Space Hostages

by Nicholas Fisk

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

A crazed and dying Flight Lieutenant, nine village children, a top-secret spacecraft - all of them out of control and adrift in space! Someone must take charge. But who? Brylo has the brains, but not the personality, so it is the powerful young bully Tony who sets himself up as Captain - and steers the ship and its cargo of children towards new and horrifying dangers...

Release date: October 10, 2019

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 320

Sample

Billy Bason intended to send down an off break. It turned into a yorker as a single, spiteful ray from the setting sun shone through the trees right into his eye. Tony Hoskings made his usual flashy swipe at the ball and as usual connected. The ball hissed away into the long grass, already dew-drenched, looking for somewhere to hide.

Tony Hoskings yelled, ‘Come ON then ! RUN !’

He pelted up and down between the wickets – sticks draped with coats – with his single pad flapping and leaking its stuffing and his blond mop jigging and his bony legs and arms pumping. He looked like a puppet gone mad.

‘Bung it IN !’ yelled Spadger Garrett, at the wicket.

‘Can’t find it !’ shouted Tiddler from the edge of the meadow, ‘LOST BALL !’ the other fielders chorused maliciously, not bothering to join the search.

‘What do you mean, lost ball? That’s my twentieth run, lost ball or no. I got my twenty !’ Tony Hoskings swore, knocked down a wicket and kicked the coats. No one took much notice. They were playing so late because they had to, not because they wanted to. If Tony did not get what he wanted, there would be trouble.

‘It’s all right, Tony, you got your twenty,’ said Sandra Rumsey. And then – forgetting all about cricket and fielding and keeping Tony Hoskings in a good temper – she pointed to the deepening blue of the evening sky.

‘Look at that !’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen a star that big !’

‘That’s the evening star,’ someone said.

‘It’s Polaris,’ said Brylo Deniz confidently. He was so sure that he did not bother to look. Brylo was generally right about such things.

This time he was completely wrong.

‘Oh no you don’t, missy !’ said Beauty’s mother, Mrs Hopcroft.

‘Get off your Dad and up to bed this instant. And you drink your milk, mind P Her father pulled her hair and said, ‘Torment !’

Beauty climbed down off her father’s lap. She cupped her pink-white hands round the blue mug of milk and Mrs Hopcroft thought of cyclamens and periwinkles. Beauty shook back her hair and her mother thought of a glass of honey standing in the sun. Beauty smiled and her mother found herself beaming fatuously.

This was not just a mother’s doting pride. Beauty’s teeth were white and tiny and perfect. Beauty’s feet under her nightie were as pretty as sugar mice. It was not her parents that had first called her ‘Beauty’ instead of her real name, Maureen; perhaps it had been old Mrs Durden, who kept the shop where Beauty spent her Saturday threepence; or Jim Knowles, the landlord of the Ploughshare, who bribed smiles from her with lemonade; or anyone else in Little Mowlesbury barring the Vicar, who called her ‘Little One’ (he could not remember names) and Tony Hoskings, who called her ‘Blondie’ or ‘Tich’.

Beauty kissed her mother and father and went up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, counting each stair aloud. This was her ritual each night. But tonight, it was broken. Beauty stopped by the little window halfway up the staircase.

‘Oh, Mummy, come and look !’ she cried. ‘There’s a big star in the sky !’

Beauty was wrong. It was not a star.

The boy and girl cricketers straggled back from the meadow with bats and pads and stumps. They pushed and hollered round Tony Hoskings, easily the tallest and most powerful of them – half a head taller than Brylo Deniz, though he too was eleven years old.

‘I told you I’d get that twenty !’ said Tony. ‘I got my twenty before you lost the ball !’ No one argued. Without interrupting himself, he left the road, squelched into the edge of the foul pond where ducks had once swum and marched over the roof of the half-submerged carcase of an Austin Heavy 12. ‘Well, come ON, then ! Follow yer leader ! That’s me !’ he yelled, and all the others followed him. Squelch, squelch, thump, scrabble, DOING, DOING, pause, jump, splash, squelch, squelch. The line of figures rose and fell like a caterpillar climbing over a twig. Brylo Deniz hesitated, shrugged and followed the rest. But even then, Tony went for him.

‘Heh ! Where’s Brylo gone, then?’ shouted Tony. ‘Anyone here seen Brylo?’ Some of the boys sniggered. It was best to laugh at Tony’s jokes. And this was one of them.

‘Oh ! Sorry, Brylo boy ! Didn’t see you !’ said Tony. ‘Couldn’t see you in this light. I mean, how could I?’

More uneasy laughter. For Brylo’s skin was dark brown. He was a Jamaican or West Indian or something like that; an orphan adopted by a childless couple in the village. Brylo was clever at school – two forms ahead of Tony. And Tony was leader –

‘That’s never a star !’ piped the Tiddler, eight-year-old Brian Biddle. They all paused and stared at the brilliant dot in the sky. ‘There’s never been a star that big !’

And it was not a star …

‘I’m off !’ muttered Spadger to Brylo. They had reached his cottage and Spadger could see through the heavy dropping lace curtains that the telly was on. If only Tony didn’t see him go. …

‘I want you, Spadger !’ yelled Tony. He had not even bothered to turn his head, thought Spadger, he just knew I’d try and slide off home. ‘All of you !’ Tony bellowed. ‘We’re going to serenade Dirty Durdens.’

‘Why can’t you leave them alone, they haven’t done you any harm,’ began Sandra. But Tony just turned on his heel and looked at her, his eyes glinting in the dusky light.

‘You sing, see?’ he said, hoarsely.

They were at the shop now. You could just read the familiar, ancient signs that covered its front, TIZER THE APPETIZER. NOSEGAY, BIRD’S EYE. And Sandra could see in her mind’s eye the musty, gaslit back parlour, with old Mr Durden mumbling and dozing in his stiff wooden chair and old Mrs Durden blinking and shuffling and drafting the cat. Sandra was once a Brownie, she had been inside there to clean. It was dark and sad. The rest sounded feeble but Tony’s voice was hoarse and piercing as a carrion crow’s:

DIRTY OL’ DURDEN

GIVES SHORT WEIGHT

EATS DEAD TOM CATS

OFF A DIRTY PLATE

And sure enough, the backdoor was flung open and old Mr Durden came out as if he’d been thrown out, and he was raving and mumbling and prancing and Tony was braying with laughter and dancing round him, just out of reach.

All the children ran. Not because they were frightened but because they were embarrassed. Even Tony soon gave up and came scarecrowing down the dim road after them.

Behind them, old Mrs Durden scolded old Mr Durden and told him not to fret – come inside and eat your supper do. And because he was so old, he forgot the children and stared about him with his watery eyes.

‘Never seen a star the like of that !’ he said. And so brilliant was the light of the thing that looked like a star that it made his eyes blink even faster.

The group began to break up, bit by bit, as the children reached their homes.

‘Night, Tiddler, mind it when you wash – you might slip down the plug’ole !’

‘Come inside this instant, Sandra, your supper’s spoiling.’

Inside most of the houses and cottages, the telly was on and the places were laid.

‘Do switch off the telly, Dad, it makes me sick, the news !’

‘Hold on a minute, Mother, I want to hear it …’

‘Sit up straight and eat your good food properly, my lad …’

‘It’s always the same these days – they’ll drop a bomb or we’ll drop a bomb !’

‘Let’s hear it, then.’

The man on the telly made it all sound very normal and respectable. ‘Mr Tang replied that unless effective guarantees for the unmolested independence of Pian Tuk were offered immediately by the Western Powers, he would have no option but to use nuclear weapons. In the Commons today, the Prime Minister said that Mr Tang’s threats were hardly likely to influence the course of action decided upon by Her Majesty’s government and supported by the whole free world. We too had nuclear weapons and would not hesitate to –’

‘Oh, must we listen to this, it makes me –’

‘No, keep quiet a minute –’

‘… In America, attitudes towards the Pian Tuk situation are hardening. The Defence Secretary, Mr O’Rourke, said today that America wants peace and will fight for it if necessary. Promises had been made and broken. The American nation would not tolerate –’

‘Hold your fork properly, do !’

‘Threats and bombs and fighting. Haven’t we had enough? It makes me sick, I don’t know why you listen to it –’

‘And now,’ said the man on the telly, with a quick smirk, ‘cricket !’

‘Mum, we saw a whopping great star when we were playing cricket, big as a saucer !’

‘Eat up. Your pudding’s ready.’

Ashley Mott did not play cricket. He was afraid of Tony Hoskings – and besides, there was his mother. Mother did not like the village boys and girls, they were rude and rough. Mother and Daddy (but especially Mother) were … nicer than the village people. Mother had once known a little boy who had been hit by a cricket ball and they had to take his eye out. His eye OUT !

Earlier, Ashley had heard them playing cricket on the meadow.

‘Howzat !’ lots of voices shouted, ‘OUT !’ shouted the umpire. Ashley had shivered then and he shivered now. His eye OUT !

He did not want to play cricket, thank you very much. Mother was right.

He continued undressing, for shortly his mother would call up the stairs, ‘Ashley, ready for drinkies?’ and he would say ‘Yes, Mother ! Nearly ready !’ and she would say, ‘Pop into your ‘jamas and Mother will be up !’ and she would bring him his warm Ovaltine in the bunny rabbit mug.

A cold, dew-laden draught of air stirred the curtains and Ashley went to close the window. The sky was dark blue overhead, but still pale where the sun had set. He reached forward for the window catch – and there, just behind the peak of the roof, was an enormous star !

‘Mummy, Mummy !’ he cried, ‘Mummy, come and see ! A huge star !’

Everyone was home now, but still there was talk of Little Mowlesbury’s star.

‘Heh ! Look at the star ! It’s got bigger, Dad ! ’ said Tony. ‘I’ll give you stars …’ said his father.

Spadger saw it. ‘It can’t be a star !’ he said to himself.

Brylo saw it. ‘It’s moved, so it can’t be a star,’ he reasoned.

The telly was too dull to watch that night with all the news flashes upsetting the proper programmes. So perhaps half a dozen children in Little Mowlesbury were staring at the ‘star’ when it went out. It went out like a light. One minute it was there and the next second it was gone.

And now that their eyes were not concentrated on the disc of light, their ears could hear a noise. No, not the transformers of the power substation – they made a lower, steadier hum. This noise was breathier, more whining, more urgent.

‘Spaceship !’ breathed Spadger to himself. ‘I’ll bet that’s what it is ! From Mars !’

‘It must have been catching the last rays of th. . .