by Toby Frost
Carveth nodded. ‘I can’t imagine you bringing up children. Unless you ate them too quickly, that is. But you – a mum!’
‘I am not a “mum”, nor am I female. We are asexual, but for reasons unknown to me we tend to be described as male. Now, enough of this emotional talk. Let us find some warfare.’ Suruk belched and walked on, scratching the place where his backside would have been.
Rhianna was quiet. Smith tried not to mind. He had stopped thinking about the moments that she had seemed to feel something towards him. He had been deluding himself. He stepped over a fallen signpost and glanced back to make sure that Rhianna’s insubstantial footwear could deal with it. She smiled and he looked away.
A figure rounded the corner and trotted towards them.
It was a M’Lak, even slimmer than usual, in a strange mix of clothes: tough army trousers and boots, traditional M’Lak armour and a roll-neck sweater. Smith watched the alien approach, finding the combination of soldier, savage and jazz fan curiously familiar.
‘Morgar?’ Suruk said.
‘Hello Suruk!’ the alien called. ‘Captain Smith!’
‘It’s you!’ said Smith. ‘Hello there!’
Morgar ran to meet them, putting on his glasses as he approached. ‘Welcome everyone! Captain Smith, Miss Mitchell, yes? And Polly Anorak.’ He put out a hand and shook with each in turn. ‘And, most of all, welcome, Suruk.’
‘ Jaizeh, Morgar,’ Suruk said. ‘What brings you here, my brother?’
‘My architectural experience got me posted here as alien liaison officer with the Royal Offworld Engineers. Their fortifications have a fascinating blocky style – naïve, you might say.’ He paused. ‘I heard about Father, Suruk.’
‘Indeed. We must speak of this,’ Suruk said.
‘We will. But first, let’s get inside. Look, Suruk, clan colours,’ he added proudly, pointing to a cloth in his belt. ‘I use it to polish my specs.’
The headquarters were underground, in what had once been the spaceport hotel. It pulsed with energy, movement and sound: people hurried back and forth with wads of papers, pointing to screens and relaying orders. Voices –human, M’Lak and even the odd Kaldathrian beetle-person – rang around the halls.
Morgar led them down a great departure lounge. Once it had been luxurious: now the red striped wallpaper was peeling, the carpet ruined by army boots and fallen plaster. But it was still busy, for technicians now worked on the leather settees and the gilt-edged monitors flashed up information about the war outside. It smelt of synthetic bacon and solder. At a table a row of people were assembling small mechanical cats.
‘Kitten bombs,’ Morgar explained as they passed. ‘The bomb has a core of TNT with a sodium fuse. We leave them out next to a bucket of water: the Ghasts can’t resist dunking them out of spite. This way, if you would.’
At the rear of the hall was a waiting room equipped with three battered armchairs and a coffee table. The display board said: All flights delayed owing to leaves on landing pad and galactic war.
Suruk looked down to the end of the hall at a small group of M’Lak. ‘I see that the elders of our tribe are here.’
Morgar grimaced. ‘You can never get away from the elders,’ he said glumly. ‘We evacuated the civilians, but unfortunately they count as military personnel.’ He brightened up. ‘I’ll fetch the major for you – back in a mo. Cricic!’ he called down the hall, ‘could you fetch our guests some drinks?’
A Kaldathrian turned from its work and lumbered over. It was the size of a shire horse and looked like a cross between a stag beetle and the contents of a cutlery drawer.
‘Welcome, honoured guests,’ it buzzed. ‘Please, accept some dung as a token of our hospitality.’ It passed Smith a neat ball about the size of an orange. ‘I rolled it myself,’ it said, proudly.
Rhianna reached into her satchel. ‘Here,’ she said, hold-ing out a cigarette. ‘I rolled this myself.’
Smith bowed. ‘Thank you for the dung, beetle-fellow. I’m afraid we can’t return the favour right now, but we’ll see if we can turn something out later.’
The Kaldathrian peered at the cigarette. ‘Most kind,’ it said. ‘So. . . who likes lemonade?’
‘Haven’t you got any tea?’ Smith asked.
‘Of course. I forgot. Our section commander doesn’t drink it.’
‘No tea? Is he ill, or just foreign?’
‘Depends on how you define “foreign”,’ said a voice.
Smith looked around. A man in battledress and field armour stood at the end of the sofa, helmet in his left hand. ‘Gareth Lloyd Jones,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m in charge of this lot.’
Smith stood up. Jones was two inches taller than him and considerably more solid. His head was shaved and, had he not been smiling, he would have looked like a tough customer. ‘You’re not Jones the Laser, are you?’ Smith asked.
‘Yep, that’s me. Straight out of Cardiff.’
‘Cardiff, Wales?’ Rhianna exclaimed, slightly awed. ‘That must be incredible, living beside Stonehenge.’
‘Um, right,’ Jones replied. ‘Stonehenge is in the county of Wiltshire – in England, see?’
‘Oh, okay. So which county is Wales in?’
Jones sighed. ‘Walescestershire. Happy?’
‘Perhaps I’d better handle this,’ said Smith. ‘These are my men, Major.’ He introduced the crew. ‘We’re on an important mission and we need all the help we can get.’
Jones nodded. ‘So I see. You’ve already got one man in the sick bay. Alright then, what can I do?’
‘Excuse me,’ Suruk said. ‘My brother calls.’
He stood up and crossed the room. Morgar waited by the wall, under a battered map of the city underground. ‘I was sorry to hear about Father, Suruk. He died bravely.’
‘Indeed. But he was killed by a trick, struck down from behind. The human master-spy, W, told us this. He was murdered with treachery, not defeated in battle.’
‘Murdered?’ Appalled, Morgar’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. Then his mandibles closed and his brows lowered, as if his features were setting hard. ‘Who did this?’
‘Mimco Vock, a colonel of the Yull.’
‘ Urushet! Suruk, we must find this furball!’
‘Fear not, Morgar. Our quest brings me close to him. If you help me consecrate my spear, we can add Father’s skill to the spirits of the ancestors that live within it. Vock will not escape.’
‘Consecrate? That old ritual? But Suruk, that’s. . .alright, we’ll do it. But – oh dammit, here come the elders.’
Three ancient M’Lak approached, veterans of the family homeworld. They were careful and slow, but not weak: any of them would have been a match for a young human. They dressed like Suruk, but carried more trophies. The elders were trainers of the young, advisors to armies and caretakers of the tribe and, from the look of them, they knew it.
‘Suruk the Slayer!’ the elder with one eye said, pointing at him. ‘Is it you?’
‘It is, venerable ones. I have come to fight beside my brother here and honour the name of Agshad, son of Urghar. Now, I seek your help in calling on my father to bless my spear.’
The elders nodded thoughtfully. ‘Hasn’t he grown!’ said the second elder. He was missing a tusk. ‘How old are you now?’
‘One hundred and six.’
The elders slowly exchanged a look, then, as one, they turned back to Suruk. ‘Suruk,’ said one-eye, ‘you travel from place to place, making one swift kill after another, always moving on to the next. This is fine in a young warrior, but you are no longer a youth. It is time you stopped slaying around and found yourself an arch enemy, someone with whom you can share a lifetime of mutual hate.’
Behind them, Morgar sighed and shook his head.
‘Take your brother Morgar here. He is a successful architect and is well regarded in the British Army. You should get yourself established, like him. But do not worry, Suruk! For we, your elders, are here to help.’
‘He is a vile boy,’ one-tusk added, nodding.
‘No,’ Suruk growled, ‘I do not want your arranged carnage! No, elders, I have found a nemesis of my own. His name is Colonel Vock, a noble of the Yull.’
There was a pause. ‘Isn’t he a bit out of your league?’ one-tusk said.
‘Not so. I will take revenge on Vock for the death of our father, while Morgar here leads our kin to victory on the battlefield. In the meantime, you will assist me in performing the rituals needed to add my father’s strength to that of the ancestors already in my spear, and I shall face Vock in the traditional manner of our people.’
The elders frowned and glanced away. Suruk was right: this was a matter of clan honour and they could not avoid their obligation to assist. For a strained moment they did not reply, and then the elder with one eye said, ‘Yes, we will help you. In this era of mechanised warfare it is easy to forget the time-honoured beauty of ramming a spear through someone’s head.’
Suruk smiled. ‘Good! A reckoning with Vock is long due. As they say on Earth: he is cruising for a bruising, if not actually aiming for a maiming. We shall speak later, elders. You too, Morgar.’
He slipped from the conversation and crossed to the settees, where Smith was outlining his plan to Jones.
‘So,’ said Smith, ‘what I would require is guidance to the British Museum, and enough men and equipment to raid it and transport what we need back to our own lines. I expect the mission would take a few hours at most. It would be best done before dawn. What do you say, Major Jones?’
Jones frowned in thought. ‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘Yes, no. No as in, this plan is insane, and you are a special mentalist for suggesting it. Sorry, but no.’
‘Why not?’
Jones shrugged. ‘Well, to start with, you’ve not told me what you’re looking for in there. It could be a little piece of paper or some great big statue. You’ve not told me what it’s needed for either. For all I know you could be planning to break in just to do a bit of brass rubbing.’
‘Actually—’ said Carveth, and Smith nudged her.
Jones said, ‘Look, mate, I don’t want to come across unfriendly here. But I won’t start sending my people off on weird missions that make no sense just because I’m told it’s classified. My men are a good bunch. I’m not having them getting shot up for no good reason. Sorry,’ he added, getting up, ‘but that’s how it is. Did you want some lemonade?’
‘No,’ said Smith. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’d better get back,’ Jones said. ‘Got to see a man about a beetle. Good to meet you, and I hope it works out alright.’ He shook Smith’s hand and gave them a quick, cheery salute, then strode back into the busyness at the far end of the room.
‘Well!’ said Smith. ‘So much for keeping a welcome in the bloody valleys. I can’t believe he thought it was a bad idea!’
‘I dunno,’ Carveth said. ‘At least he’s looking out for his men. I’d be happy to be under an officer like that. Don’t even bother,’ she added, as Suruk opened his mouth.
‘Perhaps he needs to consult his gods,’ Rhianna said. ‘They do that in Walescestershire, right?’
Smith got up. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said.
He pulled his coat around him and walked down the hall. Something boomed far away and dust trickled from the roof like thin snow. Towards the rear of the hall a door was open, and inside a small room Jones was conversing with his staff.
‘. . .landship brewed up in the North Sector,’ a woman was telling him.
‘Warn O’Donahue down in Sector Six. Make sure our own chaps are ready.’
‘Major Jones? Am I interrupting?’
Jones looked round. ‘Yes, you are. Hello again, Smith.’
‘Look here,’ Smith said. ‘You’re right: you’ve got a right to know what we’re here for.’
‘Alright then, what are you here for?’
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘it’s quite simple really. The lady back there – the one who smells of joss – is actually descended from a race of mystic ghosts, who taught mankind the art of Morris dancing hundreds of years ago. We have to find them before the enemy does. To do this, we have to study an ancient stone tablet that my alien friend back there donated to the British Museum. Once we have broken into the museum we need to take a brass rubbing of the tablet, which we will then use as a map to locate the Vorl according to the teachings of a secret society of drunkards whose last leader was possibly Lloyd Leighton, who built Lloydland and may well have been giving one to Parity Wickworth. After that, we’ll probably go home.’
*
‘I see. I see. . .’ Jones rubbed his chin. ‘Alright then –that sounds tidy!’
It was dark. Across the city, distant fires burned. The great guns were firing in another sector. As Smith watched, some low building popped in a sudden blossom of flame.
A factory had half-collapsed beside the street, its original function unguessable now. Girders stuck out of the ruins like the stems of dead plants. Crouched on one of them, still as a resting stork, Suruk the Slayer watched the city.
Smith slogged up a pile of rubbish, detritus crackling under his boots. The smell of greasy food filtered up from the camp below and his stomach rumbled. He looked up at his friend.
The alien did not move. He gazed out across the great battlefield of New Luton, once the perfect city, now a place of death. Smith wondered what must be going through his mind as he surveyed the folly of the human race. Did he despair of mankind, fear them, or merely think of them as fools?
‘Tell me this, Mazuran,’ Suruk said, ‘if the Pope’s head happened to come off, and someone nearby offered to do the Poping instead, would he become Pope?’
‘No,’ said Smith.
‘Huh.’ Suruk hopped down. ‘Soon it will be time to perform the Rites of the Blade. I will need Morgar for that.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘As long as my father’s spirit needs. Once we are done, and Agshad’s power is added to the spirits within Gan Uteki, I shall be ready to join you.’
‘Well, Jones is calling a meeting in two hours’ time. You don’t have all that long. There’s food down here, you know.’
‘Thank you, but I will not eat. I need to turn my mind to noble thoughts, in preparation for the ritual I must perform.’
‘Of course. I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’
‘Thank you.’
Smith turned to leave.
‘One thing more, Mazuran. What about the Chief Rabbi?’
‘Same thing, I’m afraid,’ Smith said. He climbed back down. Across the road a canteen had been set up in the municipal scout hall. Men sat in the ruined gardens, eating out of plastic tubs.
Carveth and Rhianna sat at a bench, prodding their food warily. Smith sat down beside them. Morgar strolled over, tub in hand, smiling. Smith was struck by his similarity to Suruk. Of course, Smith thought, aliens all looked much the same, but there was undoubtedly a family resemblance.
‘Hello,’ Morgar said. ‘You’re just in time for food.’ He opened his tub and took out a long, brown, dangly steaming thing. ‘Homage?’
‘Sorry?’ said Smith. His stomach twitched at the sight of the item Morgar was holding up; possibly from hunger, but possibly from disgust.
‘Homage,’ Morgar explained. ‘It’s a synthetic sausage made from Sham. Surprisingly tasty.’
‘I wouldn’t risk it,’ Carveth said from the bench. ‘Bad news.’
Smith frowned. ‘I thought you liked Sham, Carveth? You used to swear by it.’
‘I used to swear at it. Seriously, stick with the artificial bacon.’ She held up a sheet of fa
con, which looked like the insole of a shoe.
Morgar grimaced. ‘I’d best be off. Wouldn’t want to be late for the spirits. Toodle-oo.’ He turned and sauntered across the road. In the broken windows of a tall, narrow building, a coal fire throbbed. As Morgar reached the doorway, Suruk stepped out of the shadows and joined him and the two M’Lak disappeared from view.
‘Oh, sod it,’ said Smith, reaching for the facon, ‘let’s give it a go.’
‘It works best with brown sauce,’ Carveth said, passing him the bottle. ‘Practice safe eating – use a condiment.’
She watched as Smith cautiously lowered the facon onto a plate and started to douse its flavour with brown sauce.
‘It must be strange to be in a family,’ Carveth mused. ‘How can two brothers be so different?’
‘It’s often the way,’ Smith said. ‘Take the Marx brothers – one a comedian, the other the inventor of Communism. But still family.’
*
The M’Lak had made the New Luton postal depot into their own private domain. Humans were allowed to visit but they seldom did; the place looked more like a mausoleum than a mess. A fire burned in the centre of the main sorting room, the flames tinted green in the traditional manner. From racks on the walls, the wide sockets of dozens of skulls gaped at the five warriors, as if with awe.
‘Now,’ declared the one-eyed elder, ‘now the stars are right. Now the spirits are aligned. Now the fire burns high, and in its heart past and future meet. Sons of Agshad, call upon your father!’
Suruk drove out his arm and held his spear above the flames. ‘This is Gan Uteki, weapon of the ancients! Since Agshad Nine-Swords consecrated this blade with the spirit of his own father, Urgar the Miffed, a thousand foes have fallen to its wrath. And so, as Agshad son of Urgar called upon his father’s skill, Suruk son of Agshad calls upon his father’s skill. Agshad, honoured warrior, Suruk seeks your blessing on this blade!’
The elders nodded sagely. The flames danced around the tip of Gan Uteki.
