The Strangelove Gambit by David Bishop

Author:David Bishop
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Abaddon Books

In the kitchen Spatchcock and Flintlock were standing to attention as a green-skinned creature with at least a dozen tentacles studied them with disgust. An entire wall of the kitchen was given over to a pantry, while foul-smelling liquids bubbled away in cast iron vats. A sturdy wooden table filled the centre of the cooking room, lined with chairs on either side. Three doorways led away from the kitchen. One was the staircase down which Spatchcock and Flintlock had descended into Scullion's domain. The other two led to a drainage room and another, as yet unseen destination.

"My name is Scullion," the creature announced, "and no matter what Madame Wartski might think, I am responsible for keeping this institute running. I do this by taking responsibility for all its needs below stairs: the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and any other ablutions required. Any questions?" Scullion jabbed Flintlock in the stomach with a tentacle, making him wince in pain.

"He's a mute," Spatchcock offered helpfully. "Can't speak a word."

"Thank you, I am aware of what the word mute means."

"Sorry. I just thought, what with you being an offworlder-" Spatchcock was abruptly silenced as his head was clamped inside another of Scullion's tentacles, moist pink suckers adhering to his face. The squat, emerald-hued alien leaned closer to Spatchcock, its one red eye peering at him intently.

"I've had enough anti-alien abuse to last me a lifetime. On my home planet of Arcneva I was Gourmet Chef of the Cycle twice in a row. I do not need some snivelling weasel of a servant to tell me-" Scullion paused in mid-rant, sniffing the air with disdain. "What is that stench?"

Spatchcock peeled away the tentacle from his face to reply. "Sorry, that's probably me. Most people complain that I smell worse than an alien's arsehole." The words were out of his mouth before he realised what was being said. "I-"

Scullion slapped the tentacle back into place. "Silence! I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to this loathsome creature!" The alien jabbed Flintlock once more. He opened his mouth to protest, remembered his status as a mute and closed his mouth again with a snap. Scullion sniffed at Flintlock's armpits before reeling away, squealing in horror and quickly retracting its tentacles. "Most humans smell like wet pork to me, but you - you carry the foulest of stenches with you! What is your name?"

"He's called Flintlock," Spatchcock chipped in.

"From now on he shall be called Faeces," Scullion decided. "He shall be addressed only by that name in my presence. Do you understand?"

"Yes, er..."

"You can call me Scullion, or ma'am."

Spatchcock smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

The alien studied him carefully. "Can you cook?"

"I can always rustle something up," he admitted.

"Good. I will tutor you in the ways of Arcnevan cuisine, Spatchcock." Scullion slipped a tentacle round his shoulders and gave them a playful squeeze. "As for your friend Faeces..."

"He could clean out the drains," Spatchcock suggested with a smile.

"A task to match his title and his aroma! Excellent. I couldn't have thought of anything more appropriate myself.

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