by Adam Steel
They were out of time. There was no turning back now. It was time to run.
‘Aya, snap out of it!’ he barked at her.
She looked up in response and a piece of something fell from her hair.
Max gestured at the stumpy revolver, lying by her bag.
‘Get the gun,’ he snapped.
Aya stared at Jack’s revolver. A thin line of smoke still drifted up from its barrel.
Her brain registered that it reminded her of Jack smoking one of his endless cigars and she flinched.
‘We gotta go. NOW,’ Max said, struggling to his feet.
His own adrenaline, and the Apexir haze, had kicked in. He swept the gun up and threw it into Aya’s bag, before sliding it across to her. She seemed to stir from her stupor. She was staring at the shattered Info-Pad on the floor. Its broken screen was now dark. She swallowed hard.
The commotion of the fight and the gunshots had caused the occupants of some of the hotel rooms, to come out on the landing. Max could hear voices, and feet, shuffling around outside of the splintered door. He moved up behind the door, pulling Aya with him. Max opened the door onto the landing and peered around it. The sight of him must have scared the two guests standing in the hall because they ran back into their rooms and slammed the doors.
Max thought that the man poking his head around the door of room 12, was either more curious, or more stupid than most.
‘Hey dear, could you keep the noise down, please?’ he said absurdly.
His voice faltered when he got a better look at who he was talking too. Max pulled Hawkins’s gun on him and stuck it under his nose.
The man had an immaculate manicure and hairstyle. He held his hands in the air in surrender. His pink dressing gown fluttered open, revealing a pair of tight, women’s underwear and nothing else. His mouth fell agape, when he saw the blood matted in Max’s, short hair.
One of Max’s eyes was almost closed. One of his teeth was missing, and he was bleeding from a dozen small cuts. The oily smell of gunpowder, drifted up the man’s nostrils.
‘Keys!’ Max demanded, holding out his hand (it wavered in the air, struggling to stay straight).
Aya could only stare at the man’s absurd clothing.
‘Sure. Sure, anything you say buddy,’ he said, reaching round the door to the dresser and grasping at the bunch of keys that dangled from a fluffy key-fob.
Max snatched the keys from his hand, and using the gun as a gesture for the man to get back inside, he asked, ‘Where’s your car parked?’
‘Lot 3 – basement level.’
A little voice called out from inside room 12.
‘Terence…What do they want dear?’
Terence was still holding his hands up and staring at Max and Aya, who were running down the corridor.
‘It’s okay Timmy. They’ve gone now. We’ve just been robbed by TALOS and a CURE officer.'
The basement car park was well lit and deserted. Parking lots 1 to 10 were clearly marked out. Max looked at the vehicle in disbelief.
‘You have got to be kiddin' me,’ he said to himself out loud.
Aya said nothing. She had a far-away look in her eyes, as though she weren’t really present.
Standing on lot 3 was a pink van, with neatly painted, big black letters, across the sides.
The words read:
TERENCE & TIMMY’S MOBILE HAIRDRESSERS
‘Get in,’ Max ordered, and then paused, ‘we’ll be ditching this soon as.’
Chapter 27: Beta Wing
Beta Block: C.U.R.E Prison North: Vigilance
Tuesday 24th July
The double-entry doors caved in with a splintering ‘CRASHHHH’ as Clarke aimed another high-powered kick at them. They flung open wide, spilling light into the main entrance hall of Beta Wing.
Clarke coughed up a fresh bout of blood and looked up: breathing heavily. Her red-rimmed eyes searched for the guards.
There were none.
A long, wide corridor, lined with cells, stretched away into the distance. Most of the lights were off; only those by the entrance, and a dim glow towards the end of the corridor, signalled that some were still burning.
Clarke dragged her ravaged body up the corridor towards the cells leaving a trail of bloody drool as she went. The trail was smeared by her right leg, which she hauled along behind her. It no longer seemed to move properly, it had been reduced to a hunk of useless, dead weight. Clarke’s vision blurred in and out of focus. The toil of her injuries was beginning to outweigh the waning cocktail of drugs that had been pumped into her. Still, she lurched on towards the first cell. Her stubborn determination was the only thing pushing her through the increasing pain.
The only sound that she could hear was a loud ‘buzzing’ noise in her ears.
Her huge hand, gripped the first bar of the cell and she hauled herself up to look in the cage. She hung off the bars like a grotesque, oversized ape glaring into the cell.
Empty.
All the prisoner’s belongings were missing – along with the bed sheets.
So was the prisoner.
The Clarke-Ape let out a disappointed ‘snorting’ noise and heaved itself along the bars; swinging, hand over hand; peering into the second cell. The same scene greeted it. It was the same with the third and fourth cells.
The entrance doors had swung shut; plunging the corridor into semi-darkness. In the dim light, the Clarke-Ape could just make out the cells on the other side of the corridor.
Empty.
The Clarke-Ape lurched up the corridor. The place was deserted. There were no prisoners to be found: no military: no nothing. It was as if someone knew that the Clarke-Ape was coming and had deliberately engineered the empty maze to infuriate it. The Clarke-Ape ‘growled’ in frustration and then it dragged itself through the empty passages: past empty rooms: searching for someone: anyone.
It was the same plot to laugh at her Clarke-Ape decided, when she had reached the end of another passage. She’d show them. She’d show them all.
The Clarke-Ape’s heart hammered in its ears, as the last ebb of strength drained from its ruined limbs. Blood pooled behind the forlorn creature. It squinted it’s narrow eyes to search the next corridor. Drool leaked from its distorted mouth. It observed something at the far end of the passage, and its eyes widened in a macabre delight.
Three lone figures were standing there. The light behind them had turned them into silhouettes. The Clarke-Ape could only make out their outlines, the rest of them were black in the darkness. There were two larger figures flanking a taller, thinner one. He was holding something. It looked like a clipboard.
The Clarke-Ape licked at the bloody drool, flowing from its mouth, and trawled its body around the corner towards them. It had a single-minded purpose. The centre shadow looked up from where it was standing, down the end of the corridor. His posture did not change. His voice called out from down the empty corridor.
‘Ah…You must be the warden.’
Absurdly, he seemed to check something against his clipboard. He seemed unconcerned by the shambling horror that was creeping towards him.
‘A certain Ms Mary Clarke? We have had so many great suggestions about you!’
The Clarke-Ape was crawling on its hands and knees. It was pulling its torso forward, hand over hand, along the slippery floor. Its vision swam and created the illusion that the prison walls were flexing and bending. The figures at the end of the passage seemed to be contorting and warping like in a hall of mirrors at a circus. Disembodied voices seemed to it, to be laughing and mocking.
‘I gather you have removed the annoying Mr Taskin,’ the ghostly voice continued.
‘I thank you for saving us the trouble. I hope you have left enough of him to be useful?’
The Clarke-Ape burbled something ineligible. It coughed up blood and continued to crawl towards the shadowy figures. The figures appeared to it as outlines – swimming against the light behind them.
‘As you can see
, your services will no longer be required. Although. As far as the prisoners are concerned, you will be seeing them all again shortly. I can assure you of that Ms Clarke.’
The Clarke-Ape could not make sense of the words. The laughter in its mind was too loud.
The figure lowered the clipboard and gestured to the man next to him, pointing at Clarke. The shadow on the left raised an object to point at her. The dim light caught the end of its barrel. A ‘crack’ echoed down the empty corridor as the weapon went off. The Clarke-Ape caught the bullet in its shoulder and it was thrown backwards. It howled in agony. The exit spray from the wound, splattered over the floor, adding to the carnage of blood that trailed away down the corridor.
Warden Mary Clarke lay splayed out on the ground; incapacitated – drifting into unconsciousness. She caught the voice for the last time.
‘Process her.’
The red mist left her eyes and the awful pain enveloped her body. Her last conscious image was of the light, which had reflected off the shining metal key hanging around the shadowy figures neck, and straight into her dying eyes.
It was blinding.
Chapter 28: The Circle of Eight
The Jewel: Sector 1
Afternoon: Tuesday 24th July
The jasmine-scented steam drifted steadily from the warm water to fill the room with a pleasant haze. The ripples in the ornate bathtub slowly receded back to a calm pool once its occupier had lifted himself out. On the wall of the lavish bathroom, a gold-framed mirror hung proudly. The reflection of the room was fogged by a veil of mist that had settled across its sparkling surface. A manicured hand wiped away some of the condensation that had settled on the mirror. His dark brown eyes thoughtfully regarded their reflection in the glass.
Aarif stood in the bathroom clothed only in a silken towel. He dropped the towel on the floor and kicked it out of the way. He was admiring himself in the long mirror. It stretched endlessly along the top of a unit, which was covered in his grooming products. Rivulets of water trickled down his perfectly toned body and ran between the naked creases of his shoulders. The warm soak in the opulent bath, had failed to calm his irritation at the bad news.
“His troublesome wife-to-be, had disappeared that morning.”
Ajit had returned empty-handed to report the news that she had fled in the night. Aarif could not say that he was truly surprised, more disappointed. It was another glitch in his carefully conceived plans, but it did not matter to him.
He returned to his daily regime of making himself look perfect while he considered what to do next. He selected a product from his extensive range and started with a shave.
Specially prepared, perfume scented foam lubricated a gold razor that shaved away at his face, until his skin was clear of even one unwanted hair. Then he took moistened pads and wiped away the foam; throwing them behind him when he had finished. Next he applied soothing aftershave cream that had been specially designed to suit his skin. Then he turned his attention to the hairs up his nose, carefully removing any visible ones with a pair of tweezers. They were made from gold, to the exact size to suit his needs. He winced and his eyes watered, as he plucked the painful hairs.
He liked it.
He checked his eyebrows for stragglers around the brow and removed them instantly, applying a soothing balm to reduce the redness. Having admired himself again, front and back, he started on his jet black hair. He searched for any grey hairs and plucked them out. Then he combed his hair through once (using a red disposable comb) and applied a product to his hair to keep it in place. He took a blue disposable comb and gently pulled that through his hair until he was satisfied that there was nothing out of place. He chucked both the combs on the floor when he had finished.
He admired himself again, as though everything he did, only improved on perfection. Next, he applied the most expensive aftershave that had ever been created. He knew this, because it was designed just for him and him alone. Then he rubbed scented moisturisers over his upper torso and enjoyed the sensation of touching his own body. He rubbed it lovingly over his penis and played with himself, all the while, admiring every inch of his body in the mirror.
He took hold of his testicles and pulled at them: measuring them, to see if they were of even size.
They weren’t.
It irritated him.
He frowned and then he gently mopped off the excess moisturiser with a new, soft towel and threw that on the floor to join the array of discarded grooming aids. All the while he was going through his extensive routine, he was thinking of her. The ungrateful bitch. When she was found, he would instil some much needed discipline in her. He flexed his arm in the mirror admiring his muscles. Yes. Discipline. She would soon learn not to disobey Aarif. He had spent much of the day trying to relax, but his irritation gnawed at him. He had ordered his subordinates to arrange him some ‘extra company’ that night to relieve the tension.
He flexed his arm again. Yes, perhaps that would help. He could use the exercise.
He smiled, as he recalled the pleasure of the late ‘Moonstones’ company. ‘Moonstone’ had been a most welcome distraction from his mundane and tiresome day. He did not know her name. To him she was merely Moonstone: a three-thousand-credit escort that his servants had arranged at his request. To the readers of the Daily Utopic she was the late Cherry Hammond: victim of the Slash-Knife Killer. He decided that if he ran into any further inconveniences during the coming night’s entertainment, he could always get his assigned TALOS guards, to assist him with any menial problems: such as cleaning up the leftovers. They had been most useful last time (apart from the fact they were sure to report the misdemeanour to their mason masters). That shouldn’t be an issue. Surely the Masons wouldn’t hold the odd accident or two against him, he thought, scowling in the mirror.
Fools. I am surrounded by fools! But not for much longer.
He hated fawning to the masons, but for now, it was a necessity. Soon the masons would give him the secrets to their marvellous machines, and with that power he could return back home and dispense of them forever, he decided.
Yes. That was a good plan indeed.
Aarif vowed to himself that once he had the secrets of Genie, and the mason’s fantastic weapons, he would force them to bow to him. Mason Pashazade and his dynasty would rule for a thousand years.
He had no plans to establish his own circle of masons back home. Why should he share power? He would be Mason Pashazade - the Magnificent! No. Not Mason Pashazade. KING Pashazade! He mentally schemed his plan.
With the wealth provided by his own Genie Reactor, he would raise mighty palaces and great statues to his glorious name! He’d destroy Phoenix Palace and create his own. Nothing would rival the splendour of Aarif! Once his idiotic wife was found, and tamed, she would provide him with a prodigy, and string of heirs, and then he could finally dispose of her.
He was already relishing the prospect. It was going to be perfect. In the meantime, he could use a little rest and relaxation.
Aarif put a clean towel around his waist and walked from the restroom into the main bedchamber of his hotel suite. He pointed at the mess in the bathroom.
‘Clean that up,’ he barked.
One of his servants jumped and ran into the bathroom to obey his command. Another of his servants was on hand to present him with a glass of dark red wine. He took it from the platter without acknowledging the servant; who backed away bowing repeatedly. Two more servants stood like statues by the bedside. Each of them was holding Aarif’s neatly folded, evening attire. Ajit was standing with his arms folded by the double doors to the bedchamber. His expression unchanged, as always. He awaited his master’s commands.
Aarif was irritated with him. He’d let Aya escape. He regretted that Aya had been selected for his future wife. His father had made a grave mistake in dealing with the Kaleem family. They were ill-bred mongrels. Aya had embarrassed him from the moment he had arrived. Still, it was just a minor setback in the scheme of things,
he thought angrily.
Aarif took a sip from the wine glass. He smacked his lips, savouring the flavour. The wine was exquisite: expensive. Priceless. It was one of Utopia’s most recent and finest products, La vie-sang, engineered by the TAU, especially for the Phoenix Palace Masquerade Ball. Marvellous, he thought. He made a mental side note. He would find out the secret to making this fine wine as well. It would suit him very well in his kingly court.
A commotion outside the bedroom doors caused him a fleck of irritation.
In his mind he heard himself speak. Who disturbs the court of mighty King Pashazade?
A voice filtered through the doors. Ajit’s eyes fluttered and looked in bemusement at the untimely interruption.
‘Please,’ the simpering servant’s voice grovelled, ‘His exalted highness is not to be disturbed!’
A sharp, commanding female voice, stamped over the pathetic voice. It was followed by determined footfalls across a polished floor.
‘Get out of my way you snivelling runt!’ it commanded.
Aarif turned in surprise to face the double doors. They flew open. Mason Marlene Henson stamped into the room. She was dressed in an immaculate black suit and she was closely followed by two TALOS guards. They promptly ejected Aarif’s servants. They had left one of Aarif’s servants grovelling on the floor in the corridor. The guards closed the doors behind them.
Mason Henson eyed the half-naked Aarif distastefully. Her eyes were cold and pitiless. Aarif put on his best patronising, winning smile, and bowed deeply before her.
‘Mason Henson. This is truly a most unexpected honour,’ he said, in his best, silk-laden voice.
Henson stared at him, coldly.
‘You can dispense with the false pleasantries, Aarif. There are no reporters here,’ she snapped.
Her tone was flat. Any pretence of her meticulously-crafted image was thrown aside. Aarif scowled at her tone, and looked up at her. Sweat tricked in tiny rivulets down his face. His precariously wrapped towel only just stayed in place. They squared up to each other.
