One Last Flight: Book One Of The Holy Terran Empire

by Carlos Carrasco

  “Oh?”

  “Let it suffice to say that I acquired the Strumpet honestly by way of a less than honest enterprise.” I said.

  “O-kay.”

  “And no one was killed that didn’t have it coming to them,” I added.

  "That slick, girlish figure sure makes her look fast," Drake said, changing the subject as he walked up to the edge of the starboard wing.

  "The Strumpet is pretty fast for an old Class 3 boat," I said, following him. "She goes from zero to C in three point two-five hours and tops out at point seven-six light years per standard day."

  "That's as fast as half the boats in the Merchant Marine fleet," Drake observed.

  "I know," I said.

  Drake pointed to a trio of cylinders centered on the wing. "Magneto outboards?"

  "Yup."

  "Five hundreds?"

  "Six-fifties," I said.

  Drake whistled. "She must be real nimble, your Strumpet."

  "She's not quite as nimble as the Starwings I used to fly but, my Strumpet can dance better than most ships her class."

  Drake bent at the waist to take a look under the ship. "The Strumpet has claws, I see."

  "A twelve torpedo battery," I said. "Don't tell anyone, but she's only carrying seven torpedoes in there. Two of them are duds but one of them has a ten kiloton warhead."

  Drake’s eyebrows rose sharply in surprise at my admission of owning so deadly and illicit a weapon. "That’s insane, not to mention a criminal possession for civilians in most of the civilized galaxy,” he said before assuring me, “but your secret is safe with me."

  "I know. There was never any rat in you Drake, my brother."

  My old partner in crime flashed me a smile. "Does she have any other talents?"

  "Sure," I said. "There's a pop-up railgun just aft of the cockpit and a twenty-four megawatt laser in each wing."

  "Your Strumpet is a dancer and a scrapper," Drake said with a chuckle. The bemused look had returned to his broad face.

  "She's a real renaissance girl, my Strumpet," I said.

  "Indeed," Drake said while passing a hand across the wing. "How many layers of Crysteel sheathing is she wearing?

  "Five," I answered. "And not cheap commercial laminate either, no. Every layer is a military grade ablative lattice."

  "Impressive."

  "Well, in my line of work, you never know when you're going to have to take a beating from plasma cannon," I said. "I had to invest in the heavy duty Crysteel sheathing because her Delos Mark IV Aether Drive can't generate an energy shield without sacrificing speed."

  "I know," Drake said. "That's the problem with the older drives."

  "I had hoped to eventually trade the Mark IV for a Mark VII but… well…"

  Drake nodded in acknowledgement of the unsaid. "Show me the inside."

  "Good idea," I said. "That's where the rum is and I'm going to need to shoot up again. Strumpet! Open up."

  A thunk and a short muffled groaning of gears came from within the ship's hull before the loading ramp lowered with the hiss of hydraulics. I led Drake up the now empty cargo hold.

  "It used to be two decks," I explained. "There was a lounge and a master's quarters up top and a mess hall and three junior quarters down here."

  "Roomy," Drake said. "What kind of tonnage can she haul?"

  "She can carry up to ten tons but I've never hauled more than six," I answered while leading him up the stairs to the gallery. Once on top, I fetched a litre-sized bottle of rum out of one of the storage cabinets that lined the walls of the gallery. I pulled out its cork with my teeth, spat it out over the gallery railing and took a large swig.

  "Cheers," I said, handing Drake the bottle after a heavy exhalation of satisfaction. "It's local and it bites."

  Drake helped himself to an equally generous portion. He groaned satisfactorily. "Yes, spicy indeed!"

  "This way to my quarters," I said and led him through the short, connecting archway. "Be they ever so humble."

  Drake looked around for a bit before saying, "Cozy, but it could use a woman's touch maybe."

  "When I want a woman's touch," I said, taking the bottle of rum back from him. "It's not housekeeping I have in mind."

  Drake laughed. "No, I suppose not. Is that the head?"

  "Sure is," I said. "When you're done, bring one of them chairs to the cockpit with you."

  Drake disappeared into the bathroom and I proceeded forward to my captain's chair. I took another large swallow of the rum and placed the bottle on the deck beside me. I then opened up the case I bought from Jeffro's, loaded a syringe and injected myself. I was removing the tourniquet when Drake entered the cockpit. There was a hint of pity in his eyes and while I might have been offended if he were anyone else, curiously, I was instead touched by his concern.

  Drake placed the chair down in reverse position and straddled it to sit. He picked up the bottle and helped himself to another drink. After I sealed up the case and slid it away, he handed me the bottle and asked, "So what are you going to do, you know, with the time you've got left?"

  I took another drink before answering, "I thought I would hole up in Merry Myra's for a week before shoving back into space."

  "Merry Myra's?"

  "It's a cat house."

  "I see."

  "Best one in the whole OZ," I said, drank and passed the bottle. "You want to check it out?"

  "Thanks, but no."

  “Nicest girls in a thousand light years.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “There’s a couple of them that can give you what might be called a religious experience.”

  “Damnation is a religious experience,” Drake said, handing me the bottle.

  "Had to ask," I said.

  "I appreciate the offer."

  "I wouldn't be a proper host if I didn't," I said returning the bottle to him.

  “It’s very good of you.”

  “Cheery good,” I said. “That’s how we say it on Ramage.”

  “It’s cheery good of you then, but no thank you,” Drake said and took a drink before continuing. "Going anywhere in particular, when you shove off into space?"

  "Yeah, going to fly the Strumpet straight into the giant, burning plasmoid at the galaxy's core."

  Drake's face scrunched up in disbelief. "You'll never make it."

  I took the bottle and a swig before responding. "I'll have you know that I have it on good authority that I in fact have an infinitesimal chance of reaching the core."

  "It's tens of thousands of years to the core," Drake protested.

  "Seventy-nine thousand, to be approximately exact," I said and drank again.

  Drake took the bottle from me, drank and further argued, "You'll be long dead before the ship gets there. If she gets there, which I highly doubt. Even if you only cross paths with micro-meteors, after seventy-nine thousand years, the Strumpet will be whittled down to a shiv. Gael, it's a crazy idea!"

  “Crazy, nuts, highly irrational; I don’t care!” I said, snatching the bottle out of his hand. I took a large gulp of rum and shuddered as it went down. “I don’t want to leave behind so much as an atom of my ass for the galaxy to kiss.”

  Drake pulled the bottle from me gently. “Or you could go see Esty.”

  I gave my head so vigorous a shake that my vision blurred. “I told you already, she’s dead to me.”

  Drake took a sip. “I know what you said. I just think you should reconsider, Gaelic. Go and make peace with Estrella.”

  “Peace!?!” I nearly snorted out the word. “Don’t you realize the only thing that might entice me to see her now is the opportunity to shoot her before I die.”

  “You don’t mean that, Gael. You loved Estrella.”

  “That’s right. Loved,” I said and reached for the bottle. It took a second swipe to connect with it. “Past tense. As in, I loved Esty until she abandoned me; I loved her until she left me to be arrested and be sold into slavery and… and just forget it.�
��

  Drake snatched the bottle from me before I could drink. “Now you’re just being maudlin.”

  I snatched it back. “Stop bringing her up if you don’t like it.”

  “Estrella couldn’t have known what would come of her mistake.”

  “Not the particulars, no. But she knew no good could come of me falling into hands of the FF. So let’s hear no more about her. She’s dead to me.” I took another drink, handed the bottle to Drake and gnawed at my inner cheek in growing irritation.

  “You keep saying that but I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t know why you shouldn’t.”

  “Why did you name this ship, Strumpet?”

  “The name amuses me.”

  Drake barked a derisive laugh. “Come now Gael, who you trying to kid? ‘My Strumpet Blows The Trumpet,’ you and Esty loved that song! You two would shake out a serious shaggy bop every time it played at Demos Dance Hall. Come on. Let’s sing it for old times sake.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  Drake began to sing, “My Strumpet blows the trumpet, she blows the sweetest tune; blows it hotter than highest noon on the hottest day in June… Her reveille is heavenly, she can raise a dead man a-grinnin…”

  Drake cued me to finish the refrain but I just shook my head and chewed my cheek.

  “Why are you being so difficult, Gaelic?” he asked and took the bottle from me.

  “I don’t feel like singing anymore,” I said. “And besides, I would’ve thought that you would frown upon such a raunchy song, what with your new found faith and all.”

  “It’s a little raunchy, yes,” Drake said. “But despite reports to the contrary, baptism washes away original sin, not our sense of humor, my brother.” He took a shot of the rum while deciding on a new tac. A light approaching on the road from Koppolo City mercifully cut that thread of conversation short. “It looks like a motorcycle.”

  “It’s got to be Mook,” I said.

  “Who is Mook?”

  “A drinking buddy.”

  Drake took another swig, looked at the bottle and said, “He better hurry.”

  We passed the rum bottle a couple of more times between us in silence before Mook reached pad number four and roared up the Strumpet’s loading ramp.

  “Fritz!”

  “He sounds really thirsty,” Drake said wryly.

  “Fritz!” Mook cried out again after his bike came to a screeching halt inside the cargo bay.

  I handed Drake the bottle and went aft.

  “Permission to come aboard granted, Mook,” I said from the gallery.

  “Fritz, my man, am I so glad to see you,” Mook’s voice had a frantic edge to it that was clear enough even over the sound of his still idling motorcycle. “I stopped at Myra’s, but you weren’t there. I would’ve called your link but you never know when Bolts is listening. I thought of checking the slum but I couldn’t afford the time to look. Bossman would’ve heard of it and he’d have my eye bronzed for a paperweight.”

  “Well you found me anyway,” I said. “So what’s up?”

  “The Feds, Fritz,” Mook said. “The Feds are coming to commandeer the port!”

  8

  My brain lurched violently towards sobriety, but missing the mark, I nearly face-planted at the end of my run down the steps to the cargo hold. My effort to stay upright propelled me forward further than I would have liked.

  “Whoa there, hotfoot,” Mook said, stopping me with a brawny arm before I could bowl over him and his motorcycle.

  “A Cyclopean!” Drake exclaimed as he stumbled onto the gallery. “You do keep the most exotic company, Gaelic.”

  “Drake, go get your stuff and get down here,” I said over my shoulder.

  “What’s going on, Gaelic?”

  “Just get your things!”

  When Drake retreated through the archway Mook squinted his large eye suspiciously and asked, “Why is he calling you Gaelic?”

  “Never mind that just now,” I said. “What’s this about the Feds?”

  “I don’t know much. Bossman called me up about an hour ago. I was at Buzzard’s Brew Ha Ha just about to cinch the deal with these tourists, twins from Belladora when, like I said, D’Llorros called and told me to get to the port and be ready to offer the FF any assistance they might require.”

  “I’m guessing that he didn’t tell you when they were coming.”

  Mook shook his head.

  “Damn,” I said and followed it up with a half dozen other more choice words. “Strumpet, we’re leaving!”

  The Aether Drive came alive with a soft humming as Drake came down the stairs with his crucifix and box of cigars.

  “Drake, this is Mook. Mook, this is Drake.”

  The two shook hands.

  “You two must trust me when I tell you that you can trust each other,” I told them. “Mook, can you take Drake off my hands until he leaves with the Olympus tomorrow?”

  Mook turned to Drake and asked, “You’re not wanted by the Feds for anything, are you?”

  “No,” Drake said with an emphatic shake of his head.

  “Well then, hop on friend.”

  “Wait,” Drake said and turned to me. “Maybe I should stay. Maybe I can help…”

  “Thanks, little brother, but you can’t,” I said. “I wish you could but you can’t. Not with this, anyway. Besides, you’ve got a son to find and I’m not going that way. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Drake and I stood staring at each other, mute-struck, hard lumps swelling in our throats.

  Drake’s eyes were watering. “I… I don’t know what to say, Gael…”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  Mook looked from one to the other. “Might I suggest goodbye or sayonara, adios or ciao. Just make it quick, whatever you choose. I don’t need our soon-to-be Federation overlords to catch me in the act of giving you a heads up about the change in management. So hurry it up, boys!”

  “Goodbye Drake, my brother,” I said and took his head in my hands.

  “Goodby Gaelic,” Drake said with a hard swallow as he grabbed my shoulders.

  We leaned into each other, forehead to forehead for a long moment. When our heads parted our cheeks were wet with tears. We threw our arms around each other and kissed as brothers for the last time.

  “Go with God, Gaelic.”

  “Thank you Drake. And good luck with your boy.”

  Drake nodded. “You’ll be in my every prayer, big brother.”

  “Thank you, now go!”

  As Drake mounted the bike I turned my attention to the Cyclopean. “Thank you, Mook. Thank you for everything and... goodbye.”

  “We’re not going to see each other again, are we?”

  I shook my head.

  Mook nodded somberly. “Well then, thanks for all the laughs and the scotch. Gaelic is it?”

  “Gaelic of Arkum,” I said offering him my hand. “Gaelic of Aurelius and your friend, Fritz Landsenson.”

  Mook shook my hand. “Goodbye my friend of many names.” The Cyclopean gave me a farewell wink and then slapped Drake’s thigh. “Hang on!”

  Mook opened the throttle in a warning roar. I stepped back as he spun the motorcycle around and shot down the loading ramp.

  The Aether Drive would need twenty minutes to charge up enough energy to lift me into orbit. I decided to invest that time in a quick eyeball inspection of the Strumpet. The port’s ground crew was a thorough outfit, but there were essentials, particularly weapons, I always double checked myself. I went over them quickly and found them in order. A few minutes later I was on top of the Strumpet, tightening one of her scanner dishes into its recessed pocket when I heard the whine of an approaching hover sled.

  I turned to the sound and spotted a line of headlights making their way to the port. The hover sled was in the lead. Behind it a dozen, narrower-set pairs of ground car lights followed. I hurried myself along the ship’s hull to the ladder just aft of the cockpit’s port side. “Stru
mpet, how much time left before we have enough power to reach orbit?”

  “Four minutes and nine seconds remain before the electromagnetic refractors are sufficiently charged to reach orbit.”

  I slid down the ladder. “Be ready to lift off on my command whether we’re fully charged or not, Strumpet. And raise the loading ramp as soon as I am aboard.”

  “Attention ship on pad number four!” The voice came over my wrist band as the approaching vehicles reached the port’s service road. “This is Captain Homer Crichton of the Federation Forces. Power down your ship immediately.”

  “No can do, captain,” I responded. “I’ve got a hot date on Dane and I’m late as it is.”

  “I repeat, power down your ship!”

  “You have no authority here, captain,” I said as I made my way to the rear of the ship, hunched over, under the cover of the Strumpet’s hull. “This is not a Federation planet. Hell, your mere presence here is a treaty violation.”

  “The Ramage Planetary Council has ceded control of its spaceports to the Federation as of 1900 hours,” the captain said as the hover sled made a beeline for the Strumpet’s prow and the ground cars fanned out along the service road to cover my flanks.

  “Well congratulations captain,” I said. “The port is yours. But neither you nor the council can have my ship.”

  “This is your last warning; power down now!”

  “Glad to hear you won’t be repeating yourself!” I cut the connection to Captain Crichton and braced myself to leap onto the ramp. “Strumpet, cover me with the railgun. Start on our starboard. Fire!”

  The railgun popped up from its recessed trench and sprayed high velocity tungsten slugs at a rate of a hundred and eighty rounds a minute. Its high-pitched fzeet-fzeet-fzeet pierced the air. Crouched by the loading ramp, I watched a soldier get torn into three distinct pieces while disembarking from one of the ground cars. A moment later the vehicle he climbed out of exploded into an orange fireball as the blazing streak of slugs found it. The other three cars on my starboard side scrambled to get behind the Olympus’ shuttle. The railgun’s fiery arc of molten metal sawed off the top of one of the shuttles.

  The rattle of rapid fire erupted from my port side. Rounds pinged against the hull above me. The railgun swung to port and fired in response. I waited a beat, grabbed the ledge of the loading ramp and, with a kick, heaved myself onto it. My coordination, impaired as it was, failed me on landing. My trailing foot slipped beneath me and I came down hard on my lead knee. I spat out harsh curses at my drunkenness and the sharp pain as I climbed back to my feet.