Kambyon the Kruel #2 “Ship of Fools”


“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” the god in the elaborate plate mail laughed so hard Kambyon thought he might fall over. As it was he had to lean against the table where his plumed morion rested in order to compose himself.

“Thank you, Kambyon,” Steppenstoat said, wiping away a tear, “I have not laughed so hard in many a year.”

The giant son of Dark Thugos looked about Steppenstoat’s apartments coolly, ““I doubt you’ve had much call to.”

The old cavalier ignored the dig at his fallen station and continued to chuckle, “To think, you honestly expected my help to get off world. Madness.”

“What did I ever do to you, uncle?”

“You mean besides betray our glorious lord and master, Dark Thugos, to those libertines from Newer Eden?” Steppenstoat’s eyes narrowed and his voice lost all humor, “You were always a rotten little beast. As a child you were disobedient and constantly underfoot. Why your father didn’t cast your mongrel hide into the Blister Pits at birth I will never know.”

“Nor will I,” then a look of understanding crossed Kambyon’s broad features, “Are you still upset about Lady Bugglesworth?!”

The name caused Steppenstoat to slam his gauntleted fist on the counter where his model soldiers rested, “My finest broodmare! Slaughtered by you on a childish whim!!”

“It was cold. I needed a hat,” the monster shrugged good-naturedly, thinking back to how snug the ermine skin cap had been.

“You smirk and taunt, and yet it is you who needs me, isn’t it, Kambyon? Or rather, my access to the Zoom Tube technology. And I am willing to bet I am the last hope you had, hm? Stuart, Granny, Herzog Von Töten Trapp, all have washed their hands of you.”

“The Oligarchs of Apocalyspe have not been helpful,” Kambyon admitted, “It’s almost as if they don’t want to see me leave.”

“We want to see you dead,” Steppenstoat corrected as he reset his figurines, “Or at the very least, banished in shame. And that means departing Apocalyspe like the common brute you are. There’s only one way off world, Kambyon, and you know what that is.”

Kambyon slapped his pan sized palm onto the table, crushing the intricate models Steppenstoat used for planning his battles to dust, “Indeed. And I would very much like to punch you in the taint for making me use it.”


GolGotham Spaceport


The one site on all of Apocalyspe where outworlders dare to tread. The place where intergalactic enterprise is conducted under the piercing watch of the Commerczars and their personal Scaredaemon shock troops. For there are things that the ruler of the Terror Planet does not want taken out, or brought in, to his empire. Because of this smuggling is one of the most heinous crimes under Apocalyspian Law; an unlicensed privateer can expect a draconian sentence if he is caught with the wrong contraband.

Captain Shel-Drar slid open the casing on his cybernetic leg so the Grovelly sitting next to him could look at the merchandise, “Eighty seven copies of Amazing Spider-Man Complete Comic Collection, translated into Universal. Works with all operating systems, and comes with over 575 separate stories.”

“Are they reproducible?” the pointy nosed individual dressed in a soot-stained smock and leggings whispered.

“Groxel, these disks are copywritten by the Est’B Uy’B. Bad as things are for you here and now, do you really want those cannibals after you?” the Skree smuggler observed wryly.

The fence didn’t smile back, but instead picked his tool box off the bar’s floor and placed it in the booth between them. There was a whir and the side of the box irised open, and several micro droids skittered out to retrieve the disk drives from their covert housing.

“Tickles,” Shel-Drar noted facetiously as the tiny mechanicals swarmed over his artificial limb.

“I hope you realize how much you are helping to the cause, Captain,” Groxel said as they finished their transaction.

The veteran of the Skree Explorer Corps responded coolly, “Its not being done out of the goodness of my heart, or –heh- for laughs,” he surreptiously moved his hand closer to the Grovelly’s own, so he could pass over the credi-chip that carried his fee.

“Perhaps, but what you have done here today will help inspire to the people of Apocalyspe, and that is the greatest thing we can ask for.”

Captain Shel-Drar nodded, but inwardly he resented the implication he was bringing to these dregs anything more than silly fairy tales spawned from a decadent culture. For he knew the greatest falsehood on Apocalyspe was that things could change for these wretches. Hope is a Lie, as so many of the propaganda engravings around GolGotham remind.

The pair rose and went their different directions. For Shel-Drar, he was on his way to the Currency Exchange Office, where a long wait in line would eventually be rewarded with an opportunity to convert his payment into Skree Sovereigns (for a fee). Then he would travel to another office, and wait in another line, so he could deposit the Sovereigns into an account that would allow the pilot to transfer the money off-world (again, for a fee: the Commerczars get you every which way).

Captain Shel-Drar wound his way through the alleys of the Spaceport, sometimes with the crowd, sometimes against it. It was mostly Grovellies that made up the mob, though as this was the hub of interstellar transport on Apocalyspe other races could be seen. Ghund mercenaries who were loyal to Thugos and aided the tyrant in his off-world campaigns, A Reptilloid slaver leading his merchandise to the market, webbed fingers tight around his victims’ Pain Chains. An occasional Z’Sox freelancer skittered by, sometimes choosing to scuttle along the walls and overhangs to avoid the crush. Even the hated Skunks (ptui!) showed their true faces on Apocalyspe, fearful of the consequences if they were even assumed of engaging in any form of deception.

As the smuggler turned onto the thoroughfare where the Currency Office was he was swooped down upon by a huge armored figure. Even with his Skree strength and combat training he was no match for his assailant, who put his arm in a painful hammerlock and smashed his head up against the soot-stained wall. His heart jumped when he realized what it was: a Scaredaemon. And it wasn’t alone (they never were).

“Get his papers,” the high, reedy voice of Commerczar Bain commanded a second Scaredaemon. It ripped away Shel-Drar’s poncho, exposing his old and ragged Explorer Corp’s uniform.

“Ah, you are Skree,” Bain noted absently as he watched his minion (now joined by a third) rummage through the Captain’s pockets looking for his credentials, “How novel. I have never heard of your kind working as conspirators until now.”

“I’m… no… conspirator,” Shel-Drar argued vainly, grunting as the hard talons of his Scaredaemon captors searched him. They found his pulse pistol, his comm-set, his gravity claymore, and finally, his identification, which were handed to Bain.

“Of course you are, Captain… Shel-Drar of the Caravel Class Transport Bhukaza,” the magenta robed minister checked his papers, “Docked in the Epsilon Bay, are you? With a crew of six?”

“They had nothing to do with this!” Shel-Drar said frantically.

The Commerczar raised an eyebrow in mock incredulity, “What is ‘this’, Captain? I thought you said you were an innocent man?”

“Never been anything of the sort.”

“So you admit to smuggling seditious materials into Apocalyspe? Please don’t deny it, we took the disks off your contact. I’m sure a quick scan will reveal them shrouded with your Kirilian prints.”

Shel-Drar said nothing.

Bain tutted, “A pity you didn’t have a Suicide Switch on you like the Grovelly traitor. It would have spared you an unfortunate encounter with the Department of Inquiry,” his voice became more authoritarian as he spoke to the Scaredaemons, “Bind the Skree, and then bring him to the station. I need to contact Commerczar Dyre to pick up the rest of this fool’s crew.”

The Commerczar turned away to use his comm-set, glaring at the crowd of onlookers who had stopped to watch one of their fellow dregs get arrested. He was about to order them to disperse, when the sound of a distant rumbling made him stop. Indeed, everyone on the thoroughfare halted what they were doing and began to look about to find the cause of the noise that echoed up and down the thoroughfare.

Suddenly the building across from the exploded outward, spraying tons of granite and steel everywhere. One hunk of stone ricocheted off the ground and smashed into the Scaredaemon bundling Shel-Drar. The Skree called on his well honed reflexes to drop and roll free from the impact before he too was pulped.

“What is this?!” Bain screeched into his headset, “Attention, all units. We have a major incident on the Economic Concourse. Possible bombing, send- By Thugos’s Wrath!”

Smashing from the remains of the ruined building came two combatants, or three if you count the giant armored mustelid General Steppenstoat was astride. Both god and beast were tearing into the third figure, one Bain had only seen carved in graven images and his nightmares.

The giant caught Steppenstoat’s mount by its forelimbs and hefted it bodily high over his head. Ignoring the wounds caused by the blasts from the old cavalryman’s Galactic Glaive he hurled them both into another building, causing it to collapse. He roared in triumph and began stalking towards his recovering enemy, just as dozens more Ermines of Destruction slunk in from every direction to protect their master.

“Oh, scat,” the Commerczar breathed. The rumors were true. Kambyon was loose. And now, he was Bain’s responsibility.



Next: As Kambyon and Steppenstoat tear their way through the GolGotham Spaceport; Captain Shel-Drar must find a way to avoid them and Commerczar Bain’s personal troops if he is to make it back to his ship alive. Can he do it alone, or will he find help from a most unlikely source? “The Enemy of My Enemy” continues.

Footnotes:

Steppenstoat aged uncle to Dark Thugos, the Harrier of a Thousand Worlds has seen better days. With his Galactic Glaive and Ermines of Destruction he seeks to regain past glories by serving Dark Thugos.

Herzog Von Töten Trapp is Dark Thugos's chief architect and artificer. He has chosen to mimic the ever efficient Prussian model in appearance and operations.

The Skree Empire is a fallen intergalactic militaristic race, led by the fascist Dronon, the Public Accoster, wielder of the Rod of Authority and his fiancée Prime Mistress Oma . They were previously controlled by The Supreme Interference (q.v), a manipulative supercomputer amalgam of the brain patterns of long-dead Skree. Our heroes have also been troubled by Commander Rox-Hoff of the Fifth Skree Armada. The Skree are ancestral enemies of the shape-shifting Skunks. Their homeworld, Skree-Lump, was devoured by the Cosmic Hooverer Galactivac some years ago after being accidentally summoned by its erstwhile herald, the Probability Dancer. The Skree have also been on the losing ends of conflicts with the Earth people in the TransWorld Challenge and the Parody War, so the two races aren’t exactly chummy.

The Est’B Uy’B are a highly advanced cephalopodan race who have made a name for themselves disseminating large quantities of personal technology at low rates. Despite this they are often criticized for their poor interpersonal skills and reluctance to honor business contracts if they feel it is not to their advantage.

The Skunk Confederacy, a race of shape-shifting conquerors, including the multi-powered Super-Skunk (a new one, since the last one got mulched). Princess Annar is their figurehead.

The Reptiloids of Frammistat Eight are a vicious merchant race, led by theSlimy Slaver Lovetoad, an intergalactic slaver. His name says it all really. A new Lovetoad is due to be elected after the defeat of the last one during the Transworlds Challenge. The Hierophant is their religious leader, renowned scholar and archaeologist Dr Blargelslarch is a native of their world but is now exiled to Earth for opposing the current regime.


The Z’Sox, a race of arachnid assassins commanded by Arbiter S’Trakk.

The Ghunds are a race of violent warriors who are often employed by other, more technologically advanced aliens to fight for them. They are large, fearsome fighters with yellowish skin and filed teeth.

Scaredaemons: are the shock troops in Dark Thugos’s army. They are slavishly loyal and well armored, but none too bright. Used mostly as enforcers or guards for Apocalyspian officials, or as cannon fodder as their lack of fear and inability to feel pain makes them perfect for missions that other soldiers would resist. Transformation into a Scaredaemon is considered a great honor amongst the Grovellies eager to please their master Thugos.