Theodyssey 1. Privateer

by I K Dirac

  De la Beche affected sympathy.

  “Naturally we feel sorry for the poor darlings, but what exactly do you expect us to do, Commander? Do you have any idea where it is now?”

  Splenditheran nodded briskly.

  “We know exactly who claim to have it – the Orsonians. We have discovered that they are now engaged in secret negotiations with the Nullarboreans to secede from the Southern Cross Federation and join the Orsonian Empire, by promising to return the Holy Kwokkah to them.”

  De la Beche threw has hands high.

  “The Orsonians! Preposterous brigands – no dress sense whatsoever! I wouldn’t believe a word they say.”

  “Unfortunately, Captain, they seem to have sent proof. Some details were revealed in secret to the High Priest of Nullarbor, who was overcome with a paroxysm of religious ecstasy and expired on the spot. That was taken as a sign that it was indeed in the hands of the Orsonians.”

  De la Beche remained doubtful.

  “Isn’t all this going to a lot of trouble about one silly planet in a tizzy-wizzy. You must have thousands of planets. You’ll hardly miss one. Why not just give the Orsonians a bashing somewhere else and call it quits?”

  Splenditheran looked very sternly across the table.

  “Nullarbor is not, as you put it, ‘one silly planet’. The Nullarboreans, I need hardly remind you, are a very influential element of the Southern Cross Federation. It is an open secret they have been expressing some unhappiness lately about their present status within the Federation. Their secession would have a catastrophic effect on the military, as well as the economic, position of the Federation.”

  “Well then, why not strike while you can? You have the military capability now. Give the Orsonians the mother and father of a biffing. Get their Kwokkah back and the Nullarboreans will love you to bits for ever. What could be simpler?”

  The Commander responded acidly.

  “Because, Captain, you seem to be unaware of one very pertinent fact. The Orsonians believe in the god Zoabh, who is something of a rival to Koalah. They follow different prophets, who seem to have had diametrically-opposed views on almost all matters. Please don’t ask me the details. It’s all rather complicated. Naturally, each believes the other to be the worst of heretics and the deepest-dyed of apostates. Their differences are compounded by the Orsonian claim that the story of the Kwokkah is a fake, fabricated after the death of Goannah by a mad monk called Galab and that it has no religious significance.”

  He looked across the table as if expecting a reply. None came.

  “There is, however, one thing likely to unite them: the prospect of infidels – and that, for the avoidance of doubt, means anyone or anything not believing in Koalah or Zoabh – becoming entangled in their religious disputes. We of the Southern Cross Federation have an entirely different concept of deity. In those circumstances, the Nullarboreans may come to the conclusion that they might stand a better chance of getting the Kwokkah back by defecting to the Orsonians.”

  De la Beche grimaced, then pursed his lips.

  “Ah yes, I see your point – more than a touch of the Devil and the deep blue sea. So rather than going in with all guns blazing you want us to somehow sneak the Kwokkah back on the quiet?”

  Splenditheran’s features softened to something approaching a smile.

  “We approached you because you have a reputation for the, ah, unusual and because you have some acquaintance with the Orsonians, do you not?”

  De la Beche gave a loud snort.

  “Don’t talk to me about the Orsonians, darling! Dreadful bores – and extremely bad payers, to boot. I did two jobs for them but never again! I had to wait ages to get paid for the last one. Of course they blamed the accountants, but I happen to have it on very good authority that their accountants are under strict instructions to ignore anything that remotely resembles an invoice. You have practically to batter the door down to get your money. And no sense of style whatever! Have you ever been to one of their so-called ‘balls’? I wouldn’t be seen dead at one, darling. How their females ever manage to pair off with those strutting buffoons is beyond me – not that it’s any concern of mine.”

  Splenditheran continued, apparently indifferent to any social or other shortcomings of the Orsonians.

  “Nevertheless, Captain, you at least have some chance of entering Orsonian territory without provoking immediate retaliation, which we, at the moment, cannot. If you sign this contract we will endeavour to provide you with any help you consider necessary to accomplish your mission.”

  De la Beche sniffed.

  “Do you have any idea of how we might go about things? I must say it’s going to be tricky trying to sneak anything from under the noses of the Orsonians. They’re a jolly suspicious bunch.”

  “I’m afraid, Captain, that I can agree to nothing before you sign the contract, and, of course, our standard non-disclosure agreement.”

  De la Beche raised his hands in protest.

  “Commander, how can I possibly price the job if I don’t know what we have to do? Kwokkah recovery is not on our standard scale of charges, you must realize.”

  Splenditheran nodded.

  “I appreciate that, Captain, which is why we are prepared to offer a very large fee, which I must stress is non-negotiable. That fee is ten million Galactic Units of Account.”

  De la Beche struggled hard to restrain his eyebrows.

  “Ten million, eh? That is at the, er, top end of what we normally charge.”

  Splenditheran affected a withering look.

  “Captain, please do not insult our intelligence. It is at least two orders of magnitude larger than anything you have ever received for any job.”

  “Well, I did say it was at the top end, darling.”

  “Captain, for what we are willing to pay, you could buy yourself a brand new ship and still have plenty over. Your present vessel is, shall we say, in need of some refurbishment. Or, if you would like to take the opportunity to retire, you could probably buy yourself an entire planet in one of the less expensive parts of the Galaxy and settle down to a life of luxury.”

  “Oh, I don’t think retirement is on the cards quite yet. Plenty of life in the old dog yet. On the other hand, ten million probably would be acceptable, providing we can agree on expenses.”

  This time it was Splenditheran’s turn to try to control his surprise.

  “Expenses?”

  “Of course. Our standard rate is five thousand a day plus expenses. We have to keep body and soul together – mouths to feed, salaries to pay, supplies to take on board, the odd bribe – you know how things are. Overheads, overheads! Sometimes I think life is just one giant overhead.”

  Splenditheran shook his head firmly.

  “This is a strictly no-win, no-fee contract, Captain. We will not agree some per diem rate and then have you string things out indefinitely. The most we might consider is an advance of fifty thousand. Take it or leave it.”

  De la Beche rubbed his face as he pondered, looked round first at Mister Betelgeuse, impassive as ever, then at Jim, who still had his head down, scribbling. He turned back towards Splenditheran.

  “Well, darling, haggling is so undignified, don’t you think? I think we can agree on that – fifty thousand up front and ten million on completion. You will of course pay promptly? I don’t want the same dreadful palaver I had with the Orsonians.”

  “Absolutely, Captain. We pay on the day you complete the job.”

  “Then it’s a deal, Commander.”

  Splenditheran leaned back and smiled a gratified smile.

  “Excellent. Any further communications between us must only be by a secure channel. This will be set up and your technical people will be instructed how to use it. The documents are being prepared now and will be ready in a moment for your signature.”

  “Signature?”

  “Yes, Captain. As we explained, everything is being done on paper, for security reasons. We therefore require your
signature. You can sign?”

  De la Beche tried not to look embarrassed.

  “Yes darling, of course. Normally it would be no problem but I have a touch of arthritis in the old signing hand at the moment. Makes things a bit tricky.”

  Splenditheran looked a little taken aback, then turned and had a whispered conversation with one of his companions, a Cassiopian with a distinctly green complexion and a pronounced sagittal ridge, from which grew orange-red hair in neat tufts. He turned back.

  “I quite understand Captain. Please accept my sympathies. I have been advised that it is only necessary for you to make a cross here on the paper and your colleague, who I see has been taking notes assiduously, can witness it. My colleague here, Mister Blendifors, who is an attorney-at-law in three separate Galactic jurisdictions, will then notarize it.”

  De la Beche beamed assent and with a flourish made large, ornate crosses on two copies of the contract. He passed them to Jim who carefully wrote on each, on instruction from Mister Blendifors, “I, Jim, cabin boy, do hereby certify that this is the mark of Sir Sechaverell de la Beche, bart, Captain of HMS Bountiful and Chairman and Chief Executive of HMS Bountiful Ltd.”

  Splenditheran, too, looked extremely pleased.

  “Splendid. Splendid. I have organized a little celebration.” He clicked his fingers and a flunkey appeared bearing a tray of glasses filled with a sparkling liquid. He handed the glasses to the assembled company and raised his own. “Here’s to a successful mission.”

  De la Beche raised his glass in reply.

  “Bottoms up. You did mention that you would give us some help. What did you have in mind?”

  Splenditheran seemed a little puzzled.

  “That is up to you, Captain. We are proposing to pay you a great deal if you succeed. It is up to you to come up with a plan. As I said, we will endeavour to give you what assistance we can.”

  It was de la Beche’s turn to look puzzled.

  “So you have no idea how we might pull it off?”

  “If we had Captain, without risking a pan-Galactic conflagration, we might have been tempted to do it ourselves. We are hiring you because you have a reputation for daring and ingenuity – and for other qualities that I need not mention. I feel sure that you will not disappoint us. One thing I must stress is that this matter is of the utmost delicacy and importance. Once you have formulated a plan you must get my agreement to it before doing anything. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, darling. Leave it to us.”

  7

  On his return from Splenditheran’s flagship, Jim was once again assigned to Doctor Culpepper as his “loblolly boy”. His tasks mainly consisted of cleaning, dusting and packing away the various instruments that the Doctor claimed were essential for his practice, although, when Jim enquired, he seemed vague as to their actual function.

  “Set anyone to rights, that one,” he said, pointing to a device that had various wires and clamps hanging from it. Another, shaped rather like a pistol, was “for sticking bits back” although on further reflection it might be for “headaches” or “stomach aches”. “Haven’t used it for quite a while, Jim. Must take a look at it later.”

  Much of the time the Doctor regaled Jim with tales of exploits on the Bountiful and his previous vessels while sipping whisky from one of the many and varied bottles he kept in a store cupboard. “Ah yes, the Lochballister, one of the finest single malts in the Galaxy. Reminds me of the time,,,”

  At first Jim thought it best to say very little, realizing how uncertain his situation was. Gradually, however, his curiosity began to get the better of him. He wanted to know more about the ship and its crew. Where had the crew come from and how did a ship like the Bountiful manage to survive when piracy was illegal everywhere in the Galaxy?

  Culpepper tut-tutted, smiling.

  “Now, Jim, don’t let anyone hear you talking like that. We don’t use the Pi-word on this ship. Haven’t you heard the Captain say we’re privateers, not pirates?”

  Jim remembered he had, but wanted to know the difference.

  “A good question. The Captain would say it’s all to do with contracts, but others would say that one person’s contract is another’s dirty deed. You’ll learn this as you grow up, if you didn’t know it already, that there’s never any shortage of dirty deeds wanting to be done by persons too leery or cowardly to do it themselves. So they call us in.”

  Jim turned this notion over in his mind, wondering by what alchemy a contract could turn a dirty deed into a legal one. He confessed himself baffled. Culpepper laughed.

  “You do have a lot to learn, Jim. All you need is a lawyer to dress up what you want in fancy language that only they understand and, hey presto, you’ve got what you want, a contract. Frankly, from what I can see, everything you have ever thought of – and almost everything you have never thought of – is legal somewhere, or, come to that, is illegal somewhere else. You just need a smart lawyer to find the right where and the job is done.”

  Jim was unconvinced. Surely there were some things that were right and others wrong?

  Culpepper laughed again,

  “Don't bother your head with matters of right and wrong, Jim. That way lies madness and worse. The moral high ground is the preserve of scoundrels and hypocrites. Some might call us scoundrels, but we're no hypocrites.”

  Jim began to realize that he did indeed have a lot to learn. It began to dawn on him that he knew almost nothing. The very magnitude of his ignorance overwhelmed him and for several minutes he could think of nothing to say. He sat in silence, watching as the Doctor sipped his whisky. Eventually he thought he might try a basic question.

  “How did we get here?”

  Culpepper gave a puzzled grunt.

  “What do you mean, Jim? You were found on that last ship we took, so they told me. And very lucky for you it was that they took you in.”

  Jim shook his head.

  “No, I mean how did we, all of us, get here? Where did we come from?”

  Culpepper rolled his eyes.

  “Apart from the usual processes, I haven't the faintest idea. Lost in the depths of time that one. No point in worrying about it.”

  Jim persisted. He was not so much worried as curious.

  “Well what about this ship? It can go all over the Galaxy. How does it work?”

  Culpepper shrugged.

  “Haven't the faintest idea about that either. Nobody does.”

  Jim stared at him astonished.

  “Do you mean that nobody on the ship knows how it works? How do they get anywhere?”

  The Doctor seemed exasperated by the question.

  “Of course they know how to operate it, point it in the right direction and all that sort of stuff, but they don't know how the thing actually works. Why should they? What good would it do them?”

  Jim acknowledged the logic but thought the response unsatisfactory. Surely someone must know more? Culpepper shook his head, but Jim persisted.

  “So where is all that knowledge? It must be somewhere.”

  Culpepper put his whisky down and waited several seconds before answering.

  “The Informatrix.”

  “What's the Informatrix?”

  “It's where the knowledge is.”

  It was Jim's turn to be exasperated.

  “Yes, but someone must have created it.”

  “The Informatricians.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Really, Jim, you are asking very silly questions. They're the ones who created the Informatrix.”

  Jim's exasperation was growing, but he knew a circular argument when he saw one.

  “Very well then. Can you tell me what sort of knowledge is in the Informatrix?”

  “Everything.”

  “What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

  “More silly questions, Jim. Everything that is known.”

  Jim pondered the immensity of this claim, vaguely thinking that it might contain some co
ntradiction. He decided to enquire further.

  “Where is the Informatrix?”

  “Where is knowledge, Jim? Everywhere and nowhere.”

  “What about the Informatricians? Where are they?”

  “I’m told they’re long gone. They’re not needed any more. As I told you, everything is in the Informatrix.”

  “But all this knowledge. It must be available somewhere?”

  Culpepper took a couple of sips before answering.

  “Maybe. They do say some of it is in Galactopedia.”

  “What's Galactopedia?”

  Culpepper smiled.

  “There are those who say it's the only source of information that can be relied on, which is why it's banned almost everywhere.”

  Jim felt excited at this news. He wanted to know more.

  “Can I get access to Galactopedia?”

  “If you play your cards right, Jim, look lively and do what I tell you, I might allow it. Better not tell anyone else, though.”

  “So is Galactopedia the only source of the Informatrix knowledge?”

  Culpepper chuckled.

  “They do say there's some in the Princ Ont, but I have my doubts.”

  Jim wasn't sure he heard correctly.

  “The Pink Onk?”

  Culpepper chuckled more.

  “The Princ Ont, the Principia Ontologica, the work of poor mad Mandragore. Can’t make head or tail of his stuff personally. I think he was mad as a brush, though some say he was the last flicker of sanity in the Galaxy.”

  Jim was intrigued, though the title meant nothing to him.

  “What did he say?”

  The Doctor's chuckles increased in volume.

  “A good question, Jim. As I said, mostly a mystery to me. A lot about gods from what I recall.”

  Jim’s heart sank. He remembered the long, dreary services at his academy, where unsympathetic prelates threatened him with damnation by an even less sympathetic deity. Gods were not good news in his experience.

  “Do you mean it’s some sort of religious tract?”