David Garnet - Bikini Planet

“Who were they?” asked Wayne Norton.

“Passengers,” said Diana. “Good passengers.”

“Good?”

“Yes. The only good passengers are dead ones.”

“You said I shouldn’t have killed the Sham, so it could have been interrogated. Couldn’t you have questioned those two? You didn’t have to kill them.”

“I only killed one of them, John. You killed the other.”

“No, it was the arrow.”

“Arrows don’t kill people, people kill people. You shot the arrow, didn’t you?”

“You told me to.”

“You were only obeying orders, you mean?”

“Yeah. No. I shot the arrow, but then it whizzed round the corner like a guided missile.”

They were in her stateroom, and he’d knocked back several nerve-calming alcoholic beveiages. She had drunk one glass, probably because she had no nerves to calm. Norton put down another empty glass and held out his right hand. By now, it was no longer shaking.

He didn’t feel as if he’d killed Gold, although logically he knew he had. Maybe if he’d seen her fall because of his bowshot, it would have been different. Or if she’d died in hand-to-hand combat, the way that Diana had killed Silver, he could accept he was the direct cause of her death.

In a similar way, when he’d killed the Sham, Norton had felt nothing. But that was self-defence, wiping out an ugly alien critter that had tried to murder him.

Now he’d shot an old lady in the back, and it was no different from squashing a bug underfoot.

“Were they space pirates?” he asked.

Diana stared at him. “What do you know about space pirates?”

“Only what I’ve seen on SeeV.”

“While you’ve been on board?”

“Yeah.”

“They show dataplays about space pirates to spaceship passengers?” Diana shook her head in bewilderment. “Good. I hope it scares them.”

“They were on the alien stations.”

“What’s an alien station?”

“Television for aliens. Broadcasts I picked up while flicking through the channels.”

“What?” Diana frowned. “Oh, yes, I know what you mean. This ship used to be on the interstellar run to different worlds, which must be why there’s so much alien programming available.” She sipped at her drink. “Some of us have been too busy to watch SeeV.”

Norton wasn’t sure what was worse, watching television all the time or being a steward. One difference was that when he watched TV, he saw people being killed; now that he was a steward, he had to do the killing.

“Tell me about space pirates,” said Diana.

“I’ve seen them on screen, how they take over spaceships. They start by killing the crew.”

“That’s why you thought those two geriatrics were galactic buccaneers? To hijack a spaceship, first wipe out the stewards. I always knew we had the most important job on board.”

“They kill all the crew, steal the ship, hold the passengers for ransom. Is that what happens?”

“Happens? Happened, you mean. Maybe. It’s all ancient history. Although not as ancient as you.”

“Space pirates don’t exist?”

“What you’ve seen is very exaggerated. It’s entertainment, nothing to do with the real universe.”

“Spaceships don’t get stolen?”

“They do, but not very dramatically. It’s all done through fraudulent documentation.”

“Oh.”

“You seem disappointed,” said Diana.

“No,” said Norton, and he shook his head in disappointment.

He’d watched pirate-busters on SeeV and wondered if that was one of GalactiCop’s roles. From what Diana said, that was entirely possible: It sounded dull and boring and routine and monotonous enough.

Norton studied his hand. His finger was its original length again, and the nail had grown back.

“Why couldn’t I fire my non-lethal finger?” he asked.

“Because it’s a defensive weapon. When you’re under threat, the reflex kicks in and blasts out a stun shot.”

He remembered how Gold had raised her hands to surrender as soon as he pointed his finger at her.

“What use is that?” he said.

“Very little. You should be able to fire at will, not let your weapon decide. I’m glad I haven’t got one.”

“It’s not standard issue?”

“I told you, it’s experimental.”

“Am I the experiment?”

“Yes, you’re a guinea pig.” Diana paused. “What was a guinea pig?”

“A small furry animal, I think it was a rodent, used in medical experiments.”

“Did the experiments kill them?”

“Why?”

“Because that would explain why they’re extinct.”

“Will I become extinct?”

“No. Or not because of the NLDDD. Unless it completely fails, of course.”

Norton tapped his right forefinger against his empty glass. A gun was a cop’s right hand. In his case, his right hand was a gun.

“I’m not a steward,” said Diana. “If you want a drink, pour one yourself.”

“Why me?” asked Norton, examining his finger—which was also the barrel, “and not you?”

“I’m a major, you’re a sergeant.”

Norton poured himself a drink.

“I’ll have the same,” said Diana. “Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir!”

Norton gave an exaggerated salute. The tip of his right index finger hit his forehead, and he wondered how close he was to frying his brains.

“So a stun shot is non-lethal?” he said.

“Except to a Sham.”

“What is a stun shot?”

“A painful and immobilising pulse of energy,” she said. “I don’t know the technical details.”

“Who does?”

“The manufacturers. You were fitted out under a sponsorship deal. They want to see how their new defence device performs under operational conditions. In return, they paid for your ticket to Hideaway. And in return for that, you’re supposed to write an efficiency report.”

“Am I? Anything else I should know?”

“Don’t bother with the report. What can they do?”

“What else have they done?” Norton asked. “My finger’s become a gun. Is there any other part of me with a new improved active ingredient?”

Diana shook her head.

“Not even an electric battery in my wrist?”

“The energy comes from your own bioganic system.”

“My what?”

“Take a drink.”

Norton did.

“To take a drink,” said Diana, “you lifted your hand. To lift your hand, you used your muscles. To use your muscles, you need strength and stamina.”

“Finger-bone connected to the wrist-bone, wrist-bone connected to the arm-bone,” sang Norton.

“You’re drunk,” said Diana, and she sipped at her glass. “It would be interesting to correlate your degree of inebriation with the accuracy and amplitude of the NLDDD.”

“And write an efficiency report?”

“It must be like running. After a hard sprint, you have to stop and catch your breath. After a volley of stun shots, you’re exhausted, and your body needs time to reload.”

“So I’d need a rest, a drink, maybe a meal, perhaps a snooze, before I could fire again? Great weapon. How can I get rid of it?”

“It’s an implant, grafted into your nervous system, fused with your bones. You can’t get rid of it.”

“I can’t, but you can. I’ve swallowed enough anaesthetic. Chop it off, please.”

“You’ve numbed your brain, not just your finger. I’m not cutting it off.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. Give me your axe.”

“No,” said Diana. “I won’t let you cut off your finger. And it’s not an axe, it’s a tomahawk.”

“Tomahawk? I thought it was a cleaver from the kitchen. Not the kitchen. What’s it called? From the galley.”