📘The Star Pirate's Folly | 3: Swashbucklers

Free-spirited merchant spacefarers are often victims of piracy... or accused of it.

Dec 15, 2023

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Chapter 3: Swashbucklers

By the time Bee turned sixteen, she had risen from soapy obscurity in the kitchens to the respectable rank of concierge. Hargrove and the other staff taught her well, and as Bee learned she made herself more useful around the hotel. She became indispensable to Hargrove, but always worried if she didn’t do enough she’d find herself back on the streets again.

After her first two weeks on the job, Hargrove had helped her set up a bank account and so he could pay her instead of just letting her stay in the hotel.

Ever since Bee could remember, business had been, as Hargrove remarked from time to time, regrettably slow. Piracy was rampant in the trading and travel routes between the planets, and fewer traders and travelers meant fewer guests. The regulars they did have were kind, generous, and loyal for the most part—but they were becoming scarcer as the years passed.

Despite the hotel’s seemingly inevitable slide into failure, Bee finally had a firm grasp on her life for the first time. She nurtured a nest egg of credits, fed with whatever she could manage from her hotel wages. For the first time in recent memory, Bee felt safe.

But she didn’t waste time enjoying herself. As Bee worked, she kept up her hunt for the man who orphaned her. She would find the man with sky-blue eyes.

Buy Me A Coffee ☕

Life at the Midtown Hotel became a blur of familiar monotony. Bee worked, ate, slept when she needed it, and continued her fruitless investigation into her mother’s death. One of her daily tasks was checking online bounty boards for mugshots. The most important detail she retained was his face. He had pale skin, short black hair, and those striking sky-blue eyes. Unmistakable.

Those eyes haunted her just like Mother’s voice, leering at her in her dreams. Glancing at her from the shadows. Bee spent a lot of time holding her memory of the man’s face in her head, burning it in so she’d never forget. She drew his face in computer programs, spent hours trying to get all the details right. If she lost his face she’d never find him.

In the months after securing her job at the Midtown Hotel, Bee tried requesting old police records from the city, hoping the man had been through their system. Nothing. Then she tried looking for any files containing her mother’s name, thinking they might have a police report from the day of the attack. But there was no report at all made in her mother’s name.

Bee found out from bank records that the bastard had gotten Mother to sign marriage certificates and fill out all kinds of official forms before he did anything. According to the police, it was all somehow disgustingly legal. That was why it was so easy for him to bleed their accounts dry. He knew just what he needed, and he’d done everything through various fake identities to cover his tracks.

Bee combed through all the new bounties in the system individually—usually it was a few dozen every day. After that she would just flick through the old ones, planning to go as far back as the records did. Some nights she fell asleep this way, and in the morning she’d wake up to the slack-jawed stare of some outer-belt meathead.

Most bounties were easily dismissed, but every once in a while, a face would make her heart jump. Then she’d check into each promising lead and find they’d never been to Surface, or they were too young, or too old, or whatever.

Amazing what she could find out about people online. Everywhere they went, people left trails. Eventually she had a pretty long list going of white males with black hair and blue eyes that were definitely not the man she was looking for. But after two years of searching, that’s the most Bee could give to Mother.

***

One morning, an old man with a thick beard and a serious drinking problem stumbled into the hotel bar. Normally as a concierge, Bee would have been helping people to their rooms or standing behind the front desk bored out of her mind. But she’d been asked to cover for the bartender after he dropped a bottle of lotus wine and sliced his hand open cleaning it up. Not long after that, the old man entered. She must have poured him six drinks already, and each time he ran out—

“Another,” Slack Dog said, and pounded his empty mug down. He fished a black coin out of his pocket and rapped it against the bar. She waved away the coin—it was the third time he’d tried to pay with them. People on the Core worlds did everything in credits, a digital currency.

“It’s on your tab, sir,” she reminded him as she refilled his mug. Old ex-captains always liked to be called sir. “Credits, remember.”

“Ah, mm-hmm,” he said, clearly ignoring her words as he watched the wine pour. “Lovely.”

Lotus wine gave a pleasant body buzz, mild euphoria, and a sense of relaxation. The deep red-purple wine was the local intoxication of choice, deriving its properties from a psychoactive fruit native to Surface called the lotus. With bony fingers, Slack Dog slid the mug in front of himself and gulped the drink with a half-lidded look of bliss. Nearly three bottles he’d gone through!

Luckily, Hargrove had stocked up on lotus wine in preparation for the upcoming Fated Lovers Festival. Every year, cities all across the planet celebrated the approach of a pair of comets with boring official scientific names Bee could never remember. Everyone she knew just called them Orpheus and Eurydice, the Fated Lovers. She liked that better.

The two comets had shared the same elliptical orbit for hundreds of years, but this time around things were supposed to change. The comet in the lead, Orpheus, was projected to orbit safely around Lux; but Eurydice would plow straight into the inferno and be absorbed. Apparently, it was just like some old story from Earth and everyone always raved about the celebration.

A loud belch from Slack Dog interrupted her thoughts. “Used to be a privateer captain, y’know,” he said. “The starship Wanderlust. A fickle ship, she was.”

“Yes, sir,” Bee said, nodding. “You told me all about her.”

“Oh, howbout that. Did I tell y’about Cap’n Slack Dog’s Deep-Space—”

“—Deep-Space Adventuring Company, yeah,” she said, cutting him off. “Fantastic idea.”

He burped again and made a grunt of recognition, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to the bar. He’d been looking for someone all day, checking anyone who walked through the doors.

“Expecting someone?” Bee asked.

Slack Dog turned back to her and smirked. “Caught me. Ain’t expecting anyone particular, though. Just keeping an eye out.”

“You want anything to eat?” she asked.

His eyes shot open wide, spindly red veins stark against the whites. “To eat? Yes. Food.”

Slack Dog rummaged through his pocket for more of his odd black coins and scattered several across the counter before Bee could protest again.

“Food please,” he said. “Should cover me.”

Bee suppressed a sigh and tapped an order into the projection display in front of her, suspecting the intoxicated man didn’t much care what he was served. She scooped up the coins to hand them back to Slack Dog, wondering where the inky black money might have come from. They were all uniform in size and color, but they didn’t seem to weigh enough, which puzzled her as she held them in her palm. A thin silver band wrapped around the edge of each coin.

“It’s all real,” Slack Dog said. “G’head, take a bite. See for yourself.”

“Credits, sir. I can’t take these. But where are they from?” Bee asked as she handed them back. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“Past the belt. It’s all cash money out there.” Slack Dog pushed two back across the bar to her. “That’s for you, darlin’. Lemme know if you see any spacefarin’ types come in—anyone looks like they ain’t from the Core. Be a couple more in it for you tonight.”

She nodded and pocketed the coins, but before she could ask him to elaborate, Slack Dog abruptly slid off his seat and stumbled out of the bar. Bee tried to ask if he wanted his food brought up to his room, but her efforts proved futile—he moved with the determined, wayward gait of a drunkard on his way to bed. She’d just bring it up to him when it was ready. That way she could leave it at his door if he didn’t answer.

“Order up!” came a shout from Gunther.

Bee pushed the door behind the bar open, grabbed the two plates of food she had ordered for Slack Dog, and placed them on a wheeled trolley. Time for room service.

“Hey Gunther,” she called to the chef. “I’m gonna take this up to 302. Bar’s empty.”

After a brief elevator ride, Bee arrived on the third floor and pushed the trolley out in front of her toward room 302. The door was already open. Bee tapped a knuckle against it, peeked inside.

“Mister, uh—Slack Dog?” she said.

No answer.

As Bee edged into the room, she heard snoring and rolled her eyes. He’d fallen asleep with the door open. Careless. She wheeled the trolley through the rest of the way. The snoring was coming from the bathroom—when Bee glanced inside she saw Slack Dog passed out on the toilet, pants puddled at his feet. His chin rested against his chest, rising and falling with each breath. Bee stifled a laugh and whirled out of the room, leaving the trolley behind.

She shut the door behind her and nearly plowed into a tall, square-jawed man in the hallway. He wore an oversized brown trench coat and made no effort to move out of her space.

For a moment, she thought she recognized his face. Then the man’s stench reached her nostrils—stagnant sweat and something like pickled vegetables. A glint of metal underneath his coat caught her eye—a black armored nullsuit.

“Can I help you?” she asked, trying not to breathe. She didn’t think it was possible to stink through a suit of armor, but the proof was all around her.

“I’ll bet you can.” The man’s lips parted in a lecher’s grin, and his beady brown eyes spent too much time looking her up and down. “Full service, eh?”

Bee glared and crossed her arms. Spacefarin’ types, Slack Dog had said. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She wished she still had the safety of the locked door between them. She’d dealt with men like this before in her old life—but she’d stopped carrying Janey’s knife during her shifts a long time ago.

“This room’s occupied,” she said.

“Oh, I was just looking for something to eat,” he said. He leaned closer to her and drew in a deep breath through his nose as he put his arm out to block her in. “I smelled something delicious and savory. You know where I could find something like that?”

Bee gagged as he leaned closer, waving his stink away from her face as she backed away as much as she could. The muscles in her gut clamped tight as she retched and yelled, “Ugh, did you shit yourself?”

Caught off guard, he backpedaled as if she’d struck him. “Wh-what, no?”

Bee sidestepped out of the doorway, well out of his reach, thumbed the button for the elevator without looking, and kept her eyes locked on him. She knew his face. The doors slid open with a chime.

The man stood outside Slack Dog’s room, shaking his head with envy, leering at her chest and legs even in the formless magenta outfit. Bee committed his face to memory, searching for defining characteristics—a chipped front tooth, crooked nose, and a naked patch in one eyebrow from scarring. She’d seen that face somewhere before. His eyes finally made it to hers and he straightened up when he saw the look on her face.

Bee grinned at him as the elevator doors slid shut before he could move. She selected the ground floor and her stomach dropped a bit as the elevator started with a slight jolt. She took a deep, trembling breath. The Midtown had its share of shady customers from time to time, but generally the clientele was pretty mellow.

She’d gotten used to the relative safety of the hotel and felt a twinge of wounded pride. A few years ago, if a guy had gotten in her space like that she’d have been more than ready to defend herself. But it had been weeks since she even set foot on the city streets. The hotel had everything she needed, had become a kind of sanctuary for her.

First Slack Dog, and now the man in the black nullsuit—outliers in the boring existence she’d come to enjoy. As the elevator doors opened to the ground floor, she resolved to find Hargrove.

The old bear had chased out belligerent guests before. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but worry gnawed away in her gut as she thought about the way that man wore that coat to hide his armor.

As close as they were to the spaceport, it wasn’t exactly uncommon to see people walking around in nullsuits. But the only people she’d ever seen wearing them were from the Core Fleet, which she suspected the man she’d met was definitely not. The ones she’d seen never tried to hide their armor. Whatever the case, Hargrove would know what to do.

Buy Me A Coffee ☕

As Bee passed the bar area on her way to the front desk, she glanced over to see if any other guests had wandered in. Something on the bar where Slack Dog had been sitting glinted in the light.

Upon closer inspection, she saw it was a datapad. The thing was old—hardly anyone used them anymore since they could do everything they needed on display lenses. The thin, palm-sized device had a shiny black screen which displayed the time.

She hadn’t noticed it before while she was behind the bar, but Slack Dog must have left it. Bee pocketed the datapad and turned back to the lobby, figuring she’d take it up to him once she found Hargrove.

She’d make him go in and actually give it to the old man—she shuddered at the thought of seeing Slack Dog’s… slack dog.

As Bee left the bar, she waved down Hargrove while he was escorting a guest out the front doors. He motioned for her to wait and Bee followed him through the lobby to the entrance, standing nearby while he gave the woman his usual jovial goodbye treatment. A young doorman took the woman’s bags and Hargrove came back inside.

“Hey,” she said to him.

“Hey yourself, Bee,” he replied, and jerked a finger toward the empty bar. “Are my customers supposed to serve their own drinks around here?”

“Actually, I need to talk to you,” she said. “You saw that guy at the bar earlier, right?”

Hargrove curled his lip. “What is it? Pirate?”

“Ex-privateer.”

“Phah!” he waved a hand. “I knew it! Pirate, privateer—if there’s a difference I have yet to see it. Bunch of ruffians!”

Hargrove harbored a deep-seated distaste for anyone who, as he said, reduced themselves to such barbarism. The thin line between piracy and privateering was merely a legal distinction—the latter was authorized by the government, the former was not, but the work they carried out was the same. Pillage and plunder. Pirates just didn’t follow the rules on who to target.

“Well, some weird guy was hanging around his room when I went to bring him some food he ordered,” Bee said. Then she added, “Oh, and the guy—Slack Dog—he didn’t pay his tab. He kept trying to use these. Says he’s from past the belt.”

Bee showed him the coins Slack Dog had given her. Hargrove retrieved a pair of inspectacles from his inner jacket pocket. He slid them onto his nose and poked at the coins in her hand with one thick finger as the computerized lenses analyzed the coins’ markings and composition.

“From Styx, eh? Hmmm,” he said. “Don’t see this stuff here much. Beltway folks don’t trust digital money like we do—they make physical money from nullsteel. See the band of metal around the edge? That’s to give it weight, so they don’t just float away on you.”

Hargrove removed the inspectacles and replaced them in his jacket pocket. Bee put the coins away.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know. Pretty valuable then? I mean, they make ships out of it, right?”

Hargrove shrugged. “Well, each coin only has a small amount. Depends how much he’s got. Why?”

“Well I’m pretty sure that guy I told you about wanted into 302—”

“Whoa, whoa, what kind of weird guy are we talking about here?”

“Tall, ugly, kind of a jerk. Scar on his left eyebrow. He was wearing a nullsuit under his coat,” she said, and Hargrove stiffened. “Stank like he’d been inside it for days at least.”

Hargrove pointed over her shoulder. “That guy?”

Bee followed his finger and caught a glimpse of the man in the brown coat before he disappeared around a corner. He was headed to the hotel’s back exit—it was the only thing down that hallway besides a few rooms. His face nagged at her again. He wasn’t someone she’d seen at the hotel before. But she couldn’t quite place him. Why would she know his face?

“That’s him,” she said.

“Well, he’s gone now. Problem solved.”

“Let’s go check on 302,” she said, and moved to the elevators before Hargrove could argue. He followed her with an exasperated huff.

“You shouldn’t let your imagination get the better of you,” Hargrove chided her as they entered the elevator.

She punched the button for the third floor.

“No, I’m not imagining things, Hargrove,” she said. “You just don’t like dealing with stuff like this. Something’s up. I know that guy’s face.”

The elevator rose with a lurch.

“Something’s up,” he repeated. “Something’s always up.”

Bee opened her mouth to say something else, but was silenced by a thump in her chest followed by a deafening roar. The elevator stopped with a violent shake, and she was thrown against Hargrove. He grabbed her and pushed her into a corner, protecting her with his body. All she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

Hargrove was already dialing the emergency number into his pad. She could see his lips moving from frantic shouting, but couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t talking to her anyway. Dazed, Bee shook her head.

Then it hit her like a slap in the face: the man in the nullsuit had outstanding bounties. That’s why she’d recognized him—she’d flicked past his face on the bounty boards before! Stupid. If she’d made the connection sooner she might have warned Hargrove.

“Hargrove, I know him,” she said. “He’s wanted. He’s got a bounty.”

“Hang on,” Hargrove said to the dispatcher, covering the receiver. “The name, Bee, give me the name!”

“Jensen Lee!” she shouted. “His name’s Jensen Lee!”