by Toby Frost
‘From a wreck like that?’
‘Check, Carveth.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘Just do it, woman!’
‘It is dead,’ Suruk said.
She nodded and pressed buttons, turned dials. ‘The emergency kits would have beacons attached, on the lifeboats and the suits…’ she said, studying the controls.
‘No beacons.’
‘Fifty people,’ Rhianna said from the back of the room.
‘That’s awful.’
A piece of metal from the hull floated past. It must have been the size of the John Pym, a huge sheet of plating wrenched into a pretzel shape. Smith lowered himself slowly into the captain’s chair, like an old man. Numbly he realised that his dressing gown was not covering his knees, and he pulled it closed.
Carveth looked down the binoculars and held them out for Smith. ‘The Tenacious,’ she said. ‘It’s one of ours.’
‘What happened to it?’ Rhianna asked. Her voice sounded lost, disembodied.
‘The engine’s still intact,’ Smith replied. ‘Its missiles must have gone… or somebody torpedoed it.’
‘Nothing on the signals,’ Carveth said. ‘I say we go.’
‘Check again.’
‘Right.’ She looked back to the dials, very slowly turning one of them with her hand. They could hear the click of the dial as she explored the band, from top to bottom. Nothing.
Smith said: ‘Is the emergency signal still going?’
‘Yes. It’s two hundred miles away from the main wreckage, moving away fast… Probably blown clear.’ She turned and looked at Smith. ‘Boss, I know this is bad, but there’s nobody left alive out there… And I don’t think it was a malfunction that did for them.’
Smith ran a hand through his hair. Technically speaking, there could be people on the ship, survivors whose suit beacons didn’t work, or who were unconscious, or too shocked to put them to use, or a hundred other reasons why, waiting for help, hoping that somebody would come. Technically, but they all knew otherwise.
‘Take us out of here,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody alive. Set the co-ordinates and put us back on course.’
‘Right,’ said Carveth. The John Pym rumbled: they heard the soft whine as the thrusters swung to push them backwards, away from the scene.
A light flashed on the radio. ‘Hang on,’ Carveth said.
‘That must mean something. It’s picked something up.’
She pressed the headset against her ear. ‘It’s a standard S.O.S. transmission,’ she said. ‘Wait, there’s something on the end… it’s in code.’ She looked around at Smith. ‘Why is it in code?’
‘Run the code 6079Smith through the decoder,’ he said.
‘Is that their code?’ Rhianna asked.
‘It’s the only one I know,’ he said.
Carveth pulled the console down on its jointed metal arm and typed. ‘Then it’s for you. I think you’d better hear this.’
The loudspeakers crackled at the edges of the room and a voice filled the air between them, like the voice of God. It took up the cockpit, a deep, actor’s voice, the voice of a man who was not quite elderly.
‘This is Bentham Cartwright, Captain of HMS
Tenacious, fleet number 2305. If you can hear me, I am assuming two things: firstly, that I am addressing Captain Isambard Smith and the crew of the John Pym and, secondly, that our mission to protect you has been a failure. For that I apologise.
‘Captain Smith, no doubt you have wondered as to the purpose of your flying to New Fran to collect a seemingly unimportant dissident, to rescue her from the possibility of that colony being annexed by the Ghast Empire. You are presumably on the way to deliver Miss Mitchell to the city of Midlight, on Kane’s World. It is vital that you continue with this mission. You are to proceed with all possible speed to your destination and to stop for no reason whatsoever. It is absolutely imperative that she reaches the destination intact and unharmed. The only higher priority is that you prevent her from falling into the hands of the Ghasts or their allies.
‘You employer, Mr Khan of Valdane Shipping, has long had links with the Deepspace Operations Group of Great Britain and its Colonies. He gave you this task because your ship was unimportant, less likely to be noticed than a larger, military vessel. He arranged for us to follow you and protect you – which, if you are hearing this, we have been unable to do.
‘Mr Khan believed that you would be less likely to reveal yourself or make any errors if you did not know you were being shadowed. It was a mission where ignorance was vital, a mission for which you were the ideal choice. Now, however, you are no longer safe. You are exposed, and it is you and you alone on whom the safety of your ship relies…’
‘We’re stuffed,’ Carveth said.
‘… I can only wish you good luck. May your ship prove up to the task ahead.’
‘Yep, we’re stuffed all right,’ Carveth said.
‘… I am merely hoping that your crew can deal with this responsibility and see you through with honour and success.’
‘So am I,’ said Smith.
‘Good luck, Mr Smith. And remember, on no account must Miss Mitchell be passed to the enemy. In the event, you know what you must do. Goodbye, and carry on.’
The message ended. The four of them were quiet, as if they had been listening to a funeral address. Smith broke the silence. ‘Get us out of here, Carveth. Top speed.’
The John Pym raced through the dark of space, away from the murder-scene. Smith sat grimly in the captain’s chair, his eyes fixed on the instruments. Carveth said nothing as she worked the controls. Rhianna had gone back to the lounge, presumably to pray to whatever it was she worshipped. Suruk was peering into the hamster cage.
‘There is one good thing,’ Suruk said.
‘What’s that?’ Carveth said, not looking round.
‘At least we may have a proper fight before we get home.’
‘You know,’ she replied, ‘you may find this surprising, but I really would prefer not to have to bother.’
‘Quiet,’ said Smith. ‘How far have we gone?’
‘From the Tenacious? About six thousand miles.’
‘Good. Keep going. If we stay on this course and at this speed, we should be fine.’
Something exploded behind them. The whole ship lurched forward and Smith was thrown back in his seat, knocking the air from his lungs. In the living room, Rhianna shrieked. Warning lights broke out across the console. A siren howled in the corridor.
‘Something’s wrong!’ Smith yelled.
‘Really?’ Carveth shouted back. Teeth gritted, she was wrestling the control stick as if fighting a cobra. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Dammit, we’re hit! What’s the damage?’ cried the captain.
‘Serious hull weakening on the port! Engine’s shutting down to prevent overheating. We’re down to forty percent efficiency.’
‘Hell! Can’t you override it?’
‘Not unless you want to be in two galaxies at once. Much more and it explodes.’
‘Dammit to hell!’ Smith pinched his brow. Feet pattered on the floor behind him, and he heard Rhianna say, ‘I fell off my chair. Is something wrong?’
‘Just a bit,’ Carveth called back. Panting, she released the stick. The ship stayed level. ‘Torpedo up the poo-chute.’
‘Oh Gaia! Is it – like what happened to the other ship?’
‘Looks that way.’
The loudspeakers squealed. Suddenly the room was full of bitter, raucous sounds, as though they had tuned by accident into some frenzied squabble in a duckpond. The voices barked and hissed at one another, like geese struggling to express human anger. In the stillness after the explosion, all four of them stared up at the speakers like prisoners waiting to hear the sentence passed.
‘What is that?’ Rhianna breathed.
‘Ghasts,’ Smith replied.
‘Attention human scum!’ the loudspeaker screeched.
‘Atte
ntion human scum! Ghast Empire calling!’
Very slowly, Isambard Smith picked up the intercom.
‘Put me on, Carveth.’
‘Right.’
‘Ghast ship, this is Captain Isambard Smith of the Second British Empire. What do you want?’
‘The destruction of the entire human race! Space shall be cleansed of the human taint!’
‘Anything we can do, or are you just generally annoyed?’
‘You will deliver the woman from New Fran to us immediately. Failure to do so will result in your swift and ruthless annihilation!’
The three crew watched Smith’s pallid face. A light sheen of sweat had appeared at his hairline. He swallowed. ‘You may not have this woman. You are outside Ghast space and acting illegally.’
‘Silence! There is no law! There is only strength! You will surrender immediately and pass the woman to us, or we shall destroy you all!’
‘You are making a very grave mistake,’ Smith said quietly. The voice gave an insane, wild laugh. ‘We do not make mistakes! Surrender at once! Resistance is fertile!’
‘Don’t you mean futile?’
‘… That’s what I said! Surrender or die!’
‘How dare you! Do you think I would give up a woman, someone who I am honour-bound to give safety on my ship, just because the arrogant minions of an alien despot hurl threats and abuse at me?’
‘Well, yes, we do.’
‘Alright then, give us ten minutes.’
‘Hahaha! Puny weaklings surren—’
Smith hung up.
‘Oh no.’ Rhianna closed her eyes and put her hands out in front of her. She was breathing with difficulty.
‘Channelling positive thoughts. Positive thoughts. In with the good, out with the negativity. In with the good—’
Carveth looked around the room. ‘Ah, crap. Any ideas, anyone?’
Rhianna said, ‘Okay, let’s make a Calm Circle. Let’s all join hands and try to visualise—’
‘Get the guns,’ Smith said. ‘Carveth, go down to the engine rooms and bring up a gallon of petrol and some rags. Suruk, fetch your spear and sharpen up your knives. Rhianna, just put your shoes on. We’re going out fighting.’
There was silence as Smith got to his feet. Suruk gave a low and dirty chuckle. ‘War! That’s the best news all holiday!’
3 Smith Defeats the Space Ant Horde!
Five minutes later Smith was in the kitchen area, a bottle of beer in either hand, pouring the contents into the sink. Two empty bottles stood on the draining board beside him. He looked at the bottle in his hand. The beer flowed away so quickly, he thought. Like time, like the years of his life flowing away, all to end on this wretched ship. Glug, glug. And what had he achieved? Any meaningful relationships? A career that would bring him fame and success? No. Years of being the only non A-grade student at Midwich Grammar followed by a brutal upbringing in Harcourt Park School for Boys had led straight into an insipid career as a minor space pilot. If he died now, would he get into heaven? Probably by default, he reflected: his life had been so mediocre that God probably wouldn’t have bothered watching it.
‘Oh my God,’ he cried, ‘what a waste! What the hell am I doing?’ He stopped pouring and drank the beer instead.
‘Fancy pouring good beer away. Bally idiot.’
Suruk entered the room, his spear in hand. Smith looked up and said, ‘All set?’
‘I have everything I need,’ the alien said, counting on his fingers. ‘Machete, parang, kukri, stiletto, Bowie knife, 76 wakazashi –’ he moved onto his other hand – ‘and the spear of my ancestors. All set.’
‘Good. I’m making petrol bombs. I’m also getting drunk and angry.’
‘Tell me, Isambard Smith: how many Ghasts are there on a Ghast warship?’
‘I don’t know. Three, four hundred?’
Suruk thought about it for a moment. ‘We are going to die, then.’
Smith realised that he was damned if he was going to surrender. He did not fear the Ghasts: after six years in a minor prep school north of Harrogate, he felt that he could take anything. An arcane hatred was stirring in him, the atavistic urge to stick something pointed in creatures who did nothing other than stand in lines, shout and try to tell him what to do.
‘They’re not having my people, Suruk. I know she’s a wishy-washy nuisance, but she’s a woman, and she’s on my ship, and they’re not having her. My crew matter to me. Same goes for whatshername. The pilot.’
‘Death in battle. Hohoho! Are you resigned to it?’
There was a simple answer. Despite his inability to remember a part of his life that had not been rubbish in some way, Smith felt that he had a lot more to offer the world: more precisely, certain parts of him had a lot to offer attractive women. He felt that he deserved to live: he still had a lot to prove to the world. ‘I don’t know. I would rather stay alive. But I won’t give in.’
‘It is not necessarily so.’
‘How do you mean?’ So far, he had assumed that they had a straight choice of being forced to go down fighting or being murdered once their captors had tired of them. But if Suruk the Slayer was saying this, perhaps there was an alternative, a way of surviving, of snatching some kind of success from the jaws of glorious defeat.
‘I have a plan, Mazuran. But we will need to delay our enemy for it to work. Then, we will carry out great and terrible slaying: we will fight like warriors, but will live to fight again. Then the prize female will want to breed with you. Perhaps the short annoying one as well, if your ancestors favour you.’
‘I’ll do it anyway. What do we need?’
‘So,’ said Narzak the Despoiler, ‘I’m like, “This kill is mine”, and he’s like, “No way! This kill is so mine”, and I’m like, “N-uh! Check out the spear before you start hassling me, alright”, and he’s like, “Back off, little warrior,” like he’s totally amazing or something.’
‘Some people just need to cool down,’ Azrag Bloodhammer said from the other side of the room. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I told him to get off his high horse and chill. Then I cut off his head. What’s that flashing thing on the panel?’
The control panel of the good ship Smashface was hidden, like much of the craft, under a thick layer of bones, red paint and things no longer edible. Azrag shoved the junk aside and his small eyes peered through the gloom at the controls. ‘It’s a message,’ he said. ‘Says it’s from Suruk the Slayer. Apparently he’s looking for Thador Largan.’
‘That’s way uncanny,’ Narzak said, ‘because he’s on this ship.’
Azrag skim-read the message. ‘ “Join us for a mighty battle. War… killing… honour… party of the decade…”
Fetch the guys! This is going to rock!’
Carveth rested the shotgun on her hip and began to push cartridges into the breach. She zipped up her waistcoat and emptied the spare shells into the watch pocket.
‘You know you can have the Maxim cannon if you want,’ said Smith.
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘This’ll do as much good as anything else. I’d rather give the big gun to someone halfcompetent.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ he said. ‘We’re going to give them a good show. Suruk, did your chaps say how long they’d be?’
‘I do not know. But their spacecraft has a larger engine than this, and their pilot is much less fat. They should not take long.’
‘Then we’ll hold them as long as we can. How long do we have before the Ghasts dock?’
‘Two minutes,’ Carveth said. ‘And I’m not fat. Can I have a bit of that beer?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ He passed it over. ‘There you go.’
Carveth took a swig and passed it back. ‘Whoa!
Bracing.’
Rhianna stepped into the corridor. She was holding the wooden practice sword from her bag. ‘I’m ready to fight,’ she announced.
‘Like that?’ Smith said. ‘These are Ghast stormtroopers. You’ve got flip-flops and a stick.�
��
‘They want me, not you,’ Rhianna said. ‘I ought to help.’
‘You could always go on your own and we could get away,’ Carveth suggested. She met Smith’s eye and added,
‘Just a thought.’
‘I would have suggested it,’ Rhianna said, ‘but I knew he wouldn’t let me.’
‘Point,’ Carveth said.
They had pulled up some of the empty cargo boxes from the hold to use as a barricade. Smith and Rhianna stood behind the boxes on one side of the door, Suruk and Carveth on the other.
‘Are you ready, men?’ said Smith.
The loudspeaker crackled into life.
‘Ghast Empire calling! This is warship commander 462 addressing you, weakling human Earth-scum! Warship Systematic Destruction is preparing to dock with your puny craft. On hearing the docking tube attach, you will open the hatch and surrender immediately!’
‘Hang on,’ said Smith. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘What?’
‘We have a, um, a highly contagious terminal disease. We need at least half an hour to get better.’
‘We are immune to disease! Only weaklings succumb to disease, and weaklings must be destroyed! We will board now!’
‘Let’s just kill them all,’ Suruk said.
‘Open the door or we will train lasers on your feeble craft and slice it in two!’
Smith quietly passed two petrol bombs to Carveth. ‘Did you bring a lighter?’ he whispered.
‘Not for this,’ she replied, snapping it out of her pocket.
‘This isn’t exactly how I was planning to get wasted.’
‘Ghast ship? We’ll open the door,’ Smith said into the radio.
Something hit the ship with a dull, metallic clang that reverberated through the hull. ‘That’s them,’ Rhianna said.
They waited.
Carveth stepped out from the boxes, over to the door.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ she said, reaching to the airlock.
‘On three,’ said Smith. The pilot wrapped her hands around the wheel. ‘One.’