by Toby Frost
‘A facefull of lion poo?’ Carveth put in.
‘Well said.’ Smith clapped Carveth on the back, nearly propelling her into the stream of buccaneers filing past. ‘That's the spirit, pilot. This lion isn't fit to drop yet. Well, not unless it's dropping a – anyway, we need to decide what we’re going to do.’
Carveth sighed. ‘Muck out the zoo of justice, from the sounds of it. Which is probably code for “Get in terrible danger and nearly, if not actually, die”.’
‘An excellent plan!’ Suruk growled. ‘Once more onto the beach, dear friends! And seal up the wall with a big pile of heads!’ His eyes, always yellowish, had taken on a worryingly crazed look, like a blood orange without its skin. ‘I see this as a quest of two stages. First of all, we kill everything. Then –’
‘Listen,’ Smith put in. ‘It’s clear what’s going on here. The Edenites are trying to recruit as many ne’er-do-wells as they can, and not for a game of five-a-side, I’ll wager.’
Carveth nodded. ‘Looks like it.’
‘There’s trouble brewing here,’ Smith said. ‘And we need to get to the heart of it. We have to get out of this area and into the places only the Edenites can go. And that means we’ll need robes. And I know just the place to get them.’
Suruk chuckled. ‘From the same place we shall acquire Edenite skulls!’
‘Actually, I thought we’d just ask nicely.’
‘Oh,’ Suruk said. His mandibles drooped. ‘Mazuran, do you really need my assistance? Otherwise I shall try to find some meagre pleasure in the company of several hundred pirates and their near-limitless supply of bladed weaponry.’
‘Alright,’ Smith said. ‘You wait for us. We’ll bring you back a disguise.’
Beside the John Pym, the New Eden acolyte was still handing out his pamphlets. A filthy man with one eye stood in front of him, insolently folding his questionnaire into a paper hat. As Smith and Carveth approached, he tossed the hat aside and stomped off on a bionic leg, glowering across the gantries.
‘Finished your questionnaires?’ the acolyte demanded. ‘Good. Let’s have a look.’
They passed him their papers, and the Edenite shook his head sadly as he leafed through their answers. ‘Ah, yes, a common result. You see… what your test scores show is an urgent need to give us your money –’
‘Actually,’ said Smith, passing him the questionnaires, ‘we’d like to join.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Carveth put in. ‘It looks like great fun! All that witchfinding –’
‘Join up?’ said the man. ‘You sure? You look so.. ’
‘Normal?’ Smith replied.
The Edenite looked them over – Smith in his tweed jacket and eyepatch, his moustache waxed and upstanding, Carveth in goggles and overalls – and said, ‘I was thinking more along the lines of distinctive. You know, it’s a far cry from piracy to Edenism. Some people find it hard to give up wenching, drinking, jollity and song. Of course, you do get to keep the murder, but it’s much more hate-filled. And you don’t get to choose who you murder.’
‘Bah,’ said Smith, ‘mere trivialities.’
‘Glory be to the merciful Annihilator! Well, if you could make us out a cheque for all your worldly goods, kill any aliens you may know – after all, we can’t have any of that “all pirates are equal” stuff here, can we? – and reduce your ladyfriend here to miserable servitude, then we can fetch you some novitiate robes. The acolyte smiled, which was technically illegal, and put out his hand for Smith to shake.
‘Welcome to the Church of the New Eden! I would shake your hand, miss, except that you’re inherently sinful and will probably give me girl germs. Now then, if you’d just step into my office, we can find you some robes. .’
He led them across the landing pad to a small, shedlike building. The sign above the lintel read Military Surplice. As Smith balled his fists, Carveth slipped a spanner from her back pocket. ‘Good for dealing with nuts,’ she explained, and she gave Smith a rare ferocious look. They followed the cultist inside, and quietly closed the door.
*
Lord Prong was having a dream about ascending in a celestial stair-lift when something nudged his arm. He sat up, blinking and muttering, and found his secretary, the Exalted Stapulator, standing beside the sofa and prodding him with a pincer. Since the Stapulator had demonstrated his devotion by having his hands replaced with staple guns, it was a very gentle prod.
Prong patted the seat next to him and located his Helm of Purity. He put it on, turned it so that the buckle faced the front and felt the bionics in the crown click into place, accelerating his drowsy mind.
Now that he was alert, the first task was to find his slippers. Prong got to his feet. To judge from the images on the screen of sanctity before him, he had started to watch a taped episode of Eden’s Most Wanton Harlots but, having turned the ranting commentary down to better love the sinner, he had promptly dropped off.
‘Damn slippers, always. .’
‘Grand Mandrill?’
He turned to face the Stapulator. ‘What?’
‘Lord Prong, your appointment with the hierarchs is to take place in thirty minutes.’
‘The hierarchs?’ He scowled. ‘What do I want with them? They’re just a bunch of crazy old farts.
Half of ‘em barely know – wait. When are the allies coming to look at Project Horseman?’
‘Their ships are currently in orbit, Lord Prong. They will be arriving in forty minutes.’
‘What? Why didn’t you tell me? Damn young’uns. Got to do everything myself. Now, where the hell’s my hat?’
The Stapulator helped Lord Prong into his coat, nearly pinning it to him in the process, and together they set off towards the upper landing site. A lift decorated with cherubs and virgins whisked them up towards the landing pads.
The hierarchs were waiting for them. In their white robes and pointed hats they looked strangely like penguins, or a gang of geriatric dunces. Beliath stood in their centre, grimacing as if struck with indigestion. On his right, Hierarch Ezron thoughtfully chewed the end of his beard. Regnus, the Grand Coelacanth, was on the left, so heavily covered in parchments and sacred texts as to look like a sort of human newsagents. Crusadist militiamen flanked the party, but they were too busy testifying and battering one another with holy tomes to be much use as guards.
The party started off, Lord Prong grumbling at its head. Behind him, the hierarchs discussed the matters of the day. A machine had been built out of an old rollercoaster that could now duck up to fifty witches at once. ‘Trouble is, once you’ve ducked them, they’re much harder to burn,’ Ezron explained.
‘All women must burn!’ Beliath interjected, furiously rubbing his thighs like an overkeen bowler polishing two balls at once. ‘Burn them, stone them, oh hell yes!’
Two ogres waited at the end of the gangway. From a distance they looked like the result of some trick of perspective. In truth, they were both nearly eight feet tall. When the Ghasts had first made their alliance with the Republic of New Eden, they had exchanged technologies. At the time it had seemed like a perfect deal: the Edenites threw their new allies a few scraps about tank design while they received the gene-splicing equipment that could turn their elite soldiers into the human equivalent of praetorians. The Edenites called them the Reborn: loyal soldiers granted great strength from immersion in the waters of the gene pool. Unfortunately, the Ghasts had neglected to mention the side effects.
As Prong approached both of the bodyguards snapped a salute, one nearly concussing himself in the process. They both wore blue-grey uniforms, with heavy plate armour over the top.
‘At ease,’ Prong rasped. He had to lean back to see their faces, which made his spine ache.
‘Sir,’ said the left giant, ‘I am Lieutenant Carsus of the White Knights of Purity, sir, and this is Private Leniatus. May I say, sir, what a deep honour and a privilege it is to be serving you today in greeting the alien filth on behalf of our beloved republic, sir.’
&
nbsp; Prong nodded. Carsus didn't seem to like pausing between words. ‘Right, good,’ he replied, ‘you do that, sonny.’
‘I got a gun,’ said Private Leniatus.
Prong had not expected to hear him speak. ‘What?’
‘Gun,’ Leniatus explained, patting the oversize, multi-barrelled firearm he held across his chest. ‘I got a gun for the unbelievers and a prostate.’
‘Shut up, you big dummy!’ Carsus hissed. ‘I told you not to say anything.’ His immense jaw made speaking out of the corner of his mouth rather difficult. ‘And it's apostates.’
‘Gun for the apple states,’ Leniatus said, and he smiled vaguely over Prong's head.
‘Right, good, whatever,’ Prong snapped. Typical young people, he thought. ‘Follow me. And pipe the hell down.’
‘Yes sir!’ Carsus grunted. ‘All hail the Grand Mandrill, sir. We stand ready and waiting to initiate full tactical combat protocols –’
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Prong replied. ‘Shut up!’
‘Sorry, sir. I tenderise my apologies. Forgive me, Grand Mandrill.’
Leniatus chuckled. ‘Carsus, you're the dummy,’ he said.
The Handyman’s Tale
‘One size fits all, it seems,’ Smith said, pulling a red robe over his head. ‘Or rather, nobody. On the plus side, the hoods hang down so much, you can hardly see your face.’
‘Well, it’ll suit Suruk, then. I can hardly see anything,’ Carveth said. She looked, Smith thought, like a cross between a monk, a ghost and Little Red Riding Hood. Seen from the front, it appeared as if the robe was animating itself. ‘I look like something from science fiction.’
‘You mean speculative fiction. Science fiction has talking squids.’
‘Same difference. Oh – don’t forget your passcard.’ She passed him a plastic card on a chain. The Handymen had access, theoretically speaking, to anywhere on Deliverance, provided that there were repairs required.
If the Edenites dressed like this all the time, Smith reflected, no wonder they were so hot and bothered. Still, stealing the robes had left a convenient space in the cupboard, now occupied by the acolyte, tightly bound and gagged with a wad of his own pamphlets. Smith bundled up a spare robe and shoved it down his front. Nobody noticed them slipping out through the door.
‘Now we just have to find Suruk,’ Carveth said.
‘That’ll be easy,’ Smith replied. ‘He does rather stand out.’
‘In a horde of psychotic pirates? Actually, I think he’ll be invisible.’
A great roar arose to their right. Smith glanced round, and for a moment he thought it was Suruk himself. Then he realised that it was about thirty coarse voices spilling out of the Booty Shack, raised in raucous song:
‘Who. . lives in a spaceship that’s made out of rust? Suruk the Slayer!
Born of battle and war and bloodlust? Suruk the Slayer!
If decapitation is what you fear
Then heave away, hearties, from his big spear!’
Smith looked at Carveth as an accordion solo began. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is where you’re wrong.
Follow me, crew!’ he declared, and he strode to the door and threw it open.
Two pirates lay on the floor, either dead or dead drunk. A thing like a bladed grappling hook stuck out of the ceiling. An enormous boar of a man, shirtless and bruised, was flat out across one of the tables. Suruk stood on the next table down and, around him, two dozen of the galaxy’s most raucous buccaneers waved their fists and tankards in the air.
Smith slipped past a filthy corsair and approached the table. ‘Suruk, come down from there!’
‘Gar!’ cried the corsair, ‘it’s the fun police! Come for our women and drink, have ye?’
A growl of fury rose from the crowd. ‘Ah, ye medieval knob! They promise us plunder, and try to make us join their cult. What would ye do, Eden – school us freebooters to bow before your Great Annihilator, eh?’
The space pirates surged forward. At the entrance a voice cried, ‘And here’s another – a spy he’s been hiding, the sly old bugger!’
Suruk reached for a knife. Smith twisted aside, dislodging a hand from his shoulder, reached up and threw back his hood. ‘That’s enough!’ he cried, using the Bearing, and the Shau Teng style made the crowd of reprobates pause.
‘My name is Isambard Smith, and I am no Edenite. I have stolen these robes in order to infiltrate this facility.’
‘Er, Boss?’ Carveth took a step back towards the door, but trod on the hem of her robe and narrowly avoided falling over. ‘Ah, bollocks to it,’ she said, pulling her hood down.
‘The young lady you see there is under my protection, and I will kill any man who lays a hand on her, Edenite or not,’ Smith declared. ‘The fellow before you, Suruk the Slayer, is my friend.’
At the rear of the room, a pirate laughed. It was No-Nose, the madman from the cinema. His left hand gripped a pint of beer; his right, the bottom of a young buccaneer girl. ‘So you say, Eden. But to claim company with this great fighter here? That can’t be. Him, an alien warrior hungry for glory, an’ you, stiffer than a ship’s biscuit. I’ll wager ye’ve never even met.’
‘I know this man.’ Suruk hopped down from the table. ‘He speaks truly, and together we have spilled the blood of many a foe. He is called Mazuran in my tongue, which means “the quick brown fox that jumps over the lazy dog”. Be sure of one thing, if this man walks concealed among you, there is danger and bloodshed afoot, of the finest vintage.’
‘Suruk’s right,’ Smith replied, before anyone could challenge him again. ‘This is subterfuge, gentlemen. I came here to sink a spaceship – none of yours. I have a debt to settle with these Edenites, and I call on you to lend me your ears.’
‘How about a nose?’ No-Nose laughed. Beer exploded from his nostrils. The buccaneer girl shifted down the bench.
‘Listen,’ Smith replied. ‘Let me ask you something. What is it that you stand for? Is it booze?
Plunder? Women? Senseless violence? Yes to all of those, probably. But what really drives you? For what does every space pirate truly thirst?’
Eyes and patches met across the room. Hands and hooks scratched battered heads.
‘Shanties?’ a voice suggested.
‘Revenge on the Navy, damn ’em?’
‘You’re all wrong,’ Smith replied. ‘It’s fun. You all want fun.’
‘Fun?’ No-Nose snorted derisively, with unpleasant results. Then he frowned. ‘So what if we do, swabby?’
‘Fun,’ Smith replied, ‘is the very thing your new allies hate.’
A rumble ran through the room. The space pirates, never the most analytical thinkers, experienced a moment of contemplation.
‘Think about it. Why is it, that when they find something enjoyable, the Edenites have to call a halt to it in the name of so-called piety? Why is it that everything you enjoy is to them a crime to be wiped out? Sex, booze, brawling, doing exactly what you please: the Edenites would see them eradicated like so many cockroaches of, er, joy. Why, they’d criminalise every natural urge in the world if they thought it would bring a little more misery to the human race. When I have a natural urge, I follow it through – and I bet you all do the same.’
‘I used to,’ said one of the pirates, ‘but me shipmates got me some tablets.’
No-Nose stood up and brushed his coat down. ‘Mates, this parley is all very well, but what’s he got to offer us in return? We’ve not come here for nothing.’
‘Ask my crew,’ Smith said. ‘Suruk, what do you want?’
‘Battle, of course,’ the M’Lak replied. ‘Blood, doom and the skulls of my enemies. With my blades I delight my ancestors through the gift that keeps on giving… the heads of ignoble fools.’
A rumble of mixed approval and apprehension came from the privateers. Smith turned to Carveth. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’ She looked appalled. ‘Well, I – I want to stay alive, I suppose. . and right now I could do with a drink.�
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‘See?’ Smith said.
No-Nose rubbed his chin. His lack of a nose made him look as though he was in the early stages of turning into Suruk. For a moment he stared at the ceiling fan, and suddenly he exclaimed: ‘Well, damn!
Violence and booze. Perhaps you do have a point after all. I could do with hearing a bit more about pillaging but, curse it, I’m with ye. Enough of this Edenite nonsense! I ask ye, what good is a god who hates his own creation? That’s a theological tautology. Me hearties,’ he added, for good measure. ‘So now…’ he said, leaning closer, and giving Smith a very distasteful view of his nostrils, ‘where might all this entertainment be found?’
*
In true Edenite style, the edges of the Upper Level landing pad were decorated with burning bodies.
Stakes stood along the edge of the pad, surrounded by piles of wood: when important Edenites visited, it was customary to light up some apostates to show them the way in. A huge statue of the Great Annihilator stood at the far end, his fangs bared, a gun in one hand and a time bomb in the other.
On the videoscreens, a reclusive hierarch named Gurt the Spelunker was delivering a furious sermon. Live from his cavern, he railed against the decadence of the democratic world and the prevalence of guano.
Lord Prong’s heart sank as he stepped onto the gantry. A small group of Edenites had gathered on the edge of the walkway, brandishing guns and big placards. Their feathery hats identified them as the True Brotherhood of the Chicken Rampant.
‘Hey, you kids!’ Prong's amplified voice rang around the cavern. ‘Get off my landing pad!’
One of the Brothers Rampant broke free from the others and rushed up. His eyes had a worrying, ecstatic gleam. ‘Lord Prong! How can you stand by and let this travesty happen?’
The Stapulator Documentarium clacked his pincers, and the zealot backed away a little. Prong sighed. ‘What travesty?’
