David Garnet - Bikini Planet

“So you claim,” said one of the three.

“But you must know,” said Norton. “There must be records of when cryonics began.”

No one said anything.

“You mean there aren’t any records?” he said.

In the shadows, he could make out three heads nodding.

“Brendan knew I couldn’t have been frozen in 1947,” he said.

“Because that’s his trade,” said one of the men. “Specialist knowledge handed down through the generations.”

“But there’s no record of it,” said another.

“There’s no record,” said the third, “of anything.”

They lapsed into silence again.

Norton looked at them. “Of anything?” he said.

“No.”

“There must be newspapers,” he said.

“No.”

“No papers.”

“No paper.”

“There must be books,” he said.

“No.”

“We said.”

“No paper.”

“What happened?” he asked. “Or is there no record of it?”

“Don’t make a joke of the greatest tragedy—”

“—disaster—”

“—catastrophe—”

“—in the entire history of the world.” The man paused. “Or as much history as we know.” He laughed for a moment, then glanced at his two companions. “Sorry.”

“After your time, John Wayne,” said one of the others, “books became redundant. The printed word ceased to exist because there was no need for printing. Data was stored electronically, and it was all available for instant retrieval. Everything that was in books was copied onto computer. The entire sum of human knowledge was accessible to everyone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

“Until there was a sickness—”

“—an epidemic—”

“—a plague—”

“—the greatest disaster in history.”

“On Day Zero, everything was wiped out.”

Fingers snapped again.

“Just like that.”

“There must still have been old books,” said Norton.

“Some. Not many. Not enough. Paper was a valuable resource, but nothing lasts forever. No trees, no paper. Apart from the most ancient and precious volumes, books were recycled for more basic human needs.”

“You remember books, do you?”

“Yeah,” said Norton.

“You held them, you touched them, you turned their pages?”

“Yeah.” And he had done. Sometimes. “All the time.”

“You lived in the golden age, John Wayne.”

“Did you read Shakespeare?”

“Sure,” said Norton, knowing this was the right answer. “To read or not to read, that is the question. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your magazines. Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain… er… Mickey Spillane. Drugstore paperbacks, fifty cents a copy.”

“Oh.”

“Ah.”

“Oh. Ah.”

“You mean he’s genuine?” asked a new voice, a fourth voice.

Norton had been right. There was someone else in the room, someone behind him. He tried looking back again, but his head was held rigid.

“As far as we can tell,” said one of the three, “he is from the twentieth century.”

“But we cannot guarantee his occupation,” said the second.

“Or his name,” said the third.

The man stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of Norton. He was tall. It seemed that everyone was tall. He leaned closer, into the light. His hair was long, straight, pure white. His face was pure black.

“Who are you?” asked Norton.

“I’m the police,” said the man.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s what they all say.” The man smiled. “If you were a cop, you should know that.”

“I was. And I do.”

“Once a cop, always a cop. Did they say that in your day?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Because it’s true. I’m your new boss.”

Norton looked at the man. The man looked at him.

“I’m a cop?” said Norton. “Still a cop?”

“Yes, and I’m your colonel.”

“There aren’t any colonels in the police.”

“There are now. Do you want to tell me your name?”

“It’s John Wayne,” said Wayne Norton.

“If you say so,” said the man. “And I’m Colonel Travis.”

“Hello, my little cutie,” said the first convict, who was waiting in the woods ahead of her.

“Hell—,” Kiru said, as she retreated behind one of the trees, “—o.”

“Hello, you doll,” said the second one, who was already standing there.

“Oh, hell,” she said, as she moved sideways.

“Some call it hell,” said the first.

“But you must have come from heaven,” said the second.

“That’s why she looks like an angel,” said a third, who materialised at her side.

They appeared to be human, they sounded Terran, but they were the most alien creatures of all: men.

“Nice to see you.”

“Very nice.”

“Ever so nice.”

“You must be lonely.”

“Out here on your own.”

“But not anymore.”

All three of them were gazing at her, grinning, leering. Then they glanced at each other.

“I saw her first.”

“Didn’t!”

“Did!”

“She’s mine!”

“Mine!”

“Mine!”

They suddenly became silent, looking around. The three had become four, and this one really did look like an alien. Small, broad. Staring at Kiru with crazed, unblinking eyes. So scary that the other three all stepped back.

“Sorry.”

“She’s yours.”

“Don’t want no trouble.”

“I’m going.”

“No offence.”

“Please.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t.”

“Thank you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

They were gone, and Kiru was naked and alone and defenceless with the alien. The creature looked her up and down, down and up.

She thought she’d spent most of her life being scared, thought she knew what it was always to live within the ominous shadow of fear.

But she hadn’t, she didn’t.

She’d never known total terror.

Until now.

She shivered with absolute fright.

Then the thing began to strip.

And she became more afraid, too petrified even to tremble.

Its shirt was gone faster than Kiru could have blinked. Not that she dared to.

The beast ripped its shirt in two and held out both pieces toward her as if they were a gift.

She looked at it. At him. He wasn’t a monster, she realised, or at least no more than any other man was. Because he was a man. Ugly, a dwarf, but human. Kiru breathed again.

He gestured toward her, to her breasts, to her hips. She frowned. He made another movement, holding one arm across his bare chest, the other over his crotch.

She nodded her understanding, and he gave her his torn shirt. Her fingers shook, and it was a while until she managed to tie one piece around her waist, then the other across her torso.

“Thanks,” she whispered, finally. “My name is Kiru. Who are you?”

The man touched a finger to his lips before running it quickly across his throat, making a cutting motion. They had to remain silent.

As he lowered his hand, it brushed across a silver amulet hanging from his neck. It was heart-shaped, palm-sized. He clutched at the pendant, staring at Kiru as he did so.

Then he turned, gestured for her to follow, and walked off through the woods. She glanced around, wondering about the other three thugs. They were dangerous, but the dwarf was very dangerous. She hurried to catch up with him.

Norton and Travis were sitting in a donut shop.

Or its twenty-third century equivalent.

This was the first time Norton had been outside since his revival, and they were on the roof of a skyscraper which made the Empire State Building look like… like a donut shop.