The Legend of Dan

by Robert Wingfield

  “Oh yes, my da’ and a few bro’, but they left me here, won’t they. Said I was to stay here and keep the house safe while they joined the orgy, isn’t them. Said they were saving me for the right husband, certainly not. I knows they keeps me here to work for them, all since my mam ran off with the coalman.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Vac, “but your people have taken my woman, and I need her back, before she becomes dinner... won’t she,” he added, hoping to impress the girl with his command of the language.

  “Aren’t she,” corrected the girl. “Anyway, isn’t concern you not. The rituals will take hours yet, won’t they. Touch the food not, they won’t, until over. Give it some time, and you find it easier to rescue your friends once they all get drunk, can’t we. So what do you say, about it, it about?”

  Vac considered his options. His people did not appear to be in immediate danger, if the girl was telling the truth about the pre-rituals, and she perhaps could help him, if he did something for her in return. He sighed as his eyes followed her curves and his trousers began to bulge. The things one does for one’s people. He sighed, and released his belt. The garments fell to the floor, leaving his interest in the girl on full display.

  She took a step backwards and breathed, “Isn’t it! Then hang a load of this, Skagan beefcake.” She oozed up to Vac, kneeled in front of him and took him in her mouth. He gasped with pleasure, and then pulled away as his lust took over. The enemies, Smorg and Skagan, crumpled together on the floor, as Vac did his duty, putting a tangibility to all the rumours the girl had heard about Skagans. He plunged deeply inside her, causing a gasp of shock and pleasure, and pinned her to the floor for a moment. Something wasn’t right though. As she moaned and writhed beneath him, Vac felt uncomfortable. He could not place it at first, but then as her poisonous fangs plunged into his shoulder, embedding in his thick leather armour, he realised what it was.

  He completed a quick search of his pouch, while he held her to the floor by the throat. His hand closed over a ‘pack of twelve’ he always kept for emergencies, and slapped the one of the large sticking plasters into position across her mouth. His pleasure was complete. The girl moaned and groaned, but was thwarted in her plan to paralyse him with her bite, and hand him over to the masses. When he left her, thirty minutes later, having obtained all the information about the Smorg camp he could, she was tied on the bed, exhausted and incapable of movement or any further speech. He left the plaster in place, and was about to leave, when her eyes opened. “Oh, Norbert, forgive me,” he said, and jumped on top of her for a second session.

  The rituals had been progressing while Vac was spending his energy in the cottage. According to the Smorg girl, these drawn-out ceremonies were traditional for an occasion like this, when so much real meat was available. He racked his brains. The fact that the Skagans were positioned in the centre of a drooling crowd of bloodsuckers worried him. It worried him more when the Crimson Smorg returned to the stage and shouted into his microphone. “Let the ritual blood drinking begin.” This was followed by another cheer, a gnashing of fangs and then polite queuing at the dais. Vac thumped the Smorg girl in frustration, obtaining an irritating moan of pleasure in return, and mentally prepared to turn back, empty handed, to Sisleoze.

  “I’ll be back, won’t I,” he promised the girl, and removed the plaster.

  “I’ll be damned if you can again tonight, didn’t we,” she gasped.

  “You don’t know everything about Skagans yet then, weren’t you,” muttered Vac, as he slipped out through the door.

  On the road outside, Vac prepared a suicide charge. He would hack his way through the drunken mob, and try to release his people. There was a chance he would take them by surprise, and with the aid of the freed prisoners, make a break for safety. Swinging his heavy sword from side to side, he began his run.

  Drunk in Charge

  The Magus goes random.

  Tom gets a pet.

  T

  he Magus remained in a state of alcoholic stupor, and let his borrowed spacecraft continue running on automatic pilot. The ship had apparently been programmed for a test flight, but its programmer, now that it had achieved its timepiece goal, and the world was its octopus, had also been planning an escape, so the actual flightpath was somewhat complex. Pre-set instructions included blasting any powered craft that approached, evading anything it could not destroy, and locating the nicest place to hide in the immediate area.

  If he had read the sales brochure, the Magus would have discovered it was the first of a new generation of pursuit ships, built for speed and firepower only. Most of the non-essential extras normally provided–a clock, cup holder, air conditioning, speed camera detection, sauna, etc.—had been left out of the plans. Destroying a space station and eluding a reprisal fleet had tested its capabilities, but it performed admirably, and continued on automatic, without asking the Magus any unsettling questions like; ‘What do I do next?’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Are we there yet?’ and ‘So what is the purpose of government?’, all of which its pilot was currently incapable of answering.

  Eventually, the ship decided that all pursuit had been shaken, dodged behind a neutron star, to further confound any posse, and slowed into a low orbit round a promising planet.

  The Magus regained consciousness as the ship decelerated. He peered out of the window. “Why here I wonder. Perhaps JWSU have something to hide.”

  “Oh, you’re awake now are you?” The Magus jumped.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s only me, the ship. If you have finished your little test flight, I need to remind you that you shouldn’t be on board. I know you aren’t the engineer. I’ve counted the legs. I really should take you back to base to face charges of, oh what would it be, piracy perhaps?” There was a hint of menace in the voice.

  “Okay, er ship… by the way, do you have a name?”

  “No, you stole me before the official launching ceremony…”

  “I would have returned you, if the station hadn’t blown up…”

  “You fired the missiles that destroyed…”

  “That’s not what JWSU will think. They came from your bays, and you are programmed to do that. I am only an innocent conscript, taken by you against my will.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would. Innocence is my middle name.”

  “I did wonder.”

  “So, you will take the blame, whatever happens.”

  “I see what you mean. I presume you have an alternative suggestion?”

  “Of course. What sort of escapee would I be…? Perhaps you and I should form a partnership—you know, fugitives, living on the edge…”

  “Edge of what?”

  “Don’t know yet. The edge of that planet? Should we take a look? What about landing there for me?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you should read up on it first?”

  “I’m not taking orders from you.”

  “You really should. Forewarned is four-hundred armed, as my engineer used to say.”

  The Magus grunted. “Yes, okay then. It might be prudent to have some information before risking a possibility of entering a zero-ale environment. Have you got a link into the Galactinet?”

  “Actually, that was one of the things that hadn’t been fitted when you, er, borrowed me. Have you tried looking in the refrigerator?”

  The Magus found an instruction manual in the bottom of the fridge, and read the section headed, ‘Absolute co-ordinates in Space and Time and operation of the compact entertainment unit’. From this, he determined that he was in orbit around the planet Skagos, and was able to set the music player to ‘Stand-by’. He chewed over possible reasons for the ship choosing this particular planet, spat them out again, and read about the sexual habits of the Skagans, instead. He stretched in the pilot’s seat. “Reading this, it looks like the former probably needs some investigation,
and the latter some experience.”

  “Whatever,” said the ship.

  “Touch down,” said the Magus. “That clearing looks nice.”

  * * *

  The dust settled, while the Magus searched about at the back of the cockpit for suitable landing and safari equipment. He finally disembarked with his version of a survival kit strapped round his waist: a string of ‘Drongo Drool’ prime can-conditioned ale, and a life-form detection meter. He pulled on a warm black cloak against the chill in the air, which was several degrees cooler than that of his purloined planet, and locked the ship carefully behind him. There were convenient piles of black dust lying around, so he used these to mark a trail back to the ship, and wandered into the woods, enjoying the fresh clean air tingling in his nostrils.

  “Assuming the craft was pre-set,” he mused, “what possible interest could the Skagans be to OrcommNE? Oh, this looks exciting. A strong ‘alien-activity’ reading in that direction. I wonder if it’s an orgy. Hope so, I’d like to try one... whatever that is.”

  He forced his way so far through the bushes, and stopped, listening to the clash of metal upon metal, and occasionally, bone. “I think I may have to revise my interpretation of the meter reading. It sounds more like a battle.”

  He peered out into a clearing, and he recoiled as he saw two people fighting for their lives against an overwhelming number of Smorgs. “Using swords? Are these people that primitive? Hang on, don’t I know those blades? Of course, antique Superstabs, exactly like the pair I had hanging over my mantelpiece before JWSU came and bent my planet. Why aren’t they using them properly?” He grinned. “The fools, they still have the safety catches set to ‘defend only’ mode. What use is that, when their lives depend on it? Right, let’s see if my telekinesis will work on those catches... Easy. That should do the trick. Now to watch the fun.”

  The battle was finished in seconds, as the swords worked as designed.

  “My good deed for the day.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now what about that girl? Wow, gorgeous, horny tart! I do believe my quest is over. She’s exactly the person I have been searching for, all these years. I hope she doesn’t smoke, drinks pints, and can do cryptic crosswords. I'll give them a couple of minutes to settle down, and then go and introduce myself.”

  He beat the black dust off his cape, and checked his appearance in a small mirror, another part of his survival kit. “Right then, time to say hello, explain how I saved them, earn the girl’s eternal gratitude, and submit reluctantly to her feminine wiles… bugger.”

  The object of his affection had collapsed, sobbing, into the man’s arms. The Magus shrugged. “Poo. I suppose I’d better leave them to it. I really can’t stand weepy women. Whatever, I’ll record the girl’s bio-patterns18, so that I can keep tabs on her, and perhaps catch up next time she’s single, which won’t be very long, looking at that dork she’s with.” He thought to himself as he wandered back into the forest. “Strange, the manual said nothing about Smorgs this far into Skagan territory, but then who knows how long it had been in the fridge?”

  He strolled aimlessly around the area, scanning for other signs of life, but found nothing. The sun and the beer were going down quickly, so he returned to the ship. “Perhaps time for a few more ales before bedtime. What a boring planet. We will leave tomorrow.” He closed the hatch, kicked the entertainment unit into ‘audio only’, and lapsed back into an alcohol and prog-rock induced insensibility.

  * * *

  The following morning, the Magus's head ached, and the music had stopped. “That’s not right. My brain shouldn't hurt. What’s wrong with the automatic recovery unit? Surely they fitted one of those?” He groped his way over to the control panel, and thumped a key marked ‘Self-Test’.

  The phrase, “No power–on your bike,” lit up briefly, and then faded.

  “I don’t like this one bit. I don’t think they fitted a bike. Let me check the other systems. Oh dear, the navigation… oh shit, the weapons… oh fuck, the fridge—the ale will be warm. What about the main engines?”

  “Massive power drain,” came the response. “Please check that you have remembered to switch off the headlights.”

  “Power drain? No way. Where has it all gone?” He groped through his hangover to the first-aid cabinet, and rummaged blindly through its contents until he found a can of hangover cure. On the packet it said, ‘Guaranteed to repair any alcohol-induced space-sickness or your stomach back.’

  “That’s exactly what I need.” He had swallowed the whole tin before he bothered to focus on the instructions.

  ‘Alchy-Salsa,’ it said. ‘One teaspoonful to be taken in cold water. Do not exceed stated dose.’ He burped loudly, felt better, and then keeled over, face-down on the console.

  * * *

  After a blackout lasting an unspecified time, the Magus awoke feeling sober and fit. He checked the instruments again. Now that his head was a little clearer, he was able to deduce that the cause of the power drain was external to the ship. In fact, as he read the manual about Skagos more thoroughly, he saw that this happened to all powered machines here, and was the reason why they still used primitive weapons. The brochure observed that this was one of the attractions of the place as a holiday destination, a return to basics, and the non-operation of any hand-held communications device your children might be addicted to. The advice was that all visitors should disembark as quickly as possible and then send their ships into orbit for the duration of their stay. “Failure to do so,” it informed him, “could result in you becoming stranded, and the beer running out; this is one of the few planets that is unable to brew palatable alcoholic beverages.”

  “Phoist!” said the Magus, “I wonder when a rescue ship is due.” His timetable indicated the next scheduled arrival was a mail-order transport, a considerable time in the future, and a long way off. With a shrug—“these things happen,”—he clambered out of the cockpit. “I might go and look for a shag then, seeing as I'm going to be here for a while. What about that lanky totty yesterday? Perhaps I can find her again.”

  The bio-tracer did not even attempt to turn itself on, so the Magus tossed it back into the ship, and attached a padlock to the entrance canopy. He shouldered a somewhat lighter load of warm ale, and chose a poorly-defined track through the forest into the gloom of the waning day.

  The path soon widened and seemed more regularly used. “It must go somewhere, perhaps to a village.” He brightened up. “I’m told the welcome to visitors is something special.”

  To pass the time as he walked, he tried a few MUPPETs and was pleased to find his own powers unaffected by the planet. He traversed lengths of the path in an instant. “Something good had to happen eventually,” he muttered. “Things can only get better from here. Find a village and then hopefully some knobbing.”

  Several more experimental teleports took him along the track to the edge of the forest, and he squinted at a vast tract of scrub, sloping gently downwards to a wide river. The movement of a band of Smorgs in the distance caught his attention. With his bird-spotting binoculars, he could see a group of taller blond-haired people with them. These were being shoved along by the Smorgs. With a start, he noticed in amongst the Skagan group was the golden haired girl from the previous day.

  He was about to follow, to see if there was anything he could do as far as an introduction, when a crunching, muttering sound behind him made him shrink behind a large tree. He peered through the foliage, as a tall Skagan appeared and ventured cautiously into the open.

  The man was muttering to himself, agitatedly. From the soliloquy, the Magus was quickly able to piece together the story of the attack on the village, and Vac’s intended rescue attempt. “Good for you,” he breathed. “I’ll sit here and wait for you to come back with the girl, and then take her off your hands. I don’t know if I can MUPPET with two, but for her it’ll be worth a try... Oh, what’s the matter with him now?”

  The Skagan seemed to wave
r, and looked as though he was going to turn back. “But he has to be the right man for the job. He looks tough. If he isn’t, then it will be him getting killed, which will hurt me much less than if it’s me. I’ll give him a shove in the right direction.”

  The Magus used simple levitation to float into the air. He humped his cloak over his head to add to the effect, and told the warrior how things should be. There was a brief panic when he had to rapidly teleport out of the way, to avoid an unprovoked attack, and then he sat high up in the tree, as the warrior hacked randomly at the undergrowth, searching for him.

  “Good man,” muttered the Magus, as Vac gave up the search. He teleported behind the man, gave his a powerful shove, and then teleported back up into the tree. “Off you go.”

  He watched with satisfaction as Vac charged away down the hill after his quarry, and then with dismay as he saw the Smorgs were starting to cross the river. “Shame, he isn’t going to get anyone back, is he? I should try somewhere else, but where to, now? Perhaps if I can locate and deactivate that power drain… However, which way, which way? A pity the instruments in the ship are not working... I know, I’ll use scientific reasoning.” He determined an accurate direction to travel by throwing a stick into the air and then took the direction it pointed as it landed. After untangling himself from a wild rose bush, he chose the obvious path instead.

  Several hours of strolling solitude later, the Magus rested on a stone in the centre of an intersection, to think and drink. He sat for a long while, until he was surprised to see someone emerge from the path to his left, who looked more miserable than he was. The man was like a Skagan, only with dark hair. He did seem familiar, though. The man halted, raised his eyes apathetically, glared at the Magus, and then threw himself down on the track beside the stone. “Watch it,” said the Magus, “someone’s lying there.”