The Tea Machine (2 page)

“No. No. You can’t. You have to get away.” The woman struggled fiercely, but fruitlessly, and soon gave up. She was small, and Sangfroid held her in place easily. She sank back into the seat, and the door slid closed with a satisfying swoosh as a blast of vile black ink slapped against the contoured window of the pod. Sangfroid thumped the eject button with her fist and the little egg shot out of its bay. A tentacle lashed out and slammed the pod sideways. It smacked into the ship’s infrastructure and bounced twice before falling out the launch door into space in a weird corkscrew spin. There, it shuddered and stalled. Sangfroid and the woman held their breath. Above their heads the pod’s console lights spluttered off and on again. They flashed and blinked and then flashed some more. Through the small window they could see the huge tentacle coiling back, ready for another punch at them. The pod spluttered, rebooted, and then, with a stupendous burst of speed, whisked them out from under the descending tentacle with only millimetres to spare. With a series of clicks and clunks, it whirled away from the Amoebas, and for a breathless second, the doomed research ship was framed in the escape pod’s window. The Amoebas drifted drunkenly, listing to one side. Isolated fires and acidic scars marred the long, cylindrical hull. Debris littered her wake. Then the escape pod spun out into the huge void of space, calculated the nearest point of safety, and headed directly for it.

Sangfroid slumped back in the seat, her body slack with relief; unlike her captive who was scolding her again.

“You can’t do this. This is terrible, terrible,” she said, prizing Sangfroid’s fingers off her waist.

Who the hell was she? The air around them cooled as the hiss of stasis gas filled the tiny cabin.

“This is not in the plan…” The woman yawned. “You’re doing it all wrong,” she grumbled, then curled up on Sangfroid’s lap and fell into a deep and immediate stasis sleep. Her head was tucked under Sangfroid’s chin, and her hair smelled of old fashioned flowers. It was a beautiful smell, and vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall from where or when. For all she knew this woman might well be a mirage. An illusion made up of half-formed memories, or nothing more than an old centurion’s fancies and fantasies. Sangfroid wondered if she was poisoned by squid ink or, more likely, having a nervous breakdown? Or maybe she was dead and this was some weird afterlife experience?

She encircled her arms around the woman’s waist and allowed her eyes to drift shut. She was slipping away on a cloud of stasis gas and trying vainly to recall what the flowery scent meant. Dead or not, she had a suspicion that for once everything would be just fine.

CHAPTER 2

“He can’t just lie there.
He’s making the room untidy. My paleobotany ladies are due any minute, and Hubert still has to set up the optical lantern.”

“He’s a she, Sophia.”

“Nonsense.”

Sangfroid slowly became aware of the world around her. Her head hurt. Coming out of stasis sleep was always rough, but this was very different. The temperature was all wrong, for a start. It smelled funny, too. Fresh cut flowers with an underlay of fire smoke. Where was she? And that noise. Mithras! A female was whining. Her reedy voice came from somewhere above her and cut through Sangfroid’s brain like shrapnel. It didn’t belong to the young woman she’d escaped with. Her voice was richer, more melodious. Sangfroid’s military training kicked in, and she tried to make sense of her surroundings without betraying that she was awake. She lay flat on her back on something soft and overstuffed, and definitely not a pod seat.

“Please, Sophia, stop being so disagreeable.” Now
that
was the voice of the woman from the pod. Sangfroid strained to listen while controlling her breathing to feign being out cold.

“I can hardly move her until she regains consciousness. I mean, she’s enormous,” the pod woman continued. There was a short silence, then, “Ah ha! How opportune.” A finger poked Sangfroid firmly in the ribs, and Sangfroid buckled with a grunt. So much for fooling them. Pod lady was a sly one.

“Up, you loiterer,” pod lady said. “I can see you are finally among us.”

The game was up. Sangfroid opened her eyes and swung into a sitting position. Much to her surprise she found herself in a stuffy, old-fashioned parlour furnished in a tumult of dark woods, heavy fabrics, and too much gilt. Practically every inch of floor space housed some elaborate and unnecessary piece of furniture. Side tables, footstools, and over-designed upright chairs gave the room a cluttered, claustrophobic feel. She felt trapped inside a museum exhibit like some wax dummy. All she needed was a cup and saucer in her hand.

A fire crackled in a large marble fireplace and threw out a pleasant heat. Sangfroid felt extraordinarily tired and depleted. The gloomy room with its cluttered warmth leeched the strength out of her, drawing every ache and pain to the surface. The battle for the Amoebas had lasted nearly thirty brutal hours. First, they had fought to take back the ship deck by deck. When that proved futile, the Imperial Fleet Senate ordered the total evacuation of all non-military staff. How many had made it? She looked around the strange room. And to where? What kind of rescue station was this?

She was sitting on an elaborate couch, all tapestry and tassels and about a million useless little cushions. Behind her stood two young women, both dressed in a flounced and fussy manner that mirrored the furnishings perfectly. The smaller of the two Sangfroid recognized at once from the Amoebas. She obviously had access to some sort of teleport technology, a dangerous weapon that was far beyond space corps capabilities. Sangfroid suspected she had mind-altering ability, too. Obviously, she was a very formidable character, but whether she was a friend or foe to the Empire was uncertain as yet. Sangfroid gave her a furtive, sideways glance.
She’s very pretty.
Immediately, she snapped her thoughts back in order. There was business to perform here. Her life was in danger, and she was eyeing up the local talent? Her brains must be stewed by laser fire.

Beside the pretty pod lady stood another woman, the one that went by the name of Sophia. Sophia was taller, thinner, and glared at Sangfroid with bristling hostility.
Not a friend of the Empire, then.

“Where am I?” Sangfroid asked, assuming she was most probably a prisoner of war. If so, there were rules and regulations to be followed.

“That’s a rather ponderous question,” pod lady answered. “In that it’s weighty and requires much thought.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sophia muttered.

Pod lady gave Sophia a stern look, then turned her attention fully onto Sangfroid. “And by that I mean, are you referring to a point on a Euclidean plane, for instance?” she said, warming to her theme. She was incredibly earnest. In fact, she was wide-eyed with earnestness. Her irises were caramel coloured with little black flecks. This observation surprised Sangfroid. Usually, she didn’t notice details beyond armed or unarmed, even in pretty women. If they had a gun in their hands she paid attention. That was as far as her interest in strangers went, but this woman kept dragging her attention away from the business in hand. That had never happened before. Again, Sangfroid wondered at the reality of her situation.

“…perhaps with a rotational angle around a pre-selected point…” Pod lady was still jabbering away. She did not adhere to any prisoner of war protocol Sangfroid was aware of. “…or as defined by a translational shift? What do you suppose?” The question was levelled at her.

Sangfroid blinked.

“Enough!” Sophia cried. Sangfroid wholeheartedly agreed.

“You, sir,” Sophia turned her aquiline profile towards Sangfroid, “need to do a translational shift off this chaise before the ladies of my paleobotanical society arrive. They cannot find you lolling about looking so…so…unravelled. Besides, Hubert will be here any moment with the lantern, and he needs to move the couch.”

“Sophia. How uncivil,” pod woman said. “My guests are more than welcome in my parlour and on
my
chaise longue.”

Sangfroid struggled to her feet from the low chaise. Her thigh and lower back went into spasm. She gritted her teeth and pushed through the cramp. The Sophia lady was right; she was unravelling faster than a wonky warp drive. She tugged her uniform jacket into some semblance of order and stood as straight as possible given she felt dislocated in several places. The ladies ignored her efforts and continued to squabble.

“This is Hubert’s house,” Sophia said.

“And
my
chaise longue.”

Sangfroid cleared her throat. “Sangfroid, R.J.” She officially introduced herself to pod lady. She was the only one she wanted to talk to. The Sophia creature did not interest her in the slightest. “Decanus, first class, of the IX Imperial Space Corps Marines, ma’am.” Her memory was cloudy, but she knew they’d definitely left the ship together, crammed in a single escape pod. The scent of her hair was still on Sangfroid’s shoulder. “How exactly did we get here?”

“Good. He’s upright.” Sophia gave her a dissatisfied glare. “Please, Millicent, take Mr. Declan away and have him cleaned up. We can’t present him to decent company looking like that.”

“It’s decanus, not declan,” Sangfroid corrected. “It’s a military rank.” So pod lady’s name was Millicent? She liked that; it had a nice ring to it. Mill-
ee-
cent. Millicent. Nice. Then she pulled herself together. She could be in danger here and, instead of doing something sensible about it, she was mewling over nice names?

“Looking like what, exactly?” Millicent rose to her defence, and she liked her a little bit more. “And he is a
she
, as you have been previously informed.”

“He’s got blood all over his uniform.” Sophia carried on regardless, her whisper almost as loud as her speaking voice. Sangfroid squinted at her. Was she gender blind?

“Of course,
she’s
got blood all over her uniform. She’s a soldier. She’s been in battle. Why, she’s practically a hero.”

Practically? She damned well was
a hero! She’d more decorations hanging off her than the cushions on this ridiculous settee. Her esteem for the Millicent woman dropped like a dog down a well.

“Is that ink?” Sophia rudely pointed out black splotches of squid ink on Sangfroid’s uniform sleeve and across her chest.

“Yes, it is,” Millicent said. “What of it.”

“Perhaps he’s been heroic in a post office?” Sophia snorted.

“There is real blood, too. Look here and here.” Millicent pointed out several other colourful stains.

“Then it is most rude to make a house call directly after battle. One should change one’s uniform first, or at least scrub up.” Sophia was not going to back down.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Sangfroid interrupted with her most authoritative voice. It was time to take control. “I have some questions—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Declan,” Sophia spoke over the top of her. “I did not mean to be rude about the blood on your uniform. I am sure you attained it under the most valorous of circumstances, and I sincerely hope it is not your own. But I really do need to rearrange the furniture for my meeting. All these chairs have to be in rows, you see, and Hubert has to place the optical lantern right there.” Sophia pointed to the spot where Sangfroid stood with a disapproving finger.

“It’s decanus, not declan. It’s a military rank,” Sangfroid repeated firmly. “And I’ll be happy to remove myself once I have some answers.” The thought occurred to her that maybe she really was dead, and this was some sort of entry exam for the Elysian Fields. There was usually some tricky test for newly deceased warriors to pass before they were allowed access. Then again, her leg hurt abominably, and it would hardly be fair to be dead and still ache all over. Maybe she wasn’t dead. Maybe she was hallucinating? She wondered again about the possibility of squid developing hallucinatory weapons.

“Exactly where am I, and who are you?” Her words were curt and crisply delivered.

“Oh, please forgive me.” Millicent touched her sleeve, despite the encrusted blood. “Decanus Sangfroid, may I introduce Miss Sophia Trenchant-Myre.”

Sophia gave a light, disinterested curtsey. “Sangfroid? Sounds French.” She sniffed. Sangfroid bowed stiffly in response. The hand on her arm became insistent, and she was aware Millicent wanted to draw her aside. If it provided her with more information, then so be it.

“Better French than Declan and Irish,” Millicent said and, with that final snub, led Sangfroid to the door. “I am Miss Millicent Aberly,” she said once they were in the hallway. “If you would care to come with me, I shall attend to your wounds.” She blushed beautifully and seemed annoyed at doing so.

Yep, Sangfroid decided. She was definitely dead. Women did not blush beautifully at her in real life. This had to be some glorious Hesperidian maiden come to carry her off to the Isles of the Blessed. Or more likely trick her into the lower bowel of Tartarus. Hesperidian maidens were sneaky like that.

“Is this some sort of test?” she asked outright, mystified that she was once again following this woman around like an unweaned runt. Millicent gave a delightful, tinkling laugh as she ushered her down a wood-panelled hallway. Her laugh was magical and turned Sangfroid’s synapses to goo. So much for her stern self-control, iron-clad will, and twenty-three years of the toughest military training in the cosmos; it all amounted to nothing when Miss Millicent Aberly laughed.

“Sophia can be a trifle trying,” Millicent said. “But she’s hardly a test. Lord only knows how a pass mark might be determined. In here, if you please.”

“What’s the paly…pala…?”

“Paleobotanical?”

“Yes. The paleobotanical thing she was going on about?”

“Oh, her latest amusement. Her lady friends gather the first Friday of every month to see glass slides of plant fossils and suchlike. It lasts for about fifteen minutes before they get bored, stop for tea, and gossip away the rest of the evening. Broadens the mind.” She grinned impishly. “It’s very important they sit in rows, you know. Makes them feel intellectual.”

They entered a darkened room towards the end of the hall and Millicent lit a porcelain gas lamp. The light flared and revealed a room much smaller than the one they had left. This room was sparsely furnished but somehow more intimate and comfortable because of it. Even in the soft glow of the lamp, Sangfroid could see the colour scheme was light and mellow. This room had an airier, more feminine feel after the oppressive formality of the room they’d just left.

“This is my day room,” Millicent said and fussed about drawing the drapes against the dusk. A few coals smouldered in the fireplace. She rammed them about with a poker until they looked livelier and added a few more with the coal tongs hanging by the hearth. There was a ruthless efficiency in her movements, and though Sangfroid couldn’t take her gaze off Millicent, she managed to take in the rudiments of the room with a military thoroughness. A small bureau was squeezed into the far corner, positioned to take in the view from the window, had the drapes had been open. On either side of the chimney breast, shelves were piled with books and magazines. Before the fireplace sat a small couch and close by a comfortable looking high-backed armchair. Needlepoint rested on its padded arm. From the chair’s position, turned towards the fire, yet close to the table with the gas lamp, Sangfroid guessed this was Millicent’s favoured chair.

She glanced at the needlepoint. She had darned her own pants often enough to view a threaded needle as a loathsome chore, rather than a pastime. But then she had fought her way through enough solar systems to expect the strange and unnatural wherever she landed. The Empire had conquered worlds much more archaic than this one. Here, it was the constant call back to her own heritage that threw her. This world looked like it had popped up from the pages of a history book, and that made Sangfroid extra suspicious. It had to be a trap. The Colossals had somehow wormed into her mind and pulled out this version of home; except it was so woefully wrong it was laughable.

“Hubert and I have an arrangement of rooms. I use this one for my reading and relaxation, and he keeps his laboratory in the larger room to the front of the house that used to be Papa’s library. Now, about that leg.” Millicent opened a small cabinet and examined a collection of apothecary bottles.

While she fussed over her bottles, Sangfroid flicked the drapes and peeked outside. She tried to look casual, but the room and its furnishings were so bizarre she had to see what lay beyond. The view offered little interest. There was a small garden with orderly flowerbeds and high hedges. Beyond these, the yellow glow of gas street lamps shone weakly against an evening sky. She’d have to get out there at some point and explore. It was all so intriguing, like the living history museums back home.