Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires

by Toby Frost

  ‘That sounds like you,’ Carveth said. ‘I’d better get back to steering this ship,’ she added, and she disappeared through the hatch.

  Wainscott would never be a proper hero; he was too mad for that. Any credit he had built up was lost during the visit of the President of Poland, when, during a military display, Wainscott had first field-stripped a laser cannon and then himself.

  But it was the Warforge incident that brought Wainscott low. As a commando raid, it was flawless, an astonishing piece of high-quality mayhem. In one standard day, the major single-handedly destroyed the Ghast Empire’s entire Warforge Orbital Dock and, with it, a quarter of the Ghast navy. The only problem was that the Ghasts weren’t at war with Earth yet. Having got away from his enemies, Wainscott was put away by his friends.

  And so Wainscott spent a year in his pyjamas, watching television and finding clever places to hide his medication. Smith read a short report detailing the major’s attempt to escape Sunnyvale Home for the Bewildered by clinging to the underside of the pills trolley. Wainscott amused himself by learning Urdu, Mandarin and Swahili, and writing angry letters to the Daily Monolith, explaining the dangers of Ghast rearmament. One day, the Monolith’s eccentric columnist, who had links to the Secret Service, wrote back, and included a metal file. Thus W recruited his first field agent. Nobody, not even Ghast Number One, had been happier than Wainscott when war broke out.

  * * *

  Smith heard voices. He put the file down beside him and picked up his rifle. They were too low for lemming men; it sounded like a crowd of humans. He crawled over to the hatch and looked down into the hold. ‘Suruk? Tell Carveth to slow down. There’s something up ahead.’

  He lay down on his stomach and propped his rifle before him. Smith put his eye to the scope and saw that the light came from electric lamps, not fire. A metallic squelch blared from up ahead. It sounded like a speaker.

  An attack boat slid up towards them. Two M’Lak crewed it, one holding a grappling hook like a weapon. The boat moved towards the bank to let them pass.

  Hard white light flooded between tree trunks, as though a huge flare had been lit in the forest. Bunting hung between the trees. Union Jacks dangled over the water. All it needed was trestle tables and rain and it would have been like Elgar Day back home.

  A soldier watched them from the riverbank. He was almost invisible against the trees. ‘What’s going on?’ Smith called.

  ‘CSE’s got a concert on,’ the man shouted back. ‘Jimmy Horlicks and Deep Uke. Here, aren’t you Space Corps?’

  ‘Yes, what of it?’

  ‘You’re a bit lost, mate.’ He pointed at the sky. ‘Space is that way.’

  As Smith climbed back into the ship, he heard the distorted wail of a support act. He hurried into the cockpit. ‘Pull us into the bank, Carveth. We’ll see what all this is about.’

  They gathered at the airlock. ‘You think we’ll find Wainscott here?’ Carveth asked.

  ‘I doubt it. But someone might know. It sounds like they’re having a bit of a jolly. Who is Jimmy Horlicks, anyhow? The name rings a bell.’

  Rhianna ran her hands through her hair and made an attempt to tie it back. ‘He’s an English musician. Pretty far out, though. He’s one of the best ukulele players in space.’

  ‘It sounds dreadful from here.’

  ‘Come on,’ Carveth said. ‘The acoustics are all wrong. It’ll sound much better from inside the beer tent.’

  They stepped ashore. A flat area about a hundred yards square had been levelled, and it was full of soldiers: mainly human, although a few intrigued aliens had joined them. A few guards watched the forest. Smith glimpsed a Sey tracker stalking between the tree trunks, beam gun strapped across its body. But the great majority faced the stage at the far end of the clearing, a red-curtained, gilt-sprayed lump of music hall torn up and set down in the forest.

  ‘Give me your beer coupons,’ Carveth said. ‘Suruk, give me a hand.’

  Smith passed his coupons over. ‘Make mine a pint of Stalwart. And Suruk, stop her if she tries to run away with the beer.’

  Suruk smiled. ‘She will not go far,’ and as Carveth protested her innocence, Smith and Rhianna entered the crowd.

  Jangling, distorted sound tore out of the speakers, a tight, quick strumming amplified into a roar. The crowd cheered. Smith put his arm around Rhianna: partly out of affection and partly to stop her getting confused and wandering off. From what she had told him, festivals tended to have that effect on her.

  A small man appeared on stage in a neat suit, holding a wired ukulele. ‘Eh up!’ he said, and the speakers turned his voice into a chipper, jolly bellow. ‘Thought I’d do a few tunes for you all. So then, what do the Empire’s finest lads and lasses want to hear?’

  The man to Smith’s right cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Jimmy! Play All Along the Whippet Track!’

  ‘Cross Town Tram Ride!’ a woman yelled from behind. ‘Do Cross Town Tram Ride!’

  The members of Deep Uke emerged from the wings to join Jimmy Horlicks. Rhianna leaned her head on Smith’s shoulder, and he felt very clever indeed.

  ‘This is a slower number,’ Horlicks announced. ‘It’s called Eh, Joe.’

  As Deep Uke launched into a jangling song, Carveth slipped into view. Her right hand held a paper cup, and her left was locked around the wrist of a tall young officer. ‘I found this man!’ Carveth said.

  ‘Dammit, woman,’ the man protested, ‘I’ve got a wife and child – oh, who are you?’

  ‘Captain Isambard Smith. These are my colleagues.’

  ‘I see,’ said the man. He had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Major Dalston Pintle. I’m I/C of this station. Your pilot won’t let go of me.’

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ Smith replied.

  Major Pintle shook himself free from Carveth and looked them over. ‘I heard there were some irregulars coming upriver. I didn’t realise you’d be quite this irregular, though.’

  ‘We’re looking for a group of commandos,’ Smith called back. On stage, James Horlicks was performing a complicated solo to Turned Out Purple Again.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Do you know the Deepspace Operations Group?’

  ‘I think I’ve got their first album.’

  ‘What about Major Wainscott? Smallish fellow, pale, with a beard.’

  Pintle frowned. ‘Trousers?’

  ‘Probably not, I’m afraid.’

  The major nodded. ‘There was a man, ’bout a month back. A bunch of soldiers brought him through. They looked like special forces types. I thought he’d got a bad dose of the sun and gone doolally. They headed north, following the river. Said something about blowing up a bridge. Bloody furries probably got him by now.’

  ‘Maybe. Thank you, Major.’

  ‘Happy to help.’

  The song ended with a drawn out wail of vibrato. James Horlicks adjusted his tie and leaned into the microphone. ‘Thanks everyone, that’s grand. Now I’d like to play a new tune: I think of it as a new national anthem.’

  Pintle glanced round as if he’d heard himself insulted. ‘A new national anthem? I won’t stand for it! Excuse me, everyone,’ he said, ‘got to keep order.’ He plunged into the crowd, indignantly shouldering his way towards the stage.

  ‘We should go,’ Suruk said. ‘Our quarry gains time on us.’

  ‘But what about the music?’ Rhianna said. ‘Come on, guys.’

  ‘We’ll leave the top airlock open,’ Smith replied. ‘That way we’ll be able to hear. And I know it’s nice here, but remember: the John Pym has cabins and a functional toilet.’

  ‘That does count for a lot,’ Carveth said. ‘Alright, back we go.’

  The Pym pulled away from the bank as if under covering fire, the lights flooding the sky behind it. Rhianna sat on the roof with Smith, watching the crowd shrink and then disappear as the river curved and they were lost to view. She looked behind them for a while afterwards, as the twang of the ukulele still cut the ai
r.

  Well I’m standing next to the chip shop, a pint of mild in my hand.

  Yes I’m standing next to the chip shop, a pint of mild in my hand.

  The man says ‘Want a gherkin?’ and I say ‘That sounds grand!’

  And I say ‘Howdo, child?’ Lord knows I say ‘Howdo, child!’

  * * *

  Smith was dozing on the sofa when Suruk prodded his shoulder. ‘Uh?’ Smith said, sitting up. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We have stopped at the bank,’ the alien replied. ‘Piglet wished to reconnoitre.’

  ‘Carveth? Reconnoitre?’

  ‘She told me that she had seen a creature that she needed to pursue. I thought such an interest in hunting was only to be encouraged.’

  ‘Hang on. You let Carveth go off to hunt things? Alone?’

  Suruk looked a little hurt. ‘Oh no. I would never do that. She took Rhianna with her.’

  ‘What?’ Smith scrambled upright. The file slid off his lap, sending pictures of Wainscott sliding over the floor. ‘We’ve got to get them back. They’ll die out there.’

  ‘I told them to shriek if they were in danger. Oh, and Mazuran? I think we are being followed.’

  Smith grabbed his rifle. ‘Let’s go.’

  They clambered out of the roof hatch, into air as moist and hot as breath, and scrambled down the side of the ship. The wing creaked as Smith hurried along it and dropped down into the undergrowth. Something small and many-legged scurried away from his boot. He hoped Rhianna had her shoes on.

  Roots crawled over the forest floor like veins: as they walked, the plants seemed to try to catch Smith’s legs. Something moved in the trees to the left: Smith swung his rifle up and saw a beaked lemur swinging from branch to branch, arm over arm.

  If Suruk noticed it, he did not show it. He simply walked a little more cautiously than usual, occasionally glancing upwards or checking the ground. The alien put his hand out. ‘Here,’ he whispered, and he crouched down.

  It took a moment to see what he meant. Rhianna’s tie-dyed shirt was surprisingly good camouflage against the lurid vegetation. Carveth stood beside her, half-concealed by a tree trunk. The foliage broke up the outline of the two women: a couple of fronds, a serrated leaf, and they had been almost lost to view. Smith wondered how close the lemming men could get.

  ‘Psst! Rhianna,’ Smith said. ‘Over here.’

  She turned and put a finger to her lips. Suruk raised his eyebrows and then his spear. He advanced with high, careful steps, as though expecting the ground to give way.

  Without turning around, Carveth whispered, ‘Look.’

  She pointed. An animal slipped between the trees towards the water’s edge. The tree trunks blocking the way made it seem to flicker in and out of existence. It was large and four-legged, and at once Smith saw why Carveth had dared venture off the ship. The back was shorter than its Earth equivalent, the legs both thicker and more flexible, and the animal was bright blue, but there was no mistaking what it looked like, or the awe in Carveth’s voice.

  ‘It’s a pony!’

  They peered through the bushes. The blue pony walked slowly towards the waterside, leaning back on the slope. It knew something was wrong, Smith saw. He looked at Rhianna and found that she was frowning in concentration, fingertips pressed to her temples.

  Smith’s calf muscle began to ache and he shifted position. A branch crunched under his heel.

  The pony glanced around, mane flapping, its wide eyes alarmed. Carveth said, ‘No, don’t –’ but it whirled and rushed into the undergrowth. Leaves fell behind it like a curtain, and it was gone.

  ‘You scared him away!’ Carveth exclaimed. She turned, and looked Smith in the eye. ‘Don’t ever scare ponies.’

  Her intensity surprised him. Smith replied, ‘No I didn’t.’

  Suruk gave a polite little cough, and pointed.

  The jungle burst open before them. An enormous tusked head pushed through the branches, followed by a body the size of a rhino’s. The skin flickered, as if poorly tuned-in, and became paler as the creature emerged. Its eyes, mounted on stereoscopic cones, swivelled like gun turrets.

  A moment later, a voice came from its back.

  ‘Frote! Frote, stop that at once!’ The rider, who had been knocked prone along its spine, sat up and blinked behind his spectacles. He smoothed his jacket, and adjusted his helmet. ‘Hello?’

  Suruk stared up at the rider, at once astonished and appalled. ‘Morgar? What are you doing here? And do the Ravnavari Lancers know that you are impersonating them?’

  ‘Suruk? Good lord.’ Morgar took his glasses off, stared at the lenses, and slipped them back on. ‘Well, fancy that. Whatever brings you here?’

  ‘Bringing deadly vengeance to the scum of Yullia, of course. But why are you in that uniform?’ Suruk demanded. ‘The last time we met, brother, you spoke at great lengths about under-floor heating. Is there great demand for warm towel-rails in the jungles of Andor?’

  ‘Actually, I am a Ravnavari Lancer.’ Morgar peered down disapprovingly, like an old schoolteacher dealing with an irritating question. ‘I was commissioned to design a new restroom suite. As such, I ride with the lancers.’

  ‘Bah!’ Suruk said. ‘I have never heard of such nonsense.’

  Morgar gathered the reins and sat up. ‘Well, stranger things have happened in the army. Our medical orderly used to be a professor of French literature. He told the colonel that he liked looking at Balsac and they had him checking the squaddies for bollock-rot.’

  Suruk shook his head. ‘They must have asked for warriors used to sitting in command. You thought they said “commode” and signed up.’

  A smallish dragonfly, no longer than a man’s arm, flew past. Frote opened his maw. There was a wet crack, and his tongue flicked out, hit the insect and whipped it into his mouth. Frote crunched it happily, while Carveth pulled a face.

  Morgar folded his arms. ‘And what have you done, then?’

  ‘I?’ Suruk said. ‘Well, I slew many lemming men, took many skulls, and joined the great quest to rid this planet of the conniving Yull. Oh, I also had children, but I got better. Perhaps I could leave some of my spawn in one of your charming bidets.’

  Morgar adjusted his glasses. ‘Suruk, do I detect a whiff of jealousy?’

  Smith thought that Suruk was being rather sniffy about it all. The old warrior had always regarded his brother as somewhat effete. Perhaps Morgar was turning over a new, bloodstained, leaf. ‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘good on you, Morgar. It’s not many who get to ride with the Lancers. On which subject,’ he added, ‘shouldn’t they be with you?’

  ‘What?’ Morgar twisted round, looking behind him. ‘We’re out on patrol. The others must have – oh, bugger! Frote, get after them.’ He yanked the reins, and the shadar lumbered round. ‘Quickly, Frote!’

  The beast rushed at the nearest tree, and in a moment had swarmed up the trunk. Morgar yelped, apparently as surprised by this as the onlookers, and Frote bounded upwards, incredibly nimble for a creature of its size. The shadar bounced out, suspended in the air for a moment and, as it grabbed a new tree, its skin flickered into a deep, striped green. ‘I’ll send you a postcard!’ Morgar cried from somewhere high above them, and he was gone.

  ‘I worry about him,’ Suruk said.

  ‘I’ve got to admit,’ Smith said, ‘he’s not the most obvious person I’d imagine joining the Ravnavari Lancers.’

  Rhianna shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s good that Morgar’s pursuing an alternative career choice – even if it is in a constricting patriarchal hierarchy dedicated to the preservation of the imperialist hegemony.’

  ‘I saw a pony,’ Carveth said. ‘Hey – Morgar had better not be chasing them or anything, because he’ll have me to answer to.’

  * * *

  They pushed on upriver, drawing ever closer to the source. Smith picked over the files as they advanced and the journey seemed to blur with the data, as if the further into the jungle Sm
ith was, the closer he got to Wainscott’s brain. Which, to judge from the twists of the river, put them somewhere in his colon.

  Rhianna meditated, and fortified her psychic powers by listening to a lot of Pink Zeppelin. Carveth moved from her bedroom to the cockpit and no further. Suruk retreated to the hold when he was not on watch, practising with his spear.

  They passed a shuttle wing, jutting out of the water like the fin of an enormous shark. A family of wholks lumbered through the shallows, sifting the water for nutrients and squirting it out of the holes in their tails. A four-winged razorbird landed on the roof and was promptly slain by Suruk. It began to rain.

  Smith entered the cockpit and sat down next to Carveth. She was almost invisible under a duvet. In the hamster cage, Gerald’s wheel rattled.

  ‘Everything alright?’ Smith asked.

  The duvet moved slightly. ‘Okay. Can we eat Wainscott’s cake, please?’

  ‘No. I can take over if you want some air.’

  ‘God no. Never get off the boat, that’s what I say. Except for ponies.’ She looked round. ‘Hey, what’s that?’

  Smith took out the binoculars. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘No, listen.’

  Smith paused, straining to hear anything over the rumble of the engines and the squeak of Gerald’s wheel. But there was something – very faint, but something like music.

  ‘I’ll check,’ he said.

  He strode to the hold, climbed the ladder and opened the hatch. Suruk crouched on top of the ship, motionless in the hot air.

  ‘I heard –’ Smith began, but Suruk raised a hand. The alien looked up, at the forest canopy and the sky above them.

  ‘Jets, Mazuran,’ he said. ‘Jets and Gustav Holst.’

  And suddenly ships roared above them, tearing out of the sky like meteors, twisting in flight. There were three of them, British fighters, Hellfires, and over the sound of thrusters there roared Mars, Bringer of War.

  The fighters sank down in the sky, and the lead vessel dropped below the treeline, into the gap over the river. Blue fire flared on its undercarriage. The river slopped and rippled from the jets, as though huge creatures thrashed beneath the surface.