Door number four wasn't a cell like the other three areas. No, from what Tuesday could tell this dim, carpeted room was filled with lacquered wooden shelves that stretched into darkness, and unlike the bare chrome it was warm, colourful and inviting. Automatic lights snapped on the very moment Tuesday crossed the threshold, and a cascade of gentle ceiling-mounted glow panels flickered to life in a long chain to reveal that the room was at least a hundred metres long. Once Tuesday's eyes had adjusted to the light he could clearly see that the oak shelves had each been dedicated to holding random items, but he had trouble seeing their point or purpose. Each cubby hole contained ordinary things such as wallets full of assorted cards and varied denominations of German yen, women's purses, jewellery (mostly cheap stuff), shoes, hats, socks, combs, walking sticks, business card holders...weird. Tuesday didn't figure out what this place was until he saw a cubby that contained an orange school uniform, a battered backpack containing an old issue of Salacious Strumpets, a crumpled pack of chlorine-flavoured cigarettes and a Zippo lighter.
It was a trophy room.
Tuesday hurriedly slipped on his uniform and his shoes, pocketed the smokes and his Dad's favourite lighter, swung the schoolbag over one shoulder and stomped for the door. On second thoughts, Tuesday decided that all those yen were simply going to waste, and filled his tracksuit with as many crumpled notes as his pockets could hold.
Ignoring the two captives as they continued to scream abuse at him, Tuesday tried to open door number five in the same way as all the others, but rather than a new room he was greeted with an unfamiliar clunk noise that echoed all the way down the corridor. Testing the seam with a fingernail in confusion, Tuesday only realised that he'd tapped the wrong icon when the two captives staggered out of their cells and embraced him with tears in their eyes. Clearly, he'd just unlocked all their manacles without meaning to.
“You are the greatest man who ever lived in the history of mankind!” the first captive sobbed, dribbling and snuffling mucous all over Tuesday's collar. “I love you! I love you so much, man! I love you!”
Prisoner two simply dissolved into hysterical tears. It was beyond awkward.
Sighing, Tuesday continued to try and find his way out of this lair, but after another five minutes all he'd managed to do was set another twenty people free from their cells. The small crowd had become a scrum in short order, and the excited survivors danced, hugged each other in rapturous joy, and sobbed like slapped toddlers.
And then it finally happened: portal number twenty-four hissed and clunked and formed into a steep set of stairs. Daylight speared into Tuesday's eyeballs as the ceiling retracted into a slot. Pushing an elderly man out of the way in his haste, almost breaking a ninety-two-year-old hip in the process, Tuesday bolted up the stairs and found himself in very familiar surroundings. Looking around just to be sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, Tuesday discovered to his surprise that he was in his neighbour's backyard in the Welfare Sector.
He'd been living right next door to Prince Charming for weeks.
All the survivors had followed Tuesday up into the relatively fresh air, and on seeing precious, precious daylight they crowded around their incidental saviour and lifted him high. Tuesday snarled and slapped at the group until they finally put him down. Despite his grumpiness, the crowd continued to follow Tuesday and cry their undying love for him all the way to his front door. Slamming the portal in their faces so hard that the frame rattled and sprayed dust, Tuesday smoked a well-earned cig, found a furry piece of chocolate chicken pizza buried deep under the couch (how'd they always end up under there? One of the great mysteries of the Universe, that) and felt fifty tonnes of fatigue hit him like a bus. Yawning and curling up on the lounge, Tuesday decided that the rest of this day could get buggered.
Tuesday woke up to a low rumble. The noise told Tuesday's dim brain that either there were hordes of people yelling their heads off really close by, or every duck on the planet had migrated to his front yard specifically to quack as a united chorus.
Draining two cups of coffee from the dedicated spigot over his sink, Tuesday finally remembered he was meant to be at Elementary several afternoons ago. Scooping up his schoolbag and reaching for the front door, He might just make the last ten minutes if he…
Tuesday was greeted by such a deafening cheer that he fell over backwards. A multitude of voices cried out in excitement at the very sight of him, and entire teams of professional photographers took three-dimensional images of him with surgically implanted media-grade retinal cameras. Dozens and dozens of well-dressed reporters equipped with standard media cybernetics held up their thumb recorders and yelled a confusing casserole of questions: How did he become so brave and heroic? Why did he risk his life for people he didn't know? How did he track the monster down?
The reporters were merely the front line of a swelling crowd of humanity that screamed in excitement all the way up and down the street as far as Tuesday could see, though. Swarms of spectators were perched on roofs and jostled each other for a better view.
His eyes darted back and forth like a particularly delicious mouse, and all Tuesday could do was shrug at the onslaught of questions and and lick his lips nervously. The last time so many people had been calling his name was the day he’d formally became a prison guard at Cell Block Preschool. After a burst of wet, Tourette-like stuttering and turning bright purple, Tuesday decided his best course of action was to spin around, run back inside his pad, slam the door so hard that ants trickled from the ceiling, and fall against the portal like a chopped redwood.
His mind remained dead empty for some time. There was no understanding to be had. Tuesday's eyes locked onto a large Austrian cockroach as it waddled across his ceiling, and he waited impatiently for his grey matter to reboot itself and provide some sort of useful comment on what had just happened on his front porch. Unfortunately, both lobes decided to remain unhelpful, as always.
“What do they want from me? I haven’t done nothing!” Tuesday hissed at the roof in the oldest, most unoriginal chant of the guilty.
Speaking of chants, the people outside were now calling his name in a growing chorus: Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday...
“All I done wrong was kick somebody in the face – in self defence! - push over an old man, and fall asleep on me lounge with a lit cigarette in me mouth. Hardly worth a public lynching on the fifth-afternoon news, is it?”
Tuesday's brain finally pulled itself up by its bootstraps and offered him an unexpected concept. Tuesday tilted his head to the side, as deep in thought as he could manage, and eventually muttered under his breath as it finally made sense.
“I'm...”
Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday...
A brown grin slowly expanded across his face.
“...I'm a hero?”
Tuesday stood up, breathed deep, and went to face his destiny.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SCUMMING THE SYSTEM
Hundreds of retinal cameras clicked like empty six shooters as Tuesday slouched back onto his front porch. Cheers rippled back and forth along the swarm at the mere sight of him, and as far as he could tell they all seemed to follow a similar thread: Prince Charming is dead! The monster is gone! Seven Suns is safe again!
Before Tuesday could say a word to his adoring masses, though, government agents in black Verde business suits and thick flashproof sunglasses silently melted out of the ecstatic crowd and surrounded Tuesday on all sides as a living shield. Without a word of explanation they escorted Tuesday gently-yet-firmly through the crush of bodies, protecting him on all sides from…well, that wasn’t exactly clear yet.
Despite the obvious health risks of upsetting a bunch of licensed-to-kill spooks, dozens of hands pushed through the lattice of thick agent arms, passing gifts to an overwhelmed Tuesday. Exotic flowers, fine chocolates and the occasional pair of lacy female undergarments were all well and good, but Tuesday drew the line at accepting a cute puppy. To his shame, a fortnight back T
uesday had been so thoroughly sick of Soup Of The Day that he’d trapped and eaten a small local dog. Poor Old Mrs Deekin across the street never found out what happened to Puffy that dark day, and Tuesday wasn’t going to tell anyone about the poodle-with-noodles any time soon.
Finally, after a very disorienting minute Tuesday was bundled into the plush backseat of a sleek, white luxury MagRail limousine. The spooks jammed themselves into both sides of the limo so tightly that Tuesday felt like he was being buried alive under iron-tight muscles and black polyweave, but the security specialists seemed to know precisely how many centimetres of space he needed in order to breathe.
Slipping into the wild blue yonder as smoothly as an oiled nudist, the limo spiralled through an unusually massive hole in the air traffic. Tuesday couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though all thirty-five local skylanes had been rerouted for as far as his eyes could make out. Short of some kind of apocalyptic emergency, Tuesday honestly didn't know what sort of drastic situation could warrant such a disruption. This sort of rerouting would cost the Seven Suns economy tens of millions of German yen every minute.
He wasn't vain enough to guess the truth.
Arcing between the looming starscrapers of the central business district, an exceptionally affluent area known as The Heights to most locals, Tuesday finally noticed that the limo wasn't flying in an automated skylane. This meant they were being piloted manually, something that was highly illegal unless there was some kind of AI failure to justify it. But worst of all, the limo was clearly zooming through a Code Black restricted area of The Heights, which is the sort of behaviour that would usually result in a warm, wordless greeting from multiple surface-to-air missiles.
Only a handful of people on the planet were important enough to have that sort of clearance. Tuesday couldn't name any of them.
Tuesday looked away from the silent air defence tripods that were tracking the luxury vehicle from all sides, and glanced back and forth between the agents. Their faces were impassive as carved rock, their eyes hidden behind midnight lenses. Despite the fact any decent spook could probably break his neck with a single muscular pinky, Tuesday's curiosity got the better of him. He coughed a little, but received no response, so he took the leap and spoke.
“Um...” Tuesday managed. “Where are we going, exactly?”
A single spook slowly turned his brick-like head to regard Tuesday. He could actually hear the sound of the agent's bulging neck muscles and tendons twisting against each other from so close.
“We're taking you to see the Mayor, Mister Tuesday.” The spook had a voice like metal scraping on metal, but it contained no malice or arrogance. His face remained like a carving, though. “We'll be there soon, Mister Tuesday. We're running right on schedule. Nothing to worry about, sir.”
It took a moment for Tuesday to register that the spook wasn't being sarcastic, and it stunned him as effectively as a koch to the skull. Tuesday had experienced some pretty amazing things in his short, ugly life, but receiving actual respect from somebody? The experience triggered some weird sensations in his brain and his stomach, an odd series of sensations that were warm, tingly and a little...what's the word? Floaty. Floaty was the word. It took a few seconds for Tuesday to realise it might actually be that “happiness” thing he'd heard so much about.
Tuesday's words were interrupted by a sudden descent through a golden halo of cumulus puff. Impressively, the limo landed cleanly atop a palatially tall starscraper deep in the core of The Heights without so much as a bump. The moment Tuesday disembarked he was rushed through the closest roof access door and into a bunker that had a lot in common with a nuclear fallout shelter. The spooks continued to diligently cover Tuesday from all directions until a series of reinforced security barriers cascaded shut behind them, blocking out any external risk with fifteen feet of unbreakable ceramic plating. It was pretty clear that he'd just entered one of the most secure locations on the planet.
Without a word of explanation, all but one of the spooks vanished into the woodwork. The final agent cordially raised a thick arm to show the way. It might have been the same agent who had spoken a couple of minutes ago, but these G-men all looked the same to Tuesday.
“Follow me please, sir.”
Mr Spook silently led Tuesday through a maze of corridors carpeted by an identical red grid of interconnected rugs. The walls were so heavily layered with precious paintings and sculptures that Tuesday could only see a few lines of cedar panelling poking out here and there between masterpieces, and all of the closed doors they passed seemed to have been hand-carved from single redwoods.
Once the two of them were beyond the extensive web of offices, Tuesday and the spook swept down a well-lit marble staircase. It was railed by long-extinct hardwoods and accented in what appeared to be real gold. Looking down at his feet, Tuesday saw that the passing steps were carpeted in purple velvet with hand-sewn silver spirals as trim. Tuesday thought it must be the staircase of an Emperor.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Tuesday looked up to see he’d entered a labyrinth of looming maple bookcases loaded down with ancient hide-bound tomes. The tap of his scuffed shoes echoed softly off the polished white marble, and the smells of decaying cellulose and leather varnish was overpowering. Looking back and forth, it seemed every slab of words had survived several major floods before being lightly crisped at an aborted Nazi book burning. As the spook directed Tuesday through the library to end all libraries they occasionally passed by comfortable little nooks of high-backed antique chairs here and there, as though somebody still opened these antediluvian piles of mouldy yellow paper for some reason. By this point, Tuesday half expected to see some 19th Century gentleman step out from behind a shelf in a smoking jacket, adjusting his powdered wig and tapping the ash out of a pipe.
It took another five minutes for Tuesday to worm all the way into the deepest core of the repository of ancient words, as the Mayor had burrowed in like a tick. The bureaucrat was dressed in a red bathrobe and sitting on a thick rug with his legs crossed, a book the size of a large suitcase carefully balanced on his lap and slippered feet. He didn’t bother looking up, and continued to run his eyes over a page of printed text that was so old it looked as though a flock of chickens with muddy feet had viciously stomped a piece of tree bark. Tuesday went to speak after an awkward fifteen seconds of silence, but the Mayor raised a single index finger without inclining his head.
Tuesday waited.
Clearing his throat, the Mayor closed the grimoire and looked up at Tuesday. The politician’s eyes were full of intelligence, a gleam of canny sharpness that most other inhabitants of Seven Suns seemed to lack. Sure, the majority of the population were geniuses, but that didn’t mean they were smart. Tuesday immediately knew with one look that the Mayor was the sort of person that con-artists and other miscellaneous scumbags feared: somebody who knew when he was being lied to, somebody who could identify every trick in the book with one glance.
The Mayor gestured to an opposite rug. Tuesday sat down, knees creaking, and was finally graced with a cordial handshake and some words.
“I’m Brokage Grundy, sixty-third Mayor of Seven Suns. Who are you, Mister Tuesday?”
Tuesday paused, narrowing his eyes.
“I don’t…I don’t know what you mean. You sorta answered your own question there.”
The Mayor carefully placed the thick slab of paper on top of two others. His voice wasn’t threatening, or angry, or even slightly insulted. His tone was conversational. But there was some kind of dangerous undercurrent that made Tuesday uneasy.
“Mister Tuesday, do you know the penalty for forging a Seven Suns citizen card?” the Mayor asked bluntly, his icepick eyes taking in every detail of Tuesday’s expression. Tuesday felt like he was being read like an unsolicited pamphlet. “Any idea?”
Somehow, Tuesday managed to keep his expression neutral. His mind went to some dark places as he considered what his near future would hold: perhaps he’d be throw
n in some sort of dungeon, or fed to a local horror in the middle of a justice coliseum, or maybe even suffer Death-by-Tickle...
The Mayor leaned forwards, made a circle shape with his index finger and thumb, smiled, and said a single word: “Nothing.”
Tuesday raised an eyebrow as he looked at Mayor Grundy’s hand. It took quite an effort not to glance at the spook looming behind him, as that might be seen as a sign of guilt. Try as he might, though, Tuesday couldn’t help but ask the most obvious question of all time.
“Really? There’s…so you’re saying there’s no penalty?” It was a trap. He knew it for certain. But Tuesday’s curiosity had always outweighed his survival instincts. “I, uh, thought it might have been pretty serious, actually. Other worlds in The Unison…”
“Around ninety-three percent of Unison worlds class citizen card forgery as a capital offence...or worse.” The Mayor interrupted. He stretched his shoulders and neck in little circles, as though he’d been sitting in the same position for hours. The Mayor gave a little moan of relief when he finished the yoga-like movement. “I’m not sure if you know this, Mister Tuesday, but before I was elected one of my biggest campaign promises was to find a way to permanently eliminate the illicit trade in forged citizen cards. It seems my constituents didn’t like the idea of a bunch of filthy foreigners sneaking in and getting a top rate AutoEducation upload for free…fegging xenophobes.” The Mayor smiled indulgently. “As you'd expect, catering for the hateful is always a sound tactic when you’re trying to get into office. Of course, to stay in office, I had to follow through on my vow, even though ending the counterfeit citizen card trade was a major investment that would take time and money. As far as the voters know, we accomplished this dream by pouring seven billion German yen into an R&D project that would make Seven Suns citizen cards the most impenetrable form of ID anywhere in The Unison. The project took three hundred and seventy five of our greatest minds over three solid years to accomplish, and has gone down as the defining moment of my political career.” Tuesday was given a dark smile. “In reality, Mister Tuesday, we simply rounded up every counterfeiter, forge-artist and digital pirate within the space of five star systems and executed them all. We then spread the word that anybody who was brave enough to take their place would go out ten times as badly. When another batch of counterfeiters inevitably tested our resolve, we were true to our word, and we warned the underworld yet again that the deaths that followed would continue to worsen by a factor of ten.” Mayor Grundy rubbed his eyes. “Nobody was stupid enough to set up shop again. Death by Pigeon tends to deter most scummers.” The Mayor's smiled returned, but he still looked tired. “So do you understand why there’s no penalty, Mister Tuesday? Because as far as everybody knows, creating a fake Seven Suns citizen card is impossible. We might as well have legislation against Easter Bunnies sexually harassing Santa Claus. Do we understand one another?”
Scum of the Universe Page 22
