The Strangelove Gambit

by David Bishop

  Having impressed Scullion with his skills as a bottle washer the previous night, Spatchcock had been promoted to cook's assistant after breakfast. So far that had involved cutting, peeling and preparing the less glamorous ingredients for lunch while avoiding a multitude of tentacles the verdant alien was intent upon sliding inside Spatchcock's clothing. He had responded by accidentally slicing one of the fleshy intrusions with his kitchen knife, bringing a howl of pain from the offworlder. "Be careful, you little oaf! These tentacles are precious objects, capable of rendering great culinary joy to many species!"

  "Fine, just keep them away from me," Spatchcock muttered under his breath. It was a relief when he was given a break from preparation and escaped Scullion's attentions for a few minutes. A narrow metal walkway ran outside the castle walls across to the servant's quarters in the west tower. For a short section it passed above the waters of the Black Sea. Spatchcock stopped and leaned on the railing, staring out over the gently undulating waves.

  The grimy ex-con blew air out through his mouth, his shoulders sagging. The prospect of spending the next week fending off Scullion's amorous advances held little appeal. He was used to being rejected by women, thanks to his repulsive appearance and virulent body odour. It felt strange and unsettling to be on the receiving end, even if the hunter was a green alien with more tentacles than inhibitions. Maybe I should swap jobs with Flintlock, Spatchcock thought to himself. I'm the one who belongs in the sewers, not him.

  A sudden splash nearby caught his attention. Spatchcock leaned over the railing, trying to focus on a shimmering silver shape below the water's surface. It stopped moving and returned his gaze, as if it had a face. But that was impossible, wasn't it? Spatchcock leaned further over the railing, stretching a hand down to touch the water below. If he could reach it, maybe-

  "Spatch! What are you doing?"

  The foul-smelling felon jerked his hand back, startled. Whatever had been below disappeared into the depths once more. Spatchcock looked up to see the slime-covered Flintlock approaching from the west tower. For the first time in his life Spatchcock felt obliged to pinch his nose shut, lest the smell from his friend overwhelm him. "What've you been doing?"

  "Clearing a blockage in the drains beneath Wartski's quarters. I don't know what she's got in there but it gives off this green pus." Flintlock wiped a hand across his chest, pushing the upper layer of slime off his clothing.

  "How can you stand the smell?"

  Flintlock smiled and tipped back his head to reveal an orange shape wedged inside each nostril. "I kept pieces of carrot from last night's stew, shoved them up my nose. At least they've stopped me from vomiting too often." Flintlock gestured at the waters below. "What were you trying to touch before?"

  "Thought I saw something moving down there."

  "But nothing swims around this island, unless you believe the fishermen's tales about sea monsters."

  Spatchcock shook his head. "Nah, this was something else. It had a face, almost looked human. Thought it was trying to talk to me."

  "Spatchcock! Spatchcock, where are you?" Scullion's voice rang out from inside the kitchen. "Come out, my little helper!"

  Flintlock's nose crinkled in disgust. "She still trying to get inside your trousers?" Spatchcock nodded disconsolately. "For once you've found someone who considers your unique aroma an aphrodisiac and you're repulsed by her touch! I find that rather ironic, old boy."

  "I'm not even sure Scullion is female," Spatchcock admitted. He sized up the green-stained, slime-soaked appearance of his partner. "You want to swap jobs? I'd be more than happy working the sewers."

  Flintlock shook his head. "Forget it. I almost smell as bad as you now. Scullion would probably think I was coming on to her. I'm staying put."

  "Spatchcock? Get in here this instant!" Scullion shouted. "Doctor Fabergè is calling for his lunch. You'll have to take it to him."

  "Lucky you," Flintlock teased. "Another afternoon of close encounters in the kitchens and an audience with the boss. Do give him my regards."

  Spatchcock replied with a muttered curse before returning to the kitchen. Flintlock remained for a moment, contemplating the other man's suggestion. "I'm not sure that's physically possible," he decided before heading back to the drains, not noticing the hand breaking the waves below his feet.

  In origami class Dante had exhausted his paper-folding repertoire after five minutes, creating an unimpressive hat, a dismal dart and an unrecognisable replica of a boat. Six students stared at their tutor in disbelief, the others being occupied in the next room with one of Professor Mould's tedious history lectures. Dante tried his most winning smile before admitting defeat.

  "Okay, let's face it. Origami is not where my true talents lie," he said. "Perhaps we could spend the rest of this lesson on something else?"

  "What do you suggest?" Carmen asked tersely. "What are you good at?"

  "Have any of your ladies ever played poker?"

  Zhang raised her hand to speak. "That is a card game, yes?"

  "Yes, but it is much more than that. Poker teaches you life skills. You discover how best to observe others, to notice their strengths and weaknesses. You learn when someone else is bluffing or trying to conceal a winning hand. You develop your own ability to keep a secret, to outwit your opponent. All these talents will be useful in years to come, no matter whether you become the wife of a Tsar or the head of a corporation."

  Carmen appeared intrigued by Dante's description. "Sounds interesting, sir. What are the rules for this game?"

  Dante smiled broadly. "Well, I can explain the rules as we go along. Does anyone happen to have a deck of cards handy?" One of the pupils, a ravishing redhead from the House of Windsor in Britannia, put up her hand. "Tracy, isn't it? If you don't mind my asking, why carry the cards with you?"

  She blushed a little. "I play solitaire during Professor Mould's classes to stop myself falling asleep."

  Dante collected the pack from her and began fanning through the cards, ensuring all fifty-two were present. "Hopefully you won't have to resort to such tactics during my lessons. Now, who wants to play first?"

  "Why don't we all play?" Helga suggested. "That would make it more interesting, ja?"

  "Ja. I mean, yes." Dante began shuffling the cards expertly. "Of course, there is another way of making poker interesting. There's nothing like having something at stake, a slight hint of jeopardy, to increase your excitement and enhance the learning process," he added hurriedly. "Has anyone here ever heard of the forfeit system?"

  The pupils all innocently shook their heads.

  "If you lose a hand, you are obliged to perform a forfeit," Dante explained. "It can be anything from revealing a secret to removing an item of clothing. How would you all feel about that?"

  Tracy nodded vigorously. "I think that would add to the learning experience. Don't you girls agree?"

  Dante, are you sure about this? the Crest asked. You seem to be placing a lot of trust in the word of your students.

  "What could possibly go wrong?"

  EIGHT

  "Food without salt is like a kiss without love"

  - Russian proverb

  Spatchcock returned to the kitchen to find Scullion waiting impatiently, a bowl of green soup clasped in one of her tentacles. "You're to take this to the institute's director in the north tower."

  "But I thought only authorised personnel were allowed in that area?"

  "True. Nevertheless, Doctor Fabergè still has to eat and I cannot risk leaving my soufflè. To make matters worse, that clot Flintlock has somehow succeeded in sabotaging the dumb waiter with his stumbling about in the drains. So you will have to deliver this soup personally."

  Spatchcock took the bowl, wondering aloud what the pink lumps floating across the surface were.

  "Pea and ham," Scullion snapped irritably. "Now get moving!"

  "But how will I get through the security cordon?"

  The alien removed a white plastic tag on a chain from r
ound its neck. "Wear this, it will identify you as friend, not foe. Do not remove it, or else the laser grid will remove your head. Now get moving!"

  "Which way do I-"

  Scullion's only reply was a sternly pointed tentacle.

  Natalia had not been this bored since Professor Mould's lecture series on the development of cold fusion and how it changed twenty-second century history. The ageing tutor had an uncanny ability to drain the life from any and all potentially fascinating subjects, rendering them as dull and inert as his features. Today's lesson was a case in point, sixty minutes of mind-numbing torture supposedly meant to illuminate the Neo Renaissance Movement of 2197 and its relevance to the rise of the Makarov Empire in modern times.

  Mould's voice droned on and on, regurgitating whole chapters from set textbooks that Natalia had read whilst at university. Seven more days to go, she told herself over and over. Seven more days. A squeal of delight from the adjoining classroom was followed by wild applause and raucous cheering. That couldn't be right, could it? Surely Mr Durward was meant to be taking an origami class for the less academically gifted members of the elite group.

  Natalia leaned back in her chair and sneaked a glance through a glass partition that linked the two rooms. All she could see were the backs of the pupils in the neighbouring class. They were gathered around the teacher's desk, clapping their hands and cheering somebody on. Natalia had opted out of paper folding after the first term, deeming it a topic beneath her contempt. What was raptly holding the attention of those next door? Had Mr Durward introduced some revolutionary techniques?

  Suddenly the crowd of students parted to reveal the source of their fascination. Mr Durward was stripped to the waist, attempting a Cossack dance on top of his desk while wearing a brassiere over his head. Judging by the size of the cups, the bra had most recently been worn by the not inconsiderable chest of Helga. Whatever was happening in the next classroom, it had little to do with paper folding.

  Natalia realised too late that she had leaned too far back in her chair. Her arms windmilled, trying to maintain a balance, but it was a futile attempt. Natalia's chair flipped over backwards and she was propelled into the desk behind her, crashing her head against its wooden edge with an almighty thunk. She slumped to the floor, white dots of light blinking before her eyes.

  Mould looked up from his textbook for the first time during the lesson. "Is something wrong?" He studied the faces of his pupils and noticed one was absent. "Miss Sokorina? Where are you?"

  Natalia scrambled to her feet, rubbing one hand against the back of her head. "Sorry, Professor Mould. I, er... lost control of my chair." She righted the seat and resumed her place in it. "Sorry."

  Mould raised his eyebrows a fraction before returning to his textbook, seemingly oblivious to the noise from the next room. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the Neo Renaissance Movement of 2197. For many, the highpoint of this cultural revolution was the introduction of direct mind-to-computer terminals, enabling creators to translate imagination into action immediately..."

  Spatchcock approached the north tower cautiously, a bowl of soup held in one hand, the white plastic tag in the other. While the kitchen held the homely scent of cooking, this part of the castle was filled by the musty smell of neglect - few came through these corridors. At the tower's basement entrance a wall of red light barred entry, its surface crackling menacingly. Spatchcock recalled how Wartski had opened and closed the castle entrance. He swiped the tag across a palm reader beside the energy barrier. After a short, metallic beep the red light faded away, allowing him to walk past. Once he had cleared the doorway, the energy barrier pulsed back into life. Getting out of the north tower was just as hazardous as getting in, it appeared.

  The door to a lift stood open ahead. Spatchcock was about to walk in when he realised the security tag was missing from his hand. He eventually found it hidden in a side pocket. He had palmed it, Spatchcock realised - once a thief, always a thief. Retrieving the tag, he waved it in front of the lift doorway. Another energy barrier switched off, this one invisible to the naked eye. Satisfied the lift was now safe, Spatchcock entered.

  Moments later he was being shot upwards by some unseen force, the walls of the lift shaft sliding down past him. "Diavolo!" he whispered, trying not to soil his trousers. The uplift began to slow, then stopped altogether. Spatchcock stepped out of the lift shaft, sure his stomach must be lodged somewhere below his knees by now.

  A single door of frosted glass stood opposite. Spatchcock could see humanoid shapes moving beyond it, but not enough to make out their identity. After checking it was safe to touch, he rapped firmly on the glass with his knuckles. The door was abruptly pulled open to reveal the Strangelove twins inside, looming over the new arrival.

  "Yes? What-"

  "-do you want?"

  Spatchcock held out the soup for them to see. "I brought Doctor Fabergè's lunch. It's pea and ham - I think."

  The doctor was bent over a machine, examining something on a glass slide. "Yes, I ordered lunch more than an hour ago!" The laboratory was awash with shining glass and metallic silver, most of the workspaces choked with machines beyond Spatchcock's knowledge. The doctor gestured angrily at a nearby tabletop cluttered with papers, scribbled notes and data crystals. "Put it over there."

  Storm glared at Spatchcock. "You heard the doctor."

  He obeyed the instructions, walking uncertainly into the antiseptic air of the laboratory. Spatchcock approached the tabletop indicated by Fabergè and gently nudged some of the clutter aside to create space for the bowl. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

  Fabergè did not bother to look up. "Yes - out."

  Spatchcock nodded and scuttled from the room, careful to avoid the malevolent gaze of the Furies. Tempest slammed the door shut once he was outside, not noticing the glint of triumph in Spatchcock's eyes. He kept the security tag held up before his face, using it to summon the disconcerting invisible lift. His other hand nestled inside a pocket, clutching the data crystal he had palmed while inside the laboratory. It was tiny, little larger than a fingernail, and felt like a chip of warm glass to the touch.

  Hopefully it contained information about what Fabergè was doing in his closely guarded laboratory. Now all Spatchcock need do was find a way of slipping the crystal to Dante so the Crest could analyse it.

  I tried to warn you, didn't I? I tried to make you see sense. But no, you knew better. You were sure. You could handle a few innocent girls with limited life experience. What could possibly go wrong?

  "Have you quite finished gloating?" Dante replied tensely.

  Finished? I've barely begun. Besides, this isn't gloating. I'm attempting to teach you the error of your ways. Since you seem determined to ignore every piece of advice I offer, I've decided to take a fresh approach. Let you make your own mistakes and then try - repeat, try - to see whether you're learned anything from the experience.

  "And how's that working for you so far?"

  I trust this is not an experience you'll be reliving anytime soon.

  Dante nodded his agreement. "That much we can agree on. Now, have you got any advice you'd like to offer at this juncture, Oh Great Oracle?"

  Sarcasm does not befit a man who has only an abandoned brassiere between himself and complete nudity.

  "I asked for advice, not for you to state the bloody obvious!" Dante shifted one of the cups so it covered his crotch more effectively. The other was clamped across part of his buttocks, while the straps dangled untidily between his legs. "Guess I should be grateful it was Helga who let me keep her bra. Some of the other students aren't so well endowed-"

  Look who's talking!

  "And I'd be in even more trouble right now." Dante peered round the doorway from the classroom where his poker lesson had gone so awry. The pupils had departed several minutes earlier, taking all his clothes as part of the final forfeit. Before leaving, Carmen revealed that the pupils often indulged in all-night poker parties, using Tracy's marked pack of
cards to alleviate unsuspecting students from other classes of their allowances. At least that quelled Dante's embarrassment at losing twelve hands in succession, if not his shame at being left stark naked and with a hundred metre dash back to the safety of his private quarters. "Those girls are man-eaters," he muttered darkly.

  And they had you for dessert.

  "Crest, I think that's enough advice for the moment."

  Do you think they'll still respect you in the morning?

  "I said that's enough!" Dante realised shouting was not going to help and lowered his voice again. "Just tell me whether the coast is clear, alright?"

  I sense no imminent danger approaching from any direction-

  "Good. Now's my chance!" Dante decided. He started running towards the faculty rooms, looking back over his shoulder to make sure nobody had spotted him.

  But there is someone just about to step into your path.

  Dante clattered into Natalia as she emerged from the institute infirmary, clutching an ice bag to the back of her head. Teacher and student went both sent sprawling, their respective possessions flying into the air. Dante realised he had lost hold of the bra and made a grab for it as he tumbled over.

  Natalia sat up and realised Helga's bra was draped across her own, less voluminous chest. More startling was the sight of the naked teacher holding a bag of ice against his crotch. "Mr Durward! What are you doing?"

  Dante stood up, trying to look casual and failing dismally. "I might ask you the same question, young lady."

  Natalia pointed at the infirmary door. "I hit my head during history and went to get something for the pain."

  "I see."

  She gestured towards Dante's crotch. "Could I have my ice bag back?"

  "Actually, no."

  "Why not?"

  Dante shrugged helplessly. "Umm..."

  Tell her you have an old war wound, the Crest suggested.