Sister Ships and Alastair - Chapter 6

6. Stinky Will Hear Of This

Beneath them now, sounds of BLEARGH and shouts of terror echoed through the concrete. The garage door was closed, sealing the sheep in with the base staff. Muffled rattles of small arms fire could be heard.
"What are the ways into the base from here?" said Cleo.
"There's a foot tunnel", said Pete. "Separate from the truckway, for safety. Carbon monoxide", he explained.
"Which way?" said Cleo.
Pete indicated the other end of the hallway with his eyes.
"If two of us go into the base, can you make the sheep safe after one thousand seconds?" said Cleo. "Two of us will stay here to make sure you do."
Pete's eyes promised vengeance for the blood streaming from his head. Finally, though, he nodded, looking disgustedly at Wise, who was now lying on his back contentedly catching invisible butterflies.
Wise noticed Pete looking horrible slow and painful death at him and smaned. "Hur! Hur! You got knocked out by a girl!" His tongue moved into the corner of his mouth as he reached up for a particularly brilliant butterfly only he could see. Pete squirmed suddenly and kicked him hard under the jaw. He laughed so hard blood flew from his mouth. "Henh! I fing I bit cleang froo my tong!"
"See if you can find them some aspirin", said Cleo to Ant.
"I'm staying here?"
"You and Lieutenant Turpin are both staying here. Lieutenant Farthing and I are going into the base."
***
"For this trick", said Cleo, "we will need some spare uniforms and a couple of pieces of printed white paper marked URGENT." In one of the rooms leading off the hall, she had found a computer that did things she was more familiar with. Currently it was doing Microsoft Word. She had typed out URGENT!!! at the top of her document, and followed that with To: All Staff From: Officer Commanding. She then followed that with Subject: ROBOTIC SHEEP INCURSION, and underneath this began her memorandum. It has come to my attention that the base is under attack by robotic sheep, typed Cleo, and added: This will not do! Blah blah blah blah blah harrumph blah. Finally, her work done, she clicked Print and crossed the room to retrieve two copies.
"What did you do that for?" said Lieutenant Farthing.
"Someone you don't recognize, in a military base, is an intruder", said Cleo. "Someone you don't recognize, in a military base, carrying a piece of paper, is someone clearly doing something very important who shouldn't be disturbed." She searched round the little office. "Ideally, we should have clipboards. Can you see any clipboards?"
"Shouldn't we have guns?" said Lieutenant Farthing.
"Goodness gracious no. The only other people who'll have guns in there will be sentries, and here's the thing, the sentries will know whether we're sentries or not."
"How did you know all this?" said Farthing.
"Hollywood movies", said Cleo, rifling through drawers. "I watch Hollywood movies, absorb their idea of how to break into a military base, and make sure I do the exact opposite."
"How do Hollywood movies say you should do it?"
"I'd have to paint myself black and green and carry a gun bigger than I am", said Cleo. "Hang gliders, SCUBA gear and snowboards would probably also be involved, often simultaneously. There would be explosions, ones that hurled people through the air without either killing them or fracturing their eardrums. I would probably have to leap the fence on a motorbike or a wild dolphin to escape - eureka!" She pulled a couple of clipboards from the bottom of a drawer.
"These uniforms really don't fit us", said Farthing, uncomfortably discovering more fabric in the groin of her trousers than belonged there. "Pins can only do so much. If I'd had time to cut them and take them in properly..."
Cleo was impressed. "You can take in clothing?"
"Oh, yes. I'm a girl, you see", confided Farthing. "I'm not good at it, you understand, but we only get two new changes of clothes a year on Gondolin. Cloth is in short supply. Everything is in short supply. You sew a patch on what you've got, because you know you won't get a replacement for a long, long time."
Cleo stared at Farthing in horror. "But that's monstrous."
"Monstrous or not, it's life the way we live it out on the wild frontier."
Cleo grabbed on Farthing's arm and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Before you go back home, we are going to solve your clothing shortage. We will find you stocks of quality workwear to take back to your dying quality-workwear-starved world."
"All right. I believe you. You're hurting my arm."
"Sorry." Cleo grinned. "Let's go find that foot tunnel."
***
The foot tunnel ran parallel to the truck tunnel. It was poorly, flickeringly lit, damp, and walled with cement. Sounds of titanic man/sheep conflict could be heard through the walls, gunshots and head-on collisions ringing them like concrete gongs.
There did not appear to be anyone else in the foot tunnel. It made sense. All hands were almost certainly needed to deal with the woolly foe in the truckway.
"It's cool down here, at least", said Cleo between breaths.
"It would be even cooler if we weren't jogging. Why are we jogging, Cleo?"
Cleo checked her watch - eight hundred seconds - and managed to say, with difficulty, "because we have to get there right on time." Having spoken, she returned to her busy schedule of gasping for breath.
"I'm not sure it was safe to leave Pete with Richard", said Lieutenant Farthing.
"Why?" said Cleo, snatching conversation between wheezes. "Do you think Pete will overpower him?"
Infuriatingly, Farthing was jogging along while continuing to talk perfectly normally. "No. I think Richard might kill him. I felt like doing it myself. You know that tattoo Pete has? The one shaped like a fish? That's a Greek letter Alpha. A particular sort of British or American trooper wears that tattoo if he took part in the pacification of Alpha Four. When I say 'pacification', you understand, I mean arrest without trial, torture, death camps..."
Four hundred paces - four hundred and one - four hundred and two -
They were only twenty or thirty paces away from the start of the concrete apron surrounding the hangars. Did the base start where the concrete did? While she was wondering, a voice hissed out of the dark:
"Advance and be recognized! What's the password?"
Cleo was ready for this. Pete had prepared her. She looked at her watch. Nine hundred seconds.
"I am not", she said, "saying that password. Manchester United are by no means the greatest football team on this or any other planet. I support the mighty Charlton Athletic and there's an end to it."
There was a chuckle. A red point of light winked on in the dark. Cleo looked down. A corresponding red dot had appeared in the centre of her chest. Someone was pointing a laser aiming device directly at her.
"You're not Pete", said the voice.
Cleo's heart thumped in her chest. "Full marks for being able to tell a seven stone black girl from Pete. The phones are down. We've come to tell you we have an Uncontained Ovine Situation."
Distant murderous bleating sounded in the dark. Sardonically, the man behind the red dot said: "We are already aware of the situation, thanks."
"Sergeant Roberts is attempting a full flock reboot, but they're trying to break into the control room. When we left they were halfway through the wall."
This woke the sentry up. "At the other end of this tunnel? How many?"
"At least eight."
The sentry's voice became suspicious. The red light drifted away from Cleo, passing briefly over her eyes; she had to turn her head away. "Control says there's twelve in the base", said the sentry.
"They must have counted the same sheep more than once. They should be careful they don't fall asleep. Are you going to let us in or not? And stop shining that light in my eyes."
"I don't recognize you." The light jumped from Cleo to Lieutenant Farthing. "Or her."
"This is Lieutenant Dolce, and I am Private Gabbana. We have just arrived. Our car was destroyed by robosheep. We are lucky to be alive."
The red dot bounced up and down Cleo. "You're very short."
"Thank you. You're very ugly."
"Which base have you come from? What are your orders?"
Farthing sucked in air; and when air came out of her again, it came out at frightening and unexpected volume. "STOP BEING A BLOODY FOOL AND TAKE US TO YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER, PRIVATE."
"I'm not a private."
"NOT YET. DO I LOOK LIKE A SHEEP?"
The sentry sounded slightly less cocky now. "...no, ma'am."
"DO I ACT LIKE A SHEEP? DO YOU OBSERVE ME BLEATING OR GRAZING IN ANY WAY? AM I, PERHAPS, FLOCKING AT ALL?"
The sentry was forced to grudgingly admit: "No, ma'am."
"THEN LET ME PAST RIGHT NOW, OR STINKY WILL HEAR OF THIS." She began walking forward towards the light.
"Stinky?"
"YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER. IT'S WHAT WE USED TO CALL HIM AT SCHOOL. OWING TO HIS CONDITION." Farthing was now standing right beside the sentry, hands clasped behind her back, looking up at him whilst simultaneously, by some bizarre magic, managing to look down on him. He was well over six feet tall, but was somehow contriving to cringe so he looked shorter. He was wearing the same black-and-grey urban camouflage as Pete, but in full battledress rather than just combat trousers, incorporating body armour, a helmet, and a binocular headset out of which the laser beam had come. He was evidently taking no chances in a high risk environment.
Confusion had crept into the sentry's suspicion. "Ma'am, my CO has to be at least fifty years old. You can't possibly have gone to school with him."
"I MOISTURIZE. AND STINKY HAS NOT AGED WELL. HIS CONDITION, YOU SEE." Farthing inspected the sentry's gun, which was still technically pointing at her. "IS THIS YOUR WEAPON, SOLDIER?"
"Yes?" said the sentry, evidently hoping this was the right answer.
"IT DOES YOU CREDIT. BUT IT WON'T DO YOU ANY GOOD AGAINST A CHARGING ROBOSHEEP. TAKE MY ADVICE - IF YOU COME FACE TO FACE WITH JOHNNY AUTOMOUTON, GET YOURSELF BEHIND A GOOD HEAVY DOOR AND STAY THERE."
"I really ought to shoot you at this point, ma'am", said the sentry weakly.
"GOOD MAN. JOLLY GOOD SHOW. WON'T HOLD IT AGAINST YOU IF YOU DO", said Farthing, and walked on deliberately down the corridor, raising a fist in the air. "UP THE REDS."
The sentry raised a fist shamefacedly back. "Victory to the Red Army, ma'am."
When they were out of earshot, Cleo whispered: "The Red Army? Is he a communist?"
"No", whispered Lieutenant Farthing, explaining very gently. "He supports Manchester United. Lieutenant Turpin's information is that half the male population of England does so at any one time."
The light dawned on Cleo. "So you pretended to support Manchester United too. I'm very impressed that you managed to do that."
"So am I", said Farthing darkly. "My grandfather came from West Gorton. My family support Man City."
The base was a warren of claustrophobic corridors lit by flickering yellow corroded bulbs set in rusty iron cages to protect them against flying shrapnel. The walls were helpfully colour-coded in paint that had flaked since the 1960's. Cleo and Lieutenant Farthing were currently following a faint crimson line saying TO WEAPONISATION.
"Weaponisation", repeated Cleo. "Is that even a word?"
The base was also full of homicidal bleating and small arms fire. Occasionally, distant ricochets zipped round corners close enough to leave holes in Cleo's clothing. She checked her watch. "Pete's overdue. Do you imagine one of them could have managed to butt through the wall?"
Farthing grimaced. "Lieutenant Turpin can handle himself."
"Do you really believe that?"
Farthing shook her head sadly.
"I presume", Cleo said, "that this is Weaponisation."
Weaponisation was huge. It had to take up most of the inside of the old airship hangar, and a substantial space below ground too. Inside it were four whole starships - not mere bungalow-sized space fighters like the Fantasm, but vessels the size of towerblocks. Three of them were identical, perched like egglaying insects over some sort of combined assembly line and docking and loading mechanism. The mechanism stretched over most of the length of Weaponisation. The ships were not so much laying eggs as taking them on board - M&M-shaped, smooth, flattened black eggs, each the size of a house in its own right. The eggs were being loaded into the bellies of the nesting vessels on mechanical lifts.
The fourth ship - larger, flatter, and with its basic saucer shape swept back into a stubby delta - looked familiar.
"That's a Revere class cruiser", said Cleo. "Just like the Jervis Bay."
Farthing nodded. "By the look of her cooling fins, it's the Black Prince, probably undergoing refit. And those other ones are Bulge class deep space strike ships."
"Bulge?" Cleo could not believe her ears. "They called a ship the Bulge?"
"Each one named after a famous American victory. The first ship in the class was named after the Battle of the Bulge, you see. Each one carries one cobalt weapon. One weapon, one planet, one big BOOM."
The nearest ship was called the Dresden Doll. The next one in line was Hiroshima Hottie. Cleo shuddered.
"Time to confirm our suspicions", said Farthing, walking out into the weaponisation area. "These definitely look like live loads. The suspensions on these loading trucks are pressed right down to the bump stops; only a live warhead would be heavy enough to do that, unless they've poured a fake weapon full of liquid lead or something. One easy way to find out." She pulled a small electronic device from her tunic, and pressed a button on top of it. Immediately, it began clicking like a field of happy crickets.
"What's that?" said Cleo.
"Geiger counter", said Farthing absently. "Radiation detector." Puzzled, she flicked the counter with a finger. If anything, it clicked louder.
"Are you sure it's working?" said Cleo, stepping closer. The sound rose to deafening intensity. Lieutenant Farthing looked up at Cleo in frank concern.
"Whoah there", said Cleo, stepping back. "Are you saying I'm radioactive?"
"Not very", said Farthing. She stepped forward and waved the device experimentally up and down Cleo. The clicking reached its highest intensity when she scanned Cleo's right wrist.
"Radioactivity causes cancer", panicked Cleo, looking at her hand in horror. "I might have cancer. Cancer of the hand. Hand cancer."
"Wristwatch cancer", corrected Farthing, holding up Cleo's arm and slipping off the new wristwatch her parents had given her. With the watch held over it between Farthing's thumb and forefinger, the geiger counter went crazy.
"Best leave this over here for now", said Farthing, leaving the watch on top of a control station.
"I don't understand", said Cleo.
"Maybe it has some radium in the mechanism", said Farthing. "An atomic battery, maybe. They're common on spacecraft."
"Not on wristwatches", said Cleo. "People have to wear wristwatches and continue to live afterwards."
Farthing had forgotten the watch completely now. "There's certainly a substantial amount of ionizing radiation coming from over here...don't worry, not enough to hurt us..." She climbed onto the assembly line to get a better reading from one of the warheads already on the loading lift.
"I thought you might like to know", said Cleo. "The bleating and shooting has stopped. I think Pete's carried out a successful reboot."
"Good. Excellent. That means we won't be under sheep attack." Lieutenant Farthing heaved herself up the first two rungs of a service ladder. Her radiation detector was clicking like a rattlesnake.
"Erm - it also means the guards and sentries will be concentrating more on guarding and sentrying. We should really leave."
"In a minute. I just need readings from the other two ships -"
There was a sound of men shouting and boots clattering on concrete.
"- PUT A TOURNIQUET ON THAT NOW -"
"- FOR GOD'S SAKE, GET HIM SOME PAINKILLERS, I CAN'T STAND HIM SCREAMING -"
"- THINK WE CAN SAVE THIS ONE FOR SPARE PARTS AT LEAST -"
Cleo shrank back into the shadows of the warhead assembly line. A knot of men jogged into the chamber carrying stretchers. Most of the stretchers contained other men, covered in blood. Two of the stretcher bearers were carrying a battle-damaged sheep, covered in its own electronic innards.
"Oh my", whispered Cleo to Farthing. "I sent the sheep in here. I did that."
A second group of soldiers, all armed, followed the first, escorting a group of men dressed as civilians - very uniform civilians wearing black suits and ties. Some of the civilians were carrying briefcases, laptop bags and bowler hats. One of them seemed to be holding an umbrella, bowler hat, briefcase, laptop bag and mobile phone for the civilian in front, who appeared to be in charge.
Cleo recognized the civilian in front.
His upper eyelids hung heavy over his eyes, as if he were looking through a rubber mask. The eyes themselves were green and glacial, like a lizard's. His face looked like an Amazonian shrunken head, the skin hanging spare on the bone. He was thinner than it should have been possible for a human being to be.
"I am not used to having to interrupt site inspections due to being attacked by livestock, Captain", he was saying in a voice that sounded how fingernails dragged down a blackboard felt. Cleo assumed the soldier managing to trot and cringe simultaneously alongside him was the Captain. "My schedule here has been disrupted for over an hour."
"We believe the flock has now rebooted harmlessly, sir."
"Harmlessly? Three of your men have been hospitalized! Luckily the rounds they fired off seem to have had little impact on the creatures, which I need hardly remind you are valuable government assets, but have you any idea how much a single round of rocket ammunition costs? Your men were firing off clips, Captain! Clips!"
Then, suddenly, a hand somewhere pushed down a lever, and the whole of Weaponisation filled with bright white fluorescent light. Every available shadow disappeared, exposing Cleo as surely as a naked woman in No Man's Land.
Frozen in position by sheer fear, she managed to turn round to the warhead trolley behind her, trying to look as if she was carrying out some vitally important procedure. At the same time, however, she was almost happy, repeating to herself: Nobody got killed. I didn't kill anyone. Nobody got killed -
"YOU."
She knew the word was directed at her; and when she looked up, it was into a green and lifeless pair of eyes.
"I know you." The three words fell like a death sentence.
The Captain turned to look at Cleo. Glad to find someone to redirect the civilian's anger onto, he said:
"I don't. And I should know everybody on this base. Sergeant, take this woman into custody."
"This girl, Captain", said hood-eye. "I believe her name is Cleopatra Shakespeare. I have, this very afternoon, been receiving some very exasperating reports from grown men of mine who I foolishly believed to be capable of successfully following a thirteen-year-old girl. I really should have made the connection." He dismissed the captain with a wave of his hand. "You may keep your commission, Hollingsworth. For the time being. Are you here on your own, Cleopatra?"
Cleo kicked herself for looking up. The hooded eyes, naturally, followed her own. Cleo saw nothing but ten metres of empty service ladder where Lieutenant Farthing once had been.
"No", said Cleo. "Alastair", she added.
"People always look up", said the civilian, "when they're lying. Neuro-linguistic programming tells us this. You seem to have as good a memory for names and faces as I do, Cleopatra, though I'm not quite sure when you would ever have seen mine. How fascinating. Captain, I need a room prepared for an interrogation. It will need an electric fan, running water, and at least two more spare power points after the fan is connected. Arrange it, please; and then come to see me in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, Mr. Drague."
Mr. Drague moved off surrounded by his escort. Cleo looked across at the control station. Her wristwatch had vanished from the top of it. As one final act before being taken away, she felt for the mobile phone in her pocket, tapped several shortcut keys, and clicked the SEND button.