God Emperor of Didcot Page 8

  ‘Bloody right,’ someone said next to him. Three men and a girl sat by Wainscott, all wearing big shorts, long socks and heavy boots, like a football team sprayed up for desert combat. They were slight and wiry, like the major himself. These, Smith realised, had to be the Deepspace Operations Group.

  ‘Well,’ Wainscott added, ‘I think they won’t be up to much. It’s the ones we don’t see that promise to be trouble: these six divisions of praetorians and however many drones the Ghasts have landed.’

  ‘So,’ said Smith, ‘both Gilead and 462 live. We need to work out how to hit back at these invaders, and quickly. Can we get an army together?’

  ‘Exactly,’ W said. ‘I think there can be no victory without the help of the common people of Urn. No doubt even now committees are being set up to organise the fight back. My position on the Daily Monolith enables me to spread the truth and connect the people who will be leading the resistance against the Ghasts.’

  ‘Quite,’ Smith said.

  Rhianna entered the room as quietly as her flip-flops would allow and sat down. Smith smiled at her and she smiled politely back.

  ‘Miss Mitchell here is a citizen of the Free Colony of New Francisco,’ W said. ‘I can’t tell you much more than that about her, although New Fran is technically allied to Britain, and it is of paramount importance that she is kept away from the Ghasts.’

  ‘Go over to them, will she?’ Wainscott growled.

  ‘No,’ said W, and he coughed nastily into his hand and took a deep swig of tea. ‘Quite the opposite, actually.’

  Smith recalled the time when the Ghasts had captured Rhianna and had wired her to a machine designed to separate the alien and human parts of her. They had succeeded, in a way: the alien Vorl had appeared above her body like a vengeful ghost, proving that her pacifist instincts came from her human side by causing a dozen enemy troopers to burst like popcorn.

  ‘Captain Smith and his crew,’ W continued, gesturing with one big hand, ‘know Miss Mitchell from before, and helped bring her to Imperial Space against serious odds. At the moment their ship is in the city, impounded by the enemy, who are enforcing a strict no-flying policy. However, we can rely on them all as men, women and things of pluck.’ He sighed. ‘Now, we need to establish a plan of attack.’

  ‘It’s simple,’ Wainscott said. ‘We need to kill Ghasts.’ There was a short pause, during which Wainscott realised that the room was looking at him. ‘The details can be ironed out later,’ he said.

  ‘At the moment, Major, it would seem best if you worked on training up a force of commandos to disrupt the enemy,’ W said. ‘If you can train up the Caldathrians, you can train up anyone.’

  ‘You trained the Caldathrians?’ Carveth said. ‘Bloody hell.’

  The beetle people of Caldathro were a gentle, placid race whose homeworld had been annexed by the Republic of Eden in the first week of the war. Their militias scattered and their king brutally gang-probed by whooping grunts, the beetle people fled to the hills and were presumed defeated. Here, with help from the Empire, they ate huge amounts of food and plotted their revenge: a month later, in a single night of squelchy, malodorous carnage, the beetle people flattened the Edenite camp with a gargantuan ball of their own dung. Their excretion-based fighting system had made them feared guerrillas, and they were now renowned as one of the most regular irregular units in Known Space.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, the Colonial Guard is scattered but intact,’ Wainscott said. ‘We can try to gather them and train them for work in the countryside. No doubt many of the Teasmen will be glad to help, especially since the Hyrax is banning the crop they rely on to survive.’

  ‘But will that be enough to retake the planet?’ Smith asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wainscott replied. ‘With nobody getting off-world, it’s going to be difficult to warn the rest of the Empire until the next harvest – and that’s three months away. This bloody coup has caught the whole planet by surprise, even my men – playing five-a-side, as it happens. And these are praetorians: the best fighters and the finest game that the Ghast Empire has to offer.’

  ‘I know where you can find more men,’ Suruk said.

  The group turned to look at him. He crouched quietly on his chair in the shadows at the back of the room, his tusks rubbing together, sharpening.

  ‘Well, not exactly men.’ Quietly, with that odd grace particular to his species, he stood up. ‘I do not speak of this lightly. It is a matter of difficulty to me. Yet, the clan of which I am a part sits within this system of planets. Were I to speak to my kin and tell them of the great battle that awaited, a mighty army could gather and the sky would darken with our ships. Mankind could face the might of the Ghast divisions with the clans of the M’Lak beside them.’

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Smith said. ‘All we’d need to do is talk to them. Provided we could get a ship through the enemy defences, it would work fine. I agree.’

  ‘But how would you get off Urn?’ Carveth said, turning to Suruk. ‘They’ve got us trapped here. I mean, it couldn’t be done, right? This is impractical, if not totally insane, right? Someone other than me thinks this is suicide, yes?’

  Smith shook his head. ‘It needn’t be impossible at all. In fact, it’s perfectly feasible. All you’d need to do would be to raid the airstrip where the Ghast ships are waiting, grab our ship, bypass the missile defences and evade the enemy navy. I wouldn’t call that impossible, as such.’

  Carveth made a huffing noise. ‘Thanks, Boss. Operation Shot to Bits it is, then. I mean, only yesterday I was wondering how I could get round to dying in a fireball, and now I know.’

  Wainscott rubbed his chin. ‘Now that I think about it,’ he said, ‘that’s just mad enough to work. And I’d know.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Smith, ‘that’s what we ought to do. In fact, this is looking like a better idea the more I think about it.’ He stood. ‘Gentlemen, my crew and I will accept this mission. Together we shall carry the message of hope deep into space, and return with victory. I,’ he added, warming to his theme, ‘shall represent the Empire. Suruk here, the various alien peoples whom the Empire is currently helping run their planets. Rhianna, if you’ll come with us, you could represent your own people back on New Francisco. And Carveth, who’s already agreed to join us—’

  ‘That was irony!’ She sat back and said, ‘Look. I hate to interrupt this whole Fellowship of the Wrong thing we’ve got going here, but I’m really not cut out for it. I am a not-very-experienced sex-robot reprogrammed as a pilot. I’m sorry. This really isn’t me.’

  Smith thought. ‘Hmm, maybe you’ve got a point there. This isn’t a fellowship after all.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you’re seeing sense.’

  ‘I mean, I’m the only fellow in it, so I suppose it’s more of an acquaintanceship. Yes, that’s it! We’ll all be flying together on the same ship, so that makes us: The Acquaintanceship of the Ship! Just like in that book I once read, Lord of the Flies.’

  It was eleven. They stopped for tea.

  Carveth was outside when a thought struck her. ‘Oh my God, we’re going to die,’ she said.

  A hand patted her on the elbow.

  ‘Hey,’ Rhianna said. ‘Don’t worry, Polly. You’ll be fine. We’ll get the ship back, and take off, and after that everything will be cool. Besides, even if it isn’t, it doesn’t matter. Death is only the prelude of the next cycle of the wheel of life, right?’

  ‘Is it just me, or does the wheel of life go through quite a lot of cowpats?’ Carveth said. ‘You know, when I signed up I had this niggling feeling that something was wrong, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. Now that we’re about to go on a suicide mission worked out by a five-a-side foot-ball team, I’m beginning to suspect what it was.’

  Rhianna folded her arms. ‘Well, Polly, sometimes you just have to trust in things. Sometimes, life throws us obstacles, because, by overcoming those obstacles, we become in tune with the greater—’

  Carv
eth snorted. ‘For a vegetarian, you’ve got a lot of bull inside you.’

  The front door opened. In the doorway stood a handsome, battered-looking man of about thirty-five in a white tuxedo, the remains of a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

  Carveth gasped. ‘Rick Dreckitt,’ she breathed.

  He ran a hand over his unshaven chin, as if to check that his jaw was really there. ‘Yep,’ he said after a while, ‘sure is, sister.’

  ‘You see?’ Rhianna said. ‘It’s karma!’

  ‘Right then,’ Smith said, leaning over the map. ‘Plan of attack. I would suggest that Major Wainscott launches an attack on the missile defences to render them inoperable while we make a break for the ship. The trouble is, the missile silos are twenty miles from the spaceport. Even with the silos down, there’s no guarantee that we’ll be able to fight our way through the city to the spaceport.’

  ‘If you try that, better call out the meat wagon first,’ a voice said from the doorway. Smoke curled into the room.

  ‘Crash that joint and you’ll end up full of daylight.’

  Wainscott glanced up. ‘Who the devil are you?’ he said.

  Dreckitt stepped into the room. ‘Just a bo looking to bang gums awhile,’ he replied. He smiled.

  Wainscott’s eyes were hard and lethal. ‘Not with me you don’t,’ he said.

  W raised a hand. ‘Easy there. This is Richard Dreckitt, former bounty hunter and now owner of Rick’s Bar and Dinerama. He also happens to work for us from time to time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Wainscott frowned. ‘Why does he talk all wrong, though? Rum lingo like that makes a feller sound soft in the noggin.’

  ‘It’s because I used to stalk the mean streets of Carver’s Rock,’ Dreckitt said. ‘I chopped out bounties for the company highbinders: most of my marks were crooks. I made some paper and gave up the grift to work out here. Hell of a lot easier running a bar than having some nut squirt you full of hot lead.’

  ‘How absolutely disgusting,’ Wainscott said.

  W said, ‘We need two passports, Mr Dreckitt.’

  ‘Hot papers, eh?’ Dreckitt took his cigarette out and looked around the bar meaningfully. His dark-rimmed eyes met the set faces of the men around the table, scanned Suruk’s inhuman features, and stopped on Smith.

  ‘They’re for myself and Carveth, who’s standing behind you.’

  Dreckitt nodded and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘we’ve met before. You’re that andy I was paid to put the hatchet on.’

  ‘That’s me!’ Carveth said, and she gave him a big grin.

  ‘Is this bar yours, then?’

  Dreckitt nodded. ‘It’s a good gig: you have to learn how to be nice to people, but less of them try to murder you.’

  ‘Wow. Good that you didn’t kill me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Kinda handy, sister,’ Dreckitt said. He rested his elbow on the autopiano and looked back at the others. ‘How soon do you need them?’

  ‘For tonight,’ Smith said. ‘We need them by sundown.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Access?’

  ‘The port.’

  ‘Alright. You people have a good time, or whatever.’ He glanced at Carveth. ‘Later, doll.’

  ‘Can’t say I trust that fellow,’ Smith said when Dreckitt had gone. ‘Dubious type, if you ask me.’

  Still crouched on his seat, Suruk spoke. ‘So we have learned three things. Firstly, in order to liberate this world we must strike with both my warrior brethren and with such forces as you gentlemen can make from the puny human population. Secondly, that once the enemy realise our aim, they will stop at nothing to prevent our escape. A weakened, captive population is of use to them, but if we fight like warriors, they will strive greatly to defeat us. And thirdly,’ he added, glancing at Carveth, ‘the gnome has no taste in spawning-partners.’

  Inside the house Smith, W and Wainscott were studying a map. Suruk had retired to practise with his weapons.

  Rhianna was making the raiding-party a packed lunch and Carveth was on duty to handle the meat. Once she had put the ham in the sandwiches, there wasn’t much for her to do but fret.

  The television showed nothing except ranting speeches from the Crusadists. For reasons she couldn’t understand, they had taken to destroying stereos, which offended their complex religious beliefs. One of the Hyrax’s sermons blasted out of the television, while a horde of cultists danced around a scaffold, from which dangled a hi-fi in a noose. Carveth switched the television off, repulsed.

  Overnight Urn had turned from a slackly-run democracy to a playground for lunatics. Carveth was no fighter, but she felt that even she would enjoy planting her boot squarely in the God-Prophet’s edicts.

  There was nothing she felt like hearing on the panmelodium, so after checking Gerald’s cage she stepped out to take the air.

  It was very hot, as though some great cooker under the earth was trying to roast the land from within. A souped-up jeep stood at one side of the house a little way back from the road. The bonnet was up, and a figure in a vest worked on the engine, head down. As Carveth strolled over she saw that it was the woman from the Deepspace Operations Group.

  ‘Hey there,’ the woman said, straightening up. She was wiry and tough-looking, but her face was naturally attractive, and she smiled. Her uniform jacket hung from the jeep’s wing mirror, and there were spots of oil on her vest. ‘You’re the android, right?’

  Carveth nodded. ‘Simulant. Polly Carveth.’

  ‘Right. Susan.’ She reached out, realised that her heavy glove was covered in grease and pulled it off. They shook hands. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Terrifying. How about you?’

  ‘Not too bad. Just making sure we’re all set to go.’ She patted the jeep. ‘It’s quite a machine, this – fast and mean. Runs on hydrocells, petrol, diesel at a push and even coal. Which means there’s four times as much stuff to go wrong. Want to give me a hand? I know it’s not a space-ship, but the same principles apply.’

  ‘Well, I hardly know how a ship works either, so why not?’ Carveth wandered round the bonnet. A self-calibrating Maxim cannon was mounted on a pintle on the front passenger door. It was slightly more advanced than the one gathering dust in the John Pym’s weapons locker. Carveth gave it a cautious prod, as if to check that it was dead.

  ‘You ever use one of those?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Yes. The way I see it, if things get nasty, you’re best off behind a big gun.’

  Susan raised an eyebrow. ‘Fighter, eh?’

  ‘Coward, actually, big coward. I’d be the standard-bearer of the custard-coloured league if that didn’t involve marching out in front. The bigger the weapon separating me and my preferably unarmed enemy, the better. Some of us aren’t elite fighters, you know. When the firing starts, all I can do is try to keep my head down. And my dinner.’

  Susan pulled her gloves back on. ‘It’s probably best you get offworld and fetch us some help, then. This planet isn’t going to be much fun for a while.’ She put her head back under the bonnet, and got back to work.

  5 Checkpoint Gertie

  The road back was almost deserted. The city squatted in the distance, quiet. No smoke rose from the tea refineries.

  It was a shocked, sullen silence, the silence of someone struck down whilst looking the other way.

  Halfway back to the city a massive, armadillo-shaped vehicle rolled by on eight wheels, bristling with guns and stamped with the flame-and-angel insignia of Gilead’s men. Speakers on the back blared out music, and a recorded voice repeated ‘Welcome to the Empire of Eden! We are your friends!’ As Smith passed it, he caught a glimpse of sunglasses and a filtermask behind an armoured windscreen, and a trooper yelled at them,

  ‘How’s it feel to lose, losers?’ before the tank rumbled past.

  From the boot Suruk snarled, ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘Shush,’ said Smith. Carveth whistled and drove on, trying to look innocent.

  Rhianna was
under a rug in the back seat. Gerald’s wheel rattled in his cage. ‘Are we nearly there yet, guys?’ Rhianna asked.

  ‘Not far,’ said Smith. ‘Take us in via the Ghast check-point, Carveth. They’re less likely to recognise us than the Edenites. Without orders, they’re less likely to blow us up for the hell of it, too.’

  ‘Alright, Boss,’ Carveth said.

  Smith took the false passports out of the glove compartment. ‘I hope this works,’ he said, looking at the identification details. ‘Your friend must have been in a hurry when he put these passports together. Or in the dark.’

  ‘I guess he had to work quickly,’ Carveth said. ‘It can’t be easy finding people whose identities we could take at short notice.’

  ‘Bloody right. I’ll be lucky if I can even remember my false name, let alone spell it. Head down, Rhianna,’ Smith said. ‘Here comes the checkpoint.’

  There was a sentry chamber by the side of the road, a long, spine-like barrier sticking out of it to block the way. The thing had the unwholesome, biological look of Ghast technology. As they approached, a pair of drones stepped into the road. One of them stuck its pincer up. ‘Halt!’

  Smith wound his window down.

  ‘Attention, scum!’ the nearer drone barked. ‘Engine off!’

  Carveth glanced at Smith. ‘Off?’ she whispered. He knew what she meant – There goes our quick escape.

  ‘Off,’ he said.

  The car shook as she turned the key, then it was still.

  The nearer of the Ghasts marched to the window and peered into the car, its antennae stroking the window-frame. ‘Identification.’

  Smith handed over the passports. A globule of drool fell from the Ghast’s jaw, onto Smith’s thigh.

  The Ghast stared at Carveth for a second, then looked back at Smith. ‘Is that a child?’

  ‘No,’ said Smith. ‘Adult female.’

  The second Ghast suddenly yanked its colleague away from the car. It spun it round, barked out a stream of orders into its face, turned and strode away, scowling. It walked to the back of the car and, in the universal language of tough masculine beings, started to kick the tyres. The car shuddered at each kick. Carveth’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.