My Other Car is a Spaceship

by Mark Terence Chapman

  Mynax nursed a drink in a darkened bar somewhere in the seedier part of town, a place where it was unlikely he’d run into anyone he knew. The last thing he wanted was any conversation, condolences—or, bizarrely, congratulations—indeed, companionship of any sort. He simply wanted to be left alone so he could get quietly, thoroughly, and asocially drunk.

  If he hadn’t already been in shock from the news of the fleet’s decimation, the speed with which the board of directors voted to dissolve the Unity might have done it. If not, then Commissioner Boutan’Mourn’Froul’s suicide hours later certainly would have been enough to put Mynax over the top.

  The congratulatory notes and calls began arriving the next morning, as news of the suicide hit the airwaves and it was learned that one Spelvin Mynax was now the de facto commissioner of the Merchants’ Unity. He’d been drinking ever since. If it all hadn’t been so horrifying to him he might have found it funny in a macabre sort of way. Yes, he was now Commissioner of the Fleet Spelvin Mynax, the most powerful person in the Unity fleet—supervising the utter dissolution of that entity.

  Thirty-odd Unity ships—mostly those that hadn’t been part of the assault on the pirate fortress—remained of a fleet that once numbered over 160. (The exact number remaining depended on whether one counted the three wrecks that had limped home from the assault.) The ships were scattered across the sector doing what Unity ships had done for more than a century: defending those who couldn’t defend themselves from the depredations of cutthroat pirates. But that was about to end. As soon as all the remaining ship’s Captains could be notified to return to base, the ships would be decommissioned and sold off at auction. The proceeds from the sale would be returned to the member merchants who had funded the Unity all this time.

  For seventeen years Mynax had worked his way up through the ranks of the Unity fleet. He had hoped one day to ascend to the top post. That was something grand for a human and former pirate slave to aspire to. It would have been an accomplishment to be proud of. And now his dreams had been fulfilled. He was indeed the commissioner, top dog, master of all he surveyed. And what did he survey? The rotting carcass of a Unity that was already dead but still coasting along on inertia.

  This was the legacy Boutan’Mourn’Froul had left him.

  Big…freakin’…deal. Here’s to you, sir.

  Mynax hoisted his glass and almost managed to keep from spilling any of his Velpaxian whiskey. It was expensive, the best in the sector. But today anything would have tasted like horse piss.

  The bartender clicked on the holoscreen and for the fiftieth time that day someone was talking about the appalling development of the Unity fleet’s destruction. And for the fiftieth time someone in the bar (actually, the fourth bar of the day) made a derogatory comment about the Unity and how it was about damned time someone did something about those bloodsucking thieves—meaning the Unity!—or words to that extent.

  Mynax gingerly touched his split lip with a finger. Every time he sipped his whiskey, the alcohol burned like lava, searing his soul and reminding him why he was drinking. The lip was courtesy of the last yahoo in the last bar who’d made such comments, right before Mynax sucker-punched him and then was set upon by said yahoo’s buddies.

  He set his empty glass down and took a deep breath. I guess it’s time to set another yahoo straight. He stood and staggered across the bar.

  “How much longer are they going to keep us in here?” Hal paced yet again in the holding pen where the four prisoners had been kept for the thirteen days since their capture.

  They’d been fed and otherwise well cared for. Aside from being questioned once or twice each about their skills and knowledge, they’d been left alone in a room large enough to hold a dozen prisoners. The room contained that many bunks, bolted to the floor, and nothing else but a sanitation facility near one corner of the room. After nearly two weeks of staring at the polished stone walls, they were all going stir crazy.

  They’d tried playing word games to pass the time, but because of different native languages and cultures, that hadn’t worked out well. Neither had singing. Either no one knew the songs the others did, or their vocal chords couldn’t manage the same musical ranges. They had no cards, dice, selstrums, or plithits, so games of chance were out of the question. And it seemed every conversation eventually turned into variations of “what’s going to happen to us?” or “we have to find a way out of here.” Consequently, the discussions tended to peter out rather quickly. No, mostly what the prisoners did to pass the time was sleep, eat, exercise, and stare at the walls.

  At first, there was some talk of trying to overpower the guards that brought the food. But the food was always brought by four armed and massive Melphim guards. For four unarmed prisoners, the odds weren’t good. Nor could they make weapons out of the dishware and utensils, because there were none. The food came wrapped in a paper-like substance that degraded into powder after a few minutes of contact with air. It was eat fast when the food arrived, or eat it off the floor later. And their only beverage was drinking water provided by the sanitation unit, recycled from liquid waste.

  But at least they weren’t chained to the walls or each other. They were free to move about as needed. That made captivity almost tolerable.

  As the only object in the room besides their bunks, the sanitation unit was an immediate point of interest. But after a brief inspection, even that lost its appeal. It was a rectangular box, approximately a meter tall, with an open bowl for bodily evacuation on one end, a presence-sensing spigot and basin at the other, and a small sliding door in the center. The central box served as washing machine, to launder their soiled clothing. Simply throw clothing in and after a short delay it washed and dried them automatically. This saved the pirates the bother of having to supply clothing of the right size and shape for multiple species of prisoners. By the time the single outfit the prisoners had on their backs wore out they’d be long gone, sold as slaves and someone else’s problem. The unit was designed so that nothing could be broken off and used as a weapon. And with a timer built in, even the spigot couldn’t be left on for more than a few seconds per minute, making it impossible to flood the chamber.

  After fourteen days of monotony something out of the ordinary happened. The guards unlocked the door when it wasn’t mealtime. This made the prisoners’ ears or auditory membranes perk up immediately. Not only was it a welcome change of routine, it might mean that at last they’d find out what was to become of them. No one expected death, however. That could have been accomplished at any time. Why feed them for two weeks only to kill them?

  But many other outcomes were possible, some less pleasant than others. Plenty of slaves were purchased to work in thrisium mines. Turnover was high, due to the mortality rate. Thrisium was highly volatile, and accidents were frequent. Even being careful, long-term exposure to thrisium was invariably fatal.

  On frontier worlds, slaves were often used to clear swamps and jungles for habitation. The slaves frequently were the first to discover the presence of parasites, viruses, and carnivorous life forms indigenous to those planets. The first such discoveries were often the last for the slaves.

  On other planets, war was a semi-permanent condition, with one country constantly battling a neighbor. As a result, there were many minefields along their common borders. Slaves were ideal for laying mines and for locating the enemy’s mines. Of course, sometimes the locating was accompanied by a rather loud bang.

  Even when a slave’s life wasn’t dangerous, often it was excruciatingly tedious. For people of action, like Hal and Kalen, sweeping a minefield would be far preferable to forty years working an assembly line or mucking out a stable.

  These and other such thoughts had a fleeting presence in the minds of the prisoners as the door slid open with a hiss. The four guards entered in pairs, two stopping just left of the door, and two on the right, to give them an unimpeded field of fire—just in case.

  Between them strode Penrod as the door locked
itself behind him with an electronic hum. “Good evening, gentlemen. I must apologize for the delay. Usually it doesn’t take this long to place our ‘guests’. But in this case, I must confess that I’ve been choosier than usual. With such valuable properties, I’ve been demanding a high level of compensation. Higher than many potential buyers are willing to pay. So the process is taking longer. But have no fear, we’ll get you all placed eventually.”

  He smiled, apparently enjoying his charade as the helpful ‘employment placement officer,’ even if his audience wasn’t having as much fun.

  “One client was trying to decide between an experienced ship’s Captain, a deadly ace of a fighter pilot, and a razor-sharp tactical officer. He wanted all three of you, but couldn’t afford my price. So he had to settle for only one. He was having a devil of a time deciding. I’d never dealt with his kind before—the Fillairians they call themselves—but apparently they don’t like making quick decisions. For them everything is a long, drawn out soul-searching process, involving much communing with the gods. I’m not sure they could decide whether to wear blue or green shoes today in less than a week.”

  He flashed a boyish grin. “Forgive me for dragging this story out, but I thought you might find the process interesting.” The stony responses belied that notion.

  “The Fillairians are from a solar system way on the far side of known space. They seem to be having trouble with another race, called the Moro, located even farther away, and they need some help militarily. They have plenty of grunts, but few experienced officers. Their representative finally decided which one of you to purchase, the one they felt would help them the most.”

  He paused for a moment to build suspense. “And the winner is…. Where’s a drum roll when you need one? The winner is…. Ding, ding, ding! Marsengar! Evidently they felt his tactical skills could be used in a strategic fashion at headquarters. Plus, the money they saved versus either of the other two of you could be put toward buying some more weapons. Guards?”

  Two of the guards approached Marsengar; each gripped one of his tentacles.

  “But-but—” he squeaked as they led him away.

  “Wait!” Kalen and Hal called out in unison. The other guards raised their weapons to forestall any attempt to interfere with their exit.

  “Don’t worry,” Penrod said with a smile, “your turns will come soon enough. The good doctor has experience treating dozens of races. I’m sure someone will pay well for that.” He turned and left, followed by the remaining guards.

  “And then there were three,” Hal muttered as the door sighed shut.

  The trio exchanged glances. Who would go next? What would be his fate? Would they ever see one another again?

  There wasn’t a single pleasant thought to be had in the room.

  “So what’s the latest tally, Jern?” Penrod poked his head into Ishtawahl’s office before heading into his own. He stifled a yawn after a late night.

  “Quite good. Better than we had any right to hope for. We scoured the wreckage for the warheads and any trace of fissionable materials that might have been scattered about. Right now it looks like we have six warheads that can be repaired—which is amazing in itself—and enough scraps of plutonium from the smashed warheads to construct five more weapons in the 200-kiloton range. The rest of the plutonium was either vaporized or scattered in such fine particles that it isn’t feasible to recover it. We will have to build those other warheads from scratch. I have found several qualified candidates for the repair and manufacturing processes. They are all ex-military, with the necessary skills and no scruples against working for us.”

  “Excellent! So we’re looking at six weapons short-term and five more long-term? That could work out perfectly. We shouldn’t need more than a few to get us started. After that, we can take our time on the others. Hot damn! Eleven nukes would make us the most powerful entity in known space short of a planetary government.”

  “I believe you are correct, Tarl.”

  “Do we have any sort of timetable for getting the first few online?”

  Ishtawahl shook his head. “Not until the scientists and engineers have a chance to study the type of warheads we have and see the damage for themselves. I suspect it will be weeks before they can even begin the repair process, and then weeks to months more to make them functional again.”

  “Very good. I’d better get started on a list of potential targets. We’ll want planetary governments rich enough to pay a heavy protection fee to ensure their population’s continued safety, yet not so rich and powerful that they have a mean ol’ navy big enough to spoil our fun. And it would help if they have a small moon or space station that we can blow up as a demonstration of our power. Those criteria will narrow down the list of targets considerably, but I’m sure I can come up with a few dozen to discuss.”

  “Would it not be more productive to have your second in command screen systems for you?”

  “Probably. But not as much fun.”

  Penrod turned and entered his own office, adjacent to Ishtawahl’s. He sat back in the comfy chair behind his desk and interlaced his fingers behind his head—nine of them, anyway. His muscular form, scarred cheek, and the lack of a right pinky finger only hinted at the difficult life of a child trying to survive on his own in the slums of the mudpit village of Albezon, on the backwater colony planet Pilvar, in the armpit-of-a-solar-system called Jessler.

  You’ve come a long way, young man—from pickpocket to aircar booster to confidence man to pirate.

  He recalled Constable Prelvan once scowling down at him and saying, “Once a thief, forever a thief!” as he locked up young Tarl.

  Perhaps. But soon to be a fabulously wealthy thief. In fact, probably the wealthiest thief in the history of known space.

  He grinned at his reflection in the transparent aluminum office door. “It’s always nice to reach the pinnacle of one’s profession, isn’t it?”

  Hal’s captivity had given him time to reflect on his situation. Maybe his depression was unwarranted. Maybe Penrod was lying about the fleet’s destruction. Maybe the Unity had another trick up its sleeve. It was too soon for Hal to give up.

  “We’ve got to find a way out of here.” He gripped the edge of his bunk in frustration until his knuckles hurt. “We’ve been cooped up for three weeks now. Any day they could come and split us up and ship us off to god-knows-where, and we’ll have lost any hope of escaping, or at least doing some damage to this place.”

  “Sure,” Kalen replied, “but what are we supposed to do? Have you seen the tiniest crack in their security that we could exploit? Anything at all?”

  “No, damn it, you know I haven’t.”

  “Well, then you and I and Nude have done all we can for now. If an opening presents itself, we have to be prepared to exploit it. But until then, all we can do is wait.”

  Hal released his death grip on the bunk and leaned back against the wall. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before responding. “Yeah, I know. Be a boy scout, always prepared.”

  “You got it. Have faith. An opportunity will present itself.”

  “What’s that?” Hal rose from his bunk and went to the door. The rumbling he’d heard quickly became recognizable as the tread of many feet.

  The others joined him, with ears pressed to the door.

  “I make out several different languages.” Nude said. “Those people are not happy.”

  “More slaves, do you think?” Hal ventured.

  “A reasonable guess.” Nude replied with a nod.

  They listened further. The procession continued for several minutes. Clearly a raid had netted the pirates a large haul of potential slaves.

  “I hear coughing, sneezing, and barking. Numerous people are ailing in the group.” He frowned for a moment. “I have an idea. Please wait by the bunks.”

  “What—?” Kalen began.

  “I would rather not say. I want your reactions to be natural. Just go along with whatever happens. Do noth
ing rash.”

  “Okay. It’s your call.” He grasped Hal’s arm. “Come on. Let’s let the doctor play hero for a while.” He looked back toward Nude. “To throw your own words back at you: nothing rash, okay?”

  “That goes without saying, Captain.” Nude turned and pounded on the door. He pounded again and again, until someone responded.

  To Hal, the beat of heavy footsteps seemed to come from somewhere down the corridor. That meant the guards didn’t stay outside the door. A point for future reference.

  “What do you want?” The gruff voice wasn’t friendly.

  Nude shouted through the door. “I must speak with Tarl Penrod.”

  “No. Now shut up.”

  “I must insist. Tell him Dr. Chalmis’Noud’Ourien has an important matter to discuss with him.”

  “Are you going to shut up or do I have to come in there and shut you up?”

  Hal pictured the very large, very strong Melphim guards and thought that was probably a bad idea.

  Nude lowered his voice so the guard would have to strain to hear. “Very well. But when Mr. Penrod wonders which guard it was that kept me from giving him an important piece of information, I’ll be sure to tell him it was you.”

  The guard’s voice was more subdued now. “Very well. Give me a minute to call it in.”

  Hal grinned and gave Nude a thumbs-up.

  A moment passed and the door hissed open. One guard held his weapon on the prisoners while the other secured shackles to Nude.

  “Move.” The trio left the holding pen.

  Kalen and Hal exchanged a glance. The latter spoke for both when he said, “I sure as hell hope that wasn’t the last we’ll see of him.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The guards escorted Nude to Penrod’s office, where one secured the shackles to the ring in the floor. Then the guards left.