Annoyingly though, I was still not clear and free.
The Speedbird was powering up through the atmosphere, away from the landing ground, as I turned on the comms computer. At once the flight deck was filled with the sound of Black Ops pilots.
“Orbital Group from Orbital Leader. We are advised that target has launched.”
“Orbital One. No visual yet.”
“Orbital Two, tracking movement from Exotic Repository. No visual yet.”
“Orbital Three, no contact.”
“Orbital Four, no contact.”
Five of them. There were five Black Ops ships stalking me!
“Orbital Two, Orbital Leader. Report trajectory and height.”
The Black Ops ship gave my vectors. That was helpful as it saved me looking for them on the navcomm.
“Orbital Group, Orbital Leader. You are cleared to engage hostile.”
I tried to look as unhostile as possible. But projecting friendly thoughts was not going to help. The Speedbird continued to climb towards the edge of the atmosphere, and I frantically scanned the skies for the Black Ops ships.
“Orbital Four. We have contact. Descending to start attack.”
“Orbital Two. Positioning for missile launch.”
I couldn’t see either of them! The scanners searched and searched, but nothing. The proximity alert alarm was silent. Where were they? I armed the defence screens, and activated the defence pods.
“Orbital Four matching trajectory and attitude.”
They were close. They had to be close. Yet the scanners couldn’t find them. There was only one conclusion: Colonel Starker had managed to gain the lost cloaking technology and had equipped some of his ships with the devices. The Free Union really, really needed to know of this. But first: I had to escape.
“Orbital Two engaging.”
“Orbital Four engaging.”
The game little Speedbird was doing its best, but the speed was still too far away from VH for me to use the hyperdrive to escape. There was just one other choice. I swallowed hard, and chopped the power back and dived back into the atmosphere. As I did so, the scanners suddenly revealed two missiles. They had left the cloaking devices’ radius of effectiveness and were visible! Diving, I added power. The missiles missed. Or rather, they missed me. One struck firmly home on the scout ship that had been attacking me from the rear. The cloaking system failed at once and revealed a black scoutship quite close by, but following my original trajectory. Or it was, until clouds of black smoke billowed from the engines and the ship spun away.
“Orbital Four, critical damage. Disengaging action, declaring full emergency!”
That was one less. The other missile vanished into the far distance, but Orbital Two turned off the cloaking device. My proximity alarm at once shrieked like a banshee until I turned it off. The Speedbird was slower than this more modern scoutship. But I had now to stake my life on it being more manoeverable. The directional jets had a separate control pad for direct access on these older ships, and I hoped they might give me enough of an advantage.
“Engaging.” That was Orbital Two. The Speedbird shook as the defence screens absorbed the impact of laser blasts.
“Orbital Four evacuating vehicle. Repeat, pilot evacuating.”
“Orbital Three, recovery procedure for Orbital Four. Orbital Leader joining engagement.”
I raised the nose, added some roll and climbed in a rotating turn. Orbital Two sped past me below, and I used the rolling action to let the nose drop. The missile lock sign flared across the vidscreen and I fired, then pulled away without waiting for the result.
“Orbital One is visual. Repeat, Orbital One is visual.”
“Orbital One, Orbital Leader. Remain clear of hostile, I am engaging.”
Where was this annoying man? The cloaking device hid Orbital Leader from my scanners and screens. Again the Speedbird rocked wildly and lost impetus as the defence screens struggled to contain the fury unleased against them. Fire alarms wailed, filling the flight deck with noise. Warning lights flashed and flickered. The lights went out, and the red emergency lights came on, spreading a demonic glow across the room.
Terrified, I reached for the defence pod controls and released some space mines on a random flight trajectory. One of them exploded so close to the Speedbird that the ship rocked, rolled and spun out of its flight path. The engine warnings began to wail, to add their noise to the confusing din. I fought the flight controls, desperately trying to regain some stability. The attitude controls finally stopped spinning wildly and the engine management alarms cut out. I glanced at the vidscreens.
“Orbital Two, collision avoidance!” Orbital Leader had lost his cool, and was screaming. He carried on screaming as the two Black Ops scoutships met. One, already pouring smoke and flames from a huge hole in the centre of the craft, smashed into the left engine pod of the other ship, tearing it away. At once the engine fell away, belching flame, and dropped back towards the surface of the planet. Locked together, the two scoutships first spun, then lurched awkwardly before following the engine. The explosion as the fire took hold in their weapons pods was astonishing. The two ships were simply obliterated, neither pilot having a chance to evacuate the stricken craft.
My Speedbird was not rocked by the force of the blast. It was thrown off course through what remained of the atmosphere’s envelope. I didn’t waste fuel trying to correct the course or velocity. The random nature of the trajectory made me a difficult target for the remaining Black Ops ship. The laser blasts all went wide, and didn’t trouble my screens at all. On the other hand, I was unable to form a sufficiently stable flight path to fire back, so I contented myself with dropping a few space mines instead, none of which found a target.
The knowledge that this was the last obstacle to my escape spurred me on. I engaged the auto stabiliser, a device that is never normally turned on during combat as it over rides all control inputs and stops a pilot from taking evasive action. Shortly afterwards the Speedbird stopped its sickening rolling motion. Quickly I turned the AS off and pushed the power lever to its limits. The last Black Ops ship must have been designed only for local orbital use rather than deep space. As the Speedbird moved out of the planet’s last gravitational pull, the Black Ops ship sent some final missiles in my general direction – easily evaded – and turned back into its operational envelope. I had escaped. The fate of Rosto’s agent worried me, though not as much as my own fate of course, but there was nothing that I could do now about that.
In accordance with my orders, I coded the message for Rosto and sent it off. Now my problem was to get home safely. But first, I needed some rest and recuperation. That meant getting away from this immediate area, where I could confidently expect to be disturbed by the Imperium. Leaving the Speedbird to streak across the star system, I first made some coffee and then spread all the local charts out on the table in the living quarters. This star system was quite close to an unoccupied and apparently ignored or abandoned system. None of the planets could sustain life, the sun being tired and worn down – just as I was. It would make a perfect place to hide for a bit before I undertook the hazards of crossing the Imperium’s borders.
It took just a few minutes to enter the co-ordinates into the navcomm, and send the Speedbird out of the star system towards this hiding place.
Chapter seven
Zog is the Word
The Speedbird lay in a geosynchronised orbit in the gravitational field of the fourth planet in the star system. The sun itself was a red dwarf, meaning that it was old and tired – much like the Speedbird. I lay in my bunk, in a geosynchronised orbit too. In other words, I was so exhausted that I didn’t move for hours, at least. Many hours, probably.
I was in a deep dream state when I heard a knocking, like someone hammering on a door. Now the thing about being in a space ship is this: you are inside the ship. Preferably alone, but on a bigger ship with company. Outside, there is no one. They are all in their own space ships, ho
ping for a bit of peace and quiet. No one goes around knocking on each other’s space ships to pay social calls.
Except for… no, it couldn’t be them, surely. I was hiding in the deep space equivalent of a cupboard. I jumped up, banged my head painfully on the top of the bunk and slumped down again, now very wide awake. The knocking grew louder, then was replaced by every space pilot’s worst nightmare. The whole ship was filled with a booming voice, as a sound transference device was attached to the outer hull of the Speedbird.
“Have you a moment to listen to the Word?” demanded the first voice, in expensively educated tones.
“Zog, Zog, Zog, Zog. For Zog is the Word!” chimed in a whole chorus behind him.
“Everyone knows about the Word,” I groaned. It was the Followers of Zog. Renowned across the whole Galaxy for accosting innocent pilots, space stations and - if they were feeling adventurous – entire planets to spread their Word.
“For Zog, Zog, Zog, Zog; Zog is the Word!” continued the chorus.
“Everyone is talking about the Word!” insisted their Leader.
He was right. Normally they were talking about how to avoid it. Now I had to escape a worse menace than Colonel Starker and his Black Ops cohorts!
“Everyone knows that Zog is the Word.”
“Everyone is talking about the Word,” agreed the chorus. “Zog, Zog, Zog, Zog;Zog is the Word!”
“The Word! The Word! The Word! The Word! For the Word is Zog, and Zog is the Word!”
“The Word! The Word! The Word! The Word! For the Word is Zog, and Zog is the Word!” repeated the chorus, the sheer volume of the sound reverberating around the Speedbird and giving the impression that every corner of my space ship was filled with chanting, smartly dressed and entirely insane worshippers of Zog.
I had a number of different words in mind myself, and repeated many of them aloud. I rolled out of my bunk and ran for the flight deck. I didn’t open the comms computer: I knew only too well what would be coming through the channels. Instead I turned on the vidscreens. My worst fear was realised. I was surrounded by a number of small ships, all bearing the smiling, bearded image of Zog on their sides. One, large enough to have been a StarDestroyer at one time, was close by and was responsible for the sound transference noise nuisance.
The booming voice cut out, for which I was truly thankful to Zog. I turned on the navcomm, and prepared to leave orbit. I had no desire to spend any more time with these religious nutters than I had to. The power rose as I pushed the power lever; the engines howled; the Speedbird did not move.
This was worrying. I shoved the power lever to the stop and also tried the manoevering jets. Plenty of sound and fury happened, but the Speedbird stayed exactly where it was.
The cabin was filled with a deep, rich chuckle. “The Followers of Zog invite you to join us for one of our ceremonies. It would be terribly rude of you to decline, so we have taken the opportunity of placing your craft under remote guidance. For your comfort and convenience, we suggest that you sit back and enjoy the ride.”
I smacked the flight console with both hands in frustration, and chopped the power to idle. I was stuck with these lunatics, who – according to rumour – would now try and brainwash me into joining their Cult.
I opened up the comms computer and coded a message to Star Fleet, to tell them that I had been captured.
“Naughty, naughty,” boomed the voice. “We do not permit unapproved outside communications from those who observe the Ways of Zog! In due time you will be permitted to go out amongst the Unobservant and teach them the Ways of Zog. In the meantime, shut up and save your voice for adoring the Mighty Zog!”
The vidscreens showed the small flotilla start to move away from the planet. To my horror, the navcomm on the Speedbird lit up, and confirmed that I was moving with them. Somehow they had over ridden the flight console, and were taking me with them. The group of ships accelerated, and at VH transitioned into hyperspace. The navcomm gave me a destination on the far side of the Galaxy, away from the Imperium and away from The Merchant Princes – and away from The Free Union, too. We were headed directly into the Badlands, far, far away from any help or hope of rescue.
Moodily I made myself some coffee and food, while various chants in praise of The Mighty Zog were piped directly into the Speedbird for my education and enjoyment. I finally managed to cut the noise to a bearable level by tearing strips off the bedsheet and using them to tie the pillow tightly over my ears. This made the trip quieter, but very dull, and meant that I missed the warning buzzer that told me we had dropped out of hyperspace into normal space. I only realised when I wandered into the flight deck and saw that we were approaching a large space station.
This space station was composed of five sets of rings arranged around a central spine. The rings were all rotating gently, a sign that the space station possessed adequate artificial gravity. There were a lot of docking stations arranged around the rings. With a sudden shock, I saw that we were approaching the bottom ring but one – and that the next section was occupied by five Viper class scout ships. This was a rather larger coincidence than I was prepared to accept.
The flotilla approached the station, and the instruments told me that the Speedbird had initiated an auto-docking sequence. The gigantic space station drew closer and closer, until with a gentle bump the Speedbird touched an airlock and was secured.
The hatch opened, and with a grim smile I rose from the pilot’s chair and left the flight deck to meet my unwelcome visitors. Three of the Followers of Zog climbed up the stairs into the living quarters, and stared at me with a lack of curiosity that I found unnerving. One of them mouthed at me, and waited, clearly expecting an answer. I scowled and untied the pillow from my ears.
“I’m sorry, I could not hear what you said because of the pillow over my ears.”
The three Followers of Zog looked blankly at each other, then at me.
“I asked why you had a pillow tied over your ears,” said one.
“It would prevent you from hearing the Word of Zog,” explained another.
“That was the whole idea,” I told them. “I didn’t want to hear the Word.”
“But everyone wants to hear the Word!”
“The Word! The Word! Everyone is talking about the Word!”
“Zog is the Word! Zog is the Word!”
Their conversation was a little limited, I thought. But the hand weapons that they were not quite pointing at me spoke volumes, and I reluctantly followed one of them down the stairs and out of the hatch into the space station.
“You are very, very lucky!” said one of the interchangeable Followers of Zog, in my opinion with little or no evidence for this bald assertion.
“You are lucky,” agreed the others. “Praises be to Zog and his Word!”
“I like being lucky,” I told my captors. “How exactly am I lucky right now?”
“You’ve arrived on a very special day. Tonight is one of the Master’s Events!”
“The Master’s Events?”
“Oh yes! You are very lucky that one is so soon. Otherwise you would have had to wait! Praise be to Zog!”
“Zog is the Word!” chanted the others.
“Everyone is talking about the Word,” I agreed. But I suspect that I didn’t mean what they thought I meant: the deception delighted them and they walked me along quite cheerfully, while I wondered how I was going to escape. There was no point in bolting until I knew that I could get off this cursed space station with its mad God.
“Please, we request that you wait here with the other candidates.”
Seemingly at random, one of my captors opened a door and ushered me inside with every appearance of courtesy – which made me distrust him even more. The door closed (and despite the courtesy locked, I noticed) and I turned to face my new surroundings. I had been locked in a large storage room, along with about twenty or thirty other people. Most of the races across the Galaxy were represented, and several wore Free Union flight s
uits. Naturally I headed straight for those.
“Hi guys. I’m Frank,” I introduced myself. “What’s the story then?”
“Hi Frank. You military?”
“Yes, I’m a scout pilot. Got ambushed by these weirdos during a mission, and somehow they took control of my ship.”
“I’m Martin, this is Bill and this is Lewis.”
Bill and Lewis, two of the other Free Union Flight Crew there nodded at me morosely.
“There’s two full ships’ crew here from the Free Union. We were on a trading mission to collect some ships from The Merchant Princes when the Mad God’s men descended on us, took control of us, the ships we were to collect, and the traders we were meeting.”
“How do they do it? Do you know?”
Lewis looked up at me with a dull expression. As soon as I found out that he was actually a professional mechanic, I changed that opinion to a quite normal expression – for a mechanic. “I know how it’s done. Near the entry hatch on each ship is a technical service port. If they get close enough to insert a control module into that, they can operate a ship remotely. It’s how we deal with damaged craft that need recovering, but might be unsafe for a pilot to fly.”
That was interesting. “So if we took those modules out of the ports, then we could fly off?”
“Sure,” agreed Bill. “All we need to do is get out of here, fight our way to an entry airlock, obtain some space suits in case the modules are out of reach from the dock, remove the control modules, get back into the space station, enter our ships, and fly off.”
“Sounds like a plan!” I agreed enthusiastically. “Let’s do it!”
At that point, the room was filled with the chanting of the Followers of Zog.
“The Word! The Word! Everyone knows that the Word is the Word! Let me tell you about the Word, as everyone knows that Zog is the Word.” It repeated over and over again, with minor variations to point out explicitly that Zog was the Word and the Word was Zog. I will not bore you with a rendition, I’m sure that you get the idea. After all, everyone is talking about the Word, usually saying: “It’s the Mad God’s Followers. Run and hide!”
Infinity Is For Losers Page 11
