Pineapple Gum

 

A Commander Moast Adventure

Moast relaxed in his quarters during a routine cruise in the Deneb system. Though the starghip Orchidia had a crew of only five, they trusted the namesake AI to be alert for threats. That made her rare in-person visits all the more unnerving.

She materialized in front of Moast's recliner, the avatar having been tweaked to be less robotic. Now it looked like a sex doll. She just couldn't get it right. Moast set aside his book to await the bad news.

"What is pineapple gum?" she began. "How does it relate to the collapse of Earth civilization?"

Relieved, Moast had to laugh at her resourcefulness. "So you've connected me with the New Vigilantes." His rise to fame as a soldier of fortune led to the Consortium choosing him as commander of Orchidia. "It's complicated. Recall your data on the rise of the police state."

She had that in a picosecond. "Villainization of police left them afraid to become involved in anything short of a murder. Localities became lawless as police grew increasingly insular and heavily armed. They became nationalized, ruthlessly enforcing the dictates of whomever was currently in power."

"While the cities rotted," Moast supplied. "Pull up a chair and I'll tell you a story." The jest, of course, went right past her.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *  

Brenner wandered into the local gas station for his next assignment. He had to wait for a couple of gamblers playing lotto. As usual, the dusty cans of charity reject food held no interest. Worse yet, the ongoing supply disruption had shelves bare of goodies. Brenner had hope when Burt, the station owner, came out of his glass cage with several boxes. Until he saw what it was.

"More pineapple gum? What the hell, Burt?"

The paunchy gas jock slid the boxes onto a shelf. "As I explained, it comes from Mexico. They're the only ones the insurrectionists aren't at war with, and it's the only part of the shipment they don't want." Burt clapped him on the back. "Don't know what I'd do without my lab guy. I got a kick out of this morning's web news." TV media, naturally, patently ignored anything that hurt the insurrection. "You got those looters and rioters plenty sick."

Through his contacts, Brenner, himself a former micro lab worker, had access to various hospital pathogens being cultured for drug studies. Long drives to riot sites were worth it. His latest caper involved norovirus, that fall-winter rite of passage for the intestines. The stuff was explosively contagious. Twelve hours after exposure, rioters were losing it from both ends. They were getting skittish about rioting in the first place.

"Tonight," Burt went on, "we got a more local problem. Some bikers have been zooming around at all hours terrorizing our quiet streets. They made the mistake of getting predictable." He handed Brenner a note.

Brenner was to be one of the point men in an ambush. "I'll check in with the guys. Consider it done."

Near dusk, four bikers in arrogant close formation roared down a residential street. Brenner reacted to the pull on the rope, drawing his end tight around a fence post. Four riders were neatly dismounted as their bikes continued on, one crashing into a parked car. Brenner joined four others armed with iron pipes, which they applied liberally to keep the riders down. A rental truck backed onto the street. More vigilantes came out to load the bikes. After having their tanks sugared, these would be dumped in a field until someone stripped them for parts. Cops were never called, nor would have responded anyway.

A slight snafu happened when Brenner found the homeowner aiming a gun at him. "Be cool, man--we're on your side, you know." 

"I know. You guys are heroes. Any chance you're recruiting? I've got military skills."

Brenner studied the rugged-looking dude. Definitely a cool customer. "We'll hafta check you out. What's your name?"

"Moast. Rhymes with toast."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

The avatar stared placidly. "I intuit that you await a moral assessment."

"I'd love your take on the tale."

"Humble beginnings," the avatar said with unusual brevity.

Moast saluted with his coffee. "Orchidia, I'm starting to rub off on you." 

Trash Talk

 

Elvira

 

This detail from an 11x17 omits a lot of detail in the mace, whose shaft is visible on the right hip. The scene uses a simple background that starts as pale yellow; then successively darker foliage is added as we move closer to the foreground. This envisions the wizardress as she appeared in a BW comic some years ago. Of all the spell casters in the series, Elvira represents the most accomplished. The good news for evildoers is that she's reclusive. There's potential for a few stories here in terms of exploring her origins in the Outworld. The weapon is the Mace of Medusa, which functions as we might expect: it leaves behind a lot of petrified lawn statues in its wake. 

Nordblom (2)

 

Previous: a Viking sorceress seeks her vampire counterpart to join a new team.

The Black Wraith could exist by day, making her a unique vampire. A hybrid succubus, actually. This preferred avenue of attack seemed one-sided, given her penchant for preying on only the greatest warriors. Such a pointless existence, Valkris knew, marked the wraith as deeply conflicted. The sorceress moved warily in the gloom, watching the shadows behind dusty, slanted beams of late sun.

"Show yourself." Only the surf answered, gently washing over a beached ship outside. Valkris took some high ground on a slab, boosting the challenge with a taunt. "You spy on women at their daily tasks. Perhaps you are curious about the mortal experience."

The wraith came forth from the dark, a raven haired enchantress in layered shroud. "Has Lord Falco told you he was able to resist me on the dream plane? Did you know I am a sorceress as well?"

It could be an opening. "If Falco intrigues you, join his team." Valkris wasn't surprised to hear Norse; the wraith could no doubt tap into any tongue. For just an instant, she caught a look of dread on the pale features.

Anger swallowed it up as the wraith raised an arm. "How novel to test myself against my own sex." A red miasma spiraled down, began spreading like a blood mist.

Not one to be defensive, Valkris summoned the Fire of Odin. It swept through the creeping death to spear fingers into her foe.

The wraith erupted into a storm of bats. Valkris surrounded herself with a cyclone until the spell faded, but her opponent had already cast another: myriad images of herself. Which was real? Valkris brought up the Shield of Loki, turning constantly to watch through the transparent runes. Almost too late she realized the true threat was above.

The wraith fell upon the hastily raised shield, hands crackling with spidery tendrils. These snaked around the edge, seeking flesh to feed upon. Valkris couldn't dispel it in favor of a different spell, but she could definitely move it. Dropping to a knee, she sent the shield and its sinister rider smashing into a far wall. From the other side of the gaping hole, the wraith arose in a cloud of dust. From a raised arm, she sent a green torrent into the vaulted overhead. 

Valkris recognized the spell of decrepence, ran for the exit, nearly got there before tons of rock came down on her shield.

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Sayed's small group watched anxiously as the ground shook, and segments of the castle wall blew out. All but Odkeitl: it was a small thing on the wheel of destiny, already decided. When Valkris emerged, minus slippers, Sayed couldn't contain himself. "Here she is, Lord Prince! Come and use your powers of persuasion!"

But the prince began pointing out various "imperfections" detected by his practiced eye, to Sayed's utter dismay. Was the man insane? She was incomparable. An unconcerned Valkris began gathering hair from her neck to rinse away sand. 

"But my lord--I won't get one fifth of your price from the Egyptians!" Sayed could only watch as the prince and his Nubian guards marched away. He waited impatiently for Odkeitl to finish his brief of the sorceress. "It is done?"

"Done but not settled," the big Northman said. "The wraith plays a game with Falco."

Sayed's spirits lifted when Valkris spoke again. "What is it?"

"She wants to know what Nordic women are going for these days."

"Why? Does she know any I can purchase?"

"I would not ask. She's a fierce patriot."

"But. . . .I find myself in need of transport, Odkeitl. The prince will have my head for shattering his fond illusion about the Northern Flower."

"You may sail with us. If the sea is rough, we'll sacrifice you to the sea goddess." Odkeitl strode away, but Valkris was bound to hear Sayed's opinion of the disaster:

Nordblom

 

"By my graying beard," Sayed muttered, "there is her tent, flying the runes of Ragnarok." He struggled to restrain his pace across hot sand full of shells and bracken, just another trader in striped robe and turban. His four thuggish hirelings drew stares from the victorious crusaders sitting around their cooking fires. Still, Sayed needed the insurance, because Prince Khalim was offering a kingly sum for the fabled Nordblom, the Northern Flower. She'd be a rare addition to his harem. Powerful sorceress or no, she must surely prefer palace life to pounding the sea with barbarian raiders.

Abruptly he was alone under crackling date palms. 

His men fled the dragon prow rounding the promontory. Had the crusaders asked the raiders' help in rousting the Saracens from their ruined fort?--or were they here to pick up their wayward sorceress? Alarmed, Sayed hurried closer.

The Viking leader, called Odkeitl, strode toward the crusader captain. Sayed eavesdropped on the universal Greek. How could his men help? Half jokingly, the captain pointed to the fort. In short order, the Northmen lofted ladders and grappling hooks, and screaming defenders were hurled from the parapets.

"Such waste," Sayed lamented. "They would fetch good coin on the slave market."

But Odkeitl was looking at the tent, whose flap opened to discharge the Nordblom herself. She wore a scandalous black shift, to which she buckled sword and cape. Odkeitl tossed her a wineskin. After a long pull, she spat a stream in exuberant excess. Sayed didn't understand their clipped Icelandic, save that her voice was low and cool. Suddenly she set out for the fortress.

Panicked, Sayed got in her path, hoping she spoke Greek. "My dear, war is for men. My client will set you in the lap of luxury. He--" There came a sting beneath his chin. Her rapier was pointed straight up, ready to thrust right through his skull, a calm promise behind eyes of ice blue. 

"Blarendr kyrpingr." She made as if to bite his nose, obliging him to stumble aside. 

Sayed made quick introduction to Odkeitl. "Are you mad, letting her join the fray alone?"

"It is no mortal she faces," said Odkeitl's baritone, "but she who is called the Black Wraith."

"Double madness! How. . . .how did you know this is the lair of the night roamer?"

"Our seeress foretold it. The wraith is wanted for the portal quest at Castle Locklor. Valkris is already pledged to the team." 

"And what terrible risk does Valkris face here?"

"She will fail."

"Then why. . . ." Sayed lacked words for Norse logic.

"The wraith must respect those she would go questing with. Our seeress has foreseen such an outcome. The wraith will ponder this encounter, leading her to accept a later offer. One that will not go well for some Carpathian monks." 

As the Northman would say no more, Sayed sat down to glumly await Valkris' return, or lack thereof. He sprang up when Prince Khalim arrived with a retinue of armed Nubians. 

"This," Khalim said, "is how you procure my prize--by watching her march off to war?"

"War?" Sayed groaned. "If you only knew, Lord Prince. Odkeitl!"

The Northman's head turned.

"What is blarendr kyrpingr?"

"Blarendr refers to your blue stripes. As for the other, I had not known Valkris had such a word in her vocabulary."

Team Ullor on Sublevel Eight

 

To be more exact, this llx17 is a closeup of their sorceress, Valkris. In the story, they seek a way down to a rumored sublevel nine, site of the Outworld portal which will later be found by Team Falco. At the time, the hair hadn't yet been turned white by overuse of magic. Some say there's a resemblance to the Blondie singer, so I later made some tweaks to make her more Nordic. This is acrylic on canvatex.

The Poet of J Street

 

The trio that entered the J Street Cafe turned plenty of heads: the dwarf Hecabano in horn-hiding logger's cap; horror show producer Ed, channeling Duke Nukem's upswept hair; and the vampire Cambris in specialized containment gear to survive the daylight--just another crazy virophobe to this crowd, quickly dismissed.

Their reserved table lacked its checkered cloth in the current disinfection hysteria. A waiter sidled up and muttered something behind his face cover.

Ed reached to tug it down, to the man's horror. "Can't hear ya behind that jock strap, Mumbles. Anyway, here's what we'll have." For Hecabano, it was the usual hoagie with large "suicide"--all sodas mixed together. Ed went light with a grilled cheese and bacon, because he wasn't here to eat.

"And the lady?" Mumbles said, having retreated  behind his useless security blanket. His eyes took in the way her goggle bug orbs swept him appraisingly. 

"The lady will pass," Hecabano said, "fortunately for you and your staff." He paused to make sure no one was eavesdropping behind the high-back booths. "You go to great lengths, Master Ed, to get yourself out of a scrape."

"Yeah, what's new." Ed slurped the coffee. "Ahh, that's good." He considered the immobile spacewoman across from him. At most, she could tolerate an hour of this before having to mist back inside the steel coffee mug on his belt. "That reporter from the lady's mag is good PR for us. Somehow she got the idea I'm a writer, and now she wants to see some poetry."

"Which is where Miss Cambris comes in." Hecabano eyed her in turn. "But why here? She can wax poetic anywhere."

Ed leaned back to allow room for the nervous waiter to deposit the food and scurry away. "Because I've always been moved by this place when there's a light rain. Reminds me of a sleepy town in South Carolina I once caught a train in. It's my kind of day."

"I abhor the day," Cambris said.

"Understandable," Ed allowed. "Attune yourself to the outdoors and gimme an impression."

"Swish of tires on wet street. Church bells wafting serene distant notes." She shivered in distaste. "Curtains aflutter in rain-cool breeze."

Ed wrote it down, looked up when a coed type stopped to admire the talking bio suit.

"Whoa--where can I get one of those?"

"Move along, Betty." Ed scanned his three lines. "These are good impressions, but I need to tie 'em together."

Cambris watched a city bus intrude noisily on the scene. "Ireful beast disgorges riders with impatient roar. Such inharmonic utterance befouls the damp foundation tiers of Castle Rotbone; insentient wail of the doomed echoes among the crypts."

"Uh, Cambris. . . ."

"Drained wraiths evanesce in misty vortex, shrinking away as the Brides awake--"

"Cambris!' Ed had stopped scribbling. "You're going the wrong way. This is supposed to be a feel-good deal."

Hecabano had finished his power munch of the sub, tossed down the wadded napkin. "Perhaps not, Master Ed. It's practically Halloween."

"Everybody and his cat is doing Halloween," Ed griped. 

"A comparison, then. Portray this as the eve of Spook Night: tranquil by day, which we drink in before the freaks come out. Much like in the old Castlevania game, when leisurely exploring was out of the question when night fell."

Ed jotted it down. "You're a bit of a poet yourself, Hec."

The mercurial Cambris had had enough. "Remember our bargain: you will find me some scofflaws tonight." She melted into a mist that flowed across the table in search of the steel coffee mug on Ed's belt. Its drinking slot snicked shut. Luckily, no one had noticed.

"The queen has spoken," Ed said. "Too bad Emmy can't speak, considering how she loves the daytime." Emmy was the only one of the four brides who gleefully used the full hour of possible daytime outing.

On their way out, they were accosted by Mumbles. 

"Big protest tonight," Mumbles mumbled behind the thick cloth. "Over in Bigley Park. Come on out if you want."

"Do tell." Ed lightly drummed fingers on the steel mug.