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  Such smooth motion and manoeuvrability were only possible thanks to the miracle alloy, cavorite. Without Dr Cavor’s literally ground-breaking discovery, the final frontier would have remained out of bounds to the Victorian Empire of Magna Britannia.

  Attitude thrusters fired, swinging the vast vessel’s prow around as it continued to rise, the lights of London soon dwindling below it, the twisted thoroughfares of the city tangled around them, until all disappeared beneath the putrid blanket of the Smog.

  “We are now clear of the terminal,” the helmsman announced as a bell chimed somewhere on the bridge of the space-liner.

  “Very good, Mr Goodspeed,” Captain Trevelyan responded from his seat in the middle of the bridge, smiling comfortably and stroking his thick white handlebar moustache.

  He was in his element here. In fact, there was nowhere else he would rather be than on the bridge of a spaceship. Nelson Trevelyan was just like his father in that respect. He had piloted countless flights from the Earth to the Moon and all this was second nature to him now.

  “In your own time then, Mr Goodspeed, take her up.”

  “Thank you, captain.” Goodspeed turned the huge ship’s wheel gently to port. “Mr Wallace, half ahead full.”

  “Half ahead full.”

  Captain Trevelyan stared out of the view-shield in front of him. It was made from toughened glass, several inches thick; in reality two separate pieces of glass that formed a sandwich with a microscopically thin film of pure gold trapped between them, to protect those on the bridge from being fried by the sun when the Apollo left the Earth’s atmosphere. It was such seemingly innocuous elements that made space-liners some of the most expensive machines in existence. And yet fleets of them made the journey from the Earth to its satellite several times a week. Of course, the flights to Mars had become seriously restricted over the course of the last year.

  All that he could see now beyond the reinforced glass were banks of cloud and the occasional distant airship.

  “Ensign?” Trevelyan clicked his fingers, bringing a gleaming brass automaton clanking over to his position.

  “Yes, captain?” it said, saluting smartly.

  “Mr Goodspeed and Mr Wallace seem to have everything in hand here, so perhaps you’d be so good as to fetch me a cup of tea. Earl Grey. Cream, not milk.”

  “Very good, captain.” And with that the automaton trotted off to fulfil its captain’s orders to the best of its ability.

  Yes, Captain Nelson Trevelyan thought, as he eased himself into the well-worn indentations of his chair, this was going to be another pleasurable three days of being waited on hand and foot, interspersed with fine dining with his personally hand-picked selection of interesting guests at the captain’s table. He could see no reason why this shouldn’t be like any other trip to the Moon.

  THAT EVENING, THE first leg of the journey to the Moon complete, the place to be was the Milky Way Bar on C deck. With the Earth’s cloud-smudged southern hemisphere aesthetically framed within the bar’s thirty-foot long panoramic window, with a particularly fine view of Antarctica City, and Harry ‘Fingers’ Malone on piano, that well-known and notorious raconteur and teller of tall tales – all of them true – the man known as the Hero of the Empire, survivor of the Wormwood Catastrophe and saviour of the Russian royal family, Ulysses Lucien Quicksilver himself, was regaling the bar’s clientele.

  “And so that’s how I brought the bugger down, one swift, sharp poke to the brain with the tip of my blade.”

  “I remember seeing that on the news reels,” one of the dandy’s young, female admirers added, as if his story need corroborating. “It was just before the Darwinian Dawn took over the airwaves and released their ransom demand, wasn’t it?

  “That’s right,” Ulysses said, suddenly grim.

  “What happened to the Megasaur after that?” a young man asked, an expression of wide-eyed awe on his face.

  “You know what?” Ulysses said, taking another swig of the cognac somebody – he didn’t know who – had kindly acquired for him. “I don’t know.”

  “I heard a rumour you had something to do with that fire at the Royal Botanical Gardens,” a bespectacled academic interjected.

  Ulysses grunted noncommittally.

  Picking up his glass again, he took another sip as he regarded the crowd of men and women gathered around him at the bar, every single one of them hanging on his every word. Thanks to his charm and natural charisma, and in no small part the many stories he had to tell, he had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

  He smiled. He could get used to all this attention.

  “Tell us about the time you brought down the Jupiter Station,” said another.

  “Well, that wasn’t actually me,” Ulysses said.

  “But you were there, on board, with the traitor Wormwood,” an older gent dressed in Harris Tweed and with a young woman – supposedly his ‘niece’ dangling off his arm – challenged drunkenly.

  “Well yes, but I didn’t set the explosives.”

  “I heard you met the Tsarina Anastasia,” a young woman wearing a sequinned evening gown that accentuated her well-proportioned curves, interjected, leaning close. The front of her dress sagged, Ulysses feeling he could fall into her gaping cleavage at any moment.

  “My, why you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he gasped in tipsy surprise.

  His head spun. He must have had more to drink than he realised. The blonde simpered in response, looking up at him from beneath thick lashes. She stumbled and, as she recovered, one of her hands somehow ended up resting upon Ulysses’ thigh.

  “And yes, I’ve met the Tsarina.”

  “What’s she like?” the young woman said. “Is she pretty, like they say?”

  “She’s not a patch on you, I’ll say that much,” Ulysses slurred, unable to take his eyes off the woman’s décolletage.

  At that the heiress laughed, her breasts joggling together in sympathy.

  “Might I be so bold as to ask you your name, young lady?” Ulysses said.

  “Barbara.”

  “Just Barbara?” he raised a flirtatious eyebrow.

  “Well, Lady Barbara Mathilda Trevithick, if you want to be boringly formal.”

  “Ah!” Ulysses exclaimed, quickly snatching his gaze from her chest. “As in heir to the Trevithick steam velocipede millions?”

  “The very same,” the blonde said, with a giggle, fixing her limpid blue eyes on his. “But you can calls me Babs.”

  “Very well then, Baps,” Ulysses slurred, taking another slug of cognac from his glass. “And what’s a nice young lady like you doing on the last starship from Earth?”

  “Why the Grand Tour, of course.”

  “Of course.” Ulysses had undertaken the Tour himself, back in his youth, over a decade ago now. He hadn’t been off-planet since returning from seeing the rings of Saturn all those years ago. “And you’re travelling... alone?”

  “Oh no, perish the thought,” the young woman laughed, her ripple of mirth passing through the milk-white flesh of her breasts.

  “Ah, you have a chaperone.” The dandy shot furtive glances at the faces of those individuals making up the rest of the party.

  “My godmother, but she’s retired early. She’s yet to find her space-legs. At least that was the excuse she gave.”

  Ulysses relaxed. “Ah, good, glad to hear it. I... I mean, I hope she feels better soon. Meanwhile...”

  “I’m also travelling with my friends here.”

  “Your friends?”

  At this point Lady Trevithick indicated another shapely young woman – a redhead, this time – perched on a stool a little further along the bar, wearing an equally daring black, sparkly number, and a raven-haired beauty, in a strappy sapphire gown, hugging a blushing young man. At being introduced to the world-renowned dandy, however, she quickly slipped her arm from around his waist and sashayed over to Ulysses, linking her arm with the blonde’s and provoking all manner of wild though
ts within the dandy’s brandy-soaked brain.

  “How absolutely charming to meet you,” Ulysses delighted. “And you are?” he asked the raven-haired beauty who was now also leaning towards him, showing off her high, pert breasts.

  “Lady Fanny Fanshaw,” she said, fluttering her eyelids.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Daddy’s Lord Cecil Fanshaw, Earl of Midsomer.”

  “Fanny and I were at finishing school in Geneva together,” Babs explained.

  Ulysses turned his attention to the redhead now. Aware of his interest, the young woman made a great show of uncrossing and then crossing her legs again, her dress falling open to the thigh. Ulysses swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off the smooth pale flesh so exposed.

  “And you are?”

  “Pussy.”

  “Yes, of course you are.”

  “Pussy Willow.”

  “And I suppose you’d be heiress to the Willow Pattern crockery company.”

  “You know your Who’s Who, Mr Quicksilver,” Pussy purred.

  “So what are we going to do with you?” Ulysses said, stroking the inside of the blonde’s forearm with a finger.

  “I’m sure you can think of something,” Fanny Fanshaw said beguilingly.

  “I’ll... see you later?” the young man Lady Fanshaw had begun the conversation with her arm around stuttered, but nobody was listening, least of all Fanny. Knowing that the better man had won, taking his drink in hand, he made for an empty table in front of the panoramic window, as far from Ulysses and the fickle heiresses as possible.

  “Ladies, did you know there’s a gravity-free pool on board?” Ulysses enquired of his female hangers-on.

  “Yes, we were, weren’t we girls?” Lady Trevithick replied. “But I didn’t bring my swimming costume with me.” This last comment resulted in a flurry of giggles from her friends.

  “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Ulysses said.

  “Sounds like fun,” Babs said, pulling herself closer.

  Ulysses found himself lost in her gaze once more. “My, but you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

  “And it’s nice to see you too.”

  Startled, Ulysses looked up.

  Standing between Ulysses’ admirers and the entrance to the Milky Way Bar was Emilia Oddfellow, dressed in a much more understated cerise evening gown, and on the arm of her elderly father.

  “Emilia!”

  “Good evening, Ulysses.”

  The trio of heiresses looked her up and down with undisguised disdain.

  “Quicksilver,” the old man said with a curt nod. Then his grim-set expression gave way to a broad smile. “Ladies.”

  “What a... pleasant surprise,” Ulysses gabbled, finding himself both abruptly, and horribly, sober, and suddenly tongue-tied.

  Emilia gave the women a withering look and then turned to Ulysses, a disappointed smile on her pursed lips.

  “Well, it’s certainly a surprise.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” Ulysses offered feebly. “A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

  “No, it’s all right. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

  Emilia and her father began to make their way towards a table with a grand view of the panoramic window. “Oh, father. It really is incredible, isn’t it?” she suddenly blurted out, her gasp of awe catching in her throat as she caught sight of the Earth through the inches-thick glass.

  “Honestly, it’s no trouble,” Ulysses called after her, struggling to free himself from the women who had draped themselves across his shoulders like over-priced, gaudy ornaments. “These are just some friends of mine. Really, you wouldn’t be interrupting anything.”

  “Yes she would,” Babs interjected snidely. Emilia returned the pouting heiress’s scornful stare.

  “No, it’s all right, Ulysses. You enjoy yourself. Good evening.”

  “Let’s do dinner then. Another night. Tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see,” Emilia said, noncommittally, giving the preening heiresses another disapproving look. “Good evening, Ulysses.”

  “Good evening, Quicksilver,” old man Oddfellow added, abruptly severe again. “Ladies.”

  Ulysses watched as Emilia and her father made their way across the shag-pile carpet – embroidered with a needle worker’s approximation of the galaxy in silver thread – and took a seat at the same table as Lady Fanshaw’s erstwhile companion. The young man’s mood, Ulysses noticed, improved dramatically.

  “Now where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?” Babs said, lasciviously. “Weren’t you about to suggest a spot of zero-g skinny dipping?”

  Ulysses stared disconsolately at the bottom of his glass. “Not tonight, ladies, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well,” Pussy Willow said, rising gracefully from her seat, “then how about a nightcap in my cabin?”

  Ulysses met her sultry gaze with a hard stare of his own. “Really. Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Be like that then, Mr Quicksilver,” Babs said, removing herself from about his person. “But you just missed out on the night of your life.

  “You could have been an Earl,” her friend Fanny added. “Come on girls.”

  And with that the three heiresses left, arm in arm, champagne glasses in hand and still with mischief on their minds.

  “Of all the bars, on all the ships, in all the solar systems,” Ulysses mumbled to himself as Nimrod emerged from the shadowy corner where he had secluded himself, making his own unimpressed appraisal of the giggling socialites, “and she had to walk into mine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ulysses emptied his glass and put it down hard on the bar. “Come on, I’m ready for bed.”

  Nimrod raised one arching eyebrow. “Very good, sir.”

  IN CABIN 69C, three decks down, the door securely locked, Mr Lars Chapter sprung open the clasps of the largest of the black packing cases he had struggled to bring on board with Miss Veronica Verse.

  “Very impressive,” Verse said, looking down at the gleaming weapon lying within the velvet-lined indentation in the box.

  “A Bradshaw and Wembley Repeating Rifle,” Chapter said proudly. “A hundred rounds a minute and capable of dropping a Mastodon at fifty yards.”

  “Open this one next,” Verse said tapping another trunk, pupils dilating.

  Chapter did as he was told. She watched as the man clicked open the metal fasteners and eased back the lid. Verse moaned with pleasure.

  “A Maxwell and Browning Blunderbuss.”

  “And this one!” Verse shrieked, practically jumping up and down in excitement.

  “A Klosh Gentleman’s Personal Artillery Bazooka,” Chapter said, and then he gasped, as she suddenly threw herself at him, sending the two of them falling onto the bed with a crash. They began kissing each other hungrily, hands fumbling with buttons and clasps, pulling each other free of their clothing.

  “Now there’s one weapon of yours in particular I want to get my hands on,” Verse gasped and began frantically tugging at the buttons of his fly, already able to feel the bulge beneath pressing against her thigh.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mars Attacks

  T MINUS 4 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 9 MINUTES, 42 SECONDS

  “I’M GLAD YOU accepted my invitation,” Ulysses said, as he and Emilia took their places at dinner the following evening.

  The whole of the Earth was visible now through the windows of the Restaurant Galaxia, a blue-green thumbprint against the black canvas of the void.

  “And why’s that then?” Emilia asked, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, fixing Ulysses with a penetrating stare.

  “Well... You know.” Ulysses could feel himself blushing. He wasn’t usually like this around women. In fact he wasn’t ever like this around women; only with her.

  “Go on. I’m all ears.”

  In the past, he’d been the one in control. Now their roles had been reversed, it seemed.

  �
��Well, I wanted to apologise, for one thing.”

  “For everything? Or just for last night?”

  “Last night will do for starters.” Ulysses looked down at the starched white tablecloth. “That wasn’t me, last night.”

  “What do you mean?” Emilia didn’t sound impressed.

  “That’s not what I’m like.”

  “No, I think that’s exactly what you’re like.” Emilia frowned. “How was your evening, or daren’t I ask?”

  “Quiet.”

  “Really?”

  “And expensive. Nimrod’s quite the devil when it comes to gin rummy. How was yours?”

  “Quiet.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Father and I watched the patchwork of continents spin by the panoramic window, listened to the pianist and then retired for the night. You know, I’ve not been able to shut him up since he... you know,” – now it was her turn to struggle to find the right words – “since he came back. It’s as if he’s realised how it could all end at any moment and doesn’t want to waste a single minute of the time we have left together.”

  Ulysses nodded. The rattle of cutlery on bone china merged with the hubbub of murmuring voices in the quiet ambience of the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry,” Ulysses said, his voice sounding louder than he had meant it to.

  Several diners at other tables glanced round, scowls on their faces.

  Emilia Oddfellow looked back, flashing them a placatory smile. “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes. For not calling after the whole thing with your cousin Dashwood and the Sphere. For not being the man you needed me to be... you know... before.” At last he looked up from where he had been fiddling with the tablecloth and met her gaze. “Like I said; for everything.”

  Emilia took a deep breath and sat back in her chair.

  “That was quite some apology,” she said.

  “Well it’s been long overdue.”

  Ulysses’ expression relaxed then and he gave Emilia a warm smile. She, in turn, leant forward, resting her chin on her hands again.