only a little entry vibration, and Amba sipped a
snorkel of water and listened to the squeaks of joy from children around her,
bouncing in their seats as the Theme Planet’s rides steadily came into focus.
“Ladies and gentleman, this is
your pilot, Kevin, speaking. During our approach to Theme Planet, you can just
make out to your left Adventure Central. I, Kevin, can personally recommend the
Museum of Baron Nutcase, which I have wandered around for days at a time. For
those with an adventurous streak, and I count myself amongst those people,
there’s the Skycloud Mountains, especially popular with climbers who want the
thrill and danger of high peaks without the danger of falling off and dying...
a-ha-ha-ha... there’s the Pterodactyl Castle, in which I heartily recommend the Hunt Your Own T-Rex Supper quest, and if you squint really tight right now you can see The Canyon of Eternal
Torture. See how big it is? See how deep it is? See how many have been impaled a
ha ha ha only joking youngsters! To your right, the pink, quivering,
wobbling island you can make out amongst gently lapping silver waters is Pleasure
Island, and this one is for the mums and dads, boyfriends and girlfriends,
and young lovers of every alien persuasion. I can heartily recommend Sex City
where, ahem, every whim and nuance is catered for [sigh] and indeed, walk hand
in hand through the Glade of Eternal Delight, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
and around the lapping shores of Virgin’s Lake, which is exactly the same shape
as a pus... oh, we’re coming into land, buckle yourselves down and prepare to
visit...” - all the children joined in to shout the words - “the Theme Planet! It’s
better than drugs! It’s better than sex! It’s fun, it’s fast, it’s neat... If
you haven’t been sick, you soon will be! BLEEEUURGGHHHH hahahahahahahaha!”
Amba sipped her water. She heard
the crack and whine as landing gear descended, and then closed her eyes
and rested her head back, because she was thinking, reliving memories of a
thousand infiltrations and fast SLAM drops and going into battle, machine guns
rattling, yammering, bombs exploding, the pattering of shrapnel on the hull of
armoured vehicles. She shivered. Shit. And here she was. Back on the ground.
Back in the jaws. Ready for the kill. She opened her eyes and shrugged off her
humanity like a disintegrating shroud.
Good. That was the way it fucking
should be.
Six murders. Six hits.
Then she could go home.
Then they could all go home.
~ * ~
“Madam, could you please come with us?”
Amba stopped, holding up the
queue of people eager to get through immigration and onto the rides.
“Come on, missus, get out of the
way!” said one little girl with green eyes and black hair. Amba stepped
smoothly to the side, and one of the guards took her arm in an iron-firm don’t-fuck-with-me grip.
Amba glanced around. There were
five guards, armoured, with black insect-eye helmets. To the right, she saw
another ten with machine guns. And there were people - hordes of people,
pushing and jostling, eager to get out on the rides, eager to enjoy the Theme
Planet, to enjoy their vacation!
“Am I in some kind of trouble,
officer?” Amba said, smoothly. “There must have been a mistake.”
She moved with the man, who
guided her expertly. Amba could have killed him five times by the time they
reached the flat grey door, a door that was easy to miss and blended with the
wall. Amba tutted to herself. She had let her guard down for an instant, and
they’d taken her in a public place. Far too public. No. She would bide her
time. Wait.
“This way,” he repeated.
She stepped through the door, and
something cold touched the back of her neck and zapped her. She was unconscious
before she hit the floor.
~ * ~
Amba opened her eyes.
The walls and floor and ceiling were chrome, polished and gleaming. “That was
neat, what you did back
snorkel of water and listened to the squeaks of joy from children around her,
bouncing in their seats as the Theme Planet’s rides steadily came into focus.
“Ladies and gentleman, this is
your pilot, Kevin, speaking. During our approach to Theme Planet, you can just
make out to your left Adventure Central. I, Kevin, can personally recommend the
Museum of Baron Nutcase, which I have wandered around for days at a time. For
those with an adventurous streak, and I count myself amongst those people,
there’s the Skycloud Mountains, especially popular with climbers who want the
thrill and danger of high peaks without the danger of falling off and dying...
a-ha-ha-ha... there’s the Pterodactyl Castle, in which I heartily recommend the Hunt Your Own T-Rex Supper quest, and if you squint really tight right now you can see The Canyon of Eternal
Torture. See how big it is? See how deep it is? See how many have been impaled a
ha ha ha only joking youngsters! To your right, the pink, quivering,
wobbling island you can make out amongst gently lapping silver waters is Pleasure
Island, and this one is for the mums and dads, boyfriends and girlfriends,
and young lovers of every alien persuasion. I can heartily recommend Sex City
where, ahem, every whim and nuance is catered for [sigh] and indeed, walk hand
in hand through the Glade of Eternal Delight, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
and around the lapping shores of Virgin’s Lake, which is exactly the same shape
as a pus... oh, we’re coming into land, buckle yourselves down and prepare to
visit...” - all the children joined in to shout the words - “the Theme Planet! It’s
better than drugs! It’s better than sex! It’s fun, it’s fast, it’s neat... If
you haven’t been sick, you soon will be! BLEEEUURGGHHHH hahahahahahahaha!”
Amba sipped her water. She heard
the crack and whine as landing gear descended, and then closed her eyes
and rested her head back, because she was thinking, reliving memories of a
thousand infiltrations and fast SLAM drops and going into battle, machine guns
rattling, yammering, bombs exploding, the pattering of shrapnel on the hull of
armoured vehicles. She shivered. Shit. And here she was. Back on the ground.
Back in the jaws. Ready for the kill. She opened her eyes and shrugged off her
humanity like a disintegrating shroud.
Good. That was the way it fucking
should be.
Six murders. Six hits.
Then she could go home.
Then they could all go home.
~ * ~
“Madam, could you please come with us?”
Amba stopped, holding up the
queue of people eager to get through immigration and onto the rides.
“Come on, missus, get out of the
way!” said one little girl with green eyes and black hair. Amba stepped
smoothly to the side, and one of the guards took her arm in an iron-firm don’t-fuck-with-me grip.
Amba glanced around. There were
five guards, armoured, with black insect-eye helmets. To the right, she saw
another ten with machine guns. And there were people - hordes of people,
pushing and jostling, eager to get out on the rides, eager to enjoy the Theme
Planet, to enjoy their vacation!
“Am I in some kind of trouble,
officer?” Amba said, smoothly. “There must have been a mistake.”
She moved with the man, who
guided her expertly. Amba could have killed him five times by the time they
reached the flat grey door, a door that was easy to miss and blended with the
wall. Amba tutted to herself. She had let her guard down for an instant, and
they’d taken her in a public place. Far too public. No. She would bide her
time. Wait.
“This way,” he repeated.
She stepped through the door, and
something cold touched the back of her neck and zapped her. She was unconscious
before she hit the floor.
~ * ~
Amba opened her eyes.
The walls and floor and ceiling were chrome, polished and gleaming. “That was
neat, what you did back
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