God Emperor of Didcot

by Toby Frost

  The remnants of Ghast propaganda posters hung on the wall: Number One shook his claws and fists at Earth; a praetorian gazed towards the future, head titled up in a kind of arrogant rapture; a grinning Ghast, in what might have been conceived as a relaxing setting, was doing something baffling yet vigorous with a set of Indian clubs. They all looked meaningless, like empty threats.

  Time comes for us all, Smith thought. Even the Ghasts, with their dreams of conquest, become nothing: just dust and bone. Space swallows us all, turns us to dust. That hole in the wall looks like a doodah. Yuck.

  In the centre of the room stood a short, barrel-sized plinth. On top of it was a starfish-shaped control panel, which allowed five operators to work at once. The operators lay around the base of the machine, very dead.

  They were Ghast scientists, their white coats spattered with their own blood. Smith beckoned Suruk over and pointed. ‘Shot,’ he said. ‘Bullet wounds.’

  The M’Lak nodded. ‘Here,’ he said.

  Pipes ran from the base of the plinth to the walls: thick, veined tubes fixed to the floor. There were half a dozen recesses in the walls, big enough for a man to stand in, like sentry boxes.

  ‘Strange,’ Smith said. The words dirty alien stuff sprang into his mind, but there was something uncomfortably familiar about those recesses in the walls.

  ‘Look,’ Suruk said.

  There were humans on the ground. A dozen armoured men and women lay against the far wall in the shadows, as if they had all travelled there to die. They wore camouflage. Smith did not need to see the stripes on their uniforms to know that they were the crew of the shuttle outside.

  ‘They are all dead,’ Suruk said. ‘Bullet wounds. They shot themselves.’

  Smith nodded. ‘You may as well get the others. Whatever happened here is long finished. For once it’s us who’ve turned up late to the fighting.’

  *

  ‘So,’ said Smith, ‘I suppose they must have come in, killed the Ghasts, and then committed suicide. That would seem to be the only course of events that makes sense.’

  ‘But why kill themselves?’ Rhianna stood a little way back, looking nervous. The wind howled around the building as if lamenting the dead creatures inside.

  ‘Well,’ said Smith, looking at the bodies, ‘foreigners are known to be excitable.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Carveth said from near the doors. ‘You mean they killed the guards and had a massacre to celebrate? Most people settle for a couple of beers, not a rifle under the chin. They must have meant to do themselves. Maybe they despaired of being inside a building made from a beetle’s bottom.’

  Smith bent down and came up with a piece of paper in his hand. ‘This chap’s holding a note. . . Let’s see. He’s given it a title: The Thing in the Building, by Captain Howard Poe. I wonder if this will help.’

  He paused, scanned through the words, and began to read.

  ‘ As these, my final moments, draw to a close, I can only theorise that the most merciful aspect of the human psyche is its inability to correlate the horrors it views into a totality of blackest nightmare, from which it must needs retreat into merciful oblivion.’

  ‘Keen Scrabble player, from the sounds of it,’ Carveth said.

  ‘ My story begins last May, when my squad and I carried out a raid on this post on storm-haunted Didcot 5. We were informed that the garrison was minute, valuing secrecy over numerical fortitude, and we overcame the Ghasts easily, then paused to celebrate our success. Oh, Irony! If only I had known of the depths of squamous terror and cthonian hell to which we would descend!

  ‘ Now, where was I? Cthonian hell. Right. As we explored the vault of the Ghasts, we perceived tanks on the wall, monitored by a barrel-shaped control panel. My men and I drew closer, and I recalled fragments of the for bidden, night-swathed book I had once read—’

  ‘How do you read a night-swathed book?’ Carveth said. ‘Wouldn’t it be a bit dark?’

  Smith shrugged. ‘Probably a metaphor. Now, pay attention. It may be going somewhere. This man was obviously suffering from something serious.’

  ‘Terminal verbal diarrhoea?’

  ‘Shush! Listen.’

  ‘ My men spread out, and I approached the strange, liquid-filled tanks, my trembling hands gripping my cock—’

  Smith turned the page.

  ‘–ed rifle. It was a scene worthy of Goya or the wildest Cubists, for in the tank, so far removed from the sane world of mankind or the comfort of rational law, I saw that which sent me over the abyss of horror, into the Stygian night of madness. It was – A MAN!!!

  ‘ Well, a boy.’

  ‘What?’ said Carveth. ‘That was rubbish! Doesn’t he say anything else?’

  Smith frowned. ‘It becomes rather incomprehensible now. Batrachian foulness . . . Ia! . . . it cannot be . . . All- consuming horror . . . Pencil getting blunt . . . And that’s it.’

  Carveth snorted. ‘Well! It could at least have been a fish-monster or something. And to think that all this time I’ve been damn near weeing myself for nothing.’ She looked at the pile of bodies. ‘Well, they’re all dead. Can I go now?’

  ‘What a totally horrible story,’ Rhianna said. ‘They all killed themselves. . . that’s really bad.’ She shuddered. ‘Still, I suppose it just goes to show that militarism is ultimately self-destructive,’ she added, brightening a little.

  Smith looked around the room. It was a mausoleum for the Ghast scientists and the soldiers who had come to fight them. Whatever had killed them, be it madness or some physical enemy, was gone. Smith had expected a battle, and then had hoped for an explanation, but had received neither.

  Smith turned to Carveth. ‘They sent that signal you picked up from their ship. If you head back now, I’ll get to work on the transmitter. I should be able to record a new message. Maybe that way we can warn the Empire about Urn.’ He sighed. ‘It’s worth a try anyway, though I doubt it’ll have sufficient range. You may as well head back, Carveth,’ he said. ‘The sooner you can start on the repairs, the sooner we can be on our way. You could take that buggy outside – those things are virtually indestructible – and we’ll see you back at the ship.’

  ‘Good,’ she said with evident relief. ‘Typical, isn’t it? I find twelve men and they’re all the wrong kind of stiff.’

  ‘On second thoughts, that’s an order. Leave.’

  ‘Righto, Boss.’

  He looked around at Rhianna. ‘Do you want to go back with Carveth? I’m sure there’d be plenty of room in that buggy. It looked like it would still work.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m alright. I feel safer here with you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ She took a step closer to him.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘erm, good. I mean, there’s nothing alive here – although I can keep you safe, should anything happen.’

  She smiled at him; he smiled back. A few seconds passed.

  Some emergency sensor inside Smith noticed a dangerously high level of sexual tension and made him step away from it. ‘Well, crikey,’ he said. ‘Suppose this transmitter won’t fix itself, eh? Since Suruk’s from another planet and you’re a girl, I suppose I’d better get on with it.’

  ‘I’m sure I could do something,’ Rhianna replied, smiling slightly less. ‘Not all women are useless, Isambard.’

  ‘True. In that case, come and hold the torch.’

  Suruk took a long, thoughtful look around the cavernous room. ‘Nobody to fight at all,’ he said glumly. ‘We are warriors, not tourists!’

  ‘Damn strange,’ Smith said. ‘And a nuisance. It bothers me too, Suruk – these men shooting themselves, that note – it’s just not right. Some evil is at work here.’

  It did not take long to reprogram the transmitter. Smith typed in a new message – ‘Gertie has Urn, send dreadnoughts’ – and sent it into the ether. Then he fetched blankets from the UFS ship and laid them over the dead soldiers. It seemed the best thing to do: hardly a burial, but it was
better than leaving them exposed.

  As the car reached the John Pym, Smith realised that something was wrong. The light was on in the cab of the buggy and Carveth still sat in it. Lights were on in the Pym, too – and as Smith approached a figure moved across the cockpit, too short for anyone who should be there.

  ‘Trouble,’ he said. He stopped the car behind a low hill, out of sight of the ship. ‘Stay here, everyone,’ he said, and he got out, taking the rifle with him, and ran quick and low over to the buggy, the wind pushing him on.

  He reached the far side of the buggy and climbed up to the cab. He knocked on the door, Carveth opened it and he scrambled inside. Smith slammed the door and the storm was gone.

  She sat at the driver’s seat. She looked at him a little blankly, as if not quite certain where they’d met before.

  ‘Hi again,’ she said.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied. The cab was big and warm. ‘Why aren’t you in the ship?’

  She blinked. ‘Ship? Oh, that ship. Kids’ve locked me out.’

  ‘What? What kids?’

  ‘Kids who’ve got it.’

  ‘What? What the devil are you on about?’

  ‘Kids came along. They wanted it, and it’s theirs now.’

  A sense of horror was building up in Smith’s gut.

  Suddenly, he had stepped into a world that was not just dangerous but inexplicable.

  ‘So,’ he began, wrestling with the words, ‘so let me get this straight. . . Some children showed up and you sold them our ship. Are you mad?’

  Carveth raised her mittens. ‘No, no,’ she said placatingly. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Thank God!’

  ‘I gave it to them.’

  He was not sure if he had just screamed. ‘You did what? You gave our ship away! You idiot! You stupid, stupid woman!’

  Carveth wriggled on her seat. ‘There is a reasonable explanation for this, you know.’

  ‘I’d bloody like to hear it!’

  ‘It seemed a good idea at the time,’ she said feebly.‘Honestly. I had no choice.’

  ‘No choice? What kind of reason is that? You gave our ship to children! Right, that’s it,’ he declared. ‘I’m going to get it back.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘They’ve locked the doors.’

  ‘What? You didn’t even take our stuff out first? I bloody well hope they can’t fly it. What in hell’s name possessed you?’ She started to say something, but he wasn’t listening. The fist of his mind was thumping the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle into place. Suddenly it all made sense.

  ‘Possessed you,’ he said numbly. ‘Possessed you. Carveth, this is what those Americans saw. This is what made them kill themselves. Psychics.’

  She nodded slowly, pained, and he felt guilty for shouting at her. He drew back. ‘So we’re locked out,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Smith took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well,’ he said grimly, ‘they’re just going to have to let us back in again, aren’t they? Stay here.’ He opened the door, climbed out and slammed it behind him. He strode across to the car and looked inside.

  ‘Right then. What works with children?’

  ‘Cranberry sauce!’ Suruk said.

  ‘I think you may have misunderstood the question. Rhianna?’

  ‘I – I guess I can deal with children. Why?’

  ‘Right. A bunch of sprogs have conned Carveth into giving them the keys. They seem to have used some sort of psychic power on her. We’re bloody lucky they don’t know how to fly it, but they’ve got the Haynes manual and it’s only a matter of time before they figure it out. We have to get back inside.’

  ‘Boss,’ Carveth said from behind. He glanced round.

  The sheer amount of clothing she wore gave her the out-line of an oversized toddler. ‘I was thinking: you remember those recesses in the walls of that Ghast place? I reckon they were growth tanks. For simulants.’

  Smith said, ‘You mean these children are androids? Don’t you lot come out fully grown?’

  She nodded. ‘We do, but who knows? It’s just. . . well, they have powers. I don’t remember giving them the ship. I remember them coming to the door, and I remember sitting in the cab of that truck thing, but I don’t recall any-thing in between. It’s like I was missing a load of hours. I’ve never known that to happen before.’ She frowned. ‘Without a hangover.’

  Rhianna said, ‘You mean they made you do that? With psychic powers?’ To Smith she said, ‘I’m coming with you. I may be able to counter them.’

  Smith thought about it. ‘Alright then,’ he said. ‘But be careful.’

  She got out of the car and closed the door. Smith gave the rifle to Suruk and together they walked through the wind towards the ship. The storm had eased a little, but it threw Rhianna’s skirt around like a tie-dyed rag. Smith’s coat flapped out behind him.

  As they approached, the airlock opened. In the door-way stood a boy of about nine, in long socks, shorts and a well-pressed tank top. He did not lower the steps.

  ‘You, boy!’ Smith called.

  ‘Stop right there,’ the boy replied. ‘This ship belongs to us now. You may not enter. Go away.’

  ‘Righto,’ Smith said. He turned, stopped, turned back again and called out ‘No, not righto! This ship is ours, and you stole it. Come down from there at once and bugger off.’

  ‘Go away, you rotter,’ the boy said. ‘Who do you think you are, coming here and making a big stink? You’d better scarper, or there’ll be trouble.’

  A girl joined the boy on the steps. She had a pleated skirt and pigtails but otherwise looked identical to the boy. ‘Beetle off!’ she shouted.

  ‘I’m coming in,’ Smith declared. ‘If you don’t naff off on the count of three, I’ll thrash you senseless, you little brat!’

  The boy and girl looked at each other, as synchronised as the figures on an old Swiss clock emerging to strike the hours. ‘I think we should show him what for,’ said the girl. ‘I think his girlie should be made to stop him.’

  ‘I agree,’ the boy said. ‘This spaceship is wizard, and it’s ours now.’

  Softly, Rhianna said, ‘I don’t like this, Isambard.’

  Smith took a step forward and the girl stuck out her hand. Rhianna grabbed her head and folded as if struck.

  ‘Resist him!’ cried the boy.

  ‘Rhianna!’ Smith cried.

  She darted out and sat down in front of him.

  ‘Resist!’ the girl yelled.

  Smith took a step towards Rhianna. She closed her eyes. He sidestepped, hoping to get round her: she shuffled quickly aside and blocked his way. ‘Rhianna!’ he said. ‘Rhianna!’

  ‘She belongs to us now!’ the boy called.

  ‘Just like your ship!’ said the girl.

  ‘You little bastards!’ Smith yelled. ‘This woman is under British protection! Give her back!’

  ‘Boo to you, you old codger!’ the boy replied. Smith felt something bore into his skull like a searchlight: a beam of thought, raw and powerful. Kill her, it said, kill her now, and he summoned up his moral fibre, met the beam full-on and thought, Stick it, moon-sprog.

  Mittens tugged his sleeve. He whipped around and saw Carveth. ‘Come on, Boss,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Dammit, they’ve got Rhianna!’

  The android glanced at Rhianna, who still sat in their way. ‘Just be glad she only does passive resistance,’ she said. ‘Otherwise she’d probably – Boss. . . uh-oh.’

  Carveth leaped at Smith’s neck. She was startlingly quick, her hands unexpectedly strong. She grabbed his throat, frothing. ‘Wiwiwiwi,’ she garbled.

  A piece of rock hit Carveth in the back of the head and she fell. Smith grabbed her, threw her over his shoulder and ran back to the buggy, where Suruk waited with another, larger, rock ready in his hand in case she awoke.

  ‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘I think we know what happened to the Americans.’

  Suruk nodd
ed. ‘A bad death.’

  They sat in the cab of the buggy. The heater was on.

  Carveth slowly rubbed her head. ‘What I don’t get is why they hit me with a rock,’ she said.

  ‘Who can say?’ Suruk said.

  ‘My head feels terrible.’ She leaned over and continued scribbling in the notebook on her lap.

  ‘They must be some sort of Ghast experiment,’ Smith said. ‘That’s what this place is for – research. The soldiers must have stumbled upon it and the Ghast technicians set those children-things on them. Then they must have turned on the soldiers. Or vice versa.’

  ‘Children of the Ghasts,’ Suruk said.

  ‘Quite. The Ghasts must have engineered them in those tanks. It makes sense, I suppose. The Ghasts were fascinated by Rhianna. They’ve been trying to make something like her out here – I suppose they succeeded, in a way. Dammit! We’ve got to get our ship back, before they work out how to fly it!’ He looked at Carveth. ‘How about you?’ Smith said. ‘Any ideas?’

  Carveth had been scribbling something on her notepad for the past half hour. She shook her head. ‘Polly’s still collating.’

  ‘Carveth, you’ve been collating for ages. You must have come up with something. Let’s have a look.’

  He took the notebook from her and peered at it. ‘What is all this?’

  Carveth said warily, ‘A plan.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Smith. ‘It doesn’t look like a plan. It looks more like a picture of some ponies.’

  ‘That’s just a doodle. Look, this is us, up here.’

  ‘Riding the ponies.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Smith’s eyes hardened. ‘Carveth, this is not good enough. I asked you to figure out how to get back the ship – which you gave away – and you’ve spent the past half-hour drawing a picture of little horses. What the devil are you playing at, woman?’

  ‘Right!’ she yelled, and she snatched the notebook back. ‘Right! No more ponies!’, and she started to tear out the pages with reckless fury. ‘No more ponies! No – more!’ She threw the pages at the dashboard and they fell at her feet. She burst into tears.