Chapter Text
People, even those who spent a reasonable amount of time off-world, tended to think of space as black. Leaning back in the battered pilot's seat with not a lot to do while the equally battered cargo ship rattled its way through the void on autopilot, Captain May mused that this was mostly because people never took the time to look properly.
Even following the same route between the same planets he'd taken a hundred times before, there was always something different to see. People asked him occasionally whether he got bored out here. But that was the thing about infinity. There was an awful lot of it to look at.
For instance, there was an amazing amount of colour when you looked for it. Comets, meteor showers, nebulas. Flashing red warning lights.
Flashing red warning lights?
His feet slid off the console with a bang as he leaned forward to peer worriedly at the display. It was silently yet frantically trying to draw his attention to something. He hit the edge of the console with his fist, and an urgent high pitched beeping filled the flight deck as something unjammed itself.
Irritably, he flicked switches until it fell silent. Something was showing up on his sensors. Something big. Something fast. Something right behind him.
Flight Lieutenant Hammond studied himself critically in the mirror on the wall of his quarters. It was his first day in his new position, and he desperately wanted to make a good impression. Previously a fighter pilot based out of Space Station Theta, his new commission saw him attached to the Admiral's command cruiser. He got a pay rise, his own cabin, and, the object of his current scrutiny, a new uniform. It fit rather well, he decided, trying to look over his own shoulder to find out how he looked from behind.
A buzzing sounded in his ear and he flinched before remembering the ear piece he was wearing. Told himself sternly not to jump every time it did that. At least, not when anyone was watching.
Tapped it with his finger and the dispassionate voice of the communications officer told him in no uncertain terms to get his arse to the docking bay.
This was it. The first day of the rest of his life. His big moment.
He straightened the jacket that didn’t need straightening, squared his shoulders and marched out of his quarters.
--
"This is the Space Corps Cruiser Majestic. Identify yourself and your intended destination."
Frowning at the tinny voice emanating from the speaker, James flicked the transmitter switch.
"This is Captain May of the cargo freighter Calliope. Bound for Space Station Echo." He flicked it off again and muttered "and what's your fucking problem?"
The Calliope was a four-berth tramp freighter, although James made up the entire crew. Styling himself captain, he was equally mechanic, navigator, pilot and chef. And on rare occasions, cleaner.
"Freighter Calliope, prepare for boarding."
He stared at the console in shock and indignation. "What the fuck?"
Switched the transmitter back on. "Would you mind telling me why exactly you want to come on board, and on whose authority?" he asked acidly, knowing he was pushing his luck but too pissed off to care.
The response was frosty. "Admiral Wilman will lead the boarding party, acting on information received." The crackle abruptly cut off as communications were severed from the other end. James rubbed a hand over his face anxiously. Information received. That meant they thought he was smuggling something. The fact that he wasn't didn't stop him feeling guilty in the face of such bullying authority though. He hauled himself reluctantly to his feet and made his way down to the airlock.
Reporting for duty, Hammond was taken aback to find that his team was being headed up by the admiral himself. Hiding his surprise, he hoped successfully, he snapped off a salute that could have cut glass. The admiral looked him up and down assessingly, then turned away without a word to address the team as a whole. Other than Hammond and the admiral, there were four other men standing to attention, waiting to hear the brief.
"Gentlemen. I am in possession of certain information that leads me to believe the freighter we have stopped is carrying contraband. We will board, inspect, and apprehend. Any questions?"
"Presumably we only apprehend if we actually find something?"
The iciness of the admiral's stare rapidly made Richard wish he hadn't said anything.
"Do you doubt the quality of my intelligence?"
"Without knowing who it came from, I couldn't say sir." Shut up shut up shut up Richard's brain urged him, and he bit his tongue.
"Hmmn. Well, no doubt we shall see. Perhaps you would pilot the shuttle, assuming that is, that's alright with you?" Wilman continued witheringly.
Taking refuge in blind obedience, Hammond snapped off another salute and lead the way into the shuttle. Finding himself briefly out of earshot, he leaned towards one of the other men. "Is it usual for him to accompany routine inspections?" he whispered.
The man, a pilot named Franklin, looked hastily over his shoulder and shook his head. "Nope. Usually leaves the legwork to us. Don’t know what's different today."
As the team buckled themselves in for the short transfer, Hammond set aside the less than ideal start to his new career, and concentrated on flying them out of the docking bay without hitting anything.
In the middle distance he could see a scruffy-looking freighter standing by, and his spirits rose as he wondered what manner of desperate criminals or cunning smugglers he was about to encounter.
The hiss of the air-lock died away, and James hit the release button. The door slid aside to reveal six men, all armed and stern looking. Five wore the same uniform and one, at the front, had a good deal more gold braid. This, James assumed, was Admiral Wilman.
He stood back as they marched into the loading bay and lined up in front of him.
"You are Captain May?" barked the admiral.
"I am." James leaned back against the wall. Looking at so many people standing to attention was making him feel tired.
"And who is the owner of this craft?"
"That would be me."
The admiral looked him up and down, and sniffed. "Have your crew assemble in here at once."
James sighed. "Again, that would be me."
The admiral blinked. "This class ship is a four-berth."
"Yes, it is. Three of which are currently empty, and occasionally used for paying passengers."
"You expect me to believe you are the only occupant of this ship?"
"Well I suppose there's always Tom."
The admiral stiffened. "Then have him report here at once man!"
"I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?"
"I don’t know where he is. And even if I did, he probably wouldn’t take any notice of me."
The admiral was going a slow shade of puce. "Who is this Tom?"
James smiled slightly. "My cat."
"Your – "
One of the five armed guards gave a sudden splutter of laughter, turning it hastily into a cough as the admiral glared round at him.
"Enough. What cargo are you carrying?"
James straightened up. "Three loads, all bound for Echo. One of school books, one of lumber and one of soil samples."
"You inspected these loads yourself?"
"No, they all came on board sealed." For the first time, James felt a flicker of worry. People paid more if you didn’t monkey around with their cargo, but perhaps he should have been more vigilant.
"Open them." The admiral waved a hand towards the pallets of cargo and the five guards moved forward.
"Hey, hang on a minute! You can't just – " James strode forward indignantly, only to be brought up short as Wilman drew his blaster.
"I think you'll find we can."
James watched sullenly as the five men slit open wrappings and poked about in the contents. They'd moved onto the fifth pallet, which – as far as he knew – contained soil samples bound for a mineral lab, when one of the guards looked up and shouted.
"Franklin?" Wilman marched forward eagerly, and James followed, wondering what the hell was getting them so excited about mud.
Drew up sharply as what met his eyes proved to be a lot shiner than containers of dirt.
"What the hell?" he leaned forward for a closer look, and Wilman drove him back at gun point, eyes gleaming triumphantly.
"Soil samples you say? Whereas that looks very much to me like Magdalanian food credits."
To the side, Franklin slid one of the metal tokens out of its wrapping, and bit it. Shook his head. "Counterfeit."
"Smuggling and counterfeiting? My, we have been naughty."
James was stuttering in shock. "I – I didn't know – this isn't my cargo, I – you have to believe me!"
Wilman was shaking his head. "As far as I can see, you've been caught red-handed. Guards – execute him."
"What!"
James, half paralysed in horror, was taken aback to realise that it was one of the guards that had spoken the word he couldn't get past his lips. For a second he thought he'd imagined it, but no, Wilman was swinging round on the man with a face like thunder.
"Hammond! Did I give you permission to speak? Carry out your orders immediately."
The guard – Hammond – was looking as stunned as James felt.
"But – you – can't just execute him without a trial!"
"Hear hear," muttered James weakly, looking round desperately for some means of getting out of this rapidly deepening hole.
"Are you questioning my authority?" Wilman bellowed. Hammond went pale, and swallowed nervously.
"…yes?" he croaked.
The other members of Hammond's team were looking from him to the admiral, waiting cagily to see what the outcome would be. James took the opportunity to surreptitiously shuffle slightly closer to the metal panelled wall.
Whatever he'd intended, it looked like James was out of time, as Wilman swung round at the movement and levelled his blaster at him.
"Then I'll do it myself!" he snapped.
James had a split second to think that this was an unbelievably unfair way to die and wonder what would become of his cat before Wilman pulled the trigger. But he wasn't the only one moving.
Hammond, whether intending to object further, or deflect his aim, had somehow stepped into his line of fire.
The crackle of blaster fire caught him a glancing blow in the chest, and he was flung past James to crumple in a heap against the far wall.
For a second, Wilman hesitated. It was all the time James needed. The advantage of being the only crew member meant he knew every inch of this ship like the back of his hand.
Including all the faults he hadn't fixed properly.
He slammed his foot through a loose panel in the base of the wall, and in a shower of sparks a loose connection fused. The current arced out from the conduit and across the metal floor upon which Wilman and the rest of the guards were standing. In the second before it shorted itself out the shock was enough to stun them, and they dropped, yelling in pain, to the ground.
James, who'd leapt onto one of the wooden pallets, lunged for the fire switch. Before they could regain their feet, groggy and disoriented, a metal shutter had slammed down, separating them from James in the rear of the loading bay.
Catching his breath and feeling decidedly light-headed, he hit the communicator panel on the wall.
"This, gentlemen, is an emergency bulkhead. It's airtight. Now I think you'll find you're on the side nearest the airlock. You have thirty seconds to please get the fuck off my ship, or I jettison your shuttle and vent your half of this loading bay into space." He let go the switch and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, shaking with the adrenaline.
From the far side of the partition, he heard various thumps and electronic hums that suggested they were vacating the premises. Looked across at the motionless body of the man who'd stood up for him – Hammond, had they called him? – and felt suddenly immeasurably weary as he hauled himself back to his feet.
But it was no good feeling sorry for himself. As soon as Wilman got back to the command carrier, they'd blow him out of the sky. Sooner, he realised, starting to run, if they radioed ahead.
His only chance was the fact they'd need to give the shuttle time to get clear of the blast.
Ricocheting off metal walls and tripping up every flight of steps between the loading bay and the flight deck, he hurled himself into the pilot's seat, hands moving over the console before he was even seated, punching in the commands to the stardrive without looking.
Five seconds later, a massive explosion blossomed in the space that two seconds previously had held a freighter.
Hammond's world seemed to be comprised entirely of pain.
Pain, and a strangely wet sensation, he realised, as a further degree of awareness returned.
He forced open his eyes, and realised that the wetness could be attributed to the large ginger tom-cat that was licking his face with an expression that could only be described as calculating.
"Gerroff! I'm not edible!" Hammond rolled away, groaning as shooting pains ran up and down his legs.
Still, if everything hurt, at least that meant everything was still attached.
He struggled to his feet, fighting down a wave of nausea. Wondered where everyone was, wondered why he'd been left on the floor of the loading bay. As he tried to get his bearings, he realised the hum of engines he could detect through the floor was stronger than before, which had to mean they were under way. But where? And why?
Clenching his teeth against the pain, Hammond made his way through the ship in search of someone who could tell him what the hell was gong on.
James was hunched over the controls, re-programming the flight computer. No way he could keep his rendezvous at space station Echo now, they'd be waiting for him. He cursed, loudly, the circumstances that had made him a fugitive and specifically the man whose illicit cargo he was transporting. So wrapped up in his seething temper was he, that at first he missed the movement in the doorway.
Eventually, something tugged at the corner of his eye, and he looked round to see a dead man looking back at him.
"Aahh!" He leapt to his feet in shock, then felt slightly foolish. Clearly, the man wasn't dead at all, although he did look a little unfocussed.
Blinking furiously to banish the little explosions of light across his vision, Hammond tried to muster his thoughts at discovering the ship to be apparently still in the hands of what he persisted in thinking of as space pirates. While he didn’t approve of shooting a man without trial, the man in question had, without doubt, been found in possession of a considerable amount of contraband after all.
"I'm arresting you, in – in the name – of the Space Corps security force, for possession of – of – illegal – possessions," he finished, pleased with himself.
And then quietly passed out in a heap.
The second time he awoke, Hammond realised that while this time it felt like he was lying on something a lot softer than a metal grille, the wet sensation was back.
"You can’t eat me," he muttered.
"I wasn’t trying to," came the amused sounding reply, and he opened his eyes in confusion.
Looking down at him was the ship's captain, a wet flannel in his hand that he'd apparently been holding to Hammond's forehead.
"Oh. Er. Hello."
"Hello." The man – May, he remembered – smiled tentatively at him. "I'm sorry. I thought you were dead. I wouldn’t have left you down there if I'd realised."
"Um. That's okay." Hammond struggled to sit up, and was grateful when a strong pair of hands came to his assistance.
"Er – don’t take this the wrong way, but why aren’t you dead?"
Hammond put a hand to his chest, then looked around in alarm.
"The vest? It's over there, I thought you'd be more comfortable without it." Understanding dawned in May's eyes. "Oh, it's protective? Against blaster fire?"
"Yeah, it's supposed to be. Think I want my money back," Hammond winced.
"Hey, you're alive. Don't knock it." May smiled again, more genuinely this time. "I'm James, by the way. Welcome to the Calliope."
"Flight Lieutenant Hammond," came the somewhat stiff reply.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Flight Lieutenant," said James, politely. "Am I to understand I'm under arrest?"
Hammond sighed. "Oh – bloody hell. Look – call me Richard. And while you probably should be under arrest, I'm not under any illusion that I could enforce it, given that I'm stuck on your ship, in your bed." He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not am I? In your actual bed?"
James laughed. "Three spare bunks remember?"
An hour later, they were sitting together in the galley drinking tea and watching Tom sprawling across most of the table as he washed himself vigorously.
"What will you do?" Richard asked quietly. James looked up in surprise, and he shrugged. "Not that you'd tell me, I suppose."
"You probably saved my life back there. I don’t think I've thanked you," James said instead, and Richard flushed.
"Oh, well, you know." He looked suddenly angry. "We're supposed to be a justice service! What the hell was he thinking?"
James shrugged. "The whole thing seemed fishy to me. How did he know what I was carrying when even I didn't?"
"Do you think you were set up?"
James pinched the bridge of his nose, looking tired. "No. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think, to be honest. But I'm going to find out. I've sent a message ahead, to – say I've been diverted. We'll see."
Richard hesitated. "What about me?"
"What do you want to do?" James asked.
"Could you drop me somewhere I can pick up a ride back to the Majestic?"
"You sure they'll be welcoming?"
Richard looked shocked. "The corps' been my whole life. Why would they not be?"
"Oh, I don’t know. Because in my experience they're a bunch of deceitful bastards?" James looked at Richard's wounded expression and sighed. "Sorry, sorry. Okay, look, there's a supply station not far away, I'll drop you there, they're bound to have shuttles going out."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
James smiled, ruefully. "I hope it works out for you. I really do."
Two days later, having successfully deposited his unexpected passenger and arranged to forward his legitimate cargo onwards to its rightful destination - meaning a large cut in his profits - James found himself wandering into a dingy bar on the swamp planet of Heressa.
Taking a vacant seat at the bar, he'd taken but one sip of his drink when he was grabbed roughly from behind. He looked up into the angry expression of a man slightly the worse for drink, and considerably short-changed in the number of teeth.
"Tha'ss my seat. Jump in my coffin as quick would you?"
"I'd deliver it for you as well if the price was right," James muttered absent-mindedly, realising this might not have been the best response, as the man-mountain growled like an erupting volcano and swung his fist back violently.
Instead of burying it in James' face however, he was startled to find his fist caught in a vice-like grip, and a gun jabbed in his ribs.
"Get lost," a voice hissed in his ear. "Or I'll knock out the rest of your teeth for good measure."
Grumbling loudly, but deciding discretion was the better part of valour, the man slouched off.
James' rescuer turned to him, beaming. "Now wasn't that just in the nick of time?"
At which point James punched him, hard, in the face.
"Ow!" Clutching his nose and doubling over in pain, the man glared up at him through watering eyes. "What the fuck was that for?"
"What for? James yelled incredulously. "You plant counterfeit credits on my ship and wonder what the matter is? You nearly got me killed Clarkson, you bastard."