What did happen was a revelation. The Speedbird rocked wildly in every conceivable direction until I felt sick. Wildly sick. In fact, I had to leave the flight deck and run for the bathroom, throw up and run back to the flight deck. When I arrived, the Speedbird had freed itself from the glutinous embrace of the mud, shoved its way through the canopy of trees, and was climbing rapidly. Not wanting to risk detection I cut the power and the ship dropped like a stone, making me nauseous all over again. I stabilised the ship just above the tree line and attended to my heartrate and churning stomach. Still, at least I was airborne, which had to be a good thing. I set a low and slow course north, hugging the ground in case the Black Ops base had their approach radar set to register the approach of low level aircraft.
Time passed slowly as I flew north. My nerves were slowly shredded by the continual tension, as I waited for a radio challenge, or for the computer to register an incoming IFF challenge. I monitored a brief conversation between the controller at the freighter base and a departing (presumably repaired) local shuttle. Nothing happened to alarm me – but it didn’t happen so slowly that I was alarmed anyway.
Finally the navcomm informed me that I was getting perilously close to the Black Ops base, and I decided to land. Once again I found a clearing, and let the Speedbird settle vertically down into it. While the ship was visible from directly above, I was not planning on waiting around for too long. Then the comms frequency I was monitoring sprang to life.
“Darkside Control, Nightflight One-eleven.”
I came to attention. Nightflight was the callsign of a particular class of Imperium transport starship. They had a crew of three and could carry up to ten VIPs as passengers. For a Nightflight class vessel to be coming here meant that this base was as important as I had suggested to my boss. Naturally, that callsign was met with a very fast response from the base.
“Nightflight One-Eleven, Darkside Control.”
“Nightflight is established on long approach, preparing to enter atmosphere. Clear all non essential ground staff.”
Now I was very interested. This ship was to approach in secret, secret even from the presumably highly vetted Black Ops staff on the ground. I told the computer to continue to record all transmissions. The Nightflight made an uneventful approach, and touched down within the Black Ops base. Reasoning that the hour or so after an arrival like that all the guards would be as efficient as possible, I shut down the Speedbird and went to sleep.
Three hours later, I felt rested. I went back into the flight deck with the largest cup of coffee that I could carry, slumped into the pilot’s seat and turned on the vidscreens. Two magnified faces were examining the Speedbird, and I screamed in shock and fell off the seat, spilling coffee everywhere.
I struggled to my feet, cursing the hot, soaking wet flight overalls and looked at the vidscreen again. Unperturbed by my reaction, the two cows that had been looking right into the camera were wandering off in search of something better to eat, giving me a multi-million pixel view of their rear ends. Which, to be honest, I preferred even when one lifted its tail and squirted the nose of the ship in manure.
I had a brief internal debate while standing in the entry hatch, and decided not to take any weapons with me. In principle, the reason was that if I was found by a guard and was unarmed, I was less likely to be shot in self defense. I know, I know, that’s neither logical nor borne out by most people’s experience of peacekeeping forces (who tend to keep the peace by shooting out of hand anyone suspected of disturbing it by being in the wrong place at the wrong time; being the wrong colour or species; holding the wrong political views; or looking at the officers ‘in a funny way’). On the other hand, I had no idea if I would actually hit anything I was aiming at, so better not to carry a weapon in case I accidentally shot myself.
The clearing was not too far from the base, and ten minutes’ walking brought me to the edge of the forest by the perimeter fence. Using the foliage as cover, I peered up and down the length of the fence. My view was blocked by a number of cows, who seemed to share my interest, so I made a rude noise, moved a few yards along and resumed my inspection of the fence. It wasn’t very high, and I started to wonder about climbing it. A couple of hundred yards away was a gate with a sentry post which would represent an easier way in, if it wasn’t for the several armed Betelgeusian guards hanging around looking bored. As I watched them, a small bird flew out of the forest and touched the fence with one wing as it skimmed over it. There was a loud flash, a crackle, and an imperfectly cooked bird fell to the ground. Perhaps climbing the fence would be a little too energetic, I thought.
Then the worst happened. Two of the guards had been on patrol, or possibly had nipped off into the jungle for a quiet smoke, and were returning along the fence. They were so close that I couldn’t escape now without being spotted, and I simply froze in fear.
"chay' Suq naDev?" asked the first guard.
"pagh qech. Dunmo' Suq Dub 'oH qoD ngejtaH 'oH 'ej maHvaD pIch vay'. " replied the other.
The slung their weapons, and approached me. I stayed rigid and they picked me up as if I was a dressmaker’s doll or a shop window display accessory and walked off to the guard post.
“What have you got there?” asked a Rigellian, in passable Standard.
“One of the simulacra. How it got out, I’ve no idea,” replied the guard who had me slung over one shoulder.
“Well it didn’t get past us!”
“Quick,” said another guard, his tone laden with fear. “Get it back into the compound before Colonel Starker finds out!”
If I was frightened before, then I was now absolutely terrified. But why had they not identified me as an intruder?
“The uniform has got a bit messy,” said a guard.
I was bouncing up and down on the Betelgeusian’s shoulder now as he ran through the compound. Although it wasn’t easy to see while looking at his bum and feet, I had the impression that we were going the back way around the buildings.
“There’s not a lot we can do about that. Look, Starker is over with the VIPs. The blockhouse will be unattended.”
“No luck. One of Starker’s men is outside the door!”
That the two guards were as frightened as I was unmistakable, not least from the smell the one carrying me kept making.
“What have you got there?” asked a new voice. It was harsh, authoritative and unpleasant in tone.
“One of you lot let one of the simulacra get out. We found it just at the gate.”
“What?” All the authority had drained from the voice. “Starker will have us all shot if he finds out! Get it inside, quick!”
I had a view between the guard’s feet of a doorway, then a solid floor before I closed my eyes. I was gently placed down on my feet. The guard pulled me upright.
“That’ll do,” said the one who had been authoritative and now was as scared as everyone else there, including me. “They do move about, obviously. No one will know.”
I heard the echo of three pairs of feet running away, then the door of the room closing. I opened my eyes: and was stunned by what I saw. The room was dimly lit, but I could see a round table with several seated figures. Three other figures stood behind them in a group; I had been placed next to one of them. The seated figures were members of the Council of The Free Union: the standing figures guards in similar uniforms to my own. Only considerably cleaner, obviously.
Frankly I almost wet myself when they moved. But the movement was not natural. I peered at the man next to me, and suddenly the guards’ words made sense. These were simulacra, not real people. This was the cause of the extreme secrecy then - Colonel Starker had devised a cunning plan. All I had to do now was escape and carry the information back to Star Fleet Base and claim medals, hero worship – or in reality maybe a day off. Feet sounded on the concrete outside. I slipped between two of the guard figures and tried to look plastic.
The door opened. In came a Terran dressed in a flight suit with no insigni
a and two Betelgueusians in white lab coats. “Let’s get the data packs inserted in them now for final testing,” instructed the Terran.
“Yes, Colonel Starker,” replied one of the Betelgeusians.
I was horrified. I was in the same room as the awful Colonel Starker, whose ruthlessness was legendary across the galaxy. I realised that I was probably the only still living Reconnaissance Unit pilot who had met him: and I speculated that no bookmaker would give any odds at all on my surviving the experience.
Colonel Starker pulled a box out of his pocket. He placed it on the table, and opened it. “In this compartment are the data inserts for the simulacra of the Council members; and in this one are the implants for the guards.” He sifted through the latter and stared at the standing figures, including me. “Although there don’t see to be enough, which is odd.” He narrowed his eyes and I did not like his expression. The dread colonel started to move towards the standing group.
Then an alarm went off. Starker spun around, a weapon appearing in his hand with supernatural speed. “What’s that?” he demanded.
The Betelgeusian technicians were clearly as nonplussed as the dreaded colonel, and simply shook their heads. Starker strode to the door, his weapon levelled. “Report!” he shouted.
I could hear a guard outside reply in a muffled manner. I caught the gist, which was that the fence alarms had all been set off and the guards were forming up to deal with what seemed to be a significant breach. Starker cursed. “Get on with the implants,” he ordered and left the room. I watched the technicians. They approached the first Council Member (yes, I know I should know the names of the Council of The Free Union. But they are politicians, and they all look and sound alike to me. Certainly they all behave alike, in my experience.) and flipped the back of her head open. The simulacra, which had been moving sluggishly, froze. While they were concentrating on inserting what seemed to be a small USB drive into the back of the head of the simulacra, I started to sidle towards the door. When they looked up in surprise as I moved away from the group, I simply ran for it, ignoring their cries of “Stop!”
Outside the place was deserted. Looking to my left I could see the guard house. To my right I could hear a lot of shouting, and reasoning that my best chance of freedom lay in running in the opposite direction to the activity, I bolted for the exit. As I hoped, the guard house was deserted; all the staff had run after, or possibly with, Colonel Starker. I fled through the gateway and into the forest.
Shouts followed me, but I was faster than the two technicians and fear lent me her wings. Although her helmet might have been more useful to be honest as I was continuously slapped in the face by wet fronds and leaves; and once, memorably by a small branch that nearly knocked me out.
I staggered into the clearing where I had left the Speedbird with huge relief and mild concussion. Shouts were getting closer, and I stabbed the entry code with more that my usual urgency. Typically therefore, the computer refused to recognise it twice, and only as the Betelgeusian technicians huffed and puffed into the clearing did the hatch agree to open. It closed behind me just as the more professional guards arrived. The ship quivered as the first shots hit home, bouncing off the defense screens I had left in place.
I had preprogrammed the departure codes into the flight computer, and started the engines. The scout ship moved out from under the trees and turned to face the gap in the foliage that represented escape. It was filled by a large cow. Normally I have a lot of sympathy with animal rights – I mean, I’m a vegetarian – but in this case I had no objection to leaving some well-cooked steaks behind for my erstwhile captors. Probably Colonel Starker liked his rare, it would fit with what I knew of him; if so he was out of luck. The Speedbird’s exhaust made short work of the cow, and I lifted skywards with some relief. Looking through the vidscreens, I could see what had saved me. The cows had broken down an area of fencing to reach some particularly lush grass inside the base, and the guards had needed to run a long way from there to intercept me. Too far, and I had got away.
Or had I? The Speedbird was accelerating fast towards escape velocity, but one of Starker’s aerial support vehicles was approaching on an interception course, but some way below me. It has a rotor driven craft, I saw, so had no capacity to leave the atmosphere. But if it could get within range for its missiles, then I would be in trouble. I pushed the power lever to maximum, and the Speedbird shuddered. The combat screen flickered to life and showed me the position of the rotorcraft. The target for the few missiles I carried blurred and jumped across the screen as the Speedbird shook and metal groaned. Then there was a loud crack, a bang, the Speedbird lurched as something impacted the body of the scout ship.
Had I been hit? No, the damage control unit started complaining that the landing gear had parted company again, and I realised that NotMike’s welding had given way. On the plus side, the falling gear had just hit the rotorcraft which was spinning downwards in distress. On the negative side, I had to expect a series of longwinded complaints if I ever got home.
Freed from the extra drag the Speedbird accelerated again. The sky grew darker, as I escaped the gravitational pull and set course for the flotilla, and eventually, for home.
Chapter seven
Pass the parcel
Mike the mechanic took me by the arm and pulled me into the flight deck of my elderly Speedbird Scout Ship. “Look!” he demanded.
Obediently, I looked around. The flight deck was still the flight deck. It hadn’t been redecorated or anything. “What at?” I asked.
“That.” Mike pointed at a control that boasted a nice bright label.
I peered at the label. It read: ‘Try remembering to press this in future.’ The control was the landing gear retraction button. “Oh very funny, Mike,” I told him.
“Frank, I’m serious. This is probably the last set of gear that I can get for your model, unless someone else’s ship has to be decommissioned. What do you reckon are the chances of Star Fleet buying a whole new fleet for Reconnaissance?”
I shook my head. I knew the answer to that one.
“So now you have to start taking more care of this Speedbird. Seriously. If you have a malfunction somewhere out there, there’s a risk that any maintenance crew we get out to you won’t be able to fix the fault. If there’s a comms issue you could find yourself stranded.” He sighed. “We used to send you guys out with a basic spares pack in storage under the engine deck. Now I’ve had to call all those packs back into stores here at Base as we need them ourselves.”
“Mike, is this just Reconnaissance, or the other Star Fleet Units too?”
The mechanic gave me a very straight look but did not reply. I suddenly realised that he thought that the flight deck voice recorders might not be turned off even when the ship was in maintenance and off the flight line, and didn’t want to answer that question. That was a scary thought because it implied that the Imperium might be doing better than The Free Union admitted in the news broadcasts.
“Bring her back in one piece, for a change, right?” Mike told me.
“I hear and obey,” I replied.
“Russell! Captain Russell!” yelled a voice from outside the ship.
“Someone wants you,” observed Mike.
“No kidding.”
“This ship’s about ready to fly again, anyway. All I need to do is recalibrate the navcomm and you can be away.”
“I’m sure that I will thank you for that. Sometime.”
“Next time in the bar, Frank.”
I clapped Mike on the arm and left the Flight deck. Climbing down the circular ladder to the entry port, I saw a small messenger standing outside, tapping one foot impatiently. “Are you Captain Russell?” he asked.
“Might be,” I admitted cautiously.
“Admiral’s office. You are wanted for a briefing.” The messenger made a brief note on his clipboard and selected his next task.
“When?”
The messenger made a show of consulting his
watch. “Twenty minutes ago.” He turned on his heel without saluting and scurried away across the maintenance bay. The NotMike who was wielding a hammer inside the landing gear bay laughed raucously. I ignored that, and took myself off to the Admiral’s offices.
Normally the corridor outside the Admiral’s office was full of people wandering around with files and papers, trying to look busy and avoiding any real work. Today it was empty, which I took to be a bad sign. I knocked on his door, and the lieutenant who acted as his gopher opened the door and whisked me inside with little ceremony. I saluted at once. “The Free Union,” I said.
No one saluted back, but a voice from a corner replied “The Free Union,” in almost derisive tones. I recognised the voice. “Hello, Rosto.” My heart sank. Anything that included the spy was unlikely to be something I was going to enjoy.
“Sit down, Captain.”
I obeyed the Admiral’s order, and Rosto slid onto the seat next to me.
“You know the agent referred to as Rosto, of course,” said the Admiral.
“Other names are available,” smiled the agent.
“I thought you were seeking asylum?” I asked him.
“I did. But I got bored, and they offered me a job doing this instead.”
The Admiral coughed. “Captain, I have called for you from Reconnaissance specifically for this mission.”
Wonderful.
“It is of course vitally important for The Free Union that it succeeds. That is why you have been selected to volunteer.”
Perfect. That almost certainly meant that whatever the mission was, it was stupidly dangerous. I was not disappointed.
“The agent here has a task to complete. What it is, is his business. Your task, captain, is be his transportation. To, and back from.”
Scout Pilot Of the Free Union (Space Scout Book 1) Page 10
