At twelve years old and almost double the height he’d been during an unseemly arrival locked in the boot of a limousine, Tuesday now had access to live roosters and was able to stage his beloved cockfights in the safety of the Warden's office after nightfall, though explaining the piles of bird poo took some tricky manoeuvring. Tuesday made a small fortune in cigarettes, ration slips and Amerikan pounds, and was eventually able to open a casino behind the toilets on Level 97. As these were the bogs for the under-fours, nobody in their right mind ever went in there, especially the cleaners, and so it was a simple matter to scale the mountain of nappies, slip behind the potties and slide through a large gap for a flutter between the pipes. Tuesday's floor had Craps, Blackjack, Spin the Bottle and Ruska Roulette (this involved a powerful firecracker with a short fuse and two teenage boys wearing blindfolds). Business was good, and it only got better.
Tuesday was running a big part of this miserable hell-hole by the time he hit his teenage years, and eventually accrued enough raw currency to buy an intelligent sewing machine of his very own. This meant he'd be able to produce his own toys, and keep some of the profits. Although the Warden raised an eyebrow when the scruffy teen held out a wad of green Amerikan pounds and gave a brown smile, the Warden took Tuesday’s cash and gestured to a keycard for the storage rooms.
“It better have dings and scratches on it, or it's your ass, Tuesday.”
Tuesday hired a fellow teen on a full-time basis to watch his machine churn out Mister Drizzle stuffed toys, then sold them back to The Dream Factory for a tenth of their worth. The employee's name was Brian, but there were three other details that were far more important than what he was called: Brian was from a high-gravity world, he’d broken more jaws than any other four inmates put together, and he was loyal for very little payment. Life had been so busy that Tuesday totally forgot that Brian was the same kid he’d insulted just after Orientation, but Brian had never mentioned it.
Now that he owned a sewing machine and had Brian to keep him safe, Tuesday finally had the legitimate financial cover he required to go all out with his illicit business ventures and the muscle to back it up.
At fifteen, Tuesday mortgaged his own cell, as well as three others in both directions. His loft had a paper-thin television, an auto-adjusting leather lounge guaranteed to be made from non-human materials, and even a butler...though admittedly, the latter was just Brian with a black bowtie and a little cap. Tuesday got the Warden's approval to have carpet bolted into the concrete for comfort reasons, but he secretly used the shagpile to hold his excess cash, as well as his two greatest treasures: the Densite-tipped drill bit he’d smuggled in behind his ear six years ago, and his Dad’s trusty Zippo lighter, which had been brought in via a less comfortable method. Tuesday's plush cell became a place where all the high rollers hung out.
Tuesday was an entrepreneur, a natural when it came to surviving where only the biggest scumbag ruled. He grew to become a ruthless, nasty, conniving ferret. If things had kept up, Tuesday would have owned the entire planet by the time he reached thirty. However, running this hellhole was a pyramid scheme, which meant that for Tuesday to be on top of the pile many, many others had to be beneath his boots. And when people are being stepped on, you can always rely on them to eventually cause trouble. Of course, the teenagers of Cell Block Preschool were nothing like the adult head-cases that officially ran this planet, so killing somebody, even someone as reviled as Tuesday, was out of the question. Modern forensics meant that murder was only committed by morons or the very well-trained, and it was barely considered as an option before being dismissed. Dobbing Tuesday in for his crimes wouldn’t help, as the Warden was just one of the many officials being paid to keep away from Tuesday’s business ventures. But there had to be some way to make him slip up, to do something that was beyond negotiations...
It soon became obvious. They'd trick Tuesday into breaking the highest taboo of The Dream Factory, something that would never, ever be tolerated: escaping.
*
At seventeen years of age, Tuesday was sleek as a ferret's spine and shiftier than a socket wrench set. He'd survived and thrived where many others had broken and died, and business was good.
And then one secret changed everything.
Tuesday was informed by one of his best spies that a military fleet called The Salvation By Fire had been sent in the direction of The Dream Factory by The Unison's military high command, and Tuesday could tell by the name alone that they weren't likely to be in the mood for casual negotiations over a Chai latte. The Dream Factory was a world that had been rogue for decades, and every day that it continued to spin without the ultimate rule of The Unison being enforced upon it was a slap in the face to the entirety of mankind's empire. If it meant that The Unison had to bomb Cell Block Preschool down to a fine powder with everyone inside to prove why it shouldn’t be defied, then they wouldn't hesitate to press those big red buttons. Subtlety was not The Unison's strong point.
Of course, Tuesday was far too selfish to repeat these expensive facts to anybody else. Anything that may affect his chances of survival was always an instant enemy. So, within ninety minutes of hearing this news, Tuesday and his personal assistant Brian were about to become the first slaves to break out of Cell Block Preschool in three quarters of a century.
*
It was time. They had fifteen minutes until the next patrol went past.
Tuesday wordlessly gave a motion in Brian's direction, and the thug effortlessly moved Tuesday's bulky automated sewing machine with a grunt. Tearing up the carpet to retrieve his long-hidden Densite drill bit, Tuesday quickly ripped out the sewing machine’s standard needle-holder, installed a custom-made fitting and pointed Brian at the back wall of his cell.
Brian thud-thud-thudded across the room.
Their jury-rigged pneumatic drill effortlessly carved a two-foot-thick hole in the shape of Mister Drizzle with one button press, and within fifteen seconds Tuesday and Brian were ankle-deep in a urine drainage pit and ready to punch through the next slab of concrete. Continuing in a direction that Tuesday had memorised from his childhood travels through the ventilation system, Brian hefted the powerful drill down a maintenance tunnel and, soon, they had drilled Mister Drizzles through another five walls.
No alarms went off.
No razor dogs were released.
Guards didn’t come running.
And it wasn’t even raining.
This was a much lamer escape than Tuesday had anticipated.
Tuesday carefully brandished a pair of sewing clippers by their rubber grips. Unlike your average garden-variety shears, Tuesday had smuggled in enough sharpening chemicals to give his clippers a wickedly-keen monomolecular edge. A series of electrified chicken-wire fences offered no resistance at all, simply parting as though they'd been sliced by a lightsaber. Within another minute they were outside the official borders of Cell Block Preschool and sliding through the mud.
Automated spotlights flickered on at Tuesday's passing, almost brushing his left foot, but the sentry robots in charge of the scanners were too rusted and lazy to do anything about it. Little did the enslaved population of Cell Block Preschool know that they were actually imprisoned by their own fears, rather than by actual killbots.
“Where?” Brian asked in his curt manner.
“Toy Mountain.” Tuesday grunted.
Every kid knew about the endless hunger of Toy Mountain's industrial furnaces. Although the smokestacks kept everyone on the planet from freezing to death, the place was still horrible beyond words: a constant stream of happy, fluffy cartoon characters were fed into its flaming maws at all hours, and only the unluckiest of child slaves had the thankless job of feeding these fires with charcoaled shovels. Cremating these toys may have served to boil all their hot water and kept a multitude of clapped-out heaters working throughout the eternal Winter of this world, but still...they were killing Mister Drizzle a billion times over!
Brian looked confused, b
ut this was his role. Tuesday was the brains, and Brian was the one who blindly dragged a thirty-kilogram illegally-modified sewing machine through urine drainage pits. He drooled a little and followed up on his original question.
“Why?”
Tuesday sniffed. He hated people not doing what they were told, especially when he was the one doing the telling.
“Look, I don't have time to explain everything. I need the Warden's car, which is currently in the panel-beating shop at the base of Toy Mountain, and then I need somebody to drive me all the way to the shuttle pad.”
“But-”
“Quiet, Brian. Just do as you’re told. Now look, I brought along a little something I've been saving,” Tuesday pulled up his black guard's armour and revealed why he was having problems fitting through the Mister Drizzle-shaped holes: Tuesday had the better part of twenty thousand Amerikan pounds in large notes strapped to his body. It was a true wonder nobody had noticed those huge lumps in his carpet, but that was no longer a concern. “So we steal the car, hit the nearest port, bribe a rocket-jock, get off at some hive of scum and villainy, and start again. We can climb back up the ranks somewhere better, somewhere more profitable.”
Keeping to the shadows, both teens did a low roadie-run across layers of rejected toys. The plushies had been discarded due to little issues like asbestos stuffing, toxic stains, parasitic infections and other charming flaws. Suddenly, Brian took a wrong step and disappeared with a bellow of surprise. One moment the thug was there, and the next he’d fallen through a false floor of empty Action Jack boxes.
Tuesday looked down into the pit and saw his partner in crime had landed on the modified sewing machine.
“Any damage, Brian?”
Brian patted his body.
“Don’t fink so. Feel okay.”
“No, you idiot, the drill! Is the drill okay?”
Brian went to pick up the sewing machine to check its condition, but it had already sunk too deep into the mire to be retrieved. Brian gave one final, massive tug, and only succeeded in accidentally ripping away its casing with an explosion of rust. Mad as he was right now, Tuesday was glad he’d never actually had a fight with Brian, as the older kid would have pounded his head like a clam.
“All sunk.” Brian tried to raise a foot and failed. It took another couple of failed lurches for him to become fully aware of the situation. “An' I'm sinking, too!”
Tuesday sighed and looked around for anything useful. He spent a couple of minutes gathering Missus Stretchee action figures and tying their flexi-arms into a rough rope, but after throwing one end down the hole Tuesday realised that Brian weighed a heck of a lot more than he did. Digging in both jackboots until he sunk up to his ankles, Tuesday finally attached the Missus Stretchee dolls around the knees of an adult-sized Android Andy that had been buried upside down to its waist.
Brian had only just climbed over the cusp of the pit when a skimmer shrieked overhead. As the burning vehicle was only three metres above the ground, its wake knocked both teenagers flying. Tuesday and Brian splashed into the deep, black mud with serious force and lay very still and very silent.
A good twenty seconds passed before Tuesday finally moaned.
Tuesday and Brian eventually got to their feet again, and even had the presence of mind to check for injuries. Nothing serious, thankfully. Looking nervously back and forth at the long line of charcoaled toys that plotted the damaged skimmer’s final crash-course, Brian gaped a little.
“What's with that?” he asked stupidly.
Tuesday had gotten a pretty good look at the skimmer when it had almost crashed into his freaking face, and without a second thought he sprinted along the burning line and over a crest of Mister Drizzles. Brian yelled and lumbered after the faster boy, trying to keep up as best as his webbed toes would allow. Over the small hill, the skimmer had crashed pathetically into a bog of bubbling, smoking sludge.
“What are you doing?” Brian demanded. “That's a guard skimmer, Tuesday!”
“I might know them,” Tuesday snapped over his shoulder.
Thinking as hard as his ferret mind could manage, Tuesday put together the clues. Firstly, there was a guard skimmer in flames, probably after being shot down, heading directly away from the direction of Cell Block Preschool. This either meant that word about the incoming invasion fleet from The Unison had spread and a few of the guys were desperate enough to brave the anti-air defence system, or the invasion had quietly begun.
Tuesday needed to know the answer.
Reaching the wreck, he found that there was nobody on board. Its teenage passengers - who were all dressed in guard uniforms - had all jumped clear at the last moment and were lying about, moaning and flailing weakly like you'd expect from proper crash victims. After a few moments Tuesday finally saw somebody he knew.
“Hey, it's rancid monkey cheese himself! How are you, Cheddar?” Tuesday asked with glee, looking down at the porky guard.
“Cheddar's” nickname had stuck fast for eight long years. Tuesday made sure to use it at every opportunity.
“Spug off, Tuesday.”
Tuesday held out a wrinkled pound note in a friendly way.
“What happened, Ched? What're all you idiots doing out here?”
Cheddar stared needles. It seemed unlikely that he was going to share anything at this rate.
“Come on. This may be the last conversation we ever have.” Tuesday smiled. “But if you don't want some pounds for the effort...well, I'm sure Brian may have something to offer you instead.”
Brian, right on cue, cracked his knuckles.
Tuesday offered Cheddar a contraband cigarette, and the stinky guard casually accepted it. Cheddar lit it on a small fire that had started on his shoulder armour and took a long drag.
“All right, fine. Me and the boys wanted out. Simple as that. Heard you were going, so we thought we'd grab you, torture your plans out of you, and do it ourselves. You're wearing a cash coat, right?”
Tuesday didn't comment straight away. Instead, he lit up a second smoke with his Dad's trusty Zippo lighter. There was a natural gas mine beneath Cell Block Preschool, and it had been easy enough to score a canister of the stuff to keep the Zippo topped up.
Tuesday resisted the urge to kick Cheddar in the head.
“And if I am?”
“Thought so. Going to bribe your way out, Tuesday? Maybe find a nice place to start over, some other hive of scum and villainy?”
Tuesday had heard enough. Using Cheddar's forehead as a convenient step, Tuesday hopped into the smouldering skimmer. He immediately started trying to hotwire the vehicle in the exact way that one of the naughtier kids had instructed (after a few bribes, of course), but like most tasks in life, Tuesday failed miserably.
Brian conveniently chose this moment to rattle the keys next to Tuesday's head. Snatching them without comment, Tuesday jammed both of the etched metal spikes into the correct slots and turned the ignition switch with a growl of antigrav wafers. It is worth noting that this was the first skimmer Tuesday had ever stolen, and this particular milestone in his criminal career was officially known as Grand Theft Aero.
Gesturing for Brian to take the wheel, Tuesday went about extinguishing some scattered fires with a Halon sprayer. Once he'd finally gotten the flames under control, Tuesday waved goodbye to the unfortunate previous occupants of the skimmer like a true smart-ass. The wind whipped through Tuesday's hair as his stolen ride lurched into the sky.
Behind them, Cell Block Preschool loomed into the air like a monolithic grey middle finger made of concrete. As usual, clouds consumed the upper storeys of the fortress. The red beams of laser guidance systems pointed out from it in every direction in warning, poking through multiple layers of electrified fencing, razor wire and spotlights. Tuesday spat at the fortress, ecstatic to finally be free of it.
Brian suddenly spun half a revolution and took off at full speed without any explanation or warning. Once he'd finished being violently sick over
the side of the skimmer, Tuesday began to scream at Brian to stay away from the heavily armed Cell Block. Brian pointed over his shoulder in a wordless response.
Tuesday looked back at what they were fleeing from: it was a smallish ship that looked like the result of a giant wasp mating with a Volkswagen. It was probably named after something poisonous, or maybe some sort of old-Earth predator. The most important fact was that the flyer was armed, which mean that it would have no trouble blasting their stolen skimmer into charcoal.
The interceptor came closer, and Tuesday could now see that the pilot was angrily gesturing for them to land, to stop this chase peacefully. Tuesday had come too far to do any such thing, and there was no way he was going to suffer the unspeakable penalty of Death By Power Sander for a failed escape.
The whirring turbines of the tiny assault ship came close enough for Tuesday to touch. Nodding at the pilot as though agreeing to stop, Tuesday calmly reached down, picked up an open toolbox laying by his feet, and tossed it into the turbine next to his head. Dozens of wrenches and screwdrivers were noisily sucked into the engines of the interceptor, and the turbine burped an explosion of smoke and fire. The considerable push from the assault ship’s only remaining turbine put it into a terminal spin, skewing a matter of centimetres from Tuesday’s scalp. The small craft tumbled over and slammed straight into the garbage tip of toys, bursting into flames on impact.
Scum of the Universe Page 9
