In which football isn’t played
T
om had completed his inspection of the ex Fukeds Belle, now refitted as the Fortune. He was disappointed to see that most of the fittings had been removed, and those that remained were somewhat stained and unsavoury. The loading bay was spotless though, and AstroTurf had been laid in the centre, with goalposts at either end.
“That’s nice,” he thought, “we can have a kick-about later, if I can find a ball and someone to play against.”
The Officers’ Disarray and galley were reasonably intact. The latter looked as though it could do with a good cleaning. Apparently lady football players were not the neatest cooks, or that is what Groat said when challenged on the subject, although Tom noticed that he wouldn’t quite look him in the eye.
“We haven’t anything left to eat except eggs? We have no water and the only liquids available are unused bottles of kitchen cleaner and the ‘Nishifiddich’ supply?”
“Good for sterilising?” suggested Spigot.
“We need provisions and possibly some new clothes. We all have suffered, being jammed into the Pig-Ugly. Do we have any currency aboard?” Tom regarded the rest of the ‘crew’. Pete turned his pockets out and was only able to provide a few tokens for the coffee machine at SCT. Suzanne refused to open her bag, and the Magus offered his Genuine-Pint Club membership card.
“There is still a chance we could win a year’s supply of ale,” he said. “If we can get a Galactinet connection to log in.”
“And the nearest inhabited world?” said Tom.
“Apart from Sapristi, and the word, inhabited, is somewhat of a generous description,” said the Magus, consulting his j-Pad, “it looks like my old home, Glenforbis, would be the place to go.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Given a following solar wind and no diversion for meteor storms, and trusting that the engines keep working without spare dokumats and hexacat whiskers... about three weeks.”
“Three weeks without water or food?”
“Talking about hexacat whiskers,” said Suzanne. “Where is Cat?”
“Phoist, I must have left him in the Pig-Ugly.” The Magus looked guilty.
“Go and let him out then. Not that there’s much for him to eat here, apart from smelly fish, but the car must be looking a bit ragged inside now. You know what he’s like with cushions.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“I’ll go and do it,” said Suzanne. “You lot chat among yourselves and work out how we are going to eat.”
“There is something we can do,” said Groat, watching Suzanne’s lithe figure as it disappeared through the hatchway. “We’re rigged out as a pirate ship, and now Pete has fixed the weapons, we could go and take what we need.”
“Aye, that we could,” said the Magus with a glint in his eye. “I could stop shaving properly and revert to my original pseudonym, ‘Neckbeard’. I was quite the thing in my day, what with Kara playing the role of ‘Ruth’. We would have to do it without her this time, and can be more brutal.”
“Yes, where is Kara?”
“She went off for pizza and we haven’t seen her since,” said Pete.
“Typical,” said Tom. “I expect she’ll turn up when my life is in mortal danger. She usually does.”
“That’s kind of her,” said Pete.
“Not really, she only comes to gloat, and hope I die horribly. She’s programmed not to kill me, but could be permitted to stand back and watch someone else do it. I think she managed to bypass her guilt processors, or they forgot to reconnect them at the last service.”
“Can we do it without Ruth, then?” said Groat eagerly.
“I suppose so,” said Tom, “for survival reasons only, but we will be gentle with anyone we catch. Any other ideas?”
“We could give receipts,” said the Magus. “Coming back to my old pirate motto, ‘We pay for what we take and we take what we can’t pay for.’ People could then come back to us and claim their dues, once we regain control of SCT.”
“And we could introduce a loyalty scheme,” said Spigot. “For regular victims. I can work on that.”
“And I’ll control the weapons,” said Pete. “I can rig them up as a ‘first person shooter’. It’ll be fun and I won’t feel any guilt at wantonly destroying things.”
“Heave to, my lungies,” said Spigot. “I thought Mr $mith (sic) was strictly opposed to mindless violence.”
“Ar, that I am,” said Tom. “There is to be no unnecessary violence and even fewer unnecessary nautical references like ‘hearties’ and the more vocal ‘lungies’. This might be called a ‘ship’ but that is where its resemblance to a vessel designed to buffet its way through watery oceans, propelled by wind in a vast amount of canvas, ends. I will not have all that ballyhoo in what is essentially a big bus.”
“We could be polite pirates,” said the Magus, slowly. “Perhaps ask nicely and see what happens?”
“I would accept that,” said Tom, nodding. “Right, we have a plan. Groat, go back to the cockpit and set a course for Glenforbis. If you see any other spacecraft on the way, move to intercept but leave me to do the talking. Spigot, the engines, Pete, the guns and Magus...?”
“I’ll work on the flag.”
“Spacecraft ahoy,” came Groat’s voice though the communications speakers. Tom joined him in the cockpit.
“The place is full of chickens,” he said.
“I know. They seem to like it here. Can’t eat them, being strictly vegetarian, but I like a nice egg for breakfast.”
“Right, perhaps you can find somewhere else to keep them, and I warned you about that nautical stuff. We aren’t at sea, except perhaps in the concept of ‘all at sea’, so why are you defying my orders?”
“I’m not,” said Groat. “I meant that the cargo craft over there is named Ahoy.”
“Right,” said Tom. “Give me the communicator. Pete, are you ready in case we have any trouble?”
“Ready,” came Pete’s voice, along with a sound of electronic missiles hitting electronic planes on his games console.
“Spigot? We might need to get away in a hurry.”
“Ready and waiting,” said Spigot. “I’ve got Suzanne and Cat here with me. We got him out. He’s not happy, but the mess he made of the upholstery has actually improved the look of the vehicle.”
“Good. Magus?”
“Raising the flag,” said the Magus from somewhere else on board.
“Then move to intercept please, Mister Groat.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Enough.”
“No, I mean I am using both eyes to control our course correction.”
“Right. Switch me through to ‘transmit’ and I’ll have a chat with them.” Tom cleared his throat and blew on the microphone a few times. “Is it working?”
“Stop shouting,” came a voice. “And all the microphone blowing is getting on our nerves.”
“Apologies,” said Tom. “Attention freighter, Ahoy. We would be grateful if you would allow us to share your cargo. We are in need of provisions. Alas we cannot pay, the cheque from my uncle is still in the post, but we can give you a receipt with which you can claim compensation for any inconvenience. What do you say?”
“Bugger you,” came the reply. “We ain’t sharing any of our cargo with the likes of you, in a ship so ugly you made me lose my breakfast.”
“But we are desperate for food and water. We can trade. Do you like eggs?”
“I told you I’d lost my breakfast. Bugger off and leave us be.”
“Right you are,” said Tom. “We will perhaps ask the next craft that comes along.”
“What?” Groat swivelled in his seat and regarded Tom with derision. “You’re giving up. What sort of pirate does that?”
“Our sort,” said Tom. “I told you: no violence.”
“Give me the speaker. I’ll see if I can make them reconsider.”
“If you think you can,” said Tom. “Don’t be rude, though.”
“I won’t,” said Groat with a smile. “Attention ship, Ahoy, stop your engines and prepare to be boarded. We are armed and deadly.”
“And who the fuck are you?”
“Blood-spiller Death-hacker Groat.”
“So what? We ain’t impressed by titles.”
“I hadn't finished. Blood-spiller Death-hacker Groat, Third order of the Second Trimester of Skagos, leaders of oppression and shaggers extraordinaire.”
“Did you say Skagos?”
“I did.”
“Would you be a Skagan?”
“That I would be.”
“Then we may have a deal. Do you have any Skagan women on the ship?”
“Yes, we always carry one for emergencies.”
“Then we would love to meet her, in exchange for a proportion of our cargo of course. What do you need?”
“Food, water and clothing, would be sufficient.”
“We have some we can spare. Trouble is, the clothing is a special order from a unique and stylish supplier, mostly in tweed and tartan. We can do you a few outfits, I suppose. How desperate are you?”
“Ruthlessly desperate,” said Groat. “Dangerously desperate. Hungrily desperate.”
“You said you had eggs to trade?”
“And a rather nice Nishifiddich spirit,” said Tom.
“Then we can exchange. Send over your woman to collect the goods.”
Spigot stood in the loading bay, freshly showered but looking tired and ravaged. There was a pile of boxes in front of her.
“You took your time. How was it?” said Tom, kindly. “You have performed us a great service.”
“I have performed, certainly,” said Spigot, wavering on her feet. Tom caught her.
“What happened?”
“It seems that the good ship, Ahoy, was also carrying a passenger contingent of gong-farmers who had been on board for the last few years. That ship doesn’t have the Doku-drive, so relies on the conventional power of nuclear fusion to make it go. Very slow. They will be travelling for a few more years before they get to Glenforbis, so were making the most of the opportunity.”
“You could have said ‘no’.”
“They gave me a bumper sticker, and the Skagan diktat does not permit me to say no. I had to remain until everyone had been given the correct greeting.”
“But you got the provisions.”
“Only when I showed them the Doku-Blaster I found in the hold. I haven’t tried firing it yet, I didn’t need to. I’ve no idea what’s in the boxes. I can’t see straight at the moment.”
Tom tore at the tape sealing the first carton. “Ow, it was booby-trapped. I cut my finger on the cardboard. This does not bode radiantly for ourselves or the Ahoy. Pete, are you ready with those guns?”
“Give them a chance,” came Pete’s voice on the ship’s communications network. “See what’s inside first.”
“Is there something wrong with the guns?”
“Nothing, but I’ve just got to complete my daily objectives for the ‘Great Borrow Manual’ game I’m playing. If I stop now, the system will kick me out, and it was a real pain getting the Galactinet link in the first place. I had to take the navigation systems offline to get enough bandwidth.”
“Without navigation, how do we know where we are?”
“We are here, obviously,” said Pete sarcastically. “I’ll switch back over when I’ve done the objectives. So, what’s in the boxes?”
“Clothing,” said Tom. “Tweed suits, hats and shoes.”
“Tweed is this year’s most fashionable material for footgear, even though it itches like mad,” added Spigot.
Tom tipped the box out on to the bay. “Looks like a few sets. At least we have changes of outfit now.”
“Great,” said the Magus joining them. “These are excellent, if a little large.” He regarded one of the suits. “It might need taking in a bit.”
“I think I recognise these items,” said Spigot, walking stiffly over to the pile. She stripped off and put on one of the uniforms. Tom politely looked the other way while she did so, but the Magus watched with interest.
“Very nice,” he said eventually. “It seems to fit you rather perfectly.”
“It’s the make,” said Spigot, referring to the label. “It is designed to expand or contract depending on the wearer. Maximum load 120 kilograms.”
“Not suitable for most people on Glenforbis, then,” said the Magus.
“I think that’s why they were prepared to part with them without too much of a struggle. They are keeping the larger sizes. Do you like the hat? It was Kara’s.”
“At least it’s something to wear,” said Tom. “I wonder what else there is.”
“I’ll open the boxes and find out,” said the Magus, putting on a pair of thick gloves as a precaution. “Hopefully, there’s some provisions in here too.”
Spigot regarded herself in one of the polished panels in the loading bay. “I think we need a name for ourselves now,” she said pensively. “Smartly and expensively dressed, to strike fear into the ‘Sapristi Main’.”
“The Sapristi main what?”
“No, this area of space is next to the Sapristi Mainland, and hence ‘the Sapristi Main’.”
“Right, so we are delivering terror into this area of space then? Not quite what I had in mind.”
“We can cause panic in name only,” said the Magus, inspecting the label on a jacket he had pulled out of another box. “The return of Neckbeard and the Burberry Pirates. We won’t need to fight; the mere show of our flag will be sufficient.”
“And we will pay them back, when I get my company released,” said Tom.
“Of course we will,” said the Magus, patting him condescendingly on the arm.
