A spray of stun rounds hissed over Tuesday's left shoulder just as he stumbled on a crack in the concrete. If he hadn't tripped at that precise moment, then Tuesday would have copped a scatter of subsonic rubber pellets right in the back of his skull. Non-lethal or not, a burst of hellish little balls directly to the brainbox at those sorts of speeds would have popped his eyeballs right out of their sockets like something out of a Roadrunner cartoon.
Tuesday faked to the right before darting in the opposite direction. The shrinkwrapped side of a pallet exploded into a hundred tiny holes where Tuesday's spine, organs and ribcage should have been. However, Tuesday was already around the corner and out of their line of sight before a follow-up blast could strike. Tuesday knew there was no way those Unison goons would fall for that move a second time, so it was time to stop being so picky.
Grasping the edge of the closest stack, which seemed to be made up of boxes stamped with fifty different medical supply logos, Tuesday grunted and swung his legs up to the next level like a drunken gymnast. Within a matter of seconds Tuesday's adrenaline-fuelled nervous system had climbed and leapt to a good fifteen metres above the tarmac. Pushing aside a loose box and sliding towards the core of the pallet, Tuesday did his best to move in a chaotic manner. After all, going in unpredictable directions would heighten his chances of not copping a cannister of buckshot in the arse.
Speaking of arses, if Tuesday wasn't borderline illiterate, he would have been able to read that the top crate was stamped with the following words: Extra-large self-guiding rectal thermometers (unlubricated).
Tuesday had just made it to the top of the pallet when the whole load suddenly rocketed into the sky. As the sound barrier immediately split apart with a loud crack, Tuesday learned first-hand that cargo-grade gravity elevators really, really weren't suited for squishy human bodies. Pushed down against the crate so hard that it felt like his entire body was being crushed under the boot of a Monolith, Tuesday doubted that this trip could get any worse. But then he heard an emotionless, computerised voice say two horrible words from beside his thigh:
“Anus detected.”
An extra-large self-guiding rectal thermometer (unlubricated) burst out of its foam insert in an explosion of cardboard. Thankfully it missed its intended goal, but the device still managed to give Tuesday a severe dead leg as it slammed into his calf muscle and bounced away. As trying to guard your most personal of orifices was an extremely difficult prospect when you're pinned down with enough force to make breathing impossible, Tuesday literally thanked God as the thermometer tumbled over the edge of the pallet and vanished.
Unfortunately, it wasn't the only one.
Thermometer number two came a lot closer, smashing against Tuesday's left butt cheek. Number three struck so hard that Tuesday was pretty sure his tailbone was busted, but the fourth and final thermometer was, by far, the worst one for an entirely different reason: the probe missed Tuesday's body entirely, but it caught on the side pocket on his jeans and tore the denim apart at the stitching. Tuesday could only watch in slack-jawed horror as his father's Zippo, the only possession in this world or any other that meant anything to him, tumbled out of the ruined pocket and over the edge of the pallet. Tuesday barely saw it before it was gone.
Finally, mercifully, the gravity elevator ticked down to a lower setting as Tuesday's pallet came within fifty metres of The Frontier's glowing white hull. After ten gentle seconds of coasting, The Frontier opened one of its many airlocks to welcome the load with a polite huff. His stack drifted through the gaping fissure, landed with the soft kiss of antigrav wafers against steel lattice, and the hull closed again without so much as a seam.
Rolling off the stack, Tuesday didn't need to be a gifted psychic to predict that he'd end up in the cargo area. At a glance, the cavernous expanse of well-lit shelves seemed to rise for about two hundred metres and probably ran the entire length of The Frontier's underside. Tuesday startled as his pallet shed its shrinkwrap like a snake shucks its skin, and then the stack separated itself into thousands of different boxes without an ounce of human interaction. The crates all seemed to know exactly where they were meant to go, and Tuesday spent a good ten seconds watching the boxes shelve themselves with the gentle hum of antigrav wafers and the slide of plastic and cardboard against metal.
Then he remembered that he was being hunted by the military.
Getting down low and scurrying for the end of the aisle, Tuesday's senses were heightened with paranoia. There were no doubt that Unison troops would be on the lookout for him, and there was a pretty good chance that they were advancing on his current position.
“Ping scanner says he's over there!”
Tuesday cussed as he heard the sound of steel-capped boots stomping on mesh flooring. From what he could tell, the owners of those boots were converging on his location from all angles. Staying low, his eyes darting about like scared mice, Tuesday's stomach did a flip as he noticed a tight vent cover half-hidden behind a shelf of chocolate-coated peanut brittle. Having a sudden flashback to his extensive experiences as a thieving duct-rat scumbag in Cell Block Preschool, Tuesday swept away the crates of Butterfinger bars, popped the grid and slid into it head-first. The pipe was so tight that the only way Tuesday could move through it was to keep his arms by his sides and slither like a python. Despite the discomfort, crawling deep into the ship's labyrinthine ventilation systems gave Tuesday a sense of nostalgia for his childhood, a smoothie of emotions he hadn't tasted for years...it was as though he'd stepped back into Cell Block Preschool.
Nice as it was to take this trip down memory lane, the appeal of hindsight wore off pretty quickly. After all, even the very best sections of Tuesday's childhood were hardly what you'd call golden minutes, let alone golden years. After spending a solid seven minutes drifting about in his prepubescent past, Tuesday realised he had a more pressing issue than dealing with his traumatic childhood: he was totally bloody lost. As the ventilation systems of The Frontier stretched for about forty-seven million kilometres and Tuesday had no idea where he'd even started, that meant he was triple lost.
Peeking through a latticed vent cover at random, Tuesday took a good, long look at an immaculate block of porcelain toilets. The vacant restroom was so white that it actually hurt his corneas to look at it directly. Slamming his forehead into the gridwork until it popped out in a scatter of white paint chips, Tuesday slid nose-first towards the glowing tiles. Thankfully, his teeth broke his fall.
Tuesday froze for a split second as the more conventional way to enter and exit the toilet block began to swing open. Darting behind the door, Tuesday didn't breathe as an oblivious janitor in orange coveralls rumbled past. The guy had a heavy toolbox of maintenance gadgets in one hand and a self-cleaning mop over his opposite shoulder. Whistling a semi-familiar song that Tuesday hadn't heard for many, many years, the janitor leaned his equipment against the tiled wall, stepped up to the immaculate urinal, and unzipped his coveralls. Sizing up the janitor, Tuesday had an idea...
Keeping one eye locked on the toolbox and one eye on the janitor, Tuesday remained very, very still until the sounds of heavy urination drowned out the whistling. Sneaking towards the pile of maintenance gadgets, Tuesday took out something that was as heavy as it was unfamiliar. Whatever it was, it'd make a fine club. Stalking towards the janitor like a Kalahari bushman, Tuesday froze as the urination and whistling suddenly stopped.
“Wait...” the janitor said in a familiar voice. His head tilted, as though he was trying to remember something important. Finally, his head snapped down towards his watch. “Oh sh-”
As knowing how to knock somebody out without killing them had been an essential skill in Cell Block Preschool, Tuesday was able to catch the janitor right on his chin just as he started to turn. Unfortunately, Tuesday hadn't done this since he was a malnourished pre-teen, so his strike was absolute overkill. The makeshift club exploded into a shower of microchips as it collided with the stranger's face at top speed, and Tu
esday flinched in horror as teeth and blood sprayed out of his victim's mouth. The unconscious janitor toppled face-first to the tiles like a felled power line and lay very, very still.
Checking the guy's neck with the pads of his index and middle fingers, Tuesday exhaled in relief when felt a pulse. After all, he hadn't intended on going from stowaway to murderer, so this was a good thing. Preparing to strip his victim from collar to boot heels, Tuesday flipped over the sanitation engineer and got his first good look at the guy's face.
“No,” Tuesday hissed. “No. That's...that's impossible...”
Tuesday spun away from the unbelievable features. Scrunching his eyes shut and rubbing at them until he saw lights, Tuesday spent half a minute cussing his delusional brain. It took quite a while to gather the courage to finally look down at the janitor again. Unfortunately, when Tuesday took that second look, there was no change to that countenance. The janitor looked exactly the same. Tuesday summed up his assessment of the situation out loud.
“Spug.”
As insane as it was, it was an absolute fact that the janitor who was laying in the urinal - the guy that Tuesday had just hammered into unconsciousness with some random maintenance tool - was a perfect copy of the real Bob Tuesday in every single way. He had the same build, same height, same facial features, same colouring, same haircut, everything. If it wasn't for the grey stripes in his hair, the numerous missing teeth and a badly busted jaw, they could pass as identical twins.
Tuesday had a thought. There was one way he could be sure...
Rolling up the janitor's sleeve, Tuesday took a good look at the flesh. Yup, there it was: a pale scar shaped like the words RUNNN OR DY. Unlike his own markings, the branding looked really old, as though it had finished healing years ago. Looking at his own forearm for a comparison, the words on Tuesday's skin were still red and raw, barely scabbed over, but they were a match.
“Spug me.” Tuesday winced at the janitor's busted face. “I wonder if this counts as assault, or self-harm?”
Then Tuesday had a lightbulb moment: if this guy was an identical future duplicate, then that meant he'd be a perfect match when it came to DNA, fingerprints, retinal scans, blood type, everything. So, in theory, Tuesday could simply assume this guy's life here on The Frontier, and nobody would be able to tell the difference. It was providence of the most astonishing kind. Better yet, with his jaw all messed up, that older version wouldn't be able to explain the situation any time soon.
Stripping the janitor down to his crunchy boxers, Tuesday slipped on a sweaty off-white shirt, shrugged on some pee-stained orange coveralls, and jammed his feet into a pair of frogstomper boots. Everything was a perfect match. Dressing the janitor in his designer tee-shirt, ripped jeans and fancy shoes, Tuesday had another thought as an earlier mystery solved itself deep in the recesses of his mind. Tuesday tapped the Omni implant in his hand, and the Mister Drizzle avatar appeared on the white tiles at Tuesday's feet.
“Hiya, Tuesday! What can I do you for?”
“People can use my Omni implant to track me, right?”
Mister Drizzle nodded enthusiastically.
“Sure can, Mister Tuesday! For star-hopping types like you, the Omni 8.5 Personal Proximity Pinger Program means you'll never have to worry about getting stranded on some distant space rock! Every ten minutes your P4 function will automatically update your current location to our central server, and this comes as standard with all recent Omni models. This peace of mind usually costs eighty German yen a month, but in your case, Mister Tuesday, the subscription has been provided for free by the government of Seven Suns.”
Tuesday did some mental calculations. He was sure that some Unison grunt had said the words “ping scanner” back in the cargo bay. That meant that his Omni had “pinged” more than nine minutes ago...which meant that the Omni was due to give away his position again in a matter of seconds...
“Drizzle, I need you to die.”
Mister Drizzle blinked. His happy facial expression was frozen in place, probably from shock.
“Pardon, Mister Tuesday?”
Tuesday shrugged.
“I'm sorry, Drizzle. As long as I have this thing in my hand, my freedom is only temporary. I want the implant to dissolve away like the salesman said it could.”
Mister Drizzle's lower lip trembled and a tear formed in his eye.
“Are you certain, Mister Tuesday?”
Tuesday nodded solemnly.
“Yes. I want it gone.”
There was a fizzing sensation in Tuesday's hand as the rice-sized Omni implant reduced itself down to basic proteins, then into amino acids. The Mister Drizzle avatar just stood there for another three or four seconds, wearing a sadsack expression the whole time, until his hardware broke down enough for the code to totally glitch out. The avatar vanished without so much as a goodbye, but Tuesday could have sworn that the Mister Drizzle avatar had given him the finger at the very last microsecond...
Patting the breast pocket in his new orange coveralls, Tuesday discovered a softpacket filled with hand-rolled cigarettes. The thin cardboard sleeve had MARLBORO embossed on it in gold, but the smokes themselves didn't bear any logos. Digging his fingers into the packet of carcinogenic cylinders, Tuesday gaped in shock as he found something very welcome wedged in the bottom: his Dad's Zippo. It was identical to the one he'd been carrying since he was a child, the one that he'd lost a matter of minutes ago. Knowing its value, he came close to giving it back to the unconscious future duplicate, but Tuesday's selfishness won the battle. The whole Universe trembled for a moment at the paradox as Tuesday slipped it into his pocket.
And then Tuesday heard a horrible sound: the distant stomp of boots.
He'd taken too long. The Omni had pinged one last time before its destruction.
Gathering “his” tools, Tuesday stormed through the toilet cubicle's automated doorway and made a beeline for an alcove on the opposite side of the broad hallway. Sadly, this meant that he didn't have a chance to appreciate the plush luxury of the self-vacuuming shagpile carpet, or to admire the self-adaptive life support systems that adjusted every square inch of the ship to meet the individual comfort levels of the crew. He didn't even notice the telepathic walls as they formed themselves into a simulacrum of the desert he'd grown up in, complete with an accurate rendition of the service station he'd called home for a serious chunk of his life. After all, Tuesday was convinced that he had roughly ten seconds of freedom left before the goons arrived, so nothing else mattered but getting the heck out of Dodge.
Watching from the shallow closet, Tuesday kept his trucker cap pulled down low as a dozen Unison marines in full riot gear stormed the toilet block in a maelstrom of rubber grenades, sting gas and swinging batons. A few random crew members watched as the armoured enforcers dragged the older version of Tuesday down the corridor by his arms and legs. As the future duplicate was still out cold, he didn't offer an ounce of resistance.
Counting to thirty, Tuesday finally relaxed against the door frame. He could almost physically feel the danger pass.
Mouthing a cigarette from the softpack and lighting it with his Dad's Zippo, Tuesday somehow managed to whistle around the durry as it sputtered and smoked. Sensing a presence, Tuesday slowly turned to his right to see that a looming naval officer in a dark purple dress uniform gilded with silver piping was standing less than a metre away. Tuesday stepped back a little bit, but this only caused the guy to step closer again.
“Can I help you, mate?” Tuesday snapped.
The officer's expression darkened even further.
“There is to be no smoking anywhere on this ship, sanitation engineer, at any time. Ever. Put. That. Out. Now.”
Tuesday nodded. He stubbed out the rollie on the handle of his mop and slipped the half-smoked stub into his breast pocket for later on. The officer's face twisted up in disgust.
“Better?” Tuesday asked.
“Do you know who I am?” the officer demanded. “And if so, are
you aware of my designated role aboard The Frontier?” He exhaled in frustration at the blank look on Tuesday's face. “Oh, for the love of...I am Commander Redmond Eulogy. If you'd remained awake through orientation, you'd know that one of my core duties is to maintain discipline among the crew by any means necessary. I have been fully vested with the authority to do horrible, horrible things in order to keep this ship ship-shape. Name.”
Tuesday looked down at the badge over his left nipple. He mouthed the name a few times, but he had enough trouble reading things the right way up, let alone upside down. Eulogy eventually got tired of waiting and tapped the name tag with a bulky finger.
“Jack Spasm, sanitation engineer fifth class,” the name tag said helpfully. “Currently on two strikes.”
The officer narrowed his eyes and searched Tuesday's face for a couple of seconds. Eulogy's mouth twisted into a cruel smile.
“So, it turns out that not only do you not know who I am, you don't even know who you are. Is there anything you do know, Mister Spasm?”
Scum of the Universe Page 36
