Battleship Raider

by Paul Tomlinson

  “I was thinking of leaving you behind,” I said.

  “Hah! You’d never get out of here without me.”

  “I’ve already been over the wall,” I said, “but I came back to rescue you. I’m your knight in shining armour.”

  “One day a real hero will come and rescue me from you. Someone’s coming.”

  “What?”

  The door handle rattled and I wished I’d relocked it behind me. I was going to be caught red-handed. If it was one of the regular guards, they’d know who I was and I’d be escorted back to my cell. In leg-irons. But if it was the night-watchman who came through the door I might go unrecognised. You can’t predict the night-watchman’s routine because sometimes he patrols the corridors and other times he can’t be bothered. I flipped on the lamp and dropped into the warden’s chair, putting my feet up on his desk and hoping for the best.

  It was Curly Benson, the night-watchman. He squinted at me.

  Quincy’s First Law is ‘Always have a Plan B.’ But you can’t plan for every eventuality. Sometimes you just have to improvise.

  “Where have you been?” I asked sternly, not giving Benson chance to open his mouth.

  “Doing my rounds,” he said. “Who...?”

  I jumped to my feet, pulling one of the fake IDs out of my jacket pocket. The little wallet contained an official-looking card with my picture on it and a shiny badge that said ‘Junior Detective.’ I flashed it quickly so that he couldn’t read any of it. “Inspector Joe Blondell, Prison Inspection Service,” I said. “I’m here to conduct a surprise evaluation.”

  “We... we didn’t know you were coming,” Benson said, running the palm of his hand over his bald skull.

  “That’s the ‘surprise’ part of a surprise inspection,” I said. “And I have to tell you that I have already discovered some serious lapses in security.”

  Like any long-serving prison employee, he took offence at this and frowned. “What lapses in security?” he asked.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” I said. “How did I get in, tell me that?”

  “Well, I... you must have...”

  “Did you let me in?”

  “No.”

  “No. And if I can get in here without you knowing, then it’s obvious that prisoners can get out the same way – isn’t it?”

  “Well, I... I suppose so.”

  “This will reflect very badly on you, Mr. Macready.”

  I saw him visibly relax as he realised my anger wasn’t really directed at him.

  “I’m not...” he said, but I cut him off.

  “Don’t bother trying to make excuses. As warden of this facility, it is your sworn duty...”

  “I’m not the warden!”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, sir. I’m the night-watchman.”

  “Then why am I wasting my time with you? Take me to the warden. Immediately!”

  “He’s not here, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Well, sir, it being after sundown, I’d say he’ll be having a drink – in O’Casey’s Saloon, sir.”

  “Take me to him. Right away.”

  “I can’t leave my post, sir. You know that. Regulations.”

  “Very good. I’m glad someone here knows what they’re doing. I shall make a note of this. What’s your name?” I activated the screen on my watch and poked at it like I was making a written note.

  “Benson, your honour, Barnabus Benson.”

  “Excellent work, Benson. Keep it up and there’ll be a commendation in it for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, I want you to take me to the side gate and point me in the direction of this O’Casey’s Saloon. I’m going to give Warden Macready a piece of my mind, you can be sure of that.”

  Eager to be rid of the prison inspector, Curly Benson led me to the small gate in the west wall. When he got there he made no move to unlock it.

  I pretended to examine the gate. “This appears secure enough. Are the locks well-maintained?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Locks and hinges are oiled regularly.”

  I peered more closely at the lock. “Do you have your key with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” He showed me the large ring on his belt. Men like him are usually proud of this symbol of their status. The more keys they have, the more important they feel.

  “You know which key opens the lock?” I asked.

  “Of course. This one.” He showed me the key but didn’t put it anywhere near the lock. I was starting to feel uneasy. Every minute I wasted here increased the risk of the guards discovering my absence.

  “Excellent!” I said. “And you’re certain the lock has been properly lubricated?”

  Benson cast a quick nervous glance towards the lock. “I don’t oil it myself, you understand...”

  “Of course,” I said, “much too lowly a job for a man of your position. Let’s check if it has been done properly, shall we? We’ll use your key since you have it to hand.”

  The night-watchman slid his key into the big old lock and crossed his fingers as he turned it. The mechanism opened without a sound and the relief was obvious on his face.

  “Very good.” I patted him on the shoulder. “This all looks very good for you, I must say. I think I shall put your name forward for a bonus.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’ll have to be approved by the department, but that’s just a formality.”

  “I’m very grateful to you, sir.”

  “It’s only right that good work is rewarded. I’m always glad to see men like you recognised,” I said. “Men like Warden Macready, unfortunately, are another matter.”

  “They are?”

  “It will be my sad duty to deal with him personally,” I said. “O’Casey’s Saloon, you said?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Benson, I should let you return to your duties. If I could just ask you to point the way to this saloon?”

  Benson pulled the gate open and stepped out into the dusty street. I followed him, feeling an immense weight lifted from my shoulders as I passed through the gate.

  “It’s that way, sir,” Benson said, pointing.

  “Close to the marketplace?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t.

  “Two streets to the east of that, sir.”

  “Thank you, Benson. I’ll leave you to lock up. Don’t want any of the prisoners wandering out, do we?”

  “No, sir, we don’t.” He turned back to the gate.

  “Oh, and Benson? You won’t call ahead and warn the warden I’m coming, will you?”

  “Thought never crossed my mind, sir.”

  “Good man.” I walked away as nonchalantly as I could, knowing he was watching me. Only when I heard the gate slam shut did I begin to run.

  I was tempted to head to O’Casey’s for a celebratory drink – and have the barman pour a drink for Warden Macready. But only a fool takes that sort of risk. I’d learned that from experience.

  The Trekker was sitting where I had parked it over a week ago. An all-terrain vehicle with big knobbly tyres was a bit over the top for the dirt streets in town, but once you got out into open countryside, this was the sort of vehicle you wanted. The layer of dust on it was thicker but other than that it was untouched. The lack of vandalism or theft was probably due to the large yellow clamp that had been affixed to the rear wheel and the police notice that said the vehicle had been seized as evidence in a criminal investigation. The police hadn’t yet impounded it and taken it apart because they needed authorisation from the judge. I’d bought the Trekker when I first arrived on this horrible little planet – it was another one of those things I didn’t want to be without.

  I found my stash of emergency cash in its hiding place behind the dashboard. Then I took out the tool roll, ready to tackle the wheel clamp.

  “You want me to take that off for you?” A voice behind me. I turned. The boy looked about seven year
s old.

  “I can do it quicker myself,” I said.

  “Want to bet?” The boy held up a key. He grinned.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Copied it,” he said. “My mom’s ex was a cop.”

  I liked this kid. “How much?” I asked.

  “Twenty.”

  “You’ll never get rich at that,” I said.

  “I’ll get another twenty when I report you for stealing it.”

  “How about I give you forty and you don’t tell anyone anything?”

  “Fifty,” he said.

  I shook his hand and the deal was done. He spent longer than he needed to unlocking it, wanting to make it seem worth fifty dollars. I handed over five tens. Alliance dollars. His face lit up, he’d been expecting local currency.

  “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said and gave me a cheeky salute. Then he disappeared into the shadows.

  I needed to move quickly. The kid was a born crook so there was still a good chance he’d turn me in for the extra twenty. I gave the car a quick once-over. Trixie’s sensors didn’t detect any tracking devices.

  I had to drive with the windows down to get rid of the smell coming from the week-old burrito wrappers on the back seat. I stayed off the main streets, parking the Trekker in the shadows when I went to make my purchases. Luckily I was buying equipment from the sort of people who are open for business after midnight. I only bought the bare minimum. I wasn’t exactly laden down with currency and I wanted to be well away from Maggotsville before the sun came up.

  I called up the satellite navigation program on the Trekker’s dashboard screen.

  “Trixie, plot me a route out of town to the north-west that will get us picked up on a couple of security cameras, but nothing too high resolution.” I wanted to be seen leaving town but I didn’t want automatic recognition programs picking up my vehicles registration markings and alerting the local cops. The nearest spaceport was north-west of Margotsville, so hopefully the authorities would waste lots of time checking for me there. “Then find us a wide circular route that will take us south – ideally over terrain where we won’t leave too many tracks.” The jungle lay south of us and that’s where Old Jack said I’d find his treasure.

  “Do you want me to highlight places of interest along the route?” Trixie asked. She was being sarcastic. Saphira doesn’t have places of interest.

  “No, but if you spot a place that buys second-hand computers, let me know.”

  It turned out that there wasn’t a treasure map as such. It was co-ordinates tattooed on a piece of skin. Human skin. Old Jack Sterling had removed the skin from his own forearm.

  “Took it off myself with a razor, before anyone in here decided to take my whole arm. I told folks I’d sold it but that was a lie. I kept it hid. Even when the guards strip-searched me, they never found it.”

  I hoped he’d rolled it up and stuffed it in his ear, but I wouldn’t bet money on the fact. It smelled bad when I unrolled it to read off the co-ordinates to Trixie. And it smelled worse when I burned it afterwards. I’d have liked to have taken a hot bath in disinfectant then, but there wasn’t time. It was entirely possible that Old Jack had memorised the co-ordinates and might be ‘persuaded,’ by application of pain or alcohol, to pass them on to Paulie Pickles. I needed to stay ahead of any competition. There was also the fact that I was an escaped prisoner, a fugitive with a bounty on my head. And then, of course, there was O’Keefe. I headed south in the Trekker and didn’t slow down until I saw jungle.

  “Hey, you’re famous,” Trixie said. “Again.”

  She flashed an image up on the dashboard screen. It was a wanted poster issued by the Saphira Central Policing Unit. I scrolled through the text.

  Officers are hunting an inmate who has escaped from Margotsville Prison. The prisoner, thirty-two-year-old Quincy A. Randall, fled after climbing over the prison wall. Officers have said that he is not considered dangerous and is still believed to be planetside.

  Randall is described as having black skin, brown eyes, and close-cropped black hair. He is five feet nine inches tall and of slim build. When last seen, he was wearing an old brown leather jacket, dark red shirt, jeans and boots. He was arrested last month on suspicion of theft and held pending an appearance before the judge.

  Anyone sighting the fugitive should contact Margotsville sheriff’s office. A reward of five thousand dollars is offered for information leading to his capture and ten thousand will be paid to anyone who apprehends Randall alive.

  Chapter Four

  No one would ever find me here. Even I didn’t know where I was. I’d hidden the Trekker just inside the tree line. There was no way you could drive into the jungle, there were no roads. Or tracks to walk on. You had to slash your way through the leaves with a machete and make your own path. After five hours my arms ached and I had to keep stopping to catch my breath. I wanted to hurry, to reach the ‘X’ on the map before the sun went down. I was also worried by a note that had been scrawled on the bottom of Old Jack’s little piece of human parchment.

  Here be dragons. This wasn’t just a bit of old pirate humour, Saphira really did have dragons. And I thought they probably came out after dark. If I could have, I would have started running as soon as I spotted the wreckage through the trees, but lack of oxygen was slowing me down. It wasn’t the altitude, I was barely above sea-level, but since crossing the equator the air had been thick and damp so you almost had to swallow it down.

  To my left was a tree that was filled with some sort of pale yellowish fruit. They looked like big juicy grapefruit but they were probably hard, leathery and poisonous. I was going to lean against the tree for a moment, but backed off quickly when I was attacked by something that looked like a small lime-coloured turkey. Huge boiled egg eyes stared out of a face made from scrotum skin and it squawked angrily, defending a clutch of eggs in a scraggy nest built in the centre of a flower that looked like a fluorescent-orange toilet bowl. With renewed enthusiasm I hacked away at the foliage blocking my way.

  ‘Tropical rainforest’ sounds like a nice place for a vacation and I’m sure it looks great in the brochure. The trees are two or three hundred feet high and their leaves form a canopy overhead that blocks much of the sunlight and keeps you in a greenish twilight. The older trees were twisted, covered in vines and large eye-like wounds that oozed blackish ichor. Stringy moss hung down from the branches like hair and some trees held clumps of foliage that I thought were nests but are actually some kind of parasitic plant. Its fat purple berries looked delicious, which probably meant they were deadly.

  The undergrowth I was hacking my way through was made up of smaller trees, palms, and ferns. Some of the plants had huge brightly coloured flowers with waxy flesh-like petals. You could easily imagine that they were carnivorous. As my blade sliced through the leaves they gave off scents like mown-grass, chopped cabbage, and something very like marijuana. The ground was mostly wet leaves and rotting vegetation and gave off a smell like compost as my boots disturbed it. No plants grew down there, there was no light for them, but fungi seemed to thrive, standing out starkly white or burnt orange or red.

  I’ve walked in forests before, up near the mountains, and found them to be quiet, tranquil places where a man can gather his thoughts. The jungle, in contrast, seemed to have a nightclub sound system installed. The trees creaked loudly as they swayed and their foliage created an ocean-like whooshing sound way above me. Over this were layered the echoing whoops, squawks and screeches of unseen birds and warring tribes of monkey-like creatures shouting about some distant danger or bellowing that this was their territory. It took a while for your ears to become accustomed to the din and begin filtering it out.

  I consulted the screen on my watch. It told me I was close. I looked around me but there was just more jungle. No indication of anything out of the ordinary. No weathered signs pointing ‘This way to buried treasure.’ And then it was there again, the unmistakable glint of sunlight on m
etal.

  The expanse of metal in front of me was scarred and pitted and the jungle had done its best to cover it with moss and vines, but it was obviously manmade and part of something immense. It disappeared back into the trees so that I could only see perhaps a hundred yards of it in either direction. The canopy of trees overhead was leaning over to shield it so that it would be invisible from the air. Perhaps Old Jack had been right and it had lain undisturbed for the best part of forty years. And if he was right about that, maybe he had also told the truth about the main part of the Celestia still being sealed, protecting her contents.

  “Show me the Celestia,” I said.

  Trixie projected an image into the air in front of me. The battleship Celesta. To get all of her into the frame, the photographer must have been miles away from her. From that distance, her hull looked smooth and sleek. Floating through space like a great grey whale. Zooming in, you could see that she was formed from thousands of boxy structures, her skin uneven like a whale covered in barnacles. The battleship wasn’t a sleek missile, she looked like she’d been put together from a child’s building bricks – all of them in shades of grey. And then closer still, you could sense that one of those rectangular structures was bigger than an office block.

  If the Celestia was a whale, the engines were at the end of her tail in two massive, bulbous pods. The command centre was on top, sticking up like a dorsal fin. Along one side were half-a-dozen round landing platforms and the closed bays that held the Warbirds. They would have streamed out of her, or back towards her, like pilot fish. This ship had been a carrier. Originally she would have been home to fifty Warbirds, but her complement had dwindled to about twenty craft at the time that she was destroyed. All of her fighters would have been engaged in the skirmish going on around Saphira, except for a one or two that might have been in the hangar being repaired.

  I wondered what those spaceside fighter pilots felt when they saw their mothership – their home – torpedoed and drifting towards the planet. They must have held their breath, waiting to see the Celestia fire her engines and pull away from the planet. Instead, they would have seen escape pods and life ships blasting out into space, carrying all those who had been able to abandon ship. All hope would have faded as they watched her pulled closer and closer to Saphira. And their last glimpse would have been the orange-red glow of her hull burning as it entered the atmosphere. What happened to those fighter pilots? Where could they go after their fuel was exhausted?