Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires

by Toby Frost

  The music was almost deafening. Someone had stripped the missile pods off the wings and replaced them with enormous curling funnels, like gramophone horns. Smith could feel it: the Planets Suite played at such volume that the sound seemed to push through his flesh, into his bones.

  The volume sank to a bearable level, and a voice barked out of the speakers.

  ‘What ho! Thought I recognised that crate. What happened, your ship fall out the sky or something?’

  Smith looked at Suruk, and they both realised who they were addressing. It was the Hellfire of Wing Commander Shuttleswade, the one that Carveth had piloted at the battle of Wellington Prime. They were speaking to its onboard computer. In the cockpit, Shuttleswade raised a hand and waved.

  ‘Been blasting the lemmings,’ the ship explained. Its landing gear unfolded, glistening chrome against the drab fuselage. ‘Look at this. They rigged me up new landing legs. Should be able to kick a few furry arses with these! So, where’s the girlie?’

  ‘Carveth? She’s driving. Look, we’re supposed to be on a secret mission –’

  ‘Ah, say no more! I’ll let the chaps know.’

  ‘No, it’s a secret.’

  ‘Right you are. We’re out strafing the Yull. They’re gathering their chaps, you know. We’ll buzz them a bit, slow them down and all that. Like the music? It irritates the hell out of the furries! You heading that way?’

  ‘Yes,’ Smith called.

  ‘Watch yourself. The forest’s crawling with lemmings. Good hunting, chaps!’

  The thrusters roared, and the ship rose into the air. It turned and shot off to the southwest, music parping from its sides. Smith was pretty sure that he could hear the autopilot humming along.

  Rhianna stood blinking at the bottom of the ladder, a roll-up smouldering in her hand. ‘Thought I heard something,’ she said vaguely. ‘Is it raining?’

  * * *

  Up ahead, a scout-walker lay in the shallows like a giant metal chicken. The Union Jack stencilled on the side had started to fade. The exposed cogs were clogged with silt. One of the legs had been twisted at the ankle by an explosion. The pilot lay on the bank, in an advanced state of deadness.

  ‘He must have trodden on a mine,’ Smith said. ‘Or a lemming.’

  They passed the walker very slowly, as though shuffling past a coffin. Carveth said, ‘The Empire’s stuffed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly not! Whatever gives you that idea?’

  She said, ‘I don’t know. I just… well, I wonder if we’re going to win.’

  ‘Of course we’re going to win. We’re British, for God’s sake. We have the finest soldiers in the galaxy. We never surrender and never give up.’

  ‘The Yull won’t give up, either.’

  ‘That’s because they’re stupid lunatics. We’ll just have to shoot them all. No loss there, as Suruk would say. We have moral fibre, you know.’

  ‘They have lemming spirit.’

  ‘Humans.’ Smith looked around. Suruk stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘Is that a skull up ahead?’

  ‘Probably,’ Carveth said grimly, and turned. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, leaning into the windscreen, ‘what is that?’

  As they turned the river bend, a huge white ball appeared. It was around twelve feet tall, slightly embedded in the ground. Smith saw dents in the front of it.

  ‘Is that something’s skull?’ Suruk asked. ‘And does it have any friends we could fight?’

  Smith said, ‘Slow us down, Carveth.’

  ‘Gladly.’ The engines rumbled down.

  Smith adjusted the binoculars. He saw features on the front of the ball: a crude shelf that formed scowling eyebrows, and two glaring holes under it. As he took in the grinning mouth and the beard the size of a cow-catcher on a western train, he realised what it looked like: a mask from ancient Greek comedy, grinning over the waterfront.

  ‘It’s a sculpture,’ Smith said. ‘I think it’s meant to be Wainscott.’

  Carveth sighed. ‘Really? That? I think I need a drink.’

  ‘I remember him being somewhat smaller than that,’ Suruk observed. ‘And less cheerful.’

  ‘I suppose he’s been having fun,’ Smith said, and he could not keep the apprehension out of his voice. He swallowed. ‘Bring us in,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’m going to get the weapons. And the gin.’

  * * *

  Suruk opened the hatch and hot, smelly air flooded the hold as if they had unsealed a box of rotten fruit. Smith climbed out, already feeling the prickling of sweat on his back, and helped Rhianna out. She wore an unusually practical outfit: ancient combat trousers, with a green poncho over the top. She resembled the sort of person who might have given spiritual advice to the Picts.

  The stone head looked like a vast snowball. They walked along the spine of the John Pym, climbed down the wing, and stepped onto damp, soggy land.

  ‘Is this a vine, or a snake that’s asleep?’ Carveth asked, pointing.

  Suruk prodded it with his spear. ‘Vine.’

  At the top of the river bank, where the trees became really thick, the sculpture of Wainscott grinned down at them like a drunken giant. Something about it made Smith uncomfortable – no, he decided, that was not quite right. Everything about it made him uncomfortable.

  Suruk made a clicking noise. Smith glanced round. ‘Mazuran,’ said the M’Lak. ‘Company.’

  His beady eyes flicked right. Smith looked, and saw a row of beetle people, each the size of a bull, about fifty feet away. They stood further downriver in a motionless row.

  ‘Do you think they’ve seen us?’ Carveth whispered.

  ‘I’d expect so,’ Smith replied. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘You there, beetle people! Hello!’ He looked back to his crew. ‘Wave, everyone.’

  They all waved. The beetle people didn’t respond. Smith put that down to them not having hands.

  He pointed at the sculpture. ‘Jolly good, this! Well done! Very, er, naïve.’ He turned to the others. ‘Who’s the chap who makes those blobs?’

  Rhianna said, ‘Henry Moore?’

  ‘Moore!’ Smith shouted, pointing. ‘Moore!’

  As one, the beetle people turned and slipped into the forest.

  Carveth watched them go. ‘Either they’ve taken offence, or they’ve gone to make you another one. Assuming that they made it.’

  ‘I think it’s amazing,’ Rhianna said. ‘The simple alien people, producing this authentic art.’

  ‘Actually,’ Smith replied, ‘I think Wainscott might have made it himself,’ Smith replied.

  ‘Oh. Well, in that case, it’s kind of creepy.’

  A man stepped out from the trees – not as if he had been hiding there, but as though he had just stumbled upon them all.

  He wore a Panama hat and combat gear. An enormous pistol was strapped to his right thigh, and a flat-sided bottle of whisky to the left. It was empty. Bizarrely, he had drawn a tie and lapels onto his breastplate, and it was that and the stubble that made Smith recognise him.

  ‘Dreckitt,’ he said.

  ‘Rick!’ Carveth exclaimed.

  Dreckitt looked them over for a moment, as if they stirred a dim memory. Then he said, ‘Yeah, sure. Good to see you fellers. You especially, lady,’ he added to Carveth. His voice seemed to firm up as he spoke, as if he was coming round.

  ‘How are you?’ Carveth asked.

  ‘Me? Good as I can be, stuck out here and full of no rye. Wainscott, now, that’s the question. He’s something else.’ Dreckitt turned and gestured to the giant stone head. ‘I know – I guess this must look bad, but you’ve got to understand: things are different out here. The rules change, pal. Wainscott’s – how can I put this? – he’s a mystic. He sees things other people don’t. He’s the last of the warrior poets. He transcends mere – aw, who am I kidding? The guy’s nuts.’

  He walked forward, and Carveth ran up and threw her arms around him. ‘Hey, little lady,’ Dreckitt said. ‘I missed you. We got everything out
here, ’cept for dames. And decent sanitation.’

  Carveth hugged him a little less tightly. ‘It’s great to hear your voice,’ she said. ‘I almost know what you’re on about, too.’

  ‘When Wainscott’s boys skipped town,’ Dreckitt said, ‘the big boss put me on the case, to either parley with him or cheese his command and snatch the guy. Thing is, I’ve got more chance of winning a craps game against Nick the Greek than I’ve got slipping Major Wainscott a Mickey Finn. He’s pretty much immune to dope: he’s had more drugs go through him than a hophead with reefer madness. You want to knock Wainscott out, you’ll need tablets bigger than the ones Moses carries around, and you’ll need to break ’em over his head.’

  ‘Can’t say I’d recommend that,’ a voice said from the foliage. The barrel of a laser support weapon slid through the greenery, funnel first. Susan followed the gun, her left hand resting on the power pack, her right at the trigger. As ever, she looked astonishingly smart – even this far out: the beam gun was neatly-kept, her sleeves rolled up in the regulation style, her auburn plaits carefully arranged under a broad bush hat. ‘Nice to see you all,’ she said. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Alright,’ Carveth replied. ‘How about you?’

  Susan glanced around at the greenery. She lowered her voice. ‘I suppose you’re here to tell Wainscott that it’s home time. I’ll give you a hand, within reason.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Smith said. He’d known that he could count on Susan: she might lack the ‘inspired’ leadership of her boss, but she was utterly professional.

  ‘I’ve been out here so long they’ve given me a nickname,’ she said, squinting up into the trees. ‘Sane Susan, they call me.’

  ‘Why?’

  She nodded towards the giant stone head. ‘It’s relative.’

  A man stood on the head as if it sprouted him as a horn. He wore boots, underpants and a pith helmet, and a wide range of scabbards and holsters. His body was striped with dirt, as though he had tried to disguise himself as a tiger. For once, Smith reflected, Wainscott had a good reason for looking as if he had spent the last few weeks under a park bench.

  Wainscott jumped down, brushed his hands together, and strode over with a large smile across his grimy, bearded face. ‘Isambard Smith, I presume!’ The major stuck out a hand and they shook. ‘Welcome to my abode. What do you think?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘It’s very… er… natural,’ Rhianna said.

  ‘Spot on,’ Wainscott replied. ‘We’re in harmony with nature here. It helps us creep up on the lemming men,’ he added, smirking. ‘You know what they call me, the Yull?’

  ‘The Ghost That Walks In Shorts,’ Smith said, not wanting to encourage him.

  ‘Not anymore. I’m The Ghost Who Needs No Shorts. They fear us, Smith. We’ve gone behind their lines, sneaked up on them, beaten them at their own game.’

  It occurred to Smith that there was probably a lot of truth in that. Wainscott was a decent fellow, in his own way, but he’d probably killed more lemmings than gravity.

  ‘We thought we might be being followed,’ Smith said.

  ‘Following you?’ Wainscott said. ‘Oh no. The lemmings were lying in wait for you. Thing is, we were lying in wait for them.’ He pulled back a thick branch, dragging with it a curtain of leaves. Behind it, three Yull lay in an untidy pile. Their fur had been dyed green, their bayonets blackened with soot and dung. One of the Sey crouched beside the bodies, rooting through their gear. It raised its long neck like a cobra rearing to strike. ‘Don’t forget to check their cheeks,’ Wainscott said. The Sey grimaced, and he added, ‘On their faces!’ and let the branch swing back.

  ‘You’re safe for now,’ Susan said. ‘But we’ll post a guard on your ship.’

  Wainscott pointed towards the great white head. ‘Like the sculpture?’ he demanded. ‘It looks like stone, but actually the beetle people did it for me. Well, they didn’t really do it so much as roll it, but it’s the thought that counts, eh? We saved a bunch of them from the lemming men. The Yull had abducted a village of them and wanted to pull their legs off, one by one. Mark my words, Smith: we are dealing with sick and demented people here.’ He yanked his underpants up and began to climb up the riverbank. ‘We’ll have a bit of a do, now you’re here. Tell me, Smith,’ he added, looking round, ‘What do you think of owls?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Owls. Like ’em? Trust ’em?’

  ‘Well, I suppose they’re alright –’

  ‘Excellent! You see, Susan? I told you he was husband material.’

  Wainscott strode off. Susan shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the pills,’ she added, and she strode after him.

  Camp consisted of several folding chairs, a number of well-disguised tents and some hollow logs. Smith was not sure of the extent of it: figures moved between the trees further out, half-hidden by undergrowth and he wondered exactly what the scale of Wainscott’s operation might be. ‘Brew up, Craig,’ the major said to a wiry, fair-haired man, and at once the tea was made.

  ‘We brought you a gift,’ Smith said. ‘It’s a birthday cake. Compliments of High Command.’ He turned to Carveth. ‘Cake, please.’

  Horror and fury flashed across her face. ‘Not the precious cake!’ she hissed, and a moment later, she recovered herself. ‘’Course. Feel free to eat all the cake that I’ve been lugging round the jungle. Go ahead.’

  They sat around, drinking and eating. The canopy hid the worst of the sun but the air was uncomfortably warm. The smell of tea at least took away some of the stink of rotting vegetation.

  ‘We’ve been raising hell with the lemmings,’ Wainscott said. ‘In truth, this terrain’s ours as much as theirs. It’s never quite safe, though.’

  ‘How many chaps have you got?’

  ‘Fighters? Just over a hundred. Humans, forty-six. Sey, twenty-three. M’Lak, eight. Then there’s the beetle people, but they mainly carry stuff.’

  Smith wondered how far he would get if he walked into the forest. Would the animals kill him, or the Yull, or even the plants? He’d probably die some embarrassing death, murdered by a gang of orchids.

  ‘Wainscott,’ he asked, ‘can I have a word? Privately?’

  * * *

  ‘Dinner is served!’ Susan announced. ‘Tonight at the Manoir de Merde, we begin with an old favourite: Biscuits, Brown. Guaranteed to stave off not just hunger but digestion itself, these delightful items can be welded together to make a blackboard or just used as individual rooftiles. Then, for the meat course, we have… er, meat. From a tin can. Eight out of ten cats love this stuff. And finally, a special treat in the form of Biscuits, Brown (Fruit), which have either bits of raisin or dead insects imbedded in them. I’m not sure which.’

  One of the Sey approached, carrying plates with what Carveth hoped was food. At least, the stuff was steaming.

  She had not really seen the Sey properly before: they were shy, had no important resources, and lived at a low technological level. Their main skill was in tracking, and, having proved themselves against the Yull at Kwala Gorge, they had found a new niche in the Imperial Army.

  Lucky them, she thought. Seen up close, the Sey looked like a mixture of dinosaur, emu and gazelle. They wore bootees and hats, along with camouflaged cloaks strapped across their backs like the blankets horses wore in cold weather. This particular Sey had a ruff of red feathers at the top of its neck, like the frill on an exotic lizard.

  ‘Here,’ it said. There was a little speaker mounted to its shoulder: it helped with the words that the Sey could not pronounce. ‘Grub’s up, mate.’

  Carveth took the plate. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Most kind,’ Suruk said, accepting his helping. ‘Is this food?’

  ‘Word to the wise,’ the scout replied. ‘See those little biscuits, with the purple bits in them? They’re not flies at all. They’re some kind of fruit. Bloody army’s too cheap to put real flies in.’ The alien dipped its head like a swan. ‘’Scuse my manne
rs,’ it said, ‘but my hands don’t reach my mouth.’ It scooped up a beakfull of sludge, looked up and tipped it down its gullet. ‘So, you’re taking the major back, are you?’

  Carveth nodded. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Wainscott’s alright. He’s a bit… er…’ it tried to tap the side of its head but couldn’t reach, ‘…bonkers, but he gives a fellow a fair go. He’s honest, too. He doesn’t keep anything back.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Carveth said, thinking of Wainscott’s pants. She didn’t feel very hungry.

  She glanced left and saw that Susan, her dinner finished, had pulled out a paperback and was reading it intensely. To Carveth’s surprise, the cover showed a highwayman embracing a woman who was only just in her bodice. The title read Stand and Deliver Your Love.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ said the Sey, ‘when you go back, you couldn’t leave us Susan, could you? Can’t have a tribe without a matriarch.’

  ‘I think we’re all going back.’

  ‘Really?’ It raised its head and stared into the trees for a few seconds, then looked back at her. ‘After a while, in a place like this, you learn that there’s ways to survive. You use the Spirit Path, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Suruk had been watching the tracker with interest.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ the Sey added. ‘You travel the mystic path. The hunting way. You run out of bullets, you go old-style and make yourself a spear. That’s how we beat them at Kwala Gorge.’

  ‘I never had any bullets,’ Suruk said.

  ‘Bloody cheapo army,’ the Sey replied. ‘They could’ve at least given you a gun, mate.’ It stood up. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’

  ‘You too,’ Carveth said. She was not sure whether to put her hand out to shake, but the scout beat her to it. ‘Mr –’

  The alien’s head drew back. ‘Ms,’ it said. ‘Arik, Second Huntress.’

  ‘Polly Carveth.’

  She watched the alien take its plate to a bulky, dangerous-looking man who was doing the washing-up. When Carveth looked around, Rhianna was beside her, as if she had formed from the air. ‘I think it’s good to see such equality,’ Rhianna said.