‘Kill them! Switch them off!’ echoed across the hall, but it was too late for the layered rolls of flesh to react.

The hoverboard sped towards the exit. As they approached they saw two guards wearing little blue caps. They struggled to disengage from their feeding machines and align their mats to intercept them. Covered in goo, they collided with each other as the hoverboard tore its way to freedom.

XVIII
Correctomondo

Tancredi was bitterly cold. He tried to stand up, but found himself falling into crisp, crunching whiteness. It dawned on him that he was entombed in snow. Great flakes brushed his eyelids to confirm the fact.

He remembered the hoverboard spinning out of control. Cocomo had been operating the machine, it wasn’t difficult to pilot. Suddenly it felt as if it had been hijacked by an alien force, which then guided it to this frigid landscape. He was thrown as it crashed.

How long had he been unconscious? Where were his friends? He tried to nurse the stump of his arm, but his hand was frozen and he had no feeling in his feet. At least the cold anaesthetised the pain of his wound.

The horror of his amputation struck him for the first time. Part of him had been eaten. He felt sick. He was disabled, a freak, and all for the amusement of a planet of immobile gluttonous morons. Soon, no doubt, reality TV on Earth would feature contestants being dismembered in the dark by reptiles.

At the same time, he felt an odd sense of pride. How many people could say they had survived an encounter with a man-eater? Stumps and scars were only unsightly to others. His lost arm was a visible badge, one which would be recognised by Cocomo in whose honour it had been won. As he rested, the ice-cold snow numbing his stump, he started to wonder how Cocomo would view his valour. He feared she might take a more realistic view of his endeavour.

He thrust his good arm into the snow to see if he could find the ground. It sank to his elbow.

The silence was total, not even a whisper of a breeze. He looked around the field, then took a few steps, testing his ability to negotiate the snow. He knew he needed to find shelter fast. A thought which calculated his survival in minutes, not hours, was quickly dismissed.

As he stumbled forwards, shaking with shock, squinting against the blistering cold, he saw a figure running towards him. After his experience on Obesitas, he considered trying to escape – but where would he go? Anyway, he was too weak to flee.

The runner came panting up, vapour billowing from his mouth. He wore a coat made of plaid bulked out with numerous layers, and an ushanka with flaps like great dog ears. He had been running in knee-high fur boots, heavy footwear even at a walking pace. Thick fur gloves covered his hands. He stopped in front of Tancredi and bent over to catch his breath.