Deep Yellow (23 page)

“Doing lots of
exercise and making sure I eat a balanced diet,” Ooma answered,
paused, then laughed.

The audience
hesitated, unsure if he had answered seriously or not; but laughed
along with him anyway.

“We have asked you
numerous times about how you got into trouble with the whole drugs
thing, and your prison sentence, but is there anything else you
want to add?”

Ooma was waiting for
this question, as he knew it was coming. Since winning the first
challenge, people had read his story. Their attitudes had changed
from seeing him as the demon farmer who assisted in killing people,
to a foolhardy, intelligent person, who went off the rails. The
Beam company had been approached by an Association anti-drug
campaigner, who wanted Ooma to give a clear message about illegal
drug manufacture.

“Yes Flip, a good
question. I was a simple farmer, as you all know, on my family’s
farm. However, I believed I wanted more. I was seduced by the city
and tales of getting off-world, I didn’t realise what I had at
home. Anyhow I got in with the wrong lot, grew the herbs and that’s
all I did. However, I knew it was wrong and because of the pure
batch produced, it resulted in deaths and illnesses. I cannot undo
that, but I am sorry for what I did. I urge anyone thinking of
getting involved in drugs, manufacturing, growing, etc to think
again. The credits may be good, but the results are bad.”

“Thank you
Ooma.
”

“Best of luck in the
next challenge.”

The audience clapped
and cheered loudly.

Later that evening,
Ooma shuffled his legs around the bed whilst flicking through some
media screens and found his favourite beam news headline.

“A simple farmer from
Agrier outwits a Special Forces Space Corpsman.” The news and
gossip channels enjoyed Ooma's triumph and so did he.

He paused the images
and drank some water, feeling cheerful that he could actually see
his beloved home world again. He could win all the challenges,
couldn’t he? Glancing at his media cube, he considered that a
champion in the making should study their opponent’s strengths and
weaknesses. Carac first.

“View. Carac's fight,”
Ooma said aloud, wondering if someone had managed to smack Carac’s
smug face?

***

It was an organised
standing boxing event, sanctioned by the Overseer. The guards
enjoyed it as much as the inmates did, especially with the amount
of credits changing hands. A large square line marked out on the
communal area floor. A loud cheering, jeering crowd of male inmates
had positioned themselves around the square as the guards looked
on. It was an unwritten rule that inmates must not cross the line,
as it forfeited bets. Carac sat on a chair in one corner of a large
square mat set within the marked area, gurgling water whilst being
fanned by a lackey. Wearing just a pair of long exercise trousers,
his upper body was sheathed in sweat and his white hair glistened.
Face red with marks and scuffs from the fight so far, he stood up
just before the bell rang. Smiling, he touched his boxing gloves
together and stared at his opponent.

Ding, ding
. The
referee motioned for the assistants to move out the way.

Carac's opponent, a
large, blubbery man, was not the brightest of boxers, but could
pack a punch. They circled each other for a while, the audience
cheering and shouting. Some inmates swung punches in the air whilst
shouting encouragement at their chosen boxer.

Carac, his smile never leaving his lips, made two quick jabs
on the opponent's nose. A heavy punch came back, just grazing his
cheek. He ducked back, moving lightly on his toes. Then he darted
forward with a sweeping left punch connecting on the side of the
fat neck. The opponent
rubbed his neck with his boxing
glove, growled, and stepped back.

"Referee, referee,"
men shouted out, unhappy with the neck punch.

Carac put a foot
forward and feinted with a right punch. As the
opponent moved his head back, Carac hooked his left fist
around and made another punch towards the neck. The opponent roared
forward. Carac side-stepped him and circled back, both fists at the
ready. The opponent breathed hard as he turned and centred himself,
gloves up ready. Time was running out; it would come down to the
last blows. Carac came at him again with a jab that struck one of
the many stomachs, and then an upper cut, which only grazed the
chin. The opponent flung out his right fist and connected with
Carac’s stomach. He stepped back, breathing hard, but held his
composure.

They circled each
other, the crowd reaching a fever pitch. Men started jostling and
pushing. The opponent was tiring and readied himself for a last
attack. Holding his feet firm, he enticed Carac into his punching
range. Carac steadied his breathing and balanced his toes. He
jabbed forward, trying to provoke a response, then jabbed with his
left and right, his gloves bouncing off the stomach and cheek. He
locked his eyes on the opponent and moved in again, into the
punching arc. It was coming as if in slow motion, the right elbow
bent, winding up for the final punch. Carac pulled his neck and
upper body back, whilst standing still. The opponent moved forward
adjusting his position in order to make the punch count. Carac
moved his body weight onto his left leg and clenched his
stomach.

The punch swung
through and scraped against his upper chest. As the opponent
followed through, Carac landed a heavy blow on the back of his
head. With the force of the punch and the forward motion, the boxer
could not stop himself. He fell forward onto the mat, head first,
and didn't move. It was all over. The crowd became silent as the
referee held his hand up, then pointed it towards Carac.

"The winner.”

Carac grinned whilst casting his eyes over the other
inmates.

Ooma turned the screen off, he had seen
enough.
A wave of fear overtook
him
.

***

Carac spent a lot of
time in his studio cell, reviewing his tactics in the first
challenge and enjoying the parts of the interview where the experts
were praising his performance. He didn't take to the alien world;
it was so basic and dirty-looking. Some people leaned on sticks to
help them walk, whilst others were pushed around in a wheeled
chair. They were still hitting each other with swords, how could
people live like that? Brell was trickier than he had expected, she
could certainly pack a punch; well, a knee. He must be careful.

***

Kellsa spent most of
her time doing press-ups, showering, reading, answering message
zaps, and doing more press ups.

Meren, on the other
hand, meditated and ate ice cream.

The Tinker did not enjoy the journey between
his restaurant complex and the family compound. It was, as his
security people constantly told him, the weak point. He shifted in
his seat inside the sleek anti grav transporter. With plenty of
space within his compartment, there was enough room for a cosy
couch, semi wall of screens, auto chef, and a place for Regg.

The Tinker scanned the
displays.

“Stocks good. Twenty
points up in Tinker Holdings Ltd. Down five points in Space Toys,
usual seasonal dip in sales. Harvests good. Manufacturing output
steady. Monthly drug sales has hit the target. No problems reported
in Outer sectors. Your message has been read by the Twins.”

“Good,” the Tinker
said and took another stomach tablet. He fiddled with his pocket
and then sighed, “I had the jewellery piece for Mrs. Tinker here, I
thought.”

“Sir, it is secure in
the hold with a safekeeping bot. It was left on your side
table.”

“Yes, thanks, Regg. In
a bit of a hurry getting ready to leave.”

“Incoming message from
Mack. Onscreen now, sir.”

Four raiders dressed
in black combat clothing from head to toe stood behind two hooded
people, each tied into a chair. The room was a bare-walled concrete
sub-basement.

“Hi, hello, frag, are
we live? Hello, smack the thing. Hello Boss, can you hear me?” Mack
said filling the screen with his scarred face as he stared into the
beam camera hovering two feet above him.

“You are on camera,
loud and clear,” Regg said.

“I have them boss, no
problems.” Mack said, pointing towards the hoods.

“Everything secure
upstairs?” the Tinker asked.

“Yes, three others
standing guard, we will not be disturbed.”

“Good. Set up a
display screen, will you.”

“Okay, standby.”

Mack patted his tech
operator on the back, who promptly slung his laser rifle around his
back and opened a suitcase that had been propped against the back
wall. He set it up two metres in front of the seated pair, and
within moments, a screen appeared in mid-air with a larger than
life view of the Tinker smiling back.

“Hello, everyone,” the
Tinker said, showing the small gap between his front teeth. “Mack,
would you mind removing the hoods from our two guests?”

Mack bent forward and
pulled off the hoods. He then stepped back next to his colleagues,
rifles and guns at the ready.

Tinker lent forward in
his seat, examining the pair. The man and woman, who were natives
of the planet, both wore standard brown business suits. The male
stared back at the Tinker, dark red blood dripped at a corner of
his mouth and his right eye was swollen.

“So, where are the
credits that you took from me?”

The male started
stuttering and coughed when slapped on the back of the head by
Mack.

“Answer the
gentleman.” Mack nodded to the Tinker.

“Thank you, Mack.” the
Tinker said. “He can be very persuasive when necessary.”

The woman lifted her
head and glanced at the male. “Opened depository account, in
child’s name. Can get for you. Very sorry. Family first in our
culture.”

“Tinker first in my
culture. Depository details, if you please.”

“I have chip code in
pocket.”

Mack pushed her head
down with his elbow whilst searching her jacket pocket. He produced
a slim metal tube and held it up towards the screen.

“Validate, it would
you?”

Mack gave the chip to
his tech operator, who, after a few manipulations on a hand held
device, said, “Decrypt code.”

In the meantime, the
man stared at the woman and shook his head. She started crying.

“The code is?” the
Tinker said.

“No. Not giving,” the
man said.

“It is …” the woman
said.

“No,” the man
said.

“Mack.” The Tinker
said flatly.

Mack swung the butt of
his laser rifle across the man’s head. He went limp.

“The code?” Mack said
loudly into the ear of the now-trembling woman.

“Daughter name.
Pernill. Numbers 4577. My eye scan.”

Mack motioned his head
towards the tech, who promptly came around the front of the woman
and held a scanner towards her eye. There was a confirmation beep,
and a few inputs later, he nodded to Mack. “We’re in. Two million
credits.”

“Two million of my
credits, indeed.”

The Tinker sat back
and waved his hand, cutting off the display camera and sound.

“Regg, does that
tally?”

Regg’s face lit up
with the reflection of his green and blue screens. The Tinker
waited, steepling his fingers together.

“Cross checked. That
is the correct amount from that sector within a thousand
credits.”

“Enough for a few hats
for Mrs. Tinker, eh, Regg?”

Regg smiled and
nodded.

The Tinker
re-activated the screen.

“Okay, that is
correct. Mack, we need to make them disappear, no signs. Sends out
a better message. Uncertainty.”

“Okay, boss. Quick or
slow?”

“Well now, I think we
should have a bit of fun. Take away some of the boredom of my
flight.”

It became silent in
the room, except for the crying.

“Now, Mack, who is the
newest member of your raiding party?”

Mack’s face became
quizzical, and then he gave up trying to work out what the Tinker
had in mind.

“That will be
Katey.”

“Good, now, where’s
Katey?”

A raider put their
hands up and lifted off their black face covering. It revealed a
young woman with short white hair, a contrast to the black
clothing.

“Katey, over to you.
The male first, in front of the female,” the Tinker said, shuffling
back in his chair.

Katey stepped forward,
watched on by Mack and the others. The male was slumped forward in
his chair, body weight held by the restraints. She slapped the
woman, gained eye contact, then pulled out a laser pistol.

P-zap
. The
laser charge thudded into the back of the man’s neck, forming a
perfect, slightly burned hole.

“Good, quick and
clean. Now for the woman,” the Tinker said.

Katey, laser in hand,
slapped the woman again. The woman tried to stand up in a last
desperate attempt to save herself. Katey pushed the top of the
woman’s head, forcing her back into the seat. Mack briefly locked
eyes with the other raiders and smiled.

Katey maintained eye
contact with the woman and nodded at her. She then quickly lasered
her twice, once in the chest then in the head.

“Fragging double tap,”
Mack said quietly to the others whilst nodding.

“Good. Now, make them
disappear and clean the place up. Good job, Mack.”

“Who is this Katey?”
the Tinker said once the screen had turned off.

“From Grundine, left
Space Corps after one year. Freelance. Financial problems.
Recommended to Mack by one of his raiding group.”