One Last Flight: Book One Of The Holy Terran Empire

by Carlos Carrasco

  "Welcome home, Fritz," Mook said extending his hand.

  "Thanks," I said shaking it and then nodded at the ground crew. "What's with the instant service? Surely it's not on account of the free hooch."

  "No," Mook replied. "Bossman's orders; he wants the Strumpet ready to leave as soon as possible."

  "Did he say why?"

  Mook shook his head.

  "Alright, get to it, boys," I said to the crew.

  The men sprang into action, practically running up the ramp to their tasks. I didn't know what our bossman wanted but I was glad of the immediate attention the Strumpet was receiving. It would have taken me a couple of days to run through all the post and pre-flight maintenance regimens by myself. The ground crew would have the Strumpet ready by evening. If my misgivings about the starliner Olympus’ latest visit proved to be more than paranoia, the sooner the Strumpet was ready to take off again the better. When the last crewman disappeared up the ramp I hoisted the case of scotch off my shoulder and handed it to Mook.

  He took it from me eagerly and strapped it to his hand cart. “It’s just as well, you heading right out again,” he said. “You look like you need more beauty sleep, my man. Maybe even a beauty coma. Are you alright?”

  “Picked up the flu on Calypso,” I lied. “The Strumpet assures me that I’m on the mend.”

  He nodded at me and then gestured at the case of scotch. He beamed his best knowing smile. I laughed at the comic, worm-like wriggling of his large eyebrow. We both well knew that it was rare for anyone to give up something for nothing on Ramage, especially in Koppolo City. "So what is it you need from me?" Mook asked.

  The Cyclopeans were a rare breed, one of the few genetically engineered sub-species that had no home world of their own. They were content to live just about anywhere, mostly in small isolated clans and occasionally as hermits, always nestled away in nooks far from the bustling cities of man. Mook however was a rarity among his kind, a gregarious lover of the hustle, the bustle and the scotch, Terran preferably. At five-ten, he was as tall as I was but of a brawny build in contrast to my sleek physique. His complexion was a healthy sun-burnished bronze. Always the stylish dresser, Mook wore a wide-brimmed pink-plumed white hat over his bald pate. His shirt was a pink and blue paisley, opened at the collar to show off his broad, dark-haired chest and the thick rope of gold hanging across it. His pants were white, skin tight above the knees and flared to wide cuffs beneath them. His feet were shod in sandals, pink lattices of supple leather with shiny gold buckles across the insteps.

  "I need information," I replied and started my post-flight, walk-around inspection of the Strumpet. The ground crew would do a more thorough job with their scanners than I could eyeballing the hull, but it was an old habit developed as a kid flying crop dusters over my commune's fields. Mook followed, dragging the hand cart behind him. "Specifically, I want to know as much as possible about everyone that came down on those twelve shuttles."

  "That's almost two thousand people, Fritz."

  "I know. Start with the Olympus' manifest. Get it to me and I may be able to narrow our search parameters."

  "And just what are we searching for?"

  "Federation special ops forces."

  Mook whistled surprise. "You think the Federation has soldiers hidden among the tourists?"

  "I flew a Starwing for the Federation during the Vega Insurrection on Delphi," I said.

  "You were in the Federation Forces?"

  "That was another life, Mook." I answered. "Anyway, we pilots expected to take heavy casualties during the initial assault on Delphi's main spaceport. Only we didn't. Unbeknownst to us, special ops were on the ground already. They took out five of the six surface-to-orbit batteries that defended the port just before we got there. We found out later that those spec-ops forces were embedded behind enemy lines three weeks before the engagement. They were dropped off as tourists by the Aegean."

  "The sister ship of the Olympus," Mook said.

  "That’s right. The Pantheon is the third sister," I added. "They're the big three luxury liners of Triumph Spaceways, a company owned in large part by the sister and brother in law of a Federation rear admiral."

  "It could be a coincidence," Mook offered. "Besides, why would the Feds go to all that trouble with us? We don't have surface-to-orbit batteries. We don't have a space navy or even a standing army on Ramage."

  "As bossman has already figured out, we'd make a perfect forward operations base for them if they're going to fight the Empire for control of Amber and the OZ," I answered. "And while we don't have an official military, we do have a population that's armed to the teeth and not afraid of a fight."

  Mook wagged his head in consideration. "Okay, I'll look into it."

  "The sloop on pad two, what's its story?"

  "She arrived five days ago."

  "Federation registry?"

  "Yes," Mook answered. "Four corporate suits flew in for a month long safari vacation. The sloop belongs to the Betelgeuse Agro Conglomerate out of…"

  "Aeschylus," I finished for him. "I know them. AgroCon produces all of the FF's Instant Meal Packs. Give those four suits a good look over as well. Start with them, in fact. My guess is they will turn out to be Fed officers."

  "I find your paranoia suddenly contagious, my friend," Mook said. "I'll get right on it."

  "Be discreet, Mook," I warned. "And be careful."

  "You don't have to tell this Cyclops to keep his eye open," Mook assured me with a wink, a gesture which, for a Cyclopean, involved blinking with their normally dormant lower eyelid.

  "And do me a favor," I continued. "Loop my ship's computer into your scopes’ feed. I want to be warned the moment any FF warships enter our system."

  "The Feds really spook you, don't they?" Mook said with wry amusement. "What are you Fritz, a deserter?"

  "No," I snapped, "And stop asking questions. My past is history and I'd like to keep it that way."

  "Fine…fine," Mook said, throwing a hand up in surrender. "I understand. Really, I do. If it was the Empire barreling its way here, believe me, I would be begging you for a ride off world."

  "I would happily give you that ride, Mook. And I wouldn't charge you more than three times my normal rate."

  "You're a prince Fritz, a black-hearted cutthroat of a prince."

  We laughed and shook hands again. Mook turned and left with his scotch in tow. I continued my inspection of the Strumpet wondering all the while why I was concerning myself with the intrigues of galactic politics. As a practical matter there was sufficient cause for concern, I told myself. If my fears were correct, the seizing of Koppolo spaceport could ground me until I was too sick to fly. And yet I knew that I also wished to foil the Federation's plans if I could. It was not because I was a fan of the Empire or even because I wished to defend Ramage from outsiders. No. It was because the Federation was, in a large part, responsible for my condition. It was the Federation who sold me to the Psion and slavery. Those ten years of hard labor, deep in the mantle of Gamma VI, slowly stewing in the toxic effluvium of the synthetic elements used to boil away the planet's natural methane atmosphere, damaged me irreparably at the genetic level. The damage had been accumulating over the years, altering my body’s most basic functions until it began to devour itself from the inside-out. In a few weeks all the bio-enhancers in the galaxy would not be able to stave off the chromosomal cannibalism. Unchecked, the Transuranic Cancer would kill me within a couple of months.

  If I could hurt the Federation and help foil their plans on my way out, I was not going to pass up the opportunity.

  3

  "Ah! Fritz my friend!" Bossman Jacques D'Llorros' voice boomed behind me.

  I suppressed the urge to reach for my pistol.

  Jacques D'Llorros and I were not friends, not by my reckoning at any rate. It had however, been years since I could call him a competitor, which was nigh enough an enemy in our shared niche of the galaxy. So instead of drawing my weapon, I turned ca
sually with a smile on my mug to face the black giant. His saffron-robed, nine foot and rotund bulk came at me, bald, round head split in a toothy grin and his arms spreading to wrap me in a crushing embrace. D'Llorros was originally from Kunth, a descendant of a people long ago engineered to live on a planet with a gravity 17% denser than Standard-G. On Ramage, which was 93% of Standard, his strength was herculean. Mercifully, the bear hug was a short one. When it was over, he held me at arm's length, a beefy hand cupping each of my shoulders. His wide-eyed scrutiny took in the entirety of me. Tactfully, he chose not to comment on my physical appearance which had degraded since he last set eyes on me.

  A dozen of Jacques D'Llorros' workers waited patiently behind him with hover-carts in tow. And as usual, he was flanked by Bolts and Kimili.

  Bolts was an analytics cyborg, a creation of the Psion Collective. Gray skin sheathed in a long, gray tunic, I considered him to be more computer than human. Three inch, bolt-like antennae protruded from where his ears should have been, thus his nickname, for no one on Ramage would ever address him by the alphanumeric code the Psion used for monikers. Bolts didn't have a proper nose, but rather, a trio of slits were carved into his head in lieu of the appendage. Instead of eyes, a two-inch ring of bulbous dark glass wrapped around his skull just below his prominent brow. Among its many functions, I understood the scanner ring gave Bolts sleepless, omnidirectional sight. And though he stood at a thin, five-foot nothing, Bolt's titanium skeleton made him a deadly weapon in a pinch.

  Kimili was a Bengaling, a human-feline hybrid. Unlike Bolts deceptively frail frame, Kimili's six-foot, lean and lithe physique was clearly lethal. Her exquisite, athletic body was brindled in bands of gold, caramel and white silky short hairs. Most Bengaling eschewed clothing and Kimili was no exception. She was naked but for the double holstered belt of pulse pistols around her waist. Her gold and white striped tail was raised and swished gently behind her back. Her large green and gold-flecked eyes regarded me with their usual feline insouciance.

  "Any trouble with the run, my friend?" D'Llorros asked at last.

  I shook my head and then hooked a thumb in the Strumpet's direction. "It's all in there. Have at it."

  "Good." D'Llorros said and treated me to a close up of his pearly whites and large gray eyes. He then gave a nod of his head towards my ship and the workers behind him led their hover-carts up the Strumpet's loading ramp.

  D'Llorros released my shoulders and gently prodded me forward with a hand at my lower back. "Come Fritz, we'll settle up at the house."

  "O-kay boss," I said, feeling a slight stir of apprehension in my gut.

  The Kunthian crime boss had not met me on the landing pad since his invitation to join his organization five years ago. 'Settling up' had always been done electronically through Bolts. D'Llorros' unexpected appearance and the break from protocol made me nervous, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing any sign of it. I took his lead and made my way to the large, open top aero parked at the landing pad's rim. Bolts took the wheel and Kimili sat behind him, dropping gracefully onto her haunches and curling her tail forward to rest on her lap. D'Llorros and I sat opposite her.

  The aero was a custom job, an old air bus retrofitted to comfortably accommodate D'Llorros' ursine frame. It was a luxurious status symbol on a world where travel was mostly done by ground cars, hover sleds and even horse, oxen and mule back. I felt like a child at his side, sitting on a seat that extended to my ankles. The aero lifted and then lurched forward. The jungle blurred past us as Bolts expertly sped along the winding road carved through the jungle. We picked up altitude as we went and before long we were over the canopy of trees. D'Llorros did not talk business outside the eavesdropping-proof sanctuary of his home. The wind roaring past us wouldn't have allowed for much conversation if he did, so we each retreated to our own thoughts for the short ride.

  We were business partners, Jacques D'Llorros and I. So he put it to me and so I told myself. The truth however was that I was just one of many gophers for the smuggling branch of his burgeoning criminal empire. Before working for D'Llorros, I flew for the Ambrisis family, his former rivals in Koppolo City. There were several skirmishes between the two crews through the years. As a pilot, I was luckily able to avoid them. Still, even without being one of Ambrisis soldiers it was impossible not to know Jacques D'Llorros, his organization and their reputation. Koppolo was a small city and I could not have helped but rub elbows with his outfit on occasion when out and about its nightlife.

  Eventually D'Llorros managed to overcome his competition. He slaughtered the whole Ambrisis clan and ninety percent of their organization in one night during a surprise city-wide assault. I was off-planet at the time and so fortunately missed the fireworks. When I returned with the ton of assorted wines and liquors Don Ambrisi had purchased for a tithe of its cost for the wedding of his youngest daughter, D'Llorros and well-armed company met me on the landing pad with an offer to join their outfit.

  "You never had any real loyalty to the Ambrisis," D'Llorros told me. "You were only with them for the money, no?"

  I could not argue with him. I was even less inclined to argue with his minions. I accepted his offer of partnership. To D'Llorros' credit, he did pay his pilots better than the Ambrisis ever did. The original tension between us had mostly dissipated but, after five years of working for the man, some residual wariness remained. I could not look at him without calling to mind the many tortures he had authored, particularly the recent ones that made him the undisputed Kingpin of the continent of Westland.

  It was widely recounted that D'Llorros spared Don Ambrisis long enough to let the clan's patriarch watch his three daughters get gang raped. D'Llorros cut their throats himself after his men were done with them and then sat back to watch Kimili slowly shred his former rival to pieces.

  I put those thoughts aside as Koppolo City loomed into view. Built by the original colonists and their immediate descendants, the city was on the northern end of the Westland island continent. 'Old' Koppolo was north of the great river Ganga. Its homes, small and grand, its streets, parks and public spaces, were exquisitely carved out of a cozy cluster of five verdant hills. The effect was an organic one which suggested that the city had bloomed naturally from rock and sward. South of the river, lay the less than exquisite 'New' Koppolo, a gridded half-wheel of neatly lined prefab homes and stripmalls. Beyond it, reaching to the jungle's tree line was the shapeless sprawl of Koppolo's slum.

  In short order we arrived at Jacques D'Llorros' home, formerly the estate of the Ambrisis family. A horseshoe shaped manor of costly, imported rosaceous granite dominated the twenty acres. It was one of a handful of properties that sat on the hill rather than having been carved out of it. It stood three stories tall at the center and descended in step-like fashion to long, single story wings. The estate was on top of Crown Hill, the tallest of Koppolo's five, and it overlooked the milky-jade waters of Popo Bay. D'Llorros had added a crenellated outer wall to ring the manor. Four plasma cannons were mounted atop the wall and three surface-to-air missile batteries were hidden behind it.

  I had only been to Jacques' home once before. I had reported there along with all his other pilots to receive our new instructions and protocols. It was a brief visit to the manor's library on the east wing. I was now led through the heart of the building to a set of large brass doors. They were opened for us by two of D'Llorros' sarong and sandaled slaves, a young and beautiful human pair. Beyond the doors were a large, circular drawing room and another pair of beautiful, bare-chested servants waiting attentively on either side of the arched entrance.

  The room was sumptuous, richly decorated with shields, bladed weapons, various animal skins and heads and tapestries depicting hunting scenes. The floor was tessellated in an intricate red and gold mandala pattern. Atop the mandala's center sat a large round table, carved from a slab of ebony marble. It was raised on the rumps of three golden, four-foot tall sculptures of wooly mammoths, the Kunthian totem animal.
Two half circles of cushion-festooned couches were wrapped around the table like parenthesis. A bank of floor to ceiling windows was centered on the far, curving wall, their glass polarized to soften the light that illuminated the room. The windows looked out over Popo Bay, whose waters were dotted with the white sails of several boats. A large fan hung from the center of the room’s domed ceiling, spinning lazily above the table.

  D'Llorros gestured to the couches. "Please, my friends, make yourselves comfortable."

  "Thank you," I said and sat down facing the brass doors.

  D'Llorros sat directly opposite me. Bolts sat next to him and Kimili, again on her haunches, sat on the same couch as I did. A half dozen servants entered and in short order placed before the four of us, steaming glasses of mint tea, two golden trays of assorted hors d’oeuvres and desserts as well as set up a four-piped hookah. D'Llorros lifted up his glass, "Please, enjoy yourselves," he said and took a sip of his tea.

  We all raised our glasses to him and drank. I then put my glass down, picked up one of the dessert trays and held it out before Kimili.

  "A kibble for your thoughts?"

  Kimili blinked and stared blankly at me. I shrugged and pulled a spongy coconut flaked confection off the tray before returning it to the table.

  D'Llorros chuckled softly. "Kimili doesn't have a sweet tooth, Fritz. She prefers more savory fare." He offered her the tray of hors d’oeuvres. Kimili picked out a sushi roll.

  "And there I was thinking that she just doesn't like me."

  "Sure she likes you, Fritz." D'Llorros assured and took another sip of his tea.

  "How can you tell?"

  "Well, she's known you for five years and hasn't yet cut you to ribbons," D'Llorros answered.

  Involuntarily, I shot a glance at her furry, short-fingered hands. The claws were safely retracted between her knuckles. When I looked up, Kimili's mouth had formed a small moue and her short, nearly invisible whiskers trembled slightly above it. I've been told that's what passes for a smile among the Bengaling.