“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The chant from the commschannel made me spill coffee all over my leg. By the time I had finished cursing and mopping, it had risen as a lot more voices joined in. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The Andromedans needed little more encouragement. As one, they turned away from their damaged shuttle and jetted across the space towards the two Rigellians.
All the shuttle traffic had now stopped, and I counted twenty small craft surrounding the incident. But no one tried to offer help, or to interfere. The Andromedans, to raucous cheers across the commschannel, sped towards the other ship. The Rigellians hadn’t seen them coming, as they were concentrating on the damage to the engine bay on their shuttle. The cheers rose, and some betting started. The odds seemed to be stacked against the Rigellians, and the smart money was on the Andromedans with their numerical advantage. The stupid money was on the Andromedans, for the same reason, of course. No one seemed to give the Rigellians a chance.
One Andromedan split away from his two fellows, and looped down below the Rigellian shuttle, then round to the other side. His fellows attacked. I had never seen a punch up in space before, and it was fascinating. One of the Andromedans smacked a Rigellian hard on the helmet. Rotating around his vertical axis, the Rigellian was sent spinning over the side of his craft to where the third Andromedan was waiting, to hit the return blow and send him back. It was a bit like watching tennis as the victim got no chance to recover or fight back between blows. The watching crowd roared their appreciation of the tag team’s move.
The other fight suddenly became more serious. The two opponents had come together and were struggling hard, or as hard as you can when encased in a bulky, unwieldy, space suit. Back and forth they drifted across the shuttle, neither able to get an advantage over the other. Finally, with a very hefty shove, the Rigellian pushed the Andromedan back against part of the shuttle that had some comms equipment sticking out of it, and the Andromedan’s space suit snagged on an antenna. One of the pipes looped around the suit split, and water pumped out. The Andromedan thrashed madly for a moment, then went limp.
Silence fell across the commschannel. We all knew the Andromedan was dead. So did the Rigellian, but rather than remorse he raised a fist in triumph. The stakes had just been raised in the fight. As they were in the immediate area, as the chatter broke out again, with renewed urgency. The few who had bet on the Rigellians were shouting in triumph, and demanding payment.
At the rear of the ship, the two remaining Andromedans gazed at their late comrade, so taking their attention from the other Rigellian. Dazed and confused he undoubtably was after being treated as a tennis ball, but he still managed to change the game by aiming a huge kick at his nearest opponent. By chance he connected with the Andromedan’s helmet. That the Andromedan was in trouble was clear from the water droplets that suddenly surrounded the Andromedan like a fountain. The stricken spaceman began frantically trying to fix the fastening on his helmet that must have been loosened by the impact from the Rigellian’s space boot.
Nobody was going to go to his aid. That seemed to be the local rule, and I wasn’t about to get involved either, in case all the combatants turned on me, before finishing their own squabble. The commschannel rocked with raucous cries of encouragement from the Rigellian’s supporters, who sensed victory and profit in equal measure.
Now the two Rigellians advanced on the last Andromedan, who promptly fired up his portable welder. From the gasps across the ether, this was not considered sporting behaviour, and indeed one set of supporters (the lot currently standing to lose their bets, of course) began shouting that using a weapon made all bets null and void. This was greeted with more abuse from the supporters of the Rigellians.
The Andromedan looked at the two Rigellians, who moved slightly apart, then closed in on him. The welder flared, but the flame missed the target, and with a hard spurt of thrust from his jetpack, the intended victim closed on the Andomedan and began wrestling for control of the welder.
The two spacesuited fighters rolled around the freight shuttle, bouncing off the hull and struggling as hard as they could inside the bulky suits. The second Rigellian had closed in on the Andromedan with the damaged and leaking space suit. I watched mesmerised. Was this about to be another death? I relaxed as the Andromedan obviously surrendered, and to jeers and cat calls entered the Rigellian shuttle, clearly as a captive.
The other fight did not last much longer. The Andromedan broke free, and turned to flee across the gap to his own shuttle. But one of the pipes slung around his suit snagged on the hull, and he had to turn to free it. Escape was now impossible. To gasps from the audience, the Andromedan fired the portable welder at the Rigellian, setting fire to part of the Rigellian’s equipment on his space suit. Without waiting to try and extinguish the fire, the Rigellian launched himself hard at the Andromedan, whose space suit ripped apart under the impact. As the Andromedan died, the commschannel erupted with shouts of approval and encouragement. But then the Rigellian’s jetpack exploded, sending burning bits of wreckage flying wildly towards the watching craft.
Shouts of approval turned to mild alarm, until it was clear that no other space shuttles had been damaged by the jetpack’s explosion. Then the chatter turned to settling the gambling debts in Octagon Eight’s favoured space bar.
The collection of shuttles started to move away and in order to remain as inconspicuous as possible, I joined the stream of craft moving toward the next destination. No one seemed to be interested in helping either of the damaged shuttle craft, and I wondered if that meant that the shuttles held little real commercial value in this system. Perhaps salvaging one and taking it to another system to sell might be profitable, once I had moved these computers.
Octagon Eight was the next planetary stop but one. Several of the shuttle craft suddenly swung off the track, and began what was clearly a set descent path towards Octagon Seven. For no readily obvious reason, in this system the planets had no names just numbers, and they were numbered from the outer planet in rather than the more normal inside out. Still, odd as that was, the system was clearly labelled and Octagon Eight was easy to identify from my star charts.
As my star charts were both Free Union Military Standard and inevitably, both out of date and incomplete, I had no flight guide for Octagon Eight to show descent procedures, flight information or comms channels. The now quite small flotilla of cargo shuttles passed Octagon Seven and I began to wonder how, and where, to land on Octagon Eight. It turned out that I need not have worried. All of the shuttles were now lining up into a descent path, and so I simply tagged along behind them in formation. No one queried who I was or where I wanted to go.
Curious and concerned, I scanned all the commschannels. The chatter was now just businesslike and simple, noting vectors and speeds. There was no Landing Control in evidence. The heat level rose and flared around the nose of the Speedbird as we entered the outer atmosphere. I monitored the gauges carefully, but the approach path the shuttles had taken was quite gentle. If I chose, I could descend more steeply. But then, if I did and I lost contact with the shuttles, I might not find my way to either the Spaceport or more importantly the Space bar. I held my patience, kept the defence screens operating, and peered forwards.
At last we broke free of the outer zone, and the shuttles reduced speed again. This was a problem now for me. The freighters had different aerodynamics, and could hold a slower flight speed on descent than the Speedbird. I slowed down again, and the Speedbird shuddered and I could feel the scoutship struggling to maintain attitude. If this continued we would simply start to fall out of the sky.
The navcomm could project a flight path based on current vectors, so I pushed the throttle forward hard, to fly past the freight shuttles. The engines coughed and sighed before responding, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. Engine failure now would be disasterous. In space, there is time and to spare to effect a repair if needed. At thirty thousand feet, the only time you have is the time it will take to fall
to the ground: probably inadequate to diagnose the issue, locate the spare parts, fit and restart the engines. I pulled back the throttle. The Speedbird’s nose fell but at least we picked up some airspeed, and the shuddering stopped. Pushing the throttle gently forward did result in the engines responding this time, and with a sigh of relief I watched the airspeed indicator rise.
With adequate flying speed, and the engines apparently functioning without problems, the Speedbird accelerated past the formation of freighters. Mild abuse was showered on me over the commschannel, but it wasn’t serious and I ignored it. Over the horizon was the Spaceport. As we approached, the navcomm lit up with a descent display, and I followed the instructions all the way down until the Spaceport became visual on the forward vidscreens The landing gear dropped with a satisfying clunk, and we passed the runway threshold and set down on the concrete easily.
During the approach I had time to look at the spaceport. There was a control tower, but it looked very dilapidated, in fact almost ruinous. Clearly it was not in use. There was a marshall in a small jeep, waving a big placard at me though. The placard read ‘Follow Me’, and it seemed like a good idea. The Speedbird lurched across the cracked and broken concrete after the jeep, and I was led to a parking spot. As soon as I was in position the jeep departed, presumably to deal with the first of the freight shuttles that was now on its final approach.
I ran several diagnostic checks on the engines before closing them down. Everyone of them said that there was no problem, and that the engines were in perfect condition. But that didn’t stop me from worrying. Twice now I had pushed hard on the throttle, and the engines had not responded properly. The computers might not see a problem, but I could. No pilot likes to feel uncertainty over engine response. I would have to see if there was some sort of maintenance operation here that could help me – and then see if I could afford their help.
Finishing the after flight checks, I left the flight deck and pushed past the stacked boxes of computer equipment to the engine bay. Inside I stared at the shielding around the hyperdrive, and then opened the next internal door and looked at the flight engines themselves. They were far too hot to touch, so being there was quite pointless. I decided to go and get more coffee, and maybe something to eat.
This was a good plan, but interrupted by the sound of someone banging on the side of the hull by the entry hatch. With a heavy sigh, I went to investigate. Swinging elegantly down the circular staircase to the hatch, I could see through the port that there was one individual with a clipboard waiting for me to open the hatch.
“Hello,” he said, even before the airlock had finished cycling. “Welcome to Octagon Eight.”
I looked him up and down. He wore a threadbare uniform, with a name badge that was so worn it was illegible. It looked so old that it probably had belonged to the previous owner of the clipboard, if not the one before that. His voice had an annoying whine that I tried to ignore.
“Thank you. Mister?” I peered at the name badge. He rubbed at it with his sleeve until the vestige of a name appeared through the grime. “Leiber.”
“I’m local customs. May I ask the purpose of your visit?”
“Business.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to hear that there is no landing fee, but there is a procedure when you unload goods. They go through our bonded warehouse, and duties are paid by the buyers, not by you.”
“That’s good to know. Is there a maintenance facility here?”
“Well, there is.” He leant forward in what was supposed to be a conspiratorial attitude. I leant forward too, caught a whiff of his breath and stood upright very fast. “But frankly you’d be better just hitting whatever is wrong with a hammer. It’s about all they do anyway.” He made a check note on his clipboard and moved off without saying a goodbye. Only then did I realise that he hadn’t asked for my name or ship details. Whoever was running Octagon Eight didn’t seem to be too well organised, or financially astute – which explained the condition of the spaceport.
I closed the airlock, and retired to the living quarters for a quick sandwich and a drink, and to contemplate my next move. I needed to find a customer for the computer kit before it became so outdated that only a government would buy it. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Octagon Eight already looked like the down at heel sort of place that might need to upgrade its administration’s resources. The big issue would be whether or not I could trust them to pay up. But then, I would have that problem anyway.
More cheerfully, I scraped together my remaining currency and climbed down from the Speedbird onto the cracked concrete of the Spaceport. There was a building some distance away that seemed to be the centre of activity, presumably the Terminal. Certainly, the pilots of the freight shuttles were making their way in that direction in a noisy, but good humoured, bunch. There was some pushing and shoving, but nothing abnormal or untoward. I followed the bunch towards a door in the building, and seeing me approach, they stopped and waited for me.
“Were you flying that old Speedbird, then?” asked one as I got close enough to them.
“Yes.”
“Thought you’d blown that approach!” said a second.
“Yeah, you were so slow we were wondering where we’d have to go hunting for your body!” laughed another.
“Or as many bits as we could find, anyway,” agreed the first.
This passes as pilot’s humour, so I didn’t take it too badly.
“I’m Flabby,” announced the first pilot. His muscles stood out under his shirt, and I realised that it was a nickname.
“I’m Nick,” said the second pilot. That was a nickname too, I supposed.
“And I’m Gretchen,” added the third.
Chatting companionably, we walked through the security doors into the Terminal, and the two bored guards on the door never glanced at any of us once. We ambled through the main hall, which was more or less deserted. At the far end, Gretchen pointed to the main doors.
“That’s the way out,” she said unnecessarily. After several years of running around spaceports, I can recognise the exit easily. I’m quite used to having to run for it, if things start going wrong. “We’ve just got to go in here for a minute or two, to file our manifests. If you want to hang about, we’ll show you where we go to eat when we come out.”
Now that sounded like a good idea. The kitchen area on the Speedbird isn’t all that large, or well equipped, and frankly I’m not the best cook in the world. Consequently, when I’m in space, I tend to have a diet of things in tins that can be easily heated up and might then pass as nourishing, sustaining, food to someone who was otherwise going to be very hungry. “I’ll wait here for you guys, then,” I agreed.
The three of them pushed through a door into a nearby office. There was a counter in front of the door, but it was unoccupied. I examined the computer terminal sitting on the counter desk: it was quite a lot older than the stuff I had on board, and my spirits rose. If they were still not using that level of technology, then maybe I would be able to sell my stock fairly easily, so that they could not use something a bit more modern. The faded sign on the door read Soloco Mining Company. Presumably then my new friends had been transporting some ores in their shuttle craft. I leant on the counter and waited. Slowly I became aware that there were raised voices on the other side of the door. I listened carefully, but the door muffled the sounds too well. The shouting got louder, and I was curious enough to want to listen at the door. I was just about to push my ear to the door when it flew open, pushing me to one side. I fell against the wall, and tried to keep upright. The three pilots stormed out of the door, and slammed it behind them.
“We’re going for a drink,” growled Flabby in my general direction. “Coming?”
Nick kicked at the main doors. The glass must have been properly toughened, for his heavy space boot just shoved them open an inch or two. Flabby snarled and shouldered his way out. The doors stayed where they were, so I followed behind Gretchen, whom looked a
s furious as the other two.
“What’s happened?” I asked her.
“Soloco are what’s happened!”
“Your employers?”
“We’re contractors, not employees.”
“Let me guess. They haven’t paid you?”
Flabby gave me a succinct run down on the ancestry, behaviour and intellectual capacity of Soloco’s managerial staff. Well, perhaps it wasn’t all that succinct and it did involve a number of hand gestures and words with which I was not entirely conversant. I got the gist however.
Nick shoved open a rather dingy door into a tavern. Like any other tavern anywhere in the galaxy that was positioned so close to a spaceport, the doorway had a lingering odour of impatience. The pilots pushed through the clientele towards the bar, and demanded drinks. They included me in the first round without asking, and I guessed that I had been co-opted into their group. Good. I like being inconspicuous on a strange planet. Gretchen downed half her glass in one draught. I tasted the beer, and tried not to choke or gag at the taste.
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad.” Nick had noticed my reaction. “But this is the cheapest bar near the spaceport, and right now we need cheap.”
“Not paid, then?” I asked again.
“Administrative issues over the last cargo run,” said Gretchen.
“Someone in Loading had mixed up our cargos with a shipment of cuddly toys from the Brementian System.”
“Cuddly toys?” I looked around the bar. It was only half full, but the clientele looked far too rough and vicious to enjoy cuddly toys, unless they were festooned with whips and chains.
“Yeah. It’s a big market round here.”
I started laughing over my beer. But stopped when a huge and very heavy hand grabbed me by the neck and dragged me round. An enormous and incredibly rough and grimy man in a faded, patched and torn flight suit had overheard me and objected. He raised a fist in front of my face – it seemed nearly as big as my head. He let go with the other hand, and pulled a small teddy bear out of one pocket of the flight suit.
Rogue Pilot Page 8
