“Fine,” said Derby, eyeballing the Biskottis with a disgusted sneer. “The ingenious cunning of Davisham Derby has yet to produce a more reasonable solution. Unless we can find a chunk of jagged glass with which to slit our own throats.”
I had already punched the Call button and was holding the phone to my ear. The speaker purred gently as a revolutionary wonder technology virtually indistinguishable from divine miracles created a connection that would allow digital information to pass near instantly through a miniature pinhole in the fabric of reality itself, all so that I could hear Daniel Henderson say, “Yello?”
“Daniel,” I said, heaving a little sigh to steel myself. “This is Jacques McKeown.”
There was a moment’s silence, during which I fancied I could hear the slow clicking of the cogs in his dozy brain, before I heard some hurried rustling and the sound of something heavy falling off a bedside table. “Jacques!”
“McKeown. Yes.”
“Ja-cques?” he repeated, the tone of his voice shifting from excitement to hurt confusion when he remembered the manner in which I had left his hospitality.
It was performance time. I closed my eyes, flicked the imaginary switch in my head, and put on my best hero voice, with an overtone of stern mentor. “Daniel, I’m very disappointed in you.”
“I’m really sorry!” he said automatically, before actually thinking about it. “Wait, er. Why?”
“I thought you believed in the true values of star piloting. I came to your convention because I believed you wanted to further the message of truth, justice, and fighting for the helpless peoples of the galaxy.”
“I do! I do!” he protested.
“Then why did I find the frozen body of Terrorgorn inside your fridge?”
In the shocked silence that followed, I fancied I heard a penny drop. Daniel emitted a few phlegmy choking noises as he made a couple of abortive attempts at explanations. “It’s cool! It was cool!” he finally said. “They said it wouldn’t do anything as long as it stayed frozen! Wait, why were you in the fridge?”
“I had no choice,” I said dramatically, nimbly sidestepping the question. “Terrorgorn was too dangerous to keep in the middle of Ritsuko City. Especially not at a convention full of kids and especially, especially not in the middle of your home.” I shook my head and released an angry, tolerant sigh. “You don’t know how close you came to a terrible fate.”
He was soaking in the bulltrac like an expensive fur coat in a septic tank. “I thought . . . I thought it would be all right . . .”
“It’s okay,” I reassured him, magnanimously. “I’m sorry I had to leave the convention early, but I had to get Terrorgorn away from there, to somewhere he couldn’t do harm. I could only hope that you would understand that I did it in the name of galactic peace.” Derby gave a smirk and slowly flapped his hands in sarcastic, silent applause.
“So . . . why did you take Dad?”
I took another deep breath. This round of bulltraccing was going to be trickier, because I expected Daniel would talk to Henderson Sr. at some point to get confirmation of everything I told him now, and the long-term situation was still a concern. “Your father decided to come with us,” I began, double-checking my words carefully to ensure I was technically telling the truth. “Of his own free will.”
“Dad’s awake?!” Daniel’s tone was somewhere between eager excitement and sudden fear.
“Yes,” I said, stalling. “Because, when he noticed me moving Terrorgorn, he realized how dangerous the situation was. And how important it was to get back in action. For your sake.”
“Wow!”
“But now he needs your help,” I said, moving hastily on. “Jacques McKeown needs your help. Are you ready to step up, for the sake of the universe?”
I could practically hear his chest swelling up like a water balloon being squeezed in a tight fist. “You bet!”
“Do you have a ship?”
“Yeah! Totally.”
I had a feeling he would. His last ship had been destroyed, thanks in no small part to me, but he’d started learning how to pilot it. After he gained free access to his father’s seemingly limitless wealth, I knew he wouldn’t have wasted time before squandering it on a new joy ride. “Great. I need you to pick us up from the Biskot system. It’s pretty clearly marked on most old star charts. We’re on a space station in orbit around the third moon of Biskot 2.”
“Sure, sure! I can head out right now!” I heard the rustling of bed sheets and undergarments being thrown around.
“Great,” I said. “You can pick us up just as soon as we’ve dealt with Terrorgorn.”
“Sure!”
“You’re a good kid, Dan.” I infused my voice with a hot gallon of stoic pride. “The galaxy will never understand how much it owes you for this.”
I ended the call. I fought the urge to blow on my phone as if blowing smoke from a gun barrel before returning it smoothly to my hip pocket.
“Masterful,” said Derby, bored. “I notice you glossed over a couple of details. Such as the matter of how, exactly, you intend to ‘deal’ with Terrorgorn.”
I winced. “You know he’s awake?”
“I deduced it was inevitable, after power was lost.” I had begun to slowly walk back toward the center of the concourse and the steps that led up to the landing pad, so Derby fell casually into step beside me. “Hence my decision to scout ahead.”
I tongued the mic in my tooth and patted my ear. “Sturb, are you receiving? Make any kind of sound if you are.”
The silence dragged itself out to a worrying length before the reply came, in the form of a long sigh that transitioned naturally into a tuneful hum about as casual as the sound made by someone with a toilet brush up their nose. “HAAHHhhhmmmm-hmmmm-hm-hmm-hmmm.”
“You’re still there with Terrorgorn and Henderson?”
Another musical hum, this one with a note of impatience. “Hm-hmm-HMMM! Hm.”
“We’ll be back soon. The good news is we have a ride. I called up Daniel Henderson.”
“HMMMM!”
I suddenly noticed that we’d drifted close to the crowd of Biskottis, and as it became clear that I was subtly steering myself toward the central pillar, they collectively took on the appearance of a roomful of shelter dogs watching the departure of the last visitor of the day.
“O Ancient,” said the high priest, who had given his name as Ho during the walk back up to the concourse, after much prevaricating and I’m-not-worthying. “Do you return, now, to the palace of the heavens?”
“Erm, not just yet,” I said, caught off guard, before hastily adding, “Verily. I need to go back to my ship. For a bit.”
“Then let us regale you with the traditional dance of temporary farewell!”
“Please Come Back Soon,” chanted his daughter, whose name was Ic. I had formulated a theory that their names had to be short because they had limited time in which to introduce themselves.
The Biskottis spread out, surrounding us to a radius of several meters, and began swaying left and right with their arms held high in the air, as if they’d only gotten as far as the Y in “YMCA,” before they started rhythmically rotating their elbows with rather amazingly good choreography. It took a moment for me to realize that they were vaguely imitating the motions of air traffic controllers giving the signal to take off.
I plastered a benevolent smile on my face and inched toward the base of the winding stairs, picking my way carefully around the minefield of plated offerings as the Biskottis whirled and danced around us, their tiny feet dodging the plates with no apparent conscious thought.
“Praise the Ancients!” cried Ic as she pirouetted past.
“Appreciate it,” I muttered in reply, as one would quietly chant “excuse me” while sidling through a crowd. “Thanks. Bless you.”
“Please Co
me Back Soon!” sang another Biskotti as they leapt across our path.
“Bless you, yep. Blessings on you.”
“Hmph.”
This was such an abrupt change of tone that I felt moved to stop dead, with one foot already on the bottom step of the access stairway. I found myself addressing a Biskotti I hadn’t noticed before, who wasn’t dancing, but was standing at the base of the stairs with little arms folded and eyes narrowed. He was wearing a T-shirt with a stylized image of a ship flying through stars, but the ship had been scribbled out with permanent marker.
“You haven’t fooled everyone, creatures,” he said, in a quiet nasal voice that only we could hear. “Some of us have turned their back on the ridiculous superstitions of the Ancients and embraced the true ways of science.” He punctuated his statement with a little snorting noise that I think might have been a reflex action.
“Really am just trying to get back to my ship,” I said, not making eye contact.
“Just answer this!” he pressed. “If the Ancients created the universe for us, why does observable space indicate that our home is a relatively young creation?”
“Ath!” Ic suddenly bulldozed her way into the conversation. “Stop bothering the Ancient with your nonsense.”
“I’m just trying to ask questions!” ranted Ath, keeping his feet rooted to the spot as Ic pointedly tugged at his clothing. “Why are you all so willfully blind? Is it so absurd that our station could have simply been spontaneously created by the smashing together of random particles?”
“Yes, that is quite absurd, actually,” said Ic, getting heated. Most of the dancers had awkwardly stopped to watch the debate, although a few individuals on the outskirts were too enraptured to notice.
“That’s how it happened!” insisted Ath. “Smash together particles often enough over infinite time, it’s bound to happen! Look at all the pieces in the sky, those were the failed attempts!”
At that point the Biskottis faded out of earshot, as I had taken the opportunity to hastily ascend the stairs while everyone was distracted. I heaved a sigh, and a few pints of the foul-smelling air created by the older food offerings on the higher steps made my eyes water.
“Another planet of grateful primitives saved by the age of star piloting,” said Davisham Derby in a tone calculated to annoy. I’d barely been aware of him following closely behind, but that was cat burglars for you. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like to ‘rescue’ them? Seems like the sort of thing a star pilot would do.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take the job at the fish shop?” I snapped, turning on him with fists primed.
Instantly he endeavored to drop all expression from his facial features and freeze them in place. “How much do you know?” he said, barely moving his lips, although his mustache wobbled dramatically. “How much do you think you know?”
“I know that I might be a has-been, but at least I’m not living some kind of traccy plied-up midlife crisis that’s gotten more out of hand than your left arm. Now shut your face, you bracket, I’m thinking.”
Specifically, Derby’s taunt had made me think about the last time I’d saved a primitive people, or rather, what I had taken for one. In the end, it had turned out to be nothing more than an elaborate, planet-wide piece of theater engineered by Robert Blaze and Malcolm Sturb. I remembered how angry I’d been when the truth was revealed, how stupid I’d felt for actually thinking I was liberating those adorable furry fakes.
But now the Biskottis had made it all clear: at the end of the day, star pilots had done very little overall good for the primitive races of the Black. How many of them were out there now, holding out for their alien liberators to return and solve whatever new problems had arisen? Not knowing that it would never happen, for no better reason than because liberating them was no longer fashionable.
I was so distracted by my thoughts that when I reached the airlock, I bitterly jabbed the section of hull plating just to the left of the access panel and sprained my finger. I shook myself. There was no sense dwelling on the past. After all, I was a villainous space pirate now, not a star pilot. I had to focus on fixing the Terrorgorn situation, so that I could get back to fixing the Henderson situation, so that I could be free to start terrorizing the galaxy or whatever.
The three individuals in the passenger cabin were basically where I had left them, looking like a roomful of future in-laws with whom a new girlfriend had left me alone. Terrorgorn hadn’t moved from his seat, but was now wearing an ill-fitting hoodie and sweatpants, which did nothing to reduce the powerful aura of evil and hatred that radiated from his awkward smile. Sturb was sitting on the seat that was as far away from Terrorgorn as possible, with his hands clasped in his lap and head bowed.
Henderson, meanwhile, was sitting with his back straight and arms folded, his face set like a police barrier being used to hold back an angry mob. To continue the future in-laws analogy, he had the look of a furious dad who had already decided he was going to throw the interloper out on his ear if he so much as forgot to hold the door open for the family cat.
“So I think our ride will get here in about a day,” I said as we walked in and everyone looked to me with varying levels of desperation.
“Wonderful. Davisham Derby could not stand for much longer being without the company of Daniel . . . Henderson,” said Derby, his speech slowing when he noticed that I was urgently making a cutthroat gesture so hard that a violin placed in my hands at that moment would have been playing “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
Just as I’d feared, Mr. Henderson’s grin almost split his face in half. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, suddenly relaxed. “Oh, what was that?” he said, dripping with satisfaction. “The person coming to save us is one Daniel Henderson, Esq.? Who will no doubt be bringing several employees of the noble Henderson organization? Well then, I suppose it becomes extra important that our rescuer should find his dear old dad here, doesn’t it?”
Sturb turned his shoulders toward me, but kept his gaze fixed on his shoes. “Could you possibly tell him to hold off a little longer?” he quietly asked.
“Okay, new rule, nobody talks but me,” announced Henderson, standing up and subtracting all levity from his voice. “I’m making the rules now. Second rule, I think the four of you are going to have a little knife fight to decide who gets to eat. And then maybe we’ll have a loser’s bracket to decide who gets to be the food.”
A chill ran down my spine. Not because of Henderson, but because I was watching Terrorgorn’s expression change. It was an expression that would have been familiar to anyone who’d grown up with someone of British descent like my mum. She’d always wear that kind of face when Dad was doing something she disapproved of, like putting his feet on the table, or speaking French at home, or maliciously eating loudly. That flat line of a mouth, eyebrows raised, gaze firmly pointed ceilingwards, the look of someone who is completely plying livid but far too polite or passive aggressive to say anything out loud.
“Erm, Terrorgorn, are you okay with this?” I asked.
“Hmmmmm,” said Terrorgorn noncommittally, which was about the worst possible response.
“And another thing, I’ve been sitting here all evening watching you people bricking it over this Terrorgorn thing, and all it’s done is sit there like a turd on a placemat.” He stood in front of Terrorgorn with hands on hips. “Are you really what amounted to a supervillain to these idiots? What do you do for the final battle, pick your nose?”
Terrorgorn finally stopped staring at the ceiling and looked Henderson square in the eye. Then Henderson collapsed where he stood.
It wasn’t like he had suddenly lost the strength in his body and keeled over. It was more like he’d been trodden on by an invisible elephant, instantly pinning his head to the floor. He thrashed his limbs and grunted, fighting to get back up, until the invisible force twisted his arm behind him and s
hoved his wrist up toward the back of his neck.
I looked at Terrorgorn, aghast. Two spherical objects beneath the skin of his brow appeared to be glowing bright orange. As he gently cocked his head and allowed a vacant smile to cross his face, the glow pulsated slightly and Henderson was dragged a few feet across the floor, which couldn’t have been pleasant, given how infrequently I vacuumed.
Henderson’s neck craned around. At first I thought he was trying to look at his attacker, but his eyes were screwed shut and his head trembled as he used every ounce of effort to fight against whatever was trying to rotate it.
“Erm, Terrorgorn,” I said hastily. “I think you’ve made your point, perhaps you’d like to let Mr. Henderson go, now?”
The glow faded from Terrorgorn’s brow, as did his smile. He looked down at Henderson’s squirming form, then at me.
“No, I’m fine,” he mumbled.
Henderson’s eyes opened and caught my gaze. There’s something quite disturbing about seeing someone who has never once in their entire life experienced fear suddenly having to learn it on the fly. It was almost as disturbing as the dull clicking sound Henderson’s neck made as it snapped.
Chapter 21
I have difficulty remembering what happened in the hour or two that followed. Probably because I was spending most of it writhing around with a splitting headache. I think I must have gotten overexcited about what Terrorgorn had done, and he had felt the need to calm me down. Whatever the case, when the raging tide of agony finally subsided and I could stand to unclutch my skull, Terrorgorn had Terror-gone.
Derby and Sturb were both writhing around on the floor with me, so they must also have offered token resistance. And there was the corpse of Mr. Henderson, still flat against the floor with limbs knotted at terrible angles. For a moment, as my senses struggled groggily to become fully operational, it seemed like his pale, twisted face was the only thing in the universe. The voids in his empty eyes were lifeless galaxies.
Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash Page 21