David Garnet - Bikini Planet

At least he was no longer bored.

He was also back in uniform.

“I wish we didn’t have to wear such stupid clothes,” he said.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Diana.

“They’re not so bad on a girl,” he told her, which was true. The outfit suited Diana, and he was even getting used to her weird hairstyle. “But a man shouldn’t have to wear this kind of thing.”

“Why not?”

Norton looked down at his golden tunic, his knee-length silver pants, his jewel-encrusted slippers, and tried to think of an answer Diana would understand.

After going off shift, as now, they would return to her suite. These weren’t the usual quarters for a ship’s steward, which were no improvement on Norton’s cabin. While exploring the ship, Diana had chanced upon a vacant first-class stateroom. It was going to waste and so she commandeered it.

“When we first met,” Norton said, “you were wearing a long dress.” Or what passed as a dress. “A man wouldn’t have worn that, would he?”

“Only if it was part of a uniform,” said Diana.

“But that wasn’t your police uniform, was it? Is there a police uniform?” He paused, then added, “Back on Earth?”

Back on Earth. Such a casual phrase, almost like “down the road” or “on the next block.”

“Yes,” said Diana. “Of a sort.”

“Good. A police officer should have a uniform. People respect a uniform. It gives authority.”

“Like being a steward, you mean?” Diana smiled.

So did Norton. “Is there a GalactiCop uniform?”

“I doubt it. How can a galactic force have a uniform? Nothing can be uniform if has to be worn by officers from a thousand different planets. Cops come in different sizes, different shapes, like the planets they’re from.”

“Planets come in different shapes?”

“You know what I mean. What looks right on one alien race would look ridiculous on another.”

“Each planet could have its own uniform.”

“On many worlds, John, there’s very little respect for law and order. If they’re recognised as police officers, they’ll be killed. Wearing a uniform would make them an immediate target.”

“Is that GalactiCop’s function, to bring law and justice to the galaxy?”

“Definitely. Yes. Absolutely. Yes.”

He didn’t believe her.

“As you mentioned,” Diana said, “the day we met I was wearing a dress. You know what it’s like.”

“To wear a dress? No, I don’t.”

“Might suit you,” said Diana, tilting her head to one side and looking him up and down.

“What?”

“You have to wear all kinds of disguises when you do undercover work.”

It seemed that a steward’s uniform was nothing compared to the clothing indignities he might have to suffer.

“As I started to say,” Diana continued, “you know what it’s like, how seeing a cop makes most people uneasy. Not that we care about that, of course, but in many situations it’s better if everyone is relaxed and off guard. Which is why I wasn’t in uniform that day.”

“I thought you were a waitress,” said Norton. “And now you are.” He smiled.

“I thought you were a convict,” said Diana. “So be careful.” She also smiled.

It was Norton’s relatively normal clothes which had made Diana believe he was from the wrong side of the law, but he asked, “Why would a convict be at an exclusive restaurant with Colonel Travis?”

“For a meal, of course. A last meal.”

“Taken to a restaurant before execution?”

“Before transportation,” said Diana. “We don’t kill convicted criminals. We’re far too humane and civilised for that. Those found guilty of serious crimes are deported to Arazon, the penal planet. It’s the perfect prison. There’s no release, no escape. We don’t kill criminals. We let them kill each other.”

“You thought Colonel Travis was taking me for a meal before deportation? Is that normal procedure?”

“It could have been a special occasion, like he was saying farewell to an old friend. If there were no criminals, there would be no police. It’s inevitable that our professional paths intersect, which often leads to friendship. It must have happened in your era.”

“No. Never.”

“Really? There was still capital punishment in your era. If you knew someone with a different perspective on criminal matters, instead of letting them dine, you let them die. How primitive and barbaric your world must have been, John.”

“No, it wasn’t. And you’re the one who was talking about instant execution to save on paperwork.”

“But you’re the one who did it, John. You eliminated the Sham.” She pointed her forefinger and closed one eye as if aiming.

“That was self-defence.”

“The ultimate self-defence.”

Norton examined his right index finger. Half the missing fingertip had already grown back.

He used to imagine himself as a hatchet-man for the mob. It had seemed a very glamorous way of life. A way of life, a way of death. But what kind of person would take up such a career? Maybe it was through living so long that he’d come to realise life was precious. Killing people wasn’t very nice. His own life was important, and so was everyone else’s. Although not as precious and important as his own, of course.

“I want to talk about this,” he said, showing Diana his finger.

“Tomorrow,” she said, yawning.

The days had passed by, followed presumably by the nights. Day and night, light and dark, happened back on Earth. On board ship, there were no such things.

Twenty-four hours was the time in which Norton’s native planet spun upon its axis. Everything else had become metric (which he was sure he would never get used to), but hours and minutes remained unchanged.

He may have been bored, but as an undercover passenger Wayne Norton had a very easy job. That wasn’t the case for Major Diana Travis, undercover crewperson. One passenger, more or less, was of no consequence; but the crew were important to keep the ship operating. With the other shift steward dead, Diana needed assistance.

That was supposing Heart-of-Peace really was dead, which presupposed he’d really existed.

By now, Norton was beginning to wonder if the attempt on his life had ever happened. It had all been so fast, the details such a blur, that perhaps it was nothing but an illusion. There were no such things as Shams. There was no dead alien in his old cabin.

Diana could have arranged the whole event just to scare him, or to rouse him out of his lethargy.

Or because she wanted some help in the kitchen.

“Okay,” he said, “tell me something else.”

“What?”

“Why am I here?”

“I’m glad you don’t want to talk about trivialities, John. After a tough day at work, a metaphysical discussion is exactly what I need. Fix me a vodsky. A mega. Why are you here? Why am I here? What’s the purpose of life?”

“Not the purpose of life,” said Norton, as he poured the drinks the old-fashioned way: from a bottle into glasses. “Not you. Only me. Why am I here, now, on this ship?”

“Me, me, me. Self, self, self.”

“Tell—” He held the drink toward her, slightly out of reach. “—me.”

“It’s secret.”

He knew she’d say that. Even if she had given him an answer, he wondered if he’d have believed her.

“Do you know why, but can’t tell me?” he asked.

“Another secret,” she told him.

“Where are we heading?”

“Why all these questions? Why now?”

“Because I haven’t asked for a while, and I thought I might get some answers this time. Was I wrong?”

“That’s another question,” said Diana.

The spacecraft didn’t have a name. The only reason he thought it should was because ships from his time had names, ships which sailed on the ocean. It seemed that ships which sailed between the stars were more like buses, they had route numbers. And this starbus was on its regular journey.