A Game of Battleships (6 page)

The other old man said, ‘Eh,’ and shrugged. Clearly he was searching his memory for the answer.

After a little while, Smith realised that the man had not understood him.

‘No,’ Smith replied, raising his voice and speaking more slowly as if addressing a relative both 
senile and half-deaf, ‘I… am… British. I… am…
looking
’ – he mimed a sailor surveying the horizon – ‘the Rue Charles de Gaulle.’ Unsure of how to mime this, he pointed to his moustache. ‘Erm.. do you speak 
Latin?
Omnes Gal ia divisa est in partes tres
, perhaps?’

‘
Bof
,’ said the other old man.

Suruk leaned in to Smith’s side. ‘Mazuran, I fear that these ancients require special treatment.’ He 
smiled horribly and cracked his knuckles.

‘I’m not sure that’s really –’ Smith began, but by then Suruk’s shadow had fallen across the table.

The alien cleared his throat sacs with a sound like a car backfiring. The old men looked up.

‘
Felicitations, humains
,’ the alien declared. ‘
Ou est la Rue Charles de Gaul e, s’il vous plait? Je voudrai
attender un concert du jazz moderne.
’

‘
Le jazz moderne?
’ the nearer of the two replied.

‘
Oui
,” Suruk replied. “
Especialment le Serge Gainsbourg
.’

‘
Mais oui!
’ The man leaped up, threw his arms open, looked at Suruk, thought better of it, and pointed down the road instead. Suruk nodded, listening.

Smith turned to Carveth. ‘What’s he doing? Is he getting directions?’

Suruk returned, still smiling. ‘Good Lord,’ Smith said as he approached, ‘how the devil did you 
manage that?’

‘It was most simple,’ the alien replied. ‘All I had to do to make them co-operate was address 
them in their own strange parlance. Now, follow me, old bean. Chop-chop.’

‘Shall do!’ Smith cried.

Adenauerplatz stood at the very edge of the German quarter, behind the Rue Charles de Gaulle, 
near to the Place Charles de Gaulle and the Avenue Napoleon et Charles de Gaulle. They turned the 
corner, and looked into a square as neat as a snooker table, lined with glass-fronted houses. On the far side stood a bright white cube three stories high.

Smith turned to his men. ‘Look,’ he announced, ‘I’m going to try to communicate with these 
fellows. Why don’t you go and have a look round while I get this done?’

‘I think I shall assess the local shops for, ah, implements,’ Suruk said. ‘I will come and find you 
later. You should not be too hard to find.’

‘Good plan. What about you ladies? I’m sure this meeting won’t involve anything you’d find 
interesting.’

‘Except the spaceship of which I’m the pilot?’ Carveth shrugged. ‘Nah, you can deal with this. 
I’m off for a drink and a pasty.’

Rhianna wore her
considering things
expression. ‘On the one hand,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I do believe that any consultation on this should be decided with the participation of everyone concerned. On the other hand, I need to find a Dutch café and get some supplies.’

Smith decided not to inquire further. He approached the bright white cube.

Inside was a large desk, behind which a young man with a headset was typing at the smallest 
keyboard he had ever seen. As Smith approached the desk, the man stopped typing and said, ‘Captain 
Smith? Good morning. Commissioner Jurgens will see you now. Please do head through the door there,’ 
he added, pointing to a blank wall.

A section of the wall swung inward with a gentle hiss of air. Behind the door stood a short, 
middle-aged man in a roll-neck sweater and blue blazer. ‘Good morning!’ he exclaimed, stepping back.

‘Do come in, please. I am Frank Jurgens, Deputy Commissioner. I have been expecting you, as they say.’

‘Thank you,’ said Smith. Jurgens’ office looked rather like a normal room, if somewhat whiter 
and more angular. The furniture seemed to have been built to solve a geometry problem, but that aside, it was actually quite normal, Smith thought as he looked around. You could almost think it was Brit – wait a moment!

He stopped before a framed poster. On a red background, four stern men in identical outfits 
stood in a row, glaring towards the horizon. Uniforms, horizon-staring, ferocious youths of indeterminate sexual preference? This could only mean one thing – the sinister world of foreign politics! Jurgens had seemed such a nice chap, too. But then, Europe was part of
abroad
. You never knew…

“Ah, Kraftwerk,” Jurgens said, noticing Smith’s interest. ‘Some very great musicians have come 
from Germany, you know.’

‘Music?’ it occurred to Smith that these strange people might be a popular beat combo. ‘From 
Germany? But… where’s the tuba?’

‘Kraftwerk were way before their time,’ Jurgens explained, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘They had 
neither a tuba nor leather shorts.’

‘Nudists, eh?’ Smith wondered if he was being taken entirely seriously. ‘I’m more a Pink Zeppelin 
man,’ he said. Jurgens gave him a rather curious look and sat down.

‘So then,’ Jurgens began, crossing his legs, ‘I understand your vessel was attacked by persons 
unknown on the edge of European space.’

‘That’s right. We were guarding an automated convoy. The enemy appeared out of nowhere, 
literally. There was a flash of light and then suddenly they were gone, just like that.’

Jurgens frowned. ‘It sounds as if the technology used was highly advanced. I took the liberty of 
looking at your spacecraft from the docking bay cameras. From the looks of it, your attacker must have used some sort of rust-generating beam on your hull. Most unfortunate.’

‘Er. . yes,’ Smith replied. ‘A rust laser. That’s it. Any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘Of course.’

Smith accepted his tea warily and peered into the very white cup. It was not too bad, he decided, 
taking a sip. Not bad at all.’

Jurgens nodded. ‘Now, Captain Smith, do you have any idea who might have attacked you?’

‘Well, no. I mean, it could be any number of enemies, you see. Space is full of rum types,’ he 
added, remembering not to mention who the rum types might include. ‘Aliens envy Britain its space 
empire. What with the Ghasts on one side and the bloody lemming-men on the other, it’s not as if we’re short of enemies. And then there are all the lowlifes who work for Gertie – Aresians, filthy Ghastists, that sort of riff-raff.’

‘And envious foreign powers too, no doubt.’

‘Well, of course – I mean, no, not at all. Except for that loony who runs Russia. Mad King Boris, 
that’s the fellow. Otherwise, I’m sure you chaps are fine.’

‘It is indeed fortunate that King Boris declared war upon himself. The European Federation has 
the same problem, Captain Smith. It is forever defending its borders against those who would wish to 
force their laws and customs upon us.’

‘I’m sure it does. I’d like some more tea, please.’

‘As a representative of an allied nation your vessel will, of course, be repaired,’ Jurgens explained, refilling Smith’s cup. ‘However, I fear your ship may be in dock for some while. Rest assured that some of Europe’s finest technicians will do the work.’

Smith fought down the image of the
John Pym
rebuilt in the style of a gingerbread house. The 
possibility of Suruk’s frogs chewing through the hull would be nothing compared to the prospect of 
Carveth eating the entire ship. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Now… I understand you have a colleague who needs transport, yes?’

Smith’s chair was getting uncomfortable. ‘That’s right. I was told to mention
the Phantom
.’

Jurgens leaned back. ‘I see. Yes, I thought your mission might be a little. . under the radar. Our 
mutual friend, Herr W, has made the arrangements. Transport will be provided.’

‘Thanks. That’s very decent of you.’

‘Not at all. We are, after all, keen to help our neighbours.
Alle Menschen werden Bruder
, as Schiller puts it. Do you know Beethoven’s Ninth?’

‘Really? At what?’

‘Ah… never mind. Now, a ship that can evade normal detection is clearly a serious threat.

However, I have a plan. Viennese Whirl?’ he inquired, holding up a plate.

‘No thanks. Go on.’

‘Docked here at Tannhauser Gate is a European Union military surveillance vessel, the
EU-571
, 
under the command of Raumskapitan Schmidt. Although it would be somewhat counter-procedural, I 
could sequester it.’

‘Righto,’ Smith replied, making a mental note to check what that meant in English.

‘Using our vessel, you would be able to make a head start tracking your quarry while the
John Pym 
is being repaired. Then you would be able to transmit an exact location to your fleet.’

‘Excellent! Well then,’ said Smith, ‘I think this is a jolly good plan. How soon can your people get 
organised?’

Jurgens looked slightly put out. ‘Captain Smith,’ he replied, ‘they already are.’

‘Splendid.’ Smith stood up and held out his hand. ‘It's been a pleasure, Commissioner Jurgens. I 
had no idea that Europe would turn out to be such a reasonable place.’

Jurgens smiled and they shook hands. ‘I must admit, I too am pleasantly surprised. I must 
confess that the British in Europe do have a reputation for – how can I put it? – crass, drunken 
lawlessness. I am delighted to be proven otherwise.’

The door burst open and Carveth ran in, clutching a bottle in one hand and a duty free bag in the 
other. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried, ‘You were right! This place is terrible! The police are after us!’

Jurgens raised an eyebrow. ‘Or not,’ he said.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Smith said. ‘I'm sure everything will be fine – won't it, eh?’ he added, 
glaring at Carveth.

‘No, it won't,’ she replied. ‘They're going to put Rhianna in jail!’

*

A twig crackled under W's boot. He glanced down, saw a snake of rope come hissing through the 
heather and leaped back before it could catch his ankle. The rope snapped closed and whipped away. The ground seemed to explode before him and suddenly he was looking at the upper body of Major 
Wainscott, wearing a beanie hat and holding the most unwholesome-looking weapon he had ever seen.

‘Halt!’ Wainscott said. ‘Can you recommend a florist?’

‘Not on bloody Dartmoor I can’t.’

Wainscott gave him a reproachful look.

W sighed. ‘There are many fine florists on the streets of Kiev.’

‘Morning,’ Wainscott replied. He lowered the weapon. It seemed to be a sort of bow made out of 
pieces of bone. ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he observed.

‘Indeed. You'll be astonished to learn that I'm not on holiday. We have some business to discuss.’

‘Well then!’ Wainscott smiled. He was keeping good care of his teeth, W noticed. ‘You'd better 
come inside. Be quick about it – you're very distinctive like that.’ Gopher-like, he dropped out of sight as though some unseen assailant had just tugged his legs. W grimaced across the moor, and climbed down 
into the hole.

He dropped into a dry chamber hacked out of the earth. The first thing he spotted was the 
neatness of the place: Wainscott might be a lunatic but he was at least tidy. The second thing he noticed were the badgers: three of them watched him suspiciously from the opening into a much smaller tunnel.

‘It's alright, he's a friend,’ Wainscott said, rooting about in the back of the room. ‘They're funny 
little fellows, badgers, but terribly loyal.’ He hauled up two deckchairs and began to fight them into shape.

‘Have a seat.’

‘Thank you.’ W eased himself into a chair very carefully. He crossed his legs as if balancing a 
landmine on his knee.

‘So, what do you think of
Chez
Wainscott? Quite something, isn't it?’

‘It certainly is.’ It was like being trapped inside the skin of a giant baked potato, W decided. It 
smelt of sausages.

Wainscott laid the crossbow down beside his chair. ‘I made this myself. Recycled parts, of course.

I recycle pretty much everything.’ He reached down to a large flask beside his chair. ‘Scrumpy?’

‘I, er, had some earlier.’

‘Your loss, old fellow.’ Wainscott took a huge swig and settled back. He was wearing his combat 
shorts and the visible scars bore testament to a lifetime of living hard on the veldt. ‘So, who are we killing today? Got an armoured division you want knocked off?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Ah, a crack at the lemming man, is it? Teach the horrible buggers some manners, eh? I’ve 
wanted to give them a good pounding for a while, you know. Likewise Susan.’ He took another swig. ‘She can’t stand them either.’

W looked around the room. The rest of the Deepspace Operations Group were nowhere to be 
seen. This was unusual, since Susan, as second in command and beam gun operator, tended to act for 
Wainscott as a cross between an interpreter and psychiatric nurse. Perhaps the others had built their own tunnels and were training their own badgers.

‘They went to Butlins,’ Wainscott said. ‘They wanted to go on the water slides. It only seemed 
fair after they blew up the Fortress of Iron.’

‘Of course. But I’ll need them on board.’

Wainscott leaned forward, setting his deckchair creaking, and rubbed his hands together. ‘So 
then, what is this job? Lemmings, Ghasts, collaborators?’