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Chapter 6

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Milon the Assassin and King Cigarillo were preparing to go out onto the surface of the moon when the message arrived. King Cigarillo’s face went a strange colour as he read it. Milon was by his side.

They finished reading. Milon found his voice first.

“I do love you,” he said.

“ I know you do, “ said the King, staring absently out of the cabin window at the lush green meadows of CO7–D, scorched slightly in a wide circle due to the mini-ship’s brake rockets. Milon’s right knee missed a beat.

“So you don’t believe this Fancyflight fellow?” he asked, falteringly.

“Of course not. My security team have been monitoring him ever since he arrived on Cartonia Orange. He’s meta-psychotic. It’s perfectly obvious. Do you know anyone who would send a typewritten memo through thousands of miles of space, instead of using a video code? Look, he’s even put his address on it: ‘FlightOfFancy, Interstellar Spacecraft Q004, Somewhere in the asteroid field of Cartonia Orange 7’. It’s all a lot of fabricated nonsense.“

The King turned with a gentle smile and put his hand on Milon’s shoulder, who was quickly resealing his rib cage. “What’s a meta-psychotic then, my darling? You’re so clever you know. Your brain really turns me on. “

Cigarillo allowed the mood-sensitive chair to recline, and he sighed as Milon began to massage his temples.

“We found out quite soon that FlightOfFancy was a QGA spy. It was quite obvious. He just seemed to take everything on Cartonia quite calmly, without a single nervous breakdown or unsightly scene. Real Cartonian’s get freaked out very regularly by the rampant insanity of their world. It’s traditional. I had a psychotic attack myself last month – we had to declare a national holiday in celebration of it. I became convinced that universe had come about because of immense explosion at the beginnings of time, preceding which nothing had existed at all. There was some other rubbish about the universe constantly expanding as well… my advisers were most helpful.”

“How silly!” said Milon, tickling the King’s gilded eyebrows.

“Yes! I quite impressed myself. Anyway, it didn’t take long to notice that FlightOfFancy was ridiculously well adjusted. He had no phobias, no sexual hang-ups nothing. To which I could only conclude that he was a biologically engineered QGA plant. They’re the sanest sentient beings in the known universe. Since the discovery of the neurotic gland, the QGA have been able to genetically standardize our subconscious. I should know, my Great x10³ Grandfather was sanitized himself, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”

“You’re brilliant,” murmured Milon, from somewhere beneath the King’s clothing, “a genius.”

“The inevitable problem with fellows such as FlightOfFancy,” continued Cigarillo a little breathlessly, “is that they’re so normal that their subconscious minds repress all their dangerous desires into a sub-sub-conscious. Oh my goodness! Where did you learn that?”

“I have triple-jointed toes,” replied Milon’s muffled voice.

“Well FlightOfFancy has finally succumbed to the first and last flight of fancy of his deeply repressed sub-sub-conscious. I think he’s planning to destroy the planet. Not that it matters any more, seeing as we’ve landed on CO7–D. We’re both doomed now, so we might as well ooh Agatha H Christie! Do that again! Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

Milon’s reddened face suddenly appeared from beneath the many layered wedding dress King Cigarillo was still wearing. “What are you talking about, doomed, you silly man?” he said. “It doesn’t look too bad at all out there.”

The King moaned something incoherent from under the control desk where he had rolled.

* * *

“I’ve written a poem about you,” said FlightofFancy, looking up from his typewriter. “Do you want to hear it?”

Jennifer shook her head.

“Well I’m going to read it to you anyway. Here goes:

Oh Jennifer, / Oh ears so bright, / I know much more than you. / I know about how you and Milon were trying to marry / off King Cigarillo to Queen Knives. / And many other interesting things.

There. Do you like it? No? Neither do I much, but at least it’s the truth, eh? There’s too little of truth in the world Jennifer, you know. So many lies, so much deceit. The universe has become irretrievably corrupt. It needs cleansing. It needs purging and love, but mostly purging. Do you know what my wife’s name is, Jennifer? It isn’t Jennifer. No, it’s something different. It’s Carol. It looks like Milon and the King have landed on CO7–D. Oh well, we’ll just orbit the planet until they get themselves killed I suppose.”

FlightofFancy swivelled his chair round to face the viewscreen, adjusted his newly found hat and began to whistle a little bit of a tune.

* * *

Big Building was, understandably, the largest structure on Moon F. Even so it was only just large enough to house Queen Knives and her reinforced throne. Big Building was unattractive but practical, a dirty cube of grey bricks situated in the moon’s capital and only city, Dustbowl. There the Queen sat, receiving visitors and absorbing nutrients from the atmosphere. A roughly carved sign over the tiny door read “QUEEN IN HERE”. There was no lock on the door. No one visited Queen Knives unless they had to.

The Queen was holding an emergency conference with her closest adviser Duke Carving. The Duke considered any conference with his monarch enough of an emergency. He’d flown back from the Wedding Party immediately upon the King’s departure, and to him was given the dubious honour of explaining to her the sudden flight of the fugitive lovers.

The Duke pressed himself against to Queen’s lower slopes to communicate via the weak electric pulses in their semi-conductive bodies, which ensured absolute secrecy for the participants.

“Well,” emitted Queen Knives, “how many wedding presents did we get? I hope it wasn’t all asteroids again.”

“Oh no, Your Majesty,” flooded the Duke. “We received several solar systems, and a number of healthy native populations into the bargain, including the Pliable Rodmen of Southern Dozar… what’s left of them. They make excellent slaves.”

“Oh yes? That’s nice? Who gave us them?”

“It was the Pliable Rodmen themselves actually, Your Majesty. Apparently it’s just something they like to do.”

“Any controlling interests in major planetary economies?”

“Well, yes… you now own the entire export markets of Quinssarke, the Sinking Kingdoms of Rof and the Republic of Hopeful Mauve-Land.”

“Not bad, not bad…at least we didn’t come out of this empty handed. What does the republic of Hopeful Mauve-Land actually export by the way?”

“Greetings cards I believe, Your Majesty.”

“Always useful.”

“Just what I thought, Your Majesty.”

“So you didn’t have any trouble smuggling the Lust-Wave Emitter into the King’s chambers then?”

“None whatsoever Your Majesty. I simply slipped it into his pockets. They’re so big I knew he’d never find it. It’s rumoured that a potential assassin hid inside the King’s pockets for three weeks, and he was only found by the laundry workers, all shrivelled and colourless in the bottom of a washing machine.”

“That’s what you get for being such a fashion victim. Well it certainly worked a treat. I guess we can get on with declaring war on the whole solar system now, in revenge as it were. I assume you’ll organize the ritual suicide of our aristocracy, as is traditional in such times of national disgrace?”

“Er, yes, Your Majesty,” said Duke Carving.

“And take off those ridiculous silver shoes”, said Queen Knives, as the Duke shuffled towards the door. “They might have suited you if you had feet. Where did you get them?”

“Oh, the Dangling Matriarchs were just dangling them around the place you know...”

“Shut the door when you leave,” said the Queen. “It gets bloody draughty in here.”