by Toby Frost
‘Bloody hell,’ Carveth managed.
‘That wasn’t bad,’ the Hellfire said. ‘For a new girl.’ A minute passed. ‘Message from home.
They’ve got Shuttles up and running, thank God.’
Carveth flopped back in her seat. The thought of home made her want to cry.
‘Back to the Chimera,’ said the ship. ‘I’ll drop you off at your crate on the way.’
‘Right,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘Wait a moment. What do you mean, you'll drop me off?
You mean you can fly without a pilot? You could have flown this whole mission on your own!’
‘Sorry, but I have to have a pilot on a mission. Just in case I short out. Health and safety, you know.’
‘ Whose health, and whose safety?’
They turned for home.
*
Felicity Fitzroy watched the Angel of Massacre explode. As its engines melted down, the other Edenite ships broke formation. Hellfires shot into the gaps, harrying the enemy. The Edenites set a course out of the system. It brought them within range of the Chimera.
The dreadnought’s guns thundered, and one of the Edenite warships blew apart in a storm of railgun shells. It broke up in a flurry of little fires, chunks of fuselage spiralling from the body like fragments of pottery shattering in slow motion, and Felicity Fitzroy grinned at the scanners and applauded herself.
The last Edenite craft, Hand of Dust, shot forward to be crippled by a salvo from the Blade of Wisdom. Sedderik sent his demands over the radio and the Edenites agreed to any surrender that didn’t involve a M’Lak boarding party. A Ghast vessel, smaller and faster than its allies, turned tail and fled.
Nobody noticed the shuttle that shot into its hold a second before the engines flared, and it was not until much later than its name was recognised: Systematic Destruction, the vessel of 462.
The Chimera and Blade of Wisdom circled the Pale Horse, locked their targeters onto its hull and waited to find out what was inside, as if looking at a parcel that had started to tick.
*
‘Well,’ said the Hellfire as they pulled up beside the John Pym, ‘here's your ship. I've seen sardines travel in more style, but each to their own, eh?’
‘God, you're obnoxious,’ Carveth replied. ‘But you're also about the bravest and toughest self-aware machine I've ever met. And I've met some. Who do I ask to give you medals?’
‘Thanks, pilot, but gongs just slow me down,’ the Hellfire replied. It sighed. As ever, if it felt any pain, it showed nothing. ‘Someday, this war will be over. You can retire to the country and live quietly and I'll get myself rebuilt as a big red racing car. In the meantime, whenever tyranny raises its ugly head, I'll be there to shoot it off. Remember, pilot: you may not be an expert, but anyone who flies with me and doesn't end up ejected or dead is exceptional.’
‘Thank you,’ Carveth replied. ‘It's been an honour.’
‘Likewise. Now naff off out of my cockpit.’
*
The bridge was secure, but the rest of the Pale Horse was in chaos. Smith checked the monitors: those few that still worked showed him things he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. He looked across the bridge, at the wide array of dead enemies, and reflected that it was time to go.
‘Isambard?’
He glanced round. Rhianna stood before him, dwarfed by an enormous man in armoured dungarees. The soldier carried a dead Yullian under one arm and patted it absently as he stared at the roof.
‘I’ve got a prisoner,’ Rhianna explained. ‘This is Leniatus, Lord Prong’s bodyguard. He’s a bit – you know. .’
‘I got a lemming,’ Leniatus said. ‘You want a go?’
‘Well, jolly good,’ Smith said. ‘So much for them fighting to the death, then.’
Rhianna shrugged. ‘You’ve just got to offer people the right things.’
‘I'm going to prison,’ Leniatus said. ‘They got a farm.’
‘Super,’ said Smith. ‘Don’t suppose they’ve got any escape pods, by any chance?’
Leniatus nodded several times, very quickly. ‘Oh yeah. They don’t let me use them since I wouldn’t open the pod bay doors and they told me that was bad.’ He looked down at Rhianna. Why is your hair like dead things?’
‘They’re dreadlocks,’ Rhianna replied.
‘My lemming has nice hair,’ Leniatus opined.
Whooping laughter chattered through the intercom. ‘All change!’ a voice howled, and a woman answered: ‘Off with it!’
Smith did not want to know what ‘it’ was. ‘Wainscott, are you ready?’
On the far side of the room, the major was cutting the insignia from a praetorian’s trenchcoat.
He looked up and nodded.
The raiding party took the lift down through six levels of what sounded like mayhem. Leniatus kept trying to tug Rhianna’s hair. She managed to dissuade him gently. Smith hoped that he wouldn’t try it on Susan, who would probably throttle him with his own dungarees.
The doors slid open and there, under a huge picture of the Annihilator, stood the pod doors. The sight of the escape pods sent a wave of relief through Smith as if they were the entrance to a pub.
‘Well,’ Wainscott said, ‘this is it. We’ll take the prisoner. The pod on the left is yours.’ He leaned in close and whispered, ‘Thought you might want some time with your lady friend. I’m sure she’ll be most grateful to escape with you, if you get my drift.’ He seemed to spasm – he was in fact winking. ‘I know all about the ways of woman, eh Susan? Saw it on a James Bond film. Now, time for me to get back to Captain Fitzroy and give her my report.’
*
Smith wanted to return to Wellington Prime in the John Pym: partly so that its role in the battle would be recognised and partly because he was not sure how to park anything else. The crew sat in the cockpit, drinking gin and discussing wonders they could barely comprehend, as had happened many times before.
Something flared on the scanners, a sudden blaze of blue light. Electricity raged over the Pale Horse's hull, the chains flailed in the vacuum, and it was gone.
‘It's disappeared,’ Carveth said. ‘The greatest discovery for two thousand years, lost for good.
Thank God for that.’
Suruk sighed. ‘I fear that they will not return. Given the choice of this reality or an eternity of chess and decapitation, I know which I would take.’ He sipped his gin: as M’Lak custom dictated, he had not taken any tonic water. ‘A game of chess is similar to a swordfight, for you must think carefully before you move. However, it is hard to saw through an enemy's neck with a little wooden knight. So, not that similar.’
Rhianna’s eyes became both distant and slightly alarmed. ‘Whoa, imagine being trapped in there, where logic and proportion are meaningless, shifting like crazy tides of existence. Thank goodness that’s not happened to me for at least a fortnight.’
Sometimes Smith wondered whether she got off her tree a bit too often. He topped up the crew’s glasses and poured himself another drink. It was going down well. ‘So what happened to your fighter, Carveth?’
‘The Hellfire went back to check on Shuttles and get welded up. They make those things tough.’
‘You didn’t do so badly yourself,’ Smith said.
‘To be honest, I didn’t dare get killed.’
‘You were damn lucky,’ Smith said.
She looked hurt. ‘It’s all skill, boss, honestly.’
‘Getting a ride in a Hellfire, I mean. All I got to do was go to another dimension. Come on,’ he added, ‘you’ve all done bloody well, crew. Let’s lock the mirror up and go home.’
Together, they walked into the hold. The mirror stood where they left it. It looked absurdly harmless. Smith closed the hold door – just in case – and reached out to the glass.
‘Not so fast,’ a voice wheezed from the shadows.
Lord Prong stepped out, pistol in hand. The skull glinted on his Helm of Sanctity. He looked smaller and nastier than ever, as thou
gh viciousness had shrivelled him into the wicked raisin of a man that faced them now.
‘Well, well,’ the Grand Mandrill said. ‘You forgot to close the other mirror.’
Smith shook his head. Interdimensional travel and gin did not make good headfellows. Or bedfellows. ‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘I didn’t expect you to use a portal to Hell.’
‘Why not?’ It makes perfect sense. And if it doesn’t, then that’s a doctrinal matter. And what does doctrine say? Burn more witches! So everybody’s happy.’
‘Except the witches,’ Rhianna put in.
‘You’d know about that,’ Prong replied, which struck Smith as harsh. ‘I suppose I could have escaped like that weasel 462, but no. Coming back here seemed rather more in line with my duties of faith. Especially since it will involve killing the unrighteous. Namely, you. Decadent, all of you,” Prong added, almost sadly. ‘Your men are weaklings, your women strumpets. You all deserve a good sacred beating.’
‘Look,’ said Smith, ‘I realise you’re angry, old chap, but –’
‘I’m not old! You keep calling me that and I’ll plug you!’ Prong’s hand wobbled as he raised the gun. His finger had to be weak, Smith thought. Perhaps if he could keep Prong talking for long enough, the old bugger would have to run to the toilet or lose control of his weapon. Hopefully, not both at once.
Smith glanced at Suruk. The alien flexed his fingers and nodded.
‘Right,’ Prong rasped, ‘Unlock the doors and take me to the cockpit. Then, you'll fly this piece of unholy junk back to New Eden and face divine justice. Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot one of your concubines.’
Everyone yelled and moved at once. Smith leaped aside and drew his Civiliser. Suruk flicked out a knife and threw it in the same motion. Rhianna ran for the door, and tripped on the edge of her skirt.
Carveth shouted ‘Tosser!’
Prong’s bionics made him astonishingly quick. He ducked and lashed out. His bony hand caught Carveth's jacket and in a second he had shoved the end of his gun against her side. ‘Nobody move!’
Prong snarled. Then he added ‘Ow, my knees.’ He stood up slowly, pulling Carveth with him. ‘Nice try,” he said.
‘I actually find the term “concubine” really offensive,’ Rhianna said.
Prong looked down. Suruk’s knife had hit him in the chest, where the organs had given up long ago. He had bionics for that sort of thing. ‘Just get the door open, or the harlot gets it.’
‘He means it!’ Carveth cried. ‘Just in case you’re wondering, he really means it!’
‘Give up, Prong,’ Smith said. ‘It's over. I tell you what. . once you’ve finished sewing mailbags, you can do the citizenship tests and, provided you’re no longer carrying on like an idiot out of the Dark Ages, you could come and live in British space. Can’t say fairer than that, can you?’
‘Shut up,’ said Prong.
‘You’d qualify for a free bus pass. You could probably get new dentures on the NHS.’
‘Shut up! Now open the door or I shoot this whore of Babylon!’
Smith shook his head. ‘Very well. Carveth, open the door. We’ll settle with Mr Prong later.’
Slowly, she took a step towards the hold door. Prong kept beside her, as if glued to her hip.
‘Victory over the unbelievers,’ he chuckled. ‘And I got to stand close to a girl. Wonderful.’
Rhianna cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me. Er, Polly?’
Carveth looked over.
‘That’s the wrong door.’
‘No it’s not,’ Carveth said.
Smith wondered how Rhianna could have made such a basic mistake. Of course, women and maps, but really. . The truth fell on him like a brick. ‘She’s right, Carveth.’ He pointed. ‘ That door.’
‘Indeed, little woman.’ If Suruk nodded any harder, Smith thought, his tusks would fall off.
‘Oh!’ Carveth said. ‘Duh! What was I thinking?’
Prong shoved her. ‘You people are so stupid you can’t find your own cockpits. Is it any wonder you lose?’ Smith could almost smell Prong's smile.
Carveth swallowed hard and pulled back the bolts. ‘Here we go,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re ready for this.’
She opened the door. Smith nodded to Suruk and they crept forward together.
Prong peered into the darkness. ‘The lights are off. Wait – I can see things blinking at the back.
What are those? Stars?’
‘Eyes, actually,’ Suruk said, and he pushed Prong in.
The Grand Mandrill stumbled into the engine room. Suruk slammed the door and shot the bolts.
Prong let out one long scream. It rose up, twisted into the metal rafters, dropped and curled away
into a death-rattle. For a moment the room was silent. Then, behind the door, a new voice said, ‘Ribit!’
Other frogs took up the croaking. The four crewmembers took in the sound of Suruk’s young.
‘Should we maybe. . I don’t know. . go and see?’ Carveth said.
Suruk shook his head. ‘By now they will have stripped him to the bone.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘And by now, they will have eaten the bones as well.’
‘I never thought,’ Rhianna said, ‘that I’d feel pity for a vicious homicidal maniac.’
‘I do not want your pit – ah…’ said Suruk. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
Rhianna turned round. She looked lost, as if she had just woken. ‘Isambard, did I do the right thing?’
‘You most certainly did,’ Smith replied. ‘Your quick thinking saved us all, Rhianna.’
‘But I violated my principles of non-violence. And in doing so I killed a man.’
‘Maybe, but you can take solace in the knowledge that he was an absolute knob.’
She shook her head. ‘So that’s it? A man’s life is worth less if he’s a knob?’
‘Well.. yes.’
‘Yup,’ Carveth said. ‘Sometimes you just have to choose the lesser of two evils. Do you eat horrible diet food or scoff cake and worry about being fat? Cake every time. Tell me: who would you rather have around: me or genocidal, misogynist, knob-face Prong? If the answer isn’t me, don’t feel obliged to answer.’
‘You, of course,’ Rhianna said.
‘So there you go.’
‘She’s right,’ said Smith. ‘You did a great job.’ He put his arm around Rhianna’s waist.
Carveth came forward and patted Rhianna’s arm. ‘Thanks. You just saved us all.’
‘This calls for gin!’ Smith said.
‘Once again, Mazuran, victory is ours,’ Suruk declared. ‘Our enemies are fallen, my spawn have dined in style and now the females are touching one another like in that book about the finishing school that you keep under your bed. I think I shall leave you to it. Perhaps a hunting trip through the mirror would be diverting.’
He reached out, but his fingertips met only polished glass.
The Dotted Line
28th of August, 1863.
Today I closed the portal and concealed it in a wardrobe. The rest of the apparatus will be disguised as amateur photographic gear. It seems a shame to destroy the research notes, though: with some minor alteration they might be passed of as an entertainment for children. My cover story is perfect: I cannot see how anyone will ever suspect me of any wrongdoing.
Dodgson.
*
Smith opened the door and slipped into the conference room. ‘Well, I've never seen anything like it,’ C'Neth was saying, gesticulating grandly. ‘An absolute disgrace it was, terribly messy. But then, not being solid, things just go straight through me.’
‘Don't they just?’ Sann’di added.
Smith crept towards a chair at the back of the room. Captain Fitzroy waved, stood up and said ‘Hullo, Smitty,’ in a hoarse whisper. ‘I saved you a seat.’ She looked very pleased with herself, which was understandable given that they had just won a space battle.
A certain fuzziness surrounded C'Neth. Smith wondered w
hether this was a sort of force field until he realised that it surrounded the entire room and that he had consumed quite a lot of gin. This was confirmed as his knee made loud and violent contact with a waste-paper bin.
‘Arse!’ he hissed.
‘Hallo there!’ C'Neth called. Smith froze. With a soft rumble, heads and equivalent organs turned to him. ‘Come in for the signing, have we? Always room for one more, as they say. Here, are you alright?
You look terribly flushed.’
‘Important fleet business,’ Smith said, rubbing his knee. ‘The Imperial Fleet never sleeps, you know.’
‘Not when we’re around!’ Fitzroy added.
‘I'll bet they don’t,’ said C'Neth. He formed eyebrows and raised them.
‘I’ve been doing something very important, actually,’ Smith said.
C’Neth said nothing. He seemed content to let Smith explain himself – which, now that the discussion had falled silent, was the last thing Smith wanted to do.
From their little tables, the representatives of the galaxy’s powers stared at him. Was he a drunkard, a mental patient, a laser-shocked veteran smuggled in to demonstrate the Empire’s devotion to the cause of liberty? The Yothian ambassador’s speaking-cone began to strobe red; Smith wondered whether this represented laughter or a warning signal.
‘Now look here,’ he said, much louder than he had intended. It occurred to him that the delegates were already making a perfectly good job of looking at him. ‘I can’t tell you what I’ve been up to, because it’s secret, but let me assure you that it’s been very important for everyone.
‘I think you should sign this treaty because there are sides here, don’t you know, and it’s time you all decided which one you’re on. There’s a war on, after all. The Ghasts and Yull don’t care if you want to stand to one side. They’ll come for us all, and they’d rather fight us one at a time. Believe me, no man is an island – except for the Isle of Man, which is an island near Ireland and not really a man although it’s got men on it. . but that’s beside the point.’
