Party of Five - A game of Po

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  ***

  Parcifal’s stare had the quality of solid ice; it was cold and opaque. She stood on the deck like a statue would, Encelados firmly clasped in her hands, the blade’s tip resting on the ship’s deck. Tark was standing nearby, his back on the ship’s railing. He cleared his throat and pointed at the blade.

  “Would you mind, not really doing that?”

  “Doing what, exactly?” Parcifal replied icily. She was staring vacantly at the rosy-red sky. Thick, puffy clouds passed them by, while below them a green tapestry inched by. There were tiles of brown and gold in there too; farms and villages, the unmistakable signs of civilization. Roads and bridges, the roofs of houses, small and big. Big piles of manure and freshly grazed hillsides.

  “I’d prefer it if you’d be so kind not to etch, notch, graze or otherwise damage this ship’s deck with that wonderful blade of yours,” Tark said trying to smile thinly, his words carefully selected and his voice pitched so as to get the message through in a nice yet slightly irritating manner. Parcifal did not bat an eyelid nor did she budge even by an inch. She simply spared Tark a fleeting glance, to serve as a warning.

  “She’s moody. You’ll be properly compensated for any damages,” Ned interjected, seeing the first signs of a discussion evolving into a fight. And Ned knew there had been more than one on their way to Pi Gamma Mu, from what they could gather, a reasonably peaceful planet of the Human League. The fights usually involved Parcifal and Tark, and they were mostly resolved before anyone got physically hurt by either Ned or Judith acting as peacemakers. Winceham was either sleeping, having a smoke, or not having a bath most of the time. His decidedly neutral disposition had earned him a sort of invisible attribute to the rest, slightly ineffectual when the air shifted the wrong way.

  “Money is not the issue,” Tark said to Ned with a sigh. “It is a matter of principle, Mr. Larkin,” he added and turned his back on everyone without another word. Parcifal remained silent, unperturbed. Her mind was fixated on what really mattered; the whereabouts and fate of her sister. She knew Lernea was alive, that much she felt as well. But where, and for how long, she couldn’t answer. Those uncertainties gnawed at her soul; it do any good for her manners either. She was in a state of constant ire, angry at everything and everyone. What she wouldn’t freely admit but knew it in her heart, was that she blamed herself, more than anything. After all, she was still a princess of Nomos, the Captain of the Guard. She had failed her queen, putting her in harm’s way, failing to protect her.

  Absorbed in thought, it took her a while to realise Judith was watching her intently. Parcifal offered her a grumpy stare and a few words:

  “What is it that you require of me?”

  “It doesn’t do you any good, you know. I know that stare. I’ve learned to turn that feeling into something useful,” Judith said as she looked Parcifal straight into her eyes.

  “What you know, is your own business. I suggest you mind to that,” Parcifal said in a flat voice. Judith stared at her for another moment before she obliged her wishes and walked away in silence. Parcifal’s gaze did not follow her.

  Ned was conversing with Tark in a low voice; Winceham was sitting comfortably at a swiveling, puffy chair, his feet resting at the helm proper. The helm moved and rocked as Winceham shuffled his legs, but the ship oddly, stayed on course.

  That was because the helm, though operational, didn’t really do much of the handling. The ship was an advanced design; among the many utilities and assorted paraphernalia, the mysterious thingamajigs and spurious artifacts it carried, it was equipped with an autothaumagator, a device that supposedly served many purposes, but whose primary function was to navigate the ship safely and without any crew assistance whatsoever. The ship, the Mary Righteous, basically flew itself. As an added bonus, it could also talk, albeit rather lamely.

  “What’s... Five times thirty five?” Winceham said and a puff of smoke left his nostrils. A sweet, lilting female voice answered with sensuous overtones.

  “One-hundred and seventy five, Boss.”

  “Tip-top. We could do business together, you know; I could use someone who can count and has no pockets,” Winceham said nodding in earnest.

  “Inference broken. Stimulate,” the voice retorted with a querying tone.

  “I wish I could, but you’re not really my type. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to begin the stimulating,” Winceham said, grinning.

  “I am a type-III autothaumagator. User Boss is a user type, provisional. Conflicting types.”

  “Yeah, I know. It was never meant to be, but still that voice of yours...” Winceham said, his voice lingering. “It’s like a honey trap,” he added, hands behind his head.

  “And you’re the proverbial fly in the ointment, Mr. Higginsbottom,” Tark said with a good measure of disdain.

  “No need for name-calling, Mr. Tark. If that’s really your name,” Winceham retorted, grinning like a fool.

  “We’re not having that discussion. Stop harassing the ship’s autothaumagator,” Tark said and lowered Winceham’s feet from the helm forcibly.

  “It’s not harassment. We’re just talking. Isn’t that true, Mary?”

  “Assertion ‘talking’ is true,” the ship said as if it were about to have a chocolate cake all to its own.

  “What she said,” Winceham told Tark with a smirk and left the chair in search of friendlier company, which was to say, he headed below for some more sleep.

  “Your associates are beginning to get on my nerves,” Tark complained, looking slightly annoyed.

  “I’ve realised that. We’ll be on our way just as soon as we land,” Ned said and nodded.

  “That won’t work either,” Tark replied and shook his head.

  “How do you mean?” Theo asked, frowning.

  “Though I am sympathetic to your cause, at least in principle, there are certain technicalities that must be observed.”

  “Such as?”

  “A debriefing is in order,” Tark said, exhaling, as if he had been keeping that a secret for too long.

  “You mean questioning,” Theo sought to correct him.

  “It might look like that, depending on who will do the debriefing.”

  “Are we prisoners?” Theo asked conversationally.

  “Not exactly,” Tark quipped.

  “Are we guests then?” Theo said sounding a bit hopeful.

  “Not quite, no,” Tark said, squinting.

  “What are we then to the Human League?” Theo asked, folding his arms.

  “Information assets. For now,” Tark said and shrugged.

  “That doesn’t sound very welcoming.”

  “It’s not. But it’s not like you’ll be treated like Expendable Information Assets,” Tark said, smiled and nodded meaningfully.

  “I see. This Human League of yours, it doesn’t sound like a particularly inviting place. If it wasn’t for the predicament we’ve found ourselves in...” Theo said and let his voice trail conspiratorially.

  “The Tallyflop Incident,” Tark added, sounding drawn in to some other kind of conversation.

  “Whatever you wish to call it, it was more than just an incident. The whole place nearly got consumed by that, what was it again?”

  “A Thaumaturgic Event Displacement. A TED, we call it,” Tark said just to get the technicalities out of the way.

  “Do you have a name for everything?” Theo wondered frankly.

  “Not for everything. But for everything that matters. That thing mattered a lot. It still does,” Tark reassured him.

  “I have a feeling it really only matters to you.”

  “The Ygg are growing stronger by the minute. They’re a destabilizing force that needs to be dealt with,” Tark said with a suddenly steely gaze.

  “I’ve seen the truth of that. But what is it to you?” Theo asked, his voice needlessly harsh.

  “The Human League has a vested interest in a number of worlds. It’d be foolish to have to deal with this later, whil
e we can deal with this now,” Tark said, his face austere.

  “I meant, what is it to you personally?” Theo insisted.

  “It’s my job, that’s what it is,” Tark replied with a deep-set frown.

  “Just a job? Going through all this, just to do your job?” Theo said smiling, and shook his head in disbelief.

  “It’s called professionalism. I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Tark replied and looked away, a show of rejection.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re amateurs,” Tark replied scornfully.

  “You haven’t seen me perform then,” Theo said with some pride in his voice.

  “Perform what, exactly?” Tark inquired, sounding confused.

  “I do stand-up comedy and play the drums. I know it’s an unusual mix for a bard, but I think it can have its own appeal. You know?” Theo said casually.

  “Maybe you really are good at that,” Tark said and perhaps for the first time ever genuinely smiled.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Wasn’t that a joke? About the drums and all?” Tark asked in all seriousness.

  “No, not really,” Theo replied counfounded.

  “Well, I wouldn’t really know. I work for Naval Intelligence, after all,” Tark said and shrugged.

  “How are the two connected?”

  “It’s an utterly drab, humorless job,” Tark replied and nodded to himself.

  “Another reason I can’t understand why you’re doing it,” Theo said and shook his head.

  “Because someone has to do it,” Tark said and sounded like he genuinely believed that.

  “But why does it have to be you?” Theo asked and pointed a stabbing finger to Tark’s chest.

  “Why not me?” Tark asked garrulously and let the words sink in.

  “That really doesn’t make any sense,” Theo said and threw his hands in the air.

  “There’s no sense in intelligence. Just gents,” Tark said and looked thoughtful.

  “Was that supposed to be a witty play on words?” Ned asked.

  “No,” Tark replied after thinking about it for a while.

  “I thought it was funny, anyway.”

  “As far as I know, that’s highly unlikely,” Tark said without the least bit of humor.

  Judith approached them and nodded to Ned with a slight smile.

  “Sir, we’re approaching Rampatur,” she said and stood there, apparently waiting for instructions. Tark nodded and his eyes scanned the horizon momentarily, before his eyes met the city.

  Indeed, the white towers and glistening prisms that made up the core of Rampatur City were growing closer. Like a miniature set built with extreme detail in mind, Rampatur City looked nearly perfect and almost fake. Yet it was real enough: stretching across both sides of pristine river, it was a sprawling metropolis graced with a distinctive meld of architecture from many different schools, representing nearly every world of the Human League. A large, tall pyramid-like structure dominated the center of the city, its marble-white and steel-grey impeccable surface glistening softly.

  Ned sat there wide-eyed, wonderfully fascinated at the rich white, grey and golden hues reflecting the mellow green and brown countryside surrounding the city. He was transfixed; he couldn’t stop staring, his lips curled in a grin. The sight of the approaching city even managed to attract Parcifal’s parsimonious stare, but she didn’t break her silence. She simply stood there, unable to contain the fact that her interest was indeed piqued. Ned, on the other hand sounded openly ecstatic: “What a sight! It’s so grandiose. So majestic!”

  Tark sighed. “It’s just a backwater planet’s capital. It’s quite rustic, really,” he said, scoffing. He then turned and faced the helm abruptly.

  “Ship, send a hail message to the Directorate Office. Be sure to include the word ‘pumpkin’, capitalized. Negotiate a mooring with Rampatur Aerial and bring us in for landing. What was that nice place on Rampatur Central?” he asked.

  “An index of three hundred and nineteen topographical entities in the vicinity of the Rampatur District labeled as ‘nice’ exists. Stimulate,” the female voice demanded softly; the words carried a hypnotizing feel.

  “The one where they put olives in that drink,” Tark said with some mild annoyance. “Stimulate,” the ship repeated.

  “Never mind. Find an exorbitantly-priced restaurant. Book a table for five. Make sure to ask for privacy. And put it on the expenses list,” Tark said raising a finger.

  “Thaumaturgizing your request,” voiced the ship in mellifluous tones. Tark turned to face Ned once more.

  “Excellent. We’ll be landing shortly, Mr. Larkin.”

  “You made dinner reservations?” Ned asked him. Tark stared at him for a moment before ceding an answer with a slightly confused look.

  “Yes?” said Tark, his answer sounding a lot like a puzzling question.

  “Well, you reserved a table for five. Does that mean you’re offering us a night out? Like a welcoming gift?” Ned said smiling a bit awkwardly, always wearing a polite smile on his lips. He could see Parcifal fidgeting uncomfortably near the ship’s prow, as if itching to get off the Mary Righteous and hack something to bits.

  “Good gracious, no!” Tark exclaimed with a polite little laugh. “That would’ve been impertinent to say the least. Quite frankly, whatever gave you that idea?” Tark was looking at Ned from head to toe; what Ned implied sounded almost absurd to Tark. “I’ve been in the field for months. I’m having a blast tonight. All sorts of debauchery in mind, if you must know,” Tark said and made eyes at Ned.

  “I wasn’t asking for details, but what about us?” Ned demanded with a sharp frown.

  “Judith will handle your lot.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you need to co-operate and everything will be fine,” Tark said and squinted as he gazed towards the city, a hand over his eyes. From the right point of view, the setting sun wasn’t blinding but rather painted the round-topped towers with a rosy, pinkish sheen. Ned’s answer came with a heavy, slow nod of his head.

  “I’ll co-operate alright. Just as long as we’re treated fair and proper,” he said and made sure to stress the last word.

  “What about her?” Tark said and pointed at Parcifal, looking at her sideways.

  “Parcifal is strong-willed and proud. She’s like a hurt, caged animal right now. You never know when she might lash out,” Ned said and shrugged. Tark took him by one shoulder and nearly whispered in his ear: “As a word of advice, don’t act the fool with Intelligence. You’re not Human League citizens; you’ll only be granted a provisional status upon landing. And that halfuin friend of yours, he’ll be in trouble.”

  “How do you mean? What kind of trouble?” Ned said, sounding alarmed.

  “You see he’s humanoid, not human standard. He will be considered an illegal alien,” Tark said and raised an eyebrow.

  “Winceham? He might be old and smell bad because he never takes a bath, but he’s not an alien!”

  “That’s not the official take on the matter,” Tark said and turned slightly around to check on Parcifal. He noticed Judith was busy making last minute checks to her inventory, all neatly stacked and tied down to the deck. Ned’s voice was filled with sudden angst: “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “It would have been pointless, really. There was no place to drop him off,” Tark replied with a smug little grin.

  “And now there is? Treating halfuins like aliens. Aren’t there any short people in the Human League?”

  “That’s an entirely different subject. I don’t make policy,” Tark said and squatted, reaching for a metal box near the helm. “We’re on the clock. I’m doing you a great favor just by letting you know. This could get me into a lot of trouble. Lose my job, get shot. I’m talking that kind of trouble,” he said and sounded positively serious even though the grin would not disappear from his face.

  “You won’t buy us dinner, but you’re wil
ling to risk getting shot?”

  “Let’s not get all chummy all of a sudden,” Tark said and raised one finger with one hand while he rummaged inside the metal box with the other. “Dinner is one thing; getting shot is a professional perk anyway. I like to think of this warning as extending a little bit of professional courtesy,” he said, looking up to Ned with a smile. In his hands he held what looked like a small backpack or rather a large bag, riddled with straps and whatnot.

  “But I’m a performer. You’re a... Spy, right?” Ned asked, a good measure of uncertainty lingering in his voice. To his knowledge, spies were vermin-like people, all cloak and dagger that you’d never guess in a million years what they did for a living. In this case, Tark was practically shouting out the fact from the tree tops.

  “Things seldom are the way they appear to,” Tark said and perfunctorily gave the bag a look all around.

  “You’re not a spy?” Theo asked with disbelief.

  “Are you seriously expecting me to answer that?” Tark said while wearing the bag on his back. It was black and somewhat rotund. A pair of red lines made of stitches ran its length; they were made in the shape of a lightning symbol.

  “What is this stuff you’re putting on?”

  “It’s a F.U.L.L. Retar.D., mark two,” Tark said grinning.

  “It doesn’t look tailor-made,” Ned said and made a sour face. Tark replied without hinting at any sort of annoyance.

  “It stands for Flight Updraft Linear Linen Retardation Device.”

  “Why does everything have to have a stupid name?”

  Tark paused for a moment and gave the question some thought.

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not the one making up the names.”

  “Well, what does it do?” Ned asked, voicing some genuine interest in what appeared to be little more than a bag with a strange colour scheme.

  “Keeps you from hitting the ground when falling out of the sky.”

  “Nifty. What if the magic fails?” Ned asked conversationally, and vaguely shrugged with a pondering finger resting on his chin.

  “Oh, there’s no magic involved. It’s a simple aetheric device.”

  “You mean like, involving aether science?”

  “That’s what the big-heads in VV-section told me, yes,” Tark replied, fastening a pair of straps around his waist. Ned’s gaze seemed drawn to the retardation device. After a couple of moments of scrutiny, Ned asked poignantly, one hand resting under his chin in a knuckle:

  “What if that fails?”

  Tark blinked thoughtfully in silence before staring at Ned with a very particular, unsettling stare.

  “There’s always religion, I’m told,” Tark said and walked past Ned.

  “Where are you going?” Ned asked him with a tint of curiosity.

  “I need to jump,” Tark said and made a jumping gesture with both hands.

  “I thought you were coming along,” Ned said and took a few steps closer to Tark, hands crossed over his chest. He was pouting slightly.

  “Oh, no. I’m not even supposed to be on this ship,” Tark said, grinning profusely.

  “So, you’re hiding as well?”

  “Hiding is a harsh term. Obfuscating one’s whereabouts is much more preferable a phrase,” Tark said smiling.

  “It still means you’re hiding. Winceham will be forced to go into hiding as well,” Ned commented.

  “Look, I really need to jump. I’d hate to get skewered on a one of those towers if the wind changes all of a sudden,” Tark said nodding down below.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” Ned said and touched Tark on the shoulder gently, smiling lightly. Tark noticed the gesture and sighed.

  “This is strictly business. Nothing personal to all of this, do you understand?” Tark said and turned his back on Ned. He grasped the railing and was preparing to actually jump overboard.

  “I wouldn’t jump just yet if I were you,” Ned said, tapping Tark’s shoulder profusely.

  “Sweetness of a maiden’s tit! What is it now?” Tark yelled with indignation.

  “Winceham jumped in that glorified parachute of yours a little while ago.”

  “He did? Then what is it that am I wearing exactly?” Tark asked in cautious disbelief.

  “His backpack,” Ned said with a beaming smile.

  “Why didn’t I notice?” Tark asked, looking at the backpack’s straps mundanely.

  “Misdirection, mostly,” Ned said as if it should have been obvious. Tark stepped away from the railing and took off the backpack. He opened it hastily and found nothing but a half-eaten mushroom-salad sandwich along with a note that read: Couldn’t resist meself - Wince.

  “Well played,” Tark said looking at Ned with a surprisingly sharp, gleaming eye. “Did you know about this?” Tark said and his stare turned sour when he pointed a finger at Judith who was about to try and say something, when Ned interjected:

  “It’s not her fault, Tark.”

  “I know, I know. It’s my lack of oversight. Now I’ll have to find a good deal of excuses. A damn good deal,” Tark said and sighed. “There’s the debriefing. I dread debriefings. They bore me to death,” he said looking suddenly morose.

  “You could hurry things up, couldn’t you?” Ned said and ran his tongue across his lips.

  “I might be able to,” Tark admitted, raising an eyebrow.

  “As an added incentive, Winceham’s got your money pouch,” Ned added, grinning.

  “I see,” Tark said and his lip stiffened.

  “No need to worry; he has enough sense to leave some of that money for dinner.”

  “I wildly misjudged you Ned. You can be quite resourceful,” Tark said looking up to Ned, seeing him under a new light.

  “Beats being remorseful!” chimed Ned with a smile.

  “Was that... Was that meant to be witty?” Tark asked Ned with some hesitation.

  “Yes, it was. Wasn’t it?” Ned asked him with a worrisome voice.

  “I’m not sure if you’re in the right line of business,” Tark said and sighed, steadying himself as the ship tilted itself gracefully and began a slightly curved descend to Rampatur Central.

  And all this time, Parcifal was still staring at the sun, wholly uninterested in Ned’s little plot. All she hoped for was to see a glimpse of her sister, if only with her mind’s eye.