“Hey, this all sounds great, but what if we don't want to do this and we walk away. Aren’t you afraid someone will say something about you, and your plans?” James asked nervously.
“I'm glad you mentioned that possibility. You are certainly welcome to leave. I'm not a monster. I require co-operation, and commitment, and a modicum of trust from all of you that sign on, but if you decline, and someone runs off at the mouth― Floyd?”
Without a word, Floyd picked up a standard one-meter steel shipping container, and slowly crushed it into a wad of metal, as easily as one could crush tin foil, until it was a small ball. He dropped it and plonked it with his knee into a nearby trash receptacle with a crash.
Peter and Floyd had rehearsed this the day before. Peter certainly did not intend to kill anybody if they got mouthy, but he didn't think it would hurt to imply that he would.
“With all due respect, Captain, in spite of my size, I am not a violent man nor a criminal, I won't be a party to violence. I'm not entirely comfortable with stealing either, I don’t think I can be a party to this” John said with reluctance.
“I understand, John. I'm not violent either, but all freighters and passenger liners are heavily insured. The only ones injured in the case of seizure are the insurance carriers. I know that's a poor justification. This wasn't my first choice as a career, but most ships, if we can get them to stop, are not going to put up much of a fight. This will be mostly bluffing, okay? But I won’t lie, this is dangerous. You are more in danger of some hero getting a notion to hurt you than the other way around. One of the reasons I really want you to join us… you, Jikelenga, and Bob-Six, hopefully your size will scare any beings.”
“I guess I can live with that,” John said with a grin and a laugh, “Floxshit, me a pirate? This is certainly going to be more interesting than carving busts of the Galactic Adviser, Halifon IV, out of butter.”
“Exactly, John. How about the rest of you?” questioned Peter.
“I have no objections. I need a job and wanting adventures. My job was pointless, boring, and very little paying,” Bob-Six said with no emotion.
“I too most need employing. My criminal mistakes of past make hard for job elsewhere. I am liking idea of getting rich most soon. Jikilenga is wanting job!” the Vookin said sounding excited.
“Yeah, well, I don’t get much choice either. This is freaking awesome! I hate being on the dole. Throw in a chance to get rich? I'd be a fool to turn this down. Besides, I hate rich fucks. Mind-wipe, or death, is kind of scary and it would really suck if we get caught, but if I stay here doing nothing I'm probably going to drink or drug myself to death, anyway. I'm in,” James stated cheerily.
“Fine, I think we are going to all get filthy rich. It's risky, but life is risky. I will provide you with all your basic needs, private cabins, and a galley. I have a fully-stocked media library; videos, games, e- books and entertainment, but if you have interests or hobbies outside of what I have, it's up to you to bring them. You have twenty-four hours to gather your personal items, tie up loose ends, say your goodbyes. We will be gone for weeks, possibly months at a time, but shore leave will be frequent between jobs. We will be visiting strange ports, so plan accordingly.”
“John, if it’s alright, I need your help right away. It’s not a difficult job, but right in your area of expertise. The rest of you, if you have any special dietary needs or requirements, tell Floyd. We will try to accommodate you, within reason. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.” John walked over to Peter and looked at him expectantly while the others made small talk and milled around inspecting the lounge and cabins.
“John, could you possibly order the food for the crew for a month out? I know there are very good brands of hydro- meals available, but would you also be interested in ordering supplies, and maybe preparing a few fresh meals occasionly for the crew?”
John flashed him a broad smile, “Why, certainly, Captain. I would be glad to help.”
“The rest of you can leave if you want, unless you have more any more questions or reasonable requests.” He was met with silence and as the others turned to go, Peter waved John to a booth where they both sat down.
“Shirley once ordered nothing but liver and onions for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a two week in-system run. I wanted to wring her little cybernetic neck. I’m not sure if she did it because she was messing with meor ignorance of humans need for variety, but I’ve never trusted her to order food for me since, especially to order food for a crowd.”
“Should have seen your face when you saw all the food pouches were liver and onions,” Shirley snickered.
“Love to! I love good food and cooking. Be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, a lot.” Peter reached out and shook John’s hand. “I really appreciate it. Go get the company credit disk from Monica and go shopping but no Farvian lobster and filet of Griffoon. I'm not made of credits, you know. If we make a good haul, we can splurge on some gourmet items later. I've been doing nothing but spending money for the last week like a drunken Marine on shore leave. I mean it about avoiding violence, we are going to make some money and then get out...I don’t plan on pirating forever.”
“Certainly, Captain, I'll do my best. This is the craziest shit I've ever done,” John stood up, shaking his head, “Pirates!”
Chapter 7: Final Preparations
Peter sat looking pensively out at the view from the screen of his ship. Technically, it was his ex-boss's ship, but what the hell, the asshole tried to kill him. His brain was whirling, and random thoughts came to him. He sighed thinking, still so much to be done before getting underway. He still needed an EMP device for one, and he was at a loss as to where to get one. They were illegal to own privately. Except for law enforcement or military, no one else would have a legitimate reason to use one.
He wondered what he should arm his ship with when he had the money. Being a big history buff of the twentieth and twenty-first century, or at least a fan of the science fiction of that time, he sure wished he had the ion cannons, transporters, anti-matter torpedo’s, Mega- blasters, tractor beams… any of those bad ass weapons predicted for the future.
Still, simple as most ship weapons were, they were still deadly enough for most purposes. He wanted a laser when he could afford one, more for defense than anything. Lasers could not punch a hole in a hull easily, especially if they kept moving or had a reflective coating. Mostly they were used for destroying incoming missiles or blinding the sensors of another ship. If he ran into someone that wanted to snuff him, he wanted a chance to defend himself next time.
Bombs, torpedoes, and railguns were often used — Peter had one, a railgun— he just had never used it. As you basically had to use your ship as your aiming mechanism, they sucked as weapons. Nuclear weapons were rarely used by anyone except in massive space battles, by military ships or as planet busters, and even then he had only heard of them used once to destroy a particularly vicious space going race.
Shoot, he still had to go get his registry codex and license to be a privateer. Peter decided that was the first order of business. Spinning around and walking to the wall, Peter touched a nondescript section and a hidden panel swung open. He punched in a combination on the keypad, reached in, separating out twenty thousand paper credits and another twenty thousand credits in glow-metal bars. He clucked his tongue at the dwindling pile and stuffed them into a bag. He wasn’t sure if he would have to bribe anyone, but it was best to be prepared.
It was an easy walk, and within thirty minutes he was at the licensing office and department of records, The Space Station Administration office. He stood in front of the desk and addressed the receptionist who was Glaxonian. They were cold blooded, subject to temperature issues like Earth lizards, and rarely left their hot, sunbaked world. This one had on a heavy cashmere sweater and a wool cap with pompoms. It looked ridiculous on a lizard being, but he supposed it was practical.
“Hello, I'm here to see…” he scanned the w
all looking for a name and saw under the sign for records and licenses a Mr. Gaxuyiz Isagenlex, “uh, whomever is in charge.”
“Certainly,” it pushed a com button on the desk, “Mr. Isagenlex, someone here to see you.”
“Send them in,” came a voice from the speaker.
Peter couldn’t help but notice that the Vookin’s office was opulent with rare woods from Farvia, marble from Earth. Expensive artwork covered the walls.
“Hello and welcome, being,” the Vookin heaved his bulk around his expensive desk, flipper outstretched. “What can I do for you?”
It gave Peter’s hand a perfunctory shake and shuffled back around behind the desk, sat down with a sigh, and then pushed the intercom button. “Mrs. Hiss-ah-ah, please bring in some tea.”
“Tea? Mr...?”
“Captain Farlon, but you can call me Peter. Sure, I'll take some tea.”
“Certainly, Peter. So-o?” it said tenting its digits in front of it.
“I would like to register my ship under this planet’s flag.”
“I see,” it said leaning back in its chair and swiveling its eye-stalks forward eagerly, “so, you want to become a pirate?”
Peter looked around nervously, “Well I didn't know you would state it so openly, but… yes.”
“It’s no secret we have freebooters working for us. We are always looking for allies against Hyak II. Its fifty credits for the form and,” the Vookin drummed his flipper tips against the desk, swiveled his eye-stalks around, and brought one to center on Peter, “five thousand credits for the registration and electronic tags, in cash of course.”
“No problem! I've got that much right here in my pocket.”
The Vookin pursed its wide flexible lips when it realized it could have asked for more, since Peter hadn’t squirmed at that price.
“Oh, uh... I forgot, you are not Hyakian, are you? For non-Hyakians, its ten thousand,” he hastily added.
“No, not Hyakian. Hmm, that's a bit steep.” Peter frowned outwardly, inwardly smiling. That was a quarter of what he had guessed, Greedy little whale!
The door to the office opened and Mrs. Hiss-ah-ah put a tray down with the tea, poured for them both, handing them each a cup before exiting.
“Oh well, you drive a hard bargain Mr…err… I'm not even going to try to pronounce your name, sorry, but very well.” Peter reached into his pocket, pulled out his roll of cash, and peeled off the required credits.
The Vookin frowned when he saw there was still a large part of the roll left, but it shrugged. “Thank you, being. I should tell you that we will be willing to purchase most any...ah, goods you may want to sell us. Of course, we will be asking for ten percent to look the other way. Just so we are clear—flying under our flag will not protect you from prosecution or arrest outside of Hyakian I airspace. Hyak II ships can, and will fire on you, and be within their rights to kill you if you attempt to rob one of their ships. Their military will pursue you quite vigorously and outside of this galaxy you will have absolutely no protection from us.” The Vookin slid the appropriate form across the desk for Peter to sign.
“Well, Tarcacks balls! This doesn't really do shit, does it?” Picking up the form and fanning it negligently in the air, Peter went on, “I’m aware of the risks, and will take all the necessary precautions, maybe I should just skip this.” He took a sip of his tea.
“I beg to differ that we don’t give you anything for your money. We won't prosecute you for attacking a Hyak II ship, and we will provide you a safe harbor. We will also buy any goods you bring us, and won't look too closely into where you got them. It’s no concern of ours if you go out of system for plunder. That’s what you are paying us for; to turn a blind eye.” For effect, his flexible stalks swiveled backwards then forwards. Peter said nothing.
“Very well, let me get you your transponder and codex for registry to Hyak I as your home port and flag.” He rose and flipped a painting aside to reveal a safe. It put its eye to a retinal reader, and the door swung open.
The Vookin said, “What’s your ship’s name and license?” Peter told him and the Vookin spoke into the transponder, a small grey cube. “HMS Incontinence,” and punched the license numbers into the device.
“Here,” he said handing Peter the registry and picking up the signed form. “That will be fifty credits for the form.”
“Uh, you would think for the extra five thousand non-Hyakian surcharge, you could wave the form fee,” Peter said grumpily.
The Vookin shrugged.
“No? You got change for a hundred-credit note?” Peter said sardonically.
Snatching the bill from Peter’s fingers the Vookin said, “We are not a bank!”
“I guess not! At least at a bank I would get a free toaster or some lube to go with that fisting.”
“If that's all then, I'll bid you a pleasant leaving.” The Vookin pointed to the door rather coldly and, well, pointedly, now that their business was done.
“Great! Smell you later,” Peter said putting his cup down and leaving. Vookins did smell rather strongly of fish.
As Peter took the short walk back to his ship, a group of humans and aliens along the side of a corridor wearing strange red and black uniforms and queer-shaped hats were playing various musical instruments badly. Some held signs. Lips that touch Quaxxin will never touch mine, Quaxxin is the devil’s work, Quaxxin―sign of the end times?' Peter saw a sweet looking little old human female with gray hair tucked under a black military type hat, dressed in a black and red outfit, rushing up to him, pamphlet in hand.
“Being! Oh, being! Have you heard the word about the dangers of Quaxxin? It’s the scourge of the universe. It will bring about wholesale degeneracy to our society!” As she shoved a pamphlet into his hand, she continued, “It’s causing corruption among the youth of today. Pleasure! Decadence! Addiction! It causes tooth decay, anal bleeding, flatulence and lactation in humans—dry scales, in some aliens—hair loss, sexual debauchery and the reading of minds! Surely this is the devil’s work and ungodly, don't you agree?”
“Well, I don't know about flatulence or lactation being particularly evil… but it’s not very nice stuff. Did you know it’s made out of sentient beings?” Tucking the pamphlet into a pocket he added, “I’ve got an associate who might find this amusing.”
“What’s that you say? Quaxxin is made of living beings?” She looked shocked.
“Yeah, isn’t that a kick in the pants?” Peter added scornfully, “Tell your leaders that one! They ought to eat that up!”
“So, would you be willing to give a contribution to the Heavenly Battalion and testify to that other matter?” She asked hopefully, “How do you know this about Quaxxin, kind being?”
Peter reached into his pocket, peeled off a hundred-credit flimsy, and held it out to her. “I should know because I used to smuggle the stuff!”
She recoiled from him like he had suddenly sprouted horns and fire was coming out of his ears. She backed away from him, making the sign of the cross with her fingers.
“Oh, Lord, protect us from the evil one and all his minions,” she stammered in a voice trembling with fear.
“Hey! What part of used to did you not get?” Peter shouted after her. He saw they had a collection bucket, so he walked after her, sighed, and tossed the bill at the bucket. They all cowered together sketching signs of the cross and clutching what he assumed were bibles but were probably data disks in book shaped covers.
“Beelzebub! Sinner! Oh! Oh! Oh! Unclean! Devil’s minion!” They chorused in his direction.
“Hey! I'm on your side! Tarcack! Get a grip!” he said with disgust and walked away.
Back at the ship he sought out Floyd who was at the computer screen on the ship’s console pouring over the ship schematics.
“What are you up to?” Peter asked peering over his shoulder.
“Sir, I know we need an EMP emitter and shielding from the latter, and I know we cannot just go buy one directly, but after studying di
agrams online, I believe I could build one, with the right parts. They are rather simple devices. I may be just a botyguard, but I have excess computing space and the intelligence to do more complex functions. The shielding is mainly just a spray on product that you run an electrical current through, very simple to set up. You can also apply different layers and colors for light strobe effects and slogans. Most ships have it installed due to solar bursts, and for added protection from random magnetic storms. Of course, that only protects us from our own emissions. If someone were to direct a concentrated EMP blast directly at us, we are still slightly vulnerable.
“Floyd, you are incredible! Remind me to give you a raise, a polish, or something. Hmm... Think you could paint some skull and crossbones into the stuff?” Peter said smiling.
“First, I require no reward, Captain, it’s my programming that makes me satisfied to serve. I have no emotions such as happiness, or sadness, and do not suffer from the lack. But I do have my eye on some new Penex 500 memory chip upgrades, if you desire.
“The spray is about ten thousand credits, and they throw in the use of a vacuum sprayer with a deposit. With the help of Shirley’s spider bots, I could build both, the shielding and the emiter within two days, if I work nonstop, including delivery of the parts.”
“Floxshit, that pretty much wipes out my credits. Okay then, I want a skull and crossbones on the nose of the ship with our name in script.”
Shirley appeared on the flight console. “Really, Peter? A skull and crossbones on the ship? How corny and anachronistic can you get?”
“I know. I know,” Peter muttered, “but I don’t want to be mistaken for anything other than a pirate, Shirley. Besides, it’s psychological and shit! I assume some beings have watched the same movies I have.”
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