“Blasted balloon bastards! Looks like these terrorists mean business. Assassination business!” I pounded a fist on a nearby mural.
“They prefer to be known as a ‘resistance movement’, actually. Plenty of propaganda here: ‘Workers of Aplubia, Unite’, ‘No More Chalk for Blood’.” He held up a poster showing a picture of the deceased queen under the scrawled slogan ‘Let Her Eat Cake’.
“Pretty damn damning”, I commented.
“I’ll say!” he agreed.
“Hang about, though. If these people can’t stomach their baked goods, how come this underground revolutionary movement can get their grubby proletariat mitts on them so easily?”
“Good question. Reading through the report of one Chief Inspector Vacto Snoopel-”
“Who?”
“The fellow you punched earlier, sir.”
“Ah.”
“Well, according to him, the radicals recently managed to hire a shadowy mercenary. A professional, an artist in these matters, an expert known only as... The Master Baker!”
“Well, that’s none too threatening”, I noted. “As nicknames go, that’s pretty rubbish. Not scary.”
“No, I suppose not. I think you have to give it the appropriate gravitas.”
“The Master Baker! Oooooh! How was that?”
“Chilling, sir.”
“And just how is this fellow getting his ingredients in?”
“In a word: cunningly! There’s a wheat and yeast smuggling trade here that’s been in operation as long as there’s been a resistance. They smuggle bread in crates designated ‘medical supplies’, sky-cars come here with hollowed-out chassis filled with shortbread and dough filling the seats! Just the other week, one of the royal consignments of cocaine was found to contain packets of illegal flour. This deadly stuff got past intergalactic customs since they look alike. Just think-that filth could have been ingested by an innocent child.”
“Makes me sick to my core, old friend. But the mind of a smuggler is a dark and devious place. So you’re telling me that we have no way to ID those croutons?”
“No way that I know of, but if we follow the breadcrumbs, I’m sure they’ll lead to the only man in this entire planet who can bake a panini. The question is: who’s pulling the strings?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, since I was unsure of his meaning.
“Well, by all accounts the Master Baker is a deadly fellow, but a hired killer is just that: hired. The rebels couldn’t possibly have secreted enough cash to hire a cove such as he, and even if they had, their opportunities for communicating off-world to negotiate the terms of the contract are slim to none. There’s someone behind this, and I’ve a feeling that this has just begun.”
“Why’s that?”
“You remember that meteor shower the Queen mentioned?”
“Of course! The Hailstrom affair on the southern province. Why, the entire Aplubian royalty would be in one place at one time! It’s the perfect opportunity! There isn’t a second to lose!” I cried and leapt to my feet.
Standing, as I was, I dawdled for a second and furrowed my brows. The only question that remained was how to go about the investigation.
I turned to Ebenezer, who had insolently stayed seated as I had leapt to my feet. “It’s a beast of an investigation, Funkworthy; a beast with two horns. One!” I displayed a finger to illustrate the concept of one to him. “The incestuous pool of self-interest and political gamesmanship taking place in the palatial grandeur of the upper crust right here.” I waited for him to get my bread-based pun, but he did not. Marvellous thing, the pun, but not everyone’s brain is geared to handle its complexity.
Embarrassed for him, I continued, raising another digit from my fist. “Two! The revolutionary revenge ploys of the grimy underclasses. If we’re to find this Master Baker, we’ll have to handle this investigation like I handle eating a plate of jelly; come at it from both sides simultaneously. Pincer movement!”
I paced and waved my fingers through the air, pondering.
“One of us will have to take on the royalty and their shifty, almost certainly guilty butlers. It’ll require natural panache, charisma and rank... Maybe a cape too. Hmm. It’ll need the kind of person who can command a room with a simple tale of astounding shark bravery. On the other hand, one of us will have to go down into the undernourished and angry underworld of this resistance movement. That’ll take a slight fellow, a forgettable face. Someone that’s been in the shadow of mightier and more handsome forces and has grown resentful. Hmm.” I rubbed my chin faux-thoughtfully.
I knew, of course, that my companion’s put-upon demeanour would endear him to the smelly-sounding proletariat more than myself. I looked like a winner, and those people would probably look at my regal bearing and my stirringly jutting chin and assume (quite correctly) that I was their better. Awe was nice, but it fosters silence, and this was a damned investigation. No, Funkworthy was the man for it, but I had to make it seem like the idea was his. These little social graces were what lashed our partnership so tight.
“I think I see what you’re driving at”, he sighed.
I silenced him with a finger to the face, “Hang about, old man. One of us-but who?!-will be charged with romancing princesses and putting these blue bloods at ease with his magnetic personality and impressive rank of captain. The other man will have to mix with commoners as pug-ugly and bitter as themselves-”
“Sir, there’s no need for-”
“It’s a pickle”, I objected, loud enough to drown him out. “Wait, who do you think is the highest ranked among us?” I posed the question innocently, but as I asked him I angled my chest-which I’ve been informed is so impressive it makes barrels cry and then join a gym-toward the light in such a way that my medals glinted like little stars made of bravery and tin. It was a tricky feat, but I’ve practiced it plenty.
Shying away from the glare, Funkworthy stated, “Well, it is a fairly unbiased case you put forward but I would think that... you, sir, should stick by the royalty and take the investigation that way.”
I made a dumbfounded face, and then a thinky face. I could see he was convinced by my array of faces. “I suppose you’re right. It does make sense. What would I do without your relentless logic and odours?”
“Odours?”
“We’ll talk about that later”, I said, waving away the hurt tone in his voice. “Right now, you’ve got a resistance group to infiltrate and I’ve got a princess to save from a sociopathic butler!”
I bounded to the door and swung it open. The suns had finally gotten their acts together and greeted the new day. Dawn was splashing a palette of dappled colours over the many minarets and spires that made up the landscape of the palace city. They were a maze of treacherous heights, built to pierce the clouds with the mortar of backstabbing and bricks made of murder. It was a city built on the foundation of treachery, with towers as high as ambition, but how many had fallen to their deaths in this royal enclosure?
The fresh light would have been picturesque, but at that moment I saw only a diagram of want and need. Each ornate structure was a monument to the vying powers of one of the Aplubian royalty, and the highest of all was the Queen’s tower. But now she was a pair of fat legs, a burst stomach that smelled of croissants and a regal splatter dripping from the chandeliers. I could almost see the city rearrange itself before me, each structure growing or receding in reaction to the power vacuum. I would have to climb each one, cut through the tangled web of intrigue, pierce the heart of this corrupt kingdom and spill a little truth on the throne.
Oh yes, I was going to have to punch a lot of people before this was solved.
But the first order of the day was to protect the Princess. A creature as alluring and fragile as her would need near-constant vigilance. And sexing.
We walked down the rampart and across a small bridge. I shook Funkworthy’s hand. We would be going our separate ways, and I didn’t know how well t
he little man would fare without me. He’d miss me, that much was certain, but I was more concerned with the dangers he’d face. He had never been that bold in a fight, nor able to pull off cunning plans with the ability of moi. But still, it was the only way. Looking at him, though, I could see there was still a question in his eyes.
“Space, how on earth am I to infiltrate the underground resistance movement? We don’t know the first thing about them. I’m not even their species!”
“Simple as pie, chum”, I replied, throwing another bready pun over his oblivious head as I flagged down a nearby royal guard. “Just follow my lead.”
As the guard drew near and quizzically raised an eyebrow at me, I cuffed Funkworthy suddenly around the side of the head and pointed a finger to his chest.
“Sir! I demand that you arrest Ebenezer Funkworthy!”
Part Two:
An Inspector Falls
Each man kills the thing he loves. Every woman loves the thing she kills. Every child loves to kill. Every dog loves ham.
Nick Cozlawalski
Black is the Night, and Wet is the River
A wise general keeps his friends close and his enemies very, very far away. After all, his enemies might attack him if they are very close or they may plot against him. If possible they should be in another continent or better yet, down a well.
Zi Ziyang
The Practical Art of Having a Great Big Ruck
* * *
Chapter Five!!!!!
First Steps and Subterfuge
In which Ebenezer enters a new level, Space samples some Aplubian finery and the clone of Funkworthy begins to unveil his diabolical plan.
Oh god, not again.
That one thought throbbed in the front of my mind with every step I took down the long inclined walkway, intensifying to a scream whenever the guards behind me stuck the taser into the small of my back and called me filth (which they did a lot).
Oh god, not again.
Space had, after all, sold me into slavery before on several missions, usually for a lark, and one time to teach me a lesson about stealing his marmalade (a lesson that still eludes me since I am allergic to preserves). I was no stranger to taking a slave collar in the interests of furthering a case, but these things so seldom worked out well. The last time had been especially ugly, since when he came to retrieve me from captivity, Space had ended up with another fellow of my species who looked rather like me and who had insisted that he was, in his words, “totally Ebi-Geezer Funkenstein or whoever”. That this brazen identity theft was not immediately detected is a cause for consternation in and of itself. But I was also rather hurt that when I unveiled the identity of the fraud and my own even truer identity, Space had still seemed reluctant to swap us out since, as he claimed, the new fellow looked almost the same as me and seemed much more obliging and less vocal about ‘trifling matters of slavery’.
“Move, you filth”, called the guard behind me again, administering another zap. I stumbled down the steps, further into the bowels of the undercity. A few doors, an old elevator and a security checkpoint was all it had taken to strip away the grandeur of Upper Aplubia. This place was matted in dank, dripping in rot and covered in a fine layer of odious disrepair.
I dragged my feet slightly, feeling resentful. I had no doubt that Space would be carrying out his investigations in the finely appointed halls of royalty while I was being propelled down a dark corridor, mainly by abuse and a cattle prod.
As we emerged from the corridor, I was greeted with a truly spectacular sight of misery. The squashed corridor suddenly gave way to an open space and a truly wretched vista as we entered the undercity proper. The place was a cave-like structure, with the dimensions of a hangar fit for a super-tanker. Winged abominations wheeled over the throngs of indifferent masses plopping indiscriminately on the bowed heads below, the sheer number of which seemed to transform the floor of the space into a writhing carpet of Aplubians. It was a roiling sea of toil with seemingly no end. The extent of it all was borne away from me by the curvature of the planet and the weakness of my eyes. It seemed like a sea of work, an extra layer of labor added to the geological crust of the planet. The Undercity was much like this extra geological layer; a space carved into the rock itself, a cave the size of a country dug into the space beneath all of the splendour. The jagged brownstone walls giving way to a muddy soil upon which all of the Aplubians worked. I have a horror of crowds, and an even larger horror of trench digging (which seemed the chief industry down there) but at that moment my rather more pressing fear of voltage forced me forward. I had but a second to take in the scope of the place before I was pressed further down the slope.
There was a small queue that ran beside the throng that stopped at several small structures. Immediately next to me was a stage that I supposed would be used for public displays of cruelty for the disobedient. I stepped onto the small dais that led to a cattle gate and sorting office. We stalled at the ramshackle wooden platform for a second. All according to plan, I thought, trying to reassure myself. I heard the burlier of the two burly guards behind me fumble and unfold a slip of paper.
“Cor!” he cried. “I’m glad we are rid of this one!” he said in what could only be described as a stage-shout to his colleague.
“Not half!” replied his companion, matching his pitch and halting delivery. “Look at what he has done to my face! You would not think that such a weak and ineffectual specimen would be such a… powerhouse. But now he’s the ganger’s problem, thank all the Aplubian gods, if we have gods!” I noted that he spoke through gritted teeth. It was understandable.
The man’s face was indeed a mess of brawny bruised beef, but the source of the injury was not, in fact, me. Space had concocted the spectacle when he delivered me to these guards. He had even written out several cards that they were to say aloud, to entice any resistance members who would overhear my transfer. When the guards had balked, he had shouted ‘pow’, in his usual manner, and then delivered a solid thrashing to one of them while yelling some unkind things about the man’s lineage. They had then acquiesced, partially memorized Space’s quick scribblings and then led me off grumpily in shackles. I couldn’t help but notice that it was the fellow Space had punched who had seemed especially enthusiastic when meting out electricity to me.
“I agree”, shouted his companion, consulting his note for a prompt, “a right troublemaker this one. I hope he doesn’t….pto. Um… I hope he doesn’t pto!”
“Please turn over”, I hissed, from the side of my mouth. I heard him turn the card.
The guard looked startled, then fumbled at his card. “Ah! I hope he doesn’t… find his way to the resistance. A man of his skills would be imvaluable to they!”
It was the bruised guard’s turn. “I agree with you! He is a fellow as violently anti- monarchistic as he is slight and girlish! I’m glad the dashing Captain Space Hardcore apprehended this runaway before he could cause a catastraphone!”
His companion gritted his teeth audibly and put on a voice of wonder. “Was it truly he? The hero of ledge-end? The crusader for truth and valour? Why I hear he single-handedly… hang on, what does that say?... quelled the rebellion on Valion Sigma single-handed! What a man!”
“What a man!”
“What a man, indeed! Exit!” cried the larger guard.
“Exit!” agreed the other happily.
“Stage directions! Leave!” I hissed again.
They grumbled and pushed me through a small turnstile, and then proceeded back to the surface. I looked back and saw them pointing to the notes and laughing, perhaps comparing incorrect punctuation and grammar, which had never been the Captain’s strongest suit.
I cast a furtive glance around as I was carried away on a moving walkway. Several muddy-faced workers from the front ranks were casting admiring glances my way. One fellow, sporting a beret, a pencil moustache and a rollup cigarette was inspecting me closely. He made a small hand gesture, and I me
morized it before I was borne away. It was a gesture that involved making a fist, except that the thumb was thrust upward from it. An odd signal, but it may come in handy, I thought.
The walkway was taking me past the main digging floor to a small sorting office up ahead. It was a dismal metal shack, as mud brown and poorly maintained as anything else I’d seen in the underside of Aplubia. Several scanning cameras raked the immediate area and a surly looking guard in a rocking chair flicked the laser sights of his rifle lazily into my eyes. The sides of the site were riddled with these guards, leaning on guns and spitting as they looked through the chanlink fences at the workers. I desperately wanted to retreat, but the doors of the office were automatically opening before me and the walkway stopped just inside.
As I entered the office, the cooler, but still ill-smelling, recycled air hit me. The whole place smelled like the cot of an infant that had binged on curry and cabbage for a fortnight, so the small relief seemed enormous. I stepped off the walkway and into the small designated circle carved into the floor.
I looked around the office. A prodigiously fat Aplubian wearing a powdered mullet wig that I took to be judicial garb eyed me through enormous ocular enhancers from behind a high desk. Squatted in seats below this magistrate’s desk were two guards, who grinned at me as they cleaned their already immaculately polished guns. I have a fundamental distrust of those people who wash their guns more frequently than their own bodies, and these two seemed of that perverse set.
After a long minute, the mulleted judge pressed a hidden button and a laser fence sprang up around me. Three sizzling blue circles drifted from head to toe and I knew that if I touched any, I’d become very dead indeed.
The Court of Crusty Killings: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 5