A Game of Battleships (26 page)

‘What?’

‘Ah, come on. I'm not stupid. You happen to be addressing one of the greatest scholars of the 
sacred Book of Eden –’

‘Silence. The fact that you have memorised some inconsequential pamphlet –’

‘Pamphlet? That's holy writ you're talking about! I should know, it was me who writ it!’ Prong 
coughed into his palm, wiped it somewhere out of view and grinned. ‘You're kidding yourself with this 
“for the Ghast Empire” stuff. You’re in it for the killing, just like me. It's not the praying, it's the hating that counts. Why else would we change the Book of Eden every three weeks if not to catch people out?’

He chuckled and the sound was like liquid trickling down a leaky pipe. ‘What could be more satisfying 
than to make people miserable? To see all those little smiling faces start to cry? To see humanity, in all its greatness, and grind it – crush it – make them crawl through their bellies in the dirt? When they bow to the Annihilator, they bow to me! Dance, puppets! Hee-hee! It's the hate that matters… spreading it, 
shouting it, seeing 'em burn because of it –’

462 flicked the switch. Either Prong or the failed minion had left him with a bad taste in the 
mouth. What rubbish, to equate his struggle for the Ghast Empire with the self-righteous savagery of the hierarchs of Eden. If Prong could, 462 thought, he would make being born into a sin punishable by slow death. It was nothing like the inevitable conflict between insect and mammal that would decide the 
ultimate fate of the galaxy. He felt the need to cheer himself up: a couple of hours of Number One 
ranting about tank production ought to do the job.

462 paused, his pincer next to his presentation set of collected speeches, arranged from Angry 
contempt to Zealous fury. To his surprise, he found he actually wanted peace and quiet. He glanced 
around the room. Assault Unit 1 lay in its basket. The praetorians were watching a propaganda film in  
their barracks, which ought to keep them quiet for the next hour. Right now, they would be snarling 
along to
If you’re loyal and you know it, salute the screen
.

Assuring himself that it would only serve to enhance his efficiency, 462 pulled his black duvet out 
of the storm-assault locker and tucked himself in under the image of the antennaed skull.

*

Fifteen thousand miles away from Wellington Prime, Carveth gave Smith his first lesson in flying 
the
John Pym
.

Ten minutes later, while eating his mid-morning digestives, Smith decided that he was getting the 
hang of this. The main controls were pretty easy to master: it appeared that the banks of flickering 
diodes above his head were the equivalent of lights on a Christmas tree; useful in establishing a mood, but otherwise without much purpose. Even Gerald, who was a pretty good arbiter of threat, was scurrying 
happily in his wheel.

Chaperoned by
HMS Chimera
, the
Pym
passed one of the system’s outlying planets, a dead moon circled by a halo of asteroid debris.

‘How am I doing?’ he asked.

Carveth sipped her tea. ‘Well, don't go calling yourself elite until you've actually landed on 
something. You'll find it's a lot more difficult when you've got Suruk leaning over your shoulder shouting 
“Ram them!” every time you pass a service station. Still, you're doing alright. Oh, and don't get crumbs over the controls.’

‘Righto,’ said Smith. ‘
A minute to learn, a lifetime to master
, as Othello once said.’

‘You've got to keep checking the instruments,’ Carveth explained, ‘as well as the screen and the 
manual. The instrument panel is vital: the moment you don't think you don't need it is the moment you 
really do. Like deodorant.’

Up ahead, the grey bulk of the
Chimera
began to slow down. It had been their escort this far: now that they were away from the space station, the
Pym
would make the rest of the journey inconspicuous and alone.

The intercom crackled. ‘Good morrow and God rest ye,’ Chumble boomed. ‘We seem to 
be moving away from one another, like an urchin parted by fate from his mysterious benefactor. Sadly, 
now is our moment of departure.’

‘Got a hangover, by any chance?’ Captain Fitzroy put in. Her voice threatened to break the
John 
Pym
’s speakers. Smith flinched from the intercom.

‘Fine thanks,’ he replied, turning the
Pym
into its set course. ‘Just coming round.’

‘Out like a light, were you?’ Captain Fitzroy replied. ‘I thought as much. Damn, Smitty, you ought 
to see how we used to drink back in the old days. Me and the girls fixed up a still in the dorm radiator.

We used to go bonkers the night before and still be on the field for lax practice before breakfast the next morning.’

Carveth leaned down beside Smith's ear. ‘I think she's speaking English,’ she whispered.

‘I know it's hard to keep up with the best ship in the fleet, and the best crew,’ Captain Fitzroy 
continued, ‘but do try. Come on, Saggy. Mummy loves you. Up on my lap.’

‘I think she's talking to her cat now,’ Carveth said. ‘At least, I hope so.’

‘See you back at the ranch, Smitty. And Carveth.. put him through his paces. Show the boy no 
mercy.’ Chuckling, she signed off.

The cockpit door opened and Smith twisted around in his seat, nudging the control stick. He 
quickly rectified it before the
John Pym
could execute a barrel roll.

‘Greetings!’ said Suruk, striding in. ‘Behold the spawn of House Agshad!’ He thrust an enormous 
snarling toad at Carveth, who yelped and scrambled out of her chair. ‘Also, we are running low on 
biscuits.’

The
Chimera
drew away from them, beginning the patrol arc that would bring it back to base. It slowly disappeared from the windscreen, as though they were leaving a metal island.

Suruk kicked one of the emergency seats down and squatted on it like a gargoyle. ‘The spawn 
grow strong,’ he declared. The toad surveyed the room as if deciding whether to devour the cockpit 
or use it as a latrine. ‘Soon, they will be throwing size.’

Carveth slipped a spanner out of her pocket, just in case. ‘Throwing size?’

‘Of course. Have you never heard of toadball? Or the honoured custom of hurling one's spawn 
at the enemy? It helps the young to get ahead.’

‘Braaak,’ said the spawn, eyeing Gerald’s cage.

‘Just keep him away from me and my hamster,’ Carveth replied. ‘Here's an idea. . why don't we 
open the portal to Hell and throw all of your horrible frog-children through it? That’d be a nice day out for the kids.’

‘I shall give it thought.’ Suruk gazed out of the window. ‘Ah, it is good to be back in space again, 
sailing the galaxy. To feel the absence of fresh breeze once more, to gaze upon the deficiency of 
magnificent views, to take in the lack of atmosphere. Useful as the treaty must be, it is bold deeds, not flowery words, that stir the soul. I tire of extraneous circumlocution.’

‘Deeds, eh?’ said Smith. ‘Well then, why don’t you make the tea?’

‘It is Piglet’s turn.’

‘No it’s not,’ Carveth replied. ‘Firstly, I’m teaching the captain how to fly the ship and so I’m 
needed in the captain’s chair. Secondly, I’m in the captain’s chair so I get to say so. Thirdly, I put the kettle on.’

‘Nonsense,’ Suruk replied. ‘It is surely –’

‘Flapping your mandibles isn’t going to make the tea.’

‘Crew, stop arguing!’ said Smith. ‘Suruk, it’s your turn to make the tea. Unless you want to steer 
us through this asteroid belt.’

Suruk growled, stood up and left the cockpit with his spawn. Smith heard him stride down the 
corridor. A door opened, and Rhianna’s voice said ‘Hey, Suruk, how’s things? What’ve you got there –’ 
before she shrieked and slammed the door.

Smith sighed. He had known since primary school that girls didn’t like frogs. Although, recalling 
the leathery thing squatting in Suruk’s hands, like a cross between a small demon and a very old Cornish pasty, he wasn’t so fond himself.

He flicked a button that, to his relief, started the radio.

‘. .
Oh aye, ‘tis a dangerous business an’ no mistake. Remember, if you don’t weed it out, it’l get hungry and come
after you, and it’l bring its friends too. You’ve got to creep up arn the bugger and shoot its stinger arf before it can attack. If
that thing hits exposed skin, you’re as good as dead. Then pul yer machete and go to work.’

‘Thanks, Jed. That’s all from
Gardener’s Question Time
for this week. Next time, we’l be coming from
Venus itself but, until then…’

Smith glanced back down the corridor. He heard metallic noises: hopefully, it was Suruk stirring 
the tea.

‘…And now: the shipping forecast. Andromeda, Epsilon Eridani: supernova, four rising five – moderate,
becoming very rough. Scorpio, Betelguese: comet, class 7 easing 5 receding by 19.00. Taurus: meteor showers light –
’

‘One day, I’m going to pull Suruk’s leg too much and he’s going to pull my head off.’ Carveth 
leaned back in the captain's chair.

‘I doubt it.’ Smith steered carefully around a passing asteroid. ‘But I’d check your bed for frogs 
before you go to sleep tonight.’

*

In the hold, Suruk yanked open the engine room door and drop-kicked his spawn inside. About two 
dozen beady eyes glared back at him from the gloom. He slammed the door and quickly turned the key in 
the lock. Although the number of spawn had reduced, they were much bigger on account of having 
devoured one another. Suruk was not sure that it would make them any easier to handle; it was as though many piranhas had condensed to form several sharks.

As Suruk was about to leave the hold, his boot snagged the loose end of one of the canvas straps 
used to hold the mirror down. He stood there for a moment. It occurred to him that he ought to tuck it away before someone tripped over it. He approached the mirror silently: half so as not to alert the others; half to catch it unawares.

Surely it would not hurt to have a look. He didn’t doubt Carveth’s story, at least not the basic 
facts. Why shouldn’t the mirror lead into another dimension? Things like that happened every day. The 
humans did not understand it, but the line between the normal – the flying-through-space-and-fighting-
other-species normal – and the mystic was extremely thin. The mundane and the epic could co-exist.

After all, Carveth was mundane. Suruk, on the other hand, was epic. He smiled behind his mandibles.

Just a little peek. He would lift the top and glance underneath, the way the little woman did with 
boxes of chocolate. Maybe he would sample a little of the netherworld – just a tiny bit – and then push everything around so nobody knew what had happened. He loosened the other straps and then, very 
carefully, eased the mirror up a few inches – then a few more. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing.

The mirror lurched under him. Suruk glanced down and a huge clawed hand shot out of the 
aperture. Fingers the length of human arms flexed like the legs of a monstrous crab. Something snarled beneath the floor. Suruk twisted to the left as he drew his knife and he saw a head pressed against the gap between mirror and floor, as if rising from a trapdoor: a buck-toothed mixture of dragon, insect and 
turkey on the end of a neck as thick as an anaconda. Suruk heard beating wings, felt and smelled rank 
breath blasting against his side as it groped for him.

He slashed the hand across the palm and, with a screech, the massive arm whipped away. The 
mirror slammed against the floor and, for a second, Suruk feared that it would shatter and that this new source of entertainment would end.

‘Hey, Suruk. You okay down there?’

He sprang upright and found himself looking at Rhianna. She was wearing a loose top and a long 
flowing skirt and looked as if she had popped her head out of the top of a collapsing tent. ‘Greetings! I am fine. How are you?’ Suruk said innocently. ‘I had just dropped an item on the floor and was looking for it. It was a skull. A very small skull,’ he added, impressed by his own improvisation.

‘Cool,’ Rhianna said. She frowned. ‘Suruk, you know about spiritual matters, right? Mystic tribal 
stuff?’

‘Killing things, you mean? I dabble.’

‘When I look at this mirror, I can't help get a weird feeling. Do you think it's what Polly says it 
is?’

‘Almost certainly.’

She looked down, dreadlocks flopping forward like the limbs of a dead spider plant. ‘It must be 
dangerous. Maybe we should get it off the ship now.’

‘Because it is dangerous?’ Suruk frowned. ‘If that is true, we both should leave as well.’

‘How do you mean? I'm not dangerous. I abhor violence in all its –’

‘We are dangerous in different ways. I am a warrior who has devoted his life to honing his skills, 
rising from a brutish hatchling to a seasoned master of the arts of battle. You are more like a cow that has swallowed a bomb.’

‘Hey!’ Rhianna stepped back, drawing up like an offended cobra. ‘That's not me.’

‘Indeed it is. If you are not careful, your abilities will cause you to explode. You must master the 
power within you and release it slowly in.. ah.. puffs. A true ruminant, of course, has two stomachs. You do not even have that advantage.’