Raven Revenge: Ariel Hope Chronicles 4

by G. P. Moss

  Raven Revenge

  Ariel Hope Chronicles 4

  G.P. MOSS

  Raven Revenge

  Ariel Hope Chronicles 4

  by

  G.P. MOSS

  Copyright 2017 G.P. Moss. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  End Note

  Chapter One

  Planet Bump Minor

  Percy Bump, toe rag in residence, junior Council member and all round bad egg, stiffens as his father, Ronald, approaches Mr Whistler’s newly refurbished spaceship.

  Mr Whistler, tyrant extraordinaire, feigns indifference as his massive moustache curls further at either end in anxious rebellion.

  “Is everything all right, father?”

  Percy controls his voice, managing a warbled choke instead of the fear-laden squeak that would give the game away.

  Ronald, Council elder and reluctant runt creator, eyes his offspring with the distrust usually reserved for a window cleaner arriving without a bucket.

  Or a cloth.

  “We shall see, young man; we shall see.”

  Ronald stares hard into Percy’s eyes, looking for signs of roguishness.

  “I did as you asked father, only installing defence-grade weapons chips; nothing at all that could even remotely be used for aggressive, tyrannical behaviour.”

  Mr Whistler’s huge moustache-ends climb higher, threatening to poke his roving, piggy eyes out.

  He clenches his butt cheeks, knowing a proper technical inspection will expose tyrannical toe raggedness and underhand dodgy dealing all over the place.

  Ronald steps aboard the magnificent Raven Blue Class 1, the finest spaceship ever built, this end of the Universe.

  Back straight, tall in his tailored recycled dark blue spacesuit, he heads straight for the weapons control panel.

  Selecting a sleek pointy tool from his belt, he removes the panel in 10 swift movements.

  Mr Whistler quickly licks up the sweat dripping from his luxurious top lip.

  Percy hovers by his father’s side, seeing in his mind’s eye, his beloved brand new Explorer Deluxe being taken from him.

  Only if.

  A single bead of nervous sweat hangs over an eyebrow as Ronald ums and well, ums, as he inspects the new components.

  “You see, father, just as you instructed. No dodginess at all going on here. No, sir, nothing to see here at all. A snack, perhaps now, father, seeing as you’ve completed a thorough inspection and all that?”

  Ronald is surprised but relieved.

  It does not, however, explain Percy’s ability to purchase, in cash, a spanking new spaceship after a standard refurbishment.

  “Rather a grand purchase for 1 job, isn’t it, Percy?”

  His son visibly relaxes now Ronald is finally off the ship.

  Mr Whistler slides to the rescue.

  “A grateful tip for doing such splendid work, Ronald. True and proper craftmanship, the young toe...um, man has displayed. Yes indeed, I shall recommend his services to any crim...um, responsible persons looking for splendid work!”

  Ronald looks sceptical but cannot find anything amiss.

  *

  Mr Whistler grabs Percy’s arm, twisting the grinning toe rag to face him.

  Okay, to look up at him.

  “How in space did you get away with that? Those weapons chips are larger than standard defence issue!”

  “Hahaha! It was easy, sir; I taped over the ends, making them look smaller. My elderly father’s eyesight is not as good as it once was!”

  The scheming little bleeder, taking joy from his father’s optical demise.

  “Well, Percy, you have done well!”

  He taps the side of his nose.

  “If you want more of those extremely valuable Sparkling Minerals, be sure I am the 1st to know of any secret information I will find useful for engaging in my tyrannical plans!”

  Percy beams with pride. How he wishes this manky space tyrant was his father, instead of the perfectly likeable, extremely reasonable and all round general good egg that is his own parent.

  “Of course, my lord. I am your humble, greedy little servant, forever at your service.”

  He gives a long, deep bow to emphasise his loyalty.

  Mr Whistler looks down at the back of Percy’s head.

  He has never been called lord before.

  He likes it.

  Very much.

  As Percy bends out of his extended bow, Mr Whistler, now Lord Whistler, by default of Percy’s cringing subservience, lectures his toe rag on the definition of ‘secret information.’

  “Any new news regarding the whereabouts of any Earthlings, especially StarTapped Beta Command, more specifically any of that annoying Hope family, will attract hugely high extra payments; astronomical, if you like.”

  Percy’s eyes jig the dance of a thousand colliders.

  There is, however, a warning attached.

  “Any fake news will result in your extinction. And that of your planet.”

  Percy does not care a jottery jot.

  “Sounds fair enough to me, lord.”

  “Good, so on that pleasant note, I shall bid you farewell for now. I shall be cruising around this end of Minstrels, over that way, there, yes there, where my finger’s pointing, thinking up tyrannical plans and dastardly deeds until my older brother tells me it is time to reclaim my glorious planet!”

  Another long bow.

  “May the cosmic winds fill your sails, my lord.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s just a nice, positive saying, my lord, intended to wish you stealth.”

  “Oh, right. As you were, as you were.”

  *

  The Raven takes off with the smoothest whirr the galaxy has ever heard, its black-blue paintwork shimmering in sunlight as the icy storm takes a breather.

  Percy looks at the rising spaceship in admiration, bordering on fanaticism as he makes a vow to honour Mr Whistler in a way he never has with his own, perfectly reasonable father.

  Fickle should have been his middle name.

  Chapter Two

  Minstrels galaxy (Off Minstrels Gate)

  As the Space Dogs Tricycle Gang, along with the failed Whistler fighter pilots, head off quicker than a double-glazing salesman with a customer’s bank details, Pedro shudders, remembering the humiliating defeat in battle by Ariel Hope and her Earthling gang. If that wasn’t bad enough, one of his own colleagues, Poppy, played a pivotal role, following her dastardly defection.

  Even that, though, is not the real reason for Pedro’s distress.

  Passing through the battle zone, he finally understands, his initial hatred of Poppy was not that she was on the winning side, no, but that she’s a better being than him, better in fact than all of them.

  When she had the chance to finish them off, she didn’t, choosing instead to allow them to limp home to safety. It’s not her fault they did not make
it back to Whistler.

  Looking at the bigger picture, Pedro slides to the conclusion that Poppy had rightfully had enough of the tyranny back home, of the bullying, the slavery, the quest for riches and power epitomised by Mr Whistler himself.

  StarTapped though?

  What to do about StarTapped if he ever comes across them?

  Staring hard at the bulk of Beta Zero, piloted by the craziest, unhinged AI he’s ever had the misfortune to meet, he knows his focus must change completely.

  The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang must not be allowed to spread further terror!

  Checking the interconnecting intercom is switched off, he shouts through to Damien through their ships’ own communicator.

  “Damien, we need a chat!”

  Damien jumps in his already tight seat, jarring his thighs.

  “Why are you shouting?”

  “Sorry; I have an exciting proposition!”

  Damien, still not fully trusting his ex-colleague following the revelation Mr Whistler sent Pedro to assassinate him, views the statement with thinly veiled suspicion.

  “And...go...on...then.”

  “No need to sound so suspicious, Damien; we are from the same planet, remember?”

  “The only thing I remember is waking up in a potato field, finding that tyrannical whistling tyrant had sent you to murder me in cold blood! Cold blooded murder, that’s what you’re about, Pedro!”

  “Now, now, calm yourself. That was ages ago, before I questioned following orders from a despicable leader!”

  “A tall, likely story, taller than the orange mountains of planet Ridicule!”

  “There are no orange mountains of Ridicule; that’s the point, it’s a ridiculous jokey story made up to trick apprentices into making fools of themselves!”

  “But I promised Poppy, when we were dating, that I would take her one day!”

  “Probably why she dumped you haha. Orange mountains of Ridicule hahaha!”

  Damien’s fed up with this loser’s nonsense.

  “Did you actually want me for something, or what?!”

  “We should plan an attack on Beta Zero; get rid of the Space Dogs Tricycle Gang. Those straggled old goats do not deserve to wander this glorious Universe, spreading their uncleanliness, uncouth ways and general slovenly, violent behaviour!”

  “To be fair, they’re not that old.”

  “Well, they look it! Are you with me or not?!”

  “Of course I am, reluctant though I may say to be in cahoots with my would be murderer!”

  “Good, I shall take that as a yes.”

  “Only one problem, though.”

  Pedro has had enough of this negativity.

  “What problem?”

  “Captain DuPont and his French-Welsh Alliance disabled our weapons systems.”

  This minor setback will not remove Pedro’s new dream.

  “Okay, when we get the chance to get the fighter ships armed, we will attack. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Pedro switches the intercom back on, feeling life is worth living once again.

  *

  Patricia, psychopathic AI of Beta Zero, cannot hear the clandestine conversation but she knows the interconnecting intercom had been switched off.

  She’s as furious as a cramped-up camper witnessing the last square of toilet paper used to make a rubbish aeroplane that flies 2 feet before crashing nose down into a freshly dropped, giant smelly cow turd.

  “You 2 reprobates! I know your vile, disgusting trickety tricks, telling each other secret stuff! I demand the knowledge be shared with me!”

  Damien chirps in first.

  “Probably just an accident, Patricia; we have not spoken to each other in ages!”

  “A likely story, I am sure; NOT!”

  Damien’s not as daft as some may think.

  “It is true! I hate the murdering creature more than anyone else alive!”

  “Okay, I believe you, just this once!”

  “Apologies, Pedro.”

  “You have no need to apologise to that murdering wastrel, Damien; I am on your side over this! Hang on, I am turning it off this time; I want a secret word or 2 with you. Can you hear me, Pedro?”

  No answer.

  “Good, we are talking privately now. Listen to me Damien. Once we rearm our ships, we shall get rid of Pedro for good! Are you in with me?”

  “Um, yes, Patricia, that sounds fine.”

  “Good, now you can have just a minute private chat with each other; lull him into a false sense of security and comradeship, like it’s you and him against the world and all that nonsense.”

  She flicks the intercom off, feeling great she’s dividing and conquering.

  Whoever designed Patricia must be a proper psycho.

  “Pedro, come in, it’s Damien.”

  “Reading clear; what did she want you for?”

  “She wants you murdered.”

  “I hope you told her no!”

  “No, well, actually, I said yes, that will be fine.”

  “Oh, great, thanks a lot!”

  “Of course I won’t; do you think I’d tell you if I was really going to go through with it?”

  “No, I suppose not. Okay, so now we know what she thinks I don’t know.”

  “Okay, I’m signing off; just pretend everything’s fine!”

  Patricia checks.

  “Everything okay between the 2 of you splendid Whistler fighter pilots?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they both sing, knowing their invisible winks to one another are a symbol of new bonding.

  Completing his wink, Damien shouts a warning across the space waves.

  “We need to move, quick; with all that team building, we have managed to slip into a freighter lane!”

  As soon as his last word is out, a barrage of rocks, huge sandy clumps, and balls of ice smash into the 3 ships, blasting them further into danger.

  *

  A new, terrifying voice slams its way through to their cockpits.

  Barry Longface, after coming out of a hair-raising bout of stupid speed, finds 3 alien craft in his way.

  He is tired and just wants to get home.

  “Clear off before I turn you all into space dust with my superior array of weaponry!”

  Patricia’s having none of it even though she has no working weapons system.

  “We stumbled into your freighter lane by accident due to the vicious storms you can no doubt see all around you. Please let us pass!”

  “Did you not hear me? I said I have a superior array of devilish weaponry!”

  “Devilish is an Earth concept; you have no use for it!”

  “Ah, a smarty pants, eh? I picked up lots of words on my vast and glorious travels and I shall use them willy nilly!”

  Patricia pretends her weapons actually work.

  “We also have a splendid arsenal of laser weaponry, including cannons!”

  Pedro shoves an urgent message to Beta Zero.

  “Sorry to tell you, Patricia, but another freighter just turned up, identical to your current aggressor!”

  *

  Barry Longface calls through to his pirate haulage colleague, Larry Longface.

  “Train your lasers on all their ships, Larry!”

  The usual violence and mayhem-loving Larry hesitates.

  “But we don’t know who’s on board; there could be monsters!”

  Barry doesn’t recognise his ultra-manky warrior-in-arms.

  “You are a celebrated hero in battle! Okay, not in battle but you are a hero in blasting innocent spaceships out of freighter lanes! What has changed?!”

  “I...er...was attacked, a few Minstrels days ago.”

  “Who did it? We shall hunt them down and make them pay for their folly!”

  “It...er...I mean, they...er, were a pack of 15 wolves, hiding in a cruiser very much like this one. I fought them off bravely, dispatching 8 before Space Marines attacked me. I had no option but to flee, to save the precio
us cargo!”

  “You never mentioned it, in the bar pub. That story would have gone down a treat!”

  “I don’t like to brag.”

  “Okay, forget about then, this is now. Train your lasers!”

  Larry fake hollers, hiding his deep, troubled sigh.

  “All weapons are locked on!”

  *

  Patricia waits impatiently for Billy Duke and the rest of his gang to return from the toilets.

  They stagger back, backs slightly bent.

  “Come on, you shower of space poop; battle stations, NOW!”

  The Duke raises a valid concern.

  “What’s the point Patricia, when none of our weapons work?!”

  “They do not have to be made aware of that, do they? They may be able to see into our ship! If you lot are twiddling your thumbs and looking thoroughly miserable because you are in a tight spot, the aliens will know! Pull yourselves together!”

  The gang sit at their designated weapons stations.

  Barry’s terrifying voice slams through the ships.

  “We have you all surrounded! To stop us from turning you into space dust, we demand a valuable payment!”

  Patricia vehemently denies they have anything worth taking.

  “We are but poor and weary travellers, searching for a quiet spot to lay our poor and weary heads. Please let us go!”

  Barry’s not daft.

  “A little while ago, you basically said you are armed to the teeth; amazes me why you respond in such meek and mild tones if you indeed are endowed with such splendid armaments as cannons!”

  “Well, we are and that is that; I was only trying to be diplomatic and polite!”

  Pedro has heard enough of this.

  He thinks his link with Patricia is secure.

  Alas.

  “Patricia, for goodness sake, I have heard of these space freighter pirates and the tales do not often end well for others than themselves. Offer them the tricycle trikes and let us get out of here!”

  The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang are in uproar, screaming and crying like a bunch of 9 babies needing their nappies changing.

  Billy Duke screams the loudest.

  “Shoot that Pedro now!”

  “We cannot do that, Billy; our weapons do not work, remember?”

  “I have my mini ray gun!”

  Before Pedro has a chance to say the ray gun is actually his and it was stolen by the manky not so old but looks older than he is duffer called Billy Duke, Barry’s unwelcome voice crashes through the cockpits like an extremely huge wild pig on a cheap trampoline.