Mercenary

by Dave Barsby

  “Drift! Sanshar!” he shouts. “Get us out of here!” He glances behind him, spies Larisa. “Who the hell let her back on board?” he calls, but vanishes without waiting for a response. I too glance at Larisa. She is gasping for air, her eyes wild. I select a visit to the cockpit over trying to calm her.

  When I reach the cockpit, Drift, Sanshar and Rogdo are already in place. The Diablo III has broken its moorings and started powering towards the large exit at the rear of The Comb-Over.

  I have barely been in the cockpit two seconds when the Diablo is violently shaken.

  “Five…no, six…seven enemy craft closing on our position,” Sanshar informs us. The ship is hit again and sways.

  Rogdo grabs the intercom mike and activates it. “Hiaelia, on gun batteries now!”

  “Already on my way,” comes a breathless response.

  The ship lurches to the left. “Jesus!” Drift complains. “They took out a manoeuvring thruster! These guys are good!”

  We hear the Diablo’s own gun batteries open fire, Hiaelia clearly relishing the chance to display her skills once more. I stare at the view out the cockpit window. Drift is handling the heavy traffic with impressive skill, but we are still quite a distance from the exit. Drift has the same thought as I.

  “We’re not gonna make it, not at this rate,” he says.

  “Service duct to starboard,” Sanshar calls. “Twenty degrees south.”

  “I see it,” Drift responds and throws the Diablo into a downward spiral, scything through the traffic towards a tube set into the side wall. The Diablo swoops towards this narrow tube at such a speed it seems akin to threading a strand of cotton through the eye of a needle when the needle’s approaching you at 100mph.

  Suddenly we are inside. The speed of the manoeuvre makes me feel dizzy for a moment. I close my eyes from the view, listening instead to the newly heightened roar of the engines. We aren’t out of danger yet, though, as the ship is still rocked by laser fire.

  “Where exactly does this go?” Drift asks, wrenching the controls as he steers round a bend.

  “All the way outside,” Sanshar answers.

  A terrible thought occurs to me. “Isn’t outside where the construction is going on with all those girders and pipes everywhere?”

  “That’s the one,” Drift exclaims happily. “Hang on, this is going to be fun.”

  Rogdo goes back to the intercom. “Secure all hatches!” he calls. He glances at me. I must look petrified – I certainly feel it.

  “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “When he’s under pressure, Drift is the best there is. It’s just the rest of the time that he’s crap.”

  “Thanks for the confidence booster, Captain,” Drift says. “Here we go.”

  The end of the tunnel is in sight and already there is a web of girders greeting us. I’m not convinced I can stand the view, so I turn my attention instead to the rear view monitor on Sanshar’s console. The craft chasing us are sleek, yellow trident-shaped attack fighters. From what I can tell, three are still in pursuit. Two failed to match Drift’s insane needle-thread manoeuvres through the service tube and two more have become victim to Hiaelia’s sharp-shooting.

  We have exited the tunnel, but the view from the rear camera is even more frightening than the cockpit window as it helpfully displays just how close to hitting the girders we were. I switch views again. Only a third of the new cube’s skeleton is undergoing construction, but that still leaves us with nearly two miles of the maze to cover before open space.

  Drift, to his immense credit, pilots superbly, ducking and diving through the metal tangle with pinpoint accuracy. At times, it seems girders are only two feet clear of the hull. At this speed it seems bat-shit crazy. Why is bat shit deemed crazy anyway? Guano is an excellent fertiliser and can be used to make gunpowder, so what’s mad about that? I digress…

  We’re halfway through the construction maze when an enemy fighter makes the grave mistake of headbutting a girder at top speed. Both fighter and girder crumble, the resulting fiery explosion quickly quashed by the airless vacuum. For a brief moment, there is a feeling of elation, that we outmanoeuvred a smaller, more agile craft. But the elation is short-lived. The fighter’s impact has started a chain reaction. As the girder collapses, it hits another, while the structure it was holding together starts to unfold.

  We try to outrun the chain reaction of collapsing, spinning, floating girders but it is rapidly catching us. When a second fighter succumbs to the debris, we realise our time is up. Open space is in sight, just a few more seconds and we’ll be free, but the cube skeleton is breaking up all around us. Drift spies one promising opening, but a spinning length of thick, weighty pipe is rapidly closing the gap.

  “Come on!” he shouts.

  Rogdo dives for the intercom and uselessly manages to shout “Brace for impact!” one second before we hit.

  The pole rakes across the roof of the Diablo III and impacts strongly against the nose of the landing craft. There is the sound of screaming metal and a jolt so cataclysmic it pitches Drift from his seat. Warning lights beep across the board, sparks fly out of the intercom system and smoke begins to curl around the cockpit roof.

  On the rear view monitor, Sanshar and I watch the battered landing craft and most of the upper airlock float lazily away from us, heading further into the squashed cube skeleton. Amazingly one fighter also made it through the melee, and is currently considering if it is wise to continue its assault after the strains of the previous few minutes.

  But there is one final surprise in store. A girder crushes the nuclear generator that powers all the construction bots, and it has no hesitation in exploding. The explosion itself only vaporises half the construction site before being subdued by the vacuum, but the blast wave, an ethereal blue tinge, grows in strength as it pushes debris towards us. I don’t know why it is tinged blue, but it adds a visual impressiveness that I’m sure will go down well in any movie adaptation.

  “Engage the Roto-Grav!” Sanshar insists.

  “Coordinates?” Drift asks, wafting smoke away from his controls.

  “Anywhere! Just do it!”

  Drift doesn’t need to ask for confirmation that something bad is about to happen. He thrusts the Roto-Grav drive into gear.

  In the few seconds it takes the engine to warm up, we see the blast wave crush the fighter like a paper cup and draw closer to us. Then the ship shoots forward, the view turns to a swirling rainbow and I work extra hard not to be knocked out this time.

  “Okay, off,” Sanshar tells Drift after we have been travelling less than a minute. He reduces the Roto-Grav’s power, then turns it off completely. We are drifting in deep space, no visible planets or moons, the stars just tiny blobs of white ink on a sheet of black.

  Drift blows out his cheeks in relief. Sanshar rests her head against her paws. I personally am too petrified to move.

  “San?” Rogdo asks.

  “We’ll be safe here for the time being,” she responds. “They won’t be able to track us for a while after that EMP blast.”

  “Good, good,” Rogdo breathes. He presses the intercom button. It fizzes and shoots his fingertip with electricity. “God damn…” he begins, but drowns out the rest of his swearing by sucking his finger.

  “San,” he says when he’s finished. “Find everyone else and tell them to meet in the mess hall in five minutes.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” she answers and pads out of the cockpit.

  “Is anyone else thinking ‘what the fuck’?” Drift asks, resting back in his seat. A large cut on his forehead is trickling blood down the side of his face.

  “It crossed my mind,” Rogdo answers. “You two get to the mess hall. I’ll follow in a minute.”

  Talk is subdued in the mess hall as we wait on Rogdo. Tima is treating Drift’s wound, while Dirk and Bolland are trying to best each other in the apparatus-destruction stakes.

  “My lab is all messed up,” Bolland complains. The rest of us are seated w
earily, lacking the strength to even look at each other. “It’ll take weeks to repair.”

  “The galley’s trashed as well,” Dirk points out.

  “Does that mean you can’t cook for us anymore?” Bolland asks him.

  “No, I’ll get it cleaned up.”

  “Damn,” Bolland whispers.

  Rogdo enters the arena, immediately takes his seat at the head of the table.

  “Right, well…” he begins. Tima finishes sticking a plaster over Drift’s cut, and Rogdo patiently waits for her to sit.

  “I think we have a situation,” he continues. “I know this is going to be difficult, but someone out there is trying to kill me and we need to find out who.”

  “It could be any of fifty thousand people, Captain,” Tima points out. “Probably more.”

  “I know. But we need to look for someone with the wealth and power to pull off that little stunt back there, and start checking on the most recent possibilities…”

  He stops mid-sentence and looks towards the corridor. Princess Larisa nervously steps into the mess hall, a large black smudge on her otherwise perfect face. The rest of the crew turn to stare too, making Larisa feel as though she is facing a firing squad. She apologetically steps over to a free seat.

  “You did say everyone in the mess hall,” she mentions.

  “Yeah, well, not you Princess,” Rogdo answers. “So just toddle off now.”

  “I think she should stay,” I say.

  “Well I think she shouldn’t. She’s not a member of the crew.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Good point.”

  “I don’t want to deflate your ego, Captain,” I respond, “but it wasn’t you they were trying to kill. It was her.”

  I am surprised to find this comes as shocking news to everyone present.

  “Her?” Rogdo asks. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because when she ran for the cover of the ship, the sniper shots followed her. When you and I ran, he didn’t shoot.”

  “Is that conclusive proof?” Rogdo snorts.

  “I’d say so,” Hiaelia says. “Being a trained sniper myself…yeah, that’s fairly conclusive. He didn’t even try shooting at me, and I was firing at him.”

  Rogdo stares at Larisa. She is slowly and quietly seating herself with the barest rustle, having thus heard not an iota of the conversation.

  “So it’s all your fault,” he says.

  She looks up, a little unsure. “I…” she begins, but finds nothing else to say.

  “Who wants you dead?”

  “Until a few minutes ago, Mr Flavian, I would have said you.”

  “And now?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Do you know anything someone might want you dead over?”

  “I deal with affairs of state, Mr Flavian. I am privy to information the general public never, and will never, know about. In that respect, I know a lot.”

  “Right.” Rogdo rubs his chin. “So, in translation, lots of people want you dead.”

  “I…suppose that could be a fair assumption, yes.”

  “Wonderful. You’ve just destroyed half my ship, you know that?”

  Larisa wisely remains silent.

  “This is bad,” Tima says after a brief silence.

  “Well, no shit!” Rogdo insists. “We lost the landing craft!”

  “It’s not that. The Princess was in view less than three minutes before the sniper opened fire. Those fighters closed in on us too fast for them to have been scrambled after we made our escape. They knew the ship.”

  “They knew us as well,” I add, directing my comments to Rogdo. “I saw the sniper before, as you were about to fetch supplies. He recognised the three of us. I didn’t mention it at the time because I thought he was a law officer and recognised you from previous bail jumping escapades.”

  “Okay, right,” Rogdo breathes, collating all the data in his mind. “So, they want her dead, probably because of something she knows, they know us and they know this ship. What does all that add up to?”

  “A world of shit?” Drift offers.

  “I think we’re past the witty comments now, and onto proper analysis, but thank you for your contribution.”

  “Hey,” Drift holds up his hands. “Sorry.”

  “What it adds up to,” Hiaelia says, “is that we get her off this tub as quickly as possible and let it be known she is no longer with us.”

  Larisa sighs heavily, despondent. Again she is about to find herself alone in an alien environment, but now being alone isn’t the only problem. There are very real dangers out there, people who want to take her life away, and no one is willing to help.

  “That won’t be enough,” I say, hoping to stall her departure a while longer. Fortunately, my comment accidentally holds some truth, and Tima takes up the baton.

  “That’s right. If the Princess knows something they wish to keep secret, the enemy, whoever it is, cannot take a chance. They will have to presume she told us. And that means they will have to kill us all. Disbanding won’t help, The Comb-Over holds a register on all vessels and all personnel, including us…and including you.” She nods to me. After all I’ve been through, I was five seconds from a happy life, and now I find myself targeted for extermination. It immediately makes me exceptionally moody.

  “Fucking hell,” I utter.

  “Quite,” Tima says. “So now, we all have just the one option open to us that involves staying alive: We have to find out who wants the Princess dead, and we have to prevent them from succeeding by whatever means necessary.”

  “Kill them,” Larisa says. She looks around the group. “Yes?”

  Rogdo nods in clarification. He is looking very sullen. Finally he sighs and slaps his hands on the table.

  “I guess we all know what we need to do first,” he says and rubs his hands across the table. “This is the only ship I’ve owned.”

  “What about Diablos I and II?” I ask.

  “Pets,” he answers quietly. “They were pets.”

  “So, we have to get rid of the ship,” Tima breathes.

  “Guess I don’t need to clean up my lab, then,” Bolland says, relieved.

  “Guess not,” Rogdo answers. “I know a man who does good deals on trade-ins. Lots of new models on offer, plenty of upgrades. Even with all the damage, I should be able to get a fairly decent vessel for this.”

  He looks around, takes special care to inspect the walls and ceiling. Like Diablo I and Diablo II, Diablo III is his pet, his love, his pride and joy.

  “I am sorry,” Larisa says quietly. “I really am.”

  Rogdo looks back down, at her briefly, then at the crew.

  “Drift,” he says with reluctance. “Set a course for Festival.”

  9. FESTIVAL

  Ah, Festival. One of the more well-known planets in our fair galaxy, and one which statistically everyone will visit at least once in their lifetime. I am breathlessly anticipating my first visit.

  The entire planet is covered with grassy fields and lakes. No oceans, no polar caps, not even a single tree. Just a perfectly climate-controlled sea of soft, short, green vegetation interspersed with tranquil expanses of clear, fresh water. That is, if you can see past the spaceships, tents and music stages.

  Festival was founded 327 years ago by a colony of space-roaming hippies. As soon as they landed, the guitars came out and songs of free love were sung, cannabis was smoked and the subject of “Hey man, why don’t we hold, like, a music festival, man?” was broached. Since then, not a single minute has gone by without music being played somewhere on the planet.

  These days, of course, the entire globe is enveloped by bands and music fans, the musical genres split into different land masses. Occasionally, genres blend into one another, but by and large if you land in rock country, you stay in rock country. Festival has gained a reputation as the largest trawling ground for discovering potential music stars of the future. The major problem is actually locating t
he potential stars.

  A few decades after the creation of Festival, it became clear there was a trend developing throughout the planet. With a constant stream of eager musicians from across the galaxy waiting to replace bands when they became tired or were evicted from the planet, line-ups varied considerably from one week to the next, and nobody knew quite when or where their favoured bands would be playing. The only guarantee you would have was that the headlining band would be a major disappointment, and the real talent was to be found in smaller arenas or, better still, nestling between tents jamming to a few friends. A system quickly developed whereby the more popular you became, the larger the stage offered to you, and the less likely people would listen to you. Anarchy briefly ensued. Suddenly interplanetary stars were fighting for the right to play to a group of ten people on a small piece of turf, while the big headlining stage, once the dream of many a musician, became the last port of call before an eviction from the planet and a guarantee their music career was over.

  The first spate of violence quickly followed. Another tradition of the early days of Festival was to collect urine in a plastic bottle then pitch it with venom at the nearest band you disliked. But as the big-name bands used their clout to gain favour in small gigs, the talented low-key bands with a dedicated fan-base found themselves with nowhere to go but centre stage in the large arenas. Fearing betrayal, that their favourite band had sold out and become commercial, the fans reacted with an increasing hatred. The bottles of urine were changed from plastic to glass, urine became acid, bottles became bricks. The Interplanetary Policing Association (now disbanded) was eventually called in to calm the area when fans elected for something a little more potent and started firing rockets at the stages.

  It was shortly after this incident, which left 49 fans and 962 band members dead, that Festival nearly closed for business. Fearing fan retaliation, the star bands refused to play and fled the planet. Small bands were then able to get out of the firing line and back to their small, respectable gigs. Everyone was happy. That is, everyone who could attend one of the small, exclusive gigs. Most of the fan-base of the planet were unable to attend any of these music sessions, and a deficit of star bands left the stage venues empty. Disillusioned, most people fled the star system.