Chapter 14

Brav•er•y (n): The stupid idea that you can make a difference.

They materialized on New Los Angeles in darkness. In the distance, laser searchlights shone in hues of yellow and gold. “No mystery as to which direction the palace is in,” Juliet muttered.

“Plant the thing so we can go laugh at Bob.” Juliet turned—Ragnar’s voice had come from behind her. She took a little trowel from her bag and dug a quick hole, set the receiver inside it, and covered it with dirt and debris from the forest floor. Done.

Juliet shivered. Up-skirt breezes can be frosty. The temperature was about as cold as it ever got in this hemisphere. The other one wasn’t inhabited—no New Los Angelino wanted to live in a place that fell below fifty degrees King William. (King William was the official unit of measurement on the planet, no matter what you were measuring. It made things very confusing, but Proposition 76 had deemed science “not sexy” on New Los Angeles in 2311.) “Maybe we should just head back to the ship.”

“Negative.” Ragnar took her hand and tugged her toward the palace. “Bob the Moron owes us a good show. Besides, if things start to go naskarpta, we’ll send the signal on your Gadget and bug out.” He took off with her in tow.

“Ragnar, stop.” He did. “Can you make yourself visible for a moment?” Juliet asked.

He did, in all his nude glory. And “all” means an amount measuring at least forty King Williams.

Before he could object, she tore the ridiculous hat from her head and rushed in for a hug. Against his chest she said, “Just in case I can’t say it later … I really did love you. I have loved you.” She took a shuddering breath. “I do love you.”

He froze for a long moment. Then his arms stole around her, and he set his cheek on the top of her head. “Juliet,” he whispered. His lips brushed against her hair. “I shouldn’t have thrown you out of the house. It was a cowardly thing to do.”

“It’s okay.” She swallowed, her mouth thick and airless. “I knew someone was gonna throw me out eventually. We were a tragedy as well as a comedy, Ragnar.”

Pulling back, she put her headpiece to rights and cleared her throat of the fool emotions glomming there. “Now let’s go destroy a sorry sack of puke.”

Ragnar’s beautiful, full mouth curled into a bitter, vicious smile. He looked like a primitive hunter, ready to pounce, thighs rippling, biceps flexing, tendons throbbing … or maybe that was her. There was a whole lot o’ throbbing going on, particularly under her nun raiment. She was a sucker for a bloodthirsty brute she couldn’t have. His mouth moved. Sounds issued forth. “What?” she asked, head spinning.

“Get back on track, Blondie. Geez, do you ever stop thinking of sex?”

She shrugged; her habit rose perilously.

“I really hope you’re wearing underwear,” he grumbled before he turned invisible.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“There are numerous ways to find out.” He didn’t explore any of them. She felt him take her hand; she followed him again to the edge of the trees, stumbling in her six-inch red platform wedges. They matched the outfit, but of course. Not a very fast-moving bunch, The Sacred Order of the Holy Shopping Tote.

Once out in the open, Ragnar shifted position to behind her, leaving his hand on her back so she would know his whereabouts. She fingered the IPALFTG in her bag, ready to hit the one button needed to put the D’Stroyer into motion. The closer they got to the entrance to the castle, the faster the trickle of non-sexy sweat trembling between her bosoms. Wet spots on her scarlet silk would be a fashnunista sin, for God said, “Thou shalt not stain thy couture with grease or sweat, especially of thy brow. Work is for laypersons, verily.”

Several enormous bouncers stood by the open double doors checking tickets to the debut event. “I don’t have a ticket. Schied!” Juliet hissed.

“Fake it. You’re on a mission from God.”

Juliet snickered just as she came up to the biggest bouncer. She infused her features with mucho holier-than-thou and announced, “I am Sister Mary McQueen of The Sacred Order of the Holy Shopping Tote. All of the Sisters are special guests of His Messianicness, Space Pope King Emperor … Ruler … Majestic Mikado…” Ragnar gave her a pinch. “William the Nefarious.”

Mr. Big consulted his gold-plated clipboard. “You’re not here, Miss.”

“Sister!” She crossed herself and snapped in a circle for good measure.

Dear God,

Hello again from Juliet Lawrence. Firstly, I’m sorry for impersonating a nun. But I can’t believe this Order is way up on Your list of holy persons anyhow. I mean, look at the length of this skirt. The world is my pap smear.

Please get me into this stupid party. King Bob is of the devil, as You well know, Sir. I’d sure appreciate Your help in destroying his sex crime ring.

Yours Truly,

Juliet

PS: How about me and Ragnar getting back together too? Except that would mean he wouldn’t ever have kids. Oh, You—I can’t think about this right now. Sorry I mentioned it.

Amen

Suddenly inspired, Juliet reached way up and put her palm to the bouncer’s forehead. “Dear God, please bless this guard person in the name of Saint Lagerfeld. Help him get promoted to a better job than denying holy women the right to enter and watch a blessed hologram show about our exalted leader. Please do not punish him in a fiery or locust-ridden manner for turning away a large-boobed friend of King Bob. Amen.”

Eyes wide, Mr. Big mumbled and scooted her inside, out of his ever-growing line.

“Nice going, obscene nun,” Ragnar whispered in her ear. She shivered in delight.

She sauntered through the main entrance to the palace—the temple portion, actually. King Bob’s digs were part palace/part sex temple full of concubines. The floors were slick, white marble; huge columns lined the edges of the room. At least a couple hundred people milled about. Juliet swept her arm behind her to find Ragnar. She found his thigh. His warm, thick, inviting…

A sigh erupted close to her ear. “Do you need something, or are you just fondling me for fun?”

Uh,oh. Deflect. Deflect! “Can you see any other nuns?” At his height, crowds were much easier to navigate. Although she did discover that her ginormous hat was off-putting, which was pleasant. Typically at public events, her face was the perfect level for stray elbows.

“Nope.”

Her shoulders fell a bit. The last thing she needed was for real holy chicks to cramp her disguise.

As she made her way to the other side of the hall (blessing people as necessary en route), she found hundreds of chairs circling a giant, round hologram pad. A waiter passed; she nicked a glass of champagne and swilled half of it in one gulp. Several women to her right began pointing and whispering. “Um, sacramental bubbly,” she said to them, a genteel smile plastered to her face. “To honor Saint Lagerfeld. He designed while drunk, you know.”

The women murmured, “Oooh.”

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Badnuthuan Lace, go with God.” Juliet hurried away before they could ask her any questions. What the hell good was a disguise you couldn’t get drunk in? Surely nuns who wore rhinestone masks and no pants were allowed to tie one on.

With only a few hundred or so chairs, the concubines might not be in attendance. She turned around and surveyed the room—no ladies of the bad hairdo were there. “Damn.” She wanted their rescue to be dramatic.

Ragnar tugged on her habit and whispered, “Look up.” She did. There was a second level she’d never noticed before. Not surprising. The last time she and Ragnar had been here, they were trying to escape the temple with their lives. Huge, white columns circled the edges of the rectangular chamber. They supported a loft all the way around, leaving the center open. The concubines milled about up there. The harem, she supposed.

Juliet tried not to stare at the ceiling too much. It featured an enormous painting of King Bob with wings and a spangled loincloth hovering above them like a deranged Cupid. He was in the midst of slaughtering a lion with one hand and punching a unicorn with the other. An army of women were depicted around him in varying postures of genuflection. Not for long, asshole.

One of the concubines stepped onto the hologram platform. Her skin was a shocking scarlet color, and she stood nearly seven feet tall. She wasn’t wearing the white gown and buns on the sides of her head. Her hair was in a braid, and her outfit consisted of a fancy metal bikini with a red sash falling from the crotch. “Oh for goodness’ sake,” Juliet muttered.

Bikini Lady spoke in the Collective’s tongue. “His Coolness, King Bob the Potent, Best in Show in the 2459 King Bob Memorial Backward Hat Festival, would like you to be seated so all may witness his gloriousness during our debut presentation of His Royal Highness King William the Nefarious: Space Pope, Dalai Lama, or Jesus II?”

Applause scattered across the room. Juliet gritted her teeth and joined in. She selected a seat at the back in case they needed to bug out quickly. Also, no one would be able to see through her holy headgear. A blessing, surely. Ragnar settled on the floor behind her gold-plated chair. No one sat directly to her left or right, probably because her hat would have poked their eyes out.

A trumpet sounded. Drum rolls began. A gust of smoke puffed onto the hologram pad.

“It’s our old buddy, Hathar,” Ragnar whispered.

Indeed, a hefty chap in white velvet robes solemnly step-touched to the center of the pad. It began to turn. Juliet had punched Hathar in his florid face when she’d escaped the palace the first time. She smiled in fond remembrance.

Hathar spake, “All hail King William the Nefarious, King of New Los Angeles, descendant of Michael the Sleepwalker. King William the Nefarious! Whose restaurant TacoBurgers ‘N’ Shit won a coveted five-star rating from the Milky Way Food Institute of Cooking Stuff. King William the Nefarious! Creator of the painting ‘Nude Bitches with Fire Hoses,’ currently on display at the New Los Angeles Museum of Modern Titties.”

Ragnar clapped heartily for the Museum of Modern Titties. “Do you think we have time to visit it before we leave?” he asked.

Juliet covered her mouth to suppress a giggle.

Perhaps unused to spinning stages, Hathar teetered to the edge of the platform and nearly fell off it; a group of drunk-looking frat boys broke his fall.

The drumming grew louder. Electric guitars began to riff. A rainbow of lasers shot energetically. A small, round platform descended from the roof. “Hell, yeah, New Los Angeles!” yelled a voice that sent waves of disgust roiling through Juliet.

King Bob had arrived.

When he landed at the bottom, he jumped off his flying lift and ran a lap around the hologram pad, slapping audience hands along the way. He looked exactly the same as before, locked in a gold-lamé-robed state of arrested development. Red, curly hair stuck out at every angle—he’d added blond highlights to it. Not more than twenty-five years old, he was a plain-looking guy, only memorable for his ugly muttonchops and overwhelming cruelty. He’d surrounded himself with well-paid sycophants and drugged-up slaves to stay in power.

“Hello, dickbags,” King Bob said, regally. “My show is amazing, as I’m sure you’ll agree. At least you’d better.”

Everyone laughed.

“Be quiet while you’re watching, and pay attention. There’ll be a quiz. Smell you later.” He waved and walked off the platform to sit in the first row, bikini girls three-deep in an arc around him.

Juliet shifted in her seat, and once again thrust her hand into her bag to finger her Gadget, her palms gooey with nerves. Maybe she should just give the signal and…

The lights dimmed. Three-dimensional color figures materialized on the hologram pad; the “entertainment” had begun. It featured Bob being worshipped as he traveled from planet to planet. One entire twenty-minute scene was nothing but him dictating religious rules (“Thou shalt not stop bikini waxing,” etc.) while in a hot tub full of naked alien women. He visited his personal factory, which manufactured clothing and pet accessories splashed with his likeness. When Bob arrived at the thongs department, Juliet closed her eyes. Disgusting. The entire spectacle made her want to hurl. It wasn’t funny or amusing like she thought it might be because this obscene sociopath had real power he wielded daily.

She stood and slithered through the gap between two chairs. Ragnar would follow. A guard stepped into her path. She murmured, “I must, unfortunately, leave. Terrible nun emergency … um, I spotted a woman wearing summer white in winter. God bless.” He shrugged and went back to watching his fearless leader, currently trying on antique pope hats (original recipe), and judging a “what’s the best chocolate to lick off a ho?” contest.

Clinging to the edge of the room, she began to slink her way toward the exit when a dark form blocked her path. She looked up to give the sign of the cross and sucked in a breath.

“Miss Lawrence,” slithered a familiar voice. “I knew you would be here this evening.”

Ice frosted her lungs in terror. Snotty the Official snatched her bag away with one hand and crushed her arm in a vise-like grip with the other. She and the psychopath she’d dubbed “Snotty” were old friends. He’d injected her with a drug to turn her into a concubine, and she’d resented him for it ever since. His flesh-colored beard was as neatly trimmed as usual, but tonight his guyliner had taken on a mesmerizing silver sparkle.

“Where is your invisible friend?” he hissed. “Guards!” Four strapping lads ran up to them. “Lock every door. Do not open them for anyone, even if it appears that no one is there.” His watery eyes swiveled back to Juliet, now thoroughly shaking. “We’ll flush him out by torturing the girl. She owes me one.”

* * * *

Snotty (and several muscley friends) dragged her down a never-ending series of white hallways. Desperately, she tried to remember the way, but after a few staircases and a couple of shakes from Snotty, she was hopelessly lost.

They came to an area of the palace with solid gold walls. Not good. Not good as in “holy shit, this is tacky,” and also “this must be where Bob lives.” She knew she was correct the moment they entered an enormous room filled to brimming with game stations, built-in spas, two nude alien concubines oil wrestling, and a twenty-foot bed. She landed at the foot of this piece of furniture when Snotty tossed her to the floor most unceremoniously and ouchily. He tied her wrists behind her using a rope conveniently attached to the bedpost.

Snotty searched her bag, scattering lip glosses (What? Important!) and such across the floor. When he came to her Gadget, he pressed a button and made it light up. “What is the code?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes.

He slipped it deep into the front pocket of his robes.

Oh.

Shit.

This was super, duper, extra-with-cheese-on-top not good. In order to get the Gadget back and enact the plan, she’d have to a) get free, and b) feel up Snotty.

As if reading her panicked thoughts, Snotty smiled. He threw her empty bag on top of its contents. “If, Mr. Manscape, you have followed Juliet into this room, please consider this: Make any attempt to free her and I will turn your mother and sister into my personal concubines.” Juliet stifled a gasp. “Leave quietly and do not come back.”

Juliet blurted, “He dumped me.”

Snotty examined her, his nearly invisible blond eyebrows rising a hair’s breath. “No! And you, such a catch,” he intoned très sarcastically. Ouch.

“You’ll be pleased to hear that His Highness and I have kept a running list of all the things we’d like to do with you once we caught you again.” Snotty crossed to one of the bars and poured himself a drink. When he moved, his rippling night-blue robes seemed to glide over rollers. “It begins with your service in the ranks of the concubines. It ends rather less pleasantly.”

Not surprisingly, this news did not please her. In fact, it was all she could do to not shake from the cold sweats and cry. The only thing keeping her together was the sure knowledge Ragnar lurked somewhere in this room of horrors with her. Not that she wanted him there, now—not with the terrifying threat to his people. Sure, they were a weird bunch that hated her and loved vile spiders, but she didn’t want them to suffer in Snotty’s clammy hands. Juliet closed her eyes and considered her options.

Juliet’s Options for Getting the Heck Outta This:

Option one: Kill herself before Bob could put his hands on her.

She peered around the chamber, actually considering this. She caught the eye of one of the oil-slicked, bun-hair ladies. With a start, she belatedly realized the lady in question possessed a tail to go along with her purple skin. Alutian, like Ragnar. Juliet studied the marble floor, streaked with red the color of dried blood. She glanced up again. The Alutian woman kept discreetly looking in her direction while half-heartedly sexy-wrestling her partner. Interesting.

Option two: Escape.

Four guards had followed Snotty in here. Her hands were tied behind her back. And she had no weapon whatsoever. Escape seemed far, far away, like summer vacation on the first day of school.

Option three: Bribe Snotty and everyone in the vicinity.

It was worth a try.

“As I’m sure you know, Sn—” Oh, crap. She’d never actually learned Snotty’s name. Better wing it. He’d focused on her again, his eyes pinpricks comprised of a skeevy combination of hatred and glee, or glatred as it is commonly known. “As I’m sure you know, Great One, I am insanely wealthy. I can pay you.” She swept her desperate gaze across the room. “I can pay you all heaps of money, gold, anything—if you just let me go.”

Her captor laughed. It was the coldest sound she’d ever heard, full of malevolence. It translated to “no” in every language. Her heart sank even as it pounded. She turned to the guards, a couple of whom now regarded her with interest. Snotty beamed his glatred at the unfortunate fellows and said, “No one could possibly compensate me more than His Highness. Anyone who thinks otherwise will have the skin flayed from their bones.” Well, that was the end of that option. And probably the end of her, too.

Snotty whispered something to Thing Two; he trotted at a soldierly jangle from the room. “Since you are so fond of our exalted ruler’s hologram exploits, I think you shall star in one, Miss Lawrence.”

Juliet gulped. “Thank you so much,”—her scarlet nun miniskirt rode up when she shifted her legs—“but I’m shy.”

He reached down and ripped the wimple from her scalp, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and snapped her head back. “You are a whore of Babylon, and I will revel in your every scream.”

“You’re hurting me, asshole.” Snotty sucked in a breath through his teeth and bashed the back of her skull against the bedpost. The pain of a hundred hangovers sliced into her head. Even so, she was done deferring to this lowlife. Juliet would go down fighting or she wasn’t a fake nun. “I consider the whore of Babylon to be a personal hero, thank you. By the way, your cologne sucks. Let me guess—it’s King Bob’s brand, Eau de I Overcompensate for My Tiny Dick.”

“You will know soon enough, Miss Lawrence. In excruciating detail.”

Through lowered lashes, she caught the eye of the Alutian woman again. She could swear the lady wasn’t under the influence of the concubine mind-control juice. Ragnar’s physiology made him resistant to drugs, and her eyes were bright, clear; fury simmered at the edges. Juliet shuddered. Maybe the only thing worse than being a sex slave was being a cognizant one.

Thing Two returned. A dude followed behind, his head bowed low with a floppy hood hanging over. He carried a large black case and a hologram camera. He began busying himself in preparation for recording. Snotty turned back to his cocktail.

The technician threw off his hood. Erit! Juliet covered her squee of shock with a cough. Head snapping, Snotty hurtled her a dirty look. “I don’t suppose I could have a drink?” she asked him. “I’ll be much more loving to Bob when I’m under the influence.” This suggestion was met with the warmth of a polar bear’s ass. Snotty glided to the other side of the bed and bent over a cabinet there. Good.

Erit blinked pointedly at her, his eyes flashing red. He reached into his black case and drew out a handheld. His finger hovered over it meaningfully. Juliet shook her head ever so slightly. Erit pretended to stare at the camera and nodded, defiant. She shook hers again imperceptively, her teeth gritting so hard they hurt. He couldn’t beam them away yet. For one thing, she had no idea of Ragnar’s location.

For another, she was going to take King Bob, Evil Incarnate, off this planet.

She peeked at the guards; they all gawked at the naked wrestling. She mouthed to Erit, “Record.” He pointed at the handheld one more time. “No!” she said soundlessly, gesturing at his equipment. “Record!”

Erit’s lovely face conveyed a heaping helping of misgivings, but he prepared the hologram camera. God bless him for his daring and wonderful brains.

Juliet turned her attention to the concubines. She smiled grimly to see copper hair pins glinting in their plaited hair. The Alutian one blinked at her, her eyebrows rising in a “What’s the plan?” sort of way.

Fanning her tied up hands out behind her, Juliet shook her head. Wait, she meant. The woman swept her tail upward in agreement. Juliet almost laughed; she could speak tail language.

Things were looking up. Ragnar was still in the room (probably), Erit had swooped in to rescue her, and they had a naked concubine who could turn invisible on their side. Everyone knows that a rag-tag group of misfits always usually ought to win.

Snotty stepped into her vision and flashed a foot-long knife in her face. Shit! Everyone knows that the loser wearing red always dies!

Behind Snotty, Erit pointed the camera in their direction. A pink light on the wall began flashing. “Excellent,” Snotty intoned. “Your master is coming.”

Right on time, the doorway flew open in a flurry of trumpet toots. King William the Nefarious strutted through the open portal, and immediately crossed to the performing concubines to slap them on their bottoms. The hem of his golden robes glommed in wrestling oil.

Using the giant knife, Snotty lifted her chin. Very effective in behavioral correction, giant knives are. Right up there with laser cannons and killer spiders. “Your Excellence, I have captured Juliet Lawrence,” Snotty said. Juliet’s skin itched with so many heebie-jeebies that her insides practically leaped through her mouth.

It took Bob a few moments to stop abusing his concubines and turn to Juliet. “Oh, yeah. I remember you. Nice tits.” He kicked off his two-inch-tall platform sneakers, bedazzled with glitter flames on each side. “You’ve been causing me a lot of trouble, Blondie.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” It came out as a threat.

He started, clearly unused to back-talk. “Untie her,” he told Snotty, who was only too happy to comply. Once she was freed, Bob clawed her by the neck and hauled her to her feet. “You went to the Collective and told them wild stories about me. Why would you do that, baby? My concubines love me!” His grin assured and smarmy, Bob looked to his captive ladies; they both presented him with adoring smiles. The Alutian’s rapturous expression didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Bob grabbed Juliet by the hair and yanked her backward across the bed. She cried out, a thousand points of pain magnifying by the second. He straddled her, holding her hands above her head. Heat radiated off him like from a blistering burn. “You’re sexy, babe, but I don’t take this shit from bitches—no way, no how. Ya dig?” She nodded, tears beginning to stream. “That’s better.” He shifted his hold on her so one hand enclosed her wrists and the other fondled her breast.

She bit on her tongue to stop herself from spitting in his freckled face. Just take it, Juliet. Just take it now and save a thousand others from it. She couldn’t stop her crying, though. The humiliation and hatred were too much. He seemed to like this implied submission. “You’re going to see how life as one of my concubines will make you a fine bitch.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Whap! The force of his slap sent her neck snapping sideways. Her jawbone ached like it was suddenly made of lead.

“What did you say, Blondie?”

Grimacing in preparation for another hit, she spat, “I said you don’t get to call me that!”

Again and again, he smacked her, his slaps turning to punches until Juliet hovered on the edge of sweet oblivion. She clawed her way back from the encroaching dark, remembering why she was there. Her beloved’s face shined in her mind. “Stop!” she squeaked, her lip splitting into a river of blood and hurt. “I’m sorry, my king.” A semblance of a smile passed through her aching features. “I’ll cooperate,” she assured him.

“Nice!” His two hands became finger guns, and he shot her in the forehead, blam, blam. The little spasm of cruelty hadn’t even made him sweat. He choked her throat, the pressure just enough to send her into a panic, but not enough to actually kill her. “We’re gonna play a game I like to call ‘Pin the Tail on the Slut.’ Guess who the slut is.”

Her hands eased down to bury themselves in her hair. It must have looked sultry, for Bob grunted in approval and planted his face in her cleavage, his breath washing her skin in wet warmth like a swamp. She turned her head to Erit and rummaged in her curls. “Three,” she whispered.

Just out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snotty swivel to her.

“Two.” Please, God, let Ragnar be in here.

Snotty started in her direction. The Alutian concubine pushed her wrestling partner to the floor and vanished mid-run. Snotty collided with his invisible foe and sailed through the air. He crashed, hard, his head cracking against the marble floor. “Hold on to him!” Juliet screamed to the Alutian woman.

Bob jerked up from her chest, his lips moist and open. She shoved a hairpin into his mass of spiral ginger hair. “One, motherfucker.”

Erit pressed the button. The entire room went dark, the whirring of dying machines coming to a halt all around them.

Erit yelled, “Pippy, go!”