Will Save the Galaxy for Food

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  She exhaled at length, through gritted teeth. “My employer believes that I have hired a pilot for a private vessel. That pilot has not appeared. I am supposed to introduce this pilot at a dinner this evening.”

  A private gig. A private plying gig. I hit my internal switch so hard that it also illuminated strings of imaginary Christmas lights in my head. “You need a last-minute replacement? Look no further. I can fly anything with at least one wing.”

  “The other matter,” continued the woman, “is that my employer may have already signed a check for the previous pilot’s advance. I believe I may have been the victim of a scam.”

  “How exactly did you meet this pilot?”

  “I . . . used an online search engine.”

  “Oof.” I winced.

  She scowled at me. “The point is, I cannot allow my employer to know that I, he, both of us, have been . . . dishonored in this way. That could be very damaging in every sense of the word.”

  At this point my potential client’s uneasy use of the word ‘dishonored’ made me realize that she had a Terran accent she had been attempting to conceal. “Right,” I said.

  “So I need you to pretend that you are this pilot. I’ll introduce you under his name, and you must keep up the identity for the entire length of your association with us. It is vitally important that my employer not realize that a mistake has been made.”

  “By you,” I said, nodding.

  She made a brief, irritated sigh. “Broadly speaking.”

  “Well, I don’t see any problem at all. I mean, star pilots, right? We’re all pretty interchangeable. Smell weird, talk about the old days a lot. Where is this dinner?”

  Her datapad was suddenly open and taking up most of the tiny space between us. A spot was indicated on a map of the city, just off Ritsuko’s Heart at the corner of Ritsuko’s Leg. “It’s a place called La Vache in the city center. You’ll need to be there at eight. I can’t offer you the same advance that my employer already paid, but I can offer half the sum from my personal finances.” She switched to some kind of database app and indicated a box containing a figure. “Would this be sufficient?”

  Being very careful to keep my face straight, I brushed at the number, wanting to make sure there weren’t any stains on the surface that I was mistaking for zeros. “I think that will be satisfactory,” I said, after swallowing hard.

  I let her scan the ID chip in the back of my hand, and with a few quick swipes, the balance on my credit account was replaced by a much more encouraging one. She swiftly exited the photo booth and was already speed walking away by the time I’d squeezed myself out and rubbed the ache out of my spine.

  “Hey,” I called after her. She stopped, but didn’t turn. “Relax. You can relax now. Problem solved, right?”

  “I will make that particular status update only after this day is over,” she replied, over her shoulder. “In the meantime, do not mention this to anyone.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 4

  “Yeah, so she’s paying me half a plying continent to fly some rich doint’s cruising yacht or something,” I said, standing at the ironing counter in my T-shirt and underpants.

  “Right,” said Frobisher, not looking up from working a crease out of my jeans. “So now we’re just waiting for the part when this all blows up in your face, aren’t we.”

  Flat-Earth Frobisher had been a fellow star pilot and occasional friend back in the day. After quantum tunneling he’d seen the writing on the wall earlier than most, and had sold his ship to start his own laundry business. A pettier man than I might have resented this, but I appreciated having one person to talk to who wasn’t also competition. “Not everything blows up in my face.”

  He smiled that little patronizing smile of his that made his face so very punchable. “No, fair enough—just all your business decisions lately. You were talking exactly like this when you got that nuclear waste dumping contract.”

  “We do not talk about the nuclear waste dumping contract,” I said, in a jovial but very clearly threatening kind of way. “Are you done with those trousers?”

  He slid them over and moved on to my flight jacket, reaching for the deodorant. “I like that this is your idea of formal dress, by the way. The same clothes as always, but recently laundered. Do you even know what level of swank La Vache is?”

  “I wasn’t aware that swank operates on a tiered system,” I said, pulling my luxuriously warm jeans back on. “They want a star pilot; I’m giving them what they expect. If you were hiring a mime artist, you wouldn’t expect them to show up in business casual, would you.”

  He laughed his little patronizing laugh that often went with the smile. “I hope you haven’t been going around crowing about this. ’Cos if you’ll do as a last-minute replacement then pretty much any other pilot would, you realize”-the bell on the entrance door rang-“is what I said to the guy this morning who was crowing about his new client.”

  I turned to see a man standing in the doorway, with a significant emphasis on the word man. He was well over six feet and packed head-to-foot with rippling, tanned musculature. This was extremely obvious, because he was covering his physique with nothing more than a chain mail loincloth and a pair of leather bandoliers criss-crossing his chest.

  “Ho, fellows,” he boomed, tossing his mane of black hair.

  “Hi, Angelo,” said Frobisher and I.

  Back in the good old days, when a star pilot saved a planet, there was sometimes the temptation to stay there. For a while, it had even been something of a fashion trend among extrasolar queens and princesses to be seen with a space-hero paramour on one’s arm. The trend was fleeting, as they so often are, and a lot of spurned lovers had drifted back to Ritsuko.

  Angelo had apparently proved himself to some kind of warrior race, not dissimilar to the Zuvirons, and had lived as the queen’s consort for long enough to go a bit native. Until some other brick trac-house had caught Her Majesty’s fickle eye and he’d been out on his ear. He stomped up beside me and held up a bulging laundry sack that clattered metallically when he dropped it on the counter.

  “Why yes, I’d be happy to polish your armor, Angelo, thank you for asking so politely as always,” said Frobisher quietly, busying himself with the sack’s contents.

  Angelo glanced at me over his ridiculously square jaw. “Am I correct in hearing that congratulations be in order?”

  I met Frobisher’s urgent look for a split second. “Er, what?” I said innocently.

  “I hath heard that Den and Mark and thee are pledged to be gay married.”

  I’d forgotten about that. Before I could stop myself I’d started a sigh of relief, but was able to translate it into one of weary good humor. “Oh. Yeah. Nice one. Look at me rolling with your expert punches. Oof. Ooh. A well-landed blow, sir.”

  “’Tis well,” said Angelo, instantly bored by the topic. “Hast thou heard the news of Jacques McKeown?”

  I paused momentarily in the act of shaking my sleeves into my now-laundered flight jacket. “The dog-raping thing? Yeah, I think someone mentioned it. Frobisher, I gotta go. See you later.”

  “Nay,” said Angelo, turning to Frobisher as I made for the exit. “There hath been rumor that he intends to break cover. There is talk of a public appearance.”

  I paused at the door, slinging one ear over my shoulder.

  “Where did you hear that?” asked Frobisher. “’Cos if it was Fat Matt, he was the one who said that Deirdre’s was giving away free banana splits, and now Deirdre’s has been closed down, hasn’t it.”

  “’Tis but a rumor, but I pray to Mighty Bolor that it be true,” said Angelo. He reached behind his back and drew a massive knobbly sword as long as my leg, which he held aloft and stared at as he spoke as if reading off the blade. “My sword Slaybracket thirsts for the blood of the traitor. When he scuttles from his hole, I shall gather our brothers in betrayal, and together we shall tear him to morsels fit for the gullets of Ulunian swamp mag
gots.”

  “Yeah, well, save me a nibble,” I said, leaving. It wasn’t my finest parting shot, but I had better things to devote brain cells to. I had to look for a Quantunnel booth, for one. And I had to have a little panic, for another.

  I’d been so chuffed by this new gig that I’d forgotten I was due for a scheduled court appearance in a few days, and missing it wouldn’t be one of those things that the justice system could be easygoing about. But that was only if the gig went on that long. And even then, the client might be fine with me taking a morning off. If not, well . . . I wasn’t going to be me for a while, was I? I was going to be this ­other, non-existent, scam-artist pilot. I could certainly manufacture an excuse for being out of contact. Worst case, I could just mangle my leg in the gearbox. Again.

  Yeah, this was probably all going to work out fine. And there was a vacant Quantunnel booth near the spaceport that hadn’t been vandalized, so plying miracles were on my side that evening. I had a lot of colleagues who flatly refused to use the things out of principle, but I had a pragmatic attitude, and more importantly, an advance.

  I thumbed the topmost option on the touchscreen and passed my chip under the scanner. The machine deducted an amount that would have been much more significant a day ago. One rattle of shutters later, the white plastic doorway opened up into the middle of Ritsuko’s Heart, two miles away, in defiance of old-fashioned physics.

  The city’s main square was at maximum bustle. It was that lively time of the evening when the businessmen were on their way home and the nightlife crowd were out looking for somewhere to be seen. The two were trying to plow through in opposite directions like a pair of combs jammed together. I did a little hop, took a deep breath, then broke into a sprint toward the junction of Ritsuko’s Leg, hoping momentum would carry me through the mass.

  History tells us that Kaito Ayakama was serious when he suggested naming the central plaza Ritsuko’s Heart. Ritsuko was his girlfriend at the time, and very dear to him. His wife, Naomi, wasn’t too happy about it, but she was stuck back on Earth and he didn’t care. History is pretty sure he was joking when he suggested naming the main street Ritsuko’s Leg, though. It stuck because no one could think of anything better and Kaito was having to spend a lot of time on the phone to his divorce lawyer.

  For a short while my world was a confusing maelstrom of expensive suits and shameful clubbing gear before I burst out into the open and was very nearly hit by a cyclist crossing the top of the Leg.

  I could see La Vache, now. I’d passed this area many times before but I’d never noticed it, for the same reason I never noticed gynecologists’ offices, or places that sold insurance: they just weren’t part of my world. Now having to contemplate going inside the place, I could see that if swank really did operate on a tiered system, then this was pretty much as high as it went.

  It was the kind of rich that’s so rich it doesn’t have to prove it. No flashy architecture on the exterior, no giant, lit-up signs. Just a set of huge, plain glass windows with perfectly straight beige curtains, and the name of the place was embossed in barely visible serifed letters on a brass plaque above the door.

  I was contemplating the best swagger to put on as I entered when I picked up a familiar scent of wealth and noticed my mysterious client, now wearing a pastel dress that acknowledged the wearer’s bodily characteristics as begrudgingly as possible, standing at the entrance to the alleyway that ran behind the restaurant.

  Her back was to me as I approached. “Boo,” I said, in a perfectly level tone of voice, but she jumped anyway.

  “Ah,” she said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear. “You may wait inside for us at the table. Give my name to the doorman.”

  “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

  She was ever so subtly inching to the side in order to get firmly between me and the alleyway entrance. “You can call me Ms. Warden,” she said. From behind her came a sound like a deck chair being attacked with a side of beef. She loudly feigned a cough.

  “Riiight,” I said, attempting to subtly peer around her.

  “And you are?” she asked, pretending to lean comfortably on the nearby wall, slightly misjudging the distance, and stumbling in her heels.

  “That’s another thing you’re supposed to tell me,” I pointed out.

  “Now then,” came a male voice from the alleyway. “What was that you were saying about dress code?” The voice possessed the same Terran accent Ms. Warden had attempted to suppress in her own voice. “Black tie, or . . .”

  Somebody spat, and there was the plink of teeth settling on wet concrete. “Phwuh?”

  “The options, I believe, were black tie, or something else?”

  The second voice sounded more local, and considerably more pained. “Black tie or . . . reindeer sweaters?”

  “Yes! Black tie, or a sweater that I find very comfortable. You’re a bright one, aren’t you. Let him go, Carlos.”

  Something clattered to the ground, and a second later, a middle-aged man in the garb of a maitre d’ limped around the corner. His pencil-thin mustache was caked in blood from a nose in severe disarray. He looked like he was going to try to maintain his dignity, until he saw me. His gaze tracked up and down my outfit, then he burst into tears and slunk, dejected, into the restaurant.

  From the alley came a jaunty whistling, followed closely by its originator. He was a middle-aged man with thick black hair graying at the temples, and he had a tanning bed complexion that was close to that of a tangerine. Perhaps as an attempt to offset this, he was wearing a vibrantly colored reindeer sweater over a collar and tie.

  Behind him was what looked at first glance to be an enormous red capital M in a tuxedo. It was, very broadly speaking, humanoid, but the tops of its massive shoulders were about ten inches higher than the top of its head. Its tree-trunk arms reached to the floor, making its somewhat sensibly proportioned legs almost redundant. What I could see of its flesh was hairless, but for a black thatch on the front of its “face,” artfully combed into the shape of a fat handlebar mustache. I didn’t recognize the species, but I could say for sure that its home planet’s ecosystem had valued grip strength a lot higher than it had aesthetics.

  “Oh, hi there,” said the man in the reindeer sweater, noticing me. “You must be the pilot. I hope you don’t smell as bad as they all did in the spaceport.”

  “If I might introduce my employer, Mr. Henderson—” began Ms. Warden, not meeting my gaze.

  She was interrupted by Mr. Henderson loudly clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “You know what, let’s save introductions for when we’re all comfy inside. The air in these bubble cities makes me want to have a great big spew sometimes.”

  I attempted to follow directly behind him into the restaurant, but a hand like a leather armchair wrapped itself around my shoulder and held me in place until the hulking mass named Carlos could get between me and Mr. Henderson. I followed meekly, my eyes about level with Carlos’s buttocks. Ms. Warden brought up the rear, and I heard her sigh for longer than I’d have thought possible for a normal pair of lungs.

  My entire view consisted of a featureless plain of black silk until we were inside the restaurant. It was obvious which table was Mr. Henderson’s: it was the one surrounded by wait staff making big earnest smiles and the occasional worried glance toward the maitre d’. He was holding a tissue to his face and bowing in a regular rhythm like one of those drinking-bird toys. Most of the other guests were either already leaving or attempting to wolf down their meals.

  Already sitting at the table was a skinny boy of about fifteen, wearing a T-shirt in designer disarray and an unnatural red streak in his unruly black hair. He folded his arms and scowled as Mr. Henderson took a seat opposite him. “Have you gotten your way, then?” he said, spitefully.

  “Oh yes,” chuckled Henderson as he took a seat at the head of the table. “We all love coming to places where the Henderson name hasn’t gotten around yet, don’t we?”


  “No, I don’t,” insisted the boy. “You always use violence to get your way and no one’s impressed. Everyone just thinks you’re a big thug.”

  Henderson laughed again. “Danny’s got big ideas for the organization. Just can’t wait to step into his old man’s shoes, can you.”

  “DON’T CALL ME DANNY,” snapped Danny, a prepubescent squeak entering his voice. “You’re always trying to embarrass me! I’m not taking over your company! I’m going to be a star pilot!”

  Henderson chuckled. “Yes, of course you are. And what were you going to be last year? VR game designer, wasn’t it? Poetry the year before that.”

  “URGH,” grunted Danny, letting his hands drop onto the table hard enough to make all the plates rattle. “I HATE you.”

  Henderson winked at me. “Kids. They’re great at this age, aren’t they? Danny’s going to do great things with the family business one day, you just watch.”

  Right, I thought. With every second that passed, more things about this situation seemed to be completely bananas, but these were clients, and rich ones at that, and I was willing to take a banana in every available hole for a private gig. Warden had already taken a seat beside Danny, so I flicked my internal switch and pulled out the chair next to hers with a confident flourish. “And what is your line of business, Mr. Henderson?” I asked conversationally.

  Henderson’s smile froze, and his offended glare pinned me in place half in and half out of the seat. Then he laughed with seemingly genuine warmth, although his eyes didn’t change. “You’re a nosy one, aren’t you?” I had no idea how to interpret his tone of voice. “How about those introductions?”

  I glanced with slight desperation at Ms. Warden, who was sitting to my right. She appeared to be staring into space, clutching her datapad with white-knuckled hands, but snapped into alertness when Henderson addressed her. “Yes,” she said smartly. “Mr. Henderson, Daniel, may I introduce Mr. Jacques McKeown.”