*
Night fell. The noises from the camp diminished. Around him Hesperus could hear the chirp and hum of insects, and the high sweet piping of some nocturnal bird.
His wings had been badly damaged in the landing, but he had managed to strap them together to make a rudimentary glider. It wasn’t very aerodynamic but with Teen’s low gravity, all he was hoping for was some kind of controlled fall. He wormed around the edge of the valley to the top of the low cliff-face, freezing to stillness at every unexpected sound.
He stared down into the valley, his cat’s eyes wide. A few campfires sparked and flickered; here and there some powered lights burned, and sentries walked the perimeter. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to the Dubious Profit. He slid off his boots and hefted his contraption.
Hesperus crouched, gripping the crude glider in both hands above his head. He rocked forward, once, twice, then pushed with all his might off the cliff and into the dark. He slid through the air in a flat trajectory, and the broad back of the Profit swelled up in front of him. Teeth clenched, he bumped down on top of her in a padding run, killing his speed. He stopped, just before the hull curved away towards the ground, and flattened himself against the pitted metal.
Nothing: no shouts, no alarms, no gunfire. He slid out from under his wings and caught his bearings. There, a few metres below him along the hull, was the Profit’s airlock. He inched over until the lock was directly beneath him then slid down, catching the ladder with his feet.
The lock was open, and he slipped inside, flattening himself against the interior. The inner lock was open, too, but the corridor was in darkness. He strained his ears, alert for any sound, but all he could hear was his pounding heart.
Now: dive for the bridge. Emergency lift. If the engines worked the airlock would close automatically. If there were any of Tulka’s henchmen on board, it would be easier to deal with them isolated inside the ship. Maybe even get into space, to the station, throw himself onto the protection of the Co-operative. If the ship didn’t lift, well, there was the communicator, and as a last resort the laser pistol hidden under the console. And it was home; it was where he belonged. Just a few more metres …
He dashed down the corridor, slammed open the door and burst into the cockpit. There was Rus. Rus! Hunched over the console. His stained vest marked with broad, round scorchmarks and burnt holes.
“Quick!” Hesperus yelled. “We’re going! We’ve got to go! Now now now!”
Rus straightened, turning, eyes wide. Hesperus pushed at him, heaving him frantically out of the way. A cold voice from behind him spoke.
“Ah, Captain Hesperus. I must say that I am both surprised and delighted.”
Hesperus froze. He turned, slowly, unbelievingly. Hedred Tulka, Colonel Tulka of the Silent Service, stood with his back to the bulkhead, the needle of a lightning gun held firmly in his hand.
Tulka smiled, and twitched the gun. “Surrender, please.”
Hesperus’s hands flew to his belt, and he immediately dropped his trousers.
Tulka’s eyebrows shot up. “Captain?”
“It’s a widely recognised gesture of surrender,” said Hesperus hotly, trousers round his ankles, “accepted by numerous cultures across the galaxy.”
“Ha. Nevertheless, I would prefer the more traditional hands-up,” said Tulka. “Up and open. Thank you.”
Hesperus wiggled his fingers. His hands were empty. “What are you doing on my ship?” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And, may I remind you, I have yet to be paid.”
“This is in fact my ship,” said Tulka. “Welcome on board the Ares, the latest addition to the forces of the Te’en Dictatorat. She may be ugly but she will belong entirely to the Silent Service, and that will be sour milk to those supercilious Star Fleet buffoons. At present we are having some difficulty with the command protocols, which your erstwhile crewman here was attempting, under my instruction, to rectify.”
Rus curled his lips in a silent snarl. Electrical burns were dotted across his scaly blue hide.
“Now you are here,” continued Tulka, “the transfer of ownership should proceed smoothly.”
Hesperus screwed one eye shut, and grimaced. “Ah … yes … um, the thing is …”
Tulka’s skull exploded, and a great burning gash tore down across his neck and chest. Rus bellowed in surprise, jumping sideways and crashing into the wall. A grey furry tentacle sidled up over Hesperus’s shoulder, curled around a Sepp & Blübach laser pistol.
Hesperus took the pistol in one hand, and the tentacle slid back down behind him. He bent down to retrieve his trousers. He glanced up at Rus. “Prehensile tail,” he said.
“Oh,” said Rus.
There was a furious hiss from the doorway, and the rising whine of a plasma carbine charging. A Celabiler Poet, wrapped in mirrored battle armour, slavered at them as it raised its weapon.
Rus stepped forward, sweeping out his right hand to point at Hesperus and tapping his own broad chest with his left.
“They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep,”
he said. He pointed down at Tulka’s headless corpse.
“And Bahrám, that great Hunter―the Wild Ass
Stamps o’er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.”
The Poet moaned, shuddering. It brought the carbine up in a smart salute, clicked its heels, swivelled and strode from the room. Hesperus watched as it marched down the corridor and exited through the airlock. He turned to Rus, his jaw hanging open.
“Liberal education,” said Rus.
“Oh,” said Hesperus.
He shook himself. “Are there any more on board? What about the engines?”
“No,” said Rus, “there was only one. The human locked the rest of the crew in the meatsafe in the galley. I’m fine, thank you, by the way. Despite my wounds, I think I’ll live.”
“Yes, yes!” said Hesperus. “But the engines?”
“Oh, the engines are fine,” said Rus. “Better than fine.” He nodded at Tulka’s body lying sprawled against the bulkhead. “He brought in a load of spare parts. Baffle plates, warp alternators, the lot. Fuel, too. Made me overhaul the whole thing while his monkeys guddled about trying to crack the command protocols.”
“So we’re good to go?” said Hesperus, desperately.
“H’m? Oh, yes, of course,” said Rus. “Frankly I was wondering why you were hanging about.”
Hesperus shot him an evil glare, then ran through the cold startup procedures, hands flying over the console. Rus tutted.
“I’ll go and let the crew out of the meatsafe, shall I? Ow!” This last came as he slammed onto the floor. The Dubious Profit’s engines burst into joyful life, and the ship’s ambient gravity flicked from Teen’s feeble tug to Hesperus’s preferred point-eight standard.
The viewscreen snapped on. Thick dustclouds boiled around the ship as she rose like a breaching whale, surging up towards the indigo sky.
Rus stood, rubbing his behind. “I don’t suppose we’ll get paid for this,” he said.
“Generally, when one kills the client, one cannot expect much in the way of recompense,” said Hesperus. “But I must compliment you on your engines. And we have Colonel Tulka to thank for that, at least.” Outside, the sky was darkening to black, and the stars were shining down. Hesperus grinned at them. The planet shrank astern. He pointed the Dubious Profit’s nose at the brightest gleam, and she sped off into the void.
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