Sir John In Space

By J. D. Jackson

The Prince of the Planet Plum has been missing since birth, and who better than Sir John Falstaff to track him across the galaxy, find him, and bring him back? Plum is a planet-wide Renaissance Faire, with a culture that's a cross between Elizabethan England and Interstellar Modern. There are plenty of plots, comedy and romance for a galaxy-wide adventure. But Sir John has his work cut out for him - the Puritans, who hate the Monarchy, are bound on preventing him, the Prince doesn't care to return, and the only ship available is a broken-down space yacht two centuries old. The crew he finds are even worse - a collection of Plumian riff-raff, and a dour captain who doesn't like Plumians. Add to that a beautiful Texan who may be a spy, a cat with a mind of his own and assorted alien species who are no help at all, and Sir John is beginning to wish he'd never taken on the job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. D. Jackson
• Release date: Nov 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301572458

J. D. Jackson

J.D. Jackson's career has been various and spasmodic (more of a careen than a career), from the extremes of writing plays and designing stage sets, to remodeling, to doing office work for the census and whatever else came along. Jackson resides in Texas and enjoys the hot weather.

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SIR JOHN IN SPACE

By

J.D. Jackson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * *

PUBLISHED BY:

J.D. Jackson on Smashwords

Sir John in Space

Copyright 2012 by J.D. Jackson

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

* * *

"Each man in hys part plaies mannie tymes" - William Shakespeare to Richard Burbage; explaining why Falstaff, a character from Henry IV, appears in The Merry Wives of Windsor, set nearly two centuries later.

Chapter 1

The Flustered Duck soared out of the sky as precise and silver as the spit of God, to a perfect touchdown at New Heathrow Spaceport. Curling vapor caught the day’s first light. The craft rotated to horizontal and wheeled to a loading bay, where its belly gave birth to a cargo lift.

When the lift settled to the tarmac a dozen spacers, wrists in manacles and accompanied by half a dozen uniformed members of the Planet Guard, stepped off and began trudging away toward New Heathrow’s police facility, glancing back to glare at the Duck and muttering among themselves as they went.

* * *

The ship they left behind was not deserted. Not entirely. Far above the tarmac on the dimly-lighted bridge sat a sagging figure who stared at the printout in his hand. Harold Stewart had just been--although the offensive word was never actually used--fired.

C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T.? Harold looked up at the giant screen before him. C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T.? What am I doing wrong? This is the third job I’ve had since Space Academy. I’m a top pilot. I’m always ahead of schedule, I’m fast on turnarounds, and I stay under budget. But I keep getting fired.

C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T. (the ship’s Computerized Unlimited Transactional and Hierarchical Baseline Entering and Retrieval Terminal), was programmed for social embarrassment in the proper circumstances. Now it cleared its throat--or made a sound like a clearing throat--and allowed a short, embarrassed-seeming pause before it answered.

Well, the computer said, there’s the mutiny to begin wi . . .

Don’t use the ‘M’ word! Harold said.

After all, he thought, he was the captain. There was no reason he should have to hear that word if he didn’t want to.

. . . Then let us call it the, um, Aggravated Crew Dissension.

Crews are always upset over something.

But not upset enough to hold the captain at gun point, so he has to call for the Planet Guard to come rescue him. Sorting out things like that costs the company money, Harold. Not only that, they give the company a black eye. It’s bad PR.

I run a tight ship. Is that so bad?

Harold, this ship is so tight it squeaks. You need to loosen up.

That prospect seemed daunting to Harold.

Maybe I don’t know how to ‘loosen up’.

Well, the computer said, You could stop acting like your word is law.

My word is law.

C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T. made a sound like a sigh.

Technically, yes. From a legal standpoint, your word is law. But you’re dealing with human beings, not machines . . . no offense. Even though you’re giving them orders, human beings like to have their feelings considered. Oh, and something else. This thing you have about Plumians . . .

I do not have a thing about Plumians . . .

Every major problem you’ve had with a crew has started with a Plumian. The mutin . . . the Aggravated Crew Dissension . . . began because you came down on a Plumian crew member.

Harold spread out his palms in a gesture of offended innocence.

What could I do? If you don’t keep them in line . . .

Your irrational dislike of everyone from the planet Plum points to . . .

"I’m not irrational: they’re irrational. Living a thousand years in the past is irrational! I suppose next you’ll bring up the orphanage!" Harold was getting angry and he knew it, but it was C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T.’s fault for mentioning Plum.

"Harold, I have to bring up the orphanage! I know your psychological profile forward and backward, I’ve analyzed it with nine separate programs, and there’s no question about it: you are trying to retaliate against your parents for sending you away from Plum to be brought up in an orphanage on Earth. You’re getting back at them by taking a dead set at every Plumian you meet."

Bullshit!

Your real problem is that you lack any sense of who you are. You’re harsh with other people because you’re harsh with yourself. I think you ought to consider a less social line of work.

I don’t know any other line of work, and I love space. Not only that, I’ve still got 200,000 Credits to pay off on my student loan!

You asked for my opinion, Harold. I know you think you’re right; but being right all the time has gotten you a mutin . . . an Aggravated Crew Dissension and three firings; you’re on the brink . . .

I’m on the brink of getting out of here! Harold grabbed up his duffel.

Avoidance syndrome, Harold.

Avoidance syndrome! People skills! What do you know about it! You’re a machine! A stupid, unfeeling machine with a bunch of high-priced programs and an overactive CPU!

Has not a machine video sensors? C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T. asked quietly, with something like a tremble in its voice.

Harold knew he had gone too far.

Has not a machine audio pickup? If you short us do we not discharge? If you program us do we not cogitate? And if you cut our power, do we not die?

All I wanted, Harold said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, All I wanted was some insight--not a grab-bag of personal insults.

He threw the duffel over his shoulder and headed for the hatch. He was standing in the cargo bay, waiting for the lift to come back up, when C.U.T.H.B.E.R.T.’s voice sounded over the bay speaker.

Harold, I would like to point out that what I said--about your not being able to get along? You’ve just demonstrated it again. The computer sounded concerned. Perhaps it wanted Harold to discuss the problem further, but Harold didn’t reply.

The lift came to deck level, and he stepped on.

He knew it was all true.

* * *

Jeremiah Standish, Younger Brother in the Church Primeval, Pure and Militant, was sitting in a booth deep inside the warm, steamy, beer-reeking, sin-savored maw of the Drunken Spacer, a Plumian tavern in the Olde Eastcheape district of London.

That was Old London. The original London. The one on Planet Earth, AKA Terra, AKA Gaia. Mankind’s spawning-place, and the mother of every abomination that had plagued Mankind since the Serpent first met Eve.

Jeremiah had never before ventured alone into a haunt of Satan, and it came to him of a sudden what a wicked and dangerous place this was. Under a low ceiling a seemingly endless vista of dark forms cavorted in dim light. Discordant music filled the air--when it could be heard over the clink of glasses, the shrieks of depraved women and the shouts of inebriated spacers. He was glad at least to see that most of the occupants were human, although three worthless-looking Moots lolled in one of the tanks along the side wall.

Across the table from him sat the informant he had come to meet: Francis, a server from the Boar’s Head Tavern (another Plumian establishment just down the soggy London street). Jeremiah had made Francis’s acquaintance some days ago, while delivering a message to the Boar’s Head. The simpleton had hinted he had information if Jeremiah had cash; and now, at last, Providence had thrown cash in Jeremiah’s lap.

Would’st like a beer? Jeremiah asked politely, not sure how one began these things.

Ew, aye, Francis replied. Anon.

Looking at Francis’ bland, stupid face, Jeremiah didn’t know if the fellow would qualify as an idiot or not, but there was no question that he was, as they said, a few chips short of a system.

Jeremiah signaled a waiter and ordered two beers.

He started to slip his hand inside his shirt, and then remembered he was in disguise. Terran clothes had pockets sewn inside the britches, oddly enough. With some difficulty he took out an envelope full of money and laid it on the seat beside him.

He was a little nervous about the money, since he wasn’t supposed to have it here. It was intended for a different informant--who would be waiting at this moment, no doubt angrily, in an Indian restaurant near Regent’s Park--and there would be what-for when Jeremiah got back to headquarters.

Jeremiah didn’t care. He knew he was onto something big, and he was willing to risk a dressing-down. The other brethren would see, and soon, who was righteous in the sight of God.

The stupid Francis showed no sign of divulging his information.

Anon, he hummed under his breath. Anon. Anon. Anon anon anon. He looked about the room and waved to someone he knew. Jeremiah wished he would be a little more discrete, as befitted two men bent on espionage. Jeremiah was wearing a floppy hat to conceal his shaven head; and he pulled it down further over his eyes, hoping to make up in surreptitiousness what Francis lacked in subtlety.

Finally he leaned across the table. Hast thou aught to tell me?

Francis stared down his nose as if he expected some quick-fingered cutpurse to remove it for pawn should he cease to keep it under guard.

Ew. I will tell you this, that I am come to say what I know of Sir John, and that you are to pay me for my trouble.

The waiter arrived with the beers. Jeremiah tore open the flap of the envelope and removed a crisp twenty-Credit bill from the many there. He kept it in his hand, waiting to see what Francis would do.

Francis dashed salt into his beer and had a long pull, and Jeremiah looked about some more, wondering how to get on with this as expeditiously as possible. There were two other Younger Brothers waiting for him outside, and he was of little faith regarding their patience. They had wanted to accompany him into the tavern, but they hadn’t known he was meeting an unauthorized informant, and he feared their tale-bearing.

Nothing happened, and at last Jeremiah slid the twenty across the table, experimentally. Francis left off trying to make a fly do the backstroke in a puddle of beer, and stuffed the money into his doublet.

Tell, doth John Falstaff lodge indeed at the Boar’s Head? Jeremiah asked.

Francis still said nothing, but rubbed his thumb on two fingers. Jeremiah, with a feeling that things were finally getting somewhere, slid across another twenty.

Ew. Aye, Francis consented to say at last. Sir John lodgeth there, and drinketh great store of ale, and sack, and is a glutton for capons and sides of bacon and anything wherewith he may line his great paunch--and tippeth not. And he entertaineth his friends--and they tippeth not neither.

But his plans? What of his plans?

A tall man with an eye-patch and a dirty-blond bristling beard that made him look like a vertical terrier passed the table, looking Jeremiah over in a speculative manner.

Ew. I know not of his plans. Francis stared up into the corner as though he expected Sir John’s future course to suddenly display itself on the defunct vidiscreen hanging there. But he hath, by his embassy’s good offices, procured a ship and had it sent here to Earth.

Now this was news indeed. This not only confirmed the rumor that Sir John was on Earth, but showed he intended to go somewhere else. Things were getting interesting.

Jeremiah noticed that a dark-haired, freckle-faced woman had occupied the booth across from them, and for some reason a misgiving filled his inwards, as though he had been looked upon with the evil eye. He motioned Francis to talk softer. Speak not so loud. Thou canst never tell who might be listening.

No, canst not, Francis agreed. Though ‘tis usually me. Having finished his own he took Jeremiah’s beer, dashed in salt and began to drink it.

And so? Jeremiah asked at last. Francis gazed stupidly at the ceiling and rubbed his fingers and thumb together.

Reluctantly Jeremiah reached for the envelope. Another twenty.

Art thou waiting for someone, Spacer? a warm voice said in his ear. Jeremiah turned with a jerk and found himself facing the cleavage of a blond slattern who had positioned herself, it seemed, for just the purpose of showing him those parts of her upper anatomy which a god-fearing woman would have had the decency to cover. He had a sudden, almost ungovernable craving to plunge his face into the terrain before his eyes; and just as suddenly, a vision of damned souls writhing in flame was interposed. He sat immobile, his mouth opening and closing without his will.

Bag off, Doll, Francis said sourly. ’Tis my cully.

Clinker enough for two, Ducks, she replied cheerily. She sat beside Jeremiah uninvited, giving him a great bump with her backside to move him over.

They do call me Doll that do . . . know me, the harlot went on, purring the Scriptural Verb in a way that Jeremiah had never heard in a sermon. Doll Tearsheet. What is thy name?

Jeremiah’s mouth was too dry to make a response.

Ew, ’tis a Puritan, Doll, Francis said.

Francis’ information had as much effect on Doll as her heaving pink globes were having on Jeremiah, but in an opposite way. Of a sudden she reached for Jeremiah’s hat and lifted it, disclosing the shaven skull beneath. Then she dropped it back like a hot pot lid, stood up and looked at Jeremiah with a disdain that wilted him on the spot.

Aye, a Puritan! she said. A coponified hymn-shouter! Well, she said to Francis, do thy best, Ducks, and if thou canst get more than a penny out of this pinch-fart with thy poor cony-catching, thou’rt wiser than I thought--or he even more fool than he looks. I am back to the Boar’s Head. ’Tis a more respectable house, where none such as he are allowed.

She disappeared in the direction of the door, and Jeremiah felt his face glow red. Coming to himself, he realized with a shock that he had left the money envelope lying open on the bench beside him, and he thanked his good angel that the slattern hadn’t noticed it. He stuffed it into his pocket, but now the freckle-faced hussy in the opposing booth was watching him. She was, if

anything, more alluring than the blonde who had just left.

I don’t want a woman! he snapped at her with more conviction than he felt.

Who cares? she asked. She yawned and looked away.

Have you no money for me? Francis asked. I have to see the money ere I’ll tell. Ew, I shan’t tell without I see the money.

Jeremiah returned his attention to the business at hand. I gave thee money.

You gave me nought.

Jeremiah sighed, dug out another twenty and handed it to the forgetful moron.

Now: what meanest Sir John to do with a ship?

Jeremiah felt sure Sir John was on Earth to influence Parliament in favor of the Plumian Royals, perhaps even to procure Terra’s military support. What had a spaceship to do with that?

Because he hath found the Lost Prince of Plum, and meaneth to return him home, Francis said with indifference.

For a moment all noise in the tavern seemed (to Jeremiah’s mind) to have fallen silent; and he had the notion, though he didn’t dare look, that every face in the room was turned toward them.

The Lost Prince? he inquired in a whisper.

Francis nodded complacently as if he, himself, had been responsible for the discovery.

The Lost Prince? Art thou certain?

Another nod.

Dost thou know where the prince is at present?

There was a pause, and a look of uncertainty slid across Francis’ face, gone almost as soon as it arrived.

Ew. Aye. I must have more money anon if I am to think.

Feverishly, Jeremiah fished in the envelope, knowing that this information was worth any amount of cash.

Excuse me. ’Ave you seen me glasses? Jeremiah looked up. The voice emanated from a big, stocky lad who stared at Jeremiah out of a sullen face. I left me glasses in this booth. Yuh. Wouldst thou get up so I can find ’em?

Flustered, Jeremiah said, They’re not here, but he was already starting to rise. He stepped away from the booth, and the big lout threw himself face down on the bench and began to hunt on the floor beneath the table. Just then there was a jolt that rattled Jeremiah’s teeth, as the eye-patched terrier-like man collided with him.

Watch where thou’rt going! the man exclaimed, or I shall skewer thee ’pon my sword and have thee for a toasted cheese! He struck a pose like an actor in a particularly melodramatic play and declaimed:

Thy bones I'll rend Thy ways to mend!

Then he stalked off indignantly before Jeremiah could apologize.

Found ’em! The lout rose from the bench, stuffing something into his pocket. Yuh. Next time be more careful, he admonished Jeremiah, who stared at him, confused, as the lout, too, sauntered off down the aisle and disappeared in the smoky gloom, like a demon going home to Hell after a hard day’s temptation.

Jeremiah slid back into the booth and whispered urgently, Tell me! Quickly! Where is the Prince?

It was at that moment he realized that Francis was gone. He looked across the aisle at the opposite booth. The dark-haired wench was gone. He glanced down at his bench. The money was gone.

He started to yell, Help! Thief! Ho! but a look at the godless and degenerate faces all about dissuaded him.

He ran through the tavern and up three steps to the street outside, where Younger Brothers Peter and Paul awaited him.

The one-eyed man! Did either of you see a one-eyed man or a great lout with glasses? he asked.

Peter looked at Paul, and Paul looked at Peter.

We saw none such, Peter said. Didst thou give the money to thy man?

I . . . I . . . yay, of course. ’Tis done.

Jeremiah capitulated. The money was gone and there would be old hell to pay, but there was no use crying, as the saying went. Better to make the best of what he had learned and hope for that to carry him through the coming storm. Let us go to the Boar’s Head Tavern, and watch there awhile.

Peter and Paul exchanged another look.

We were ordered to return to the Tent of Meeting when the money was delivered, Paul said.

You were ordered to obey me in all, Jeremiah said, intending to remind them that he was the commander of this minor (but soon to be major) expedition.

Well, then, Paul said at last. We will go. But on your head be it when we report to Elder Hamish.

* * *

Harold Stewart fidgeted in the employment agency chair. Harold was in his twenties, with determined blue eyes, a shock of blond hair, and a slightly asymmetrical nose that had been broken in childhood and healed a little crooked. He could, and did, turn women’s heads all over the galaxy; although only a few gave that closer, more perceptive look needed to note that the set of his jaw betrayed an unforgiving quality that might be less appealing than his wide shoulders.

Yes, Captain Stewart, I am aware that qualified captains are in demand just now, the smooth, neuter voice of the agency’s computer came from the screen facing Harold. But the fact is, of the dozen firms to which you had me submit your application, none is willing to hire you.

Harold wanted to rail at the bland computer voice, to yell that it obviously wasn’t competent and that it wasn’t doing its job. He resisted the tendency.

What seems to be the problem? he asked, trying to keep his voice as bland as the computer’s.

I am afraid, Captain Stewart, that you have had some trouble getting along with crews. The reports are that you are rigid, unempathetic . . .

. . . ‘Lack people skills’ . . . Harold chimed in.

. . . And lack people skills. Perhaps you should consider . . .

. . . ‘A different line of work’ . . .

. . . A different line of work.

That’s out of the question.

Why? You’re a young man and you’re very intelligent. You could do a lot of things.

Harold was silent. He didn’t intend to explain his feelings to a machine; or to anyone else, for that matter. His earliest memories were of the orphanage--a place he had wanted desperately to leave from as far back as he could recall. That was where he first learned, not only how to fight, but that he had to fight, because no one else was going to come to his rescue. Then had come college, then the Space Academy--a succession of cheap rooms and residence halls, and a shifting string of acquaintances in lieu of friends. It was only on a ship, in space, that he had found anything like stability and, yes, a home. Even if he didn’t get along with a crew at least they were there, and he was there, and he belonged--liked or unliked. In space, he was in charge.

Space is my life, he said simply, knowing the computer would never understand. He thought a moment and added, And I still have 200,000 Credits to pay on my student loan.

Hmmm. This is a difficult situation, and I sympathize with you. There was a protracted hum as the computer sorted through reams of data, trying to match up the unmatchable. I do have one possibility in my files.

I’ll take it.

Given your background, you may not want it.

What’s the job?

A certain Sir John Falstaff is seeking a pilot who can handle a large space yacht. He needs transport to another system.

Harold scratched his forehead. That doesn’t sound so bad. How’s the pay?

Standard, plus a bonus for promptness and safe arrival, plus fare to anywhere in this sector of the galaxy when the job is completed.

Certainly I’ll take it.

Very well. I’ve mentioned it to you for a reason, Captain. Sir John is said to be a military man . . . and a diplomat. Some of your performance reviews suggest you need to exhibit more diplomacy. You might be able to learn some lessons from Sir John, if you catch my drift.

Harold was annoyed, but he certainly did catch the computer’s drift. He started to say something sharp about who needed lessons in diplomacy, but he changed his mind. That was about as diplomatic as a computer got.

You said I might not want the job. What did you mean?

Several of your profiles mentioned you have difficulty relating to Plumians. Sir John is Plumian, and the destination of the ship is Plum itself.

Harold sat back. I see.

Plum. Always Plum. Floating up there in its smug, ratty, neo-Renaissance glory. Plum was the planet he would most like to forget about, and Plum seemed to haunt him like an ancestral curse. Perhaps it was.

Why doesn’t this Sir John just take a commercial flight?

As I understand it, commercial flights no longer go to Plum. The war . . ."

The Puritan war? I thought that was nearly settled.

There seems to have been a flare-up in recent months. The Plumian king is elderly and ill. He has no heir. Apparently, if he dies without a successor the constitution will force Plum’s parliament to declare the government a democracy. In anticipation of that, the king has agreed to allow elections to be held this November. So now the Puritans are trying to consolidate their position enough to force the election to go their way.

In other words, I’ll be flying into a war zone.

Mmm. The computer, caught between the demands of a reassurance algorithm and the requirement to provide accurate output, paused and hummed for a moment. I don’t think it’s quite so drastic as that. And it does say in the contract that you’ll receive extra compensation if the ship is fired upon. There’s medical, of course.

Of course. Harold wondered how much good medical coverage would do him if he were shot dead.

Sir John would like to meet with the prospective pilot at his lodgings, in the . . . The computer paused, apparently checking the entry, and then sounded it out carefully as if suspicious of a data error. . . . Boar’s Head Tavern. That’s in the Olde Eastcheape district.

When?

My note says he’s always there. I’d go as soon as possible.

I guess there’s still time this evening.

Shall I put down that you’ll come?

Harold put his hands over his eyes and thought about his options. He took his hands away and looked the computer straight in the screen.

I’ll be there, he said.

* * *

’Tis not!

’Tis too!

’Tis not!

’Tis too!

Brother Jeremiah and Brother Peter had fallen into an argument, penetrating in its insight and riveting in its eloquence, on whether it was Jeremiah’s prerogative to order the others to remain on watch outside the Boar’s Head. The three of them were clustered just around a corner from the tavern, huddled as close to the building as they could get; which wasn’t close enough to keep a cold, greasy London drizzle from soaking their clothes and wetting them to the bone. Night had settled in and Peter and Paul, in their dark clothes, were nearly invisible, save for the white bands at their necks and so much of their shaven heads as showed beneath the truncated cones of their hats. Jeremiah felt that he, in his Terran disguise, stood out like a deacon at a cock-fight.

The Puritans, and the Boar’s Head, were in the part of London known as Olde Eastcheape, built sometime long ago as an imitation of the city in the first Elizabeth’s day. By now, in the year 2563, the reconstruction was nearly as historic as the original would have been. The rest of the city had moved on into the future, but Olde Eastcheape seemed almost to have slipped the other way, into the past, housing an increasingly seedy lot of shops and pubs, and ending at last as the Plumian district of London.

Brother Paul pulled his head back from around the corner (it was his turn to do the actual watching) and shook it, signifying nothing.

’Tis a bootless wait.

But stay another hour! If Sir John hath found the prince, and if Sir John is in the Boar’s Head, then either he must leave to meet the prince, or the prince must come here to meet him.

’Twas Elder Hamish’s clear order, Paul pointed out, that we should deliver the money to Mister James Johnson, for the work he hath done on our behalf in Parliament, and then report at the Tent of Meeting.

But Fran . . . Johnson hath given me privy news, that John Falstaff lodgeth here, and that he hath found the Lost Prince.

Why hath Johnson not notified Elder Hamish, or some other of the elders?

There was . . . there was no time, Jeremiah said, extemporizing. Sir John may leave, or the prince may come here at any moment, and we were hard by, and therefore it is fallen upon us to do this thing for the glory of God.

I smell a rat.

The moment that was said, Jeremiah heard a small, hoarse voice near his ear.

Say, mates--you got anything t’ eat?

One of London’s notorious mutant rats was clinging to a drainpipe, level with Jeremiah’s head. Jeremiah gave the pipe a smack with his hand. The pipe clanged and the rat dropped to the pavement and scurried off into