Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires

by Toby Frost

  ‘Easy Bill, easy!’ the spindly robot cried. ‘Gentlemen, please. Let’s do this like civilised people. Come, take a seat. This is my companion and esteemed business partner, William Sticker, formerly of the advertising trade. I am Mark Twelve, acquisitions and resale expert.’

  ‘Isambard Smith, space captain. These are my crew: Suruk the Slayer, Rhianna Mitchell, ship’s – er –’

  ‘Health and wellbeing counsellor,’ Rhianna said.

  ‘And Polly Carveth, ship’s android.’

  ‘Hoity-toity fleshbot,’ Bill growled.

  ‘Now Bill, let’s not be hasty, eh?’ Mark Twelve’s head came forward and scrutinised the visitors. ‘Yes, I believe that is one of my charges you’ve got there. You see, gentlemen, and dear ladies, I am a device of benevolence. Here I keep a home, free of charge, for whatever unfortunate robots are tossed by life’s iniquities onto the scrapheap of – well, scrap. I care for ’em, you see.’

  Smith looked at the slew of limbs, springs, joints and sensors around the alcove. ‘From the looks of it, you make them as well.’

  ‘You’re most observant, Captain Smith. These are hard times to be a robot, you know. What with the Robot Ripper dismantling units of easy virtue and the cockney virus running rampant, things could hardly be worse. Why, only last week Bill here caught a dose of rust right in his –’

  ‘Oi!’ said Sticker.

  ‘A thousand pardons, William. But I won’t delay you any longer, Captain. Thank you for bringing young Charlie back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to fix a spocket or two.’

  Smith shook his head. ‘Not so fast. “Young Charlie” tried to pick Suruk’s pocket. If you want him back, we want something in return.’

  Twelve’s head retracted. ‘Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?’ His processor clicked. ‘Contemplating variables... reviewing situation... alright, what do you need?’

  ‘Information. There’s an organisation called the Popular Fist. We want to find them.’

  ‘That could be difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, they’re very small.’ Twelve looked at Sticker. ‘Also, they meet in dangerous territory. Do you know the old Picture House?’

  ‘No,’ Smith said.

  ‘It’s in the docks. And the Cranes have the docks.’

  Rhianna said, ‘You mean that the docks have cranes.’

  Sticker loomed up beside her. ‘Nah. Rom and Ram Crane. They own the docks. And their boss has all the rest – the Ringleader, they call him. He used to run a circus, taming lions. If anything goes on here, they take a cut. Or else they take a limb. And there’s only so many times you can get your limbs soldered back on.’

  ‘Cranes?’ Smith said. ‘Would they happen to know a – well, a sort of digging machine?’

  Mark Twelve jerked upright in a flurry of limbs. ‘Ben the Builder. He’s one of the best-connected thugs in the robot underworld. They say that if there’s a card game, or a shadar-race – Ben can fix it.’

  ‘Yes, he can,’ Bill Sticker growled.

  ‘It is he who requires fixing now,’ Suruk said. He smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ Smith said. He nodded to Suruk. The alien lifted the robot pickpocket, looked it over, and tossed it on the ground. It scurried over to hide behind Sticker. Suruk shrugged. ‘It has no skull. You are welcome to it.’

  Smith said, ‘Well then, it sounds as if we know where to go to find these people. I’m sure these Cranes won’t be a problem. And now, we’ll leave you to your business.’

  ‘You’re most kind,’ said Mark Twelve. ‘Charmed to meet you. Goodbye, and be back soon, eh?’

  * * *

  It was almost time for bed. Isambard Smith opened his Civiliser, peered into the cylinder and closed it up again. He thought about reading up on Popular Fist, but he felt too tired. He sat down at the captain’s desk, which was currently covered in bits of model kit, and yawned.

  ‘Hey, Isambard. What do you think?’

  He looked up, wondering what Rhianna wanted, and was astonished. She wore a dark blue skirt with a matching jacket and highly polished boots. Her hair was neatly tied back, and there was a strip of black ribbon around her neck.

  ‘Crikey!’ he said. ‘You look – well – jolly good, really.’

  ‘You think so?’ She pulled the skirt out and spun around. Smith felt a rush of pride that someone so attractive was walking out with him, and then hoped that it wasn’t too obvious. For one thing, letting one’s pride show wasn’t terribly British, and for another, it made walking uncomfortable. ‘You don’t think it’s too much? I mean, I have to wear proper shoes and everything.’

  ‘Well, it looks smashing. You should definitely keep it on. Unless you’re planning on taking it off, that is,’ he added, moving his eyebrows seductively.

  Rhianna laughed, which wasn’t exactly what he’d intended. ‘I’m a bit tired, really. I’ve been thinking…’ she added thoughtfully, and Smith felt a flash of terror that she had been thinking about ‘us’, ‘… about my psychic powers.’

  ‘Good-oh.’

  ‘Do you know what a premonition is?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a little word, like a or the.’

  ‘It’s when you see something bad in the future. I’ve got an amazing gift, but I don’t know how to use it for good.’ She walked into the room. ‘Do you remember when that Edenite high-priest tried to kill us all, and I made him die?’

  ‘Absolutely. That was brilliant.’

  ‘Was it? Really?’

  ‘Of course. He got eaten by space frogs. Served the evil bugger right.’

  ‘But I was, like, responsible for his death.’

  ‘Nonsense, old girl. All you did was knowingly direct him into a room full of killer frogs. He could have got out of there and learned his lesson. But he stayed.’

  ‘Because we locked him in.’

  ‘Well, he had a gun. And he was very rude about Carveth. All that “Whore of Babylon” stuff. I know she’s hardly a nun, but I won’t stand by when women are being mistreated, or horses, or any other animals. If anyone’s got blood on their hands, it’s the killer frogs. Except it was mainly on their teeth. A right mess, now I think about it. Anyhow, they’re gone, so’s he, and everything’s fine. Where was I?’

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘You’re worried too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Only about tomorrow. I don’t know what to expect from these anarchist types, that’s all.’

  ‘Would it help to talk about it?’

  ‘Hmm... could I just rest my head on your chest instead? That would cheer me up a lot. I’d still be listening, if you want to talk about your stuff.’

  * * *

  ‘So, overall, it’s a kind of holistic thing,’ Rhianna said half an hour later. ‘I’ve always, like, believed in extra-sensory perception, but not really in a real way, you know?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And auras, and psychic defence? I mean, I can actually do those now. Really actually.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘So what do you think? Isambard?’

  He looked up and blinked. ‘Me? Think? Well, most of the time it’s complete piffle, really. All this auras nonsense and that sort of thing. Candles made of earwax and sticking pins in things. Except when you do it, of course. You’re the best girlfriend I could ever realistically ask for, Rhianna, and I mean it.’

  Rhianna slid down on Smith’s bed and adjusted her position against him. ‘Yeah,’ she said, after a while. ‘For a colonialist oppressor, you’re pretty cool too, really.’

  * * *

  Smith woke up to find that Rhianna was snoring next to him. He got up carefully, not waking her. While sleeping with girls was excellent, it still felt wrong not to be able to wear pyjamas and break wind in bed. He put his dressing gown on and left his quarters.

  Carveth sat in the living room, eating breakfast cereal. ‘Alright, Boss,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand with this, would you? I’ve had three helpings of Rightos and I�
��ve still not seen the free toy.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, eating the whole box just to get the free gift?’

  ‘It’s a wind-up dreadnought.’

  ‘Pass me a bowl.’

  He ate thoughtfully, trying not to think of cardboard as he spooned the Rightos into his mouth. At least it wasn’t Shredded Wheat, which tasted like a freeze-dried toupee. As tended to happen, Carveth finished first.

  She stood up, adjusting her utility waistcoat. As usual, she wore a collarless shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and trousers with pockets on the thighs. Today, however, she had accessorised with a red scarf. She tugged a flat cap out of her waistband and jammed it onto her head. ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked. ‘Is this how dangerous anarchists look?’

  ‘Very good, I think.’ Carveth looked like a sulky, disreputable technician about to down tools and start an argument, which struck him as a clever disguise until he remembered that that was exactly what she was. ‘Where’s Suruk?’

  ‘Getting ready for meeting the anarchists. I think he’s expecting to have to impress them by creating anarchy. I’m sure they’ll love him: he can barely wash his mandibles without going mental. Have you seen the way he wrings out a face flannel? It’s sinister.’ She sighed. ‘I wish we had someone to back us up. I could do with having Rick Dreckitt behind me. Actually, in front would be better.’ She looked rather wistful, no doubt contemplating her romance with him. ‘It was like Brief Encounter with us. Except there was more than one encounter. And it wasn’t all that brief, actually.’

  Smith reflected that Carveth had a point. Dreckitt had carved a living as an android bounty hunter before becoming part of the Service: no doubt he had experience of dealing with desperate men. And, in the form of Carveth, desperate women.

  That was the problem with working for the secret service: you never quite knew what was going on. In fact, the Service was so secretive that it was doubtful whether any of its members were entirely sure. It had been months since Smith had seen the master spy, W, or even Major Wainscott, head of the Service’s military operations. Admittedly, Wainscott could usually be detected by the trail of devastation, but even that had gone quiet. Perhaps he had been captured by the enemy, or returned by his own side to the Sunnyvale Home for the Bewildered.

  The door opened and Suruk entered from the hold. He was not exactly sweating, but he had a slightly ruffled look and his eyes were more bloodshot than usual. ‘Greetings, humans!’ he said, advancing to the teapot. ‘The sun rises on Ravnavar and I thirst for honourable battle. What are the chances of getting a decent fight out of these people tonight?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Smith replied. ‘I think it’s best to work quietly.’

  The M’Lak nodded. ‘Fear not. I shall strike from the shadows.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I must say, I find this politics business rather complex.’

  ‘Really? Well,’ Smith began, ‘it’s quite simple, really. You have the two main parties, who represent the interests of the working people and business respectively. Then you have smaller parties that believe in, er, other stuff. They’re usually crackpots. Personally, I’m a floating voter.’

  ‘It is only appropriate. You live on a spaceship.’ Suruk sighed. ‘Personally, Mazuran, I see virtue in both left and right. It is only right that there should be social justice for all citizens, but I am also in favour of the interests of the nation. Yet I must make a choice. Why not just make one big party that is both national and socialist?’

  ‘Perhaps you should just vote Liberal.’

  Carveth had given up eating the Rightos and was rooting about in the box. ‘Don’t you lot have political parties, then? How do you know who’s ahead in the polls?’

  Suruk frowned. ‘I would look at the top of the pole and see whose head it is. The fact is, we do not have the same problems as you, since humans are somewhat punier. We have no religion, no great desire for property, and luxury is shameful for warriors, so there is little reason for us to fight among ourselves except where there is a formal war being organised. Instead, we M’Lak share a common policy for foreign affairs, entertainment and defence.’

  ‘Meaning that you all get together and fight someone else.’

  ‘Exactly. On which subject,’ he added, ‘we have some time before this gathering tonight. Let us ready our spirits with Scrabble!’

  The Plot Against Ravnavar

  Somewhere out there, Isambard Smith thought, there are billions of lemming men getting ready to kill us all. While the Ghast Empire shoots us in the gut, the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective will take an axe to our necks. And somehow, this building is linked to it all.

  It wasn’t much of a place. Many of the public buildings of Ravnavar were as grand and stately as the empire that had created them, but the old Picture House looked as if it had been put up by frontiersmen who didn’t plan on staying long. There was a strange mixture of haunted house and Wild West saloon in the design, together with a suggestion of the sort of top hat favoured by men who enjoyed tying maidens to railway tracks.

  ‘This is it,’ Smith said. He stood by the car as the others emerged. In the streets around them, the docks creaked and banged. Cranes stood against the darkening sky like gallows. ‘I’ll do the talking,’ he said.

  Smith locked the car and strode to the doors. He opened them for Carveth and Rhianna, and walked in. Suruk took the rear. The alien was unarmed except for four large knives. Smith carried his Civiliser under his jacket.

  The foyer was dim, red and stale-smelling. On the far side of the room, a small man watched them from behind thick spectacles. ‘Help you?’ he asked, folding a newspaper away.

  Smith approached. ‘Four for Popular Fist, please.’

  The man squinted at them. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, us. And I’ll have a copy of your manifesto, my good man. Chop chop.’

  Very slowly and deliberately, he looked them over: Smith, in his long coat and red jacket, Suruk, impassive and poised, Rhianna, casually elegant in her hired dress, and Carveth, who was looking for a food counter. ‘What’s the password?’

  ‘One moment,’ Smith replied.

  He ushered Suruk and Rhianna back. ‘Nobody told me there would be a password!’ he hissed.

  ‘The crimes of our enemies shall be washed away in a crimson torrent of blood!’ Suruk said.

  ‘Bit long for a password, isn’t it?’

  ‘Password, Mazuran?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He turned to Rhianna. ‘Look, Rhianna. Is there any chance you could, you know –’

  ‘Read his mind?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s just what I was thinking.’

  ‘I don’t know how to do that, Isambard.’

  Smith glanced back over his shoulder, to give the man behind the counter a reassuring smile, and saw Carveth talking to him. ‘Have you got any popcorn?’ she asked.

  ‘Welcome, friend,’ he replied, gesturing to the entrance on the far side of the hall.

  ‘No, really –’ Carveth protested, but by then Smith was pushing her towards the door.

  Smith took the lead. He was suddenly in a narrow, dark corridor. It smelled of sawdust and old carpet.

  They took seats at the back. A thin man with a goatee beard stood on the stage, haranguing about a dozen people dotted around the hall.

  ‘What good has the Leighton Wakazashi corporation ever done?’ the speaker demanded. ‘Why does our government trust those crooks, whose only solution to any problem at all is to try to get a bunch of man-eating space monsters through quarantine?’ His voice sank low. ‘I don’t know who’s worse. You don’t see Procturan Rippers screwing each other over for a god-damn percentage. Or wearing those suits with shoulder pads. Or shouting into mobile phones! Do you? Don’t believe it when they tell you that greed is good, or that lunch is for wimps! Leighton Wakazashi claims that wealth trickles down onto the poor. Well, something does, and it’s yellow alright, but it sure as hell isn’t gold!’

 
Cheering broke out among the listeners. Actually, Smith thought, the fellow had a point. Smith had crossed paths with the corporation’s executives on several occasions, and had been left with a very unsavoury feeling.

  ‘But that’s enough from me,’ the speaker said. ‘Now for some real fire. Friends, I give you our lady of rebellion, the scholar of the barricades, the woman who turns a moment into a movement: Miss Julia Chigley!’

  Onto the stage strode a pale, dark-haired young woman in a boiler suit with a red sash. She stood before the microphone and glared out at the audience for a moment, as if challenging them to throw her out. Then she made a fierce gesture with her fist. ‘Up the people! Up the front!’

  Blimey, thought Smith.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ she began, in a surprisingly genteel voice, ‘we are at war. Not just with the Ghasts, not just with the Yull, but with corruption. With insidious forces within the Space Empire that gnaw at its very bowels.’

  Smith glanced to his right. Rhianna was watching with great interest. Carveth had started to fidget and swing her legs. Suruk was nowhere to be seen. That was worrying in itself, but there was no time to find him now.

  ‘I speak of a conspiracy, aimed not only at the loyal citizens of Ravnavar – man, alien and robot alike – but at you. A conspiracy that is alive and well.’ She paused and looked into the audience. Given the bad lighting, they must have seemed like blurs in the darkness, but Smith could not lose the feeling that she was looking at him. It reminded him of the last speech he had sat through from end to end, at Midwich Grammar Sports Day about thirty years before.

  ‘Our demands are incendiary – to those in power, pure dynamite.’ Miss Chigley raised her hand, closing her fingers as she numbered the points. ‘One: free bus passes for our brothers in struggle, the under-fives. Two: the immediate banning of televised talent contests. Three: better tea rations for our boys at the front and the workers who support them. Four: the recognition of moral fibre as a chemical compound. These are our demands, Ravnavar – do you have the strength to meet them?’