by Toby Frost
‘Adjust course!’ Felicity Fitzroy yelled as Chumble yanked the levers. ‘New target – all guns on new target!’
The ghost ship fired first. Its size limited the payload, as did the range, but it was enough. Three rockets ripped through eight yards of ablative armour and blew the Chimera open. By the time the return salvo reached its co-ordinates, the Pale Horse had disappeared.
*
Suruk leaned over Smith’s shoulder, his mandibles open and fangs bared. ‘ Nanah nah nah naah nah,’ he snarled at space as the John Pym shot forward. ‘That is the sound Wagner makes when he rides the Valkyries.’
‘Can’t he pipe down?’ Carveth said as she checked the scanner.
‘Right,’ Smith replied. ‘Suruk, we’re about to enter a warzone. Can’t you do something more appropriate?’
The alien paused. ‘Of course. Mars, by Gustav Holtz! Nananana-na-nanana! But perhaps you are right. On the open plain of deep space, one must stalk prey with caution.’ His yellow eyes narrowed.
‘Now we take our revenge for the destruction of the convoy. Now we track our prey and cut off his bulkhead. Ah, to drive my spear into our foe!’
‘This ship is the spearhead,’ Smith replied. ‘Or would be if we rammed them, which we’re not going to do. More like a gun. Without bullets. But still –’
‘I’m slowing us down,’ Carveth said. ‘Hey – we’re being hailed. It’s a Morlock ship.’
‘Put them on.’
As the voice came over the loudspeakers, a picture appeared on one of the monitors: collective clan vessel Wisdom of the Thirsting Blade. ‘Greetings, humans. It is I, Sedderik of the Gilled. I threw a sickie in order to do battle with our foes. On land I may be an eight-foot talking newt, but in space I have the soul of a warrior!’
‘Good to have you here,’ Smith replied. ‘You’re most welcome.’
‘Our fighter craft stand ready. Our crew are eager for souvenirs. Wait a moment – incoming transmission.’
‘Come in all friendly craft,’ the radio cried.
‘Hello?’ Smith replied.
‘Smitty, that you?’
‘It’s us,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got the Morlock frigate with us.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Captain Fitzroy replied. ‘Listen, we’re pulling back. We’ve taken serious damage and are running low on countermeasures. That bloody stealth ship came out of nowhere and put three torpedoes amidships. You’d best warn the station. Maybe if we get the others to help out –’ she broke off. Seeking help from the other parties to the treaty would not just be an admission of failure; it would be to end the possibility of an equal alliance.
No, Smith thought, knowing that Captain Fitzroy felt the same. This was their mess.
‘Ships on the lidar,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ve got an ID.. three decoy blimps. Two net mines – must’ve come out of the Chimera. Bloody hell! I’ve got four enemy ships on the scope.’
‘Have they seen us?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Alright. Slow us down. Let’s go in quietly.’
‘Wilco.’
Sedderik said, ‘Withdraw, Captain Fitzroy. The Wisdom of the Thirsting Blade will keep the enemy at bay while you contain the damage.’
‘Thanks heaps, newt-chappie,’ Captain Fitzroy replied. ‘It shouldn’t take long to stabilise. We’ve got nanites in the hull.’
Carveth turned round in her seat. ‘They’re like little beetles, I think,’ she hissed in a loud whisper.
‘Friendly beetles.’
‘Moving round to intercept,’ Sedderik said. ‘Fight well, friends!’
As Carveth closed the radio, Suruk leaped to his feet. ‘Curse this inactivity! My brethren move to fight and I am sitting in this rusted tub. If I could make my way onto that stealthy craft, that submarine of shame, I would teach its vile crew the extent of my rage!’
‘You’re right, Suruk. If only we had some proper weaponry. Perhaps I could lean out the porthole with my rifle. . No.’ Smith looked around the room, seeking inspiration. Gerald stared back at him. ‘This is a battle of wits, chaps, like poker or lotto. Space is our board, and the craft on it mere pieces in the game. But the enemy do not have a monopoly on cunning, men.’ As he glared across space an idea stirred at the back of his mind. ‘Only by luring the enemy into a mousetrap will we mastermind their downfall. And then they’ll cop it.’
‘Real world calling…’ Carveth put in. ‘They’re hiding, boss. This isn’t a game of battleships.
They’re in cover.’
‘Then I’ll make them pop up, pilot!’ Abruptly, the idea awoke. ‘Oh my God!’ Smith whispered. ‘I know what we must do.” He looked away from her, away from space, and turned slowly to peer over his shoulder. For a moment he faced Suruk, but he did not meet the alien’s eyes.
‘Oh, no,’ Carveth said behind him, ‘you have got to be bloody kidding. .’
Suruk chuckled, his laughter rising as Carveth’s protests became more frantic. Together, all three of them looked into the corridor.
Rhianna put her head out of her room. ‘Do you mind not doing that, guys? It’s really weirding me out. And shouldn’t you be fighting a space battle?’ Then, realising that she was not the object of their attention, she looked down towards the hold. ‘The mirror?’ she said. ‘Heavy.’
Smith activated the radio. ‘ Chimera, are you there?’
‘Still here,’ Felicity Fitzroy replied.
‘I need to get inside you at once. I’ve got a plan.’
‘One last hurrah, eh? Alright. I’ll have the chaps look out for you.’
Smith switched the radio off. ‘Carveth, prepare to dock. Suruk, is your spear sharp?’
The alien grinned. ‘Does the pope cough pellets in the woods?’
*
The Pale Horse broke into realspace several hundred miles behind the Edenite battleline. 462 turned to Prong. ‘Can we make another jump yet?’
One of Prong’s Handymen dipped his robed head and whispered to him. Prong nodded. ‘The generators need to recharge,’ he said. ‘Thirty-eight minutes. By then the rest of our ships will be in range.’
‘Have your vessels adopt a defensive position,’ the Ghast replied. ‘As soon as we’re ready, make the jump and finish off the human dreadnought from behind.’
One of the technicians looked up, tugging his robe back to let him speak. ‘Lord Prong, we have a new co-ordinate. It appears to be a Morlock ship, steeped in degeneracy and the wrong kind of wrathfulness.’
‘Time to release the fighters,’ 462 said.
Prong glared at his ally. ‘I’ll make that decision.’
At 462’s feet, Assault Unit One laid his antennae back against his head and growled.
Prong looked down at the ant-wolf. ‘I’ve decided to delegate that decision,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ 462 said, leaning into the communications array. ‘Attention Ghast and Yullian fighter squadrons,’ he barked into the commlink. ‘Slaughter-Wing, do you read?’
‘All hail Number One!’ the loudspeaker snarled.
‘Deathbolt Squadron?’
‘Obedience is strength, Commander.’
‘Gentle Patter of Spring Rain on the Temple Roof of Our Beloved and Entirely Non-Genocidal War God Popacapinyo?’
‘ Yul aaaaaiiiii! All glory to Popacapinyo! ’
462 drew back sharply as the squeal of mingled feedback and rodent fury screeched through the loudspeakers. ‘Release the fighters!’ he barked. 462 turned to Lord Prong, and found that the Edenite’s smile matched his own.
*
The Pym swung into the Chimera’s hold and the great doors slammed silently behind it. Air howled through the vents, and as soon as the lights flashed green Smith spun the airlock and rushed down the steps.
A siren jangled in the steel rafters. Pilots ran in, heavy in their flight gear, followed by ground crews and technicians. They thundered past the John Pym to the rear of the hall where the Hellfires waited in a grim line like dogs stra
ining at the same leash. ‘Move it, you lazy bastard!’ a voice yelled, and Smith realised that it was the autopilot of one of the fighters. ‘Check my guns! Where's my pilot, eh?’
Captain Fitzroy ran in last. Ponytail bobbing, she bounded to his side as the rest of the Pym's crew emerged into the hold.
‘You all safe?’ she demanded.
‘Fine. How are you?’
‘ I'm fine. As to the rest of the ship, that's another matter.’
‘Damage?’
‘Yes… some – and some casualties. I’m just on my way to see for myself. The port railguns took a beating. One of our jamming programs caught a torpedo as it came in: the bomb still hit, but we redirected it onto the main armour. That's not the worst of it, though.’
‘No?’ Behind him, refuelling arms folded into the ceiling, hydraulics whining.
‘Fetch me my blasted pilot, by God!’ the Hellfire bellowed.
Felicity Fitzroy scowled. ‘Shuttles took a bad'un to the noggin. They've got him down in sick bay, well out the game.’ She shook her head. ‘Now I’ve got twenty enemy fighters on the scope and four of our chaps against them. The Morlocks are putting six more into the fray, but our best player’s sidelined and the match has hardly begun.’ Her face hardened, the lips and eyes narrowing, and all the jauntiness was gone. ‘Listen, Smith; if you can get me the bastards who did this, I’ll take any plan you’ve got.’
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘When we raided Deliverance, we picked up a piece of experimental tech. I can’t go into much detail, but Carveth here knows how to start it up. We may be able to use it to access the controls of the stealth ship. Once that’s taken out, it’ll be a straight battle.’
‘You think you can do that? Really?’
‘I hope so. It’s dangerous all right – but for the crew of the John Pym, danger is our middle name.’
‘Not I,” Suruk put in. ‘My middle name is the.’
‘The overall result is much the same. We’ll need Wainscott and his men too. This could get nasty.’
Captain Fitzroy shook her head. ‘Damn, Smitty, you intelligence boys really are into some rum stuff. But what can I do? These are desperate times.’ She turned to go. ‘I’ll tell Wainscott to get here.’
‘Pilot!’ the Hellfire roared. ‘The bloody enemy are here and I’m sitting on my back wheel like a lemon pansy. Who’s in charge of this shower?’
‘Sounds like he’s missing Shuttles,’ Smith said.
Captain Fitzroy stopped and looked at him. ‘Want to break it to him?’
Something rose up in Smith then: a mixture of pride, determination and wild enthusiasm.
‘Dammit, I'll fly the Hellfire,’ he said. ‘Carveth, the Pym is yours. Do a good job.’
‘But –’
‘ You? ’ Captain Fitzroy looked as if Smith had just announced that he was pregnant. ‘You know how to fly a Hellfire?’
‘Absolutely. I've got an annual about it and everything.’
Rhianna said, ‘Um, Isambard.. that's very brave, but, er. . no.’
‘Nonsense,’ Smith replied. ‘You're all for following one's dreams, Rhianna. Well, since I built my first model of one, I've dreamed of following my dream of flying a Hellfire Space Fighter –’
‘Straight into a storm of lead,’ Carveth put in. ‘Boss, there’s a reason that the only space fighters you've ever handled say “recommended 12 and up” on the side.’
Captain Fitzroy glanced down the length of the hall, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, Smitty, Polly Pilot here is right. I need someone with real flying experience.’
‘Exactly,’ Carveth said. ‘You've got – what, three hours' actual flying time? You'd have to be seriously trained to work one of those. No offence, boss, but it’s not for you.’
Suruk stepped forward. ‘She is right, Mazuran. This calls for an expert. Captain Fitzroy, I will need a grappling hook and a chainsaw –’
‘Where’s my pilot?’ the Hellfire bellowed. The fighter wing clambered up the sides of their ships, dropped into cockpits as the plastiglass canopies folded down. Slowly, Shuttles’s Hellfire rolled forward of its own accord, turning on its landing wheels. ‘I need a bloody pilot!’ it snarled. The arrogant nosecone turned to the John Pym. ‘Hmm.. who flies this rusty lunchbox?’
‘Hey!’ Carveth exclaimed, ‘That’s my ship!’
‘Then hop on board, shortarse,’ the Hellfire replied. ‘If you can work that cranky old grid, you can ride with me.’
‘Oh no.’ Carveth took a step back from the pointed nose, the rows of gun barrels and the missiles jabbing at her from the upswept wings, the kill markings and the rearing lion breaking a massive ant in its jaws that someone much fiercer than her had painted on the fuselage. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
‘Me?’ she squeaked. ‘Me?’
‘No,’ said the Hellfire, ‘the other pilot-class simulant standing right in front of me.’ Its cannons swivelled down to lock onto her head. ‘The one I’m pointing at.’
Smith stepped forward. ‘Take me.’
‘Bugger off,’ the space fighter replied. ‘I want the android. In the absence of my chief executive officer, I am my chief executive officer, and I’m telling you that I’ve made my choice.’
Smith turned to Carveth, controlling his anger with difficulty. ‘Well, that's. . you – you lucky cow!’
‘Lucky?’ Carveth’s mouth went through fishlike movements. ‘I’ll –’
Thrusters rumbled around them, and her voice was lost in growling engines. She tried to make her point through gestures, many of which were not officially sanctioned signals of the fleet.
Rhianna cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘We’re right behind you, Polly!’
‘I’d rather you were in front!’ Carveth shouted, but by then the Hellfire was turning to her, flank on, cockpit open. She paused a second, wondering how in hell’s name she was getting out of this, and then Suruk stepped in and shoved her buttocks-first up into the chair. And as the cockpit closed around her, she realised that she wasn’t getting out of it at all.
Suddenly it was quiet and warm.
‘Welcome aboard, girlie,’ said the Hellfire. ‘How many hours – wait a minute… where’s your tie?’
‘My what?’ Carveth could not decide which was more frightening: the baffling rows of controls, or the easily understood awfulness of the view through the windscreen. Below her, Smith was waving like a piston, no doubt cursing her luck at getting to fly a space fighter, much as she herself was doing.
‘Your tie, woman,’ the spaceship said. ‘This unit fights smart because it flies smart.’
‘Look,’ Carveth said, ‘this is a terrible mistake. Alright, I’m the only spare pilot, but really – really– I’ve never flown a fighter before.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said the Hellfire. Its systems powered up around Carveth. She felt like a mouse hiding in a toaster that had just been switched on. ‘You want to cut and run, eh? Flip the switch on the front, would you?’
‘This one?’
‘Next one down. Thanks.’ A light appeared on the dashboard. It said : Ejector seat now under autopilot control. The panel next to it activated. It read : Ejector seat control switch also now under autopilot control. ‘Your flying experience stops at chicken, eh? Want someone else to do your fighting for you?’
Wainscott’s men ran past the nosecone, followed by Rick Dreckitt. They looked extremely competent and warlike in their body armour. Rhianna said something to Wainscott, and he grimaced.
‘No,’ Carveth protested. ‘Well, not much.’
‘So what have you flown?’
‘Um.. the John Pym… and a sun-dragon on Urn. Look, I've really got to –’
‘Dragonrider of Urn, are you? I like it! Now listen… you and I are going to go out there and blast the living hell out of anything in our path. If I believed in defence, I’d tell you that the best form of defence is attack – but I don’t, so let’s attack anyway.
When they see my colours coming at them, they’ll regret the day they were born!’
‘Maybe they’ll run away, too.’ Wainscott’s team ran into the John Pym. Rick Dreckitt followed them, but paused at the airlock. He lifted his Panama hat and tipped it to Carveth, then waved. ‘Knock ‘em out, kid!’ he yelled, and she could just make out his voice. Carveth waved back, and then Dreckitt saluted and disappeared into the John Pym. The airlock door swung shut. The John Pym began to activate its engines. This was it. No ducking out now.
I’m coming back from this, she thought . And when I do, I will go on the biggest bender imaginable. Curry, wine, sex, more wine, more curry –
‘You ready for this?’ the Hellfire demanded. ‘We’ll go in together. I’ll regulate the systems, you do the blasting. Because if you’re not ready. . you know who controls the ejector seat. Now then, pilot, get your hands on the controls, because here we go.’
A mechanical arm folded down from the cockpit roof. It ended in a tiny plug. ‘Neural shunt,’ the Hellfire said.
Carveth pushed her hair back. The little plug slid into the socket behind her ear.
At once she saw schematics: weapons layouts, datasheets of torque and weight ratios. Her consciousness seeped into the ship, and it partly into her; their nervous systems linked. She felt the ship: its cunning, its ferocity, an unbending determination that frightened and electrified her. She felt fast and dangerous. She could smell pipe-smoke.
‘Your brain tastes of Prosecco,’ the Hellfire said.
Lights strobed before them. The bay doors swung open and the docking clamps flipped back.
The John Pym dropped out of the Chimera as if falling through a hole in the ground. The first of the Hellfires moved into line.
The intercom crackled. ‘What-ho. This is Allie, Shuttles’s wingman. Just follow us in, new girl.
Your ship’ll do the hard work, even if it says otherwise.’
‘Thanks,’ Carveth said. Her voice hardly worked. The Hellfire cycled through its weapons like a pianist stretching his fingers.
