Rogue Pilot

by Will Macmillan Jones

  The Rigellian glanced around, then bent his head down so that he was close, so close that a whisper would have sounded like a storm. “Get lost!” he shouted into my ear.

  I was so busy rubbing my ear that I nearly missed his next, whispered remark.

  “It looks like you might be in luck, Traveller. You did say cash?”

  I was doubtful. If I was in luck, it would be the first time.

  “But first, you have to report to a Captain. The way things work here in Port Royal, unless you get a Captain’s chop you get nothing.”

  “His chop? I’m supposed to steal his dinner? How’s tha going to help me?”

  The Rigellian sighed. “His chop. It’s like a stamp, or a seal of approval. Capisce?”

  I understood. “How many Captains are there? Which is the best one?”

  “Well, there’s Redwood, Garner, Hobb, Rankin and Morgan. But Garner and Hobb are off world right now. Rankin has his ships out towards the system Rim. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t see some of them. Morgan is a thoroughly nasty piece of work, so your best bet is Redwood. He’s the newest Captain. Get a chit from him, saying we can do the work, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Typical. All I wanted was a quick repair job for cash, and already things were getting complicated.

  “Just five Captains?”

  “Just five. Mind you, it isn’t always the same five. Redwood took over from Blacknest a span or two ago. Just don’t ask how.”

  I decided not to ask. “How do I find this Redwood?”

  “Captain Redwood. He’s quite particular about it. And quite nasty to those who forget.”

  I decided that I would take that advice to heart. “Where do I find Captain Redwood?”

  “He’ll be in the Rim Bar. The upstairs room, with his cronies. Go out of the space port, walk across the road, and you’ll trip over the drunks that have been thrown out of the pub.”

  “I’ll head right over.”

  “One last tip.” The Rigellian had been retreating into the dark recesses of the maintenance bay fastness, but paused to offer me one last piece of wisdom. “Don’t drink the beer. It’s been recycled too often. Stick to the spirits, they are less likely to come back and haunt you.”

  With that he was gone. I left the maintenance bay reception. Freddo was still curled up on the ground, in his own private universe of pain. I thought it best to leave him to his thoughts, and headed out of the space port. A thin skein of rain beat across the road, and hit me in the face. Cold and clean, it was very refreshing. Certainly, from the sound of it, more refreshing than I would find the Rim Bar. Looking up, the Rigellian had been right. I could have easily beaten a path to the door by stepping on the prone and groaning drunks who littered the road and pavement. The fattest were closest to the door, the smallest further away. No doubt I could have plotted a sine curve and used it to calculate the strength of the bouncer charged with throwing them out, if I had wanted to, but that was a project to leave for another day.

  I nodded to the bouncer, who simply glared at me silently. His leather coat was ripped and torn in several places, testament to his struggles to keep order. I stepped through the open door, avoiding eye contact with the bouncer, or indeed anyone else. The bar was full of assorted drunks who on closer inspection were wearing an assortment of flight uniforms from across the Galaxy. I could see the remnants of Free Union uniforms, mixed with Imperium flight suits, Corporation flight jackets and Merchant Prince’s and Emporium badges still stitched onto various styles of overalls and flying jackets. Humans, Rigellians, Betelgeusians, almost every race was there. Whoever all these people were, they had collected from the corners of the Galaxy, and had thrown off whatever might still have passed for discipline.

  One rowdy group in a corner were throwing dice, another had a poker game running, and everywhere people seemed to be drinking themselves unconscious as fast as they could. The crowd around the bar itself was four deep, and everyone waiting was shouting abuse and orders and pleas at the bar staff. Run off their feet they might have been, but they showed no sign of impatience. Indeed, one especially burly man – I assumed he was probably the owner – had a wide range of obscene tattoos etched right across his face, and with one finger shoved up his own nose was discussing them with two fascinated customers.

  I did wonder how I was going to find the upstairs room, but then the crowd swayed slightly, and I saw a set of stairs leading upwards from the rear of the pub. As delicately as possible I threaded my way through the throng. It would be only too easy to spill someone’s drink and end up in a fight here -and that was something that I desperately wanted to avoid.

  At the bottom of the stairs stood two men, with their guns openly on show. I had to pass between them to get onto the stairs, and as I did so one of them grabbed my arm. He wasn’t rough, but his grip was so strong that carrying on up the stairs would have meant abandoning my arm, so I stopped.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  “Captain Redmond’s up there, right?” I’ve found that it is important not to show fear to people like that. Admiral’s flag staff, policeman, torturers, tax inspectors and such folk can smell fear and will always use it against you, so I used a forceful tone.

  “What’s that to you?”

  “I need a job doing in maintenance, and they want his OK before starting work.”

  “Yeah? Well it’ll cost you.”

  I pulled my arm free. “Really?”

  “Captain does nothing for nothing. You’ll find that out.”

  I shrugged.

  “Top of the stairs. Door’s first on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  The two guards lost interest in me, and turned back to watching the barroom. I climbed the stairs slowly, then at the top turned to the right. There was one door there. I twisted the handle and shoved the door open.

  “Aaaaaaarrrghhhhhhh” I swung out over empty space, clutching the door handle and scrabbled hard with my boots, trying to keep my feet on the landing. For a moment I teetered precariously over a bone breaking drop to the yard below, paying no attention to the shuttle craft parked there. From below came the raucous laughter of the guards. The other door, to the left of the stairs, was thrown open and others started laughing at me too. I managed to get more or less upright and pulled the door shut.

  “Another idiot, Captain.” The other door on the landing was filled by a grossly overweight man wearing the tatters of an Imperium flight suit and what may have been the largest hand weapon I had seen. He waved the business end at me casually.

  “Get yourself in here, sunshine.”

  I straightened my clothes as best I could, and marched into the main upper room of the Rim Bar. Five men lounged around a large table that carried the remains of a huge feast. Chickens, fish, hams, bread and the occasional (and clearly only ornamental) vegetable were scattered about. Mugs and glasses and dark bottles of liquor were everywhere.

  The room was dark, as all the windows were shuttered, but lit to a degree with candles. No electric light. Shadows filled every corner, and in particular lay around the head of the table. A high-backed office chair was there, presumably occupied by Captain Redwood. Slowly it swivelled around. Resplendant in a frocked coat and hat from another century in another world, Captain Redwood stared at me from behind a pall of cigar smoke. But even so disguised, I could recognise the grinning face of my erstwhile employer, Colonel Rosto.

  “Keep quiet!” ordered Rosto.

  I had been on enough missions for him to understand very quickly that this order could be taken in more than one way – and should be.

  Colonel Rosto stood up. His coat fell open, and I could see both a very long blade, and a subtly small hand gun fastened to his belt.

  “I’m Captain Redwood,” he told me firmly. “What brings you here?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said with sincerity dripping from every syllable. I meant it too. Whatever nasty and dangerous business Rosto
had going on here, I wanted to be away from it as fast as possible before I got dragged in to participate in it.

  “I’ll bet you are,” agreed Rosto. His henchmen all laughed, revealing stained and missing teeth and inevitable halitosis. One drank deeply, belched impressively, and threw the mug at me. I sidestepped, and for a moment caught a glimmer of laughter in Rosto’s eyes. “So why did you?”

  “I’m just passing through the system.”

  “Like a bad curry?”

  His men fell about laughing. I didn’t join them. “My Hyperdrive has been damaged, and I needed the maintenance facility’s help.”

  “Going to pay them?” asked Rosto.

  “Probably with his body!” cackled the nearest henchman.

  “Nah, they’ll not get either spare parts nor a good meal from that!” sniggered another.

  “Of course!” I told him. “But they said they wanted your chop first.”

  “Give them that and get lost!” shouted a gruesome individual from the shadowed end of the table. He threw some half-eaten chop bones at me. They bounced off the front of my jacket, leaving another stain to add to the collection there.

  “All right,” agreed Rosto. “If you can pay them, get it done and get out of the system.”

  “If you can,” sneered the nearest henchman. “Bet Rankin gets you first, and brings your ship back here without you.”

  Rosto pulled some paper out of his pocket, and scribbled on it, presumably signing as Captain Redwood. “Take that, and shove off. We’re busy.”

  I took the paper from his hand and looked at it. In a flowing hand, quite unlike Colonel Rosto’s normal script, it read: ‘Fix this man’s craft and do not mess him about.’

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “I will be expecting you to do something for me in return,” Redwood/Rosto said casually as I reached for the door.

  “What?”

  “I’ll make sure that you know. Now get gone.”

  I left, but left the door open slightly. Through the gap I could hear Rosto muttering something to one of the men around the table. Because of that, when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was unsurprised to hear footfalls on the stairs behind me. I pushed through the throng of shouting, drinking, and occasionally vomiting (the beer really was to be avoided!) flight crew to the door. Here there was another crush. The bouncer had, not without some effort, lifted a heavy drinker to chest height and was about to heave him out into the street. Bets were being taken on how far he would travel.

  With a grunt, the bouncer flung the unconscious man out into the street. There were cheers and groans from the winners and losers. The bounder grinned widely, and flexed his muscles for the benefit of the crowd, who drifted back towards the bar. I slid past them and crossed the road, trying for a world record ‘fastest nonchalant walk’. The space port was deserted. Even the unfortunate Freddo had left or had been removed. Looking around, it seemed that the man I thought was tailing me had slipped off to annoy someone else. I tried the doors to the Maintenance Bay, but they were now locked for the night. Options being limited, I headed back to the Speedbird and prepared to get some sleep.

  Inevitably, I was to be disappointed. Just as I reached out for the entry keypad, a hand came out of nowhere and blocked the pad. I jumped to one side, my hand going for my weapon: but my wrist was grabbed and held far too easily.

  “Softly, softly,” whispered a voice in my ear.

  To my chagrin as an experienced scout pilot, occasional secret agent and rather more frequent law breaker, Rosto/Redwood’s man had managed to sneak up on me somehow. “Can I help you?” I asked him.

  “Probably not. But I can help you. The Captain wants to see you, but a lot less publically than before.”

  “So not in the pub, then?”

  “Just come with me. If you want to live.”

  The comforting thing about being threatened by someone is that you know exactly where you are with them. Even if you don’t like it. My less than terrified attitude must have communicated itself, as my stalker glared at me.

  “You haven’t got a clue where you are, have you?”

  “Of course I have. I’m on the apron of a spaceport talking to an idiot.”

  He hissed through his teeth in exasperation, then opened his jacket and pulled down a zip that ran across his chest. I half wondered if his heart would fall out, but then realised that would be impossible. He wouldn’t have such an organ in his body – for he was wearing the uniform of Colonel Starker’s Black Ops unit under the rather grubby finery. I took two paces away from him, and this time my handgun was in my hand, ready for use. He completely ignored the threat, which did nothing for my ego.

  “This is Port Royal.”

  “I know that,” I told him.

  “Did you know that it is the chief planet in the Pirate Confederacy? And that you are in the heart of their Sector?”

  I felt a terribly cold chill run down my spine. The Space Pirates had a reputation that had run across the whole Galaxy very quickly. It wasn’t that they were into casual violence – they were instead wholly committed to causing both violence and pain in a very focussed and non casual manner. No one I knew in The Free Union Space Fleet had managed to penetrate their system and get out alive. Only Colonel Rosto had got in and managed to get to a position of some importance. Typical.

  “Captain Redwood is going to try and get you out of here in one piece.”

  “What about you?” I asked him.

  “Personally, I don’t care if you live or die. In fact, my boss might give me a contract bonus for your head. But right now, there’s a full-scale attack planned against this system and you are a distraction that might get me killed, so I’d rather you got out of the way.”

  “Thank you for the thought. I’ll just get back on my ship and get out of the system, then.” I reached for the entry keypad again, and again the Black Ops man slammed his hand across it, preventing me from using the keypad to enter my Speedbird.

  “Not in this ship, you won’t. It’s already been booby trapped by the maintenance crew. The oxygen recyclers now spray a poison gas if the ship is opened up using the original keypad entry codes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I run the maintenance crews as my cover, and that’s what we do. It’s one way of extending the fleet. Redwood has his own private ship hidden away, and we’ll be escaping to that when the assault starts.”

  “When will that be?”

  The Black Ops staffer looked at his watch. “It’s already begun. Imperium ships moved against the outer rim defences ten minutes ago. This, as you might be able to tell, is a very unofficial joint operation to clear up a cess pit that’s poisoning the whole galaxy. Now stop being stupid and let’s get off this planet while we still can.”

  It seemed like a good idea, so I agreed.

  “Keep that weapon out. Anyone we meet on the way, don’t talk just shoot. Except Captain Redwood, of course, and a couple more of my unit.”

  “Are there no more Free Union guys here, then?”

  The Black Ops man pulled gently at my arm, and I followed him across the concrete flight apron towards the dark bulk of the maintenance building. “There were,” he told me. “But they got careless. Now there’s just your boss and three more of my unit left.”

  “What happened to them? Couldn’t Ros…Redwood save them?”

  “When they were exposed as Free Union agents, Redwood offed them himself, quickly – and publically – to preserve his own cover. And ours. And keep the Operation alive.”

  That fitted with my opinion of Rosto’s ability to be ruthless. I kept quiet, and followed without a backward glance at my trusty Speedbird, which I was now leaving for good it seemed. I exclaimed and stopped walking.

  “What now?”

  “All the cash I have in the world is hidden onboard.”

  The Black Ops staffer sneered at me. “Your money or your life, eh? Decisions, decisions.” He carried on sneaking
off into the shadows.

  This was a big decision. There was enough cash hidden under a panel in the floor of the Speedbird to give me a comfortable retirement, as long as I didn’t live too long. But just as I had made up my mind to go back for it and try to avoid both penury and poison gas, every alarm that I could ever conceive started screaming. I dived around the corner of the maintenance hangar, but the Black Ops man had gone, and I was on my own. This was not good. Sirens were screaming, searchlights began flashing then turned to search the skies, and the Spaceport apron was suddenly full of running pilots. I grabbed at one. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

  “The Imperium!” he shouted back. “Captain Rankin’s been attacked in strength. Hobb is on the way back already with Captain Garner. Captain Morgan has ordered everyone who can fly a ship into space!”

  “Where’s Captain Redwood?”

  He spat. “Coward! Tried to stop the defence launch.”

  “What!”

  “He had some sort of shuttle hidden behind the Rim Bar. Morgan blew the cockpit right off it. Made a hell of a mess of the bar.”

  “Where’s Redwood?”

  “Morgan’s got him in the Bar now, trying to find out what’s going on. Now come on! Let’s fly!”

  The pirate pilot ran across the apron, and I followed him, before slipping aside in the crowd and heading back into the Spaceport.

  “Where are you going?” a heavily beweaponed pirate at the door demanded. Obviously, he had been positioned there to stop pilots slipping back to avoid the fight.

  “I’m flying the recently impressed Speedbird,” I told him. “Need the new entry codes from maintenance after they reset them.”

  “Fair. Go on then. You!” he addressed another pilot following me back into the space port. “I know you! Go and lift ship, and help defend Port Royal or I’ll rip your guts out and use them as a position marker!”

  I left him to his duty, and ran for it. The road on the other side of the Spaceport had been cleared of drunks, and the bouncer at the door of the Rim Bar had gone too. I slunk up against the door, and listened. Inside the bar, Rosto screamed: a long, bubbling noise. I drew my weapon and slid through the door as unobtrusively as possible. No one looked at me as I looked at the scene before me.