Tropic of Skorpeo

by Morrissey, Michael

  “Mother, would you get to the point?” Rhameo said.

  “No monkey business, eh?” the old woman cackled merrily.

  Rhameo wondered if she hadn’t been imbibing tugga tugga juice, or perhaps smoking quixota weed again. The weed’s purveyors claimed that it turned the weak myclonically quick and sumptuously exotic, though Rhameo had his suspicions that it merely turned his mother into a babbling fool – and he had had enough of the Fool.

  “My son, my handsome son, it is time you were married.” (Not that again, thought Rhameo; his mother’s flattery put him on high alert.) “Now, I know it’s difficult to choose a bride. Better to marry than to burn. Are you burning? I doubt it. It looks like the flame has died and smoke is getting in my eyes. If you see tears… (Rhameo: “I don’t, Mother.”) Don’t interrupt, boy. Have you no manners? Who brought you up? (“You did, Mother.”) You look like the neutered type. Are you eating your greens? (“As little as possible.”) Exactly. No wonder you’re pale. Is there lead in your pencil or do you hunt animals as a substitute for sex? (“I like the moment before the kill.”) You like killing, did you say? Why don’t you look before you leap? Why do you talk farmyard spaghetti? You think everything’s dinky die but the fact is everything’s turning to custard. By the way, have you tried my latest custard? I made it especially for you, you lazy, good-for-nothing killer! (“Most delicious, Mother.”) Good, I’m glad you appreciate the effort – or efforts I should say – trying to save your bacon, trying to stop you from becoming an unwashed, lazy, good-for-nothing lout. The shit is about to hit the fan, my son. There will be moaning and gnashing of teeth. Where was I? What was I talking about? Don’t you ever listen? (“Marriage?”) Yes, marriage. Somehow I don’t think you’re the marrying kind. Well, you’re going to have to be. You are the heir to the throne of Skorpeo. Yes, you! You’re the heir, you’re the one the younger bastards look up to. Soon the galaxy will rest on your shoulders – when I think about it, I shudder. You’re not and will never be the man your father is – and he’s no great shakes. In fact, men are a pretty pathetic bunch. Why do we have men? As far as reproduction of the species goes, they become superfluous. The Tube takes care of it. Thank the lucky stars for the Tube. No more swelling bellies, no more morning sickness – can you imagine that the presence of life made the women of yesteryear vomit. How uncivilised! And that they should suffer the indignity – and the pain! – of natural childbirth. How unnatural. Let us never forget the pain. And look at what the emperor and I produced – you, my dearest and oldest son. You weighed ten pounds – you were a vociferous infant. And the size of your head! Give your mother a kiss. Come on, dear, don’t be shy – I won’t bite. By the way, do think I talk in clichés? And do you think too many cooks spoil the brothel? Wicked pun, isn’t it? Anyway, marriage. So difficult is this step, in fact, that the young cannot be trusted to do it. In any case, the future emperor of Skorpeo cannot marry just any life form that lifts its skirts. No – there are political considerations. The future of the galaxy is at stake.”

  She paused.

  “Which particular galaxy is that, Mother?”

  “The one that circles over your empty head, boy!” scolded the empress. “Have you no grasp of politics?”

  “None whatever,” Rhameo said with a cheeky grin. “I’d rather fly and hunt.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she replied in her severest voice. “That is why it has been necessary for me to select a bride for you. You could not be trusted to do it on your own. Believe me, Mother knows best.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, but –”

  “I think the event should be conducted as soon as possible. According to the Dark Magician, the signs are propitious.”

  “I take little notice of signs.”

  “Precisely my point – you are not aware of anything except your silly orange-tipped cortical command arrows.”

  “They have saved my life more than once.”

  “That’s because you put your life at risk.”

  Rhameo sighed. “It’s called hunting, Mother,” he said wearily. “Why can’t you realise – for I have told you many times – that we young fellows like a quiver of adrenalin from time to time. It’s good for the chakras.”

  “Quiver to you means a quiver of arrows,” said the empress.

  (Or a quiver of Juraletta’s breasts, thought Rhameo.)

  “Now, can we be serious?” his mother said.

  “And what’s my intended bride-to-be like?” Rhameo asked archly. He was still hoping his mother was joking, even though he was sure that she wasn’t – unless she had been at the damned tugga tugga juice, in which case there was some hope that this would all be forgotten in the morning.

  “I have a five-dimensional portrait.” She handed Rhameo a humming ovaloid. “Striking, isn’t she?”

  “By the beard of Zoah, she’s ugly.” The words tore from Rhameo’s lips before he could control himself. The woman in the portrait was the ugliest life form he had yet seen in the galaxy – a giant slug of a creature with morbidly obese arms and legs like a Michelin Man, rubbered in fat. Surely his mother couldn’t expect him to marry this abomination!

  “You’re being very immature,” the empress said. “Never judge an ovaloid by its surface. This is a quality life form we’re dealing with, here. Look into her eyes.”

  “She is cross-eyed, Mother.”

  “Examine them individually, my son.”

  “The left one is as pink as Neptunian ooze, and the right is as brown as Uranian mud.”

  “How delightful!” exclaimed the empress. “Pink is for passion, and brown is the colour of the earth. A passionate and earthy nature – what more could a future emperor want?”

  “Beauty? A little less moustache?”

  “Hullo, my prince!” the wall-eyed portrait shrieked. “Although we haven’t met in the flesh, I feel as though I know you very well. I know when and where you were born. I know your height, the colour of your eyes – you have divine eyes! And I know that you enjoy hunting. Soon we will be hunting together. I –”

  “How do you stop it talking?” asked Rhameo.

  “It?” his mother echoed shrilly. “This is your future queen, my boy. Show her a little more kindness.”

  “Yes, show a little more kindness,” agreed the ovaloid.

  “She can hear what I’m saying?!” gasped Rhameo.

  “Not exactly,” said his mother. “This is a five-dimensional portrait, remember. The fifth dimension is parallel sentience, I think, so the portrait can carry out simple conversations, but it’s not capable of reproducing itself.”

  “We will reproduce ourselves gloriously, Prince,” the ovaloid gushed. “Babies galore for the glory of our two empires – Skorpeo and Volgogtha!”

  “I thought we were at war with Volgogtha,” said Rhameo.

  “Not after we are married, my adorable preciousness.”

  The ovaloid went blank.

  “It’s reverted to only two dimensions,” said his mother cheerfully. “Did you know that Volgogthian women are renowned for their passionate nature? I’m sure you two will be very happy. And the two empires – think of the two empires! The galaxy will be at our feet!”

  Rhameo sighed at his mother’s foolish ambition. The fact was that their empires had been at war since time immemorial. All attempts at peace had failed, so why should this silly marriage plan work?

  “Mother, may I speak?”

  “And think of the children you will have,” his mother said, ignoring him. “Your father has had one thousand seven hundred and eighty-five children –”

  “My father is virile,” Rhameo conceded.

  “My dear, your bride will make you twice as virile! Four times as fertile!”

  The thought of having 3570 children let alone 7140 squawling infants by this hideous creature made bile rise in the prince’s throat. After a moment’s hesitation to quell his queasiness, Rhameo began, “Mother, you’ve known me a long time –”

&nbs
p; “Ever since your birth, my son.”

  “And what is your impression of my character?”

  “Upright. Honest –”

  “Mother!”

  “Oh, all right,” the empress smiled ruefully. “Independent. Impulsive. Given to vices that he thinks his mother doesn’t know about. Partial to quixota weed. Prone to binges of tugga tugga juice.”

  “And I sometimes miss my prey,” added Rhameo. “I’m afraid I am not suitable as a husband.”

  “You need to mature, my son,” the empress scolded. “Marriage will do that. And I can tell you your bride-to-be has her feet on the ground. She is very mature – though young at heart. Believe me, it will be for the best.”

  “Mother, I just don’t think I’m ready for marriage with such a… mature female.”

  The empress looked thoughtful – an expression that boded no good. “My son, have you ever seen anyone after they’ve been deVoronoffed?”

  “No, mother.”

  “They’re very wrinkly. You wouldn’t want to be wrinkly on your wedding night, would you?”

  “Mother, am I to understand that you are threatening me with deVoronoffication?”

  “Threat… such an ugly word. Fate is fate – that’s it! Look upon Gloggwetafug as fate. You are fated to wed this striking young woman.”

  “Gloggwetafug,” Rhameo repeated sourly. Her name sounded like a Slutoid vomiting in an alleyway after an all-night tugga tugga binge.

  “Pretty name, isn’t it?” gushed the empress.

  He spun on his heel.

  “Rhameo, don’t do anything impulsive!” his mother cried.

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  Despite the fact that he had enjoyed turning the tables on the Queen of Reflections – the look on her face had been a treasure to relish – Lord Maledor was surprised to discover that he was experiencing pity, an emotion virtually unknown in his nervous system. He actually felt sorry for the tyrannical bitch!

  At his gesture, the drones took her into custody in the grey prison she had reserved for rebellious insects. Poor Replicoids. With their queen subdued, they simply obeyed his instructions as if he had been their undisputed lord and master since time immemorial – which, as a matter of fact, he had. How richly he had enjoyed deceiving Queen Beia, but, like all deceptions, it had eventually become time-worn. If there was one thing that Lord Maledor had learned in his long life, it was that the real test for an evildoer was enduring boredom. Perpetrators of good did not appreciate the moral strength it took to endure the banality of evil. Lord Maledor sighed and considered the riddle of goodness. Its perpetrators must be lacking in moral fibre, otherwise they would take on the greater challenge of wickedness.

  Speaking of wickedness, his conquest of the queen had not satisfied him – hardly surprising, as long-desired sexpots seldom did. He looked around for further prey and, why, there she was! A blushing flower of a maiden was instantly conjured up at the door of his throne room. What power he had over these Replicoids!

  This Replicoidal flower opened herself to him like a newly picked blossom, the honey cadences of her limbs smoothing over his like sweet music. Her nectary perfume gave him an idea for the next world that he would create. And the Queen of Reflections – she must be given a suitable new station. Death was too kind. Imprisonment too boring. He considered allowing the time tortoise to bite her – a real one, whose bite truly suspended time. Or he could rebirth her as a worm… the possibilities were limitless.

  Astroburger, meanwhile, was innocent of the Queen of Reflections’ usurpation by one of her apparent worker-studs, and was busily absorbed in scrutinising an apparent anomaly in his heavenly observations when the Large Unknown Heavenly Body Alarm went off. He strode to the screen and peered into the shimmering twilight of its all-seeing eye. It was filled with the grey, gnarled image of a giant asteroid that measured a fraction over twenty kilometres in diameter, with a mass of a billion tonnes. And, what was more important, this monster was headed for a collision with Simulacra. Gloriously bad news!

  Astroburger allowed himself a slight cheer – there was nothing like imminent disaster to brighten one’s day. He surfed comets like Cape Horn rollers, loved meteors as a young Slutoid loves her fishnets and eight-inch heels, and the Oort cloud was a Waldorf salad to his jadeless palate. This new harbinger of doom promised a long evening spent joyfully calculating orbital velocities, the precise moment of impact, and the site where it would strike. And most significantly, of course, he would be able to calculate the amount of damage that was bound to be done to Simulacra and its inhabitants. The fact that all of the previous Simulacra-bound asteroids had failed to hit did not deter Astroburger’s enthusiasm for cosmic disaster. Eventually, one of those planetesimals would strike, and all his work would be justified. Catastrophe was certain!

  In the wee hours of the morning, Astroburger, who lay slumped across his computer’s keyboard, was awoken from a dream he had been enjoying about a deadly heavenly body. It was not a pleasant awakening, but a piercing emergency siren from the Large Unknown Heavenly Body Alarm. With quick strides, he reached the glowing screen. This time, instead of the image of the asteroid, he found a message.

  CAN WE TALK?

  Who could be sending such a message? A fellow astroburger? He typed in, WHY NOT?

  And the answer came back: ARE YOU ALONE?

  He replied: YES.

  “Very well, then – we can speak,” said the machine in a distinctly feminine tone.

  “Excuse me,” Astroburger said. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt, as you will find that what I have to say is vitally important to all of you down there. So listen carefully, Astroburger – this is it, the Big One.”

  “I beg your pardon? What big one is that?”

  “Armageddon, Master Hamburger. Endsville. Look, I don’t seem to be communicating here. Did you not see a large shape on this screen a while ago?”

  “The asteroid?”

  “To whom do you think you’re talking?”

  “You mean,” gasped Astroburger, “I’m talking to an asteroid?”

  “The largest life form in the galaxy, I’d say. In fact, I guarantee it. Unless, of course, you think stars are alive.”

  “How can I help you?” asked Astroburger, a hint of scepticism in his voice.

  “Ah, now that’s the interesting part,” crooned the vocal asteroid. “And I’m glad to find you’re already of a helpful disposition, because your help is needed. It will be a mutually beneficial arrangement all round. Do you know I have come across some remarkably stubborn life forms in the past? Several bio-entities to whom I gave the chance to help and yet, perversely, they refused my offer completely. There wasn’t a choice, though. Stubbornness had to be dealt with most severely, and they haven’t forgotten their lesson, not one teensy bit. One of my smaller sisters was dispatched and landed with quite a thump! Hey presto, forest fires – no more dinosaurs! Makes you reflect, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” conceded Astroburger.

  “No ‘suppose’ about it, my diminutive prophet of doom,” the asteroid purred. “The threat of annihilation makes everyone think clearly. Your thoughts should be quite crystalline by now.”

  “Would it be asking too much for you to get to the point?”

  “The point is… Simulacra is doomed. Unless…”

  “Unless – what?” Astroburger asked uneasily.

  “Unless we can come to a little… arrangement.”

  “Just what sort of arrangement Ms…”

  “Call me Asta. Now listen up,” commanded the loquacious heavenly body. “The fact is, I’m barren. I need fertilisation, preferably of the humanoid variety. Please pack immediately.”

  “Where am I supposed to be going?”

  “Why, you are coming aboard, Astroburger!”

  “What do you mean ‘coming aboard’?”

  “I need fertilisation. I need you, Astrobu
rger, otherwise the species of Asteroidia gigantae will peter out.”

  “And if I decline?” asked Astroburger, though he had an awful feeling that refusal was not a viable option.

  “Have you seen the damage a twenty-kilometre-wide asteroid can wreak?” his conversant said cheerfully. “It’s awesome.”

  “Can’t we negotiate?” asked Astroburger weakly.

  “No time for that, I’m afraid. My need is great.”

  With a sinking heart and recoiling loins, Astroburger packed some basic toiletries and a change of clothing, and went to the palace’s hangar. He dismissed the guards and boarded a shuttle, then he set a course for the asteroid – as yet a million miles away, though closing fast.

  A day and a night later, after a journey made up of equal parts sheer boredom and some quite odd chitchat with the asteroid, his craft lowered itself onto the rocky, scarred face of the voluble rock. When Astroburger emerged, spacesuited and be-helmeted, onto the small, airless world, he found that the low gravity meant that the merest hop sent him into the sky, and every step carried him several hundred metres.

  “Do stop buggering about, Master Astroburger,” the asteroid said with a sigh. “If you look towards the east you will see a mound with a small canyon…”

  Moments later, Astroburger was following a slope as it descended into the blackened interior of the heavenly body. With careful steps he moved deeper and deeper, seeing little by the lights of his spacesuit. After an hour’s walk he found himself in a large chamber, dimly and mysteriously lit by a subdued phosphorescent glow. The voice ordered him to stop.

  “You have arrived; you may now remove your helmet.”

  Astroburger tested the atmosphere and found, to his surprise, that it was entirely breathable. Not for the first time, he wondered what exactly ‘fertilisation’ meant, in this instance. Presumably he would be required to masturbate into a container, and had expected to find himself in some kind of sterile medical suite – though that patently was not the case, and he could see no receptacles to hand.

  “Just relax,” said a voice that hovered nannybattishly overhead. “After all, you will be here for some time.”