Iz the Unmentionable
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“He did what?”
“No!” screamed Delacy. “That’s not true. I’d never do such a thing to one of your employees oh Iz the Splendiferous.”
“Why would she lie?” said Iz, his voice quiet.
“To protect us of course,” said Delacy. “These pirates were going to kill us.”
“You mean you sold out my pilot, even though you knew she was trying to protect you?”
“Um,” said Delacy.
Vurt sucked air in through his teeth. “That was low.”
“The lowest,” agreed Gorix.
“If there’s one thing I hate,” said Iz, “it’s a backstabber.”
“True, true,” agreed Vurt.
“In a way, it’s worse than piracy,” said Gorix. “At least we tell people to their face that we’re going to kill them. We don’t go around behind people’s backs, stabbing them.”
“Sometimes we do,” said Vurt.
“Yeah, but only literally. We’d never do it metaphorically.”
“Metaphorically? Never.”
Delacy was now curled up in a ball. He rocked backwards and forwards amidst the detritus, muttering something about being a top-executive but Seff couldn’t catch the details.
“You pirates are free to go,” boomed Iz’s voice. “Just don’t mention my name.”
“Why?” asked Vurt.
Gorix elbowed him in his metal side. “Iz the Unmentionable, right?”
“Oh, yes. Got you.”
Iz’s voice was filled with restraint. “Please allow my favourite pilot to go on her way.”
“Of course. And the backstabbing traitor-whale?”
“Throw him out the airlock. After you’ve stuck a knife in his back.”
“Nice,” said Vurt.
“Appropriate,” agreed Gorix.
Delacy screamed.
Seff regarded him on the floor bawling life an infant. “Wait,” she said. “I’d feel bad if he died because of me.”
“Not just him,” added Iz. “His whole bloodline in all directions is going to end.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Vurt. “He’s going to die the traitor’s death he fully deserves.”
Delacy’s screaming reached a particularly shrill note.
“I know he may deserve it,” said Seff. “But still my conscience won’t let me.”
“You always were compassionate,” said Iz. “But there’s nothing this snake can do to redeem himself.”
“Wait,” said Delacy. “I’m rich. I can give you all the money you want.”
Vurt tutted. “Money can be traced, taken back. A pirate steals only things that can be used. Like a ship, for instance.”
Delacy put his hands together in a begging gesture. “There must be something I can give you?”
“No,” said Seff, “I don’t think so.”
“Okay then,” said Iz. “Space, it is.”
“No!”
“Hold on,” said Seff. “I remember now. There is a little something...”
10
Seff touched the Butterbean down on the northern hemisphere of Laximeer, in the spaceport of Pleasure-city 3. Delacy mumbled a farewell and slipped away, his bag trailing forlornly behind him. After checking in with Port Control, she finally stepped down the gangway into fresh air. It was night-time on Laximeer. Hyper-glass towers of brothels glittered in the distance, projecting giant holos of writhing, naked bodies that promised casual ecstasy. She hefted her holdall over her shoulder and headed across the grounds of the spaceport to the works bar-canteen, where her boss would be waiting.
A quick scan in port security and she was through. Ignatius Hamilton was at his favourite spot by the window, a lazy arm stretched across the top of the chair. Seff shouldered her way through the crowd of pilots and support crew and when she approached his table she gave a friendly salute. “Nice acting, Iz.”
He smiled and gestured for her to join him. “My mother always said I should never have gone into business.”
“Well, the Theatre’s loss...”
“You’re too kind. So, Captain Pacheco, was it worth all the effort? I never imagined you’d want to code 112 a brand new client. I do hope we haven’t jeopardised our future relationship with Andromeda Holdings.”
“What’s that you’re drinking?”
Ignatius clicked his fingers. A passing bar-bot stopped and leaned in to take his order. Within moments, a hatch opened in the robot’s belly. Ignatius reached for the glass.
Seff took a sip. “Hmm. Smooth. Islabheen whisky?”
“The finest single malt in all the galaxy. The question is, my dear, are you worth it?”
Seff looked around. No one was watching. She opened her bag and took out Delacy’s gift. She held it in her hands for Ignatius to admire.
“My god, Seff. Do you know how much that is worth?”
“A fair idea. Why’d you think I called the 112?”
Ignatius tentatively touched the barrel. “A Colt revolver. From Earth.”
“Delacy thought it was from Mars. Mind you, he also said he had a Constructor Artefact.”
“A Constructor—?”
“Fake, of course. Typical cheap Rigellian knock-off. He has no idea about what’s valuable. He just has lots of money.”
Ignatius studied the antique. “This particular model was known as the Peacemaker. Nineteenth century, I believe. Think of the history... Even so, you’ve had many passengers with priceless items in their care, Captain Pacheco, and only some have been introduced to Iz the Unmentionable. It makes me curious about your method of selection.”
“Truth is I don’t choose them, they choose me.”
Ignatius smiled. “Ah. It’s a matter of character. I trust Vurt and Gorix earned their share?”
“Perfect, as usual. That new idea of theirs, using their ship’s thrusters to simulate your warship attacking, that was inspired.”
“Delacy suspects nothing?”
“He gave me the pistol of his own free will as a thank you. Made me promise not to tell anyone about what happened. Image is everything for these big-time business people.”
They chinked their glasses and drank to their good fortune, to Iz the Unmentionable, and to a universe filled with top executives.
About The Author
Richard J. Dowling
Richard J. Dowling is a science fiction writer who hopes to bring a smile to the face of life-forms across the universe.
Born and raised in London, England, he now lives in Spain. You can find him at facebook.com/richardjdowling and on Instagram @richardjdowling
Books By This Author
How to Sell the Stars
In the future, everything you want is free. But there's still a price to be paid...
1955. Ambitious young copywriter Leap Hamilton dreams of leaving the pleasant-but-bland town of Knuckleville for a top New York advertising agency. His dream turns into a nightmare, however, when he is plucked through time by Machiavellian AI, Isaac, to the year 2120.
It's a future where your every wish is granted. A world where Isaac knows your most intimate likes and preferences. Yet this 'paradise' has spoiled Humanity, robbing people of their drive and intelligence.
Galaxy-spanning trade organisation, the Unity, are considering Earth as a candidate for entry. But, deeply suspicious of moronic Humans and the AI that leads them, they devise marketing trials to test Humanity's worthiness. Only Leap Hamilton, a man from the past, has the skills to save Earth's future. All he has to do is sell products made by Humans—which, unfortunately, are the lousiest goods in the universe.
Will he succeed and lead Humanity to a glittering future among the stars? Or will our entire solar system be obliterated by a Unity EMG bomb?
How to Sell the Stars is a fun, sci-fi satire from advertising industry insider Richard J. Dowling.
Tooth and Claw
He came to the planet of Djaral for a holiday. Instead he found a nightmare.
Short Story.
Richard J. Dowling, Iz the Unmentionable