Still, much better to have a brief chat about erectile dysfunction than having to provide some implausible explanation for a sudden bout of camera-mania. Especially when you didn't have one…
…and he did have his cameras now. And that meant he was nearly there, nearly at the climax of his quest.
…and, contrary to what his helpful assistant might have thought, nowhere near any other sort of climax at all…
8.
Arnal had been a busy boy. Between an early breakfast and a late lunch, he had spent a long four hours walking the Lollipop's numerous decks, and on each one, taking in as many of its public places as time allowed. So now he had a good grasp if its geography. Now he could relate one part to another, the grand ballroom to the Climax Club, the Sweet Cheeks Eatery to the My Mate Massage Bar, and the S & M Superstore to Dickie's Dildo Dreamworld - and so on and so on.
He'd been provided with a detailed plan of the Lollipop quite some time ago, and he'd been able to study this at his leisure. But that sort of pre-reading was never as good as the real thing; it never could be. You had to get into the three dimensions of the thing. You had to assimilate its scale, discover where its connections were made - and absorb all the detail. And you could only ever do this if you were in it yourself. Then and only then did it all come together - in where it mattered - in your head.
It was also the only way to get a real feel for the disposition of its human contents: the ship's passengers, the ship's staff, and most importantly, the ship's owners - the lugubrious Lagooners. Of course, he'd been provided with information on this as well, but again he wanted to see it for himself. He especially wanted to see where the Lagooners were - and to confirm what was in his briefing file: that there really were very few of them in any of the public places.
The file was right. There were very few of them indeed. On some decks there were just none at all. On others just the odd one - and then always somewhere less than obvious. They tended to lurk. In places like the information suites or the communication lounges. Or occasionally you might find a couple of them together in one of the larger restaurants. But that's all they did: lurk. They never did anything else. That was left to the hordes of waiters, barmen, shop assistants, hostesses and entertainers, who together must have outnumbered the paying passengers by about two to one. And that was ignoring all the “backstage” staff, all those unseen operatives busy behind the scenes, making sure that absolutely anything anybody wanted was always on hand. And sexual gratification did seem to need an awful lot of back up.
Arnal's expedition had told him nothing, of course, about the ship's less than public places - its private places. Nor especially its most private places of all: the hidden realms of the Lagooners, their own quarters, those parts of the ship where, according to his briefing, only they were allowed. But that didn't matter. Because all he wanted now, now after his late lunch, was not a public place nor a private place - but just an ignored place, the sort of place that went generally unnoticed and rarely if ever got used. A storeroom for emergency supplies, a life-launch antechamber - or a rubbish collection hold - that sort of thing. Then he wanted something to put in it, something with straw-coloured hair: one of those friggin' Lagooners. Any one of them really. He wasn't that fussy. Well, so long as it was one of the male ones. He didn't want to get too involved with any of the other sort if he could help it. You never knew where you were with women. And anyway, it wasn't nice to hit women. Unless, of course, you really had to - if it was part of the job. Then, of course, it was more than entirely proper…
Arnal was still musing on the morality of male versus female physical abuse, when he found his ideal ignored place: a few cubic metres of the Lollipop where in all probability an unwanted human visitation was about as likely as the second coming - or in Arnal's case, the first. It was a room used to dump redundant display equipment at the back of one of the ship's shopping malls. And judging by all the dust on everything, it had been virtually forgotten. It was perfect. All it needed now was one of those stinking scarecrows and then he could get to work.
It was all too easy really. He didn't even have to use threatening behaviour. He just had to ask him. Would he please come this way? Because there was this noise in this room. Like somebody crying. 'And… well, as you're a Lagooner, maybe you should have a look for yourself…'
And then he was in! And with his back to Arnal. And that was it. Sixty seconds later, the unfortunate Lagooner - who answered to the name of Rafita - was bound hand and foot and propped up against a broken freezer display unit. He looked pathetic. But to Arnal's surprise, less than alarmed. In fact, he looked disconcertingly relaxed.
Well, he wouldn't in about three seconds' time. Arnal would make sure of that.
Thwack!!!
He was right. Now he looked… well, he looked sad, almost disappointed. And with that wooden truncheon around his chops, he should have looked surprised - and not a little upset. But it was just this look of pained resignation, a resignation to what life could dump on your head whenever it bloody well chose.
Arnal dealt with this abnormal reaction in the only way he knew how - by dismissing it immediately - and by giving the Lagooner another blow with his truncheon. Then he opened his interrogation.
'OK, you piece of shit,' he began, 'I want some information and I want it fast.'
He'd seen a holo-film about the Spezik - the space mafia - where the chief villain had used that line when he'd been doing the same thing: initiating a professional physical interrogation. And he'd liked it so much, he now used it whenever he could. It was so… well, so succinct, but also so universally applicable. Then he went on. The rest he'd made up himself.
'And the first thing I want to know is the name of your boss. You know, the top guy, the captain of this 'ere pile of junk. So let's be havin' it. What's his pissin' name?'
Rafita didn't answer.
'I said what's his name, dummy!'
Still no answer. But then another thwack.
'You don't seem to get the idea, do yah, kid? You see, I ask the questions and you give the answers. Simple really, in' it? So let's try again. The name of your captain, the one that calls all the tunes round this place.'
Still Rafita was silent, and the expression on his face was one of boredom mixed with distraction. It was as though his mind was barely taking part in the proceedings. And his voice certainly wasn't. And this was beginning to get Arnal a little riled. Didn't this guy know who he was dealing with? Didn't he know how much pain he was in for if he didn't play ball? Well, Arnal would show him - and he'd leave him no room for doubt.
He took his truncheon and began to strike Rafita about the head repeatedly. And these were not just glancing sweeps. They were bloody great hammer blows, each one delivered with an alarming accuracy and a devastating power. After what must have been more than a minute of this terrible beating, Rafita looked like a badly painted clown, one who had a penchant for red in his makeup. And now it was difficult to see whether he was wearing any expression at all…
Arnal stood back to admire his work. But only for a second. Then he launched into a brand new line of questioning.
'OK,' he said, 'let's get a little more direct. Forget the captain. I couldn't give a shit who he is anyway. But what I really want to know is where it all is. And you know what I mean, don't you? I hardly need to spell it out, do I? So come on. Make it easy for yourself. Tell me where it all is, where all the records are. And quickly. I'm getting pretty impatient.'
Rafita remained mute.
'Come on, boy. Where are they!?'
Still nothing.
'OK, how about an access code? You know, just the way in.'
Arnal was now beginning to sound almost avuncular, almost apologetic to be bothering this poor little Lagooner with all these tiresome questions. But when he still got no response, the uncle became the wicked stepfather again, the one with the wooden truncheon and the one who knew how to use it.
Rafita's straw coloured hair
was now matted with blood. It framed a sort of raspberry blancmange, something that had given up any pretence of being a human face. Only the mouth was still discernible. But nothing came out of it, not even a groan, let alone an answer. And this wasn't doing anything for Arnal's mood. He was now getting really angry.
'OK, chum,' he snarled, 'you've got five seconds to start talking. And then you've had it. And I mean you've really had it. Do you understand?'
Whether Rafita did understand or whether he didn't, Arnal would never know. And by that time, even if he did understand, maybe he'd forgotten how to count up to five - because five came, five past - and the truncheon blows returned. And very soon Rafita was dead.
Arnal hadn't noticed at first. And then he felt it through the truncheon. It was like hitting a sand bag. There was no response, no slight rebound, no reaction from the object of his attention. Then he stopped. Then he cursed. Then he gave Rafita's remains a further few blows - because he wanted to. All that friggin' hard work and absolutely nothing to show for it - other than one very stiff scarecrow who he'd now have to deal with.
But he soon calmed down. He'd brought some body bags with him, some lightweight ones. And they were an absolute dream to use. And he rather enjoyed the tidying-up-after-the-party bit anyway. So quite soon, Rafita was bagged up and at the bottom of the freezer display unit, and Arnal was giggling to himself over the absence of a best-before date on his victim's new outfit…
Then he really began to feel good. Because now he could legitimately go and look for another one of those scruffy wimps. And later this afternoon, or possibly tomorrow, have himself another party all over again. And with a little bit of luck, maybe this one would talk - but hopefully not straight away.
Hell, he didn't want a party pooper. It wouldn't be fair. Not in this place. Not in a ship where everyone else was having so much fun.
He smiled. He knew it would be OK and that soon he'd be using that line again, the one that went: 'OK, you piece of shit. I want some information and I want it fast.'
Then he giggled again.
'But not that fast. “Quite fast” will do just as well.'
9.
Renton's cameras were superb. They were top of the range jobs, the best that money could buy - or, in this case, that money could hire. They would be perfect for what he'd planned. And what made them so ideal was not just their quality but also their special feature: their programmability, their facility to be set up to take holo-images of whatever you wanted - of whatever you'd chosen. So they were always “on”, always ready to snap. But they would only ever take a picture - or a series of pictures - if the designated subject came into view. That's to say, the one you'd selected. And that could be anything that took your fancy!
One could, for example, set up a programmable camera in a forest, and it would click away every time a hummingbird hawk moth flew into view - if this was the selected target. And it would take nothing else, only this one particular insect.
In the same way, one could use it to compile a record of something inanimate - as long as this something possessed movement. And here we are talking about objects such as falling stones or rising waters - or even exploding stars in the darkness of space.
Or, if one was a normal patron of the Lollipop's principal pharmacy, one might want it to click away every time a vulva or a member came into view. Or maybe when two of them came together - in any sense of the word one preferred. And implicit in this use was the ability to place the camera - or cameras - in any position and at any angle one desired. So they each came equipped with a clever tripod device, which allowed them to peer up or peer down or along. And they could also measure the dimensions of whatever they were taking - from any distance. So one could end up with images of only members more than nine inches long - or, if one was so inclined, of blondes more than six-feet three inches tall - or, to play safe, let's say of blondes more than six-feet two inches tall - to allow for that six-foot threeish approximation in Boz's briefing…
All Renton had to do was set up his six little marvels in six of the most commonly used thoroughfares on this vice-laden vehicle, and within days, if not hours, he stood a very good chance of ending up with a holo-image of every blue-eyed blonde who fitted his bill - and none of the scores of others who didn't, all those hundreds of others who'd not made the grade. And then he would have a handful of posters, images of hopefully a very small number of suitably sized subjects - and an eminently manageable number for his further enquiries.
Easy really, except, of course, there might be one tiny problem: the little matter of setting up six cameras in public pathways, and in such a way that they could see to do their own business without themselves being seen. Possibly it might even be more than just a tiny problem. Just possibly it might be a rather enormous problem. In fact, it might be nothing less than an insurmountable barrier to what was otherwise a quite inspirational idea…
Renton had performed a reconnaissance sortie. He had visited the three main shopping malls, the grand esplanade leading to the grand ballroom, and one of the bigger nightclub strips. And he had come to an inescapable conclusion. There was nowhere actually within these various thoroughfares where one could conceal a camera, nowhere at all. Search as he might, he could find not a single nook or a single cranny that offered anything like a real opportunity for a bit of surreptitious shutter-snapping. It was hopeless and he knew it. And that meant he had to confront the only possible alternative: the dreaded air-conditioning ducts!
Now Renton had a bit of a thing about air-conditioning ducts - and all those grilles and vents they had along their length, the big ones that came off easily whenever a super-hero grasped them in his hands. And then he, together with his band of best supporting actors and the movie's starlet, would be off and away, free from the clutches of some repressed-in-his-childhood rogue, who could now get his kicks only from incarcerating any number of his fellow cast members… And then it got worse. The bloody duct-way would become a full-blown tunnel, perfectly horizontal with no ups and downs. And, of course, it would then lead to an external opening, a larger version of the “oh, I'm-sorry-it-came-off-in-my-hand” grille thing. It was a joke, a cop-out, a dubious device, and one that was neither credible nor a credit to its creator. And now Renton was faced with its use. OK, not as an over-easy escape route, but as a fairly important, not so say a critical, next step in his search for his star.
But it was unavoidable. There were arterial-sized air-ducts in each of the open spaces he'd visited, smooth, square-sectioned things that appeared to float beneath the ceilings. They were of the trendy-elegant design, obvious but discreet. And at frequent intervals, there were grilles set in their sides, just the sort of grilles one could poke a programmable through - and it would never be seen. It was the perfect solution to his puzzle. Or at least it would be if he could ever get in the things - to plant all the cameras. And that could be tough.
Grille panel ingress was a no-no. They looked to be an integral part of the duct-ways, and they were definitely not of the touch-and-dislodge design. He would have to find another way. And by a process of deduction, that meant either an entry at the beginning of the duct-way, the very source of the air-con system itself, or at some get-inable point along its way - through an inspection panel say. And there had to be some of these.
It would be the latter. There wasn't really a choice. The seat of the air-con system could be literally miles away through the matrix of air-ducts. And he intended to spend as little of his life as possible crawling his way through a load of oversized, overhead plumbing.
It took him some time but he found one - an inspection panel that is. But it was in no way ideal. It was in a branch of the duct-way off one of the malls, a branch that floated beneath the ceiling of a shop by the name of Captain Cop-You-Later, which for those of its patrons who hadn't grasped the subtle play on words, had a sub-text promising a full range of “copulation aids and accessories for shaggers of all sizes”. Clearly, in this particular sho
pping paradise, where the contest had been between evasive discretion and explicit description, the explicit had won - by a mile. However it wasn't the name of this emporium that made the inspection panel less than ideal, it was its height - or more particularly the height of the inspection panel above its floor. This must have been nearly fifteen feet. Without a suitable access ladder, reaching the panel would be impossible. Renton would have to find one - or improvise. But with what?
It was the middle of the night. Renton had just emerged from his hiding place in Captain Cop-You-Later, a little cubby-hole beneath a display-case full of magic balls - whatever they were. And now he was ready for action. He had on his darkest night-time gear: a pair of black shorts and a black tee shirt. And he had a little satchel. And in the little satchel were his six cameras - each with its own tripod - a small torch and a long ball of thread - or was that a ball of long thread? Renton had never worked it out; both sounded wrong…
…and now it was time to improvise an access ladder. More precisely, it was time to drag over a ready-made improvisation of a ladder that was standing at the back of the shop. Renton just hoped that it wasn't too heavy - but that it was robust enough to take his own weight. It proved to be fine on both counts. It was actually on casters, so it slid across the tiled floor like a dream. And when he started to scale it, having positioned it under the access panel, it felt as solid as a rock.
Its tip came to within inches of the panel, its rounded, gleaming tip, that is. For his ladder-for-the-night was nothing other than a fifteen-foot high phallus, a penile erection of monumental proportions fashioned out of rigid plastic, and carrying on its shaft the name of a range of popular vibrators - the much loved “easy to use, a challenge to lose” THROBBA range of humming dildos. And the letters of the THROBBA name were set one above the other down this monster shaft - and they projected from its surface. With the number of horizontal bars in these letters, it made a perfect little ladder - perfect for Renton's purpose. And soon he was fiddling with the fasteners of the panel. And soon after that he was in the airway and securing the end of his thread to the panel opening. It was that easy. And all he had to do now was crawl his way along. And that would be even easier. There would be nothing to it. It would be a piece of cake!
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