Star Raider

by Jake Elwood

  The corridor opened onto a vast underground garage. Vehicles of every description, some of them incomprehensibly strange, were scattered across the floor. She found a glittering hovercar, a fantastically expensive sports model, and plunked the cube down beside the driver's door. She pressed her hand against the usual panel.

  Nothing happened. It was bio-locked, of course. "Roger," she said.

  "Forget it," the AI said promptly. "There are ground cars I could get you into. If I was physically present, which I'm not. The Amareth 3000 is not one of them. Choose something else."

  Stifling a curse, she left the cube where it lay and stepped around the hover car. This was not so much a garage as a collection. There were antique vehicles, some with internal-combustion engines. There were aircraft. Some of it was ancient. Some were one-of-a-kind custom vehicles. Every single thing in the garage was fantastically expensive.

  "I need something old," she said aloud. "Something from before they had bio-locks." She passed a sleek jet car, not without a pang of regret, examined a mini-helicopter, and stopped in front of a bizarre contraption. It had wings, two on each side, and a tiny fuselage with an opening in the top. There was a seat inside the opening, she saw. A weapon of some sort was mounted in front. The engine was in the nose, and a large fan of some sort decorated the very front. She stared at the machine, baffled.

  "That looks like a Sopwith Camel," Roger said.

  "Camels are animals, aren't they?"

  "Not this one," Roger assured her. "This one's a primitive aircraft."

  "Sounds perfect," she said.

  "You don't know how to fly it."

  She waved a dismissive hand. "It's ancient. I can fly skimmers and flitters and starships. How difficult can some old relic be?"

  Roger didn't answer.

  "Shut up," she told him. "How do I get it started?"

  He had her circle the machine, then climb onto one wing and peer into the cockpit. "It's a replica," he said at last. "It should be much easier to start than the original."

  "Great." She turned and trotted back to the cube. She hefted it, clambered onto the Camel, and felt a fresh trickle of blood down her back as she heaved the artifact onto the top wing. She climbed into the cockpit and set the cube in her lap.

  "There's an ignition key," Roger said. "It's not very historically accurate."

  "Never mind that." She examined the control panel in front of her and eventually located the key. "What now?"

  "Turn it."

  "Which way?"

  "I have no idea."

  Great. She twisted the key to the left. Nothing happened. She twisted to the right, the engine gave a loud cough, and she hastily released the key. The engine coughed a few more times, then went silent.

  "Twist and hold," Roger suggested.

  She twisted the key, flinching at the noise from the engine, and held the key until the engine settled into a steady roar. Roger seemed to be speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear a thing over the bellow of the machine. Internal-combustion engines were ridiculous!

  She released the key. The pitch of the engine dropped for a moment, then recovered. The fan on the front, she saw, was spinning so fast she couldn't see the blades.

  The whole craft trembled. She scanned the control panel, wondering what to do next, and finally pressed her hands to her ears, drowning out most of the noise. "Roger!" she shouted. "What do I do now?"

  "I can hear you," he said. His voice was loud enough to hurt her ears, but she still had trouble understanding him. "You should be moving."

  She worked the cube past her knees and into the bottom of the cockpit, then stood in her seat and leaned out, peering down at the wheels underneath. There were blocks of some sort around the wheels, triangular structures that quivered as the machine strained against them. "I think I see the problem," she told Roger, and climbed down.

  At the last second she realized the Camel would start moving as soon as she pulled the blocks away. She put a hand on the wing, took a deep breath, curled her fingers around the block in front, and yanked on it.

  The block moved, the Camel started to roll, she sprang up, and the wing hit her hip. She used the momentum to help her scramble up, onto the wing, and into the cockpit.

  The wings on the left banged into a racing skimmer, scraping the paint and likely doing thousands of creds' worth of damage. There was only one likely-looking control in the cockpit, a vertical stick. She grabbed it, dragged it to the right, and the Camel slowly changed direction.

  "The fan at the front makes it go," Cassie said. "That's bizarre." She hauled the stick left and right, steering around other vehicles. There was an open path in the middle of the garage. A faint glow to one side hinted at daylight, and she turned the Camel that way.

  She was picking up speed nicely when the ends of the wings on the right caught against a tall ground vehicle with half a dozen wheels on each side set in a flexible metal tread. The wingtips crumpled, the Camel swerved, and she hauled the stick to the left to straighten out. A key support seemed to have broken on the top wing. It drooped now until the splintered end of the top wing rested on the wing below.

  "Damn it." She tried pulling back on the stick. It seemed to have no effect. She pushed forward, with the same result. Finally she settled back and watched vehicles pass on either side.

  The Camel slowed considerably when she reached a ramp that sloped upward. She rose toward a flat steel door with small windows set in it, wondering if she was trapped, then sighed in relief as the door slid aside. Sunlight flooded in, making her squint. She felt the Camel level out beneath her, and her speed quickly increased.

  She peered around as her eyes adjusted. The door was sliding shut behind her. It was set into the wall of the mansion, the outside painted to match the faux-stone exterior.

  The bulk of the house was between her and the skimmers. There was no sign of Vendredi and Samedi, no way to tell if they were alive. She could have called them on her com, but for the moment she didn't want the distraction.

  A turret sprouted from the lawn a dozen meters ahead of her. It seemed to recognize the Camel, because the barrels didn't swing around to track her. She could see other turrets scattered around the house, none of them firing, none of them reacting to her.

  The Camel reached the edge of the lawn and rolled into the wild grassland. The engine was a furious roar, and she caught occasional whiffs of exhaust smoke. It seemed like a primitive, filthy machine, but it was getting her away from the house, so she wasn't going to complain. She scanned the sky, looking for incoming police skimmers.

  So far, nothing.

  Faster and faster she raced through the grass. When she was a hundred meters or so from the grounds she said, "Roger! How do I take off?"

  "I think it happens on its own," Roger said. "Forward velocity creates lift. It might not be possible with your damaged wing, though."

  Well, she would use the Camel as a glorified ground car, then. She touched her ear. "Vendredi? Samedi? Are you out there?"

  For a long, bad moment there was silence. Then a voice spoke, a woman, her voice tight with stress or pain. "We’re alive. It was a near thing, but we made it to a skimmer. We even took off. Must have made it half a kilometer before the turrets shot us down."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Not so much. Sam's hurt. She's half unconscious. We're still in the skimmer. It doesn’t really fly. There's just enough lift that we can skid across the ground." She laughed, mirthlessly. "This thing makes a lousy hover car. Lars is coming down to pick us up. We won't be as far from the house as you wanted, Clara. Let's hope the cops take their time responding."

  Cassie thought about the lethal defenses in the house. There was a chance the police weren't coming at all. It might be private security that responded. That would take longer, but the thieves would be in a lot more trouble if they were caught.

  "How are you guys?" Vendredi asked.

  "Lagan tried to shoot me," Cassie said. "I left him behind
. He'd either dead or caught. I'm in a… ground car, of sorts."

  "We'll get you as soon as Lars picks us up," Vendredi said. "If you can swing north-west, that would help."

  "Right," said Cassie. "Call me when you're on board."

  As soon as the connection broke, Roger spoke in her ear. "I could pick you up. There is some risk of being tracked by the police, though. I recommend you leave with Lars if possible."

  "I agree." She leaned back against the hard wooden seat. There was no comfortable place to rest her wounded shoulder. "At least it's almost over. I don't think I could take much more."

  As if in response, the engine of the Camel changed pitch. She leaned forward, peering past the little windshield. The fan still seemed to be spinning as fast as ever. Their speed wasn't changing. But the engine was definitely getting louder. There was another sound mixed in. It was almost like grass whipping against metal.

  She spun in her seat, crying out as pain lashed her shoulder. There was another vehicle coming up from behind, a low-slung ground vehicle with four wheels and a body that gleamed with chrome. A galloping horse decorated the front grill. Through the windshield she could see Lagan, one side of his face livid with burns, hunched over a steering wheel.

  "Oh, crap."

  "That's a pre-space-era Ford Mustang," Roger announced. "It was parked behind the Huey in the garage."

  "Can mustangs run faster than camels?" Cassie asked. The question was purely rhetorical. The car was gaining quickly. Her eyes went to the gun mounted on the fuselage in front of her. She squeezed the trigger, and scowled when nothing happened. She tugged at the weapon, and managed to pull it completely loose from its mounting. She cradled it in the top of the cockpit and looked it over. It was a primitive slug-thrower. The circular drum on the top was some sort of magazine.

  It was empty. The gun was useless.

  The car pulled up beside her. Lagan stared at her through his side window, a scowl twisting the uninjured right side of his face. The burned left side didn't move. Then his arm rose, a zap gun in his fist. Cassie scrunched down in the cockpit, and a spark lashed out. For an instant the dash glowed in front of her. The glow faded quickly, and the engine continued to run. But a direct shot to the pilot would still finish her.

  The plane shook with impact. She looked over, and saw the ends of the wings disintegrating as he edged the car toward her. She nudged the stick, edging away, but the car was much more maneuverable. Closer and closer he came, and the wings splintered and crumbled. In a matter of moments he would reach the fuselage. Then he would crush the side of the Camel's body and the chase would be over.

  She glanced down. She couldn’t even see the pistol on her hip. The cockpit was a tight fit. It would take her a solid thirty seconds to get the weapon out, and she didn't have thirty seconds. Besides, the useless slug-thrower was in the way. The weapon wouldn’t fire, but it was solidly made, a big piece of steel with real heft to it.

  Cassie looked down at the car. Lagan swerved closer, shattering the remaining stubs of the wings. The car was almost close enough to touch. She chose her moment and lifted the gun in both arms. Agony ripped through her shoulder, she screamed in pain and rage, and she heaved the gun at his head.

  She missed. Lagan braked at the last instant, and the heavy steel gun slammed into the windshield, shattering it. The car lost control, swerving sideways and flipping over. The car hit the tail of the Camel, and she felt the cockpit lurch sideways. The Camel skidded, the nose tilted forward, dirt sprayed upward in a fountain, and a strange silence fell as the engine stalled. For an endless moment the Camel stood on its nose, and Cassie tried to squirm deeper into the cockpit. If the Camel landed upside-down she'd be crushed.

  The fuselage moved slowly beneath her, she held her breath, and then the Camel flopped back, landing on its broken undercarriage. Silence reigned. Her ears ringing with the memory of the engine's roar, Cassie put a hand on either side of the cockpit and heaved herself up. She climbed out of the wreckage, lowered herself to the ground, and drew her pistol.

  Lagan lay on the ground beside the wrecked car. Most of him did, anyway. His legs were pinned under the wreckage. She stood over him, staring at the back of his head, the gun steady in her hand.

  He didn't move.

  She holstered the gun and headed back to the plane to recover the cube.

  Episode Six

  Elander Nine

  CHAPTER 19

  The starship was small, cramped, and grubby. The previous owners hadn't tried too hard to clean it up as they left, and Cassie hadn't been in any position to be picky. The Goose wasn't comfortable, but it was cheap and fast and difficult to see. All three traits were important to Cassie at that point in her life.

  She sat in a high orbit above Elander Nine, waiting as Roger analyzed traffic patterns. It might not matter, but he might learn something, and the one thing she had plenty of was time. The temptation to brood over how much trouble she was in was strong. She fought it by reading up on Professor Montgomery Sykes, the scholar she had travelled across a quarter of the galaxy to see.

  "Monty Sykes," she said aloud. "Eighty-seven years old. Living alone in semi-retirement in the community of Swan Bay on Elander Nine. The galaxy's leading expert on everything to do with the Ancients. Currently with no idea that we're coming to see him, so he can't possibly call anyone or set any traps."

  "I hope you're right," Roger said. "You can't afford to lose too many more ships."

  "AIs don't hope," Cassie grumbled. "They just calculate, and nag." The truth was, he was right. Her resources were stretched pretty thin. The Armstrong-Noguchi coalition had frozen most of her various accounts, and she'd been spending profligately since it had all begun.

  She lowered her voice. "Is the demon child awake?"

  "Lark is listening to music in her cabin," Roger said primly. "I hardly think that 'demon child' is an appropriate appellation."

  "That's easy for you to say," Cassie muttered. Lark, who had been cheerful and helpful almost since their abrupt departure from her apartment, had gone through a strange, ugly transformation. She was surly and rebellious and thoroughly unpleasant, and she'd waited until she and Cassie were cooped up on a tiny ship to let this new side of her personality show.

  "You're much larger than she is," Roger said. "I'm confident you will remain safe."

  "Are you trying to be funny, Roger?" Cassie glared at the console in front of her. "I have to say you're quite bad at it."

  "I can commiserate with you," Roger said. "It is difficult, being around a difficult and prickly young woman."

  "Smartass." She lapsed into silence. "Do you think I should take her with me? The trip should be safe enough. No one knows we're here, after all. We're just talking to one stuffy old academic."

  "Well…" said Roger.

  "No," she interrupted. "I need to get him to talk to me. Having a surly eight-year-old along won't help."

  "She's nine."

  "Whatever. No, I'll leave her here with you. She'll probably prefer that. She sure doesn't want to be around me right now."

  "On the contrary," said Roger. "You are the whole point of her behavior."

  "Huh?" She stared at the console. "I'm what, now?"

  "It's a common pattern among survivors of abuse. She's beginning to trust you. She wants to feel safe. So she's testing you. Pushing you, to see if you'll mistreat her. Making your life difficult, to see if you'll abandon her or return her to her father."

  Cassie stared, nonplussed. "But that makes no sense! She thinks I might hit her, so she pushes my buttons and tries to get me to hit her? Or dump her somewhere? Because it's not what she wants?"

  "Statistical analysis shows—"

  "Stow it, Roger. Maybe you better leave the insights into human behavior to the humans." She straightened in her seat and peered out at the disk of the planet, shining ahead and below. "How's your traffic analysis going?"

  "I see no anomalies so far," Roger said.

  "All righ
t. Let's get on with it, then." She combed through her memory. "Elander Nine has, let me see, a twenty-hour rotation?"

  "Twenty hours, fourteen minutes, sev—"

  "Twenty hours," she interrupted firmly. "What's local time at the good professor's house?"

  "Fourteen hours by the local clock," Roger said. "Mid-afternoon."

  "As good a time as any. Let's go."

  "Shall I inform Lark?"

  "Only if she asks. I doubt she cares." That thought rankled more than she would have expected. Lark was a burden, wasn't she? An unwanted responsibility, not someone Cassie actually cared about.

  Right?

  She decided to let Roger land the ship. The approach wasn't dangerous, just irritating. Even staying in a stable orbit had required constant corrections. The planet was a pilot's nightmare.

  The Elander system was dominated by twin stars, yellow giants that orbited each other at close range and high speed. The complex gravity fields generated by these two stars gave every rock in the system an orbit eccentric and unpredictable enough to drive a planetologist mad. It was a system of erratic seasons and fluctuating climates, and it should have been enough to make Elander a neglected backwater.

  However, the system had been discovered early in humanity's conquest of the galaxy, and Elander had an unprecedented five planets in the so-called "Goldilocks" zone – close enough to the twin suns to be reasonably warm without overheating, with surface gravities between .75 and 1.15 gees.

  Some of mankind's first serious attempts at terraforming had taken place on the worlds of the Elander system. The system had plunged back into obscurity for hundreds of years after its discovery, but as the terraforming neared completion, people came flooding in.

  Now it was a placid, long-settled backwater, the kind of planet where everyone obeyed the law and no one carried guns. Cassie had only a tiny laser pistol hidden in her boot.

  Sprawling fields of cropland rolled past under the ship as they descended, perfect square shapes, each one a subtly different shade of green. There were towns, all of them circular and uniform, well-planned and orderly.