by M. Suddain
Lenore and Miss Fritzacopple stood stony by the cage. ‘What a coopload of turkeys,’ she muttered. Lenore said nothing. She sniffed the air. Roberto refused to look at her. He sat in the corner, turning his pet starfish in his fingers.
*
Later that day, Roberto felt himself shaken from a nap.
‘Roberto. You need to escape from here and take a message to the Necronaut. You can slip through the gaps in the fence.’ Fabrigas had scrawled a picture of their ship on a scrap of paper. He pointed to the picture … and to Roberto … ‘You … Necronaut … You … Necronaut.’
Roberto got the message, but he didn’t like it. He shook his head slowly while never taking his eyes from the old man’s.
‘Roberto!’ He drew a crude cartoon: Roberto running to the Necronaut, then an arrow showing him returning with help, then everyone dancing for joy. ‘It’s the only way!’
Another stern shake of the head. ‘Roberto!’ and the old man drew another picture, this one of himself and the captain standing on either side of Lenore, both holding swords. ‘Trust us, boy. We’ll protect her. We can’t all escape. They’d hunt us down in minutes.’
Roberto stared hard.
The old man pointed to the pocket where he knew the boy kept his precious talisman. ‘Well. Why don’t we let the Magic Eighth decide?’
Roberto huffed and turned away. He carefully took his Magic Eighth from his pocket, pressed it to his forehead, then shook the sphere hard six times. Then he took his hand slowly away from the readout panel and spent a long time staring at the hazy text. Fabrigas could not see what it said, but he saw the boy’s shoulders drop.
Roberto looked out into the twilight, past the gently dozing guards, to the high palisades with gaps he knew he could so easily slip through, to the jungle beyond. He sighed heavily.
*
Roberto never looked back at the old man.
He cut the knots around his hands and ankles with the scalpel in his boot.
He passed through the compound as quick and soft as a midnight shadow.
Roberto climbed the palisades and slipped through a narrow gap.
He passed within three feet of a guard and didn’t rouse him.
Roberto took a single great leap and floated silently over the final palisade, swinging his arms around in broad hoops, like a new bird taking its first flight, clearing the sharpened spikes by a few inches.
Roberto landed in the jungle, and his bearings caught up with him. He recognised the swamps.
Roberto sprang into the jungle and vanished.
Lenore sensed him leave. With her fine nose she followed him into the jungle. Soon he was gone, mingling with the trees, the mud, the beasts.
She lay back on her cot. ‘He abandons me,’ she said to no one.
ROBERTO AT THE WORLDS’ FAIR WITH DIAMONDS
We cannot know what Roberto had been expecting as he waited at the Worlds’ Fair, near the South Marina, somewhere between the Helix of Progress and the Avenue of New Ages, dressed in his Imperial Postal Service jumpsuit, with a small bouquet of pungent flowers and a pocketful of diamonds. His date would arrive, he’d been told, sometime after the climax of the starlight charity celebrity dinner at the Elektrotek Ballroom to honour the winner of the 3,145th Beauty of the Universe Pageant. The Purple Corpse Blossom is her favourite flower, they’d told him, and though their smell is repellent to most humans, their stench would attract this particular guest from miles away. Literally, miles. The diamonds in his pocket were to bankroll their evening together, which, depending on their fortunes, could last anywhere from a few hours to a lifetime. He had been told to prepare himself for someone who was unique, perhaps more so than any other individual in the Cosmosphere. They did not even bother to describe her to him. ‘You will know her when you see her,’ they said. They also told him that his date would be instantly recognisable to every other person at the fair that evening. Furthermore, every law-enforcement unit, every secret agency, every public official, mercenary, bounty hunter and ambitious amateur thug in the Sphere would be hell-bent on intercepting her. And, of course, the Imperial Postal Service would be looking for her. This most feared of secret agencies saw everything, and not a stamp could be licked without them knowing about it. Nevertheless, they said, it was his – and only his – job to protect her, and to use the tools at his disposal – the data in his head, the diamonds in his pocket – to ensure her safety.
These two ran from insurmountable odds, you might say. The people who’d rescued him from his hub had described to him the complex computational simulations they’d been running to discover a strategy which would allow this small, blind – though not entirely helpless – girl to traverse the Sphere of Empires, to slip through the impenetrable net, and to escape this universe. In the end, they’d said, after lifetimes of running their simulations, on a computer-array more powerful than any known, they had discovered one single strategy which could give them a chance of success. A 12.5 per cent chance, to be exact. And that singular strategy, they’d explained to him, was Roberto.
Also, they’d said, there was an old man who could help them.
Reluctantly.
And so with that heavy weight set upon his young shoulders, it is hard to even fathom what Roberto thought as he stood at the fair with his reeking posy and his pocketful of diamonds, and waited.
He would not have heard the explosion, he would only have seen the silent, silky river of smoke burble and boil from the doors of Elektrotek Ballroom, people running out, eyes wide with fear, guards falling, choking from the doors, VIP guests – the kind used to seeing people grovelling under their feet – clawing their way over the dusty ground, and being trampled by the heavy boots of blind and frantic guards.
And then a figure walking serenely from the deadly mists, nose in the air, stepping carefully over the weeping dukes and semiconscious beauty queens. There is another figure following just behind, a woman. She is wearing a gas mask. They stop at the edge of the cloud of smoke and dust which now has enveloped the Elektrotek Ballroom. The tiny figure turns and says something to the taller silhouette, curtsies politely. The woman removes her gas mask, nods, and they part.
The tiny figure approaches Roberto where he stands shivering in the cosmic night, and she says, if his lip-reading is accurate: ‘Hello. I think I am your date. My name is Leno.’ What a strange name for a girl, he thinks. And then he gives her the flowers, and she curtsies. Then he shows her his diamonds, letting her rub a few together in her small, green hands. She seems impressed so far. And then with nothing else to do, and with the rides at the Worlds’ Fair closing for the night, they go down to the marina, and out into the wide, wide universe together, and vanish.
GLORY BE TO HER, OUR QUEEN, FOR SHE WILL LIVE FOR EVER
When the Man in the Shadows stepped into the silver elevator car he heard a song and knew it from his childhood. ‘Glory Be To Her, Our Queen, For She Will Live For Ever’. He had heard the ear-haunting melody as many times as he had pennies – and as you know the Man in the Shadows had many a penny. He knew that this time it was being played by a small, brass orchestra somewhere deep inside the palace. Day through night the four musicians played the song and their notes were channelled through the web of copper pipes to every corner of the grand city. If you arrived at the palace in the morning the song would sound bright and full of energy, but throughout the day, as the band played towards exhaustion, the song would wilt, so that if you rode the car down in the evening you’d hear a hymn full of agony and sadness. And if you happened to be wandering the gloomy palace at midnight, the time when the dirge stopped briefly so that the graveyard band could take its place, the dimly sparkling corridors would be filled, for a few seconds, with the rasping breaths and desperate sobs of the exhausted musicians.
Then the song would start afresh.
When the elevator door opened at the highest floor he saw three rigid shadows.
‘How do, sisters?’
‘Sir.’
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‘Please excuse this meeting place, sisters. The Queen, I think, suspects our plot.’
‘Then let her suspect. It makes no difference. Would you care for some cactus julep?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘It is freshly smuggled from the fields of Zapotek. It’s rather tart.’
‘I’m sure. I have my own smugglers. To business.’
The first sister gave a sign and the deaf-mute servant pushed his drinks trolley away.
‘If my intelligence is correct, sisters, Her Majesty does not know the ship survived. But she is suspicious about the Vangardik attack on our fleet. She wonders why they would want to start a long and bloody war. She is not completely slack-brained.’
‘She is ugly and stupid. When we rule she will be flayed, and her octopus, too.’
They walked, and the ancient song walked with them.
‘And what news from beyond? Is the Vengeance yet drained of all her blood? Can we send a pint to our master, Calligulus?’
‘The plot thickens there, I’m afraid. My assassin has turned silent.’
‘Assassin? You said there were six hunters.’
‘Did I not say? All dead but one. Very strange. But I am confident he will kill the girl and erase the file. Meanwhile, our master’s envoy, Lord Bosch, grows impatient. He asks after proof of the green girl’s death. And the wizard’s. I have told him he perished at the crossing. It was a necessary lie. Now we are truly in a corner.’
‘We sigh. Must there always be bad news?’
‘Sisters, do not give in to misgivings. Fortune goes always to the strongest, the most cunning. You do not see the worm striking fear into the heart of the crow. Be patient and we will conquer.’
‘Who would have imagined that a plot to rule the universe could be so complicated?’
‘It only becomes complicated if Calligulus finds out, sisters. He has strictly forbidden us from travelling to foreign dimensions. If he finds out you signed an order to send the Pope to the next universe he will have you dismembered, then tortured for all eternity. An eternity is a blink for him, but a very long time for the likes of us.’
‘He is vicious.’
‘He has given us much.’
‘Things, sir, he gave us things. It is Final Power we crave. The Wall of Peace taunts us.’
They heard a noise down the corridor.
‘I must bid you farewell, sisters. It is dangerous for me to stay too long. There has been an incident at my Hotel Empyrean which I must attend to.’
‘That old dusty inn? Why bother with it?’
‘We can’t comprehend why you don’t turn it in for scrap. It would be worth more.’
‘You might be surprised, sisters. Not all treasures glitter brightly. That hotel has been in my family for more than a hundred generations. It is the only hotel with a view of the centre of the Sphere. It is a monument to the charms of the old empires, and I am rather fond of it. But now I must rush. All will be fixed soon. Our enemies are about to meet the ungodly power of the Pope.’
The Man in the Shadows left, just as the palace’s clocks struck midnight and the halls were filled with the sound of bloody breaths through ragged throats. He vanished into the darkness.
‘I believe,’ said the first sister, ‘that we were in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the second, in a voice like the echo of the ghost of a raven. ‘The first one to find the child who was late with our supper gets to smother him.’
DINNER BELL
‘When the night becomes hungry we must give him food.’
These simple words were spoken as an explanation to the prisoners who stood on the platform at the edge of the compound, and it addressed the issue of why they were about to be eaten. The wooden stage backed onto the jungle. It was walled in on the sides and roof by batteries of sharpened bamboo spikes, and at the back by a huge carved face whose mouth was an entrance to a wooden slide wide enough for several people to pass through – and several soon would. The slide led down to a clearing before a dark jungle cave. The whole set-up looked like a fun-ride at a family-friendly amusement park. It was not. Our friends from the Necronaut were gathered in the centre of the platform. When given the choice of throwing in their lot with the Marshians, or joining Lulabelle and the old man for what seemed to be a fairly standard sacrificial death ritual, the other travellers – Bosun Quickhatch, Lenore, Lambestyo and Miss Fritzacopple – had chosen to die with their friends. So a round of slow applause for them.
‘Well, this is a thing,’ said the captain.
‘Some sort of ritual sacrifice?’ said Fabrigas, and his servant grinned.
‘Some sort, my old friend,’ he said, and a female voice in Fabrigas’s left ear said, ‘I told you. I tried to warn you. You should have destroyed my journal sooner. There’s still time. Help is coming. Survive the slaughter for as long as you can. And don’t go down the slide. Oh lord!’
On the unwalled end of the platform, opposite the idol’s grimacing face, stood a group of Marshians dressed in ceremonial masks of leaves and feathers. They lingered near sacrificial tables upon which were laid out a selection of frightening tools. One Marshian beat a drum, another played a crude trumpet. Birds flitted around the diners, attracted by the plumage they wore, and the birds enjoyed the bugs in the air, and the whole spectacle was merry, even in the grismal half-light. (Grey and dismal: ‘grismal’ – it’s a word, consult your dictionary!)
On a smaller balcony above the platform the Worm sat cross-legged, surrounded by some of his young acolytes. Skyorax lurked behind him like a foul shadow. The Worm wore Fabrigas’s cloak, and the rest of the group’s possessions, recovered from the sleeping barn, were laid out on a low table nearby. Fabrigas had been given a crudely made cloak which more than ever made him look like a wizard.
‘Friends,’ said Skyorax, ‘when the moon comes we gather in the sacred place to offer sacrifice, and to consume the meat … of power!’
‘That’s us, I think,’ said the captain. ‘Well, they’re in a for a treat because after years in space my skin is dry and far too salty.’
‘Bring forth … the seasoning!’
Two young girls brought out an urn which looked like a giant salt shaker. Lulabelle was sobbing quietly, and the humanoid pilot who shared the stage with them was laughing, laughing! ‘Now we’re done! Now we’re meat! They’ll eat our hands! They’ll eat our feet!’
‘Quiet, fool!’ said Miss Fritzacopple.
‘Here comes the storm again,’ said the captain. Yes, the wind came strongly now, sweeping and singing through the jungle. His mad fellow pilot moaned, ‘I can feel the knife already. I can feel it sawing on my very bones!’
‘Be brave, young lady,’ said Fabrigas to Lulabelle, ‘we won’t let them eat you,’ but the girl was somewhere else.
‘You have a plan?’ asked the captain.
‘Of sorts,’ said Fabrigas. ‘I’m wandering upon it. And you?’
‘I will make them regret trying to eat me.’
Finally, the Worm raised his hand, the drums ceased. It was a mad pretentious affair. ‘Friends,’ said the Worm, ‘I have such great news. You are all to be released. You are free to go. You have a choice. You can go down the slide into the jungles, to commune with the Beast. Or you can stay here and enjoy our hospitality.’ The Marshians by the tables each armed themselves with a cruel instrument of human gastronomy: some took long blades, some cleavers, some saws, some rib-cutters. They stood waiting.
‘A fine set of choices,’ said Fabrigas. ‘We choose to leave.’
‘Very well. Let the games begin!’ The Worm picked up a hammer and hit a small gong. The sound shimmered through the night. Then, from the idol’s maw, they heard the roar of a great beast. ‘He always comes when we ring the dinner bell. You are free to change your minds at any point. Do you still wish to leave, or will you stay with us for dinner?’
‘We still want to leave,’ said Lambestyo, as he snapped off a
bamboo stake like it was a stick of hard candy and brandished it. ‘But I think we’ll leave by the front door.’
‘Very well!’ The Worm gave a small gesture to a Marshian who stood beside an inconspicuous-looking wooden lever. The man pushed the lever forward and suddenly the entire lower platform tilted like a see-saw, sending the prisoners tumbling, all except Lambestyo, who merely shifted his balance, and the botanist, who rolled gracefully backwards and onto her feet again. ‘I used to be a dancer,’ she said to Lambestyo, who simply shrugged.
‘Here we go! Here we go!’ said the mad pilot as he fell towards the idol’s mouth. ‘Meat for the oven! A feast fit for a beast!’ and he cried out in terrified joy as he slid down into the beast’s domain.
CANNIBAL CULTS
Blood! Flesh! Sacrifice! You won’t be surprised at all to know that there are many cannibal cults around. The Bones Simple, of the planet Little China, are big trouble. They are a secret society of movie stars who believe that eating the spleens of ordinary people will keep them young for ever. The Cannibotes of Pii believe the only way to keep the spirits of their slain enemies from seeking revenge is to eat every part of them. As you can imagine, the task becomes a nightmare after significant massacres, and sometimes, as in the case of the Battle of New Hebros, when nine Cannibotes defeated an enemy force of seven thousand soldiers, basically impossible. The Triste de Coeur steal hearts in the night and use them in fine-dining recipes for wealthy patrons. The Tremenon del Diablo are a sustainable cannibal cult from the jungle world near Bonidune. They take non-vital organs from their anaesthetised victims before returning the patients to their families. The Uvons travel their universe in spaceships shaped like saucers. They abduct their victims, remove their brains and replace them with those from monkeys.
There are many more.