by Toby Frost
Suruk shrugged. ‘Many colours of skin are there, many different shades of face. But if you look within, deep inside a person, human beings are all alike. Red and squelchy.’
The alien chuckled. Andy looked into his beer. Rhianna said: ‘Um, has it got colder out here?’
Smith slapped his hands together. ‘Right then, on a slightly less alarmingly macabre note: where do we find this Corveau chap?’
Meanwhile, Carveth was showing Francois around the ship. ‘This is the cockpit.’
‘Hell of a ship you got here,’ Francois said, ducking through the door.
‘It’s not so bad. It goes pretty quickly, when it’s going. Through there is the Captain’s cabin, this door here leads to mine – no, don’t open that – and that one is, well, it’s full of skulls.’
‘Whoa,’ said Francois, gazing into Suruk’s room. ‘This where the alien guy lives, huh?’
‘Yes.’
‘This his little shrine?’ Francois pointed to a small pyramid of bones piled in front of Suruk’s spear, the weapon of his ancestors. ‘He’s like a samurai, right?’
‘More like a raving nutcase, but there’s probably an overlap.’
‘Whoa. That’s beaucoup serious.’ Francois bent down and picked up a shallow, rectangular dish, full of carefully raked sand and little pebble-shaped objects. He lifted one out. ‘This his little Zen garden?’
‘I’d put that down, if I were you.’
‘Sacred, huh?’
‘Not exactly. It’s his litter tray.’
They left Suruk’s room, Francois wiping his palms on his overalls. ‘Now, through here is the engine room,’ she announced, opening a small door beside the entrance to the living room. ‘It’s down these steps. Careful.’
He ducked down and followed her into a dim, red corridor. It looked like something from a submarine: twin rows of pistons stood still on the edges of the room, waiting for the second to plunge down and fire the Supralux drive. A long rod stretched down the last third of the engine room, bent out of shape and covered in soot. Copper-coloured boilers hung above their heads. From one, a shorted and blackened control panel dangled on half a dozen wires. It smelt of burning.
‘Looks like you got it bad,’ Francois said.
‘They had us over a barrel,’ Carveth explained.
‘Sure looks that way. Still, I reckon I could get the outside jets goin’, no problem. Never seen a Supralux drive up close before, though. How’s it work?’
Carveth frowned. ‘Well, it’s pretty complex. Basically, it’s a tacheon shunt that causes acceleration up to maximum realspace velocity, and from then on, the plotting computer adds or decreases mass to regulate speed relative to mass index. In layman’s terms: it just works because it does, alright?’ She reached up and pointed to the burnt-out console, dangling from the roof. ‘Thing is, that’s the device that does the plotting.’
‘So it’s that thing that makes the drive work.’ Francois scratched his head, loudly. ‘And without a new plot device, you can’t fly.’
‘Not faster than light.’
‘That stuff’s way beyond me. Who did this to you, anyhow?’
‘Ghast raiders. One of their warships attacked us without provocation, so we were forced to crash-land in neutral space.’
‘Attacked you?’ The bad, red light threw Francois’ face into hard relief. ‘How come?’
‘It’s a long story. But if you want to know I’ll tell it to you just like it happened.’ Carveth crossed her arms and leaned against a bulkhead. She took a deep breath, hoping that she was not about to have one of her sexbot moments. ‘Well, we were cruising, hardly looking for action at all, when suddenly the Ghasts jumped us from behind, stuck a torpedo up our back end and blew our motors out. They must have seen that we were exposed at the rear because they stuck out their tube so they could come inside, but the captain ordered us to get our tools ready and beat them off if they tried to enter us by force. They all came at us at once down the passage, but what with Smith shooting off from the hip and me pumping my piece for all I was worth, we were able to give them a good seeing-to until they had to withdraw. We were knackered, though. We could hardly pull off, let alone thrust, so we saw this lake and decided to dump in the water until we were able to repair the ship and get it up again. That’s pretty much the size of it.’
‘Ouch.’ Francois took off his cap and smoothed his hair.
‘And you’re still walkin’?’
‘Stiff upper lip, my friend. Stiff upper lip.’
Andy finished his beer. ‘Corveau is no problem to find: he’ll be at his house in town, holding court. That’s what he does pretty much every weekend of the year. But he’s one menchant son of a bitch. He’s had men killed before, I know it. You’ll get to see him easy, but if you want to get away, or even argue with the man, that’s a different story. He has a lot of people, and whatever decent guns there are on this world, they’re his. Not that we don’t keep our own pieces, but he’s got serious stuff and men to hold ’em.’
‘What kind of house does he have?’
‘A pretty fancy one. I tell you, the place is plush. It’s got grounds all done out, and more staff than anybody could use for anything. He must have a few spare asses to need so many people to wipe his butt.’
Smith glanced at Rhianna to make sure that she was not offended. She smiled.
‘Sees himself as a little king,’ Andy said. ‘People come to him to get their noses browned, looking to get some money off of him. Most of the cash that gets made farming goes to him as well, as protection money, pretty much. There’s a lot of folks who’d like to get shot of Corveau, but most of ’em ain’t brave enough to try.’
Smith nodded understandingly. ‘It happens a lot abroad.’
‘Plus, if you’re thinking of waltzing in there strapped, forget it. The dress code’s black tie and no weapons. It’s a strictly no-tools do.’
‘I need no weapons to slay with my hands,’ Suruk declared. ‘I am a tool.’
‘Quite,’ said Smith. ‘But we won’t be going in to kill. I don’t want a bloodbath.’
‘Like on your lawn at home?’
‘No, that’s a birdbath. Because, Suruk, I am a civilised, cultured person who objects to mindless violence. We’re going to talk to this Governor fellow, and ask him nicely if he’ll lower the missile grid to let us through. And if he doesn’t—’
‘We tear off his limbs?’
‘Well, alright then.’
Andy’s barbecue was excellent, and that evening Smith and his crew walked back to the ship drunk and full. Crickets and frogs made the warm night noisy, and above them the stars glinted, tiny but bright, as if to remind them that home was still there, and that they were a long way from it.
‘Whoo!’ Carveth cried, delighted to hear her own voice echo around the lake and hills. ‘This is really something!’
She slipped, and Smith caught hold of her. ‘Blimey, Cap, I think I might have overdone it. The stuff they brew here’s pretty strong. I never would have thought you could squeeze so much alcohol from a single cane toad.’
‘It seems you can. How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘On which of your many hands?’
They climbed onto the ship with difficulty. Smith helped Rhianna and Carveth on board and Suruk climbed up on his own. Smith watched Rhianna open the hatch and climb inside, the alien following, and Carveth watched him doing so.
‘Careful on the rungs, Rhianna. And no more knife throwing!’ he called after them.
A hand touched his arm. Carveth stood back a little, her neat little head tilted to one side like a puzzled bird.
‘You like her, don’t you?’ she said quietly. Carveth seemed very sober and still, or perhaps Smith’s wobbling vision was in sync with her wobbling body.
‘I like some things about her,’ Smith said. ‘Others I’m not sure about.’
‘Rhianna seems alright, I suppose. But she’s weird, Captain, weirder than just lentils a
nd listening to whales. I don’t know what they’ve saddled us with, but the Ghasts wanted her for a reason. And if you ask me, it’s a very strange one indeed.’
Smith paused. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I see what you’re saying. But we have to get off this planet. That’s the first thing. Everything else can wait. Unless you think she’s a danger to us all.’
The simulant stared out across the lake, the water black as velvet. ‘No, I don’t think she’s dangerous. Not like that. Just weird.’
Rhianna poked her head out of the hatch. ‘Are you guys coming inside?’
‘Yes,’ said Smith. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment. We’d best get to bed, Rhianna. We’ve got a lot to do. Tomorrow, that is. Not in bed or anything of course.’
‘I’ll turn in soon,’ Rhianna said. ‘I just want to get some air.’
‘I’m off,’ Carveth said, and she climbed into the ship. A moment later Rhianna emerged. She walked over to Smith, looked up and sighed. ‘It’s a beautiful sky.’
‘Certainly is.’
‘I find the stars so romantic,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, when I look up at them—’
‘Cup of tea?’ said Isambard Smith.
‘What?’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Rhianna?’
Wrong-footed, she said, ‘Uh, yes, please, I guess. I find the stars—’
‘Righto.’ Smith turned and left. Rhianna pulled her shapeless cardigan tight around her and waited. She sat down on the hull, drummed her fingers on the metal, huffed and looked up at the sky.
After a few minutes, she heard footsteps behind her.
‘I find the stars so romantic,’ she resumed. ‘When I was a little girl, I used to believe that they were the lights put there by a fairy princess, up among the heavens.’ She leaned back and shook out her hair and laughed. ‘Seems funny now, to be so innocent and naïve.’
‘I think I am probably not your intended audience,’
Suruk the Slayer said. ‘Isambard Smith told me to bring you this.’
He shoved a cup at her. ‘Oh,’ she said coldly. ‘That’s really friendly of him.’
‘I too enjoy looking at the stars,’ the M’Lak said. ‘I see meanings in them. Some, these brighter ones, make me think of my ancestors, shining warriors to whose deeds I aspire. This group here, further away, makes me think of us: bound close, alone in the void of space. And this one on its own I call Isambard: quite large, and not especially bright.’
‘Wow. I never knew you knew so much. Do you know the constellations?’
‘Indeed.’
‘What’s that one up there, that looks like a little tree?’
‘With the small wings, like an angel? Braves call that one Doomblade.’
‘And the one next to it shaped like a rabbit?’
Suruk pointed into the sky. ‘Gorehammer. Then the Pile of Guts . . . and Bloodweasel . . . and then the Plough.’
‘The Plough? Isn’t that a bit innocuous for you?’
‘Not if it is ploughing into Bloodweasel’s head.’
‘Is your entire culture based around violence?’ Rhianna asked.
‘That and folk dancing, yes. There’s also some macramé, but it’s mainly violence.’
‘I find that quite hard to square with my principles of non-violence,’ she said, sipping at her tea, ‘Still, it can’t be easy, being a person of species in a human-dominated galaxy. I suppose violence is a natural response to persecution.’
‘Is persecution where people seek to fight you for no good reason?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Ah yes. Fun, that.’
Half an hour later the Systematic Destruction slipped into a high orbit around Paradis. In his chair on the bridge, 462 waited.
The Ghast Empire had no say in the running of Paradis. His instinct was to land and have his troopers tear this worthless planet apart to find the John Pym, but he knew that was not possible. To violate Edenite territory would be very foolish, especially as there were other, more democratic nations to annex first.
There were more subtle ways. 462’s contacts in the Republic of Eden could bring Smith to him. And with Smith would come Rhianna Mitchell, their prize. The next morning they got to work. Carveth was up remarkably early, and as Smith was getting dressed he could hear the thin whine of electric drills as she and Francois began to repair the jets. Andy fetched parts from a barn he used as a garage, dragging them down on a quad bike and trailer. At midday, with the basic directional thrusters repaired, they were able to fire the engines of the John Pym and fly it twenty yards onto dry land. Smith helped out, but he was troubled. As Carveth shot rivets into a piece of plating that Suruk held against the side of the ship, he sat in his room and tried to work out a plan. By twenty past two he had the plan worked out, and he announced it over sandwiches.
‘We’re going to a party this evening,’ he announced. ‘By my reckoning it’s a Saturday, which I gather means that Governor Corveau will be holding court tonight. We’ll smarten ourselves up and put on a good show, and if he asks, we’ll say that we’re representatives from the Empire. Question, Carveth?’
‘Will there be any nice blokes?’
Francois was leaning against the ship, chewing. ‘What about security? Say he don’t want you there – or don’t want you leavin’?’
‘I’ve thought about it. I’m going to claim we’re a diplomatic team, which will grant us a certain amount of immunity. Hopefully it’ll make him think we’ve got warship protection. He may not do of course, and that’s why Suruk’s coming. People ought to think twice about getting nasty with him as our bodyguard.’
Suruk displayed his teeth. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘But remember, Suruk: we’re going to this party to talk to the Governor, not because we hunger for the flesh of men. That goes for you too, Carveth. I’m expecting at least some attempt at dignity. Remember you’re all representing your country, and you ought to behave as the Empire does.’
‘So we can kill and loot at will, steal their goods and claim the planet as our own?’ Suruk said.
‘Not exactly, no. And by “exactly”, I mean “at all”. Alright?’
Rhianna raised a hand. ‘What about clothes? You’ve got your uniform. Captain Smith told me I wouldn’t need an evening dress.’
‘I didn’t think it was necessary for space,’ Smith replied.
‘I’m sure Marie can lend you something,’ Andy said. He nodded slowly, appraising them all. ‘Then it’s a plan.’
6 Ho-Down of the Damned
‘Mr and Mrs Harding Walters!’ barked the loudspeaker mounted at the entrance to the main hall. The queue shuffled three feet forwards. ‘Mr and Mrs Richard Milford and their son Paul Milford!’ Another shuffle.
‘Doctor and Mrs Wainwright!’
Carveth yawned. In front of them about fifteen couples stood in a long line that stretched the length of the Corveau entrance hall. Servants moved down the line, collecting coats and offering drinks.
‘Well, that’s something,’ the simulant said, taking a large glass of white wine from a waiter and swallowing a third of it in one gulp. ‘Four more of these and I won’t mind standing in this queue.’
‘Two more and you won’t be standing at all,’ said Smith.
‘Maybe. Anyway, how am I looking? Too hot to handle?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t touch you,’ Smith said, and she shot him an evil look. Carveth had borrowed an impressive blue dress that reminded Smith of a device used by his maiden aunt to conceal toilet rolls. She wore long boots: they were her workboots, and the only footwear they could find that had fitted her. ‘You look like a bell,’ Smith said. ‘That is to say, the bell. The belle of the ball. That’s it.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said with annoying perceptiveness.
‘You’re very distinctive,’ Rhianna said from behind. ‘I mean, you really stand out.’
She had fared somewhat better, choosing a floor-length skirt and white shirt with a dar
k jacket borrowed from Marie. It made her look like a cross between an explorer’s wife and a Pilgrim Father, minus the boots and buckled hat.
Carveth scowled at her. ‘Go boil your crucible.’
Rhianna was one of those irritating women who naturally looked good. She was intrinsically, annoyingly graceful, Carveth reflected, and could probably manage to look sexy in a clown outfit with a dung-spattered lampshade on her head.
‘We all look nice,’ Rhianna persisted. ‘Even Suruk here. You certainly look the business, Captain Smith.’
‘Well, yes, I do try.’
Carveth crossed her arms, determined to vent her irritation on someone. ‘What difference does it make if we’ve got Scary Alien with us? You could at least have done something with your hair.’
Suruk snorted. ‘I am a warrior, not a butterfly. Dreadlocks are very last hunting season.’
‘Your names, sir?’ a servant asked at Smith’s side. ‘I don’t believe you’ve visited the estate before.’
Smith gave their names.
‘I see, sir. And the greyskin? Is he your houseboy?’
‘He’s my friend.’
‘We don’t get many non-humans here, you see. They tend to exist in a serving capacity.’
‘So do you, my man,’ Carveth said, holding out her empty glass. ‘So get to it. More wine for the lady, please.’
‘Of course, Miss. And where might the lady be?’
Finally, the couple in front were announced and they stepped up to the doors, looking into the hall. ‘Captain Isambard Smith and Miss Rhianna Mitchell! Miss Pollyanna Carveth and Suruk the Slayer, son of Agshad Nine-Swords, Victor of the Plain of Useth, and – how much of this crap is there?’
They stepped inside. ‘Whoa,’ Carveth said. The hall was three storeys high and thirty metres square. In it, several hundred people talked in groups or danced in a restrained manner. A small band played in a corner of the room. Men in suits and smart string ties kissed the hands of women in long dresses. Above the music came the steady tinkle of glass and high-class laughter.
