Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  By The Prophet’s pants! It must be missile-proof.

  As the all too familiar shape of the Interceptor appeared behind them again The Pan accelerated. The engine sputtered, the rev counter fell to zero and then climbed back up again. He looked at the fuel gauge; no, that wasn’t the problem, there was plenty of water in the tank, far more than he would have expected. Far more than would have been remotely possible, in light of the fact that the MK II had travelled between the two continents without a break. The engine missed again and with a sinking stomach The Pan tapped the glass on the fuel gauge. The needle dropped to empty.

  “Oh Arnold,” he muttered.

  “What NOW?” demanded Big Merv. The Pan gestured to the fuel gauge.

  “We’re out of water,” he said.

  “What?” he fumed. “Do I employ you to make elementary errors? Why haven’t you switched to the reserve tank?”

  “What d’you think I am? A dork? This is the reserve tank,” said The Pan, “there should have been ample.”

  “Then maybe somebody forgot to fill the reserve tank,” said Merv venomously.

  “Get a grip! D’you think I want to die that much?” snapped The Pan. “There isn’t a feature on this thing the lads at Snurd and I didn’t double-check. Anyway, I switched to the reserve miles back. It must have been the missile, the one we hit with the distress flare. It exploded too close and ruptured the tank.”

  There was a massive crash as the Interceptor rammed them. The MK II shuddered and a red warning light came on. In the rear view mirror the vehicle behind them was obscured by a plume of flame billowing out of the exhaust pipe.

  “Arnold in Paradise!” shouted Harry in alarm. “We’re on fire.”

  “That’s right boys,” said The Pan. He glanced at his boss sitting next to him.

  “We should land,” said Big Merv grimly.

  “Yeh right, with that thing behind us,” said The Pan, jerking his head backwards towards the Interceptor.

  “We can take him down,” said Big Merv.

  “No you can’t, not if he’s who I think he is. Anyway, he won’t even get out, he’ll just fire his machine guns and turn us to vapour.” Big Merv growled and his antennae twisted themselves together in irritation but he said nothing. “I’ll take us as far as I can—we may make it to the suburbs—there’ll be more cover there,” said The Pan. There would be more things to hit, too, but he was happy to take his chances on the streets rather than in an empty field with no-one for company but three angry Mervinettes and whoever was driving the Interceptor.

  He took the snurd lower. The damage was almost helping, as the Interceptor couldn’t endanger itself by coming too close while the MK II was ablaze. It pulled back and launched a missile. The Pan yanked the MK II sideways and it sped past. There was no chance of outrunning it and no chance of outrunning the Interceptor either. He racked his brains trying to think of a way to even the odds. If only he could get to the suburbs. Once they hit town it would be easier to throw off their pursuer and the missile, weaving across the city until one by one the pursuing police snurds hit the lamp posts, or traffic lights, or each other. But Ning Dang Po was three miles away. Any minute now the missile would be coming back for its second pass. He gazed down at a copse a few hundred feet below. It stretched over a couple of miles, to the outskirts of the city. If only he could get there. He looked at the copse again and thought about the trees.

  “What are you doing now!” shouted Big Merv as the MK II headed towards the woods as fast as The Pan could make it to go.

  “Trying not to die,” he yelled back. They were travelling at half their normal speed with the missile approaching fast. The Interceptor was hanging back, keeping out of the way of the flames. They hit the edge of the trees at about a hundred miles an hour. As The Pan flipped the flaming MK II onto its side and flew into the woods, the missile hit a nearby tree and blew up.

  The Pan was glad they were beech trees, tall old beech trees with nice big gaps in between. He could tell that Big Merv, on the other hand, wasn’t certain he wouldn’t rather have taken his chances with the Interceptor and the missile. Their pursuer hadn’t followed them and The Pan assumed it was hovering somewhere above, waiting for them to emerge. He fought to control the snurd as they flew on, only a short distance to go now and they would be coming out into the suburbs. If the MK II could stay in one piece that long. The engine started to whine and the snurd bucked and dipped as it lost power. All three Mervinettes remained silent, praying that they weren’t about to have a close encounter of the woody kind. The Pan felt sorry for them; he was feeling sick, and he was the one driving. A momentary glance at Big Merv next to him was enough to tell him he wasn’t the only one. Big Merv had gone an orangey-green.

  The cockpit began to fill with smoke. The Pan wound the window down in an effort to let the smoke out or the air in, he wasn’t sure which. All four of them began to cough as the acrid fumes filled their lungs. Flames began to lick around the front of the bonnet and windscreen and the engine was making a metallic grinding noise which told them, more eloquently than any of the dire warnings emanating from the telemetry system, that it was ripping itself apart from the inside.

  “I can’t control it much longer!” he shouted over the din and they came out of the trees. Still flying sideways they shot between two houses and turned left down a leafy suburban street. “I think now would be a good time to land.”

  There was black gunk all over the windscreen which the burning wipers were merely serving to smear into an impenetrable fog. The snurd lurched and swayed and, as he tried to hold it steady there was a whining sound as the mechanism to lower the wheels tried to engage and stuck.

  “No!” he shouted, thumping the dash and jabbing at the button. It whined again but the wheels remained where they were. Never mind, they’d probably melted.

  “Hold on,” he said, “this is going to be rough.” The MK II fell like a stone to the road and skidded sideways along the tarmac in a shower of sparks, making a high-pitched screeching noise, like somebody running their fingernails down a blackboard. The Pan could see pieces of charred and twisted metal flying off in all directions; he managed to straighten out and engaged the reverse thrusters. The MK II hit the kerb and bounced into the air for one last time as the road bent sharply to the left. In spite of The Pan’s frantic efforts to steer, the snurd went straight on, over a small wall and into somebody’s garden pond, where it stopped abruptly, its nose against an ornamental heron. Coughing and wheezing, the Mervinettes leapt out and ran for their lives. Once they had crossed to the other side of the street and jumped over another garden wall they threw themselves to the ground and waited for the MK II to explode.

  A minute passed and nothing happened, so they stood up. The MK II was bent and crumpled out of all recognition. For a few moments the polymorphic metal attempted to resume its normal shape, giving the impression of a machine writhing in its mechanical death throes, before it, too, failed and became still. The impact, or the pond, had put the flames out and all that could be heard was a low hissing and the ticking sound of hot metal cooling down. It wasn’t going to last though, curtains were twitching and lights were coming on. It was time to go, quickly, before the police or the black snurd arrived. Big Merv looked sadly at the wreckage.

  “That was a good motor that,” he said, “been through a lot together, right boys?”

  The Pan, Frank and Harry nodded mutely. Big Merv opened the garden gate and ushered them all back out onto the street.

  “Let’s get moving,” he said and he began to walk away. He reached one hand over his shoulder. “Map?”

  It was in the snurd. The Pan cleared his throat.

  “Hang on a minute,” and he turned to run back towards the MK II, but as he did so, it exploded. He was thrown backwards into the arms of Harry, who smartly plonked him upright. There was a moment of silence as the four of them watched, in awe. Was that a tear running down Big Merv’s cheek or damp from where he’d been ly
ing face down on the lawn?

  “No map, no loot, no MK II,” said Harry sullenly, “how much worse can it get?”

  “We could be dead,” said The Pan before he could stop himself.

  “Any more out of you and you will be,” growled Big Merv as he turned and began to trudge off into the darkness.

  “Stop right there!” said a voice. “If any one of you moves, I’ll kill you all.”

  There was a rustling sound as camouflaged guerrillas climbed out of hedges, dropped down from trees and stepped out from behind walls. They were disciplined, armed to the teeth, and more importantly, a lot of them were under three feet tall. Their uniforms were also very clean. Not Grongles, then. The Resistance. The lesser of two evils ... possibly.

  Chapter 47

  Farringdon, late at night. The station was empty and for the first time in months, Ruth had been out after work with friends and was waiting for the last tube home. Since being followed she’d been so afraid she had always taken taxis.

  Now she’d had enough.

  Tonight it was time to reclaim the city for her own. She would not live in fear. She would use the streets at night and she would use the tube. She was not Chosen and Mr Scary Sniff-the-air Creepy Man was not going to stop her from enjoying the freedoms of a normal human being. The train was empty and as it pulled into the deserted station, the driver leaned out of the cab.

  “Get in behind me, luv!” he called. “Any trouble, bang on the door an’ you can lock yourself in here with me.”

  Great start. He was trying to be kind and reassuring but his words had the opposite effect.

  “Thanks,” she said, climbed in and sat at the end of the first carriage where the driver had said. If the driver’s cab wasn’t safe, there was no way out and if that bloke came after her, she didn’t believe a couple of inches of London Underground Formica would stop him.

  “Will you listen to yourself?” she whispered.

  This was the twenty-first century goddammit! It was London and it wasn’t like that. Since she’d seen the scary sci-fi guys on her street, she’d kept imagining she saw them wherever she went. It was usually a glimpse, in the distance, out of the corner of her eye. In other words, never a certain enough sighting for her to be sure they were real. Somebody was either following her very badly or trying to send her mad. Nigel? Who knew? She had to get a grip and start doing the things she used to do again. Using the tube late at night, for example.

  The train was the last one and Ruth would have to change to the Jubilee line at Finchley Road to get to Kilburn. That was OK, as all it entailed was a casual saunter from one side of the platform to another. Total journey time home from here, half an hour, tops. Five, six songs, she thought as she plugged in her earphones. She glanced up at the map above the window. She liked to mentally tick off the stations as the journey progressed. The Metropolitan Line train began to move.

  King’s Cross, empty. Next, Euston Square.

  “You alright in there?” said a disembodied voice from behind the driver’s door as they slowed to go through Euston Square.

  “Fine thanks!” said Ruth with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. The driver had asked her where she wanted to stop and since she was the only one on the train, unless the signal was red or somebody was waiting at the station he wasn’t actually bringing the train to a halt, merely slowing down. Probably against the rules, Ruth thought, but if it would get both of them home earlier it was OK with her.

  From where she sat, she could see right down the train to the other end through the windows between the carriages. She liked the way their outlines receded into the distance; all half glassed, all the same, each one appearing to be a tiny bit smaller than the other. They moved to and fro or up and down as the track curved, creating geometric patterns and playing with the laws of perspective. She liked that, too.

  Great Portland Street.

  As the train crashed into the station, she caught a glimpse of two figures waiting at the end of the platform. The opposite end from her. It stopped, they got on and it continued on its way. She watched the long line of empty carriages moving.

  Oooh. The door at the end opened and closed. The two figures moved from one carriage to another. Not surprising; people did that when they wanted to go to whichever carriage would be nearest to the exit at their station. Not so much in the day, but at night when they were less inhibited and there was more room. Londoners are like that. She took no further notice. They’d be at Baker Street in a moment anyway. Then the door of her carriage banged and she looked up.

  Two of them. Dark glasses, uniforms, the military-style belts with the swords, walking down the carriage. The train hurtled into the station. There was somebody waiting here, too. Good. If she got out and ran up the platform she would be able to get into the driver’s cab. It might not be so obvious as banging on the connecting door; they might not even notice. She leapt up and made for the exit as they strode purposefully towards her.

  The train slowed. Stop dammit. Stop! Now! And came to a halt.

  They reached her exit and she backed away until she was pressed up against the glass partition between the door and the seats. They were right next to her, closing in.

  The doors slid open with a squish and Ruth nearly collided with the passenger who was boarding the train.

  “Oh I say! What a splendid surprise!” said a familiar voice. Sir Robin, complete with the ubiquitous shopping bags. The scary sci-fi dudes stopped where they were. “Oh! Are these friends of yours?” he asked her – or at least – half her and half them. It seemed he expected her to say they were not. He expected them to understand this, too and to leave her alone. Blimey! Was he going to take them on? Yeh right. Ninja pensioner.

  “I’ve seen them about, I think they live near me but we don’t know each other,” she told him.

  “My mistake. I thought they were going to talk to you,” his voice changed, he seemed to grow a little and he fixed them with a steely gaze. “Perhaps they are?” he added authoritatively. They stayed still. It made Ruth relieved he was on her side.

  The strangers turned abruptly and their cloaks swished as, to her surprise, the two of them walked over to the nearest seats and sat down.

  Ruth shuddered. What was going on? Sir Robin, on a train, in almost the small hours, at a completely different station from the one where he usually got on, in a situation where he might have saved her bacon. No! She was turning into Ms Paranoid. It was a straightforward coincidence. It had to be. She gestured to the bags in his hands. “Do you want a hand with those?” she said in order to give her brain a little time.

  “Why yes, thank you very much.”

  Nope. Still not computing.

  The bag he handed over was lighter than it looked, lighter than usual. She peered in and saw it contained an old jumper, a pair of shoes and some rolled-up newspapers. It was the kind of thing you’d find in prop shopping bags for a play, or if somebody who needed to have a bag with them had stuffed whatever they found to hand into one as they left their house in a rush. She glanced up at him quizzically.

  “Where have you been shopping today, the bins on Embankment?”

  “My dear, I promised I’d take these to the charity shop tomorrow for a friend. Said I’d had a clear-out and before you know it he’s given me much of the junk in his wardrobe to take along as well.”

  She glanced over at the two large gentlemen opposite. They had swords and guns! It wasn’t as if an old dodderer like Sir Robin was going to be a match for them. If they were going to kidnap her they’d have dealt with him and gone right ahead, except that one comment from him when he’d boarded the train, only half directed at them, and they had backed off.

  They weren’t doing anything, just sitting there opposite her like a couple of clones with their legs crossed in the same direction, staring straight ahead, each one holding the sword with his left hand, the right hand resting on his holster. They weren’t as scary as the first evil, sniffing-out-prey one. Sir Robin
and Ruth travelled to Finchley Road in companionable silence. She smiled and did a thumbs-up at the kindly driver as they walked across the platform to the Jubilee line and clambered onto a waiting train. The two sci-fi men followed but stayed in the carriage when she and Sir Robin got out at Kilburn. She watched, with relief, as the doors closed and the train carried them away to Willesden Green.

  Her mind was racing. Had she imagined it or had Sir Robin rescued her from a mugging? Possibly. The two strangers had been heading straight for her so, at the very least, he’d saved her from having to have a conversation. He interrupted her thoughts.

  “How’s work?” he asked her, congenially, as they walked down Kilburn High Road.

  “Pretty good.” Small talk, but Ruth had the impression his mind was on greater things. He slowed down and turned towards her.

  “My dear, are you happy in your job?” He stopped, and as she was about to say she was he added, “Are you committed, do you feel it’s what you were put on this Earth to do?”

  “Oh c’mon. Nobody does what they were put on Earth to do. Well ... maybe people with vocational careers do, but I don’t. No calling for me.”

  “And yet you enjoy your work?”

  “Oh yes, a great deal.”

  “You believe what you are doing has a purpose?”