Metallic Genealogy

Morpher stared off into space through his tiny porthole, and sighed as if he had been in the middle of counting the millions of stars and had suddenly lost his place.

"Shall I cue your bed, sir?" the fish-faced servant asked.

"No, thanks," Morpher sighed, and grimaced as the creature turned to fold his socks. Surely the king must have noticed his distaste for this creature -- he had sent out enough subliminal messages on the subject. "I've had enough excitement for one day, I think, what with tables and chairs coming up from the ground..."

"I don't really care, sir," the creature said, thoughtfully. "It is my duty to ask, and to tuck you into bed, and to..."

"Not interested," Morpher said quickly, and smiled at his timing. He imagined that not even Giddy Pip, the universally famous comedian and painful wit, could have placed a better insult with such ungodly precision.

"Yes, sir," the butler said, and walked away.

Morpher leaned back into his chair, and sighed. He began to hum a peaceful tune and embrace the universe, despite its faults, and remark on its delicate beauty. And outside his porthole he would swear he could hear the sweet restrains of the rare, and nearly extinct, Fwoadler-Gint.

Suddenly, the servant rushed back in, enraged.

"NOT INTERESTED?!" His fish-like nostrils were inflamed, and pulsing as though a still beating heart had been stuck up in there, halfway between his snout and his brain. "NOT INTERESTED, EH! I'LL TELL YOU WHO IS NOT INTERESTED...MR. CANE!" He opened the closet door and pulled out an ivory-handled walking stick (a staff which once belonged to Sap Grandy, a local-businessman specializing in bastard consumable embryos of one species or another -- who sometimes walked with a fake limp), and proceeded to hit Morpher over he head with sharp, continuous whacks.

Morpher began to scream, summoning several ship-guards to his rescue.

A hairy arm, belonging to a man named Greege, allowed the cod servant to emit one final "IN FACT!" before silencing him and dragging him to the brig.

Morpher stood there silently for a time, dumbfounded by current events, and waited patiently for the inevitable lumps to appear on the top of his head.

“So,” said a diminutive voice not far from his face. “What did you say?”

Morpher opened his eyes, and realized two things simultaneously. One, that it the voice of a young woman bending down to look him in the eye. The second was that he was not standing at all, but rather on the ground.

“I am begging of your pardon,” Morpher said in an attempt to preserve his congeniality. He was not accustomed to being beaten severely with walking sticks, and it had challenged his view of reality somewhat.

“That Amandi," the woman said. "You must have said something about his spawning ground or something horrific for him to go off like that.”

Morpher attempted to stand and realized that this was not quite possible. He rubbed the top of his head and found multiple lumps were beginning to form there. “Not that it’s any of your business…” He struggled to make his vision less blurry, and after a second or two the name tag on the woman’s uniform became readable. “Ms. Marduke…”

The woman scowled at him and quickly produced a clipboard and a pen. She wrote furiously. “...Ill-tempered and disagreeable demeanor..." She said this aloud as she scribbled on the page.

Morpher managed to finally make it to his knees. He attempted to lean forward to catch a glimpse of the form Ms. Marduke was filling out, but she pulled the clipboard back before any information could be gleaned.

“Don’t mind me,” she told him. “I just need to make an assessment of the situation. We can’t just have unassessed events happening. Everything needs to be documented.”

Morpher shook his head. “I will leave you to it, then.” He got to his feet, but felt dizzy and had to support himself by leaning against a bulkhead.

“Victim is unwilling to participate in post-event interview,” Ms. Marduke both wrote and spoke. “Don’t mind me,” she said, again, as if to accentuate her distaste of his attitude regarding this situation. “I just need to note your level of non-engagement in this matter.”

“Now look here,” Morpher said, obviously on the verge of expelling his stomach contents. “I never said I wouldn’t participate.”

“You don’t have to say a thing with your voice as your actions speak just as loudly.” She began to write further “Victim displays aggressive behavior when confronted.” She looked up at him disappointedly. “Don’t mind me,” she told him. “I am merely marking down possible evidence of how this event may have been triggered.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” Morpher said. "Who's side are you on, anyway? I’m going to go talk to the captain.” He began to walk away, but stopped after a few feet and then turned around. He seemed confused. He looked at the walls and then around the corner as if hoping for some passerby to stop and help him. Somewhat flushed, he asked “I don’t suppose you could direct me…”

Ms. Marduke wrote and spoke the following to her clipboard. “Victim shows signs of disorientation, and an almost unwillingness to ask for help…Don’t mind me…!”

“NEVERMIND,” Morpher roared. "I'll find his office myself!"

///

"How far?" Morpher looked around the sparsely decorated office of Captain Swillit. There was a desk here, uncluttered, a dying plant in the corner, and a small swivel chair (which was currently occupied by arguably the most powerful person on the ship.) The room was done up in old, wood paneling, and gave the general impression that Swillet was more of a temporary employee.

“Hmm?” Captain Swillit looked up at him. He was smoking a pipe and reading a trade magazine named "Space Grit for the Modern Interstellar Traveler."

"How far from Fanstergrantz?"

"Oh, hmmm. About two days."

"That long?"

The captain nodded, not paying much attention.

"How long do you think it'll take him to cool down?"

"Who?"

"My...er, butler."

"Oh," Swillit said, and laughed softly. "He won't. The Kinkal-imandi have no coolant in their heads, or so I'm told, and they can stay angry for quite some time."

"Then, how long do you think it'll take him to break out and kill me?"

The captain put down the first magazine and picked up another. This one was about brutish men who specialized in the capture of alien creatures for zoos and eccentric collectors, entitled Caged Beast Frenzy in the Outer Rim.

"About a day and a half." He looked up suddenly. "By the way, my first mate, Sheira, is good at reading head lumps, if you're interested."

"Head lumps?"

"Yes! The lumps you have on your head! From your beating. She can tell your future merely by touching them."

Morpher rubbed the top of his head, self consciously. He didn't like the idea of some strange woman touching his lumps, especially so soon after the attack.

"I’d really rather not," he said.

Swillet looked up at him, concerned. “Well, that’s highly irregular,” he said, removing the pipe from between his lips. “Why ever not?”

“If this Sheira is Sheira Marduke, then I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

The captain laughed. He replaced the pipe, and took a few puffs. “Marduke has her own agenda. I don’t really know what it is.”

“Her own agenda?!” Morpher was horrified. “How can you have a member of your crew walking around making her own agendas?”

Swillet hardly seemed bothered with Morpher’s concern. “She’s not a member of the crew,” he said. “She’s a government type, cataloging and noting things. She’s a passenger just like yourself. Anyway, that’s not Sheira.”

Morpher seemed stunned. “Well, I’d just assume not have anything to do with this head lump business, anyway,” he said. “I’d prefer just to lie down with your assurance that I’m safe to do so.”

"Suit yourself," said the captain, and sighed. He turned the page of his magazine, and from this angle Morpher could see a glossy center spread of a heavily-tattooed bald man, wrestling an opalescent dragon-esque creature. The caption read: "Death or profit! When to get your hands dirty, and when to pack up and go home!" The captain sighed a few times more as if to emphasize his extreme disappointment in the situation.

Morpher cleared his throat. "What is it?"

"Oh," the captain said. "It's just that we don't get much entertainment on these long voyages. Your future foretelling was just possibly what the crew needed to be put back in good humor."

Morpher raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Long voyages? Lack of entertainment? He cringed. He wasn't about to become the sole source of amusement for some bedraggled merriweathers. "I'm going back to my cabin -- if I don't pass out along the way." He smiled in a pitiful attempt to reclaim the captain's good favor.

Swillit frowned. "And what should I say to Sheira?"

"Tell her I'm going to have to respond in the negative."

"But..."

"My head is extremely shy, and tends to revert to barbarism when encountering any unauthorized fondling."

The captain looked puzzled.

Morpher tried to contain his victory smile. He thought of writing his own magazine article, When they won't take no for an answer, confuse them until they stop talking. "Wake me up if my butler breaks free" he said. Morpher then bowed graciously and walked out of the room.

The captain watched Morpher leave, and once the man was safely down the hall, he buzzed his First Mate Sheira's cabin.