‘I just wanted you to know what you’re missing,’ she purred, shifting her naked body as if she really was lying in the passenger seat with him. ‘And what I’m getting,’ she added with an evil grin.
A second holographic form joined hers, Lester struggled to recognise the nude figure and realised with disappointment that it was their waiter from the restaurant last night.
Competition Winner - "Lester's Story"
Added : 21st April 2009
The following story is the winning entry in the 2009 Novella competion to mark the Blue Dwarf's ninth birthday. The story is written by J Stebbing, and explains Lester Phillips' backstory. It is set before Lester came aboard the Blue Dwarf.
What does a man with everything want? What does he do with his power and influence? What will he do to keep it? Find out the shocking truth behind the deadly Better Than Life and delve into the past of Blue Dwarf's most successful failure.
This is Lester's story.
The early morning sun gleamed over the motorway. It shone on the signs that indicated how far it was to London. It shone on Robert’s Café, a tiny little trailer in a lay-by, serving outwardly singed, ice-centred, burgers to desperate foreign drivers. It shone on the antique 2010 Aston Martin One-77, a dream of car, designed by a madman who wanted the best driving experience possible and ended up creating a million pound monster that people had killed for.
This one was Lester’s. He hadn’t bought it, but instead had won it outright from an alien businessman who had been visiting Manchester last year. Both of them had signed the documents and the alien, divvying up the smaller stake, had gone first. It had spun the chamber, put the pistol to its head and with one finger-motion had made Lester even more immeasurably wealthy. Lester hadn’t spared it a moment’s thought, but had re-swapped the guns again. The one with all six chambers loaded went into his pocket, the other -with the spent casing placed carefully into it- left in the hands of the corpse.
People who knew Lester Phelps sometimes asked him how he slept at night. The answer appeared in the car next to him as a transparent, three-dimensional holographic projection.
‘Hello Sabine,’ he smiled over the throaty roar of the car’s lovingly restored engine (lovingly restored by someone else), ‘having trouble finding a bathrobe?’
‘I just wanted you to know what you’re missing,’ she purred, shifting her naked body as if she really was lying in the passenger seat with him. ‘And what I’m getting,’ she added with an evil grin.
A second holographic form joined hers, Lester struggled to recognise the nude figure and realised with disappointment that it was their waiter from the restaurant last night.
‘You should know,’ Sabine said as the man lay on top of her, ‘that this is for you being a complete rat-bastard to me for the last week.’
Lester didn’t react; instead he reached out and punched the holo-phone’s hang-up button. Then he pressed the call button.
‘Max Sidelli,’ he told it. There was a pause, then Max’s disembodied head appeared, floating in front of the dashboard.
‘Good morning Mr. Phelps,’ he said, purring almost as much as Sabine, ‘what can Sidelli, Mercer and Sidelli do for you this morning?’
‘Buy out all of Sabine’s contracts in perpetuity, and then sell them to the lowest off-world bidder.’
‘Ah, the affair is over? May I ask what happened?’
‘No. Buy Montgolier’s Restaurant in Cambridge, sack the waiters… no wait, sack the whole staff.’
‘A bad meal?’
‘A little hard to swallow,’ Lester conceded, changing down a gear to undertake a family saloon that was dawdling at a mere eighty miles-per-hour. ‘Sell it to the first Mollopod you can find.’
‘Of course Mr. Phelps,’ Sidelli said obsequiously, ‘anything else?’
‘If anything else earns my ire, I’ll let you know,’ with that he cut the connection.
The road slipped under his wheels, the car eating up miles nearly as fast as it guzzled fuel. He’d had the option to replace its engine with a modern cell drive, but it wouldn’t have been the same, even with simulated engine sounds. So he kept paying the inordinate price for off-world petrol. Why the smeg not? He could afford it.
Above him there was clearly a steady increase in the amount of airborne traffic. Taxi-flyers, hover-trucks and the occasional joy-riding space-bike were getting thicker above his head. By the time he reached the M25 the sky was almost solid; a traffic-jam several miles in each direction hovered angrily overhead as they tried to push through the multi-layered toll booths. On the now unfashionable land-roads, Lester slid easily into London via Dartford tunnel. A space-biker, seeing the old car disappear into the darkness tried to follow. From the sides of the tunnel came robotic cables that entwined themselves around driver and bike, smashing the vehicle into the wall and dropping the rider into a chute for the London Transport Police holding cells.
‘Welcome Mr. Phelps sir,’ the anonymous but gorgeous and hopefully quite stupid, receptionist smiled as he strode through the glass doors into the office building. She sat in front of a wide desk that contained everything she needed to do her job: make-up table with mirror, mobile ’phone charge ports and free internet access with everything blocked except social networking and email. By her arm three telephones were ringing for attention but she seemed not to hear them. Behind her was the large, platinum corporate logo:
BTL
‘Any messages for me?’ Lester asked; he was met with a blank expression and so blatantly ogled her ample cleavage for a good two minutes before telling her: ‘you’re doing a good job, Jane.’
‘It’s Kristel, actually,’ she said, a little hurt.
‘Whatever,’ Lester continued past, produced his data-card and swiped himself into the executive elevator. The size of a comfortable double room, the elevator was tremendously heavy and as such very slow. A man was laying full length on a table receiving a very thorough massage.
‘You have a masseuse in your office, Bill,’ Lester grinned as he handed his coat and empty briefcase to a nearby attendant.
‘Yeah, I know, but I got in early and well… I’ve spent all morning just going up and down, up and down you know?’ Bill lapsed into moans of pleasure as the masseuse kneaded his back.
***
‘Welcome to your office, Mr. Phelps,’ the computer greeted happily, ‘you have twenty-seven new messages.’
‘Any from Sabine?’
‘All of them are from Sabine Benitalya.’
‘Are any of them below say… twenty decibels?’
‘Only the first.’
‘Delete them all,’ Lester said and flopped down in his massive leather chair, ‘organise a gym session for me and display a summary of last night’s news relating to the sale of BTL.’
‘This is Channel 27 News. Authorities again called for an investigation as following the midnight launch of Better Than Life version Seven, the initiative was taken to employ, at extremely high rates, every third person queuing, in order to continue selling the product. Those recruited were given an astonishing pay packet, well above the Galactic average and then given a host of extras with their finally purchased copy of BTL. What began as a mob crowd outside the H.M. Virgin store in Oxford street soon subsided as the crowd polarised between new employees and what are now being called Game Heads.’
Lester watched as people staggered out of the store, clutching their prized packages. Some were bruised and bloody from the violent scrum that had ensued. They frantically ripped the packaging aside, tossed the remains towards already over-flowing bins, then crammed the silver bands onto their heads. Blissful, happy wonderment flowed onto their faces. This had the effect of spurring the remaining crowd to push into the store. Fortunately, H.M. Virgin, had the foresight to remove every other product, other than BTL from their store for that day. No-one attempted to steal the game, given that when version 5 was released the police had authorised lethal force in the tagging system at the doors to the shops. Instead of simply setting off an alarm, thieves were vaporised as they passed the threshold. The law suits had been astronomical, but a drop in the ocean compared to the units sold on the inter-planetary markets.
Lester began his exercise regime. The teachings of the some of the greatest martial arts experts from history had been uploaded at great expense into the operating system of one of Diva Droid international’s experimental prototypes: the Hudzen 10. After changing into loose fitting gym-wear, a secret panel opened and the Hudzen emerged. The machine bowed mechanically to Lester who did not return the gesture, then took up a stance and launched himself at the man.
Lester side-stepped the first swung fist but it punched through a concrete pillar, scattering grey dust onto the priceless Persian rug (an engagement gift from a now very angry Royal from Saudi Arabia). Lester moved round the machine which moved incredibly quickly, attempting to land kicks, punches and throws. Lester dodged, what he didn’t dodge he blocked with a crunch that would put a man’s teeth on edge. Then he stepped nimbly closer to the android, landed a series of punches to its already battered armour then flipped it by its arm, over his shoulder and into the glass coffee table. The mechanoid quickly righted itself, grabbing a twisted metal leg from the remains of the table and swiped at Lester. He gave way, retreating until he was forced to climb onto an armchair, then onto the back of it, causing it to tip. He was sprawled on the floor and the Hudzen brought its arm down in a deadly scything motion that would probably finish somewhere through the tiles and in the floor below. Lester stuck both legs into its midriff and rolled backwards. The Hudzen was flung against the window, designed to withstand rocket attack from the outside, the glass shattered and the android fell, plummeting twenty floors to the ground below. Lester got up, leaning out the freshly opened window to have a look. The machine twitched in its impact crater for a moment, then dragged itself upright and headed for the front door. Lester allowed himself a smirk. The last eighteen droids he’d bought from Diva had all given up after the most basic exercise; this should be interesting. He sat behind his desk, accessed the mechanoid’s systems remotely and disabled its safety protocols. Downstairs, the Hudzen wrenched a concrete flower display out of its moorings in the floor and carried it up the twenty flights of stairs. Lester would be ready for him.