A Toaster on Mars (20 page)

‘So this is him,' Blake said.

Finally he was staring into the face of the person responsible for his partner's death on Venus. This man
had killed Bailey Jones, and he looked so remarkably
average
.

Blake handed a picture to Krodo. ‘Go back to GADO and have this image distributed to law-enforcement agents worldwide,' he said. ‘And I want this whole area shut down tighter than a drum. This time, Badde's not getting away.'

30

After they'd left the Pye building, Blake and Nicki found themselves on the 900th level of the city. Blinking, Blake realised he could see patches of sky from here. It was mid-morning. Peering between a maze of buildings and walkways, he saw space elevators journeying to and from satellites in geostationary orbit, and sky billboards floating miles above the Earth. And the sky. Blue sky.

He swallowed, taking a step back.

‘Are you all right?' Nicki asked.

‘It's these upper levels,' he said. ‘Always comes as a bit of a shock.'

He turned his attention to the city around him. Cars
flew in all directions, while crowds of people swarmed the footpaths.

His eyes snagged on a shopping centre opposite—Zen Shoppingtown.

‘Badde likes to hide out in the open,' he said, pointing.

‘Nothing beats a crowd,' Nicki agreed.

They pushed their way towards Zen Shoppingtown. The circular atrium was ten stories high with walkways and elevators crisscrossing in all directions. Advertisements trailed up and down walls, people walked dogs, poodlephants and miniature horses. Children cried over spilt ice-creams.

A neon sign flashed over the main entrance:
Be calm
.

‘Looks about as calming as a truck meeting a pigeon at ninety miles per hour,' Blake muttered.

‘Where do we start?' Nicki asked.

‘I have no idea.'

Opening a panel in her arm, Nicki produced a pair of sunglasses.

‘This is no time to worry about appearances,' Blake said.

‘I'm not. These are hydronic spectacles. With these my visual processing can pick out a Tyborian flea in a Kartarian haystack.'

Nicki scanned the atrium.

‘Can you see anything?' Blake asked.

‘There's a very cute-looking coffee machine. And I like the way that hairdresser is styling that woman's hair.'

‘Can you see Badde?'

‘No…no…Wait a moment. Yes. He's entering that pet shop on the third floor! And he's got Lisa!'

They sprinted up escalators to Blett's Pets, a huge shop that sold animals from throughout the galaxy.

Blake pushed through cages and tanks to where the owner, a hairy man with six eyes and twelve arms, stood at the counter.

‘We've got a criminal on the loose,' Blake said, flashing his credentials. ‘I need this shop shut down immediately.'

‘Utmost in gusto foreddem,' the man said.

Huh
, Blake thought.
Is this guy's translator broken?

‘What are you saying?' Blake asked.

‘Bladder cistiron gado maxy.'

‘I don't care about your bladder. I—'

Nicki joined him. ‘Uh, Blake.'

‘I can't get this guy to—'

‘You're talking to a Bykonian cat,' she explained. ‘I just spoke to the owner. He hasn't seen them.'

Sprot!

Blake climbed onto the counter and scanned the aisles. There were pets everywhere—cats, dogs, canaries, sloggers, carbuks and bakbaws. He even saw a zartukker.

Blake's eyes focused on a man heading towards the back of the store. Dressed in a plaid suit, he was wearing a backpack and dragging a girl behind him—Lisa.

She caught sight of Blake. ‘Dad!' she yelled.

‘Lisa!'

Badde hit her over the head with a gun and she went limp. Blake and Nicki gave chase as Badde fled through an exit with Lisa over his shoulder.

Outside, Blake and Nicki found themselves in an empty corridor. Music came from behind a door. They pushed through into a party where people, shoulder to shoulder, were laughing and joking.

What the sprot—

Elvis elbowed past.

‘Uh,' Blake said, confused, ‘didn't we leave you on Elvisworld?'

‘I'm your fully automated Simulpal,' Elvis said. ‘Will I sing you a song?'

‘What are you saying?'

‘I don't know that song. Can you hum a few bars?'

Nicki appeared. ‘He's not real,' she said. ‘He's a robot copy of a celebrity.'

Richard Nixon ambled past, sticking his head between Blake and Nicki.

‘I am not a crook,' he said.

‘That's great.'

‘I can take it. The tougher it gets, the cooler I get.'

Blake peered across the crowd. ‘Nicki, is that Badde over there? Next to Hitler?'

A stranger made his way over to them. ‘Can I help you?'

‘Who are you?'

‘I'm Gant Robust.'

‘What are you?' Blake asked. ‘A singer? You're too ugly to be an actor.'

‘I'm the owner of this shop.'

‘Oh.' Blake produced his photo of Badde. ‘We're looking for this man. He was carrying a girl over his shoulder.'

‘Who is he? Hugh Grant?'

‘No. He's not a celebrity. I mean, he sort of is, but nobody knows him.'

‘Doesn't sound like much of a celebrity to me,' Gant said. ‘We have a special on 1940s film stars right now. Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Peter Lorre—'

‘No, this man is an evil genius.'

‘We've got plenty of those, too. Adolf Hitler. Idi Amin. Bob Googlestein—'

‘Forget it.'

Blake and Nicki pushed through the Simulpals.

‘Why don't you come up and see me some time?' a woman cooed at Blake.

A middle-aged man grabbed his arm. ‘All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent.'

‘I know,' Blake said. ‘Now let go of my shirt!'

He spotted a man disappearing through a back door.

Badde.

They followed him into the crowded mall.

Where is he?
Blake thought.

Suddenly, he spotted Badde crashing through a pair of double doors. A neon sign flashed above. Nicki yelled out something, but Blake didn't hear her as he gave chase.

31

Blake had stepped into a bar. It was twenty degrees chillier in there than the mall and ultraviolet lights ran the length of the room. A dozen people, inhaling gas from bottles the size of beer cans, sat around circular tables. A few glanced up at Blake.

Scanning the gloom, he couldn't make out Badde or Lisa. He motioned to the barman behind the counter.

‘Haavve yoouu seeen tthiiss maann?' Blake asked, flashing the photo. ‘I'mmm a PeeeBeeeIiiii aaageent.'

That didn't sound right
, he thought.

The barman, who at first glance had appeared to be a normal human, was now growing antennas while his nose turned into a xylophone.

‘Why are you growing antennas?' Blake asked. ‘And what's with the xylophone?'

The barman looked at him strangely. ‘You should have—'

Blake found it hard to focus because the man's mouth had now transformed into a watermelon, and his eyes were reshaping themselves into television screens. An old late-night film was showing.
The Wizard of Oz
. Tearing his attention away from the barman, Blake peered at the other patrons.

How odd
.
They've all turned into walruses.

A washing machine made its way across the bar towards him. It was singing a song.

‘I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee…'

It was horribly out of tune.
No wonder evil geniuses are taking over
, Blake thought.

The washing machine grabbed him by the arm. As Blake went to shrug it off, the appliance transformed into Salvador Dalí.

‘I don't like your paintings,' Blake slurred. ‘Clocks have no right to melt.'

‘You're coming with me,' Dalí said.

‘My mother was a purple cabbage,' Blake explained. ‘My father was a unicorn on Acturus Three. So you're not allowed to be Salvador Dalí. Surely you can understand that?'

‘You don't know what you're saying.'

Blake shook his head in disbelief. ‘You can't talk,' he snapped. ‘You don't even know if you're a washing
machine or a surrealist painter!'

Salvador Dalí transformed into a giant cockroach.

‘Now you're a bug!' Blake yelled. ‘Where's a can of spray when you need it?'

The darkness shifted and Blake found himself back in the mall. Onlookers watched him warily, while a teenage girl tried to stifle laughter. It took Blake a few moments to realise the cockroach was actually Nicki. He rubbed his face—he felt numb all over.

‘…feel better in a moment,' Nicki was saying.

‘What happened?'

‘You went into a gas bar without a mask.'

‘Were Badde and Lisa in there?' Blake asked.

‘No. They'd already gone, probably out the back.'

This didn't make sense. Gas masks were at the front door and Badde hadn't put one on.

‘I was right behind him,' Blake said. ‘How did he make it through without a mask?'

‘Beats me.'

‘Don't tell me we've lost him.'

‘Okay. I won't tell you that.'

‘Well, have we?'

‘You asked me not to—'

Blake wanted to yell at her. ‘What's out the back?' he asked instead.

‘It's another set of stairs.'

‘We need to contact mall security and get this mall closed.' Blake tried calling on his wristcomm, but couldn't get a signal.

‘I can't get one either,' said Nicki. ‘It looks like this whole section of Neo City has lost hypernetivity. Badde must have found a way to disrupt the grid.'

‘So we can't close the mall,' Blake mused. Security forces would be pouring into the area. Badde would be cornered within the hour. Still, something niggled at him. ‘This doesn't make any sense.'

‘What doesn't?'

‘Bartholomew Badde is the most accomplished criminal of the modern age, but he's running like a common thief.'

‘Maybe we caught him by surprise.'

‘I doubt it. This mall must be part of his escape plan.' Blake considered this. ‘Is there an orbital lift in this building?'

‘No.'

‘What about a docking bay for flying cars?'

‘Again, negative. But there is a dedicated site-to-site transporter located on the 925th floor.'

‘That's where he's headed.'

Blake hated transporters, and he had never used one in a shopping centre. It all seemed too unnatural for words. Climb in at one end, get zapped into photons and instantaneously step out in another location. Literally a billion things could go wrong.

The transporter service on the 925th floor was part of a chain, a business called Trip Fantastic™, and manned by an attendant named Henry. The device was modern: a ceiling to floor chamber with half a dozen possible destinations.

Blake flashed the photo of Badde. ‘Have you seen this man? He would have been carrying a girl.'

Henry shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.'

Blake showed him his ID and Henry took notice.

‘Yeah, they came through a few minutes ago,' he said.

‘Going to?'

‘The Seven Ways Space Station.'

That wasn't good. Hundreds of vessels passed through Seven Ways every hour.

‘Then that's where we're going,' Blake said. ‘Shut down the service after we leave.'

‘I've got to give you the standard warnings before you travel,' Henry said.

‘Sure.'

‘You know forty-two people a year drop dead for no apparent reason while using transporters?'

‘Uh, okay.'

‘Another seventy-nine get split in two. Their intestines go to Paris. The rest ends up in some place in West Texas.'

‘Right.'

‘Three hundred and eleven become galactic dust,' said Henry.

‘Sure.'

‘Twenty-nine get instantly beheaded. No one knows where the heads go.'

‘Okay,' said Blake.