Space Captain Smith

by Toby Frost

  ‘I’ll get the ship ready in a minute. Can we go on yet?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Right. Let me show you to your quarters,’ Carveth said to Rhianna. She took the bags and wandered into the airlock, Rhianna following. At the far end of the hall, Suruk and his two new friends watched the Earthmen doing something unimportant at the airlock. ‘Is it the guy sitting down, with the fur thing above his mouth?’ asked Thadar Lorgan.

  ‘That’s him. He’s Isambard Smith.’

  ‘Whoa. He looks totally stupid.’

  Suruk did his equivalent of shrugging. ‘He’s okay. Loyal and friendly, but he does tend to make a mess. Well, I’d best roll. Got a ship to catch.’

  Thadar nodded. ‘It’s been great meeting you. We’re waxing our blades and heading to the Eastern Rim tomorrow. Seriously man, if you’re ever bored, stick out a signal on standard channel eighty-two and we’ll tell you where to catch some seriously mean prey.’

  ‘Thanks!’ said Suruk. ‘And if I get something good, you know I’ll share.’

  ‘Great. Catch you later, Suruk the Slayer!’

  ‘Catch you later!’

  ‘So,’ said Smith as the alien arrived, ‘were they nice chaps?’

  ‘Their words were honourable. They provided hospitality worthy of a highlord. I give them respect.’

  They strolled down the docking corridor to the airlock, Smith carrying his boxes of beer and tea.

  ‘Carveth!’ he called as Suruk closed the door, ‘pull off and set course for Midlight, principal landing ground. Let’s go.’

  The John Pym pulled away from New Fran, giving a flash of its spotlights to say farewell. It swung round slowly, the huge thrusters pushing it a safe distance from the colony before the supralux engines kicked in. A glow appeared at the rear of the ship, swelling up from dull red to blinding white. The Pym shot into space, and in a second New Fran was fifty miles away.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  A second ship detached itself from the colony. It was black, ray-shaped, without hard edges or welding-lines. It was also considerably larger than the John Pym. Its name, so far as it could be translated from a mere shriek of rage, was the Systematic Destruction.

  Medium Attack-ship Captain Four Hundred And Sixty Two was sitting in his room, watching Number One conclude his speech. The television watched him back.

  There were no doors on the ship, as privacy was seen as a breeding-ground for subversion. Instead of knocking, drone 86732-4 announced his arrival by stamping loudly on the floor outside.

  ‘Mighty commander 462!’ he barked. ‘We are following the puny human vessel! Their inferior instruments have not detected us!’

  Slowly, 462’s long neck swung around. As his features came into view, a wave of awe spread over the adjutant, strongly tempered with fear. 462’s eyes focused on his minion with the intensity and kindness of headlamps. He threw back his head and shrieked with laughter.

  ‘Ah-hahaha! Good, good. And the other human craft, the battleship?’

  ‘We are being followed by a British cruiser, named the Tenacious. The human cruiser does not know we are aware of its presence. Forgive my individual thought, but I believe it expects us to attack the John Pym and is waiting for us to make the first move.’

  ‘Excellent!’ 462 rubbed his primary hands together.

  ‘Ready all weapons and prepare to execute a rapid turn. Once we have destroyed one we shall take the other as we wish.’

  ‘Yes, Captain! We shall destroy them utterly!’

  ‘Of course.’ 462’s pincer arms rose up behind him, the claws rubbing together in anticipation. ‘Prepare for war!

  Hahaha!’

  Two hours away from New Fran, Smith found a curious artefact on the floor between his chair and Carveth’s. It looked like a glass tube with a pipe sticking out the side, rather like the condensers he had used as a child in school.

  ‘What’s this for?’ he asked.

  The pilot was reading On The Road, one eye on the instruments, occasionally taking deep swigs from her tea. She turned to him, and her eyes widened. ‘That’s mine!’ she said. ‘I bought it on New Fran. It’s an… an ant-farm.’

  Smith fished in the device and found a small plastic bag.

  ‘What’re these bits of leaf in the little bag?’

  ‘They’re for the ants to eat. Obviously.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Smith sat back and turned to his own book: Heroes of the Empire, Volume Eight. He had finished the page when a thought struck him. ‘We don’t have any ants.’

  ‘Not yet we don’t,’ Carveth said somewhat mysteriously, and took the object back from him. ‘How’s the flower lady?’

  ‘You mean our guest.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I assume she’s fine. I was going to check on her, actually. Thought I’d make us a sandwich and see if she wants some.’

  ‘Careful. She’s probably vegetarian.’

  ‘Good point.’ Smith marked his page and left the cockpit, strolled down the corridor and knocked on Rhianna’s cabin door. There was no reply. Smith knocked on Suruk’s door.

  ‘Enter.’

  The alien was crouched on his stool, folded up like a gargoyle. His tiny eyes opened as Smith came in.

  ‘Greetings, Mazuran.’

  ‘Hello. Where’s Rhianna?’

  ‘The woman with tendrils on her head? She rests in the lounge.’

  ‘Thought I might see if she wants something to eat. Coming to say hello?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’ Smith glanced around. Suruk had brought some of his favourite trophies with him and laid them out around his spear. ‘I like what you’ve done with the skulls there.’

  ‘Thank you. I believe it says both “modern chic” and “senseless brutality”. I will stay here for now. I find the new woman strange.’

  ‘Well, she is foreign.’

  ‘Indeed so,’ Suruk replied, and he lowered his tusked head again and went back to sleep.

  Smith closed the door behind him. ‘Bit unfriendly,’ he said, and he ducked through the doorway and entered the long room that served as both kitchen and lounge.

  Rhianna Mitchell sat in the middle of the battered mock-leather settee, sandals on the floor and legs folded under her. Her hands were clasped loosely on her lap and she seemed to be asleep.

  ‘Hello?’ said Smith.

  Her eyes flicked open. She had removed the green jacket and wore a white T-shirt with some kind of Chinese character printed on the front. Smith thought she dressed very oddly: had Rhianna been Imperial, she would have been wearing a skirt and corset, with black ankle boots. That said, her loose, floaty clothes seemed to suit her personality. In fact, she didn’t look bad at all, if you liked pixies.

  ‘Hello, Captain Smith.’

  ‘Hullo. Sorry to interrupt.’

  She smiled vaguely. ‘Not at all. I was just resting.’

  ‘Meditating, eh?’

  Rhianna raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t think you had meditation in the Empire.’

  ‘We have lots of things. We have thought-exercises to concentrate the mind, for fighting and what not. I did once try meditation, though, to help me relax.’

  ‘Did you not take to it?’

  ‘I took to it too well: I fell asleep.’

  ‘I suppose it must seem like nonsense to someone like you.’

  ‘No, no. Suruk always says that there’s great wisdom in knowing how to rest as well as how to fight. That said, Suruk also says there’s great wisdom in the words to

  “Jump Around” by the House of Pain. I really came down to see if you needed anything to eat.’

  ‘I’m fine for now, thank you. I am a vegetarian, though. I should have mentioned that earlier. Is that okay?’

  ‘I should think so. The food here’s so bad, even the Welsh Rarebit doesn’t include anything I’d call meat. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sure.’ She stood up gracefully and padded barefoot across the room.
Quietly, she closed the door and returned to her seat. ‘Captain Smith, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I run an informal ship. Just call me Captain.’

  ‘Captain, then. You understand that this is all rather unexpected. I was of the impression that a transport was going to arrive in a couple of weeks’ time, not now. And that the ship would be much, well… bigger.’

  ‘Bigger?’

  ‘You know, a warship. I thought I’d be going on a ship that was armed.’

  ‘I thought you people disapproved of guns.’

  ‘Well, yes, I do. But I’m prepared to waiver if I’m getting shot at.’

  ‘Well, we’re not getting shot at.’ Smith glanced around, suddenly worried. ‘We’re not, are we?’

  ‘No. It’s just that I was given the impression it would be a bigger ship.’

  Smith frowned. ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, I was waiting for your Mr Khan to contact me. He was due to send a ship in a couple of weeks’ time. He must have felt that it was urgent, seeing how you’re ahead of time.’

  ‘Should it be urgent?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not paying for the flight.’ She sighed and leaned back in the chair. Smith could see her ankles.

  He didn’t see many women’s ankles. They were shapely. He kept his eyes on her face and reminded himself of the soppy nonsense in her shop. Who’d want a wife who rubbed her body with essence of kelp? What was kelp, anyhow? Rubbing. Stay on target, Smith. She was saying some stuff.

  ‘You see, Captain Smith, I was worried by the current political situation, and decided that I should head into Imperial space, in case the Ghasts decide to annex New Fran. Mr Khan is a good friend of some people I know. Important people. They say it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘I see. And you didn’t know who they’d send.’

  ‘Well, no, I guess.’ Rhianna yawned. ‘So I didn’t know to expect you. I knew someone was coming, just not then – and in a bigger ship.’

  ‘Well, this is it,’ he replied, irked by her wish for a more impressive carriage in which to travel. ‘It may be small, Miss Mitchell, but it suits us fine – and to us, it’s home.’

  ‘Ow, crap!’ Carveth shouted from down the corridor.

  ‘Bloody low ceiling! Bloody pissing heap-of-crap ship!’

  She appeared in the doorway, rubbing her scalp. ‘Boss, trouble.’

  ‘One moment.’ Smith stood up and paced to the door.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Signal on the scanner,’ Carveth said. ‘We’ve got multiples, closing fast. From the way they’re moving, I’d say void sharks.’

  ‘What, again? I thought you said they were rare!’

  ‘Not rare enough. I say we endanger them.’

  ‘Captain Smith?’ He turned – it was Rhianna. ‘Can’t this be dealt with without all this killing and violence?’

  The dreamy, insipid part of her voice seemed to have got louder.

  ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But it wouldn’t be the Imperial way.’

  He closed the door behind him, annoyed. ‘How long till they reach us?’

  ‘Two, two and a half minutes,’ Carveth said. The corridor was small: they were near to one another and it felt close, uncomfortable. Carveth turned away and hurried into the cockpit, trying to rub her eyes into life.

  ‘They must wait around New Fran, looking for junk. Either that or they smelled the rust.’

  In the sitting room, Rhianna exhaled and closed her eyes. Clear your mind, she told herself. Feel the stress slip away. Reach out with your soul. Think of the whales…

  ‘I’ll weave around,’ Carveth said as Smith opened the weapons locker. ‘That should confuse them a bit.’

  Smith pulled out the Maxim Cannon and checked the ammunition counter. Two hundred and fifty six rounds in this drum and the full thousand in the other. Hefting it in both hands, he carried the thing into the hall, eager for zero-gravity to take the weight away.

  The suits were stored in the corridor, in a cupboard opposite the cabins. He laid the gun down and hauled out his suit as though dragging an unconscious man. The jointed limbs flopped awkwardly as he laid it down. The ship yawed, and Smith lurched drunkenly, keeping his footing with an effort. ‘About a minute!’ the pilot called over her shoulder. ‘It’s void sharks alright!’

  ‘Keep weaving, Carveth. I’m going out.’

  One leg in, then the other, and the body closed around him like a suit of armour. His fingers slid into the gloves, and he picked up the gun and quickly fastened it to the side of the suit.

  Helmet in hand, he strode down the corridor and through the lounge where Rhianna sat cross-legged on the sofa ignoring him, doing her exercise. He yanked the far door open and strode into the hold, slammed it behind him and saw the pressure needle spring up in the gauge. He was sealed in.

  Smith climbed the steps onto the walkway. He put his helmet on, checked the seals and activated the suit radio.

  ‘Carveth?’

  ‘Very soon, Cap.’ The ship lurched as he reached the airlock. ‘I can’t outmanoeuvre them. You’ll have to go outside.’

  ‘I’m ready at the hatch. Can you give me a reading?’

  ‘Lidar says they’re in front, coming in on an intercept. I’d say twenty seconds.’

  Smith readied the Maxim cannon and checked the umbilical line. ‘I’m going out.’ He reached out and put his gloved hand around the lever.

  ‘Wait.’

  He froze, arm outstretched. ‘Carveth?’

  Her voice was a crackle beside his ear. ‘Wait, Smith.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’ve stopped.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They’re circling us. They’re not coming any closer.’

  He stood there, waiting. ‘What’re they doing, waiting to attack?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They’re just… staying away. I don’t get this. They’re pulling back.’

  He listened. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re the captain.’

  ‘I’m staying here. Call me if they go.’

  Smith lowered himself awkwardly and sat down on the floor beside the airlock. He stared out across the empty hold, at the chains and pulleys that dangled from the roof, and the rear door big enough to accommodate a truck. He waited. Five minutes passed.

  ‘Are you coming back soon?’ Carveth said over the radio. ‘You said you were making a sandwich about half an hour ago, and I’m still hungry.’

  Smith pulled himself up and stomped back to the corridor. Rhianna did not seem to have moved throughout the incident. He unbuckled the suit and hung it in the locker, then he made some tea.

  ‘Biscuit?’ he said, returning to the cockpit. ‘Here’s some tea.’

  ‘Thanks, Cap.’ Carveth still held the controls, moving her hands along with them as the autopilot returned the ship to its programmed route. Smith put the Maxim cannon back in the weapons locker.

  ‘Don’t ask me, because I just don’t know,’ Carveth said as he sat down. ‘God only knows why they decided to go away. Just be glad they did. That could have been a real crisis.’

  ‘I doubt it would have bothered our guest,’ Smith replied. ‘She’s been sitting there half-asleep all through it all.’

  ‘So you’re not sold on the space cadet?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, she’s attractive and pleasant enough, but I find it hard to warm to the kind of stuff she believes in. Sappy nonsense, all this pagan stuff, listening to trees and tying bits of string on dolphins.’ He stood up.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a sleep.’

  Smith lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to think. He missed the Captains’ Lounge back at the company. This time he would have a story or two to tell: his battle with void sharks, his experience of the Franese and his strange near-miss with a second pack of creatures that would normally have been trying to chew through the hull. Funny business, all
that.

  He had put up a couple of pictures, the same ones he always took on missions. There was a map of Known Space, with the Empire a broad swathe of pink running across the centre, and a reproduction of Waterhouse’s Lady of Shallott. Now, he thought, there was a proper woman, not a weed like Rhianna or an oddment like Carveth. The Lady sat in her boat, her damsel-sleeves almost trailing in the water, staring out and awaiting rescue. She wouldn’t give you sarcastic backchat, or spend hours on the sofa staring into space. She would be appreciative, and awed, and good at cakes. She might smell of small onions, though. He drifted off into sleep.

  Smith dreamed that he was in the Captains’ Lounge, sitting on a wicker chair under the stuffed monocorn head that jutted from the wall, a souvenir of Wickton’s expedition to claim the Outer Systems. He was describing to a rapt, mainly female audience how he’d defeated the void sharks. He looked around, and Carveth and Rhianna were in the room. ‘That’s not how it happened,’ Carveth said. ‘No, it really happened like this,’ Rhianna said, and Smith awoke.

  The intercom rang and a copy of Tales of Adventure fell off the shelf next to it and landed on Smith’s head. Muttering, he stretched out and switched on the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Come up here, now,’ Carveth said, and for once there was nothing flippant in her voice.

  He reached the cockpit in his dressing gown. The others were there already, the alien and the visitor standing behind the pilot’s chair. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Look,’ Carveth said.

  Something turned lazily in the middle of the screen. From here it looked like a shard of sooty porcelain or a scrap of bone, a snapped, shattered, ragged thing. It was partly hollow, like broken honeycomb. Little fires winked around its edges. Without air to feed them, the explosions were tiny, like the glow of embers.

  ‘We picked up the call on emergency frequency while you were asleep,’ Carveth explained. ‘Probably an automated distress call. That used to be a frigate. There would have been fifty people on board.’

  ‘My God,’ said Smith. ‘Is there anyone alive?’

  New lights flared up along the stricken ship. Its systems were in their final, terminal throes. The core computer would be burning out, the doors no longer sealing, the oxygen stores leaking away. It was dying.