by Dave Barsby
“No,” I answer. “Sorry. It’s for a book.”
“Book?” Rogdo snorts. “Who reads these days?”
“You’d be surprised,” I answer, then decide to test the water with regards to his sense of humour. “Most others wouldn’t, but I guess you would.”
“Hey, dangerous criminal here. I’ll explain the other rules when we get on board, but remember this one: No jokes about Rogdo. Captain Flavian, mind.”
We arrive at the docking bay entrance and have to travel down 476 floors in an elevator. While in the cramped, confined space of the elevator, I detect a strange earthy and slightly stale smell in the air. It is coming from Rogdo, and I recognise the smell instantly.
“Do you smoke?” I ask with alarm. Rogdo doesn’t answer. “Don’t you know it’s been outlawed throughout the galaxy?” I demand. Rogdo looks at me condescendingly. “Criminal. Right,” I respond quietly.
“You’ll have to try it,” he says eventually. “It’s wonderful.”
“It kills,” I insist.
“65% of the time, so does spending a year on a mercenary vessel.”
2. THE DIABLO III
The Diablo III is what the faintly insane may call ‘a fine ship’. Jet black, with enough bulges, attachments and unidentifiable carbuncles to ensure its original shape will never again be revealed. I am expecting a sleek, 40-yard arrowhead of a vessel, something that looks like it can effortlessly corner round an asteroid at light speed; that can outrun the enemy, or at least fox it with some daring manoeuvres that would make a bird of prey weep. I am bitterly disappointed. Some 300-yards in length, it resembles a bloated toad with a heavy rear and a messy system to its engineering. It is only an exposed sub-light exhaust that allows me to determine which end is which. There seems to be no hidden surprises here. Laser cannons, particle beams, chaff and mine boxes and even the engine itself have been mercilessly bolted on to the ship’s exoskeleton with careless disregard for aesthetics. A hefty blob on the top reveals itself under closer inspection to be a small landing craft. I am to be spending a year aboard this ship, yet I already have doubts over its ability to make it out of the hanger.
Having witnessed the full horror of the vessel’s exterior my expectations have lowered into a pit of doom, so I am not disappointed by the ship’s interior. That is the great thing about pessimism – expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed. The only areas of the ship not leaking vital fluids are those that are lucky enough to have a coating of grease smeared over them. The cockpit is cramped and littered with twelve times the required number of switches. The mess hall looks like it has been liberated from a prison. The living quarters are small, musty and lined with condensation. The engine room, meanwhile, is alleged to be so dangerous the only access has been welded shut. When I ask how essential repairs can be maintained on the engine if access is denied, Rogdo happily explains that the ship’s engineer, nicknamed Torque, was in the engine room at the time the door was welded shut. A small chute to the left of the doorway allows the crew to pass him food, although they are quite apt to forget for days on end.
I am introduced to the rest of the crew. The Diablo III has a full complement of ten, a mixture of human and alien, male and female, unpleasant and deeply unpleasant. Two of the eight crew members I am introduced to actually make the effort to do more than wave nonchalantly and mutter ‘Hi’, so I immediately single them out as the most likely allies I will have onboard.
The first person I meet turns out to be the pick of the bunch. With thick blueprints under one arm, Tima heads towards us down the dank, poorly-lit corridor that curves round the inner hull of the vessel. She is an attractive human in her early thirties, with cropped, sleek blonde hair and a lithe form underneath a frankly unflattering overall.
“Rogdo,” she says with a loud, slightly husky voice as she approaches us. She brandishes the blueprints under her arms. “Utter shit,” she critiques, before turning her attention to me. “Who’s the meat?”
Rogdo introduces me so quickly my mind is still working on how to say my own name by the time he’s finished.
“Journalist,” the woman responds with a slight air of disdain.
“Well, travel writer these days,” I point out.
“And you’re going to be writing about your travels aboard the Diablo III?”
I nod an affirmative. She proffers her hand.
“I’m Tima,” she says. “Second-in-command and the resident strategy expert.” I take her hand and begin to shake it, but it is quickly clear that her grip is a little strong for a warm welcome. “Write nice things about me,” she threatens. I am not sure if I am supposed to nod obediently or start laughing with the absurdity of her words.
“Erm, like what?” I stammer.
“Take this first meeting, for example. Something like: ‘She is devastatingly attractive and in her thirties…no, early thirties…or late twenties, erm, with sexy, short blonde hair and a really fit body underneath a…’” she fingers her clothing disapprovingly. “Well, ‘a frankly unflattering overall’. Something like that.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” I say, still not sure if she is joking or not. “I may need to rework some of the words a little…”
Still tightly gripping my hand, Tima stares daggers at me, angry I don’t approve of her wording. Then she grins, a grin that could make a chronic depressive think they’re going to be massively lucky sometime soon. I realise my life is not yet in mortal danger (we’ll save that for later).
She releases her grip on my sweaty palm. “I like this kid,” she says. She begins to walk off, heading towards the rear of the ship. “We’ll talk later,” she calls.
“Well,” Rogdo says once she’s disappeared round the curve. “That’s Tima. She seems to like you.” This last sentence is delivered with a slightly bitter tone. A thought immediately pops into my mind.
“She seems nice,” I answer.
“Yeah,” Rogdo says, unsure. “But there’s something wrong with her.”
The thought pops into my mind a second time, and I decide to act upon it. “She turned you down, then.”
Before an irate Rogdo can respond, a brief yelp emanates from the direction of Tima, closely followed by an angry “Watch it!”
A blur of light brown fur whips past us, accompanied by a growling female voice informing us to “Move outta the way!” I am unable to determine details in the short time the mass of fur presents itself to my eyesight, but I correctly conclude it belongs to a Cat roughly a metre long (without tail, of course).
“Sanshar,” Rogdo says as the sounds of paws slapping on the metal floor recedes.
“Pardon?” I ask, feeling my heart bashing my ribcage in panic.
“That was Sanshar. Keeps to herself a lot of the time. Sleeping, grooming, stuff like that. She’s communications and the back-up navigator. You could say she’s our eyes and ears.”
“Right,” I answer.
“Well,” Rogdo begins, “because, you see, she’s a Cat. Felines have better sight and hearing than most, so…our eyes and ears…”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I get it.”
“I’d put that one in your book if I were you,” Rogdo says proudly now he knows I ‘get’ the joke. “The readers’ll want a good laugh.”
“I’ll try to remember it,” I respond without sincerity. Luckily, Rogdo fails to recall I have a memory implant – try as I might I won’t be able to forget his joke.
A little further down the corridor we happen across Gronk. Gronk, Rogdo points out, doesn’t speak much. His brain is virtually incapable of that function, but he can utter basic sentences. Gronk is huge. He resembles a squat human with exquisitely well-defined muscles and a height closing on 10-ft. Gronk is standing to one side of the corridor silently watching us. I get the feeling he’s been standing there for some hours now, his feeble brain unable to think of anything for him to do. It turns out that Gronk is only half human. Apparently his father was a hyper-intelligent anabolic steroid call
ed Steve.
The bridge is the next stop on our tour. The view out the cockpit is generous, but there is little else in the room to suggest it is state-of-the-art. There is just enough room for four seats, two in front for navigation and two behind for other systems and observation. Each seat is surrounded by large banks of computer switchboards with plenty of fascinating coloured buttons, switches and lights on display. Even at a quick glance I can see that several of the switchboards are superfluous – in fact, three of them aren’t even connected to anything. I suspect Rogdo was either trying to impress or going for the kitsch look. Either way, he’s failed miserably.
A burly human is resting in the front left seat, tutting loudly to himself. He occasionally jabs a console screen with a plump digit, but this just provokes more tuts.
“This is Drift,” Rogdo tells me. “He’s the navigator.”
His nickname alone is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. It suddenly makes sense why Sanshar has added ‘back-up navigator’ to her job description.
Drift swivels round. “Welcome aboard,” he says without conviction. “Boss,” he turns to Rogdo. “This ain’t workin’.”
Rogdo leans in closer to check the console screen. I peer over the back of Drift’s seat. The screen shows a star map, but I don’t recognise the constellations involved.
“We wanna get to here, right?” Drift explains, pointing to a bright green speck at the top of the map. He then begins tracing two lines up to the speck from the bottom of the screen. “So we can go one of two ways. This…and this. But they both got obstacles. What do I do?”
Rogdo studies the map. Along each route Drift traces lies a small circle of speckled white, the barriers to our journey. Rogdo points to one route. “Take that one,” he says.
“Why that one?” Drift asks.
Rogdo points to the blob on the opposite route first. “That is a collapsing star,” he says, then indicates the blob on the second route. “That is your spittle.”
The last stop on my tour is the galley and mess hall. In the galley I am introduced to Dirk, a Gubarian. Dirk is the ship’s cook and cleaner (judging by the state of the vessel, I quickly decide he spends most of his time cooking). He still has his full complement of eighteen limbs, but half his head has been lost in a previous mission, of which I am promised details later. I am told he has been in the mercenary business for over three centuries, long before the caterpillar-like Gubarians were accepted as a sentient race. This had garnered him a degree of notoriety as the only giant caterpillar capable of selectively stealing a grocery ship’s cargo. I am warned off attempting to sample any of his cooking that involves the words ‘similar to’. Dirk grunts a little when Rogdo mentions this, the only acknowledgement he gives that he has even noticed our presence. He continues to splice a dark blue vegetable, which I take to be the less-than-tasty fungrot. I haven’t sampled fungrot before, although I have witnessed a man who did and managed to secure a Page 2 article in the local paper with my follow-up interview from the hospital.
In the canteen (which to this day I continue to insist on calling ‘mess hall’ for obvious reasons), the last three members of the crew are pointed out to me. First, Rogdo mentions the name ‘Hyeela’, though I later learn the spelling is a little tricky: Hiaelia is a slim, powerful woman presumed to hail from somewhere in the Nimboid Cluster, her true origins being a mystery to all. She has succumbed to the ‘butch female’ stereotype by building up her muscles then shaving her head. Her position aboard the Diablo is to maintain the large compliment of weaponry and to advise on all things lethally projectile. Her hobbies, Rogdo claims, are not dissimilar to her occupation. Inventing new weaponry seems to be top of the bill, closely followed by the practice of knife-throwing and heroic attempts to break the 80-decibel barrier with body emissions. As if to demonstrate this point, Hiaelia emits a particularly vicious burp while cleaning her knife, then checks the disappointing reading from a decibel counter hanging from a loop around her neck.
The resident scientist Bolland is something of an enigma, I am told. He is happy to confirm he is old, but nobody knows by what scale he is measuring this. I understand the confusion in the crew when I see him – at times he seems as though he could be entering his early twenties, at others he looks ready to hit triple figures. This, he claims, is because of a failed experiment involving cellular regeneration which has resulted in his own living tissue veering wildly between near death and freshly created. Apparently it makes passport photos rather tricky. When I ask Rogdo why he would require a passport in the first place, when most of the galaxy doesn’t succumb to such an archaic method of identification, the ship’s captain goes quiet.
I later discover that Bolland is a member of that rare and hunted race the Welsh.
If you don’t know, the Welsh are regarded as something of an oddity throughout the galaxy, and they are so rare it is actually quite an honour to meet one. Around 360 years ago they were given the distinction of becoming the only remaining race from the homo sapien home planet of Earth. The genetic difference between the races from different countries of this planet had over a gradual period been bred out due to inter-racial relations. The Welsh, however, had managed to survive this particular battle for a very simple reason – in the neighbouring countries they were regarded with such low esteem they were often ignored, and the only way for a Welsh person to breed was with another Welsh person. Thus, as Indian mixed with English, American with Mexican and French with Kenyan, the Welsh only bred amongst their own because no one else would sleep with them. This trend continued throughout the exploration of the galaxy, with the entirety of the Welsh population founding their own home planet (called, naturally, Jones The Planet). Eventually the eminent scientist Professor Jingo Thribbletop conclusively proved that the genetic coding determining a human’s ethnic background had been completely replaced with the shopping-related genetic sequence commonly called ‘bargain radar’. Race was no longer an issue, because race no longer existed. Except for the Welsh. This was unacceptable because the human race now prided itself on a lack of prejudice, with the only exception being they couldn’t help but hate the Welsh and their proud identity. Professor Thribbletop devised a method of eradicating this Welsh gene via a multitude of systems, including medical treatment, artificial insemination, the sterilising of particularly large families and the culling of Welsh communities larger than 50. The entire galaxy got behind this project with a great enthusiasm, as did a lot of the Welsh themselves, relieved that this may finally stop all the jokes about their penchant for astrosheep. It has been a long, arduous project, and many Welsh slipped through the net, but from what I can gather, I am staring at one of only thirteen purebred Welsh still alive.
Without looking in my direction, Bolland waves nonchalantly and mutters “Hi.”
The final person I am introduced to is Yew. Yew was born without genitalia, and serves no purpose aboard the Diablo III. He/she is there, I am told, so the ship has a full crew compliment of ten, which sounds a lot better than ‘nine and one empty space’. Yew, I can instantly tell, is a loser – directionless, sexless and with a complete misunderstanding of the concept ‘this is a boring conversation topic’. I decide Yew should be a ‘him’, but also make a mental note to avoid him at all costs.
Yew waves enthusiastically to me. “Hey, come and sit down over here!” he shouts in a disconcertingly neutral vocal tone. I wave back nonchalantly and mutter “Hi.”
“So, what do you think?” Rodgo asks me after our little tour.
“Of what? The ship or the crew?”
“Well, both I guess.”
We stop outside a small metal door with a hand-cranked sliding mechanism and label bearing the legend Torque’s Quarters.
“Well, I guess it will take a while to get used to the crew, and for them to get used to me,” I answer diplomatically.
Rogdo wrenches the door open and presents my quarters to me. I was so close to diplomatically answering how I felt about the spaceshi
p too, but the sight before me pushes me over the edge.
“The ship’s a bit shit, though,” I blurt.
There is a moment of silence, enough time for me to contemplate exactly why my mouth has decided suicide is the best option. Fortunately Rogdo laughs. He slaps me on the back. The slap feels playful yet it is strong enough to send me sprawling into my cabin.
“I like your honesty,” he says, helping me off the floor. “Yes, the ship is a bit shit. But it functions and does everything I want it to. That is the main point. In my job there’s no point getting some sleek, beautiful craft because in a few weeks’ time it’s bound to be scorched by explosions and laser fire. At least this way none of my money goes on maintenance.”
“Well,” I begin my response, carefully sitting on the worn bunk mattress, “there are hygiene concerns…erm, and are you absolutely sure this thing will fly without bits falling off?”
Rogdo frowns and glances at his timepiece. “Hmmm, two minutes,” he says. He sits down on the mattress next to me. “I want you to get this stuff down in your book, it shows how smart I am.”
I decide, rather reasonably I think, to be my own judge in that respect, but I listen intently nevertheless.
“You look at this ship, and what do you think? A heap of junk. Prod it with your little finger and the engine is going to fall off. Right? Wrong. It is designed like that so the enemy gets cocky. They think it’ll be a cinch to take out the Diablo III. The Devil does not walk with cloven hoof all the time. Sometimes he puts on a disguise. So they’re bearing down on this old rust bucket when suddenly out come the 20-TerraWatt particle cannons and interplanetary MIRV nukes. And if that doesn’t do the job, we have our hidden Roto-Grav 10.5 so we can peg it across the galaxy smartish.”
Rogdo nods happily and glances at his timepiece again. He stands.
“Time’s up,” he tells me. “We’ve gotta get this show on the road, so to speak. Our first destination is about seventeen days away at a canter, so make yourself comfortable.”