eaten by the Sloorgs on system-wide television? Nervous?”
“Oh, no. I’m not nervous,” said Floomjin, but a bearded Floomfle beside him begged to differ.
“He shizzed himself on the way over.”
Floomjin elbowed him and scowled, clearly annoyed that his big moment was being spoiled. “I didn’t,” he told the Host. “And anyway, that was nothing to do with the show. The pilot of the ship we were in was terrible. We kept getting thrown around.”
“We were in a shootout,” Cal hollered through the glass. “It wasn’t her fault! On this occasion.”
“And how about you, miss?” asked the Host, stretching the microphone above the heads of Floomjin and his bearded antagonist, and pointing it at the face of the woman with the uncertain eyes. “Looking forward to playing your part in The Hunt?”
The female Floomfle straightened and pushed back her shoulders, trying to disguise her doubt. “We have been waiting for this moment our whole lives,” she said. Her voice was hesitant and slightly robotic, like she was reading from a cue card inside her own head. “It is a great honor to die for The Hunt.”
“And we thank you for it,” said the Host. He stood, saluted them with absolute sincerity, then turned to the audience, all-smiles. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Floomfles!”
The applause came again, but it was less enthusiastic now. The space tomato had slid down the glass, and Cal could see that the audience members were getting restless. They weren’t here to see space-midgets being interviewed, no matter how cute they might be. They wanted blood. Cal’s blood, in particular.
The Host had clearly picked up on it, too. Or maybe he just knew, through experience, exactly how long to keep them waiting.
He touched a finger to his ear and nodded. “The Huntsmaster has just given confirmation that the course is set, and the Hunters are in position.”
Silence fell across the audience, almost as if the audio feed had been cut. Other than the occasional excited squeak from the Floomfles and the faintest hum from the overhead lights, there was not a sound in the studio.
“Join me in counting down, friends,” the Host said. “And friends at home, that means you, too.”
He pointed up to the screens overhead. He and the audience spoke with a single voice.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
The Floomfles looked like they might burst with excitement.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
Cal had an idea. Frantically, he breathed on the glass, and began to write, ‘I AM NOT REDUK TOPA,’ in the condensation. Ideally, he’d have been able to use a finger, but as his arms were both pinned at his side, the only writing utensil available to him was his nose.
So that the audience could read the message, he wrote it backward. The first three letters were fine, since they were the same backward as they were forward. When he got to the ‘N,’ though, things started to get trickier.
“Shizz, wait. So… up, then down, or…?”
Outside the tube, the audience watched the pirate, Reduk Topa, smearing his face against the glass in a manner they unanimously deemed grotesque.
At least, they would have unanimously deemed it grotesque had they not been busy with the countdown.
“Two! One!”
Cal nosed an ‘O,’ and a ‘T,’ grateful for their simplicity. He was psyching himself up for the ‘R,’ when the circle the Floomfles had been standing on fell away and they dropped out of sight through the studio floor.
Cal felt a buzzing from beneath him. He looked down, completely ruining the message he’d been trying to write.
The Host punched the air in triumph. He gestured to Cal, his eyes blazing darkly.
“Let the Hunt for Reduk Topa begin!”
Twenty-Six
“Wait—” Cal yelped, but his protests were cut short when the floor beneath his feet gave way and he plunged through the floor.
For a moment, there was only a sort of half-darkness.
Then, the hatch above him closed, and there was full darkness.
A moment later, Cal fell out of the tube, flapped his arms in panic, then crash-landed onto a stone floor scattered with something not a million miles away from straw, and something else not a half-dozen miles awa
y from lion shizz.
The first thing he did was scratch the top of his head. There had been an itch there for some time now, and he let out a little groan of satisfaction as he finally killed it dead.
That mission accomplished, he sat up and found himself almost at eye level with the Floomfles. “Oh, thank God, you’re all still alive,” Cal said.
One of the little figures spat in his face. “Murderer!”
“Hey! Cut that out,” Cal warned, pushing the little guy back before he could finish draining his sinuses for an encore performance. “I’m not a murderer. They’ve got the wrong guy!”
“Liar!” hissed another of the Floomfles.
“Deceiver!”
“Charlatan!”
Cal got to his feet. “Fine, believe what you like. You’ll thank me later when I save your lives.”
Now that he was able to move more freely, he noticed that he was wearing a silver-gray bodysuit with orange piping that was doing very little for his figure. The word, ‘Prey,’ had been emblazoned across the front, just in case anyone forgot what his role was in the proceedings.
Cal turned on the spot, ignoring the jibes of the Floomfles as he took in the room. There was a single large window at one end, and a door at the other. The door stood slightly ajar, tempting him to make a run for it.
He checked the window. A two-story drop onto grass, maybe more.
Less tempting.
A blinking red light on his left caught Cal’s eye. One of the floating cameras was there, watching him with its beady electronic gaze. He ignored it for now. It wasn’t the most pressing problem.
The corner of the room nearest the door was lost in a sea of shadow. For a moment, Cal wondered if there might be something useful concealed in there, and then his brain put together all the pieces just as shapes moved in the darkness.
Sloorgs.
They padded from the shadows, testicle-heads wobbling, purple tongues flicking hungrily across their scattergun teeth.
“Shizz! Nobody move,” Cal urged, but the Floomfles were having none of it.
The Hunt for Reduk Topa Page 22
