:: The Marquess Takes it to the Rim: a short story by morland ::

Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Ewart Cecil-Humely, the 7th Marquess of Dorset, opened his survival tin to discover his rations had dwindled to hardtack, salted pork, and taffy. A grim look clouded his face. Squandering the venison had been a mistake. Disgusted, he tossed the tin back in his satchel, and returned to reconnoitering the sandy mound ahead, barren save for patches of dune wildrye and a singular bracket fern.

The Marquess could still feel the edict burning in his vest pocket. "...have no choice therefore, but to hold the peerage of our right trusty and entirely beloved cousin in forfeit until such time as he should demonstrate his loyalties lay once more to queen and empire. Furthermore, as recompense for seditious usury, he shall accompany the Pitcairn expedition under the strict command of Commodore Ashwaithe. Should he prove..." It was all irrelevant now. This reprobation had set him on his course, but it would not return him home. The fruition of aristocratic machinations decades in the making now found him exiled on this cursed speck of terra firma partly to serve the political ambitions of a loose-knit cadre of dukes, fellow marquesses, earls, viscounts, and barons, for no uncondemmed man would have sailed for Pitcairn, and partly by choice, for he quite literally leapt at the first opportunity to divest himself of his warden's squinty and supervisory glare once the northern hemisphere was but a memory. Ashwaithe, to his credit, was a shrewd judge of character and recognized that not all his crew were murderers, brigands, or even guilty of any crime at all. His conveniently lax policy as regarded head count upon returning from the myriad landings on the archipelagos atolls and meager isles across which they stumbled ensured that any man wishing to choose abandonment (and quite likely with it isolation, starvation, and insanity) over the floating prison known as the H.M.S. Doughty could do so. Cecil-Humely did not think twice of taking advantage of this tacit offer. His only regret was knowing he would never see his sweet Marchioness again. The Marquess had constructed a crude proxy out of abandoned hermit crab shells and reeds, but it was hardly a substitute for her womanly comforts, and could bear him no heirs.

If this island on which he now found himself had a name, Cecil-Humely was certain it would have been willfully forgotten by all ever to know it except by those fascinated by cruel curiosities of topography, for inhospitable would have been too kind a word to describe its terrain. Sheer bluffs of several score yards would have proved a ubiquitous obstacle, were there anything useful enough on top of or beyond them to warrant their scaling. The dearth of aquatic and terrestrial wildlife might have given even the most experienced fisherman and/or hunter pause - if there had been material enough from which to fashion a rod, or even a spear, suitable for the kill.

The Marquess soon found his only companion to be a constant grimace.

Down to his last morsels of nourishment after only a fortnight, he began to despair. Far too proud to contemplate regret at the choices which had led him to this point, he consoled himself with projections of guilt and vitriolic harangues directed at targets half a world away. To stave off madness, he had continued to explore the rapidly dwindling portions of his new rocky home. The littoral heights before him comprised the last of its terrain hitherto not surveyed.

The malnourished form that limped towards the frothy shore bore little resemblance to the regal man who had once, at his very own estate, hosted his sovereign and her magisterial entourage for a three-day gala affair deemed by none other than the queen herself as "effulgent". The pristine skin of an Anglo-Saxon dandy had made way for the leathery hide of a seafaring roustabout, shielded from the rays of that heavenly furnace by the soiled remnants of what surely had been a dapper outfit. That his clothes hung about his emaciated form at all served as a testament to their well-hewn creation.

Rounding the final dune, Cecil-Humely sighted a sizable rock outcropping ensconced amidst a cluster of palms nigh a furlong in the distance. Coconuts! The Marquess shed his grimace and quickened his gait almost to a gallop. In no time he had gathered several odd baker's dozen of the husked jewels. Surely this would augment his food supply to the extent that by the time he had exhausted his current reserves, a new crop would be ready for harvest. He was on his way to self-sustenance.

Several hours passed as Ewart contemplated his good fortune and devised a method to extract the milk from the center of the seeds without damaging their meaty shells. That merely weeks ago he would have eschewed these was a turn of fate not lost on the Marquess, and he reflected on the changes, both external and internal, that had rendered him so drastically different a man in such a short span of time. While deep in thought, his gaze drifted along the rocky patchwork that had first caught his eye, landing upon an opening decidedly unnatural in appearance. "Could it be," he speculated, "that I have happened upon a depot used to store the booty of some miscreant mariner, or perhaps a hoard of supplies left by a wayward expeditionary venture?" Caution long since departed, Cecil-Humely sauntered over to the almost perfectly circular opening, which he estimated to be around seven cubits in diameter.

Past the mouth lay a passageway stretching beyond the limits of the Marquess' vision, lit by some unknown mechanism. It struck him as odd that a tunnel of such length should maintain a constant level of luminance with the only discernable source of light coming from the entrance at which he now stood. Suddenly uneasy, he began to back away. There was no use now in jeopardizing his future. With his bounty of coconuts, he could likely survive long enough to greet the next vessel happening upon this god-forsaken rock, and chances were it would not be a ship of the realm. A few choice omissions of fact could ensure him safe passage to one of any number of colonies at which his political connections might ensure him a quiet, if unbecoming, means of living out the remainder of his days.

It was not long before the passing weeks convinced him otherwise. Boredom alone was beginning to threaten his health, and the indignity of incognito exile in some foreign port ensured that the appeal of rescue steadily waned. Ewart made, with his usual temerity, the decision to investigate the passage, consequences be damned.

Half an hour into the artificial cave, an inspection of the path already traveled revealed his entrance to be but a pinprick of light in the distance though the immediate interior shone as brightly as before. Two hours later, the constant marching and uncertainty of his destination began to wear away the once intrepid deserter's resolve, and notions of retreat stood ready to coax him backwards. At just that moment however, he glimpsed - so faintly he could not at first be sure it was not a hallucination - a slight blue twinkle ahead. His pace increased. Twenty minutes later, the Marquess found himself in a large breadbox-shaped chamber with polished wooden floors. The room was spartan, bare except for two posts at the opposite ends, each topped by what appeared to be blank translucent placards with butterfly nets attached. The bottom ends of the nets had been torn open. He shuddered to think what creature might have broken free from confinement within, for the holes appeared quite large. A couple of doors faced him from the far side, but Ewart could make out no handle and they did not give to the touch. Exhausted and confused, he crumpled to the floor, happy at least to be shielded from the elements, and fell into a deep slumber.

After some inscrutable duration of time, Cecil-Humely slowly became cognizant of a dull pounding coming from somewhere close by. Groggy but not without suspicion, he cracked his eyes slightly. A lanky form occupied the space underneath the far poll. Opening his eyelids more fully, the form became more clear. The creature now book-ending the chamber stood well over six feet in height, with smooth blue skin and thin, spindly legs. It was clad only in a silvery-red uniform of sorts apparently designed to maximize economy of movement, for it covered only the torso and upper thighs. Teal piping ran around the edges. Upon this costume was emblazoned some sort of insignia, beneath which lay what seemed to be a foreign alphabet. Ewart watched as his counterpart paced around (it was bipedal!) using the ends of its floppy webbed limbs, best described as "hands", to propel an elastic orange sphere - a bit larger than a large grapefruit - down towards the floor. As the sphere repeatedly sprang back up, the creature met it with his "hands" and pushed the sphere back downwards, sometimes along the same trajectory as it had followed on the way up, and sometimes altering its path to redirect the sphere through his legs or towards the opposing hand.

Overcome by curiosity, Ewart sat up to gawk. Never before had he seen such a being, and should he live long enough to recount this tale to another human, he wished to gather as much information as it was in his power to collect with his senses.

Suddenly, the creature turned, and the two sentient occupants began to stare at one another. As if in answer to a question unasked, the alien figure charged down the length of the room directly towards the post nearest the Marquess, continuing to rhythmically bounce the sphere off the firm ground. When within three long strides of his apparent target, the brightly-clad character leapt from the floor, his momentum carrying him forward at an undiminished pace, covered his eyes with the end of his left appendage, and forcefully threw the sphere through the horizontally-mounted ring of the butterfly net. Landing solidly on both feet, the creature then turned to Cecil-Humely and, in enthusiastic English, uttered simply, "Word. Monster jam."

Perplexed did not begin to describe the Marquess' state of mind. Here, in possibly the most remote location known to humankind, he had stumbled upon a life form not of this world, and it could dunk.

Ewart rose to his feet. "Good day sir, I am Ewart Cecil-Humely, seventh-"

"I know who you are, Marquess. It was I who brought you here." Ewart noticed that these words emerged from no orifice on the creature's head. He was hearing this being's speech directly in his mind.

"I see... who might you be then sir, and by what means did you arrange for my presence here? Might I also inquire as to your purpose in doing so?"

Again the words entered his brain: "I am Xyryzl, the Kepq'artian Highlight Reel. My people have, throughout the centuries, formed a network of operatives on your planet, infiltrating even the dual houses of British parliament. It was through the machinations of these agents that your effective exile was arranged."

Ewart interjected. "But how were you to know that-"

"Captain Ashwaithe works for us. He ensured that you would find yourself here, with me. You are to be the liaison."

The Marquess had spent a lifetime in politics and, delirious though might have been, his skeptical instincts had not entirely deserted him. "Explain yourself, sir," he said in measured tones.

"Our race is dying, and we must-"

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why is your race dying?"

"Oh. Um... I'm not sure."

"You're not sure? Why then do you-"

"Look: it's a just metaphor for generational change and decay. The specific cause isn't important."

"Ah. Continue."

"As I was saying, our race is dying, and we must impart to you the full body of Kepq'artian hoops culture. It is the way of our people, and it must not be lost. It shall live on through you, as you disseminate it to all mankind. I have brought you here to teach you the ways of our sport. You will learn the killer cross-over, the no-look pass, and the windmill jam. You will grow knowledgeable in the ways of the offense of the triangle and the defense of the zone." It leaned closer. "You will join the venerable fraternity of Phi Slamma Jamma."

Cecil-Humely digested this slowly. Doubts began to surface in droves.

Anticipating this uncertainty, Xyryzl continued his pitch. "At night we shall rest and enjoy the pleasures of Crystal and loose women."

The Marquess' reticence vanished. He had twin weak spots for booze and courtesans.

"Very well. I will train with you, under the conditions that I receive a fly outfit like yours, and that my wrists be adorned with ice and bling."

The alien approximated a contented smile with his facial features. "It shall be so."

Just then, one of the doors Cecil-Humely had previously found to be locked opened with a loud swoosh, and a man wearing a tan jumpsuit entered.

"Come on, you guys, there's been a report of paranormal activity down at the old textile factory."

Xyryzl turned to the Marquess. "You ready?"

A sly grin spread over Cecil-Humely's face. "Bustin' makes me feel good!"

The pair grabbed their proton packs from the man, and together the three charged out through the door. If one listened closely before the door closed behind them, one could distinctly make out the sound of a high-five.

Let it not be said that members of British aristocracy, Kepq'artians or anonymous men in tan jumpsuits be afraid of no ghost.

THE END
(or is it???)

Posted by morland @ 02:01 PM

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