A Game of Battleships (25 page)

Someone on this colony is not who he seems. There is an impostor.’

‘Good Lord!’ Smith exclaimed. Captain Fitzroy reached for her gin. W scowled. Wainscott 
looked entirely confused. Barton said, ‘Oh, that sounds really bollocks.’

‘Quite so,
messieurs-dammes
. I was checking the security with your assistant – I forget her name, but she reminds me of Marie de Poppins–’

‘Dawn,’ W said.

‘
Ah, oui. Une fille charmante
. She told me that there were twelve persons on the European support staff. This is not so. There are eleven.’ He rocked back on his heels, making Smith feel giddy as he tried to keep focus on the man’s face. ‘I smelled
une souris
, and so I leaped into action. One name on the list does not add up… Thomas Perdu, a general assistant to the deputation. The real Thomas Perdu died six 
months ago. The one here is false. As you English would say, he is
un person rhum
.’

‘Have you seen this fellow?’ Smith asked.

‘No. We did not know of him until we arrived here. We suspect he may have stowed away on 
one of the other vessels – a difficult task, but not, as one might say
en Francais
,
impossible
.’

‘What?’ Wainscott exclaimed. ‘Dammit, man, speak English!’

‘Impossible, Major Wainscott.’

‘Try, dammit!’

‘Thomas Perdu is a false name. I can only conclude that this man is here under false pretences.’

Smith said, ‘Well then. It sounds like we should get looking for Tom Perdu.’

‘We will, yes,’ said W. ‘But
you’re
going out tomorrow morning to get rid of that mirror, Smith.

You'll put it face down in a big box and anchor it to an asteroid, preferably one that isn't going anywhere.

Then we can collect it later, once the treaty is agreed. And if there's any trouble - well then, there won't be any risk of the enemy getting close to it. Any questions?’

Smith shook his head. ‘I'll let my crew know.’

‘Then we're agreed,’ W said. ‘Wainscott, Susan, we need to discuss how to locate this Tom Perdu 
fellow. Everyone else, I'd advise getting some sleep. And perhaps a couple of aspirin.’

Le Fantome bowed. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I like this plan. It is, as we say
en Francais
,
super-cool
.’

‘Hello and good morning. This is R Trevor Humphreys, reporting live for the
Today
programme from the treaty
negotiations between the British Space Empire and other nations both human and alien; first among them, the Vorl. For
reasons of security I can’t give our location, but I am able to speak to some of the representatives here to gauge their opinions
on the task ahead. As might be expected, there is a strong M’Lak presence here and I’m joined by two of their elders now.

‘First, Vorgak Spleen-Ripper, Minister of War for the Greater M’Lak Heartlands. Vorgak, what are you
looking for from this peace agreement?’

‘War!’

‘Also here today is Athnarar of the line of Gathrog, minister for Fisheries and Agriculture.’

‘…And war.’

‘My apologies. Minister for Fisheries, Agriculture and War, what do you see the main points of disagreement to be
today?’

‘I thank you, Trevor. Today, we are on the cusp of an agreement that has the potential to change not just this
conflict but the face of galactic relations. Truly, the future is an undiscovered country, and the signing of this treaty will bring
that country one step closer to being like Belgium. It will be a future that the people of Earth richly deserve.’

‘So there you have it. High hopes on al sides. Now, I believe the delegates are entering the debating chamber…’

*

W followed the government delegation into the conference room and stepped into the rumble of 
fifty-six languages as if into a cloud of noise.

The room was easily the size of an aircraft hangar, chosen both to accommodate and intimidate 
the guests. Massive aspidistras flanked the doors. Brass lions, their heads tilted back to roar at the ceiling, stood at the corners; ornamental flames belched occasionally from their mouths. As W sat down, he saw 
his opposite number from the United Free States poke a cigarette into a lion's nostril, blow across the tip 
and take a drag. For a long moment the two men exchanged a look of weary cynicism, and then the 
opposite number turned to find his seat.

Governor Barton sat beside W, looking awkward in a new suit as though about to go on trial.

One of Barton's cleaning automata puttered across the ceiling, a scanner bolted to its underside. It 
bumped into the Khlangari translation machine and swung away in a brief flurry of sparks.

The huge doors on the right side of the room parted and the M’Lak delegation entered in two 
rows, the great tank of the gilled helmsman sliding between them. ‘Oh, ancestors!’ Sedderik moaned as he rubbed his large head, ‘what did I absorb through my gills last night?’

His comrades did not have a chance to answer. Two announcement-drones swung down from 
the ceiling and blasted out a little fanfare. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and things,’ they proclaimed, ‘let the deliberations begin!’

The Empire’s Minister of Colonial Affairs was first. He made a short opening speech, explaining 
that it was time for the peoples of the galaxy to set their differences aside and do what they were damned well told for once. Certainly, some of the delegates were different shapes and sizes – some had long 
traditions of helping the Space Empire, while others had shorter traditions of being shelled from orbit – 
but it was time for all hands to be on deck and to man the pumps, take the bull by the horns and pull 
together for the team. Eventually, this was translated.

The translation machine, looking much like a funnel attached to a set of rotor blades, stabilised 
itself above the Khlangari delegation and thrummed softly. Ambassador Tai'ni stood up and began to 
hoot. ‘Tai'ni Khlangari says that as a semi-neutral party, we are delighted to pupate,’ the machine 
announced. It had a wise, friendly voice. ‘We look forward to discussions being conducted with openness, warmth and puberty.’

The aliens exchanged puzzled glances. Beside Tai’ni, a Khlangari major stood up, pulled the 
translator down and gave it a sharp tap, hooting under his breath. ‘Oh sod it,’ said the translator, ‘the bloody thing's stuck again. We are delighted to participate,’ it added, rising into the air, ‘with openness, warmth and probity.’ A ripple of approval ran through the various specii in the room. Heads were 
nodded, vibrant colours displayed and stamen wobbled.

At the far side of the room, something like smoke hung around an empty table. The vapour 
condensed as if being sucked into itself, drawing into the rough outline of two upper bodies. As one of the aliens rose to speak, W recognised his high forehead and the upturned spike of his nose.

‘People of the galaxy,’ the Vorl announced in a rather nasal, languid voice, ‘I am C'Neth, Master 
of the Eight Vectors, Star-lord of Polaris, speaker for the Arch-Patrons of the Vorl. And this is my friend Sann’di. We are here to tell you that Earth must be destroyed!’ he cried. ‘Just kidding. I thought that might break the ice a bit. I think Sann’di’s going to start off.’

C’Neth sank down as if to disappear through the floor but stopped around three feet above it.

The Vorl beside him wafted upwards.

‘Thanks to our good friend Rhianna Mitchell.. ’

‘Lovely girl,’ C’Neth added. ‘I’m so proud of her.’

‘. . We have been instructed in what goes on at dos like this. So, who’s reading the first poem, and 
which one of you fine gentlemen is rolling up?’

‘Sirs!’ the Chinese ambassador interjected. ‘This is an important treaty. Please have some 
decorum.’

‘Pardon my language,’ Sann’di replied. ‘One forgets one’s no longer on Polaris. I shall mind my 
cant. Now then, we’ve had a vada at your treaty, and while it’s generally bona I couldn’t understand some of the words.’

‘It’s mutual,’ W muttered.

Sann’di picked up his papers with one insubstantial hand, using static to rifle through the pages.

‘Ah yes. If you could just turn to Sub-section 5, Paragraphs 7-16. I wondered if you could clarify the meaning of “rum business”, “Johnny Moonman” and, turning to the section entitled
Practises Outlawed by
Common Assent
, “bopping the natives”.’

*

462 sat back in his chair and activated the viewscreen. The
Systematic Destruction
had powerful scanners and could pick up Edenite propaganda broadcasts; 462 studied them to make sure his beloved 
allies weren't getting above themselves.

A new Supreme Leader had been elected by the Edenites. He called himself Mike Simple, and 
was entirely trustworthy because he was, by his own proud admission, too stupid to deceive the 
electorate. Spontaneous celebrations had already been organised. 462 flicked through the channels and 
saw a tank surrounded by a mob of whooping cultists. Half a dozen hanged bodies dangled from its main 
gun. He squinted at the strange human faces, with their noses, hair and lack of antennae, and realised that it wasn't important whether the Edenites were furious or overjoyed: they were in a hysterical frenzy, and that was all that mattered. Mike Simple probably was just an actor reading out his lines – or, rather, forgetting them for added authenticity.

462 spent a moment coaxing the sneer out of his mouth and dialled up Lord Prong. As the 
bioscreen changed view, 462 reached out and took a refreshing sip of freshly-pulped minion. For a 
moment Prong appeared on screen without sound, clearly unaware that he was being watched: he looked 
confused, mean and rheumy-eyed. Strange, 462 thought, how the most pious Edenites resembled angry 
tramps. The entire human race made his antennae curl in disgust, but New Eden invoked a special level 
of contempt. If I stay much longer among these weaklings, he thought, I will pick up their body odour.

Prong seemed to be trying to speak directly into the camera lens, revealing teeth like a castle wall 
that had been hit by a cannonball. Behind him, Leniatus the bodyguard banged two wires together. ‘Is 
there a mouse?’ Leniatus asked happily. ‘I want a mouse.’

And I am missing a lemming, 462 reflected. Ambassador Quetic was gone, lost not just in the 
workings of the
Pale Horse
, but, 462 now realised, in the nightmarish place from which it drew its energy.

A hideous fate, perhaps, but one that left 462 conveniently in charge. Which was fortunate, judging by the trouble Prong was having in activating the radio.

‘Eh?’ Prong barked. ‘You do what? Talk into this?
Can anyone hear me?
’ he screamed into the 
microphone. 462 snarled and yanked his helmet off, nearly deafened by the reverberation. The helmet 
quivered in his hands.

‘I hear you,’ 462 replied, grimacing. The old fool clearly had no idea how the volume controller 
worked.

‘Say what?’

462 silently mouthed a sentence and watched as Prong turned up the volume dial. 462 flicked the 
button on the in-seat propagandatron. Glorious Number One bellowed out from a nearby speaker, 
announcing the stockpiling of new trenchcoats and sounding like a cross between a sparking electrical 
cable and an angry Pekenese: ‘
Blak anarak-stak shak
–’ Prong jolted as if he had pressed either the cable or the dog to his nose. He grappled with the controls, muttering about filthy modern music, and managed to bring the volume down to manageable levels. 462 concealed his amusement by pretending to have found 
some new insignia inside his helmet.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Prong said.

‘Information. I require an update as to your search of the sector.’

‘Nothing as yet. You'll know when we find anything.’ He reached for the off switch.

‘Attention, Prong!’

The hierarch paused. ‘What now?’

462 narrowed his eye. ‘Do not fail me, Prong. I would be most disappointed to think that you 
were not giving this mission your most strenuous attention.’

‘What in Tribulation makes you think that I'm not?’

‘You have a cup of cocoa at your side and are wearing a tartan rug across your knees. My 
knowledge of puny human biology informs me that you are about to have –’ 462's voice dripped with 
distaste – ‘a little nap. I was not aware that your duties as Grand Mandrill included snoozing.’

The meaning of this filtered from Prong's ears to his brain, then soaked into his face. ‘I'll thank 
you not to question me. I have divine right. And don't you go thinking I'm slack. Not ten minutes ago I conducted a fierce purge, I’ll have you know.’

‘You are not required to update me on that.’ 462 took a sip of minion. ‘You will quicken your 
search. Wrong me, Prong, and you will have sung your swan song.’ He scowled, reflecting that it was 
much easier to threaten people in languages that did not rhyme. ‘Scour this quadrant. Threaten your men. 
Put your bifocals on.. do whatever you must. But locate that device or I will begin to suspect that you no longer serve the greater glory of the Ghast Empire.’

‘Glory?’ Prong snorted, setting his tufts of nasal hair a-quiver. ‘Hogwash. Think you're something 
special, sonny? You know as well as me that it's nothing to do with glory, same as it's nothing to do with piety.’