Starship Titanic

12

Lucy had a good brain even though she had lived all her life in LA. Despite the continual exposure to carbon monoxide and people from the film industry, she had remained smart. She had trained as a lawyer and was well regarded in the firm where she practised. Her speciality was entertainment law, but she still liked to use that brain of her, and here was a good opportunity.

'Where would they keep the oxygen equipment?' She actually said it aloud as she paced round the loggia at the top of the Central Well. 'Got it!' Suddenly she knew exactly where to look. God! It was so great to be bright! She'd always thanked her stars that she hadn't been born a busty bimbo like some people she could think of.

'A department store,' she told herself, 'would have a plan of the store by the elevators... So...' And sure enough there it was! By the elevators - even though this wasn't a department store. She pressed a small button and a large area of the floor lit up displaying the plan of the Starship Titanic. What's more she could zoom in and out with a second control. This was better than anything they had at Macy's.

Lucy slipped on her translatorspecs and read: 'Medical Centre'. That was where she'd find oxygen. And without waiting to take advantage of any of the special offers the plan of the ship assured Second Class Passengers they would be delighted with, she hurried towards the Starship's Medical Centre.

The Medical Centre of the Starship Titanic took up a whole 400-yard section of the main hull - under the Embarkation Level. It was dazzlingly new and clean and it said: 'Hello, and welcome to the Medical Centre of the Starship Titanic. A place to enjoy and savour the Good Things of Life while you still have it - not just somewhere to be sick in. We guarantee you will feel no pain once you have placed your credit card in our Card Care Machine.'

'Jesus!' thought Lucy, 'could they do with a new copy-writer!' Her breathing was all the time becoming a little more difficult, and it was noticeably colder. She looked around for anything that might resemble an oxygen cylinder and suddenly froze in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Unlike the rest of the ship, the Medical Centre was not unpopulated. There were two people - or were they people? There were two figures on the floor, and one of them was looking straight at her. Lucy stared back. Somehow she knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he was not human. He looked human enough, but there was a curious 'otherness' about him. It was intangible subtle... intriguing... Then she noticed he had the most beautiful orange eyes...

Lucy screamed and turned to escape, but the alien had already leapt to his feet, and the door of the Medical Centre had closed behind her. In her panic, even her mighty brain couldn't work out how to open it again.

A powerful arm gripped her round the neck, and a voice that sent a shiver right through her said: 'Don't struggle. I can break your neck.'

Lucy went kind of limp. She always claimed she didn't actually faint, but The Journalist, for this is who had his arm around her neck, later said he dragged her over to the nearest bed and laid her out unconscious for several minutes.

When Lucy came round, she saw her blood-stained assailant bent over a dead body. She realized immediately he was a crazed killer searching through his victim's clothes - such odd clothes, Lucy noticed: strange colours, strange cut, strange materials... It was at this point that she also realized she was tied down to the bed.

The full horror of her situation suddenly hit her like a forty-tonne truck hitting a shop window: she was shattered and her alarm went off. 'Aaaaaarggh! Aarrrrrgrh! Arggggggggh!' screamed Lucy.

The Journalist looked across at her and clicked his teeth in annoyance.

'Shut up!' he snarled.

Oh my God! The Murderer had spoken to her! Here she was - a defenceless woman, tied down onto a bed, waiting for this violent sadist to finish rifling the pockets of his last victim and then come across to her and do do what... do whatever he likes! That's what! To her! To Lucy Webber - a graduate of UCLA law school!

'Aaaaaaaaaargh! Arrrrrrrgh! Aaaaargggghhh!' Lucy had never screamed so well or so effectively in her life. Unfortunately the effect was not to bring Dan running to her rescue, but to attract the unwanted attentions of her murderous assailant.

He came across and stared into her eyes. The screams died on her lips as she registered the cruel twist of his mouth and the sadistic glint in those beautiful orange-coloured eyes. The next moment she saw his blood-stained hand move to cover her mouth.

'Listen!' said the Psychopath. 'There's a bomb on board this ship! It's going to explode and take us with it unless I can find it quick! So just SHUT UP with the screaming - I can't think and it makes me crazy!'

God! thought Lucy, it was just like one of those films, where the heroine is captured by the serial killer-rapist and yet finds herself strangely drawn to him. 'What am I thinking about?!' Lucy suddenly brought herself up short. 'Aaaaaah! Aaargh!' Screaming really seemed the only sensible alternative.

'Didn't you hear what I said?' The Killer-Rapist was now glaring into her eyes once again. Lucy felt her bowels go soft with fear and her breath grew even scarcer than it was. 'There is a bomb. I have to find the bomb.'

Lucy went quiet, and thought about this. A bomb was clearly not good news.

The murderer returned to his victim and continued examining his pockets - of which there were rather a lot. Scraliontis had always been an expensive dresser, and you could always reckon on his suits having more pockets than anyone else's - that being the fashion of the day.

'Suffering supernovae!' thought The Journalist, I've never seen so many pockets!'

'Why are you doing that?' Lucy surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice.

'I'm looking to see if he's got a plan or anything to show where the bomb is,' said The Journalist.

'Why should he have?' asked Lucy.

'Stop asking questions,' snapped The Journalist.

'I just asked why?'

'Because he planted the bomb.'

'Oh,' said Lucy. 'Thank you.' And then thought:

'Why on Earth am I being polite to someone who's just about to kill me? Maybe even rape me first! Or maybe he isn't.' Maybe there were mitigating circumstances. Maybe the Psychopath wasn't a psychopath? Maybe he was a caring family man with a flair for initiating excitement, who was resourceful in danger and yet prepared to submit to the will of a strong and loving woman...

'Is that why you killed him?' Lucy felt surprisingly childish asking the question. 'Because he planted the bomb?'

'I didn't kill him!'

Suddenly Lucy saw the murderer in a new light. For a start he wasn't a murderer. In the second place she noticed he was hurt himself; he seemed to be in some pain as he bent over the body. Perhaps he wasn't going to rape or kill her either.

'Haaaa!' The Journalist gave a yell that made Lucy jump.

'Have you got it?' Lucy asked nervously.

'Shut up!' said Thejournalist. He had a small piece of paper which he was now stuffing into one of his many pockets (although he didn't have nearly as many as Scraliontis).

'Hey! Hey! You can't leave me here!' Lucy had gone from abject terror to incensed indignation in less time than most people could go from feeling OK to still feeling OK.

'I can't waste time!' snapped The Journalist. 'It may go off any second!' And he made for the door.

'DON'T LEAVE ME TIED UP IN HERE WITH A DEAD BODY!' screamed Lucy. Something in her tone of voice - maybe the sheer volume of it - made The Journalist stop. He turned and looked at Lucy, in her power pinstripe, tied to the bed - her black hair falling across her face.

'Shit!' he said. The actual Blerontin phrase was:

'North of Pangalin' which was a particularly unpleasant suburb of Blerontis, the capital of Blerontin, but the meaning was: 'Shit!'

He limped over to the bed and untied Lucy.

'Just don't get in the way,' he said.

'Don't talk to me like that!' fired Lucy.

'Oh! You're going to be a great help! I can see that!' replied The Journalist as he set off down the corridor towards the stairs up to the Embarkation Level.

'Wait!' Lucy shouted after him. 'I've got to find a supply of oxygen!'

'Forget it!'

'But it's getting hard to breathe!'

'Not as hard as it will be once we're tiny fragments floating in space!' retorted The Journalist.

Lucy was by now running alongside him. 'You're an alien, aren't you?' she suggested, as they waited for the Doorbot to open the door to the Second Class Area.

'No,' replied The Journalist You're the alien. This is a Blerontinian Starship in case you hadn't noticed.'

'Point taken,' said Lucy. She really wasn't used to being talked to like this. Dan would never have dared.

'Oh my God!' she exclaimed as the doors opened and she took in for the first time the majestic sweep of the Grand Axial Canal, Second Class.

'She plumett-ed

And hit his head

And gave him six pnedes as a tip!'

sang the gondoliers.

'Ohh!' The Journalist gasped as he stepped down into the nearest gondola, and missed his footing. Lucy caught him and held him for a moment.

You're hurt,' she said.

'Let's get on!' he returned. 'We have no idea when the bomb is timed to go off.'

Lucy helped him down into the gondola, and the singing stopped.

'Take us to the Engine Room,' gasped The Journalist, holding his stomach.

'Si! Si! Nitrogen-Loathing Respecters of Pressed Veal!'

'And make it fast.'

'Si! Si!'

The gondola set off down the Great Canal at no greater speed than any other. Lucy looked across at her former assailant: he was rocking backwards and forwards, hugging himself.

'Are you cold?' asked Lucy. She certainly was. But The Journalist didn't reply; he just gritted his teeth and Lucy suddenly realized he was in real pain.

'What happened?' she asked, and touched his arm.

'That bastard - Scraliontis - stabbed me with a table lamp,' growled the ex-murderer.

Lucy stifled a laugh. 'How can you stab someone with a...'

'It had a sharp end,' interrupted The Journalist 'Are you in pain?' asked Lucy. The Journalist grunted. Lucy leaned towards him and moved his hands away from his stomach. The unfamiliar smell of a being from another world caught her unawares - it was not unpleasant - quite the contrary - but it made her head spin.

'Leave me alone!' he growled.

'Let me look at it!' Lucy pulled him back onto the pillow and tried to open his clothes, where the congealed blood was thickest. 'I have no idea how to undo this,' she said.

'Thought-seal,' he said, and suddenly the garment opened so that Lucy was able to pull it back and reveal The Journalist's gouged flesh.

'Oh! It's nasty!' she said. 'Look!' Suddenly she made a quick movement. The Journalist yelled, and she pulled a large shard of glass from his abdomen. The blood welled up again from the wound.

'I couldn't see it!' he gasped. 'Thanks!' And he held up a small packet. 'Here!' he said.

'Oh! Thank you!' said Lucy, accepting the gift in what she felt was an appropriately grateful way. 'What is it?'

'A plaster,' said The Journalist. 'Stick it on before I bleed to death.'

'A lady she say we ought to sing while passengers are in the gondola and not other way round,' confided the Gondolabot, clearly feeling the need for a bit of small-talk. 'We think something may be seriously wrong.'

'Just get us to the Engine Room!'