by Toby Frost
‘We meet again,’ said 462. He took a step forwards: his arms were behind his back, all four of them, the manipulating limbs and the great mantis-claws that rose from his back like broken wings. But Smith was used to that. What surprised him was the creature’s lurching gait, dragging the right leg behind him.
‘It is a pity we met so briefly on Urn,’ said the Ghast. His mechanical eye glinted as he smiled. ‘We had so little time to talk before you so brusquely knocked me off that Martian war machine. So little time for us to discuss the small matter of my missing eye.
‘Were I more expendable, I would have been pulped for my injuries and fed to the praetorians by now. However, I have become a commander of stature. I have, shall we say, considerable weight behind me these days.’
‘That’ll be your big red arse,’ said Smith. ‘I believe we’ve discussed this before.’
‘Yes, yes, have your little English joke. I think we have conversed on my stercorium for the last time, Captain Smith. I do not think you will make so many jokes when we next meet, when you will sorely regret making me limp!’
‘I made you permanently limp?’
‘You certainly di—’ The Ghast’s small, yellow eye narrowed. ‘Oh, how amusing. You think to use my limp-ness to make some wordplay about puny human reproductive organs, eh? No, I do not think I will give you the pleasure of making a play on my genitals. Thanks to you I now suffer from uncontrollable stiffness in my lower regions. But enough! In time you will pay, Smith. And besides, it is not you I am here to speak with. You are too far gone to be reasoned with.
‘You, Rhianna Mitchell! Yes, you. The British Government seeks to use you as a tool for its war-mongering. You could be so much more than that. You know, as I do, that your powers are too great a gift to squander on these weaklings. You know, as I do, that direct action is the only way to change the galaxy! Join us, and I will give you the power to set the world to rights!With the Ghast Empire by your side, you can force the galaxy to accept peace and love, marching at the head of an indestructible legion of storm-hippies! Your enemies will be crushed under your plastic sandal! With us, you would no longer be a child of the Earth, but its queen!’
‘That’s not true,’ Rhianna said. ‘Gaia created us all equ—’
‘Oh no.’ 462 shook his head. ‘I think not. You know what a lie that is. Look deep inside yourself. Tell me, all the times that you’ve tutted at people who read tabloids, shaken your head sadly at those who eat steaks rare, lifted your nose at people who prefer electric guitars to acoustic ones – did you really think you were created equal then?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rhianna. ‘You represent a vicious tyranny – but then Dylan did totally sell out when he went electric. . .’
‘And you get a trenchcoat,’ 462 added.
‘No. It’s wrong.’ Rhianna shook her head as if to clear it. ‘It’s wrong. I don’t wear leather.’
‘She’s her own woman and she’s not interested!’ Smith snapped.
‘Think about it.’ The projection shrugged and turned. ‘Tench? Remove these idiots!’
It vanished, and for a moment there was an awkward silence.
‘Well? Get ‘em!’ Tench yelled, and his men ran in, cursing and bellowing. Smith drew his gun and let a shot off at Tench, who was prodding the controls to activate the train, then ducked as a thug tried to break his head with a crowbar. Rhianna jumped down and started to untie the woman on the tracks. Tench ran over the bridge, towards the doors. Smith shot the man with the crowbar and drew his sword.
Glass shattered above – a skylight hung down like a broken jaw – and Suruk dropped onto the platform, cuffed Tench across the head and flung himself onto a Ghastist armed with a rounders bat.
Lights boomed into life along the train. Tench scrambled upright, holding a Stanford gun.
‘Good God!’ Smith cried, seeing the would-be Dictator of Earth about to spray them. Rhianna took a deep breath and closed her eyes, exhaled and made a humming sound. Bullets tore the air but none of them found their mark. Suruk’s spear flashed, there was a howl of pain and blood sprayed the wall.
Blue light pulsed into the station and a great metal figure clanked onto the platform, steam pouring from chimneys on its back. A lamp spun on its armoured head.
‘Dead or alive, you’re all nicked, sunshine!’ it declared, and it pulled a truncheon out of a compartment in its leg and piled into the fight.
‘Eat lead, copperbot!’ Tench yelled, loosing half a dozen shells into the front of the thing, and in a flurry of sparks the machine lumbered forward and bashed the gun from his hand.
And then, suddenly, that was that. A body fell in the corner and Suruk stood up, looking quietly satisfied. One of the thugs dropped a cleaver and raised his hands.
The police robot chuffed towards the doors, pushing a handcuffed Tench before it. ‘Evening all,’ it intoned.
‘Move along now.’ At the bottom of the stairs it turned to Smith. ‘I need you all to come down to the station, sir. Suspicion of assault.’
‘Gladly,’ said Smith. ‘That man’s a bloody traitor.’
‘I was referring to you, sir.’
‘Me?’ Smith demanded. He was still panting. ‘These are dangerous criminals!’
‘You can tell me at the station,’ the robot said in a weary monotone. ‘If you would, sir. And the Morlock.’
‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ Rhianna said, jabbing the machine’s chestplate with her finger. ‘The police oppressing an alien minority. What’re you going to get him on, suspicion of being green?’
‘Actually, madam,’ the robot replied, ‘possession of three severed heads and a Ghurka knife.’
‘Why don’t you arrest some real criminals, fuzz?’
Smith grimaced. ‘Rhianna, please. This isn’t helping.’
‘I deny everything,’ Suruk added. ‘I was not here.’
Rhianna scowled as the police robot handcuffed the surviving thugs. ‘I smell mechanical bacon,’ she said, too loudly for Smith’s tastes.
The automatic PC turned on the spot. ‘That’s enough, madam.’ With a soft whine, it puffed out its chestplate. ‘I ham arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit a disorderly act with this here gentleman in the red jacket.’
If only, Smith thought.
‘Let us be having you,’ the robot said, and nodded at the police car outside.
It took three hours to get released. Smith called Carveth, who by then had given up and returned to the ship, from which she anxiously called up W. W promptly visited the station and told the duty officer that he was a secret agent.
‘Secret agent are we, sir?’ the duty officer said. W informed him that the liberty of the crew was vital to the safety of the human race. ‘Human race is it, sir?’ the duty officer retorted, raising one tired eyebrow. W inquired whether the officer was always a sarcastic bastard, and the officer got no further than ‘Sarcastic bastard, am I–’ when W hurdled the counter and ran into the superintendent’s office. Here he received a more friendly reception, as well as a ten pound fine for hurdling the counter.
Outside the station, Smith turned to Carveth. ‘Was it you that called the police?’
‘Ah, no,’ Suruk said. ‘I called them. Well, not so much ‘called’ as ‘was pursued by’. I required the toilet while you were in there, so I found a blue cubicle by the roadside. I was just coughing up a pellet in there – surprisingly roomy – when some fool in a long scarf telephoned the police. I thought that I might as well lead them to the battle, for entertainment. Perhaps I should have told them on which side to fight.’
Carveth scowled at the traffic. ‘Let’s just go. Were it not for Dickhead of Dock Green back there, we’d be in space by now.’
The spaceport was very busy, so the John Pym joined an orderly queue and the crew drank overpriced tea in the lounge as they waited for their number to be called.
Around them, shuttles and gunships rose from their landing pads like angered wasps, headin
g back into orbit to re-equip the Empire’s ironclads. The 15th Fleet would be on its way soon, pressing deeper into Yullian space, breaking up the Greater Galactic Happiness, Friendship and Co-operation Collective one vicious planet at a time.
At the landing pad, W beckoned Smith back. The two men watched the others enter the John Pym, heard the engines stutter and fire up. W’s thick hair rippled in the air as the ship purged its vents.
‘This is a race against the Ghasts,’ W said, lighting a cigarette. ‘The first one to find the Vorl wins – perhaps the whole galaxy.’ He held out a battered leather satchel. ‘Here, take this: it’s got information on Leighton- Wakazashi. Our man inside can brief your android once she’s in place. Let me know if the company has any information on the Vorl.’
‘Will do. What’ll happen about Tench and his men?’
‘I’m sure we’ve seen the last of him. If I’m not mistaken, the boys in blue will have given him a damn good cautioning by now.’ He glanced up at the Pym, from which steam had started to pour. ‘Be careful out there. We’re up against it, Smith.’
‘I know. 462 tried to persuade Rhianna to join him.’
‘I thought he might.’ The spy frowned, another line in the network of creases that constituted his face. ‘Watch her, Smith. I know there’s history there, but you must make sure they don’t capture her. Should they get hold of her—’
‘I’ll do everything I can to take her back. Don’t worry.’
‘Good fellow. I know it seems unlikely, but she matters a lot to my organisation. Personally, I’ve always thought of her as a sandal-wearing, fruit-juice-swilling, tree-pestering nuisance, but each to their own, eh?’
‘Quite,’ said Smith.
W coughed. ‘Good luck, Smith.’
‘Thanks.’ Frowning, Smith climbed up the steps and entered the ship. He slammed the door shut behind him.
The John Pym creaked, hummed and rose into the air, climbing steadily.
Back in business, Smith thought, settling into the captain’s chair. Every time he took the seat there was a new adventure to be had, a new danger to be faced. Even the control panels looked unfamiliar. Spires and chimneys sank away as the ship lifted into the atmosphere. A mighty clockface dropped off the bottom of the windscreen as they rose over it. Airships parted, lazy as clouds, and the John Pym left the planet of Albion Prime behind.
3 A Hostile Takeover
Colonel Vock’s homecoming was something of a disappointment. Despite all predictions the Divine Army had taken a fearful mauling: thrown back, harried and battered into almost nothing by creatures that the Yull despised. Vock brought no victory and worse than that, no offworlders to beat up. He was jeered at in the street.
A peasant, who he would normally have been allowed to kill merely to test the sharpness of his axe, threw a melon at his head. Vock had failed.
The groundcar dumped him at the edge of his estate and he trudged up the drive to his treehouse. As he approached he saw a heap of objects in the front garden, piled up as if ready to burn: pieces of his second-best armour, his favourite glockenspiel, even his beloved easel.
Vock stormed up the front steps and thumped on the door. ‘Wife! What is the meaning of this disgraceful behaviour? Open up!’
A window opened above and Mrs Vock stepped onto the balcony. ‘And what kind of homecoming do you call this?’ she demanded.
‘I have returned,’ said Vock, puffing out his chest. ‘I led our army in sacred battle against the offworld weaklings—’
‘And they kicked your furry arse!’ Mrs Vock shouted back. ‘I’ve heard the news – you’re a disgrace! All the neighbours are talking about it. The other children laugh at Plig and Vom because of you.’
Vock put his hands on his hips, puffed out his chest and declared, ‘ Harrumph! Lies! With my consecrated axe I charged at the cowardly enemy—’
‘Blah blah blah!’ Mrs Vock yelled. ‘Always the same with you, big words and no triumph. You said you’d bring back ten thousand sacrifices. The children are crying, because Daddy promised them a British to torture and what have they got? Nothing! You’ve not even captured a regimental mascot!’
Vock stared at her. Could she have been the rodent he had married, all those years ago? He remembered a beautiful lemming, not this shrew. Any more saggy and her cheek pouches will hang around her knees, he thought bitterly. ‘Where is my servant Hephuc?’
Hephuc stepped onto the balcony, behind Mrs Vock.
‘Er, hello,’ he said, a little sheepishly. ‘I’ve been, um, looking after your property.’
‘Good,’ Vock said. ‘At least you have protected my wife’s honour in my absence.’ He turned to his wife.
‘Look, Spem—’
‘Don’t you Spem me!’ Mrs Vock snapped. ‘You’re not fit to wear armour. You’re a disgrace! Our noble house has lost respect. Peasants laugh at our army. Even your concubines have sodded off. You’re not setting foot in this house until you’ve gone down to the temple, said sorry and committed ritual suicide. Not a foot!’
Vock thought about breaking in and killing her, but she had a point. After all, he had failed. There was nothing for it but to seek mercy from the high priests – which, knowing Yullian society, was extremely unlikely to be forthcoming.
The Great Temple of Hapiclapu was the finest example of ancient Yullian architecture this side of the Holy Homeworld. It was a huge ziggurat, built on the bones of a thousand slaves, rising eighty feet above the tallest tree-houses. Across the front a mural depicted one of the gentler scenes from Yullian myth: Popacapinyo, the war god, standing over the body of the thief Picapocetortu, holding his enemy’s heart and kicking his severed head.
A sort of diving-board stuck out from the summit of the temple, like a plank protruding from a pirate ship. As Vock ascended, a thin scream came from above and a lemming man sailed out from the board, flew overhead and disappeared with a leafy thud into the foliage at the bottom. The gods did not want apologies; they preferred a leap of faith.
It was a hot day, and the climb to the shine of the war-god seemed endless. All around him groups of worshippers whispered and stared. Even the sacrificial squol lowed with contempt.
The High Priest waited for him on the roof. ‘Great one,’ said Vock, ‘forgive me. I have failed.’
The priest pulled back his hood. He was half-blind, and his whiskers were thin and grey.
‘Yes,’ he wheezed, ‘you have failed. You promised ten thousand sacrifices, and yet you bring back none.’
‘I know,’ Vock replied. Guilt was rising in him like a tide: he felt as if he were drowning in the stuff. ‘I don’t know what happened. The offworlders were berserk: they fought like ten devils each! They left a champion on the bridge—’
‘Ten devils – pah!’ said the priest. ‘Everyone knows off-worlders are feeble and cowardly.’ He turned and pointed to the scowling idol behind him, thirty feet high and flecked with gore. ‘Hear me now! The war god has been cheated!’ He looked back, his voice lower, but still grim.
‘Now, what will you do to put it right?’
‘Say sorry?’ Vock suggested.
‘ Hwot? You – you – dickhead!’ The priest’s thin arm flicked out and cuffed Vock across the ear. ‘You are no better than a mangy offworlder! If Popacapinyo is not to see the head of the British general kicked off the temple roof, then something else must fly through the air!’
Vock swallowed hard.
‘Now, give me your axe and jump over the edge!’
Vock found himself wishing that his people had chosen a more forgiving god. But worship of the nature goddess had been banned for ten years, and the priests of Popiananetl were all dead – all except the wise and venerable Milf, who still wandered the forests, disgusted by his kin.
Numbly, Vock lined himself up with the plank. It wasn’t my fault, he thought. It was the conniving offworlders –most of all, that frog-faced M’Lak who held the bridge.
Curse him and his line! What I would do to take
revenge on his clan! If only—
‘Ahem,’ said the priest.
Vock braced his legs like a sprinter in the blocks.
‘ Yullai!’ he screamed, and he raced towards the plank.
The ground disappeared under his feet—
And something hit him across the chest. He thumped down onto his back, winded, thrashing around in rage.
What new insult was this? Was he so shameful that he was being prevented even from suicide? A cruel punishment indeed, so cruel that it could only come from another Yull.
Vock turned his head and looked into the scarred, joyless, one-eyed face of a Ghast officer.
‘Mimco Csinty Huphepuet Vock,’ it said.
‘Let me die!’ he cried. ‘I have no name!’
‘Silence! You are addressing Attack-ship Commander 462 of the Ghast Empire. I have orders to collect you for intelligence purposes. Get up. You are still of use.’
Vock sat up. Two huge praetorians flanked the officer, sneering at the inferior architecture around them. ‘Of use? To the Yull?’
‘We have a mutual interest. You require Suruk the Slayer destroyed. I wish for his comrades to die. In return for your assistance, your name will be restored.’
‘But – how?’
‘We have ways.’ Behind them, a third praetorian staggered along the diving-board, the priest thrashing in its arms. It dropped the priest off the edge. A shriek rose out of the abyss. ‘So, you will work with us?’
‘Well, I – Yes, on my battleaxe!’
‘Excellent. Now,’ said 462, watching a group of mendicants climb the temple steps, ‘I think it would be wise to have any potential witnesses removed.’ One of the praetorians held out Vock’s axe. ‘Please, feel free.’
*
Leighton-Wakazashi’s headquarters were on YP278, a small planetoid at the far end of the system from Albion 90 Prime. It was a frozen, inhospitable wasteland: the company had chosen it to exploit a taxation loophole on uninhabitable planets and for the great skiing potential it offered the senior executives. The corporation ran the place, governed by British law. In the chaos and disruption of galactic war, it was hard for the Pax Britaniccus Interstella to be enforced as keenly as Parliament would have liked.
