Starstormers by Nicholas Fisk

Author:Nicholas Fisk [Fisk, Nicholas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781444919486
Google: 9ZHxAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00IORP7MW
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2014-04-30T14:00:00+00:00

The Glory Ark

They sighted Conqueror, the Glory Ark, two days later. On Starstormer’s TV screen she was a shape both strange and familiar. Strange, because so ancient – those great blasters, strapped to the side of the hull; that mass of drive units, held together by triangulated girders.

Makenzi whispered, ‘It’s like coming across the old Flying Dutchman ghost sailing ship, or that other one, what was its name?’

‘The Marie Celeste,’ Ispex said. His voice, too, was hushed. ‘So old. So strange . . .’

But she was also familiar. They could remember TV pictures of such ships. Old people talked about them. And the starship carried Earth registration letters and numbers on her side. She was not alien, simply huge and ancient and unlikely. ‘She must be a hundred years old,’ Vawn said.

‘No, seventy,’ Tsu replied. ‘GB-7-731. The middle seven is her decadecal, her decade number. A number from the previous century . . .’

Shambles interrupted. ‘She invites us to dock. What shall I reply?’

‘I think OK,’ Makenzi said. ‘What do we all think?’ The others nodded.

Shambles set a new course. Hours passed.

Then the vast old ship was actually before them, grey and scarred and infinitely complex, sprouting like an underwater wreck with aerials and antennae, barnacled with bumps and lumps of ironmongery and gadgetry—

Starstormer grated and lurched. They had entered Conqueror’s docking port. There were whistlings and hisses of rushing air as atmospheres interlocked and blended. An amplified voice said, ‘Welcome! Welcome!’

The Starstormers walked through a long, dark corridor. They entered Conqueror. And for the first time in many months, they saw a fresh human face.

Fresh, but faded. Their guide was a woman of fifty or more. The flesh of her face seemed to hang on her skull. Her blue eyes were washed out. The skin of her hands was yellow. Yet she moved briskly and her spine was erect. ‘I am Sister Monica,’ she said. Her smile revealed long, china-white teeth.

‘Sister Monica?’ said Makenzi, when he had shaken her cold hand and introduced the Starstormers.

‘Oh yes. Sister. A mere acolyte, a servant, but they have honoured me. They have risen me in the ranks of Glory . . .’

‘They?’

Sister Monica’s lips pursed worshipfully. Her eyes looked upwards. ‘The Eight of the Elect,’ she almost whispered. ‘The Gloryseekers! The Bestowers of Light! The Eight! Surely you know – ah, but of course not, how could you? Follow me!’

She led them through the ship. Following her, they saw that her robe was made from patches of a dozen different materials. In the Meeting Hall, where the hundreds of padded take-off chairs were still used (but their plastic coverings were almost rotted away) they saw the remains of the curtains from which Monica’s skirts were made. In the great dormitories – MEN . . . WOMEN . . . CHILDREN . . . MOTHERS – the patchwork bedspreads echoed Monica’s bodice. Everywhere paint peeled, plastic surfaces cracked and split, bright metal showed dull, once-cheerful colours were dimmed and fogged.

In one of the three kitchens there was a little scrapheap of pots and pans.

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