Blogsy Babbles

    “Ain’t one ta complain, Cap’m” said Louba, sliding down the metal slope and landing hard at the end.  “But if we got an easy way, me elbows got teeth.”

     “Why not, Greenguts?” demanded Bassada, reaching for a handhold on the next metal mound.  “Got yer brains in yer behind.”

     The silent, shaded room had narrowed to this partially blocked passage, with a pair of tall lumps between them and the door.  Bott found himself glancing over his shoulder as he maneuvered around the smaller lumps on each large one.  He had no choice but to trust the Drover’s guidance, but even the easy way out didn’t guarantee they’d escape before someone came to fix what had gone wrong with the maze.  The vast curved blades in the walls were not encouraging: they’d be dodging those if the game started up again.  Hard to believe they wouldn’t swing down any second now.

     The crew was in good spirits, though, working their way through an argument which had begun days, or possibly months, earlier.  “An’ how ‘bout ‘at business yez all handled at Akitipah?  Where yez took hostages but forgot ta take any loot?”

     “Cute hostages, anyhuse,” Louba replied, sliding down the next mound on her stomach.

     “Not like what ‘ey said about yez, when we stole ‘em outa yer tinpot dungeon,” the Blue replied.

     “I wouldn’t talk,” sniffed Chlorda.  “We intercepted a copy of your ransom note.  One case of ammunition and three of beer.  What kind of ransom was that?”

     “A intellectual rebel kind,” Bassada said, reaching up to pinch the aristocrat high under her robe.

     Bott knew he could do as little about the argument as he could about the blades.  “There’s the door,” he said, sliding down the metal hill.  “Be ready.”

     “Been ready since I saw yer face,” said Bassada, coming down behind him to rub her chin on the top of his head.  “I…flallop!”

     Everyone turned to her; she was looking up.  Setting her hands on each side of her head, she adjusted her mask to point the lights straight up at what rose above them.  “Foots!” whispered Louba.

     They had, in fact, been climbing across the paws of an immense bipedal creature built of metal.  A tiny spark shifted left and right in each eye far above them. Something was alive in there, but it was unable to move its body without the maze’s power.

     Bott’s shoulders rose as he faced the door again.  There was no guarantee that what waited behind it had artificial bodies.  This was the same malevolent maze, after all.  Only now nobody was controlling it.

     “Which of you can be quietest?” he whispered.

     “I can’t believe they have the capacity for silence,” suggested Chlorda, with another sniff on ‘they’.”

     “I kin be quiter’n five gold noisemakers,” said Bassada, reaching under the Gold’s robe again.  Chlorda swung an elbow back to block her.

     “Hear how quiet I kin be, Cap’m?” demanded Louba.  “Coon’n’t be quieter less’n I was dead.”

     “Don’t be dead,” Bassada told her.   “Us cheerin’ wouldn’t quiet up ‘is place any.”

     “Let’s start the quiet contest right now,” Bott commanded.

     They eased quietly toward the door.  Bott’s mind raced to all the trouble that could be waiting.  At the very least, if they did reach the Dragonshelf, at least one of the Klamathans would try to rig it so the other two were left behind.  He had been running through all his experience to find some way to forge a link that would keep this crew together at least until they were out of range.  Maybe Nubry had read something in a book that would help.

     “Seen ‘is in pitcha pos’cards,” said Bassada.

     “You didn’t see a ship in any of them, did you?” Chlorda inquired.

     Stepping through the door had brought them into a snow=covered landscape.  Apparent miles of white-clad hills rolled before them, dotted with the vast round evergreen shrubs that grew on Aumbur.  Whole armies could camp inside the largest ones.

     “Door’s probably in one of the hills,”  said Bott, checking the firmness of the terrain before stepping out on it.  “If this is the shortest way out, maybe it’ll be in the first one.”

     “We still bein’ quiet?” Louba inquired.

     “Quiet as ya ever gits,” Bassada replied.

     “Probably doesn’t matter,” said Bott, as four pairs of feet crunched across the snow.

     There was no wind, and the air was not as cold as it could have been.  In fact, Bott spotted puddles forming here and there.  Shutting off the power might have shut down the climate control here, in which case, he supposed, they’d better find the exit soon or they’d all be swimming again.

     He slid out his communications card, but then he heard sounds caused by other feet.

     “My feets is ice!”

     “My feets is icier!”

     “I’ll set one o’ ‘ese bushes afire and heat yer feets so’s yez never use ‘em again.  Now push on!”

     The refugees looked to each other.  Bott slid his card away and reached into his grenade satchel.  Still only two left.

     “Let’s hide,” Chlorda whispered.

     “I say we takes ‘em,” Bassada countered.

     “My toes is as cold as my feets.”

     “Yer toes is on yer feets, stupid.”

     “They was when I put me boots on.  Dunno about now.”

     Bott waved his crew in close.  “Let me do the talking.  Keep the lights turned way up on your masks so they won’t see who you are.”  His hand went into another satchel.

     Two lights could be seen ahead of them now.  One was steady, from a big bush on the right.  The other flickered, and was advancing.  “Let’s ,eet them.  Everybody win the quiet contest, please.”

     Bott took up a position between the bush with the bright light, and another to its left.  He could see the group approaching now.  As he’d suspected, they were Schums, and big ones, too.  They wore only loincloths.  Someone behind him smacked her lips.

     “Ah, they drool rivers,” growled Chlorda.

     There were five.  Horns rose from domed blue heads; long blue snouts stuck out over long fangs.  One carried a long black box in one hand and raised a torch in the other, while the rest held odd clubs.  They could not be frightened, and they were smarter than grobbles.  Quicker not to fight them at all.

     So Bott swung his weapon to his mouth and belted out the first chorus of the harmonica classic “Coughing Traveler.”  The Schums, who had been studying the ground before them, looked up.

     “Hey, it’s a cousin!” shouted the one with the torch.  “Heighdy, Cuz!  You in this room too?”

     “We are now,” Bott called back.  “What’s up?  We thought WE weren’t dressed for this place, but you’re worse yet!”

     A Schum with gold tips on his horns stepped ahead of the others.  “Lookin’ fer prisners what was in the maze,” he said.  “We weas promised their skins as coats.  We was sposed ta stay in our room an’ wait, since their homing beacon said they was getting’ nearly, but then the lights went out.”

     He swung up his club a bit.  Bott nodded to it, not having to pretend to be interested.  “They didn’t give US those,” he said.  “Wotta they do?”

     “Makes snowballs.”  The leader, using what Bott could now see was a scoop at the end, hauled up a clump of snow as big as Bott’s head.  “Only once ya trow ‘em, they catches fire.”

     He suited the action to the description, and launched the missile skyward.  Three feet from the club, this missile ignited, shining bright enough to burn a stripe across the vision of anyone foolish enough to keep watching.  It flew off into the side of a hill, where it sizzled and went out.  It would not, Bott knew, have gone out so quickly had it landed on any of the fugitives.

     “Pretty good,” said Bott.  “I wonder…..”

     “Scuse me,” said the Schu with the black box, stepping forward.  “Head Dog, it says here the homin’ beacon’s mighty close.”

     “Yeah,” said Bott, sliding his harmonica away.  “They got wise and ditched it.  We picked it up and followed their tracks, but either they’re flyin’ now or hunkering down.”  He waved behind him, showing the Schums no tracks waited behind the friendly visitors but their own.  “We were gonna split up an’ search the bushes, just in cases, but if you’re here, you can check that one whilst we looks into this.”

     The Head Dog frowned, which sent wrinkles rippling right up between his horns and down the back of his skull.  “Can we do that?  Our orders….”

     Bott leaned in, one hand out flat.  “Don’t’cha get it?” he whispered.  “Orders don’t matter now.  Something big’s gone wrong.  The prisoners probably did it.  Anybody fins ‘em has ta be in fer a big, fat prize.”

     The leader continued to frown, but his shoulders were moving up and down, a sign that a Schum was finding a proposition appealing.  “And anyplace we go’s absolutle gotta be warmer than this here,” Bott went on.

          Head Dog raised a fist toward the bush with the light in it.  “Go zoom, guys!  Go zoom!”  Nodding to Bott, he led his company at a charge into the indicated shrub.  The light in it went out, and screams were followed by a mighty splash.

     ”Nice piece o’ work, Cap’m,” said Louba.  “But I kinda likes ‘em when ‘ey drools.”

     :You likes ‘em when ‘ey breathe,” snarled Bassada.  Bott pointed at the other bush.

     Lager was shooting in fountains around them, but the pirate threw his mask over his right shoulder.

     PLEASE, CAPTAIN DEAR, PUT ON YOUR MASK

     I DON’T THINK I CAN GO ON.  I’D REATHER DROWN THAT LOOK AT MORE COPIES OF THAT UGLY LIBRARIAN

     “There, my pet,” said the emperor, shloorking at the last liquid in the corners of his beaker.  A tangle of tiny limbs tried to brace itself against his suction.

     Nubry had no strength to answer.  Only the blue cuffs holding her head up between her knees made it possible for her to watch the screen.  She did think that it would be appropriate for any other pirate to drown in a room filled with beer.  And at least Bott wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t had a drink in three days.

     His Imperial Worship directed his chair over to the copy machine and reached through his security shield with his straw, to scratch her under the chin.  A tiny arm dribbled from the end of the straw to slip along her throat.  “You do realize that if he drowns, there will be no need for any further copies of you.”

     Nubry could only blink by way of reply, but a voice from a hitherto silent speaker said, “I recommend that you take the copier with you when you go.”

     The Emperor glared over his prisoner’s head.  “Keep your recommendations to yourself.  I may not go, in fact.  This three-ship complex suits me very well.”

     “I do not require augmentation to provide space for all your games,” the Drover’s computer replied.

     “The Panoply adds to your presence, dear boat,” the Emperor told the Drover, easing his chair a little away from the copy machine.  “And the Rhododendron sadly needs my personal touch.  I’d like to find out whether this Sheriff can top the number  of copies this duckling provided, before SHE begs for death.”

     Nubry blinked again.  “Nevertheless,” the ship continued, “I repeat my recommendation to take the copier along.”

     “I’m not leaving.”  The Imperial chin crumpled a bit as it pouted defiance.

     “I was not talking to you.”

     The Imperial Chair backed into its usual position.  “Well, this little rag doll isn’t going anywhere.  She has a little work left to do, providing a reason for our merry pirate to go on playing our game.”  His thumb jammed down on the copy button.

     Nubry did nothing.  She could feel the boosted power of the copy machine rippling each muscle and jerking at every bone.  But she lacked any strength to respond.

     Pudgy Imperial hands rubbed together.  Then ridges began to appear in his forehead.  His head tipped up, as if he was listening to something unexpected.  His chair spun toward the Drover’s speaker.

     “What’s that?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at the big screen.

     Nubry rolled her eyes up, despite her spine apparently curling into spirals.  Bott was holding a light blue card to the foods computer slot.

     “It’s an Imperial Override Card, Your Worship,” the ship’s computer replied.

     “I know that!”  An Imperial fist swept the Imperial Beaker to the floor, where it went to pieces.

     “Then why did you ask?”

     “Where did the pirate get one?”  An Imperial fist pounded on the console, starting another copy before the first one was fully formed.  Nubry’s skull felt heavy as a Stevvian Encyclopaedia, but she kept her eyes fixed on the screen.

     “Weren’t you informed, Your Worship?  The pirate had a wide array of cards on him when captured.”

     The light flooding the lager-filled room changed color.  Nubry could not understand why this upset the Emperor as much as it did.  His fist came down three times, ordering three more copies.  “They didn’t mention an Override Card!”  The fist came down again and ordered another copy.  Nubry’s stomach and brain seemed to be trying to change places.

     One thing kept her from collapse: something was going wrong for the emperor, and right for the pirate.  No matter what Bott did with her books, he had to escape.

     Meanwhile, Dassie was trying to reason with His Imperial Worship.  “Did you tell the guards to look for an Override Card?”

     “That’s classified information!”  The fist pounded again and again on the copy button.  “I can’t tell people what the Override Card looks like!  I’d have pirates all over the place!”

     The fountains of lager were shutting down.  “Then how could anyone tell you the lummox had one, if they didn’t know what to look for?”

     It was difficult to appeal to the Emperor’s sense of fair play, since he had none.  The fist came down on the copy button again.  Nubry felt as if she had been turned inside out and lowered into a nest of acid worms.

     “You know what it looks like!  And you knew he had one!”

     “I did.  Your worship neglected to ask me about it.”

     “How could I….”  Imperial heels kicked the front of the chair as Imperial fingers groped in a pocket.  A light blue card slid into a slot below the copy button.  “Never mind that.  Just DO something!”

     The card popped back out of the slot.  “I am sorry, Your Worship.  Even an Imperial Override Card cannot override an Imperial Overrode Card.”

     A moment of silence followed, punctuated by a series of pink lights which switched on and then off around the room.  “In the case of two people using Imperial Override Cards,” Dassie said, “I must first obey the orders of the first card inserted.  After that, it is up to my own discretion to decide which of the users is more in keeping with my design and elegance.”

     The little control room was silent for another second.  The Imperial underlip stuck out.  “And?”

     “Pretty close in this case.  But I have chosen the scruffy lummox over the gross degenerate.”

     “You…you scow!”  Imperial fists hit a dozen buttons at once.  The light blue card flopped to the floor.

     Nubry glanced from it to the Emperor to the big screen, but found it all too much to comprehend.  The copies of herself on the floor were behaving strangely.  The trap door, instead of opening to dump them somewhere, had opened upward to allow two previous copies, who had been dumped while Bott was still flying the fake Dragonshelf, to return.  They all looked very unwell, limbs flopping or hanging limp.  But those who had hands that worked were smoothing back their hair from their foreheads and looking at their original in the copier.

     Then, one by one, they rose a little into the air and flew toward the prisoner.  Something had obviously gone wrong with the copy machine.  Instead of producing new Nubrys it was sucking the copies back into her, reinforcing her energy instead of sapping it.  It hurt, but not in the way making the copies had hurt.  This felt more like a stretch of the muscles after spending a day hauling boxes of books.

     What did it mean?  Was it something Bott had ordered?  But how would he know she was here?  Was it something the Emperor had done accidentally, or was this another cruel plan?  He must know what he was doing.  Did he?

     He certainly did not.  He was still arguing with Dassie.  Nubry looked from the Imperial chair to the screen, to find out what Bott and the women were doing now.  As she did so, though, the screen blinked off.

     “What’s that?”  The Emperor could not msiss the loss of so large a light source.  “What’s that?”

     He swung the chair.  To his left and right, other screens and lights were blinking off.  “You pucid, crifting robot kite!  You turn all that right back on!  I’ll have you scrapped and melted down into tailspikes!”

     “I’m sorry, Your Worship.  But while you were spitting on your console, the lummox has been giving orders.”

     ”I’ll show all of you who gives orders aboard this ship!”  Two fists jammed down on another console.  “Sheriff!  Sheriff!  Listen to me!”

     “That’s been shut off,” said the ship’s computer.

     One half of the room was completely dark.  The Imperial chair floated over to a wall panel.  An imperial fist thudded into a dim square.

     “Sheriff!  Sherrif!  Where are you?”  The Imperial voice was a touch higher than usual.  “Answer me!  That is an Imperial command!  Sheriff?”

     “That’s been shut off,” the ship’s computer informed him.

     The chair wobbled to the door of the game room.  When the door did not open, the Emperor reached for the emergency handle.

     “The emergency exit function has been disabled,” the Drover informed him.  “The lummox has turned off power to the entire maze area.  We will soon be completely….”

    The Emperor spun his chair around.  “What do you mean?  This room isn’t part of the maze area!  Is it?  Answer me!  Ship!  Ship!”

     The rest of the lights in the room shut off.  “Answer me!” bellowed His Imperial Worship.

     There was a thump as the Imperial Chair hit the floor.  The security shield made a tiny sound of “fissssh” as they shut down.

     The Emperor moaned, rolling left and right.  He had not actually gotten out of this chair in several weeks, but he remembered how it was done.  It seemed a dreadful imposition, besides being in some ways a capitulation to that pirate and this revolting slave ship.  Imagine an Emperor having to walk simply because a computer went offline!

     He leaned back in the chair.  He would just wait, then.  The Sheriff would send someone to him.  Then he’d kill her.  Her and a dozen of those engineers who had assured hi that this heap of rust and rebellion was a really good ship.

     He crossed his ankles.  Then he uncrossed them and sat up sharply as a voice, deep and vibrant, declared, “We’re all alone.  Are we?  Yes, we are!”