The lead troll raised an arm and the company came to a halt. Kraal Frogmouth marched up to Drukk and stared at him angrily. "You should keep your servants in order."
"They're not my..."
"Where I come from," the troll went on, speaking over him. "Any transgressions by subordinates are dealt with by punishing the leader."
Drukk assumed the dignified-personage-affronted-by-insubordinate-minion posture, which was interpreted by his new body as a narrowing of the eyes, a thrusting forward of the head, and a pursing of the lips. "I am a member of the armed services of the most powerful empire in the Known Galaxy," he said. "One more threat from you and I will have you hung by your – whatever that thing is – until your – whatever those things are – drop off."
The troll drew itself up to its full height, towering a good meter-and-a-half above Drukk. "And I am a platoon commander in the Mighty Chuwar's Imperial Household Guard. My Aunt Horrgarr Fisheyes is Vice Admiral of the Third Fleet. I should crush you into pulp for your insolence!" She reached for her belt, where a huge, ugly club hung. Drukk, in turn, reached for his blaster, making all the other trolls reach for their weapons.
Frantically waving her arms, Sam rushed forward to stand between Drukk and his adversary. "No! Wait! It's all a misunderstanding. I didn't mean to be rude. I just get a bit impatient." The troll glared down at her. She hurried on. "We don't need to start crushing people to pulp now, do we? I'm dreadfully sorry if I was a bit, you know, pushy or something but I'm just like that. I get a bit antsy when I'm being marched half-way around the bloody planet by a bunch of giant, armed, whatever-the-hell-you-ares and I didn't even want to be here in the first place and..."
"Sam," said Wayne, interrupting her flow. "You were apologising to the nice lady, remember?"
Sam blinked. "Oh yes. Right. Apologising. So, there you are. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset anyone. All right now?"
The troll didn't look particularly mollified. She turned her massive head to glare at Drukk again. "Just keep them under control," she snarled. "And this one..." She snapped her glare back at Sam, who flinched away from it. "This one needs psychiatric help if you ask me."
Wayne, sensing danger, rushed forward and grabbed his sister, pulling her away from the platoon commander as fast as he could.
“Bloody cheek!" Sam spluttered. "Who the hell does she think she is?" But her complaints went unheard or ignored as the troop clattered back into motion and the long march continued.
They trudged uphill for a further ten minutes then passed through a high, mud wall into a bustling paved area surrounded by more mud buildings. The humans gazed about them in amazement. Green Mozbacs were everywhere, busily going about their inexplicable lives. A market seemed to occupy part of the space between the wall and the buildings and the scene was an odd mixture of Medieval and Futuristic with odd Heath-Robinson machinery sitting on wood-and-thatch stalls, hovering ground-cars moving among what were clearly dirt-poor peasants, and, above all the mud buildings, the gleaming spires of a massive palace straight out of a Flash Gordon movie.
A pair of Mozbacs passed them, each carrying what looked for all the world like plastic cups of a hot, brown drink. Beyond the range of the translation field, they could hear the clacking, squeaking sounds of the alien language being shouted by stall-holders. There was also an odd, whistling, tooting noise that came from loudspeakers standing on boxes or hung from the beams of the stalls. Wayne pricked his ears, realising he was listening to some kind of alien music. He wanted to stay a while and untangle the complicated rhythms and the discordant counterpoint but the trolls kept them moving towards the palace.
He felt his heart beating faster. Alien music! In a daze, he stumbled after the others, trying to hear and remember as much as he could.
They reached a doorway set in the palace wall. The wall seemed to be of smooth, stainless steel, reaching up as high as they could see. The door itself was at least twenty metres wide and almost as high, faced with wood, banded with steel and studded with bolts each as big as a person's head and each carved with a different, grimacing face. Kraal Frogmouth took her massive club and smashed it against the gigantic door three times.
Barraclough watched the performance cynically. "Like they couldn't just have a doorbell," he commented.
"Who would enter?" a troll-voice from inside demanded.
The platoon commander rattled off her credentials.
"Enter loyal servants of the Mighty Chuwar," the voice told them.
"What is this, the Wizard of Oz?" Barraclough grumbled.
With much further ado and ceremony, the great doors were opened – just enough to let the party enter.
"I think I already don't like this Chuwar guy," said Barraclough.
“Bit up himself," suggested John.
"All the way up, mate. All the way."
Chapter 30: Sluggie's
At the bottom of a deep pit, many light-years away, Shorty looked at her gang. They were muttering and grumbling, some rubbing sore heads or limbs. The Vinggan force shields were great at saving you from weapons fire but not so great at preventing knocks and bruises as you tumbled into a four-metre-deep hole in the ground. She looked up at the bright blue rectangle of sky overhead. Somewhere up there, those damned humans must be cheering and laughing and thinking what fine fellows they were. The thought made her jump and squirm with fury.
"It's no good, Boss," said Fats regretfully. "You'll never jump high enough to get out of here."
Shorty spun around and boxed his ears. "Of course I can't, you moron! Do you think I'm as stupid as one of you rabbit-brained idiots?"
"So how we gonna get out, Boss?" someone else asked.
Shorty scowled at him for a moment, considering his punishment for being so thick. Then she had an idea. "We dig our way out."
"Dig?" wailed Fats. "Ain't we already in deep enough?"
"Yeah, Boss," another complained. "These little paws ain't much use for nothin', let alone digging!"
Shorty shook her head, sadly. "Why am I the only one who ever has an idea around here? Why am I the one who always has to get you dopes out of trouble? Why doesn't anyone else ever figure anything out for themselves?"
Fats was confused. "Well... 'Cos you're the boss, Shorty."
Shorty heaved a sigh and tried to pull herself together. Getting caught by a bunch of primitive savages had rattled her self-confidence. She counted to ten. Then she counted to ten again. The other roos waited patiently, familiar with the process.
"OK, you dummies," she told them at last, in something like her old snarl. "We use these." She held up her blaster. "We pick a spot half-way down that end wall over there and we start blasting at it until it all falls down. Then we run up the slope and out of here. Got it?"
"Er, boss?"
"Yes, Fats?"
"Er, won't the wall, you know, sort of fall on us and, you know, like bury us?"
Shorty was all sweet patience. "No, Fats, it won't. You see, we're all going to stand at the opposite end, by that wall there, so that when the earth falls in, we won't be underneath it."
There was a murmur of appreciation of this stroke of genius and Shorty let it work its way through the group. "Any more questions?" she asked affably.
"Er, yes Boss."
"Gimpy! What would you like to know?"
"I, er, just wondered..."
"Come on Gimpy don't be shy. You're among friends here."
"I just wondered what if those humans are waiting out there for us when they see we've found a way out?"
"Excellent question, Gimpy. I expect that's exactly where they will be, don't you?"
Gimpy looked pleased with herself. "Well, yes Boss."
"Yes, Boss." There was something about the way shorty said this that sent a shiver of alarm through everyone present. Suddenly the sweetness was gone and the steel was back in the boss's voice. "Now then, are there any more staggeringly stupid questions? Because I've got to tell you that, the next person who asks one
, I will personally rip his fucking ears off! Now get over there and start shooting at the wall like I told you!"
Everyone scurried over to the end of the trench except for Gimpy who found Shorty blocking her way. "Oh, and Gimpy, if you do see any of those pesky little humans when we get to the surface, just shoot the fucking things!"
Gimpy sidled past with a muttered, "Yes Boss," and joined the others at the far wall, Shorty close behind her.
Shorty's eyes narrowed with determination. "OK, guys, start firing!"
-oOo-
Police Constable Jack Collins was the hero of the hour. His plan had worked flawlessly. The whole community had got behind it and now they gathered around the pit they had dug and slapped the young policeman's back. Several dragged eskys full of cold beer out of their utes. A few blokes were putting a fire together, thinking this could turn into quite a party with the right encouragement.
"Good on ya, Jacko!" the sergeant yelled over the general hubbub and excitement. "I reckon that's that mob taken care of, all right." He beamed at what he liked to think of as his young protégé, his heavy jowls and ample gut wobbly with mirth as he thrust a stubbie into the young officer's hand.
But Collins wasn't joining in the general celebration. "I dunno, Sarge. We should call the Army or something now, to take those roos somewhere safe."
"Safe? Where could be safer than at the bottom of a bloody big hole, Jack?"
"I dunno, Sarge. I'd just feel better if we had some serious firepower out here keeping an eye on them."
The sergeant roared with laughter and called out to one of the blokes by the fire. "Hey, Dave, Jack here thinks the roos are gonna climb out of that hole you dug."
Dave grinned back. "No fear, Maury. The sides are as steep as a lawyer's fees, mate."
Everyone laughed and even Collins allowed himself a small smile. "I still think we should call in the Army, Sarge. We don't know what they might try."
The sergeant smiled indulgently. "If it'll make you feel better, young fella, then you get on the radio and call up Jacqui back at headquarters. She'll patch you through on that newfangled emergency response network thing. It'll be good practice for her."
Patronising tone or not, Collins took his opportunity to run over to where the big Police Range Rover was parked and put through the call. Which was why he was nowhere near the pit when the kangaroos inside blasted down one of the walls.
Digging holes is a skilled business. The steeper and deeper you make the walls, the more prone they are to collapse suddenly and catastrophically. It was a miracle that the walls of Constable Collins' pit had stayed up at all, so it was hardly surprising that when the kangaroos inside began blowing big holes in one of them, not just that wall but the whole lot of them slumped into a more stable configuration. A configuration which buried every last kangaroo and tumbled at least twenty celebrating humans into the pit with them.
"Corporal Estafan, Defence Force Emergency Network Liaison," the radio had just announced as Collins spun around to see half his party disappear screaming into a great roaring cauldron of dust. Corporal Estafan had to repeat herself several times before Collins was recovered enough to speak again. "I think you'd better get somebody out here real quick. Yeah. Make that a lot of people. With spades."
-oOo-
The negotiations had gone well. Braxx had secured agreement for system-wide missionary access and Chuwar had received promises of technologies beyond his wildest dreams. To the Vinggans, the prospect of bringing millions more souls into the fold had turned the arguably disastrous trip into a magnificent triumph. For Braxx personally, it would mean elevation. Corpuscular Manifestation Second Class was sure to be his – perhaps even First Class in the fullness of time. To the warlord, the ships and weapons Braxx promised him meant the whole region would be his to conquer or destroy as he pleased. He would become the most powerful ruler for twenty light-years in any direction. His name would be feared in hundreds of star systems. This day his true destiny had been revealed to him.
For Werpot, watching happily as Chuwar and Braxx congratulated themselves, the deal meant that Vinggan levels of culture, comfort and sophistication would soon be arriving on this dungheap of a planet. He could lead the life of luxury and pleasure he had always craved and the over-zealous pursuit of which had landed him here in this mud-hole.
Even the Vinggan ship, monitoring everything through the bugs it had placed on its wheezebag pawns, was feeling pleased. Giving technology to Chuwar and his dominions was in fact an expansion of machine minds into the worlds of the Meisos Dominions – and any other worlds these idiots chose to oppress. An unexpected expansion of the Vinggan empire, in effect, on a new front and with new wheezebags to act as willing slaves. Gleefully, the machine began preparing its report to the Great Mind.
It seemed as if nothing could spoil the all-round pleasure of that perfect moment when suddenly the doors to the Great Hall were flung open. Everyone turned and peered into the gloom as the bulky shapes of a dozen Klebin trolls marched towards them, led, it eventually became clear, by five human forms, the one in front wearing a tight, orange dress.
-oOo-
The first off-world explorers on Arabis Five – a race of space-faring octopods from far beyond the Arm – described the giant moon in their dispatches to base as "A home from home. A veritable Paradise, peopled only by stupid and easily-subjugated sapients who will make excellent servants." A colony was established and settlers began pouring in. The slug-like natives – used to living a hard and unhappy life – accepted this new indignity with slug-like stoicism. They worked in the fields and fetched and carried for their eight-limbed masters with barely an audible sigh, watching and waiting as crops failed and diseases struck and the brash new colony slowly, painfully, withered and died. Then, with slug-like patience, they moved out of the shiny new portabuildings and back to their huts and caves.
That was over twenty-thousand years ago and things had changed on Arabis Five. Now the natives lived in proper houses – dilapidated and infested though they may be. They grew their own diseased and festering crops and had their own faltering, global economy. They even had a scattering of cities. To an outsider, the people there looked miserable and poverty-stricken, the cities little more than sprawling shanty-towns. Yet the natives of Arabis Five could boast what few other races in the galaxy could; since first contact with aliens, they had never had an occupying force on their planet for more than a couple of generations. The recent conquest by Chuwar and his trolls had lasted just a handful of years and already there were signs of decay and despair in the ranks of the warlord's mercenaries. Desertion rates from the troll army were doubling each year, a strange and persistent mildew had appeared in the warlord's portafortress, and tax collectors – at first so vigorous in their efforts – were now rarely seen in the more remote and disease-ridden regions.
The Agent strode through the stinking streets of Arabis Five's largest city. The locals eyed the giant with slug-like surliness, assuming it was another of Chuwar's henchmen. The Agent stopped one, then another, asking the same questions, seeking a clue as to where the Vinggans had gone. It had traced the ship to this region but the Vinggan vessel had suddenly left infraspace and must have landed in one of the nearby systems. Was this part of the machine's plan, or had the Vinggans done it on a whim? If the machine was trying to hide from it, the Agent was determined that it would not succeed. While its ship scanned the moon from orbit, the Agent gathered what intelligence it could on the ground.
"Go to Sluggie's," one of the natives told it – the third so far. "That's where people go to talk."
Sluggie's was a big, low-ceilinged room with a pile of boxes at one end and a strong and unpleasant smell everywhere else. About forty of the locals were gathered there in small groups, licking at blocks of a pungent narcotic which lay on the floor between them. It wouldn't attract many customers – or even get a license – on any civilised planet in the Agent's extensive knowledge-base but Sluggie's was clear
ly what passed here for a popular bar. The Agent made straight for the pile of boxes, ignoring the many intoxicated natives along the way – even the one lying on its back, eyeing the Agent with slug-like malevolence, that shouted 'Freak!" at it in a slurred voice.
A local, perhaps the only sober one in the whole bar, stood beside the pile of boxes, watching the Agent approach. "You wanna block?" it asked, nodding towards an open box containing blocks of the narcotic. The Agent declined. "Suit yourself," the bartender sneered.
"I'm looking for some Vinggans."
"We don't sell it."
“Vinggans are sapients, about so high, slimy, tentacles, eye-stalks, tendency to shoot things."
"No-one like that in here."
'Maybe you've heard about where they are?"
A voice from behind made the Agent turn. 'Vinggans? Vinggans? I know abou' th' Vinggans."
"Tell me." The newcomer was one of the customers, clearly having been at Sluggie's for some time already.
The customer eyed the Agent with slug-like cunning. "I talk better if people buy me a block," it said.
"Get my friend a block," the Agent told the barman.
“Fifty Chuwars," the barman said, without moving.
The Agent pulled out its credit card – accepted in all the major republics and kingdoms of the Known Galaxy and held it out, letting the barman see it was a plutonium card, which anybody would know carried a credit limit big enough to buy half this world.
"Cash only," the barman said.
The Agent eyed him levelly. “My credit is good."
"Not here, pal."
Fighting its rising irritation, the Agent asked, politely, "What do you use for cash, here? Gold? Diamonds?" The Agent carried with it a small molecular transmuter that could synthesise small amounts of precious metals and minerals.
"This." The bartender reached into a pouch and brought out a collection of small, grey balls of different sizes.
The Agent inspected it. "It looks like animal dung."
"Well, duh!" the barman sneered.
Cargo Cult Page 29
