by Toby Frost
Smith said, ‘Well, can someone get me a straight cup of tea?’
‘Right, good plan,’ W said, and he stood up in a stiff, awkward way and strode out of the room.
Rhianna leaned closer. ‘What was it like?’
‘It. . . I saw all kinds of funny stuff. I had a dream about Merlin, and then there were these curious sensations—’
‘What were they like?’
He frowned, struggling to remember feelings that, now they were past, he did not have the words to depict.
‘Strange. I felt as though I was floating on some kind of magic carpet ride, drifting through purple haze eight miles high above Kashmir. I looked down and saw endless fields beneath me, with some sort of small red fruit in them, going on forever. There was a sign down there. It said, “Pick your own”.’
‘“Pick your own”,’ Rhianna echoed, awed. She smiled at him, which made him feel much better. ‘Amazing,’ she said dreamily.
Smith pulled himself up so that he was sitting. Thankfully, he was still fully clothed. He took a deep breath. ‘Rhianna?’
‘Yes, Isambard?’
‘Thank you for looking out for me. I mean, it’s good of you to make sure I was alright. I could have got addicted to morphine or something.’
‘Er, yes,’ Rhianna said. She smiled again. ‘Perhaps I ought to become ship’s medic.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly got the most experience of being medicated.’ She looked less impressed by this, and he added quickly, ‘Look, I’ve been thinking about things, and I think that—’
‘Greetings!’ Suruk stepped into the room. He carried a steaming mug. ‘Tea,’ he declared, setting it down on the bedside table. ‘The warm beverage of warriors.’ He stepped back and stood in the middle of the room, drinking from his own cup, peering down at Smith. Go away, Smith willed him. Leave me with Rhianna. Just because you don’t have any private parts. . .
Rhianna let go of his hand and stood up. ‘Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. See you later, guys.’
She left. Smith watched her go away – something he seemed to end up doing a lot – and gave Suruk one of his stern looks.
‘Is it good tea?’
‘It’s lovely tea. Thank you very much, Suruk.’
Suruk nodded. He closed the door. ‘So, are you a seer now too?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Smith gritted his teeth and strained.
‘No, I didn’t see anything there.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps you have become psychic. I know – can you tell what I am thinking of?’
‘Is it war, or cutting the heads off things?’
‘Indeed! Both!’
‘I think that was just a lucky guess.’
Suruk sipped his tea, a surprisingly difficult activity for someone with mandibles. ‘I am glad you are well,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We will have every need of good fighters when the time comes to strike.’
‘Yes, we will.’
‘The city is well defended. In a fair fight, I do not know who victory would favour – but as we stand now, I doubt there will be a fair fight at all. I fear that the Edenites will simply shoot us down before we come into range. Their guns are large, and armour thick.’
‘So we go to our deaths, you’re saying?’
‘Almost certainly. I personally do not mind – much better to die on my feet, swinging a blade – but I understand that this might trouble you. Especially since you have yet to spawn with the ship’s females.’
Smith looked away. He did not want to feel angry and afraid, but he did. ‘It’s better that we go out fighting,’ he said. ‘I mean, the bloody Ghasts mean to wipe us out anyhow. Even if they do win, we’ll hurt them first.’
Suruk chuckled. ‘Well said. The death-screams of a thousand enemies shall be a fanfare to proclaim us to our ancestors!’
‘Well, I need to get up. Not doing a lot here.’
‘No, Mazuran. Sleep, for it is the evening. I shall help the others; you must save your strength for acts of war. You will need it,’ he added, and he opened the door.
*
Smith slept badly, but he did not dream. Soon he woke again, and he lay in the dark cabin for a while, feeling fear stir slowly in his gut. He switched the light on and sat up.
The clock said that it was half-past twelve. He felt clear-headed, but fragile. Smith sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, stood up and put his boots and jacket on. He opened the door and stepped outside.
In the corridor, needles rattled softly in their dials. Even the life-support systems seemed to hum less loudly than before. He walked down the passage, opened the airlock and went out into the night.
His boots were quiet on the metal steps. The Pym stood in the shadow of a little wood, where the overhanging branches would break up its shape. To his right the M’Lak skimmers were black hillocks in the dark, like burial mounds. The night was cool on his skin; the air was fragrant with tea and earth.
A voice hissed behind him. ‘Who goes there?’
‘Isambard Smith,’ he said, raising his hands. A small man stood there, a knife in one hand and a silenced Stanford gun in the other. The fellow had crept close enough to touch Smith before challenging him.
Wainscott’s men had trained their recruits well. ‘I just needed some air.’
The sentry relaxed. ‘It’s you alright. Fair enough.’ The man stepped back, and faded into the tea fields. Smith watched him disappear and thought: If all our men are like him, we’ll give the Ghasts a run for their money. We certainly deserve to.
He walked into the wood. Someone had cut a narrow path between the trees and he followed it, not quite sure where he was going. For the first time in a long while, he wanted peace and quiet, to be away from the weapons and preparation for war, to forget about his duty and the fight to come.
Yes, peace and quiet. That would be good. The Imperial Code said that it was noble and right to find peace in the countryside. Being in the country enabled the citizen to reflect on life. Very true, thought Smith. Had not Merlin said something like that? Yes, he’d said that victory would come from being one with the land. Well, this was certainly a good—
He tripped over a root. Smith fell onto his hands. He stood up, said ‘Arse!’, brushed his stinging palms together to get rid of the dirt, and stopped.
There was a light in the forest. It was a steady, firm glow like an electric torch. It looked like an ember held just in front of him, but there could be no doubt that it came from something further up the path.
He was unarmed. Even his sword was back in the ship.
Smith cursed himself for a fool; with a weapon, he would be happy to advance. It would not take five minutes to return to the ship. He could arm himself there, perhaps wake the others. But in five minutes’ time, would it still be here?
He reached to his pocket and took out his penknife.
Smith opened the blade and looked at it. It was thoroughly blunt. He scowled into the dark, ducked low and scurried towards the light.
The trees were thinning. It was a yellow light, not the blue phosphorescence of Ghast technology. It stayed still, growing as he approached, waiting for him. There were no more roots to impede his progress.
He scuttled closer, bent low to disguise his outline, scurrying from the cover of one tree to the next. The light flickered as something moved across it, and for a moment a creature was in silhouette – a being, perhaps human, perhaps a Ghast with its claws folded down. It looked too short for a M’Lak – but he had seen it only for a moment.
He clenched his fist around the penknife and approached.
There must be a clearing ahead; that was where the light was. The figure stayed tantalisingly out of view.
Something moved on the other side of the clearing, high in the trees. It looked like a thin, taut curtain, or the paper in a Chinese lantern.
The figure stepped into view and Smith bit his tongue in shock. His gasp was lost in the rustle of leaves. It was Rhianna.
She was look
ing at some tall object among the trees on the other side of the clearing, something a little like long poles with a folded sheet hanging between them.
As he watched, the poles moved, and the sheet between them stretched into a colossal wing.
Smith leaped up, hurdled the scrub and bounded into the clearing. In a moment he had shoved Rhianna aside and stood between her and the sun dragon, knife outstretched. Rhianna cried out, and a reptilian head the size of a coffin drew back from them, surprised. Smith brandished the penknife at it.
‘Back!’ he cried. ‘Unhand her, or I’ll carve you up!’
The sun dragon peered down at him, mildly perturbed.
Smith found that he was panting, and that the arm which was not holding the penknife was around Rhianna’s shoulders. There was an embarrassing pause.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll protect you. Stay back, by God!’
Rhianna said, ‘I’m fine, thank you, Isambard.’
He let go of her shoulder and looked at her. She was wearing a long dress and, were it not for the big shapeless cardigan, would have looked very pre- Raphaelite. ‘It’s okay.’ She held up a plastic bag. ‘Look, breadcrumbs.’
‘Oh,’ said Smith. He looked around the clearing, and realised that there were more of the creatures. They stood at the edge, watching him as one might a tottering infant, their horned heads dipping and tilting like those of birds.
Wings rose up behind them and moonlight glistened on the solar panels on their wings and backs. One of the sun dragons yawned, and static crackled around its jaws.
They were sleek, lightly-built, and huge.
Rhianna took a crust out of the bag and tossed it to the nearest dragon. It snatched it from the air and gulped it down. ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Smith said, ‘but you need to be careful. They’re like tigers: beautiful but dangerous. These must be even more dangerous than that, like. . . like dinosaur-tigers that fly. Like dragons, in fact.’
‘They won’t eat me,’ Rhianna said. She sounded absolutely certain.
Slowly, he realised that this was true. He stared through the moonlight at her. ‘You’re. . . you’re not controlling them, are you?’
‘More talking to them. On their own level. They’re used to people being afraid of them. They think we’re interesting.’
‘My God,’ he said. He looked around the clearing, astonished.
‘Isambard,’ Rhianna said, and he looked back at her. ‘Did you just try to protect me from a dragon with a penknife?’
Smith realised that he was still holding the knife. He looked down at it. It looked ridiculously inadequate, as if he had stuck his finger out in the hope of poking one of these monsters in the eye. ‘Well,’ he said, feeling extremely foolish as he folded the penknife away, ‘not really. I mean, I will admit I was concerned, but in the circumstances I felt that—’
‘That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.’ She moved suddenly and he flinched, instinctively thinking that she meant to headbutt him, but she was too quick and her hands grabbed his head, pulled it forward and she kissed him forcefully on the lips.
Startled, Smith staggered backwards with her still attached. He fell over backwards and she landed on top of him, which bruised his chest. ‘Mrpf murn urp,’ he said as she kissed him.
She stopped kissing him and pulled back, but she did not get off his chest. Rhianna lay on top of him, grinning.
Smith was not sure what one did in situations like these.
‘Well,’ he said breezily, ‘that was jolly. Cup of tea?’
Rhianna did not seem to have heard. ‘Oh, Isambard,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Whatever am I going to do with you?’
‘Ah, well, I don’t really know, as it happens. Perhaps we could have a chat, hold hands or something—’
‘Rhetorical question. I’m going to screw your brains out.’
‘Righto.’
She kissed him again, and because this time he wasn’t trying to fight her off, it felt good. He opened his eyes and looked up at the moon and a very puzzled sun dragon.
Rhianna straddled him and started unbuttoning his jacket. He suddenly realised that she meant exactly what she’d said, and terror struck him. His heart jittered and pounded against his ribs. The grass prickled against his hands and neck.
‘Wait, wait!’
She stopped.
‘I mean, you’re not going to do it out here, are you?’
Rhianna had started moving her hips in a disconcerting manner. He tried not to think about it. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’re outside, one with nature. . .’
‘But they can see!’
‘They’re dragons, Isambard. They won’t tell anyone.’
‘I – I just—’
‘You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’
‘No! How are we defining virgin here?’
‘Oh dear.’ Abruptly, she rolled off him and got to her feet. Damn! He wanted to scream. Damn you, Smith! Why the hell did you say that?
But to his surprise she smiled and reached out and helped him up. As he stood up she stepped in close and kissed him again. Her hands slipped around his waist, and she gripped his bottom and squeezed. Pressed against him, she shifted position, and a sort of ripple seemed to move up her body, which got the attention of his old chap.
‘Now,’ she whispered, pressing her lips close to his ear, ‘you’re coming in with me, and you’re not running away, okay? You wouldn’t run away from a girl, would you now?’
‘No,’ he said into her dreadlocks, and she took his hand and led him back.
The ship was quiet. Rhianna led him to her door and opened it. He felt dizzy.
‘Will I be sleeping in your room?’ he inquired. ‘Because if I am, I ought to go and fetch my pyjamas—’
‘Isambard, are you a coward?’
‘No!’ he said, stung.
‘Come on then,’ Rhianna said. ‘You’ll be fine. And forget your goddamn pyjamas. You won’t sleep a wink.’
Inside her room it was magical. Suddenly he was in a different world, of drapes and strange smells, cushions, throws and air heavy with the smell of joss. It felt like witchcraft, dulling his brain and sharpening his senses.
They kissed and her hands unbuttoned his jacket, and he put his own hands on her bare midriff. She drew back, smiling, and pulled her top off.
As she unfastened his shirt something snapped inside his brain, some restriction broke, and he squeezed her tightly against him. ‘You’re smashing,’ he found himself saying, over and over again. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than that.
Rhianna slipped off her skirt. She looked super in her pants. Then there was more kissing and a bit of difficulty with his trousers and boots. ‘Whoa,’ Rhianna said, looking at his underpants. ‘Polly was right all along.’
She took his hands and showed him what to do, and he kissed her some more. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, knowing as he said it how insufficient it was to describe her, and Rhianna laughed and ran her fingertips across his stomach, just above the waistband of his Y-fronts.
The rest was awkward, and a bit tricky the first time round, but it was her, Rhianna, who he would have sworn that he could never have, and that was all that mattered to him. She seemed happy too. It was all wonderful, like a dream, but the best moment came when they were about to sleep. She laid her head on his shoulder and kissed him again and said, ‘Goodnight, Isambard.’
‘Night-night,’ he said, and he felt extremely proud.
She’s mine, he realised suddenly. Hooray! He put his arm round her and tried to kiss her head through all the dreadlocks, but didn’t quite succeed. She fell asleep. So beautiful, he thought, and he did the same.
He awoke to find that it was not all a dream. She was still there: snoring slightly, her cheek stuck to the sheet with dribble. He looked down at her and grinned. He had not been so happy since he was six, when his parents had bought him a book called Fifty Space Dreadnou
ghts to Colour and Keep. It had come with a grey crayon.
Smith did not want to leave Rhianna. A deep, irrational fear told him that if he left her, she would come to her senses and decide that she had made a terrible mistake, or else God, or fate, or secret police would contrive to steal her away. It was one of the laws of physics that Isambard Smith could not get girls: surely you could not break a law of physics. He pushed the thought aside.
Smith could not help waking her as he got up. Rhianna opened one eye and said, ‘Uh?’
‘I’m going to make some tea,’ he said quietly. ‘I won’t be long.’
He put on his clothes from yesterday and opened the door. ‘Cheerio,’ he said, and he slipped out into the corridor.
Now, he thought, best do this quietly. Suruk would find the whole business baffling and vaguely shameful – the M’Lak, being neuter, rarely had cause to touch one another at all – and as for Carveth, he could not imagine a single response she could have to the news that would not make him want to cringe and hide. He crept past Suruk’s door, stole into the living room in his socks and reached the galley.
It was dark. His hands found the kettle and filled it. He plugged it in and put two teabags in the pot. What a day!
Smith thought. What an incredible change to his life the last twenty-four hours had brought! He had survived a massive dose of hallucinogen, seen Merlin in a dream, discovered that his ideal woman could commune with dragons and then made love to her. That called for an extra teabag.
He opened the fridge door. There was a piece of paper folded over the milk. He opened it up. It said, ‘Nice work, Boss. Give her one from us.’
The light flicked on. Carveth and Suruk stood in the doorway. Carveth had rolled a magazine into a trumpet and blew a fanfare. ‘Hail!’ Suruk cried.
‘Ah, hello,’ said Smith, going red.
Carveth ran over and slapped him on the back, then hugged him until his ribs hurt. ‘Nice one! You got her in the sack! Whaaay!’
