by Toby Frost
SPACE CAPTAIN SMITH
Toby Frost
Copyright
Myrmidon Books Ltd
Rotterdam House
116 Quayside
Newcastle upon Tyne
NE1 3DY
www.myrmidonbooks.com
Published by Myrmidon 2008
Copyright © Toby Frost 2008
Toby Frost has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-905802-43-2
Set in11/14pt Sabon by Falcon Oast Graphic Arts Limited, East Hoathly, East Sussex
Printed in the UK by RPM Repro, Chichester, West Sussex All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First ebook edition 2010
For Carole and Graham
Contents
Chapter 1: Mission To Space!
Chapter 2: Smith Meets Some Gentle People
Chapter 3: Smith Defeats the Space Ant Horde!
Chapter 4: One Night in Paradis
Chapter 5: Taken Up the Bayou
Chapter 6: Ho-Down of the Damned
Chapter 7: Is Rhianna a Weirdie in Disguise?
Chapter 8: Cyber-gangsters in Martian Death Pact!
Chapter 9: Cultists Filched My Trousers
Chapter10: Pursuit
Chapter11: Gertie Takes a Pasting
Chapter12: Back in the Empire
1 Mission To Space!
One dull Tuesday morning, the door opened behind Isambard Smith and Mr Khan entered the room. Smith stopped typing and looked round.
‘I gather there’s a problem, Smith,’ said Khan. He was a big, slow-moving man whose mouth and chins all hung downwards, giving him a sad appearance. He looked like a walrus who had swapped his tusks for a desk job and was beginning to regret the deal.
‘I understand you’re not too happy.’
‘No, Mr Khan, I’m not. I want to complain.’
Khan closed the door behind him.
‘Sir, I’ve made six requests that I be given control of a starship and they’ve all been ignored. I’ve been with Valdane Shipping for nearly a year and all I’ve done is type data about asteroids into this computer. You know jolly well that I’d eat my own pants for a chance to get back into space, and yet here I am, still sitting here, wearing them.’
Khan nodded and leaned against the wall. ‘Well, we are rather busy, what with the political situation and all, and it hasn’t been easy to free up a ship—’
‘But that’s what I mean!’ Smith cried. ‘Sir, I want to do something. The Ghasts are out there re-arming, and everyone knows they’re coming for the British Empire sooner or later. It makes me cross that I’m stuck here, personalising this swivel chair with my arse while Gertie is plotting evil against Earth. By God, sir, if I had my way I’d jump into a fighter, zip over to their dirty homeworld, stick a laser under their radar, have a damn good mettle at the Ghast and show him my crack.’ He paused, slightly out of breath. ‘Except the other way around.’
Khan said, ‘Well, then, I’ve got some good news for you. You’re getting a ship.’
‘A ship!’ Smith sprang up. ‘That’s excellent! Will there be action, and danger?’
‘There’ll be hippies. Will that do?’
‘Sir, I’ll take the risk.’
‘Good. You’re to head to the New Francisco orbiter and collect a woman called Rhianna Mitchell. New Fran is a free colony: we protect it, but we don’t own it, yet. It’s a rum place, Smith, I warn you: full of hop-potting splifftokers and all sorts that the Empire still has to rescue from idleness and free love. You’ll hate it. Takes a fellow with guts and a backbone to stomach a place like that. You know Midlight at all?’
‘Spaceport on Kane’s World, isn’t it?’
‘That’s the one. You’re to take her there as quickly as possible. You’ve got a ship and a pilot ready at the strip. Leave your car in the multi-storey. It’s open this afternoon.’
Smith blinked, shocked. ‘What, this afternoon today?’
‘Of course. Not likely to still be this afternoon in three weeks’ time, is it?’
Smith thought about it. ‘Golly,’ he said. Suddenly the empty tedium of the rest of the day had vanished, swept away in a whirl of rockets. He managed to put a thought together. ‘Won’t I need a crew?’
‘Crew?’ The walrus shook his head, and the chins followed. ‘No. There’s no crew, just an android pilot.
‘Oh, the John Pym’s a fine ship, fine. Very quick, you’ll find. You can take along a friend if you want, so long as he’s not a foreigner or into funny stuff. I know what it’s like on these long hauls. Fellow starts to forget that a handlebar moustache isn’t for hanging on to.’
‘May I take an alien?’
Khan grimaced. ‘You don’t mean that Morlock chap who runs round cutting people’s heads off? They’re savages, Smith.’
‘He’s a good sort, as it happens,’ said Smith, a little irked.
‘Very well then. I suppose it’s best you’re both in the same place.’ Khan glanced at his watch. ‘And you ought to think about leaving, if you’re planning to pack some things.’
‘Righto, sir!’ Smith saluted. ‘I’m on my way!’
Khan watched Smith go. He took his fob-phone out of his waistcoat pocket and dialled his superiors. ‘Well, the trap’s baited alright,’ he told the voice on the other end of the line. ‘There’s one launched every minute,’ he added under his breath.
Smith parked his car, collected the ticket and took his bag from the back. He wore his fleet uniform, the jacket open and his waistcoat fastened underneath. He was excited and slightly nervous at seeing his new ship, and had spent fifteen minutes in the toilet before setting out, waxing his moustache to a level of pertness carefully chosen to suggest to his men that he was both a waggish friend and someone whom they should never, ever cross. The Valdane Shipping Company owned three spacecraft on New London and part-owned eight more with the East Empire Company. As with most companies governed by Imperial Law, its members owned shares in the corporate property. Consequentially, Smith had always regarded the company vessels as his own, and smiled proudly at the thought of the shiny spacecraft waiting in the hangar, its brasswork polished and engines gleaming. On his way down the slope that led into the hangar, Smith met Winston Parker, the master-engineer. Parker, a slight, dapper man, was a source of awe to Smith: not only did the engineer manage to sound like he knew a lot about spacecraft, he actually did, which was rare in the industry. He was the right person to get rather than his colleague, Bancroft, who was both very dour and bore a curious facial resemblance to a tree.
‘Isambard Smith. And how are you today?’
‘Fine, thank you. I’m just off. Have you seen the roster?’
Parker wiped his hands on a rag he wore in his belt like a badge of rank. ‘Yep. Your android pilot’s already on board – it’s a woman this time. You’ve go
t a Sheffield light freighter.’
‘I don’t think I’ve seen one of those before. Do they fly well?’
‘Not too bad. Of course, they can’t read maps or reverse properly.’
‘I meant the ship.’
‘Well, they got it second hand. It’s just come out of refit – new engines. Not exactly the company flagship, if you see what I mean.’
‘I see. By the way, you haven’t seen an alien around here, have you? About six foot eight with a face like a cross between a boar and an upturned crab. Probably carrying a spear and a bag full of severed heads.’
Parker shrugged. ‘I dunno. It gets busy here.’
‘He’s got quite an unusual laugh.’
‘Oh, that bloke? He’s down the bottom of the ramp. You know him, then?’
‘He’s my friend,’ Smith replied. ‘I’ll see you later then, shall I?’
‘Much later, from the route you’re taking. See you soon, Smith!’
As Smith approached the bottom of the slope, a figure hopped down from a stool, where it had been crouching. It was man-shaped – roughly – but stretched, taller and thinner than a human being. The creature loped towards Smith with the weight on the front of the feet and with a slow, lazy grace.
‘Suruk,’ said Smith.
A low, rattling sound came from the alien as he stepped into view. Smith saw the grey-green skin where it was not covered by his trousers, boots or armoured waistcoat, and he watched as Suruk the Slayer’s tusks slid apart and his mouth opened up.
‘Isambard Smith.’ He spoke as if through porridge. Suruk straightened his fingers to show Smith his empty hands.
Smith pulled his sleeves back and displayed his palms as if about to pull a bunch of flowers from the air. ‘Hail, Suruk, warrior of Clan Ametrin. I give you this much greeting.’
‘Hail, Isambard Smith, who is called Mazuran in the speech of the M’Lak. I give you greeting too.’
There was a little pause. Smith smiled awkwardly. ‘So,’ he ventured, ‘it’s been a while.’
‘Indeed. Moons have passed since last we met, battles fought and enemies fallen. At the bridge of Anrag I took fifteen heads. I overthrew the tyrant Dagrud War-Scythe and took his cattle as tribute to my skill. It was a glorious day.’
‘Sounds pretty wild. I’m having a new patio put down. You and me both, eh?’
‘Square slabs or crazy paving?’
‘Square slabs.’
‘The choice of a warrior.’ Suruk picked up his pack, from which several short-handled spears protruded, and slung it over his shoulder. With his spare hand he picked up the bar stool. His physique meant that he was more comfortable squatting high up than sitting down. Smith had seen his friend sleep that way, like a nesting hawk.
They walked through the vast, shadowed hall, their voices echoing up to the concrete roof. There was something cathedral-like about the hangar, almost sepulchral. The ships were housed in massive bays that stretched off to the sides like transepts. Colossal arches closed over the bays, decorated with leafy swirls etched into the concrete in the New Gothic style of Britain and its colonies.
‘So now. Do we go to bring battle to our enemies, Isambard Smith?’
Suruk tended to treat any expedition off-world as a cross between a cheap package tour and the Roman conquest of Gaul, with Smith in the role of red-coated compere to whatever bloody mayhem he decided to unleash. For the M’Lak, space travel was a ticket to sun, sand and severed heads, with the first two being highly optional. Smith decided to allay Suruk’s hopes.
‘Not precisely, no. We’re actually going to collect someone from a space station inhabited by pacifists.’
‘Fierce warrior pacifists?’
‘No.’
‘Edible pacifists?’
‘I would advise against it.’
‘Will we then deliver this coward into the sun?’
‘No.’
‘Is anything good going to happen on this holiday?’
‘Not by your standards, I’m afraid. Still, our ship’s apparently just been refitted, so we should be pretty safe. I should imagine it will have some decent weaponry to see off enemies.’
‘Ah yes. Like the mighty dreadnoughts of your British Empire. Still, I would rather fight with my blades than use a gun.’
‘Needs must, Suruk. We can’t civilise the galaxy without dreadnoughts, you know. Sometimes we have to use force to teach our enemies to behave like proper people. Now, we should be here – oh.’
The nose-cone of the John Pym poked out from one of the alcoves in a slightly furtive manner, as if it had crept in to receive an accolade that it did not deserve. The front end of the ship reminded Smith of the snout of a rat that has been in many fights with larger, more vicious rats: battered, dented, discoloured and scarred. At one point, a great slab of steel had been riveted on, sealed around the edges with foam from a can. There was no gun in the nose.
‘Interesting,’ Suruk said. ‘This vessel has clearly fought many battles. Is that camouflage on the upper part, or just mould?’
‘My God,’ said Smith, ‘I thought they said it had been refitted! It looks terrible!’
‘Maybe. But the orange warpaint will bring us luck.’
‘I bloody doubt it: that lucky orange warpaint happens to be rust. The sooner we launch the better. Let’s get going before the wings drop off.’
He walked around the side of the ship and down its length, reminding himself that this was a space vessel and not the chew-toy of some very large, enthusiastic dog. Even in this bad light it was clear how much of a beating the craft had taken. Extra armour was welded over blackened patches that could have been the result of dramatic space battles or drunken parking attempts. The few windows were scratched and had a dirty greenish tinge, as if viewed through pond-water. Smith had an image of the previous pilot, joystick in one hand, hip flask in the other, whooping like a redneck as he bounced from world to world in a state of crazed exuberance, frequently mistaking the nose-cone for a deceleration tool. He climbed the steps and pressed the intercom button and it let out a tortured mechanical yowl. The noise stopped and a woman’s voice said warily, ‘Are you selling something?’
‘I’m the captain. Could you open the door, please?’
‘Er… yeah, alright. Can’t see why not.’
Something moved heavily behind the door; bolts drawing back, he thought. ‘It’s open,’ the woman said. Smith turned the sunken handle and the door swung open easily.
The hinges had been greased recently; so too, from the smell of the place, had everything else. Smith ducked under the dangling cable of an intercom and stepped into the cramped hallway, tasting the air as much as smelling it. Suruk pulled the door closed behind him. ‘I shall choose a room as my own.’
‘Righto,’ said Smith.
To the left was the cockpit. It had two proper seats and several which could be folded down in an emergency. One of the large seats – the pilot’s – was currently occupied by a smallish woman of about thirty. There was a hamster cage on the other seat – the captain’s – with the word Gerald taped to the front. As Smith entered, the woman took her boots off the main console, sat up and looked about for something to mark the page in the book she had been reading.
‘Ah,’ Smith said, consulting the roster sheet, ‘you must be the crew. Miss Carveth, is it?’
She stood up. She was smallish and slightly-built, with a pretty, perky face that was at once unremarkable and difficult to dislike. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, leaving a halo of brown roots around her forehead. It was a face that Smith had seen before: she was a simulant, and this was one of the standard facial models that the manufacturers used. She wore a white shirt and utility waistcoat. Her trousers had many pockets and were slightly too big, and had been turned up at the bottom.
‘Polly Carveth at your service, within reason,’ she said, looking him over. ‘You’re Captain Smith, right?’ She had the demeanour of someone keen not to be volunteered
for things.
‘Indeed. Pleased to meet you. Do feel free to stand at ease.’
Nothing changed. She could not have got much more at ease without lying down. They shook hands.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Carveth said warily. ‘I look forward to us working together,’ she added, with the raw enthusiasm of one reading out a train timetable at gunpoint. She glanced over his shoulder and suddenly her face became more animated. ‘Pissing heck, what the hell is that?’
‘Ah,’ said Smith. ‘My friend, Suruk. He’ll be joining us for the trip.’
Carveth had acquired an expression rarely seen outside Greek tragedy. She groped for words. ‘Why?’
‘Well, he’s a friend of mine. It’s useful for aliens to see the Empire. It helps them understand where all their hard work goes. Besides, he’s quite comfortable with space travel. He’s brought his own things for his cabin, and he’s even decorated it with a stool.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Stool as in chairs, not dung.’
She brightened slightly, but not much. ‘But, he’s big,’
Carveth observed. ‘And he’s got all those bones stuck to him!’
‘He’s my friend, Carveth,’ Smith said coldly, tiring of this argument. ‘He stays on.’
Her face came back to life. She considered the matter for a moment, which made her jaw move as if chewing the cud. ‘He’s got tusks and mandibles. It’s pretty irregular, Captain.’
‘Mr Khan said I could.’
A second passed in which it became obvious to Smith that she was resisting the temptation to repeat his last sentence back to him in a squeaky voice.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘if it makes you feel any better, I will talk to Suruk myself. But I am the captain here, and we are taking off as I say.’
‘Alright, Boss.’
Smith left the room. Carveth crept across the cockpit, to the open door, and listened.
‘Pilots are like that,’ Smith was saying. ‘A lot of them think of their ships as belonging to them.’