It was a bright cold day in April and the clock was striking thirteen as the repairmen began fixing it. Eric Lint, his collar pulled up tight against his jawline, cupped his hand around his cigarette and said ‘Bollocks’ into the wind. He strode across the grass towards the thin row of tents at the top of the common, where a banner reading Little Binley Village Fete and Family Fun Day flapped like a dying fish.
Slowly he toured the stalls, determined to wring some joy from each. He bought a piece of cake, a sausage in a bun and half a pint of bitter in a plastic glass. He discovered that there was nothing worth buying at the white elephant stand and that he was too tall to have a ride in the village fire engine. Finally, after ignoring the maypole and nearly losing a finger to a grumpy pig in the petting zoo, he turned to the last stand of all.
‘Want to guess the weight of the cake?’ asked the girl behind the table. Apart from the knife scars down one cheek, she looked like a typical young member of the Women’s Institute.
Lint, whose operatives knew him as W, made a show of looking at the cake. ‘Eighteen pounds four ounces,’ he replied.
The woman nodded. ‘They’re out the back.’
‘Thanks. Nice twinset,’ W added, and he strode to the tent at the back of the fete.
He opened the door and an ominously smiling man in spectacles neatly frisked him as he stepped inside. Around the edge of the tent sat three others: George Benson, Assistant Director of Outdoor Recreation for the Service; Hereward Khan, who ran the outfit’s Acquisitions and Transport Department; and Aloysius Roth, whose bloodstained hands pulled the strings behind the Colonial Service Overseas Chess Team and Social Club.
‘Glad you could join us, W,’ Benson said. He was small, spectacled and sad-looking, with a deep, rich voice that seemed to come out of someone larger than himself.
‘A pleasure,’ W replied. He took a sip of his bitter and lowered himself awkwardly into a seat.
‘A potential problem has arisen,’ Khan declared, stroking the waxed tips of his moustache. ‘We need your department’s help.’
W nodded. A list of the galaxy’s most villainous riff-raff appeared in his mind: ruthless Ghast legions, zealots from the Democratic Republic of New Eden, crazed, sadistic lemming men of Yull.
‘Gladly. I’m always happy to introduce the turkey of oppression to the raw onion of British justice,’ he said, making an explanatory gesture.
Khan nodded to Roth. ‘I told you he was keen.’
Benson leaned across to him. ‘My colleague’s department,’ he said, gesturing towards W, ‘were it to actually exist, would have carried out some excellent work over the past few months. Remember the Edenite Minister of Propaganda? Had the manpower existed in any official way, it’s my colleague here you’d have to thank for taking him off the air.’
Roth raised one thick white eyebrow. ‘That was your work?’
‘The concept of objective truth is the cornerstone of human liberty,’ W said, crossing his legs.
‘Only by protecting truth can we hope to retain the gentleness and decency of British life.’
‘So what happened to him?’
‘We hanged the bastard.’ W shrugged. ‘He received a fair and balanced trial, followed by a fair and somewhat less balanced execution. So what do you need done?’
‘Very soon, we finalise the treaty with the Vorl,’ Benson replied. He removed his glasses and started polishing them on his tie. ‘Practically every allied nation will be there to witness it and pledge support, including the Vorl themselves. Also in attendance will be the mystics of Khlangar. By themselves, the Khlangari are pretty negligible. They do, however, have strong links to the Voidani space whales, who appear to protect them for reasons unknown. We want them on-side. An alliance like that would be almost unbeatable.’
‘I see. And where is it taking place?’
‘On a metrological station and recycling plant orbiting the gaseous planet Signus Four, which is to be renamed Wellington Prime for the event.’
‘What’s it called now?’
‘Gas and Rubbish Central. Perhaps not ideal for an international treaty. The place is fortified – originally to keep the rubbish in, rather than the rubbish out, but don’t tell the delegates that – but an event like this can’t stay secret forever.’
‘I see.’
‘We’ll need additional security,’ Benson explained. ‘It’s not enough for us to sit back and wait for Gertie to attack. We need good fellows out there on the alert, actively seeking out threats.’
W said, ‘Smith sounds like the man for the job. He’s got a nose for trouble. And a moustache for danger.’
Hereward Khan leaned forward, making his plastic chair creak alarmingly. He was a massive man, as tough and blubbery as an elephant seal. ‘No can do,’ he replied. ‘Smith is on convoy work. We thought he deserved a rest.’
‘Have you considered asking the other secret services?’
The appalled spluttering that followed suggested that they had indeed considered the other services. ‘Those oiks?’ Khan demanded.
Benson’s glasses had misted up. ‘Oh dear no,’ he said. ‘No, no. They’d only steal the sandwiches.’
‘And the furniture.’
Roth leaned close. ‘You know what I heard about the other services?’ he whispered. ‘Some of them aren’t even Oxbridge. To think of it, an entire secret service gone. . redbrick.’ He shuddered violently.
‘Gentlemen, please.’ W’s eyes narrowed. The tiny rollup in the corner of his mouth rose like an accusing finger. ‘What matters here is skill, not background. My own people are chosen for ability, not origin. Most of them think a Cambridge punt is a particularly nasty way of incapacitating someone. What matters here –’ and his eyes took on a fanatical gleam – ‘is the preservation of justice and common decency. We use the best tool for the job – and my men are the best tools in the business.’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘We thought about Wainscott,’ Benson said.
W took a sip of beer to hide his expression. True, Major Wainscott was an expert at seeking out danger. The major had crossed half the galaxy and most of its inhabitants whilst looking for trouble and had found quite a lot of it in some very surprising places. But leaving Wainscott with a bevy of foreign delegates? Surely that was putting a shark in charge of a swimming pool.
‘He has a reputation for working discreetly,’ Benson explained.
‘I’ll have words,’ W said, remembering that for Wainscott, ‘discreet work’ was something you did to enemy sentries. ‘But the major is on holiday, you know. Dartmoor.’
‘Dartmoor, eh? Didn’t he go there a couple of years ago?’
W frowned. Wainscott’s last trip to the West had been less a matter of going away as of being put away. ‘Er, you mean Broadmoor. That wasn’t a holiday, as such. More, ah, rest care.’
‘Well, in galactic terms, Dartmoor’s just down the road. Splendid.’
W reflected that it wasn’t so much the distance that would be the problem so much as figuring out which badger sett Wainscott was using as his base of operations. He had received a postcard a month ago, explaining that the major had been accepted by the badgers as one of their own and that he was having a great time making crossbows out of roadkill.
‘We knew you were the chap for the job,’ Khan said, leaning back. His chair creaked like a galleon in a storm. ‘I’ll see to it that you get transport and supplies.’
W stood up. ‘I’ll find Wainscott and head out. Goodbye, gentlemen. Oh – and of course I wasn’t here, and I didn’t say any of this.’
‘Naturally,’ Benson replied. ‘Would you like a piece of cake to take with you?’
W shook his head. ‘At eighteen pound four ounces, it's probably a little heavy for my tastes.’
*
‘So,’ Rhianna said as she put the tea things away, ‘is this the first time Suruk’s ever. . er. . had children?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Smith replied. ‘You could ask him, although I’m not sure he’d remember. The M’Lak don’t really care about their young.’ Rhianna passed him the biscuit tin and he reached up to put it on the shelf. ‘In fact, when I first met Suruk he was convinced that jelly babies were the human larval stage.’
‘That’s a shame. Is their culture too patriarchal to allow them to engage properly with their children?’
‘Not really. Engage with those things and you’d probably lose a limb. Young Morlocks are like a cross between a frog and a piranha. I’d advise wearing something a bit more solid than flip-flops if you’re going in the engine room soon. A suit of armour, perhaps.’ He frowned. ‘I hope it doesn’t take too long to get to Tannhauser. The last thing we need when we arrive in Europe is a bunch of killer frogs chewing through the hull.’
‘Well then,’ Rhianna said, ‘it sounds like we’ll get to spend some time together, at last.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything in particular you’d like to do?’
Smith recognised that look. ‘Scrabble?’
‘I was thinking of something a little more. . adult,’ she replied.
‘Rude Scrabble! Excellent plan, old girl!’ Smith rubbed his hands together. ‘Wait a moment.
Where’re the others?’
‘They’re in the hold. They’ll be okay for a while, won’t they?’
Smith shrugged. ‘Oh yes. So long as they don’t blow up the ship or drink bleach, they’ll be fine.’
*
‘Gah!’ Suruk clutched his throat and staggered across the hold. Gargling, he fell to his knees, rolled onto one side and lay still.
Carveth looked down at him. ‘Sounds like death?’
‘It is death!’ Suruk exclaimed from the floor.
‘So the first word of this film is death, and the second is like oboe.’
‘Well done!’ Suruk climbed upright. ‘Indeed it is Death Oboe. Truly, you are wise in the way of charades.’
‘I see,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ve never heard of Death Oboe.’
‘Really? It is a great favourite of my people. It is a remake of an old Earth film named Pretty Woman. The knife-fight on top of a grand piano is notorious.’
Carveth sighed. ‘Can’t you do a film we’ve both heard of?’
‘Very well. How about Brief Encounters of the Third Kind?’
‘Alright, that sounds – no, you’ve just told me what it is! Look, let’s try something else.’ Suruk was not well-adapted to word games: it had taken thirty minutes to explain to him that honour was not Animal, Vegetable or Mineral.
‘Very well. Tell me about Europe. Is it truly the worst place in the galaxy?’
Carveth sat down on the aluminium teachest at the rear of the hold. ‘Well, it’s hard to say. I mean, the Ghast homeworld’s probably worse, Yullia too, but Europe. . well, I’ve never seen the Captain so worried about meeting our allies before. And given that our allies include Major Wainscott and your family, that can’t be good.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never been. But from what the captain says, it’s one big country, divided up into little states. France and Germany are the main ones, but there are others. They live in different sorts of houses depending on which country they’re from. Smith says the Germans have very modern houses, and the French live in castles called gateaux.’
Suruk nodded. ‘Strange. I hear that in Switzerland, people live in cartons. Is it true that Europe is a peaceful and cultured place?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose –’
‘Excellent! Let us conquer it!’
‘Um, no. Europe’s on our side. Pretty much.’
Suruk rubbed his chin thoughtfully, after moving his mandibles out the way. ‘Troubling. We shall have to proceed with caution. I shall examine my phrasebook.’
‘You’ve got a phrasebook?’
‘Of course. It would be rude to pick fights in English.’
*
Smith sighed deeply and pushed away the Scrabble board. ‘Well,’ he announced, ‘that was excellent. Good work, Rhianna: I didn’t expect you to get ‘quibble’ on a triple word score. Although I’m not sure it is actually a rude word.’
‘It isn’t,’ she replied. Rhianna looked down at the Scrabble board and shook her head. ‘You know, when I suggested we do something more adult, I didn’t really mean making rude words on the Scrabble board.’
‘Oh,’ Smith said. He peered at her. He felt much like a competitor in a decathlon who has heard the whistle blow without knowing the order of the events. He was obviously meant to guess something.
She was clearly not entirely happy, but he had no idea about what. Dimly, it occurred to him that she might have taken him to her cabin for something entirely different. Damn!
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing up. ‘I misunderstood. Never mind, we can have a bit of the other later on. Right now I really need a sleep.’
‘Right,’ Rhianna said. ‘You go and do that. I’ll just meditate.’
Stepping outside, he nearly bumped into Carveth.
‘Question, Boss… When we get to France, will we have time to go to the duty free?’
‘I doubt it. Besides, it’ll just be full of chocolate and frilly pants. Nothing we might need.’
‘I need those! Come on, Boss, let me go. I’ll buy something for Rhianna, so you can give it to her on her birthday.’
‘Oh, all right then,’ Smith said, and he headed to his room.
In his cabin he knelt down and dragged the encryption engine from out under the bed. It looked like a cross between a sewing machine and a very old cash register. A set of instructions was included.
Following steps one to three of the instructions, Smith wrote out a short message, setting out the situation and requesting assistance. Then he pushed the message into one side of the engine and pulled the lever. A pair of rollers pulled the note into the integral mini-furnace, a dial on the front ticked and spun, and fine grey dust fell into the disposal tray.
Step Four told Smith to eat the instructions. As he chewed he hoped that there was no Step Five, and then wondered why he hadn’t just fed the instructions into the furnace instead of eating them. He pushed the engine back under the bed, climbed on top and closed his eyes.
A loud pinging sound jolted Smith awake from a dream about scones. He struggled upright, knelt down and dragged out the encryption engine. A ticker-tape message clattered out of a slot in the side.
MESSAGE RECEIVED. CONFIRM YOU ARE IN PICKLE. ASK FRANK JURGENS AT
ADENAUERPLATZ (OFF RUE CHARLES DE GAULLE) ABOUT PHANTOM. HE CAN BE
TRUSTED. PLEASE ACQUIRE 2 BOXES CHEAP LAGER IN DUTY FREE. VITAL FOR
FUTURE OPERATIONS. OVER.
As he studied the message, the radio began to ring. Smith stumbled to the cockpit and fiddled with the controls.
‘Hey!’ the speaker called.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that HMS John Pym?’
‘It is,’ Smith replied warily.
‘I was receiving your distress call about one hour ago,’ said the voice. ‘I am calling from Tannhauser Gate orbital station. I am sorry to hear about your spacecraft breaking down.’
‘Thanks,’ Smith replied. ‘Still, mustn’t grumble –’
‘Perhaps you should trade it in for a German one. They are quite reliable, you know. My friend is having very much the same trouble as you. He bought a Triumph Dolomite, as antique, and the engine fell out on the Autobahn. It is the unions, he says.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about your friend’s car, but can we land yet?’
‘Of course! The docking sequence will begin in ten minutes. But, ah… you might want to carry your own baggage. The handlers, you know.’
*
‘Burn them!’ the Lord Ezron, the Grand Jackalope, bellowed at the ceiling. ‘Let their eyes be plucked from their heads, oh Great Annihilator, their lying tongues torn out, their bodies devoured by jackals and the jackals scattered to the four winds! And with that, I declare the Democratic Republic of New Eden’s first conference on women’s rights open!’
Lord Ezron sat down to catch his breath, and the other twenty-six hierarchs grumbled their thanks over the sound of the festivities outside.
‘Item One on the agenda – should women have rights? Anyone? Then it’s still a no. And with that, I declare the conference closed. Back to the meeting.’
Today, as a billion banners and flags proclaimed, was Enlightenment Day on the planet of Deliverance, and consequently many things and people were being set alight. The banging in the street was probably caused by fireworks. It was hard to tell: along with smiting and hacking, there was a lot of shooting in the Republic of Eden on any day at all.
The Supreme Convocation of the Democratic Republic sat around the table in their ceremonial helms of sanctity, which gave them the look of a support group for wizards. At the end of the table sat the Grand Mandrill, the Keeper of the Flame, Incinerator of Unbelievers. His name was Lord Hieronymous Prong, and his black, broad-brimmed hat bore the ancient symbol of the buckle and skull.
He was asleep.
‘Now,’ said Ezron, ‘unless anyone has any objections, I’ll turn to the agenda for today. First, we have a request from the True Brotherhood of the Chicken Rampant, who have discovered another thing that might possibly offend their beliefs. They seek permission to slaughter everyone potentially responsible.’
One of the other hierarchs had been chewing his beard. ‘What are their beliefs?’ he demanded through a mouthful of fluff.
‘They believe in.. ’ Ezron consulted the agenda, ‘finding things that offend their beliefs.’
‘Fair ’nuff,’ the hierarch said, and he went back to sucking his beard.
Ezron ticked the list of action points. ‘Now for Item Two. We have a proposal from the High Cockatrice himself, Hierarch Beliath, who tells me that he has found a new way to solve the sin of lust.
Hierarch Beliath. Please tell me this doesn’t involve a pair of garden shears.’
Beliath rose coughing from his seat. ‘It has forever been the case,’ he rasped, ‘that men were created in the image of the Great Annihilator, ever since our blessed forefathers made him up. What have women given the world, except to unleash a tide of lust into our once-pure hearts? Behold!’ he cried, fishing a photograph out of his white robes, ‘I looked at a picture of a woman and look what happened to me! If that isn’t sinful, I don’t know what is!’
The picture was quietly passed around the table. The hierarchs shook their heads sadly.
‘Horrible,’ said Lord Othred.
The photograph made its way past the sixteen representatives of the Bureau of War, past the hierarch of the Bureau for Liberty, who was currently trying to dissolve his own office to escape the tyranny of excessive government, and to Prong himself, who had started to snore.
A hierarch slipped the photograph in front of him. ‘Grand Mandrill?’ He paused then nudged the old man’s arm. ‘Lord Prong?’
Prong’s eyes flicked open like a trap. Lurching forward, he blinked several times and yelped ‘Faith is purity! Purge it with flame! What’s going on?’
The hierarch tapped the table, and Lord Prong looked down at the photograph.
‘Gah!’ he cried, drawing back into his chair. ‘What devilry is this? Save us from this – this – whose is this?’
Daringly, Hierarch Beliath gave the Grand Mandrill a stern look. ‘I was debating the licentiousness of women, Lord Prong. There will be a slideshow later. But for now, I propose that there is only one way of ridding New Eden of the evil taint of lechery – we must kill all women!’
Cheers broke out among the hierarchs. ‘Crusade!’ one wheezy voice croaked.
Lord Prong felt the soft whirr in his temple that told him his frontal lobe accelerator was going to work. He was festooned with bionic enhancements, largely to compensate for the fact that he was two hundred and eighty-three. Sitting in his metal throne, a bundle of wires protruding from the side of his head like a broken television, it occurred to him that there might be a small flaw in this magnificent plan.
‘Fool!’ Prong rasped, and the microphone on his throat amplified his voice into a doom-laden roar. ‘You overstep yourself, Beliath. Did you consider the obvious result of killing every woman in the Republic of Eden? Who would we have to pick on then, eh?’
‘Oh,’ Beliath said, chastened.
‘Quite. Also, we would not be able to breed.’
‘The Ghasts have cloning machines,’ Hierarch Grumm put in. ‘They could lend them to us. They are our allies, after all.’
‘Oh they’re much too busy for that,’ Beliath replied, in a tone of bitter sarcasm. ‘They’ve got their new friends the lemming men to think about. Apparently the lemming men are really fanatical.’
‘How can they be more fanatical than us?’ Ezron demanded. ‘We’re a theocracy, for the Annihilator’s sake – may he butcher everything in his divine mercy. It doesn’t get any more fanatical than that!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We were committed to working with the Ghasts. I remember how it used to be… we’d do the religious genocide while they purged the galaxy of inferior lifeforms.” He sighed.
“We had something special together.’
‘We can get them back,’ Prong said.
The hierarchs turned. Wild eyes and conical hats swung towards Prong’s throne. ‘What?’ Grumm demanded, throwing an arc of spittle across the table.
The Grand Mandrill smiled. ‘Item Three. My underlings have been working on a little project.
You might want to think of it as a secret weapon.’
‘A gun?’ Grumm was of the Cordite sect and revered firepower.
‘Of course not!’ Beliath said. ‘Lord Prong is a good Ignian. It’ll be a special flamethrower for divinely roasting unbelievers.’
‘Good tries, gentlemen,’ Prong replied, ‘But wrong. The Department of Forbidden Science has been looking into non-Euclidian geometry. I refer, of course, to inter-dimensional travel.’
‘Blasphemy!’ So far in the meeting, the Exalted Coelacanth, most venerable of the elders, had been silent, his head lowered in prayer or slumber. Now he struggled to his feet and shook his small, hard fist. ‘This is a gross insult to Edenites everywhere. We must hunt out the dimensional travellers and kill them all!’
Prong sighed. ‘No, it’s us who’d be travelling. Sit down, damn it!’
‘Oh, okay.’ The Coelacanth sat down again and settled back in his chair.
‘Now then,’ Prong said, smiling down the length of the table. ‘Seventy-two hours ago, we successfully tested a prototype. In only a few days our allies will be sending deputations to view the weapon in action. High ranking delegates from the Ghast Empire will be among them. We’ll see who looks unimportant when we reveal a dimension-shifting spacecraft to them.’ He peered down the table.
‘So wash your robes, alright?’
*
The airlock swung open and Smith found himself looking into the French quarter of Tannhauser Gate. Flags hung from the ceiling of the space station; accordion music drifted through the air. A poster showed a girl in armour, the stars of Europe forming a halo over her bowl-cut hair. There was even scrollwork on the ornamental lamposts, although it looked rather flimsy compared to that back home. Still, Smith thought as he stepped in, Europe didn’t smell of cheese and nobody had demanded to see their papers yet.
In fact, nobody seemed to have noticed them at all. Two ancient men sat under a sign that read café. As Smith approached they looked away.
‘It’s a caff!’ Carveth said. ‘Who wants a sandwich de bacon, then?’
Smith put out his arm to bar her way. “Careful, Carveth. They like strange food here,” he added, lowering his voice to a sinister whisper. “Even their national anthem is about mayonnaise.”
Like gunslingers arriving in a suspiciously deserted town, they walked warily down the street.
Smith wondered what all the strange signs meant. A poster advertised something called Le Chat Noir – a public convenience, presumably. The smell of bread floated out of a shop called Le Maison de Pain. Maison meant house, Smith recalled. Presumably it was a dentist’s, or some rum kind of knocking-shop.
Rhianna took her smoking tin from her bag. ‘Are we in Amsterdam yet?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Smith replied. She looked disappointed. ‘If I remember rightly, the Europeans divide their territory into quarters, depending on which mini-country they’re from. At least. . where are we?’ Taking a deep breath, and mustering all the European he could remember from Form 3B, he approached the two old men outside the café.
‘You there,’ he declared. One of the old men moved one of his eyes. ‘Can you direct me to the Rue Charles de Gaulle, my good man?’
The other old man said, ‘Eh,’ and shrugged. Clearly he was searching his memory for the answer.
After a little while, Smith realised that the man had not understood him.
‘No,’ Smith replied, raising his voice and speaking more slowly as if addressing a relative both senile and half-deaf, ‘I… am… British. I… am… looking’ – he mimed a sailor surveying the horizon – ‘the Rue Charles de Gaulle.’ Unsure of how to mime this, he pointed to his moustache. ‘Erm.. do you speak Latin? Omnes Gal ia divisa est in partes tres, perhaps?’
‘ Bof,’ said the other old man.
Suruk leaned in to Smith’s side. ‘Mazuran, I fear that these ancients require special treatment.’ He smiled horribly and cracked his knuckles.
‘I’m not sure that’s really –’ Smith began, but by then Suruk’s shadow had fallen across the table.
The alien cleared his throat sacs with a sound like a car backfiring. The old men looked up.
‘ Felicitations, humains,’ the alien declared. ‘ Ou est la Rue Charles de Gaul e, s’il vous plait? Je voudrai attender un concert du jazz moderne. ’
‘ Le jazz moderne? ’ the nearer of the two replied.
‘ Oui,” Suruk replied. “Especialment le Serge Gainsbourg.’
‘ Mais oui! ’ The man leaped up, threw his arms open, looked at Suruk, thought better of it, and pointed down the road instead. Suruk nodded, listening.
Smith turned to Carveth. ‘What’s he doing? Is he getting directions?’
Suruk returned, still smiling. ‘Good Lord,’ Smith said as he approached, ‘how the devil did you manage that?’
‘It was most simple,’ the alien replied. ‘All I had to do to make them co-operate was address them in their own strange parlance. Now, follow me, old bean. Chop-chop.’
‘Shall do!’ Smith cried.
Adenauerplatz stood at the very edge of the German quarter, behind the Rue Charles de Gaulle, near to the Place Charles de Gaulle and the Avenue Napoleon et Charles de Gaulle. They turned the corner, and looked into a square as neat as a snooker table, lined with glass-fronted houses. On the far side stood a bright white cube three stories high.
Smith turned to his men. ‘Look,’ he announced, ‘I’m going to try to communicate with these fellows. Why don’t you go and have a look round while I get this done?’
‘I think I shall assess the local shops for, ah, implements,’ Suruk said. ‘I will come and find you later. You should not be too hard to find.’
‘Good plan. What about you ladies? I’m sure this meeting won’t involve anything you’d find interesting.’
‘Except the spaceship of which I’m the pilot?’ Carveth shrugged. ‘Nah, you can deal with this. I’m off for a drink and a pasty.’
Rhianna wore her considering things expression. ‘On the one hand,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I do believe that any consultation on this should be decided with the participation of everyone concerned. On the other hand, I need to find a Dutch café and get some supplies.’
Smith decided not to inquire further. He approached the bright white cube.
Inside was a large desk, behind which a young man with a headset was typing at the smallest keyboard he had ever seen. As Smith approached the desk, the man stopped typing and said, ‘Captain Smith? Good morning. Commissioner Jurgens will see you now. Please do head through the door there,’ he added, pointing to a blank wall.
A section of the wall swung inward with a gentle hiss of air. Behind the door stood a short, middle-aged man in a roll-neck sweater and blue blazer. ‘Good morning!’ he exclaimed, stepping back.
‘Do come in, please. I am Frank Jurgens, Deputy Commissioner. I have been expecting you, as they say.’
‘Thank you,’ said Smith. Jurgens’ office looked rather like a normal room, if somewhat whiter and more angular. The furniture seemed to have been built to solve a geometry problem, but that aside, it was actually quite normal, Smith thought as he looked around. You could almost think it was Brit – wait a moment!
He stopped before a framed poster. On a red background, four stern men in identical outfits stood in a row, glaring towards the horizon. Uniforms, horizon-staring, ferocious youths of indeterminate sexual preference? This could only mean one thing – the sinister world of foreign politics! Jurgens had seemed such a nice chap, too. But then, Europe was part of abroad. You never knew…
“Ah, Kraftwerk,” Jurgens said, noticing Smith’s interest. ‘Some very great musicians have come from Germany, you know.’
‘Music?’ it occurred to Smith that these strange people might be a popular beat combo. ‘From Germany? But… where’s the tuba?’
‘Kraftwerk were way before their time,’ Jurgens explained, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘They had neither a tuba nor leather shorts.’
‘Nudists, eh?’ Smith wondered if he was being taken entirely seriously. ‘I’m more a Pink Zeppelin man,’ he said. Jurgens gave him a rather curious look and sat down.
‘So then,’ Jurgens began, crossing his legs, ‘I understand your vessel was attacked by persons unknown on the edge of European space.’
‘That’s right. We were guarding an automated convoy. The enemy appeared out of nowhere, literally. There was a flash of light and then suddenly they were gone, just like that.’
Jurgens frowned. ‘It sounds as if the technology used was highly advanced. I took the liberty of looking at your spacecraft from the docking bay cameras. From the looks of it, your attacker must have used some sort of rust-generating beam on your hull. Most unfortunate.’
‘Er. . yes,’ Smith replied. ‘A rust laser. That’s it. Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Of course.’
Smith accepted his tea warily and peered into the very white cup. It was not too bad, he decided, taking a sip. Not bad at all.’
Jurgens nodded. ‘Now, Captain Smith, do you have any idea who might have attacked you?’
‘Well, no. I mean, it could be any number of enemies, you see. Space is full of rum types,’ he added, remembering not to mention who the rum types might include. ‘Aliens envy Britain its space empire. What with the Ghasts on one side and the bloody lemming-men on the other, it’s not as if we’re short of enemies. And then there are all the lowlifes who work for Gertie – Aresians, filthy Ghastists, that sort of riff-raff.’
‘And envious foreign powers too, no doubt.’
‘Well, of course – I mean, no, not at all. Except for that loony who runs Russia. Mad King Boris, that’s the fellow. Otherwise, I’m sure you chaps are fine.’
‘It is indeed fortunate that King Boris declared war upon himself. The European Federation has the same problem, Captain Smith. It is forever defending its borders against those who would wish to force their laws and customs upon us.’
‘I’m sure it does. I’d like some more tea, please.’
‘As a representative of an allied nation your vessel will, of course, be repaired,’ Jurgens explained, refilling Smith’s cup. ‘However, I fear your ship may be in dock for some while. Rest assured that some of Europe’s finest technicians will do the work.’
Smith fought down the image of the John Pym rebuilt in the style of a gingerbread house. The possibility of Suruk’s frogs chewing through the hull would be nothing compared to the prospect of Carveth eating the entire ship. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Now… I understand you have a colleague who needs transport, yes?’
Smith’s chair was getting uncomfortable. ‘That’s right. I was told to mention the Phantom.’
Jurgens leaned back. ‘I see. Yes, I thought your mission might be a little. . under the radar. Our mutual friend, Herr W, has made the arrangements. Transport will be provided.’
‘Thanks. That’s very decent of you.’
‘Not at all. We are, after all, keen to help our neighbours. Alle Menschen werden Bruder, as Schiller puts it. Do you know Beethoven’s Ninth?’
‘Really? At what?’
‘Ah… never mind. Now, a ship that can evade normal detection is clearly a serious threat.
However, I have a plan. Viennese Whirl?’ he inquired, holding up a plate.
‘No thanks. Go on.’
‘Docked here at Tannhauser Gate is a European Union military surveillance vessel, the EU-571, under the command of Raumskapitan Schmidt. Although it would be somewhat counter-procedural, I could sequester it.’
‘Righto,’ Smith replied, making a mental note to check what that meant in English.
‘Using our vessel, you would be able to make a head start tracking your quarry while the John Pym is being repaired. Then you would be able to transmit an exact location to your fleet.’
‘Excellent! Well then,’ said Smith, ‘I think this is a jolly good plan. How soon can your people get organised?’
Jurgens looked slightly put out. ‘Captain Smith,’ he replied, ‘they already are.’
‘Splendid.’ Smith stood up and held out his hand. ‘It's been a pleasure, Commissioner Jurgens. I had no idea that Europe would turn out to be such a reasonable place.’
Jurgens smiled and they shook hands. ‘I must admit, I too am pleasantly surprised. I must confess that the British in Europe do have a reputation for – how can I put it? – crass, drunken lawlessness. I am delighted to be proven otherwise.’
The door burst open and Carveth ran in, clutching a bottle in one hand and a duty free bag in the other. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried, ‘You were right! This place is terrible! The police are after us!’
Jurgens raised an eyebrow. ‘Or not,’ he said.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Smith said. ‘I'm sure everything will be fine – won't it, eh?’ he added, glaring at Carveth.
‘No, it won't,’ she replied. ‘They're going to put Rhianna in jail!’
*
A twig crackled under W's boot. He glanced down, saw a snake of rope come hissing through the heather and leaped back before it could catch his ankle. The rope snapped closed and whipped away. The ground seemed to explode before him and suddenly he was looking at the upper body of Major Wainscott, wearing a beanie hat and holding the most unwholesome-looking weapon he had ever seen.
‘Halt!’ Wainscott said. ‘Can you recommend a florist?’
‘Not on bloody Dartmoor I can’t.’
Wainscott gave him a reproachful look.
W sighed. ‘There are many fine florists on the streets of Kiev.’
‘Morning,’ Wainscott replied. He lowered the weapon. It seemed to be a sort of bow made out of pieces of bone. ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he observed.
‘Indeed. You'll be astonished to learn that I'm not on holiday. We have some business to discuss.’
‘Well then!’ Wainscott smiled. He was keeping good care of his teeth, W noticed. ‘You'd better come inside. Be quick about it – you're very distinctive like that.’ Gopher-like, he dropped out of sight as though some unseen assailant had just tugged his legs. W grimaced across the moor, and climbed down into the hole.
He dropped into a dry chamber hacked out of the earth. The first thing he spotted was the neatness of the place: Wainscott might be a lunatic but he was at least tidy. The second thing he noticed were the badgers: three of them watched him suspiciously from the opening into a much smaller tunnel.
‘It's alright, he's a friend,’ Wainscott said, rooting about in the back of the room. ‘They're funny little fellows, badgers, but terribly loyal.’ He hauled up two deckchairs and began to fight them into shape.
‘Have a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ W eased himself into a chair very carefully. He crossed his legs as if balancing a landmine on his knee.
‘So, what do you think of Chez Wainscott? Quite something, isn't it?’
‘It certainly is.’ It was like being trapped inside the skin of a giant baked potato, W decided. It smelt of sausages.
Wainscott laid the crossbow down beside his chair. ‘I made this myself. Recycled parts, of course.
I recycle pretty much everything.’ He reached down to a large flask beside his chair. ‘Scrumpy?’
‘I, er, had some earlier.’
‘Your loss, old fellow.’ Wainscott took a huge swig and settled back. He was wearing his combat shorts and the visible scars bore testament to a lifetime of living hard on the veldt. ‘So, who are we killing today? Got an armoured division you want knocked off?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Ah, a crack at the lemming man, is it? Teach the horrible buggers some manners, eh? I’ve wanted to give them a good pounding for a while, you know. Likewise Susan.’ He took another swig. ‘She can’t stand them either.’
W looked around the room. The rest of the Deepspace Operations Group were nowhere to be seen. This was unusual, since Susan, as second in command and beam gun operator, tended to act for Wainscott as a cross between an interpreter and psychiatric nurse. Perhaps the others had built their own tunnels and were training their own badgers.
‘They went to Butlins,’ Wainscott said. ‘They wanted to go on the water slides. It only seemed fair after they blew up the Fortress of Iron.’
‘Of course. But I’ll need them on board.’
Wainscott leaned forward, setting his deckchair creaking, and rubbed his hands together. ‘So then, what is this job? Lemmings, Ghasts, collaborators?’
‘It’s a peace conference.’
‘What?’
Carefully, W outlined the situation. He tried to be tactful, to set out the importance of the meeting and its potential benefits, but Wainscott looked at first perplexed, then unconvinced, and finally slightly murderous. He scowled into his beard.
‘That’s all very well,’ Wainscott said, ‘but there’s a war on. Do we really want foreigners and aliens involved?’
‘Head office thinks so. Apparently the Great Powers need better co-ordination to fight more effectively. And then we’ve got the treaty between the Empire and the Vorl to think about. It needs to be formalised as soon as possible.’
‘Hmm. I don’t like it. I mean, aliens are one thing, but abroad? Is that really necessary? There are too many people on Earth who can’t tell the difference between gormless militarism and military effectiveness. They don’t realise that to beat Gertie you need to become less like him, not more like him.’
‘Well, quite. We won’t tolerate any beastliness –’
‘And another thing about abroad.’ Wainscott leaned forward, his voice sinking. ‘They make stuff up. You see that film last year about the Battle of Britain? Set in bloody Utah. You’re always banging on about objective truth – you know what I mean. But perhaps we should drag these fellows in, give ‘em a cup of tea and a biscuit and tell them not to give us any trouble, or else they’ll be getting a visit from the Morlock Rifles.’
‘That’s a bit much, Wainscott. Easy there.’
‘Alright, no biscuit.’
W tried not to grimace. ‘Look, Wainscott. Think of it as a holiday. A special sort of holiday where you don’t kill anyone or live off carrion. All we need to do is make sure things run smoothly. The visitors need to come to the conference, sign what’s required of them and leave in one piece. Easy. And if there is actually any trouble –’
Wainscott drove his fist into his grimy palm. ‘Not a problem. I know how to root out a conspiracy. Remember in London when I interrupted those villains plotting to kidnap children and nuns?’
‘What you interrupted was a full-dress rehearsal of The Sound of Music. You knocked out Baron von Trapp with a brown paper parcel and left half the cast tied up with string.’
‘So? What was wrong with that?’
‘Well, how long have you got? Suffice it to say that for quite a while you were not one of the Service’s favourite things.’
Wainscott settled back. ‘So, you’re asking me to trade in living in a hole with badgers for some sort of diplomatic shindig. There’d better be a bar.’
‘There is.’
‘Alright. I’m in.’ The major stood up, kicked his chair deftly, and left it folded against the wall.
‘Lead on.’
*
‘It's terrible,’ Carveth explained, hurrying along beside Smith. He strode quickly through the broad, tidy streets and she had to jog to keep up with him. ‘I went to the duty free because Suruk ate all my cosmetics last month.’ She held up a bag marked Rouge Trader. ‘And then I thought I'd get a pasty and half a dozen cans of Interstella Artois, so I left the others outside and went in. But they didn't have any pasties, so they gave me this liquorice drink instead – which might have been alcoholic now I try to think of it – and when I managed to get out they were gone. But Rhianna went into a caff and now she’s been arrested on drugs offences and my legs feel like they're going to fall off.’
They weaved deeper into the space station: down narrow avenues, under spacesuits on a washing line, past a two-cylinder Citroen moon buggy. Carveth pointed to an art deco sign above a door. Smith strode straight in. Rhianna was sitting at a table near the door and over her stood a man in a blue uniform.
‘What the devil’s this?’ Smith demanded, advancing on the man. ‘Unhand that woman and get back to delivering the post.’
‘That is enough, monsieur,’ the man replied. ‘I am an officer of the gendarmerie. In your language, a bobby, yes? This woman attempted to purchase illegal drugs from the proprietor of this establishment.’
‘Oh,’ Smith replied. “Is this true, Rhianna?’
She looked very upset. ‘I thought Holland was in France,’ she explained. ‘It’s in Europe, right?’
In a second Smith realised the truth. As a citizen of New Francisco, Rhianna had assumed that all European countries had an identical attitude towards herbal medication. It was awkward, he thought, but not beyond repair. A bit of diplomacy would straighten things out. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘she’s made a mistake.
I know she’s done something silly, but she is foreign, you know.’
‘Then may I remind you,’ the policeman said, ‘that you are foreign too.’
‘What? I most certainly am not.’
Carveth sighed and sat down at a table.
‘Maybe we can just, you know, talk it over?’ Rhianna said.
The door burst open and Suruk stormed in. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘I leave to buy postcards and flick-knives and everything goes wrong.’ He picked up a menu, glared at it as if it contained a personal insult, and added, ‘I warn you and your reprobate chefs… stay away from my frogs!’
A second gendarme appeared in the doorway. Balls, Smith thought. He needed to work fast: not only was Jurgens’ ship due to leave soon, but he had a good idea what European justice entailed: something to do with a quick kick in the Bastille followed by an uncomfortable run-in with Madame Guillotine.
It was time to use the Bearing, the ancient Shau Teng discipline. Smith summoned up his moral fibre and stared the nearer of the gendarmes in the eye. ‘Now look here, my good fellow…’ he began, taking a step forward. ‘This woman is under my protection. You will release her now, sir.’
The gendarme grimaced. ‘You think you will use – the Bearing – on me?’ he gasped. With great effort he raised his shoulders and the palms of his hands. Then he laughed. ‘Nice try, English! But I shrug off your demands.’ He opened his hands. ‘Eh? Huh? Bof.’
‘Damn!’ The blasted fellow wielded his lack of civility like a shield. To Smith’s right, Suruk quietly lowered the menu. Smith reached to his hip. This was going to be unpleasant but there was no other option.
Smith said, ‘Let’s finish this now.’ His right hand made one fast move into his coat, and suddenly it was no longer empty. ‘It’s time to leave.’
The gendarme looked down at the wallet in Smith’s hand. ‘You corrupt English! You think we can be bought like that?’
‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘yes.’
‘How dare you? I am arresting you too, for attempting to bribe an officer of the law.’
‘But this is abroad, man. Surely you take bribes in France.’
‘Bah! What do you know of France? I bet you have never even heard of Charles de Gaulle.’
‘Of course I have. Little fellow with a big moustache, doesn’t like Caesar?’
‘That is Asterix the Gaul! That is it – in the name of Europe and the Four Hundred and Thirty-eighth Republic of France, you are all under arrest!’
*
‘So,’ said Carveth, looking around the cell, ‘what happens now?’
‘Well,’ Smith replied, ‘if my knowledge of French history is right, they’ll probably cut off our heads.’
‘Not mine,’ Suruk growled. He crouched on the far end of the bench, coldly furious. ‘I read their menu. I know what they do to amphibians in the name of cuisine. Should they ransack our ship and interfere with my spawn, they will die.’
‘We’re not in much of a position to do anything about that,’ Carveth replied.
‘My spawn are. They will strip them to the bone.’
Rhianna stood at the door, looking through the bars. ‘I can’t believe Amsterdam isn’t in France,’ she said. ‘How could I not know that?’
Carveth sighed. ‘You were too stoned to figure it out?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Smith grimaced. He was finding it hard to think. It didn’t help that there was a radio playing in the empty room outside the cell. On it, a woman who sounded as if she was slowly drowning was singing about how she didn’t regret Ryan. Smith wondered who Ryan was and whether he was the one drowning her and, if so, whether he could get on with it.
‘Right, men,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘I have a plan. We have been left with no other choice than to escape. I’ll ambush the guard and if he refuses to release us, we’ll add Tannhauser Gate to the British Empire.’
‘How?’ Carveth demanded.
‘We will work out the details as we go. Step One, however, is to overpower the guard.’ Smith moved over to the bars. ‘I say, guard! What about la liberte and all that?’
The room outside remained empty. The radio gargled on.
Smith tried to think of some French words that didn’t involve the pen of his aunt. ‘I’m British, damn it! Let me out!’
A figure stepped into the corridor outside, and Smith paused. The fellow wore tight black clothes, almost like a wetsuit, a striped shirt and a small white mask. As Smith looked on, astonished, the newcomer turned to check the corridor behind him and crept towards their cell with high, exaggerated steps.
‘There’s someone there,’ Smith whispered to his crew. ‘Strange chap.. ’
The man in black stopped just outside the door. He raised a finger to his lips, squatted down and began to pick the lock. Suruk got up, flexing his fingers.
The lock clicked and the cell door swung open. The man in black stood up and gave them a deep, elaborate bow.
‘Hello,’ said Smith. ‘Thanks.’
The man leaned back and scrutinised him, stroking his chin as he did. Then he seemed to relax.
‘Monsieur, Mesdemoiselles, monstre hideux et bizarre, I bid you good evening. I am Le Fantome.’
‘Oh,’ said Smith. ‘What are you, some kind of spy?’
‘ Mais non! ’ Le Fantome laughed behind his mask. ‘I have come here to rescue you. We have a shared enemy. It is vital you board the ship at once. Come,’ he added. ‘It is time to escape this –’ he gestured around himself with his gloved hands as if patting invisible walls, ‘prison.’
‘Amazing,’ Rhianna said. ‘A real tribal dance.’ Her interest in other cultures did not seem to be diminished by the fact that one of them had locked her up.
‘We must be quick,’ Le Fantome replied. ‘I used ancient French arts to reach you in silence. Now we must depart.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Smith, ‘You’re a mime!’
Le Fantome nodded several times. ‘But not just any mime. I am a mastermime.’
‘Go to space, meet a loony,’ Carveth said. ‘There’s a surprise. On the other hand, the door is open.’
Le Fantome led them into the corridor. They crept past the gurgling stereo and down the hallway. Smith glanced to the left and saw a spectacled detective in an office, busy filling his pipe.
‘You are lucky it was I who found you,’ Le Fantome whispered. ‘There are plenty here who remember the part your secret service played in deposing the Prince of France.’ He shook his head.
‘Exiled to a tiny planet, with nothing but a flower for company. . come. As we say in France, we must be rapide.’
They passed through a narrow door, back into the dark of the space station. It was the station night-cycle now, and light spilled from bars and bierkellers onto the artificial boulevard. Far off, two alley cats, an accordion and an oompah band competed for ownership of the night.
The simulated evening was warm and dry and the smoke from Galloises and Bratwurst stalls was whisked away before it could upset the sprinkler system. They walked through the residential quarter, trying to look as normal as they could. ‘Do not worry,’ Le Fantome said. ‘Once people see you have a mime with you, they will know everything is under control. It is, to use a French word, inevitable.’
The streets were deeply alien to Smith. Where were the red telephone boxes, the chip shops, the people being ill outside pubs? They passed a gang of very neat punks who bade them Guten abend before getting back to painting a graffiti-spattered wall bright white.
‘You see those doors down there?’ Le Fantome said, pointing. ‘The airlock you seek is at the end of that passage, just past the cabaret hall.’ He turned to Rhianna. ‘Raumskapitan Schmidt is a good man.
You can trust him to convey you to our mutual friends.’
Smith looked down the street. ‘Thank you for your help, sir. But now, we have a ship to catch.’
‘As we say in France, it has been un plaisir,’ Le Fantome replied. ‘But next time we meet, I may ask a favour of you.’
‘I’ll assist you, within reason,’ Smith said. ‘Nothing dodgy, though.’
‘Monsieur,’ Le Fantome replied, clearly hurt, ‘There is nothing “dodgy” about the French secret service. Wherever there are questionable elections, dangerous peace protesters, allegations of bribery – rest assured, we shall be there. Alors, I see you have no heavy luggage to carry, but I could always help you pretend. Goodbye, ladies. .’ He bowed. ‘I hope we shall all meet again soon.’
‘Well,’ Suruk remarked as Le Fantome crept away, ‘abroad has certainly changed since last I visited. Everything is flatter than I recall and there are fewer goats. The people seem more welcoming, too.’
‘Which bit of Europe was that?’ Rhianna asked.
‘Of course it’s different, Suruk,’ Smith said. ‘That was ten years ago and you were trying to become king of Nepal. Don’t ask, Rhianna – you’ll only encourage him.’
EU-571 lay at dock fifty yards further on. A tall man waited for them at the airlock.
‘Hallo!’ said Raumskapitan Schmidt. He wore a roll-neck jumper and a blue cap with an anchor on the front. His beard was close-cropped. The space captain looked friendly and enthusiastic, Smith thought, but seemed a bit dim. That sort of thing would never be allowed in the British space fleet.
‘Hullo!’ Smith replied.
‘Come on in,’ Schmidt said, gesturing to the spacious, well-lit interior of EU-571. A small, blonde woman in a similar hat approached and waved. ‘This is Petra Klein, ship’s android and my second in command.’
‘Welcome aboard,’ she said. ‘Who would like schnapps?’
An airlock opened without creaking and a second woman stepped out. She wore uniform, but her roll-neck jumper was a little looser than Schmidt’s and her plait reached almost to her waist.
Schmidt gestured to the tall girl. ‘This is Ingrid, who deals with our other important business on ship.’
Smith bowed. ‘Strategy and weapons, eh?’
‘Recycling,” Ingrid replied. ‘The EU-571 is fully compliant with Directive 683/76 on the Harmonious Removal of Vegetable Matter.’
‘We have one of those,’ Smith added, keen to show that Britain was not lagging behind. ‘I put old cucumbers and potato peelings in it. You know, for the whales to eat.’
‘You have your own recycling officer?’ Rhianna said to Schmidt. ‘I think that’s amazing. I’ve always thought we should do more for the environment, Isambard.’
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘I’m always happy to clean up a few dirty aliens, eh?’ He patted his sword in a manly way. Captain Schmidt gave Smith’s belt a rather worried look.
‘I also deal with crew relaxation and massage,’ Ingrid added.
Smith didn’t like the sound of that. Massage was that thing that made his shoulders tense up.
‘Okay,’ Schmidt declared. ‘Perhaps we should go through? Ingrid, if the young lady is interested in your work, why don’t you take her down to the sauna deck?’
Ingrid took Rhianna’s arm. Smith watched them head to the door, arm in arm. As the door closed he remembered a fascinating drama he’d once seen about friendship among young ladies entitled Lascivious Handmaidens of the Reform School of Dracula.
Carveth nudged him and he blinked out of his reverie. ‘You do know that massage is supposed to make you less stiff?’
‘Go away,’ he said.
The sound of engines rose softly, a light hum that ran through the cream-coloured walls. EU-571 was leaving dock. ‘Please,’ Schmidt said, gesturing. ‘After you.’
*
The dining room was large and well lit. Waltz music piped merrily from hidden speakers. ‘Do take seats, please,’ Schmidt said, and he pulled back a chair for Carveth. Schmidt took the seat at the head of the table, under a painting of a gate with a chariot on top. In the interests of international harmony, Smith decided not to tell Schmidt that he looked just like the chap on the fish finger adverts.
Petra opened a cabinet and took out a bottle. She poured out little glasses of schnapps, including two for Ingrid and Rhianna.
‘Please,’ Schmidt said, ‘make yourselves at home. The food dispenser has been programmed to synthesise any food you wish, provided it is sausage-shaped.’
Carveth peered at the controls. The food machine was white and had a single button. ‘So I could have a banana?’
‘ Bananawurst? Of course! Press the button twice for curry sauce.’
‘Actually, I had curried banana sausage for breakfast,’ Carveth said, and she sat down hurriedly.
‘One for you?’ Petra asked, putting a glass in front of Suruk. He sniffed it warily.
‘ Prost! ’ Schmidt declared. ‘Or as you might say, bottoms up!’
They drank. Carveth finished her glass and swapped it quickly for Rhianna’s and drank that too.
She set it down, looked up and to her surprise saw Petra accomplishing the same sleight of hand with Ingrid’s glass.
Suruk pointed to the food synthesiser. ‘This sausage puzzles me. What animal is it the wurst part of?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to speak English,’ Smith said to Schmidt. ‘Unless you’re fluent in Latin, that is. If you want to discuss how all Gaul is quartered into three halves, I’m your man.’ He was beginning to feel slightly lost. The combination of air conditioning, strong liquor and Strauss had started to make things rather blurry.
‘Then you will excuse my bad English-speaking, I hope,’ Schmidt added. “I fear the infrequency of use may have caused my loquacity to atrophy somewhat.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Smith replied. ‘I didn’t catch a word of that.’
‘So how is your German?’
‘I don’t have one. Oh, I see! Rather basic, I’m afraid. Ja. Bien.’
Schmidt met Petra’s eye and she quickly filled the glasses.
‘Absent friends!’ Schmidt announced, and they drank again. Carveth put down her glass, then Rhianna’s and found Smith glaring at her across the table.
‘That was Rhianna’s drink,’ he whispered.
‘So?’ Carveth demanded. ‘I’m honouring the toast. She’s a friend and she’s absent, so. .’
‘Now,’ said Schmidt, ‘tell me about this craft we are looking for.’
Smith frowned. ‘Well, it’s some sort of warship. I only saw it for a moment, but it’s clearly heavily armed. Probably railgun turrets and missiles.’
Schmidt finished his drink. Petra caught his eye. ‘The same procedure as last time?’ she inquired.
The Raumskapitan nodded. ‘Of course. And break out the Viennese Whirls. This is grave news.’
Carveth found that intensely sugary biscuits and schnapps went quite well together. She managed to feel unusually drunk and unusually active. Of course, in practice that probably meant that she would run halfway up the wall and then fall flat on the floor, but for free booze and biscuits, she was ready to take the risk.
‘It barely showed up on the scanner,’ Smith said. ‘That’s the strange thing… it just appeared out of nowhere. There was a flash of light, and suddenly the ships around us were in pieces.’
‘Are you sure that was not a part of your own craft, ah, dropping off?’
‘Certainly not. Vessels such as mine have been the backbone of the British space fleet for generations. Admittedly, the John Pym is quite low down the backbone, to be honest –’
‘Just above the arse,’ Carveth added helpfully, pouring herself another drink. ‘Near the tail.’
‘There is nothing wrong with having a tail,’ Suruk pointed out. ‘We M’Lak have small tails. So did such great Earth heroes as Thomas Kitten and the two cities of Abraham Dickens.’
Smith paused to think this one over, chasing Suruk’s logic through the maze of his brain. Carveth raised a shaky hand. ‘Where are all your aliens?’ she inquired.
‘Aliens?’ Schmidt shook his head. ‘Europe does not have aliens. At least, it does not rule over other peoples as your British Space Empire does.’
‘ Thinks it does,’ Suruk added.
‘You see, in Europe all nations are equal. Except Italy, but that is only because its prime minister sold it to the French when nobody was looking. There were detailed negotiations and the deal was finalised in a car park near Lyons.’ He sighed. ‘To think of it… the cradle of the Renaissance, sold in a service station like a football club.. these are dangerous days, my friends. Prost! ’
As Smith raised his glass the lights went off. The subtle underfloor lamps faded away and a single red bulb flickered into life behind Schmidt’s chair. Distantly, in the bowels of the EU-571, a bell was ringing.
‘What is this?’ Suruk snarled.
Carveth pointed at the bulb. ‘Pretty!’ she said, and she fell over.
They hurried down a steel staircase. Rhianna and Ingrid stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hey, Isambard,’ Rhianna said, ‘I’ve just been learning about wind farms.’
Carveth, now upright through force of will and assistance of wall, blinked. ‘What’s going on?’
In the red light the command deck of the EU-571 looked like a very tidy chamber of Hell.
Actually, Smith thought as Schmidt led them between the rows of computers, more a corridor than a chamber. Men nodded and gestured at screens and an officer sneezed into a paper bag. Only the soft hum of computers and the whisper of engines broke the silence.
Suruk tapped Smith on the shoulder. ‘All these red lights,’ he whispered. ‘I have heard of such places, Mazuran, in districts of Holland. Be on your guard, lest one of these men seeks to repair your washing machine.’
Turning, Schmidt leaned close and lowered his voice. ‘Captain Smith, our long-range scanners have detected a vessel in the area. There is no visual confirmation. By now, it ought to be in range.
Perhaps it is your enemy.’
‘Maybe.’
‘We will approach,’ Schmidt added. ‘But stay very quiet. Our stealth capacities are not limitless, I am afraid.’
‘Righto,’ Smith said. ‘Crew, pay close attention and pipe down!’
‘Yes,’ said Schmidt, ‘but quietly.’
Schmidt peered into a computer screen, adjusted his sweater and pulled down his captain’s hat.
He frowned, as the man from the adverts might do when confronted by an unsatisfactory piece of frozen cod.
Rhianna took hold of Smith’s arm. ‘Look.’ She pointed at a large dial mounted on the wall. ‘Is that supposed to be happening?’
Smith looked at the dial. It reminded him of several of the controls of the John Pym, although the lettering on the dial was in the language of abroad. Perhaps it had something to do with the EU-571’s stealth system.
Schmidt stood up and stepped over to join them. ‘Hmm,’ he said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
‘Franz?’
A tubby, fair-haired man leaned over from the console to the right. He looked at the dial and scratched his head.
Very slowly, the needle began to rise. They watched it crawl past 800, then on to 1,000. Smith glanced to his left: the neck of Schmidt's sweater bulged as he swallowed, hard.
‘It's past a thousand,’ Carveth said.
‘One thousand one hundred,’ Franz whispered.
Slowly, steadily, the needle approached the red. Smith held his breath. A single bead of sweat rolled down from Schmidt's hairline.
‘One thousand three hundred,’ Franz said.
‘This is worrying,’ Suruk declared. ‘I think we should remove the needle.’
‘Why are we looking at the dial?’ Carveth asked.
Smith glanced round. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I'm looking at the dial because – well, because Captain
Schmidt here is looking at it. It's clearly very important.’
‘Really?’ Schmidt turned his attention from the dial as if awaking to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. ‘Being the captain, and therefore responsible for the smooth running of this vessel, I was inspecting the dial because you brought it to my attention.’
‘I only looked at it because you did,’ Smith replied, feeling slightly put out.
‘Me? It was you who began all this dial-staring.’
‘I didn't start it!’
‘Yes you did. You –’
A woman was walking by, ticking items off on a clipboard. As she passed she reached out without looking and hit the top of the dial with her hand. It dropped back down to zero. ‘ Kaput scheisser Maschine,’ she muttered, and she carried on. Below the dial, a small door opened and a tiny brass man slid out, hit a bell and drew back inside.
Petra had been peering at one of the scanners. She tapped the screen. ‘Hey! Look at this.’
‘What is it?’ Schmidt demanded.
‘Sensors for the outside,’ she replied. ‘If we pinpoint the location, cross-referencing all the vectors…’
‘Just what I would have done,’ Carveth put in. She had slumped against a bulkhead.
‘We find the sensors pinpoint an area of space about here.’ Petra tapped the screen twice and it zoomed in on a patch of empty space. It looked like nothing, Smith thought. Perhaps the EU-571 lacked the sophisticated scanning equipment of the John Pym.
The screen flashed blue. Lightning blazed in the centre of the monitor. Needles flapped in dials like the wings of frightened birds. Suddenly they were looking at the vessel that had ambushed them – and it did not seem to have detected them.
‘That’s him!’ Smith cried. ‘We’ve got him cold! Get a lock on and show him what for!’
‘What?’ said Schmidt.
‘That’s the ship that blew up our convoy!’ Smith grinned at the screen. ‘Now we’ve got you! Give him a rocket, Schmidt.’
‘Rocket?’ Schmidt and Petra exchanged a puzzled look. ‘Captain Smith, we do not have any rockets.’
‘Lasers, then. Slice his bows off.’
‘ Entschuldigung! ’ Schmidt looked genuinely appalled. ‘Please calm yourself, Captain. One, this ship belongs to the European Union, not the British Space Empire. And two, do you realise the paperwork that would involve?’
‘Paperwork?’
‘Not to be mentioning three… we have no guns.’
‘What?’
‘I approve,’ Suruk said. ‘Ramming speed!’
‘No, no “ramming speed”. Europe is a place of peace. This vessel was built to survey, to discover and, once sufficient evidence of an enemy attack has been uncovered, to enable the passing of a condemnatory resolution. Not to go in with all guns blazing like Butch Cassidy and der Sonnetanzkind, okay?’
Smith stared at the image on the screen, the grim-looking, converted ship – his prey – within range. ‘But… but –’
Rhianna put her hand on Smith’s shoulder. ‘Isambard, he’s right. We can’t just tell them what to do.’ She turned to Schmidt. ‘Will it be a sternly worded resolution, Herr Raumskapitan?’
‘Oh, very.’
‘That’s okay, then.’
‘Humph!’ Smith pulled away. ‘Pass a resolution? I’ve passed water more frightening than that.’
Schmidt gave him a stern look. Smith returned it. They volleyed the stern look for several seconds.
Petra looked up from the computer. ‘I have it,’ she announced. ‘Formerly Royal Mail shuttle RMS Greendale, believed lost at space six years ago, taken by pirates. The ship reappeared three months ago, renamed Fist of Sacred Hate and refitted as a light destroyer of the Republic of Eden. Gentlemen, you are looking at an Edenite ship.’
‘Edenite?’ Smith shook his head. On the screen, blue light shone from the ship’s few windows, as if it glowed inside. The armour was striped red, like wounds. Symbols had been painted around the airlocks. Hooked chains drifted lazily around the craft like the tentacles of dead octopi. ‘But they’re insane cultists. And that ship looks like. . well, it looks –’
‘Like it came from Hell,’ Carveth whispered.
Suruk threw back his head and laughed. The sound rang through the metal corridor. “Then there is only one thing to do,” he declared. ‘We must pursue this craft to wherever it dwells, hunt it out and carve a path to its dark heart! I, Suruk of the line of Agshad shall destroy this vessel, no matter what fiery abyss it may choose for a hiding-place. For it is better to reign in Hell than.. ’ Suruk raised a hand and scratched his head. ‘Er. .’
‘Remain in Hull?’ Carveth suggested.
‘Drizzle in Heaven?’ Smith said.
‘No.. I remember now!’ Suruk exclaimed. ‘For it is better to reign in Hell than anywhere else!’
*
‘Well,’ said Smith, admiring the John Pym, ‘they’ve finished the repairs.’
Schmidt rubbed his beard. Above them, great mechanical arms flexed and swung silently, like the hands of puppeteers. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘It looks better than ever,’ Smith replied. He put out a hand. ‘I’m sorry I got cross, Raumskapitan Schmidt. You’ve been a great help. Thanks to you, we have the lead we needed.’
‘And I got smashed,’ Carveth added.
‘And I got some interesting seeds,’ Rhianna put in. Ingrid winked.
‘I would give you some tea in return,’ Smith said, ‘but I’m afraid we’re going to need all the moral fibre we have for the voyage ahead.’
Rhianna held out the smaller of their lunch tins. ‘I made a cake,’ she added.
‘Thank you,’ Schmidt replied. ‘You are most kind. But hey – you must get going. Space traffic control have another strike booked for four o’clock. They must have heard there were British trying to leave.’
‘Well then.’ Smith turned to Rhianna. ‘I suppose this is it.’
‘Until we meet again,’ she said. ‘Isambard, take care. And try not to do anything too heroic. Or stupid.’
‘You take care too. Especially with the washing.’
She came close, and he could smell patchouli oil. ‘Remember, Isambard… this is au revoir, not goodbye.’
‘Can we settle for “Bye for now”? It’s neither permanent nor French.’
‘Done.’ She kissed him. ‘You’ll be in my dreams.’
‘Mine too. Can you wear the dress that’s sort of see-through?’
‘I’ll do what I can. Good bye.’
‘See you soon!’
They kissed again, and Rhianna stepped away to join Ingrid and Raumskapitan Schmidt. Smith smiled at the Raumskapitan, knowing that he would look after most of Rhianna’s needs – except that one.
Looking round, he saw Carveth and Petra swapping bottles.
Schmidt said, ‘The nearest Edenite port capable of maintaining such a vessel is called Deliverance. It’s three days’ travel from here – two with an engine like yours, provided you go in a straight line. From what I have heard, you can expect a warm reception. They’ll try to burn you at the stake.’
‘That sounds likely. Well, thanks for your help.’
‘My pleasure. But the only people getting in and out of Deliverance are Crusadists and mercenaries. As soon as they see you they’ll start firing.’
‘We’ll take our chances.’
They shook hands. Schmidt took three steps and turned. ‘Oh, Captain Smith? One more thing.
Viel Gluck.’
Smith turned at the door of the John Pym. ‘ Danke! ’ he replied. ‘I mean, thanks.’