Mercenary Read online

  TRAVELS IN SPACE

  (an occasional series)

  Part 1

  MERCENARY

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 Dave Barsby

  First published 2018

  All rights reserved

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  Dave Barsby on Amazon Author Central

  ISBN 978-1-980-83111-2

  To Mike, Tim, Russell, Tom and Raf: thanks for all your help.

  And to my parents: as always, thanks for believing in me.

  Some of the names in this piece have been altered for legal reasons. Some events and dialogue have been fictionalised for dramatic purposes.

  But, for the most part, this is an accurate representation of just how horrible these people are.

  And I’d like to legally state for the record that I absolutely did not kill anyone.

  1. THE COMB-OVER

  I’ve never been much of a traveller, having visited just 7 planets. So when my agent calls me to say she’s found a suitable assignment, I am overjoyed. I have been in the journalism business for a decade now and I’m looking to broaden my horizons. As my imagination has never been what you’d call overactive, I have decided to concentrate on non-fiction. I have suggested a series of travelogue novels, each one dedicated to a single year travelling with a specific spacecraft crew.

  “Luxury liner,” I mention. “Deep space exploration, maybe. Perhaps a Homeworld Cruiser.” I rather fancy a year in the company of the rich and elite, sailing to captivating and ethereal worlds.

  My agent has other ideas.

  “Excitement sells,” she tells me. “Champagne brunches on a liner is all well and good for you. Detecting a new star cluster may tickle your fancy, or having your own personal ocean aboard an S-Class cruiser. But the readers won’t go for it. They want excitement.”

  “An Admiral’s frigate?” I suggest hopefully.

  “Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do,” is the response I get. All hopes of visiting the aptly-named picturesque planet Camera-7, dining with the captain of an exclusive twenty grand-a-week luxury liner and cosying up in an Emperor suite are rapidly diminishing. Still, I think, a frigate won’t be so bad. After all, they usually bring up the rear if there is any sign of a battle.

  So, having set my fanciful heart on a luxury liner and my sensible mind on a battleship, I am quite excited as my agent pauses, ready to unleash my first assignment on me.

  I think I should stick to the day job.

  I first meet Rogdo Flavian, captain of the mercenary vessel Diablo III, in one of the hangars of the G-class cruiser The Comb-Over. This is the meeting my agent has set up for me, a poor replacement for my dreams of a luxury liner, and one which I undertake with a great deal of trepidation. He is one of the best, I’ve been told. Sabotage, kidnapping, assassination, guerrilla fighting – this man is A+ in all fields of mercenary activity. A true scoundrel, to be trusted as far as you can throw a binary star system. The scum of the universe.

  Which is why I am a little taken aback when I am greeted by a clean-shaven, smartly-dressed, very polite and, dare I say it, gorgeous gentleman in his late thirties.

  “Hey, I’m Rogdo,” he says with a smile and a wink as he thrusts his hand into my trembling, sweaty palm and proceeds to jig my whole body up and down with a powerful handshake.

  I introduce myself, aware of the tremulous fluctuations in my voice, and nervously crack a smile back at him.

  “Have we started yet?” he asks, leaning in close and whispering conspiratorially. I nod an affirmative. “Better be on my best behaviour, then,” he answers.

  There is a slight pause between us. Rogdo is unsure how to act around journalists, I’m still too scared to allow anything sensible to escape my lips. It is, I confess, not the best start to a relationship that will last a whole year. I suddenly regret ever considering this proposal. Not that I hadn’t regretted it as soon as my agent told me what the assignment was. But this is a new form of regret. This is no longer an ‘Oh, God, what have I let myself in for?’ regret. This is a ‘Dear Christ, this man could kill me at any second, and he’d enjoy it’ regret. And it is all because my agent said two little words: “Excitement sells.” Now here I am about to embark on a one-year journey with one of the most infamous and dangerous guns-for-hire in the galaxy, just because my publisher insists the readers want action on the page.

  “Drink?” Rogdo suggests, shattering the quiet. I nod. It seems to be beneficial to the both of us – I can calm my nerves with a few stiff shots, he can show me exactly how much alcohol he can imbibe before being arrested.

  Three-quarters of my yearly expense account is wiped out bailing Rogdo from jail. His crime the previous night wasn’t anything particularly damaging – he tripped up a law officer and stole his badge – but an examination of his criminal record showed he’d jumped bail nine times before on this very vessel over minor infractions. Again, it surprises me how lax the law is in this area of the Western Spiral. Do the authorities really think that on this tenth time Rogdo will not jump bail? It puts some of his words of the previous night into perspective. Back then, I thought his ideas foolish. Now, the mist is clearing.

  “Everyone needs a good kick up the ass,” was his exact opening line after a silent journey to Tacoo’s Bar on the 6,156th floor. This was immediately followed by “Hoy, barman!” and the slamming of his datacard on the mock-wood bar top. That datacard, it is rumoured, is just one of eighty two Rogdo owns, each more or less maxed out with 3 million tabs on them. As my year’s budget stretches to just 15,000 tabs I decide to remain quiet and let him buy the first round.

  “Gimme two FUBARs,” he grunts when the barman wearily arrives. He glances at me, a slightly disparaging look on his face. “Make it four.”

  At this point I am forced to re-evaluate my initial impression of Rogdo. The smart suit, the polite intonations in his rough drawl…they were designed to lure me into a false sense of security. Now his common self is beginning to spread its wings and take flight, ready to peck someone’s eyes out. I have an unnerving feeling I’m the next target. I involuntarily squeeze my eyes shut.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I hear him ask, the disparaging look converting itself effortlessly into vocal intonation. I snap my eyes open. Rogdo’s face is quizzical, his head dipped slightly to one side. It is a look I will get used to in the coming months. He holds a FUBAR in each hand. Two more rest atop the bar next to me.

  “Nothing,” I respond, relieved to hear my voice return to something resembling its normal level of anxiety.

  “Come on,” he responds and strides purposefully to a quiet, neglected corner of the bar.

  Seated, Rogdo slugs his first drink in one go. Hoping to ingratiate myself to him, I attempt the same. The drink lives up to its reputation, and I feel the effects immediately.

  “As I was saying,” Rogdo begins, dismissing my wide-eyed spluttering with a casual tut, “everyone needs a good kick up the ass.”

  “How do you mean?” I rasp, pushing the second drink away from my line of sight.

  “Have you ever really looked around at this society?” he asks. “Or any other? They’re all the same.” He pauses, looks at me accusingly. “Shouldn’t you be recording this? I’m spouting pearls here.”

  “I am,” I answer, still trying to shake off the haze that has enveloped my brain in favour of a more common blurry sensation.

  “How?” he demands.

  I point one wobbly finger in the vague direction of my cranium. “Memory implant,” I confess.

  “Ah, good,” Rogdo responds after a brief pause. �
��As I was saying,” he utters again, making me wonder if this book is going to be littered with the same clichés over and over again [spoiler alert: yes]. “Go anywhere in the galaxy and you find the same shit. Indifference, corruption, crime, an over-reliance on technology-”

  “Don’t you fit into all those categories?” I point out.

  He takes a moment to think about this. “All over society,” he continues, ignoring my question. “Or should that be societies…anyway, people think they have this great Utopia situation going on. Well, they don’t. Because they simply don’t care enough. See, I’m well known. I can admit that. For various reasons. All my conquests, for example.”

  Ahh, I think, here comes the first of many ego massages.

  “Women know I’ve slept with some…actually most of the most beautiful females this galaxy has to offer in a wide variety of species. And they don’t like that. Yet if I call, they come running. Now, why is that? Sure, I’m bloody handsome, I’m very charming, the ladies like a bit of the danger and I am damn good in bed. But until they’ve met me, these are the women complaining that my heroic love-making escapades are disgusting and degrading to the female form. They don’t agree with the ideals of the prize, but they all want to buy a raffle ticket. Know what I’m saying?”

  He pushes my second FUBAR towards me. Blindly, I accept it and throw it down my throat.

  “I think so,” I answer, quickly followed by “I’m going to be sick.”

  “See, you’re just the same as all the other women.”

  “I’m not female,” I hasten to point out.

  “You’re not?!?” Rogdo says incredulously. In panic, he downs his second drink.

  “Erm…” is the best response I can muster. I am genuinely unsure at this point if I am female. The drink mixes up my thoughts. I look down at my crotch to see if I can determine an answer that way, but my head is so messed up I can’t even remember which gender has the plug and which the socket. The fact that I can remember anything beyond that moment is all thanks to my memory implant and the spare time I had to review it the following morning while waiting for Rogdo’s bail hearing.

  “Yeah, well just stay away from me until you’ve decided what gender you are. I don’t want to be seduced by someone waving the last turkey in the shop at my face.”

  “Okay,” I slur, and try to stand. It isn’t entirely successful and I slump back into the chair.

  “I don’t mean stay away!” Rogdo chides. “I mean…you know…stay away.”

  “Gotch…*hic*…ya.”

  Rogdo waves at the barman, catching his attention. The barman sarcastically waves back.

  “Dammit, no table service,” Rogdo mutters. He looks at me quizzically, then pokes the side of my head with one well-manicured index finger. “Is that thing still working okay?”

  I hiccup again. “Part of it,” I answer, presuming he’s talking about my brain. “Am I a girl?”

  “The memory implant…it’s on, right?” he asks.

  He takes my attempts to keep my head level to be a nod and, satisfied, heads to the bar for another round. It briefly crosses my mind that this is a good thing, because a girl shouldn’t have to buy her own drinks. Concerned that this kind of talk may actually force my mind into thinking I’m a girl even if I’m not, I hastily add ‘and neither should a poor writer’ to my thought. When Rogdo returns from the bar, I am grinning inanely and full of pride for my own cleverness.

  “Drink this,” Rogdo suggests, handing me a tall, thin glass of slightly yellowed liquid. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  I slurp at the drink while Rogdo tucks into his third FUBAR. I feel a small degree of cognitive reasoning return to me, and using my new-found ability I determine at this rate I’ll be able to answer what gender I am within the next two hours.

  Without waiting for any indication, Rogdo launches into part two of his tirade against society. His speech lasts nearly an hour, during which time I find myself approaching sobriety and Rogdo quaffs nine more FUBARs. His speech meanders a great deal, taking in such diverse subjects as the ever-changing face of breakfast food and how the cataclysmic Half-War saw the destruction of not just thirty seven entire star systems but also the galaxy’s largest supply of grade-A porn. To avoid confusing the issue (and making this book terribly long-winded) here is the abridged version of his rant:

  “My actions represent all that is wrong with the societies in operation today. I kidnapped a dignitary on Narkis once. My god, the fuss they kicked up about that. I am no longer welcome in Sector 11-34 apparently. Kill-on-sight was the order they gave. He was only an import minister as well. On the other hand, I wiped out the entire democratic council on BAGEM…you know, Beta Alpha Gamma Epsilon Major. Deserve it, having a poncey long name like that for a planet. Anyway, whole council incinerated. What do they do? Complain that they’ll have to stage re-elections. Rest of the galaxy doesn’t give a damn. ‘Oh well,’ they say, ‘never much cared for that planet anyway.’

  “I’ve heard stories from hundreds of years ago when being a mercenary, pirate or otherwise nefarious do-badder got you into a lot of trouble. Hunted across star systems, sectors, even quadrants of the galaxy just for one simple assassination. Chased from one end to the other, hidden ports, mixing with the criminal underworld. Doesn’t that sound glorious? Now, there’s no need for a criminal underworld because in most places the law just slaps your wrist and spits you back out into society. It’s a criminal overworld. Where’s the danger? Where’s the excitement? This ship, for example. They knew who I was when I docked. They’ve already got several warrants out for me, but they just can’t be bothered. It’s no fun to the law unless they can catch you actually doing something. That’s the thing, you see. They like a little ruck now and then, so they love arresting people because that’s where the fights are likely to occur. But bringing someone in? Prosecuting them? The trial, and actually sending them to prison? Well, that’s just boring.

  “What does it take to get a bounty hunter trailing you these days? What do I need to do to allow my crew the chance to successfully break me out of prison? That, my friend, is why I operate on the fringes. Stricter rules out there, you see. Out on the fringes of the two spiral arms of the galaxy, I am ‘wanted’. That makes me feel special. It makes my work worthwhile. Well, so does the money, but…anyway. You’ll see. Soon enough, you’ll see. I’ve already got a special job lined up just so you can get a real feeling of what being a mercenary is like. And a couple of others that aren’t so special, but take the bad with the good, you know. First one’s an assassination, and we leave at 12 tomorrow. It’s gonna be fun.”

  ‘Assassination’ doesn’t really register with me at this point. I’ve signed on to experience the day-to-day life of a merc crew, but it hasn’t actually occurred to me that I’ll be privy to criminal behaviour, especially murder.

  As though overly eager to prove how easy it is to get arrested and how difficult to stand trial, Rogdo slams his hand on the table, turns to the bar and bellows: “Hoy, barman, why don’t you have any effing waitresses, you balding bastard?!?”

  We leave when we realise the barman is calling the law.

  One quick chase down a gantry overlooking the park, a surprisingly agile leg-sweep and a victorious yelp of badge-clutching glee later, and I know I’ll have to bail Rogdo out of his cell in the morning.

  If you’ve never seen a G-class cruiser before, let me set the scene for you. G- or Galaxy-class cruisers aren’t the largest ships out there in the inky blackness of space, but they still command a fairly impressive list of statistics. They are ugly, there is no doubt about that. Made up of cubes strapped to each other with gantries so they resemble little more than a child’s block-and-stick playset. Each densely-packed metal cube measures five miles and they are usually collected three wide, three up and nine down the length of the vessel. This mini citadel in the stars houses 260 million souls, mostly residents touring the vastness of space with plenty of accommodation for travellers s
uch as myself, and berth for 700,000 smaller cruise vessels. Also within these steel walls are all the commodities you could wish for, including several vast parks and artificial beaches, with some segments containing a small sea. The fact that the G-class are not the largest vessels in space today does not detract from their ability to offer every luxury you could desire. It is my ambition, one day, to secure a home aboard such a ship, though I’d rather not live on a cruiser called The Comb-Over. Maybe if sales of this book are high… I hear the going rate for an apartment on-board the Fairly Conscientious is around the 1.5 million tab mark. Small change for Rogdo.

  He reimburses me within ten seconds of being released from jail. Just enough time for him to smugly stride up to me, and say “Hi” followed by “here.” In fact, reimbursing isn’t quite right. He hands me one of his datacards and makes me promise I will not use more than one million tabs before handing it back to him. Such generosity surprises me. I still can’t quite fathom this man out. He has a roguish charm, of that I am certain. There is a degree of immaturity to him that doesn’t quite suit his age. Aside from that, I am unsure. He seems to happily embrace all the rumours about him – the conquests, the occasional heroics and the horrific violence meted out by a man without morals – but he doesn’t yet strike me as the kind of man who actually does those things. Does he try to live the legend, or is the legend living through him? I posit this to him.

  “One, don’t try to work me out, it’s a losing battle,” he tells me on the way to the docking bays. “Two, you hardly know me so don’t judge me.”

  I feel I may have hit a nerve, so remain quiet. Rogdo breaks the silence.

  “So what are you going to do with all this when you’ve finished your tour of duty? Is it for a film script? I’d love to see myself in VR doing battle with evil.”