*
The air on board the Dubious Profit had grown musty, and sat heavy in the lungs. Rus coughed, and kneaded his two large fists together on the messroom table. “You couldn’t just do the right thing, could you, Hesperus? You couldn’t just pay them some sort of salary. Oh no, you’re too clever for that. You must be the cleverest idiot it’s ever been my misfortune to meet.”
Hesperus pulled himself upright in his chair, and offered Rus a wounded look. “As I recall, the problems with the reprocessors didn’t start until after you felt it necessary to interfere … in any case,” he continued, as Rus’s shoulders acquired a dangerous hunch, “I assume that we are all agreed: their new demands go beyond outrageous, and indeed knock upon the door of the wholly unfeasible.”
“Aach! Phht!” Rus coughed again, and scraped his long, black, pointed tongue with the back of one hand. “Fah. Shipping under one lunatic is bad enough; two lunatics is logarithmically worse. I’ll say this much for you, Hesperus: at least you can sometimes keep a slender grip on reality.”
Hesperus’s gambit with the recalcitrant reprocessors had not so much failed as backfired. Convinced that they already possessed all that they desired, the crustaceans had taken a logical step forward, and conceived of new desires, as yet unfulfilled.
The more than two thousand inhabited systems of the Co-operative embraced a large number of cultures, with wildly varying levels of sophistication. While a few advanced species pushed and probed at the furthest limits of science, most hovered around a technological mean that had harnessed starflight – or were at least capable of grasping the concept. Some planetary systems, however, were still – societally speaking – just emerging from the primordial ooze. Hesperus suspected that his crustacean crewmembers were of this latter sort. They spoke Lingo, the pan-stellar trade language, well enough, albeit with a limited vocabulary and errant syntax, but it was increasingly apparent that they had little or no idea where they were, or what, indeed, was going on around them.
After considering Hesperus’s arguments, the reprocessors had concocted new demands. They did not want money, no: but they wanted the interior of the ship to be painted yellow; they wanted both to be addressed as Captain and, perhaps or, to be supplied with some form of ceremonial headgear (both creatures had become particularly excited about this point, and their Lingo had rather broken down); and they wanted to be taken, immediately, to “the Great Pool, by the Middle Rock”. All efforts to discover where these might be had proved futile; in fact it was not clear whether the Great Pool and Middle Rock were real physical locations, or were instead part of some religious cosmography to which the two crustaceans adhered. The fact that the Dubious Profit was currently in witchspace – inside a wormhole and, technically, not part of any universe except that which was contained within its own patched hull – was of no interest to them. They were in a magic vessel, whose colour displeased them; they wanted rank, and (perhaps or) some outward sign of the same; and they wished to journey to an uncertain destination at an unknown location. When these demands were all met, they would once again permit the air to flow.
First Hesperus, then Rus, had attempted to reason with, then to cajole, and then to threaten the reprocessors, to no avail. When Hesperus had reached up and pounded at the grille with a reaming tool, the two crustaceans had scuttled back into the bowels of the ship, and taken refuge within the flooded sections of the hydroponics unit. To reach them there would require berthing the ship within a pressurised drydock, opening the hull and at least partially dismantling the atmospherics. To make matters worse, the Profit’s current destination, the Lerela system, was an agrarian backwater with few natural resources and scant sophistication. Even if Lerela’s main station could offer the necessary facilities, such an extensive repair would provide ample time for the Co-operative’s lumbering legal bureaucracy to catch up with the Profit – and with her captain.
The quality and quantity of breathable air was diminishing. Rus had cobbled together some rudimentary carbon scrubbers, but one thing was clear: the Profit would have to find a friendly station, and soon.
“Well, that should be easy – oh no, it isn’t, is it? I’d quite forgotten. There’s a bounty on our heads.” Rus’s fists opened and closed spasmodically, and his eyes were bloodshot. “How did that happen again? Oh yes: because our esteemed captain – you, Hesperus – couldn’t resist buying up that load of red wango on Eronona. Of all the stupid, greedy …”
“And you will get your not inconsiderable share of the profits!” snapped Hesperus. He paused, and smoothed his whiskers. “In any case, it was an innocent mistake. Acting in perfect good faith, I bought a shipment of white bakha root.”
“White bakha root, yes, but any fool could see they were all riddled with corzae, and bursting with wango!”
Hesperus flapped one hand. “I am a simple merchant captain, and freely own that botany is not my strong suit. I had no idea the cargo was contaminated when I bought the shipment.”
Rus choked back an oath. “No idea? Only an idiot would have paid that price for clean bakha anyway: the stuff is all but inedible. Even Stepan wouldn’t touch it.”
“Nonsense!” said Hesperus. “Bakha root is a useful exerciser for the jaws, and an important source of starch.”
“Bah! I saw you sniff the outside of the first canister. We had to practically peel you off the ceiling. I swear, Hesperus, I …” Rus clawed at the air. His lips curled back to expose a long mouthful of sharp, interlocking teeth, and he took a deep, hissing breath – then coughed and snorted in disgust. He ground his fists against the sides of his head and groaned. “Look. First things first. The bounty will expire, but not before we do … we have to get the Profit into dock, and I’d rather pay a fine than suffocate. What d’you think we’d be looking at?”
White bakha roots, when infected with the corzae symbiote, produce large quantities of intoxicating spores – commonly called ‘red wango’, ‘woof-woof’, ‘hop-to-heaven’, and other jocular names. As a strong, multi-spectral euphoriant, the trade in corzae spores was strictly limited, in Co-operative space, to licensed merchants. Hesperus, unfortunately, did not hold such a license. Rubbing his jaw, he ran through some mental calculations as to the possible financial penalty, allowing for the quantity and potency of the cargo, and for his own reputation. He grimaced, flicked a dry tongue across his lips and named a figure. Rus recoiled.
“What? That much? That would break us – even if we got a good price for the wango …”
Hesperus shook his head. “If we dock before the Co-operative alert on us lapses, it would simply be impounded. Maybe we could …” He frowned. “Well … no. Perhaps not.”
“What?”
“It’s just … I happen to know of one station in Lerela space where we’re not likely to encounter any, um, official attention.”
Rus leaned forward. “Oh? Oh. Oh, hang on, what are you …”
“It’s nothing bad, ah, nothing terrible; it might not be my first choice for a port of call, but it would keep us off the Co-operative’s scanner, for the time being. It’s an independent station, owned by – well, by an old friend of mine.”
“Why does that not fill me with confidence?” Rus slumped back in his chair. “Would this ‘old friend’ be anyone I might have heard of? I struggle to picture you hob-nobbing with anyone rich enough to own their own shoes, let alone their own station.”
Hesperus lifted his chin. “I possess a wide circle of friends, across all levels of polite society,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “If I have not shared any of them with you, then perhaps I have had my own reasons for that omission. However, current circumstances being as they are, I will be delighted to introduce you to my very dear and close colleague, Mr the Haute Sherman Sunderling.”
Throughout this debate, Stepan had been sitting staring vacantly at the wall, probing the depths of one ear with his little finger. Now he jerked upright in his seat. “Sherman Sunderling?” he said.
> “Er … yes,” said Hesperus, glancing at the unkempt navigator. “Mr the Haute Sherman Sunderling, yes. I—”
“Do you know his partner?” said Stepan, leaning forward, his little finger raised but forgotten.
“Um … his, ah, his partner, yes, I know her – in fact I, I introduced her to him: Arae, a competent pilot and …”
“I can’t believe it!” cried Stepan, his eyes wide. “You know Mad Arae? And Sunderling, the notorious Sherman Sunderling too?”
“Oho!” said Rus. “This begins to make more sense, I must say!”
Stepan bounded from the room, and returned moments later clutching a dog-eared printed book with a cheap plastic cover. “Here it is! Blood and Plunder. Back-to-back with Slaughter Station Six. It’s, like, it’s a factual account. ‘The True and Terrifying Exploits of the Galaxy’s Greatest Villains’ series, there’s loads of them.” He slapped the book down on the table. The vivid cover illustration looped endlessly through a few seconds of animation: a backdrop of apparently exploding stars, framing a blonde human, conspicuously female, dressed in a form-fitting pressure suit – although numerous large rents and tears had quite destroyed its airtight qualities. In one hand she wielded a serrated cutlass of novel design: in the other she brandished the severed head of an unidentified insectoid species, from which dripped a vibrant green ichor. Her blue eyes were wide and gleaming, and a manic rictus grin almost split her face in two.
Hesperus prodded the book with one finger. “Really, I don’t think …”
“No, no,” said Rus, “I want to find out more about your social circle.” He scooped up Blood and Plunder, glancing at the cover and shaking his head. “Mammals,” he tutted, folding it over to read the text inside. “Oh, this looks interesting! ‘The True and Terrifying Exploits of Mad Arae, the Terror of Telaan. An unexpurgated account of the horror and destruction, savagery and unnatural lusts visited upon the universe by this beautiful but deadly deviatrix, lover and chief lieutenant of Sherman Sunderling, the infamous Black Dog of Lasoce. Readers of a nervous disposition take note! In our unflinching pursuit of truth, all the sins of this alluring criminal virago are herein described in frank and forthright terms, and we make no concession to propriety.’ My my.” Rus licked a finger, and turned the page. “Chapter one. ‘Thrusting—’”
Hesperus snatched the book from Rus’s hands. “Claptrap, balderdash, and sheer absurdity!” he said. “Stepan, I am shocked. Is this how you spend your free time, reading this vulgar yellow trash? Have you no charts to study, no astrometric protocols to memorise?”
Stepan, a wounded expression on his hairy face, grabbed the book and smoothed the cover flat. “I’m just trying to learn about pirates … you know, so, um, I know not to do the things they do?”
“Look, Hesperus, leaving Stepan’s private recreations to one side—” Rus gave a small shudder “—it’s quite clear that your friends are criminals. I’m hardly shocked. I’m not even surprised. But before I’m formally introduced I would like to know: what sort of criminals are they? And roughly where do they lie on the ‘charming rogue–psychotic killer’ axis?”
Hesperus drew himself upright. “It is true that when I first met Arae, she had got herself into a bit of a scrape … nothing serious, merely some petty transgression: and in any case she was rather young, and in rather, ah, reduced circumstances. I myself played a small part in extricating her from those difficulties and finding her a position in Mr Sunderling’s organisation. She proved herself to be a very capable pilot; Sunderling – Mr Sunderling took quite a shine to her and I believe that she has risen to become a valuable and trusted assistant.”
“Really?” said Stepan. “The book says that Sunderling bought Arae as a slave, from some lowlife dealer … ah. Oh. Ooh.”
Rus cocked his head towards Hesperus, and flickered his nictitating membranes, twice. “And just how did you introduce your friend Sunderling to this … female, Hesperus?”
Hesperus stared long and hard at Stepan’s neck. He flexed his fingers, breathing slowly. Several seconds passed before he answered. “As I said, the young lady had fallen into difficulties. To be precise she had been sentenced, for some minor indiscretion, to penal servitude. Recognising her talents, and moved by her misfortune, I intervened, and was able to put forward sufficient financial incentives to persuade the court to release her into my custody. Shortly thereafter – as I said – I was able to introduce Arae to Mr the Haute Sherman Sunderling, a business associate; he likewise saw in her a great deal of potential, and provided her with the opportunity of gainful employment. As a gentleman he of course compensated me for my trouble, and so all parties gained from the outcome.”
“Mmph,” said Rus. “You bought some juvenile delinquent at a court auction, and sold her to a bigger crook for a profit. No, please,” he held up one hand, as Hesperus began to huff and blow, “we’re short enough on oxygen as it is. What about him, this Sunderling, ‘the Black Dog of Lasoce’?”
Hesperus frowned, and cleared his throat. “Ah, perhaps, ah – perhaps Mr Sunderling himself may have shaded the edges of the law from time to time, but as you know, Lasoce is a, a confused and fractious system, and sometimes necessity might drive a man … in all candour, given the Co-operative’s obstinate hostility towards free trade, I find it incredible that any merchant ever manages to turn a profit and stay within the bounds of all their pettifogging regulations. However, however,” Hesperus continued, as Rus rolled his eyes, “I have found Mr Sunderling to be both unfailingly polite and scrupulously honest in all my dealings with him. He has a reputation for, ah, an unpredictable and erratic temper, and I would not wish to disturb him with our problems … but there will be no need for that. Sunderling’s station is well equipped for repair work—” here Rus made a grunting sound “—and is entirely legal, recognised by the various planetary authorities in the Lerela system and, ah, acknowledged by the Co-operative.”
“Oh. One of those,” said Rus. “Wonderful.” He shook his head, regarding Hesperus from beneath knotted brows; then he sniffed, snorted, and scowled. “Auch. It’s not as if we have a choice, is it?”