by I K Dirac
He rapidly downed both glasses then looked around and waved his arm in the direction of the instruments.
“As I said, make yourself useful. Give all this tackle a dusting. Make sure everything is shipshape. Secky, I mean the Captain, will be here soon.”
Jim gave a puzzled look.
“’Secky’? Why do you call him that?”
The Doctor raised his glasses and looked stern.
“We go back a long way. Don’t let me catch you calling him that. He insists on being called Captain, nothing else.”
Jim was intrigued.
“How long have you known him?”
The Doctor gave an exasperated shake of the head.
“I don’t know. Time’s a tricky thing on a spaceship, what with all this skipping about in dimensions. I know we’re all supposed to be connected chronologically, but I’m not sure I understand all that stuff. Worse in the old days, of course, when the Theory of Relativity was all the rage.”
“The Theory of Relativity?”
The Doctor smiled and poured himself another tot, perhaps to refresh his memory.
“Before your time, I suppose. Have you never heard this little ode?
There was a young lady named Bright
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day
In a relative way
And returned on the previous night.”
Jim thought he hadn’t and found it puzzling.
“Returned on the previous night. Is that possible?”
“Who knows? Perhaps it was, then. They never knew when they were, so to speak.”
Jim thought that did not make sense, but then it occurred to him that things not making sense might be his lot in life. He was pondering the thought when the door swished open and de la Beche swept in, dressed in a studded leather jacket over a full-length green moiré silk gown, and a gold-encrusted belt.
“Sawbones, darling, I see you have been sampling the sauce already. Do pour me one while I contemplate the boredom and fatuity of our existence.”
The Doctor poured a large tot and handed it to him.
“Another little bout of melancholia, Secky, I mean, Captain? I suppose I will have to give you something for it.”
De la Beche waved dismissively.
“I don’t want one of your nostrums, Sawbones. I’m just bored. We haven’t had anything exciting to do for ages. Just little itty-bitty jobs that pay nothing at all. This last job was the absolute end. That dreadful little captain practically evacuated his bowels when he found we were in his vicinity. Couldn’t get away fast enough, and left poor Jim here behind in his haste. And what was it for? Some so-called ‘art works’, which turned out to be appalling little daubs. Frankly, I would have thrown them out into the void but we have to return them if we are to be paid the pittance promised. We won’t last long at this rate. I’m beginning to despair.”
The Doctor murmured sympathetically.
“It’s probably just a lull. Things are bound to pick up soon.”
“I wish I could agree, but I fear the glory days are behind us. The way things are going we won’t be able to afford a crew at all. They all see themselves as swashbucklers. They're almost as bored as I am.”
Jim, who had been listening intently, could not stop himself from interrupting.
“Pardon me Captain, but you mentioned swashbucklers. What exactly do swashbucklers do?”
The Captain and the Doctor both looked astonished.
“Do? They swash and they buckle; the clue is in the name. They put it about a bit, show ’em who’s who and what’s what. That’s what they do.”
Jim wasn’t satisfied with the answer.
“But I thought, Captain, that weapons were operated by a ship’s systems. Why does it need swashbucklers?”
De la Beche shook his head.
“I suppose you are too young and innocent to know about these things. Of course we have systems. Every ship has systems. There’s any number of ray guns and anti-matter torpedoes paraded by the so-called armed forces of the Galaxy. Everyone knows about them. Some claim to be able to swat them away like flies. But the thing that nobody expects, that puts the fear of oblivion into all and sundry, that induces squeals of surrender, is cold steel.”
Jim wasn’t sure he understood.
“Cold steel?”
“Yes, darling, cold steel – the sword and the knife, the dagger and the pike. Skulls cracked and limbs lopped off. Nothing like it to bring even the most obdurate to heel. Everyone is so besotted these days with their systems that they haven’t the faintest idea what to do when a sword is put to their throat. They just beg for mercy or die of fright. In our glory days, we were the most feared band of brigands and cutthroats in the Galaxy. It’s what made our name. Our reputation went before us. Everyone simply surrendered, rather than face a dose of steel. They still do, which is just as well, because we have had so little practice at swashbuckling that frankly, just between you and me, I'm afraid we're rather past our best.”
Jim stared at de la Beche, unable to think of anything to say. De la Beche leant back in his chair and held out his empty glass. The Doctor poured him another tot.
“Well, Sawbones, I do think your elixir is beginning to do its job. For reasons that entirely escape me, I’m feeling a little more cheerful. As always, when I feel a little doleful, I remind myself that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, like messing about in spaceships.”
He closed his eyes and started to wave his right hand rhythmically. Jim realized he was waving it in time to the music that seemed to permeate the ship. When he opened his eyes again, Jim asked the question that had been nagging him from the time he arrived.
“Excuse me, Captain, but what is that music?”
De la Beche gave an exasperated sigh.
“Ignorance, thy name is Jim. That is an aria from the opera Rinaldo, by the greatest composer of operas who ever lived, George Frideric Handel. Surely you must have heard of him? Are you entirely unaware of his works – Serse, Giulio Cesare, Semele, Tameriano, Rodelinda and many, many others? What do they teach you at these so-called academies?”
Again, Jim could not think of anything to say. De la Beche closed his eyes once more, his hand waving ever more animatedly as Rinaldo and Almirena sing of their love, only for Almirena to be abducted by Armida, the Queen of Damascus. He opened them again at the end of the Act.
“You will be fascinated to know, Jim, I’m sure, that I have a project to restore Handel’s lost opera, Oedipus Rex.”
Jim looked back, unsure of quite how fascinated he ought to be.
“You must know the story. He is born the son of a king, but is left out to die on a mountain as a baby because of a prophecy that he will kill his father. He is rescued by a kindly shepherd and grows up far away, not knowing who he is. He comes back to the land of his birth, kills the king, his father, and marries the queen, his mother. When all is finally revealed, she kills herself and he puts his own eyes out. Perfect for an opera. It couldn’t be more romantic.”
Jim was even less sure of how fascinated he should be, but de la Beche continued, unabashed.
“The big problem, of course, is that none of the original music or libretto seems to have survived. Some carpers have even suggested that Handel never got round to writing it. No matter. I shall just borrow from his other operas. It’s what he did often, after all. An overture here, an aria there, pretty soon he had a whole new opera. I’ve discovered one or two delightful little tunes from his lesser-known works and I have found the most poignant saraband, just the thing for when Oedipus puts his eyes out. The whole house will be in floods of tears.”
The Doctor filled the glasses again and regarded him quizzically.
“You’ve been talking about this ever since I’ve known you, old boy. How far have you actually got?”
“I’ve just told you – songs and a saraband. It’s a start. These things take time. The way things are going, I may well have
enough time on my hands to finish it.”
5
The face on the main screen was that of a middle-aged man, his hair greying from the temples, who sported a short, clipped moustache. His suit was dark blue with some discreet gold piping. He looked to Jim as if he were someone of considerable importance and he certainly spoke as if he shared that opinion.
“I must emphasize to you, Captain de la Beche, that this is a matter of the utmost importance to the future of the Southern Cross Confederation, indeed to the Galaxy itself. I am not at liberty to discuss it with you over any form of communication link. All discussion must be face to face. I have arranged a rendezvous orbit around the star alpha-bideti. The coordinates are being sent to your controller now. It has no planets circling it. Security will be at the highest possible level. Our discussions there cannot in any way be compromised. Meanwhile, I order you not to discuss this conversation with anybody.”
De la Beche leant forward towards the screen, nodding confidentially.
“Absolutely, darling. Mum’s the word. You can count on me. Discretion is my second name. From alpha-aurigae to zeta-zemidani, Mum is always the word.”
The screen went blank. The Captain leant back.
You heard the gentleman, Number One. Give her main, topgallant and moonraker. Alpha-bideti with all haste.”
***
HMS Bountiful re-emerged back into three-dimensional space to find itself orbiting about an astronomical unit from a medium-sized class M star. Its sensors picked up the presence of a much larger craft only a fraction of a degree behind in the same orbit and, at greater distances from the star, several other ships that clearly had them under very tight surveillance. A mustachioed face appeared on the major screen. De la Beche gave an expansive wave.
“Commander Splenditheran. Delightful to see you again.”
“Captain de la Beche, a transport is being sent for you. We expect you here within the hour. You are to bring a maximum of three people, including yourself, and you will not be allowed to bring recording materials of any sort. Paper and writing materials will be provided, if you require them.”
The Captain looked somewhat taken aback.
“Not the most expansive of welcomes, darling. Three people does leave us a little short handed if the negotiations get sticky – and you know how nit-picking lawyers can be, especially the ones you tend to employ. Goodness knows what some of the Letters of Marque we have negotiated have cost you.”
“This is of the utmost importance, Captain. You need not worry about costs. We will pay the legal fees of both sides.”
De la Beche’s eyebrows arched spectacularly. He muted the screen and turned towards his crew.
“The client pays both sets of lawyers. Now I’ve heard everything. I shall go, of course, and Mister Betelgeuse, you shall come with me. But who else to take? And then there’s the problem of no recording. Judging by Splenditheran’s tone, this is likely to be a pretty complicated deal. How on earth are we supposed to keep track of things? He offers us paper. Paper! I haven’t seen paper for years and I’ve completely forgotten how to write. Writing is such a bore. All that fiddly scribbling. Never could manage it. Mister Betelgeuse, I shall need your razor-sharp mind for the negotiations. Who knows what strokes these people will try to pull. Can’t have you distracted by writing.” He looked around the Bridge. “Well, is there anyone here who can write?”
No response came. Finally, Jim spoke.
“I did a writing course at my academy, Captain. I think I could take notes.”
De la Beche beamed.
“Ah, Jim! I simply knew you would come in useful sometime. That’s one in the eye for you, McTavish!”
6
Splenditheran’s flagship was enormous. The little buggy sped through vast corridors lined with stone columns, “Corinthian; just look at those acanthus leaves!” The theme seemed to be ancient and modern – planets, stars, galaxies and spaceships intertwined with cherubs, seraphim, satyrs and other figures of classical mythology.
“A celestial orgy! Satyrs among the stars. We simply must have something similar for the Bountiful. If I’d known, I would have worn one of my classical outfits, probably the Artemis, a pure silk chiton, decorated with the most magnificent hunting scene and held together just here with the most divine brooch.” De la Beche tugged, somewhat scornfully, at his outfit, a full-length robe in iridescent olive green, set off with silver piping. “So much more suitable than these drab old things.”
The buggy drew up in front of imposing double doors, carved with battle scenes between Lapiths and Centaurs. The doors opened as they stepped down and they found themselves walking into a large room, whose walls were panelled with a dark, grained material. De la Beche ran his fingers over a panel in astonishment. “Genuine wood.”
The panels were topped by an intricately-carved frieze, another classical battle theme, this time an Amazonomachy, with bare-breasted Amazons handing out their customary pasting to the Athenians.
A table with chairs on either side ran the length of the room. On one side, in the centre, sat Splenditheran, surrounded on both sides by four others. He motioned de la Beche, Betelgeuse and Jim to sit opposite.
Splenditheran lost no time in coming to the point.
“Gentlemen, I shall lose no time in coming to the point. I have here a draft Letter of Marque. It is short, specific and I think contains no clauses with which you should have difficulty. All copies, and as I mentioned before, all record of this meeting, will be on paper and for the eyes of those in this room only. The copies you see here are the only ones in existence.”
He pushed a sheaf of papers across the table. De la Beche, Betelgeuse and Jim picked up copies and started to read:
1. The Parties
This Letter of Marque, (the contract) is between the Governing Council of the Galactic Federation of the Southern Cross (the contractor) and HMS Bountiful Limited (the supplier).
2. The Objects
2.1 The supplier shall restore the rightful property (the purloined) of an authorized affiliate of the contractor (the owner) that has been removed from the possession of the owner without permission.
2.2 The supplier shall endeavour to ascertain by any means possible the mechanisms by which the purloined was removed from the possession of the owner and shall provide the contractor with all such information acquired.
3. Consideration
3.1 In consideration of 2.1 and 2.2 above the contractor undertakes to pay the supplier —— Galactic Units of Account on successful completion.
3.2 In addition the contractor accedes to the supplier removing, acquiring, selling or otherwise making use of any possession whatsoever of those identified as responsible for the removal of the purloined (the transgressor).
4. Affirmations and Indemnities
4.1 The contractor asserts and affirms that the owner has good and proper title to the purloined.
4.2 The contractor undertakes that it will fully indemnify the supplier against all claims arising from disputes to such title arising in any jurisdiction whatsoever.
4.3 The contractor further undertakes fully to indemnify the supplier against all claims arising from actions taken pursuant to 3.2 of this agreement and will issue a writ of spolia belli recognizable in all jurisdictions of the Galaxy to that effect.
5. Costs
5.1 The contractor undertakes to meet all legal costs of the supplier incurred in the completion of this agreement
6. Termination
6.1 This contract may be terminated without notice by either side if the other fails to abide by its terms or to achieve its stated objective.
7. Governing Law
7.1 The law governing this agreement shall be that of the Galactic Federation of the Southern Cross.
De la Beche finished his scrutiny and then looked up.
“Well, Commander, if I read this aright, you want us to recover a bauble of yours that some miscreant has walked off with, and in return we are to be paid
some unspecified sum. In addition we can help ourselves to anything the said miscreant happens to have in his possession and you won’t lift a finger. Do I understand correctly?”
Splenditheran nodded gravely.
“Quite correctly, Captain”
“So the first question is what is this bauble? It must be valuable, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”
Splenditheran nodded again, even more gravely.
“Correct again, Captain – beyond price, in fact. There is one small difficulty, in that it is not clear what exactly it is. It may be a cup or goblet, or perhaps a plate, made of gold or other precious materials. It may also contain some relics or tokens and it may have spiritual powers that we are at this moment unable to specify.”
De la Beche looked at Splenditheran as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. Jim hid his bewilderment by scribbling furiously on a notepad, while even Mister Betelgeuse’s normally impassive face showed faint traces of what might have been puzzlement.
“Commander Splenditheran, I assume that we are supposed to laugh at this point. You would hardly have dragged us all the way here for a cup, or maybe a plate, but for the life of me I cannot see the joke.”
Splenditheran shook his head.
“I assure you, Captain, this is no joke. The object is known as the Holy Kwokkah. It was the treasured possession of the prophet Goannah, used in a special ceremony just before he died. Goannah, as you may be aware, is the major prophet of the god Koalah, worshipped by the inhabitants of the planet Nullarbor. The Kwokkah is their most sacred object, their Ark of the Covenant, holy of holies, call it what you will. It disappeared at the time of Goannah's death and has not been seen since. It is mentioned in all their observances and its recovery is a central object of their religion. The Nullarboreans, as is well known, are among the most religious people in the Galaxy. It is impossible to overstate the effect that the news it may have been found is having on their society. They are in a state of complete psychological, not to say theological, hysteria. Anything might happen.”