Death is Our Business The new Black Polygon on his uniform made delicious little dingling noises as Viscount Enning strode towards the platform where Patrol Ship VE 112 was being prepared for border patrol. He was a little late, for the celebrations after the award ceremony had dragged on into early morning. For him, anyway. It didn’t matter; he was the vessel’s Commander and nothing happened without him. His crew was waiting for him by the ship, an Imperial Courier. Although that was the standard class of vessel for border patrol in the most volatile systems, it again struck him that it was high time he be given command of a crew larger than the two who were now straightening their backs as they saw him approaching. He didn’t bother to return their salutes. ”Duval damn it, another damned recruit. How many such snotty-nosed little brats am I supposed to handle? All right, kid, what’s your name?” ”Sir Glington, Mylord.” ”How many missions?” ”Two, Mylord.” Pregnant pause as Enning pretended not to believe his ears. ”Two?” ”Yes, Mylord.” Enning offered the young Sir a long, empty stare and turned abruptly to enter the Courier through the already open hatch, without acknowledging the presence of Squire Parq, who was also standing there. As he always did before embarking on a mission, he touched his begloved left hand to the circular symbol emblazoned on the hull by the entry hatch. It was the official seal of the 6th Protectorate Border Guards with the unit’s ”Death Is Our Business” slogan. As a form of superstition, it seemed to work; six sensationally successful missions in a row were proof enough. He made his way to the cockpit and dropped heavily down in the Commander’s chair, immediately leaning over to open a storage compartment in the bulkhead beside it. ”Parq, you Duval damned moron, where the hell is my liquor? Didn’t I tell you to fill up the stores?” ”Yes, Mylord,” the Squire Parq said, ”and in the cargo hold-” ”Just shut the hell up and go get it,” the Viscount interrupted. ”And be quick, or it’s going on your record!” Squire Parq marched quickly out of the cockpit and brushed past Sir Glington who was just entering through the narrow hatch. The new crewmember sat quietly down by the astrogation console behind the two pilot seats. Enning gave the instruments a quick scan, decided that the ship was ready for takeoff and initiated the departure sequence. Then he pressed the Executive-key which in a millisecond analyzed the DNA in a skin-cell on his finger to verify that it was indeed the Commander who was authorizing the order to drop the moorings and power up the drive. Muffled, metallic thuds made the whole vessel shudder as strong electromagnets shot heavy bolts through highly polished metal tubes in the lock mechanisms of all the outward hatches, effectively sealing the ship up completely. It could now only be opened when it returned to base, or if it was damaged beyond hope and had to be evacuated; whichever happened first. Then the high-pitched whine of big turbines rotating faster and faster in near friction-less casings permeated the cockpit. This was a crucial moment in the initiation procedure; if the two massive turbines in either drive-pod didn’t accelerate at exactly the same rate, the surplus of rotational momentum on one side could topple and destroy the craft within a fraction of a second and conceivable take the whole station with it to its doom. Enormous forces were being invoked that would remain at play for the whole patrol, except that once out in the vacuum of space, the turbines made no noise and just did their job without drama. Here inside the air-filled hangar, the drama was considerable, and any unprotected person present would go deaf instantaneously and quite possibly perish in a very painful way. Squire Parq stumbled into the cockpit, eyes wide and a plastic one-liter container of 60% alcohol in each hand. ”About time,” Enning grumbled. ”What the hell do you think you’re doing, Parq? The turbines are spinning up, and the co-pilot is not in his seat? There’s a court-martial in this for you. Pray I don’t report it. Give me the canisters.” Enning placed one container in the little compartment and opened the other, immediately putting it to his lips and taking a hefty mouthful of the clear liquid. Parq gave the instruments a quick look and frowned. ”Mylord, was the hangar evacuated when you initiated the power-up? The indicator shows four ground crew still in the hangar.” ”What? Those instruments need a check-up. That’s something you should have done a long time ago, Parq, while the ship was in dock. Are you sending us out with faulty instruments? What else have you neglected? Am I gonna have to report you right now?” ”Mylord, I-” Enning leaned over to stare ominously at the Squire, his mouth only centimetres from Parq’s face. He lowered his voice. ”One day, very soon, I’m not going to be able to stick up for you and your idiocies, and then there’ll be a nice firing-squad for you. Except you’re not noble, so there’ll be a gallows, more likely. Just shut up and take us out, Parq. Duval knows you need all the stick-time you can get.” The hangar doors opened slowly into space, revealing the row of green navigational beacons that showed the way to the safe hyperspace point. Four shapeless, human-sized objects tumbled past the Courier, sucked from the hangar out into space. They promptly disintegrated as the station’s anti-asteroid cannon grid fired high-energy bolts at them lest they collide with any of the ships in the area. Parq engaged the thrusters and the powerful patrolship eased slowly into motion, out of the brightly lit hangar. The scanner showed multiple contacts around the busy military station in orbit around Gonzales Colony. Supply vessels, repair craft, personnel transports, munitions carriers, small and medium-sized fighters, mine layers, surveillance ships, probe deployers and every other kind of space ship in the Imperial Navy were zooming around in a seemingly chaotic pattern. Due to its proximity to Federal space, this was one of the Navy’s busiest bases, bettered only by the gargantuan main base in Facece, just a few light years away. In the distance the massive shapes of the two new Hengist-class battleships obscured the stars behind them, too large by far to fit in the hangars. Not yet operational, they were still considered to be under construction and were surrounded by eerie auras of dim lights where engineers were still working at their hulls. There was a line of ships on approach to the hyperspace point, slowly gliding through space, bow to stern, waiting to get their turn to jump. Parq maneuvered the Courier into the queue. ”All right, Parq, go through the pre-jump checklist,” Enning growled. ”You just can’t seem to get the grip on that.” ”Yes, Mylord. Turbine delta-v is 0.002 percent, within margins. Landing gear is up. Military fuel is sufficient for seven maximum distance jumps. Internal fuel tank is 99 percent full. There are no alerts. There are no warnings. Drive systems are gree-” ”All ships stand by,” Traffic Control suddenly interrupted on the emergency audio channel. ”All ships in hyperspace approach will stop and await instructions.” Parq immediately fired the retro thrusters to bring the Courier to a halt. ”What on Topaz is going on?” Enning grunted. ”What did you do, Parq?” ”Nothing, Mylord. Traffic Control orders. There’s a high-priority ship coming through, I believe.” ”Well, you’d better get us going again in a Duval damned second or you’ll be in trou-” He fell abruptly silent as a small, arrowhead shape zoomed past at breakneck speed, bypassed the entire line of ships in a matter of seconds and left a pulsating, blue cloud of ionized gas in its wake as it entered hyperspace. ”What the hell was that?” Enning demanded into the awe-induced silence. ”A Merlin, Mylord,” Parq said. ”A captured Federal fighter, slightly modified and in use by our Intelligence units. Very rare. Didn’t know 6th even had one.” ”Well, why would we tell you? It’s not like you’re aristocracy or anything. Get us moving.” Traffic control gave the ’all clear’ message and the Courier resumed its slow approach to the hyperspace point. Enning half-turned in his seat to look at the young Sir behind him. ”What was your name again?” ”Sir Glington, Mylord.” ”I few things you should know, Ginglon. First: This ship has only one Commander, and that is me. Any sign of subordination and you get spaced. When you ask permission for something, you ask me and not Parq. He is not the Commander. Got that?” ”Yes, Mylord.” ”I know some Commanders are going soft on that kind of thing, but you’ll find no softness here. This is the Navy. Know anyone at Court?” ”No, Mylord.” ”Didn’t think so. Lingon is not exactly an aristocratic name. You’re the same slave breed as Parq, then. You two should hit it off. Only don’t go planning any insurrection. Understood?” ”Understood, Mylord.” ”’Cause where I come from, Capitol, we know how to deal with that sort of crap. My uncle is the Imperial Grand Lord of Internal Security, you know. ’The Dark Duke’, they call him. And not without reason. So watch it. And if I see you anywhere near my booze I’ll space you on the spot. Don’t even think about it.” Enning turned away with obvious contempt and gulped down another few centilitres of the concentrated alcohol. Parq finished the complicated and crucial checklist with the speed and confidence that only the routine of having done it several hundred times can bring. The designated hyperspace point lay before them, unnecessarily marked out by four navigation buoys. As required by Navy tradition, the Squire gave the formal all-clear message. ”Mylord, checklist procedure is complete. All systems working within parameters as stipulated by the start-of-mission protocol. The ship is ready for hyperspace.” Enning didn’t bother giving the Commander’s formal reply, just pressed the Executive-key. After a few seconds of the swirling, white mist of hyperspace, the Courier arrived at the star system Ackqua to begin its patrol. As usual the cockpit was dark, illuminated only by the myriad of stars outside the view ports. Without an atmosphere to absorb and deflect any of the photons, there was still comfortably enough light to read by. And by this time, the eyes of the crew had long since adjusted to the dim conditions. On the instrument panel, only a few of the most crucial indicators were gently backlit in dark red; the accelerometer, the relative velocity indicator, and the revolutions-per-second counter for each turbine. At standard speed, the turbines rotated so fast that their outer edges were closely approaching the speed of light. Consequently, strong relativistic forces were having the intended effect on them, and the mass of each turbine was now almost double that of their inert mass. Viscount Enning noisily opened the cockpit hatch and strode in. As he passed the navigational console, a wave of unhealthy air washed over Sir Glington; alcoholic fumes, dried sweat and unwashed clothes, coupled with a whiff of old vomit. The Commander fell heavily back into his seat. ”Now then. Tell me what you’ve fucked up now, Parq.” ”All systems are working within parameters, Mylord,” Parq said stiffly without looking up from his work. For a while there was no sound, except for the Viscount’s heavy breathing. He suddenly opened his little compartment, took out the half-full canister and examined it thoroughly, as if suspecting there to be something missing. Apparently finding nothing amiss, he put the canister to his lips and took a mouthful, then swung his seat ninety degrees to the right. Looking up, Glington saw the Commander staring intently at him, as if expecting him to say or do something. Not having been asked a question, the Sir after a few seconds nervously looked back down at his work, only to snap his head up again when the Viscount finally spoke. ”What’s your name again?” ”Sir Glington, Mylord,” he managed to reply, in spite of the foul stench of Ennings breath. ”Straight from the Academy, Ginkton?” ”No, Mylord. I’ve been on two previous missions. 1st Protectorate Imperial Trader.” ”I see. And why didn’t you stay with 1st?” ”I was transferred by the order of the 1st Protector. Routine personnel transf-” ”Yeah, whatever,” Enning interrupted. ”The reason I ask is that I was very disappointed to see you on my crew. I told the Marquis that I wanted at least one young female crewmember on every mission. Got a real taste for that after the little cadet I had on the Olcanze mission. Sweet little brown-eyed angel from some backward system. Hey, you had the hots for that little piece of ass, didn’t you, Parq?” Enning said loudly. The back of Parq’s neck went visibly red. ”Heh heh, Parq here thought he was gonna act all valiant-like when I first had to shut that little bitch in my cabin to... eh ... extinguish her fire, the horny little slut. Stupid bastard thought he was protecting her, thought she didn’t want to. Oh sure, she was putting up a little fight and all, but all bitches do that. Play hard to get. Turns ’em on. Especially when they get shown who’s the boss. Parq doesn’t know that, ’cause he’s not all that popular with the ladies. So he interfered. Came close to disrespecting me, too. Had to give him a knuckle sandwich. Decked him once and for all. Taught him some good old Navy respect. Didn’t it, Parq?” The Squire didn’t answer and Enning raised his voice. ”I said, didn’t it, Parq?” ”Yes, Mylord,” Parq mumbled, his voice trembling, just a little. ”Ahhh, that was a fine mission. Kicked some serious Federal ass and had a horny little tramp in my bunk. Oh, she liked it rough. Remember how she screamed, Parq? Ever heard screams like that? Heh heh. After the mission, she probably saw me with one of my other bitches, ’cause they found her dead in her bunk at the Academy the day after we came back. Slit her wrists. Realized she couldn’t have me to herself, probably. That’s happened before.” Enning stretched in the seat, put his feet up on the armrest of Parq’s seat and took a heavy swig of the alcohol canister. ”So, a jealous little slut, but a good screw. Not too juicy, though. But okay for a short mission.” Silence engulfed the cockpit of the Imperial Courier as it continued on into the empty darkness. ”Mylord, hostile contact. Scanner shows twelve federal ships of varying size, Cobra Mk 3 through to Griffin. Distance 1 AU. Repeat, hostile contact.” Enning gave a tired grunt in the comm and turned it off. A minute later he staggered into the cockpit, reeking of alcohol. ”Whass goin’ ohn?” ”Hostile contacts, Mylord. Looks like an entire task force.” ”Goddamm Fedsh trying sumthin’ shtupid ’gain. Thought I showed’em lasshtime...” The Viscount fell heavily into his seat. ”Awrighth, Parq, shoul’ be a nice li’l tesht for you. Dohn’t worry, I’ll jusht take over when you shcrew it up like you do.” Parq maneuvered to set up the first attack run on the convoy of Federal ships. There were two Griffins surrounded by smaller ships, close together. Parq evidently intended to do the first run head-on along the length of the convoy, blasting as many of the smaller ships as possible with the Courier’s mighty 4 MW laser. He had the ship accelerate to a suitable combat speed and armed the laser, then banked to the appropriate heading for the attack. The Federal pilots spotted the incoming enemy and took measures to minimize the threat, simultaneously changing course to fly directly toward the Courier. The ships spread out in a loose linear formation, with the Griffins still in the middle. Thus, each ship would present the Courier with the smallest possible target area, and the Imperial could not target them all at once. The Federals were just over 5 kilometres away when Parq opened fire. A thick, intensely orange beam shot out from the bow of the Courier and immediately connected with the first Cobra. For half a second, its shields resisted the massive onslaught, then the hull was burned through and the little spaceship blew up in a hailstorm of debris. Three Federals opened fire, but none of them had aimed properly and their red beams went wide. Although a fairly large ship, the sleek and streamlined Courier didn’t present much of a target to the enemy, save for its two massive drive-pods. Two further of the Federals exploded as Parq expertly gave them a half-second each of impossibly concentrated, bright orange energy. The Federal tactic was now showing a major weakness; the enormous Griffins, each five times the size of the Courier, could not open fire with their correspondingly enormous plasma accelerators for fear of hitting their own colleagues. For the same reason, any use of missiles, of which each Griffin had eight, was out of the question. Consequently, Parq was allowed a free run on the smaller ships, and he made the most of it. Before the Griffins could open fire even once, six Cobras had fallen victim to the Imperial’s single laser cannon. When at last the gunners on the main forward cannon emplacements could aim at the Courier, they were unable to get a good lock, for Parq now pulled sharply up over the larger ships precisely in order to avoid their main armaments. Half-hearted potshots from the unprepared gunners manning the turrets and rear guns of both Griffins failed to hit the Imperial, who now proceeded to take out the three Cobras flying close behind them, savagely cutting them up with the mighty laser. In a single attack run, Parq had destroyed no less than nine Cobras Mk3, without his own ship having been hit once. The one remaining Cobra accelerated hard, apparently trying to get away. Parq ignored it and turned around for another run on the Griffins, which were now not hampered by the presence of friendly vessels. In an apparently coordinated defense tactic, they fired their lasers at precisely the same time. As if he had anticipated this, Parq rolled the Courier to the right to evade the beams, then fired back, closing fast on one of the ships. But the Griffins had strong shields, and even the 4 MW laser couldn’t burn through them fast enough to get a kill in one run. Abruptly rolling back to the left, Parq released three proximity mines directly in front of the Federal ship. Unable to evade the tiny shells of high explosives, the Griffin had its shields obliterated as the mines exploded simultaneously, channeling most of their now released energy in the direction whence they sensed the ship approaching. Parq wasted no time and fired two naval missiles at the Griffin at point-blank range, then opened fire again with the laser, raking it along the side of the enemy ship. The missiles hit and exploded, but the heavily armored hull of the Griffin withstood the onslaught and was only reduced by thirty percent. Parq now had to act quickly; if left alone for too long, the Griffin’s shields would again accumulate enough strength to deflect his laser. And his mines and missiles were in very limited supply. Setting up for another attack run, he sped away from the Federal ships, gaining some distance to work with. The Federals, acutely aware of now having their first chance at a decent counter-attack, ignited their lasers and drew closer together. Already, the distance was too great for them to be able to get a good aim, but still they poured enormous quantities of superheated elementary particles in the direction of the Courier. When the distance from the enemy was six kilometres, Parq turned the ship sharply around and headed for the damaged Griffin at full acceleration. At the same instant, the shrill sound of a siren resonated through the cockpit, waking up the dozing Enning and making him drop the alcohol canister he had been clutching: missile alert. The now somewhat desperate Griffins had each launched a full barrage of missiles at the Imperial, and ten Naval missiles were now coming for the Courier at high speed. It was an expertly performed tactical move, leaving the target ship with a very limited range of options. Knowing he had no time for normal evasive actions, Parq steered directly towards the ten massive warheads and kept accelerating. Then, a split-second before impact, he hit the emergency-scram button for the starboard drive turbine, with the instant effect that its revolutions dropped by ten percent. It was sufficient to allow the sudden surplus of gyroscopic momentum on the port turbine, along with the miniscule amount of friction around it, to do its work on the whole ship. The Courier was instantaneously and uncontrollably flung around the rotational axis of the port turbine several times before the in-built emergency systems could drop its revolutions to correspond with the starboard turbine. The maneuver was over before the advanced tracking-systems on the missiles could sense what was going on. Suddenly presented with only empty space where before there had been an entire Courier, they went into search mode in a pattern that had them fly right between the two Griffins. The pilots on both ships, seeing the danger, veered away from each other, but it was too late; Parq hit the Courier’s Naval ECM at precisely the right moment, and the whole pack of missiles detonated only a hundred meters away from the damaged Griffin. The enormous ship immediately exploded in the blinding white flash which meant that the main drive had blown up; a rare occurrence. Driving as hard away as its vast bulk would allow, the other previously undamaged Griffin was caught up in the relativistic inferno of a huge interstellar fusion drive blowing up and was simply washed away in the shock wave. Its crew, having had almost a full second to comprehend the situation, didn’t even bother jettisoning their escape pods. When the intense light had waned and the automatic filters in the main view screen of the Courier could brighten slightly, there was no trace of the Griffins; both had completely disintegrated. The battle was not quite over yet. Twenty kilometres away, the last remaining Cobra Mk3 was locked in combat with another ship, to small to identify at this distance. All that could be seen without amplification was that it seemed to be equipped with only a 1MW pulse laser, which should ordinarily not provide any trouble for a half-decent Cobra pilot. Parq set course for the battle, but before the Courier was even half-way there the already damaged Cobra was hit with three pulses in a row and promptly exploded. The little surviving fighter did a triumphant victory roll, then set an unaggressive hailing course toward the Courier. The instruments changed from battle status back to normal navigation mode and Parq switched the combat computer off. Suddenly, as if the alcoholic haze in his mind had cleared, Viscount Enning grabbed the controls and aimed the nose of the Courier in the direction of the incoming fighter. The Commander’s controls on his side of the cockpit overrode Parq’s control input, and before the Squire could react, Enning pulled the trigger. The immensely bright, orange beam described a flat arc in space, then shot right through the hull of the tiny Falcon, vaporizing it on the spot. A container of military fuel tumbled away into space. Parq still sat limply holding the controls, his mouth open in disbelief. Several seconds went by before he could speak. ”Mylord, were you aware that that Falcon was one of our ships?” ”’Twas a damn Falcon. ‘Sha Federal ship, you mohron.” ”Not this one, Mylord. Transmitted Imperial ID. One of the captured ships Intel uses.” Parq’s voice was taut and calm, but a sharp edge could be clearly detected. The Squire was obviously quite angry. For a long while nobody spoke, the atmosphere thick with tension. Then Enning, to all appearances having suddenly sobered up, rose to his feet and seemed to shrug. ”Whatever. Death is our business. Don’t forget that.” He studiously casually strolled through the length of the cockpit, all the while giving loud orders. ”Sector is clear. Continue patrol. Sir Gillon, do a post-combat analysis. I’m not too happy with Parq’s performance here.” Before Glington could acknowledge the order, the cockpit door clanged shut behind the Commander’s back. The two remaining officers sat stunned for some time. After a few minutes Sir Glington cleared his voice. ”Squire Parq?” ”Yes, Sir Glington?” The Squire attentively turned his seat around to face the junior officer. ”Why was there an entire convoy of Federals here?” ”Well, this is an unsettled system caught between Federal and Imperial space. Not really worth much, but it’s considered strategically desirable to control it. Or at least, to not cede control to the other side. So both we and our opponents patrol it with some eagerness. Skirmishes like this are quite common. Both we and the Feds like to have a few disputed systems where our pilots can get some real combat experience.” ”Respectfully, Squire, it seems as if you have had quite a lot of that, judging from how you handled this situation. I don’t think I’ve ever seen or even heard of anything like what happened back there. You killed a whole task force in two passes.” Squire Parq looked down, as if embarrassed. ”Yeah, well, sometimes you get lucky. The Feds were caught off guard. Probably rookies.” ”It is of course not my place to question the abilities of superior officers, Squire, but rumor has it that Viscount Enning is one of the best pilots in the Navy, with more than thirty victories. With all due respect to our Commander, I find that hard to believe.” ”Do you.” ”And it seems he miraculously improved his success rate seven months ago. Which, if the open records about this vessel are to be believed, is about the same time you came aboard.” ”Possibly.” The Squire’s voice was neutral, and still he didn’t raise his gaze from the deck. ”So I can’t help but feel that at least some of the credit for his accomplishments, if not all, should befall you.” The cockpit grew silent as Parq seemed to think deeply. He obviously realized that this was a dangerous subject for conversation; he couldn’t know for sure where the Sir’s loyalty lay, and whether or not this was a trap set by Enning. On the other hand, on that front there was probably not much left to lose. ”You may be correct in your assumptions. But remember, it’s Navy tradition that the victories of any one vessel be ascribed to its Commander.” ”With all due respect, Squire, it is also Navy tradition to give credit where credit is due, and it is the responsibility of any Commander to see to it that any crewmember who excels in his duty is awarded the proper recognition. But in this case, it looks to me as if the opposite is true.” Parq sighed heavily, then, finally, looked at Glington with tired eyes. ”Look, Sir Glington. This is quite simple. As you have evidently observed, normal rules are not applicable where anyone by the name of Enning is concerned. That family pretty much runs the entire Internal Security Service. Everyone in the Empire, from the rank of Duke on down, are scared witless of coming under IntSec’s scrutiny. I don’t have to tell you why. So people are just trying not to get on the Viscount’s wrong side. Now, I have a promotion coming up very soon. When I’m officially Lord, I’ll get my own ship and be out of Enning’s shadow. I’ll chalk up some kills in my own name and score some points in the Elite Federation of Pilots.” ”If I may, Squire, I would just say that I think the Elite Federation will probably notice you very soon.” The Squire’s head snapped up quickly as if he had inadvertently been caught in an act of treason. ”Err, but of course my duty always lies with the Empire. Always. That Elite stuff is just incidental and not the least bit important. The Imperial Navy is my life.” ”I understand, Squire, ” Sir Glington said gravely. Squire Parq gave the Sir a guarded look, then turned his seat around to resume his work. ”Sir Glington, that post-combat analysis can wait. You’ve been on watch for nineteen hours now. Go get some rest.” ”Yes, Squire.” Glington rose slowly, carefully loosening up stiff joints. As he turned to leave the cockpit, through the corner of his eye he saw Parq stifle a yawn with the back of his hand; due to Ennings failure to take watches, the Squire had been up far longer than Glington. The young Sir made a mental note, quietly saluted Squire Parq’s turned back, then left the cockpit as ordered. The powerful retro thrusters were shooting electrically blue-white flames directly into the Courier’s direction of travel, slowing the vessel down from the enormous speed it had gathered during its days in approach to Gonzalez Colony. Sophisticated systems compensated for the violent deceleration so that the crew did not feel its physical effects. It was a far cry from the early days of the Imperial Navy, when the crewmembers of the smaller warships had to be immersed in large tanks of a gelatinous substance in order to survive the rigors of interplanetary travel. The ship was coming in on the night side of the planet, and outside the view port, it loomed large, its slightly elliptical shape almost completely obscuring the brilliant sheen of the star Olcanze. Landing was imminent. Viscount Enning entered the cockpit for the first time in three days. This time, he was not accompanied by the shock wave of alcoholic fumes. He stood on the deck, elbow-long black gloves on, head almost touching the above bulkhead, a tiny smile playing on his lips. ”How long until initiation of landing procedures?” Parq half-turned in his seat. ”Just over five minutes, Mylord. We’ve been instructed to land at Lomas, and not dock at the orbital base as usual.” ”Very well. Squire Parq, would you come here, please?” Parq frowned. Leaving the autopilot without supervision this close to populated space went against his instincts, and also military regulations. ”Mylord, is that wise? The autopilot-” ”Just come here, please,” Enning said softly, his friendly smile now more pronounced. ”I must show you something.” Parq snapped off the acceleration harness and stood up, then laboriously clambered his way over the navigational console where Sir Glington was toiling away. He approached the Viscount, who just stood there, apparently studying a point on the bulkhead. Enning slowly pulled off his right glove, as if he was going to feel the bare metal he was studying. Suddenly, he took one quick step towards the approaching Parq and lunged out with his right fist, connecting sharply with Parq’s left cheekbone, just below the eye. The Squire hobbled backwards, clutching his face in surprise and nearly falling into Sir Glington’s lap. ”That will teach you some Duval-damned respect,” Enning bellowed. ”You have been nothing but trouble this whole mission, disrespecting and second-guessing me in front of the crew. Think you can fly this ship better than a Viscount, what, slave-soul?” Parq regained his balance and rose slowly to his full length, fixing a stiff stare at Enning. Sir Glington, in spite of his youth anticipating precisely what was going to happen, quickly unsnapped his own harness and frantically scrambled to his feet. He just made the necessary hurried bound to reach Parq and grab the Squire around the chest with both arms, forcibly holding him back and preventing him from attacking Viscount Enning, blinded by the white-hot anger that had clearly overwhelmed him. After a brief, but intense struggle, the Squire came to his senses, ceased his resistance and shrugged the Sir off. In Enning’s left hand there had suddenly appeared a tiny black cylinder; a chemical stun-gun, designed as a self-defense device to incapacitate any assailant by forcefully pumping aggressive bio-chemicals into his body, a notoriously painful and dangerous experience. For a long minute, the Viscount stood immobile and stared blankly at his crew, his face showing no emotions. Then he quietly and calmly put the cylinder back into a hidden pocket on his uniform. As if on cue, the navigational computer gave the audio signal which meant that the landing procedures should begin. Enning wordlessly pointed at the co-pilots seat, and Parq guardedly went over to it; sideways, so as not to lose sight of the violent Viscount. Enning himself sat down in his own seat, fastened the harness and grabbed the control-column. ”You just sit still and watch how a real pilot handles the landing. Don’t touch anything or I’ll slap you silly.” He disengaged the autopilot. Through the cockpit view port only blue sky and tiny puffs of white clouds could be seen as the heavy Courier plummeted stern first through the atmosphere, shaking violently. The air howled past. After a full minute of uncontrolled descent the Viscount wisely engaged the autopilot, which immediately got the warship back to comfortably level flight. Sweat was gathering on his brow. ”Just to show you two imbeciles what this vessel can do even in atmospheric flight,” he grumbled. The autopilot, now left to its own devices without human interference, within minutes maneuvered the Courier to a standstill a hundred meters above the designated landing platform just outside the city of Lomas. Although capable of handling the procedure, the autopilot was ordinarily not trusted for such a delicate operation as the landing on a planet with an atmosphere. The Navy did not want its pilots to rely too much on the computers, as it tended to cause their piloting skills to deteriorate. Enning took a firm hold of the ergonomically shaped controls and initiated the final descent. The three-man crew became weightless as the ship immediately fell straight down for two seconds before the anti-collision systems intervened, fired the landing rockets and got the situation under control. The Viscount again took over, guiding the vessel shakily downwards. ”Mylord, we’re ordered to land at Platform 3,” informed Squire Parq calmly, apparently unfazed by the Viscount’s erratic piloting. Enning, having enough trouble keeping the Courier on an even keel, made no correction to his course. ”Mylord, this is the wrong platform. It’s under repair. We can’t land here.” Parq spoke loudly, obviously determined to get his point across. ”Shut the fuck up.” ”Mylord, there are men working on this platform!” Enning struck out with his right fist, but Parq was prepared and easily avoided the punch. Then, sensing what was going to happen next, he quickly slapped the button that lowered the landing gear and pulled the turbines closer to the main fuselage. At the same moment Enning cut the landing rockets and the Courier fell the last ten meters in an uncontrolled arc down to the severely scarred and cracked concrete. Panic-stricken workers scrambled madly away from the large ship that suddenly came falling down from the sky. A jarring crash announced that Imperial Patrol Ship VE 112 of the 6th Protectorate Border Guards had returned from patrol, and also that its landing gear had been strained far beyond maximum capacity. Inside the cockpit there was silence, except from the waning sound of the turbines powering down as their casings were filled with steam under enormous pressure to provide resistance and friction. The ship was sitting noticeably lower on one side, as if permanently caught in a left bank. Nobody exchanged glances, nobody spoke. Finally, with all instruments showing green, Enning for the last time pressed the Executive-key, making the magnets pull back the heavy bolts in the locks of the outward hatches. Then he stood up abruptly and marched to the cockpit door, where he turned. He sent his co-pilot a mild smile that contrasted starkly with his words. ”I see from the records that you’re up for promotion, Parq. Doesn’t look like it’s going to happen after all. It’s probably time you got used to being only a Squire, ’cause there’s nothing else on the horizon. And I’ll see to it that there never will be. You’re mine forever.” He opened the exit hatch and stepped out. A man with the insignia of Supreme Commander of the 6th Protectorate was waiting on top of the mobile ramp right outside the hatch as Enning exited the Courier; the Protector himself had come to greet him. ”Welcome back, Viscount. News of your success have preceded you .Very well done. Looks like you’ll get the Duval Crescent for this.” Enning straightened and lazily returned the old man’s salute. ”Death is our business, Marquis,” he drawled. ”And business is good.” The hundred man strong 6th Protectorate Honorary Choir, having hastily run across the field form their first millimeter-precise line-up at the intended landing platform, now toned in with a short-of-breath version of the otherwise quite imposing battle hymn ”We are the Imperial Border Guards”. The Marquis had to raise his voice a bit to be heard over the asynchronous din. ”Ah, but it seems business is always good with you, Viscount. I understand your name was mentioned to his Imperial Majesty during today’s morning briefing. Congratulations. Now follow me to headquarters and tell me all about the mission. Twelve Feds floating home, eh? Must be a record.” The Marquis graciously stood back and motioned for Enning to walk down the ramp first. At its bottom, in front of choir, the luxurious, golden carriage that was the official transport of the Protector waited for them to finish their descent. A lackey opened the door and Enning entered the bejeweled cabin, immediately to examine the liquor cabinet and sigh with relief at the sight of its contents. He took out a couple of carafes, one filled with a golden liquid and the other with a clear one, then sat well back. The couch was soft and plush, the whisky was from Capitol, the vodka was ice-cold, and the slave girl was very young and scantily clad, had big, fearful eyes and had to be encouraged with a few sharp slaps, just the way he liked it. The carriage rolled across the busy spaceport toward the Protector’s palace, leaving the still bellowing choir and the badly damaged Courier behind. Only now, with the dignitaries safely on their way, did the medical personnel dare come to the aid of the worker trapped and crushed beneath the undercarriage of the 480 ton warship. It was too late, and the platform chief on duty wisely decided to ascribe the casualty to circumstances beyond human control. The little fighter was perfectly concealed on the night side of the dark, insignificant asteroid far away from the populated planets, its powerful sensor-jamming systems completely masking its presence. Inside its cockpit, the holoscreen flickered to life and the face of a woman appeared. ”Report,” she said simply. ”Primary report begins. The internal Imperial reports are exaggerating wildly about the subjects abilities. Viscount Enning is an obnoxious and lazy officer, stupid and egocentric. He has no interpersonal skills, no leadership abilities and is basically a bully. And, it seems, an alcoholic and an habitual rapist. His tactical skills are insignificant. His piloting skills are non-existent. He sails by purely by virtue of his connections at the Emperor’s Court. I conclude that the subject is completely unusable for our purposes. Primary report ends.” The woman sighed. ”I see. That’s the problem with the Imps. You never know when their reports are complete drivel. Which is why we must check them out thoroughly. Anything else?” ”Secondary report begins. Squire Parq is an exceptional pilot with a talent for advanced tactics and keeping cool in tense situations. Due to him being quiet and rather shy, Enning is able to take credit for his work. A very sympathetic fellow and a fine officer. I conclude that he is worthy of our attention. Secondary report ends.” ”Copy that. Then it is the good Squire who can expect soon to be issued a mission in a one-man fighter followed by a freakish mis-jump.” ”Yes, Colonel. Ahmm... dare I suggest, Colonel, that we give Enning the same experience? But without the subsequent rescue and recruitment procedure?” The woman smiled thinly with a chilling mix of thoughtfulness and menace. ”An appealing thought, Major Ranie. Appealing indeed. Sometimes I wonder what kind of species we are fighting for, anyway, that can produce such individuals. Very well, Major, suggestion accepted. Return to base. Tunk out.” The holoscreen went blank. Quickly and without thought to the structural integrity of the fabric, Ranie pulled the Imperial Sir’s uniform off and with distaste dropped it in a rumpled heap on the deck. He was growing increasingly tired of these recruitment missions to boost INRA’s crop of able, young pilots, and this last had been the worst one yet. But there were just a couple more to go, and then he’d be back on Thargoid-fighting duty again. And not so long from now, he would be joined by Squire Parq, who would probably be somewhat surprised to see him. ”You’re absolutely right, Enning,” he mumbled absent-mindedly as he sat down in the pilot’s seat and powered up the main drive. ”Death is your business.” The INRA Viper Mk 2 shot out from the surface of the asteroid and banked into a wide, lazy turn, setting up the proper escape vector out of the Imperial system Olcanze. ”But life is ours.” Summoning the collective power of a thousand suns, the little ship accelerated to far beyond light speed, hurtled leisurely across the threshold to hyperspace and was gone. paolo.mariani@spray.no  |
paolo.mariani@spray.no