Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  The Pan squinted in, he was very afraid he knew the scene that would greet him, but it was still a shock when the girl’s face appeared. She was on her own, walking down a street and he would have thought that he’d accidentally touched the thimble or affected it somehow, were it not for the fact that there was sound. Not from the girl, herself, she was alone, after all, but she was surrounded by traffic, birdsong and the voices of a couple who passed her, deep in conversation. Her clothes were smarter than usual and he wondered where she was going. It appeared to be getting dark, so wherever it was, she was probably going there after work. He hoped, hopelessly, it wasn’t a date.

  “There is a girl?” asked Lord Vernon. The Pan nodded. “A very particular girl?” The Pan didn’t nod his head but clearly his expression was eloquent enough.

  “Good,” Lord Vernon chuckled ominously as he put the portal down on the desk beside the other one, “then perhaps you are beginning to understand your situation fully. Do you know what this is?” he asked as he began to set up the thing that was like a gyroscope, only not.

  The Pan shook his head.

  “Among other functions this denotes the significance of people. For want of better words let us call it ... an Importance Detector. Most people score one or two out of ten because in the eyes of Arnold, The Prophet, everyone is of some importance.” The scorn in his voice made it clear that he was at variance with The Prophet in this view. “No-one scores more than eight, except the Candidate who will usually score nine or a maximum ten. I say, usually, because some Candidates have only attained a high score of eight.” He set it up with the dial pointing towards The Pan and pulled a lever which set it spinning. Flecks of blue light flew across it and it hummed quietly. The needle flipped to the top of the dial, sank slowly to zero and after remaining there for a few seconds began to flip wildly from zero to ten.

  “Interesting,” said Lord Vernon slowly. “It is unable to determine your significance. Perhaps that is because you are about to perform an important act—the betrayal of your precious Candidate. No matter, let us see if we can achieve a reading for her.” He gestured to the thimble, turned the Importance Detector round and performed some more complicated hand movements over both it and the thimble before pulling the lever again. The needle flipped straight round to seven and stayed there.

  “She is not the Candidate,” said Lord Vernon, answering The Pan’s immediate thought. “As I explained, she must score eight or over; seven is not enough. Even so, she is Chosen. Her name is Ruth. She does not live here; hers is a parallel universe, different and yet the same. Naturally, as a civilised being, her first language is Grongolian.

  “Her fate is inextricably linked with that of the future Architrave—I believe love may enter the equation—perhaps she is going to give me an heir.” He laughed; a distinctly lascivious laugh.

  The Pan was repulsed and wished he was brave enough to thump him, not to mention strong enough for it to be worth bothering. Lord Vernon laughed even more.

  “You are angry.”

  Arnold in the skies! Was he that transparent?

  “You are fond of her? Oh that’s priceless,” he sneered, in a way that demonstrated he regarded affection as a weakness. “Then you will be all the more willing as my accomplice. Your situation is simple: you will find out where the true Candidate is and you will bring him to me or,” he clicked his knuckles, “I am afraid I will be compelled to hurt this girl.”

  Chapter 64

  The Pan felt as if the world was collapsing round him. Logic dictated that his feelings for the girl, Ruth, could be nothing more than a crush. After all, he hadn’t even known her name until Lord Vernon told him. Then again, he’d never been one to listen to logic. There was something about her which had taken hold of him. She haunted his dreams and most of his waking thoughts. He realised how little he knew about her or her world, how completely powerless he was to help her.

  “Do not waste your time fantasising! She will never love you,” said Lord Vernon spitefully, “good taste aside, her destiny will not allow it. She will have eyes only for the Candidate, or when He is gone, His replacement—for He has chosen her.”

  It wasn’t just the Candidate who had chosen her, The Pan thought, sadly.

  Lord Vernon went on.

  “I should warn you she is also under my protection, so if you try to reach her I will ensure my guards intercept her first. Now, it is time for you to leave. Remember,” he gestured to the two thimbles, standing side by side on the desk, “I will be watching your every move. Your every move, do you understand?”

  The Pan stood defeated, crushed and in despair; Lord Vernon had outwitted him on all levels – and then as the Grongle turned his back and walked to the door to summon the guards, The Pan was distracted by something outside.

  “APT tubes engaged, please stand clear,” said an electronic female voice. A voice which, in his view, was a very sexy one.

  Oh yes.

  With an almighty crash, the window at the other end of the room blew in. The snurd, his snurd, was, well ... if not finished then armed and angry. He wasted no time. Remembering to grab his keys and both thimbles from the desk, he ran towards the window, jumped onto the sill and as Lord Vernon made to grab him, leapt out into the darkness. He landed on the bonnet of the SE2 which was waiting for him, top conveniently down so he could jump straight in. If he hadn’t known it was an inanimate object and unable to think for itself, he would have sworn it flipped him up so he landed in the seat. The automatic getaway option engaged and it accelerated at high speed, while The Pan wrestled to get into position at the controls to stop it smashing into the buildings opposite. Yanking at the wheel he careened upwards, the undercarriage almost clipping the mortar.

  The snurd’s shadow skipped over the windows and brickwork as it flew and sparks showered past it as both guards fired at him with machine guns and Lord Vernon with a laser pistol. Once at the top, he flipped it over the roof of the building and sped off into the night.

  ****

  Lord Vernon stood at the remains of his office window and looked out over the city. That was a surprise.

  Plus points to this situation? The Pan of Hamgee was gone with the most prized of all the portals, but he had no idea how powerful it was or how easy it would make him to follow if he used it. He had a certain spirit and his ability to resist the Truth Serum was unique, but he was a snivelling coward and not his father’s son. Sooner or later, he would use the portal and when he did, he would be traced. Meanwhile, the boffins were making good progress reverse engineering the bronze thimble, and he had the copper one. A temporary setback then, most likely.

  The barrel of the laser gun was still warm from firing but had cooled enough to put back in the holster now. He rubbed it on his jacket, to replace the charge, before doing so. The sudden movement made one of the guards next to him step nervously backwards. Time to sort out the logistics.

  “You! Wait where you are,” he ordered. He took out his mobile phone and again, rubbed it on his jacket to give the power a boost before pressing the speed dial button for General Moteurs. He strode across the room, phone clamped to his ear and the general answered after one ring. “Tell your troops to apprehend the Chosen One and bring her to me,” he said shortly, and without giving the general time to say anything, pressed the red button. Now ...

  He turned to the two guards, flipping his phone closed and dropping it into his pocket as he did so. They had allowed the Pan of Hamgee to escape. He would have to punish them for their failure. He smiled. That would be a treat. Yes, it was important to see the positives in a situation.

  They stood, mutely, waiting for orders. He smoothed the suede gloves over his hands and adjusted the rings to maximise their impact. All the while he kept his eyes on them. He allowed his anger to build, gradually revealing it in his face and his expression. They reflected it back, in their fear. Could he be bothered to walk over there and hit them? No.

  “Come here,” he said, “both of
you.”

  They did as they were told.

  ****

  When he was flying straight, with no immediate sign of pursuers, The Pan of Hamgee took a few moments to check his options. No sliding dash any more, just machined and polished metal with rows of buttons and switches, all neatly labelled, many with options The Pan had never encountered. A large green arrow, pointing to a small hole, flashed on and off. Beside the hole was a button.

  Well aware that he would be wise to read the instruction manual first, he pressed it.

  “Transference drive cannot be engaged, insert portal device into portal plug and try again.” The plastic lip round the hole illuminated blue. It looked thimble-shaped and both the old man and Lord Vernon had called the thimble a portal. What the heck? If he could get to the girl with wheels he would have a much better chance of whisking her away from her Grongolian guards. He put the first of the two thimbles, Lord Vernon’s, into ... yes, he supposed that was the portal plug. It fitted remarkably well.

  “Transference drive engaged,” said the female electronic voice. What in the name of The Prophet was a transference drive?

  Mmm. Only one way to find out, he thought to himself and imagined the girl – Ruth as he now knew she was called. A small image of her was projected onto the windscreen. She was standing at the top of a staircase in what looked like some kind of public space although what it was for he couldn’t tell. She was talking to another woman who, The Pan noted with relief, wasn’t Grongolian. However, two very tall gentlemen were making their way along the landing behind her about a hundred yards to the right. They were almost but not quite human-coloured; pinkish but pale with a hint of green. Colour aside, the Grongolian army uniforms they wore were a bit of a giveaway.

  “To transfer to your chosen destination, press the red button,” said the voice. For all his anxiety The Pan still found the time to notice it sounded sexy.

  “Yeh baby!” said his brain, “I’m a little teapot,” said his mouth. He sighed, rolled his eyes and did as the sexy voice instructed. There was a loud sucking sound, receding bathwater style, and a pop, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Oh dear, there had been a window. It wasn’t there now of course, since The Pan had flown straight through it. He landed at the bottom of the stairs, skidding sideways to a halt with a loud squealing of tyres, in a shower of broken glass which continued to fall for some seconds after the snurd had stopped. Hmm. Less of a window, more the front of the building by the look of it. Ah. It wasn’t only the girl who froze at his sudden arrival. Everyone did. She was halfway down the stairs by this time, out at the front of a crowd which was flowing out of – mmm what was that, a temple, a concert hall? Something big, anyway. The two Grongles he had seen were still to her right, pushing their way towards her through the throng of people.

  “Ruth!” he stood up in the driver’s seat and shouted. Brilliant! Maybe the Truth Serum had worn off, “I’m a little teapot.” Or not. “Ruth! Look behind you!” shouted his brain, “Ruth! I’m a little teapot!” shouted his mouth. He reckoned she got the Ruth the second time, but stared at him, nonplussed. Of course! She spoke a different language!

  “Ruth! I’m a little teapot!” he shouted, in Grongolian this time, the ‘I’m-here-to-rescue-you’ part getting lost in the fog of Truth Serum somewhere between his thoughts and his speech. Maybe it was the urgency in his voice, maybe it was the way he was gesticulating to the Grongles but something made her turn round. They started to jog purposefully in her direction and as they did The Pan leapt out of the snurd, flipping his cloak over one shoulder so it didn’t trip him as he ran up the stairs towards her.

  He had to make her understand. The two Grongles behind her were unhooking their guns. He stopped on the step below hers.

  “Ruth.” He wanted to explain that she was in danger; that she had to come with him. “I’m a little ...” he began.

  By The Prophet’s bogies.

  Speaking wasn’t going to work. He patted his pockets.

  Arnold’s pants! No pen.

  He moved his hands backwards and forwards in front of him in the classic no-no gesture and pointed to the Grongles again. “They’re going to kill you!” said his brain, “I’m a little teapot,” said his mouth.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled – he had to persuade her – but, with a look of total disdain, she yanked herself free of his grasp. The Grongles were aiming their guns and with a ping they fired a round. The shot hit the stairs by her feet turning the stone red hot. She looked down as it began to bubble and then back up at him with wide eyes.

  Mmm. That might change her mind.

  Yes. Judging by the expression of alarm she was wearing, it had. He adjusted the angle of his hat, smiled his best smile, raised one eyebrow quizzically in a way that he hoped would say, “Shall we?” and held out his hand towards her.

  She took it, and as they ran down the stairs together she lobbed a tiny handbag into the passenger footwell and then jumped into the SE2 the same way he did, without even opening the door.

  “I don’t know who you are but you look safer than them!” A pause, “Of course, that’s not saying much.”

  “I can appreciate that,” said The Pan’s brain, “I’m a little teapot,” said his mouth.

  “There’s me thinking you were a man. You’d better have an excellent explanation for this, later,” she warned him. Lord Vernon was right. She did speak Grongolian, but unlike any Grongle he’d met. She was witty. He smiled at her.

  “Rest assured I shall!” said The Pan’s brain, “I’m a little teapot,” said his mouth. Arnold! When was the Truth Serum going to wear off?

  Tyres giving off a plume of smoke which hid them from their pursuers, the snurd squealed round in a doughnut and catapulted itself forward. The Pan pressed the button to convert it to aviator mode, and wings morphed out of its sides. As it left the ground and flew straight back out of the hole in the window it had made coming in, Ruth glanced over at him with an expression of intense misgiving. He gave her a reassuring smile. If anything she appeared even more nervous.

  As they flew out over the river, he realised she wasn’t wearing her seat belt. Mmm, safety first. He gestured to where it hung beside her.

  “I’m a little teapot,” he said and she buckled up.

  **The End**

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  K’Barthan Series: Part 2

  Here’s a taster chapter from the second book in the series, The Wrong Stuff, K’Barthan Series: Part 2 to give you a flavour of what happens next.

  The Wrong Stuff, K’Barthan Series: Part 2

  Chapter 1

  With a massive bang the window of the Festival Hall exploded in a shower of glittering glass crystals. A silver sports car flashed through the flying shards and landed with a squeal of tyres on the polished wooden floor. Yeek, thought Ruth, the people running the Festival Hall weren’t going to like that.

  She was ahead of everyone because she’d been running to get to the sponsor’s reception first, and she froze. If this was a bomb attack she was dead. The seconds lengthened. No explosion. She hadn’t realised she’d stopped breathing until she breathed out.

  The hole in the window was quite high up, suggesting that whatever had come through it was flying, but the thing in the foyer was definitely a car. Ruth’s dream car, to be precise, a type of 1960s Lotus, a small and shiny convertible in two-tone light and dark metallic grey.

  That was a conundrum in itself, since it had just smashed the front of the Festival Hall. Was that right? Shouldn’t the Festival Hall have smashed the front of the Lotus? After all, this was fibreglass versus tempered safety glass. Ruth would have put her money on the glass, every time.

  When she turned round, she realised that the people near her were lying down. She was a lone figure standing in a sea of sensibly prone others, except for two men heading along the top of the stairs and picking their way through the prostr
ate forms around her. The men were big, unusually pale, wearing grey uniforms, jackboots, sunglasses and swords and, yep, that was definitely a gun one of them was holding. It had to be, didn’t it? Now, at the worst possible time, they had to turn up; the strange pair of men who’d been following her—or was that stalking her?—for three months.

  “Why me?” she whispered. “What the hell do they want?”

  Trying to quell her rising panic she swung round towards the Lotus. Yes, it was still there, blocking her only escape route but, bonus, at least it hadn’t blown up. If this was some kind of bomb attack, it appeared to be a dud. Looking back towards her two giant pale stalkers, there was no mistaking the direction in which they were headed; towards her. Great, and she was pretty sure they had tried to kidnap her last time she’d seen them. They’d cornered her on the last tube home and only backed off when one of her neighbours had turned up. He wasn’t here tonight though. And since they were, it was probably time for a sharp exit.

  Where to run, though? The car was barring her escape.

  The driver stood up in his seat and waved. Was he anything to do with them?

  “Ruth!” he shouted, followed by something incomprehensible. He was wearing a cloak and a hat, but he looked more like a student playing a prank than a bomber. Very strange. He shouted some more gibberish, which also contained the word ‘Ruth’ at regular intervals.

  Please God, let there be somebody else here called Ruth, she thought, though some sixth sense knew, with cringing inevitability, that he was talking to her.

  He finally managed some English: “Ruth! I’m a little teapot!” This was less than inspiring and in spite of her fear, she wanted to giggle. He had a lilting accent that she couldn’t place.

  She looked around for her boss, with whom she’d been sitting and Lucy, her flatmate, who was there somewhere because Ruth had given her a free ticket. However, the mass of bodies on the floor was beginning to stir. No chance of recognising anyone there. She could see the two scary sci-fi guys though, and as they saw her looking at them they broke into a jog. She could see the Festival Hall’s security people talking on their radios, and good, there were the blue lights on Blackfriars Bridge. The police would arrive soon, but not soon enough; the scary big men with the uniforms were going to get to her first.