A Toaster on Mars (3 page)

When the lift arrived, he hit the button for the basement. He should have headed for his office, but Capelli's news, not to mention her breakfast, had left his stomach churning.

I need to get out of here
, he thought.
I'm the laughing stock of the PBI.

‘Back already?' Sally asked as he climbed behind the wheel. ‘Bad day at the office?'

‘Quiet,' Blake fumed. On a hunch, he checked his wristcomm again, but this time scanned the mail files. An anonymous message had been delivered to him:
Check the personnel files of the Tygonian temple if you want to locate Bartholomew Badde.

He tried tracing the message, but it was masked. This could be something or nothing at all. It might be a hoax—but why send him to a Tygonian temple?

‘Where are we going?' Sally asked.

Blake started the engine. ‘We're going to find God,' he replied.

3

An acid rain fell across Neo City.

It fell on the good, the bad and the ugly, but it especially fell on those who had not bothered to catch the warning on the evening news. It cascaded over the super skyscrapers, down into the deep canyon streets and onto Blake Carter, who was unsuccessfully trying to huddle under an awning.

Short-term exposure was harmless, but any longer could turn a human to sludge. And while Blake did not fear death, he did have an aversion to ending up as anything that didn't look much like him.

Tightening his trench coat, he tipped his scarlet fedora forwards. It was almost 11pm and it had been a
long day. It had taken him ages to find a way into the Tygonian temple.

Where is this guy?
Blake wondered.

A drunk in a nearby apartment started singing ‘Loving My Three-Eyed Girl on Venus'. Mid-chorus, he broke into a loud sob and hurled a chair through his window. Blake watched it bounce down the alley, stunning a pigeon who then crash-landed on a window ledge. The pigeon flapped its wings once before being gobbled up by a carnivorous potted plant on the next ledge.

Blake wrinkled his nose.
What is that smell?

Looking down, he saw a plastic dog excreting a pile of silicon poo at his feet. The animal gave him a satisfied look before trotting down the alley.

Blake shuffled into the next doorway.

This part of town was about as safe as landing a paper glider on the surface of the sun. PBI agents had come down here and never been seen again.

At least I've got my blaster
, he thought.

A monitor next to Blake's face flickered to life. Grey static dissolved into a grinning face.

‘Bob Flatulent,' the face introduced itself. ‘From Flatulent Insurance. And you are?'

‘Nobody,' Blake said.

‘Life is unexpected, my friend—'

‘Are you selling life insurance?'

‘Not at all. I'm offering you an opportunity. Do you know how many people were impaled by musical
instruments last year? Twenty-three! I know what you're thinking. A flute, a violin—those you can walk away from. But what about an oboe? A tuba? A trombone? You don't walk away after being impaled by a trombone.'

Blake elbowed the screen and it went dark.

‘Salesmen,' he muttered.

A shape moved at the other end of the alley. Checking the blaster under his coat, Blake watched as a man wearing a monk's habit flitted from shadow to shadow until he reached a doorway with the letter ‘T' spray-painted over it.

The monk motioned for Blake to approach, pushing back his hood to reveal a goatee, a shaved head and an advertisement on his forehead that read
Joe's Facelifts: You age 'em! We stretch 'em!

‘Brother Puttlik?' Blake said.

‘And you are?'

‘Blake Carter. Planetary Bureau of Investigation.'

‘And you wish to enter the temple? Why?'

‘That's PBI business.'

‘If it is because of food hygiene, I assure you those grasshoppers were entirely accidental—'

‘This has nothing to do with grasshoppers,' Blake said, lowering his voice. ‘It's got to do with Bartholomew Badde.'

‘The criminal?'

The news had broken during the day about Badde's theft of the Super-EMP. There must have been a leak within the PBI—not surprising considering the significance
of the story. The Hypernet had exploded with rumours about the end of civilisation. The stock market had bottomed out. People were scrambling to get off-planet.

The world president had promised the weapon would be recovered. He didn't say if that meant paying Badde or capturing him.

‘The entire PBI's trying to track down Badde,' Blake said, ‘but it's like looking for a Rastarian needle in a Cytonian haystack.'

Blake told Puttlik about the tip-off. ‘I need to check your personnel files,' he said.

‘Access to our computer system is forbidden,' Puttlik said. ‘And my faith is strong—'

‘How about a hundred credits?'

‘—but my wallet is empty.'

Puttlik pulled out a card reader and swiped Blake's cash card. After unlocking the door, he led Blake into a laundry where, from the bottom shelf, he produced a robe, sending a batch of electric cockroaches scurrying.

He handed the robe to Blake. ‘Wear this,' he said.

Donning the robe, Blake followed Puttlik into a hall that looked like it had once been an ugly warehouse and had now been transformed into an ugly warehouse
with drapes
.

A fifty-foot cross-legged plastic statue of Tygon had been placed in the centre of the floor. The god looked quite serene, with one hand gently touching a huge wart on his chin as if he were considering the infinite mysteries of the universe. Around him, one hundred devotees meditated, mimicking the pose.

‘Impressive,' Puttlik said. ‘Yes?'

‘Oh,' Blake said. ‘Very.'

Puttlik silently led Blake past the worshippers and down a winding torch-lit staircase.

‘You don't have electricity?' Blake asked.

‘It's cosier this way.'

How do I end up in these situations?
Blake wondered.

Last month he had faced down a mutant chihuahua, a killer known as the Tickle Torturer, and a car wash that had taken three vehicles hostage, threatening to kill them if the quality of its detergent wasn't improved.

Now this.

After descending a further fifteen flights of stairs, they finally reached the dingy basement. Smelling of mould and mushrooms, the room held another statue of Tygon, this time positioned on a square pedestal.

‘We're a long way down,' Blake said, peering into the gloom. ‘Is there another way out?'

‘Oh, there's the elevator.'

‘There's an elevator?'

‘But the scenic route is much more interesting.'

Blake resisted the urge to mash Puttlik's face into the wall.

‘Where's the mainframe?' he asked instead.

Striding past the statue, Puttlik led Blake to another room where an ancient computer sat on a desk in the corner. Blake attached a hack drive to the system. It took 0.452 seconds to search more than ten billion records.

‘Nothing,' he sighed.

‘Who is this man?' an angry voice demanded.

Swinging around, Blake saw two devotees in the doorway.

‘I don't know,' Puttlik said, wringing his hands. ‘I heard a sound and came in to investigate—and here he was!'

‘Death is the penalty for breaking into our computer system!' one of the men snapped.

Blake flashed his ID. ‘I'm a PBI agent. If anything happens to me, the government will turn your temple into toast—'

‘There will be no toasting our temple!'

‘—so you'll step aside so I can walk right out of here.'

But one of the men leapt at Blake, grabbing his throat. ‘You will not leave here! You will languish in our deepest cell until the end of recorded time! Your only sustenance will be the sweat of the other prisoners—'

Pulling out his blaster, Blake stunned the two men and they collapsed in an untidy heap.

‘Where's the elevator?'

‘Behind the statue,' Puttlik whimpered. ‘But the other devotees will kill me if they think I betrayed them.'

‘I don't want that.'

‘Neither do I.'

So Blake stunned him too.

‘The things I do for love,' he muttered.

Blake realised this could turn very nasty, very quickly. More devotees could turn up at any moment. As the elevator ascended, he sent an emergency signal on his wristcomm. Backup would be here in minutes, but it might be too late.

The doors opened. The prayer session had just ended and devotees were everywhere. Blake pushed through, keeping his head low. He was almost out. Only a few more feet…

‘Stop him!' someone yelled. ‘He's an infidel!'

Oh, sprot.

Blake waved his badge, firing his blaster into the ceiling, but there were too many of them, and they were picking things up to use as weapons: spoons, mops, books. Someone waved a chainsaw. The door was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been the other side of the galaxy.

‘I'm a PBI agent!' he shouted. ‘You're all under arrest for assaulting a police officer—' He hit the emergency communicator on his wrist again, but he knew reinforcements wouldn't reach him in time.

A figure appeared waving a trombone.

Sprot!

The musical instrument slammed into Blake's head and everything went black.

4

At first there was darkness. Then a bright spot of light appeared. Blake thought he might have been witnessing the Big Bang—until he realised it was too late for that.

A ceiling shifted into view.
No, this is definitely not the Big Bang.
The Big Bang didn't have a ceiling. Walls arrived. Then windows.

This was a hospital. His eyes shifted to a chair and a man sitting in it.

Sprot
, he thought.
Cecil Pomphrey.

Blake forced himself to sit up. ‘Assistant Director,' he said.

Speaking hurt. In fact,
everything
did. He was in more pain now than when he'd fallen into an Inverse
Quantum Polaric Hypersingularity Generator—and that had hurt
a lot
.

‘Agent Carter.' Pomphrey's voice was deep. ‘You look like crap.'

‘Really? Don't hold back…'

‘I've seen agents busted up before, but you had bones broken that the docs didn't even know existed.' Pomphrey stood up and began pacing the room. ‘I've been watching you, Blake.'

Blake didn't know whether to feel flattered or worried.

‘I like to know what's happening with our agents,' Pomphrey continued. ‘You used to be one of our top people.'

‘Still am,' Blake said. ‘I might not be as fast as I once was—'

‘I'm not talking about speed or agility. I'm talking about judgement, the choices you're making.' Pomphrey stopped at the window and stared out. ‘You're the only agent in the entire PBI who works without a partner. You're out there alone, facing death, terror and horror.'

‘Everyone's got a hobby. Mine's carnage.'

But the assistant director wasn't so easily diverted. ‘Things have got to change,' he said. ‘You're getting a partner.'

‘I don't need a partner,' Blake objected. ‘I work better without one.'

‘You almost got killed today. I won't have you risking your life out there alone. Not again.'

‘I can't take a partner out with me,' Blake said. He felt a terrible tightening in his chest.

‘Is it because of Bailey Jones?' Pomphrey asked, his voice softening. ‘It's not your fault she got killed. It's not anyone's fault. This is a dangerous job.'

Blake swallowed away the pain. ‘I don't want—' he started.

‘There's no discussion on this.'

‘Damn it! I'm all right—'

But he felt a sudden tug on his left leg and watched it fall to the floor. Blue and red liquid spurted over the sheets.

‘Take it easy, Blake!' Pomphrey growled. ‘They had to reattach your leg with bioplastic bonds!'

‘A severed leg doesn't scare me,' Blake said, although he hated the sight of blood, especially when it was his own. ‘I've had worse.'