A Game of Battleships

by Toby Frost

  Suruk waited by the wall, a cup of flat beer in his hand, watching the room like a Roman emperor overlooking the arena. Carveth stood beside him. Smith waved at them and approached.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ he yelled over the band, ‘that thirty years ago I’d have been trying to shoot half of these alien chaps, and now they’re our friends. How times change!’

  ‘You must have been a bloody tough ten-year-old,’ Carveth called back.

  Suruk leaned over. ‘Thirty years ago, I would have been trying to kill you. And now we have. .dancing. And they call it progress.’

  ‘What’s wrong with dancing?’ Carveth demanded.

  Suruk frowned. ‘We have discussed this before,’ he replied, his deep voice raised against the band, ‘and the answer remains no. I do not dance.’

  ‘But why not?’ Carveth demanded. ‘Look, Wainscott and Susan are dancing.’ In the past Smith had tried not to wonder what the Deepspace Operations Group did when they were not blowing things up; surprisingly, the answer seemed to include swing dance.

  ‘It is not befitting a warrior.’

  ‘What about the Gilled Helmsman, then? He's having a lovely time.’ She pointed to the massive tank at the edge of the hall. Water slopped against the side, sending its occupant rocking and bobbing.

  ‘That is not dancing. He has just turned the wave machine on.’

  ‘Look, it's easy. First, you've got to keep time with the music. Put your hand out… like this.’

  Warily, Suruk extended his hand. ‘Now, when the beat comes, click your fingers. See what I’m doing?’

  Watching her closely, as if expecting an attack, Suruk did the same. Dreckitt, returning from the bar with a double whisky, watched them clicking their fingers. ‘That’s right, Lurch,’ he said.

  ‘Now,’ Carveth continued, ‘we take to the floor. Here.’

  She approached and took Suruk’s hand. ‘Up like this,’ Carveth said, and Suruk, who believed that physical contact was better done with spears, went along with her. Tentatively, Carveth steered him onto the dancefloor. Smith watched Carveth and Suruk make their hesitant way across the floor like an Aresian fighting machine with a damaged gyroscope.

  Their dancing, however inept, filled him with sudden, almost ferocious pride. They were bloody good sorts, cowardice and homicidal mania aside, and he was damned proud to have them as a crew.

  Who else could have brought back that mirror from the heart of New Eden?

  But more troubling images floated into view. There was no point in hoping that 462 had been killed in the pirate uprising: maybe he would have gained a new scar, or acquired a dented bottom, but the Ghast was like Michelangelo’s David: he might not look like much of a tough guy, but you’d need heavy weapons to do anything more than chip little pieces off the bugger. Smith might be in the company of friends but he still wasn’t safe – not by a very long way.

  W and Governor Barton sat at the edge of the room, drinking pints. Barton’s spaniel sat on his lap. The governor looked slightly furtive, as if expecting to be ambushed by a horde of potential dance-partners. Smith strolled over and took a seat on the far side of the table.

  Smith beckoned to W and the spy leaned across. ‘Sir,’ Smith said, ‘I want to move the mirror away from here.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous. If what you said about this Dodgson fellow is true, a portal to another dimension and Suruk’s killer frogs could be an incredibly dangerous combination. We need to get the mirror away from here.’

  ‘Well, we can’t just dump it in space. It needs to be securely locked away.’

  ‘You’re right.’ The band stopped, leaving them sitting awkwardly until the music began again. ‘I suggest we put it in a box, and then dump it in space.’ Seeing that W looked unconvinced, he added, ‘It won’t drift away. There’s no current to move it. My pilot’s got a book about astrophysics,’ he finished, not mentioning that the book in question had come free with breakfast cereal.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ W said. ‘We’re going to look a bit bloody silly if we lose a portal to another dimension.’ The spy stared across the room and Smith followed his gaze. One of the operational controllers, a simulant named Dawn, was approaching rapidly. Behind her came a slim man in a dark jacket and roll-neck jumper, a low-level European access pass pinned to his lapel. Smith felt strangely sure he had seen the fellow somewhere before.

  ‘Could you give me a minute, Smith?’ W asked.

  ‘Righto.’ Smith leaned back, listened to the band and wondered how much he had drunk: surely only three or four pints. Perhaps it was time he switched to fruit juice, or at least drinks with a bit of lime on the top. Carveth and Dreckitt swept past on the dance floor, surprisingly elegant given what Carveth was trying to do to him. Suruk lounged against the bar, looking glad to have escaped. His top hat, dark clothing and mandibles made him strangely like Abraham Lincoln in profile.

  The doors at the far end of the hall rolled apart and a woman stood in the aperture. Smith stared, unsure. Surely not. There were hundreds of women in the delegations of the Earth, many of them very attractive. But none would be quite so beautiful, or so tie-dyed, and certainly none would be smoking a jazz cigarette.

  Rhianna stood at the edge of the lift as if unsure whether to continue. It struck Smith as odd that, after years of trying to get the peoples of the galaxy to gather in harmony, she seemed so flummoxed by the sight of it. Nobody appeared to have noticed her – no, he realised, the gilled helmsman had turned in his tank and was beckoning her forward. Smith waved, to no avail.

  Rhianna closed her eyes and did that annoyed-by-constipation expression that meant she was attempting to wield her psychic abilities. Suddenly she stopped and looked straight at Smith. Her face broke into a broad, foolish grin, an expression he'd not seen on her before, and as he got up she strode through the half-chatting, half-dancing crowd in a swirling mass of artificial silk.

  On stage, Maurice E. Smith pulled the microphone close. ‘ There's a picnic on the streets of London,’ he crooned, ‘ and Heaven knows I'm cheerful now.’

  Rhianna came close, her smile reflecting Smith’s, and kissed him.

  ‘I wasn't expecting you,’ he said. ‘Not to begin with, anyway.’

  ‘I'm sorry I didn't explain. But I couldn't. It was top secret.’

  ‘Not at all. You did the right thing. Where're the Vorl?’

  ‘They got kinda delayed. You know how they don't have a fixed corporeal form?’

  ‘Made of smoke, you mean.’

  ‘Right. Well, one of them was standing next to the air vent and somebody must've turned the air conditioning up.. Anyway, they've found him now. He materialised in the kitchens, on top of a plate of finger food. I think it freaked out some of the guys working down there. It's lucky nobody hurt themselves, all those cocktail sticks lying around.. Did you get my message?’ Rhianna asked.

  ‘Your psychic message?’

  ‘Yes. So it worked, then?’

  ‘Jolly well thanks. It gave me a – I mean, I got it loud and clear.’

  A spotlight came on above Rhianna, turning her dress bright red. At the back of the room, doors slammed. ‘This reminds me of my high school prom,’ she said. ‘Shall we dance?’

  Smith, who had seen Rhianna dancing before, said, ‘Why don't you dance and I'll sit down and watch?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ She took his hand and, with unexpected formality, began to waltz to the strains of Thank the DJ. Smith let himself be swept along. He wondered if she was wearing any shoes, since it would have been difficult to do the backward steps in flip-flops.

  Looking around the room, he spotted the Khlangari delegation wobbling about happily at the far end of the room. He reflected that perhaps the peoples of the galaxy were ultimately alike, and that even on Khlangar the males were feebly hooting their objection as the females hauled them up to pootle about awkwardly on the dance floor. His happiness at seeing Rhianna blotted out his apprehension that booze and i
neptitude would tip him onto his face and together they half waltzed, half-wandered across the floor.

  *

  ‘If you think that Indian TV is all musical numbers and dancing about,’ said Space Captain Singh, ‘you should see our DIY programmes. You can’t swing a chainsaw and sing at the same time, I can tell you.’

  ‘Actually, you can,’ Suruk replied. ‘But only with joy. More tea?’

  ‘Thank you. Now, as I was saying…’

  ‘Nothing to make a song and dance of, huh?’ Dreckitt had slid down in his chair, a glass of artificial whisky in one hand. Carveth picked the drooping cigarette neatly from of the corner of his mouth before it had the chance to fall into his drink and create a fireball. ‘Damn,’ Dreckitt muttered, ‘this hooch kicks harder than the chorus-line at Madame Fifi’s. They ought to spray it when there’s a riot on.’

  ‘Myself,’ said Raumskapitan Schmidt, ‘I prefer schnapps. Prost! ’

  ‘Anything but tea,’ Space Captain Schwartz drawled. ‘Bourbon, Mr Dreckitt?’

  The various space captains sat around a table at the rear of the hall. The dancing continued, but Smith had decided to sit down before he fell off the dance floor and onto some visiting dignitary. Besides, he needed to be able to get back to his room – or more importantly, Rhianna’s – and do something other than immediately pass out. He looked at her across the table and smiled. She looked alarmed. Smith wondered what the problem was until a finger tapped him hard on the shoulder.

  Wainscott stood behind him. ‘Problem, Smith,’ the major said.

  ‘Has something exploded?’

  ‘We need to talk. Come on.’

  Smith clambered upright and followed Wainscott out of the room. In the foyer, the music sounded distant and muffled, as though underwater. The room felt impossibly airy and empty.

  W, Barton, Susan and Captain Fitzroy sat on heavy red armchairs, as if they had retired for a glass of port and a manly chat. With them was the man in the roll-neck jumper Smith had seen earlier. As he approached, the man raised his hands and shrugged, and with a jolt of surprise Smith realised who he was: Le Fantome.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Smith demanded.

  W gestured to Le Fantome. The Frenchman stood up and put his hands behind his back. ‘ Mes amis, I have gathered you all here to announce that in our midst is what is known in France as un probleme.

  Someone on this colony is not who he seems. There is an impostor.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Smith exclaimed. Captain Fitzroy reached for her gin. W scowled. Wainscott looked entirely confused. Barton said, ‘Oh, that sounds really bollocks.’

  ‘Quite so, messieurs-dammes. I was checking the security with your assistant – I forget her name, but she reminds me of Marie de Poppins–’

  ‘Dawn,’ W said.

  ‘ Ah, oui. Une fille charmante. She told me that there were twelve persons on the European support staff. This is not so. There are eleven.’ He rocked back on his heels, making Smith feel giddy as he tried to keep focus on the man’s face. ‘I smelled une souris, and so I leaped into action. One name on the list does not add up… Thomas Perdu, a general assistant to the deputation. The real Thomas Perdu died six months ago. The one here is false. As you English would say, he is un person rhum.’

  ‘Have you seen this fellow?’ Smith asked.

  ‘No. We did not know of him until we arrived here. We suspect he may have stowed away on one of the other vessels – a difficult task, but not, as one might say en Francais, impossible.’

  ‘What?’ Wainscott exclaimed. ‘Dammit, man, speak English!’

  ‘Impossible, Major Wainscott.’

  ‘Try, dammit!’

  ‘Thomas Perdu is a false name. I can only conclude that this man is here under false pretences.’

  Smith said, ‘Well then. It sounds like we should get looking for Tom Perdu.’

  ‘We will, yes,’ said W. ‘But you’re going out tomorrow morning to get rid of that mirror, Smith.

  You'll put it face down in a big box and anchor it to an asteroid, preferably one that isn't going anywhere.

  Then we can collect it later, once the treaty is agreed. And if there's any trouble - well then, there won't be any risk of the enemy getting close to it. Any questions?’

  Smith shook his head. ‘I'll let my crew know.’

  ‘Then we're agreed,’ W said. ‘Wainscott, Susan, we need to discuss how to locate this Tom Perdu fellow. Everyone else, I'd advise getting some sleep. And perhaps a couple of aspirin.’

  Le Fantome bowed. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I like this plan. It is, as we say en Francais, super-cool.’

  Searching for Tom Perdu

  ‘Hello and good morning. This is R Trevor Humphreys, reporting live for the Today programme from the treaty negotiations between the British Space Empire and other nations both human and alien; first among them, the Vorl. For reasons of security I can’t give our location, but I am able to speak to some of the representatives here to gauge their opinions on the task ahead. As might be expected, there is a strong M’Lak presence here and I’m joined by two of their elders now.

  ‘First, Vorgak Spleen-Ripper, Minister of War for the Greater M’Lak Heartlands. Vorgak, what are you looking for from this peace agreement?’

  ‘War!’

  ‘Also here today is Athnarar of the line of Gathrog, minister for Fisheries and Agriculture.’

  ‘…And war.’

  ‘My apologies. Minister for Fisheries, Agriculture and War, what do you see the main points of disagreement to be today?’

  ‘I thank you, Trevor. Today, we are on the cusp of an agreement that has the potential to change not just this conflict but the face of galactic relations. Truly, the future is an undiscovered country, and the signing of this treaty will bring that country one step closer to being like Belgium. It will be a future that the people of Earth richly deserve.’

  ‘So there you have it. High hopes on al sides. Now, I believe the delegates are entering the debating chamber…’

  *

  W followed the government delegation into the conference room and stepped into the rumble of fifty-six languages as if into a cloud of noise.

  The room was easily the size of an aircraft hangar, chosen both to accommodate and intimidate the guests. Massive aspidistras flanked the doors. Brass lions, their heads tilted back to roar at the ceiling, stood at the corners; ornamental flames belched occasionally from their mouths. As W sat down, he saw his opposite number from the United Free States poke a cigarette into a lion's nostril, blow across the tip and take a drag. For a long moment the two men exchanged a look of weary cynicism, and then the opposite number turned to find his seat.

  Governor Barton sat beside W, looking awkward in a new suit as though about to go on trial.

  One of Barton's cleaning automata puttered across the ceiling, a scanner bolted to its underside. It bumped into the Khlangari translation machine and swung away in a brief flurry of sparks.

  The huge doors on the right side of the room parted and the M’Lak delegation entered in two rows, the great tank of the gilled helmsman sliding between them. ‘Oh, ancestors!’ Sedderik moaned as he rubbed his large head, ‘what did I absorb through my gills last night?’

  His comrades did not have a chance to answer. Two announcement-drones swung down from the ceiling and blasted out a little fanfare. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and things,’ they proclaimed, ‘let the deliberations begin!’

  The Empire’s Minister of Colonial Affairs was first. He made a short opening speech, explaining that it was time for the peoples of the galaxy to set their differences aside and do what they were damned well told for once. Certainly, some of the delegates were different shapes and sizes – some had long traditions of helping the Space Empire, while others had shorter traditions of being shelled from orbit – but it was time for all hands to be on deck and to man the pumps, take the bull by the horns and pull together for the team. Eventually, this was translated.

  The transla
tion machine, looking much like a funnel attached to a set of rotor blades, stabilised itself above the Khlangari delegation and thrummed softly. Ambassador Tai'ni stood up and began to hoot. ‘Tai'ni Khlangari says that as a semi-neutral party, we are delighted to pupate,’ the machine announced. It had a wise, friendly voice. ‘We look forward to discussions being conducted with openness, warmth and puberty.’

  The aliens exchanged puzzled glances. Beside Tai’ni, a Khlangari major stood up, pulled the translator down and gave it a sharp tap, hooting under his breath. ‘Oh sod it,’ said the translator, ‘the bloody thing's stuck again. We are delighted to participate,’ it added, rising into the air, ‘with openness, warmth and probity.’ A ripple of approval ran through the various specii in the room. Heads were nodded, vibrant colours displayed and stamen wobbled.

  At the far side of the room, something like smoke hung around an empty table. The vapour condensed as if being sucked into itself, drawing into the rough outline of two upper bodies. As one of the aliens rose to speak, W recognised his high forehead and the upturned spike of his nose.

  ‘People of the galaxy,’ the Vorl announced in a rather nasal, languid voice, ‘I am C'Neth, Master of the Eight Vectors, Star-lord of Polaris, speaker for the Arch-Patrons of the Vorl. And this is my friend Sann’di. We are here to tell you that Earth must be destroyed!’ he cried. ‘Just kidding. I thought that might break the ice a bit. I think Sann’di’s going to start off.’

  C’Neth sank down as if to disappear through the floor but stopped around three feet above it.

  The Vorl beside him wafted upwards.

  ‘Thanks to our good friend Rhianna Mitchell.. ’

  ‘Lovely girl,’ C’Neth added. ‘I’m so proud of her.’

  ‘. . We have been instructed in what goes on at dos like this. So, who’s reading the first poem, and which one of you fine gentlemen is rolling up?’