By the Time I Get to Pellax

by Keith Dersley

  - 12 -

  That night Spurgo rose from his armchair and headed for the Royal Guard, where he had sustained his injuries. The lanky Achelaran, Gugat, had been seen there on previous occasions, both with Tarbo and without. Tonight it was without. He had obviously been on the rainbow wine for some time, this Gugat. The place, now far from full, was swathed in the shades of purple and dark red its adherents liked the best. Whenever the doors swung open to let in a newcomer everyone looked up. Spurgo perched himself at the bar, beside Tarbo's henchman, and to his right. The Achelaran was well armed, and if he drew a blade or a shooter, being where he was, Spurgo would have an extra fraction of a second to react. Pouring from a bottle of rainbow wine, the cherry-skinned Gugat let his eyes flicker over Spurgo and back to the bar top. 'I'm feeling a little better now,' said Spurgo, tonelessly. Gugat's head spun towards him and his eye flashed white a moment, just the way it had that night when Spurgo brought the Mind Blow into play. 'You! Ya turd ' began the Achelaran. Leaning back and showing his teeth in a snarl that would have been enough to put many a bar brawler to flight. 'Yeah, me!' said Spurgo, whipping his fist in a long, flailing blow which struck the cherry-skinned jaw of the Achelaran with the sound of a bat hitting a rubber ball. Gugat no more than turned round, no hurry, to give his attention to the source of the flea bite. Erloch Spurgo swallowed and slowly breathed out. Daring is rarely fatal. He hoped though that he was not making his attempt too soon after getting up from the divan.

  * * * * * *

  Stax Pryod, aged seventy-two, had his own corner in the Royal Guard,. The staff and regulars thought of him as a joke. He was happy with this definition and would collect empty bottles and glasses, wash the floors and bar tops, run errands, and generally try to come across as an asset to the place. Fate had put him in a situation where he saw a lot. If someone had furnished him with a computer he could have created a documentary masterwork of intrigue and spite. Stax had a good memory for names and faces. In short, he could have been the official historian of the Royal Guard Club. A lot of the information he gathered was valuable to some very dangerous people. Stax therefore ensured that his powers of forgetting what he saw were also well developed and that everybody knew it. Even so, Stax Pryod saw what Stax Pryod saw. Tonight the events revolved around the taciturn Achelaran called Gugat who was one of the followers of the famous Tarbo. There was the line of poetry everyone knew from school, 'Bucket stomachs out of Achelar', and this Gugat fellow was an example, thin though he was. A man came in that night, a modest-looking individual, tiny beside Gugat, and he sat there crowding him, glaring at the Haladaran Behemoth, like a mouse on the tail of a tiger. No, not a mouse. He had a little hooked nose, pin prick eyes and a small chin and his hair was combed into a biscuit-coloured quiff at the front, like the crest of a parrot or cockatiel. Well, this cockatiel couldn't leave it alone. He had been staring at Gugat long enough to get most of the other drinkers twitching and nudging each other, aware of the catastrophe about to fall. Gugat looked straight at him, took stock of that daring and challenging attitude, like a parrot just out of its cage, and the big Achelaran was so far gone in his wine-bibbing that he couldn't be bothered to slap him off his stool. By way of proving that his life had a value to him probably less than nil, the smaller man slapped at the hulk from Achelar. Every lounge lizard in the place was all attention. At last, a response from Gugat. He went as if to whisper to the man on his right, leaned forward and loosed off two left-handed pothook blows from close in: whup, whup they went, expert blows from an experienced man, but they connected only with the whirling vapour of candlelight and tobacco smoke. The little fellow stepped back further, as if to preen. He was weird. He was really cocky. In towards him lumbered Gugat and his left hand darted for the throat but the bird man swayed back out of reach and hefted a steel-shod boot into Gugat's right knee. Turning his head, the Achelaran let out a string of husky curses that were somehow pathetic coming from a man his size. A snigger went round the bar room. The possibility was in the air now that the cocky little man from the backside of hell was going to bring down the high looks of Tarbo's overbearing lieutenant. The smaller man however appeared to have suddenly come to his senses, because he backed away, making for the steelglass side door of the Royal Guard. Gugat was not allowing this. He leapt for the fellow, his legs pattering away at the floorboards like a greyhound's. He met two blows in the face which loosed a copious blood flow. Also, Gugat was looking into those little light-filled green eyes while that tiny head moved from side to side, taunting like. Gugat strode forward, one step, two steps, three. The birdman's steel-shod boots left the ground as he held onto the doorpost and kicked deep into the swaggerer's face. Teeth fell to the floor. The little man's boots completed the job by pulverising the Achelaran's brains. He peeled a fancy neck cloth off the corpse to clean his footwear. Stax was among the first to shake the hand of the victor, who grunted and left, unwilling to even wait for a free drink. Stax's mate Lionel was one of the jubilators. 'The weirdest was the light flashin' from the parakeet's eye. You see it?' 'What was that?' 'When he drew him in for the death kick, like. A beam of light jumped out and hit Gugat in the face. Didn't you see it?'

  * * * * * *

  As he left the Royal Guard, Spurgo said a few thankful words of prayer, blessing the scattered ashes of his ancestors back on Pluron. He had proved himself worthy. This was a start. On this new planet, arising from a sickbed (a feat which was in itself like a rebirth). Spurgo's heart leapt with exuberance. His saviour of the other evening, Kalat Hertig, who had, reasonably enough, asked for his help, might be able to help propel him to new heights. At that moment, turning the corner, he saw coming towards him another cherry-skinned bully boy. His cloak was swirling and the pommel of his long laser knife protruded from his belt. The man was obviously headed for the Royal Guard, to see Gugat. This was the other architect of Spurgo's downfall a few nights before. This fellow would have been as quick as Gugat to take his head from his shoulders if things had been a little different. The triumph Spurgo had just enjoyed had been a battle of wills and Gugat had not been as quick as he might during that tussle because of his long bouts of drinking. Still, he had not been a pushover. Spurgo came running up behind the cherry-skinned reveller. 'Hey, your buddy Gugat sends you a message,' said Spurgo. 'It's you, is it?' said the Achelaran. Something about Spurgo's grin made him pause. 'Let's go into this alleyway,' said Spurgo. The fellow looked around him. The contempt he had so openly displayed for the little man from Pluron was so great that he could not refuse the offer. Once in the dimness of the alley however, Spurgo drew a cobalt revolver, and there wasn't much percentage in deploying a laser dagger against that. 'I thought that even Pluronians adhered to the rules of conspicuous fairness,' said the Achelaran. 'We do, we do, there's a chivalry on Pluron all its own. On the other hand, a shooter like this settles the debate any time. By the way, you've no need to go to the Royal Guard, if that's where you're headed. You won't be having a cosy evening of intimidating this one and that, as you did the other night.' 'You piece of stinking ass-wipe!' 'Oh, rather good,' said Spurgo. 'First he talks about the laws of fair play and gentlemanly combat, then he spouts like the gutter-born. No no, leave it,' he said as the red-faced ruffian fondled the pommel of his blade. 'You won't be talking to friend Gugat tonight at the Royal Guard, so you might as well return to wherever you have arranged your night's doss. He came off the worse in a duel with yours truly.' 'I don't believe you. Unless you fired that thing.' 'Oh no, ' said Spurgo. 'Our encounter could have been supervised by any umpire in the galaxy and he would not have dished out a card. To me, fists and feet seemed appropriate for smashing into that ugly cherry mug of his, as they would with yours.' 'Swine!' shouted the Achelaran, His hand went to his pommel again and he could have been ready to throw everything to the breeze and dive at Spurgo. He hesitated. 'You don't want me to go and check for myself? Is that it? You wish to keep me out of the Royal Guard?' 'Oh no, you may go where you please. I only have the cobalt here
as a dissuader. We have had our talk.' 'And if I turn you won't shoot me in the back?' 'It's true that to pull the trigger would be a simple matter and clarify matters considerably, but no.' 'You have the concept of honour? You are in your way, fair?' 'I am a gentleman as much as you,' said Spurgo, touching the crest on his forehead in a mocking salute. 'Even on Pluron we pick up these things.' 'I myself rose from the gutters.' 'Really? Then I salute you again.' 'The Achelaran bowed and walked towards the illumination at the end of the alley. Before he reached that area of light however, the tall man ducked low and swung around, throwing his laser knife. Spurgo felt the blade fan past his left eye socket. He drew his pistol and the Achelaran was bowled over by an irresistible, almost-silent boom as the cobalt cartridge incinerated his viscera and shrank his flesh. He was left looking like the mummified carcase of a midget. Spurgo replaced the pistol into his armpit holster. He could have beaten the moron to a pulp as he had Gugat, but he didn't wish to have to wipe his boots off twice in one day.

  - 13 -

  Lonnie could not believe his luck when Latonia stood there beckoning him as she walked towards one of Krayko City's dingy alleyways as calmly as if she were in a beauty parlour. That girl's by no means one of your blushing Pellacian roses, he thought to himself. 'Are you coming, dummy?' Lonnie had turned to glance back at the frontage of the Midnight Garden, where Venner was standing deep in chat with a police officer. Ven could look after himself, he decided. 'Am I to buy you a drink soon? Where are we going?' he said as he caught up with her. 'Yes, you're to buy a drink. You'll be great as an escort. It won't do for a girl to wander around here on her own,' she said. Here I am, being used, thought Lonnie to himself, and his heart sank a degree or two. At the same time, he felt an obscure pride. She obviously thought of him as a man among men, a bodyguard, like, one who could hold his end up in a bout of fisticuffs or worse. He would wield a toothpick against a meat cleaver if he could save Latonia Fletcher. She would never be the most grateful of rescued damsels, but what the hell, he would love to battle for her. He couldn't help himself. You didn't have to go far in Krayko to sample all the things it is known for: wild fairground rides, waxworks, knife throwers, snake charmers, fortune tellers, dancing girls, gambling. Krayko was for relaxation and indulgence. But they did have a good police force there, which was sorely needed. Lonnie took Latonia's hand, and she did not pull it away. The minstrel's heart surged. 'I'm determined to get everything I can out of this visit to Dalhedra,' she said. 'Who knows, I may never come here again.' But after trying some crazy rides and losing a lot of credits on roulette tables and electronic guessing games and visiting a booth where a big rabbit came out and frightened her by knowing in detail several happenings and relationships and landscapes out of her life on Pellax, she decided to calm it down a bit. 'Let's go to Pine Tree,' she said. 'There we can take off our masks, as they put it.' Every mood was catered to on Krayko, even contemplation and appreciation of nature and art, including the culinary ones. She insisted on paying their entry into Pine Tree Valley. 'I came here as a schoolgirl, with my mother and father. It's calm and peaceful after the hustle and smell of greasy onions we've left back there. Let's chill, yeah?' Lonnie agreed. He had lost at gambling, the same as Latonia had, but he didn't mind the hole in his credit balance so much. The smell of greasy over-fried onions had always been there in his life and was part of him, clinging to his rags. There was that old, indelible notion that whatever Lonnie Pascoe did would tend to turn out wrong, or small-time at the best. That he was one of those types brought out into the open by Krayko City as a LOSER. Creamy orchestral strains washed over them in the restaurant they chose: the Academy. There was plenty of space between tables, and the other diners were well-dressed and smiling with an as it were vapid sense of their own entitlement. That was why you paid through the nose at a joint like this. 'What's wrong, don't you like the place?' said Latonia. 'I like it fine, but of course it intimidates me a bit. Am I man enough to be here? Seems to me like it was made for the Galerians.' Latonia stopped in her tracks and bored into him with her icy blue eyes. 'What do you know about the Galerians?' The man from Earth shrugged. 'What they taught us in school, I suppose. Kings of the land of Mazarat on Pellax. Originally pure English, if there is such a thing, which there isn't because the English blood is mixed from way back. They were Anglo immigrants, anyway. Blue bloods, centuries of breeding, plenty of battles fought and won. The history of Pellax is a whole subject unto itself. To me, Pellax sounds as exotic as Earth must to you.' 'In other words, you know nothing. What about the Ralladars?' 'Oh yes, they are a famous family as well. Earls, dukes, and what have you, and a king or two. But they were scattered about a century ago. They've all had to work as freight pilots and landscape gardeners, so the story goes. And of course, our friend Lupo Venner is descended from them, as I found out the other day. I hadn't realised old Ven was full of blue blood.' 'If you had lived on Pellax you wouldn't speak so lightly about being a subject of the almighty Galerians. You're not the only one, I know. Very few people are aware of the facts of life on my planet. The Galerians like to spin a tale or two to put themselves in a wonderful light. Those who leave Pellax and spread too many rumours about the unpleasant facts of life have a way of disappearing. It's not easy to leave Pellax, and if you do they will keep themselves informed about your activities.' 'You manage all right, though.' Latonia smiled sadly. 'I have been lucky so far. The only person I have confided in is you, Lonnie, and I don't believe you are one of their agents.' 'No I'm not, and I had better not see any of them hanging around,' said the plucky bantam of a man. 'Also, there is an underground movement in our country, as you may imagine. This has its interplanetary arm and there are several powerful people in the galaxy keeping quiet for the moment about their wish to see the Galerians brought into the dust.' 'So would you say the Galerians spend a lot of money on trying to, uh, deodorise their name?' 'There are many unjust régimes in the galaxy, even in the Federation. They do their laundering. But they realize that the simplest way of rebutting a charge, any charge, is to laugh at it. Not act as if it's a big deal. Covertly blackening the name of your accuser is another Galerian tactic.' 'It's quite a task, though,' said Lonnie. 'The truth will always come out in time. It's as powerful and insidious as water.' 'The truth comes out, but does everybody always recognise it or give it the importance due to it? And then along comes a rumour to the contrary: how much weight should that have? It's not easy for the layman to work it out. So with Pellax, you'd have to live there to understand. Slander and libel come cheap and for a while can stack up well against the facts. Maybe King Lartis is a tyrant, but he wears wonderful uniforms, and doesn't he speak well? Maybe the scruffy agitators are simply jealous of him. Sometimes it works if you're brassy enough: let someone have his say accusing you and then confound him by a humble demeanour and hushed lips. Oh yes, the Galerians are very clever. They can portray any man they murder as a vile assassin.' She excused herself and went to the Ladies' Room. The furious way she spoke convinced Lonnie that she must have lost a father or some other relative to the Galerians. After this her mood cleared somewhat and they enjoyed a wondrous meal. Many of the dishes they chose were Pellacian. 'This curried gubbagub could have been sent over straight from Bailey's in Caram City itself,' she said excitedly.