Red Herring

by Damon L. Wakes

  “Is it not obvious? Our hats should be #E9967A.”

  Everyone stared blankly. “Pardon,” said the chairman. “These numbers...”

  The robo-deacon let out an electro-sigh. “They represent a colour. It is like ‘salmon pink,’ but it is much better than salmon pink. It is a Godly colour.”

  There was a pause.

  “Ah would not considere salmon to be a Godly coloure per se, but...let’s mark down zat suggestion.”

  “ANNOYANCE LEVEL AMBER!”

  “What about sky blue?” put in the Archbishop of Gamma Hosea IX. “The same colour as Heaven.”

  “On Habakkuk,” explained the lizard-priest of that planet, “the sky is mauve.”

  “Genesis tells of how God sent a rainbow after the Flood. Can we use more than one colour?”

  “Ehhh...” the chairman wobbled a hand in the air. “We are not made of money.”

  “Ahem.”

  “Ah, mea culpa. The coin-cardinal of Baruch is. But we cannot spend him! Non?”

  “ANNOYANCE LEVEL ORANGE!”

  “Perhaps a nice beige?” suggested a vicar from a quaint little space station orbiting Jonah.

  “You show absolutely no awareness of human aesthetic ideals. Have you considered converting to Mechanised Catholicism? The Gigapope of Ezra recently began allowing non-robots into the Church.”

  “I hear it’s still a bit of a cause célèbre.”

  “Yes. Personally, I disapprove. Human minds are governed by emotion. Emotion clouds logic. Logic is the language of God. Your species’ capacity for emotion makes me very angry.”

  “Wait. How does that even...”

  “ANNOYANCE LEVEL RED!” The robo-deacon began to shake violently.

  “Dios mio!” exclaimed the representative from Sirach V. “He’s gone loco!”

  “Blasphemy!” The robo-deacon’s arms began to flail wildly. “ANNOYANCE LEVEL PERIWINKLE! CRUSH! KILL! DESTROY!”

  “Does anybody mind if I turn this off?”

  “No,” came the chorus from the room.

  “BOOOooooooop” went the robo-deacon, slumping over the table.

  “And I’d advise the chairman to make him a persona non grata. If this keeps up we’ll never get anything done.”

  “Ah do not think ah can do zat. A robot is not a person of any sort, so...he will still be at ze next meeting.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

  There was a pause, during which the vicar from Jonah picked up and rearranged his spilled papers.

  “Bien. Now zat is sorted, back to the hats. What do you sink about eggshell?”

  “I’d question the wisdom of that choice: shows up dirt. Umber?”

  “Umber’s nice.”

  “I could go for that!”

  “It’s a nice, humble colour. A good choice for our faith.”

  “I’m allergic.”

  This revelation sucked all the momentum out of the discussion.

  “Sacrebleu...” The chairman pinched his nose. “Come on! Zis should not be so ‘ard! We need a hat coloure to represent the Intergalactic Assimilated Church.”

  There were no suggestions.

  “‘Ow about yellow?”

  “Or good old black? The same colour as the oil that robot’s leaking onto the carpet.”

  “Can somebody call the concierge?”

  “Can we please just pick a coloure! Zis is not ze olden days and we are not ze caveman Romans! We should be past all zese petty squabbles. And zis committe of judges is supposed to be ze best in ze universe! If you do not come up with somezing in ze next ten seconds, I will ‘ave you all wearing fuchsia!”

  There was a pause.

  “Is that anything like salmon pink?”

  The chairman sighed. “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.”

  13

  The Marvellous Misadventures of Diabolical Doctor Baby

  “I remember the days when the world trembled at the very mention of the name ‘Doctor Baby.’ Now...I don’t know what the world thinks. It’s all hacking and cyber-terrorism.” He curled a gloved hand dramatically in front of him. “There’s just no place for the traditional supervillain any more! No place...for Doctor Baby...”

  Goon waited patiently. Though Doctor Baby was simply standing, staring into the middle distance, Goon had known the Doctor for long enough to recognise one of his uniquely lengthy dramatic pauses.

  “...no place, at least,” Doctor Baby continued, inevitably, “as a supervillain. Goon!” he turned. “We are going straight.”

  “Durr, really, Boss? You sure you want to do that?” This had not been what Goon had expected to hear. He scratched at his balding head with one great, gorilla-like finger.

  “Yes.” Doctor Baby pressed a hand against the glass case of his infamous cute ray, staring mournfully in past his own reflection. “I have never been one to quail before adversity. And as times change...so must I. I will become...”

  Goon took this opportunity to go and get himself a cup of coffee. He stopped to chat with Trisha, the Assistant Henchman Coordinator, on the way back. She had kindly asked if he’d like a bear claw to go with his coffee, but “Nuh-uh, Miss,” he’d said. “I’m vegetarian.” He got back to the boss’s office just in time to hear him finish his sentence.

  “...an entrepreneur!”

  Doctor Baby regarded Goon coolly. Goon had assisted his endeavours back before Captain Caulk had become his nemesis. Back before The Astounding Welt had even set pink, lumpy foot within the superhero scene. Goon had been the first, and—through loyalty and dedication more than actual aptitude—he had earned his place as the right hand of the diabolical Doctor Baby.

  “So, uh....if you’re becoming an entreprener, what are you going to entrepren?”

  “A prudent question.” Doctor Baby clasped his hands behind his back. “And one that, as a criminal mastermind, I have already considered. First and foremost in my considerations was the matter of my name, and the reputation that comes with it. Naturally I’d like to capitalise on my existing association with babies and miscellaneous episodes of baby-themed mayhem. It is my belief that this strong public image should serve quite well as corporate branding. Granted, the populace currently associates me mostly with atomic rattles and rusk grenades, but I think in time—thanks partly to my reduced media presence of late—focus might be shifted towards more benign goals.”

  “You could turn this super-lair into a nursery.”

  “‘Doctor Baby’s Day Care’? Good grief, Goon. Nobody would take me seriously! No, I feel it would be more dignified if the Doctor Baby name were to provide a product to parents, rather than a service to their sticky little offspring.”

  “So, uhh...what sort of product, Boss?”

  Doctor Baby paused to stare out through the vast window of his office, though Goon was positive he would have already given this due consideration. He was a criminal mastermind, after all.

  “Re-tool the gigglesplosives factory for baby powder, and...I believe the peekaboo serum plant could produce baby oil in a pinch. The public will not trust me immediately—I harbour no false hopes—but these commodities are innocuous enough that they should come around. See if you can’t get hold of that reporter, Clint Cark: the one who looks a bit like Captain Caulk, but with glasses. He always seems to take an interest in my affairs. Might be willing to run an article: ‘Supervillain Loses Edge: Finds Heart.’ Something sappy like that.” He glanced dejectedly at the cute ray once more.

  “Will do, Boss.” Goon was the toughest henchman there was, but even he couldn’t help but be saddened by the thought that, with Doctor Baby’s retirement (of sorts), the golden age of the supervillain was coming to an end.

  ***

  Doctor Baby was pleased to discover that it took less than a week to modify his production facilities for their new roles. Pleased, and a little saddened. It shouldn’t be so easy to tear down an empire.

  “Do you have the samples, Goon?”

  “Right here, Boss.”
Goon held out the tub of powder. They didn’t have proper packaging yet. The PR department was still trying to convert Doctor Baby’s logo into something still recognisable, but less threatening.

  “Hmm...” Doctor Baby rubbed some of the powder between his fingers. “Yes, very astringent...quite an unusual aroma, though. And the oil?”

  Goon passed the little screw-cap bottle. Doctor Baby brushed the powder off his fingers and onto his super-suit before tipping a little of the baby oil onto his palm. He rubbed it between his hands. “Oh, my! Yes, I can see there being a market for this. It’s exceptionally light! But we must find a better perfume to scent it with. As it is, the smell is almost unpleasant. Where did you source the ingredients?”

  “Well, Boss. It certainly wasn’t easy getting all those babies at such short notice!”

  Doctor Baby stopped rubbing his hands. “Goon. Do tell me you understand that baby oil is for babies. Not made of babies.”

  “Is it, Boss?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re...you’re sure it can’t be both?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear.”

  There was a pause, but not one of Doctor Baby’s famous dramatic pauses. It was really more of an awkward pause.

  “And the baby powder?”

  “A, er, by-product of the oil, Boss.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s...economical, at least.”

  Another pause. It was distinctly awkward this time.

  “Should I shut down the factories?” asked Goon.

  “Ummm...” Doctor Baby rubbed the oil between his hands once more. It really was exceptionally light. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so. In fact...find more babies. And make sure the pram-mobile has a full tank tonight.”

  “Yes, Boss.” Goon saluted and hurried smartly out of the room. He was the toughest henchman there was, but even he couldn’t help a little smile: perhaps the golden age of supervillains wasn’t over just yet.

  14

  Heads or Tails

  “Ow!” yelped Joe. “Static shock!”

  “Oh yeah,” said Betty. “It’s this new jumper. Always funny when that happens.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do feel kind of funny.” Joe rubbed his head, staring at the pile of pennies in the centre of the poker table. “Wait...I...I see something.”

  “What is it?” asked Fred.

  “That coin!” he said. “That one, right there! I...know...what it says on the bottom. I know, even though I can’t see it.”

  “What?” asked Betty.

  “It’s...it’s a picture of the Queen. A picture...in profile!”

  “Joe?” Betty spoke quietly. “You’re sort of freaking me out.”

  “Yeah,” said Fred. “They’re all like that.”

  Joe ignored him. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he turned over the 2p piece. “It is! See? It is!”

  “Oh my God.” Betty stood up suddenly, knocking over her bottle of WKD in the process. “He’s right! He’s right, Fred! He’s right!”

  “And...and this one!” Joe pointed. “This one has...the same picture!”

  “Yeah,” said Fred. “Of course. They all do. If the head’s not on the top, it’s on the bottom. That’s why it’s called ‘Heads or Tails.’”

  Joe turned the coin over. Sure enough, there was the Queen’s head underneath.

  Betty pressed her fingers over her mouth. “But he knows, Fred! He knows without looking!”

  “Of course he does!” Fred slapped a hand to his forehead. “They’re all like that! Do I have to draw you a diagram?”

  “I’m...getting something new.” Joe turned his attention elsewhere. “This coin...this one was minted in 1992.”

  “That’s amazing!” screamed Betty.

  “It’s not! Look!” Fred pointed. “It says so right there. I can see it too. What’s wrong with you people?”

  “Don’t worry. People always doubt things they don’t understand.” Betty placed a hand gently on Joe’s shoulder.

  “Ow!” Joe flinched as Betty’s jumper zapped him again.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Joe stared at the pile of pennies. “It’s gone,” he said after a moment. “My gift is gone. Or...was it a curse?”

  “That’s it.” Fred stood and pulled on his coat. “I’m finding new friends.”

  15

  The Naming Day

  Challenge #7: Write a story of exactly 999 words. The word "nine" must appear somewhere in the piece.

  Long, long ago in a time none now remember, there was a city, ringed round by walls of stone. Ringed well, for in those days hideous creatures stalked the land, and bandits lurked on every road. But such troubles were not thought of much in that safe city. Particularly not with two fine princes born to its kind king, and a holiday announced for all, for this was the wondrous naming day.

  Though the great hall of that grand city was vast indeed, still only those dearest to the royal family could sit inside, for they were well-liked by all and had so many friends that not even half could fit within those walls. Not only the fine garden just outside, but also the street, and the adjoining roads were packed with guests, all hoping to glimpse just one small part of that day’s joy.

  But when the seer approached the throne and spoke, it became clear that this naming day would not be like the others.

  “This child is Envy,” said he, “and this one Pride. Ruin shall snap always at their heels, and each shall be the downfall of the other.”

  All were silent for a moment. Then, the king stood.

  “How dare you.” His voice grew to a roar. “How dare you, wretch! What sort of names are these, for the heirs to my throne?”

  The seer bowed. “These are the names the gods have given. No more can I say.”

  “And no more should you!” The king unsheathed his sword—ceremonial, and not meant for war—and pointed it at the aged seer. “Take back your words or face my ire!”

  The seer looked him in the eye. “Better your ire than that of the gods, if I should fail to speak what they say.”

  The spectators held their breath. Though the seer’s position was, in modern times, mostly ceremonial, to question him was unheard of, though here he had clearly overstepped his power.

  “Guards.” The king sheathed his sword once more. “See this man is banished from the kingdom. There are doubtless others—more humble—who can serve in his place.”

  The king spoke calmly, confident that he had seen the seer’s true ambitions that day. But in the darkness of night and the fog of memory, his words seemed different. This seer had served well for more than half the king’s reign, and had shown great conviction to face exile for his words—a punishment that in those days meant almost certain death.

  The more the king thought on the seer’s strange words, the more he felt he’d made a grave mistake. For nine generations, the seers had been trusted to warn of sudden danger—things no other man could see—and countless tales told of how the city had thus been saved. The city had a long, rich history, and the king was terrified to think that he might be the one to see it end, even for the sake of his two sons.

  So, without a word to his wife, the king slipped out of bed and down the stairs, to the place where his most trusted servant slept. Leaving himself no time to let fear have him think again, he ordered that the princes be taken far away, and left—with great secrecy—in the care of some lowly shepherd beyond the kingdom’s borders. Two orphaned little boys, he said, could take their place, and he would love and raise them as his own.

  But though the servant was too loyal to question, or even speak a word to anyone else, there was one other who heard this decree first hand. For the queen herself had been awake, fearful of the seer’s words, and had followed her husband to his servant’s chamber. Noiselessly, she fled back up to their tower and gently took the princes from where they lay, carrying them in a plain basket packed with clothes. The land beyond the kingdom was dangerous indeed but, beyond the
risk of wild beasts, the king could not be trusted. With the seer’s words still stinging in his ears, who could say that he would not send soldiers out to that poor shepherd’s house, to put a more certain end to the princes’ threat?

  For this reason, the queen fled from the palace. But though she ran bravely through the streets, the king saw what she had done too soon, and just before she reached the city walls, she began to hear the hooves of the king’s guard behind her. But the queen knew her city well, and so she turned down a narrow path—little more than a gap between buildings—towards the river. On foot, she knew she could never escape the horses, but the current was swift and there were always boats moored along the water’s edge.

  But alas, the king’s guard followed close behind, and came upon her just as she managed to unfasten the knot that held the boat. It was their haste to see her safe, in the end, that was her undoing, for one guardsman steered his horse too carelessly, and it tumbled down the bank and into the water, sending queen and princes and rider into the river, all swept away by the current.

  The king, when he heard this news, was utterly consumed by grief, and for several weeks would not leave his chamber, cursing both himself and the seer who had set these things in motion. But even when he emerged, he was not the leader he had been before, and the people had no faith in him. It would be fifteen years before the kingdom fell. Its walls already tumbling to the ground, a tribe of barbarians found it easy prey, and though the new seer had warning of this from the gods, he dared not tell the king of what he’d heard.

  Thus came ruin to the city old,

  For gods will have their way, when all is told.

  16

  The Ritual

  For three moons, no rain had fallen. The grass had yellowed, died, and blown away beneath the sun’s fierce heat, and the earth had split, the cracks between the shattered pieces wide enough to trap a goat’s foot. The tribe did not turn to magic lightly, but this time the choice was clear: something must be done.

  With great ceremony, Akana stepped inside the grave-hut, the air sweltering even in the shade. Surely even the ancestors, their bones secure in sacred urns, must feel this heat? And so Akana was confident when he came to speak.