“Ex-military man, eh? I’d recognise it anywhere!” I said cannily to the group’s leader.
Interrupted, he blinked at me. “Eh? What are you on about? I’m the cook!”
“Keeping it hush-hush? Sorry to blow your past....” I looked at the angle of his foot, the way he wore his watch. Of course. “... Colonel.” I winked.
“Colonel? I said I’m the cook. And did you just call me a man? How dare you!”
“I deduced your gender from your strong jaw line and the bulge in your -”
The wine splashed against my face. I shot my tongue out for a millisecond. Hm. An inferior vintage; I had been drenched in a better class of plonk than this.
The group around me had dispersed quite rudely by the time I had cleaned my face on the headdress of an oblivious viscount. People often became frightened by my insights. Still, I thought, it was a strange culture indeed that held military service in such low regard that it was preferable to pretend to be a lowly gravy-jockey.
I turned and saw a lady eyeing me from across the room, smiling at me. She was stunning. She had long legs like a sexy giraffe and eyes like bowls of blinking chocolate; she was as busty as a museum of Greek Sculpture and her lips were pouty enough to suggest an allergic reaction. She nodded to me and for a second I was simply too enraptured to respond. I caught myself and shot her double gun-fingers and a dazzling smile. She laughed into the back of her hand. Well now, this party was just getting interesting, I thought as I started over.
My passage and inevitable wooing was blocked, however by the intrusive frame of an overdressed little man with a towel. I moved to go past him but he stepped in my way at the same time. Stalemate. I shoulder-barged him but he remained standing firm. Double stalemate, I thought. What chess masters like myself would call a ‘birdie’.
“Sir, a towel?”
I looked at the rag in his hands. He was telling the truth, all right, he did have a towel. “Yes, I can see that. Congratulations, it’s very nice”, I said, patting his arm.
“No sir, for you!” he spoke in the urgent undertone of a servant. “You’re all wet!”
“I already availed myself of some chap’s garish headwear. Improved it, I think. Now, since you’re in-between me and that enchanting young lady”, I said, nodding over to the breath-taking beauty, “perhaps you’ll excuse my briskness when I do this.” I placed my hands on his shoulders, lifted him bodily to one side and started off towards her again.
He blocked me once more, whispering even more urgently, “Sir! I know you are a guest in our court but you should know that that is the Princess Melia’ta Hydrangea-the Queen’s only daughter and heir to the Aplubian throne.”
I nodded at him. “Classy, I get it. What else do you know? Turn ons? Turn offs? Favourite music?”
“Sir, she is promised to the dashing young Count Beltock. It is an arranged betrothal. I fear that any... suggestive conversation would be taken as a treasonous act in this court. I would advise the honoured Captain Hardcore that there are many other delightful young ladies in the chamber tonight, with all respect and discretion, sir.”
I looked him up and down. This little man seemed a little too well informed for my liking, a little too concerned with my business and a little overprotective of the woman I knew that I was destined to bone. Could he be trying to eliminate me, in order to keep her for himself? Probably, I decided.
“And who are you, my helpful young friend?” I asked archly.
“Carstairs, sir. And I fear I may not be so young as you say, for I have been serving as the Royal Butler for near twenty birthdays now.”
That tore it! A butler! In all of my travels through all the systems in the universe, I had never once read a mystery novel that contained a trustworthy butler. I eyed his rag with fresh alarm-was it lined with poison, or did he want some of my skin cells for some kind of DNA plant? What could he be planning? I feared for my love, who was in such a powerful position with this maniac running around with the confidence of the family and his array of deadly towels, of which he was so proud. I decided to test his story.
“Where is this Count Beltock of whom you speak?”
The butler dutifully pointed to a chap hovering in the vicinity of the throne. He was a big brute of a man with a forehead so jutting that his eyes need never be troubled by the suns, a chest expansive enough to build a small children’s hospital on and dull gimlet eyes that broadcasted absolute lashings of inbreeding. He itched at his formal wear like an ape. I sneered at this inferior example. For a second I burned with hatred at the anachronistic system of arranged marriage that stopped this lady from freely enjoying me, Captain Space Hardcore.
“Besides, sir, my honoured Queen Pompfrompulon is readying herself to give her address and lead we Aplubians in a New Season’s toast. If I may ask you to take a seat...?” He extended an open hand to my seat.
I decided to play his game for now. Best keep him placated with acquiescence for the moment-all the better to survey this crafty villain. I cast one last look at my love and turned on my heel.
Taking my chair again, I looked over at Funkworthy who was still spinning his own yarns. The false laughter issuing from his audience was grating. Poor chap, I thought, he spoke without knowing that these people were merely indulging him by listening to him in faux rapt attention, laughing at all his punch lines and asking him a series of probing questions out of pity. I had half a mind to go over there and show them real storytelling, but I was lost thinking about the Princess. I pushed some of the Aplubian food around my plate. It was an assortment of gelatinous, greyish meats and sauces, oddly flat and over-salted. I looked around for a breadstick or something more appetizing, but found none. My stomach rumbled in protest at its shabby treatment. Meanwhile, my fantasies about the Princess mingled with my daydreams about large sandwiches in a way that evoked imagery I was not entirely comfortable with.
A ting ting ting of spoon on glass turned all heads toward the front podium where the Queen was attempting to rise, even though she was shaped roughly like a ball, which made the process evidently difficult. Finally Carstairs and the detestable Count who were standing nearby pried her out of the seat and set her rolling to the dais where a fresh glass of Aplubian wine and a small microphone waited for her. The lovely Princess stood next to her mother demurely and sexily. God, I wanted that sandwich.
Pompfrompulon looked around the hall haughtily, as suited a queen.
“Aplubiaaaa!” she shrilled into the microphone.
“Maintains! Maintains!” came the united cry of everyone around me. The Queen took in the shout and nodded to herself for a second.
“Aplubia maintains”, she said reflectively. “Indeed we do. Through the years and the tribulations and the seasons we know that one constant: Aplubia maintains. It hasn’t been easy. This House has weathered the Peasant’s Revolt of ‘67, the People’s Uprising of ‘70, the Slave’s Revolution of ‘71 and, most distressingly of all, the Strike-breaker’s Strike of ‘72. But despite having to see all of those events from the palace windows we... maintain!” Applause erupted at this sentiment and the Queen, resettling one of her crowns, addressed us in a lower, more personal voice.
“And I maintain. Remember that too, my honoured guests and beloved family. For I am Aplubia. it lives within me. This court has seen treachery, murder and malice. The history of this throne is mired in too much blood, but I’m proud to say that since I ascended the throne after King Tanhooey the Genteel tragically took his own life by shooting himself in the back of the head and then jumping from that twentieth-storey window, we have presided over a peaceful and assassination-free decade!” Slightly more muted applause greeted the Queen this time, but she ploughed on, as befit a woman of her dimensions.
“In a very short time, we will witness the grandest astrological event of seven generations, as the Hailstrom comet cloud kisses the edge of our atmosphere and burns up, releasing its colourful gasses in what promises to be a grand and historic show
. What better way to celebrate this new season, and my continuing reign, than to gather on the royal lawn of the southern province of the palace city, over the valley abyss that bisects our grand capital, and witness the spectacle? So you are all cordially invited to the event. In two days’ time we will gather and frolic and eat little triangular sandwiches as the Hailstroms light up our sky and we will know the glory of the Aplubian Empire! I know I’ve been looking forward to it for years. I see it as a celestial blessing on this era of peace, prosperity and-I can’t state this enough-my reign! So please, join me in raising your glasses and toasting yourselves, the Hailstrom comets, Aplubia and me!”
I raised my glass along with the rest of the guests, and as one we quaffed the pungent green wine till there was naught left to quaff.
I looked to the royal line, all taking their long sups from their ample glasses, and I felt somehow at peace. Here among these grand people who had made space for me in their fine banquet, I felt as if I belonged. The hospitality was abundant, the wine poured like a river and the warmth of the room reflected, I felt, the warm ember in the heart of Aplubia. I smiled to myself. I might drink a touch more, hobnob with some more of the upper crust and share stories and cultures and then make time with the Princess with whom I already felt a deep spiritual connection. In the happy collective silence, for a moment, I felt utterly content.
And then the Queen exploded.
* * *
Chapter Three!!!
Queens A Go-Go
In which our hero investigates the curious mystery of the exploded monarch. Meanwhile, a conspiracy unfolds and Funkworthy recognizes a face from his secret past.
I kept a level head in the scrum of panic; after all, if I went to pieces every time a queen exploded in my vicinity, I would have gotten out of the space-adventuring racket a long time ago.
Oh yes, I’m more than familiar with exploding queens, and they are almost never accidental. I had just witnessed an assassination, or maybe even a coup.
This one had been subtly different though. The Queen had looked ill and queasy as she drank down her wine, but that was only the start of her troubles. First, I had noticed the gigantic burp that had bellowed out of her straining mouth. It had sounded like a tuba vomiting underwater. I was about to say something very loud and funny about it when I noticed everyone staring at the Queen oddly. Her cheeks had bulged out, like she was trying to smuggle balloons past customs, and as I watched her, a few buttons and belts pelted off her midriff, firing across the room and hitting a young lad in the eye. There was a point where, expanding between the straining bodice, belt and girdle, she resembled a big heap of tyres wearing a crown. But before I could say something very loud and funny about that, her garments pinged from her alarmingly expanding form. I noticed that she had kept hold of her glass all that time. For some reason I admired that.
At that point, the burping was nearly constant and had progressed to sounding like a shrill porpoise shouting. But clearly she couldn’t burp enough, as she continued to grow. The strain of not saying something was getting to me, but at that point even the greatest witticism would have been lost in all the screaming.
I swear that before it happened she lifted off the ground a touch.
But then the internal pressure became too much, and in an instant the floating monarch exploded like a massive water balloon filled with chum and firecrackers going off above a throne.
I don’t think anyone really knew what to do once the Queen exploded. People seldom do. Most shuffled backward or patted down their hair for traces of royal viscera. All the royal line and their attendant servants shuffled backward on the stage as her flopping legs and pointy shoes twitched for one last time under the extended remnants of a gut.
For my part, I was at once overwhelmed by the sudden pungent smell of a bakery (surprising given the aforementioned aria of personal gasses) but, without pausing to savour it, I shot Funkworthy a look.
That look said, ‘foul play’s afoot!’
In return he shot me a look that said, ‘yes, I know, Space, but can we not get involved this time?’
I chuckled at the naivety of his implicit glance-question-a chuckle that drew angry glances from people that hadn’t been following our unvoiced exchange. I grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him to the scene of the explosion. Clearly this crazy universe had thrown me into the middle of another wild mystery that would need solving. I wouldn’t hesitate to take her up on it.
Now, Funkworthy’s a ‘small picture’ kind of fellow. His mind hones in on the minutiae of a scene and obsesses about it. We had shared a bathroom on a freighter for a long time so I was well acquainted with both his microscopic eye for the tiniest of messes and how vocal he was in bringing them to light. Annoying then, but useful in an investigation. I set him to work examining the cadaver, while I looked around the room and pointed sudden accusatory fingers in the hopes of happening upon the guilty party in the crowd. It took him only a minute or so of poking around before he drew my attention to something important.
“Croutons!” he exclaimed, fishing a bready cube out of the bottom of the discarded glass. He moved away from the body and held the amber cuboid up to the light. Examining it, he muttered to himself, “Of course, how dastardly….”
I stopped pointing at people and went to stand by him. “Of course!”, I agreed, pounding fist into palm. “Those dastardly bastards.”
He turned to me. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Of course I know”, I replied indignantly.
“Well, that’s fine then.” He folded his arms and stood in silence.
“I know. But I’m beginning to wonder how much you know”, I countered expertly.
He sighed. “Maybe I should just tell you what I know and you can tell me if I’m right or wrong.”
“Well, I suppose I can, old friend. Just make it quick.”
He sighed. “The Aplubians, sir, may be humanoid, but in the details of their biology they are quite different to you or even I. Particularly their digestive systems. You see, much like some Earth-birds, they have trouble with certain chemicals. Just as a bird cannot withstand ingesting a fizzing chemical like bicarbonate of soda, these people-whose peculiar bellies are so much more sensitive even than that-cannot process anything with even a trace of yeast or self raising flour in it. Breaded goods are as poison to them.”
“My Lord. Bread makes them explode! That explains this dismal spread”, I said, sweeping my hand across the banquet tables.
“Quite so. You see, the yeast or flour reacts in their stomachs and produces… gas that they find difficult to… vent and it builds up to a critical mass.”
“Venting gas? She was a Queen, not a power station, for the love of chimneys! What are you on about?”
“She had no… biological…. escape valve, sir.”
“Dammit man, speak sense!”
“The unpleasant scented gases you or I can eject in the privacy of the washroom are not a utility they can employ.”
“Don’t dance around it, man. Murder’s afoot!”
“They cannot honk their trouser trumpets, sir.”
“Spare the terminology for the pathologist. I need to get to the heart of this!”
“They can’t make raspberries in the chocolate factory, sir.”
“Blast your damnable euphemisms! Tell me straight.”
“FART, SPACE! FART!” he shouted.
It echoed around the high, brocaded ceilings of the dining hall. Every head turned toward Funkworthy. I was aghast.
“I. Shall. Not, Ebenezer. We’re at the site of bready regicide”, I gasped, scandalized at the outburst. “One of us has to have decorum. And don’t give ME orders. Besides, you know I can’t do that on command, not since the incident.”
“No, it’s them. They can’t fart”, he finally explained.
“I see. Why didn’t you say so sooner? You know how much I hate riddles. Remember that caper with the Conundru
m King on Puzzle Planet Omega? That slippery knave tried to outfox me with a series of deadly posers each trickier than the last and I-“
“Punched him in the face”, Funkworthy finished.
“Right in his big, stupid face”, I agreed happily.
“You know, I think you may have missed the point of that adventure, Captain.”
“Balderdash! Nobody’s too clever with Captain Space Hardcore giving them a sound fisting! Besides, he had obviously constructed an impossible brainteaser that would fry any brain that even heard it, a Gordian knot of mental malarkey! ‘What gets wet as it dries?’ Pah! No such thing. Impossible nonsense.”
“We might be getting sidetracked, sir.”
“Indeed we are. Now that you’ve sated yourself by shouting about bum bugles next to a grieving royal family and taken a stroll down memory lane, maybe we can get down to investigating this mysterious crouton coup.”
He let out his usual sigh. “Sir, I don’t think it’s really our place. The royal family have their own investigators, I’m sure.” He cast his eye to the royal guards circling the scene anxiously. “We’re not even supposed to be here.”
“No, we’re not. You’ve dragged us into another quagmire of deadly double crossing and sexy suspense, but I’ll be a Frenchman’s uncle if I don’t get us out of it!”
“Actually, sir, if you recall, you took us down here. You seemed to think this is where you could get those socks you like.”
“Nonsense and double nonsense. I distinctly remember this being your fault. If I’m here for socks, how come I’m in attendance at a regal dinner with the head of state?”
“Sir, you just walked in here, got on a table and started to tell that gammonshark story. It was terribly embarrassing, but it seems the Queen warmed to it.”
The Court of Crusty Killings: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 3