Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Not that there was much chance of the neocrete-armoured shell laid under the office block actually being tested by a direct assault. Nor was a determined siege very probable. And this was because the bunker was little more than a grownup's toy - albeit a toy that had to work to be a proper toy. And it had to have a lot of extra features as well, the sort of features the owner could play with while be waited for enemy action. So it did. It had a military-type galactic holomap room, and an imposing armoury and shooting range. And there were some very military-type, armoured block doors, which could be activated instantaneously to seal off separate parts of the bunker. Then there was the not so entirely military weather-chamber where the user could enjoy a choice of weather with appropriate scenery from anywhere in the universe. And there was the entirely unmilitary suite of bathers. And there was a most impressive kitchen. This was close to the entrance to the bunker - down a short flight of stairs from the office above. In fact, at the opposite end of the bunker complex to where Lysaars had his office, and where a furious looking Madeleine Maiden was now being led through the door by an impassive looking Doggerbat…

  'You bastard!' she shouted, as soon as she appeared. 'You rotten fat bastard. If you know what's good for you, you'll let me go now. This very minute. Or…'

  'Or what, Miss Maiden? You'll burst through your bindings and attack me? Even though Doggerbat is standing at your shoulder there with his pipil in his hand? No, I don't think so, Miss Maiden. I think instead…'

  'I don't care what you think, you fat freak. In case you've forgotten, I'm a police officer, and my absence will not go unnoticed. It can't do. In fact…'

  'Oh, do be quiet, Miss Maiden. And please stop referring to my generous physique in such a horribly insulting manner. As well as being politically incorrect it's very unfair… Some of us can't help the shape we are, you know. It's in our genes and…'

  '…and I couldn't give a fig, you great dumpling. I just want you to get me back to Ioda. Immediately. And without any more of that pipil stuff.'

  Lysaars was now bemused as well as angry. How could this woman here be so aggressive and so un-cowed by her situation? Did she not know how much trouble she was in? Had it not yet occurred to her that she was about to undergo a rather dangerous procedure? Had she no sense at all?

  Well, he would show her. Forget the planned interrogation. She was so bloody bolshie she'd probably not answer any questions about Tenting anyway. She'd rather just keep referring to his comfortable proportions - in that deeply offensive way of hers. So forget the interrogation entirely, and get on with the unremembering. Now. Without any further delay. And without any misgivings at all. It was, after all, no more than she deserved…

  And so he started. He already had the equipment in his room, and he had Doggerbat and his pipil to help him. And within just a minute, Madeleine Maiden was silent at last, and the process was underway. It would take about thirty minutes for the implant stage and then about seven days for the implant to do its work. And if he'd got it right, seven days for this strident young lady to forget a great deal more than just her manners.

  29.

  Just as Doggerbat had been leading Madeleine into Lysaars' lair, Renton's nose had been detecting a faint but distinct food smell. He had slipped into the virtually deserted office block through an open window, and was now in a passage near the bunker entrance - and therefore not that far from the bunker kitchen.

  He crept to the top of the bunker stairs and peered down the stairwell. There wasn't much to see, but he could smell that food smell, even stronger than before. So he descended the stairs. He penetrated that bunker more easily than if he'd been a thermic device. And he wasn't even aware it was a bunker.

  Then, as he approached the foot of the stairs, he saw a long, thin corridor, with a number of doors down either side. The first of these was open, and out of the opening drifted a stronger food smell. He stepped down towards it and then through it. He was now in the kitchen.

  It was a large kitchen. More the sort you would find in a modern space freighter than in the basement of a drab-looking office block. And it was stacked with every conceivable cooking device you could imagine, and with all sorts of culinary machines - some recognizable, some mysterious. There were monster pots, giant pans, countless knives - and peelers and scrapers and stirrers and whisks… There was, in fact, everything you could possibly want in a kitchen. But there was no food. At least no food was visible.

  'It must be in here somewhere,' thought Renton. 'I can smell it. But where is it?'

  He looked around and saw a large panel of buttons. He approached the panel and saw that each button had an intricate symbol inscribed in its centre. Some of these symbols were obscure, but others were not. One of them was definitely a banana. He touched the button bearing this particular inscription and there was a little whirring sound. Then a square of the kitchen wall opened to reveal a banana.

  'Ah, and two touches for two bananas?' he thought.

  The banana was consumed as he examined more of the symbols. And soon he'd grasped what more of them meant, and how, by pressing more than just one button at a time, various combinations of food could be coaxed from the wall - prepared in any way that took your fancy.

  And so, before long, he'd furnished himself with a beautiful sliced beef and alfalfa sandwich, and after that, a ginger syllabub with ogen melon and serissa fruit. And he was just beginning to wonder whether any of the other facilities in the kitchen were ever used when goodies such as these were so easily available, when he had another thought. And this thought was for a drink. And a proper drink. Not more ruddy tap water.

  He explored the panel again. There were no drink buttons. There must be another panel.

  He walked to the back of the kitchen and found one. But it was unlike the first. It was behind a clear plastic shield and its buttons were without symbols. Instead they each had a set of initials or a single letter. On the top row there was a “B” an “L” a “GT” and a “CS”.

  'Uhm,' he thought. 'Beer, lemonade, gin and tonic, and Campari and soda? Uhm, it could be.'

  Well, it wasn't quite the right time for an aperitif, but Renton's mouth needed a shot of astringency, and a dose of Campari would fit the bill perfectly. He opened the shield and touched the “CS” button. He looked for a section of wall to open or a tap to emerge or something to happen. But nothing did.

  He wasn't surprised. This wasn't a drinks panel. It was too unlike the first one. And all he'd done was to be completely stupid, and more than likely he'd set something off somewhere.

  He was half right. He had set something off somewhere, but he'd been more inspired than stupid.

  “CS” was not the symbol for Campari and soda but the designation “Corridor South”, and it meant the location of the particular armoured block door that the button controlled. It was just down the corridor from the kitchen.

  The inspirational aspect of touching the button was in part to do with the location of the door - but more to do with the timing.

  Lysaars had completed the implant stage of the unremembering of Madeleine. This she would unremember immediately, and over the next few days she would be entirely unaware that the implant was at work in her brain. And therefore all that remained to be done now was to confine her for this further period - in her bedroom prison. This was a room off the bunker corridor close to the kitchen.

  And to take her there, Lysaars had called for a guard. His name was Lincoln. And Lincoln would be ideal for this simple escort duty. He was unimaginative but reliable and trustworthy.

  He could certainly be trusted to perform the job in hand. Or at least he could have been in the absence of inspiration combined with insect intervention. He met both on his way back to Madeleine's bedroom.

  He had just entered the main corridor and was following his prisoner just one pace behind. Within one single second, a Crabbsbab gnat had flown into his left eye causing him to blink, Renton's button-touching had sent the Corridor South block do
or rocketing from its recess in the wall - slicing the air between Lincoln and his female charge - and Lincoln's head had met the door's surface at sufficient speed to render him instantly unconscious. He slumped to the floor.

  On the other side of the armoured door, Madeleine leaped forward, stopped, turned round and learned what it was to gasp in amazement.

  Renton heard nothing of this. He had settled for a drink of tap water and was about to resume his search. He returned to the kitchen door, stopped and listened. He heard nothing. Then he eased his head around its frame to check that the corridor was empty. He met Madeleine's gaze just six inches from his own. He was shocked rigid. So, it appeared, was Madeleine. Seconds passed before either of them could speak. Then Renton did.

  'Miss Maiden, fancy bumping into you.'

  'What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I was looking for you.'

  'You're kidding. How in heaven's name did you…?'

  'Look,' interrupted Renton, 'I don't know quite what's going on here, but I think we ought to make ourselves scarce pretty damn quickly. Then we'll have time for a chat.'

  He took her by the hand and pulled her in the direction of the stairs.

  'Come on, this way,' he said. 'I know where we can find a few vats.'

  A look of horror passed over Madeleine's face - but her hand stayed in his all the same.

  30.

  Lysaars considered the power he wielded, the enormous resources at his disposal - built up over years of effort and years of toil. He had agents and contacts throughout the universe, assassins, spies - and any number of thugs and villains, all at his beck and call. He could buy people. He could extinguish people. He might be an unknown, slightly overweight thing now… 'But just you wait and see…'

  Yes, all those puny insignificant people out there… well, they'd soon learn a thing or two. And not least that they had a giant in their midst, an almighty goliath of a man, an irresistible force. 'Yes, just you wait…'

  But Tenting, and now this damn Maiden woman. How could these minnows, these insects, these particles, these things that were as nothing compared to him, threaten his dreams? And how dare they threaten his dreams? Well, unremembering was too good for them. And that was for sure. Hell, he was only doing it to keep D'Kemba happy, anyway. But not any more, he wasn't. It might take a little more papering over, a little more duplicity and a little more deception - but no matter, he would kill them. Yes, he would kill them. They deserved nothing else.

  He, the mighty Lysaars, had stooped to help them. He'd taken an interest in their affairs. He'd even spent some of his own time on their… well, on their “arrangements”, some time he could ill afford. And what had they done? They'd thrown sand in his face. That's what they'd done. They'd treated him like a fool. And all so ungraciously. What was the universe coming to? Full of ungrateful yobbos and couthless young louts.

  'Well you just wait, Mr Tenting. When you and your very rude girlfriend are tracked down and captured again - and you will be - you'll be for it. And I mean you'll be for it like you've never been be-for-it before!'

  He picked up a heavy jug of iced pepperwater that sat on his desk. Then he heaved it at the work of art of incomparable quality on the bunker office wall. The jug shattered, spraying its gingery contents over the entire surface of the masterpiece. The effect was arguably an improvement, but Lysaars' art-appreciation knob was turned to “off” at the moment, and all he saw was destruction wreaked on something he had grown to hate… 'And very soon, you two scumbags, you will share the same fate.'

  He grinned horribly and turned to Doggerbat who was busying himself with a little nervous cowering in a far corner of the office. 'Doggerbat, my faithful companion, Doggerbat, please give me a report on the disposition of our young stalwarts. What are they all doing this fine day?'

  Doggerbat gulped. 'Uhm, you want to know what everybody's doing, Mr Lysaars?'

  'Yes, Doggerbat. What precisely are the various members of our happy team up to today? Are they all busy?'

  'Oh yes, yes, Mr Lysaars. Now let me see. Well, we're still combing the spaceport and we're spreading out, you know, in a wider circle. Uhh, but no luck yet. And we've got a party in the compound, still checking everything. But I think… well, I think she's got away. So we've got about a hundred or so searching outside. I mean, cos she can't have got that far. Not on her own.'

  'And what of our responsibilities to our faithful milk drinkers, dear Doggerbat? We are, I hope, not neglecting our prized customers?'

  'No, no, Mr Lysaars. We've got about forty handling and decanting.'

  'Good, good, Doggerbat.'

  Lysaars had the attitude of a happy drunk, Doggerbat of a blindfolded man waiting to be hit by a heavy blunt instrument.

  'And milking, Doggerbat? Are we attending to the milking as we should be?'

  'Yes, oh yes, Mr Lysaars. I reckoned we could spare six people. So we've got three milkers going out this morning. I think three's enough. I mean, I think so anyway…'

  'Yes, three's fine, Doggerbat. Three's just dandy. Well done, Doggerbat. You seem to have everything in hand. I'm very impressed - and most reassured.'

  And at this point Lysaars beamed at his nervous assistant in a way that was guaranteed to unnerve him even more. And then he went on.

  'Now Doggerbat, could you get me some more pepperwater. I seem to have dropped the jug. And while you're at it, bring me the oefedge cabinet. And make sure it's full.

  'And when you've done that you can go away. I need to do some more thinking. I need to think about our Mr Tenting and his lady. I need to think about how to entertain them when they rejoin us. Ah Doggerbat, when they return to the fold, eh?'

  Lysaars sniggered and then he threw his laserade at the ruined painting.

  Doggerbat slunk out of the office to find someone to deliver the pepperwater and the oefedge cabinet. He would occupy himself with other things. Lysaars was clearly not a man to be with today. And heaven help them - all of them - if they didn't find at least one of those interfering little buggers - and pretty damn soon.

  Back in his office, Lysaars was dusting the much-improved work of art with the tip of an antique paper knife. It was the first time it had been used for anything useful in centuries.

  31.

  Renton had sometimes fantasized about being trapped in a constricted space with an attractive young woman, but the experience in reality was anything but fantastic. When the constricted space was dark, cold, and smelled of milk, it had very little going for it at all. And when the attractive young woman was at best unresponsive and at worst positively prickly, it had nothing to recommend it whatsoever.

  It was the morning of Renton's second day on Crabbsbab. He and a plainly resentful Madeleine were updating each other on all that had happened since they'd been torn from the normality of their lives. They were doing this in whispers - in a side-tank of one of those turntable jobbies…

  They had attempted to escape the compound the previous evening, but without success. Renton's run of luck had deserted him just a little too early. The compound entrance was gated and there was a guard mounted. The corrugated plastic wall with its chicken-wire topping was just too high to scale. And Lysaars' men were everywhere. The comatose Lincoln had been found shortly after his descent from the vertical, and a general alarm had been raised immediately. The pair of fugitives were well and truly trapped in their enemy's stronghold. There was only one thing to do, the thing that Renton was coming to equate with having an adventure: secrete oneself in whatever convenient container first comes to hand - the “conceal and confound” principle of adventuring.

  As they both had something of an aversion to paint vats, and as the shiny cylindrical containers were without adventurer-sized holes, it had to be a side-tank on one of those strange looking vehicles. They'd been able to squeeze in through a small trapdoor in the top of the tank, and they now sat wedged in their new home, a more spacious affair than Renton's suitcase, but still too narrow to rank as
ideal accommodation.

  Their mutual debriefing had now lasted some time. It had been an oddly clinical affair, with every indication from Madeleine that she was more annoyed than ever that Renton had got her into this situation in the first place, and more than a little irritated that he'd now intervened in the way he had. There was certainly no gratitude there. Or at least none was apparent. And this despite Renton's, in his mind, heroic efforts. Which did little to encourage other than resentment in his mind as well - and hence the cold, clinical nature of their exchange - in their cold, clinical surroundings.

  If he'd given it a bit more thought, then maybe he could have been just a little more sympathetic to his companion's situation. After all, he was indeed the architect of her entrapment - and of her current location in this horrible tank thing. But he just hadn't given it enough consideration. Remiss of him really, but there'd been just so many other things going on recently. Distractions were everywhere. And here were two more of them - just turning up. Renton had heard them approaching. And then he heard them speaking.

  'I'll drive,' said the first distraction.

  'Ses who?' replied the second.

  'Ses me. I'm not letting you near that wheel again.'

  There then followed a disgustingly long sniff.

  Renton thought that this was probably the work of the adamant driver rather than that of his indignant challenger. It seemed more designed to draw a line under a discussion that was now at an end than to prepare for a renewed challenge. He was right; the only other utterance was a distasteful grunt of resignation from the plainly unsuccessful would-be driver.

  The scuffing of boots on the warehouse floor was now the only indication of where the newly arrived distractions were and where they were going. They seemed to Renton to be very close. But possibly, just possibly they could be going away. But no, they were closer again. Then one of them was extremely close. Renton could hear his clothes rustling.