Major Wainscott’s pod dropped open as it hit the ground and he jumped out into the snow, slapping a fresh magazine into the side of his Stanford gun. He was confronted by a depressing lack of hostile fire, so he threw himself clear of the pod, anticipating an ambush. Nothing happened.
‘Hiding, are you?’ Wainscott muttered into his beard, setting his backpack cogitator to scan for life as he studied the landing zone through his gunsight. Up ahead, the Leighton-Wakazashi headquarters loomed like a frosted cliff, the tinted windows glistening like black ice.
His Portable Information Transmitter Headset crackled. ‘Boss?’ Susan said. ‘Any contact?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘They’re definitely hiding. Spread out and move up, thirty yard intervals. See any moon-men, do them over. Over.’
Ducking low, he ran across the landing pad. A Ghast shuttle lay beside the company ships, its narrow black nose pointing at the company buildings like a mangled, accusing finger. Nelson was crouched beside its front leg.
‘Anything, Nelson?’
The technician shook his head. ‘Looks like Gertie headed North.’
‘Towards the company buildings, eh? Alright, let’s go.’
They ran towards the rail terminal. Halfway there, Wainscott dropped down and prodded something half-buried in the snow. It was a dead Ghast, its coat frozen stiff like beaten lead, body twisted and teeth bared in rage or pain, or both. ‘Dead drone here,’ he told the intercom.
‘Got a few here,’ Susan’s voice crackled back. ‘Someone made a tidy job of their landing party. Small-arms fire, mainly. There’s not a lot left by the looks of it.’
‘Bugger!’ Wainscott replied. ‘Meet me up by the main entrance. There may be some inside.’
He ducked behind a battered sign beside the executive offices. It read: Welcome to Leighton-Wakazashi, bringing you tomorrow’s future today! Access for paupers at side entrance only.
Wainscott lay down and waited, the snow hiding his outline, Nelson watching his back. Susan, Brian and Craig jogged up beside him and he rose to a crouch. ‘If Gertie’s here, he’s in there,’ Wainscott said, nodding at the doors ahead. ‘I’ll take the doors. Brian, Craig, flanking. Watch our back, Susan. Nelson, would you be so good as to bypass the door controls?’
They ran to their positions. Wainscott nodded to Nelson, and he pressed a device against the doors. A counter spun on Nelson’s machine, the lock whined, and the doors slid apart.
A dozen people stood behind the doors: policemen, mainly, and with them a line of young women, all of them armed. A man in a long brown coat stepped forward to greet the Deepspace Operations Group.
‘Wainscott?’ he said.
‘Dreckitt?’ Wainscott lowered his Stanford gun. ‘What’s all this, then?’
Dreckitt holstered his pistol inside his coat. ‘The ants sent a mob of gunsels down here. We managed to hold them off. We thought we’d lay low and wait for you.’
‘You killed them all?’
‘Yep.’
The wide-eyed girl beside Dreckitt gave Wainscott a victory sign. ‘Yay! Go ultra robot lady team!’
Wainscott looked them over, sighed and turned to his men. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing here to kill. Bloody mission’s a write-off. Come along Susan, we’re going home.’ He stepped back into the snow.
‘Wait!’
Wainscott glanced round. ‘Well?’
Dreckitt said, ‘Major, if you’re looking for the enemy, I can help. W’s taken a slug and that leaves you and me running this case. Polly Carveth, my squeeze, taught these dames how to pack a piece. She’s out there with Isambard Smith, looking for the Vorl. If you want to go help them, I’d be first to ride your running board.’
Wainscott looked at Susan and grimaced. She shrugged.
A tall, elegant android in a long dress and bonnet stepped forward and curtseyed as she reached the door, as if about to welcome them into her home. ‘I am Miss Emily Hallsworth, formerly of Mansfield Theme Park. Major, I believe Mr Dreckitt is making you an offer of assistance. He has certain information as to the whereabouts of your colleague – and, I should add, Miss Polly Carveth. Despite his uncouth manner, I would suggest that you accept Mr Dreckitt’s aid and head forthwith to assist Captain Smith.’
‘Yeah,’ Dreckitt added, ‘you said it, sister.’
‘Sister? I certainly hope not, Mr Dreckitt.’ Emily smiled at Wainscott. ‘So, Major, it would seem prudent for you to relieve us of Mr Dreckitt’s rather working-class presence. But before you leave—’ and her eyes gleamed – ‘that’s a rather splendid uniform you happen to be wearing, isn’t it?’
The John Pym rose amid a flurry of flares, decoys and pre-emptive missiles, as if in the centre of a fireworks display.
Carveth sat at the controls, following the progress of the counters and dials. A flare burst near them, throwing a green glow onto the brasswork. Below, New Luton was a blur, red flowers blossoming and fading against the blue-grey buildings. It seemed an incongruously cheerful way to leave.
Carveth heard boots behind her. ‘Bloody hell, boss,’ she said, watching the city. ‘What a place. They’re knackered down there, aren’t they?’
‘Most probably,’ Suruk said.
She glanced round. ‘Oh, it’s you – Sorry, I thought you were—’
‘Isambard Smith rests in his room. He must be careful with a wound to his head, lest his liver fall out.’
‘What? You have your liver in your head?’
‘Only my spare one. Most of the space is taken up by my digestive and excretory organs.’
‘Weird.’
‘We are, you might say, opposites: I excrete from my voicebox, whereas you speak from—’
‘Alright, point made. I’m sorry you overheard me just then. I didn’t mean—’
‘You are correct, though. Most likely they are doomed.’ Suruk stood beside her, leaning up close to the glass. ‘They will fight bravely, but they will be overwhelmed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘There are worse ways to die.’ Suruk looked round. ‘A question, small woman. . . can you imagine me in a court of law?’
‘Easily, provided the police could catch you first.’
Suruk looked into Gerald’s cage and gave his water bottle a thoughtful squeeze. ‘I meant as a speaker of law. I would stand before the elder with the ears of a spaniel—’
‘The judge.’
‘Before him, and say “This man is guilty! Slay him now!” Everybody would wish to employ me then. Do you think I could be a criminal lawyer?’
‘Well, you’re halfway there already.’ She turned to the navigational computer, wondering what had brought on this strange flight of fancy.
‘I could execute wills!’ Suruk enthused, and Carveth shuddered.
‘I’m going to check on the captain,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch the controls – or the hamster.’
She walked down the hallway and knocked on the door to Smith’s room.
‘Come in!’
He sat at the little table, which was supposed to be for typing vital reports but was covered in Airfix kits and glue. ‘Hyperspace Hellfire,’ he said, holding up an indeterminate plastic item.
‘How’s the head?’ Carveth asked.
‘Right as rain.’
She peered at the model. ‘Should the wheels come out of the cockpit like that?’
‘Do they? Ah, yes. Whoops.’
Carveth stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her. ‘Suruk reckons we’re going to lose New Luton.’
Smith did not say anything. After a few seconds he nodded. ‘It’s possible, yes.’
‘That means Morgar and the rest. . .’
‘Quite.’
‘Bloody hell. What a waste.’ She sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed. ‘I quite liked that Jones the Laser.’
‘I doubt Rick Dreckitt would have approved. You are taken, you know.’
‘Only roughly.’ Carveth frowned. ‘It’s bad about New Luton, though.’
Smith stood up, slow and weary. She looked small, deflated somehow. ‘Come on,’ he said, tapping her on the arm. ‘Let’s have some tea. We might have some good biscuits left.’
Rhianna was meditating in the living room, making a sound like an old fridge. Her eyes opened at they entered.
‘Hey guys,’ she said. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine,’ Carveth said.
‘Fine,’ said Smith. There was an unspoken agreement between them never to discuss anything emotional in front of Rhianna, who would only make them miserable by forcing them to talk about their feelings. Smith put the kettle on.
‘Is your head okay?’ Rhianna asked.
‘Should be alright,’ Smith replied.
‘It’s just that I was worried back there. The treatment you received – well, it just didn’t seem very holistic.’
‘Holistic?’
Rhianna made her spreading-hands gesture. ‘Incorporating the totality of the body,’ she explained.
Smith dropped four teabags into the pot. ‘Well, only my head got hit,’ he replied, irritated by her slowness. ‘In total I’m fine.’
‘Yes, but you could have put your aura out of balance, or blinded your third eye.’
‘What?’ Smith paused, shocked. ‘My aura is quite well balanced, thank you,’ he replied. ‘And as for my third eye, I don’t think that’s any—’
Carveth elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Magic talk,’ she whispered. ‘Digging a hole, boss.’
‘Ah, I see. Well,’ he continued, ‘in that case my magic parts are fine. Which reminds me: I think we all ought to thank you for stopping that dessicator beam back outside the museum. Had you not done so, I suspect we all would have bought it.’
‘It was nothing,’ Rhianna said. ‘I’d have done it for any-one.’
‘Oh.’ Somewhat disappointed, Smith brought the teapot to the table and sat down. Suruk strolled in and they shared out the biscuits.
‘Right,’ said Smith, as the alien squatted down on a chair, ‘I’m pleased to say that we are in a good position. Carveth here has set a course for Lloydland, and once we arrive we can start to search for the Vorl. We seem to have lost the enemy for now, so I can only presume that we have the lead.’
‘Which means that we have lost Colonel Vock,’ Suruk growled.
‘For now, yes.’
‘Then this is folly!’ Suruk snarled. Rhianna blinked as if awoken. ‘Mazuran, I promised my brother that I would singe the fur of the lemming. If we do not face Vock, I shall have broken that promise. I know the pixie here regrets us leaving the soldiers of Jones the Laser behind. Think then how much greater is my regret, living with the knowledge that my father was dishonoured by a rodent! You are a friend, and one I would never harm, but if Vock escapes me my rage will know no bounds. I will have vengeance, or I will have kittens!’
‘I understand, Suruk,’ Smith said. ‘Carveth, I know you’re not overly pleased—’
‘I know we had to go,’ she said. She stared into her tea.
‘It’s just the thought of leaving all those men behind. All those officers and privates left down there. . . stop looking at me like that. I mean it.’
‘No doubt you do,’ Suruk observed.
Rhianna was watching, engrossed, slowly twirling a strand of hair around her finger. ‘I’m sensing a lot of negative feelings in the room,’ she began.
‘Amazing powers of perception you’ve got there,’ Carveth said.
‘Shush,’ Smith said. ‘Were you going to say some stuff, Rhianna?’
Rhianna looked down at the tabletop, as if trying to discern a meaning from the tea stains and dents. She looked at Smith, as if to say something, sighed and said, ‘No, nothing. It’s terrible about New Luton, but the time for peaceful protest there is over. I can help most by opening communications with the Vorl. I have to go on.’
‘You already do,’ Carveth said.
‘Good,’ Smith said, although he felt that something was up with Rhianna. Perhaps it was some strange feminine business, or wind. ‘Now,’ he said, addressing the whole table, ‘pay attention, men. I have listened to your concerns, and I will promise you this: once this mission is complete, or as complete as we can get it without dying, we will return to New Luton. There we will do everything we can to help the troops, whether than involves shuttling them to the battlefield or assisting with evacuation. And while we are there, Suruk, please feel free to resume your quest to defeat Colonel Vock. For it is there that the trail goes cold, and there, if the Yullian mind is what I think it is – i.e. small and nasty – where he will want to stay in order to sate his bloodlust.
‘But until then we will carry on. We will keep on going, partly because the freedom of the galaxy depends on us, but more importantly, because we’re British, or at least two and a half of us are, and not giving in is what being British is all about. I ask you: did Cromwell, or Nelson chuck it all in? Did Barnes Wallis stop giving a damn? Never!’ Full of enthusiasm, mug in hand, he sprang to his feet. ‘We will go forward, men, united in our mission to seek out the mysterious being that got Rhianna’s mother in the family way. Then, and only then, we will return to the Empire and put our new knowledge to deadly effect! Any questions, men?’
Carveth raised a hand. ‘Are you aware that none of us actually are men?’
‘Not by birth, no. But by extension!’
‘What did I extend to become a bloke?’
‘He means it as an allegory, Polly,’ Rhianna explained.
‘Do I have one of those?’ Suruk asked.
‘We all do!’ Smith cried, eyes wild. ‘You may not be men, true, but you’re doing pretty damned well considering. And with that,’ he declared, ‘who’ll join me in a game of cricket?’
462 sat in his chair on the bridge of the Systematic Destruction, admiring his reflection in his newly-polished helmet. Minions scurried around him, suitably busy and afraid. This, he reflected, was the life.
Being Number Eight’s chief underling had brought a wide range of benefits. Not least was his new command seat, which reclined and played classic highlights from Number One’s speeches. He flicked a control and from speakers in the headrest a voice yelped ‘Crush! Smash! Lightning! Ruthless!’ 462 settled back, put his pincer arms behind his head and folded his hands over his thorax. ‘Complete annihilation of mammalian life!’ bellowed his chair.
Heels banged together at the side of his seat.
‘Commander!’
462 opened his sole, beady eye. ‘What?’
An orderly looked down at him. ‘Request from. . .’ it shuddered, ‘—Number Eight’s personal ship. He seeks information as to our next move.’
‘I see. Tell his pilot to keep back and follow us. Our enemy will lead us to the prize.’
The orderly saluted. ‘Puny human craft John Pym is on course for Lloydland, a human planet. Lloydland has one main settlement: a “theme park”.’ It scrutinised its clip-board, perplexed.
‘A pathetic source of amusement for decadent weaklings,’ 462 explained. ‘True amusement comes from unity, strength and standing in lines shouting!’
‘Freedom is unity! Peace is shouting!’ the orderly quoted. ‘Glorious commander, sensors have picked up traces of what may be another craft, entering the system on a tangental approach.’
‘I see. Can you confirm its identity?’
‘No, Commander.’
‘Proceed with our mission. Continue to monitor.
Dismissed.’
The orderly saluted, spun round and strode away. 462 activated the screen on his armchair and flicked through the various spy cameras on the ship. In their quarters the Yull were watching a propaganda film. This film was of caged Guinea-pigs which, the voice-over claimed, were Yullian infants that the British intended to ship to the Andes and feed to ravening pan-pipe musicians. The Yull were nearly berserk, eyes bulging as they screeched promises of mayhem and butchery at the screen. 462 chuckled, reflecting that the Yullian government would say anything to keep its moronic lackeys sufficiently enraged.
462 flicked the switch and saw Colonel Vock staring at his suit of polished red armour, apparently in a trance. His axes lay on his lap and there was a cruel smirk across his snout. No doubt he was contemplating the tortures he intended to inflict on Suruk the Slayer and his allies. Vock reached into a bag and stuffed a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.
462 switched off the camera.
So, the reckoning would happen on Lloydland. With the disposable allied troops and the specially-equipped praetorians delegated to him by Eight, there would be no stopping him. He would capture the Vorl, but far more importantly than that, he would have Isambard Smith.
His scarred face smiled back at him, reflected in his helmet. An eye for an eye, as the Earthlanders said. How very true.
Smith strolled across the hold with a self-mixing gin and tonic in one hand and a cricket bat in the other. Rhianna and Carveth watched him from the sitting room door.
Suruk had climbed onto the walkway that ran around the edge of the hold.
The hold contained the remnants of several expeditions.
Around its edges were boxes and chests holding a wide range of useless items: a gun-case with no guns, a scanner stand made out of a ravnaphant’s leg and a stained, padlocked crate plastered with biohazard stickers, on which Suruk had written ‘Imerjency rashuns’.
Smith whirled the bat around cheerfully, rubbing a tennis ball against his thigh. Carveth leaned over to Rhianna. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t slightly concussed,’ she whispered.
‘I think his chakras may be out of alignment,’ Rhianna replied.
‘Pay attention, everyone,’ Smith announced. ‘French cricket, as the name suggests, is much like British cricket except not as good. However, having no stumps, pads, teams or a scorer, this will have to suffice. The aim of the game is to get the batsman out by hitting him on the legs—’
‘Simple,’ Suruk said.
‘—with the tennis ball. For Rhianna’s benefit, it’s a little like the traditional American game of rounders—’
An alarm sounded from the cockpit, a miserable howl.
‘Spaceship’s broken,’ Carveth announced. ‘See you later!’ She ran from the room with evident relief.
Rhianna slipped off her sandals. ‘Which one of us is the hitter?’
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘there’s a batsman, and a bowler. Let’s see: why don’t you bowl, Suruk, and Rhianna, you can bat. Now, come and stand over here. . .’
In a swish of hair and skirt she skipped across to join him by the bay doors. ‘Okay, what do I do?’
Suddenly she was close up, and he could smell hair and joss. ‘Right,’ he said, assuming an appropriate stance, ‘you stand like this, and Suruk tries to hit you on the legs with the tennis ball. Suruk: no maiming, understand?’
The alien dropped down from the roof. ‘I see we play French cricket the beginner’s way.’
Smith passed Rhianna the bat and sat down on the bio-hazard case. Rhianna undid one of the bits of grubby string on her wrist and began to pull her hair back, like a fisherman hauling in his thrashing net. This struck Smith as deeply erotic. Her body was as sleek and graceful as a ’cello, but with better boobs. Desire made him light-headed, or perhaps it was cranial damage.
‘Boss!’
Smith looked round: Carveth stood in the doorway.
‘Borrow you for a minute, boss?’ she said, and she disappeared from view.
Smith followed her through to the cockpit. ‘Listen to this,’ Carveth said, prodding the radio controls. ‘I’ve picked up a signal coming from Lloydland.’
Smith leaned towards the speaker. ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you sure Suruk didn’t scalp you by mistake? You want to be careful – your brain’ll fall out of a wound like that.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing much.’
‘All the more reason to hang on to it.’ She closed the door behind them and flicked on the radio. ‘This is on continual replay. I’ve downloaded a map from the digital signal.’
A woman’s voice came out of the speaker, a perky voice with a Free States twang, somehow enthusiastic even though it brought no good news.
‘Hi! You are now within transmit distance of Lloydland, where the fun never ends. We are sorry to announce that Funland is currently closed for the duration of the Galactic War. Don’t forget to call back as soon as one side has surrendered, for the adventure of a lifetime! Funland: bringing you—’
The radio cut with an ugly screech. Hiss filled the air.
‘Weird,’ Carveth said, ‘it didn’t do this last time.’
And then a voice rose out of the hiss, nothing like the previous speaker. It sounded more like some strange anomaly that by coincidence resembled words, more like wind rushing through pipes than the product of vocal chords. The speakers buzzed with suppressed power behind which was the crackle of raw electricity.
‘Do not venture into the realm of the damned! If you value your life or your reason, keep away! Keep away!’
A blast of static and the radio was silent. Smith turned to look at Carveth. Her face was white in the dim cockpit, her eyes wide. ‘Maybe they’ve got a ghost train,’ he said.
The radio burst: the front of the speakers fell off and sparks rained over them. Carveth squealed and flinched.
Smith stood up, hand shielding his face. The door flew open and Suruk strode in, holding a tennis ball. He tore the radio from the console, threw it onto the floor and stamped on it several times. It gave one long, sorrowful moan like a dying cow and fell silent.
‘There,’ said Suruk. ‘Order is restored. All is well.’
‘All is not well!’ Carveth cried. ‘You just trashed the radio!’
‘Victory!’
Smith looked at the smashed radio, now a jumble of wires and shattered ferro-bakelite casing.
‘We can’t ring for help,’ Carveth said. Her voice seemed very small.
‘There’ll be a transmitter on the planet,’ Smith replied.
‘We’re going down there? Are you mental? We’ve just had a phone call from the Devil and you want to pitch up in his back garden?’
‘It was the Vorl,’ Rhianna said. They looked round: she stood in the doorway looking concerned. ‘It was them warning us, wasn’t it?’
Smith looked out the window, at the growing spec in the centre of the screen – Lloydland.
‘So what now?’ Carveth said.
‘Carry on,’ Smith replied. ‘We complete the mission.’
‘Are you mad?’
His voice was quiet and cold. ‘If we turn back we acknowledge failure, and we really will leave New Luton to its fate. We can’t call for help, so I can’t see what else we can do. We’ll land as soon as you can bring us into orbit.’
His eyes roved over them. ‘I want everyone ready to move out at first light tomorrow morning. I want weapons loaded and equipment stowed half an hour before we make planetfall. Look lively, everyone. No larking around.’
‘Sandwiches?’ Rhianna asked.
‘Yes please.’
The John Pym made the final descent with uncharacteristic grace. Smith peered through the dirty green airlock window, watching fire lick the nosecone as they sank into the atmosphere of Lloydland. The ship thrummed and shuddered. In the corridor, dials clicked and whirred.
Rhianna was making sandwiches in the galley. Smith wandered over, the floor rocking a little underfoot.
Something in the shelves rattled.
‘Making something nice?’ he asked.
‘Cheese,’ she said. ‘I’d usually have issues with dairy produce, but I doubt this has ever been near a cow.’
She draped a sheet of Cheddar, Military, One Serving, onto the bread. Smith watched her work. He had never seen anyone make a cheese sandwich with such elegant eroticism. He thought about saying something, complimenting her in some way, but he realised that anything he said would sound foolish and crude.
‘Would you like a dollop of my gentleman’s relish?’ he asked, passing her a jar.
She took it from him and gave the ingredients scrutiny.
‘I’m worried, Isambard,’ she said.
‘It’s fine for vegans,’ he replied.
‘I mean about going down there,’ she said, raising her voice over the racket of descent. ‘I mean, what will we find down there? Will we find the Vorl? Will they recognise me as their friend?’
‘I’m sure they’ll see you as one of the family. Though if they’re anything like my family, that might not be a good thing.’
‘No?’ she turned and smiled at him, which made him feel uncomfortable.
‘Rum bunch,’ he said. ‘Best check on Carveth.’
‘I—’ Rhianna began, but he was on the way out.
Carveth was at the controls, prodding the retro thrusters. Gerald’s cage was in the captain’s chair.
Everything seemed in order. ‘Alright there?’ Smith asked.
‘Pretty good. We’ll start the landing sequence in five minutes.’
Smith watched the planet grow larger as they approached. ‘What’s the terrain like down there?’
She pulled down a screen on a jointed brass arm. ‘Have a look.’
‘It looks like Bodmin Moor. Careful with those thrusters: we don’t want to burn the heather. The National Trust would raise hell for that.’
‘Right, boss. We’re carrying a bit of weight on the left dorsal. Might have a look at that once we’ve touched down.’
‘Go ahead,’ Smith said. He sighed. ‘Carry on, Carveth. I’ll be in my room.’
Smith wandered into his room and closed the door.
Descent had set the model spaceships swinging on their bits of string. He watched them rock, feeling inexplicably glum, and pulled out the chair to sit down at the captain’s desk.
It was Rhianna again. He had tried both ignoring her and being friendly, and still he could not escape the fact that he longed to be friendlier yet. There was no getting away from it: he would always want her, and his chance for that was gone.
A strange depression swallowed him, tranquil and deep.
Oh well, there was nothing that could be done. As far as the music of love was concerned, he had always been less of a virtuoso than a soloist.
If only he could just forget the whole women thing for good. Better to have Suruk’s cheerful company than feel miserable remembering what he couldn’t have. He needed a distraction. An idea struck him, and he reached under the desk and pulled out a large cardboard box. The lid depicted a spacecraft flying through an explosion.
Smith opened the box and smiled as he looked over the moulded plastic parts inside. This was no ordinary model kit: this was the Hyperspace Hellfire of the Space Marshall himself, issued with special transfers to celebrate his hundredth kill. He held up the fuselage and turned it round in his hands, simulating the flight of the ship.
‘Eeeeow,’ he said. ‘Akakak.’
‘Isambard?’
He looked round. Rhianna stood in the doorway. Smith lowered the model plane, feeling not so much embarassed as annoyed that she had to be here. Couldn’t he get some bloody peace, escape somewhere where he could forget about it all? It occurred to him that the M’Lak ancients had never been as wise or perceptive as he had been at the age of eight, when he had first made the great realisation that Girls Spoil Everything.
‘Can I come in?’ she asked.
‘I suppose so.’
She stepped inside and closed the door. ‘Can we talk for a while?’
‘If you like. Don’t mind me, I’m listening.’ He resumed his study of the Hellfire, without making the noises.
‘I meant like adults, Isambard.’
‘This is adult. It says “16 and over” on the box.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Fine.’ He shifted position, drawing away from her in case she tried to make him better.
Rhianna sighed. ‘Isambard, I’m sensing a lot of negativity from you these days.’ She sat down on his bed, knees close together and hands on them. She leaned forward, as if expecting him to whisper. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No,’ he said, returning to the kit. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything you want to say to me?’
‘Not especially. You did a good job back there, on that Marty war-machine. That was good work. Thank you.’
She nodded and forced a smile. ‘Okay. Nothing else?’
She stood up. ‘I’ll be in my room.’
He heard the slap, slap of her flip-flops pass behind him.
‘I miss you,’ he said. It came out without him meaning to, as unbidden as Carveth’s wind. ‘For what’s it’s worth. . . I mean. . .’ he found himself adding, earnestly and bitterly,
‘That’s what you wanted me to say, feelings and all that. But it’s not worth saying so it’s better not said, because that’s done and dusted and whatever I think or feel won’t alter it.’ He wondered if the fumes from the model glue had done something to his mind, but now it was too late to stop; he had pushed the toboggan of truth down the slalom of his tongue and the jangling bells of sexual frustration were speeding it on its way. ‘At the end of the day, assuming Gertie or the Furries don’t do us in first, I’ll go back to my work and you’ll go back to being psychic and wearing that colander thing on your head and that’s that.’
‘I miss you too,’ she said.
‘Precisely,’ he replied. ‘So that rather finishes everything, and. . .’ He looked around and blinked. ‘Really?’
Rhianna nodded in a blur of dark hair. ‘I don’t really know why, but yes, I do. I mean, you’re English, you’re a colonialist oppressor, you’ve got that terrible moustache, and yet – yet I can’t help but sense that your spirit has somehow risen above that and blossomed into this pure, noble thing, like a great, big tree. . .’
He watched her, wondering if she had finally taken leave of her mind, and realised that on some odd level this was meant to be a deep compliment. Suddenly he realised what she was banging on about: she meant that he was decent. He had a sudden, glue-fuelled image of the sort of men she had wasted her time on, the sort that he had never thought he could compete with, and it occurred to him that – to Rhianna at least – he was now actually a catch. Well, then. . .
He stood up. ‘Rhianna, if we started walking out again, and we had to part company for you to work for the Service again, I could wait. Provided I knew you would, that is.’
She nodded again. ‘I can wait,’ she said quietly. She stepped over, looked up and kissed him. The whole world seemed to shake as she did and it was all he could do not to fall over. He realised that Carveth was landing the ship. Smith held Rhianna tightly as the landing procedure was completed, partly for the safety of both of them, and after a few seconds they looked at each other again.
The John Pym did not move. They were on Lloydland.
‘Erm,’ said Smith, ‘seeing as we’re both here now and pretty much in agreement on this, I don’t suppose we could – you know – do it, could we?’
Carveth picked up the toolbox, switched on the torch strapped to her head, and stepped out of the airlock door muttering. So much for chivalry. Nobody had offered to help her check the ship, even though she’d mentioned it at least half an hour before. Alright, she was both the pilot and the mechanic, but really.
She closed the airlock and lumbered down the steps, weighed down by the tools. Suruk had retired to the hold to do whatever Suruk did and Smith and Rhianna had spent the afternoon sulking at one another and were no doubt at it even now. Midges danced in the torch beam like performers under a spotlight. A breeze caught the heather and set it swaying.
The ship had landed on a rocky patch where there was no risk of setting the scrub alight. It was easy to walk across the barren ground and set up under the rear tail fin. She put the toolbox down, crouched and opened it up.
Spooky out here, she thought, looking over the heather.
It swung back and forth, left and right, almost beckoning.
She half-expected to see some pale nocturnal creature lurking at the edge of the light: the torch did not shine very far. She turned her attention to the sooty side of the ship, singing to keep her spirits up.
‘ Oh Mr Turing, whatever shall I do? I only count in binary but I’ve just got up to two. . .’
There was a set of collapsible steps in the toolbox; Carveth pressed the button and stood aside as they unfolded. She climbed up and looked over the tail fin.
On the way down there had been an unexpected weight on the port rear, leaving the Pym very slightly unbalanced.
It was worth examining. On a newer ship such things could presage minor damage; on the Pym it probably indicated that the tail was dropping off. She looked under the fin and found nothing, then turned her attention to the thruster.
A strange shiny substance had attached itself to the side of the thruster, gleaming like dried glue. It looked as if a group of snails had raced each other from the flank to the rear of the retro-booster. She prodded it with a gloved finger. It was as hard as plastic.
Carveth took out a pocket-welder and leaned around the back. The ladder wobbled slightly under her. She followed the snail trails around the thruster, watched them get denser and denser, almost a web criss-crossing the rear of the jet, holding in place something like a pineapple made out of snot. Utterly disgusted, she focussed the torch, and a shudder ran through the pineapple.
It burst. Something red and glistening leaped out at her and she yelled, the ladder swung away and she was falling – thump! – and the light fell off her head. She sat up, drawing her pistol and in the torchlight she saw a mass of tentacles and jointed limbs scurry into the heath and disappear. The heather rustled as the creature darted through it, then it resumed its gentle sway in the wind.
Carveth was shaking. She sat there for a moment, revolver in hand, watching the patch of light. The breeze set a strand of hair dancing before her eyes.
She stood up and rubbed her aching backside, quite impressed with herself for not screaming. Whatever that thing was, it had fled. She bent down, picked up the head-set and put it back on. Carveth adjusted the lamp, sighed and turned back to the ship.
She looked straight into the face of a ghost. This time she really did scream.
In Smith’s room the lights were out.
‘A bit gentler, please?’ Rhianna said. ‘You’re not tuning in a radio.’
‘Righto. Any better?’
‘Much better.’
‘Good-oh. Hold on a moment.’ The bed creaked. ‘One sec – tadaaah! No trousers.’
‘Give me your hand, Isambard. There. Do that, okay? Mmm. Now then, what have we here?’
‘That’ll be my todger, actually.’
‘It was a rhetorical question. Let’s take your shirt off –it’s – uh?’
‘Ah. It’s got tucked in to my underpants. That happens sometimes. Just out of – ah – interest, where’s your hand going there?’
‘Just trust me, Isambard, okay?’
‘Well, alright then, but – oh, I see. False alarm. Fair enough, all above board.’ He sighed. ‘It’s smashing to be with you again, you know. I honestly thought I’d never get the chance. Rhianna, would you mind if I put the light on? I’d like to see you without your kit on.’
‘Okay.’ The bed moved as she stretched out. ‘Sure.’
‘Right. Light switch. Should be just over here. . . Hang on, what’s this? Who the hell—’
‘Hello, Boss.’
‘Carveth! What the hell are you doing? Can’t you tell I’m busy?’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. I came in, and I was kind of waiting for a convenient break in conversation, and then. . . oh, hi, Rhianna.’
‘Hey Polly. Um, we’re kind’ve unavailable right now.’
‘I know, but I saw something really horrid outside and now I’m scared to go to bed. Can I sleep in here tonight?’
‘Was it the enemy, Carveth?’
‘Er, no, not really.’
‘Then dammit, no you can’t sleep here! Use your own room!’
‘I saw a ghost. I don’t want to go in my room in case it comes up the vent shafts and—’
‘Go away!’
‘Please, Boss. I could sleep on the floor. I’d be really quiet.’
‘No! Sod off! Can’t you see I’m getting my—’
‘Isambard, maybe we ought to let her. She sounds really freaked out.’
‘Certainly not! Carveth, you’re a grown woman, not a child. Now go to your room at once. Dear God, whatever next?’
‘Greetings, Mazuran!’
‘Oh for—’
‘Both the females at once? I salute you! When first we set foot on this vessel, I told you that you would have foul couplings with them both, and most modestly you said no. Yet I was right! Truly you shall spawn many—’
‘Suruk, Carveth is here because she claims to have seen some sort of monster outside. She wants to sleep in my room, which isn’t practical. I’m trying to get her to go back to her own room.’
‘I see. That is indeed impractical. Perhaps one at a time, then?’
‘Boss, I saw something on the moor. It was this white thing floating around the moor, making this weird, high-pitched sound—’
‘Was it Kate Heathcliffe, little pilot woman?’
Smith finally found the light switch. Carveth and Suruk stood at the end of the bed, like a judging panel. ‘Right, young lady robot, out. Out we go. Suruk, would you mind leaving too? Please?’
‘Fear not,’ Suruk declared. ‘I shall take the timorous Piglet to my chambers. Come, timid one. Suruk the Slayer shall stand guard over you.’
Suruk’s room smelt of ammonia. The bed was folded against the wall to provide more space for trophies.
Carveth watched as Suruk lowered the bed and smoothed the covers down with his palm. ‘It has never been used,’ he explained. ‘I do not sleep in a bed.’ He pulled the sheets back and gave her an unnerving smile, like Sweeney Todd welcoming a customer. Carveth yawned.
Warily, lest something dead turn out to be under the sheets, she climbed into bed. The bed was clean and the sheets cool.
‘Sit forward,’ Suruk said. He took the pillow out and, spinning, smashed it into the wall as if to dash out its brains. Then he put it behind her. She settled back.
Suruk opened the chest of drawers – Carveth kept her socks in her own equivalent – and took out a machete. ‘A human gave me this,’ he said, placing it on the bedside table. ‘It may be of use, if an enemy attacks. Now, would you care for some music to assist you in sleeping?’ Suruk pulled out a handful of records from the shelf. ‘Let us see. . . Beethoven’s Ninth, Shostakovitch Moods, Stockhausen’s Greatest Melodies . . .’
‘Haven’t you got anything a bit less classical?’
‘I have Anthrax.’
‘Thanks for sharing. What about your Minnie Ripperton records?’
Suruk raised an eyebrow-ridge. ‘You listen to war music in bed? No wonder you are so strange.’
‘Cheers,’ said Carveth, ‘I’ll be alright without.’
‘As you wish.’ Suruk reach out and turned off the lamp.
In the dim light Carveth saw him spring up onto his stool, crouch down and close his eyes. His hand rested lightly on a blade on his belt.
Suruk’s mandibles opened and he yawned, revealing his shining teeth, before his mouth closed up again like a castle gate. Squatting on the stool he looked like a cross between something from the deep ocean and a roosting bat. Behind him, rows of skulls grinned at Carveth, taken from the most evil and savage creatures of the galaxy, a legion of dead monsters drawn up into ranks.
‘Sleep well,’ Suruk said.
‘Thanks,’ Carveth said, and she closed her eyes gingerly.
She did not dream. In the morning she awoke to find herself under a heap of soft toys and cushions, that Suruk had fetched from her room.