As this story shall be entered into the record permanently, I shall endeavor to always use the proper terminology for the D—empire, and I would like to add, for the record, that I always do in my personal speech, both public and private.
Dultuth (the filthy, disloyal dogs) was reported to not have a loyalty brigade of their own.
The Queen of the Runykian Empire (pronounced Rumplian on account of a former king with a speech impediment who could not abide being corrected) ranted a great deal about the hated Dultuth Empire (the filthy, disloyal dogs). And it was for news of the success of her fleet of privateers against that galactic foe that left her waiting impatiently on her throne, the limits of her legendary grace and patience sorely tested.
She shifted in her seat, causing her glorious Runykian silk dress to rustle and echo across the cavernous throne room walls. The glitter of sunlight through the crystalline windows diffused its light through the crowd of nobles and officials that made up her royal court. Somewhere in the distance, a new royal man-o-war took off for the space lanes. The Queen examined her cuticles, and then turned her attention to the knight—an honorary title—now beginning his approach to the throne.
The knight wore knee high boots, polished to a high shine. His lavender pants ballooned out and billowed like sails. Hit hat was ridiculous, as all hats are. He walked in the prescribed ceremonial fashion, each step bringing both feet together with a loud click, pausing, and then setting out again.
Step. Click. Pause. Step. Click. Pause. Step…
It was a choreographed walk meant to reflect that he understood plainly the High Queen was to be approached with the reserve and reverence her station demanded. It was also relatively new, only being made law the summer previous, during “the time.”
The knight wasn’t particularly adept. This seemed to agitate the Queen, may her kindness of heart and virtuous character live forever.
Her Royal Highness leaned her elbow against the arm of her throne and watched the knight until the tediousness of the lengthy approach overwhelmed her. She leaped from her seat.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” the Queen shouted. “Hurry the hell up!”
Momentarily stunned, the knight’s eyes darted from left to right, as if looking for something—anything—to remove him from the spotlight. No new actor took the stage. Why would they? No one volunteers for the gallows, and the bets were on at the back of the court that this is where the old boy was headed afore long.
Before the Queen could yell again, the knight ran. Not a manly, athletic stride, but instead taking diminutive, dainty steps that clattered across the hall. His ruffled, accordion-like collar bounced in tandem with the ringlets of curled hair that rested on his shoulders. Attempting to stop, he slid on the polished floor, ending precariously close to the foot of the dais where the Queen held court.
He removed his broad hat and bowed, taking care not to let the massive yellow ogril—a fantastically ugly bird—feather tickle his nose. “My Queen.”
His voice put one in mind of a lecherous opossum.
The Queen stared down at the bald spot on the crown of the man’s head. Men with long hair were either young or pretending not to go bald.
“Well?” the Queen demanded.
Still mid-bow, the knight looked up through his eyebrows. “My Queen?”
He was lost, the poor dolt. It was a quick trip to the neck-lengthening machine for sure.
“Well, what news do you bring, Sir Drake?” The Queen sat back down and examined her polished fingernails. “What did your privateering profit our kingdom?”
The man’s name was Walleford, not Drake. But of course, he wasn’t going to mention it.
“Your Majesty,” Drake said, rising from his bow with an audible creak. “My crew damaged several Dultuthian (the filthy, disloyal dogs) commercial vessels. An Ekedian medium freighter was captured and rechristened, Queen’s Iris.”
“What a terrible name.” The Queen scowled. A silence fell over the throne room, indeed, most agreed that the name was terrible.
The Queen’s eyes bulged and she shouted, “Well?”
“Ah, yes, the cargo.” Drake made another flourishing bow and announced, “I bring back a full hold of data pad connector ports.”
“Connector ports!” yelled the Queen, rising to her feet again, her face flushed with anger. Most justified, may her kindness of heart and virtuous character live forever.
“They’re very nice,” offered Drake. “They work with the newer models. You see, they changed the connectors and—”
The Queen threw her arms wide and let them drop to her side with a muffled slap. “Well this is a real kick in the balls!” She looked out at the queue of privateers waiting to report their prizes. “Does anyone have anything I can use against the Dultuth Empire? There’s a war on for God’s sake!”
Several of the foppish privateers shook their heads. Others ducked behind ornamental statues and suits of armor, hoping not to be noticed. A few offered brief descriptions of their holds, but with their hands covering their mouths, just to be safe.
“I’ve obtained parts and technical schematics,” said one.
The Queen’s face brightened.
“They’re for a proprietary model of food replicators,” the privateer added. “Probably not at all useful for warfare.”
The Queen’s face darkened again. It was a good strategy, covering the mouth so as to prevent the Queen from knowing exactly who was talking. Had the speaker in question not done so, that fellow would be hanging already.
Sensing an impending incident, another mass-purge of the royal navy, and after he’d just gotten it re-organized, the Minister of Space hurried towards the throne, his high heeled boots clicking furiously.
“Your Highness,” he called, trying to ward off another burst of outrage. “Your Highness! Your Highness!” He waved at the Queen, trying to gain her attention.
“Minister Triller!” the Queen snapped. “Why are your privateers bringing me cargo holds full of the sort of rubbish I could find in the alley behind my palace? This is war! I need munitions. Particle blasters. Food supplies. Raw materials. Not data-pad adapters and cheap Kranowan-made plastic trinkets!”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Minister Triller wheezed, reaching the foot of the throne and bowing so low that his broad, floppy maroon hat brushed against his boots. He stood up and hitched a thumb at the knight now known as Sir Drake, to indicate it was time for him to leave the Queen’s presence.
Drake scurried back to the crowd, holding down his hat to keep it from flying off his head.
“Your Majesty,” Minister Triller began anew, “we all agree with you that these materials would be a far greater prize to your armies.”
“Of course they would! So why don’t I have them?”
“It’s a matter of control, Your Highness.” Triller considered his next words. “The Dultuth (the disloyal, filthy dogs) armada has control of the galaxy’s primary shipping lanes. Our brave privateers venture as close as possible, but only skinflint space Leftenants trading on thin margins use the outlying currents. Cheap cargo demands cheap rates, and Emperor Balland (may the oath-breaker be cursed) has levied quite the toll for use of the great lanes.”
“So you’re telling me,” the Queen said, eying her minister with suspicious derision, “that not a single privateer Leftenant is willing to slip into the main currents to strike at the heart of our enemy?”
“I … could ask.” Minister Triller called over his shoulder, “Is there a volunteer?”
A dry cough was the only reply.
Triller turned back to the Queen. “The Dultuth fleet is too overwhelming. The risk too high. No man would dare…”
Another cough, this one less dry, echoed loudly from the gallery in the rear of the throne room. The crowd of people attending the court parted at the sound of this interruption, revealing a young Leftenant (spelled thus because a former prince could only spell phonetically, and no one wished to correct him) of the
Queen’s Royal Army, standing resplendent in his blue velvet uniform.
“Your most merciful pardons,” the Leftenant said. “But there is one man who would do it, if given the chance.”
The Queen settled herself into her throne and smiled sweetly. When the dashing young Leftenant didn’t elaborate quickly enough, the warm look quickly hardened. “Well, get him going! Maybe he can show the rest of these spineless ninnies what it means to captain a ship-of-the-line. Give the man the frigate Widower. That’s a forty blaster-cannon ship, is not, Minister Triller?”
“It is indeed, your Majesty.”
The Leftenant drew his face tight, his lips a horizon, neither smiling nor frowning. “There may be … some, uh, complications.”
“What is your name?” asked the Queen.
The officer bowed. “Majesty, I am Leftenant Jack Smith of the Seventh Royal Dragoons.”
“Well, Leftenant Smith. If the matter is, indeed, complicated … then un-complicate it!” The Queen demanded, her color reddening dangerously once again.
“For heaven’s sake!” shouted Minister Triller, alarmed at the Queen’s outburst. “Remove yourself from here immediately young man, and do the bidding of your Queen!” He fluttered his fingers. “Shoo! Shoo!”
Leftenant Smith departed at speed. A significant breach of court protocol.
* * *
There were eighteen offenses against the Runykian Empire that Roderick Langston was technically guilty of. Some of them, like carrying an unregistered blasterbuss, called for the death penalty. Roderick was himself aware of seven of eighteen, but had entered the great royal port because, as a pirate, he’d built a career on getting away with things. He never paid parking tickets, he always sneaked into the theater, he would sneak out of restaurants before the check came, sling subtle, witty insults and then change the subject before the victim could reply and, of course, the larceny, looting, murder, and general terror associated with the pirate class.
Though he had no personal motto, he did have a notebook full of possible slogans to paint on the hull of the next ship he stole. All of them, may it suffice to say, were intentionally ironic and incorrigible.
“Un-bloody believable,” Roderick grumbled bitterly to the stone floor of his prison cell.
He had been arrested for one of the offenses he was unaware were offenses. Upon arrival in Port Royal in Runyki, he strolled about, hands in pockets, looking for a ship to steal, jauntily whistling God Save the Queen.
A junior man in the loyalty brigade heard this, and arrested Roderick on the spot. The Queen, an avowed atheist, hated that song.
And so there Roderick lay, face down on the floor of a cell. He had been in that position for hours, though since he’d fallen asleep for a time, he couldn’t say with certainty how many. But from the way his ribs, hips, and thighs throbbed, he guessed it had been several. Which meant that the guards would be here soon to turn off the stasis field that pinned him against the cold stone floor and then move him from his stomach to his side.
Royal guards of the Queen’s dungeon enjoyed kicking prisoners in the ribs with pointy-toed boots. They would take large bites out of the crusts served to their captives, chew them, and spit the masticated result in the tin mug of water. But one thing they would not do—would not tolerate—was allow a prisoner to develop bed sores. They weren’t uncivilized Dultuths, after all (the filthy disloyal dogs).
The heavy door to his cell clanked, and then creaked open. This should be the guards. Roderick mentally prepared the choreographed movements required to achieve escape. He slid his eyes sideways as far as he could, his forehead still pinned to the floor, and caught a disheartening glimpse. His face fell in disappointment, or would have, if it could. Instead of his regular guards, the same loyalty brigade man who’d had him hauled in had arrived. Behind that ninny was a handsome Leftenant in a blue velvet uniform.
“What do you think of our Queen now?” the loyalty brigade man demanded, no doubt seeking to set a trap.
“I think she’s swell,” Roderick replied.
The brigade man drew back, defeated. He scowled and pouted. His best interrogation stratagem was soundly defeated. Looking at the Leftenant, he said, “Well, I guess that’s that. He’s all yours Leftenant Smith.”
The loyalty brigade man turned to leave.
“Why do you ask?” Roderick prodded. “Do you think otherwise?”
The brigade man froze, his face a twisted mask of surprise. This the man hadn’t expected. “Me? No! I—I…”
“Because it’s rumored among the prisoners—all of whom despise the Queen, except for me of course, is that you—what’s your name?”
“Jack Lipper.”
“That you, Jack Lipper, always ask that question because you’re seeking a sympathetic conspirator that shares your distaste of Her Majesty!”
Jack Lipper gasped. “Heaven forbid! They say that?” He turned to Leftenant Smith. “It’s not true! Don’t arrest me for this! It’s not true!”
“Bring in the guards,” Smith replied, rolling his eyes. “And not for you,” he added. “For this pirate. He is to be released to me.”
Jack Lipper nodded urgently and left the room.
“Let free?” asked Roderick, still frozen in place, his eyes darting about excitedly.
“Conditionally,” Smith agreed with a nod.
“Oh.”
In that case, Roderick intended to carry on with his own plan to escape the prison.
Two guards bustled into the room, their swords and keys and various other paraphernalia jingling like Christmas bells. One of the guards went to the stasis controls while the other, the jinglier of the two, stood over the prisoner.
“Fasten that loose belt,” Leftenant Smith ordered. “You sound like a horse-drawn sleigh.”
Roderick sighed as the guard tightened his loose straps. His entire plan for escape had centered on that loose belt. The belt was everything. Heaven and Earth and all the currents of space could crumble and fall, so long as the belt remained loose. Roderick’s plan, the best of laid plans, was bested by a simple adherence to dress code. Curse that Leftenant. Curse the lot of the Runykians.
The stasis field came down, releasing the pirate. Roderick was helped to his feet.
“Thank you. Well met, gentlemen.” He nonchalantly made for the exit.
“Not so fast!” Both guards blocked his departure.
Roderick’s eyes darted from the guard left to the guard right, and then to Leftenant Smith. “You mentioned conditions?”
Smith straightened himself and assumed a rigid, military posture. The Royal Academy was renowned for endowing its graduates with the best military posture in the galaxy.
“Condition the first,” Smith began, holding up an index finger. “You enter the service of Her Majesty and put your … considerable skills as a pirate to use as one of her privateers. Depriving the Dultuth Empire (the disloyal and filthy dogs) of valuable wartime assets, preying on the primary galactic shipping lanes. You will be allowed to keep fifteen percent for yourself and your men. And Her Majesty will provide a suitable ship.”
Roderick nodded. “What’s condition the second?”
Smith held up a second finger, his posture still perfect. “Condition the second. Should you decline, your pending execution for high crimes against the Queen will be moved up from this Friday to…” Smith pulled out his gold pocket watch and examined it, “… now.”
Roderick tilted his head, face thoughtful, as though considering his options. His eyes wandered to the guards, both of which leaned closer with an ominous jingle. “I’ll take condition the first, in that event.”
“There, you see,” Smith said to the guards. “Pirates are not entirely without reason.”
Holding up a hand, which was promptly slapped down by one of the guards, Roderick said, “You said something about a new ship?”
Turning on his heels with parade-ground precision, Smith said, “Follow me, pirate.”
* * *
Port Royal buzzed with a mixed symphony of conversation, loud harangues, starship noise, peddlers barking about their wares to passersby, and loyalty brigade men asking, “What do you think of our Queen?”
The berth that Roderick Langston was taken to was secured by armed guards with blaster-muskets, bayonets attached. It was a relatively quiet enclosure, quiet enough that Roderick could hear the echoing footfalls of his boots along the gangway.
Together with Leftenant Smith and the two guards, they approached an enormous man-o-war. Forty heavy blaster cannons bristled from the gleaming alloy hull. A fine ship, it boasted a grand flying prow. Sleekly beautiful, the ship looked as though it would be just as comfortable in the water as in the currents of deep space. This was a vessel easily the equal of any ship in the service of the Dultuth fleet (the disloyal, filthy dogs).
With a sweep of his hand, Leftenant Smith said, “This, pirate, is your new ship. The H.M.S. TBD.”
“TBD?” asked Roderick.
“To be determined. It’s better not to name a ship than to pick a name Her Majesty doesn’t fancy.”
One of the guards made a slicing motion across his neck.
Roderick nodded in understanding. “What a woman.”
“She is indeed,” agreed Smith, who couldn’t really say anything else. At least, not with the loyalty brigade about.
“So, this is my ship?” asked Roderick, pointing his fingers inwardly against his chest.
“Your ship with which you are to wage war against the enemies of the Queen, yes,” Smith affirmed.
“The Dultuth?”
“The disloyal, filthy dogs, yes.”
“But it’s my ship. To do with as I like?”
Smith’s brows knitted in annoyance. “Yes, pirate. It is.”
Roderick clapped his hands together. “Very good.”
The pirate surveyed the docks and saw a swarthy looking man walking down the gangway of a nimble cutter. Not much room for cargo in those, but very swift.
“You there!” called Roderick. “Come here, the Leftenant and I wish to palaver with you.”
Reluctantly, the man joined them. “Listen, we’re in Port Royal just for a top off and a drink. If this is about the Queen, we all think she’s a sterling example of all that is right with humanity.”
Bridge Across the Stars: A Sci-Fi Bridge Original Anthology Page 31