The Queen of Tentacles (Part2)

                                         The Queen of Tentacles (Part 2)

Glob was true to its word. We arrived early. So early, in fact, that the Jellians hadn't finished their morning chorus of "I Love Lucy".

I usually visited Ocea, the Cephalpodian planet, during the late afternoon, and the banquets took place at night. So I hadn't had a daytime opportunity to explore their world. I wanted an arial view. I asked Glob if we could buzz around the land mass, where the Cephalopodian cities once stood.

Glob bobbed excitedly up and down, then zipped around in a circle a few times. I had learned this behaviour means an enthusiastic "Yes!"   So we headed out over a greyish swamp, towards what looked like clusters of rubble, far away.

The sea is reclaiming the dry land of Ocea. Soon it will be a water world, like Jellian. (One people, one world, one name. Practical. ) 

But it hasn't taken it all yet, and as we cruised slowly over the marshes, we noticed rutted, primitive roads, all heading in the direction of the rubble.

As we drew nearer, we realised that what we had mistaken for fallen rocks were actually buildings. There were some huts constructed of marsh grass clustered around the pointed piles of rock, which had been deliberately placed in the centre of...town? We saw no sign of activity. The grass huts were decaying. This place had been abandoned. We moved on.

  There are mountains at the edges of the land, which are also sinking into the sea. They form an impenetrable barrier between the ocean and the dry interior. Scraggly trees grow horizontally from the poor mountain soil. These hang out over the ocean like perches for giant birds. Or dragons. Although no sensible dragon would ever rest on anything as flimsy as one of those rotting trunks. There's an old dragon grannie saying, about finding lost things. "If you can't find it where you lost it, the mountains have taken it. That's where you'll find it." Thousands of dragon grannies can't be wrong. And the single road out of the tumbling town headed towards the mountains. So we did too.

  The late morning sun struggled valiantly to cut through the dank fog clinging to the peaks. I had to give it credit for trying. Droplets of condensation formed on the view ports of our ship. They ran in rivulets down the thick glass, and dripped off the bottom. Visibility was terrible. We did our best to follow the winding path further up, and as we did, I spotted a ragged procession of figures who were on their way down. Dragons have excellent distance vision. And even though the fog and the droplets conspired against us, I was able to make out some unmistakable details. They were Cephalopodians.

One was dressed more richly that the rest, and in garish bad taste. This was apparently their leader. The others wore rough brown clothing, and blended in with the environment so well that it was difficult to see how large their group was. But their beasts gave their number away. A line of skinny, sickly looking animals trailed down the path behind them. I counted seven of them. So, not a raiding party, not a hunting party. Salvage mission?  The beasts were tied together, loaded up with cloth covered bundles, some weird elongated strips of something which looked like dented metal attached to a cracked starship view port, and one of the poor creatures staggered under the weight of what appeared to be... A transmitter module.

"Glob! Conceal!" We vanished at the speed of thought. Some starships don't have cloaking, but I wanted mine to be state of the art, so when I commissioned it to be built, I gave my hoarded gold to the finest starshift crafter I could find. They were an Otherhood artisan, although I didn't know that, and had no idea what it meant at the time. When they gave me the details, they also gave me an opportunity to back out, although a mind wipe was mandatory, and any memories I had of the interaction would be erased by Otherhood Mages. I was enthralled! Dragons love mysterious secret magickal business transactions.

They built the ship to my exact specs. Too bad I forgot to add rainproofing to the view ports.   

When the crafter introduced me to Glob during our perma-contract ritual, I had no regrets about entering into the magickal pact which would prevent me from ever divulging the secrets of the Jellians. However. Every contract that has ever been written for anything, usually has an exit clause. This one was no exception.  If I were dying, but Glob was not, I could break silence at the end in order to ensure they would be saved. My perma-contract would then pass to whomever rescued Glob. When it was safely returned to its world, the terms of the contract would be satisfied.  The rescuer would be rewarded with good vibes,  a very pleasant life,  the permanent  ability to mentally link to the Jellian collective, (if they were  a person of good character,)  and a fine cup of tea.

So if you're chosen as a Jellian's pilot, or somehow happen to save one,  the collective might decide to accept you as a member of the family. But anyone who hurts, or Gods forbid, kills one, also gets a reward. One which they deserve. And how that happens cannot be explained. Circumstances just seem to line up in the most peculiar ways, until Jellian justice is served. They don't do it. The universe does. The Jellians mourn the tragic fate of the miscreant. The universe does not.   

My thoughts were shattered by a loud chiming from the coms. The Queen.

"Hello, Silver. Dragon dear, I'm looking forward to my reading, the guard is ready for your ship to dock, they're waiting on the pad." Her voice sounded off. Forced cheerfulness? I could hear the unmistakable undertones of fear.

Glob was right. Something was up.

Ratfeathers. What time was it? We had to get back to the Palace.

Still concealed, we swooped around, and headed down towards the ocean.

The condensation had dried off of the front view port as we descended, and I saw that we were flying over some deep pits, where Cephlopodians were working. They wore the shabby brown clothing, and were digging up minerals. They were loading them into wooden carts, which were hauled by the same sort of scrawny beasts I had seen on the mountain. I made a point to ask the Queen about this. She was always thrilled to talk about her world. At least she had been before.

Upon exiting the ship, I was greeted by no less than 20 Royal guards. Guards are chosen for their size. Big strong  octopus people, seven feet tall, wearing shiny chitin armour, which is crafted to allow maximum range of motion for their tentacles. And they have sixteen of them, which can do a lot of damage to someone with foul intentions. Nobody wants to mess with the Royal Guard, and nobody does, unless they're utterly mad, stupid,  or inebriated.  I was surprised. Why so many? I had never been escorted by more than two guards before. And I'm always courteous, but they don't like me anymore. They used to, but something changed. I noticed it after the Queen's last reading. They were friendly when I arrived, unfriendly when I left, and they are downright menacing now.

A small quiet thought. "They're waiting for something."

"Yes, Glob. I agree."

Silently, the guards walked me to the entrance shaft which is the only way that I know of to get into, or out of, the deep sea palace. 

It's a big tube basically, with a platform you stand on. Water is pumped either in or out of the shaft, and the platform rises or falls accordingly. I could hear the pumps and engines groaning away, remnants of a grander Cephalopodian age, when they could still build marvelous machines. I wondered what would happen when all this failed too, then shook that notion away. I had to be in the right frame of mind to read for the Queen.  I sent out a quick thought.

"Glob. Are you hiding?"

"Yes"

"Can you hide and scan at the same time?"

"Yes"

"Ok. I'll be back soon."

"Be careful Silver."

"I will. You too."

"Yes."

The platform creaked, and with a whoosh of sea water, down we went.

You might wonder how in the world an excitable, brightly glowing gooey little person, in a transparent glass tube placed prominently in a starship, can hide.

They can. They sink to the bottom of their tube, and stay still. There's a rubber holder beneath the tube where the nutrient lines connect, and this holder is about a foot high. So a Jellian who has sunk beneath that line, and dims down a little, is invisible when the lighting in the ship is low. The whole thing just looks like some sort of tube which needs a good cleaning. They can hide for long periods of time. I think it's a form of meditation, or something. They just mind merge with the collective until it's time to reappear. But there's another reason a Jellian will go dim. If it's injured, or dying.  This is something a pilot needs to be aware of, so they can keep their Jellian friend safe and in good health. A Jellian who's hiding will brighten up right away when the threat is gone. If it doesn't,  that means it's in trouble.

 

 It was barely past  mid day on the mountain, but the party had paused their descent so their leader could eat. Again.  The air was bracing, and smelled like rotten fish. The leader loved it.  Even so, he was bored. He wiped his hands on  the shirt of the Cephalopodian who had brought him his food, and shouted.

  "Illustrator. Where is the illustrator? Come here. Bring those drawings. NOW."

A shabby Cephalpodian carrying a crude folder, flowed quickly over the cold, stony ground, to the one who had given the order. Larger than the others, he wore silk robes, and too many necklaces of gold, large gems, and pearls. The illustrator handed him the folder, then stumbled backwards as a tentacle flashed out, and slapped her in the face. The folder fell to the ground, its contents scattered.

"Kneel! You are to KNEEL before me." He gurgled. His features were a twisted mask of rage.

'Yes, your Grace", mumbled the illustrator, who had crawled into a kneeling position. The tentacle slapped again.

My KING! You are to address me as MY KING. How many times do I have to tell you idiots this. My. KING. Is it so difficult for you stupid fools to understand."

"No, my King."

 "Pick up those scribblings, and we'll try this again. It disgusts me that you're even on this mission, but playing with pens and drawings is not a fit profession for a Male, so here you are."

The illustrator slowly gathered up the drawings, carefully cleaning the dirt off of them. On Earth, drawings of this quality would be called photorealism, and exhibited in museums. Most of the drawings depicted the garish Cephalopodian, in exaggerated heroic poses, as he examined the wreckage of a shattered starship. In one of them, A small bipedal creature, it's tawny fur matted with blood, held a long tube close to its chest, protecting it with its crushed paws. The top portion was broken, but most of it was intact. The illustrator had perfectly captured the emotion in the creature's eyes. The sorrow. The pain. Its pleading look. She had also captured the tube, with cracks starting to run down the side, the liquid remaining within, fouled with dirt. And at the very bottom of the tube, a tiny light. The illustrator's talent was incredible. She had successfully drawn a glowing Jellian. Her last drawing was of the male holding up the tube, a sinister sneer of triumph on his face. In the background, the tawny pilot lay dead.

  The illustrator handed the drawings back to the massive male, kneeling, but remaining silent. He took them, then slapped her again. She crawled away, as the male shuffled through the drawings, pausing on the ones which featured himself.

She was a safe distance away, when she was approached by another shabby Cephalopodian, who held out a damp rag so she could wipe her face. He was also male. All of them in the group were, except for the illustrator.

"I'm so sorry." he said, as the illustrator took the rag, and nodded at him.

"It isn't your fault." She replied quietly.

"There isn't much we can do." He said.

"Really." She sneered. "He's not King. Not yet. We don't have a king. We don't want a king. We have a Queen. We want her, she's a good one."

"We won't have a Queen for long, once he gets back down there." Said another male, under his breath. "He'll wed her, then dead her, and no mistake."

"And that's the plan?" hissed the illustrator. "Then someone had better dead him first. And be right quick about it, too. Otherwise we're all flotsam."

"Shhh. Be quiet. He'll hear you." 

They crept silently away, into the shadows beneath stunted, moss covered trees.

High on the mountain, hidden beneath a pile of rocks, a tiny light flashed, then dimmed. 

 

(To be continued)