“Come on.” She took my hand. “let’s see the Spider, do some business and maybe that will convince you!”
“I’m not unconvinced,” I protested. I was torn between my enjoyment of my own company and my dislike of being alone all the time. “I’m just nervous.”
“I thought that you ex-military types had no fear?” Gretchen led me across the bar, and through a swing door set back in a corner, away from the kitchens. Two large men sat at a table close to the door, so very obviously not looking at us or the door that it was clear that they were guards of some sort. Probably unofficial and equally probably very violent.
“We are just cautious. It’s a survival thing, like a form of natural selection. The ultra-brave get de selected very quickly.”
“De selected?”
“All right, killed.”
Gretchen said no more, but led me along a dimly lit corridor towards another door.
“Why does the Spider lurk down here, then?” I asked.
“She is cautious too, I suppose.”
Gretchen opened the door, and we entered the Spider’s lair. I know that ‘web’ is a more normal term, but this was no dusty web. The trappings of wealth were obvious in the furniture, in the huge desk that occupied the centre of the room, and in the expensive, military grade, weapons carefully arranged so that they were not-in-any-way-at-all threatening the visitors. Yet. From a large, ornate, chair behind the desk the Spider regarded us with several of her eight eyes. Two more remained focussed on a computer screen. Two of her legs were hammering rapidly at the keyboard.
“With you in a moment,” the Spider said, without looking up.
I watched, fascinated, until the Spider had finished.
“What’s up?” she asked, when finally the message had been finished and dispatched. “Have you never seen technology used properly before?”
I thought quickly. “Actually, I was impressed by your typing speed. I’m not that fast.”
The Spider looked suspiciously at me, but then let it go. “Why do want to see me?”
I coughed, and Gretchen kicked my ankle. “I’ve got a shipment of computer equipment that I’m looking to sell.”
“Do you have the technical specs?” asked the Spider.
I pulled a sheet of paper out of an inner pocket. “Here you go.” I dropped it on the desk.
The Spider took the sheet and examined it with four of her eyes. Two of the others kept watching the computer screen, and the final two kept us under close observation. “I could use these. Have you had any other offers?
“I thought you could have first refusal.”
“How many units do you have?”
I showed the Spider the manifest. She nodded, slowly. This isn’t easy when you are a Spider, and I appreciated her effort.
“Right. My people will unload the cargo in an hour. You’d better be back at the space port to assist them.”
“And the money?” I asked. “Sorry to sound mercenary, and all that.”
The Spider showed her two fangs. A small drip of venom collected on the tip of one fang and then dripped onto the cargo manifest, which started smoking. I went cold, but Gretchen seemed unmoved. In one corner of the room, what had seemed to be a pile of rags under a quilt on a couch stirred, and then moved. A very grey zombie-like creature eventually stood upright next to one of the assorted weapons of mass destruction that were very definitely not quite pointed at us.
Gretchen stirred, and the weapon was very definitely pointed directly at us. The Spider raised one leg, and waved it, first at the zombie and then at me.
“Now, now,” said the Spider to me. She didn’t turn to look at the zombie, but it collapsed back onto the couch. “Cash or Credits? Imperium or Free Union or EFTA currency?”
“Cash is always nice,” I replied.
“I have a preference for it,” agreed the Spider. “Ten thousand EFTA.”
I had paid six and a half thousand for the cargo, so that gave me a decent profit. I agreed at once, and held out my hand for the cash. The Spider just laughed.
“Free on board.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not understanding.
The Spider made that strange laughing noise again. “It’s an old business saying. It means you get paid once the goods are unloaded.”
I was unsure about that and said so. The pile of rags in the corner stirred again.
“That’s the way it is. Now, either you can go and help with the unloading, and then come back here for your payment, or you can wait here with me. Of course, you’ll have to give us the access codes so that we can get inside your vessel.”
Neither of these options attracted me. “How about you come with me and pay me once you’ve inspected the goods on board – then you can unload them at your convenience?”
The Spider studied me carefully. Then she waved a leg at the pile of rags. It wriggled and struggled, then slowly unfolded itself again until the zombie was upright. “Zebedee will take the money.”
“Zebedee? He’s a zombie!”
“And quite loyal to me.” The Spider pulled a sheaf of notes out of a drawer in her desk, and counted them. “Zebedee will give you this envelope once the goods are safe in our possession.”
“Agreed.”
“And she stays here until I hear that all is as it should be.”
“What!” Gretchen was clearly unhappy with this, and I didn’t blame her.
“Take it or leave it.” The Spider turned her attention back to the computer screen.
“Right. Taken.”
“Frank!” Gretchen was clearly unhappy about staying with the Spider.
“This is business, Pilot.” The Spider was addressing Gretchen directly. “Just business. When I get a call that your man here is dealing in good faith, you get to go.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “We’ll get the goods unloaded, then come straight back to the Speedbird and we’ll lift ship.”
Gretchen’s lips had almost vanished. If looks could kill, she would have been the only living being in the room. Even Zebedee, who was already dead, would have suffered under her glare.
“Don’t be long, Frank.” When I looked at her, I thought I could sense a trace of fear pass across her face.
“Promise.”
Zebedee lurched past me and opened the door. He walked off down the passage without waiting for me, but as he had the money in his pocket, I followed him. Zebedee walked through the café, to the astonishment and unease of the patrons. Luckily the front door was open: it saved the owner the inconvenience of having to replace it. Zebedee left the café and turned right. I followed, at what seemed like a safe distance. To my mild astonishment, no one on the wide boulevard seemed to be in the least surprised or alarmed at the sight of the zombie lurching along amongst them at his best speed.
In moments I became aware that I was not alone. Two large men appeared just behind me. I looked from one to the other. Their expressions were impassive. “What do you want?” I demanded, with more bravura than I really felt.
“The Spider sent us. We’re your security.”
They didn’t make me feel very secure at all. In fact, I felt considerably less safe. However, the strange procession continued until we reached the spaceport. Zebedee the zombie went past the main doors, presumably to the tradesman’s entrance. One of the security men dropped a hand on my shoulder. It felt like a ton weight.
“We go through the main doors,” he growled. “The zombie will meet us at your ship with the crew who will unload the goods.”
We marched across the main hall to the pilot’s security desk. There was now a uniformed policeman, with hard eyes, behind the desk. He gave me a professionally blank look as we approached.
“What ship?” demanded the officer.
“Speedbird Six Sixty-six,” I replied.
The officer’s eyes slid over the Spider’s security staff, but said nothing.
“We’re with him,” one of them said.
The officer didn’t r
eply, but pressed a button on the console in front of him. The barrier slid to one side, and I shot through. The security team followed me as I ran out of the space port buildings and out onto the flight apron. I looked about me. The apron was full of the local cargo shuttles, similar to the one Gretchen flew. Various uniformed ground staff were unloading one of the craft with no conspicuous sense of urgency. I could see the Speedbird, and Zebedee lurching towards it with some uniformed ground staff driving electric loading carts behind him.
I hurried across the flight apronpron, and met Zebedee at the entry port of the Speedbird. He grunted, and pointed at the door controls. I stood very close to the controls and entered the entry codes. The airlock port slid open. Zebedee stepped back and grunted again. The loading crew obviously understood, for they pushed past us and started unloading the boxes of computers and peripherals. As they took them out and piled them into the loading carts, Zebedee made a rough mark on the manifest.
At last, the final box was unloaded. Zebedee watched the carts drive away towards the secure warehouse.
I held out my hand. “Fair exchange.”
The dead eyes looked at me. Then Zebedee turned away. I grabbed his arm.
“The money.”
“Let go of the zombie,” growled one of the security goons. I glanced at him, and then dragged Zebedee round in front of me. Off balance, the zombie staggered, and took the bullet that was aimed at me.
I dragged my weapon from its concealed holster, and fired back, around the body of the zombie. I was very glad then that the zombie was in front of me. The goons firing was deadly accurate. I stopped shooting for a moment, to use my trigger finger to punch the entry code into the Speedbird’s airlock keypad. For some reason, possibly the fusillade of bullets that rattled off the remaining teeth of the zombie, I needed three attempts to get it right. Relief flooded through me as the door slid open behind me: and as the zombie, riddled with bullets and already dead at least once before started to move, something very unlike relief flooded out of me and down my leg.
Zebedee took one lurching step away from me: then stopped, stopped dead as you might say. The zombie fell to his knees. Before I could start panicking about my almost human shield being taken away, I realised that the Spider’s security goons were firing desperately, but not towards me. They had taken cover behind one of the baggage trucks that had been hauling the unloaded computers away: I winced as one box containing once-state-or-the-art computer terminals slowly shredded under the fire before toppling off the cart and onto the Flight apron.
At my feet the zombie made a noise that I can only describe as indescribable. Then to my shock, horror and awe, the sound became the noise made by a spring compressing and uncompressing. ‘Boinngg’ went Zebedee as he sprang to his feet, shedding his badly torn jacket on the way. Ignoring me the zombie lurched off towards the new threat to his non-existence. With great presence of mind, I grabbed the vile smelling jacket and dived through the now open airlock, not forgetting to hit the ‘Recycle’ button as I did so.
The Spider’s goons realised that I had got onboard too late. More shots ricocheted off the Speedbird, but I was safe inside. And so was the fat envelope full of money that the Spider had so evidently intended me not to have. I spared a thought for Gretchen, poor girl, trapped in the Spider’s web. Who were my rescuers, I wondered? I peered through the window in the airlock, but couldn’t tell. Zebedee was lurching randomly around the apron holding someone’s arm – they clearly didn’t need it any more, for the rest of the body was missing – and hitting out with it at random. The goons had summoned reinforcements, and as I watched a truck full of shouting, and very heavily armed, goons arrived and began trying to recover the remaining computers.
As I watched, a competing baggage truck, with Octogon Mining Group stencilled across the side rammed the reinforcements’ vehicle. As neither vehicle had a top speed of more than ten miles an hour, this was possibly the slowest crash in history. But what the truck lacked in pace it had in mass. The Spider’s troop carrier shuddered, slid and finally toppled over. Various heavy weapons spilled out onto the flight apron. Anyone of those could cause serious damage to my Speedbird, so enough was enough. I had the money, I had seen the computers unloaded legitimately: I dropped the evil smelling jacket on the floor, kept tight hold of the fat envelope full of cash, and ran for the flight deck.
“Speedbird Six Sixty-six requesting immediate departure!” I shouted into the comms computer as soon as it had started up. My hands sped across the Flight console, running through the start-up procedure without conscious thought.
“Speedbird, await instructions. Departure clearance not, repeat NOT authorised.”
“There is an incident taking place on the flight apron. Request permission to move to a safer parking position. For safety. Health and safety.”
“Speedbird, we are aware there has been an incident. The riot police are deploying now. Hold position and await customs inspection.”
A customs inspection? Now? I had no intention of letting Customs Inspectors on board when I had all this nice fresh cash. If they did nothing else, they would confiscate it pending enquiries. Or in plain English, steal it. I turned on the navcomm and selected a destination at random, then strapped the pilot’s seat harness as tightly around me as I could.
“Speedbird, this is Flight Control. Your engine start request has not been approved. Close down your engines and await Inspection. Confirm.”
The engines were approaching operating temperature. It is possible to launch on cold engines, but it isn’t entirely advisable. I checked the vidscreens. The small battle was ending as the Octogon Eight riot police arrived in their armoured vehicle, and began shooting at anything and everything, without discrimination. I saw Zebedee disintegrate under a hail of very accurate shooting. The Police clearly thought that the best way to de-escalate a situation was to kill anyone or anything that moved. I had no doubt that would soon include me.
“Speedbird, confirm instructions understood.”
“Understood.” I did indeed understand. I watched the needle on the engine temperature gauge slowly rise out of the red towards the green operating zone of the dial. It reached the black line differentiating the two and hovered there.
“Speedbird, comply immediately or enforcement action will be taken.”
On the vidscreen I could see one member of the riot police raise a hand to his ear, presumable to improve reception on his earpiece. Then he pointed at me and started shouting at his men. It was time to be off. I flashed a last look at the engine instruments: all seemed to be in order.
“Speedbird rolling,” I said into the commschannel out of force of habit, and pushed the throttle forwards. The Speedbird shuddered, and moved. Several other ships were parked on the Flight apron, mostly the local cargo shuttles, but I had to clear those before I could launch. The rear vidscreen flared, blindingly, with light as the riot police’s first shot at me with the heavy armament mounted on their vehicle missed me and hammered into the engine pod of an OMG cargo shuttle, which promptly exploded.
I turned the Speedbird to the left, behind another shuttle that was parked vertically. It was not the fastest way off the Apron, but the extra cover might help. The commschannel was filled with the yells of the innocent (for a given value of innocent, of course. I’m sure that the riot police on Octagon Eight subscribed to the galaxy wide view shared by the various security services that everyone was guilty of something) crew of the cargo shuttle, and the exhortations of the Flight Control to the riot police to stop shooting, and of the riot police commander to his men to take better aim next time.
Another shuttle was just ahead of me. I swung to the right, and there was the runway, just ahead. As the spaceport was designed to accept large transports containing heavy mining ore, the runway was very wide. Elderly the Speedbird might be; but it was still a military grade scout ship and therefore equipped with the capacity to get airborne in a short time. I selected the ‘Short Field’ optio
n on the flight computer, triggered the brakes and pushed the throttle all the way forward until the Speedbird shook.
Observing that I was trying to escape, the riot police commander opened up with his heavy weapons again, but only succeeded in toppling the vertically parked shuttle onto the last ship in the line. The resulting explosions spread fire and smoke across the Flight apron and provided me with some much needed concealment. The Speedbird accelerated hard as I released the brakes and accelerated across the concrete.
A shot just missed me, and the resulting explosion just as the Speedbird lifted off the concrete and into the air threw my ship sideways. Cursing I fought the controls to restore the launch trajectory. Luckily for me, the resulting gyrations made me a very hard target to hit and the fire from the ground stopped. I pulled the nose up as the speed rose and the Speedbird headed for the skies. The rear vidscreen showed a rising pall of smoke and flame rom the chaos below me.
“All System Security vessels, Octogon Eight Flight Control.”
I focussed on the commschannel.
“Flight Control, this is System Security Five. Receiving.”
“We have a fugitive in a Speedbird class ship achieving escape velocity at this time. Intercept.”
Great. Just peachy. I armed the weapons systems and the defence screens.
“Apprehend or destroy?”
“Destroy. With prejudice.”
That was a choice that affected me closely. I began to search the monitors for the System Security ship as the Speedbird rose to the very edge of Octogon Eight’s gravitational grasp. Once free of the atmosphere I could look to engage the Hyperdrive and escape the system.
“System Security Five, we have contact.”
Contact? Contact? Where was SS5? I searched the monitors and instruments, but could see nothing. The Speedbird left the last vestiges of the atmosphere, and turned out towards the edge of the system. Then SS5 came into view, from behind a spare moon that I had not previously noticed. It was huge. Really huge. A full-sized Imperium battlecruiser, no less. I spared a moment to winder how or why it had got here, into the control of a local system’s mining operation, but only a moment. And if this was ship number five, did that mean that they had more of these colossal craft?
Rogue Pilot Page 10
