Sci-Fi Shorts II

The moment I spotted him I knew I was in trouble, big trouble. THeading down the train aisle in his dark blue uniform, swinging his electronic ticket-reading machine like a cowboy gunslinger, was Inspector Zero Tolerance. The burly, stony faced one with the sarcastic put-downs and not a shred of human empathy. Towering over the passengers, with a fresh crew cut, and a scar down his right cheek, he eyed the commuters to his left and right with his habitual disdain as he dismissed their proffered (and valid) tickets in evident disappointment. My heart stopped as I realized he would not be disappointed with me. Only seconds earlier, it had hit me that my annual season ticket had expired the day before. I should have renewed it at the station, but had forgotten, and now I would suffer the consequences. Just what I needed after a truly miserable week at work. “Tickets, please,” he boomed as he came to a halt next to me, a barely suppressed smirk playing about his lips. He knew, of course he knew. He’d seen my annual pass countless times and no doubt had the expiry date seared into his memory. These days he rarely bothered to ask; he’d just nod or wink as he passed. No doubt biding his time, waiting for the day he’d be able to pounce. And pounce he just had. With trembling fingers, I handed over my now-invalid permit to travel and flashed a wan smile at him. I watched hopefully as he examined it, praying for the impossible chance that he had somehow forgotten the date. But it was like he was admiring a particularly sought-after collectors’ item. “Expired,” he said at last with a sigh, probably intended as sympathetic, but coming across like a triumphant fist-pump. “I hadn’t realized …” I stammered. He lowered himself into the seat opposite and took out his pad of penalty notices and his pen. He threw me an insincere this-is-going-to-hurt-me-more-than-it-is-you look. Somewhat symbolically, the carriage darkened as the train plunged into a tunnel. “I’d lost track of the date,” I continued. “I’ll renew it as soon as we get to Cambridge. Honest.” He nodded as he jotted a few details on his pad. “‘Course you will, sir. ‘Course you will. I expect you’ll be making a beeline for the ticket office before the train’s even stopped. Name?” My heart sank. No point arguing. Many a time I’d seen him collar a forgetful or confused passenger plus, of course, the occasional out-and-out fare-dodger. Each time he’d listen to their genuine, or made up, stories with the same air of scepticism, nodding occasionally and seemingly sympathetically. But, however heart-breaking their story, however reasonable their excuse, however believable, he’d always make some sort of quip before calmly and coldly slapping a hefty fine on them. Irrespective of age, gender, nationality, proficiency in English, or medical condition. The man was a heartless fiend. And now he had his sights set on me. “Stephen Bradshaw,” I sighed, the name catching in my throat. As he wrote it down in the appropriate box, the train emerged from the tunnel and suddenly the brakes slammed on with a deafening shriek as the wheels skidded on the rails. I was thrown back against my seat and pinned there. Then, as though in slow motion, I watched in horror as the ticket inspector’s huge bulk flew towards me, crushing me and driving all the air from my lungs. For a long five seconds I could not breathe as the train’s brakes continued to screech and two hundred pounds of humourless job’s-worth pressed into my chest. Then the carriage started jumping and swaying, as though no longer running on rails, and Zero Tolerance and I found ourselves rubbing up against one another in what, under different circumstances, would have been construed as a most unseemly manner. Finally, the train ground to a halt, and we were able to disengage. “Sorry,” we both mumbled, flustered by our recent intimacy. Hastily, he returned to the seat opposite. I handed back his electronic machine which had somehow found its way into my armpit. But things were about to become rather surreal. As I composed myself, I saw Zero’s jaw drop in horror and his eyes bulge as he stared out of the window. “Cripes!” he exclaimed in a breaking voice. “Not again!” I followed his gaze, and initially couldn’t grasp what I was looking at because the scene before me was so totally bewildering. Gone was the doomy grey sky and dreary Essex countryside of endless fields and hedges that we had been travelling through, and in its place was a delightful, bucolic scene, bursting with dazzling greens, brightly coloured flowers, and a brilliant blue and cloudless sky. The sunlight filtering through the lush foliage of the trees dappled the velvety grass with its brightness. Many of the trees had unfeasibly large fruit hanging from them, positively radiating their ripeness, and demanding to be picked and gorged on. But what really caught the eye were the people. Young people, beautiful people, fresh and lively. Men and women, either n***d or clad in skimpy undergarments, whose skin and hair spanned the colours of the rainbow. Some were dancing, others relaxed in the sunshine, some swam in the deep blue lagoon, while many engaged in the sorts of activities n***d men and women tend to engage in. Each seemed to have a hazy glow around them, and most were spectacularly well endowed in the appropriate regions, which bobbled enticingly as they moved in their languid, carefree way. “What the …?” I managed to say. Here and there stood trestle tables laden with the most delicious looking foods and drinks, while scattered on the ground were variously sized balls and bats and rackets, and other equipment designed for outdoor fun and games, as well as some for indoor fun and games. A heady fragrance filled my nostrils from the sliding window above my head; a mixture of flower smells and culinary aromas. The inspector was shaking his head in disapproval as he continued to mutter, “Not again, not again.” Then he turned to me and, on seeing my perplexed expression, explained, “We’ve entered another dimension. Or an alternative reality. Or parallel universe. Or something.” “We’ve what?” I asked, desiring a more plausible-sounding explanation than that. He sighed. “Same thing happened a couple of months back. A scientist passenger tried to explain it to me. Something about passing through a rift in the membrane separating two universes. We lost Gordon the driver ...” He stiffened as he said this, eyes widening. Then he jumped to his feet and, without another word, sped down the aisle towards the driver’s cabin, pounding on the door. “Phil!” he called. “You alright in there, Phil?” Something caught my eye outside. A beautiful blonde, with pale purple skin, was smiling and waving to me from outside. Clad in lacy lingerie, she was utterly stunning. She advanced through the lush grass towards the train, taking slow, languorous strides. I swallowed hard, unable to breathe, nor take my eyes off her. As I drank in her loveliness, she signalled me to come join her. Drawn by her strong allure I leaned forwards, only to thump my nose on the glass. I pulled back, rubbing it, embarrassed, but my sense of foolishness abated at the sight of her giggling. I was dimly aware that many of the other beautiful people outside were also smiling and beckoning to the other passengers on the train. But I only had eyes for her. I had to meet her! I sprang from my seat and headed for the driver’s cabin just as the ticket inspector disappeared inside. I sped up, but after only a few steps I was waylaid by a distraught Japanese couple surrounded by bulky suitcases. “Why we stop?” demanded the man. I tried to pass but he grabbed my arm and repeated his question. “Leaves on the line,” I replied with a tight smile. Clearly the joke was lost on him, and his distress only increased. “We miss our plane!” “Seriously?” I said, indicating the world outside. “That’s what you’re worried about?” Normally I would have been sympathetic, explaining they were on the wrong train heading in the wrong direction – a common enough mistake I had seen dozens of tourists make in the past. This was the Cambridge train, and they should have changed at Bishops Stortford for the Stansted Express. But the man just stared at me. His wife, who had glanced outside and almost choked on what she saw, was tugging at his sleeve to get him to look for himself. But he ignored her, seemingly keener to argue with me. I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m just going to ask the driver. OK?” His wife uttered some hurried words in Japanese, which gave me the chance to escape. I felt I had wasted enough time already. I needed to get to my blonde beauty before she went away. I reached the driver’s cabin and slipped inside, totally unprepared for what I encountered there. The ticket inspector and the driver were engaged in a no-holds-barred wrestling match, the latter pinned against the dashboard. Both grunted and groaned as they grappled with one another. A fist would occasionally pound into a midriff, or a leg attempt to trip another leg. The entangled pair lumbered first one way until they hit a wall, and then another until they encountered another obstruction. “What’s going on?” I cried, but they were too engrossed in their private brawl to respond. “No, Phil, no,” the inspector kept imploring. “I have to go out there, Ron,” the driver wailed back. “Let me go, Ron. I want to go.” I quickly grasped the situation. The driver, a large man, bald, and no longer in the first flush of youth, was reaching out with stubby fingers towards a young, smiling beauty outside, while being held back by the burly ticket inspector. Suddenly, the driver stopped his struggles and cried, “Look, there’s Gordon!” He pointed out of the side window. Ron the ticket inspector released his hold and looked. A middle-aged man with greying hair and a significant paunch stood waving at us, totally n***d but for the voluptuous brunette draped around him. “Good grief, you’re right. It’s Gordon!” exclaimed Ron. “Gordon?” I asked. “I told you,” said the ticket inspector. “Gordon. The driver we lost last time we were here.” Phil turned to him with wild eyes. “See? Gordon’s fine. He’s been here for several weeks and he’s smiling and waving and happy. His life is good, and he’s beckoning us over. I’m going!” With a burst of energy, he twisted himself free of Ron’s grasp and in a flash opened the door and jumped down before Ron could react. “No, Phil!” cried the inspector, grasping at his retreating figure. “We can’t lose any more drivers! Come back.” But Phil was being led away by two beautiful females and one beautiful male. The females were hugging and kissing him, while the male was helping him out of his clothing. I’d never been so jealous of another man in all my life. I noticed that my own blonde beauty was standing below the open door, smiling, beckoning to me, and forming a heart with her fingers. I had to go to her. But the inspector was too quick, blocking my way before I’d had a chance to move. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, closing the door. “But I must go to her!” I begged. I blew her a kiss and she blew one back, which increased my urge to join her.