Ticklers Page 23

  41.

  'Antidote time, I think,' announced Meitchars. 'Antidote time for the Council. Unless, of course, you want to do us all a big favour…'

  How peculiar, thought Renton. Not just that it wasn't Vorskyn or one of his cronies who'd raised the matter of the antidote, but that it was Meitchars. And the way he'd done it: cutting across their focus on the strongroom. It was as though he resented Boz's intervention. And true, Boz's advice did contradict his own approach to the lock - quite fundamentally. But hell, it had also just saved his life, and the lives of his closest friends. He could hardly take offence at that, surely?

  And then another thought occurred to Renton, this one nothing to do with Meitchars' intervention, but instead everything to do with his salvation. And while his long-legged partner sorted out the antidote for the Council, this thought became a realisation. And the realisation was that Meitchars had been well and truly released from his melancholia. And not only that. There was also the realisation that, at the same time, Kanker's evil influence had been expunged from the League. And despite the fact that Renton might not have brought about either of these results himself, they meant only one thing: his own personal quest had now been satisfied - and anything still to come would be no more than an anti-climax, no matter what it might be.

  After all, what was there to do? Find a dust planet. (Because Renton was as sure as Meitchars was that there was one; Grader's story was that convincing.) And then rescue the people Kanker had abducted. As for Kanker himself, his power in the League was already gone. And, as Vorskyn had recently reminded them, all he could ever do with a dust world was get rich. But now his secret was revealed, even that would be out. OK, they could have some fun in tidying up these loose ends. But that's all they were: just loose ends. And Renton just couldn't bring himself to get too enthusiastic about the prospect of that. And on top of all this, he was now with his closest friends. He wasn't even sure he wanted to bother… Then Meitchars spoke again. He'd despatched all the Council knights in the direction of the antidote - and now only he and his colleagues remained here in the room. And he was addressing Boz.

  'OK, Boz, now they've all gone, can you tell us how we do get in?'

  'Ah ha,' chuckled Boz. 'You, my man, is one smart honcho. An' I thought there for a minute that… well, you know…' he chuckled again '…but only for jus' a short minute. An' on account of how smart yous are an' how nice yous asked me, I ain't gonna tell you how to get through that there Pudsey piece, I'm gonna show you how. So next time you'll know for yourself. An' then they'll all think that it's you who's the dick, a right clever dick jus' like me. Ha, yeah, a right clever dick jus' like me. Ha ha ha…'

  He was still laughing as he walked towards Kanker's massive desk and then as he disappeared behind it. He had lowered his substantial reptilian body to the floor and was now engaged in some activity on the carpet there. Renton could not see what this was nor could he hear anything other than some slight puffing sounds. And they told him nothing. He could not begin to guess what Boz was up to, nor how it could possibly have anything to do with his promised assault on the Pudsey. He was intrigued.

  Minutes passed before the great reptilian head reappeared above the desktop. It wore a huge grin on its face. And then Boz's right hand became visible. And it was wearing a balloon, a balloon stretched tightly across its entire surface. But no, it wasn't a balloon; it was pinky-cream and there was a little uninflated nipple hanging from its end. It was a condom. Boz had hidden behind Kanker's great desk to insert the whole of his right hand into what could only be an unadorned, without-the-twiddly-bits, just-for-the-job, functional, no nonsense, size XXL condom. Had he gone mad? Was he playing a joke? Was he a pervert?

  And then Renton saw what he had in his left hand. It was a ten-inch, silvery-coloured “wand”. And it was humming. Holy shit, he really had gone mad, kinky mad

  ''Scuse me folks,' he announced. 'Sorry for the slight delay. But I'm ready now. An' my juices are flowin', I can tell you. I can't hardly wait. I'm jus' itchin' to get at it and in it. Look out, Pudsey, here I come.'

  'God,' whispered Renton under his breath. 'He's flipped. He's gone bananas.'

  But what could he do? What could any of them do? Better just let him go through with it. And maybe it might make some sense - in maybe some very odd way.

  And fortunately it did.

  Boz was now standing in front of the safe-room door. This was a plain metal slab with, at its centre, a nine-digit keyboard. To the immediate right of this was a vertical slot about ten inches in length and about three inches wide. Together they constituted the visible part of the impossible bio-lock, the mechanism that, in theory, only Kanker could operate successfully. Only he had the knowledge of the lock's combination and only he had the requisite DNA for the lock, the DNA that the bio-lock would recognise as that of its legitimate operator. Boz appeared to be equipped with neither. He just had a condom and a smooth, silver shaft.

  Apparently undeterred by this minor mismatch, he applied the rounded end of the shaft to the number one key of the keypad and let it rest there for about ten seconds. Then he moved it to the number two key and let it rest there for another ten seconds, then to the number three key and so on until, at last, the number nine key had felt the end of his thing for the requisite time.

  After that, things happened very quickly. Boz inspected the silver device at close quarters, dropped it into his pocket, and with his now free left hand, attacked the keyboard in a blur, while at the same time inserting his prophylacticated right hand into the bio-lock's slot. There was a whining sound and the door swung backwards, its interior laid open, like, thought Renton, a maiden's charms. It was just the way his mind was still running.

  'Shit!' exclaimed Meitchars. 'That is fantastic! That is really something!'

  His strange features were glowing with delight and his eyes betrayed real admiration. He was clearly bowled over by Boz's performance. And it took a lot to bowl over Meitchars, an awful lot.

  For-bin-Ah, Grader and Madeleine were all speechless. It fell to Renton again to ask the obvious questions.

  'Boz. How did you do that? And why the… errh, you know, the silver thing and the condom? I thought you'd gone funny.'

  Boz began to chuckle.

  'You ain't never seen a surfacer before, have you, young man?'

  'A surfacer?' puzzled Renton.

  'Yeah. Just as I thought. This here League o' yours don't teach yous anythin' 'bout modern scientifical developments, does it? 'Specially the useful ones, like this here surfacer.'

  He'd withdrawn the silvery shaft from his pocket again and now held it up for Renton's inspection.

  'It's simple and it's smart,' he said. 'That tip there measures surface imperfections. I mean, real small uns, like at the micron level - an' how many there are and what directions they're like lyin' in - if they're, you know, line-type imperfections. Like the sort fingers make on them there keys. So when I placed it on each key, it like found out the four that our ole friend Kanker had been pushin' away at. An' from the direction of the marks, it can even tell where the finger arrived from an' where it was a-goin' to. I mean, the order theys were pressed in. An' there you are. It then ain't too backwards in comin' forwards with the answer: the combination sequence - which yours truly then pressed in. An' hey presto!'

  'Hey half presto, by my calculations,' offered Madeleine. 'That's all very smart. But there's still the little matter of the real barrier in that lock: the DNA coding. And don't tell me you've also found a gadget that can do a DNA routine. I just won't believe it.'

  'Oh shucks no, my dear. There ain't no gadget. Jus' a bit o' common sense. You see, that there slot over there measures jus' two things when you put your hanny in. One is whether your hanny is connected to a real body - so like nobody can get in with some sawn-off body part, like of the real rightful owner. And the other is that it's the real rightful owner, so t' speak - by it havin' that dude's DNA and nobody else's.

  'Well, my d
ear,' he continued, his sheathed hand now held out before him, 'jus' think now. If I put this here hygienic hand stall over my own hanny…'

  'You mean the nodder,' interrupted Renton.

  'Well,' huffed Boz, 'if you must be so coarse. I wuz jus' tryin' to retain some delicacy in this here company. But I don't know why I bother… An' I… I errh… now where was I? Oh yes, with this here… errh this here cone-dome over my hand, I can hide my own DNA from that slot device, but I can still convince it that what's in there is connected to a body. Cos it is. An' even my own pile of reptile does the trick. Don't even need to be no human-type body.'

  'Yes, but Kanker's DNA?' asked Madeleine. 'I just don't understand…'

  'Oh that,' chuckled Boz. 'Oh yes, the owner's DNA. Well, no problem there, my girl. No problem at all. You jus' have to coat enough of it over the cone-dome - like at strategical points…'

  'Kanker's DNA? Raw DNA magicked out of thin air?'

  'No, no, my dear. Out of thin hair, not thin air. It's all over the carpet back there: Kanker's dandruff. There's piles of it. An' all stuffed with his very own nasty DNA. Hell, ain't that clever really. I mean, not for your regular private dick type anyway.'

  And then he broke into a loud laugh and the laugh was instantly contagious and of the virulent variety. It must have been a full five minutes before our six heroes had recovered themselves and were able to think about looking in the safe-room.

  When they did, Grader's story was proved. Furthermore, the whereabouts of Kanker's dust planet were revealed, his plans for its use became apparent, and Renton discovered he was wrong again. Kanker's plans dispelled any thoughts of an anti-climax. The real adventure, the real challenge, was only just beginning.

  *

  Part 2

  *

  42.

  They had tried to keep it a secret. This was Pandiloop business and theirs alone. They would sort it out themselves with their new allies: Boz, Madeleine and Grader. But secrecy on a place like Korpulund was anything but easy. Kanker still had his eyes and his ears everywhere. And with the certain preparations they'd had to make, it just wasn't possible. He was bound to find out - bound to find out sooner or later that they were on to him.

  So it was no surprise that when they finally arrived on his hidden dust world, their quarry had fled. All they found on that tiny pebble of a planet, light years from anywhere, were his discarded tools: countless kidnapped construction workers, a host of borrowed dust workers - including Doreen's Herbie - and any number of abducted scientists, technicians and engineers. But no Kanker. He had gone. And so had his army.

  They had hoped to catch him with his trousers down. But it had never been more than a slim chance. And now that chance had disappeared entirely. Now they would have to do it the hard way. All those preparations would now be put to the test. And what a test! Kanker's trousers were back in place, the belt tightly fastened and the flies firmly closed. A decisive blow to the gonads would not now be easy. And first they had to find him. First they had to discover where he had fled with his forces - and with that terrible weapon…

  It could have taken them months. But, much to Renton's alarm, they knew where he was within hours - within just a few hours of their arrival on his dust world. And they knew where he was because Kanker chose to tell them. He had announced his whereabouts to the whole universe. And what Renton found so alarming about this was that it meant he was ready for the whole universe. Or, more accurately, his weapon was ready. It was as primed as their own preparations had assumed.

  He had doubled-back on them - almost to Korpulund. The Godhead had appeared in the skies over Shrubul, one of Korpulund's satellite worlds. And now Shrubul was in trouble.

  43.

  A hunter has it, the sort of hunter who kills for “sport”. No, not the buzz he gets from the hunt itself, nor the spiritual enrichment, which supposedly comes with the theft of another creature's life. No, it is something even worse. It is what the hunter believes: his perception that, in some way, he is superior, not just to his quarry, but also to his fellow beings.

  His only real achievements may be the suppression of his intellect and the refusal to appreciate the barbarity of his actions. But to those he is blind. Instead he thinks of himself as something set apart from the common crowd, the plebs, the stand of drab saplings who bend to the winds of conscience and emotion. He knows he is special. He knows he is right. And he knows that it's all there for him. That all he has to do is reach out and take it. And stuff the peasants! They deserve nothing, not a passing thought. They're just so inferior!

  Kanker had it in spades. He had the hunter's self-delusion and the hunter's arrogance - but on an unparalleled scale. He had a contempt for his fellow beings that was simply stupendous - and with it, an opinion of his own importance that was so over-inflated as to be unimaginable by any mere mortal.

  And now, at last, he had the facility to display these prodigious attributes - and to a suitably enormous audience. He was about to show the whole of effin' civilisation just how wonderful he was. Just how gifted he was, just how remarkable, just how dazzling in his abilities, just how… well, hell, just how god-like he was. Too damn god-like to be just the top-notch of some cruddy band of cowboys. His destiny was to be the top-notch of something a little bigger than that. Well no, a helluva lot bigger than that. In fact, just about as big as you can get. Like the universe, the known bits and the unknown bits - and the bits in between. The whole shooting match. The whole fucking shebang. He was born to be king of the universe, and he knew it. An omnipotent master of creation, lord of all he surveyed - and more: the supreme one, a living deity - God! God personified. God given tangible form. God Kanker!

  And now he could claim his birthright. For now he had his Godhead, his fired-up, fully-manned, fully-armed, all-powerful, all-devastating, shit-scaring Godhead.

  Boy, would he show them. Boy, would he let them know who was boss around here. The hunter-God had cometh. And no one would doubt it. The Godhead would guarantee that!

  44.

  When Dabida saw it through the window, he thought it was that damn Monks kid again, another one of his infernal models, another one of those noisy, intrusive, one-thousandth-scale star freighters. Or maybe this time it was a K-class tanker, one of the really big ones. Or even a super-cruiser. The little monster tended to switch between the civilian and the military at will. As long as they made a lot of noise, he didn't seem to care.

  He moved to the door, already angry. He would have to have a word with the kid's father again, that arrogant Sergeant “bum-face” Monks of the Shrubul constabulary, as incompetent in the art of parental discipline as he and his like were in the maintenance of law and order. Everybody's kids ran riot these days, and they did sod all about it, absolutely sod all. And old bum-face had the same couldn't-care-less attitude to his own offspring. So long as the little bastard was occupied with his model spacecraft, he didn't give a damn. The fact that his son was causing a nuisance to the whole bloody neighbourhood didn't seem to bother him at all - not one little bit. Not even when Dabida complained.

  Well, this time it would be different. This time he would lodge an official complaint. That would make Monks sit up and take notice… Then he opened the door to his balcony and something struck him immediately. The model was silent. There was none of that dreadful screeching that so annoyed him. Something was different, very different indeed.

  Then he looked at the model more closely, shading his eyes from the midday Shrubul sun, and he began to wonder whether it was one of the Monks' models at all. It was… well, it was sort of spherical. But there again, not spherical like a globe, more spherical like a knobbly thing - like a head. Yes, like somebody's head. And it was just hanging around in the sky. And it was a little fuzzy, like it was further away than he'd first thought. It might be a bit bigger than one of the Monks' normal models. In fact, it might be a lot bigger. He could have got the scale wrong completely. Maybe it wasn't a toy after all. Maybe the Monks clan de
served a reprieve on this occasion. Just this once… Yes, it was beginning to look as though whatever it was it wasn't one of theirs, and it wasn't going to bother him. Dabida began to smile. Today wasn't going to be a day for confrontation after all. Instead peace would reign. What a very unexpected but very nice turn of events.

  Of course, he couldn't have been more wrong.

  45.

  Captain Scanderpram used to fly model spacecraft himself - when he was a child. Now aged twenty-seven, he flew the real things. And he was pretty damn good at it. He'd been the youngest cadet in the school air corps, and he was now the youngest captain in the entire Shrubul air force - and for some, the most insufferable. He was that good. And he knew it.

  No surprise then that it was he who was leading a wing of thirty-five fighters towards some weird UFO now hovering in the upper reaches of Shrubul's atmosphere. When Command had first made the sighting, it was Scanderpram's squadron that had been scrambled. It was their job, their very important job, to probe this alarming apparition at close quarters while the air force brass back on terra firma did their own little bit - whatever that was - from the comfort of some cosy bunker. Such is the way the military biscuit crumbles - and has crumbled since time immemorial. But that suited Scanderpram fine. He might be a real big shot in the air force, but these days the Shrubul air force had precious little to shoot at. It was achingly peaceful with every prospect of remaining so indefinitely. And Scanderpram, along with most of his fellow pilots, just dreamed of real combat one day. They yearned for the chance to show off their skills and impress the birds. And now that day had arrived. And even if there was no shooting, there would at least be some daring leaping into the unknown, some coming to grips with a threat to their planet - and all that sort of stuff. It was going to be real fun, a real jaunt. Scanderpram was almost dribbling with excitement.