Empress of the Sun by Ian McDonald Page A

it. Peering close, Everett saw that the smoothness was an illusion. The creature was covered in scales; smaller and smoother even than snakeskin. The spectrum colours came from the play of light along the edges of the scales. There was something in that skin that made Everett not want to touch it, and a shadow in its open eye he did not like, something too knowing.
    ‘What is that thing?’ he asked.
    ‘Supper,’ Sharkey said. ‘“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat.”’
    ‘Nae offence,’ Mchynlyth said, ‘but I’ll take the vegetarian option.’
    He passed the dish to Captain Anastasia. The crew sat elbow to elbow around the small table in the cramped galley. The smell of onions, garlic, cumin, chilli, curry leaves and coconut milk could not quite mask the smell of the meat. Captain Anastasia looked into the bowl and passed it to Sen. Sen gagged back a little sick in the back of her throat. Everett passed it straight to Sharkey. Sharkey had skinned, gutted and cleaned the creature, taken off its head and tail but left it to Everett to turn it into dinner. Everett had barely been able to touch the flesh. Its thin bones cracked and splintered under his knife. He scoopedthe meat into the onions and frying masala paste, poured on coconut milk and clapped the lid on. Even after an hour it was still rubbery when he prodded it with a fork.
    Every eye was on Sharkey. He spooned out a large serving and took a mouthful. He chewed. He chewed for a long time.
    ‘Bona manjarry. Nothing wrong with it. Kinda textured. Tastes like alligator.’
    ‘Is that naan?’ Mchynlyth said. ‘Gie us a whack of that.’
    Everett passed the bread, still hot from the oven.
    ‘I stuck it on a stick and held it over the hotplate to puff it up,’ Everett said.
    ‘My gran used to do that with the coal fire,’ Mchynlyth said. ‘Just a wee show of the heat. Bugger all tandoori ovens in Govan. I’d take some of your dhal, Mr Singh.’
    Everett passed the bowl of lentil curry. He was being forgiven. Not fully, not immediately, but the process had begun. They were all together on a wrecked ship on a world more alien than they could possibly imagine, with death and danger beneath their feet. They were family.
    ‘My bebe gave me her halva recipe,’ Everett said. ‘Any sort of special occasion, she’d make halva.’
    ‘Oh aye, it was the same when I was a wain,’ Mchynlyth answered. ‘Holi, Christmas, good exam grades, dog has puppies, third cousin twice removed gets engaged; lash round the halva. Hers was different from yours; she made it from besan flour so it was more like fudge, and it was green, andit had this kind of herb taste. It was only after she died I found out she made it with bhang – that’s cannabis to you goras. No wonder all those wains were rolling around grinning – they were off their tits.’
    ‘I didn’t know your family were from Govan,’ Captain Anastasia said.
    ‘Aye, well, there’s things I tell you and things you never ask about,’ Mchynlyth said. ‘I must have been the only Desi boy in Govan couldn’t cook. Always a matter of some regret.’
    Everett thought,
I could teach you
, but he did not say it. Mchynlyth had his own world of engines and electrics and there he was master. He would not go back to being an apprentice in another world.
    ‘Mr Mchynlyth, I notice you have your shush-bag with you,’ Captain Anastasia said. ‘Any chance of a bijou tune?’
    Mchynlyth opened the elaborate brass clasps of the cracked leather case and took out a set of bagpipes. The galley was too small to deploy all the pipes so he stepped on to the catwalk, blew up the bag and adjusted the drones comfortably against his shoulder. Then he blasted into ‘Scotland the Brave’ at a volume that rattled plates in their racks and cups on their hooks. He followed with ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’ and ‘The Tangle of the Isles’. Captain Anastasia thumped her fist on the table in time to the