Parsanius Rilbeck stepped out onto the balcony and took in the extraordinary view of Narban’s second sun in full solar eclipse – something seen only once every 48 cycles. As the corona of the sun became visible he raised his glass of tont juice in mock toast before draining it in one. It had been a good day – well worth risking a dose of gamma radiation for. In this, his third regeneration, Parsanius neglected to choose gamma protection. Perhaps he was getting sloppy, or perhaps he was just tired. He sighed, and rubbing his eyebrow turned away from the spectacle and moved back inside the apartment. Yes, it had been a good day to be part of the Fleet.
23 cycles before the Fleet Alarmist’s armistice came into effect the reoccupation of the Flen province by Keelarru Queet and her merry little band of outlaws and traders meant relations between the twin planets Narban and Karoo were strained, bordering on outwardly hostile. For millennia these neighbours had maintained a delicate balance by trading their respective resources. Narban, further from the twin suns, was rich, lush and wet, a planet of bountiful fruits with game in abundance. Karoo, the smaller of the two, was drier and harsher, but by far the richer in mineral and gold deposits. As its wealth was more tangible it could afford to hire muscle from across the galaxy. Narban didn’t have that luxury and relied on its much larger population of aboriginal humanoids to fight its corner. With a strong sense of community brought about by The Joining – an ancient tradition of mind melding – Narban’s government felt Karoo’s royal family were vulgar and mercenary in hiring grunts from outside the province. Karoo, on the other hand, was of the opinion Narban’s government were fools to rely on old world traditions to build a force capable of repelling the invaders. After all, it was basically their planets wealth that was at stake. Yes, Keelarru Queet’s untimely intervention was leading to more unrest by the cycle.
Parsanius Rilbeck had recently returned from an interesting trip through the Filten Wormhole where he’d secured the purchase of the famed Millennium Falcon, once flown by General Solo in the rebel destruction of The Empire. Back in this galaxy the falcon was still the fastest ship around and Pars was making good use of it by running memories for the Reel Program through the Dar Quadrant when Lord Gortan approached him with an offer. All the gold and jewels he could fit in his cargo bay in exchange for his protection from Queet’s raids. A chance to settle an old score with Keelarru and be paid handsomely for it was an opportunity Pars found very attractive.
“Do you accept our terms, Master Rilbeck? I assure you, you will not be disappointed,” said Lord Gortan, a generous if somewhat pompous man by nature, and like most members of the Karoo hierarchy, a good head taller and foot wider than the average citizen of the planet. Dressed in practical, but still lavishly jewelled, robes he cut a fine figure. His elongated ears and pale green skin clashing remarkably with the purple headdress of marmat bones upon his head. “Of course, all expenses will be taken care of - no questions asked.”
“All expenses? You’re aware I have a lucrative contract with the Reel Program? It would require many credits to buy that out before I could even consider your offer, Lord Gortan. Even then I’m not sure I need the headache of going up against Queet when my new ship makes this job such a pleasure… not to mention, satisfyingly profitable,” he replied, lovingly patting the Falcon’s cargo ramp. There was no way he’d refuse the challenge laid down here, but he had a reputation as a man who drove a hard bargain, and a reputation equalled currency.
Gortan knew full well of Rilbeck’s reputation and had jurisdiction to offer pretty much anything to secure his services, although once he’d played his final card he knew the deal would be sealed.
“A trifle, Master Rilbeck. Consider it done.” He paused for a moment allowing the ghost of a smile to settle on his face before continuing, “I’m sure it will also interest you to know our intelligence has reason to believe Queet’s raids have been so successful because she has found and activated The Key…”
Parsanius stopped dead, all game playing ceased. “You know where The Key is?”
Frogs?
If you’re reading this things didn’t turn out exactly as I expected. I’m not dead or anything like that…actually, if you are reading this you’ll know full well death isn’t really as cut and dry as it used to be…but I’m getting ahead of myself. Suffice to say, this is a completely accurate record of the events that led to the world as we now know it. Yes, from my now exalted position I have the luxury of completely objective recall. In fact, as if it were yesterday, one might say…
It was a strange day, that Tuesday. My alarm lived up to its name and duly alarmed me, and like a particularly creaky and fuzzy robot I stumbled into the bathroom for a crap and a shower. The crap was satisfying. The shower was, well, interesting. I reached around the shower curtain to turn the lever to hot, studiously resisting the urge to look down. I had no desire to be intimidated by the festering mass of pubic hair and body related gunk that was blocking the plug hole – not at 6.04 am. That’s why I nearly missed it, and I may well have showered completely unawares if it hadn’t chosen that moment to make its presence felt.
“Please don’t freak out, Jack, but I need to speak with you on a matter of utmost importance, and the thought of being diced down this plug hole by your foot, whilst being steeped in an irony you can’t possible fathom yet, is not an appealing proposition.”
Don’t panic, Jack. Today is not a good day to go mad. That was definitely a voice, and it was definitely coming from the bottom of the shower, and the owner of it knows my name. Right, I’m going to look down now and I’m definitely not going to have an unhappy accident.
I looked down. Okay, that was unexpected. I don’t know what I did expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. There was a frog sitting in my plug hole. I’d love to be more descriptive, but to an urbanite such as myself a frog is a frog is a frog, and this one was sitting in my bath staring up at me radiating an air of pure froggy innocence. But it had just spoken to me, hadn't it? So, to be more accurate, there was an innocent looking, possibly talking, frog sitting in my plug hole. On the bright side it appeared to have cleaned up the unsightly and downright odious hair smeg, so I decided to give it the benefit of the doubt and hear it out. It was the least I could do.
“Well of course, a talking amphibian. This happens to me all the time. Barely a day goes by when a member of the animal kingdom doesn’t pop in for a chat and a spot of impromptu housework. So come on then, out with it. But if you don’t mind I’ll pull my boxers back on. I’m a little exposed here and I get the feeling I’m not going to get my shower.” I thought I was taking it pretty well.
“No problem, Jack. Nudity is not crucial to the proceedings. Oh, and you are taking it pretty well, to be honest.”
It can read my mind too. Great.
“No, Jack, I can’t read your mind, but I can remember…anyway, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, eh? My name is, well, you can call me Clip for now, and I’m here to ask a Favour, if you’re not particularly busy.”
“A Favour?
” I didn’t like the emphasis he’d put on that word. Nothing good ever comes from the capitalisation of seemingly innocent words.
“Yes, Jack, a Favour. If it’s not too much trouble I’d like you to help me save the universe from complete and utter annihilation. But if you’ve plans I’m sure someone else will step up to the plate…probably …”
I did have plans, of course. Being a creature of habit my Tuesday’s usually involved stalking the isles of the Tesco jungle with my metaphorical spear for a spot of grocery hunting followed by some quality ‘me time’ staring at ladies in the park, but the opportunity to save the universe with a talking frog doesn’t present itself every day, now does it? So I said yes, and down the rabbit hole we went…
Trolls
A wise man once said everybody needs a vice. I assume the rationale being a vice makes you aware of your human frailties, which ensures you remain humble. Gorgameth has a vice. Not just a vice, but a secret vice. But as Gorgameth is quite clearly not human it’s uncertain whether it’s a good thing. I mean, it’s not as if any number of vices will increase his humanity – you can’t make a duck more tree-like by letting your dog urinate against it - and humility is quite definitely not a trait he would wish to be cultivating. No, humanity and humility are completely useless to a troll, and that is what Gorgameth is. And as trolls go Gorgameth is a particularly festering, putrescent, ugly, stinking one - characteristics of which any self-respecting troll can be rightly proud.
But Gorgameth doesn’t respect himself at all, does he? No he does not. And the reason for that is his secret vice. A secret so disgusting, so nauseatingly unthinkable, that troll-kind would be shaken to its oversized and hideously disfigured bones if it ever got out. But before I can share his secret with you it would probably help to put it into context with a little Trollish history.
Apart from being famous for the above physical “qualities” trolls are also renowned people eaters. There’s very little they like more than a super-sized portion of “babies-in-a-basket” (preferably still screaming) with a side order of fried orphans legs washed down with a flagon of dragon’s ale. For most of their history trolls have lived under bridges tricking passing travellers with riddles and all ends of nonsense in order to munch them down quick smart. Why riddles? The same reason cats torture their prey, of course. They like to play with their food. But times change and what with the invention of automobiles, trains and planes it’s getting a damn site harder for trolls. There are so many people about now and they’re all moving so damn fast it’s near impossible to snag a decent meal. I mean, who has time these days to wander along deserted tracks let alone meander innocently over little stone bridges.
So now most forward thinking trolls rely on frozen humans shipped in from prisons for their fodder.* And the troll in charge of this operation is none other than Gorgameth. Gorgameth’s Gobbling Grub is the biggest importer in Trollande and Gorgameth himself is the figurehead and pride of all troll kind. His public persona is one of the fearless awful leader who spends his spare time pulling children’s heads off in Goa and making mincemeat out of old ladies in Tibet.
But…
He has that secret. Yes, behind this fearsome brute of a troll lies the heart of a poet and a pacifist. For Gorgameth is a vegetarian and only ever eats Marmite sandwiches. He’s so ashamed of this ridiculous situation he spends hours alone, wracked with guilt, writing the most god awful poetry ever conceived - and that includes every single adolescent love poem written by every little spotty oik who ever fell in love with his teacher. He’s that bad.
But try as he might he simply cannot stomach the thought of crunching bones and squishy muscles getting stuck between his oversized fangs. So he secretly imports HUUUUUGE jars of Marmite along with the frozen people parts to feed his cravings. And he’s terrified that his brethren are going to find out…
* the government’s secret plan to deal with overcrowding, but that’s a whole other story.