by Dave Barsby
“This,” she says. “Everything. It is all just so…absurd! I am dreaming. This is all just a silly dream.”
“Why do you think that?” I ask, already fairly sure of the answer, but humouring her all the same.
“Look,” she says, waving her arms about. “Look at who I have been kidnapped by! Look at what I am wearing! I am attending a squalid Goth music festival, with a target metaphorically painted on my forehead! Are you telling me there is nothing strange in all that?”
“Well,” I begin. “It does seem a little far-fetched-”
“Far-fetched?!? It has to be a dream! I…” She looks away, at the crew. Rogdo and Gronk are still arguing, the brunt of the conversation being handled by the Captain. Larisa looks back at me with large, frightened eyes. “Please,” she says quietly, “tell me this is all a dream.”
She’s roping me in again. I am starting to suspect it may all be an act. Can she really be this vulnerable when she reigns over an entire planet, making decisions every day that will affect the lives of millions. Of course, that is it! Those decisions concern mere commoners. This time it is her that is being affected. I remain quiet, unsure. Perhaps her lost puppy routine is genuine. But if it is, it is bred out of a contempt for the ‘lesser mortal’.
“I…I…” she stammers. “I am going to wake up soon. I am going to feel my hand-stitched thousand-thread sheets beneath me, I will be snuggled under an eiderdown blanket. Bodkins will enter, tell me breakfast is to be served in forty minutes. Then my maids will dress me in a beautiful gown and braid my hair and make me look elegant and regal and…”
I put one arm around her and allow her to briefly rest her bowed forehead against my shoulder.
“…pretty, and then I’ll go for a ride,” I hear her muffle into my shoulder. She looks up at me. At such close proximity, the finely mottled green of her eyes are intense, and for the first time I realise she is slightly taller than me. “This has to end,” she whispers to me, embracing me once more as her conspiratorial partner. I’m not quite sure how Rogdo would react to such a concept.
She looks across at the crew and I follow her gaze. Gronk is walking away, hand-in-hand with the pop pixie Britney. Rogdo’s head is bowed in frustration, the bridge of his nose clamped between his thumb and forefinger. Having as much street knowledge as a squashed hedgehog, Larisa decides this is the ideal time to confront Rogdo about her current situation. She takes in a deep breath and strides confidently up to him.
“Mr Flavian, please open the ship,” she says with poise and elegance. Again, it is a total disaster given her current image.
“Why?” Rogdo asks wearily, his face deflated.
“I wish to change into my dress.”
Rogdo grins, then laughs.
“Mr Flavian, I demand you open up the ship!” Larisa is now throwing the full force of her years of authority behind her arguments. Rogdo is made of sterner stuff.
“No.”
“I do not want to be like this anymore! I will not be like this anymore, with all my…wares on display!”
“No.”
“This bodice is uncomfortable and too tight.” She looks at Tima accusingly and points viciously. “You have never worn this garment! It would never fit!”
“Technically it’s a corset,” Tima responds coldly. “Not a bodice.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Larisa responds, finally starting to lose her cool.
“Sir, permission to punch the Princess?” Tima asks.
“Denied,” Rogdo grumbles. “Can we all just get going?” He waves a forward motion. A couple of the crew start to comply, but the rest know the situation hasn’t yet been resolved.
“No, Mr Flavian!” Larisa shouts. “I want on that ship, and I want my dress back! I absolutely, positively refuse-”
Rogdo turns to stare her directly in the eye, and advances on her. I have never seen such an expression on his face. Even when he was in the process of assassinating the President of Pilatara, he showed very little emotion. Now, I am thoroughly convinced he could without hesitation kill the nearest stranger with his bare hands and still have enough anger and frustration left over to drive a white van. Wisely, a shocked and frightened Larisa backs up as he approaches.
“No!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I will not leave you alone on my ship, I will not waste another member of my crew babysitting you, and I will not let you jeopardise all our lives by refusing to stay in disguise!” Larisa has now backed up far enough to bump the back of her head on the Diablo III’s hull. With nowhere else to go, she changes tactic and begins to nervously wring her hands. Rogdo draws his face to within one inch of hers and shouts with all his might. “I…SAID…NO!!!”
She gulps and nods her head in short, sharp movements. “Very well,” she breathes. Victory to Flavian.
“Now,” Rogdo says, still through clenched teeth. He turns to view all of us. His eyes are wild, his face screwed up and rather red, his back still hunched from meeting Larisa face-to-face. “Everyone! Follow me!”
He storms off to the east. The rest of the crew glance at each other nervously. I doubt any of them have seen him so angry before – from what I heard of his reputation, he isn’t used to plans going awry as spectacularly as this.
“Damn it!” we hear him bellow. He turns and storms back to us. “This way!” he shouts, pointing south, stomping across the ground without breaking stride. The group follows at a safe distance of ten feet.
I turn to Larisa. She isn’t moving. I’ve seen her look lost, alone, dejected before. But this is something different. This is the absence of all hope. The sparkle has gone from her eyes as she stares out into middle distance, and her entire face looks slack and devoid of emotion.
“I just want to die,” she says quietly in a weary, monotonous voice. She’s done all she can to make the best of a bad situation, but it has remained resolutely bad. She has nothing left in the tank.
“Come on,” I tell her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think. You can get through this.” I smile when she finally looks at me. “And boy are you going to have an adventure to tell the royal court when you return!”
Like one final, desperate ignition of an engine on its last legs, a spark of light glimmers momentarily in her hypnotic green eyes. Suddenly she grabs me, drawing me into in a tight, affectionate hug.
“Thank you,” she whispers with determined sincerity. She takes my hand and, with a glimmer of hope restored in her mind, leads me off to join the rest of the group.
We meet Johnson the Trader at his shop. It is on the edge of the Goth section, bordering the heavy rock groupies. It is surprisingly small, with toughened glass bay windows and large red decals. Inside, the air-conditioned, plush-carpeted shop resembles an estate agent, neatly arranged interactive holoscreens displaying the goods on offer. His warehouse is over in the classical section of the planet, but any purchases can be shipped to the shop within the hour.
“Okay,” Rogdo says before the store owner makes an appearance. “Have a look around. Humans of the group, keep your ‘bargain radar’ gene tuned.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you,” Bolland mutters.
“What?”
“You know everyone has had their racial gene replaced except me.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. What do you want me to say?”
Bolland shrugs. “Well, I would never in my wildest dreams expect you to say sorry.”
“Oh, good. That’s okay then.”
The store owner appears, an ageing, wiry man with a shock of white hair and grubby overalls. He wipes his hands on the overalls, then takes care to remove them. Underneath is a pristine light grey suit.
“Welcome,” he says, beaming and offers his hand like a true professional salesman.
“Hi,” Rogdo responds. “I’m Flavian. I called you.”
“Ah, yes, yes. Are all these with you?” he asks, indicating us.
“They are.” Rogdo turns to us. “Have a look arou
nd,” he orders us. The trader beckons Rogdo into his ‘office’, which looks surprisingly office-like considering it is just a desk in the corner. As Rogdo chats to the trader, we start browsing the ships on offer.
There is quite a startling array of low, middle and upper class space vessels, ranging from intercontinental skippers to cargo tugs via sleek, beautiful cruising yachts. I fail to understand 95% of the technical details and instead concentrate on the pictures. I set myself a goal – to locate one that resembles a rabbit.
Hiaelia whistles, browsing the optional extras section. “Mirv cluster cannons,” she mutters. “Nice!”
“Hmm,” says Tima, taking up the commentary baton. “Gold-plated Wavecutter. Four hundred million tabs.”
“This one is pretty,” Larisa tells us, her spirits buoyed further by a chance to shop. She shows the image to anyone interested. There are no takers. “It is only a hundred and eighty million, and it is also available in duck-egg blue,” she offers, but disinterest is still rife. “Hmmm,” she continues to herself. “A Starfire. I might ask for one for my birthday.” She turns to address the crew again, hoping to elicit some form of a response from anyone. “It will be my twenty fifth, you know,” she says proudly.
Tima glances at me as though it is my fault. I shrug and mouth “What?” If I am not careful I may soon find myself in the position of liaison officer between the crew and the Princess. I can imagine the only liaising would be in the complaint department.
I eventually find what I am looking for and head over to Rogdo. With any luck, he’ll let me sit in on the negotiations.
“…with a cremer feature to turn the coffee into a cappuccino,” Johnson the Trader explains to the Captain, his finger poised over the special features options.
“Hmmm, that sounds…” Rogdo begins, then realises I am standing next to him.
“Who is this?” Johnson demands.
“A journalist,” Rogdo explains. “Doing a story about my life. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all,” Johnson answers. Rogdo offers me a seat next to him.
“See anything nice?” Rogdo asks.
“A rabbit,” I point out. Blank stares confirm I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Yes, well, we’ve nearly finished here, you’ve missed all the details, but I’m sure you can sketch a few bits in later.”
“So, have you decided?” I ask.
“A few in mind, yes, but Johnson the Trader here will need to give the Diablo the once over to work out what price bracket we’re looking at.”
“So,” Johnson the Trader continues, glancing back at the special features options. “What you are looking for is a fast, agile attack vessel with ten cabins and the relevant storage area for three-month journeys, a Roto-Grav drive, planetary landing capabilities with a possible smaller craft for minor excursions, erm, and the following extra features: self-targeting laser batteries, particle cannons, mine and chaff dispensers, triple-plated hull, stealth and radar jamming equipment, sensors with a 1-light year range, leather seats in the cockpit, a soup and espresso machine, sonic showers, self-flushing toilets and, of course, a novelty candy dispenser. I’ll even throw in some furry dice for free.”
Rogdo nods, obviously not convinced by the offer of furry dice but satisfied with everything else. A grubby individual curiously pokes his head round the storeroom door. The lad’s heart seems to skip a beat when he spies us.
“Boss, can I have a word?” he asks, hurriedly and nervously.
Johnson the Trader smiles at us and stands. “Feel free to look around,” he tells us before disappearing.
“What do you think?” Rogdo asks me.
I shrug. “I don’t really know anything about ships,” I tell him honestly. “What’s next? Are we done on this planet now?”
“Not quite. One more thing to do.”
“Look,” I ask him sincerely, “do you mind if I say something?”
“If you give me a clue as to what you want to say, I’ll tell you if I mind or not.”
I draw my chair in closer to him, and whisper. “It’s about the Princess.”
He sucks in air, then puffs out his cheeks. “Go ahead,” he says reluctantly.
“You have to understand,” I start, “that she’s been waited on all her life. Everything she ever wanted, she’s been given. No one argues with her decisions, no one questions her judgement, everyone panders to her every whim. I’m not condoning that, but she doesn’t know any different. She’s been wrenched away from all that, from all that she knows, all the creature comforts, and she has no clue how to survive in the real galaxy with real people around her. She’s adjusting to it, but it will take some time, so just go easy on her, okay?”
“She gets on my tits,” he says. “How can someone with an ass like that be so far up it?”
“Erm…” I reply. I am momentarily lost in a horrendous image of the Princess doubling over and burying her face up her own anus. It is one of those moments that makes me wish I had splashed out on the ‘delete’ upgrade for my memory implant. “Look,” I say, shaking my head clear. “Whatever way you look at it, we’re stuck with her until all this is over. She’s the key to this, we need her. Now, she is trying, she really is. But you need to compromise a little as well.”
“You want me to apologise?”
I mull this over for a moment. There have been worse suggestions. “Yes.”
He rests back in his chair deep in thought. I don’t press him – doing so may only make him rebel against the idea, and the one thing I want is a bit of peace and quiet.
Johnson the Trader reappears, looking a little flustered. He doesn’t sit.
“Sorry about that,” he apologises. “Slight problem that needs my attention. Could we meet at your ship in, say, three hours? I’ll give it a thorough inspection and tell you its value right there and then.”
“That sounds fine,” Rogdo answers. He stands and shakes the hand of the trader, who promptly disappears out back again.
“Okay, people,” Rogdo calls, slapping his hands together. “Let’s go, head south east.”
We file out of the shop. Tima takes the lead in heading south east. Rogdo and I are the last two to leave.
“Princess?” he calls. “Could you…?” He beckons for her to fall behind with him. I remain at the back of the group, just close enough to hear what the two say to each other without looking suspicious.
“I wanted to, err…apologise for earlier,” I hear him say. “This situation is getting…well, everyone’s nerves are fried, tensions are running high. I know you aren’t accustomed to this lifestyle, and you don’t want to be here, but we all have to put aside our wants and concentrate on what we have to do instead. And that means, for the time being at least, following my orders. So, I’m sorry I lost it. I don’t want fractures in the group, and I will endeavour not to shout at you again.”
“You know, Mr Flavian, you can be quite polite and charming when you try.”
“Thank you. So, erm, you can continue on with us until we sort all this mess out, as long as you promise to stop being such a bitch.”
I physically cringe. The idiot. He was doing so well, then destroyed all his good work with the final single word. Larisa quickens her step until she is walking alongside me. I am becoming her liaison with the crew. If anything happens, she immediately singles me out for help or comfort. Why me? It isn’t as though we’re kindred spirits. I guess, not being a mercenary, I am more tolerant and less hot-headed than the others.
“Where are we going?” I call back to Rogdo. He catches up to us and I find myself in the no man’s land between the warring factions.
“We’re going to see the Electrobrain,” he tells me.
“The…?” I enquire.
“Electrobrain.”
“Electrobrain. Right. Isn’t that the-?”
“All-knowing computer? Yes. We’re going to cheat.”
“Cheat?” I ask.
Rogdo smiles. “Cheat. You don’t rea
lly think we’re the kind of people to spend weeks pouring over clues, dissecting every titbit of information we can find, do you?”
“I…no.”
“Exactly, so we’re going to cheat. I have exactly one datacard in my pocket maxed out at 3 million tabs. It costs one million per question, so we can ask the Electrobrain three questions. Question one, who is trying to assassinate all of us? Two, where can we find them? Three, why exactly are they trying to kill us?”
“That’s going to ruin my book!” I point out. “All that sense of mystery, the thrill of the reader trying to guess the answer before we stumble across it, the way each seemingly irrelevant clue slots into place. Dammit! You’re going to wipe out all the excitement in my novel!”
“Yeah, but this way you’ll have more chance of surviving long enough to write it.”
The Electrobrain is a massive tower of black metal with a small door set in its base, an obelisk at the very point where most of the major musical genre sections border each other. It has taken us over an hour to reach it by ferry bus, so timing is tight. As we reach it, spying the large queue of around eighty people patiently awaiting their turn to quiz the machine about the past, present or future, we feel a dull rumble as of thunder. Far to the north, a smudge of smoke discolours the horizon. It unsettles me – Festival has a long history of violence, and it would be just my luck to coincide my first visit here with an all-out conflict between light and dark (or Ballad and Goth). Considering the luck we have been experiencing so far, I wouldn’t discount a cataclysmic meteor shower either.
A mixture of coercion and general rudeness vastly reduces the queue of super-rich fools wanting to know if their spouses are having affairs, until we are next in line. When the previous occupant exits the tower, a small, elderly gent beckons us in.
The interior is cramped and not particularly appealing. It is very poorly-lit with enough standing area for around fifteen people to face a small computer screen. To the left of the screen is a slot.
“Have you been here before?” the doorman asks. Rogdo responds negatively. “It is voice activated,” the man continues. “Just insert your datacard and away you go. The cost is one million tabs per question. I’m afraid we are having a few technical difficulties at the moment. The computer’s answers are still as accurate as ever, but it is responding in programming code. Anyway, enjoy yourself.”