Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  “Remember that stuff you gave me? The junk?”

  “Yeh,” said Merv, “we remember.”

  “It might have belonged to Lord Vernon,” said The Pan. He said it quickly in order to lessen the impact.

  “What?” bellowed Big Merv.

  “Some Grongles came to the Parrot and they said it belonged to—”

  “I heard you the first time, you twonk,” shouted Big Merv. “Why in Arnold’s name didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered,” lied The Pan, who’d spent several wakeful nights wondering how on earth he could bring the subject up and had chickened out.

  “You’re not here to think, I THINK, you drive. Anything, ANYTHING you hear, you tell me, right?”

  “Yes,” squeaked The Pan. The snurd ahead of them revved its engine again and he glanced nervously about him, checking his escape options.

  “Can you get us out of this?” asked Big Merv.

  “I don’t know,” said The Pan. He could feel himself going white, he was shivering with fright, cold sweat running down the side of his face. A big part of his job was appearing to be in control, in this instance it was vital. It would be testing enough coping with the chase, let alone if the gang lost their confidence and he had to contend with any backseat driving. He smiled, with what he hoped was a devil-may-care demeanour, rather than the rictus grimace that would more truly reflect the way he felt. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “You’d better,” said Big Merv, “an’ if you don’t, they won’t catch you alive because I’ll kill you myself. You get me?”

  “Oh yes,” muttered The Pan, “I get you.”

  He checked the MK II was still in gear and pressed the accelerator pedal as far down as it would go. As he did so, the driver of the black snurd in front of them did the same thing and they hurtled towards each other. The two snurds were on a collision course. The Pan moved the MK II left and the Interceptor moved right. He swung the MK II back to the right and the Interceptor moved left.

  “What are you doing you great plank?” shouted Big Merv. “I said get us out, not take him out.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to do. Unfortunately, he’s trying to hit us.”

  It was Lord Vernon against him, it had to be. It was a replay of that whole sidestepping incident again, only on wheels. He abandoned any effort to avoid contact, selected aviator mode and carried on accelerating. The Interceptor was yards away now but The Pan was going fast enough to take off. Both snurds left the ground at the same time. As The Pan saw the front of his opponent’s vehicle looming ahead, he moved the MK II sharply upwards and as the other snurd followed, he yanked the wheel downwards. The underside of the Interceptor filled the windscreen, blotting out the light, and there was a bump as it, too, moved lower and clipped the roof of Big Merv’s snurd. The MK II hit the ground with a massive crash and bounced into the air.

  “Mind my suspension you pillock!” shouted Big Merv angrily as they accelerated upwards.

  “If you don’t shut up the suspension’s going to be the least of your worries,” said The Pan, who was beginning to feel more in control, and therefore at liberty to be lippy, “this is going to be difficult enough.”

  The police snurds didn’t follow, they were pursued solely by the black snurd and The Pan could only view this as a bad sign. It was the first piece of Grongolian technology he had seen which measured up to the MK II, more than measured up. The Pan couldn’t match the acceleration of the Interceptor and after ten minutes it was as close as ever. After fifteen minutes it tried to ram them and it was only by jinking sharply to the right that The Pan was able to avoid contact. Instead of passing them and cutting them off, it hung back waiting for an opportunity to repeat the manoeuvre. Big Merv was scared and reacted the only way he knew how, by hiding his fear behind a facade of anger. The Pan could forgive him that – nobody was perfect – and on the few occasions it happened, he saw it as a bond, a tiny patch of common ground in the vast desert between them.

  “I thought you could drive,” Big Merv growled.

  “I can and you know it,” The Pan raised his hands and shrugged, “unfortunately, so can he.”

  “Keep your hands on the wheel you great pranny!”

  “Then, keep your hair on,” muttered The Pan, “you trust me to do this, remember?”

  “Don’t get arsey with me you wimp, just get us out of this,” shouted Big Merv, “NOW!”

  The Interceptor fired a snurd-to-snurd missile. The Pan wove in and out of lamp posts, buildings, chimneys and trees with the missile in hot pursuit until, finally, he managed to corner so sharply it continued onwards and exploded harmlessly against the side of a nearby office block. Having failed to obliterate its quarry the Interceptor reappeared and made another attempt to ram them. At last The Pan could see a way out, but it wasn’t one Big Merv was going to like.

  “I think I can lose him,” he said, “but the MK II—”

  “Just do it,” shouted Big Merv, “and for Arnold’s sake get a move on before you make me throw up, you spotty little Herbert. I have some pride, unlike you, so don’t make me humiliate myself in front of the boys here because if I do, YOU will be valeting this vehicle from top to bottom. Got it?”

  “Merv,” began The Pan, wearily, oops too wearily, “sir,” he added quickly, “you know my aim here is to keep us alive, not to make you ill. Concentrate on looking straight ahead, or the view out of the window or something. If it’s that bad, there’s always a plastic bag in the glove compartment.”

  Ahead of them was the financial district of Ning Dang Po, complete with skyscrapers. The Pan, hotly pursued by the Interceptor, skimmed over the parapet of the Quaarl Futures Building. He flew low over the roof garden full of resting traders in a selection of bizarre striped and coloured blazers, who scattered in all directions, flattening themselves to the green plastic lawn. As the MK II swooped over them and reached the parapet on the other side, The Pan yanked at the wheel. The bonnet dipped and the front bumper clipped the stonework with a loud thud. The impact flipped the MK II upside down and immediately, The Pan accelerated. As Big Merv’s snurd had somersaulted its back bumper had hit the bottom of the Interceptor and thrown it forward causing the driver to lose control for a few precious seconds. Not long, but enough time for The Pan to fly away as fast as he could. After a minute or two he realised he was still flying upside down.

  He righted the MK II and descended swiftly into the nearby Goojan Quarter where the streets were narrow and the houses close enough together to mask a snurd from the air. By the time their mystery pursuer had regained control and turned round the MK II had disappeared from sight.

  Chapter 28

  Nobody with a sense of self-preservation would have wanted to be inside the black snurd at this point. Lord Vernon wasn’t used to being beaten at anything. He did not intend to get used to it.

  He believed in honing and channelling his anger, but in this instance it almost overcame him and with a bellow of rage, he smashed his fist into the middle of the steering wheel.

  They had escaped – eluded the Interceptor, the pinnacle of Grongolian military invention, a vehicle so far in advance of any other that such an outcome should have been impossible. Watching the Mervinettes outrunning the missile was a severe inconvenience, but a piece of creative driving like the one he had just seen was intolerable. He breathed deeply until he could finally bring his temper under control.

  No matter. It would be a novelty to contend with a worthy opponent – keep his mind sharp and focussed – and of course, he would succeed in the end.

  “You may run but I will find you,” he whispered as he flew back and forth searching for the MK II, “I will hunt you down and when I do ...”

  The Mervinettes were becoming a thorn in his side and their antics were bad for morale but there are always consolations to any setback. In this case, the more they angered him, the more pleasurable the anticipation of his revenge became. And he would have his re
venge because no-one can run forever, and the handful of people who had escaped his clutches before had not only been exceptional but, more to the point, they had not been trying to evade him in groups of four.

  No, escape for the Mervinettes would be impossible.

  Lord Vernon was nothing if not tenacious. He would bide his time; sooner or later he would catch these upstarts and when that happened he would ensure they endured an end of unimaginable pain for their impertinence; especially the driver.

  Chapter 29

  The Mervinettes sat in stunned silence as The Pan drove them back to the lock-up. Big Merv’s snurd was his pride and joy and The Pan suspected he would be unhappy about the scratches the wall had left on its paintwork. But at the same time, they were all still alive and his partners in crime, even Frank, were clearly too jubilant at not being dead to care. They were also impressed, and The Pan couldn’t help feeling a little pleased with himself.

  It felt good to be more talented at something than anybody else – except, perhaps, the driver of that black snurd. If The Pan’s suspicions were correct and it was Lord Vernon, he wasn’t going to let them get away again. To outrun the Interceptor once was close to a miracle – nobody had ever done it before – but Big Merv’s MK II would need some radical improvements if The Pan stood any chance of escaping a second time. He made a mental note to talk to the boys at Snurd about equipping the MK II with a missile protection system when they checked it out the following day.

  Big Merv did something unprecedented that night. In front of Frank and Harry, he gave The Pan a share of the loot. It wasn’t a quarter but it was enough to show his appreciation. The Pan realised it signalled acceptance, that he was considered to be a fully fledged Mervinette, by the leader of the gang, at least. He packed away the MK II with extra special care. Up to a point, snurds are indestructible. The polymorphic metal had reverted to its original shape, but the paintwork was badly damaged and would need to be resprayed and repolished. However, considering how close they had come to being blown out of the sky, the damage was minor. When he finished tidying away he put out the lights. Remembering his anonymous pursuers from the previous week he decided to leave the loot where it was. He could always collect it in the morning, if he lived that long. He was deep in thought as he padlocked the door of the lock-up and he didn’t notice when somebody said, “Pssst,” from the shadows behind him.

  “Oi! You! You deaf or something?”

  The Pan froze. It was a southern voice, with an accent similar to his own but it didn’t speak the Hamgeean way. His heart lurched as he realised where it came from. The Resistance had finally found him. Slowly, so as not to provoke any untoward reaction, he turned round. At first, he didn’t see anybody.

  “In front of you, right here,” said the voice irritably and The Pan, seeing no-one at his specific height, diverted his gaze downwards in the direction of his tatty, elastic-sided pointy boots. Standing in front of him was a Blurpon. This was bad news.

  Blurpons are about three feet tall, red and furry. Their facial features and ears are cat-like, but they have hands as opposed to paws. And only one leg. Being uni-pedal doesn’t hinder them, of course; they can hop about fifteen feet and are known for three things: their extreme ferocity, the ease with which they are offended and their excellence at laundering. Naturally, it was the first two items on this list which were worrying The Pan, and not their unsurpassed skills with cotton bed linen. The worst thing you can do to a Blurpon, despite the way it looks, is tell it it’s cute. Being beaten up by a gang of Blurpons is like having a load of giant furry tennis balls fired at you from a cannon and The Pan was painfully aware that to enter into a conversation with a Blurpon was to enter a minefield of potentially fatal faux pas. He doffed his flat cap, hoping his elderly gent’s disguise would bear up under professional scrutiny and spoke.

  “Hello young man,” he said without thinking and in his best wobbly septuagenarian voice added, “what can I do for you?” He hoped Blurpons had rules about thumping old people, and that the one addressing him wasn’t going to be offended by being called a ‘young man’.

  “Just a question, old man,” replied the other evenly. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the street The Pan noticed his inquisitor was not alone. The two burly gentlemen who had tried unsuccessfully to follow him home before were standing either side of him. Each held something across his chest which, in the dim light, looked horribly like a sawn-off shotgun.

  “Certainly, certainly,” said The Pan, who was now scared enough not to have to concentrate on putting the wobble into his old man’s voice, “fire away.” He stopped and cleared his throat, glancing nervously at the guns in the hands of the Blurpon’s assistants. “Er, I mean do go on, by all means.”

  “Is this your lock-up?” asked the Blurpon.

  “No.”

  “Who does it belong to?” asked the Blurpon.

  Oh great. They were only on the second question and already he couldn’t think of a plausible answer.

  “You said there was only one question,” he piped reedily, “that’s two.”

  With a flurry of activity the Blurpon leapt at him. One minute it was on the ground, the next it had its foot on his chest and was leaning outwards, putting its full weight on his tie. Small it might have been, but it was heavy. It held both ends of the tie, one in each hand and when it was sure it had The Pan’s full attention it released the tension on the wide end. He felt his collar tightening round his neck and fervently wished he’d gone for the less classy clip-on option.

  “On this occasion, I will overlook your impertinence, but I will only do so once,” said the Blurpon. “Who does this lock-up belong to?” The Pan shrugged in what he hoped was an arthritic fashion but it was difficult with four stones of Blurpon hanging round his neck.

  “I dunno,” he said, which was all he could think of. He felt his tie tighten further. “He never told me his name, he just pays me to pick up the snurd and come back here,” he gabbled, praying the Blurpon hadn’t seen him returning with the other three Mervinettes. “I swear I don’t know any more than that,” he added, letting his fear do the talking. The Blurpon held a business card in front of his nose. The Pan hoped it wouldn’t knock off his fake moustache.

  “Then the next time your boss calls you, my friend,” it said, in a tone of voice which indicated it was using the word ‘friend’ advisedly, “you and I will go collect the snurd together.” He tucked the card into The Pan’s breast pocket, patted it, jumped back to the ground and melted into the shadows. So the Resistance had got to him, which was bad, but they didn’t know what he really did, or they’d have kidnapped him then and there, which was good. All he had to do now was arrange for the character he was currently disguised as to ‘die’ and think of another one. It would take some time and he might have to pick up the MK II disguised as himself the next week. The episode didn’t put him in a good mood, especially when he examined the name on the card.

  HM Denarghi XVII, Ruler of the Blurpon Nation it said. Blurpon nation aside, Denarghi was also the leader of the Resistance. Naturally, there was no address, simply a mobile phone number. Trust him to have a mobile phone when they were banned for all non-Grongle life forms. Flash git. No, The Pan’s brain corrected itself, flash psychotic git.

  Great.

  The Pan changed his mind about his share of the loot. It seemed a waste to leave it overnight when he would probably be dead before he had the chance to collect it. He unlocked the lock-up, wrapped the jewellery Big Merv had given him in newspaper to minimise any telltale clinking noises it might make and put it in a plastic bag. He patted the cotton-wrapped bonnet of the MK II, took one final look around, locked up, and taking extra special care to avoid being followed, set out for the Parrot.

  Chapter 30

  High above the battlements of the Security Headquarters was a suite of palatial rooms that had originally belonged to the Architrave. Not any more. Lord Vernon gazed out of the glass wall of his offi
ce across the city of Ning Dang Po. These quarters had been his from the rank of colonel upwards. He regarded his luxury rooms as a testament to his destiny, that is, to be supreme ruler. Other people regarded them as testament of how scared everyone was of him.

  The Mervinettes might have evaded him temporarily but everything else was proceeding according to plan. Indeed, he was surprised at how easy it had been to remove Lord Mergatroid and assume control. No bloody coup and public beheading, of course; instead a private stabbing. Much neater, swifter and more effective. From Lord Vernon’s point of view, more enjoyable, too. Few things compared with the sensation of power he felt when he ended a life. Lord Mergatroid had been dead three weeks and it was only now that the people were beginning to realise what had happened and who had taken control. The longer Lord Vernon was in power before the news leaked out, the harder it would be to remove him. Not that anyone would dare. Not anymore. There was nobody left – or at most a handful and they were in hiding.

  He smiled and indulged himself in a moment’s self-congratulation, before strolling back to his desk. Laid out across the blotter was a selection of items he had recovered from the religious men and women he had imprisoned over the years. He was not religious, but he was a great believer in the maxim ‘know your enemy’, and since the pre-invasion K’Barthan State had been run on religious principles, he ensured that his knowledge of Nimmism was greater than most. He had heard the stories about the magical powers of the elders: inner knowledge, mind reading, matter transference et al and had investigated them fully.