Theme Planet (23 page)

Dex found a ticket office, and
booked a one-way flight to Earth. He charged it to his Bastards Inc. credit
card. This was a credit card company that at least acknowledged their position
in the universe. “Leave it to us,” ran their marketing motto, “and we’ll do the
best to let you fuck yourself up!” It was a novel approach to advertising -
Tell It How It Is. Dex had to admit it, he admired their balls.

“Is there a reason for your
unexpected departure? And is there any reason Mrs Colls and the children aren’t
accompanying you back to Earth?” asked the Shuttle Booking staffer.

“Yes. My father’s ill, back on
Earth. I’m rushing back to help look after him. We didn’t see the point of
upsetting the children; they may as well enjoy the rest of their vacation.”

The provax’s bright eyes fixed on
him for a few moments, and Dex thought he caught a hint of... disbelief? Then
she smiled a dazzling smile with ruby lips and ivory teeth, and handed him the
ticket.

“Have a safe journey, Mr Colls.
And the whole of Theme Planet will be thinking of your predicament. Hope your
father gets well soon.”

“Thank you,” he said, thinking
it’d
take a fucking miracle. He’s been under the fucking soil for twenty years.

Dex moved into the toilets and,
when locked safely in a cubicle, removed the rest of the knives. Another went
down his pants, and one down the back of each boot. Happy now the luggage was
empty, he returned and checked in his luggage, surrendering his passport in the
process.
Fuck it,
he thought.
I won’t be needing that anymore,
anyway. I’m either leaving Theme Planet illegally, with Kat and the girls in
tow... or I’m leaving in a fucking body bag.

Dex moved to the fast food hub,
and hung around for a while, observing the bustle. Many security guards passed
him, their machine guns and RPGs gleaming with the gleam of the fanatically
polished. But not one guard looked at him. No glances. No glint of recognition
in feverish eyes. Did that mean his description hadn’t been circulated? Or were
they just damn fine actors?

No. They’re playing it low-key
now, thought Dex. But he knew. At some point, a hit was going to come. When did
they plan it? And he smiled. Of course. The minute he got back to Earth, the
minute he left the Shuttle Port in London. That way, he was Earth’s fucking
problem. Just another dead pig.

Well, this piggy’s going kicking
and screaming all the way to the bank. Or at least, the morgue.

This little piggy’s going to fuck
up
the whole damn show.

Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger
stand was a bustling powerhouse of activity. Huge industrial conveyor belts of
burgers were manned by what appeared, to Dex, to be hundreds of spotty teenage burger-eating
rejects. He grinned. He fucking hated Porky Pauper’s, but he could see his
hole.

After all, he didn’t dare go any
further through security. Not with his personal arsenal of knives...

Dex sidled closer to Porky Pauper’s
Huge Fat Burger stand, then moved to the menu, casting what looked like a
detailed eye over the burgers.
Fat
Burger, Double Fat Burger, Fatty Fat Burger, Mega Fatty Fat Fuck Burger,
Whopping Fat Fucking Fat Fatty Crappy Fat Fat Burger...
the list went on
and on.

One of the staff passed him, a
young man (human) of perhaps only nineteen years. He wore a badge which read
Benjamin Leadhead. He headed for the toilets, and Dex followed him, straight
in, towards the cubicle, and Benjamin Leadhead was just loosening his fat belt
around the fat waist of his sweaty fat joggers, when he turned to shut the
cubicle door and realised somebody else was standing there.

“What the...”

Dex’s fist hit him square on the
nose, and Leadhead stumbled back, sitting on the toilet and adopting a state of
unconsciousness. “Sorry, mate,” muttered Dex, taking the apron and cap
(depicting a
Whopping Fat Fucking Fat
Fatty Crappy Fat Fat Burger,
with all its sauce and drippings) and
closed the door. Going into the next stall, he stood on the toilet, reached over
- grunting as he stretched - and flicked shut the lock, with a tiny
bleep.

Dex pulled on the apron - which
was a little too big, but hell, nobody would notice - and placed the cap on his
head. It stunk of fatty fat burgers. Whistling, Dex left the toilets and headed
for Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger stand, where he walked confidently through
the
Staff Only
door and down the
aisle of busy burger workers. Nobody challenged him, too busy were the Porky
Pauper’s Huge Fat Burger staff at their jobs, and he walked all the way past
the huge conveyor until he reached the back door. This led out into a series of
corridors, all grey and anonymous. Dex smiled. Now, he was in the Shuttle Port’s
innards.

He moved with care, trusting his
sense of direction and heading down. After a while he heard the clanking of
machinery, and homed in on the noise, still wearing his Porky Pauper’s Huge Fat
Burger outfit as a disguise.

Luggage conveyors, he thought.

Exit.

~ * ~

They were seated
around the table. Toffee hadn’t
been born, and Molly was only two, her face the innocent face of an angel. She
was currently tucking into a bowl of “mash,” with a little butter, and for
which she had invented her favourite name.

“Go on,” urged Dex, “say Molly.”

“Molla” grinned Molly, face
covered in mashed potato.

“What are you eating, Molly?”

“Is good,“ said Molly.

“What is it?”

“Mash unyinyin. “

Dex and Kat laughed in pleasure,
as if their genius daughter had just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Mash unyinyin?” continued Dex.

“Is good! Mash unyinyin! Mash
unyinyin mash unyinyin mashunyinyin!” Getting excited, Molly started mashing
her spoon into the mash unyinyin and laughing as it exploded everywhere,
covering Kat’s silky black dress and Dexter’s PUF uniform. He grimaced; then
grinned again.

“You little monster!”

“NO! DADDA MONSTA!”

Kat raised her eyebrows, as if to
say, well, you bloody trained her! You bloody started it! You can deal with the
lunatic child, you mad, bad, Daddy unyinyin!

~ * ~

“Mash unyinyin,” muttered
Dex. He could smell fresh air.
Where had that come from? That perfect moment? That illustration of a simple
time, a simple life which had once been his and had been stolen away in the
blink of an eye when his back was turned?

Somebody’s going to pay, he
thought.

And if they’ve been harmed?

The whole fucking planet will
pay.

He continued towards the clanking
sounds, eyes narrowed, hand on the knife in his belt. It was simple, solid,
reassuring. Not as good as a Kekra quad-barrel machine pistol, he’d be the
first to admit, but a damn sight better than fucking nothing.

He came to a simple steel door,
and peered around the frame. The sunshine was bright, his view of the runway
restricted by concrete buildings. The clanking was loud now, and he could see a
wide rubber conveyor, travelling in loops and delivering luggage into an untidy
pile on the concrete. There was nobody about.
So much for fucking Shuttle
Port security, hey
? Dex could have had a riot rooting through people’s
luggage and stealing shit, or planting bombs.
Nice.

He looked around for cameras.
There were none - or none he could see.

He back-tracked and tried a side
door, peering into a long, low cupboard holding a veritable orgy of cleaning
utensils, along with various industrial vacuum and polishing machines. There
were cleaning drones, immobile and dark, parked in recharging sockets. They
looked suspiciously to Dex like inactive killing machines, just waiting to slip
out blades and begin an onslaught of carnage. But they weren’t. Or at least,
weren’t
yet.

Dex removed his burgerman
disguise and his colourful Hawaiian shirt, folded them neatly, and stashed them
at the back of a shelf behind some boxes. Now, dressed in cargo pants, boots
and a long-sleeved dark top, he stood out less. He closed the door, moved back
to the luggage conveyor, breathing in the fresh warm air and for the first
time,
really
feeling like he was free. Free. Free of being watched, free
of spies and shackles.

He walked around the building,
keeping close to the wall but moving with a casual, steady gait. No sneaking.
That was the quickest way to rouse suspicion. The sunlight was bright, but Dex
had lost his shades somewhere in the past twenty four hours.

Dex followed the various contours
of the huge building and its annexes, and as he rounded another corner he came
to a mesh fence, which he scaled with ease. He landed lightly on the other
side, and followed the wall once more. Around another corner, and he saw a
field of parked groundcars, sunlight gleaming from polished bodywork and
gleaming glass.

A ride. Perfect.

Dex found the nearest car, a
sleek Honda, and was amazed to find the door open. He stepped into it, sank
into the seat, had a look around the ignition for something he could interfere
with, and on a whim hit the starter. The engine fired immediately, purring with
a gentle hum.

No security. No security at all!

Dex grinned to himself. Why was
he so surprised? There was damn near
no crime.
In which case, why the
hell had there been so many cops? The station had been crawling worse than an
anthill full of sugar! What the hell were they all doing, these upholders of
the law? Prevention? Training? Or something more sinister?

He eased the Honda backwards,
then purred along the wide road. It was racetrack smooth.

Damn. Even the roads were
perfect.

Dex was starting to
hate
this place.

~ * ~

The blocky, angular
building across the road from the police station was
a Spoofatex Restaurant, selling the best in “Authentic Galactically Spoofafied
Cuisine.” Dex had crept around the back, stood on the AI garbage cans (which
moaned and griped constantly about their stinking, humming contents), leapt and
caught the bottom of a roof inspection ladder, then hauled himself up onto the
flat roof, where his boots left imprints in the soft tar. Creeping behind the
lip, he kept himself low and peered over the rim at the police station,
watching the marble steps up which he had travelled (although
that
little incident felt like a lifetime ago) and down which he had sprinted.

How long did he have? Before they
realised he was missing?

Dex chewed his lower lip, spied
an old plastic bucket, and dragged it over to the edge of the roof. He settled
on the filthy container, chin on hand, the sun beating down on him like an
alien hammer against an anvil. His dark eyes watched the doors like a predator
weighing up its prey, waiting for Jim to emerge, his mind twisting and turning
things over and over, picturing first the face of Katrina, sweet Katrina, her
spiky black hair, elegant features, port-red lips; then Molly, dark eyes, dark
hair, sombre expression, always ready with a negative comment but hey, that’s
just the way she was, as dark as Dexter had been when he was younger; then
Toffee, bright as a bowl of summer petals, her laughter infectious, a permanent
smile creasing pretty young features. How the ladies in the everythingmarket
used to stop him, and fondle her hair, and scratch under her chin and make
cooing noises because she was so pretty, so
delightful.

Dex craved a cigarette, the first
in a long,
long
time.