Tales from the Captain's Table

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Torr’ghaff’s plan might have worked, had not the Enterprise quite suddenly begun to speed away into the darkness. Within less than a minute, it was out of range of the cannons, and all but invisible under the wan light of three of Pelagia’s six small moons.

  I knew that Keru had done what he’d had to do in order to keep the Calypso II from being overrun by Torr’ghaff’s pirates, and that he had probably taken every precaution to keep our tech violations from being noticed by the authorities. But I also knew that the next rescue attempt was going to be even tougher—and that Keru now had two people to rescue.

  And transporter beams were still out of the question.

  Torr’ghaff whirled on his heels and glowered at Deanna. “What manner of magical ship is that, heh? And who are you, really?”

  Deanna looked at him defiantly, or at least as defiantly as she could manage given that she was still obviously as drunk as a lord. On top of that, she looked to be suffering from intense nausea.

  When she didn’t answer him, he slapped her across the face, hard.

  I struggled against my bonds, and the two men who were holding me back. “Leave her alone!” I yelled.

  She responded to the slap first by glaring at him, then by projectile vomiting all over his pirate finery.

  Looking disgusted, Torr’ghaff turned to face me. “This woman is not Arr’ghenn, and she does not even bleed the proper color, neh. Her ship casts illusions, and is faster than any vessel I’ve ever encountered, heh. Nothing appears to be as it seems tonight, eha?”

  He leaned in closer to me, his expression menacing. As was his breath. “I am forced to wonder if you are who you appear to be, Fegrr’ep Urr’hilf, heh. This succession of trickery began when we captured you, neh? Perhaps it’s time you prove to me you are who you say you are, heh?”

  Or who you say I am, I thought. I was beginning to feel very, very nervous.

  I swallowed hard, knowing my moment of truth had apparently arrived.

  “Get me the klap’paspech, heh,” Torr’ghaff shouted to one of his men.

  “What is a…klap’paspech?” the Rigelian captain asked.

  Resigning himself to at least several dozen more interruptions before his tale reached its denouement, Riker paused to finish his third tankard of uttaberry wine.

  Cap placed another in front of him before Riker had even set his empty stein down.

  “A klap’paspech was apparently the main instrument on which Fegrr’ep Urr’hilf played his klap’pa music,” Riker said. “Unfortunately, I had never so much as seen one before, let alone taken the time to become a world-famous klap’paspech virtuoso.”

  It was the first time in my life I’d been grateful not to be able to get an annoying tune out of my head. But as I turned the klap’paspech, a weird metal pretzel of an instrument, over and over in my hands, I wondered if those weird snatches of melody I’d first heard back at the island hostelry—probably in the venerable elevator that served several of the place’s eating and shopping establishments—could possibly do me any good. Come to think of it, hadn’t some of the pirates been humming the same tunes?

  Why couldn’t this Fegrr’ep Urr’hilf have been a trombone player? I thought, though I knew I should have been grateful that Urr’hilf wasn’t famous for his singing or his interpretive dance. The fingers of my right hand came to rest against a series of brass keys or stops. Not too different from the ’bone, I realized. If I’m holding the damned thing the right way up, that is.

  I was becoming extremely conscious of the suspicious stares of Captain Torr’ghaff and a dozen or so of his squinting cutthroats. The same pair of freebooters who had taken Deanna belowdecks now lugged a glass aquarium tank to my side, and I could see clearly what it contained: one of the local squidlike creatures whose large brains and tympanic membranes served as the biological equivalent of a modern-day audio system.

  A music library with tentacles, I thought, suddenly realizing that I was in for an impromptu recording session. No pressure.

  I therefore made a quick command decision: Taking a wild guess as to which part of this convoluted brass taffy-pull was the business end, I placed what appeared to be a mouthpiece against my lips, closed my eyes, and blew.

  BLAAAAT. The sound trailed off, dying somewhere between a moan, a gurgle, and a sigh.

  Torr’ghaff reached for the haft of his cutlass and bared its blade. The other pirates growled and muttered restlessly.

  Crap. I adjusted something that looked like a valve and tried again.

  BLAAAAT. Louder this time. BLAAAAAAAT. I kept at it, hearing progressively more sustain and less of that gurgling hiss the instrument had been making.

  Even the intonation was getting better, if that concept could even be applied to Pelagian music, as I soldiered on, trying to force the bleating horror attached to my face to re-create the discordant melody I couldn’t get out of my head.

  I continued for maybe a minute, though at the time it seemed like the longest set I’d played in my life.

  But it seemed to be working. The grumbling among the pirates was subsiding, replaced by nodding murmurs of recognition. Whatever shortcomings were evident in my performance I had to trust everyone to chalk up to an embouchure that had been bruised and battered by the evening’s fighting.

  Captain Torr’ghaff released the haft of his blade, allowing it to fall back into the scabbard. But the glint of suspicion never left his eyes.

  “Why do I not recognize certain parts of that…opus, eh?” Torr’ghaff said after I had paused for breath, and allowed the admiring applause of the pirate crew to die down.

  “I’ve, ah, been working on some new material lately.”

  Torr’ghaff sniffed with disdain. “I like your old stuff better, heh. I hope, for your sake, that I like your people’s response to the ransom note I left them better still, heh. Perhaps my other hostage will reveal some news of this, neh? Before I shed the rest of her red alien blood, heh.”

  He turned on his heel and headed belowdecks, leaving me in the hands of several armed pirates, who—luckily for me—still believed I was the person their captain had initially mistaken me for.

  But Deanna’s situation was far, far worse. Torr’ghaff might kill her any minute. Come on, Ranul, I thought as I handed my instrument off to one of my captors. Now would be good.

  With both Deanna and myself now in Torr’ghaff’s hands, I knew Keru had to be preparing another rescue attempt. But I also knew he had to be using virtually all his available power just to elude detection by the Pelagian authorities. And the longer he took, the greater the chance of his being caught, thereby touching off a diplomatic crisis that would get the Federation forever booted off Pelagia—and the whole lot of us cashiered from Starfleet. Therefore whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to do quickly.

  And cleverly.

  The interruption this time came from Riker himself, when he noticed Picard’s pensive, serious gaze. He felt fortunate that those stern eyes were directed at the other captain’s dresci and not at him.

  “Is something wrong, Captain?” Riker asked Picard.

  Picard shook his head. “Not as long as I continue to give you the benefit of the doubt, and assume you are making up at least half of this story.”

  “I have never doubted that,” Klag said with a big grin.

  Riker said, “So if you did believe my story, you’d have to report our…infractions to Starfleet Command.” Realizing he might have just put a half dozen other Starfleet careers in jeopardy in addition to his own by speaking a bit too freely, he suddenly wished he’d decided to tell a different story. How he’d really received that broken arm on Elamin IX, perhaps. Or the first time he’d been forced to dress up in feathers, at that diplomatic function on Armus IX.

  “No, Will. Because to do that I’d have to break a cardinal rule of the Captain’s Table.”

  Riker raised his mug. “I’ll drink to that.” After slamming down a hefty swallow of the sweet Betazoid wine, he
said, “Now, where was I?”

  Oh, yeah.

  Torr’ghaff was about to interrogate and execute my new bride. And I was pretty damned miffed about that, though I wasn’t in much of a position to do anything about it.

  Except maybe to appeal to the better natures of these pirates, assuming any of them had one. Since most of them seemed to be fans of music—or what passed for it here on the Opal Sea—I was willing to wager that they did. Besides, I didn’t have a lot of other good options.

  But although they showed me as much deference as any hostage could hope to expect—and I was still a hostage, my celebrity status notwithstanding—my attempts to convince my escorts to intercede on Deanna’s behalf came to nothing. Though the trio of large, ugly pirates who marched me back down to the smelly hold where I’d first awakened looked more thoughtful than seemed possible, none of them seemed thoroughly won over.

  Then I noticed something really strange.

  “You were injured during Arr’ghenn’s capture, neh?” I asked one of the pirates.

  “During the capture of the false Arr’ghenn, heh,” he said, nodding as he rubbed at a fading scar on his neck. “You pushed me into the path of a sword.”

  “But I saw your injury, heh. You were almost decapitated! How did you survive it, eh?”

  He looked at me as though I had just fallen from one of Pelagia’s six silver-hued moons.

  “I have survived far worse, and healed afterward, as has everyone else here, heh. The Small Spirits see to that, neh? I suppose the false Pirate Queen will soon discover whether or not the Small Spirits will perform such favors for offworlders, heh.”

  Oh, no, I thought, realizing that Deanna was actually in far more danger than I had previously suspect—

  “So the Pelagians heal quickly,” said Klag. “So do Klingons. What of it?”

  “Klingons are tough, I’ll grant you that,” Riker said. “But even you wouldn’t survive for long with your head nearly sawed off. That’s how badly wounded that pirate had been.”

  “And?” Picard said.

  “And I finally began to understand something that we verified with our scanners later on—that the ‘Small Spirits’ the injured pirate had mentioned were actually nanites.”

  “Nanites?” said the Rigelian.

  “Microscopic machines,” Picard said, his eyes suddenly growing wide with alarm.

  “Which can be used to repair injuries and cure diseases,” Riker added.

  “But nanites are potentially very dangerous if allowed to run amok. They can even be used as bioweapons,” Picard said. Riker knew that he was speaking from bitter experience.

  “That’s what the Pelagian authorities think as well,” Riker said. “Which goes a long way toward explaining their current technological restrictions. It seems their ancestors accidentally released a nanoplague centuries ago. Pelagia is still swarming with nanites to this day, though the planet’s biosphere has completely adapted to their presence.”

  Picard started to rise from the barstool on which he was perched. “Damn this place’s rules about captain’s discretion,” he said, looking squarely at Cap. “I need to alert Starfleet Command immediately.”

  Riker placed a gently restraining hand on his fellow captain’s shoulder, a move he would have found unthinkable only weeks ago. “It’s really not necessary. I looked into it already, and Starfleet Medical has already declared Pelagia safe for all known humanoid species. The nanites self-destruct when they’re taken out of the planet’s magnetic field, and they’ve so far proven to be incompatible with all non-Pelagian life.”

  Looking more annoyed than entertained, Picard straightened his uniform tunic and recovered his seat. “All right, Will. Continue.”

  Riker nodded. “It was the nanites, of course, that—”

  —had very quickly repaired all the injuries suffered by the pirates during the recent fighting. Pirates who should have died from what would have been mortal injuries had they been suffered anywhere else by anyone else, were practically good as new only a few hours later. It seemed that the only way a Pelagian could die by violence here was to be very deliberately chopped into many, many pieces, or to be dropped straight into an active volcano.

  And this, I realized, was the very reason why Deanna was in more danger than I previously had thought. The Pelagians’ “Small Spirits” not only kept them alive despite their violent encounters, but also encouraged a certain casual attitude toward violence itself.

  In other words, Deanna’s interrogation was liable to be lethal in and of itself. Torr’ghaff could easily kill her without even meaning to.

  And I was alone and unarmed, locked in the dank bilge of Torr’ghaff’s ship, with who knew how many armed guards standing between me and Deanna.

  My glum thoughts were interrupted by a visit from Torr’ghaff himself, who threw the door open with a crash. I didn’t need Deanna’s empathy to tell me he was very frustrated.

  “My men tell me you are concerned about the false pirate queen’s fate, heh? Why, eha?”

  I decided to take another gamble. “You claim to know my work, Captain, neh? You ought to know that I am unenthused by brutality.”

  The pirate chieftain looked disappointed. “You are not at all as I imagined you, neh.”

  “How is the woman?” I asked, assuming that if she had been badly injured or killed, I would have sensed it through the bond we shared.

  “Her answers to my questions are frustrating, heh. And she tends to giggle. My wine affects her far too easily, neh?”

  I shook my head in amazement, wondering when the Pelagian booze that had got her into this jam was finally going to wear off.

  “Why are you so interested in this offworld woman, Urr’hilf? Is it merely the renowned love you harbor for the females in your audience? Or is it something more, eh?”

  Now did not seem like a good time to show him the front of any of my cards. “She means nothing to me, heh. Other than that she reminds me of my first.”

  “Then I will have my men carve her to tiny pieces. She will feed the fishes, Small Spirits or no.” He turned to leave.

  This was going very badly. “Wait!”

  He stopped in the open doorway and looked back at me with an impatient scowl. “Yes?”

  I took yet another gamble then, the only one I could think of at the moment. “Your men require diversion, neh?”

  He nodded. “We have been at sea for over a fourmonth.”

  “Then I can help. Make landfall at your nearest friendly port. Once there, I will entertain your men with a concert. And you can still get your ransom by proving to all the world that you have me, neh?”

  I could see the wheels turning in Torr’ghaff’s battle-scarred head. He must have already been planning to charge admission, and trying to figure out how many Pelagian ducats the traffic would bear.

  Then a satisfied grin split his bewhiskered face. “Very well. I will not harm the woman, heh. In three days, we will reach our stronghold on Terriveyt Island. You will perform there for a large crowd, heh.” It was clear to me that he meant a large paying crowd. “I will even supply all the instruments and costumes you will need to mount your show.”

  Three days, I thought. That would almost surely give Commander Keru ample time to get Deanna and me out of here. Though exactly how he would do it under the watchful eye of the Pelagian authorities, and without transporters, I had no clear idea.

  “All right,” I said.

  Still grinning, Torr’ghaff turned to leave. But I wasn’t finished with him.

  “But I have one additional condition, eh?”

  He sighed, then faced me again. “Oh, yes. You want all the sweets served backstage to be of a particular color, neh?”

  I shook my head. “I think it might be best not to be fussy about that, under the circumstances.”

  “Wise,” he said, nodding.

  “But I want the woman to be on the stage with me. Unharmed, neh.”

  He nodded, a light of
understanding flickering in his eyes. His grin became a leer. “Ah. You wish to serenade her before the audience. And later…”

  I wanted to grab his tongue and pull it out by the roots. Instead, I did my best to copy his leer. “Exactly.”

  “Agreed! Please my men with your music, Urr’hilf, and I guarantee you a night of pleasure afterward, heh. And should your people refuse to pay the ransom, I promise to spare you all possible pain when I have you diced and thrown overboard—along with the false pirate queen.”

  He exited, and the door slammed shut with the finality of a tomb.

  Now all I had to do was fake my way through a long live set of music I had mostly never heard before, authored by a musician I knew nothing about, using an instrument I really didn’t even know how to play. No problem.

  Thank whatever gods watch over drunks, little children, and former first officers from ships named Enterprise for the Pelagian tympanic squids.

  Thanks to the popularity of Fegrr’ep Urr’hilf among Torr’ghaff’s crew—and the lousy soundproofing aboard his ship—I got to hear a great deal of Urr’hilf’s organically recorded repertoire. By the time the ship made landfall three days later, I was beginning to think I might actually have half a chance of pulling this off.

  “You okay?” I whispered to Deanna as five cutlass-and-pistol-wielding Pelagian pirates walked us side by side down a gangplank and onto the dilapidated docks that lined an island marina. Once again, the orange sun stood high in the sky. That sun had set three times and risen twice since I had last seen her.

  “I’ve been through worse,” she looked drawn and pale, the once neat, close-cropped rows of her new Pelagian hairstyle now looking disheveled. But she no longer seemed loopy. The indigenous alcohol must have finally worn off.

  “Torture?” I asked quietly, fearing the worst.

  “I suppose that’s debatable. Torr’ghaff has been withholding chocolate. On Betazed, that’s considered a basic violation of humanoid rights and the laws of warfare.”