Starships and Sorcery

The Cold Iron War

Chapter 1

“What do you mean fired? I built this company and—” Pete paused, realising this might not be the best approach, given the circumstances. “That is, we built this company, together, you and me. We built it from nothing and my analysis earned you, earned both of us, a fortune. So, what do you mean ‘fired’?”

The other man shrugged. “It’s too much, Pete. You’re too much. Nobody wants to work with you anymore. We can’t keep good staff while you’re here. So, sorry, but yes. Fired.”

Pete waited for the punchline, as if this was all a big joke, but it never came. This wasn’t a game. The decision wasn’t going to change.

“That’s it, is it? After three years and all that work, you’re just going to push me out the door? Well, we’ll see what the team says about that, shall we?”

Pete looked down the length of the open office with the elegant double-height ceiling and the authentically exposed industrial fittings. No closed doors, that’s what they’d asked for. No meeting rooms, no offices or closed-off space. A friendly, collaborative working space where everyone could mingle and contribute. Where chance encounters around the toaster might lead to interesting new ideas.

It didn’t feel so friendly now. 

His colleagues – former colleagues, he supposed – stood behind their desks, most with arms folded. Their expressions said it all.

Pete sniffed. He stood for a moment, just to see if anyone would crack.

“I’m going to the pub. I’ll be there till you realise your mistake and come crawling back.”

He paused again, just to see if that made any difference. Clearly, it hadn’t.

He sniffed again then stalked to his desk. He stuffed his laptop and the few personal items he’d accumulated into his bag. His copy of Godel, Escher, Bach sat on the desk where he’d left it the previous day. He thought about doing something dramatic with it, but what was the point?

Resigned to his fate, he forced the heavy tome into his bag. He snatched his trilby from the desk, rammed it onto his head, grabbed his jacket and walked off.

“Keycard,” said Janet the office manager when he reached the lobby. She seemed no more upset about his departure than the rest of the team.

“You knew, didn’t you?” snapped Pete as he wrestled the lanyard from around his neck. “You all knew, but you didn’t do anything.”

Janet held out her hand, a cruel smile curled on her lips. “We cheered. We’re having tea and scones this afternoon to celebrate. Keycard.”

Pete looked at her for a few seconds, blinking in surprise at her honesty, then he handed over the lanyard and card.

“Anything else you want to take?” he said. “Would you like the hat, maybe, or the shirt off my back? Couple of litres of blood, perhaps?”

Janet glanced at the hat and sniffed disdainfully. “No. And you can keep the phone,” she said, her smile growing more cat-like. “Consider it a parting gift.”

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Pete adjusted his trilby as the foot traffic of Soho flowed around him. He settled his bag on his shoulders and went in search of a pub.

An hour later and two pints heavier, Pete was back on the street trying to work out what to do next. Glassman had been his job. One could say, his entire life for the last three years. Seventy-hour weeks, coding weekends and private projects piggy-backing off his day job meant he suddenly had nothing to do, nowhere to be and nobody asking for things.

It was liberating.

Pete wandered the streets of Soho, passing shop displays and heading vaguely south with the intention of picking up the Jubilee line. He bought a bottle of water and a samosa from a street stall and tossed some change to a bloke in a doorway. Eventually he found himself sitting on the steps in Trafalgar Square watching the tourists. Pigeons were in abundance, mindlessly pecking at crumbs and flapping around people’s feet.

“Stupid birds,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“Not stupid, smart,” said a voice behind him. “You don’t see pigeons starving on the streets or mugging each other for phones, do you?”

Pete turned to find a homeless man sitting on the steps above him. He was filthy. Thick, matted beard, long unkempt hair and a coat so blackened by age and street grime its colour and style had long since become indiscernible. Only his eyes were bright. Peering out from beneath a greasy forehead and the bushiest eyebrows in Christendom.

Pete grunted and turned back to watch the birds as they followed a child across the square.

“See, they don’t mob people now,” said the man, a strange hint of pride in his voice. “There was a time they’d be all over that kid just ’cos she dropped a few crumbs, pecking away, the whole flock at her feet, always after more. Now, they’re smarter, playing a longer game. Strategy, that’s what it is. Take what’s given without crowding the hand that feeds ’em.”

Pete thought about that for a moment before deciding he couldn’t let it go unchallenged. “Sorry, you’re telling me the pigeons have optimised their foraging strategies to avoid annoying people and are working cooperatively to extract more food from tourists?”

The man grinned, showing a few brown teeth between strands of disgusting beard. “You ain’t as dumb as you look, mister.”

“T’ch, I’m not a tourist, mate. Those lines won’t work on me.”

“Oh no, I can see that. You’re one of them sophisticated tech people I keep reading about in yesterday’s papers. But me? I’m just a bird man who been here years. Hardly know a thing. But those pigeons is organised, you take my word for it.”

He leaned forward. Pete could now smell him without even trying.

“They’s special birds, I tell you, very special. They brings me news and tells me things, interesting things, useful things. Things nobody else knows or cares to know.”

Pete briefly closed his eyes, as if that would shut out the world and make the madness go away. When he looked again the man was still there. Pete shook his head and stood.

“See you around,” said the Birdman, waving as Pete walked away. “Come back and say hello to my pigeons, when you’re ready.”

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“It was the smirk that hurt,” said Pete later, telling his story to Smudge, one of the few regulars who would still sit with him at the Broken Door pub in Shoreditch. “She stood there and smirked. Like it was her talent and genius that built the business, and paid for her stupid desk, and that horrible pot plant, and that ridiculous phone with its programmable keys and graphical widescreen display.” 

The phone in the office reception had always annoyed him, for some reason.

Smudge yawned and stretched in Pete’s lap before jumping down and padding off down to the other end of the bar.

Pete watched him go and sighed. The way his day was going, it was hardly surprising that even the dog had had enough.

“Screw it,” muttered Pete. “Plenty of other jobs. Not like I need them anyway.” 

He bought another pint and ordered lunch. Maybe he’d get lucky and be able to work out what to do with the rest of his life before he cleared his plate.

His phone rang a few minutes later. The office. “Ha!” He thumbed the screen to accept the call. “Knew you’d call. Realised you can’t do it without me, eh? Thought you’d last longer than this to be honest.”

“It’s Janet. You left a load of books in the breakout room. You want them?”

“Books?” said a confused Pete. “What do you mean books?”

“Collections of organised information printed on processed tree flesh and stitched together between hard covers,” said Janet in her most patronising tone. “You know, books. Pick them up by the end of the week or we’ll donate them to charity.” 

She hung up, leaving Pete to stare open-mouthed at his phone. He took a long pull on his beer, draining the glass. 

And bought another.

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That was pretty much how he was eight hours later when Matt the Flat found him. Still in the same spot. Still contemplating eternal mysteries. Though considerably less sober.

“Alright mate, thought I might find you here,” said Matt, sliding onto the seat opposite Pete and setting down a pair of pints. “Got your text, sorry to hear you were fired.”

Pete looked up, eyes slightly glassy, and grunted.

Matt sipped his beer. “Might not be such a bad thing, you know. It’s not like you actually need the money, is it. How much have you got salted away? Couple of million, right? You’ll be ok. Plenty more jobs around here for someone with your talents, and till then you can relax a bit, let your hair down.”

Pete drained his pint and started on the one Matt bought. He only half listened as Matt droned on, spouting nonsense. Like it was supposed to make him feel better about the fact some bastard had taken away his toys. Again.

And it wasn’t even an unknown bastard but someone Pete had known nearly ten years. 

“We’ve got another gig,” said Matt, nervously sipping his drink.

“Big venue?” muttered Pete, not really caring.

“Half Moon in Herne Hill. Reopened a couple of months ago, so should be busy. The Thundering Angels are on the up,” said Matt, displaying the hope and naivety that spoke of limited contact with the world of professional music. Matt went into the details on the new songs they’d written and the practice sessions they’d played.

At some point Pete surrendered his card and Matt ordered two plates of pie and chips, with side orders of onion rings and garlic mushrooms. Pete’s spirits rose gently under the influence of the alcohol and casual conversation.

“Dixon’s back,” said Matt. “Shep looks well. Less moth-eaten, somehow.”

An old man came in, looked around, then shuffled over to his favourite seat.

Pete frowned. Shep was Dixon’s dog, a loyal friend for many years, and long dead. Stuffed and mounted on a wheeled-board, Dixon towed the old terrier to the pub every day, just as he’d done when Shep had been a young pup.

“Has he been away?” asked Pete. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Couple of weeks. Hernia op. I’d better say hello.” Matt ambled away. 

Pete didn’t miss when his card flashed through the machine again. A large round of drinks – beer with whisky chasers, by the look of it – appeared for the old codgers at the end of the bar. They raised their glasses in cheery salute and Pete waved back with a light scowl.

“Never understood why you do that,” Pete muttered when Matt slid back into his chair.

“What, buy them a round? Just being friendly. You never know when you might need another friend, right?”

“Things aren’t that bad,” said Pete with a dark look. “Things’ll never be that bad.”

The rest of the evening was almost entirely forgettable. They chatted, they drank, and Pete’s mood gradually improved.

Only one thing stood out. “Cats?” Pete asked suddenly, frowning in confusion. “What about the cats?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” said Matt, more animated with a few pints in his gut. “The cats are going missing all over Southwark and Lambeth, like there’s some sort of nut-job hunting felines. Catnapping, as it were.” Matt giggled into his beer. 

Only for Pete, this sounded serious. Pete liked cats. The fact the Broken Door had a pair of cats – Cheese and Pickle – living in the bar was part of the reason he liked coming to the pub. Although, now he came to think about it, he hadn’t seen either cat for a while.

“Let’s be a bit serious here,” said Pete, struggling to focus. “What do you mean ‘missing’?”

“Like missing. No longer around. Removed from the area. Taken by force and not returned. Absconded involuntarily. Kidnapped. Stolen. You know. Missing,” said Matt.

Pete thought about that, watching his card pay for yet another round of double Black Label on the rocks. Matt sat down again, pushing a glass of whisky into his hand.

“Somebody’s pinching cats across large parts of south London, all the way out to Croydon, and nobody seems to know who it is or why they’re doing it. It’s been going on for a few weeks, and nobody’s doing anything about it.”

Pete sipped his drink then grimaced, remembering why he preferred single malt. “Weird. Who’d wanna pinch cats? Some sort of YouTube conspiracy?”

Matt shrugged. “Don’t ask me. There’s some weird stuff going on around here. All over London, really, but mostly around here and down south.” Matt leaned forward, looking around to check they weren’t overheard and whispered, “Who stands to gain, that’s what I wanna know.” He tapped the side of his nose and nodded sagely, like he was about to impart wisdom of the ages. “Follow the money, right?”

Pete struggled to worm his thoughts into a coherent line, but he’d drunk too much for any of it to make sense. He put the glass down and stood, somewhat wobbly, grabbing his bag.

“S’enough for tonight,” he slurred, staggering around the table. “Gonna go home, sleep a bit.”

Matt slid the credit card into Pete’s shirt pocket, suddenly worried.

“You sure you’re ok? I can call you an Uber, if you like?”

Pete shook his head and snatched his hat from the table. Patting his pockets absent-mindedly, checking for his phone, he staggered to the door. Pete wrenched it open and disappeared into the night.

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