The Hogman's Homunculi and the Angelwing Massacre: Chapter Seven!
Ventriloquism, goons, booze, violence, and more! Leg-snapping fun for all the family!
After his grotesque diplomatic blunder in chapter one, Prince Darov is forced to burglarise a mysterious communications cube from Chateau Ulay, what with Ultimate Performance guru Jake Norwich threatening to reveal his fling with the future queen of the realm, n’all.
Does he have this in the bag? No, he does not. What he does have in a bag is an animatronic replica of his brother’s head.
Chapter Seven: The Adventures of Prince Josep’s Animatronic Head
Dear Prince Darov,
Thank you for your recent missive, setting out your current financial difficulties and other troubles. The detail contained within the seventy pages of your letter was most impressive. I am sorry to hear of your financial difficulties and your strained brotherly relations, but I must regretfully inform you that I cannot assist at this time, either by assassinating Mr Norwich, paying off your debts, or in your words: “vaporising the planet Lemuria entirely.”
Listen, old chum, enough formality. I’d like to help you out, really I would. Thing is, it’s a not a good time to be seen doing favours for humans. This fungal trouble going round has reached the moons of Shrike-C and folks are panicking. A lot of them blame humanity for it; they do call it the manpox after all, a trifle unfairly if you ask me. And whisper it, but some heretical elements are even starting to question the whole taboo about medicine thing, and look upon your remedies and tinctures with envious eyes. I can’t say I blame them, personally, but the more orthodox folk are up in neck-arms about it, so I fear there’s a bit of a religious war thing brewing.
Having a human Autarch hasn’t gone down that well in some corners of the Dominion, as I’m sure you can imagine, and that rabble rouser Vikeeto Fireclaw isn’t helping. Perhaps I shouldn’t have annihilated his home planet (enjoyed it though). You’re not that popular either among the Gliesans who actually know of your existence, what with your performance at the funeral in Dareun. It gave me a chuckle, but what were you thinking?
Good luck,
Herald of the Aftermoon, Superintendent Infallible of the Great Spiral, Guardian of the Oversoul, Autarch of the Dominion,
And your friend,
Geoff Marris.
PS. I still haven’t forgiven you for making me Autarch, you know.[1] The whole thing’s a bally inconvenience.
PPS. Do burn this letter after reading, won’t you? Or eat it or something?
Prince Darov carefully folded the letter five times, placed it in his mouth, and swallowed it.
Plan B it is.
Copperfield, the ginger felid, sat on Darov’s bureau. He eyeballed the prince a moment, then turned away in disgust.
***
There was a polite knock at the heavy wooden door of Darov’s bedchamber. Obviously not Parsons, Darov thought. That oaf just came and went as he pleased.
“Come!”
The door banged open and there stood the Royal Master of Hobbies and Crafts, holding a beautiful wooden case in both arms and sweating slightly. “The item you asked for is ready, sir. Quite the challenge, if I may be so bold. I do hopes you’re lordship is happy with it.”
“Get in here, man,” Darov hissed, eyes darting about. “Shut the door behind you.” He swept cutlery, clothes and his dusty VR helmet off his battered but immensely expensive sofa to make a space. “Down here.”
The Master of H and C swung the door shut with a deft backheel and placed the box down on the sofa. The two men sat with it between them. With no little reverence, the Master unfastened the brass latches of the lid and Darov peered inside. He saw the mass of dark hair in there and grinned.
“Here we are then, sir,” the Master said, as he withdrew from the box a life-size replica of Prince Josep’s head. He held it up to face Darov.
“Ugly as sin,” Darov crowed happily.
It was uncanny, a perfect simulation. The resting sneer of the lips, the way his hair grew funny at the crown, the high arrogant forehead juxtaposed above the goofy overbite. Even a tiny scar on the bridge of the nose which the real Josep had suffered falling from a shorse was represented faithfully. Its eyes were closed, as if meditating.
“You are a marvel,” Darov said. “How did you achieve such verisimilitude?”
“I don’t know about no Vera’s millipede sir, but it was a challenge to get right, and no mistake. I worked off of the prince’s official portrait mostly, but followed around a bit, as much as I was able to without raising suspicions, like. Hair was the trickiest bit. It’s real, for a skunt traded me his barnet for a bag of turnips.”
“Good, good. What’s this tube thing dangling from the neck?”
“Ah, that’s the clever bit, sir. My apprentice, young Norbert, is studying the new-fangled electro-tronics what the imperial folks use, which I can’t claim to understand, myself. I didn’t tell him nothing’, worry not on that score. But young Norbert is a whizz an’ he crafted this here gizmo what can manipulate the contours of yon head’s maxillofacial musculature.”
The Master presented a rectangular control unit with its own dangling wire, which he connected to the head wire by means of male-female interface. A little green light came on and the controller had buttons labelled with arrows and symbols.
Josep’s eyes popped open and Darov gave a startled cry.
“Watch, sir,” the Master said with a chuckle, and fiddled with the buttons. On cue, Prince Josep’s head gurned and blinked, scowled, frowned and grinned like a mental case.
His initial horror forgotten, Darov clapped his hands and grabbed the controller. “Let me play, let me play…oh I hate it so much, I love it!”
“If I may ask, sir. For what purpose—”
“As promised,” Darov interrupted, “Chef Roberson is at your beck and call for the next week, any time of day or night, to provide whatever foodstuffs your heart desires. You have unfettered access to the royal sauna during the same period. Same goes for your so-called Norbert. That will be all, sir. Good day.”
***
The following evening, Darov crept through the Royal Kastal’s Tranquillity Garden wearing his softest hogleather slippers and a beautiful black velvet cloak over his royal-casual clobber. His tread was silent over the stone paving which bisected the clipped lawn, but even if he had been stomping over gravel, the noise would have been lost under the croaking and buzzing from the wildlife which lived and screwed and died in Lillian’s Pond. Hypnos and Thanatos were jade and cobalt jewels in the cloudless firmament, so bright Darov cast twin shadows.
He carried a hessian bag with him, containing an object which, judging from appearances, was roughly the size and shape of a human head. Veering from the path, he crept through flowerbeds and shrubberies into the darkness of the crapple orchard where fruit hung ripe and heavy. A tree argued with itself in the gloom; two voices traded insults somewhere in the foliage, as if a schizoid God had chosen this particular tree as His medium for divine revelation.
Darov gave three low-pitched whistles and the tree fell silent. Then a loud snap broke the silence and two men crashed down to the soil. One man was a hulking and notoriously violent pimp, the other a skinny little conman. Darov, however, merely knew them as Goon One and Goon Two respectively. Both men were between dishonest employment currently, having murdered their main sources of income, namely prostitutes and rich, lonely widows.
“Gods, get up, you pillocks,” Darov hissed. “You’re as discreet as a pair of drunken pack sows. Do you want to be rich or not?”
The men straightened, brushing dirt from themselves. Moonslight glinted from the conman’s yellowing gnashers. “Beg pardon, your high and mightiness,” he said with a smirk.
Darov scowled. “Mind your betters, Goon Two.”
“Did you really just call me Goon Two?”
“I’ll call you worse than that if you don’t move your arse, come on.”
The prince led the ruffians to a corner of the walled garden, where hydrangeas and lavender hid a child-height postern gate. After much yanking and kicking, Darov heaved open the neglected portal and the trio ducked through. They pushed aside more foliage and emerged onto the expansive trimaran pad.
The queen’s ship and Hissaq’s research vessel were absent, but Josep’s squatted on the concrete expanse like a hulking metal insect. It was cringingly enough called The Formidable. Typically of the Prince Scion, he had chosen for his official royal vessel a brutalist contraption of harsh angles and hog-iron grey, rather than the soft feminine lines of Her Majesty and Hissaq’s ships. Darov hadn’t been trusted with a ship of his own. Of bloody course.
Staying low and feeling horribly exposed, Darov scampered across to Josep’s ship with the bag clutched in his fist and the hired (on tick) goons in tow. At the ship’s hatch, Darov waved his arms about to trigger a movement sensor. A red light blinked on, beneath which a black lens stared balefully. He ushered the goons to stay out of the camera’s view and they hunkered down in the shadows of a landing strut.
“Good evening,” the ship said in the tones of a chirpy thirteen-year-old boy with a bent for amateur dramatics. “You’re looking well today if I may say so, mister, and so are your friends over there by the landing strut. Soz to ask, but you’ll have to identify your good self if you’d like to jump aboard. Just need to do the old biometric facial recog thing. Sorry to be a bother.”
Typical of Josep: even his ship’s AI was an obsequious groveller.
With a resigned hand flap, Darov ushered the goons over to join him at the hatch. From the bag he withdrew his brother’s animatronic head and attached the controller. Josep’s eyes opened and Darov shuddered. The damned thing was horribly lifelike.
Darov held the head up before the camera, and by manipulating the controller buttons attempted to conjure a smile upon his brother’s wretched face. The thing gurned lopsidedly as if undergoing a massive stroke.
“Ah, Prince Josep,” the ship said. “You’re looking radiant as ever sir, if I may say so. Could you do the old blinky blink thing for me, please, just so’s I know no skullduggery’s afoot?”
Tongue protruding in concentration, Darov jabbed more buttons. Josep’s eyelids fluttered as if in the throes of ecstasy. Darov grimaced.
“Excellent, thank you sir,” the ship said. “I’ll pop the old hatch open now. Stand back, if you would, sir.”
Darov and the goons retreated, and the boarding ramp folded out from the body of the ship and planted its leading edge down with a clang.
Darov grinned and a goon clapped him on the back. “Never touch me again. Come on.”
Even Darov, arguably the most privileged human being in all Cartreffi, swore under his breath at the trimaran’s palatial interior. The goons were rendered mute. Old Earth Oak panelling, a marble drinks console with scandium nozzles, heated kid-gort wool cushions. Even the light itself glowing from the discreet fixtures felt more luxurious than the bog-standard stuff pumped out by the sun. It was absurd. No man deserves such opulence, Darov thought primly.
“What’s going on? Explain yourselves,” the ship said. This was not the chirpy teenaged boy’s voice of the Formidable’s exterior, but the harsh tones of a tyrannical matron who has had enough of the incompetence around her.” The undercurrent of maternal disappointment in the voice made Darov cringe instinctively. “I know you’re not Prince Josep, I have cameras everywhere,” the voice continued. “Who are you, and what are those creatures with you? Animals of some kind? Well? I’m waiting.”
Darov cleared his throat and hoiked up his royal britches, while the goons helped themselves to the contents of the neodymium-topped refrigerator. “To whom am I speaking please?”
“I am Prince Josep’s Artificial Vehicular Assistant, Ava. Now, I will ask again. Who are you?”
What on the gods’ green Lemuria was this AI nightmare? Darov wondered. Was Josep some kind of pervert who liked to be bossed around by a dominatrix on his own ship? The man’s degeneracy never ceased to amaze him.
Thinking on his feet, Darov held aloft the animatronic head and fiddled with the controls behind his back to make it gurn and frown.
“I am His Royal Highness Darov, Prince Conjectural of House Winwick. My brother is very sick. Just look at him. My assistants and I must get him to the, er, sanitorium at Lillian’s Glade in Koessanor, at Lord Ulay’s house. Take us there immediately.”
“What happened to him?”
“A shaving accident.”
“He decapitated himself while shaving? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“That’s right. He was shaving with a scythe to impress his wife, the Princess Katarzyna. You know what’s he’s like, the big show off.”
Ava sighed, her tone softening. “Yes, I suppose so. Is he able to speak? I can only fly the ship by his say so.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You can still speak can’t you, Josep?”
Darov had seen a ventriloquist at the RLC Royal Variety Performance once. Some mildly talented skunt had thrown his voice to crack blue gags at the expense of Prince Josep via a wooden cactus-ape.[2] Darov was delighted by the whole thing until the skunt turned his satirical eye to Darov’s literary efforts, rather spoiling the whole thing. He remembered thinking bitterly that ventriloquism was a piss-easy non-skill which any old Tim, Dick or Herbert could pull off; he could have done it with his hands behind his back. That claim was about to be tested.
With a rictus grin and lips slightly parted, Darov aped Josep’s scratchy tenor while fiddling with the head controls behind his back, largely at random. “Yesh, I cun shtill shreek. Leshh go to Rord Uray’s, uhright now.”
The goons stared in wonder, the pimp with half a custard pastry hanging from his mouth.
“Of course, sir,” Ava said. The Formidable thrummed into life as the ion engines ignited, and the exterior was bathed in a cold blue glow. “Destination set: Lillian’s Glade. Launch in T-minus ten seconds…nine…eight…”
***
The Chateau Ulay nestled in Lillian’s Glade, which in turn nestled in the Grian Valley, which in turn nestled at the southern arm of the Curdle Forest, which, finally, nestled in the North Cartreffian duchy of Koessanor. The duchy was called the Garden of Cartreffi for its bountiful exports of hogfurs, fruits and vegetables, grains and booze.
The chateau itself squatted, rather than nestled, on a huge outcropping of forested cliffside, a verdant shelf of greenery. The Grian River passed the base of the outcropping and tumbled prettily down a staircase waterfall on its way from the Dubnatch Hills many miles to the south. In the moonslit early hours, the scene was rather beautiful.
To give some idea of the height of the chateau: Lord Ulay’s father-in-law occupied the penthouse suite of the chateau, and in his drunken stupors, enjoyed pissing from the tallest window. His urine took around two seconds to travel from the height of the tower to the level of the chateau’s base. If Ulay Senior’s nether regions were in good working order and environmental factors were favourable, the urine could soar outwards, clearing the rocks at the base to reach the river below. In that case, the urine’s descent would take six point seven seconds, give or take, and join the river on its journey along the valley, up through the market towns of Kern and Gaerdin to the Eldritch Sea.
Josep’s trimaran squatted a few hundred yards downstream from the chateau in the shadows of the treeline. Idly toying with Josep’s skunt hair, Darov peered through the forward viewing screen at the winding stone staircase which led from the forest floor to the chateau’s iron gate. The drunken antics of Goons One and Two were not helping his nerves any; the well-stocked refrigerator was sorely depleted of booze and victuals. Sounds of desperate fighting could he heard from the trimaran’s main lounge, for the pair were wrestling on the floor after falling out over a card game.
“Break it up, you drunken Herberts,” Darov said, storming through to the lounge with his velvet cloak billowing impressively.
The conman extracted himself and clambered onto the couch with a relieved expression, for the pimp had been about to gouge out his eyes.
Though the more violent of the goons, the pimp was the more obsequious. He grumbled an apology, tipped an invisible hat, and sat next to the conman to await instructions. They made an odd pair. The pimp was a neckless brute, whereas the conman’s neck was rather svelte and long. Sitting next to each other like this, you could almost believe them a single organism connected by subterranean roots, and that by stretching the neck of one, you could shorten the neck of the other.
Darov sat opposite, within the locus of booze-stench. They were drunk but that couldn’t be helped now. “Let’s go over this yet again,” he said.
“I don’t need no lessons in conning my way into a rich man’s mansion, sire,” the conman said, straightening the absurd red cravat which he had found somewhere on the ship.
“Humour me, Goon Two. Now, this is the story: you are royal surveyors, here to inspect the chateau with a view to installing insulation and a newfangled central heating system, by direction of the queen herself to reward for Lord Ulay for his years of loyal service. You will say you have to inspect every nook and cranny of every room, taking measurements and whatnot. You might have to move furniture, all sorts.”
“We could say we’re checking for stonemites,” the pimp growled.
“Good thinking, Goon One,” Darov replied. “Now, the glowing cube thingy will probably be in a locked desk in Ulay’s study; you’ll know it when you see it. Hopefully Ulay won’t have you followed, but if he does stick a guard on your tail, you’ll have to employ some sleight of hand to distract him or some such. I’ll leave the criminal minutiae up to you.”
“Hang on,” Goon One rumbled, “geezer’s not just gonna let us in, is he?”
Darlov scowled and not for the first, brandished an envelope which he had already shown the goons several times. It was wax-sealed with a royal stamp Darov had found under his bed. Inside it was a hastily forged Royal Inspection Notice. “For the last time, man, this will get you in. Let Goon Two do the talking for the love of gods, alright?”
“Piece of piss,” Goon Two said, snatching the envelope and slapping it against the pimp’s chest. “Time to watch a master at work.”
Shortly thereafter, Darov watched via the trimaran’s forward screen as the pair dwindled along the riverbank, joshing and playfighting, then begin their ascent of the stone staircase. “Zoom in please, Ava. Can you do that?”
“If Prince Josep says so.”
Darov sighed, held aloft the animatronic head and did his ventriloquist thing. “Zjoom in, Ava. Uh-hollow ruh goons.”
“Certainly, sir.”
***
Lord Commander Grigori Foxley, High Constable of Cartreffi and Guard Prevailing of the Body Royal, read and reread the words displayed on the unassuming rectangle of black glass which he held in shaking fingers.
Message follows from Artificial Vehicular Assistant, designation AVA, assigned to royal trimaran of HRH Prince Josep, HMS Formidable:
Automated Alert, per Abel and Cain Protocol: Prince Darov aboard Formidable en route to Lillian’s Glade, Koessanor. Severed head of Prince Josep aboard. Repeat: severed head of Prince Josep aboard. Josep otherwise aware and responsive. Query possible coup / usurpation / grievous injury / mental health crisis. Mitigating action advised.
Foxley allowed himself a couple of seconds for silent reflection, which went like this: shit the bed, Darov’s cracked.
His fingers scrabbled like burning spiders over the tablet, jabbing buttons and firing off messages to the great and good of the kastal hierarchy. Priority one: confirm death of Scion: last known whereabouts? Alert Royal Guard. Kastal Lockdown. Curfew, martial law. Alert Imperial Consul. Round up known troublemakers, suspected co-conspirators. Assemble High Council. Query – Foxly Interim Lord Protector?
The Kastal roared into life around him.
***
As the screen locked onto the goons, a thought occurred to Darov. Were the royal seals not updated every two weeks for some reason or other? Had he heard that somewhere?
Screw it, Ulay won’t know the difference.
After protracted minutes, the goons made the top of the stone staircase and paused for a breather, bending over with their hands on their thighs. The pimp, the fitter of the two, straightened up, snatched the letter from the conman and approached the gate. The conman trudged after him.
A contraption like a sleek metallic quird floated over the gate and hovered a couple of feet above Goon One’s position. A security drone? Darov had heard of them, vaguely. He licked his lips. Perhaps I should have researched Ulay’s security set up, he thought. The animatronic head sat in his lap and he grabbed a fistful of its hair, fingering it like a comfort blanket.
The drone apparently gave some signal, for the pimp—the conman still hanging back some way behind him—reacted by waving the royal letter at it. Darov held his breath, but released it in a spluttering gasp as a jet of flame shot from the drone and reduced Goon One to a pile of cinders.
Goon Two turned and fled for his life, half running and half falling down. The drone followed, descending lazily as the goon half ran, half fell down the staircase. He zigged and zagged as far and as fast as humanly possibly on the narrow stairs as the drone shot out the occasional stream of ignited liquid in his general direction, toying with him. Foliage burned on the cliffside in the wake of the chase, and Darov watched in a numb state beyond panic.
Goon Two tumbled head over heels the last twenty feet or so, putting some distance between himself the pursuer. Miraculously he survived, though blood poured from a head wound. He staggered upright and sprinted along the riverbank back towards the trimaran, his skinny arms pumping and his cravat flapping in the wind. After a hundred yards or so, and with a balletic grace Darov could scarcely believe, Goon Two stooped mid-run, grabbed up a rock, turned and hurled it at the security drone in one fluid movement. A direct hit. The machine spun away out of control but the reprieve was short-lived. The drone stilled, shook itself and came on again at double the pace and with a greater sense of purpose about it.
A word emerged through the fog of Darov’s mind in big capital letters. FLEE. His whole body jerked as a desire to leave this escapade behind hit him like a shot of adrenaline. Josep’s head fell to the floor of the forward viewing lounge and rolled away, leaving Darov holding the untethered control wire.
“Shit…shit,” he breathed. “Ava, start the engines, get us out of here.”
“Your animal wishes to get back aboard by the looks of things. Should we wait for it? I don’t take orders from the likes of you anyway though,” Ava said.
“Godsdamnit.” Darov’s real head whipped around in a mad frenzy looking for the artificial version of his brother’s. Gone, nowhere to be seen. He whimpered, dropped to all fours and crawled about on the floor, searching. There, under the vanity sink. Josep’s head smirked out at him, cross-eyed with one eye semi-closed and the other wide open. Darov stretched his arm painfully to reach the thing, waggling his fingers as if this would grow them a centimetre or two. He caught it by the tip of the nose, silently giving thanks to the real Josep’s protuberant beak, and hauled the head in. Plugging it in at the fourth attempt with shaking hands he prepared for a bout of life-saving ventriloquism.
“Eshcake, eschake, tek off, hor hugg’s shake.”
“Certainly sir. Starting engines,” Ava said. “Take off in T-minus ten seconds…nine…eight…pardon me sir, should we let your animal in? It’s banging on the hatch.”
“Hor gods shake, uhright uhright. Oh-hun ruh huggin’ door.”
The fuggin’ hatch opened and Goon Two collapsed onto the couch in the main lounge, bleeding profusely on the expensive furnishings. “Drink. Gemme a fuggin’ drink,” he said.
“Seven…six…five…I say, that security drone is firing at us.” Ava said. “I suppose we’d better get a move on. Fourthreetwoone.”
The ship rose on a blanket of chilly blue fire. Darov collapsed beside the conman, who was rooting around for booze and bandages, and wiped a hand across his sweating brow.
“Bad luck Goon Two, you tried. Let’s get you a drink, eh what?”
The conman found a first aid kit and wrapped a bandage inexpertly about his breached cranium. “That flying bastard still after us?”
Darov patted the man’s leg reassuringly. “It was after you technically, Goon Two. But don’t worry, Josep’s ship is the latest imperial design. Completely impregnable.”
A concussive boom shook the trimaran and smoke poured into the interior. Sparks flew and a high-pitched whine issued from somewhere important. The whole thing tipped to one side and Goon Two tumbled off the couch and thumped against the opposite bulkhead. Darov retained his seat by clinging to the table with Josep’s head wedged between his elbows.
“Well, really,” Ava said, affronted. “They’ve gone and hit us with something. Initiating emergency air cycling procedure. Engine one non-functional, engine two non-functional. Engine three operating at twenty-three percent capability. Power coupler unresponsive. Oh dear, that is a worry. Heat recyclers operating at fourteen percent. Ion bafflers unresponsive. I can steady us for now but we will not reach RLC, sir. It is simply not doable, I’m afraid. Should I get us as far as we can and ditch?”
Darov merely grabbed Josep’s head and nodded it up and down a few times.
They made it across the Koessanor border into the bare expanse of Savannah, Cartreffi’s least-populated and wildest duchy, save the Spewpot Wastes. Darov gawped out the window at the dome of the Forgotten City and the Demon Highway as they passed, shining in the first rays of morning struggling over the horizon. Shortly thereafter, the ship shook and the engine whine rose to a tortured howl while the tasteful illumination was replaced by the sanguine glow of emergency lights. The noise woke up the conman from his dozing on the couch.
“Well, Prince Darov,” Ava shouted above the noise, “this is about as far as we go, I’m afraid. We are going to crash into the ground very soon and explode in a ball of ionised plasma. I’m talking to you directly because I need you to do something and you are the only human aboard with their legs still attached. Do you understand? Jolly good. Now, there are two escape pods in the little room near the back of the ship, starboard side. That means the left side if you’re facing forwards, alright? Take Prince Josep into an escape pod and wait to be ejected. Now you guard my clever, clever good boy with your life, you hear me? Your animal may occupy the other if you like. It does seem rather attached to you. The escape pods have built-in parachutes which will deploy shortly after ejection. Good luck.”
Dumbly following orders, Darov carried the head through to the small hatch rear starboard side of the trimaran with the conman scurrying after him. They struggled to stay upright as the vessel pitched and yawed. Inside the tiny cabin were two coffin-like boxes made of a futuristic metal, exceptionally claustrophobic-looking things even with the lids open. With no further ado, the conman stuffed himself inside one of them and pulled the lid closed. After a moment’s hesitation, Darov timidly lowered himself into the other, pushing his legs into the cavity at the far end, and slowly lowering his head onto a thin pad. He tucked Josep’s head under his armpit, awkwardly twisting his spine to make room, then pulled closed the lid and was engulfed in total darkness.
“Deploying shock-absorption fluid. Remain calm,” said a robotic voice. After a few moments of mind-shredding panic as the space filled with a thin, cold gel, Darov was relieved to discover he could breathe normally despite being completely immersed in liquid. Those clever imperial boffins, he thought, impressed. Credit where it’s due.
A distant riot of mechanical screeching and banging ensued, followed by a serene silence which lasted almost a minute and was the most peaceful experience in all Darov’s twenty-six years. The gel felt good against his smiling lips.
A muffled boom. Another, and this time Darov felt a vibration through the cushioning gel. He sighed internally, knowing his serenity would soon come to an end. He wondered if he had felt the same way in the moments before he was born.
The lid opened and Darov blinked into watery daylight while the gel drained away around him. Hauling himself out, he found himself in a narrow gorge of colourful tentacle-like plants, scraggly trees and strewn boulders, an ancient riverbed. In the distance a pale blue mushroom cloud swelled from the site of the downed ship. He reached back into the pod and retrieved Josep’s head and his stomach turned at the sight of the demented thing smeared in blue gel. Darov bent and disgorged a rainbow-coloured spew onto the ground.
Goon Two sat on his escape pod a short distance away, retching miserably. He took off his cravat, wiped his mouth with it and threw it aside, then adjusted the soggy bandage on his head. The two men nodded to each other awkwardly, like acquaintances running into each other at market. When the conman spoke, Darov was pleased to detect a trace of deference in his tone; no doubt he realised that in a survival situation, he was reliant on his educated betters.
“What now, sir? Which way home?”
Darov sniffed haughtily, buoyed by a mildly hysterical sense of freedom. “We follow this riverbed to the crash site, of course. It leads straight there. Check for salvage and booze. The ship was heading back to Denovia so home lies in the direction thereof. Come along.” Goon Two groaned to his feet.
They had not gone far along the riverbed when Goon Two said nervously, “’ere sir, no shinbreakers hereabouts are there?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Darov scoffed, “those creatures only live in the lowlands of North Gurgle, that’s why they are called Shinbreaker Fields.”
On cue, the conman was yanked a yard straight down into the dry soil. His legs snapped just beneath the knees with a loud report as of brittle twigs. His mouth and eyes were triplet circles of disbelief as the upper portion of him tipped backwards on the new hinges in his lower limbs. Dust billowed as if a small bomb had detonated under the soil, and through the haze Darov glimpsed a frenzy of teeth and pincers and sprays of blood. Mere seconds of this, then stillness.
Darov stood paralysed as the haze cleared. The man was gone, nothing left of him aside from blue and red stains on the landscape. A tight fart escaped Darov’s nether cheeks, and the sensation broke his paralysis. He fled to a large boulder nearby and scaled it clumsily, the soft leather of his expensive leather shoes slipping against the dusty rock surface, manicured fingernails breaking against the crags and jags. At the rock’s summit he released a trembling breath and sat cross-legged on his island in a sea of peril.
“Well shit,” he said.
Minutes leached into hours and the sun scrubbed the last traces of dawn from the sky. A couple of exploratory forays halfway down the rock were aborted as hungry things beneath the earth shifted in excitement. He occupied himself playing mental games, sorting people he knew into four categories, based on how he should regard them: To be Feared, Worthy of Respect, Contemptuous or Beneath Contempt. It killed time adequately, but he gave up after becoming lost in categorisation quandaries. Hissaq’s missing hogwrangling friend, for example, was certainly Beneath Contempt simply due to his humble origins, yet he was Worthy of Respect and even To be Feared a little by virtue of his animal cunning. Josep was simply Beneath Contempt, regardless of his fortunate station in life, though Darov found comfort in speaking now to his brother’s animatronic head, telling it dirty jokes he had heard in the members-only massage parlours of RLC.
He riffed on Jake Norwich’s positivity pot, imagining himself throwing bricks down a well, each one scrawled with some denouncement of his character. I am a bad son. Splash. My mother is the only woman who loves me and I’m not even sure about that. Splash. My burglary tactics leave much to be desired. Splash. My financial nous is non-existent. Splash. I thought I knew where shinbreakers live but I didn’t. Splash. A wave of despair overcame him which was so all-encompassing it was almost transcendental, his selfhood evaporating in sheer hopelessness.
A roaring noise broke his moping when a monstrous imperial cutter descended through the clouds, heralded by its own miniature hurricane. It landed a short distance away, the boarding ramp extended and Prince Josep himself emerged to stand with legs wide apart on the boarding ramp. Grizzled men of action stood around him, armed to the teeth.
“Twat,” Josep bellowed. “Have you any idea of the trouble you’ve caused?”
Josep embarked then on an extended rant, and Darov’s attention zoned in and out of the tirade spewing forth, hearing only snatches. He sighed.
Soft rain fell and he opened his mouth to the heavens and let sweet coolness in. His mind emptied, and the crusty residue of blue gel was cleansed from his skin.
[2] The cactus-ape, sometimes called the spiny chav-ferret, is believed to be a regressed species of human, descended from the criminal underclass which stowed away on the starship Pordenack. They haunt the pseudo-cacti forests of Northern Cartreffi, and are known for attacking their enemies by pelting them with excrement from the forest canopy.
Tune in next week for chapter eight, in which various events happen.
And I don’t need coffee. Instead, buy my new novel.