Tropic of Skorpeo

by Morrissey, Michael

  And then Gorgon, who had turned nearly indigo with rage, stopped ranting and burst into tears – huge salt drops like transitorised cannonballs landed at Juraletta’s feet, one even hit her on the toe so that the princess cried “Ouch!” so loudly that her scaly friend and mentor stopped bawling her eyes out, looked around her as bewildered as a newly hatched space babe, and exclaimed, “Oh great Qwerty! What am I saying to Your Majesty? Your Alabaster Princessliness? Here, cut my hair off! They’re only snakes, after all! Nothing else! Oh, I have shamed the name of gorgondom; I am no longer worthy to be en-snaked. Here, end the hissing for good! Snap their silly snaky necks like dry sticks!”

  “I will do no such thing,” said Juraletta in a voice that was almost a scold, yet full of gentleness, for she realised above all that Gorgie, that silly old living fossil, loved her as a mother.

  “Mercy, child,” exclaimed Gorgon with one final sniff. “Look at the time! Well nigh high noon. We will talk later, but now we must be at the Citadel of Marrying where the Fissionable Duke and the guests await! Hurry, child! Hurry!”

  By long-established Skorpean custom, Rhameo was not to meet his bride until she was naked in the marriage bed. On the morning of his wedding he would have expected to be excited by the idea – had he actually yearned to meet his intended. On recalling the babbling ovaloid portrait, however, he anticipated the grand event with dread.

  In the Courtyard of Eternal Vows, towering pinnacles of coruscating light had been erected, their colours sizzling in magnificent striped patterns of menacing energy that resembled wild animals released from a colossal cage. Columns of sculpted flowers hued every colour in the rainbow vibrated like a mosaic of burning bushes. Rows of green-skinned aristocrats – some rilled, some scrolled – from a dozen worlds, oozed self-importance.

  Teleporteus had dreamed up exotic jousts in honour of the nuptial event. Formidably spiny lobster men mounted on giraffophants would charge enpincered crab men astride mighty armadillons. Polyhedroids rode isoscelons and fought valiantly with equilatoron-mounted Rhomboids. The dreaded kittenbeasts of Lolzor Prime battled to the bloody death with the fearful puppymonsters of Lolzor Minor. The winners were presented with a laurel wreath on the nozzle end of a lowered laser whip, and those who died were happy to have done so, for to have set foot upon the jousting field was the greatest of honours.

  In the privacy of his bedroom, Rhameo donned a crimson-and-gold cape emblazoned with the furious white cracklings of the wrath-inflamed Beard of Zoah. He was adjusting its lethal pin when in swept his mother. The empress was aglow, triumphant.

  “Rhameo! Where art thou, Rhameo? Your bride looks divine! You lucky boy! You blessed fruit of the Sacred Tube! Imagine, just imagine, what I always have desired – the union of two great empires through the grace of holy connubiality and not the clumsy expression of random lust. Oh, thank the happily oscillating stars! Dear Rhameo, do you know what kind of feelings I am having right now? No, you cannot imagine, you simply cannot. That is my gracious secret. Mine alone, dear boy. Oh, I know you’re going to be a wise ruler, a Daniel come to judgement! Oh, these foolish phrases!” And so she babbled on, almost crying in her joy.

  Rhameo recoiled. His mother looked obscenely happy, and he had to smile while inwardly cringing. Oh unhappy prince, to be marrying for your mother’s ambition and not thine own wishes!

  At the appointed hour, triumphant drums rolled and joyful bells rang, though in the prince’s mind, drums of doom beat hollowly and hellish tintinnabulations clappered his eardrums like a siren’s shrieks. At the tick of noon, when Skorpeo’s two purple suns burned high in the sky, the prince descended in a floating dais into a vast stadium accommodating five hundred thousand cheering Skorpeans.

  Showers of deflected meteorites exploded in the ionosphere as Rhameo looked out over his people. The Gardens of Ying and Yang blazed into dichromatised glory. Teleporteus’s roustabouts, who fought at Rhameo’s feet, reached the climax of their show as an enormous lobster man cut down a crab man using the scissor of his claws. The conquering crustacean lifted his lobstery parts in salute to Rhameo, then turned to salute his veiled Volgogthian bride who approached slowly down the long aisle. Rhameo watched her waddling approach for several seconds while subduing the rampant queasiness that was building in his stomach. In the front row, his parents were watching him with pride. The mighty Beard of Zoah crackled benignly while Her Imperial Highness the Empress of Skorpeo tittered. She was actually blushing with pleasure.

  Silence fell as Gloggwetafug reached the front of the stadium, slowly mounted the stairs, and stood beside Rhameo. The bride was still happily veiled and would remain so until evening, when Rhameo would finally lay his eyes upon his new wife and be entitled (he stifled a shudder) to ravish her. He wondered how many years it would take to get used to her presence in his bedchamber.

  As the celebrant nannybat began to intone the intergalactic vows, the prince found that his mind was wandering, and soon settled on the sleek shape of a curvaceous, four-breasted, purple-skinned nymphet. He adjusted his trousers subtly. Throughout the ongoing drone of the ancestries and accomplishments of the House of Volgogtha, his mind was filled with increasingly erotic thoughts of his princess. How different would be the impending evening if it were her that stood beside him now, and how he should have taken advantage of the situation when they had last met – her naked, and he covered in sauce… Who was she marrying? The Fashionable Duke… Hopefully, the man would disappear, Gloggwetafug would be run over by an air car, and he and Juraletta could end up happily married. Why was fate such a nasty bit of work?

  The service progressed at the speed of a brain-damaged time tortoise. Rhameo was about to say the reluctant words ‘I do’ when there was a sizzling crash high above his head, a sound recognised by Rhameo as the combined clash of laser cannons and fissionic poniards being repelled by emergency force-fields. If he could hear the emergency fields, that meant that the primary ones had failed – but how could that possibly happen, when the computer that ran them was checked by another computer which was double-checked by two other computers which, in turn, were checked by the original computer, thus creating a never-ending circle of computerised checks, like a daisy chain of Slutoids pleasuring each other? Yet fail they obviously had, and the prince knew in an instant that the emergency shield would only hold back such a bombardment for a very short time.

  Initially startled, then shocked, the audience ran for cover, as sparks followed by bolts of laser death flew all around. Rhameo watched as the crowds jostled his parents before security personnel clambered to protect them, and he saw the look of bafflement on his mother’s face as she ran in fear. He knew that she was asking herself how such a thing could be. War during a wedding? It could not be so!

  Following a loud burst of ground fire, laser darts whizzed and pinged around Rhameo’s head, while the awful hiss of neuronic whips singed the nerves of their victims.

  Time to fight back – yet how? Against whom? And where was Teleporteus in this hour of need? No time to unravel these questions – Rhameo had to take cover. He dived under a table of durametal just as the blast from a laser cannon thrummed past his ear.

  A guttural cry from above prompted Rhameo to look up, where he saw a naked head shaved bald save for an orange comb of hair standing as straight as a Gothoid spear. Punkoids! Beside the devilish creature’s elbow was a brace of white-thighed Slutoids, their talking tattoos screaming unspeakably scatological insults, while directly above them hovered a trio of drugged-out Sleazoids. Screaming obscenities and drooling across their already spit-slick chests, the Slutoids fell upon him, razored talons slashing. Rhameo, who had long ago learned never to be without at least one trusted weapon, drew his vomit pistol and point-blanked them in each of their incarnadined mouths – instantly they disgorged gallons of ill-digested junk synthafood, and collapsed quivering to the floor.

  Face, neck, and shoulders liberally soused with Slutoid vomit, Rhameo found it hard not to retch himself, yet
the adrenalin bulling its way through his system kept him able to go on. To be asleep is to be dead – it was an old saying of Pundit’s, and it now made grim sense as he parried the blows of the ill-coordinated Sleazoids. He punched, kicked, chopped, and socked, until he despatched them into a gasping heap.

  Rhameo glanced around wildly. All was smoke and ruin. The effect of the unexpected attack was devastating – the Royal Palace of Skorpeo towering over the stadium looked as though it had been punched in its glittering head by an antedeluvian steam hammer. The gorgeous gardens surrounding the palace were a smouldering ruin. The Septagon, headquarters of the Skorpean defence forces, was a shattered remnant, its once proud towers a row of jagged teeth… In the stands, thousands lay dead – annihilated by sun-bright bursts of unshielded fissionic poniards. How had the Punkoids got hold of such powerful Skorpean technology? Presumably through the treachery of the Rhomboids, with whom the Punkoids had a loose alliance. And what of Skorpeo’s intended allies, the Volgogthians?

  Rhameo looked about to see how his father was faring under the onslaught, but could not locate his towering form. Of his bride-to-be, there was no trace – except a heap of brightly coloured clothes. Had she also been molecularised, like so many celebrating Skorpeans? And could he have done more – well, anything at all, really – to save her?

  He made his way quickly through the stadium, past piles of corpses, both Skorpean and invader. Rhameo discovered his mother surrounded by a dozen guards in the throne room, the empress crouched in a fearful heap at the foot of mighty Zoah’s throne.

  “Betrayed,” she moaned in a broken voice, “horribly betrayed. The Volgogthians said they wanted peace. And now – this.” She waved her arm towards the stadium.

  “Mother, how do you know they have betrayed us?”

  “Oh, my son – why are you so naïve, so trusting?”

  At that instant, Rhameo realised that his mother was the more naïve; it was she who had urged this union of the two competing empires by marriage, and it was at the moment of their linkage that the enemy had struck! Or had they?

  “Sibling!” Rhameo recognised the rapier-thin voice of Teleporteus. “I see you have survived?”

  Rhameo spun to face him. “Where have you been, younger brother?”

  “Escorting the purple-skinned one back to her silly world,” replied Teleporteus. “What steps have you put in place to repel this attack?”

  “None,” said Rhameo sourly. “It came in so fast there was no time to react, but it seems that the worst is past and the invaders are dead. Are you mustering a counterstrike?”

  “Of course,” his brother replied. “But the force-fields are munted! Where’s Zoah?”

  “Don’t ask,” said the empress. “I fear his wrath!”

  “What is there to be wrathful about?” asked Teleporteus, “A few Punkoids letting off laser cannons…”

  “They have fissionic poniards, Brother,” said Rhameo. “How did they get those?”

  “The black market?”

  “Nonsense,” said Rhameo. “You can’t get a fissionic poniard on the black market! This is treachery.”

  “Beware the Wrath of Zoah! See – he comes!” cried the empress. “May the gods protect us!”

  When Gorgon was satisfied that she had arranged Juraletta’s hair just so, she held up the mirror for the princess’s inspection. When Gorgon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror – snakes all a-writhe – she uttered a little squeal of horror.

  “Goodness, do I look like that?”

  “Like what, Gorgie?”

  “So… snaky.” Gorgon’s face was crumpled in self loathing.

  “Of course you do,” Juraletta said. “After all, you are a gorgon.”

  “Sometimes I forget.”

  “You should be proud of being a gorgon, as proud as I am of being a princess.”

  “How selfish of me,” said Gorgon. “It’s not my appearance that counts, it’s yours. You’re the one who is to marry.”

  “You should still be happy with how you look though, Gorgie. I think your snakes are rather charming – they add animation and excitement to your coiffure.” Gorgon blushed. “Now, where are my parents?”

  “You are beginning to sound like a stuck gramophone, child. They’ll be here soon.”

  Juraletta was looking forward to seeing them both. The more that she thought about it, the more she realised that she couldn’t actually remember her parents. Perhaps this was a good thing; perhaps not. Either way, she was reasonably sure that it wasn’t how things should be.

  “Time to go,” Gorgon broke in on the princess’s reverie. “Your bridegroom will be waiting.”

  Gorgon led Juraletta across the castle into rooms and corridors that the princess had never explored. Empty. It was too quiet; she knew things weren’t quite right. It was her wedding day – hundreds of people ought to be milling about! Gorgon took the bride-to-be into a room filled with darkened screens – stacks and stacks of them, filling all four walls and leaving little room for the two Qwertians.

  “Where is the Fissionable Duke?” Juraletta asked. “Where are the guests?”

  “All here!” laughed Gorgon, flicking a switch.

  Dozens of screens came to life. Each was focused on a single face, yet from the myriad dance of countenances on the screens, there were hundreds – if not thousands – of personages surrounding them, all engaged in social chatter. Birds of a feather, flocking together.

  “Who are they?” asked Juraletta. “I don’t recognise any one of them.”

  “Why,” said Gorgie, sounding slightly surprised, “they are your guests.”

  “But they aren’t here !” the princess cried, looking up at all of the faces and wondering if perhaps she might spy the handsome hunter, Rhameo. “And where are my parents?”

  “Look, here they are!”

  The gorgon gestured towards two large screens, each rimmed with brilliant violet.

  “Hullo dear,” said a smiling, middle-aged woman with hair slightly dusted with mauve powder who Juraletta thought vaguely familiar. “What a special day for you!” gushed the woman (Mother?), “And look dear, so many guests. You must be thrilled. My wedding day was much quieter, I assure you. Still, I never was one for the gay life.” The woman waved a fan across her brow. “My – don’t you look pretty. Gorgie does look after you, doesn’t she? She’s a gem, that woman – an absolute gem.”

  “Mother,” (the word sounded odd to Juraletta), “why is no one physically present? I thought I would be sitting down to a wedding feast with numerous guests.”

  “This is a postmodern wedding, girl. It’s largely conceptual. And though it may surprise or even disconcert you now, a few hundred years down the track, you’ll thank me. Take it from me, real people are a disgrace to the human – or inhuman – race,” her mother said. “And the absolute mess that confetti makes! Intolerable! All of the most fashionable weddings now have no one present – only the bride and groom, and the celebrant of course. And as luck would have it, Gorgie has been studying hard and has just been ordained in the Church of Qwerty, so she is your celebrant – now there’s something to celebrate! If you have guests at your wedding, sooner or later there’s a mad mêlée of people who have nothing in common, so why bring them together? It’s social suicide, and it often results in hurt feelings – sometimes even fights break out, especially when the younger guests get stuck into the tugga tugga juice. Can you imagine a fight at your very first wedding? What a disgrace! This is far more sensible, infinitely more modern, and much more fashionable, don’t you see? And if you don’t like what anyone is saying you can switch them off in mid-sentence. What a relief that can be! You can switch me off if you like! Ha ha! Just joking! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Some people just go on and on and on and on and on and on. On and on and on. Like Uncle Malfred at my wedding. The man is an absolute bore – boasting of his nights with the five hundred and eighty-three virgins of Throsto! I didn’t think they had any virgins left in that den of iniq
uity. Throsto! What a scandal! Your Uncle Malfred was an outrageous buffoon! Thank the stars he’s not present? He’s not, is he?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Juraletta, who had no idea what the lecherous Uncle Malfred looked like.

  “You know my recipe for a happy marriage? One of the partners at least must be a virgin. Expecting both to be is a trifle unrealistic, don’t you think? So, one virgin and no guests. The ideal marriage is a guestless love fest! Then your marriage – the event anyway – will be happiness itself!”

  “Just where are you, Mother?”

  “Many parsecs distant, my dear. The empire is vast, as you know, and Father can’t be everywhere at once, so I have to do some of the governing that goes on nova after nova. And that’s not to mention the fearful distraction of supernovae. I can’t be absent from my onerous work – not even for a wedding. In fact, I’m attending several important interplanetary meetings right now! I’m multitasking! Something every queen needs to do!”

  “I see,” said Juraletta, glancing at the blank screen alongside the one from which her mother’s face stared. “And where is Father?”

  “Ask Gorgie – she’s in charge of such things. I’m sure he’ll be putting in an appearance any second. Well, my dear, I must be off. I’ll be in touch again as soon as possible – after the duke and you are back from your honeymoon. Where are you going, by the way? Some passionate little spot in the Fornax System? Your father and I once… however, that’s another story. Yours is the hour! Enjoy yourself, my dear. Oh! And my very best wishes to your bridegroom. Quite a looker for a mature gent – he doesn’t look a day over seven hundred and ninety-four,” she exclaimed. “And wise and mature. Though his beard could do with a trim! Tiddle iddles for now.”

  “Mother, may I –”

  But the screen had gone dark.

  Juraletta turned to Gorgon. “And where is my bridegroom?”