Iz the Unmentionable
A Seff Pacheco Story
Richard J. Dowling
Captive Press
Copyright © 2020 Richard J. Dowling
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: James, GoOnWrite.com
For Mirita
1
“Board this wreck? Me? I’m an interstellar executive. I work for Andromeda Holdings.” Delacy’s look of disdain—eyes narrowed and lips curled—was imperial; the result, no doubt, of years of practice. “I’ve never seen such grime,” he continued. “Or so many dents. And what are these markings? Space graffiti? Your company promised first-class transport. This is unacceptable.”
Seff put a hand on the cold, hyper-steel hull. The wedge-shaped craft was not in show-room condition, true. But the Sinoc Industries Multi-Purpose Space-Vehicle, model BTT/BN, which she’d christened ‘Butterbean’, had more than proven herself in the time Seff had been shuttling people around the galaxy.
“The vessel has passed all Space Authority checks,” she said in her work voice. “Feel free to examine the maintenance log if you wish.”
“There’s no time for that. I have a... meeting on Laximeer.”
“After you, then.”
Delacy grimaced, studied the open hatch, and with an oddly high-pitched tut for such a bloated balloon of a man, stomped up the gangway. Behind him came his bag, a foot off the ground, floating.
It was ironic, Seff thought, that Delacy kicked up such a fuss about the Butterbean’s appearance when he himself was dressed in what looked like rags and even his holdall’s leather was scuffed and stained. But of course, the ultra-rich were the only ones who could afford materials made of natural fibres and skins, so they delighted in showing off the age and wear of their clothes. Poor people had to make do with 100% synthetic, self-cleaning, self-ironing garments that always looked new, like Seff in her shiny blue jump-suit that made her feel like a cadet. When it came to spacecraft, though, the elite liked their star-liners to be pristine, to distinguish them from the common herd of meteorite-stricken, atmospheric-entry-scorched junkers.
A drone flitted towards her. “Bon voyage, Captain Pacheco,” it politely doffed its Hilton Port Authority gold cap then zipped away into the busy maze of bots, people and starships. In the distance, the spaceport tower loomed, its bulging observation gallery like a fist on an arm raised in anger. Seff sighed. With a passenger like Delacy, she knew the voyage would be anything but bon.
2
Launch went without incident and soon the Butterbean was sailing through the infinite black sea. It would be near nine hours before they reached the Constructors’ Hyperspace Node at the edge of the system. Seff had plotted the course. All systems green. Now was the time she could put her feet up.
Before she could choose a book to lose herself in, a light flashed on the communications console. An audio message from her boss. She knew that Mr Hamilton was on Laximeer so this must be pre-recorded; the time lag would be too great for direct conversation.
“Captain Pacheco,” said Hamilton, his voice warm yet authoritative. “I trust you are well and already under way. Given your exemplary track record, there is of course no need to mention... But it would be remiss of me not to remind you that Andromeda Holdings is a valuable client, the largest we’ve ever had, in fact. And once the trial period is successfully completed, the opportunities will be immense, not just for the pleasure-planet of Laximeer but also for ferrying executives throughout the galaxy. In short, I’m confident you understand the importance of this first passenger. Do everything in your power to make him happy. The customer is always right. Thank you, Captain, and Godspeed.”
Seff leaned back in her seat. Even though the Butterbean had space for ten passengers, Seff doubted it would be big enough for Delacy’s ego. She’d already lost count of the times he’d boasted of being a top executive. Fortunately, launch protocol had given her the excuse she needed to banish him to his cabin. As long as he stayed there and kept away, there’d be no problem. While she was brooding, there came the sound, somewhere behind her, of a throat being cleared.
Delacy was in the doorway, grinning. “Everything okay, Captain Pacheco?”
“Passengers are not allowed in the control room, Mr Delacy. It’s for your own safety.”
“Yes. I mean to say, how are things going?”
“You have to return to your cabin.”
“With your company, that is. How are things going with your company?”
“With my company? Fine. Everything is--”
“Really? It’s just that I detected a certain note of urgency in your boss’s message. Perhaps you’ve noted something different lately?”
“No. Not really, no. Why?”
“My dear Miss Pacheco, your company is obviously in grave financial trouble.”
“It is?”
“As a top-level executive, I have an intuition for these things.”
“You do?”
“Hence the importance of retaining Andromeda Holdings. And of keeping me happy. Do you understand?”
“The Butterbean has a full library of VR entertainment.”
“I’m sure it does. However, I prefer the pleasure of human company. Are you just a pilot, Miss Pacheco, or do you have other responsibilities? The journey is a long one, after all.”
“I’m just a pilot.”
Delacy stared at her. His grin went cold. “The customer is always right, Captain Pacheco,” he said. And then he left.
3
The hours trudged by. Hilton system was small and, from the astronomical point of view, uninteresting, with only four planets in total and just one gas giant, which they passed on the port side. Then the Butterbean headed through a Kirkwood gap in the asteroid belt; an easy task, as they were never closer than twenty kilometres to the nearest space-rock. If Delacy were curious, he could have had an informative VR guide talk him though the history of the Hilton company and how it came to dominate intergalactic hostelry but judging by the bar tab, which automatically came up on Seff’s feed, he was more interested in getting plastered on gin.
Drunk passengers, Seff knew, made stupid decisions. There was that sales rep from Kolly Kibber Snacks, always dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief—quiet until his fourth whisky and ginger ale, when he began to paw her with his clammy hands. He wouldn’t lay off until she kneed him in the nuts. That kept him quiet for the rest of the trip. His wife and daughter, redheads both, met him at the Skelton Habitat and they walked off together into the pink, artificial sunshine, all three freckled and smiling like they were in a commercial for Disney World.
Seff was plugged into all the Butterbean’s systems. If necessary, she could lock Delacy in his cabin. And, if it came to it, she could use the Kolly Kibber solution and kick him in the balls. That would probably be the end of the relationship between Hamilton Taxis and Andromeda Holdings. The reality though was that most likely nothing would happen. Space was, after all, mostly nothing.
Right now, there was no need for her to be in the control room so, the door to her quarters locked and a fresh cup of black coffee on the side-table, she was lounging on her bunk and reading a book on the mythical race of aliens known as the Constructors, the engineers behind the Hyperspace Network.
An icon on her feed blinked. Delacy wanted something. Seff slammed
a fist down on the mattress. She could contact him by audio, but it was probably wise to check and make sure he hadn’t puked all over his cabin. She put the book down on the bed and got to her feet. Then she slipped on her boots and a fake smile.
4
Lying on his bed, shirt untucked and unbuttoned to expose the white fat of his belly, Delacy set his gin down on the side-table and gave her a look he no doubt thought was seductive. Seff, however, remembered the same droopy eye-lids and pouted lips on an old admiral at the ISA academy who always complained of chronic constipation.
“Mr Delacy,” she said. “I have to prepare for contact with the Hyperspace Node. Is everything all right?”
“Forgive me, Miss Pacheco, I wanted to initiate a little contact of my own.”
“Perhaps you’d care to read the passenger guidelines? They’re quite clear about the duties of the pilot. You’ll find your copy in the ship’s library.”
“People usually do my reading for me.”
“That may be. But on board this vessel if there’s anything you want done, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
Delacy reached for his gin, but instead of drinking he just cradled the glass like he was weighing up whether or not to let it drop. “If we’re going to be so direct,” he said, “you should know I gave a receptionist on the Hilton planet ten shares in Andromeda Holdings.”
“Ten shares?”
“Enough to never have to work again, yes. Of course, the lady in question had shown interest in me from the beginning.”
“Good for her. But I’m happy as a pilot.”
Delacy slammed his glass down on the table. “Now, look here--”
Her feed beeped with a notification; somebody was hailing the Butterbean. Probably Hamilton checking in. She turned to leave for the control room but Delacy said something which caught her by surprise.
“I have a Constructor Artefact.”
Seff stopped and turned back. “No, you don’t.”
Delacy smirked. He sat up and waved to his bag. The bag, which had been obediently waiting in the corner, floated up to its owner. He opened the lock and reached inside.
“Let’s see, what do we have here? Some antiquities from Mars...” He pulled out a rusted pistol and set it on the mattress next to him, and then produced some kind of medical scanner and a statue of a human she didn’t recognise, possibly a Martian Entrepreneur. “Just a few trinkets, you know. Ah, here it is.”
The triangular shard, about half a foot long, glowed black. The impossible dark-light extended a few inches around the object, flowing like ink over Delacy’s hand, until it attenuated to a dark purple, and then faded quickly to imperceptibility.
“A Constructor Eyeglass,” he explained. “Or rather a remnant. Have you ever seen such a thing?”
“No.”
“Look. Look here. See? Those are stars. Real stars, not pictures. My expert assures me they are in the Triangulum galaxy. That’s nearly three million light-years away. This is a window through time and space.”
Delacy gently moved the Eyeglass. New stars whirled into view. “Breathtaking isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can be generous, Miss Pacheco, to people I like.”
“I’m sure someone on Laximeer will be grateful, Mr Delacy.”
His face reddened. Then he looked away, and stuffed the valuables back in the bag.
5
As she’d expected, the message was from her boss, checking in again to make sure Delacy was happy, hinting that all kinds of armageddon awaited the company if they received a negative review. Seff folded her arms and paced around the control room for a couple of minutes before she sat down and activated the comm unit.
“This is Captain Pacheco,” she said. “We are nearing the Hilton system’s Hyperspace Node. All systems are green and the passenger is well and enjoying the onboard entertainment. Everything is good. Code 112. I repeat, everything is good. Code 112. Pacheco out.”
Then she sat back in her seat and breathed out deeply. An hour later the white ring of the Node loomed on the forward screen. The Constructor’s spherical gap in space-time was half a kilometre in diameter, small enough to remain hidden until a civilisation had begun taking its first steps in space exploration. The Node in Sol system, for instance, had gone unnoticed until an asteroid mining ship had by chance picked up the tiniest flicker of ghost radiation; the negative Klein-Gordon field holding the Node open. Seff didn’t understand how the Node worked, but then no-one did, though there were rumours that the ISA were holding a lot of information back from the public.
Lines of traffic sailed toward the black centre of the Node. The Butterbean’s scanners showed shuttles, pleasure yachts, some freighters and a couple of ISA security vessels patrolling the area. Occasionally a ship would come through the Node from the other side, but according to her feed, inbound traffic was light today.
A notification popped up. The ISA sensor network had registered her ship. Seff directed the Butterbean to follow the course being given to them. From this moment any slight deviation could be taken as an act of terrorism and the ISA’s defence satellites would launch a lethal barrage of anti-matter missiles. Had the Butterbean been carrying weapons, of course, she never would have made it this close.
Normally Seff would notify passengers when they were about to undergo Transit, but this time she said nothing and let the Butterbean slide gently into the maw. As usual, they passed through the Node without even the slightest sensation. And then they were on the other side of the galaxy in a Hub consisting of thousands of Nodes. Traffic veered off in all directions. Seff beamed their destination co-ordinates to the ISA satellite network and received their course in response. The estimated time to their next Node was 16 hours.
The sight of so many portals, a multitude of shimmering rings, always sent a shiver down Seff’s spine. This particular Hub contained over ten-thousand Nodes. And the ISA had discovered thousands of Hubs. The whole galaxy had been connected by the Constructors. Perhaps they had been an altruistic civilisation, wishing to bring the peoples of the Milky Way together. Or perhaps, as drunken pilots often suggested, they’d wanted to conquer the universe. It made no difference. The Constructors, whoever they were, had long since vanished. Their legacy was so awe-inspiring, though, that Seff even pinged Delacy to take a look. He didn’t respond. The ship’s med scanners told her he’d fallen into a drunken stupor.
6
The trumpet fanfare that burst from the speakers was loud enough to jolt her off her seat. Before she could recover, a deep baritone voice began a rousing melody: “Space pirates! Come to take your ship! Space pirates! Come to end your trip! Space Pirates! Oh yes, space pirates!” The climactic trumpet blast threatened to blow out her ear drums before it faded slowly to silence.
Seff checked her scanners and saw a ship, a big ship, looming over the Butterbean’s stern. The navigation system identified it as “The Delight”.
Then Delacy’s icon bleeped in her feed. He was still in his cabin but he’d obviously heard the song over the ship’s tannoy. “What the hell was that?” he demanded. “Some kind of joke?”
Before Seff could answer, the baritone spoke: “This is your pirate boarding party. We are fully paid-up members of the Benevolent Friends. Behave well and you die a quick death. If not your demise will be slow and agonising. Thank you in advance for your co-operation.”
Seff checked the scanners. The hostile ship was now right on top of them, extending a docking tunnel.
“What is going on?” Delacy demanded. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I think the jingle was clear enough. It’s space pirates.”
“Space pirates? Pah! There’s no such thing. Besides, what kind of a pirate uses a jingle?”
The ship rocked. The Delight had clamped its docking mechanism onto the Butterbean.
“Too late. Damn! If we try to break free, they’ll blow us up.”
“With what? No armed ships can travel through th
e Hyperspace Network. This makes no sense.”
“Who says they came through the Network? We entered the Laximeer system an hour ago. They were probably hanging around on this side of the Node waiting for prey. My sensors show laser cannon and a large complement of missiles.”
“And what do we have?”
“Sweet Fanny Adam.”
“Nothing to defend ourselves with? What are we—? Wait, I have a pistol.”
The shuttle vibrated again. The pirates were forcing their way through.
“Meet me in the common area. And leave that ridiculous gun behind.”
“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, miss.”
“Do you want to live?”
“What kind of a question is that? Of course I want to live.”
“You’re not in a boardroom now, Delacy. Didn’t you hear what he said? Those are the Benevolent Friends. The most violent, murdering thugs in the galaxy. They will kill you for pleasure and drink from your skull. But do exactly what I say and there’s a chance, just a chance, we might get out of this alive. Understand?”
Delacy paused. “Tell me what to do, Captain.”
7
The door opened with a hiss. And then, for the longest time, apart from her breathing Seff heard only silence. Delacy sat on the other side of the table, back to the door, staring at the cards she had dealt. On his forehead a bead of sweat glistened. Seff fixed her gaze on the pile of poker chips and trusted to her peripheral vision.
A clanking sound echoed down the Butterbean’s corridors. Then another. The clattering got louder and louder until it stopped dead. Delacy mopped his brow.
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