A Game of Battleships (7 page)

‘It’s a peace conference.’

‘What?’

Carefully, W outlined the situation. He tried to be tactful, to set out the importance of the 
meeting and its potential benefits, but Wainscott looked at first perplexed, then unconvinced, and finally slightly murderous. He scowled into his beard.

‘That’s all very well,’ Wainscott said, ‘but there’s a war on. Do we really want foreigners and 
aliens involved?’

‘Head office thinks so. Apparently the Great Powers need better co-ordination to fight more 
effectively. And then we’ve got the treaty between the Empire and the Vorl to think about. It needs to be formalised as soon as possible.’

‘Hmm. I don’t like it. I mean, aliens are one thing, but
abroad
? Is that really necessary? There are too many people on Earth who can’t tell the difference between gormless militarism and military 
effectiveness. They don’t realise that to beat Gertie you need to become less like him, not more like him.’

‘Well, quite. We won’t tolerate any beastliness –’

‘And another thing about abroad.’ Wainscott leaned forward, his voice sinking. ‘They make stuff 
up. You see that film last year about the Battle of Britain? Set in bloody Utah. You’re always banging on about objective truth – you know what I mean. But perhaps we should drag these fellows in, give ‘em a 
cup of tea and a biscuit and tell them not to give us any trouble, or else they’ll be getting a visit from the Morlock Rifles.’

‘That’s a bit much, Wainscott. Easy there.’

‘Alright, no biscuit.’

W tried not to grimace. ‘Look, Wainscott. Think of it as a holiday. A special sort of holiday where 
you don’t kill anyone or live off carrion. All we need to do is make sure things run smoothly. The visitors need to come to the conference, sign what’s required of them and leave in one piece. Easy. And if there is actually any trouble –’

Wainscott drove his fist into his grimy palm. ‘Not a problem. I know how to root out a 
conspiracy. Remember in London when I interrupted those villains plotting to kidnap children and nuns?’

‘What you interrupted was a full-dress rehearsal of
The Sound of Music
. You knocked out Baron 
von Trapp with a brown paper parcel and left half the cast tied up with string.’

‘So? What was wrong with that?’

‘Well, how long have you got? Suffice it to say that for quite a while you were not one of the 
Service’s favourite things.’

Wainscott settled back. ‘So, you’re asking me to trade in living in a hole with badgers for some 
sort of diplomatic shindig. There’d better be a bar.’

‘There is.’

‘Alright. I’m in.’ The major stood up, kicked his chair deftly, and left it folded against the wall.

‘Lead on.’

*

‘It's terrible,’ Carveth explained, hurrying along beside Smith. He strode quickly through the 
broad, tidy streets and she had to jog to keep up with him. ‘I went to the duty free because Suruk ate all my cosmetics last month.’ She held up a bag marked
Rouge Trader
. ‘And then I thought I'd get a pasty and half a dozen cans of Interstella Artois, so I left the others outside and went in. But they didn't have any pasties, so they gave me this liquorice drink instead – which might have been alcoholic now I try to think of it – and when I managed to get out they were gone. But Rhianna went into a caff and now she’s been 
arrested on drugs offences and my legs feel like they're going to fall off.’

They weaved deeper into the space station: down narrow avenues, under spacesuits on a washing 
line, past a two-cylinder Citroen moon buggy. Carveth pointed to an art deco sign above a door. Smith 
strode straight in. Rhianna was sitting at a table near the door and over her stood a man in a blue 
uniform.

‘What the devil’s this?’ Smith demanded, advancing on the man. ‘Unhand that woman and get 
back to delivering the post.’

‘That is enough, monsieur,’ the man replied. ‘I am an officer of the gendarmerie. In your 
language, a bobby, yes? This woman attempted to purchase illegal drugs from the proprietor of this 
establishment.’

‘Oh,’ Smith replied. “Is this true, Rhianna?’

She looked very upset. ‘I thought Holland was in France,’ she explained. ‘It’s in Europe, right?’

In a second Smith realised the truth. As a citizen of New Francisco, Rhianna had assumed that all 
European countries had an identical attitude towards herbal medication. It was awkward, he thought, but not beyond repair. A bit of diplomacy would straighten things out. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘she’s made a mistake.

I know she’s done something silly, but she is foreign, you know.’

‘Then may I remind you,’ the policeman said, ‘that you are foreign too.’

‘What? I most certainly am not.’

Carveth sighed and sat down at a table.

‘Maybe we can just, you know, talk it over?’ Rhianna said.

The door burst open and Suruk stormed in. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘I leave to buy 
postcards and flick-knives and everything goes wrong.’ He picked up a menu, glared at it as if it contained a personal insult, and added, ‘I warn you and your reprobate chefs… stay away from my frogs!’

A second gendarme appeared in the doorway.
Balls
, Smith thought. He needed to work fast: not 
only was Jurgens’ ship due to leave soon, but he had a good idea what European justice entailed: 
something to do with a quick kick in the Bastille followed by an uncomfortable run-in with Madame 
Guillotine.

It was time to use the Bearing, the ancient Shau Teng discipline. Smith summoned up his moral 
fibre and stared the nearer of the gendarmes in the eye. ‘Now look here, my good fellow…’ he began, 
taking a step forward. ‘This woman is under my protection. You will release her now, sir.’

The gendarme grimaced. ‘You think you will use – the Bearing – on me?’ he gasped. With great 
effort he raised his shoulders and the palms of his hands. Then he laughed. ‘Nice try, English! But I shrug off your demands.’ He opened his hands. ‘Eh? Huh?
Bof
.’

‘Damn!’ The blasted fellow wielded his lack of civility like a shield. To Smith’s right, Suruk quietly lowered the menu. Smith reached to his hip. This was going to be unpleasant but there was no other 
option.

Smith said, ‘Let’s finish this now.’ His right hand made one fast move into his coat, and suddenly 
it was no longer empty. ‘It’s time to leave.’

The gendarme looked down at the wallet in Smith’s hand. ‘You corrupt English! You think we 
can be bought like that?’

‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘yes.’

‘How dare you? I am arresting you too, for attempting to bribe an officer of the law.’

‘But this is abroad, man. Surely you take bribes in France.’

‘Bah! What do you know of France? I bet you have never even heard of Charles de Gaulle.’

‘Of course I have. Little fellow with a big moustache, doesn’t like Caesar?’

‘That is Asterix the Gaul! That is it – in the name of Europe and the Four Hundred and Thirty-
eighth Republic of France, you are all under arrest!’

*

‘So,’ said Carveth, looking around the cell, ‘what happens now?’

‘Well,’ Smith replied, ‘if my knowledge of French history is right, they’ll probably cut off our 
heads.’

‘Not mine,’ Suruk growled. He crouched on the far end of the bench, coldly furious. ‘I read their 
menu. I know what they do to amphibians in the name of cuisine. Should they ransack our ship and 
interfere with my spawn, they will die.’

‘We’re not in much of a position to do anything about that,’ Carveth replied.

‘My spawn are. They will strip them to the bone.’

Rhianna stood at the door, looking through the bars. ‘I can’t believe Amsterdam isn’t in France,’ 
she said. ‘How could I not know that?’

Carveth sighed. ‘You were too stoned to figure it out?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

Smith grimaced. He was finding it hard to think. It didn’t help that there was a radio playing in 
the empty room outside the cell. On it, a woman who sounded as if she was slowly drowning was singing 
about how she didn’t regret Ryan. Smith wondered who Ryan was and whether he was the one drowning 
her and, if so, whether he could get on with it.

‘Right, men,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘I have a plan. We have been left with no other choice 
than to escape. I’ll ambush the guard and if he refuses to release us, we’ll add Tannhauser Gate to the British Empire.’

‘How?’ Carveth demanded.

‘We will work out the details as we go. Step One, however, is to overpower the guard.’ Smith 
moved over to the bars. ‘I say, guard! What about
la liberte
and all that?’

The room outside remained empty. The radio gargled on.

Smith tried to think of some French words that didn’t involve the pen of his aunt. ‘I’m British, 
damn it! Let me out!’

A figure stepped into the corridor outside, and Smith paused. The fellow wore tight black 
clothes, almost like a wetsuit, a striped shirt and a small white mask. As Smith looked on, astonished, the newcomer turned to check the corridor behind him and crept towards their cell with high, exaggerated 
steps.

‘There’s someone there,’ Smith whispered to his crew. ‘Strange chap.. ’

The man in black stopped just outside the door. He raised a finger to his lips, squatted down and 
began to pick the lock. Suruk got up, flexing his fingers.

The lock clicked and the cell door swung open. The man in black stood up and gave them a 
deep, elaborate bow.

‘Hello,’ said Smith. ‘Thanks.’

The man leaned back and scrutinised him, stroking his chin as he did. Then he seemed to relax.

‘Monsieur, Mesdemoiselles,
monstre hideux et bizarre
, I bid you good evening. I am Le Fantome.’

‘Oh,’ said Smith. ‘What are you, some kind of spy?’

‘
Mais non!
’ Le Fantome laughed behind his mask. ‘I have come here to rescue you. We have a 
shared enemy. It is vital you board the ship at once. Come,’ he added. ‘It is time to escape this –’ he gestured around himself with his gloved hands as if patting invisible walls, ‘prison.’

‘Amazing,’ Rhianna said. ‘A real tribal dance.’ Her interest in other cultures did not seem to be 
diminished by the fact that one of them had locked her up.

‘We must be quick,’ Le Fantome replied. ‘I used ancient French arts to reach you in silence. Now 
we must depart.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Smith, ‘You’re a mime!’

Le Fantome nodded several times. ‘But not just any mime. I am a mastermime.’

‘Go to space, meet a loony,’ Carveth said. ‘There’s a surprise. On the other hand, the door is 
open.’

Le Fantome led them into the corridor. They crept past the gurgling stereo and down the 
hallway. Smith glanced to the left and saw a spectacled detective in an office, busy filling his pipe.

‘You are lucky it was I who found you,’ Le Fantome whispered. ‘There are plenty here who 
remember the part your secret service played in deposing the Prince of France.’ He shook his head.

‘Exiled to a tiny planet, with nothing but a flower for company. . come. As we say in France, we must be
rapide
.’

They passed through a narrow door, back into the dark of the space station. It was the station 
night-cycle now, and light spilled from bars and bierkellers onto the artificial boulevard. Far off, two alley cats, an accordion and an oompah band competed for ownership of the night.

The simulated evening was warm and dry and the smoke from Galloises and Bratwurst stalls was 
whisked away before it could upset the sprinkler system. They walked through the residential quarter, 
trying to look as normal as they could. ‘Do not worry,’ Le Fantome said. ‘Once people see you have a 
mime with you, they will know everything is under control. It is, to use a French word,
inevitable
.’

The streets were deeply alien to Smith. Where were the red telephone boxes, the chip shops, the 
people being ill outside pubs? They passed a gang of very neat punks who bade them
Guten abend
before getting back to painting a graffiti-spattered wall bright white.

‘You see those doors down there?’ Le Fantome said, pointing. ‘The airlock you seek is at the end 
of that passage, just past the cabaret hall.’ He turned to Rhianna. ‘Raumskapitan Schmidt is a good man.

You can trust him to convey you to our mutual friends.’

Smith looked down the street. ‘Thank you for your help, sir. But now, we have a ship to catch.’

‘As we say in France, it has been
un plaisir
,’ Le Fantome replied. ‘But next time we meet, I may ask a favour of you.’

‘I’ll assist you, within reason,’ Smith said. ‘Nothing dodgy, though.’

‘Monsieur,’ Le Fantome replied, clearly hurt, ‘There is nothing “dodgy” about the French secret 
service. Wherever there are questionable elections, dangerous peace protesters, allegations of bribery – 
rest assured, we shall be there.
Alors
, I see you have no heavy luggage to carry, but I could always help you pretend. Goodbye, ladies. .’ He bowed. ‘I hope we shall all meet again soon.’

‘Well,’ Suruk remarked as Le Fantome crept away, ‘abroad has certainly changed since last I 
visited. Everything is flatter than I recall and there are fewer goats. The people seem more welcoming, too.’