Infinity Is For Losers

by Will Macmillan Jones

  “Missed!” called the crane driver in a cheerful tone. I bit back the more obnoxious of my possible replies and settled for waving a rude sign in the air. Still chortling, the driver took his crane off to attack someone else. I mooched out of the maintenance bay to find my quarters. Inevitably, when I got there, the mission orders had arrived as well.

  Opening them I found the usual mish mash of confused instructions from someone who had clearly never flown a scout pilot combat mission in his life, but fancied himself as a brave hero anyway. The gist of it was that I was to fly to The Emporium, which was a huge interstellar space station and ask the CEO politely where the fleet of Viper Class scoutships The Free Union had ordered and paid for were, and bring back both the answer and the ships. Presumably in my back pocket. A separate sheet contained the necessary flight codes, permits, frequencies and call signs to be used. Presumably it was the writer’s idea of a joke to call the mission ‘Stock Control’. I felt like a dealer in used paperclips rather than a dashing and debonaire scout pilot.

  To compound my disgust, my door opened without so much as a knock first. In came a member of The Free Union’s Diplomatic Corps – or, to give him his real title, one of our spies. I had the misfortune to spend time with this appalling and amoral character before, and his presence here now soured my mood still further.

  “Rosto. Just when I thought things could get no worse, look who turns up,” I greeted him.

  “Frank! I’m wounded.” Rosto was of course entirely unconcerned by my reaction. Blithely he wandered over to my kitchen and returned with a glass and the last of my whisky. “Aren’t you pleased to see me? Old friends and colleagues and all that?”

  “No. Please tell me you aren’t involved in this.” A terrible thought struck me. “You aren’t coming with me, are you?”

  The spy shuddered. “In what you are flying? Not a chance. Besides, you are the official covert operative. The one they know about. I’ll be the one that they don’t know is around.” He sank half the glass of whisky, and belched appreciatively.

  So he was going. My heart sank again. Any operation where this shady character was about normally ended up with me in trouble. “You are only about when there’s trouble. I’ve no idea what you do on your days off.”

  “I don’t get days off in my job, Frank. And yes, we are worried that there is trouble. Star Fleet needs those new ships. Your Speedbirds aren’t going to be in commission much longer. Every month another one is taken off line just to keep the others space worthy. We just don’t have the resources to design space ships, and keep this to yourself…”

  “Or you’ll have to kill me?” I asked facietiously.

  “Me or one of the others, yes.”

  He was serious! He was actually serious! “Don’t tell me then! I really don’t want to know!” I was serious about that, too. What I didn’t know couldn’t kill me.

  “Frank, The Free Union hasn’t been doing well recently. The Imperium have tempted away some of our best engineers, and the shipyards that could have turned out the replacement spaceships for you have been sabotaged. Several times. Star Cruiser production has been halted entirely and the StarDestroyer program is in tatters. We have to get these scout ships into service so that you guys can patrol and alert us to any attack in time for the fleet to assemble.”

  Rosto drained off the last of my whisky and pulled a face. “Try and buy something a bit better before I have to drop by again.”

  “If I thought you were coming past again, I’d lace it with arsenic.”

  Laughing genially at what he erroneously assumed was a joke, Rosto slipped out, leaving me to contemplate the implications of his visit. I had always assumed that The Free Union were the good guys, and the Imperium – the remains of the Galactic Empire – were the bad guys. Certainly they were fast enough to shoot at us, and the methods that they employed on Free Union pilots they captured alive were the stuff of nightmares. The thought that they might be winning the undeclared war between us was not pleasant. Still, at least I wasn’t heading in the direction of the Imperium on this flight.

  A full set of star charts had been included in this collection of papers, as my original set had been ruined in the fighting that had mostly wrecked my Speedbird on my last operation. Moodily I examined them. My destination was The Emporium, a vast space borne shop selling just about everything (and quietly just about anyone as well, it was rumoured) inside the small group of galaxies run by The Merchant Princes. They were a loose affiliation of Traders in everything to anyone, and guarded their financial independence jealously and violently.

  There was another knock on the door. This was getting ridiculous. I opened the door to find most of the Reconnaissance Unit clustered in the corridor.

  “Come on Frank, we’ve organised a party for you in the Mess!” Captain Ian Stewart, one of the unit who had actually been reasonably friendly towards me when I was sent to join the unit, pulled me out of my room.

  “Hang about,” I protested. “I’ve stuff in there that I need to put away!”

  “It can wait! The beer can’t!”

  I protested again, but three of the unit grabbed me, hoisted me into the air and carried me off, leaving the details of my secret mission spread all over my room.

  “Word has it that you’re off to find our missing ships,” said Lieutenant Sparks.

  “It’s supposed to be a secret!”

  “Not a chance Frank. The maintenance boys have been moaning about it for days. Refitting that ‘bird of yours has been a real chore for them.”

  I struggled in mid air, but the lads just laughed, threw me into the air and just about managed to catch me on my way down. “They’ve known for days? I only found out myself earlier today!”

  “We thought you’d enjoy the surprise.”

  Ian kicked open the door to the Reconnaissance Unit mess, which was filled with people. Well, not exactly filled. But most of the Unit was there, and a few of the mechanics who, frankly, would attend anything if there was a chance of free drinks. The lads dumped me on the floor by the bar, someone else hauled me approximately upright and thrust a drink into my willing grasp.

  “That’s the only one he gets!” The Commander was there. This was bad. If the Unit Commander had turned up, then there was a chance that this was more of a pre-emptive wake than a party. “He’s on flight status. And so are some of you, and I’m watching. Now enjoy yourselves.”

  Music started, and after seconds I was left alone as the throng, or more realistically the throngette, or bijou throng, started trying to drink the mechanics under the table. The fighting would start in twenty minutes or so, I estimated.

  I was right, and when the brawl began I slipped out and went back to my rooms. I paced up and down, but could not settle. Eventually I gathered up the mission papers, shoved them into my flight bag and slipped out. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts in a place that I felt comfortable, and horrifying as the thought was – that actually meant my Speedbird. The maintenance bay was more or less deserted. As most of the NotMikes were whooping it up at my pre wake, that wasn’t a surprise. My Speedbird lay quiet and dark in the dock, the work seemingly finished.

  I walked round her, in a semblance of an external preflight check. To my amazement the scout ship looked astonishing. The removal of the damaged rear pods, and replacement with better units had changed the craft from a worn out piece of scrap metal to something that looked like a viable spaceship. I’m not saying that the Speedbird gleamed, but it certainly wasn’t doing the opposite anymore. I triggered the entry hatch, and climbed aboard. The storage room had been filled with assorted spares and seemed neat. The fire extinguishers were new, as was the space suit hanging in its locker. Impressed already, I climbed the stairs into the living quarters and looked around.

  Here the work was less professional. That of course was down to my painting. But everything was tidied away, especially all the cables and other wires. The kitchen cupboards held enough basic rations for a week
or two, and enough coffee to float a small boat. Relieved, I tossed my flight bag onto the sleeping pod, and was pleased to see no cloud of dust arise from the mattress.

  Most astonishing of all, the flight deck. The flight console gleamed. It had been properly refurbished in an astonishingly short time. Even the pilot’s chair had been replaced. I sat in the new chair and swivelled all around, relishing the freedom to move without the chair falling over, down, or off its plinth entirely. I flicked the master switch, and the console lit up, the self-test routine engaging smoothly without needing the accustomed thump beside the switch.

  The ship log was in the designated holder below the console. I opened it. It was a lot thicker than before, as Mike had carefully entered all the changes and repairs: but the top sheet bore the appropriate Certificate of Flight Readiness, with his signature – missing. Blast. The flight deck door opened behind me, and I fell off the chair in fright.

  “Sorry, Frank. Did I startle you?” The intruder was Mike. Technically of course he was still in charge of the spaceship until he signed that form and I was the intruder, but it didn’t feel that way. This was MY Speedbird, after all.

  “Not a bit,” I told him, squirming around on the floor and trying to get up.

  “Come on.” He offered me his hand. I took it gratefully and he pulled me to my feet. I dusted myself down, and was mildly surprised to see that there wasn’t actually any dust. “I had the cleaners all over the place for you,” he told me.

  “Thanks, Mike. Appreciate it.”

  “She’s ready for you Frank. Whenever you want her. Fuelled up, armed and ready to go. Just one thing.”

  “What’s that, Mike?”

  Mike picked up the Certificate of Flight Readiness. “Can’t sign this off.”

  “Why not?”

  “One of the replacement engine pods has exceeded its time life specification and needs a rebuild. The actual flying hours are well within tolerance, sort of, but it can’t be signed off for use.”

  “Mike. Will it work?”

  “Frank, if I thought it would let you down I wouldn’t let you go. But I can’t sign the release forms. Maybe my Unit Commander will sign them off in the morning?”

  I was elated. I had the best reason in the world now to avoid putting myself in harm’s way. But at the same time I was depressed as I had no doubt that someone would find me something considerably more distasteful to do if I stayed on Star Base. Possibly even including manual work. The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine.

  The door to the flight deck was pushed open again. There was really only room for the pilot anyway, having Mike in the Flight deck made the small room very crowded and another intruder was a real squash. Especially this intruder.

  “Evening, all,” said Rosto cheerfully.

  “You are like a damaged coin, Rosto. Can’t get rid of you, can I?”

  “Sorry Frank,” he said without meaning one syllable. “Ready to go?”

  “Can’t go at all,” I told him.

  Rosto’s expression hardened, and his eyes took on a curious, distant expression. Suddenly I was very afraid of him. “Why?” he asked without inflection in his tone.

  “This ship has no Flight Certificate, and I’m not signing it off.” I looked at Mike with surprise. His voice was firm, unmoved, and confident.

  “Why is that?”

  “Time expired components.”

  “Are they serviceable?” asked Rosto in a neutral voice.

  “Well…” Mike equivocated.

  “Then it is no problem.” Rosto pushed into the flight deck. I was pinned against the far wall, struggling to breathe, but he paid me no attention even when I started to go purple in the face. He reached inside his tunic and I turned white instead. Surely he wasn’t going to shoot Mike?

  Instead, Rosto pulled out a pen. He thought for a moment and then produced a very passable imitation of Mike’s signature on the Certificate. “There,” he said in satisfaction. “Problem solved.”

  “That’s not my signature!” said Mike.

  “Is it not?” asked Rosto easily. “It will do for me, and it’s my opinion that counts right now.”

  “Just who are you?” demanded Mike. A little late, in my view, to be asking that question.

  “I’m the man who hasn’t killed you. Yet. Next question?”

  Sensibly, Mike stayed silent.

  “Things are so simple, really,” smirked Rosto, in blatant defiance of the facts. “Now, Frank. Are you ready to go?”

  “Errrrrrr.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. So, Mister Mechanic, I suggest that you disembark now unless you are wanting to accompany Captain Russell on his vital diplomatic mission.”

  Rosto obligingly stood aside. Mike gave me an apologetic shrug.

  “Luck, Frank. Not least with this git.” He jerked a thumb at Rosto, who simply smiled benignly at him. Personally I would have found that very threatening. Mike pushed past Rosto and vanished.

  “Now, let’s get you away,” Rosto told me and opened up the comms computer. “This is a private channel, not on open broadcast. It only sounds here and in the Flight Control room. Fleet Base Flight Control, Speedbird Six Sixty-Six.”

  “Speedbird, Flight Control. Go ahead.”

  “Flight Control, Speedbird has Stock Control clearance for departure in six hours. Protocol One Nine over-ride for immediate clearance.”

  “Speedbird, wait one.” The Flight Controller was taken by surprise, and we could hear him shuffling papers to find out just what was going on, and what he was supposed to do next.

  “Um. Rosto, what are you doing?”

  “Getting you away now, Frank. Discreetly and away from prying eyes.” Rosto keyed the comms again. “Flight Control, what is the problem?”

  “Speedbird, Protocol One Nine recognised. Confirmation code required.”

  “Code Yellow Five Yellow.”

  “Confirmation accepted, Speedbird Six Sixty-Six has priority clearance for departure when ready.”

  Rosto grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into the pilot’s seat. “Good luck, Frank.”

  “You mean I - we’re going now? Both of us?”

  “No, you are off now. I’m off this bird. Give me time to clear the dock and get going.” He left the flight deck, leaving me sitting open-mouthed in the pilot’s chair. I watched the video screens until I saw Rosto leaving the space dock. I seemed to be without options, so I went and took the mission papers from the flight bag on my sleeping pod and returned to the flight deck.

  It did not take me too long to program the coordinates into the NavComm. Then I sat back and looked around. What were my emotions? Well, principally fear, of course. But also I was pleased to be escaping Star Fleet Base. A scout pilot has to be very comfortable living inside his (or her) own skin, and spending long periods of time alone. Spending a lot of time in a Star Base teeming with lots of people is disconcerting and difficult. I was relieved to be getting back into space, as well as terrified of where I was going.

  The rest of the pre-flight checks occupied me happily for a while, the routine making me feel a little calmer. Finally as I was done. I looked at the comms computer. I swallowed and keyed the private channel open again.

  “Flight Control, Speedbird Six Sixty-Six, ready for departure on mission clearance Stock Control.”

  “Speedbird, Flight Control. Stock Control clearance acknowledged. Cleared for immediate departure from maintenance. All traffic being held.”

  I acknowledged the call, and listened as the Flight Controller re routed all the ships moving around the Base away from maintenance dock. Clearly my departure was to be as secret as possible, even though everyone on the Base seemed to know about it.

  With sudden decision, I powered up the main engines and lifted from the dock. There was no one to cheer, wave flags, or throw confetti or abuse: but that was probably just as well. The inner doors slid open for my passage and closed behind me. The outer doors of Star Fleet Base opened and the stars
of infinity beckoned me – I added a little more power and the Speedbird left the security of Star Base. I gave a small cheer, and started to accelerate towards hyperspace jump speed.

  I felt free for the first time in months. Even if I was heading into unknown dangers.

  Chapter two

  A leap in the dark

  The Speedbird dropped gently out of hyperspace. I opened up the screens and peered all around for threats. None appeared. The proximity alert warning and the missile lock warning both remained silent. These were all good things. However there was a small problem. Where the huge bulk of an interstellar freighter converted to The Emporium should have lain, gleaming in the starlight and surrounded by a small swarm of smaller craft carrying buyers, vendors, suppliers and consumables; there was nothing. Not even a pile of rubbish left behind caught the light.

  I scanned the immediate area, which seemed to be entirely empty of a huge spaceship, or any trace that it had been there. Now, in my admittedly limited experience, when a large shop moves location they normally leave a calling card, or a relocation sign to tell prospective customers where they have gone. Ah yes. I scanned again, at a more detailed resolution setting, and there it was. A very dead body, floating just where the Emporium had been. This was, I felt, a less than positive development.

  The Emporium had been placed just outside the gravitational field of a small sun system. I examined my star charts, and found that the outer planet was almost entirely ice covered and only inhabited by a small ice mining facility. The next planet in was, however, well populated and an important trading post for the Merchant Princes’ quadrant. Should I choose to be lost in a crowd, or to avoid a large and well appointed centre of population with, presumably, large and well appointed security forces or land on a more isolated planet and make some enquiries? That, at least, was a quick decision. Well appointed security forces have never attracted me.