Infinity Is For Losers

by Will Macmillan Jones

  Infinity

  is for

  Losers

  Will Macmillan Jones

  First edition 2017 by Red Kite Publishing Limited

  www.redkitepublishing.net

  Text Copyright 2017 by Will Macmillan Jones

  Will Macmillan Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying or recording, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Find out more about the author on www.willmacmillanjones.com

  Cover art by Hazel Butler:

  ISBN: 978-1547212811

  DEDICATION

  As a child, I immersed myself in all the great science fiction writers. Asimov, Clarke, Zelazny, Heinlein, E ‘Doc’ Smith, Anderson, Vance, Dick, Bradbury – Oh, I could go on! And I’m proud to say that forty odd years later (and some of those years were very odd!) their works still grace my shelves. So, to them, and to Eric Frank Russell, after whom my hero is named, I can only apologise.

  CONTENTS

  1

  Stock Control

  Pg 5

  2

  A leap in the dark

  Pg 27

  3

  Out of the frying pan

  Pg 44

  4

  Infinity is for losers

  Pg 67

  5

  Trouble with a capital T

  Pg 94

  6

  We’re all going to the zoo

  Pg 117

  7

  Zog is the Word

  Pg 135

  8

  The rewards of Virtue

  Pg 153

  9

  Epilogue

  Pg 167

  Chapter one

  Stock Control

  The office of the admiral in charge of a major part of a Space Fleet should, in theory, be quite an impressive place. After all the man is responsible for the safe administration and effective deployment of a number of extremely expensive spaceships, a larger number of considerably less expensive units and many considered irreplaceable (or, in the view of our nearest competitors The Imperium, priceless examples of vessels that truly belonged in a museum) and lastly and at the bottom of the list a considerable number of lives. These came at the bottom of his list of considerations as the lives of the men under his command were much easier and cheaper to replace than the spaceships.

  However, the office of the Space Admiral in charge at Star Fleet Base lacked a certain something, a ‘je ne sais quois’, something vital and impressive and essential. It came to me, as I looked casually around the room, that what was missing was a serious and competent admiral. The one currently drinking coffee and glaring at me from the powerful side of the desk really didn’t count.

  “Have you finished daydreaming, yet, Russell?” the admiral demanded.

  “Sir!” Every serving military officer or enlisted man knows that there is only one safe way to respond to an accusation like that. By saying nothing. To be on the safe side, I saluted as well.

  The admiral started to return the salute by reflex, thought better of it and succeeded in spilling the contents of his coffee cup across the desk; probably a better result for me than his emptying hot coffee into his ear. “Why is it that mayhem seems to follow you about Russell?”

  “No idea, sir. Natural talent, probably.”

  “Well I’m fed up of it happening around here. So far this month you have…” he paused to check a now soggy and coffee stained list on his desk, realised that he could no longer read it and glared at me some more. “From memory: there was the incident in the mess hall with the vending machines. Then the toilet block flooded after you had been on temporary duties there. When you were seconded to Maintenance, you managed to surround the Star Fleet Base with so much rubbish we had to make it a temporary addition to the navigational charts. The visiting President of The Free Union was especially unimpressed by the way the contents of the toilet block seemed to maintain an orbit directly outside the windows of his quarters!”

  I wasn’t sure why he was unimpressed. The mathematical calculations needed to achieve that had taken me three nights of hard work. Still, it seemed indiscreet to boast of the achievement at this point, so I kept quiet and held a fixed view over the admiral’s left shoulder.

  “Whilst you are here, there seems to be no prospect of this sorry tale of accidents letting up, does there?” asked the admiral.

  “Sir!”

  “So, it’s back into space for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I was quite happy about this. The Free Union had managed to acquire a reasonable number of ‘pre-loved’ scout ships in a complicated deal with a bunch of unlicensed and unregulated Space Traders, and as I had played no small part in arranging the deal I had been promised one of the new ships. I was looking forward to it.

  The admiral gave such a satisfied smirk that my heart sank. “But they aren’t ready to come into our service yet. So, your trusty Speedbird is being prepared for you right now. I know that you will be so happy to return to space in her that I decided to give you the good news myself, rather than let your boss at the Reconnaissance Unit carry out the task. He will have your orders though. Dismissed!”

  I saluted bravely, and marched out. With great self control I succeeded in not slamming the door behind me. As a result I could not fail to hear the joyous laughter in the office as the admiral celebrated. In the corridor, I found one of the chairs reserved for those about to be dragged before the man, and sank into one, burying my face in my hands.

  “Cap?” What’s up?”

  I looked up. My old subordinate, and friend, Sheena, was beside me.

  “Have you been summoned here for a telling off too?” I asked.

  “No. Actually I was just passing, and saw you here. Thought I’d stop and offer some sympathy.”

  “Thanks. I need it.”

  “Go one, Cap. Tell me the worst.”

  “The good news is that I’m on flight duty again. The bad news is that I’ve still only got a Speedbird.”

  “Ouch! That’s going to hurt.” Sheena knew that I had been told that I would have one of the Viper Class scout ships, considerably more modern, comfortable and better equipped for running away from trouble than the Speedbird Class.

  “It does. Still, I suppose that it is better than hanging around here getting bored.”

  Sheena stood up and pulled me up with her. “That’s more like it, Cap!” She patted my arm and strode off down the corridor towards the Administration area. Disconsolately I wandered off to see my boss, the commander of the Reconnaissance Unit. Inevitably this was located at the unfashionable end of the Fleet Base, next to Maintenance. I stopped at the big windows that let visiting Personages of Importance view the repair facility without having to get their immaculate uniforms dirty by close contact with the less salubrious personages of Mike and the Mechanics of Star Fleet Base, or one of the vessels they strove to keep flying.

  Inevitably the first thing I saw was my old, outmoded and battle scarred Speedbird 666, surrounded by a small team of greased stained workers. The sealed windows prevented me from hearing the massed hiss as they all sucked their teeth together at the impossible task of makin
g good the damage to the outdated scout ship. I shook my head in dismay and moved on to the nearest office.

  Smaller and less impressively furnished than the admiral’s stateroom, this instead was the office of a competent officer who actually did the work he was employed to do. Not the Unit Commander, of course – his secretary. She looked up as I went in and gave me a smile comprised in equal parts of pity and distaste. I wasn’t sure what I had done to deserve the latter until I recalled that her office window was diametrically opposite the President’s palatial quarters and therefore she too had had an unrivalled view of the orbiting contents of the toilets…

  “Captain Russell,” she said sweetly. Always a bad sign, in my opinion. Distrust those being nice to you before an operational mission – they probably think you aren’t coming back. “He’s waiting for you.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. I knocked on the commander’s door. It opened at once, not by magic but because the lock was worn out and the door itself was sagging on the hinges. Behind an equally tired and worn desk was the tired and worn commander, who barely looked at me over the large mound of paperwork that filled his desk. Some of the unit swore that they could hear things moving about in the stacks at night and that the cleaners refused to venture in after midnight. Rumours that a half-eaten and lost bacon sandwich had spawned a whole new and virulent eco system in one stack of papers that was now the subject of a preservation order and accordingly could not be touched were assumed to be a new and exotic excuse on the commander’s part for not dealing with a wide variety of our expenses claims. The occasional presence of some bio-suited specialist teams in the office was largely considered to be a ruse.

  “Aha, Captain Russell.” The Commander greeted me.

  I saluted his cap. The commander was not a tall man, and that was pretty much all I could see over the paperwork.

  “In trouble again. Still, perhaps it is just as well.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  “Well the fact is that you would be having to go out anyway. This way the admiral has taken a personal interest in getting you off Base, so he authorised the immediate work on your Speedbird.”

  My interest rose. “Why would I have been lifting ship anyway, sir?”

  “You recall that some months ago we agreed with The Merchant Princes who control a nearby quadrant of this galaxy that they would supply us with a number of ships.”

  “The Viper Class scout ships, sir, yes. I was the pilot who brought the contract back here.”

  “Which is why you were promised one, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it turns out that there has been a problem with the delivery of the ships.”

  “What problem, sir?”

  “The problem is, we haven’t got them.”

  Succinct as always, the commander.

  “So you are going to find out why.”

  “Me? Isn’t this a Diplomatic Service job?”

  The Commander stood up. Now I could see his face until he turned his back on me to look out of the Space View window behind his chair. I saw the small movement of his shoulders as he winced when an errant turd from the toilet incident, chased frantically by a spacesuited cleaning operative, crossed the screen in an elliptical orbit. “Somehow you have been chosen.”

  Obviously his big speech had been ruined. It was time to go.

  “I’ll go and see how the ship is getting on, sir.”

  “You do that, captain. I’ll have the paperwork with the flight orders and briefs sent to your quarters.”

  I saluted his back. The military compliment was not returned. The Commander returned to whatever he was doing on his desk and ignored me. I left, closing the door behind me. As I passed the secretary’s desk, the commander’s door gave a small sigh and finally fell from the hinges to crash onto the floor. I fled, or in military terms, retired precipitately to a previously prepared position. In this case the Maintenance Bay.

  The walk from the doors to the Speedbird across the floor of the maintenance dock was a long one – which gave the collection of mechanics I privately categorised as ‘NotMike’ s plenty of time to watch me, pass ribald comments among themselves and give me the occasional catcall. I steadfastly ignored them all, and resolutely marched across the expanse until I reached my old Scoutship, Speedbird 666.

  I walked around her, marvelling at the damage. Had I really managed to fly the bird back to Star Fleet Base in this condition? Dammit, I was better than even I thought!

  “Good job they got you off after the engagement, and you didn’t try to fly this.”

  Ah well. I looked over my shoulder. Mike, the Chief Mechanic poked his head out of a hole in the rear engine manoevering pod. I say hole: once it had been an inspection hatch for someone to look inside the engine: now it was large enough to hold the not inconsiderable shape of Mike as he peered out.

  “If it’s that bad, why did they bring it back? To haunt me?”

  “Standing orders, Captain. Speedbird wreckage to be returned here for parts.”

  I winced at the word wreckage. Mike noticed.

  “Don’t panic. The basic structure is still sound. The pods can be replaced, and the rest is cosmetic. I’ve got enough Speedbirds in bits after your last jaunt to make a few serviceable ones. Eventually. So try and look after this one this time out.”

  “Which pods?”

  “Both engines are shot. So is the emergency evac unit. Oh hang on, that wasn’t actually fitted on this model. That explains why it isn’t there. The weapons pod and the side pods need to go. The pilot’s living area has seen better days, but that’s not too important.”

  “It matters to me, Mike!”

  “Then you turn up this afternoon and you can paint over the bits you don’t like. I haven’t the spare man power. Most of the lads no longer have certificates to work on these, so I’ve no one to spare for painting.”

  “I don’t have a mechanic’s certificate either.”

  “But as a licensed pilot you have authority to make running repairs.” Mike gave me an evil grin and vanished back into the engine pod. His head popped back out. “You’ll have to jog on the spot while you paint, that’s all.” He vanished again.

  I inspected the front of the battle-scarred Speedbird. The nose was untouched, the damage all seemed to have been concentrated on the engines. With an unexpected affection I rubbed the metal skin of the vintage Scoutship, and then opened the main hatch.

  The main hatch led, via an air lock, to a small chamber in the bowels of the ship. A storage compartment was placed on one side, open and clearly empty. On the opposite wall a cupboard held a spacesuit and various tools. A narrow circular staircase led upwards into the ship itself. Climbing the steps I found myself in the pilot’s living area. I looked around in shock and awe. The room was black with smoke damage. Wires and cables had been pulled from their conduits and hung limply. Several had red tags attached, which I assumed meant that they no longer worked. The sleeping bunk seemed untouched.

  With a nostalgic feeling of coming home, I rolled onto the mattress and vanished into the cloud of dust that rose, smelling of the now extinguished fires in the engine bay. I rolled off the mattress and pulled it out of the bunk. There was no way I was ever going to be sleeping on that.

  Beside the bunk was the door into the flight deck. I opened it and peered cautiously inside. There was the old and spectacularly useless pilot’s chair and the even older and only slightly more effective flight console.

  Mike joined me, having made his way through the engine bay. “Honest, it isn’t as bad as it looks.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, maybe it is. But I’ll make it serviceable by tomorrow, Cap. It won’t let you down.” Mike clapped me on the shoulder and went off to supervise the replacement of one of the rear pods.

  Back in the living area, I found an electrician NotMike testing more cables. He had brought several reels of coloured cables with him and a box full of cable ties and wire connecto
rs and other assorted bits. He gave me a pitying look so I accidentally kicked the bottom of his step ladders causing them – and him - to collapse in a tangled heap on the floor. As the swearing started, I left, a little more cheerful.

  When I returned a couple of hours later, I was surprised at the change. In spite of his words, Mike had been working his team furiously. The damaged pods had already been removed and two of the three replacements were already in position with assorted welders and fitters swarming over them like locusts. I know, I know – the usual analogy is bees. But the maintenance team were more like locusts, apt to strip search a vessel and fly away with anything saleable that wasn’t nailed down.

  Mike was now looking a bit the worse for wear, and gratefully accepted one of the two coffees I was carrying. “Getting there,” he said. “I’m having troubles with the rear weapons pod though. We are cannibalising three separate pods to try and get you one that works. The armourers are standing by to fill it, so don’t worry about that.”

  “What, me worry?”

  Mike snorted and stuck his head underneath a pod to berate one of the team for some imagined slight. At least, I hoped it was that rather than shoddy workmanship. Left alone, I slouched into the Speedbird and climbed up to the pilot’s quarters. Here I was pleasantly surprised. Most of the cables had been replaced tidily and the hatches over the cable runs replaced. The fire damaged mattress had gone and a clean mattress – or at least one with a clean cover, which I suppose was close enough to the same thing, had been installed. A large pot of paint and a brush had been placed on the worktop of the small kitchen area, so I opened the paint and set to work.

  I was disturbed at one point by an enormous level of hammering from the engine bay. Wincing at the sound level I finished the wall I was painting and went outside to see what all the fuss was about.

  “Duck or grouse!” I heard someone shout and in reflex dropped to my knees. That saved my life as a moment later a rather large wheel on a crane shot through the space my head had occupied and landed neatly beside the rear pod.