Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  Renton blinked. Despite the excesses of this spaceship, he could still be shocked. And then he blinked again. For above a doorway to the side of the mosaic was a sign in the same vivid red, a sign with the words: “Welcome to the Dream Drome - where Fantasy becomes Ecstasy”.

  His mind started to make connections: naked people, fantasies, dreams, brains - and brain probes. Could it be? Could it be that? Had he… had he really…?

  'It's safer than the real thing. You won't get yourself scraped. I can promise you that.'

  Renton spun around. It was Orphenia. And she was just standing there, smiling - and looking paler and even less substantial than she had at the clinic, as though she was her own younger sister.

  'These Lagooners really needed a good meal inside them,' thought Renton. And then he had a more relevant thought. He wondered what Orphenia was doing here and what she was talking about. But again he forgot to remember that thoughts such as these could get in the way of making a verbal response. It was left to Orphenia to continue her opening.

  'It comes highly recommended. Although I'm sure you already know…'

  'Yes, errh well, no,' spluttered Renton, his thinking now completed. 'I'm not sure I do know. I mean, I was just walking by. And I, well I… I errh,'

  'Oh, I am sorry,' assisted Orphenia. 'I thought you were thinking of going in - into the Dream Drome, that is. So I thought you might welcome some reassurance - from somebody… well, from somebody you know.'

  'Ah… Ah, I see,' responded Renton with the minimum of conviction. 'Ah well, I wasn't… errh, you know, I wasn't planning on errh… on going in… errh… in there. Errh… I mean, I don't errh… I don't even know what it is.'

  It would be nice to say that with Renton, spoken English was never in safer hands. But it was Orphenia who had to come to its aid.

  'I have clearly made a very large mistake,' she said slowly. 'You must forgive me. However, please let me make amends by explaining what it is that the Dream Drome has to offer.'

  She hesitated as though referring to a script somewhere inside her head, and then she started.

  'It is the inducement of fantasies - in a dream. But fantasies based on a pre-selection by the dreamer - and then under the control of the dreamer. So a customer of the Dream Drome - let's say he's a man - will select the object of his fantasy, and then that object, normally a specified individual, will be delivered into his dream. He can then direct what happens in his dream. That is, what the specified individual, normally a woman, is required to do in his dream. Obviously the real individual is unaware of her appearance in the dream and will therefore neither be offended nor indeed "inconvenienced" in any way. The dreamer meanwhile can enjoy his ultimate pleasure. And of course, it's all very harmless. Nobody suffers - not in any way at all.'

  'Are you sure?' interrupted Renton. 'I mean, what about the probes? What if they…errh…?'

  Renton's look of total disbelief in his own idiocy overtopped Orphenia's look of mild surprise by a clear margin. It also inspired an immediate response from his helpful companion.

  'Ah, I see you know a little more than you've admitted to. In which case, Mr Tenting, I'm just a little bit disappointed that you don't also know that the probes are one hundred per cent safe. There isn't the slightest possibility that they could cause any harm. None whatsoever. They are there to induce pleasure, Mr Tenting, not suffering. And they would never have been licensed for use on this ship if we weren't perfectly confident in their safety. You must have realised already how seriously we take the wellbeing of our patrons. There are never any compromises and never ever any risks. I can assure you of that.'

  Renton was assured. How could he not be? To disbelieve Orphenia would have been to deny his own instinctive assessment of people. Orphenia was clearly telling the truth. And, of course, that meant his third photograph was no more sinister than photos one and two. In fact, it also meant that he had a third and presumably alive and well suspect to try and find. All in all, things were working out quite well. And especially on the Lagooner front, where their status as brain-sucking monsters had been entirely and comprehensively dispelled.

  All these thoughts were once again preventing Renton from participating in the noble art of discourse. It wasn't until Orphenia reopened her own contribution with a suggestion that he try the Dream Drome for himself, that Renton re-engaged his mouth. But even then it was for just a moment, for just long enough for him to deliver an alarmed 'What?'

  'I want you to be really reassured about the process, Mr Tenting. And there's only one way for you to do that. And that's for you to try it.'

  There then ensued a series of protestations and a long list of reasons not to, but to no avail. Renton was trapped. He knew it would be grossly impolite to resist Orphenia's request indefinitely. And so eventually he agreed. And in any event, by this point, he'd had to admit to himself that not only might he quite enjoy the experience, but he also had a suitable candidate for his fantasy, one he could specify and one the Lagooners could deliver. And of that he was certain…

  He was lying on a large bed in a beautiful beach house. He was entirely naked.

  Sun streamed into the room through a pair of open glass doors, gossamer drapes at their sides, billowing gently in the warm breeze. Outside was a wide wooden veranda. And on this veranda, silhouetted against a bright blue sky, was a woman in a long white dress. She was tall. She had blue eyes and blonde hair, and she had the sweetest of names. She was called Angelica.

  She began to walk towards Renton, her lips parting to form a sultry smile. And at the same time, her hands moved from her sides to the neck of her dress - but slowly, very slowly. So that it wasn't before she was standing over him, that she'd unhooked the first of its buttons… There were two more down its front, each of them dealt with in the same slow but deliberate manner, each carefully released by her delicate fingers - until - until it was time to peel the gown apart. Her hands moved again to the neck and then froze. Her eyes narrowed and her teeth parted to reveal a glistening tongue - and then her hands moved again… Her dress was opening, inch by slow inch to expose first a beautiful neck, then a pair of the most exquisite shoulders imaginable, then the first glimpse of the mounds of her breasts. And then - then the full expanse of them - and they were unmarked. Shit, they were unmarked! There wasn't so much as a bristle, let alone a whole toothbrush.

  Renton then discovered that one could experience disappointment in a dream, even in a dream one was controlling oneself. For the problem was that the Angelica of his dream was the real Angelica, and the real Angelica had no toothbrush tattoo on her right titty. And no amount of control of his fantasy could create one if there wasn't one there. Angelica wasn't the woman he wanted. She was just another suspect to be eliminated from his enquiries. Another waste of his time.

  But not a complete waste. This was, after all, Angelica Spreadeagle. Who, it must be remembered, made her living from a melange of nudity and crudity. And Renton was there to test the safety of the probe procedure. He could hardly terminate the experiment prematurely. No, that wouldn't do at all. So he had no option but to let the dream run its full course. And he errh… he had a really interesting conversation with her - about the problems she encountered in her work and the sort of books she liked to read - and… and well, you know, all that sort of stuff… And he was absolutely fine afterwards. In fact the Lagooner on the probes said he was positively glowing when he regained consciousness.

  So they were safe, these probes. There was absolutely no doubt about it. And he made sure a suitably contrite confirmation of the same was relayed back to Orphenia. But he didn't bother to provide a resumé of the theme of his dream. He didn't think she would be too interested in that - whatever version of events he'd chosen to relate.

  And anyway, there was Madeleine to think of as well. And if she got to hear about it, the possibility of his being subjected to yet another, maybe not quite so harmless probe…

  17.

  The contrast, here in
the stateroom, could not have been greater.

  In one chair sat a blue-eyed blonde. Even seated like this, one could see she'd been blessed with a figure from heaven. And her face was just heavenly too. Indeed, she was nothing less than exquisite. Her every feature was perfection, her every proportion a triumph of aesthetics. She looked almost unreal, a composite of the ideal rather than a mere human being. She was fabulous.

  In the other chair sprawled an enormous block of a woman with a face that was far from heavenly. In fact, it was hellish. And it radiated menace - just as it had at the baggage reclaim…

  The block spoke. It spoke with a shrill voice.

  'Bloody men! They're just a screwin' waste of space. God knows why we still have them. I mean, jus' think. We spent months pickin' that Arnal, soddin' months. The bee's knees, the perfect fit for the job - brutal, a real thug and errh… what was the expression? Oh I remember - "eminently controllable". That was it, "eminently controllable". Well, he's about as controllable as a super-fuckin'-nova, only unfortunately not quite as fuckin' bright. In fact, he's thick. He's as dumb as they come. And why the hell we didn't see it, I don't know. We must have been out of our fuckin' minds.'

  Cristalina, the beautiful woman, said nothing. She wasn't required to. Not yet. So, instead, she just thought.

  'To start with,' she thought, 'it wasn't "we" who picked that numbskull Arnal, it was you. And not any old numbskull either. No, your bloody numbskull had to come with a truncheon… I mean, as if a truncheon's gonna impress these clever-dick goonies. Hell, we'd have stood more of a chance with some of the girls. OK, the goonie-guys might not be what you'd call oversexed. But if they've got any equipment at all, then I'm bloody sure that any one of my girls could have straightened it out for them. And then we'd have had them. And we'd have had what we want. Just like that. But Arnal? And trying to beat it out of them? God, what a waste of time!

  'And then trying to use Arnal as a listening device. Well, that was a complete no no as well.'

  Cristalina had known this from the start, from when they'd gone to all that trouble of getting him fixed up with a receiver/transmitter in his brain - and without his knowing it.

  'How the hell would you expect a dumbo like that to react when he started hearing voices in his head? And the chances of him ever getting in front of the bossman, and the bossman then conveniently identifying himself… well, they were about as good as ole' fester-face there forgetting the "f" word.

  'The whole exercise has been completely pointless. In fact, it's been worse than pointless. Because it could easily have alerted these damn Lagooners to what's going on, to dear ole' Bessie's interest in their personal affairs - and in their leader.

  'Not that it's surprising. No indeed. It would only have been surprising if Miss Bessie had come up with an idea that stood half a chance of working in the first place.'

  Cristalina was right. Bessie Broperhoperen, chairman and chief executive of the mighty Trampul Corporation, was all about ambition and very little about ability. She had clawed her way to the top of this massive organisation using handholds on anybody she could find - and using their skills and their intelligence rather than any of her own. This was because she had none of her own. She was bereft of intellect, intuition, insight and foresight, and depended entirely on others to provide all these and more. But it was her singular quality, her one and only quality that enabled her to do this: her arrogance. Her blind, blunt, blatant self-conceit, her overblown opinion of her own importance - which, unfortunately for all those around her, manifested itself in her extremely offensive and intimidating manner. She was shit hot on terror.

  And it had worked. She was now Number One. And it had to be said that the corporation had prospered - because essentially none of it was under her direct control - and even its strategy was handled by those with the skills. Bessie just acted out a part, and for most of the time made no real contribution at all. But occasionally she did. And when she did it was always a fuck-up. Like this stupid Arnal idea. And before that the goonie kidnappings. They were futile. Just as Cristalina had told her they would be. But Cristalina was just Cristalina, a member of staff, somebody who might be of some use to the corporation, but certainly not when her ideas conflicted with the great one, when the intelligence she'd taken months to gather was not what the queen-bee had wanted to hear.

  Well, she'd have to change her tune now. She had no option. She'd have to go along with Cristalina's plan A, the plan she should have gone along with from the start. But she would have to do this without acknowledging her failure. And she would. Because she'd had plenty of practice at it. Like every time she'd imposed her own view on events. And when things had gone wrong, she would switch back to somebody else's idea, an idea she'd already disregarded out of hand. But without conceding that she'd ever been wrong in the first place. It happened all the time. And she was now very good at it. Cristalina was waiting to see how she would do it this time.

  She didn't have to wait too long.

  'Anyway,' Bessie started, 'at least the fool bought us the time we needed to get our real plan into place…'

  'Bought us the time? Our real plan? What the hell is she talking about? The real plan is my plan and it's been ready for weeks. And the only reason it hasn't been brought into play is that she didn't think it would work and she wanted to try her way instead…'

  '…and tell me. Are we ready to go now? Have you got everything organised? You know, like I told you.'

  'Like I told you?!' fumed Cristalina to herself. 'I told you, you fat freak, not the other way round!'

  But further fuming would have to wait. A direct question had been delivered, and this was Cristalina's signal to speak. When she did so it was without even a hint of resentment in her voice.

  'Yes, madam. We are ready to start as soon as you give the order. Everything is organised. Everything.'

  'Well in that case, I'm not sure why you're still sitting there looking like some high-class tart with a boner up her arse. Just get on with it. Just get on and do it.

  'I don't want to stay on this shithole of a ship for any longer than I have to. So just piss off and sort it all out.'

  Cristalina could have killed her. She was such a bitch and she said such awful things. And maybe one day she would kill her. But for now, she would just play along and play out her part.

  'Certainly, madam. And I'll keep you informed of our progress. I'll be back here as soon as there's anything to report…'

  'You're damn right you will,' snarled Bessie. 'Just you remember whose plan this is and who's the friggin' boss round here. Sometimes you know, I don't think you give me the respect I deserve.'

  'If I gave you the respect you deserved,' thought Cristalina, 'you'd be hanging on my lavatory wall, you stupid great bitch. And I'd be looking forward to the next time I needed a number two.' But nothing was said. Cristalina simply rose from her seat and nodded politely to her bad-mannered boss.

  Bessie grunted and began to scratch the right half of her frightful one-piece bosom, her nails leaving little welts in the candlewick pile of her gown.

  And Cristalina left the room, imagining that same great bosom making a dent in the ground - as one day this hideous old boot was made to fall flat on her face - and wondering whether that day was now near…

  18.

  Renton had been doing some wondering as well. Initially he had wondered why he'd ever thought he could go off in pursuit of a personal mystery - the Lagooner enigma - when he had real work to do. And after deciding to get back on the case, he then wondered what step to take next. His four remaining cameras had captured no further photos, and having eliminated Angelica Spreadeagle from his enquiries, that left just two blonde bimbos to be found: the stunning looking one and the one snapped during her session at the Dream Drome. Well, that was fine. Two was a pretty small number to look for. But just how was he going to discover where the two suspects were - or for that matter whether they were still on the ship? All he could think of was ei
ther loitering in one of the main thoroughfares all day, in the hope that one or both of the ladies would pass by, or possibly pushing their photos in front of absolute strangers - just like detectives did. But neither approach seemed very attractive, and he knew there must be a better way.

  Then it came to him. Well, for one of them anyway. It was as he was leaving the Lunchbox restaurant, as he was scurrying out early to miss its daily entertainment. For there, in front of him, was the laughing policeman. And in his hands was his timepiece.

  And that was it! Time!

  When his cameras took photos, they recorded the time. So they'd recorded the time they'd snapped his blondes. Up to now, this had been of no interest. He was, after all, just generating posters. Quite when they were generated was entirely irrelevant. However, for the girl in the Dream Drome, it was now not irrelevant at all.

  He now knew how that place worked. How they processed people for their flights into fancy and how careful they were about everything. They were, as Orphenia had pointed out, safety conscious in the extreme. And that meant they recorded all your details - and they also recorded the time of your flight. They had done with him. Full name, sex, age, home address, cabin number, the lot - and then the time at which he'd “taken off”.

  So that was it. All he had to do was check when photo number three was taken, and then by examining the records at the Dream Drome, find the name - and the cabin number - of the young lady who was receiving her therapy at that time.

  Perfect. And it even involved some real detective work - some entering of premises without the owner's consent and some surreptitious extraction of information - again without its owner's permission.