by Dave Barsby
“Where is our first destination?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you nearer the time,” is the answer I receive. With that, Rogdo leaves and I am left with the faint odour of rusting bedsprings.
Seventeen days. It is a very long time stuck inside a small, quietly rotting vessel. Normally I would be happy to take this time describing to you the events that occurred over those 17 days, and the extent to which I got to know the rest of the crew. But they always say you can judge someone by their actions, and there was very little in the way of action, excitement or fun aboard that ship. Considering the events I would become part of over the course of the following year, there is no point wasting space conveying the monotony of that journey, or my numerous failed attempts to engage just one member of the crew in conversation (even Rogdo was conspicuously absent when I was in the mood to talk). Instead, as this is a book designed to heighten the reader’s awareness of the significant aspects of various cultures as well as a tale of derring do, I would like to take a few brief moments to explain to those not in the know exactly what a Roto-Grav 10.5 is. Well, maybe not exactly – a scientist I am not.
The Roto-Grav technology is fairly new and found almost exclusively in the craft of the rich and famous of the Inner Eastern Spiral. At least 99% percent of the interstellar-travelling population of the Milky Way still use the artificial wormhole technology invented nearly a millennia ago. However, there have been several documented disasters of late – craft disintegrating when the wormhole abruptly collapses, the destination end coinciding with the flight path of another craft or the orbits of stars and planets being miscalculated. Indeed, the most famous of these disasters was the Supreme-Class cruiser Iceberg Ahead, which reappeared inside a red giant star and immediately evaporated, along with 482 million passengers. The vastly expensive Roto-Grav drive not only avoids such problems (occasionally it can travel so fast, it has passed through a planet before physics can make a decision whether that is allowed or not), but it also has limitless speed potential.
According to available literature, the Roto-Grav drive uses a rotating multi-angle dynamo to create a negative gravity field. Quite how, I am not sure, because even having seen a Roto-Grav drive in operation I am convinced that negative gravity cannot exist – surely everything has mass, right? Anyway, the negative gravity field is projected out the rear of the craft. At the same time the ship is enveloped in a perfect vacuum and encased in an energy field. The negative gravity field, or white hole, acts the exact opposite to a black hole by pushing away light rather than pulling at it. Again defying my own sense of logic, this apparently means that light travels faster than it technically should, and the ship is buoyed along on this stream of superlight thanks to the energy field / vacuum combination. The Roto-Grav drive Rogdo so proudly owns is a 10.5, which means the white hole can push light up to 10x normal speed, while five sequential white holes can be created. That, according to my calculations, means the Diablo III, if it manages to hold together, has a maximum speed of 100,000x light speed (or, to put it another way, it can cover a light year in just over five minutes).
However, the Roto-Grav drives are still extremely expensive and fairly experimental, so no one has yet had the courage or suicidal impetus to push it faster than half-speed. I suspect it is only a matter of time before Rogdo attempts it. In the meantime, he’s taking it easy, cruising across 1,000 light years at 20% power to allow me 17 days to get accustomed to my smelly mattress.
3. PILATARA
Fourteen days into the journey, Rogdo is kind enough to fill me in on our destination and the upcoming mission. I don’t know why he was reluctant to tell me before now because I seriously doubt he suspects me of being a spy. Maybe it was because he knew I’d complain, which I accomplish with vigour.
“Our destination is Pilatara,” Rogdo sighs, my twenty-minute barrage of “Where are we going?” finally paying off. My voice feels a little hoarse, so I decide to be economical with vocals and allow him to do most of the talking.
“Pilatara?” is all I say. I know a little about the planet, but I am perfectly content to allow Rogdo to explain. For one, it allows my throat to recover, for another his extensive knowledge fills in a few gaps in my own information. Here is the summary:
The planet Pilatara is the fourth planet in a system of six orbiting a single, high-yield star. It was, as far as I am aware, the last planet to be discovered and named with an at least semi-decent name. Thanks to a rapid expansion programme, sensible names for planets, even quirky ones like Zablunt, were running out. Pilatara, according to legend, was named after the daughter of the planet’s discoverer and her version of a comfort blanket. Over the years, Pillow Tara was condensed to become Pilatara. The residents were lucky. After Pilatara, newly discovered planets had to make do with silly names because no sensible ones were left, and every day I am glad I was not born on Boulder or Swizzlestick. However, I do find it very sad that as yet no one has named a planet Bob. Anyway, to digress: Pilatara, due to the power of its sun, and the proximity of its orbit, allows for the land to be covered in dense, humid jungle terrain, and at midday the light is dangerous enough to burn the corneas off unprotected eyes. Renowned for its tyrannical government, a dictatorship that favours individual wealth and power over the concerns of the masses, Pilatara has for the last seventeen years been a battleground of insurrection and full-blown civil war. The entire galaxy, it seems, is rooting for the civilian army to succeed in their revolt and depose the dictator Gartha, but no one actually seems concerned enough to commit aide to the ailing masses or their campaign. As Rogdo completes his speech on Pilatara, I become quite excited at the prospect of taking out a government general and receiving a hero’s welcome from the starving masses.
“So it is an assassination, right?” I ask Rogdo. “On Pilatara? That’s why we’re going?”
“Yep, that’s right,” he answers. “We’ve been paid the big bucks to take out just one man. It shouldn’t be too hard. In fact, if you really want the scoop, I can’t see any problem with you tagging along.”
“Erm, on the assassination?”
“It’s not like I’m asking you to pull the trigger. Just come along with us. Take these last three days to train yourself in the art of stealth. Leave all the icky killing stuff to us. Just sneak around and record everything.”
“I guess…if it’s not going to be dangerous.”
“Not unless you make too much noise and alert the enemy to our presence.”
“Ah,” I say. “Well, in that case, maybe I should just stay here-”
“Nonsense, you’re coming with us. I insist.”
Suddenly, my head feels light and my bowels weak. I could get everyone killed. I may have to watch the actual death of a man.
“Which man?” I blurt.
“Sorry?”
“Who’s the target?”
“Oh, it’s that guy…what’s his name? Bailes. Hawk Bailes.”
“Bailes?!? The resistance leader?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. All we have to do is find his camp deep in the jungle, sneak in, blam, sneak out again. Apparently he doesn’t have much security because he moves around so much no one can ever locate him.”
“Then how will we locate…no, wait. Bailes?!? Killing him will shift the balance of the entire conflict! Who’s paying for this hit?”
“President Gartha himself,” Rogdo answers proudly. That slight queasy feeling I had multiplies itself by ten.
“That monster?!?”
Rogdo looks slightly annoyed. “You look at him and you see a monster. I look at him and I see four million tabs. Rule number one of being a mercenary – do the job that you’re paid to do. Politics, ethics, morals…they have no place aboard this ship.”
“Not even the idea of killing the one man who can lead an entire civilisation out of misery?”
“Four million tabs is enough to buy my conscience from me,” he answers.
I am aghast. I want no part of this, but I can see that
Rogdo is very committed to the venture – not just this assassination, but my accompanying him wherever he goes for a year. I was given some nasty assignments to cover when I was a junior reporter, but this is something I can actually prevent. The best option for that would be to continue working on Rogdo, maybe drill some sense of right and wrong into him before it is too late. But the conversation today has run its course. I will have no choice but to accompany him on his mission and be persuasive en route. I need to think. I need to leave Rogdo’s presence, hole myself up in my quarters and work out a strategy.
“My God,” I utter, shaking my head disdainfully. “Does your family tree trace back to the Iscariots?”
I turn on my heel and stomp off down the corridor. I hear a slightly confused Rogdo call after me.
“I don’t think so. Who are they?”
“So, Tima, what’s the strategy?” Rogdo says. “Tell us your plan.”
We are gathered in the mess hall. All of us are seated, except Rogdo who has elected to stand to impose an air of authority on proceedings, Gronk who is on guard duty outside the ship, and Yew who has been ordered out of the room because he quite simply isn’t needed.
“Well,” Tima begins. “I thought maybe we could walk into the camp, shoot Bailes in the head and walk out again.”
The silence in the air is so deafening it must surely register on Hiaelia’s decibel counter.
“Good plan,” Rogdo eventually says, clearly impressed. My anxiety has been building ever since we arrived on Pilatara, and it nears fatal levels upon hearing Rogdo happily endorse such a ridiculous idea.
“What?!?” I pipe up before I can control my impulses.
Rogdo stares at me. “Don’t you think so?” he asks. The rest of the crew immediately chip in with their own endorsements.
“Well, I, umm…” I begin. “Is there more to the plan than that?” I feel everyone’s eyes on me – quite disconcerting when Sanshar can probably detect mood waves and Dirk, despite half a head, still commands seven eyeballs.
Rogdo tuts at me, ashamed he ever let me come aboard. “Don’t be stupid!” he chides. He looks down the table to Tima. “Umm, is there more to the plan than that?”
“Of course there is,” Tima sighs.
“Of course there is!” Rogdo repeats in my direction, annoyed. “Now, if you’re done asking silly questions…”
I shrug noncommittally. It satisfies him.
“What else is there?” he asks Tima.
“Just some technical trickery, really. We’re going to go in there as members of the rebel army, hang out with them until dark, then do the deed. Simple.”
Again, the crew murmur their approval without quite knowing what they’re approving. Tima picks up a large box, places it on the table and starts emptying it of its contents.
“Hiaelia,” she begins, sliding a pistol and cumbersome carbine rifle across the metal table top. “Retrofit our weapons to resemble these.”
Sheets of paper and varied unidentifiable items are distributed across the table to respective crew members as Tima continues her orders.
“Drift, scan these coordinates for signs of activity, then input the data into the landing craft. Sanny, I want you to listen carefully to these recordings until you can perfectly imitate the accent. Bolland, get ready to input the accent into the vocalisers when Sanshar’s done, meanwhile modify a hand-held sonic neutraliser to be undetectable in the dark and with a range of five metres. Now, Dirk…please make me an omelette, I’m bloody starving.”
“Okay people,” Rogdo calls. “You’ve got your orders. Get to it.”
Most of the crew start to move off. I’m a little miffed I haven’t been given any orders, but on the other hand I count myself lucky I wasn’t evicted along with Yew.
“Oh, Drift, Hiaelia,” Tima calls out. “See me for a costume fitting later.”
The two crew members casually wave one hand without even turning around. For a brief moment I wonder why Rogdo and Tima haven’t left the mess hall. Then I realise I haven’t either, so my subconscious must have a very good reason.
Rogdo sits, then remains silent until the rest of the crew have exited. The sound of a disgusted cook uttering “Stupid omelette!” drifts through from the galley.
“So, can we go through this plan in detail, please?” Rogdo asks Tima. “The sooner we do this and get the hell off this planet, the better.” He points to me. “Do you have a job for this one?”
“Oh yes,” Tima answers proudly. “I surely do.”
We’ve been on Pilatara for just five days, but already the place is getting to us. It seems promising at first as the Diablo III swoops in low over breezy forests towards a glinting mass of chromed buildings on the horizon. The capital city (given the uninspired name of Pilatara City) is certainly an impressive sight. The city has been so intricately structured it looks like it has been carved from one giant block of steel, polished to perfection and stained a slightly bronzed colour. Low-level buildings line the outskirts, rising in a gradual incline to greater heights as we near the centre of the city. At the centre is the piece de resistance, the giant pyramidal palace of President Gartha. Standing some 600ft high by itself and raised on an artificial hill, the pyramid dominates the view. Smooth, featureless, with not even visible windows, it shines in the afternoon sun and throws golden slashes across the land. Surrounding this immense, proud city is an ocean of forest stretching in every direction to the horizon. At the foot of the city, carved into the forest in a perfect rectangle, lies a flat swathe of grey dotted with activity: the spaceport.
Rogdo’s mood is immediately dampened by the realisation that the nearest parking space is still some five miles distant of the city’s outskirts, and the pyramid is a further six mile trek as the crow flies.
“Invalids my ass!” Rogdo shouts as Drift sweeps low across the reserved spaces at the fore of the spaceport. “Wait! That one’s leaving!”
“No he isn’t,” Drift answers. “He’s just forgotten to take something is all.”
“Well, I suppose if we have to park all the way back there…I just would have thought Gartha would have reserved a space for us…I mean, after all the problems getting permission to enter the system and everything…”
The ‘problem’ getting permission to enter the star system stemmed mainly from Rogdo’s refusal to say the pre-confirmed password, on the grounds that it was too silly. True, “Chicken George” was a tad bizarre, and deserved more laughter than respect, but Rogdo spent thirty minutes arguing, and only gave in when a barrage of particle beams was threatened.
When we finally land, a particularly bumpy landing that destroys the minute amount of confidence I still had in Drift, we are situated in Bay 12, Section XXXVABR. It is such a bizarre coding I immediately log it at the forefront of my memory implant. Quite how everyone else is supposed to remember that is beyond me, but at least they didn’t colour-code the sections because differentiating between Dusky Shine and Afternoon Tang would confound even Sanshar’s optics.
Rogdo cheers up when he steps off the ramp protruding from the underbelly of the Diablo III and into the fresh afternoon sun of Pilatara. Already, the sticky heat is getting to me, and for some reason my sunglasses refuse to comply with their design, yielding to the power of gravity rather than the construction of my nose. I spend half my time pushing them back into place.
Rogdo has a pair of wraparounds, so he is able to enjoy the sun far more than I. He scans the horizon. A five-mile stretch of parked spaceships, repair bots charging left, right and centre. Further off to the city, vessels buzz the skyscrapers like bees around a hive. Rogdo breathes a sigh of satisfaction.
“It’s good to travel,” he says to no one in particular, but I accept the unspoken offer of paying attention to him. He seems happy about it. “Been here before?” he asks me.
“No,” I answer.
“Me neither,” he says and pats his stomach. “Now, let’s see…”
He turns to face the ramp. Most
of the crew are still gathered on it, unwilling to set foot on the new land until permission is given.
“Sanshar, Bolland, Tima, come with us. Gronk…who’s the man, Gronk?”
“Uh…me?” Gronk answers in a very deep boom. He points to himself, his face full of hope.
“Guard the ship, my man.” Rogdo smiles at him. Gronk stands proudly and knocks his head on the ship’s underbelly.
“The rest of you,” Rogdo begins. He pauses for thought. “Twiddle your thumbs until we get back.”
Satisfied, the Captain turns. The Cat, the scientist, the tactical expert and the journalist follow. Rogdo seems very happy, the sunlight has certainly stepped his mood up a few notches, especially after the twin problems of accessing the star system and finding a decent parking space. He’s recovered quickly. But the problem with the old adage of getting up again after being knocked down is that you’re then ripe for being knocked down again.
Rogdo is metaphorically floored by a right hook when he spots the small machine on a post standing at the far end of our parking space. “You’re joking,” he breathes, deflated.
If there is anything worse than parking in a crappy spot a good distance from where you want to be, it is when you first spy the parking meter that means you have to pay for the ‘privilege’ of said crappy spot.
Rogdo reads the data screen with increasing glumness. On closer inspection, it becomes clear that this isn’t just a parking meter – it is a card reader which can then keep track of every transaction carried out in the city and debit the money instantly. “Four million,” he whispers to himself. “Four million.”
“What is it?” Sanshar asks.
“A hundred tabs a day to park,” Rogdo complains.
“Just pay it,” Bolland chips in. “Get a refund from Gartha.”
I laugh at the thought of someone like Gartha being willing to pay expenses on top of four million tabs. From the look he gives me, Bolland takes the laugh as a personal insult.