Mercenary

by Dave Barsby

  Rogdo reholsters his gun. “Okay, then,” he says, prompting the group into movement. Sanshar runs into the en suite bathroom and reappears a moment later with a toilet roll. She heads directly to the messy splodge on the window. Rogdo and Tima wheel Gartha’s chair into the bathroom and proceed to deposit him on the toilet.

  “Hey,” Rogdo calls me. “Wake up! Come on!”

  “Oh, right,” I say, dazed. I guess I have to play my part in the clean-up operation. I return the chair to its original position then walk over to Sanshar, trying my best not to look at the pieces of skull she is flicking onto the toilet roll with her claws.

  “I need…” I begin. She looks at me and screws her eyes close.

  “Just do it!” she says nervously. I take hold of a whisker and tug it out of her cheek. She hisses with pain.

  Tima exits the bathroom and begins helping Sanshar with the mop-up. I head to the bathroom myself, where I proceed to tie the whisker around the door’s locking latch. Rogdo, like a sculptor, is carefully taking his time to arrange Gartha perfectly so he looks like the Rodan statue, thinking on the loo.

  Tima and Sanshar have finished their job and dump the tissue paper in the waste basket under Gartha’s desk. Everything is ready. Rogdo glances at me, sees my deathly pale colour.

  “Hey, that’s really good,” he tells me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You really do look ill.”

  “I am,” I respond, and feel my legs start to weaken. This is it, I think. I’ve broken the law now, big time. There is no going back. I am one of them.

  “Come on,” Rogdo says and bundles me back into the office. He takes the untied end of Sanshar’s whisker, draws the door close then pulls. We hear the latch flick down, snap into place. The whisker easily slides off the downward-pointing latch and Rogdo pockets it. He then throws one of my arms across his shoulders and hooks his arm around my waist. I suddenly realise that I was actually close to fainting, because the extra support feels like an immense relief.

  We open the double doors and step outside into the corridor.

  “What’s up?” a security official immediately asks, spying my pallor.

  “Must have picked something up in the jungle,” Rogdo answers. He pushes past the guards, dragging me with him. I was a little worried about having to act ill when the plan was first hatched. Fortunately, my own moral conscience has stepped in and done the job for me.

  “Okay,” the guard answers, backing away from me. For effect I cough violently. The guard glances inside the office. Upon seeing it is empty he calls out: “Mr President?”

  “He’s taking his daily ablutions,” Tima tells him.

  “What?”

  “He’s on the crapper,” Rogdo explains. “Never disturb a man when he’s taking a dump.”

  “No, right, of course not,” the guard answers, a little fazed by Rogdo’s candid response. He closes the double doors to the office. So far, so good. We’ve managed to assassinate Gartha, we’ve managed to get past the security. Now we just have to get off the planet.

  Our crime is discovered just after the taxi drops us off at the Diablo III. We know this not because of any warning sirens, not because security officials appear to arrest us, not because we overhear an emergency broadcast. We know this because the jumped-up parking meter demands Rogdo inserts another three datacards to pay off the 10 million tab fine for assassinating the President.

  “Drift!” he shouts. Drift is patiently awaiting our return on the edge of the ship’s ramp. “Fire up the engines and get ready for evasive manoeuvres!” Drift quickly disappears inside. We break into a run.

  “They know?” Tima asks.

  “They know,” Rogdo confirms. “San, get plotting a course for Almudena. We’ll need to jump to superlight as soon as possible.”

  The barrage of particle fire begins as we scream out of Pilatara’s atmosphere. Beams streak across the cockpit window, scorch the hull and rock the vessel with near-miss detonations. It always seemed quite exciting to be in a space battle, and I used to spend my early years imagining I controlled a starfighter in the Half-War, swooping and diving through a cluster of enemy craft. Well, exciting isn’t quite the word I use now. Terrifying is heading in the right direction, but still doesn’t do it justice. The mere idea of a hull breech and being sucked into the vacuum of space is bad enough without the flashes of light, thunderous sounds of impact and violent rattling of the ship.

  The cockpit is chaos. Sanshar is scrabbling with the navigation system. Her carefully poised claws tapping the console with a furious, almost panicked speed. Drift is swinging the controls every way three dimensions allow him. I swear if he could have used the fourth dimension, we’d be skipping back and forth through time with gay abandon. Rogdo is shouting orders with such dedication it is quite surprising that no one is paying him any attention whatsoever. Through the deafening roar of impacts I can hear the regular boom of the Diablo’s own guns responding, manned no doubt by Hiaelia, a woman whose competency with weaponry has never been in doubt.

  The craft lurches again. Sanshar takes one brief moment of her hectic time to scan the damage control panel. “We’ve just lost the chaff box, Captain. Countermeasures are unavailable.” Suddenly there is a massive impact so great I actually feel the blast wave blow at the back of my neck. I screw my eyes close and wait for the clawing rush of air to drag me through a hull breech into deep space. It doesn’t arrive.

  “What now?” Rogdo complains.

  “The space mines in storage, Sir. They were hit and detonated. It has taken out compartments six, seven and eight too.”

  “Who was in those compartments?” I ask breathlessly.

  “No one,” Rogdo responds. “Storage. Six was tinned food, seven cleaning products, eight was either the filing area or toilet tissue, I can’t remember.”

  I don’t know what shocks me more – that the ship actually had cleaning products aboard, or that we might be without loo roll for several weeks.

  “Sir,” Sanshar shouts. “Permission to forget plotting a course to Almudena and just jump the hell out of here.”

  Rogdo contemplates this new, and frankly obvious, tactic for a moment. He switches on a microphone. “Hiaelia, how’s it going?”

  The voice is distorted, barely audible over the raucous noise of the particle batteries firing. “I’ve taken out twelve, Sir, and I think a floating tin of peaches in syrup took out another, but there’s still hundreds of the buggers.”

  Rogdo flicks the mike to an open channel. “Prepare for jump,” he says.

  A little of the chaotic roar dampens as Hiaelia stops firing and deactivates her gun battery.

  “Okay,” Rogdo tells Sanshar. “Do it.”

  A barely audible whir from the rear of the ship grows in strength for a few seconds, then the view outside the cockpit turns into a swirling rainbow and we leave Pilatara far behind. The sudden acceleration catches me by surprise and knocks me off my feet. My head hits a rear console with a sickening crunch. As consciousness fades away, I catch a brief moment of conversation in the cockpit between two undistinguishable voices.

  “Well, I haven’t made much of a profit out of this mission after all those damn fines, have I?”

  “So, I don’t suppose this is the best time to ask for danger money? After all, I still have a loaded weapon in my gut.”

  Fade to black.

  5. ALMUDENA

  I am out of action for six days. Technically I recover from my knock on the head after five hours, but the events of the previous days have left me so mentally and physically drained I remain in bed for a while longer. During this time, the Diablo III rendezvous with a supply ship, replenishing the lost items from the mine explosion, and acquiring some ‘experimental weaponry’. But something far more important happens while I am incapacitated – my future is discussed.

  The proposition put forth to the crew is that I cannot handle the emotional and moral vacuum that is required of a person serving aboar
d a mercenary ship, that my reckless insistence on doing what is right and proper could jeopardise a mission, and that I just don’t like it on board the Diablo III. This is a proposition quickly dealt with – after all, even I would vote in favour of those statements. The next item on the agenda is what to do about me.

  Keeping me in my quarters and away from any of the day-to-day operations or excitement of a mission will conclusively scupper any possibility of my novel being published, and be an unnecessary drain on the ship’s resources. This suggestion is quickly voted out. The second suggestion is far more sensible: I should be deposited at the nearest friendly civilisation. What happens then is up to me – I could continue with my novel by securing myself passage aboard another mercenary vessel (“Let some other poor bastards deal with morality,” apparently), or change the book’s subject matter, or abandon the idea all together. Either way, I wouldn’t be troubling the crew of the Diablo III.

  This suggestion is a resounding success. Sanshar points out that maybe I just need some adjustment time, Tima explains she is glad I haven’t been corrupted yet, while Yew is upset he may lose a potential friend (not a chance), but in the end Yew is the only person to vote against the proposal, and his opinion doesn’t really count.

  So by the time I awaken and step out of my quarters, I am already destined to be booted off the Diablo III at the earliest opportunity. To be honest, it doesn’t upset me as much as I thought it might. It is certainly a blow to the ego to discover a vote has been cast that effectively states “we don’t want you anymore,” but the events on Pilatara were more than I was expecting, and more than I thought I could cope with. Enough is enough, I think. When liquid is in your lungs and you’re 200 yards underwater, it is about time you stopped trying to swim to the surface and accept you’re going to drown.

  As it turns out, I still have a few more miles to sink.

  The crew is called into the mess hall. I am invited along too, “for one last go” Rogdo tells me. Quite what that means I don’t know at the time, but I am soon to find out.

  “You are aware,” Rogdo tells me quietly as we all sit at the long metal mess hall table, two trays of carefully-prepared vol-au-vents laid in the centre, “that we have decided it is in your best interests for you to part company with us.”

  “Don’t take it to heart,” Tima says, but Rogdo raises one hand to silence her – he hasn’t made his point yet.

  Yew chips in a quick, teary “I’ll miss you” before Rogdo can continue. I find that particularly amusing: apart from a muttered ‘hi’ when I was first shown around the vessel, I haven’t spoken to Yew at all.

  “I think it is for the best, and I’m sure you do too,” Rogdo finishes.

  “Yes,” I answer warily.

  “Well, thing is, we may not be able to drop you off just yet.”

  “No?” I say.

  “No?” comes a further six voices in unison.

  “I’ve just come off a vidicast with a client. I was supposed to meet him an hour ago, but we are still two days from the rendezvous point. This client is stumping up a lot of cash – makes Gartha look petty. But time is crucial, and he isn’t too happy about our being two days behind schedule. So I am going to have to brief you all on the mission now, rather than when we reach our destination. And it also means we do not have time to drop anyone off en route.”

  “Where’s the destination?” I ask, hoping it is somewhere like Camera-7. I wouldn’t mind being stranded there.

  “Almudena,” Rogdo answers. “I thought you knew that.”

  “Concussion,” I explain. Almudena would have been the second choice on my list of places to be dropped off, despite it currently being engaged in interstellar war. It bears similarities to Earth, but with the crappy parts removed. Rain is refreshing, deserts are picturesque, tropical jungles are interesting to explore, the ocean is warm and largely free of pollutants and seaweed. There is little on Almudena to dampen the spirit or harm the body. It is out in space where all the harm comes.

  Almudena has a long history of strife, and it is never their fault. The planet is one of the richest in the galaxy, thanks to abundant seams of gold and diamond. This makes a lot of other planets jealous and greedy, but Almudena’s great wealth has financed one of the most powerful battle fleets in existence. They have, in the last 100 years, repelled a total of 46 invasions, albeit not all of them carefully-planned. One, from the small, underpopulated planet Snoo, consisted of seven tiny vessels, five of them unarmed and the other two carrying carbine weapons that don’t work effectively in space. It was the shortest war in history – from the point the Snooans declared war to their complete destruction, a total of 2.4 seconds passed.

  The latest battle for control of Almudena has been orchestrated by the Grangons, a giant, powerful, war-mongering race with an unfortunate name that sounds like a relative-repelling spray. The war has thus far been raging on the outskirts of the system for 24 years, and 1.4 billion lives have been lost. Despite their impressive fleet, the Grangons have made little headway in a quarter of a century, having gained control of only the outermost planet in the system. Heavily disappointed by this, they have acted like spoiled children and destroyed four moons in a neighbouring, unpopulated system just to show off their strength of arms. Luckily both races are very proud of their armies and would never consider anything so underhand as sneaking an unmarked warship past the very lax border controls. In fact, trading with Almudena hasn’t been affected at all, and Grangon tourists are welcomed daily on the planet’s surface. Quite why someone like Rogdo is required there I don’t know – the two armies are only concerned with throwing all their might at each other, and refuse to entertain covert ideas such as assassination, infiltration or basic espionage.

  It is, all things considered, a pleasant planet to stay on, and one from which passage will be easy to obtain…providing the Grangons don’t suddenly gain the upper hand.

  “Almudena will be fine,” I say. “Just leave me there.”

  “It will be too easy to connect you with us,” Rogdo tells me. “And after what we’re about to do, you won’t want to be on Almudena.”

  “But…” I begin.

  “Sorry kid, we’ll try to keep you out of the way, but it looks like you’ll be reporting on one more mission aboard the Diablo III.”

  “And what exactly is this assignment?” Tima demands.

  “We’re going to kidnap Princess Larisa.”

  Princess Larisa is exactly how you would expect a princess to look: she is tall and slim, perfect large green eyes, perfect full pouty lips, perfect alabaster skin, a perfect mass of dark wavy hair, and perfect poise from a perfect body covered by the most perfect and ridiculously expensive gowns. In short, one of the most perfectly beautiful women in the galaxy. Perfect.

  But she is exactly how you’d expect a princess to be in other ways too: an unbelievably posh accent, spoilt rotten from birth, and thoroughly convinced of her own superiority. Or as Rogdo succinctly puts it: “She may look damn fine, but she’s one stuck-up rich bitch!”

  She is also very powerful, controlling half of the powerbase of Almudena. The planet has, since it was founded, divided its power between a senate of 300 for day-to-day politics, and a monarchy for the larger affairs of state. With the King and Queen being knocked into a coma in an explosion seven years ago, their daughter Larisa took control at just seventeen. She has never been officially crowned Queen of course, but the populace seem content to allow her regency until such time as her parents recover or pass away. Born to immense wealth, close scrutiny and a protective environment, she became haughty at an early age. Now, she has spent her entire adult years as the de-facto ruler of a stupidly rich planet. Considering the planet’s immense wealth, the populace’s love of their monarchy and her own powerful status, kidnapping Princess Larisa sounds to me like one of the most ridiculous ideas since someone decided to light a camp fire on Pulpine, the planet made entirely from wood.

  Rogdo’s words are met by
blank stares. I am about to put forth the case that surely someone must be taking the piss, when Tima beats me to it.

  “Well, gee, is that all?” she says sarcastically.

  “No, we’ll bomb the senate too.”

  More blank stares. This briefing is rapidly becoming a downtime period for facial muscles.

  “Hah,” I blurt, before slapping my hands over my mouth.

  Rogdo taps his fingertips on the metal table. Whatever he was hoping to accomplish with that activity, it doesn’t alter the blankness of the crew’s expressions.

  “Well?” he says after a lengthy period of time.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Tima pipes up. “You want us to comment on that?”

  “I mean, I like a challenge,” Hiaelia chips in. “But-”

  “That is all this is,” Rogdo points out. “A challenge.”

  “Define challenge,” Bolland demands.

  “Apparently,” begins Tima, “a challenge is slipping unnoticed through an interstellar warzone, breaking into one of the most heavily guarded places in the universe, kidnapping possibly the most powerful woman in the galaxy, destroying the entire planet’s heavily guarded political powerbase, and, trickiest of all, getting out alive.”

  “Well…yeah,” Rogdo offers helpfully.

  “Please drop me off at the nearest asteroid,” I request.

  “Come on, people,” Rogdo continues, exasperated. “What’s the problem? Gronk? What do you say?”

  “Gronk do mission,” is the muscle-mountain’s answer.

  “He’s an idiot,” Sanshar points out. “And I don’t mean that as an insult, just a general fact.”

  “You guys have no idea how easy this is going to be. I’ve got it all worked out.”

  “Yeah?” Tima asks. “Please tell us your plan.”