Starcross

by Philip Reeve

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  In Which We Deplore the Din of Decorators and Receive a Most Intriguing Invitation.

  Chapter Two

  A Brief Description of the Asteroid Belt. By the Good Offices of the A.B. & M.P. Rail Traction Co. Ltd We Are Conveyed to Starcross, and Are Surprised at What We Find There.

  Chapter Three

  We Arrive at the Grand Hotel and Are Made Welcome by Its Mysterious Proprietor.

  Chapter Four

  In Which I Have a Curious Encounter, and a Light Breakfast.

  Chapter Five

  In Which We Disport Ourselves upon the Playful Bosom of the Ocean, and Jack’s Explanations Are Interrupted by a Distressing Discovery.

  Chapter Six

  In Which One of Our Number Discerns the Hand of an Enemy at Work, and Is Struck Down by It!

  Chapter Seven

  In Which the Mystery Deepens Yet Further!

  Chapter Eight

  In Which the Narrative Is Continued by Another Hand.

  Chapter Nine

  In Which Various Horrors Beset Myrtle in the Depths of Time, and Who Can Blame Them?

  Chapter Ten

  Myrtle’s Account Continues: Strange Meetings upon an Ancient Shore, Miss Beauregard’s Motives Made Plain and Mrs Grinder Revealed as a Woman of Many Parts.

  Chapter Eleven

  In Which Myrtle Explores a Long-Lost Wreck and Is Not Much Encouraged by What She Finds.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which Mother and I, All Unaware of the Perils Which Face Poor Myrtle in Pre-History, Pay a Visit to the Boiler Room, There to Meet with the Author of Our Misfortunes!

  Chapter Thirteen

  In Which Mother Decides.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Battle of the Boiler Room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In Which I Make Good My Escape and Gain an Unexpected Ally, Only to Find Myself Pursued across the Gulfs of Space!

  Chapter Sixteen

  In Which Our Narrative Returns to Ancient Mars, and We Learn of the Surprising Things Which Had Befallen Myrtle in the Meanwhile.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Which We Learn the History of a Moob.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We Arrive at Modesty but Find Ourselves Both Out-Paced and Out-Witted by the Dreaded Moobs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In Which Battle Is Joined and Daring Rescues Attempted!

  Chapter Twenty

  In Which I Endeavour to Devise a Cunning Stratagem, We Learn an Unexpected Fact about an Absent Friend and Some Large, Sophronia-Shaped Dents Are Almost Made upon Several of the Lesser-Known Asteroids.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We Arrive in the Depths of Futurity and Find Them Chilly and a Trifle Dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In Which We Confront an Adversary Every Bit as Beastly as the Moobs, Though Somewhat Less Like a Hat.

  Chapter the Last

  Two Gentlemen of Devonshire

  Acknowledgements

  Footnotes

  Praise for the series

  Imprint

  For Sarah & Sam — P.R.

  For Natalie — D.W.

  The grand hotel at Starcross sleeps peacefully tonight beneath a sky dusty with stars.

  Prologue

  The grand hotel at Starcross sleeps peacefully tonight beneath a sky dusty with stars. Starlight slants down upon the sandstone bluffs which rise behind it, and silvers its ornate roofs and myriad windows. Starlight glitters upon the sea which fills the broad bay before it, a velvet blackness flecked with shimmering scales. And starlight falls upon the wary faces of the pair who suddenly fling wide the glass doors marked ‘Reception’ and come running down the steps on to the promenade. A handsome, bearded gentleman and a young lady of elfin beauty. We must forgive the gentleman if he lets the door slam behind him. And if his fair companion mutters something not quite ladylike beneath her breath as she descends, perhaps it may be excused. For they are Sir Richard and Mrs Ulla Burton, agents of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and they are running for their lives.

  They reach the balustrade at the promenade’s edge together, and vault over it. The gravity is suddenly gentler here, away from the influence of the hotel’s generators, and Sir Richard and his pretty wife drift down in a dreamlike way and land with two soft scrunches in the sand. Ahead of them the white waves curl and crisp upon the shore, and a row of candy-striped bathing machines stands silent and dark along the strand. Sir Richard runs to the closest, but Ulla hisses, ‘No, dearest – that is the first place they will look!’ She points instead to where a little rowing boat has been drawn up on the sand, and together they hasten over and start to shove it forward into the white foam of the breaking waves.

  And then, without warning, they feel a falling sensation, a sense of dizziness that makes Sir Richard clutch a hand to his brow, and Ulla reach out and hold him to steady herself. It is quickly past. But when they look up, the sea is gone. The rowing boat sits beached on the sands of a bone-dry desert which stretches away to a hard horizon, not ten miles distant. Beyond that, the sky is cluttered with small, lumpish, unwelcoming, stony worlds.

  Behind him, Sir Richard hears the sand crunch. Sunbleached canvas flaps softly in the night wind as something emerges from the shadow of the bathing machines. It is a red-and-white striped booth – an automated Punch & Judy show of the type that you may have seen upon the promenades of Bognor or Brighton. Inside the opening a fearsome, hook-nosed puppet suddenly rears up, seeming to focus on Ulla and Sir Richard with its painted eyes.

  ‘Hello, boys and girls!’ it squawks.

  Sir Richard pulls out his service revolver and empties all six chambers through the front of the booth. Black holes spot the striped canvas like ink blots, and the impact of the bullets sends the whole contraption shuddering backwards. But as the echoes of the shots fade and the cloud of powder smoke thins, the booth begins to creep implacably towards him again.

  ‘That’s the way to do it!’ crows Mr Punch.

  From within her clothes Ulla whips out a slender, sickle shaped throwing knife and sends it whirling towards the booth, neatly slicing off the puppet’s leering head before flying back into her waiting hand.

  Yet still the devilish machine advances!

  The Burtons start to run towards a ramp which will return them to the promenade. But already another of the sinister sideshows is descending to cut off their escape. They turn again, and strike out across the dry sand, where the sea rolled until so recently. A hundred yards away a knoll which was an island when the sea was there offers some hope of shelter, or at least a patch of high ground which they may defend against the automata!

  The wheels of the two Punch & Judy shows squeak as they swing round and begin to trundle after the fugitives. Ghastly, mechanised voices demand, ‘Who’s got the sausages?’

  The former island is steep sided; it is a scramble to get up on to its crown, which is planted with ornamental clumps of Martian horsetails and tickler vines. A clump of ogleweed turns curiously to watch Sir Richard and his wife as they clamber on to the summit. Below them the first of the Punch & Judy booths extends steel arms and starts to drag itself up after them.

  They stand, and turn, and find more enemies awaiting them. Six figures, not all of them human. The starlight spilling through the leaves lends an oily sheen to their tall, black silk hats and imparts a ghostly glow to their white gloves and starched white shirt fronts. In the shadows of their hat brims gleam the circular eye-pieces of hideous, wheezing, elephant-trunked masks: patent respirators of the type worn by men who have business in the atmospheres of gas-moons like Spiv and Phizzgig.
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  ‘Dick Burton!’ says one of these grim apparitions, stepping in front of the others. ‘And dear Mrs Burton, too. Surely you’re not leaving us already?’

  Ulla draws her knife again, but the Punch & Judy show has scrambled up unnoticed behind her. Steel arms lunge out from beneath its canvas cowl and pinion her, twisting her arm until the blade falls uselessly in the gravel. ‘Richard!’ she gasps. ‘Run! Flee while you still can, and warn them …’

  But it is already too late. Sir Richard is in the clutches of the second of these sinister booths. The infernal machines turn them to face their captors. The leader of the masked men advances warily, reaching into a pocket as he comes.

  ‘You unspeakable fiend!’ growls Sir Richard. ‘Unhand my wife, or –’

  ‘Or what, Burton?’ Laughter bubbles behind the respirator. ‘Don’t you understand? You have lost! I shall have my way here, and there is nothing your department can do to stop me!’

  Out of his pocket comes a small brass atomiser, such as fashionable ladies use to spray on scent. He holds it near Sir Richard’s face and squeezes the rubber bulb, just once, quite firmly. Sir Richard sneezes, engulfed for a moment in a cloud of silver particles, which fades almost instantly. Swiftly the masked man turns and does the same to Ulla.

  Sir Richard stares at the atomiser. ‘What have you – done … ?’

  Already his voice is growing slow and slurred. His eyes dull. His struggles cease. In the starlight, his skin is taking on a silvery look.

  ‘Release them,’ says the man in the silk hat.

  The Punch & Judy booths back away. Ulla reaches out groggily to take Sir Richard’s hand. Together they stumble off the path, trying to make their escape through the shrubs which cluster in the flower bed there. After a few steps Sir Richard stops and stands still. He raises his arms.

  ‘Richard!’ cries Ulla weakly, clinging to him, but he cannot hear her. She, too, is changing, taking on that dazed, glazed silveryness. Their toes force a way out through the leather of their boots and curl down into the soil. Their fingers bud. Ulla lets out a last sigh, like the sighing of wind through leaves. She is a tree, wrapped about the trunk of the slightly larger tree that was her husband.

  The men in silk hats carefully cut away the scraps of clothing which are snagged on the roots and branches of the new trees, and walk away. For a while, all is silent, save for the uneasy muttering of a nearby bed of mumbleweed. Then, quite suddenly, the sounds of the sea return.

  Chapter One

  In Which We Deplore the Din of Decorators and Receive a Most Intriguing Invitation.

  What a fuss! What storms of dust! What cannonades of hammering and what snarling of wood-saws! What quantities of sawdust and shavings heaping up upon the stairs and filling the very air, making the poor hoverhogs sneeze and cough! What endless, topsy-turvy rearrangements of the household furniture! What confusion!

  In short, we had the decorators in. Larklight, our dear old house, which has hung in its lonely orbit north of the Moon for goodness knows how long, gathering space dust and barnacles and generally declining into a picturesque decay, was being renovated from top to bottom.1 Mother had come home from her long captivity among the First Ones’ webs quite determined to see the old place dragged into the Nineteenth Century at last, and Father, once he had overcome his surprise at learning that she was actually a four-and-a-half-thousand-million-year-old entity from another star, was only too happy to spend some of his income from the Royal Xenological Institute satisfying her feminine desire for new rugs and the latest wallpapers.

  Yet I do not think that even Mother, with all her otherworldly knowledge and vast experience, had quite reckoned on how much disruption would be involved: workmen in the parlour, sawdust in the tea, the thud of hammers and the growl of drills drowning out my sister Myrtle’s piano practice …2 And it had been going on for absolute ages. When Mother secured the services of Mr Chippy Spry, General Builder & Specialist in Orbital Property Maintenance, he had assured her that his work would be done by mid-July. But September came, and still there was no sign that his carpenters and paper-hangers would ever be done.

  I well remember one morning in particular. We had all taken refuge in Mother’s conservatory, and were gathered around a little table there among her pots of space flowers. Father was perusing a recent copy of the London Times, Myrtle was declining French verbs in her notebook with a wistful air, Mother was opening a pile of letters lately forwarded from the Lunar Post Office at Port George, and I was puzzling without much success over some problems in Long Division which she had set me. I believe that she had been rather startled to find that I had reached the grand old age of almost twelve without any sort of formal education, and had determined to Take Me In Hand. (Though what use Long Division might be to me in later life I could not then guess, and cannot now. My heart was set upon becoming an explorer, and I should much rather have spent my mornings learning Martian Ideograms or studying charts of the Trans-Jovian Aether.)3

  Yes, we made a pretty scene as we sat there, an English family united. Yet even there we could not quite escape Mr Spry’s siege. For some of Mother’s flowers had picked up a popular music hall song from one of his carpenters, and kept singing it over and over in their ethereal little voices. It was called ‘My Flat Cat’, and it went:

  Oh what a pity,

  My poor Kitty,

  Peg him on the washing line to dangle!

  Pa’s new auto-maid,

  Our clumsy clockwork laundry-aid,

  Put poor Kitty through the mangle!

  It was rather a jolly song, and I tapped my foot in time to the refrain as I struggled with the knotty problem of forty-four thousand and two divided by seventeen.

  Now poor Kitty looks highly unconventional:

  Six foot wide but only two-dimensional …

  But my sister, Myrtle, has no time whatever for what she calls ‘vulgar music’. As the flowers began again at the beginning of the first verse she wailed, ‘Oh, Blast and Drat you!’ and hurled her notebook at them, scattering petals everywhere. The flowers turned away, humming softly in a wounded manner, and Mother, Father and I exchanged a Look.

  We all knew, you see, that it was not the song flowers which had put Myrtle in such a tearing rage. We knew that the real fault lay with Jack Havock. She had developed a sentimental attachment to that young space pirate during our adventures together earlier that year, and to my utter astonishment Jack had appeared to return her feelings. But once he left Larklight aboard his newly repaired aether-ship, Sophronia, we heard no more of him. Myrtle had been writing poems ever since, and striking soulful poses on all the balconies in the manner popularised by Mariana in the Moated Grange. About once a week she sent Jack a long, heartfelt letter, to which he did not reply.

  My own suspicion was that as soon as he was back upon the aether seas Jack had realised what an absolute blight she was and what a narrow escape he had had, and resolved to have nothing more to do with her. But Mother always tried to comfort Myrtle, reminding her that Jack now sailed under the orders of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and might e’en now be undercover in some far-off corner of the sky, where the mails are slow and unreliable. Even if he had received her letters, he might be much too busy to pen a reply.

  ‘Their singing is somewhat distracting, isn’t it?’ she said gently, as hoverhogs scooted about, gobbling up the drifting petals, and Father delved behind the watering can for Myrtle’s notebook. ‘Perhaps you should ask Mr Spry’s men to move your piano up here, so that you may teach the flowers some new songs.’

  ‘Oh, please, no!’ I groaned, imagining them all warbling out-of-tune versions of ‘Birdsong at Eventide’ and other selections from A Young Gentlewoman’s Pianoforte Primer. But Mother gave me a warning glance, and Myrtle gave me a warning kick on the shin with her surprisingly hefty boot, so I did not warm to my theme.

  ‘Now, what have we here?’ Mother asked, turning back to her pile of letters. ‘This one looks rather important. Do
you think it is from some newspaper, requesting a True Account of Larklight’s journey to London?’

  ‘Oh, I do hope not!’ cried Myrtle.4

  But when Mother slit open the stiff, white envelope, what fell out was not a missive from the yellow press, but a letter written on crisp, monogrammed stationery, along with a printed advertisement. Myrtle and I each made a grab for the latter, and I won. It turned out to be a flyer advertising a new hotel in the asteroid belt, and I reproduce it here.

  ‘Sea bathing?’ I cried, in disbelief. In preparation for my future career as an explorer I make a keen study of the Boy’s Own Journal and other organs of note, and I was almost certain that there was no sea to speak of in the asteroid belt.

  ‘Let me see that,’ said Myrtle, wrenching the paper from my grasp (and crumpling it rather badly in the process, as you can see).

  ‘How sweet!’ said Mother, who had been too engrossed in her letter to notice this little display of filial love and affection. She held the letter and read aloud what was written there.

  My Dear Mr and Mrs Mumby,

  I wonder if you remember me. My name is Mortimer Titfer, and I had the pleasure of meeting you and your darling children while you were in London in the spring, after those regrettable occurrences at Hyde Park.

  (‘I confess, I cannot call the gentleman to mind,’ admitted Mother.

  ‘We met so many people at that time,’ Father agreed.

  ‘If he thinks Art is a darling,’ said Myrtle tartly, ‘it makes one wonder whether he really met us at all. Perhaps he has mistaken us for some other Mumbys.’)

  The letter went on:

  I was speaking of you only the other day to my dear friend Sir Waverley Rain, and was distressed to learn that you are currently afflicted by builders. Therefore I thought that I might take the liberty of writing to invite you to visit me at Starcross. It is a modest asteroid, which was a mining concern until it was abandoned in the reign of the late king. I have, however, made some improvements, and the hotel there offers the most genteel accommodation, and some of the finest sea bathing to be had anywhere in British Space. I should be honoured if you would consider using the place as a refuge or ‘home-from-home’ while the horny-handed sons of toil improve your own house.