Space Captain Smith

by Toby Frost

  ‘You see,’ Carveth said, ‘it wasn’t meant to be with you and Rhianna.’ She sighed and sat down beside him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘But you’re a fleet officer, and she’s made out of gas. Some things just aren’t meant to be. Take me for instance—’

  ‘I think you’re being a bit harsh on yourself there.’

  ‘I’ve not finished. Take me for instance and that Rick Dreckitt. Okay, he was dead tasty, but he was a homicidal bounty killer and I was on his hit-list. That’s no basis for a proper relationship. We’d have been incompatible. And I’m afraid it’s the same with Rhianna and you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Smith. ‘But at the time it just seemed so right, you know?’

  ‘I know. But some things aren’t meant to last. Listen,’

  Carveth said, and she shifted position and broke wind noisily. ‘Now, take what I just did. It was satisfying when I did it, and in its own way it was special and beautiful, but its moment has passed, and now it’s gone.’

  ‘It hasn’t gone, actually,’ Smith said.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she said, sniffing and getting up.

  ‘That’s horrible. I’m off.’

  ‘Carveth, please tell me that there was a purpose to this beyond coming in here and farting on my bed.’

  ‘Of course. I was just showing you that, you know, things mean stuff and – oh look, there’s somebody at the door.’

  The doorbell made its butchered-cattle noise and Carveth looked into the corridor. ‘Well, guess who?’ she said, and she grinned and hurried to the airlock to let their visitor in.

  ‘ Namaste, Polly,’ said a voice.

  Smith seized a can of deodorant and began a frantic dance around the room, blasting the edges of the room in a bid to make it smell less like a decaying vegetable. ‘Hey there,’ said a voice from the doorway and he froze on one leg, the can in his hand.

  Rhianna looked no less beautiful and dishevelled than before. She wore a new top, Smith suspected, although all her clothes looked scruffy and smelt of joss. She slipped her shoes off at the door and came in.

  ‘Hello there,’ Smith said with awful jollity, the deodorant still in his hand. ‘Just doing my exercises, with this can.’ He pumped the air a few times with it and tossed the thing on the bed, feeling feeble. ‘How’re you?’

  ‘Oh, not too bad. I’m okay.’

  ‘Good. Good, super. Glad to hear it.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Fine, fine. So, um, how’s tricks?’

  She shrugged. ‘Better for you saving my life. I’ve got to see some people from the Colonial Security Service: they want me to stay here a while and help them. I get to wear a colander on my head. It’s for the war effort, you see.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, we’ve got to be off, I’m afraid. We’re needed back on New London and we’ve got to go soon. Schedules to keep and all that, you know.’ He laughed nervously. Seeing that he was not going to see her for a very long time after this, he did not know why he did.

  ‘Forty minutes,’ Rhianna said.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes. I hurried here when I found out. You see, I never got to say thank you for rescuing me, Captain Smith – at least, not properly.’ She tapped the door with her heel and it swung shut.

  ‘Oh?’ said Smith.

  ‘Oh,’ Rhianna said and she approached, smiling. She sat down next to him, rather closer than was normal for a chat in Woking.

  ‘You see,’ she said, and he could feel her breath, ‘I never quite got to do what I wanted, either. But I thought, maybe now we’ve got a little while before you’ve got to go, we could get to know one another properly.’

  ‘Get to know each other?’ said Smith.

  ‘I thought we could – you know – get friendly,’ and she took off her scarf, leaned back and sighed. Her eyes met his. ‘Don’t you want to be friendly with me, Isambard?

  After all we’ve been through together?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually,’ he said. ‘Let’s be friendly. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go to my friends and family for their help, encouragement and assistance, without which this novel would never have been written. I'd also like to thank the members of Verulam Writers' Circle and the Goat-people of St Albans for their comments and suggestions, without which it would be a lot less likely to be read. The British Space Empire salutes you all.

  About the Author

  Toby Frost studied law and was called to the Bar in 2001. Since then, he has worked as a private tutor, a court clerk and a legal advisor, amongst other things. He has also produced film reviews for the book The DVD Stack and articles for Solander magazine. Space Captain Smith is his first novel.

  Smith and his crew blast off again! Join them on their adventure…

  Isambard Smith and the God Emperor of Didcot

  by Toby Frost

  Tea… a beverage brewed from the fermented dried leaves of the shrub Camellia sinensis and imbibed by all the great civilisations in the galaxy’s history; a source of refreshment, stimulation and, above all else, of moral fibre – without which the British Space Empire must surely crumble to leave Earth at the mercy of its enemies. Sixty per cent of the Empire’s tea is grown on one world – Urn, principal planet of the Didcot system. If Earth is to keep fighting, the tea must flow.

  When a crazed cult leader overthrows the government of Urn, Isambard Smith and his vaguely competent crew find themselves saddled with new allies: a legion of tea-obsessed nomads, an overly-civilised alien horde and a commando unit so elite that it only has five members. Only together can they defeat the self-proclaimed God Emperor of Didcot and confront the true power behind the coup: the sinister legions of the Ghast Empire and Smith’s old enemy, Commander 462.

  www.spacecaptainsmith.com

  Gladiatrix by Russell Whitfield

  Gladiatrix makes Gladiator look very tame indeed! --Simon Scarrow, author of Under the Eagle and Centurion

  Paperback and ebook available

  ISBN 978-1905802487

  Chapter One

  Lysandra would never forget her first time.

  Alone, she walked through the darkness of the passageway towards the sun-filled amphitheatre.

  As she drew closer to the arena, she became aware of the sound from above – a rhythmic, thrumming cadence that began at the periphery of her consciousness. Distant at first, it became hypnotic as a siren’s song, permeating the stone around her, penetrating her to the very bone.

  Lysandra battled to keep her churning emotions in check. Fear flowed through her veins and, for a moment, she faltered. Yet part of her surged with the desire to face this most terrible of challenges. It flared only briefly but burned hot enough to sear away her terror. From the darkness, she stepped into the harsh light of the arena.

  The roar of the crowd was a living thing as it assaulted her and she staggered beneath its violent intensity. Row upon row of the screaming mob surrounded her, the amphitheatre stuffed full, as if it were a massive god gorging upon base humanity. Her vision swam as she registered innumerable faces, twisted and distorted, their mouths wide open with howls of lust and anticipation.

  A fetid stench rose from the freshly raked sands, filling her nostrils with the reek of blood mingled with the excrement of slaughtered animals. The venatores, wild beast hunters, had been at their work that day, butchering hundreds of creatures for the delight of the crowd. Her stomach lurched, raw nerves screaming at her to run, to flee this Tartarus made flesh, but again she fought down the urge.

  The baying of the frenzied mob increased in its intensity. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed across the arena; emerging from the tunnel that faced her own was another woman.

  Her opponent.

  Lysandra was only vaguely aware of an arena slave rushing up and thrusting two short swords into her sweat slick hands, as she focused on her adversary. She realised that the combatants must have been chosen for their physical differenc
es. Whereas she was tall and slender, her foe was short and solidly built, her limbs chunky. To Lysandra’s Spartan eyes, she looked downright vulgar.

  Huge, udder-like breasts heaved beneath her white tunic, threatening to burst forth from their confinement. This study of Gallic typicality was crowned by straw-coloured hair, the final contrast to the raven-black tresses of Lysandra’s own. There were but two similarities: the weapons they bore and the certain knowledge that, in scant minutes, one of them would die.

  The Gaul turned towards the dignitaries’ box and raised her right arm in salute. Lysandra, though unused to arena etiquette, emulated her. She had spent her whole life in ritual observance and made the gesture with confidence. Not that it mattered. The richly clad Roman whom Lysandra assumed to be Sextus Julius Frontinus, the governor and procurator of Asia Minor, did not bother to acknowledge them, his attentions clearly focused on the dusky charms of the slave girl by his side.

  Lysandra turned towards her opponent. The two women faced each other, the sea green eyes of the Gaul locked with her own.

  For interminable moments, they stood, their emotions mirrored in each other’s gaze, and Lysandra felt a sudden, sharp regret at their plight. Though they were not foes of their own volition, Lysandra knew she could not stay her hand. Her eyes hardened with the resoluteness to survive and she saw the other woman nod as she too came to this realisation. They raised their weapons.

  For a few heartbeats, all was still. Then, with sudden violence the Gaul attacked and the strangely beautiful sound of iron striking iron sang out as Lysandra met her assault. The Celtic warrior screamed and cursed as she laid in, imbibing rage-fuelled courage. There was no order to her attack, just a constant flurry of hacking blows, dealt with all the strength the stocky body could provide. She was like an avalanche, rolling forward, crushing everything in her path.

  Lysandra knew she must be as mist. Most of her life had been spent preparing for combat: a ritual training to be certain; a ceremonial skill never meant to be called upon. But now, in the stark reality of mortal threat, this hard-learnt preparation came to the fore, and her body responded instinctively.

  It was as if her opponent was moving underwater. As the Gaul initiated an attack, Lysandra’s own blade moved to deflect the blow. Do not meet force with force, she told herself as she weaved away from the onslaught. Her refusal to engage in a slogging match seemed to encourage her foe, who redoubled her efforts.

  The Gaul’s feet churned up sand as she pursued Lysandra across the arena, slashing and cutting at thin air. As the chase wore on the crowd erupted into a chorus of boos and cat-calls, demanding more action.

  Sweat now plastered the Gaul’s yellow hair to her forehead and darkened the sheer white tunic to gauzy grey. Lysandra saw her shoulders heaving with exertion as she evaded another attack.

  The Gaul paused momentarily, gasping for breath. It was obvious that she was weakening but, more, her confidence had drained and the insidious worm of doubt was now eating at her fighting spirit. Gamely, she raised her swords, and a sudden rush of fire filled Lysandra’s veins. Now, her instincts screamed at her. Now was the time.

  She countered.

  Her blades whirled, blurring in their swiftness as she mercilessly turned defence to attack. Her opponent’s parries became frenzied with awful suddenness as she back-stepped, swords moving frantically to deflect the onslaught.

  Lysandra pressed in harder, the Gaul only stopping her now at the last possible instant. She increased her efforts, engaging in a final, furious exchange of blows with her desperate opponent.

  As the impact of blade on blade jarred her arm, she felt the last strength leech from the barbarian and smashed through her guard.

  There was no remorse: just a wondrous, beautiful exultation as she felt the other woman’s flesh yield and part as she rammed home her blade. The Gaul made a choking sound, huge gouts of blood vomiting from her mouth and the gaping wound in her chest. Lysandra dragged the blade out and, using her own momentum, spun about. Her sword caught the staggering woman on the neck, severing the head from her body; it arced skywards, the eyes and mouth wide open, frozen forever in shock and pain. The headless body stood wavering for what seemed like an eternity before, with an almost reverential slowness, it toppled backwards and crashed to the sand, blood spreading out behind the gaping neck like a crimson pillow.

  With chilling abruptness reality crashed back down upon Lysandra, the roar of the crowd cascading over her, drenching her in a waterfall of dissonance. It was a bizarre tableau: the corpse still twitching at her feet and, approaching her, a tall man, clad as Charon, the ferryman of the dead, bearing a hooked staff.

  Slowly, and with a degree of ceremony, ‘Charon’ retrieved the Gaul’s head, then attached her torso to the staff. At the same formal pace, he retreated, dragging the body behind him.

  Lysandra backed away, then turned and made her way towards the tunnel, her thoughts a confused morass of elation, guilt and relief.

  MAY 2011

  Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield

  Brutal, bloody and loaded with authenticity. --Tony Riches, author of the bestselling Empire series

  Gladiatrix Lysandra is back! The Emperor Domitian has called for a command performance at Rome's newly built Flavian Amphitheatre known to history as the Coliseum. Lysandra is invited to fight Rome's adored Gladiatrix Prima, the beautiful and deadly Illeana known as the Midnight Falcon. Her record is devastating: thirty bouts; thirty wins.

  Paperback and ebook available

  ISBN 978-1905802418