“System Security Five. You are authorised to open fire.”
“System Security Five engaging.”
Frantically I dived back into the planet’s atmosphere, desperate to avoid whatever weapons the Battlecruiser could target on me. Just in time, too: the laser cannon shots missed. Despite the increased air resistance, I kept the Speedbird going as fast as I could. The temperature began to rise. In the rear view monitor I could see the battlecruiser emerge from its hiding place and begin an orbit to follow me.
That was what I had been hoping for. I lifted the Speedbird up a little and our flight speed increased. Now a segment of the planet was between me and the battlecruiser. The Speedbird did not have the power to fight such a behemoth, but it could run away. And it did. We shot round two thirds of the planet’s circumference and the battlecruiser, staying further away from the planet, fell behind. As soon as I was out of visual contact, I pulled the Speedbird up hard, changed direction and selected an orbital path at ninety degrees to my original path.
The ruse worked. Leaving the atmosphere again at a different point with a different trajectory, I was able to vacate the immediate area as the battlecruiser was still completing its original orbit. Laughing into the open commschannel, I reached VH, engaged the hyperdrive, and fled with my life and the money, but sadly not the girl.
Can’t have everything, I suppose.
Chapter seven
In space, no one can hear you scream. That’s a lie. I could hear myself scream, for a start, and if anyone had been within the odd light year or two at the time, I’m fairly confident that the ripples and vibrations would have spread that far too.
The Speedbird had been comfortably cruising in hyperspace towards my next planned destination, the holiday planet of Algernon Five. The beaches are (reputedly) clean and warm, the climate temperate and (reputedly) mostly sunny, and drinks (reputedly) ruinously expensive: but I had the Spider’s cash secreted in the underfloor safe and felt that I deserved a little Rest & Recuperation. Occasionally, during the flight time, I had speculated that Gretchen’s company might have been pleasant; but then I also suspected that she would have been very efficient at helping me run through the cash and that rather tempered any slight sadness.
So, there I was, with the star charts and landing approach path charts open and ready, playing chess against the comms computer (the navcomm was too good and I was fed up of always losing to it) when my concentration was disturbed by a frankly enormous bang from the engine bay. The sort of loud explosion that, in space, means you are going to need a change of underwear either very shortly, or not at all, if you follow me.
Smoke billowed out from the door around the engine bay, and the fire alarms started yelling in a vain attempt to make a louder noise than I was. The Speedbird dropped out of hyperspace with a violent lurch, and started spinning. I was thrown across the living quarters, and ended up upside down near the Flight deck door. A mug of freshly brewed and rather hot coffee joined me from the table, landing in my lap and scalding various important bits before bouncing off my nose.
This time I couldn’t hear myself scream because the racket from the engine bay and the fire alarm had been joined by various alarms from the flight console.
Scout pilots undergo rigorous training for inflight emergencies and disasters, and I paused long enough to wish that I had listened during the lectures rather than fall asleep. Then I limped into the flight deck, and shut off all the alarms. The flight console was like a christmas tree with all the warning lights lit up and flashing, so I slumped painfully (and soggily) onto the pilot’s seat and tried to work out what was going on, and more to the point, what was going wrong.
First things first: the emergency oxygen mask was located beside the pilot’s chair. I pushed it over my mouth and nose, trying not to gag at the atrocious plasticy smell, and turned on the air supply. With my ability to breath secure, I shut down the hyperdrive system and then chopped the power to the main engines and then used the thrusters to control the wild spinning and bring the Speedbird under some sort of flight control. With the violent, lurching, spin halted a number of the warning lights cut out. The extractors had started filtering the atmosphere automatically, and as the smoke cleared in the living quarters and the engine bay, the assault on my ears from the fire alarms wound down too. Gratefully I pulled off the mask and turned off the emergency air supply valve.
Next, I opened up the flight computer’s damage assessment screens. The self-check diagnostics cycled twice, but finally agreed with itself that the problem was the hyperdrive. That was a relief. The integrity of the hull was not in doubt, no vital systems had failed, and the main engines were still operating normally. I restored a little power to them, and felt the Speedbird twitch, then stabilise under thrust.
Leaving the flight deck, I hurried through the living quarters, trying to ignore the mess – or rather the freshly added mess, as I’ll confess that I’m not the most houseproud astronaut – and peered cautiously through the door of the engine bay. I could see nothing odd or out of place. Nervously I went inside. The hyperdrive engine casing was very hot to the touch, but despite that burst of smoke, nothing seemed to be on fire. I squeezed past the casing, and went deeper into the engine bay. The main drive engines were operating normally. The gauges, dials, and telltales on the casing for the use of the maintenance engineers all looked normal. Feeling a sense of relief, I peered into all the rear pods holding the defensive armaments and the landing gear: no visual damage there either.
Back to the flight deck. The flight console now seemed entirely normal, so my problem was with the hyperdrive. I ran the damage assessment routine again, and that confirmed it. Well, my life was not in immediate danger, so that was one positive. But I sat in the pilot’s seat reflecting how simple things would have been if I was still part of The Free Union’s Space Corps. I could simply call up Star Fleet Base and rescue would be on its way. Well, presuming that I was on the right side of the border with the Imperium, not in too much disfavour with the Admiral, and also that Star Fleet did not have more pressing issues or higher priorities at the time of course. Recalling the latter, and the times that I had needed to be completely self-reliant even though I was a serving Star Fleet officer left me feeling a bit less despondent.
“Right,” I said aloud and forcefully. The sound of my own voice was shocking in the Speedbird’s silence. The contrast from the racket from the alarms during the emergency was marked, and after a moment I realised that I had been extremely tense, listening for the slightest squeak from an alarm. I turned on some light jazz, and went to make some coffee.
As the coffee brewed, I made an effort to tidy up in the living quarters. The star charts went back on the table, and with a grim smile I replaced the approach charts for Algernon Five back in their folders. Whatever else happened, I wouldn’t be going there for a while. Gretchen hadn’t missed out after all. That should not have made me feel more cheerful, but for some strange reason it did.
Coffee in an approximately clean mug, I sat down at the table with the charts. The navcomm had obligingly presented me with location co-ordinates, and after a short while I had selected the correct Sector chart and found my position. Inevitably, I seemed to be a long way from anywhere important. The positive to that, of course, was that I was also a long way from the places that posed a clear and present danger to me by being part of the Imperium. The negative was that I was a long way into the lawless area of the Galaxy, where even the commercial control exercised by the Merchant Princes was weak and tenuous.
The nearest star system was a few hours flight at hyperspeed, and possibly two weeks’ flight time at normal cruising speeds. I had plenty of food on board, and so that was obviously the best option. The system, Sallee, was one I had not visited. In fact, it was one that I had not heard of at all. Even the planets had old fashioned names like Barataria, Tortuga, Port Royal and New Providence. The collection of system approach charts I had did not even mention these places.
I set the course for the system, turned up the jazz, and settled down to wait.
*
And I duly waited, as the Speedbird cruised through the vast interstellar darkness.
*
Still waiting. Getting fed up of the jazz now.
*
How many times have I heard this track?
*
Checkmate? Again? I’m not playing any more.
*
Honestly, I’m so bored that I’ve even cleaned the place. I had forgotten that I even had that polish in that cupboard. I mean, who would expect polish on a spaceship?
*
Are we nearly there yet?
Oh! Thank every star out there, we are.
*
The navcomm was not immune to the boredom either, I discovered. It had used the slow flight time to take some lessons in chess from the flight computer, and was no longer a pushover. The fourth time in a row that I lost I gave up and sat down in the pilot’s chair and watched the slow approach of the Sallee system through the forward vidscreens.
At last a flashing light mounted on a small space station became visible on the outskirts of the system. It was clear that I was being watched and my approach monitored. I altered course towards the approach beacon and kept the commschannels open. Finally, the standard identification request arrived.
“Speedbird Six Sixty-six” I identified myself.
“What are your objectives in this System?” demanded the Approach Controller, with none of the usual courtesies.
“I’ve had a breakdown, and am seeking the services of a maintenance facility,” I replied.
“Have you visited this system before? Was this your planned destination?”
“No, I was in transit to Algernon Five.”
“Transmit a copy of your flight plan.”
That foxed me for a moment. “I didn’t file one, this is a private vessel, not military!”
The Approach Controller unbent a little. “In that case, you will need the space port on Port Royal. Do you have charts for this system?”
“Not a one. If you could let me have the approach vectors, I’d be very grateful.”
“Standby.”
There was a pause, during which time I maintained my course, heading slowly past the space station into the system.
“Vector transmission:” announced the Approach Controller. I prepared the navcomm, and received the data. The navcomm promptly adjusted the course to head deep into the system.
“Call Port Royal Approach on this frequency before commencing descent.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said. There was no reply. In the rear vidscreen I could see a scout ship emerge from the shadows of the space station and follow me in a loose formation. I waited for several hours in silence as we flew into the system. The ship shadowing me made no attempt to communicate on what I assumed to be the common channel.
Port Royal began to loom large in the forward vidscreen and I monitored the navcomm’s work. The Speedbird suddenly lurched to one side and began a descent. The rate was somewhat steeper than seemed necessary, but the scout ship remained glued to its position off the rear quarter.
“Port Royal Approach, Speedbird requesting landing clearance,” I said into the silence.
There came a deep hissing noise, followed by a burst of static. “Clear land, Speedbird. No traffic.”
The rate of descent grew steeper, and I grew alarmed. At this rate the build-up of heat would overwhelm the shielding. The temperature in the flight deck rose until I was sweating. The descent rate was far too fast for the elderly Speedbird, which began to shake and vibrate. I held the course until the vibration was so bad the needles on the dials became unreadable, and then disconnected the navcomm and reduced the angle of attack and the descent rate slowed. Slowly the heat level fell, and by the time we had fully entered the atmosphere and slowed down, the temperature was back to normal. I called the navcomm plot up onto the screens and was shocked to see that the original plan had been to have the Speedbird dive into the atmosphere at such a rate that the ship would have suffered serious structural damage and broken up. That gave me pause, and cause to be suspicious.
The shadowing ship had also pulled up from the over steep descent, and remained in position above and behind me. One a more satisfactory descent path was established, it then pulled ahead, and adjusted the course. I followed it, and before long the spaceport itself appeared over the horizon and I could set up the Speedbird for a visual approach.
After all that, the landing itself was without incident, and I the absence of any radio contact at all I followed the other ship to what seemed to be a normal parking position. One of the crew disembarked and began to stroll in my direction, and I shut down the Speedbird’s engines and went to meet him.
My first impression was unfavourable. He wore scruffy jeans and a tshirt rather than any sort of flight suit. His hair hung in dreadlocks, and he sported a black eyepatch with a single diamond shining from the centre of the patch. He opened the conversation by pointing a finger at me and laughing his socks off.
“Hello to you, too,” I replied.
“We all take bets on how long it is before visitors realise the approach descent is too steep. You hung on for longer than most, and made me a fortune! Welcome to Port Royal. I’ll stand you a drink in the bar later!”
“I’m glad to have been of service,” I told him. Actually I felt like punching him, but he was a lot bigger than me.
“We’ve not seen you here before.”
“First visit,” I agreed.
“What brings you here?” He took me by the elbow and started to lead me across the concrete towards the spaceport buildings.
“I need some repairs.”
He gave me a suddenly very shrewd look. “And no questions, I suppose?”
I chose not to answer, and he repeated that huge laugh from before.
“Well, this is the right place for that. No one asks questions here. About anything.” The latter comment seemed a bit pointed.
“Point taken,” I replied. He led me through a rather grubby door into some office space. There was a reception desk, but it was unmanned.
“Where do I book in?” I asked.
“Oh, we aren’t that formal here. You wanted maintenance?”
“Yeah.”
“That door there.” He pointed to a set of double doors positioned beside an empty desk marked ‘Reception’. “Just go through. Oh, watch out!”
My acquaintance shoved me so roughly that I fell over, and I was about to start shouting when he dropped to the floor beside me. Moments later shooting broke out, which would have seriously inconvenienced anyone who had been standing. Looking around, I could see several other people also lying on the floor, most of whom seemed to be laughing or cursing – it was hard to tell the difference, to be honest. Still standing up were two people in very stained flight overalls. One was holding his right arm, which seemed to be dripping blood.
“What’s this?” I hissed.
“Demarcation dispute. Freddo, him on the left holding his arm, reckoned that Mog cut him up on approach the other week. He’s been shouting his mouth off all over the Base for the last few days, threatening to cut Mog up in return. Probably with a knife, he’s partial to a knife.”
“Right.”
“Best not to interfere. Oh look, it seems that Mog has the upper hand!”
It looked like Mog had the upper foot as well, since he used it to boot Freddo in a sensitive place. Freddo doubled over, squealing in pain, then dropped onto the floor holding the affected area. I felt some sympathy for his plight, and judging by the number of wincing faces around, I was not alone. Mog kicked his fallen enemy a couple of times, just to be thorough, then put his sidearm back into its holster and strode off. Slowly the silence was replaced by chatter from the various flight crew in the office area. No one seemed to be very interested in Freddo, who lay groaning in the middle of the floor. To be fair, those w
ho had to pass him chivalrously stepped over him without inflicting further damage. I swallowed.
“What about security?” I asked my companion, as we scrambled up.
He laughed. “Port Royal? Security? The only security here is what each man, woman or other being carries in his, her, heeshe’s or its pockets. Money works well, so does a loaded weapon.” He clapped me on the shoulder, causing some minor bruising, and then left me for more entertaining company. With a last look at the recumbent Freddo, I decided to take the last piece of advice too and went through the double doors into maintenance.
The room itself was dark and dingy, with several isles full of parts for various ships jumbled and disordered on their shelves. A heavily built Rigellian in the worst set of overalls I had ever seen pulled what might have been a cigar (but probably wasn’t) out of his mouth and grunted at me.
“I’m looking for some help,” I told him.
He grunted again. “What ship?”
“It’s a Speedbird.”
“What Captain?”
“Er, me?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s my ship!”
“Mebbe, but which Captain do yer report to?”
“I don’t understand. I’m just visiting the system. My hyperdrive unit failed, and I need a replacement or repair.”
The Rigellian shouted over his shoulder to someone I couldn’t see. “Speedbird hyperdrive unit, Matt?”
From the depths of the shelving came a prompt reply. “You what?”
“Speedbird. Hyperdrive.”
“A Speedbird? Not seen one of those in years. Think we sold most of the parts to The Free Union when Redman’s upgraded.”
The Rigellian tuned back to me and shrugged. “Probably not.”
“I’d be paying cash.”
Rogue Pilot Page 11
