Theme Planet

by Andy Remic

  He moved to his room, and it had been repaired, tidied, the corpse removed. Great stuff. Even the doors of the dented kitchen cupboards had been replaced. Even the bullet holes had been filled and painted. Dex crossed, frowning, and touched the wall. The paint was dry.

  “Those fuckers.”

  He moved to his room, dragged out his small case (he always had his own small case, so that when his wife inevitably overloaded their family case to five times the baggage weight allowance, he could justifiably allow her to pay the extra charges herself; she called him an old skinflint bastard; he called her a wilfully decadent baggage stuffer). He filled it with a few clothes and anything he thought might be of use. His police issue gun was gone, no doubt taken by Jim, or some other Monolith spook. Dex went back to the kitchen, removed various hefty chopping blades from their diamond block, and wrapped them in clothing inside his case. But what he really needed was a pistol. No, a machine gun. No, a fucking rocket launcher!

  Plan. Plan. What to do?

  He had to appear to be playing ball, then disappear off the grid.

  But then what?

  Jim. It had to link back to Jim. Jim, the human policeman. The bastard knew what was happening. He knew where Dex’s wife and children were. So, it would just be a matter of gentle persuasion. Right?

  Dex stared down at the blade.

  He changed, pulling on muted green cargo pants and black boots. His wife always, always, mocked him about his insistence on taking his boots on holiday. Why in the name of arse, she would say, usually brandishing a chopping knife in his direction, would you want boots on the beach? Sex on the beach, I’ll grant you, but bloody big fat stomping army boots? Have you got a screw loose? A joker missing from the pack? But Dex would grind his teeth and thrust out his lower jaw and absolutely adamantly take his damn and bloody boots. They were a part of him. Comfortable. As much a part of Dexter Colls as his chest hair. And that’s what you got for years on the streets of London, walking the beat and beating the crims.

  Dex pulled on a long-sleeved dark top without any fashion insignia, something he’d brought along for the chilly nights (or so he reasoned) but now something which would be an aid to night-time subterfuge. Over this, despite the heat outside, he pulled on a brightly coloured orange and pink Hawaiian comedy shirt, the type of item he usually wore to PUF officer stag night drinking sessions.

  He moved to the bathroom mirror and looked at himself. His eyes bore dark rings, his brow was creased with stress, and there was no smile in his eyes. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of a small framed photograph of Molly and Toffee, and his heart leapt. It depicted both girls, their arms draped over one another, laughing. Katrina took it everywhere with her. Dex lifted it, slid off the back and removed the photograph. As he watched, slowly the photo dissolved into another image, of the girls in costumes on a sunny beach in Clearwater, Florida. This was Kodak Multi-Paper, and could display up to a thousand images. Katrina kept just three on it: the second image dissolved and became the four of them, sat around a table for Molly’s seventh birthday. There was a cake in the shape of a princess (with black hair, moody eyes, black fingernails and mosh boots - a kind of anti-princess) and sparklers sparkled and they were all laughing. Good times. The best of times. Happy times. Dex folded the paper and tucked it inside his shirt. His face went grim and he straightened, looking at the door. He touched the hilt of the knife in his belt, under his brightly coloured vomit shirt.

  Time to go to work, he thought.

  ~ * ~

  The trip to the Shuttle Port was an uneventful one. In the taxi (an automated one this time; Dex didn’t relish the prospect of killing another taxi driver) he was deposited at the loading ramps, and he moved through into the first waiting lounge, taking his time, eyeing up everybody he passed. There were thousands of people checking into desks, which were moving swiftly, fluidly. Theme Planet prided itself on not fucking its customers about. Their bureaucracy was a well-oiled machine; their organisation second to none.

  Dex found a ticket office, and booked a one-way flight to Earth. He charged it to his Bastards Inc. credit card. This was a credit card company that at least acknowledged their position in the universe. “Leave it to us,” ran their marketing motto, “and we’ll do the best to let you fuck yourself up!” It was a novel approach to advertising - Tell It How It Is. Dex had to admit it, he admired their balls.

  “Is there a reason for your unexpected departure? And is there any reason Mrs Colls and the children aren’t accompanying you back to Earth?” asked the Shuttle Booking staffer.

  “Yes. My father’s ill, back on Earth. I’m rushing back to help look after him. We didn’t see the point of upsetting the children; they may as well enjoy the rest of their vacation.”

  The provax’s bright eyes fixed on him for a few moments, and Dex thought he caught a hint of... disbelief? Then she smiled a dazzling smile with ruby lips and ivory teeth, and handed him the ticket.

  “Have a safe journey, Mr Colls. And the whole of Theme Planet will be thinking of your predicament. Hope your father gets well soon.”

  “Thank you,” he said, thinking it’d take a fucking miracle. He’s been under the fucking soil for twenty years.

  Dex moved into the toilets and, when locked safely in a cubicle, removed the rest of the knives. Another went down his pants, and one down the back of each boot. Happy now the luggage was empty, he returned and checked in his luggage, surrendering his passport in the process. Fuck it, he thought. I won’t be needing that anymore, anyway. I’m either leaving Theme Planet illegally, with Kat and the girls in tow... or I’m leaving in a fucking body bag.

  Dex moved to the fast food hub, and hung around for a while, observing the bustle. Many security guards passed him, their machine guns and RPGs gleaming with the gleam of the fanatically polished. But not one guard looked at him. No glances. No glint of recognition in feverish eyes. Did that mean his description hadn’t been circulated? Or were they just damn fine actors?

  No. They’re playing it low-key now, thought Dex. But he knew. At some point, a hit was going to come. When did they plan it? And he smiled. Of course. The minute he got back to Earth, the minute he left the Shuttle Port in London. That way, he was Earth’s fucking problem. Just another dead pig.

  Well, this piggy’s going kicking and screaming all the way to the bank. Or at least, the morgue.

  This little piggy’s going to fuck up the whole damn show.

  Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger stand was a bustling powerhouse of activity. Huge industrial conveyor belts of burgers were manned by what appeared, to Dex, to be hundreds of spotty teenage burger-eating rejects. He grinned. He fucking hated Porky Pauper’s, but he could see his hole.

  After all, he didn’t dare go any further through security. Not with his personal arsenal of knives...

  Dex sidled closer to Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger stand, then moved to the menu, casting what looked like a detailed eye over the burgers. Fat Burger, Double Fat Burger, Fatty Fat Burger, Mega Fatty Fat Fuck Burger, Whopping Fat Fucking Fat Fatty Crappy Fat Fat Burger... the list went on and on.

  One of the staff passed him, a young man (human) of perhaps only nineteen years. He wore a badge which read Benjamin Leadhead. He headed for the toilets, and Dex followed him, straight in, towards the cubicle, and Benjamin Leadhead was just loosening his fat belt around the fat waist of his sweaty fat joggers, when he turned to shut the cubicle door and realised somebody else was standing there.

  “What the...”

  Dex’s fist hit him square on the nose, and Leadhead stumbled back, sitting on the toilet and adopting a state of unconsciousness. “Sorry, mate,” muttered Dex, taking the apron and cap (depicting a Whopping Fat Fucking Fat Fatty Crappy Fat Fat Burger, with all its sauce and drippings) and closed the door. Going into the next stall, he stood on the toilet, reached over - grunting as he stretched - and flicked shut the lock, with a tiny bleep.

  Dex pulled on the apron - which was a little too big
, but hell, nobody would notice - and placed the cap on his head. It stunk of fatty fat burgers. Whistling, Dex left the toilets and headed for Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger stand, where he walked confidently through the Staff Only door and down the aisle of busy burger workers. Nobody challenged him, too busy were the Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger staff at their jobs, and he walked all the way past the huge conveyor until he reached the back door. This led out into a series of corridors, all grey and anonymous. Dex smiled. Now, he was in the Shuttle Port’s innards.

  He moved with care, trusting his sense of direction and heading down. After a while he heard the clanking of machinery, and homed in on the noise, still wearing his Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger outfit as a disguise.

  Luggage conveyors, he thought.

  Exit.

  ~ * ~

  They were seated around the table. Toffee hadn’t been born, and Molly was only two, her face the innocent face of an angel. She was currently tucking into a bowl of “mash,” with a little butter, and for which she had invented her favourite name.

  “Go on,” urged Dex, “say Molly.”

  “Molla” grinned Molly, face covered in mashed potato.

  “What are you eating, Molly?”

  “Is good,“ said Molly.

  “What is it?”

  “Mash unyinyin. “

  Dex and Kat laughed in pleasure, as if their genius daughter had just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

  “Mash unyinyin?” continued Dex.

  “Is good! Mash unyinyin! Mash unyinyin mash unyinyin mashunyinyin!” Getting excited, Molly started mashing her spoon into the mash unyinyin and laughing as it exploded everywhere, covering Kat’s silky black dress and Dexter’s PUF uniform. He grimaced; then grinned again.

  “You little monster!”

  “NO! DADDA MONSTA!”

  Kat raised her eyebrows, as if to say, well, you bloody trained her! You bloody started it! You can deal with the lunatic child, you mad, bad, Daddy unyinyin!

  ~ * ~

  “Mash unyinyin,” muttered Dex. He could smell fresh air. Where had that come from? That perfect moment? That illustration of a simple time, a simple life which had once been his and had been stolen away in the blink of an eye when his back was turned?

  Somebody’s going to pay, he thought.

  And if they’ve been harmed?

  The whole fucking planet will pay.

  He continued towards the clanking sounds, eyes narrowed, hand on the knife in his belt. It was simple, solid, reassuring. Not as good as a Kekra quad-barrel machine pistol, he’d be the first to admit, but a damn sight better than fucking nothing.

  He came to a simple steel door, and peered around the frame. The sunshine was bright, his view of the runway restricted by concrete buildings. The clanking was loud now, and he could see a wide rubber conveyor, travelling in loops and delivering luggage into an untidy pile on the concrete. There was nobody about. So much for fucking Shuttle Port security, hey? Dex could have had a riot rooting through people’s luggage and stealing shit, or planting bombs. Nice.

  He looked around for cameras. There were none - or none he could see.

  He back-tracked and tried a side door, peering into a long, low cupboard holding a veritable orgy of cleaning utensils, along with various industrial vacuum and polishing machines. There were cleaning drones, immobile and dark, parked in recharging sockets. They looked suspiciously to Dex like inactive killing machines, just waiting to slip out blades and begin an onslaught of carnage. But they weren’t. Or at least, weren’t yet.

  Dex removed his burgerman disguise and his colourful Hawaiian shirt, folded them neatly, and stashed them at the back of a shelf behind some boxes. Now, dressed in cargo pants, boots and a long-sleeved dark top, he stood out less. He closed the door, moved back to the luggage conveyor, breathing in the fresh warm air and for the first time, really feeling like he was free. Free. Free of being watched, free of spies and shackles.

  He walked around the building, keeping close to the wall but moving with a casual, steady gait. No sneaking. That was the quickest way to rouse suspicion. The sunlight was bright, but Dex had lost his shades somewhere in the past twenty four hours.

  Dex followed the various contours of the huge building and its annexes, and as he rounded another corner he came to a mesh fence, which he scaled with ease. He landed lightly on the other side, and followed the wall once more. Around another corner, and he saw a field of parked groundcars, sunlight gleaming from polished bodywork and gleaming glass.

  A ride. Perfect.

  Dex found the nearest car, a sleek Honda, and was amazed to find the door open. He stepped into it, sank into the seat, had a look around the ignition for something he could interfere with, and on a whim hit the starter. The engine fired immediately, purring with a gentle hum.

  No security. No security at all!

  Dex grinned to himself. Why was he so surprised? There was damn near no crime. In which case, why the hell had there been so many cops? The station had been crawling worse than an anthill full of sugar! What the hell were they all doing, these upholders of the law? Prevention? Training? Or something more sinister?

  He eased the Honda backwards, then purred along the wide road. It was racetrack smooth.

  Damn. Even the roads were perfect.

  Dex was starting to hate this place.

  ~ * ~

  The blocky, angular building across the road from the police station was a Spoofatex Restaurant, selling the best in “Authentic Galactically Spoofafied Cuisine.” Dex had crept around the back, stood on the AI garbage cans (which moaned and griped constantly about their stinking, humming contents), leapt and caught the bottom of a roof inspection ladder, then hauled himself up onto the flat roof, where his boots left imprints in the soft tar. Creeping behind the lip, he kept himself low and peered over the rim at the police station, watching the marble steps up which he had travelled (although that little incident felt like a lifetime ago) and down which he had sprinted.

  How long did he have? Before they realised he was missing?

  Dex chewed his lower lip, spied an old plastic bucket, and dragged it over to the edge of the roof. He settled on the filthy container, chin on hand, the sun beating down on him like an alien hammer against an anvil. His dark eyes watched the doors like a predator weighing up its prey, waiting for Jim to emerge, his mind twisting and turning things over and over, picturing first the face of Katrina, sweet Katrina, her spiky black hair, elegant features, port-red lips; then Molly, dark eyes, dark hair, sombre expression, always ready with a negative comment but hey, that’s just the way she was, as dark as Dexter had been when he was younger; then Toffee, bright as a bowl of summer petals, her laughter infectious, a permanent smile creasing pretty young features. How the ladies in the everythingmarket used to stop him, and fondle her hair, and scratch under her chin and make cooing noises because she was so pretty, so delightful.

  Dex craved a cigarette, the first in a long, long time.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and his impatience was an alien in his chest, beating to get out. His disappointment was a discovered love letter from another man. His frustration was a premature ejaculation.

  “Damn you all,” he growled, and glanced up at the sun, at an alien sun, and yet it felt so normal, felt like Earth. Part of the con, he realised. Part of the sick trick. No wonder Theme Planet did so fucking well. It was the perfect location; exotic, but not too exotic. Foreign, but not too foreign. Ideal for wannabe adventurers who really didn’t want an adventure. It’s fake, he realised. The whole fucking place, the whole fucking thing is fake. Fake experiences, fake rides, fake thrills, fake adventures. Even on Adventure Central, the climbs up the Skycloud Mountains, the rides down the Death Rapids, exploration in the Lost Dunes, searching for treasure in the Caves of Hades... all constructed adventures, all manufactured experiences. None of it was real. None of it was genuine. Not like this. Here. Now.

  Dex watched the police station. Th
ere was absolutely no indication there had been a violent shoot-out on the marble steps involving Theme Planet’s finest law enforcers. Dex narrowed his eyes, once again suspicious. Everything was just too neat, too perfect, too damn clean.

  As Dex waited, fuming gently, he analysed himself. A few bruises and a spinning mind seemed his only injuries. And his knuckles. They hurt like a motherfucker. They always did.

  The sun crawled across the sky. In the distance, children squealed in pleasure and wheels rumbled on tracks. The fake pleasure of the Theme Planet really started to grate on Dex’s nerves. It was all created. All fake. All false. An ersatz world.

  A groundcar pulled up, and five provax police piled out, running up the steps. They left the motor running, modest fumes phutting from gleaming exhaust pipes.