Infinity Is For Losers

by Will Macmillan Jones

  I hadn’t been in one of these before, and looked around in professional interest. I had thought that the Speedbird was a bit antiquated and poorly appointed: next to this it was a space going palace of luxury. Every expense had not just been spared on this shuttle, but omitted completely. It was purely functional, in every sense of the word. I felt momentarily sorry for the marines. If this was how Star Fleet treated them, then no wonder they all had a bad attitude.

  “Sit!” barked the sergeant.

  There were three rows of metal benches with seat belts. I slumped down on one, Steve and Graham chose another, trying to keep as far away from me as possible. The sergeant and the captain sat together, the two troopers remained standing, their weapons not quite pointing at me.

  The shuttle pilot did not even have the basic courtesy or privacy of a flight deck. The flight console was spartan: although there was a weapons control system bolted to the hull close by which seemed to have every possible accessory.

  “Let’s go,” said the captain to no one in particular.

  At once, the pilot keyed the comms channel. “Star Fleet Base, Marine Shuttle Zero One Four.”

  “Go ahead, Zero One Four.” Instead of the normal tones I was accustomed to hearing from the Base Controllers, this was clipped and authoritative voice.

  “Target acquired. No resistance.”

  Resistance to arrest? From me? Who did they think I was?

  “Acknowledged. Return to Base. Docking Zone Alpha Blue.”

  That was interesting. And rather worrying. We had been directed to the restricted zone reserved for visiting politicians, members of the Senior Council, high ranking military personnel, and other such unsavoury characters.

  With a harsh jerk, the shuttle disengaged from the Speedbird and set off. Steve and Graham looked cowed and frightened. I felt exactly the same, but knew better than to show it to the bullies guarding us. The flight back to the Base was short, for which I for one was grateful. The metal benches were brutal as seating.

  The docking was carried out with the same silent efficiency and complete disregard for comfort. As soon as the airlock hissed open, the sergeant indicated that I should rise and exit the shuttle. He did this with a kick on the shins and the jerk of a thumb: I suppose that speech was a bit tiring for him, or maybe such silent communication was trained into him. Steve stood up to follow me, but one of the troopers shoved him back down on the bench. The captain and one of the troopers followed me out of the shuttle and into Star Fleet Base. The airlock hissed shut behind us, and looking through the small glass port I could see the shuttle peel off and move away, taking my travelling companions with it.

  “You will follow me,” the marine captain said. He led me down a richly carpeted corridor, quite unlike those normally to be found in the otherwise functional Star Fleet Base. We walked in silence, principally as I could think of nothing witty or apposite to say, and doubted that I would get an answer if I did think of something.

  A highly polished wooden door stood ajar at the end of the corridor. The captain stopped. I stopped. The trooper didn’t stop in time, barging into me and making me stagger into the captain, who shoved me back upright with a silent snarl. He grabbed my shoulder and shoved me through the doorway, then pulled the door shut behind me.

  The room had a circular desk with several chairs dotted around it. The chairs looked like each of them had cost more than the annual pittance I received instead of proper remuneration. The outer wall had a large picture window, with a splendid view out over the rim of the space station. Stars were cast across the sky like fresh diamonds: but the view was rather spoiled for me by the fact that Colonel Rosto was leaning on the wall beside the window.

  Rosto spread his arms wide and smiled in welcome. “Frank! Frank! You’re back. And with some of our Vipers! I knew I could rely on you!”

  “Hello, Rosto. Is this what you call a welcome home party, then? Having me arrested?”

  Rosto walked round the table, pulled out one of the seats and waved at me to sit down. Without waiting to see if I did, he turned away and headed for a table placed on one side of the room. Noticing it for the first time, I saw that it was laden with a seriously high quality buffet. Rosto poured two coffees into cups, rather than mugs, and pushed one across the table towards me.

  “Do I get fed as well?”

  “Not yet, I am afraid.”

  “Typical.”

  “Frank, we owe you a lot. I sent you out on what I freely admit was a practically suicidal mission. You succeeded in it. I have been able to move a particular Senior Officer to a less demanding and exposed role, thereby avoiding both a terrible scandal and a huge risk to our security.”

  “What happened to your man?”

  Rosto became professionally neutral. “Sadly, Colonel Starker neutralised our asset, just as we have neutralised his. Honours even, there.”

  I suspected that Rosto’s man was neutralised in ways that I did not even want to speculate about: so I didn’t.

  “And then, as an added bonus, you returned with five of the Viper Class Scouts we had given up for lost. The benefit to Star Fleet of that is enormous.”

  “Just five ships is an enormous benefit?”

  “We’d like to get our hands on the others, too. But our defences have been strengthened just at a time when Starker has been weakened by the loss of his major intelligence asset inside Star Fleet. The Free Union is safer tonight because of what you have done.”

  I allowed myself to preen a bit. And to recall that there had been promises of rewards, which would be very nice indeed. I said as much to Rosto.

  “Ah. There, Frank, I am afraid there is a problem.”

  “I might have known.”

  “The problem, Frank, is quite delicate.”

  “As in keeping a promise to me is delicate?” I might have known.

  The door opened and the admiral walked in. I suppose that I should have risen and saluted, but couldn’t be bothered. The admiral didn’t seem to notice. He dropped a thin manilla file onto the conference table, then went to the buffet table and poured himself a black coffee before joining me at the table. Rosto now sat down too.

  “Captain Russell, we have had a formal complaint.”

  “Another one?”

  The admiral permitted himself a thin smile. “I’m not talking about the catering staff this time. This formal complaint has come through diplomatic channels: it is from the Imperium.”

  Now I was properly surprised. “The Imperium? They are complaining about me?”

  “Makes a change from your colleagues complaining about you, doesn’t it?” agreed the admiral, with a smirk.

  “What are they complaining about?”

  “Do you recall making an unprovoked assault on a peaceful Imperial trade mission in a demilitarised zone?”

  I shook my head in confusion. “No.”

  Rosto rested his elbows on the table and leant on them. “Do you recall coming out of hyperspace in the middle of an Imperial Fleet?”

  “Oh, that. Yes. They were in the middle of an invasion of part of The Merchant Princes’ sector.”

  “According to the Imperium, they were conducting a trading operation. In a sector that they had just legitimately purchased.”

  “They bought a whole Sector?”

  “From the CEO of the Emporium, yes,” Rosto said. “Which explains why we didn’t get those Vipers we negotiated for, and what Starker was doing in the Emporium while you and I were there.”

  “So the complaint is that you entered a Demilitarised Zone, attacked a peaceful trading fleet and then fled.”

  “Trading fleet? It was a full scale invasion force! Star Cruisers, troop transports, the lot! And I didn’t attack it. It was in the way when I came out of hyperspace, so I made the fastest escape I could.”

  “Captain Russell, we have reviewed the flight log from your Speedbird. It has confirmed the accusation made by the Imperium,” said the admiral formally. He opened the manilla fi
le and made some notes on two sheets of paper, before signing one and passing it over to me. He closed the file.

  I looked at the sheet of paper in disbelief.

  “That is your formal discharge from Star Fleet on the grounds supplied by the Imperium. I have to advise you, Mister Russell…”

  The mister hurt. Really hurt. I was speechless in horror, and my mouth flapped about like a fish, but making less sound.

  The admiral continued in the bland, formal tones he had adopted for my sacking: “It has been agreed at the highest levels in Star Fleet that the criminal charges lodged against you by the Imperium require an answer. It has been further agreed, by Star Fleet Command and the Senior Council of The Free Union that the Galactic Arrest Warrant issued by the Imperium for your extradition to them to face these charges must be honoured.”

  I was aghast. They were going to turn me over to Colonel Starker and his torturers!

  “However,” added the Admiral in the same brisk, neutral, tone; “ there was a small issue with some of the paperwork which means that the issue of the formal legal charges against you and activation of the Galactic Arrest Warrant in your name cannot be formally ratified until 0900 hours tomorrow.”

  “So, I am not under arrest? Yet?” I asked.

  “No, Mister Russell, you are not. Not until the issue of the formal warrant for your arrest at 0900 tomorrow. Furthermore Mister Russell, as you are now a civilian from this time, you are not under either military discipline, nor my direct command. I will bid you goodbye.”

  The admiral rose, and gave me a long look. “Good luck, Mister Russell. I doubt that I shall see you again.” He walked out of the room. Before the door closed, I could hear him giving quiet orders to the marines stationed outside the door.

  Rosto went to the buffet, and filled two plates with food. He pushed one across the table to me, and started eating the food piled high on the other. “More coffee, Mister Russell?” he asked.

  I wasn’t hungry. Especially for what might be the condemned man’s last meal. “No.”

  “Shame, the food is quite good. And I haven’t eaten for a bit. Been a shade busy, lots of meetings, you know the sort of thing.”

  “I don’t. And it doesn’t look like I’m going to get the chance to, either, does it?”

  I screwed up the letter of dismissal and threw it at a bin standing in the corner. It missed.

  Rosto stopped eating long enough to retrieve the letter, smooth it out and fold it and pass it back to me. He reached into his jacket and took out two thin envelopes. These he slid across the table too. I made no attempt to pick them up, and he sighed.

  “This is how I get rewarded, is it? Sacked and slung to the wolves?” I was a little bitter, to be honest, and it might have shown in my tone.

  Rosto shrugged. “Oh, it’s how it goes sometimes, Frank. Win some, lose some.”

  “I lose my life!”

  “No.”

  My hopes, presently on the floor and thinking about sinking even further, paused in their descent.

  “Frank, Colonel Starker has outmanoevered me on this issue. We are not formally at war.”

  “But we fight border skirmishes all the time! Openly!”

  “Yes. And that is what they are. Skirmishes. Border clashes. Unforseen and regrettable incidents. Mostly ignored, except by the casualties. But he has pulled one over on me over you. He wants you very badly, and stands a chance of getting you. Legally.”

  “So you are just going to hand me over to him?”

  “Of course we are. That’s Galactic Law.” Rosto ate some more food with every sign of enjoying it. I could only stare at him in horror, with a side dressing of extreme terror at the prospect of being in Colonel Starker’s clutches. “If you are still here, of course, to be handed over, Mister Russell.”

  “What? What? What?”

  Rosto stopped eating, and smiled at me. As usual, I noticed that the smile did not touch his eyes. “Frank, I try and protect those that work for me. As you were doing. I cannot protect you from a Galactic Arrest Warrant, legally issued. If you are here on Star Base at 0900, the admiral will execute that warrant. But.”

  “But what?”

  “Until that time, you are a free civilian.” He tapped the discharge paper with one finger. “Not under any restriction of movement, or discipline.”

  “I’m still stuck on this space station though. I can’t exactly go into hiding here for very long, can I?”

  “No, Frank, you can’t.” Rosto tapped the first of the two envelopes from his pocket. “By coincidence though, having those five shiny new Viper scouts have allowed maintenance to decommission one of the old Speedbirds the Reconnaisance Unit has been using. Six Sixty-Six. Bit tired out, they say, although everything still works. Quite acceptable for civilian use, they tell me. Taking the military insignia off it now, they are.”

  Hope springs eternal in the human breast. It certainly sprang in mine.

  “This envelope shows the Speedbird has been decommissioned from military service with The Free Union. I can’t give you a sales chitty for obvious reasons. This second envelope has some cash. Not a lot, but the best I can get together at this notice.”

  Rosto stood up and held out his hand. In a daze I returned the gesture, and we shook hands.

  “You will find the Speedbird at maintenance. I’ve had it stocked and fuelled and armed. I’m sorry, Frank, but that’s as much as I can do. Don’t call for any clearances from Flight Control when you go. Good luck.”

  Without a word I opened the door. The two marines standing there never looked at me or showed any sign of recognising my existence.

  “See you around Frank,” called Rosto from within the room. I let the door side shut on him and walked off down the plush corridor.

  Epilogue

  My personal quarters in the area of the Base allocated to the Reconnaisance Unit had already been cleared and cleaned. On the small table was small flight bag. I opened it: it contained my very few personal possessions, and a brand new set of star charts. I looked around the small room. I had walked into it as a captain in the Free Union’s Star Fleet. I was leaving it now as plain Mister Russell.

  The room was bare and what memories I had were in the small flight bag. I left the room without a backward glance.

  Unusually, every corridor was empty. No staff were in the canteen, no pilots of flight crew anywhere. Every door was closed to me. I made my way to the maintenance area. Here too, the mechanics were normally crawling everywhere – yet the huge space was deserted. Actually, not quite. On the far side of the dock, and nowhere near my Speedbird, stood Mike. He did not acknowledge me or even seem to see me: but I knew he was there to see me off, as he had been for a long time and that mattered.

  Brushing away a tear that I was certainly not going to acknowledge, I opened the airlock and climbed aboard Speedbird Six Sixty-Six. I was going to have to find a new name for her, although like most pilots I believed that renaming ships was unlucky.

  The interior gleamed. Every surface shone. Mike and his mechanics had done their best for me. I slung the flight bag onto the bunk (which had clean sheets and a laundered duvet) before checking the engine bay. It looked like new, although I knew the pristine nature hid a multitude of problems. I went past the main drive and the solid casing of the hyperdrive, and peered into the side defence pods. They were stacked with mines and other goodies.

  The flight deck had been treated to the best Mike could do, too. Obviously there was a limit, but at least the coffee and sweat stains had been removed from the flight console. It was time to go. The engine started sweetly, and mindful of Rosto’s instructions I left the comms channel shut as I lifted the Speedbird off the dock and flew towards the wide open inner airlock doors. They closed behind me, the outer doors opened, and I accelerated the Speedbird out of Star Fleet Base, and away into the vast realm of deep space and the Frontier.

  I was free.

  I was rogue.

  Frank Eric Russell an
d his trusty Speedbird will be back in

  Rogue Pilot

  Coming soon from Red Kite Publishing Ltd.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Will Macmillan Jones lives in Wales, a lovely green, verdant land with a rich cultural heritage. He does his best to support this heritage by drinking the local beer and shouting loud encouragement whenever International Rugby is on the TV. A fifty something lover of blues, rock and jazz he has just fulfilled a lifetime ambition by filling an entire wall of his home office with (full) bookcases. When not writing, he is usually lost with the help of a SatNav on top of a large hill in the middle of nowhere, looking for dragons. He hasn’t found one yet, but insists that it is only a matter of time.

  He is known locally as a poet and oral storyteller, specialising in ghost stories and traditional tales, some of which can be found on YouTube, and which are available via his website on CD.

  His major comic fantasy series, released by Red Kite Publishing, can be found at:

  www.thebannedunderground.com

  and information on his other work and stuff in general at :

  www.willmacmillanjones.com