“Curse of being me, I’m afraid, Frank. The oiks treat me as if I’m some sort of a god. All very pleasant of course, but it can get a bit cloying after a time. Now, where are you stopping tonight?”
“I hadn’t thought yet, Will. There’s a hotel across the way, though.” There was. It looked rather more expensive than I cared for though. I was going to have to give Rennie some of his money back as I hadn’t been able to get him to his target destination and the repair bill for the airlock was worrying me despite Portal’s apparent offer to pick up the tab.
“Come to the Mayflower, then. I’d be pleased to put you up, have a spot of dinner with some of the crowd, what? Then tomorrow pick up your ‘bird and head out and back with us as your proving run.”
On one hand, I was concerned about putting myself into the hands of a powerful citizen of the Imperium. On the other, I was looking at rough sleeping round the back of an unfamiliar spaceport and spending a cold and hungry night waiting for the mechanics to finish my Speedbird’s repairs. This was a difficult, finely balanced choice. Or was it? “Glad to accept your offer, Will,” I replied.
“Good man, I’ll leave your name on the hatch. Pop over about eight for dinner, what?”
“That’s very kind of you, Will.”
“Think nought of it, old chap. Always glad to help out a fellow vintage flying enthusiast, don’t you know. Later, then!” Will Portals drank his drink, pulled face in disgust at the taste, and strolled out of the bar. Unobtrusively, three men who had been quietly sitting at a table near the door stood up and followed him. I looked at their faces: they were not watching Portals, but the assorted drinkers in the bar and so I deduced that they were more likely to be his security staff than a threat to the great man.
As if from nowhere, but actually from the other end of the bar, Rennie appeared. His face was flushed and he looked excited. “Frank! Frank! Do you know who you were talking to just then?”
“Yes.”
Rennie ignored me. “Did you know that was Will Portals? One of the richest men in the galaxy?”
“Yes.”
“And you were just chatting to him? Like he was anyone else!”
“Yes.”
“That was Will Portals!”
“Yes.”
My replies finally filtered through Rennie’s skull. “You mean you knew?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“Well for one thing, he introduced himself. For another, everyone knows who he is, what with him being famous and everything.”
“Yes, but, Will Portals! What did he want?”
“A chat.”
“About what?”
I suddenly recalled that although he came across in conversation as a blithering idiot, Rennie was also one of Rosto’s shady contacts. Someone astute enough to be sent alone into what was about to become a war zone. Despite appearances, he probably was not an idiot, blithering or otherwise.
“Vintage spaceships. The Speedbird isn’t all that new, you know.”
“I noticed. So that was all, was it?”
“Yes, Rennie. That was all.”
“You’d tell me if there was anything else, wouldn’t you, Frank? What with us being friends and everything?”
“That was all it was, Rennie.” Now I was even more convinced that Rennie was not in fact as stupid as I had assumed, and that it was a front.
“See you later, then. Don’t forget my refund.”
With that, Rennie was gone. I ordered another drink. Perhaps a little of Will Portals’ aura lingered, as I did get served faster than I expected. I took the drink with me over to a window in the bar. There was a view out across the apron, where the privately owned vintage ships sat, stood and occasionally leaned. A tractor was towing my Speedbird into the maintenance shop. A small group of mechanics had already clustered about the airlock of the moving scout ship, and were pointing at bits of it. No doubt to suck their teeth and shake their heads and make the traditional uniquely annoying mechanics’ whistling sound. (The one that always means that something incredibly expensive is about to happen to the poor owner of the vehicle in question. Who if not poor to begin with, is quite likely to become poor after settling up.) I turned away from the unsettling sight.
I was going to order yet another drink, when I suddenly thought that it might not be the best idea to go to a posh party while already drunk at my own expense – I might as well take advantage of the expected free alcohol and save my money. Instead, I made my way out of the bar onto the concourse outside the spaceport. A number of taxis were circling around in a pattern reminiscent of a group of sharks waiting for their prey. Accepting my fate, I climbed into the nearest. The remainder scattered, seeking other victims.
“Where to sir?” asked the driver.
“I need some new clothes.”
“I can see that,” agreed the driver. “Flight suits are so last decade. Cheap, medium or expensive?”
That seemed a sensible way of classifying clothes shops to me. Although the last time I bought any clothing I was on the run from some gangsters, and the deciding factor was concealment, not cost. “Mid range, please.”
The taxi driver accelerated away, leaving a cloud of dust behind. In a reasonably short time he dropped me off at a group of shops that had respectable frontages (or at least the iron mesh and security shutters were reassuringly free of the rust and bullet holes that adorn some establishments). He agreed to wait, and I fairly quickly bought some stuff at a cost that was steep but not exorbitant at a shop that allowed me to wear it, and take my fading Free Union flight suit with me in a nondescript bag. (The owner nearly had a fit when I proposed putting it in one of their bags. “What if people thought you bought that here?” she wailed. “You’d get more custom, I expect,” I told her. “It’s retro, you know.”)
Good to his word, the taxi had indeed waited for me. As soon as I climbed into the back seat, he locked the doors and drove off. “Hang about,” I objected. “I haven’t given you a destination yet!”
“You don’t need to know where you’re going,” he replied.
This was ominous. And worse still, my personal weapon was in the remains of the flight suit. I started rooting through the expensive bag, and the taxi driver responded by closing the screen between him and the passenger compartment. “It’s bullet and laser proof glass, mate,” he called through an intercom. “Don’t waste your time. Sit back, and enjoy the trip. The architecture is especially worth seeing, you know.”
Seen one cityscape these days, you’ve seen most – if not all – of them. The shop names might be different across the galaxy, the local script and lettering a bit different, but in my experience the only way you can tell which star system you are in these days is by the name, colour, and taste of the practically poisonous distilled alcohol you get sold in the bars. I stared at the buildings and wondered who had kidnapped me this time.
The shops changed to nondescript buildings that were probably offices: first government, then commercial. Then the commercial went a bit downmarket. I expected to end up in a light industrial unit on an empty business park. They say no one can hear you scream in space, but I can tell you from experience than no one hears your screams coming from a disused unit on a business park after hours. And if they do, they run away very fast to avoid adding their screams to yours.
The tax stopped outside an office, which cheered me up slightly. Offices tend to be a bit light on the pain causing equipment found in less salubrious places. The sign over the door read: Swype & Steele, Lawyers. Well, at least that was probably honest. The driver got out, and courteously opened the rear door to allow me out. (Of course, he’d set the child proof locks so that I couldn’t open the doors from the inside. I’d spent half the trip trying, without success.) He opened the office door and beckoned me inside. With a weary sigh I obeyed.
The offices were trim, and well fitted, rather like the attractive receptionist who rose from her chair when I entered. “Mr
Russell!” she greeted me. It’s never a good sign, I find, that your captors know your name without a need for introductions. “Our Senior Partner will be so pleased you made the time to fit in a short meeting with him. He’s flown halfway across the galaxy especially to meet you.”
“How much is this going to cost me?” I asked.
The receptionist just laughed and led me down a side passage from the reception room towards a door. There was a nameplate reading: ‘Mister Lyre, Senior Partner’ fixed to the middle of the door. She knocked once, opened the door, and gave me a beaming smile, revealing some very expensive teeth. I peered into the office, which was not as large as I had expected. There was a bookcase, full of legal-looking works with esoteric and meaningless titles. There was a very expensive desk. The lack of papers on it suggested that it belonged to someone who either did no work or could afford to pay others to do it for him. There was a cheapish visitor’s chair, to which the receptionist guided me before she left. There was the back of an expensive executive chair, presumably containing Mister Lyre as I could just see the top of a head over the upholstered back of the chair. It slowly revolved. “Good to see you again, Frank.”
“Hello Rosto, I might have known.”
Chapter Eight
The door opened again, and Rennie walked in. He grabbed a spare visitor’s chair from behind the door, and sat down almost beside me. Colonel Rosto, head of The Free Union’s covert operations, beamed at me. I scowled back.
“Frank, I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“No. I’ve already saved your life recently, isn’t that enough?”
“Want your job back? You can even keep your new rank of colonel, if you want. I’m easy either way about that. Salary, pension, seniority restored, the lot. Job security, no more freelancing. And you get to keep the money you haven’t sent back to Rennie yet, too.”
Anything that seems too good to be true probably is, especially when it’s being offered to you by a spy, and doubly so when the spy seems to be operating as a lawyer. “No wonder you call yourself Lyre, here.”
Rosto chuckled. “Good joke, isn’t it? And it annoys what passes for authority here, so that’s funny too. But it’s still me, and I’m still doing my job, just under cover here.”
“So that’s why Rennie wanted to come here, then. To report to you and get himself his lift home from his boss.”
“Well yes, but I wanted you and my Speedbird here too.”
“My Speedbird, if you don’t mind. You gave it to me, remember?”
“Did I? Never saw any paperwork to prove that, Frank. But let’s put that to one side for a moment. I wanted you and the Speedbird here, at this time, for a reason.”
I glared at him. “Chose these cover names well, didn’t you, Rosto?”
He ignored that. “Frank, I know you’ve met Will Portals.”
“So? I’ve barely exchanged two words with him.”
“Will Portals has developed a new communications device in one of his laboratories, that will revolutionise the galaxy. It will link computers and comms systems in real time across the distances we presently need a hyperdrive to cross. Instantaneous interstellar communication and data transmission.”
“Does it actually work?” I was impressed. Really impressed.
“Oh yes, and our friend Colonel Starker is desperate to get hold of it.”
I bet he was. With that, Starker could accurately co-ordinate a military covert operation across the vast expanse of space and time, and the Imperium would gain a huge advantage. Possibly a decisive advantage that would make an all-out war against The Free Union an attractive idea.
“Will Portals does not want the Imperium to get their hands on this. The plans, specifications and a demonstration model are on offer to us.”
“What’s the price?” There is always a price, and too frequently it gets paid by people like me, rather than the Will Portals of this universe.
“He has to get out of the Imperium. When it is known that The Free Union have this capability, the Imperium will know that it had to come from Portals himself, and take revenge. So he wants out.”
“Just him and his family?”
Rosto laughed. “Your cynicism is one of the reasons I like you, Frank. Of course he wants his money out as well, but he is perfectly capable of organising that himself. And of course, we will be paying him a small fortune for this technology, to add to his current very large fortune.”
“So, what insanely dangerous mission have you got for me, then? Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You are offering me more than my old job back. The risk must be huge. Am I supposed to fly deep into the Imperium and get his family out?”
“No, Frank. I’d not ask you to do that. Not least because your Speedbird would never make it back in one piece, and without Portals the deal is off. Someone else does that. I want you to fly openly into the Imperium; land at Portals’ development plant; collect the plans and the demo unit; and then fly openly back into Free Union territory with the prize. And collect your reward. Piece of cake, really.”
“Then why don’t you do it? Or Rennie here, if it’s so easy?”
“Frank, you are awkward; insubordinate, individualistic, and very poor at taking orders.”
“I knew there was something about me that I liked.”
“But you are one of the best scout pilots in the whole galaxy.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. And probably get me killed if I’m not careful.”
“Plus, you have what is now an undeniably vintage space ship.”
“I prefer pre-loved.”
“Frank, Speedbird 666 is an antique now. Which is why you can pull this off. It will not have escaped your notice that there is a rally of lunatics who enjoy flying out of date space craft round the galaxy on this spaceport right now. Portals is planning to take them to his base as the next stop over. You can legitimately cross the borders, hiding amongst the other idiots, then make a break for it and return home to a hero’s welcome. And a hero’s reward.”
“The Speedbird’s in maintenance at the moment,” I said, to gain a bit of thinking time.
“Portals has arranged for it to be fixed and spruced up a bit. So that it will fit in with the others.”
“What do you mean, fit in? And how do you know?”
“Frank, it’s a bit battered, isn’t you? You haven’t exactly looked after it for me, considering that it’s close to being a museum piece against the nice newer Viper Class scouts we are operating now, and the fully modern Type 45 ships that will come online shortly. It needs to be made to look as though it is a vintage ship being taken round and shown off.”
I just growled.
“And Portals and I have been negotiating for a month or two. Your name came up as a resource a while back.”
I might have known. Typical tricky Rosto deal, playing all sides off and coming out ahead. But on one thing he was right. The Speedbird was outdated, and the truth was that I was only getting out of sticky situations by sheer luck now. Sometime soon my luck would run out. Perhaps I should take his offer. I nodded my agreement. “Okay, done. Do I get the offer in writing?”
“Of course not. Far too incriminating for you. You’ll have to trust my word.”
“Your word?”
“Frank! When have I ever lied to you?”
*
Two hours later, I strolled up the walkway towards the Mayflower space yacht. Yacht. It was easily the largest privately owned vessel I had ever seen, easily dwarfing a StarDestroyer and probably giving even a battlecruiser pause for thought. Three security staff, all wearing very expensive suits and carrying very expensive side arms gave me identical professionally neutral stares.
“Um, I have an invitation from Will. Mr Portals. Not on me, of course, he invited me himself. In the bar.”
“You are expected, Mr Russell.” I was being recognised by far too many people for comfort. Perhaps I should consider a career change after all. “Drinks are being
served in the main lounge: perhaps you would care to join Mr Portals there?”
“Thank you.”
“For your comfort and convenience, you will leave any personal weapons here.”
“What?”
One of the men moved slightly to one side. I automatically assumed that it was to improve his field of fire, but in fact it was just to show the small, labelled stack of weapons held in racks just inside the airlock. I handed over my weapon: it was labelled, placed in a rack and I was given a receipt. All terribly upmarket.
“The main lounge, you said?” I asked. I’d never even seen a Mayflower before, let alone been on one. It dwarfed my Speedbird and was much larger than the StarDestroyer I had once captained.
“Along the corridor there, sir, and the stewards will direct you.”
I wandered along the corridor as instructed, admiring the genuine oak panelling and occasional pieces of artwork. A steward, carefully positioned beside one door, motioned me along the corridor to another door where an identical steward in a white uniform, waited. “Mr Portals has asked you to wait in here for him, sir. There are drinks available, if you need anything, just ask me.” He opened a door. This was not the main lounge of the yacht, but a smaller room, perhaps a study or reading room. A rich man’s room of course. It might be on an interstellar spacecraft but the room still appeared to be wood panelled, with a fake stone fireplace, an antique French writing desk and crucially – a table with several decanters and a set of glasses. I helped myself to a liberal libation of the contents of the nearest decanter and pondered the incongruity of such a room on a space yacht. Of course, it wasn’t really incongruous at all. Portals was a very rich man and such people find comfort in the antique trappings of power.
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