Hell Ship

by Philip Palmer

  I increased the magnification on my eyes still further; and was surprised to see that the figure emerging from the ship was a female warrior carrying a sword. Was this a challenge?

  The enemy battleship lifted into the air once more and flew off. The warrior remained, alone, on the ground. The message was clear: a one-on-one combat was being proposed.

  I plunged downwards, with a jolt of joy that was like falling off a cliff, and landed my craft on the seared grass. I knew this might be an ambush, but I had to take the risk. For according to the laws of my world, any battle and war can be decided by single combat, no matter what the sizes of the respective armies. But now I wondered: would these enemy warriors hold to such values?

  For I had, of course, realised by now these were no ordinary warriors; they came from elsewhere, from some other planet around some other star that existed far away in the universe of stars that encircled us at night.

  My enemy were aliens, and they had invaded my world.

  I stepped out of my craft. I removed my mask, so I could taste the cold morning air on my cheeks, and shook my long hair. Then I took my sword and scabbard out of the cockpit-pouch, strapped it over my back, and walked calmly towards the alien warrior.

  The warrior was female, as I had already seen. But, close up, she looked like no female I had ever before beheld. She had fangs, like an animal, which protruded from her mouth; and no ear-flaps. In the centre of her forehead was a third eye. She was large-twice as large as myself-and powerfully muscled. And she wore no body armour but was clad in tight bright yellow animal-hides that left her legs and stomach and arms bare. Her hair was bright scarlet and streaked with silver and blew in the wind. And her skin was pale, more white than red, and entirely lacking in soft ridges.

  The contrast in our sizes was almost comical; I was a dwarf beside this giant. She was without doubt a magnificent specimen of her species, warily graceful, with bulging shoulders and arms and stocky legs. And there was a steely look in her eyes that assured me she knew well the bitterness and the joy of combat.

  I stared up at her appraisingly and without hate; for hate will slow the warrior’s hand and eye. “What tribe are you?” I asked.

  “You do not know my tribe,” the warrior replied, in a husky low voice that made my flesh tingle with the eerie unfamiliarity of its tone.

  “What is your name?” I continued, patiently.

  “Zala,” said the warrior. “And yours?”

  And she stared at me impassively, unafraid to meet my eyes.

  “I am,” I said proudly, “Sharrock.”

  She stared at me, unimpressed.

  Hiding my disappointment at her lack of response to my, by all objective criteria, legendary name, I added: “You are, I take it, not from our lands.”

  “I am not.”

  “Tell me then, whence do you come?”

  She was still staring into my eyes; shamelessly, and in my view arrogantly. I felt a flash of rage and stifled it.

  I would kill her first; and then I would savour my wrath.

  “Far away,” she said, in what sounded to me like sad tones. “Another planet, around another star.”

  “As I had suspected,” I told her, formally. “For your ship is like nothing I have ever seen. Your appearance is hideous and strange. You are an alien.”

  “In your terms, I am.”

  “Why do you wage war upon us, you whore-fucking, turd-eating monster from afar?” I asked her, with ritual invective.

  She laughed.

  “Answer my question, o withered-hole!” I insisted, and she laughed again.

  “We come,” she said with open mockery, “o pathetic-male-with-a-tin y-prick-that-I-will-eat-and-feed-in-morsels-to-my-female-lover in order to conquer and destroy you.”

  “Why?” I said, stung at her unfamiliar insult.

  “Why not?” said Zala the female warrior, tauntingly.

  Once again I had to bite back my rage; for I truly despised this warrior’s lack of respect for tradition. Her people’s war with my people should not have been fought like this! A formal declaration should have been made, and hence due warning given; poems should have been spoken, songs composed, regrets expressed. All this should have been done, to create a war that would have been ennobling for all concerned.

  Instead, they had simply ambushed our valiant warriors, massacred our defenceless families and Philosophers, and left them all to rot.

  “Which planet do you come from, you tainted-by-vulgarity-and-laughed-at-by-small-children shit-covered harlot?” I said.

  She grinned, clearly amused by our social ritual of rhetorical abuse. “It has a name,” she said casually. “You will not know it. It is far away. Your astronomers will never have seen it. All you need to know is I am a warrior of a once great world. Will you fight me?”

  “I will.”

  “If I kill you, your world is forfeit,” the alien warrior said arrogantly.

  “Very well,” I said calmly. “And if I kill you?”

  “That won’t happen,” said the alien warrior Zala and she lunged forward with her long curved sword, the hilt clutched in both her hands.

  I dodged easily and drew my sword from its scabbard on my back with one hand and swung it fast at her and she recoiled and barely dodged it, then I wove forwards to the left and then to the right, ducking and rising in a single flow, then thrust the tip of the sword towards her bare midriff. But she leaped in the air and danced on the flat of my blade and kicked my head and somersaulted over me then plunged her sword back and over her own head at me, without turning around.

  I was awed at her speed, but evaded the blow and swept my own blade a thousand times in the air in a series of continuous movements. Zala countered each sword-strike with a speed that impressed me, for we were both fighting faster than the beatings of a baro bird’s wings.

  But I was stronger, and the next time she leaped in the air I leaped high too and clutched at her face with my fingers and plucked out one of her eyes.

  We both landed, swords held upright and clashed steel once again. Blood dribbled out of her empty eye-hole. Her face was a cold mask of hate. I felt a surge of joy; this was glorious combat.

  Then her blade went through my heart and I exulted, and with my dagger I sliced off her hand at the wrist and stepped back. I grunted in pain, and also in delight. For her severed hand and blade were now trapped in my chest, with the tip of her sword protruding from my back. But my second heart was easily able to sustain my body. And now the alien was fighting swordless and one handed, with scarlet blood gushing from the bloody stump of her right arm.

  But Zala just laughed and drew her second sword, and I lunged again and she dodged and stabbed my leg and so I butted her face and swung my own weapon in a rolling pattern of cuts that shook sparks from her blade. Then with my left hand I stabbed once more with my dagger and slashed at her throat so powerfully it severed her head, and the head fell off her body and bounced on to the sands.

  And I paused, and for a moment allowed myself to relax; but her head continued to laugh.

  I was shocked at this; then I realised that the head must have its own blood supply. And, too, the headless torso was still holding its sword and was undeterred by the loss of its head; with speed and bravado it leaped at me and carried on fighting, blind yet unerringly accurate in its sword strikes.

  I was on the defensive now; the headless torso had renewed strength and was able to somehow perceive where my body was and even anticipate my moves in ways I could not fathom. And all the while the head on the sand laughed, as its body fought me; and I forced myself to ignore the absurdity of it all and lost myself in battle-lust until my blade swept down and rent the warrior’s body in two.

  The two halves of the alien warrior’s torso twitched on the sand, blood gushing, organs spilling out. The battle was over; or so I thought.

  But then the right half of the warrior lifted its sword again, and tried to stand up. And the left half of the warrior drew
a knife and rolled in the sands, trying to get upright with only one foot.

  The warrior was still not dead. Still not dead!

  I brought my sword down and split the head into two halves. Blood splashed, and I could see the grey folds of the creature’s brain. Her tongue was split in two, but her two separated eyes were staring at me and still she was laughing, even though it was a gurgle and not a real laugh.

  “Die you devilish fucker-of-evil monster!” I screamed.

  The two halves of the head spluttered with delight.

  I lowered my sword. I was defeated; no matter what I did, I could never kill this creature.

  “What will happen now?” I asked. But the sundered head could no longer speak. And there was, I felt, sadness in her remaining eyes.

  And at that point, Zala’s head started to shimmer before me, and I realised I could see through her face and sundered smile to the sands behind. Then her head slowly vanished, and her body too, like mist dissipating in the morning heat.

  I marvelled at this magic. What powers did these creatures have? And what utter, taunting, disgusting malice. This was not war, it was mockery.

  I looked around.

  The alien battle ship had not returned. And in the distance, a false bright red dawn on the horizon revealed that the city itself was ablaze.

  And I saw that the sky above me was now black with single-Maxolu fighting craft; but they weren’t fighting, they were just spiralling aimlessly. There was no battle being fought, merely the sad savouring of abject defeat. I had a sinking feeling of despair.

  The ground below me shook again. But these weren’t bombs exploding in the distance; this was an earthquake.

  And I realised that the sand beneath me was hot; my feet were seared with heat through my boots. I cleaned the blood off my sword and dagger, then sheathed them.

  The ground shook again. I braced myself.

  Then the ground erupted. The sand was scattered into the air and the rock below was exposed, and it split before my eyes, and red liquid lava poured out of the rents. The earth’s hot crust was erupting out of the ground directly beneath me.

  And at the same time lightning once more ripped across the sky, vast forked bolts that stabbed the air and made it scream.

  And a loud roaring sound filled my ears, and then a wind sprang up from nowhere and knocked me off my feet. I staggered upright and saw hot volcano-spew rolling towards me like tides in a raging ocean. The sky was empty now, all the Maxolu craft had been obliterated by the savage winds. The air itself shimmered with heat, as if it were ablaze; and hail rained down on me and burned my face.

  I knew now that my world was dying and there was nothing I could do to save it.

  A river of lava flowed fast towards me, and engulfed my knees and thighs, and burned off my trousers and boots and the flesh of my legs and arse beneath, and I tasted ash and my own blood as I accidentally bit my tongue. My skin was hot and my body hair was sparking, and waves of heat oppressed me like a pillow used to suffocate a convicted coward.

  I howled in despair. I could not run, or move in any way. My legs were ablaze, the flesh was turning molten.

  Then the red-hot volcano-spew engulfed me, up to the chest, then up almost to my neck. I thought about my wife, Malisha, and my baby girl, Sharil. And I mourned their deaths, as my tough flesh began to burn, and my bones were seared with heat, and my eyes stung with ash that turned my tears into hailstones.

  Sharrock defeated? I wondered.

  Never! I vowed. But in my heart I knew I was doomed.

  BOOK 2

  Jak

  My name is Jak. I was, once, a Trader.

  And this is my story.

  The green-hided soldiers led Cantrell and myself through dark moist corridors of rock until we emerged into the FanTang Council Chamber.

  The Chamber was high-ceilinged and awesome; it was a huge hall set within a cavern hewn out of a mountain. Its white marble walls were inlaid richly with gold and silver and precious stones, and the pillars and pilasters were decorated with bas-reliefs carved with remarkable delicacy and beauty, notwithstanding their brutal content.

  The air was toxic, a blend of oxygen and gaseous cyanide, and I breathed in deep draughts, savouring the thrill of inhaling certain death with no actual peril. Cantrell stared at me sourly.

  “Let me do the talking,” I said.

  “Here they come,” said Cantrell.

  The FanTang leader stepped up before us. He was at least a basal taller and broader than the other FanTangs we had met. His green porcupine hide was ridged with spikes, and he had glittering eyes on every part of his body except his head.

  “Ears?” I whispered.

  “That was covered in the briefing,” snarled Cantrell.

  “I wasn’t listening. Ears?”

  Cantrell sighed. “Where your girlfriend’s nipples are, those are its ears.”

  And so I stared at the monster’s nipples; they were as sharp as a dagger’s point. I counted six of them; and I wondered, idly, if this creature’s aural organs could also lactate.

  Then I lowered my head, and scraped my right foot on the ground five times, the FanTang ritual for greeting.

  “You did hear some of the briefing then,” Cantrell hissed. I cast him a brief but brilliant smile; then looked at the FanTang leader, lowered my head, and scraped my foot on the ground five times once more. Hello, again.

  But the FanTang leader did not move. His three advisers did not move either. They glared fiercely with body-eyes that appeared to be made of glass; and their open mouths dripped saliva through fangs on to the cavern floor. And I noticed that the spikes upon the bodily carapace of the FanTang leader were stained with what looked like red-celled blood.

  “We wish you to hear us,” I said, in fluent FanTang, and the FanTang leader’s glassy eyes all blinked, in unison.

  I took the translating pads out of my sack-having reached the limits of my idiomatic FanTangian-and knelt, then crawled on my hands and knees to the FanTang leader. I held out the translating pads.

  The giant FanTang took the pads.

  I touched my own chest with my hands. The FanTang copied the gesture and the adhesive pads gripped his breasts and then the listening pads were in place.

  “We wish you to hear us,” I said, in Olaran, which was then translated into the FanTang’s language by the listening pads.

  “Can you in fact hear and comprehend us?” I said.

  The FanTang leader was still. “I can hear,” he said in his own language, and the translator did its job, and I heard the worlds in Olaran.

  I crawled back on my hands and knees to rejoin Cantrell.

  “Mission accomplished,” I said grinning.

  “How does this work?” the FanTang leader asked, querulously.

  “It’s a translator,” I explained. “It translates.”

  “We have seen this device before,” said the FanTang leader. “You sent swamp-wolves into our camps and they spat these things on to our bodies and the wolves howled at us and we understood them and marvelled, and then we slew them.”

  “And what did they say?” Cantrell asked, dryly.

  “Don’t,” the FanTang leader admitted, “Kill. Us.”

  Cantrell sighed, disapprovingly, and the translator turned the sigh into words: “[Disapproving exhalation.]”

  The Fan Tang leader was startled.

  “We sent the swamp-wolves,” I explained smoothly, “to prepare the way. We know that you are afraid of us.”

  “We are not afraid of you!” roared the FanTang leader.

  “We come from deepest space, in ships that spit fire, and you are right to be wary of us,” I said diplomatically.

  “We are not wary of you!”

  “You blew up,” I said impatiently, “all our scout ships with your nuclear missiles. In our culture, that counts as ‘wary.’ ”

  “Wary, perhaps,” conceded the FanTang leader, “but not afraid.”

  “Our ships were pilo
ted by robots,” I said. “Non-living creatures, not alive. You did us no harm. We bear you no grudge.”

  “You are our enemy, it is therefore your duty to hate and destroy us,” the FanTang leader rebuked me.

  It was by now apparent that these creatures were small-minded, ignorant, bloodthirsty savages; nonetheless, I persevered.

  “We are not your enemy, we are your friends,” I said, as carefully and clearly as I was able. “We come not to fight war, but to make peace. We do not wish to conquer, we wish to trade.”

  “What,” said the FanTang leader, “is this word ‘peace’? And what is ‘trade’?”

  “Peace is the opposite of war.”

  “Surrender is the opposite of war,” the FanTang leader explained.

  “No, not-fighting is the opposite of war,” I said. “Collaborating. Being-friends-ing. Concord. Not killing each other.”

  “These parent-fucking monsters have no fucking idea,” Cantrell muttered sourly.

  The FanTang leader roared, but in a cheerful way; I realised it was a laugh. “Parent-fucking, that is a good phrase. We can adopt that in our own language,” the FanTang leader said gleefully.

  “Trade means we give you what you want, you give us what we want.”

  “We want your deaths,” said the FanTang leader, and took out a stick that was tied to his belt, and shook the stick so it became a sword, and struck off my head.

  [I woke, in agony. I forced myself back down on to my couch.]

  “That won’t help you,” Cantrell said mildly.

  Blood poured out of my neck-stump; I made it congeal. My heart stopped beating; I made it beat again. I opened my eyes and found I was on the floor staring up at an odd angle at the entourage of green, angry, aristocratic FanTangs.

  “We come in peace,” my head said mildly.

  The FanTang leader jerked in shock.

  My torso sat up. My hands picked up my head and put it back on my bloody shoulders. The broken blood vessels rejoined; the neck healed, leaving an ugly scar. I stood up.

  “You can survive the loss of a head,” said the FanTang leader, marvelling.