The Hogman's Homunculi and the Angelwing Massacre: Chapter Six!
Even by my standards, this is quite a disgusting chapter.
We last saw Hissaq and Valeria in the Angelwing Forest investigating the massacre of a group of Graphomorphs, with the help of the trusty AI thing, Ardie. Join us now as we follow them to the beautiful town of Spank, where they learn about the origins of the mysterious dust found on the massacre victims.
Trigger warnings for spew, parasites, Colonel Kurtz vibes, tentacles, and inept forsoothery.
Oh yeah, and buy my new novel, my children must eat. Not saying I’m a soothsayer or anything but it does have a bit where the world’s thrown into chaos because of disruption to international trade arrangements.
Chapter Six: Genitalia Ergo Sum
Hissaq was a discreet man and not given to wasting words. He was not unfriendly towards his fellows, just inclined to an aloof species of friendliness, rather than the affable candour favoured by more gregarious types. That was just his way, but because his discretion was valued and rewarded at Queen Aneela’s court, the trait and its attendant behaviour reinforced each other in a positive feedback loop. Thus, he had developed an aversion to people trying to “get to know him” by prying into his private affairs. He was, however, a proud father to a fifteen-year-old lad of whose achievements he rarely had the opportunity to boast. So when Valeria asked after his son, Hissaq was pulled in opposite directions, emotionally speaking. Nobody would have known it to look at him.
“Tell us about this boy of yours then, gaffer.”
“Joyec? He is well, thank you.”
She lifted her eyebrows expectantly. “Yes, and?”
“Well…he’s almost sixteen now. Tall, healthy, though not inclined to physical pursuits. Something of a dreamer, I suppose. Lazy bugger sometimes, but he sails through his school examinations with little effort, so far at least.”
“A bright one then.”
“Yeah, he’s surpassed my mathematical ability, that’s for certain. I am of no further use to him in that regard.” Hissaq paused and chewed his lip. “He’s applied to the Imperial Space Academy, the School of Navigation.”
“No shit?” Valeria said, “Wow, he might get to see the stars. Aww, I hope he gets in.”
Hissaq smiled at Valeria’s unreserved good wishes and felt strangely moved. “He had a four-hour exam at the old Corn Exchange in RLC last month. Boiling hot day, it was, in a stuffy little room with one other boy. It’s a wonder he could think straight but he thinks he did okay. We’ll hear something soon, I think.”
“And you wanted to be there for him.”
Hissaq nodded.
“His mam not around?”
Anger ballooned in Hissaq as if from nowhere, but Ardie popped it by choosing that moment to unleash a prattling commentary. The voice came from several speakers hidden about the trimaran lounge.
“We are flying at two hundred feet, leaving behind the western wing of Angelwing Forest and entering the duchy of Shelter. From the starboard window you can see the Mercy Sea, and in the distance you may be able to make out some of the Seven Mercies: Kwikdeth, Anon, Numness, Torpor, Coma, Stupor, and the largest of the isles, Rokbottom. In twenty-five minutes we will reach the town of Spank, ducal capital of Shelter. Perhaps we could stop for a picnic, and sample the local ales?”
Hissaq looked out the long window with his chin resting on his palm. The native Lemurian trees of Angelwing surrendered to moorland decorated with hardy Old Earth varieties of gorse and heather. But between shabby villages dotted about he saw fields of yellow glass grass, endemic he believed.[1] Dumpy animals trudged through the fields and left darker trails behind them, like streaks of orange paint on a yellow canvas.
“You talk some shite, robot,” Valeria said. “Why’s the capital called Spank anyway?”
“The provenance is uncertain, Valeria and different theories have been put forward. Some say the name derives from the natives’ appearance. They are naturally pale skinned, but the salty air gives them a reddish, scoured appearance, rather like the skin of slapped buttocks. Others believe the name is a nod to the first Duke of Shelter, Elon the Strange, who was spanked over the knee of King Rodric the 17th in full public view after a failed rebellion. After the spanking, Elon was stuffed in a wizard’s sleeve plant and slowly digested.”
***
Twenty-three minutes later the trimaran hovered over Spank in search of a landing spot. The town was a psoriatic rash infecting the skin of the landscape. At its western extremity people scurried about on a busy dock of dilapidated wooden walkways. Wattle and daub huts hunkered between a crazed warren of muddy tracks and patches of unhappy crops. Everything was brown, aside from the odd pink face staring up at the ship.
“Down there,” Valeria said, craning her neck to look out the window. “There’s a clearing, maybe a sports field or something. And you see that sort of longhouse? The Ducal house, maybe.”
Hissaq was sceptical; Dukes of even the lowliest duchies favoured much grander residences, but the landing spot seemed as good a place as any and the longhouse did look like some kind of municipal centre. “Alright, set us down, Ardie.”
“Deploying undercarriage now, folks.”
Less than a minute later Hissaq and Valeria descended the trimaran’s landing ramp, Hissaq carrying the sample of dust from the massacre site in Angelwing forest in a small jar. Less than ten seconds after that, they returned to the belly of the ship and retrieved full face respirator masks, for the town smelled like a chamber pot had been spilled in abandoned fish market.
Suitably protected from the stench, they tiptoed a while along a muddy track, giving a wide berth to a gaggle of skinny, half naked children tormenting a small five-legged creature which looked like a cross between a frog and a goose. An upturned old trawler lay abandoned and mouldering, slowly becoming one with the moist earth beneath. Upon closer inspection, they realised most of the huts incorporated pale blubbery stuff into their structures, and many were decorated with shells and pebbles or the skulls of larger marine creatures. A tethered ploughhog with a missing leg trudged in an eternal circle, driving a millstone for the crushing of brown vegetables which smelled like piss. A little boy whistled a jaunty tune as he collected the animal’s turds and popped them into a sack. The place was a haven for flies, and their droning was constant.
The grubby locals were remarkably incurious about the trimaran and unsoiled visitors in their midst. Hissaq and Valeria ignored them in turn. Rounding a bend, however, they stopped in shock at the sight of a women apparently fellating a man in full public view. The man stood with his back to them with his trousers about his ankles, with the woman kneeling before him. Valeria gave a cry of revulsion, catching the attention of the amorous pair.
The man turned and mercifully, his baggy shift hung down to the middle of his thighs, though there was no avoiding the unpleasant bulge higher up. The woman stood and wiped her mouth, and Hissaq swore to himself that he caught a glimpse of something odd protruding from her lips, just for an instant.
“Ah,” the man said, “welcome visitors. Happy Penis Day to you.”
“Pardon?” Valeria said.
“It is a Happiness Day here in Spank, are you not here for the celebration? I assumed you were, what with your lovely masks there. We have few visitors but they are always welcome. I am Pascal. This is my sister, Gurt.”
“I see,” Valeria said. “We’re here on business, actually. We have to wear the masks; rules and regs, what have you.”
“Ah, well you are welcome all the same. You must have wondered then why our beautiful town is bedecked so radiantly.”
“Yes, yes, the place looks amazing,” Valeria said and Hissaq stifled a laugh. “I am Miss Valeria, by the way, and this is my associate, Mr Hissaq.”
Gurt smiled, and Hissaq’s mirth curdled when he caught another glimpse of something very weird when her mouth opened briefly.
“We are pleased to make your acquaintance, good sir and madam,” Gurt said pleasantly. “We will help in anyway we can,” Her voice was muffled, as if she spoke through a mouthful of mashed potato.
Hissaq cleared his throat. “We apologise for interrupting your, erm, business. We seek knowledge of the veneriads, for their expertise in chemical matters. Have you heard of them?”
Gurt and Pascal shared a smirk. “You could say that,” she said.
“Forgive our ignorance of local matters, madam. Could you take us to one?”
“Of course. Come a little closer and I’ll show you one.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Hissaq stepped a smidgen closer.
“Come on, handsome, I won’t bite.”
Reluctantly, Hissaq approached. When he was standing before her, she opened her mouth wide, and what he saw there made him gasp in horror. The woman’s tongue was entirely gone, replaced. For in the cavity where it should have lain, a bloated, louse-like creature squatted in residence. Six little jointed limbs waved around happily, and two beady black eyes stared out from the pale body.
The woman closed her mouth and smiled sweetly. “That’s my veneriad,” she said. “A male, obviously. His name is Troy.”
Hissaq had seen many strange and upsetting things in his time, but nothing could top this for sheer eldritch grotesquerie. With his gorge rising, he consoled himself that surely the world had no greater horrors to offer.
He was disabused of that notion when Pascal declared, “And this is a female,” and lifted his grubby shirt as if unveiling a fabulous competition prize. The thing living betwixt his legs was like a massive, oily sea anemone with a clutch of greasy tentacles which writhed chaotically. “Meet Gloria.”
Valeria frantically lifted her visor, turned away and spewed. With a heroic effort, Hissaq maintained a semblance of cordiality. “Is this…situation common among your people?”
“Oh yes,” Gurt said. “All members of the community of breeding age sport these parasites. I say ‘parasites,’ which is technically true, but they’re our buddies really.” She turned wistful. “Troy protects me from all sorts of diseases, cleans my teeth and shares his wonderful sense of taste and smell directly with my silly old noggin. All he needs is for me to share a little bit of grub. To think how chem-blind our people used to be…”
“Where did they come from?” Valeria asked, having repositioned her face mask.
“They evolved from the larger types what infect the jellywhales,” Pascal said. “Some of those weigh half a ton or more.”
“You’ve seen how they reproduce,” Gurt added with a saucy grin. “’Afore long, Gloria’ll release a clutch of little crotch crabs. A lot of them get eaten by the quirds,[2] poor things, but some’ll survive to infect our little ‘uns. Or visitors, of course.”
As one, Hissaq and Valeria tightened the straps of their face masks. Given the situation, Hissaq wondered how the humans themselves managed to reproduce, but decided he didn’t really want to know.
“Now we’ve all been introduced,” Gurt said, “how can we help?”
“Well,” Hissaq said, holding aloft the jar of dust, “we wondered if you, or your veneriads, could identify this substance.”
“Gurt’s taste is superior to my own, I must confess,” Pascal said ruefully. “After you, Gurty.”
Gurt took the jar and unscrewed the lid, then carefully shook a small amount of dust into her palm. She raised the hand to her lips and opened her mouth. Troy emerged slowly and hideously from her mouth like some hellish phallus. Its own threadlike tongue extended down into the dust sample for a moment, before the whole wretched beast retracted back into its cave.
“Interesting,” Gurt said, her eyes rolling up to one side in thought. “Very interesting. Exotic. Not from around here, I know that much, but I can’t identify it.” She handed the jar back to Hissaq. “Methinks you should take this to the jarl, Captain Kallog. His buddy is a big old boy of legendary refinement and sensitivity. The Captain himself is a man of the world, a former Royal Navy captain no less, who has sailed all the seas of Lemuria.”
“What about the Duke of Shelter? Does he not reside in town?” Hissaq asked.
Pascal laughed as he pulled up his trousers. “Not likely. The duke rarely leaves his palace over on the isle of Stupor. I’m beginning to suspect he does not care for the likes of us. The jarl is Shelter’s true leader.”
Gurt and Pascal led them through the village to the longhouse, a rectangle of wooden boards supported by angled struts, topped off by a mass of mouldering thatch. A trail of smoke escaped a hole in the roof.
A half-arsed celebration was taking place in the dim interior. The single large room was lined by long wooden benches covered with furs, where locals milled around chatting and drinking. Blubber lamps and impressive marine skeletons lined the walls, and a lively hearth blazed in the centre with chunky sea life roasting on spits. A few locals turned to the newcomers and their guides, nodding friendly enough greetings and raising earthenware cups in salutation. A fellow in a stupid hat plucked a miniature harp and a couple moved lazily to the music in a drunken clutch.
Gurt and Pascal led them through the crowd to a raised platform at the far end, upon which sat a robust man with bulging cheeks, and dressed in expansive furs like a neolithic warrior. His throne was made of large, leathery plates, perhaps the scales of an expired leviathan. A skinny young man sat on the platform to his side, gazing up adoringly at the patriarch.
“Ho Gurt, Ho Pascal!” boomed Captain Kallog, for it was he who reclined upon the throne. With every word his mouth moved in exaggerated fashion, as if he were chewing a brick. He raised a palm and the harp player stopped. “You bring us visitors, I see.” A small crowd gathered around.
Gurt politely introduced Hissaq and Valeria to the jarl, who responded with an indulgent bow of the head.
“Welcome Hissaq, welcome Valeria,” Kallog said. “And Happy Penis Day to you both. I am Captain Kallog, and the fellow by my side is my nephew and glamorous apprentice, Tim.” The skinny lad gave a thumbs up. “‘Tis a rare delight for people of the chem-blind lands to grace us with their noble presence. Tim, fetch our guests some blubberwine, they must be thirsty, I trow.”
Hissaq thought on his feet. “Oh, no, please captain. Our protocols dictate that we may partake of no carousing or imbibing whilst on duty, sadly. We must even keep our face shields in place at all times.”
Kallog shrugged, and his bearing turned a little chillier. “So be it. And to what, pray, do we owe this visit? Does Her Majesty seek to rein in the prodigal son gone native?”
“A devious pun, uncle,” Tim said, amid knowing chuckles around the room. “Reign and rein, a most jaunty play on words. Let us hope our visitors do not rain on our parade, eh what?”
“Enough, Tim.” Kallog growled, then turned back to the visitors. “Am I to be folded back into the warm embrace of the empire? Loath am I to return to the realms of the chem-blind. I hear rumours of imperial machines infesting the duchies, machines that sail the skies like quirds, quills that require no inkpot, contraptions that fit comfortably upon a table yet render ink upon paper at a rate of fourteen pages per minute. Have ye heard of such wonders?” A bass growl rumbled from him. “Mmm, I fear for the old ways.”
Hissaq supressed a sigh. “Our land does indeed change before our eyes, captain, and it is no easy thing. Yet while Her Majesty endeavours to improve the lives of all Cartreffians with newfangled wonders, sanitation and the like, she respects the importance of tradition.”
Kallog sniffed, unconvinced. “What brings you here?”
“We repair to thy pulchritudinous land on a mission of great import,” Valeria declared, embracing Kallog’s uneven forsoothery with reckless abandon. “And we do beseech thy succour in this matter, which like I say, is of great import…tance.”
Kallog narrowed his eyes and leant forward, perhaps wondering if he was being mocked. Tim aped the gesture. “Very well,” Kallog said slowly. “What ails thee?”
“We seek identification of a mysterious substance,” Hissaq said hurriedly. He held aloft the jar of dust.
“Why?”
“Yes, why?” Tim said.
“Sadly, we cannot divulge the nature of our mission,” Hissaq said, adding lamely, “but your help would be much appreciated.”
Kallog sat back, folded his arms and spoke to the room. “The chem-blind arrive in our lands uninvited and seek our favour, yet will not even sup with us on this, a Happiness Day. Perhaps, Mr Hissaq and Miss Valeria, you should stay, make a home of this land, become more closely…acquainted with our ways. Then readily couldst thou identify yon dust thyselves.” His mouth opened unnaturally wide, the jaw surely dislocating, revealing a monstrous blue veneriad quivering therein. He closed his mouth and grinned. Tim tittered.
Valeria pulled her shoulders back and stood tall. Hissaq observed that like the captain, she enjoyed having an audience. “We are investigating a murder. A massacre, in fact.” Gasps and muttering around the room.
Kallog silenced the crowd with a gesture. “Massacre? Of whom?”
“Graphomorphs of Angelwing Forest.”
Kallog rubbed his chin. “Hmm…a peaceful folk are they, don’t surface often. I would see their murderers brought to justice. Very well.” He made an impatient give me gesture with his fingers and Hissaq handed over the jar. As Gurt had before him, Kallog tipped some of the dust into his hand. He stood, and the enormous veneriad oozed from his mouth (though still attached somewhere within), bracing its claws against the captain’s lips as it craned forward. The tasting was performed with considerable showmanship, Hissaq had to admit, Kallog standing in an affected pose like a stage magician.
When it was done, Kallog raised his closed eyes to the ceiling and flapped his lips, allowing the taste to percolate. “Aluminium oxides. Sulphur dioxide. Hmmm, silicates of many kind.” He smiled to the crowd. “Ah, of course. There is but one place this could have come from, the presence of trinitite seals it.” The crowd applauded and the captain made a prayer gesture of humble gratitude. “Tim, wouldst thou care for a taste? We shall see if thou hast paid attention to thine uncle’s wisdom.”
“Certainly, uncle,” Tim replied.
Hissaq offered the jar towards Tim, but the captain stopped him with an upraised palm. “No need, Mr Hissaq. Tim and I shall interface.”
Tim dropped his trousers and bent low, presenting his naked arse to his uncle. Kallog wheezed and lowered himself to one knee before the throne, opened his mouth and moved his face towards the tentacles which waved from between his nephew’s legs. Hissaq and Valeria only heard, rather than saw what happened next, for they had both closed their eyes.
Tim ummed and aahed, then he and his uncle announced in unison, “The Spewpot Wastes.” A ripple of applause and some cheering.
“I have taught thee well, young Tim,” Kallog said. “The stuff doth originate from the great Spewpot Wastes. There be nary a doubt.”
Hissaq opened his eyes a little too soon, and dearly wished he hadn’t.
Ten minutes later, Hissaq and Valeria recovered in the trimaran lounge with a small crowd of locals outside, waving them off on their journey.
“Setting course for the Spewpot Wastes, folks,” Ardie said. “Take off in T minus ten seconds.”
“Gods, Val,” Hissaq breathed. “What was the whole Penis Day, Happiness Day thing about? Was it my hearing?”
Valeria’s head was in her hands. “I don’t know. Let us never speak of this.”
As the ship rose and left Spank dwindling beneath them, she gave her considered opinion of the town. “It should be annihilated from space. Nuked. And the ground salted so nothing grows here ever again.”
Hissaq didn’t answer, made mute by a premonition of doom, for in the great wastes of south-west Cartreffi, no children played and no flowers bloomed.
[1] As the name implies, each blade of glass grass resembles a thin length of hollow glass, which efficiently captures sunlight through the principles of fibre optics. The yellow colour comes from pollen sacs contained at the base of each blade. The cell walls are formed of a biological thermoresponsive polymer which melts under pressure, releasing the pollen to cling to the legs of animals. When trampled, special enzymes initiate reformation of the spines to regrow. The grass is related to much larger angiospermous varieties, forests of which grow in Northern Cartreffi. There, the translucent spines form sparkling canopies.
[2] Quirds are the endemic class of flying organisms of Lemuria, and usually sport four wings. They live in competition with many bird species brought from Old Earth, and occupy similar ecological niches.