‘Pierre, what are you doing?’ I screamed, running around to stand in front of him. His face was scrunched up, his eyes closed. A whine escaped his lips, but he didn’t budge. Even the cockroaches had backed away.
My own eyes darted back to the track. Whatever was coming was only a second away. I turned back around and covered my face. The last thing I wanted was any of Pierre’s blood getting in my mouth.
I waited for the sounds of screaming and flesh being ripped in two. Neither came. There was a shocked sort of insectoid chattering from behind me, but otherwise everything carried on exactly as before.
I lowered my forearm from my eyes.
Pierre was standing in the exact same position, all of his limbs intact. His hand, and with it the cockroach’s case, was still stretched out across the track. And parked just in front of him was an enormous robot the size and shape of a shipping container, humming patiently, hovering a few inches above the rail.
‘Come on, make yourself useful,’ he snapped at me. A nervous bead of sweat was rolling down his temple. ‘What does it say on its side?’
I looked down the robot’s metal flank. ‘How am I supposed to know?’ I shouted. ‘It’s all in alien!’
‘Well, are there any pictures?’
‘No!’
‘Climb up the ladder and see what it’s transporting.’
I hesitated. It already looked like we were holding up a train. Was climbing into its cargo bed really the smartest move? With no law around, it wasn’t being arrested I was worried about. No, what worried me was knowing there were no police to stop the owners of said robot from shooting my thieving hands off.
The strained look on Pierre’s face made me reconsider opening the debate.
The ladder to which Pierre was referring was near the front, though it was more a series of staggered, extraneous steps than anything one might find in their local gardening store. I clambered up the eight or so feet, ignoring the beeps and whirrs coming from the flashing panels up front. I presume that was the robot’s face. It was hard to tell how sentient that particular model was. It seemed content enough.
‘Anything?’ groaned Pierre, once I reached the top. I figured holding the case out across the track was beginning to take a toll on his arm. ‘What do you see?’
I wasn’t exactly sure what I was supposed to see. ‘There are loads of see-through boxes. Made of plastic or glass, or something. Stacks of them. Each one has weird blobs of blue and black, erm, ink, floating around inside. Does that sound like anything to you?’
‘Sounds like some sort of fuel,’ yelled Pierre from below. ‘I think this guy’s heading the same way we are. Climb on in and, well, don’t touch anything. I’m being serious, okay?’
I did as Pierre said, dropping down into the cargo bed and trying not to break anything. I squeezed past the stacks of what I assume was a volatile but hopefully not radioactive material and squatted down in an empty corner towards the back.
Pierre used his free hand to grab one of the ladder’s steps and followed after me. He chucked the case back in the direction of the cockroaches, who scattered and screeched as it clattered across the busy floor towards them. The space above the rail now clear, the robot started to pick up speed. By the time Pierre joined me in the back of the cargo bed the ceiling of the corridor had become a vicious grey blur.
‘I’m surprised a place like this even has the safety protocols in place to stop their trains from hitting people,’ I said, trying not to throw up. The ride was gentle. The spinning view around us was not.
‘They don’t,’ replied Pierre, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. ‘They have protocols in place to stop their product from getting damaged, that’s all.’
‘Jesus, Pierre. You’re mad. How the hell do you know all this stuff, anyway?’
Pierre shrugged and closed his eyes.
‘I’m a concierge, George. Knowing things is what I was born to do.’
Chapter Seven
We arrived about ten stomach-churning minutes later. Neither of us had thrown up, which was good. Neither of us had sprouted any radioactive boils either, which was better.
As our ride had slowed, the ceiling had grown more distant. A lot more distant. The streaks of pipes flashing only metres above our heads had been replaced by an engulfing, yawning chasm. Rickety cranes were rotating. Crates were being whisked along roller-coaster rails high above. Drones flittered and fluttered about, scanning random shipping codes before buzzing off again.
‘Yep, we’re in the docks,’ said Pierre, peering over the lip of the cargo bed. ‘Which dock I have no idea, but one of them at least. Come on. Let’s get out of here before the workers come to offload.’
We climbed out of the robot and dropped to the concrete floor. The robot beeped innocently as we landed. It was parked in a herd of identical models, about two dozen strong. They all hovered a couple of inches above the end of their rails, each emitting that same patient humming sound.
Pierre led me to a handrail at the edge of their group, where we crouched. Not for the first time that day, my words got caught in my throat.
This was no private hanger like the one in which we’d seen the Roaming Havoc. This was practically a port city in its own right. Well over a hundred starships were moored in the hollow cavern’s various docks and jetties. Some of the smaller models were hovering and tied to bollards with chains. Larger ships were clamped to the ground, where they were repaired and refuelled by androids. Some of their designs confused me. Sure, some were as sleek as eels and built for speed. Others were flying tanks with swivelling gun turrets. Those I understood. But one was a perfect floating sphere without windows or doors, and another was long and thin, and stood on its end so that it resembled Nelson’s Column. I couldn’t nail down the point of them.
Beyond all of this was the exit from the docks: a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window looking out on the great expanse of space. Ships came and went. There must have been some sort of forcefield up, because nobody was being sucked out into the cold cosmos.
‘Okay, we’re here,’ whispered Pierre. ‘Now we just have to steal one of them.’
I turned and stared at him. ‘Steal one?’ I said. ‘What do you mean, steal one? I’ve never stolen anything in my life - I’m not going to start with some bloody space-criminal’s ship! Isn’t there a shuttle we can hitch a ride on, or something?’
‘Maybe, but we don’t have the time to find out. Do you think I have a history of grand theft auto either? We’re talking about the fate of the whole multiverse, George. Think of the big picture for a moment. Whichever pilot we steal a ship from is going to be a hell of a lot worse off if we don’t, right?’
I couldn’t argue with that logic. Better to have no ship than to have never existed at all.
‘So which one do you like the look of?’ he asked me.
I felt like a man ordering flowers for his wife out of a catalogue. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ I said. ‘Which ones are the fastest? Or do we want the strongest, in case the owner comes after us? Does colour matter?’
Pierre sighed. ‘I suppose we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We should just take whichever is the easiest to get out the door without being noticed. Let’s head down there. Try to act like you know where you are, alright?’
‘Sure. I may look like your run-of-the-mill perfume rep, but I’m actually a cut-throat space-pirate.’
We stood up and walked over to the long, metal gangway that connected the delivery depot to the docking platforms, pausing to let a robot on tank tracks pass. I recognised the robot’s model as identical to the poor fellow whose hand-clamp was being replaced back in the android repair shop. This one was carrying an iron box similar to the see-through ones we’d travelled down with.
‘One of your crew dropped a damn proton regulator down the side of my ship,’ said a bug-eyed alien beside the ramp. ‘Scratched it right up. What are you going to do about that, eh?’
He was
shouting at a robot administrator. It was more gangly than the other androids I’d seen, stood about seven feet tall, and had a head shaped a bit like a wine bottle. It shrugged its battered, grey shoulders.
‘All pilots park their vehicles at their own risk,’ it replied in a bleeping, binary voice, pointing at a sign to its left.
‘I was paying you for a full restock and inspection service!’ yelled the alien. ‘Wasn’t cheap, either! Don’t tell me that was at my own risk too!’
Pierre tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Now’s our chance,’ he said. ‘Let’s slip by while the guard’s distracted.’
We strolled towards the gangway, trying our hardest to look as if we were returning to our own ship. For me, this just meant not staring at my shoes the whole time. I concentrated on the giant open window on the far side of the cavernous hall. With any luck we would soon be out there, shooting through the stars. Absolute madness.
‘Excuse me,’ came the robot administrator’s voice the second we touched the ramp’s handrail. I froze. ‘Stop right there, please. Ship model and reference number, please.’
‘Erm…’ said Pierre.
‘Erk…’ came the unexpected noise from my mouth.
‘Hey, we’re not finished yet!’ shouted the alien, startling the robot. ‘I know what your kind are like. You won’t be palming me off to some complaints department on the upper decks. I want a refund. Oh, and hey. You guys.’ He waved to Pierre and me. ‘You’d better give your ship a good check before you take off. The idiots running this place have probably pranged it.’
‘There’ll be hell to pay if they have,’ laughed Pierre, shaking his head. ‘Good luck, buddy.’
We hurried down the ramp as quickly as we could. The robot grew flustered behind us, bleating out a half-hearted command for us to wait. It sighed and turned back to the complainant.
‘We can offer you a discounted rate on our polish and paint service…’
As we approached the end of the gangway I wanted to stop and marvel at all the spaceships, at their rumbling rockets and spluttering engines, at their alien exteriors, at their plasma rifles and rail guns…
…but Pierre pulled me off the main promenade of the dock as soon as we stepped foot on it. He dragged me behind a large, copper oil tank. I went to say something but Pierre put his finger to his lips. I nodded, crouched down lower and tried to breathe as quietly as possible.
Through the bustling crowd of aliens, androids and stowaways, three figures walked down the path towards the spot where we’d stood. The sound of their marching echoed off the metal and stone, each commanding step so… so final, somehow. A wooden tapping accompanied every other beat. I cast a nervous glance at Pierre. He patted the air lightly, gesturing for me to stay put. They drew close, then closer still.
From behind the oil tank I watched as the three figures came to a stop at the foot of the gangway, sweeping their obsidian gaze around the port. Pierre grew tense beside me. Each of the black-eyed men wore the same dark, flowing cloak as the figure who had been sat in the corner of the bar when we left. Like him, each carried a rickety spear in his right hand, and under the shadowed folds of their cloaks I glimpsed skin the same deep shade of azure.
I didn’t need Pierre to tell me who they were.
The Torri-Tau had arrived in Port Iridium.
‘What are they doing here?’ I whispered. ‘Do you think they’re looking for you?’
They were saying something to one another, but I couldn’t make out the words. Whatever they were saying, it sounded angry. One of them cast their eyes in our general direction and we ducked out of sight. By the time Pierre dared peek out again they’d moved on, nothing but cloaked blips disappearing over the ramp’s horizon.
‘I’m not sure if their being here means they’re buying themselves some time, or if this universe is fast running out of it,’ said Pierre. ‘Either way it’s not a good sign. We’d better find a way off this station before they come back.’
We sneaked around the other side of the oil tank and continued past what looked to me like a fighter jet, only with its beautiful wings and tail fin streaking out backwards like wax that’s melted and then grown hard again. It struck me as very fancy and expensive, but probably not big enough for both Pierre and me to fit inside. Also, its underbelly looked like it had picked a fight with a rocket launcher. Miniature, metallic insects were swarming over the ruptured hull like ants, blasting at it with tiny repair torches.
The next ship along was much larger. It was also in much better condition. It looked like the sort of flying saucer that belongs in a grainy photograph taken above a farm in Oregon in the 1950s. Like it was a toy that had been blown up to ridiculous size. Much like the giant sphere I’d spotted earlier, however, it had no discernible door that either one of us could see, and it was only when a slippery, armoured cephalopod slithered up to it that a portal opened up along its flank. That ship wouldn’t have worked either. Even if we’d somehow managed to stow away inside, we’d have had a hard time piloting the thing without so much as a tentacle between us.
‘How about that one?’ suggested Pierre, nodding towards one of the more modest models on display. ‘Doesn’t seem to be anybody tending to it.’
It looked decent enough - not that my opinion was really much to go by. It was all in one piece, unlike some of them. It was big - perhaps big enough to hold four or five crew members - but not so large that I could see it attracting unwanted attention. It was grey, chunky and industrial, and it probably had quite a few light years on the clock, but it was nowhere near as scorched or scratched as many of the other vehicles we’d passed. And Pierre was right - nobody was working on it, not even any of the androids buzzing to and fro around the rest of the port.
‘Works for me,’ I said, shrugging. ‘You know how to fly that one?’
‘Well, I don’t know how to fly any of them exactly,’ said Pierre, chewing his lip. ‘But that one looks like it was designed for a mammal at least.’
Pierre and I hurried across the central walkway, raising our eyes only to make sure the Torri-Tau weren’t making a sudden descent back down the ramp. They weren’t. In fact, nobody was paying us any attention at all. I guess few people in Port Iridium wanted to attract much attention, so few were in much of a mood to pay it either. A pair of tall, thin aliens with skin as pale as snow walked past us, deep in diplomatic conversation, and neither acknowledged us in the slightest as we stepped over the meagre security chain surrounding the ship.
I hung back and kept watch while Pierre jogged ahead between the ship’s rear landing gear. There was a small loading ramp set evenly between them, but it had been retracted. Pierre fiddled around with something loose for a few seconds before slamming it back against the ship’s underbelly.
‘Goddammit,’ he hissed, stomping back to me. ‘They haven’t just closed the ramp, they’ve padlocked it shut. With a chain an inch thick, no less. We’re not getting into this one with anything short of a circular saw.’
My heart fluttered as I glanced over at the ship opposite. ‘What about that one?’ I asked.
I recognised it from back at the Roaming Havoc, when it had flown overhead moments before we entered the favela slums and climbed the trash mountain. It looked even more gorgeous and black and dramatic up close. It still resembled a manta ray, but standing near to it felt akin to being in the showroom of the world’s most expensive supercar. It exuded wealth and power. Literal power. Its sleek body sparkled and glistened under the lights of the port. Hovering in place before us, whatever engines kept it afloat were utterly silent.
And above all else, its entrance ramp was open.
‘Yeah,’ gawped Pierre. ‘That’ll do nicely.’
We scurried back across the path, keeping our heads down once more. Even the sound of our crossing was masked. A long, craggy ship shaped like a cigar went rocketing through the exit, leaving a trail of smouldering cinders in the air behind it. The forcefield rippled as it passed through.
&n
bsp; At the side of the ship’s bay was a tall, tree-like construction light. We stood underneath it with all the subtlety of two teenagers looking to score some weed.
‘I don’t see any guards, do you?’ I asked, peering around the lamp post like a meerkat and tying my fingers into knots. I half expected some space-troll with tusks to come along and throw me into a ship’s thruster for trespassing. ‘Or is that what they are?’
The “they” to which I was referring were a squad of skittish, waist-high, neon-yellow robots scurrying in and out of the spaceship. One of them was desperately polishing the floor of the ramp after itself, wiping away its tracks. Another was disconnecting a hose from the ship’s fuel receptacle with slow and delicate care.
‘Them? No, they’re servicing bots, I think. That gives me an idea though. Follow me.’
We walked towards the spaceship, ducking under the imposing metal barrier that surrounded it. I followed a step behind Pierre. The supernova excitement of spotting the vehicle had suddenly evolved into a neutron star sitting in the pit of my stomach.
‘Woah there,’ said Pierre, raising his hand and jogging over. The little yellow robot who’d been polishing the ramp was now beside a small control panel, ready to retract it. ‘Not so fast, please.’
The robot emitted a note not dissimilar to the wrong answer sound on a gameshow. ‘This area is strictly off-limits to everyone except registered port personnel,’ it bleated. ‘Please vacate before we alert the authorities.’
At the word authorities the image of a boar-tusked troll in a spacesuit came lumbering back into my mind. Giving it a policeman’s helmet and a baton for a club did little to relieve my nerves.
‘Er, exactly?’ replied Pierre. ‘We’re here to, ahem, check the upholstery and, erm, test the facilities. Do a final inspection, that sort of thing.’
Another wrong answer noise. ‘All procedures are carried out by registered port personnel, and there are no port personnel on file that match your make or model,’ the robot replied. ‘Besides, you’re both covered in garbage. Contacting the authorities. Please remain where you stand.’
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