“Your fucking bloomers,” Cosawta echoed.
“Bloomers. Bloomers.”
Yustichisqua turned and grinned at Harris, a sign his snit had passed. Harris winked as they crossed the threshold.
The showroom was elegantly appointed, as if the two Australian Fumarcans entertained prospective buyers here. But other than the local Seneschal, who else would buy? Three gentlemen dressed in lab coats emerged from behind a glass panel. They stood at attention. Harris expected another round of Aussie speak — a guessing game at comprehension. He would do better in Gurt.
“G’Day,” Moe said.
The three men nodded.
“Guten tag,” they said in a collective chorus.
Harris twitched. Germans?
“Whatever,” Larry said, turning to Harris. “Don’t give their sprechen much mind, sir. They come from a part of the Dodingdaten somewhere east of Hamburg.”
“Heidelberg,” one said (the tallest, who sported a pencil thin mustache).
“Essen,” said the second (short, stout and jittery).
“Möchen-Gladbach,” said the third (an older gentleman, with thinning blonde hair).
“Ja wohl,” Moe said. “Somewhere east of Hamburg, as I bloody well said.” He came to Harris’ ear. “They might go on with the liquid laugh as we peregrinate through the hall. But you give them no mind.”
“Good eggs,” Larry added. He looked at them. “Well, take us on in. Zum zum.”
The three men nodded again, and then turned toward the panel. Cosawta had already proceeded beyond them, but needed to wait at the unlocked door before springing into the place. He raised his waddly wazzoo, illuminating the wonders within — wonders which took Harris’ breath away.
3
Harris now knew why it was called the Yigoya, because it was like a Mercedes-Benz dealership — shiny new vehicles standing in sexy poses, ringed by ambient lighting. He suspected the sticker prices were many yedalas steep. He shuffled behind Cosawta, who raised his arms and turned about as if he owned every one of these treasures. In fact, he did by dint of supplying power source materials and managing the wherewithal for the brothers Culpeeper’s fertile genius.
Harris touched the handrail of a golden Cabriolin — a square one, which had a modified dashboard and a skirted bottom.
“Cool Cabriolin,” he said.
“Not a Cabriolin,” Cosawta said. “A Seecoy.”
“Seecoy model double-deuce A,” Moe said.
“Top of the line,” Larry added.
The Germans arrayed in Vanna White positions, touching the skirt, the dash and the rail respectively, while Cosawta announced each feature.
“Runs on a chippo married to aniniya and Columbincus, embedded in the chassis,” he said. “ No more manual driving. Hands free.”
“Really,” Harris noted, trying to climb aboard. Yustichisqua helped.
“And,” Cosawta continued. “A Seecoy is faster — flies higher and banks better than a Cabriolin.”
“Better than the shoddy Gurt designs,” Moe said. “I mean, their speckies were limited to the confines of Montjoy town.”
“And the fookin’ desert was never in their sketchable,” Larry noted.
“So,” Harris concluded. “Faster, higher and it can take on the desert.”
Herr Heidelberg touched the skirt, rubbing its corrugated thrusters.
“The design is such,” Cosawta said, “the wider truck line and the fluted intakes protect it from the kowlinka. Seecoy double-deuce A can cross the Forling in a blink.”
Harris grinned, noting the showroom’s other models.
“And those?” he asked. “Are those variations?”
“For every task we have a buggy,” Larry said. “Do you need two men Seecoys or three men Seecoys — we got ‘em. Need a cover from the rain or when the great one stirs the sky green as he does today . . .”
Mr. Möchen-Gladbach pressed a button and an awning flew over Harris as he stood mouth agape.
“Jupsim coated,” Moe said. “With our special additive making it particularly resistant to Stick shot.”
“It even repels a Tippagore fart if it opened up the lunch stand on ya,” Larry laughed.
Yustichisqua bounced in and out of several models, while Tomatly played with an array of gwasdi and Sticks. Harris wandered between the Seecoy, noting their sleek design and distinct square shape compared with the rotund Cabriolins. He was no expert, but he could see that every precaution had been taken to make these vehicles ready for . . . ready for what? He knew, but feared to express it. Then the guessing dissipated, because Cosawta juggled several spherical objects.
“Observe, Lord Belmundus,” he said. “Wadi-wadi.”
“Wadi-wadi! Wadi-wadi!”
“Take some heed with those, Lord Cosawta,” Larry said.
The Germans appeared fearful.
“Those are fully charged,” Moe noted, “and can blow the bush oyster out of you.”
Harris crawled off the Seecoy and watched Cosawta continue the juggle. The Seneschal feigned to drop one every now and then, much to the Germans’ chagrin and to the Culpeepers’ nervous amusement.
“Are those some kind of bomb?” Harris asked.
He knew the answer, but still, if he was going to be blown up, he wanted to know in advance.
“Wadi-wadi,” Tomatly said.
“It means throw it and throw it damned fast, oginali,” Yustichisqua explained.
“A hand grenade.”
“We call them granaydos,” Moe explained. “They come in a variety of sizes and punches.”
“Various effects,” Larry added.
“Perhaps, Lord Cosawta,” Harris said, grinning. “Perhaps, you’d like to set those fucking things down. Your point’s been made.”
“Ah, Lord Belmundus shows fear.”
“I’d rather shit my asano once than coat the Yigoya’s walls if you should miss your catch.”
Cosawta laughed, threw the wadi-wadi high, and then caught them one after another ending his daredevil demonstration. The Germans sighed with relief.
“So they just blow up?” Harris asked.
“Is that not enough?” Cosawta replied, and then smiled. “But we cannot fool you, can we? Mighty Moe, give him a show.”
Moe bowed, and then escorted Harris to a location at the far end of the showroom, where a stone plank was suspended on two wooden horses. Larry followed, carrying one of the Sticks Tomatly had found amusing. When they reached the plank, Moe turned to Yustichisqua.
“I require a volunteer from the audience,” he announced, staring at Little Bird, who looked about for another candidate.
“There, brother,” Larry said. “You have one there. No need to go to the Coathanger for one.”
“Me?” Yustichisqua asked.
“You have all the makings of a volunteer,” Moe replied, “Since this volunteer must be Cetrone, which only leaves two others and they know about this wee demo and it would spoil the effect.”
“Go ahead, old man,” Harris said. Then looking at the Stick had second thoughts. “You’re not going to shoot him with that Stick.”
“No. And this is not a Stick.”
“It’s a Blundaboomer,” Moe explained. “It shoots . . . well, you’ll see.”
“I will do it,” Yustichisqua announced. He stepped forward and closed his eyes. “Be quick.”
“Open your fucking eyes,” Cosawta said. “It is nothing to injure you unless . . .”
Yustichisqua opened his eyes, but didn’t look any less fearful.
“Now, Mr. Yustee Cheeskwa,” Moe said. “If you would be so kind as to touch this here rock we have suspended thusly.”
Yustichisqua extended his hand and, after a pause, touched it, and then removed it quickly. Having not received a shock, he returned it securely, holding it there.”
“That is quite good, sir,” Moe continued. “You could do this as a profession. But what conclusions can we draw from your action.”
“It is a rock.
”
“What kind of rock?”
Yustichisqua squinted, looking to the surface.
“Phitron,”
Larry applauded.
“Absolutely, ridgy-didge,” he said.
“Now, let go of it, and everyone stand back.” All complied. “My brother will now take aim at this here phitron rock with the aforesaid mentioned Blundaboomer.”
Larry raised the Blundaboomer, tapping its side. A red blast shot from the tip, striking the phitron squarely. It wasn’t damaged, but it discolored.
“Good shot.”
Moe applauded. Cosawta joined him infectiously.
“Now, Mr. Yustee Cheeskwa, if you would be so kind as to proffer your hand again to the stone.”
Little Bird shrugged and reached. His hand struck the surface, but went through.
“Kaybar,” he exclaimed. “You have changed phitron into kaybar.”
Harris was amazed. He touched the stone himself. His hand was stopped, but when he latched onto Little Bird, he also passed through the rock.
“Amazing,” he said.
“Withdraw it, please.”
“Why?”
“Do it,” Cosawta shouted.
Yustichisqua complied, as did Harris. Then, the stone changed.
“It is phitron again,” Little Bird said.
“Alas, yes,” Moe said, sadly. “The effect is temporary. Anyone using it in let’s say . . .”
“Battle,” Cosawta said.
“Yes . . . must take this wee drawback into consideration to assure their maximum safety and well being.”
Harris looked squarely into the Seneschal’s eye. He saw warfare spilling over the pupils and down his cheeks. He saw the vengeance of a thousand years percolating beneath the lids. Harris had his confirmation.
4
Here it was — the treasure of the Yigoya, fast cars and battlewagons. Grenades and grenade launchers (called i-nu wadi — far throwers) came in many varieties and the powerful red-smoke which changed phitron into kaybar, albeit temporarily, was called Gigoo susti — smoking blood, which the Culpeepers nicknamed Gingergust). There were ten different models of Blundaboomer and gwasdi which shot a caustic juice — a combination the Culpeepers named Jellywhips, after a lethal critter which lived in Australian waters. Harris didn’t see the usual showroom stuff here — food blenders, toasters, improved byudra diggers, the latest model korinkle or even a line of zulus in fashionable shapes and colors. No — this was an arms laboratory. However, he was not horrified, nor surprised. He looked at Cosawta in a different light now.
“It is time, Lord Belmundus,” the Seneschal announced.
“Is it?” Harris asked.
“Yes. You must visit the Long House.”
Harris wasn’t expecting this prosaic reply, having anticipated a deep discussion on the overall plan.
“Lead on,” he said.
The Germans bowed clear, Harris thanking them in his best German, which was no German at all. The Culpeeper brothers seemed tagalongs now, the Seneschal leading the way out of the Yigoya, crossing the plaza to the Long House. The plaza buzzed with workers, both Cetrone and not, everyone with a specific task, little inclined to notice the visitors. Harris assumed Cosawta wasn’t regarded as a visitor, but as an investor — perhaps the Chairman of the Board. Upon reaching the threshold, Cosawta halted and turned to Harris.
“Lord Belmundus,” he said. “I will be frank.”
“Franker than you always are, Cosawta?”
“Franker.” No grin now. “What you shall see you must already know, but it is irrelevant to any future plan on Cetronia’s part.”
“Irrelevant?”
“Not irrelevant. Speculative. We are a divided people.”
“Your father said as much.”
“We are. But it is a universal understanding for all Cetrone, whether they seek the peace of isolation or the commitment to liberation, that the Primordius Centrum shall give us a sign when our division will no longer be tolerated and the forces of the liberation plan must commit.” He drew in a deep and uncustomary sigh. He looked to Yustichisqua, and then to Tomatly. Finally, his eyes rested squarely on Lord Belmundus. “You, sir . . . you are that sign.”
“The spark?”
“Doubt it not.”
“But I thought the spark referred to a real spark, which now I know I have.”
“Doubt it not.”
“You refer to an abstract spark — a literary device.”
“Doubt it fucking not, Lord Belmundus.” He stood straight. “Now proceed.”
5
Harris marched behind Lord Cosawta, Yustichisqua directly behind him. Tomatly took up the rear behind the Culpeeper brothers. Entering a foyer, Harris, confronted by a ramp, girded Friend Tony to ascend. He heard the rumbling of a hundred voices — nay, a thousand. When he reached the top, Cosawta ushered him onto a platform overlooking a vast room — a stadium-size warehouse.
“Holy crap,” Harris muttered.
Stretched in long arrays were Seecoys, model double-deuce A, interspersed with vehicles he hadn’t seen in the Yigoya — tank-like ships and long-ass transports. Cetrone and Fumarcans serviced this fleet, mightier than any to his knowledge outside the Ryyve Aniniya.
“A fighting force,” Cosawta said, shaking his fist. “The liberators are waiting for one thing.”
He turned to Harris.
“The spark.”
“Doubt it fucking not, Lord Belmundus.”
Harris surveyed the serried ranks assembled.
“What does it mean, oginali?” Yustichisqua asked. “Are the Cetrone mighty again?”
“It means nothing, old man,” Harris said, drawing Cosawta’s scornful glance. “You can cross the Forling and shoot the crap out of phitron walls, but if you are an uncoordinated rabble, it would mean nothing but food for the porcorporians and noya tludachi. “
“So you say,” Cosawta snapped.
“So you say! So you say!”
Harris turned to Moe Culpeeper.
“Mr. Culpeeper,” he said. “May I see your sillifoon?”
Moe appear confused, but thrust his hand in his pocket, producing the requested object.
“If you want to make a call,” he said, “there is only one other beyond the Didadusi, and that one’s a shitter case in Lord Cosawta’s koriwrinkler.”
Harris seized it and pawed the buttons.
“How does it work?”
“Press the keys,” Larry said.
“No. I mean, how . . . does . . . it . . . work.”
“Oh, you mean the network. I see your point, sir. I was a dill not to see it.” Moe took the phone and pressed two keys simultaneously. “We get a buzzer here, and then when it clicks . . . here we go . . . we have a network connection.”
“Where’s the network?”
“In Comastee,” Larry said. “Strung hilly-gilly in the branchy-wanchies.”
Harris grinned, and then turned to Cosawta, whose patience had frazzled to where he was about to throw his waddly wazzoo at something or someone.
“Cosawta, my friend and benefactor — a man who saved my life, it is my turn to make a contribution to your cause.”
“How so?”
“The sillifoons, which you regard as useless pieces of crap.”
“They have a use. To call here.”
“They have a use,” Harris replied. “To call from here to there.” He pointed to the Seecoy. “And there.” He pointed again. “And there and everywhere.”
Cosawta shuffled, this time with delight.
“You have experience?”
“No. I’ve just been in the movies, sir. Mock though the battles may be, the audience still must be convinced. How can you coordinate an assault without communications — other than waving your hands or sending up a flare?” He grabbed the sillifoon from Moe. “With these you can be . . .”
“Invincible.”
“Well, successful,” Harris replied. He handed the phone to Yustichis
qua, who turned it about mystified. “Start with successful and perhaps invincible might pay you a visit.”
“Can you do what he says, Culpeepers?” Cosawta asked, demand in his voice.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 62