by Adam Roberts
Princess Leper, her heart full, slipped away from the hall. Luke saw her go, and followed her, joining her on a balcony looking down over the main hall. The two of them stood and watched the rock and roll celebrations of the victorious Rebelend below: drinking, dancing, eating, vomiting, the full gamut of human enjoyment.
‘You realise, of course,’ said Luke, speaking gently for fear of upsetting his sister, ‘that we may never know what the Great Secret is, now? Dark Father told me that he knew the Secret, but he is dead now. And RCDU2 has been destroyed in the conflagration that marked the end of the Death Spa.’
‘I can’t say it bothers me over much,’ said Leper. ‘The main reason I wanted to know the Secret was to defeat the Imp-Emp-Imp. We’ve managed that without knowing the Secret, so it doesn’t really matter. Of course, I’m still curious . . .’
‘Curious, yes. Me too.’
‘But I suppose it’ll just be one of those things.’
‘One of those things, yes.’
‘Luke, why are you repeating everything I say?’
‘Leper – I have something to tell you. It may be a shock. You know that Dark Father was my father? Well he was your father too. You and I share the same parents. We are, in fact, brother and sister.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Leper, matter-of-factly.
‘I know it’s hard to accept. I refused to believe it at first too . . .’
‘It’s not that,’ said Leper. ‘But it’s not genetically possible for you and I to be brother and sister. Dark Father can’t be my father.’
‘You sound very sure.’
Leper turned to look at Luke. ‘Come on, Luke. These tentacles, curled at the side of my head? I know you’ve noticed them, because you’ve mentioned them several times.’
‘Tentacles?’ said Luke, uncertainly.
‘I’m a Keflapod, from the planet Keflapodia. What did you think my tentacles were, otherwise?’
‘I don’t know,’ Luke mumbled. ‘Some kind of fungoid growth . . .’
Leper boggled at Luke, by which I don’t mean that she played a letter-dice-based word game with him, but rather that she was astonished by his ignorance of the ways of the universe. ‘You’re quite astonishingly ignorant about the ways of the universe,’ she told him. ‘How many humans have you seen walking around with tentacles like these growing out of the side of their heads?’
‘None,’ conceded Luke.
‘Yet you didn’t make the obvious logical deduction from that fact?’
‘So,’ said Luke, thinking slowly. ‘—you’re not human?’
‘No.’
‘But you do have leprosy?’
‘Keflapodic leprosy, yes. It’s a disease very similar to human leprosy. But it’s under medical control.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Luke. ‘You look so human – so beautifully human. I just assumed you were human. Despite the curled-up tentacles on either side of your head.’
‘I am humanoid,’ she said. ‘That oid makes all the difference. It means, for instance, that my people cannot breed with your people; we’re genetically incompatible. So I can’t be Dark Father’s daughter, or your sister.’
‘I wonder why he said you were, then,’ said Luke.
‘Who knows.’
‘Bony K’nobbli said it too.’
‘Again – my shoulders are shrugging. Perhaps you can see them? There they go – shrug shrug. It means,’ she added, ‘that I neither know nor care.’
Luke stood in silent thought as the fireworks blossomed like tenuous yet gigantically shining lilies and daffodils of light, filling the dark-purple sky with shuddering brilliance. ‘So,’ Luke said finally, slowly. ‘You’re humanoid, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Which is,’ Luke continued, carefully, ‘very like human?’
‘Yes.’
‘Capable—’ Luke went on ‘of, um, of interacting with humans in . . . what? Some ways? Most ways? All ways?’
‘Interacting?’ said Princess Leper crossly. ‘What do you mean “interacting”?’ She looked into Luke’s face, and her crossness dissolved away. ‘Oh,’ she said, comprehension dawning. ‘Interacting in that sense. Well, the answer to that would be . . . yes, actually.’
‘Really?’ said Luke drawing closer to her and slipping his arm around her shoulder. ‘That is interesting.’
Away on the far side of the hall Masticatetobacco – who had been slumped in a spare chair and left to slumber on – gave a start, shook his head, and sat up straight. He rubbed his eyes and blinked for severaly moments. ‘Good grief,’ he said, in his cut-glass quasi-Etonian accent. ‘What a strange dream I’ve been having . . .’
Episode One
THE FANS–OF–TRON MENACE
IT WAS THE FOUR HUNDREDTH YEAR OF THE GALACTIC FEDERAL CONSOLIDATION, AND THE PLANET YA!BOO! HAD BEEN UNFAVOURABLY AFFECTED BY THE SEVENTEENTH SUB-CLAUSE OF THE FEDERAL CONSOLIDATION INNER-GALACTIC REVENUE CODE AMENDMENT ACT, SPECIFYING THE NUMBER OF EXEMPTIONS ALLOWABLE FOR EACH ELIGIBLE AND ACCREDITED CITIZEN-DEPENDENT IN THE FILING OF INTERSTELLAR TRADE TARIFF AND TAX RETURNS, THE MINISTER OF ACCOUNTING SOMEHOW, INEXPLICABLY, HAVING FAILED TO NOTIFY THE CENTRAL TAX PLANET OF A REDESIGNATION OF THE PLANET FROM ISQ 9000 TO ISQ 9001 (AN UPGRADE IN GENERAL TAX-LIABILITY CLASSIFICATION THAT, FOR REGISTRATION PURPOSES, MOVED YA!BOO! FROM LOWER-PRIORITY TO MIDDLE-PRIORITY FIRST QUARTILE ACCOUNT TRANSPARENCY) UNTIL NEARLY TWO WEEKS AFTER THE DEADLINE REQUIRED BY THE GALACTIC FEDERAL CONSOLIDATION. THIS, IN TURN, REQUIRED A REVALIDATION OF THE PLANET’S CENSUS BUREAU REORGANISATION LAWS, TO BRING THE CENSUS DETAILS OF CITIZENS UP TO THE LATEST GALACTIC FEDERAL CONSOLIDATION FOR TAX-ASSESSMENT PURPOSES, WITH PARTICULAR REFERENCE TO MANUFACTURING AND SERVICE INDUSTRY TAXABLE LIABILITY. DUE TO THE OVERSIGHT ON BEHALF OF THE MINISTER OF ACCOUNTING, YA!BOO! FACED THE TERRIFYING PROSPECT OF BEING ELIGIBLE NEITHER FOR THEIR USUAL TRADE TARIFF REBATE, NOR FOR THE SLIGHTLY LARGER TRADE TARIFF REBATE AVAILABLE UNDER THE ISQ 9001 SCHEME, TO CLAIM WHICH THE YA!BOO! GOVERNMENT HAD REDESIGNATED THEMSELVES IN THE FIRST PLACE. WITHOUT THEIR REBATE, THE YA!BOO! DEMOCRATICALLY ELECTED GOVERNMENT FACED HAVING TO HOLD OVER A HALF PERCENTILE OF AN ALREADY ASSENTED BUDGETARY OVERFALL, WHICH IN TURN COULD IMPACT VERY NEGATIVELY UPON BOTH THE PENDING ARTS’ SUPPORT AND WELFARE REORGANISATION LEGISLATION. BECAUSE OF THIS SITUATION, THE GALACTIC FEDERAL CONSOLIDATION HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO DECLARE WHAT THE GALACTIC FEDERAL CHIEF ADMINISTRATOR DESCRIBED AS ‘KRIEG OF THE BLITZ VARIETY’ UPON YA!BOO!, AND TO ‘DROP MORE BATTLE DROIDS ON THEM THAN HAVE EVER BEFORE BEEN ASSEMBLED IN MILITARY OPERATIONS’. THINGS LOOK BLEAK FOR THE BEAUTIFUL YOUNG TAX-ASSESSOR PKME AMIDSHIPS. NOW READ ON . . .
Chapter One
The regrettable situation on Ya!Boo!
Two Jobbi masters alighted from their space ship on the verdant fields of the planet Ya!Boo!: one, Kwai Gone Bridge, had the suave patrician charm of a middle-aged Jack Hawkins. The other was his handsome and eager apprentice, Wobbli Bent K’nobbli. Kwai Gone exuded a calm stateliness. K’nobbli, on the other hand, was in the prime of his youth, or indeed, judging by his face and its lack of resemblance to the face it would become in later years, in the prime of somebody else’s youth.
They were met by the young Tax Assessor Pkme Amidships. ‘Good day,’ she said, rather stiffly.
Pkme was nearing the end of her indentured period as a Galactic Federal Consolidation-owned civil servant (with special responsibility to tax affairs). Slavery had, of course, once been widespread amongst human cultures. The invention and mass manufacture of robots had long since obviated the need for manual slaves – the demand for a workforce needed to, say, erect a pyramid or harvest tobacco could more efficiently be met with zinc-based workers than carbon-based ones. But this was not to say that slavery had been banished. Far from it. Rather the burden of slavery shifted from the lowest level of society (who were granted the freedom to starve, provided only they did not do it in too public a manner) to the middle managers. It benefited the wealthy to have a class of indentured servants to f
ill in their tax returns, to address their insurance needs and to sort through the tangle of the thousands of conflicting legal codes. This new class of slaves endured all the disadvantages of previous varieties of slaves, although the cannier amongst them were sometimes able to work themselves free – by, for instance, taking on extra assignments, particularly dangerous assignments. In this way Pkme Amidships (in a state of affairs rare amongst the peoples of Ya!Boo!) had brought herself to within spitting distance of her own freedom. Not that she would spit. She was far too pretty and well-bred to do that.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Kwai Gone. ‘I’m Kwai Gone.’
‘I’m Wobbli Bent K’nobbli,’ said K’nobbli puppyishly.
Pkme did not bother telling them her name; as with all the indentured she wore a name badge that said ‘Hi! I’m Pkme Amidships How Can I Be Of Service?’
‘At last,’ she snapped, ‘the Council has sent representatives. You can witness for yourself the damage that has been done to our beautiful planet . . .’ She gestured: the green hills and fertile valleys of Ya!Boo! visible from the landing platform were pitted with brown craters. The ruins of several of the larger villages were smoking. Smoking, of course, is as bad a sign in villages as in humans, and almost always indicates a poor state of health.
‘We are truly sorry,’ said Kwai. ‘The entire attack upon your world was a deeply regrettable incident.’
‘Regrettable!’ said Pkme, colouring. ‘Is that all you can say? Galactic Federal Consolidation Legislation expressly states that no planet shall be bombed until two weeks after any appeal committee of independently appointed Revenue Appeal officers has convened and judged with a simple majority in the case of non-payment of account but a two-thirds majority in the case of all other rubric infractions . . .’
‘You are absolutely correct,’ said Kwai Gone, holding up his hand. ‘One of the reasons the Council has sent me is to offer our apologies.’
‘Apologies?’
‘Yes. It is indeed true that the Appeal Committee, although they did vote for bombing by a simple majority, did not pass the annihilation motion by the required two-thirds majority.’
Pkme looked from the older Jobbi to the younger. ‘So what happened?’ she asked.
‘We suspect treachery by a secret organisation. Our intelligence talks of a mysterious group called the “Fans-of-Tron” . . . although we are not sure what the name means.’
‘Fans-of-Tron,’ said Pkme, trying the phrase out. ‘No, that means nothing to me. Wasn’t there a film once called Tron?’
‘Yes; it is a classic from the age of the Twentieth Century, the Golden Age of Disney and Pokemon, as it is sometimes called. But we cannot see why a terrorist organisation would take it as their name. There’s worse news too. It may be that the Dark Side of the Farce has infiltrated the Council itself.’
‘No!’
‘I’m afraid so.’
There was a huge crunching noise high above them. The three of them looked up to see the sleek forms of Mercenary Viral Fighters shrieking through the sky, each of them shedding missiles from the ordnance pores pitted all over its fuselage, like a dog shaking itself dry. ‘Quick!’ cried Pkme. ‘Into one of the shelters!’
The shelter was huge, but nevertheless filled to capacity. About half the people inside were human; the remainder belonged to the ‘Keflapod’ race, an indigenous population who lived in and under the water. Keflapods had evolved via a curious symbiosis between a highly intelligent squid creature and a highly stupid ape. The ape, as natural selection worked its magic, had become stupider and stupider, its brain pan shrinking and its head retreating into its shoulders until it had no head at all. At some point in the long ago, the squiddy proto-Keflapods had sunk six of their eight arms through the next stump and into the nervous system of these anthropods, leaving two tentacles, one on each side of their head. This combined life form was more successful than either of its originators, and had spread widely across the world.
Then the humans had arrived.
It is true that the human population shipped into the world had been one of slaves, but they were middle management slaves. Their masters had long ago learnt that one way to keep slaves contented is to give them slaves of their own. So long as a slave has somebody else to cook, clean and skivvy for them, they are much less likely to rise up against their own oppression.
Kwai Gone and Wobbli Bent were squeezed on a long bench, with Amidships on one side and a group of Keflapods on the other. ‘Hello,’ said Kwai Gone, who prided himself on being open-minded. He shook the hand of the Keflapod sitting on the bench next to him.
‘Yassa? Yousa talking to meee?’ replied the Keflapod, his eyes wide in astonishment. ‘Howsa yowsa massa! I speakee howdy-doody. Yousa mesa eata warty-melon, sitsy downsy yowsa! Yassa massa!’
‘Of for the love of – just shut up, Jam-Jar,’ came a voice from further down the bench. It was another Keflapod. ‘You’ll have to excuse him, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m Kwai Gone and this is my apprentice Wobbli Bent K’nobbli,’ said Kwai Gone.
‘I know, said the Keflapod. ‘My mistress told me all about your visit. I’m Psoriasis, her maid.’
‘Why does he talk like that?’ Wobbli asked.
‘Nobody knows,’ said Psoriasis, sighing. ‘The nearest I can make out, he’s just an idiot.’
‘Ah,’ said Wobbli, nodding. As a Jobbi he knew about idiocy.
‘Whosa?’ said Jam-Jar. ‘Yabba-dabba, yousa say wesa gonna . . .’
‘If you don’t button it,’ said Psoriasis, in a tight but focused voice, ‘I am going to hit you so very hard . . .’
‘Oh alright then,’ said Jam-Jar, sulkily. He crossed his arms and pouted at the floor.
A siren clanged, gong-like. ‘That’s the all-clear,’ said Pkme. ‘Come on.’
‘Miss Amidships? We must put an end to this . . . regrettable destruction. Will you come to Metropolanet with us, and submit a report to a reconvened Tariff Committee?’
‘It’s not as if I can say no, is it?’ said Pkme, bitterly. ‘I’m indentured, aren’t I?’
‘But you’re close to earning yourself free, though, aren’t you?’ said Wobbli. ‘I mean, if I haven’t misunderstood. This job would put you one step further towards that goal.’
Pkme gave him a sour look.
Chapter Two
A pram race on Tatuonweiner
Pkme boarded the Jobbi spaceship, attended by the Keflapod Psoriasis, who in turn was attended by the Keflapod Jam-Jar Oinks. ‘It seems,’ said Wobbli, ‘that the principle of hierarchical subservience extends all the way down in any slave-based social system.’
‘Waa?’ replied Jam-Jar. ‘Yousa massa talkee-talkee to . . .’
‘Oh just put a Galactic sock in it, Jam-Jar,’ said Pkme.
‘Yes,’ agreed Wobbli. ‘Shut up. Stop speaking and say nothing more.’
‘Well, if everyone’s going to be like that,’ said Jam-Jar, in sulky passion. ‘I am going to have a lie-down.’ He stomped off.
‘We’re going to have to make an unscheduled stop on a desert backwater called Tatuonweiner,’ announced Kwai Gone. ‘To, er, refuel.’
‘Refuel?’ repeated Pkme. In frank disbelief. ‘What kind of spaceship is this?’
Wobbli K’nobbli blushed deeply. ‘Um,’ he said. ‘My master is trying to spare my feelings,’ he admitted to Amidships. ‘The truth is that, when my apprenticeship is completed, I am to be banished—’
‘Not the “b” word, Wobbli!’ warned Kwai Gone.
‘—sent on an important solo mission,’ Wobbli corrected himself, ‘to one or another backwater dead-end world. The Jobbi order wants to examine Tatuonweiner as a possible destination. We need to know that it is utterly parochial, miles from anywhere, lacking any indigenous culture, and very far from the trade routes. Ideally it should be the last place in the world you’d want to live. Tatuonweiner may meet these requirements. We just want to check it out.’
‘Makes no differe
nce to me what you do,’ said Amidships, in a manner at once offhand and sincere.
Tatuonweiner was every bit as dull as Kwai and Wobbli had suspected. Wobbli walked around with a glum face, contemplating the metaphorical septic tank in which he would, probably, spend his future.
‘Why are you to be banished?’ Pkme asked.
Wobbli cast a glance in the direction of his master. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘Internal Jobbi politics. Suffice to say that I have . . . annoyed the senior Jobbi Council.’
The three of them came to the top of a long flight of public steps, leading down towards a dusty square and an artefact that would have been a fountain and pond had there been any water in it. A large crowd of excited Tatuonweiner locals had gathered at the top. Bets were being made.
‘What’s this?’ Kwai Gone asked one of the milling locals.
‘Weekly pram race,’ was the reply. ‘You want to make a bet? The shortest odds are on young Jane Seespotrun.’ He pointed to a young woman cooing over a large black hooded pram. ‘That’s his mother, Dick.’
‘Did you say – Dick?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Interesting.’ Kwai Gone folded his hands inside his robe, and stood watching. Pretty soon a dozen mothers were lined up at the top of the steps, their prams before them. The crowd had formed a semicircle, and were egging on their favourites. A tall skinny fellow held his arm up, and then sliced it down suddenly, yelling ‘go!’
All the mothers shoved their prams forward at once.
A dozen prams rattled over the edge of the top step and started bouncing and careering down the long flight. Kwai Gone kept his eye on the pram in which the favourite, young Jane Seespotrun, was lying. The early stages of the race depended, essentially, on the initial impetus imparted to the pram by the mothers. The lead pram had been pushed by one particularly well-proportioned mother, with forearms like hay bales and a chest that could, fixed to the front of a ship in the Arctic, have cut through the ice sheet: she was able to shove her baby with such vehemence that he was a third of the way down the long flight whilst the rest of them were just cresting the top steps. The pram pushed by Dick Seespotrun was somewhere around last position; not surprising given the scrawny frame and general pastiness of the woman doing the pushing.