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GRAND SCHEMES ON QINSATORIX
by Thomas Hoskyns Leonard
To Nikolai Romanski
© Thomas Hoskyns Leonard February 2012
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CHAPTER 1: SWEET DREAMS
The history of the past evolves, via the history of the present, into the history of
the future. It is the responsibility of every member of humankind to contribute to this
process in some tangible way, so that the alpha may be enhanced by the omega.
Susan Lindsay often dreamt about travelling to the stars, and now, in June 2394, she
had been appointed to an assistant professorship at the University of the Sunrise on
Qinsatorix, an Earth-like planet in the Aton solar system. To cap that, her kid brother
Kevin would be working as a junior scientist in the same department, having recently
completed his Masters. While Susan, who was by no means even a gamma-girl,
thought that the stars were about to become her oyster, she was unsure whether they
would be flipping into a parallel universe or travelling to the back of beyond. Indeed,
the elf-like Astronomer Imperial, perhaps the brightest alpha-diva in London and the
leader of the highly-intellectual Wizard’s Circle, regarded the whereabouts of the
sister planet as beyond human comprehension.
Susan was somewhat concerned by the brutal recent history of Qinsatorix. The
hi-tech Icarians, who were the traditional inhabitants, had been invaded by the
Apollos in 2285.The conquerors were a colourful mixed bag of silver-horned
humanoids who maintained their own civilisation on the planet’s Inner Moon. As the
Apollos did not have the nous to design battlecruisers, they descended in a fleet of
hired cargo transporters and exterminated vast swathes of the planet’s population with
poisonous gases. After commandeering the Icarians’ micro-analysis and
communications systems, they ravaged their rich agricultural and mineral resources,
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and ground the runt of their once-thriving society into the dust.
Susan was astonished that the repressive British had contrived to rule Qinsatorix
even though they did not know where it was. One of their armoured divisions invaded
the planet in 2353 after twelve cubic-headed Rottspsychers surfaced from under St.
Paul’s Cathedral with eight hedgehog-like superhighway devices known as ‘cosmosurfers’. The Rottpsychers’ primary motive was to regain control of the purse strings
on Qinsatorix that they so disastrously lost to the Apollos in 2285. Nobody knew how
their surfers actually worked, but humans had been teleporting to and fro ever since.
After the invasion from Earth, the Apollos were removed from the pinnacles of
power, many were encouraged into middle management, and they were no longer
permitted to trade on the Stock Exchange. Moreover, until the Emancipation Act of
2376, their females were forced into hard labour in the factories and gin distilleries,
and the more precocious of their children were brain-frazzled and foot-flogged into
conformity in the uranium mines. As Susan had contrived to pass a course in postcolonial theory, she regarded these measures as all too predictable. Indeed, she
thought that the Apollos had been let off too lightly.
Susan had just graduated with a Ph.D. in Informatic Investigation (I.I.), an
invasive discipline that, like Statistics and Pernicious Intelligence, infiltrated most
subject areas. Her alma mater, the University of Atalanta, was world-renowned with a
beautiful campus overlooking the southern shores of Lyonnesse; this much-fabled
landmass had risen again out of the sea in 2153 between Land’s End and the Scilly
Isles, when a giant tsunami immersed Normandy after a meteor hit the Azores.
Although slightly abrasive, Susan was regarded by many as attractive in her own
special way. By no means athletic, she was quite overweight, having lost the pretty
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looks of her childhood during the overindulgence of her teens. She imagined
that, should she ever manage to slim down, she might become as beautiful as her
natural mother, whose locket she guarded on a gilt chain around her neck. As it was,
she allowed her dark blonde hair to grow long and scruffy in the hope of concealing
her chubby and rather pimply face.
Susan’s sweet dreams were occasionally disturbed by nightmares. And how
terrifying this one was! The horrors of high school. The crushed snails in her pockets.
The mouldy food left in her desk for the mice. Rejection followed by rejection and
still more rejection. The stroppy PE mistress who pulled her legs in the air and forced
her to do forward rolls over the gym horse. Her dazzling failures on the sports field.
The teasing and bullying as she got fatter and fatter. And that cow with the sharp
scissors.
“I’ll scratch your eyes out, you dozy bitch,” yelled Susan, as she squirmed
around on her leaky waterbed.
“Wakey wakey, Miss Susie,” said a gentle, masculine voice.
Susan opened her eyes in alarm, but it was only Tujay, the golden-skinned slave
boy, who was venturing gingerly in with a plate of kipper and mash, and a beaker of
well-brewed coffee. He had been purchased by Susan’s adoptive mother, several
months previously, after surfacing from the ancient interplanetary teleportation
terminal under Atalanta Bay with very little flesh on his bones.
“Stuff me feckin senseless,” said Susan, wiping the sweat from her brow.
“No chance, Miss Susie,” said Tujay. “You’d jump with joy.”
Susan fantasized about forty-nine, and sighed.
“Put that codswallop on my lap, Tujay,” she said, “and come here and tickle my
clits.”
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As a member of the Kneppo tribe who’d once rowed their warships through
his planet’s archipelagos, Tujay was darker than most of his fellow Icarians and much
loved by the hens. His species rarely wore clothes, since they were thick-skinned
enough to scarcely feel the cold. However, the clean-limbed youth was a fan of
Plymouth Argyle and wore their green team shorts to protect his modesty.
Given the opportunity, Tujay usually leapt onto Susan’s bed like a panther, and
that morning was no exception.
“Can I have one of your chocolate rabbits, Miss Susie?” he asked, as he landed
in a heap.
I’ve only got twelve left, pondered Susan, and I want to buy a silky bra before I
visit the sweet shop again.
“I suppose so, you little sneak,” she said, “but don’t you dare snatch the one
with the sugary tail.”
“May I ask you something serious?” asked Tujay, as he devoured a bunny girl
with engaging ears.
Susan spiced her mash with a sprinkling of pepperoni. Perhaps he wants to
moan and groan about the fate of the rest of his crew, she wondered, with a grimace.
“That depends what, poopy puppy dog,” she replied, rubbing the slave’s
muscular thighs as far as she dared to reach.
“In last night’s Western Evening News, the heathens suggested that the Icarian
exiles in Lyonnesse should be more harshly controlled. How could they do that to
us?”
“It sounds eminently reasonable to me. Extract the juice, as Pericles once said.”
“But they want to intimidate us with muzzles, leg irons and meat hooks. Why’re
they doing this to us, particularly when we’re so endearing?”
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Susan recalled a recent lecture by a bandy-legged Professor of Political
Manipulation, which had substantially broadened her horizons.
“That’s how the whole feckin world works, Tujay,” she said, trying not to sound
patronising. “Our ruling classes get their rocks off putting down the plebs, the
pernicious peasants and the grovelling underlings. But the supercilious cunts regard
themselves as above the law.”
“How ridiculous! My ancestors sent their arrogant snooties to the Archipelago
of the Termites and made them burrow like moles for toxic crassium oxide.”
“All shit to them! But it’s largely a question of hard cash, Tujay. Our everexpanding empire exploits Icarians, Argo-Bolivians, Queenslanders and so on, while
the money-boys line their pockets.”
Tujay gave Susan a piercing look and for a brief moment seemed to turn into an
eagle, rather like the queer boy she had once bumped into in the Brazen Lights.
“The fools should take best advantage of our talents instead of abusing us so
much,” he exclaimed, throwing a punch at the pink-spotted lampshade.
“Unfortunately, the mean fuckers are too pea-brained for that idea to even enter
their tiny minds.”
“Those philistines should treat us with more respect!”
“The precedents are endless, Tujay,” said Susan, assuming the airs and graces of
the academic she was. “Throughout human history, cultured populations have been
treated like vermin by their conquerors; for example, the Spartans put down their
slave tribes, and the Spaniards put paid to their Moors, scorched the Aztecs, killed off
the god-like Incans who’d populated Peru since antiquity, and melted down all the
treasures.”
“How sad, and I’ve heard that the dandy doodles were even worse than you
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blimey limeys.”
Susan recalled the recent crushing British victories at Detroit, New Orleans and
Chesapeake Bay, and the ceremonial shredding of the Stars and Stripes at Fort Henry.
“We’re finally giving those creepy cowhands a dose of their own medicine,” she
said. “Mummy is thinking of purchasing a cheesy farm girl with a big arse from
Wisconsin to keep Daddy in check, or maybe even a slapper with sharp claws from
Fire Island.”
Tujay frowned, and glared contemptuously through the window as a geneticallycontrived giant sparrowhawk dived onto the lawn and dissected a rabbit-sized mouse.
“But I took such massive risks before I teleported here, since I was expecting a
far-better life,” he said. “I’d have been skinned alive if the Apollo Lizard guards had
caught me escaping across the eastern deserts.”
“You’re no more unlucky than most of your people,” said Susan. “Many exiles
were sold to our wealthy S and M bleeders and got ripped apart.”
“The poor wretches! But at least some of us were given our freedom.”
“Only a few hundred. They’re permitted to live in a special enclave in Atalanta
where we study your culture and history as academic subjects. Their library and
museum provide wonderful resources for my research.”
“And what have they done to the Icarians who remain on my planet?”
Susan tweaked Tujay’s toes and massaged his shoulder blades as she drifted into
her meditative state. She was startled back into full consciousness when Tujay craftily
licked her neck.
“You naughty slave!” she exclaimed. “Kiss my tits!”
“Don’t be silly, Miss Susie,” said Tujay. “They taste like olive oil. Youch!”
“Yours taste like vinegar.”
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“Please don’t do that! I’m not your husband.”
“You poor little diddums,” said Susan, with a grin, before adding, with as much
kindness as she could muster. “But I’m afraid that there’s not much hope for your
compatriots on Qinsatorix. Indeed, their situation has become even worse. Most of
them are now either enslaved or confined to ring-fenced cities.”
“Why didn’t any of us revolt? We’re a proud people.”
Susan was well aware that, while she liked Tujay as a plaything, she was not as
yet sympathetic towards Icarians in general. She indeed recalled that thousands of
Icarians on Qinsatorix had recently been ground into mincemeat and recycled for
consumption by the Apollos, but that didn’t faze her too much.
“Please try one of these fudge lions, Tujay,” she said. “Aren’t they yummy?”
“You must tell me the truth, Miss Susie. Did many of us die?”
“Why do you have to be so frigging morbid?” replied Susan. “There was an
uprising in Jericho only quite recently, but it was put to the sword. While your royal
family and their hangers-on are still surviving in austerity on your Outer Moon,
there’s little chance of them improving their existences either.”
“Oh no! But I’ll find a way of achieving my freedom; I really will.”
“Perhaps it would be better to just behave like a slave and survive like a bimbo.”
“Never!”
“Our poorer workers accept their lot and maybe you should too. Noses to the
grindstone and knees in the shit, as they say.”
“But are your workers as downtrodden as us?”
“Not quite, though many of the rest of us get treated very badly too. Our
absolutely hideous emperor has recently appointed yet another fundamentalist
government in Westminster. Our underclasses are as undernourished as the troops.
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Even the middle class sick are neglected.”
Tujay massaged Susan’s thighs with Sexy Samantha’s Sensuous Spice and
poured warm sweet-smelling Delilah Oil into her tummy button.
“That’s despicable,” he said. “So do any of you get well treated?”
“Our over-nineties, long-term mentally ill, and surplus immigrants, I suppose,”
replied Susan. “They’re euthanized in style in our luxurious spas in Bath, Leamington
and Harrogate. The zombies give them free vodka, champagne, skinny dips and
optional flamenco dancing during their last few days. Before they get to descend the
hydrochloric water slides into the unknown, that is.”
“How imaginative. And what happens in your other countries?”
“They’re just as bad, and Sudanese Sotonia and the Republic of Arabia are off
the feckin wall.”
“They can’t be worse than here.”
“You’re so naive, you silly bumbly bumble. The stupid peasants in those places
get nitric acid and a hundred lashes for removing their socks or dancing in the streets,
and beheaded slowly from the front for performing in magic shows.”
“Wowee! Maybe I should knuckle under, for the moment at least. My planet
was named after a scientist who was as cunning as your Daedalus. I’ll try to be
cunning too.”
“Maybe Qinsatorix was super-intelligent. In the meantime, I’d throw away your
Zarrot cards if I were you, just in case somebody mistakes you for a frigging wizard.”
“One of your Carpathian wizards was a shape-shifter,” said Tujay, with a smirk.
“Maybe I’m one too.”
“Most of our spotty shape-changers are in God-damned Westminster,” said
Susan, with a yawn.
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Susan took a sip of coffee and contemplated the Icarian issue further. Perhaps we’d
treat aliens more kindly if we learnt to be nicer to one another, she mused. But how
can we do that, if we are also severely repressed by our rulers? I’d advocate
improving society on Qinsatorix by restoring the Icarians there to some of their
former glory, since they would then be likely to set a better standard for humans. In
the meantime, I mustn’t try to enslave any more of the poor souls for myself.
Susan glanced affectionately at Tujay as he snuggled into her chest. He
reminded her of the boy in blue shorts who’d given her a sneaky kiss during her first
day at primary school, after she’d run excitedly around the playground feeling as if
she’d emerged from the scary depths of the insides of her teddy bear. Her friendly
teachers there cosseted her until she was eleven and encouraged her to believe in
herself. But what were those insidious toddlers wearing red shoes all about? Their
whispers that she was a different sort of creature had always bothered her. She never
could understand what they meant or where they were coming from. Perhaps they
were images from Outer Space, or maybe just figments of her imagination.
When Susan commenced her studies for her Bachelors degree after her
humiliating experiences at high school, she was still clumsy, prone to socially
embarrassing gaffes and lacking in self-credibility. However, an amiable professor
from St. Andrews, with a penchant for misfits, took her under her wing and her
confidence improved somewhat from then on. Now twenty-three, Susan’s remaining
arrogance and aggression counterbalanced her continuing feelings of inadequacy. She
was still slightly socially inept and she’d only just been laid for the first time, by a
Cornish cable car driver with an inane grin. He chased her after she forgot to pay her
fare and they landed in an elderberry bush together. What a relief, she thought, even if
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he could have been mistaken for an overgrown pixie.
Susan’s letter of reference from the University of Atalanta stated: ‘She is
slightly immature to be considered for an academic position, though the juvenile
influences of her brother are doubtlessly responsible for this. While still rough at the
edges, she is, nevertheless, a hard-working and highly-talented researcher. Her Latin
is outstanding and she achieved top grades in intramural Statistics, Sociology and
Psychology. She will doubtlessly grow in personality and character as she gains more
experience of the ins-and-outs of academia.’
Susan and her kid brother Kevin were so close-knit that they frequently thought
in unison. Sandy-haired with a smattering of freckles and just over six feet tall, the
strapping twenty-one-year-old had a devil-may-care attitude. He’d seduced more than
a few young ladies while biking to Penzance and through the sleepy hollows of
Cornwall as far as the legendary Castle Terabil in Launceston. He performed as a
cross dresser in talent shows and his acrobatic routines were popular with the ladies.
An elderly doctor of fine arts once fainted at the sight of his muscular thighs and lace
lingerie.
Susan and Kevin were natural siblings, adopted just after Kevin’s birth. Apart
from the initials A.V.C. engraved on the back of the locket containing her mother’s
portrait, the only information she possessed about their real parents came from
whisperings that they may have fled to Qinsatorix after some serious scandal in
London. Susan always felt sad to have been abandoned by such a beautiful woman,
particularly as her adoptive parents were so dysfunctional. Kevin wished that he had
a more-congenial dad.
While Susan was nibbling her kipper, she wondered about the influences of
Kevin’s sugar daddy, a narrow-minded bureaucrat who treated him without care or
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emotion. Thank goodness, she thought, that her brother would be leaving Atalanta
with her, well away from that shady character and from their overwrought adoptive
mother and her ultra-perfectionist ex-military husband.
While his sister was disposing of the fish bones, Kevin entered stage left in his
slightly-torn zee-fronts. He was followed by their Japanese bobtail cat Trithagoras,
named after the lead singer of the Greek Triangles, who was tottering on his thin,
bony legs.
Kevin was a proud member of the local Grisella and Gawain sub-culture, which
was influenced by the nouveau-era facility of aura-scope xy-fy; the streams of quasiinformation influenced both his vocabulary and the way he expressed himself. Some
people found this endearing, though others did not. He spoke with an accent that
blended Cornish and Devonshire with a touch of the Scilly’s.
“Where’s my hug, my preconocious ones?” asked Kevin, flicking his eyelashes
like a rent boy. “Buenos dias, Tujay. I don’t want to miss out.”
“Keep your filthy hands off me,” said Tujay, with a mischievous grin.
“Stop wriggling like a conger eel then, you confounded hypocreep! I know what
you’ve been up to.”
“Have you packed your bags yet, prissy boy?” asked Susan, as Tujay’s eyes
gleamed like a tiger’s. “We’ve got a tumultuous day and we’ll be leaving first thing
tomorrow morning.”
“Not yet,” replied Kevin, “and I’m going to take Trithagoras to el veterino first,
to be put to death. It’s a good time for him to go anyway, as he’s getting old and sick.
Say ‘bye’ to your scatty cat!”
“Poor, poor Trithagoras,” said Susan, wiping away a tear. “I don’t know what
I’ll do with him. He’s almost as cuddly as Tujay. I do hope that I’ll find an endearing
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pet on Qinsatorix.”
“Perhaps I’ll fit you up with a two-headed python. Some of the more
sporkacious critters there are quite cute.”
“Could you possibly give my love and best wishes to my parents?” asked Tujay.
“They live in Petraeus.”
“If we can smash our way through the stone walls and barbed wire,” said Susan.
“That pit is supposed to be worse than confounded Bethlehem.”
Kevin playfully pulled Tujay’s ears while downing a mug of coffee, but when
he tugged the slave’s hair and tickled his ribs, Tujay aimed a kick at his chest and
grazed his chin.
“I’ll tag along this afternoon to say ‘auf wiedersplatzen’ to Prof. Neyman,” said
Kevin, changing the subject. “He’s such a kindly old fronklefurter and his peaches of
wisdom aren’t altogether deadbeat. I bet that he has a blonde twink on his knee this
time.”
Susan smirked and said, “The freshers all get their feckin legs split nowadays,
and the professors get weirder and frigging kinkier.”
The siblings caressed each other very fondly while debating the nefarious sexual
practices that started in the music and history departments of the American MidWest, though only an ancient professor of Saxon Art in Champagne knew quite when.
This was thought, by some, to be during the late twenty-third century when thirty
sports history students at UW Green Bay were cork-screwed simultaneously in the
showers in Vince Lombardi Hall. However, what the Michigan Wolverines had to do
to achieve a C in Orchestra during the wild and footloose 2150s was nobody’s
business.
“I’ve heard that the flutists were flossed up and forced to suck rosebud together,
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in tune with the trombone,” said Kevin, “while the buglers were superflagulated like
Iowa pig-swillers.”
“What a naff way to earn academic credit,” said Susan, “and it isn’t at all
obvious how much our own silly undergraduates’ grades are bumped up while they
are being put down.”
“My mate Frank says that everybody’s grades get inflated anyway during the
Departmental Scrutiny Committees’ general ratcheting processes,” said Kevin.
“Those smart-butts only get what they’re asking for. If one colourful story is to
be believed, a senior lecturer in divinity at Durham took six trainee priests from the
top during a party in her flat, while a kink-brained Fellow of Wadham College Oxford
put paid to two more in the kitchen.”
“What a tradition those bozos have.”
To Susan’s dismay, Kevin poured himself another coffee while reciting an old
limerick about a Warden of Wadham who approved the folkways of Sodom.
“Really Kevin,” said Susan. “You should read Shelley or Byron instead of that
sort of rubbish.”
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CHAPTER 2: THE EVE OF DEPARTURE
Who are the sane and who are the insane? And how do they intertwine?
That afternoon, Professor Isadore Neyman took time out to relax on his dark-blue
armchair, while a black girl in a frilly dress wriggled on his knee and chattered away
in French. Moderately good-looking and fast approaching late middle age, his long
hair flowed over his shoulders, his imperious nose was slightly hooked and he sported
an untidy, greying moustache. Born second generation Polish in South Kensington, he
received his degrees from the Universities of Königsberg and Free Heidelberg. After a
successful early career in Scientific Philosophy at the University of North Carolina,
he was known, and at times revered, as ‘The Seventh Eccentric of Roanoke’. He was
now the Dean of Informatic Investigation in Atalanta.
When Susan and Kevin left their house, their adoptive mother was chewing gum
on the granite-hewn doorstep and moping into space. The siblings descended
Divisidero to the Castro and skirted the edge of the campus, along the towering cliff
tops. As they approached the ornate Chinese-style I.I. building, Susan took the
opportunity to admire the picturesque Isle of Sarania in the middle of Atalanta Bay.
That’s near the underwater teleportation terminal, she mused, and the Icarians often
hide there when they surface.
Neyman’s secretary was from the nearby rustic village of St. Gumbo; her rosy
face was slightly disfigured by her petted lip. She was weaving a omit cardigan on her
dixie-frame when the siblings arrived but, doubtlessly knowing they had both recently
graduated, she showed them adequate-enough courtesy and ushered them into the
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Dean’s modest office; its oval windows offered scenic views of the bay, the Cleopatra
Lighthouse and the ocean beyond.
Neyman told the girl on his knee to come back later and said, rather tongue in
cheek, “I was just giving her a tutorial in Slavonic philology.”
“I’d like to teach her Druidic gymnastics,” said Kevin. “She’d go gawky-warky
performing the triple splits.”
“She’s good at them already. But let’s talk about Qinsatorix, guys. Perhaps I
could kick off by saying that your silver-horned colleagues in the City of Lanterns are
likely to follow our old traditions, while the human professors have acquired rather
too many American habits, mainly during sabbatical visits to the Ivy League and
California. It’s quite paradoxical really.”
“Do the humans there treat their students like naughty little jerks?” asked Kevin,
licking his lips.
I do wish that Kevin would be more deferential to his superiors, thought Susan,
and perhaps I should too.
“A touch more so than here,” replied Neyman, raising his eyebrows. “The
undergraduates often have to beg in the worst possible ways for their grades. One
esteemed academic even makes the girls lick the schmucko-oil off his feet, before
moving upwards.”
“Way to go, Supernova Goddess!” exclaimed Kevin, with a chuckle.
“What a cunt!” exclaimed Susan. “And that’s particularly alarming after the
recent scandals at Princeton and Harvard. A Professor of Econometrics made his
graduate students paint his seven-storey apartment block and another told his research
assistants to chauffeur his wife to and from Washington.”
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“Two unfortunates in Trivoli had to stand on one foot for three hours for a B,”
said Neyman, “and then some.”
Kevin frowned impatiently.
“This is getting over-superbly boring,” he said. “How are my pompopretentious
professors likely to torment me? I’ll be working half-time on an applied math project
and half-time in archaeology. I hope that I don’t have to kiss sweaty boobs or
whatever on that planet.”
“I don’t understand any of your trumped-up mathematics, you headstrong
rascal,” said Neyman, with a grimace, “but you’ll doubtlessly encounter the highflying archaeologist Dirk Charleston, who thinks that he’s the best thing to hit his
discipline since they discovered the treasures of Tutankhamen. The fool’s no oil
painting either, though he imagines that he’s still a radiant youth.”
“They all think like that,” said Kevin, sounding wise for once, “but what are his
greatest accomplishments?”
“I wouldn’t describe them as great. His early research amounted to appraisals of
the megalithic yard, a fanciful unit of measurement that was dreamt up by the
otherwise meticulous Scotsman Alexander Thom when he was trying to explain the
construction of prehistoric stone circles. In the final analysis, a useless hypothesis, if
ever there was one.”
“Has it been superseded by a superior theory?”asked Susan.
“Yes, and it’s really quite simple. The star trekkers of that era just paced out
their measurements with their feet.”
“Good for those jumbo dumbos, but how would you describe this mincing
Charleston chancer more generally?” asked Kevin.
“He’s as lazy as a snoozing aardvark, and over-dependent upon the work of his
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postgraduates and research assistants. Unfortunately, he’s not at all unique in these
days and times. Take, for example, that Artificial Intelligence crank at St. Rupert’s
who hit on his students, told them to train his robots to play football with eggs, and
then took the credit. And there’re many more reprehensible professors around. ”
“Why don’t they just throw these blood-suckers out on their God-damned
ears?” asked Susan.
“It’s all a question of grant money, my dear. If they’re attracting large overheads
for their institutions, then they can get away with virtually anything as long as they
don’t disgrace themselves in public. But if they do, then their corrupt administrations
get on their high horses and burn them.”
“What a flark for a lark,” said Kevin. “I’ll give them a wide berth.”
“No chance, and you’ll doubtlessly meet Desperate Dirk’s acolytes too. He
recently made them excavate the notorious Caves of Janek, the poor souls. To his
good fortune, a space cadet, who thinks that she’s telepathic, discovered an ancient
fossil of a modern human. But their claim that it’s over three-hundred-thousand-years
old is preposterous. It would imply that modern humans were on Qinsatorix long
before they lived on Earth.”
“Perhaps humans first arrived here at our local teleportation terminal,” said
Susan, “just like the recent Icarians.”
Neyman looked impressed; he wandered over to his mahogany bookcase, retrieved a
large, red, gold-embossed volume from the top shelf and scrutinized a couple of
pages, while Susan contemplated a roach that was scampering about the
floor and gobbling up a beetle. Upon his return, Neyman blethered for a while, but,
when Susan gave him a surly look, he refocused himself and explained that her
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insightful hypothesis was first suggested by Professor Juan Torres of the University
of Madrid. There was, Neyman said, a statue of a female Icarian in the Atalanta Bay
arrival terminal, with green symbols resembling a Greek alpha and omega on its
abdomen. Moreover, some Christian and Jewish scholars described the Creator God
Yahweh as ‘the alpha and the omega’, since he would exist from the beginning to the
end.
“It says something like that about Jesus in Revelations,” said Susan, recalling
her Sunday School classes at St. Jude’s, “though his juicy boyfriend St. John may
have dreamt it up in his warped old age along with that feckin barking dog.”
“Some fundamentalists make a big deal of it,” said Neyman, “because the
creation accounts in Genesis and earlier pre-Babylonian writings both claim that
we’re all made in God’s image, male and female alike. One nutter actually thinks that
Yahweh rode the first humans through the Atalanta terminal on four giant horses
during one of his periodic trips to Earth, accompanied by some sycophantic Icarians.”
Susan gave the professor a quizzical look.
“Don’t the ancient writings imply that God is a mixed-gender humanoid who
created humankind in his or her own image?” she asked.
“Don’t say that to the bible-thumpers, young lady.”
Kevin chortled at that.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if God was a trannie?” he said. “I’d be more inclined to
believe in him if he strutted his stuff on The Dusty Smithers Show.”
Susan relapsed into a polite silence, and Neyman poured her and Kevin
generously-filled glasses of cointreau. As she sipped her liqueur, Susan stared at the
awesome view of Isolde’s Rock and became lost in a fantasy about Tristan. But when
Kevin nudged her, she decided to change the subject.
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“The Icarians have teleported to Earth for the past two-or-three millennia, if not
for longer,” she said, “and to places as diverse as the Central Americas, Europe, the
Middle East and China. The teleport routes seem to have been created by indefinable
forces, way back in time.”
“Their society was influenced in a wide variety of ways by their knowledge
about us,” said Neyman. “Higher-class Icarians speak in rather prosaic old English.
Several of their lakes are dedicated to Egyptian pharaohs, many of their names are
Grecian or Romanesque, and they’re expert at fermenting tasty Native American and
Japanese wine.”
“How yummy,” said Susan, “and what frigging Gods do they worship?”
“You’ll be surprised to hear that they changed from a Zeus-like god to Nestorian
Christianity after visiting the Chinese city of Chang’an during the eighth century.
That’s why their ever-eternal Messiah occasionally manifests himself in physical
forms, sometimes even as a woman. Perhaps we’ll meet him disguised as a bull
during his Tenth Coming.”
“I hope that he doesn’t turn me into a bleeding goat.”
“You’re too kind for that. Now Susan, your Ph.D. thesis was largely based on
in-depth interviews of the golden qinsies in Atalanta. How do you propose to
continue your research when you take up your new appointment?”
“I’ll just dozy-mosey around. I am fascinated by many aspects of humanoid
sexuality though. I’d like to study all their reproductive organs in minute detail.”
Neyman smiled, and pondered for several seconds.
“My Apollo friend Sybil Greenleaf is teeming with bright ideas,” he said. “ I’ll
telewhiz your head of department. Perhaps he can persuade her to serve as your
guardian mentor.”
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Although Susan felt perturbed at the prospect of being advised by an alien
creature, she said, “Magic! Perceptive boffins are right up my street.”
When Susan started to somnulate, as was her want, the professor slumbered off
too and Kevin took the opportunity to peruse some of the Grecian art in his desk
drawer. However, Neyman moved into another gear when he opened his eyes.
“Now on to a particularly important topic, guys,” he said, grinning like a clown.
“My area of specialism. Insanity. There’s considerable debate, among those experts
who’re in the know, as to whether the larger prevalence among humans on Qinsatorix
of chronic and group insanity is caused by the higher amount of argon in the
atmosphere or by exposure to the challenging environments there.”
“What’s chronic insanity?” asked Kevin, looking dumb.
“Really, young man. I bet that you don’t even know what a grouped histogram
is.”
“Sure I do. It’s a collection of shrinks.”
“Just as I suspected! You’re as daft as a postgraduate of mine who ripped off my
work on subjective histogram smoothing, before moving on to the Office of Official
Statistics and flattening the national housing data.”
“I’m not daft. Or thick. I just have a super-superlative sense of hyperimagination.”
“Or something. As you must know already, long-term insanities include tripolar
and obsessive-compulsive disorders, multiple personalities and time disassociation. I
think that you should both read Craziness on Qinsatorix by a couple of my former
boy-scouts in order to protect yourself against the humans you meet. Here’s a
complimentary copy.”
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“I’m dead scared of creepy psychopaths,” said Susan, “particularly the psychotic
ones. Those barbarians are out of touch with reality.”
“And there are a few drama queens like that on the world stage,” said Kevin,
with a snigger.
“You should also be wary of the ‘mind trolls’,” said Neyman. “They can
be as dangerous as the goblins on Bodmin Moor.”
“They sound like the sort of freak that I’d find in the Hot Pants,” said Kevin, as
he thumbed through pictures of dozens of drugged-up mental patients.
“You might well do so, you crass fellow. I define a mind troll to be an
outwardly sane or mildly eccentric person who is nevertheless completely crazy
inside, sometimes in a general rather than a clinically diagnosable sense. They could,
for example, influence you in a series of apparently rational ways that, by a process
known as ‘mystification’, cause you to behave irrationally. Some of them are real
control freaks.”
“My mate Frank is like that,” said Kevin, with a disturbed look. “He sometimes
encourages me to act up like a deranged ostrich.”
Neyman chuckled slightly maliciously, and then spieled for several minutes
about a breed of econometricians known as ‘Omnesians’ who were mind trolls in an
academic sense. Omnesians adhered to the so-called ‘Hiram Rockefeller Rules of
Rationality’ which appear to justify monetary strategies but nevertheless invoke a
variety of crazy paradoxes that mislead both themselves and the investors.
When Neyman said that the Omnesians were a religious sort of Mafia, Susan
added that their strategies, which still kept the economists’ knickers in a twist,
blatantly ignored the a priori evidence collated by the Poles while interviewing their
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farm workers and the suburban French.
When Kevin said that the Hiram guy sounded goopy-loopy, Neyman explained
that Rockefeller was such a perfectionist that he usually checked his wife’s cooking
for salt content before spewing verbal diarrhoea over their dinner guests and
dismissing her soufflés as being too creative.
“Perhaps his strategies contributed to the last stock market collapse,” said Susan.
“The silly assumption of never-ending fixed percentage growth in a chaotically
behaving world economy didn’t help either,” said Neyman. “Anyroads, the authors of
Craziness on Qinsatorix think that at least 5% of humans there are mind trolls but that
the actual figure may be far higher. Any human you meet could be masking this
condition.”
“How would we be able to tell? People have masks within masks.”
Neyman gave Susan a strange look.
“Only if you can determine that their long-term behaviour is irrational,” he
replied. “In the short term, you’re at their mercy. So be careful with every human in
sight. Did you see that spider on the ceiling? They give me the creeps.”
“You’re as crazy as a demented beetleswinger yourself,” said Kevin, off the top
of his head. “Spiders drive the Frogs bananas.”
“I’m perfectly sane, you impertinent ignoramus,” said Neyman, with a
disapproving glare. “There are no araignées in my belfry or bats in my plafond.”
Susan decided to add insanity to her list of potential research topics, in the hope
of discovering what makes mind trolls tick. Upon recalling a recent talk by a radical
student activist with an egg-shaped head, she finally took the opportunity to say, “My
generation is less concerned with continuous revolution, Professor, than with what
structures to re-establish or create after the ongoing upheavals. Do you think that our
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studies on Qinsatorix will provide us with any answers to this question?”
“History has amply demonstrated, my child,” replied Neyman. “That our
upheavals are never ending, in the sense that violent revolution is always occurring in
several places on our planet. Those hoping for global harmony together with
cohesive trade are therefore invariably left with the tasks of putting together the
pieces of whatever institutional structures have been damaged and protecting the
remainder against terrorism and civil disorder. It would take an impossible level of
agreement and co-operation across our communities to create innovative social
structures when the world at large is so unstable.”
That professorial monologue left Susan feeling phased and Kevin looking most
perplexed.
As she and Kevin retraced their steps up Divisidero, Susan briefly contemplated the
things Isadore Neyman had just told them about the once-highly-cultured Icarians, the
crassness of religion, and potential problems on Qinsatorix with mystification and
group insanity. She realised that, despite their zany form of Christianity, the Icarians
were probably much saner than their British masters. Perhaps this could be used to
general advantage, she thought, or maybe the golden ones will find a way of taking
over when our leaders go as crazy as that Ugandan King of Scotland of yore.
That evening, the siblings finalised their travelling arrangements for the
following day. Susan took particular care when pre-booking a couple of emergency
packs, just in case they landed on an alien planet while teleporting through space. A
party of school teachers had once been diverted to the Constellation of the Deers only
to be trampled to death by a horde of charging minotaurs, and Susan didn’t relish a
repeat performance.
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Awhile later, the siblings drifted downstairs for a farewell dinner with their
adoptive parents, Susan was expecting a decent meal for once. But after Tujay’s
mistress had ruined the pollock, he served up burnt half-full pasties and undercooked
parsnips, washed down by sour claret from Trasko’s. Some sort of message, perhaps.
Not even grilled shark from the chippie, thought Susan, as she longed for a refreshing
glass of scrumpy.
After several minutes of strained conversation, Susan said, quite provocatively,
“I hope to discover our real parents on Qinsatorix. Perhaps my mother is as beautiful
as ever. That would make life infinitely more bearable for me.”
“A slut and a shyster,” said Susan’s adoptive father, as his wife clucked her lopsided teeth and scowled in agreement. “You’ll do well to keep clear of that
contentious pair. She’s for the trash can and he’s a twisted nutcase.”
Susan’s guardians had made similar aspersions on several previous occasions
and she’d always managed to keep her cool, but now she now felt like flipping her lid.
“I always believed my mother to be a wonderfully-loving person,” she said,
grasping the locket of her pendant for reassurance. “Far better than you feckin nutters,
I hope. How many times have you screwed around the block?”
“You ungrateful harridan!” roared her adoptive father. “I only have my share of
fun. My fair dues, indeed. I’m a much-decorated war hero, young lady. You should
feel privileged that people of our quality took you in. That witch whored around like a
bitch from Hell. We saved you from damnation.”
“You’ve got the quality of a midnight grave thief,” said Susan. “Why don’t you
pull your greasy thumb out and tell us the full story?”
“No chance. We only adopted you because we got twenty grand a year plus
expenses to look after you both until you were eighteen.”
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“And I thought that you were a bleeding philanderthropist,” said Kevin, most
despondently.
“That wasn’t much for putting up with a psychologically disturbed pain in the
neck and a delinquent pinko,” said his adoptive father. “If you hadn’t paid your way
out of your student grants after you left high school, we’d have thrown you both out
on your ears.”
Susan felt like puking her guts up and, when the homely Mrs. Lindsay picked
her nose and ate it, she almost did.
“And now it’s good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Mrs. Lindsay. “That’s
what I say.”
“Splunch you both sideways, you naffers,” exclaimed Kevin, as he retreated
furiously upstairs to read his book about the bullet trains of the South-West.
“Summertime on Qinsatorix, here we come,” said Susan, glaring angrily, “and
it’s goodbye to you cunts.”
After he’d finished reading about the Wadebridge to Padstow express, Kevin sat on
his unmade bed thinking badly about himself, not only because of how he’d been
insulted him over supper, but also due to his insecurities about his abilities. He, in
particular, wondered whether he’d be able to hold down his new job, as Masters
degrees in Scientific Inquiry were two-a-penny. With the exception of his twentylecture option on applied math, his unambitious mentors had focussed on teaching
him how to press buttons on hypercom tops, though they didn’t sink to the level of
Stretchford College, where the students got their buttons pressed for them, or Rapier
Tech, where essays and theses completed by previous postgraduates were left on a
shelf for recycling with the authors’ names ripped off. In short, he scarcely knew the
Leonard/ Grand Schemes on Qinsatorix p27/387
ABC of his postgraduate discipline, despite the exorbitantly high fees for his course.
Kevin would’ve preferred an outdoor life. Riding horses or saving children in
the surf, perhaps. He was also worried that on another planet he might be unable to
drink his favourite stout or eat beef stew or apple crumble dessert, and he agonized
about having to put up with hopless ale, or pizza after damned cheesy pizza.
He realised that he’d miss out on his favourite cow pie, with its succulent horns
sticking through the pastry. And what if they didn’t even sell Dandy comics on
Qinsatorix? However, his bête noire was watching the bullfights in St. Ives with his
adopted father. At least he’d avoid that.
While Kevin was worrying about losing out on Cyberman Quest, Susan
was dancing about her bedroom kicking the furniture in rage. When he heard her
banging, he wandered in, looking cute in his light green panther suit, just as she was
putting on her pink nightie.
“I saw you tom tom peeping last night, dear sister,” he said, giving her a Cornish
hug. “I knew when I was a flippin’ tad what you really wanted.”
“I’m sure that it’s just a childhood fantasy,” said Susan. “Perhaps we’re as wild
within our psyches as the multi-sexual Demons of Lundy.”
“I fancy wimmen,” said Kevin, “but the Viking goddess inside me sometimes
objects, in which case I feel the need to be cut right down to size by a butch hunk. I’m
perfectly straight, of course, though I do have lovely lady-like legs.”
“They look like a gorilla’s, dear brother.”
“No they don’t! But above all I love you and want you, and only you, Susan,
though I simply can’t explain why I have such thoughts about my sister.”
“Perhaps our genes are twisted in the same diabolical way, Kevin. Maybe we’re
of local descent. The inbreeders around here have always been totally confused. Even
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first cousins get married and they’re still producing village idiots.”
“I’m not a countrified dummox or a zoned-out Janner,” said Kevin with a
plaintive look. “I don’t sit in a muddy heap with a straw in my mouth.”
“Of course you’re not, darling, but we mustn’t do anything about our unnatural
desires, however strong those feelings may be. It would be against God himself.”
“Screw that self important sultana-bandanna.”
“But we’d deserve to be shunned until eternity, just like the way Oedipus was
outcast for splicing the knot with his mother. And he didn’t even realise who the tart
he was shagging really was.”
“Perhaps you’re on the knob,” said Kevin, “even though they still do it near the
Scilly’s. But I’ll always live the dream.”
“You’ll be young in my thoughts until I die,” said his chubby sister, with a
sigh. “But why are we so amazingly similar inside? There’s something as strange as a
seven-headed crustacean hiding there. A parapsychological phenomenon perhaps.”
“I sometimes feel as if I’m a frookhead,” said Kevin, “in more ways than one.”
“Maybe I’m a total freak,” said Susan, “but we may never know the reason
why.”
Susan wondered what that curious apparition whispered in her head when she
was a toddler and what fanciful mystery the school kiddies in red shoes were giggling
about. At that point, she achieved an all-too-convenient mental block and moved into
a state of self-denial.
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CHAPTER 3: THE CITY OF LANTERNS
The game of life is a creative art form
The next morning, Tujay kicked his football against the wall in lonesome silence,
downcast and close to tears. Susan and Kevin fondly embraced him and said their
farewells, realising that they had little else to return to. Yes, my empathy for Tujay is
entirely genuine, thought Susan. I do hope that I will see him again.
The Rottpsychers had recently helped the British to develop several internal
teleportation routes. After taking a cab to the terminal next to Caesar’s Palace in
central Atalanta, the siblings labelled their baggage ‘Destination Trivoli’, threw it
onto a conveyor belt and sat down on a blue-spotted sofa. A few seconds later, they
were transported, in a flash of red light, to a more-austere terminal under St. Paul’s
Cathedral.
It was less than a hundred yards along the travellator to the ancient chamber
where the Rottpsychers had arrived in 2353 to invite the Imperial Army to invade
their planet. This had since been developed into a public hub for journeys to and from
the capital of Qinsatorix. An official checked the siblings’ papers and gave them their
tiny emergency packs; they sat down on separate stone slabs, both dressed in brown tshirts and purple jeans. A short distance away, a couple of Indonesian girls were
giggling together quite infectiously. Kevin took the opportunity to get in on the act
and he was soon dating the prettier one for drinks in downtown Trivoli.
Susan blethered for a while with a Post-Anglican bishop who was heading for
the seaport of Constanta, over seven-thousand miles from the heavily-populated areas
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surrounding Trivoli and at the far-eastern extremity of the comet-shaped continent of
Trystonia, the only sizeable landmass on Qinsatorix.
“Why are you going to that God-forsaken place?” she asked.
“I made the mistake of saying that non-believers can go to Heaven as long as
they help the less fortunate,” said the bishop, most disconsolately. “The foolish biblebashers who sent me here should appreciate what our good Lord will do to them
during his Second Coming.”
“I hope that he turns them into raving giraffes,” said Susan. “But please advise
me, Your Grace. How is your ministry likely to be received by the local populace?”
“Most of them are ignoramuses, my child. However, the good Lord pours
goodness upon us, since some of the Apollos nowadays believe in Christ Jesus. They
provide excellent role models, despite their challenging working and social
conditions, and their harsh treatment by the local police.”
“That’s promising. But I hope that my life in Trivoli will be better than that.”
“No chance. Trivoli’s like Isaiah’s Jerusalem. They fornicate in the taverns, the
workplace and even the streets. Strangers of both genders will demand favours from
you, the homeless children pander to the whims of the rich adults, and the hoity-toity
treat the Icarians like scum. They deserve the full wrath of God. Unless they redeem
themselves by giving to the poor, of course.”
“Mercy on us! What do the authorities do about that?”
“Very little. There’s an official policy to put down the Icarians here in all ways
imaginable, just in case they get too big for their boots. The more general degenerate
behaviour is caused by the failure of the wealthier members of this despotic society to
control the lusts that burn within all of us. By spending more time pursuing civilised
activities like those new-fangled extensions of bowls, chess or quadrille, for
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example.”
“Perhaps society has to be decadent in order to be enriching and creative,” said
Susan, as she considered the scandals in the movie and music industries.
“Thank goodness that sex is largely safe nowadays,” said the bishop. “The
green pox epidemics scared the pants off men and women alike, and Pope John-Pius
succumbed in the most undeserved way after his affair with that choirgirl.”
“I’m glad to be well away from the scandalous bureaucracy in Lyonnesse,” said
Susan. “All those twats who abuse ponies certainly deserve their fates.”
As the time for departure drew close, a six-star general and a full lieutenant, both
dressed in bright-red uniforms, belatedly left the bar and sat down close to Susan and
Kevin, still sipping beer from their shiny glass tankards. The general was a rugged
plain-and-balding man in his mid-forties with bags under his eyes. His sidekick was in
his mid-twenties with curly blonde hair, ruddy lips and a cheery face. Susan thought
that the general looked like a stereotypical Professor of Business Studies, while the
lieutenant could’ve been his brown nose.
The general eyed Susan up while the lieutenant smiled sardonically at Kevin and
gave him a lingering look. Mercy on us, thought Susan. The bishop’s on the ball. Is
this the start of a beautiful friendship?
While a band of Druids were bidding the travellers farewell with an impressive
rendering of ‘Forward noble warriors, to beyond the stars’ a man in a bowler hat and
striped suit announced, “Ten seconds before departure. Please lie down ladies and
gentlemen, or you’ll lose your heads”.
As everybody ducked, the man pressed an ebony breastplate imbedded into an
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ancient statue of a spider-like soldier. A capital Greek omega (Ω) was emblazoned in
silver on the breastplate. Susan suspected that it might signify Armageddon.
The strains of ‘Forward noble warriors’ blended with a less-than-melodious
recital of ‘We rule the Universe’ as the siblings were teleported in a flash of white
light to leather couches in a cavern festooned with devilish-looking gargoyles. They
had arrived in Trivoli, one of the most important outposts of the Empire. Susan was
relieved that there were no minotaurs lying in wait and wondered whether the
gargoyles had been there since the beginning of time.
The travellers were greeted by the Head Enforcer, a yellow-faced Apollo with
bushy black hair, enormous flapping ears, and fur like a bigfoot. He appeared to put
the fear of God into the crowd around him.
“Welcome to the City of Lanterns, folk,” he announced, with a cynical look.
“Do be sure to toe the line. The thought police here are even more-trigger happy than
the Mets.”
“It’s no better here than in Plymouth,” muttered a sturdy, middle-aged lady, as
she straightened her pilgrim’s hood.
“Just be quiet, dear,” said the Enforcer, “or we’ll send you back to Drake’s
Island to keep the seagulls company.”
“He’s trying to intimidate us,” mumbled the lady, taking several steps
backwards, “and I’m a Mayflower girl.”
“She’s obviously brain-damaged, guards,” said the Enforcer, as the lady was
hustled away, “and no official complaints please, guys, even about our ultraexpensive gogo trams. What if a few jaywalkers get hit? We wouldn’t want to upset
the well-meaning bureaucrats who put them there.”
“They just sit on their backsides and pour shit on us,” yelled an extremely drunk
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traveller in a chequered suit.
“Arrest that man! And no silent demonstrations either, folk, unless you want a
a bang on the head, and no unfair jokes about our beloved Rottpsychers.”
“Why not?” asked a golden-haired child from Liverpool. “They’re just like the
zombies in my Space Ghouls comic.”
“Because they’re the Disciples of Aton, you little twit, created by our Sun God
himself to shed goodness upon the Universe. And it’s a belabouring for you, the next
time you open your ugly beak.”
“No they weren’t.”
“Guards!”
A bull-faced fellow wearing a plumber’s outfit snickered at that débâcle.
“And what do you have to say, you slobbery munchkin?” asked the Enforcer,
with a fearsome glare.
“Nothing at all, Sir,” replied the fellow, “though a cretin at The Sunday Times
did recently claim, much to his discredit, that your much-revered Rottpsychers were
trying to bleed your economy dry. He was run out of town.”
“We’re all trying to cash in, you fool. And absolutely no interspecies sex, folk.
In public at least, apart from with the sassy Icarians of course. You can screw them to
the red lantern posts. Apart from all that, please feel free to enjoy yourselves to the
full, guys. Life in a totalitarian bureaucracy can be fun, as long as you don’t do
anything silly.”
Susan gazed lazily at the travellers filing through Immigration Control. She finally
roused herself, but when she sat up a firm hand grabbed her shoulder and pressed her
backwards onto her arrival couch. It was the six-star general she’d noticed before her
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departure and there was a dog-like gleam in his eyes. He’s mistaking me for a student,
she thought, in fright, as she remembered a huge Professor of Feminine Studies who’d
lushed after her.
“You’re the mädchen of my dreams,” said the general, with a gruff Teutonic
accent, as his lieutenant watched apprehensively. “I’m tempted to make love to you
here and now, unless you’d prefer to come back to my place.”
What a welcome to another planet, bemoaned Susan, in disbelief and dismay.
“I’m an assistant professor at the university,” she snarled, “and I’m not into
frigging tricks with grisly old cunts.”
“Get off her, you mungus ogre!” yelled Kevin, waving his fists. “She’s my
sister. I’ll rip the stars off your sleeve.”
The Head Enforcer noticed the brouhaha, issued some brief instructions and
hurried up. Susan hoped that Kevin would calm down before he got himself arrested.
“Excuse me, Generalissimo,” said the Enforcer, most subserviently, “but we’re
detaining the two cute Indonesian girls in Baggage Arrivals. It’s one of our standard
tricks to please the high flyers. They’re music freshers and we all know what sorts of
tunes they have to play.”
“You nefarious cocklesmuckle!” yelled Kevin. “I’ve snared one of them
already.”
“Shut your heathen mouth, you unsavoury yob, or we’ll spread-eagle you for the
birds. Why don’t I ask my security guards to escort them to the VIP lounge, General?
You and your colleague could flirt with them there.”
“What a turn on,” said the general. “I’ll have this chubby piece of bitch-meat
later.”
Susan breathed a hefty sigh of relief, even if she did not relish the insult.
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“Go splunchflakker yourself,” yelled Kevin, as he grazed the general’s groin
with an ultra-aggressive kick.
To Susan’s relief, the Head Enforcer smiled at the general’s discomfort and
walked away. And she could have almost predicted what happened next. The
lieutenant grinned flirtatiously at Kevin, and when he spoke it was with a pronounced
Irish accent.
“I like chubby bedfellows too,” he said, “particularly if they act up like you.”
Susan thought that the Irishman compared well with Kevin’s fish-faced sugar
daddy in Lyonnesse. She therefore wasn’t surprised when her brother calmed down
and flickered his eyelashes at the lieutenant.
“I’d love a touch of the blarney,” said Kevin. “Why don’t we jolly up for some
serious male bonding?”
“As long as you’re the bride,” the lieutenant tenderly replied. “I prefer lads in
frilly dresses.”
Kevin swayed his hips like a girl on a catwalk.
“Just treat me like a serene lady in a rain forest,” he said, with a frivolous smile.
“Behave yourself, Danny,” said the general, as he glanced caustically at Kevin.
“I can’t take you anywhere. Come along and help me entertain the real thing. You can
serenade the one with the thinner legs.”
“Yes, Sir,” said the lieutenant, with a wince. “Anything you say, Sir.”
“I’ll be seeing ye soon on the mighty Cliffs of Moher, Danny Boy,” said Kevin.
“I’m working, by the way, working in the I.I. department at the university.”
The bishop looked utterly shocked. He picked up his handbag and scarpered.
“Bawel, and I’ll catch up with you there,” said Danny, with a saucy smile, as he
set off with the general.
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Susan was still feeling mortified when she and Kevin emerged with their luggage
from a plush elevator and found themselves on Trivoli’s bustling Capitol Square.
Crowds of humans and Apollos were purchasing foodstuff, pottery and other local
merchandise from wicker stalls set up on the sidewalks. Silver bands played on the
lawns surrounding the dome-shaped Planet Capitol rotunda, children hurtled and
somersaulted around on the fairground attractions, including a Great Bear and several
magical twistabouts, and jugglers of various abilities performed their tricks. The
Farmers’ Market was in full swing.
The siblings relaxed on a green seat decorated with ornate pigeons, and
savoured the crisp air. The sweet smell from the tryacinth bushes contrasted with the
musty odour from the street, and the cacophony of sounds resonated like a marching
band. Susan was wondering whether the place was like the City of Berzerkely in
Indiana when a purple-faced Apollo kid wandered up with a firecracker, and she
thought it was Halloween.
When Kevin stirred himself, he hailed a shining astrocab, and moments later he
and Susan were sailing down Mall Street, where the students would party and climb
the Chinese lantern-posts that evening after a Sunrise Koalas football victory against
the Zamara Seahounds.
The Old City was constructed long ago on the isthmus between the beautiful Lakes
Akhenaten and Nefertiti. It was surrounded by red, yellow and grey mottled walls that
dated far back into antiquity, and Mall Street linked the Capitol Square to a fanciful
southern gate that still bore the skulls of Enlightened Age heretics. Susan noticed a
number of cosy coffee houses and restaurants lining the street with ivory-
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coloured entrances shaped like capital Ms and As, and several attractive shops with
circular rose-lit windows of decreasing diameter.
Once past the city walls, the siblings entered the campus of the millennia-old
University of the Sunrise. The star-shaped Poseidon Quatermass, the haven and
nerve centre of the more important academic administrators and bureaucrats,
shimmered resplendently on its tulip-like stem, high on Radon Hill in front of them.
The cab veered past the ancient ebony turrets and three-hundred-foot double spire of
the Students Memorial Union and headed down Tycho Brahe Drive and southwards
by the multi-coloured shrubbery that decorated the eastern shoreline of Lake Nefertiti,
with the two-mile-long campus to the left.
“Look at all those white tiles,” said Kevin. “It’s just like the jacked up English
technical colleges.”
“Really Kevin,” said Susan. “Most of these monstrosities look like pyramids,
and not at all like cubes on plinths. But I do hope that the tiles don’t keep falling onto
the students like they still do at that God-damned business school in Coventry.”
Minutes later, the siblings disembarked at Sparrowhawk Courts, a conurbation
of green steep-roofed duplexes for privileged junior faculty and postgraduate students
set in attractive gardens on a low flat hill overlooking the lake. The honeysuckle ivy
intertwined in spider-like webs between the steel ventilation spouts, and tiny
chimpmunks scurried through the bushes as a surfeit of scarlet quails created a rich
kaleidoscope of patterns overhead.
The warden was an amicable, pear-shaped Apollo who waddled like a turkey. He
walked the siblings over to their ground-floor flat and gave them a bag of provisions
and their entry IDs. The apartment was luxuriously furnished in each of its five
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spacious rooms; a crescent-shaped parlour with a tiled fireplace and a Catherine
Wheel window; a fully-automated kitchen connected to the Supernet; a bathroom with
an inbuilt whirlpool, and a waterbed with a hot tub in each hexagonal bedroom, with
red-and-green glass windows and full-length mirrors covering their walls. And to cap
that, efficient room service. The Apollo said that well-drilled Yankee slaves would
appear in bright blue uniforms at the press of a buzzer, to clean up any mess.
“What a hoot!” said Kevin. “We certainly socked it to that collection of misfits.”
“Pipe down, Kevin,” said Susan. “It was really sad when we fried all the hermits
in Richmond, Virginia, in that horrific firestorm, after all the wonderful years that
followed the Irving Obama Renaissance.”
“It was a real comedy show when the Hoosehold Cavalry chopped up the Green
Berets on Pennsylvania Avenue,” said Kevin, “and the Beebview audience split their
sides when the Black Watch threw Mr. President and his besom of a First Lady
around the Rose Garden.”
“Their students have to toe the line here,” said the Apollo, flicking his tongue at
a gnat, “and they have to wear the caps and bells, and run the gauntlet of sarcastic
jokes, or else.”
What a queer fish! thought Susan, as the Apollo wandered off.
After Susan had unpacked her frilly dresses and Kevin his collection of neo-classical
quill drives, they went for a walk away from the campus and around the rippling
waves of Lake Nefertiti towards a picturesque peninsula covered with emerald
diadem bushes that stretched about a mile into the lake. This was Victory Point, a
favourite spot for picnickers, many of whom would walk its full length to admire the
bronze statue of the second century Icarian hero Armenius.
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Susan was enthralled by the exaltation of sparrowlarks and richesse of
martingales circling overhead and the charming chaffo-finches chirping in the bushes.
She savoured the tea-like fragrance of the Japanese trees, but the lake water tasted like
vanilla and a row of upside down Baobab trees exuded a vinegary odour.
“So what is Heaven?” she asked, while she was listening to a giant red robin
singing over the lake.
“Perhaps the mathocrats created it using String Theory,” said Kevin, sounding
quite intellectual as a seagull with a pointed beak dived over his head.
“But maybe there’s no such bloody thing. Perhaps it’s not a place set in time.
Maybe Heaven is being fucking perfect.”
“That’s cut us out the equation then,” said Kevin, with a snigger.
The former Icarian Imperial Palace was just inland. Now Gladstone House, the planet
president’s official residence bore a distinct resemblance to a long-legged turtle. Its
upper floors were encapsulated by a huge platinum shell, and the Babylonian Gardens
stretched from its acanthus-covered Corinthian feet to the lake path. The lawns were
watered by golden-tinted showers from fifty-foot-high statues of the once revered
Gods of Peace, Fertility and Plenty, and an elaborate fountain dedicated to a former
Prince Consort celebrated the war dead of previous centuries.
As the siblings approached the tin-gauze gateway leading to Victory Point, a
beautiful serene lady emerged with three pretty little girls.
“Hi there, guys,” she said. “You look as if you’re new to this planet.”
“Salutations, Señora,” said Kevin, with a jerk-like swagger and three swings of
the salsa. “I was expecting all sorts of zany stuff.”
“You’ve still got lots to learn, young man,” said the lady, with a playful chuckle.
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A polite conversation ensued about the curious origins of the sub-cultures of
Lyonnesse. However, after several minutes of chit chat, the little girls ran giggling
into the presidential gardens.
“You should drop by some time,” said the lady. “I’m sure that Donald will take
a liking to both of you.”
It finally dawned on Susan that she was talking to the First Lady of the planet,
her very self.
“We’d love to, Ma’am,” she said, thinking that the president must be an
awesome person to have such a wonderful wife and perfect kids.
“I’m so glad. My husband is such a clever politician, and an accomplished
speaker too. I’m hoping that our daughters will be similarly talented.”
“They look as sharp as Mary Palm and her five sisters,” said Kevin.
“Now now! I know all about those twisters. Watch out! Here’s a ductopede
coming. It’ll take you for a gallop around the lake. Don’t worry; they’re quite docile.”
A long, eight-legged, zebra-like creature came charging up, pulling a wooden
carriage and ridden bareback by an Icarian slave girl with a pert figure and antlershaped breasts that rose above the level of her ears. Kevin gave the girl a playful
pinch and hired her to take them to the Students Union at the north end of the campus.
Once aboard, Susan sat back and chuckled at the twelve-tailed plopopods and twoheaded centopuses cavorting on the lake. As they passed the bull-nosed gondolas
moored on the ramp of the University boathouse, she recognized a redbrick threestorey building with silver window frames and a colourfully-lit jewelled entranceway
from an image on the Supernet. It was Wyalusing Hall and it housed the entire I.I.
Department.
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“Our colleagues here must be a filthy rich bunch,” said Kevin, as he gawped at
his forthcoming workplace.
“Maybe that’s because the shysters pull all sorts of strings, just like those
exploitive quangos,” said Susan. “Our discipline is extremely influential and allencompassing and we filter lots of the grant money away from the specialist
departments.”
The carriage ground to a halt at the foot of the Union Terrace, which stretched
from the antiquated Students Union down to the lakeshore. The ductopede rider said
something in a native tongue to an Icarian youth, who scurried away looking furtive.
Kevin gave the girl a couple of slaps on her beautifully tattooed bottom, and a
two dollar tip. That’s a buck for each buttock, realised Susan. What a jerk of a
brother!
“Let’s meet up for more later, satty gall,” said Kevin, looking quite cavalier.
The slave scowled and smacked his face.
“Qinsies aren’t supposed to say ‘no’ to humans,” he howled. “I’ll report you to
the Enforcers.”
But the girl contemptuously waved her hips and headed off around the lake,
leaving Kevin hanging his head.
“You should show your tricks more feckin respect,” said Susan. “You’re
sometimes as loathsome as your screwball ex-sugar daddy in Atalanta.”
“Poor tiny me was only trying to have fun,” he moaned, with an apologetic look.
The Union Terrace was crowded with vibrant groups of students and a colourful
miscellany of vagrants, mainly seated at wooden trestle tables and downing mugs of
beer or smoking a class delta-lambda drug known as skenk. At one table, an assertive
Leonard/ Grand Schemes on Qinsatorix p42/387
Emeritus Professor of Austroslovakian Studies, who once served in Black Shirt youth
in Vienna, was pouring out insults while defeating all-comers at donner-und-blitzen
chess. Two suspicious-looking Apollos, trailing foxtails from their horns, were
playing three-dimensional backgammon while selling a hallucinogen called archangel
dust from under their table. Crowds of undergraduates flocked around them,
doubtlessly hoping to achieve an extra-special high.
In the evening, the wealthier students would party, pour beer over each other
and cavort buck-naked on the tabletops. But this was just their lunch break, and only a
few made fools of themselves. When a girl with lithe limbs tried to kiss the chessplaying emeritus professor, he brusquely pushed her aside and focussed his attentions
on Adolf Fischerslanger’s favourite variation of the French defence. However, when a
youth with a bright complexion made a move on a sturdy lady wearing an ornate
University Proctor’s gown, she picked him up and squeezed him until he went pale.
Susan noticed a yellow surveillance van creeping up, on Tycho Brahe Drive.
“Perhaps the creeps are listening in, Kevin,” she said. “Do be careful not to
blather.”
“Why worry?” said Kevin. “I’m sure that they’re already tracking us by satellite.
I’m even scared to think.”
Just as the siblings were sitting down, an Icarian girl, with breasts remarkably
like cubic-influenced paintings, ran up and smiled. When she sped off, Susan noticed
a white flash from her mobile.
“That bitch took a snipshot of us,” said Susan, trying not to sound paranoid. “I
wonder whether the qinsies are operating some sort of spy ring.”
“Perhaps the ductopede rider saw us talking with the First Lady and sent
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a message along their grapevine,” said Kevin, with a snigger.
“That’s food for thought,” said Susan. “Maybe they think that we’re in league
with the Establishment.”
“Food?” said Kevin. “I’m frigging starving. Let’s get sommit to satiate our
tauntacious taste buds.”
A purple-painted stall was offering a choice between grilled tantallons, and
chaserburgers drenched in green sauce. Kevin knew that tantallons were sweetlysinging tortoise-like creatures and that chasers resembled wallabies with long, floppy
ears, a single eye and four tails. He shrugged his shoulders and bought a tantallon, a
burger and two large beakers of roasted coffee from a boss-eyed Apollo with fleshy
dark red skin.
Susan was cautiously nibbling her burger when she and Kevin were approached
by two non-descript men in grey suits; an unprepossessing individual with receding
rusty hair, and a crinkly-faced slaphead. As the men glared at her, she concluded that
paranoia is just fright about the unknown, while the ripples from above are always
there to concern us, the scheming bureaucrats laugh at our fearful existences and
brush us aside as an administrative detail, and the political manipulators are ever keen
to put us down.
“So it’s the Lindsays,” said the slaphead, with a demeaning sneer. “What a
right-royal pair of characters. You’re low-life brats. So watch your step and keep out
of trouble on this planet. Don’t even raise your heads above the parapets.”
Why does he have such a poor opinion of us? wondered Susan. We were never
actually on probation and Kevin was only fined twice for unruly behaviour.
“Just as one example,” said the rusty-haired man, with a scowl. “You’re to keep
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well away from your conniving bitch of a mother. Once a no good tart, always a tart.
That’s what I say.”
At least he’s confirmed that my mother is on this planet, surmised Susan, with a
pang of relief.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, with a dark frown.
“I’m Mr. No Name as far as you’re concerned, you nosey strumpet.”
Kevin stood up, undid his flies and made a rude gesture that drew spontaneous
applause from the peanut gallery. He had once caught it for pulling the same trick on
a schoolmistress with a dominatrix whip, but he still hadn’t learnt his lesson.
“Sod off to Gomorrah and take a well-perfumed bath then, you sardosenatic
sniffleswanger,” he yelled.
“Any more of that, you no good freak,” yelled the slaphead, pulling out a
tarantella gun, “and we’ll chain you to the wall of the Compliance Dungeons and
leave you to rot.”
“I’ll fry your entrails in oil, you cretin,” yelled Kevin, only to be enveloped in a
stream of crimson light, dance in a circle and fall writhing to the ground.
“Consider yourselves lucky,” said the rusty-haired man, as the pair vanished
into oblivion and Susan had apoplexy. Perhaps this is my brother’s punishment from
above for treating the ductopede rider so badly, she anguished.
The siblings were quickly surrounded by a group of undergraduates, who gave
Kevin a swig of hooch and were eager to commiserate with him. When he’d
recovered his senses, a skinny youth bought him a glass of dark ale and bemoaned the
fate of Stingwell Rovers, and a homely girl chatted with Susan about Arcadian
hairstyles. The other students made numerous silly jokes in the time-accustomed
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manner. Eventually, the siblings made their excuses as they wanted to go shopping.
Susan bought some orangeberries in a classy delicatessen on Mall St. While
Kevin was purchasing a bottle of Buckwell to calm his nerves, Susan took the
opportunity to looked across the road; she was thrilled to see an orange-painted pet
shop, though she felt sorry for the bizarre creatures peering forlornly through its
shamrock-shaped windows.
Upon venturing inside, the siblings encountered a prim and proper lady with a
Home Counties accent.
“We’re from the Archipelago of the Dovecots,” she said, looking down her
nose. “Would you like a three-tailed budgie? Or perhaps a pair of tongue-flicking
rastofuleans? They’re excellent breeders.”
“I hate ferrets,” said Kevin. “They crawl up my trooser legs.”
“Do you have any cats?” asked Susan, longing for a replacement for her recently
deceased pet Trithagoras.
“Cats?” replied the proprietress, sounding unduly irritated. “We don’t have any
cats on this planet.”
“No snarling pekes either, thank goodness, except for the politicians,” said her
downtrodden husband, with a quiet chuckle.
“How about a baby tigress?” asked Kevin, as always the impatient shopper.
The genial fellow rang a bell and whistled like a whiskered humophile.
“We do have a couple of felixians,” he said, with a wolf-like growl. “They’re
much more perceptive than cats and talk in monosyllables.”
A feline creature with pert ears, orange and black stripes, large claws and a
broad grin, the size of a small racoon, bounded up and said, “Hi, folk. I’m Splat.”
“They’re symbols of liberty,” said the fellow, “like the cats in ancient Rome.”
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“And we’re doubtlessly living in a parallel universe,” said Susan.
“Let’s rename him Trithagoras,” said Kevin, “and pretend that he’s a barmy
cat.”
“I’m game,” said Susan. “He’s the cat’s pyjamas.”
“That’s ninety-five quid please, kiddies,” said the proprietress, as the felixian
purred contentedly.
When the siblings got outside, their new pet shrieked, “Bus” and headed for the
nearest astro-shelter, where they discovered that the C-line headed by Sparrowhawk
Courts. When they arrived home, Trithagoras jumped onto Susan’s waterbed, rolled
up into a ball, yelped, “Night, night” and fell fast asleep.
Later that evening, there were three deft knocks on Susan’s door. A strange-looking
girl, aged about twenty, was waiting outside proffering a bunch of crimson waterlilies, in a highly agitated state. She was tall and thin, with jet black eyes, a pallid
complexion and flowing green hair. Susan thought that there was a mystical air about
her, and that she could have passed for a Mormon priestess.
“Hello Susan,” she purred. “I’m Ophelia from upstairs and I know everything
about you and who you really love. But I love him too and he will be mine forever.”
“An interesting prediction,” said Susan, with a condescending smile, as she
ushered her neighbour inside, “and you’ve made it so quickly.”
“We Izons have fabulous seventh senses, just like Isis and Ishtar, my ultrafavourite goddesses,” said Ophelia, flashing her spectacular eyes. “They’re so utterly
divine. The humans used to send me to the Royal Nukegate because they didn’t
understand me. They were so cruel with their needles, but I survived all their
animalistic treatments. I really did!”
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“You’re kidding, you silly girl. Nothing like that happens in these modern
times.”
“It was so embarrassing,” said Ophelia, turning deep vanilla. “One shrink got
really kinky, the raunchy bastard. And they wheeled me away on a trolley and wired
me up because I wouldn’t conform to their own craziness. They almost made me fry.”
Susan didn’t know what to make of all that and she wondered whether Ophelia
was just a stupid space cadet. So she took her time pouring her guest a mug of hot
chocolate, while restraining herself from slipping in some Drowsy-Drowser, even
though that usually calmed her down when she wanted to somnulate.
While she was stirring in the sugar, Susan said, “I think that you’re downloading
far too much and making all this nonsense up. Shrinks are kind and extremely
professional people, and I simply don’t believe your tommyrot about kinky injections
and getting wired up. You’re just eccentric, and I think that Izons are a fanciful
figment of your imagination.”
Ophelia tugged her locks in exasperation; Susan thought that they looked like
the seaweed on St. Agnes.
“We do exist!” exclaimed Ophelia. “We all hail from Castellos, though I don’t
know what or where that is. Maybe it’s Heaven, or a planet in another dimension.”
“This is all too much for me,” said Susan, suppressing a snigger. “So how many
confounded Izons are there on Qinsatorix?”
“I only know about me and my parents. But the bastards sent them to the
southern swamps when I was four because they thought they were spies, and I
haven’t seen them since. I was brought up in a Catholic children’s home. The candlewielding mother superior was the worst. You’d never believe what she did! She liked
treating me like a weasel and making me go pop. Pop, pop, pop!”
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“What a silly story, and I really can’t understand why you’ve turned up out of
the blue.”
“My behaviour is always completely rational , even though you humans often
find it to be quite haphazard and unpredictable.”
“That’s a feeble excuse if ever there was one!”
Ophelia smiled, before jumping up and down in glee. Kevin had drifted into the
living room for supper.
“There you are, my precious one,” she said. “I’ve been longing to meet you. I’ve
been in love with you for years.”
Kevin had years of experience handling weird women. He gave Ophelia a
dismissive look, retreated several paces and slouched on the sofa, before eying her
carefully while sipping a glass of lemonade.
“I don’t know you from Adam, googy gall,” he said. “How do ye know my
name?”
“Just did. Why didn’t you answer the messages I sent you on my mind waves?”
“Because you used the wrong e-whiz address, perhaps. You could try this one. I
think it’s still working, though Kongle is about to diversify into holo-whiz.”
During the subsequent intense discourse, the siblings learnt that Ophelia was
an I.I. postgraduate who received generous financial support because of her telepathic
skills, that she was involved in research on natural history with Sybil Greenleaf and
that she’d assisted Dirk Charleston during his archaeological expeditions.
“Are you the chuffer who helped Charleston discover a human fossil?” asked
Susan, remembering her recent conversation with Professor Neyman.
“Yes, and the prick forced me into sixty-nine for my efforts,” replied
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Ophelia. “I had to bite him where it really hurts.”
“I hope that he enjoyed that tumultuous torrent of affection,” said Kevin, with a
chuckle. “I prefer bondage myself.”
After about twenty minutes of trying to digest a further torrent of eclectic
information, Kevin retreated to his bedroom to escape the stress. Susan took the
opportunity to eat a large slice of prawn cheesecake, while Ophelia gratefully
accepted some orangeberries splattered with clotted cream. However, after several
more minutes of erratic conversation, Ophelia threw her dish into the air and burst
into Kevin’s room. The sexy young man was lying on his waterbed reading a sci-fi
novel.
Ophelia promptly ripped off her lace knickers, leapt onto Kevin’s stomach and
said, “Take my virginity, my darling. This is our destiny. Susan’s just a ridiculouslybizarre sort of sister. She’s got the hots on you, she really has.”
“You’re as mad as a tatty hatter,” said Kevin, laconically putting down his book,
“and I’m not sure that I want to pull a quick one. Shouldn’t we go out for dinner
first? Or at least a drink? Perhaps you’d like a Dick and Jerry.”
Ophelia quivered like a fairy godmother.
“But we’ll be happily married one day, with three sons and two daughters,” she
said, “and I adore your feminine vibes. They tingle through my brain.”
Kevin wondered how a woman who was genuinely off her rocker could so
accurately perceive his femininity and he therefore considered the possibility that
Ophelia was acting up.
“Why don’t we share our thoughts for a while, you sea temptress?” he said.
“Maybe you’re saner than you at first sight appear.”
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CHAPTER 4: THE UNIVERSITY OF THE SUNRISE
The honest fleetingly perceive the ripple from above and then it’s gone,
and without realising it they are stabbed in the back.
The next morning, the sun rose slowly above the misty smirr and Susan dressed
herself up in a light blue suit, while Kevin relaxed in denims. They strolled to
Wyalusing Hall where they met their departmental secretary, an immense Rottpsycher
who was lounging in her chair devouring creamy chocolate buns and browsing
through Advanced Strategic Game Theory. Rottpsychers had rubbery bodies, white
cubic heads that positively glowed when they were amused, large circular eyes and
slit-like mouths. Though overly-intelligent and manipulative, they were said to be as
lazy as the drones on London’s Chelsea Road. The students nicknamed this one ‘the
Dragon Lady’.
“Would you like some raffle tickets?” she asked, with a ferocious scowl.
“They’re only five dollars each and the first prize is a vacation in our beautiful Vale
of Soltar.”
Susan was well aware that the proposed holiday was in the eastern deserts.
“That’s a feckin con,” she replied. “We’ll be taking a tour of the Archipelago of
the Mermoks.”
Kevin glared at the creature. Perhaps he wants her to burst like a balloon,
thought Susan.
“We’re here to see Professor Brad Redfoot, you narky besom,” he declared.
“Don’t blow a gasket, you callow youth,” said the Rottpsycher. “I guess that you
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do have an appointment. If you’re the outcasts from Lyonnesse, that is. I’ll take you in
to meet the professor when I’ve been to the loo. Help yourselves to one of those halfeaten cookies. Leave that bun alone, you greedy brat!”
When the secretary ushered the siblings into Redfoot’s silver-carpeted office, he
greeted them affably, lit his pipe and took a couple of puffs. As a member of the noble
Saukat tribe of Apollos, he possessed a shiny bald cranium, brown hair like a wolf’s
pelt, and a pink triangular face with a pointed chin. Susan took a liking to him, but
Kevin gave him a puzzled frown. They would later learn that he was admired for his
honesty, even-handedness and entertaining teaching. Now in his mid-forties, he
boasted, as departmental chairman, thirty-three faculty, fifteen research staff and over
one-hundred-and-fifty postgraduate students.
“Now Kevin,” he said. “Your time will be split between working with me, on a
math project for the military, and with Dirk Charleston on his archaeological research.
Your Masters in Scientific Inquiry should serve you adequately in both respects, even
if you are rather light on applied math.”
“But the gringos only taught me how to operate a hypercom top,” said Kevin.
“No problem. I am a Ph.D. snob, of course. I believe that far too many Masterslevel people give themselves airs and graces without appreciating the value of
conceptual thought. But, with your technical skills, you’ll be perfectly fit for
purpose.”
That will go right over Kevin’s head, realised Susan. Most concepts are beyond
his perception.
“I don’t wanna touch that Charleston creep with a flagpole,” said Kevin. “Prof.
Neyman advised us that he’s a bad egg and an awkward son of a trollop.”
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“I understand,” said Redfoot, with a sympathetic look, “ but he’s hoping to get
Susan interested in archaeology as well, and you’re both scheduled to meet him at
three. Strictly between ourselves, he’s a successful academic but an outrageous rake.”
Susan recalled her conversation of the previous day with the Post-Anglican
bishop.
“Yikey crikey,” she said, “but that’s probably par for the course on this
confounded planet.”
“Not among the Apollos, young lady.”
“So what did you study for your Ph.D., Professor?” Susan inquired.
“Thank you for asking me. I obtained my higher doctorate in architecture from
the University of Zaltvinch on the other side of my moon. My first appointment was
also in the sticks, at the University of Sidon on the planet surface.”
Since Redfoot controlled the salary reviews, Susan decided that it was worth
cosying up further.
“In that case, how did you manage to surface here?” she asked, suppressing a
yawn.
“My wife gave me a dig in the ribs, dear. I became interested in civil
engineering and developed a variety of complex road and astrotrack systems
including some for your colonies in Southern India and Nepal. That enhanced my
reputation and, after becoming interested in urban environments, I was offered tenure
at this exalted institution.”
“A meteoric rise, Professor,” said Kevin.
Redfoot retreated to the corner for more baccy.
“A lucky one for an Apollo,” he said. “Now then Kevin, we’re visiting the
Caesar Military Base in a couple of days time to discuss our proposed mathematical
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project with General Linus Van Wurstenberg. They want us to refine their landing
scheme for the planet battlefleet. I guess that you’ll find him to be rather
intimidating.”
“He could be the ugly chancer with six stars who looked fit to rape us yesterday
at the arrival terminal,” said Kevin, with a gulp.
“You’re spot on. He’s the only general on Qinsatorix. Linus’s grandfather was
the murderous Duke of Neuschwanstein, a Teutonic war criminal who was executed
at Stuttgart, but he’s regarded as a true patriot.”
“What an arsehole!”
“You should wash your mouth out, young man, or I’ll do it for you. But watch
out for that nerdy-nosed sidekick of his. He’ll be after your pants. Perhaps I should
say that I don’t like getting involved in hidden agendas with the military, particularly
when they turn their weapons on innocent Apollos.”
“You should tell them to take a friggin’ hike.”
“Well put, but I wouldn’t want to lose out on the considerable funding I receive
for my civilian projects. The top brass expect me to get involved in various covert
activities in return for their philanthropy. They behave like the old U.S. military rather
than following their own time-honoured traditions.”
“You sound as duplicitous as a two-headed doppleswinger,” exclaimed Susan,
with a dubious stare.
“I am forced to agree, but it does finance a dozen-or-more postgraduates and
research staff, including your handsome brother here. The University administration
receive a 40% overhead on all grant money and I’m therefore under persistent
pressure from our Faculty Office to maintain my sources of funding. As an Apollo,
they would find any excuse to slash my salary if I didn’t remain successful.”
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“How prepondostorous,” said Kevin, running his fingers through his sandy hair.
Redfoot refilled his pipe and stared out of his window. Susan admired the view
of the remotely-controlled fleet of colourful yachts sailing around Queen Flavia’s
Rock and realised how lucky she was to be there.
“Now Susan,” said Redfoot, after a few more puffs. “You’ll need to publish at
least eight articles in prestigious journals to qualify for tenure. It’s our tradition to
assign guardian mentors to the assistant professors from among our full professors, to
guide them through their research program.”
“Isadore Neyman filled me in about that,” said Susan.
“Good. You, of course, shouldn’t get in a stew and cultivate cacoethes
scribendi. One of my erstwhile junior colleagues published thirty papers in three years
in second-rate journals and they were full of twaddle. We sent him back to Arkansas.”
“I’ll try to cut out the crap, Professor. The incurable itch for scribbling affects
many, as Juvenal once said.”
“Did he? Great. Now, following Isadore’s recent telewhiz advice, I’ve chosen
Sybil Greenleaf to mentor you. You’ll be meeting her over lunch.”
“Magic!” said Susan, as politely as possible. “Isadore says that she’s an Apollo
like you.”
“Yes indeed. She’s regarded as an interplanetary authority on political and
social hierarchies. But her earlier research at the University of Angervast addressed
the natural history of our moon and she’s currently working part-time with her
clairvoyant student Ophelia on the flora and fauna of Qinsatorix.”
For some unknown reason, Susan stretched out her hand and clumsily knocked over
the professor’s lobster-shaped ashtray. She felt most dismayed, and wondered
Leonard/ Grand Schemes on Qinsatorix p55/387
what had made her do such a silly thing.
“I’ve already met Ophelia,” said Kevin. “She communicates through her mind
waves even better than I do.”
Redfoot cleaned up the mess and placed the ashtray on the far corner of his
desk, as Susan flushed in embarrassment.
“That must have been fun, old chap,” he said, with a sly look. “Finally, Susan,
let’s talk about your lecturing duties for the next academic year, starting in early
September. Unless you’ve got any strong objections, you’ll be teaching ‘Principles of
I.I.’ each semester to a diverse range of undergraduates from across the university.”
“That sounds feckin tortuous,” said Susan. “I wanna teach a graduate course
instead.”
“When you’re ready for it. In the meantime, you should realise that some of
your nursing students and sports players won’t be able to tell the difference between
addition and multiplication. And they’re not even dyslexic.”
“This is frigging impossible.”
“It certainly is, unless you use my synchronized images to explain the various
Redfoot-Zodiac sistonic-search procedures on a macro-screen. All those clever line
and tree searches, zigzags and much more. I’ve already ordered five-hundred copies
of my self-learning textbook Sistonic Searches for the Terrified. Here’s one for you. It
received an award from the Trivoli I.I. Association.”
Susan hadn’t even heard of the book.
“The nurses won’t be able to fathom zigzags if they can’t do arithmetic,” she
said. “I’m feckin terrified too.”
“I’m sure the undergraduate courses earn your book lots of royalties,” said
Kevin, with his usual degree of tact.
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“I’ve always reaped my rewards perfectly fairly, young man,” said Redfoot,
with a scowl. “Perhaps I should explain, in complete confidence, of course, that
Apollos generally behave with much more professional integrity than most of the
humans. For example, we never ask students for favours or push up their grades. And
we don’t plagiarise research work, or fail to acknowledge the contributions of others.”
“I didn’t intend any insinuation at all, Professor,” stuttered Kevin. “I’m sure that
all Apollos are as fair as---er---say, the great European scientists, including Sir
Jocelyn De Vignette himself.”
Another blunder, thought Susan. De Vignette’s the worst phoney of them all.
He’s really called Bert Bloat.
“And to be more specific about plagiarism,” said Redfoot, “we don’t produce
research that only slightly modifies material already published in the literature, a
common trick among assistant professors who’re not creative enough to develop their
own ideas. I hope that you won’t pursue that path, Susan.”
“I can dream up my own ideas,” said Susan, feeling affronted.
“And we don’t stab our colleagues behind their backs, hack into their e-whiz,
develop Machiavellian schemes for unjustified self-aggrandisement or use cut-throat
methods to win prestigious University awards.”
“That all sounds too outrageous to be actually true,” said Susan.
“Those with ears to hear let them hear! For example, an overzealous Chairman
of Vital Statistics once drowned in mysterious circumstances in Lake Akhenaten after
challenging a Distinguished Professor of Astrophysics for our Chancellor’s Cup. And
a few years ago, the misogynistic chairman of our tenure committee, who was
nicknamed Slurp the Twerp, secretly requested a letter of reference for a promising
assistant professor from her highly homophobic Ph.D. supervisor at Yale, after
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agreeing to steer clear of him. Although she’d previously escaped in horror from the
self-righteous guy, he pursued her with a variety of vile insinuations that scuppered
her chances of a permanent appointment. The poor girl suffered a nervous breakdown
and left for Salford Tech, where she’s still working her socks off on a frightfully low
salary.”
That story made Susan feel quite nauseous.
“How mind-bendingly sad!” she said. “I can’t believe that human beings would
get up to such cruel tricks.”
“Your good Lord must be turning in his grave. But we Apollos don’t mistreat or
exploit other people in any substantive way. It’s part of our tradition, I suppose, the
sneaky Icarians be damned.”
“I’ll do my level best to follow your example, Professor,” said Susan, feeling
quite taken aback.
“I’m sure that you will. Your position is only tenure track.”
Susan’s office was reasonably pleasant, though with a view away from the lake of the
dreary Humanities building, which resembled the prize-winning Assembly House in
Cardiff. While she was settling in, she considered her immediate ambitions. She
decided that she’d like to be the sort of teacher who disperses an understanding of
how best to acquire knowledge, and to complete the sort of research that was likely to
benefit society rather than just providing her with an extra publication or two.
Susan’s thoughts were disturbed by a bang on her door. An adorable fair-haired
Icarian youth marched in, in all his glory, gave her a pleasant smile and tilted his hips.
“A very good morning to you, Dr. Lindsay,” he said. “I am Fleance, your
obedient servant, Ma’am. I am an academic slave, and some of the highly-worthy
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professors see fit to make me grovel like the dango-crawly I doubtlessly am.”
Susan gawped at the lad and wondered whether dango-crawlies were a timid
breed of sheep, before realising that he was rather wet behind the ears.
“You’re quite the silly billy,” she replied. “You shouldn’t let those feckin
arseholes get to you.”
“Thank you for that sentiment, my good doctor. It’s a practice that was started in
your American Mid-West when the Taiwanese postgraduates had to do the donkeywork and clear up all the mess.”
“That’s those spunk-ridden cowboys for you. They always thought that they
were there to dominate the world. So tell me more about yourself, sassy laddie.”
“Thank you for your interest,” replied Fleance, with a broad grin. “I achieved a
first in Scientific Endeavour at age eighteen from the University of Athens on the
Outer Moon only, to be frank and honest, to be trampled on here for the past year.
Now I’m supposed to run to everybody’s whim. I even have to pick the fleas off
Professor Charleston’s dorkhound. The esteemed professor is supervising my Ph.D. in
Archaeology, and I have to live like a rat in the dirty basement of his mansion in
Greenwood Hills. I just grind my teeth and bear it.”
“I prefer to cross my legs and stare at the stars.”
“How spiritual of you, Doctor, but is there anything I can do for you?”
Susan felt so influenced by the aura of the well-hung youth that she had a crafty
idea.
“Go and tidy up the old preprints in the bottom of that filing cabinet,” she
commanded, with the lofty air befitting her academic status. “I’ll need the space for
my own manuscripts.”
Talk about pulling a mean trick, thought Susan as she scrutinized Fleance’s
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succulent thighs and gorgeous body. When he delved further into the cabinet, he gave
her an utterly exquisite eyeful. He’s mine for life, she fantasized.
“Wow!” exclaimed Fleance. “Here’s a highly-learned manuscript. It was written
in 2362 by a student called Debbie Smythe and it’s entitled ‘Investigating Icarian
Culture in the Ring-Fenced Cities’. And here are several more.”
“They’ll provide food for thought later,” said Susan. “Now go and fetch me a
café latté with two tiny spoonfuls of brown sugar.”
“Yes, Dr. Lindsay,” said Fleance, with a cheeky smile. “Three bags full, Dr.
Lindsay.”
Susan smirked. She knew from diagrams on Cyclops that a ‘bird’ remains
concealed within the groins of male Icarians until their elaborately-patterned, humanlike phallus becomes sufficiently aroused. A humming sound and beams of light-blue
light then herald the ‘flowering of the bird’, namely the emergence from between their
legs of a succulent second organ somewhat resembling a long orchid with pulsating
petals. When considered together with their winklepads, this prospect appealed to
Susan’s warped sense of imagination and to her troubled psyche.
“The latté smells ghastly, you dippy whipper-snapper,” she said, when Fleance
returned looking like an excited Cupid-faced ostrodinger. “You must have poured
something toxic into it.”
While Susan was settling down to work again, Kevin was sitting in his office drowsily
reading his book The Wizard’s Circle and their Druidic Ceremonies in the Pentlands
without fully comprehending that he was in at the deep end. What a stultifying
environment, he thought. While totally lacking in initiative, he assumed that his
superiors would give him something useful to do. He was taken aback when
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Lieutenant Danny O’Gara suddenly burst into his office, with two golden buttons
missing from his smartly-pressed red uniform after a fracas with a sergeant major
during the night before. Perhaps the chancer’s going to take the bull by the horns,
hoped Kevin, as he chucked his book across the floor.
“It didn’t take long to track you down, darling,” said Danny, with a cheery grin.
“How’s your butch anatomy feeling today?”
Kevin gave the lieutenant an encouraging smile.
“Hello Danny,” he replied. “I’ll be travelling down to your place tomorrow to
talk with the general. I’m sure that we’ll meet again then.”
“Van Wurstenberg is an awkward sod, as you’re already aware,” said Danny.
“I’d just like to say that I’ll be around to help should you encounter any unforeseen
difficulties with us.”
“I can look after myself.”
“They might even get the ball rolling by showing you a video of the last guy to
screw up. So lick their boots! I’m sure that you wouldn’t want to be ground feet-first
into mincemeat and fed to the piranhas and quintanas.”
“The Irish must be as unhappy about the ongoing repression as I am, not to
forget the allegiances imposed on you after the Storming of Wexford.”
“Too true. This makes me slightly empathise with the Icarians, though not with
the miserable Apollos.”
“I rather like the qinsies too and I simply don’t think of myself as having any
ties with our despotic rulers. Perhaps my real parents are Irish like you.”
Danny threw himself into an armchair, got out a pocket mirror, studiously
combed his hair and moistened his lips.
“Listen carefully, darling,” he said. “The research project that Van Wurstenberg
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describes to you tomorrow may seem at first sight to be perfectly peaceful and
innocuous, but he always has something brutish at the back of his mind such as
further repression of the Apollos. When you collaborate with him, you’ll be up to
your neck in it, too.”
“I’m no airy-fairy and I can cope with crap like that. Now, on a hyperimaginatively confilial note, how would ye fancy going out with me to some den of
iniquity to spin our fiery wheels and spread our angelic wings?”
“Why don’t we meet in the Pirate Ship tomorrow evening?” replied Danny,
looking as schemy as the Ireview detective Fingal O’Flaherty. “It’s just off the
Capitol Square and near my cosy pad on East Mifflin St. I could tickle your fancy
while we’re listening to the music on Channel Seven.”
Kevin felt lush at the idea, and a comical fantasy enveloped his mind. I’m as bad
as a Whitechapel whore, he thought.
“I’ll have something special in store for you too, dear,” he said, with a demure
look, “but I do have a girlfriend called Ophelia. She’s even more eclectic than me.”
Danny flaunted himself like the singer Dame Deirdre O’Riordan.
“That’s neat,” he said. “Did you know that until the Buckingham Declaration
completely conventional people were socially labelled according to their perceived
sexuality? Some of the women were even called eagle-apes.”
“I’m too young to remember,” said Kevin, “though I heard that we once had
things called ‘taboos’. But thank goodness all those self-serving activists were
outlawed by the Public Nuisance Act.”
“Good riddance to those twats. Before that, ordinary folk couldn’t even chat up
who they liked.”
“Jesus shed tears of blood. How on Dongle-space did carefree people manage to
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pair off in that sort of environment?”
“Mainly in dreary bars and nightclubs controlled by the underworld and shady
business elements. Consequently, many members of the so-called minorities led
scummy existences and experienced less than desirable love lives.”
“I’ve heard of something called the pink pound,” said Kevin, putting on his
thinking cap. “Maybe the criminals used it to demean their customers, perhaps via a
process called mystification. The pink pound ruled, as some nutter once said. ”
“You’re right on the ball, Kevin, and we’re on the same intellectual wavelength.
Now come here and give me a hug-----Don’t be coy-----Just as I suspected! What a
subtly-engineered combination.”
“Great stuff,” said Kevin, licking his lips. “Ophelia and now you. All we need
next is a toyboy for my sister, and perhaps a domineering dyke for good measure.”
Yes, I do like Icarians, thought Susan, as she hurried for lunch with Professor Sybil
Greenleaf on the departmental veranda that overlooked the picturesque Celestial
Tea Gardens and Lake Nefertiti beyond. Her guardian mentor was a middle-aged
Apollo from the respected Ekko tribe whose traditionally lettuce-like body contrasted
with her doll-like head and orange skin. According to departmental gossip, her
pointed nose had long been hardened by the back-biting experiences of academia.
Nevertheless, Susan found her conversation to be delightfully charming.
“So what do you think about our planet so far?” inquired Sybil, gingerly rubbing
her nose. “Is it really that different from Earth?”
Susan swallowed something gooey and still alive out of a shell.
“It’s all a home from home really,” she replied, “though it’s even more vibrant
than Atalanta.”
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“Ah, the fabulous Atalanta. I understand that the pesky qinsies are bothering
you even there. Now please remind me, my dear. What was your Ph.D. topic?”
“I investigated the Icarians’ culture from the perspective of their exiles living in
Lyonnesse. They convinced me that they were as advanced as humans in artistic,
technological and literary terms. Until you invaded them, that is.”
“We Apollos are just as good as that lot!” exclaimed Sybil. “Why don’t you
study our culture instead?”
“I’m planning to write scholarly articles on both,” replied Susan, with added
determination. “I’d like to visit the indigenous population on your Inner Moon and to
take a trip to the Outer Moon to study the fate of the Icarians in exile there.”
“I’d certainly be glad to take you on a tour of our capital city of Angervast and
some of the industrious villages near our equatorial rings.”
“Magic!”
“I suppose that you could apply to visit the God-forsaken Outer Moon as well,
but I wouldn’t be given a permit, even if I wanted one.”
“Perhaps I’ll ask our slave Fleance to take me.”
“You should keep well clear of that tricky character. He’ll drop a bomb on all of
us sooner or later! That’s what I say.”
“But he wouldn’t even hurt a feckin ant.”
“The qinsies would stomp on all of us, you gullible girl, given half the chance.”
“My research program will, of course, be as broad as possible,” said Susan,
changing the subject.
“And so it should be, my dear.”
Sybil munched several cabbage leaves and took a bite out of a boiled grabbit,
while Susan contented herself with escalope of veal. Thank goodness for European
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food, she concluded, as she stared at the straggly grabbit and its two reptilian tails.
“Maybe I’ll get you interested in social and political hierarchies as well,” said
Sybil. “For example, Franz Kafka’s conjecture, that totalitarian bureaucracies cause
social alienation, has never been proved to be fact. You should be careful to
distinguish between conjectures, namely unproven hypotheses, and definite facts,
young lady.”
“Many conventional snots don’t appreciate the feckin difference.”
“Watch your language, dear! This is academia. When I think in terms of
conjecture, I often speculate off the top of my head without tying myself down to
anything specific. Quite surprisingly, many of my conjectures later turn out to be
more or less true and I can always modify them if I change my mind. Try it yourself,
darling. Get your lateral thought processes working.”
“Are you saying,” asked Susan, feeling puzzled and bewildered, “That our a
posteriori beliefs can evolve in time while not necessarily according with our a priori
assertions and rarely converging towards definite conclusions?”
“Something like that. But you shouldn’t be so formalistic, my dear. It tends to
constrain the opaque matter.”
“I’m also hoping to study insanity on this planet. I can think of some conjectures
about that already.”
Sybil swallowed one of the grabbit tails in a single gulp.
“Good,” she said. “In the meantime, the natural history of Qinsatorix merits
further study. Many of our larger mammals and reptiles are quite different to those on
Earth. Take, for example, the hyperbolic hassler and the rear-tusked kleptototomous.
They wouldn’t be given breathing space in your safari parks, since they’d gobble up
the lions and skin the giraffes.”
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“I wouldn’t want to meet one of those fuckers on a stormy night,” replied Susan.
“Toughen up, dear. You’ll doubtlessly bump into some of our insightful
elephantine creatures and talking birdmen sooner or later. With this in mind, my
student Ophelia and I are planning a rafting expedition up the Dnieper to investigate
whether the five-eyed serpentathorus is now extinct and to catalogue the flowers en
route. You’re welcome to tag along.”
Although that sort of adventure didn’t appeal to Susan, she tactfully replied,
“Magic! How utterly absolutely fascinating. I’ll certainly consider that.”
Sybil disposed of the grabbit. Lock, stock, and barrel.
“You should develop a grand scheme, my dear,” she said. “I’m hoping that I
will one day fully comprehend the way our social and political systems evolve, so that
I’ll be able to influence their future development in path-breaking ways. It’s also
important to understand our natural history in minute detail since the animals could
take over entirely, or even the flowers when they multiply in strength and move in for
the kill.”
Susan trembled slightly.
“I suppose that my grand scheme is to learn as much as possible about the
human condition and the behaviour of all other humanoids,” she said. “It might help
us all to co-exist in harmony.”
“Too true, and it’s so important to have vision, my child,” said Sybil, as she
sampled her stewed jellyfish and prunes dessert. “Many of my colleagues keep their
blinkers on and their ideas are so myopic that they’re tempted to copycat.”
“It’s remarkably gregarious here,” said Susan, as she munched her Cheddar
cheese and biscuits. “At least I won’t be as bloody lonely as in Atalanta.”
“When are your parents planning to visit you, my dear? They must be very
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proud of you.”
Susan suddenly felt forlorn.
“I’m adopted,” she replied. “I don’t know who my real parents are but I think
that they’re on this planet. I just must find my mother. I really must. Here’s an old
picture of her.”
Sybil glanced at the portrait in Susan’s locket.
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” she said. “She’s almost as distinguished-looking as
my sister.”
After further affable exchanges over coffee, Susan set off for a stroll around the
Celestial Tea Gardens. But while she was perusing the brightly coloured shrubbery,
she encountered Fleance standing on a ceremonial mound with his arms stretched
wide apart in the air. The fabulously-designed slave was facing the lake and
muttering incantations like a Hittite Priest. Perhaps he’s not as silly as I thought,
pondered Susan.
“What sigma-field are you on, dear?” she asked, glancing furtively at Fleance’s
sturdy chest.
“I’m trying to invoke the spirit of Merlo, the guardian of our animals, flowers
and trees,” replied Fleance, wiping his sweaty forehead. “He’s like your Merlin, or
your Baal, the God of Light and Fertility who was admired so much by the Jews and
Philistines before he was subsumed by gods who focus on heavenly souls rather than
natural environments.”
Susan nervously fluttered her eyelashes.
“Perhaps the bad press Baal got from Queen Jezebel put people off,” she said.
“They threw that sleazy bitch through the window to be torn to smithereens by the
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wolf-dogs, you know. But do the Icarians still worship their gods?”
“The same as yours, Dr. Lindsay, and we closely identify with the Jews of the
Second Temple. While Merlo is one of our demi-gods, our primary religion is
Nestorian Christianity, which spread to your east from Assyria in reaction to the
violent Trinitarians in Asia Minor.”
“Those degenerates were nasty pieces of work.”
“They were almost as bad as the Arians. Our delegation to Chang’an was
motivated by the first-century epistles of our self-proclaimed apostle, Jamaladakka.
After our visit in 891 AD, our merchants spread the religion, by word of mouth,
around this planet. We certainly didn’t impose it by force.”
“So how else do you differ from the Catholic proselytisers?”
“We believe that the ever-eternal Messiah repeatedly metamorphoses in some
physical form. Furthermore, we’re slightly Cathar-like in our disapproval of excessive
wealth.”
“But why do Icarians think that Christianity is relevant to them?”
“An insightful question, Dr. Lindsay. There were unconfirmed sightings near
Constanta in your 28AD of a wild-haired human with blood pouring out of his
wounds, who called himself Christ. While he’s supposed to have befriended the
underprivileged and healed the multitudes, nobody knows what happened to him. He
may have got himself beheaded.”
“Those conjectures sound like sheer feckin craziness.”
“Jamaladakka could have invented the whole story, of course, after your Saul of
Tarsus teleported here while escaping in chains from his impending execution in
Rome. That false Apostle and self-acclaimed godhead was far too omnipotent and
moralistic. He even recommended dissecting one of his converts for marrying his
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deceased wife’s mother. We crucified him.”
“Way to go! But it would be more than a mite interesting if Christ actually
ascended to this planet.”
“We teach that he will return again as a lioness to take those of us who befriend
the less fortunate to the stars. He’ll deal with the fundamentalist procrastinators and
the high and mighty in his own special ways.”
Susan sat down on a pink nyloid park bench and invited Fleance to snuggle up,
and they stared at the lake for fully ten minutes without uttering a word. Susan
relished the tranquil peace and wished that it could always be like that.
“How do the qinsies feel about being suppressed so much, Fleance,” she asked,
as she stirred herself. “You’re really quite a cultured race.”
Fleance roused himself from his drowsiness, and replied, “There’s an ancient
saying, Dr. Lindsay, that when a green crescent appears on the Inner Moon, the Izons
will come and set the Icarians free. While it is quite cryptic, but it fills us with hope.”
“Those Izons again. Who the fuck are those cretins?”
“They may be mystical or they could be living somewhere in space. My friend
Ophelia thinks that they’re on Castellos, but she imagines that place in her cranium.”
“My brother likes her. Maybe because she’s so scatterbrained, or perhaps he’s
sussed out that she’s as sane as the rest of us.”
“Perchance to dream, Dr. Lindsay,” said Fleance, somewhat sheepishly. “Do
you have a boyfriend?”
“How dare you ask me a question like that!”
Fleance went silver in the cheeks, and stuttered, doubtlessly off the top of his
head, “Because I can feel your vibes throbbing throughout my body.”
That fired Susan up and her thoughts became unexpectedly animalistic.
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“Just kowtow to me like the grovelling slave you are,” she replied. “Give me a
sexy kiss, and then lick my clits.”
Susan’s reaction seemed to take the nineteen-year-old off guard. Fleance looked
irritated and then ashamed, but obliged, firstly with a sloppy kiss and next with a
more-passionate one. Nevertheless, he pushed Susan away as the snogging became
intense.
“Steady on,” he exclaimed. “My bird’s beginning to flower. Please don’t treat
me like a sex object.”
Susan smiled, and then decided to try for more.
“Behave yourself, you impudent slave,” she said. “Give me a tight hug and
nibble my breasts.”
“Not until we’ve gone trout-fishing together.”
“What preposterous cheek! Aren’t you scared of the feckin Enforcers? My
brother’s given me their number.”
Fleance looked shocked.
“Please don’t split on me,” he begged. “The bushy-haired morons would hang
me upside down by my ankles, and that’s just for starters.”
“I’d never do anything as spiteful as that to you, Fleance,” said Susan. “Now
why don’t we go for a walk around the lake? You could tell me all about your
childhood and upbringing. You were presumably raised on the Outer Moon.”
Fleance gave Susan a bewildered look. Perhaps he’s wondering whether I’m a
caring person after all, she thought.
“I’ve got a superior idea,” he said, upon reflection. “Why don’t we search for the
centre of Pandora’s Maze?”
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The centuries-old maze was originally constructed for Icarian courting couples.
It consisted of a complexity of footpaths separated by high orange-and-red hedges that
left Susan utterly confused. Fortunately, Fleance seemed to know the way and they
achieved their objective quite easily. The well-concealed central area was highlighted
by a statue of a cherubic icon and covered with soft purple moss.
As Fleance approached the icon, he appeared to grow in stature, and Susan felt
that he was dominant enough to want to submit to.
“Now give me a hug, woman.” said Fleance, “and do what exactly you’re told.”
Susan enjoyed it when Fleance ripped her knickers off. In the blink of an eyelid,
she found herself lying on the ground with her clothes strewn all over the place. There
was a gentle humming sound and suddenly Fleance was sitting on her breasts. His
bird flowered from between his legs amidst beams of blue light, like a long thickstemmed orchid, and amidst beams of blue light, and he tickled Susan’s face with its
pulsating red petals.
“More, more,” she cried. “That’s so awesome.”
Fleance smiled, and wriggled slowly backwards all the way down Susan’s body
before landing on the ground between her knees. As he did so, his winklepad emitted
a series of erotic impulses that roused her feelings of sensuality to fresh heights.
“Legs well apart in the air while I fruit you,” he commanded, gently feeling her
vagina, “and don’t behave like a rude human when you’re around me, ever again.
Wowee! That capacious rosebud’s worth a jolly good merry-go-round.”
“Harder! Harder! Go for broke!”
What exquisitely soothing vibrations! How wonderful to be satisfied for so long
by a well-hung Icarian. And finally that intense shock that seemed to stress every
muscle in her body. Susan appreciated every moment, before holding him in her arms,
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caressing his golden face and whispering sweet nothings to him.
This is the most blissful time of my life, she realised.
Later that afternoon, Professor Dirk Charleston lit up another long Habana cigar and
lounged backwards in his plush armchair. Hailing from Leeds, he was a bony,
reputedly once cute forty-five-year-old with a raven-like face and dark, greasy hair
that he combed straight back over his head.
Dirk liked to brag about his early research successes. But when he was stoned,
he sometimes hinted that his elderly Ph.D. supervisor at Cambridge had enjoyed his
favours in return for her research contributions, and that the originality of his muchacclaimed paper on the megalithic yard that he had presented to the Royal
Archaeological Society of Winchester was a joke. There followed six published
articles out of his Ph.D. thesis that only briefly acknowledged his supervisor.
Dirk’s closest colleagues regarded him as a stereotypical bad lot, though not as
subtle as some, and they knew all about his exploitation of over fifty of his doctoral
students, which consolidated his career and achieved his shaky reputation as a great
man. The very first of these students was the highly-perceptive Debbie Smythe, but
that much-put-upon lady was now starving on the streets.
Dirk’s purple-carpeted office was as palatial as Versailles, with a wonderful
view of Lake Nefertiti, a balcony and a bar, and even a jacuzzi where he could
unwind and enjoy his convivial cocktail parties. As a University Distinguished
Professor, he was dressed in a bright blue academic robe with an ermine collar and a
silver mitre. However, his robe was spread wide open, revealing an expanse of bristly
flesh. A freckly-faced girl with pigtails was kneeling dutifully at his feet, paying
special attention to his personal whims.
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“But I told you that my auntie was sick, Professor,” said the girl. “Please don’t
give me an F-star just for missing two homeworks. They’d send me to the boot-andbreeks camp and roll me in mud.”
“A pox on your imaginary aunt,” said Dirk, “but I’ll consider you for a D if you
give me what I really want. I lost the other one in a curious fishing accident.”
“Hard cheese,” said the girl, as she gratefully acquiesced.
A mouse-like secretary poked her head around the door, blinked in dismay and
firmly shut her eyes.
“The Lindsays are here to see you, Professor,” she said. “They’re our new
appointees from Lyonnesse. The lad’s rather strange.”
“Perhaps he’s a changeling,” said Dirk, making himself respectable. “This
lazy one can soak herself in the jacuzzi. I was just giving her a special tutorial.”
Kevin looked like a toy soldier and Susan was a bag of nerves when they
entered Dirk’s office.
Dirk blinked at Kevin, straightened his mitre, and said, “Do excuse my
niece, guys. She likes to immerse herself in frothy waters.”
“She looks like a cross between a tadpole and a marmaid,” said Kevin.
“She’s more like a frog. Now I realise that this is short notice but we’re leaving
next week for a hoverzoom tour of the River Tiber and the north-west coast of
Trystonia, as far as Inukaten.”
“Great jumping jabberwockies! Where’s that ungodly place?”
“It’s the village at the northernmost extremity of the continent,” replied Dirk,
somewhat patronisingly, “and about two thousand miles due north of here.”
“What flumbustuous fun,” said Kevin, lazily rubbing his neck.
“It will be hard work for you, young man. My primary objective is to visit the
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Shrine of Aleph, just twenty miles south of Inukaten. Look at this picture. The
shrine’s an ultra-modern-looking edifice that appeared out of nowhere in our 306AD
when the Romans were still building their columns.”
“That’s mind-boggling,” exclaimed Susan.
“I also plan to visit several further archaeological sites en route, including the
Caves of Janek and the Convent of St. Drusilla. My slave Fleance will be doing the
drudge work, though he needs to be regularly kicked in his posterior, and Sybil
Greenleaf’s student Ophelia will be accompanying us to check out the natural history
and to help us with her X-ray eyes. So we’re anticipating many more spoils than is
typically achieved by the inferior types who howk up coins and imagine that they’ve
discovered palaces.”
“An attractive bundle and lots of goodies too,” said Kevin, brightening up. “That
combination sounds exciting.”
“That’s just as well, you silly twerp, because you’re already signed up,” said
Dirk, with a frown. “I do hope that you’ll come along too, Susan, to broaden
your experience. You should feel honoured. Some people compare me with Heinrich
Schliemann. He imagined that he’d discovered Homer’s Troy, the fool.”
Susan concluded that Charleston was a pretentious prick and she wondered how
many other stuck-up academics imagine their own greatness and try to impose it on
others.
“That would be possible,” she coldly replied, “but what do you expect to
discover in the shrine?”
“The ancient truths about human creation, no less. By that I mean our physical
manufacture rather than all that divine creation mumbo jumbo and I certainly don’t
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believe that humans evolved in any random sense from animals.”
“That would be like a hotchpotch of bodies zooming haphazardly through a time
warp,” said Kevin.
“You’re too thick to make head or tail of randomness,” said Dirk.
“Sure thing, mate, but only because I don’t understand probability.”
“An outdated concept ruined by over-formalistic subjectivism. Anyway, the
Rottpsychers have kept these truths secret for centuries since they run counter to the
absurd notion that all humanoids were divinely created by their one true god. But
those guys will do anything for money and I’ve recently paid one of their lessscrupulous priests twenty big ones for a copy of a document that they’ve kept longhidden in the Temple of Aton.”
“How do you know he isn’t a feckin fraudster?” asked Susan.
“For good reason,” said Dirk. “But one moment, please, while I have a word
with the lass in the jacuzzi.”
To Susan’s consternation, Dirk gave the homely girl a French kiss, jumped in
with her, and drenched his robes in the water while he was cuddling her and staining
his mouth with her purple lipstick. Susan surmised that the girl couldn’t be Dirk’s
niece and concluded that he was an absolute rotter. She spent the next ten minutes
flipping through the stark pages of The Journal of Teutonic Anthropology while Kevin
gawped disdainfully at the hugging in the jacuzzi, as the beaded bubbles winked at
the brim. Susan thought that the girl looked like a flustered nightingdale, out of some
long-forgotten poem by Keats, perhaps.
“The signature must be authentic,” said Dirk, upon his return, downing a
draught of vintage port, “because it’s authored by Athanasius the Great of Alexandria,
one of our most violent saints, who also signed a string of further documents that
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persuaded the equally-cynical Roman Emperor Constantine to accept his strange
notion of the Holy Trinity. It’s dated 330 AD and the red-haired little runt stamped it
with an aleph.”
“That’s the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and we use it in math to represent
different infinities,” said Kevin, sounding pleased with himself. “It was employed by
the Arabs and it looks like a funny squiggle.”
“Here we are!” said Dirk, as he scribbled some power formulae on a piece of
paper. “The infinite number of integers is represented by ‫ ﬡ‬zero, but the number of
decimals ‫ ﬡ‬one is a much-more-intensive infinity. It’s called ‘the cardinality of the
reals’, and it’s exceeded even more by ‫ ﬡ‬two and by an infinite sequence of everexpanding alephs, as all bright kiddies should know.”
“I didn’t,” said Susan.
“The alephs remind me of the ancient Indian notion of an infinite sequence of
Creator Gods, each created by the next member of the sequence, but that’s too farcical
for my liking.”
Susan recalled Fleance’s spiritual concerns about animals and flowers.
“Maybe God’s the Icarian entity Merlo,” she said. “He’s like our Merlin.”
“Arthurian balderdash.”
“I believe in Merlin,” said Kevin. “He’s the juvenile delinquent who discovered
Excalibur in the mud at the bottom of Burrator Reservoir.”
“As I was about to say,” said Dirk, with a despairing look, “the priest advised
me that manuscripts discovered under the shrine explain the origins of Neanderthals
and humans as well as the Icarians and Apollos. This could be ground-breaking. To
our good fortune, Athanasius described a puzzle in his document that, if solved,
would assist entry to the shrine’s basement.”
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“Perhaps it’s like my Vetorinsectorix mind game,” said Kevin, but that insight
was ignored completely.
“He wrote that he’d learnt the details of the puzzle from the shrine’s first priest
when he visited Earth to attend a religious convocation,” said Dirk. “After a clever
Rottpsycher solved the puzzle about a thousand years ago, he discerned some of the
ancient truths, but without publicising them.”
Kevin looked totally at sea. Susan concluded that Dirk’s exposition was too
complicated for him, and hoped that he wouldn’t say anything embarrassing.
Nevertheless, Kevin perked up, and said, “How impressive, Professor. You’re
the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”
“Why, thank you for saying so, young man,” said Dirk, preening himself like a
much-pampered gigolo. “I can always take a compliment.”
Susan dismissed Dirk as the sort of megalomaniac who would even tolerate
prick-eared morons who toadied up well enough, though they might need to perform
Strip the Willow if they wanted to get anywhere.
“And what do you hope to discover at the other locations?” she asked.
“Fleance thinks that he’ll find some more humanoid fossils in the caves and
some holy relics under the convent. Good luck to him! He also wants to stop off at the
City of Sidon to hunt for hidden treasure. He’s only a kid.”
“I’ll try to unearth something really important, Professor,” said Kevin. “Maybe
we’ll all become fabulously rich and famous.”
“Great stuff. Perhaps those cunts in London will pull their fingers out and give
me my knighthood. Now please excuse me while I squelch the item in the jacuzzi.
Perhaps I should be magnanimous and consider her for a C.”
The girl gleefully unravelled her pigtails.
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“I’ve always dreamt of a C,” she said. “Put me in paradise! But hold your
horses. I’d perform forward rolls for an A.”
How typical, thought Susan, and I can’t believe that such egocentric characters
as that creep actually exist. But I’ve just seduced a student too. I mustn’t turn into
another Dirk Charleston.
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CHAPTER 5: WHO RULES THE PLANET?
Where is the inner sanctum that controls us from within or far away?
When Susan activated Trystnews that evening, the newscaster gulped down her
Seamus O’ Flaherty’s personally-squeezed skorcupine juice and said, “Hi there,
fellow patriots and subservient Apollos, and don’t forget to take your Jock Mackay’s
Sizzle Frizzles. They’re excellent for burning indigestion. And you should try tossing
the caber, folk. It’s good for heart failure. Whoops! I almost forgot the Icarians. Play
with a golden one a day, and old age will stay away.”
She’s almost as bad as those whining bitches on Sports Focus, thought Susan,
and they’re rough-and-tough men from Liverpool and Glasgow.
“Is there anything serious to pontificate about today?” said the newscaster. “Ah
yes! The editor of The Daily Discerner has been thrown into the Compliance
Dungeons. This follows his scurrilous allegation that President Drake is a control
freak who bullies his Cabinet colleagues and siphons millions of dollars from our
funds for the mentally and physically disabled.”
Susan wondered how different that was from Westminster, where the Foreign
Secretary had recently claimed back expenses on his private ski slopes in the Alps.
“Here are pictures of our beloved president and his delightful family playing in
the Babylonian Gardens, guys,” said the newscaster. “What bonnie lasses! Watch
them leapfrogging over the corgis. Whoops! That one got squashed. Isn’t she a silly
billy? What a caring mother. Aren’t they the plucky bunnies?”
Susan thought that the planet president looked much less appealing than the
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First Lady. While his bearing was dignified, Donald Drake’s body and limbs were
angular, and his ragged face and pursed lips made him look like a Dartmoor convict.
Susan almost expected a duck’s beak to sprout out of his nose and she found it hard to
believe that he and the First Lady were man and wife. She conjectured, albeit quite
frivolously, that their marriage was a charade and that their daughters were artificially
conceived.
Susan was admiring the First Lady when she saw an angry crowd displaying placards
and waving fists behind an iron fence. She was wondering whether the rumours about
Drake were true when several of the protestors were enveloped in orange light while
others fled frantically from the scene.
“Wasn’t that touching, guys?” said the newscaster. “Whoopee! Here are eight
‘Trinkers’ getting ceremoniously strangled on the Capitol Square this afternoon for
seducing a Trinkon girl with multiple rosebuds in a Scythian orgy. Just watch them
croak! Our ever popular Trinkons are, of course, protected by the Public Offences
Act, since, with the exception of the Arcadian feminists and a few beta-males, they’re
physically weak and psychologically vulnerable. Moreover, they possess unusual
genitalia, with a variety of curious attachments, that are anathema to all straightminded humans. That piece of legislation was particularly considerate of us, wasn’t it
guys?”
“Too true,” said Kevin. “I don’t want to get my knickers in a twist.”
“It’s illegal to even kiss the gorgeous sugary-blue creatures, with or without
their consent,” declared the newscaster. “Nevertheless, some inebriates try to have sex
with them and most retreat into secret covens for their self-protection, since they risk
getting branded as Trinkers and being brutally tortured and, mercilessly executed.”
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Susan thought that Trinkers deserved everything that society meted out to them.
“All civilised people have a time-honoured taboo against touching any Apollos
with sugary skin,” asserted the newscaster. “We therefore absolutely hate Trinkers,
and our hard working proletariat often express their views vocally, God bless their
cotton socks. Jesus wept! What are those urchins doing with those flamethrowers?
Yes, these are live pictures of a crowd of self-respecting citizens scorching the home
of one of the perverts. Look at his burning pants! And now his hair. Doesn’t he look
silly?”
What an embarrassing way to go, thought Susan, as she flipped channels to The Iron
Agers. And it was such fun watching those straggly-haired men prancing around the
cooking pot and twisting the women’s hair until they screamed, while their children
fought like vampires over the food.
When the voice of the Royal Joker interrupted the program, Susan set off for
a stroll with her new pet. When she reached Victory Point, grey clouds were gathering
over Lake Nefertiti, and the eaglets and staffinches were escaping into the trees. She
nevertheless decided to walk along the redbrick pathway, as far as the statue of
Armenius, so that she could watch the gondolas racing towards the jaw-like mouth of
the Tiber. But two agents in green tracksuits suddenly jumped out of the diadem
bushes and scrutinized her ID. She felt most indignant, and Trithagoras looked fit to
pounce.
“If you continue in this direction, Dr. Lindsay,” said a lively fellow with a
spruce moustache, “you’ll doubtlessly meet our planet president himself. He likes to
discuss political issues with intelligent young people, as this eases his mind and helps
him to make important decisions afterwards. I should, however, warn you that he may
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download self-imagined woes that you shouldn’t necessarily believe. Your complete
confidentiality is, of course, required under the terms of the Interplanetary Security
Act under risk of the severest of consequences, including impalement on a wooden
pole.”
“Up yours too!” replied Susan. “I can’t believe that any president would behave
like that.”
“You’re quite the free spirit! But many leaders are the same as Mr. Drake.
Despite his ungainly looks, he possesses impressive gravitas in public. Perhaps you
will forgive my vocabulary if I say that he often behaves like a spoilt brat when he’s
hidden from view.”
“Since you’re that concerned about him, I can, of course, only assume that he’ll
be telling the truth.”
“No chance and be sure to keep quiet about it,” said the other agent, less
congenially, as he checked out Susan’s background on his mobile. “We can always
arrest your brother too, and throw your ugly boyfriend into a pit, if you have one.”
While Susan was searching for the president at the far end of the promontory, the
earlier teleview news item about political scandals was still fresh in her mind. After
concluding that Drake must have gone for a swim, she peeked around the statue of
Armenius. To her surprise, the president was standing on a tiny secluded beach
talking to a prosperous-looking gentleman with prominent tusk-like teeth, and to a
mousey-haired man and a fair-headed damsel who were sitting just offshore in a
clinker-built rowing skiff.
Feeling inquisitive, Susan decided to eavesdrop the conversation; she therefore
dived under a diadem bush and crept to within about five feet of the president. When
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she sniffed the dirty-pink turf, it smelt like birds’ droppings. When two dark-blue
beetles scampered under her chest, she squashed them.
“As the head of MI18, you should be able to dispose of the Balfour gang for
good,” Drake was saying. “Those tricky sons of a packsaddle are still controlling me
and creating false impressions about me, and so all my colleagues, the press and the
electorate at large think that I’m somebody that I’m not.”
“But anybody could be forgiven for thinking that you’re corrupt, Mr. President,”
interposed the mousey-haired man. “Just consider your contradictory policies in
eastern Trystonia. You’re supporting both sides in Parthia and financing the antiroyalists in Bithynia.”
“It’s not me!” exclaimed Drake. “I’m a regular straightforward kind of guy.
Everybody’s after my guts.”
“But many people think that you deserve everything you get, and the centre
lefties would like to string you up.”
“Horses feathers! Why don’t you go after the gang’s covert agents? The ones in
green suits who manipulate my political decisions, arrange for my colleagues to be
bullied at their whim by my whips, siphon off funds intended for the poor and needy,
and create an air of corruption around my office.”
Susan thought that the portly head of MI18 resembled an elephant with a short
trunk.
“That’s easier said than done, Mr. President,” he said, flashing his spectacular
teeth. “The so-called Balfour Gang might well destroy you and your entire
government if we raise a finger to help, and we can’t even begin to think how to
smoke them out. Even the gang’s agents don’t know who their masters are, though
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they say that their orders are coming from supreme beings in faraway places. We
certainly wouldn’t be able to cope with the Gnomes of Beijing or divine forces in
other galaxies.”
“I’m new to this game,” said the fair-headed girl, who had been quietly relaxing
in the dingy toying with the rudder. “Can somebody please explain to me how this all
started?”
“Mr. Drake had an affair with the tramp-like Duchess of Suffolk about eleven
years ago when he was still Planet Secretary,” said the head of MI18, with a
look of disdain, “whereupon a group of Rottpsychers tried to blackmail him by
threatening to send the most distasteful pictures of him and the duchess imaginable to
The Daily Discerner. Her Grace presumably enjoyed it, even though he looks like a
Transylvanian troll with a huge purple knob when he’s undressed.”
“That must have caused you lots of worry, Mr. President,” said the fair-haired
agent, with a cheeky smile.
“Of course it did,” said Drake, fluttering his bushy eyelids, “but just when I
thought that I was done for, three guys in green suits turned up in my office and
offered to protect me and further my career, in return for political influence on behalf
of their Balfour gang. Soon after they’d forced my hand, the confounded Rottpsychers
stopped bothering me and I haven’t heard from them since.”
“What a relief.”
“It was short-lived. A few days later, the same men in green reappeared and
started to order me about under threat of further revelations about my private life.”
“Since then the situation’s gone from bad to worse,” said the mousey-haired
agent. “The gang and their acolytes invariably limit the damage of any potential
scandals, for example when the president got mixed up in that High Court judge
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outrage involving all those unfortunate rent girls. However, they, in return, use veiled
threats, to keep him in line, and make him kowtow to their ever-pressing needs.”
“So because of this despicable jerk’s personal weaknesses,” said the head of
MI18, “and unwillingness to stand up to these people or simply resign, we’re
effectively being ruled by unknown forces either from within this planet, from Earth
or from somewhere else in the Cosmos.”
“How dare you!” exclaimed the president, getting on his high horse. “As you
must be well aware, I’ve always been favourably regarded in London, in particular by
the prime minister and by the Emperor himself. My several years as Foreign Secretary
were most prestigious, and I was an eloquent Chancellor of the Exchequer and Head
Minion to the Minister of Social Security. To top that, I attended over a hundred
garden parties at Buckingham Palace and received a special award from the Queen
Empress herself for my good humour.”
“That was while you were humping your way through the prefects at King
Edward’s High School for Girls and the married ladies on Hampstead Heath, you foul
bastard. You even shagged the illegal Ruritanians in the backstreets of Archway.”
“The prefects had their knickers down already,” protested the president, “the
hens on the heath jumped all over me, and those fucking Woolwich Arsenal
supporters deserved it for their laziness.”
“Whatever! We’ll do our best to help you, but you won’t be screwing us
senseless in the stanks.”
The fair-haired agent chuckled at that and rowed her colleagues away towards
the cosy town of Middleview, leaving the president staring vacantly across the lake
with a miserable expression on his purse-lipped face.
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Always keen to learn more about political intrigue, Susan wiped the ants off her
crumpled light green dress, pulled up her red satin knickers, and leapt out of the
diadem bushes and onto the beach.
“Hello, Mr. Drake,” she said, as compassionately as possible. “I’m Susan
Lindsay, and I met your wife and kids only yesterday. How are you this evening?”
“The thunderbolts keep falling on my head, Susan,” declared the president,
waving his angular arms in the air. “If only I could get back to my tennis and chess,
not to forget my solitaire go.”
“I’d be up for a quick game of singles, Mr. President, as long as you play caghanded.”
“I’d lob my serves underarm as well. But you were bugging into my
conversation weren’t you? You’re as bad as the rest of them.”
“Only inadvertently and just out of academic curiosity, Sir. Please feel free to
discuss any concerns with me in complete confidence.”
“That’s kind of you and I’ll take your word for it, along with your hide if you
snitch.”
“I’ll shred your hide, you feckin twat!”
“Just a figure of speech, my dear. Do calm down.”
“That’s just as well. Call me stupid, Mr. President, but I was wondering during
your conversation with the covert agents whether you were being seriously
economical with the truth. Perhaps some of your harshest policies are determined by
yourself and your cronies, while the Balfour gang only partly influences your agenda.
Maybe you’re using them as an excuse or even to put yourself into self-denial.”
“I take exception to that preposterous suggestion! I’m no Lloyd Bliar and
certainly not a Neil Skiver.”
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Susan decided to speedily change tack.
“Perhaps my conjecture was rather out of line, Mr. President,” she said, “but I
am more interested in intellectual research. Could you possibly explain to me how the
political structure on Qinsatorix differs from Earth?”
Donald Drake grunted, before peering at Queen Flavia’s Rock for several
minutes while Susan admired the Arboretum on the opposite shore. When she
surveyed the western horizon, she saw a line of rolling hills dotted with gigantic
pagoda-style buildings, and pine-trees as tall as the BNN tower. She was wondering
who’d created all that when she felt Drake aggressively rubbing her lower back.
“Please massage my J-spot instead, Mr. Drake,” she said. “Not there, you dirty
old man! It’s on the back of my neck.”
“Here are two passes that will enable you and a friend to watch our Senate in
full session.” said the president, as he reluctantly obliged. “You will see that we
function quite uniquely. For example, we do not employ a party system, the Speaker
plays a pro-active role, voting is frowned upon and there’s a physical encouragement
device called a ‘toeboiler’ at the front of the chamber.”
“Perhaps I’ll pay them a visit,” said Susan, in astonishment. “In the meantime,
do you have any further insights that you might wish to impart?”
“I’d prefer to think about climbing in the Scottish mountains, and about those
magical views over Loch Lomond and from the Cuillin Hills on Skye. And you
haven’t even lived until you’ve watched the sun set over Rum and Eigg from the coast
near Mallaig. Their geological features are so curiously different. But let’s see. The
constitution gives me autocratic control on matters of State, in principle at least,
though I’m not allowed to attend meetings of the Senate, in case I give the public
impression of bullying them. Our generalissimo is required to enforce my views on
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my cabinet, though he sometimes sometimes superimposes his own crass policies and
tries to rule the roost like Marcus Licinius Crassus.”
“I know the old goat,” said Susan, as she pawed the president’s chest.
“Don’t we all? And the whips are expected to make the planet senators adhere to
my policies, using force if necessary, though heaven knows what really motivates
them, apart from the brutal Speaker of course.”
“But is this all pro bono publico?”
“I don’t know, and who gives a fig?”
“And how do you control the feckin quangos and bureaucracies?”
“Those creeps try to stay as independent as possible from the government. They
do, however, recognize that their self-aggrandising efforts might give the impression
of lacking cohesion. Many of their members therefore participate in a secretive ‘webof- intrigue’ that attempts to smooth over the rough patches and to create an outward
appearance of rationality despite the internal disorder. Our Ways-and-Means
Committee scarcely gets involved since it’s largely papier maché.”
“A web-of-intrigue? That opens up a can of worms.”
“Too true, but I’m not able or willing to discuss its nature with you in any detail,
I’m afraid.”
“What food for thought! So who really rules hoi polloi, Mr. President?”
“Quién sabe? And stop confusing me with that Latin.”
“But you ought to know,” said Susan.
“I don’t give a toss,” said the president.
After working lunches in their duplex the following day, Ophelia and Kevin played
Prince Edward’s Croquet together on their front lawn, right out of their Jeux sans
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Frontières manual. When Ophelia hit her first ball into a magnolia bush, it sped
straight through the hoop. Kevin waved his mallet in the air and his ball rose in an arc
before landing in the duck pond. Ophelia hit her second ball backwards through her
legs and it got lost down a drain. However, Kevin hit his next ball firmly against his
ankle and it ricocheted off the top of the hoop before stopping stone dead. Just as he
was about to level the score, Susan rushed out of the front door and said, “Do hurry
up, Kevin. Don’t forget that we’re off to watch the political whiz-kids in action in the
Senate.”
Kevin reacted by aiming his ball at a pigeon, and that ruffled Ophelia’s feathers.
“We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz,” he chanted, as he
danced through the tulips. “We hear he is a whiz of a wiz, if ever a wiz there was.”
When the siblings arrived at the Capitol rotunda, the dozy beefeater did not appear to
be expecting visitors. However, two stiff-faced women ushered them along the Iron
Lady corridor and up a narrow staircase. Upon entering a small observation box, the
siblings found themselves surveying a magnificent view of the platinum-lined Senate
chamber below, as portraits of all legitimately-born English monarchs since 1553
stared at them from the interior of the dome above. Dozens of pageboys in emerald
uniforms were scurrying around doling out piles of rubber-stamped documents to the
perplexed-looking senators.
One of the stiff-faced women produced two pairs of bronze opera glasses, and
Susan took the opportunity to focus on individual senators as they set about their
duties. It’s so different from the House of Commons, she mused, and from Liberation
Hall on Baltimore Harbor, and the Glashaus in Berlin. Here they look as if they’re
being controlled like robots.
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Susan was assimilating more of the atmosphere when the Speaker called the
senators to order. They were hand-picked by the president and military commander
and weren’t all regarded by the media as particularly popular among their
constituents.
The Speaker was a benign-looking gentleman with a jug-shaped face; he
resembled a celebrated Tory Speaker of yore who’d been torn apart limb-from-limb
for misrepresenting the mortgages on three high-rises in Petraeus.
“The next item on the agenda is the First Reading of the Pensions Bill,” he
announced as he fastened his dark-blue frock with the Pin of Enlightenment. “I call
upon the Chancellor of the Exchequer to initiate the discussion. Order! Order!”
The bland-faced Chancellor took after his father, the empire-building Provost of
the University of the Free City of Amarna, who was nicknamed Nappy Napoleon and
believed in exploiting his academic guinea pigs until they were dead meat. The
Chancellor often emulated his dad’s behaviour when the old queen was running
roughshod over his Faculty Senate; his expression ‘We’ll pass that then’ was
engrained in planet folklore.
The Chancellor stared pretentiously at his colleagues and said, rather
facetiously, “The first measure to be considered is rather benevolent. I recommend
increasing the pensions of mine-workers by 1%, a most kindly proposition.”
The Home Secretary expressed concern about that. He was a pseudo-intellectual
with a bushy-white beard who’d once served as president of the Planetary Union of
Socialist Students (P.U.S.S.). Susan thought that he resembled her erstwhile professor
of toropsychology who’d been retired eighteen years early when he flew off on a
broomstick.
“Wouldn’t the Mine-Workers’ Benefit quango object to this increase?” he
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asked. “They might simply neglect to implement it.”
“Stop flustering around like an anxious old hen, you pussy,” replied the
Chancellor, amidst general laughter. “Rest assured; their leader will be influenced
to comply, in our usual fashion.”
Susan wondered whether the mine-workers would be persuaded by favour or
threat, and whether their leader was part of the mysterious web-of-intrigue that the
president had told her about during the previous evening.
“It sounds as if you’ve fixed him up,” said the Speaker, as the senator for
Jericho caught his eye. He was a pleasant, inoffensive gentleman, and Susan thought
that she’d like to dominate him from the top.
“I have to defer,” he said. “My constituents desperately need an extra 5%.”
“What!” yelled the Speaker. “Did you really mean to say that?”
“I’m sure that the House will concur.”
“Toeboiler! Grenadiers to the fore.”
“But the only true law is that which leads to freedom,” groaned the senator, as
two Grenadier Guards swiftly emerged from a cubby-hole. “There is no other.”
The senator was about to soliloquize further when the guards secured a large
soundproof sphere over his head. The toeboiler was a small pink-painted chest on the
floor in front of the Speaker’s podium, and hot steam was gushing out of two holes in
its base. When the guards frogmarched the senator to the toeboiler, he shook in his
boots. When they made him stick his big toes inside, he shuddered in shock before
quivering in pain as the steam became more intense. The House cheered and
applauded for the designated 150 seconds, as he swayed to and fro like a puppet on a
string.
“Are you ready to concede and thereby restore your good name as our
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honourable colleague?” inquired the Speaker, when the sphere was mercifully
removed.
“I ingratiate,” screamed the senator, as he leapt around the floor like a neutered
antelope. “I acknowledge the corn, and humbly apologize to the Senate.”
Susan felt extremely sorry for the fellow and wondered whether she should
invite him back afterwards for afternoon tea and cream buns.
“We’ll pass that then,” said the Chancellor. “The second issue is whether we
should reduce the pensions of school teachers by 5%.”
While Susan was dismayed, in a detached sort of way, by that proposal, she saw
that Kevin was now thoroughly wound up; she wasn’t therefore particularly surprised
when he reacted like the yob he sometimes was.
“Go to blazes, you fork-eyed snaffleswinger!” he yelled, from his seat in the
rafters.
“Do shut the fuck up,” said Susan, in alarm, “or they’ll burn our toes too.”
“Down heckler,” yelled the Speaker, “or you’re out for the count.”
When Kevin stopped smashing his chair against the wall, the Minister of
Education rose nervously to his feet. He was a sharp-looking Old Frutonian from
Garmisch-Partenkirchen on the Dnieper, perhaps the most delightful city on the
planet, where the top bureaucrats went to play and often stayed. Kevin seemed to take
a liking to him, and calmed down somewhat.
Susan saw a freckly-faced woman sticking her red beak through the door behind
them, before disappearing from view. Screw that dame! she thought.
“I have to object to this nonsense,” said the minister, “under pain of retribution
from this House. The proposed measure would dissuade experienced teachers from
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working for more than ten or fifteen years, at a severe cost to the education of our
young.”
“That’s tommyrot,” yelled the Speaker. “Those shysters should be given their
marching orders well before that.”
“Please try to be rational,” said the minister.
“You’re out of line. Whips!”
Four orange-coated whips ran out of a side door, dragged the minister into the
middle of the floor and tore off his jacket and shirt. Susan was shocked to see that a
capital W had been previously engrained into his left shoulder blade.
“Wanker, wanker, hamper the wanker!” chanted the House, as one of whips
activated a fearsome instrument, revolved its glistening head and electronysed the
minister’s right shoulder blade with a capital O.
Thank goodness that was painless, thought Susan, as the eminent educationalist
hung his head in shame and Kevin stamped his feet in rage.
“Perhaps I should let the Senate make sense of that symbol,” said the Speaker,
with a wry smile.“Order! Order!”
When the senator for Zamara rose to speak, Susan was impressed by his large
earrings and bejewelled nose, and thought that he looked like a retired sea captain.
“Won’t the Office of Works and Pensions have a problem with this?” he
inquired. “A measly 5% cut may not be enough to balance their budget.”
“You’re joking,” said the Chancellor. “They received their tender morsels last
week.”
“I hope you saved one for me,” said the Speaker, as the House chortled in
delight.
Susan wondered whether the web-of-intrigue was involved in that rigmarole
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as well. This is proving to be a real learning experience, she thought.
“We’ll pass that then,” said the Chancellor, rubbing his bulging chin. “The next
issue is whether to reduce the pensions of doctors and nurses by 6%.”
While Susan was surprised by this attack on the medical profession, she realised
that Kevin was absolutely outraged and she simply knew that he wouldn’t be able to
keep his mouth shut.
“You venomous snake-like ponce,” he yelled, throwing his opera glasses into
the air, only for four men in green to rush in and manhandle him and Susan out of
their seats.
Despite protesting that they were academics on a harmless field trip, the siblings
were dragged down the stairs and booted unceremoniously onto the lawn outside.
When she’d recovered her wits, Susan debated whether they’d been thrown out on
behalf of the Balfour gang, and contemplated what sorts of machinations were going
on in that despicable place. When a little girl ran up and gave her a garland of daisies,
she wondered why she was being serenaded.
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CHAPTER 6: KEVIN’S MILITARY RESEARCH
A small amount of brutishness is worth lots of pity, as a U.S. general once said to
an academic audience in Monterey
Brad Redfoot duly arrived at Sparrowhawk Courts in his stylish dark-blue sports car
to drive Kevin to the Caesar Military Base some thirty miles to the south. When they
turned onto the freeway, the Icarian slaves were hard at work on the farms. Some
were using machines resembling giant spiders to operate the harvesting apparatus, and
others were picking plum grapes from the vines.
Further slaves were using suction-gropers to milk the cantosaurs. Brad said that
these largely peaceful creatures grew to be around thirty-feet long and walked on six
strong legs that were concealed by their massive flat-topped shells. When Kevin saw
two of them charging across a field, he noticed that their heads were as small as his
own. According to Brad, they usually kept their horns and snouts close to the ground
with their ultra-powerful eyes pointing upwards, and they kept the bourgeoisie wellstocked with high quality cuts of meat and enormous eggs.
Kevin observed thousands of cantosaurs scattered across the countryside and
wondered whether rival tribes of qinsies had ever ridden them into battle, perhaps
with devastating effect.
Susan awoke rather late and wandered into her living room in her pink nightie, where
she saw that Trithagoras had scattered his food all over the floor. Feeling lazy, she
pressed her room service buzzer, expecting that an obsequious Yankee undergraduate
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would scamper in to clear up the mess. But when a brawny lad with a plump beerbelly and smelly green jeans knocked on her door, he surprised her by speaking in
perfect King’s English.
“I’m standing in for a friend from Cincinnati,” he said, with a saucy look. “He’s
getting thwacked for insubordination. That should ruffle his bright blue uniform.”
“You’re a real fucking smarty pants,” said Susan. “When you’ve stopped
salivating, why don’t you squoosh the crumbs off the carpet, and spit and polish that
mirror until it’s spick and span?”
“I’ll cogitate about it while I burn some hash. But what’s your fancy this
morning, darling? Would you like me to spick and span you? Or perhaps a slap and a
snog?”
“The loo needs a good scrub too, with your tongue perhaps,” replied Susan,
though she did see some merits in the youth. An acquired taste, perhaps.
“But I’ve just graduated and I’m off home to Uxbridge tomorrow,” said the
smart-butt, with a U-shaped smile. “How about a farewell trick?”
“I already have a boyfriend, you stupid schmuck,” replied Susan, with a
sideways glance. She retreated into her bedroom and firmly shut the door, as
Trithagoras hurtled through a catflap and danced around in alarm.
The northern entrance to the Caesar Military Base was highlighted by a silver-gauze
gateway flanked by statues of the two war heroes Old Conky and Uncle Sporus.
Kevin thought that the dashing figure of the Duke of Wellington contrasted well with
the towering form of Field Marshal Sporus MacSporran. The much-lamented Scot
was the bold victor at the Battle of Alice Springs, which preserved the Brisbane Line
against the Japanese from Hiroland, before his tragic death in the surf at Dunedin.
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The visitors were greeted at the gateway by two barrel-chested guards, sporting
curly moustaches and black bearskin hats, who waved brightly-coloured Union
Jacks in front of their car as it ground to a halt. A vicious-looking corporal with
straggly-blond hair was in attendance, swishing a steel-studded riding crop.
“The general is expecting you, Professor Redfoot,” said the red-faced guard,
taking a sip of barley bree from a silver flask. “A pretty private is waiting in the foyer
to take you straight up to his office for a glass of sherry. However, as this is his first
visit, your companion has to be accompanied by an escort. The corporal here will
firstly take the ruffian down to the adjutant’s office so that he can sign the Loyalty
Act. Now behave yourself, sonny, or he’ll whip the pimples off your butt.”
Kevin sighed whimsically. While he was wondering whether that procedure
would cure his acne as successfully as Prince Ahmed’s apple when he felt a sharp
pain in his neck. The corporal had jumped into the back of the sports car and was
scratching him with the metal studs on his riding crop.
“I’ve heard all about you, you cretin,” said the corporal, as blood dripped down
Kevin’s shirt. “If you even dream about frigging me around, I’ll make you eat my
shorts.”
“You’re as tasteless as the four-eared Cyclops of Bryher,” said Kevin.
“I can get far more tasteless than her,” said the corporal, picking his nose and
swallowing a fruit gum.
“What are those smoking chimney stacks doing over there?” asked Kevin, trying
to keep his cool as they drove into the base.
“That’s where they keep the surviving Apollo rebels from Bithynia,” said
Redfoot, with a frown. “Their military hospital is over there too. They need to
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minimize public concern about their euthanized soldiers.”
“And don’t even take a whiff of that lake,” said the corporal. “It’s next to the
germ warfare experimental station.”
“Just look at those guys,” said Redfoot, as a training ground came into view.
Two massive women and a sergeant major were cajoling teenies through basic
training and throwing them into a pond whenever they failed to clear an obstacle.
“They’ll soon have enough experience to get themselves killed,” said the
corporal, with a snigger.
Kevin was appalled to see a lively platoon of pubescent girls practising bayonet
charges. A horribly emaciated bag of bones was slit through his throat, and several
vacant-looking fellows fell howling to the ground with gaping wounds in their groins.
Our society is becoming more and more despotic, agonized Kevin. We’re no better
than Vlad the Impaler.
“Most of the targets are wilfully unemployed trailer trash,” said the corporal,
rubbing his blotchy face, “with a few middle-class retards and token Apollos for good
measure. We keep our population neatly-trimmed in order to improve the stock.”
“I’ll bake you as rock-hard as a Liskeard tiddy oggy, you reactionary creep,”
yelled Kevin.
“And I’ll blood-eagle you, Viking-style, you dumb Janner,” snarled the
corporal.
Row upon row of dreary Bliar huts lined the road for the next half mile or so.
Groups of dejected-looking conscripts hung around outside, drinking beer, smoking
skenk and yowling like cats on heat. As Redfoot veered right, the huts gave way to
streets of elegant townhouses that provided luxurious accommodation for the officers
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and scientists on the base. The gardens were scattered with colourful flower beds, and
idyllic-looking children and their curious pets scampered playfully in the foliage.
Kevin recognized three ferret-like rastofuleans similar to those in the pet shop
on Mall St. and wondered whether a whistling wolf-like creature lurking in the
undergrowth was a whiskered humophile or a kiddie wearing a rubber mask.
Redfoot parked outside an old-fashioned country pub called the Black Sigmoid,
next to an immense oak tree and opposite the quaint eleventh century church St. Irus
the Redeemer. These cosy retreats were overshadowed by a windowless rectanguloid
edifice, five storeys high with ivory-coloured walls. A large golden V was engraved
into the wall above its Grecian-style entranceway.
“Welcome to the V-complex,” said the corporal. “It extends more than twenty
storeys underground and it’s connected via a subterranean canal to the sea.”
An adjutant eagerly welcomed Kevin into his office on level minus-eleven. A
full-length picture of the officer’s look-alike grandfather General Sporus MacSporran
hung on his wall. Like Uncle Sporus, the adjutant was wearing his clan’s full
Highland regalia. To Kevin’s annoyance, he kept glancing out of the corner of his eye
and drooling at a stark-naked girl who was dangling upside down with a daffodil
stuffed into her rosebud, looking desperate and anguished.
“I self-identify so much with my valiant grandfather,” said the adjutant. “He and
thousands of his troops died in the surf at Dunedin, but they famously counterattacked
up the beach and tore the Nips to shreds.”
“I hope he got crunched by an ivory-jawed jellyfish,” said Kevin, trying hard to
control his fury, “and why are you treating this beautiful girl so cruelly?”
“We’re still wondering how to dispose of her, my braw laddie,” replied the
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adjutant, with a salacious grin. “The gossiping bizzom spilt some sensitive secrets
about our top brass while she was humping her dumb boyfriend. He’s already been
fed to the quintanas, the jerk.”
“And I’m supposed to work with cretins like you,” exclaimed Kevin, in
disbelief.
“Sign there! The small print promises you all sorts of demises for breaking the
regulations. We might even bury you in an anthill.”
“Nuts!” yelled Kevin. “Stuff it up yer jumper, ye dispassionate old bastard. I
don’t want to help the decrepit military at all.”
“Our warm-up routine usually does the trick, Corporal,” said the adjutant, with a
studious smile, as he gave Kevin’s face a hearty slapping. “The conscripts succumb
within a few seconds.”
“I’m ready to roll, Sir,” replied the corporal, producing a steel claw made in
Rhodesia. “What squeaky-clean zee-fronts!”
“Please keep your hands of them,” begged Kevin. “I’m not a rent boy.”
“Hard cheese, you nasty tart.”
“Yoww! That hurt.”
“That’s how the Mets treat the student thugs, twat-face. And then they do this.”
“Don’t you dare! You rotten poof!”
“I’m certainly rotten, and you look like a poofter from Hell.”
“I don’t deserve that metal thing either. ----Arr be gum!”
“I’m going to make you dance the Wam Wam, like the bitch you are.”
And what a performance that was.
“Aaaaaaaaarrh!” wailed Kevin, in utter terror, as he did the splits.
“I’m not going to let your balls go until you lick the dust,” said the corporal,
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tightening the steel claw.
“D’oh!” shrieked Kevin. “All right. I’ll sign, but your hell-cursed general had
better watch his step.”
“He’s your supreme commander, you silly doggy,” said the adjutant. “So don’t
be so bloody cheeky.”
“Your blood’s oozing out of your ugly face,” squawked Kevin. “Out, out, foul
spot!”
The adjutant picked Kevin off the floor and belted him in the eye.
“That’s for being so rude to General Van Wurstenberg at the arrival terminal,”
he yelled, “and here’s one for good measure.”
“Can I treat him to the time-honoured order of the metal comb, Sir?” asked the
corporal, with a vindictive grin. “Just to encourage the jerk to suck up like a floozy. It
really infuriates the qinsies.”
“Not this time, Corporal. We have to be civilised.”
Kevin was still gob-stricken when he was ushered, staggering in pain, into the
general’s suite, with blood dripping from his eye and tears pouring down his face.
After consuming their haut cuisine brunches, Brad Redfoot, Danny O’Gara and
the general were sipping port with two middle-aged scientists, both with grizzly faces.
Redfoot was admiring a portrait of Admiral Dwight Kundkupper, a lavishly-decorated
Hittite War veteran who’d stormed the Bosporus and taken Colchis. One of the
scientists was saying that they’d been trained in a special compound for exceptionally
brainy European experts at the Huntsville Space and Rocket Center in Alabama.
Kevin felt somewhat comforted when Brad and Danny gave him sympathetic
looks. And the general greeted him most cordially.
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“Good morning, or guten Morgen as my dear grandfather would have said,” he
declared, with a twinkle in his eye. “Please take the comfortable seat. The private will
serve you a refreshing glass of brandy, and patch you up. We’ll continue with the
business of the hour while she’s taking care of you.”
“They’ve already treated me like an ape,” said Kevin, glowering angrily.
“That’s not a good start to a collaborative venture.”
“All in a day’s work, kleiner Mensch,” said the general, licking his lips. “It
sounds quite chummy to me and at least we’ve set the ground rules. You should
always remember that we’re the new Herrenvolk. Now, I hear from Brad that you
studied advanced applied math in Lyonnesse. Perhaps you can help us out.”
“I only understand parabolic projections through non-viscous fluids,” Kevin
mulishly replied. “Hyperbolae sail right over my frigging head.”
“How impressive! Now my lovely lad, look at that landing disc just in front of
that red and gold forest. It’s about a mile in circumference, and the twelve
battlecruisers on its perimeter are each a hundred-feet long. In fact, they’re modelled
on an old Icarian battlefleet that was largely destroyed about a century ago. We’d like
you to develop some modifications to our landing plans that increase their
efficiency.”
“Why?” asked Kevin, feeling quite out of touch. “Or rather warum, as your Hun
of a grandpa would have said if they hadn’t popped the schweinhund off?”
“Shut up, you insolent buffoon, or I’ll have your guts for garters!” yelled the
general. “As I was about to say before you interrupted like a dummkopf, the most
compelling reason for our concern is that the battlefleet sometimes risks ending up in
a big heap and we want to minimize the chances of that.”
“Let me explain, Generalissimo,” said the goofier of his scientists.
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The general pouted like an eight-year-old.
“Pipe down, you fool,” he replied. “Let’s see now. This may be confusing for
the likes of you, Kevin. So I’ll read from the official manual. The fleet usually
approaches this region in a straight-line formation and at an altitude of ten thousand
feet. The cruisers initially spiral down to a thousand feet and pursue each other around
in a--er--circle that’s about three miles in circumference.”
“Perhaps I should explain the rest, Generalissimo,” said the more good-looking
of the grizzly scientists, with a patronising look.
The general peered right down his nose at him.
“I’m perfectly capable,” he replied. “Um! Bumbly bum. Yes! At the second
phase, they spiral down to the disc, and land in quick succession. If successful, they
achieve equally-spaced positions around its perimeter, about three-hundred-and-fifty
feet apart. It’s your job to refine that, my dear Kevin.”
Kevin was absolutely lost; he didn’t even know the equation for a spiral. He was
therefore relieved that Brad Redfoot seemed more clued up.
“So what’s your real problem, General?” asked Redfoot, with a sly look.
“It’s twofold, you half-tamed prairie wolf,” Van Wurstenberg disdainfully
replied.
“Threefold, perhaps,” said Redfoot, tilting his triangular head most
despondently.
The general snarled through his yellow-grey teeth.
“It’s so amusing to watch Saukats turning violet with rage,” he said, with a
twitch of his nose. “To answer your off-the-wall question, we firstly need to find a
way of improving our complex landing scheme. Kevin’s fancy math will doubtlessly
help us out on that. Secondly, we need to know what adjustments to make should
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there be a drop in atmospheric pressure of about 12%. This happens surprisingly
frequently during thunder storms.”
“I find that hard to believe, but my gut feeling is that we should try interweaving
elliptical rather than circular spirals.”
“Elliptical? That sounds complicated, but you’re the expert around here.”
“Ellipses were employed by Johannes Kepler, Herr General,” said the goofy
scientist, sounding miffed, “to describe the motion of the planets.”
“Who gives a shit? Stop trying to confuse me.”
“Perhaps you should tie the battleships together with polymorphic string,” said
Kevin, off the top of his head.
The good-looking scientist flexed his greasy nostrils and nibbled his bright-red
tongue.
“What an intriguing possibility,” he said. “We’ll try simulating that.”
“A couple of questions, General,” said Redfoot. “Our landing area was originally
constructed by the Icarians when they controlled the planet, wasn’t it?”
“It certainly was.”
“And they constructed several similar discs in our eastern provinces, didn’t
they? Not to forget the archipelagos.”
Van Wurstenberg looked even vaguer, and Kevin wondered whether he was
shamming.
“Did they?” replied the general. “Yes, I suppose they did, though I’m unaware
of their states of repair.”
“Several of them are as shiny as a skating rink,” said Redfoot. “Now, the qinsies
developed sophisticated schemes of their own. Maybe we could save Kevin and
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myself lots of complicated research by looking for their landing plans in their former
military headquarters in Drumkok. If we’re lucky, they’ll have used elliptical spirals
long ago.”
“What a great idea, Brad. Then you could spend some time developing a new
O.R. program for our bubblechopper pilots. They persist in getting their blades in a
twist.”
“I’d love to, but I’m busy teaching a course on remotely-guided trucks. As it
happens, Kevin will be leaving on an archaeological expedition to Inukaten next
week. That will give him the opportunity to stop off in Drumkok.”
“A plan worthy of Lucius Sulla himself.”
“Can I go on the expedition too, General?” Danny asked, with a snide glance.
“For security purposes, of course.”
The general sneered.
“No you can’t, you Gaelic werewolf,” he replied. “I can guess what piece of
meat you’re after. Anyway, let’s all down a wee dram with our new chum Kevin.
Kommen sie hier and give me a hug, mein lieber schlosshund. Gee, you’re a fine
strapping fellow. Perhaps we should get better acquainted.”
“Lay off !” yelled Kevin. “Or my three-pronged devil’s tail will jump out and
spike you.”
As Kevin was departing, Danny whispered, “That slippery bastard shouldn’t
underestimate me. I know what he’s up to.”
The inexperienced newcomer regarded that advice as most reassuring. He and
Danny debated later which landing disc the general was planning to attack.
That evening, Kevin carefully tended his wounds. Then he set off for the celebrated
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Pirate Ship on Basin St.
He discovered that the celebrated establishment boasted two spacious rooms,
one containing a lengthy mahogany bar. The other housed a glitzy discothèque where
a tightly compressed compendium of colourful creatures would dance into the night.
The walls of both rooms were festooned with murals of adventurous pirates and their
ghost-like ships.
The owner of the Pirate Ship was a distinguished city alderman, a kindly giraffenecked Apollo who was working the bar with an assorted band of curious boyfriends.
The head barman was, in contrast, an overly-tall and slender Norwegian from
Trondheim with pure white skin and flowing black hair who wore a floppy cap
because he wanted to look interesting to the ladies. According to his girlfriends, Svein
Knutson didn’t have any time for the queens.
A purple-skinned Enforcer stood in the corner of the bar stroking his bushy hair and
wielding a rubber truncheon. Danny ambled up to Kevin and explained that the ugly
Apollo was there to pay homage to the drug-and-underage drinking laws, to watch out
for predatory Trinkers and to ensure that the Icarians entered into the spirit of the
festivities.
While they were ordering double Grimlivers, Danny and Kevin talked to Svein
about Norway’s prospects in the Interplanetary Cup. After the gentle giant had
wandered off to serve glasses of fine wine to a crowd of redneck Apollos, they
engaged themselves in an equally pleasant conversation at a corner table with two
female hoppers from Melbourne.
The four companions downed shots of Crimson Fire while a convivial party of
young Trinkons including several wimpy youths were enjoying themselves at an
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adjacent table, their sugary-blue bodies glistening in the flashing green lights.
A Trinkon girl with long purple hair suddenly jumped up, stumbled over to
Kevin and tugged his ears. Her legs were as hairy as the Queen of Sheba’s.
“Hiya Kev,” she said. “I’ll be repeating my first year studies in Finance one
more time, as I flunked Principles of I.I. last year. I’m longing to get to know you
better, and you could explain Professor Redfoot’s crazy graphics to me, too.”
“I prefer chicklets with smooth skin and clean-shaven legs,” Kevin warily
replied.
“But your raunchy type always fancies Trinkettes, and I have a heart-shaped
rosebud and a triangular cupid.”
“Be careful. The Enforcer may be watching. How did you know my name? You
look remarkably devious.”
The girl made a swift lunge at Kevin’s anatomy.
“You’re a junior scientist in I.I. and you’re so spicy,” she said. “Please let me
drink your spunk.”
“I don’t know what web you’re trying to weave but I’m not interested in
Trinkons, let alone a dumb one. Just go away.”
“You’ll be in my arms soon, “ said the girl, with a vicious scowl. “You can be
sure of that.”
“There’s nought like a striapach spurned,” said Danny, with a smirk, as the
temptress stalked off waving her fists.
Kevin and Danny chatted for several minutes about Irish female psychology while the
Trinkettes stared hypnotically at Danny. When Svein Knutson finished his shift, he
strolled over with a friendly smile.
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“Don’t have a cow, man,” he said. “That demoness is possessed of the soul of
the Princess Morganza.”
“Thanks for that pearl of wisdom,” said Kevin, with an appreciative glance.
“So do you exercise your brains during the day?”
“Sometimes. I’m studying for a Ph.D. in Math, but I earn my meal ticket
working here. I survive at a push.”
Kevin gave Svein a brotherly pat on the back.
“We have some common interests then,” he said. “Perhaps I could seek your
advice later about ellipses and spirals. They faze me out.”
Svein ran his fingers through his long black hair.
“That would activate my silver matter,” he said. “They’re right up my alley.”
Kevin warmed to the Norseman’s easy-going temperament.
“My sister would be fascinated by yer cap,” he said. “Why don’t ye drop by
for pasta and chips, some time?”
“I’d love to fill my face with carbonara,” replied Svein, with a grin. “Here’s my
number. For ladies only, of course.”
“Would you guys like to check out my flat over by Lake Akhenaten?” asked
Danny, sounding impatient.
“I’ve got a date with Dorothy,” said Svein, with a knowing look.
Kevin was relieved by that piece of tact, and before he could say ‘Where’s my
puppy dog?’ he and Danny were in each other’s arms in the Irishman’s flat.
Like Kevin, Susan had a strange experience involving a Trinkon girl that evening; she
later explained away the coincidence as an example of haphazard chance. When she
took Trithagoras for another walk along Victory Point, she realized that President
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Drake might be a frequent visitor and therefore resolved to beat a hasty should she
encounter his bodyguards again. However, a pretty Trinkette with frizzy blonde hair
suddenly jumped out of the diadem bushes and fled down the pathway towards her.
“Help!” shrieked the girl. “Rape!”
When Susan rushed forward to protect her, the presidential bodyguard with the
spruce moustache leapt out of the shrubbery.
“Hold your horses!” he yelled, grabbing Susan around the throat.
The other agent-in-green picked the Trinkette up, carried her back from whence
she came and threw her into the emerald undergrowth. While she was screaming in
terror, Trithagoras took a flying leap at Susan’s assailant and dug his claws into his
back. The agent yelled in pain. Susan kneed him in the groin, broke loose and ran to
the rescue of the victim. To her dismay, she discovered that the other bodyguard had
already pinned the girl to the ground and that Donald Drake was hovering over her in
a state of keen anticipation.
“The Balfour boys are protecting your rear one more time, you moron” said the
bodyguard. “You’d be totally incapable without us.”
Susan promptly jumped onto the president’s shoulders and piggied his back
“That bunch of fuckers have certainly got you under their thumb,” she
exclaimed.“Let her go, or I’ll tell the world what a crap-monger you are.”
“Do chill out, you stupid bitch,” said the bodyguard, as he released the
Trinkette. “We were just playing games. And that gang is pure invention, as you must
have realised by now.”
His colleague staggered up, writhing in pain.
“You’re lucky that I’m so forgiving, Dr. Lindsay,” he said, “but don’t forget that
you’re still bound to secrecy by the terms of the Security Acts.”
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Susan was dismayed and disgusted by her discovery that the president was a
rapacious Trinker. She therefore mobiled Fleance when she arrived home, and he
came over to advise her. After recoiling in fright at her news, Fleance expressed the
opinion that, while Trinkers were widely hated, those regarded as important enough to
the Establishment were often protected by the security forces, rather than getting
arrested as they deserved.
“If I was getting fanciful,” he said, still sounding agitated, “I would conjecture
that the entire planet is ruled by a ring of Trinkers. Indeed, one of my acquaintances
on the Union Terrace suggested something quite similar recently.”
That could be the mysterious web-of-intrigue that the president told me about,
speculated Susan, as she also recalled her discoveries during the Senate meeting of the
the previous afternoon. It could even include the cabinet and numerous bureaucrats
along with the president. Perhaps the ‘tasty morsels’, that the Chancellor of the
Exchequer used to bribe the Office of Works and Pensions, were Trinkon girls, and
maybe the Chancellor influenced the leader of the Mine-Workers’ Benefits Quango
with a similarly enticing offer.
“That’s most insightful,” she said. “I’m sure that the proletariat would run riot if
they knew that a Trinker ring as powerful as that actually existed.”
“Perhaps the less-powerful Trinkers are persecuted simply so that Trinkon
loving can remain the preserve of the Establishment,” said Fleance.
“I think that all the Trinkers are loathsome, but how can we clarify whether
we’re really being ruled by a nest bed of the arseholes? If there really was an Icarian
underground then their spies would presumably know.”
“You shouldn’t always try to discover the truth about everything, Susan,”
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Fleance nervously replied. “It may do you more harm than good, or harm
the people around you.”
“I’m not a frigging quintessential quidnunc,” said Susan, as an image of her
dour Latin teacher in Atalanta flashed across her mind.
“Please keep it that way or you’ll get both our noses snipped sooner rather than
later.”
Susan briefly wondered whether the Balfour gang were none other than the Wizard’s
Circle, a prestigious group of ‘pillars of the population’ with outrageous social lives
and centred on Edinburgh and London, which at times ruthlessly protected its more
out-of-line members from public exposure. The Astronomer Royal, a most
flamboyant lady, was its leader.
I wouldn’t put it past them, concluded Susan, after the ‘Judges and Rent Girl’
scandal, and after all those murders and death threats when that unsavoury Black Gnat
took those important people on a boy-hunt in the Cotswolds.
“I understand,” said Susan, as she also recalled the long history of human sacrifices
on Exmoor, “although I’m mesmerised by the possibilities. A ruling clique of shady
Trinkers, the Balfour gang, a mysterious web and a qinsy underground. That could
create enough intrigue for zillions of conspiracy theories.”
“They’d be enough to get you as wired up as a triple-headed bongleganger on
heat, you stupid woman,” exclaimed Fleance, suddenly becoming assertive.
“What a turn of phrase! Your personality is quite quirky at times, Fleance. Were
you like that as a child?”
“I don’t really know, Susan. I always refused to be bullied by my older brothers,
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and I think that helped me to develop my inner toughness. Don’t be fooled by my
demeanour; I’m actually quite crafty. Despite our life of poverty on the Outer Moon,
my father found time to teach me his wisdom, and my mother her ingenuity, qualities
which were completely lost on my redneck brothers.”
“Maybe you’re not as beardless as I thought.”
“Well, I must be going,” said Fleance, with a wave of his youthful hips.
“Oh, do spend the night. I’d like you to be my boyfriend, of course.”
“Not sex again! Didn’t I satisfy you enough yesterday, you lustful tigress?”
Susan felt horny enough to press the issue, but she was struck by a pang of guilt
and realised that she shouldn’t.
“I’d just like a cuddle, Fleance,” she said, flushing deep red. “You’re such a
caring person.”
“I’m glad to give you the honour of being my girlfriend, Susan,” said Fleance,
most imperiously, as he slid his golden body between the ultra-white sheets.
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CHAPTER 7: A TRIP DOWN THE TIBER
If you get stuck in the mud, then you may be up sod’s creek without a paddle
When Susan and Kevin activated Trystnews early the next week, the newscaster
smiled condescendingly, powdered her nose and said, “Hi there, fellow citizens.
Super Macho muscle-enhancers are good for your virility, guys, and you can avoid
being taken to the cleaners, girls, by purchasing a Vanessa Vortex implant for just
five-hundred bucks. It destroys your foetuses before they can even get started.
Excellent credit terms, with no interest for the first three years.”
“That’s a feckin rip off,” said Susan. “My Fanny Fulsome device only cost fifty
bucks. A college mate sold it to me when she started her family.”
“Now more about our good old friend Desperate Dirk,” said the newscaster.
“The celebrated informatic investigator Professor Dirk Charleston will be setting off
this Friday on an expedition to the Shrine of Aleph. Dirk plans to unravel the
mysteries of creation, would you believe? In particular, he hopes to confirm that
modern humans didn’t evolve from the early Neanderthals or indeed from any other
species. I don’t believe him, girls. My boyfriend looks exactly like a Neanderthal.”
“What a stupid broad,” said Kevin, “and she looks like a jumbo-chimp.”
“Dirk’s companions will include his colleagues Susan and Kevin Lindsay,” said
the newscaster, “freshly arrived from Lyonnesse and looking fit for action. Here they
are in the Celestial Tea Gardens with their fabulous felixian Trithagoras. Isn’t Kevin
cute, girls? But isn’t his sister’s hair a mess?”
“What frigging cheek,” said Susan. “The bitch didn’t even notice my pretty
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blue dress.”
“But all the hens will know what a brand new oggy I am,” said Kevin, flexing
his biceps.
“The party will be dropping off at several other archaeological sites including
the Convent of St. Drusilla where St. Paul once hung out,” said the newscaster.
“Maybe they’ll find the death mask of that kinky shyster, folk. The convent is run by
the highly eclectic Mother Rebecca who believes that we should be kind to sick
qinsies and to the most useless of humans, the stupid old dear, rather than sending
them to the extermination pits. Perhaps they should give her a good send off and bury
her deep underground with the other saintly souls.”
“Why do those people have to spread all that spiteful propaganda?” said Kevin.
“Doubtlessly because some bitch-faced fuckers tell them to,” said Susan.
Susan thought that the holy mother sounded like a really nice person and hoped
that they’d find something interesting at her convent. Kevin decided to purchase
some fishing tackle.
A couple of evenings later, Susan was filling her backpack when there was a ting on
her mobile.
“I saw you on teleview, scruffy head,” said a shrill and menacing voice. “If you
accompany that klunk-face Charleston on his expedition then you’ll die a gruesome
death. We might even shoot you full of cyanide.”
“Why the fuck would anybody want to kill me?” asked Susan.
“Because there are things you must never know. Moreover, your creepy brother
should be advised to take a sickie, or risk decapitation by one of our slaughter shells.”
“Why don’t you twist a red hot corkscrew up your nostrils?”
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“You won’t even survive your fucking trip down the Tiber,” screamed the voice.
Early the next morning, Kevin was awoken by a jangle on his antiquated metroreceiver.
“Listen, you spaced-out poof,” said a gruff voice. “If you or your tramp of a
sister venture onto Oceana with that kinkhead then we’ll shred you with buckshot.”
“And I’ll shove yer smelly feet down yer fokin ultra-cavernous throat,” said
Kevin, with a yawn, as he rolled over and went back to sleep.
Later that morning, Dirk Charleston received some particularly-venomous hate mail
that began, ‘Dear half-bent commy pervert. If you take your kinky twinkies on your
expedition, then we’ll flay you all alive, drench you with oil and set you alight.’
Charleston laughed and poured himself a large brandy, but, after taking a gulp,
he surmised that he was in real danger and shook violently in fright.
The trio nevertheless decided, after tortuous deliberation, to ignore the threats. On
Friday morning, they boarded the fifty-foot-long hoverzoom Hercules, which was
moored to a decaying wooden jetty outside the Old City walls.
In addition to Ophelia and Fleance, the group included the skipper, an Apollo
with swarthy pink skin, straggly-black hair and a large pirate’s ring in each ear. Two
green-skinned Scython deckhands would help steer the craft from a classy-looking
crystal-glass dome in its bow. Susan thought that an Icarian maid servant with spiked
nipples looked too slapdash to be true.
Dirk was accompanied by his latest bedfellow, a bloated boss-eyed slave of
indeterminate age with a bulging crotch and peach-shaped backside who kept
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compulsively repeating the lucky number seven, a rare mental disorder; multiple
repetitions of the number two were much more common. Charleston addressed him as
Number Seven while not appearing to give a damn what the unfortunate minion was
actually called. The skipper and the academics were assigned comfortable sleeping
quarters below deck; there was also a luxurious cabin for eating, drinking and
gambling. The maid had to make do with a hammock in the steering dome, while
suffering the pinches and taunts of the playful Scythons.
“Away we blow,” yelled the skipper, and the hoverzoom hurtled across Lake Nefertiti
with Victory Point and picturesque Middleview to its portside, and the lush University
Arboretum on the starboard beam. Several fishermen waved from Mariners Beach and
a crowd of children threw stones as the craft sped under a Gothic-style bridge and
entered the Tiber between the Hanging Cliffs of Clotilda.
The Hercules slowed down as they approached a wild-life park full of fantastic
beasts. Ophelia took a string of snipshots for her Ph.D. dissertation; she looked more
and more scatterbrained as she snipped a multi-okker feeding its nine joeys in
separate pouches, and two cusperceans mating while in full flight.
Then, after snipping a green dragon, Ophelia flashed her jet-black eyes and
declared, “There’s a fruitcase around.”
Thereupon, an enormous eagle-like bird quite magically appeared, flapping its
four shaggy wings and waving its spiky tail. The skipper fired a shot from a laserguided rifle, and the creature hit the deck. One more trophy for our departmental
museum, surmised Susan, but she felt an air of foreboding when they tied its tail to
the stern and she wondered whether this was an omen.
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Susan and Fleance held hands as they approached Madron, where over a-hundredthousand Icarians were ring-fenced into captivity. Several guards were allowing the
occasional visitor through the barbed wire while scores of bedraggled children stared
soulfully at the lively river traffic from within.
Fleance gave Susan a hug, while glancing rather sheepishly around him.
“It’s so different from the hi-tech city of long ago,” he said. “The inhabitants
survive by manufacturing spare parts for loos and kitchen equipment which they trade
for meagre food and medical supplies with a tight-fisted consortium of fat cats.”
“There’s still some splendid architecture here,” said Susan.
“The palace is ruined beyond recognition,” said Fleance, “but the Cathedral de
La Vièrge Marie is still a regional spiritual centre and some of us smuggle ourselves
inside along secret tunnels to attend the services.”
“I’d like to stake out the place sometime,” said Susan.
“You can meet my friend, the wrinkled old Nestorian archbishop. He’s famous
for leading his services wearing only a silver tiara.”
After Madron, the terrain became rugged for a while. Susan saw hundreds of muftibears and two-legged giraffes wandering among the rocks. She was struck by the
tranquillity of the wilderness and was wondering whether the creatures were living
perfect existences there when she was startled by a giant reptilo-bird as it flew
overhead, from the shattered ruins of the temple-fortress of Icarus to the larboard. The
monster quite thankfully vanished into thin air, and tall bluebell trees and bushes of
giant raspberries appeared as the City of Sidon came into view on the starboard bow.
Dirk’s boss-eyed slave celebrated the occasion by chanting, “Seven times seven
makes seven, times seven makes seven, times seven makes seven; the square root of
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seventy-seven is seven; seven hundred and seventy-seven million makes eternity.
Beware the seven Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Seventy-seven men on a dead man’s
chest-----.”
“Can’t you think of something else to repeat, you moron?” yelled Dirk,
hitting the much troubled slave around the head.
“Yow! ---derr---er---suitcase, suitcase, suitcase----.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you! Now that’s something to get obsessive about, isn’t it?”
“You should be more compassionate to the mentally disabled, Professor,” said
Susan. “It’s not their fault and many of them possess unique talents.”
“Those morons deserve everything that gets meted out to them,” said Dirk, with
a wolf-like gleam, “including their time-honoured Doorstairs kickings. Just twist
their arms behind their backs, kick them and give them a jolly good fucking like they
still do in the British cuckoo’s nests, that’s what I say.”
“You’re just as brutish as the zoned-out orderlies,” said Kevin.
“This vagrant should feel lucky to get clothed and fed, and to have his tea
poured into a cup rather than straight down his God-damned throat.”
“I’m thirsty,” said the slave.
“Into my cabin now, you impetuous idiot. At least I can get my rocks off on
your dubious favours before I send you to the extermination pit.”
“It’s society that’s crazy, not me,” shrieked the slave. “Shrink, shrink, shrink
into a tiny mouse, you puffed up monster. You’re crazy, crazy, as crazy as a spacedout piano.”
Kevin glanced affectionately at Ophelia as she combed her tangled green hair.
“That sounds like a cry of anguish from the mentally disabled at large,” he said,
“but some of them are saner than you might think.”
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“And some twats are nuttier than they imagine,” said Susan.
Twenty-five minutes later, the slave emerged with a sheep-like grin on his face, and
tears in his eyes.
“They wouldn’t have treated him as kindly in Doorstairs,” said Dirk, with a
chuckle.
Susan was appalled, and fantasised about sending Dirk full circle on a
convulsive therapy trolley and turning up the heat. While they were preparing to
disembark at Sidon, she watched foodstuff being delivered to the wharfs and exotic
wares getting loaded onto long gondolas. Crowds of Apollo children were playing
happily in front of the sandstone walls and their equally bizarre pets chased after
them. I could be tripping back to biblical times, she mused.
When they entered the Phoenician-style city through the ancient star-shaped
River Gate, it was thriving with a wide-ranging assortment of gregarious Apollos,
many riding around on triple-humped horses and others on roller coasters.
Several children stared at the group in disbelief as if they’d never seen a human
before, and two kiddies with long horns and orange hair fell about laughing when
Ophelia performed a cartwheel and declared, “I feel gravitational forces searing my
brain. It’s the moon, the Outer Moon. Just watch it peeping at us from above that lofty
tower. There are riches untold to be found here, below the Vault of Hungus the
Mungus. They’re covered in fungus.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Dirk. “Hungus, mungus, fungus. Stop behaving like a Bess
o’ Bedlam, you silly besom.”
Susan expressed her curiosity at a trianguloid yellow-brick obelisk that was
topped with a twisting copper spire.
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“The Tower of Pericles,” announced Fleance. “Now that’s worth a try. He was
our wealthiest ruler of the Renaissance era.”
Susan thought that the grumpy warden in the entranceway looked like a sickly lizard.
After considerable haggling, Dirk persuaded him to let them inside the tower for a
hundred dollars, whereupon the party marched into an empty chamber. Following
Ophelia’s prediction, they nevertheless discovered a dusty octagonal vault beneath the
chamber, containing only a trident and a telescope. After breaking through a partlyconcealed trapdoor in the floor of the vault and descending a second staircase, they
entered an antiquated dungeon with chains and skeletons hanging from the wall. It
contained three oak desks and piles of old parchments. Fleance opened his pouch and
put on his horn-rimmed spectacles, as Ophelia beamed with pleasure.
“Here’s a most-learned document,” he said. “It reveals the state secrets of the
Empress Maude. That’s excellent material for my Ph.D. thesis.”
“Screw your thesis!” exclaimed Dirk. “Where’s the bloody treasure?”
Ophelia peered at a pile of mangy manuscripts in the corner.
“I can see something beautiful with my X-ray eyes,” she declared. “God lives in
my eyeballs. They’re his most exquisite creations.”
While Susan was wondering whether they were proof of the existence of the
living God, Dirk rushed over to investigate, discovered no treasure at all and
yelled, “I’ll skin you alive, you daft scrubber.”
Fleance pointed at an ornament of a medieval knight that was imbedded into the
floor.
“Isn’t that admirable?” he said. “It’s the insignia of St. Grimwald.”
Lo and behold! When Fleance gave the knight a firm wrench, a purple tile slid
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away revealing a cavity packed with treasure, including a magnificent crown, an orb
and sceptre.
“Our original Imperial crown jewels,” he announced, with aplomb. “They were
lost long-ago after the death of Pericles. My people will be proud. ”
“How remarkable!” said Dirk, licking his lips, “I’ll take the credit and it should
make me a tidy profit too. I’ll give you students some extra pocket money.”
What preposterous arrogance, thought Susan. I doubt that Dirk is even familiar
with the history of these mystical jewels.
“Curse you!” yelled Fleance, only for Dirk to floor him with two painful kicks
in the shins and grab the Imperial crown.
Perhaps that will be the fate of all assertive Icarians, thought Susan, in dismay,
as Fleance grovelled in the dirt. Yet another low point for him, and just after he’d
achieved a remarkable success. But he’s no clay man. Maybe he will rise again from
the ashes like the Promethean firebird of his dreams.
The party contrived to smuggle the crown jewels out of the city in their rucksacks.
Charleston’s boss-eyed slave made his contribution by hiding the sceptre down his
trouser leg and running for his life when he saw a guard approaching. Once aboard the
Hercules, Charleston mobiled his Vice-Chancellor and asked him to send
his official bubblechopper over to take the crown jewels to the safety of the
University vaults.
The Vice-Chancellor whistled as shrilly as a demented call-girl, and shrieked,
“I’ll take a 10% cut, of course.”
“As long as I keep the remaining 90%,” replied Dirk, with a chuckle.
The pirate-like skipper looked gobsmacked by that piece of horse-trading.
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“Zoom away,” yelled the homely Apollo, and the Hercules sped off towards
Extravagance Bay to await the arrival of the chopper.
That evening, Susan helped the inefficient Icarian servant to cook a palatable supper.
After indulging in too much champagne, Kevin decided to ingratiate himself for once,
and proposed a toast to the further success of the expedition while effusively
congratulating Dirk on his accomplishments so far.
The Apollo skipper gurked, picked his nose and said, “What fucking
hogswallop. He’s no fucking God Almighty. He’s just a low-life creep who rips off
the profits and he deserves a fucking beam down his stinking throat and a sheet
around his neck.”
“You’re for the shithouse,” yelled Dirk, “and then you die, like a festering rat.”
“You both deserve to be dumped in a vat of strontium citride,” said Susan. She
needed to down two glasses of bubbly to recover her karma.
After the crown jewels had been safely dispatched to Trivoli, Dirk invited Ophelia
and the Icarian maid to party with him in his cabin. The servant cowered at the
prospect. Ophelia flushed deep vanilla and said that she’d already promised to go for
a walk with Kevin.
“I’ll let you off just this once,” said Dirk, with a sigh. “I’m left with the qinsies
then. -----Dear me! Just look at this one’s ugly chops. Thank goodness that I’m
versatile. So where’s Fleance when I’m lusting after him?”
But Fleance was speeding off towards the sunset to hunt for fossils on Picnic
Point. When Susan caught up with him on the pebbly beach, he turned, gleefully lifted
her up in his muscular arms and carried her into the shrubbery. While they were
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excitedly embracing each other, Dirk stood alone on the hoverdeck gazing forlornly at
the zigzagging beams of blue light.
Afterwards, Susan realised that she was in love up to her pretty neck.
“I’m yours, my darling,” she said.
“You make me feel twice the man that I am,” said Fleance.
“We’ll succeed together in life even if we are different sorts of people.”
“Perhaps we’ll go to the stars together, my precious dream-goddess.”
Kevin took care of Ophelia after spread-eagling her over a tree branch and
giving her an amusing tickle.
“You synthesise my brain cells,” she said, while cooling her forehead with fizzy
lemonade.
“You make me want to achieve something or other, googy gall,” he said.
“I do hope so, for your own sake, my darling,” said Ophelia. “I’m already welladvanced with my Ph.D. and heading for a dynamic career. While you’re unlikely to
get as far as me, you should complete your current projects as efficiently as you can.”
“Thank you for asserting yourself, my jolly dolly. I’ll do my level best.”
“We both become stronger when we’re entwined as one,” said Ophelia. “Just
pretend that we’re an eight-limbed humanoid. Now let’s have another hug.”
Susan, Kevin and their sweethearts got together later for a quiet conversation in the
Cavern of the Triffids. Fleance plonked himself down on a red sandstone rock and
expressed his dismay at the ways Dirk had mistreated him and threatened the skipper.
Kevin ruffled Fleance’s curly fair hair, and said, “Your nettlefokker of a
professorprat will do himself kein gut. Moreover, I’ve heard from several of his
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undergraduate tricks that his one and only testoculator looks like a Ruritanian snail.”
Ophelia gave Fleance a light kiss on the cheek, and said that if Dirk made one
more move on her then she’d twist off his crotch and stamp on his face.
“More confabs like this one could be beneficial,” said Susan. “Why don’t we
hold similar meetings as regularly as possible during the voyage? It would be a good
way of protecting each other.”
Fleance proposed that they call the group ‘The Four Troubadours’ since they
might wish to recite poetry or sing together. He illustrated his idea by singing the
Marseillaise. Ophelia grabbed hold of him and they danced the Vontobella together to
everybody’s delight.
This augurs well and I’ll enjoy bonding with Ophelia too, thought Susan. I’m
certainly going to self-identify as a Troubadour. All for one and one for all!
Susan took time out to survey the scenery. Extravagance Bay was flanked by a
towering black obelisk and the sharply-pointed Pyramid of Orestis. On the opposite
shore, the silver and gold bushes were overshadowed by the sprawling branches and
orange leaves of tall witherspoon trees. On the beach in front of her, green
soufflomuffins were scampering over the yellow torus-shaped pebbles while escaping
the attentions of the occasional orange feisto-crab. It’s so different from Lindesco,
Polzeath or Newquay, mused Susan, and it’s so much more colourful. Yes, life is so
unimaginably perfect.
Dirk emerged from his cabin at the crack of dawn with an extremely-confused
Scython and kicked the hung-over skipper out of his hammock, and the Hercules was
underway before the Scython could find his smelly socks. As the weather was mild,
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Kevin cast a line overboard and landed a smout, a particularly tasty breed of salmon,
and another tiny smout was followed by an enormous tug. But the third fish was only
a blubber-mouthed wrask, known for its thick skin and bland flesh.
Susan was wondering why Kevin hadn’t caught any mackerel yet, when he
hauled in his line again. It caught Dirk in a desperate tangle.
“Not my other jimmy!” shrieked Dirk, as he tore himself loose.
Not to be outdone, Number Seven went into full swing.
“Seven green suitcases sitting on a wall,” he chanted. “Seven green suitcases
sitting on a wall and, if seven green suitcases should accidentally fall, they’d be
seven green suitcases sitting on the wall. Suitcase, suitcase, -----, suitcase.”
“Shut your stupid face, you fucking creep,” yelled the skipper, most irascibly,
from the glass steering dome. “Here, you well-frigged Scython. You take the wheel,
while I nail the deranged cretin’s ears to the mast.”
As the Hercules entered the lengthy expanse of Lake Pepin, several huge barges
approached, bearing food and capital goods from the western archipelagos to Sidon,
Trivoli and the free cities near the source of the Dnieper. They look like inquisitive
probes from the artificial intelligence system in Berne, thought Susan, with her
twisted sense of perception, only to become aware of a speed launch approaching
from astern, its silver hull glistening in the rays of the morning sun.
“A present for you, Princess Susan,” cried a shrill voice, “just like we
promised.”
Aaaaargh! It couldn’t get more menacing than this, realised Susan, in terror, as
she felt a strong current of hot air whooshing past her ear.
The intemperate skipper collapsed screaming onto the deck with a metal bolt
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imbedded into his shoulder and writhed convulsively for about thirty seconds as if
poisoned by a noxious substance, before twitching several times and disintegrating
into an ugly mess.
When her companions fell transfixed to the deck, Susan believed that she was in
purgatory. When she looked up, gulping in fear, with the death threats of the previous
week reverberating around her mind, she realized that she was one of the intended
victims. To add to her horror, a diving firebomb, also propelled from the speed
launch, completely shattered the crystal-glass dome in the bow, though leaving the
steering column intact. The Scython pilot, Dirk’s conquest of the night before, was
incinerated into a pile of ashes.
While everybody left alive was screaming in terror, the enormous body of the
eagle-like fruitcase, that had been shot down earlier, flipped over the stern and onto
the deck.
“Watch out, Susan,” yelled Number Seven, leaping to his feet. “Seven more are
on the----.”
That was all Susan saw of that insane person, in one piece at least. He was
struck by a shell flying horizontally from the launch. His head flew overboard and his
body was strewn in pieces around the hoverdeck, as his soul yearned for human grief.
With no pilot at the wheel, the Hercules meandered haphazardly and without
adequate protection among the oncoming barges. A further shell narrowly missed its
portside and the passengers were drenched in a horrendous torrent of lake weed and
muddy water. There followed the terrifying fraker gun. Its red-hot beams pursued the
defenceless craft around the lake turning the water into spouts of steam.
Susan quaked in fear and desperation, and gave up the ghost. But there was a
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massive explosion and the pursuing launch vanished in a purple conflagration. That
was a thunderbolt from Heaven, she imagined, as she floated on a stream of semiconsciousness. Her skin felt red hot and a cloud of putrefying gas rushed into her face
as she collapsed onto the deck.
Forgive me, my good Lord, she agonized, as her soul rushed towards the
Heavenly Gates. So this is death; now comes the mystery.
When Susan’s soul reached the violet clouds of St. Gabriel, a pride of playful
cherubim bore her further aloft. As she approached the Crimson Cube of Heaven, she
saw St. Peter and St. Thomas guarding seven shimmering silver circles surrounding a
small pearly entranceway resembling a human ear. Her deceased Japanese bobtail cat
Trithagoras emerged and descended on bejewelled wings to greet her.
Meanwhile, the gases on Lake Pepin cleared in the breeze.
After lots of coughing and spluttering, Dirk peered over the gunwale and yelled,
quite manically, “What happened? My eardrums feel as funny as my brain, and
where’s my head?”
“We’re what happened,” replied a stern voice, as a mini-frigate zoomed up
alongside with several colourful characters aboard.
Dirk partly regained control of himself.
“Thank you for saving me, my good man,” he said, with a harrowed look. “Such
important people as me should, of course, always be protected.”
“We’re not here to molly coddle the likes of you, Sir,” said a middle-aged man
with comically large ears, wearing bronze breastplates and a purple rubber suit. “Your
snotty sort treats everybody like shit. We’re here to protect Susan Lindsay, and her
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tiresome brother Kevin too. Our highly covert MI98 cell has a different agenda from
the gang of MI99 ragamuffins that just attacked you.”
Upon hearing that, the Blessed Mother of God told Susan’s soul to turn turtle and
return to the Promised Land. She was borne by seven solemn seraphs through an
oyster-shaped green hole and saw her body lying prone on the hoverdeck just before
her soul re-entered her spleen. Her serenity turned back into anguish.
“More of them will attack us!” shrieked Susan, as she regained consciousness.
“They’ll keep coming, coming and coming. And coming.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” said the comically-dressed agent. “We’ll tag along for a
couple more days, just to make sure that you and Kevin are all right. Here’s a couple
of secromobiles, so that you can call us should you need help after that. We won’t
have time to trail you as far as the Shrine of Aleph though. So you’ll need to defend
yourselves against the evil spirits there.”
Kevin glared at the agent like a frightened cat.
“Why would you flaunters want to coddle us?” he asked.
“Because we regard you as royalty, young man, despite your propensity to
behave like a jerk. However, MI99 take a different view and think that you’re both
threats to the Imperial throne. You’ll doubtlessly learn why when you visit the
Convent of St. Drusilla.”
Susan became hysterical with excitement, largely in reaction to the petrifying
events and her near death experience.
“Are my parents there?” she asked, furiously tugging her hair. “My mother! My
mother. Where’s my mother?”
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“You should wait and see what that place has to offer, young lady We’ll of
course contact you again in the future, should the revolution in Westminster ever
actually happen. But don’t hold your breath, Your Highness. Now I’m sure that your
toffee-nosed boss here will want to keep quiet about all of this. Unless he’d prefer to
mysteriously disappear in a dung heap, that is. It’s funny how the vagabonds
and misfits vanish into thin air, isn’t it?”
Susan and Kevin later discussed why the agent said that they were royalty, and
Susan wondered whether she was descended from Harry the Ninth.
Dirk ordered his underlings to throw the skipper’s and Number Seven’s remains
overboard, without a song or a prayer, and to scrub the deck until it was spotlessly
clean. After letting the steering column cool down for several hours, he resumed
course, but at lower speed.
The rest-break gave Susan some opportunity to recover, though she spent most
of her time staring at the cloudy sky. She regained more of her wits while the
Hercules was limping towards the river estuary. When she saw an impressive hill fort
on an escarpment to the portside, she imagined that ancient warriors were waiting
there to protect her. And the Oceana port of Tibermouth looked most welcoming.
Susan was impressed by the pretty village of Drumkok on the opposite, more
northerly, bank. An American-style white dome and the redbrick buildings, which
once housed the Icarian Military Academy, dominated the background and an oldfashioned express train was speeding along behind the beach.
Susan clarified in her mind that she’d seen the Grim Reaper, his Apollo toygirls,
and Number Seven floating on an orange cloud, while she was travelling to Heaven.
She realised, through her sea of confusion, that she’d just survived a life-defining
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experience, and that after such a momentous watershed it was time to wise up and
start behaving more eruditely.
“That’s quite like the naval school in Zamara,” said Dirk, as they approached the
stone breakwater that stretched from the fishing harbour at Drumkok into the estuary.
Susan shivered in the wind coming in from the west. She saw massive layers of
yellow clouds gathering overhead and felt refreshed by a sweet aniseed-like smell
from the seaweed.
When the surviving Scython steered the Hercules towards Tibermouth, Dirk
rubbed his light-green back and caressed him like a lover.
When the waves of Oceana came into view, they filled Susan with awe and
admiration.
“It reminds me of the Pacific.” said Dirk, “when I saw it for the first time after
walking the length of Golden Gate Park, but Oceana has more character than that.”
Susan thought that Dirk was getting sentimental for once, but the Scython
expressed a different opinion.
“Keep your kinky hand away, you fucking creep,” he yelled. “Don’t put your
hex on me like you did to my mate. I hope that you fester in Hell.”
Now more fully functional, Susan recalled a dippy fellow student with a split
personality, how fights unexpectedly broke out around her, and how she’d influenced
the behaviour of strangers in apparently-paranormal ways. Perhaps Dirk’s a carbon
copy, thought Susan. Maybe he emits evil rays from his skull that invite a violent
response. She anyway concluded that he was an inhuman creature with a mind like a
cesspool who’d treated the deceased Scython and Number Seven unconscionably
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before their unceremonious deaths. If I wasn’t a forgiving person, she thought, then
I’d turn into a back-stabbing academic and find a way of hastening Dirk’s demise.
After they’d moored the Hercules alongside the yachts of the rich and famous
on the wharf at Tibermouth, Dirk tore the homely Icarian servant off a strip for her
disorganized work, gave her twenty dollars and told her to catch the next bus back to
Trivoli. After waving that biddy bye-bye, Dirk visited the log-cabin office of the
harbourmaster, who said that his unemployed brother-in-law would likely be willing
to serve as a replacement skipper. They phoned him while he was quarrelling with his
wife, and he eagerly accepted the chance of sailing to sea for some brief respite.
Dirk set off with Kevin for the slave market in the town square, saying that he
needed to replace the Icarian servant and the sadly-missed Scython. After strolling
past a row of sweet-smelling fruit stalls, Kevin was stunned by the sight of a
collection of rundown Icarian slaves, all chained together and plaintively begging for
food, and several dozen human ex-convicts, freshly released from the southern
swamps, some of whom had been subjected to ghastly tortures.
Dirk brightened up when the slave master, a slick-looking Rottpsycher,
drew his attention to the top prizes of the day, a brace of Trinkon twins aged about
seventeen with flowing curly-blonde hair and adorably-shaped bodies. Their waists
were tightly secured together with a cat-belt, their thighs and calves had been
savagely whipped Rhodesian-style and they were glancing around anxiously as if
wondering what they were in for next.
Kevin studiously eyed both of the Trinkons up while thinking that they
resembled a buttercop with concentric wings. The youth smirked, albeit sullenly,
when Kevin tickled his spine, but trembled angrily when the Englishman gave him a
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Cheam-style feel in an embarrassing spot. I’d like to put him in Never Never land,
thought Kevin.
An ugly man with ruby earrings sidled up to the boy, nibbled his ear and
scratched his chest. The girl squirmed when a prosperous Kuwaitian prodded her
stomach, felt her calves and inspected her feet, as if she was a racehorse. She looked
utterly terrified when Dirk felt her fulsome breasts and carelessly fingered her
rosebud. But to Kevin’s relief, Dirk stroked her face with tendresse. When she slowly
raised her eyelids, Kevin detected some mild feelings of endearment, perhaps in
reaction to an all too rare touch of affection.
“How much is this buxom wench?” inquired Dirk. “She looks ready for a lively
romp.”
“Only five grand, Sir.” replied the Rottpsycher, with a simper. “She’s been well
broken in and shouldn’t give you any trouble. I’m sure that you’ll get away with
putting her through her paces whenever you like, Sir, as you’re doubtlessly one of the
protected ones. I’ll throw in the brat for two more, for good measure.”
“He can double up as my factotum and deckhand,” said Dirk, surveying the
spoils. “I wouldn’t want to separate the lovely darlings and I do so miss my poor
Number Seven.”
The Rottpsycher flexed his slit-like mouth.
“I’m always glad to please, Sir,” he replied. “You’ll find them to be quite
versatile.”
“They can kneel at my feet and snip my toenails with silver scissors,” said Dirk,
with a complacent smile.
“How dare you treat us like this?” said the youth. “We’re of noble stock.”
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“You can shave my armpits, my princely Abd-el-Latif,” said Dirk, with a
demeaning sneer. “You’ll be the slave of the gracious one.”
That evening, the Four Troubadours huddled together on the end of Tibermouth
Wharf to discuss the terrifying events of the day. However, Ophelia was completely
unfazed, and said that she had enjoyed all the fireworks. When Susan gave a detailed
account of her journey to Heaven and back, Ophelia asked, “Did you meet St.
Colinius? He’s so revered in America.”
“That must have been the warmonger I saw on an asteroid,” replied Susan,
“hanging upside down from a fiery cross with his guts pouring out.”
When Kevin expressed his concern at the possibility of another attack by covert
agents, Fleance told him not to worry since they were all in the hands of Almighty
God. When Kevin gloated at the purchase of the naked Trinkon twins, Ophelia
playfully smacked his face and gave him a loving kiss.
This is going well, thought Susan, getting out her Anthology of Early English
Verse. Let’s see whether a poem by Wordsworth will create even more harmony
between us.
However, Susan was distracted by a fleet of fishing boats entering the estuary
from Oceana, overflowing with colourful Apollos and their catches of blue razor
shark, and gigantic septopuses with flowing tentacles. She got quite uptight
about the extent of the colonial oppression when an armed Mississippi-style
paddleboat flying the Flag of St. George sped out to meet the fishermen and
purloined several piles of their prize catch, but Fleance restored her karma by
reciting the verse,
“Oft I have heard of Lucy Gray
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And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day,
The solitary child.”
Upon hearing that, Susan forgot all about the fishing fleet and focussed her grey
matter on the problems of the young and footloose. She was consequently in a morerelaxed frame of mind when she helped the new slave girl to cook a delicious supper.
The girl’s brother dived in hungrily and devoured two large fish pasties in quick
succession.
After Kevin had polished off his smout, the academic colleagues tried to
recover further from their recent ordeals over a glass of beer, with the exception of
Dirk, who joked around like a self-proclaimed war hero recounting his narrow
escapes during battle. While his new slave boy was cutting his nails, the lad
accidentally jabbed his big toe, but Dirk just ruffled his hair and spun a yarn about
how he’d saved twelve sailors from a burning ship when he was a youth.
“The Izons would knock spots off you,” said Ophelia.
“A toast to our dear Number Seven as his seven souls depart to his seventh
heaven,” declared Dirk, collapsing in amusement.
After supper, Dirk, now replete with wine, challenged Susan, Kevin and Ophelia
to a game of Teutonic poker. Susan opted out, claiming tiredness. Even though Dirk
kept his cards close to his chest, he was no match for Ophelia, who seemed to Susan
to be able to discern her opponents’ hands with her X-ray eyes and to always have an
ace up her sleeve. He became more and more intoxicated as he lost yet another
twenty dollars, though he peered lovingly at his slave girl whenever she poured him a
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scotch.
“But she’s feckin illegal, feckin illegal, feckin illegal,” he kept moaning, quite
compulsively.
When Dirk was almost three hundred bucks down, he put his cards on the table
only for Kevin to scoop the house with a Royal Transylvanian flush.
“Screw you sideways,” exclaimed Dirk, as he made a grab at Ophelia, before
adding, with a slurp, “It’s my turn to lay you tonight, you crazy cheating tart. This
wide boy had his fill of you last night.”
“Get off me, you subhuman monster,” yelled Ophelia, only for Dirk to shove
his hand between her legs with the lightning reaction of a seasoned predator.
What a horrible lecher, thought Susan, as Kevin stood up angrily.
“Stop fucking over your students,” he yelled, with a swing of his fist that
knocked Dirk flat on the floor. While Susan thought that Kevin should have been
more concerned about the dire consequences of striking his employer, she saw that he
was relishing the feeling as Dirk writhed in pain and anguish.
“Now I’m a man of strength,” said Kevin, flexing his muscles. “I’ll take on
whatever prat stands in my way.”
He thinks that he’s growing up, thought Susan. What a laugh! To her surprise,
the slave girl burst into tears, and ran over and comforted her master while he
slobbered on her chest. Her brother smirked in amusement. They’re in love, thought
Susan. Perhaps Dirk’s in the throes of an affectionate relationship.
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CHAPTER 8: DRUMKOK AND BEYOND
The timeless lights beckon us towards the rocks and yet save us from disaster
Early the following morning, the Constellation of Cepheus faded from view, as a
green-and-orange aurora appeared in the northern skies. Susan was bedazzled by the
flashes of crimson and azure, but the new skipper ignored the spectacle entirely. He
was a fat-faced fellow with a mole on his chin, and trousers that drooped down to his
knees.
“I’m the greatest navigator on the entire planet, kiddies,” he declared. “I once
managed to escape from the Archipelago of the Sorceresses by negotiating the
Whirlpool of the Seven Dragons.”
“I hope that they didn’t masturbate and drench you with their red fluid,” said
Fleance, with a grin, “and you look as if you’ve been thrown off the stern of a pirate
ship.”
While Susan and Kevin were toasting bagels for breakfast, Dirk emerged from
his cabin with a relaxed smile on his face. He was accompanied by his beautiful
Trinkon girl, her curly locks glistening in the rays of the rising sun.
“Illegal?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Who really cares? And you’re
welcome to Ophelia and her sundry delights, Kevin. Thank you for knocking some
sense into me.”
Kevin didn’t bother to smile, and Susan debated how genuine Dirk’s
expressions of forgiveness really were. She recalled a friend who was a devout
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Christian but absolutely never apologised. However, when she debated how many
people really forgive and forget deep down, she included herself in the equation and
that put her into denial.
“Away she blows,” yelled the skipper, pulling up his baggy pants, and the Hercules
entered Oceana with the surviving Scython at the helm.
The Trinkon youth grieved for his imprisoned father, the former Baron of
Dalget, while swabbing the decks and eyeing the colourful north-western coastline of
Trystonia, as the hoverzoom veered to the starboard and into the old naval docks with
the decaying wooden hulk of the Constellation and the rusting Imperial submarine
Justinian languishing on their portside.
The former Icarian Military Headquarters consisted of a rundown barracks
housing a company of elderly Coldstream guards, and a defunct educational academy
where the desks were coated with grime. The ancient archives of the Icarian military
were maintained in a dusty library complex in its basement.
As the Hercules reached shore, Fleance sidled up to Kevin and whispered, “I
understand that you’re hoping to find the landing plans for our old battlefleet. You’ll
be lucky.”
“Where did you hear that?” asked Kevin.
“From a mutual Irish friend who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“I’m sure that I’ll be able to find the plans. There’ll be a hypercom catalogue
inside, though it may be encrypted.”
Fleance tilted his head like a seasoned expert.
“Let me make your task easier,” he said. “The code number of the document
you require is DC4321777. You’ll find it on the fourth shelf of the seventh stack on
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aisle seven. I sound just like Number Seven, don’t I?”
“Why are you being so co-operative? We’re ready to scorch yer cities when we
get really pissed off with you.”
Fleance next pulled a childhood trick that he’d sometimes used to confuse his
older brothers. He wrinkled his nose, assumed a vacant glazed expression and stared
at the horizon, leaving Kevin looking phased by the lack of verbal response.
“In the meantime,” said Fleance, as he suddenly came to life, “make the most of
your luck and try to further your career. “Perhaps I’ll make professor myself one day.
A really crafty one, of course.”
Fleance was pleased with himself. I’m helping my own people, he realised.
Maybe the bastards won’t be able to kick us around too much longer and I’ll be able
to roam free with pride.
When Susan, Kevin and Dirk entered the library complex, a sadly-deformed archivist
pointed them in the direction of the battlefleet hypercom top. Dirk entered the words
‘battlefleet landing scheme’ only to receive the response, ‘Welcome to Fingle. Please
enter encryption password and have a nice day.’
“Screw that,” he said. “Where’s Ophelia when we need her magical eyes?”
“I’m feeling telepathic myself after enjoying her company last night,” said
Kevin, with a facetious glance.
Kevin marched straight to the seventh stack on aisle seven and discovered a file
labelled DC4321777 sitting neatly on the fourth row.
“Thank you, Fleance,” he exclaimed. “You can marry my sister for that.”
“You confounded trickster,” yelled Charleston, as the siblings excitedly opened
the file. The Icarian landing plans involved complex elliptical spirals, just as Brad
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Redfoot had predicted. Kevin looked in awe at the equations but claimed that he’d be
able to find some modifications that would enable him to take more credit. Then
Susan discovered a description of adjustments to the landing scheme that were
applicable when the atmospheric pressure dropped between ten and fifteen percent.
“Problem solved,” said Kevin, puffing his chest. “That satisfies one of Linus’s
major requirements. Perhaps I’ll enrol for a quick Ph.D. or even an advanced D.Phil.”
Dirk promptly became more affable, as if he was addressing a kindred spirit.
“Great idea, old chap,” he said, stroking Kevin’s shoulder’s. “You remind me
of an insightful student of mine who earned his doctorate by filching the seminal
works by Magnus McGee on the Druidic hypotenuse from the Bodleian library. It’s
always important to snatch the credit when you can, young man.”
Perhaps academia isn’t my forté, concluded Kevin, as he visibly flinched.
When the party returned to the docks, they discovered that the colourful MI98 agents
had caught up with them in their mini-frigate. After a jovial exchange, the shortest of
the agents, a dwarf-like fellow, agreed to deliver the Icarian battlefleet landing plans
into the safe hands of Lieutenant Danny O’Gara while saying that his ship would be
returning to Trivoli that evening to pursue more urgent matters after trailing the
Hercules as far as the Caves of Janek. The business complete, Dirk poured his guests
a stiff rum and the party began. Susan enjoyed herself so much that she cuddled into
the plump, jolly agent. Kevin got into a chat with a wizened fellow from Gunnislake
about fishing for trout on the Tamar, and switched to gin-and-sin.
After Dirk had spliced the mainbrace, the dwarf-like agent declared, “Prosit!
God speed the plough!”
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When the Hercules set off again, the dwarf and his colleagues were still indulging in
gay repartee on their mini-frigate. Susan drank a soothing cup of coffee and admired
the heavily-wooded coastline that was interspersed with tiny villages and ancient
Icarian forts. She was impressed to see Dirk kissing his slave girl with his
arm around her brother’s shoulders. She decided that he was treating him like a son,
and she thought that was sweet.
To Susan’s consternation, the Scython pilot was drinking methanol straight out
of a bottle and becoming increasingly intoxicated and incoherent. She concluded that
this was in reaction to the shameful way Dirk had treated him and his friend.
“Nuts, craps, cunt-like bastards, poofs, predatory Normans and more crap,”
yelled the Scython, before collapsing legless onto the hoverdeck.
Everybody stood around looking flabbergasted as the Hercules zigzagged
haphazardly through the waves.
“Let’s drop by Tintaton Bay to regroup,” said Fleance. “Perhaps we’ll find my
Sigmoid friends there.”
“I thought that sigmoids were fancy curves,” said Kevin, “that economists use to
mesmerise the populace into thinking that they ken sommit.”
“These dickie birds think that they’re the priests of Merlo,” said Fleance, “but
don’t believe them either.”
The skipper took the helm and headed towards the coast. As they entered the bay,
Susan was astounded to see a school of gigantic swan-like creatures gliding towards
them.
“The High Priest of the Sigmoids,” announced Fleance, tongue in cheek, as the
leader of the creatures leapt out of the water, soared through the air and landed on the
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hoverdeck.
When standing upright on its webbed feet, the bird was over nine feet tall. Susan
was gobsmacked when it tweaked its beak and said, “Greetings from the archangels,
Fleance, and a blessing on you all from Merlo, and upon the animals, flowers and
trees, not to forget the tasty fish and birds.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Fleance. “We’ve blessed the Sigmoids and your
archangels since the beginning of time.”
“You’re welcome, my son. We will always be here should you need us.”
“Maybe the day will come soon, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps I could let you into a heavenly secret, Fleance. We hear that you’re
about to visit the Convent of St. Drusilla. According to information handed down
through many generations of Sigmoids, a magical shrine was once carved by the
archangels into a rock layer fully forty cubits below the convent. Divine treasures
are waiting there to be unearthed, including a golden corona.”
“How absolutely awesome,” exclaimed Dirk, “and we should be able turn a
handsome profit when we auction off the treasures, divine or not.”
“You’ve got a one track mind, you miserable rotter,” exclaimed Susan.
“Don’t pick on me, you smarmy bitch. When those chancers from Berlin
discovered the Holy Grail in an antiques shop in Baghdad, they only paid five bucks
for it, before selling it for a mint.”
“My goddess,” declared Ophelia. “My goddess. We’ll find my goddess.”
“Just shut your beak, you stupid harlot, or I’ll brain you.”
“Judge not, my son,” said the high priest, with a piercing frown, “and you
should treat whatever you find with respect. Heaven can retaliate in insidious ways.”
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The Scython pilot had now partly recovered and was sitting up, staring in
astonishment.
“What are you doing here, you big twerp?” he yelled. “You’re just a stupid
duck.”
“I’m the High Priest of Merlo,” replied the Sigmoid, looking considerably
affronted.
“High Priest? My straggly pubes. Screw off back to your lily pond and fucking
drown yourself.”
Susan was unprepared for the toughness of the Sigmoid’s reaction.
He flexed his extremely-long neck and declared, “And you’re just a miserable
Scython, you smidgie mouse. Your end is nigh, you mithering green-faced heathen.
You’ll be reduced to ashes and fed to the fish.”
Kevin looked quite appalled by that prospect.
“How do you ken that for a Rabbie Burns?” he asked.
“Because we communicate with the archangels, my child. They’ll take care of
him.”
“Would you like to stay for a refreshing glass of wine?” asked Dirk. “Why don’t
you sprinkle us with the wine of forgiveness and the water of life?”
“Another time, my son,” replied the Sigmoid, as he soared into the air.
“Godspeed!”
The Hercules stayed in Tintaton Bay while everybody put their act together. When
Susan inquired about the ruined fortifications on the cliff top, Fleance said they’d
been put there by a medieval Duke of Cornwall to propagate the Arthurian legend on
Qinsatorix.
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Kevin rowed over to the pebbly beach to spend a penny and discovered a
wooden box in the rocks engraved with the name Guino. When he returned, Dirk
glanced at his Trinkon deckhand and told him to take over the helm. When they reentered Oceana, Susan admired the youth’s limbs as he stressed and strained against
the wheel, and savoured his testosterone as it oozed down the hoverdeck, though she
was briefly distracted by a shoal of sea serpents cavorting on the port beam.
Susan was debating how the reactionary Sigmoid knew Fleance when her
lover’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“There’s the Lighthouse of Hypatia,” said Fleance, as a bright flashing beacon
appeared to the north-north-east. “It was built before the beginning of recorded
history and, quite mysteriously, its flame seems to be ever eternal. It once guided our
ships through the Rocks of Helios-Jagapontor.”
When Susan set her eyes on the sacred lighthouse, she noticed a small blip
appearing from the clouds to its left. When the blip grew closer, it assumed the shape
of a flying saucer. After circling around several times, it descended to about twohundred feet and hovered at that altitude above the now-stationary hoverzoom.
“Batten the hatches!” yelled Charleston, but Susan was more enthralled than
terrified. Is this a supernatural experience? she wondered, as the saucer, maroon and
about five-hundred feet in diameter, partly blocked out the rays of the sun. When she
returned her attentions to the hoverdeck, she was amazed to see that Fleance was
vibrating like a gob-stricken zombie, and shrouded in white light. Meanwhile, Ophelia
was comforting the Scython, who looked extremely frightened having turned
yellowish-green.
When Fleance regained his composure, he raised his hands in the air like a prophet
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being deified.
“This is my son in whom I am well pleased,” bellowed a voice from above.
“They’re calling me,” cried Fleance. “I’m coming of age.”
He could be responding to God himself, thought Susan. Perhaps my lover’s
a Messiah. But she was aghast to see that the Scython’s head was frying deep red.
There was a flash of purple light from the saucer, and the wretched fellow’s body
burst into flames and disintegrated into a cloud of hot dust that blew away in the
breeze. The remains of his skull fell sizzling onto the hoverdeck, and Susan detected
a horrible smell when his brains turned to treacle.
“Mercy, mercy,” howled Dirk. “I’ll burn in Hell.”
Susan concluded that the gods weren’t after Dirk since his face was too pink,
and she felt relieved that Fleance was golden again, though looking none too holy.
She thought that the Sigmoids must have contacted their archangels, who
subsequently put paid to the poor Scython. But she wondered what the fiends in the
saucer wanted from her boyfriend.
Dirk calmed down somewhat. However, he was still drooling at the mouth when
his eyes went scary scary. Susan recoiled in horror as a screaming came from across
the sky, and several youths with steaming red bodies fell from the spaceship in chains
and flailing their limbs, only to be torn to shreds by a school of striker-sharks that was
patrolling below.
“How Pynchonesque,” exclaimed Dirk. “The control freaks up there are well
into making sport with humans.”
“Begone, evil spaceship,” wailed Ophelia, as the saucer spiralled through the
clouds.
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When the Hercules headed off again, Susan remained extremely agitated. She
however used her new secromobile to contact the MI98 mini-frigate just to her south.
When she reported the appearance of the spaceship to an agent with a melodious
Welsh accent, he said, “Yes, we saw it too, and it’s recently been sighted at several
locations around the planet. I don’t believe in the supernatural; we’re, in all
likelihood, faced with a band of rogues from another planetary system who the
Sigmoids accidentally beamed into. Now that they’ve silenced your outspoken
Scython, I doubt that they will attack you again. However, I’ll alert our battlefleet and
they may provide you with an escort. Perhaps those pretentious Sigmoids should be
chopped up for the food market. We’ll look into that.”
Late that afternoon, they moored the Hercules by a sandy beach below the Cliffs of
Woden. After downing a tiffin of brandy with the fat-faced skipper, Dirk, Kevin and
Fleance sat around planning the next day’s trip to the nearby Caves of Janek. Both
Ophelia and Susan were keen to accompany them in order to recover from their
grotesque ordeal with the maroon spaceship.
During the evening, the Four Troubadours met for an hour or so behind Eros’s Rock.
After deciding to Fronko-block the worst of their recent memories, they played
acrobatic games together while splashing in the surf. How beautiful, thought Susan,
the seaweed smells like hyacinths here. A vibrant conversation ensued. When Kevin
expressed his distaste for the Sigmoids, Fleance asserted that all creatures were the
same deep down, and that they all have ‘normal hearts’.
“Even the beasts in that spaceship?” asked Ophelia, getting into a tizzy.
“Some creatures don’t have feckin hearts,” said Susan.
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Fleance praised Kevin to the hilt after the enthusiastic young man bragged about
discovering the Icarian battlefleet plans, and Susan wondered why her lover had been
so keen about that. On the way back, she and Ophelia stopped to smell the roses, and
they picked three large bunches of multi-coloured maribells and pure-white
cadflowers with long silver stems. That was a relaxing interlude, thought Susan. Now
on to further adventure!
The following morning, the weather was middling to fair. Fleance bravely led
the party of five academics when they set off dressed in boiler suits and carrying their
archaeological gear, caving helmets, carbide lamps and booty bags.
The cave entrance was as horrendous as the one Kevin had once struggled into
in Buckfastleigh that led to the infamous Afton Red Rift. It was imbedded into a
limestone rock face about half-a-mile down the coast and was only eighteen inches in
diameter.
After crawling along a tight passage about a hundred-feet long, they reached the
Corycian Cavern, a magical chamber decorated by corkscrew stalactites and gigantic
mushroom-like stalagmites where Fleance had previously excavated three nymphs
and a centaur-like creature.
Since Fleance knew that the chamber had already been thoroughly excavated,
the party proceeded with some difficulty through Sebastian’s Squeeze and into the
Cavern of the Spherics. The walls of this chamber were festooned with prehistoric
cave paintings of ancient battles between golden-skinned Icarians and tribes of semihumanoids with spherical bodies, narrow heads and spidery limbs, who’d since
become extinct. Several elephantine creatures were rolling two of their enemies down
a steep slope.
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“They’re mammophiles,” said Fleance, “and a fossil of one of them is imbedded
into that big rock over there. We’ll meet some living ones later.”
After lots of hammering and chipping, Fleance and Kevin managed to prise a
small portion of the mammophile’s tusk out of the rock face, their first achievement
of that enterprise, but Dirk said, “Let’s go for the important stuff.”
Since the next few chambers only yielded octopod and cantosaur fossils,
Fleance guided the party into largely uncharted regions. But when they reached a
stream flowing down a steep rift, Susan wanted to give up.
However, Ophelia declared, “That’s the way.”
At Dirk’s insistence, the party struggled through the fast-descending stream until
they reached a small cavern highlighted by a stalagmite that resembled a giant twisted
slug. When Susan raised her lamp, she noticed a well-preserved fossil imbedded in
the far wall.
“Look at that,” she said. “It reminds me of my adoptive mother.”
“It may be a fully grown humanoid,” said Fleance, in delight.
But, after chipping away a sliver of femur with his excavator’s knife and using
his anthro-kit to perform a preliminary assessment, he said, “I’ll have to confirm this
when I return to the ship. It seems to be human, but not as extraordinary as last time
time; perhaps only forty-thousand-years old.”
“How boring,” said Kevin, with a yawn. “Let’s go back and sleep.”
“Where’s the older human skeleton that I discovered last time?” asked Dirk.
“It’s in that chamber to our left,” said Fleance, with an unappreciative scowl.
However, Ophelia was focusing her eyes on a passage to the right.
“Neanderthals,” she yelled, twisting her hair, “Neanderthals.”
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Dirk reacted to that outburst by sitting down and swallowing several pink punko
pills.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “I can’t take the hype.”
Susan and Fleance held hands and stared at the slug-like stalagmite for fully twenty
minutes while Kevin and Ophelia hugged each other and exchanged amusing jokes.
That annoyed Dirk, since he thought that he was the butt of the humour, and he
frowned, grimaced, and told everybody to continue the search at pace.
After crawling for half an hour through sludgy mud, the party reached a cavern
that resembled the insides of a whale. The group gazed in awe at an ugly fossil
imbedded into the floor. Fleance performed an anthro-synthesis test.
“I think that these are the remains of an early species of Neanderthal,” he said,
“well over a million years old.”
“Neanderthals only appeared on Earth about two-hundred-thousand years ago,”
said Dirk, as Ophelia studiously filmed a holo-movie. “If you can confirm your
findings with more-definitive tests this evening, Fleance, then this would show that
Neanderthals first lived on Qinsatorix before travelling to Earth, presumably by
rudimentary teleportation.”
Susan pointed at a more-appealing fossil, partly hidden behind a stalactite.
“That looks like my old Sunday School teacher,” she said. “She was such a
homely ape-leader.”
When Fleance performed a test on a sliver from the creature’s jaw, he went
ecstatic.
“It’s similarly impressive to our find last time,” he said. “It’s doubtlessly a
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modern human and about three hundred thousand years old.”
“That’s impossible,” said Dirk, with a rude grimace. “It’s much too close to the
Neanderthal fossil that you say is far older than that.”
But Fleance had recently achieved an A star on an advanced intramural course
that addressed the research frontiers of palaeontology.
“We discovered the other fossil in a much older geological layer,” he said,
raising his eyebrows, “and the more recent layer twists around like a mathematical
manifold. I could count off the years, in blocks of about fifty thousand, if you really
want me to.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” said Dirk, eating humble pie. “It would seem that
modern humans did indeed live on Qinsatorix before migrating to Earth. It is, of
course, always preferable to replicate your findings, before getting carried away.”
“They probably migrated via the teleportation chamber under Atalanta Bay,”
said Susan.
“I got that idea first!” exclaimed Dirk, with an envious glare.
“Tell me the same old story,” said Fleance, “but didn’t your Plato claim that
Atlantis was situated on the Greek island of Thera?”
“Nobody believes that twerp any longer.”
That evening, Fleance validated his key findings by performing several moreconclusive tests. The other troubadours were so proud of him that they took him into
the woods for a reading of ‘A Roman’s Chamber’ by Shelley.
Ophelia sounded like Sappho when she recited the verse,
“In the cave which wild weeds cover
Wait for thine ethereal lover,
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For the pallid moon is waning,
O’er the spiral cypress hanging,
And the moon no cloud is staining.”
Although Susan was somewhat inspired by the ditty, she was glad when nobody
wanted to read another verse.
“How about a group cuddle?” she said.
“Why don’t we all get touchy feely?” said Fleance, as he caressed Susan’s neck
and scratched Kevin’s stomach. Not to be outdone, Ophelia tweaked Kevin’s ear and
leant lovingly into Susan. And when Kevin suggested a novel way of pairing off,
everybody laughed and shut their eyes.
Later on, Susan said how much she admired Ophelia’s ruby-encrusted cupid,
and Kevin cracked a joke about sixty-nine while Fleance was giving him a more-thanbrotherly kiss. While the young ladies were relaxing hand in hand together, Susan
noticed a gigantic slitherer winding through the undergrowth and gobbling up a dark
blue juggetty-toad. Much to her relief, a crimson eaglet dived from the skies and
carried the serpent off in its claws into the multi-coloured sunset.
Meanwhile, Kevin was sitting on a mossy bank with Fleance firmly ensconced
between his muscular legs. But while Kevin was fondling his convivial companion’s
diamond-shaped nipples, he saw a two-headed yeti lurking in the bushes and ran for
his life.
Isn’t group sex stimulating? thought Susan. I’ll include this in my research
program. Perhaps the academics will give me the opportunity to see some all action
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heap sex sooner or later. They sometimes throw in a few chimps, along with their
students, for good measure.
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CHAPTER 9: THE CONVENT OF ST. DRUSILLA
It’s all in the name of Jesus, as they say
Over breakfast the following morning, fresh from his colleagues’ successes, and safe
in the knowledge that the Icarian crown jewels were under close guard in the
University vaults, Dirk declared that he expected to make further important finds at
the Convent of St. Drusilla.
The drizzly smorr swirled in from the west and dispersed the haar as the
Hercules progressed around the now rocky coastline. After thirty miles or so, the
fabled Lighthouse of Hypatia came into full view with the towering statue of that
great pagan goddess at its apex. The convent was nestled in the hills above a red
sandy beach.
After they’d moored at an elegantly carved stone jetty, Susan and Kevin set off to
reconnoitre. Susan recalled her conversation with the MI98 agent in the purple rubber
suit and was keen to learn precisely why the rival MI99 regarded them as threats to
the royal succession. She therefore determined to meet Mother Rebecca as soon as
possible. In her heart, she knew who the lady really was. The siblings pursued an
over-zealously signed pathway that zigzagged upwards to the convent, only to be
confronted by a wrinkly-faced character dressed like a nun and with a couple of
missing front teeth.
“Why, here’s a couple of juicy young folk, ripe for cherry picking,” said the
troll-like individual, with a high class, masculine English accent. “You look familiar,
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and I like getting familiar. I’m Sister Frances. That’s who I am. Great jumping
brontosauruses! My brain’s feeling like a big thick cucumber.”
“You’re not going to pick us, mate,” said Kevin, “and who were you yesterday?
I bet that your memory’s a sieve.”
“What an impertinent little pixie! Who cares whether I was Nebuchadnezzar, the
Empress Theodora or Joseph of Arimethea? But hold your reindeers. I was Francis of
Assisi when I was a bloke. Now that I’m a woman, I’ve discovered my true self, that
was always trapped inside the tip of my long red nose struggling to get out. That’s
called McNamara’s syndrome, that is, after the loopy Professor of Cybernetics at
Glasgow who goes twitch, twitch, twitch. Come into my parlour, my luv’ly kiddies,
and discover the delights of good raunchy fun.”
“We were hoping to meet your mother superior,” said Susan, maintaining her
dignity and trying hard not to swear. “We’re members of an archaeological
expedition, and we’re searching for fossils and holy relics.”
“You’ll certainly find some old fossils here, my dears. I’m sure that Mother
Rebecca would be delighted to welcome you to her spider’s web, like the big black
spider she is. Spider, spider, spider. Weave your web.”
“You’re not fazing me, you old fool,” said Kevin.
“I’ll faze you while you gaze. I am the godhead, and you are the godhead.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Kevin, looking aghast.
“Gobble my feathers! Now follow me, my children, until we reach the Promised
Land. There’re lots of goodies for you there. I’m Moses, in drag. That’s who I am.
Come along with me now and kill off a few hard-working Canaanites.”
After her experiences with Ophelia and Number Seven, Susan was fascinated to meet
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another crazy person. She remembered that downtown Atalanta was inundated
with mentally disabled people who’d been thrown out, full of mind drugs, from the
Royal Beatrix, and she appreciated that many families hide their more eccentric
members in the cupboard. Perhaps craziness is the norm, she later debated. Maybe
apparently normal people are the utterly insane ones if they’re too conventional. The
aggregate behaviour of society is well known by mathematicians to be irrational,
given only the competing behaviour of subgroups of its members. Therefore, people
who behave like sheep and adhere to all the conventions of society make themselves
wacky in the process. And the self-serving papier maché organisations that confuse
the unfortunate could create group psychoses, as could the quangos and their
manipulative drones.
Society could drive anybody mad, Susan would conclude. Maybe this accounts
for the mind trolls that Isadore discussed with us in Atalanta. And perhaps some
supposedly-mad people are, deep down, slightly saner than lofty personages like the
president and generalissimo. Maybe Sister Frances is saner than me. Perhaps the more
conventional people here will put me in a state of mystification.
The convent was constructed in white brick on three sides of a courtyard, like a
Spanish mission. The area was thriving with nuns, and young human and Icarian
children who were happily playing holo-games, cratch-craddle and an ancient form of
hopscotch together. The human nuns were dressed in green robes, but the Icarian nuns
only wore white hoods.
A golden-skinned nun hurried up to greet the siblings with a delighted
expression on her porcelain-like face.
“As Jesus-loving Nestorian Christians, we welcome all the poor and
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disadvantaged through our doors,” she said. “Welcome, and welcome to you.”
“You’re magic,” said Susan, “and do the miserly civil authorities provide you
with any crumbs of financial support?”
“Not an ounce. They’d gladly exile us to the Jurassic Jungle.”
Susan noticed an eccentric group sitting in the corner of the courtyard. This
confirms that there are untold numbers of insane people on this planet, she surmised.
“I see that you even comfort the nutters,” she said.
“Their health usually improves no end when we reduce their medication,”
said the nun, “and release them from their mind-bending biochemical straightjackets,
though the big creamy Apollo was uncontrollable until the nuns started to give him
holistic backrubs.”
Susan was most impressed by the care and attention being lavished on the
patients by several kindly nuns, who were soothing a mixed bag of humanoids, and
even a forlorn-looking Sigmoid, in a variety of ingenious ways.
“How feckin philanthropic,” she said. “I’m glad that some people bounce off
their arses and take notice.”
“Thank you so much for those sentiments. Now let me take you to see Mother
Rebecca. She’s in one of her good moods today, I think. Please be as respectful as
possible. She thinks that she’s an interplanetary spiritual personage like that damned
Lama guy.”
Susan and Kevin were ushered into a large room with a magnificent view of the
Lighthouse of Hypatia. The mother superior was sitting on an ebony throne in the
centre of the room with a dark blue veil over her face, and her fading hair flowing
over her slightly bent shoulders.
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After a stunned silence, she said, “I suppose that I was expecting you, my
children, after seeing you on teleview and recognising your names from the past. I
can’t say that I’ve been relishing the experience.”
“I believe that I know who you are, or rather how you are related to me,” said
Susan, becoming extremely excited. “I think that your initials were A.V.C. in your
previous life.”
The mother superior nervously raised her veil, revealing the gaunt elegant face
of a woman in her early-fifties.
“You are not as perceptive as you think, my niece,” she said. “I am Princess
Rebecca Von Coburg. Your mother Alexandra is my younger sister and your father is
Peter Wiltshire, a fisherman from Yarmouth. They were exiled to this planet
following the scandal surrounding your births. I was not entirely blameless, and I
accompanied them here with most of the family wealth. While you may experience
some difficulties in meeting them, I’ve at least been able to send you ample funds
ever since.”
Susan was absolutely crestfallen and lost for words. I simply knew that my
mother was here, she agonized. My expectations were so high and now my hopes
have been dashed.
While Kevin looked similarly disappointed, he said, “Well at least we’ve
discovered the true identities of our parents at last.”
“Do you have any quirk of an idea where they are now?” asked Susan, perking
up slightly.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Mother Rebecca, looking rather
frightened, “but I’m very sad to say that they were arrested in August 2374 soon after
our arrival in Trivoli and imprisoned in the Münchenhaus Fortress on the Archipelago
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of the Termites. Despite my persistent inquiries, I’ve not been able to discover
anything more about them to this very day.”
“What terrible sort of scandal was that?” asked Kevin, as Susan burst into tears.
The mother superior groaned. “What shame. What terrible shame! I’ve worn
sackcloth and ashes for too long. Why should I now be stricken with more terrible
shame? Thank goodness that the lurid details escaped the attentions of the tabloid
press.”
Kevin gave Mother Rebecca a curious look, as if expecting to learn more, but
she began to pray to herself.
“You’re as feckin beautiful as my mother,” said Susan, as she struggled to
regain her composure. “You look somewhat like her picture in my locket.”
“Thank you, Susan,” said Mother Rebecca. “You will be beautiful too.”
“But I’m confused. A covert agent recently intimated that I’m of royal descent.”
“We’re descended from Charles Edward Saxe-Coburg, the youngest and muchdefamed grandson of Queen Victoria, and also from the great Elizabeth via her pretty
great granddaughter Anna-Rose who married the handsome philanthropist Baron Max
Von Coburg.”
“So what happened when the main line of the House of Windsor became extinct
in 2253? Didn’t the Melroses assume the throne?”
“Those dreadful philistines usurped the Von Coburgs’ rightful claims after
insinuating that we were neo-Nazis, and we’ve been ruled by them ever since.
However, following the gross misbehaviour of the current emperor with his favourite
apes from Gibraltar and his platoon of the King’s Own Artillery, there’s a growing
movement to depose him and send him and his lovers to Tristan da Cunha.”
“That sort of misfit deserves no feckin sympathy at all,” said Susan. “Capers
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with his very own soldiers indeed!”
“As undisputed heir to the Von Coburg line, I have a chance of becoming Queen
Empress in preference to his decrepit brother and two other rival claimants, in which
case you would be heir apparent. These possibilities have recently, to our sadness and
misfortune, been the cause of bitter intrigue and infighting. Even you are not safe.”
So I could become Queen Empress myself one day, pondered Susan. The MI99
agents must have attacked us on the River Tiber because they didn’t want me to
discover my destiny. And they were doubtlessly responsible for all those vitriolic
phone calls. Perhaps the agents on the Union Terrace threatened us because my
mother is royalty.
“Are you protected by the dudes at MI98?” asked Susan. “Those guys saved my
life only yesterday. Do you know whether they have an agenda to defend the interests
of the Von Coburg line?”
“Two of my nuns are their agents and they’ve protected me so far,” said
Mother Rebecca. “Now why don’t you both stay for a chat over a tasty cup of
peppermint tea?”
The siblings and the mother superior spent the next hour or so in genial conversation
while admiring the surrounding cliff tops and the ships drifting across
Oceana. What perfect bliss, thought Susan, as a nun came in with a tray of strawberry
fritters.
“You’ll also have a chance to meet my cousin Sister Frances,” said Mother
Rebecca, as she poured the siblings their umpteenth cup of tea.
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“We’ve already had that pleasure, Auntie,” said Kevin, while Susan nibbled a
fritter.
“The poor creature went off the deep end after a money-grubbing
psychocryptanalyst persuaded him into that evil surgery. Before that he was a
relatively sane, though useless, aristocrat called Prince Francis Nettleheim. You’d
never believe it from his wrinkles, but he’s ten years younger than me. Don’t be
scared of him. He makes moves on all the boys and girls, but he never gets
anywhere.”
“Can you explain why my sister and I fancy each other so intensely ?” blurted
Kevin, sounding as if he was talking through the haze of his bygone youth.
“Come along, dear. All siblings have platonic feelings like that.”
“Not as mind-bogglingly as I do.”
“You should shove those sorts of thoughts to the back of your head, as my dear
father used to say, before he went demented.”
Susan once again felt totally embarrassed by her brother and wished that he
would keep his silly mouth shut. Upon reflection, she wondered whether Kevin felt
close to solving the troublesome mystery regarding their incestuous feelings, and
whether the solution lay in their genes.
Later on, still dumbfounded by Mother Rebecca’s revelations, Susan watched Fleance
and Kevin digging a hole in the courtyard, surrounded by a crowd of gawping
children. Unfortunately, all they could come up with was an ancient copper coin that
had been put there for Histwatch.
“Try the Chapel of St. Jamaladakka and St. Paul,” said Sister Frances, excitedly
pulling up her skirts. “Holy ghosts and demons. Scary demons. Sexy ghosts. Yes, St.
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Paul. Timothy, Timothy! Circumcise your boyfriend like the prick you are.”
“Stop being so fucking obnoxious,” said Kevin.
“Don’t throw stones, my son,” said Sister Frances. “O, Timmy boy, keep that
which is committed to thy trust, avoid profane and vain babblings, and oppositions of
science falsely so called.”
“What tommyrot,” said Kevin, with a suspicious glare.
“Try reading the Bible, you unholy rapscallion.”
The chapel suggested by Sister Frances was in a crypt under the southern wing
of the chapel. It contained an altar, portraits of the first century St. Jamaladakka and a
remarkably ugly St. Paul, and little else. Fleance scrutinized the stone walls and floors
for openings but couldn’t detect any, and therefore decided to use his geoscanner.
While there was no indication of an open basement under the floor, he discovered the
profile of a hidden doorway in the curved south-east corner of the crypt.
“There’s a legend that St. Drusilla was incarcerated and starved to death
somewhere around there,” said an elderly nun with a hairy lip.
After obtaining permission from the friaress, Fleance super-liquidated the wall
around the doorway. When the temperature had cooled down, he marched into a small
windowless cell furnished only with a bed and a table. He saw a skeleton on the floor,
and was about to examine it when Ophelia irreverently kicked it out of the way and
fell to her knees in prayer.
“The Bones of Christ,” she declared, staring vertically downwards. “The Bones
of Christ.”
“What do you mean, you stupid bitch?” asked Dirk Charleston. “You said that
we would find your goddess here.”
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“I’m not infallible.”
“The Sigmoids have advised us that we’ll find a holy shrine about forty cubits
below the convent,” said Fleance, keeping his cool. “That’s sixty feet. So we have
about forty-five feet to go. What do you think, Ophelia?”
“That’s the way to Jesus,” said Ophelia, sounding telepathic.
When Fleance geoscanned the floor, he discerned that there was a circular cavity
beneath the tiles. After liquidating the corresponding area of the floor, he reeled at the
stench. He’d uncovered an ancient well.
“Unfortunately, it’s over two hundred feet deep,” he said, after a further
application of his geoscanner. “A stream at the bottom explains the foul odour.”
“The holy shrine wouldn’t be that low,” said Dirk, “but I don’t want to risk
descending too far, for any cocksucker’s bones, unless I know where I’m heading.”
After considerable debate, they borrowed a winch and bucket from a well in the
courtyard and, having determined that this was a safe enough thing for a slave to do,
they lowered Fleance through the stench. After several minutes of coughing and
sputtering, he discovered a doorway in the wall of the well and peered into a
subterranean chamber.
“Stop!” he yelled. “This is all Dirk could have ever dreamt about. Lower him
down next, followed by Kevin.”
After a brief panic attack, Dirk bravely descended in the bucket, dived through
the doorway and landed in a cavernous space lit by an eternal flame. On the far wall
there was a mural depicting eleven criminal-like humans in biblical garbs, fawning
around a wild-looking man with straggly hair who was taking a swig out of a bottle. A
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radiantly-handsome youth was kneeling at the overweight man’s feet with his arms
raised in supplication.
“He’s just like me when I was a teenager,” exclaimed Dirk, in delight.
Perhaps Dirk sucked up too, thought Fleance, like the turd he is.
Beneath the mural, Fleance discerned the words:
Christus Deo
Venite Adoremus
Dominum
in golden script. On the ground in front of the mural there lay the neatly-arranged
bones of a skeleton, together with a pewter plate and cup, two wine bottles and a
glistening aureola corona. Fleance distinguished the names Judas and John under two
portraits flanking the mural. These helped him to identify a genial man in the mural
who was hugging the presumed Christ around the shoulders as Judas, and the
supplicant youth as John.
Fleance, already a skilful archaeologist, turned to examine the skeleton.
“It would appear to be a male human,” he said, “though I can detect some slight
anomalies in its hipbones.”
“Why are its vertebrae in such an unholy mess?” asked Kevin, as he took several
snipshots.
“They’ve been severed, possibly with an axe. That’s consistent with him being
beheaded and with stories that Christ was executed in this way after ascending to
Qinsatorix in AD28. There are also bone fractures in his side and through his wrists
and ankles. So I suppose he really was crucified before his Ascension.”
After further examination of the bones with his anthro-kit, Fleance drew the
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tentative conclusions that they were of a person who died around 30 AD and
that he was thirty-five-years old at the time, plus or minus two-or-three years.
“That seals it,” said Dirk, in triumph, grabbing the skeleton’s skull. “We’ve
discovered the bones of the living Christ. He was flesh and blood after all, despite
what those wretched Catholics say. Fame and glory awaits us. Royal Society of
London, here we come!”
“You can’t take that, you mean twat,” said Kevin. “It’s sacred and it may get
angry with you.”
Dirk nonchalantly stuffed the skull into his booty bag along with the golden
crown and the cup, and handed Kevin the portrait of St. John.
“Anything for fame and wealth,” he said. “You’ll get your cut. Bring along the
picture of that scoundrel Judas. It could raise another thirty big silver ones.---And
that plate.”
While Fleance felt dismayed by Dirk’s greedy behaviour, he was glad that he
and Susan would be able to savour yet another career success.
That evening, Susan and Kevin spent two or three more hours talking with Mother
Rebecca and they all got on extremely well with her. Susan thought that it was
wonderful to have a supportive older relative in their lives, particularly as she’d
provided them with so much financial assistance during their upbringing. Sister
Frances came in to loosen her jaw for a few minutes and she told the siblings about
the birds, the bees and the chippobacks.
By the time the Four Troubadours met on the beach for a group discussion, Fleance
had validated his discovery of the Bones of Christ in greater detail. Susan got the ball
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rolling by saying that she hoped that people would be healed by touching Christ’s
skull.
“Perhaps it will open its mouth and say something important,” said Ophelia.
“I’m scared that it will whiz around all over the place,” said Kevin, chuckling
away.
When Fleance said that everybody was being silly and that it was just a lump of
crustaceous bone, Susan re-iterated that it might have magical qualities. She also said
that she felt mesmerised by the flashing rays from the lighthouse, and that they were
controlling her psyche.
Susan debated whether the fifth-century head librarian at Alexandria had been
named after the pagan goddess Hypatia, and she bemoaned that great scholar’s
barbaric death at the hands of the unscrupulous Coptic Christians and how those
ghastly philistines had incinerated so many centuries of human knowledge when they
destroyed the magnificently stocked library itself.
Perhaps the long preserved secrets of human sexuality were lost in the blaze,
pondered Susan, and maybe that’s why the Copts behaved so ferociously. I’ll try to
investigate that on the Supernet. They gratuitously destroyed many visible symbols of
the millennia-old erotic Egyptian culture during the same period, while vandalising
almost every temple throughout the land.
The troubadours whiled away the rest of the evening throwing the aureola
corona to and fro over a beach net until somebody dropped it. Susan and Ophelia
won by sixteen points to ten. Before they turned in, they sang ‘I lost my heart in San
Francisco’ together, and several nuns gathered around and listened in astonishment.
This puts me in good cheer for the rest of my voyage, thought Susan.
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“Bon voyage, mes petite chicklets,” yelled Sister Frances, when the Hercules set
off for Inukaten the following morning; a gaggle of her colleagues also waved their
fond farewells.
The coastline became awe-inspiring with an abundance of peninsulas jutting
into the ocean, and the fjords intruding into the land. Immense albahawks flew
menacingly overhead as if waiting for humanoid prey, while schools of giant
dipsodophins leapt out the water in precisely calculated unison, playfully throwing
huge swordfish into the air with their snouts before breaking their backs against the
rocks.
What a threatening environment! thought Susan, as she broke out into a cold
sweat. Her anxieties turned into hysteria when the flying saucer, they’d encountered
the day before, reappeared and circled around overhead, flashing streams of
provocative purple light towards the sea. We’ll all get fried like the ill-fated Scython,
she agonized, as a blitz-bolt hit the waves to her right creating an immense waterspout
that narrowly missed the hoverdeck.
“That must be a warning shot,” said Fleance, as Dirk blew a fuse. “They want us
to stop.”
Another blitz-bolt emerged from the belly of the saucer and it hurtled, due south,
towards the Imperial battlefleet, which was fast-approaching in all its splendour. The
crew of the leading cruiser skilfully deflected the bolt downwards into the ocean and
aimed a laser-guided missile at the alien spaceship. When the saucer was struck in its
mid-rift, it soared, still intact, towards the stratosphere and narrowly averted complete
destruction.
That was a close one, thought Susan, in utter relief, as her companions cheered
in delight. She saw that Fleance had turned white again, though he was beginning to
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regain his natural colour. The battlefleet followed the Hercules in protective mode
before veering off to the west. After Charleston was advised by mobile that the saucer
was now well-clear of the vicinity, the skipper headed full throttle for his destination.
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CHAPTER 10: THE SHRINE OF ALEPH
Where Gods live, vampires and eagles soar
While the Hercules was approaching the isolated port of Inukaten, Dirk said, “The
former Ethnic Studies professor Tigran Mangasarian lives here. He hangs out in The
Last Chance Saloon and he’ll hopefully agree to be our guide.”
“I thought that Mangasarian was a great man,” said Susan, in surprise. “He’s
highly regarded in Europe and his native Armenia.”
“He was at the top of his field once and he’s as sharp as Democritus.”
“I hope he didn’t feckin blind himself. So why did he sling his hook here?”
“He fell foul of our University administration, and retired far too early to avoid
the stress. He supplements his tiny pension by selling seafood and offering his
services as a guide or chopper pilot to would-be adventurers. He’s usually up at crack
of dawn chasing the crustaceans along the beach.”
The village largely consisted of single-storey buildings surrounding the harbourside,
the Last Chance Saloon was on the ground floor of a rundown three-storey hotel
called The Mayflower.
Susan smelt the poppers when she and her friends wandered in; she peered
through the smoke and saw a dark-haired, heavily-featured man propping up the bar.
He resembled a medieval Mongol warlord.
“Hi there, Tigran,” said Dirk, with a hint of brotherly sarcasm. “Life seems to
be treating you well.”
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“Can’t grumble,” said Mangasarian, sipping his beer.
“Another pint, perhaps?”
“I’d love one. It tastes like horses’ piss. I suppose that you want me to take you
to the Shrine of Aleph.”
“If you can spare the time, old chap. I don’t want to risk your rusty old chopper
though. We’d prefer to proceed on foot and investigate some minor sites en route.”
“That’ll cost you three grand. It’s crawling with predators around here and they
aren’t all human.”
Dirk handed over a large bill.
“They’ll be two more when we all get back in one piece,” he said. “I’m fairer
than the bloodsucking university administrators aren’t I, Tigran?”
“You always were a snake, Dirk,” said Tigran, looking relieved. “But I
wouldn’t want to end up on Queer St.”
“Will we be able to stay with the Snipper people when we arrive at the shrine?”
“I’ll e-whiz them straightaway. Behave yourself though, or they’ll fry your
offending item for breakfast.”
The Four Troubadours laughed about that while Ophelia was retrieving the
extra-large bratwurst from the freezer.
After a delicious petit-déjeuner, the Trinkon slave girl was left behind in the Hercules
with the persistently-drunk skipper. However, her determined-looking brother
accompanied the party to help carry the baggage. Dirk, Tigran and Kevin were armed
with laser rifles and dressed like explorers of yore. Fleance wore shin-chaps and a pair
of stout sandals. He and Ophelia were their usual excitable and good-humoured
selves. Susan looked as if she was out of The Jewel in the Emperor’s Crown. She
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was dismayed to see the buck naked Trinkon boy glancing admiringly at Kevin’s
bare chest and snazzy shorts, and she thought that Dirk looked like a prick.
When the adventurers approached the southern suburbs of Inukaten, the
children were playing in the gutters and the adults were sitting around smoking skenk.
When the party entered the countryside, the terrain became unusually rocky and
interspersed with orange and blue gorse bushes. Susan found the rough footpath to be
challenging but she pressed gamely forwards while Mangasarian led the way striding
like a gorilla. Although the sun was glaring down, there was a nippy breeze from the
hills. Susan was surprised to find herself attracted by the smell of cattle manure, but
that was doubtlessly caused by the shaggy bison who were talking quite stylishly in
the near distance.
After three or four miles, Susan said, “You’ve gone white again, Fleance.
What’s causing that?”
“Perhaps the flying saucer is tracking us,” replied Fleance. His complexion was
to turn white again several times during their journey, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Awhile later, Susan heard eerie trumpeting sounds and loud voices speaking in a
bizarre tongue, as a huge elephantine beast appeared in the distance wildly waving its
arms and trunk. It reminded her of the daunting creatures she’d seen on the murals in
the Caves of Janek.
Tigran rubbed his heavy-set jaw and gave the beast a cheery wave.
“They’re mammophiles, folk,” he said. “They try to protect travellers from the
okyfenokies and skunters. We usually pay them handsomely for their efforts.”
Susan was glad of the extra protection when two elf-like creatures leapt out of
the bushes brandishing electronic saws. One of them tore off the Trinkon slave’s
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backpack and the other tried to steal Ophelia’s shoes.
Tigran levelled the first intruder with shot from his rifle.
“Damned skunters!” he yelled. “Take a hike to Amarillo.”
The second of the creatures fled in terror, only to be trampled under the hooves
of a charging mammophile.
“Perfect, my friend,” yelled Dirk. “I’ll give you fifty smackers for that.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet up later for a chin wag, mate,” replied the mammophile.
“Okyfenokies!” cried Tigran a couple of hours later, as a prile of tubular-limbed
reptiles with huge snouts appeared on the horizon making vicious hissing noises. One
charged forwards breathing fire and brimstone while his companions performed a
traditional war dance. Dirk and Kevin dispatched all of them with their quick-fire
rifles.
“What a quark for a fark,” said Kevin. “The poor devils didn’t stand a chance.
This could be Africa.”
“It’s magic,” said Susan, though she felt rather queasy. “You’re fast becoming a
brave soldier.”
“Great shooting, guys,” said a mammophile, rushing up in glee, “and we’ve
disposed of the entire tribe of skunters with our side arms. There were scores of
the insidious blighters.”
The party stopped off at an archaeological site that had recently been ravaged by
raiders from the Louvre, and their spoils were disappointingly meagre. Fleance
discovered the femur of a prehistoric cantapus and the jawbone of a tiny mungloid,
but stopped excavating when a dozen mammophiles charged up to meet their new
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friends. Dirk gave them several bills and three bottles of Glensliver. They excitedly
divided up their rewards and downed a shot each.
“What’s happened to your older brothers, Fleance?” asked their leader. “We
haven’t seen them recently.”
“The sons of a packsaddle captured them several months ago,” said Fleance,
with a grievous look, “and sent them to the southern swamps.”
“That may make you even more important to the cause,” said the mammophile,
rather indiscreetly. “Be sure to stay loyal to your kin.”
“Maybe I’ll emulate my dear father when he was my age,” said Fleance,
somewhat apprehensively.
Why is Fleance receiving all this attention? wondered Susan. The Sigmoids
knew him too, and the evil occupants of the flying saucer shrouded him in white light.
Is he somebody different from who he sets himself out to be?
Susan was feeling foot-weary well before she reached her destination. But just as she
was about to drop, Dirk announced, “There it is. It’s the shining building on that hill.”
“The Shrine of Aleph,” exclaimed Kevin. “It’s so avant-garde.”
“It gets to my psyche,” said Ophelia, looking bedazzled.
“Its mode of construction is way before its time,” said Dirk. “Perhaps it was put
there by a phenomenon from another galaxy.”
At the foot of the hill, they discovered a village inhabited by aboriginal Snipper
people, yellow-skinned prototypes of the Icarians. According to rumour, they were
prone to snip the genitalia off unwelcome visitors. But money talks and Tigran had
pre-booked; so they were most hospitable. The party of seven were ushered into a
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round hut with spacious sleeping accommodation, and fed with delicious food roasted
on an open fire. Fleance chatted with several Snipper families, and felt quite at ease
while acknowledging them as his own kith and kin.
Susan appreciated their company too and learnt a smattering of their dialect.
And she was intrigued when several of her hosts cut a caper and sang their minstrel
song in perfect King’s English,
“Wheel about and turn about
And do just so
Every time I wheel about,
I snip Jim Crow.”
“Who the fuck’s Jim Crow?” asked Kevin.
“He was one of those outrageously racist eugenicists from University College
London,” said Fleance. “When he attempted to sterilize the Snipper pygmies, they fed
his pieces to the--er--crows.”
After supper, the Trinkon slipped off for some fun with a Snipper girl. Susan
was glad when he returned in one piece.
The next morning, the sun appeared early and Dirk led the way as he and his
companions clambered up a flight of marble steps to the shrine. There was an
inscription in Latin, above the arched entranceway, that translated to:
This shrine to the mighty Aleph, the demi-god of creation and evil, was
projected here in 1059 a.u.c. by powers that are beyond worldly comprehension.
“The Icarians once counted their years ab urbe condita, that is from the
foundation of Rome by Romulus and Remus in 753 BC,” said Fleance. “So the
building appeared here in the same year that Constantine was proclaimed Emperor of
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the West in York.”
Susan thought that the interior of the shrine was disappointing. The far wall was
emblazoned with a mural of a malignant-looking Aleph. There was an altar to Merlo
surrounded by statues of wizards, animals, flowers and trees, a Christian altar that the
Icarians had erected a few centuries previously, and a statue of a bored-looking Eros.
Dirk produced the copy of the fourth-century document authored by Athanasius
of Alexandria that he’d purchased from the unscrupulous Rottpsycher priest.
“Let’s see if we can solve this puzzle and find our way into the basement,” he
said. “We’re told to follow a trail of ‫’ﬡ‬s spaced at regular intervals from the mural of
Aleph until we find a red rose and to keep following the trail until we find a purple
nymph. Sideways turns are permitted. So we could crisscross the entire floor. We’re
told that the two numbers of ‫’ﬡ‬s thus observed give the clues that lead to the key ‫ﬡ‬.
What does that mean? We’re told to go from there.”
Kevin walked up to the mural, surveyed the floor and said, “The first part looks
easy-peasy. There’s an ‫ ﬡ‬on this tile and another on the tile just over there and another
closer to the altar to Merlo----.”
After pursuing a trail of regularly-spaced ‫’ﬡ‬s across the floor, Susan and Kevin
discovered a red rose on the subsequent tile. They kept following the trail until, after
six further ‫’ﬡ‬s, they discovered a purple nymph, whereupon Fleance studied the
situation carefully.
“So fifteen and six are the essential numbers,” he said. “What can we infer from
that?”
Everybody stood around looking bewildered and Susan bit her fingernails while
Kevin mumbled to himself. But after about ten minutes, Ophelia said, “There was
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once an ‫ ﬡ‬on the wall over there. Just by the portrait of St. Jamaladakka.”
Fleance ran up to the portrait, discovered the fading impression of an ‫ ﬡ‬on a tile
to its right, and paused to count.
“We’ve solved the puzzle,” he said. “It’s fifteen tiles from the wall and six
above the ground.”
“We’re home and dry, guys!” said Dirk. “We’re about to meet our creators.”
Everybody waited expectantly as Fleance pressed the tile. But nothing
happened.
“What are we supposed to do next?” he asked.
Dirk looked crestfallen, but Susan noticed two capital Xs under the ‫ﬡ‬.
“Look,” she said. “That’s Latin for twenty. We’re supposed to go from here. So
let’s move on.”
Kevin counted twenty tiles to the right, but without success. However, when he
counted twenty to the left, he discovered a tile embedded with a diamond. He
reminded Susan of Ali Baba when he pressed the tiny jewel and declared, “Open says
me.”
A door opened quite magically, and Kevin stepped in surprise onto a moving
escalator imbedded into the wall. While everybody was too awestruck to ask how it
was powered, Fleance guessed that this might be internally or from a distant celestial
body. When the six colleagues descended into the basement, they discovered a
shining maxi-screen, a megaphone, and a round button labelled ‘Castellos Five’.
Ophelia leapt around like a five-year old.
“I said that Castellos existed,” she exclaimed. “I come from there; I really do.”
When Dirk pressed the button, the screen flashed into life. A distinguished-looking
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person, who could have passed for a thirty five year old human, was lying asleep on
an elegant couch. He was dressed in a white toga, and Tigran thought that he bore
some strong resemblances to the Head of the Hyde Park School of Business, a
talkative Nobel Prize winner who was ultra-keen to treat his dinner companions to his
much-favoured Hawaiian mahi mahi, though he baulked at salmon or fillet steak.
The ultra-important-looking personage was attended by two beautiful girls; he
awoke when the blonde placed a crown of laurel leaves on his head. He looked at his
maxi-screen and noticed the group in the shrine, whereupon he smiled, waved and
pointed excitedly at his own megamobile as if wanting one of them to speak first.
“Greetings, my friend,” said Dirk. “We’re members of an archaeological
expedition from the University of the Sunrise on Qinsatorix.”
The charming person stuttered in delight.
“English?” he said. “---Er---it’s---um--- centuries since I’ve spoken in English.
It’s so quaint. And we last heard from the Shrine of Aleph about a thousand years ago
when a nosey Rottpsycher managed to sneak his way in. Anyway! Greetings from
Castellos Five. I’m Tacitus, the leader of the Izons.”
“Are you named after Publius Tacitus?” asked Fleance.
“That’s correct, young man. He was the most dependable humanoid writer of
my mother’s era and I try to live up to his ideals as a Roman senator.”
Susan felt excited by that and wished that she’d studied more classics.
“Didn’t he call desolation civilisation?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
“How many of you Izons are there?” asked Dirk.
“There are about ten million of us in this beehive. We’re, of course, superior to
humans, as we’re telepathic and much more intelligent. We even rank Christ and Zeus
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among our twelve eternal elders. They’ve been around since the beginning of time
and their complex spiritual forms currently live in Castellos Eight. Their physical
manifestations occasionally visit other planets and they sometimes project themselves
as swans, whales or flying dragons.”
“We have some legends like that,” said Tigran. “Are they likely to be true?”
“They probably all are. Christ and Buddha can be quite irritating at times,
though they do cure the sick as well as getting into all sorts of scrapes.”
“Do you happen to know whether all of our dead go to the Crimson Cube of
Heaven?” asked Susan.
“Only the souls of selected dead reside there. It’s in the seventh dimension and
it’s suspended on a seven-light-year-long green string from the Fulcrum of Valhalla.
Only two of your popes have ever gained entry and that includes the female one.”
“I’ve been there recently myself,” said Susan, in delight. “I talked to St. Peter
and St. Thomas outside the Pearly Gates.”
“I’m surprised that they didn’t give you short shrift. The slightly-less-favoured
souls are stored in luxurious chip-drives in Castellos Six. Francis of Assisi, Mother
Teresa and Joan of Arc are among their number.”
“What happens to the rest of us?” asked Kevin, sounding uptight. “I don’t want
to rot.”
“Many of the high flyers end up in the Sea of Vicissitude where the king of the
diving cockroaches decides their fate. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, the mighty
Georgius and numerous other despots are still dissolving in nitric acid in Castellos
Three. The majority of souls become spots in the Ocean of Lucon, where at least
they’re at peace. However, the more sheep-like of the suffering poor are put out to
pasture on the plains of Placatia, while middle-class miscreants who pretend to be
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dim-witted have to study moral philosophy on Furyk until eternity.”
Kevin winced when he heard about Furyk. Perhaps he’s deciding to develop a more
positive attitude, thought Susan.
“How fascinating,” said Dirk, rather laconically, “but we’ve come here to
discover the secrets of humanoid creation.”
“You’ll certainly do that,” said Tacitus, “and you can rest assured that you were
carefully designed, rather than evolving from any dreadfully-inferior species like ape
or fish. You’ll find basic summaries of the truths in the hallway in front of you, and
all the technical details in the micro-manuscripts in the library. The basement of your
shrine is rather more extensive than the ground floor above.”
“How did it get there?” asked Fleance. “The Icarians couldn’t have built it.”
“They wouldn’t have stood a chance. It was imbedded into the hill from a billion
miles away using an ingenious translation device, just like those pre-Inca buildings in
the Peruvian mountains and the Pyramid of Rameses in Egypt.”
“How can we get out of here?” Charleston nervously inquired.
“Don’t try ascending the escalator. It would chop off your feet. You can find
your way out by asking the gargoyle with the largest nose, and solving another puzzle.
Don’t worry old chap. I’ll tell it to reply in English. The exit route will take you
down another escalator to a stream below the hill.”
“I’m an Izon, just like you,” said Ophelia, waving her arms in glee. “Do you
know what happened to my parents?”
“Why, it’s Ophelia,” exclaimed Tacitus. “You’ve certainly grown up. When I
last visited Qinsatorix, we lost track of you while we were looking for your parents.
It’s perhaps just as well that we didn’t manage to bring you back to Castellos Five. It
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can get quite dreary and oppressive cooped up here and we live far too long in our
rarefied surroundings. Unfortunately, we haven’t heard anything about your parents
since they were taken to the southern swamps.”
“Please help me to find them.”
“What a good idea. I’ll visit you in Trivoli as soon as possible and I’ll try to
learn more about them using my ultra-superlative telepathic skills. I do hope that
they’re still alive. It will be fun to meet up with the reality of a vibrant world again.”
“I have a question about an ancient prophecy,” said Fleance. “Will the
Izons land on this planet one day to set the Icarians free?”
“We certainly hope to, in a big way,” replied Tacitus, “but when and how that
will happen, I’m not permitted to say. With our time scale, it may be centuries in the
future. In the meantime, pursue your dreams.”
“Was it the Izons who put this shrine here in 306?” asked Susan.
“I don’t remember the details, young lady. I was only a hundred-years old at the
time.”
“So where’s Castellos?” asked Fleance, with a dubious look. “You could just be
an image in a hologram.”
“It’s in a complex space somewhere beyond your comprehension, my lad, and
that ridiculous mathematical physics won’t help you.”
“I believe you, though thousands wouldn’t.”
“This all sounds naively childish to me,” said Tigran. “You seem to be implying
that Heaven and our sources of creation are hi-tech, material, and carefully structured,
whereas many humans believe them to be part of a spiritual cosmos that I regard as
infinitely divisible in a mathematical sense and hence infinitely wise. Most Christians
would laugh your suggestions out of court.”
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“They’ve been successively brainwashed by the evil spirit Rastovilis who stays
hidden in a dark recess under your Vatican,” replied Tacitus, with a sigh. “All of your
popes and the equivocal Archbishops of Canterbury have to grovel to him, and
they’ve invariably contrived to conceal the truth from mankind.”
“You’re trying to fob me off!” exclaimed Tigran.
“You should recognise truth when you’re presented with it,” said Tacitus.
That response caused Tigran to move into his philosophical mode.
“The question of how one distinguishes truth or wisdom when one first
encounters it, without possessing it already, is an old one,” he replied, “and it lies
deep at the heart of epistemology. Many people have addressed it, including the
philosopher James Ferrier and St. Augustine of Hippo himself. Augustine and several
others suggest that the solution is to invoke faith in a higher spiritual entity as an inner
teacher. I’m afraid that I believe that faith alone in any proposition, including your
fanciful conjectures, is a cop-out.”
“Well put,” said Tacitus, “but why don’t you see for yourself?”
“Let’s examine the evidence,” said Tigran, and the party progressed into the entrance
hall. On the wall to the left there was a mural depicting what at first sight appeared
to be a spaceship, identified in large red letters as CASTELLOS. At the centre of
Castellos there was a golden sphere labelled BAAL. Eight tubes connected Baal to
eight smaller golden spheres, concentrically and in the same sloping plane. The
satellite spheres were therefore equally-spaced in a sloping circle with Baal in the
middle. They were labelled by the Roman numerals I, II, and so on, up to VIII.
“I don’t think that it’s a standard spaceship,” said Tigran. “If those satellites are
Castellos One to Castellos Eight and if Castellos Five houses ten million Izons, then
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they must be pretty large and Baal will be at least the size of a small moon. If
Castellos was able to travel under its own power, then it could pop up anywhere and
neither of our planets would be safe.”
“Let’s interpret those two green arrows,” said Dirk, sounding most professorial.
“One points to the left from the interior of Baal, along a connecting tube to Castellos
Five. There’s a picture of a white humanoid nearby and I guess that he’s an Izon
rather than human. This suggests to me that the first mortals were manufactured inside
Baal and sent to Castellos Five.”
“And the other arrow points from the interior of the Baal globule to its right,”
said Kevin, quickly catching on, “towards pictures of Qinsatorix, and Planet Earth
beyond that. There’s a qinsy and a black man just to the left of Qinsatorix, and what
appear to be several racial types of modern humans just to the left of Earth.”
“That suggests that both Icarians and humans were manufactured inside Baal,”
said Fleance. “The Icarians clearly travelled to this planet, and the humans ended up
on Earth after firstly arriving here.”
“Our recent discoveries of human fossils in the Caves of Janek support that
conclusion,” said Dirk, “and I’ll look for further confirmation in the library. Now
let’s try to decipher the mural opposite.”
The next mural was highlighted by a silver sphere labelled NEBU. An arrow
pointed from the centre of Nebu to its left, towards a picture of the Inner Moon of
Qinsatorix, as recognisable from its equatorial rings, and an arrow to the right pointed
to a profile of Tyronia, the southern arctic region of the planet.
“The pictures on the left of a Neanderthal, a Rottpsycher and assorted Apollos
indicate that all these species were manufactured inside Nebu, wherever that is, and
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sent to the Inner Moon,” said Tigran, getting quite excited. “Now those curious
penguin-like creatures on the right are also a species of humanoid. They’re Tyronians
and they hide in the underground City of Maltzburg beneath our southern icecap. The
mural suggests that they were also manufactured inside Nebu. They were quite
technologically advanced, at least until the Icarians were defeated a century or so ago,
but we hear from the belligerent creatures less frequently nowadays.”
“Our recent fossil discoveries suggest that the Neanderthals arrived on the
planet’s surface about a million years ago,” said Dirk. “So they must have found a
way of travelling here from the Inner Moon.”
“And the insidious Rottpsychers weren’t divinely created by their god Aton, as
they’re doubtlessly already well aware,” exclaimed Tigran.
“They’ll be delighted when we advertise that,” said Dirk, with a chuckle.
There were more murals further along the corridor. Susan was intrigued by a
picture of a green planet-like sphere with red, yellow and brown spots, and labelled
MERLO. The sphere was surrounded by beautiful paintings of animals, flowers, trees,
birds, fish and, most prominently, a large owl.
“All of our flora and fauna were conceived inside that eco-friendly planet!”
exclaimed Ophelia, with a broad grin. “How utterly exquisite.”
On the wall opposite, there was a painting of the evil Aleph sticking pins into
bodies of toy humanoids. Underneath Aleph, there were pictures of Baal, Nebu and
Merlo, and three lines of Hebrew script. Tigran explained that it translated to:
I, Aleph Zero, created Baal, Nebu and Merlo, wherein were made the first
humanoids, the flora and the fauna. Let our children spew forth evil and suffer.
“Why does the son of a bitch now call himself Aleph Zero?” asked Kevin.
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Fleance pointed at a portrait of a red-faced individual who was rolling his eyes
like a voodoo chief.
“Maybe because his dad’s called Aleph One,” he replied.
The portrait was accompanied by an inscription that concurred with Fleance’s
suggestion. It translated to:
I am Aleph One, who begat the devilish child Aleph Zero, and thereby created
black comedy from above.
“Jesus shed fountains of blood,” exclaimed Dirk. “Where’s Aleph Two, Aleph
Three and all the rest of the crew? It looks as if we’re in for an infinite sequence of
so-called creator gods just like those damned Indian philosophers predicted.”
“I don’t think so,” said Susan, pointing at the fluorescent white wall opposite.
A golden cross imbedded into its surface was starting to glisten.
As the party moved closer, a voice said, “I created Aleph One, who begat Aleph
Zero, who created Baal, Nebu and Merlo, that made all humanoids and nature itself. I
thus gave rise to craziness and evil for our greater good. Who am I? I am.”
“Yahweh indeed?” said Dirk, with a snigger. “I’m quite prepared to believe that
the first modern humans were manufactured inside a sphere called Baal. But the
Alephs are just mythological hogwash. And as for you, you’re probably just a device
put here by the Izons to confuse the issue. Craziness and evil? Greater good? What
codswallop. You sound remarkably evil yourself, you duplicitous moron.”
“I understand, my son,” said the voice, “and do you help the poor and
disadvantaged?”
“Only if I can have fun with them.”
“You soulless fool.”
Charleston was promptly enveloped in a flash of multi-coloured light. He fell
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writhing to the ground and his complexion turned brownish-yellow.
“You should heed the word of the living God, my children,” said the voice. “Just
love your neighbours, however cantankerous they are, and turn into sheep rather than
goats. Bless you all. Now I need to sleep.”
When Dirk recovered an hour or so later, he said, “I’ll bring in my laser gun and
scorch that fucking contraption.”
Ophelia laughed her ears off at that.
Susan was busy meditating when Fleance, Kevin and Tigran started to examine
the micro-documents in the library. Maybe Yahweh’s a charlatan God, she wondered,
who’s just here for the tourists. In that case, who is the real higher power?
During the next couple of days, the research group confirmed all their initial
findings regarding the origins of the humanoid species, and analysed a variety of
technical diagrams that showed how Izons, humans and Icarians were manufactured.
Far from being surprised by the enormous complexity of the bio-engineering
involved, they appreciated that great minds or interlocking systems of minds were
needed to develop the multitude of finer details. Tigran said that he was both utterly
convinced and completely dumbfounded.
Some of the documents portrayed pictures of tall thin creatures with diamondlike heads connected to complicated super-electronic devices. During a further
helpful conversation, Tacitus said, “Those creatures are called Trimodes. They’re
partly-robotic and they’ve lived since long ago inside Baal and Nebu for the purpose
of designing, constructing and connecting all the components of the various
humanoids.”
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“Doesn’t that conflict with the laws of genetics?” asked Tigran.
“The Trimodes were guided by the successive designs of previous humanoid
species,” said Tacitus. “This has lead to childish misinterpretations by your genocrats.
Their assertions that modern humans evolved in a solely random manner from earlier
prototypes are utterly absurd and presumptuous.”
“What are the Trimodes doing now?” asked Fleance.
“Many of them have been relocated to Castellos Two,” replied Tacitus, with an
encouraging smile, “where they complete less-onerous tasks and develop Artificial
Intelligence techniques for playing multi-dimensional games. Others are still
manufacturing humanoids inside Baal for projection to other galaxies. The Trimodes
there are directed by their head of operations, the eternally-living Yahweh.”
“What sort of creature is he?” asked Dirk, bristling with rage.
“He’s accurately described in the Jewish scriptures as a mixed-gender earlyhuman prototype who occasionally visited the inhabited planets to burn bushes,
destroy cities where the populations were enjoying themselves too much, and wrestle
with deceitful young men. And he believes that he created the Universe. The fool
can’t explain how he constructed the force fields that maintain the structures of
our atoms, of course. He’s never even been inside an atom.”
“I’m glad that I’m not as deceitful as Jacob,” muttered Fleance. “I wouldn’t
want God to shatter my kneecaps.”
While Kevin was fantasising about travelling through a molecular structure,
Tacitus told Dirk that there was a brass instrument on a table in the library. He
explained that this was a sophisticated beaming device and advised Dirk to take it
away with him so that they could communicate in the future.
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The Four Troubadours excitedly discussed their recent discoveries, after gathering
together in a mango grove on the afternoon before their anticipated departure. After
plucking some fruit from an evergreen sponge-tree and feeling like Eve, Susan
suggested that their findings might seriously impinge on Christian authority, since the
Bible asserted that humans were created on Earth. When Kevin said that humans
might feel demeaned by the knowledge that they were manufactured alongside other
humanoids, rather than created as the superior species, Fleance replied that knowing
that Icarians and humans were effectively kith-and-kin made him feel over the moon.
“But the eternally-living Izons were responsible for the creation of all mortal
humanoids,” exclaimed Ophelia, as she performed a double somersault.
This is promising, thought Susan, as she munched an apple. Maybe we will
achieve everlasting peace.
Awhile later, the Snippers became as agitated as well-impaled Turks when the
maroon flying saucer reappeared and circled around quite menacingly above their
village. Susan wondered whether there was indeed a divine entity aboard and whether
the craft was crewed by the so-called archangels who communicated with the
Sigmoids.
The saucer spiralled swiftly downwards. After it landed a short distance away,
about thirty weird creatures poured out. As far as Susan could discern, they were
humanoids with elongated wings sprouting downwards from their shoulders. When
one of them fired a manually operated missile into the air, the Snippers wailed in
fright and Dirk looked as shitless as a rat on a hot tin roof.
Thereupon, the intruders waved encouragingly and yelled, “Fleance, Fleance!”
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When the shouting continued ad nausaeum, Dirk said, “You’d better go and talk
to the murderous castaways, Fleance. Otherwise they’ll shoot us all to shreds.”
“I think that your slave needs our protection,” said Tigran, with a reproving
look. “They’re not angels. They’re Tyronians. We saw pictures of them in the shrine
and they don’t have a pleasant reputation.”
“The damned penguins must have built their saucer under their icecap,” said
Dirk.
Fleance duly walked forwards, flanked by Dirk, Tigran and Kevin with their
laser guns at the ready, and Susan and Ophelia decided to follow their boyfriends. The
Tyronians brought out fruit and wine, while gibbering together in a Finno-Ugric
tongue. Their faces were almost human, but with beaks of various colours that
contrasted with their protrusive pink noses.
Tigran looked most concerned.
“I can decipher their lingo,” he whispered. “They want to create an alliance with
the Icarians.”
Susan was nervously gulping down her exquisitely-tasting liqueur, when the
Tyronians escorted her and her companions into the spaceship. The leader of the
Tyronians was sitting on a purple throne in the middle of the circular floor. The hairy,
thickset beast was clearly not of the same species as his subjects. Susan surmised that
he was the entity who’d howled his approval of Fleance, and thought that he
resembled a squat, misshapen Neanderthal. Whatever his breed, he greeted Fleance
most enthusiastically. And the Icarian youth assumed the airs of an important
personage when the leader guided him into a side cabin for private discussions.
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Thereupon, at a presumably pre-arranged signal from a Tyronian with a black beak,
the attitude of his companions changed dramatically as they set upon Kevin and
Ophelia and threw them violently across the floor.
“Let them go!” screamed Susan. “Not those spiked boots, you fuckers!”
Dirk and Tigran protested furiously only to be stripped of their weapons,
roughly manhandled and tied to Susan, hand and foot. Susan’s chest was compressed
against Tigran’s, and Dirk’s bad breath drifted into her face; she felt utterly petrified
by the gravity of their situation.
A while later, Fleance returned arm-in-arm with the Tyronian leader, who was
grinning confidently. Fleance noticed the plight of his colleagues and objected
vehemently, but the leader issued some curt orders, and Kevin and Ophelia were
picked off the floor, strapped into metal seats and connected to a compendium of
silver wires.
Tigran recoiled in dismay.
“They’re going to electrocute them,” he exclaimed.
“And we’re next,” moaned Dirk, turning grey.
A mean-looking Tyronian brandished a knife and jabbed Ophelia in her
stomach, while another of the creatures slashed Kevin across his chest. What a ghastly
way to go, bemoaned Susan, as he struggled for life and limb.
A Tyronian with a red beak waved an electronic saw in Kevin’s face.
“I’m coming, you fucking saints!” he yelled, screaming in fright.
“This is my living hell,” shrieked Susan. “It’s the end.”
“Not my fucking nuts!” yelled Kevin. “Aaargh!”
“Hang on, Kevin!” shouted Susan, as she heard the bellowing of elephantine
voices from outside the spaceship.
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“I’ll see you in Heaven!” shrieked Kevin. “Yahhhhhhhh!”
“Fleance, Fleance!” roared the voices, and the craft began to rock.
Susan tottered back and forth as the rocking became more and more violent.
“Aaaaaaarh!” she screamed. “Somebody, please help me!”
Meanwhile, the now dead-scared Tyronians howled in horror and huddled together
around the purple throne. Their Neanderthal-like leader looked scared out of his wits;
he pressed a button and the doors to the saucer flew open. His underlings crawled
over and untied Kevin and Ophelia, followed by their three companions, though
Kevin was writhing like Achilles in his death throes.
“Let’s go,” cried Fleance, as the rocking stopped, and he and his colleagues fled
into the open air. Susan stumbled to the ground gasping in relief, but Kevin was a
sorry, blood-drenched sight to behold. When he staggered out and fell prone onto the
bright blue grass, Susan was stricken with a sense of foreboding and rushed,
with the injured Ophelia, to his side.
As the spaceship zoomed towards the heavens, Dirk was advised that they’d
been rescued by their mammophile friends, who’d been approaching the village when
they bumped into an agitated Snipper girl. She’d sensed that Fleance was in mortal
danger.
“The Tyronians still seem to have a vendetta against humans,” said Tigran. “We
crucified seven of them a decade or so ago for poaching our whales.”
“I’ll tell Battlefleet Command to cook their leader’s goose,” said Dirk, shaking
in his boots, “before he makes the whole damned lot of us scream across the sky.”
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Upon seeing that Kevin was trying to sit up, the mammophiles split their sides in
delight at their ingenious victory.
“Let’s dance,” cried their leader, in jubilation. “Let’s do the Jumbo Prance.”
The Snipper women promptly produced a crate of wine and a barrel of brew out
of the blue. While Kevin and Ophelia were slowing recovering together, the entire
village turned out with scissor-like weapons to perform a traditional dance of peace.
Fleance wandered off into the woods for some quiet contemplation. Now I’m
developing the leadership qualities that my parents predicted, he thought. I’ll follow
the traditions of my forefathers and avenge the foul treatment of my brothers. But I
must protect the interests of all ordinary people as well as opposing their outrageous
Establishment. Maybe our ethnic tribes will help me to do this. We’ll rise up together
and put the bastards to the sword. Perhaps peacefulness and light will reign at last.
Susan found the trip back to be relatively uneventful. When they arrived in Inukaten,
Dirk’s slave girl greeted him with relief. After unloading their gear, they all went for a
farewell drink with Tigran in the Last Chance Saloon. It was less smoky than usual,
and Susan warmed to the atmosphere as a wild rastofulean scampered along the bar
and a giant racco-racoon devoured one of the chair legs.
“Now it’s back to the crustaceans,” said Tigran, rather disconsolately.
“Perhaps we’ll find a way of bringing you home,” said Dirk, unusually
compassionately, as he handed Tigran his outstanding two thousand bucks, and an
extra half-grand for good measure.
“What a pipedream,” said Tigran, with a hopeful glance. “I’ll think about that
while I’m drinking my horse’s piss.”
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During the return voyage, the Hercules stopped by the Convent of St. Drusilla,
so that Susan and Kevin could visit their relatives again. Their meeting with Mother
Rebecca was even more congenial than before and Sister Frances was, at times,
remarkably soft-hearted; she would give them knowing looks while creating an evercloser attachment to them. Susan felt that she was part of a loving family and both
siblings came away saying that their roots were in that place.
On considering Sister Frances further, Susan wondered whether there was a
correlation between insanity and sexual desires or fantasies. After contemplating a
variety of real-life stress factors, she thought about Dirk Charleston in considerable
detail and finally about herself. How, for example, did her feelings for her brother
influence her own mental security? Sometimes quite negatively, she realised.
Susan knew from talking to her friends that core fantasies can be both childish
and extremely-repetitive in nature, that they can pop out of peoples’ minds during
ordinary conversation and that the kinkier fantasies do not necessarily belong to the
comfort zone of the person’s real desires. She considered, for example, the guilt
feelings of somebody who thinks for years on end about spanking a monkey or getting
trampled on the back by a dominatrix with high-heeled shoes. This might be enough
to make the person sexually profligate, she realised, or to think that he’s evil. Or to
contribute to insanity, particularly if he’s under stress from other factors. It’s rather
like the Chinese water drip torture that invariably drove the prisoners crazy. Susan
decided to pursue these ideas on a scientific basis later.
Ever the Champagne Charlie, Dirk held a party on Omari beach to celebrate the
accomplishments of the expedition. After downing his third glass of bubbly, he
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declared, “This trip will make me even more famous. We’ve excavated the qinsies’
crown jewels and the Bones of Christ. But perhaps most importantly, we’ve
unravelled many of the truths of human creation. I’d particularly like to thank Susan
for her help on several occasions.”
“But your outrageous success is largely due to my clairvoyance as an Izon,”
exclaimed Ophelia, as she transfixed Dirk with an angry glare.
“So who gets the academic credit?” asked Kevin, rather sarcastically.
Perhaps Kevin thinks that he deserves a large amount of it, wondered Susan.
“Me, of course, as I’m the leading light,” said Dirk, “but I’ll acknowledge
Susan’s assistance, and Fleance’s too, and give co-authorships to you and Ophelia on
one or two of my journal articles, where appropriate.”
“How feckin generous of you,” said Susan, as she and Kevin retreated to
Serendipity Point for a snooze and a quiet chat.
Fleance looked extremely disconcerted.
“Why aren’t you considering me for a co-authorship?” he asked. “I made many
valuable contributions and you certainly didn’t. I have not been treated with due
fairness.”
“You’re just a qinsy slave, you ground hog,” replied Dirk, with a malicious grin.
I’ll tell the Enforcers to teach you a lesson with an electronic prodder. You’ve been
acting up as if you own the planet.”
“I’ll prod you too!” yelled Fleance. “The Icarians aren’t finished yet.”
Just wait until the Icarians rise up and overpower the bastards, he agonized. I
will grow in strength and become another Genghis Khan. After my monumental
victory, I’ll stick a hedge-shredder right down Dirk’s fatuous throat.
But Fleance was treated to a most disconcerting surprise a few minutes later.
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“Take this for your cheek, you pipsqueak,” chortled the now rough and tough
Trinkon deckhand, as he seized Fleance by the scruff of the neck and took care of him
over a rock.
While Fleance was squealing in anger and pain, he experienced some weirdly
pleasurable sensations that could only have been caused by the Trinkon’s curious
physique, and he felt utterly mortified by them. Dirk watched, and smiled.
The siblings were blissfully unaware of that débâcle when they awoke from their
slumbers.
“I still love you so much,” said Susan, struggling to her feet. “Come and give
me a big brotherly hug.”
“You and Ophelia appear in my dreams every night,” said Kevin, looking
furtively over his shoulder.
“I love Fleance too,” said Susan, feeling downcast, “but I’m worried that he may
be a subversive rebel. The Sigmoids knew him, as did the mammophiles, and the
Tyronians clearly tried to recruit him. I’m scared that he may get into some serious
misadventure or even get himself executed.”
“My guess is that his brothers were underground leaders. But as they’re now
incarcerated in the southern swamps, these factions may want him to lead them
instead. It’s curious though how familiar they are with his name.”
“Do you think that Dirk will really shop Fleance to the authorities, Kevin? He
seemed as irritated as a frustrated housewife with him earlier.”
“Dirk’s much more interested in exploiting Fleance’s knowledge and skills in
order to complete his research program. He probably feels even-less allegiance to our
regime than we do, providing that he can feather his own nest, of course.”
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“You’re thinking more perceptively nowadays,” said Susan. “That’s magic.”
When Kevin gave Susan a light kiss on the cheek, her guilty mind flashed back
to the brawny English lad who had visited her the day after she first met Fleance.
“I have the weirdest of premonitions about what might happen to me next,
Kevin,” she said, quite neurotically. “Do you think that we’re tainted because we love
each other?”
“You’re getting me wired up again,” replied Kevin. “There is something really
strange about our make up but I still need to discover what causes it.”
“Please look after me, Kevin, whatever happens.”
“Of course I will, Susan.”
While Susan was lost in contemplation, the Trinkon deckhand appeared out of
the blue, looking weak and vulnerable.
“I’m here at your command, young master,” he said, with a token grovel.
“That’s the spirit for a noble lad,” said Kevin. “Go over to that elm tree and give
it a good hug. I’ll be over in a moment.”
After Susan had departed, Kevin made love, Grecian-style, to the agreeable
youth. But Susan turned back and watched. My brother’s body is so enticing, she
thought, fearing that she might turn into a pillar of salt.
“That felt delightfully different,” said Kevin, ruffling the slave’s hair. “Now
kneel and wag your tail.”
“Yes please, young master,” said the slave, with a broad grin.
Kevin saw Susan playing the Peeping Tom, and smirked.
“Perhaps this is the start of another meaningful friendship,” he said.
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CHAPTER 11: RETURN TO TRIVOLI
Scientific inquiry is the noblest form of human endeavour
Upon her return to the City of the Lanterns, Susan was greeted by her lively pet,
Trithagoras, who’d been taken for walks each day by the Yankee apartment cleaners.
They’d even organized a race around the lake between the crafty felixian and one of
the carriage-drawing ductopedes, together with a group wager on the Union Terrace.
Trithagoras won in style against the gangling creature after skilfully tripping him up,
and the boys in blue scooped over three hundred bucks as the limeys on the terrace
tore up their betting tickets in aggravation.
After recovering from her trip, Susan visited the Interplanetary Census Bureau on
West Badger Avenue to search for records about her parents.
“Are you here to report a death?” inquired the Head Informator, as she peered at
Susan with a beady eye.
“No dear,” replied Susan, with a condescending look. “I’m trying to discover the
whereabouts of my relatives Peter Wiltshire and Princess Alexandra Von Coburg.
They disappeared about twenty years ago.”
“We have strict regulations,” replied the informator, with a grin. “Try coming
back in a century or so.”
Susan rushed to the Office of Criminal Records on Mulberry Road and asked
whether her parents had ever been released from the Münchenhaus Fortress in the
Archipelago of the Termites.
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“They don’t bother to keep records in that place,” said a jovial lad with platinum
hair, “since they usually either drown their prisoners or throw away the key.”
Susan hoped that the lad was joking and she retained an instinctive feeling that
she would find her parents alive and free one day. After resolving to search for them
by whatever means possible, she fleetingly wondered whether they were on Castellos.
While still feeling outraged by those setbacks, Susan decided to look for a postdoctoral research topic. She started off by browsing through the collection of six preprints that Fleance had discovered in her filing cabinets. All authored between 2377
and 2379 by a Ph.D. student called Debbie Smythe, they described Debbie’s
investigations of Icarian culture, including descriptions of the months she spent living
in the ring-fenced cities of Madron, Petraeus and Zoll. What fascinating material,
thought Susan. The captive Icarians are so resilient and productive at a grass roots
level; the English underclasses have so much to learn.
Although Debbie invariably acknowledged Dirk Charleston as her supervisor,
no substantive contributions were attributed to him in any of her reports and he was
not mentioned as having spent any time in the ring-fenced cities. When Susan
investigated the situation further on Zebedee, she discovered that Debbie had never
actually received her Ph.D. Furthermore, none of her research appeared in her own
name in the academic journals. To cap that, Debbie was never subsequently employed
in a professional position. However, when Susan entered the key words ‘Icarian’ and
‘ring-fenced’, the search-engine came up with a list of five papers published by
Charleston between 2378 and 2380. One of the articles appeared in the prestigious
Journal of Social Investigation. It began:
‘When I was living close to starvation in Petraeus in 2376, the Icarians were
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barely surviving by manufacturing components for laser guns. Despite this, they were
well-versed in music, poetry and the arts, and therefore subsisted in a civilised
fashion. It was similar to meetings of the eco-friendly group in my parish, where we
make do with morsels of bread and small chunks of cheese.’
Susan realised that this was virtually identical to a passage in one of Debbie’s
preprints and she was astounded when she saw that Dirk hadn’t even acknowledged
the correct source in his published version. I bet that he’s never been to church in his
life, she thought.
After ascertaining that all five papers by Charleston were virtually identical
copies of Debbie’s unpublished articles, even though she had copyright, Susan raised
the issue during a coffee-time discussion with her guardian mentor.
“That’s all too typical of Dirk,” said Sybil. “He was particularly ruthless in the
days when he needed to publish enough to earn tenure. Single-authored papers are, of
course, more valuable to junior faculty than joint research work largely completed by
a student. So Dirk simply stole Debbie’s research from her and falsely claimed
copyright. When she protested, he accused her of fabricating the findings described in
her sixth preprint. That was about the manufacture of silverware and ceramics in
Zoll.”
“Didn’t the University take steps to protect her interests?” asked Susan.
“You must be joking, dear. She was railroaded out of academia without a Ph.D.
after the briefest of kangaroo hearings and Dirk earned his ill-gotten tenure on the
basis of her other research. I was only a temporary lecturer at the time and by-nomeans powerful enough to raise a stink. ”
“The biocrat Jurgen Steerburger was like that,” said Susan. “He published Von
Nesto’s fundamentals of super-sequential trials for himself, before unexpectedly
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drowning in the Rhine. But what happened to Debbie afterwards?”
“The poor girl worked for a while as a waitress, but she was quite inept at
anything non-intellectual. After being mistreated by a lover-or-two, she found herself
on the streets. I last saw her begging along the Imperial Road and I heard that she was
scraping food out of the trash bins and sleeping behind the public toilets below the
Royal Terrace. Fighting off the rats and wolves, no doubt.”
Susan resolved to visit the ring-fenced cities to pursue Debbie’s investigations
all those years afterwards. She planned to authenticate Debbie’s unpublished studies
on silverware and ceramics by spending time in Zoll and she wondered how she could
extricate the poor bag lady from her nightmarish predicament.
Brad Redfoot was delighted with Kevin for recovering the Icarian documents from the
library in Drumkok and for his archaeological successes with Dirk Charleston. Kevin
said that he’d study the mathematics of the battlefleet landing scheme and modify it
further. Brad said that he’d give him a five-hundred bucks raise on the next salary
review and maybe even his cost-of-living increase.
One evening, Fleance appeared at Susan’s apartment looking as upset as a two-legged
tarantula.
“I’ve heard a terrifying rumour about my older brothers,” he said. “The bastards
sent them to the southern swamps several months ago as suspected underground
operatives. Now they’ve sentenced them to hang in red-hot irons while the crows peck
their eyes out. It’s so barbaric.”
Susan could only think about Fleance’s safety.
“Don’t let them do that to you, my darling,” she begged. “You’re a rebel too, I
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know you are. Don’t let them do terrible things to you too.”
“But if I assume the role of my parent’s eldest son,” said Fleance, trembling in
fright, “I’ll be duty-bound to take on extra responsibilities whatever the risks.”
“They wouldn’t want you to lead the feckin resistance movement, would they?
You’re far too young for that.”
“You always ask too many questions, Susan.”
Kevin tried to study the mathematics of the Icarians’ battlefleet landing scheme, but
the ellipses confused him so much that he could only think in circles. He therefore
paid a visit to the Pirate Ship to see the head barman Svein Knutson. The place was
pulsating with atmosphere. An Icarian girl was lounging against the bar flaunting her
lower torso. She invited Kevin to dance the Honky Tonk, but when he noticed the
crush of gyrating flesh in the discothèque he politely declined. She gave him a
pleasant smile and dismissed him with a cheery wave.
During a coffee break, Svein gladly accepted Kevin’s offer of eighty dollars a
week, sourced from a special I.I. departmental fund for confused new appointees, to
help him with his math. Svein said that he’d seek the advice of one of his professors;
she was a kindly old lady who’d studied theoretical physics at the feet of the great
Leonid Voronov at the University of Moscow.
“He was responsible for the Voronov-Slutsky Zwischenzug,” said Svein, “and
for proving that particles can travel a hundred times the speed of light without
acquiring infinite mass. He transformed Einstein’s theory of relativity, of course.”
“Einstein must have been really dumb,” said Kevin, sounding vacant. “E equals
mc squared, my big toe. His wife was brighter than him.”
Svein gave Kevin a sad look. While the Norwegian was pontificating about a
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corollary due to the Cambridge whiz-kid Jonathan Pendrive, a gnarled businessman
limped in, flashed a wad of bills and eyed up the ladies. After careful contemplation,
the man stumbled over to the qinsy at the bar, groped her inner thigh, thrust a twenty
between her tusk-like breasts and invited her to dance the Tarantella.
She reacted by scratching his greasy hand with her pointed fingernails and
shrieking, “I’ll poison your beer, you smelly old troll.”
The girl was forced to change her tune when an Enforcer marched up and
bonked her buttocks with his baton until she fell off her barstool.
She’s such a brave lady, thought Kevin. She doesn’t deserve that.
“I’ll twist your mangy flea-ridden dick off,” he yelled, when the wizened
businessman took the cowed creature away to a dubious fate.
The Enforcer strolled over and gave Kevin a prod in the balls.
“Take that for a warning!” yelled the bushy-haired creature, as he slapped the
young man’s face.
Kevin felt relieved about that painfully narrow escape. But, while he was
contemplating the whys and wherefores of the sheep-like sections of the bourgeoisie,
a hairy-legged girl wandered stealthily up.
“Why, hi there, luvver boy,” she said. “Do you remember me? I’m Thracia. We
met here a week or so ago and I adore your aggressive vibes.”
“Get lost,” said Kevin. “I didn’t want to date a scheming Trinkette then and I
don’t want to know you now.”
“You’ve got the hots on all of us, darling,” said the girl, pouting her lips. “You
certainly did a good job on that sugary wench during your recent trip to the
nether regions. An illegal three-way with Professor Charleston’s bimbo, no less.
I’ll report you to the Supermets if you don’t fulfil my heart’s desires too.”
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Kevin felt like an American president who was about to be impeached.
“This is blackmail,” he said. “I didn’t make love to that woman. And her
brother’s a sneak.”
“I’ll give you a few days to contemplate your tortuous fate, Trinker boy,” said
Thracia, with a cat-like grin. “In the meantime, here’s my number.”
“Stuff it up your jumper, you half torn witch.”
“You haven’t seen the last of me, itchy snotty nose. And try sweetening your
gob with Gum Crazy.”
After all that, Kevin, feeling angry and frightened, visited Danny in his
beautifully furnished lakeside apartment where he was relaxing on his bed reading a
book about Transylvanian knights.
“You look flustered, darling,” said Danny, clearing his nostrils. “Why don’t I
calm you down with a soothing back rub?”
“I know what that means, you horny leprechaun,” yelled Kevin. “On your knees,
bitch! It’s your turn to suffer.”
“It’s about time you asserted yourself, my stroppy one,” replied Danny,
wriggling in glee. “Just watch your breath.”
A couple of evenings later, a pleasant girl from Ontario knocked on Susan’s door and
explained that she was living in Gladstone House as a companion to the First Lady.
“President Drake needs somebody reliable and well-educated to use as a
sounding board,” she said, playfully wrinkling her nose. “He can’t depend on any of
his colleagues, and his wife gets too angry with him. He remembers you from your
encounters with him and thinks that you’re a person of perception and integrity. He
indeed admires your moral standards.”
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“I’m glad that to hear that he has moral standards,” said Susan, quite caustically.
“I suppose that presidents have to be presidents,” said the girl, doubtlessly trying
to sound worldly. “But we were wondering whether you would help us? I could
smuggle you into the Lotus Parlour via a secret passage from the lakeside. That way
we’d dodge Donald’s dreadful security agents. If you would spend a couple of hours
with the boring old fart, then the First Lady would be glad to send you a crate of
prime produce from her fruit garden.”
“That’s considerate of her. I suppose that I could come along. I won’t split on
anything top secret, of course. I wouldn’t want to get my feckin skull crushed.”
When Susan was ushered into the Lotus parlour, Donald Drake was reclining in a
leather armchair, watching a rerun on Beebview of his sensitive and highlyconvincing speech to local business leaders that very afternoon.
“Now don’t you dare repeat the things I’m about to impart,” he said, with a
glare.
“You could stop treating me as wretchedly as this,” said Susan. “You certainly
don’t maintain your public image for long.”
“I know that you have a low opinion of me, Susan,” said the president,
“particularly after that unfortunate episode with the Trinkon girl. But, God dammit,
we all fancy those luscious creatures and society’s screwed itself up by persecuting
people who put their desires into practice.”
“Perhaps the élite regard Trinkons as their own preserve,” said Susan. “This
reminds me of all sorts of sick behaviour in Europe, including the head-kicking saga
that brought down the House of Ludwigstein.”
“I am trying to reform myself, Susan. However, I was dismayed by your
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insinuation that I tell porkies to explain away some of my policies.”
“You’re certainly regarded as feckin Machiavellian, Mr. President,” said Susan.
“Quite an astute control freak, in fact.”
“I have to be devious in order to preserve my position and safeguard our
interests. Perhaps I should let you know, Susan, in the strictest confidence of course,
that MI18 has recently tracked down the Balfour gang. They put a couple of the
gang’s operatives in Trivoli to the question, tracked back through their xy-fy links and
discovered that they were receiving super-whiz instructions from a broad in the
Onslow Garden Mews in South Kensington. They arrested her while she was in the
XY position with the Secretary of State for War and she bleated the entire works
while they were scorching her knickers off on a hot seat.”
“I bet she got a few blisters on her fat arse.”
“Too true, but Mandy turned out to be one of the nice slappers who fraternise
with the aristocrats in Bellwell House. And you’d never guess who the Balfour gang
are.”
“The Wizard’s Circle, perhaps. Their Astronomer Imperial looks like a devious
bitch.”
“What a good try! But no cigar. Mandy explained that I’ve been manipulated
and blackmailed for all these years not by some god-like creatures from outer space or
by the Gnomes of Beijing, but rather by a sassy clique of former Oxford
undergraduates centred in Knightsbridge. MI18 will soon dispose of those silly billys!
And I thought that the Balfour gang was something to be reckoned with.”
“I’m sure that you’ll enjoy ruling without that feckin sort of hindrance, Mr.
Drake.”
“Yes, and I’ll no doubt become much more benevolent. MI18 are scheduling a
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double sting operation for early next week. They’ll swoop on all the Balfour fools in
London at the same time as arresting their operatives in Trivoli.”
“The best of British, Mr. President.”
“Now how about a chat about social values in a militaristic society?”
“Are there any?” asked Susan.
During the next few days, Susan felt quite nauseous on several occasions and
wondered whether she’d missed a period. I can’t be pregnant, she thought. My doctor
in Lyonnesse implanted me with a completely efficient birth control device.
Nevertheless, after a couple of hours of neuroticism and anguish, she rushed to
Thadbury’s to purchase a home-testing kit.
“Are you on the game, dear?” asked the gaunt fellow behind the till, as she
escaped in agitated embarrassment.
Once back in her apartment, Susan ran into the bathroom, sobbing in shame. After
reading the instructions, she worked out how to apply the pregnancy test. Yes, if the
smear was coloured blue, this would indicate a positive result and that the baby would
be human. If purple, then the baby would be half-Icarian.
When Susan peed into the plastic bag, her very worst fears were realised. She
was pregnant with a human foetus.
How humiliating, she concluded, in utter surprise. I’m a complete disgrace. That
means that the father is the brawny apartment cleaner from Uxbridge who visited me
the morning after I met Fleance. He forced his way into my bedroom without saying
his name. No comparison with Fleance, of course. What will people say? And how on
earth could I have put myself in the family way? How can I ever forgive myself? But
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I love Fleance, I really love him and I don’t want to lose him. What in Heaven’s name
should I do? There’s no way of convincing him that a totally-human child is his, and
I’m not going to let them murder my baby whatever those people say. I certainly
wouldn’t want to take it out on the next child, like that mixed-up neighbour in
Atalanta did to her poor son. That could create real generational problems.
After an hour or so of tortuous contemplation, Susan decided to delay breaking
the news to Fleance until she really had to. Maybe she’d find a way of keeping him,
she thought, but this was a long shot.
“Perhaps there’s no balm in Gilead for me,” she wailed.
The next day, Susan was working quietly in her office evaluating the research
prospects in Petraeus, while periodically staring out of her window at the Humanities
building, when Fleance ran excitedly in.
“There’s some real drama in progress on the Capitol Square, my darling,” he
said. “Come and watch on the teleview screen in the common room.”
While Susan was debating whether this would top the academic drama, a crowd
of intellectuals, including an anxious-looking Dirk Charleston, were watching
members of the common populace hurling fire bombs through the windows of the
Planet Capitol building.
As Susan was sitting down, an agitated newscaster said, “Here are more pictures
of concerned citizens venting their anger. According to The Daily Discerner, our Lord
Chief Justice belongs to a secret ring of Trinkers and three further, as yet unnamed,
cabinet ministers are members of the same evil group. The police are keeping a safe
distance since they don’t want to inflame the situation. The revelations were made to
The Discerner’s distinguished PR correspondent by four delinquent Trinkon girls who
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boasted that they’d participated in an animalistic orgy in the Garden of Eden with the
ministers involved and seven anonymous back-benchers.”
Susan saw several rough and ready characters dragging a grey-bearded man out
of the Capitol building. Tough on him, she thought.
“Now they’re lynching the villain,” exclaimed the newscaster. “Maybe this will
serve as a lesson to evil Trinkers everywhere, folk. Perhaps they’ll hang the pervert
from one of those tall lampposts.”
And they did exactly that. As the Lord Chief Justice danced a prolonged dance
of death, his mouth gaped wide open, his tongue stuck right out like an orang utan’s,
and his flies burst wide open. Susan felt rather comforted and wondered how many
members of the repressive bureaucracy were equally guilty, and how wide the
mysterious web-of-intrigue really was.
That evening, Susan and Fleance tried to recover from the macabre events of the day
by taking a walk along the shoreline of Lake Nefertiti, but while they were admiring
the purple hues in the orange sky to the west and the four red Planets of the
Apocalypse overhead, Susan’s fragile thought processes were disturbed by menacing
voices chanting, “Name the other three! Hang them from a tree!”
“Your concerned citizens are presumably baying for the blood of the other
Trinker ministers,” said Fleance. “You humans are not a forgiving lot.”
A few moments later, Susan saw the First Lady fleeing towards her down the
lake path, with her clothes in utter disarray. She was followed by her three pretty
daughters, who were flailing their arms and squealing in fright.
“There are tens of thousands of protestors outside Gladstone House,” said the
First Lady, “including a bunch of evil renegades who’re trying to set fire to the place.
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Donald should be all right though, as long as he doesn’t bake. There’s an emergency
bunker in the basement.”
“Why don’t you come back to my place to recuperate?” said Susan. “There’s
nothing like a soothing cup of tea to calm the nerves.”
“You’re so kind. I need to escape from this sort of anarchy.”
When they got back to Susan’s apartment, the three little girls played with
Trithagoras while Fleance poured their mother a strong scotch.
The First Lady gave the lowly slave a condescending look and a quirky smile.
“Doesn’t he have a cute one?” she said, still regaining her composure. “Perhaps
I could borrow him some time.”
“No chance, Ma’am,” said Susan, flushing in embarrassment. “He’s my
personal property.”
“I’ll have to make do with Themistocles then, though he’s much too naff.”
“But what caused that feckin kafuffle?”
“We think that the trouble was stirred up by the unscrupulous gang
who’ve been manipulating Donald from London. When MI18 arrested several of their
bitchy Knightsbridge set a few days ago, one of the lickspittles asserted during
friendly water-boarding that they’re an unexpectedly powerful group with
ambassadors and MPs among their number, including several former gods at Eton.”
“So did the Balfour gang spark off the Trinkon scandal in The Daily Discerner
in retaliation for MI18’s double-sting operation?”
“Donald certainly thinks so. Yesterday, they sent him a picture of himself in an
unusually compromising position with a former Miss Trystonia, accompanied by a
threat to publish it in The Sunday Times if he doesn’t kowtow to them. That would be
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as embarrassing as an upside-down pube-twisting, since that pig-like Apollo looks
like a conurbation of balloons. My husband can be infuriating at times.”
“But what’s likely to happen next?” asked Susan, as Fleance grinned in
amusement.
“After the names of the three other guilty ministers are revealed by The
Discerner, Donald will doubtlessly order their arrest and execution, as long as they
don’t include himself of course. If that appeases the mobs, he’ll still have to reach
some sort of compromise with the Balfour gang. Now that their men in green in
Trivoli have been sent to the southern swamps, he hopes to avoid their directlyasserted control in the future.”
“Maybe the gang will agree to just giving him kinder advice from afar,”
said Susan, “in return for the release of their captured members in London.”
“Come and join in, Mummy,” said the smallest of her daughters. “The big
angry pussy is performing circus tricks.”
“Later dear. But isn’t life an absolutely-super game?”
Susan smiled and poured the tea.
“So what part of Blighty do you come from?” she asked, as she opened a packet
of custard creams.
“Grimsby. I wouldn’t wish that place on anyone. They think that their chippies
are restaurants.”
“That was the last place God made on Earth. Then he made Immingham.”
Several evenings later, Svein Knutson visited Sparrowhawk Courts to advise Kevin
about the math for his military project. As her brother hadn’t returned from work yet,
Susan nibbled the rag with her handsome guest over a glass of light ale.
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“I like Kevin,” said Svein, adjusting his floppy cap, “though I’m leery about
that Irish friend of his.”
“Their relationship is feckin rum,” said Susan. “But anything goes nowadays.
My own boyfriend is an Icarian.”
“You should be careful with them,” said Svein. “They’ll play up to their masters
like pussycats for as long as they’re slaves. However, given the chance to revolt,
they’d turn into tigers and tear us to shreds.”
“Fleance isn’t like that, but our romance is heading for disaster anyway.”
“Is that because he’s biologically different?”
“Not at all. I’m mesmerised by his whole feckin anatomy. But fuck it! If
only I had somebody I could confide with.”
“You could try me.”
Susan gave Svein a frantic look.
“May I ask you a hypothetical question?” she asked. “Suppose that you and your
girlfriend were deeply in love, but that she foolishly two-timed you with a complete
and utter bloody jerk and subsequently discovered that she was pregnant with this
cunt’s baby. How would you react?”
“What a question, Susan,” replied Svein, raising his eyebrows. “I’d feel sorry
for her, but I’d certainly have to leave her. Maybe I’d return to help her just before the
birth. There might be an outside chance of a reconciliation afterwards, if the father
had disappeared into the sunset.”
“What a prospect,” said Susan, beginning to cry.
“I’d be glad to talk about this some more as your problems materialise,” said
Svein, sounding quite taken-aback.
“Perhaps you could be my soul-mate,” said Susan.
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Trithagoras was looking mournful, but he leapt into the air in delight as his master
walked in.
“Hi guys,” said Kevin, as he struggled loose from the felixian’s clutches. “I
hope that Svein’s brought me some goodies today.”
“The Voronov-Bogoljubov Lemma, no less,” said Svein, with a smirk. “The
cure for all your ills.”
“That sounds invigorating, but will it fix my elliptical spirals?”
“It’ll line up all your axes. My professor from Moscow says that it will make the
qinsies’ landing scheme even more efficient, and I’ve brought you ten pages of
algebra to prove it.”
“Make my day! Why don’t you explain it to me over a glass of Gay Gordon’s?
Take your time, just to make sure that I understand the whole caboodle.”
“No chance,” said Svein, with a grin, “but I’ll do my best.”
The next day, Susan was agreeably surprised when Tigran Mangasarian strolled into
her office.
“I’ve got great news,” he said. “Dirk has appointed me to be co-principal
investigator on one of his grants. This comes with a professorial salary from the
Frankfurter Institute and I’ll still be able to keep my University pension.”
“How feckin wonderful,” said Susan, feeling genuinely pleased for her friend.
“I’ll be living in a luxurious suite in Dirk’s mansion in Greenwood Hills.
Fleance will polish my boots and I’ll be here for at least three years.”
“I’m so happy for you,” said Susan. “Will you be moving into this department?”
“Yes, and my office is just down the corridor. Maybe we’ll be able to
collaborate and if there’s any way I can help, please let me know.”
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Kevin took a second trip with Brad Redfoot to the Caesar Military Base, to present
the generalissimo with his proposed modifications to his landing scheme.
“Thank goodness all that unrest over the kinky cabinet ministers has died
down, meine gute Leute,” said Van Wurstenberg, over a glass of Cheltenham milk
sherry. “We only had to string up four more of the bastards. The crowds loved it when
we disembowelled the Minister of Education and blew the Foreign Secretary’s body
away from under his head. That’ll teach the perverts for liking blue skin.”
Kevin was sad to hear that. The education minister had been so cool at that
Senate meeting before they electronysed him with an O.
“We can always rely on the military to do the right thing, General,” Redfoot
diplomatically replied.
“Brutishness comes before pity, as my Texan friend Wart Gundhewer said
while he was turning Fiji into a duck pond. And, strictly between ourselves, our
wimpy president has negotiated terms with the cissies who’ve been controlling him
from London. So our planet may be ruled a touch more sensibly from now on.”
“You could be out of the movie Dr. Funnyfeel,” said Kevin, extremely
tactlessly.
“Why, thanks for the compliment, junger Mann. I’d love to blow all the fucking
Hittites away as well as the rat-arses on this fucking planet.”
“I suppose that Carthage must be destroyed, as Cato once said.”
“We razed that frigging den of vice years ago,” declared the general, “and now I
need to toughen up that Donald Duck fool so that we can really get down to
business.”
“But you both rule us splendidly, General,” said Redfoot, most subserviently,
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“and I’ve never doubted the president’s outstanding abilities.”
“He’s full of scheissdreck, mein kleiner potthässlicher Schwachkopf,” said Van
Wurstenberg, with a look of contempt.
“Shit? I couldn’t have expressed it better myself, General.”
“You wouldn’t dare to. You’re totally spineless like the rest of your
geringschätzig breed. Anyway, how is Kevin getting on with his project?”
“He’s done splendidly, General,” Redfoot resiliently replied. “He began by
retrieving the old Icarian battlefleet plans from the Drumkok military base before
modifying them in quite brilliant fashion using the Voronov-Bogoljubov Lemma.”
“That sounds like a fancy brand of vodka,” said the general, with a curt smile, as
his grizzly scientists grinned in delight. “We’ll, of course, have to test your solution
with a practical demonstration. We’ll try it out when we visit the Archipelago of the
Dramwoks during the deer and donkey culling season. So, young man, please
describe your solution to us in laymen’s terms, nice and easy for the likes of me.”
Kevin felt somewhat reassured to see Danny nodding encouragingly.
“Imagine the battlefleet approaching in straight-line formation, General, at their
usual altitude,” he stuttered. “Instead of descending in circular spirals to a thousand
feet and rotating in a circle that is three miles in circumference, they’ll now descend
in complex elliptical spirals and rotate in an eclipse that is two miles long and half a
mile wide. That’s more efficient as they won’t need to deviate so much from their
straight-line formation.”
“He means ‘ellipse’, and that type of set up is more defensible,” said Redfoot,
with a perturbed look, “should there happen to be any enemy on the ground.”
“What happens next?” asked the general, looking as confused as a toasted owl.
Although Kevin felt like a jelly bean, he tried to sound more confident.
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“At the second phase,” he stammered, “the battlefleet approaches the ground in
ecliptical spirals that fast approach circular ones, and ends up equally-spaced
around the circular landing disc. The lemma due to the two Ruskies ensures that the
interweaving curves are designed as efficiently as possible.”
“What a wonderfully in depth solution to a seemingly insurmountable problem,”
declared Danny, sounding like his uncle, the celebrated space scientist Darragh
‘Wernher’ O’Gara.
“As long as it doesn’t lead to your eclipse,” said Redfoot, with a chuckle.
Clearly not realising that the O’Garas were sometimes as full of hot air as the
McCluskeys of Limerick, Van Wurstenberg strutted over and gave Kevin a hearty pat
on the back.
“I’ll set our boffins onto this,” he said. “We’ll need your continuing advice, of
course, just in case of technical hitches.”
A few minutes later, a frizzy-haired lance corporal ran in at the double, and said,
“Excuse me, Generalissimo, but Military Intelligence are ready to see Mr. Lindsay.”
“They’ll be up to their usual tricks,” said Van Wurstenberg. “I’ll try to see you
again before you go, Kevin, but don’t play the wise guy or they’ll snip your ears, not
to forget your big one. Another drink, Redfoot? You’re quite an affable goon really.”
The lance corporal accompanied Kevin to the fourth floor and ushered him into
the office of the Head of Military Intelligence. She was a jovial middle-aged lady of
Serbian origin with a plump face and long black hair, who introduced herself as the
Admiral. As she was dressed in a dark blue uniform, she reminded Kevin of an
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opera star he’d seen on Beebview singing, ‘I am the very model of a modern major
admiral.’ He found her ferret-like ensign and bleary-eyed civilian Rottpsycher to be
somewhat less appealing.
“I’m sure that you’ve been told about your extra duties, Mr. Lindsay,” said the
Admiral, “and we’ve found some ideal ones for you.”
“Haven’t I worked my arse off enough already?” said Kevin. “I’ve just helped
develop a new landing scheme for your mendocapricious battlefleet.”
“Be that as it may. You’re also expected to spy for us during your spare
moments, to report anybody who might be a threat to the State and to discover as
much as possible about any qinsies you encounter.”
“Neptune pissed in my face! That’s a broad agenda. Do you have anything
specific in mind?”
“We can do that too. Strictly between ourselves, we’re primarily interested in
your sister’s dippy sidekick Fleance. We have it on good authority that the qinsies
will appoint him leader of their underground when they discover that we’ve executed
his two older brothers. We certainly stuck it to those suckers.”
“Such a gory end,” said the ensign, with a venomous grin. “Their screams could
be heard from miles away. They sounded like all those Han Chinese when they got
axed to death by the Taiwanese secret police on their university campuses.”
“Perhaps the spirit of Chang Dong is living with them in Valhalla,” said Kevin,
as he recalled an infamous axe murder in Taipei that was recorded in Taiwanese
history.
“According to my grapevine, that outspoken assistant professor got the
proverbial knife in the back from a professionally jealous colleague in South Dakota.
And those vermin only got what they were asking for. We could have torn Fleance to
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shreds long ago, but we wanted to perfect a strategy devised by the Tudors and
Stuarts. The key idea is to allow the rebels’ plot to broaden until it exposes as many of
them as possible and to delay arresting their leadership until we’ve accomplished that.
You can help us by naming any interspecies vagrants that you see in contact with
Fleance.”
“No dice,” said Kevin. “I don’t want to implicate potentially-innocent people,
and Fleance may be entirely blameless.”
The suddenly not so jolly admiral grimaced and rapped her desk with a massive
knuckle-duster. The Rottpsycher produced a manual labelled Excruciating Forms of
Physical Encouragement and grinned like a facially damaged Cheshire cat.
“I’d shoot my vapours high on this one,” declared the Rottpsycher, as his white
cubic head glowed with pleasure.
“He should read the small print in his contract,” said the Admiral. “Bring in the
ebony trestle and platinum chains, Ensign. I’ll turn the cheeky blighter into a baa
lamb, like all those obstinate Snottys at Dartmouth, and then make him bleat.”
Kevin recalled a harrowing press report of mass bullying on a trainee
battleschooner and the lingering impression that it had left on his psyche.
“Keep your fangs away from me,” he begged. “I’ll kiss the dust.”
“Well spoken like the wimp you are,” said the Admiral, with a frightening glare.
“Do everything we say and be sure not to snitch to Fleance, or your wretched sister, or
whoever, about your agenda with us.”
The next evening, Susan organized a dinner party in her flat. She prepared deliciously
spiced leek and potato soup and a magnificent lentil soufflé, with single, extremely
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expensive, lychees chinensis on cabbage leaves for dessert. This is cordon bleu at its
finest, she thought.
“How did you make out with the Admiral, Kevin?” asked Danny, as he spilt
his soup down the front of his shirt.
“She coerced me into her intelligence program,” replied Kevin, as he spluttered
and choked.“I promised not to let the cat out of the bag to Fleance about what’s
involved, and so I won’t.”
Danny winked at Fleance, and Fleance winked back.
“I hope that she didn’t treat you too roughly,” said Danny. “They’re still treating
their more impudent midshipmen to the tender delights of the metal comb while
they’re kissing the gunner’s daughter. Horatio Bugleblower was one of the first to
receive the honour during the Napoleonic Wars and it’s been employed by the Royal
Navy ever since.”
“I’m no fool,” said Kevin. “I begged for mercy and escaped intact.”
“We could run rings around the stupid old cow with this one,” said Fleance,
with a knowing look. Danny nodded his approval at that.
“You foolish children,” said Sybil Greenleaf, with a frown, as she popped her
lychee into Ophelia’s mouth and nibbled a cabbage leaf.
After she’d wolfed down her dessert, Susan said, “Yes, my aunt told us our
parents’ names, but she’s not been able to communicate with them since they were
arrested here in 2374 and I’ve hit a feckin brick wall while searching for them through
all sorts of official sources. Does anybody have any superlatively imaginative idea
how I can trace their whereabouts?”
“Perhaps I can help,” replied Danny. “The military has access to a secret cryptofile containing basic information about all our citizens. I’ll see what I can do.”
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That Saturday afternoon, Kevin watched a telecast of a game in the Inter-Planets Fairs
Cup, while Susan played patience with Trithagoras, but they were disturbed just after
Athletico Madrid were yet again reduced to eight players while hanging on for a
goalless draw, when Danny walked in with a sombre expression on his usually-cheery
face.
“I have something extremely sad to report to you,” he said. “According to my
investigations, your mother Princess Alexandra Von Coburg died of natural causes in
February 2374 in Zamara.”
Susan burst into tears and collapsed onto the sofa in grief. However, Kevin
maintained a stiff upper lip and asked, “What happened to our dear father?”
“That’s a complete mystery,” replied Danny. “Peter Wiltshire disappeared soon
afterwards and his name hasn’t appeared on any further official Imperial records to
this very day.”
“This is all very strange,” said Kevin. “When were my parents released from the
Münchenhaus Fortress?”
“That’s pie in the sky. Your parents were never arrested for anything and your
father had skippered a local fishing vessel ever since his arrival in Zamara.”
When they’d sufficiently recovered from this traumatic ordeal, Susan and Kevin
discussed why their caring aunt would have told them a porky about their parents’
arrests.
“I’m sure that there’s a good reason,” said Susan. “I’ll ask the old dear during
my next trip to the convent. But it’s so terrible to know that I have no real
mother after all. It’s as if I’ve lost part of my feckin soul.”
“It’s cutting me up as well,” said Kevin, “and where’s our father?”
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Susan later remembered the grey-suited agents who’d hassled them on the
Union Terrace during their first day in Trivoli. Why did they imply that my mother
was still alive? she reflected. Is there another piece to the jigsaw?
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CHAPTER 12: AN EVENTFUL DAY
The human race will travel to the stars (Professor James Koutsky)
On a sunny-though-blustery day in August, Dirk Charleston gave an invited address
on ‘The Nature of Human Creation’ to a meeting of the Royal Society of Trivoli, a
renowned body of academics and other accomplished intellectuals. A large
interplanetary audience packed the Sir Isaac Hawkins Auditorium, including several
high-ranking clerics and a plethora of celebrated professors. Susan sat near the back
next to Sybil Greenleaf.
Susan was delighted to see Isadore Neyman, freshly arrived from Atalanta,
relaxing in the second row and was stunned when a well-dressed personage wearing a
dark blue cravat sat down in the sixth row. It was Tacitus. She remembered that Dirk
had a special device enabling him to communicate with Castellos Five and concluded
that he’d invited the leader of the Izons to attend.
The proceedings were initiated by the president of the society from a chair on the
podium. She was a middle-aged Apollo with a rectangular nose and an extra-long
silver horn.
“This is our forty-first annual Albert Einstein meeting and I am honoured to
introduce yet another eminent speaker,” she announced, rather snootily. “Professor
Dirk Charleston plans to tell us about his remarkable discoveries during his recent
archaeological expedition to the Shrine of Aleph. His junior colleagues Susan and
Kevin Lindsay are to be awarded Carter medals in bronze in acknowledgement of
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their contributions to this splendid exercise and two wide-awake postgraduates will
each receive fifty dollars from our cookie fund. Following our ancient traditions,
you’re all welcome to participate, but only if you have something insightful to say
and don’t try to cause a flutter in the dovecot.”
Fleance stumbled in carrying the Skull of Christ on a silver platter and nervously
set it down on a mahogany table. Susan was proud that he’d excavated it and thought
that he deserved a medal too. When he sat down on a stool next to a macro-screen,
she thought that he merited a comfortable seat.
Dirk displayed a fierce-looking portrait of the demi-god Aleph Zero on the
screen, only to recoil in shock as if an apparition had appeared out of his past. Susan
watched in amazement as a scruffy bag lady scurried down the aisle and yelled, “This
ruthless cunt never discovers anything for himself. He always steals his research
findings and rarely gives his students adequate credit.”
“Please ask security to eject that street person, Felicity,” said the president,
calmly looking down her nose. “She’s doubtlessly exuding a noxious odour and the
guards should perhaps wear rubber gloves for self-protection under the health-andsafety guidelines.”
“I deserve my fair say, you pretentious cow,” shrieked the bag lady, as they
dragged her away. “He forced me out of academia without my Ph.D. I’m no cheat.”
“Go and feed yourself to the dogs,” yelled a gentleman with a curly moustache,
as the audience howled in derision.
“Fuck off, you dishonest bitch!” yelled a well-powdered lady in a pink business
suit.
“That unfortunate woman was Debbie Smythe,” whispered Sybil. “You
discussed her path-breaking research with me recently. Her condition now seems to
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be rapidly deteriorating.”
“How terrible,” said Susan. “Maybe we should try to rehabilitate her.”
“What an admirable idea. Let’s discuss that possibility later.”
“I solved an almost indecipherable ancient code using advanced inductive reasoning,”
said Dirk, after a circuitous preamble, “and hence gained entry to the almostimpenetrable basement of the Shrine of Aleph, where I used a personally devised
search procedure to track down twelve electronic files containing amazingly detailed
documentary and diagrammatic evidence. These proved the truth of the Charleston
Hypothesis, namely that the first modern humans were physically manufactured by a
complex technological updating process from earlier prototypes. The human factory
was situated within Baal, the central core of a distant space complex called Castellos.
I also discovered an unexpected way of making contact with Tacitus, the leader of a
super-intelligent race of humanoids called Izons who populate Castellos Five, one of
the system’s eight satellites, and he confirmed a couple of my findings.”
Susan was wondering how many academics dissembled in a similarly
outrageous fashion, when she noticed the Chief Rabbi of Trystonia furiously tugging
his impressively long beard.
“Blasphemy,” he yelled. “We were all divinely created by the one true God. It
says so in Genesis.”
“So who is this one true God?” asked Dirk. “We encountered your Yahweh, but
discovered that he’s an overseer of the ongoing humanoid manufacturing processes.
There’s nothing divine about him. Indeed, he seemed keener than the Devil himself to
foster craziness and evil. ”
“That sounds convincing for a god,” said Isadore Neyman, with a yawn.
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“Sure it does. Yahweh’s a mixed-gender piece of corruption with an aggressive
temperament.”
“The early Jewish scriptures make that abundantly clear,” said a pert lecturer in
women’s studies from Royal Holloway College London.
“They certainly did,” said Neyman, “and Moses and Joshua were his
henchmen.”
“You’re both very perceptive,” said the Chief Rabbi. “We try to smooth over
these details just in case our followers get Yahweh confused with the demi-god Baal.”
“You’re all heading for eternal hellfire,” declared the Cardinal of Westminster,
an unholy-looking man with a sallow complexion, waving his arms in indignation.
Susan noticed a stuffy auburn-haired person in a chequered suit trying to join the
discussion. She liked his kindly face and thought that he could be anybody’s favourite
relative. As the middle-aged visitor rose to his feet, she noticed Tacitus smiling in
approval.
“The Messiah is the one true God,” stammered the visitor. “As recorded by the
Assyrians, Chinese and Icarians, he is ever eternal. He created complicated systems of
primeval creatures called Trimodes by crystallising his complex thoughts on a
gigantic scale. These semi-robots manufactured the mortal humanoids and they’re still
producing them for other galaxies.”
“What a load of capricious bullshit, you fool,” yelled the Leader of the Papal
Inquisition. “The Messiah is the son of the Creator God and he couldn’t have created
anybody before his virgin birth. You deserve to be slowly disembowelled and
ceremoniously asphyxiated for suggesting otherwise.”
“I know that I’m telling the truth because I was there,” said the visitor, quite
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stuffily and with ponderous emphasis. “Perhaps I should say that I’m an eternallyliving Izon, just like the Messiah. While I usually live in Castellos Eight, I’ve flipped
here for the day to see how you chew your fat. The twelve eternal Izons emerged from
the Voids of Divestia at the beginning of time in their supernatural forms. While they
were all suckled by the star-shaped Blessed One, they were not fathered by anybody.
That includes their leader, the Messiah himself.”
“How fascinating,” said Neyman. “The Gnostic Christians were perhaps the first
mortals to understand that Yahweh and the Messiah can behave quite differently.”
“Poppycock,” yelled a Regius Professor of Anthropology with a wispy beard.
“The fool’s either a nutcase or a trumped-up bank clerk.”
“His suggestions run counter to the natural laws of evolution,” said a hawk-like
doctor of genetics from Angervast. “There’s absolutely no evidence to the contrary.”
“That’s not precisely true,” said Dirk. “The exhibit on the silver platter is the
skull of the biblical Christ. I discovered it under the Convent of St. Drusilla.”
“Watch and you shall behold, you ignorant genocrat,” declared the visitor, with
a flourish of his right hand.
There was a swirl of white light and the bony skull started to acquire flesh and
skin. Within thirty seconds it had transformed itself into the head of a plump-faced
Semitic-looking man, possibly in his early thirties.
As the audience recoiled in terror, the head twitched its nose and said, “Peace be
unto you, my children. Love me with all your heart and you will live in your very own
kingdom forever.”
“Are you the Messiah?” asked the Greek Orthodox Archbishop of Byzantium,
with a reverent look. “Are you our ever eternal God?”
“If my memory serves me correctly, I am Christ crucified by the Romans, risen
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on Earth and beheaded by disbelievers after my Ascension to Qinsatorix. I’m
one of the many physical manifestations of the Messiah.”
The visitor from Castellos Eight swayed slightly while flicking his fingers.
“Now it’s time for this one to return home,” he said. “It’s so tiring activating
two physical forms at once.”
The Head of Christ vanished, leaving a splattering of blood on the silver platter,
and the visitor regained his balance.
“I don’t believe anything you say,” said a Professor of Moral Ethics. “But
you’re full of magic. Perhaps you should be strung up by your genitals. Who are you
really?”
“Those with eyes to see, let them see. Those with brains to use, let them use
them.”
“Curse your cheek!”
“He’s our creator and Messiah,” said Dirk, sounding wise for once, “the living
God.”
“A most perceptive and completely correct conjecture,” said the visitor, with a
courteous smile. “I should be worshipped as both, within a monotheistic religion.”
It’s Him, realised Susan, in delight. Now I’m a true believer.
“God should die, God should remain dead and we must kill him!” yelled a
gentleman with a bushy Prussian moustache, only to vanish in a puff of sickly yellow
smoke.
“Good riddance to that joker,” shouted the Arian Bishop of Izmir, brandishing
his fists, “but your claim isn’t substantiated by the Gospels, you fool. While Jesus is
divine, he says on a number of occasions that he’s inferior to his father and it’s not
stated anywhere that he’s part of the godhead. Therefore, he isn’t even co-eternal with
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his father.”
“That’s pure propaganda put about by your obstructive prophet Arius during his
struggles with the equally hard-boiled Trinitarians,” said the visitor. “It’s based on
falsifications of parts of the Gospels, including my supposed appeals to God on the
Cross, by a malicious Phoenician sect in Tyre.”
“I don’t believe you,” said an honest-looking Saukat, “and I think that we
should follow the word of the biblical Christ rather than you or any archaic doctrine.”
“Please yourself. But don’t worry, folk. I won’t turn any of you into goats, until
my next coming at least. Goodbye for now. I wouldn’t want to get myself executed by
another set of unforgiving barbarians, even to save your souls.”
The self-proclaimed living God vanished into thin air, leaving the audience
looking as bewildered as recently shorn sheep.
When his audience had regained their composure, Dirk said, “Well folk, I’m
sure that we’ll all be debating that mind-bending encounter for ages.”
When Dirk continued his talk, his suggestion that modern humans may have
cohabited with Icarians on their planet before migrating to Earth was greeted with
scepticism by a pair of rabbit-like anthropologists. His conclusion that early
Neanderthals were unrelated to humans drew sighs of relief from the Catholic clerics.
However, his announcement that Rottpsychers were manufactured, rather than
divinely created by Aton, drew howls of protest from three cubic-headed priests and
the squattest of them ran up and sprinkled him with whale’s semen.
“But you guys have known that for a thousand years,” said Charleston, wiping
the creamy liquid off his face. “After one of your number found his way into the
basement of the shrine, you kept the information on file in a secret sanctum and
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you’ve been disseminating false doctrine ever since, doubtlessly to emphasise your
supposed spiritual superiority with all sorts of exploitive purposes in mind.”
“Blasphemy!” yelled the fattest of the priests, as he drew a curved knife. He
rushed screaming onto the podium, only to be constrained by several stroppy guards
who silenced him with nerve gas and dragged his bulbous body away.
The audience roared in approval, and Fleance leapt from his stool yelling, “Sock
it to them all!”
After another lengthy monologue, Charleston wound up his talk by saying, “My
findings suggest numerous exciting possibilities for future research. For example, can
the theory of random evolution be completely debunked or is it consistent with my
discovery that humanoids were intelligently manufactured by reference to earlier
prototypes? How rationally do the successive designs of humanoids inter-relate? Will
the human race be modified further in the future?
“It is also intriguing to ask how the inhabited planets developed interrelating
life support systems that are fine-tuned towards the survival of our species. Consider,
for example, the ways in which our tectonic plates interact with our atmospheric
conditions and weather. Despite our destructive earthquakes, it’s as if the radioactive
decay and complex heat processes beneath our planets’ surfaces are being
orchestrated with the overall well-being of humanoids in mind. That process must
have been intelligently designed, rather than evolving randomly or haphazardly. The
theory of genotypes certainly can’t help us there. Maybe the Izons will help us with
our future endeavours.”
After tumultuous applause, the Apollo president scratched her rectangular nose and
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said, “Follow that, folk! This has been one of the most eventful meetings in the
history of this fabled institution. A cameo appearance by a God-like magician, no less.
The speaker’s ingenious theories make him one of the most-intriguing archaeologists
of our time. In this spirit, our council has decided to honour Dirk with a completely
new award. The Cecilius Foxius Medal in Platinum is named after the celebrated
psychologist who reportedly established a causal relationship between grandparents’
and children’s intelligence, though the absent-minded Apollo never could quite
remember which of his lady friends had collected his data. Maybe he fudged his
statistics and foxed the entire establishment! On that note, I would like to invite Dirk
to approach the chair to receive his well-deserved trophy.”
When Susan and Kevin were invited forwards to receive their Carter medals,
Susan put this down to her position as an academic staff member from Earth who’d
been there at the right time, rather than to what she’d actually achieved.
But Kevin claimed later that his honour was well-justified because of his
industrious efforts and his heroic stance against the Tyronians. He told Susan that he
was now a pillar of the population and a highly rated guy who’d be able to influence
events rather than getting pushed around by every Tom, Dick and Harry.
When thanking the president for his medal, Charleston said, “While I’m
overwhelmed by this enormous honour, it is as always gratifying to give full credit to
everyone involved, even the non-humans. Our postgraduates Ophelia and Fleance
both deserve further recognition for what they did. I would therefore like to ask them
both to step forward for your applause.”
What a schemer, thought Susan, as the audience murmured its approval.
That evening, Susan went for a quiet meal with Isadore Neyman in the Vesuvius
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restaurant on Mall St. However, when the Italian proprietor showed her to a table she
was amazed to see Tujay, her erstwhile companion in Atalanta, sitting there.
“I purchased this rapscallion after your hypocritical adoptive father discovered
him in bed with his wife,” said Isadore. “The reprobate beat him until his skin was
raw and sold him for a pittance. I found him in a deeply depressed state in the slave
market. Now he’s taken on a new lease of life and we’re wonderful companions.”
“It’s almost as if I’ve achieved my freedom, Miss Susie,” said Tujay. “Life is so
exhilarating.”
“Perhaps I’ll send him to the University of Atalanta after he’s passed his special
levels,” said Isadore. “Maybe he’ll be a surrogate son to me and help me to feel young
as I grow old.”
“I hope to be highly influential myself one day,” said Tujay. “In my dreams, I
imagine that I’ll unite the Icarians in Lyonnesse and form a fairer society.”
How touching, thought Susan, and perhaps he really will.
“This is feckin magic,” she said, “and I hope that we keep in contact, Tujay, as
your new life progresses.”
“We’ll try to visit every so often,” said Isadore, just as a man with a vertical scar
on his left cheek walked in, stared at the three companions and left, leaving Susan
trembling in her seat.
“Dirk’s talk was certainly spectacular,” said Isadore, ignoring the intrusion, “but
it got me wondering how the guy ticks.”
“I’m interested in that in relation to my forthcoming survey on insanity,” said
Susan, calming down though only a little. “Dirk could be as crazy as a shrink on
narcotics, and I believe that interacts with his gross sexual appetites.”
“He’s certainly got an exaggerated opinion of himself. I think that he’s a high-
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class chancer myself.”
“I regard him as the sort of rotten arsehole who creates a fair amount of good
because of the activity he stimulates. The jerk sometimes comes up with the right idea
at a good time and, assuming that other people are prepared to do the graft, a fresh
piece of knowledge often results.”
“I suppose you’re right. That’s rather like the twenty-second-century
sociologist Vince Kuennsberg who enjoyed violent sex with married couples and
never did a proper day’s work in his life. Although he battered his students with
baseball bats for light relief, the chirpy guys helped him to develop a new
methodology for haphazard data collection and that’s benefited society ever since.”
“Perhaps Dirk’s just feckin par for the course,” said Susan, spilling her glass of
water.
“So how do you intend to structure your insanity survey?” asked Isadore, as a surly
waitress from Zamara called Visadebit, who was wearing a tight black dress that
revealed most of her none too attractive thighs, clattered up in high-heeled shoes and
plonked three bowls of tepid tortellini al brodo onto the table.
“I’ll firstly ask the members of my sample whether they have highly-repetitive
sexual fantasies, as I’m sure most of us do,” replied Susan. “Then I’ll probe the nature
of their fantasies and try to correlate them with the individual’s personality and
character, and the stress factors that might be affecting them, using some speciallydevised questions. Finally, I’ll ask each subject to complete all 183 items of Burton’s
Psychology Test. That’s supposed to be an accurate indicator of insanity.”
“It’s the gold standard, and your experimental design is spot on, for a
preliminary investigation with tentative conclusions, but you should be careful not to
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advertise it as a confirmatory analysis.”
“I wouldn’t do any such feckin thing. What a preposterous suggestion!”
“I’m sure that the thought hasn’t even flashed across your pretty mind. But your
ideas pose a serious social problem. Many people feel pressured into thinking that
they have to enact their sexual fantasies when these in fact play entirely different
roles, for example to reduce the angst, and that causes all sorts of problematic
behaviour.”
“Magic! I totally agree with your brilliant perceptions.”
“I’m rather proud of them myself, my dear. Perhaps this is why many all-toonormal people feel pressured into being actively pink, while the rest of us think that
we’re hiding our secret.”
“What an outrageous piece of waffle,” said Susan, blushing beetroot in alarm.
“You certainly shouldn’t espouse that feckin opinion in public since you’d offend and
frighten far-too-many people. They might even compare you with the decrepit
psychocraptanalysts in Mayfair.”
“I do have much more experience of the human condition than you, my dear,”
said Isadore. “For example, one of my straightest-acting college mates came on to me
just before his marriage to a beautiful French lady and ended up throwing his legs in
the air. Indeed, I’m convinced that all men and women adore les derrières de beaux
hommes, whatever their sexual preferences. Perhaps that influences all of our
innermost thoughts in some sort of Fronko-Freudian way. For example, many
superdykes prefer their partners to look like hunky men, and most avid heterosexuals
of either gender would lay a joli garçon given the chance, if only to give their spouses
a break.”
“What weird ravings. You should keep your lips sealed. If you don’t then you
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could be regarded as well past your due date, and put out to pasture.”
“You shouldn’t let convention filters influence you so much, Susan. Indeed, one
of my fellow students at University College London described a rather more extreme
‘bum hypothesis’ during the annual Raith debate, which was originally proposed by
Michelangelo. Unfortunately, he got kicked in the butt by a band of strong women.”
“Tough on that wanker. Do you have any less-farcical insights?”
“Let’s see. I am quite interested in Tourette’s syndrome. Some sufferers
experience intense fantasies that they express explicitly and on a regular basis. Indeed,
one of my colleagues goes around telling girls that he wants to suck their nipples, and
he claims that he has no control over his behaviour at all.”
“That terrible condition is worth a separate investigation. I intend to invite Dirk
Charleston to be part of my sample. I wonder what he fantasises about when he’s not
hogging the tarts?”
“Getting screwed by horses, perhaps. That’d be enough to drive anybody nuts.”
“What a caper. From my observations so far, I suspect that there may be more
crazy people here than even you might imagine. I find it difficult to compare
Qinsatorix with Lyonnesse though, as I had my blinkers on there. One of my morevisionary schemes is to understand insane people so well that society regards many of
them as sane.”
“Perhaps we do that already,” said Isadore, with a sigh.
While Susan and Isadore were shredding the rag, the surly waitress strode up
and threw a plate of soggy bolognese in front of Tujay, spilling some of it onto his
lap. Just then there was a screeching noise from outside as if a vehicle was grinding to
a halt. They’re coming to get me, thought Susan, in fright. The waitress returned to
serve her and Isadore, no less impolitely, with slightly burnt escalope parmigiana and
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bowls of thin hard chips. The proprietor looked embarrassed and poured them
complimentary glasses of vintage Chianti. Susan took a gulp and dismissed her fears
as pure paranoia.
“A toast to your success,” said Isadore. But before he could sample his wine, two
police constables marched jauntily in. The more muscular of the officers seized Tujay
by the scruff of his neck, dragged him across the floor, thumped him in the
stomach and secured his neck in a spiked collar that tore into his skin. Susan almost
fainted as the teen squealed in agony, his golden skin laced with his silver blood.
The meaner-faced of the constables grinned spitefully as he put in the boot.
“We’re arresting this piece of vermin as a suspected covert agent, Sir,” he said.
“He was seen on the Union Terrace communicating with qinsies who are known to us.
Our inspector thinks that he’s liaising between their underground movement here and
their exiled cronies in Lyonnesse. And he was performing magical card tricks.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Isadore. “I can vouch for Tujay personally. He
doesn’t even know any other Icarians and he certainly isn’t a wizard.”
“We’ll find out when we take him to Playfield Police Station, Sir. The traitorous
bastards invariably spill their beans when we crack their bones with metal rods and
stick electrodes up their noses.”
“I protest,” said Isadore, as Susan felt positively sick. “I’m an eminent professor
and I demand to see your superintendent.”
“He’s at home nursing his invalid mother, but you can talk to our commissioner
if you like, Sir. He’s down in our dungeons getting his rocks off. Why don’t you come
along in half an hour or so?”
“Let me go!” howled Tujay. “Set me free!”
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The constables battered the proud Kneppo as they hauled him out of the
restaurant. He began to shape shift into a chimera, but collapsed in a crumpled heap.
Neither Susan nor Isadore were convinced that they should put themselves in danger
by trying to help a mere slave boy further. However, after an intense debate, Susan
said, “Let’s try to feckin save him.”
Thereupon, Susan and Isadore hurried through the beautiful Botanic Gardens,
past the twisting towers of St. Grunhelda’s College that rose spookily above the
willow pines to their right, and on to Playfield Police Station, a depressive concrete
edifice several storeys high that was weather-stained and decaying with age.
A sprightly female officer at the front desk checked their IDs, mobiled the
commissioner with their names and directed them down an ancient stone spiral
staircase. Susan was horrified by the blood-curdling screams that she could hear from
below. When she and Isadore emerged into a grimy foyer, they were greeted by a
pleasant constable with a diamond ring in each of his pointed ears.
“Welcome to the best hotel in town,” he said, with a courteous smile. “It’s been
here since the Dark Ages.”
“We’re here to talk to your commissioner,” replied Neyman, “on behalf of my
slave Tujay.”
“I’m surprised you’re concerned about that worthless muskrat, but you’ll
find them both down Corridor C,” said the bobby. “They’ll probably let the
superdykes squish the little blighter as they’ve taken a fancy to him. Be careful not to
slip on the blood or you’ll fall into the shit. I prefer to watch the capers with the
horned gorillas in Corridor E myself, but I keep well clear of Corridor F. You
wouldn’t wish what they do there on your worst enemies.”
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As Susan ventured along the murky stench-filled passageway, she was dismayed
by the ravings of a plain young man with a pockmarked face and a long pointed nose,
who was dressed in the crumpled remains of a business suit. He was secured to a
metal chair while being tortured with an intricate thumb and finger bender.
“I didn’t steal the money from the silly customer,” he shrieked. “The stupid old
bitch dropped it on the floor.”
A genial-looking sergeant chuckled.
“You’re lucky that I haven’t turned up the steam,” he said, as he took a slice out
of the man’s ear.
The suspect shrieked like a hyena.
“This is your last chance to fess up before things get serious,” said the sergeant,
producing a pair of pliers. “Guess what’s next.”
The ugly man went spare as the officer jovially set about his task.
“Not my lovely tessies,” he screamed. “I confess! I confess!”
“Good,” said the sergeant. “In that case, I’ll let you off with a nose-twisting.
That should improve your looks.”
This is like a sick fantasy, thought Susan. It’s almost as scary as a Spartacus
hologram.
Then she saw two Procrustes beds further along the corridor. As a gigantic
redneck from Stingwell, who’d been arrested for head-butting a tram driver, was too
long for the first bed, two constables were chopping off his overhanging legs at the
knees. A virgin from Nazareth had been caught stealing liquor. She was too short for
the second bed and was getting stretched by a pulley system in order to achieve a
perfect fit.
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When he saw all that, Neyman stared at the ceiling and chanted,
“Tyrants more cruel than Procrustes old,
Who in his iron bed by torture fits
Their nobler parts, the soul of suffering wits.”
“Who composed that dreadful ditty?” asked Susan.
“Don’t ask me,” said Neyman. “I was on a time warp.”
[Author’s Note: It was composed by David Mallett. See Verbal Criticism (1733)]
The karma didn’t improve when Susan fled to the end of the corridor. Tujay was
swinging from a beam, his legs dangling in space. A massive sergeant was holding a
dominatrix whip in one hand and caressing his thighs with the other. Her twin sister
was wiring him up to a twelve-pronged electronyser and smiling like a
head nurse whenever she stuck in the needle.
To Tujay’s right, a hairy thickset man was spread-eagled against the wall with
twelve metal bolts imbedded concentrically into his chest, and red feathers stuck up
his nostrils. Though the purple-faced fellow was moaning and groaning, he appeared
to be more startled than frightened. Opposite him stood a fat pudding-shaped officer
waving a fearsome steel pike. Susan thought that he could have passed for the
psychotic gangster in the latest best-selling crime novel by that famous undercover
journalist.
“Excuse me, Sir,” inquired Neyman, “but are you the Chief of Police?”
“Commissioner Jack Gilchrist at your service, Professor,” replied the officer,
rubbing his bloated face. “This hairy moron stands accused of abusing the Lord
Mayor’s daughter. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to protest about your treatment of my slave, Tujay, here. In my
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estimation, the poor lad’s entirely innocent.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Sir.”
“How come? You’re a brutish Caliban and an outrageous monster.”
“I resent that insinuation. My father was no demon and my mother no witch.”
“I’m sure that Theseus would have expressed a different opinion. He didn’t like
Procrustes either.”
“That pirate couldn’t throw stones. He split humans in two. Now I understand
that this lady is Dr. Susan Lindsay, her very self. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” replied Susan, glowering angrily. “Why are you treating your
prisoners so feckin despicably in this ghastly place?”
“All in the line of duty, Miss. So your brother must be the ubiquitous Kevin.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We know all about him and he may be helping us with our inquiries shortly.”
“But he never breaks the law, in any serious way at least,” said Susan, feeling
quite disconcerted.
“Not so far. ---Curse that moaning! Do excuse me for one moment. I simply
hate chemical engineers. They’re stuck-up janitors.”
Without further ado, Gilchrist rushed up to the hairy prisoner, grinned, and
buried his pike deep into the suspect’s stomach. The thickset man quaked, croaked,
and died of shock. Susan was shaken to the core.
“The dumb idiot was winding me up,” said Gilchrist, contorting his face
like an upset child, before switching gear. “Now, why do you think that your pretty
toyboy is innocent, Professor? Our intelligence suggests otherwise.”
Neyman studiously wiped the spew off his jacket.
“Because he hasn’t been in contact with any other Icarians since I purchased
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him,” he quietly replied, “and it’s not in his character to do anything wrong. The
Kneppo tribe are as squeaky clean as the White Gnats.”
Susan stared at the grisly body on the rack and thought that she was on a hellish
space.
“I’m of exactly the same opinion,” she spluttered, shuddering all over. “I’m
well-acquainted with Tujay since he was my family’s slave before that.”
“You’re as convincing as a pair of leading forensic science experts, folk,” said
Gilchrist, “but I have to play safe and he’s only a qinsy after all. Activate the
electronyser, Sergeant! After we get bored watching him oscillate in space, I’ll give
him a chance to confess before we thrash the daylights out of him. Record this tender
scene from several angles, Constables. The S and M merchants on Highview Crescent
will pay us good money for the best close ups. ”
When they turned on the current, Tujay vibrated like a neutron engine out of
control.
“Please come and save me, my good Lord,” he shrieked, as he peed copiously
over the floor. “Why are you ignoring me in my hour of need?”
A camera zoomed in on his face.
While Susan was still protesting, two officers pulled in a slim, ginger-haired girl by
scarlet cords clipped to her bushy pubic hairs. Her skin was as spotlessly white as
Mary Magdalene’s in her portrait by Capello Cappuccino.
“Take that, Janette!” yelled the cheerier of the officers, as he threw the girl
headlong onto the blood-spattered floor
“This wicked undergraduate had the temerity to complain to her Faculty Office,
Sir,” said the other officer, “that the Parapsychology Department was hiking up the
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grades of all her fellow students so that the entire class would achieve at least a lower
first. The awkward wench claimed that this devalued her own projected first in the
eyes of potential employers.”
“Her attitude is totally disruptive and mean-spirited, Sir,” said the cheery
officer, as he pressed the girl’s face into the floor. “Even our dimwits need to
find work upon graduation and the University has to protect the vast income that it
earns from their tuition fees.”
Gilchrist threw his pike at Tujay, narrowly missing his throat. The boy shape
shifted into a tiny ostrich, and gurgled.
“What would the Imperial Bank of Trivoli do without those dumbos?” said
Gilchrist. “Stick the ivory tusk right up her cunt, Constable.-----Great stuff!”
Janette wriggled furiously as the chirpy constable teased her like a rag doll,
while grinning in amusement.
“I’ll stuff you too, you obnoxious pig,” she yelled. “Ow! Don’t do that either,
you fucking creep, or I’ll swallow it up.”
“What a charming show of defiance,” said Gilchrist. “Perhaps we’ll relent and
just give the cheeky vixen a token punishment. Warm her up on the Catherine Wheel,
Inspector. When she’s dizzy enough, I’ll strap her to the Chinese guy in the leather
shorts and treat her to one of my ultra-special delights. What a prospect!”
“I think that you’re totally feckin reprehensible, Commissioner,” said Susan,
shaking with rage. “This is almost as atrocious as Edinburgh. I wonder what the
President and First Lady would think. I’m on the most intimate of terms with the
bleeder.”
“You’re pulling the wool.”
“No I’m not, and I wouldn’t have any God-damned hesitation in exposing you
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to the confounded crows.”
“Now you’re heading for trouble yourself, young lady.”
“You wouldn’t bloody well dare.”
“All right, all right,” said Gilchrist, with a deranged-looking gleam. “I’m really
a big cuddly teddy bear at heart. Release the qinsy, Sergeants, before he turns himself
into a sea-devil. He’s doubtlessly innocent, and we’ll let Janette off too. Take
your groping hand away from there, Inspector! You’ve got a one track mind.”
A few days later and after she’d recovered from her experiences in Corridor C by
reading a book about Buddhist karma, Susan fantasised about punishing the sneaky
student herself. However, after visualising the angry girl’s comical demise after she’d
put her into a curiously demeaning gymnastics position, she was dismayed to find
herself salivating like a horny chimp.
Perhaps we’re all depraved enough to think like that, she would wonder. But
why did God create us in such a wretchedly cruel way? Possibly to encourage us to
treat other people with more sensitivity, though I’m not completely convinced. It’s
almost as if humans were primeval life-forms in disguise, who are unable to control
their thought processes and actions as much as they imagine. Maybe our fantasies are
best explored by observing reality.
Tujay was released soon after Susan’s intervention, his body back to normal but his
limbs pulsating in fright. When she and Isadore took him back to his hotel in a furlined astrocab, he muttered his relief at avoiding further torture.
“I’ll be glad to get him back to Atalanta in one piece,” said Isadore. “We’re off
first thing in the morning.”
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“I’ll keep you posted,” said Susan. “I hope that we meet again soon.”
“I love you so much, Miss Susie,” murmured Tujay, with a vacant stare. “Thank
you for coming to save me.”
Perhaps I should have been keener to do so, thought Susan. When she got back
to her apartment, her brother was sipping tea with Ophelia and Tacitus.
“You look as if you’ve just been to Hell and back,” said Kevin.
“Worse than that,” said Susan, crashing into an armchair, “there’s a hornets’
nest of sick sadists under Playfield Police Station. I should warn you about their halfbaked commissioner. He may get on your case, but we can talk about that later.”
Tacitus was pontificating about his visits to galaxies where good
occasionally triumphs over evil only to become evil itself, when Ophelia suddenly
declared, “My illustrious leader is going to search for my parents in the southern
swamps. It’s been so long, but I’m looking forward to seeing them again soon.”
“That was my main reason for coming,” said Tacitus. “I’ll beam around the
swamps for a few days using my top notch mind-integration skills. The overseers are
are particularly tough down there, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
“The best of British,” said Susan. “By the way, I’m wondering whether my
long-lost father is hiding on Castellos. There’s a chance that my mother might still be
alive too, despite an official record of her death. How would I be able to find out?
This is all a long shot, of course.”
“We do have a haven for deserving refugees in Castellos Seven,” replied
Tacitus. “However, we generally preserve their secrecy to protect them from paid
marauders. I’ll try to give them a message if you like, but I don’t want to raise your
hopes. Our officials may well edit their reply.”
“Thank you very much, and was it the real Messiah at the talk this afternoon and
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was it an actual reincarnation of the head of the biblical Christ?”
“You’re right on the ball as usual, Susan.”
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CHAPTER 13: SUSAN’S ACADEMIC ENDEAVOURS
Do unto thy brother and sister as ye would be done by
A couple of days after Dirk’s former student Debbie Smythe was ejected for heckling
during the Royal Society meeting, Sybil Greenleaf formulated some plans to
rehabilitate her.
The Imperial Road stretched from the Capitol Square into the underclass ghettos
in the northern suburbs and the city’s few surviving beggars hung out along its
sidewalks, the rest having been exterminated after the bourgeoisie objected to being
repressed from below. Susan and Sybil set off to look for Debbie there. After failing
to find her in the park below the Royal Terrace, Sybil forked out two dollars for a
bedraggled Apollo who was sitting dozily against a tree.
“Excuse me, sonny,” she said, “but do you know where I can find Debbie, the
toothless lady who speaks with a cultured accent?”
“You’ll find the harlot hanging around for scraps outside the Café Andorra,” he
replied. “Can you spare an extra ten bucks for a night in our dive of a youth hostel?”
“You should save up for treats like that,” said Sybil, giving him another dollar,
“or try doing a day’s work.”
“The pig farm made me redundant. How about a dollar for my hungry dog?”
“Let him starve.”
When they caught up with Debbie, she was sharing a tin of sardines with two elderly
vagrants while a couple of waiters from the café tried to shoo them away.
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One of the waiters threw a stone that grazed the bag lady’s leg, while his mate
yelled, “Screw off you inebriate and feed yourself to the racoons.”
“You could be in her situation one day,” shouted Sybil, fuming with rage.
“Excuse me, Miss Smythe,” said Susan, with a sympathetic look. “After you’ve
had time to recover from these feckin cunts, would care to come for a chat with us in
St. Cecilia’s Gardens? We could treat ourselves to some coffee and bagels from the
food stall.”
“You’re the first well-washed person to have talked to me like that for a while,”
replied Debbie, rubbing her blotchy leg. “I’d find a hot roast-beef roll with lashings of
mayonnaise really mouth-watering. Could you stretch to that? And a coke, perhaps.”
“But you look half-starved, Debbie,” said Sybil. “Shouldn’t you start off with
some pita bread just in case you’re too malnourished for your own good?”
“I’d settle for a large bag of chips.”
“That sounds more calorie-efficient, dear, as long as they’re the dry and hard
ones. You were, of course, astonishingly brave when you upstaged Dirk Charleston’s
jamboree.”
“That monster’s the Devil Incarnate! You’re kind though. Weren’t you in the I.I.
Department long ago?”
“That’s right, and my friend Susan here is working with me there nowadays.
We’ve recently discussed your unfortunate situation together.”
The three ladies settled down at a picnic table and Debbie speedily satiated her
appetite.
“Would you like us to try to rehabilitate you, Debbie?” asked Susan. “We’ve
thought of a plan that might solve your monumental problems.”
“The last person to try that was an aggressive quango director soon after I first
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went on the streets,” replied Debbie. “What I had to do to make her happy! But
after promising me the world, she threw me out for the next year’s model.”
“I’m not interested in that sort of song and dance,” said Sybil, with a determined
sip of her latté. “I have a business proposition in mind. I need somebody to help me
with the routine paperwork for my research project on political expediency. I can only
afford to pay you five-hundred dollars a month out of my grant, I’m afraid, but you
could live in my rambling old house by Lake Tango. We’ll fit you out with a new
wardrobe and a nice set of platinum teeth. I’ll feed you too, as long as you do the
shopping and cooking, and take me canoeing through the reeds.”
Debbie stuffed her mouth full of pita bread.
“That sounds too good to be true,” she mumbled. “It would be wonderful to be
your friend.”
“I’d hope to find you some further employment within a few months, perhaps
teaching part-time at Stallforth College,” said Sybil. “We might be able to piece
together some sort of academic career for you; all too belatedly, of course.”
“I’m trying to extend your doctoral research on Icarian culture in the ring-fenced
cities,” said Susan. “Maybe you could advise me on all that feckin stuff. I have
something devious in mind.”
“As per usual,” said Sybil, with a grin.
“May I have a large glass of orange juice?” asked Debbie.
That evening, Ophelia and Tacitus waltzed into Susan’s apartment with broad smiles
on their faces.
“Tacitus has found my parents,” said Ophelia. “They’re living in the seaport of
Zamara. It’s such wonderful news.”
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“I was lucky to find them,” said Tacitus. “When I was beaming around the
southern swamps I encountered numerous maltreated convicts, but I didn’t manage to
mind-integrate with any Izons. I’d almost given up hope when I saw an unusuallykind guard comforting a female prisoner with skin ulcers and a broken leg. He was
most respectful and accompanied me to the records office. There we discovered that
Ophelia’s parents were originally arrested on only the faintest suspicion of spying and
that, after only a couple of years of getting routinely ear-stapled and lightly flogged,
they were running the food store and helping to keep the hardest working prisoners
alive. They were released for good behaviour after five years.”
“And now they’re the proprietors of the Elephant’s Nest Tavern,” said
Ophelia. “They thought that I’d returned to Castellos but they weren’t able to translate
themselves there to be with me. They sound like wonderful people.”
“So when are you planning to meet the jolly couple?” asked Susan.
“Kevin and I are organizing an astrobus trip to Zamara to see them next
weekend. He’s really looking forward to meeting his future in-laws.”
When the new academic year commenced after the long summer vacation, Susan
made preparations with the help of Tigran Mangasarian for her first-ever lecturing
experience.
While she was agonizing about the finer details and whether she would cut a
comical figure, Tigran advised her, “Don’t worry about that. Just project yourself
outwardly as well as you can. While you should learn how to make eye contact, that is
not initially important. The main thing is to go well prepared. Never never wing it
without notes, since that creates a tendency to fly off on tangents. Try to give the
impression that you’re giving a lucid enough explanation for all the students to
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understand, but only aim for the brighter and middling ones.”
“But why not focus on the intellectually challenged?” asked Susan. “They
deserve to be educated too.”
“That would be a grave mistake. The thick students will never be able to tell the
chalk from the cheese whatever you say, and they will always complain that the
material is either much too complicated or badly delivered. Now, an average of one or
two jokes per lecture is ideal, but don’t try falling flat on the floor as I once did during
one of my slippery moments. Comb your hair, or half the class will gripe about that in
your teaching evaluations for want of something more constructive to say.”
Over a hundred students were packed into a steeply-sloping auditorium when Susan
arrived to deliver her first lecture. Several girls in the front row were trying to look
intelligent and the footballers were snogging a few others at the back. Susan was
occasionally distracted by outbursts of laughter from a group of chemistry students,
who were smoking skenk and munching wads of archangel dust.
Imagining that she was the haggard Miss Chagwidden from Camborne when she
was teaching her arithmetic at primary school, Susan took a deep breath and used her
titanium probe to sketch a few Redfoot-Zodiac trees and zigzags in purple on the
white holoboard, while explaining the value of these search techniques when
acquiring fresh information.
“That’s just a load of crap, Miss,” said a cheeky youth. “They look like ordinary
trees and zigzags to me.”
He’s probably right, thought Susan, taking an anxious gulp from a can of
Weegie soda.
“That might seem to be the case at first sight,” she said. “We’ll however see that
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they self-adjust as more and more scientific observations are injected into the
system.”
“It’s uncouth to gulp your soda,” said a dour girl from Arbroath, “even if it does
taste like dreich. And please explain that more simply. I’m not superhuman.”
Susan recalled a celebrated retort by the self-opinionated Bishop of Aberdeen
and Orkney to a perceptive choirgirl from St. Andrews.
“Just shut your feckin face, you daft wee lass!” she replied.
“You can’t say that,” howled a scruffy lad, while Susan was biting her tongue.
“You can’t tell us that we’re thick. I’ll report you to the Dean.”
They’d pelt him in the stocks, realised Susan, suppressing a grin.
“I completely agree with your sentiments,” she nevertheless replied, “and I do
apologize. I actually believe that we’re all capable of the same level of intelligence.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said a toffee-nosed girl. “People of good breeding are
much brighter.”
“Or so you imagine, you pretentious snob,” yelled the lad.
“Go back to your igloo park,” replied the girl, with a condescending sneer.
Realising that she was at risk of losing control of her lecture, Susan tried to
rectify the situation by saying, “Perhaps these search procedures will become clearer
if I show you a visual presentation on the macro-screen. In the first case study, the
investigators were concerned with finding the most obese inhabitants of the city.”
“Why get fancy, Professor?” asked an undergraduate in Sociology. “Aren’t all
our weights recorded in the regional data base?”
That question threw Susan and she paused to catch her breath.
“You’re right, of course,” she replied. “You should therefore regard this as the
sort of academic exercise that is intended to illustrate sistonic searches more
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generally.”
“A feeble excuse if ever there was one,” said the student.
“I just can’t get my head around those zigzags,” complained a bland girl with
scarlet hair and a pierced nose. “Why do we need this junk?”
“Perhaps you should try reading the feckin textbook,” said Susan, in
exasperation.
“Why bother?” shouted the university’s star ice-hockey player, waving his stick.
“Good question,” said Susan, trying to keep a grip on herself. “Maybe we
should move on to my next case study. It involves a search for newts in the eastern
deserts.”
“Boring!” yelled a punk-like student of political science.
Susan decided to sort out that brat, together with any more like him.
“It may be even more boring than your hair-style, young man,” she said. “But
it’s part of the course material. In fact, I would like you all to write an essay
explaining how you would investigate unisexual newts in arid environments. You’ll
only get credit if you demonstrate an understanding of search trees and zigzags.”
“But you’re required to give me at least a B as I’m taking an M.B.A.,” said a
businesswoman in a tweed suit. “Cs and Ds are for the plebs.”
“I’ll give you an F if you deserve it, you pompous pleb,” said Susan, to
spontaneous applause. “Everybody will receive their fair grade on this course. Our
superhuman hockey player should watch his step too, or he’ll be sliding headlong
down the ice.”
“How delightfully old-fashioned,” said a handsome Apollo, as the
businesswoman wilted and the hockey player turned to jelly.
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Since the majority of the class were now on Susan’s side, the remainder of her lecture
went more smoothly. She managed to convince the brighter students that sistonic
searches were useful procedures and to give many others a smattering of an
understanding. She advised them that they would be able to improve their skills
during the class tutorials. Now I feel like the cat’s whiskers, she thought, but thank
goodness for our teaching assistants. They’re there to cover my back.
As Susan was preparing to leave, three pretty Trinkon girls marched up, giggling to
each other.
“We’ve seen you near your apartment, Prof. Lindsay,” said the tallest of the
group. “We live in Netherwell Towers.”
“That must cost you a bundle,” said Susan.
“Our sugar daddy’s Head of the Lottery,” said the girl. “The impotent old fool.”
“He’s asked us to hire you for extra tuition,” said her wide-eyed friend, “at a
hundred dollars an hour.”
“That’s much too much,” said Susan, “though I could donate it to the
postgraduates’ benefit fund.”
“We’d also like to cook you a centopus casserole,” said the third girl, rubbing
her tummy in anticipation. “It’s a traditional Arcadian dish that my granny used to
cook in Trinkville and we sprinkle it with pungent herbs from the Farmers’ Market.”
Susan remembered that centopuses looked like two-headed cygnets and
wondered whether the girls had netted one from a boat.
“Magic,” she said, “but why are you planning to treat me so well?”
“Trinkons are hospitable by tradition, unlike some not-so-jolly nations. Our flat
is rather tiny. It’s on the fifteenth floor but the elevator’s safe enough.”
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What an invite, thought Susan. Perhaps they’re hoping to come over to my
place.
“Better still,” she said, “why don’t we meet up in my apartment? I have a couple
of bottles of vintage Devonshire left.”
“What a great idea,” said the student. “We could eat, study and then party.”
“Super- magic,” said Susan, wondering what they were really up to. “How about
Tuesday at six?”
A few evenings later, Susan received a missive on her hypercom top from the e-whiz
address voncoburg88<castellos.comanche. To her dismay, the message read,
My not so dearest Susan,
I’m not your mother and I’d love not to get to know you better. I am not the
Princess Alexandra, but rather the multi-orificed Empress Theodora. I drowned in the
Falls of Lucretia after intercourse with the Head Enforcer and my memory hasn’t
been the same since. Peter sends his unlove from wherever. He’s dead scared of being
blown to smithereens by a British terrorist.
My best bad wishes,
The Princess of Your Worst Dreams
How much of that was edited and how many negatives and other words were
added? wondered Susan. It’s like Catch 22. She could be my mother or a completelyunrelated imbecile. However, there’s hope for me yet.
Susan e-whizzed a reply requesting clarification, only to be bombarded with a
series of similarly bewildering responses.
“Screw her for a lark,” said Kevin. “She’s probably trying to get her rocks off.”
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Susan heard that she’d been awarded a modest grant by the Royal Nukegate
Foundation to pursue her research project entitled Evaluating the Multiple Correlation
between Highly- Repetitive Sexual Fantasies, Other Stress Factors and Mental
Disorders. She could therefore afford to pay about forty locals fifty dollars each for in
depth interviews.
This isn’t perfect, she thought, and I won’t be able to handle the refinements
suggested by that Zoë lady in Significance since I’d need an infinite number of
observations to compensate for all those lurking variables, but a high value for Wyatt
Hogg’s correlation coefficient will make me look good despite the low sample size
and I’ll deviate from that cowboy’s overly idealistic rules in the manner
recommended by Fix and Starling, while not choosing the subjects by objective
random sampling. With these thoughts in mind, Susan burnt the midnight oil poring
through numerous possibilities and craftily selecting her totally biased sample.
Susan’s first subject was a homely housewife who lived in a downmarket district
where most of the residents walked around lop-jawed and depressed.
“Could I start off by asking you what stresses you out the most?” asked Susan,
taking a gulp of tea from a pink beaker emblazoned with the word CRAP.
“My mother-in-law, of course,” replied the housewife. “The bitch never stops
blethering. And the bills coming through the door. My hubby’s only a house painter
and I’m always worrying how to make ends meet. I also feel zoned out when my son
bloodies his nose in a fight and when the old man farts in bed.”
“Do you still manage to keep your wits about you?”
“Usually, but I sometimes go nuts. My sister’s a primary school teacher and she
says that many of her colleagues are just stressed out when they behave crazily.”
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Susan recalled that this was known as Lord Fortescue’s Stress Syndrome, after
the tunnel-visioned quantum physicist who went spare during his seminars whenever
anybody challenged his excessively naive assumptions.
“That’s a well-known phenomenon,” she said, “but do you think that you
sometimes get freaked out by factors that are just lurking in the background?”
“I suppose so. I’m always scared that there may be somebody up there trying to
get me, would you believe?”
“You’re very perceptive. Now I’m sure that you lead a conventional sex life---.”
“You’d never believe what my hubby does to me, the dirty beast, but I enjoy
scratching and biting him, like the she-wolf I am.”
“Good for you, and do you experience any repetitive fantasies that you wouldn’t
want to put into practice?”
“Fancy you asking me that! I’ve got a most embarrassing fantasy that I’ve
always kept close to my chest. I imagine an enormous bear-whale floating on its back
with its ten foot big one sticking in the air. I climb up and sit on the end of its piece of
meat and, when I jump onto its big fat belly, it grunts in enjoyment.”
Susan was delighted by this early success, though she was amazed that seacreatures would turn anybody on.
“That takes the biscuit,” she said, “and do you imagine that you’re a she-wolf
while you’re relaxing on the beast’s organ?”
“I’m just an innocent maiden. There’s no point in biting a whale.”
“How often do you experience this fantasy?”
“At least once every half hour, ever since I was thirteen when my parents took
me to Deep Sea Trystonia. When my vicar visited me last week for a touch of pastoral
care, I imagined that I was sitting on the whale and almost leapt onto his tummy.”
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“You did well to restrain yourself. And does the fantasy fuel your stress?”
“Not at all. It’s quite soothing really. It helps me to recover my equilibrium.”
What a shame, thought Susan. I was hoping that it freaked her out.
“How wonderful,” she said. “I’d lastly like to discover more about your inner
self. Please take your time completing this questionnaire.”
To Susan’s disappointment, the housewife turned out to be entirely sane. What a
waste of space, she concluded.
Susan’s second subject was a celebrated sculptor who lived close to the Chancellor’s
Mansion on University Heights. She was welcomed into his villa by a doll-like
Japanese servant, dressed in a rainbow-coloured kimono, who ushered her into a
spacious drawing room and counted out seven chocolate truffles for her, onto a
porcelain plate.
“I’m his Geisha girl too,” she said. “It’s fun making him dance to my tune.”
While Susan was waiting for her interviewee to arrive, she surveyed the stone
and wooden objects that were scattered around the floor, and the non-descript
line prints on the walls. Is this art or farty art? she wondered. My brother could’ve
done better than that when he was a toddler.
“That one’s called ‘Rapture’,” said the Geisha girl. “It’s worth a million bucks.”
“It doesn’t look very rapturous to me,” said Susan. “I can pencil parallel curves
on a white background as well as that.”
A thin and grumpy man in his mid-sixties with a goatee beard and wearing a
medieval-style tunic entered the room. Here’s a weird one, thought Susan, munching
her truffles. I’ve struck lucky with him.
After attempting a few pleasantries, she said, “Perhaps we could get started.
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Your artistic works are fantastical, but could you possibly advise me which stress
factors most affect your work?”
“Ignorant people who try to suck up, for a start,” replied the man, with a scowl,
“and professional critics who dispute my status as the most creative sculptor since
Botticelli. One of the cunts said that he wouldn’t give two bucks for my wonderful
statue of ‘Caligula’s Limbless Body in Purgatory’, would you believe? But worst of
all are the models who giggle and wriggle when I pay them good money to keep
perfectly still. I sent one silly girl home last week with a flea in her ear and completed
my carving of ‘Hypatia getting Flayed Alive’ without her.”
“How uncooperative of her, but how do you feel about the ripples from above,
in other words powerful people who are secretly trying to harm you?”
“They stress me out; the ugly Rottpsychers and all the other tricksters. They’re
always plotting away to reduce me to penury. They invent financial crises and cause
recessions just to take away my well-earned money. Their slut of a High Priestess has
put a fatwa on me because of my famous statue of ‘The Rottpsycher and the Trannie
Entwined as One’. She really has! And she’s after my shirt.”
“How appalling,” said Susan, as the doll-like servant gave her employer’s chest
a dutiful rub, “but let’s move on to the second part of my interview. While I’m sure
that your love life is entirely normal, I’m asking all my subjects whether they
experience any repetitive sexual fantasies that fall outside their usual comfort zone.
This is a key element of my investigation.”
“I only engage in the St. Benedictus the Sixteenth position myself and I haven’t
even heard of sixty-nine,” said the sculptor, as his Geisha girl smirked knowingly,
“but I’ve never quite understood my recurrent fantasy. Ever since I was a pubescent
teenager, I’ve imagined a beautiful pagan priestess laughing at my gorilla-like
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manhood, giving me the most-demeaning putdown you could ever think of, and biting
my ears. It’s so incessant and it often really gets to me, particularly when she pops up
during an important conversation and runs me ragged with her fingernails.”
Susan knew that gorillas weren’t well hung. Even the horned ones on Qinsatorix
were as small as Napoleon.
“That’s disturbing,” she said, suppressing a grin, “and does this fantasy increase
your feelings of stress?”
“How would you feel about a bloody awkward model twitching her arse, while
that kinky bitch is putting you through your paces?”
Perfect, concluded Susan, as she handed her subject a copy of Burton’s
Psychology Test. That should inflate my correlation coefficient.
Indeed, after taking one look at the first question, the sculptor exclaimed,
“They’re here! They’re here again. Please don’t arrest me, officers. I thought that the
stupid nymph was a lamppost.”
“What do you feckin mean?” asked Susan. “We’re the only three people in the
room.”
“Whoops! That happened twelve years ago. I was acquitted, of course. Sod off,
officers, and take your dog with you.”
The results of the test, when finally completely, confirmed that the sculptor
suffered from acute tripolar and time-dissociative disorders. My first scalp, enthused
Susan. I’m well on the way to publishing my first academic article.
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CHAPTER 14: FURTHER COLOURFUL EXPERIENCES
Beware the hen with sugary-blue skin
Kevin received a mobile call from Military Intelligence late on Tuesday afternoon.
“The Admiral wants to hear about the qinsies you’ve seen talking to that
renegade pipsqueak,” said a voice. “I trust that you can provide us with at least four
names.”
How introubulating, thought Kevin, who hadn’t noticed Fleance talking with
any other Icarians at all and moreover did not give a damn since he was out of sync
with the Admiral’s objectives.
“I saw him chatting up a broad with a crooked neck,” he said, lying through his
shiny white teeth, “though I didn’t quite catch her name.”
“You can do better than that,” said the voice.
Curse them, thought Kevin. Let’s get really inventive.
“Her name did sound rather like Squilch,” he said. “Fleance was also conspiring
with an elderly fellow who he called Snatchpole, not to forget a most devious chap
called Svengali who was accompanied by a sly wench with a bobtail who used the
codename Dementia.”
“Splendid work,” said the voice. “We’ll certainly go after Dementia. I’ll contact
you again next week.”
Kevin had more serious things on his mind. He was off to play football with the
Wandering Dragons.
“Meh,” he said, with profound indifference.
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That evening, Susan cuddled Trithagoras while waiting for the three Trinkon students
to arrive for their special tutorial. But when four girls appeared, she took a dislike to
the extra one. Such evil eyes and funny-shaped elbows, she thought.
“I’m Thracia,” said the girl, with a cunning look. “Where’s Kevin?”
Susan realised that something was afoot.
“My brother will be back later,” she said, quite airily. “How do you know him?”
“I spotted him a couple of times in the Pirate Ship and we got on like a truck on
fire.”
Susan wondered how Kevin could tolerate that hen. And she was so concerned
by the steaming pot the other girls had carried in, that she whipped off her clean
tablecloth.
“That looks like a witches’ cauldron,” she said. “Is there death in that pot?”
“Not that I know of,” said Thracia. “It’s the bubbling centopus stew we
promised, prepared specially for you. They spiced it with jasmine spurtle and Sidon
cinnamon, and I threw in lashings of elephant garlic and some tails of baby plopopods
so that it would appeal to your delicate human palate.”
“It smells like a Sultan’s feast,” said Susan, “but the feckin garlic will ruin it.”
“Just wait until you taste it. It’s out of this hemisphere.”
“Why don’t we wash it down with a bottle of Devonshire?” Susan reluctantly
replied. “Then we’ll spend an hour or so on your studies.”
“And then we can party,” said the shortest girl, jumping up and down in glee.
“I expect to pass this year,” said Thracia. “My sugar daddy says that he’ll give
me a thirty foot titanium limo. These poor minnows are only getting volvo-trikes,
because their daddy’s a mean-faced trout.”
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What a spoilt dumbo, thought Susan. She’s probably more useless than that
dunce at high school who stole my knickers during a hockey game.
“You may stand a chance,” she said, “but only if you work hard enough and
make a genuine attempt to understand what’s going on.”
“Aren’t you the demanding one?” said Thracia, with a cheesy smile.
“I don’t object to dumb students,” replied Susan, while the short girl was
pouring her a glass of wine, “but lazy ones are beyond the pale.”
How craptacular, thought Susan, as she washed away the taste of the stew with a
gulp of her drink. After she’d downed a refill, the four Trinkettes seemed to turn into
Egyptian goddesses and she wondered why she was feeling so spacey. When Thracia
nestled down on the sofa and probed her tummy with her inquisitive fingers, Susan
liked the feeling and was too confused to object.
“So Professor,” said Thracia, with a touch of sarcasm, “why don’t you explain
these ridiculous sistonic searches to us?”
“Sure I feckin will,” said Susan, as she lapsed into unconsciousness.
Trithagoras went bananas at that, and leapt in the air flailing his limbs.
“Well done with the apromorphine, guys,” said Thracia. “I’ll give that dippy
felixian a jab to shut it up too. Now who’s first for eighty-eight?”
“As long as I’m on the top,” said the shortest girl.
“No chance, you silly dykelet.”
Quite unaware of that skulduggery, Kevin scored with a thirty-yard volley and set up
three goals with spectacular crosses, before giving away two penalties and getting
sent off for a flying tackle, as the Wandering Dragons beat the Bucky Badgers by five
goals to three. That was self-fulfilling, he thought. After male bonding, Super
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League-style, with the lads in the shower, he commiserated with the Badger with the
fractured shin and set off happily for home, hoping for a soothing game of rubic
scrabble with Susan and Ophelia. But when he unlocked his door, he heard the
scurrying of feet. When he entered, he saw three Trinkettes slouched over the sofa in
states of high intoxication. What a messy heap of femininity, he thought. They look
like Susan during a Sunday morning lie-in.
“Your absolutely charming sister was giving us a tutorial,” said the prettiest of
the girls, with a gurk, “but she drank too much and so she’s gone to beddy-byes.”
“Why don’t you party with us?” said her plump friend, slurping her wine. “We
could massage your toes.”
What a tame proposition, thought Kevin. My lady-like legs would be much
more deserving.
“I’ll be spending time with my girlfriend later on,” he replied, “but I could spare
half an hour or so. Please draw a line somewhere below my knees.”
“Through your willy,” said the shortest girl, with a histrionic laugh.
She’s got more character, realised Kevin, feeling quite the dynamic sportsman.
However, a couple of drinks later he began to feel dizzy and confused. What’s
happening? he wondered, as he imagined footballs flying through his head.
“That’s enough,” he said. “I’m off to score goals in the Stadium of Light in
Slumberland.”
Despite Kevin’s protests, the girls pursued him into his bedroom, jumped all over him
and gleefully removed his bright pink designer shorts. While he was, anyway, too
weak to physically resist, he did not object too strongly when the short girl sat on his
face, since he rather liked the taste of sugary fish.
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But when the girls took their further dubious pleasures, he yelled, “Don’t you
dare or I’ll go as spare as the Widdecombe mare!”
“Let’s try nipping him here,” said the plump one, flying into a horny fit.
“That’s illegal,” declared Kevin. “That too. Aaarh! That’s illegal as well.”
To add to his woes, none other than Thracia emerged from the bathroom and
leapt like an alley cat onto his chest. When she bit his nose, he wondered whether the
dingo had jumped straight out of the Pirate Ship.
“Not you!” he exclaimed. “You set me up with these honey traps.”
“Your snot-ridden sister fell for our clever plot like the silly sausage she is,” said
Thracia, with a coy smirk. “I said that you would be in my clutches one day.”
“In your dreams, you deceitful bitch.”
“You’re at my mercy, smart-butt. If you don’t turn over and drill me, we’ll coat
you with nitrous oil. That’ll make you sting until the cantosaurs come home.”
“I’d give you cunnillitis and tonsillitis in quick succession.”
“And I’ll squeeze off your ten-incher with my crab-like prongs. The
Arcadians from Trinkville have the ways and means to dominate mere Earthmen.”
“I hate your sort,” said Kevin. “You’ll be putting me in an animal cage next.
Why are you treating me like this?”
“Maybe because rejection creates dejection,” replied Thracia, looking plaintive
for once. “Go for it, guys! Not there, you silly. Down your throat now, but don’t do a
snuff job on yourself. ”
I’d like to snuff that cow until she asphyxiates, thought Kevin.
“Jesus wept,” he said. “There’s no chance of that happy occurrence. She’s got
spikes in her gullet.”
“Be sure to capture this extravaganza on my secromobile, girls,” said Thracia,
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when Kevin reluctantly sprawled on top of her. “My sugar daddy will go lush when
he sees this one’s pulsating body.”
An hour-or-so later, there was an incessant banging on Kevin’s front door. I’ll soon
get rid of those vagrants, he thought, as he struggled to his feet and put on his purple
dressing-gown. But two police officers burst in, and the ginger-bearded constable
thumped him in the stomach.
“Kevin Lindsay,” he yelled. “You’re dead meat!”
The second officer, a sergeant with a bulging red nose, grinned like a clown and,
a split second later, Kevin felt an unbearable pain in his crotch.
“You’re under arrest, you despicable pervert,” said the sergeant, “for abusing a
defenceless Trinkon girl. You were caught in the act on a secromobile screen. So
you’ll rot in several pieces on your scaffold like the louse you are.”
“I’m innocent,” shrieked Kevin, in utter surprise, as he doubled up in agony.
“They must have drugged me and then the floozy made me do her while they
filmed me for her kinky sugar daddy.”
The sergeant whacked Kevin’s kneecaps with two exquisitely contrived kicks.
“You worthless piece of shit,” he yelled. “I’ll wash your lying mouth out with
nitric acid and extract your teeth with red-hot pincers.”
When Kevin was hauled through the magnolia bushes in his front garden,
Ophelia rushed down from her flat and wailed. “Where are you taking him? What has
he done? He’s my one true love. Please don’t hurt him.”
“You won’t be eating this jerk’s shorts anymore, you harlot,” replied the
constable, with a feisty glare. “He’s deflowered a Trinkette and we’re taking him to
Playfield Police Station to be shredded.”
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Upon entering the police headquarters, the officers dragged Kevin down the
spiral staircase and threw him across the slippery green floor. What space am I on?
he wondered, as his head hit the wall.
“Mr. Lindsay, I presume?” inquired the desk officer, adjusting his earrings as
Kevin rebounded in a heap. “How nice to make your acquaintance before you get
reprocessed as dog food. Commissioner Gilchrist is taking a special interest in your
case and he’s assigned you to the ghostly dungeons in Corridor F. While the horny
duchess in the haunted house above may give you a rough time, you’ll at least be
spared the fond attentions of the gorillas.”
“Some of the female prisoners like them,” said the sergeant, with a smirk.
“Perhaps this prick would get his jollies off too.”
“Corridor F?” said Kevin, in consternation. “My sister warned me that it’s the
worst place imaginable.”
“That’s a serious understatement,” said the desk officer, “and you’ve been
assigned to the Triple-Fanged Serpent Cell along with the other Trinkers. You could
hasten your demise by jumping into the pit in the floor. A Church elder chose that
option last week and most of the other prisoners puked their guts up. The previously
much-acclaimed leader of Stonedyke Trivoli was constrained by his cross-dressing
lover, a local plumber, and they got fried together in oil instead.”
The ginger-bearded constable chortled at Kevin’s discomfort.
“Lucky for those sweeties,” he said. “The reptiles there eat your flesh and
scrunch your bones.”
“Take this wimpy size-queen into the frionising cell, you layabout,” said the
sergeant. “We’ll make him squawk his sassy head off.”
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Although Kevin did not intend to scream for those dudes or demean himself for
anybody, he whined and grovelled when they scorched his chest with a large T and
the soles of his feet with the symbol @.
“We last used that one on a cybernetics boffin,” said the constable, “and he
asked where we were e-whizzing him. We sent the degenerate to the recycling bin.”
When Kevin begged for mercy, the sergeant drooled in pleasure and slowly
frionised his back with a capital Z.
“Mercy?” he said, as Kevin’s thighs quivered and shook. “I’ll give you mercy
with a red-hot µ.”
“That should make him mew like a sheep,” chortled the constable.
The handsome desk officer fluttered his eyelashes in amusement when Kevin
was frogmarched towards Corridor F with his colourful dressinggown wrapped
around his neck.
“Why don’t we get together later, darling?” said the officer. “I simply adore
those mutually expressive µs.”
“Maybe we’ll meet in the Garden of Love,” wailed Kevin, as a searing pain
rushed down his legs and made him jump like a joey.
When they reached the Triple-Fanged Serpent Cell, the sergeant booted Kevin onto
the edge of a foul-smelling pit. When a hissing serpent leapt out onto the floor, Kevin
retreated into a corner like an injured animal in a zoo and crapped down his leg before
noisily completing the job in a yellow plastic bucket. The serpent sped around the cell
before slithering back into the safety of the pit. None of the fifteen or so deeply
depressed looking prisoners, who were sitting slouched against the walls, seemed to
notice.
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“Auntie!” shrieked a plump middle-aged man with a curly moustache. “Auntie!”
“Your aunt can’t save you, you fool,” said a scholarly gentleman with a patch
over one eye. “She’s as dead as your demented mother.”
“He shouldn’t have made love to his elderly housekeeper,” said a gaunt
individual with punk-like hair, “even if she was eager and willing.”
While Kevin was thinking through his haze of confusion that the bastard
deserved anything he got, since he’d violated the norms and abused the vulnerable,
the cell door rattled and four police officers bounded in. One of them thumped the
half-blind man in his stomach, ripped off his eye patch and stuck a metal probe into
the empty socket.
“You’re for brain surgery and the pot roast, you miserable rotter,” he said.
“Fancy treating that innocent girl so despicably!”
“She wanted it,” screamed the prisoner, “and I couldn’t tell her colour.”
A chief inspector slapped the plump man’s face and cruelly twisted his
moustache.
“We’re going to deflesh your ugly mug and throw you into a tank of
boiling tar, you big fat ox,” he said, with a sardonic smile. “That’ll make you sizzle
like the infidel you are.”
Kevin broke down in tears. There’s no hope for me either, he agonized. Ophelia,
Ophelia! Please beam me to Castellos on your magical mind waves and set me free.
“Though I walk through the Valley of Death, I shall fear no evil,” declared a
red-haired prisoner with a spotty face.
“Shut your mouth, Athanasius,” yelled Kevin. “There’s no God in here.”
The cell door rattled again and, to Kevin’s surprise, an angelic lad, about
seventeen years old, with flowing blonde hair and evocatively dressed in white
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choristers’ robes, was pushed inside. He was followed by the pleasant officer from the
front desk.
“I hope that this will be a useful lesson for you, Adam,” said the officer. “Don’t
be so outspoken ever again. Truth without guile, my left foot.”
“Are they going to thrash me, like the brothers did to my best mate?” sobbed the
boy.
“That’s the least of your problems, I’m afraid. They’re going to keep you under
their thumb until they’re convinced that you’re harmless. So try to grin and be extrapolite to everybody. If you’re lucky, they’ll send you to one of the country houses,
where the lads entertain the rich and benevolent, or way north of Stingwell to Castle
Bon Vie where they join in the satanic rites. But if you’re discourteous, you may well
end up in a derelict urban brothel competing for your grub in a windowless cellar with
the kidnapped urchins and street fighters.”
Tell me the same old story, thought Kevin, a few years ago they were bitterly
complaining about this sort of stuff on the Supernet but the tabloids didn’t dare to
publish it. Apart from the Highland Exposer, that got incinerated for its endeavours.
“Where are you, my Lord Jesus?” shrieked Adam, as the officer left.
Adam straightened his robes as he fled towards Kevin, who struggled to his feet while
untangling his purple gown. Kevin had always regretted not having a brother and he
thought that Adam was perfect.
“What have you done wrong, sonny?” he asked. “You don’t look old enough to
be a Trinker to me.”
“My parents live in Constanta,” said Adam, calming down, “and until recently I
studied at St. Gertrude’s Seminary over by Lake Michikaton. I was always top of my
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class. However, about six months ago my wicked Australian archdeacon started to
make moves on me and my best buddy, who’s a penniless orphan.”
“That’s reprehensible. Did you complain?”
“My mate bleated to the bishop,” said Adam. “They got angry with him and I
could feel every stroke. When he’d recovered, they made him submit to the
archdeacon every night of the week. But, after a while, the smelly old troll got
cheesed off by my mate’s boring gymnastics and tried to make me eat holy cheese
instead during my weekly confessional.”
“I’m sure that stunk like crap,” said Kevin.
“Almost as badly as Danish blue. When the Aussie grabbed my neck, I felt like
a sheep about to be fixed in the outback. I however stood up in the nick of time and
smacked his chops. After I’d tried to split on him to The Daily Discerner, I snitched to
the police, but they got pissed off with me for my honesty. One of them actually said,
‘I’ll stuff your throat with camembert, you horrible little pest.’”
“So what else did you do wrong?”
“That’s the full story. It’s why I’m here.”
Kevin wondered why kids were still treated like that; they were as always the
life force of the next generation.
“Unfortunately, these terrible sorts of things have happened to teenies since time
immemorial,” he said, “apart from during a brief period of enlightenment under the
influence of Pope Heinrich the Sixth, before he met his sticky with a midnight pillow.
However, they do seem to be treating you over-harshly for their own self-protection.”
“You’re a kind person,” said Adam, giving Kevin a furtive look as he collapsed
to his knees. “I can’t believe that you’ve done anything wrong.”
“I don’t think you have either,” said Kevin, covering himself up. “Perhaps we’ll
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be soul-mates. Maybe you’re a future saint.”
During the early hours, Ophelia managed to wake Susan after breaking through
her bedroom window, her flowing green hair enmeshed with shards of splintered,
coloured glass.
“The police have taken Kevin away,” she wailed. “They’re charging him with
all sorts of nasties and we may never see him ever again.”
When Ophelia had recounted what she knew, Susan broke down in tears and
shook in anguish and grief.
“I’ve suspected that something like this might happen,” she said, “ever since I
talked to that jackass of a police commissioner in his ghastly torture chamber. Now I
simply don’t know what to do.”
“We can only wait and pray,” said Ophelia, as she jumped into Susan’s bed and
held her ever so tightly.
In the morning, Kevin awoke feeling as sore as a scalded monkey, just as Adam was
pouring him an insipid cup of tea from a rusty urn.
“This is worse than the Royal Nuke,” said Kevin. “That’s where they let the
desperate ones run out, to jump in front of the trains or off North Bridge.”
“At least we’ve got a paper cup,” said Adam. “So there’s hope for us yet.”
“I hope you’re feeling better than I am,” said Kevin. “They really worked me
over with their frioniser. Look at the T on my chest.”
“My head feels funny. It’s as if there’s something wacky inside me.”
At that, Kevin’s tormentors of the night before marched in, cuffed his wrists to
his ankles and threw his tea into his face.
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“I’ll disembowel the creep,” said the ginger-bearded constable.
“Let’s pee all over the inebriate,” said the red-nosed sergeant. And so they did.
“That was self-fulfilling,” said the constable, as he zipped up his flies.
“Your gnat-bites were the worst,” exclaimed Kevin, only to be thumped in his
ribs and dragged like a frazzled frog into the commissioner’s ornate office, with urine
still dripping from his mouth.
The Chief of Police was reclining on an elegant chaise-longue drinking mocha from a
tall porcelain beaker and sucking strawberry bonbons; his porky face contrasted with
the beautiful blue torso of a Trinkon girl who was stretched out on the sofa giving him
a strenuous blow-job.
“Hiya Kevin,” said Gilchrist, with an evil gleam, as he offered the indignant
prisoner a tasty sweet. “I got my jollies off on your gyrations on my secromobile last
night. And you’re the Trinker who’s for the sexy high jump. Isn’t officially
sanctioned S and M a turn on?”
How grotesque, thought Kevin. He was drooling over my sweaty body while I
was flouncing and bouncing all over that bitch.
“You’re not allowed to make love to a Trinkon either, Commissioner,” said the
the sergeant, in disgust.
The blue-skinned girl disengaged herself, jumped off the sofa and wiped the precum off her lips.
“Of course he can,” she said. “Jack’s my sugar daddy.”
Mystery solved, realised Kevin. It’s Thracia.
“You scheming bastards!” he yelled. “I didn’t abuse that whore. They abused
me; all four of them.”
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“I’ll split on you, Commissioner,” yelled the constable. “Anybody who messes
with a Trinkon deserves to be roasted. Anybody!”
The portly police chief gave the stroppy bobby a mocking look and downed a
tiffin of brandy.
“You’re heading for the tigroid cage, Officer Feisty Ginger-Beard,” he said. “In
the meantime, you’re on traffic. Now please leave the prisoner alone with us for a
chat.”
“I suppose that we’ll keep quiet, you jerk, but only because you’re the big pot
who calls the shots,” said the sergeant, as the officers strode angrily out of the room.
Gilchrist chuckled.
“What fools,” he said. “I’m under the personal protection of President Drake
himself. That’s because I’ve started providing him with all sorts of sweet candy.
Donald’s recently developed an interest in choristers and the brat in your cell is
heading for his spreadsheet as soon as he’s squelched the spidery-legged albino with
the butch voice.”
“Please don’t be cruel to Adam,” begged Kevin. “He’s such a good lad.”
“All the more amusing. And as for you, we’re going to let you sweat for a few
days while we decide how to dispose of your bones.”
Kevin wondered whether the commissioner was bluffing.
“Why would you want to kill me?” he asked. “I do so many useful things for the
planetary administration. I’ve designed a new landing scheme for the battlefleet. I spy
for military intelligence. I ---.”
“I know all there is to know about you. It’s me who should be running this
planet, curse it. Not them, not Van Wurstenberg or any other zealot.”
“You’re just a sadistic control freak,” said Kevin. “My sister does serious
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research on your sort.”
The commissioner looked weak and confused.
“Susan?” he said, in dismay. “But I may have an ulterior motive in mind. Why
don’t you agonize over your fate until later?”
A smartly-dressed bobby scurried in, panting like a clapped out trooper.
“The Bishop of Trivoli is here, Commissioner,” he said, displaying his
glistening teeth. “He’s demanding to talk to the rebellious choirboy.”
“You should learn how to lap up more obligingly, you cherry picker,” said
Gilchrist, as he regained his composure. “Tell them to keep him waiting and to bind
Adam, from his neck to his thighs, in silver chains. That should be as amusing as a
one-legged ballerina. And unlock this handsome sod and give him a mug of refreshing
coffee.”
“Yes, Commissioner. Sorry, Commissioner.”
What’s this jock really after? wondered Kevin, stretching his aching limbs.
“I’ll only ever do business with you if you protect poor Adam,” he said,
scowling angrily.
“Sure I won’t. I have to keep both the bishop and the president happy.”
When Adam was hauled in looking like an Egyptian mummy, Kevin noticed a
mysterious gleam in his eyes. They contrasted with the bishop’s dark eyelids and
flaring nostrils. He was splendidly attired in a golden gown and a satin mitre.
“Hello, my son,” said the bishop, with a condescending glance. “I hope that
you’ve repented your sins and transgressions, and the wicked way you’ve treated your
holy guardians. What a way to respond to our Christian kindnesses.”
“I answer to my Lord Jesus, and Him alone,” Adam stubbornly replied, as one
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of his escorts stretched his ears, “and you’re made of burnt milk.”
“How rude and totally naive of you,” said the bishop, with a sneer. “Perhaps I
should teach you the errors of your ways while we kneel and pray together.”
Nobody should kneel for a bishop, thought Kevin, struggling to his feet.
“Let him alone, you cretin,” he yelled.
Thracia giggled and ran menacingly towards Adam.
“You don’t want to pray, you kinky old priest,” she declared. “You want to
party. I’ll hold the little bleeder down while you go for broke.”
Adam glared at Thracia and yelled, “Beware the power of the living God.”
“I’ll have that pompous fucker too,” Thracia nonchalantly replied.
“You’re doomed,” yelled Adam, as his eyeballs bulged to the size of apples.
“Go fuck yourself,” yelled Thracia, as she scratched the choirboy’s face.
Thereupon, Adam’s enlarged eyeballs suddenly emitted ferocious streams of
white light that tore the Trinkette to shreds. Her screams became ever more frantic as
her head zoomed around the room and the scattered remains of her body oscillated in
space. Apart from her feet, which remained on the floor twitching their toes.
“Meet your fate, you dozy Jezebel,” said Adam, flicking his fingers, whereupon
Thracia’s gaudy remains vanished in a cloud of seething smoke, her hideous wails
echoing from her tortuous hell.
“Good riddance to her,” said Kevin, “and what an unholy pong!”
“She was getting on my wick,” said Adam, as his eyes vanished inside his head.
“Maybe they’ll dissolve her in acid.”
Adam’s eyeballs re-emerged and assumed their natural size.
“Perhaps they will,” he said. “Now what were you suggesting, Your Grace?”
“Nothing, my son,” whined the bishop, shaking in his emerald-studded boots.
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“I’m far more forgiving than you would ever think. Please have mercy on me.”
“I’ll think about that when you’ve finished peeing down your leg,” said Adam.
“You’re filling your wellies with water.”
Meanwhile, the commissioner was recovering his equilibrium after a prolonged
panic attack.
“We’ll sort out your case, sonny,” he said. “Now don’t do anything silly.”
Adam’s nose went crimson and emitted green balls of fire.
“Don’t mess with me,” he roared, “and don’t you dare hurt my friend Kevin
ever again.”
“Perish the thought,” said Gilchrist, gritting his teeth, “and who will rid me of
this troublesome priest?”
Kevin and Adam were speedily transferred to a more comfortable cell in Corridor A
with luxurious twin beds and given some wholesome fare to eat, brought down by a
dumb waiter from the Holiday Inn directly above them.
“Wowee!” exclaimed Adam, as he bounced onto his mattress in relief.
“What possessed you to scorch that scary wench?” asked Kevin.
“I don’t know really,” said Adam. “I thought that it was the God who lives
within me trying express himself, but now I’m wondering whether I possess.
extraordinary powers myself.”
I bet that Tacitus and his Messiah are mixed up in this, thought Kevin.
“Perhaps you were taking revenge on behalf of a weird critter from Outer
Space,” he said.
“I don’t believe in that sort of hogwash,” said Adam, “but I’m really grateful to
you for standing up so well for me. Nobody’s done that before, apart from my dad.”
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“No problem, my son.”
“I love you so much, Kevin,” said Adam, baring his chest. “Please love me too.”
Kevin shivered and felt unable to express his private thoughts, even to himself.
“I do love you, like a brother,” he said, as he struggled to cope with his
emotions, “and it isn’t going to go any further than that.”
“Not even a kiss?” said Adam, throwing himself into Kevin’s arms.
What a shame, thought Kevin. He’s much too young at heart.
“Just one, I suppose,” he replied.
“Take me to the stars.”
“Not even Mars.”
The following morning, Kevin was ushered into the commissioner’s office.
“I have a one time only offer that you shouldn’t decline,” said Gilchrist, tossing
Kevin a half-chewed Danish pastry. “Now it’s impossible to determine my strategies
from my tactics, as some Prooshan nincompoop once said. But perhaps I should
explain their double-edged nature. On one hand, I support our planetary
administration. That’s to maintain myself in my current position, though a few too
many good people are eliminated in the process. I am, however, primarily influenced
by the Balfour gang, a powerful political group who studied in Oxford. They call it
the City of the Dreaming Spires, you know.”
“Perchance to dream, you old fool,” said Kevin. “Why would you want those
charlatans to dictate to you?”
“Because they’ve decided to overthrow the decrepit government here, rather
than blackmailing and controlling the president from afar as they did for many years
before. If I help them to do this, they’ve promised me a top position in the new
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administration. Secretary of State for War perhaps.”
“In other words, you’re a two-faced monster.”
“Now now! Maybe I should say that your role would be to help me to discredit
various top politicians, leaders and administrators in a whole variety of ways. How
does that exciting opportunity appeal to you?”
Kevin chewed the cud, and thought about the way the ethnic minorities were
being treated on the planet. Maybe I could impact life here by my own force of
character, he wondered. Perhaps a new government would change the bad ways. It
might be worth chancing my arm.
“I wouldn’t be totally averse to your suggestion,” he said, “but you must let
Adam go.”
Gilchrist frowned, furrowed his brow and dithered for a while.
“All right, all right,” he replied, “though I’ll miss him, and the president will
too. We’ll put him on the next bus back to Constanta and he’ll have to stay there.”
When he returned to his cell to collect his things, Kevin said, “They’re going to
release you, Adam, but you’ll have to stay with your parents in Constanta. My sister’s
met the Post-Anglican bishop there and he’s a good sort. Perhaps you should seek his
advice and career guidance.”
“Thank you for helping me, my darling friend,” said Adam, bursting into tears.
“I’ll miss you so much.”
“You remind me of the nightingale that sang in Berkeley Square.”
“I’m surprised that birds are able to breathe in that dank place.”
When Kevin arrived home, Ophelia and Susan piled on top of him and smothered him
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with kisses. After he’d described a carefully abridged version of his misadventures,
Ophelia flashed her jet-black eyes in approval and said, “We did contact Tacitus on a
communication device that he gave me during his visit. He said that he’d try to dream
something up.”
“Perhaps he sent his Messiah to get inside Adam’s body and mind,” said Kevin.
“I may well have given the living God the tongue treatment, so help me --er --God.”
“How could you, Kevin?”
“He threw himself at me. I only licked his chops, of course.”
“So where does that leave us?”
Kevin will need to worm my way out of this one, realised Susan.
“Why don’t we get married?” he impulsively replied. “I’ll ask my buddy Danny
to help me to choose the engagement ring and he can be our best man.”
Ophelia just sat there serenely, looking remarkably mature.
“My parents will be delighted,” she replied, with an understanding look. “They
love you like a son. Our children will be unique individuals and they will extract the
best elements from the Izon and human species.”
“I’ll influence the Universe until the sixth generation,” said Kevin, “unlike some
dipshits.”
“Of course you will, dear.”
“You’re a woman of substance, my darling.”
“We’re a couple with potential,” said Ophelia “This is a watershed in my life.”
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CHAPTER 15: DRAMA AND MORE DRAMA
Oh, Danny boy. The pipes, the pipes are calling. So be happy and not so sad.
Susan’s teaching progressed well. When she moved on from sistonic searches to
social inquiry, most of her students were fascinated by her course material and they
went ecstatic when she mentioned sexual fantasies. The three surviving Trinkon girls
began to study seriously although the shortest one made the occasional flippant joke.
In late September, Susan realised that it was time to admit to Fleance that she
was pregnant. Not at all relishing the situation, she arranged to meet him after lunch
in the Celestial Tea Gardens, where they had first courted and made love. Perhaps I
should tell him that the lout abused me, she wondered. But she decided that an honest
course was always the best.
Fleance had good reason to feel pleased with himself as he strolled towards his
rendezvous. He’d just finished writing up the second chapter of his Ph.D. thesis. His
liaisons with other rebellious Icarians were proving to be highly constructive and his
blossoming romance with Susan was influencing his views about her fellow humans.
However, Susan gave him a long passionate kiss, took a deep breath and said,
“Fleance, I’ve got something to feckin tell you and I’m very ashamed about it. Please
forgive me.”
“You know that I’d forgive you anything, my precious one,” replied Fleance, as
he gave Susan a fond embrace. “You’re the light of my life.”
“But why in God’s name did my damned implant have to foul up!”
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“Whoopee! Are you bearing my son?”
“Or sommit,” stuttered Susan, holding back her tears.
Fleance leapt in the air in glee.
“This is wonderful news, Susan,” he said, puffing his golden chest. “Our son
will grow like an eagle and live like a god. We’ll soar to the skies together.”
Susan fell to the ground sobbing and grabbed the youth’s child-like feet.
“But you’re not the father, Fleance,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m feckin sorry.”
The proud Icarian flexed his toes and turned as cold as an ice bucket; then he
contorted his face as if wondering what sort of alien trick Susan was up to.
“I see,” he rigidly replied, “and who is the father?”
Susan somehow felt slightly more confident through her haze of confusion and
she peppered Fleance’s knees with kisses while pouring out the unadulterated truth.
“That’s another problem,” she said. “He was a rough-and-ready undergraduate
who cleaned my apartment the day after we first spliced the knot, and I don’t even
know his feckin name. He returned to London without even saying ‘thank you.’”
Susan held onto Fleance’s shins as she awaited a kindly response. However,
Fleance was a traditionalist; she did not appreciate that he might be disgusted by the
entire business and might not be able to constrain himself from reacting impetuously.
When he snorted, Susan thought that he was coughing, and she was completely taken
aback when he suddenly kicked her away and raged as she had never seen him rage
before.
“How could you do this to me, you dozy strumpet?” he yelled. “Get lost and get
out of my life!”
“Where are you going, my darling?” wailed Susan, as Fleance fled towards the
temperamental waves of Lake Nefertiti. She watched with increasing desperation as
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he slowly disappeared among the trees, before grinding her face into the turf. After
pulling herself to her feet, she retreated into Pandora’s Maze distraught with grief.
Will he ever speak to me again? she wondered. What did I do to deserve this living
hell? Make love to me right here by the cherubic icon one more time, my dearest. And
then I will wither away. -----But I’ve seen you flower, my love. You can’t take that
away from me.
While Susan was bemoaning her fate, Fleance was running and screaming around the
lake path. I’ll kill the bastard, he cursed. I’ve lost the love of my life, he agonized, as
a carriage-drawing ductopede overtook him and clattered to a halt. Its rider jumped
off its back and untangled her antler-shaped breasts.
“What’s up with you, darling?” she inquired. “You’re raving like a castrated
loony.”
“My girlfriend has done the dirty on me,” howled Fleance, as tears poured all
over his chest. “I should never have trusted a rude human with my tender affections.”
“Those limeys are no good,” said the Icarian girl. “One of their sexy hunks even
pinched my rosebud without curtseying first. I did enjoy the tingle though.”
“This is no joking matter,” groaned Fleance. “My life has been taken away.”
“Take solace with me,” she said.
“Enough of your kinky tricks, you mermaid. I still love the bitch and I will
always wear the willow.”
When Fleance reached his home in Dirk Charleston’s mansion in Greenwood Hills,
he jumped over the prick-eared dorkhound that was sleeping on the backstairs,
stamped on several mantro-roaches as he ran across the basement floor and collapsed
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onto the rickety bed in his squalid bedroom. She’s dashed all my hopes and
aspirations, he agonized, and just as I was becoming substantial. And now I’m just a
worthless shell, a non-descript creature who’ll live out his days like a slovenly worm.
The dorkhound bounded in and licked the slave’s face.
“Hiya, Rex,” said Fleance, picking its fleas. “Come here and give me a cuddle.”
Susan asked Tigran Mangasarian to teach her classes on the following Friday and
Monday so that she could spend a long weekend on the Inner Moon researching social
environments and political hierarchies with Sybil Greenleaf. She hoped that her trip to
the Autonomous Apollo Republic would help her to recover from her traumatic breakup with Fleance, who she’d only seen fleetingly since, scrubbing the staff-commonroom floor on his hands and knees with a miserable expression on his once-noble
face.
Susan and Sybil caught an astrobus to the Queensferry space station,
accompanied by Debbie Smythe who carried the baggage. Susan’s mood was
heightened by the prospect of travelling in the gleaming shuttle Princess Ingborg.
They were greeted by a homely space-steward with a wart on his cheek, who checked
their passports, poured them each a small glass of rye and dry, and strapped them into
their seats. Susan almost spilt her drink as the shuttle zoomed through a hurtle of
flying hens and into the yellowish clouds. As they went into orbit, she noticed the
silver space station Anastasia way to her right, transmitting cybernetic simulations of
the heavens to the planet surface and inventing new stars. The comet-shaped landmass
of Trystonia was criss-crossed with rivers and dotted with dark blue lakes, and the
frothy expanse of Oceana was spotted with red and green archipelagos.
When they sped through the satellite-infested zonosphere and towards the
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radiant Inner Moon, the grey-clouded and slightly larger Outer Moon lurked at an
angle to its left. When Susan peered through the rear porthole, Qinsatorix reminded
her of a weather map. As they zoomed through space, she felt more and more
exhilarated, and downed a strong cognac.
Sybil sipped her sweet sherry while they were drawing closer to the Inner Moon.
“There are the equatorial rings,” she said. “They’re roughly at latitudes 81, 86,
92 and 98.”
“Are they mountain ranges?” asked Susan, as she discerned the four famous red
parallel red streaks, partly concealed by purple clouds, that encircled the orange and
green moon surface. There were no oceans; just toxic pink lakes.
“Yes, and they contain hundreds of massive volcanoes whose eruptions are
visible from the planet surface. And that’s Angervast, the capital city of the Apollos.
Our gods put it right on the equator. When we go into orbit, you’ll see our second city
of Zaltvinch. It rose out of a primeval swamp and it’s where the fraudsters are sent to
battle with the brocko-crocks.”
Angervast largely consisted of red hemispherical buildings resembling huge igloos.
However, the ladies from Qinsatorix were booked into a diamond-shaped glass
edifice, hanging from a suspension bridge over Crazy Thorwak’s Gorge, namely the
eight-star Hotel Reykat. Upon arrival, they powdered their noses and put on their best
dresses while planning to interview a cluster of politicians.
As prearranged at considerable expense to Sybil’s research budget, they met
over afternoon drinks with the Home Secretary of the Free Apollo Republic, an
elderly bronze-skinned gentleman from the Argo tribe. He was accompanied by the
Mayoress of Angervast, a middle-aged albino Terek. The Chief Overseer of the
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Dumnon District, an aggressive Tork with a curved official cane, was glaring at the
mayoress from across the marble table. He reminded Susan of a tetchy seagull. A
couple of red-faced minions made up the party.
Susan explained how she and Sybil were researching the interaction between the
nature of political hierarchies and their effects on social environments. Then Sybil
asked whether anybody present had reflected on these issues.
The Home Secretary took a pinch of snuff.
“While we were traditionally a democracy,” he said, with a token sneeze, “we
have more recently evolved into a benevolent autocracy, albeit with a rather inflexible
line of command. Between ourselves, that means that the élite still beat on the
proletariat, though the plebs do create highly resistant enclaves, much more so than in
your empire, and we sometimes leave them to fend for themselves. The inhabitants of
Zondheim starved themselves to death a couple of years ago.”
“We treat our people well in Angervast,” said the mayoress, with a doubtlesslygenuine smile. “Each of our beehives appoints its own leader, who answers to the City
Council and encourages his neighbours to work towards the common good.”
“You’re part of a Terek élite that persistently defrauds the banking system,” said
the Chief Overseer of Dumnon, with a venomous scowl. “You have no respect for the
industrious Torks.”
“What deceitful lies! The Torks flap around on street corners. And you suppress
your Terek minority, in the mines in Tawi and Gumlak, for example.”
“Bare those albinos’ arses. That’s what I say.”
“How dare you!”
“Present company excluded, of course, --er --Ma’am.”
“So do how you think that political hierarchies influence social conditions?”
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Susan diplomatically inquired. Debbie and an Apollo minion took copious notes
during the detailed debate that ensued; this largely supported Susan’s hypothesis.
Cities with inflexible political hierarchies had the most slums, with little influence
from hoi polloi, while thoughtfully contrived bureaucratic systems usually increased
living standards and gave rise to benevolent social hierarchies.
Sybil rounded off the discussion by saying, “This is all food for thought. We’ll
report back to you with our detailed conclusions, in case you wish to act upon them.”
“No chance,” said the Tork, smoothing his feathers.
As the politicians were preparing to depart, the mayoress wandered up to Susan,
pursed her lips and whispered, “I once enjoyed a fling with your brother’s gorgeous
friend Danny O’Gara. Could you possibly deliver a top secret message to him?”
“That depends what it is,” replied Susan.
“Just say, ‘My pipes need a plumber’.”
“That sounds rather cryptic.”
“He’ll know what I mean. He’s a lovely lad, isn’t he?”
“I’ll have to relay the information to him via Kevin, but he’s discreet enough.”
“How sweet. Perhaps I’ll see you on the planet surface, sometime.”
The next day, Susan, Sybil and Debbie visited several localities in the surrounding
provinces. They were welcomed in the Angervast air terminal by a cheery Scython
bubblechopper pilot, who made Sybil blush deep blue when he kissed her cheek.
Their first destination was the picturesque Dumnon village of Tawi that the mayoress
had mentioned during their political discussions. When the chopper reached cruising
altitude, Susan peered at the hovels in the Mumbo ghetto while wondering where
she’d seen the likes of them before, and admired the rugged moorlands and the herds
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of galloping ponies as they fought each other for their turf. During their descent into
Tawi, she discerned a collection of single-storey redbrick cottages, against the
backdrop of the huge engine house of the Wheal Tewfuk mine. When they alighted, a
pretty female Terek hurried out of the terminal building to meet them, looking like
a unicorn on heat and with a purple pendant trailing from her horn.
“I’ve been expecting you for ages,” said the albino. “I’m the village’s head
elder. Why don’t we stroll over to the Horus Arms for a jar?”
“Aren’t you rather young?” asked Sybil. “We were expecting a wizened fool
with a walking stick.”
“That’s all changed in these parts. The girls make the important decisions
nowadays. Please spare us the boring old farts and juvenile thugs.”
After they’d sat down and ordered dark brown boilers, Susan asked, “So how
does the line of command in Angervast influence working and social conditions
here?”
“That’s primarily via our chief overseer,” replied the head elder. “He’s a cruel
beast sometimes. However, we still manage to maintain our own social structure. Our
revenue mainly derives from our copper and arsenic mine; it’s the deepest on either of
the moons. While the wealthy shareholders rip off most of the profit, our wages are
enough to subsist on and our working conditions are better than those in Gumlak
where two or three miners die from cellular poisoning each week.”
“But have you been able to develop a social hierarchy?” asked Susan.
“Sure we have. The girls boss around the older hens, who put their hubbies in
their place, and the young hunks are just there for hard work and sex.”
“What’s new?” asked Debbie, with a snigger.
“We chain our partners to the bed and don’t even let them play football.”
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An in depth discussion ensued. But while the elder was ordering more drinks,
the chief overseer suddenly marched in, swishing his cane.
“Ah, there you are,” said the Tork. “I’m angry with you for permitting too many
parties in this village. You’re making me see red.”
“Who gives a damn?” said the elder, with an assertive glare and a revealing
swish of her beautifully embroidered cotton skirt.
An accordion player looked up and saw what was happening. When he reacted
by playing the first few bars of a traditional refrain, all the customers joined in by
singing,
“Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountainside.
The summer’s here and all the flowers are blooming.
It’s you, it’s you must come and we shall ride.”
“Why such a corny Irish song?” asked Sybil, as the feathery Tork fled in
embarrassment to the jeers of the customers.
“We’ve recently adopted it,” replied the elder. “It’s the national anthem for all
free Tereks.”
After that instructive episode, the researchers from Qinsatorix toured several other
hamlets and learnt even more about political and social environments. Susan was
utterly knackered when her head hit the pillow that evening.
After Sunday breakfast, the ladies took off again in the bubblechopper, but the pilot
headed in a different direction. After flying over miles of fertile farmlands, they rose
high in the sky over the first of the northerly equatorial rings. Susan was gobsmacked
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by the breathtaking views of the bright red mountain range and thought that she was
landing on Jupiter. After descending to a low altitude, they zoomed over a rocky
drought-stricken desert before rising over a second equatorial ring, and between two
purple peaks that towered to altitudes of almost twenty thousand feet. Susan imagined
that she was in Dizzyland. When she noticed two volcanoes exploding sideways
towards each other, she concluded that she was witnessing a double Plinian eruption.
The chopper descended onto an airstrip just outside the bustling and largely
autonomous township of Dalget, that was centred in a sumptuous oasis. After meeting
the pilot’s multi-coloured family, the ladies interviewed over a hundred musical
Meriks regarding their community’s social structures and learnt that the clarinet
players ruled. When Susan asked why the palace was a pile of cinders, a drummer
claimed that the erstwhile Baron of Dalget had been too progressive and moreover
tone deaf.
When Susan computed her statistics that evening, she found that political and
social status were negatively correlated in Dalget (r = -3). This suggested to her that
Meriks who were highly rated politically were less likely to be well-regarded socially,
while social high flyers weren’t good politicians. That makes sense, she concluded.
During Monday breakfast, Susan and Sybil decided that their work on the Inner
Moon was not yet complete. They therefore asked Debbie to stay on for a few days to
research some finer details from the libraries in Angervast.
“Then you two can submit a paper to The Journal of Political and Social
Science,” said Sybil, with a kindly smile.
“But you’re entitled to be the senior author,” said Susan.
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“I can make do with a polite acknowledgement, my dear,” said Sybil. “Your
tenure’s what’s most important.”
How refreshing, thought Susan. She’s a cut above the rest of us.
A few days later, Kevin was visited in his office by a thin-faced superintendent of
police who introduced himself as a crony of Commissioner Jack Gilchrist.
“As part of your co-operation with us, we’d like you to find a way of
discrediting Linus Van Wurstenberg,” said the officer, with a glimmer of a smile. “No
pussyfooting now. I’ll be able to feed any dirt you unearth on the bastard to the media
without any risk of you being blamed for whistle-blowing. He deserves all the flack
we can give him since he’s a much too influential cog in the wheel of the reactionary
establishment.”
Isn’t this officer a great guy? thought Kevin. I didn’t know they made them like
that anymore.
“I’ll think of something,” he said, perking up, “even if your mate Jack is a twat,
but I do hope that the Balfour gang merit our support.”
“Of course they do, and I’ll be much kinder than him when I take over.”
A week later, Kevin was still bereft of ideas when he and Danny took off with the
battlefleet to practise his new landing scheme, with the generalissimo in
command in the leading cruiser.
“By the way, dearest one,” said Kevin, as they soared over miles of farmland
speckled with zillions of cattle, “Susan asked me to pass on a cryptic message to you
from the Mayoress of Angervast.”
“Now there’s a loveable old bird,” said Danny, flushing at the collar.
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“She says that her pipes need a plumber.”
“Ha ha! Or something. Don’t worry, darling. She’s just an old flame.”
The battlefleet hurtled, for many miles, high above the enticing waves of Oceana,
before diving to about ten thousand feet and heading towards the soulful-looking
Archipelago of the Dramwoks. Maybe I’ll take a vacation here, wondered Kevin.
Perhaps there’s a monastic retreat in some idyllic rain forest, where my lovers and I
can escape from reality for ever.
Danny explained that the ebony-eyed Dramwok qinsies had long-since been
cleared out of the archipelago to make way for profitable herds of cantosaurs that
were later complemented by miscellaneous groups of Apollo misfits, including a tribe
of trombone-playing Meriks and a philosophical bunch of skoke-inhaling Rustfars.
Kevin murmured that he’d love to live there, only for his somnolent thought processes
to be disrupted by Van Wurstenberg’s aggravating voice as it boomed through the
fleet’s mega-system.
“Prepare for descent!” ordered the general, and that made Kevin apprehensive as
to whether his recently proposed elliptical spirals would actually work in practice. He
was hoping that the Voronov-Bogoljubov lemma would save his bacon when the
battlecruisers intertwined in beautiful harmony and descended with perfect precision
into an elliptical holding pattern above the Utopian Island of Halo.
“Where’s the landing pad?” asked Kevin, with a cheery grin, as crowds of
Apollos gathered in the grassy glens and giant cantosaurs chased each other in circles.
“There isn’t one,” replied Danny, with a sigh.
What foul trick is this? wondered Kevin. If we’re not going to land then why are
we here? I can’t see any deer or donkeys to cull.
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“What happens next is subject to an F-notice,” declared the general. “So snitch
at your peril. Prepare to nuke scorch!”
This must be Armageddon, thought Kevin, as his mind hit another space.
“No!!” he yelled, just as the ground beneath him turned deathly white, in stark
contrast to the now-empty brown cantosaur shells that littered the landscape.
“At least the Rustfars are at peace,” said Danny, as tears welled in his eyes.
“Way to go, my gorgeous wimps!” yelled the general. “We got the pesky pests.”
“The Devil will grind you into little pieces,” roared Kevin. “Then he’ll fry you.”
Kevin was still in a furious state of mind when he returned to Trivoli. He rushed
to Playfield Police Station and reported the tragedy to the superintendent.
“That’s great news,” said the officer. “Now we can stick it to the dipshit.”
The next morning a full report appeared in The Daily Discerner, though the leak
was attributed to an anonymous battlefleet pilot with social qualms. Linus Van
Wurstenberg was pilloried in the furore that followed. There were calls for him to
resign and even to be executed. He only saved his neck by claiming that the
massacred Rustfars were plotting to establish their autonomy by breaking out in open
revolt.
While Kevin and Danny knew that the whole trip was just intended for practice,
Kevin was concerned about what the general would do next with his new landing
scheme. When Danny said that the battlefleet might attack the Apollos in Parthia,
Kevin noticed a worried look on his face and wondered what would actually happen. .
That weekend, Susan wandered into the Pirate Ship hoping for a quiet chat with
Svein Knutson, and maybe a favour.
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“Fleance was here last night, drowning his sorrows again and tearing himself
apart,” said Svein. “I was sorry to hear that you guys have split up. He drank himself
silly.”
“Yes, it’s so feckin sad,” said Susan. “If only I could find a way of persuading
him that I didn’t intend to hurt him.”
“And what else have you been up to?” asked Svein, with a sympathetic smile.
“I’ve just visited the Inner Moon and next week I’ll be travelling to Zoll to study
the culture there. Unfortunately, my friends Sybil and Debbie are tied up. So I’ll have
to go alone.”
“Can I come?” asked Svein, and Susan nodded in delight.
Susan and Svein duly took a riverboat up the Dneiper. While the remaining
passengers were leaving for lovely Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a lion-like guard on the
wooden wharf at Zoll examined their passes and grudgingly let them through the
barbed-wire fence. After a desperate hunt for overnight accommodation, they were
directed to the slum-like Hotel Isaiah down a side street. The bespectacled desk clerk
could only offer them a dirt cheap room with a double bed with broken springs. When
they looked embarrassed, he lent them his six foot long old-fashioned bolster for
another five dollars.
“Thank goodness that my wife is visiting her mother,” he said. “This should
keep you apart.”
That afternoon, Susan and Svein visited the much exploited silverware factory. They
discovered that the industrious Icarians were still manufacturing some of the products
using the ancient cuprous-moulding technique that predated iron-casting.
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Susan took snipshots of an engraved fruit bowl, an embossed candleholder set and a
triple-spouted teapot.
“Debbie researched the details of cuprous moulding here when she was a
postgraduate,” she said. “It looks as if she didn’t fabricate her findings, as alleged by
Dirk Charleston when he destroyed her career.”
“He sounds like a remarkably cruel rottweiler,” said Svein.
“I’ll do my level best to look after Debbie’s interests and put that wrong to
right,” said Susan, as she took more detailed pictures of the manufacturing process.
“You’re such a kind person, Susan. I do believe that I’m beginning to love you.”
“Why would I deserve that? You’re such a hunk and I’m a shameless hussy.”
When they returned to their hotel room to change for supper, Svein said, “Yes, I
absolutely adore you, my precious one.”
Although Susan felt that she could forgo her strictly-rationed food for Svein, she
blinked and said, “Don’t even feckin go there.”
When she blinked again, Svein gave her a luscious kiss. He’d look half the
height in sixty-nine, she fantasised, but I simply can’t do this.
“I’m still in love with Fleance, Svein,” she said, as she pushed the gentle giant
away, “and I will always carry the torch. I still want to be your friend though.”
“In that case, I’ve lost interest too, said Svein. “Let’s go for a walk down to the
river.”
The stony footpath led to a sandy cove. Susan produced her book of verse and
Svein chose ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ by Keats to read to her. Susan took particular
comfort in the lines:
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O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene€,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.
The next morning, Svein complained that he’d scratched his derrière on a bedspring,
and Susan smirked. After a breakfast that was as light as a gadfly, the
hungry bedfellows ambled hand in hand to the ceramics plant where a variety
of colourful beakers, pots and plates were getting manufactured on line. To Susan’s
disappointment, she discovered that most of the products were being glazed and refired using a modern North American method, though a few plates were still being
prepared using an ancient Icarian technique. However, an elderly worker said that the
modern methodology had been introduced some twenty years previously, and that all
products before that were manufactured by reference to the former guidelines.
Since Debbie’s postgraduate work was evidently accurate on yet another count,
Susan took a variety of confirmatory snipshots.
Susan subsequently submitted a well-illustrated article, co-authored with Sybil and
Debbie, to The Journal of Artistic Manufacture. It included many details from
Debbie’s original unpublished preprint on the manufacture of silverware and
ceramics, and cleared her name regarding the old controversies that had deprived her
of her Ph.D. At Sybil’s suggestion, Susan bound all of Debbie’s preprints together,
along with copies of her two submitted joint papers, and invited the University to
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consider her collected works for an advanced D.Phil. The Chairman of the Doctoral
Awards Committee was made sensitive to the situation and promised to keep Dirk in
the dark regarding this devious proposal.
While Susan was scheming away, Kevin and the superintendent were plotting how to
vilify the drone-like drain who headed the New Building Approval quango.
[Author’s Note: I regard the word ‘drain’ as slang for ‘a person who is nowhere
near as talented as he thinks he is’. It was once used by Imperial College chess
players and was employed in the London press to describe the members of a losing
1970s England football team.]
At Kevin’s suggestion, they climbed into the rafter space of the freshlyconstructed council chamber and poured bucket after bucket of dirty water through
the beautifully-frescoed ceiling. The next day, a reading of the Save the SalvoSalmon Bill had to be delayed when the roof caved in.
Following that success, Kevin and the handsome Playfield desk officer went to a
fancy dress ball together, in drag, in the sultry basement of the recently opened Gee
Gee Flowers nightclub, and threw rats into the loos. Two camp slaggers ran out in
disgust and puked their guts up all over the dance floor. After several similarly
successful débâcles, the head of the quango was sent into early retirement amidst
public furore.
The chief operator of the gogo tram system was discredited when Kevin bribed
him into attaching his overhead wires to the Museum of Industry while pretending to
be the manager of the adjacent Hotel Can Can. Kevin knew from the architect that the
museum was poorly constructed, and the front wall of the museum collapsed, quite
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predictably, over an astrobus shelter.
As more and more high profile heads rolled, the proletariat rapidly lost
confidence in the administration and expressed their views with increasing ferocity.
When a wag suggested skinning the Home Secretary, the cat-like minister narrowly
escaped the lynch mob.
However, Kevin continued to offer sops to Military Intelligence. He claimed that
he’d seen the purported rebel Fleance in the middle of a Scythian-style S and M orgy
on Victory Point with twelve Icarian nursing trainees and conspiring on the Union
Terrace with a huge purple-faced Apollo. The Admiral was as always both fooled by
and delighted with Kevin’s fabrications, and a haphazardly chosen Apollo was
arrested in the Bilwok ghetto and put to the question.
After interviewing 31 personally-selected subjects during her investigation of the
correlation between sexual fantasies and insanity, Susan determined that 15 were
either clinically insane or exhibited serious symptoms of craziness. All of the 15
experienced highly repetitive sexual fantasies and 13 of them had been subjected to
other compelling stress factors. She updated her value of Hogg’s Multiple Correlation
Coefficient to 0.97, a number that was comfortingly close to the maximum value of
unity.
If Susan had chosen her subjects at random, rather than via her craftilyconceived selection procedure, this would have yielded a well-justified p-value of
0.006 with strong statistical significance, whatever that meant. But, as with most
publications in the top medical and psychiatric journals, her screwed up readership
did not fully appreciate the difference between invalid sampling procedures and either
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objectively random or subjectively fair sampling. She could therefore quote her
misleading p-value with scant fear of professional criticism.
After inviting Dirk Charleston to be her next subject, Susan wandered into his
office one afternoon just as he was embracing a student from Worcester. He
offered Susan a comfortable seat, and booted the truculent girl and her cringing sister
into the jacuzzi.
“Good shooting, Dirk,” said Susan, as the siblings landed with a splash. “So
which stress factors most affect your psyche?”
“Our belligerent chairman for a start,” replied Charleston. “A pox on those
holier than thou Apollos! And Fleance whenever he howls like a neutered cat in my
basement. Not to forget the obstinate secretaries when they refuse to grovel.”
“I understand,” said Susan, trying to sound delicate. “Now, I guess that I know
all there is to know about your love life, Dirk, but do you experience any highlyrepetitive sexual fantasies that might aggravate your behaviour?”
“Sure I do, every seven minutes or so and ever since I was a tweenie, but I’ll
never give you or anybody else any details.”
“Come along now, Dirk. You can tell me. We’re the closest of friends.”
“They’re so disgusting, Susan,” yelled Charleston, flying off the deep end. “I
imagine that I’m Jupiter disguised as a swan and swooping down on beautiful
maidens swimming in golden ponds. However, just as I start making love to the
prettiest of them, the deceitful bitch turns into an ugly old crone who traps my
manhood inside her and makes me complete the ghastly job while she cackles with
pleasure.”
“How disturbing,” said Susan, “and how does this affect your actual sex-life?”
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“Without the crones, I’d be a perfectly conventional husband with an attentive
wife, and not such an outrageous prick.”
Susan later analysed Dirk’s responses to his extended psychology test and
determined that he suffered from multi-polar disorder with fifty-seven nodes.
Doubtlessly a mind troll, she concluded; this maniac isn’t aware how crazy he is.
That exercise increased the value of Susan’s albeit-spurious correlation
coefficient to 0.986 and substantially strengthened her apparent statistical significance
with a purported p-value of 0.00355. That’s less than 1%, she realised. I’m a woman
of science.
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CHAPTER 16: RUMBLINGS FROM THE PROLES
The bourgeoisie will rise while the underclasses grovel like sheep.
During October, Kevin and Danny were chatting in the Pirate Ship with two nurses
from the Palliative Care Department of the Royal Wiltington Hospital when they
received some startling information.
“It’s so cruel,” said the jaunty Welsh girl. “The cancer patients are made to suffer
in the worst possible ways, since the health care administrators won’t let our doctors
prescribe enough apromorphine to relieve their unbearable pain.”
“It’s all the fault of the Undersecretary for Health,” said her fiery Irish friend.
“That creamy-faced bitch knows that the high expense of the drugs outweighs the cost
of the all too meagre health care. She makes the patients suffer for months on end,
rather than acknowledging the quality of a kindly curtailed life.”
Kevin was outraged that such uncivilised practices were given any space at all.
“And how else do the patients receive substandard treatment?” he inquired.
“As we’re understaffed, they may not get fed or washed until the afternoon,”
said the Welsh nurse, “and they’re frequently left to wallow in their own faeces.”
“Meanwhile, many of the night nurses just sit on their hindquarters drinking
coffee,” said the Irish girl, as she grabbed Danny’s leg. “The orderlies count the dead
in the morning.”
[Author’s Note: A similar night-time scenario was described by Peter Clement
in The Inquisitor]
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The following evening, Kevin was visited in his flat by the Superintendent of
Police who rubbed his grimy face and said, “Jack Gilchrist would like you and
several more of his dupes to pull the rug from under more leading personages. So
pull your finger out and make some constructive suggestions.”
This one’s a different kettle of fish now that he thinks that he’s got me under his
thumb, thought Kevin.
“I don’t like your change in attitude, Officer Plod,” he said, “even if it is a
standard police trick from way back when. I’ve already been extremely helpful.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you think,” snarled the superintendent. “I’ll stuff my
truncheon down your throat if you don’t come up with an idea within the next ten
seconds.”
Kevin tried to control himself.
“Why don’t you expose the cunts in the Palliative Ward of the Royal Wilt, you
cretin?” he replied. “There’s enough unnecessary suffering there to topple the
Undersecretary of Health.”
The next day, the Trystnews anchor lady received a tip off from the police. A couple
of hours later, she flounced into the Royal Wilt with her live action team. Overriding
the protests of the bulbous-eyed matron of the Palliative Ward, she approached a
withered patient and asked, “How are they treating you here, my dear?”
“She’s dead, you fool,” said the matron, with a sneer.
“I see,” said the anchor lady, in triumph, as she fixed her attentions on a
wizened old man with decaying teeth and a metal bar inserted into the side of his
head.
“How’s life treating you, my fine fellow?” she inquired.
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“The pain, the pain,” shrieked the old man. “Take away the pain! Put me
away. I don’t even want to see my grandkids again. I hope that you all rot like me.”
“Just listen to that, viewers,” said the anchor lady, with a contented smirk, as she
turned to a beautiful gaunt woman who was cherishing a picture of her children.
“What’s up with you, dear?” she asked.
“Apromorphine, apromorphine!” wailed the woman. “I’d give you my life’s
savings for apromorphine. And please clean up my shit. I’m festering all over.”
The anchor lady more fully exposed the shortcomings of the Undersecretary of
Health by interviewing the Irish nurse who’d just blown the whistle to Kevin and
Danny. The telecast caused outrage around the planet and the creamy-faced health
minister was attacked the next morning by a brood of enraged housewives. After
they’d shorn her head and stuck pins into her breasts, she resigned her position and
fled to the safety of her parents’ home in Epsom.
The careers of the Pensions Secretary, the Head of the Leisure and Recreation
Quango, the Mayor of Tibermouth and the chief overseer of the mining operations in
St. Erth were destroyed by further scandals. Two homes were firebombed by angry
protestors, the overseer was garrotted and the Pensions Secretary was hung by his feet
from a tree.
The proles are rumbling, realised Kevin, feeling highly satisfied with himself.
A few days later, the police superintendent visited Kevin in his office.
“Jack is pleased enough,” he said, with a disconcerting glare, “but he wants you
to help us further. We’re planning to stir up the bourgeoisie by ruining the reputations
of the Lord Mayor of Trivoli and several further Trinkon-loving local dignitaries.
Your role will be to help to entice them into a dissolute bar behind the monorail
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station.”
Kevin now had a regular Trinkon boyfriend called Fabio. The former
deckhand’s sister ruled the roost in Dirk Charleston’s mansion, and Fabio was Dirk’s
male house slave. His relationship with Kevin had gone from strength to strength ever
since they made love during their return from Inukaten.
Kevin therefore replied, “I have an aversion to exposing Trinkers. Find
somebody else, you prickly pimphog.”
“Why don’t I send your well-frionised body back down Corridor F?” said the
the superintendent, with a sadistic grin. “I’d love to spot your belly with a red hot W.”
“Please don’t,” begged Kevin. “The µs are still blowing my mind.”
“Or whatever,” snickered the superintendent. “A pretty covert agent will collect
you from your apartment tomorrow evening. I’m sure you’ll be amenable.”
A blonde lady dressed like a prostitute duly arrived at Kevin’s flat and spirited him
away in her yellow limousine. They floated up to the Capitol Square and drifted
down South Walsingham Avenue as far as the ancient monorail station. When they
drew up by the decrepit Gopher Hotel, Kevin noticed a brouhaha outside the nearby
Christus Dei restaurant. A group of rednecks were towing an orange Tigress, despite
the vehement protests of a customer from the hotel. A stern sparrow-faced man, who
looked like Pope Adrian Polanski himself, strode up and told the rednecks to throw
the fellow into the gutter.
“That’s the owner of Christus Dei,” said the covert agent. “He’s a member of
the fundamentalist cult that rules our empire on Earth, and he’s trying to stop any
Trinkers or trannie admirers from parking outside his restaurant.”
He doesn’t sound like a particularly nice sort of Christian to me, thought Kevin.
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Trannie admirers deserve their piece of the action.
Three pink vans were also parked outside the Christus Dei. A couple of the
rednecks ran up to one of them with a clamp and banged furiously on its front
window, only for three muscular men to jump out. When the rednecks were thrown
into the back of the van, the smaller of the pair shrieked, “I’ll torch the place!”
“Those hefty men are police officers,” said the agent, in glee. “They don’t like
Trinkers either, but they use a more subtle approach.”
When Kevin and the blonde approached the hotel, they encountered the neon-signed
entrance to ‘Red Rufus’s Waiting Room’. After negotiating four flights of steps down
a dark stairwell, they entered a bat-infested establishment with giant spider webs
hanging from its fifty foot high ceiling. The wild-haired proprietor from Adelaide was
working behind the glitzy bar to the right, controlling his minions with slaps and
pinches, and keeping the sheep well secured. The minions were dressed in ultra-tight
shiny black uniforms and invariably ran to his bidding.
Several quality-looking gentlemen were standing at the bar, chatting to a couple
of uniformed pageboys from the Planet Capitol and watching a dirty video on a
holoscreen. About twenty trannies sat huddled together in an enclave in the far left
corner. Kevin thought that some of them were attractive, though one bore a close
resemblance to his insane relative Sister Frances.
The floor was dominated by an ugly collection of daunting men who were
talking, choking and spluttering in a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. A turkey-like
man was fluttering around like a hen and controlling much of the conversation while
puffing his chest as if he was somebody extraordinarily important.
“They’re known as the ‘Stone Age crowd’,” said the tart-like agent. “They’re
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mainly trannie lovers, or criminals hiding here for their own evil purposes. The
talkative turkey is nicknamed ‘The Judge’.”
A spiral staircase led up to a balcony lined with attractive Trinkettes. Kevin
noticed the three I.I. students who’d helped Thracia to seduce him giving him cheery
waves and he reciprocated in kind. That did not faze the depressed-looking
individuals who were seated at wooden tables under the balcony and staring blankly
into space.
“Perhaps they’re waiting to be admitted to the Royal Nuke in the morning,” said
Kevin, with a grin.
“Maybe that’s why it’s called the Waiting Room,” said the agent, “just like the
one in Charing Cross.”
“So what’s your plan, my sexy señorita?” asked Kevin.
“Whenever one of your undergraduate friends leaves the premises, she will
almost certainly be followed either by a Trinker or a lackey acting on behalf
of one, whereupon I’ll press this special button on my secromobile.”
“What mêlée of confusion will that cause?”
“One of the police vans outside will follow the customer, presumably
accompanied by the honey girl, to his destination, where she will perform her party
piece. If a Trinker is entrapped by the girl, then he’ll be taken directly to Corridor F
unless he’s regarded as important enough to be exposed in the media.”
“Look at these lumps of corruption,” said Kevin, as they were approached by an ugly
beanpole with a head like a turnip, and a gross trannie with metal false breasts.
“I’m a landscape designer,” said the trannie, unleashing her one-eyed Labrador.
“Are you in need of any professional advice?”
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“I can water my magnolias myself,” replied Kevin.
“We’re planning to relocate to Spain,” said the beanpole, most pretentiously.
“Which spot on the Med do you find to be most idyllic?”
“Try the Las Fuentes beach south of Barcelona,” replied Kevin, holding his
nose. “The cold water springs there are as refreshing as O’Spore’s bath lotion.”
“That sounds better than Ibiza,” said the trannie, with a condescending
smile. “They’re so low class there.”
“Why don’t you sit down and give us the low-down on the hen who calls
himself the Judge?” said Kevin, feeling inquisitive.
“He’s just a Walter Mitty,” said the beanpole, as he crashed into a chair. “He
spouts hot air and pokes his fingers into every pie. However, when it comes to the
rub, he’s as insubstantial as an impotent wimp.”
“He sounds like our professor of medical ethics,” said Kevin.
“It’s not as simple as that,” said the trannie. “While many Walter Mittys project
themselves as vacuous and useless, they usually have some secret agenda that
they utilise for ignominious profit.”
“So what’s this guy’s grand scheme?” asked Kevin.
“How would I know?” replied the trannie, looking confused. “Perhaps he rips
rental deposits off incoming students in cahoots with our self-imagined chemistry
lecturer.”
The conversation continued unabated and Kevin learnt all about tall rodent-andinsect-infested hedgerows that were fertilised by the rotting bodies of giant spiders.
What a load of bollocks, he surmised.
When the bizarre couple finally rose to leave, Kevin observed the Judge in
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conversation with a dark-haired pageboy, who sported a well-creased emerald
uniform.
There were two loos at the back of the room, marked ‘Fred’ and ‘Thelma’. In
between there was a doorway signed ‘Parlour’. The Judge and the pageboy entered
the parlour together. The page emerged minutes later, grinned and walked straight out
of the bar. Moments afterwards, the Judge came out and waved at the shortest of the
I.I. undergraduates on the balcony. Kevin grinned at the call bird as she left the bar
with a flourish of her sugary thighs. I wouldn’t mind more of her myself, he thought.
“This should destroy a high-ranking politician,” said the agent, pressing the
button on her secromobile.
“Who’re you?” asked Kevin, as a gnome-like troll sauntered up to his table.
“I’m a comfortably retired businessman with four factories,” said the troll. “I
only spent fifteen years on ice.”
“How come? You can’t be older than forty.”
“You’re not a bobby are you? I strangle bobbies with my bare hands.”
“I’m just a harmless scientist. So what are you doing here?”
“What I trade in is none of your damned business. Let me know if you’d like to
visit our Trojans’ Closet to sample the sundry delights of the East.”
When the police killer had departed, Kevin saw the Judge returning to the
parlour with a lanky gentleman, who duly left the premises a few minutes later. The
Judge emerged and attracted the attention of the taller of the two I.I. undergraduates
on the balcony. She promptly left the bar, arm in arm with an extremely hesitant
human girl with a rosy face.
“That indiscreet dude is heading straight for Corridor F,” said the agent,
pressing her special button.
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While Kevin was downing his warm frothy Guinness, the Judge strutted up and
beamed into his face.
“Haven’t I seen you in court recently?” he inquired. “In a corruption case,
perhaps?”
“I’m a law abiding citizen,” replied Kevin, “unlike some.”
“One of my cases last week was especially interesting. Seven medics were
charged with unwarranted euthanasia, but I let them off on a technicality.”
“You’re full of bullshit.”
A cherubic pageboy wandered up and tickled the Judge’s ginormous anatomy.
“One for me?” he inquired, with a grin. “The Speaker is waiting.”
“Not for much longer, pussy cat,” replied the Judge, as he flourished his right
hand at the plump I.I. student on the balcony.
“I’ll give you an extra-special treat then,” said the page, peering contemptuously
down his nose. “You’re in for it tomorrow at eight in your bijou residence on
Donkey Lane.”
“I’ll be ready to take you in my arms,” said the Judge, with a grateful smile.
“Would you like to be the filling in a sandwich?” asked the police killer, rushing
up like a priest on heat. “I’m his new housemate.”
“Make my day,” said the page, maintaining a stiff upper lip, and a few moments
later, the amenable lad preceded the plump Trinkette out of the bar with a wriggle
of his elegant hips.
“Bulls-eye!” shrieked the agent. “We’ve landed the Speaker of the House.”
This covert operation will hopefully be worth all the palaver, thought Kevin, as
he recalled how the benign-looking Speaker mistreated his Senate. And I wouldn’t
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want to be on the receiving end in the Trojans’ Closet.
When Kevin next visited the Pirate Ship, Svein introduced him to his new Swedish
girlfriend. She was similarly tall and slender, and bore a strong likeness to Svein.
They talked about Stockholm, Oslo and re-invading St. Petersburg, and Kevin decided
to take a Baltic cruise during his next trip to Earth.
“So what do you do when you’re not partying?” he asked, light-heartedly.
“I work for AGBIO Trivoli,” replied the girl. “That’s short for Agricultural
Biomathematics. However, my director mistreats me. The drain makes me produce all
sorts of garbage about crop fertilisers before publishing it as fact, and he suffers from
the roving hand syndrome whenever he gets close enough.”
“I’d love to get my hands on him,” said Svein.
“You’d never guess what else they get up to,” said the girl. “They use template
methods to evaluate the amounts of mutton in the planet’s six-feet-tall macro-sheep.
And, after they’ve underestimated the produce by factors of up to 40%, the fat cats are
able to rip off the farmers when they purchase their flocks from them.”
The next day, two tough bobbies escorted Kevin to their superintendent’s office.
“So are you going to co-operate by enticing the Trinkon-loving local dignitaries
into Red Rufus’s bar?” the superintendent brusquely inquired. “Or would you prefer
us to throw you into a heap of creepy-crawlies?”
“I’ve got a better option,” said Kevin, feeling quite intimidated. “I can give you
the low down on the head of AGBIO.”
“Just for a start, maybe, and perhaps I’ll find another dupe to sort out the Mayor
and his lackeys.”
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When the details of AGBIO’s indiscretions were leaked to the media, they had a field
day and the director of the disreputable quango was lynched by angry farmers, who
set a flock of gigantic macro-sheep onto him. When the news of the recent arrests of
three nationally-ranking Trinkers, including the Speaker, was released to the press, the
bourgeoisie rose and thousands of rioting citizens had to be put down with batons,
water cannon and bangs on the head. To cap that, the Lord Mayor of Trivoli and
several of his colleagues were enticed into the Waiting Room, attracted out of there
by sexy honey-traps and exposed as Trinkers. The population went berserk and razed
the council chambers to the ground.
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CHAPTER 17: A MOMENTOUS OCCASION
God plays dice with mice and men
In late October, Susan visited her clinic on University Avenue for a bio-scan. She was
astounded by what she saw on the screen. There were two foetuses in her womb. Her
doctor was a kindly dark-skinned Apollo from the Svoeto tribe with a huge wrinkled
smile and pimples for eyes.
After performing further tests, the doctor returned and said, “Shame on you,
Miss Lindsay. One of your babies is a half-Icarian girl and the other is a totally human
boy. There were therefore two fathers in close succession.”
“This is an impossible nightmare,” said Susan. “I did get seduced by an English
lad after making love to an Icarian boy, but I have a well-tested implant that was
inserted several months ago.”
“What make were you using?” asked the doctor, with a contemptuous look.
“Fanny Fulsome’s. They’re foolproof.”
“That explains the mystery,” said the doctor. “That brand won’t protect you
against an interspecies pregnancy or against a human conception that occurs less than
twenty four hours after an interspecies one. Your smear turned up blue because your
later conception was human. You must abort the alien foetus or be branded for life.”
Whoopee! thought Susan. What a surprise. Fleance is the father of my daughter.
But Susan agonized later about what to do next. Should she ask Kevin and Ophelia to
help her raise her babies? Or should she ask Fleance what he had to say? Should she
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get her daughter adopted? Perhaps her aunt would look after her in her convent. After
weighing up the potential dangers, she determined to raise her children herself.
Susan felt elated the next morning despite her cool reception at the clinic. She rushed
into Sybil Greenleaf’s office and declared, “I’ve got such wonderful news, Sybil. I’m
going to have twins.”
“I see,” said Sybil, rustling her lettuce leaves, “and who’s the happy father?”
Susan gulped, and wondered who to pick.
“It’s Fleance,” she replied. “Isn’t that marvellous?”
Sybil was not amused.
“Not with an Icarian, my child!” she said, looking down her long hard nose.
“I’m sorry that you think that way,” said Susan. “I love him so much.”
“Poppycock. On a pleasanter note, Debbie has just been appointed to a tenured
position at Stallforth College. Perhaps we should give each other a pat on the back.”
Later on, Susan saw Fleance cleaning the walls outside her office.
“I’ve got something to say---,” she said, but Fleance glared at her and ran off.
She therefore mobiled Svein Knutson and arranged to talk with him over a drink in
the rather depressive 669 Club on University Avenue.
“I’m glad that you’re still my soul-mate, Svein,” she said, as a vagrant tried to
bother her. “and I adore your Swedish girlfriend.”
“Thank you, Susan,” said Svein. “I’ve just exchanged the Promise of Odin with
the lovely lady.”
“That’s magic,” said Susan, spilling her gin and tonic. “But what can I do? I’ve
got some good news for Fleance, but he won’t even talk to me.”
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“Why don’t I phone you when he’s next drinking himself senseless in the Pirate
Ship? I’ll ply him with a stiff liqueur to dilute the gin.”
Susan was completely on edge for the next couple of days and tried to console
herself by reading Crime and Punishment. And Fleance cut a sorry sight in the Pirate
Ship midway through that Friday evening. He was propping up the bar taking free
drinks from every sucker in sight and getting bonked on the head by the Enforcer
whenever he turned a cold shoulder on an eager old lady or an incessantly-groping
troll.
When Fleance began to glaze over, Svein mobiled Susan and waited for fifteen
minutes. Having already failing to persuade Fleance to drink black coffee, he
produced a triple Rambo and said, “This usually focuses my brain cells when I’m the
worse for wear.”
As he gulped down his liqueur, Fleance peered through the haze only to see
Susan worming her way through his simmering mass of admirers. Damn the bitch, he
thought. She should keep well away. But Susan seemed undeterred by the sleazy
atmosphere and the horny people tugging her skirt.
“Fleance,” she said, as Svein listened sympathetically. “According to my scan,
I’m expecting twins. One of them is a human boy and the other is your very own
daughter. Let’s call her Natasha.”
She’s even more outrageous than before, thought Fleance. He stared vacantly at
his former dream of a lifetime before blinking slowly and choosing his words as
deliberately as possible.
“You should call the little bastard Caleb,” he said, “since he will live east of
Eden. Now piss off.”
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Susan fled from the bar in consternation, as Svein wrung his hands in despair.
Screw that mean-faced cow, thought Fleance, as he accepted a double shot of
Heidbanger from a dark-haired stranger with seriously probing fingers.
Susan waited frantically at home for the remainder of the evening. She had a
premonition that Fleance would think better of the situation as he sobered up.
“He’s got to come,” she wailed, as she fretted her head off.
There was a ghostly rustling outside. That’s him, she thought, as she rushed to
the door. But it was only the trees blowing in the wind. When she collapsed onto her
sofa, she was disturbed by loud banging sounds and sped out onto the lawn. However,
it was the children from next door kicking their football against a car.
“My god, why have you forsaken me?” she yelled, before retreating to her
bedroom and crying herself to sleep. And such nightmares she had; just after three in
the morning, she was woken from a dream about seven capricious surgeons by three
eerie taps on her bedroom window. That must be Ophelia, she thought. However,
when she opened her front door, Fleance was standing there naked to the world with
puke stains all over his chest.
“I’m so sorry, my darling,” he said, breaking down in tears. “I shouldn’t have
said what I did.”
“Why don’t you come in and clean yourself up?” Susan coolly replied.
After downing a couple of cups of coffee and devouring a roast beef sandwich,
Fleance became more coherent.
“Were we to get married, my love,” he said. “Your son would also be my son
under Icarian law though Natasha would be my heir.”
“I’m going to call him Caleb,” said Susan, “if only to spite you.”
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“That would be a good name, as he was well-blessed by God, with Joshua,
before entering the Holy Land.”
“Are you saying you want to marry me, Fleance?”
“In principle yes, Susan, but you will need to meet my parents on the Outer
Moon before we make our final decision.”
“I was planning to visit the University of Athens soon as part of my research
program. I’ll talk with them then.”
After reconciling themselves further, they toasted each other with St. Clements
and embraced each other in delight.
A couple of weeks later, Susan and Svein boarded the Endeavour at the Queensferry
space station with over three hundred other passengers.
“Prepare for the famed Triple Orbit!” announced the Kneppo stewardess, as the
Endeavour soared through the clouds.
The fabulous starship performed a clockwise orbit, before heading through
space and circling the colourful Inner Moon, anti-clockwise and in spectacular style.
But when the now jubilant Susan set sights on the grey-clouded Outer Moon, she was
struck by a pang of depression. After completing the celebrated triple manoeuvre with
a clockwise orbit, the Endeavour descended onto the decaying military landing disc
outside the city of Athens. Susan was seized by feelings of foreboding.
Fleance’s eighteen-year-old brother Crispus was waiting with oxygen masks at the
ready, since humans occasionally hyperventilated in the rarefied atmosphere. Susan
thought that the brown-haired boy looked like shorter and slighter plumper version of
Fleance and she took an immediate liking to him. After guiding her and Svein past the
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slap happy immigration officials, he took them in an ox-drawn carriage to the single
star Hotel Millennium.
As they travelled through the city, Susan noticed that the residential areas largely
consisted of squat tin huts. In contrast, the University of Athens was constructed with
vertical white slats along the lines of Albany Tech. The grassy campus was, however,
thriving with ebullient students and Susan was able to savour the energies of youth
once again.
“Where’s the Imperial Palace?” she asked.
“To our misfortune, we are as yet afford anything like that on this moon,”
replied Crispus, with a grin.
The hotel was housed in an austere yellow dome and Susan and Svein were booked
into a drab windowless room with hard twin beds. Crispus hurried them away to lunch
in a large hangar where they were invited to carve slices of meat off the huge
cantosaur that was being roasted in a central fireplace for all and sundry.
“I’m currently studying for my bachelors degree in Classics and European
Literature,” said Crispus, “and I plan to complete a Ph.D. in Game Strategy after
progressing to Trivoli.”
“But we treat Icarians so toughly there,” said Susan.
“Fleance says that it’s much better than here,” said Crispus, with an engaging
smile.
“Let’s take you to meet my parents,” he said, after a meagre dessert, before
taking his visitors for a stroll along a muddy pathway through the unprepossessing tin
huts.
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“Here we are,” said Crispus, as they approached a tiny shack that was welldistinguished by a flag on a golden pole. As its red squirrel motif was set in silver,
Susan recognised it as the Icarian Imperial Standard.
“Your parents must be very patriotic,” she said.
“We are all highly patriotic here,” said Crispus, puffing his chest like a penguin.
When they entered the hut, Susan saw a demented old man sitting on a stool in
the corner.
“What a performance!” he said.
She noticed a red squirrel emblem on his ring and was quite bemused. The
doddering old fool must think that he’s royal, she surmised. In contrast, Crispus’s
mother was a distinguished-looking lady in her sixties with a couple of loose front
teeth.
“You are most welcome to my house, my darling child,” she said. “Would you
care for a mug of herbal mocha?”
“Perhaps I could be given the honour of making the formal introductions,” said
Crispus, with an aristocratic flourish. “Please meet the Tavalla and Tivia, Demi-Gods
of Virility, Dei Gratia their Catholic Majesties, the King Emperor and Queen
Empress of the Icarian people.”
Mercy on us, thought Susan. That means that Fleance is their crown prince.
“I’m honoured to make your acquaintance,” she said, suppressing a grin.
“Our dynasty began with the Emperor Hurtha in the third century a.u.c.,” said
the Empress. “He was the brave knight who teleported to your East Lothian with the
Shield of Saturn, married the Pictish Princess Guino there and created an idyllic
kingdom on the Eden only to be pursued and slain by his rejected stepson Murdoch.
His capital at Camelot was later renamed St. Andrews.”
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“What a performance,” said the Emperor.
“He sounds like our King Arthur,” said Susan, in delight. “We have some sort of
seat named after him in Edinburgh.”
“I am named after a son of the Roman Emperor Constantine,” said Crispus.
“Unfortunately, he was crucified by his father in the same year that the dastardly
hypocrite enforced Trinitarianism in your Middle East as a cult for the bourgeoisie,
and when Queen Fausta was boiled in a steam bath.”
“Alas poor Fausta!” said the Empress. “I will always grieve for her. She was
faithful to the end.”
“What a performance,” said the Emperor.
“I feel sorry for all executed consorts,” said Susan. “Their tyrant-like husbands
doubtlessly drove them to what they did.”
“Fleance and Susan will be naming their daughter Natasha,” said Crispus. “After
that girl in War and Peace, no doubt. I sometimes identify with her younger brother
Petya Rostov. The youth who rode so triumphantly into battle against the Godforsaken frog eaters.”
“A name fit for a princess,” said the Empress, giving Crispus a disturbed look.
“So Fleance is a royal prince,” said Susan, “and not just a rebellious slave. I’m
so glad that I fell in love with him.”
The Empress gave Susan her nod of approval.
“The Prince Imperial is a great comfort to us after the tragic deaths of our two
oldest sons,” she said. “Now why don’t we all sit down for a chin wag?”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Svein, in bemusement, when he was offered a
wooden rocking chair.
The group talked about humple-horse racing, the Western Trystonian Games,
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the dresses on sale in Trivoli, Kneppo long boats and all sorts of boring stuff. When it
was time to leave, the tall Norseman embraced the hospitable empress most
courteously. Crispus gave Susan a loving kiss as her future brother-in-law. He’s just
like Fleance, she realised, though I shouldn’t feel like that.
“What a pleasant fellow,” said Svein, as he and Susan were returning to their hotel,
“but he’d turn into a right little Hitler, given half the chance.”
Susan debated that ad hominem along with the group psyche of the Icarians and
felt that she came out on top. During the afternoon, Svein helped Susan to research
the local culture, which they found to be remarkably innovative. Their co-operation
was to continue for several more days; this enabled Susan to submit a fourth article to
a journal within a few weeks.
When Susan returned to Trivoli, Fleance asked her, “So would you like to be my
Princess Imperial?”
“As long as I don’t have to live in a feckin tin hovel,” she replied.
Their marriage ceremony was celebrated in style in the Cathedral de la Vièrge in
ring-fenced Madron; the crustaceous Nestorian archbishop officiated, partially clothed
for once. While Danny managed to obtain several special entry permits to the city,
many of the guests had to burrow through the tunnels under the barbed wire. The
Prince Charming was dressed in a nobby light blue tunic and frilly breeks that Tigran
Mangasarian had purchased for him on Carnaby St., and the bride wore creamy-white.
Swarms of ragged kiddies flocked around the altar, and threw primroses and
tagatuffins over the happy couple. The Madron College Choir sang the Kyrie
followed by the Icarian battle hymn, the Dramon.
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The three million-or-so Icarians on Qinsatorix and the Outer Moon drank toasts
to the momentous occasion. The news even leaked through to Lyonnesse. Fleance
heard about the widespread celebrations while he and Susan were enjoying their
honeymoon in Bethlehem by the Lake. He concluded that he could now rise from the
ashes and turn himself into a person to be reckoned with.
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CHAPTER 18: BACK TO THE CONVENT
What secrets do these walls enclose?
By March 2397, Susan had three articles accepted for publication in prestigious
journals and the revised version of a tentatively accepted manuscript re-submitted to
The Interplanetary Review of Moon-Based Cultures. She was also heavily pregnant.
However, Sybil Greenleaf said that she would endeavour to protect her interests
during the difficult times to come.
After careful deliberation, Susan and Sybil visited Chairman Redfoot’s office
together. Brad served them glasses of hornapple juice, and told them that one of his
whiz-kid sons was hoping to be a rocket scientist and the other a doctor, and that his
supportive wife was currently performing in the Players’ Theatre as a ventriloquist.
“And what are you ladies after?” he inquired.
“Susan’s initial research progress has been outstanding, Brad,” said Sybil.
“She’s well on the way towards tenure.”
“It certainly seems so,” said Redfoot, doing a quick paper count. “Although I
haven’t had time to digest the actual content of her articles, I’ll take your word for it
and give her a five-thousand dollars raise.”
“Make it ten,” said Sybil, “and an extra two-weeks maternity leave.”
“Anything you say, my pretty one,” replied Redfoot, furrowing his brow.
“Good,” said Sybil. “Now Susan, I think that you should hide away somewhere
and wait for your darling babies to arrive, because of---er---the simmering unrest.”
Susan understood precisely what Sybil meant and, since she was only to keen to
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avoid a scandal, she replied, “Great thinking. I’ll return to the convent.”
That evening, Kevin was visited by the blonde agent who’d accompanied him
to the Waiting Room bar.
“Much of the current unrest has been caused by the Red Archangel owner of the
Christus Dei,” she said. “He and his minions have been orchestrating a widespread
campaign against alleged Trinkers in our bureaucracy. Some peasants from the eastside even impaled the Head of the Civil Service with quick-action bolts. He’s still
dangling from an orange lantern on Gooch St.”
“I can see his point,” said Kevin.
“Funny, ha ha! Now, would you like to help me to expose the way the Head of
Trystonian Chemicals organizes the manufacture of low-grade pharmaceuticals?”
“That could be a turn on. He’s doubtlessly an alchemist.”
“Perhaps they’ll warm him up in a pile of ammonium sulphate.”
When Susan next activated Trystview News, the newscaster announced, “An ex-lover
of the Head of the Office for Inner Moon Affairs today made the outrageous claim
that our bureaucracies and quangos have been orchestrated by a so-called web-ofintrigue that also influences their dealings with the Senate. The highly disreputable
call bird also told the editor of The Daily Discerner that many members of the web,
both outside and inside the Senate, are Trinkers. The bitch of a whistleblower and the
editor are both in custody in St. Leonard’s Police Station. I, for one, hope that they
throw them to the wild unicorns, folk.”
Susan surmised that her perceptions about the web-of-intrigue had been accurate
all along and she thought that the latest revelations would fuel the unrest.
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The next day, Susan purchased a gogo ticket to St. Drusilla at the monorail station on
South Walsingham Avenue and headed north-west just as an ugly lout was throwing
yet another fiery cocktail through the windows of the Gopher Hotel while the trannies
ran around in circles and a fireman and several children jumped up and down in glee.
Susan’s neutron express train hurtled away from all that, around the northern
shoreline of Lake Nefertiti, through the City of Madron and on towards a welcome
stop in Sidon for coffee and cookies with a convivial group of Saukat Apollos. She
delighted in the picturesque view of Tibermouth from behind the lengthy beach at
Drumkok and observed from that angle that the port was dominated by an enormous
citadel that jutted into Oceana. She was still gazing at the waves when she almost fell
out of her seat as the gogo train ground to a halt at her destination.
Sister Frances and two Icarian nuns were eagerly waiting on the tiny platform.
They took Susan through the sleepy hollow of St. Drusilla on a rhinohamster-drawn
Tilbury, and a short while later she was in the comforting arms of Mother Rebecca.
Susan lay for several days on a waterbed in a room overlooking the convent
courtyard, as she was waited on hand and foot. She and Rebecca took particular
pleasure in long chats each evening over meringue fruitcake and hot chocolate, and
the nuns plied her with warm caudle, a spiced wine made from gruel.
On her first Sunday at the convent, Susan was intrigued to hear the mother superior
saying, “You know, the most rewarding thing that can happen to a person is to have
grandchildren. It means that, whatever mistakes you’ve made in your lifetime, nothing
really matters that much, as your seed is sown for future generations.”
“What a wonderful sentiment, Auntie,” said Susan. “I’d like you to be my
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children’s surrogate grandmother so that you can feel the same way.”
To Susan’s surprise, the mother superior sweated copiously and chafed her lips.
“Thank you, my dearest one,” she said, after frantic deliberation. “I guess I have
something to tell you.”
“Is it that my mother’s dead?” asked Susan. “Or that she’s going crazy on
Castellos? You should have put me out of my misery well before now.”
“There’s a good reason that I didn’t. I lied to you when we first met because I
was so ashamed of myself. To cut a long story short, I’m not your aunt, but rather
your mother herself, Princess Alexandra Von Coburg.”
“What!” exclaimed Susan, in sheer disbelief. “I can’t believe that’s actually true
after your flat denial during our first meeting.”
“It’s true enough. When my dear sister Rebecca died of whitewater fever in
2374, MI98 persuaded me to assume her identity in order to improve my image as a
potentially-public royal figure.”
“My dear darling mother!” exclaimed Susan, throwing her arms around the
older woman’s neck. “How wonderful to be so close to you at last. Please never let
go. Never leave me ever again. I’m your daughter, your very own feckin daughter.”
“Thank you so much for accepting me after so long, my child,” said the mother
superior, shedding tears. “I’ll cherish you for the rest of my life.”
“So how did you manage to fool everybody that you were Rebecca Von
Cobourg?” asked Susan, while they were toasting each other in Tibermouth Gin.
“MI98 falsified the documentation, my lovely one, and switched the KDA
records. With their help, I subsequently took over her charitable works rather than
continuing to live like a spoilt courtesan. Since then, I’ve gone from strength to
strength while trying to redeem my previous sins and indiscretions.”
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“I see,” said Susan, raising her eyebrows. “So you fooled me about you and my
father being sent to an archipelago simply to put me off your scent. You’re as devious
as the great game theorist Mikado Spasskoff and more than a few of my colleagues.”
“It seemed at the time to be a clever way of saving my bacon, my darling. The
sad thing is that I don’t know what happened to my beloved Peter. He set off from
Zamara in his fishing boat shortly after Rebecca died and hasn’t been seen since.”
“What an earth could have happened to him?”
“His crew members said that he went for a swim soon after they moored on
Hawaii beach, and presumably drowned in the riptide. A cabin boy claimed that he
saw a green submarine in the vicinity, but he was high on crash. There’s very little
chance that your father is still alive, God rest his soul.”
A strange thought flashed across Susan’s mind. Were all those zany e-whiz
messages from Castellos sent by a dead soul? she wondered. And where does my
father’s soul reside?
While she was waiting for Fleance to obtain leave from his duties in Trivoli, Susan
forgave her mother her transgressions, took solace with the nuns who prayed with her
and lost herself in long periods of contemplation. A sister with silver hair spent many
hours helping her to gain self-confidence by communicating in spiritual terms with
our good Lord, and she regarded Him as her personal companion.
When Fleance finally arrived, Mother Rebecca was serving Susan with hot
goats’ milk and lightly poached eggs while Sister Frances buttered the toast and added
excessive dollops of thick-cut Extra-Jolly marmalade.
After effusive expressions of delight from everybody present, Mother Rebecca
inquired, “So my children, would you like us to look after your babies until they are
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older? We could bring you a wet nurse or two from Hithercombe Farm.”
“That would be wonderful,” replied Susan. “You could protect our cuddly ones
from the uproar around us.”
“That means that you can quickly return to work in Trivoli, my dearest,” said
Fleance. “We’ll visit our darlings every weekend or so.”
“And it would make life perfect for this big black beetle,” said Sister Frances,
with a wry smile.
When Susan went into labour, Fleance held her hand while her mother and
several nuns waited attentively at her bedside. The first birth was relatively painless.
“A girl!” exclaimed Mother Rebecca. “A beautiful granddaughter for me.”
Fleance rocked the sweet baby in his arms.
“The Princess Natasha,” he said. “She will be the heiress to the Imperial throne
when my dear father goes to Valhalla.”
The second birth was more difficult, and Susan struggled hard and long.
“He’ll tear me apart!” she agonized.
Eventually, Sister Frances ran in with a pair of forceps and dragged Caleb feet
first and howling his head off from Susan’s womb.
“Behold MacDuff!” declared Sister Frances. “He looks fit for a fight. And his
mother’s tougher than the drop dead gorgeous Countess of Fife.”
“But he’s perfectly human,” said Mother Rebecca, when they’d cleaned him up.
“That’s just one of those quirks of nature,” said Fleance, holding his ears.
“Caleb’s the third living prince of the Icarians.”
“The devilish little monkey is making my head throb like a chainsaw,” said
Sister Frances. “Throb, throb, throb! Monkey, monkey, gawky-warky monkey!”
“Just calm down, dear,” said Mother Rebecca. “Now why don’t we all relax and
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give praise to Almighty God while we sample a bottle of Vito’s Vintage together?”
Susan thoroughly enjoyed the twenty-year-old port. After her second gulp, her
much-blessed Messiah appeared in silver manifestation outside the window. While
the contented mother was lost in her heavenly fantasy, Sister Frances beamed happily
at the babies and wrung her hands in glee.
That night, Susan stared at the ceiling as she tried to recover from her birth pains.
Maybe I’ll sleep until mid-morning, she hoped. However, she was awoken by
terrifying screaming and wailing that seemed to decrease in intensity before coming to
an abrupt halt. To her relief, she ascertained that her babies were both fast asleep. It
must be a ghost, she decided, before turning over and dreaming pleasant dreams.
Fleance served Susan waffles for breakfast.
“Two MI98 agents are here wishing to talk with you, my darling,” he said.
“They have vital matters to discuss. Do you feel well enough or should I send them
away?”
“Please stay and listen, my husband,” said Susan, with an affectionate smile.
“These guys are such caring people.”
The first agent was a short shrewd-looking fellow with pixie-like ears.
“Greetings, Your Imperial Highness,” he said, “and congratulations on the
births of the royal twins. They have become highly relevant to the matters of State
that we were wishing to discuss with you.”
“Please go ahead,” Susan nonchalantly replied, as she suckled Natasha and
fended off Caleb.
The haggard taller agent resembled a stereotypical retired bank official.
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“Democratic forces are planning to overthrow the fundamentalist regime and the
disreputable emperor in London, Your Highness,” he said, rubbing his angular jaw.
“Should they prove successful, they would release all Icarian slaves in our empire
on Earth and ultimately on Qinsatorix, though they still plan to crack their whips at
the stroppy Argies.”
“Sooner rather than later, I hope,” said Susan, “though they should be kind to
the Argies. They’re so good at cricket.”
“Indeed so, and our new leaders would like you to consider becoming our next
Queen Empress, Your Highness, though in a nominal capacity. Your mother wishes to
abdicate in your favour since she feels that being queen would conflict with her public
visibility here. Most of the royal duties will be completed by a regent from the
aristocracy and, while the Duchy of Kent suite in Kensington Palace would always be
at your disposal, you’d only be expected to visit London twice a year, for the
Opening of Parliament, and Wimbledon.”
Susan felt alarmed and wondered where that would lead her.
“An intriguing possibility,” said Fleance. “There would, of course, be complex
political ramifications concerning the role of the Icarian royal family.”
“I’m sure they would, Your--um--Excellency. You’d be our prince consort, in
principle at least, and I hope that wouldn’t conflict with any of your fancy titles here.
It’d be helpful if you dressed yourself up in a decent robe, though.”
“We will consider this further,” said Fleance, swallowing his pride.
“You’re freaking me out,” said the pixie-eared agent. “Why don’t you cover
yourself with a towel?”
“How dare you address me like that!” exclaimed Fleance. “I may soon be King
Emperor of this planet.”
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“Pardon me for laughing, Your Magnificence, but it’s so funny when you
qinsies get your knickers in a twist.”
Before Fleance could protest further, the haggard agent peered at Susan, and
said, “Perhaps it’s worth discussing a relatively minor issue, Your Imperial Highness.
Were you to assume our throne, your father could prove to be a touch embarrassing
due to his behaviour and the unusual nature of your birth. Perhaps we should therefore
take a kindly measure or two.”
“You’re confusing me,” said Susan, as the friaress frantically rushed in, “and
I’m certainly unaware of anything untoward about my birth.”
“I do apologize, Your Highness. I had assumed that either your mother or Prince
Francis would have explained the delicacies of the situation to you.”
“Why would the prince want to do that?”
“Another humble apology, your Highness,” said the agent, looking perplexed.
“Most fathers would have discussed these matters with you. Upon reflection, Prince
Francis might have failed in this duty due to his memory lapses and instability.”
As Susan recoiled in shock at discovering that she had an insane common-law
father, the friaress anxiously interrupted the conversation.
“We’re all worried to bits,” she said. “Sister Frances has disappeared and
several nuns heard curious screaming sounds during the night coming from the
direction of the chapel.”
I heard them too, realised Susan, and they didn’t sound that kindly.
“You’ve killed him already haven’t you?” she shrieked, as the agents looked
ready to flee.
“Yes we have,” said the pixie-eared agent, after due deliberation. “We threw
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him down the disused well.”
“But that’s two hundred feet deep,” yelled Fleance. “I’m surprised that even you
could stand the stench.”
“It was rather bad,” said the agent, squeezing his donkey-like nose, “but you’ll
find that this sort of eventuality is all too typical of international politics.”
“You bastards!” raved Susan. “MI98 silenced Peter Wiltshire too, didn’t they?
And what aren’t you divulging about my birth?”
“Mercy on us! We’re out of here, folk. Please do consider our generous offer.”
Fleance stayed for a while to console Susan before leaving for a brisk walk around the
cliff tops to recover his senses, whereupon Susan lay on her bed thinking about her
long lost father Sister Frances. She recalled the saner moments she’d spent with him
and the curious love that he’d radiated to all around him. But now he was gone for
ever, disposed of by the arrogant secret services simply to protect her from potential
embarrassment.
Susan mobiled Kevin in Trivoli to tell him the strange and sad news. Her brother
was, at that very moment, celebrating the birth of the twins, as Fleance had contacted
him earlier that morning, but he fell eerily silent when Susan explained that the
murdered Sister Frances was his father.
After taking a while to give a coherent response, Kevin said, “He was a kindly
old soul and I’m proud that he was my father. I’ve however always been perplexed by
the way he tried to faze me when we first met. He said, ‘I am the godhead and you are
the godhead’. What in Heaven’s name did he mean by that?”
“He was just raving and rambling, my dear brother,” said Susan. “You shouldn’t
place too much credence in what crazy people say. Please give my love to our darling
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Ophelia. I sometimes think that we Four Troubadours are entwined as one.”
As Susan put down her mobile, Mother Rebecca came in, looking distraught.
“My poor, poor Francis,” she said. “Did they need to do that to him? I will
mourn the dear darling forever. But at least I’ll have my children and grandchildren
to comfort me.”
“Why was there such a scandal following my birth, Mama?” asked Susan. “Who
cares if your husband wore the feckin horns, even if Francis was much younger than
you?”
Mother Rebecca wiped away her tears and paused to think.
“While Peter was a supportive man,” she replied, “I hadn’t made love to him for
years. That was so cruel of me; I was such a precocious uncaring fool with a
thoroughly confused psyche and I pursued my despicable lust for Francis without any
regard for the consequences. But I can’t tell you any more, Susan. Don’t make me do
that. They sent me into exile and I’ve suffered so much for so long.”
“You must, if only for the sake of your grandchildren.”
“I’d sooner throw myself down the well too.”
“But I will always love you like an angel whatever your secret.”
Mother Rebecca stared at Susan shamefacedly.
“Francis wasn’t my cousin,” she replied. “He was my brother.”
Susan felt as if she was shrivelling inside.
“Get out of my sight!” she raged, as she retched over her bedsheets. “And get
lost for ever.”
After her mother had fled crying her eyes out, Susan writhed around her waterbed in a
neurotic mess. This confirms that I really am a freak of nature, she realised. After all
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those years of anguish and self-denial. And that’s what the brats in red shoes were
trying to tell me at primary school, wherever they came from.
This explains my troubled psyche, my confused sexual desires. It’s why Kevin
and I are so close-knit, why we feel so incestuously towards each other; we’re so
biologically close that we’re almost entwined as one person. It’s why my brother is so
manly and yet so feminine, why he has three diverse lovers at once in an almost godlike way, and why his personality is so extravagant.
But I mustn’t let on to Kevin. He’d tear himself apart and I need to protect his
relationship with Ophelia. Will my poor children and theirs grow up to be like this
too? My family’s genes will be twisted until eternity. How could my parents do this to
us? They will be damned forever in a fiery hell.
Caleb had quietened down for once and Susan caressed him while staring vacantly at
Oceana. I’m no better than my mother, she decided. I wanted my kid
brother so desperately and I’ve seduced and two-timed an Icarian. Judge not and ye
shall not be judged, as Jesus once so wisely said.
Awhile later, two wet nurses came in to care for the babies. Susan struggled out
of bed and staggered downstairs. Mother Rebecca was sitting slumped on her throne,
scratching her wrists with a sharp knife.
What have I done to my beautiful mother? agonized Susan.
She gripped the poor lady’s shoulder, and said, “Please forgive me, Mummy.”
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CHAPTER 19: AN INTERPLANETARY CONFERENCE
The jamborees enhance our lives.
Natasha and Caleb were well-nurtured by Mother Rebecca and her doting nuns. By
June 2397 they’d grown into fine bouncing babies and they were on their best
behaviour whenever Susan and Fleance visited them.
While continuing to help Commissioner Jack Gilchrist and his acolytes stir up
civil unrest, Kevin was now conspiring how best to do this, in cahoots with Danny
and Fleance who were vigorously active. He also contrived to keep Military
Intelligence and their preposterous demands at bay, and his three lovers remained
content while getting on well together. Kevin thought that he was finally in control of
his life and pursuing his aspirations to the full.
As if Susan’s other activities were not enough, she was the co-organiser with
Dirk Charleston and Sybil Greenleaf of a prestigious I.I. conference financed by the
Office of Naval Research. A rich abundance of festivities and fun-and-games were
anticipated during a wild fortnight in the Hotel of the Asturias on a peninsula that juts
into Lake Winona. There were over five hundred confirmed delegates and fifty-four
invited speakers. Extravagant final day festivities were scheduled during the Summer
Solstice of June 21st when a rare double eclipse of the moons was due to occur.
The organisers journeyed ahead on June 7th with the now pregnant Ophelia and
several donkey-like secretaries, anticipating that Kevin and Fleance would follow
later. They travelled in a riverboat for three hundred miles up the Dnieper, passing the
impoverished cities of Petraeus and Zoll en route. On sailing into Lake Winona, they
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were welcomed by seven bleeps from one of the naval mini-frigates that were
protecting the area with fruker devices.
Susan and Sybil moved into their luxurious bedrooms overlooking the expansive lake
and Susan eagerly leapt into her sizzling jacuzzi. As chief organiser, Dirk was offered
the bridal suite and his choice of willing waitresses, and he licked his lips at the
prospect. The preparations went well and most of the delegates arrived on the eve of
the conference, partying Omnesian-style in a fleet of riverboats with the happy-clappy
Chicago econometricians at the fore. The mini-frigates welcomed them with an
extravagant firework display and took all interested parties for a trip around the lake.
“We were lucky to get here,” said a hippy-like delegate with flowers in his hair.
“Neither of our official guides turned up.”
“Where the fuck are Kevin and Fleance when I need them?” raged Charleston.
“Those skivers always let me down when it comes to the rub.”
But the two minions were nowhere to be seen and Dirk’s foul language would
continue unabated.
Many of the delegates enjoyed a love in during that Sunday night and Sybil had a
field day with the cabbage-faced Neuryks. The next morning, Brad Redfoot gave the
opening presentation on ‘The Informatic Investigation of Urban Environments’. He
described his latest procedures for discerning suitably not too destructive monorail
routes and investigating the durability of complex multi-tier road systems. There was
a polite question or two, and Isadore Neyman, who was sitting next to Susan after just
arriving from Atalanta, exclaimed, “Bravo!”
During the remainder of the day, the audience tolerated five eclectic talks
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delivered by a succession of eccentric professors. The last speaker was a prematurely
balding pseudo-intellectual in a dog collar from the higher administration of the
University of Cicero, who looked as if he was on lithium and was regarded by his
interminably untenured junior colleagues as an insufferable drain. All the delegates
were served with a glass of bubbly as he rose to deliver the plenary presentation.
“He’s on a time warp,” whispered Neyman. “He thinks that he’s the eighteenthcentury non-conformist minister, the Rev. Thomas Bayes. That phoney was
celebrated for discovering Bayes’ Theorem for conditional probabilities, though the
historian Steve Stigler discovered that a nerd in Somerset, or wherever, thought of the
idea first before getting plagiarized by the ever-productive Marquis de Laplace.”
The title of the Bayesian’s talk was ‘On Investigating the Multi-Dimensional Billiard
Ball Problem ’. He was a dapper and facially masculine gentleman.
“All scientific problems should be solved using Bayes’ Theorem,” he declared,
swaying his hips like a chorus girl, “or else you’re an incoherent heretic. I should
know. I helped Student use his t-test to improve the quality of Guinness. And just
taste that stuff.”
“He’s time-dissociated in two different centuries at once,” whispered Neyman.
“Maybe he imagines that he has a fan inside his head. One of my fellow travellers
certainly did, while another directs his mind with a pre-Copernican clock.”
At that point, several of the speaker’s well-drilled students marched onto the
podium and joined him in singing the Bayesians’ rallying song ‘There’s no theorem
like Bayes’ theorem’ to the tune of ‘There’s no business like show business’. Each
verse was followed by the refrain,
There’s no theorem like Bayes’ theorem
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Like no theorem we know.
Everything about it is appealing;
Everything about it is a wow.
Let out all that a priori feeling;
You’ve been concealing up to now.
“As composed by George Box, and first sung by Box and Cox at a conference
sponsored by the University of Valencia,” said Neyman. “The celebrated cryptanalyst
Jack Good broke the world non-stop solo dancing record while Sergeant Bouncer
joined in the jaleo, and the ignoramuses from North-East Coventry Tech puked their
guts up during the farewell dinner all over the wonderfully-cooked seafood.”
After thunderous applause, the students produced an evocative rendition of the
first verse of ‘Bayesian Wonderland’:
Glasses clink, are you listenin’?
Have a drink, wine is glistenin’.
A beautiful sight, we’re tipsy tonight
Stumblin’ through our Bayesian Wonderland.
Suitably invigorated, all the delegates downed their champagne and danced in
the aisles, their scientific thought largely drowned by the psychedelic euphoria.
“At the risk of casting pearls before the swine,” said the speaker, “I’d like to
unveil my generalisation to several dimensions of my solution to the billiard ball
problem. The two-dimensional version was published in my 1763 paper.”
“That was subjective tommyrot, you insolent twerp,” yelled a Turkish lady in
the back row.
“At least it was coherent,” said the speaker.
After that non-sequitur, the holier than thou statistician scribbled some
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complicated mathematics on a holoboard, but got into more and more of an inky
mess.
“That’s my new high-dimensional transfiguration formula,” he declared. “I hope
that you name it after me.”
“It’s transfiguring your manhood,” yelled a wanker from Amsterdam, to general
applause. “Why don’t you chop it off?”
Eventually the chairperson tactfully interrupted to ask if there were any
questions. But there weren’t any. Susan remembered that the Bayesians and
Omnesians ended up dictating the scientific method and she felt bewildered by that.
After three boring talks on Tuesday morning, Susan enjoyed a pleasant lunch with
five eminent clerics from the sub-arctic City of Maltzburg and chatted to them about
travelling through icy waters in coracles. Then, after a snooze by the lake, it was time
to present her own research, relating insanity to sexual fantasies.
“My sample consisted of a selection of fifty diverse individuals,” she said.
“These included a manic choirmaster, an ordinary housewife with a whale fantasy, an
accomplished sculptor, a belly-dancer with imploded implants and a metrosexual
professor. I achieved a multiple correlation of 0.99777 with a highly-significant pvalue of 0.001333. As this was less than 0.05, my preliminary hypothesis is proved.”
At the end of Susan’s talk there were a number of contributions from the
audience.
“How enlightening, mademoiselle,” said a handsome French-Colombian
biologist from the University of Paris. “I’m a ladies’ man, of course, but your findings
appear to explain why my weird thoughts about well-endowed rent boys drive me
nuts.”
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“That’s simply because those thoughts are outside your comfort zone,
monsieur,” replied Susan. “We should not however draw any general conclusions
from your predicament since you may be a unique case.”
“Horses feathers!” shouted a dour-faced Scotsman. “He should trawl the loos
along the Imperial Road.”
“This is an important advance in sexual psychology,” said a grim Teuton.
“Perhaps you’ve discovered the root cause of some of our key psychiatric disorders.”
“Thank you and I totally agree,” said Susan. “For example, repetitive thoughts
about getting trampled on by elephants may well cause tripolar depression.”
“What is the overall objective of these researches into our sexuality?”
asked a wise-looking professor from Zamara.
“One of my grand schemes is to rediscover the truths of human sexuality,” said
Susan, “that were probably lost when the Library of Alexandria burned in 415 AD
and which would have been based on thousands of years of experience. Revised
versions of them were suppressed by the Nazis in1933 and erased from historical
record when they burnt the books. Some scholars argue that we are all much more
similar than is traditionally imagined and that sexual practice is largely a question of
choice.”
“Nonsense!” shouted a formidable-looking professor of law from Wisconsin
with a shining bald pate.
“I do nevertheless believe that the vast majority of us are perfectly straight,”
Susan hastily replied, feeling somewhat cynical. “The renegade investigator Alfred
Kinsey got everybody screwed up, of course, by basing his fanciful sliding scale on a
totally biased data set. In the meantime, I’m also investigating the Icarians and
Apollos.”
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“I’m gay, gay, I’m perfectly gay,” declared an associate professor from Alice
Springs, who looked like an unkempt sheep.
“Of course you are, darling,” said a butch-looking Pole from Gdansk.
“How about a three-way?” asked a stroppy fag hag from Stronkian, flexing her
fingers. “If I had a big one then I’d screw everybody in sight.”
A sassy professorial fellow from Queen’s College London claimed that
masturbating while sticking pins into toy dolls causes schizophrenia, particularly if
the subject was a woman who achieved a vaginal organism while getting aggressive.
“What an infantile caper,” said Susan, with a snigger. “Maybe you should
subject yourself to psychocryptanalysis.”
“Nuts to that!” replied the fellow. “I prefer to turn myself on with convulsive
therapy.”
While she felt quite relieved by her handling of the questions so far, Susan was
put off guard when a scruffy student from Bristol asked, “Why are there so many
colourful characters in your random sample?”
Realising that she’d hand-picked her subjects by reference to various previously
recorded attributes, Susan trembled in alarm and blurted her reply.
“Who cares about random sampling?” she said. “I selected my subjective
sample perfectly fairly, in the sense described by Professor Jocelyn de Vignette of the
Papal University of Rome in Avignon. His set of axioms got a special dispensation
and a sprinkling of Holy water from Pope Adrian himself.”
“That sounds like Bayesian bullshit, Jocelyn’s a peasant from Lesser Codswell
and Avignon’s a pit,” yelled the student, only to get clipped around his ear for his
temerity by his supervisor, a short pugnacious gentleman with a grizzly face and an
arrogant smile who was renowned for the way he wielded his iron fist without the
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benefit of a velvet glove.
“De Vignette’s certainly a pseudo,” said Susan, “but his axioms are the gold
standard.”
“Haven’t you heard of that rotter Luciano di Frenelli who misled the high and
mighty with his tautologous theorems?” moaned the student, only to be booted
out by a black-bearded security guard with a particularly venomous kick in the seat of
his half torn pants. His supervisor snorted, and said, “So much for him.”
During the next couple of days, there were twelve further presentations, some good
and some ugly, interspersed with and followed by heavy drinking sessions and orgies
in the woods. Many of the professors downed pint after pint of Firebrand and over a
hundred of them indulged in heap sex with a couple of dozen hand-picked students. A
pretty mädchen from Garmisch-Partenkirchen was invariably at the top of the pile and
several drunkards rolled legless into the lake.
On Thursday evening, Susan put a crafty plan into operation. Debbie Smythe
arrived late with a dark green veil over her face, as she’d needed to complete a
succession of secret preparations. Sybil Greenleaf told her to hide in her room until
after lunch the next day. Susan played her part by chatting up the professorial fellow
from London who’d made the banal suggestion about toy dolls following her talk; he
was due to speak the following afternoon about the beneficial effects of chemical
plants on the waterways of Trystonia. After Susan had enticed him into her bedroom
and drugged him with toxic quacitone, she and Sybil tied him up with their dressinggown cords, dragged his quivering body into a closet and hooded him.
Following three well-received talks on Friday morning, the delegates were invited to a
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lunch-time hologram session. This gave non-speakers, including Ophelia
and several other students, the opportunity to use their holo-movies to illustrate their
research. The twelve holograms scattered about the reception room offered the
conference participants a variety of colourful choices. When a space cadet with triple
antennae jumped out of one hologram, a confused lady offered him a drink.
Ophelia’s holo-movie consisted of scenes she’d filmed of her colleagues
excavating fossils in the Caves of Janek.
“I adore your Neanderthal,” said a lady from Damascus on the Danube.
“Has it been circumcised?” asked a wise guy from Smyrnov.
At that, the image of a handsome youth leapt out of the fossil.
“It’s St. Paul’s bimbo Timothy!” yelled the lady, running in fright.
“Who’re you?” asked Ophelia, most imperiously. “You weren’t in my movie.”
“I’m the disciple who He loved,” said the apparition, “though he adored the
long dead Lazarus as well, together with his stinking flesh. ”
“Ah ha! You must be his fancy boy St. John. I recognize you from your
portrait.”
“Is Adam here?” asked the apparition, its eyeballs darting out of their sockets as
they scanned the reception hall.
“Beware the fleas,” said a goofy Professor of Poetry from Yale. “Adam had
’em. What are you doing here anyway?”
Susan realised that the Yank was referring to the three word poem ‘Fleas’ that
was composed by one of his compatriots while imprisoned in a muddy pit.
“What is it to you, Simon Peter, if I am here when he returns again?” asked the
apparition. “Adam will do great things for all humanoids.’
A fascinating prophecy, thought Susan, particularly if he’s referring to the
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mystical Adam who Kevin met in Corridor F.
“I don’t know him from Adam,” says Ophelia, looking blank for once.
“The one I know about is in Constanta,” said Susan. “You could try the
cathedral.”
“Thank you, Miss,” said the image of St. John, as the apparition vanished in a
flash of white light leaving everybody apart from Susan looking like dimwits.
After chatting about the tin cathedrals on Novaya Zemlya during a relaxing lunch
with two brawny visitors from Novgorod, Susan cut her conversation to check that the
sassy professorial fellow in her bedroom closet was still out cold. She also took a
short nap as she was due to chair the afternoon session.
When Susan took the comfortable seat on the podium, the audience looked both
angry and disinterested at the prospect having to listen to the scheduled talk.
Consequently, many of the delegates sighed with relief when she announced, “Our
colleague from Queen’s College was planning to talk to us about the beneficial effects
of the chemical industry on our waterways. Unfortunately, he’s indisposed with a
touch of red hot indigestion.”
After general laughter, Dirk Charleston said, “Get on with it, you stupid bitch.”
“Fortunately we’ve found an excellent replacement speaker,” said Susan. “It
gives me great pleasure to invite Dr. Debbie Smythe of Stallford College, Trivoli, to
describe to us her personal account of the recent history of I.I.”
Charleston looked non-plussed as the rehabilitated street person unveiled her
face, stood up from the front row and strode like a ghost from Valhalla to the podium.
Debbie threw her bag onto the floor, tidied her straggly hair, adjusted her falsies, took
a deep breath and said, “My early doctoral research concerned the social conditions of
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the Icarians in the ring-fenced cities, though I never obtained my Ph.D. However, my
early preprints were recently bound together in my D. Phil thesis. This procedure
transferred my formal copyright, thus superseding the claims of the rascal who quite
inappropriately published these works for himself in academic journals.
“We’ve recently submitted a joint paper on the manufacture of ceramic and
silverware in Zoll that validates the findings for which I was falsely accused of
cheating and hounded out of academia without my Ph.D. Who was responsible for all
these dastardly tricks? University Distinguished Professor Dirk Charleston, no less.”
As Charleston sweated buckets, Debbie described and justified her doctoral
research, before saying, “My cruel treatment by my Ph.D. supervisor could perhaps be
forgiven if he hadn’t conducted himself in similar fashion to at least fifty students
over the decades since my life-shattering demise. According to sources within his
own department, Dirk lifted his theory of geo-archaeological modelling off an
unfortunate Egyptian boy, stole an Apollo girl’s findings on Trystonian urns from
under her nose and diminished the contributions of an Icarian lad regarding the
ancient west coast fortresses, while claiming most of the credit----.”
By the time Debbie had completed her talk in similar vein, Charleston had
slumped forwards in his seat looking jaundiced and gob-stricken.
“Shame on you, Dirk Charleston!” sobbed a sickly female assistant professor
from Amarna. “You’re even worse than that filthy rotten swine Havers Moriarty.”
“A pox on your house!” yelled a manic doctor from Zamara, during the
subsequent uproar.
“Who told you about all of the creep’s subsequent abuses, Debbie?” inquired a
kindly specialist in female education from York, gritting her teeth in amazement.
“I did,” declared Sybil Greenleaf, rising to her feet. “Isn’t it wonderful to be able
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to stick in the academic knife for once?”
Charleston struggled to his feet, shook his well-creamed head in bemusement,
and slunk away like a dead beat jackal.
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CHAPTER 20: HISTORY AWAITS
Life is a sea of uncontrollable unpredictability
University Distinguished Professor Dirk Charleston P. P. Phil., C.B.E., F.R.S.T. spent
that weekend in a drunken stupor.
On Sunday morning, he was briefly roused by a call from his Vice-Chancellor in
the Poseidon Quatermass, who said, most disrespectfully, “I’ve just heard from a
whistleblower about your appalling fall from grace on Friday, you vacuous bastard. I
certainly can’t permit the likes of you to continue to work on my campus and your
reputation will be tarnished throughout the planets. You’re not even competent at
maintaining secrecy from the peasants about your self-promoting machinations.”
“But I’ve earned you millions of dollars in overheads,” said Dirk, in alarm, as he
tried to clear his head.
“Be that as it may, I’m divesting you of all your duties and seconding you to our
industrial plant in Knoxville. Unless you withdraw from academia, you’ll be
operating the quality control procedures for some suitably-poisonous production
process for the foreseeable future. I hope that it makes your flesh rot. And don’t even
bother to apply for an early pension. I would certainly veto that.”
“I’d give you the Icarian crown jewels,” said Dirk, with a gasp.
“They’re already in my safekeeping, you fool,” replied the Vice-Chancellor,
with a snigger. “There’s no way you’re going to save your neck.”
One of Dirk’s pretty slappers discovered him that afternoon wallowing in his
jacuzzi in a semi-conscious state. She laughed and threw a bucket of soapy water over
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his face. What goes around comes around, thought Susan. She and Sybil sent in two
spunky Apollos to throw the inebriate onto the next boat back to Trivoli and the two
ladies decided to assume responsibility for the last week of the conference activities,
little realising what was about to happen.
Isadore Neyman acted as chairperson for the Monday morning session. The first
speaker was the graceful French-Colombian biologist who’d contributed to the
discussion of Susan’s talk; his presentation was entitled, ‘My Investigation of Frogs
and Toads in the Ardennes’. Susan thought that he was a delightful creature and that
she’d have fun being his froggy.
The speaker leapt around the podium, while declaring, “I simply don’t
understand why everybody calls us Frogs, but I’d like to talk to you about the
amphibious version.”
“You fit the role, slobbery face,” exclaimed an Old Etonian from the University
of the Eastern Deserts. Smell that snot, thought Susan. He looks like a creepy lizard.
During the talk, an extravagant movie of frogs and toads unravelled itself on a
giant holoscreen. Susan was impressed when a silver Cyclops frog, the size of a rabbit
and with long webbed flippers, leapt over forty feet into a dung heap. A puckopickerel frog split itself in three when it was encircled by a menacing grass-snake, and
by this ageless device skilfully avoided consumption. When an army of orange
amphibians rained down from the sky, an imp-like maple leaf toad fled for its life
with rainbow-coloured lights flashing from its feet.
The poor little thing, thought Susan. Nature can be so unfair to the weak.
A bulldyke frog with voluminous eyes, golden irises and heart-shaped pupils
made cuckoo sounds, stuck out its long two-pronged tongue and flicked at a bug. As it
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gulped down its prey, its eyeballs disappeared into its goblin-like head. A fire-bellied
Ming toad was chased by a feral cat. The toad squirted poison from glands between
its eyes and the cat screeched in agony.
[Author’s Note: The preceding descriptions modify and elaborate on
information reported on Google (Weird frog facts. Copyright: 1995-2004 Dorota)]
A naturalist from North Dakota initiated the discussion by inquiring, “Which
planet was that on?”
“The Ardennes is nowadays genuine Frog-country, mon ami,” replied the
speaker. “I don’t know what the amphibians look like in your neck of the woods.”
“You’ve fabricated your findings and synthesised your movie using cybernetic
generation, you pseudo,” said the naturalist, stroking his reptilian skin.
An intelligent-looking girl from Loughborough said, “Bullshit. My garden is
teaming with luminous water lily frogs. They make my eyes boggle. But could you
show us a rerun of the scarlet prancer negotiating the eight foot fence, monsieur?”
The speaker leapt out of his seat.
“Mais oui, ma chèrie,” he replied, “and I’ll show you the love-making ceremony
of the pink-legged tree toad. They attach themselves to the bark using suction pads for
feet and make an excellent job of eighty-eight.”
While the audience were sniggering in disbelief, the acrobatic prancer landed in
a dank pond with a splash. But there followed a totally unexpected interruption when
Ophelia walked onto the podium completely out of the blue.
“Hold everything!” she declared, as she activated Trystview News. “Something
far more important is afoot.”
The horny tree toads were immediately replaced on the holoscreen by pictures
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of riotous crowds of humans and seething masses of troops. They reminded Susan of
rival tribes of giant white and crimson ants, particularly when they leapt and jumped
all over each other. When a green-clad parachute regiment descended onto the
Trivoli Tea Gardens, Susan thought that they resembled cockroaches.
To add to Susan’s consternation, a sombre anchor lady reported, “The popular
revolt in the streets of Trivoli is continuing at pace. Hordes of traitorous citizens have
taken control of the Capitol rotunda and seized several tall administration blocks
while barbarically putting their occupants to the sword. Three extra battalions of
Grenadier Guards are marching into the city to redeem the situation.
“It is thought that the current unrest has been fomented by wild rumours that
many of our surviving politicians and bureaucrats are still members of a mysterious
clique of Trinkers that may be part of a so-called web-of-intrigue. You shouldn’t
make unjustified aspirations, folk. Fanciful conjectures and conspiracy theories could
destroy the fabric of our well-meaning society. A web-of-intrigue? My great grandma.
“You will be glad to hear that Beebview has safely encapsulated itself in the
BNN tower on University Heights. We will provide you with further information as
it’s beamed to us. This is your favourite newscaster saying-----Whoops! Urgent news,
more urgent news, folk. The courthouse in Stingwell has been razed to the ground by
bored youngsters who usually while away their time fighting each other in the streets
rather than concentrating on their homework.”
Susan felt utterly shocked, though many of the delegates simply stared vacuously at
the podium.
“Enough of that crap,” said Isadore Neyman, most incisively, as he reactivated
the amphibians. “Now, what further pearls of wisdom do you wish to impart, mon
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ami?”
Susan appreciated the opportunity to relax, as seven frogs and a giant newt took
successive leaps over a toadstool. The audience roared in approval.
While Susan was indulging herself at the conference, Kevin was organizing himself in
self-imposed confinement in a concealed basement under Danny’s flat by Lake
Akhenaten. Only his Trinkon boyfriend Fabio was there to comfort him.
Kevin had no problem with divided loyalties. While he had the well-being of all
ordinary people on Qinsatorix at heart, he believed that they should be governed by a
fairer administration that was interested in liberating the Icarians, and he, quite
naturally, felt a personal allegiance towards Fleance as his brother-in-law. He felt
totally justified in proceeding with his plans, given his evocative experiences with the
military and Playfield Police, and his knowledge of the brutal political system.
Kevin thought that this was his opportunity of a lifetime for ever-lasting fame,
since the pompous fools’ arrogant behaviour had given him the opportunity to ferment
insurrections around the planet. He no longer regarded himself as a jerk, and thought
that he was achieving his prime at a remarkably early age. With these thoughts in
mind and after examining a carefully prepared list, he secromobiled his friend Adam
with the intention of setting a revolt into motion in Constanta.
“The pipes are calling, Adam,” he said.
“Is this in the name of Calypso’s Cause?” replied Adam.
“Let them blow, my dear friend.”
“I’ll run over to the fire station, my gorgeous man, and ask my dad what to do
next. He’s the chief officer, of course.”
“What you do will hopefully create a ripple effect, and my friend Danny is
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close at hand with a variety of crafty conspiracies up his sleeve. So what else are you
up to?”
“I help our Post-Anglican bishop to write his sermons, organize his choir and
keep his papers in order, and I’m specializing in Martial Arts at Constanta Tech.”
“I hope that your good Lord will be with you during the forthcoming strife.”
“I have a feeling that he will, my dearest one.”
God speed to him, thought Kevin, as he phoned Ophelia’s parents in Zamara.
“Hi, Pops,” he said, before exchanging his standard coded messages with his
anticipated father-in-law.
“I’ll let my pipes blow after I’ve debated the situation in Trivoli with several of
the regulars in my tavern,” said the Izon. “They’ll doubtlessly circulate their friends
and neighbours, and all Hell could break loose.”
“That would be helpful,” said Kevin. “How’s business in the Elephant’s Nest?”
“Everything’s hunky dory, my son. My wife’s working her cotton socks off and
we’re looking after several disabled children in the loft.”
What a fine man, thought Kevin, before contacting a seven-fingered ex-convict,
a friend of Danny’s who managed the gun shop in Tibermouth.
“There’re hundreds of refugees from the southern swamps here,” said the exconvict, “and we can combine forces with the Oceana United Casuals. That should
make for a stroppy bunch.”
“That sounds promising,” said Kevin. “So how’s life treating you?”
“I’ve just undergone surgery for two hip replacements, they’ve given me six
metal toes and all’s well.”
A most civilised person, thought Kevin, before taking a break. When he drank a
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soothing cup of tea laced with skenk and gave Fabio a cuddle, the youth ate a wodge
of archangel dust, licked Kevin’s face and sat on his lap.
“I’m so proud to be your boyfriend,” said Fabio. “You’re a leader of men.”
“Good,” said Kevin. “Now suck my cock.”
“You’re my knight in shining armour,” said Fabio, sinking to his knees.
While the Trinkon was going on an immense high, Kevin endeavoured to stay calm as
he phoned Tigran Mangasarian. The Mongol-like Armenian was drinking vodka with
a crowd of jovial mammophiles way to the north.
“We’ll advance on Inukaten and chase out the enemy,” said Tigran, “and then
we’ll ask the residents to secure the fishing fleet for our cause.”
“Give my best tidings to your hunky friends,” said Kevin.
While Tigran was readying his troops for action, Fleance was in hiding somewhere to
the west.
“I’ll try to divert Van Wurstenberg’s army away from your region,” said Kevin.
“Jolly for me,” said Fleance. “I’ve just raised the Imperial Standard in the name
of all true Icarians.”
“Now is the time for the worms to rise out of the ground,” declared the Prince
Imperial of the Icarians, as he addressed his merry band of recruits, “and show the
oppressors a thing or two. I’ll call you the Tiger troopers and we’ll teach you to fight
Han Chinese-style. The spirit of the noble martyr Wen Chen Wen lives on within us,
and we’ll adopt the motto Nulli secundus as we won’t be second to any of those
bastards. It’s Aut Caesar aut nullus. We’ll die to a man!”
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That wimp may well increase the heat, thought Kevin, as he beamed through to
Danny, who was residing way to the east in the Chiang Fu Military Base about thirty
miles from Constanta.
“The Leinster Rangers are with us,” said Danny, “and I’ll e-whiz my old flame
in Angervast with the message ‘Your pipes have a plumber.’”
“And I’ll have something cool for you to slip into when you get back,” said
Kevin.
“Would you like me to chill out in the freezer, darling?” asked Fabio, with a
simper.
“Later, perhaps, kleiner Liebling,” said Kevin. “Aber was jetzt? Jawohl! Now
it’s time for the crunch.”
Taking up courage, Kevin called Military Intelligence and deliberately misled the
Admiral by telling her that Fleance was organizing a full-blooded attack upon Trivoli
from the north-east.
“Well done, dear boy,” she replied. “We’ll send several battalions in his
direction to eradicate the scheming deviants.”
“I’m so glad to be able to help, my adorable señora,” said Kevin, “and I’ll see ye
in Guantanamera.”
“You’re a true patriot and a hero, my fine fellow,” declared the Admiral.
That seals it! enthused Kevin. Fleance has a few more tricks up his jumper. Now
I can sit back and relax, in the hope that the riots continue apace, and more and more
of the bastards’ troops desert to our cause, but I’m relying most crucially on my
plucky Ophelia.
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When Adam advised his high-ranking father that the revolution was underway, they
and about twenty firemen jumped into their bullet engines and drove to the main
administrative building in Constanta, where the quangocrats were sipping heavenly
fine wine and nibbling hors d’oeuvres soaked in peach schnapps. But all the shysters
ran out after one of the bright red vehicles was sent crashing into their reception hall.
“Sock it to them!” yelled Adam, as the firemen hosed the lazy big bugs into the
sidewalk. Just then, a company of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry (DCLI)
marched up with their bayonets at the ready, and Adam wilted in fear.
Suitably fired up by the gossip from the Elephant’s Nest, the population of
Zamara ran helter skelter out of their homes and rose against their oppressors.
Ophelia’s mother encouraged the schoolchildren to rush down Primrose St. where
they stormed the vice-admiral’s mansion before ransacking the offices of the
Administrator of Trade. And all hell broke loose as the insurgents prevailed
throughout the entire city. When they captured the Imperial flagship at the naval base,
a gang of local pirates set off to sea to liquidate the enemy mini-frigates, and to hunt
for beautiful women and lost treasure.
In Tibermouth, the Oceana United Casuals led the vanguard as they and every exconvict in the vicinity stormed the Town Square. The gun-shop manager shot the
slave master through his glowing cubic head as his companions released the
Rottpsycher’s long-suffering captives. All his slaves collapsed in relief, before
beating a hasty straight out of that cursed city.
“On to the citadel!” came the cry, but as the mob approached Justice St. they
were confronted by a battalion of Madagascar Mercenaries.
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“Ho ho! Hold your fire,” yelled their Aussie brigadier as the insurgents marched
bravely forward, and when they reached the junction with Cauliflower Lane, he
ordered, “Kill the dipshits!”
While a few of the rebels managed to jump down wells, the rest were mown
down to a man.
“They’ll give me a good pension for that,” exclaimed the brigadier. “This could
be the North-West frontier.”
In contrast to that disaster, Tigran Mangasarian was advancing on Stingwell
with a troop of mammophiles. After they’d tied the local police force to the tree
trunks in the middle of the football stadium, a couple of lazy youths struggled to their
feet with their alcohol syringes still stuck into their arms, and put the boot in.
“That’s for want of somfin’ better to do in this fockin place,” said the leaner
of the yobs.
“Where’s Lucy?” inquired his scar-faced mate. “I haven’t seen her recently.”
One of the battered bobbies rubbed his bruises, chortled and replied, “Wouldn’t
you like to know? That vindictive tart wields knuckle-dusters.”
Upon hearing that, the yobs burst into tears.
Tigran thought that the children looked as sullen as addicted horserace punters.
They therefore left three elderly mammophiles behind to teach the bored kids how to
play baseball, and headed due north.
When, after fifty miles of rough terrain, they approached a spectacular castle on the
lofty summit of a craggy hill, an observant mammophile said, “There’s the notorious
Castle Bon Vie.”
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Tigran was struck with pangs of guilt from his childhood and experienced a
traumatic flashback in time. The keep’s impressive turrets reminded him of the
haunted Lylow Castle Hotel in the Scottish Borders where the northern English fat
cats from the industrial heartlands used to stay.
“All sorts of rum things go on in there,” said the mammophile. “They even hold
monthly Hittite ceremonies where their captured street fighters are forced to dance on
the altar stones. The oldest boy and girl are invariably sacrificed. With stakes through
their hearts, if they’re lucky.”
“We can’t cure every social ill,” said Tigran, with his eyes on the horizon.
Keep them away from me, agonized the bold Armenian. Just keep them away.
Don’t catch me in that net! Leave me alone for just one day.
As the troop of magnificent creatures approached Inukaten, the population ran
through the slums to greet them. The garrison was manned by a platoon of seriously
drunk Green Howards from Humberside.
“We’re going to string your guts from the flagpole,” yelled the leader of the
mammophiles, whereupon the soldiers threw down their arms and pleaded for mercy.
The residents secured the northern fishing fleet and celebrated into the night. Tigran
ate a freshly caught monster-clawed lobster for breakfast.
Acting upon a secromobile call from Fleance, the High Priest of the Sigmoids led his
swan-like flotilla out of Tintaton Bay and towards the legendary port of Camlan
where the Emperor Hurtha once fought. The naval frigate Oberon came out to meet
them flying the flags of St. Andrew and St. George, and incinerated four of their
number with slaughter shells. Although drenched with fragments of burning fur and
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meat, the remaining Sigmoids retaliated by ripping His Majesty’s vessel apart with
purple beams that scorched out of their beaks. After taking the town on behalf of their
archangels, the victors threw several council members into a steaming-hot oven
before sending for the ladies for a convivial supper.
Having thoroughly enjoyed a well illustrated talk about the stately homes of
Trystonia, Susan and Ophelia opted for snack lunches in order to watch Trystnews on
a teleview obloid in the hotel lounge.
While they were nibbling their well minted lamb cutlets, the nervous newscaster
wiped her bright red nose and said, “Thousands of ignorant proles are now rebelling
in over twenty cities across Trystonia. This is extremely troubling because the very
survival of His Majesty’s Government on this planet is at stake. Over to the ‘voice
behind the screen’ for a detailed analysis.”
The screen in question was covered with a large Union Jack and a burnt Stars
and Stripes. The voice was female and spoke with a seductive Plymothian accent.
“This is the Mayflower girl calling all loyal citizens,” it said. “Do try your
neighbourhood Chicken Licken restaurant, folk. They do credit to the Founding
Fathers who arrived on this planet from Earth in AD 2353, including the celebrated
Colonel Turkey Lurkey himself. Lick your lips with a piece of chick.
“You’ll be delighted to hear that the Grenadier Guards have advanced into the
centre of Trivoli and are confronting the bourgeois traitors from street to street. While
the situation is more desperate in Inukaten and Zamara, an uprising by Constanta firefighters has been firmly put down. Unfortunately, their leaders escaped in one of their
bullet-engines. They include an obnoxious little pest called Adam and are thought to
have taken refuge in a tin mine in nearby St. Erth. We’ll smoke those injuns out
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wherever they run, folk. A revolt by several hundred ex-convicts in Tibermouth has
also been crushed. Following these successes, General Van Wurstenberg is studying
how best to control the situations in all of our cities and thousands of crucifixions are
anticipated. All the best to him; so say we all.”
“How horrifying,” said Susan, as she munched her broccoli. “I hope that
somebody finally puts paid to that bastard.”
“Urgent news!” announced the newscaster. “The Saukat Apollos have staged an
uprising in Sidon. I wonder who put them up to that?”
“Perhaps they’re finally identifying with the Icarians,” said Susan. “We’ve
repressed their talented tribe as well. They can’t even get fixed-rate mortgages.”
“They’re coming,” said Ophelia, with a confident look. “They’re coming
Everybody’s coming.”
“I do hope that Kevin’s safe,” said Susan, “and that his friend Adam will be all
right. But where’s Fleance?”
“Adam has returned, as prophesied by St. John,” said Ophelia, sounding as wise
as the Oracle at Pestogon. “He’s the living God.”
That afternoon several hundred Tiger troopers descended from the western hills upon
their ancient naval port of Drumkok, in freshly pressed beige uniforms that they’d
purloined from an Army and Navy store in Montecito. When Fleance led them into
the barracks, they surrounded the resident company of elderly Coldstream Guards,
who were sitting at trestle tables sipping jasmine tea.
A doubled up centenarian peered at the Prince Imperial.
“Hi there, sonny!” he said. “Some activity at last. We surrender.”
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While his men were stocking themselves up with all sorts of fancy weaponry from the
arsenal, Fleance contacted the leader of the Tyronians via supercom, and invited his
dubious allies to secure Tibermouth on the opposite side of the estuary. Unaware that
the ex-convicts in the city had already staged a revolt, Fleance advised the strange
beast to descend within about a hundred feet of the citadel before eliminating the
enemy troops inside.
The Tyronians hurtled over from the southern icecap in their flying saucer.
However, rather than following Fleance’s advice, they hovered above the city at an
altitude of about five hundred feet while blitz-bolting every single building including
the citadel itself.
Fleance was grief-stricken by the needless genocide. But when he bitterly
complained about the slaughter of so many innocent people, the Tyronian leader
replied, “Just friendly fire. Neanderthals are known for their loving kindness.”
In his anger, Fleance, imagining that he was Hannibal, ordered his troops to
purloin thirty seven cantosaurs from the farmlands and to ride the enormous creatures
bareback along the northern bank of the Tiber. He was hoping to combine forces with
his Saukat Apollo allies in Sidon, who he regarded as modern Iceni magni. When he
met with negligible initial resistance, he surmised that Kevin had managed to divert
most of the enemy forces in the region to some other part of the planet. He therefore
freewheeled ahead, without further ado.
While Fleance was advancing on Sidon, Danny O’Gara was fast asleep in the
Chiang Fu Military Base in the east. The fiery-haired colonel of the Leinster Rangers
woke him up and said, “We’ll make the cunts eat their nuts. The spaceship Hortensia
has just landed from the Inner Moon.”
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A group of female albino Tereks alighted from the Hortensia looking like a tide
of unicorns and carrying assorted high-powered weaponry.
“Why, it’s my darling Danny,” said the Mayoress of Angervast, waving a
neutron cannon. “I’m the leader of this motley crew.”
The pretty head elder of Tawi was nursing a pair of painfully-sore red thighs as
a result of a trashing from her Tork overseer.
“And I’m the second-in-command,” she said, with a demure look.
“Perhaps I should plumb both your pipes,” said Danny.
“I’m game,” said the mayoress, but the head elder was not so enthusiastic.
“A curse on that chief overseer,” she moaned. “My bottom’s too raw.”
“Don’t worry,” said Danny. “You still can take me in your stride.”
The Leinster Rangers and Tereks embraced each other in fond bonhomie. When
the kissing stopped, they marched jovially together towards Constanta.
As they approached St. Erth, the Terek elder said, “We need to secure the tin
and silver mines for the future of my nation. I’ll send in my three cousins. They’re
macho enough.”
When the Terek cousins ventured into the tiny village, they noticed Adam’s
curly fair hair, followed by his rosy face, peeping out of the top of a tin mine. After
he’d emerged with several Constanta firemen, the albinos found the brave group
safe accommodation in the cellars of the big house, sat back in the Jolly Roger with
their invisible quasars at their sides and relaxed over a pitcher of scrumpy.
When Danny guided his main party of rebels into Constanta, the residents came
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out of their houses and showered them with confetti. However, when they turned into
Constitution Ave., two companies of the DCLI were blocking their way.
“Prepare to fire!” ordered the Irish colonel. “Fire!”
The DCLI wilted and fled, and all resistance was broken by the time the Leinster
Rangers entered Thatcher St. After the Tereks strolled into Obama Square singing
their anthem ‘Danny Boy’, the wily Post-Anglican bishop assumed interim control of
the city and sent for Adam to assist him.
During the early hours, a baby mammophile led over fifty armed Snipper people from
the Shrine of Aleph to the Montgomery Barracks about four miles away. The
aboriginal Icarians were seeking revenge for the savage executions of three of their
rabbit poachers several weeks previously. Five eyeballs had been returned in a
casserole of oxtail soup to their village.
When they arrived at the barracks, the elephantine toddler crept up behind the
not so alert sentry and throttled him with his trunk. Upon hearing ear-splitting
snoring sounds, the Icarians sneaked into a rusty Bliar hut and contrived to snip off
the genitalia of thirty or so mutually loving Eighth Army troopers all at once, while
the poor devils were fast asleep in an congruous heap. There was much howling and
screeching, and over half the soldiers dropped dead from shock.
Heavy fighting continued across Trystonia for days on end, while the happy go
lucky conference participants by Lake Winona partied on regardless, apparently
oblivious to the trials and tribulations of the outside world.
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CHAPTER 21: THE DOUBLE ECLIPSE
Maybe celestial events are invoked by mystical powers, but perhaps they’re not.
On the morning of the Summer Solstice, General Linus Van Wurstenberg ran around
in circles, like a headless hen, while his underlings at the Caesar Military Base
sullenly awaited his orders. Because of the widespread revolts and rioting, and lack of
empathy with his cause, his forces were getting rapidly depleted due to either death,
injury or mass desertion. After ordering his adjutant to place hedgehog-like
teleportation cosmo-surfers at the four corners of his training ground, Linus therefore
super-whizzed Aldershot.
“I expect several highly destructive tanks and well-equipped infantry battalions
to arrive from Earth in quick succession,” he said. “They should finish off the
incestuous bleeders.”
To the general’s misfortune, only a lop-jawed captain in a ruffled uniform , and
two female lance-corporals dressed in ridiculously short red skirts and dark blue
knickers, appeared on the white-painted concrete.
“Michty me,” said the adjutant, as he resorted to the Scottish vernacular. “This
could be Shanghai during the latest attack by the Nips. They sneaked in during a
fancy dress party.”
“All of our forces at home are busy fighting the rebels,” said the captain, with a
thick Liverpudlian accent. “Those upstarts think that they represent democracy, the
fools. But when is a democracy not an autocracy, as Socrates once said?”
“Only if it’s anarchy,” said the adjutant, “and Pericles believed that we should
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maintain our autocracies in order to preserve our democratic freedoms.”
That was too deep for Linus.
“So what next, you Pictish fool?” he inquired.
“Don’t forget, Generalissimo,” replied the obsequious lickspittle, “that we’ll be
attacking the Outer Moon during the eclipse this afternoon. We should be able to
exterminate the Icarians living in exile there, create a base in Athens and
counterattack at a favourable moment. Our troops here can fend for themselves.”
Van Wurstenberg smiled so confidently that, in true Brownian fashion, his
mouth looked like a capital V.
“We prepared for this contingency sometime ago,” he said. “Our battlefleet will
perform the triple orbit and we’ll employ Kevin’s brilliant new landing scheme when
we descend onto the landing pad outside Athens. Therein lies the subtle objective of
his research project with us. The atmospheric pressure on the Outer Moon is 12% less
than on Qinsatorix, but we convinced the fool that the adjustment was to
accommodate our stormy weather. After we’ve landed on the Outer Moon, it will be a
simple task to destroy the vermin with oscillating lasers. They won’t see our fleet
coming until the last few minutes since the stupid morons’ views will be blocked by
the Inner Moon for the duration of the eclipse.”
“A wonderful plan, General,” purred the adjutant. “Now why don’t we relax
with these pretty lance-corporals? I’ll send for a cat-belt and tickle their rosebuds with
the diamond-studded fraterniser. Then you can strut your stuff with the daffodil
stems.”
During the first conference presentation of that Friday morning, Sybil Greenleaf
described the exquisite flora of the Dnieper Valley that she’d catalogued with her
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student Ophelia during a dangerous rafting expedition.
“Before we hit the rocks at Sebastopol,” she said, “we collected specimens of
three-leaved slipperworts, double-decker roses and multi-coloured tristemons.
Unfortunately, we were attacked by a five-eyed serpentathorus that’d resurrected
itself from its KDA, but we blinded the damned thing with six jabs from a steel pike
and retreated in good order.”
Thank goodness that I took a rain check on that enterprise, thought Susan.
The final speaker at the conference was a squat and ugly, though highly eminent,
Finnish professor from the University of Wisconsin at Stout whose presentation was
entitled, ‘Where do we go from here?’
“We need to winnow and sift all possible facts and hypotheses,” he said,
sounding impassioned, “without fear of dissuasion or retribution. Winnow and sift.
Yes, winnow and sift. That is the message of the hour.”
The majority of the audience looked phased at those esoterics.
“What then, Herr Nebby Nietzsche?” asked a comedian from New York.
“Sow the facts together. Sow the seeds. And reap where you sow.”
“Screw that,” said the New Yorker. “You sound like one of those Total Quality
Management consultants who charge hefty fees for consultations about how to rave
and act up like a consultant. You’ll be telling me about the Witches’ Triangle and the
Fox Plot next. I’ve heard how your lot collect the brush from the sidewalk in Stout.”
“But I operate an internationally renowned T.Q.M. Centre in Wisconsin Dells,”
said the Finn, puffing his swarthy cheeks. “You’re probably just a street scrubber in
Queens.”
“I’m an all knowledgeable K.N.I.T. expert, you unscrupulous toad,” said the
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New Yorker, with a chuckle, “and I’m sure that you charge heavy duty for operating
those crummy water slides.”
When the mudslinging was over, Susan and Sybil put into operation the plans
for the various festivities that they’d timetabled for the remainder of the day.
“I do hope that the redneck after dinner speaker’s jokes are tasteful enough,”
said Susan, “though I hear that they usually get pretty raunchy. And it would be a
disaster if the cooks burnt the boar to cinders. That bad omen preceded the deaths of
several Central Asian kings.”
“You always worry too much, my dear,” said Sybil. “Just relax.”
Susan felt a warm thrill transcending her inner self when the Outer Moon blocked out
the central rays of the sun, leaving a golden glow around its circumference and her
party in almost total darkness. As the intensity of the glow increased, the smaller
Inner Moon slipped in front of the Outer Moon, emitting silver beads from its clouds,
thus completing the double eclipse.
“We’re honoured,” said Isadore Neyman. “This light show only occurs every
111 years.”
“What’s that?” asked Susan, as a series of bright red and white lights sped
towards the moons from her left.
“Don’t ask me,” replied Isadore. “Perhaps they’re UFOs.”
But it was the Imperial battlefleet with General Van Wurstenberg at the fore,
accompanied by his adjutant and the rambunctious Admiral in his fur-lined platinum
cockpit. A Cupid-faced midshipman was refilling the Admiral’s drinks and nervously
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combing her hair.
“I’m looking forward to getting my teeth into these rogues,” she said, as she
took care of a hamster roasted in honey, and coughed up its tail.
“I’ll preserve a few of their skins in pickle jars,” said the adjutant, while his
corporal was investigating his private’s knobbly kneecaps with a steel spider-pincer.
“Why get complicated?” said the general. “We’ll just exterminate them like
fleas.”
While Van Wurstenberg was approaching the Inner Moon, His Imperial Highness
Prince Crispus of the Icarians was lying in wait in the control tower behind the mileround landing disc outside Athens. Although his mother the Empress had expressed
her confidence in his military advisors and the way they’d been cosseting him, he’d
asserted his authority as the person who knew best, a situation that he managed to
maintain because his sycophants were so weak-kneed.
Prince Crispus had been forewarned by Danny O’Gara, via Kevin and Fleance,
of Van Wurstenberg’s impending attack and its timing with the eclipse. He also
understood Kevin’s and Svein Knutson’s modifications to the old Icarian battleship
landing scheme that’d been adopted by British High Command. Therefore, the prince,
himself quite knowledgeable about the theory of ellipses, was extremely erudite
regarding the nature of the enemy battlefleet’s projected descent onto the Icarian
landing pad. He’d put preparations in motion with the help of local physicists to
utilise his a priori information to the fullest possible extent..
When Crispus saw the flashing lights of the battlefleet approaching from the
Inner Moon, he said, “This is all I’ve ever lived for. I’m Prince Andrei Bolkonsky
marching into battle, though not as cardboard as him.”
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Van Wurstenberg completed his triple orbit by circling the Outer Moon in an anticlockwise direction, and approached the landing area in straight-line formation.
After descending to a thousand feet, he remained there in an elliptical holding-pattern
while levelling the villages of Alesia and Vilcabamba to the east.
“Hold your fire!” yelled Crispus, as dispassionately as he could, while two
dozen ancient Icarian nuke-scorchers rose out of the ground around the landing
area.
“Plan Omega!” ordered Crispus, when the battlefleet began its intricate final
descent, and his gunners projected twenty four neutron-guided shells in preciselycalculated directions towards the enemy. But, by a quirk of higher mathematics, Van
Wurstenberg’s spaceship was only hit in the tail, though the generalissimo was struck
in his kidneys by a shower of metal splinters.
“Fuck me sideways!” he cried, as the remainder of his fleet fell in fireballs
around him. Thereupon he knitted his brow, veered sharply to his portside and
scorched the campus of the University of Athens below him. Leaving thousands of
students dead on the ground, he set off around the inhospitable moon as the Admiral
turned into a big blob of jelly.
Crispus remained icy calm despite the horrific carnage.
“Change of plan!” he commanded, down his supercom. “Take off to cruising
altitude, approach us in an anti-clockwise orbit, and blow away the sissy from Hell
along the way.”
“Nuts to him,” came the reply.
“Bollocks to you if you don’t measure up,” said Crispus.
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The six almost derelict surviving cruisers of the old Icarian battlefleet had been
rusting for donkeys’ years on the rear side of the moon, but they now swiftly ascended
from their runway in Gomorra. However, Linus saw them coming and reacted
impulsively. His vessel rose steeply in the air for over ten thousand feet, before losing
power. As the adjutant and corporal clutched each other like a petrified man and wife,
the spaceship dived for eight thousand feet like a mortally wounded eagle and sped
straight into the gaping jaws of Mount Thorus, a volatile volcano that was spewing
fire and brimstone.
The four reprobates and the knobbly-kneed private were thrown clear when their
cruiser hit the side of the steaming crater. However, before they could say ‘Bob’s your
uncle’, they slid in a tangled heap into the seething morass below. The Admiral’s
plucky Snotty struck lucky. He’d ejected from the cockpit and parachuted into a
haystack. A pretty Icarian girl took care of him.
After the Icarian battlecruisers emerged from the rear of the moon, twenty antiquated
space-shuttles descended onto the Athens landing pad. While the cruisers were
continuing to orbit, Crispus ordered his colonels to embark their troops via the
shuttles for a counterattack on Qinsatorix itself.
God and good fortune be with me, he enthused, with the impregnability of
youth. Onwards to brave deeds and glory!
As the Inner Moon moved away into a partial eclipse, Susan noticed a green crescent
on its upper surface.
“How did that get there?” she asked.
“It’s caused by sunrays that refract off the clouds of the Outer Moon,” said
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Isadore Neyman. “It last appeared here during the double eclipse 333 years ago.”
“I wonder whether it means that the Izons are coming to set the Icarians free,”
said Susan, as she recalled the longstanding legend once described to her by Fleance.
“They’re coming home,” declared Ophelia. “They’re coming home for me.”
As the moons drifted further apart, the conference delegates began to relax in
the sunlight. But when Susan next looked up, she observed a stunning spectacle. Her
view of the Inner Moon was blocked by a gargantuan complex. A golden sphere, the
size of a large asteroid was surrounded by eight concentric smaller spheres, to which
it was connected by ivory-coloured tubes. The whole ensemble was vibrating like a
spinning top and emitting multitudinous peaceful-looking rays of white light.
“It’s Castellos!” exclaimed Susan. “The Gods are descending upon us.”
“It must have flipped through an amorphous cavity from another dimension,”
said Neyman.
“All welcome, my Utopia,” said Ophelia. “I’ll bring garlands for you.”
Therein lies the cradle of humankind, realised Susan, and the life source of our
fellow Icarians. Perhaps the Gods have arrived to save us all.
The Icarian battlecruisers struggled away from their airspace with Crispus and a
thousand troops on board, and headed towards the rear of the Inner Moon. Crispus
managed to steer his fleet into a clockwise orbit before heading directly towards
Qinsatorix, only to encounter an unexpected phenomenon blocking their route.
“What’s that monstrosity?” yelled his elderly second-in-command. “Who’s
striking at us from afar?”
“It looks like an immense kiddie’s toy,” said Crispus.
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But it was Castellos. The prince was undaunted. He ordered his fleet to fire
warning shots while circling the complex with missiles at the ready. That
accomplished, he instructed his pilots to veer off towards Qinsatorix.
“I’ve never done anything as crazy as that before,” said his pilot, an aborigine
with a long bone through his nose.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Crispus.
While trying to detach herself from the goings on in the skies, Susan was eating
cream buns by the lake, and throwing crumbs at the baby bears and zoned-out ducks
while reciting a few of Christopher Isherwood’s more humorous lines:
“The common cormorant or shag
Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
You follow the idea no doubt?
It’s to keep the lightning out.
But what these unobservant birds
Have never thought of is that herds
Of wandering bears may come with buns,
And use the bags to hold the crumbs.”
Susan was distracted from her relaxing interlude when she saw Crispus’s beetlelike battlecruisers approaching through the clouds.
“The battlefleet is returning,” she said, mistaking them for British. “They look
as if they’ve been in a feckin humdinger of a fire fight.”
“There’re only six left,” said Isadore Neyman. “The Icarians must have given
them more than they bargained for.”
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Prince Crispus was cock a-hoop. He proceeded to engrain his name in interplanetary
history by orchestrating the final stage of a quadruple orbit, of the two moons,
Castellos and Qinsatorix. After his much battered fleet had circled the planet, it
approached the Caesar Military Base in straight-line formation and blitzed the Vcomplex from the air. Upon descending to the landing area, his forces neutralized the
remaining British troops on the base. His pilot collapsed in a heap.
“I’m a hero, a hero, an all-Icarian hero,” exclaimed Crispus.
“Don’t chance your luck, you young fool,” said his extremely traumatized
second-in-command, in exasperation.
Moments later, Susan was startled by a further dramatic event. Several hundred wellarmed Izons transcended from Castellos to the planet surface and appeared on the lake
path a short distance away from the assembled delegates, who blandly ignored them
and continued their monologues and debates remorselessly. The Izons were led by
the noble Tacitus; he strolled towards Susan arm in arm with a fair-haired youth; she
recognized him as the St. John look-alike who had appeared during Ophelia’s
hologram session.
“Ophelia contacted me and reminded me about the ancient prophecy,” said
Tacitus, “and our best-loved disciple suggested that we should land on this very spot
so that we can co-ordinate with your brave husband’s activities.”
“But I don’t have a clue where Fleance is,” said Susan, quite disconcertedly.
“Would like to help us to find him by accompanying us into Trivoli?”
“I’m up for that. I’ll let my colleague Sybil take over here.”
Tacitus pressed a button on his wristband, and several super-freeze lightning
rays flashed from Castellos towards the lake and immobilised all three mini-frigates
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on patrol there. Several dozen of his companions transposed to the craft, threw the
frozen bodies of the personnel overboard and took control.
Half an hour later, most of the Izons were progressing down the Dnieper in a fleet of
riverboats. However, Susan and Ophelia were on board one of the re-activated minifrigates with Tacitus, his two beautiful attendants and six disciples.
At Zoll, the Welsh Guards tried to shower the Izons with slaughter shells.
“Skewer them like blubber whales!” yelled Tacitus, and the defenders fell to the
ground with laser bolts in their chests.
“Explode rolling mines under the fences,” he shouted, and the barbed-wire
disappeared before you could say, ‘Where’s your pacemaker?’
The Icarians rushed out of the city and celebrated their freedom by dancing
along the riverbank. Susan and Ophelia performed the Rumbella.
At Petraeus, the Dorsetshires opened fire with their frakers. But, while the
riverboats were still out of range, Tacitus ordered the crews of the mini-frigates to
breach the city walls with proton fire. The unfortunate troopers leapt into the water in
terror, only to be mown into the riverbed by the oscillating scorchers on the frigates.
When they felt safe enough, the Icarians came out of the city with flowers and
star-shaped cookies. Tujay’s long suffering parents wept in relief. Susan recognized
their dark faces from an old snipshot and ran forwards to greet them.
“Onwards to victory!” declared Tacitus. “However, as a special consideration,
we’ll hang any Izon who participates in a gang bang of a human. The Apollos and
Rottpsychers be damned.”
“You’re a real spoil- sport,” yelled a fat-faced soldier in the stern. “Why
shouldn’t we get our jollies off on the best cuts of meat in this exhilarating place?”
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While the Izons were moving towards Trivoli, Fleance’s forces and his Saukat allies
were fighting tooth and nail with the armoured and infantry battalions of the Royal
Dragoons as they struggled to break through from Sidon to Madron. While the
cantosaurs’ shells usually protected them against enemy missiles, the creatures were
occasionally torn apart. The Tiger troopers tried to eliminate the dragoons taking
refuge in the hedgerow with intense fire from their elevated positions on the backs of
the cantosaurs. But thirteen of the cantosaurs were now dead and Fleance’s soldiers
were sagging with tiredness, as the animals struggled forwards inch-by-inch along the
muddy roadway by the Tiber.
I’m between a rock and a hard place, agonized Fleance, and I’m about to be
ground into the dust like a slow worm. In desperation, he secromobiled his brother-inlaw in Trivoli.
“I’ll try to help,” said Kevin. “Just hold your ground for two hours.”
“You’re joking.”
“If you know of a better hole, go to it.”
“We’ll just burrow in,” said Fleance, “and hang on for grim death.”
“Fuck the Grim Reaper,” said Kevin, before contacting contacted the captain of the
last surviving company of the Royal Munster Light Infantry (RMLI). As the captain
was a friend of Danny’s, he was glad to offer assistance. Soon after arriving at the
Tiberian barracks in their sleek Puma, Kevin and Fabio therefore found themselves
speeding westwards in a convoy of forty trucks packed with RMLI troopers.
Upon reaching Madron, the troopers gunned down the soldiers guarding the
barbed entranceway, and watched in delight as the Icarian kids swarmed onto the
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riverbank and dived into the river for an overdue swim.
When the Irish proceeded along the main road towards Sidon, Kevin heard the
sounds of heavy fighting ahead. I’m ready for blood, guts and gore, he thought. I’m
not one of those sadistic cowards who takes the credit in a comfortable mansion while
his troops get slaughtered in the trenches.
“Let’s disembark and bayonet them up their backsides,” said the captain, who
looked like a wild version of Brian Boru.
When the RMLI attacked, the intensity of the fighting increased threefold.
Kevin was most disconcerted when the captain copped a packet from a laser bolt, but
he retaliated by waving the wretched fellow’s ceremonial sword in the air and yelling,
“Go for their throats!”
Not to be outdone, Fabio grabbed a laser-rifle and dispatched the dragoons much
more effectively, as the Irish infantry fought like Kilkenny cats. Eventually, the
enemy became so tightly compressed betwixt and between the rebellious forces that
they started to dive into the water. After one of their supertanks toppled into the
riverbank, a cantosaur trampled the dragoons brigadier and six bodyguards under its
hooves, whereupon his remaining troops threw up their arms in surrender.
While Kevin was removing his sword from the gullet of a lad from Harlech,
Fleance ran up speechless for words.
The Welshman quivered, choked blood onto the ground and disintegrated into a
vibrating mess. I enjoyed making him suffer, realised Kevin, in horror, and he would
have made such an adorable fourth lover.
“Thank you, dear brother,” said the Prince Imperial. “We’ll make you Duke of
Thebes for that.”
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“How about me?” asked Fabio. “I disposed of over thirty of the Huns. And I’m
the heir to the Baronetcy of Dalget.”
“After you shagged me senseless on that barren beach, you stroppy bitch! But
we’ll make you a knight, if only for your amusing lèse majesté.”
Crispus advanced northwards with his troops towards the City of Lanterns, many in
army jeeps but others on humple-horses that’d been kept on the Caesar base for
training the Praetorian Cavalry. When he led his forces on horseback into the vibrant
town of Pardeeville, they ferreted a resilient platoon of Hampshire Rangers out of the
high school and hung them out to dry.
As they fought their way through the southern suburbs of Trivoli, Crispus
imagined that he was Sultan Mehmed the Second at the height of his splendour. I am
omniscient, he thought, the magnificent leader conquering the impenetrable fortress
and replacing vindictiveness by tolerance. Onwards in the name of my forefathers!
Onwards to eternal glory and freedom.
Crispus’s platoons encountered stubborn resistance and his troops were soon
engaged in bitter hand to hand fighting. He nevertheless set his sights on the Temple
of Aton; this millennia-old sanctum looked rather like the Vatican. The Rottpsychers’
rectanguloid headquarters was surrounded by Corinthian columns and highlighted by
a Romanesque dome; Crispus thought that its mystical rays were drawing him
towards his ultimate prize, and he charged forwards like the legendary Prince Florizel
of Hanover at the Battle of Waterloo.
To Crispus’s irritation, a company of Staffordshire Wolves was barring his way
on South Walsingham Ave.
“Cut them down!” he yelled, waving his sword aloft like St. Michael. When the
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Wolves dispersed in disarray, he saw several of them escaping like foxes down
Donkey Lane. He decided, in the heat of the moment, to pursue them into the dust,
and failed to notice that his comrades were taking a breather.
“Follow me!” raged Crispus, only to find himself alone among enemies in a cul
de sac lined with the meanest of hovels and old men smoking skenk. This could prove
tricky, he realised, as he turned to flee. Screw my youthful enthusiasm.
But, while Crispus was heading for the open spaces of the avenue, a huge turkey-like
creature emerged from a decaying wooden hut, as a gnome-like troll peeped through
its doorway flexing his fingers, and yelling, “Where’s the bobby?”
“What dainty morsel is this?” asked the Judge, as a trooper pulled Crispus from
his saddle while attempting to garrotte him with a barbed-wire noose.
The notorious Walter Mitty from Red Rufus’s bar in the Gopher Hotel waved a
small butcher’s axe in Crispus’s face.
“It’s the Trojans’ Closet for you, pretty boy,” he said.
“Mercy!” pleaded Crispus. “I still need to achieve my destiny.”
“You’ll earn me a tidy penny,” said the Judge. “My mate will take you in hand.”
“Chuck him over here,” said his police-killing housemate. “I’ll groom his
destiny.”
“Just relax, sonny,” said the Judge. “We can do great things together.”
“Buggar off!” exclaimed the trooper. “He’s just a piece of traitorous trash.”
At that, the Judge happily chopped off Crispus’s nose and ears, while the trooper
tightened the noose and the police killer stuck in the knife.
What manner of death is this? agonized the prince, as his soul drifted away to
heavenly peace. Did the Emperor Constantine order it? Perhaps my friend Petya
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Rostov will be waiting for me by the Pearly Gates.
When the Icarians discovered their leader’s mutilated body, they vented their fury by
mercilessly storming the Temple of Aton. As the temple went up in flames, the priests
were dragged onto the street howling in anguish.
One cried, “What blasphemous sacrilege!”
Another wailed, “You’re destroying many centuries of knowledge and culture.”
When the High Priestess was hauled out, she yelled, “How dare you profane our
peaceful sanctuary? The secrets of Nineveh and Icaria are enshrined within these
sacred walls.”
While they were tying her rubbery body to a lamppost, a band of Izons, who’d
just invaded the city with Tacitus from the north, entered St. Winglehurta’s Square.
“It’s the heretical bastards’ head librarian, disgraced at last,” said an Icarian.
“She’s such an assertive egghead.”
“Let’s flay the heathen alive,” said a stern-looking Izon, as he produced an
assortment of jagged seashells. “After that tender exercise we’ll burn her flesh to the
lamppost.”
The Icarians and Izons quickly subjugated the city, and the majority of the population
rushed to the Capitol Square to celebrate. Susan fondly embraced Ophelia and
Tacitus, only to observe a disturbing scene on the apex of the Capitol dome. Several
American slaves were manhandling a struggling, duck-like prisoner with angular
limbs. Susan guessed that he was the planet president Donald Drake; she managed to
remain focussed as the boys in blue sang ‘Yankee Doodle’ while kicking him from his
pinnacle of power. He shrieked his head off as he rolled down the exterior of the
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dome before crashing through a magical twistabout on the lawns below.
When Kevin returned to Trivoli, he marched with a platoon of RMLI troopers
into Playfield Police Station. Commissioner Jack Gilchrist was sitting on his
chaise-longue, caressing a sandy-haired choirgirl with lascivious curves, and
munching tutti-fruttis.
“Everything’s going to plan, Jack,” said Kevin, at his canniest. “How can we
help the Balfour gang further?”
“They’re really grateful, my good fellow,” said Gilchrist, as his hand crept up
the girl’s thigh. “A couple of dozen of their snotty acolytes arrived in Trivoli several
weeks ago, and the former Oxbridge bitches are in residence in the Metabolic Hotel.
They’re planning to fill the vacant positions of power, along with several malleable
Rottpsychers. The deviants will finally project me to the position that I was born for.
Perhaps your guys will help us to facilitate that.”
“I’ll send a company of Munsters over to the Metabolic straightaway, my dear
friend,” said Kevin.
“Capital! Now please excuse me while I screw this silly wench into the bench
and subject her to a Macedonian manhandling.”
Kevin didn’t like that.
“Haul this creep down Corridor F,” he snarled, “and throw the cocksucker into
the pit in the Triple-Fanged Serpents Cell.”
“What an earth are you doing?” yelped Gilchrist, as several soldiers eagerly
jumped all over him. “I thought that you were my pal.”
“A highly transient one,” Kevin triumphantly replied.
After disposing of the police chief, Kevin’s companions marched over to the
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Metabolic Hotel and arrested the Balfour gang’s toadies. That afternoon, another
platoon of the RMLI assumed control of Playfield Police Station. The bitchy yes men
from Hell were confined to the modest comfort of Corridor A, where they scratched
each other’s eyes out.
That evening, Susan was sipping sherbet lemonade while peering through her
Catherine Wheel window, when she saw the erstwhile First Lady fleeing along the
lake path, her clothes on fire and followed by her petrified daughters.
“They’re going to tar and feather me,” shrieked the wretched woman.
Susan ran calmly onto her lawn, activated the garden hose and doused the
flames.
“Do come inside,” she said. “A piping hot cuppa tea will cool you down.”
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CHAPTER 22: FINALE
Power corrupts
The next day, the sun shone brilliantly from the cloudless sky. Fleance leapt onto the
Chariot of Zeus, proudly erected the Icarian Imperial Standard, and led his triumphant
forces and fourteen surviving cantosaurs down the western freeway, and along the
Imperial Road through north Trivoli. He was looking forward to embracing his fellow
Icarians, who had fought their way through from the south before storming the
Temple of Aton. But as they waited for him on the Capitol Square, they stood
solemnly to attention and scarcely whispered to each other.
When Fleance arrived with his Tiger troopers, a hush filled the square as Susan,
Kevin and Ophelia walked forward and draped garlands of victory around his neck.
“Well done, my husband,” said Susan.
“But why are the crowds so sombre?” asked Fleance.
“I bring you terrible news, my darling. The noble Crispus died heroically during
the final assault.”
“And the innocent inhabitants of Alesia and Vilcabamba have departed to
Valhalla,” said Kevin.
“And the bodies of the students of the University of Athens lie strewn around
their campus,” said Ophelia, most austerely. “God rest their immortal souls.”
Fleance fell to his knees and rent his hair.
And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
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Telecasts from the Mayflower girl were instrumental in persuading the loyal British
forces around the planet to surrender, after several of their battalions were destroyed
by precision targeted thunderbolts from Castellos. The Izons helped the Icarians to fill
the power vacuum, and the golden ones called a reconstituted parliament that enabled
them to rule Qinsatorix for the first time in 113 years. A blacklisted Taiwanese
Associated Press reporter called Tina Chou flashed pictures back to earth in delight.
The Izons beheaded all Trinkers surviving from the disgraced regime that they
could find in the capital city and the resort of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Crowds of
citizens gathered along the mellow shoreline of Lake Akhenaten and cheered every
execution as columns of blood spurted into the air. Meanwhile, the mammophiles
stormed Castle Bon Vie and set the children free.
The following week, the elderly king emperor returned with his doughty empress
from their lengthy exile on the Outer Moon. They were taken in a victory cavalcade
from Queensferry to the turtle-like Imperial Palace, as multi-coloured lanterns flashed
all around them, the former Gladstone House having been hastily refurbished after the
former First Lady moved her belongings to a modest apartment on East Nakoma St.
“God preserve the Emperor,” cried the crowds.
“What a performance,” he muttered.
“Home at last,” said the Empress, looking remarkably durable.
“Isn’t this a beautiful place for you to retire to?” said Susan.
“It’s right up my street,” said the Empress, with a chuckle, “and it’s a separate
bedroom for me.”
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That evening, Susan and Fleance were reading romantic novels by a prize-winning
authoress in their luxurious quarters in the palace, when a pagegirl from
Indianapolis wearing a frilly lace dress rushed in and announced, “There are two
diplomats here to see you, Your Highnesses.”
As a quaint boy from Anchorage knelt at her feet and served up another black
Russian, Susan realized that she’d met one of the gentlemen before.
“Aren’t you the jolly MI98 agent who saved us on the River Tiber?” she asked.
“You also tore Professor Dirk Charleston off a strip. He’s dog meat now, and
performing quality assessments for his sins on an excrement-recycling process in a
cesspit. Isn’t that amusing?”
“I warned that inebriate that he risked ending up in a dung heap,” said the plump
gentleman, with a chuckle.
“I was on the Tiber too,” said his prickly-faced colleague. “We always have
your best interests at heart, your Highness, and we would do anything to enhance your
position. Anything! So how is the elderly King Emperor?”
“Your colleagues certainly did an efficient hatchet job once before,” said
Fleance, with a curious glance, “when they shafted my wife’s insane father down a
well at the Convent of St. Drusilla. Are your current motives similarly wellintended?”
“We executed those guys after they deflowered the Dowager Duchess of
Norfolk and her scullery maid,” replied the plump agent, with a jovial grin and a flick
of his ears. “We’re nothing like them.”
“I see. So what is the purpose of this visit?”
“We’re here to advise you, Your Imperial Highness, that our democratic
revolution is close to victory and that our invitation to the Princess Susan to become
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our Queen Empress on Earth is still open.”
“Thank you,” said Fleance, with a blink. “We’ll bear that in mind and negotiate
with you further. Now please come to my office to discuss the technicalities over a
glass of cream sherry.”
What a performance, thought Susan, but do I really want to accept their
invitation? I won’t be a puppet for anybody.
The following morning, Susan and Fleance were eating a Swedish breakfast with the
Empress, while hunting through the rocket for the eggs and bacon, when a homely
servant from Key West hobbled in on his wooden leg.
“The Emperor is as dead as a dormouse, Your Highnesses,” he said, most
dispassionately. “He’s lying in bed with a pillow over his face.”
Susan was utterly shocked, and therefore surprised by her husband’s flippant
reaction.
“Whoops!” said Fleance, preening himself. “I wonder how that could have
happened?”
“Don’t look at me,” said the Empress. “I’m no Mary Von Teck.”
“Don’t worry, dear mother,” said Susan, as the servant departed in haste. “I’m
sure that it was MI98.”
“He died of exhaustion,” said Fleance. “We’ll gag the press with an F-notice for
the next thousand years.”
The Empress shuddered uncontrollably as if she had Doppleheimer’s disease
“What shall we do about the cripple who discovered the old fool’s body?” she
asked.
“Just a minor irritant, mother. We’ll take care of his gammy leg.”
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Susan wondered what manner of business was going on, but decided to hold her
peace for once. She simply did not care a fig who’d killed the spaced out crustacean.
“Try taking one of my punko pills, Mama,” she said, proffering the Queen a
glass of water. “Perhaps you should take a course of the bright crimson ones.”
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, my child,” said the Empress.
As all Icarians mourned, the late king emperor was buried with full military honours
in the Babylonian Gardens, alongside a shrine for Crispus and his deceased comrades
in arms that had been rapidly constructed next to the elaborate water fountain. An
eternal flame was lit for the tens of thousands of civilians on the Outer Moon who
were slain by the evil Linus Van Wurstenberg during his death throes, and a hymn of
praise was sung to Fleance’s executed older brothers, though only a few fragments of
their corpses were at hand. These were preserved in a gold urn and placed on a
mantelpiece in the palace, but the corgis contrived to eat them later.
The next day, Kevin, now Duke of Thebes, and his lover Sir Fabio led a platoon of
Tiger troopers and several carefree students into the University vaults under the
Poseidon Quatermass. After slicing up the obdurate security guards, they recovered
the Icarian crown jewels that’d been excavated by Fleance in Sidon. To cap that, Sir
Fabio slew two awkward lawyers and retrieved the mighty Caliburn, which the
Arthurian Professor of History had long-previously recovered with a lady’s necklace
and skeleton from a western lake. Kevin also recovered the Shield of Saturn that was
once treasured by the Gallic Scots. He needed to restrain himself from chopping off
the Vice-Chancellor’s pompous head, but the ever eager students hacked the greedy
fellow to pieces with the Axe of Murdoch.
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That weekend, Kevin and Ophelia were quietly married in the Chapel of the Holy
Name overlooking Lake Akhenaten. Only the officiating priest, Sybil Greenleaf and
Kevin’s lovers Danny and Sir Fabio were in attendance.
At the altar, Kevin once again wondered why his father Sister Frances had told
him, ‘I am the godhead, and you are the godhead.’ Perhaps God exaggerated the
feminine elements when he made my father and me in his dual-gender image,
surmised Kevin. Maybe I’m a clone of what’s inside Adam.
Kevin was in a buoyant mood when his still-grieving sister and brother-in-law, attired
in the hyacinth and violet robes of State, were proclaimed sovereigns of Qinsatorix in
a coronation ceremony on the Union Terrace and overlooking the momentarily calm
waters of Lake Nefertiti. Kevin was wearing an ermine collar and arrived arm in arm
with his duchess, who was attired in a flowing silk frock. The freshly invested Baron
Fabio of Camlan was at his side, dressed in medieval armour and bearing Caliburn
proudly aloft, with his hand on its resistant brand.
The Archbishop of Madron officiated in a delightfully long purple dress and
read a passage about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from the Taverner’s
Bible. A Kneppo girl held the Banner of Christ and sang the Song of the Blessed
One. Kevin and Ophelia approached the Imperial throne carrying the long lost crown
and orb while the University choir sang the Gloria.
Kevin snickered when the grinning choirboy Adam brought in the sceptre.
When the lad’s eyeballs turned into apples, Kevin blew him a kiss. Tujay burped as
the Imperial aureola corona was placed on Fleance’s head, only to have his nose
slapped by his sugar daddy.
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When Fleance was acclaimed by the black-skinned Nymph of Babylon, the
assembled crowds cheered and shouted, “Long live the King Emperor Fleance! Long
live the Queen Empress Susan!”
While the University Marching Band were blowing their bugles and clattering
their cymbals, Fleance and Susan received the Adoration of the Seven Vestal Virgins
as the new Icarian demi-god and goddess of virility. As the choir sang the Kyrie, four
courtiers encapsulated in green nyloid carried the Peacock Throne to the lake and
secured it to a ledge about six inches below its surface. Following a longstanding
tradition that was intended to demonstrate modesty, Fleance therefore looked like a
back to front King Canute when he recited the coronation speech.
“Citizens of Qinsatorix,” he declared, as he surveyed the packed terraces that
stretched upwards towards the ebony-turreted Students Union building. “I solemnly
promise religious tolerance and social equality for all species on this planet, most
notably our Terek allies, who are welcome to create a colony in St. Erth. I even
include the prickly Tyronians, as long as they destroy their flying saucer, cage their
Neanderthals and confine themselves to the southern icecap.
“Our forbearance excludes the Yankee slaves, who deserve their fate in history
until the sixteenth generation, because their forefathers sought to achieve the
American dream by brutalizing weaker nations on Earth. And the Red Archangel
bible bashers will be deported to more fertile hunting grounds in eastern Africa. Not
to forget the lazy Rottpsychers. They are hereby banished to the Hokyvenokie
swamps on the far side of the Outer Moon to live out their lives with the alligrunters
and frogs. Their make believe god Aton is, by my personal decree, no more, and the
agnostics will not be given the space to breathe, unless they’re medical personnel or
treat their neighbours like themselves and give to the poor. The rest of us will love
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and forgive each other in Allah, Yahweh, Merlo and Christ Jesus, in whatever way we
interpret them, while regarding good deeds as just as important as faith.”
Seven carefully engineered and successively taller waves rolled in from Lake
Nefertiti. The last immersed Fleance up to his neck. As all their subjects joined in
with a hearty rendering of the Sanctus, he and Susan walked hand in hand along the
lakeside to the Imperial Palace, while little children threw chrysanthemums in their
path.
The Dowager Empress and Trithagoras came out to greet them.
“I will always grieve for my dear Crispus,” said Fleance. “He’s here holding my
hand like a tiny brother.”
A week after their coronation, Fleance and Susan were reclining on well-padded
silver thrones awaiting the arrival of their babies from the convent, when Tujay
bounced in, looking like a young Othello.
“I’ve decided to stay in Trivoli,” he declared. “I’ve enrolled as a drama student
at the university and I’m looking forward to playing Macbeth. ‘Out, out, foul spot!’ as
he so famously said.”
“That was his queen,” said Susan, with a vacant look. “Poor Gruoch felt so
guilty about nothing that she’d done. So where are you living, Tujay?”
“In a rundown Gothic-style house by a fishpond in the Arboretum, that Isadore
has just bought for a pittance from a crazy Professor of Zoology before he fled into
the Royal Nuke.”
“Would you like to earn some pin money by working as a deputy courtier?”
asked Fleance, with a smirk. “You could stay in a pleasant room with a view just
behind our turtle’s right eye, with a slave girl to clean up your mess.”
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“That would be wonderful, as long as she’s a pretty human. I accept!”
“I’m sure that we’ll be able to improvise,” said Fleance.
“His Excellency the British Ambassador is here to see you, Your Majesties,”
declared a red-haired Minnesotan whose name would be recorded in history as Rock
Olafson, as he clumsily tripped over a precious porcelain urn. He turned to jelly as it
fragmented into tiny pieces.
“Guards!” exclaimed Fleance. “I’d hang him on the tail of a horse for five laps
of Dixieland for that, but try to think of something better and make the other
pipsqueaks watch.”
Fleance looked proud of himself. At least he doesn’t regard himself as a worm
now that he’s Emperor, thought Susan, but he’s not a particularly decent person
anymore. Perhaps he’ll mellow with age.
“Power corrupts!” yelled Rock, stamping his feet. “I stand for the human race.”
“What in Heaven’s name do you mean, you silly nincompoop?” asked Fleance.
“You were previously a downtrodden student, but now you’re a fucking tyrant
and you deserve a spike down your throat.”
Fleance furrowed his brow as his attendants fell around in shock.
“Sergeant-at-Arms,” he said. “Take care of that creep.”
And so the Tiger troopers did, on a cross on the Union Terrace, with Rock’s face
well-expanded for all to see. They tortured and ridiculed him in the same way that his
compatriots had done while scalping Prince Sparrowhawk of the Sauks with his own
blunt knife in 1832 when Chief Blackhawk’s tribes were fleeing northwards across
their sacred ground between Lakes Mendota and Monona, hotly pursued by civilian
militia from Kaskaskia in Illinois. The young Abraham Lincoln pocketed the trophy
after joking to the prince that it wouldn’t hurt so much if he’d sharpened his knife that
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morning.
“The ghosts of my ancestors might also view this as revenge for 1003, even if he
is an honest injun,” said a kindly Native American professor from Prairie du Chien, as
a soldier threw one of Rock’s ears into the lake.
However, Svein Knutson and his Swedish girlfriend were watching. The
Norseman recalled his conversations with Susan about the Icarians’ true nature, and
persuaded the Tigers to stop in the name of the Queen Empress while Rock’s limbs
were still intact.
“I’m Eric the Red!” shrieked Rock. “You can’t touch me.”
“Perhaps this is the start of the Great Revolution,” declared the NativeAmerican. “Let the eagles soar!”
As the jolly man waved a star-spangled banner, all the boys in blue rallied to his
side and sang ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’. Thereupon a huge crowd of
students cheered, and shred their lecture notes into ticker-tape before marching up
Mall St. with their Yankee friends, blowing their horns.
The British ambassador was a puny man in his late sixties.
“I bring you grave tidings, Your Imperial Majesties,” he said. “The
revolutionaries in Britain have overthrown our rightful government and the heathens
have hung my beloved King Emperor from the Tower Bridge with our muchrespected prime minister by his side. May God cherish their immortal souls.”
“How sad,” said Fleance.
“Thank you so much for your sympathy. In the current circumstances, Your
Majesties, I must return home in haste, though the usurpers will doubtlessly throw me
into prison as an avid right winger and firm believer in painful circumcision as a
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deterrent for potential criminals. But they will never be able to chain the god within
me, as one of those blasted Apostles once said.”
“Why don’t you stay here?” said Susan. “We could find you a grace and favour
cottage in the Nutmeg Islands, though they do get icy in winter.”
“How generous of you, Your Majesty,” said the ambassador, with a sigh of
relief. “I gratefully accept.”
“No chance, you fascist creep,” said Fleance, with a snigger. “Go back to your
own kind. I hope that the democrats spread-eagle you over a hot prickly porcupine.”
“The royal babies have arrived!” announced a lady-in-waiting, as she gleefully rushed
in.
Mother Rebecca came in carrying the Princess Natasha, still an extremely sweet
baby. She was accompanied by a genial gentleman in late middle age. He was holding
on to Prince Caleb, who had just wet his nappy.
“Perhaps I could introduce you, Your Imperial Majesties,” said Mother Rebecca,
“to my husband Peter Wiltshire. He has just returned to the mainland from the
Archipelago of the Mermoks where he has lived in exile for the past twenty years.”
“Is this yet another twist in my tale?” asked Susan, in astonishment.
“Only a cosmetic one, my daughter. You and the Duke of Thebes are Peter’s
children in legal terms as you were born within our marriage, though the lately
lamented Prince Francis Von Coburg was the man who so nobly sired you.”
“Welcome to our court, dear father,” said Susan. “So did MI98 really disappear
you, all those years ago?”
“They did indeed, Your Imperial Majesty,” replied Wiltshire, with a courteous
bow. “They captured me while I was swimming near Hawaii beach, spirited me away
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in a submarine and confined me under a different identity to the distant archipelago,
all because they were scared that I’d be too outspoken on sensitive royal matters. I
was threatened with a gruesome death if I tried to contact my darling wife ever
again.”
So they did shut him up in case he turned out to be indiscreet about my real
parentage, surmised Susan.
“And what have you been doing for all these years?” asked Fleance.
“I worked as a humble fisherman, Your Imperial Majesty, while tracking my
wife’s career on teleview. After you so nobly liberated the planet, I set sail for St.
Drusilla and now I’ve resumed my marriage with the lovely lady.”
“And I’m sure that we’re going to be very happy,” said Mother Rebecca, with
an appreciative smile.
“You may sleep in the Princess Margaret four poster bed in the Azure Room,”
said Susan. “The paraphernalia from Mustique is just for show.”
I hope that will encourage them to make love for once, she thought.
“You are the most worthy parents-in-law,” said Fleance. “I trust that you will
graciously accept the titles of Duke and Duchess of Actium.”
So I have a father after all, enthused Susan, and my mother seems reassuringly
content. However, I must try to influence my husband before it is too late.
“I’m glad to see that you’re a benevolent ruler, my love,” she said later. “Now
you should forget about your father and Crispus, and try to stay that way.”
“I’ll need your help in doing that, my precious one,” said Fleance. “I certainly
wouldn’t want to turn into another Alexander the Great.”
“Of course I’ll help, my darling, and I’ll be your Queen of Hearts.”
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During the following week, all of the American slaves on Qinsatorix were returned to
their homeland, where they fermented a revolt out of Peoria and helped to liberate
their countrymen from colonial oppression. When they marched in triumph along
Pennsylvania Avenue, all the boys and girls threw garlands of victory around their
necks.
After the defeated British troops on Qinsatorix had discarded their weapons and
uniforms with the intention of becoming peaceful civilians, most of the victorious
Izons transposed to Castellos and headed off through a red hole, though several
dozen stayed behind with thunderbolt launchers at the ready and married human
spouses.
A couple of days after the Izons’ departure, Fleance and Susan were relaxing on
a fluffy sofa in the Lotus parlour with their bouncing babies on their knees, and
Mother Rebecca and her husband by their side, when their courtier Tujay ventured in.
The supposedly grieving queen empress dowager peeped through her heavy
veils at him and said, “At least there are still youths around to keep us happy.”
Tujay waved his slender hips in her direction.
“The incoming British ambassador is here to present his credentials, Your
Majesties,” he announced. “Please tell him to keep his hands off my bum.”
“How shocking,” said Mother Rebecca, “though the concept is rather
attractive.”
“He should cover himself up,” said the Duke of Actium, with a glare.
The bizarrely attired vampire-like ambassador sounded like a well-seasoned
camp slagger straight out of Picardy Theatreland.
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“I bring you joyous tidings, Your Imperial Majesties,” he said, with a friendly
scowl. “The Archbishop of York is in the ante-chamber, waiting to anoint the Queen
Susan as our next empress on Earth. Perhaps I should say that our new government no
longer regards this as a figurehead position as we’ve taken your latest entreaties into
account.”
“What would be the Queen’s precise duties?” asked Fleance, with a broad
smile, as he gave the ambassador two pussy cats from Beijing.
“The dynamic Duchess of Devonshire will be her regent, Your Majesty, but the
Empress may meddle in our affairs however and whenever she likes, and the Privy
Council will listen most attentively to her suggestions.”
“I’m sure that the Queen will help you to maintain a democratic image,” said
Fleance, “and I hope that you can play bridge.”
Susan sighed and yearned for her youth, but decided to politely accede.
“With these provisos, I see fit to accept your gracious offer,” she said. “Please
give the archbishop some venison and ask him to come back later.”
“He’ll be irritated by that, Your Majesty,” said the ambassador, bowing most
courteously, “but the Queen can do no wrong.”
“So what next, darling?” asked the Emperor of Qinsatorix, after he had
approved the ambassador’s credentials.
“I still need to keep publishing, dear,” replied the ambitious assistant professor.
“Don’t forget about my tenure.”
“Do wake up, Miss Susie,” said Tujay, as he poured the Queen a strong cup of
coffee.
Susan wondered whether she was on a space-time warp, but concluded that she
really was on Qinsatorix.
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“Why don’t you come here and give me one of your bear hugs, Tujay?” she
said, off the top of her head and with a frivolous grin, “and let me tickle your
winklepad?”
The Emperor gave the Empress a curious blink, and smiled benignly at Tujay.
“We see fit, young man,” said the Emperor, with due gravitas, “to grant you the
title Imperial Bedfellow to the Queen Dowager. We furthermore propose to appoint
you to the Distinguished Order of the Thistle and the Bath, should you serve us well
in that respect and take a tour with my dear mother to visit my cousin Posthumus in
the Archipelago of the Trees of Life.”
Whoops! thought Susan. I’ve pissed him off again.
An apparition suddenly appeared in a flash of silver light. It bore a striking
resemblance to Susan’s mother, though even more noble-looking.
“I am the real Rebecca Von Coburg,” said the apparition, as the Duchess of
Actium recoiled in shock, “visiting from my chip-drive in Castellos Six. I would
currently be Empress of the British Empire instead of my niece Susan, if I were not
already dead. When baby Natasha grows up, she will strive to unite the planets while
Caleb tries to divide them. Nurture them both, my children, for the history of the
future.”
“Your illuminating e-whiz messages were much appreciated, Your Imperial
Highness,” said Fleance. “Now why don’t you stay for a refreshing glass of port?”