Art:Space Pirates/Zed's Story
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Zed's Story
by Madthorne
Purpose. Nothing keeps you alive like serving a purpose. Being part of a system. I've been a useful member of society for 73 years now, and my mind is as spry as it was at 20. I've adapted. Don't adapt, and you die.
Take the Hackney. A good ship, and still in service after half a century because she's adapted. My purpose has been to help her adapt. I've been her lifeline, and she's been mine, ever since I was in my 20s. Over the years, I've installed a new antigravity gym, the latest deatomizing doors, the most luxurious hypnobeds in passenger cabins. Sure, the Hackney looks a little dated from the outside, but, then, so do I. It's what's inside that counts, and my Hackney has the best innards a space ship could ask for.
And it's a good thing, too. Seven captains have come and gone in the time I've served as Hackney's mechanic, and their replacements have gotten progressively more inept. I suppose since the Hackney's not the top-of-the-line assignment she once was, she gets less and less impressive candidates. The newest captain has no regard for what a fine piece of equipment he's manning. I've seen him bump docking stations, veer into asteroid storms, even slam his fist down on the console. "Hackneyed," he calls my baby. No clue at all.
A passenger says to me over lunch, "The captain seems a fine sort, don't you think?" A beady-eyed little scientist, Dr. Tamar Flint, looking for some small talk to while away the time. I have years of small talk under my belt. It's a survival skill, especially considering how much the price of rum's gone up.
"Tumbler for my friend," Dr. Flint wisely says, and so I oblige him.
"Let me tell you about Captain Nicholas Worthington," I say. "Day one: The man arrives with seventeen plutonium-sheathed chests. Seventeen! Why, when I was a lad, a captain who shipped off with more than one uniform was considered a bit light in the heels, if you know what I mean. And plutonium-sheathed! One ounce of plutonium would buy rum for all of us for a month. He's certainly not buying those chests on a navy salary."
"Plutonium, hmm?" Dr. Flint muses. "Most likely mixed with gallium, which would make those chests very useful for storing palladium..."
"Day two," I continue. "Captain Worthington announces that the First Mate will no longer be seated at the Captain's Table, as has been the custom." I motion to the table, which is sequestered in its own fancy little dining room cove, lit by a quantum crystal chandelier. "Now, I'm not a stickler for tradition, exactly -- adapt or die, that's my motto -- but who's ever heard of a captain who doesn't want to fraternize with his First Mate, eh? Something a little weird about that."
Dr. Flint is so kind as to order me another round of rum.
"I helped mount that Captain's Table, back in 2198. That was a good year for uniforms, too. The navy added a little silver thread to the ruggedtex cloth, and in just the right light it looked like you were glowing. Plus the stuff kept you warm, unlike these days..."
"But Captain Worthington?" Dr. Flint prompts.
"Well!" I say. "I have no doubt the man is a skilled tactician, but the fact that he keeps veering into neutral space leads me to believe that his navigational skills are hardly up to snuff. Let's just say that if the navy knew how often he's dipped into Sector 248Q, he'd be knocked a rank or two. Back when I was a lad, a captain set a course and he stuck to it, unless he was blocked by a black hole or two, and even then -- let me tell you, this one captain, he calculated how to use the outer event horizon to give us a little centrifugal force, and zing we were off --"
"Sector 248Q!" Dr. Flint exclaims. "Isn't that the quadrant where the Tortetchta people live, the ones who are said to be more technologically advanced than even the Fliptomites?"
These scientists, they have their little obsessions. I find it's best to nod along. "Sure," I say. "I think I even saw the captain talking to one of them. But let me tell you about day three of our captain's reign. That's the day we picked up his 'girlfriend,' Gorgeia. Now, I could almost forgive the captain for his general arrogance based on the beauty of this girl, but there's something awfully strange-"
Just then my ear transponder goes off. "Zed, please report to floor 8, transporter room 4; floor 8, transporter room 4."
I sigh, and lift my nearly six-foot set of bones from the cafeteria stool.
"A real pleasure to meet you," says Dr. Flint, and I smile gently. Bored passengers are grateful for so little.
Transporter room 4, I know, means that the calibrators are off again. I keep telling the transport operators that you just have to jiggle the knobs a bit, but kids these days want everything to be perfect. They can't understand how a little bit of oddity can be a lovable thing in an inanimate object. Would you like your SportShip better, I say, if it didn't veer slightly to the right in a stellar wind gust? Doesn't that slight veer charm you a little, make you feel more connected to your ship, make it feel more alive?
But, no, they look at me like I'm crazy.
I tinker with old Hackney's transporter panel until the kids are happy, and then I set off to check up on the molecular menu in the Special Dietary Chamber, where passengers with particular nutritional needs can order meals to their liking. Even some of the more modern ships don't offer this service, I think proudly. Hackney's dietary room is a marvel of design efficiency, with two booths that monitor vital signs. Running my hands over one of the booth's curvilinear lines, I'm startled to see that there's an occupant. It's Gorgeia, the Captain's girl.
She steps out, smiling. No need for a computer to let you know this one's vital: her lime skin shimmers, and her hair, which is a vivid pink, undulates slowly, as if in a different temporal plane.
"Working OK for you?" I ask.
"Per-fect-ly," she murmurs, turning to me with her lavender eyes. Her skin shades to a darker green where it dips into crevices... above her lips... on her collar bone...
I force myself to stop staring. I am 73 years old, and my purpose no longer involves procreation. When Gorgeia leaves the Dietary Chamber, however, I can't resist looking up her document. She has requested a menu of "dinoflagellates," which Hackney's trusty computer defines as a type of algae. A most peculiar diet for a humanoid female, I think, but women do like their peculiar diets.
That night, I am mildly surprised to see Dr. Flint seated at the Captain's Table, between Worthington and Gorgeia. He's laughing at something she's saying, but when I catch his eye, he winks. I look curiously at what's on Gorgeia's plate. It looks like an ordinary bowl of cauliflower soup.
Before the second course, the Captain stands to address the passengers.
"I'd like to raise a toast to an uneventful voyage," he says. I nod and take a sip of my rum, but then he continues. "We will be making one unscheduled stop, a quick rendezvous tomorrow afternoon to take on some cargo. During this stop, I'd like to request that all passengers and non-vital crew stay off the cargo floor."
I've never heard a captain request that, I think. Soon, however, I'm distracted by one of my tablemates, a schoolteacher on vacation who wants to hear a story. "There was this one captain, he was the first to use the outer event horizon of a black hole..."
The next day at lunch, the doctor's at my table. As soon as I sit, he orders me a rum.
"Let me tell you a little story about your captain," he says. "The man knows more about the Tortetchtians than anyone with an academic degree. He's been trading secretly with them on the side. A remarkable achievement! In fact, our stop this afternoon is to meet up with them. Finally, I'll get a look at a Tortetchtian ship!"
"Let's just make sure he doesn't bump them accidentally when docking," I mumble.
The doctor laughs and rubs his hands together.
The captain does, in fact, get the coordinates slightly wrong for our rendezvous, and is forced to perform an awkward little space ballet when we meet up with the other ship. I wince as the thrusters hum through cycles, knowing that Hackney's drive will have to be tuned up afterwards. Beside the monstrous orange Tortetchtian ship, my Hackney looks small but proud, her silver lines glimmering nobly in the scant light of deep space.
Although I've been banned from the cargo floor, no one said anything about the control room, and I shimmy my way into it soon after we dock. Captain Worthington gives me a suspicious glance, but I busy myself with the wiring for the coordinate dataport. "Noticed it was giving you trouble," I mumble, and he nods and goes back to gazing at the navigational display screen.
What appears onscreen is not an alien face but that of a mild-looking humanoid male with thinning hair.
"Ahoy. I am Edny Pachenga, representative of the Intergalactic Trade Federation," the face intones. Captain Worthington groans. Apparently, the Tortetchtians have gone legitimate.
"Ahoy, Mr. Pachenga," the captain replies loudly. "There's really no need for your involvement here. I had this trade mission set up weeks ago, and it's a fairly standard exchange."
"Ah, well," Mr. Pachenga says. "The Tortetchtians have authorized me to make some changes. They're no longer interested in what you were offering. Instead, they'd like to make a trade for your ship."
I sit up straighter.
"The Hackneyed?" Captain Worthington says, sounding confused. "Why on earth--?"
"I've already contacted the navy, and they've approved the transaction. Apparently, they were about to decommission your vessel anyway. The Tortetchtians have offered an impressive price, along with a substitute vessel so that you may complete your passenger delivery."
"What kind of a substitute vessel?" asks the captain.
"Oh, very high tech. Top of the line. Fully automated. Hardly needs a crew!" Mr. Pachenga laughs.
I clutch the edges of the jump seat I've collapsed into. No, no, no! I think. He'll say no, of course!
"Sounds all right to me," Captain Worthington shrugs. And as he does, something recalibrates in me. I feel my engines whirring, an alarm sound in my ears.
"THEY CAN'T HAVE THE HACKNEY!" I find myself shouting. Worthington turns to me with a look of astonishment, but I've already pulled a syscog from my tool belt and thrust it deep into the dataport in front of me. Sparks fly, chips crack, and the entire right-side array of the control goes dark.
"Stop him!" Worthington shouts, but I'm headed for my next goal: the life support controls. With a deft movement I flip open the access panel and disrupt the laser breaker, and a blue fog spews out of the air filtration system. I hear crewmembers coughing. Someone grabs at me. I swing wildly. Then I look up. It's Gorgeia.
Her touch is calming and cool. Her eyes draw me in like fields of flowers. Arms wrap around me, fingers stroke my neck. My breathing evens out, my heartbeat slows to match hers. And then... it's as if a million little mouths are nibbling at me, forcing their way through my skin. Then -- I have no skin. My cells melt away, my bones turn to jelly. It's useless to scream, because suddenly my vocal chords are not my own. "You are being colonized," a voice tells me -- but the voice is inside me; it is me. I gasp, and my impulse to struggle ceases. A blissful feeling of union floods me. Gazing down at my lime-tinged skin, I smile.
Purpose. Nothing keeps you alive like serving a purpose, being part of a system. I've been a useful member of society for 7,678 years now, and my mind is as spry as it was at 20. I've adapted. Don't adapt, and you die.
