by Toby Frost
‘Um,’ Rhianna said, ‘that’s bad. Really bad.’
‘Quick!’ Smith cried, ‘The ship!’
Suruk was much faster; he tore out onto the battlements, slipping past soldiers, scrambled up the steps to the airlock and disappeared into the John Pym.
Smith looked at Rhianna. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Yeah, totally,’ she replied.
Suruk reappeared at the airlock door. He waved. ‘All is well, Mazuran! Fear not!’
Smith called back, ‘So she’s not trying to fly the ship?’
Suruk chuckled. ‘Hardly. In fact, she’s not even here!’
Rhianna cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Not there? Are you sure that’s a good thing?’
‘Of course! Actually,’ Suruk added, ‘maybe not at all.’
‘Oh God,’ Smith said, as Suruk made his way back, ‘where the hell is Carveth? Rhianna, if you were crazed on combat drugs and fizzy pop, what would you do?’
‘I’d do that,’ she replied, and she pointed into the courtyard.
Engines roared below them. A Hellfire fighter rose on shiny metal legs, jets blazing under it. Below, a man in a luminous jacket waved two glowing sticks, ushering it into the air.
‘Good God,’ Smith whispered. ‘You don’t mean that Carveth has stolen one of the Hellfires and gone to rescue the ponies by herself?’
Rhianna looked confused. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I meant that if I took a load of drugs and fizzy pop, I’d put on a reflective jacket and wave two glowsticks over my head. At least, that’s what happened last time. It went down well in Glastonbury,’ she added. ‘Less so in Gatwick.’
* * *
It was 8.22. Smith sat in one of the conservatories overlooking the launch pad, thinking about his mission here, and his duty to the Empire.
Rhianna sat cross-legged on the Ottoman. She shook one of the cushions and a mushroom cloud of dust rose towards the rafters.
The door opened and Suruk looked in. ‘I spoke to launch control,’ he said. ‘They confirmed that one of our Hellfires is missing. It bears the same serial number as the one the little woman used when she fought in the battle of Wellington Prime. Also, our boxed set of Space Confederates is missing a disk.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘It is the episode called “Hoss Rustlers”, in which Mary-Lou, the diminutive-yet-plucky engineer, single-handedly foils a gang of intergalactic horse thieves. Just saying,’ he added, and he withdrew.
‘This bodes ill,’ Smith said. ‘You know what the root of this whole problem is?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘Abroad, that’s what. If we didn’t have abroad, none of this would ever have happened. Of course, we wouldn’t have anyone to civilise, or to take stuff from for the Empire. But bugger it, anyway.’
Rhianna stood up and slid over to the window, like a ghost. ‘I guess you just can’t expect people to give you their planets and do what you say because you’re British anymore.’
Smith nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a disgrace. The whole galaxy’s gone tits up.’ Realising that she might be offended by that, he added, ‘Sorry. Knockers up.’
‘I’ll be outside,’ she said, and she turned away. He heard the door click shut.
Smith tried to work it out. Carveth was in terrible danger, but the Empire needed the relics. If the Yull captured the relics and flaunted them, Ravnavar might stop taking orders from Earth. And without a unified front, the Yull would overrun Andor, slaughter its inhabitants and cram their cheeks with the fag-ends of a rotting empire.
He had to rescue Carveth. But orders are orders, he thought, and tried to remember where he’d heard that before.
A face came into view: red, scarred, one eye replaced by a glinting lens. The face was shadowed by the brim of its steel helmet. Antennae dangled over it like dead fronds. ‘Orders are orders,’ 462 rasped.
Gertie-talk! Bollocks to that!
Smith strode to the door. ‘Rhianna, we need to get the chaps –’ he said, and he stopped.
They were waiting in the corridor, all of them, fully armed. Suruk smiled. Susan checked the vents on her beam gun and, behind her, the Deepspace Operations Group passed a flask around.
‘The wallahbots are fuelling the John Pym,’ Rhianna said. ‘I can shield us with my powers.’
Dreckitt stood next to Wainscott. He stepped forward, his face grim. ‘I found these,’ he said, and he handed a box to Smith. ‘Cyanide. We bring ’em with us on dangerous capers, in case the lemmings shanghai us and give us the third degree. We’re missing a few tablets.’
Smith examined the box. The label said ‘Suicide pills – please take one’. Below it, someone had scribbled ‘No, not like that!’
‘You know,’ Dreckitt said, ‘I never thought I’d get screwy over a dame. But I got jealous of a little blue horse! I mean, what could a horse give her that I couldn’t? It never ends well when a tough guy gets too close to a pet, like Lucky Luigi did.’
‘What happened to Lucky Luigi?’ Smith asked.
‘He slept with the fishes. Come on, Smith. Somebody’s gotta walk down these dark streets – well, canter.’
‘Bloody right,’ Wainscott muttered. ‘We’ve got business in Ponyland.’
Susan frowned. ‘Don’t think you’re getting out of taking your medicine, Boss. And it’s still bath day.’
‘Easy, guys,’ Rhianna said. ‘We can do that when we get back.’
Susan glared at her. ‘What do you know about washing? Let’s get loaded up.’
Suruk chuckled. ‘Then let us depart! We shall rescue Piglet and delight our weapons with bloody deeds!’
Wainscott tapped Smith on the arm. ‘Got any high explosive?’
‘Not on me, no.’
The major nodded. ‘We may need some. Best not do this officially. We’ll head to the NAAFI. With the right gear, I can knock up a bucket or two of plastique.’
‘Right,’ said Smith. ‘Saddle up, everyone – we have horses to rescue!’
They turned in a clatter of armour and boots. As the others trooped out, Smith felt a sudden rush of emotion. He was very lucky to have friends who were so loyal – and so violent.
* * *
Wainscott led Smith down a winding staircase, past a row of mouldering banners, to a door marked with the insignia of the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes. ‘This won’t take a moment,’ Wainscott said. ‘Don’t say anything, and just agree with whatever I do, alright?’
‘Alright,’ said Smith, wondering whether the major was planning to purchase their equipment or just rob the shop.
Wainscott threw the door open and strode inside. Rows of gear stretched away from them: enough body armour to equip an entire army, and enough Biscuits, Brown to constipate it. The air was full of the smell of boot polish.
Behind the counter, a pallid young man watched them nervously. Wainscott strode to the counter and glared at him.
‘Evening,’ the major said. ‘How’s business?’
‘A little quiet, sir,’ said the lad.
‘Well, the sandwiches probably haven’t finished fermenting yet,’ Wainscott replied, and he emitted a hard, barking laugh. ‘Got any ciggies?’
‘No sir. We’re fresh out.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Evans, sir,’ said the man behind the counter.
‘Evans, I want your word as a British soldier and a gentleman that you will never, ever speak of what you are about to see.’
Evans looked troubled. ‘It’s not treason is it, sir?’
Wainscott glowered. ‘Certainly not. Do my friend and I look like degenerates to you?’
‘No sir. You look like irregulars.’
Wainscott glanced at Smith. ‘Let me know if you think of anything.’ Turning to Evans, he said, ‘My friend and I are hell-bent on manly adventure. We need a large tub of Vaseline, a candle about a foot long and two inches wide, a bottle of navy rum, two packets of rubber johnnies and about three pints of that fertiliser stuff they use on the vege
table gardens, Grow-Big or whatever it’s called.’
Evans looked at Wainscott, then at Smith. He appeared to be revising his view on degeneracy. Warily, he said, ‘You do know that Grow-Big only works on plants, right?’
‘Oh, and we’ll have mothballs.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Evans said.
‘Two packets.’
‘Right you are, gents.’
Wainscott patted the pockets of his shorts. Smith sighed and fished out a handful of loose change.
‘Nearly thought we didn’t have enough money for all this gear,’ the major said. ‘Now that would have been embarrassing!’
‘I’ll put your things in a bag,’ Evans said. ‘Brown paper?’
‘Splendid,’ Wainscott said. ‘Evans, you’ve done us proud. I like the cut of your jib, young man. If ever you want to get out of this place, and join us for some real action—’
‘Let’s just go,’ Smith said, and he steered the major towards the door.
* * *
The little river was still flowing. A mile from the edge of the estate, Carveth slung the shotgun across her back and crouched down by the waterside. Then, limb by limb, she climbed in.
The water flowed over her, warm as blood, and she pushed herself into the middle of the channel. The current caught her and pulled her downstream, towards Radcliffe Hall.
The Yull had already turned the gardens into something sinister. Fires burned on the lawns. Hulking figures lumbered around, swilling from bottles of dandelion wine. The statues of rearing horses looked terrified, not triumphant. For a moment, fear would have frozen Carveth, had not the river pulled her on.
I asked for a pony, she thought. And for my sins, they gave me one.
Past the Workers’ Windmill, past the Well of Ponyness, into the manor grounds. Carveth stopped under an ornamental bridge to figure out her angle of attack. Fire reflected on the dark water. Already, the surface looked oily.
Paws stomped on the bridge. She froze, feeling the current start to chill her body, and something tinkled on the water upstream. Above her, a Yullian trooper sighed. She moved on, quickly.
Voices, up ahead. A party moved out from the rear of the mansion, across the back lawns. Three lemming men were manhandling an Equ’i across the lawn. They were brutes, of course: they carried whips and clubs. One of the rodents, an officer, turned back to the house.
‘Now you learn,’ he yelled, ‘what happens to dirty animals that disobey!’
‘Remember me, my people!’ the Equ’i called. ‘Avenge me!’
It was King Chestnut. Rage welled up in Carveth, and all fear was gone. She slid out onto the bank.
She took out the shotgun. Lightning crackled across the sky, and she realised how she could kill these furry bastards and not lose the element of surprise.
They managed to knock King Chestnut to his knees. Carveth scurried across the lawn and dropped down behind a prancing stone stallion.
Thunder rumbled. The two minions struggled to keep Chestnut down. The officer puffed out his chest and drew his axe.
Lightning turned the sky into a negative. Carveth ran at them.
‘Yullai!’ the officer screeched, his face a mask of gleeful cruelty, and Carveth put the shotgun against his ear.
‘Die,’ she screamed, ‘you pony-murdering, cliff-jumping, nut-gobbling filth!’
The thunder boomed, and the officer hit the ground.
One of the minions saw her, howled something that was lost in the rain and Carveth worked the slide and blasted him full in the chest. Chestnut heaved himself upright. The third lemming man pulled his rifle up, and Chestnut kicked him in the snout.
‘Yes,’ Carveth said, with some satisfaction.
Chestnut stared at her. ‘Polly? Is that you? This is magic!’
Carveth shook her head. ‘Friendship,’ she said. ‘Same thing. Can you get your people out of here?’
‘Yes. Ride out of here with us –’
‘No.’ Carveth reloaded the shotgun. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
* * *
The cockpit rumbled around Smith’s body. He pointed the John Pym in the right direction and locked the controls.
Rhianna sat in the captain’s chair, eyes closed, hands palms-up in front of her. Smith knew better than to wake her, especially while they were over enemy airspace. The Yull had few fighters left, but plenty of anti-aircraft guns, bio-missiles shipped in from the Ghast Empire, and crazed glider pilots eager to take the big jump from the cliffs of destiny. But as he strode down the corridor and entered the hold, he felt the weight of her presence on him. He owed Rhianna as well as Carveth.
Pink Zeppelin blared from the hold’s speakers: Smith recognised the song as Long Tall Saruman. The Deepspace Operations Group had overturned the dining room table and taken cover behind it. Smith wondered why, and then saw that at the far end of the hold, Wainscott was making bombs, glaring at his creations like one of the forefathers of alchemy. He looked up, all wild eyes and beard, and continued to ladle what looked like toothpaste into a sock.
‘Ready to raise hell?’ he demanded, shaking the sock in the air.
‘Yes.’
‘We’re getting Polly Pilot back. But what about these little horse things?’
‘We’ll do everything we can to help them. We’re not much of an Empire if we can’t protect the people we rule.’
‘Right,’ Wainscott said. ‘Stick the kettle on, would you? Tea made me what I am today,’ he added, ‘a sexual tyrannosaur. Except with bigger arms.’
On the way back to the cockpit, Suruk put his head out of his room. ‘I found this in Piglet’s room.’ He held out a paper bag; white powder lay in the folds of the bag. ‘Is it a drug?’
‘Icing sugar. She’ll be berserk by now.’
‘I am missing one of my Zukari blades,’ Suruk added. ‘If I am forced to do battle with over thirty rodents at once, I may be forced to use my teeth.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’
Suruk smiled. ‘It is perhaps fortunate that I packed a toothbrush.’ He stopped smiling. ‘Piglet is in grave danger. The Yull do not respect true bravery,’ he said. ‘They are, as you say on Earth, bollocks.’
* * *
Carveth found a broken window, knocked out the shards of glass and climbed inside. By now, King Chestnut would be discreetly leading his people into the forest. The stage was clear for her to teach the Yull a stern lesson about animal rights. All animals except lemmings, that was.
She was in some sort of pantry, the corridors enlarged for equine use. Bent almost double, Carveth crept to the door. Fear was beginning to well up in her and she needed to get going before she froze.
At the door, she heard lemming voices: an ugly revving, growling noise. Before, it would have made her afraid. Now, she felt a rush of fury. What if Chestnut hadn’t been able to save all of his people? The voices sounded cheerful, which meant that they were plotting some act of extreme cruelty. They also sounded numerous.
She moved on, down the corridor.
Nobody kicks me out of Ponyland, Carveth thought. Nobody.
The voices grew louder up ahead. She paused at the next doorway and peeked around.
A lemming man, probably a rank-and-file trooper, was putting delicate glasses on a tray. A large platter of cheese stood nearby.
The soldier looked intent on his task. Carveth felt a stab of satisfaction; she could creep up behind him and brain the bugger with the end of her shotgun. But where would that leave her? There were about a dozen glasses on the tray: that meant twelve vicious lunatics who would come looking for answers and vengeance the moment their drink was delayed. Taking them on would be suicide.
Suicide. She crouched by the door, grinning.
Carveth dug her hand into her pocket and came out with a handful of toffees. She raised her arm and tossed them across the room, past the lemming soldier. They clattered against the far wall.
‘Hwot?’ He spun around, and Carveth ducked back into cov
er. She heard him pick up his rifle and clump across the room, away from her, mumbling to himself.
She put her hand into her sleeve and found the little dispenser there. She opened the sealed packet and slid out her cyanide pill.
* * *
The wine was a few minutes late, and the soldier bringing it seemed to be chewing some sort of sweet. Major Botl Harpik considered punching him in the face in front of all the other officers, but decided to be lenient. After all, it had been a very good day for the Yull. He’d just wait until the soldier had left the room, and then punch him in the face.
‘I think you will find this a very pleasant vintage,’ Harpik announced. ‘It’s the best sort of wine – looted from someone else.’
His staff chuckled appreciatively.
‘But seriously,’ Harpik said, ‘Today, we have welcomed another wretched bunch of unrodent scum into our benevolent empire, and I’m sure you will join with me in thanking them for the kind gift of this wine, all their other property and their labour until they drop dead from exhaustion. Sometimes, I think that our slaves do not really appreciate how hard we noble Yull work for them.’
There was a rumble of agreement.
‘They will damn well appreciate it later,’ Harpik growled. ‘Today, we have done our empire proud. So I ask you to raise your glasses to our wise, kind, temperate, sophisticated and entirely non-genocidal forefathers. Gentlemen – those who have already leaped from the Cliffs of Destiny – the honoured dead!’
* * *
Carveth waited until the noises had stopped and looked in. The wine had done its work: less of a bouquet than a funeral wreath, she thought, surveying the carnage. One of the Yull wasn’t quite dead yet. She felt a bit sorry for him until she remembered that he was a horrible pony-hating scumbag. Then she bashed him on the head with the decanter.
The servant was still in the wine-room, preparing another round of drinks. Carveth took an axe from a dead lemming man. It was razor sharp. The axe would have been an excellent weapon for silent killing, had not Carveth been screaming ‘Die, you fluffy bastard!’ as she broke it over his head.
Yeah, she thought, that’s right. She was giddy with triumph now. She had saved the ponies and cleaned out a whole nest of lemmings. She’d wiped them out.