Theodyssey 1. Privateer

by I K Dirac

  24

  “Now, darling, I think you will agree with me that, for the ceremony, correct dress and deportment are absolutely de rigeur. Nothing must be left to chance. I take it you have a master of ceremonies or some such who can be relied upon to organize things?”

  The Orsonian High Admiral stared at the picture of de la Beche on the screen trying to decide whether it was the reflections from the large, multifaceted brooch he sported or the highly patterned blouse that was causing the picture to shimmer and shake. His excitement over the forthcoming investiture was tinged with a little apprehension. The mention of the master of ceremonies had induced a shudder. The last person he wanted in charge was the idiot who organized his Triumph.

  “I absolutely agree, Captain, that everything must be absolutely correct. If you will tell me what exactly is entailed, I will ensure that it is done.”

  De la Beche nodded.

  “I shall of course conduct the ceremony. I shall be dressed in my regal robes as Queen Ethelfrida the Second.”

  The Admiral gave a start.

  “I beg your pardon, Captain. Did you say Queen?”

  “Yes, of course. I did explain to you that I am a Queen regnant, and as such am able to bestow honours. No lesser rank can do so, as I’m sure you know. I inherited the title from the first Queen Ethelfrida and, in deference to her, I took the same name. Things will start by your pledging fealty to me, your Queen.”

  The Admiral’s eyes widened.

  “I beg your pardon again, Captain. What do you mean by fealty?”

  “Fealty is fealty. You pay me homage, acknowledge me as your liege lord, that sort of thing. It’s all part of the ritual. Comes from long ago. Doesn’t really mean anything these days.”

  The Admiral wasn’t sure what to make of it but decided it was best to press on.

  “What about my robes, Captain?”

  De la Beche smiled benevolently.

  “You will be the cynosure of all eyes, darling. You will be wearing a silk blouson with ruffles, silk britches gathered at the ankles and patent leather buckled shoes. Over them will be a full-length damask cape embroidered with the coat of arms that I have had specially designed for you. It features both stags trippant and lions rampant – most distinguished, if I may say so. You will also wear an ermine stole, a gift from me as a token of my esteem. I doubt a finer figure will ever have been seen on Orson.”

  The Admiral digested this and found himself in absolute agreement.

  “That sounds splendid, Captain. What colour will these robes be?”

  “Oh, cream, darling. You. after all. are the crème de la crème of Orson society, so it has to be cream, has it not?”

  The Admiral agreed that it did.

  “Where do you think the ceremony should take place, Captain?”

  “I think a little magnificence is called for, don’t you? How about that temple of yours?”

  “You mean the Temple of Sublime Peace?”

  “That’s the one. A splendid setting for a splendid ceremony.”

  The Admiral hesitated. He knew that the High Priest of the Holy Synodrin was very jealous of his privileges and did not normally allow the Temple to be used for anything but the seemingly endless rituals in which they indulged. On the other hand, he also knew that the High Priest was rather over-fond of many of the Temple choirboys and would not want that more widely known. He thought that he could be persuaded.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged. Is there anything else that you need?”

  “Just a throne.”

  The Admiral looked bemused.

  “A throne, Captain?”

  “Yes a throne, darling. As I explained, for the ceremony, I will be a Queen. A Queen must have a throne. I’m sure you knew that.”

  Put that way the Admiral could only agree.

  “A throne will be provided, Captain.”

  De la Beche beamed.

  “Perfect. I’m sure we are both looking forward to the big day.”

  As de la Beche’s face faded from the screen, the Admiral felt a pang of jealousy at the notion of de la Beche on a throne. He must have something to match, preferably something even better than a throne. He summoned Civil Servant 21346.

  “Send for the Imperial Artist.”

  Despite the exalted nature of the summons, the Imperial Artist took his time in arriving. Eventually Civil Servant 21346 ushered the dishevelled figure, clad in a paint-spattered smock, into the presence of the High Admiral.

  “Yes?” said the Artist, grumpily.

  The Admiral, already somewhat affronted by the Artist’s appearance, felt his irritation rising.

  “What do you mean ‘yes’?”

  “I mean yes, what do you want?” replied the Artist, entirely unabashed.

  The Admiral decided to temper his irritation with authority.

  “What I want,” he said slowly and deliberately, “is for you, a hireling of this great empire of which I am the supreme leader, to accept instruction from me.”

  The Artists took a cheroot from behind his ear and examined it, then looked at the Admiral.

  “As I said, what do you want?”

  Civil Servant 21346 felt his admiration for the Artist increase rapidly. This was dumbish insolence of a high order. The Admiral was about to utter a bellow but then he remembered that his second wife had told him only the day before about the difficulties she was having with another arty type, an interior designer. The only way to get anything out of their sort, she assured him, was to humour them, to indulge their little ways. The Admiral decided to change tack.

  “There is a mural in the Temple of Sublime Peace glorifying the Emperor Dormignon. It is supposed to show him leading his troops in a glorious victory over the Sandanians. I am assured by our historians that the story is an utter fraud. There never was more than a skirmish and even then Dormignon cowered in his flagship until it was all over. The High Priest of the Holy Synodrin has asked if I can think of something more elevating to put in its place.”

  He gave the Artist what he thought to be a meaningful look. The Artist gazed back without expression.

  “Yes?”

  The Admiral decided there were limits to his humouring arty types.

  “Your title is supposed to be Imperial Artist is it not? I take it you are capable of painting a mural?”

  The Artist nodded.

  “Oh you want a mural. Why didn’t you say so?”

  Civil Servant 21346 desperately tried to smother a guffaw. The Admiral was in full bellow-suppressing mode. The Artist continued.

  “I suppose you want to be in it?”

  The Admiral tried hard to bring his voice back under control and sound as if he was giving the idea due consideration. Of course he wanted to be in it. That was the whole point.

  “If you think that would be appropriate.”

  The Artist shrugged.

  “Who’s paying for it?”

  “I shall authorize the necessary expenditure. You need spare no expense.”

  The Artist shrugged again.

  “You’re paying for it, so it’s appropriate. That’s the way it works.”

  The Admiral thought this was a bit more promising.

  “What else do you think should be in it?”

  The Artist lit his cheroot and puffed on it. The smoke drifted towards the Admiral, irritating his eyes and nostrils.

  “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you? I expect you’ll want the Full Apo.”

  The Admiral adopted his most sage expression, the one he used when he had no idea what had been said.

  “The Full Apo. Remind me what exactly that entails.”

  The Artist took another long draw on his cheroot.

  “Yeah, sorry about that – bit of trade talk. The Full Apo is an apotheosis.”

  The Admiral’s expression became even more sage.

  “What exactly would be in this ah..?”

  “Apotheosis. The usual. You would be ascending to glory with Zoabh, attende
d by all his choirs and seraphim, handing you the Torch of Righteousness. Down below, the cream of Orson society would be acclaiming you. It’s a speciality of mine. You won’t get better anywhere else.”

  The Admiral realized that that was exactly what he had in mind.

  “That would be satisfactory. I want it done in ten days.”

  The Artist gave a derisive snort.

  “You must be joking. Apos can’t be done at the drop of a hat. Have you any idea what a big job an Apo is? I’ve got all the preparation to do, all the materials to get, all my assistants sorted. Ten days? Impossible. No can do.”

  The Admiral looked at the impassive face of the Artist and realized that even the most seismic bellow was unlikely to change his mind.

  “Well, what can you do in ten days?”

  The Artist puffed on his cheroot as the Admiral tried not to sneeze.

  “I could do you what we call an Apo lite.”

  The Admiral was not sure he liked the sound of an Apo lite.

  “What might that be?”

  “Just you and Zoabh and the torch. We might be able to do that in ten days – just. We could then fill in the other bits later.”

  The Admiral tried to hide his disappointment. He had particularly liked the idea of the painted faces of the Orsonian elite gazing upwards adoringly at him, while their real selves watched, barely able to conceal their jealousy as he was ennobled.

  “Very well then, if that’s the best that can be done in the time.”

  25

  The music swelled to a crescendo. Two large doors at the side of the altar of the Temple of Sublime Peace swung open and de la Beche emerged. He was wearing a full-length dress in cerise silk organza with a three-coloured sash of gold white and green draped across one shoulder. On his head was a gold crown decorated with rubies and emeralds. The dress had a long train carried by Jim, who had been appointed pageboy for the occasion. De la Beche walked slowly towards the middle of the altar area and sat on the throne that had been set there, as Jim carefully arranged his train.

  Jim looked around and his eyes fell on a newly-painted mural with two figures. One he recognized as the Admiral, who appeared to be flying through the air wearing an expression that made him look both simpering and slightly inebriated. The other was an old bearded man, on his face a barely disguised sneer, who appeared to be threatening the Admiral with a large, flaming club.

  De la Beche sat and looked solemnly out towards the large assembly, who looked back at him, wondering what was to come. He made a summoning gesture. The High Admiral came forward and, as he neared the throne, went down on bended knee and bowed his head. De la Beche nodded gravely and intoned:

  “Do you, High Admiral of Orson, pledge allegiance to Our Majesty Queen Ethelfrida the Second, and acknowledge Our Majesty as your Sovereign and Liege Lord?”

  The assembly remained absolutely hushed as they waited for the reply. It came, although not in the Admiral’s usual stentorian tones.

  “I do so pledge my allegiance.”

  De la Beche motioned to Jim who went over to a small table behind the throne and brought back a parchment scroll. De la Beche unfurled the scroll and began to declaim:

  “Ethelfrida the Second by the Grace of All that Is Known to all Lords Spiritual and Temporal and all other Our Subjects whatsoever to whom these Presents shall come, Greeting!

  “Know Ye that We of Our especial grace, certain knowledge and mere motion do by these Presents advance, create and prefer Our trusty and well-beloved High Admiral to the state, degree, style, dignity, title and honour of Baron High Admiral of Orsonopolis and for Us, Our heirs and successors do appoint, give and grant unto him the said name, state, degree, style, dignity, title and honour of baron.”

  He motioned to Jim again, who went to the table and returned carrying a large sword in its scabbard, together with a golden rod and a small tiara. De la Beche picked them up and continued:

  “And by these Presents do dignify, invest and ennoble him by girding him with a sword and putting a cap of honour and a coronet of gold on his head and by giving into his hand a rod of gold to have and to hold the said name, state, degree, style, dignity, title and honour of baron unto him and the heirs of his body lawfully begotten and to be begotten. Willing and by these Presents granting for Us, Our heirs and successors that he and his heirs aforesaid and every of them successively may enjoy and use all the rights and privileges with all wages, profits, rank and precedence whatsoever to the said Office belonging or in anywise appertaining.

  “In Witness whereof We have caused these, Our Letters, to be made Patent.

  “Witness Ourself at Orsonopolis in the seventeenth year of Our Reign.”

  De La Beche motioned the Admiral to stand and come forward. He fitted the sword round the Admiral’s waist, placed the rod in his hand and the tiara on his head and then presented him with the scroll and pronounced him Lord High Admiral. The music swelled again as the choir chanted a triumphant anthem and the assembly began to applaud. Jim looked at the serried faces of the Orsonian notables. He wasn’t sure that he could properly read Orsonian expressions, but he thought he detected more than a trace of envy in many, and perhaps the odd jeer. His eyes went up to the gallery and he gazed upon the flower of Orsonian femininity in all its finery, mostly females of a certain age bedecked in frills and flowery hats. In one corner he saw a number of younger and distinctly prettier females and realized they must be the Lord High Admiral’s concubines, now upgraded to mistresses. One of them, a particularly pretty one, smiled as she saw him staring and his heart leapt more than a single beat.

  At the back of the Temple, Civil Servant 21346, who, along with the rest of his cohort, had been drafted in as ushers for the ceremony, found himself barely able to contain the surging tumescence in his loins as he gazed longingly upon the mistresses and vowed that one day he would make at least one of them his own.

  26

  Air hissed into the airlock. Pressure equalized, the airlock doors furled back at both ends and the large containers began to slide along the conveyors from the Desideratan shuttle docked alongside into the hold of HMS Bountiful. Each container had emblazoned on its side a large logo formed from an ornate letter C embracing the smiling head of an animal that to Jim looked like a cross between a cow and an elephant with a short trunk. Alongside ran the words: “Chelodoney – the finest meat in the Galaxy. Raised and Packed only on Desiderata.” In rather smaller letters it said, ”Chelodoney is a registered Galactic Appellation.”

  Each container also had stickers with the name of the farm on which the Chelodoney had been produced, alongside various hieroglyphics that, Jim had discovered, signified the exact provenance of each carcass. Every animal had a unique number and the Chelodoney connoisseur could, and almost always did, look up the animal’s provenance in one of the many reference works devoted to the subject. They could then identify the animal’s forebears, back to, and beyond, the fiftieth previous generation, the region and climate in which it had been raised, the type of feed it had been given, the exact season of slaughter and much else besides. Eating Chelodoney was at least as much a matter of research and discussion as it was of mastication.

  Jim’s task was to count and weigh the containers. The Desideratans were not above pulling a few strokes if they thought they could get away with it. The numbers and weights appeared to match those on the delivery note.

  “Alright then, mate?” said the cheerful Desideratan shuttle operator.

  Jim nodded

  “Sign ’ere then, mate. Can’t stop. I ’ave to get back for me dinner. The other ’alf gives me a terrible earbashin’ if I don’t get back for me dinner at least once a week.”

  Jim attempted a sympathetic smile, signed the delivery note and handed over the top copy. Desiderata was probably the last place in the Galaxy where every transaction was recorded on paper. It also produced the best meat in the Galaxy and some of the finest produce as well. He wondered if there was any connection.
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  The Desideratan skipped lightly up the steps into the shuttle and closed the hatch after him. Jim and the two other members of the Bountiful’s crew, stepped out of the airlock. Jim gave the signal, the doors furled shut and the shuttle disengaged itself and moved gently away. After a few minutes it fired its engines to begin its descent and disappeared rapidly from view, leaving nothing but Desiderata visible in the large porthole, as they drifted serenely in orbit, beautiful in its mixture of green, white, blue and gold.

  Jim walked up and examined the containers. Large black Orsonian seals, with the words “WARNING: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPEN UNLESS AUTHORIZED” were strapped across the doors. This was their third consignment. The other two had gone through normally. The plan was to allay any initial suspicions that the Orsonians may have harboured about the Bountiful. This time was going to be different.

  In one corner of the hold, Major Schickelgrosser sat on a bench, looking on with satisfaction as his men packed up their kit and weapons, ready to enter the containers once they had been opened. Training had gone very well. The men were at the very peak of readiness, absolutely raring to go. Every so often, a group of them would break into a chant, to be answered by another group. The chants mainly detailed the many and ingenious rearrangements the men were proposing to make to the anatomies of any Orsonian unfortunate enough to encounter them.