Tales from the Captain's Table

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  The Legend of Porthos

  LOUISA M. SWANN

  “I’m pleased you decided to take me up on my offer.”

  Captain Jonathan Archer gazed at the Andorian city spread below and nodded. “I appreciate the invitation, Shran, as well as the tour of your city. Porthos appreciates it too.”

  “Without your help, Captain, there would be no peace agreement between Vulcans and Andorians.”

  “I’m glad I was able to help.” Archer glanced over the beagle’s head at Shran with a feeling of satisfaction. Nice to be in a position to help two cultures work out their differences. “So where is this place you’re taking me?”

  Hopefully, a nice restaurant. Archer had an aversion to most bars, especially the dark, smoky kind a lot of folks seemed to enjoy. He preferred a light ambience—not to mention a place that appreciated beagles.

  “It should be around here somewhere.” Shran’s antennae twitched as he moved forward one step at a time.

  What? Archer wondered. Is he just expecting a doorway to suddenly appear?

  “Ah, here we are.” Triumph flooded Shran’s voice.

  Street lights illuminated a door deep within a hooded archway a few feet away. The age-darkened wood sported an intricate metal plaque embedded in the worn grain. Archer studied the door in surprise; he could’ve sworn there was a wall there a moment ago.

  Shran grasped a heavy metal handle and pulled the door open.

  “Welcome to the Captain’s Table,” the Andorian said. He waved Archer forward with a tilt of his head.

  Archer smiled and scratched Porthos’s ears as he stepped inside.

  Anticipation can often be misleading, Archer thought. He moved farther into the room, pleased to find the interior neither dark nor smoky. In fact, there wasn’t even a hint of sour beer in the air, only a pleasant, sawdusty scent. “Somebody takes good care of this place.”

  “As it should be, Captain Archer. As it should be,” a deep voice said.

  The man polishing glasses behind the bar stood tall, with a breadth that matched the voice. He wore his silver hair short in a style that reminded Archer of his days back in boot camp.

  “Have we met?” Archer slid onto a leather-covered barstool.

  “Cap knows everyone,” Shran said. His antennae dipped toward each other as he took Archer’s arm. “Set us up with a round of drinks, would you, Cap?”

  The bartender’s eyes twinkled, but Archer suspected the man’s gaze could turn water into ice if the occasion warranted. “It’ll be just a moment.”

  “I’ll take a—” Archer started.

  “Scotch, neat,” Cap finished.

  Archer nodded and flashed a puzzled smile. “How did you know?”

  “It’s my business to know.” Cap pulled a thin blue bottle from the shelves lined up beneath a spotless wall-length mirror. “Would you like to try the Andorian brand? Highly recommended by many customers, especially Shran.”

  Shran gave a quick nod.

  “I’ll give it a try then,” Archer said. An antique propeller mounted above the mirror caught his eye. It reminded him of a remote-control model his father had given him a long time ago. “Is that a de Havilland?”

  Cap nodded. “A genuine de Havilland Moth, circa 1925. The particular plane this little gem comes from flew solo from Britain to Australia.”

  The bartender turned away before Archer could ask any more questions. Shran led the way through assorted aliens, tables, and chairs until they came to a table with a couple of empty spaces.

  “Here, have a seat,” Shran said. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Captain Jonathan Archer, diplomat extraordinaire.”

  Archer tore his attention away from the antique model aircraft displayed throughout the room and nodded to the group. Easy to get used to this place, he thought as he relaxed into the brown leather chair, settling Porthos comfortably on his lap.

  “What is that doing in here?” hissed a feline alien. Her scarlet mane fluffed wide around her pink-furred cheeks, and for a moment Archer thought she might just decide to take Porthos on.

  “Calm your fur and relax, Prrgghh.” Cap’s deep voice carried a no-nonsense tone. “Porthos is as welcome as anyone else in this establishment.”

  A youth in long, flowing robes drifted up to the table with a tray so full Archer wondered how he managed not to spill anything. The youth gracefully served everyone without dampening the long sleeves of his robe, then slipped back to the bar.

  “I assume we pay when we leave?” Archer asked.

  “Not exactly.” Shran’s antennae wriggled. “The only payment for libation in this establishment is to tell a story.”

  A noxious breeze swept through the room as the outer door opened and an enormous alien oozed inside. Without a glance in either direction, the newcomer proceeded to the bar and coated three seats.

  “Caxtonian,” Shran said. Archer nodded and sniffed his Andorian Scotch to clear the oily smell from his sinuses. The Scotch did the job. He sipped the light amber liquid. It slipped smoothly down his throat, leaving behind a pleasant burn.

  Shran watched him expectantly.

  “Good choice.” Archer nodded his approval. The Andorian smiled and began introductions. The Klingon female covered her surprise well when Archer gave her a traditional Klingon greeting. He smiled politely at the slender green-skinned alien and gave the feline Prrghh a cool nod.

  A palm-sized gold and green spotted lizard poked its head through the white beard of the rotund man sitting opposite Archer. The lizard leapt down onto the table and raced across to touch noses with Porthos.

  The man pulled a curved pipe from between his teeth and grinned. “Better watch out or Lizzy here will eat that little friend of yours.”

  “I’d be glad to lend Lizzy a hand,” the feline muttered.

  A big-eared alien wandered over and stood behind the white-bearded man. Archer groaned and refrained from hiding Porthos under his chair. The last time he’d crossed paths with a gang of Big Ears, they’d tried to kidnap the poor beagle. But the group at the table didn’t know that, and neither, apparently, did the alien.

  “What is that creature?” Big Ears asked.

  Archer grinned. “I’d be careful if I were you. You don’t want to get Porthos angry.”

  “Why not?” Big Ears asked. He looked the beagle over. “The creature doesn’t look very dangerous to me.”

  “He’s a first-generation clone of the original Porthos,” Archer said. If I’m supposed to tell a story, may as well do it now. “The canine hero who provided the inspiration for the BIA—the Beagle Intelligence Agency—and a decorated member of the Canis Beagalis clan. Human and beagle have fought side by side against many enemies. In fact, the Beagle Brigade played a major roll in winning the Pac Man Offensive during Earth’s Third World War.”

  Shran sipped his drink, covering a small smile. Archer ruffled Porthos’s ears and continued. “Don’t let his small stature and mild looks fool you. His nose is registered with the Intergalactic Sniffers’ Association. His paws are licensed lethal weapons.”

  Big Ears smiled wide, exposing sharp, crooked teeth. “Just how did this operative come to be part of your…crew?”

  The table exploded with laughter. Archer looked at the sneering faces and decided that by hook or by crook, he was going to prove to this crowd that his pal Porthos was the best of the best. If they wanted a story, he’d give them a tale to beat all tales….

  “As a boy I watched all the Beagle Brigade vids I could get my hands on, but I’d never had a chance to meet a beagle personally until four years ago. It was five a.m. Sepulveda time when I got the call.”

  Big Ears interrupted again. “Where is this Sepulveda?”

  “It’s a minor planet in the Orion system. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Archer continued before the alien could question him further. “One of Earth’s most prized researchers, Mary Ellen Findalot, had been abducted and taken deep into the Sepulvedan rain forest by a band of renegade
aliens. Admiral Tucker needed two good operatives to find and rescue the researcher. When the admiral’s personal shuttlecraft arrived to pick me up I found out he didn’t necessarily mean two humans. I’d be working with one of the best sniffers in the system: Porthos the Great, aka Double-O One.

  “I was so excited about meeting my boyhood hero, I made the admiral wait while I polished my dress shoes until they reflected my freshly whitened teeth….”

  The shuttle dropped us off in front of a run-down hotel in the middle of Sepulveda’s wettest rain forest. The peeling paint and moldy boards of the building were only a façade: Poke & Prod Intergalactic was the birthplace of the most cutting-edge technology in the entire galaxy. It also happened to be the facility where Doctor Findalot conducted her research.

  Long-tailed birds flashed blue overhead, swooping between broad-leafed trees like kids on a playground. Tropical flora draped the dark green foliage with splashes of orange, red, and yellow. A rich perfume saturated the air—tropical jasmine, maybe, with a hint of guano.

  A second shuttle touched down a few feet away. The doors sprang open and a beagle jumped out.

  I knew my new partner the moment I saw him. Who wouldn’t know Porthos the First? Shiny black and brown coat. Neatly trimmed nails. Nice curl to his tail. He was smaller than I expected, but his eyes and ears were constantly alert, his little beagle body poised to leap into action at any moment.

  I was looking Porthos directly in his big brown hero eyes, intending to say something earth-shattering like “Wow,” when Admiral Tucker cleared his throat.

  “Porthos—this here’s Captain Jonathan Archer.”

  The beagle looked me over from head to toe—and sneezed.

  I glanced down at my shoes and smiled, but my shoes didn’t smile back. Time for another spit polish.

  The humid jungle temperature rose two notches, ignoring the fact that my shirt was already dripping wet. I waved away a curious fly and frowned at the sun peeking between the trees.

  “Doctor Findalot’s assistant is supposed to be meeting us here,” Admiral Tucker said. “Something about important equipment.”

  A funeral dirge echoed inside the hotel.

  “Ah, here she comes.”

  A shimmery haze warped the air in front of us as a soft female voice oozed from the speakers. “Welcome to the R&D Lab Network, where we love to take your samples.”

  “Did anyone say anything to you about samples?” I asked Porthos. He shook his ears.

  The hazy air coalesced into a ravishing, dark-haired angel.

  “Hey, Doc.” Admiral Tucker shook the angel’s hand and turned to me. “This here’s Captain Jonathan Archer, Porthos’s new partner.”

  A whiff of musky perfume sent my head spinning. I forgot about Porthos. Forgot about the admiral. Forgot about everything but the woman in front of me. She looked me over from head to toe—and sneezed.

  This time I didn’t bother looking at my shoes.

  “I’m Cari Fetchalot,” the angel said. She stepped forward until we were nose-to-nose. Her deep brown eyes—like twin cesspools—drew me into a deep forbidden tunnel.

  Too bad my shoes had lost their polish.

  “I thought you might be needing this.” The air whistled as a very broad, very sharp-looking machete flashed by my ear.

  I backed around Porthos. He backed around me. Admiral Tucker backed around both of us.

  “If you have no idea why you are here, please remain standing. A doctor will be with you shortly to see if you have anything we want.”

  Doctor Fetchalot flicked her wrist, flipping the machete into the air. Somehow she managed to catch the thing without slicing through her hand, and presented me with the butt end.

  “I have something for you too.” She handed Porthos an orange package. A beefy fragrance filled the air, sending my stomach into hunger spasms.

  “You didn’t.” Admiral Tucker glanced at the doctor in disbelief, then wrestled what was left of the package from Porthos’s sharp beagle teeth.

  “You boys have a nice trip.” The smile on Doctor Fetchalot’s face lit the entire jungle. Then the air shimmered and she was gone.

  Admiral Tucker groaned. I peered over his shoulder at the writing on the wrapper.

  BEAGLE BURGERS—YOU NEED ’EM,WE FEED ’EM. A double beagle burger with cheese.

  “Nothing we can do about it now.” The admiral crumpled the wrapper into a tiny ball. “Guess you guys’d better get going. Don’t want you wasting any time.”

  He shook out what looked like a handkerchief and handed it to Porthos.

  “I know you’d rather be working alone,” the admiral said. “But the captain here’s a good man. You watch each other’s backs and come back in one piece with our missing doctor, you hear?”

  Porthos sniffed the red and white cloth as the admiral continued. “We’re expecting you for dinner tonight. Promptly at seven. The wife said she’d skin me alive if you were late, and I kinda like my skin, if you know what I mean?”

  The admiral looked me straight in the eye. “You can come along too, Captain. Don’t want anyone feeling left out.”

  He started to head inside, then paused for a final word. “Porthos is good at what he does, even though he may not be entirely cooperative. You’ll get along—” He grinned at the beagle. “—eventually.”

  The door hissed shut, the admiral was gone, and I was left holding the machete.

  “I suppose we should get going.” I secured my phase pistol, hefted the machete, and headed toward a path on my right.

  Porthos went left—through a heavy wall of elephant-ear leaves.

  Who was I to question a beagle’s choice of direction?

  Trying not to think about spiders, ticks, ants, and assorted alien creepy crawlies I’d come to know and not be fond of, I wielded the machete with masterful ease and followed Porthos into a world of watery green light filled with squawks, screeches, and howls along with hordes of man-eating mosquitoes.

  I slashed right and left, struggling to see through the dark cloud buzzing around my head. Good thing we had a licensed beagle nose leading the way.

  All I had to do was find the beagle.

  Porthos bayed, his voice low and rich with discovery. He was on the trail of something big—hopefully, Doctor Findalot.

  The jungle thrust barrier after barrier into my way—tangled bushes, matted leaves, gnarly vines—taking delight in thwarting my every movement. When the machete came dangerously close to thwacking my leg instead of the local vegetation, I paused for a moment beside a massive tree root.

  The baying shifted to an impatient bark.

  So much for short breaks. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  But I wasn’t going anywhere. My right foot moved; my left foot stayed put, trapped in a sticky vine. A tendril snatched the machete from my hand while the main vine wrapped me up for dinner.

  Double-O One had made it clear he preferred working alone, but I didn’t think he’d leave me to be eaten by an alien forest.

  “I could use a little help here.”

  Porthos—brown lace-up boot in his mouth—burst through a wall of matted leaves.

  “Don’t just stand there breathing,” I said over the leaf supporting my chin. “Do something.”

  Porthos made one lazy circle around the tree, then stopped somewhere in the vicinity of my feet.

  The vine relaxed its grip just as something hot and wet trickled down my leg.

  Shran started coughing. Well, they wanted a story, Archer thought. He held back a smile as he watched the feline Prrgghh pound the Andorian’s back.

  Shran cleared his throat—a loud harsh sound—and finally caught his breath.

  “What is it?” Big Ears didn’t seem to get it. “What happened?

  Archer glanced at Shran. The Andorian didn’t say a word, but his antennae moved back and forth in an Andorian shrug.

  “It’s a highly confidential beagle secret,” Archer said.

  White Beard leane
d over and whispered in Big Ears’s big ear. The alien sucked on his pointy teeth for a moment, then looked at Porthos. “No.”

  “Yes,” Archer said with a nod….

  The vine dropped off my leg like it’d been hit with a hot poker. It wound back up the tree, until all that was left was a puddle on the ground and a uniquely sour odor in the air.

  “Thanks.” I knelt down, reveling in my newfound freedom, and took the boot in hand. Porthos sniffed the leather a couple of times, then whined expectantly. I took a sniff, too, but all I could smell was wet feet. “Doctor Findalot’s?”

  Porthos gave a soft woof, reflecting his opinion of my scent-impairedness, and soldiered ahead.

  I could tell we were getting into real rain forest by the way my dress shoes sloshed. An old alien once told me that the reason these forests get so much rain is to keep the ground water at a reasonable level—somewhere between the ankles and the knees. This provides ample feeding grounds for all the bugs and slimy critters, especially the fist-size leeches that seemed particularly fond of my flesh.

  Blood donation hadn’t been on my to-do list for the day; between the mosquitoes and the leeches, however, I managed to give more than my pint. I waded rapidly in the direction I thought Porthos had taken, pond scuzz swirling around me in dizzy circles. Suddenly, Double-O One reappeared—to the left and slightly behind. He wrestled a massive leech from the back of my knee and woofed at me to hurry up.

  Ever since we’d left Poke & Prod, noxious odors of varying styles and intensities had pounded my nose: mildewed vegetation, green slime, and rotting brush. Now a new stench joined the group, an oily, oozing, putrefying-fat stench that clung to the inside of my nostrils and didn’t want to let go.

  The stench of death.

  Porthos smelled it too. He growled, his hackles raised like a flag in a brisk wind.

  Were we too late? Had Doctor Findalot gone to that great research facility in the sky?

  The beagle darted forward into the tangled brush. One branch snapped. Then two. Then nothing.

  “Porthos?” I whispered. “Porthos!”

  No sniff. No whine. Not even a nip on the knees.