Space Captain Smith

by Toby Frost

  ‘A lot of people think of their heads as belonging to them.’

  ‘Don’t start that. You’re on the in-flight meals only for this trip. Alright?’

  ‘Huh. As you wish.’

  Smith returned to find Carveth in the pilot’s seat. He placed the hamster cage on the floor, dropped into the captain’s seat and said, ‘Righto. We’re all set. I’ve spoken to Suruk and he’s agreed to treat you with kid gloves, as it were.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, and she gave him a wan, nervous smile. ‘Let’s go then, shall we?’

  ‘In a minute. First, as captain I need to tour the facilities.’

  ‘Second on the left. Don’t flush until we’re in orbit.’

  Isambard Smith slowly wandered the inside of the ship, making sure that everything was alright. Everything certainly seemed present, but beyond that his knowledge thinned out somewhat. Behind the cockpit were the cabins and lavatory. To her credit, Carveth had resisted the common practice of putting a humorous sign on the toilet door about the Captain’s log. Beyond that was an open area that served as a combination of galley and mess. On a longer voyage, capsules would be mounted here for suspended animation. The rear of the ship was taken up by the hold, largely empty, where an exploration vehicle could be stashed but was not. Behind it all were the engine and the various ‘boiler rooms’, which Smith intended to have as little to do with as possible.

  As with every such tour he did, he had no idea what he was looking for beyond the strikingly obvious. A fire in his bed, or a man’s feet hanging from the ceiling, would have given him reasonable suspicion that something was amiss; one blinking red light among whole rows of panels of red lights could have been any old thing. And besides, that was someone else’s job. As captain, he could delegate to another crewmember. That was why ships had captains: to tell the crew what their responsibilities were. Unfortunately, discounting Suruk, an alien, and Gerald, a rodent, that left Carveth as the only possible delegate. Finally, Suruk joined him. The alien pointed into the Secondary Air Cleansing Drum and said, ‘This is the bladder of the ship, yes?’ and Smith wondered who he was trying to impress. ‘Absolutely,’ he said, and he returned to the cockpit. ‘Ready for takeoff,’ he declared. Carveth was reading the Haynes manual for a Sheffield Class Four light freighter. Smith noticed that by an odd coincidence this ship was also of that make. He felt mildly bothered, but could not quite put his finger on the source of the problem.

  ‘Takeoff, takeoff,’ Carveth muttered, running a finger down the page. ‘One moment… set thrusters.’

  The control panel, like much of the ship’s inside, was squashed and complex. The levers, dials and spinning counters were separated by delicate brass scrollwork and Engineering Guild heraldry. Compared to the exterior, the inside of the ship was quite well kept.

  A loud, indistinct hydraulic whine ran through the room as the great thrusters either side of the craft turned to fire downwards. Smith could hear the engines thrumming, shuddering with constrained power that ran through the floor and into the soles of his boots. On a hundred dials the needles quivered and stood up like hairs on the back of an understandably frightened neck. He leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling the craft come to life around him and tense itself to spring.

  ‘We have permission to leave from control,’ Carveth said.

  ‘Thank them.’

  ‘They say good luck. Cleared for takeoff.’

  He opened his eyes. There was a row of junk across the windowsill, picked up from the myriad gift-shops of the Empire: a snow-storm paperweight of the Houses of Parliament, a red-coated toy soldier of the Colonial Army, a postcard showing a very fat woman on a trampoline with the caption ‘Rotation of the Spheres on the Proxima Orbiter’. The left side of the ship lurched upward, and Parliament vanished in a blizzard. The postcard fell over. The right thrusters blasted and the ship levelled, rocking very slightly, nine feet off the ground.

  ‘Feed power equally to the thrusters,’ Carveth told herself, and the ship rose slowly. A small and agitated figure had appeared on the outside viewscreen, seeming to perform a shamanistic dance. Parker’s frequent upward gestures gave the impression that he sought to placate the sky god before the ship intruded into its realm. ‘Whatever’s he up to?’ said Smith as the craft rose higher and the figure became increasingly smaller and more frantic.

  Carveth clicked her fingers as if remembering something on a shopping list and picked up the microphone. ‘Control? Could you open the overhead doors, please?’

  The ship ascended. The top of the hangar sank down the windscreen, and suddenly they were surrounded by blue sky. Across the skyline, the thousand chimneys of New London stabbed upward like the mounds of a chainsmoking termite colony. Smith felt the ship tilt backwards, rising all the time, and hoped that Suruk had remembered to strap himself in.

  ‘Here we go,’ Carveth said, casually knocking half a dozen switches down with the side of her hand. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  She fired the engine. With a great roar the ship tore upwards into the sky. In seconds the blue on the screen thinned and darkened into the black of space as they left New London far below. The simulant pulled a keyboard down on a metal arm, and her fingers raced across the keys.

  She sat back. ‘Co-ordinates are locked,’ she said. ‘We’re on our way.’

  ‘Journey will take about twelve hours,’ Carveth said, scrutinising one of the screens. ‘We’re on a standard Imperial route, no danger of trouble from aliens or hostile powers. We’ll dock at New Fran at about nine am, GMT. Once we’re there, we’ll have a few hours to do what we want and get ready for the next leg. The next stage is to double back into Imperial territory and work our way down towards Midlight. That should take a little longer – three days, possibly. So remember to stock up on mints at the duty-free.’

  ‘Wise,’ Suruk said, lounging against the wall. He had wandered in shortly after takeoff and was watching space with almost complete indifference.

  Smith activated the navigation console and studied the route that had been programmed in at base, a confusing snail-trail across the border of the Empire. It struck him as just as likely to have been produced by a cat with an etch-a-sketch as a trained navigator. He decided to leave it alone, in case any attempt at reprogramming caused the Typing Assistant programme to appear on the screen and drive him mad with irritation as he tried to make it go away.

  ‘Any foreseeable problems?’ Smith inquired. Carveth shrugged. ‘Nothing obvious. The only thing I would say is that New Fran is a Protected Territory, not a full British colony. The laws are different there.’

  ‘Do they permit trophy killing?’ Suruk said.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Smith replied. ‘As far as I know, it’s pretty liberal there – but not that liberal. Personal firearms are illegal, and your spears probably will be as well. No chance of bagging anything, I’m afraid. Shame, really, with these sissy free love types bothering everyone. I wouldn’t stand for it, personally. If a chap tried to stick a flower down my barrel, I’d shoot off soon as blinking.’

  ‘This is not my kind of a holiday,’ Suruk said.

  ‘Well, it certainly is mine,’ Carveth said. She leaned back in the pilot’s seat and sighed. ‘Trip to New Fran? Yes please. People save up for that. I reckon it should be a good few hours we get to spend there. I don’t get much chance to let my hair down. Have a few drinks, shake hands with Mr Bong… suits me.’

  ‘I must say,’ said Smith, ‘what with you being a simulant and all, you don’t seem much like a robot. Shouldn’t you be counting rivets or something, not looking forward to getting squiffed?’

  She looked around, frowning. ‘I’m not a robot, as such. I am a person of synthetic heritage.’

  ‘Does that mean your parents were robots, then? Did they hear the patter of tinny feet?’

  ‘Most amusing,’ Carveth said. ‘I am a simulant. I would also accept “android”, meaning one created rather than born. I am, however, almost entirely
human tissue: I don’t have wires or wallpaper paste inside me or anything like that, nor have I ever felt urges towards a pocket calculator. I’m altered to be able to interface directly with the ship, should it be necessary, except that this ship isn’t actually fitted with a neural interface at all. That’s about where it ends.’

  ‘So someone designed you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, a little sadly. She brightened up. ‘And you thought it was just a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Well… I did wonder.’

  Carveth turned to study the navigation screen. ‘People get the wrong idea. I blame science-fiction writers, personally. It annoys me how they confuse the whole robot issue. I tell you, if I met that Asimov bloke, I’d harm him, or at least through inaction allow him to come to harm.’

  ‘Does that mean you have a skull, then?’ Suruk said.

  ‘Not that you’re having, frogboy.’

  ‘Point made,’ said Suruk. ‘What is that on the scanner, fun-size woman?’

  ‘Where?’ The simulant leaned across and peered at the lidar dial. ‘Probably just a rock… Wait a moment.’

  ‘What’s up?’ said Smith.

  ‘It’s moving. Intercept course.’

  ‘Can we get a closer image on the screen?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She reached to the seat pocket and came up with something black in her hand. ‘Here. Binoculars.’

  Smith stood up, pressed the binoculars to his eyes and turned the dial. ‘Hard to see. It’s all quite dark…

  Ah! I’ve got him. It looks like a great big sock with an engine at one end… and teeth at the other. It’s a void shark.’

  ‘Void sharks?’ Carveth was on the controls in a second.

  ‘I’ll put out flares.’

  ‘Is this a serious problem?’ Suruk asked. She glanced at him. ‘Not unless you mind walking. They’re interstellar animals. They feed on the metal in asteroids.’

  ‘But we’re not an asteroid,’ Smith said.

  ‘Not wishing to rob you of your Nobel Prize, Captain, but we are actually made of metal.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Good thinking, crew. How long till they arrive?’

  ‘Till they reach us? Two minutes, maybe.’

  ‘Righto. This is war then, men. Carveth, hold our course and be prepared to move fast.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘How long till they close?’

  ‘Minute thirty.’

  ‘Ready the weapons system!’

  ‘I can’t reach. You’re nearer, and you’ve got the key.’

  ‘Key?’

  She pointed across the cockpit. Smith followed her finger to a large locker standing against the opposite wall.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The weapons system.’

  He stood up slowly, as if in a dream. ‘You have got to be kidding.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s it. This isn’t a dreadnought, you know.’

  ‘I have noticed.’ Smith took out the key and opened the locker. Inside there was a short-barrelled shotgun, a machine gun, a sword and some sort of service revolver.

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘Thirty-six seconds, Captain! Unless you want them chewing through the hull, someone’s going to have to go up top.’

  ‘I’m a space captain, not a bloody roof-rack! Absolutely not!’

  ‘Then we’re walking home.’

  ‘Don’t we have anything that doesn’t involve me getting on the roof?’ He glanced at his companions and saw fear in one face, and an equally worrying enthusiasm on the other. Right!’ Smith cried, exasperated. ‘Suruk, fetch a spacesuit. Carveth, keep going. Try to delay contact until I can get out the hatch.’ He reached into the locker and dragged out the machine gun. ‘I’m going outside. I may be some time.’

  In the armoured spacesuit Isambard Smith looked like a cross between a deep-sea diver and a medieval knight, with cricket pads. Suruk held the helmet while Smith clamped the gun harness to his side.

  It was a big gun, a Maxim Cannon, designed to support infantry against aliens and light vehicles. Smith pushed a drum of ammunition into the side of the gun and watched the round counter spin up to 999. Suruk held out the helmet and Smith put it on and closed the seals. There was a ladder leading up to the walkway that ran around the top of the hold, from which he could reach the airlock. Suruk closed the door behind him and Smith began to climb. He reached the top, sweating already, and pulled the lever. The hatch opened.

  No weapons and full of rust, with a difficult robot for a pilot and a bunch of unfeasible sock-monsters trying to chew through the hull. And they had been in space less than three hours. Things were falling apart rapidly: at this rate, by day four he would have eaten Carveth and be dancing round a graven image of the sun. As he climbed out of the hatch and onto the roof Smith tried to look on the bright side, and then tried to work out if there actually was a bright side. Yes: had he not had his handlebar moustache trimmed recently he would not have been able to fit his head into the space helmet at all. Not much, but something.

  His boots locked onto the metal hull. He stood there, on the back of the ship, staring at the blackness around him, the tiny stars millions of miles away. Space had a kind of cruel, vacant beauty, a beauty that completely ignored mankind. Space would neither know nor care if he died out here. He could float for thousands of years, a skeleton in a suit, and never be found again, forever drifting in the silent gulf between the stars. That would be really crap. He pulled the gun down, ready.

  ‘Are you out there?’ Carveth called over the intercom.

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ He kicked the hatch shut with a slow, heavy punt.

  ‘Any sign?’

  ‘I can’t see anything. What does the lidar say?’

  ‘Lidar says there’s three of them, circling you. Should be visible soon.’

  A lump of fear sat in his stomach like a rock. It had to be you or nobody, he told himself. Carveth was both the pilot, which meant that she was needed to steer the ship, and a woman, which meant that Smith had to protect her. Suruk wouldn’t know how to use a gun, and would achieve nothing with a spear. Being afraid made no difference: Smith had to do this, because he was the only one who could.

  He began to run down the length of the ship in great lazy bounds. Smith reached to his side and tugged the umbilical line from his backpack. He landed, pressed it to the hull and switched on the magnetic link.

  ‘Smith?’

  ‘Pilot.’

  ‘I’ve got one coming in. Where are you?’

  ‘On top of the ship, above the kitchen. Where’s it coming from?’

  ‘Can you see it?’

  He looked around: his helmet restricted the edge of his vision, forcing him to turn on the spot to see. ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘He’s very near. I can’t get a z-axis figure. I’m just comparing the lidar overlap. Hold on, it’s coming through . . .’

  Smith glanced around nervously. The damned helmet cut a third out of his view.

  ‘Smith! Above you, now!’

  His hands were faster than his neck: he jammed the gun upwards and let rip. The Maxim cannon bucked in his hands and Smith looked up to see a sky full of teeth. He saw the bullets hit the thing, tearing holes in its maw, and the void shark pulled away as gracefully as oil running through water, its long body slipping away from him and over the back of the ship. A cloud of purple dust streamed from a dozen points in the monster’s side – its blood.

  ‘Smith!’

  ‘Got the bugger!’ he cried. ‘How many more?’

  ‘Two. One’s close, Smith.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘I can’t tell. It’s following the side of the ship—’

  Something moved at the edge of his vision. He leaped aside and the second void shark rushed past like a colossal eel, teeth champing on the vacuum where he would have been. Smith soared away from the hull, seeing the shark slide beneath him too fast for him to aim. The umbilical snapped taut, and he floated back toward
s the hull, boots stuck out ready to clamp down again. The void shark’s tail flared and it slipped away from the ship. Smith opened fire. Violet bursts erupted down its flank and it whirled away from them, badly hurt.

  ‘I got him,’ Smith said. ‘Where’s the third?’

  Something wriggled on the ship’s flank. ‘I see him,’ said Smith.

  He bounded to the edge of the ship. The last void shark was clamped to the side of the John Pym like a lamprey, trying to chew its way through the hull. Smith stood over it and lined the gun up with the point where its brain ought to be.

  He fired. For three seconds he held the trigger down. Smith lifted the gun away and, motionless, the void shark drifted away from the hull.

  He watched it go. ‘Any more?’ he asked.

  ‘None. All signals moving away. What’s the damage like out there?’

  He checked. Where the void shark had been feeding, it looked as if a rock drill had been pressed lightly against the ship. Great scratches in the metal showed where its teeth had been. None had broken through: there were several inches of protection still left.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘I can get a video camera out here if needs be.’

  ‘No,’ said Carveth, ‘if you think it can hold we’ll leave it until we get to New Fran. Then we can decide.’

  ‘Righto. Could you open the hatch for me?’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she replied.

  Paul Devrin could leave work whenever he wished: his father ran the company and the company ran several solar systems. In places, it served some of the Great Powers: France, Britain, China, the UFSA and even the Republic of Eden. In other places it worked for itself, controlled only by the distant whisper of international law.

  ‘My apartment,’ Devrin said, stepping into the lift. It began to rise. His face looked back at him from each of the four mirrored walls, clean and masculine, one step from a caricature of heroism. On occasion, Paul had wondered if his chin ought to be reduced. He worried a lot about his looks. Perhaps it made him look a little too rugged. Maybe it was that which repulsed women, not his exuberant use of cologne or his special bedroom needs. Tonight, however, whatever he did, no matter how bizarre, he would not be refused.