It was at the end of one of my journeys with the cart that I caught the eye of my first lead. I had timed it precisely so that we coincided as we tipped out rubble from our carts. He was mining a tunnel on the opposite side of the cavern as me, but I had spotted him and been adjusting my speed so that we met in the middle. By his beret and the shiftiness of his eyes, I made him to be part of the resistance, but I had to be careful. If he was not, then he could just as easily shop me; and even if he was, he may be too skittish to respond to my overtures. It would be a balancing act.
So, as I dumped the latest load of slag from my cart, noticing that I had my keeper once again temporarily outran, I took the opportunity to stretch my back and run a hand cross my brow, looking nonchalant. As my opposite number approached me, I made sure to play it cool.
“Oooh, I tell you what, I bloody hate the aristocracy...” I said, as if to myself, staring off into middle distance. I saw him look round startled at me. I didn’t acknowledge it; instead, I just picked up my cart and walked back.
In the next few trips, I escalated my rhetoric.
“I tell you what, I reckon to each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs. Maybe that’s just me”, I muttered, dumping my rocks on the tracks.
“Me, I reckon the worker should own the means of production, but not many agree....”
“I heard that queen exploded! If you ask me that’s the kind of inflation the upper classes need to see!”
With every fresh, innocuously placed statement on each trip, I could see the fellow regard me more and more openly. He hadn’t reported me yet, nor had he tried to initiate conversation, and I was nearing the end of my shift. I had to try one last desperate gambit.
As I approached him again, cart in hand, I took one hand, extended my thumb and curled the rest of my fingers into a fist. The sign I had seen as I had entered. It was a strange gesture, but I pointed it at him. He reacted. His eyes widened, his face paled, he looked around as if expecting death squads to close in on him immediately.
For the rest of the remaining hour, I saw him staggering his walk to miss me. Damn. Maybe I had blown it through overenthusiasm. I cursed myself and my thumb.
A klaxon blew a while later to indicate the end of the shift.
Unsure of what to do, I simply joined the coalescing line of similarly bowed heads and made my way to wherever I could get a little sleep Maybe there, I could make decent contact. This time I promised myself I would be less brash, less obvious. I couldn’t waste time like this. Not with the Hailstrom comets on their way.
No sooner had I thought this, though, than a hand gripped my elbow and guided me out of the drift of faces. When I looked back, I saw my cart companion. I was filled with a surge of optimism. Then I felt the point of a blade prick my skin through my clothing. With one hand, he guided me toward a small rock-hewn tunnel that contained a distressing paucity of witnesses; with the other, he prodded me along with some kind of crude but keen shiv. I went cold. My legs felt like they were full of jelly and my knees locked up-probably because they were so full of jelly. I opened my mouth to protest, but at that the pressure on the knifepoint increased.
“We know who you are”, my captor hissed in my ear.
Aw, shit.
There was nothing I could do. I walked on, just hoping against hope that Space was working his way down here at that instant to set me free and save me from this fate. In my mind’s eye, I willed an image of him racing down the levels, flanked by guards, busting through barriers as Space is wont to do, before picking this rebel off just as the alleyway swallowed us. I pictured it and hoped it was a reality.
I lounged back on the divan and stifled a yawn with the back of my hand.
This cognac was smooth, but there was the danger that it might cloud my senses. I took another sip (for effect, of course), and looked at their angry, impatient faces.
What they wouldn’t understand was that this was all part of the plan. Every action I had taken was designed to tell them one thing: I was in control. I was the kind of man who was unharried by the social norms of the world and-in fact-I might just be the kind of wild card to smash all of those social mores in a blistering evening of deductive prowess that would reveal all of their dark secrets, tearing their whole incestuous establishment down around them.
“Sir? Captain Hardcore? I hate to keep saying it, but it’s been twenty minutes now. Shall we begin? Ever?” It was the voice of Carstairs, attempting to pierce my veil of nonchalance, mystery and cognac-sipping.
I inspected my fingernails. Oh yes, I was the kind of man who would bring together some of the most powerful aristocrats in a library and then sit and silently drink their booze as they stared at me incredulously and sometimes tried the door (no luck there, I had locked it, hidden the key, shot the handle to bits, found the key again after a short search and then shot that to bits too. Textbook.)
No, this was a locked-door intellectual cage match. I was going to dredge up all of the most hidden and scandalous secrets of each of these suspects in my search for the truth. I took the two bendy straws out of my mouth, set the cognac aside and slowly said, “Oh yes, Carstairs. I believe it’s well past time I got to the bottom of this.”
“That’s what we’ve been saying for ages!” cried the ugly Count Beltock. I dimly remember him having been pointed out to me as a possible suitor for the Princess. He had the dimensions and manners of an ugly tractor. I didn’t care for the man, but that had nothing to do with the indisputable fact that I was meant to be with the Princess. No, I was above juvenile grudges like that. I simply thought that the fellow had a dumb face and that it was also smelly and that he was an idiot loser, and that he was stupid and also that he was a fart.
I nodded calmly and strolled over to him.
“Interesting”, I mused aloud. “The Count here seems to be in something of a hurry. I wonder where he needs to escape to so quickly... The throne room, perhaps?!”
“What do you mean by that?” he retorted loudly and uglyly.
“Oh, come now, old boy. Why, it’s common knowledge that you inveigled your way into a sick marriage pact with Princess Hydrangea!”
He snorted. “Our families have deemed we be wed, as is the tradition of our world. Not that you know anything of our ways.”
“Indeed! But being the young suitor of a princess didn’t suit you, did it? Being of such a low status and possessing no natural talents or the charisma of, say, a space captain just doesn’t cut it, does it? Of course not. But a man lined up to wed a queen? Now that’s a different animal, eh, Beltock? That’s a fellow with clout, with social leverage. With that kind of power you can hide the terrible secret that gnaws at the heart of you!”
“Secret? Well, I would hear of this slander”, he said, crossing his arms.
“Then hear of it you shall!”
“Out with it then, unless you are all bluster!”
“I’ll show you bluster! For-and you may be shocked at my insight-I have observed the plain fact that you have tried to keep hidden-”
“Aye, out with it.”
“You are a closeted homosexual man!” I cried with a flourish.
He was so shocked at my accuracy that he didn’t even bother to respond or even close his mouth for a long time.
“I am-” he began after a while, affecting incredulity.
“A gay fellow. A fabulous chap. A cat-flap charlie. A sneaky peacock. A Venusian tra-”
“Stop!” he cried.
“Oh, I’m sorry, are any of those offensive? I’m behind on the slang, I admit. One planet’s polite terminology is another planet’s insult. It’s a hard line to gauge sometimes.”
“What… what makes you think that I’m...”
“A back door tachyon? Simple.” I took to pacing before him. “I first observed you at the banquet, where I was informed that you were to be wed to the lovely Princess. Yet despite this, you were barely near her at all. And I should
know because I was all over her the moment her mother died-like a heterosexual man. And right now, in this very investigation, you’re standing right next to the ravishing femme fatale Lady Izabella and you’ve barely even looked down her top. If I can once again use myself as a counterpoint, I have done so several times! I’m doing it right now through my peripheral vision! I even dropped that pencil earlier and snuck a look up the skirt, did I not?”
I looked at her.
“... It’s true, he did”, she admitted after a pause.
“A-ha!” I said with another, bigger flourish, proving my point with aplomb.
“You have proved beyond a doubt that I am a gentleman while you are a boorish pest, sir. You insult me”, he returned huffily.
“I insult you? By pointing out your obvious orientation? Your prejudice insults me! I was merely pointing out how if you were to be outed, then by Aplubian law, and to preserve the royal line, your marriage would be annulled and a more suitable husband...” I swept back my hair majestically, “would be found, and you lash out with this homophobia?”
Trapped in my logical snare, the Count stared at me, dumbfounded. It was unfortunate, I reflected, that the true proclivities of the man who was set to wed the Princess had to be revealed in such a blunt manner. No doubt the news of this would filter back to her quickly. Ever since my adventures on Disco Planet 9 in the Rainbow Nebula, I had prided myself on my discretion and sensitivity, but this case was too important for any dilly-dallying about gayness and whatnot.
I moved away from the Count and swept my finger around the room. “You all had the opportunity. You were all in the same room as the Queen. Now I know that one of you had what we sleuths call ‘motive’. What of the rest of you?” I wondered aloud. “All looking for advancement, a new title, a shuffle further up the ladder. But that’s not enough. You need something driving you: a secret, a fear... or hate.” I narrowed my eyes at Carstairs, who was idling by the door, looking innocuous.
I continued, keeping my eyes narrowed at the Butler, “Of all of you there was one person who did not actively avoid me in the banquet hall-out of a sense of gnawing guilt, no doubt. There was one amongst you who impeded my progress and questioned me mercilessly, knowing I was a wild variable in a plan that was already in motion. And, when I was set to approach the Queen once more, no doubt spying the cube of deadly bread left in the glass with my uncanny observational skills, there was one among you who bade me sit back down in my seat.”
Carstairs raised a knowing eyebrow at me. Lord but he was an icy one. “I take it you mean me, sir?”
“Yes, you can take it I mean me, meaning I mean you.”
He frowned to himself before answering in an even tone. “Sir, it is quite simple. You were wet, so I detained you with the offer of a towel and then the Queen-may she reign forever from the beyond-was about to speak, so I asked you to sit. These are my duties, sir.”
“Duty!” I spat, “Duty my booty! You said it yourself, you’ve been serving for twenty years now, seeing countless promotions and demotions and bowel motions that you have to clean up! Oh, how it must burn at you, as you toil day after day for these ungrateful and spoiled blue bloods-”
“-Aplubian blood is beige, sir.”
“-These spoiled beige bloods, then. You put on your ridiculous shirt every day with that ridiculous dress jacket, that ridiculous uniform wig-” I snatched at his hair, but a painful yelp and a handful of follicles quickly informed me that this hair was firmly attached. “Your ridiculous haircut, then! And you set to work cleaning up after every little spillage. With no chance at advancement yourself. Stuck forever. It’s no wonder that you started communicating with the resistance, Carstairs. It’s no wonder you employed the Baker! It’s no wonder that the resentment you felt toward the class system turned your beige blood into bile and that bile into croutons. Oh, we all understand how it must have felt, and how it must eat you up inside now! Oh, the strain! The strain of that secret!”
I took him by the shoulders and spoke in a confidential undertone. “Rid yourself of it now, Carstairs. Confess, be heard, clear your conscience and free yourself of this waking horror! Tell me what is planned for the Hailstrom comet shower. Tell me about the Baker. Confess!”
“I confess, sir...” he began.
“Yeeeees?”
“That I do not know what you are talking about. A baker? I am a humble servant with a coveted position and an enviable salary. I am innocent of the counts levelled against me, I assure you.”
I stared at him for a long time; he simply looked back at me, eyes slightly raised as if to say that it would take more than that to extract his confession. I scowled at him, resenting the way he had started his sentence as if it were a confession of guilt, then turned it into the opposite. That kind of linguistic cowardice always angered me.
I prowled back to the divan, flung myself down upon it and took a quick draught from the cognac glass-damn the straws! I had reached down into the souls of two men and delivered a mighty truth enema and yet here they still stood, looking back at me, tapping their watches and drumming their fingers on tables. Say what you will about the Aplubians-and I planned to say some fairly unspeakable things about them very soon-but they built them tough out here. They were as tough to penetrate as the diamond planet Blingulon 12 (which had sadly been destroyed when the Intergalactic Rap Federation split into an East versus West civil war), and as difficult to read as the poetry I had found in Funkworthy’s secret journal.
Ah, Funkworthy. I wondered how he was faring. He’d be down with the salt-of-the-earth working folk of this planet, whistling working songs as they dug for gold, eating hearty stews with the peasant folks after a hard day’s toil and dancing jigs to the music of an old lady with hairy cheeks who had fashioned some crude string instrument out of a wheelbarrow. The life of the simple folk, without all this subterfuge. I doubted that he’d find a trace of the rebellion, but I was at least glad he was spared this Herculean task.
No time to dwell on that now, though. I hoisted myself back to my feet and looked at my next target.
“So!” I cried with vigour. “We have to come to the sorry business of the lady carrying the love child.” I pointed an accusatory finger at her belly.
“Love child?! Pregnant?! What are you talking about?!” she said, clutching at her large stomach in mock outrage.
Lies. Lies everywhere. A garden of blooming lies.
But I was the strimmer.
* * *
Chapter Seven!!!!!!!
Further Down The Rabid Hole
In which an investigator calls, the resistance answers a call, and a meeting between a clone and his employer introduces the dark mind of the Albino Regent.
I was sore and tired and the knife tickling at the space between my ribs was, frankly, not helping matters one bit.
I continued my march down the dark corridor as my captor constantly pricked at me in silence. The tunnel inclined steeply and I wondered if I should do something daring and ill-advised and Space-like. I could suddenly drop to my knees and let him trip over me, sending him sprawling down the hill, then wrestle the shiv from him in a pitched karate battle. I mulled it over. I couldn’t find a flaw with it in theory, and as I played it out in my head it worked perfectly. But as I sent signals to my limbs to start gearing up for action, they simply felt tired and weak. I had to face my limitations: as far as action and karate went, I was not the person for the task. I sighed and trudged along, which was much more my speed anyway.
A light up ahead gave me some measure of hope, and despite myself the crackling smells of mingling meats and fats that came from it made my mouth water. We were on our way to an encampment of some kind. I kept walking, knowing I was soon either to eat some barbecue or become it.
“Stop here”, commanded the voice from behind me. We were at the exit of the tunnel and I could see a small encampment of people ahead of me. Two other figures approached out of the pitch darkness, st
opping before me.
“Is this him?” one whispered gruffly.
“It is”, said my knife-happy chum.
“He gave the sign?”
“He did.”
“He is the same one the guards were talking about?”
“Yes, the outsider.”
“Very good. You have done well. Jacques will be pleased.”
Jacques! A clue. I grasped onto that information in case I was not executed.
At that, my captor walked off past me and into the camp, and I was left with the two shadows: one mute and the other simply terse. The mute one started to frisk me, and despite my oath to myself that I would remain cool and silent throughout, a weakness of mine has always been how severely ticklish I am. Though I wriggled and giggled and slapped his hands away and cried ‘stop it, you!’ he persevered and eventually nodded to his more talkative companion, conveying to him that I was unarmed and unwired.
The more talkative shadow motioned for me to walk with him, and we slowly ambled toward the camp.
“We cannot be too careful, you understand. Many agents try to infiltrate the resistance”, he said. I could make out his face in the light. He was ugly, but in a compelling way that made me want to sketch him, like a wizened old tree that looks like an old lady if you squint and tilt your head. He at least seemed sensitive to his own fascinating facial grotesquery since he was hiding an eye behind a patch and his chin behind a patchy beard. He looked round at me sideways.
“Uh, yeah, of course. Vive la révolution”, I returned.
He looked momentarily impressed. “Yes, brother, you talk the talk. What do they call you, anyway?”
I cursed myself. I hadn’t even dreamt up a convincing backstory or name for myself. I had to think fast and create an identity that would blend in seamlessly down here in the slave camps. “Um... Tito... D... Rompenham. Esquire”, I lied.
The Court of Crusty Killings: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 7