by Toby Frost
‘True,’ said Wainscott. ‘Splendid fellows.’
‘We’ve also had a response from the Khlangari. They’re going to grace us with a delegation of mystics.’
‘I see.’
The Khlangari were short, placid and fat, and spent most of their time pottering around their small planet, hooting and doing baffling things with soup. But they were protected. For reasons unknown, the Khlangari had a symbiotic relationship with the Voidani space-whales, who had a history of violently “researching” any space vessels they disliked. If anyone could make allies of the Voidani, it was them.
From deep within the ship, a metallic groan announced that the docking systems were synchronising. The ship rocked violently.
‘Looks like the joint’s open,” Dreckitt said. “Let’s go find the big cheese.’
*
As the John Pym swept into the landing bay, Smith realised that they were in good – and spectacularly bad – company. Deliverance’s lower spaceport, reserved for heretics and aliens, was packed with renegade ships of every sort: ex-light cruisers; freight ships bristling with grappling hooks and jury-rigged gun turrets; waste-disposal shuttles turned to dirtier work; Royal Mail ships gone postal; even a mobile hydroponics plant gone properly to pot – all united in the red stripes of the renegades, all flying under the Jolly Roger. A huge sign hung over the landing bay. It read: Looking for meaning in life? Inquire about murder and pillage within!
They touched down and gathered their kit.
‘It’s a bloody recruiting drive,’ Carveth whispered. She carried a shotgun, her automatic and two of Suruk’s smaller knives, which looked like swords on her. She had spent the last few minutes padlocking Gerald's cage shut, to keep him safe while they were gone.
The airlock opened and the smell of sulphur rushed in. Smith stepped out. The flames of Deliverance raged and bubbled below them, as red and angry as a drunk’s curry. A network of gantries and walkways stretched as far as Smith could see, strung together by great taut wires. Arches of blackened steel connected the habitation-blocks and guard towers, studded with images of reapers and skulls. It looked like a hellish, crazed version of the Empire itself, as though New London had mated with the sleeve art of one of Iron Sabbath’s less polished albums. Everything was grimy: the floor was perforated steel, crispy with soot; the propaganda screens had a sheen of black as though they had started to decay.
There were guards and guns everywhere, of course: robes, uniforms and brutish faces, mirrored sunglasses specked with dirt from the furnace below.
This, Smith thought, was going to be hard. The Empire allowed its citizens to worship practically anything so long as it didn’t involve criminality or making a fuss, but there were still plenty of sects too crazy to be granted a licence by the Collected Synod. However, none were as demented as the Edenites: not the Dawkinians who vehemently followed a god that refused to believe in itself, or the Objectionabilists who worshipped money and considered arrogance to be the greatest virtue. After the schism among the Ronaldian Dualists about the true meaning of the ritual of the Four Candles, the Republic of Eden now had a virtual monopoly in religious lunacy.
An Edenite acolyte stood at the bottom of the John Pym’s steps – beside the landing leg that sometimes folded up too early. One look at the man’s white robes and broad smile, at once insipid and sinister, and Smith hoped that the leg would malfunction again and deposit eighty tonnes of spaceship on his empty head.
‘Pirates, are we?’ the acolyte asked, opening his briefcase.
‘Yes – I mean Arr, that’s right, er… shipmate.’ Smith replied.
‘Right then.’ The acolyte fished out a wad of paper and shoved it towards Smith. ‘Are you stressed?’
Smith frowned. ‘Er, what?’ Carveth asked.
‘Not until now,’ Suruk replied.
‘It’s a questionnaire,’ the acolyte explained. ‘It’s well known that pirates suffer from extreme stress. We of the New Eden can cure you.’
‘Now look,’ said Smith, ‘Much as we pirates love paperwork, me old sea dog, I’m not sure I want –’
‘Stress is caused by the attachment of negative money energy. Money attaches itself to the uninitiated. Only by full initiation into the Church of the New Eden will you be relieved of all stress. Indeed, the highest levels of our faith are spiritually fixed –’
‘And materially broke?’ Carveth glared at the acolyte, her arms folded. ‘I know bollocks when I hear it. And believe me, I hear a lot of bollocks. . Jim lad.’
She had a point, Smith thought. The Edenites spouted out more crap than a whale with the runs, but they would have to be appeased. For now. He glanced around: Carveth looked unimpressed, while Suruk had taken off his pirate hat and seemed to be looking for something inside. Smith decided to act fast in case Suruk’s mislaid item turned out to be a grenade.
‘Shush, Carv – er, Black Tom. We will take your questionnaires, ye swab, and add them to our stack of plunder.’
‘Excellent,’ the acolyte replied. ‘You can fill them out while you watch our induction film.’
Carveth raised a hand. ‘Will there be ice cream?’
The acolyte shuddered violently, glared at her and shrieked ‘There is no ice cream in the cinemas of Eden because ice cream is a sin, you pie-chasing harlot!’
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I suppose that’s a no.’
Bands of filthy warriors trooped off the landing pad, clutching their questionnaires. The crew of the John Pym slipped easily into the malodorous procession.
‘So then,’ Suruk asked, ‘what happens if they discover that we are not really space pirates?’
‘Nothing good,’ Carveth replied. Worry gave her small face a look of almost comical concentration, like a child confronted by a fraction. ‘I’m just guessing, but I reckon they’ll splice your mainbrace, shiver my timbers, Jolly Roger the captain and wear you as a hat. Possibly not in that order.’
‘Worrying indeed,’ Smith observed. ‘Still, there is a plus side.’
‘Really?’ she said.
‘Definitely. These questionnaires are really easy to fill in.’
That didn’t seem to cheer her up very much, Smith noticed. It was true, though: the Edenite forms were tick-box, with only one box per question, except for the space for credit card details at the end. Unlike the yearly questionnaire that the Secret Service sent out with the Christmas cards, it didn’t ask whether he was a sexual deviant or knew how to blow up a house with a toaster.
The propaganda theatre stood on the top of the gantry. Like much Edenite architecture, it looked like a result of crossing a nuclear bunker with a cathedral. Keeping his hand near his gun, Smith led the others into the dark.
The screening-room was full of space pirates, degenerates and mercenaries. A few were M'Lak, swigging freely from fizzy drinks. Suruk scowled. Most, however, were human – although, given the proliferation of crude bionics and self-inflicted scarring, it was quite hard to tell.
As they sat down – Suruk on one side, Smith on the other and Carveth in the middle – a space pirate with lank hair and no nose leaned over in a clatter of weaponry. ‘I cut me own nose off,’ he confided, ‘to put fear in me enemies. They call me. . No-Nose.’
‘Bilge!’ a second buccaneer called. ‘You tried to pick it with a hook.’
The curtains parted and the lights dimmed. ‘Be still,’ Suruk hissed. ‘You would not like me when I miss plot details.’
It was the worst film that Smith had ever seen. It explained the history of the Republic of Eden and began with a list of historical villains that the Edenites admired. It might as well have been called Great Mistakes in Facial Hair, he thought: never had he seen such a loathsome parade of moustaches, both stunted and overgrown, riotous beards and gluey toupees looking as out of place as a Procturan black ripper in a rabbit hutch. Around 2300, the film claimed, a variety of religious nutcases from across Earth had done the inevitable and put aside their doctrinal differences to wor
k together on what they considered truly important: hatred and genocide. Thus was born the Brotherhood of the New Eden, and its members had been killing one another and anyone else ever since.
‘This little girl is being treated in the Communist People’s Republic of Britain,’ the screen declared. Pictures of a child in a hospital appeared. ‘ The godless medics demand no payment from her. Yet as they work, the doctors surgically remove her soul. It’s true! In any decent society, she would have been left by the side of the road as a gift for the Great Annihilator.’
Things had clearly changed in the Republic of Eden, Smith thought. In the old days, the Edenites had welcomed anyone with a sufficiently crazed outlook and the weapons to back it up: these days they seemed to be screening for real madmen before giving them some sort of tax exemption. Not that there were any taxes in the New Eden, as the narrator on the screen explained: taxes were for communists.
Charitable donations to the Republic, on the other hand, were both frequent and obligatory.
‘…And who runs this conspiracy? the screen demanded. Who's real y pul ing the strings behind this communist plot against al we hold sacred and dear?’
‘'Tis the British Navy!’ a voice yelled from the back of the room.
‘The devil himself!’
‘Ol’Blue Teeth, the crooning scourge of space!’
‘Wrong,’ the screen declared, and a derisory hail of popcorn, along with the odd knife, flew out of the audience. ‘From his secret headquarters deep below Highgate Cemetery, Karl Marx plots to spread communism through his tool, the British Space Empire. Everywhere his agents stand poised with their lips stiff, ready to disarm you, to provide you with a functional society, and to ensnare your nubile of spring for their own depraved pleasures.’
‘What utter rubbish,’ Smith muttered. ‘Alright, I have disarmed a few Edenites, but only by shooting them first. And if they think Britain has a functional society, they should try catching a train to Slough on Saturday night. And –’
‘I once saw a much better film about pirates,’ Carveth said. ‘It was called Das Booty. There was this lady pirate living on a submarine, and a bloke came round to fix her washing machine –’
No-Nose shushed them. ‘D‘ye mind? I’m trying to learn about plunder here.’
A man in an enormous conical hat appeared on the screen. It was white, like his robes, brimless, with earflaps and a small visor. The letter E above his eyebrows marked him out as an Exalted Warlock of the New Eden.
‘What can be done?’ the hierarch demanded. ‘How can you help us in our ceaseless struggle against the freedom-hating hordes? Sign up today as a sanctioned freebooter of the Republic of Eden and join our cause of righteous plunder. For the very planet of Deliverance will be the starting point of a revolution, the unleashing of a divine wrath that shal come upon our enemies unawares, as the Great Annihilator did come unawares onto Rehab daughter of Fetherboam in her hour of licentiousness. And from the void you shall fall on our enemies like the wolf on the fold, and take your pick of the possessions of the British Space Empire!’
The audience whooped and stamped. Someone drew a machete and waved it in the air. It seemed to be a good time to leave.
As they slipped out of one foul atmosphere and into another, Smith wondered whether the space pirates had been just bellowing randomly at the end of the film – or whether they were cheering it. It was time to find out what the hierarchs of Eden were really up to.
*
W stood in a large, airy hall, its walls made of polished brass. Lamps stretched out from the walls on delicate, scrollworked arms. Creepers spilled down from a wrought-iron balcony. Light classical music chirped through the air. A small hovering robot moved up the wall, rotors whirling, as it buffed the metal with polish and cloth.
W looked down. He could see his own face reflected in the floor.
‘I thought you said this was a waste disposal plant?’ Wainscott said.
‘I suppose they disposed of it all,’ W replied. ‘I’ll ask.’
A man sat on a large bench in the shade of a potted tree. He was cradling a cleaning drone in his hands like a pet, working at it with a screwdriver. As he approached, W saw that the drone had been built out of several rulers and a cigar box.
‘Excuse me…’
The man looked up. He wore glasses and was clean-shaven and broad across the shoulders. He looked strong without being particularly large. ‘Hello?’
‘We're looking for the station governor,’ W said.
The man seemed slightly surprised. ‘That's me. Are you lost?’
W looked around. ‘I thought this was a waste-disposal plant.’
The man nodded. ‘It is. I did a bit of work on the place. The last people left it in a terrible mess.
It used to be a right dump.’ He turned and tossed the drone into the air. Its motors caught as it left his grip and, mosquito-like, it rose towards the rafters.
‘Did you make that?’ W asked.
‘Oh, yes. There're a few dozen knocking around. They keep the new wing clean.’
‘The new wing?’
‘It's nothing much. You get a lot of scrap in a recycling plant. Might as well do something with it.’
The man took out his handkerchief, wiped his hand and held it out. ‘You must be the people wanting to hire the hall. Mike Barton.’
‘Eric Lint,’ W said, ‘although that's classified.’
‘Wainscott. Major. That's classified too.’
There was a moment's awkward silence. Wainscott said, ‘How many people do you govern?’
‘One,’ Barton said. ‘And I really just take him out for walks. He’s a dog.’
‘Governor Barton,’ W said, ‘when did you last see a human being?’
‘About three years ago.’
The visitors exchanged a look.
‘So, what do you want the hall for, a birthday party or something?’
‘It's top secret,’ Wainscott replied.
‘A surprise party? Because I thought I'd give you a bit of help putting the banners up, maybe set out a buffet, and then get out of your way.’
‘Actually,’ W replied, ‘it's an intergalactic conference to discuss mankind's place in the universe.’
‘Oh, right,’ Barton replied. Suddenly, he looked worried. The gravitas of the situation was sinking in. ‘That's serious. I hope we've got enough balloons.’
*
Thirty yards up ahead, a huge pair of gates blocked the way. Each gatepost was topped with a sentry point, equipped with searchlights and the inevitable machine guns. The gates bore a steel relief of demons throwing sinners into flames, while a winged, bearded creature looked on and laughed. It was in fact the Great Annihilator, an amalgam of the most bloodthirsty and delinquent deities of Earth.
A soldier stood in front of the gates, hulking in robes worn over a suit of mechanised armour.
Whoever sold cloth and mirrored shades to the Edenites was probably very wealthy by now, Smith reflected. And kindling wood.
‘Hold it right there, heathen trash!’ The guard’s gloved finger flicked a switch on his massive gun, and the barrels slowly began to rotate, like a hand flexing its fingers ready to curl into a fist. ‘The higher levels are sanctified for members of the Republic of Eden only. If you do not have suitable authorisation I request that you step down. I have a level four-gamma blessing, authorising me to use lethal force in any situation.’
‘I’ll deal with this,’ Smith said quietly. ‘Natural bully, your Edenite. Just has to realise he can’t have his own way.’
He stepped up close. ‘Remove your sunglasses, my good man.’
‘Screw you, unbeliever,’ the guard said, and prodded him in the chest with his gun.
Smith fell over. As Suruk helped him up, he reflected that his powers of persuasion were not as strong as he had recalled. Perhaps the Edenites were too stupid to be affected by the Bearing. Or maybe the guard was just laughing too hard to hear.
‘B
astard,’ Carveth muttered.
‘If you pirates want to get in,’ the guard declared, ‘you need to be absolved of your sins, through Mark 12.’
‘Is that a bible verse?’ Smith asked.
‘Bible?’ The guard patted his gun. ‘ This is Mark 12. The Mark 12 Absolver with integrated angel-eye tracking system to ensure its message of salvation goes straight to your heart. Guaranteed to free your soul from all worldly cares in less than two seconds.’
‘We’ll be going now,’ Smith said.
The guard’s face had taken on a dreamy look. ‘Heck, I’ve converted nigh on fifteen hundred unbelievers with this thing. One moment they’re begging for mercy, and the next they’re in spirit form.
It’s a beautiful transformation.’
‘Come along, chaps,’ Smith said, and he ushered them away.
‘Wait! I haven’t told you about the underslung holy smoke launchers. Why get angry when you can get incensed?’
Pirates still trooped out of the cinema, muttering and cursing. Smith could hear the occasional burst of song or snarling cheer, but a new mood seemed to have settled over the horde, a sort of menacing contemplation. The pirates despised the Edenites, that much was obvious, but the film had raised new and exciting opportunities for pillage. Grumbling, the renegades turned towards the grog-house that the Edenites had erected for them, a rickety structure called The Booty Hut.
Smith ushered his crew to one side and they stood under the sanctified eaves while the bandits made their comparatively thoughtful way past. ‘Men,’ he whispered, ‘it appears that we've stumbled into a conspiracy, and now we're knee-deep in the foulness of enemy treachery. It seems the Edenites are recruiting for some kind of big raid on the Empire. This does not bode well for Britain: indeed, I'd raise the level of boding from poorly to full-on ill.’
‘True,’ Suruk replied. He rubbed his jaw in thought, managing not to spike his hand on his mandibles in the process. ‘The space pirates circle the ailing lion of Britain like hyaenas. While the Edenite serpent strikes from the front, these freebooters hope to bite from behind, to get –’
