Interstellar Mercenary Read online

  Serenopolis was one of those cities that had survived and remained free of any outside control by relocating to a different star system, courtesy of the wandering asteroid and then trading as widely as possible. That their system was being blockaded by pirates would be a great cause for concern. Still, their problem, not mine, I thought, and watched the approaching city with awe. The host asteroid was a long, elliptical, rock. Not too deep, but still deep and wide enough to accommodate both the city and the reactors that supplied it with power and air. Above the tall spires and turrets of the main buildings gleamed the tell-tale sheen of a major forcefield, holding in the artificial atmosphere and protecting the city from space-borne debris. At one end of the ellipse, outside of the force-field screen, lay the space dock. Several freighters lay near low buildings that I assumed to be warehouses or workshops, and set below the expanse of rock was the section that was devoted to the fighting ships. I could see another StarDestroyer, rather an old one by any standards, and a number of scout ships of a different class to, but about the same age as, my ageing Speedbird.

  The StarDestroyer I had been following suddenly puffed a cloud of smoke from the forward manoeuvring jets, and slowed rapidly. I moved on ahead, and after selecting one of the many vacant pads on the landing field, made a manual approach towards the end of the rock.

  “Speedbird, this is Serenopolis Control, acknowledge.” The voice of the controller sounded bored, even filtered through the comms system into my flight deck.

  “Serenopolis Control, Speedbird receiving. Request permission to land at a vacant pad.”

  “Speedbird, Serenopolis Control. There is no reported traffic and several free pads. Do you require commercial or maintenance?”

  “Commercial.”

  “Then maintain course and speed to the outer beacon, and then turn inbound. You will see lights flashing on the apron, guiding you into the appropriate vacant pad.”

  “Speedbird, instructions copied.” I acknowledged and started frantically looking for the outer beacon. It wasn’t marked on my elderly charts, but of course Serenopolis itself had moved a long distance since they were drawn up and things were bound to have changed. There was a beacon, floating in space at some distance from the end of the asteroid, and flashing a bright message in morse code. I didn’t try to decode it – it could have been anything from a song lyric to something abusive, out here in the Badlands of the galaxy. I reduced speed and rounded the beacon, aiming directly at the landing field. There was a sequence of flashing lights on the spaceport apron, pointing at one of the several landing pads. I juggled attitude and speed, continuously losing height. Landing on an asteroid without an atmosphere was a lot different to setting down on a planet’s surface. For a start there was no friction or drag from the atmosphere to slow the landing spacecraft, and the manoeuvring jets had to do the job instead.

  The Speedbird lost forward speed, and by the time we crossed the threshold of the spaceport and were drifting across the apron towards the designated commercial landing pad, we were barely moving. I dropped the landing gear, and we touched down. I cut the engines, and even as they started to make the familiar crackling noises as they cooled, a hatch in the commercial warehouse opened and an airtight walkway slid across the landing pad like a questing tree root. Finally it located the hatch of the Speedbird and latched onto the hull, making a tight seal. I turned off the power to the flight console and left the flight deck. My manifest documents hung on a hook near the hatch, so without bothering to change into a fresh flight suit for the occasion, I hurried down the spiral staircase to the entry port. The tell-tales on the control panel near the hatch showed that the walkway had made a safe seal, and that I would not need a space suit. I grabbed the cargo manifest and opened the hatch.

  There was a hiss and a wisp of breeze as the air pressures merged, then (pausing only to lock the Speedbird’s door behind me – cargo dockers have been legendary for pilfering since they were first unloading copper, sheep, wool, and furs from trading ships on Homer’s wine-dark seas in Ancient Greece) I walked along the access tunnel. It was empty, which made me a little nervous. Long, dark and apparently empty tunnels have a bad reputation for a good reason.

  Despite my reasonable suspicions, nothing jumped out to attack me or impede my progress or worse still, try and rob me. The access tunnel turned to the left and then ended abruptly in a hatch. As I approached, it slid open to reveal three armed guards. I stopped walking on the spot, but the guards beckoned me forward. I held up the cargo manifest as a sort of Diplomatic Immunity, but the guards seemed friendly.

  “You are expected, Mr Russell. Please come this way.”

  “My name’s Starker,” I pointed out. “It’s on the manifest and the Purchase Orders.”

  “Of course it is, Mr Russell. No discourtesy was intended.”

  You have probably never been an interstellar smuggler: so just for your information, I hardly ever give out my real name. I use aliases, false names – Starker being a favourite. In fact I clearly remembered that I had called myself Starker when setting up this shipment. Using the surname of the Imperium’s Chief Enforcer might seem to be a bit cheeky, even a bit risky. However, I had found that the upside was that a certain class of person did tend to treat me with a little more caution, just in case I might be related to the most feared man in the galaxy. This lot knew who I really was: that worried me. But I had no options at that point, so I followed the cheerful guard down the corridor away from the space dock, and his subordinates followed me.

  We passed through a couple of security doors and were clearly now in an area not easily accessed by the general public. My sense of caution increased.

  “Nearly there, Mr Russell.” The guard pushed his way through another unlocked door. I glanced around the door frame and the walls, and there were the security cameras I expected. No doubt there were other, more deadly, things concealed too. I heard a brief whine as one camera twisted slightly to follow me.

  “Through that door, please. The President will see you at once.”

  I swallowed hard and opened the indicated door. To my surprise, it opened into a proper office. There was a carpet on the floor, bookshelves lining the walls and a very upmarket desk. The guard slipped into the room behind me and closed the door. Snatching a glance, I saw that the door we had used was actually concealed as a bookcase. Those who did not know of its existence would never suspect that the top politician in Serenopolis had a quick, private, route to the space dock. Always be suspicious of a politician who keeps a handy escape route, someone once wrote – advice I decided to keep fresh in my mind.

  Behind the desk sat an overweight man with a closely trimmed beard. He wore a seriously expensive suit and gold rimmed glasses. This had to be the President. It was. The President rose, waving me to a visitor’s chair. “Mr Russell, I’m very pleased to see you.” He sat down again, and I followed suit. Always be suspicious of a politician who is polite to you – that’s my advice, given freely, from experience. Usually bitter experience, at that.

  “My name is Starker, as you know when your man approached me to bring in this consignment.”

  “Mr Russell, we know who you are. Just as we know that Colonel Starker has become aware of your appropriation of his name and reputation.”

  I pretended that I didn’t understand, and said so, trying to look as confused as I could.

  The President drew a breath and looked exasperated. “He knows you like to use his name and he is getting annoyed about it.”

  I gave in. It was clearly pointless to carry on the pretence. “If you know my name, then I expect that you know he is already pretty annoyed with me anyway. Are you going to hand me over to him or something?”

  “No.”

  I was extremely relieved. And, of course, even more suspicious, given that there was still the small matter of an outstanding Galactic Arrest Warrant that Colonel Starker had issued against me. It followed me around the galaxy like a bad smell.

  “Col
onel Starker is a powerful man in the Imperium. But not here in Serenopolis.” The President’s tone was confident, but I did wonder if he had got Colonel Starker’s permission to hold that point of view.

  “If you say so. Now, about my cargo?”

  “Yes, Mr Russell. We will arrange for the unloading without delay.”

  “And my money for the delivery of the cargo?”

  The President reached for the computer monitor positioned on one side of his desk and twisted it round so that I could see the screen. “Here we are. Let my men have the access code for your cargo, and I’ll hit the button that sends the funds to you.”

  I told the President the code for the Speedbird’s door, and he was as good as his word. I felt a little richer seeing the funds going to my account.

  “Would you like to earn a little more?”

  “Of course.”

  The President rubbed one of his double chins, or maybe both of them. “How secure is smuggling as a living, Mr Russell?”

  “Smuggling? I prefer to think of it as independent trading.”

  The President waved one hand dismissively. “Whatever. Do you feel that you have a secure future? With Colonel Starker on your tail?”

  I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Why did this overweight, overblown President keep on about the man who wanted me dead? (To be fair, it wasn’t like it was an obsession with me or anything. Colonel Starker wanted a lot of people dead and was quite happy for everyone to know about it. One of my minor concerns as a smuggler, sorry, independent trader, was that one of my customers might turn out to be one of Colonel Starker’s Black Ops men trying to trap me and turn me over to their boss.)

  “I thought not. Mr Russell, we would like to make you an offer.”

  “One that I can’t refuse, I suppose?”

  “Of course you could refuse it! We are not savages, Mr Russell. Unlike the dreaded Colonel, of course, who undoubtedly is. No, we would like to offer you a job.”

  “A job? What sort of job?”

  “One we think will appeal to you. Mr Russell, we have traced a lot of your history and know a lot about you. We think that you would be a perfect fit to help us cope with a problem. For that, we will pay you well in both prestige…”

  My expression probably revealed my opinion of that. The President smiled, somewhat sardonically, I thought.

  “…and hard cash,” the President continued. “And we might even overlook the issue of the Galactic Arrest Warrant.”

  “Now I’m listening.”

  The President pressed an intercom button on a comms console beside his computer, and spoke into the microphone. “Ask Captain Hobbs to come in, please.”

  There was a silence, then an official door opened and a tall woman wearing a generic fight suit came in and gave the President a casual salute. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take a seat, Captain. Now, Mr Russell. Serenopolis has a small but so far effective space defence force. But what we do not have is a combat experienced leader for that force. Captain Hobbs here is our most experienced pilot, but – and here I hope she will excuse me if I appear to be critical, that is not my intention – she was trained as a commercial pilot and has no professional combat training. Serenopolis has grown and expanded in the last ten years. We have therefore attracted the interest of competitors and we find that we need to expand our defence force and seek a commander for that force who has a military background, and also a reputation for -shall we say some independence of thought? Your name was suggested to us.”

  “By Colonel Starker?”

  The President sniggered, which alarmed me. “Someone a bit worse.”

  “Worse than Colonel Starker?”

  “Oh yes. His name is Colonel Rosto. I believe that you know him, too?”

  “Oh yes.” I knew Rosto too well. I couldn’t think offhand of a more devious, unreliable and untrustworthy individual.

  “My my, Mr Russell. You are well connected with the darker sides of the Galactic Powers, aren’t you? Colonel Starker of the Imperium’s Black OPs and Colonel Rosto of The Free Union’s Covert Operations Corps. Sorry, I meant of course the Diplomatic Corps as The Free Union tends to be a bit dishonest about the extent of their dishonesty.”

  “What exactly do you want of me?”

  The President nodded at Captain Hobbs, who twisted around in her chair to look at me.

  “We need someone with trained combat experience to lead the Serenopolis Defence Force. Because of the President’s commercial success, we have attracted the attention of some pirate groups. The advice of an experienced professional would be invaluable in combatting them.”

  “And for that, we would be willing to pay you well, Mr Russell,” said the President. “And, if it appeals, you would of course be entitled to describe your post in any way you feel. Colonel; commander; even admiral should you choose. You were a captain, I believe? This is an opportunity for career progression that may not come your way again.”

  I was silent.

  “And a financial opportunity that you might not experience again, too.”

  Ah, the magic words.

  “I’m not very interested in rank. But the money?”

  The President smiled. I thought that there was more than a hint of satisfaction in that smile. “Excellent. Whatever you entitle your rank, the salary will be the same, of course.”

  “Admirals command a higher rate than a commander,” I suggested.

  “True. But usually have more ships and men under their command, Mr Russell. Now, do we have an agreement?”

  I thought deeply. Trade was good, and I had been making ends meet quite happily recently. But the chance to be more settled for a while might suit me, and the money was very good. “One Year Standard, renewable?” I suggested.

  “That suits us well,” agreed the President. “Now, Captain Hobbs will lead you to your new quarters, and perhaps we can meet again in the morning? I will introduce you to the Council at that time, so please…” he paused to sniff slightly “…make yourself very presentable.”

  Captain Hobbs abandoned her chair, saluted the President in a way that I found vaguely nauseating, and beckoned me out of the office via an official door rather than the concealed version I had entered by. As I left, I cast a glance back at the President. He had returned to examining a screen on his desk monitor, and to all intents ignored me.

  “This way, sir,” she said.

  Being addressed as ‘sir’ was a shock.

  “The President has allocated you quarters and an office close to space dock.”

  “That’s nice of him.” I was still unsure if I had made the right decision and felt a bit uneasy about my new status.

  Captain Hobbs led me down a bland corridor, lit by bright globes placed at regular intervals. The corridor curved and twisted, and the suspicious part of me wondered why that should be when all it needed to do was to run directly to the space dock. I filed the question away for future research. Escape routes are always useful.

  “We are based here,” said Captain Hobbs as she ushered me through a doorway. “On that side of the corridor we have sleeping quarters for the crews, and on this side we have briefing rooms, your office and quarters and at the far end the Marine Guards have a small facility. They provide security on the ground in regard to the commercial traffic. The docks and maintenance are beyond them.”

  She strode ahead of me, confident and assured, to an unmarked door. “Here is your office. Your sleeping quarters are behind the office, in case you feel the need to sleep on the job.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Captain Hobbs smiled, but without much humour. I suddenly wondered if she was unimpressed that a stranger had been brought in over her head. I decide to take charge, and pushed the door open. “Come in to my office then, Captain.” Her expression seemed to harden for a moment, and I was convinced. She was envious, and annoyed. A dangerous combination in a subordinate. I would have to watch her. But as she was quite attractive, that shouldn’t be a hards
hip, I thought.

  I waved her to a chair. “Exactly what ships are in the Defence Force?” I asked.

  “There are three Resolven class StarDestroyers, three Centurion class StarDestroyers, and seven Spartan space scouts. Then we have access to a few commercial shuttles if we need them, but we have to pay for them out of a very meagre budget so tend not to bother.”

  “Resolven Class ships? Are they still space worthy?”

  “Maintenance keep signing them off. But also the President told me that they were all we could get our hands on.”

  “Right. Hopefully the pirates operating round here won’t have anything to match them anyway.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  I stared at Captain Hobbs. “Pirates don’t usually invest in StarDestroyers.”

  “But some of the other Space Cities do.”

  “I know there is some rivalry. I’ve been trading round this Sector long enough to pick that up.”

  “Rivalry!” Captain Hobbs laughed. “There’s a power struggle going on. Trust me, I’m good enough to cope with a few pirates. It’s part of the commercial pilot training courses round here. But some of the other cities have started hiring mercenaries into their space fleets, and so the President thought it was time to do the same.”

  I looked at her with some shock. Captain Hobbs drew herself to something approaching attention and gave me a derisory salute, before leaving. I thought that I was getting a job, and it turned out that I was a mercenary, a soldier of fortune. Well, the pay wasn’t bad – perhaps there would be a way to make a fortune.