Rogue Pilot

by Will Macmillan Jones

  Similarly the Security check at the entrance to the Flightline Dock was cursory. Even my dishevelled appearance received non of the normal banter or abuse. Clearly Starker had been here and put the fix in. I was worried now. It took me ages to walk along the flightline on the concrete landing apron to my Speedbird. Once there, despite my headache, I carried out what was probably the most thorough external check the elderly Scoutship had had since being ‘decommissioned’ by the mechanics at The Free Union’s StarBase. I didn’t want to take off with any unwanted packages of an explosive nature strapped to the ship.

  Nothing. The Speedbird seemed clear of any devices. I checked the entry hatch especially carefully before punching in the access code, but that too seemed to be safe enough. The airlock and the hatch behind it were similarly, suspiciously, free from unwelcome additions. I checked all the storage lockers, but could see no evidence that they had been tampered with.

  Swallowing my fear, which had returned in no uncertain terms, I climbed the circular staircase into the living quarters. A quick check around showed me that all the internal doors were closed. The mess that served as my clothes pile seemed to be untouched. But in the middle of the room, exactly where an incautious pilot could trip over it and cause non life threatening but highly annoying damage to shin and/or ankle bones, was a large packing case made out of rough timber. The top was firmly nailed down. As a sarcastic touch, a piece of pink ribbon was tied around it, finishing in an impressive bow on top of the packing case. I debated trying to force it open, but decided against it. This, whatever it was, was Colonel Rosto’s present. He was welcome to it. I tried to shove it against one wall, but it was too heavy to move easily. In the end I found a crowbar in the tool kit in the entry hatch storage lockers, and used that to shift the thing out of the way. It made a ruinous mark on the floor, and I cursed.

  Next I looked into the engine bay. If anyone had been in there, I wouldn’t have been able to tell if they had done any damage anyway, so my inspection didn’t take very long. The Flight deck though: that was a different matter. There was a piece of paper taped to the navcomm, with a set of co-ordinates written on it. I pulled it off, and looked at both sides of the paper. ‘Start looking here’ was written on the reverse. How very helpful. I pulled the star charts out of their case and searched for the grid reference. Finally I located it: a space station in a quiet backwater near a red dwarf star that had no political or military significance at all. Why would Rosto be there? Still, I had to start looking somewhere, and I supposed that was as good a place as any.

  Time to find out if Starker had interfered with my spaceship and all this was an elaborate hoax before I exploded in a huge ball of fire: or if he hadn’t. I know that this was a binary choice with non of the nuance or subtlety one might expect from an intergalactic chief of espionage, but still: I swallowed hard and flipped the Master Switch to ‘On’. The Flight console powered up, and nothing went ‘bang’. The first test passed. The flight, nav and comms computers came alive, all with reassuringly stable and normal readouts. The engine burped a little on starting before settling down and showing normal readouts on all the management instruments. I delayed long enough to force my pounding heart back down into its place, and drank more coffee. Probably bad for my stress and adrenaline levels, but I was alive, and apparently in control of a functioning (if elderly) starship. How much more could a man want out of life?

  “Speedbird on the Flightline Apron, requesting departure,” I said into the comms computer, affecting the more normal tone of voice I could achieve. “Leaving star system.”

  “Speedbird, galactic departure clearance confirmed. No known traffic on climbout. Windspeed fifteen knots, direction two hundred and seventy degrees. Do you require the active runway, or a vertical departure?”

  “The runway, please.”

  The spaceport controller gave me directions to the runway in use. If anything was to go wrong with the engines on take off, I would prefer not to be riding upwards on a torrent of thrust, but to give the explosion time to take place in a normal flight attitude – then I stood a chance of getting back on the ground in one piece. I entered the windspeed into the flight computer and allowed it a moment to computer the trajectory, then raised the power and lifted off the tarmac. The Speedbird drifted sideways in the wind, and I quickly hit the manovering jets to avoid bumping into the craft parked nearby. The Speedbird slid forward and I pointed the nose at the entrance to the main runway.

  “Speedbird, ready for departure,” I intoned as I pointed her nose down the length of runway.

  “Depart when ready. Thanks for the call, see you again?” The Flight Controller sounded friendly. If the engines were rigged to explode on take off he would be less pleased with me (not that I would be in a position to care).

  Taking my courage, such as it was, in both hands I pushed the power leaver to max. The Speedbird quivered and then accelerated down the runway. I fought the strong wind, trying to keep her in a straight line until I had proper flying speed. Finally we started to climb and passed over the low barrier at the end of the runway, and accelerated towards escape velocity. As the speed rose, I raised the nose higher until the forward vidscreen showed only clouds, and triggered the navcomm link to the flight controls. The computer took over and we fled Agrathea, heading for the stars.

  Chapter five

  The spacestation had seen better days. And better nights, too. In fact, I suspected that the only time the place had looked pristine was before it had been built here in the first place. It seemed to have been created out of second hand - or perhaps pre-unloved would be a better description?- sections of other spacestations. Nothing seemed to match, although general standardisation of parts meant that everything fitted; rust and discolouration were everywhere and some of the panels had half erased insignia or military markings faintly visible. No other visiting spacecraft could be seen. This was hardly a surprise. How badly off would you have to be to visit a wreck like this? I was mildly amazed that it still hung together, especially with the stronger gravitational pull exerted by the system’s slowly expiring star.

  Colonel Starker’s note had not extended to including a comms frequency, so I opened the comms computer and started scanning frequencies. Nothing. Yet the station had some lights shining, so perhaps there was some form of life present. I ran over the comm channels again, sending out the computerised equivalent of ‘is anybody there?’. Turning up the volume to the maximum, I was almost deafened by the carrier wave, but there was no semblance of a reply. Hastily I tweaked the volume back down to a manageable level.

  I let the defence computer system carry out a scan for any offensive weapons. This too drew a blank. This piece of space flotsam did not appear in any way to be a functioning installation. And yet… and yet those lights burned. Of course, it was entirely possible that a residual computer system yet had some power, and that some sort of life support facility was operational. I carefully added a little forward thrust. The Speedbird obligingly moved closer to the space station, and I adjusted the trajectory to orbit the largest ring around the central core. In one orbit I counted either insignia or other stencilled markings in five separate languages, not all of them human.

  I sent the Speedbird around again, this time to one end of the central spire. The tip of the space station was dark. The spire itself was so discoloured that even the lurid light from the dying star did not reflect from the surface but only served to accentuate the dark, dreadful aura that surrounded the place. The second ring surrounding the station was holed in places and marked, not from blast damage or unfriendly fire, but from meteorite impact that had been simply ignored. Possibly the owners/operators of the space station simply did not have the funds to effect repairs.

  Taken all in all, this was as unlikely a place to find the Colonel in charge of an inter-galactic espionage ring as you could imagine. However, as a hideaway from a man wanted across the galaxy – i.e., me - it seemed very suitable. Or it would have done if Colonel
Starker had not known exactly where it was. Idly I speculated on the possibility that other such places might well still exist, and that I could appropriate one for myself.

  I moved the Speedbird slightly closer to the installation, and drifted in an oblique orbit, scanning now for a suitable docking location. The main dock had been located in an area that had suffered badly from meteor strikes. However, there should be another or a secondary docking station to allow access – and escape – in an emergency. I increased the resolution on the vidscreens and stared at the core of the spacestation. There, close to one tip, was a small spacecraft. It seemed to be an escape lifeboat, designed for short distance cruising, rather than a craft with serious interstellar capability. It too suffered from the same neglect as the rest of the place.

  However, there was another space dock nearby, with no lifeboat attached. I zoomed the vidscreen onto this, and examined it closely. Even allowing for the obvious age of the cannibalised installation, the airlock looked antiquated. I held out no hope that it would be compatible with the Speedbird’s airlock hatch. This meant that I would have to cross to the spacestation in a spacesuit, and hope that I could operate the airlock manually from the outside.

  The navcomm had a useful function that allowed me to park the Speedbird in a fixed point relative to the derelict airlock. That took only a moment or two to program. However, it took me a little longer to climb into the spacesuit that hung in the airlock storage of the Speedbird. There may be no moths in space, and a spacesuit is not washed on a standard washing machine cycle, but somehow it had shrunk since I last wore it. Particularly around the waist. This was annoying, but after much wriggling and cursing I managed to get into the suit and fasten the helmet securely. The helmet smelt a little, as if it had been last used by someone with no patience and too much spiced food on board. With a small sigh, I decided that this was a self-inflicted wound.

  The spacesuit’s air supply seemed adequate, as did the fuel in the thrusters attached to the jet pack that was built into the back of the suit. With my left hand, I reached over my right shoulder and folded down the control arm for the thrusters. Then I cycled the airlock and left the safety of the Speedbird, making sure to close and lock the airlock hatch behind me.

  Call me paranoid, I don’t care.

  I took the control lever in my right hand, and tweaked the joystick. The jets fired, and I moved away from the Speedbird. As always on an EVA, I suddenly, desperately, needed the toilet. It is just insecurity of course, but you would be amazed at how many people feel exactly the same way once they are no longer connected to their spaceship by anything more secure than hope.

  The journey across to the space station was very short. Arriving at the airlock, I immediately clipped the safety line onto the D ring placed by the door for that purpose. Secured to the structure, I relaxed. The entry keypad was decayed and rather knocked about, but still functional. The key pad was tired, and the code numbers were worn down. I used the emergency access code of 9999, and the outer door slid mostly open. I unclipped the safety line and stepped inside. The airlock outer door closed, and the inner door opened automatically.

  One light came on in the entry hatch. It fizzed and hummed, and the light was fitful and uneven. Shadows grew and fled and appeared again as the light changed. I was nervous and on edge. My hand blaster was charged, primed and ready as I opened the inner door. A dim red light – the emergency lighting – spilled into the hatch, illuminating in lurid colour the next threat to my life.

  “Aaaaaaaaarrrgghhhhhh!”

  I threw my self sideways and landed in an uncomfortable heap on the floor, but out of line of fire. As the door opened, I had a clear enough glimpse of a figure about to launch enough projectile weapons at me to turn me into a pin cushion. I waited for the attacker to follow through the doorway. But nothing moved. After a moment, I scrambled to my feet and -with the blaster aimed and ready – crawled over to a position where I could see through the door.

  The figure was still there. Silent, unmoving, and wielding an air of menace, as well as more knives. One was so large as to qualify for a sword. Dark, brooding and entirely terrifying: but only a statue. I almost laughed aloud at my stupidity. But there, on this seemingly derelict and dark space station, Kali – Mother of Time and Goddess of Destruction, with a necklace of human skulls that looked all too real and not carved – was scary enough to make even a bold and fearless space adventurer wet his or her pants. And I was neither of those!

  Carefully I made my way past Kali and took a step to the right. The statue made a grinding noise, appalling in the otherwise complete silence, and followed my movement. The sword quivered in one of the statue’s many arms. I quickly pulled my foot back, and tried a step to the left instead. Nothing. A second step, and still the statue stayed still. I moved out of range of the sword, and still the stone Goddess merely smiled.

  If this was a trap, I was well and truly in it. If it was a test, maybe I had passed. Either way, I wasn’t planning to stay here very long. A quick hunt round this circular corridor around the space station, back to the Speedbird, and I was off. Unless Rosto was actually on board this wreck, of course. But I couldn’t see any possible reason why he should be.

  Slowly I became aware that the space station was not as silent as I had thought. There was a deep, low level and constant hum. Well, perhaps more than a hum, for it rose and fell in tone.

  “Aaaaaauuuuuuuuummmmmmm Ooooooommmmmmm Ooooohhhhhhhmmmmm.”

  Hum.

  The corridor stretched off ahead of me, maintaining the constant curve of the ring around the core. Occasionally doors were set into the side walls, but when I tried these they were either locked, or opened onto deserted rooms or storage chambers. I was just getting thoroughly bored of the whole exercise and thinking about trekking back to the Speedbird, when I came across a junction. The ring was connected to the spinal core of the space station by three tube-like corridors. This was one of them, and here the red glow of the emergency lighting was replaced by some faint blue lamps.

  These lights were not bright enough to have been visible from the Speedbird as I circled the facility. I wondered if it was a deliberate ploy, or just because the power levels were low and being conserved.

  “Hello?” I called.

  The echoes ran round, and faded.

  “Hello?” I tried again.

  Still there was no reply. Moving slowly and cautiously, I walked down the tube that led towards the core of the space station. This must have been the right choice, as the humming noise rose as I walked on. The corridor was long enough for the walk to last about five minutes. The blue light cast strange shadows with the aid of the circular supports and strengthening frames of the tubular walkway. Not all of them seemed to be original, but to have been added later. One or two of the frames had areas that appeared to have been badly welded after being roughly rivetted. A low-tech repair, I decided, by an inexperienced workman or even a hobbyist. Hobbyist work has a tendency to fail in space, with disasterous results. Could this be why the facility had been abandoned? A bodged repair job somewhere else failing and making the whole space station uninhabitable?

  I wondered again if it was safe to take off my helmet, and decided not to.

  I kept checking the walkway, and occasionally jumped round to face the rear: but nothing leapt out at me, nothing moved, and although the shifting blue lights gave me a serious feeling of unease, I came to the conclusion that the whole station was uninhabited.

  “Welcome to The Temple of Dave,” boomed a voice, echoing through the corridors. Well, it should have echoed through the corridors. In fact, the voice was a bit thin and weedy, and any echoes were purely serendipitous.

  An aged and wizened fellow in a faded woven robe lurched across the end of the corridor, hammering ineffectually on a microphone in an attempt to make it work. His efforts were foredoomed to failure, as I could see broken wires sticking out of the bottom of the handle.

  “Dave?” I asked.


  “Pleased to meet you,” replied the wizened one.

  “You are Dave? I thought you just said that this was the Temple of Dave?”

  “It is. And I am. I am Dave. Welcome to my Temple. As I said.” His tone was a bit abrupt, even waspish, I thought.

  “And a very nice temple it is, too,” I said, trying to be conciliatory.

  “You can take your helmet off. The air is fine.”

  I took off my helmet and promptly broke out in a paroxysm of coughing. “Fine?” I gasped. “Fine? It tastes like it has been used far too often.”

  “I like to think of it as being thoroughly tested and passed as safe for human use. You are human, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I narrowed my eyes and stared hard at the scrawny figure in front of me. “Are you?”

  “Once, I was,” he replied in a loft tone and then turned his back on me. “Be pleased to follow me.”

  He wandered off deep into the core of the space station. I felt obligated to follow him. Well, it was that or return to the Speedbird. I hurried to catch up with Dave. “I say, do you know a Colonel Rosto?” I called after him.

  “I am Dave. All things and all people are known to me.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Cosmically speaking, all places and times are but one, and therefore the answer to your question is:”

  “What?”

  “Just that.” The woven robe was fraying badly at the bottom edge. A long strand floated sideways as Dave strode majestically down the corridor and caught on a sharp snag of metal on one of the badly welded frames. I watched, fascinated, as the robe unravelled rapidly, revealing a pair of extremely thin legs and then a set of bony knees. As the robe unwound frantically upwards, Dave suddenly stopped walking. In relief, I stopped too – at a safe distance. He turned and glared at me. “You could see that happening, couldn’t you? Why didn’t you say something?”