Tropic of Skorpeo

by Morrissey, Michael

  “I think I’ll just head on out and see what’s there,” said Rhameo, flexing his bow.

  “Very wise, guv’. Got all your gear in order? We don’t want any accidents, do we? Though if it all turns to custard we’ve got a rake to gather up the pieces.”

  “I’m sure there won’t be any,” said Rhameo.

  “No pieces? Good one, guv’. I’ll rattle up some trusty tigons, li-tigons, ligers, and li-ligers.”

  “Don’t forget the tigers,” said Rhameo.

  “No, guv’,” laughed the concierge, “I won’t forget the tigers. And they won’t forget you!”

  Rhameo waved a hand in acknowledgement, re-entered his ship, and flew down to Erath where he touched down in a clearing. Though he felt he was cheating, he swallowed a nausea pill to help his system deal with the extraordinary amounts of green, for while Rhameo was himself of the pounamu persuasion, the panopoly of emerald that confronted him through his flight deck window was enough to turn the stomach of the strongest Skorpean – apple-green ferns, moss-green boulders, vomit-green undergrowth, bile-green plantlings, sea-green trees… it was an intricate map of living emerald, bizarre beyond his wildest imagining. Making one last check of the neuronic gun that was holstered at his left hip, his molecule whip slung around his waist, and his orange-tipped cortical command arrows (and, just to be on the safe side, an additional emergency weapon: a vomit pistol), he set off.

  The vegetation soughed and sighed. When the wind eased, he heard the mad caw caw of Byzantine crows and the snicker of mysterious wings. Swarms of insects alighted on his strong arms, bit him, and promptly died. He laughed quietly to himself – his attackers perished even as they tried to feed on him.

  After an hour of tramping through the jungle, Rhameo began to feel tired, so on seeing a fallen tree he sat down and rested his foot on a nearby rock, which promptly opened its jaws and snapped off the toe of his boot. A leviathan stone beetle! These fantastic creatures with jaws strong enough to slice through durametal had been extinct on most worlds for well over a hundred years – he never thought he’d see one in the flesh. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so with a shout of victory he slashed it in half with the molecule whip. However, the two halves, after having run about the undergrowth like headless chickens, achieved a temporary, if somewhat askew, union. Rhameo slashed the hybrid abortion into four pieces, then sliced each of the quarters in half. The eight chunks of proto-beetle were now in too much molecular disarray to be dangerous.

  After a few minutes’ rest, Rhameo continued on his way, though he was beginning to wonder if he’d been had. No sign of tigers, lions, or the host of creatures they supposedly spawned, but through the clearing ahead he did see something very unusual – a substance, clear as permaglass, though in movement. Was it some sort of transparent liquid metal? Rhameo put the tip of his bow into the flow and the liquid parted to move around it. Cool to the touch!

  Strange yet harmless, he decided, so he waded into the liquid and found that it was cold around his thighs and, wonder of wonders, actually soaked into his clothing – a strange metal indeed! Idly, he lashed at it with his whip, and the opening thus created closed up instantly. The molecules must be loosely connected yet capable of rejoining themselves, he thought, which meant that his whip would be useless against such a subtle material. Luckily, it was not an adversary, though perhaps some of the creatures on Erath did use it as a weapon, and as he neared the middle of its flow the strange metal tugged so fiercely at his thighs that it threatened to upend him.

  As he wondered what would happen if he was immersed in the liquid, he felt something coil around his ankle. His mind raced through his defence alternatives – cortical command arrows (useless); molecule whip (dangerous, for he might slash his own foot); vomit pistol (useless, as it must be fired into the creature’s mouth); neuronic gun (also useless, as he couldn’t aim it through flowing metal).

  He struggled frantically against the fetter, but it was no use – his ankle was held tight. Looking around wildly he espied a striped branch on the bank nearby. He reached out and gripped it firmly, tugging hard, but the branch twitched in his grasp and a ripping, snarling noise filled his ears as a massive orange and black shape whirled on him and gaped crimson jaws – he had seized the tail of a tiger! (Or was it a tigon? Who could say?) The enormous, muscular animal clamped its jaws around his left arm and plucked him out of the liquid. Through his hazing consciousness, he saw that the thing that had gripped his ankle was nothing more than a twisted, dead branch.

  Having dragged him bodily into the air, the tiger flung Rhameo to the ground and placed a huge paw on his chest. Frenzied with panic, Rhameo wrenched out his vomit pistol and managed to fire it point blank into the tiger’s mouth. The effect was instantaneous. The monstrous creature threw up the remains of its last meal – a partially digested monkey – across Rhameo’s face and torso. Finding himself covered in stinking black entrails, Rhameo also vomited as he rolled free of the tiger still being racked by spasms. Quickly, Rhameo drew an orange-tipped cortical command arrow then reached for his bow – gone! In desperation, he thrust the arrow into the beast’s flank, and with the last reserves of his strength he commanded the tiger to lie still.

  The beast gave a challenging snarl and lunged forward. Rhameo renewed the command, but it wasn’t working! The animal must be so strong that the arrow had not done its job, or it was so enraged that it did not understand a Skorpean cortical command. And yet they worked so well on puce-skinned, four-breasted, comely young humanoids, Rhameo thought hazily.

  He stumbled backward, lashing out at the animal with his molecule whip, but in his weakened condition managed only to slice through the tip of the tiger’s left paw. Roaring in anger, it struck Rhameo sideways – the blow heaving him into a somersault through the air. He crashed into a tree and fell to the ground, unconscious.

  Snarling, the tiger threw open its jaws and charged.

  Through the open doorway, Juraletta saw the most beautiful garden in the galaxy. It was wilder and more luxuriant than the one she had wandered through in the realm of Outside, though it didn’t seem to be inhabited by a dwarf or a giant, and certainly not a talking hedge. Strangely, she almost missed them, and found herself glancing around as though they might appear, though she knew that this was a silly thing to do as this was really a forest rather than a garden. Enormously tall trees with shaggy growths and vines hanging off them towered above her with web-like ferns growing out of their bases; overhead, crutches of massive branches loomed. Blooms shaped like huge, brightly coloured bells and shatteringly beautiful flowers as luscious as the kiss of a prince brushed at her fingertips.

  And thinking how beautiful the forest was (even though some of the vines made her think of Gorgie’s hair) and how much she loved the endless flowers, she began to cry. When she noticed her tears sizzling holes through the vegetation, she tried to stop. It was no good – the tears kept welling up.

  “Stop that! Stop that at once!” said a tiny, high-pitched voice.

  “Stop what?” asked Juraletta, looking around.

  “Stop crying.”

  “Why can’t I cry if I feel miserable?” asked Juraletta.

  “Because your tears have made a hole through my roof,” shrilled the voice.

  She looked down and saw a little man no more than five or six centimetres tall.

  “That seems unlikely to me,” said Juraletta, more amused than apologetic.

  “See for yourself,” the manikin said, raising his voice.

  When Juraletta bent down she noticed a small hole in the red and white spotted toadstool that appeared to be the diminutive creature’s home.

  “Is there much damage?” Juraletta asked, trying to sound as sympathetic as she could, while suppressing a terrible urge to giggle.

  “Oh, not much,” the creature said. “That is, if you consider a flooded lounge, an abluted bedroom, and a washed-out study ‘not much’.”

  “That sounds like quite a lot,”
said Juraletta as she wondered how a toadstool could contain so many rooms. “I should offer you some compensation.”

  “What sort of compensation?” the other asked contemptuously. “I can see you’re only a princess, and princesses don’t have their own income until they marry a dashing prince with a chin cleft you could use as an ashtray for a box of Cuban cigars.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Juraletta conceded. “I don’t have much to offer in the way of compensation, but I could, however, be your friend. And I don’t make this offer to everyone I meet, you know. The friendship of a princess is generally considered priceless. Or at least, a jolly good bargain.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said the toadstool dweller, after considering the offer for a couple of seconds. “Why don’t you duck into my house and let me have my evil way with you?”

  “I am grateful for the offer,” lied Juraletta, smirking a little, “however, I am engaged to marry the Fissionable Duke tomorrow, so I’m afraid it is quite out of the question.”

  “Well in that case, this is your final chance for a fling-a-ding before the sting of the wedding ring.”

  “Well, apart from the moral impossibility of such a union there are the… uh… physical… problems.”

  “I fail to get your drift.”

  “You’re only a few inches tall, so I’m not sure if the… ah… mechanics will quite work.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” mouthed the manikin. “But that sounds like sizeism to me.”

  “Sizeism?” repeated Juraletta thoughtfully. “Is that with the e, or without?”

  “I knew you were a sizeist as soon as I clapped eyes on you,” he said.

  “Well, I am sorry for flooding your residence with my tears,” Juraletta said. “However, I am no sizeist, and I shan’t let you have your way – wicked or otherwise – with me. I must be on my way.”

  Storming into his bruised home, the little fellow slammed the door.

  For a moment Juraletta considered turning back. She knew that poor old Gorgon must be worrying herself sick, but then again, Gorgon was always telling Juraletta what to do, and why shouldn’t she have some fun before marrying the Fissionable Duke on the morrow?

  Just then, Juraletta heard a sweet sound, like a bird greeting one of the twin suns of Qwerty. And there was the sound again, enticing her onward.

  “Queeeniieee,” it sounded like. And who were these birds to be calling her thus before her coronation? Yet, at the same time she felt glad of this recognition from these humble creatures. But were they so humble? Their high voices were tinged with smugness.

  “Queennieee… Queen –”

  They stopped in mid-syllable. Juraletta walked on a few paces.

  “Queeennnie…”

  I am not your queen, thought Juraletta. Not yet, anyway.

  Turning to reprimand the birds, she suddenly saw a strikingly beautiful – and surprisingly naked – woman. She stood beneath a tree wearing nothing more than a torn loincloth, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly as she… as she took a shower, Juraletta realised. White fluid splashed across her breasts. Then several more droplets landed in steaming licks on her belly, arms, and cheek. Opening her mouth, she snaked out her tongue and licked up the white goo.

  She turned to Juraletta, mouth exposed. “I’m just taking a little honey bath from the sperm tree. Care to join me?”

  Juraletta looked up and saw that the tree had the most peculiar, pink-fleshed flowers that ejected globules of white fluid from their spear-headed tips. The woman smiled so naturally and warmly, Juraletta felt reassured.

  “Why not,” Juraletta said recklessly. Quickly shedding her robe, she stood naked under the dozens of spouts. Drops of warm, steaming honey landed on the four perfect globes of her breasts. Each drop felt like a warm hand caressing her skin. She thought of the green-skinned hunter, wondering if his skin was as warm as his breath…

  “Refreshed?” asked the woman.

  “A trifle sticky,” said Juraletta, pursing her lips.

  “Let the honey soak in,” advised the woman. “It’s very good for the complexion.”

  “I’m quite happy with my complexion.”

  “That must mean that you aren’t yet married,” said the woman with a laugh. “I am Araminta, the naked Amazon Queen. I rule this jungle.”

  “I am Juraletta, Princess of Venera and soon to be Queen of Qwerty.”

  “Are you a virgin?” asked Araminta.

  “Wherever I go, people keep asking me that,” Juraletta said with a sigh. “Frankly, I can’t see why it’s so important.”

  “Have you been with a man?”

  “I’ve been flying with one – with green skin,” admitted Juraletta. “Does that count?”

  “What did you do while flying?”

  “We were enmeshed in the folds of a musical skyray.”

  “And what did you do after you had landed?”

  “We said goodbye,” said Juraletta. “He didn’t even kiss me.”

  “Then it sounds like you are a virgin.”

  “I suppose so,” conceded Juraletta. “Is that important?”

  “To some people, no,” said the jungle queen. “But it does mean that you are exactly what we’re looking for.”

  The Amazon smiled sweetly and took Juraletta by the hand.

  “Come,” said Araminta. “Let me show you to your quarters.”

  “I didn’t know I had any quarters.”

  “You certainly have lovely hindquarters, my sweet little virgin,” murmured Araminta as she gave Juraletta a pat on her derrière. “But the quarters I was referring to are the special house we have erected in case any virgins visit us. You will be its first guest.”

  The jungle queen led Juraletta down a path towards her village, which consisted of a number of huts constructed of twigs heaped high, with shaggy palms for roofs.

  “You see, we jungle folk require only humble fare,” explained Araminta. “You won’t find any metallic rubbish in our culture. The climate is warm and fruit abundant. We are a simple, natural, organic folk who spend our days laughing and playing. On occasion, we frolic in crystalline pools and let the pleasantly cool water cascade over our abundant bosoms, though mainly we spend our time making love.”

  “And waiting for virgins to drop by?” asked Juraletta.

  “In a manner of speaking,” agreed Araminta. “We believe that every nude epiphany is a righteous thing.”

  Juraletta was trying to figure out exactly what a nude epiphany was, and what made it righteous, when a young lady ran up to Juraletta and Araminta. She was a pretty and royally unclad lass of nineteen or twenty, with a bosom that rivalled her monarch’s.

  “My queen,” she said with a curtsy, “we have made an exciting capture.”

  “Not now, oh delightfully cavorting one,” said Araminta, giving her nubile messenger a playful spank on her buttock. “Can’t you see I have a ripe virgin on my hands?”

  “I crave your forgiveness, my queen,” dimpled the pulchritudinous girl. “She is just what we need for the ceremony.”

  “What ceremony is that?” Juraletta enquired politely.

  “Oh, nothing really – just a little party we have to welcome virgins,” explained Araminta, before turning back to the girl. “We will view your captive beast presently.”

  She led Juraletta to the dining hall. Seated at crimson-clad tables were about fifty impossibly beautiful and nearly naked young women. All fifty were exactly alike – fifty younger versions of Araminta all seated and smiling sweetly.

  “I say,” said Juraletta. “Your friends do all look very like you.”

  “Exactly like me,” said Araminta, “they’re clones. That’s why when we make love, it’s extremely gratifying because we all know precisely what each other wants.”

  Araminta led Juraletta to the head table, and a moment after they sat, a waitress appeared and read from a piece of coarse paper.

  “Spunk of the day is naked horn of rhino baked in fla
nge blossom, followed by nude hunk of beef served with randyfied sauce. Dessert will be unblemished virgin, served a la carte, with extra-creamy coffee to follow.”

  Juraletta did not want to offend her hosts so she ate all of the horn of rhino, which was certainly interesting, but a little stringy. As she ate she thought about the menu and wondered what the difference was between ‘naked’ and ‘nude’. Perhaps Araminta would know?

  “And now, the hunk of beef!” announced Araminta with a grin.

  To cheers from the gathered tribe, the hunk of beef was brought in. It was something – or perhaps someone – tied to a platter and covered in a glistening sauce.

  “Goodness,” said Juraletta as it was paraded past her table. “That does look appetising.”

  A stationary tiger can leap sixteen feet from a crouching position; a stationery tiger can inflict paper cuts from the far side of the office; a charging tiger takes no more than three seconds to cover fifty yards. Yet, within that time, Rhameo had vacated the tigrine horizon.

  Where had he gone? Into a net, for a flailing limb had triggered a trap, and his unconscious form had been lifted fifty feet into the air where he hung, swaying gently, just below the canopy. The tiger watched disdainfully, before sloping off in quest of a lioness so that he could sire a tigon.

  Rhameo stirred, but so comfortable was the net – it caressed his muscles like a velvet hammock – he fell asleep and only awoke when he heard voices. Soft, female voices.

  Though still barely awake, he flicked the switch of his translation device and heard a voice saying, “Do you think this animal will suffice?”

  “As long as it has flesh on its bones,” a second voice replied.

  “I am not an it,” Rhameo said indignantly, twisting his neck to try to spy the owners of those voices. He felt himself bouncing gently up and down and surmised that the net he was in was being carried.