Rogue Pilot

by Will Macmillan Jones

  “This is Mickey,” said Gretchen. “He’s very sensitive. And he’s holding TedTwo up for you to admire.”

  I assumed TedTwo was the cuddly bear, dwarfed by the huge hand holding it up for my inspection. “He’s lovely,” I said quickly. “And very lucky to be with Mickey!”

  Both the teddy bear and the fist withdrew.

  “He’s off world, Mickey, and with us,” Gretchen said in a soothing tone.

  Mickey just grunted. Or he could well have been non-verbal, for all I knew. Either way he turned away, to my enormous relief.

  “If Loading mixed up your cargoes, why don’t you get paid?” I asked. “Not your fault.”

  “We get paid by weight of ore delivered,” explained Nick. “And without a weight inventory, they won’t pay up. And our manifests don’t count, even though they have the load weight shown when we lift from Octogon Two, where the mining facility is right now. So we’ve lost the money for a whole run.”

  “Not just you,” rumbled Mickey from behind me. So he was verbal after all. “They’ve shafted a lot of us.”

  “They’re blaming the computer system,” said another pilot who had been listening. “Say it has lost a lot of data, and won’t integrate with Octogon Two’s system. Me, I think that’s a scam. They’ve just turned us all over.”

  “Can’t you sell the ore somewhere else, or just go to another system?” I asked.

  “We wish.” Flabby drained his beer, and banged the glass on the counter to show he wanted a refill. “Guess who sold us the shuttles at favourable rates, and so tied us in to working for them?”

  “Ah.”

  “And they aren’t really interstellar, either,” added Gretchen. “I for one wouldn’t trust mine to go to Brementian, and that’s practically next door.”

  “We owe them for the ships and there’s no real mining competition in the Octogon system to go to, so basically they own us.” Nick started banging his glass on the counter. The bartender waved at him, and kept pouring drinks at the other end of the bar.

  More pilots started to come into the bar from the spaceport, and from the look on their faces they were in the same predicament as my new friends. The noise level rose, and as the beer flowed in and out of the glasses – and in and out of the pilots, for that matter, the mood began to turn ugly. Most of the pilots and other crew were complaining loudly to anyone who would listen, and of course to those who were not listening because they were too busy complaining themselves.

  Then the doors opened and the room went silent. There, clustered in the doorway, was a group of men in black jackets and with black, full face helmets and extremely heavy black boots.

  “Octocon Eight’s riot police,” Gretchen said to me in a low tone. She took my arm and pulled me gently towards the back of the bar. I went quite willingly. Gretchen had to be a tough cookie to be flying one of the mining shuttles, but a full-on bar fight with riot police held no attraction for her. Nor for me, frankly. “Look like you’re with me!” she hissed at me. “Put your arm round me!”

  Being honest, I was in unfamiliar territory here. Some years as a military pilot on a StarDestroyer, followed by a role in Star Fleet Reconnaissance as a solo scout pilot, had left me unused to the company of women., and I found the idea of actually holding one quite disturbing.

  “Closer!” Gretchen pulled me closer to her until I could feel her body warmth through the flight suit. She then started to walk backwards, never taking her eyes off the riot police who were now spreading out from the door, and pulling out batons and sticks. These they waved about in ways that I found quite threatening, but the pilots around the bar greeted them with derision.

  Flabby made a very offensive gesture, and the police charged. Gretchen turned and ran, and as I still had hold of her I went too. The swing doors at the back of the bar banged shut behind us, and promptly slammed open again. Gretchen spun round ready to fight, pushing me away from her; but it was only Nick.

  “Got my flight medical in the morning,” he told me. That explained everything, of course. If Nick failed the medical, he could have his flight licence temporarily suspended, meaning that he couldn’t earn any money. The three of us retreated further to the back door of the bar. Nick tried to open it, but it seemed to be either stuck or locked. With an almighty crash, a black clad riot policeman staggered through the swinging doors and fell into the back door. The lock gave way under the impact and the three of us wasted no time in jumping over the policeman as he slumped to the floor and making a quick getaway, with the comforting thought that the authorities had forced the door open, not us. Therefore, we could not be held responsible for the damage.

  Behind us, the bar was full of shouting and the sounds I’ve always associated with bar fights. “This way!” said Nick, and started running down the narrow street that lay between the buildings. Gretchen stayed close to me, which was both exciting and strange at the same time.

  As no one seemed to be following us, I slowed down and then stopped running. The fact is, spending most of your time in the confines of a small spaceship is not conducive to a high level of fitness.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Gretchen.

  “Got a stitch,” I panted, holding my hand against the sharp pain in my side.

  Nick threw me a disparaging look. “Catch us up, then.” He hadn’t stopped moving, and now headed away down the alley. Gretchen looked after him, then turned back to me.

  “It’s not safe to hang around. The Riot Police will be looking for anyone that might have been involved. We need to get off the streets.”

  I drew a deep breath. It hurt. Gretchen grabbed my arm. I let her, and tried not to stagger too much as she pulled me away after Nick. He opened a door further down the alley and vanished inside the building, just as three members of Octagon Eight’s riot police came out of the back door of the bar we had just left.

  “Police, Gretchen!” I gasped.

  Normally I am an over achiever at running away from any sort of threat, but it had been made brutally clear to me that all the recent time I had spent in space without being subject to an immediate threat had reduced my fitness levels too much for me to escape this situation by running. Luckily, Gretchen had a back-up plan. To my complete surprise, she twisted my arm and I stumbled, coming up against a blank wall on one side of the alley. Gretchen promptly closed on me and started kissing me. After a moment, she came up for air, allowing me to grab some much needed oxygen.

  “Hold me back, you fool!” she hissed.

  Gingerly I put both arms around her back, and she dived in for round two. Peering through the screen created by her hair, I could see the riot police getting very close. Very close indeed. I started to panic, but Gretchen just saw this as some expression of fervour on my part and redoubled her efforts. The Riot Police barely glanced at us as they strode past, and went on down the alleyway.

  “There,” said Gretchen, finally releasing me and stepping back a pace. “That didn’t hurt. Did it?” Even in the dim light, I could see that she looked very flushed, and was breathing extremely heavily. As a matter of fact, her exertions had hurt – but I suspected that if I said so she might find a more exotic way to inflict some pain on me. And besides, I could no longer recall when I’d been kissed or held so closely, and it was far from unpleasant.

  “Not at all,” I lied. “Want to try again, in case they come back?”

  Gretchen gave me a look. “Is that the only reason?”

  “Of course not.” My arms were still loosely around her waist, and I tightened them briefly. “But unless we want them to be giving us a hard time in lieu of anyone else, we should go, I suppose.”

  Gretchen put one hand on her hip and arched an eyebrow at me. “And where do you intend to go?”

  I realised that I had no accommodation here on Octagon Eight. Except the Speedbird. “Back to the ship, I suppose, and then think about shifting my cargo.”

  “My cargo will still be being unloaded. Your ship will be safest, unles
s you have some local currency to get a room for the night?”

  With a frisson of both excitement and fear I realised she meant sharing a room.

  “I’ve a Galactic Bank card.”

  “Fine, but that’s very traceable if anyone was looking for you.” Gretchen paused for a moment. “Will anyone be looking for you?”

  “How can I be married? With what I do for a living?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a wife or girlfriend. Frank, you have the manner and appearance of someone who might be on the run. Now I quite like that, but it is something I ought to know about.”

  I wasn’t sure that she ought to know anything. But then thought that if I was going to manage to sell these computers here, I might need someone local to help me and my friends here were in short supply. “Well, there’s a few people around who don’t like me much.”

  “Really.” Her tone was dry. “Can’t think why. Who, exactly?”

  “Well, there’s some people in The Free Union.”

  “We aren’t inside The Free Union. Why do they matter?”

  “Because they are the sort of people who aren’t very interested in borders.”

  “Okay, anyone else?”

  “Ummm, the Followers of Zog.” The Followers of Zog were an intergalactic religious cult. I had run into, or perhaps over, some of their members a year or so ago and they were still a little vexed about my behaviour.

  “Those nutters? What did you do to upset them?”

  “I refused to join them, and left their ship – taking a few similarly unconvinced men from The Free Union’s Space Corps with me. And their ships.”

  “Ahh. Any more?”

  “Well, Colonel Starker doesn’t like me very much.”

  “Who is he when he is at home?”

  “Same as he is when he’s out and about. The Imperium’s Chief Enforcer, and leader of their Black Ops unit.”

  “Him? You’ve got on the wrong side of him? How did you manage that?”

  “All too easily, I’m afraid.”

  “Frank, I’m actually quite impressed. And amazed. How have you managed to annoy some of the most persistent nuisances and the most dangerous people in the entire Galaxy?”

  I blew a heavy sigh. “It just came naturally.”

  Gretchen grabbed my arm again. “Well you can’t stay here. If any of those riot police know that the Black Ops troops want you, they’ll have you banged up in a cell before you know what’s happened to you.”

  “That fast?”

  “Oh, they will take their time. It’s just you’ll be unconscious whilst they get on with it. Come on.” She looked around carefully, and then led me down a small passageway nearby that I hadn’t previously noticed. Probably because it was so narrow we had to walk in single file.

  “A hotel?” I asked.

  “Too dangerous.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “I’ve thought of the perfect place. You can sell your cargo, and hide out until it’s time to leave.”

  I followed her down the passageway with more enthusiasm. At the end of the passage she stopped abruptly, so abruptly that I hadn’t realised that she had stopped moving and bumped into her. She wriggled against me enticingly, then broke free and peered out along the road.

  “Come on. Hold my hand, and try to look natural.”

  I took her hand, we left the passageway and turned right. To my surprise, we had emerged onto a wide, tree lined boulevard of shops and cafes. Lots of locals were wandering around, mostly in groups, and chattering loudly. A few couples like ourselves mixed among them, but the larger groups were predominant. Gretchen let go of my hand and grabbed me around the waist.

  “Hold me the same way!” she hissed, then waved at a small group of locals who were standing near the entrance to a brightly lit café. One or two of them waved back.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “No idea. But it makes it look as if we know them, if anyone is watching.”

  “If anyone is watching us, that will get them into trouble?”

  Gretchen waved at some more people, but only one waved back, and then in a tentative and unsure way. “Who knows? Or cares?” she replied. “This café.” She suddenly swung on one heel and dragged me through the door of one place that looked very similar to all the other places along the boulevard. We passed by several customers eating and drinking at tables set just outside the frontage. They all seemed to be quite happy and engrossed in their food and conversation. Gretchen didn’t greet any of them, or anybody, until we had gone through the double doors made of clear glass. Then she waved at a waitress, and tugged me over to the bar. This was quite a small affair, clearly used mainly for ordering meals. My stomach rumbled with anticipation as the bartender came over to us.

  “Hungry?” she asked, without looking at me.

  “After a few weeks on onboard prepackaged flight meals? What do you think?”

  She shuddered. “Life as a roving trader has more downsides than I thought.” The bartender arrived. “Jack, is The Spider in?”

  The bartender kept his voice down. “Yes, but with people just now. Order some food, I’ll let The Spider know you are here, and tell you when you can go in.”

  “Done,” said Gretchen in matching tones, which I thought quite suited her. “We’ll have two of the house specials, fresh bread and some side dips.”

  “Right. Take that table over there, near the kitchen.”

  Gretchen led me towards the back of the café. Most customers had stayed near the front, where they could see out across the boulevard and indulge in what seemed to be the local hobby of spotting as many friends as possible.

  “I didn’t realise that Octagon Eight was such a friendly place,” I observed.

  “We’re a very friendly, peaceable bunch,” replied Gretchen in a voice loud enough to carry across the café. Several other customers nodded approvingly at her, then returned to watching the windows.

  “Then why the Riot Police?”

  “Sssshhhh! They are why we are so friendly and peaceful. If we aren’t, then we get a visit from them. And no one wants that.” She looked around furtively. “I can’t see anyone that I know.”

  “Is that a good thing? And why are we meeting a spider? I’ve had a thing about spiders since one tried to eat me.”

  “This one will just try and eat your money. She’s a business woman.”

  I relaxed. “That’s all right, then. I thought you meant a real spider.”

  “She’s that, as well.”

  The waitress arrived with food before I could react to that. One of the downsides of flying a solo spacecraft, if I haven’t mentioned it before, is the quality of the catering available – particularly if you aren’t a very good cook. And I’m not. The freshly made bread rolls were like heaven, especially with the selection of dips that came with them. I started eating with real enjoyment for the first time in ages. After a few moments I became aware that Gretchen was watching me in surprise.

  “You were ready for that!” she said.

  “Mmmmm.” It’s rude to talk with your mouth full, so I didn’t. Thankfully, the waitress then arrived with the ‘Special’, which turned out to be a sort of stew accompanied by a slab of cheese and more bread rolls. I carried on eating. Gretchen dipped some bread daintily into her stew, and nibbled at it, all the while watching me. I could not fathom out her expression.

  Finally I finished eating. “That was the best meal I can remember in years,” I said to her. “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me, you’re paying.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. Right.” I collected my thoughts, such as they were. “Tell me, what’s it like flying those cargo shuttles?”

  “Actually, it’s not too bad. The pay is rubbish. We get a good basic, but bonuses are unheard of and it’s more normal to get fined or deducted money. That’s why the lads were getting upset. They put their lives on the line flying the shuttles, and don’t feel they are appreciated in the way th
at matters.”

  “The pay.”

  “That’s it. But other than that, it’s a decent life. As pilot I’m in charge of myself when we are off-world, and I get to fly, which is what I’ve always wanted.”

  “That I can understand. Flying is what I always wanted.”

  “And now you have your own spaceship, and can go where you want and do what you like.”

  “That’s probably one way to look at it. I still have to make some money, it’s not like I’m rich or anything.”

  “You are from where I’m sitting.”

  I had not looked at my life from that perspective. But I could see how she could reach that conclusion.

  “If I help you with this deal, will you take me with you?”

  “What!” I was astonished. Astounded. Amazed.

  “I can fly, I can deal, help you make some money. We’d have fun.” She sounded wistful, and longing at the same time.

  “Gretchen, it is a one man – or woman – craft, you know. It is – it used to be – a scoutship, not a merchantman. There’s no luxuries on board.”

  She made an odd noise. “There are no luxuries on board one of the cargo shuttles either. We could make it work.”

  “There’s only one bed,” I objected.

  “I’m sure we could make that work, too.” Gretchen reached out across the table and took my hand. “What do you say, Frank?”

  I looked into her eyes and was lost. But before I could capitulate, the bartender was beside us.

  “The Spider will see you now.” He looked at us without other comment, and then returned to the bar.

  “Can’t keep a lady waiting,” I said quickly and stood up. Reluctantly, Gretchen rose too.

  “Frank?” She came around the table to stand very close to me. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Gretchen…”

  The bartender banged a glass on the bar with unnecessary force. The hint was unmistakeable.