Galactic Keegan

by Scott Innes

  ‘Okay,’ Gillian said. ‘Our options are to continue on what is apparently a dangerous and circuitous route to Great Strombago alone, or we take a shortcut with a host of skilled and well-armed fighters who will, apparently, stop at nothing to save the life of one of our number. Which is it going to be?’

  ‘Obviously the second one,’ I said quietly. She’d made me look a right prat there. And in front of the Watlaq, too.

  Akplatak responded enthusiastically.

  ‘HE IS DELIGHTED,’ Barrington12 explained unnecessarily. ‘HOWEVER HE INSISTS THAT WE MAKE FOR THE MOUNTAIN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. HE IS FEARFUL OF THE NIGHT AND WHAT IT WILL BRING.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ I agreed and turned to Akplatak. ‘Akkie – lead the way.’

  Akplatak stared at me blankly. I sighed.

  ‘Barrington12, tell him to lead on.’

  THE MARSHES

  We followed the Watlaq along numerous winding forest paths, heading further and further into the wilds of this strange alien planet, our home about which we knew so little, towards the boggy marshland that would take us over many a weary mile to the foot of Great Strombago. My stomach was really grumbling but we couldn’t stop. Not yet.

  Akplatak walked ahead of his fellow tribespeople, who surrounded us on all sides to escort us through the forest. I felt twitchy at every sound, expecting another one of those space bears (or something even worse) to come bursting forth from the trees. But then, I reassured myself, if they did then at least they’d go for the tribespeople first, as they were walking on the flanks of our travelling party. The black-trunked trees made the day seem darker than it was and the flat green and blue leaves formed a canopy above our heads that was strangely calming. I wondered whether this was the secret to the Watlaq’s survival out here – any Winged Terrors flying overhead would have a heck of a time trying to spot them through the thick sprawl of foliage.

  At the centre of it all was Gerry. He walked a little ahead of the rest of us – it happened organically but the Watlaq seemed most at ease when he was slightly separate from me, Gillian and Barrington12. Gerry seemed very unsettled by the whole thing and kept glancing anxiously over his shoulder at us.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Gillian asked me in a hushed voice. I frowned.

  ‘What do you mean? Who wouldn’t want to be thought of as the lord and saviour of the galaxy?’

  ‘It’s a lot of pressure to put on someone just out of the blue like that,’ she said cautiously. ‘I don’t think he’s ready for it. And when the time comes to return to the Compound, I’m not sure how happy they’re going to be to let him go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Think about it,’ Gillian said. ‘If your whole life was built around worshipping a god and then one day he actually marches into your village, would you be happy waving him off as he leaves with a group of strangers?’

  This was, admittedly, a worry. I knew how frustrating it was as a manager to know that someone else coveted your best players and this would have been precisely the same thing.

  ‘Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it,’ I advised. ‘These guys are pretty tasty in a combat situation so let’s try not to get on their bad side until after our job is done.’

  We pressed on, our feet aching but our spirits undimmed. Every time I felt myself flagging or wishing I was back at home, tucked up in bed with a Puzzler and an Ovaltine, I’d think of poor Rodway and the hell he was no doubt going through and my resolve would be renewed tenfold.

  In the end, it was the Watlaq who rang the dinner bell as we reached the outer rim of the great forest. Before us, sprawling to the haze of the horizon and the faint outline of our mountainous destination, was a stinking marshland, spindly tree branches poking out from the bubbling depths, green and orange weeds splayed over the narrow paths that criss-crossed the treacherous ground, and the smell – my god, the smell. It was as though a public toilet had exploded.

  Akplatak raised one bony arm into the air, pointing with his spear to the grey skies above our heads, and the Watlaq halted. They turned to face their leader, standing proudly beside Gerry, and made their way towards him, huddling together in a group.

  ‘Smepka,’ Akplatak said to me. I just shrugged. ‘Smepka!’ he said again insistently, this time pressing his thumb and forefinger to his thin blue-painted lips.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, the penny dropping. ‘I’d love a bit of smepka, good call.’ I turned to Gillian behind me and said, ‘That means it’s time to eat— oh.’

  Gillian was already sitting down on a slimy rock on the edge of the bog and was eating a triangle of the Toblerone Gerry had brought with him.

  ‘Save me a bit,’ I said. ‘Not that I’ll be able to keep anything down with that bloody stench. What a great choice for a picnic spot. Amateur hour, this.’

  I sat down beside her and watched as several of the Watlaq began to unfold a large animal skin which two of their number had been carrying. Inside I could see rotten chunks of meat swimming with maggots and other strange insects and lice that I didn’t recognise and had no desire to see up close. Poor Gerry was being offered first dibs and he looked over at me imploringly. I nodded to him to have some – it wouldn’t do to upset our guests, after all.

  ‘Traspla?’ one of the warriors nearest to us said, offering a handful of the rank grey meat to Gillian and me.

  ‘Not a chance in hell!’ I blurted, and then, on realising from the wounded look on his face that my disgust had transcended the language barrier, smiled gratefully and pointed to my chocolate.

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ Gillian said, standing up and walking towards a patch of dying brush nearby.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. She looked at me with faint irritation.

  ‘Call of nature,’ she said. ‘If that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Aye, on you go,’ I said, blushing and turning away. There was very little of the disgusting meat left and Gerry looked quite green for having ingested some. The Watlaq appeared thrilled to have shared a meal with him.

  ‘So then,’ I asked Akplatak, pointing at Barrington12 to translate for me. ‘How do we get across this swamp? I don’t like the look of it, I have to be honest. Are there any particular hidden dangers we should keep an eye out for?’

  Akplatak nodded attentively as Barrington12 relayed this and then spoke back in a loud voice so that everyone could hear, like an actor projecting on stage to an enormous theatre.

  ‘THE PROPHECY OF SLASABO-TIK SPOKE OF HIS GLORIOUS RETURN WHEN THE GALAXY WAS AT ITS LOWEST EBB,’ Barrington12 translated. ‘HE WILL SAVE THOSE WHO BELIEVE IN THE PATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS, WHO REJECT EVIL. NOW THAT HE HAS RETURNED TO US, THIS IS A DAY OF BOTH JOY AND OF CAUTION. DARK DAYS ARE UPON US NOW AND MANY WILL NOT SURVIVE.’

  ‘Right, okay,’ I said, ‘but that’s not really what I asked.’

  ‘WHEN SLASABO-TIK VANISHED ALL THOSE MANY THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO, OUR PEOPLE FELL INTO DESPAIR. WHY HAD HE FORSAKEN US? HOW WOULD WE CONTINUE WITHOUT HIS GUIDING EYE? WHERE HAD HE GONE? THOSE QUESTIONS ARE NO LONGER IMPORTANT, FOR HE IS HERE, WATCHING OVER THE WATLAQ AS IN TIMES OF OLD, AND WE WILL PROTECT HIM WITH OUR LIVES. FOR HE IS THE LIGHT AND THE WAY, PRAISE HIM!’

  ‘Again,’ I said impatiently, ‘you’re giving me a lot of extraneous information here.’

  Akplatak began speaking again but was cut off by the sound of a loud splash and a grunting cry from behind me. Gillian.

  I shot to my feet and ran towards the bushes, hoping for her sake and mine that whatever had happened had been either before or after she’d commenced her what-have-you. Fortunately, it was after. Unfortunately, there was something far worse to deal with.

  ‘Help!’ I cried, hopping helplessly on the spot and looking back at the group. ‘Help, it’s got her! Something’s grabbed Gillian!’

  It was hard to know what it actually was – a thick, brown, slimy tentacle had wrapped itself around her ankle and was pulling her on her front towards the grim depths of
the bog. Gillian’s arms were scrabbling about, her fingers desperate to find some purchase, but there was only damp soil and tiny weeds. Before the first tribesman had arrived on the scene, Gillian had been pulled into the bog and the only trace of her was a small circle of bubbles dancing on the grimy surface.

  ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Do something!’

  The Watlaq stood on the path, spears raised, and aimed at the water. There was a splash of movement and one immediately threw his weapon into the depths, where it vanished forever.

  ‘That’s no good, Kev,’ Gerry said, arriving beside me out of breath. ‘They could hit Gillian!’

  I immediately waved at the group to put down their weapons.

  ‘It must have a head,’ I said desperately. ‘If we could find it and get it in the eye, maybe it’ll release her!’

  ‘Grek-tapp-slenzho,’ Akplatak said grimly and shook his head.

  ‘IT IS NOT ONE BEAST,’ Barrington12 explained, ‘BUT MANY. THEY ARE WATER WYRMS; THEY PREY UPON SMALL ANIMALS ON THE SHORES OF THE MARSHES.’

  Right on cue, several more of what I had assumed to be the limbs of some undersea monstrosity flapped out of the water – they were like giant, bloated earthworms with no eyes but nightmarish gnashing teeth. They each headed for the person in closest proximity and the Watlaq fought them off as best they could, stabbing at them with their spears, cutting with their knives. One advanced towards me, its large mouth click-clicking as it slithered quickly closer, a knot of weeds wrapped around its middle. I stumbled back in disgust but found only the large rock on which I’d been sitting. I spluttered in fear but the Watlaq were all either consumed by their own battles or else forming a protective ring around Gerry. I kicked out at it with my feet and, just as it made to bite into my shin, it was crushed, splattered and severed into halves by the giant heavy foot of Barrington12.

  ‘I owe you one, son,’ I said breathlessly. He looked at me and to my surprise he raised one squeaking arm and gave me a slightly wonky thumbs-up before clumping away across the mud. There was still no sign of Gillian re-emerging and, counting on the hope that most of the water wyrms would have come up for their feast, I ran towards the water’s edge. Without another thought – for I knew I’d only talk myself out of it – I took a great gulping breath and dived into the horrid, ice-cold darkness, pushing through the plants and algae. I opened my eyes, blinking away the painful stinging of that foul water, and cast about for Gillian. It was so dark; the light from the suns in the sky seemed incapable of penetrating below the surface but then, just as I was about to kick back up and onto the bank, I saw a flailing movement to my right. I recognised Gillian’s top-quality hiking boot and, more importantly, Gillian herself attached to it. The water wyrm was taking chunks out of the shoe but Gillian herself, though unable to shake the damn thing off, appeared not to have been bitten. The foul creatures were deceptively powerful but two humans against one earthworm on steroids was no competition. My chest burning for oxygen, I hooked my hands beneath Gillian’s arms and, kicking for all I was worth, I pulled us both up to the surface and dragged her onto the bank. Incredibly she was still conscious, having had wits enough about her to have taken a breath before being pulled under. Her face, like mine no doubt, was a pink-blue mess and the whites of her eyes had red streaks of lightning right across them, but she was alive. She coughed, great hacking sounds, and tried to speak, but I shook my head. She reached out and grasped my hand instead, and that was enough.

  Once again, Barrington12 obliged in squashing the persistent wyrm that had taken such a shine to Gillian’s footwear and I turned to see the rest of the Watlaq had also bested their own foes while I’d been under, though the tribe now appeared to be one or two fewer in number.

  Akplatak called over to us, waving his spear.

  ‘WE MUST GO ON,’ Barrington12 said. ‘THEY WILL RETURN, IN TIME.’

  ‘No arguments from me, son,’ I said, taking a deep breath and hauling myself and Gillian back onto our feet.

  GREAT STROMBAGO

  As we trekked across the treacherous swampland, with the oppressive sight of Great Strombago growing ever closer, I began to experience a peculiar sensation of contentment. It wasn’t just the Vimto I’d swigged along the way – no, it was more than that. I felt like I was doing something worthwhile. Since losing my club I’d been without a purpose. Now, I had something to fight for. And I felt heartened looking around at my friends – Gillian, Barrington12 and Gerry. This trip and its death-defying challenges had undoubtedly bonded us, brought us all much closer than we had been before.

  Gerry, at the insistence of the Watlaq, walked several steps ahead of us with old Akplatak never leaving his side (the man was a bit clingy, if I’m honest – no one’s a fan of that). The other warriors had spread out, ever watchful for dangers. Most were watching the cloudy skies above – that was where the most likely threat would come from. We were approaching Winged Terror territory now, and they did not welcome guests.

  The Watlaq were cutting a very specific path through the marsh. On every side of the unstable paths on which we stepped, there were pools and bogs, overhung with spindly wet trees that looked long dead. The stench was overwhelming, like that Easter weekend when I had Steve Bruce over to stay and I came down on the Sunday to find him washing his pants in the kitchen sink. On Jesus’ special day as well. Poor.

  An hour into our journey, one young warrior had lost her footing and stepped into a puddle – she vanished with a sticky popping sound and never emerged. The others looked on impassively. They all knew the dangers. So, too, did we.

  Another hour further along, and with Great Strombago now tantalisingly close – we could make out the cracks and crevices on the lower slopes that housed the nests of the Winged Terrors, our grim destination – the heavens suddenly opened in a mighty downpour. Thunder rumbled dramatically overhead and lightning forked across the darkening sky.

  ‘Oh, cheers,’ I muttered grumpily.

  ‘Or perhaps this is a good thing,’ Gillian offered. ‘It may provide us with some cover as we approach the mountain.’

  I pulled the collar of my Newcastle Brown Ale jacket more tightly about my neck to keep the rainwater at bay. Gerry, the jammy sod, suddenly found himself walking under a canopy propped up by four tribespeople holding wooden posts over which had been stretched the yellow skin of some unfortunate animal. Fair play, these Watlaq knew how to treat their gods.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin at a flash of lightning which struck one of the brittle trees not a hundred yards away. Its smoking remains sank forlornly into a nearby pool, gone forever. I took deep, measured breaths to slow my spiking heart rate. I was a bit twitchy about lightning and had been ever since I saw Al Shearer get struck by lightning on TV. (It was a graphic on a Sky Sports Super Sunday advert, but still.) We were close now. It was late in the afternoon, evening really, and if Gillian’s estimates were correct, the Winged Terrors that had snatched him would more than likely be just starting to get peckish.

  The paths on which the Watlaq led us became even more unsteady as the ground grew increasingly sodden. Another warrior stepped into a puddle and disappeared but still we pressed on. We had to. Our original route through the jungles to the west would no doubt have proved even more deadly. Even Barrington12 found the terrain difficult to negotiate – at one point, true to form, he dropped one of his internal memory cards onto the muddy bank behind him. I wiped it off but he’d already walked on some way ahead, blissfully unaware, so I pocketed it to return to him later.

  After trudging on, heads bowed against the chill stinging rain, all of us silent (except for the occasional reprise of ‘Slasabo-tik!’ chants among small pockets of our escort), the ground gradually grew firmer underfoot. Minutes later I looked back over my shoulder and realised that, at last, we were through. It was over. It had been, without doubt, the worst trip since I took my England boys to Dignitas, thinking it was a Swiss ski resort.

  ‘Finally!’ I said, unable to hide my relief
.

  ‘We still have to make our way back, mind you,’ Gillian observed.

  ‘Don’t spoil it,’ I muttered.

  ‘Now what?’ Gerry asked, turning to look at me. His acolytes did the same in unison.

  ‘I dunno,’ I said, craning my neck to look up at the towering volcano beside us. ‘We need to get up there somehow.’

  ‘But where?’ Gerry asked. ‘We don’t know where to look.’

  ‘There,’ I said, pointing, as, right on cue, something flew from an alcove about two hundred feet above. Something which was heading right for us.

  ‘Prakbarkk!’ shouted Akplatak and I was astonished by what happened next. The Winged Terror, its eyes full of grim malice, its teeth bared in a hideous grin, was almost upon us but in seconds, the Watlaq had arranged themselves into battle formation, a square block of people with Gerry tucked almost out of sight in the centre. Gillian, Barrington12 and I were left standing exposed to one side. Gerry threw me a slightly apologetic glance but what could he really do? Fortunately for us, the Winged Terror only had eyes for the main group and swooped towards them – where its life was brought to a sudden and painful end by a merciless barrage of arrows. It fell, lifeless and heavy, to the ground right in front of me, its face contorted in agony.

  ‘At least we now know where to go,’ I said. ‘We just need to find a foothold somewhere.’

  Already way ahead of me, the Watlaq were climbing expertly up the side of the volcano, nimbly finding small outcrops and ridges to enable their ascent. One particularly beefy Watlaq warrior (I’d been mentally calling him Gary Barlow during our journey whenever I’d caught sight of him) knelt down and gestured to Gerry to clamber onto him so that he could give him a piggyback up to the nest, from which we could hear an ominous fluttering sound, like a large butterfly trapped under a glass. They were waking up and would soon realise we’d killed one of their boys. Or girls. Listen, I didn’t get a good look at its particulars to know for sure. Why would I?