by Dave Barsby
“Bet you we can see the explosion from here,” he says.
“No chance!” Rogdo snorts. “From two hundred miles? A thousand tabs.”
“Deal.” Drift and Rogdo shake hands. My morals start to play at my conscience again – roughly seven hundred people are about to die, an act that will allow the rest of the planet to be conquered, and these two men are betting on the size of the explosion.
Rogdo turns his attention back to the microphone as the view from the bomb breaks the cloud cover. The target is just on the horizon.
“Bomb? How are you? Any damage?”
“Negative damage.”
“And everything is fine?”
“Well…”
“Well what, bomb?” If there is something wrong with the bomb, we are rapidly running out of time to abort the mission.
“Bomb was thinking on the way down here. Bomb is being wasted with this mission. Bomb’s potential is far greater than destroying a carefully-targeted building. Bomb has a far larger yield than 123 tonnes.”
“Now, bomb…what have you done?”
“Bomb has decided to reach its full potential as a bomb and detonate at maximum yield.”
The monitor screen shows the senate building approaching rapidly. The bomb smashes into the front steps of the building with a resounding clang. Two men peer inquisitively from the top step.
Rogdo whispers into the microphone: “Please don’t.”
Bomb does.
The blast wave immediately clears away any cloud cover over the detonation area. The air is visibly pushed apart, even from 200 miles up. The fiery blast quickly follows, a mushroom cloud blossoming into low orbit. The ship is rocked violently as the blast wave hits it. Drift struggles manfully with the navigation controls and the Diablo III limps out of orbit towards the nearest moon. We turn to survey the view when we arrive there. We can determine that the bomb has successfully destroyed the senate building and roughly half the surrounding continent. Albeit a dainty continent, but a land mass all the same.
“Well, that’s a bit awkward,” I say blankly, waiting for some form of emotional response.
“Yes, it is a bit,” Rogdo agrees with me. “My client was down there.”
7. SALES PATTER
As we speed away from Almudena in a great panic, I begin to wonder if I am a bad luck charm or if Rogdo is generally incompetent all the time. Thus far I have witnessed two missions. One held no problems per se, but cost Rogdo three million tabs in fines and a further 80,000 in ship repairs. The second mission has left us with the destruction of a continent and death of some hundred million people on our hands, no payment, more repairs required on the ship, the loss of a crew member, and the gain of a stroppy princess who is now surplus to requirements.
We are half way to the next star system 10.7 light years away when Rogdo comes to a decision and orders the ship turned around. This order causes great consternation among the crew until, giving in to demands, Rogdo explains his actions. Out of pocket and with a surplus princess, Rogdo is hoping to rectify the current situation by meeting with the Grangons. After all, just because one client is dead doesn’t mean there won’t be another potential client waiting in the wings.
It isn’t difficult to locate the main Grangon battle group as it covers nearly half a light year itself. Striking the right area in order to speak to someone in authority is a little trickier, however. Our initial sighting brings around 700 smaller cruisers into view, most of them at best 400-yard vessels, with the lower-class of craft far less powerful than the Diablo III. Nearing our destination, larger craft present themselves in the distance – interplanetary attack vessels ranging from 900-yard frigates to blocky, 10-mile repair ships. As we close we can make out the vague form of a supercruiser, scything across space at a gargantuan 50-miles. These ships, of which only 10 exist, are some of the largest and most powerful vessels in the galaxy, capable of sustaining 80% systems damage. It is these supercruisers that destroyed the four moons in the neighbouring star system via a ten hour repeated barrage of its huge cannons. The Diablo III can safely fly down the barrel of one of these cannons.
The communications network of the Grangons obviously needs some fine tuning, because as we are approaching the initial flotilla, we are hailed by 52 different ships at once. Unable to understand a single word, Rogdo decides to let the hail pass by unanswered. It is, in my estimation, a very dangerous move when we are surrounded by firepower equivalent to the energy of 20 stars.
The second hailing attempt has whittled down to six ships, and Rogdo decides this is a respectable number to communicate with.
“This is the Diablo III. I’d like to speak to the man in charge,” he says unsubtly.
Four ships respond, each with a different answer.
“Any chance I can speak to just one of you?” Rogdo asks. “I can’t understand a damn word at the moment.”
We await a response. None is forthcoming. Obviously the four ships still in communication with us are arguing over who gets sole comms rights. We finally get a response after two minutes, during which time we’ve already drifted past a third of the smaller vessels in the fleet. The supercruiser looms large on the horizon [okay, technically, space doesn’t have a horizon…]
“This is the Battle Skiff Oberon Smells Of Pee. Please cut your engines and repeat your request.”
“Battle Skiff Oberon Smells Of Pee?!?” Rogdo responds with incredulity.
“Named after our previous Captain. We didn’t like the last name the ship had.”
“What was that?”
“Pink Daisy. Now, please repeat your request.”
“Ah, yes, I’d like to talk to someone in a high place of authority. I have a business proposition for them.”
“Please relay your proposition to me and I will pass it on to the relevant authorities.”
“I’d prefer to talk to the relevant authorities personally.”
“And I’d prefer to fire a nuke up your ass, but we all have to follow orders. The proposition, please.”
“You have some serious anger issues, you know that?”
This is rapidly turning into a joke. It seems as though every time Rogdo speaks on the ship’s comms he starts an argument. What is most surprising is with whom he starts the argument. The Pilatara border control could be forgiven if it wasn’t because he refused to say a silly password. The argument with the bomb was somewhat surreal, but it wasn’t entirely Rogdo’s fault. But now he is arguing with a fleet of 50,000 warships over a minor difficulty.
“My therapist is fully aware of my issues, Sir. What you are not yet aware of is that we have orders to destroy any unidentified craft that may pose a threat to the fleet.”
“Do we look like we could take on your battle fleet?” Rogdo demands.
“We have studied this type of scenario, and yes you do. One shot directly into the third engine of the supply ship The Horror, The Horror and you could start a chain reaction that will destroy half the entire fleet.”
“Which one is The Horror, The Horror?”
“The triangular vessel to your port with a sickle-shaped bridge.”
“Oh, yes,” Rogdo answers. “I see it. Thanks for the tip.”
The comms are silent. Rogdo sighs, rubs his forehead then turns and shrugs at us. We feel we have no option but to shrug back. The comms crackle back into life.
“Dammit.”
They are silent again. Drift raps his fingers on the control console.
“What do we do now?” he asks.
“We could always fire a shot at that engine and see if he was telling the truth,” Tima says. “I don’t think we’re going to have any success here.”
“No, no,” Rogdo insists. “Just be patient. They’ll get back to us. They have to. I’m not having that damn woman on my ship a moment longer.”
“And what if they don’t want her?” I ask.
“Don’t get awkward,” I am told. “Or we’ll sell you as well.”
The
speaker pops back into life with a hiss. Rogdo breathes a sigh of relief. It is a few seconds before there is a voice.
“Hello?” the speaker says.
We hear another voice, barely audible and obviously some distance from the microphone. “Take your finger off the button when you want them to speak, Sir.”
“Oh, right,” comes the louder voice. “I am about to take my finger off the button so you can speak,” it says.
The speaker pops again and the hiss disappears.
“Ooh, we’ve got a bright spark here,” Drift says.
“Well, hello there,” Rogdo begins, chatty. “This is the Diablo III. You are speaking to Captain Flavian. To whom am I speaking?”
We are treated to another few seconds of hiss before the voice reappears. “Hello Captain. I am Vice Admiral Yo-gong…” he then clicks his tongue. Rogdo looks at us for clarification, but we are unsure if that is part of his name or not.
“Well, Vice Admiral Yo…thingy, I have a very exciting proposition for you that could end this war in ten seconds flat.”
The voice on the speaker sounds a little distant – the Vice Admiral is speaking to the other person again. “Did you tell them about that supply ship’s engine?” he asks.
“No, Sir,” comes the other voice. “I believe the Oberon Smells Of Pee did.”
“Yes?” the Vice Admiral asks us nervously. “What is your proposition?”
“We’re currently having a sale on important prisoners of war. We have in our possession a Princess of Almudena in good condition on special offer.”
“Oh? Yes? That sounds jolly good.”
“Let me tell you, Sir, this is no ordinary princess. She has the ability, in the right hands, to cease all hostilities in this area, and provide the buyer with a complete and unquestioned victory.”
“Well, I suppose that would be nice, though we do so enjoy waging war. So tell me, how would you like to hand the Princess over?”
“I suggest you transport to my vessel with ten million tabs and we make the exchange right now,” Rogdo answers.
“Ah, erm, ten million tabs, you say?”
“Nine.”
“Yes, well-”
“I like you, Vice Admiral. For you, eight.”
“Well, that is very kind of you, I must say, but I am afraid we are unwilling to pay for said item, interesting though the offer is.”
Rogdo rubs his chin in thought. It is starting to seem that Tima was right – this is going to be a waste of time.
“Okay, if you don’t have many tabs, what can you bargain with?”
“I’m sorry, Captain, I believe you have misunderstood me. We are not willing to bargain anything. If you wish to hand us the Princess in good faith, you will always be welcome in the star systems we control. If not, I’m afraid we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“Wait a minute!” Rogdo demands, panicking. “This can end the war! You will have control of Almudena! You will save millions of Grangon lives!”
“But it’s not really a fair way to wage war, is it Captain. It is a little underhand and sneaky, you must admit that.”
“It’s a bloody war! What’s fair about blowing each other up for a few diamonds?”
“Thank you, Captain for coming to us with this offer, but we do not accept cold-calling salesmen in these parts. Goodbye.”
The speaker goes dead. I don’t expect it to spring into life again.
“Five million,” Rogdo calls into the microphone. “Final offer.”
There is no response. Ever the optimist, Rogdo insists we give the Vice Admiral some time to think it over. He finally admits defeat after ten minutes drifting lazily among the Grangon battle fleet.
“Shit,” he mutters. “I don’t think they’re going to go for it.” He glances at us. “Tell me honestly, was it me?”
“Oh, no,” Drift insists.
“You had me,” Tima concurs. Rogdo looks to me for final clarification.
“I just wish I had ten million tabs to spend,” I tell him. Whether Rogdo was joking when he told me his ego was tender or not, I feel this is not the time or the place to test the waters. Supplicate him with compliments, because at the moment he is still out of pocket, carrying an extra, unwanted passenger and unable to negotiate a seemingly simple transaction.
“Now what?” Tima asks.
Rogdo looks very grumpy. “I suppose it would be wrong to shove her in an airlock and pop the hatch,” he says.
“Good God, you can’t do that,” I insist.
“You can keep her company if you want,” he tells me, an idle threat if ever I heard one (and I’ve heard seventeen in my life so far).
“It’s not the end of the world, Rogdo,” Tima tells him. “So you’re a little out of pocket. It’s not as though you’ve lost all your money. We can just drop her off somewhere. It isn’t a problem.”
Rogdo sighs, then reluctantly nods.
“Drift,” he says. “Take us out of here.”
“Destination?”
“Anywhere.”
Eleven hours into our wander, we happen upon an unlikely coincidence. Rogdo has been scanning star charts and databases for the nearest safe, populated area to relieve himself of both Larisa and myself. His conclusion startles even him – The Comb-Over is just three days away. It is lying in completely the opposite direction to which it was previously travelling. About to set off on its cruise after we left it, The Comb-Over made a sudden about turn and docked with a construction vessel to add another level of cubes to its existing habitation. It will be docked and undergoing refurbishment for seven months. It is fitting that I should end my journey exactly where I started it. Rogdo and Tima immediately set about devising a plan to sneak up to The Comb-Over and smuggle the Princess and I aboard – after all, word of the kidnapping is surely out by now and it wouldn’t do to brazenly knock on the front door.
Another surprise is in store, this time for the entire crew, when Sanshar catches an interesting news bulletin the next day while casually scanning the galactanet. She calls us to the mess hall, sets up a monitor and pipes the feed through.
The news network is one of those unidentifiable pieces of low-key trash that overemphasises minor points and always ends with a sickly sentimental story. The pudgy newsreader has applied too much fake tan and unwisely wears a tight, garish pink suit jacket with a floral skirt. The image behind his head is of a bluey-greeny-whitish planet.
“Lives have been thrown into chaos as tragedy struck the gold and diamond mining planet of Almudena yesterday. In the space of just one short hour, two events rocked this world to its very foundations. First, it was declared that the reigning monarch, Princess Larisa, had abdicated and fled on a cargo vessel to escape the pressures of life in the spotlight. Less than one hour later, a particle accelerator power station in the small country of Ashaa malfunctioned and exploded. The explosion was devastating, destroying most of the buildings in a 1,500-mile radius, including the Almudena Senatorial Assembly Rooms. Already suffering from the loss of the reigning monarch, the citizens of Almudena were also forced to come to terms with the loss of all but one of their senators. Almudena authorities have so far been unable to contact the surviving senator, Vitari, who has been holidaying in the Serren Cluster, and with Princess Larisa also out of contact, the citizens of Almudena are leaderless. They have made this heartfelt plea for the senator and the Princess to return home as soon as possible.”
Sanshar switches off the transmission just as an ashen-faced father with a crying moppet readies to make his plea. We are all left speechless.
“So,” Sanshar breaks the silence. “There we have it. The Princess abdicated, a power station exploded and a lone senator survived.”
“Holy crap,” is the first response from the table, provided by an ever reliable Drift.
“Well that’s an unexpected development,” Tima chips in.
Rogdo starts laughing. “That is…exquisite,” he chortles. “Absolutely exquisite.”
/> The crew look at him puzzled, unsure if his persistent optimism is a bit misjudged this time.
“Don’t you see?” he says. “We’re in the clear. We’ve done nothing. We don’t need to smuggle the Princess anywhere. We can just boot her off the ship.”
“That’s a point,” Tima says. “But won’t she tell the authorities?”
“Tell her we knew about the explosion.”
“Doesn’t that just incriminate us more?”
“No, tell her we knew there was going to be an attack on the power station. We kidnapped her to get her to safety.”
“And the reason why you are going to drop her off on The Comb-Over with me rather than take her home is because..?” I say.
Rogdo looks at me. “You’ll think of something as you go.”
“I’ll what of what?!?” I ask in horror. Surely he isn’t saying what I think he’s saying.
He is.
“Talk to her, explain things to her. You’re the writer and writers have good imaginations. I’m sure you’ll be able to make shit up on the spot.”
“Me? I’m not going. I’m not talking to her. Look at my face.”
“Ah, don’t worry. She’ll be calmer now. We haven’t fed her for two days.”
“You what?!?”
“She’s probably wasted to the bone by now,” Hiaelia mentions. “Wasn’t much meat on her in the first place.”
“Take her a tray of food,” Rogdo tells me. “She’ll listen to you then.”
“This is…” I pause to construct a proper sentence. “Unthinkable! I’m not a member of this crew! I’m not one of the people who kidnapped her! You lot don’t even want me on this ship, but all of a sudden, when you need me…”
“That is why you’re ideal,” Tima explains, latching on to the idea that if I am persuaded to talk to the Princess, she won’t have to. “You two have so much in common.”
“You mean as in, neither of us are criminals and you don’t want either of us here? It doesn’t really make us siblings, to be honest.”
“Will you do it?” Rogdo asks.
“No!” I insist.