A Game of Battleships

by Toby Frost

  Not only were there humans to welcome, but also the various aliens whose planets Britain’s dreadnoughts had kindly welcomed to the Space Empire. Creatures arrived that Smith had only read about in school textbooks. He greeted the ambassadors of the Hegemony of Wing-Dam, brave warriors strikingly similar in shape and size to woodlice; a pair of brooding, tentacled Thorlians – possibly the ones he’d run from a while ago, shortly after suggesting that they join the Empire – and a massive armoured Kroatoan, who had been woken from hibernation with a lettuce and who kept dozing off mid-sentence.

  Suruk helped out. The M’Lak word for diplomacy was Chal-Zag, which was usually translated as ‘spirit of warmth’ but more literally meant ‘hot wind’. Suruk toured the entrance hall, nodding to the delegates and occasionally catching the eye of one of the riflemen who stood near the doors. Strange how difficult it was for humans to agree on anything, he reflected, as he slipped past a wallahbot and deftly swept half a dozen vol-au-vents off their tray and into his maw. The Ghasts and lemming-men wanted to conquer the galaxy. Their heads were still attached. Through the simple medium of detaching the heads of the Ghasts and lemming-men, the invasion risk would go away and Earth would be left with some very nice new paperweights.

  Another wallahbot appeared at his side with a tray of drinks. ‘Aperitif, sir?]

  ‘My mandibles are working just fine,’ Suruk said. ‘But thank you anyway.’ He turned away and strolled deeper into the hall, looking for company. Guests mingled around him. A trio of Seh witch-priests that looked like plucked green emus trotted past, clicking at one another.

  Isambard Smith was standing a little way back, chatting to a man in Indian naval uniform. No doubt they were discussing world affairs and the future of the galaxy.

  ‘You know, Smith,’ said the Indian space captain, ‘It was truly a fascinating century.’

  ‘Absolutely, Singh. Some of the bowling was pretty good, too.’

  As the space captains shared views on starships, cricket and moustache protocol, it occurred to Suruk that mankind truly was one. As to one what, he was not quite sure.

  Someone shouted on the left. Suruk flicked round, suddenly alert. Was it battle? Had traitors or Ghasts attacked – or better yet, lemming men? He would rip them into pieces, take their furry heads in the name of intergalactic co-operation. Suruk strode towards the sound.

  A woman was in his way, saying something about the ambassador spoiling them with chocolates.

  Suruk discreetly shouldered her aside. To his left, like a beast on the same scent, one of the M’Lak riflemen was heading the same way. Suruk quickened his pace, determined to get there first.

  The cafeteria. The thought of food and battle in the same place made it hard not to drool. Suruk opened his mandibles. Others were following him now: security men and bodyguards from the various powers. Two huge men made hand gestures, no doubt putting together a plan. Suruk ignored that and booted the cafe doors open, eager to see what enemy he would face.

  It was Major Wainscott. Wainscott stood beside a drinks machine, wild-eyed as if connected to the mains. A captain of the United Free States had backed up against the wall, palms raised.

  ‘What do you mean, it tastes funny?’ Wainscott snarled. ‘By God, I’ll –’

  ‘Take it easy,’ said the captain. ‘It’s just a drink.’

  ‘Just a drink? Just a drink?’ Wainscott’s face twisted and hardened like setting clay. ‘Just a drink, you say? Now you listen to me, sonny,’ he added, taking a step away from the machine, ‘tea makes us strong. God gave the British tea when he chose us to bring civilisation to this benighted ruin of a galaxy. You know, I feel sorry for you chaps, what with your government throwing all your tea into that harbour. Our nation was built by tough men drinking tea. Out in the countryside, you're not a real man unless you've got a mug in your hand and half a dozen teapots in your kitchen cabinet. I ask you… what happens if someone breaks into your home, and you need to give him a refreshing hot drink, eh? Eh? If you want me to stop drinking tea, you'll have to pull the steaming pot out of my warm, dead hands!’

  Smith appeared at Suruk’s shoulder. ‘Oh dear,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Indeed,’ Suruk replied.

  A woman coughed and Wainscott looked around. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Hullo, Susan.’

  She strolled over, shaking her head. ‘Come along, Boss. It’s time for your tablets.’

  Wainscott paused, arms raised in his sentry-killing position. He looked at his hands, sighed and lowered them slowly. ‘Well said. Good point, Susan. So then, Captain Schwartz: Assam or Darjeeling?’

  *

  A little way behind, a broad-shouldered man turned back to the curry machine. He pushed his card into the slot, dialled up a helping of Saag Aloo and watched it flop onto a paper tray. Overshadowed by the machine, his back to the security cameras, he activated his internal protocols. Motors whirred softly under synthetic skin. He downloaded a 3D image from his memory banks and his face slid from that of one man to another. He was no longer Thomas Perdu of the European Delegation, but Brian O'Brian, deputy engineer and all round helpful fellow. For now, at least. He slipped off his name badge and buried it in the heap of spinach potato, then collected a chapati from the dispensing slot.

  Holding his plate up high to hide his empty lapel, Brian walked out to reconnoitre.

  *

  The day wore on, and Smith’s hand ached from greeting people, and he hadn’t patronised any of the funny types once. Well, except for that fellow from French Guyana, but that was more commiserating than anything else. Perhaps he would take Smith’s advice and move to British Guyana, which was probably much better. Smith paused on the mezzanine, resting his arms on the brass railing and looking down at the main hall. Strange how somewhere so busy could seem so empty when the person you wanted wasn’t there.

  The lights dimmed, a fanfare played from the speakers, and a small man in a high-collared suit appeared on the stage at the end of the room. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and other creatures… Station Governor Mike Barton…’

  A middle-aged, spectacled man took to the stage. For a second he simply stood there, like a robot without batteries. Then a hovering drone played a little trumpet-blast.

  ‘Good evening, everyone,’ he said. ‘Welcome. We’re gathered here today, as representatives of the great powers of free space and the planets they control, to formalise an agreement with the Vorl: who, by becoming allies of the British Space Empire and the rest of Earth, will join our great and noble struggle for liberty. Unfortunately, they’ve not arrived yet, so we’ll have the buffet lunch instead.

  ‘There was a time, many years ago, when Britain would have striven to welcome you with excitement and extravaganza. But that’s just embarrassing, so I would ask you to circulate quietly while we play some Elgar over the speakers. The negotiations begin in earnest tomorrow and tonight there’s dancing. If anyone’s got any questions, I’ll be at the bar.’ He walked off, obviously relieved to be able to go.

  Smith looked down at the baffling array of creatures below. At the edge of the stage, a piano was being tuned up ready to provide backing for the first musical act, a raponteur who looked like a younger version of Wainscott. The thought of Wainscott on stage, narrating his exploits over a piano accompaniment, was enough to give Smith a headache.

  A sudden sharp pain in the temple reinforced this impression. Smith looked down and saw a vol-au-vent at his feet. Realising he had been struck with it and wondering if this was the start of some strange Ghastist outrage, he glanced across the hall, hunting for dangerous aliens.

  Suruk waved at him. At Suruk's side, W beckoned and pointed at the doors. Smith crossed the mezzanine and hurried downstairs.

  W looked grimmer than usual, even holding a sausage roll. ‘Problem, Smith.’

  ‘Bad pastry?’

  ‘The M’Lak have arrived. They want to see the pair of you. They asked by name.’

  ‘Us? But how would they know we were here? Suruk, did you
tell them?’

  The alien shook his head. ‘Many and subtle are the address-books of the Gilled.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ W replied, ‘there’s a two-and-a-half stage helmsman waiting, and he wants to speak to you.’

  Suruk rubbed his hands together. ‘Such a visitor must not be kept waiting.’

  As the service lift squeaked downwards to the entrance hall, Smith smoothed down his jacket and tried to think of something he wasn’t worried about. The lift banged to a standstill and they stepped into a polished, empty chamber. They faced a pair of airlock doors big enough to accommodate a lorry and embossed with a huge brass lion and unicorn.

  A display board clattered above them. ‘Gate Three,’ W said. ‘Any time now.’

  Suruk leaned close to Smith. ‘We are privileged, Mazuran. Rarely do the space-lords reveal themselves to mankind.’

  ‘Really?’ Smith replied. Apprehension stirred in his gut. Would he have to fight this thing, bend it to the Empire’s will or, even worse, make small talk with it? ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘You have seen how the M’Lak reproduce,’ Suruk replied. ‘Occasionally, a spawn does not truly grow beyond a tadpole. Beyond spawn and hatchling, yet never adult, he remains in the axylotl stage and the strength of his body flows into his mind. That is what you will see: one of the Gilled.’

  The great doors creaked, hissed and rolled apart. A M’Lak strode through a curtain of steam. He wore the long brown coat, ritual scarf and heavy goggles of a spacefarer, one who probably only ever left his ship to raid and refuel. A second emerged as if forming from the steam, then others, wiping their goggles as they came. Behind them, a glass tank the size of a railway carriage rolled into view.

  W stubbed out his roll-up in a pot plant. Smith fought down a wave of unease that seemed to billow out of the tank, washing over him. Something moved in the tinted water.

  With slow grace, a creature swam forward to the glass. It wore a headset of the sort used in space suits and call centres. Otherwise, it resembled nothing so much as a newt the size of a saltwater crocodile.

  The Gilled Helmsman, master-spacefarer and seer of the M'Lak, turned his ancient eyes on the humans before him.

  Speakers crackled at the corners of the tank. ‘Oh hi,’ they said. ‘I am Sedderik the Helmsman.

  You must be Space Captain Smith. And Suruk the Slayer, I believe.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Suruk replied. ‘ Jaizeh, Sedderik. Well it is said that the wisdom of the Gilled is the conquest of the void.’

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ W added. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you my name –’

  ‘All things are known to the Gilled,’ said the helmsman. ‘It is our way. He who understands the true nature of a thing, can control it. . Eric.’

  ‘Hello!’ said Smith. ‘Did you have a nice trip?’

  Sedderik blinked. ‘Not bad, thanks.’

  ‘Good-oh. I would shake hands, but –’

  ‘Bit difficult, I know,’ said the helmsman. ‘Let's just wave.’

  They waved. Man and newt stopped waving after a while and looked at each other, trying to think of something to say.

  ‘So, um, helmsman,’ Smith said, ‘do you have to get out of the tank to turn the steering wheel?’

  ‘It’s an honorific,’ Sedderik replied.

  ‘Gosh. That bad, eh?’

  ‘No, I mean it’s an honorary title. Helmsman is the rank above navigator. It’s better because you don’t have to worry about the maps getting wet.’ Sedderik barrel-rolled lazily, pushing himself round with a flick of his tail.

  W stepped forward. ‘Here's your delegate pack,’ he said, passing a bag to one of Sedderik's adjutants. The adjutant lifted out objects and held them to the glass. W said, ‘You get a mug, some stationary with the Imperial Crest on it, and a name badge.’

  ‘Perhaps we can sellotape the name badge onto my tank,’ Sedderik said. ‘Gorgar, feel free to keep the mug.’

  ‘You have my thanks,’ the adjutant growled. ‘There is also a sticker that says “I'm fighting for freedom” and a brochure from something called the North Yorkshire Tourist Board.’

  Sedderik waved a webbed hand. ‘All yours. Now… I have news for you all,’ he said, righting himself. ‘Three matters have come to our attention.’

  ‘Go on,’ W said.

  ‘The first is for Captain Smith. A visitor comes this way who will be most welcome to him. In one day she shall be upon you – that is to say, upon the space station.’

  ‘Is it Rhianna?’ Smith said.

  The helmsman sighed. ‘I cannot tell you that. Precision is the prophesy-killer, you know. It takes all the fun out of it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Smith sighed. ‘But is it, really?’

  ‘All right, yes it is. But the second matter is for you all. A great evil arises from the depth of space, and comes for the nations of man.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Smith said. ‘About Rhianna, that is.’

  W leaned forward, pushed a bony hand through his mass of dark hair and scratched the back of his head. ‘If you mean war with the Ghasts, that’s pretty old news.’

  The helmsman shook his head, and the gesture rippled down his length. ‘I refer to this station.

  Something is coming here.’

  ‘Nobody knows about this place.’

  ‘Good.’ Sedderik sank down. ‘But be careful. And the third matter is for Suruk the Slayer alone.

  The thing you lost is behind the bathroom sink. Better sort it out before the room begins to smell.’

  ‘I thank you, Sedderik,’ Suruk replied.

  Sedderik yawned. ‘I like all the brasswork here. Very smart.’ He turned in his tank. ‘I've been thinking of doing some DIY myself. Putting in some ferns, or a model castle to swim around. This is my travel tank, you see. My usual tank is much more interesting. It's got a waterproof sofa and a machine that dispenses plankton.’

  ‘Oh, right. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘White wine would be lovely, thanks. Just tip it in the top. Now,’ said the helmsman, rising in his tank, ‘I must be alone. It’s been a long journey, and I need to fold space.’

  On the way back, as the lift rose, W leaned against the dented metal wall and sighed.

  ‘Is that true,’ Smith said, ‘about Rhianna?’ His chest felt light, as if his heart was a balloon whose mooring-ties had been cut.

  ‘Bloody psychics,’ W replied. ‘Can't keep a damn thing to themselves. Yes, it’s true. I just hope the rest of it isn’t.’

  ‘Then we must work swiftly,’ Suruk said. ‘I shall hunt behind the sink at once.’

  The lift doors rolled open and they walked into one of the service corridors. As they emerged, a large being floated past, consisting of two red globes surrounded by a mass of pale tentacles.

  ‘Nom-Noodloth is displeased, Earth-people!’ it announced, holding out an orange ball. ‘About this “Scotch Egg” –’

  ‘It’s just a name,’ Smith replied, ‘not from real Scotsmen.’

  ‘Then it shall be assimilated!’ the creature declared. ‘Nom-Noodloth is grateful and less displeased!’ it added, and floated away.

  Smith watched it drift down the corridor. ‘Nom-Noodloth must drain its appendages!’ it added, disappearing into what was almost certainly not the right room.

  Funny bunch, aliens.

  Lights dimmed and the automated compere rolled to the front of the stage. Smith watched from the edge of the hall.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen and sentient creatures, we are proud to present the mad maestro of Manchester, here to put a smile on your face and some swing in your heart. We give you Maurice E.

  Smith and his Good Time Big Band!’

  Maurice E. Smith ran onto the stage, a freeze-dried daffodil in his lapel. ‘This is called You’re the One for Me, Harriet,’ the bandleader intoned. The stage lit up, rows of musicians stood ready and the big drums thundered.

  Carveth ran onto the floor in her blue dress, dragging Dreckitt after her. Smith watched, fe
eling envy for both of them at once and neither in particular. Still, Rhianna was on the way; a ten-foot newt had seen it in the future and now a pathologically gloomy spy had confirmed it. How could it not be true?

  At the far end of the room, a small group of fleet personnel arrived, presaged by a laugh that he briefly mistook for a trumpet solo. Captain Felicity Fitzroy strode to the bar, accompanied by Chumble and Shuttles, the fighter ace. Smith, realising he could not flee, held his ground.

  ‘Two pints of Stalwart and a lager top, barbot,’ Captain Fitzroy barked. ‘What’s your poison, Smitty?’

  Smith ordered a pint of Excalibeer, the self-proclaimed Lager of Kings. It certainly tasted medieval.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ Captain Fitzroy said, taking a deep swig. On stage, the lead trumpeter inflated his throat sacs and blasted a wave of sound down the hall. The dance floor was beginning to fill up. ‘I say, that fellow’s getting a bit familiar with your little lady. My God, it’s that private eye fellow again! He’s trying to touch down on your planetoid.’

  ‘Dreckitt?’ Smith looked into his pint, unsure whether lager was meant to be so cloudy. ‘He just takes care of her.’

  ‘Looks like he’s taking good care of her tonsils,’ she replied. ‘You want me to nip over and have some words? Pop him one on the noggin?’

  ‘Um, no thanks. We have a – well, it’s complicated, you see. .’

  ‘You sly old dog!’ She laughed at the roof, as if to stun a passing gull. ‘Well, if he keeps ‘er indoors off your back – or your front – while you play a blinder up the left wing, nice work. I’ve got a little arrangement of my own,’ she added, nodding towards Shuttles and his group of pilots. Smith wondered which and how many of them she meant. Almost to his surprise, he felt quite impressed.

  Pint in hand, Fitzroy gave Smith an odd little bow, wished him a good evening and strode away.

  A new song began and a Yothian slid its cone-shaped body onto the dance-floor and began to spin slowly, making a low droning sound. Dreckitt left Carveth, approached the bar and asked for a large white wine and two fingers' of rye. Susan of the Deepspace Operations Group led Wainscott onto the floor, probably to assist in surveying the guests. Wainscott looked rather subdued after his earlier outburst and was wearing trousers now. Smith sipped his pint and felt lonely.