by Toby Frost
The streets were deeply alien to Smith. Where were the red telephone boxes, the chip shops, the people being ill outside pubs? They passed a gang of very neat punks who bade them Guten abend before getting back to painting a graffiti-spattered wall bright white.
‘You see those doors down there?’ Le Fantome said, pointing. ‘The airlock you seek is at the end of that passage, just past the cabaret hall.’ He turned to Rhianna. ‘Raumskapitan Schmidt is a good man.
You can trust him to convey you to our mutual friends.’
Smith looked down the street. ‘Thank you for your help, sir. But now, we have a ship to catch.’
‘As we say in France, it has been un plaisir,’ Le Fantome replied. ‘But next time we meet, I may ask a favour of you.’
‘I’ll assist you, within reason,’ Smith said. ‘Nothing dodgy, though.’
‘Monsieur,’ Le Fantome replied, clearly hurt, ‘There is nothing “dodgy” about the French secret service. Wherever there are questionable elections, dangerous peace protesters, allegations of bribery – rest assured, we shall be there. Alors, I see you have no heavy luggage to carry, but I could always help you pretend. Goodbye, ladies. .’ He bowed. ‘I hope we shall all meet again soon.’
‘Well,’ Suruk remarked as Le Fantome crept away, ‘abroad has certainly changed since last I visited. Everything is flatter than I recall and there are fewer goats. The people seem more welcoming, too.’
‘Which bit of Europe was that?’ Rhianna asked.
‘Of course it’s different, Suruk,’ Smith said. ‘That was ten years ago and you were trying to become king of Nepal. Don’t ask, Rhianna – you’ll only encourage him.’
EU-571 lay at dock fifty yards further on. A tall man waited for them at the airlock.
‘Hallo!’ said Raumskapitan Schmidt. He wore a roll-neck jumper and a blue cap with an anchor on the front. His beard was close-cropped. The space captain looked friendly and enthusiastic, Smith thought, but seemed a bit dim. That sort of thing would never be allowed in the British space fleet.
‘Hullo!’ Smith replied.
‘Come on in,’ Schmidt said, gesturing to the spacious, well-lit interior of EU-571. A small, blonde woman in a similar hat approached and waved. ‘This is Petra Klein, ship’s android and my second in command.’
‘Welcome aboard,’ she said. ‘Who would like schnapps?’
An airlock opened without creaking and a second woman stepped out. She wore uniform, but her roll-neck jumper was a little looser than Schmidt’s and her plait reached almost to her waist.
Schmidt gestured to the tall girl. ‘This is Ingrid, who deals with our other important business on ship.’
Smith bowed. ‘Strategy and weapons, eh?’
‘Recycling,” Ingrid replied. ‘The EU-571 is fully compliant with Directive 683/76 on the Harmonious Removal of Vegetable Matter.’
‘We have one of those,’ Smith added, keen to show that Britain was not lagging behind. ‘I put old cucumbers and potato peelings in it. You know, for the whales to eat.’
‘You have your own recycling officer?’ Rhianna said to Schmidt. ‘I think that’s amazing. I’ve always thought we should do more for the environment, Isambard.’
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘I’m always happy to clean up a few dirty aliens, eh?’ He patted his sword in a manly way. Captain Schmidt gave Smith’s belt a rather worried look.
‘I also deal with crew relaxation and massage,’ Ingrid added.
Smith didn’t like the sound of that. Massage was that thing that made his shoulders tense up.
‘Okay,’ Schmidt declared. ‘Perhaps we should go through? Ingrid, if the young lady is interested in your work, why don’t you take her down to the sauna deck?’
Ingrid took Rhianna’s arm. Smith watched them head to the door, arm in arm. As the door closed he remembered a fascinating drama he’d once seen about friendship among young ladies entitled Lascivious Handmaidens of the Reform School of Dracula.
Carveth nudged him and he blinked out of his reverie. ‘You do know that massage is supposed to make you less stiff?’
‘Go away,’ he said.
The sound of engines rose softly, a light hum that ran through the cream-coloured walls. EU-571 was leaving dock. ‘Please,’ Schmidt said, gesturing. ‘After you.’
*
The dining room was large and well lit. Waltz music piped merrily from hidden speakers. ‘Do take seats, please,’ Schmidt said, and he pulled back a chair for Carveth. Schmidt took the seat at the head of the table, under a painting of a gate with a chariot on top. In the interests of international harmony, Smith decided not to tell Schmidt that he looked just like the chap on the fish finger adverts.
Petra opened a cabinet and took out a bottle. She poured out little glasses of schnapps, including two for Ingrid and Rhianna.
‘Please,’ Schmidt said, ‘make yourselves at home. The food dispenser has been programmed to synthesise any food you wish, provided it is sausage-shaped.’
Carveth peered at the controls. The food machine was white and had a single button. ‘So I could have a banana?’
‘ Bananawurst? Of course! Press the button twice for curry sauce.’
‘Actually, I had curried banana sausage for breakfast,’ Carveth said, and she sat down hurriedly.
‘One for you?’ Petra asked, putting a glass in front of Suruk. He sniffed it warily.
‘ Prost! ’ Schmidt declared. ‘Or as you might say, bottoms up!’
They drank. Carveth finished her glass and swapped it quickly for Rhianna’s and drank that too.
She set it down, looked up and to her surprise saw Petra accomplishing the same sleight of hand with Ingrid’s glass.
Suruk pointed to the food synthesiser. ‘This sausage puzzles me. What animal is it the wurst part of?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to speak English,’ Smith said to Schmidt. ‘Unless you’re fluent in Latin, that is. If you want to discuss how all Gaul is quartered into three halves, I’m your man.’ He was beginning to feel slightly lost. The combination of air conditioning, strong liquor and Strauss had started to make things rather blurry.
‘Then you will excuse my bad English-speaking, I hope,’ Schmidt added. “I fear the infrequency of use may have caused my loquacity to atrophy somewhat.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Smith replied. ‘I didn’t catch a word of that.’
‘So how is your German?’
‘I don’t have one. Oh, I see! Rather basic, I’m afraid. Ja. Bien.’
Schmidt met Petra’s eye and she quickly filled the glasses.
‘Absent friends!’ Schmidt announced, and they drank again. Carveth put down her glass, then Rhianna’s and found Smith glaring at her across the table.
‘That was Rhianna’s drink,’ he whispered.
‘So?’ Carveth demanded. ‘I’m honouring the toast. She’s a friend and she’s absent, so. .’
‘Now,’ said Schmidt, ‘tell me about this craft we are looking for.’
Smith frowned. ‘Well, it’s some sort of warship. I only saw it for a moment, but it’s clearly heavily armed. Probably railgun turrets and missiles.’
Schmidt finished his drink. Petra caught his eye. ‘The same procedure as last time?’ she inquired.
The Raumskapitan nodded. ‘Of course. And break out the Viennese Whirls. This is grave news.’
Carveth found that intensely sugary biscuits and schnapps went quite well together. She managed to feel unusually drunk and unusually active. Of course, in practice that probably meant that she would run halfway up the wall and then fall flat on the floor, but for free booze and biscuits, she was ready to take the risk.
‘It barely showed up on the scanner,’ Smith said. ‘That’s the strange thing… it just appeared out of nowhere. There was a flash of light, and suddenly the ships around us were in pieces.’
‘Are you sure that was not a part of your own craft, ah, dropping off?’
‘Certainly not. Vessels such as mine
have been the backbone of the British space fleet for generations. Admittedly, the John Pym is quite low down the backbone, to be honest –’
‘Just above the arse,’ Carveth added helpfully, pouring herself another drink. ‘Near the tail.’
‘There is nothing wrong with having a tail,’ Suruk pointed out. ‘We M’Lak have small tails. So did such great Earth heroes as Thomas Kitten and the two cities of Abraham Dickens.’
Smith paused to think this one over, chasing Suruk’s logic through the maze of his brain. Carveth raised a shaky hand. ‘Where are all your aliens?’ she inquired.
‘Aliens?’ Schmidt shook his head. ‘Europe does not have aliens. At least, it does not rule over other peoples as your British Space Empire does.’
‘ Thinks it does,’ Suruk added.
‘You see, in Europe all nations are equal. Except Italy, but that is only because its prime minister sold it to the French when nobody was looking. There were detailed negotiations and the deal was finalised in a car park near Lyons.’ He sighed. ‘To think of it… the cradle of the Renaissance, sold in a service station like a football club.. these are dangerous days, my friends. Prost! ’
As Smith raised his glass the lights went off. The subtle underfloor lamps faded away and a single red bulb flickered into life behind Schmidt’s chair. Distantly, in the bowels of the EU-571, a bell was ringing.
‘What is this?’ Suruk snarled.
Carveth pointed at the bulb. ‘Pretty!’ she said, and she fell over.
They hurried down a steel staircase. Rhianna and Ingrid stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hey, Isambard,’ Rhianna said, ‘I’ve just been learning about wind farms.’
Carveth, now upright through force of will and assistance of wall, blinked. ‘What’s going on?’
In the red light the command deck of the EU-571 looked like a very tidy chamber of Hell.
Actually, Smith thought as Schmidt led them between the rows of computers, more a corridor than a chamber. Men nodded and gestured at screens and an officer sneezed into a paper bag. Only the soft hum of computers and the whisper of engines broke the silence.
Suruk tapped Smith on the shoulder. ‘All these red lights,’ he whispered. ‘I have heard of such places, Mazuran, in districts of Holland. Be on your guard, lest one of these men seeks to repair your washing machine.’
Turning, Schmidt leaned close and lowered his voice. ‘Captain Smith, our long-range scanners have detected a vessel in the area. There is no visual confirmation. By now, it ought to be in range.
Perhaps it is your enemy.’
‘Maybe.’
‘We will approach,’ Schmidt added. ‘But stay very quiet. Our stealth capacities are not limitless, I am afraid.’
‘Righto,’ Smith said. ‘Crew, pay close attention and pipe down!’
‘Yes,’ said Schmidt, ‘but quietly.’
Schmidt peered into a computer screen, adjusted his sweater and pulled down his captain’s hat.
He frowned, as the man from the adverts might do when confronted by an unsatisfactory piece of frozen cod.
Rhianna took hold of Smith’s arm. ‘Look.’ She pointed at a large dial mounted on the wall. ‘Is that supposed to be happening?’
Smith looked at the dial. It reminded him of several of the controls of the John Pym, although the lettering on the dial was in the language of abroad. Perhaps it had something to do with the EU-571’s stealth system.
Schmidt stood up and stepped over to join them. ‘Hmm,’ he said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
‘Franz?’
A tubby, fair-haired man leaned over from the console to the right. He looked at the dial and scratched his head.
Very slowly, the needle began to rise. They watched it crawl past 800, then on to 1,000. Smith glanced to his left: the neck of Schmidt's sweater bulged as he swallowed, hard.
‘It's past a thousand,’ Carveth said.
‘One thousand one hundred,’ Franz whispered.
Slowly, steadily, the needle approached the red. Smith held his breath. A single bead of sweat rolled down from Schmidt's hairline.
‘One thousand three hundred,’ Franz said.
‘This is worrying,’ Suruk declared. ‘I think we should remove the needle.’
‘Why are we looking at the dial?’ Carveth asked.
Smith glanced round. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I'm looking at the dial because – well, because Captain
Schmidt here is looking at it. It's clearly very important.’
‘Really?’ Schmidt turned his attention from the dial as if awaking to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. ‘Being the captain, and therefore responsible for the smooth running of this vessel, I was inspecting the dial because you brought it to my attention.’
‘I only looked at it because you did,’ Smith replied, feeling slightly put out.
‘Me? It was you who began all this dial-staring.’
‘I didn't start it!’
‘Yes you did. You –’
A woman was walking by, ticking items off on a clipboard. As she passed she reached out without looking and hit the top of the dial with her hand. It dropped back down to zero. ‘ Kaput scheisser Maschine,’ she muttered, and she carried on. Below the dial, a small door opened and a tiny brass man slid out, hit a bell and drew back inside.
Petra had been peering at one of the scanners. She tapped the screen. ‘Hey! Look at this.’
‘What is it?’ Schmidt demanded.
‘Sensors for the outside,’ she replied. ‘If we pinpoint the location, cross-referencing all the vectors…’
‘Just what I would have done,’ Carveth put in. She had slumped against a bulkhead.
‘We find the sensors pinpoint an area of space about here.’ Petra tapped the screen twice and it zoomed in on a patch of empty space. It looked like nothing, Smith thought. Perhaps the EU-571 lacked the sophisticated scanning equipment of the John Pym.
The screen flashed blue. Lightning blazed in the centre of the monitor. Needles flapped in dials like the wings of frightened birds. Suddenly they were looking at the vessel that had ambushed them – and it did not seem to have detected them.
‘That’s him!’ Smith cried. ‘We’ve got him cold! Get a lock on and show him what for!’
‘What?’ said Schmidt.
‘That’s the ship that blew up our convoy!’ Smith grinned at the screen. ‘Now we’ve got you! Give him a rocket, Schmidt.’
‘Rocket?’ Schmidt and Petra exchanged a puzzled look. ‘Captain Smith, we do not have any rockets.’
‘Lasers, then. Slice his bows off.’
‘ Entschuldigung! ’ Schmidt looked genuinely appalled. ‘Please calm yourself, Captain. One, this ship belongs to the European Union, not the British Space Empire. And two, do you realise the paperwork that would involve?’
‘Paperwork?’
‘Not to be mentioning three… we have no guns.’
‘What?’
‘I approve,’ Suruk said. ‘Ramming speed!’
‘No, no “ramming speed”. Europe is a place of peace. This vessel was built to survey, to discover and, once sufficient evidence of an enemy attack has been uncovered, to enable the passing of a condemnatory resolution. Not to go in with all guns blazing like Butch Cassidy and der Sonnetanzkind, okay?’
Smith stared at the image on the screen, the grim-looking, converted ship – his prey – within range. ‘But… but –’
Rhianna put her hand on Smith’s shoulder. ‘Isambard, he’s right. We can’t just tell them what to do.’ She turned to Schmidt. ‘Will it be a sternly worded resolution, Herr Raumskapitan?’
‘Oh, very.’
‘That’s okay, then.’
‘Humph!’ Smith pulled away. ‘Pass a resolution? I’ve passed water more frightening than that.’
Schmidt gave him a stern look. Smith returned it. They volleyed the stern look for several seconds.
Petra looked up from the computer. ‘I have it,’ she announced. ‘Former
ly Royal Mail shuttle RMS Greendale, believed lost at space six years ago, taken by pirates. The ship reappeared three months ago, renamed Fist of Sacred Hate and refitted as a light destroyer of the Republic of Eden. Gentlemen, you are looking at an Edenite ship.’
‘Edenite?’ Smith shook his head. On the screen, blue light shone from the ship’s few windows, as if it glowed inside. The armour was striped red, like wounds. Symbols had been painted around the airlocks. Hooked chains drifted lazily around the craft like the tentacles of dead octopi. ‘But they’re insane cultists. And that ship looks like. . well, it looks –’
‘Like it came from Hell,’ Carveth whispered.
Suruk threw back his head and laughed. The sound rang through the metal corridor. “Then there is only one thing to do,” he declared. ‘We must pursue this craft to wherever it dwells, hunt it out and carve a path to its dark heart! I, Suruk of the line of Agshad shall destroy this vessel, no matter what fiery abyss it may choose for a hiding-place. For it is better to reign in Hell than.. ’ Suruk raised a hand and scratched his head. ‘Er. .’
‘Remain in Hull?’ Carveth suggested.
‘Drizzle in Heaven?’ Smith said.
‘No.. I remember now!’ Suruk exclaimed. ‘For it is better to reign in Hell than anywhere else!’
*
‘Well,’ said Smith, admiring the John Pym, ‘they’ve finished the repairs.’
Schmidt rubbed his beard. Above them, great mechanical arms flexed and swung silently, like the hands of puppeteers. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘It looks better than ever,’ Smith replied. He put out a hand. ‘I’m sorry I got cross, Raumskapitan Schmidt. You’ve been a great help. Thanks to you, we have the lead we needed.’
‘And I got smashed,’ Carveth added.
‘And I got some interesting seeds,’ Rhianna put in. Ingrid winked.
‘I would give you some tea in return,’ Smith said, ‘but I’m afraid we’re going to need all the moral fibre we have for the voyage ahead.’
Rhianna held out the smaller of their lunch tins. ‘I made a cake,’ she added.
‘Thank you,’ Schmidt replied. ‘You are most kind. But hey – you must get going. Space traffic control have another strike booked for four o’clock. They must have heard there were British trying to leave.’
