Space Captain Smith

by Toby Frost

  ‘Goodness knows how we’ll break it to her,’ Carveth said as they picked their way down the stairs, past the fallen Ghasts. ‘ “Terribly sorry, but not only are you halfwoman, half-alien deity, but your mum got knocked up by Will’o the Wisp.” For that matter, shall we tell her at all?

  What happens if she gets pissed off on the way home and zaps us all?’

  In the middle of the sports hall, Smith turned down the dials and pulled out the wires. ‘Thank you,’ said the Vorl, and as they watched, it diminished, sinking down into Rhianna, sucked back into her sleeping body. She stirred in her sleep. She was still beautiful, Smith thought, although this was not quite the way he’d envisaged her waking up beside him. He reached out and gently put his hand on her brow.

  Rhianna’s eyes flicked open. ‘Get your hands off me!

  Ugh! I’m covered in electrodes!’ She sat bolt upright and looked down at herself. ‘What the hell have you done with my bra, you fascists?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Smith said, averting his eyes.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Rhianna said, calming down. ‘Sorry. Hi, guys. Um, could someone find my top, please?’

  Carveth put Rhianna’s clothes on the bed and she got dressed under the sheets. ‘So, er, what happened? I remember a dream… about smothering, I think… or maybe hovering… and then – well, then I was here.’

  ‘The Ghasts were experimenting on you,’ Carveth said.

  ‘We raided them and rescued you. Were it not for the captain here and his incredible and frequent acts of deathdefying bravery, you’d be dead.’ You owe me big, she mouthed at Smith.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Smith. ‘There was a certain amount of heroic derring-do, now you mention it – and a fair few alien invaders got their comeuppance.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Rhianna. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t usually condone anything involving vi – Oh, screw it. Knowing you did that really turns me on.’

  ‘Good-oh,’ said Captain Smith. ‘Now, let’s go back to the ship and have some tiffin.’

  Suruk was waiting at the ship. ‘I got locked out,’ he said.

  ‘These will look great on the mantelpiece,’ he added, indicating two large carrier bags. ‘It’s been quite a day. So, did the Vorl appear and kill everyone with lightning?’

  ‘ What?’ said Carveth.

  ‘The Vorl. Did one of them turn up and use psychic powers and lightning to save the day?’

  Smith gave Suruk a hard stare. ‘You knew? All this time, and you knew that’s what would happen?’

  Suruk shrugged. ‘Of course. It’s an old legend of ours.’

  ‘So why the hell didn’t you let on? It could have saved us some bother, you know, if we’d known what we were up against.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Suruk said, ‘I do not wander about telling silly stories all the time. I would look like some sort of benighted idiot. Now, who has the keys? I cannot wait to get the stove on and start cleaning up these skulls.’

  12 Back in the Empire

  The John Pym touched down at Midlight central terminus on Kane’s World six Greenwich Standard days later. Under a vaulted, scrollworked ceiling, they waved goodbye to Rhianna and watched her wander into the crowds, oddly conspicuous amid the sober, busy citizens of the Empire.

  ‘I rather liked her,’ Smith said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘But I never knew what to do.’

  ‘I know,’ Carveth said. ‘Never mind, Boss. Other fish in the sea.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll see her again,’ said Smith, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  A few days later, much to Carveth’s disappointment, they received no medals in front of any cheering crowd. What they had done was to stay secret. In place of the proud march between ranks of the Empire’s finest soldiery, Mr Khan faxed them some luncheon vouchers and they went out for a curry instead.

  It was a strange end to the job, Carveth thought, but not a bad one: drinking several pints of imported lager, laughing at Smith’s uncanny impersonation of Florence Nightingale and watching Suruk ladle frightening amounts of Prawn Madras into his mouthparts. Everything was going well and Carveth was drunk enough to be humming along to the piped sitar music when a tall, gaunt man stopped at the end of the table.

  ‘Isambard Smith?’

  Smith looked up. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  The newcomer was about fifty, with a tired, battered face that looked much less healthy than the mess of black hair on top of it. He had a pencil moustache and deep-set eyes that were by turns kindly, hard and wise.

  ‘I need to talk to you. I’m a friend of your employer, Hereward Khan. Here.’

  He passed Smith an envelope in one large, bony hand. Smith tore it open and studied the contents.

  ‘Well, you clearly know Mr Khan,’ he said. ‘Can I ask your name?’

  The newcomer looked awkward. ‘Well, I can’t really tell you that. It’s secret. Suffice it to say that when you were sent on this mission on behalf of certain unnamed people, I was one of them. May I?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Smith, and the man sat down.

  ‘Before I say anything else, I must remember to give you this.’ He reached into his jacket and took out a second envelope. ‘Here,’ he said, and he passed it to Carveth. ‘For your good work.’

  She held it up to the light, saw no cheque-shaped silhouette inside and opened it anyway. A passport and a driving licence fell out.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said.

  The visitor’s lined face twitched into a smile. ‘Have a look.’

  She opened the passport. ‘It’s me,’ she said. The man crossed his long legs. ‘That’s right. It’s you. You’re an Imperial citizen now, Miss Carveth. The appropriate papers have been filed and there’s nothing to prove that you’re anything other than a fully-functional simulant who has spent the last three years working for a boring haulage firm.’

  ‘You mean they can’t come after me?’

  ‘Absolutely. The corrupt plutocracy of the Devrin Corporation will have no more fun at your expense. You can assert your citizenship anywhere and rely on our battleships to back it up.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Thanks!’ She glanced through the documents. ‘Says here I’m the visual equivalent of twentyeight. Whoa, I’d better find a man before I’m too old.’

  ‘You’ll all be rewarded financially,’ said the visitor.

  ‘You’ve set back the Ghast plans for galactic domination at least three weeks, if not more.’ He leaned forward and said, ‘But I’m afraid I’ve got a favour to ask of you. I want your help.’

  ‘Need someone’s head cut off?’ Suruk growled.

  ‘Not exactly. But there’s need for a fast civilian ship these days. You see, a great conflict is coming, and it will not be politicians who save the galaxy. Mankind needs common men like yourselves – ordinary, bog-standard, unimpressive, slightly dull men who will defend it from the scourge of Ghastism. The common people of the Empire will not stand for tyranny!’ he cried, and his eyes seemed to catch fire. ‘No! The Imperial people will rise, and Ghastist blood will run wherever tyrants dare threaten our way of life! The alien dream of an enslaved Earth will be over, and the golden light of Democracy shall shine like a beacon across space! We shall tear down their citadels and planetscape their worlds into the likeness of sacred Albion!’

  He hit the table with his fist, sending Carveth’s pint rocking like a broken chess-piece. The room was silent. The sitar music started twiddling in the background.

  ‘You see my point,’ the agent said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Smith said, nodding quickly. Here was a man even more determined and fanatical than himself. He could now understand why girls tended to shrink away from him when he started talking about cricket.

  ‘My cover is that I work as a journalist,’ said the visitor.

  ‘I’ll contact you when the Empire has need of your services. In the meantime, should you have any problems, ask for me.’

  He took out a pen and wrote a letter on a napkin, followed by a
number. He pushed it across the table to Smith. ‘That’s my codename,’ he explained. ‘It means

  “Master Spy”.’

  ‘W’, said Smith.

  ‘Other way up.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Well,’ said W, ‘I’d love to sit here and chat all day, but I’m not some sort of useless Nancy and I’ve got to get on. If I need you, I’ll let you know: and if you need me, let me know that I ought to let you know.’

  ‘What about Rhianna?’ said Smith. ‘What will happen to her?’

  ‘You’re worried about her?’

  ‘Well, yes. She was a good friend to all of us.’ Smith had had an unsettling mental image of the security service putting Rhianna in a packing crate and wheeling her off to a warehouse full of other packing crates, and leaving her there.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Carveth said, reaching for the poppadoms.

  ‘I’m worried sick. It’s put me right off my food.’

  ‘Well,’ said W, ‘I can’t tell you much. Suffice to say that her help against the Ghasts will be invaluable. She’ll be quite safe, and you have my word that she will come to no harm.’

  ‘Good,’ said Smith, ‘that’s a relief. But will I ever see her again?’

  W stood up and shook his head. ‘I hate to say it, but I very much doubt you will.’

  ‘Bugger,’ said Isambard Smith.

  462 was picked up by a Ghast supply ship several days later and taken to Selenia, homeworld of the Ghasts. His wounds were severe, and in normal circumstances he would simply have been shot and rendered into nutritious soup. The fact that he woke in a bed frightened him because the only reason to keep a failed minion alive was so he could be tortured to death at some more convenient moment.

  On the third day he was able to get up and assess his injuries. Smith’s bullet had removed one of his eyes and, unaccustomed to putting their colleagues back together again, the Ghast doctors had been untidy when fitting its replacement. 462 stood in front of a full-length mirror and, had he possessed tear-ducts, he would have wept.

  ‘Look at me!’ he hissed, ‘Look at me! How am I supposed to look like an officer of my rank with facial scars and a metal lens instead of one eye?’ He pulled on his trenchcoat and, feeling sorry for himself, walked out to meet his superiors.

  An unmarked hovercar took him to another unmarked hovercar, which took him to a vast building that jutted out of the city centre like a gigantic black fridge. Half a dozen praetorians escorted him through a hall big enough to produce its own atmosphere. A sign on the wall read: Party Rally here later – Rain Expected. The praetorian on the door saw his scarred face and stepped aside. The door slid back and he was led into the presence of Number Two.

  Number Two was small and ferret-like. He had cameras instead of eyes: rumour had it that these relayed everything he saw to Number One and were only turned off when he had a bath – which almost never happened. He was fanatically loyal and smelled bad. At present he was stamping a huge pile of paper.

  ‘Greetings,’ he lisped. His voice was thin and high.

  ‘Strength in conquest, glorious Number Two!’ 462 yelled, struggling to keep the fear from his voice. ‘May I sit down?’

  Number Two stamped half a dozen sheets of paper. 462 looked around the room, which was decorated like a teenager’s bedroom. Pictures of Number One were everywhere: on the walls, the desk, even, worryingly, on the ceiling above the pull-down bed.

  ‘No,’ said Number Two. ‘Make yourself useful – sign a few of these death warrants.’

  ‘Yes, glorious Two! With my own signature?’

  ‘Of course not. You are disposable. Sign it as me.’

  ‘As a number, or in letters, sir?’

  ‘Your choice. Knock yourself out.’ Two pushed a wad of paper across the desk, and the biopen wriggled after it.

  ‘Now, you are probably wondering why you are not dead yet, yes?’

  The mention of his death made 462 so nervous that he accidentally signed one of the warrants as Three.

  ‘You continue to exist because you are the only surviving member of our species to have seen the Vorl. I wish it was I who had witnessed this sight but, sadly, the fates were against me. Your experience makes you useful. You now exist for one purpose only: to locate the Vorl again and bring it to us for experimentation.’

  ‘Is that not… erm… two purposes?’

  ‘Who is Number Two here? Now, go. A ship and a suitable number of personnel will be placed at your disposal. Feel free to use them as you will, provided you do exactly as I say. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, glorious Two!’ 462 was delighted. Not only was he not going to be made into dinner but he was being sent out to wreak revenge! A fast ship, a powerful weapons system and more minions than you could shake a failed minion at – who could ask for more than that?

  ‘Good. Proceed to your ship and await orders. We shall capture the Vorl and Earth shall be ours! Hahaha!’

  And Isambard Smith shall be mine as well, thought 462. Then we will see who the clever, deadly, efficient one of us really is. Ten to one it is still me.

  ‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘Hahaha!’

  *

  John Bradley Gilead was woken by his medical team. He blinked, felt the soft pillow around his head and saw the doctor lean in over him.

  ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘In hospital.’

  Hospital, yes. Gilead remembered what had happened now: he’d been about to cut the head from that unbeliever Isambard Smith, when the man had pulled a gun and shot him. Ah, yes.

  ‘I can’t feel anything,’ he said. ‘How badly did he injure me?’

  ‘Badly, actually,’ the doctor replied. ‘It was serious, I’m afraid. We had to amputate.’

  ‘Amputate? What the hell did you amputate?’

  ‘Your body. On the bright side, we’ve given you free cosmetic surgery. Your chin looks great now.’

  Gilead took it quite well. After he had stopped screaming, he said, ‘You mean that’s all I am? Just a severed head?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the doctor replied, a little surprised. ‘Goodness no. We salvaged your bladder, too.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s all I am, a bag of piss with a head on top?’

  ‘How things change,’ a hard voice said from the other side of the bed. Gilead glanced around and a one-eyed, trench-coated thing leaned over and studied him. Before, 462’s face had looked like a twisted caricature of a man’s. Now, he was a monocled, scarred, parody of a twisted caricature. Judging by the state of his face, he’d tried to French kiss a combine harvester.

  ‘Welcome back, Gilead,’ said 462. ‘We have work to do, I believe.’ He took a step closer. ‘Isambard Smith lives.’

  ‘God damn him!’

  ‘Indeed. The half-alien – or, as you would put it, halfdeity – Rhianna Mitchell is in British space. You and I are going to get her back.’

  ‘And that heathen Smith?’

  ‘Of course. We shall deal with Captain Smith.’

  ‘Hah! He’ll wail and gnash his teeth, once I’ve handed them back to him! Why, when I get my hands on him, his life won’t be worth living!’ He frowned. ‘I will get some hands, won’t I?’

  The Ghast attempted a smile. ‘Oh yes. You’ll get everything you need. I have been ordered by mighty Number Two to provide us with the equipment to hunt him down.’

  Gilead smiled. ‘Well, that’s something. Alright, 462, let’s go! We’re going to party and all I need is some body to go with!’

  Under an orange sky, Midlight clanked and smoked. Steam blasted into the air from the vents of several dozen landed spacecraft, spread out across the docking area. Towers loomed over the great shipyard and enormous cranes rolled back and forth like siege engines on catapillar tracks, their sides dotted with lights. Every so often, a flurry of sparks would leap into the air in a glowing arc as new armour was welded to a ship in preparation for the war to come.

  They were already calling it the Ghast War, although it had
n’t started yet. The empires of Earth were arming themselves: in the galactic West, the M’Lak tribes were preparing to renew their feud against the vicious Yull. Around the John Pym sat mighty drop-shuttles, each capable of making planetfall with a full battalion inside. The Pym looked like the runt of the litter. In the cockpit, Polly Carveth was on the phone. ‘ I don’t know,’ she said, ‘you’re the bloody expert. Lasers or something, missiles, maybe. How about missiles with lasers on? What do you mean we can’t have any? Well, what about one of those guns with all the barrels that spins around? Right, whatever you say. Thanks a bunch.’

  She put the phone down, got up and wandered into the living room. ‘Fleet Command is being an arse. No spaceship weapons for the likes of us,’ she said. Smith stood by the door. Suruk was holding a large wooden shield up against the wall. On it was the stuffed head of one of 462’s praetorians. ‘That’s a shame,’ said Isambard Smith. ‘I suppose they need them more elsewhere. Up a bit. That’s it.’

  Suruk banged a nail into the wall and they stood back and admired the praetorian’s head.

  ‘Looking good,’ Carveth said. ‘He’s nicely stuffed.’

  ‘He was nicely stuffed the moment he raised a hand against the Empire,’ Smith replied, and he laughed.

  Chuckling, they left Suruk to admire the trophy. Smith stepped into his room and Carveth stood by the door, waiting for him. ‘We’ll be cleared for takeoff in forty minutes,’ she said.

  Smith sat down on the bed and sighed. ‘Then we can get back into space and crack on with another adventure, I suppose,’ he said, a little sadly.

  Carveth nodded. ‘What’s up, Boss? You don’t look too happy.’

  The captain shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. It’s not that I’m not pleased to have stopped our sworn enemies creating a bioweapon of incredible power… it’s just that, well, you know, I had these feelings for Rhianna but I never really got the chance to, well, to—’

  ‘Get her drunk and show her your guild navigator?’

  ‘That’s a very crude way of putting it, Carveth. What I felt for Rhianna was noble and pure and far above such base considerations – but yes.’