Space Captain Smith (25 page)

‘Well, thank heaven for that,’ Carveth replied. She climbed to her feet. ‘I was wondering when the Stick Cavalry would arrive. Absolutely no and no again.’ She moved towards the door: surprisingly, he stepped out of the way. Feeling bad and angry with everything, including herself, Carveth stomped down the corridor towards the beer fridge.

Why couldn’t this have happened to someone else?

Carveth thought, taking out a can and opening it up. Why did life have to expect heroics from someone who wasn’t a hero? You didn’t expect the man who cleaned the toilets to conduct operas, so why should you expect a daring rescue mission from someone who was much happier cowering under a rug? She slammed the fridge door. A picture was stuck to the door. Carveth had not noticed it before. It showed four stick-people in a row, two of them women. One of the men had tusks and was holding up an axe. Suruk’s work, she thought. There were labels on the people: ‘I myself’, ‘Izmbard Smith’, ‘Riana’ and ‘little fat cowad woman’, along with helpful labels like ‘bludd’ and ‘sevid hed’. Written above Smith were the words ‘My best frend ever’.

Carveth took the picture and held it in her hands, furious at the guilt it made her feel. For a moment she felt like ripping the damned thing to bits and flushing it down the waste disposal unit. What a shameless piece of manipulation, what a crude attempt to affect her feelings!

‘Little fat cowad woman’ stared out from the picture in her hands, smiling and waving.

‘Fat?’ she said, staring at the picture. ‘Fat! I’m not fat!

I’ll show you, you cheeky bastard!’

She turned and stomped back to the cockpit, dropped straight into the seat and turned the spaceship round. She set a course for the
Fist of Righteousness
, full speed. It was at that point that she realised that ‘my best frend’

might have referred not to Smith but to the axe Suruk was waving over Smith’s head, but by then it was way too late, for the M’Lak’s smiling head leaned around the cockpit door.

‘We have changed course,’ Suruk said.

‘Change of plan,’ Carveth said, trying to sound confident. ‘You know I said we were going to cut and run?

Well, we’ve done the running part. Get your knives.’

*

The guards brought a cage into the room. Hardened killers themselves, they quailed when they saw what moved inside: a mass of matted fur, seemingly without limbs or head, squeaking and battering the bars.

‘Only a few minutes before we leave Republic of Eden space,’ said 462. ‘And then, then we shall see who looks amusing.’ The cage rattled as its occupant thumped against the bars. 462 smirked. ‘Tell me, Smith, have you ever seen a hungry trobble leap through the air?’

Carveth met Suruk in the cargo hold. Suruk was covered in weapons, blades strapped to his thighs, chest and hips, pushed into his boots and the bracers he wore on his arms. In his hands was his spear. Less explicably, he was wearing a top hat.

‘We are ready?’ he said as she approached. Carveth nodded. ‘I’m all juiced up,’ she said. She had just washed a handful of Peptos down with navy rum: she felt sharp and deadly. She wore the Maxim cannon on a harness over her dress. It felt incredibly heavy and cumbersome, as if she had put on a building site. The gun was in its folded position, the barrel jutting up from her back like a chimney.

‘Fourteen minutes till we dock,’ she said. ‘I got the docking codes off a card one of the mercenaries had. We’re due to link straight up.’ She licked her lips. ‘Then, I guess the fighting starts.’

‘Yes.’

She walked across the hold. Suruk stood there, flexing his fingers calmly, and it occurred to her that she really didn’t understand the first thing about him. He was inscrutable to her, and she doubted that even the finest minds of Earth would be able to scrute him properly.

‘Suruk,’ she said, ‘does anything frighten you?’

The alien frowned. ‘That I might never do battle with worthy enemies,’ he said. ‘Clowns. Some dairy produce frightens me, as well.’

‘Those aren’t things that worry me particularly,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened of dying, Suruk.’

‘That’s quite understandable.’

‘It is?’

‘Of course it is: you are a wretched coward. Normally, I would rather feed my breeding tubes into a printing press than even look at you. However, these are strange times, and I shall fight beside you today. So be it. You are war-kin now and, no matter what happens, there is a part of you that will always remain close to me. Admittedly, it may well be your skull on my mantelpiece, but the point is made.’

‘Cheers,’ she said.

Suruk raised his spear. ‘Not long, I think, until we meet our destiny. Now, I must obey the traditions of my people. It is time for me to sing the death-song of my ancestors. As you are kindred, I shall translate it for you.’

He threw back his head, opened his mandibles and, in a mighty voice, he sang:

Today we raise our weapons high,

Today we prepare for death.

We might be slain; alternatively we might not.
Lie-la-lie, la-lie-lala-lie,

Lie–la-lie, la-lie-lala-lie,

Lalalala lie.

‘That’s it?’ said Carveth. ‘That was rubbish. It didn’t rhyme and I reckon you stole part of it. And if you’re going to die, you could at least listen to something good first.’

She grinned. ‘I know! You want to hear real music, get this!’

She disappeared back into the ship. Suruk frowned. Something came over the interior P.A. system, a low, flat twang, a sound from far away and deep down. Suruk shuddered and adjusted his hat.

A slow, rattling drum crackled through the hold. From the bottom of a well there crept a woman’s voice, a lost, hungry ghost. Suruk ran one of his thumbs along the razor edge of Gan Uteki, the sacred spear. Hunting music, indeed.

Carveth stepped through the door, the Maxim cannon levelled and ready to shoot. Her blonde hair was held back by a radio headset. She straightened her blue dress and wiped a bit of foam from the corner of her mouth.

‘Jefferson Airplane,’ she said. ‘I thought we needed a rising sound. Let’s go.’

A soldier barged into the room. ‘Sir?’

462 whipped around, and for a moment Smith thought he was actually going to attack the man. ‘Who is this moron?’ he barked at Gilead.

Captain Gilead turned to the man. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Sir, problem, sir. Docking codes from the incoming shuttle are wrong.’

‘How do you mean,
wrong
?’

‘Sir, they’re not right, sir. They’re for the wrong ship. Our ship. It’s the
John Pym
coming in to dock, not our ship.’

‘The
John Pym
?
His
ship? Could it be our people on board?’

The mercenary shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. We received a message, sir. It doesn’t sound like our men, sir.’

From the other side of the room, Isambard Smith spoke.

‘You fellows are in a good deal of trouble,’ he said, ‘but I can help you. If you surrender now, I’ll make sure you get a fair trial before they string you up.’

‘Shut up,’ Gilead said. ‘I want to hear this message. Put it on the speakers.’

The soldier paled. ‘Sir, I don’t think that it’s quite—’

‘Put it on!’

They listened.

‘Hello arseheads! Still bothering God? Right, listen carefully. I’ve got a fast ship about to dock with you and a crew of angry people, and I’ve come here to bring succour to the injured and injury to the suckers. Bring the Cap to the airlock and let him go, and we won’t do you over. Because if you don’t I’m warning you; I’ve got a degree in kicking arse and I’d have a doctorate in not giving a damn if I’d bothered to attend the ceremony. So open up, alright?’

‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘you heard. My elite soldiers await the moment to strike. You’ve had a fair innings, Gilead, but it’s time to head back to the pavilion before you get your bails knocked off. Give me my trousers and we can call it quits.’

Gilead leaped up, his eyes gleaming. ‘A draw? Screw that! Not while I have the Angel of the Lord in my custody, and not while your yellow-bellied, black-hearted, whitetrash, pinko-liberal crew takes my name in vain! You!’ he cried, jabbing a finger at the mercenary, ‘Watch this man. And you,’ he added, turning to 462, ‘come with me. I’ll show you how we deal with unbelievers round here!’

‘It seems we will meet later, Captain Smith,’ said 462.

‘Until then, goodbye.’ His face managed a smirk.

‘Remember the cage, Smith. They can bounce straight through a man’s head.’

With a swish of leather and a twitching of antennae, he was gone. The door slammed. Smith looked at the mercenary.

‘I can see your underpants,’ the mercenary said. ‘That’s funny.’

In the airlock, the walls rang with whooping and the clatter of loading magazines. Men clenched fists and put their sunglasses on, checked stubble and stuffed copies of
Merc Life
into their back pockets. Grace Slick’s voice rang out across the hold of the
John
Pym
like a jilted, malevolent ghost. ‘White Rabbit’ was reaching its peak.

Carveth upended a bottle of Peptos and crunched eight times the recommended dose. ‘Any moment now,’ she said.

Something massive struck the side of the ship. The clang rang through the hold as if they stood in some gigantic bell.

A voice came over the PA system. ‘This is the
Fist of
Righteousness
. We are outside your airlock. You will open up and surrender immediately or we will tear open your airlock and mess you up so bad even Satan won’t recognise you!’

‘Like bollocks we will,’ Carveth said. ‘Surrender at once!’

‘Don’t give me that!’ said the PA system. Carveth glanced at Suruk. He stood beside the airlock doors, spear in hand, one finger poised over the manual override switch. Carveth reached out and turned off the light. Darkness in the
Pym
. Half a dozen flares were attached to the airlock, the flare units taped to the frame, the pins that would activate them soldered to the doors.

‘You’ve had enough time,’ the voice cried over the loudspeakers. ‘That’s it, we’re coming in.’

Carveth pulled the cannon into her hands. She narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Do it!’

Suruk hit the switch. At the first sign of the Pym’s doors opening, the mercenaries opened their own airlock, the pins came free and the flares hissed into sudden, blinding life. Someone yelled, ‘Trap!’ Silhouettes threw hands over their eyes. Carveth pulled the trigger.

She let the motion sensors on the gun do their work and it swung and bucked in her hands. The round counter spun as it spat half a magazine into the airlock and she braced her legs and hoped it would be over soon.

‘Wait!’ Suruk growled, and she stopped, panting, the air full of smoke. The flares sputtered around the door, at once evil and festive, the entrance to some sinister funfair. Suruk stepped into the airlock, treading carefully. His boots squeaked a little on the tiles. He stepped out of view. There was one shot, the whipping sound of a blade cutting the air and Carveth heard something heavy hit the floor. Suruk looked back around the edge of the airlock.

‘This will be unpleasant,’ he said.

‘Lots of enemies?’

‘Hideous décor. Follow me.’

The décor was indeed hideous, although getting the bloody hell out of here pressed more deeply on Carveth’s mind. She trotted behind Suruk, glancing over her shoulder so often that she might as well have spun round like a top, well aware that it was only the Peptos that were keeping her jittery finger on the trigger. She thought about a lot of things as they hurried down the corridors of the ship: dying, getting killed, getting shot, death and even being murdered crossed her mind. She was afraid. A sound behind her and she whipped around, hit the trigger and in a roar of bullets a man clutched himself and fell, dead. A second mercenary ducked back into cover, reaching for something attached to his vest, and Suruk leaped in after him. A man screamed and fell silent, and the M’Lak returned, whistling between his teeth.

‘I have rigged a grenade behind a pressure door,’ he announced. ‘Very soon it will explode. Fires will distract our enemies.’

‘Good,’ said Carveth. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

‘Nearly where?’

‘Well, wherever they’re holding the captain.’ She peered at him. ‘This is a rescue mission, right? We’re going to rescue the captain. What the hell did you think we were doing, getting an ice cream?’

‘Ah,’ said Suruk, ‘Good point. Do you think the captain would mind if I got a little extra slaying in on the way?’

*

‘What do you mean a fire?’ Gilead barked into the intercom.

‘Big orange thing, quite warm, setting the ship alight?’ the intercom replied.

‘Send a team down to deal with it. Dammit, what the hell is going on down there?’

On the other side of the bridge, 462 was leaning against a bulkhead, listening. He sighed and stood up and walked over. ‘Your men seem to have been repulsed,’ he said, peering at the camera screens. ‘You should give the orders to repel the boarders or die fighting. Your crew are weak.’

462 tutted and wagged his antennae at Gilead. ‘I am not impressed, ally. Not impressed at all.’

As they turned the corner, half a dozen soldiers sprang out at them and suddenly gunfire raged down the corridor. Carveth threw herself into an alcove on one side of the passage, Suruk on the other. She saw him lean out and hurl a knife, and a huge moustachioed man like an enormous P.E. teacher staggered into view and fell, the weapon jutting from his neck. Carveth pushed the barrel of the maxim cannon around the corner and fired off a few rounds, then ducked back as the mercenaries replied.

Why me, she thought, and why here? She looked around her alcove for anything that might help but found only a poster that said, ‘Your civil rights have been suspended pending Armageddon’. I wish I was at home, she thought. Everyone was shooting at her: even Suruk, who was supposed to be on her side, was waving his arms about and pointing at her feet.

What’s wrong with my feet? Carveth thought as a fresh burst of gunfire rang down the hall, and she looked down and saw a small cylinder next to them. She picked it up. ‘Is this yours?’ she yelled across the corridor. Suruk, by means of cowering, indicated that it was not his. She wondered what it might be. It was difficult to think straight, what with all the noise. Some sort of tinned food, perhaps? Maybe it was cola. She looked at the side, caught a glimpse of some writing, and thought for a split second that it might be Grenadine.