by Doug Naylor
'As a visitor you should have been blinded by the hood of darkness.'
A grin shimmied across the Cat's mouth. 'Healthy sperm is worth a fortune here?'
'On Blerios 15 there is nothing of greater value. But come, you do not pretend that you have any? We can tell from your craft that you are not rich. By your clothes and demeanour. You are not Emo-traders, you are not merchants. Where would people such as yourselves possibly get sperm?'
Lister and the Cat looked at the cell floor sheepishly. Finally, Lister looked up. 'We have a secret store.'
'Right,' said the Cat. 'Which we keep in a special place.'
'Back on your ship?'
Lister moved his hands about in mid-air, as if he were spinning plates. 'Uh, yes, obviously. In the safe. Back on our ship, right.'
'I will arrange for you to be returned to your craft.'
Lister bowed. 'We will be happy to pay any fine you deem appropriate. One last thing. For the appropriate fee would it be possible for us to spend some time here on Blerios 15?'
'For what reason?'
'We need to rest and refuel. Also, we'd like to stock up on supplies.'
The Blerion councillor nodded. 'Very well. But only after the fine is paid.'
Lister bowed a second time.
* * *
The news filtered quickly through the market place — merchants with substantial amounts of sperm to spend were making their way through the market. They had bought bread and cheeses, oil and guns, cloth and wine and a number of musty old volumes outlining the history of the belt that Kryten insisted would come in useful, and they weren't finished yet.
Chants of 'Grand sires, grand lady — over here' followed them through the market. They bought their goods, handed over the test tubes and continued to shop until darkness finally fell.
As they threaded their way back to Starbug it occurred to Kryten that a strange war of evolution was being fought in the belt. A war between the various Gelf species. What made it so strange was that throughout history no species had ever arrived in the Universe fully formed. They had battled through the evolutionary holocaust and adapted their form to survive and consequently deserved to be part of nature. They had earned their right to exist.
The Gelfs had not.
As far as he could ascertain, they had been created on Earth to help humankind terraform new galaxies and had wound up in this reality as a result of being sucked into the Omni-zone after some sort of mutiny with their human masters. Not only did they not deserve to exist, they had been created with genetic flaws to inhibit their long-term survival. The result, or so it seemed to the mechanoid, threw up a scenario which was unique in nature. No longer was it a case of each individual fighting to protect his genes over the genes of every other individual; it was now individual Gelf tribes fighting to overcome their genetic make-ups and multiply faster and become stronger than all the other tribes in the belt.
Out of this a strange kind of justice system had grown - where innocence was always related to behaviour that was in keeping with the further procreation of the species. Those who failed to copulate were imprisoned, polygamy was feted, adultery lauded.
As they trooped back through the market pushing their goods on a wooden rickshaw, Lister stopped at a stall that sold candles — he wondered if they might be more effective than the halogens the next time the electrics went down. He looked up to ask the price of the stallholder and stared straight into a pair of black eyes that dilated with fear.
For a second, Lister didn't understand the look. The Gelf was afraid of him. No, more than afraid - terrified. But how was that possible? They'd never met before.
Then he realized he was staring into the eyes of someone who knew his other self.
'You know him.'
The stallholder ducked under the stall's thin cotton back cover and started to sprint across the market place.
Lister pointed. 'He knows him. He knows my other self.'
The Cat removed his yellow flannel jacket, folded it neatly in two and held it out to Kryten as if it were the Turin shroud. 'Guard it with your life, bud. And I mean your life.'
'Sir, you can count on it.'
'If you get trapped in a burning building promise me the jacket leaves first.'
'Sir, protecting this jacket is my new reason to live.'
'That's all I wanted to hear.'
The Cat weaved past a group of onlookers and started to tail the stallholder as he fled through the market place. He leapt over two Gelfs carrying a roll of carpet, side-stepped an over-turned fruit stall and flung himself at the figure as he headed for a parked transporter. He brought him down in a skid of dust.
Lister ran up panting. 'How do you know me?'
The Gelf frowned, not understanding.
'How do you know me?'
'You know how I know you. What do you mean?'
'Just answer the question. How do you know me?'
'Is this some kind of...'
'How?'
'I gave you transport to Blerios 15. Your craft was irreparable. You were marooned.'
'And then?'
'We got picked up by the federal council. They knew I was an Emo-smuggler. I blamed you.'
'And?'
'They took you away for questioning. I never saw you again.' 'What about my crew mates? What happened to them?'
'I don't know. You didn't want to talk about them. I didn't press it.'
'How long ago was this?'
'Four months.'
'So if I wanted to find me, what would I do?'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'Just answer the question.'
'Everything goes before the Forum of Justice on Arranguu 12. Seek an audience with the Regulator.'
'Anything else?'
'If you were smart you'd send the mechanoid.'
'Because?'
'He's more lenient towards mechanicals. The 'noid's more likely to get information.'
Lister's right fist arced through the air and the stallholder staggered backwards and collapsed into a box of plums.
'Thank you,' he said politely. 'You've been most helpful.'
CHAPTER 5
Kryten's strange gait, with its ludicrously high knee action on over-sized feet, carried him up the steps of the Forum of Justice and through the snarling knot of Gelf protestors who jabbed their placards up and down in the stifling evening heat. Kryten couldn't read the strange script scrawled across the placards - it was written in a machine code he didn't recognize, but whatever the Gelfs were protesting about, the mix of heat and injustice was driving them close to a frenzy. Seeing a mechanoid apologizing his way through the crowd, the mob immediately presumed Kryten was a member of the Justice Department and a monsoon of spittle and bad food poured down on him. As ever, Kryten was kind and courteous: he wished the baying mob good day and remarked on what a sumptuous evening it was and how absolutely splendid their placards looked and indeed how well and how far they could spit. A shiver of admiration shot through his whole being: Kryten loved anyone who bucked the system, who was able to stand up for themselves and disagree with the status quo, because it was a characteristic totally absent from his own programming.
He entered the low flat building made of yellow sandstone, handed over his letter of appointment and was escorted down a series of corridors.
So this was it.
The big one.
Soon he'd know what had happened to Lister's other self and whether or not the Department of Justice would listen to his calls for leniency. He had to use all his powers of persuasion, all his oratorical skills and make them see sense. Almost immediately his CPU announced he was in Anxiety Mode — a stage four. He followed his escort as he made a left down a wide stone hallway and then a right up a short series of steps, all the time contemplating the task ahead. He found his CPU announcing an Anxiety Mode stage three, which rapidly turned into a stage two. Then a stage four Fear Mode clicked in, followed by a Serenity reading of 0.0000000
4321 - an all-year low.
The guide came to a halt outside a thick oak door covered in ornate brass edging, then waited patiently as Kryten practised a series of deep bows, huge, idiotically elaborate bows that dripped with false reverence. Finally, Kryten nodded to the guide to announce his presence. The guide knocked on the door, a bass voice barked 'Come in' and he was ushered into the oval chamber. Like the corridors, the walls were made of the same yellow sandstone and the floors had an elaborate marble mosaic depicting the Gelf's taming of the asteroid belt.
The Regulator sat behind a marble desk perusing a hand-written scroll. His eyes remained rooted to the page as he uttered a grunt-like greeting. Kryten bowed deeply, his right arm sweeping the floor and his knees bending into a semi-curtsey before he straightened and then bowed a second time, for good measure. Hesitantly and, at first, rather too quietly, he began to speak. 'My lord, it is a most extraordinary honour for a life-form as humble, and lowly, and worthless, as myself, a mere Mechanoid 4000 sanitation droid, to be allowed to meet you in your own chamber and partake of the very same oxygen molecules as your esteemed... uh... Esteemed-ness.'
The Regulator looked up from his scroll and peered at him through half open eyes. 'Yes, I suppose it is.'
'May I sit?'
The Regulator nodded.
'I am searching for a human who calls himself Lister. I understand he passed through your courtroom and you are willing to listen to my pleas for mercy.'
The Regulator nodded.
'I have been unable to discern the exact nature of his offences against the glorious Gelf state - and I wonder, my lord, if you might tell me?'
'His crime is a serious one. A very serious one indeed.'
'I see,' said Kryten humbly.
'He destroyed the entire asteroid of Cyrius 3 and looted and plundered his way across the entire belt. He destroyed a Starhopper which served Ariel 2 and he was responsible for many deaths, including my own.'
Kryten smiled meekly as he ordered his CPU to replay the last speech to check there wasn't a malfunction in his auditory system. 'He was responsible for many deaths, including your own?' Kryten repeated slowly.
'Yes.'
'He killed you, my lord?'
'I'm afraid he did.'
Kryten shook his head. 'I'm not sure I understand, sir.'
'Does anyone?' the Regulator snapped. 'What possesses a creature to go on such a wicked orgy of murder and mayhem?'
'No, sir, I mean I don't understand how he killed you and yet you are patently still alive, talking to me.'
'He hasn't killed me yet, you imbecilic droid,' the Regulator replied testily. 'He hasn't committed any crime yet. It's something he's destined to do in the future.'
'So at this precise moment he is innocent?'
'Well, of course he's innocent at the moment. He hasn't committed his crime yet. *
'Wouldn't it be fairer to...'
'What, you mean wait? Wait until he's actually committed the crime before we punish him?'
'Well, it's a slightly radical thought, I realize, but perhaps it's a more...' Kryten's voice trailed away into silence; then he looked up and said, 'I'm just being ridiculous, aren't I?'
A patronizing smile oozed on to the Regulator's humourless countenance, like old toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. 'If you wait until the crime has been committed before you punish the guilty, then the perpetrators get away with it - the crime has been permitted to happen and what kind of absurd system of justice is that?'
'An absurd one indeed,' Kryten found himself saying.
'The stream of time may flow downhill but that doesn't mean we can't fish upriver.'
'So how do we know Lister will commit these crimes?'
'There is much evidence.'
'There is?'
'Oh, yes.'
'Like?'
The Regulator beckoned Kryten forward and then said softly, 'The mystics have seen it. They saw it in their dreams, they saw it in the great fire that celebrates the dawn of a new cycle and they saw it in the oils of C'fadeert — all six of them.'
'And they're certain it was Lister they saw?'
'They haven't seen a crime this clearly since they ordered the execution of the Gelf known as S'rtginjum for doing revolting things to a yak in three cycles' time.'
Kryten smiled warmly. 'Well, thank you, that's absolutely everything I need to know. You've been most helpful. Thank you. Oh, one last thing. Where is he serving his sentence?'
'He is prisoner in the penal colony known as Cyberia, on Lotomi 5.'
'Is he permitted visitors?'
'Not until he's completed five years of his sentence.'
Kryten excused himself and left. He now knew what the Gelfs outside were protesting about. They wanted an end to the Mystic system of Justice, where anyone could be thrown into Cyberia with no hope of defence. He also realized why the state wanted to keep the system in place - what better way of getting rid of dissidents and unbelievers? Chuck them in Cyberia and throw away the key.
Kryten walked down the steps of the Forum of Justice.
In a way, he was pleased - a tiny lacuna of doubt had tormented him since they had first come across the alternate Starbug; at the time he'd wondered if Lister had killed the crew himself. Now he knew the truth: he wasn't serving a life sentence for homicide, he was serving it for a crime he was going to commit in the future, something that was utterly preposterous.
Kryten started to formulate an escape plan.
CHAPTER 6
Lister floated to the surface of consciousness, but cowered behind closed eyes.
So this was it.
Cyberhell.
He lay there, his eyes clamped shut, his body rigid, as his heart beat out a funky up-tempo bass riff, while his mouth felt drier than a med student party at 11. 45 on a Saturday night.
It seemed as if he were lying on some flat surface, well sprung, rather comfortable. His hand brushed the surface — cotton. Some kind of cotton bed.
Gingerly, he took in a series of little breaths, expecting to inhale the acrid sting of sulphur or some other obnoxious stench - but no, all he could smell were clean sheets and the sweet fragrance of the bark of a laurel tree.
A laurel tree?
He listened, waiting to catch the tortured screams and heart-freezing yowls from those bereft of hope wandering the cyberscape of his imagination. Nothing. Almost silence, apart from a gentle sound of lapping water.
Lapping water?
It was time. He had to face it. He opened his eyes.
The villa was stunning: white stucco walls, Spanish colonial style with yellow-and-cream furnishings, terracotta vases and a massive C-shaped white leather sofa which could comfortably accommodate ten. The oval bed Lister was lying in was situated at the top of a raised section of flooring, looking down on the open-plan tessera-marble-floored sitting room.
It didn't make sense. He padded across to the white shuttered window and tugged open the newly painted woodwork.
What the hell was happening here?
A strip of white beach boomeranged round the bay, hung with palm trees lazily bowed towards the sea.
This was heaven.
An idea screeched into his brain. He unbuttoned his trousers, ripped down his underpants and gazed anxiously between his legs. He gasped, he couldn't believe it.
He had a penis. Thank God, thank God.
He'd been convinced he'd be hung like Action Man, but no - the same as always.
Belting his trousers, he wandered over to a white cane drinks cabinet and unscrewed a bottle of bourbon. He smelt it, gingerly. No, it was not rhinoceros urine, it was not some foul leakage from a rabid dog mixed with liquid sewage, it was Jim Daniels bourbon. He poured himself a double and dropped in two cubes of ice. He drank. The whiskey sluiced down his throat and for the first time in a while a smile stretched across his lips.
He hadn't felt this good for ages.
Taking his glass he clanked his ice cubes across to the soun
d system and started to browse through the library of discs. Again, he was wrong - no Neil Diamond, no brass bands, no twenty greatest drum solos, no flute music, no lift music, no accordion tunes and no James Last. Instead, the selection was pretty good. No, better than pretty good. Damn good. Great, in fact.
Lister put on some RBS, and poured himself a second bourbon. He was halfway through the second bourbon when he decided to wander into the kitchen, which was when he discovered the Welcome pack.
The Welcome pack was sitting on the kitchen table in a large straw hamper. On top of the hamper was a large bouquet of pink lilacs. Clipped to the flowers was a scented red letter. Cautiously, he pulled back the lid and peered inside. He stared down at a selection of food: a roast chicken, noisettes of pork and a joint of beef — all cooked; asparagus, stuffed olives, French bread, fresh strawberries; whipped cream, Belgian chocolates, a variety of cheeses and two bottle of chilled Marne Valley vintage champagne.
What was the deal here? Was Cyberhell a place where you got everything you wanted? Was that what made it hell? No censure or morality? No limits? Lister took the letter and slit it open with a kitchen knife.
Dear Mr Capote,
You have been found guilty of smuggling banned substances across Gelf territory. As a hologram, you have broken the agreement made by the Gelf state and all light-generated entities to keep the peace while in the jurisdiction of Gelf states. As a consequence, you have been sentenced to five years in a cyberscape scenario designed and created by your own guilt.
The letter continued, but Lister stopped reading.
He was in the wrong cyberscape. This was someone else's hell. Someone else's nightmare.
Suddenly, the figure of an Axis-syndrome hologram materialized in the middle of the room, together with a Gelf security guard. Capote, a short man with thinning grey hair and a plump face, looked horrified as he gazed around the room.
'Not meat, I'm a vegetarian. Champagne gives me heartburn.' He staggered into the sitting room. 'Spanish architecture — not Spanish architecture. It reminds me of my first wife. No, God, nooooo.'
The Gelf guard looked at Lister and spoke. 'There's been an error — you'll be transported to the correct cyber scenario as soon as possible.'
