got, as it happens. That makes us her cousins or some such. Every ship you’d want to serve on is like that. We’re more than brothers in arms – or tentacles and claws – and you wouldn’t sell your grandmother, would you?’
‘I know a few nobles back home who would,’ said Calder, trying to dismiss the raw dagger of pain he felt at his betrothed’s betrayal.
‘What happens on the dirt stays on the dirt,’ said Zeno. ‘That’s an old spacer saying. Up here, you’re crew, and each other are all we got. When you’re sliding void, the light of the last dirt you touched down on might not even catch up with your ship for another million years. When things go wrong, you need to be able to trust the crew next to you. If you don’t, one of you ain’t got no business being on board.’
‘Is that why you came when the wizard called?’
‘Matobo the Magnificent? Shit. Yeah, partly I guess. He was crew. Not a shining example of the breed, but Rex still had your back when he was on board the Rose .’ He indicated the others on the bridge, dismounting from their command seats as crane arms lowered them to the metal decking, each chair chased by wisps of hologram displays still hungrily demanding attention. ‘There’s one thing we’ve all got in common with each other. Me, the skipper, Polter, Skrat, Zack Paopao. None of us have exactly got much going on back in what used to be home for us. In our own way, we’re all exiles, just like you.’
If the crew had that in common with Calder Durk, it was about the only thing. Calder had to stop himself from turning tail and fleeing from the two alien members of the crew advancing towards him. His instinct was to reach for a police-issue pistol in a shoulder holster, an item he had never possessed in real life. Skrat, he could just about handle . So, this is what a skirl really looks like up close. Like one of the baron’s tall muscular brutes of a shield-warrior, but recast as a humanoid lizard, a solid green-scaled snout of a face with the crimson eyes of a snake and the sharp white grin of a serrated dagger. He was wearing a set of green ship overalls, as if someone had decided to play dress-up with their pet killer lizard. Of course, Skrat’s uniform had been altered to accommodate the short heavy tail that seemed to swish with a hound’s enthusiasm. But Polter, the scuttling alien navigator had too much of the spider about the way his crab-like carapace advanced for Calder’s hackles to do anything but shiver as if someone had poured half-melted river ice down his back. The police instincts from his sim told him that this creature was from a race that was one of humanity’s two greatest allies in a cold, unforgiving universe – the kaggenish. But the prince’s eyes were feeding his brain with the far less reassuring image of a five-foot high six-legged crab with two wavering eyestalks, a pair of small manipulator hands, a massive pair of vestigial fighting claws, and a colourfully tattooed carapace armoured enough it could have taken a schooner-mounted crossbow bolt in its centre and still charge. Rather than rushing at Calder and attempting to shove the prince inside the round fleshy shield-sized mouth under his carapace, the knife-like mandibles of Polter’s mouth chattered in an excitable manner. ‘Blessings be upon you, Calder Durk. My ship is your ship.’
Skrat just halted, eyeing up his newest crewmember. ‘I wonder if this is what you human chaps mean when they say my prince has come? Somehow, one suspects not.’
‘Be nice,’ said Lana, her chair landing her with a bump behind the two exotic creatures. She banged the centre of the web of straps holding her inside the chair and stepped out. ‘And I think you’ll find, Polter, that my ship is my ship. At least, the last time I checked the registration papers, that’s what I read.’
‘I was merely being courteous, revered skipper,’ said Polter, a slight tone of offence creeping into his
‘I know a few nobles back home who would,’ said Calder, trying to dismiss the raw dagger of pain he felt at his betrothed’s betrayal.
‘What happens on the dirt stays on the dirt,’ said Zeno. ‘That’s an old spacer saying. Up here, you’re crew, and each other are all we got. When you’re sliding void, the light of the last dirt you touched down on might not even catch up with your ship for another million years. When things go wrong, you need to be able to trust the crew next to you. If you don’t, one of you ain’t got no business being on board.’
‘Is that why you came when the wizard called?’
‘Matobo the Magnificent? Shit. Yeah, partly I guess. He was crew. Not a shining example of the breed, but Rex still had your back when he was on board the Rose .’ He indicated the others on the bridge, dismounting from their command seats as crane arms lowered them to the metal decking, each chair chased by wisps of hologram displays still hungrily demanding attention. ‘There’s one thing we’ve all got in common with each other. Me, the skipper, Polter, Skrat, Zack Paopao. None of us have exactly got much going on back in what used to be home for us. In our own way, we’re all exiles, just like you.’
If the crew had that in common with Calder Durk, it was about the only thing. Calder had to stop himself from turning tail and fleeing from the two alien members of the crew advancing towards him. His instinct was to reach for a police-issue pistol in a shoulder holster, an item he had never possessed in real life. Skrat, he could just about handle . So, this is what a skirl really looks like up close. Like one of the baron’s tall muscular brutes of a shield-warrior, but recast as a humanoid lizard, a solid green-scaled snout of a face with the crimson eyes of a snake and the sharp white grin of a serrated dagger. He was wearing a set of green ship overalls, as if someone had decided to play dress-up with their pet killer lizard. Of course, Skrat’s uniform had been altered to accommodate the short heavy tail that seemed to swish with a hound’s enthusiasm. But Polter, the scuttling alien navigator had too much of the spider about the way his crab-like carapace advanced for Calder’s hackles to do anything but shiver as if someone had poured half-melted river ice down his back. The police instincts from his sim told him that this creature was from a race that was one of humanity’s two greatest allies in a cold, unforgiving universe – the kaggenish. But the prince’s eyes were feeding his brain with the far less reassuring image of a five-foot high six-legged crab with two wavering eyestalks, a pair of small manipulator hands, a massive pair of vestigial fighting claws, and a colourfully tattooed carapace armoured enough it could have taken a schooner-mounted crossbow bolt in its centre and still charge. Rather than rushing at Calder and attempting to shove the prince inside the round fleshy shield-sized mouth under his carapace, the knife-like mandibles of Polter’s mouth chattered in an excitable manner. ‘Blessings be upon you, Calder Durk. My ship is your ship.’
Skrat just halted, eyeing up his newest crewmember. ‘I wonder if this is what you human chaps mean when they say my prince has come? Somehow, one suspects not.’
‘Be nice,’ said Lana, her chair landing her with a bump behind the two exotic creatures. She banged the centre of the web of straps holding her inside the chair and stepped out. ‘And I think you’ll find, Polter, that my ship is my ship. At least, the last time I checked the registration papers, that’s what I read.’
‘I was merely being courteous, revered skipper,’ said Polter, a slight tone of offence creeping into his
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