Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires Page 3

  Pathetic, Wikwot thought, rubbing the sleep out of his one working eye. He had offered to help restore morale by slowly killing several of the other lemming men, but the guards had turned him down. They were pathetic too.

  Half a dozen Ghasts stood on the prison’s cricket pitch. A young human was trying to morally educate them, but the concept of fair play made the ant-people twitchy and uncomfortable.

  Wikwot tried to look innocent as he walked by, hoping that his cheek pouches were not too distended.

  ‘Look, chaps,’ the guard was saying, ‘it’s pretty simple. Most of you stand around the field. One of you stands at the crease –’

  ‘Non-conformity!’ yelped the Ghasts. ‘Smash him!’

  ‘No. He’s the batsman, you see –’

  ‘Is he the officer?’

  ‘There isn’t an officer. There’s an umpire, though –’

  ‘It is our duty to enlarge the Ghast umpire!’ the Ghasts shouted, almost in unison. ‘Crush all resistance!’

  Wikwot sneered and kept on walking. He had work to do, and his cheek pouches were full of mud.

  It had been hard at first, getting used to captivity. Wikwot knew that he should have sought a death worthy of a true lemming man and hurled himself off a cliff, but somehow he was too important for that. Even in the worst moments of despair, when he had been tempted to nibble his wrists or hammer a carrot up his own nose, he had known that the war god had chosen him for a special task, almost certainly related to revenge.

  ‘Wit-what?’ the guard called. ‘General Wit-what?’

  Wikwot stopped and suppressed a wave of hatred. Not only had the stupid humans failed to beat or torture him, thus demonstrating their fundamentally cowardly nature, they consistently got his name wrong. He wondered whether they did it on purpose. He turned and tried to smile without revealing that his mouth was full of dirt.

  ‘We’re playing a game of cricket. It’s very good for the morals, you know. Want to help out?’

  Wikwot shook his head. Inside his cheeks, saliva had started to mix with the dirt, forming a sort of mud mousse. He broadened his smile, thinking about how much he wanted to rip out the guard’s heart.

  ‘Are you alright? Your cheeks look puffy. We don’t want you getting ill before your court appearance.’

  I am sure you don’t, Wikwot thought. Soon they would have their reckoning with him – not on the field of battle, with axes, but before some puny judge in the Crown Court of Ravnavar. He pointed to his mouth and shook his head.

  ‘You’ve got toothache?’ the guard asked.

  Wikwot mimed frantically.

  ‘In your wisdom teeth?’

  Wikwot pointed to the cricket pitch and mimed opening a book.

  ‘Oh, you’re going to read Wisden?’ the young man asked. ‘Very good.’

  Wikwot slipped around the corner, opened the kitchen bins and spat out several kilogrammes of mud. He reached into the bin and scattered a handful of onion skins over the mud. With luck it would be mistaken for prison chocolate pudding.

  He hurried back towards Hutch 25, his current place of residence.

  The Ghasts were finally getting round to playing cricket. ‘We’ll play one hand, one bounce,’ the young guard explained.

  ‘One hand, one bounce, one umpire!’ the Ghasts shouted back.

  Wikwot passed them by, giving the players a cheery wave, and entered his room. He closed the door and the smile dropped off his muzzle.

  Quickly, he pulled out the bed. The general bent down and picked at the edges of the floorboards. Two came up, and once he had pulled them out, the rest followed easily. He looked down into the hole beneath, big enough to accommodate his body, and his real smile appeared.

  * * *

  Warro could take minutes to lose and decades to master. The main objective was to defeat the other players via battlefield manoeuvres, whilst placing ones trumps in check by getting to the far side of the board and building a hotel on the opponent’s general. At least, that was the aim of the Primary Board. The Secondary Board, representing psychological warfare, economic structure and magic, required the playing of cards selected from a deck of underground stations. The third and final board involved small robots, personifying the moral arguments underpinning the battle, which continually struck each other. At least two of the playing pieces on the Tertiary Board were technically alive, and bonus points were awarded for inducing them to copulate.

  Turn One took two hours. By Turn Two, the game had started to simulate not just the chaos of battle, but the ennui of non-battle. Rhianna fell asleep and Carveth finished her packed lunch and began picking items out of Smith’s. Then Captain Fitzroy made a bold thrust into Smith’s baggage train, using enfilading fire to cover her advance – and rolled a six.

  ‘Right,’ she declared, ‘I’m playing my joker now, which allows me to make a sweeping assault on your left wing. Because I’m attacking your side, your cavalry has to play a morale card or be destroyed.’

  Smith played his morale card, which Fitzroy promptly trumped with her own card, Baker Street Station. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but that’s your cavalry gone.’

  ‘Well,’ Smith replied, ‘I didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war, Smitty. When the chaps upstairs get round to giving you a proper warship, you’ll see –’

  ‘Hey!’ Carveth jerked upright, as if the power input to her brain had been unexpectedly doubled. ‘You can’t take my horses. That’s against the rules. Besides, I spent ages sticking them together.’

  ‘And what about moral superiority on the Tertiary Board?’ Rhianna demanded. ‘When people learn about your monstrous use of heavy weapons on those poor horses –’

  ‘You pony-murderer!’ Carveth interjected.

  ‘– the tide of right-thinking opinion will turn against you. Nobody will invite your fascist tank regiment to a festival ever again. And no matter where they sit, nobody will ever pass them the duchy.’

  Smith, who considered passing the duchy to be the best way to get to Cornwall, thought that Rhianna was getting too emotionally involved. Board games and girls didn’t mix.

  ‘Pass the what?’ Felicity Fitzroy said. ‘Never heard of it.’ She made a grand gesture to illustrate her point, ending in a clatter of plastic as her sleeve snagged the main gun on one of Smith’s landships.

  ‘Easy!’ Smith exclaimed. ‘Really, Captain Fitzroy! The first rule of model kit assembly is not to touch another fellow’s turret without permission. I only stuck that on last night.’

  Fitzroy scowled. ‘Not my fault if you’ve got a wonky cannon, is it?’

  ‘How would you like it if I went round manhandling your materiel?’

  She gave him a challenging look. ‘Why don’t you try it and find out? I doubt you could put anything on the table that would impress me –’

  In the road outside, something banged. Smith looked round, as a great shadow fell across the front of the hall. ‘Everybody down!’ he called, and he leaped onto Rhianna.

  Carveth cowered under the table with the ease born of experience. ‘What’s going on?’ she cried.

  The windows exploded. The huge metal arm of an excavation robot reached inside. Its massive hand scooped up a table in a cascade of plastic soldiers and crushed it. The hand grabbed a model bunker and, as if inspired to do its own building work, ripped the roof off the hall.

  The players of Warro scattered. Half a dozen pulled guns from concealed pockets. Two long, perforated barrels flicked out from the front of the probe drone. The room erupted in a storm of lead and little plastic tanks.

  Captain Fitzroy was shouting into a wire in her jacket about an orbital strike, as if the key to stopping this outrage lay in giving a good dressing-down to her bra.

  Smith thrashed about on top of Rhianna, trying to pull out his Civiliser. ‘No time for love, Captain Smith,’ Suruk growled, heaving him upright.

  The construction robot stepped back from the building and beat its ches
t. ‘Freedom for Ravnavar!’ it bellowed. ‘Death to the British parasites!’

  Khan waved at Smith from the other side of the room. ‘My car!’ he shouted. ‘In the boot!’

  He lobbed a set of keys; Smith grabbed them as the robot reached back inside and began to smash the refreshments table. ‘I claim these soft drinks for the people of Ravnavar!’ it bellowed. ‘Liberate the squash!’

  ‘Cover me!’ Smith said, and dashed out the hall and into the car park. Khan’s car, a smart-looking Morton HV Tourer, sat shimmering like a beetle in the midday sun. The construction-bot lumbered around in the road like an angry drunk: already the Ravnavari drivers were beeping at it.

  Smith managed to get the keys in the lock and opened the boot of Khan’s car. Inside were a first-aid kit, a bottle of water and a pair of old shoes.

  ‘Bugger,’ he hissed. How the hell was any of this junk supposed to help? Then he noticed that the boot seemed rather shallow, and that there were strips of cloth at the sides.

  Smith pulled the cloth, and the floor of the boot came loose. He tossed the false bottom out of the way; under it were six passports, a large roll of banknotes, and a sub-machine gun. Smith wondered what effect the gun would have on the robot, which was currently trying to tear up the car park.

  Then he noticed another set of cloth straps in Khan’s boot. Smith grabbed hold and pulled, and the second false bottom came away in his hands.

  Underneath were five gold bars embossed with the face of Ghast Number One, a canister bearing at least three biohazard warnings, and a missile launcher. Much better. He hauled it out and cranked the handle at the side. The weapon made a curious droning sound, not unlike dropped bagpipes, as its motor activated.

  The digging robot looked around. The bundle of sensors that served it as a head swung to cover Smith, assessed him and decided that he was well worth smashing.

  Fitzroy ran out of the building and took shots at the robot with her service pistol. Several guards followed her. Bullets pinged off its sides, chipping the yellow paint.

  Smith managed to stuff one of the rockets into the launcher. He then realised that he had put it explosive-end-first and tried to fish it out. The robot took a lumbering step towards him, flexing its earth-scoops.

  Suruk stepped in front of Smith. For a moment he studied the construction-bot, his spear raised to throw. ‘Ominous,’ he observed, and he lowered the spear. He picked up one of the spare rockets instead.

  Suruk struck the ground with the end of the rocket to activate it, causing Smith a sudden rearrangement in his colon. The alien looked at the rocket, shrugged and hurled it at the robot.

  The resulting explosion threw Smith onto his back. Slowly, he sat up and rubbed his head. A cloud of smoke, formerly his eyebrows, hung around his face. Somewhere in the distance, Captain Fitzroy was demanding to know why Suruk couldn’t wait for an orbital bombardment like any normal person, and Suruk was laughing. The robot had disappeared.

  He heard footsteps, and saw Rhianna’s sandals next to him. She helped him to his feet. ‘Whoa,’ Rhianna said, surveying the scene, ‘that is a total mess.’

  * * *

  The police arrived a few minutes later. Or at least one of them did: a tall, M’Lak on a huge motorcycle. He stopped in a flurry of gravel and dismounted, spindly in leathers. Under his visor, his mandibles parted to reveal a scowling mouth like a scar. ‘I came here to enforce the law and shoot people. And I’m all out of law.’

  ‘Hello,’ Smith said.

  ‘Greetings,’ Suruk added. ‘Jaizeh, M’Lak.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m Callarn the Enforcer, detective inspector of Ravnavar. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Captain Isambard Smith. This is Polly Carveth, android pilot, Rhianna Mitchell, freelance herbalist, and Suruk the Slayer, who is, er –’

  ‘I kill everything,’ Suruk explained. ‘Legally, mind you.’

  Callarn the Enforcer hooked his thumbs over his belt. ‘You see what happened here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Smith explained the situation, leaving out any reference to the Service. Glancing at the building behind him, he realised that doing so was wise: all the other players of Warro seemed to have sneaked out the back.

  ‘So, you and a bunch of other hardened operatives just happened to be here, and this automated digger attacked you, shouting slogans about freeing Ravnavar from human rule. A likely story.’ Callarn closed his notebook. ‘Well, mind how you go.’

  ‘What?’ Carveth said. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘It’s a trick,’ Rhianna whispered, rather loudly for Smith’s taste. ‘I remember this time the police arrested me for drug possession. They rolled up when I least expected it, which was kind of ironic, because I rolled up when they were least expecting it. They said, “We’re inquiring into illegal drugs,” and so I said “Hey, me too. Have you got any?” Fascists.’

  ‘Well,’ Callarn said, ‘having investigated the case, I conclude that all the crime is over. You can go about your lives again.’

  Smith said, ‘Not wanting to tell you your job, sir, but shouldn’t you carry out some sort of investigation? Find the perpetrators, perhaps?’

  The inspector shrugged. ‘Not round here. Thing is, we don’t get much lawbreaking in the M’Lak sector. We don’t have many laws, either. Kind’ve keeps things simple. But let me know if you see any crime. Then I’ll bust it.’ He opened his jacket. An immense revolver stretched from his armpit to halfway down his hip. ‘Markham and Briggs Civiliser.’

  ‘I’ve got one of those!’ Smith put in, and then wondered if that was a good idea.

  ‘Sometimes, you’ve just got to clean a man’s clock,’ Callarn growled. He turned back to his bike. ‘Keep out of trouble. And you...’ he added, pointing to Carveth, ‘Stay in school.’

  The motorbike roared away. ‘Well, men,’ Smith declared, ‘in the absence of competition, our opponents having fled the field, I declare us to be the winners of the Warro tournament. Jolly well done. Now let’s get the hell out of here.’

  * * *

  It was night on the John Pym. Gerald the hamster had been fed and the airlocks were sealed. Smith and Rhianna had retired to their rooms to sleep. Carveth had gone to her quarters, too: from the sounds of it, to use her electric toothbrush, Suruk decided.

  Taking his head away from Carveth’s door, Suruk felt satisfied that everyone was either sleeping or much too busy to interrupt. He walked down to the sitting room and turned on the television.

  ‘The remarkable thing is,’ said the television, ‘the hotel was incredibly cheap. Yet all the staff wore old-fashioned clothes and spoke in a strange, antiquated way, and there was no electricity. And when I tried to find it again – it was gone!’

  ‘That’s because they were all ghosts!’ another voice replied, and the tinkly music to Tales of the Fairly Predictable came on as the two characters gasped in moderate amazement.

  Suruk stepped to the rear of the set, opened the access panel, and pulled out one of the cogs. He reached into the back of his trousers and removed a bent and unwholesome coat hanger, which he jammed into the gap. Having not been electrocuted, he took a seat and watched as a snowstorm of fuzz swallowed the screen.

  A M’Lak appeared on the screen. He had a patch over one eye. ‘Greetings, friends!’ he growled. ‘You join us once again for a night of the finest unlicensed orbital broadcasting, live from the Flying Ravnavarian. Later, we shall be playing some popular music at a speed of our choosing, but first, our historical drama: The Bloody Deeds of Grimdall the Rebel! Just as soon as I’ve put my costume on,’ he added.

  Suruk made an approving croaking sound, and poured himself a gin and orange.

  The screen dimmed as the cast turned down the lights. For a moment, the camera seemed to track across a panoramic view of the Ravnavarian countryside: this was, in fact, the backdrop being pushed onto the stage. The lights came back up, and two M’Lak strode into view, wearing red jackets and large false moustaches.

  ‘What what?’ said the first
. ‘Death to Grimdall the Rebel! May his blood gush in torrents for the Space Empire, don’tcha know?’

  ‘I say, not half,’ the second replied. ‘Soon Ravnavar shall belong to the Space Empire. More Pimms?’

  ‘One gathers that he has created a mechanical steed, with which to do battle. Does this not bother you, Carruthers?’

  ‘My dear fellow, soon we shall bring him doom!’ said the second. ‘Old sport.’

  The backdrop fell over. Behind it, sword in hand, stood the announcer, who was now wearing a helmet. ‘Death to you all!’ he cried. ‘For it is I, Grimdall himself!’

  As the blades flashed and all hell broke loose, Suruk reflected that The Bloody Deeds of Grimdall the Rebel was a bit gauche for his tastes. The Hideous Doom of Vagnar the Smasher was a far more developed work.

  Humans really were funny little things, Suruk thought, opening his mandibles and sipping his gin and orange. For one thing, most of them actually thought that they had defeated the M’Lak, and recently they had started to debate whether they should be ruling Ravnavar at all. This was wrong. The war between the Space Empire and the M’Lak a hundred years before had ended in a stalemate; in return for fighting in the Empire’s most violent wars, the M’Lak were now permitted to fight in the Empire’s most violent wars, which was an obvious win for anyone like Suruk.

  Of course, the Space Empire needed the M’Lak if it was not to be overrun by its enemies, and it had assisted Suruk’s species with the development of many fine spacecraft. Helpfully, the British also seemed to despise the Yull, a sign of moral uprightness in anyone, even if they were a bit stuffy about collecting skulls. You could almost forgive the humans their unwholesome reproductive system, weird facial hair and cowardly grovelling to whatever gods they had made up this week.

  Yes, thought Suruk, what mattered now was not some puny dispute about the governorship of Ravnavar. What mattered was assembling the warrior clans, storming into battle against the lemming men, and settling the old scores – hacking, tearing, ripping them apart, drowning the Yull in a gushing, spurting torrent of rodential gore...