by Toby Frost
‘Well spoken, Suruk the Slayer,’ said the one-tusked elder. ‘Your words are noble.’
The assembled company turned their gaze to Morgar.
‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘Me too, please.’ He caught Suruk’s eye and added, ‘What? I said it was good, didn’t I?’
‘You are calling on our father’s soul,’ Suruk said, ‘not offering him a biscuit.’
‘Oh.’ Morgar fiddled with his glasses. ‘Right then. Er. . .Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate the union of our dad Agshad and. . . well. . . this spear. We wish the spear of the ancients all the best. . . and hope that with Agshad’s help it brings many years of trouble-free slaughter. Erm. . .’
He looked at Suruk hopefully. Suruk motioned for his brother to continue. Morgar took a deep breath.
‘Well, General Vock murdered Agshad, and I guess that’s what this is all about. I’m needed here as liaison officer for our clan, and I suppose even if I took Vock on I wouldn’t win. But Suruk here’s good. He knows his stuff. And if you help him, father, he’ll pay Vock back. And to mark that, here’s the broom of Pillbox 218, Fort Tambridge.’ He raised an army standard broom and held it aloft above the flames. ‘This is the broom with which Agshad struck the first blow in his final battle. So, Dad, help Suruk find the furry bastard and rip his knackers off! How’s that?’
Suruk opened his mandibles and smiled. ‘And who speaks it?’
‘Well, I do, Morgar the Architect – of Doom!’ Wind swept into the room. The flames leaped up, roaring around Suruk’s spear. Through the fire, Morgar saw Suruk, his face a grin of exhultation. ‘A sign!’ cried the one-eyed elder, ‘Agshad has sent us a sign!’
Awed, Morgar glanced from one M’Lak to the next.
Finally, he found his voice. ‘Suruk, the broom’s on fire! Help, please?’
*
At one-thirty Jones the Laser called a meeting in the hotel billiard room. Chairs were hauled up in a rough semicircle and Jones waited until the room was full before he began. He nodded to a man standing at the back, and the lights dimmed. Jones reached to his side and held out a box to the front row. ‘Tiffin slices. Pass ’em round.
‘Right, in the absence of anyone coming up with anything better, here’s the plan. Fifty of us – ten Morlocks and forty humans – will be going up in boats along the main canal to Lock Four, here, by Branwell’s Tea Shoppe. At the shop, you’ll leave the boats and enter the museum by the rear gates. Morgar the Architect will be in charge of the Morlock contingent and the whole force will be led by Captain Green here.’
A small man with a targeting monocle gave Jones a brisk, causal salute.
‘Captain Smith, who you see back there, will be joining the raiding party. He will be able to point us to the artefacts we need to recover.
‘Once the Ghasts discover that we’re this far forward, they are certain to try to take advantage and cut the raiding party off. So, as soon as you lot let up a flare, I will counter-attack with our Leviathans and provide cover while the raiding group pulls back. Any questions so far?’
A hand rose.
‘Vargath?’
A M’Lak stood up. ‘You mention the canal. It seems that we would be heading north. That way will lead us into the hunting ground of the great beast.’
Carveth glanced at Smith. ‘Great beast?’
‘Indeed.’ Vargath turned to them both. ‘A fell beast guards the river, as fierce as a praetorian and more vicious than any Yull. Not a week passes that it does not feast on the flesh of Ghast, M’Lak or man, dragging them to its watery lair. I know not from whence it comes, but in our speech it is called Tar’khar – in yours, the Death Otter.’
A rumble ran through the room. Men whispered to one another, M’Lak growled and croaked. Cricic’s six knees shook.
Jones stood up. ‘I’ll need the raiding party ready to go at four.’ He glanced around the room. ‘And about this Death Otter. . . It won’t be a problem. Remember, we got our name from taking care of business. Let’s get going, men.’
The meeting broke up and the chairs were pushed back, the soldiers suddenly busy and alert.
Carveth said, ‘What is their unit’s name?’
Smith replied, ‘The Shopkeepers.’
‘Don’t worry, Polly,’ Rhianna said. ‘I’m sure I can deal with this otter they’re talking about. I was fine with the sun dragons back on Urn. Otters are much smaller.’
‘Well, just be careful,’ Smith replied. ‘I wouldn’t want you getting hurt, Rhianna. A normal otter can give you a pretty nasty nip, so I dread to think what a Death Otter could dish out—’
‘Death?’ Carveth suggested, and Smith turned and scowled at her.
Rhianna yawned. ‘I need to chill out for a while, guys. I’ll see you later, okay?’
They watched her go. Soldiers talked around them, chairs scraping the floor as they were rearranged, and Carveth had to raise her voice a little. ‘Look, Boss, I wanted to talk to you.’
‘What is it?’
‘This might get pretty hairy, from the sounds of it. If –well, if things go wrong or something, I’d like you to have this.’ She took a slim book from her thigh pocket.
‘What is it?’
‘My war diaries. If I ever don’t make it, I want you to get it published. With the money from the sales, I’d like a charitable fund to be set up aimed at bringing me back to life.’
Smith looked at the volume. Carveth had drawn a flower on the front, in correcting fluid. The book was entitled ‘Adventures in the Pollyverse’. He opened it at random and encountered a picture of a horse executed in biro.
‘Don’t read it!’ Carveth cried.
‘Sorry.’ He put the diary into his coat. ‘Don’t worry, Carveth, you’ll come back. We all will.’
*
The Systematic Destruction tracked the John Pym to New Luton and touched down safely behind Ghast lines. It had not been standing on the landing pad for ten minutes before a hard-faced squad of praetorians arrived to take 462 and Colonel Vock to Number Eight.
Things were grim in Ghast territory. The first wave of attackers had been convinced that they could sweep through New Luton like a hurricane, but their advance had been slowed by ferocious defenders and unpleasant local diseases. Without proper food or medical supplies, the drones had developed a painful condition of the stercorium known as slaksak, which was only halted when the praetorians ate them all.
But reinforcements were flooding in and each day more Aresian battle-walkers strode through the wreckage of the city like vast wading birds, plucking men from the streets like herons seizing fish. They disembarked from transport ships by the half-dozen, spindly and strangely coltish as they paced towards the battleline.
The hovercar stopped before a sleek black ship on the other side of the landing field. An airlock opened with a wet squelch and a lift whisked Vock and 462 into the presence of Number Eight.
Eight stood at a railing, looking down into a pit. He was reading the Origin of Species with one hand and beating time to piped Bruckner with the other. As 462 approached he glanced round and smirked.
‘All hail, mighty Eight!’ 462 cried.
‘Hail.’ Eight twitched his antennae. ‘And this is the Yullian warlord, I assume. Primitive. I am pleased to make your flea-ridden, degenerate acquaintance, Colonel.’
‘ Hup-hup, offworlder coward,’ Vock said graciously. ‘I am barely ashamed to be in your soul-tainting presence.’
‘Good.’ Eight put his book down. ‘You are no doubt surprised to see me here, 462; I secreted a tracking device in the hold of your ship.’
‘Your secretions are always welcome in my hold, great one.’ 462 glanced away, making a mental note to have his personal security team investigated by his other personal security team.
Eight continued: ‘I intend to be present for the capture of the Vorl. Now, where is this Captain Smith and his associated rabble?’
‘On the other side of the city, Eight. We will know if they try
to leave the planet.’
Eight nodded and turned to the pit. ‘It disgusts me that so few of them could cause us so much trouble. Perhaps this Captain Smith should be thrown to the ant-wolf. Assault Unit One likes mammals, but the all-doberman diet tires him.’
Vock grimaced, although whether he was disgusted by the concept of keeping pets or worried that he might be mistaken for an unusually mobile chew-toy was hard to tell.
‘I believe that the value of a culture can be gauged from the size of its attack dogs,’ Eight observed. ‘Good boy, Assault Unit One.’
462 looked down into the pit. Assault Unit One crouched in a heap of doberman bones, chewing. It spat out a spiked collar.
Vock puffed his chest out. ‘I have questions!’
Eight peered down at him and smiled, bearing slightly more fangs than necessary. ‘Yes?’
‘Why has this planet not been overrun yet? When will we close with the enemy and offer up their hearts? And why have I not been given my own spacecraft?’
Eight scowled and licked his thin lips. ‘Simple, my furry ally. First, this planet has not yet been conquered because of the deranged efforts of the Earth-scum in resisting our inevitable success. Second, we will destroy the enemy when it is most effective to do so, without unnecessary waste. And third, you are travelling on a Ghast ship because if you had your own vessel you would drive it into the ground.’
‘Only ground with offworlders on it. Ground occupied by Suruk the Slayer and his disgraceful minions!’
‘Precisely why your revenge will have to wait.’
‘Wait?’ Vock looked around the room and sneered, a gesture 462 was growing to despise. ‘And who are you to tell me what to do? Your warriors die without victory. Death is no excuse for failure! You dare tell me to wait, offworlders? Popacapinyo does not wait, insect! You do not speak to Mimco Vock like that! You will show respect, lobster-men!’ he yelled, voice rising to a neurotic scream, ‘Because I am Yull and I have lots of honour and important and am very very very dignity!”
Vock stopped, panting, hand on his axe, his muzzle dripping with froth. The Ghasts studied him with quiet contempt.
Eight sighed. ‘You have a choice, rat-thing. You can complete this mission intact, in which case you will have the opportunity to murder your enemies in whichever sick manner your tiny mind prefers, or you can complete it as an amusing novelty rug. Now, I have assumed temporary control of our forces here and have had the previous commander shot. The troops are on high alert: as soon as Smith has completed his orders here – whatever they are –we shall capture and interrogate him and his crew as to the location of the Vorl. Then, and only then, he will be utterly destroyed. I understand 462 will deal with Smith himself. His comrades will be yours to annihilate, Colonel Vock.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, Colonel Vock.’
‘Good.’ Vock rubbed his paws together. ‘Kill all,’ he whispered. ‘Kill all, nice and slow!’
‘We will conquer as one!’ 462 cried. ‘Surely this brilliant plan calls for laughter, Eight!’
‘Yes,’ said Eight, ‘yes!’ He threw his head back and cackled with insane merriment. 462, who had been practising his own laugh, waited politely and then joined in. Vock squealed with evil glee. The guards chuckled and, as if to answer them all, a tight-jawed snigger came from the pit.
8 Hands Off My Culture!
Smith looked down the boat. It slid silently through the canal, passing the buildings on the waterside. The soldiers sat quietly behind; each one a small, hunched shape like a roosting owl. Every few seconds came the soft plop of the paddles as they dipped into the water.
He felt a stab of fierce pride. Only a year ago these people had been civilians; now they were elite. Knobbly faces looked back at him from the boat, different features and colours but all determined and sharp-eyed.
And then there were the M’Lak, Morgar amongst them, mankind’s partners in this war. How quickly things could change when survival depended on it! Smith remembered when Suruk had first entered human territory, eager but naïve. Suruk had only ever come to Britain as a tourist, convinced by a misread tabloid editorial that hordes of aliens had already arrived to view Britain’s rivers of blood. Smith had helped Suruk out of a nasty altercation in Debenhams, and the two had renewed the friendship they’d forged on Didcot 3, where Suruk had tried to hack him into bits.
The boat rocked and Smith glanced up. Gunfire came from one of the further sectors of the city: it sounded like a football rattle from the canal.
Carveth pointed to Suruk’s spear. ‘How’s Sticky?’
‘Benighted midget, my blade bides well,’ Suruk said.
‘The ritual is done.’ He gazed across the black canal, fingering the shaft of his spear. He’s looking for the otter, Carveth thought, and she too looked across the wide canal, half expecting the beast to rear up behind them.
The water was full of junk: lumps of masonry, girders, even half a fighter plane, sticking out like the tail of a metal shark. No monsters, though, unless you counted the dead Ghast that bobbed as they slipped past. Its coat hung around it like the wings of a crashed bat. Water slapped gently against the side of the boat.
A chubby woman scanned the banks with thermal binoculars. ‘Nothing, Grocer.’
Green raised his hand and made a gesture to the second boat. He turned to Smith. ‘No enemy in sight,’ he explained. ‘So far.’
Smith felt Rhianna turn beside him. ‘Look!’ she whispered.
Two huge statues appeared like approaching giants, flanking the canal. On the left was King Arthur, his sword raised, a dragon coiling around his armoured feet. On the right, a woman raised a great steel lantern over the water.
‘That’s the largest statue of Florence Nightingale in the known universe,’ Green said softly. ‘People used to stand under her lamp for luck.’
As the boat slipped past Carveth looked up at the calm stone faces, pitted with shell-holes. She thought: knowing my luck, if I stood under her lamp it’d drop on my head.
‘And to the right,’ Green said, ‘our destination.’
He pointed and, as if summoned by him, a great white slab of a building slid out of the dark ahead. Carveth stared. It was bigger than the Parthenon and had more pillars than a wedding cake. Rockets and gunfire had battered and smudged the sides, but it could never have been anything other than the British Museum.
Carveth slipped a hand into her jacket. She had once heard that young conscripts carried ammo while old soldiers carried food. By this logic she was a hard-bitten veteran. She dipped her head and took a large surreptitious swig of whisky from Dreckitt’s hip flask. The whisky made her think of Dreckitt going away; it made her feel bad and want to cry, although Dreckitt had said that Famous Teacher did that to everyone.
She glanced over her shoulder as if to take one last look at the world behind. As she did, she noticed something odd: the dead Ghast was sinking. It twitched in the water, snagged on a branch, then shot down out of view as if pulled under by a whirlpool.
Or something else, she thought.
‘Bring us in,’ Green whispered, and the boat swung towards the shore.
The prow bumped against the side of the canal and at once men and M’Lak sprang onto the towpath and spread out. Beam guns and laser rifles covered the area while men with Stanford guns crept ahead.
Smith climbed out of the boat and, motioning for the others to follow, entered the museum gardens.
It was a tea party in hell. There had once been a neat little lawn here, and there were still wrought-iron tables and chairs, shadowed by tattered umbrellas. Skeletons in fine clothes sat around the lawn like victims of the galaxy’s slowest table service. Their clothes were undisturbed; their food lay in front of them.
A little light-headed, Carveth picked up a scone from one of the plates. Its bony owner grinned at her. ‘These’ll make you fat,’ she told the skeleton.
Suruk tapped her on the arm. ‘Go quietly. Dead men eat no scones.’
Rhianna leaned close to Smith. ‘What happened here?’ she whispered.
‘Marty,’ he replied. ‘A walker must have hit them. A low-power dessicator beam could do this.’
Green strode over. ‘It’s Marty alright. There’s ruddy great holes in the car park. You don’t want to see it. Half a dozen dead bodies lying there, sticks still in their hands, hankies still in their belts. Bastards must’ve hit them mid-dance.’
‘Morris dancers?’ Smith looked at Rhianna; she raised her eyebrows. ‘There were Morris men here?’
Green nodded. ‘You a Morris dancer, then? You could get a good session going here,’ he added. ‘Maybe set up a square on this grass here, have some light refreshments over there. . . Gertie don’t Morris dance,’ he added darkly, and he walked off to join his men.
‘Morris men,’ Rhianna said. In the dark it was impossible to tell where her hair ended and the night began. She looked as if she had formed out of the air, Smith thought, alluring and otherworldly, like something from folklore. An elf, or a gnome or something. Maybe not a gnome. ‘I wonder who they were?’
‘The last of the Hospitable Tipplers, perhaps,’ Smith said. ‘Who knows? Maybe they came here to study the artefacts, just as we mean to. Maybe they got too close to the truth and that drew the enemy here. That and the sound of bells.’
‘And for all that they were murdered.’ Rhianna looked very sad. ‘The last of the Morris people,’ she said.
‘This senseless violence won’t go unpunished,’ Smith promised. ‘We’ll find some aliens and blast the crap out of them.’
Morgar beckoned from further ahead. Smith went first, making sure that Rhianna was close behind. They scurried under a battered sign that read ‘Branwell’s Tea Shoppe’ and reached the door.
Smith turned to Morgar and Green. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘It’s my mission, after all.’
He took hold of the door handle and turned it. He pushed gently. It wouldn’t budge.
‘Locked,’ he whispered.
