by Toby Frost
Waincott noticed Smith’s interest. ‘The crop here’s good, but not for much longer. Bloody Ghasts are poisoning the tea,’ he said. ‘Of course, there’s plenty stashed away, but we need to think about the future too. Given enough time the bastards will have ruined the entire planet’s harvest. And that’s not the worst of it.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ Wainscott said grimly. ‘Come on. We’ll talk more inside.’
They left the siding and headed towards a row of railway sheds big enough to hide the John Pym. Wainscott led the way, the others following, and Smith took up the rear.
He tugged his collar, uncertain whether his sweating was due to the heat or Rhianna’s beautiful arse. Under some insubstantial skirt-thing like a scaled-up hanky, her trim bottom wiggled with every step, beckoning him to join her in a short, intimate conga line.
He shoved the thought aside, angrily. His chances of getting anywhere with her were minimal now. She had spent most of the flight back in her room. Whatever unguessable thing he had been supposed to do, he hadn’t done it, and he knew that she wouldn’t do anything in response to whatever it had been meant to be. Smith suspected that she now saw him as a contemptible, worthless eunuch, or, in the parlance of women, a friend. He wondered if you got the same bad deal if you played for the other team, but he knew that he could never get used to the facial hair.
They stepped into the cool of the warehouse. There were tables here, maps and radios and plans. Smith looked over the nearest table and saw a pair of machine-guns, Ensign laser rifles and a tube of explosive like an anaemic sausage.
‘I’m looking forward to handing Gertie a bit of no good,’ he said.
‘Damned right,’ Wainscott said, halting in front of a large map pinned to the wall. ‘Gather round, Smith and Co.’
He jabbed a finger at the map of Urn. ‘Now, here’s the situation. Capital City’s where Gertie and his chums are based for now. They still creep out to poison the tea, but their patrols are getting less frequent. It’s as though they’re waiting for something. The Edenites still come around, and we’ve done well there, capturing tanks and such, but we wouldn’t risk going into the city.’
‘No?’
‘Not without one hell of a lot of chaps. It’s there that the Edenites keep all their stuff – and there that the praetorians and their tanks are based.’
‘I see.’ Smith peered at the map. ‘Well, we have also had some success. Suruk’s people have agreed to help us.’
‘Excellent!’ Wainscott barked.
Quickly, Smith told him of their adventures, and as he listened to the story Wainscott scowled, laughed, rubbed his beard and smoothed down his shorts in all the right places. Finally, Smith praised his crew and said, ‘And that’s about the sum of it.’
‘Good lord. The Hyrax a creation of the Ghasts, eh? It doesn’t surprise me. Those children must have been the devil to overcome. And we have the help of this chappie’s colonial friends?’
‘Yes, several hundred,’ Smith said.
‘That’s excellent news. Just wait till I tell W.’ Wainscott turned to Suruk. ‘These comrades of yours – what’s their agenda?’
‘Neuter,’ Suruk said. ‘I thought everyone knew that.’
‘Well, we’ll need everyone we can get. We’re going in.’
‘In?’ said Smith. ‘To give the Ghasts a pasting?’
‘And get our knackers shot off?’ Carveth added quietly.
‘Indeed. We’ve got no choice.’ Wainscott’s voice was heavy and cold. ‘Two days ago we raided a warehouse the Ghasts have been using. We thought they were printing propaganda leaflets there, and we planned to change some of the words around, draw a funny tash on Number One, that sort of thing. Instead, we found this. Piles and piles of them.’
He reached beside the table and lifted up a board.
It was clearly some kind of advertisement, and depicted a Ghast sporting a ferocious grin, raising one of its hands in a thumbs-up gesture. Around the picture were Ghast characters, at once ugly and ornate.
‘Good God,’ Smith whispered.
‘Quite,’ Wainscott said.
‘Uh?’ Carveth put in. ‘For those of us who don’t talk funny talk?’
Smith translated, following the words with his finger. ‘ I love people –’
‘Makes a change,’ Carveth said.
‘– for all my meals. New People: available in regular, family pack and fun-sized child. The free-range choice of the new galactic order.’
‘Christ, that’s terrible!’
‘Indeed,’ Smith replied. ‘The Ghasts have come to this planet to steal its resources for themselves. Now that they have found out that they cannot benefit from tea, they intend to poison the land and devour its inhabitants. You’re right, Wainscott: it’s time we got a big rocket and shoved it up Gertie’s junta. What about the Hyrax and the Edenites? Do they know about the Ghast plan?’
Wainscott snorted. ‘Even if they do, I doubt they care. It’d serve us heretics right.’
‘Still, there may be some defections.’
One of Wainscott’s men brought them tea. ‘There’d better be,’ said the Major. ‘They may be buffoons, but the sheer amount of materiel the Edenites have will make them very difficult to defeat. It’s one thing to charge into a horde of praetorians wearing only a grenade-belt and your boots, but let me tell you: it’s a different thing to run naked at a tank.’ He shuddered and Smith, realising that he was listening to the voice of experience, shuddered too.
‘So far, we’ve been lucky and smart. But any attack on the city would mean open battle with the Edenite military –and at the moment, even with your alien friends, that would be suicide.’
Smith looked around the room: at the map, the racks of weaponry, and the sign that Wainscott held. ‘Well, there must be something we can use,’ he said.
Carveth raised a hand. ‘How’s about an EMP bomb? Electro-magnetic pulse. That’d knock out the Edenite tanks and battle-suits – probably most of their guns as well.’
Wainscott shook his head. ‘No can do. You’d need a nuclear explosion to generate that, and that’s about the only law of warfare that the Ghasts can be relied upon to obey. We don’t zap them, and they don’t zap us.’
‘I should think so too,’ Rhianna said.
‘Knockers.’ Carveth took a sip of tea. ‘Well, what about an explosively-pumped flux compression generator? To enhance the frequency characteristics for optimum target coupling, you could try running it through a high-quality vircator – that’s a virtual cathode oscillitator, if you’re wondering.’ She glanced from face to face and added, ‘Why are you all looking at me like that?’
‘You said words,’ Suruk said.
‘Quite,’ said Smith. ‘Assuming any of that makes any sense at all, how come you know about it?’
Carveth shrugged. ‘Well, I just happen to read a lot. To be honest, I saw the words “large pulsing vircator” in a magazine, misread, and finished the article. It had a rubbish story, but interesting props.’
Wainscott said, ‘Well, if the girlie wants to try it, I can spare a couple of men to help.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Carveth said. ‘Nice men?’
Smith turned to the map. Thoughtfully, he followed the railway with his finger. ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘we need to bring Agshad’s people down to join us.’
‘No problem there,’ Wainscott said.
‘Good. We need to keep up the pressure and mobilise as many Teasmen as we can.’
‘Our commando units grow by the day,’
Smith tapped the centre of the map. ‘I’d like to scout out the city,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could meet with W, too. And then this,’ he added, pointing to the sign, ‘will be consigned to the dustbin of history. Everyone agreed?’
Suruk raised a hand. ‘About this evil Ghast plan to devour humans.’
‘Yes?’
‘Will there be a value pack?’
*
Gilead
knocked on 462’s door. When he did not get a response, he opened it anyway. Nobody could hide from the Great Annihilator, and therefore nobody had a right to hide from Gilead, his agent on Earth.
462 had retreated to his quarters as soon as his ship had landed. The Ghasts seemed very stand-offish, Gilead thought: the praetorians openly despised their holy allies and even the drones were reluctant to help keep the peace.
It was as though the situation did not matter to them, as if once the Edenites pulled back they would come in and wipe the slate clean.
Perhaps they would. They were, after all, the agents of apocalypse. With apocalypse would come the Great Scouring of the Galaxy, and the ultimate victory of the Republic of Eden. Then the doubters, reds, weirdos and British would be whisked away to simmer in Hell while Gilead and his sensibly-dressed comrades would rise to take their place with the pure of heart and get down and dirty with some hot seraphim.
462’s chambers were thoroughly Ghastified. Ribs and orifices had appeared on the walls and something like a huge vertebrae ran across the roof. Gilead entered, a little nervously. A portrait of Number One glowered at him.
Framed on the far wall was a picture of a soaring bird, and under it the words: ‘Let nothing get in the way of your dreams, especially unarmed civilians.’
Gilead advanced into the room. On a wall screen, propaganda was playing. Music blared. Ghasts were doing aerobics in lines, picking up balls and holding them above their heads. Without their trench coats and helmets, they were nude.
462 sat in an armchair with his back to Gilead, focused on the screen. As Gilead approached, he noticed that 462 was kind of twitching—
‘Oh my Lord!’ Gilead cried. ‘You dirty weasel!’
462 leaped to his feet, pulling his coat around him. ‘Get out, get out!’ He whipped around and barked, ‘How dare you interrupt me, human scum! You will leave now or be shot!’
‘I don’t have to take orders from a dirty worm-burper! I saw you! You were – you were stony-grounding!’ Gilead drew himself up straight. ‘That’s a sin. I spend all day beating confessions out of these liberal-democracy sickos and I come back to find you poisoning your soul!’
462 lunged forward, hissing, and Gilead flinched away from the long head. The Ghast’s mouth was open, and he could see rows of sharp teeth inside. Gilead’s metal back met with the wall and he stopped. 462 slid closer, a real, physical threat.
‘Oh,’ he said softly, and his voice was a malignant hiss, ‘do you think you are dealing with one of your underlings that you can bully into obedience? Do you think that this is puny human pornography? Do you think that I would even have anything as inefficient as an Earth-groin? Pathetic fool! This is The Unstoppable Victorious Triumph of the All-Conquering Glorious Will of Our Master Number One, not Gertie Does The Galaxy! Do not judge me by your weakling human standards!’
Gilead did not know what to do. He stood there, aware that his mechanical body could probably hurt 462 quite badly, but uncertain as to the consequences. What happened if you hit an angel of the apocalypse?
‘While we discuss sin,’ 462 said, ‘how has your operation to rid Urn of "heresy" been going, while I have been away? From what I’m told it is not going very well. How will you encourage your men, I wonder? The Yull I used failed me, and, were they not dead already, I would have had them shot. How about you? Are your minions dead who have failed to conquer Urn?’
He pulled back from Gilead, who breathed again. 462 turned and took a step away from him. ‘The Hyrax has been useful, but he is running out of time. When open battle begins, it will be you and I who will count, not our figurehead. And that time will come soon.’
*
Rick Dreckitt knew that the back room of the Black Kettle was trouble as soon as he walked in. It was what they had called a Tea Bar. Dance hall music played softly and the names of specialist teas were written on the walls, served by dispensing machines in the shape of butlers. In the shadows of the room sat tea fiends, brewing up. The air was heavy with the smell of the leaf.
A sallow youth at the far wall noticed Dreckitt and raised a china cup in a mocking salute and nodded at an empty table. Dreckitt sat down, unsettled by the unfamiliarity of the place. He was used to smoking cigarettes under a blinking neon sign, and the lack of a pall of smoke in the centre of the room made him uneasy.
The boy swaggered over and put his walking stick on the table. He sat down quickly, leaned over and said, ‘Looking to get brewed?’
‘No,’ said Dreckitt. ‘I’m just here for the music, kid.’
The boy laughed. ‘Only one reason people come to the Black Kettle. I know your type. You’re looking for a hit from the pot.’
‘What if I am?’
The dealer chuckled. Ever since the Grand Hyrax had banned tea, there had been good money in selling it on the side. He opened his jacket and took out a plastic bag. ‘So, what’cha want? I’ve got some Earl, some Assam, some Darjeeling. . .’
Dreckitt looked at the bag. Cut with nutmeg, no doubt.
‘Huh. That’s small beer to a gunsel like me. Friend, I want the Tea of Death.’
‘The Tea of Death? You’re crazy.’
‘Yeah.’
The dealer sighed. ‘Your choice. Hell, the only reason I’d want a thing like this is to poison somebody. . . You’re not out to poison someone, are you?’
‘That offend your moral sense?’
The young man scowled and took a sealed bag from his pocket. ‘There you go. One cup from that and you’ll never come down. Pure, uncut moral fibre.’
Dreckitt’s left hand was on the gun strapped to his thigh. With people like this, there was always a risk of violence. That was the trouble with the underworld: two bit punks, always on the lookout to snuff a private dick.
A dirty business.
There was tea in the bag, about enough to make a cup and a half. It looked like grit, he saw - and then, as he held it up to the light, he noticed that it had a violet tint. This was it, alright: the purple tea of Urn, the death-juice. One sip could boil the brain of a normal man, even one used to drinking tea. To anyone else, it would be lethal.
Dreckitt put a hand into his coat and slowly removed his wallet. He pulled out a wad of notes and tossed them on the table.
The young man counted them. ‘Adjusted Sterling,’ he said. ‘Nice.’
Dreckitt thought about the Hyrax’s money, printed with the God Emperor’s image three times per note, and largely regarded as worthless.
‘It’s all yours, man,’ the dealer said. ‘Knock yourself out.’
Dreckitt collected the Tea of Death and slipped it, and the wallet, back into his coat. He stood up and walked out. At the door the light and heat of the dusk hit him and he slid his hand into his pocket and clenched his fist around the tea. ‘One sip from that and you’ll never come down.’ He felt almost cheerful as he walked back to his car.
*
Meanwhile, Wainscott was scurrying up the rocky side of Filter Hill, three miles out of Capital City. His boots were quick and agile on the loose ground. Suruk strolled along beside Wainscott, but Smith lagged behind: partially because he was not quite as nimble, but also to look out for Rhianna.
‘Ow,’ she said, removing another pebble from her sandals. ‘This really hurts.’
Being one with Gaia, Smith reflected, was clearly easier on thick grass and flat surfaces. Slightly irritated, he waited until Rhianna had removed the stone and helped her back up.
‘Perhaps you ought to wait at the bottom,’ he suggested kindly. There was a small camp a mile away, a staging post the Teasmen had set up for the recapture of the Capital. A dozen soldiers waited there, ready for the command to move on the city.
‘No!’ she replied, and he was surprised to see that she looked annoyed. ‘I can manage perfectly well in my own right. I don’t need any help, thanks.’
This sounded like trouble. ‘Alright then,’ he said. ‘But I think you’d be better off with walking boots.’
She scowled and he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do. What did she think he was, psychic?
Having never quite worked out the limits of her mental powers, he added to himself, If I am supposed to be psychic, could you let me know?
No reply. He slogged on.
They reached the top. Waincott and Suruk lay in the shadow of a dead tree to hide their outlines. Smith and Rhianna crept over to join them.
Wainscott was dressed like a Teasman, with a plantation flag in his belt and a dark cosy on his head. He pointed at the city. ‘The enemy,’ he said. ‘Look.’
Smith took the telescopic scope from his rifle. He put the scope to his eyes and suddenly the details of the city sprang into view: the gargoyles and nameplates on the warehouses and office blocks, the chimneys of thousands of homes and, biggest of all, the spires, columns and minarets of what had once been the senate-house.
‘That’s the Hyrax’s palace,’ Wainscott said. ‘The throne of the God-Prophet or some such rubbish. Utter nonsense, all this God Emperor stuff.’
‘It’s an oppressive patriarchal construct based on false notions of masculine dominance,’ Rhianna said. ‘The very towers point towards the phallocentric myth at the heart of his so-called kingdom.’
Wainscott looked at her as if she were mentally ill. ‘Right. But that’s not the real problem. The Hyrax has his Crusadists, and a crazy bunch they are, but the real power behind him’s over there, to the East of the city: the Edenites.’
Gilead’s men lurked under a complex mass of sensor equipment and camouflage, their perimeter bristling with anti-aircraft guns. Their base looked like a very large, very plush guerrilla encampment, with more flags and much better TV reception. What Smith had taken for a small building rolled slowly across the perimeter. A hatch opened in the side of it, and three hulking shapes disembarked: motorised combat suits, each seven feet tall and covered in weaponry, puffed out by armour to the shape of teddy bears.
The wind stirred, ruffling the grass around them. A jumble of brassy, raucous sound seeped out of the city and made its way to their ears. Some kind of marching music was parping from the Edenite fortress.