by Toby Frost
Smith held out a hand. Felicity Fitzroy's grip was like steel. ‘Isambard Smith, captain of the John Pym.’
‘Super. A fine upstanding ship for a fine upstanding fellow, no doubt.’
‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘one tries –’
‘Not to worry, plenty of time for that later. Now, who's this? Hello, short stuff. Just joined the team, have we?’
Carveth winced as her hand was shaken. ‘I'm the pilot.’
‘Really? Last time I saw someone your height I was pulling her pigtails and stealing her lunch.’ Captain Fitzroy let out a laugh that rose to the ceiling like a frightened bird. ‘Just kidding. She was actually on the same lacrosse team as me. Harriet Pallor. Back in twenty-eight. She had the body of an eighteen-year-old and the spirit of a tigress. Now that was a woman,’ Captain Fitzroy gazed over Carveth's head at the airlock. She turned to Suruk. ‘What's all this, then?’
‘I am Suruk the Slayer,’ the alien announced, ‘Warrior of greatness and omnimator of my enemies. It is like decimator, except instead of one in ten –’
‘Gosh, you do speeky good.’
‘Unlike some, heap big patronising lady.’
Captain Fitzroy shrugged and looked back to Smith. ‘So, what brings you fellows here?’ the captain demanded. ‘Not just to swap stories of the high seas, I'm sure.’
‘We have recently raided an Edenite base,’ Smith explained. ‘We're carrying an item that seems to be linked to some sort of spacecraft drive. We need protection in order to transport this object to British space. It is, of course top secret.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘I can't say.’ Smith decided not to go into detail, largely because he was beginning to suspect that he had succeeded only in stealing a mirror.
Felicity Fitzroy looked at Chumble, who checked his pocket watch and chuckled. ‘I think we could accommodate a few more, Captain. The more the merrier, I say. We can have mulled wine and pies.
It'll be just like Christmas.’
‘A most capital notion, ma’am,’ Chumble said.
‘Well then,” Felicity Fitzroy said, ‘that sounds super. We dine at eight. Dress to impress: I certainly do. Oh, and if it’s protection you need, Captain Smith, why don’t you pop your vessel into my hold?’ And with that she saluted, winked and strode away.
Smith looked at Suruk, who seemed unimpressed, and then Carveth, who raised her eyebrows higher than he had thought possible.
Captain Fitzroy stopped at the door, her hand on the knob, and turned back. ‘In case you’re wondering,’ she added, ‘that wasn’t supposed to be innuendo. Do commence procedure to get your ship into the hold. Anyway, must fly. I have a lacrosse team to debrief.’
She threw back her head and laughed at the ceiling, kicked a leg up behind her with fearsome girlishness and left the room. Chumble followed, giving the crew of the Pym an apologetic look as he closed the door. Confused and worried to varying degrees, they stood in Captain Fitzroy’s wake.
‘I tell you what,’ Carveth said, ‘let’s find a safe and lock ourselves inside it.’
*
There was no set form of burial for Edenites: a variety of rituals were tolerated so long as they raised the general level of misery. Hierarch Beliath’s body was laid on a pallet and dropped by crane into the flames, amid wailing and gnashing of teeth. The Edenites had captured a few pirates during the battle, so they sacrificed them to Beliath’s memory, along with several mourners who weren’t mourning loudly enough and a woman who had been caught trying not to be noticed, and was therefore shifty and probably a witch.
462 endured the ritual out of solidarity. As the flames and screaming subsided, he shook his head as sadly as he could manage.
Prong stood beside him. ‘Poor Beliath,’ he said. ‘All he wanted was to commit religious genocide, and now look at him.’
‘What a waste.’ 462 sighed. ‘We could have fed him to the praetorians.’
Prong whipped round as fast as his bionics would allow. ‘A loyal servant of New Eden has died and you propose eating him? Have you no decency? Beliath will be given his own shrine, with an honour guard and a gift shop where suckers can buy bits of him as relics. Well, bits of something.’
Together they walked down the gantry towards the landing bay. It was largely empty, as the great majority of Deliverance’s warships were either scouring space for the John Pym or being repaired after the pirate raid. Only the Pale Horse stood on its own, too precious for mere patrolling.
The sight of the vessel seemed to energise Lord Prong. ‘To think of it,’ he rasped. ‘All this power, hidden from us for thousands of years.’
462 sneered. ‘Thousands? I thought the universe was only two hundred years old.’
‘That was the last edition of the Edenite Creed. We changed it.’ Prong shook his head, and the buckle on his hat glinted in the firelight. He prodded the door controls on the Pale Horse. ‘You know, for a young’un, you’re way behind the times.’
The door of the Pale Horse slid open with a wet scrape of greased steel. A length of rusty chain hung across the ceiling like the bunting of the apocalypse. 462 limped over the threshold. ‘Human weaklings will believe anything,’ he observed. ‘Our glorious leader says so.’
Prong snorted. ‘And what does he know? Your leader is five feet tall and can't make a speech without shaking and sweating like a fat man holding a chainsaw.’
‘That's part of his style,’ the Ghast replied. ‘He does that to, ah, highlight the excess of disgusting effluent we have to purge from the galaxy. By. . well.. producing an excess of disgusting effluent. Now, to the engine room.’
The lift rattled as they travelled into the heart of the vessel.
‘With a little modification,’ 462 said, ‘this ship will make an excellent tool for use against humanity. I take it that the drive of this craft works properly?’
‘Fine,’ Prong replied. ‘The device that the unbelievers stole is merely a part of the backup engine.
The Pale Horse can work perfectly without it. In fact,’ and he gave a wheezing chuckle, ‘if they think they can strip it down and build their own version, they're much mistaken. Oh no, they'll get a surprise when they try that.’
‘What sort of surprise?’
‘Well, to start with, they'll –’ The lift stopped with a grim clang and Lord Prong broke off to curse his knees. Cogs rolled in the door mechanism, once polished but now grimed with rust the colour of dried blood. Prong's face cracked into a broad, sickly smile. ‘Ambassador 462, you have as yet glimpsed only the barest power of this ship. I give you: the fully-operational Dodgson drive.’
He heaved the door back and 462 looked into the heart of the Pale Horse.
It was not a large room, no more than thirty feet square, and the ceiling was not high. Banks of computers lined the walls, toiled over by red-robed Handymen. The inevitable guards stood around, toting machine-guns. Like veins, pipes ran from the computers, along the ground to disappear into a patch of darkness on the far wall. It was not just a hole, though, but something infinitely deeper and darker than that: a null zone, an absence of reality. Electricity thrummed through the air and 462 felt his antennae start to rise on end.
He chuckled. ‘A self-contained black hole, except without the suction. Very good, Prong. Your technology has clearly advanced.’ He took a limping step forward and two of the guards clenched their prodigious jaw muscles. ‘My masters are certain to find this project of considerable interest. They will be most impressed with your discovery of the artefact.’
‘As they should be.’
‘They will be less impressed by your failure to hold onto it. Tyranny is about more than mindless aggression, Lord Prong.’ 462 reached up and wiped his metal eye on his leather sleeve. ‘It is about control.
At the moment, the evidence suggests that you are hardly worthy of being put in control of your own bladder, let alone an immensely powerful weapon such as the Pale Horse.’
‘Huh. I suppose you
’ve got the answers, young’un?’
462 smiled around his facial scars. His antennae had begun to rub together. ‘We are going after Captain Smith. I want every warship you have capable of long-range travel armed and ready to launch within one standard day. It is time to turn this weapon on the people who attempted to steal it from us.
How dare they try to stop our mission to destroy Earth and every living creature on it! Have they no standards?’
Prong raised a spindly hand. ‘One question. Is this mission of tactical value? Or is it just because that unbeliever Smith shot you in the eye? And the leg? And burned your hand?’
‘Just get on with it,’ 462 replied, and he turned back to the lift.
*
‘Well,’ said Carveth, ‘they're obviously insane, but that's hardly a change, is it?’
‘Indeed, Captain Fitzroy is unusual,’ Suruk replied. He stood in the doorway of Carveth's room, arms folded, watching as she rifled through her wardrobe with increasing desperation.
‘Unusual? They're crazy.’ The hangers clattered on the rail. ‘Can't wear that – that needs cleaning – you got blood on that – those are my spare overalls. Ah! What about this?’ She lifted down her blue dress with the white frills at the edges and held it over herself. ‘What do you think? Does that say me?’
‘It proclaims you with great vehemence. And how do I look?’
Stepping under the doorframe, Suruk flicked out the back of his tailcoat, wedged a top hat firmly, if unevenly, onto his head and then clamped his cane up under his arm like a sergeant-major.
Carveth stepped back and narrowed her eyes. ‘Overall? You look like a cross between Jack the Ripper and the voodoo god of death.’
‘Splendid. Although in truth I regard this entire dining rigmarole as futile. What is the point of getting dressed up with no battle at the end of it?’
‘But spending three hours getting dressed is fun. Having a panic because you've got half a pound heavier since you last looked in the mirror is – actually, you've got a point. But you'd better go, if only to keep Captain Fitzroy off the captain.’
‘She means to attack him?’
‘Suruk, she's a lunatic. I probably only escaped being forcibly inducted into an all-girls-together jamboree because I don't know how to play lacrosse.’
‘Perhaps you should try it.’
‘Nah. I could never get used to the skirts. . Please tell me you're talking about lacrosse.’ Carveth laid the dress on the bed. ‘Look, I'm not saying that she's going to jump him. But she's a silly cow, and he's… is there a male equivalent?’
‘Oxymoron,’ Suruk said.
‘Right. So keep an eye out, eh?’
Suruk said, ‘I shall attend to my spawn while you dress yourself,’ and slipped into the corridor.
Carveth pulled on her dress, checked her tights, fastened her boots – serious festivity required serious footwear – and hurried into the hold.
She examined herself in the mirror. All things considered, she wasn’t doing too badly. As she stepped away, something changed in the background – not her reflection, but behind it, as if someone had just moved out of sight. She looked around the room. Nothing. Shrugging, she turned from the mirror and left the hold, managing not to shudder as she closed the door.
Smith waited by the airlock in his fleet jacket, his moustache newly trimmed. ‘Is Gerald fed?’
Carveth asked.
Smith nodded and opened the door. They stepped out of the John Pym and into the vast cathedral of the Chimera’s hangar. Spindly handling machines hung folded in the rafters like roosting bats. Under the archways, half a dozen fighter craft waited in the dark. They looked like sharks, their wings drawn back for spaceflight, their tilted nosecones making them arrogant and fierce. Latitudinal thrusters behind the cockpits looked like gills. Cannon jutted from their mouths.
Smith stopped. He gazed at the fighters like a pilgrim at the end of his journey. ‘Hellfires’, he breathed.
On its fuselage, just below the cockpit, each Hellfire displayed its kill-tally and its own distinctive picture. The nearest one showed a lion chewing a droopy ant; the one behind it, a red dragon belched flames; all had red, white and blue roundels on their wings. ‘Good lord!’ said Smith. ‘I always wanted one of these. .’
A tall young man walked out from between the ships. He wore a flying jacket, a portable cogitator-rig strapped to the epaulettes. A wire emerged from his collar and disappeared into a neural port installed behind his left ear. One of his eyes was false, Smith saw: there were crosshairs on the pupil. He smiled and raised a hand. ‘Hallo there! Come to see the machines?’
‘Yes,’ said Smith. ‘I’ve never seen a Hellfire up close before. I mean, I’ve dreamed of it. I’ve got some pictures in my bedroom –’
‘Is that your ship?’ the pilot asked, looking at the John Pym. He turned to Smith, looking impressed. ‘You must have some balls, flying that in Gertie space.’ He put out a hand. ‘Jim Shuttleswade.
Call me Shuttles. That’s my can,’ he added, pointing to one of the Hellfires. ‘Foul temper, but soft as a kitten once you take control.’
A light flicked on in one of the cockpits. Above the snarling lion, a voice snapped, ‘I heard that, you bloody halfwit!’
‘Autopilot,’ Shuttles explained. ‘They crank ‘em up for maximum aggression. Seeing as you’ve got your best blues on, I take it you’re off to Felicity’s soiree?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Well then, I’ll show you the way.’ Shuttles grinned. ‘Strength in numbers. I’ve come to realise
that our captain, while a tactical genius, is rather a card.’
*
‘So I charged up the left flank, with Juliet in close support,’ Felicity Fitzroy said. ‘By God, we must have looked a jolly sight! And do you know what they did?’
Smith had no idea what they would have done, or who they were. He was pretty sure Captain Fitzroy was telling him about a space battle, or perhaps an inter-fleet ladies soccer match. Her previous story, which had involved twins called Hattie and Hyacinth Mansoor, had culminated in Felicity Fitzroy’s first captaincy and a huge midnight feast.
Why couldn't women talk about sensible things, like model kits and beer? His attention was further troubled by the fact that Felicity had put on a tie as well as her space fleet jacket, but had chosen a pair of extremely tight jodhpurs. Smith took another sip of wine and fixed his gaze on a holographic portrait of the First Lord of the Admiralty on the far wall, whose glowering jowled features would have stopped the erotic thoughts of anyone who wasn't a bull terrier. And even a bull terrier, Smith reflected, wouldn't have advanced from the front.
Smith said ‘Mmn,’ and Felicity Fitzroy carried on. She was good-looking and everything but her enthusiastic nonsense-talking made Rhianna's vague nonsense-talking seem increasingly appealing.
Suruk sat at the far side of the table, wearing his top hat like a chimney to vent his rage. He seemed quite placid at the moment, although Smith didn't like the way he was eyeing Felicity Fitzroy's cat.
It was a pink striped Bhagparsian feline, fat and lazy, flopped in a basket near the door. According to Felicity, the cat was very intelligent, although Smith suspected that if that were true, it would have kept further away from Suruk at dinnertime.
Further down the table, a number of ship’s personnel tucked into synthetic fish. Smith reluctantly took a slab of smoked shamon that tasted like a blend of cod liver oil and ash.
The First Lieutenant, a squat, bearded man named Collingwood, passed a dish full of small green objects down the table. ‘Peas,’ he muttered, as if they needed identifying.
‘The peas are genetically engineered for use on moving vessels,’ Felicity explained. ‘They've got corners.’ Suruk pulled a face at the peas. ‘Just be glad they're not the anti-radiation sort,’ she added.
‘Those come in a lead pod.’
Carveth sat beside Chumble, opposite the wall-mounted red light that seemed to se
rve the ship’s computer as an eye. Dave was a sophisticated but not entirely pleasant conversationalist.
‘Do you like peas, Ship’s Officer Carveth?’ he inquired, a slight hiss slipping into his hard, nasal voice. ‘Do they. . please you? Do they delight your sensitive palate?’
‘They’re alright.’
‘Polly Carveth,’ he mused, his LED throbbing. ‘That’s a Cornish name, isn’t it? Tell me, Ship’s
Officer Carveth, are you from the sticks? Wet behind the ears? Naive, shall we say. . unsullied?’
‘Nope.’
Mr Chumble caught her eye and shook his head sadly. ‘Pay no notice to that idle Bedlamite,
Miss.’
‘Of course, computers do a lot of the hard work these days,’ Captain Fitzroy declared. ‘But sometimes life in the space navy is just rum, circuitry and out on the lash.’ She leaned over and filled up Carveth’s wineglass. With a sisterly grin, Captain Fitzroy nodded down the table at Shuttles and whispered hoarsely, ‘I've had him. Well worth a go.’
‘Thanks,’ Carveth said, sliding down in her seat.
Captain Fitzroy beckoned down the table. ‘Ensign Driscoll, more wine, please!’ A slight, freckled girl brought a bottle over. ‘Not too much plonk, eh, Tallulah,’ the captain said. ‘We’ll need you on the astroturf for lax practice tomorrow.’
‘Aye aye, ma’am,’ said the girl, and she hurried away.
‘You see, Smitty,’ Captain Fitzroy resumed, admiring the retreating form of Ensign Driscoll, ‘the Space Navy’s a curious thing, no doubt about it. But it’s a fair one. A lad can do well in the navy, but so can a girl. Of course, a girlish lad can really go places, but let’s not drop anchor in that port just yet, eh?
So, where’re you headed?’
‘Any imperial spaceport. We need to offload our cargo securely.’
She rubbed her chin, as if to check for stubble. ‘All sounds a bit cloak and dagger. Well, so’s our destination. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you chaps have got special operations written all over you. But don’t worry.’ She leaned back and tapped the side of her nose. ‘Old Felicity’s been riding the spacewaves for long enough to know how to handle a bit of funny business – know what I mean?’