Sighing at the sheer foolishness of returning to the Sargasso, Rhameo let his ship drift back the way he had so recently come. Perhaps he could sneak in, land, and obtain the means to effect a rescue on the way through the Punkoid lair – all without someone raising the alarm…
He was nearing the central nexus of the Rhomboid System when he espied a crippled scout ship, a single rocket valve blasting sickly as it lurched its way towards the principal Punkoid port – though it looked to have been damaged almost beyond repair in one of the numerous internecine wars between rival Punkoid factions, it yielded him an idea. With a touch of thruster, he put his ship on a course to intercept and then shut down his systems once more – the lifeless appearance of his vessel should arouse the curiosity of the Punkoid scout, and it would certainly appear to be easy prey. With any luck, they would see the cruiser as a compensatory hunk of space booty for their presumed lack of success in whatever galactic buccaneer raids they had planned.
To his delight, the scout ship altered course and swung alongside his own. Rhameo hid behind the spacelock door, and not a moment too soon for the door swung open and four Punkoids entered. The first was tall and noseless, his spear-headed scalp covered with purple-black nodules, his mouth a leering slot. The second was obscenely fat and had four arms. The other two were more or less normal – orange hair, three arms, and a smell like a polyester-clad crotch after a week in the jungles of Erath.
Moving at battle-frenzy speed, Rhameo incapacitated the leader with a neck-breaking chop, the fat one with a head-bursting kick, and the other two he took together, strangling one with leg-scissoring grips and the other with a carotid-crushing squeeze.
Equipped now with the perfect camouflage of a Punkoid scout vessel, Rhameo headed deeper into the chaotic wilderness that was the Sargasso. In a matter of minutes, he glided down towards the port from which he had escaped. They certainly wouldn’t be expecting him back!
Landing unobtrusively in a disused corner, he slipped out of the vessel through the hyperdrive rocket-booster escape chute, pole-axed a couple of Punkoid guards in passing, and made his way towards the subterranean vault where he used his hunting-honed instincts to negotiate the darkened maze. It was tomb-quiet in the depths of the Octopus’s lair, so Rhameo crept along on silent feet, ready to spring into action. Hearing Juraletta’s voice in the distance, he quickened his pace…
Juraletta was giggling as Rhameo threw open the door and eyed Voluptua with disdain.
“Ah, you must be the prince,” the Slutoid spat. “We know all about you and frankly, we’re not intimidated.”
Voluptua advanced on him menacingly.
“Me and my girls can take you out, Mister Rhameo – we’ve got thighs of durametal that will crush your pathetic man-carrot to a bleeding pulp, and we don’t give a damn about wanky aristocrats like you, so prepare to have your testicles squashed to the size of Jaffas and your tongue shoved up the nearest available orifice –”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t say such things in front of my beloved.”
With the speed of a cranked panther, Rhameo struck Voluptua Slutza with a single stolka blow to the solar plexus. Down she went, like a comet-struck dinosaur, ego shredded to coleslaw.
“It is lovely to see you again,” he said, grinning at the princess. “You look… different, though. Did you get a haircut?”
Micro-miniskirted and high-heeled, mascaraed to her lilac-livid eyes, Juraletta took his hand.
“We had better go and find our friends,” Juraletta said. “Gorgie will be wondering where I’ve been.”
Juraletta climbed onto the hunter’s heavily muscled back. He looked like a green-skinned golden eagle, his lion’s mane of wild emerald hair blown back by the velocity of their flight down the hallway.
They reached the cell where Gorgon and the others were held captive just as its walls were being giant-snore loosened.
“Princess!” cried Gorgon joyously. “I thought you were dead. That is you under all that makeup, isn’t it?”
“Of course, Gorgie!”
“That’s a lot of thigh going on,” leered the dwarf. “And tits akimbo!” He whistled appreciatively.
“Where is our army of rescuers?” asked the ever-practical Astroburger.
“I am alone,” said Rhameo, “though I have a scout ship in which we can escape.”
The snore-liberated companions broke their bonds from the shattered stone and, following quickly and silently in Rhameo’s wake, made their way to the ship.
Behind them came the angry shouts of pursuing Punkoids.
Miraculously, Rhameo, Juraletta, and the rest of their mismatched group had fled before the Punkoids realised one of their own scout ships had been commandeered. But escape was not to be so simple. After setting course for Skorpeo, they were halfway through spacewarp when their ship was buffeted by an unseen force.
“Space engram,” pronounced the dwarf. “I’ve encountered them before.”
Their craft lifted and dropped, swayed and soared like an ancient sea craft in an Atlantic gale.
“The midget always talks as though he’s a veteran spacer, but I know for a fact he’d never gone into deep space before this ill-fated quest,” drawled the giant.
Suddenly, the ship ceased its shuddering and resumed an even course through the starless void of hyperspace. Everyone started to relax, but it wasn’t to last, for the vessel came to an abrupt halt in the absolute void.
“How can this be?” muttered Rhameo. “How can we have stopped in the middle of a spacewarp?”
“Were the coordinates for Skorpeo set correctly?” asked the dwarf, always hair-trigger alert to muttering.
“Without question,” said Rhameo.
“We must have landed on an unknown world,” Gorgon suggested.
“There are no worlds in hyperspace,” said Rhameo. “It is not space in the normal sense.”
“Then we must be in another dimension,” the unicorn said emphatically.
“This can only mean disaster,” said Astroburger, reverting to his customary apocalyptically gloomy voice.
“No need for pessimism,” cried Juraletta. “If we have landed on an unknown world in another dimension within the spacewarp, why don’t we explore it?”
“Skorpeo is in danger,” Rhameo reminded her. “We must hurry, or my brother could cause chaos.”
Juraletta peered eagerly through the portals. “Just a little peek. Surely that can’t hurt?”
“Well, the ship is stuck,” said Rhameo, “so I suppose we’ll have to appraise the situation from the outside.”
Having ascertained that they were on a planet with an atmosphere amenable to dwarfs, gorgons, giants, Astroburgers, Qwertians, and Skorpeans, Rhameo led his troupe into the space lock, ready to explore this strange new world.
No sooner had they set foot on the land, when each exclaimed in their individual ways:
“Goodness – a land of milk and runny!” said the unicorn.
“Open spaces!” said the giant. “Now I can leap about!”
“Looks forbidding,” muttered Astroburger.
“This is a land much traversed by gorgons,” said Gorgon. “Everything is made of stone.”
“It looks mysterious,” observed the dwarf, “I think there is much treasure to discover here.”
“Where do you think we are?” Juraletta asked.
“Since we have landed on this world at random,” Rhameo intoned, “I fear it may be the planet called Random.”
“I am agog,” said the giant. He turned to the unicorn. “Are you agog?”
“I am moderately agog.”
“Speaking only for myself,” said the giant, “I am absolutely and heroically and inescapably agog.”
“Gog or no gog, it looks beautiful to me,” said Juraletta. “Such a lovely smell!”
In accordance with their individual reactions, each of the intrepid spacewarpers began wandering on their own.
“Rhameo,” called Juraletta, “let u
s not grow apart before we have had the time to flourish together.”
Even Rhameo – in spite of the danger to his home – was experiencing some disorientation, and even ensorcellment. What was this world, apparently contained within hyperspace?
He saw a plain that turned back onto itself rather than stretching to a normal, slightly curved horizon – this was clearly a place that defied the geometry of Euclidian space.
Whatever happens, I should stay close to Juraletta, Rhameo thought, though looking about he realised that the princess appeared somewhat remote, like a shimmer through layers of ascending hot air.
Presently, it grew dark, and Rhameo heard Juraletta calling.
“Rhameo? Where exactly art thou, Rhameo?”
He called her name, and she emerged, to his great relief, from the deepening gloom. “I was getting worried,” he said. “I could only see you as through a glass darkly.”
“Where are we?”
“Only Pundit could tell us that,” said Rhameo. “And even if he were here to explain the eldritch geometry of this weird heavenly body, we wouldn’t understand him.”
“Why is he called Pundit?”
“Because he is the utterer of incomprehensible wisdom,” Rhameo told her, sneaking an unobserved kiss on her mauve cheek.
They went on in silence. Then, “Rhameo – look! People! Someone does live here!”
Across a bare expanse of sand, Rhameo glimpsed a number of people standing very still and upright. On coming closer, he noted that they were naked, their feet covered in earth. Their eyes were glazed and their mouths sealed.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” said a voice at his elbow.
“Who are they?” Rhameo asked the small, smoky-bearded man with a peaked cap who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
“Why, my garden, of course.”
“They look like people.”
“They are people,” said the man. “I am a human gardener.”
“You can’t just grow people,” protested Rhameo.
“Why not?” replied the man, smiling pleasantly. “They’re well-watered, and receive only the best manure between their toes.”
“But people are human beings –” spluttered the prince.
“Yes, I know,” said the gardener. “Good growers they are, too. However, they do need plenty of pruning.”
“Pruning!”
“Of course – it helps promote growth.”
“These are people,” said Rhameo hotly. “Not weeds.”
“Indeed not,” said the gardener crossly. “They are plants, as opposed to implants, and while the men make excellent marrows and cucumbers, you will observe that the women produce superb flowers. I have some red-cheeked lovelies who will make very fine roses.”
“Sexist,” said Juraletta.
“Well, one or two of the men are pansies.”
“And they’re naked,” observed Juraletta.
“Of course they are! Would you dress a cauliflower or a cabbage? Can you imagine a cucumber in a tuxedo? Should a lily wear a bra? And don’t look at me like that, young lady – I’ve tried growing them with clothes on, and it never works. Their leaves only look crumpled, and do you know how much time it takes to iron a leaf? I have to keep my basic production costs down if I am to compete on the open peopleplant market.”
“The open peopleplant market?” Rhameo exclaimed, aghast.
“You catch on fast,” said the gardener. “You should have a go. Of course you need someone to start with. I’m willing to give you an arm as a sapling, or even a couple of fingers, though it works better with an arm, much better. For a consideration of course. And don’t try to bargain with me – my prices are already below market value, so if I did drop my price any more I would be selling you a limb at below the going rate. That’s why I need to charge you an arm and a leg. Anything else is counterproductive. You have to realise that market forces have complete dominion now. Death, on the other hand, shall have no dominion. By the way, which of the dominions are you from? I can see you look reluctant. Very well, if you won’t pay for an arm or leg then you will have to improvise with available materials. Look around you. Sometimes what you need is right under your nose and you hadn’t even noticed. I have to say it’s hard to grow proper vegetables from a nose and anyone who says you can gets up mine. How about your friend? I should say she will take rather well, and I don’t doubt you could get a good clutch of melons off this one, if you get my drift. Don’t water her too much or you’ll flood the root system, and make sure there’s plenty of fertiliser. You okay on fertiliser? Lots of young shavers like yourself think they can get away without fertiliser, so let me tell you – there are no short cuts in this business. And it is a business, make sure you get that through your thick skull. You don’t think I do this for fun, do you? Not on your nelly. Mind you, it’s not just for my benefit. No, I’m not one of your selfish individualistic capitalists concerned only with lining his own pockets. What I do benefits the whole galactic community by the process known as the intergalactic trickle-down effect… I suppose you might call me a free-fall market forces socialist.”
“I might call you the Dr Mengele of this fiendish and insane world,” Rhameo spat.
“Who’s Mengele? A gardener?”
“Juraletta,” Rhameo said formally, “let us leave this monstrous place and its demented atrocity horticulturalist.”
“Atrocity horticulturalist,” echoed the little man, smacking his achondroplastic thighs with gusto. “I like that! Atrocity horticulturalist!”
And with that, the gardener curled into a ball of uncontrollable mirth. At the same time, all the human plant folk started heeheeing and hawhawing like demented nannygoats. To the echo of mad peopleplant laughter, Rhameo and Juraletta walked onward…
Presently, they came to a sign that read, ‘YOU HAVE ENTERED THE FOREST OF FORGETFULNESS. MAKE SURE YOU CARRY YOUR MEMORY PILLS.’
“What are memory pills?” asked Rhameo.
“I can’t remember,” Juraletta replied, “Who are you?”
“I don’t know,” said Rhameo. “You look familiar…”
“This is ridiculous,” said Juraletta. “One of us should know who they are.”
“Why is it ridiculous? Does a tree know who it is?”
“We’re not trees!”
“How can you be sure?”
“We’re walking around. Trees aren’t mobile.”
“I heard that on Random there are walking trees.”
“Just what is Random?”
“Can’t remember. And… uh… something else. I’ve forgotten what trees are.”
“That’s pathetic,” Juraletta said. “Everyone knows what a tree is. It’s… uh… pink, I think. And round at the top.”
“That doesn’t sound like a tree to me.”
“You said you couldn’t remember what a tree is.”
“I can’t remember what it is, but I am sure I remember what it is not.”
“If you can remember what it is not, you must be able to work out what it is by a process of… something.”
“Not necessarily,” Rhameo said with evident caution.
“You have no grasp of logic.”
“What is logic?”
“I can’t remember.”
“I’ve just remembered something.”
Juraletta looked puzzled. “What?”
“There is no logic on Random.”
“We’re not on Random.”
“How do you know that if you can’t remember anything?” Rhameo asked.
“How do I know what?”
“I can’t remember.”
“I’ve just remembered something.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you the person with me?” Juraletta asked.
“I… think so.”
“Then I love you. I love the person with me.”
“That’s funny, I feel as though I love you too.”
“That’s right. I’m the Princess Juraletta from
Quitty or some place like that, and I love you.”
“Yes, that’s right. And I’m Rhameo – and I love you.”
They shared a long, passionate kiss.
“Aren’t we supposed to be getting married?” asked Juraletta hopefully.
“I don’t remember that part.”
“I do.”
“Well, I can’t remember what marriage is, either.”
“I think it’s about love or babies, or something like that.”
“Those words – love, babies – what do they mean?”
“Babies are round and make a lot of noise,” Juraletta said.
“What about love?”
“It’s got something to do with babies.”
“I’m not sure I’m so sure about that,” Rhameo said, “but it doesn’t matter. Will you marry me anyway?”
“When?”
“As soon as possible, obviously. I just remembered that we need a nannybat to get married. I doubt there are any nannybats on Random, though I can’t quiet remember what a nannybat is. Bugger, and I’ve just remembered something else.”
“What’s that?”
“My father’s in terrible danger.”
Lord Maledor groaned in despair. The situation was hopeless – even when Prince Rhameo and Princess Juraletta suffered the full effects of the Forest of Forgetfulness, they still remembered that they were in love,and through love regained their identity…
Love was a curse! The worst curse in the universe, for it made the full dominion of evil impossible. Perhaps the situation could be saved from the horrible triumph of love, goodness, truth, and justice by having Zoah deposed by Teleporteus, and Rhameo and his companions vanquished by tugga tugga-juiced Punkoids. It should all be so simple, but everything, everything kept going wrong. If all this came to pass… just possibly, Lostifar would let him off lightly. More likely he would be punished by being turned into a petty do-gooder. What humiliation! Gathering up used clothing for refugees on some miserable, oppressed little planet in the Fornax System… doing good!
“So, Father, you have decided to look in on us,” said Teleporteus with a smirk. “I trust your journey from Skorpeo was a pleasant one? How was the in-flight service? Drinks topped up? Toilets in working order? You’re looking a little green about the gills, heh heh. Not travel sick? Or –”
Tropic of Skorpeo Page 18
