God Emperor of Didcot (8 page)

‘It is important that—’

‘The people you are looking for are not here. They are far away, where you will never find them. It’s time for you to go. Do you understand? Speaky English, do we?’

‘Please—’ said the Ghast. ‘Underlings, I have orders that they are far away. We must leave at once.’

‘My God,’ Smith whispered, ‘she has the Bearing.’

‘The what?’ Carveth said.

‘I’ve heard it rumoured, but I’ve never seen it before –

Shau-Teng, the ancient mystic art of the British. But it’s been years since I saw anyone—’

‘Right,’ Carveth said, glancing back nervously. ‘Tell me later, right?’

They hurried on, turned the corner, and suddenly they were at the heavy, soundproofed door that led outside. A row of raincoats hung along the wall, and a figure stepped out of them, from her hiding-place.

‘Rhianna!’ Smith cried.

‘Blimey,’ said Carveth. ‘What the hell are you dressed like that for?’

Rhianna pulled her skirt down as best as she could. ‘I told you it was a stupid uniform,’ she said.

Smith looked her over. He had never seen Rhianna’s legs before: they were very long. ‘Nice boater,’ he managed.

‘Yeah, hi,’ Carveth said. ‘Now, can we get out of here?’

Rhianna moved to the doors, and stopped. ‘Listen!’

The voices started again. Miss Cleaver said, ‘You again? I thought I had sent you away. What nonsense is it this time?’

‘The drones have left.’ It was a Ghast that replied, but the voice was deeper, harsher, more like an animal’s.

‘Indeed. So will you, thank you.’

The thing let out a grunt of laughter. ‘I think not. You see, we are praetorians. Your Bearing has no effect on our minds. You may, however, rest assured that the weaklings whom you corrupted will be shot. As will you.’

There was a burst of disruptor fire. A second’s silence passed, and then Ghastish rang down the corridor: a snarling, cackling racket.

‘Oh my gods,’ Rhianna gasped, ‘they shot her!’

Carveth swallowed. Her forehead was shiny with sweat. She ducked down and worked one of the bolts back on the door. ‘Just get the top bolt, would you?’

Smith peered around the corner. The Ghasts were creeping down the corridor with high, careful steps. He cocked the hammer of the Civiliser.

Rhianna ran to the door, stood up on tiptoe and slid back the bolt. She turned the handle, pulled it to her and let in the night air. In the doorway stood a praetorian sentry, its back to them, coat stirring slightly in the evening breeze. Rhianna froze, hand over mouth, eyes wide.

Suruk stepped forward, silently picked Carveth up and put her to one side. The Ghast rubbed its antennae together. Suruk raised his big knife, and it dropped with a low
whup
through the air. The Ghast crumpled and thumped against the tarmac; its head rolled away.

Smith looked back round the corner. One of the troopers was pulling a long-tailed biogrenade from its belt, and Smith flicked up the Civiliser and shot it in the arm. It dropped the grenade and the bomb landed upside-down, its legs and tail thrashing.

Smith looked back round. ‘Come on!’ he cried. The grenade went off with a massive flat
bang
; there were howls and snarls from the corridor. Rhianna scooped up her satchel and they fled.

‘Who wants a beer?’ Gilead strode into the spaceport with a cooler box under his metal arm.

The sides of spacecraft loomed up around him like cliffs, disappearing into the night thirty yards above his head. Most were transport shuttles, used to ferry tea up to the enormous container ships the Empire would send to collect the monthly supply. They weren’t going anywhere now, Gilead noted with satisfaction. The planet was cut off.

His men stood about in their armoured battlesuits, talking and joking, guns in hand. They were the best fighting men in the universe, Gilead thought. ‘Beer!’ he shouted, and he shook one of the cans as he threw it to a lieutenant and laughed helplessly when the soldier opened it and beer sprayed across the man’s visor.

On the opposite side of the spaceport a row of praetorians waited for the Ghast leader to arrive: grim, silent things that watched with disinterest and contempt.

They stood in formation out of instinct.

Two chuckling Edenites in blue-grey battlesuits were supposed to be guarding the tarmac: they were currently studying an issue of
Horny Heretic Harlots
. One of the Ghasts stepped over and shoved them aside.

‘Silence!’ it barked. ‘The high commander comes!’

With a wet sound like meat being pulled apart, a hatch slid open in the back of the command ship. A ramp folded down, smooth as a snake’s tongue. Foetid smoke billowed from the rear vents and a figure appeared at the top of the ramp, as if coalescing from the smoke. Slowly, his helmet under one arm, 462 walked down the ramp as the praetorians jolted to attention.

462 wore a trenchcoat covered in insignia. His right eye was gone and, with graceless efficiency, his technicians had replaced it with a metal lens. The skin around the eye was dented and scarred, like the back of an ancient toad.

His scrawny body propelled him to the bottom of the ramp and, as one, the Ghasts crossed their main arms over their chests, punched their pincer-arms into the air, banged their heels together and flicked their antennae, quiveringly erect. ‘
Ak nak!
’

‘
Ak
,’ 462 said casually, and one of his pincer-arms made a vague wave.

‘Hey 462!’ Gilead called, steering a slightly erratic path across the tarmac to the bottom of the ramp. Several beers had done him no good. He thought of putting his arm around 462’s shoulders, but decided against it. ‘Too bad you missed the fighting. How’s it hanging?’

462 looked round at his stercorium, an organ shaped like an insect’s abdomen that protruded from the back of his trenchcoat. ‘Large and red,’ he said.

‘Uhuh. You want a beer?’

‘No. I shall have an injured drone pulped for nutrition.’ His eye flicked across the spaceport, taking in the decadent human control tower and its puny landing pads. ‘I have orders for the Hyrax before he installs himself as Governor-Prophet-Emperor-God-King.’

Gilead’s head nodded, and something unpleasant ignited behind his eyes. ‘I’ve got some orders of my own, too. I’m going to have me some fun here.’ He looked around, squinting. ‘This place stinks. You give me the word, 462, and I’ll smash these people up. Between you and me,’ he added, leaning closer, ‘I’m thinking of skipping out the sissy medieval stage and getting Ancient Greek on their asses instead.’

‘And I would enjoy watching you tell them so,’ 462 replied. ‘Sadly, you must refrain from being Ancient Greek to any arse. This planet is under the control of the Ghast Empire, and as yet I have no orders to permit you to conduct a reign of mindless terrorism. Never fear: they shall come through soon. And then, you will have your fun: the wretched citizens of this planet will enjoy no more
habeas corpus
.’

Gilead grinned. ‘Reckon I might get me some of that, too. Dirty English women. Unbelievers are all sluts.’

At the edge of Gilead’s vision, a Ghast reconnaissance skimmer darted onto the tarmac. It shot across the landing field, headlight weaving like a drunken firefly as it slipped between the legs of the spaceships and halted beside the command ship. The pilot, a drone, climbed down and ran to speak with one of the praetorians.

‘What’s that?’ Gilead demanded.

‘A messenger.’ 462 beckoned to the pilot, and it ran over and saluted him.

‘
Ak! Flak krak Britak ak-ak!
’

‘What the hell?’ Gilead said.

462 smiled as much as his scars would allow. ‘Good news. Our heavy guns have defeated the human anti-aircraft batteries. Speak the rest so Captain Gilead can understand it, drone.’

‘I obey!’ The drone saluted again. ‘Human Isambard Smith and the Vorl woman have escaped and their location is unknown!’

462 did nothing for a couple of seconds. ‘Unknown,’ he said.

The messenger nodded. ‘Unknown! I am informed that our attack was swift and ruthless, intended to utterly crush all resistance. Drones like myself were used for their disposability, and the human scum were taken by surprise, but—’

462 nodded to one of the praetorians. It leaned forward, and, like a groundsman snipping away an unsightly branch, bit the pilot’s head off.

‘Dinner is served,’ 462 said. ‘This is unfortunate news, Gilead. Most unfortunate. I want them found!’ He pulled his trenchcoat tight around him, turned and marched away. ‘Found!’

Once they were out of the city, they stopped to allow Rhianna to get changed. Smith leaned against the car and looked back at the burning city. Great floodlights roved over the buildings, shining from the landing-ships. Capital City belonged to the Ghast Empire now, as did the whole of Urn.

Carveth stood next to him. The night air was warm.

‘Guess we’re not going home just yet,’ she said.

‘We will,’ Smith replied. His voice was grim. ‘I promise.’

‘Gaze upon me!’ a squeaky voice said behind them.

They looked around: Suruk had put the praetorian’s head on the roof of the car and was working its mouth like a puppeteer. ‘I boasted of being a great warrior, and now I sit on the mantelpiece of Suruk the Slayer! Look upon me and despair, for once I was mighty and now I am a paperweight!’

‘Do you have to do that?’ Carveth said wearily. ‘All that severed head stuff. Doesn’t it strike you as kind of morbid?’

Suruk shrugged. ‘No, it is fun. Besides, you are lucky it is just heads I take. When I was a young brave I used to completely dismember my enemies. However Mazuran here disliked having all their members lying around.’

Smith watched the fires in the city, watched the wads of light on the alien ships that hovered over it. Very faintly, he could hear the sound of one of Number One’s speeches blaring from one of the spacecraft. Somewhere in the darkness, a dog howled. Rhianna was pulling a kaftan over her gymslip. She dropped the kaftan and bent over to pick it up.

‘You know, Carveth,’ Smith said, ‘I don’t think I shall ever forget this moment.’

‘Just because you can see Rhianna’s pants,’ she said.

‘I meant the alien invasion, Carveth.’

‘Oh, that,’ she replied. She sighed. ‘I’m trying not to think about that.’

Smith woke up at eight in a white, sunny room. Clear, clean light streamed in through the window. It was too nice a sky for anything evil to happen under it.

He washed at the sink in his room and dressed. He hid his rifle between the mattress and the frame of the bed and strapped the Civiliser to his side. This place was supposed to be safe, but there was no point taking chances.

On the landing he met Carveth. She was in her pyjamas, woolly slippers and dressing gown, and did not look like a key player in the struggle against alien tyranny. ‘Ugh, Boss,’ she muttered as she closed the bathroom door.

‘Morning, Carveth. Bad night?’

‘I had that nightmare about the electric sheep again. Hardly slept.’

‘Well, best get ready. Today is the day we start the war against Gertie.’

‘If I knew there was a war I’d’ve had a lie-in,’ she said weakly, and she stomped off up the corridor, toothbrush in hand.

Smith went downstairs. The rear of the building was cramped and scruffy, cluttered with equipment for the bar at the front. At the bottom of the stairs he heard voices.

One was hard and a little wheezy and could only belong to W.

‘Dammit, are you mad?’ W rasped. ‘You can’t go back, man. It’s insane.’

‘I’ll do what I want!’ the second voice barked. ‘You’re mired in tradition. What we need is to bring it to the heat, right now!’

Smith opened the door. He was looking into the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Discussing battle plans?’

W glanced around. ‘Smith, tell this damned fool that he’s wrong. You take the pot to the kettle, not the kettle to the pot!’

‘Rubbish,’ said the other man. ‘You may as well entrust the tea to a savage.’

Suruk strolled in. ‘Greetings!’

‘This hothead is Major Wainscott,’ W said.

‘Wainscott, Deepspace Operations Group,’ said the man. ‘Wasn’t here, don’t exist, pleased to meet you.’ He put out a hand and Smith shook it. Wainscott was bearded, quick-eyed and quite small, and wore the largest pair of shorts Smith had ever seen. He was slightly dusty and made Smith think of a geography teacher and a tramp, things he did not usually connect with military prowess. ‘Glad to meet you, Smith.
Dar urgai vashuk
min
,’ he added to Suruk, making a stabbing gesture.

Suruk laughed. ‘
Ungak mar shalad
,’ he said running a finger across his throat.

‘Likewise, sir,’ Wainscott said, and bowed. ‘I have great respect for your people. You are fierce fighters.’ Still bowed over, he tapped a scar that ran through his hair, from the front to the back of his head. He straightened up.

‘Major Wainscott is a master of unconventional warfare,’ W added.

‘Absolutely,’ Wainscott said. ‘Conventional military doctrine enables the opposition to predict one’s plan of attack. Me, I pull ‘em down, wave ‘em round my head and go in with the old chap flapping in the breeze like the banner of Ghengis Khan. Scares the hell out of the enemy, every time.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ said Smith. He looked around the kitchen, uncertain how to follow this. Perhaps some of Wainscott’s brain might have fallen out when he acquired that scar. ‘Are those the tea fields out there?’

‘Indeed,’ W said. ‘Pure, unpicked tea.’

Smith crossed to the window and looked out. Having arrived in the small hours, he had not realised the scale of the plantation outside. The deep green of the tea plants stretched on and on from the window to the horizon: pure life, pure tea.

‘The blood of the Empire,’ he said to himself.

‘Which the Ghasts intend to stop,’ W said. ‘As we talk, the great plantations are harvesting as much tea as they can and hiding it. A second front has been formed, and we’re trying to get as much tea as possible stashed away before the enemy can get to it.’