by Toby Frost
‘Now might be a really good time to re-evaluate your life, actually. Because you never know when you might, you know, explode.’
Morgar heard himself say ‘I think I’ve met her.’
‘Really, old boy? She sounds like a prize arse.’ Bargath braced himself, inflated his throat and let out an extended, rippling belch.
The woman on the screen was abruptly pushed aside. A M’Lak warrior replaced her: he wore a traditional mesh shirt under a dark green breastplate, chipped from battle and decorated with M’Lak characters. The warrior had a curious expression, at once proud, stern and rather pleased with himself.
‘Now that’s better,’ Bargath said. ‘This fellow looks like he might talk some sense, even if he’s a tad uncouth.’
Morgar groaned. ‘No he won’t.’
‘Greetings, Ravnavar! It is I, Suruk the Slayer, who occupies your television. Do not adjust your set, or I will destroy you all! As of yet, we have this guildhall in our possession, as well as a bomb. Remain calm, for those opposing me will die, and their skulls shall be taken. And on that reassuring note, I shall depart.’
The image flicked back to the newsroom: fighting on the M’Lak self-governing worlds was at its peak; the King’s Own Orbital Dragoons had thrown back Praetorian Legion ‘Relentless Slaughter’ on New Manchester.
Morgar stared at the television, hardly noticing. His brother seemed to be burned into the screen. Something was going to go wrong.
* * *
‘Here,’ said Miss Chigley. She held up a foot-long cylinder. ‘One bomb. We found it jammed in the back of a model of the Tolpuddle Martyrs.’ She glanced at her comrades, who were packing up the rest of the scanning equipment on the far side of the hall. ‘Now, Captain, I’d be bloody grateful if you’d let us all go back to work. I’ve had enough revolution for one day, thanks.’
‘Of course. Carveth? We need to open the doors. It seems our work here is done. All we need is to call the police and have this Ringleader fellow arrested.’
She emerged from the shadows around the doorway, looking more worried than usual. ‘About that, Boss. The police are already on the way. There’s a news-drone here, too.’
‘Really?’
‘And Rhianna and Suruk are talking to it. And by talking, I mean issuing demands.’
A weight dropped from the bottom of Smith’s ribcage into the base of his stomach, like a rock dropped down a well. ‘What? Suruk is on television? Why?’
Carveth folded her arms. ‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but, after demolishing a police station, we went on the run, armed ourselves and took over the Guildhall to start a revolution. These things tend to get you noticed. In fact, short of using their hats as a commode, I’m not sure how we could make the police more interested.’
‘Ah. I see what you mean, now. One moment, everyone.’ Smith turned and ran down the length of the hall, towards the doors. ‘Suruk, where are you? Say nothing! Get away from the camera!’
He stopped at the doors. They were locked. Suruk and Rhianna had to be upstairs, in one of the many galleries. He turned to the staircase, a graceful sweep of stone, and noticed something move behind the window.
A spindly figure was advancing on the guildhall, striding across the courtyard. As Smith watched, it raised a hand and touched the brim of its tall metal hat.
‘Rhianna? Suruk?’ he called up the stairs. ‘Get back to the nave!’ He rushed back towards the others. ‘Miss Chigley, we’ve got a problem. I think you need to get out of sight.’
As the Popular Fist ran for cover, Smith loaded his rifle. A camera drone hovered outside the window, watching him.
Carveth sighed. ‘That’ll look good on the news.’
Smith grimaced. ‘It’s all right. We just have to stay here, and wait for the police to arrive. Then we can straighten everything out –’
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ The voice was like a bomber flying overhead. Smith cocked his rifle. Carveth ducked. ‘Robots, humans, citizens of Ravnavar, roll up and roll out as we delight and entertain you with a demonstration of how we keep our city clean! Ravnavar needs order, and who better to provide it than I?’
Smith scurried down the length of the hall, bent low to hide his shape.
‘Regrettably, our audience from the Ravnavari Constabulary has been delayed. But the show must go on. Our first act: Captain Isambard Smith and his ship of fools. Time to fall down, clowns!’
The window nearest the door burst. The muzzle of a Maxim cannon was thrust into the gap. ‘Down!’ Smith yelled, and the roar of gunfire filled the room.
Bullets tore the air; chips of stone burst from the statues and the walls. Carveth raced yelling into a niche. The collected members of the Popular Fist ran to the basement stairs.
‘Suruk, get down here!’ Smith cried.
Another blast of fire tore down the hall. Smith ducked behind the statue of the worker holding up Ravnavar. The gunfire stopped. He saw Carveth peek out, shotgun in hand. Something heavy crashed against the doors.
Carveth rushed out and dropped down beside Smith. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ she panted. ‘All I wanted was a quiet life and a pony.’
The doors flew open, and the Ringleader was silhouetted in the aperture. He looked like an automated Uncle Sam, all tailcoat and top hat. As the robot limped into the hall, tossing aside his empty gun, Smith saw the rips in his outfit, now patched with masking tape, and the gobbets of solder on his chest and moustache. An encounter with a territorially-enraged bear had done him no good.
The Ringleader reached into the back of his tailcoat, and produced a length of industrial chain and a walking stick made from a length of park railing. ‘Nobody runs away from the circus!’ he bellowed, and he flicked the chain like a whip. ‘Come one, come all, and observe as I exsanguinate this tuppenny meatsack!’
Smith looked at Carveth. ‘It’s all right. I can take him. I just need to shoot out his hinges.’
‘Great,’ she said. ‘And why don’t you pull the key out of his back while you’re at it?’
Smith stepped out and fired. The rifle kicked against his shoulder and the Ringleader stumbled back. Smith worked the lever, fired again, and the robot staggered, lost his footing, managed not to fall over and stood up just in time for Smith to line the crosshairs on his rifle with the Ringleader’s head.
The shot blew the Ringleader onto his back. He lay in the doorway, all chipped armour and spindly limbs, and with a creak of metal sat upright.
‘And now,’ he cried, ‘those two renowned strongmen, Ram and Rom Crane!’
One of the brothers lumbered into the rear of the hall. It was Rom, Smith realised, largely because he had written it in chalk across his forehead. The robot hunched over like an ape, metal fists almost brushing the linoleum. Someone, possibly a small child or the other Crane brother, had ineptly spray-painted a suit jacket onto Rom’s chest.
‘This used to be a nice neighbourhood,’ Rom growled. ‘You could leave your front door unlocked and all. But now I’m in it.’ His tiny head, almost an afterthought, slowly scanned the room. ‘Times was hard, but people used to take care of each uvver,’ he snarled. ‘And now I’m gonna take care of you.’
Rom lurched forward, his thick little legs picking up speed. He clanked and squeaked like tank tracks. As he rushed forward he seemed to grow – he widened, accelerated, turned from noisy to deafening – and then he sprang.
Rom’s fist swung out on his boom of an arm. Smith ducked, heard stone shatter overhead and was running, Carveth before him, as the remains of the heroic worker collapsed in an avalanche of shards.
‘This is my manor now,’ Rom bellowed.
Smith raised his rifle, and an identical voice roared, ‘Oi, Rom! This manor’s mine!’
He looked round: Ram Crane stood at the far end of the hall, whirring and clanking. He had garlanded himself with an open doorway, torn out of a wall, no doubt by ramming his own head through it. For a moment the two thugs stood apart, and Smith wondere
d whether they were going to turn on one another, but then the Ringleader snarled: ‘Butcher them! Festoon the rafters with their glistening innards!’
Ram stomped down the hall, flexing his fingers. Rom swiped at Smith, who sidestepped and fired. The bullet sparked off Rom’s belly armour. ‘Hur hur hur,’ said Rom.
Weirdly graceful, a television mini-blimp sailed through the doorway like a cloud. It floated down the hall, rotors puffing, as if it was carrying extra weight.
Smith shot Rom in the leg, which had no effect beyond reminding Rom that he was still there. The robot turned, Smith lined up a shot and his rifle clicked empty.
He tore the Civiliser from his jacket. Carveth darted out from the ruined statue, skipped up behind Rom and blasted him in the back of the knee.
Rom stumbled. ‘Gotcha!’ Carveth cried, and a huge shape loomed up behind her.
‘Look out!’ Smith yelled, but too late. Ram Crane’s hand dropped onto Carveth, swallowed her up, and lifted her into the air.
‘I got his tart!’ Ram bellowed. ‘I got his tart!’
Smith glared at Ram and focussed his moral fibre. ‘Unhand her,’ he barked. ‘Stop that this instant!’
The Bearing would have worked on a machine with a larger brain. Ram called, ‘Rom, catch!’
Smith aimed the Civiliser and blew three holes into Ram’s head, with no result. Carveth screamed. The camera-drone swung low. Ram hurled Carveth at the far end of the hall.
Smith said nothing as Carveth sailed through the air. She moved agonisingly slowly, limbs outstretched like the arms of a starfish. He could hear her, far away as if underwater, but there was nothing he could do.
Rhianna stepped out of the shadows and raised her hand. Carveth still flew, end over end, but she shot towards Carveth, as if sucked into a vacuum, and as she did, the android slowed, righted herself, and landed beside her.
Carveth said, ‘Cool.’
Ram looked at his hand. ‘That does not bleedin’ compute,’ he said. ‘Oh well. Just have to smash your head in.’ He lumbered round to face Smith, and the camera-blimp sailed overhead.
Suruk dropped off the underside of the blimp, onto Ram’s shoulders. The M’Lak raised a strange device, like a kind of mechanical pitchfork. It looked weirdly familiar.
Ram noticed Suruk and whirled, trying to throw him off, but the alien was far too agile to be troubled by that. As Ram clanked and bellowed below him, Suruk activated the laser cutter and a beam flickered into life between its prongs. It came down on Ram’s neck like a guillotine.
His head fell off. Ram Crane took a step forward, one oversized hand groping at his collar, and then he collapsed piecemeal, the joints buckling one by one. He crashed onto his knees, and as Suruk jumped down, flopped onto his front.
At the far end of the hall, Carveth cheered. Smith looked at Suruk, and smiled.
‘Hands up!’
Smith looked around, and the Ringleader lurched into view.
‘Show’s over,’ the robot said. He held Carveth’s shotgun. His moustaches were bent, stuck at five minutes to three o’clock. Pistons wheezing, he took a step forward. It was remarkable, Smith thought, how much more dangerous the shotgun looked when Carveth wasn’t wielding it.
‘Rom,’ the Ringleader said, ‘A little advice. I am sorely minded to annihilate these excretions, to metaphorically scrape them off my boot. Does that seem a wise course of action to you?’
Rom shook his small head. ‘Nah. You should just kill ’em.’
Smith looked at the robot. In theory, Rhianna could use her powers to slow the shotgun pellets, perhaps even stop them – but she looked exhausted. Catching Carveth had weakened her. Carveth might not be very big, but she was clearly as dense as Suruk had always claimed.
‘Any last words?’ the Ringleader demanded.
Smith was out of protection, caught off-guard by enemies that even the Bearing could not defeat. He took a step forward. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘any moment now the police will be here. You’ll be linked with the lemmings, and that’s not just crime – that’s treason. They’ll melt you down for that. If you don’t drop that gun, you’ll be living out the rest of your life as a towel-rack.’
‘Good try. Rom, spill their claret.’
‘Yeah!’ Rom growled, and he advanced.
Suruk stepped up beside Smith. ‘On the plus side,’ he observed, ‘at least it will not be the lemming men killing us.’ He fired up the laser cutter as Smith drew his sword.
A side door burst open. A figure in overalls hurled a tube into the room. The tube hit the floor, bounced, bounced again and stopped beside Rom’s massive foot.
‘Get down!’ Smith cried.
Rom picked the tube up, as everyone else flinched away. ‘Er, where should I put this?’ he asked.
Miss Chigley made a vehement gesture with her fist. ‘Up the Fist!’ she cried, and Rom exploded.
* * *
The world was grey. A high-pitched sound rang through the air. It was like watching the test card on television, Smith thought. ‘Rhianna?’ he called. ‘Carveth?’ and immediately began coughing.
A massive shape blundered through the dust. Rom moved jerkily: sparks burst from the back of his head. ‘Lovely mum, what loved their boys…’ the robot grunted. ‘Took care of our own… times was hard then… wouldn’t hurt a door… you could leave your flies unlocked…’
A figure slid out of the dust from behind him like a furred Grim Reaper. In one movement it stepped forward and swung an ornate, long-handled axe over its head. As Smith saw the one white eye of General Wikwot, glistening in the dust-cloud like a pearl in dirt, the axe sliced Rom’s head off.
Wikwot stepped back, grinning, and the dust swallowed him. He seemed to fade with it; Smith saw other figures moving in the cloud and that none of them was the general.
‘Rhianna? Carveth?’
They were alive, thank God, all of them. A piece of masonry had gashed Suruk’s forearm and Carveth was unsteady on her feet, but that was it. As Smith wandered forward, trying to work out in which direction the exit lay, he saw the members of Popular Fist emerging from the basement as if from a bomb shelter.
A thin figure stalked towards them in motorcycle gear, scowling under his visor. ‘If any of you people are still breathing, me and this gun are bringing you in,’ Kallarn the Enforcer snarled.
Smith put his arm around Rhianna. ‘Everything’s under control, Inspector. You won’t need the riot squad.’
‘I never do,’ the inspector growled back. ‘You don’t assign me to hard cases. I am one.’
There was a gift at the exit. The Ringleader sat by the doors, back against the doorframe, legs sticking out in front of him. His head lay in his lap.
‘He failed the Yull,’ Suruk said.
‘That’s horrible,’ Carveth replied. ‘Killing your own people like that. I mean, what’s the point?’
‘For the lemming men,’ Suruk replied, ‘cruelty is its own point. Their hatred of honour is as long as their rancid whiskers.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said the Ringleader’s head. ‘You, Smith! Quick: I’m on auxiliary power here.’
‘What is it?’ Smith asked.
‘He’ll have gone to the old funfair: there’s a rocket there. By now he’ll be halfway to Andor. Tell your people to find that backstabbing, urinacious, one-eyed rodent for me. Flatten him – flay him – turn his pelt into a rug. Listen to me – the Yull are looking for Grimdall. Remember that. Grimdall. And with that,’ the robot declared, ‘the show’s over.’
His eye-lens unfocused.
A fresh camera-drone hovered above the door. As Smith walked out, he heard Julia Chigley address it. ‘We of the Popular Fist, having heard reports that unpatriotic enemies had planted a bomb in our beloved guildhall, decided to risk life and limb in defusing it. We rushed here and, despite the efforts of the city’s worst criminals, were able to prevent the bomb taking effect.’
‘Hey,’ Rhianna said. ‘That’s not true. She’s just
gone in front of the camera, claimed all the credit and made up a load of rubbish off the top of her head!’
‘That can only mean one thing,’ Smith replied. ‘She’s entered mainstream politics.’
‘Well,’ Carveth said, ‘I suppose we can go down the pub now.’
‘Not so fast, young lady android. Remember what we came here for? Chaps,’ Smith announced, ‘we have a game to win.’
* * *
Morgar had been invited to the Monthly Grand Dinner of the Ravnavari Lancers, and tried to arrive as late as possible. He had expected it to be a tedious and stuffy affair, where various insanely loyal old warriors got slowly and deeply drunk on carbonated water and reminisced about the time when they had levelled some city of the beetle people so that humans could build a sewage plant on the remains. It was, however, far worse.
The dining hall was utter chaos – nobody was dangling from the chandelier, but then it wasn’t time for pudding yet. Everyone spoke over everyone else: the main way of getting the attention of a diner out of arm’s reach was to throw food at their head. Two lancers were either demonstrating a swordfighting technique or trying to murder each other in earnest on the top table. Their combat was largely ignored, except for cheers of encouragement and the occasional shout of reproach when one of them stamped on somebody’s dinner.
Morgar took his seat, and at once a heaped plate of animal flesh was put before him, cooked to varying degrees. An enormous amount of meat was being consumed – the lancers had declared pork to be an honorary vegetable sixty years ago, so as to avoid ruining their appetites with anything green. Somebody filled up all of his glasses: two of fizzy water, and one of wine to help soak up some of the bubbles.
‘The Admiral approaches port!’ someone cried.
What looked like a brown basin full of dirty water was pushed down the table: it was in fact a vast Yorkshire pudding, full of gravy, on which floated a paper napkin folded into the shape of a boat. A toy soldier had been wedged into the folds of the paper boat. As it passed by, each diner stood up and toasted the soldier, then refilled his glass and shoved the pudding onwards.
