A Game of Battleships

by Toby Frost

  Smith had hoped that this would clarify things, but the delegates continued to stare at him.

  Governor Barton leaned across and said something to Felicity Fitzroy, and she suddenly released a set of percussive snorts, like bullets being cranked through a gatling gun. Smith persisted. If she thought he was so blasted funny, she could damn well have a bit more.

  ‘Look…’ he said, easing a finger into his collar, which seemed to be trying to silence him like a boa constrictor, ‘…you may not like Britain. We may look a bit funny to you. We don’t really do emotions, and I know some foreign types have cooked up the idiot notion that we’re arrogant. But listen.. if the world was a bit more like Britain there would be a damned sight less murdering and wife-beating and stupid nonsense going on because some tinpot dictator or made-up man in the sky says so.

  So there. If you stand for murder and tyranny, or if you look the other way when innocent people are getting done over, then the only thing I’ve got for you is a choice between hot lead or cold steel, by God!’

  The translation machines did their work, perhaps a little too well, and there was a ripple of movement as a number of delegates prepared to vacate their seats. Smith decided to moderate his tone, so as not to worry them.

  ‘Peoples of the galaxy,’ he said, his voice softening a little, ‘at the end of the day, what matters is tolerance. Tolerance is the key, because once we start tolerating arses, the whole thing’ll go wrong. I’ve done over more evil buggers than you’d believe, and I’ll do the whole lot if needs be. Why? Because I’m not in the market to take orders from gits, that’s why. Common decency, dammit.’

  He looked around, vaguely hoping that the room would break into applause and drown him out, or that he would at least faint and thus escape this mess. What the hell did all these people want from him, anyhow? A tap-dance routine? He wondered where he was, remembered that he had been talking about people he couldn’t bloody stand, and found it quite easy to carry on.

  ‘Do you know, the Edenites would murder my chaps because they weren’t meek enough or some claptrap. Well, I mean to say, you can't have that. And the Ghasts and Yull are no better: they’d do in every one of us if they could. And that’s why we need to stand firm on this. Hand in hand in tentacle, or whatever those things you’re waving at me are, so sign the treaty and let’s get cracking, eh?’

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see Suruk behind him, smiling fiercely.

  Rhianna and Carveth were at the door. Behind him, the delegates began to mutter.

  ‘Well, that’s just about torn it,’ Smith said, and he walked out.

  *

  ‘Well,’ said Rhianna, ‘you said what you believed. And isn’t that the real truth?’ The crew of the John Pym sat on the benches outside the hall, as if expecting a doctor to emerge and break bad news.

  ‘It certainly came from the heart,’ Carveth added. ‘As to which end it emerged from.. ’

  ‘It was a bold speech,’ Suruk said. ‘Personally, I would have ended it by charging into battle, but each to his own.’

  Ten minutes later, Captain Fitzroy emerged from the hall, closing the door behind her. She paused, looked down at them and let out her virulent laugh. ‘Tolerance! Very good!’

  ‘Yes,’ Smith said, ‘very funny. Ho ho.’

  ‘They signed, you know.’

  Smith jerked upright. ‘Really? After all that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, truth be told, they signed up ten minutes before you arrived. I did mean to tell you, but it seemed a shame to cut you off. Besides, after your little talk, I doubt they’d dare change their minds.’ She yawned and stretched. ‘Well, my work here is done. See you soon, Smitty. Keep in trouble and don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do.’ She saluted. ‘God save the king. Cheery bye!’

  *

  ‘All the parties signed,’ W said. On the screens before him, the leaders of the Service smiled and handed round the biscuits.

  George Benson polished his glasses. ‘Also, we have the device.’

  ‘Excellent work,’ said Hereward Khan. ‘Really excellent.’

  ‘It will need to be securely stored.’

  ‘We’ll put it in the warehouse. There’s space next to the Ark.’

  W switched off the link and watched the screens go dead.

  Now, he thought, it really starts. The Empire would take the war to the enemy. He frowned for a moment, thinking of what that would entail. The Ghasts would be too stupid not to fight savagely for every yard they had captured. The lemming men would leap at the chance to die for Yullia, preferably from a great height. Even the Edenites would put up a vicious show.

  But there was no soldier born, bred or engineered that could defeat the Imperial common man.

  They will have the numbers, he thought, but we will have the quality. And it will be us who do the civilising.

  ‘Hello there!’

  W turned as C’Neth slipped through the wall.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s over!’ the Vorl declared, pointing its nose upward. ‘All that chatter – and did you see those Yothians? Terribly naff. It’s enough to turn you solid, it really is. No offence.’

  ‘Glad to have you on board,’ W said.

  ‘Oh, me too.’ C’Neth tapped him on the arm. ‘I know people have questioned our motives, but don’t you worry. When it’s time for the big push, I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  C’Neth tried to put his hands on his hips, discovered he had no hips, and folded his arms instead.

  ‘The thing about galactic tyranny,’ he said, ‘is that it’s all so awfully vulgar. There’s something so obvious, so crass, so.. passé about destroying Earth. But you humans, along with us – not to mention the M’Lak and the Voidani – well, we might actually make space rather fabulous again, don’t you think?’

  ‘You know,’ W said, ‘I think you’re right.’ And, breaking the habit of a lifetime, he smiled.

  *

  Smith stood in the main hall in the shadow of an aspidistra. He watched the delegates leave the chamber, chatting and nodding, and tried to make himself look respectable. It wasn't easy: his body felt as if he had spent the last few days squatting in a wind tunnel, while his brain seemed to have been re-arranged with an egg whisk before being jammed haphazardly back into his skull. A succession of revelations danced through his head. There were other dimensions, full of demonic beings obsessed with cards. Carveth had won a dogfight. The Voidani had decided not to destroy Earth. He would never look at someone with a chess piece nailed to their head in quite the same way again, assuming he met anyone like that.

  Maybe it had all been a dream. Perhaps he had brought it on himself, through a combination of drink, overwork and playing board games with Rhianna while she was smoking her jazz cigarettes.

  One of the Khlangari wobbled past, hooted something and waved goodbye.

  ‘Jolly good,’ Smith managed. ‘See you at the next one, eh?’

  He reached into his pocket, found no handkerchief and then remembered that he had used it for a flag when he had claimed ‘Wonderland’ as part of the Pax Britannicus Interstella. No, he thought, it was not a dream.

  Weary, Smith walked down the length of the hall. A few delegates were making their goodbyes.

  He passed Governor Barton, who stood in conversation with Le Fantome.

  ‘It was, as we say,’ Le Fantome declared, ‘ Excel ent.’

  ‘Yeah, it's been alright, really,’ Barton said. ‘United front against alien invasion, which is good, and I think the delegates have even left us a few sandwiches. We should invite them back sometime.’

  Rhianna stood by the window, looking into space. Smith walked up beside her, and as she saw his reflection she turned and smiled.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we did it.’

  ‘Yes we did,’ Rhianna said. ‘Spiffingly.’

  Smith always liked it when she talked proper to him. ‘Would it be appropriate to celebrate having do
ne it by doing it?’

  ‘I think that’s an awesome idea,’ she said.

  ‘Greetings!’ They looked round. Suruk strolled into the room, carrying Lord Prong's hat. He seemed to be trying to play the top of it like a bongo. ‘Good news. Sedderik the Helmsman has agreed to take my spawn onto his ship. He will dump them on a suitably damp planet. As soon as I have rounded them up and subdued them, they will trouble us no more. At least, until they are old enough to demand pocket money with menaces. Farewell, parental responsibility!’ He gave the hat a firm tap and a large toad fell out of it. ‘Found you. There is no escaping the Slayer. So, friends, what next? And whose skull?’

  ‘Next, we have a little rest, Suruk. I think we all deserve it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s not obligatory. You get on with the slaying if you want. Just don’t let anyone bother Rhianna and I for a little while, eh?’

  A wallahbot rolled back across the hall. ‘Captain Isambard Smith?’ It opened a panel in its chest and took out a telephone. ‘Anyone?’

  ‘I shall do the honours,’ Suruk said. He took the phone. ‘Greetings… No, he is elsewhere, doing important things. I am his comrade in arms, Suruk the Slayer. .’ He chuckled. ‘Yes, many heads… Once again, the Space Empire is not only safe but larger… Thank you… it was a notable victory…’ Suruk's smile faded. ‘What do you mean, for a colonial? How dare you?. . Fat oaf, are you drunk?. . Cease your crazed ravings, or it shall not be merely the heads of the enemy I reap. Choose your words more carefully next time we speak, for when your head flies from your shoulders, you toddler-shaped inebriate, you will know that it is I, Suruk the Slayer, who encompasses your doom!’ He slammed the phone down, looked at the others and said, ‘The Prime Minister says “Hello”.’

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ said Smith. ‘Did you get his number?’

  Suruk shrugged. ‘Ten?’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘leaving aside making a death threat to the leader of the free world, I think we've done very well.’

  ‘Er,’ Rhianna said, ‘Maybe we should go.’

  ‘Excellent plan, old girl. To space, and to adventure! And look,’ he added, pointing down the hall, ‘if it isn't our very own ace fighter pilot.’

  Carveth strode in wearing her flying jacket and a new white scarf. ‘Hello Boss, how's tricks?’

  ‘I like the scarf,’ Rhianna said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Carveth struck what she clearly considered to be a heroic pose: legs braced, hands on hips. Smith had seen Rhianna do similar things when attempting Yoga. ‘Shuttles is up and about, you'll be glad to know. This is his scarf. Apparently I get to wear it because I flew in his ship. And if I don't, the Hellfire says it’ll use its new landing gear to kick my arse until I cough up my own buttocks. Now,’ she said, lowering her voice and glancing over her shoulder, ‘the other news is that there was some food left over from the summit. About a ton of it. So now that the hold is frog-free, the ship is available again for riotous drinking and space travel.’

  ‘Hey, wait,’ Rhianna said. ‘What about the mirror?’

  ‘It's in safe hands,’ Smith replied. ‘The Service have it. I’m sure that experts are looking into it right now.’

  ‘Let’s hope nothing looks back,’ Carveth said.

  ‘Well, quite. After all, I'm sure the secret service would never unleash something that bizarre and dangerous on the galaxy.’

  Carveth looked at Suruk, then to Rhianna, and finally back at Smith. ‘Oh no. Not at all, boss.’

  Suruk rubbed his hands together. ‘Come, friends,’ he said. ‘Let us go forward together, and put the kettle on.’

  Acknowledgements

  There are a lot of people without whom this book would never have been written. As ever, my parents, family and friends have been great, as have the members of Verulam Writers’ Circle, in providing help, support and criticism. John, Ed, Ian and Owen did sterling work in helping to fine-tune the manuscript (I also ‘borrowed’ a joke on page 82 from Owen, although he doesn’t know that yet). And, of course, I should thank everyone, both online and in the ‘real world’, who encouraged me to send Smith & Co on a fourth adventure. I hope you all enjoyed it. There will be another.

  About the Author

  Toby Frost studied law and was called to the bar in 2011. 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. The first of his Isambard Smith novels, Space Captain Smith, was published in 2008.

  THE CHRONICLES OF ISAMBARD SMITH by TOBY FROST

  Space Captain Smith

  In the 25nd Century the British Space Empire faces the gathering menace of the evil ant-soldiers of the Ghast Empire hive, hell-bent on galactic domination and the extermination of all humanoid life.

  Isambard Smith is the square-jawed, courageous and somewhat asinine new commander of the clapped out and battle damaged light freighter John Pym, destined to take on the alien threat because nobody else is available. Together with his bold crew – a skull collecting alien lunatic, an android pilot who is actually a fugitive sex toy and a hamster called Gerald – he must collect new-age herbalist Rhianna Mitchell from the laid back New Francisco orbiter and bring her back to safety in the Empire.

  Straightforward enough – except the Ghasts want her too. If he is to get back to Blighty alive, Smith must defeat void sharks, a universe-weary android assassin and John Gilead, psychopathic naval officer from the fanatically religious Republic of New Eden before facing his greatest enemy: a ruthless alien warlord with a very large behind…

  ‘Gives the sacred cows of sci-fi a good kicking before racing home in time for tea.’ Dirk Maggs, director of BBC Radio 4’s The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  * * *

  God Emperor of Didcot

  Tea… a beverage brewed from the fermented dried leaves of the shrub Camel ia 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.

  A storm is brewing!

  More shootouts than Jane Austen, more laughs than Thomas Hardy, and much better aliens than that Trollope chappie!

  * * *

  Wrath of the Lemming Men

  From the depths of Space a new foe rises to do battle with mankind: the British Space Empire is threatened by the lemming-people of Yull, ruthless enemies who attack without mercy, fear or any concept of self preservation. At the call of their war god, the Yull have turned on the Empire, hell bent on conquest and destruction in their rush towards the cliffs of destiny.

  When the Yullian army is forced to retreat at the battle of the River Tam, the disgraced Colonel Vock swears revenge on the clan of Suruk the Slayer, Isambard Smith’s homicidal alien friend. Now Smith and his crew must defend the Empire and civilise the stuffing out of a horde of bloodthirsty lemming-men – which would be easy were it not for a sinister robotics company, a Ghast general with a fondness for genetic engineering and an ancient brotherhood of Morris Dancers – who may yet hold the key to victory…

  “The best Isambard Smith adventure yet!” Waterstones

 
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