In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 5 -
Then bang, bang; you're dead

The shot should have been easy. He’d been shooting with this rifle at his local shooting range for nearly a year, and he judged himself an adequate shot. The distance was manageable and the light conditions were good; and, after all, Masters was a big target.

Shooting people, however, is not the same as shooting at pieces of paper. The consequences are all together more severe. As he took aim, he noticed the sights wobble a little and adjusted his position to steady his weapon. He tried again, and still he didn’t feel secure. Masters was talking to the little guy who was there to collect him from the prison; completely oblivious to the fact that a rifle was pointed in his general direction. He laughed and bent forward, just as the first pressure was put on the trigger.

Jim sighed as he gently released the pressure. Then Masters stepped back, gesturing at the rear door of the old fashioned vehicle. His massive chest was a perfect target, so Jim took the shot. The little guy eased out of the driver’s seat and stood up, just in time to receive the bullet in the back of his head. If he’d had time to think, Jim would have been amazed at how quickly Masters was able to spin the dead body to one side as it fell, and squeeze into the driving seat.

As he drove off with a screech, Jim lowered his gun into his carryall and rushed away from the scene on legs that threatened to fail him at any moment.

A few minutes later, he was walking down by the canal, on a section where he knew there were no surveillance cameras.

When he was certain that he wasn’t being observed by a chance passer-by, he dropped the bag into the canal. Trying not to think about the wrong man he’d killed, he concentrated instead on his regret at losing the gun. It was an M21 sniper rifle and was nearly a hundred years old; he’d spent many hours restoring it to its former glory. Being such an old weapon, it didn’t have the record and report facility required of all new and officially updated weapons; which was a useful feature if you want to kill someone and not end up enjoying the comforts of ‘Gotcha.’

To facilitate his safe getaway, Jim had disabled all of the cameras watching his chosen place of execution. Now all he had to do was visit the local shopping mall; the one that was vandalised on an almost nightly basis. There he could visit the toilets, remove his mask and body bulker, turn his coat inside out, remove the insert in his shoes that modified the way he walked, and leave; secure that there were no working cameras to record the remarkable change in his appearance.

Jim Evans was twenty-four years of age now, and he’d spent most of the past nine years preparing for the release of Ben Masters, the man who’d killed his father in the Retro Cash bank-raid.

His first attempt had been a failure, and he felt regret at killing the wrong man; although he was part of Masters' gang. The thing to do was to concentrate on his next attempt, and make sure that he got it right. And, if he failed again, he would continue. He wasn’t going to stop trying until Masters was no more than a massive, overweight corpse.

Interlude - Here be Aliens II

The Stolys lounged in silence; enjoying the ebb and flow of the moonlit reef.

Two small silvery fish were swimming in agitated circles in a rapidly drying out basin, cut off from the sea proper as the tide withdrew. It was only a matter of time before their lives would end in a final series of weak splutters and flutters.

One Stoly leant forward and flipped the closest fish into the air. They both watched as the little creature arched through the air and landed with a satisfying plop in the safety of the sea. The second Stoly flipped the remaining fish into her own mouth and crunched; thus balance was restored.

'Are your plans completed?' asked the male, his query frills rippling.

She studied his frills for a second, but could divine no secondary meaning to his question.

'When the time arrives, the solution will accompany it.' She flicked her frills to indicate resignation, confidence and just a hint of hope.

'And the target worlds?' She could have taken two consecutive questions as an insult, but he was technically her superior, so she allowed no reaction from her aggression limbs, and just a flash from her frills.

'Chosen and studied.' She projected an image of a blue and white world, orbited by a larger than average grey white satellite.

'The timing is of significance. When the final assessment of the effects of Argu’s last performance is complete, I'll be ready to go.'

The male agitated his frills in a wry chuckle.

'He is such fun. But does he realise what we have to do to restore balance when he tells one of his jokes?'

'Every time he makes the Universe a better place to be alive in with his jokes, we have to work so hard to make it a worse place, to achieve balance. I quite like that.'

Chapter 6
- Then paranoia and confusion

Tracking someone’s movements from one squirtbooth to the next is difficult for your average citizen, though it is not impossible. Wherever there is a record of any transaction, there is usually a way to access that record, if you have the right contacts, or programmes. Contacts have never been my strong point, but I do have the programmes and an amenable AI to use them on. The Only If They Pay (Transport - Fees and Records) AI records all squirtbooth traffic to ensure that all fees are correctly allocated and paid; even in this bravest of all new worlds, nothing is for free.

Using the same ‘against’ free logic as the other AI’s, it allows my cute little search programme to gather un-harmful data without hindrance, as long as the required nominal charge is met.

So, Masters had squirted to the Manchester Interplanetary Squirtport from a squirtbooth on the corner of Stockport road and Albert road, in the Levenshulme district of Manchester. In the past thirty years or so, this ward has developed in to a ‘Silo’; the vernacular for areas where non-workers (and consequently non-contributors) are ‘stored’. At some stage they will be encouraged to leave their birth planet and join the exodus to a frontier planet where their skills can be put to better use.

Although there are few vehicles on the roads these days, the local pavements are often crowded with people from all races as they attempt to parley their Real Value Vouchers, presented to them by their caring government, into something they can actually spend.

The large white cube-shaped building had only been there, on the corner, for a few years. It had replaced an old pub and a row of shops, and no-one was really clear what purpose it had. The assumption was, as usual, that the government was somehow involved.

Surveillance cameras showed that Masters left this building immediately before he squirted to the Squirtport. He is pulling a suitcase and has a bag slung over his shoulder. His clothes are casual and he looks just like a man about to take a trip. There’s a skinny man in what looks like a white tracksuit sitting to one side of the booth. He holds out one hand without looking up. Without slowing, Masters hands something to him and moves on. Squirtbooths are designed for single use, though there is usually plenty of room. He seems to be having a little difficulty fitting himself inside. Then he’s gone.

With my curiosity satisfied, it was time to close the case and bill the client. Not a big pay-day, and it wouldn’t solve my money problems, but maybe I could pay Julie this month. As if on cue, she walked into my office; loud and busy, and not at all embarrassed about turning up four hours late.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked in my most officious voice.

She merely smiled and held up her shopping bags; pointing out the obvious.

‘Coffee?’ she asked; all sweetness and light.

As I nodded my answer, my eyes were caught by the scene on my computer screen. It was still showing the CCTV from the morning Masters left, but, for some reason, it was re-running his exit from the building and departure via the squirtbooth.

'Don't go in the bathroom,' I called; my attention still in the screen.

'Why not?' She'd popped her head back through the doorway.

'Sam's in there.'

'Hiding?'

'Yes. From the AI's.'

‘'Last week, I had to get him a roll of tin foil and some face paint. He made a pointed hat to protect his brain from microwaves and painted his face green so they wouldn't recognise him.’

‘That sounds just like him. I don’t know where he got the idea that AI’s are the baddies.’

'You know what he told me yesterday? He said the AI's killed Kennedy, and Marilyn Munroe, and Melin and Knerr.'

'But the AI's weren't around in the nineteen-sixties.' I knew it was a futile point I was making.

'That's what I told him. You know what he said?'

'Go on, tell me.'

'That's what they want us to believe.'

'Who are the other guys?'

'Who?'

'Melin and…'

'They invented the Hoola Hoop. Murdered in the nineties and buried on the moon, so that they wouldn't divulge their secrets.'

'What secrets?'

'I can hear you, you know.' Sam was hiding behind the half-opened bathroom door.

'Sorry,' I replied; not really sure why I was apologising.

'Can I get a coffee?' he asked, hopefully.

'Sure,' said Julie as she left the room.

When she strolled back in with a big cup of coffee, I barely noticed. The image on my computer wasn’t a replay of Masters leaving at all. I'd checked the time sequence and this latest scene was twenty-three minutes later. Also, although the second guy was of a similar size, the hair was different, and the clothes were less casual. When he entered the booth, there was no struggle. He was either a little slimmer than Masters, or maybe he just possessed better spatial awareness.

In any case, it had nothing to do with me, or my case.

I glanced across at Julie. She was sitting on my couch, drinking coffee and scanning a magazine.

‘Where’s my coffee?’ I thought it was a reasonable question to ask.

‘In the machine,’ was the hardly surprising reply.

'And mine?' asked Sam, from the safety of the bathroom.

She lifted one eyebrow in response; not wanting to waste any words. I can't do that myself; if I try, both eyebrows go up and I just look surprised.

‘Haven’t you got work to do?’ I asked hopefully.

She shrugged without looking up, and slurped her coffee; she’s always done that.

‘You pay me to work, don’t you? Like, we have an actual contract?’ she asked, her artfully plucked eyebrows raised; both together this time.

I could see where this was going.

‘Yes.’

‘Then, when I get paid, I’ll work.’ There was surely some way to refute her logic, but my position was weak in this respect, as I hadn’t paid her for two months.

‘Don’t you have a chair in your own office?’

‘Yes, but your couch is comfier; and I can keep you company.’

I was looking at my screen again; at the empty booth, at the guy in the white tracksuit. When the second figure had passed him, he hadn’t lifted his hand; he hadn’t begged.

Now, why was that?

‘Julie, have a look at this, will you?’

She made a show of putting down her magazine and groaned at the effort of leaving her seat. People never guess that she is my sister; I’m tall and skinny; she’s short and not so skinny, which is all I’m going to say about her appearance, in case she reads this book.

‘What am I looking at?’ She leant over my shoulder.

I replayed both guys leaving the building and entering the squirtbooth.

‘I still don’t know what I’m looking for,’ she said.

‘Is it the same person?’ I don’t really know why I asked that particular question; it just fell out of my mouth.

‘So, what are you saying? The guy squirted back to a nearby booth, went into the building, changed his clothes and left again? How much coffee have you had?’

Put like that, what was bothering me? Two large men left the building separately and used the squirtbooth; it probably happens all the time. I decided to check where the second man had gone; it wouldn’t cost much and, if it put my mind at rest, it would be worth it.

A few seconds later, I had the answer. He had squirted to the Manchester Interplanetary Squirtport.

Then I started wondering where they went, and what was this building, and why was I bothered anyway?

As I was setting up the search protocols, the phone rang. I looked at Julie, and she looked right back at me. I wasn’t going to answer it; I had a secretary for that. She wasn’t going to answer it; not without a promise of money.

‘I’ll pay you tomorrow.’ I was fairly certain I could honour that promise.

She raised one eyebrow and grunted. Then she reached over to the phone on my desk.

‘Don’t forget to check caller ID before…’ She never checks caller ID before.

‘Hello, Mr. Devon,’ she said; her voice almost a trill. ‘Nice to hear from you. What can we do for you on this lovely afternoon?’

There was some squawking; then she handed the receiver to me. ‘He wants you.’

I know for a fact that Julie is a very intelligent woman; she has the degrees to prove it. Sometimes I think she hangs those brains up with her coat when she enters my office. She knows who Devon is, and how much I owe him, and what he’s likely to do if there are any delays in me fulfilling my part of the bargain. Yet she still doesn’t have the wit to tell him that I’m not here.

‘Hello, Jim. Sorry, Mr. Devon. Yes. Yes. Yes. Sorry. Yes.’ That was my part of the conversation. His part was much more extensive, and quite colourful. That is how conversations always go with Devon. There’s going to be some apologies, and lots of agreement. By the time he’d hung up, I’d apologised for calling him Jim, apologised for being late, and agreed that I was a sorry excuse for a man, a disappointment to my mother, a terrible loser, and that I would pay my next instalment in full in forty-eight hours.

To be honest, he was mostly correct. My mother never failed to exhibit the scale of her disappointment whenever our paths crossed and, with the practice I get, I really should be a better loser.

‘What are you going to do?’ Julie had heard every word, and didn’t bother to hide her own disappointment at my failings as a brother and a boss.

‘Can you book a slot in my schedule at 3:30pm for a half-hour of panic?’