Tropic of Skorpeo

by Morrissey, Michael

  Queen Beia – as always – entered without knocking.

  “What do we have here?” she asked, her violet-black eyes twinkling in malicious mockery. “The usual scenarios of doom and gloom?”

  “Just some research, my queen,” said Astroburger in a suitably scholarly voice.

  “I’ve often wondered why scientific endeavour isn’t simply called ‘search’. Research sounds like you’re looking for it a second time.”

  “Sometimes a third, fourth, or even greater number of times,” laughed Astroburger nervously.

  “Tell me, Astroburger,” drawled the queen. “What is the crisis this week? Chaos or entropy? And what is the difference, by the way? It keeps me awake at night.”

  “Chaos is a high state of entropy and entropy is a low state of…”

  “Chaos?”

  “Yes,” agreed Astroburger, a trifle desperately. “Ah… no. Entropy is also a high state of chaos, but chaos with very little energy. Chaos is a sort of speeded up entropy. Though of course entropy can’t be sped up because it’s slowing down. Er…”

  “Tell me,” said the queen. “How is it possible to define a thing by its opposite?”

  “Seems hunky dory to me,” said Astroburger (though he did have some misgivings). “Isn’t evil an absence of good, and good an absence of evil?”

  “Might I point out you haven’t defined the qualities of good or evil, or indeed those of chaos or entropy. You are merely bandying with the surface meaning of words. I want etymological penetration,” concluded Queen Beia in a jubilant tone.

  “Things are defined by what they do,” observed Astroburger in his most thoughtful voice, though to be fair, all his voices were thoughtful.

  “Sounds crassly existential to me.”

  “Observe,” instructed Astroburger, pointing at his simulator.

  “So what is in that box – chaos or entropy?”

  “Neither. It’s a black hole simulator.”

  “Not a simulacra?” asked the queen. “Has it ever occurred to you that we might all be simulations?”

  “That is impossible,” replied Astroburger. “We exist. If we cannot assume our existence as a given, then all is –”

  “Chaos?” asked the queen with a superior smirk. “Or entropy?”

  “Whether I exist or not doesn’t really concern me,” said Astroburger. “The fact is, I appear to exist. And black holes appear to be a threat to all our existences, so I have to appear to deal with them.”

  “I sometimes think that the only reason black holes might exist is to give you something to do – to give you an identity. What would an Astroburger do if there were no fear of cosmic disaster?”

  “The question is pointlessly academic, my queen,” said Astroburger as gently as he could. “We are constantly threatened by cosmic catastrophe. Only last week a giant asteroid missed our world by just a few hundred thousand kilometres. Disaster is always imminent.”

  “And if it had struck us? Wouldn’t that solve all our problems? Or would you rather carry on catastrophising?”

  Astroburger wasn’t sure how to respond to such cosmic cynicism. “I believe, ma’am, that what I do is valuable, and I thought that you valued my reports on the cosmic… uh… climate. If disaster is on its way, I am sure we would – all of us – like to be prepared.”

  “Quite,” said the queen with a mirthless smile.

  Astroburger sighed as his baiting monarch made her exit, and turned back to his work.

  What a splendid sight, the Queen of Reflections reflected. Her full court was in session. Hedrone had done a good job – though she would, as befitted her status, find fault and give the poor fellow a hard time, which would make his silly hum even worse. Setting a standard that could never be reached was part of the privilege of being queen. However, as she had confessed to the mysterious and ruggedly handsome Lord Maledor, it also gave her subjects something to strive for. It was no fun having a horde of complacent subjects. Keep them on their toes!

  Hedrone had lined up the drones in batches of fifty, their bright yellow-and-black uniforms forming a pleasing pattern; the workers stood in ranks beside them, their red-and-brown uniforms equally gaudy. Soon, the jousts would begin, but first she would emerge from the arena door dressed in an array of filmy, brightly coloured veils. She would spin and swirl in time to eerie piping and the low beating of drums, dropping veil after veil until she was totally nude. Thanks to royal jelly, her four-hundred-year-old body was still as firm as that of a young woman. It was not merely her nakedness or her sinuous movements that drove the workers into a frenzy, more the maddening scent of her venereal drones. No worker could smell it and not be overwhelmed with desire.

  Soon, the workers’ stands would be in an uproar as her subjects vociferously clamoured to mate with her. With the help of Hedrone and his assistants, six of the fiercest would be allowed into the arena where the pheromone-crazed suitors would fight until a single victor remained alive. Inevitably, he would be young, Apollo-aspected, and slick with the blood of his rivals – an appealing combination. Then, before the hypnotised gaze of thousands, he would advance upon her, masculinity uncontrollably engorged. Entry would be immediate for she herself would now be breathing quickly and ready to receive him. As they embraced and moved slowly through the sacred positions, the crowd would hum softly. As their climax approached, the hum would soar. The Celestial Union of Hive!

  As soon as his service was complete and his seed within her, the drones would move forward and sting him to death. Yet how she envied him – what a gloriously fulfilling demise. Triumphantly naked, she would stand over the fallen worker’s beautiful sacrificial body. Their fertilised queen!

  And so with a parting of sensual lips she entered the court, danced, and let her veils fall to the floor. At the downward cast of her hand, Hedrone gave a signal and the drones released the heady vapours of those powerfully aromatic pheromones… and here, after some punching, knee jerking, and eye gouging, came the lordly six. What fine young fellows they were, and all eager to mate with their queen.

  Soon the highly excited young bucks were engaged in mutual combat. How lively their cries, how willingly their limbs entangled as they sweated and strained. The sound of men fighting to the death was surely one of the sweetest sounds to be heard on Simulacra, if not in the entire universe.

  At last, the victorious warrior stood proud before her. This stalwart was a particularly fine specimen – tall and strong, with bulging pectorals and a massive yet shapely chest that ran with gore. His impressive organ pointed at the cloudless green skies above. Ready – how ready! – to fertilise his queen and die a noble death from the stings of the ever-faithful drones.

  Gloriously naked, the queen advanced towards her conquering worker-stud as the awed crowd hummed. Great was her pleasure as his immense phallus slid into her. Like two players in the most erotic pantomime imaginable, they slowly rotated their way through the seventy-seven sacred positions of the Celestial Union of Hive.

  And now, with drums and trumpets, the final dash to a mutual climax and the sweetest death of all.

  “Your Highness,” the impertinent stud whispered, “if you will permit your humble subject, I would like to show you the seventy-eighth position.”

  Before she could reply, he had spun her over, spread her thighs, and re-entered. So, this was the seventy-eighth position – the man on top! It was rather pleasurable. Within seconds of his lifting her legs high, she felt a deep, welling ecstasy flooding her innermost centre. It came in slow, thick, warm waves until, rushing through her chest and throat, it flew out the top of her head. What a climactic thrill! This supremely capable fellow deserved the most exquisite death…

  “Drones!” she cried, when they had disentangled. “Sting him true. But make it last, glorious and blue!”

  The drones advanced, stings at the ready.

  The naked worker-stud looked down his nose at her, and held up his hand. “There will be no stinging.”

  “
What are you talking about?” screeched the queen. “Drones – dispatch this beast!”

  “I’m afraid, madam, that your little reign of terror is over.”

  “Drones! Kill this arrogant animal at once!”

  “They are not drones, my dear. They are people… of sorts.”

  “How dare you assume such a note of intimacy with me,” hissed Queen Beia. “You will be taught a lesson that none will forget.”

  “You no longer rule here,” he declared. “You have been… de-queened. From now on, I shall rule.”

  “What?” Queen Beia exclaimed. “You are not a queen!”

  “Neither are you, madam,” he said with an arrogant shake of his head. “You have the delusion these people are bees, but bees they are not. And a patriarchy is just as good as a matriarchy. You will, however, be made an honorary drone.”

  Queen Beia’s face reddened with rage. “Just who do you think you are… you piece of insolence?!”

  “I’m not who you think I am. Actually I’m…”

  And here the naked stallion tore off his mask to reveal the grinningly cynical face of Lord Maledor.

  When Princess Juraletta returned to Venera Castle her mind was on fire with questions. Why hadn’t anybody told her what Outside was like? That was the odd thing – she couldn’t really remember being told anything… except one of her old uncles (who had faded out of existence) saying that it was like a desert, filled with nothing but rocks – though very edible rocks, he had hastened to add. Either Uncle Malfred had been lying, or he’d had very poor eyesight. No, Outside was not a desert at all, but a most peculiar garden inhabited by very strange beings. And beyond the garden lay some weird place called Skorpeo. And what of the green-skinned flying Adonis, and the musical skyray?

  Juraletta had been walking absentmindedly down a hallway, but the unmistakable sound of hissing roused her from her daze, and signalled that Gorgon – a rather angry Gorgon, she surmised, judging by the way all her snakes were standing upright with miniature jaws agape and fangs protruding – was rapidly approaching. So angry was Gorgon that her customary stone-making glance struck some of the stones that made up the neighbouring walls with such fury that they, being unable to turn into stone, actually came to life and, in obscene parody of Gorgon’s reptilian glory, began extending quivering tongues of granite at a startled Juraletta.

  “Where on Qwerty have you been, child?” Gorgie demanded.

  “Reading novels,” said Juraletta.

  “Impossible!” hissed Gorgon. “We haven’t allowed novels here for thousands of years.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because novels are of two kinds. There are novels for children, which you shouldn’t read because they will only make your mind childish, and there are novels for adults, which are about adultery.”

  “And what is adultery?”

  “Adults behaving like children, running into the first sweet shop they espy and saying, ‘Give me that one and that one and that one – and be quick about it!’ It’s about childish greed. Some of these ‘characters’, as they are called, are given to fantastical utterances, and have the morals of Slutoid mongrels.”

  “Well then, you will be relieved to know that I haven’t been reading novels at all. I have been listening to the music of the skyray.”

  “Music? Skyray? Child, I was frantic with worry,” said Gorgon. “You must learn to only do as you are allowed, for the Fissionable Duke cannot experience any emotional disturbance whatsoever. He’s very delicate. Oh, if only you knew how delicate! I told him you were away, spiritually preparing yourself for marriage. Oh, the untruths I had to tell on your behalf! And what have you to say? Nothing! No shame! The Princess of Venera who is to marry the Fissionable Duke has no shame! And look at your dress – torn! How did it get torn? Perhaps you had better not tell me! Rest assured, though, that there’ll be no more games of Hide and Shriek in the Palace of Venera. It’s plain to me that such games can only lead to wickedness. Now – are you ready to have your hair done?”

  “Why should I need any of that?” asked Juraletta.

  “Because you are to meet your fiancé at noon!” exclaimed Gorgon. “A bride should be as perfect as can be.”

  “Gorgie,” said Juraletta, “have you heard of a place called Skorpeo?”

  “What? Oh vaguely, vaguely. Wherever it is, you’ll be queen of it once you marry the Fissionable Duke. How are we going to do your hair? In ringlets, or straight down?”

  “I’d like my hair like yours, Gorgie,” Juraletta said, smiling.

  “Oh really – you like it?” asked Gorgon, patting several of the snakes that festooned her brow.

  “Now, Princess,” Gorgon nattered on as she hurried Juraletta to her bedroom and began fixing her hair. “Let me tell you about your future husband. First of all, he is old. And being old, he is very wise. You must accept his word on everything. I can’t stress enough the importance of you being agreeable – that is, agreeing to everything he suggests. Apart from the fact that he is wise and venerable, being as he is, a senior citizen of Venera and of Qwerty, there is another very vital reason why you must agree with him. As I have hinted at in the past, he has, shall we say, an unusual genetic condition. If he experiences any kind of emotional turmoil at all his system will be sent out of balance. A neuro-nucleonic reaction will occur that will cause immense internal heat, and the poor duke would then burn up in front of your astonished eyes. But the real worry, according to Sage, is that he might cause a chain reaction. People could start exploding all over the place! So you see, my dear, it’s very important that you do not over-excite the duke in any way.”

  “Then how will we make love?” Juraletta asked.

  “I beg your pardon, child?” said Gorgon, her snakes rearing up and hissing in surprise. “Where did you hear of such a thing?”

  “From you, Gorgie.”

  “Not from me, I can swear to that. Gorgons do not make love. They turn people to stone – which is what I should have done to you!”

  “Gorgie, you haven’t answered my question,” persisted Juraletta. “How will I make love to the Fissionable Duke if the least amount of excitement will cause him to explode?”

  “Well, I suppose you will make love in… the usual manner,” conceded Gorgon.

  “And just what is the usual manner?” teased Juraletta. “I’ve been trying to find out for some –”

  “There must be no excitement,” snapped Gorgon. “No one’s blood should rise. No heart should beat like a tam-tam.”

  “Don’t you mean tom-tom?”

  “When I say a tam-tam I mean a tam-tam – not a tom-tom.”

  “But a tom-tom is just as fine an instr–”

  “TAM-TAM!” shrieked Gorgon, causing her snakes to raise their heads in interest.

  “Then maybe we will just lie beside each other and think of Qwerty,” laughed Juraletta. She was trying to keep her spirits buoyant, but the notion of marrying an old fossil with permanently chilly blood wasn’t a very attractive proposition, particularly now that she had met the handsome hunter… Did she really want to be the Queen of Qwerty? She found herself thinking of the tall, piano-key-teethed specimen with whom she had gone flying. What had he said about meeting at the same time next week? What day was it, anyway? Juraletta realised that all her life she had never known what day it was. Somehow, time was not very important when you were a princess. Would it be more important when she became queen?

  “Well, Princess – now you look more presentable. Would you like to meet your fiancé?”

  “I might as well… I suppose.”

  “Try to sound more enthusiastic, child,” scolded Gorgon. “This is your husband-to-be!”

  “Gorgie – can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away, child,” replied Gorgon in a crooning voice. “My task is to advise and help you.”

  “Have you ever made love to anyone?”

  “Certainly not,” said Gorgon curtly. “What a tasteless suggestion.”


  “Not even to a male gorgon?” asked Juraletta.

  “There are no male gorgons. We gorgons are… self sufficient.”

  “But… where do little gorgons come from?”

  “Watch my ears, child,” said her scaly friend.

  The princess watched in amazement as a tiny snake head emerged from each of Gorgon’s earlobes. Juraletta clapped excitedly, wondering if she could learn that trick herself.

  The Fissionable Duke was enjoying a hearty meal of rare earths. Like any committed sensualist he organised his appetites according to a strict routine – praseodymium on Mondays, samarium on Tuesdays, terbium on Wednesdays, thulium on Thursdays, holmium on Fridays, lanthanum on Saturdays, and europium on Sundays. Today, he was enjoying a special treat. Arranged before him was a gorgeous feast consisting of large helpings of gadolinium, yttrium, ytterbium, and erbium. Actually, his favourite was iridium (which was, sticklers might point out, not a rare earth at all, though everyone had to have a vice). Found in crashed asteroids and buried beneath dinosaur bones, iridium had a certain tang that no rare earth could rival, and the duke was not averse to munching on a dinosaur bone, especially after pigging out on ytterbium. In fact, he had a great range of appetites, none of which he would ever allow himself to be excited about – the best doctors of Qwerty had warned the duke exactly what would befall him should his emotions become aroused. Sometimes, just to stay cool, he would suck on a stalactite of ice. Curries and peppers were out, so were oysters, and wickedly provocative vegetables such as carrots and asparagus were strictly verboten.

  But now, it was time to meet his bride. As she was reputedly young and comely, her youthful beauty might make the whole tedious business bearable. The Fissionable Duke was not the most marriage-minded of Qwertians, having never had much interest in anything other than food – and eating one’s bride must surely be considered rather gauche (even if she did contain a few fine nuggets). Nevertheless, it had been explained to him by Sage that their genetic codes corresponded favourably, so all the signs were auspicious for the establishment of a righteous new line of royalty. As the Slinking Dog galaxy was about to meld with the Snarling Ape cluster, it was undoubtedly the best possible time, for this conjunction would not recur for another fifty million years.