The Slap
03 Nov 2017TripleRazor
“I’ve got stop going down to Pleiades,” Triplerazor mumbled at his reflection in the canopy. The bloody Pleiades! It was like a drug – thrilling, exotic, dangerous, and just when you swore you would stay the hell away, you found yourself plotting a route back to Maia or wherever…All this had started because he had decided to have a couple days stay-over aboard the Indra. Always before, he would dock, sell whatever he was carrying, maybe grab a haulage mission, off again. But he’d heard there were a couple of nice little eateries, and the woodlands in the torus looked good for an explore.
So he’d enjoyed the restaurants, and was breathing in the smell of leaves and grass and mould as he strolled down a carefully-recreated rustic path. Some pilots were always wanting ‘a blue sky over my head’ when they took a vacation, but he was quite content with whatever the heavens had to offer. The approach to the Indra never failed to please him, skimming in across the delicate tracery of purple-tinged planetary rings towards the carrier.
They’d approached him as he perched on a wall overlooking a little lake. He allowed himself a half-smile as the pair approached, their crisp strides and immaculate uniforms looking out of place in this pastoral recreation. He knew what this would be about…
Black ops. When the Empire wanted a little job doing that needed total deniability. Stuff that you couldn’t exactly post on the bulletin boards. He’d done them before, they weren’t always difficult or even seemingly important, but it made sense to someone, somewhere. Maybe even her Imperial Majesty. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth at that thought. “One day……”
Such missions rarely paid well, if at all; the rewards came in other forms. He continued smiling because he carried one such reward on either wrist. Imperial mindblades…concealed weapons that activated through a mental impulse alone. Gentle release so they slid into your palm, ready for a fight, or spring loaded straight into unsuspecting flesh.
The two Imperial soldiers, almost androgynous and identical, stopped the required six feet away and bowed.
“Commander Triplerazor? Hail the Emperor. Respected Prince of the Empire, we convey heartfelt greetings from our superiors and an invitation to discuss an opportunity for the Imperial good.”
He carefully slid off the wall, returned the bow. “Hail the Emperor. Please, lead on.”
After miles of monorail, endless-seeming corridors and then any number of heavy, secure doors with AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY stamped on them in harsh black capitals. Into a small, well-appointed room, subdued lighting, all expensive wood panelling and hand-stitched leather upholstery. His hosts rose as he entered and inclined their heads. He returned the bow and waited politely until a gesture ushered him to a seat.
A woman and a man. Tall and toned, faces lined but proud, with the usual brightly contrasting Imperial hairdo. Immaculate white uniforms, gold trim, discreet medals. He would never know what they were called. That’s how these things went.
“A drink, Commander?” said the man, bringing a bottle of Lavian brandy into view. Triplerazor peered at it. Unopened. He nodded. “Please. You are most kind.” Such liquor was never to be refused, even if it had almost certainly come here in the hold his own ship, twenty-four hours ago. The man gently handled the bottle with the suitable reverence and poured a stiff double into a glass.
“Commander. I won’t insult you by telling you why we’ve asked you here. Please, have a look.” The woman produced a datatab and passed it across the varnished hardwood of the table. Triplerazor took a drink and studied the tab.
Candles flickered as he scanned the text. The glass clicked down on the table and was pushed to one side.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
The Imperial officers exchanged a startled glance. “Commander?” he said.
“If it is, it’s not remotely funny. It’s very close to being offensive. Please explain? You want me to hunt down some pilot who’s barely been in space for a week? She’s still flying a Sidewinder, for the Emperor’s sake!”
The woman nodded, steepled her fingers and gazed directly at the pilot.
“Commander. I understand your disquiet. Put it like this; if we wanted them dead, we could have just hired some drug-addled thug out of a shabby backwater. But that is not what we require. We just need you to….go have a look. Rattle them a bit. This person is supposed to be a total novice. But they clearly are not. They are not some Federation citizen having a mid-life crisis. Our sources say they came out of cryosleep just over a fortnight ago. Something is not right here. This individual has set all kinds of alarm bells ringing in Imperial Intelligence. They may be no threat at all. But, you see our concern?”
Triplerazor pulled the glass back, took a sip. “Yes. I do.” He sighed deeply and emptied the glass. Of course he would do it. They had known that that even before he walked in the room.
“Another drink, Commander?” Triplerazor shook his head. “No, thank you. I will depart as soon as I can.” He stood, bowed, “Hail the Emperor.”
The two officers stood, bowed more deeply. “Thank you, Commander. You will be escorted back to your ship.”
Triplerazor set a course for Nahutal, the hold of Sinister Mojo laden with the biowaste always needed by an agric sytem. The landing pad groaned upwards, the landing restraints disengaged and the Anaconda lifted free of the Indra, accelerating away to escape velocity. Three, two, one, engage.
Witch-space. realspace drop, scoop a star’s precious emissions for fuel. Repeat….
From Nahutal to Dvorsi. Sinister Mojo cruised into the docking bay of Fowler Orbital, set down sweetly on the pad. Unload cargo. Sell whatever exploration data he’d picked up on the way here. Into the hanger.
System shut down. Triplerazor quietly left the Anaconda, walking along the shipyard boulevard rather than take the monopod. To another cold, dark hanger.
The lights flickered on. He stood for a while, contemplating the craft now before him. Sinister Mojo could do any number of tasks and missions, but this sleek creature was made for one thing only.
Still full of misgivings, he boarded Sin Eater. Settling into the pilot’s seat, watching, hearing and feeling the ship come to life.
A few minutes later, the Fer-de-Lance lifted off and headed into the black.