by Toby Frost
If he had wanted a reaction, he hardly got one. 462 nodded. ‘I am not surprised,’ he said. ‘We need more soldiers.’
‘No. We need better soldiers.’
‘Well, we could shoot some officers. That tends to encourage them. Until you run out of officers,’ 462 added, recalling a nasty incident where he had nearly encouraged his troops by ordering them to make an example of himself. He had promoted a minion to lieutenant just in time.
The worst of it was that it really had perked his soldiers up.
‘No!’ Eight slapped the desk, sending a little trophy rocking. ‘Not that! I am suggesting an overhaul of the praetorian DNA structure.’
‘But their DNA is perfect. They are custom-engineered for fighting humanity. There’s no more DNA we could splice. . . none except the Vorl.’
Eight’s mouth split open in a huge smirk. There could be no doubting his praetorian heritage; rows of teeth gleamed. ‘My science-drones have been carrying out preliminary survey work at a laboratory hidden deep in Yullian territory. The pathetic drivel that makes up Yullian myth includes a number of references to the Vorl – most usefully, their location. The laboratory was destroyed a few days ago, but there is enough information to go on and I have plenty more science-drones. All we need is a little more work and it will be done.’
‘How may I obey?’ 462 inquired.
Eight put his fingertips together, and then his pincertips. ‘You are the only ranking officer to encounter the Vorl and survive. I gather your last target – one Rhianna Mitchell – turned out to be less an all-conquering superhuman than an amateur folk-musician with a hemp fixation – but do not worry: this time, you will not be looking for an individual but an entire planet.’
‘You wish me to find the home world of the Vorl?’
‘Yes. All indications suggest the edge of Known Space, where our territory overlaps with that of the lemming men. Which is why you will travelling with the Yull.’
462 shuddered. ‘The Yull? Those savages? But, Glorious Eight, they are idiots! The Yull are worthy of a freak show,’ he added, crossing his legs around his stercorium. ‘I see no reason why a Ghast officer should have anything to do with a bunch of arrogant little animals who have learned how to talk!’ He ran a hand over his antennae. ‘Must I lower myself to working with creatures like that again?’
‘You brokered the deal with them.’
‘Only so we could break it, Mighty Eight. The Yull are imbeciles and barbarians. And they will make my spaceship smell.’
‘Your contact will be a Yull with a name to get back –one disgraced in recent combat with Earth. A Yullian officer would eat its own litter to gain status with its miserable kind.’
462 thought about it. He had no love for the lemming men: the Yull were wretched beings, continually jostling to improve their position in their worthless society. On the other hand, Eight might give him a promotion for this.
Eight said, ‘Once the enemy find out our plan, they will make every effort to beat us to the Vorl. They may even send Isambard Smith against you. He has already given you facial scars and a serious limp – who knows what he may do this time?’
462 shuddered.
‘Our species must be refined.’ Eight struck an orator’s pose, his vicious little eyes squinting into space. ‘Through genetic engineering we have become the galaxy’s most effective fighting force: by removing our ability to breed we have orchestrated ourselves entirely.’
462 nodded keenly. Eight seemed to be talking about music, which he regarded as human frippery, but it was important to look enthusiastic.
‘Each of us is fitted for his role,’ Eight continued, ‘much like an instrument in the concerto I was writing shortly before you arrived. The drones are our percussion, the praetorians our horns, we commanders the wind section. But now we must move in harmony, if you will, each of us a muscle in the body politic, each of us straining his utmost to further our species’ mighty movement!’ He paused. ‘We are the instruments of destiny, you see: I am the conductor, and you are—’
‘All aboard!’ 462 barked, throwing a swift salute.
Eight winced. ‘Yes exactly. 462, here are your orders: you will be provided with a mixed team of Yullian warriors and modified praetorians, custom-rigged for maximum ruthlessness. You will allow nothing to stand in your way. You will hunt down the Vorl and we will make their psychic power ours. And once we have the Vorl – we shall have Earth!’
*
‘Oh my God, Suruk, I’m so sorry,’ Carveth said. ‘Oh my God.’
‘I’m really very sorry to hear that, old chap,’ said Smith.
‘He was a good sort. Did he, ah, go properly?’
‘He died well,’ Suruk replied. In the bad light of the cockpit he had to peer at the letter. Smith swung the map light down on its arm and flicked it on. ‘He fell fighting our old enemies, the disgraceful Yull. Forty-six foes fell to his broom, and many more leaped to their deaths rather than face his rage. He held up the Yull advance, it says, buying time for the army to prepare a counter-attack and stall their ambush.’
‘Forty-six?’ Carveth stared at Suruk.
The alien nodded. ‘Let me see. . . outstanding bravery, it says.’ Suruk chuckled. ‘So, my father died well! I am honoured to be the spawn of so great a warrior.’
He hopped down from his seat, passed the letter to Smith and strode to the front of the cockpit. Carveth glanced at Smith, about to offer Suruk a tissue: he shook his head quickly, and she stayed still.
His mandibles parted and, smiling, Suruk pushed his nostrils against the glass. ‘Out there, among the stars, Agshad dines in the halls of my ancestors. Even now my father exchanges noble stories with Aramar the Wise, and punches with Gob-Gob the Less Wise. I shall miss him, but I am proud. I wanted him to be a warrior as well as a sophisticate, and he heeded my words.’ Suruk looked around. Some of the fierceness faded from his eyes. ‘And yet he always wished me to be a professional: a lawyer, or a doctor perhaps.’ He moved towards the door and Smith handed him the letter as he went. ‘I must think,’ Suruk said. . . and then he was gone.
2 Indifferent Engines
The John Pym dropped from high orbit into the atmosphere of Albion Prime, and smog reached out and covered it like a shroud. Carveth flew by the instruments – a risky business for all concerned – and like a fly in the smoke of a bonfire they sank towards the city. Suddenly, as if a magician had pulled a tablecloth away, the smog parted.
‘Look!’ Carveth cried, excited as a child.
They were above a million lights that studded the sides of towers and chimneys that rose up like spines from the back of a hedgehog. Huge statues of Imperial heroes towered over the city as if wading through a sea of houses.
Towers, spires and huge cranes studded the skyline, many tall enough to disappear into the smog. Airships drifted around the Pym, their windows smeared by the myriad noses of legions of day-tripping citizens, all gazing in awe at the might of Paragon.
As they descended Smith made out the great civic buildings: The Imperial Planetarium, Chetworth’s Domes of Sensorial Delight, The Municipal Orphan Repository, the huge bell on top of the galaxy’s largest test-your-strength machine.
An airship swung down low, its propellers nearly flicking the Pym, and Carveth waved at the families on board until an oik gave her the finger. Order was restored when Suruk, who had slipped into the cockpit unheard, held up a skull from his room.
‘Little scamps!’ said Smith.
‘Indeed,’ Suruk growled. ‘They should be devoured in a basket with chips.’
Panels slid back in the huge glass roof of the spaceship hangar, and the Pym sank into the aperture. The landing legs hit the ground and the radio crackled into life.
‘Good day, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Paragon!’
Smith glanced at the others, then at the door. ‘Well, shall we?’
They emerged into the sound of creaking metal. Above them, great mechanical arms unfolded from the wrou
ght iron roof and slotted into the ship, scanning and refuelling it.
‘It hasn’t changed much,’ Smith said.
Carveth glanced at him. ‘You’ve been here before?’
‘We both have,’ Suruk said. ‘It is much as it was, except that I was wearing a paper bag on my head last time.’
As they climbed down the uneven metal steps, a door opened in the side of one of the dock offices and a gang of gravvie engineers hurried towards the Pym, tools in hand.
They were short and stocky, the result of high-gravity and inbreeding, and looked almost like another species as they swarmed over the ship, as though it were infested with gnomes.
A tall stick of a man paced behind the technicians like a teacher on a field trip. He wore a jacket with patches at the elbows and smoked a thin cigarette; his long face was lined and weary, as if bought second-hand. Only his thick hair and pencil moustache looked healthy, but there was a surprisingly vibrancy in his eyes, at once kindly and tough.
He coughed as he approached and stuck out a hand. ‘Smith.’
‘W.’
They shook and the master spy looked over Suruk and Carveth. ‘I heard about your father, Mr Slayer. My condolences.’
Suruk nodded. ‘I thank you. It is a comfort to know that my father died smiting the Yull.’
‘Good. And well done everyone on your work against the lemmings. Now,’ he added, ‘Wainscott mentioned some sort of lab in his report, staffed by Ghasts. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Smith said. ‘There was something down there. It didn’t look like Yull stuff – it didn’t smell of sawdust, either. I took this file off a dead Ghastist: it mentions the Vorl. Whatever was going on there, it was dirty alien business, that’s for damned sure.’
He passed the file to W. The spy opened it and ran a bony finger down the page. ‘Let’s see. . . hetuphikup –that’s a Yull word meaning the risk of error caused by excessive enthusiasm. Smith, you’re right – this does seem to be about the Ghast Vorl research programme.’
‘Vorl?’ Carveth said. ‘Aren’t they those ghost things that Rhianna’s mum copped – that Rhianna’s descended from?’
‘We thought the Ghasts had given up trying to contact the Vorl. I need to think about this,’ W said, ‘over tea.’ He looked troubled, more than usual. ‘Take the evening off, and come and see me tomorrow. I’ll be ready to discuss this then. Oh – and Smith?’ he added.
‘Yes?’
W fished an envelope out of his jacket. ‘This may be of interest. I leave it to you what you do with it.’ He turned, coughed again and strode off, the smoke from his cigarette curling out behind him. ‘Carry on, everyone.’
‘A night off, eh?’ Smith mused, studying the towers and domes of the skyline. He slipped the envelope into his pocket. ‘And the whole city to explore. So, men: who’d like pie and mash?’
*
‘Right then,’ Carveth said, spooning jellied eels into her mouth, ‘Who wants to take in a show?’
They sat in a branch of Halbury’s Galactic Pie Emporium, the remnants of their dinner around them like the debris of an explosion. It was half-nine and the shop was deserted apart from a young couple in fleet uniform and a wallahbot that rolled around and tried to sell them flowers.
‘Hmm?’ Smith had been thinking about Rhianna. How he wished she were here with him now. Well, he thought, looking at Carveth’s gravy stained face whilst Suruk inflated his throat and let out another belch, not right now.
‘A show, boss.’
Full of meat pie, Smith picked up the local newssheet and turned it over.
‘ Private Parts on Parade,’ he read. ‘ A Revue on matters topical, historical and comical, to be given by Young Actresses of Prominent Talent in celebration of our recent Victory on Varanor. Followed by the renowned Major- General Choudhury speaking of his Manly Exploits up the Purdang Basin and Music from Miss Lily Tuppence, the Nightingale of Mars. That sounds promising.’
‘Indeed so,’ Suruk said, poking around in a polystyrene cup. ‘I have several of Miss Tuppence’s records. If possible, I should like to get a souvenir from her.’
‘Oh?’ Smith said, remembering the sort of souvenirs that grinned from Suruk’s mantelpiece.
The M’Lak offered his cup around. ‘Is it true that whelks are made from French people?’
‘No. The whelk is actually a small, slimy invertebrate that lives underwater, whereas your Frenchman lives on land. You see–’ He leaned across the table, gesturing with his little wooden fork, and W’s envelope fell out into his mushy peas. Smith picked it up and broke the seal.
‘Hmm.’
‘What’s it say?’ Carveth demanded.
Smith unfolded the letter. ‘ Dear Smith,’ he began. ‘ I am writing this sub rosa, as it were: you and your people have done good work for the Service and I believe in paying back a service rendered. That’s nice,’ he said.
‘Is it a raise?’
‘Let’s see. . . Use this information as you will. Your crew includes an alien and a girlie, so you may find it appro- priate to keep this under your hat, as it were, in case they get excitable.’
‘It is a raise!’ Carveth cried.
‘ Agshad Nine-Swords did not die in combat: he was murdered by a cowardly blow struck from behind.’
Suruk raised his head from his cup of whelks. ‘What is this?’
‘My army contact tells me that around ten a.m. orders were given by General Young herself for Third Armoured Brigade to travel to Tambridge as quickly as possible. The garrison on the other side of the Tam had been overrun. The Yull meant to cross the bridge and attack from the North. It was vital to retake the bridge or destroy it to stop the Yull getting across.
‘I am informed that the raiding party were greeted by a scene of destruction: the sides of the bridge were smashed open, and there were dead Furries all over the shop. In the middle of it all was Agshad Nine-Swords. He was holding a broom and covered with wounds. The men realised that it was him who’d been holding the Yull back, and refused to detonate the bridge until he was rescued.
‘The report states that on hearing the vehicles of the armoured column, Agshad looked around. At this point, a Yullian officer, previously held at bay by Agshad, leaped on him and struck him in the back.’
Smith stopped. They looked at him. He took a swig of tea.
‘ I am informed that the raiding party rushed the bridge, rescued Agshad and pulled back, detonating the bridge supports as they withdrew. Agshad died on the way to the brigade HQ. ’
‘Roses, luverly roses, get ’em ’ere!’ the wallahbot called, and with a whine of servos it rolled to the next table. ‘One fer two pahnd, three fer a fiver!’
‘I see,’ Suruk said. Smith and Carveth watched him carefully. He raised an eyebrow-ridge. ‘Proceed, Mazuran.’
Smith nodded. ‘ The Yull headman is called Colonel Vock. Even for one of the Furries he’s known as a savage, merciless bastard. He was the ground officer at the Burning of Neustadt. ’
‘And my father?’ Suruk said. ‘What of him?’
Smith said, ‘ Agshad spoke to the medic just before he died. He expressed – Look, Suruk, I’m not sure—’
‘I am.’
‘Alright: . . . he expressed the wish that his son had taken up a proper job. Then W says I can do what I like with the information.’ He tossed the letter onto the table-top. ‘That’s it.’
Suruk pulled a machete from his belt in a smooth hiss of steel.
Smith glanced at Carveth: she was watching the pair of them with huge, wide eyes, as if she had never seen creatures like Suruk and Smith before.
‘Easy, old man,’ Smith said.
‘What’re you going to do?’ Carveth said, and she put a hand over her mouth, as if it had slipped out by mistake.
Suruk picked up his battered cod. His knife flashed: one cut opened the backbone and the second lopped off the tail. He tore it open and bit it in two. ‘First, I finish my dinner,’ he said. ‘Then, the show beg
ins.’
*
Smith was picking fluff off his red fleet jacket when Carveth knocked on the cabin door and came in. ‘How do I look?’
Smith tugged at his cuffs. His jacket felt very tight across the shoulders since had sent it to be cleaned.
Admittedly, there had been a lot of alien blood to get out, but a couple more trips to the dry cleaners and it would be the size of a robin’s brassiere.
Carveth had not fared much better. She wore her favourite dress, which was blue and from different angles made her look like Alice in Wonderland, a Victorian maid and some sort of nautical road cone. ‘You look fine,’ he said. ‘Heard anything from Suruk?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s got the door shut and he’s playing music.’
‘Music? It’s not Minnie Ripperton, is it?’
‘Yes, actually.’
Smith grimaced. ‘Not – Les Fleurs?’
‘Yeah – how’d you know?’
‘Painful experience. Look Carveth, be careful with Suruk, would you? This is a bad time for him.’
‘Greetings!’ Suruk said from the door.
They glanced round.
‘Guilty faces, humans? Do I interrupt the bonky dance?’
‘No!’ they said.
Suruk stepped into the room. He wore a white dress-shirt with a high collar and a black tails jacket. ‘Perhaps you should. Your floaty seer is elsewhere, Mazuran, and the miserable android Dreckitt is off doing other things. Is he still spawning with you?’
Carveth shrugged. ‘It’s tricky with Rick. It’s all a bit touch and go.’
‘You touched, he went,’ Suruk said. ‘So often the way. What do you make of my attire?’
