Theodyssey 1. Privateer

by I K Dirac

  “And what, Civil Servant 21346?”

  “And, er, anywhere else, High Admiral.”

  The High Admiral became even more suspicious.

  “You’re not supposed to know about that.”

  “I don’t, High Admiral.”

  “You’re not even supposed to know that you don’t know.”

  Civil Servant 21346 adopted what he thought was a totally blank expression.

  “I assure you, High Admiral, that I have absolutely no idea what I don’t know. You can rely on my ignorance.”

  The High Admiral’s scowl deepened. Insolence was a common side effect of sexual frustration. He was, however, extremely partial to Chelodony. The prospect of being cut off from his favourite food alarmed him. Something must be done.

  “Something must be done, Civil Servant 21346.”

  “Yes, High Admiral.”

  “What do you mean, yes? We don’t pay you just to stand there and say yes, Civil Servant 21346!”

  “No, High Admiral.”

  The High Admiral slammed his fist down on his desk. This was becoming ridiculous.

  “Civil Servant 21346, when I say something must be done, SOMETHING MUST BE DONE! Is that clear! Now go and DO SOMETHING!”

  “What, High Admiral?”

  The High Admiral threw up his hands in exasperation.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “What do you suggest I do, High Admiral?”

  The High Admiral had had enough.

  “Get out! That’s what I suggest you do. That’s what I order you to do! Get out and don’t come back until you can tell me how we are going to get our supplies of Chelodony!”

  He glared malevolently at the departing back. Civil Servant 21346 was asking for it. In the morning he would tell a tale of such lust and libidinousness that Civil Servant 21346 would become a quivering wreck.

  ***

  Civil Servant 21346 lay on his face on the floor of his office, a quivering wreck. He howled as he remembered how the High Admiral had told of two wives and six concubines running their tongues up and down the length of his body, searching, tantalizing, reaching into every orifice and crevice. He sobbed bitterly at the thought of the High Admiral thrusting deep into soft, yielding flesh. He whimpered as he imagined the screams of pleasure and the gasps of climax. He almost swooned as he fantasized about ecstasy-charged fingers gripping sweating, heaving bodies.

  Slowly, almost infinitely slowly, some sort of equilibrium returned. He sat up and gingerly uncrossed his legs, gently easing the pressure on his loins. He looked woefully at his hands, bruised and scratched from being banged on the floor. He took several deep, deliberate breaths and tried to think of something else. Anything else.

  The first thing that managed to crawl into his mind was Chelodoney, or rather the lack of it. Something had to be done said the High Admiral, but what? Commercial ship operators were just not interested. He had put out a dozen requests for tenders and had had not a single response. Somebody – and we all know who – had spooked the insurance companies with war scares, not that those greedy scoundrels needed any excuse to send rates sky-high. The High Admiral had several hundred armed ships at his disposal, but they could not be used because Desiderata was a member of the Arcturan Empire, with whom the Orsonian Empire had signed a non-aggression pact. Warships from either side were not allowed in each other’s territory. It looked hopeless.

  Just as his breathing was becoming something like normal, a message flashed up on his screen. He stared hard at it, then tapped the screen and blinked, just to make sure it was not an illusion. Somebody was replying to his Chelodoney tender. He quickly called up the details. Company name: HMS Bountiful Ltd. Vessel name: HMS Bountiful. Never heard of it, and anyway, what sort of name was that? Captain’s name: Sir Sechaverell de la Beche, bart. Ditto and ditto again. He looked down the list of references and previous jobs and noticed a couple of claimed jobs for the Orsonian Empire. The planets mentioned were outlying members of the Empire, of which he had only dimly heard. The jobs could not have been simple transportation. They must have had some sort of security or enforcement element. It began to dawn on Civil Servant 21346 that HMS Bountiful was not a conventional commercial freighter. Then he saw the price. Five times the normal commercial rate. Outrageous!

  His first instinct was to reject the tender. Then he thought again. The High Admiral was most insistent. Something had to be done. If he wanted to pay over the odds to some freebooter, that was up to him. He couldn’t face the High Admiral in person so soon, so he forwarded the tender, with a message pointing out the price. Five minutes later the High Admiral’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Civil Servant 21346, I want to see you. Now!”

  The High Admiral smiled inwardly as Civil Servant 21346 entered his office. The civil servant’s crestfallen aspect and the depth of his bow induced a distinct frisson. He would be especially attentive to his favourite concubine tonight. He tapped his screen, which displayed the tender details.

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about five times more than we normally pay, High Admiral.”

  The High Admiral looked up sharply. Civil Servant 21346 was clearly incorrigible. For a moment he toyed with the idea of relating yet more of his sexual prowess and then decided against. For the time being, Chelodoney was uppermost in his mind.

  “I can see that! So why did you show it to me?”

  “Because it is the only tender we received, High Admiral.”

  “The only one?”

  “The only one.”

  “Would you mind not repeating what I said, Civil Servant 21346!”

  “I’m sorry, High Admiral, it was just that you repeated what I said.”

  The High Admiral drew a deep breath. He was about to release a bellow but then thought better of it. The bellow of a High Admiral was a thing to be used judiciously. It should not be wasted on an inconsequential spat with a junior civil servant. Instead he adopted a tone that he considered reproving but businesslike.

  “What’s this HMS Bountiful? Ever heard of it?”

  “No, High Admiral.”

  “Do you know what HMS stands for?”

  “No, High Admiral.”

  “And this Captain Sir Sechaverell de la Beche, bart. What sort of name is that?”

  “I don’t know, High Admiral.”

  “Civil Servant 21346, is there anything you do know about this tender?”

  “I know it’s about five times more than we usually pay, High Admiral.”

  The High Admiral breathed deep again, then shook his head slowly. No, even now, Civil Servant 21346 was not worth a bellow.

  “Contact this Captain Sir Sechaverell de la Beche, bart. Tell him I want to talk to him.”

  23

  “I understand that you are a pirate, Captain.”

  The High Admiral of the Orsonian Battle Fleet had recovered from his astonishment at the first sight of de la Beche. He turned down the contrast on the screen to lessen the disorienting effects of the moiré patterns from the silk blouson and to dim the sharp reflections from the diamond earrings. On second impression, the High Admiral thought that de la Beche looked not unlike his third wife’s mother.

  “I am not a pirate, High Admiral, I am a privateer, a different thing entirely.”

  The High Admiral could not resist a sneer.

  “You will pardon me for not knowing the difference, Captain.”

  De la Beche smiled affably.

  “It’s very simple. As a privateer, I believe in the sanctity of contracts. Pirates, I’m afraid, have no such scruples.”

  “But I know, Captain, that you have had recourse to looting on occasion. I see from our own records that it even happened when we employed you.”

  “Of course, darling, booty and plunder. But only if stipulated in the contract. We have letters of marque and reprisal from the cream of the Galaxy that allow us to enforce our contracts. In the case of that little business with some of your colleag
ues, it was seizure of goods in lieu of payment. There was a very specific default clause in our contract and your colleagues were taking ages to pay. If I hadn’t carried off a few trinkets, we would still be whistling for our money.”

  The High Admiral sniffed.

  “Hmm, Captain, booty and plunder may do for you, but we Orsonians have our minds on higher things. Honour and Glory are what we seek.”

  “We all want what we don’t have, darling. That’s the way of things.”

  The High Admiral frowned.

  “The price you propose to charge is little short of plunder, Captain. Commercial freighters charge a fraction of your price. Why should we pay anything like these rates?”

  “Well, High Admiral, if you can actually get a commercial freighter, by all means do so. But I understand that the recent contretemps between yourselves and the Southern Cross Federation has rather put them off delivering to your part of the Galaxy. To say nothing of insurance rates, which I understand are absolutely usurious at the moment. You know how timid these commercial types are. Always looking at the bottom line. We are made of sterner stuff.”

  The High Admiral pondered. De la Beche clearly realized that he held a few aces. It wasn’t going to be easy to beat him down to a reasonable price. He decided to take a different tack.

  “Captain, I think the essence of a good business relationship is a good personal relationship. I would like to know a bit more about you. I see you have a most unusual name, Sir Sechaverell de la Beche, bart. Perhaps you could tell me where it came from.”

  De la Beche beamed and sat back. The silk blouson shimmered like a rainbow, the earrings sparkled, as he moved his head. The High Admiral dimmed his screen further.

  “Delighted. De la Beche is the name of a very ancient family from one of the most distinguished planets in the Galaxy. Sechaverell is the name traditionally given to the first born in each generation.”

  “And what about Sir and bart?”

  “Ah, that’s my title.”

  “Your title?”

  “Yes, darling, I am a baronet, which, as I’m sure you know, is an order of nobility that entitles me to a title. ‘Sir’ is the title that I append to my name and bart denotes I am a baronet, as opposed to a common or garden knight. A baronetcy is a hereditary title, you see.”

  The High Admiral pondered further. He thought he saw.

  “I think I see, Captain. You can add the extra element ‘Sir’ to your name and you can pass the title on to your descendants.”

  “You’ve got it in one, High Admiral. That is exactly the idea, more or less.”

  “But I have a title too, Captain: High Admiral.”

  De la Beche shook his head.

  “Not quite the same thing. You have been appointed the High Admiral, because of your great military talents.” The High Admiral nodded assent to this perspicacious assessment of his qualities, “But I was created a baronet and now I am one. You see the difference.”

  Philosophy, particularly linguistic philosophy, was not really the High Admiral’s strong suit. He cogitated for a little while on the differences between appointing and being and then decided to go with the flow.

  “Could I be one, too?”

  “Of course, darling, absolutely no reason why not, although I’m not sure a baronetcy is quite the right title for you. The High Admiral, bart doesn’t have quite the right ring to it. It might be just that little bit too discreet for someone of your eminence. I think you need a title that makes a statement, one that complements your exalted military rank.”

  The High Admiral’s assessment of de la Beche’s sagacity was growing by the minute.

  “I see your point, Captain. The title would have to be appropriate to my rank, of course. What do you suggest?”

  “Well, darling, there are a number of factors to be taken into account, but taking all in all, I think a barony would suit you best.”

  “So I would be Barony High Admiral?”

  De la Beche winced.

  “Technically Baron, but the normal style is Lord. You would be called Lord High Admiral. How does that sound?”

  The High Admiral thought about it. He looked it from over and under, from front and back, and, every way he considered it, it sounded very good indeed.

  “That would probably be satisfactory, Captain. Can you arrange it?”

  “Of course. As a Queen regnant, I can appoint you a Baron.”

  The High Admiral looked startled.

  “Queen? I thought you said you were a baronet?”

  “I am a baronet for business purposes. Nobody in business calls themselves Queen these days. I am a queen because the title was bestowed on me by a very old queen from a most distinguished royal family, for whom I did some favours. She in her gratitude appointed me her heir apparent. Strictly speaking the title passed down the female line only, so I was therefore technically the next Queen. One can have more than one title. In the medieval era some people had dozens, although I do think that was rather over-egging the pudding. On my ship, HMS Bountiful, HMS stands for Her Majesty’s Ship. Being Queen allows me to confer titles.”

  The High Admiral seemed reassured.

  “What exactly is involved, Captain?”

  “Well, darling, there would be a ceremony. You would be bedecked in ermine – a very rare and expensive fur – you would receive letters patent conferring the title and, of course, your Coat of Arms.”

  “Coat of Arms?”

  “Of course. What a logo is to some of our more vulgar companies, a Coat of Arms is to a Lord. It’s your public image. It’s a sort of shield surrounded by animals and the like – Lions Gules Rampant, Unicorns Trippant Argent, that sort of thing. It denotes notable aspects of your family. I am sure your family has many notable aspects, High Admiral.”

  The High Admiral nodded.

  “You can put it on your carriages, your houses and offices and all your stationery – letter heads, compliment slips, etcetera. You could also emblazon it on your flagship. It would strike fear into the hearts of your enemies when they saw it.”

  Striking fear into the enemy ranked just behind concupiscence and Chelodoney in the High Admiral’s listing of things desirable, although in his more candid moments he would admit that he had experienced it rather fewer times than he had the other two. A Coat of Arms might come in very useful. Then there was the question of inheritance.

  “Is this title hereditary, Captain?”

  “Naturally, darling. To the eldest son, normally, but it’s up to you. I only confer hereditary titles. Anything else would be short-changing the client. And of course, your wife can call herself Lady High Admiral.”

  Things were sounding ever better to the Admiral, but there remained a possible catch.

  “Which one?”

  It was de la Beche’s turn to be surprised.

  “Which one?”

  “Yes, Captain. I have four wives. Can they all be called Lady High Admiral?”

  De la Beche gave the matter some thought.

  “I don’t see why not, darling, as long as there is some distinction, so as to avoid confusion at official functions.”

  “How about First, Second, Third and Fourth Lady High Admiral?”

  “That would certainly do the trick.”

  The High Admiral sat back and congratulated himself. Negotiations were going very nicely. Just one small detail to clear up.

  “And would there be titles for my concubines as well, Captain?”

  This time de la Beche managed to suppress his surprise.

  “Concubines, High Admiral? How many, exactly, are we talking about?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “You are a busy bee, darling, but I’m afraid protocol simply doesn’t allow concubines to be called Lady.”

  The High Admiral looked crestfallen.

  “Oh dear. They will be disappointed. Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Well, I suppose we could upgrade them to mistresses.”

  “Mistresse
s?”

  “Absolutely, darling. Concubines are one thing, mistresses quite another. Talk about mistresses and you elevate the tone of the conversation to an altogether higher plane. Every nobleman worthy of the name has a string of them. In the past they would talk of little else. History is absolutely littered with mistresses – Madame de Pompadour, Nell Gwynne and the rest of them. Mistresses are accepted in all the best circles. And of course you could appoint one of them Maitresse en titre.”

  The possibilities seemed overwhelming. In his eagerness to know more, the High Admiral even forgot to hide his ignorance.

  “I could? What exactly does a Maitresse en titre do?”

  “She’s the leader of the pack, darling. Keeps the others in order. I normally advise persons in your position to change them fairly regularly. You don’t want any one of them to get above themselves.”

  The High Admiral felt his hormones begin to surge. He would be a Lord, his four wives all ladies, sixteen concubines all mistresses. He would take two, no three, days off and celebrate in the most rampant style. All four ladies and all sixteen mistresses would receive his fullest attention. He would amaze and delight them with the power and intensity of his lust. He would leave no sweet spot unstroked, no lovestring unplucked. And being a Lord High Admiral he was bound to attract the eye of many a lustful and ambitious female. He could add a wife or two, and maybe a few more mistresses. As imagination and hormones mingled, he thought he might even add some concubines again – a hierarchy, with the beautiful and compliant being promoted on his whim. His mind swam as he struggled to concentrate on the negotiations.

  “Yes, Captain. I think we can agree on mistresses. Now, I suppose all this would be expensive?”

  De la Beche waved his hand dismissively.

  “Not at all, darling. If we can agree on our price for the transportation contract, then I will confer all titles and arrange the ceremony for free, as a gesture of goodwill.”

  Desire began to overwhelm his thoughts.

  “Very well, Captain. Agreed. I will arrange for the contract to be drawn up.”

  ***

  Civil Servant 21346 lay on the floor sobbing pitifully. “Lord High Admiral! Four Ladies! Sixteen Mistresses! All at once!” His body was a mass of bruises from the sharp edges of the desk, with which he had attempted to copulate. Just then the favourite lapdog of the High Admiral made its yapping way across the office floor. He made a quick grab for it and, with a desperate desire for revenge, and an even more desperate lust, began vigorously to sodomize it. As his excitement mounted, its yelps reached a crescendo. With the delicious frisson of climax his grip loosened. The creature slipped out of his hands, turned and sank its small, sharp teeth into his engorged member. For an instant he comprehended fully how fine is the divide between ecstasy and agony, before all went very black.