Tropic of Skorpeo

by Morrissey, Michael

  “Speak on, oh Emperor-To-Be,” Queen Beia crooned. “Your words are music to my ears, for they are always hungry for tales of naked ambition, extraordinary evil, and smouldering lust for power.”

  He settled into his chair. “My father Zoah believes I am vanquishing the Punkoids and annexing the kingdom of the Rhomboids,” he said, “whereas I have made them my allies in my bid to wrest Skorpeo from his senile grasp. He will expect me to return in triumph –”

  “And so you shall, My Lord,” cried Queen Beia. “So you shall!”

  “With any luck the Volgogthians will have defeated the thunderous fossil on their own. Somehow, I don’t think they’ll manage it. They are coarse, unimaginative brutes who believe the best way to take anything is by pure force.”

  “Not so, My Lord – one needs guile as well.”

  “Precisely,” said Teleporteus. “So we need a plan to fool Zoah and wrap up my victory.”

  “Here’s what you should do,” said Queen Beia without hesitation. “Send a message to Zoah telling him that you and Rhameo have been captured, and that Zoah must come alone and unarmed to the camp of the Octopus if he hopes to see you alive again. Of course, he will come, which will leave Skorpeo without its head – that is the time for the Volgogthians to strike in greatest force, and by the time he reaches the Sargasso, Skorpeo will have been taken. When Zoah arrives you take him prisoner, then return in glory to Skorpeo where you tell the people that he betrayed them to the Volgogthians, and in turn, you overthrow them. You then de-tentacle the Octopus, who is far too powerful for his own good, and leave him wallowing perpetually in his own slime. You will rule the galaxy as the most powerful overlord in its fifteen-billion-year history, and I will be at your side, ever ready to give Machiavellian counsel.”

  Teleporteus looked at the queen in admiration. The woman, Replicoid or no, was absolutely brilliant! Not even he would have dared to think of de-tentacling the Octopus – and yet it was logical. The finest logic in the universe was always that of complete ruthlessness.

  “Your scheme has merit,” he conceded. “All right, you can be my queen.”

  Queen Beia embraced him and kissed him with the enthusiasm of a true space harlot. “Mighty lord, let us cement our great union in the ways in which I am so skilled.”

  She undid the top button of Teleporteus’s tunic. He felt aroused by her devious ways, though it was the nakedness of her ambition rather than the brazen exposure of her svelte body that brought him to a sudden pitch of desire. Quickly, he shed his battle gear; within seconds they consummated their concupiscence with a series of lecherous expletives that would have made Juraletta blush.

  As they lay panting on the floor a few minutes later, Queen Beia turned to look at Teleporteus.

  Now I have you where I want, you arrogant, shamefully endowed little Prickoid, she thought.

  Rhameo’s freedom was not going to be handed to him on a platter. Up ahead, he saw a phalanx of Slutoids jeering over a whimpering young man whom they clearly intended to deflower. Now in battle mode, Rhameo sprinted down the dimly lit metallic hallway and dispatched the quartet to oblivion with vicious stolka kicks. Next, he came across a couple of Slothlings with parasitic males concealed in their fat folds. They moved too slowly to impede his progress, but he left them stunned on the floor in case they should try to raise the alarm.

  That’s my boy, thought Lord Maledor. This was no longer the idle dandy hunting for musical skyrays or whatever his orange-tipped cortical command arrows might hit – he was now a vengeful warrior bent on the heroic rescue of his manacled beloved.

  Rhameo made his way to one of the ramshackle spaceports of the Sargassean world. Surprisingly, the route was almost deserted, and his Punkoid rags and green skin formed a rough disguise that helped him to escape detection. After a quick search of the port, he found a battered space cruiser, captured, no doubt, through the seductive powers of the Jezebels. He slipped inside and found grisly confirmation: the skeletons of the once lust-maddened crew frozen in permanent bony rictus, mouths agape at the nude space sirens, now long gone, that they had espied through their ship’s dusty portals.

  Kicking aside the skeleton of the pilot, Rhameo familiarised himself with the controls and threw the ship into emergency take-off mode. All force-shields were cranked to maximum and the liquid uranium fuel fired at full throttle through the engines.

  Even as startled Punkoids ran toward the ship, he lifted off and shot skyward. Within minutes he was in orbit, but already the fuel warning light had started to glow. He consulted the computer, looking for a world that he could make for. This was a strange part of the galaxy – an unmapped wilderness amid the Sargasso and the Rhomboids – and even now he could see ships launching in pursuit. A hospitable planet must be found, and fast.

  Hurriedly, he punched in the coordinates for a world that looked to have the appropriate metallurgical qualities. The one that he had found was no larger than an asteroid so with any luck his pursuers would overlook it, expecting him to try to flee back to Skorpeo. Rhameo adjusted his trajectory; as the ship lurched violently, he shut off all systems. Gliding in silence and darkness, he watched as Punkoid ships roared past him into the depths of the Sargasso.

  Rhameo sat back, and smiled.

  An hour later, the prince brought his ship back to life and rocketed down towards the muted glow of the rocky world. After landing in a valley, he ascertained that the atmosphere was almost perfect for his particular metabolism. A little piece of Skorpeo here at the end of the galaxy, buried in the Sargasso!

  Outside, the air was fresh and sweet. Almost, Rhameo thought, like a young girl’s breath.

  Like a young girl’s breath – indeed, thought Lord Maledor with a laugh. Welcome to Pornotopia. Now we shall test your ‘love’ for the Princess Juraletta. Oh, indeed we shall, my boringly noble prince!

  It was not the air that smelled so alluring, but something at ground level. An aroma impossible to ignore – a maddening mix of musk, pineapple, and mango. A soft singing note reached Rhameo’s ear, like the sweetest of female voices. The swooning beauty of it, the inescapably exquisite timbre aroused curiosity. It said, ‘Come and find out who and what I am. Come and get to know me.’

  Rhameo moved through a vegetative landscape as beautiful as any in the galaxy. The fact that he had left his lover in chains in a Punkoid dungeon had dropped from his mind. The new surroundings were a reminder of something he had known. It contained its own past. It seemed that he could remember walking this garden once before, and the perfume of sensual remembrance reminded him of a rich past that he had never quite known, so that he reacted to it as to an old love.

  “Rhameo,” a voice called. He knew that voice, had always known it. Why, it was the voice of – there she was, the soft-voiced angel who called. And her arms were open. Forever open. He came forward…

  “My love,” the voice murmured. “I have been longing for you for all eternity!”

  Of course she was naked, royally naked. Her breasts green-gold, her arms sinuous and perfumy. Their lips met in a golden-soft ambience, her long hair wrapped around him, every strand like the softest of fingertips. They began the most delicious of kisses, her tongue gently playing with his own. Yet in the midst of this aromatic swoon, something felt odd. How could anything this perfect exist here in the middle of the Sargasso?

  In this lingering moment it became apparent that the arms around him were not flesh – not exactly. They were too green, or perhaps it was not the greenness that was different; it was the texture. More… plant-like than human. With a start, Rhameo leapt backward, out of the enveloping coils. That tongue down his throat had been a frond! The horror! The horror!

  And yet, he didn’t mind, that was the most terrible part, but then at some deep, chemical level his body convulsed, and as he spat ferny tendrils from his teeth, a sickly stench, rich and sweet like a rotting jungle, curled up his nostrils. The fronds and branches reached out to embrace him, and then he remembered – tied t
o the arch of his foot, a second emergency vomit pistol. He fired it into the head of the plant and was immediately drenched in a surge of green, sappy goo… then it collapsed, limp upon the ground, and he was free.

  You’ve turned down seduction, thought Lord Maledor. Now you must deal with rampant lewdness.

  Rhameo staggered into a valley and made his way through the grassland to a creek. He bathed in its crystal waters, magically refreshing as he washed the sap from his body. Turning to leave, he felt the bottom of the creek move against his feet, soft and smooth like a young woman’s skin. He stumbled, and almost fell, so reached for a rock that projected from the bank, and even as he pulled himself free he realised this ‘stone’ was the nipple of a gigantic breast. All around him, a sea of bosoms erupted from the earth like pink-skinned naked mole rats. As he ran unsteadily across them, trying to gain higher ground, geysers of sweet white fluid erupted around him. He could drown here in a flood of milk, or, as the silky ground became slicker, fall and be asphyxiated by a giant multiple bosom!

  Rhameo ran towards a cave and ducked inside. Lit by a soft, pink light, it felt restfully cool, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that he was safe. Exhausted by his struggles with the seductive plant and the sea of breasts, he thought of Juraletta in chains. What was he doing on this world? He needed to refuel his ship, and escape.

  But then the walls moved subtly closer. And what was that musky aroma? Surely not… The smell was becoming stronger. And what was that a soft, unearthly moan?

  Rhameo raced to the entrance to find his way impeded by a – why, it must be a clitoris, engorged by gargantuan lechery.

  “Get out! Get out!” screamed every green fibre of his body.

  “Zigzag!” said Juraletta.

  “Ziggurat!” said the unicorn.

  “Zombie!” said Astroburger.

  “Zugzswang!” said the dwarf.

  “Zoozoo!” said Gorgon.

  “Zetetic!” said the giant.

  “Zythum!” said the dwarf.

  “I didn’t know so many obscure words began with z,” said Juraletta.

  “We’ve exhausted the alphabet several times now,” said the dwarf. “And still no sign of Rhameo.”

  “Maybe Rhameo’s in another dungeon,” said the giant gloomily.

  “I’m sure he’s halfway back to Skorpeo by now,” said Gorgon.

  “My prince will return in force to rescue all of us,” said Juraletta. “I know it!”

  Astroburger shook his head. “I believe we should try to rescue ourselves.”

  “That’s right,” cried the dwarf. “Be proactive, rather than reactive.”

  “Isn’t the prefix ‘pro’ nugatory in this particular case?” queried the giant.

  “I feel distinctly uneasy about whatever it is that Queen Beia and Teleporteus may be up to,” Astroburger muttered. “There’s no knowing what those two will cook up. Believe me, that woman is capable of anything!”

  “Oh, I wonder what brave deed Rhameo is doing right now,” sighed Juraletta.

  Rhameo fell asleep. His fight with the amorous plant, the sea of breasts, and the vaginal cave had thoroughly exhausted him, and his dreams were lustful, not pure, for Lord Maledor’s dark eroticism had penetrated down to the lower levels of his subconscious. Nymphets from many worlds pursued his fleeing form, yet despite every unimaginable lubricity, Rhameo remained steadfast.

  Then a little voice said to him, “This is ridiculous! It’s just a dream. In a dream you don’t have to be faithful. Enjoy! Enjoy! Enjoy!”

  Rhameo’s feet were wet, warmly and pleasantly so. And what’s wrong with wet feet? It is perfectly legitimate for a prince to have warm, wet feet. Then his legs felt moist; his thighs were next. When he felt the creeping warmth in his loins, he awoke.

  “You call a wet dream being unfaithful?” Lostifar hissed. “Let’s face it, Maledor, this Rhameo fellow has an unusually strong will and he has successfully resisted all of your enticing scenarios – though I do wonder if you need to do a bit more research, as some of your so-called temptations didn’t seem to be exactly what a young man lusts after. In any case, he has stayed faithful to his manacled princess despite every temptation thrown at him. Have you explored other sexual alternatives… marooning him, for example, on a Queeroid?”

  “I admit he has been unusually strong-willed. I’ve never known anyone to resist the loveflower before.”

  “What did you call it?”

  “I beg Your Evilness’s pardon – the smutplant.”

  “That’s better. ‘Loveflower’ indeed! Not only that, but he walked over the Sea of Breasts and escaped from the Cave of Moist Delights, and he looked more horrified than excited. And who can blame him? All you’ve managed to produce is one pathetic little wet dream? Evil requires will – it demands full consent. Wet dreams simply will not do. This Rhameo has consented to nothing.”

  “I have one last idea,” Lord Maledor wheedled. “Let me allow Princess Juraletta to escape from the Sargassean dungeons. Let them be reunited, and let them think they’re safe – then I shall take them to the planet Random. There, I promise you, their love will become a chaos of lust.”

  “Your happy hunting ground eh, Maledor? Very well, but let me put it bluntly – this is your last chance.”

  “I shall not fail you, Your Exalted Foulness.”

  An orange-haired, copiously tattooed, three-armed monstrosity entered the court of Skorpeo. He approached the throne with an arrogant swagger.

  “Are you Zoth?” he asked abruptly, a smirk playing across his malformed face.

  A hiss rose from the court at this show of disrespect. The Guardians of Verdancy moved forward… but the emperor waved them down.

  “I am Zoah, Emperor of Skorpeo.”

  “I am authorised to inform you that his Supreme Slipperiness, the Octopus the Eight-Armed Magnificence, holds captive your sons, Teleporteus and Rhameo. And –”

  “What is the ransom?” Zoah interrupted.

  “Yourself,” replied the vermilion-coiffured one. “You shall accompany me alone and unarmed to confer with His Mucilaginous Majesty, Octopus the All Mighty Oiliness, where you will await his further pleasure. Failure to obey this instruction will result in your two sons being cooked in Despair Oil and thrown to the Slothlings.”

  “How long do we have to consider your terms, mutant?”

  “Ten seconds.”

  When a murmur went round the court, Zoah quietened them with an imperious gesture.

  “I accept,” the emperor said.

  “Just a minute, Your Highness,” said the empress in a whisper. “You could be acting a trifle hastily in this regard. After all, you have one thousand seven hundred and eighty-three other sons. Why risk putting your head in the Octopus’s coils for only two of them?”

  “One of them is my favourite son, and the other I like to kick regularly. I cannot very well do without either of them.”

  “How about Pundit? What are his views?”

  “My dear, we only have another five seconds.”

  “Pundit!” the empress called. “You have four seconds to spout your punditary wisdom. Be quick.”

  “This sounds rather like blackmail,” Pundit entoned, “to which no ruler should submit; to greymail perhaps, or whitemail possibly, or even to greenmail, but never to blackmail. The stars, particularly hot blue stars, militate against such a manoeuvre. What you must do, is apparently submit. Go therefore, but remember to take with you the Skorpean equivalent of a Trojan horse.”

  Zoah nodded once, then marched from the court.

  “I’ve got a great idea,” said the dwarf, who sought to emulate and improve on Astroburger’s dismal performance. “Let’s each tell an episode from our lives and, here’s the good part – we’ll start with the letter a, just as before, and work through the alphabet. Each story must take a night and day. By this method we can pass the time without boredom for twenty-six times six which is one hundred and fifty-six days. Nearly six mont
hs of waiting will be over!”

  The others looked at him coldly.

  “Rhameo won’t be that long,” said Juraletta. “We won’t even get through a.”

  She pictured him flying through the air… naked. Well, he would surely find some clothes somewhere, in a spaceship, perhaps. And he could return with other noble warriors, soldiers, sorcerers… He would return to his four-breasted purple-skinned princess and they would kiss…

  “Who’s going to start?” asked Astroburger, who saw no point in discussing the proposal any further.

  “Why not you?” said Juraletta, “After all, your name begins with a.”

  “A logical suggestion, but isn’t that rather predictable? Why not start with the unicorn?”

  “My life story is rather short and uneventful,” said the unicorn. “In fact, I doubt whether I’ll get through the first letter without running out of material and causing widespread somnolence.”

  “Enough of this,” said Gorgon. “If no one wants to start, then I shall.”

  “I was just getting psyched up to tell my story,” said Astroburger.

  “Well, you’ll have to get de-psyched,” said the dwarf. “We have a volunteer life story teller. Let’s not look a gift horse in the groin.”

  “In the mouth,” corrected Astroburger.

  “I always thought it was groin,” said the dwarf (who was fond of groins).

  “Do you want to hear my story or not?” asked Gorgon. “Because if you don’t, I don’t mind waiting for all –”

  “Begin,” ordered Juraletta. “Don’t forget to commence with the letter a.”