The engines wined louder than I did, and finally kicked in. I breathed a sigh of relief as the indicator needles on the engine management gauges shook, shivered, and swung reluctantly into the green arcs on the dials. The Speedbird shook slightly – not only from the engines, but also from the violent banging on the entry port.
“Speedbird, shut down your engines. Departure clearances denied by authority of Colonel Starker. Open your access hatch and await instructions.”
Not a chance. If the dreaded Colonel was coming, I was going. I shoved the power leaver forwards, and the Speedbird began to move.
“Speedbird, Space Port Control! Your Departure Clearance is refused! Cease operations immediately!”
Not a chance. I accelerated towards the launch zone, which was not far away, ignoring the outraged noises from the comms unit.
A new voice joined in the clamour. “Interstellar shipping freighter Zorba on final approach.”
“Beware conflicting traffic ignoring Flight Control instructions!” shouted the Port Controller in a frenzy.
“We are in landing mode and have priority,” replied the freighter captain in the unruffled tones of one who knew that anything colliding with his craft would come off worse. If not at the time, then certainly later in the bar. My scanners showed the freighter’s inbound trajectory. It was getting close. I hit full power and the Speedbird screamed and began accelerating.
“You are all going to die!” The port Flight Controller seemed to be exceptionally concerned. Perhaps he was worried that the burning pieces of wreckage might come through his windows and spill his tea.
The Speedbird lifted off and I pointed the nose as close to the incoming freighter as I dared. The onboard collision alert system went bananas. It was hard to concentrate with all the noise, especially as the comms unit had gone into overdrive. Everyone except for me seemed to be yelling loudly. At least until a quiet but authoritative voice cut in. They all shut up on the spot.
“This is Colonel Starker. On open channel. The Speedbird pilot has two minutes to reverse direction and surrender to me.”
There seemed no point in replying, so I didn’t.
“Black Ops Units. Be aware that a Speedbird Class scout craft is making an unauthorised and illegal departure. You are authorised to open fire.”
Such a warm and caring soul, I thought. In a few moments the freighter captain came on the air again, offering his speculations about my parentage and a long wish list of how he would like to spend some time with me. I suspect that Colonel Starker recruited him on the spot, if he overheard the transmission. There was no reason for his ire: we didn’t actually hit each other, although I passed so close that I could see the luxuriant moustaches worn by the pilot through his observation windows. The Speedbird rocked wildly in the jetwash from the freighter, but I soothed her and carried on into orbit.
The proximity alert warning sounded, loud and frightening in the confined flight deck. One glance into the vidscreens showed me why. I had emerged from the atmosphere underneath a jet black Orca class StarDestroyer. I’m not sure which of us was more surprised and dismayed, but at least I had a chance to swerve away from the collision. The Orca spat space mines in every direction, but luckily I was now moving so quickly that I didn’t hit any of them. The Speedbird’s self defense computer system let go a few mines from the rear pod. One of the vidscreens lit up with explosions, but I didn’t think that I was lucky enough to have caused any real damage. I twisted the Speedbird round again, and shot over the top of the Destroyer as it in turn spun around, seeking to get a missile lock on me.
“Black Ops One-Seven in contact with fugitive!” I heard over the comms channel.
“Acknowledged, One-Seven. Black Ops leader approaching from azimuth to engage.”
It was time that I was not here. But there, directly ahead of me was an Imperial Star Cruiser, dwarfing my tiny Speedbird. The Star Cruiser spat every conceivable type of weapon straight at me. In a reflex action I grabbed at the flight controls and hit everything that might generate an evasive action manoever. The Speedbird lurched wildly, then adjusted trajectory so violently that I was crushed down into the pilot’s chair with the unexpected G force. Moving slowly against the crushing gravity I pushed the power lever through the gate to the emergency setting, and engaged the navcomm to prepare for hyperdrive.
The screens lit up and the comms channels overloaded as the massed arsenal of the Star Cruiser shot past below the gyrating Speedbird and overwhelmed the defence screens of the Orca Class StarDestroyer. I would have been vaporised in a second if that lot had hit me: as it was, the captain of Black Ops One-Seven sounded seriously unhappy at receiving the incoming welcome meant for me.
“Ooops. Friendly fire damage,” apologised the Star Cruiser.
“If that was friendly, I’d hate to experience the quite cross version!” complained the Orca captain.
I decided the wise course was to leave them to it, and departed into hyperspace, on a course back to Star Fleet Base.
Chapter three
Out of the frying pan
My Unit Commander, the Admiral of the Fleet, and my old nemesis, the spy called Rosto, all stared at me with various expressions of dissatisfaction across the admiral’s desk. They were all seated. I of course was standing as close to attention as I could.
“So, the Emporium had gone. And you failed to find out where,” said the Fleet Admiral.
This was an admiral summing up of the position. Masterly, in fact. There was nothing for me to add, so I didn’t.
“Actually Admiral, Captain Russell has returned with information of an outstanding value to The Free Union,” said Rosto smoothly.
The two Space Fleet officers looked at him with blank expressions. “We’d rather have had those scout ships,” said the Reconnaissance Unit commander.
Rosto sighed. “We now know that The Imperium has taken at least one star system from the Merchant Princes. That they feel strong enough to start expanding their influence with military action is vitally important news. Captain Russell here should get a commendation.”
All three Space Fleet officers present looked at the ‘diplomatic agent’ with astonishment – and in my case with an added dose of great suspicion.
“Oh yes,” continued Rosto. “And in addition he brought back the news that their invasion has not been welcomed by the populace, who have started some underground resistance movements. Now, the question before us today is this: do we send Captain Russell to make contact with the resistance, or do we first try and see how far through The Merchant Princes’ quadrant the Imperium has penetrated?”
“Neither,” replied the admiral decisively. “He must first complete his abandoned task of finding our Viper Class scout ships.”
“Hum, I think my task is more important,” objected Rosto.
“I don’t care,” said the admiral decisively. “Right. Captain Russell, you should get straight back out and go and look for those ships we have purchased. I imagine you can combine that task with finding out how far the Imperium’s forces have gone,” he added as a sop to Rosto who looked most unhappy.
“It sounds horribly dangerous!” I objected.
“Yes, it has that going for it,” agreed the admiral. His mood, depressed at the word commendation, clearly improved at the thought of sending me off into mortal peril. “Good! That’s sorted.” The admiral had no worries about my future, that much was clear.
“I must protest!” protested Rosto.
“My command, my decision,” smirked the admiral. Rosto scowled, and gave way.
“Wait a moment, should I have some back-up?” I suggested, since I had quite a number of concerns and that was not the least of them.
“Why?” asked the Fleet Admiral.
“Well, sir, let’s say I locate the missing scout ships. I can hardly get them out and back here on my own, can I?”
“He has a fair point,” agreed my unit commander.
“Indeed. In an infinite univers
e, everything must happen somewhere,” agreed Rosto sarcastically.
“Infinity is for losers,” said the admiral flatly. “Dismissed, Captain. Your orders and clearances will be sent to your quarters later. I now need to have discussions with your superiors.”
I saluted. It seemed appropriate. Devoid of other options I left the office, and returned to my quarters. Only an hour or so later, the door was flung open and Rosto wandered in without so much as a by-your-leave or invitation.
“Hello, Rosto,” I said unenthusiastically.
“Don’t be like that, Frank. Got you a commendation, didn’t I?”
“And you’ll probably have got me killed next time out, too.”
“Don’t be so negative. I have every confidence in you, Frank. Now, as ever, this is a seriously important mission. I didn’t want to say so in front of the others but we really, really need to know how far into the Merchant Prince’s quadrant the Imperium has penetrated.”
“So what am I really doing?”
“Just what it says on the tin. See how many star systems the Merchant Princes have still got, and find out where our scout ships are.”
“I thought you wanted me to go back to look for the resistance?”
Rosto looked faintly surprised. “Good heavens no. That’s not immediately a priority. I just wanted Colonel Starker to think I was involved somewhere else.”
“Starker? How would he know what is going on here?”
“Captain Russell, the first rule of espionage is to assume that the enemy has ways of finding out what your plans are. Then you can confuse him. Or her. Or them.”
“So you think the admiral’s office is insecure?”
“No.”
Now I was very confused, and said so.
“I know the admiral’s office is bugged by the Imperium. I’d be disappointed in Colonel Starker if it wasn’t.”
I was speechless.
“But he will never hear anything actually vitally important said in there, so it doesn’t matter. Now, here are your orders and clearances. You lift ship in two hours. Only report back to me and only on these two frequencies here.” Rosto pointed to a set of numbers on the sheets of paper. “Chatter as much as you like on the open channels, but only use these to tell me what’s going on.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and left. “Good luck, Frank,” he said over his shoulder. He had walked out of the door before something struck me. Rosto had said that Colonel Starker would not hear anything important said in the admiral’s office – but that was where this mission had been discussed and ordered. Did that mean that the mission I was being sent out into space to complete didn’t really matter? Or that I didn’t really matter?
Reluctantly concluding that the answer could well be both, I changed into a clean set of flight overalls, picked up the mission instructions, clearances and the extra frequencies Rosto had given me, and headed back to the docks. Mike was watching some of his apprentice mechanics wielding various small tools in, on, and around my Speedbird, with the indulgent eye of a fond parent watching his young make their first mistakes.
“When are you going to get a decent ship instead of this?” Mike greeted me.
“You tell me,” I told him.
“It’s a good job that you didn’t break it too badly last trip out. We are running out of spares now. My lads have had to tweak some of the delivery systems in the defence pod here…” he paused to slap the side of the Speedbird “…to ennable it to accept the latest space mines.”
“Will they work?” I asked him.
Mike slapped the Speedbird again. The ship quivered on the landing gear and on the other side of the hull a mechanic cried out in genuine alarm.
“Probably,” Mike said. “Probably. If there is any chance that you can bring the new Viper Class ships back with you, then I’d take it as a personal favour.”
I looked around. Apart from one or two of Mike’s mechanics, a woman pushing a trolley full of dried rations towards the loading hatch and a man who managed to look both bored stupid and thoroughly alert at the same time (he was driving a small loader full of highly explosive torpedoes from dock to dock past engineers who refused to allow him to stop and unload while they were working) the space dock was empty of intelligent life. Actually it could be argued that none of the above counted either, but Mike seemed to trust them.
“There will be a book. Come on Mike, you know that I know there will be a book. What are my chances?”
Mike didn’t bother to look around or lower his voice. “Which way do you want to bet?”
I was confused. “What do you mean? Do you mean that some of the pilots bet against their getting back alive?”
“Oh yes. Quite a few, if the odds are good. It’s a sort of life insurance. Get killed and there’s some money for the family, if they remember to claim it.”
I shook my head in despair. “I want the odds on my getting back. Alive.”
“Alive, or alive and intact?”
I started to laugh, but then saw that Mike was looking at figures on his pocket computer and the laughter dried on my lips. “Alive and intact,” I asked in a small voice.
“I can offer you 1:3. Against. Or I can offer you 50:1. For.”
I winced. “Ouch. Well, put twenty credits in for me.”
“For or against, Frank?”
“For of course! And I’ve every intention of collecting, Mike!”
“I’ll want the cash down, Frank. Sorry, it isn’t that I don’t trust you, just that in the circumstances…”
I reached into my pocket and took out some cash. Mike’s eyes shone briefly as he grabbed the money and thrust it deep into one of his pockets. Then with his other hand he pulled the entry hatch of the Speedbird open.
“Here you go, Frank. Good luck. And by the way, you really owe the cleaners some beers. They had to go above and beyond the call of duty in getting your kit cleaned up. I’ve no idea what you got yourself into last time – or rather I’ve a good idea, but this time try and stay out of it, yeah?”
“How jolly, spiffingly grateful I am to you, old boy!” I told him in my most bitterly sardonic tone. Mike just laughed. In fact, the last thing I saw through the hatch window was Mike, with his hands on his hips, still laughing at me as hard as he could.
He had been right, though. The Speedbird was clean inside. Depressingly so. In fact, it was so clean that I spent twenty minutes in the living quarters making the place acceptably messy again. I was going to be living in the confined space for some time, so I wanted to feel comfortable – not as out of place as a germ in a sterile environment.
Finally I threw my bag across the room onto the excessively well-made bed, and started the pre flight checks. The engine room was also clean. This time I did not object, and examined the machinery and cabling closely. All seemed to be well. I opened the access doors to the two pods housing the defence systems and manoevering jets. These two were neat and in good order. The stock of space mines and other defensive gizmos seemed to be adequate for a change, rather than paltry, and the housings of the jets had been cleaned free of grease and dirt.
There was nothing left but to enter the flight deck. I sat on the pilot’s Chair, and felt a rush of relief as the chair made a terribly rude noise and sank most of the way to the deck under my weight. I reset the height and felt at home for the first time. There, on the console, was the mark that my chin had made when the chain gave way once under the stress of combat. That stain was from a spilt cup of coffee. The worn controls felt comfortable, the edges worn by use rather than sharp under my fingers. I turned on the main power switch, and began the start up procedure.
As the engine began slowly to spool up to normal power levels, I opened the nav computer and the comms channels. At once the latter burst into sound.
“Speedbird Six Sixty-Six, Star Fleet Control. Why are you behind schedule?”
Typical. No peace for the wicked, I suppose – although all the properly wicked people I have known in fac
t seemed quite happy, prosperous and peaceful. Which just goes to prove something, I suppose, although I’m not very sure what.
“Star Fleet Control, Speedbird receiving.”
“Speedbird, we have your clearances here. You should have departed twelve minutes ago. Report the cause of the delay?”
Probably unwise, I thought, to admit that I was making the space ship grubby enough to be habitable. What was a good excuse? Oh yes. “Control, extended internal preflight inspection required.”
“Acknowledged. Speedbird, are you now ready for departure?”
“Speedbird Six Sixty-Six ready for departure, confirmed.”
“Very well. Traffic will be paused to allow your exit from space dock. Advise when approaching outer air lock.”
“Acknowledged.”
I know that I’ve lifted ship countless times. Well, if I ever bothered to get all my log books out and check then I could count, of course, but that isn’t the point. I’ve lifted ship a lot of times, and every time it is still a thrill. To leave the illusory safety of Star Fleet’s space station and move out into the hostile, unforgiving and mind-blowingly beautiful environment that is space is just wonderful every time. I raised the power level. The Speedbird shivered, and the landing gear extended, then parted company with the space dock. Slowly, at the approved pace, I let the tiny scout craft drift towards the huge doors of the maintenance bay. As we approached, the great doors moved apart enough to allow us to enter the great air lock.
“Speedbird Six Sixty-Six approaching outer doors.”
“Acknowledged. Speedbird, your departure on mission Code Vortex is approved. Good luck.”
They never wished anyone good luck! Star Fleet Control never said anything remotely human like that! If ever there was a bad omen, this was one. I raised the power lever slightly and the Speedbird headed out of the base. The great doors of the space dock closed, and I was once again in flight. The vidscreens burst to life, showing me spacecraft in every direction and in every conceivable size and configuration. Military vessels drifted in orbits around the Fleet Base, festooned with every weapon and detection device ingenuity could fashion. Smaller transports for troops were clustered together, clearly unmanned and in storage. Smaller swifter transports flitted around, presumably carrying diplomats, ministers and the most senior Star Fleet officers. Older, less well maintained transports showed that the base required regular supplies of all sorts of materials.
Infinity Is For Losers Page 4
