Space Truckers

By Robert Devine and David Robinson

A comic romp through the trials and tribulations of Bazill Beatel and Garliston Garamine and their abusive servobot, Mekkano as they haul their various loads across the galaxy aboard the Chuckling Pig.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Robinson
• Release date: Mar 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393561149

Book preview

Space Truckers

David Robinson

© David Robinson 2020. All rights reserved

Contents

Coronallium Conundrum

Pirates of Penzarc

A Kairfree Christmas

Coronallium Conundrum

Federation President, Emlo Frinel, has confirmed that the blast at Consolidated Industries’ mine on Mercury was caused by a coronallium fuelled neutron disruptor. The Sol 3 Fundamentalist movement have accepted responsibility for the attack which claimed six lives and wrecked over 800 specialist mining bots. Total cost of the damage is estimated at eight billion dollars.

Bazill Beatel switched off the newscast, gazed mournfully through the viewport at the northern hemisphere of Sol 3 and sighed.

What was it you said to me in college? ‘Stick with me, BB. Stick with me and you’ll go places’.

Across the cockpit, ensconced in the left hand seat, Grenlon Garamine, nominal skipper of the Laughing Sow, did not take his eyes from the holovid display. You do go places. You go all over the Sol system and most of the quadrant.

I’m a space trucker, BB clucked, and I never wanted to be a space trucker. I’m a top flight pilot. I coulda signed on with Spaceways and had my own ship before I was fifty.

Still Gren did not take his eyes from his holovid projector. You wouldn’t have liked it, BB. I know you. I’ve known you all your life. You wouldn’t have been happy bowing and kow-towing to filthy rich passengers on a cruiseliner, yes-sirring other pilots and the skipper. At least you’re your own boss on this ship.

The orange blip of a tracking beacon appeared on BB’s readouts. His fingers danced quickly and accurately over the keyboard and the ship heeled right to follow the beacon.

He lifted the headset from the control yoke and slipped it over his crown, jamming the earpiece into his right ear. Pushing the R/T button on the yoke, he said, Sol 3 approach, this is golf, delta, seven, zero, eight, alpha, four, two, seven, seven, kilo India. Call sign, Laughing Sow, locked onto nav-beacon three-six-two. Inbound for Verplemansh.

There was a momentary delay. "Roger, Laughing Sow, continue standard approach via nav-beacons, three-six-two, then one-four-four and stack at zero-five-seven for Verplemansh. You are currently number eight, ahead of Spaceways interstellar class cruiseliner, Britannic."

Roger approach. Laughing Sow complying. BB threw off the headset again, and spent a few moments programming the approach instructions into the navputer. Leaning back in his seat he glanced across at his oldest friend and business partner.

Gren had always been the more business savvy of the pair. Lacking BB’s height and physical presence, Gren had relied upon his glib tongue to get by, and when they emerged from college clutching their astronavigation diplomas, it was the logical step for both of them to opt for pilot training. BB was one of the best, Gren barely above average, but his smooth talking had persuaded his partner to join him in their current venture. They sank their life savings into the Laughing Sow, and set out on the road to fortune.

And Gren was happy. They were making money. True, the Laughing Sow was hardly the height of luxury, but it was in good condition and good hands as long as BB was at the yoke.

BB was not so happy, and for a variety of reasons. He’d anticipated great times piloting ships through the system and the quadrant. He’d even considered joining the Militia and training as an interceptor pilot. A misunderstanding in a Venusian bar put an end to that idea. Although BB pleaded with both husbands that he had no idea the two women were married, it cut little ice with the men, both Militia officers, and to make matters worse, when he showed up for primary selection, one of the two turned out to be his recruiting sergeant.

At the tender age of 32, like it or not, he was doomed to the life of a space trucker, and that had its drawbacks. Every time they were intercepted by the Millies, he got a ticket. The recruiting sergeant and his buddy had made sure of that.

Persuading Gren that there had to be a better life was a waste of breath. The shorter and tubbier of the two was quite content to sit in the left hand seat, leaving all the work to BB, while he kept a close eye on the accounts, and watched holovids.

The big advantage of holovid projection was that no matter what angle you looked from, the 3-dimensional output always looked the same. From his seat, BB could also watch the sci-fi action series, Velda & the Styrians. She was some hen, that Velda. About BB’s age, only half dressed most of the time, she kicked alien ass throughout the galaxy. BB would give his right arm for some of that action.

His right arm was about all he could afford to give, and the thought reminded him of his next complaint.

And that’s another thing, he griped. We’re supposed to be equal partners in this hunk of junk.

I dunno about equal partners, BB, his pal responded. I did put up more of the initial capital than you. I figure that makes you a junior partner.

According to my bank account, I’m the embryonic partner, BB replied as the Laughing Sow banked left onto a fresh heading and the Sol 3 horizon grew large in the viewports.

I’m not responsible for the way you spend your dosh, Gren said.

We’re never in one place long enough for me to spend it, BB yelled. You don’t pay me is the real truth.

Don’t be daft. Of course I pay you.

BB reached over and jabbed the ‘off’ button on the holovid.

Hey, shouted Gren, at last taking his eyes from the projector. I was watching that.

Well, now you’re looking at me. Tell me when you last paid me any wages.

Gren’s eyes roamed the cockpit while he thought about the question. He opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word, a violent jolt shook the Laughing Sow. Gren scanned the instrument panel. Atmospheric interphase, he said.

Dropping the argument, BB turned front and centre, looped his arms through his harness, and while buckling up, he checked his own instruments.

Speed one hundred forty thousand feet per second, descent rate, four thousand feet per minute, bearing, zero, zero three, range, twenty-five hundred miles.

Gren called out from his console. Forward heat shield to maximum, retro thrusters engaged and primed, stub wings extended, radio blackout imminent, harnesses locked, air brakes active.

BB jabbed the internal comm switch. Mekkano get your butt in here.

Complying, delirious dipstick, came the electronic response of their onboard servobot.

Without taking his eyes from the instrument panel, Gren tutted. If I ever get my hands on the tech who messed up his verbal responses...

You should have paid the guy, BB observed.

He did an inferior job on that bot.

Only because you tried to bilk him for his tab, BB said, and scanned the instruments again, his hand clasped loosely round the yoke. Autopilot, the safest method of guiding any interplanetary and interstellar craft, was notoriously unreliable in a thick atmosphere like that of Sol 3. It relied upon absolute consistency of radio communication with navigations satellites, and re-entry often led to total radio blackout lasting up to four minutes. The Laughing Sow needed a steady hand close to the yoke, ready to keep her on course for those few, critical minutes.

The cockpit door slid open and Mekkano glided in.

The bot always reminded BB of a squat dustbin, floating a few inches off the ground. A short, squat droid running on antigrav sensors, it was possessed of a rudimentary, photoelectric eye slit which, thanks to free-running electrical brushes, allowed it 360o visibility, and omnidirectional free jointed arms that could hold many attachments, all kept within its central storage hold, in its barrel chest.

Mekkano, BB ordered, clean this place up.

Complying, pimple brain, said Mekkano and reached into his storage compartment to bring out a brush and dustpan.

The Laughing Sow’s frame stopped shuddering and the radio crackled into life.

Laughing Sow from Verplemansh control, we have your cargo details here, but there is some query. Can you confirm that you’re carrying six thousand tons of coronallium ore?

Negative, control, Gren responded. We’re carrying corominium. Coronallium is haz-cargo and we’re not licensed for it, but I’m assured by the consignee that this is not the same material.

Roger that, Laughing Sow, but to be honest, I’ve never heard of corominium, which is why we queried. You’re sure you or the consignee did not make a mistake?

The docs have been beamed to you, control. You know as much as we do. Our cargo is corominium rock dust.

And the consignee is Amalgamated Mining of Ceres?

Check. Gren replied.

"All right, Laughing Sow. Continue approach to the stack, you are now number three ahead of the Britannic."

Mekkano busied himself swivelling back and forth, dusting and sweeping the seats, floor and consoles, giving the viewports a quick wipe over, throwing trash, sweet wrappers, cigar butts, into the atomic disruptor, and accidentally throwing Gren’s holovid remote handset along with the trash.

I have made an error, you jackass, apologised the robot.

Just get out of here, growled Gren.

Complying, ass wipe. The robot disappeared through the cabin door.

The city of Brissdiff passed below as the ship pushed northwards. In the right hand seat, with nothing to do for five minutes, BB called up the manifest and studied its detail.

Hey, Gren, this stuff is supposed to go to the Scottish Highlands. How come we’re touching down at Verplemansh?

Gren snorted. Have you seen the landing charges at Aberverness? I did a bit of wheeling and dealing with a local firm. We dump at Verplemansh and he’ll hop the stuff up to Aberverness and the Duntoomin place for a song.

The Laughing Sow’s speed dropping all the time, she zipped across Brumwolverstaff and presently the vast conurbation of Verplemansh appeared on the horizon, a morass of twinkling streetlights spread across a fifty mile corridor either side of the river Merseydee.

Laughing Sow from Verplemansh approach, reduce speed to two, zero, zero, follow standard approach, you are slotted at dock sixty-one, berth twelve.

Roger. Gren punched in the details, and the holoputer display changed accordingly as the Laughing Sow’s nose shifted slightly to the left. Vertical lift set at eight point seven.

With their height registering 3,000 feet, BB adjusted his seating position and looked out and down.

Immediately below, spread over 60 square miles of North Merseydee Banks, Verplemansh spaceport gleamed with the hulls of a thousand liners, luggers, yachts, cruisers and flivvers. BB looked upon the shining hulls with great longing.

A gap appeared between an ore carrier and a planet clipper. BB hovered and then decreased vertical thrust. The Laughing Sow dropped slowly, Gren concentrating finely on the readouts, BB tickling rudder pedals occasionally to maintain the correct attitude, his eyes fixed on the schematic hologram, a stylised circle representing their berth, and a cross representing the ship. By making subtle and tiny adjustments to the control column, BB kept the cross in the precise centre of the circle.

The rules say the pute’s supposed to do the landing, Gren objected.

Stuff the rules. This is the only practice I get.

Gren flicked switches, three stubby landing legs extended from the pregnant belly of the Laughing Sow, the ground approached at twenty feet per second. At fifty feet, BB slid the throttles forward a fraction, gaining a little more lift, the descent rate slowed to 3 feet per second and suddenly, the thousands of tons of the Laughing Sow touched the ground with a barely perceptible bump.

A perfect landing yet again, BB congratulated himself. Magno-anchors.

Gren pulled a lever. Somewhere far off at the rear of the ship, slats opened and a pair of one ton electromagnetic discs, both a foot thick and six feet in diameter, dropped to the ground, locking themselves on steel plates built into the flat, concrete berth.

Magno-anchors in place. Going into shutdown. Gren looked through the view ports to the ground 40 feet below where a squad of Militiamen fanned out around the Laughing Sow’s nose. Hmm. Welcoming committee. Wonder what they’re waiting for?

He had barely had time to get the words out when loudhailers burst through the night.

"Attention, Grenlon Garamine and Bazill Beatel, crew of the Laughing Sow. You are under arrest on suspicion of smuggling coronallium into Verplemansh Spaceport. You are