God Emperor of Didcot

by Toby Frost

  Suruk’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Gan Uteki, sacred spear of his forefathers. If he was called out, the sacred spear would slay its own kin. That was bad, very bad indeed.

  8 The Prodigal Spawn

  The landing pad was wide, empty and surprisingly neat. A skinny figure waited at one side, its outline wavering in the hot air. It was a hundred and nine degrees.

  ‘Most of the buildings are underground,’ Suruk said as the ship touched down. ‘It keeps the atmosphere moist and makes them easier to defend if we are raided by the scumbag Yull.’

  ‘The Yull?’ Carveth said. ‘The human sacrifice Yull?’

  Suruk’s fingers tightened around his spear. He was dressed for the occasion, festooned with trophies and knives. ‘Indeed. They claim we blaspheme against their gods. The Yull are shameful and vicious – worthy enemies for a warrior. A tiny pixie like you would stand no chance.’ Suruk flexed his mandibles. ‘Now, come. I shall speak for you, lest you are found wanting.’

  Carveth stood up. ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling sweetly.

  The four of them walked out to the airlock and Carveth spun the wheel and pulled the door open. Heat and sunshine flooded the ship.

  ‘Follow,’ Suruk said, and he stepped out the door and dropped out of sight. There was a soft thud below.

  ‘That’s for the tea-tray,’ Carveth said, throwing the switch to extend the steps.

  They walked into the sun, shoes clanging on the metal steps as they entered M’Lak territory. Suruk waited at the bottom of the steps, dusty and slightly more angry-looking than before.

  Rhianna wore a big floppy hat. Shading her eyes, she said, ‘He’s coming over here.’

  The alien approached with the characteristic gait of the M’Lak: light and elegant, loping slightly. As it came closer, Smith saw that it wore a shirt and dark trousers. A jacket was draped over its arm. The alien’s boots reached only to its ankles, without the armour plating Suruk wore. It looked strangely dapper.

  Suruk stepped forward. ‘ Jaizeh! ’ he cried, raising his spear in salute. ‘ Uth Suruk, Agshad moshak, Urgar sushar! ’

  ‘Hello, Suruk,’ the M’Lak said brightly. ‘Nice of you to drop by.’

  Suruk turned. ‘He speaks English to honour you,’ he hissed. ‘You are favoured.’

  ‘Oh, we speak English all the time,’ the M’Lak said. ‘It saves bother. I’m Suruk’s father, by the way. Agshad.’

  ‘Agshad Nine-Swords, who took sixty heads at the Battle of Arthak Gorge,’ Suruk explained. ‘A king among warriors and a credit to the line of my ancestors.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Agshad said. ‘You’ll make me embarrassed. Now, Suruk, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?’

  Suruk stepped to one side and pointed to them in turn.

  ‘This is Isambard Smith, who I named Mazuran, a travelling warrior who I am proud to call friend. This here is Rhianna Mitchell, a seer much favoured of Smith, with whom he craves to spawn. And this is Carveth, an item of little importance. Yet it is she who steers the iron beast in which we came, which in the human tongue is called: “Space Ship”.’

  ‘Sheffield class, isn’t it?’ Agshad said.

  ‘Yes,’ Carveth said, pleased.

  ‘Nippy, but bad on corners, I’m told,’ Agshad said. He smiled behind his tusks, which were shiny and white. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you all.’

  ‘Father, I bring you a gift,’ Suruk declared. ‘This skull I cut from a praetorian, an elite soldier of the Ghast Empire. With no respect for the rules of war this monster assaulted us not four days ago, and with my blade I cleaved its head from its shoulders in honourable combat. This gift I make as proof of my prowess and to honour our ancestors.’ He bowed and passed the skull to Agshad.

  ‘Thank you,’ Agshad said. ‘Here. I got you a gift too.’ He passed Suruk a plastic bag.

  Suruk lifted something out of the bag.

  ‘Hey,’ Rhianna said. ‘He’s got you a jersey.’

  ‘The receipt’s in the bag, just in case,’ Agshad said.

  ‘So from whom did you acquire this thing?’ Suruk asked.

  ‘John Lewis,’ Agshad said.

  Suruk peered into the jumper, found the label and said, ‘It says “Pringle”. I have never fought one of those.’

  ‘It’s for golf,’ Agshad explained.

  Suruk smiled. ‘Ah, golf. It has been many years since I swung a club. Perhaps this visit I may try again.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Agshad said. ‘You do know it’s a non-contact sport now, don’t you?’ He turned to the humans. ‘Well, welcome to Didcot 6. I hope you’ll have a pleasant stay. The ground-car’s that way.’

  The car smelt of newness and M’Lak. Suruk’s room had always had a faint scent of ammonia; now the smell was unmistakable. Smith sat in the back beside the window and watched the town open up around them.

  The buildings were underground, and the shops were advertised by signs; Smith was surprised how many estate agents and cafes there seemed to be. Perhaps the M’Lak had become a little more refined: it depended how you interpreted the delicatessen signs that read “Fresh meat here – proud to serve the community”.

  Low domes protruded from the ground: air filters for the houses below. The M’Lak were not very gregarious, and their homes tended to be fortified to protect them from raiders, not just from space, but from neighbours using any pretence to start a fight. Imperial Beverages had once run a successful advertising campaign aimed at the M’Lak in which a new tenant sought to borrow a cup of sugar from the flat above, and began a twenty-year feud in doing so.

  Carveth nudged Smith. He leaned over. ‘Suruk’s dad seems alright, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, not too bad. But be careful, Carveth.’

  The car rolled off the road and down a slope. Shadow enveloped it, and they slid into a garage. Agshad halted the vehicle and helped them out. He stepped over to a door and typed a number into the keypad. The door swung open and they walked into the ancestral home of the line of Urgar the Miffed.

  The hall was large, white and empty. The walls were smooth, and the sparse furniture was chrome and glass.

  The only colour came from the subtle glow of soft lights and an abstract painting on the far wall. Slightly awed, they stopped just inside the door and looked around. It was at once poised and casual, artless and carefully designed.

  ‘Where are we?’ Suruk said.

  ‘The old hall,’ Agshad replied. ‘We did a bit of decorating. Your brother worked out the design. He’s ever so clever.’

  ‘But – the trophies,’ Suruk said.

  ‘Trophies?’ Agshad frowned. ‘Oh, those? In the attic. They don’t really fit with the concept your brother was going for. Besides, all those skulls everywhere. . . it’s a bit morbid, isn’t it?’

  ‘Morbid? Father, those are symbols of our honour!’

  ‘Of course. And they’re still here, don’t worry. Ah, here’s Morgar.’

  Another M’Lak entered the room from a side door, shutting it neatly behind him. He wore a black roll-neck jumper, dark trousers and glasses, and his mane was drawn into a neat pony-tail.

  ‘Suruk!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good to see you, little guy!’

  ‘Morgar. I greet you with honour, sibling.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Honour to you too, right?’

  ‘These are my comrades,’ Suruk said, indicating the others.

  Morgar nodded. ‘In partnership, eh? Well, take seats, everyone. Make yourselves at home.’ He dropped onto the sofa with a swoosh of leather, sitting on it rather than crouching, and yawned. ‘All the cut and thrust gets tiring, you know.’

  ‘True,’ Suruk replied, ‘but battle is its own reward.’

  ‘Battle?’ Morgar opened his mandibles and laughed.

  His laugh was lighter than Suruk’s. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean literally. I mean at the office. The pen is mightier than the sword, and all that.’

  ‘That depends very much where you ram it,’ Suruk observed sourly. He
sat down in the human fashion, to which he was not accustomed. Not having buttocks, he grimaced.

  ‘Morgar has made a killing in the city,’ Agshad said. ‘I’m very proud of him.’

  ‘Blood feud?’ Suruk asked, hopefully.

  ‘Architect,’ Morgar replied. ‘Ursath, Morgar and Brown, although Brown’s very much a silent partner. Dad here’s gone into accountancy.’

  ‘Accountancy?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Agshad said. ‘There’ll always be books to balance. It’s interesting stuff. So, what do you do these days, Son?’

  ‘I quest for honour!’ Suruk declared. ‘I hunt the deadliest prey in the galaxy and do battle with them in the name of Suruk the Slayer and the glory of our tribe!’

  ‘Oh,’ Agshad said. He exchanged a look with Morgar. ‘So, you haven’t enrolled for law school, then.’

  Suruk stared at them. Smith, Carveth and Rhianna looked at Suruk. Everyone looked blank.

  ‘We were hoping you’d become a doctor, or a lawyer,’ Agshad explained. ‘This family hasn’t had a doctor yet.’

  ‘But I am a warrior!’ Suruk retorted. ‘My trade is war!’ He paused, and a new emotion crept into his remorseless eyes. ‘This hall. . . the trophies. . . You’re. . . not warriors any more, are you?’

  ‘Well, times change,’ Morgar said. ‘Now, can I offer your friends a G&T?’

  Suruk and Morgar left to prepare the drinks while Agshad went off to find some photographs of his holiday to Nigellus Prime. Carveth glanced at Smith. ‘So much for getting our limbs pulled off,’ she said.

  Smith said, ‘This is a little worrying.’

  ‘I think it’s terrible,’ Rhianna said. ‘These poor indigenous people have been forced to accept Western values. Our cultural imperialism has burdened them with comfort and sanitation. Their standard of living must actually be similar to our own. Terrible.’

  Carveth scowled. ‘Well, there goes the mighty army –less battle-scarred than battle-scared. Unless we decide to smash the Ghast Empire with a massive VAT fraud, I’d say we’re stuffed.’

  In the chrome kitchen, Suruk watched as Morgar took things out of the fridge. ‘So what of my old comrades?’ he asked. ‘Are they all. . . architects like you?’

  Morgar shook his head. ‘Oh, heavens no.’

  ‘Ancestors be praised.’

  ‘Some went into underwriting.’

  ‘Underwriting? What is that?’ Suruk growled. ‘Surely some still remember the old ways. What about Hunar Blackblade, Margath the Despoiler, Azman the Vile?’

  ‘Despoiler Blackblade Vile? Solicitors.’

  ‘Orgak the Bone-Cruncher?’

  ‘You mean Orgak the Number-Cruncher. Accountant.

  He works with Dad.’

  ‘Azranash the Pain-bringer?’

  ‘Dentistry.’

  ‘That is something, I suppose. Things certainly have changed. I remember when this room was decorated in wall-to-wall gore.’

  Morgar began to mix the gin and tonic. Suruk watched him pour out the gin, then the tonic, into not three glasses, but six.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Suruk cried.

  Morgar glanced around. He blinked. ‘Just making the drinks. Why?’

  ‘Morgar! You should know better than that!’ Suruk strode over and snatched the bottle from his hand. ‘This is human drink, not for the M’Lak! Mankind brought this with him to ruin braves. Surely you know that!’

  Morgar stood there, confused, watching Suruk with a mixture of surprise and concern. ‘Suruk, it’s good. You should try some.’

  ‘No! Morgar, you have hidden your trophies, turned from the way of the warrior and dressed like a human, but no more shall you drink the pink man’s fizz-water! This I will not allow!’

  He hurled the bottle of tonic at the ground. It bounced.

  Suruk picked up the bottle. ‘I said, “This I will not allow!”’ he cried, and threw it at the floor again.

  ‘It’s a plastic bottle,’ Morgar said.

  Suruk looked at the bottle for a moment, huffed, picked it up and passed it to Morgar. ‘Carbonated drink is the ruin of warriors,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

  ‘I’m not a warrior,’ Morgar said, and he shrugged and took in the drinks.

  ‘So, what brings you here?’ Agshad asked. ‘Have you persuaded Suruk to take up a profession?’

  Smith shook his head. ‘No, sir. We have come to seek your help.’

  Morgar set the tray down and passed the glasses around.

  They sat round a long, highly-polished table. Suruk sat between the humans and his family, scowling more than usual. As Smith watched, the alien’s mandibles swung down into their fighting position, then back up again.

  Agshad sipped his gin and tonic. ‘Of course. How can I assist?’

  ‘We need an army,’ Smith said.

  Morgar and Agshad exchanged a glance.

  ‘The Ghast Empire has annexed Didcot 4, also known as Urn,’ Smith said. ‘They have cut off the British Empire’s supply of tea in a bid to weaken our armed forces. We were able to break out of their blockade, and came here on Suruk’s advice. He told us that we would be able to recruit an army here to liberate Urn.’

  ‘Oh,’ Morgar said. ‘. . . A fighting army?’

  ‘No, a ballroom dancing army,’ Suruk said. ‘Twit.’

  Agshad raised a hand. ‘Spawn, behave. Captain Smith, you ask much. Were it a mere quarterly statement, or even the settling of some dubious petty cash, I would oblige you as a friend of my son. But this. . . our war-host has not gathered for many a fiscal year.’

  ‘Sir, it is vital,’ Smith replied. ‘The people of Urn are brave and tough, but they are too widely scattered to face the Ghasts properly. But with the help of an army such as yours, they would stand a fighting chance.’

  ‘And should Urn fall,’ Suruk added, ‘The British Empire will be without tea. Without tea, they will have no moral fibre, which will leave them greatly weakened. And should the British fall, no doubt the Ghasts would turn to us next. Join our quest, Father. It will be fun.’

  ‘This is madness!’ Morgar exclaimed. ‘We are civilised people, not savages. It’s all very well for you, running around saving the galaxy, but some of us have responsibilities. What do you think will happen if I don’t sort out the Gathrags’ summer house by the end of the week? Trouble, that’s what! Sorry to raise my voice, but really.’

  Aghad took a deep sip of gin and tonic. ‘As the head of our household, it falls to me to balance these arguments, like entries in the same ledger. I understand the seriousness of what you say, but mindless violence is no longer our way.

  ‘Captain, I cannot promise you anything. But if you wish, I will call a meeting of the elders. Tomorrow we will gather at the Henge of Judgement, the traditional place where the elders would meet to discuss war. Perhaps fate will favour us if we gather at such a place, where once our ancestors stood.’ He brightened suddenly and a smile creased his scarred, aged face. ‘But enough of that. Who’d like risotto?’

  *

  It was night. The household slept. In slippers and pyjamas, Polly Carveth made her way through the darkness of the living room. Her shin hit a sharp-edged, modernistic coffee table and she stumbled and hopped about, cursing the stupid lust that had made her transfer the batteries from the torch to her Mark 9 Industrial Pulsatatron. Carveth took a step backwards, bumped against a doorway and fell into the kitchen.

  Light opened above her and a wave of cold struck her body. Suruk stood beside the fridge, the door open. ‘Is that any help?’ he said.

  ‘Whoa!’ She got up and brushed her thighs down. ‘Just came in for a glass of water.’

  ‘Of course,’ the M’Lak said. ‘We have running water, now that we are proper people.’

  He took a glass from the sideboard, filled it and passed it to her. She took a grateful swig. ‘Think I overdid it on the risotto.’

  ‘Ah.’ He slid out of the darkness, the light catching on his tusks, throwing the furrows of his face
into hard relief.

  It had never occurred to her that Suruk might be menacing. On the ship, she had always regarded him as an amusing piece of scenery: strange, naïve and dangerous, but ultimately a friend. Now, confronted with the knife-wielding monster close up, and wearing nothing more than loose trousers and a T-shirt that said ‘Little Princess’ across the front, she felt a flicker of uncertainty.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ she said.

  ‘Indeed. I had a curious dream, perhaps a prophesy. I dreamt that there was a meadow full of little people like you outside my house. I stood in my home and let off a siren, and all of you little people came inside for dinner.’

  ‘You gave us dinner? That’s nice of you.’

  ‘Something like that.’ Suruk licked his lips and rummaged in the fridge. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you have met my kin.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They seem. . . nice. I suppose that’s not a good thing though, is it?’

  Suruk shook his heavy head. ‘I doubt you would understand.’

  ‘I don’t have any relatives,’ she said, pouring another glass of water. Her voice grew thoughtful. ‘I suppose my closest family are the ship’s autopilot and my electric toothbrush: one’s a computer and I’ve slept with the other.’ She sighed. ‘You know, Suruk, if I’d have known your homecoming was going to be like this, I’d have put the stairs down for you when we landed.’

  Suruk said, ‘If I had known my people had such little respect for random violence, I would not have used it upon you.’

  Carveth thought for a moment. ‘That’s comparatively good of you,’ she said.

  Suruk resumed his perusal of the fridge. ‘Balsamic vinegar, goat’s cheese – feeble. Even the lady’s fingers are fake. Have some olives,’ he said, holding out a plastic box. ‘They are green and oily – no wonder my brother likes them.’

  Suruk put the olives back and closed the fridge door.

  Suddenly the room was dim, and he was another grey shadow among the furniture. ‘You should rest,’ he said.