‘Impressed yet?’
‘What?’ cried Skoros. ‘No.’ He pulled out his wand, but Alditha was ready for him. She snapped her fingers, loud and clear, and the wand shot out of his grasp, tumbled end over end in the air, and slid into her hand.
‘Boys and their wands—honestly, it’s an obsession,’ she muttered. ‘That all you came for, was it? Bit of a threaty, stompy moment, show us your orbs, wave your wand about and play the big wizard? Cos if that’s all, I think we’re done, aren’t we?’
The metal wand sparked in Alditha’s hand, giving her a shock and sparking blue energy into her arm. ‘Yaaargh,’ she yelped, dropping it. It didn’t fall to the ground, but shot straight back to its master’s hand.
‘Nobody waves my wand around but me,’ he snarled.
‘You’re not kidding,’ muttered Alditha, rubbing her arm.
Skoros aimed the wand at the fallen orbs, and a crackle of yellow energy shot from its corkscrew end, touching each of them in turn. They gave an optimistic electronic whine and bobbed back up into the air. Alditha grabbed her broom and swept air at them. From nowhere, a wind whipped up that blew the orbs and Skoros backward, the wizard tumbling, his red slippers bending back, almost as if they would kick him in the head. The wind was unfocused, but Alditha jumped on the broom and rode it round and round, directing the air into a cyclone that caught the orbs and swirled them like bubbles in a plughole. Alpha pressed his palms together, rebooting his control matrix and aiming the termination signal at the cyclone.
‘No response,’ he reported. ‘Orbs have received a replacement primary command structure.’
‘Oh, they have, have they?’ Celeste demanded. ‘If I can get my hands on them, we’ll see about that. I’ll rebuild the wretched things from the primary elements up if I have to. Alpha, there is Astarian technology in the hands of an indigenous primitive. Retrieve the orbs.’
Alpha turned his big egghead to look at her. Her almond eyes didn’t flinch at his gaze.
‘Acknowledged.’ He waved a palm at Alditha’s cyclone, then made a quick series of chirping, beeping noises. ‘Increasing density to compensate for atmospheric...disturbance.’
Nothing visible happened to his body, but he stepped into Alditha’s cyclone and kept his feet planted on the ground. His large black eyes observed the swirling of the orbs and, with the precision of a crossbow, he stuck out a hand and batted one of the metal balls to the ground, where it landed heavily at Celeste’s feet. She picked it up in both hands, searching with her fingers for the access hatch that would let her turn off the main power distribution links.
Skoros, blown off his feet but now out of the main path of the cyclone, raised his wand, watching Alditha go round and round, a blur of black on the cyclone’s edge. His father’s frequent angry words came back to him, accompanied by the memories of slaps and punches. ‘A wizard lives or dies on his instincts, you idiotic boy.’ Slap. ‘You’ve got the instincts of a pig-handler.’ Punch. ‘Where are your wizard’s instincts?’
Skoros stood up, pointed his wand and closed his eyes. You want instincts, he thought, I’ll give you instincts. He sensed the movement of the wind, feeling it on his face, hearing the rhythm of its whip and whoosh. Felt the button underneath his thumb. Felt the moving of the stars and the turn of the world and the beat of his heart and found the still moment underneath it all, in it all, because of it all. Everything came together.
He pressed the button.
There was an ‘Urrrrrgh’ noise, and the sudden death of the cyclone. He opened his eyes and saw Alditha, unconscious on the ground, a deep cut in her forehead oozing blood, and her lip split.
Alpha reached down and picked up the two remaining orbs, one in each of his twig-like alien hands.
‘Now,’ yelled Skoros, his voice hoarse and his eyes shining.
All three orbs sparked and crackled, a yellow lightning crawling over their surface. With a short squeak from Celeste, and a long moan from Alpha as the lightning crawled up both his arms to dance over his head, both of the aliens slumped to the ground.
I’ve done it, thought Skoros. I’ve actually done it.
And there were no voices raised to tell him any different. Skoros stood alone and unopposed. He was the King of the Garden.
13
The sun set, and the sun rose.
Having taken care of Odiz and Alditha, it was at least reasonably accurate to say Skoros now ruled the Garden, forcing it under the yoke of evil magic and machinery.
Faced with the threat of Skoros’ strange, new mechanical toys, Big Red and Sagar had put up little resistance to the wizard’s plans, having begrudgingly agreed to take up residence in the general vicinity of Skoros Castle—albeit in the deepest, darkest corner of the Maze. Being both shrewd and intelligent creatures, the prospect of being permanently silenced by the wizard’s new-found power had swayed their decision not to immediately go on the defensive. However, considering that demons and dragons did not normally crave a life of captivity, this was unlikely to be a long-lasting arrangement.
The Garden didn’t have a King or Queen, it simply had people, and things that were also-people, just getting on with the business of being alive. There were other wizards, other witches, there were trolls and goblins, but there was no particular system in place for one lot of people to rule another. There was just power, and having removed the most powerful people from their places, Skoros technically had the most power left in the Garden.
That said, much of the Garden still hadn’t heard that it was now being ruled under the yoke of evil magic and machinery, and so it carried on pretty much as normal. That’s why evil dictators tend to go in for big, spectacular, ‘Now you all die’ plans—if they don’t, the ‘little people’ have an irritating tendency not to notice they’ve been ground underfoot, and nothing is more calculated to get up an evil dictator’s nose than the idea that they’re being ignored.
As the sun rose on the first day of Skoros’ rule, four small flocks of birds were taking off, one from each corner of the Garden. Each bird carried a satchel appropriate to its size, and as they flew, they dipped their beaks into the satchels, pulled out some sheets of paper and sent them fluttering down on the land below, like colourful rectangular snow.
At the head of the largest flock, noble and resolute, flew Harper.
The Committee of Concerned Folk Against Alien Invasions—The CoCoFoAgAlInv—which was how Harper thought of it, for all Gunkin begged that he call it something snappier, had taken some time and planning to put together, and as the birds flew, Harper felt proud. The leaflets all said the same thing, and it had taken some of Gunkin’s goblin friends the best part of a day to write and draw them. There was a picture of the alien he’d seen in the teacup-ship, only Gunkin’s friends had made it look even scarier than it was, with big sharp teeth and pointed claws, dripping blood. ‘ALIENS’ was written, all jagged and scary, across the top of the leaflet. Then, in smaller words, it went on to explain that there were aliens in the Garden and that they were big and scary and were there to invade. They would take food out of the mouths of ordinary Gardenfolk, it said—that had been a line of Gunkin’s. Harper was more concerned about ordinary Gardenfolk being the food of aliens, but Gunkin had said people weren’t frightened of being eaten until it was a real and immediate possibility, because they’d never been eaten before, and part of them wasn’t sure it was as bad as everyone made out. ‘Whereas hunger, chief...hunger they know about. Hunger they can relate to. Hunger while some other beggar eats, that they can be frightened of today, even when they’re not hungry. That they can get angry about, even without having seen a single alien themselves. And fear, Chief—that’s how you move people.’ He had smiled that disconcerting goblin smile again, and Harper had felt a little queasy looking at it. ‘Trust me,’ Gunkin said. ‘Fear’s like a goblin magic.’
So that was what the leaflets were full of—fear. Fear that people could understand, according to Gunkin. Fear of hunger while other people a
te. Fear of being turned out of their homes while aliens used their favourite chairs to park their alien backsides. Fear of change, which Gunkin said, nine times out of ten, people knew was likely to be change for the worse. Fear of all those things, and then a plan to band together and stand up against the aliens, so their fears never came true. A plan to march on the teacup, and wave banners, and tell the aliens politely but firmly to go away and leave the Garden uninvaded, thankyouverymuch. Gunkin had sniffed at that, said it ‘needed more fire and pitchforks, but whatever you say, chief.’ Gunkin had drawn the line at adding the bit about the worms and beetles in the sky though. ‘I believe you, chief, course I do—you tell me there’s great big worms and beetles dangling down from the sky, I say righto, there’s great big worms and beetles. Ooh. Scary stuff. All I’m sayin’ is, people are gonna look up, and they ain’t gonna see great big worms and beetles. At which point, they crumple up our leaflet, chuck it on their fires and get on with their lives, missing our crucial message about the aliens. One step at a time, sort of thing, yeah? One fear at a time.’
So, reluctantly, Harper had agreed to leave out the part about the giant worms and beetles and centipedes threatening to come down from the sky and eat everyone. For now.
He pecked out another beakful of leaflets and let them drop. It would all be decided by lunchtime. The last thing on the leaflet was what Gunkin said was a ‘call to action.’ It was an instruction as far as Harper understood it—‘If you want to stand up against the aliens,’ it said, ‘meet our brave leader, Harper the Owl, at Stone Hedge at midday.’ He flung the last of his leaflets from his satchel and watched them go, spreading their message.
Soon, he thought. Soon I’ll know if one owl can stop an alien invasion.
He flapped his wings, fast and fretful. If today went as badly as his last attempt, the aliens had nothing to fear. He gulped. I need to talk to the Green Man, he told himself, and wheeled his flight around to head to his friend’s house.
__________
Ow.
Witches think clearly most of the time, and the pain was the first thing to cross Alditha’s mind when she woke up. She pressed her tongue to her lip, felt where it had split and blood had crusted.
I am going to slap that beardless wonder into next week.
Witches think clearly most of the time. Alditha heard hissing, smelled something that was like sap, but also almost like blood. She felt the presence of a consciousness pressing on her mind, like a snake waiting for her to move, waiting for her to make a mistake.
Blackheart Bindweed, she decided. Not good. She dared to open her eyes, realized she couldn’t move, that her witchbag, broom, and even her hat were nowhere to be seen.
Witches think clearly most of the time. Many of them are in a simmering state of bad temper most of the time too, but rarely does a witch give way to full-on, out-and-out rage. But then, people don’t tend to go around stealing witches’ hats often, not for the most part wanting to be turned into frogs and the like. Alditha gritted her teeth, wondering whether she could find it in herself to get really angry.
She counted to five, then decided it was worth a good rummage.
Alditha rummaged big time, took as deep a breath as she could, and yelled some dark, inventive, fury-flaming words.
__________
‘But which are you? A living creature or a machine?’
‘Question does not compute. Which are you? Flesh or blood?’
Skoros sighed out his irritation. The bulbous-headed alien was either being deliberately difficult, which didn’t seem possible if it were a machine, or it simply didn’t understand what he was asking it. Could it be? Flesh and circuitry, bone and steel, united at some fundamental level?
‘Al...ditha.’
Astarians didn’t sleep much—there was too much to see and do—and when they woke, they usually went from full sleep to fully awake in the opening of an eye. But unconsciousness was not quite the same thing, and Celeste took a moment to rouse herself. She instinctively tried to sit bolt upright and found she couldn’t. She was strapped to a metal board, with cuffs around her wrists and ankles.
‘Indigenous primitives,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’ said Skoros. ‘I was beginning to fear you were dead.’
Celeste chuckled to herself, then looked sideways to where Alpha was strapped to an identical but much larger table. She flexed her arm muscles just a little, then smiled again.
‘Something funny?’
‘Alpha, increase tensile strength by...oh, I should think a factor of three would be sufficient. Increase external energy capacitance by a factor of eight and await further instructions.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘Wait,’ said Skoros, ‘what? What was that? What’s all that capacitance talk?’
‘Capacitance in this case means the amount of energy that can be absorbed by a surface,’ said Celeste. ‘I’m going to need cover in a moment, you see? When I escape from here.’
Skoros stalked round to look Celeste in the eye. ‘Big talk for a child. You know, I had to dig this torture-table out especially for you. Evil as my family were, it’s been a long while since we had to torture a teenager in the Maze.’
Celeste chuckled again, this time right in his face.
‘What’s so funny, girl?’ yelled Skoros. He drew his hand back to slap her across the face. Celeste brought her hand up sharply to grip his wrist, the shackle falling pointlessly off her skin.
‘The funny thing,’ she said as he goggled at her, ‘is how keen you all are around here to judge by appearances. Just because you think I look like one of your teenagers, you assume I’m the same as them.’ She flexed some more muscles and swung her legs off the table, pulling her other hand free without a second thought. She twisted his arm and he followed it down so she could look him in the face. ‘I’m really not,’ she assured him. ‘Alpha, now.’
Without even his usual acknowledgement, Alpha swung up, snapping the shackles that held him to the table. Celeste flung Skoros across the room by his arm, then walked behind Alpha as he approached the watching orbs. The orbs shot Alpha, time and time again, while Celeste kept herself hidden, then as they all discharged their weapons at once, she ducked through his legs and scrambled out into the corridors of Skoros Castle, dodging this way and that as Alpha followed her, and the orbs flew after them both. Suddenly, Celeste heard the sound of major fire, and Alpha fell forward, landing heavily.
‘Alpha. Increase capacitance to maximum.’
‘Acknowledged,’ he groaned. ‘Escape indigenous entanglements and affect primary mission objective. Retrieve the Sleepers.’
She nodded, took one last look at him laying on the floor as the orbs advanced, then ran. The orbs sped up now that the corridor was free of Alpha-shaped obstructions, and when they could lock on to her, they blasted plasma bolts and paralysis rays. Celeste ducked, weaved, jumped and even somersaulted, knowing the way the orbs were programmed to run pursuit patterns. A large wooden door studded with iron bolts and a round iron ring stood in the wall in an open area at the end of one corridor, and she ran to it with every ounce of strength in her legs and lungs, twisting the ring up and slipping through the narrowest gap in the door, then pulling it tight after her.
She assessed her situation. Outdoors. Late morning, judging from the position of the sun in the sky. Her options were limited. Going back for Alpha was impossible with the orbs on their way—they’d blast away the door in less than a minute. There were outbuildings she could hide in, but the orbs would simply activate a life-form scan programme and track her quickly. Probably that would be followed by an incineration blast and quite apart from everything else, she didn’t want to give Skoros the satisfaction of killing her.
There was a forest.
Forest. She decided. It would confuse any life-form scan, because if there was one thing you could guarantee in a forest it was that it would be full of life, most of it running away from anything that look
ed and behaved like the orbs. She took off, running towards the treeline. She reached it just as the sound of a big wooden door being blown off its hinges echoed behind her, and she darted past the first few trees she encountered. Then—something went wrong. She was still running, but she was no longer getting anywhere. A branch had snagged the back of her collar and lifted her up. Suddenly she saw it—the bark of the tree frowned at her. It had a face.
‘Now then, Little Missy—where might you be running to in such an ’urry?’
Despite her haste, Celeste remembered her training. ‘Hail, noble tree-oid,’ she said. ‘I’m running away from some-’—she thought about trying to explain the orbs full of sensors, self-defensive weaponry and various scanning technologies from a distant civilization, and decided she simply didn’t have the breath. ‘-balls of death,’ she said.
‘Aye, that’s as mebbe,’ said the tree, ‘but where d’you stand on choppin’?’
‘Chopping?’
‘Choppin’ down of defenceless trees.’
‘Oh,’ said Celeste, catching on fast. ‘I’m against it. Absolutely against it.’
‘Mm-hmm,’ said the tree. ‘What about Skoros? Local lad, lives round these parts.’
‘He’s the one sending the balls of death after me,’ she told it. There was an audible gasp, and not just from the tree doing the talking.
‘Right,’ it said. ‘You leave this to us, Missy. Front ranks—balls of death, approaching. Prepare for war. In the rear, listen up. This here’s an enemy of both Skoros and choppin’. That’s good enough for me. I say get her through safe, all right?’
A bizarre, haunting rustle of leaves and a clatter of twig on branch sounded through the forest. Then, before she knew what was happening, Celeste found herself being hauled from tree to tree, like a package in a post office.
Aliens In My Garden Page 14
