by Toby Frost
‘Good to see you!’ he said. ‘Very glad you could make it, gentlemen.’ He wore a dark coat and striped trousers, like an undertaker. ‘Please, do take seats. Not that one,’ he added, indicating a curious armchair on the far side of the room, festooned with dials and quartz rods.
W sat down and folded his arms and legs as if he were made of hinges. ‘This is Isambard Smith and his crew: Polly Carveth; Suruk the Slayer; and this is Rhianna Mitchell, of whom I’m sure you’ll know much already.’
‘Hello all,’ the fat man said. ‘Gary Sheldon, pleased to meet you. I’m head cogitator here, which means that I run the Empire’s department of Psycho-futuro-neuro-history.’
Smith and his crew exchanged glances.
‘It’s the science of telling people what they’ve just done just before they’re about to go and do it, enabling us to predict what large numbers of foreigners will do at the whim of their tyrannical masters. Here, we use all manner of science and trickery to stay one step ahead of Gertie Ghast and predict his every black and sordid deed, enabling our plucky chaps to confound the ant-man’s crooked schemes before they even come to pass. We also deal with telephone queries.’
‘Look,’ said Smith, ‘that’s all very well, but what’s this all about, eh? If I’m going to help you, I could do with this business being a little less cloak-and-dagger. You could tell us what’s going on.’
‘Unless you have to kill us afterwards,’ Carveth said.
‘Feel free to try,’ Suruk added helpfully.
W exchanged a look with Sheldon. ‘Gentlemen, we have uncovered perhaps the most serious threat to the human race since the beginning of this war. The file you recovered during Operation Bargepole proves what we’ve suspected for some time – that the Ghast Empire intends to make its soldiers invincible.’
Smith shrugged. ‘They said that about Urn. The only Ghast that got to stay on Urn was the one we used as a hatstand.’
‘True,’ W said. ‘But they have been planning something different – something especially evil.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. The file you found lists a number of experi-mental procedures for splicing non-Ghast DNA into the dirty double-helix of our enemies. The Ghasts mean to cross their own troopers with the Vorl.’ His dark eyes flicked from face to face. ‘The Vorl are undoubtedly deadly opponents, if somewhat secretive. The only contact with the Vorl we know of tends to end in people having their heads popped by psychic force. A crossbreed would have the mental powers and gaseous form of a Vorl and the ruthless lust for power of a Ghast. Such a creature would be almost impossible to defeat.’
‘Then we must stop them,’ Smith said.
‘Absolutely. But that will be no easy task: the Ghasts have their best ants working on it. The last time they tried to kidnap Miss Mitchell: this time they mean to use a pure Vorl. We know the Vorl can interbreed with other races, Miss Mitchell here is an example.’
‘Hi,’ Rhianna said.
‘She has the human form of her mother, and some of the powers of her Vorlian father. This file suggests that the Ghasts intend something similar – but as the culmination of precise gene-splicing, rather than the result of a pot-addled shag. The papers you captured suggest that the Ghasts have all the machinery they need to carry out the genetic manipulation. All they need is a Vorl – and it is vital that we get to the Vorl and warn them before the Ghasts can carry out their evil plan.’
‘Then we know what we must do!’ Smith exclaimed. ‘This vile scheme must be stopped. The safety of Britain and therefore the entire human race rests on thwarting this alien plot. With me, crew!’ he cried, leaping to his feet. ‘Let’s load up the ship, fly out to wherever the Vorl are, get them on board, go and find Gertie and kick the floor with him and wipe his arse!’ There was a moment’s pause. He looked around the room. ‘That sort of thing,’
he said, sitting back down.
Carveth raised a hand. ‘Um, not wanting to fart in anyone’s lunchbox here, but where are the Vorl, exactly?’
The two spies exchanged another look.
‘Thomas and Alan?’ said Sheldon.
W nodded.
The cogitator stood up from the desk, reached to the painting of the King and Queen and pulled the side. It swung open like a door. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing for them to go through.
W stood up. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘We can’t figure out where the Vorl are. But we can ask someone who can.’
It was as though they had stepped into the workings of a gigantic clock. They were in a hall thirty yards wide, the ceiling impossibly high. Vast cogs with teeth the size of doors broke the floor, rotating slowly. The walls were Racing Green, the machinery polished brass. The air was full of the whirr and clank of distant belts, the stink of oil and the rattle of paper spooling from slots mounted in the wall. Above them, electricity crackled and pulsed.
Goggled engineers hurried between banks of levers and dials, white coats flapping. ‘Ruddy ‘ell, Barry!’ one woman called. ‘Gearing’s all out on t’mechanical brain!’
‘What is this?’ Carveth whispered.
‘Miss,’ Sheldon replied, ‘this is science.’
A great chain clattered down from the distant roof and deposited a tray of bacon sandwiches on the ground. The workers snatched at them, munching as they studied the machinery, racked levers back and forth and shouted into pneumatic speaking-tubes.
Sheldon checked his pocket watch. ‘Prepare to consult!’ he yelled into a tube, and the workers became frantic, throwing switches, tuning knobs, flicking fingers against dials. Pistons hammered back and forth, fans whirled, the whole room shuddered.
With a grinding roar two colossal doors swung open at the far end of the room. Steam blasted from vents. Two great machines rumbled into the chamber on rails set into the floor. They were bigger than juggernauts, armoured in black steel, shaped like loaves of bread. Sheldon turned to his audience.
‘Gentlemen, you are about to witness the brain of the Imperial war machine: Psycho-futuro-neuro-history at its finest. If Gertie comes up with a scheme, we have a scheme and a wheeze to stop him.’
The armour slid back from the front of the machines.
Behind it they saw gears, spinning wheels and hammering pistons of brass and, in the centre of each machine where the face of a clock would be, a human face with eyes and mouth, a great grey smiling disc.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Sheldon cried. ‘I give you the finest computer in the galaxy – Thomas, the Difference Engine!’
‘Hello, fat cogitator,’ Thomas the Difference Engine said.
‘And Alan, the Analytical Engine!’
‘Hello,’ said Alan the Analytical Engine.
‘Hello,’ said Smith and the others.
‘Hello, Space Captain Smith,’ the computers said. ‘How are you?’
Smith realised that he was addressing the finest minds in the known universe. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘And you?’
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ Alan said.
‘Pretty good, thanks,’ Thomas said.
It went quiet.
‘We need to find an alien race known as the Vorl,’ Smith announced. ‘They are semi-gaseous, psychic beings of immense power. The Ghast Empire wants to harness their strength for the evil end of galactic domination. The British Empire needs to harness their strength for the good end of civilising the galaxy.’
Thomas’ eyes moved left, then right, like those of a haunted picture. ‘Gosh, that’s difficult,’ he said. ‘The Vorl are extremely elusive. Almost no confirmed sightings exist: everything known is through secondary evidence.’
‘Having had a shufty at the papers,’ Alan put in, ‘your best bet is to track former human attempts to contact them. There are legends, of course, stories that the Vorl have made contact with secret societies, but. . . well, they’re nonsense, really.’
‘Go on,’ Smith said.
The eyes of both engines swung towards each other.
‘Well,
you asked for it,’ Thomas said, and he simulated taking a deep breath. ‘The Vorl are rumoured to have made contact with a medieval guild of brewers called the Holy Legion of Hospitable Tipplers. In 1320 on the outskirts of York, they reported mass visions of a ghostly being that struck them with terrible head pains and vomiting, shortly after the three-day feast of Saint Armand. The Tipplers passed the secret of alien contact down through the ages in mystic ceremonies involving Morris dancing, and are rumoured to have included Pitt the Younger, Buddy Holly and the Montgolfier brothers among their number, although that may just be hot air. It is thought that the handkerchiefs of modern Morris dancers symbolise the wafting bodies of the Vorl.’
‘What utter toss!’ Carveth exclaimed, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, I meant to think that, not say it. But I mean, that’s daft. Next thing you’ll say they built the pyramids.’
‘Actually, they didn’t,’ Alan replied. ‘The Egyptians did that, then someone’s alien ancestors forged poor-quality evidence of themselves building the pyramids, for a laugh. Not naming any names, Suruk the Slayer.’
Suruk chuckled. ‘Indeed.’
‘I remember when they discovered it,’ Smith said. ‘The greatest hoax since the Nazca Indians faked Erik von Danniken.’
Carveth looked at the others. ‘Not convinced,’ she said.
‘There is one more thing,’ W said. ‘I never realised what this meant before, but. . . well, we keep records on the larger corporations, in case they turn against the interests of the Empire. It didn’t seem like much at the time, but Lloyd Leighton, the co-founder of Leighton-Wakazashi –was a Morris dancer. Oh, and he also spent billions looking for the Vorl so he could turn them into a bioweapon.’
‘Wait a moment!’ cried Smith, clicking his fingers. ‘The documents in that Ghast lab had a symbol on the top – Leighton-Wakazashi’s headed paper!’
W nodded. ‘There is possibly a link between Leighton- Wakazashi and the Vorl – and when I say possibly, I mean definitely. It is up to you to find out what it is. We will have to infiltrate the company, discover their plans and find out what they know about the Hospitable Tipplers and the Vorl. And when I say we, I mean you.’
‘Infiltrate Leighton-Wakazashi?’ Carveth said. ‘How? They have some of the smartest people in the galaxy working for them. No offence or anything, but the only one of us with any sort of university qualification has a degree in Creative Dance.’
‘Interpretative Dance,’ Rhianna said.
‘Right. So if none of us can work there, we’re stuffed, right?’
Smith had been thinking, slowly rubbing his chin. ‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘Even if none of us can be workers, there’s one of us who can be a product, isn’t there?’
Slowly they turned to look at Carveth, like the turrets of a dreadnought lining up to civilise a hostile spaceport.
She sighed, well aware that there was no getting out of this. ‘For the record,’ she said, ‘Bugger.’
*
‘You make the tea,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ll be in the cockpit having a sulk.’
Smith was just stirring the pot when she called down the corridor.
‘Boss! Come and have a look at this!’
He put down the spoon and hurried to the front of the ship. Suruk slipped out of his room and joined him.
‘Listen,’ Carveth said, toggling the radio.
‘You have – one – saved message,’ the data recorder said, ‘left – today – at ten thirty-six a.m., Greenwich Standard Galactic time. Message is as follows.’
The voice was cultivated and hard, infused with a sneer.
‘So, the great Captain Smith, eh? No doubt you’re feeling very chipper after your little soiree at the theatre last night. Well, the hand of the Ghast Empire reaches even to this pint-sized paradise! We, the Legion of Ghastists, have captured a certain lady of the stage, and I can assure you that if you and Miss Rhianna Mitchell are not at the Municipal Freight Depot at midnight tonight, the next train she takes will have a permanent sleeper car! And bring none of your freakish allies. It’ll take more than your pet monkey-frog to get you out of this!’
The radio went dead. ‘Scum!’ Suruk growled. ‘How dare he call Carveth a monkey-frog? Only I may do that!’
‘Um. . . do we know this guy?’ Rhianna said.
‘Know him?’ Smith replied. ‘Not personally, but I know his type well enough. . . a Ghastist: a traitor not just to mankind but to the British Space Empire, a person willing to kiss the stercorium of Number One in exchange for the chance to bully his fellow man. The Ghasts are filthy enough, but a man who’d willingly do their dirty work is beyond despicable. I’d gladly shoot the bugger myself – but he has a woman captive and we must rescue her. Then we can fix him, good and proper.’
‘Call me a cynic, but does this look like an obvious trap?’ Carveth said.
Smith opened the weapons locker and took out his Civiliser. ‘It may be, but ask yourself this: can we leave a woman to die at the hands of Ghastist thugs?’
‘Maybe?’ Carveth said. ‘Just a thought.’
Smith passed her a pistol. ‘Let’s go.’
It was raining heavily. Rhianna put her umbrella up.
Behind them, the city smoked and steamed.
Carveth looked up at the gates. ‘Well, I’ll stay here then, shall I? You might need a rear guard.’
‘And I shall wait with you, Piglet,’ Suruk said. ‘To make sure the rear guard does something other than guarding its rear. Ten minutes and I will advance from the road. I shall be taking heads.’
Smith and Rhianna passed under open gates, into a compound. The automated station stretched away from them, its greenhouse roof disappearing down the tracks.
The night turned its windows black, winking like polished steel where the moonlight caught them.
‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘we have to go inside.’ He looked at Rhianna and felt tenderness towards her, which irritated him. ‘Be careful,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ Rhianna said, and Smith opened the door and they walked in.
The roof was made of glass panels: the moon caught the frame and threw slanting bars across the floor. They stood on the platform, in the pitch dark just outside the moonlight. Wallahbots rested against the walls. In daylight they would load pallets onto the trains, their boilers and cogs polished and gleaming – now they looked thuggish and hunched.
A locomotive waited at the platform. It was only the engine, but even that was huge: three times man-height, its funnel the size of a castle tower, a monocorn-catcher jutting chin-like from the front. It looked like the helmet of a gigantic knight.
Rhianna ran to the edge of the platform, skirt flapping, and pointed. On the tracks in front of the train was a figure, unconscious and bound.
‘Look!’ she gasped. ‘There’s a woman tied to the train tracks! That’s terrible – oppressive gender stereotyping at its worst!’
‘It’s Lily Tuppence, the Nightingale of Mars!’ said Smith, and a light flicked on before them.
There was a bridge across the train line, and on it stood a man in black. His hair was harshly parted and gelled down flat: he had a hard jaw and a devious moustache. It was the man from the music hall.
‘Ah, Captain Smith!’ he cried, and he flung out his arms as if about to introduce a show. He turned to Rhianna.
‘And our new ally, the lovely lady.’
‘She’s not your ally and she’s not lovely!’ Smith barked back, immediately regretting it.
The man laughed. ‘I am Egbert Tench, supreme leader of the League of Ghastists and future Dictator of Earth.’
‘You’ll let that woman go, or there’ll be trouble,’ Smith said.
Tench tutted and raised his hand: he held a small metal box. ‘I have only to press this button and the engine springs to life. Of course, I’d rather not see blood spilled. I happen to be vegetarian, you know. All the best dictators are.’
Rhianna was glaring at Tench, quietly boiling wi
th righteous fury. As Smith was opened his mouth to reply, she called out, ‘Vegetarian? I’m a vegan and I love nature, so up yours, buddy!’ She raised a finger at Tench.
‘Rhianna!’ Smith exclaimed, a little shocked. ‘I’ll deal with this: now shush–’
‘Don’t you shush me, Isambard! I will not be silenced—’
‘No! Look around.’
Rhianna glanced left and right. Men had crept out: stubble-haired thugs with beer bellies and braces, with faces like uncooked pastry draped over knobbly meat.
They held crowbars and rounders bats. A tall hard-faced woman in shiny black gear struggled to hold a bull-terrier on a length of chain.
‘Now then,’ Tench began, clearing his throat, ‘No doubt you are wondering what I want. I shall tell you! I want only to help the British people. For too long aliens have been taking what’s ours by right. Do you know, eighty percent of low-paid menial jobs have been stolen from us by colonials? Aliens have robbed the British people of almost all work in the sewer industry! It’s time for a change, time to throw off the shackles of democracy and frolic joyfully in the sunlit pastures of an unceasing, brutal dictatorship. It is time that the British people learned to stand up, to speak for themselves, to have their own say, which is why I’ve been given an important message by the Ghasts for you.’
‘Look, Tench,’ Smith replied, ‘I’ve heard enough of your Gertie-talk. You said you have a message. What is it?’
‘Ah yes. Here we are.’ The Ghastist waved his hand and a light flickered in the roof. Smith glanced up and saw a holographic lantern mounted there.
The word ‘Pantechnical’ appeared about a metre from the ground. It played a little tune. ‘It’s just warming up,’ Tench said. ‘It does that.’
The image faded and a ghost appeared in front of them.
They could see the wall through the shimmering apparition, but its outline was clear: a huge red insect in a black trenchcoat, like an ant rearing up. The neck was scrawny, the head bulbous and heavy-brained, marrow shaped. Antennae protruded from holes in the helmet: under the brim was a scarred, narrow face. One of its eyes was a lens.
