A Game of Battleships (23 page)

Someone shouted on the left. Suruk flicked round, suddenly alert. Was it battle? Had traitors or 
Ghasts attacked – or better yet, lemming men? He would rip them into pieces, take their furry heads in the name of intergalactic co-operation. Suruk strode towards the sound.

A woman was in his way, saying something about the ambassador spoiling them with chocolates.

Suruk discreetly shouldered her aside. To his left, like a beast on the same scent, one of the M’Lak 
riflemen was heading the same way. Suruk quickened his pace, determined to get there first.

The cafeteria. The thought of food and battle in the same place made it hard not to drool. Suruk 
opened his mandibles. Others were following him now: security men and bodyguards from the various 
powers. Two huge men made hand gestures, no doubt putting together a plan. Suruk ignored that and 
booted the cafe doors open, eager to see what enemy he would face.

It was Major Wainscott. Wainscott stood beside a drinks machine, wild-eyed as if connected to 
the mains. A captain of the United Free States had backed up against the wall, palms raised.

‘What do you mean, it tastes funny?’ Wainscott snarled. ‘By God, I’ll –’

‘Take it easy,’ said the captain. ‘It’s just a drink.’

‘Just a drink? Just a drink?’ Wainscott’s face twisted and hardened like setting clay. ‘Just a drink, 
you say? Now you listen to me, sonny,’ he added, taking a step away from the machine, ‘tea makes us 
strong. God gave the British tea when he chose us to bring civilisation to this benighted ruin of a galaxy. 
You know, I feel sorry for you chaps, what with your government throwing all your tea into that harbour. 
Our nation was built by tough men drinking tea. Out in the countryside, you're not a real man unless 
you've got a mug in your hand and half a dozen teapots in your kitchen cabinet. I ask you… what 
happens if someone breaks into your home, and you need to give him a refreshing hot drink, eh? Eh? If 
you want me to stop drinking tea, you'll have to pull the steaming pot out of my warm, dead hands!’

Smith appeared at Suruk’s shoulder. ‘Oh dear,’ he said grimly.

‘Indeed,’ Suruk replied.

A woman coughed and Wainscott looked around. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Hullo, Susan.’

She strolled over, shaking her head. ‘Come along, Boss. It’s time for your tablets.’

Wainscott paused, arms raised in his sentry-killing position. He looked at his hands, sighed and 
lowered them slowly. ‘Well said. Good point, Susan. So then, Captain Schwartz: Assam or Darjeeling?’

*

A little way behind, a broad-shouldered man turned back to the curry machine. He pushed his 
card into the slot, dialled up a helping of Saag Aloo and watched it flop onto a paper tray. Overshadowed by the machine, his back to the security cameras, he activated his internal protocols. Motors whirred 
softly under synthetic skin. He downloaded a 3D image from his memory banks and his face slid from 
that of one man to another. He was no longer Thomas Perdu of the European Delegation, but Brian 
O'Brian, deputy engineer and all round helpful fellow. For now, at least. He slipped off his name badge and buried it in the heap of spinach potato, then collected a chapati from the dispensing slot.

Holding his plate up high to hide his empty lapel, Brian walked out to reconnoitre.

*

The day wore on, and Smith’s hand ached from greeting people, and he hadn’t patronised any of the 
funny types once. Well, except for that fellow from French Guyana, but that was more commiserating 
than anything else. Perhaps he would take Smith’s advice and move to British Guyana, which was 
probably much better. Smith paused on the mezzanine, resting his arms on the brass railing and looking down at the main hall. Strange how somewhere so busy could seem so empty when the person you 
wanted wasn’t there.

The lights dimmed, a fanfare played from the speakers, and a small man in a high-collared suit 
appeared on the stage at the end of the room. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and other creatures… Station Governor Mike Barton…’

A middle-aged, spectacled man took to the stage. For a second he simply stood there, like a robot 
without batteries. Then a hovering drone played a little trumpet-blast.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ he said. ‘Welcome. We’re gathered here today, as representatives of 
the great powers of free space and the planets they control, to formalise an agreement with the Vorl: who, by becoming allies of the British Space Empire and the rest of Earth, will join our great and noble 
struggle for liberty. Unfortunately, they’ve not arrived yet, so we’ll have the buffet lunch instead.

‘There was a time, many years ago, when Britain would have striven to welcome you with 
excitement and extravaganza. But that’s just embarrassing, so I would ask you to circulate quietly while we play some Elgar over the speakers. The negotiations begin in earnest tomorrow and tonight there’s 
dancing. If anyone’s got any questions, I’ll be at the bar.’ He walked off, obviously relieved to be able to go.

Smith looked down at the baffling array of creatures below. At the edge of the stage, a piano was 
being tuned up ready to provide backing for the first musical act, a raponteur who looked like a younger version of Wainscott. The thought of Wainscott on stage, narrating his exploits over a piano 
accompaniment, was enough to give Smith a headache.

A sudden sharp pain in the temple reinforced this impression. Smith looked down and saw a vol-
au-vent at his feet. Realising he had been struck with it and wondering if this was the start of some 
strange Ghastist outrage, he glanced across the hall, hunting for dangerous aliens.

Suruk waved at him. At Suruk's side, W beckoned and pointed at the doors. Smith crossed the 
mezzanine and hurried downstairs.

W looked grimmer than usual, even holding a sausage roll. ‘Problem, Smith.’

‘Bad pastry?’

‘The M’Lak have arrived. They want to see the pair of you. They asked by name.’

‘Us? But how would they know we were here? Suruk, did you tell them?’

The alien shook his head. ‘Many and subtle are the address-books of the Gilled.’

‘Be that as it may,’ W replied, ‘there’s a two-and-a-half stage helmsman waiting, and he wants to 
speak to you.’

Suruk rubbed his hands together. ‘Such a visitor must not be kept waiting.’

As the service lift squeaked downwards to the entrance hall, Smith smoothed down his jacket and 
tried to think of something he wasn’t worried about. The lift banged to a standstill and they stepped into a polished, empty chamber. They faced a pair of airlock doors big enough to accommodate a lorry and 
embossed with a huge brass lion and unicorn.

A display board clattered above them. ‘Gate Three,’ W said. ‘Any time now.’

Suruk leaned close to Smith. ‘We are privileged, Mazuran. Rarely do the space-lords reveal 
themselves to mankind.’

‘Really?’ Smith replied. Apprehension stirred in his gut. Would he have to fight this thing, bend it 
to the Empire’s will or, even worse, make small talk with it? ‘What’s going to happen?’

‘You have seen how the M’Lak reproduce,’ Suruk replied. ‘Occasionally, a spawn does not truly 
grow beyond a tadpole. Beyond spawn and hatchling, yet never adult, he remains in the axylotl stage and the strength of his body flows into his mind. That is what you will see: one of the Gilled.’

The great doors creaked, hissed and rolled apart. A M’Lak strode through a curtain of steam. He 
wore the long brown coat, ritual scarf and heavy goggles of a spacefarer, one who probably only ever left his ship to raid and refuel. A second emerged as if forming from the steam, then others, wiping their 
goggles as they came. Behind them, a glass tank the size of a railway carriage rolled into view.

W stubbed out his roll-up in a pot plant. Smith fought down a wave of unease that seemed to 
billow out of the tank, washing over him. Something moved in the tinted water.

With slow grace, a creature swam forward to the glass. It wore a headset of the sort used in space 
suits and call centres. Otherwise, it resembled nothing so much as a newt the size of a saltwater crocodile.

The Gilled Helmsman, master-spacefarer and seer of the M'Lak, turned his ancient eyes on the humans 
before him.

Speakers crackled at the corners of the tank. ‘Oh hi,’ they said. ‘I am Sedderik the Helmsman.

You must be Space Captain Smith. And Suruk the Slayer, I believe.’

‘Indeed,’ Suruk replied. ‘
Jaizeh
, Sedderik. Well it is said that the wisdom of the Gilled is the conquest of the void.’

‘Welcome aboard,’ W added. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you my name –’

‘All things are known to the Gilled,’ said the helmsman. ‘It is our way. He who understands the 
true nature of a thing, can control it. . Eric.’

‘Hello!’ said Smith. ‘Did you have a nice trip?’

Sedderik blinked. ‘Not bad, thanks.’

‘Good-oh. I would shake hands, but –’

‘Bit difficult, I know,’ said the helmsman. ‘Let's just wave.’

They waved. Man and newt stopped waving after a while and looked at each other, trying to 
think of something to say.

‘So, um, helmsman,’ Smith said, ‘do you have to get out of the tank to turn the steering wheel?’

‘It’s an honorific,’ Sedderik replied.

‘Gosh. That bad, eh?’

‘No, I mean it’s an honorary title. Helmsman is the rank above navigator. It’s better because you 
don’t have to worry about the maps getting wet.’ Sedderik barrel-rolled lazily, pushing himself round with a flick of his tail.

W stepped forward. ‘Here's your delegate pack,’ he said, passing a bag to one of Sedderik's 
adjutants. The adjutant lifted out objects and held them to the glass. W said, ‘You get a mug, some 
stationary with the Imperial Crest on it, and a name badge.’

‘Perhaps we can sellotape the name badge onto my tank,’ Sedderik said. ‘Gorgar, feel free to keep 
the mug.’

‘You have my thanks,’ the adjutant growled. ‘There is also a sticker that says “I'm fighting for 
freedom” and a brochure from something called the North Yorkshire Tourist Board.’

Sedderik waved a webbed hand. ‘All yours. Now… I have news for you all,’ he said, righting 
himself. ‘Three matters have come to our attention.’

‘Go on,’ W said.

‘The first is for Captain Smith. A visitor comes this way who will be most welcome to him. In 
one day she shall be upon you – that is to say, upon the space station.’

‘Is it Rhianna?’ Smith said.

The helmsman sighed. ‘I cannot tell you that. Precision is the prophesy-killer, you know. It takes 
all the fun out of it.’

‘Oh.’ Smith sighed. ‘But is it, really?’

‘All right, yes it is. But the second matter is for you all. A great evil arises from the depth of 
space, and comes for the nations of man.’

‘Brilliant,’ Smith said. ‘About Rhianna, that is.’

W leaned forward, pushed a bony hand through his mass of dark hair and scratched the back of 
his head. ‘If you mean war with the Ghasts, that’s pretty old news.’

The helmsman shook his head, and the gesture rippled down his length. ‘I refer to this station.

Something is coming here.’

‘Nobody knows about this place.’

‘Good.’ Sedderik sank down. ‘But be careful. And the third matter is for Suruk the Slayer alone.

The thing you lost is behind the bathroom sink. Better sort it out before the room begins to smell.’

‘I thank you, Sedderik,’ Suruk replied.

Sedderik yawned. ‘I like all the brasswork here. Very smart.’ He turned in his tank. ‘I've been 
thinking of doing some DIY myself. Putting in some ferns, or a model castle to swim around. This is my travel tank, you see. My usual tank is much more interesting. It's got a waterproof sofa and a machine that dispenses plankton.’

‘Oh, right. Would you like a drink?’

‘White wine would be lovely, thanks. Just tip it in the top. Now,’ said the helmsman, rising in his 
tank, ‘I must be alone. It’s been a long journey, and I need to fold space.’

On the way back, as the lift rose, W leaned against the dented metal wall and sighed.

‘Is that true,’ Smith said, ‘about Rhianna?’ His chest felt light, as if his heart was a balloon whose mooring-ties had been cut.

‘Bloody psychics,’ W replied. ‘Can't keep a damn thing to themselves. Yes, it’s true. I just hope 
the rest of it isn’t.’

‘Then we must work swiftly,’ Suruk said. ‘I shall hunt behind the sink at once.’

The lift doors rolled open and they walked into one of the service corridors. As they emerged, a 
large being floated past, consisting of two red globes surrounded by a mass of pale tentacles.

‘Nom-Noodloth is displeased, Earth-people!’ it announced, holding out an orange ball. ‘About 
this “Scotch Egg” –’

‘It’s just a name,’ Smith replied, ‘not from real Scotsmen.’

‘Then it shall be assimilated!’ the creature declared. ‘Nom-Noodloth is grateful and less 
displeased!’ it added, and floated away.

Smith watched it drift down the corridor. ‘Nom-Noodloth must drain its appendages!’ it added, 
disappearing into what was almost certainly not the right room.

Funny bunch, aliens.

Lights dimmed and the automated compere rolled to the front of the stage. Smith watched from 
the edge of the hall.