by Toby Frost
Smith was not really listening. Rhianna had stopped whirling around – jazz hands and AC/DC really did not go, he decided – and was approaching.
‘Hey, everyone!’ she called. ‘Over here! C’mon, guys!’
They joined her by the vegetarian barbecue. There were some picnic chairs laid out in a rough semicircle and Wainscott and his men were already there, working their way though a box of captured beer. Susan’s arm was in a sling. W sat down carefully and helped her open a beer bottle. Even Rick Dreckitt was there, at the far edge of the group, staring into a glass of whisky, the firelight catching on his stubble.
Once they had settled down, Rhianna switched off the radio. They could make out the distant music of other parties across the city, but their group was suddenly silent and intimate. They looked nervous.
‘Hey, guys,’ Rhianna said. ‘I think that it’s really im-portant, today of all days, that we express our feelings collectively. I feel that today we’ve shared something very important, and that we’ve demonstrated our opposition to oppressive tyranny, right?’
‘Yes, super, great,’ Wainscott said with evident relief, getting up.
‘I’m not finished yet,’ Rhianna said, and he scowled and sat down again. ‘Now then,’ she said, brushing a stray dreadlock out of the way, ‘We’ve had quite an adventure, all of us. And, as anyone who’s read the complete works of Tolkein as often as I have will know, an adventure often ends with a party – and a song.’
She reached behind her seat and took out an acoustic guitar. A rumble of unease ran through the group. ‘I wrote this myself.’
Smith grimaced. Much as he loved Rhianna, a dark part of his mind whispered ‘Folk music – till death do you part’. He found a cocktail sausage and broke it in half.
Rhianna fiddled with the strings and made a noise.
‘Oh my God, my wounds!’ Carveth cried, and she leaped up and staggered off, clutching her head. Rhianna struck a chord. Carveth came lurching back, grabbed Dreckitt by the arm and stumbled away, hauling him after her. ‘His wounds too!’ she called, and they disappeared into the night.
‘Right,’ said Rhianna. ‘I’ll begin. You can sing along with the chorus: singing’s always more. . . real if the audience joins in.’
Across the stars and all through space
One thing guides the human race,
Neither politics, nor belief,
Our future lies in the tea leaf.
Yet in our comfort we forgot
Alien eyes turned to Didcot.
The Ghasts invaded, Eden too
Which was a, like, bad thing to do
Hassling people with their hate
They imposed a theocratic state.
Galactic conquest was their plan -
For they were working for the Man.
They took our land, our property
They tried to rewrite history
They held us down with tyranny
But they can never take our tea.
Folk of Urn were its defenders
Brave men and brave other genders:
Women fighting for their future,
M’Lak, who happen to be neuter
And in case there were some, keep in mind
People whose gender has been reassigned.
So we rose against their cruel regime
Destroyed their tanks and war machines
For with some people, I admit,
Non-violence just gets you hit.
And it’s hard to use the ways of Ghandi
When you’ve got a plasma cannon handy.
They took our land, our property
They tried to rewrite history
They held us down with tyranny
But they can never take our tea.
And the moral is that the tea shall flow
And – Guys? Where did everybody go?
As Rhianna looked around, Smith surreptitiously removed the two halves of the cocktail sausage from his ears. The Deepspace Operations Group had used their fearsome powers of stealth to slip into the night, no doubt in search of beer and rock music.
‘Just us, it seems,’ Smith said, and he got up and walked across to a chair nearer her and pulled it close. He sat down. ‘Righto,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Rhianna said, rather wistfully.
‘Right then. Mind if I, er—’
He leaned round, ready to kiss her, and she pulled back.
‘Isambard, we need to talk.’
‘Talk. Yes, of course.’ He leaned back in his picnic chair for a moment, thinking. This must be what they called ‘foreplay’. No doubt he was expected to say something to get her in the mood. ‘Jolly good song, that,’ he said.
Rhianna looked around at him and he was shocked to see that her face had acquired its sincerely-concerned look. Sudden fear gripped him. Something bad was about to happen, and it looked as if instead of rude stuff he could expect a tear-jerking monologue about why dolphins ought to be given the vote.
‘This isn’t going to work, Isambard,’ she said.
‘Nonsense,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve only had three pints. It’s like Carveth says: so long as you crank the handle, an old car can still be a goer.’
‘It’s not that,’ Rhianna replied. ‘It’s not you, Isambard. It’s me.’
‘You? If it’s about you being half-alien, I really don’t mind. It’s not like you’re Belgian or anything.’
‘Very soon you’ll have to go again,’ Rhianna said. ‘And I will have to stay here, with the government, learning how to use my powers. Isambard, no matter what, I won’t be anywhere near you. We should part as friends.’
‘But – but – what do you mean? We can’t just shake hands and go! We – you know – we did it. That matters, doesn’t it?’ Suddenly alarmed, he added, ‘That was doing it, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that was doing it,’ she said sadly.
‘Besides, aren’t you into free love and all that? I mean, I’m as free as they come.’
‘Oh Isambard, if you weren’t so new to this, I wouldn’t say no. But I don’t want to hurt you. I know you have feelings for me, and I know they can’t come to anything. That has to end, for the good of both of us.’
‘Sod my feelings! I’m English, for God’s sake. I don’t do feelings. I hardly even have any. Rhianna, this isn’t fair. If I was a worse person, you’d be with me tonight. How does that make any sense at all?’
‘I guess it’s best for—’
‘Bloody women!’ Smith cried, standing up. ‘What is wrong with you people? One of you jumps under a race-horse and the whole world goes knockers-up! Well,’ he concluded, ‘I’ve had enough of this. You can do what you damned well like. I’m going to find someone who’s sane and decent and actually cares about doing the right thing instead of putting people down and messing around with their heads.’
‘Hello,’ Suruk the Slayer said, strolling over. ‘Anybody want anybody killed?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I have just had quite the most disgusting experience of my life. Bounty hunter Dreckitt is being awarded a portion on the kitchen table by the gnome Carveth.’ He scowled. ‘Several portions, actually. Sometimes, walking silently is not advantageous.’ He glanced at Rhianna. ‘She weeps, Smith. Not within my ambit.’ He turned and took a step away, then looked back. ‘Unless you want her killed?’
Smith looked: Rhianna was crying. ‘No, Suruk,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’
Suruk shrugged. ‘Merely a thought,’ and he sauntered into the dark, whistling cheerily through his mandibles.
Smith hurried back to his seat. Rhianna was weeping. A quiet, annoying sort of crying, like something that has sprung a slow leak. ‘Oh Rhianna,’ he said, stooping, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just, you know, it seems awfully—’
He did not get to finish. Quick as a Procturan Ripperspawn impregnating a host, she leaned over and kissed him. She stopped before he could black out, and looked at him and
shook her head, as if with wonder.
Women, he thought, rum bunch. Distinctly rum.
‘Oh, Isambard,’ she said, ‘Do you really think we could make it work?’
‘Can’t see why not. I can make a spaceship work, pretty much, and you should see the dashboard.’
She smiled. ‘Hey, I’ve just had the best idea ever.’
‘Really?’
Rhianna leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘You know the water tank they’ve been using as an urn tonight? The bonfire’s almost out. The tea’ll still be warm.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Why?’
‘Want to go swimming, Isambard?’
‘But I haven’t got a bathing suit.’
She grinned. ‘Nor have I.’
‘Well, that won’t work. . . Oh my God, do you really mean—?’
‘Really.’
To his surprise, he did not pass out on the spot.
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘Well, I mean to say, bloody hell. Tea’s up!’
Acknowledgements
This book would never have been written without the encouragement of my family and friends. In particular I’d like to thank everyone at Red Wave, Myrmidon and Verulam Writers’ Circle for all their help. Special thanks must also go to my long-suffering parents, and my friend Owen (even though he doesn’t like tea). I raise a cup to you all.
About the Author
Toby Frost studied law and was called to the Bar in 2001.
Since then, he has worked as a private tutor, a court clerk and a legal advisor, amongst other things. He has also produced film reviews for the book The DVD Stack and articles for Solander magazine. The first of his Isambard novels, Space Captain Smith, was published in the spring of 2008.
Join Captain Smith and his crew on their next adventure. . .
Wrath of the Lemming Men!
From the depths of Space a new foe rises to do battle with mankind: the British Space Empire is threatened by the lemming-people of Yull, ruthless enemies who attack without mercy, fear or any concept of self-preservation. At the call of the war-god, the Yull have turned on the Empire, hell-bent on conquest and destruction in their rush towards the cliffs of destiny.
When the Yullian army is forced to retreat at the battle of the River Tam, the disgraced Colonel Vock swears revenge on the clan of Suruk the Slayer, Isambard Smith’s homicidal alien friend. Now Smith and his crew must defend the Empire and civilise the stuffing out of a horde of bloodthirsty lemming-men – which would be easy were it not for a sinister robotics company, a Ghast general with a fondness for genetic engineering and an ancient brotherhood of Morris Dancers – who may yet hold the key to victory. . .
www.spacecaptainsmith.com
The Painted Messiah by Craig Smith
International Best-Selling Action from Craig Smith
A legend persists that, after the ‘scourging’, Pilate commanded that his victim be painted from life. Somewhere, the painting survives, the only true image of Christ, granting the gift of ever-lasting life to whoever possesses it.
Kate Kenyon, the wealthy young widow of an English aristocrat, has an addiction to mortal risk. She feeds it by engaging in the armed robbery of priceless artefacts with her accomplice and lover Ethan Brand. Their latest target is a priceless ‘Byzantine’ icon hidden in the tower of a chateau by Lake Lucerne. So far they have never had to shoot anyone. This time will be different.
Thomas Malloy is a retired CIA man looking for his first lucrative freelance assignment. His chance comes with a presi-dential favour to a rich but ailing televangelist. Malloy’s task seems simple enough: pick up the preacher’s newly acquired painting from a Zurich bank and get it to the airport. But, once in Switzerland, Malloy’s old friend, the enigmatic Contessa Claudia de Medici tries to warn him off his mission.
Sir Julian Corbeau is an international criminal holed up in Switzerland to avoid US extradition proceedings. He is also the sadistic head of the modern Knights Templar. He had the painting and now he desperately wants it back and swears to wreak a bloody revenge upon those who stole it.
As the contenders vie for possession the bullets fly, the body count rises and the secrets of the portrait gradually unfold.
TRANSLATED INTO FRENCH, GERMAN, ITALIAN, SPANISH, RUSSIAN, CZECH, POLISH, GREEK AND TURKISH
OUT NOW ISBN: 978-1-905802-15-9 Price: £7.99
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-905802-54-8
The Blood Lance by Craig Smith
Craig Smith's sizzling sequel to The Painted Messiah
Kufstein, Austria, 1939
At the foot of a mountain known as The Wilder Kaiser lies the body of an SS officer, his neck broken but his face a picture of bliss and serenity. The dead man is known to history as Otto Rahn, Himmler's own archaeologist. Rahn's pursuit of the legendary Blood Lance of the Cathars has not only led to his own downfall but set in motion a tragic chain of events reaching far beyond the holocaust.
Switzerland 1997
Lord Robert Kenyon is a wealthy financier and a senior member of a humanitarian order calling themselves The Knights of the Holy Lance. Whilst climbing the North face of the Eiger with his new bride, he is attacked and murdered and his young wife Kate left for dead.
New York City 2008
When billionaire Jack Farrell, long suspected of connections to European crime syndicates cuts loose after defrauding his own company, ex CIA agent Thomas Malloy is assigned to track him down. The trail leads to Germany and the Order of the Holy Lance. With his friends, former art thieves Kate and Ethan Brand, Malloy sets out to unlock the secrets of the order: Malloy seeks his man; Kate must find the truth about what happened on the slopes of the Eiger eleven years before - and exact her vengeance. Their first step is to kidnap a corrupt lawyer, connected to the order, from his home in Hamburg. Things don't quite run to plan - and all hell breaks loose.
OUT NOW ISBN: 978-1-905802-29-6 Price: £7.99
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-905802-55-5
