Space Captain Smith (5 page)

‘They’ve got bits of string on the branches. What’s all that about? They’re trees. They can’t do anything, can they?’

‘Excuse me?’ a woman said.

Smith turned. She was middle-aged, with long hair and a white, shapeless dress. ‘Yes, madam?’

‘You mentioned the trees? We put the ribbons on the branches in recognition of Gaia, the universal spirit?

We are interconnected to the trees, from whence we came.’

‘Oh, I see now,’ said Smith. ‘Thank you, madam. I didn’t realise that. I stand corrected.’ They walked on.

‘Utter pigswill,’ he said to Suruk.

Smith did not hate nature: he just did not worship it. His devotion was instead directed towards Orsoc, the Imperial Code born out of the Revolution a hundred years ago. It stressed patriotism, social justice, democracy and country walks. It had only two commandments: the first being ‘Be decent’ the second ‘Carry on’.

‘Perhaps you should be less sceptical, Mazuran. We of the M’Lak believe that all life is connected. Nature is everywhere.’

‘Which is presumably why you like killing it so much.’

‘Naturally.’

Ahead, the entrance hall opened into a shopping mall. This was not unusual: most colonies put their duty-free section as near to the arrival point as possible – but the decoration was very specific to New Fran. ‘That’s a lot of rainbows and dolphins,’ said Smith, gazing around. He checked the roster sheet again. ‘Now, we’re looking for a shop somewhere around here. Just this way—’

Smith walked straight into a man in the uniform of the Republic of Eden Navy. He bounced back off the man’s slablike chest, took a step backwards and had the chance to examine what had seemed like a blue, padded wall.

Edenites were bad news: they had the small minds and demented confidence that came with being religious fanatics. They worshipped something called God the Annihilator which, although their own invention, followed in Earth’s long-established tradition of bearded, everything-hating gods. Luckily, the Edenites were confined to a few colonies that had banded together during the break-up of the Empire of Man.

This particular Edenite was of a type that Smith disliked intensely: solid, over-muscled, casually brutal and accustomed to looking over people’s heads while speaking to them.

‘Hey, dicksplat,’ he said, looking over Smith’s head. This meant that he was staring straight into Suruk’s face, as the alien was standing behind Smith and was several inches taller than him. Suruk’s tusks parted in his version of a smile. The sailor grimaced as though watching something putrefy, and looked down at Smith instead. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re walking?’

‘Why don’t
I
watch where
you’re
walking, eh?’ Smith retorted angrily. He was flustered and the pronouns seemed somehow wrong, but it was at least a quick response.

All three paused to reflect on the possible meaning of these words and then the Republic man said, ‘Idiots. Goddamned pagans and idiots.’ He moved away. Smith said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean, eh?’ His voice sounded squeaky and weak to him, as it tended to sound in such situations.

The big man turned slowly, like a turret on a warship lining up its guns. ‘You are an idiot. This place is full of pagans. Both you and the people here are damned by God, hence god-damned. Questions, comments, anyone?’

‘Nothing springs instantly to mind,’ said Smith. They watched the big man stride away, heavy and confident, and Smith said, ‘Goodness! Some people, eh?’

‘Isambard Smith! He dishonoured you and you allowed him to proceed! Had he insulted me, I would have cut off his head and coughed pellets down his neck.’

‘We’re unarmed, Suruk.’

‘I still would have struck him. Let us see how he defends against the nine-fingers-fist of the Incongruent Lemur Style.’

‘We can’t just carve people up here. It’s neutral territory. Now let’s get on with this. I reckon Miss Mitchell should be very near.’

The Morlock sighed. ‘Mazuran, I tire. This place holds no honour. I wish to seek out the crew of the M’Lak craft we saw as we arrived. Perhaps they will be more to my tastes than this empty hall.’

Smith frowned. ‘Well, alright, then. I suppose you’d be better off on board a spaceship than wandering around here. But if I hear that you’ve murdered that man and chopped off his head, I will be
very very angry
, do you hear?’

‘Oh, alright.’

‘Good. I’ll see you back at the ship in, let’s see… four hours. Understand?’

‘As you wish. Good hunting, Isambard Smith!’

Smith watched his old ally bound away and wondered if letting Suruk explore this place was wise. No doubt the Morlock would be safer with his own people, preferably on their own ship, than wandering around a shopping mall in the hope of finding something to attack. There was never any certainty that Suruk would not take umbrage at some alleged slight to his honour, lose his head and then cause passers-by to follow suit. Still, no doubt finding this Mitchell woman would be much easier without Suruk’s assistance. Smith walked on through the mall, feeling highly out of place. Above him, some sort of slow, hooting sound issued gently from loudspeakers. The place smelt of bath salts. He stopped to check the address.

*

The Edenite sailor reached the other side of the mall before he looked back. The greyskin had disappeared, and the scrawny captain was wandering about at the far end of the hall, consulting a bit of paper like a husband sent out to buy toiletries. The big man stepped behind a pillar and unhitched the walkie-talkie from his belt.

‘Sir? I confirm personal audio-visual sighting of subject. Target located in vicinity of secondary target, apparently explorating the area. They’re here.’

Isambard Smith found the right section of the mall and finally reached the place where Rhianna Mitchell should be. It was a brightly-coloured shop front, with large windows that displayed a number of products, none of which had any use Smith could be sure about. He peered through the glass and tried to work out what the weirdlytitled little tubs might be. Several had pictures of sea lions on them: he doubted that they actually contained essence of sea lion at all. Women’s stuff, he decided, presumably expensive variants on Vaseline and carbolic soap. A sign in the window said: ‘Rediscover your spirituality and detach yourself from materialism. We accept all major credit cards.’ Frowning, and deeply aware of how alien he looked, Smith ventured inside.

The floor was genuine-looking wood and his boots sounded loud on it. He looked around. The shelves were lined with tubs and bottles. Over the shop speakers, a confused-sounding man was mumbling a patchily coherent song about a tambourine, backed by tinkly sounds not unlike someone urinating onto a glockenspiel. The shop smelt of soap, talcum powder and foreign teabags. A poster on the wall advertised a poetry reading that Smith would have fed himself into a threshing machine to avoid. He picked up a tub of kelp exfoliant rub, turned it upside-down and, on spotting the price tag, put it back very quickly.

There was a woman behind the counter. Smith approached.

‘
Namaste
and welcome to Bodyworks! Hi, my name’s Rhianna,’ she added, pointing with both hands to a plastic badge on her lapel. It said:
Hi, my name’s Rhianna
. ‘Are you looking for something today?’

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Her voice had that lilting inflection common here. Without being actually hostile, her voice implied that she could not help him, because he was in the wrong shop and really ought to leave, now.

‘Um, yes. I need to talk to you, I’m afraid. My name’s Isambard Smith, captain of the
John Pym
.’

‘Oh-
kay
.’ There was a highly doubtful quality to her voice. She sounded as though she were gearing up to turn down an improper request with sad head-shakes and nearly-convincing regret, as if his perverted tastes were only just outside her repertoire. ‘So how may I help you?

Are you here to buy something for yourself—’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Shopping for a lady?’

‘Certainly not! I don’t know what you free love types get up to, but I can get a lady quite well without paying for – oh, I see what you mean. Um, no. Might I speak with you privately?’

‘Mmn.’ She nodded appreciatively, as if tasting something. She had a long, elfin face with quite pronounced cheekbones. It was the opposite kind of face to Carveth’s: Rhianna Mitchell was the sort of woman who would look beautiful in the right circumstances, where at best Carveth could look cute. Assuming she didn’t say or do anything, Smith added, recalling the negative influence of Carveth’s personality.

‘Is this about a personal matter, Captain Smith?’

‘Yes. It’s quite urgent.’

Rhianna leaned in closer. ‘Is it a spacesuit that’s chafing you?’ she asked. ‘We do a regenerative skin cream that works very well. It would double as a useful starching agent for your moustache.’

‘No. It’s personal because it relates to you. You are Rhianna Mitchell, yes?’

‘In this cycle, yes.’

‘Right. I’m an agent of the Valdane Shipping Company. I’ve been sent to transport you to Midlight via supralux spacecraft.’ He held out the roster, then turned it the other way up when she started doing weird things with her neck. ‘See?’

‘Oh, I see!’ She laughed loudly, without inhibition. ‘And I thought you had a groin infection!’ A young woman, who had been looking at the products in the window, moved rapidly to the next shop. ‘Yes, that’s me. When do we go?’

‘As soon as the ship’s refuelled. That should be in about four hours. You’re ready, I take it?’

‘Well… no. I didn’t realise this. They didn’t say. I’ll need to get my things together, and arrange cover for the shop.’

Smith nodded. ‘Can I help at all?’

‘Sure. Could you have a look at the front? Of the shop, please?’

Suruk saw them in the garden. Two of his people stood in the main public park, in keen discussion. They were slim, tall, free of the podgy flesh and big stomachs of human beings. They stood with the weight on the balls of their feet, ready to run and fight.

No humans were nearby: the closest group sat twenty yards away. Suruk strode towards them, pleased to see his own type among these dull, peace-loving
Metchi’chuen
. They turned as he came near, tasting the change in the air as one of their own race approached.

‘I greet you with honour, warriors,’ Suruk said in his glutinous English, uncertain which M’Lak dialect they spoke. ‘May your names be noble.’

‘I greet you too, honoured one,’ said the nearer of the two braves. He wore armour on his shoulders and long gloves reinforced with metal spines. Both had leather cuirasses as well as boots and trousers of human manufacture, restitched to suit their shape. ‘Speak you Asur’ah?’

‘Indeed, I speak it.’ Suruk spoke many of the M’Lak dialects, which had their own specific uses depending on the circumstances. There was one used for archaic language, similar to Chaucerian English, and one used solely for confusing non-speakers, similar to Welsh. Asur’ah was used to communicate, rather than to annoy passers-by. ‘Let us use that tongue.’

‘I agree.’ The brave sighed and slipped into Asur’ah. 

‘Whoa. That’s a major relief. I totally hate talking in English. It’s, like, really inexpressive, y’know?’

It took a long while for Ms Mitchell to get ready to depart and by the end of that time Smith was twitching with irritation. To him, Rhianna’s personality combined a number of characteristics that were geared to delay their departure and wring the maximum possible quantity of annoyance from every minute he spent waiting for her. She was not only a woman, but a particularly vague variety of woman, who relied on a loose network of similar flimsy types to cover for her while she was away. This meant that she spent nearly an hour ringing round various people to deal with the shop. By the time that they were able to leave and head to her apartment to collect her things, Smith was ready to cosh her with the telephone and haul her back to the ship like one of the ‘dinner things’ Suruk was wont to drag on board any vessel that would have him as a passenger.

Smith sat on a bean bag in her messy flat while she put things in a big satchel. New Fran was linked into the BCBC network, and he watched a documentary about the planned construction of new frigates for the Imperial Navy, sipping a dung-coloured drink that Rhianna had found him in the fridge. It smelt of fruit, and tasted of mango, but seemed to contain both pips and mud. The news came on. ‘Will I need a formal dress?’

Rhianna called.

‘Probably not,’ Smith replied. Footage appeared of the Ghast Empire: Ghast Number One was delivering a screaming denunciation of mankind, Britain, democracy, Earth, Britain, the Council of Powers, and Britain in particular, his arms waving around like a semaphore machine in a hurricane. The endless ranks of Ghast troopers bellowed back at him on cue. Watching them, Smith felt angry at himself for sitting about, drinking some filthy herbal brew and acting as if the Apocalypse was not about to come. I need a ship with guns, he thought. These aliens need to be taught a lesson, preferably one that they will be unable to learn from on account of being very dead at the end of it.

‘All set!’ Rhianna declared, returning.

Smith stood up. ‘Are you sure?’ She wore a long green shirt and a pair of jeans that were wide and long enough to completely hide her feet. As she shifted position, Smith saw that she was wearing plastic sandals. Her bags were large and brightly-coloured. Surprisingly, the hilt of a wooden sword protruded from one. She was hardly dressed for life on board an industrial space vessel. Well, she’d only be on board a few days. Besides, if any proper work was required she would probably be worse than useless anyway, proper clothes or not. ‘Righto,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you with your bags, shall I?’

‘That’s quite a ship,’ Rhianna said. ‘It must be extremely powerful.’

‘You’re looking out of the wrong window,’ Smith replied. ‘We’re over there.’

He was sitting on his purchase from duty free: a large box of beer and two cases of teabags.

She peered through the glass. ‘Well, that’s pretty nice too. I mean, it’s got all the right stuff on it – engine, doors, that kind of thing… it does have all the right stuff on it, doesn’t it?’