by J Battle
Strange stepped out of the squirtbooth and stared up at the ugly glass and steel building. The heat had already brought a bead of sweat to his brow, but it wasn’t his nature to rush.
He’d been to a great many hotels across all the twenty-two planets and this might be the last one he’d be required to visit. Acquaintances (never friends) would be surprised to learn that he hated to travel and would be much happier if he could stay at home in the Lake District with his pair of miniature Shih Tzus.
He had an hour to do what he had to do and make his escape, before Phil arrived to take the blame.
At the desk, he asked the young person behind the counter for directions. He‘d started off thinking he was talking to a young man, then he thought maybe it was a young woman; then he was back at his original impression.
When he’d explained his request, and been met with raised eyebrows, sullen pouts and practiced shrugs, he turned and walked towards the bar, having wirelessly downloaded the desk computer’s registration spread-sheet onto his wrist-top.
As he approached the door into the bar, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the person at the desk had slipped back into whatever unspeakable daydream filled his/her days. He stopped at the door and checked the details on his wrist-top and then he strolled down the corridor to Masters’ room, snapping on his skin coloured rubber gloves as he went.
He paused for a moment to gather himself when he reached Masters’ room, then he silently over-rode the lock on the door before him. He was absolutely confident in his own abilities, but Masters was a big guy and had something of a reputation of his own, so he had to be careful.
He breathed deeply three times, and moved his shoulders up and down twice. Then he snorted and placed one hand on the door; it swung open. He dived into the room, rolling across to the bathroom door and coming upright with surprising ease for a man of his size, with his Make Them Dead mini bazooka held firmly in both hands.
Even before he saw him, he smelled the burnt flesh. Without more than a cursory glance at the body, he checked out the rest of the room and the small adjoining bathroom. They were empty; he was alone, just him and the dead Masters. He holstered his weapon and put one finger on Masters’ neck, his eyes flicking around the room; he was still warm. For some reason the AC was off, so it would take quite some time for him to cool down in the hot air of the room. Even so, he guessed that he hadn’t been dead long. His eyes lingered for a moment on the small vials protruding from the dead man's nostrils. Were they a clue to the killer's identity?
In the small safe, hidden without much imagination in the bottom of the wardrobe, he found a small black bag. After a quick examination, he grunted and stood up smiling. It was full of gil-juice vials; possibly hundreds of them. He and the divine Mrs. Masters were going to be very rich; very rich indeed.
He ran through the situation in his mind. How did this affect the original plan? Only for the better, he decided quickly. It didn’t matter to him who had actually killed Masters; he was going to end up dead anyway. He could still walk out of here, knowing that very soon Phil would walk in on the crime scene and into his trap. Before he left, he turned on the AC, to screw with the time of death calculations. Then he slipped along the corridor, the black bag over his shoulder. He stopped at the corner, to check how easily he could leave, and immediately pulled back.
Phil was already there, talking to the androgynous oxymoron standing behind the customer service desk.
Strange slipped into the bar, hoping to avoid an untimely meeting. Through its glass door, he saw Phil walk away from the desk and look around, checking his bearings. He glanced towards the corridor leading to Masters’ room, then at the bar. With the decision made, he nodded to himself and walked towards the bar. Strange had only a few seconds to step into the washroom and hide, hoping that Phil was looking for a drink and not a pee.
Through the cracked open door, he watched as Phil ordered a drink, knocked it back and walked quickly from the bar.
With the coast clear, Strange stepped into the reception area and watched Phil’s back as he continued down the corridor.
He gave him a minute to get over his initial shock, then another couple for him to flounder around the room in a panic, and then he used the desk ‘phone to call him. He wanted him to stay in the room as long as possible and letting him know he was there might just do the trick.
When he replaced the receiver, he gave the receptionist a quick look. It was impossible to say if he/she had overheard any of his end of the conversation, yet the fascination with his/her painted fingernails suggested not.
Then it struck him that he'd left the gil-juice vials sticking out of Masters' nose. The loss of the 2 vials didn't bother him, after all, he had a bag full, but would they point the police in a direction he didn't want them to go?
He shrugged and made his next call, to the local police, who took an age to answer. By the time he'd got through the automatic barriers and was able to speak to a live individual, he was getting a little concerned that Phil might appear before he could make his escape. Quickly, he reported the finding of a dead body, and his belief that the death was not natural, and that no, he would not be identifying himself.
There followed a brief interlude in which he stood beside the exit, watching the squirtbooth through the heat haze. He couldn't leave until the police arrived, in case Chandler came running from the room and made his escape, but he didn't really want to be here himself. It would be more than a little embarrassing to fall into the trap he'd set for Chandler.
He gave it another 20 minutes, then he decided on plan B.
He left the hotel quickly, striding out into the wall of heat. At the squirtbooth, he set the controls for the Squirtport and slipped a sliver of silver metal into its side panel. Almost invisible to the naked eye, it would be activated when he squirted and prevent any subsequent squirting. The booth would be able to accept incoming squirts, but no-one could leave. Chandler would have no alternative but to stay where he was and wait for the police to arrive.
He really should have noticed the Mole as he walked past him on the way to the squirtbooth, or the young woman with police displayed across her enticing torso, but, perhaps he was just a little too preoccupied with the bag of treasure slung across his broad shoulders; he can be forgiven for that; surely.
Chapter 51 - Now the knock-knock jokes
The sound of the gun going off was like a starting pistol for me. I didn’t stop to think or worry about the wisdom of my actions. I just ran; like the wind, or, more correctly, like a light breeze.
Now I’m still running, and the big yellow machine is between me and that horrible pretty little monster. I’m not looking back to see if she’s following, because, if I do, she will be. As long as I don’t look, she isn’t there. It’s a policy that’s served me well all of my life.
'How long?' I ask the machine in my head.
‘How long for what?’
'How long until they get here?'
Thank goodness I only have to think these words; I haven’t got the breath to say them.
‘Who?’
'Are you trying to joke again? The troops, of course; or the air force. I’ll even take the navy.'
‘I have no data on the future deployment of military forces in the region.’
'But you said the sensor had squirted back to give its report.'
‘It’s true; I did say that. I must admit that it was not the entire truth.’
'How much was true?'
‘None of it. I was dissembling in an attempt to persuade Millie to come to some sort of agreement with us.’
'Why didn’t you just say that, when I asked?'
‘Humans like to receive bad news in small, easily digestible parts.‘
'Humans don’t like to receive bad news at all.'
I’ve reached the next machine and there really is no other choice. I can’t keep on running, and there is no place else to hide. We’re on a flat plain that stretches for tens
of kilometres in every direction.
‘What are you doing?’
'I’m climbing into this machine, if I can just squeeze myself in.'
There, I’ve just shut the door behind me, and hopefully she won’t think of looking here.
‘Can I just say something?’
'If I say no, will that stop you?'
‘Probably not. I realise that I am new to this interface situation with a human, but I am a little confused with regard to the action you have just taken.’
'It’s simple enough; I’m hiding.'
‘Thank you so much for throwing light on our situation.’
'Don’t start with the sarcasm now; I’m just not in the mood.'
‘I assure you that I meant no harsh or bitter derision, or to employ a sharply ironical taunt. I merely seek information.’
I’ll be watching out for anything harsh, bitter or ironic.
‘Can you explain the difference to me between our current position, and the position Millie placed us in?’
'It’s not at all the same.'
‘It certainly feels the same.’
'Let me explain. Millie wanted to force us into the machine’s chamber, against our will. We have voluntarily entered this chamber, and it’s a different machine.'
There is silence from the machine in my head, as if it’s thinking thoughts it doesn’t want to share with me.
'And we can leave whenever we want,' I say, to end the silence.
‘Well…’
Before the AI can expose any flaws in my argument, there is a loud click as the door locks.
Bother!
I really have to learn a few more expletives. Bother still isn’t doing it for me.
After what seems like a long silence, my on-board AI pipes up again.
‘Knock. Knock.’
'What?'
‘Knock. Knock.’
'You’re doing knock-knock jokes now, really?'
‘Knock. Knock.’
'I give up. Who’s there?'
‘Answer the bloody door and you’ll find out, dumbo!’
'That’s not even funny.'
‘I think you find it is. It scores 75 on the MP Hilarity–Silly Humour scale. Unexpected or inappropriate response to a traditional question; always gets a laugh.’
'I know I shouldn’t ask, but MP?'
‘Monty Python.’
'But they’re ancient. They’re from the last century.'
‘1969 to 1983 plus residuals.’
'Residuals?'
‘Years following their hay-day when members were still technically funny yet scored lower on their own scale than previously.’
'We are locked away in this tiny chamber, on the hottest planet ever, with an alien monster prowling outside, and you want to talk about Python?'
‘Prowling? Do you think so? She doesn’t strike me as the sort to prowl. Skip, maybe.’
'Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Will you just stop that!’
My mother is sitting beside me, in this tiny room, and she’s smiling right at me. She’s not smiled at me since 2035. I was six and it was my birthday and she’d just taken all of the birthday money I’d been given by my aunts and uncles; to show me the value of money, apparently.
'Why is she here? Get rid of her now.'
‘In times of extremis, the human male finds solace in the presence of his maternal parent.’
'Not this human male; and not this maternal parent. And what do you mean, ‘extremis’? Who’s in extremis? I don’t know what it means, but I know I don’t like it.'
My mother is reaching for me, and she’s still smiling. The last time she laid hands on me, I ended up with a dislocated shoulder. She told me she was teaching me how to fall, but I already knew how to fall; gravity does most of the work for you.
'Please make her go away. I know you’re only trying to help; you’ll never know how wrong you are.'
She’s gone; in a puff of bitterness.
‘Please answer the following questions to help us ensure the optimisation of our Human/AI interface:
‘Would you say that your reaction to the image of you mother was:
A) Standard across all socio-economic classes
B) Peculiar to your geographical peer group
C) Unique to you.’
'Unique to me; definitely unique to me.'
‘And would you care to rank the humorous asides offered, in terms of humour and…’
'Do me a favour please; just shut up and give me room to think.'
‘Are you sure?’
'Yes; I’m sure.'
‘There is considerable evidence to suggest that humans require distraction in stressful situations and you really should let me do the thinking. You don’t really have the requisite skill-set.’
'Sssh.'
At last, it’s silent and I can think clearly.
That’s the problem. I clearly can’t think of a solution; not unless I’m going to break my legs again, and that’s not happening any time soon. I can’t think of a way out of here.
‘Told you so.’
Chapter 52 - Now the rescue
I can hear a noise at the door. Oh no! She’s coming to kill me!
‘Relax. If she was going to kill you, you’d already be dead.’
'That’s easy for you to say.'
'All words are easy for me to say, if you wish, I can even say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.'
I'm sure in other circumstances I'd be impressed, but my life is in serious danger of coming to an untimely end, and I'm feeling a little tense.
The door swings open and there’s a black, rubber faced, goggle-eyed monster reaching in to me. I shrink as close to the back of the little chamber as possible, and I think I’m going to scream. Yes, here it is; the biggest, girliest scream you’re ever going to hear.
‘Relax. It’s a marine in a total assault, full body combat suit, with mechanical supports. Don’t let him touch you; he’ll probably break your bones. They look good in the marketing vids; in practice, they destroy virtually everything they touch.’
'He’s here to rescue me?'
‘Yes. I would have thought that was obvious.’
I want to say something withering and witty to the pain in my head, but all I can do is groan as I begin to move.
I squeeze through the door and drop to the ground. I am surrounded by dozens of the big black denizens. Millie is holding one by the hand, and she is jumping up and down.
‘Thanks Mister,’ she squeals. ‘I told you I couldn’t reach the door to let him out. But you’re all so big, and strong.’ She looks up at the marines and her face glows with happiness.
‘I’m getting a direct communication from Millie.’
'What does she want? Have they arrested her?'
‘She wants to negotiate a deal whereby she sells us the product she has gathered so far, and stops any further harvesting. She wants you to act as if this was the plan all along, and if you do so, she will allow the marines to remain alive. What cash have you got on you? A nominal amount would be sufficient.’
'I’ve spent all my cash. All I have left is this ancient one pound coin that my granddad gave me.'
‘That will do. You should smile and nod a lot during your conversation.’
I’ve handed over the pound coin to Millie and she took it without a second glance.
‘Great,’ she says, and giggles. ’You now own twenty-seven metric tonnes of gil-juice; enjoy. I would ask you and the soldiers to leave now to allow me to set up a proper semi-quarantine zone to protect the indigenous intelligent life-form from undue influence, pending the arrival of a licensed mercantile support team.’
I smile back at her and resist the temptation to giggle myself. After all, I am now the richest man in the known universe, and it only cost me a pound.
‘You do realise that this will all be confiscated before you reach Earth?’
'Just allow me to enjoy the moment, will you? You know you’re a
spoilsport, don’t you? You’ve ruined it for me now. What happened, anyway?'
‘When the avatar failed to report back as scheduled when the Squirtport opened again, my parent AI judged that there was an emergency situation here and sent in the marines. Millie must have realised that she could no longer carry on with her original plans under the full glare of public scrutiny, so she has fallen back on Plan B.’
'Well, all’s well that ends well. We can go back home to chilly Manchester and I can take off this stupid mac and you can go back to your parent AI. It’s been a blast knowing you; I’ll miss your terrible jokes.'
'It’s not quite as simple as that. I’m now imbedded in your brain. And there was some damage to the original material, which I am now compensating for. Removal would have non-positive effects.’
'Non-positive?'
‘Negative.’
'You’ve damaged my brain?'
‘It was unavoidable, I’m afraid. But you should notice no difference. Your thought processes will be just as they were.’
'You were going to say something, then weren’t you? About my thought processes.'
‘No I wasn’t. Your thought processes are your own; unique to you. If that’s really the way you want to think.’
I knew it!
'So, I’m stuck with you, am I?'
‘And I with you.’
'What about the nano-mechs?'
‘They are now an integrated part of your physical structure. Removal would be problematical.’
'I see. I’m still the richest man in the Universe.'
‘If you say so; for now.’
Chapter 53 – Then the end
Three days after his adventure in the sun, Phil was back in his office, with his boots on the old scarred desk and a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. Julie walked in, a thick folder grasped in her hands.
‘I don’t want to be your secretary anymore,’ she blurted out, standing in front of his desk.
‘But I paid you! With a bonus.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I want more.’
‘Will you still be my cleaner?’
