Space Captain Smith

by Toby Frost

  ‘Wait!’ Suruk growled, and she stopped, panting, the air full of smoke. The flares sputtered around the door, at once evil and festive, the entrance to some sinister funfair. Suruk stepped into the airlock, treading carefully. His boots squeaked a little on the tiles. He stepped out of view. There was one shot, the whipping sound of a blade cutting the air and Carveth heard something heavy hit the floor. Suruk looked back around the edge of the airlock.

  ‘This will be unpleasant,’ he said.

  ‘Lots of enemies?’

  ‘Hideous décor. Follow me.’

  The décor was indeed hideous, although getting the bloody hell out of here pressed more deeply on Carveth’s mind. She trotted behind Suruk, glancing over her shoulder so often that she might as well have spun round like a top, well aware that it was only the Peptos that were keeping her jittery finger on the trigger. She thought about a lot of things as they hurried down the corridors of the ship: dying, getting killed, getting shot, death and even being murdered crossed her mind. She was afraid. A sound behind her and she whipped around, hit the trigger and in a roar of bullets a man clutched himself and fell, dead. A second mercenary ducked back into cover, reaching for something attached to his vest, and Suruk leaped in after him. A man screamed and fell silent, and the M’Lak returned, whistling between his teeth.

  ‘I have rigged a grenade behind a pressure door,’ he announced. ‘Very soon it will explode. Fires will distract our enemies.’

  ‘Good,’ said Carveth. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

  ‘Nearly where?’

  ‘Well, wherever they’re holding the captain.’ She peered at him. ‘This is a rescue mission, right? We’re going to rescue the captain. What the hell did you think we were doing, getting an ice cream?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Suruk, ‘Good point. Do you think the captain would mind if I got a little extra slaying in on the way?’

  *

  ‘What do you mean a fire?’ Gilead barked into the intercom.

  ‘Big orange thing, quite warm, setting the ship alight?’ the intercom replied.

  ‘Send a team down to deal with it. Dammit, what the hell is going on down there?’

  On the other side of the bridge, 462 was leaning against a bulkhead, listening. He sighed and stood up and walked over. ‘Your men seem to have been repulsed,’ he said, peering at the camera screens. ‘You should give the orders to repel the boarders or die fighting. Your crew are weak.’

  462 tutted and wagged his antennae at Gilead. ‘I am not impressed, ally. Not impressed at all.’

  As they turned the corner, half a dozen soldiers sprang out at them and suddenly gunfire raged down the corridor. Carveth threw herself into an alcove on one side of the passage, Suruk on the other. She saw him lean out and hurl a knife, and a huge moustachioed man like an enormous P.E. teacher staggered into view and fell, the weapon jutting from his neck. Carveth pushed the barrel of the maxim cannon around the corner and fired off a few rounds, then ducked back as the mercenaries replied.

  Why me, she thought, and why here? She looked around her alcove for anything that might help but found only a poster that said, ‘Your civil rights have been suspended pending Armageddon’. I wish I was at home, she thought. Everyone was shooting at her: even Suruk, who was supposed to be on her side, was waving his arms about and pointing at her feet.

  What’s wrong with my feet? Carveth thought as a fresh burst of gunfire rang down the hall, and she looked down and saw a small cylinder next to them. She picked it up. ‘Is this yours?’ she yelled across the corridor. Suruk, by means of cowering, indicated that it was not his. She wondered what it might be. It was difficult to think straight, what with all the noise. Some sort of tinned food, perhaps? Maybe it was cola. She looked at the side, caught a glimpse of some writing, and thought for a split second that it might be Grenadine.

  She screamed and hurled it back down the corridor and it exploded, killing three soldiers who were advancing towards them. Taking advantage of the situation, Carveth shouted ‘Like that, do you?’ and ran out, Suruk striding alongside her.

  The last mercenary took one look at the pair of them – a furious woman in a blue dress, covered in guns, and a maniac alien in a top hat – and ran.

  ‘Look!’ Carveth said. She pointed to a sign on the wall. There were little arrows on the sign, pointing to various parts of the ship. Under ‘cinema’ and ‘brig’ was ‘discussion chambers’.

  They hurried down the corridor. There were glass portholes in the wall: one of them led into an ante-room full of lockers. As she peered through, she caught a glimpse of something brown hanging up within – Smith’s coat. ‘Here!’ she cried.

  Voices rang from further up the corridor – lots of them. Gilead’s men had sent for reinforcements. Suruk glanced down at her. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Fetch the captain.’

  The voices were getting closer. Carveth caught a glimpse of a man in a gas mask at the far end of the corridor, making a fist and whirling it in some kind of code. ‘What about you?’ she said.

  Suruk’s awful face opened in a kind of smile. ‘I intend to enjoy my holiday – at bloody last.’

  Carveth said, ‘I’ll be back soon.’ She reached out, one hand on the trigger still, and threw open the door. A small man in a long black coat was smoking a cigarette. As the door opened he threw open the coat and reached for his gun – and she shot him.

  Carveth hurried across the ante-room and searched the man in black. He had a keycard on his belt, and she pushed it into the door and saw the light above the lock flash green. Behind her, the first sounds of battle began. Gan Uteki, sacred spear of Suruk’s tribe, was having a jolly time.

  She opened the cell door and rushed in. Smith was in the middle of the room in his boots and no trousers, squatting over a soldier who lay full length on the floor. ‘Don’t mind me,’ Carveth said.

  ‘Carveth!’ Smith stood up. ‘Thank God!’

  ‘It’s me alright,’ she said. ‘We’re here to rescue you. We thought—’ Smith turned round and her mouth fell open. She said, ‘Oh my God. Are you inflamed or something?’

  Smith frowned. ‘What?’ He followed her eyes and looked down at himself. ‘Oh, you mean my underpants?

  Sorry about that. They stole my trousers to break my will.’

  ‘It doesn’t look broken from here. You’re a bloody Martian war machine. Do you make Spice with that thing?’

  ‘Listen, Gilead’s probably quite annoyed right now. He’ll probably send some heavies down. I saw a lot of dubious sorts hanging round upstairs. We ought to leave now.’

  ‘No shit, Shergar – I mean Sherlock. Let’s go.’

  ‘I need a gun,’ said Smith.

  ‘Got it here.’ Carveth spun round awkwardly, feeling rather like a packhorse under the weight of the cannon. Smith rooted about and lifted out the rifle. He buckled the Civiliser around his hips and put on his long coat. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Suruk needs our help.’

  As they reached the door, Suruk gave a bellow of glee and threw a knife at someone far down the corridor. The two humans rushed to his side.

  ‘Back to the ship, men!’ cried Isambard Smith. A man rushed into the corridor and Carveth whipped around and gunned him down. ‘Ha!’ she cried. ‘This isn’t so bad,’ she said, patting the barrel of the Maxim cannon,

  ‘I could get used to having one of these sticking out in front of me.’

  ‘Penis envy, no doubt,’ Smith observed, scanning the corridor for more enemies.

  ‘Humans are strange,’ Suruk said. ‘Why would anyone envy a penis?’

  Suddenly new shapes ran into the corridor: trenchcoats flapping around them, big heads wobbling on spindly necks, pincer-claws rising above their shoulders like broken wings.

  ‘Ghasts!’ Carveth called.

  Smith lifted the rifle, took aim down the scope and fired. The nearest Ghast flew over in a whirl of leather, its legs kicking once before lying still. ‘Let’s move,’ the captain said, and they ran.

&
nbsp; 10 Pursuit

  They ran into the John Pym and slammed the airlock shut. Behind them, something was exploding in the Fist of Righteousness, far away. Did we do that? Carveth wondered. Smith was in the cockpit before her as, with a great lurch, the Pym pulled free of the stricken warship. Carveth stumbled and fell onto her back, and remained there until Suruk undid the catches on the gun harness as he stepped over her on the way to his room. She found some beers in the galley and brought them to the cockpit. The main engines fired, and in a moment they were putting thousands of kilometres between themselves and Gilead’s ship.

  ‘We did it!’ Carveth cried. ‘We rescued you!’

  ‘Indeed you did. Thank you, Carveth. You’re a good sort.’ Smith stood up and motioned to the control seat.

  ‘The helm is yours, pilot.’

  ‘Thanks, Boss.’ It was good to be back in the driving seat, she thought: less good was the fact that Smith was still in his boots, jacket and underpants and his groin was now at the level of her head, an issue about which she had decidedly negative feelings. ‘Good to be back,’ she said.

  ‘That gun was heavy.’

  ‘You were wise to take it,’ Smith said, opening his can and taking a deep swig. ‘If you’re facing desperate men like that, you don’t want to go in half-cocked.’

  ‘Frankly,’ Carveth said, ‘you’re not going to have that problem. Would you mind putting your trousers on, sir?’

  ‘Trousers it is,’ Smith declared. ‘In the meantime, set a course – for adventure!’

  ‘Any particular direction?’ Carveth said. She felt that after the success of the rescue mission, things had got back to normal distressingly quickly.

  ‘Hmm.’ Smith put his hands on his hips and frowned thoughtfully. ‘Well, they’ve still got Rhianna – I don’t know why, but she matters a lot to them. Not only is she a woman in distress, but getting her back would throw a spanner into the Ghasts’ evil works. I suggest that we pull back and wait. I think they’ll transfer her to the Ghast ship. Then we follow the Ghasts, keeping back so as to avoid their scanners. Then, when they’re least expecting it, we can attack and rescue Rhianna.’

  Carveth nodded. It would be pointless to try to explain how frightening this plan sounded. ‘Will do, Boss.’

  ‘Make it so, Carveth.’

  ‘I just said I would.’

  ‘Well, keep making it.’

  Smith strode down to his room, found a pair of suitable trousers and put them on. Returning to the cockpit, he noticed that the door to Rhianna’s room was open. He paused with his hand on the door handle, glanced around and slipped inside.

  It smelt of students, as usual. There were some books on the table, about meditation and things like that. Smith picked one up at random: a retrospective of Japanese cartoon art entitled Look Back in Manga. Baffling stuff. He smoothed down his moustache and put the book back. Smith stopped before the dresser, thinking. Why did the Ghasts what Rhianna so much? What was the reason for her powers? He decided that for the good of the Empire and mankind he would search the room for clues, starting with Rhianna’s knickers drawer. He closed the cabin door and began his quest.

  Smith perused the contents of the drawer, awed by the notion that such small items could do the job. At the back was a red tin box with a label stuck to the top. Perhaps it would contain something that might help. He pulled it out and prized off the lid. Mmm, biscuits.

  Carveth was reattaching Gerald’s water bottle to the cage when Smith returned to the cockpit. ‘Hey there,’ he said.

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ve scanned the surrounding area. They’re moving deep into no-man’s-land, into territory none of the Great Powers have claimed, human or alien.’

  ‘Strange. I’d have thought they would want to take her to their leader. Go on.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is they’re planning, they must be planning to do it quietly. Which means, judging from their course, they’re heading here.’ She pointed to a small, grey planet on the edge of the screen. ‘Drogon. Ooh, are those biscuits?’

  ‘Yes. Here you go. What’s this Drogon place like?’

  ‘Thanks. Well, from what I gather, it’s horrible. TheLonely Planets guide says that Drogon has a “vibrant local youth culture founded on milk-based intoxicants”, but if it’s where I’m thinking of, it’s the crappest planet in the galaxy. Other worlds are more violent, depopulated or unsuited to human life, but Drogon is the closest thing to an Arndale Centre that has ever occurred naturally. It could be a tough job. Are these raisins in my biscuit? I don’t really like raisins.’ She took a bite and said, ‘Erm . . . Where did you find these, Captain? I’m not sure we should be eating them.’

  ‘They were in Rhianna’s room. I wouldn’t look so worried, Carveth. If she hadn’t made them for interstellar travel it wouldn’t say ‘Space Cakes’ on the lid.’

  The long, sleek form of the Systematic Destruction slid out of the darkness and swung towards Drogon. At first it was visible only as a shadow, an absence of stars, but as it passed the John Pym the weak rays of Drogon’s sun caught the craft and gave it a silhouette. Light crept around the edges of the Ghast ship like dawn. Lasers and missile batteries took shape on its hull; spiky Ghast lettering appeared on the prow as if branded there by the sun. And at the very front, the painted head of a Ghastish animal, antennae raised and wolfish jaws open, as if howling into space.

  Carveth tracked the enemy ship on the radar. The Peptos had worn off and she was cold enough to have put a blanket over her knees. As she watched the Systematic Destruction slide by, she shuddered. Her small hands plotted its trajectory and she tried not to think about anything other than programming the computer: things like Rick Dreckitt, now almost certainly dead, or their oncoming showdown with the Ghasts. Even space itself seemed like an enemy now, frigid and unwelcoming, the last place for an android who wanted little more than a cheap drink and a date. I’m getting the fear, she realised. Smith lay on his bed, feeling unusual. He was drowsy and felt strangely content. He shifted position and smiled, thinking of Rhianna. Then he remembered that she was captive, and his smile disappeared. Not to worry. He’d get her back soon, and then, well, maybe they could go on a picnic together or something.

  A picture lay across his lap. It had been in Rhianna’s room. It showed a tallish, wire-haired woman who looked as if she should be saying wise things to the medieval peasantry. Several cats were attached to her. She looked like a sterner, more gaunt version of Rhianna: the family resemblance was obvious. But the other half of the picture, where the father should have been, was obscured by smoke. Mist swirled at the woman’s side, as if she had conjured it. Hold on, Rhianna, Smith thought, I’m coming to rescue you. Whatever you really are.

  In his room, Suruk was arranging his possessions. He’d had a good time on the Fist of Righteousness, and had been able to bring back a couple of souvenirs. Suruk’s ancestors were pleased with him: they had enjoyed the fight, he knew. If you thought that was fun, just wait until we reach Drogon, he told them. Don’t touch that dial, ancient ones.

  It was raining on Drogon. In Vorlig, its capital and only city, the few citizens looked up at the sky and shrugged. Once, before the Russo-Anglo-Sino-Peruvian border war, Drogon had been a colony of the Collected Russian Federation, but tectonic instability had made it unsuitable for full-scale colonisation. Now, only a few citizens remained in the grey, dilapidated housing blocks, drinking cheap liquor, laundering illegal data and emptying their bladders in its many broken lifts.

  A small man wheeled a trolley full of boxes past a rusted statue of a dancing boy and girl. The girl had lost all the fingers but one on her upraised hand; the boy’s head had been long stolen and was now part of an illicit whisky still. As the small man reached a block of deserted flats he noticed a group of lads in an underpass. They called after him but he hurried on, head down. The youths wandered down the underpass, drugged-up and bored, looking for someone to rob. They emerged into D
rogon’s overcast daylight, onto a patch of wasteland where a factory had once stood. Glass crunched under their heavy boots.

  Two figures stood on the far side of the wasteland. One was a man in his thirties, in a long brown coat and a red jacket that they did not recognise. Beside him stood an alien, a tall, greenish-grey stick of a being, with elaborate mandibles and little yellow eyes. The gang leader nodded, and they pulled their hats down low.

  Suruk watched the gang approach. ‘Trouble,’ he said. Smith shook his head. ‘Nonsense. Whenever did you hear of a chap in a bowler hat being trouble? I say, you there!’ he called. ‘Have you seen an alien spacecraft, perchance?’

  There was a pause. The gang looked at one another. Their leader took his walking stick in both hands. ‘Let’s get ’em!’ he yelled. ‘Cronk his smogbox, men!’

  Returning to the ship, Smith joined the others around the dining room table and studied a map that Carveth had printed out. ‘That was informative,’ said Smith, tucking into a Sham sandwich. ‘Thanks for the help back there, Suruk.’

  Suruk shrugged. ‘Have a hat,’ he said, dropping a bowler onto Carveth’s head. ‘The human braves told me some interesting things, before their heads came off. Behold the map.’

  Spread across the table was a large-scale printout of the area. Various bits of cutlery had been used to represent civic buildings. Smith put his sandwich down and leaned over it.

  ‘The pepper pot on the map indicates the likely landingpoint of the Ghast spacecraft. The teabag represents our current location,’ he added, pointing. ‘As you can see, the area is built-up but has largely fallen down.

  ‘The Ghast ship is large, and likely to contain many enemy, perhaps over two hundred drone-soldiers. We –represented by the salt cellar – need to move east in order to approach the ship. Carveth, broom,’ said Smith, and Carveth wearily pushed the salt cellar across the table with the ship’s broom. When Smith had said that they would be using a complex computer to illustrate a plan of the area, she hadn’t realised that this would entail the ship’s android shoving condiments around with a wooden pole.