Infinity Is For Losers (Space Scout Book 2)

by Will Macmillan Jones

  I had a flight guide for this system as part of the mission pack. How up to date it was, was of course a matter of conjecture. Due caution seemed called for, so I instructed the flight computer to assume an orbit of the planet, and set all my scanning systems to work. They revealed nothing but the noted mining facility. I opened the comms channel to that frequency and listened in. There was a bit of routine chatter from a local ground flight returning to base, but nothing significant or even any indication of any real traffic. I decided to try my luck.

  “Phaedra Control, Speedbird incoming.”

  “Speedbird, Phaedra Control. Be advised this facility is restricted and not available.”

  “Phaedra Control, acknowledged. Speedbird has a technical problem and requests a landing for onboard repairs.”

  There was a silence. It is space flight etiquette, and accepted interstellar protocol that a space craft in difficulty should be afforded landing permission.

  “Speedbird, Phaedra Control. This is a restricted zone. We cannot accept you. Divert approach to Cornopia Control.”

  Well, that was interesting. Very interesting. I did as I was told, and set down on the populated planet after all. I asked to dock in the transit area as I would not be staying after I had completed the non-existent repairs to the Speedbird. For safety, I opened up several of the inspection panels in the living quarters and pulled out some spare wiring and electrical testing devices. Just as well, for the engines had barely cooled down before Cornopia’s Customs were knocking on the entry port.

  “What’s your problem?” asked the uniformed customs inspector, staring around the sparse living quarters.

  “Electrical. The console to drive wiring developed a fault and I needed to set down quickly.”

  The customs officer nodded as if he understood, which in my opinion was unlikely.

  “Why are you in this quadrant?” he asked.

  “Business trip.”

  “Carrying any stock or samples?”

  “No, it’s not that sort of business trip.”

  The customs officer realised that there was unlikely to be anything he could impound (steal) or any prospect of a decent bribe, and left, leaving me some forms to fill in for him and deposit at the customs desk. Only when he left did I look at the forms, and realise with a shock of horror that they were official Imperium Customs forms rather than the Merchant Princes’ normal paperwork. If the Imperium had taken over a section of The Merchant Princes’ star systems, that was a worrying development.

  There was also only one way to find out, and in any case I needed to ask about the missing Emporium. After all, when a spaceship the size of a professional sportsman’s ego, or a small moon, leaves its accustomed orbit then someone somewhere notices and gossips about it. But I always say that before going into danger, nothing beats a nice cup of tea with hot buttered toast. Of course, I’m noted for not always telling the truth, so it might have been something a little stronger.

  Twenty minutes later, full of tea and toast – or something similar – I ventured out into the space dock. I had suggested that I was just an innocent trader. Such an oxymoron was bound to attract some suspicion, so I had made sure that I didn’t look like a Free Union Space Corps captain. Both my commander and admiral would have asserted that I rarely did anyway, but never mind that. The docks were not as full as I would have expected. The last time that I had visited the Emporium there had been a solid progression of traffic to and from this space port. Now the number of vessels was few. In fact, looking at them carefully, most looked like military ships. I wandered close past one of the ships which looked suspiciously like an Imperium StarDestroyer, and was unsurprised to see that the Imperium markings had been roughly painted over with a thin layer of paint and a stencilled badge of some probably non existent trading company had been hastily sprayed on close by. An imperfect disguise, however you looked at it.

  Trying to look inconspicuous, I steered well away from the StarDestroyer and headed for the exit, thinking furiously. The presence of a small fleet of Imperium warships was not necessarily evidence of a covert take over of the region but it would do me to be going on with.

  In true space port tradition, there was a bar near the exit from the space dock. Actually there were several bars, none of them very full. I chose the one with a Rigellian bartender, asked for a small drink and sat at the end of the bar nursing it and looking around. I could see rather more nondescript uniforms hanging around than I liked, and after serving me the barman kept well away from me at the other end of his bar. That seemed suspicious too.

  When you have been around some seedy places, as I have done in my time in the Space Corps, you get a sixth sense for the local law enforcement. That sense was yelling at me now, so I slid off the chair and headed for the exit. The guard gave me a professional blank stare from under his cap, but said nothing and I emerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight of the city. The main city on Cornopia seemed to be a pleasant place. The buildings were tall and well maintained. The roads were wide and well kept as were the numerous green areas and planters. Unfamiliar flowers spread unfamiliar scents that overwhelmed my senses until I had to sneeze, and sneeze and sneeze. In fact the sneezing fit was so bad that I had to lean against a wall for support.

  “Are you all right, my boy?” asked a passing stranger in a concerned tone. He was quite a bit older than me, and spoke Standard in a very well educated tone.

  “Thank you, yes,” I gasped.

  He looked at me critically. “I think that you should let me offer you a drink to help you recover.”

  “No, honestly, I am fine,” I demurred. Then sneezed again, so violently that I shook.

  “I’d recommend it!” he said urgently. “Those flowers are there for a purpose. Pilots from a certain region of space tend to react quite violently to the scent – and the police are watching for it. I’m surprised you haven’t been taken off the street by now.”

  I kept my hand over my face and tried not to breathe. My new friend watched me going red and then purple with some interest. “Keep on holding your breath, and try to walk normally. There’s a safe place round the next corner. Follow me.”

  He spun on his heel and walked around the corner. Trying for insouciance, but as a result of the lack of air probably achieving something very different, I followed and drew in a deep lungful with relief as we entered a small side street bar. I panted madly for a moment, then stared around the gloomy room. My new friend pushed me urgently to one side and pulled down the blind over the door and locked it from the inside.

  “You can call me Gee,” he told me.

  “Odd name.”

  “Look, it isn’t even my assumed name or cover name, let alone my main alias or my real name. That’s what you can call me, all right?”

  He swung the door sign round to show that the bar was closed. There were a few other people in the bar, but none of them seemed surprised by Gee’s behaviour.

  “My name…” I started but he hushed me.

  “Don’t want to know. It isn’t safe for you here, although this is probably about as safe as it gets. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I came to visit The Emporium, but it seems to have gone.”

  “Too right it has gone. Most of the traders fled when the Imperium took over.”

  I had been right. If it hadn’t meant that I was in terrible danger by being here, I would have been satisfied. But it did, so I wasn’t. “I should follow their example and get out of here.”

  One of the other customers got up and peered around the window blind. “Not that way you won’t. The Imperium’s secret police are gathering outside.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” said Gee in a weary tone. “Now, let’s get out the back way before they come in the front.”

  “I can see them there too!” came an urgent call from the back door.

  “How many?” demanded Gee.

  “I can only see one. But they never travel alone.”

 
“Four at the front,” reported the man with his head on the other side of the blind. There was the sound of a shot, breaking glass, and his body fell back onto the floor, pumping blood out onto the tiles. His head stayed on the other side of the blind, for which I for one was grateful.

  “Shoot our way out. Better than being taken alive by Starker’s men,” said Gee grimly.

  The dreaded Colonel Starker. Head of Imperium Security and with a reputation for bloodthirstiness that Vlad the Impaler would have envied, had he still been alive.

  “Starker?” I went pale.

  “You know of him?” asked Gee absently, taking a pistol out of his pocket.

  “We’ve met.”

  All the remaining denizens of the bar turned to look at me.

  “And I’m very anxious not to repeat the experience. I only just got away last time.”

  A volley of shots rang out, and a mirror above the bar collapsed sending shards of broken glass flying across the room. The barman winced at the damage, and at the large shard of glass embedded in the back of his arm. He pulled it out and dropped it on the floor.

  “Time to go,” said Gee.

  The barman vaulted over the bar and picked up the head that lay near the door. Seemingly able to ignore the damage to his arm and the blood that dripped freely down his sleeve he stamped on a bar stool until it broke apart. He took one of the broken off legs and rammed it into the neck of the severed head. I nearly threw up at the sight. The barman then cautiously dropped to his knees and shuffled towards the front door. He raised the head under the blind: a volley of shots rang out and the head disintegrated. The barman jumped in shock and his head came apart under fire as shots came through the remains of the front door. This time I was sick.

  Gee regarded me dispassionately. “I thought that scout pilots were hardy, brave types who didn’t lose their heads in a crisis?”

  I had not told him that I was a scout pilot, and some section of my mind recorded that – the rest was too busy being scared. “What gave you that idea?” I replied, wiping my mouth on a bar towel.

  “I can’t see anyone at the back,” called one of the drinkers who had been in the bar when I arrived.

  “Go,” shouted Gee without moving a step.

  The drinkers all pulled weapons from assorted pockets and barged out of the back door in a group. At once wild firing broke out. Clearly it had been a trap, although I couldn’t work out who it had been laid for. Gee seemed unmoved, although when a large round object flew through the front window and bounced on the floor making a loud fizzing sound and showering the room with glass and smoke, he moved pretty quickly. Where he went to I didn’t see – I was too busy vaulting over the bar and curling up in a ball under the scrap of carpet I found there.

  The round object exploded. Very loudly. As the noise faded, I could hear footsteps coming through what had once been the front of the café.

  “Did the off-worlder go out through the back?” demanded a harsh voice that reeked with authority.

  The reply seemed to come from the rear of the café. “Don’t think so, Colonel. We got them all, anyway.”

  “Alive?”

  “Sorry sir, no.”

  Colonel! Probably the dreadful Colonel Starker! The side of the bar now resembled a swiss cheese, as many holes had been torn in it by the explosion. I could see some uniform trousers with a crease so sharp that it could have been used as an offensive weapon, and boots so heavily polished that I could see my face in them. I hoped that no one else could. Then to my joy I realised that I was lying on a trap door. There was a way of escape! Trying to be silent I rolled to one side and eased the trap door open. I sung my legs over the edge, and slipped down into whatever was there – it was unlikely to be worse than the dreaded Colonel Starker.

  Annoyingly, it was. Most people in that position would have dropped quietly into a network of secret tunnels connecting with the spaceport and so made their escape. Or perhaps found a hidden cellar full of assorted bottles with which to while away a passing hour or two. Not me. I had to drop into what seemed to be the main sewer, with a disconcerting lack of splash, if you follow me. More a sort of ‘gloop’.

  Cursing, I glooped my way downstream through the thick stuff, trying not to splash if I could. The smell was beyond belief. After a moment or two the tunnel grew brighter. I started to hope for a moment that I had found an exit – no such luck. Instead there was a muffled, and very brief, argument behind and above me from what was left of the bar and then another unlucky individual joined me in the sewer.

  The trapdoor closed and darkness returned to the sewer. I tried to move faster, and suddenly found to my relief that there was less resistance to my movement. In fact the contents seemed to be flowing more smoothly, a little faster, and with more purpose. I tried to move more quickly too as I could hear my pursuer closing on me. I ignored the smell and tried to jog through the sludge, slurry and… whatever else was in the fluid. The flash of light behind me as my pursuer took a pot shot at me helped me both move faster and add a little of my own DNA to the slurry around my feet.

  The slurry began to flow faster now, and started to pull me along with it. Why was this? At this point I didn’t care and went, so to speak, with the flow, as more intensive laser beam shots flashed around me. As these hit the walls, flames and smoke started to flicker on the surface of the slurry. I realised with a shock that whatever was making the awful pong was igniting! The safest thing might be to get out, so I waded closer to the wall of the tunnel as the man following me got close enough to start aiming at me.

  “Stop!” he yelled at me.

  “Not a chance,” I shouted back. He responded by shooting at me again, less wildly this time.

  I ducked and lost my footing on the slippery surface of the sewer. To my horror, I started to fall. Frankly, falling under that surface would be a fate worse than death. Mind you, I revised that idea as several shots passed through the space I had just occupied. The flow increased again, and now I could hear something truly terrifying: a fall. Not of water. So not of water, but a somethingfall nontheless – and the current had me in its grip. My pursuer also lost his balance and fell, and I could hear him cursing as the current took him in its fateful grip.

  Then my luck changed. Just as I could hear the man following me start to get closer, my hand – which was flailing about in the gloop – caught hold of something firm and I seized it gratefully My progress stopped on the spot. His, however, didn’t. With a despairing wail, he was swept past me and over the edge of the fall of sewage to an unknown and undoubtably very horrible fate. I was left hanging by one hand partly over the edge of the drop.

  With my other hand I flailed around, no longer bothered about the splashing of the gloop. I found another piece of metal and grabbed that too. It was a ladder! Half hidden in the wall by years of accumulated sewage and other gloop, the ladder led up. Up. My favourite direction, when lying in a sewer. After all, very few scout pilots spend time in sewers according to the recruiting brochures. Which also tells you rather a lot about the Space Corps recruiting literature, I suppose.

  “Hurrah!”

  It was probably too early to be celebrating, but never mind. The mournful sucking noise as the gloop finally relinquished its grip on my left foot was a cause for celebration. The ladder led up the wall of the sewer into a round tunnel. I carried on climbing, happy to be escaping the fate of the man Colonel Starker had sent after me. The top of the ladder, when I reached it, had a cover on it.

  Despite my fears, it lifted easily. I raised it an inch, and tried to peer out. My spirits lifted as I realised that the sewer ran under the space dock. Annoyingly, my view was restricted by a pair of military size nine boots.

  It has been my experience that the intelligence of the wearer of military boots is inversely proportional to their size, and luckily for me that theory was again borne out.

  “Here! You! Come out of there!” shouted the uniformed guard.

  “Willingly,” I re
plied. “Give me a hand!”

  The cover was pulled away, and I blinked in the weak sunlight.

  “Wow, you don’t half stink a bit,” said the guard.

  “Shut up and give me a hand.”

  The fool did. I grabbed his hand and pulled as hard as I could. With a cry of horror, the guard fell into the open hole. For a moment, he thought he was safe as his gun got stuck across the hole. He swung there, holding tight with one hand on the weapon’s strap.

  “Help!” He gasped. He looked down at the rich fate awaiting him. “For pity’s sake, mate!”

  I scrambled out of the sewer access pipe and looked back with an expression of regret. “Whoops. Clumsy.”

  “Give me a break,” pleaded with the guard, looking down between his boots at the noxious flow of gloop below. His weapon agreed, and the strap broke. The guard’s hand slid down to the very end of the strap, then with a despairing cry of abuse in my direction, he fell.

  There was nothing I could do to help him, I told myself as I picked up his gun and kicked the cover back in place over the hole. I looked around. I had emerged on the concrete apron of the space port, and my faithful Speedbird was not too far away. I started walking briskly towards my spacecraft.

  “Hey! You!”

  The cry came from behind me. Was there no end to the busybodies around here? I looked around. Three man were running towards me, all heavily armed and waving their arms wildly.

  “Stop!”

  That was enough. I started running as fast as I could, and luckily for me there wasn’t very far to go. I had made it to the entry hatch of my craft long before the guards had got close enough to take aim. Once inside, with the entry port closed and secured, I stripped off my very soiled overalls and headed for the flight deck.

  “Port Control, Speedbird ready for departure,” I shouted into the comms unit while my hands flew around the flight console, following the start-up procedure by instinct and long familiarity.

  “Speedbird, there is no filed Flight Plan and no Departure Request. Departure permission denied.”