Milton Maroo and the Idon Rebellion

By Ben Maxfield

Milton Maroo, a portly space trader who enjoys a gourmet meal as much as a good deal, is wanted for murder in a strange star system on the brink of war.

The Idon star system is fragile, crumbling from the outer planets in. At the edge, resentment boils in the Idonan people, whispers of uprising are growing. The palace, on the innermost planet, still projects order from a king increasingly out of touch with his subjects.

Milton Maroo, the lone pilot of the trading ship, the Zenger, transports goods from system to system, most of it legal. On a run into the Idon system, his dazzling skills with a laser pistol turn him into a fugitive when he kills a vital figure at the heart of a rebellion in an act of self defense.

Cappa is a smooth-talking spy working within the ranks of a rebel outfit that has gone rogue. When his true identity is revealed, he must work with Milton to stay alive long enough to set the record straight.

Together, hunted by a king with immense resources, they must clear Milton's name, while the fate of the entire system lies in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Maxfield
• Release date: Jun 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201258344

Ben Maxfield

Visit Ben Maxfield's website at: benmaxfield.com

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 

Milton Maroo flopped into the pilot’s chair of his small transport ship as it entered the Idon system. The puffy, black upholstery was worn on the corners to a nondescript grey matrix underneath and the shoulders had split apart revealing the cheap recycled silicon-blown padding spherules underneath. The backrest’s padding capsule had ruptured after years of use and now every time Milton plopped in the seat a spherule or two would squeak out of a hole and roll under the instrument panel. One day he’d have to dismantle the panel and clean back there before something bad happened.

At one time his kite-class vessel, the Zenger, was a respectable vehicle for a sole intergalactic trader but now it was barely space worthy and was looked at with contempt by other traders. Even the small time smugglers on his level mocked his ship and Milton wasn’t averse to the odd bit of smuggling himself.

He leaned his ample torso to the left to grab a dessert meal from the drink dispenser. The food printer was busted, he had been drinking liquid meals for a couple months and had become tired of every alternative and variation the machine could make. Now he chose from the dessert selection whenever he punched the power toggle button on the front panel. This time he chose banana custard with peach chunks. The machine deployed a reusable metal cup and squirted orange coloured liquid inside, stopping a centimetre from the lip.

The drink had no discernible chunks. All the drink options were at best a smooth sludge. At least this one was tasty and hadn’t become tiresome after a month and a half jumping from system to system, still not being able to find an engineer capable of fixing his food machine, fixing it for a price he could afford at least.

He plucked a bendy straw from a shoulder pocket of his flight jacket, flicked off a piece of lint from the tip and speared it into the goop. His tongue waggled for a second as he fished the end of the straw into his mouth, then he was away, sucking down his dinner, drops of condensation forming and running down the cup onto his short fingers.

With a blissful grin he inspected the monochrome console screens with a slow sweep of his head. The figures, bars and charts representing the status of the ship were all fine, life support, okay, fire suppression system, okay, fuel, okay. His cargo, a modest stack of lomar beast skins would fetch a good price on the planets of Idon, if he could avoid the quarantine restrictions the planets put on alien biological goods. By the time merchandise like skins had been through the chemical and radiation treatments the locals bombarded them with, the exquisite suppleness and aroma of the skins would be destroyed, and with it, his profits.

The main screen displayed the proximity scanner output overlaid over the system map for the area. Again, nothing of interest, no ships nearby, not even civilian vessels.

Milton had learned in the past that civilian-looking vessels could well be the authorities. On more than one occasion he had run afoul of planetary guard ships posing as travellers until it was too late to act.

He had just passed the orbit path of the outermost planet and was heading starward. He set a course for the middle planet in this five planet system and punched the autopilot keypad to establish orbit when it arrived.

His lower back twinged, he was coming to the end of a long run and really should spend some time out of the pilot’s chair. Space in the craft was cramped, divided into three areas, the bridge with pilot and copilot seats and an auxiliary sensor console station, a living area with a small table and chairs and a food printer, and a sleeping compartment with a pair of too-small bunk beds, a really-too-small toilet and sink, and wire mesh cabinets for personal storage.

Some exercise would do him good. Maybe a massage and a stem cell shot if he could find a clean looking health spa planetside.

A pair of ships appeared on the edge of his scanner display, approaching fast from behind. The communications button flashed orange. Milton stopped slurping and routed the incoming transmission through the main speaker.

Halt your vessel immediately. That fellow didn’t sound very friendly.

Hello friend. What seems to be the trouble? Milton had learned the hard way to remain civil until the plasma bolts started flying.

There’ll be no trouble if you do as we say. Power down your engines immediately.

They didn’t have the tone of planetary guard officers and their ship’s beacons weren’t transmitting military ID codes. In fact, their ships weren’t transmitting any identifying signals at all, a strict violation of nearly all space faring treaties in this sector of the galaxy, including Idon.

If they weren’t officers, it would be safer to deal with these guys in planetary guard patrolled space. Why don’t I just dock at the nearest space station and we can talk there.

Power down now or you will be destroyed.

There was no ambiguity there. Milton was dealing with pirates and he was outgunned. He had retrofitted his aging ship with military grade ion cannons at great expense but he still couldn’t out manoeuvre two interceptor-class ships in wide formation.

Milton opened his long range comms. A red message appeared on the comms panel, Offline. The pirates were jamming all long range communication channels. He wouldn’t be able to call for help, even if he wanted to.

The ships had already halved their distance to the Zenger and were almost within firing range. Milton maxed out the thrusters. His eyes and hand darted around the system map on the main display looking for a policed zone or somewhere to hide. The nearest planet was the fourth planet in the system, a gas giant with a gravitational pull too strong to approach with his engines. There was no point sending out a distress call, he would be fragments floating in space by the time the planetary guard arrived.

A single blue bolt streaked outside his starboard view port. They were within firing range. He hoped that was a warning shot but whatever the case, he had run out of time. With a sigh and a heavy hand Milton throttled back the thrusters. They would board and inspect his ship for anything worth stealing. Stealing entire ships was risky. To scrub the ID markings completely from a vessel was a lengthy process that required practically the entire ship to be dismantled. Most pirates were content with smash and grab tactics with small time traders.

Within seconds the ships had the Zenger in a tractor lock and moved in close. One extended its ship-to-ship docking sleeve. The clang of the docking clamps reverberated through the hull as the sleeve snapped tight around the docking port.

Open the door. The pirate said. He didn’t bother adding a threat to the demand.

Without argument, Milton released the seal on the outer door with a pull of a lever. There was a hiss beyond the inner air lock hatch as the pressure equalised. Milton could submit fully to the pirates and let them have their way with the ship. If he was lucky the pirates would come onboard with masks and let him live with their identities hidden. If they came on board with their faces exposed they would definitely kill him. He leant to the side in his seat, squeaking out two padding spherules from the backrest and slid an antique .45 pistol from a compartment welded to the underside frame.

Something struck the inner hatch from the air lock side twice. Open the door!

Milton stuck the gun under the back of his waistband, under his jacket. Okay, okay, Milton sounded fearful and submissive, or he hoped he sounded that way. He got up and cranked a small wheel on the hatch. Pssh. The hatch burst open, sending Milton staggering back. When he caught his footing against the copilot’s chair, he saw three men in black tactical space suits charge in, rifles braced against their shoulders, pointing at him with enhanced electronic sights jutting out in front of the blacked out visors of their armoured helmets.

The man closest to the sleeping compartment lunged through the door and swept the small space with his laser rifle, probably looking for extra passengers. Clear. He returned to train his rifle back on Milton.

What are you transporting? said the man in the middle.

Not much, Milton cowered a little for effect. Just some skins.

Release the clamps on your cargo container. We’ll collect it.

Not so much as an introduction? Milton couldn’t resist. Who are you guys? he said smiling.

The other two men looked at the one in the middle.

You want to know who we are? said their apparent leader. There was a chuckle from under his helmet. Suit yourself. He snapped a stud under the chin guard of the helmet and the black tint of the visor vanished. The man was young, a dash of green-dyed hair draped over one brow of his handsome face.

The man to the left followed suit and Milton looked at the tattooed, stubbled leer of a brute whose features showed the unmistakable signs of genetic testosterone abuse, granite brow, bulbous cheekbones and an impossibly square jaw barely encased in the now clear visor.

Then the third revealed his face which was uglier than second with thick, greasy dreadlocks pressing into his cheeks within the helmet.

All three men started laughing.

Milton started laughing. Instead of stopping with confusion, the three pirates bellowed louder, slapping each other on the shoulder, jerking their aim away from him.

I guess you’ll have to shoot me now, Milton said between giggles. He slapped his thigh and wiped a tear from his eye.

I guess we will, said the dreadlocked man.

Milton doubled over in laughter, holding his sides. Then, in one quick motion he drew his pistol, dropped to the floor and fired a single shot at the fire sensor in the ceiling above the doorway to the sleeping quarters. It was small, less than two centimetres in diameter, but Milton hit it dead on with his bullet. Sparks flew from the shattered lens and a sheet of white foam shot out from a directional extinguishing nozzle in the central ceiling panel in a two-second burst towards the activated sensor. It overtook the line of pirates like a wave, covering them from head to toe in the sticky stuff.

Gah. The dreadlocked man swung his rifle towards the floor and swatted at his visor which was now coated in foam, as was the visors of the other two.

Fire! roared the leader.

Milton sent a shot at the brute’s head with a flick of his wrist. Two beams lit up the cabin, one went wide and hit the floor by Milton’s shoulder, the other hit the control panel behind him. The brute went down, the dreadlocked man raised his rifle, now having cleared a streak in his visor from which one eye peeped out.

Another shot burned from the leader’s gun. He was firing blind and shouting incoherently. The beam strayed wild and high, almost hitting the ceiling.

The second shot from Milton’s gun barked loud in the cramped space. It hit the leader in the throat. He dropped the rifle, dropped to his knees and clutched the neck ribbing of his tactical suit, blood spilling between his fingers.

The dreadlocked man exploded into a rage. With white hot fury behind the half-blinded visor, he dropped the gun and scratched at his helmet. A second later, it was off and sailing through the air at Milton’s head.

Milton leaned out of the way of the helmet with his gun trained squarely at the man’s chest. The helmet bounced off the floor and hit the control panel.

The leader gargled on his knees and toppled over, joining the other henchman motionless on the floor.

What are you doing? the dreadlocked raider said, his face beet red under his tangled, thick hair, eyes wide and incredulous.

Having dinner. Milton took a slurp from his cup which he still held in his off hand. Banana custard with peach chunks. He released the straw from his mouth.

Baah! the man lunged for the rifle by his feet.

Milton let off a final shot, catching the man in the chest with the bullet. It was enough to make him crumple to the floor and forget about the gun.

He rolled onto his back, wheezing and pale, holding both hands against his ribs. He tried to laugh but coughed up bright blood instead. You know who you killed? Half smiling, half grimacing with blood smeared teeth, his head bobbed towards the leader shot through the neck.

Milton collected the rifles and put them a safe distance from the dying man.

He leaned over the man with the fatal neck wound and inspected his face. In death, it had frozen in a wide-eyed look of fear.

Milton didn’t recognise him. "Do