by Toby Frost
‘I take it all back,’ Carveth said, her head rolling back to take in the roof. ‘This is way out of my league. I ought to throw myself out now and save someone else the trouble.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Smith. ‘You’re as suited here as anyone. Come on. Let’s see if we can find this Corveau.’
‘Why don’t we split up?’ Rhianna suggested.
‘Of course,’ said Smith. ‘Ladies, we’ll stop cramping your style. Come and fetch me if you see our host.’
Poor Carveth, he thought as she headed for the bar. Under all that cynicism, there’s, well, more cynicism, but under that, someone who’s hardly seen the world at all. She deserves to have a good time. Oh, and just look at Rhianna’s lovely little arse.
Stop that, he told himself. There was business to be done. He slipped between two chattering groups, who fell quiet as Suruk passed them by. ‘Just look at him,’ someone whispered loudly, ‘greenish-grey as your hat.’
Without doubt the alien was not welcome here. In the Empire he would have seemed unusual; on this backwater he was not just out of place but something to be driven away.
Up ahead a dozen or so men stood clustered around someone. They looked well-dressed and serious. Smith caught a glimpse of a white suit. He turned to his friend.
‘Suruk, I think I’ve just spotted this Corveau chap. I’m going to have a look. Would you mind waiting here a moment?’
‘Not at all, Mazuran. But be careful. I see many guards here among the frivolous ones. I shall await the call to war by the drinks table.’
‘Well, have fun – but not too much fun. See you later, Suruk.’ Here we go, Smith thought grimly, and he strode towards Corveau.
Suruk watched Smith go and strolled over to the food table. It looked interesting, if needlessly elaborate. Everything was very small. It was difficult to think with all the noise going on behind him. Stupid human mating rituals. The only thing on the table that was a decent size was a metal cup of some yellow stuff, surrounded by bits of twig. He picked up the warm cup and drank. Cheesy.
‘— not as good as before,’ a woman said to his right.
‘They had a fondue last time, and finger food.’
He turned at her and tried to look friendly. ‘Very true,’
he observed. ‘This finger food clearly contains no fingers.’
Rudely, the humans hurried away. He finished the cup and put it back.
Someone prodded him in the back. ‘You there, boy,’ a fat female was saying. He looked down at her. After the yellow stuff, he felt quite peckish, and in different circumstances she would have been quite suitable. ‘Take my coat, boy.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. A man behind her dumped a top hat in his arms. ‘You are too kind, sir.’
‘At least it knows its place,’ the man said to the woman, and they walked away as Suruk put on the coat and hat and admired his reflection in his new clothes. He smiled at the mirror. Not a bad party so far. Smith found Corveau in the centre of the group. The governor wore a white linen suit and a cream shirt, open at the neck. He looked like a crow, Smith thought, thin and black-haired, with bony hands and long grooves at the sides of his mouth. His skin was loose and very tanned, as though the sun had withered his fat away.
‘— worth twice the price off-world,’ he was saying, and men nodded as he spoke. Lower than the music, a little rumble of approval ran though the group. ‘Which is why the trade lanes matter so much to commerce here.’
Corveau had a slow, drawling voice, as if he should have been wise and gentle. It belied the quickness of his eyes. Smith stood at the rear of the group with his glass of wine, sipping and waiting for a way into the conversation.
Corveau lifted his head and looked straight at Smith.
‘And here’s just the man to ask. Gentlemen, I believe this is Captain Ichabod Smith.’
Smith put out his hand. ‘Isambard. It’s Isambard, actually. Pleased to meet you, Governor Corveau.’
‘I’m glad you recognise me. Sorry; Isambard.’ Well-fed faces turned to Smith, nodded and smiled to him. ‘Mr Smith here is from the British Empire. He’s a trader, am I right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Just landed, I understand.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Smith. ‘You don’t miss much, Mr Corveau.’
‘I don’t. There’s not much to miss on a world like this.’
‘Well, I’m not planning on staying long. I’ve got rather a tight schedule to cling to, I’m afraid.’ The merchants emitted an understanding, wordless murmur as he spoke. They sounded like an avante-garde performance piece about beekeeping. ‘I’m planning on lifting off as soon as possible. It’s a shame, since this seems rather a pleasant sort of world.’
Corveau smiled. ‘It is indeed splendid. Spiffing, you might say.’
The audience smiled too: deep smiles that stretched their faces, although their lips stayed closed. Smith moved on.
‘That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Governor. I gather than there’s some sort of tax on airspace round here.’
‘There sure is, old boy. Jolly bad luck for a chap, but there you go.’
Smith knew then that Corveau was making fun of him. The chorus of merchants lapped it up; their smirks turned to outright grinning.
He glanced about, looking for support. Suruk was standing in front of a mirror, for some reason admiring himself in a top hat and fur coat. Carveth had disappeared. Rhianna was dancing with a military-looking man. Smith felt a jolt of envy and, looking back at Corveau, remembered that he was being mocked.
‘I understand that you have some sort of tax for leaving the surface,’ Smith said. ‘I’d like to negotiate.’
‘I’m sure you would. Your people must be keen to get back every ship they’ve got, what with the Ghast Empire breathing down your necks. Awfully bad luck, old fellow,’
Corveau said. ‘The offer’s not open to negotiation. Way I see it, you’re not in a negotiating position. That’s bad business sense. Am I right, fellers?’
There was a rumble of agreement from the sycophants.
‘You know, you’re not much of a haggler at all, Smith. I’d be surprised if you were much of a captain either.’
‘At least he’s not a jumped-up hick,’ a woman said. It was Rhianna. She stood on the edge of the group with the military man. Her eyes were cold. The military man was looking elsewhere. Suruk had turned from the mirror and was watching them, thoughtfully rubbing his tusks together, waiting for the real fun to start. Carveth was circulating the room, still awed. A nice, rugged-looking fellow passed by and she smiled at him, for which he shouldered straight past her without meeting her eye. ‘Nice to meet you too,’ she muttered glumly.
'There were some chairs at the edge of the room and she sat down, her large dress billowing out around her like a pool of swell. Waltzing couples rolled past, as if part of a carousel. A tall girl in a significantly better dress was talking down a spectacled young man at the edge of the dance floor. A few of her friends stood behind her, as if expecting to have to pile in to settle the matter with fists.'
‘As if I would ever!’ the tall girl said vehemently. She had the sort of groomed, made-up features that would have looked good thirty feet further back: this close, they looked as if they needed to be thirty feet away. ‘Like, you’d be lucky if I told you the time, let alone dance with you.’
The man made no reply. Obviously, he had not expected whatever verbal battering he had just received.
‘Smack her in the chops,’ Carveth said to herself, and finished up her wine.
‘Excuse me?’ Carveth had been staring into her glass, and looked up to see the thin girl standing over her. ‘Did you just say something?’
‘Hello,’ Carveth said.
‘I asked you a question,’ the girl said. Carveth felt confused. She blinked. Thrust at her, the girl’s groomed face had become ugly and tough. ‘I can’t remember. Why don’t you leave me alone?’
The princess sno
rted. ‘Boo hoo, Bo Peep. Did you leave your sheep at home?’
‘Knowing this planet, they’re probably with your brother.’
The intake of breath was almost sufficient to vacuum the ribbons out of Carveth’s hair. ‘How dare you? Have you got no breeding?’
‘None at all,’ Carveth said gaily, getting up. She felt happy again.
‘Disgraceful.’ The thin girl spun around and stalked away.
‘I do have boobs, though, pancake girl,’ Carveth added, but she was not sure that her opponent heard. She turned to the nice man in glasses. ‘Hello, nice man in glasses. I’m Pollyanna. Want to teach me how to waltz?’
Corveau looked at Rhianna. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Rhianna Mitchell. I came here with Captain Smith.’
‘I see.’ A servant stopped at the group with a silver tray. Amid the wine glasses was a single can of beer. Corveau took the beer, cracked it open and swigged. ‘So you’re a relative of his, I presume?’
‘Just a friend.’
The military man frowned. He said, ‘Where I’m from, a decent woman doesn’t go out unless her husband’s taking her.’
Smith was about to point out that Rhianna could go where she liked, but she beat him to it. ‘We’re not really into marriage where I’m from.’
‘Nor piety, so I hear.’ The man’s face remained inexpressive, but his tone disapproved.
‘I believe in spirituality as opposed to organised religion,’ Rhianna said.
‘Which makes you a hellbound unbeliever.’
‘Now then,’ Smith said. ‘You’re talking to a lady here.’
‘Perhaps you should have discussed this on the dance floor.’ Corveau looked tired. ‘Then again, I’m not sure God and getting down go well together.’ His cronies smiled.
Smith turned to the officer. ‘May I ask your name, sir?’
‘You may. Captain John Bradley Gilead, Navy of the Democratic Republic of the New Eden. You must be Smith. Pardon me, but I only shake with believers.’
Gilead’s face, Smith realised, was almost immobile. The man had the permanent look of mild surprise that characterised senior officials of the Democratic Republic. This, Smith knew, was the result of what he had once heard one of them call ‘hyper-repeatmented plasticated surgification.’
‘You’re excused,’ Smith said.
Gilead’s very square jaw moved slightly. ‘So, I understand you’re the captain of the ship that got stranded here. The John Pym, am I right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What kind of name for a ship is that, anyhow? Was he someone famous?’
‘He was an early democratic campaigner. He fought for the people against the king.’
‘Communist, eh?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ The atmosphere seemed heavy suddenly, charged. He decided to lighten it. ‘Besides, it’s not the strangest name I’ve ever heard for a ship, by a long way. I used to know a Yorkshireman who named his ship the Norfolk and Chance. I used to say, “Why did you call your ship Norfolk and Chance?” and he’d reply, “Because there’s Norfolk and Chance she’ll get off the ground!”
Haha! Ha! Ha. Ha? Oh.’
The band tuned their instruments. On the lawn, a cricket rubbed its legs.
‘Well then,’ said Smith, glancing round for an exit route as desperation rose up within him. He had been hoping to leave in a civilised manner, preferably via conversation with someone else, but right now he was tempted to run shrieking and gibbering down the length of the room, immediately prior to flinging himself through the French windows and emptying his shard-lanced bladder onto Corveau’s lawn as a gesture of contempt.
‘Rhianna!’ he said delightedly. ‘Care for a dance?
Please?’
‘You’re wearing spacesuit boots,’ Carveth’s man said as they danced.
‘Damn right, Hector,’ she said, grinning. ‘Want to know what else I’ve got?’
Rhianna did not seem very happy to be dancing. Smith, on the other hand, was overjoyed: not only had he escaped ritual humiliation at the hands of a religious bigot, but a very attractive woman was dancing with him. People passed by, possibly under the impression that he and Rhianna shared the same bed.
‘Are you having a good time?’ he asked.
‘No. You’re on my flip-flops, Isambard.’
‘Sorry.’ He adjusted his stance. ‘Still, must be better than dancing with that Gilead fellow. What a tosser!’
‘He’s a fascist and a sleaze,’ she replied as they whirled past Suruk. Smith was surprised by her vehemence: he had expected something about negative energy. ‘He spent the whole time with his hand on my ass.’
Smith’s own hand stayed very still on her waist. ‘You should have told him to take it away.’
‘How could I? He’s Republic military. Round here his word is more law than the Governor’s.’
‘Arsehole. I should have socked him one for that,’ Smith replied, regretting the fact that he had not trained to be a specifically evil space captain. He felt bitterly cheated by this news.
‘You realise violence doesn’t solve anything permanently, don’t you?’
‘Except for lowering the galactic arsehole proliferation rate. I’d settle the Governor’s hash at the drop of a hanky as well.’
‘They’re staring at you.’
‘Look, we’re going to have trouble here. When I said we should reason with these people, I didn’t know we’d be strolling into a pan-galactic prat convention. I think we should consider going.’
‘What’re you going to do about getting off-world?’
‘Looks like Suruk and I will have to deal with it on the sly. We can come back here tomorrow night—’
‘Oh no!’ Rhianna’s eyes were fixed on something over his shoulder. ‘They’ve got Carveth!’
Smith glanced around. Two large guards stood either side of Carveth and a man he did not recognise. She looked worried.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Smith said, and he strode across the room, Rhianna hurrying after him.
‘What’s all this?’ Smith demanded, drawing near.
‘Drop the attitude,’ said the guard. ‘We found this woman in the private rooms, with this man. Attempted sex outside wedlock carries five to ten here.’
Smith said, ‘Everything is under control. This is my niece. She suffers from a rare genetic condition that makes her into a complete fathead. I’m very disappointed in you, niece, wandering off like that. I’d best be getting her back home, gentlemen. We’re leaving,’ he told Carveth.
‘Leaving? But I hardly got started!’
‘Better keep her on a leash, neighbour.’ One of the guards chuckled, and they stepped aside. Smith leaned in close. ‘Dammit, Carveth, what were you thinking of?’
She looked genuinely apologetic. ‘I’m really sorry, Boss. I only wanted to get some willy,’ she said miserably.
‘We’re getting out. I’ve had no luck with the governor. There’s some nasty customers round here.’
‘I can handle myself. I’ve got a pistol in my smalls, Cap.’
He tugged her arm. Carveth waved at her gentleman as the three of them hurried towards the main doors. Corveau was waiting in the hall. Two men stood against the far wall, their faces brutal and blank, shotguns held across their chests.
‘Captain Smith!’
Smith hissed to Carveth, ‘How fast can you get to your knickers?’
Corveau laughed. ‘Got to get back home urgently?’ He stepped forward with a fresh beer in hand. ‘I know what you need, Smith. I’ll talk terms. If you want to get offworld, it can be arranged. Come to Gadster’s Farm at, let’s say, midday tomorrow. We should be able to sort something out, provided you’re there.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve got to get back. You two have a good evening, now. Or do I need to tell you that?’
He gave them a condescending smile and turned back to the party.
The air was cool on the porch. Outside they happened on a surreal sight: Suruk c
rouched on a picnic chair wearing a top hat, sharing a heaped plate of vol-au-vents with two waiters and a dog. He sprang down as they approached.
‘We are leaving?’
‘We’re leaving all right,’ Smith replied. They walked down towards the gate. Suruk turned his collar up and listened as Smith explained what had been going on.
‘So what do you think happens at this farm?’ Rhianna asked.
‘Sounds like bad news,’ Carveth said. Suruk adjusted his hat as he strode along beside her. He and Carveth looked like characters from a production of Alice in Wonderland, as performed by the criminal underworld. Smith licked his fingertips and checked the shape of his moustache. ‘Well, and bear in mind this is just an opinion, I’d say that’s where they are going to try to murder us.’
Andy laid out the map on the living room table. ‘Gadster’s farm’s been abandoned nigh on six years. It’s got a load of outhouses and a farmhouse, probably stripped bare by now. These two rectangles are storage barns. The towers to the north are for observation or somethin’. I’d put a man up there with a rifle if I was Corveau.’
‘Sounds like we could do with a recce,’ Carveth said. ‘It doesn’t look friendly.’
‘It ain’t. Word is it’s where Corveau does his dirty work. The place has a bad rep: Sheriff Parker went missing up there four years back, when he tried to get them to throw the Governor out for taking bribes. All they found was a badge and a couple of fingers. He’s probably down the well.’
Francois whistled and approached the table. The six of them made the ship’s living area seem cramped. ‘Yep, that there’s your bona-fide one-stop chopped cop drop-off shop,’ he said. ‘Walk in there without a decent gun an’ I reckon you’re screwed.’
‘Thanks,’ said Smith. ‘I appreciate the help, and the map. Shame it’s 1:50,000, but you can’t have everything.’
He peered at the tiny markings. ‘We’re going to need a good plan if we’re to disarm Corveau.’
Heads were lifted from the map; eyes met across the table. ‘Disarm?’ Carveth said. ‘You want to get him alive?’
‘We’ll need him to shut down the missile array so we can get off-world.’