Theodyssey 1. Privateer
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THEODYSSEY
Book 1
Privateer
I K Dirac
Copyright © I K Dirac 2021
The right of I K Dirac to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be published or
otherwise circulated in any form without the
express permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-84-327926-6
Cover Design Patrick T Coyne
The Racing House Press
20 Cambridge Drive
London SE12 8AJ, UK
www.racinghouse.co.uk
info@racinghouse.co.uk
The Theodyssey Trilogy
Book 1. Privateer
Book 2. Libertania
Book 3. Utrophia
1
Almost dazzled, he slowly raised his eyes upwards from the jewel-encrusted boots, with their delicate filigree of gold trefoils, past the skirt of shimmering silk, nipped tightly at the waist, with a belt of elaborately scrolled and interlocked gold and silver rings, up through the intricately-embroidered dress shirt with its high collar and gold stars embossed on each wing, to the cap, bedecked with gold fretwork, so that it looked like a peaked tiara.
“And what do we have here?”
The voice was languid, every vowel extended, extruded through a die of embossed lips. Yet somehow it was like an acid, leaching into his body. He could not speak.
“A disobliging feline walked off with your tongue, darling? Let’s start from the very beginning, shall we? Do we know where we are?”
He looked round the large circular room with its kaleidoscope of screens and lights, a few figures visible in the semi-darkness, hunched over consoles. Its walls were covered in what seemed to be velvet, in varying shades of pink. Cream drapes, pleated and ruched, covered what he presumed to be entrances. There was a faint, almost inaudible, hum of machinery, above which sounded something that at first he thought was a wail and then realized was a female voice, singing. The scent of jasmine, heavy with musk, wafted over him in waves, overpowering, anaesthetic. He felt himself begin to sway. He feared the worst, but was afraid to say so. The word barely managed to stumble out.
“No.”
“I see we need a little enlightenment. If I told you that you were on the Bridge of HMS Bountiful, would you know who I am?”
It was very definitely the worst. Nothing left but to resign himself to fate.
“Are you Captain de la Beche?”
The eyes, startlingly bright, narrowed to gimlets within their halo of makeup and mascara, a vivid mixture of green, blue and wine-red, flecked with silver dust. The voice became a touch more acid.
“I am Captain Sir Sechaverell Horatio Frobisher de la Beche, master of the said vessel. I don’t suppose the benighted leaders of whatever organization you belong to informed you of my title.”
“No.”
“‘No, Captain,’ I think are the words you were groping for. Let’s be honest, darling, you are in a bit of a pickle. A little respect and formality would not come amiss.”
He swallowed hard. “No, Captain.”
“Better. To be absolutely honest, I’m not entirely sure I’ve told anyone about the title yet. I had to award it myself, of course. Nobody else in this god-forsaken part of the Galaxy has the wit or manners to honour the deserving. As you might have wondered, I did toy with the idea of a more exalted title. A dukedom was of course out of the question – far too ostentatious. A marquisate or an earldom might have done, but I felt they were, how shall I put it, a little vulgar, un peu arriviste. As for a barony – so downmarket. Who gives a fig for a baron these days? So I decided on a baronetcy – much the smartest title, don’t you think? Discreet and understated while having the inestimable cachet of exclusivity. And of course, it can be inherited, so very important don’t you think when everything today is so evanescent? My proper title is Captain Sir Sechaverell de la Beche, bart. That form is to be used on all official correspondence.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“We are learning quickly! Now tell us, we are all agog. How exactly did you come to be all alone on that great big spaceship?”
He felt his eyes begin to water.
“The crew decided to abandon ship when they detected your craft. I got lost on my way to the lifeboat and they didn’t wait for me.”
“How terribly ungallant of them. And why would they want to leave a nice comfortable spaceship for a pokey little lifeboat just because we happen to be in the neighbourhood?”
His eyes widened and he shook his head slightly.
“Because you are a, a ….”
The word froze on his lips.
“Come on, spit it out.”
His face puckered, eyes screwed shut, lower lip trembling.
“A … a pirate, Captain.”
The Captain’s head jerked back, his earrings, large gold circles, jangling violently.
“A pirate? A pirate! Who says I am a pirate?”
“Well, at my academy…”
The jewels in the many rings on de la Beche’s hand flashed as he gestured in utter dismissal.
“Academies! What they teach isn’t worth knowing and what they know isn’t worth teaching! I am not a pirate, I am a privateer – an entirely different thing!”
“But they say you roam the Galaxy, looting and sacking.”
The hand waved once more, this time in exasperation.
“Of course, that’s booty and plunder. I thought everybody knew that. Booty and plunder are the legitimate gains of legitimate business. We don’t roam the Galaxy looting and sacking willy-nilly. We only do so if we have a Letter of Marque from the proper authorities.”
Incomprehension was added to fear. The Captain shook his head.
“I can see from your face that you have no idea what a Letter of Marque is. Letters of Marque are contracts. I need hardly remind you that contracts are sacred. Without contracts, this Galaxy would be anarchy. What would this Galaxy be without contracts, Mister Betelgeuse?”
“Anarchy, Captain.”
The answer came from a tall, gaunt figure, standing a few metres to the left of the Captain, dressed entirely in grey. The face, its colour almost indistinguishable from the clothing, had eyes, nostrils and mouth only minimally defined and was topped by a high-domed pate. The Captain threw an arm back in an expansive gesture.
“Introductions, introductions! Mister Betelgeuse is our First Mate.”
The Captain leaned forward, putting his hand along one side of his mouth and whispering confidentially. “It’s not his actual name, in case you were wondering. It’s where he comes from, his home star. We don’t use his real name – a little family brouhaha, but we don’t mention that.” He put his fingers to his lips. “Mum’s the word on this ship.”
He leant back.
“Very distinguished race, the Betelgeusians. Not flam
boyant, of course, but terribly distinguished. Our Mister Betelgeuse is one of the finest minds in the Galaxy. Isn’t that so, Mister Betelgeuse?”
“So kind of you to say so, Captain.”
“So there you have it, from one of the finest minds in the Galaxy. Our reputation as a privateer is second to none. Our client list is absolutely blue chip – the Arcturan Empire, the Southern Cross Confederation, the Cassiopian Sentient Being’s Democratic Union, and others too numerous to mention.”
In spite of his fear, he found himself intrigued.
“But what do you have to do for them?”
“Do? Do? We do everything. We are a full-service privateer – a one-stop ship. If you are the legitimate authority and you have a little trouble, say some renegades want to defect to your enemy or some freebooter is interfering with interstellar commerce, then you call us in and we rectify matters, restore the status quo ante, repair and make good – that sort of thing.”
“And they pay you for it?”
“Some clients are better payers than others, I must say. Sometimes we have to pay ourselves. Plunder and booty, you see. All hunky-dory and above board; all part of the contract. And talking of contracts, we have a contract to recover some artworks which I believe were in the possession of well-known miscreants aboard your ship.”
The fear, which had receded slightly, returned with a jolt.
“I don’t know what you mean, Captain. It was a scheduled passenger liner. I was going back to my academy.”
“Of course you don’t; innocence oozes from every pore. We’ve had a good search of the ship and they aren’t anywhere to be found, so presumably they’re on the lifeboat. Rather carelessly, someone seems to have left all its flight plans in the ship’s systems, so it shouldn’t take too long to find them.”
The Captain folded his arms then put two fingers on his cheek, stroking the stubble beginning to come through the foundation. As he moved his head, earrings swung gently.
“Now what are we going to do with you? We could just send you back from where you came, minus the ship, of course. Did you know that, in space, your blood boils instantaneously? You would just go pop. Most amusing for the onlookers.”
Blood drained from his face. Tears formed in his eyes
“Oh don’t start blubbering! It would be very quick; you would hardly feel a thing. Or again, what with your being so young and fresh, perhaps we could give you to the Engine Room, although, on second thoughts, that might be just a little too cruel. Then again, it’s just possible that you might be useful. Let’s have a look at you first. Give us a twirl.”
“Pardon, Captain?”
The Captain executed a circular gesture with his arm.
“Twirl, darling, twirl. We need to see all – fetlock, forelock, haunches, teeth, the lot. We don’t take anything on spec on this ship, whatever you might have been told.”
Hesitantly he turned round full circle, arms held away from his body. The Captain nodded as he revolved.
“One head, two arms, two legs. Splendid! Who could ask for anything more? A distinct improvement on some specimens we have come across, eh, Mister Betelgeuse?”
“Indeed, Captain.”
The Captain warmed to his theme.
“You have no idea what turns up sometimes – the dregs of the Galaxy. Frankly, the way some of them comport themselves, I sometimes haven’t the faintest idea which end is which. I’m all for giving the benefit of the doubt to one’s fellow creatures, but there has to be a limit. There are such a thing as standards.”
The Captain glanced at a chronometer that seemed to be an integral part of the sleeve of his shirt.
“Well now, busy, busy. Must get on. A few details. Where are your people from originally?”
“From Earth, Captain,”
“It is a planet of the star Sol, Captain, which is to be found on one of the outer spiral arms of the Galaxy,” interjected Mister Betelgeuse.
“Yes, thank you, Mister Betelgeuse. We all know about Earth. I believe my forebears came from there, a very long time ago. Anywhere in particular on that unfortunate planet?”
“Belgium.”
“Belgium? Name rings a bell. Can anyone tell me what exactly is Belgium for?”
Mister Betelgeuse studied a small screen in front of him.
“Well, Captain, Belgium won its independence from the Kingdom of the Netherlands in the Earth Year of 1831 and...”
The Captain’s fingers rapped on his forehead again.
“Yes, I'm sure that's all very well. Can you tell me what anything from this Belgium is good for?”
Mister Betelgeuse studied the screen again.
“The inhabitants of Belgium are famed for their pluck, Captain.”
“Ah, now that's very interesting. Plucky little Belgians. Is that you?” He gazed down at the slight figure. “You are certainly, ah, dainty, but are you plucky?”
“Plucky, Captain?”
“Yes, plucky, darling. Pluck, pluck, pluck – up and at ’em, fighting spirit. That’s what we look for. Is that you?”
“I like to think so, Captain.”
De la Beche nodded his approval.
“Splendid. You can never have too much pluck, in my experience. Now, what shall we find for you to do?” He gazed around, tapping the side of his head with a bejewelled forefinger, the lacquered nail flashing as it reflected the light. “Ah, I have it – cabin boy! Do we have a cabin boy at the moment, Mister Betelgeuse?”
“No, Captain.”
“Have we ever had a cabin boy, Mister Betelgeuse?”
“No, Captain, although we once had a dwarf.”
The Captain shook his head in irritation.
“Not at all the same thing, Mister Betelgeuse! Dwarves leap on tables, beat people about the head with sausages, bite legs and so forth, and no one dare complain because everyone will think they don’t have a sense of humour. Unless, of course, they really don’t have a sense of humour. There was that unfortunate business with the Dendrillions.”
Mister Betelgeuse nodded slightly.
“Most unfortunate, Captain.”
“No sense of humour at all, the Dendrillions. Who would have thought there could be so many bits to a dwarf?”
The Captain nodded, his mind made up.
“Well that settles it. Cabin boy it is. Now what did you say your name was?”
“Gijzelbrecht van Wacquinghofen, Captain.”
De la Beche shot him a concerned glance.
“You really must take something for that cough. I shall call you Jim. Cabin boys are always called Jim. I believe it’s compulsory.”
The Captain turned towards a large console and screen.
“Let me introduce you to McTavish. He sees and knows everything.”
He waved his hand and the apparition of a bearded figure floated into view. It was dressed entirely in Highland attire, but no legs appeared below the kilt.
“McTavish, this is Jim, our new cabin boy.”
“Jim what?”
The voice was unmistakably Caledonian in its disgruntlement. The Captain turned towards Jim.
“He’s what is known as ‘Scottish’. I believe it is some sort of disease. You could never mistake McTavish for a ray of starshine.”
He turned back towards the screen.
“Jim is the new cabin boy, McTavish.”
The face scowled in exasperation.
“Does it have a surname, Captain?”
The Captain shook his head sharply.
“Certainly not. Jim is quite enough name for a cabin boy. Mustn’t overdo these things you know, McTavish. Now kindly direct him to his quarters.”
McTavish uttered a growling sound.
“What is it, exactly, that cabin boys do, Captain?”
Jim thought he detected a hint of a sneer.
The Captain waved his hand dismissively.
“Don’t be tiresome, McTavish. Boys cabins, shapes up, looks lively, that sort of thing.”
He
turned back towards Jim.
“Report for duty when told. McTavish will give you all your instructions.”
Jim turned to go and then turned back again.
“Captain, one question, if I may. This ship is called HMS Bountiful. What does HMS stand for?”
“What do they teach you these days! It stands for Her Majesty’s Ship, of course.”
Puzzlement flooded over Jim’s face.
“But Captain, who is Her Majesty?”
The Captain drew himself up, seeming to grow several inches in height. Jewels, sequins and gold flashed a rainbow as his body shook, finger raised in admonition. Eyebrows rose almost to the hairline; eyes widened to searchlights. The voice cut the air like a scimitar.
“Who is Her Majesty? Who is Her Majesty? Why, I am Her Majesty!”
2
“Ye couldnae mak it up! A cabin boy! Whoever heard of a cabin boy on a spaceship! It’s nae bad enough tae have a captain bedecked like a hoorie, we ha’ a midget for a cabin boy, too. Ah mean, whit in the name of zero-point energy does a cabin boy do? Ah have zigabytes of data storage, zetabytes of memory, access to every single piece of information in the Galaxy – ah thought there’s nothing ah didnae know – and ah havnae the faintest idea whit a cabin boy does.”
Jim traipsed behind McTavish, trying hard to keep up as the wraith-like avatar swept through a series of doors until finally, at the end of a rather dimly-lit corridor, a door slid open and Jim peered into what looked like a cupboard.
“Here ye are. Mak yerself at haem.”
Jim spoke before he had time to think.
“It’s not very big.”
“Yer no exactly a giant yersel. If ye get any bigger we can always lop a bit aff ye. In ye get and mak sure ye keep it tidy. The Captain and myself canna abide sloppiness.”
With that, McTavish disappeared. Jim squeezed into his “quarters”. As far as he could see, it was completely bare, save for a screen on the wall, which displayed two buttons. He touched one and had to jump smartly back into the corridor as a bunk folded out from the opposite wall. He pressed the other and ducked as an entire sanitary suite descended from the ceiling and inserted itself into the only available space left. Jim closed the door and lay on the bunk. He realized how exhausted he was. Only a combination of fear and bewilderment at his situation had kept him awake. His thoughts turned to his parents, his father preoccupied with all his businesses, his mother forever organizing events to which he was never invited. He thought, too, of the academy to which they had sent him with its endless, monotonous drills and religious rituals and then he closed his eyes and was almost instantly asleep.