Authors: Philip Reeve
Starcross (3 page)
We all knew, you see, that it was not the song flowers which had put Myrtle in such a tearing rage. We knew that the real fault lay with Jack Havock. She had developed a sentimental attachment to that young space pirate during our adventures together earlier that year, and to my utter astonishment Jack had appeared to return her feelings. But once he left
Larklight aboard his newly repaired aether-ship,
Sophronia
, we heard no more of him. Myrtle had been writing poems ever since, and striking soulful poses on all the balconies in the manner popularised by Mariana in the Moated Grange. About once a week she sent Jack a long, heartfelt letter, to which he did not reply.
My own suspicion was that as soon as he was back upon the aether seas Jack had realised what an absolute blight she was and what a narrow escape he had had, and resolved to have nothing more to do with her. But Mother always tried to comfort Myrtle, reminding her that Jack now sailed under the orders of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and might e’en now be undercover in some far-off corner of the sky, where the mails are slow and unreliable. Even if he had received her letters, he might be much too busy to pen a reply.
‘Their singing
is
somewhat distracting, isn’t it?’ she said gently, as hoverhogs scooted about, gobbling up the drifting petals, and Father delved behind the watering can for Myrtle’s notebook. ‘Perhaps you should ask Mr Spry’s men to move your piano up here, so that you may teach the flowers some new songs.’
‘Oh, please, no!’ I groaned, imagining them all warbling
out-of-tune versions of ‘Birdsong at Eventide’ and other selections from
A Young Gentlewoman’s Pianoforte Primer
. But Mother gave me a warning glance, and Myrtle gave me a warning kick on the shin with her surprisingly hefty boot, so I did not warm to my theme.
‘Now, what have we here?’ Mother asked, turning back to her pile of letters. ‘This one looks rather important. Do you think it is from some newspaper, requesting a True Account of Larklight’s journey to London?’
‘Oh, I do hope not!’ cried Myrtle.
4
But when Mother slit open the stiff, white envelope, what fell out was not a missive from the yellow press, but a letter written on crisp, monogrammed stationery, along with a printed advertisement. Myrtle and I each made a grab for the latter, and I won. It turned out to be a flyer advertising a new hotel in the asteroid belt, and I reproduce it here.
‘Sea bathing?’ I cried, in disbelief. In preparation for my future career as an explorer I make a keen study of the
Boy’s Own Journal
and other organs of note, and I was almost certain that there was no sea to speak of in the asteroid belt.
‘Let me see that,’ said Myrtle, wrenching the paper from my grasp (and crumpling it rather badly in the process, as you can see).
‘How sweet!’ said Mother, who had been too engrossed in her letter to notice this little display of filial love and affection. She held the letter and read aloud what was written there.
My Dear Mr and Mrs Mumby,
I wonder if you remember me. My name is Mortimer Titfer, and I had the pleasure of meeting you and your darling children while you were in London in the spring, after those regrettable occurrences at Hyde Park.
(‘I confess, I cannot call the gentleman to mind,’ admitted Mother.
‘We met so many people at that time,’ Father agreed.
‘If he thinks Art is a darling,’ said Myrtle tartly, ‘it makes one wonder whether he really met us at all. Perhaps he has mistaken us for some other Mumbys.’)
The letter went on:
I was speaking of you only the other day to my dear friend Sir Waverley Rain, and was distressed to learn that you are currently afflicted by builders. Therefore I thought that I might take the liberty of writing to invite you to visit me at Starcross. It is a modest asteroid, which was a mining concern until it was abandoned in the reign of the late king. I have, however, made some improvements, and the hotel there offers the most genteel accommodation, and some of the finest sea bathing to be had anywhere in British Space. I should be honoured if you would consider using the place as a refuge or ‘home-from-home’ while the horny-handed sons of toil improve your own house.
Your Obedient Servant,
Mortimer Titfer, Esq.
‘What a sweetly kind offer!’ said my mother.
‘Yes, but who is this Titfer?’ asked Father. ‘I do not recognise the name.’
‘He says he is a friend of Sir Waverley’s,’ Mother reminded him, ‘and that is good enough for me. For though Sir Waverley is somewhat reclusive, he is a very sweet gentleman when one gets to know him. Take, for an instance, the way that he took it upon himself to help us strip out Larklight’s old Shaper engine and cart it off to be melted down, without charging us for carriage or any other thing. I would imagine that this Titfer is a business
acquaintance of his, and clearly shares his kind and thoughtful nature. Now that I come to think of it I believe I
do
recall being introduced to someone of the sort at that reception we attended in Kensington …’
‘So may we go?’ I asked. For it is not every day that a chap gets offered the chance to go swimming on an asteroid, and I was all agog to know if Mother and Father would accept this invitation.
‘It is most kind,’ Father agreed, peering over Mother’s shoulder at the letter. ‘Alas!
I
cannot go. I have to travel down to London next week, there to present a report on my investigations into
Tegenaria saturnia
to the Fellows of the Royal Xenological Institute. But there is no reason why
you
should not go, Emily, my dear, and take Art and Myrtle with you.’
‘Oh, I could not think of leaving you behind, Edward,’ cried my mother, though I could tell that she was thinking how nice a holiday would be.
‘I should love to see the asteroids,’ I ventured, as wistfully as I could. ‘We soared through the belt at such speed when I was travelling aboard the
Sophronia
that I had barely time to catch a glimpse of them.’
Myrtle said approvingly, ‘Starcross looks most genteel.’
‘Well,’ said Mother, ‘perhaps we
might
go, for just a week or two …’
‘Go for a month,’ said Father, folding his copy of
The Times
in a decided manner. ‘And I shall join you as soon as my business in London is complete.’
And so it was agreed. Trunks were packed, straw hats and shrimping nets fetched down
5
from the attic, and Mother ordered new bathing costumes for us all. And a week later we found ourselves bidding Father a fond farewell at the Port George aether-dock and going aboard the packet-ship
Euphrosyne
, outbound for Modesty and the Minor Planets.
I wonder if you know the Asteroids at all. There are a great many of them, and they tumble along in an orbit which lies midway between those of Mars and Jupiter. I have asked Mr Wyatt to provide sketches of a few of the more interesting ones.
These worlds are home to countless millions of intelligent beings, mostly Earth people, Martians and Jovians who have travelled there in the employ of the big mining concerns. The asteroids are supposed to be the ruins of a planet which once swam there but was long ago destroyed, or else the building blocks of one which never formed – the scientific coves who study such things have never quite been able to decide. Several times on our voyage to Starcross I started to ask Mother about it, for the whole Solar System is her handiwork and I was sure that she would know the answer. But each time I began, I was rewarded with a vicious kick to the shins from Myrtle, and deemed it wiser to speak of something else instead. Myrtle does not like to hear Mother talking about her various previous lives,
and would have been mortified if any of our fellow passengers had got wind of the many forms Mother had adopted over the millennia – a giant slime mould, a preAdamite reptile, a Martian princess and Heaven knows what else.
But one evening, about halfway through our voyage, while Mother and I were taking a turn upon the star deck and Myrtle was curled up in our state-room with her notebook, trying to think of things which rhymed with ‘Havock’, Mother raised the matter herself.
We were looking at the dim red lantern that was Mars, hanging in the dark just off the
Euphrosyne
’s port bow, and looking shimmery and ghostly through the ship’s veil of alchemical particles. Suddenly Mother said, ‘Did you know, Art, that our destination used to be a part of Mars?’
‘Do you mean Starcross?’ I asked.
‘The very same. The rest of the asteroids are nothing but leftovers: bits and bobs which I half meant to build into another world, but never quite got round to. But Starcross is a mighty fragment of the Red Planet, which was blasted out to hang among the other asteroids by some immense collision or eruption about one hundred million years ago.’