The Great Escape Chapter 19, Part 2 of 6

The Great Escape
Chapter 19, Part 2 of 6

"Mr. Oakeshott, please? I no longer care about the air-suit, not when you can tell me what happened to Yumi. I beg you, Sir, it's a matter of honor to me!"

Stephen told Michio what Danielle and Roger had told him about how badly they believed Michio treated Yumi. As Stephen spoke, Michio visibly shrank. At the end, he bowed again, his face flushed red. Stephen began to pity the lad, judging his remorse to be genuine.

"I have misused Yumi," Michio confessed, looking down, "but through weakness, not malice. I intended to follow her to Capella. I was stopped by my father, who confined me to the house.

My mailbox was being monitored, and my bank account was frozen. I had no money, no future, and no prospects."

"You abandoned her!" Stephen accused.

"I was told that Yumi went home, that she refused to talk to me."

"Her brother tried hundreds of times to contact you."

"Itsuki? But he was the one who told me Yumi had gone home, that she had rejected me. I wrote to him over and over, but he never replied."

Michio went silent.

"I was deceived," he said quietly. "This was my father's work, but I cannot blame him. I blame myself. I was a coward and did not try to find out for myself."

"I protected my family name, my future with the company, my social position, and my inheritance ... and I lost the life I might have had with Yumi. I agreed to the marriage my father arranged. It was a business agreement."

Stephen's pity briefly turned to contempt.

"What happens if we find Yumi?" he asked.

"I won't be weak again, Mr. Oakeshott. If you find Yumi, I will ensure she is properly looked after and doesn't suffer because of my weakness, but I will honor my wife in public. I won't let my scandal shame her."

Stephen believed Michio's surprising story and communicated it to Danielle, who said: "Hold off awarding the contract for the air-suit. Let's wait and see what comes of Michio's promises."

Michio Nakatani kept his word and confronted his father. He was a brave young man who challenged the influential Chairman of the Nakatani Corporation to earn his freedom and, eventually, his father's respect. Soon afterward, the Nakatani Corporation dropped its patent-infringement case against Hyper Star Japan and bought the rights to Danielle's air-suit technology.

The Samothea Project was back on track, and Danielle rallied her team.

While the mission was in statistics, the Samothea Project team worked on a small budget, designing the cheapest and simplest TTravelerpossible. They planned to keep their head-start by sending a mission to Samothea as soon as possible, using the existing engine with a two-ton payload, most of which was the beacon for the return journey.

The team agreed to go ahead with the current plan. The timetable for the mission was three months.

The proposed vehicle could not include the heavy machinery a prospector would generally use. The microwave circuit gave them an advantage: someone in a circuit could do all the heavy lifting and flying that a prospector would need the machinery for. This would have saved considerable weight and a vast amount of time and cost on building and programming a robot.

The Project Team designed the new traveler to carry a man.

Job adverts were sent to the Prospectors' Guild, to the various academies that trained space explorers, and to the kinds of low dives on frontier planets where successful Prospectors generally hung out between jobs. There were no takers.

No one sensible would risk his life on such a dangerous mission, not even for pots of money. It needed a madman or an idiot.

When she had a moment, Danielle updated her friends on the status of the Project, mentioning the need for a pilot. One of her friends was Hestia, the gorgeous 'Entertainer' on Capella Spaceport, who responded immediately by saying:

"What good luck! Something just happened, and I may be able to help. I'll be in touch soon."

Things had changed for Hestia in the two years since Danielle had explained her accountant's advice. She allowed herself to age a little and had undergone a cheaper rejuvenation treatment to keep herself looking twenty-three. With the money she saved, Hestia bought a controlling interest in the Goat and Chariot pub, where she was now responsible for the slow barman and the annoying music. She also took a kind and pecuniary interest in the younger.
Entertainers, helping them stay safe, disease-free, insured, and legal.

She took only a few high-paying customers now and was relieved that her financial position was better than ever. Hestia even planned her retirement back on Earth, putting a down payment on a cottage in a Cotswold village with a thatched roof, LED lights in the windows, and a front door graced by a pink climbing rose. She intended to live a respectable middle-class life, entering the local community, joining societies, helping at fetes, and tutoring "the questionable behavior of young people nowadays."

That morning, however, she had a plan. Hestia put on a short skirt and a tight top, applied moderate war paint, left her burgundy hair down, and took the moving walkway along the East Causeway to the Police Station.

"Good morning, Arthur!" she said brightly when Constable Jeffries, bleary-eyed and yawning, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, unlocked and opened the front door.

"You're up early, Hestia," he said. "Is it about the prisoner?"

"Yes. Will you back me up in whatever I say?"

"Not if it's illegal, I won't. Otherwise, yes."

"Thanks, Arthur."

"Was there much damage?" he wondered.

"Not much, and the pub needs redecorating anyway, so I'm not concerned, but that's not what
I'm going to tell our friend, "She added conspiratorially.

"All right. I won't spoil your fun. Here, hold my coffee."

Hestia illicitly took dainty bird-like sips from Constable Jeffries' coffee cup while he went to fetch a jug of water.

"Now we're ready," he said, but he scowled disapprovingly when he saw only half his coffee was left. He downed it quickly and led Hestia to the makeshift jail, a row of benches lining an alcove on one side of the Police Station, their sturdy legs fastened by bolts to the concrete floor. A scruffy man lay on a bench, one wrist handcuffed to his leg, sleeping off a night of drunken excess.

His name was Brad Formast, and he was in jail because of his part in a fight in The Goat and Chariot pub the previous night. It wasn't his fault: he stepped in to rescue one of the Entertainers, an innocent girl caught in the middle of a drunken brawl between Russian and Ukrainian freighter crews. Brad sheltered the girl but accidentally got hit by a Russian man.

Furious, he joined the Ukrainians in their mayhem.

After the fight was broken up by some Military Police, the Russians and Ukrainians were confined to their ships, and Brad was taken to Constable Jeffries' office. Still fuming, not knowing whom he was fighting anymore, he was handcuffed to a bench and left to sleep it off.

That morning, the freighter companies paid their fines and left Capella.

Constable Jeffries tipped the pitcher of water over the man's face. The man woke up, alarmed, and spluttered.

"What, what is it?" Brad demanded, shocked into sensibility. "God! My head hurts."

"Here, drink this."

Constable Jeffries handed Brad the rest of the pitcher to drink. He downed it in one and began to feel better.

Brad sat on the bench, his head bowed and his eyes shut. He was sober now, but his jaw and ribs ached where he'd been hit, and his knuckles hurt where he'd done the hitting.

He was a tall, strong-looking black man who was athletic and fit. He had a handsome face, short hair, a swollen lip, and a bruised jaw.

Constable Jeffries judged that Brad was well enough to be spoken to.

"Mr. Formast," he said. "This lady owns The Goat and Chariot. She has some questions for you."

Brad opened his eyes and looked up. He saw a gorgeous curvy woman with elegant legs, a thin waist, magnificent tits in a tight vee-neck shirt, and a face of heart-stopping beauty, with dark-red hair and dark-green eyes. He shook his head clear and tried to stand, forgetting that his wrist was cuffed to the leg of the bench. He got halfway up before he stumbled back down.

"Please excuse me from not standing, Ma'am," he said, indicating the handcuffs.

Hestia appreciated his good manners but hid her approval in an accusatory tone.

"You wrecked my bar," she said.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I wasn't the only one misbehaving."

"You're the only one still on Capella, though," Arthur Jeffries said.

"But it wasn't even my fight!"

Hestia had watched the security video that morning, admiring Brad's gallantry in saving the frightened girl and unfairly getting embroiled in the fracas. Then, she deliberately deleted the evidence.

"How will you pay for the damage?" she demanded. As how much is it?"

"At least four hundred pounds Galactic."

"You're serious?" Brad asked. "I only broke a few chairs. Why am I doing the whole lot?"

"Hestia can put in her claim at the arraignment," Arthur said. "Our Justice of the Peace will decide how much of the fine belongs to you."

"Look," Brad protested, "whatever the fine is, I can't pay it. I don't have any money. I earned a good bounty three months ago. Since then, I've been partying. Now I'm cleaned out. I came to Capella to pick up some more work. I'm good with my hands. I can help you rebuild your bar in payment for the damage I did."

"What work do you do?" Hestia asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'm a Planetary Prospector, Ma'am."

"Then I may be able to give you a job," Hestia kindly offered, "though there is some risk."

"A prospecting job? Does it pay well? What's the risk?"

"It is a prospecting job, and it would pay very well. As for the risk, I'm not sure exactly how to describe it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have another way of saying 'suicide mission'."

Constable Jeffries gave Hestia a warning glance. He was happy to play along with her, teasing the man, but coercing him into a dangerous job would not be correct. Hestia winked at Arthur to show she understood.

"How would the job that you're not calling a 'suicide mission' pay so well?" Brad asked.

"Because I can offer you a percentage of the bounty - if you come back alive," Hestia said.

"You're not selling it very well," Brad said.

He spoke lightly, amused by Hestia and impressed by her beauty. He'd sobered up quickly and already succumbed to Hestia's usual fascination for all red-blooded males.

"The way I see it," Hestia explained, "I don't need to sell it at all: you're not in a position to refuse."

"I'll take my chance in court. Where's the job to, anyway?"

"Samothea."

"Samothea!"

"In an experimental spacecraft."

"Huh? Oh, God!"

"That's already reached Samothea in one jump."

"So, I heard."

"Where it was destroyed."

"Yep. Heard that, too."

"So, you'll go?"

"Are you insane?"

"I could persuade you."

"How could you persuade me?"

"A woman has her ways. I expect you'd like to be out of those blood-stained clothes. I expect you're pretty stiff after sleeping on a bench. I'm sure a soothing massage would help. I bet you'd like to feel a woman's dainty hands rubbing your big, strong shoulders, spreading oil over your manly chest."

"Ahem!" coughed Constable Jeffries.

Hestia winked at him again and leaned in closer to Brad, whispering in his ear:

"I bet you'd like a hot woman to pour massage oil onto her naked chest, smearing it over her big firm tits and hard erect nipples. I expect you'd like her to lie on you and rub the oil from her skin into yours. Would you like that, Brad?"

"Ugh!"

Hestia leaned closer, her full breasts pressing against his chest, her hot breath in his ear.

"I expect you'd like the feel of a warm, soft mouth around your big hard cock."

"Oh, God!"

"And I expect you'd want to stuff that big hard cock into a tight little pussy."

Brad shut his eyes. He used his free arm to hide his erection, making Hestia smile.

"You'd like to have a woman cum for real on your big hard cock, wouldn't you? Arching her back, moaning a deep, satisfying moan."

"My God!"

"Deep, please, go deeper with a satisfying moan," Hestia repeated slowly in a breathy whisper.



To be continued