by Toby Frost
‘Suruk, are you okay in there?’
He glanced round: Rhianna stood in the doorway, wearing either a caftan or a duvet cover. ‘Fine, fine,’ Suruk replied. ‘I was… ah, meditating.’
‘I thought I heard a panting sound. I wondered if some kind of wild dog had got in and was – you know –’ she glanced at the table leg. ‘What’s this on the TV?’
‘Er, Antiques Roadshow.’
‘Ravnavar must have freedom!’ cried the television, as Grimdall the Rebel smashed a chair over a pith-helmeted head. ‘Drive out the forces of Earth!’
There was an awkward pause.
‘A repeat,’ Suruk said.
Rhianna gave him her understanding look, which to Suruk thought made her eyes bulge alarmingly. She leaned forward and for a horrible moment he thought she was going to place her hand over his in an understanding manner. That would have led to an uncomfortable situation, especially since convention would have demanded that he lop her arm off.
‘I know how you must feel,’ she said. ‘You want your own planet, don’t you?’
‘Indeed,’ Suruk replied. ‘I am not sure which one, but there would definitely be lava involved. And fierce beasts.’
‘I was referring to Ravnavar.’
‘Oh no!’ Suruk said, shocked. ‘I couldn’t just take that. It has people on it already.’
‘I meant that you wanted to be part of the indigenous movement for Ravnavari self-government.’
‘That sounds dull.’
‘But don’t your people want their planet back?’
Suruk looked at her. His eyes, always small and malign, narrowed. ‘But nobody has taken it. If we did not want humans here, they would not be here. Except for their heads.’
‘But humanity takes from your people. Don’t you want comfort, the chance to bring up a family?’
‘Ugh,’ Suruk replied. ‘Give me large monsters and battle any day. Besides, one could not have comfort with my family around. What with my young trying to bite my legs off and my brother trying to bore my brains out, the field of honour starts to look increasingly appealing.’
‘Your brother? How is Morgar?’
‘The last I heard, he had gone back to architecture. It is for the best. He is not built for combat. You should speak to him about Ravnavar. He has views on the matter. Personally,’ Suruk added, ‘I would not want to cast mankind from M’Lak space. The noblest humans make worthy comrades. And the rest make good paperweights. In fact, I have met human beings I liked almost as much as my spear.’
Suruk stood up and finished his drink. He turned the television off.
‘We are both fortunate to have known Isambard Smith,’ he said, ‘I beside him in battle, you under him in bonking.’ He sighed. ‘Well, I must retire for the night. Oh, and perhaps we would best not mention this to Mazuran himself. It would be best not to trouble his mind with the matter of Ravnavar – and believe me, his mind troubles easily.’
* * *
Paradath Palace stood on a hill at the edge of Ravnavar City. Huge, ornate and covered in gargoyles, it looked to Morgar like the ugly bastard child of a M’Lak fortress and the British Museum.
His Citroen made hard work of the winding road. Rows of statues flanked the path, depicting M’Lak soldiers waving sabres at the sky. Crude, he thought, and the road twisted and he was before the castle itself.
It appalled him. The main building resembled a Greek temple, mogul’s palace, medieval citadel and public library, with a bit of lido thrown in for luck. What looked like the lid of a colossal soup tureen sat on the Parthenon-like façade, under a row of flagpoles, all of which displayed the Union Jack. Morgar had heard that the Ravnavari Lancers were vehemently patriotic. It struck him as foolish – and, in a way, servile.
He stopped the car and stepped out into the heat. Lawns flanked the castle, the grass dotted with steaming heaps of shadar dung. A statue stood in the middle of the lawn, depicting a winged M’Lak holding up one hand in greeting. He wondered where he’d seen something like it before, and then remembered that it was in The Exorcist.
‘You there!’
An officer of the lancers hurried down the steps in full dress uniform, his polished tusks gleaming in the sunlight.
‘Jaizeh,’ Morgar called.
‘Morning! You the architect chap, then? Come to build us some bogs?’
‘Yes. I’m Morgar the Architect. I’ve brought some drawings for the human facilities, but I did have a few ques –’
‘Captain Bargath, First Ravnavari Lancers.’ Bargath stuck out a hand, human-style. They shook. ‘Fine building, isn’t it? Really says something. That’s what we want you to make. Toilets that really say something.’
Morgar nodded warily. Bargath might not be from Earth, but he sounded very much like some of the human crazies that Morgar’s brother tended to associate with. ‘Well, they will say something. Ladies and Gents, mainly.’
‘Splendid. Very Earth-like. Let’s go inside and have some gin.’
The entrance hall was large and full of still air. It smelled of polish.
‘What do you think?’ Bargath said.
Morgar took it all in: the big fireplace, the grandfather clocks, the portraits of old lancers. Everywhere, he saw the overbearing influence of Earth.
‘It’s very… human,’ he said. ‘Don’t you have a trophy rack?’
‘God no. Skulls everywhere? Barbarian stuff, that. We have our enemies stuffed these days.’ Bargath’s eyes narrowed. ‘I say, you’re not one of those “Freedom for Ravnavar” sorts, are you?’
‘I’m undecided. I do rather like the… er, sophistication of Earth, but sometimes I’m really not sure what we’re doing in their empire.’
‘Doing? Chopping things up, man! At least, that’s what I’m doing. And it’s not their empire. It’s ours.’ Bargath frowned and brushed a speck of dirt off his lapel. ‘Have you seen action, then?’
‘Well, I was on Urn during the uprising.’
‘Urn? Splendid! We’ve always got room for an Urnie. I think you’ll like it here.’ They passed through a pair of double doors, into a large smoking-room. The heads of monsters glared down from the walls, as if passing angry judgement on the battered leather armchairs below.
‘See that gap at the end?’ Bargath said, pointing. ‘That’s for the lemmings. Foul enemy, your Yull. Merciless, murderous, malodorous. Still, what can you expect dealing with aliens, eh?’
A loud bang came from the corner of the room, like a dustbin falling over. A crab-shaped wallahbot sailed up from the ground, struck the ceiling fan and dropped behind an occasional table. A M’Lak in uniform shook a fist after it. ‘I said two sugars!’ it bellowed.
Bargath waved a hand. ‘Morning, Colonel.’
‘Bugger off, the lot of you,’ Colonel Pargarek said, sitting down.
‘Ah, the fine ways of Britain,’ Morgar muttered.
Pargarek nodded. ‘Absolutely! I’ve fought for the British Space Empire for thirty years now. That makes me British to the core, and if you can find anyone who disagrees, I’d like to see ’em.’
‘You could try Earth, for a start.’
Bargeth motioned him into a corridor. Behind them, the colonel growled and spluttered at the newspaper.
‘Of course, you’ll be staying here, as our guest,’ Bargath said. ‘Best way to assess the lie of the land and all that.’
‘That’s very good of you.’
‘Not at all. I’ll sort you out a pass. You’ll be an honorary lancer.’ Bargath pointed out of the window. On an immaculate field outside, two M’Lak charged about on horses, waving long-handled mallets. ‘Smashing.’
‘You play polo?’ Morgar said.
‘No, that’s warhammer practice. Well hit, that fellow!’ he shouted out the window. ‘Medic!’ Bargath gestured down the corridor, and they continued their walk.
‘Now, about these lavatories...’ Morgar suggested. ‘Any thoughts on the design?’
‘Well, something trad
itional would be good, in keeping with the spirit of the rest of the place. Dignified, yet striking. Much like myself, if I may say so. I do like striking things,’ Bargath added wistfully. ‘Oh – no bidets in the bathrooms, mind. Dreadful business. Makes one soft.’
Morgar, who like all his species had absolutely no use for a bidet, wondered whether the bathrooms would have any purpose beyond the ornamental.
They turned the corner. Rows of glass panels made up the right side of the corridor. They seemed to be windows, Morgar thought, but it was impossible to see much beyond them. He had a vague impression of rocks beyond. It was like looking out of a spaceship’s viewing lounge.
‘Now,’ Bargath said, stopping by a window, ‘the Ravnavari Lancers take good care of their guests. It’s a point of honour for us. So, which newspaper would you like delivered to your room?’
‘I’ll have the Guardian, please,’ Morgar replied.
‘No, sorry, didn’t quite get you there. Try again.’
Morgar sighed. ‘The Telegraph.’
‘Splendid. You know, last week I told the wallahbot, “Why don’t you be enterprising about it and bring me the Sunday papers a day early? Get yourself an extra lie in, that way. I know how much you robot types like lounging about.” Bugger told me it didn’t compute. Damned cheeky, these robots. But anyhow, for the duration of your stay, you’re one of us.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Not at all. Least I could do. You’ll have your own quarters, your own sabre, and of course, your own one of these.’
He pressed a button on the wall. Light flared up behind the glass, and Morgar leaped back. The thing in the room beyond looked like a cross between a rhino and a chameleon and was almost as big as a lorry. It had pressed itself very close to the glass.
‘His name is Frote,’ Bargath explained. ‘He likes people.’
Morgar noticed several large bones scattered about the floor. ‘I’ll bet.’
* * *
The next morning, Smith bought the Ravnavari Times.
‘Read all abart it, guvnor!’ cried the vendorbot, opening its midriff and pulling out a folded newspaper. ‘Robot Reaper dismantles third android of easy virtue! In uvver news, Cockney computer virus runnin’ out of control an all!’
Strolling back to the ship, Smith checked for news of yesterday’s mayhem. The Service had done its work well: the incident was on the ninth page, underneath today’s shadar-racing tips. Today’s recommendation was Women and Children First, which was either the name of a promising front-runner or sound advice if any of the shadar got loose.
They took breakfast at Strakey’s Tiffin Rooms. It stood on a small cliff overlooking the city. Fans turned lazily overhead: a dozen diners worked their way through piles of fried food. It was nice, Smith thought, to be somewhere that had a view over the city and smelled of a different sort of grease to the hold of the John Pym.
Seated on the verandah, Smith ate the full English breakfast, while Carveth chose the Yardarm Special, which consisted of mackerel fried in gin with a glass of gin and gin sauce. Rhianna picked at something involving mushrooms, and plates came and went so quickly from Suruk’s place that it was hard to tell which of the main courses he had eaten first. Occasionally, a junkbot would creep in through the back door and try to either beg for pennies or just steal the cutlery, which it would use to make extra legs.
Out in the city, everyone seemed to be preparing for war. A small ravnaphant lumbered around the park, carrying a platoon of soldiers. Supply shuttles shot up from launch pads as if the city was popping them out like seeds. About half a mile away, a M’Lak workshop exploded, throwing an engineer in the traditional white coat of Clan Oreod into the air. He struck the ground, dusted himself down, paused to cackle at the sky and ran back inside to grapple with Science.
Carveth watched two Ravnavari Lancers battering each other with polo mallets in the Imperial Gardens. One fell off and was immediately scooped up by his shadar, which ran around with him in its mouth.
‘They should use polo ponies, like normal people,’ she said. ‘And by normal people, I really mean the royal family.’
‘You know what I don’t get?’ said Smith, leafing through the newspaper.
‘The Angling Times?’ Suruk replied.
‘No, that’s not what –’
‘Perhaps you should, Mazuran.’ Suruk pushed his fork into a rubbery lump of shambled egg. It squeaked audibly. ‘It is a good read. Especially if you like angling. Less good on current affairs, if I remember correctly.’
Something exploded in the city, and a few of the diners tutted over their Sunday papers. Minor detonations were not uncommon: Ravnavar boasted a lot of rocket pads, as well as some enthusiastic inventors and questionable whisky stills – but blowing oneself up showed a distinct lack of class, especially at this time of the day.
A cloud of smoke rose from the centre of town. ‘Odd,’ Smith said, ‘that’s awfully close to the senate house.’
‘Good Lord!’ said a voice behind him. ‘That looks like the bank.’
Smith turned in his seat: a round-faced man had set his monocle to maximum zoom, making it look like a rocket sticking out of the moon of his head. Smith looked back at the city and saw a thin column of rising smoke. Yes, it did look like the front of the Automated Bank, a blue cathedral of a building. And what was that on the steps, tiny from this distance? A yellow figure scurried up to the front door and, instead of opening it, started to climb up the side of the bank. It looked remarkably familiar, even from here…
Smith sprang to his feet. ‘Men,’ he cried, ‘we must cease our dining and take to the field again. No longer is it breakfast time – now is the hour of action. The bank is being robbed – let’s get stuck in!’
‘Cecil,’ said the manager, ‘call the police!’
Smith looked around and added, ‘We’re going to rescue the bank. Not rob it.’
‘Actually,’ Suruk said, ‘I am somewhat neutral on the issue.’
* * *
They pulled up at the bank to see a robbery in full progress. The front of the bank had been smashed in: where there had been a frieze depicting a robot distributing money to the needy, there was a large, ragged hole. Half a dozen masked figures were at work inside, bent over terminals, stuffing notes into bags. Alarms howled distantly.
Smith stopped the car and a bullet cracked the windscreen. Carveth ducked; she seemed to be trying to climb under the seat. Rhianna made the humming noise that indicated that she was activating her psychic abilities. ‘Cover us, old girl,’ Smith said, and he kicked the door open, stepping out and drawing his Civiliser in the same movement. A man in a brown coat and gas mask ducked out of the doorway. He raised a long rifle.
Smith fired. The man fell out of view as if the floor had been pulled from under him. Smith ran towards the entrance. He stopped beside the main door, next to a sign reading The Bank Whose Computer Says ‘Yes!’. Suruk stepped in beside him, spear in hand.
‘Up there,’ said the M’Lak, pointing.
The construction robot was climbing up the side of the bank. It was not a difficult ascent, despite the height: like any decent building in the Space Empire, the Imperial Bank was covered in gargoyles and crenellations. ‘It’s like King Kong,’ Smith gasped, ‘Except with diggers.’
‘It must not climb any further,’ Suruk said. ‘For is it not true that the higher up the bank one gets, the greater the misdeeds become?’
‘Alright,’ Smith said. ‘You stop the robot, and I’ll stop the robbery. Good luck.’
He ran into the hall and shouted ‘You there! Stop this nonsense or there’ll be trouble!’
Half a dozen bullets answered him. Ducking back, Smith reflected that this might be more difficult than he’d thought.
‘It’s the Sweeney!’ a voice cried from inside. ‘If you want to barney, filth, I’ve got a heater waiting for you!’
‘Sorry,’ Smith called back, ‘I didn’t understand a word of that.’<
br />
‘Naff off!’ came the reply. ‘I’ll bleedin’ do you, you slag!’ shouted the thug.
‘I’m damned if you’re doing me, you dirty criminal!’ Smith replied.
Something prodded him between the shoulder-blades. A voice just behind his ear said, ‘Don’t move, fuzz. Hands up. Now turn around, nice and slow.’
‘Bugger,’ said Smith. He raised his Civiliser and rotated on the spot.
‘No swearing, either,’ said the robber. He wore a mask of Lord Kitchener, but instead of a finger, he was pointing a gun. ‘When my old gran sees this on the news, do you think she’ll want to hear a load of bleedin’ potty talk? She watches all my crimes, my old gran.’
A point of shadow appeared on the floor between them. Smith looked up, and saw a dark patch outline in the skylight overhead. ‘Actually,’ Smith said, ‘that’s probably the least of your worries.’
‘Shut it!’
The dark patch grew. Distantly, from above, Smith heard a whooping sound.
‘Wossat?’ the robber demanded.
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ Smith replied. ‘But from experience I’d suggest it’s dangerous.’
‘Oh yeah?’ The bandit cocked his revolver. ‘You’re coming with me. Now pick up the money and – ’
The roof caved in. The robber looked up and six tonnes of yellow construction robot fell onto his head. Smith staggered back from the dust-cloud, his head ringing as if he had been trapped inside a bell.
‘Good lord!’ said Smith. ‘I didn’t expect that.’
‘Nor did he!’ Suruk declared. He stood up from the wreckage, brushed his palms together and pulled his spear out of the robot’s central processor. ‘Now that is a banking crash.’
Smith bent down and took the revolver out of the robber’s hand. It seemed rather pointless, given that the rest of him was under a broken robot. ‘His poor grandmother,’ he muttered.
Suruk surveyed the wreckage. ‘Did I get her too?’
‘No,’ said Smith. ‘But I think there’s two more robbers inside. Perhaps we can get them to surrender.’
