Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  “I think we eventually bumbled our way into figuring that out,” said Honda, looking through more papers.

  “Right,” I said. “So you understand how important it was to get him away from Henderson. And out of Ritsuko City.”

  “Well, let me speak for all of Ritsuko City when I express my gratitude for your courageous act of heroism,” said Honda, getting up and taking a few slow steps toward me. “After all, our humble, fully equipped police force were doomed to fail where only a middle-aged space bum could succeed.”

  “Look—”

  “No, you look.” He hurled his sushi sandwich to the floor and injected enough sudden venom into his voice to instantly render me silent. “We’ve done some digging on you, since you made yourself so public. You’ve got a history going back even before Quantunneling. Smuggling. People trafficking. Nuclear-waste dumping. Did you know there’s an entire colony of sentient ferrets on Pushka 5-Beta that are sterile because of you?”

  I knew I should’ve picked a moon with less-cute inhabitants. I shook my head.

  “You’re the worst kind of star pilot,” he pressed on, stepping closer still like a hunter stalking a wounded gazelle. “Throwing out some bullshit self-­righteous philosophy while you tread all over innocent people’s lives because giving a shit about anybody else is slightly less important to you than looking cool and devil-may-care. Well.” He slapped his paperwork. “We’ve got enough on you already to keep you in a cell just like this one until Jacques McKeown books come back around to being fashionable.”

  By now, he was right up to the plexiglass. I looked down, and noticed that I had unconsciously sagged back down onto the bed. When I looked up, Honda was holding out a smartphone.

  “Sorry.” He had regained his sleepy, expressionless voice. “That’s for me. I collect pictures of bad guys in the moment when they realize they’re the bad guy. So. You were thinking about how you’re going to wriggle out of this one?”

  “No,” I said, probably too quickly.

  “Yeah, you were. Don’t exhaust yourself. I’ve got a convenient ­wriggling-out package all nice and prepared for you.” He dangled his papers in front of me, attempting to clean off a smear of soy sauce with the back of his hand. “This can all go away. It’d save me having to type it up over the weekend. You’ll just have to help me out with something.”

  I replied with a mildly intrigued silence. Encouraged, Honda turned about and went back for his chair. I had to sit and wait as he noisily dragged it the ten or so feet to my cell door and plopped back into it, exhausted from the effort.

  “You’re a little fish, Dashford Pierce,” he said, once he had his breath back. “You’re a little fish swimming in the wake of a very big shark. Called Henderson.”

  My silence became a few notches more intrigued, but not for the reason Honda probably thought. It occurred to me that his intelligence on the state of the Henderson organization was almost certainly out of date.

  “You’re in with the Hendersons. They think you’re Jacques McKeown,” he continued. “I don’t know what that kidnapping business was about, but I know Henderson isn’t the kind of person who just lets things happen to him. I don’t care what the big scam was, I just know you’re in it and that means we can help each other out.”

  I gave a little cough. “So just to clarify,” I said, not daring to let myself believe it. “You’ll drop all the charges against me if I promise to help . . .” I took a moment to choose my words carefully. “Remove the Henderson problem?”

  Honda’s ever sleepy eyes narrowed even further. “Don’t try to slip me up with language. After he’s removed as a problem. Then you get your pardon.”

  I pretended to think about it. “I’m going to need this in writing.”

  There was a crash as a distant door flew open, and I saw two new figures striding across the circular room toward me. Honda jumped to his feet and gathered his hands behind him, visibly gritting his teeth.

  The first new arrival was a broad man in a dark suit far too expensive and well tailored to belong to a police officer. He also had Japanese features and a haircut that had clearly been carefully chosen to be completely inoffensive to most demographics and pressure groups, so I assumed he was some kind of politician. “All right, stop whatever this is,” he demanded as soon as he was in conversational range. “We’ve got his lawyer here.”

  The second person was a stately woman in a blouse and skirt, who was holding some paperwork out in front of her the way a vampire hunter holds a crucifix. “I am the lawyer representing Blasé Books,” she stated, for her manner of speech could only be described as stating, never saying. “And whatever this is needs to stop.”

  “Mayor Sanshiro,” said Honda in greeting. “How nice of you to visit. I was just asking Mr. McKeown to sign a couple of books for my daughter.”

  Sanshiro shook a meaty finger under Honda’s nose as Honda politely leaned away from it. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Honda, but you can forget about it. Whatever was said before we got here doesn’t count.”

  “I am a lawyer and anything my client said before my arrival must be disregarded,” said the lawyer.

  “Do you know how much Jacques McKeown has done for this city, Inspector?” asked Sanshiro.

  Honda ran his gaze sluggishly across the papers he still had with him before answering. “Yeah, I have a pretty complete list of things he did to the city right here. Extensive damage to the tarmac of four major streets. Extensive—”

  “Jacques McKeown fans from all over the galaxy come to this city to see the star pilots lined up at the spaceport!” boomed the mayor. “The hotels on those streets are already booked out for months with tourists wanting to see the damage! And perhaps you could do your job as a police inspector and inspect what the contents of that cryopod were?”

  Honda gave a little grimace. “I apologize, Your Grace, please inform me what was in the cryopod.”

  “Terrorgorn himself!”

  “Oh my goodness.” Honda was expressionless. “How shortsighted of me not to have investigated that.”

  “Well, you should have done,” huffed Sanshiro. “Now, please explain to us why you are holding Mr. McKeown prisoner when you should be shaking his hand and thanking him for his service to the people of this city?”

  “I am a lawyer and my clients are requesting an explanation along the aforesaid lines,” said the lawyer.

  Honda let his head fall forward and shake back and forth, looking more and more like he was going to collapse into a narcoleptic coma at any ­moment. He squinted at me, blinking rapidly as if the light of my being had begun to dazzle him. “The thing is, Your Grace, I’m not entirely convinced that we are holding Jacques McKeown. I have reason to suspect this gentleman may have infiltrated Henderson’s convention under false pretenses.”

  Sanshiro scoffed. He was very good at scoffing, he had exactly the right build for effectively drawing himself back as his powerful lungs barked their entire contents in disbelief. “Preposterous! We’ve got a lawyer here and she would know!”

  “I am a lawyer and I can confirm that records show royalties for Jacques McKeown book sales being paid to this individual’s account,” said the lawyer.

  “Is that right.” Honda produced a ballpoint from his stained shirt pocket.

  “Yes, and believe me, Honda, Blasé Books has the kind of money that doesn’t make mistakes,” said Sanshiro.

  Honda added the promised asterisk to my list of charges. “Unfortunately, the civic destruction is something we are certain about, and it is still a crime.”

  “You can let it slide, can’t you?” said Sanshiro. He turned to the lawyer, who pointedly swiveled her gaze elsewhere, not wishing to join him on this shakier ground.

  “I could, if I had some kind of official order from the city council,” said Honda nonchalantly. “Which I’m assuming you have, because
I’m sure you wouldn’t storm in here trying to muscle over my jurisdiction if you didn’t.”

  Sanshiro sagged as the lawyer maintained silence and continued sweeping her gaze around the rest of the room, stopping just short of breaking into a casual whistle. The mayor of Ritsuko City didn’t hold much actual power, since all government action needed to be debated and voted on by the city council. The mayor’s main duty was to cut ribbons at opening ceremonies, because it was a position elected by popular vote, and as such couldn’t be trusted with any responsibility.

  “The council are debating it,” he admitted. “But don’t make any long plans for Mr. McKeown’s stay, Honda. The council understands his value.”

  “Debating it, are they?” Honda straightened up. “I’ve always wanted to see a council debate. Perhaps I’ll pop over for a visit. I’ve been working on a file for this case, and I’d love to get their opinion on it.”

  Sanshiro and I watched him amble slowly across the room, like a delinquent who’d been ordered out of class but was determined to draw their performance out as long as possible.

  “I’m so sorry about this, Mr. McKeown,” said Sanshiro, turning to me and wringing his hands. “I hope you won’t judge your city’s government by the way one representative treats such an eminent personage as yourself. But don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here as soon as possible.”

  “I am a lawyer,” explained the lawyer.

  I was still keeping quiet and expressionless, because I had the feeling that events were still developing in ways I didn’t necessarily want to interrupt, but my eye was drawn to Honda. He had been stopped on his way to the exit by one of the desk officers, who now appeared to be showing him a video on their tablet.

  When the video was over, Honda shifted his weight backwards, clutching his sides with his hands, apparently contemplating some new development. Then he resumed his walk to the exit with a much more determined gait, and pushed the door open a crack without attempting to pass through it.

  He slammed the door closed again after being greeted by an explosion of camera shutters and flashbulbs, then took a moment to put his hands on his hips and think for a while, shaking his head. Then he ambled back toward my cell, neatly grabbing the tablet from the central desk as he passed it by.

  “Sorry to interrupt, ladies and gents,” he said, elbowing his way back into Sanshiro’s expanding cloud of platitudes. “Something here you should probably be aware of.” He held the tablet out.

  On the screen, accessorized with the idents of every news media company that had gotten hold of the video, was the face of Terrorgorn. The camera was zoomed closely in on his insincere nervous half smile, but I could tell he was still wearing the clothes I had given him. I also recognized the color scheme of the decor behind him. He was on the main concourse of Salvation Station.

  He let his natural menace exude for a few moments before opening his mouth to speak, but then his cheeks reddened and his mouth clamped shut again. He took a deliberate step back, and a Biskotti came into frame, apparently pushed there by several pairs of small yellow hands. It blinked rapidly in the spotlight, before sheer panic made it start talking.

  “Er, we, the followers of Terrorgorn, have been brought by our wonderful leader to this, the palace of the Ancients,” it squeaked. Their eyes began to glaze over in rapture. “We, the forgotten people of Biskot, will avenge ourselves upon the Ancients and the false deities of Speedstar for the crime of abandoning—”

  “Hmmm,” went Terrorgorn uncertainly. The spokes-Biskotti flinched in terror and snapped out of it.

  “Um, yes, okay, relevant details,” it stammered. “Our wonderful master demands that the chief peddler of the Ancients’ insidious lies submit himself to our judgment.” It looked worriedly to their left, and then the several pairs of small yellow hands came back in shot to push a paperback book into their hands.

  “Trac. On. Toast,” I muttered.

  Obviously it was a Jacques McKeown book. Specifically, it was Jacques McKeown and the Terror of Terrorgorn, the particularly uncreatively titled volume in which Jacques McKeown gave a heavily fictionalized version of Terrorgorn what for. Published, notably, only after Terrorgorn’s confirmed cryonic imprisonment and disappearance.

  “Jacques McKeown,” announced the Biskotti, holding the book too close to the camera so that the image became unfocused, “our leader Terrorgorn commands you to come to the place you know as Salvation Station and submit yourself to public judgment for your blasphemy against his divine name. We remember your ship, and if we detect any other ship approaching, or if we detect your ship and that more than one person is onboard, we will—”

  “Ah-hm,” coughed Terrorgorn, who up until this point had been nodding along with the speech.

  The Biskotti looked to him, eyes bulging with fear. “My lord, I meant no disrespect! I was given such a small time to memorize the blek—” The sentence ended with a violent squawk as Terrorgorn’s left eyebrow twitched and the Biskotti’s neck instantly bent ninety degrees to the right.

  A second, female, Biskotti was hustled in front of the camera, tripping lightly on the newly created corpse. She held up three fingers and counted off them. “We detect any other ship, we detect your ship with more than one person aboard, or we detect your ship with any kind of shield up that stops us detecting anything, we will shoot it down with this station’s defenses.” She looked to Terrorgorn, who gave a tiny nod, appeased. “Um. If you do not come here within five days, we will exterminate every Ancient on this station.”

  The camera tracked shakily across, first over a small mob of worried Biskottis, and then to a makeshift cage constructed from benches and ­pedestrian traffic barriers. The space inside was packed with the residents of Salvation Station, mostly star pilots of my acquaintance. Warden was there, tightly hugging herself, trying not to look scared.

  Next to her was Robert Blaze, looking conspicuously healthy and not suffering from Ecru Death. His eyebrows were set low in an expression of stoic anger, and as the view tracked by, he looked directly into the camera lens and mouthed “don’t.”

  I wondered who he was addressing. Blaze had once told me that he knew who Jacques McKeown really was, but refused to say anything more, out of respect for McKeown’s apparent goal to keep the legends alive, plying stupid as that now seemed.

  The camera returned to Terrorgorn and his spokes-Biskotti. Terrorgorn was leaning forward and the Biskotti was flinching, so I assumed he’d lightly poked her in the back to remind her of something. “Five days!” she reiterated loudly, before the feed abruptly ended.

  It was swiftly replaced by an image of a newsreader, wearing the raised eyebrows, slight head tilt, and serious mouth of someone about to explain something extremely grave and life threatening that they personally don’t need to worry about for a plying nanosecond. “If you’ve just joined us, the galaxy has been rocked by the news that Terrorgorn, the most prolific and violent force for evil in the entire history of the universe, has returned. This video, released online earlier today, indicates that Terrorgorn and his followers have taken over the star pilot refuge of Salvation Station and are calling for a final battle with his oldest nemesis, Jacques McKeown.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked the way they referred to Salvation Station as a refuge. It made star pilots sound like a rare species of giraffe in need of conservation efforts.

  “With Jacques McKeown himself also having recently revealed himself, and currently being held at Ritsuko City’s police precinct facing charges of criminal damage committed during his recent daring heist, the universe asks one question.” The newsreader leaned forward to give the camera the full force of their blazing eyes. “Will the greatest star pilot of them all take up the mantle once again?”

  Honda turned off the tablet and let it drop to his side, then jerked a thumb behind him. “Not that I want to hurry anything, but there’s about two hundred reporte
rs outside who all have questions along basically the same lines.”

  Mayor Sanshiro looked to me with grave seriousness. “You let Terrorgorn get out?”

  “No,” I said through my teeth. “It was more like, he let himself get out.”

  Sanshiro bowed his head and planted his feet, clenched fists shaking with subdued emotion. “Mr. McKeown. Please. Don’t go to that station. It’s too risky.”

  “Um, okay,” I said.

  He didn’t move. “I understand you must be feeling responsible for Terrorgorn getting loose again, but you’re just one man. It’d be suicide. None of those people on Salvation Station would blame you. They knew the risks of living in unregulated space.”

  “Yeah, I agree.”

  His squared shoulders wobbled as he choked back an angry sob. He smashed the door controls next to my cell with a fist, and the plexiglass slid upwards. “Damn it, I won’t be part of this madness! Ignore every warning and go play the hero, but you’ll do it alone. Just remember this.” He pointed a dramatic finger at my face. “Come back to us, Jacques McKeown. The universe will never forgive you if you don’t.”

  “You are formally requested to come back to us,” said the lawyer, choking back tears of her own. “I am a lawyer.”

  The two of them turned about and marched solemnly away without a backward glance. I watched Sanshiro open the exit door and put up his hands to abate the immediate barrage of camera flashes. I could just about see him beginning his spiel as the door closed behind them.

  I looked to Honda, who was standing with his documents dangling loosely by his side, his head tilted, and his lips mashed together into a bemused pout.

  “Aren’t you going to close this door?” I suggested.

  He chewed it over for a few moments, flicking his gaze around. “I could. Don’t see the point. As we speak, you are executing your incredibly devious and heroic escape plan. I imagine any moment now you’ll reach the trap room and use the portable Quantunnel to beam to an unknown destination, and there’s nothing I or my officers can do about it.” He pointed behind him. “In there. Follow the hall, second door on the left.”