God Emperor of Didcot

by Toby Frost

  ‘Yeah.’ In the dark she was a maroon blur of warmth.

  Conventional vision was impossible, but his atrophied night-sight watched the blur step closer and reach out.

  Carveth’s small hand took hold of his.

  ‘I’m sorry how it’s all worked out,’ she said, and she squeezed his hand.

  ‘Go to bed,’ he replied, not squeezing back.

  She took her hand away and stepped back. ‘You don’t do touching, do you?’

  ‘No.’ He watched the blur wander to the door. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

  *

  The Henge of Judgement rose around Smith like a circle of grim-faced, disapproving guards, twenty feet high. The monoliths had been carved to represent great chieftains and victories of the past. Wind and ages had rubbed symbols and features smooth, wiping them clean.

  As they walked towards the centre of the henge, Suruk pointed to the stones. ‘This one shows Azranath the Wise, who walked the land when death was but a dream. This, on the left, is King Lacrovan, who could throw his spear so far that it travelled all the way around the world and returned to his hand with six enemies impaled on it, like a kebab of scum.’

  Rhianna said, ‘What an amazing culture.’

  Carveth shuddered, feeling the eyes of the ancients on her.

  ‘This here is Tathrax, the warlord who led us against the British. Great ones, all of them. Now, speak only noble words, for we approach the Great Table.’

  In the centre of the henge stood a mighty stone, flat on top but tapering below, like an inverted pyramid. On the flat surface, a picture had been cut into the rock: a M’Lak in stickman form, holding a spear and running through a landscape of skulls, waving a severed head and grinning insanely. Characters ran down the sides of the picture: one side in red, the other in blue, as was traditional. The other stones were old, but this was ancient beyond imagining –and as sacred as it was aged.

  Suruk raised his spear so that its shadow fell across the picture. He saluted the image, drove the butt of the spear into the ground and stood at the edge of the table in silent reverence: head lowered, eyes closed.

  ‘Excuse me!’ a voice called. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen! Yes, you! Can’t you read?’

  Suruk’s head flicked up. A M’Lak paced through the henge towards them, hands on hips, a cap on his head. He strode up to them, looked them up and down, and said,

  ‘Come on, back behind the fence.’

  Suruk’s mandibles opened. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard, mate. Back behind the fence with the others.’

  ‘Foul one, you dare to interrupt my communion with the spirits, to tell me to leave this sacred place?’

  The official nodded once, firmly. ‘Yes, sir, indeed I do. There’s a fence up, and it’s for a good purpose: to stop weirdos coming in and doing their funny stuff in the henge. Yes, sir, weirdos.’

  His brutal head slowly turned to look at Rhianna.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Smith said, ‘but are you trying to insinuate something? That is a guest on my ship that you’re talking about, and I can tell you that she is not a “weirdo”.’

  ‘Then might I ask, sir, why she is embracing a rock?’

  ‘She’s not embracing it. She’s listening to it.’

  ‘Quite, sir. This is a site of archaeological significance, not some drop-in centre for people who smell of joss. Back behind the fence, or I shall have to order you to leave.’

  Smith glanced at Suruk, who was beginning to froth.

  ‘Come along, I’ve not got all day,’ the official said. ‘Loonies,’ he added, quietly.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Morgar had appeared beside them. Smith had not seen him approach. The ability to creep up on the unsuspecting clearly ran in the family. ‘These people are with me. Morgar the Architect, pleased to meet you.’ He stuck out a hand and the official shook it. Morgar withdrew his hand rather slowly. ‘Perhaps we can come to an arrangement here.’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ the official said. He glanced at Rhianna. ‘But don’t make a mess, understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Morgar said. ‘This way, all.’

  They returned to the Great Table. As they walked, Carveth leaned over and whispered, ‘That ticket bloke was the toughest thing we’ve seen on this planet so far.’

  Smith observed sourly, ‘I must say, I can hardly believe how decadent these people have got. Not only has Agshad’s mighty warhost gentrified itself, but I do believe I’ve just seen an officer of the National Trust taking a bribe. It’s like–’ he struggled for a word that would express his distaste sufficiently – ‘ France.’

  Figures approached the far end of the table, striding across the ground from the gift shop: aged M’Lak, no smaller than Suruk but with more pronounced, inhuman features. Among them was Agshad. Flanked by Morgar and Suruk, Smith stepped up to the Great Table. He stood there, uncertain whether he should introduce himself and begin.

  Clearly the surroundings reminded the elders of their glory days. ‘So I cut off its head and dragged the monster’s body for eight miles, despite it biting off my hand,’ an elder with one tusk was saying.

  ‘Eight miles?’ another demanded. ‘Eight miles? You were lucky. I would get up, fight for honour all day, then stagger twenty miles home with both my arms in a plastic bag.’ ‘Luxury!’ said an elder with one eye. Agshad cleared his throat sacs, noisily. ‘Gentlemen!’ he growled. ‘Honoured business associates, pillars of the community, this is Captain Isambard Smith of the British Space Empire. He has come here to seek your help regarding a matter of great importance to his people. With him is my son Suruk, an antiquarian and friend of Captain Smith, who will vouch for him if needed. Gentlemen, I give you Captain Smith. There,’ he added quietly, as if to say, I have fulfilled my obligations.

  ‘Let me make this clear, gentlemen. I do not come here seeking help in a war that has nothing to do with you. I come here to offer you assistance in fighting our common foe. Number One intends to conquer the galaxy, and to do so he has engineered an army far larger than anything you or I could produce on our own. Even together we will have a tough fight on our hands – but a fight we can win, and a fight that will bring us victory instead of certain death.’

  Smith looked them over.

  ‘The Ghasts have no scruples. Their sole aim is to conquer the universe, and the only reason they would spare your lives is to use you all as slaves. The Empire offers you the chance to meet them head-on, with my people as your allies, and to stop their evil plan in its tracks. Because believe me, sirs, once we are defeated the Ghasts will turn on you.’

  An ancient, scarred M’Lak fixed his eyes on Smith. ‘The Ghasts have offered us incentives to stay out of the fighting. They tell us that this war is between Earth and Selenia, and that we need not concern ourselves with it. In return, they have promised us distribution rights on a vast amount of canned food. What can the British offer us to match that?’

  ‘Freedom,’ said Smith. ‘And dignity.’

  ‘They gave me a crate of red wine,’ another elder said. ‘And some balsamic vinegar.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please listen!’ cried Smith. ‘This is not about tinned goods, or stocking your cellars. This is about life and death! What good will Cotes de Rhône be to you when Ghast stormtroopers march through your cities, killing all before them?’

  ‘We could break the bottles on their heads,’ the elder said. ‘It would really hurt, especially if we only used the cheap stuff.’

  ‘That would sting something awful,’ said the elder with one tusk.

  ‘Please try to understand.’ Smith looked away, his head aching with frustration. ‘I know our history together may not be too good. I know we’ve disagreed at times—’

  ‘Oh, water under the bridge,’ said the elder with one eye.

  ‘– but our Empire cannot defeat the Ghasts on its own. With your help, we can liberate Urn, keep our army strong, and keep all of our worlds safe from tyranny. But without your help, we are too few. There are some odds th
at even British people cannot overcome.’

  The elder with one eye opened his hands helplessly. ‘Two alien races, far away. I’m sorry, Captain Smith, but I really don’t see the relevance of this. We have business to look after, work to do. This isn’t the Dark Ages, you know.’

  Around the henge, the elders murmured their agreement.

  Smith opened his mouth, but he was drowned out by a bellow of rage. Throat sacs inflated, jaws wide open, head thrown back, Suruk roared at the sky. As they recoiled in shock he sprang onto the Great Table, onto the sacred inscription.

  ‘Shame on you!’ he cried. ‘Shame on you, cowards and fools! You will fall, this land will fall, and you will cry to the ancestors to save you, and they will spurn you just as you spurn them! As your houses burn, as the tribes are driven forth as slaves instead of warriors, you will remember this day and curse your mealy words a thousand times! These humans, these little pink things, have more honour than you! This—’ he jabbed a finger at Carveth, ‘this stunted jester has more honour than all of you put together!’

  He stopped, panting. There was an awkward pause, and the group noticed a familiar figure standing beside the Great Table, looking up at Suruk.

  ‘Right, you,’ said the official. ‘That’s quite enough. Hop it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Morgar, ‘it’s been nice seeing you again.’

  ‘Huh,’ Suruk said. ‘I suppose the same. What can I do but wish you well? Apart from hacking you into pieces, of course. But even that would hardly seem worth the bother.’

  *

  They stood on the landing pad in front of the John Pym. It was hot, and the satellite dishes of the clan-houses seemed to waver in the haze.

  ‘Here,’ said Carveth, and she passed Morgar the bottle of wine from her bag. ‘Cheers for putting us up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Morgar said. He peered at the label disapprovingly. ‘Hmm. French, eh? I wonder what region it is?’

  ‘Europe, stupid,’ Suruk said.

  Morgar looked at his brother and sighed. ‘Look, I feel pretty bad about the way this has turned out—’

  ‘Perhaps the Ghast legions will perk you up,’ Suruk said coldly.

  Smith elbowed Suruk in the side.

  Suruk said, ‘Goodbye, brother. Goodbye, father. I thank you for the jumper.’

  ‘Thank you for the skull, Suruk,’ Agshad said.

  They bowed to one another. ‘Goodbye to all of you. Good luck, Captain Smith. I hope the ancestors look well on you. And Suruk, if ever you do think about going to law school, I can always send you a prospectus.’

  *

  Above Didcot 5, the Systematic Destruction slid into orbit. On the bridge, 462 watched plasma torpedoes corkscrew through the peach-coloured cloud, into the storms. There was a brief flash of light, then another, and, a second later, a third. Only then did he turn from the window.

  An orderly stood beside him. ‘Supreme Ship’s Commander!’

  ‘Minion.’

  ‘Report on planet surface follows! All life should have been destroyed. Threat almost certainly neutralised.’

  462’s eye narrowed. ‘ “Should be?” ’

  ‘Um. . . is.’

  462 put his hands behind his back and walked to his seat. ‘So, Project Midwife is finished. Good.’ He sat down, thinking. No doubt the Edenite buffoons on Urn would be making a mess of things. Still, it did not matter. Tea was useless to the Ghast Empire and, once he returned, he would give the order to strip Urn of everything the Ghasts could use before destroying it.

  ‘Sir!’ another orderly called. ‘A message has come from our entirely neutral allies the Yull. They state that a craft similar to the human ship John Pym has landed on the M’Lak world of Didcot 6. I am pleased to inform you that we have sufficient torpedoes remaining to—’

  462 lurched upright and cuffed the minion across the jaw. ‘Silence!’ He sank back into his chair slowly, as if deflating. His mechanical eye ached. ‘No. To attack their world would violate M’Lak airspace. The enemy could paint us as aggressors and invaders – which is, of course, totally untrue. No, there are other ways. I think we can find someone altogether more disposable to do our work for us.’

  He rubbed his hands, claws and antennae together, and began to laugh. The orderly, not wishing to be shot, joined in.

  *

  Carveth turned from the monitors and said, ‘Course set for Urn, boss.’

  ‘Thank you, Carveth.’

  Things were subdued on the John Pym. Rhianna had retreated to her room, leaving Smith and Carveth in the cockpit. They sat quietly, depressed and a little embarrassed, as if at a wake for someone they hardly knew.

  ‘It’s going to be bad news when we get back,’ Smith said. ‘For everyone.’ He sipped a glass of gin and tonic.

  Given the lack of allies, he had decided to ration the ship’s tea for emergency situations. He was already itching to brew up, despite having only enforced the new rule for half an hour. ‘Bloody aliens. All of them. Bloody stupid, unreliable bunch!’

  ‘On which subject,’ said Carveth, ‘where’s Suruk gone?’

  ‘In his room. Trying on his new jumper, apparently, which probably means ripping it into bits. I’d leave him to it.’

  ‘Perhaps I ought to see how he’s doing. After all, he did say that I had more honour than all his tribal elders put together.’

  ‘He also called you a stunted jester. Don’t push your luck. I’ll do it.’

  Smith brushed his jacket down and strolled along the corridor. He felt empty and tired. Suruk’s door was closed; the next door down, Rhianna’s, was open. He raised his hand to knock on Suruk’s door and paused, uncertain of what to do. Things seemed pretty quiet in there. Perhaps it was best to leave the alien to it: like Smith, the last thing that would cheer him up would be people urging him to ‘let it all out’, ‘have a good cry’ or some new-age rubbish like that. What was a ‘good cry’ anyway? A happy grieve? A merry mourn?

  ‘Hey there.’

  He glanced around: Rhianna lounged against the door-frame of her room, arms folded, watching him. ‘Hello,’ he said warily.

  ‘Coming in?’

  ‘Er, alright then,’ he said.

  She stepped away gracefully and he walked into her room. It was alien territory, even less familiar to him than Suruk’s weapons racks and skull collection. The first impression was of an explosion in a sari factory: drapey things hung from the walls and ceiling. An item like a poorly-constructed wheel dangled above the bed, trailing feathers as though it had been used to bludgeon a thrush.

  Trinkets jostled with suspicious-looking plants on the shelves. It was all extremely exotic, and hence made him think of Fry’s Turkish Delight.

  ‘Came to see Suruk really,’ he said. ‘Must be a bit of a shock for him. Maybe he’s best off on his own. Can’t hear anything smashing in there, so he’s probably alright.’

  Rhianna said, ‘It must be really hard for him,’ and sat down on the mass of pillows, tassels, rugs, throws and ethnic litter that made up her bed. ‘You know, I really. . . feel for those poor indigenous people, deprived of their way of life by colonialist imperialism.’

  ‘We didn’t deprive them,’ Smith retorted, stung. ‘It was their choice to chuck in their traditions for accounting and risotto. I tell you, they were a damned lot easier to rule when they were demented savages. The only crazy thing down there now is the paving on their bloody driveway.’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice was softer. ‘It’s so sad.’

  She leaned back, and it occurred to Smith that he would like to kiss every inch of her body. Well, most of it: some bits needed a clean. Maybe if she had a wash and asked nicely. There’d have to be something in it for him, like getting her to put on an English accent. Yes, an English accent and some sort of smalls – big smalls. . . Noticing the beginnings of what his old friend Carstairs referred to as ‘Trouser-prong’, he turned to the bookshelf and read the titles of some of her books. His eye skimmed over a grisly selection of vo
lumes about lentil-rearing and Beat poetry, and stopped on some hippy diatribe entitled Rage Against the Washing Machine. He felt considerably less excited now.

  He turned round and nearly yelped: ghost-like, she had slid across the room in a soft waft of joss and was now quite close to him. ‘I never thanked you,’ she said.

  Smith swallowed hard. Somehow Rhianna frightened him in a way that the shock divisions of the Ghast Empire did not. ‘What for?’ he managed.

  ‘For rescuing me from those children.’

  ‘They were just children,’ he said, glancing at the door. ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘They were psychics, Isambard. They could have killed me.’

  ‘Oh, well, all in a day’s work, eh? Nothing to worry about.’ Dammit, she had shifted between him and his escape.

  ‘I owe you.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, nonsense.’

  ‘I think—’

  ‘Oh my God, did you hear that? Bloody Carveth no doubt, haha, probably done something I need to go and look at. . . so. . . so, I’d best go and look at it, hadn’t I? Yes!’ he added, in case she disagreed and, so saying, he bolted to the door, yanked the handle, sprang into the corridor, slammed it behind him and fell against the opposite wall, panting with relief.

  Bloody hell, he thought, thank goodness I escaped that! She could have been all over me there! Damn foreign women, forward as anything and depraved with it, no doubt. Blimey, one moment longer in there and she probably would have pinned me to the wall and stuck her hands on my—

  ‘Balls!’ he said bitterly, and he walked back to the cock-pit, cursing himself, the Morlocks, the Ghasts and everything else. The gin and tonic was calling to him.

  *

  Morgar wrapped the praetorian skull in a plastic bag. He took it down to the family hangar that afternoon.

  He opened the hangar door with the remote control and stood in the doorway, looking at the clan spacecraft. It was a tough, battered, powerful thing, its prow a patch-work of spikes and soldered armour plates. Some of the trophies still lingered on the front: Morgar had thrown most of them away.