Smallworld: A Science Fiction Adventure Comedy

by Dominic Green

  She was standing not a hundred metres from the Clinic lake, looking across water so filled with stars that a pail might be dipped into it and dredge up constellations that could be separated into individual tiny dwarf stars when pressed under a slide and put under a telescope.

  Across the water, she could see the ornamental island. The feathers of fretful McChickens rustled in the night.

  Then every blade of grass bowed low, and the wildfowl around the lake began shrieking as one of the brightest lights in the sky flared even brighter and began to descend towards the surface. She had at first taken it for one of the many tiny ice moons that regulated the Naphillian belts, but it was now plain that it was a spacecraft. And instead of the South Saddle Field, it seemed to be approaching here.

  A Varangian class transport—huge, originally tiger-striped with disruptive patterning, now scored and faded by micrometeoroid and cosmic ray bombardment—was hovering on its manoeuvring thrusters over the lake. There could be only one explanation for its current position—it intended to suck up cheap deuterium from a handy liquid water source. Father—she could not help but continue to think of Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus as her father—would be mad. That water had been hauled here from Naphil’s rings at a cost of a credit a litre.

  The ship settled lower, wobbling in the dense gravitational gradient like a decelerating top, so much so that her pilot gave up on hovering and turned the vessel in the air, dropping her gently on her landing struts in the open ground on the far side of the lake from the Clinic. The thrusters kept idling several seconds after the vessel settled, in case the struts bogged down in the wet ground; a circle of burnt grass whooshed outwards to steam in the lake water. Terrified birds thundered overhead like rapturous applause. A team of uniformed men rushed out of the ship’s personnel locks to guide a cargo drone trundling a heavy fuel line behind it down to the water’s edge.

  Meanwhile, another group in slightly different uniforms were accompanying another cargo drone out across the burnt turf to the edge of the lake. At the touch of a button the drone unfolded into a shop window display several times the size of the one Mr. Mountbanks had possessed. It projected images of Beguiled standing and smiling at herself as she approached the drone, wearing a smart green uniform decorated with ribbons and buttons and epaulettes. As she watched, her holographic equivalent winked at her and saluted. Other holographic equivalents of her to left and right of the first wore heavy armour and chromatophoric cloaks like coats of starlight and fire.

  “That, young lady,” said one of the soldiers operating the drone, “is how you could look if you join the People’s Ballistic Infantry, in which you can Be A Man (Or Woman), surgery being available according to preference. We are recruiting now for exciting opportunities for comradeship, travel and unquestioning obedience to Central Authority. Are you interested? Do you have any relatives, who I am legally required to inform you must be of legal age and, like you, genetically human, who might also be interested? Please speak into the voice stress analyzer to agree to a no-obligation period of basic training from which a legal challenge can be issued at any time to remove you.” The recruiting sergeant smiled. He had a very nice smile, which Beguiled had every confidence had been surgically enhanced.

  The sergeant held out the analyzer microphone. His female colleague leaned forward helpfully and whispered: “What you have to say into the analyzer is ‘I agree to induction into the Self Defence Forces of All Humanity with all rights and duties as have been carefully explained to me in not less than one hour of frank discussion. I hereby waive my right to compassionate discharge and agree to assignment to any and all duties including those of reaction chamber swab, drogue target and regimental concubine.’” The text was helpfully replicated in glowing letters half a metre high circling Beguiled. With no compunction whatsoever, Beguiled repeated it.

  “Excellent,” said the recruiting sergeant. “Into the ship, report to wardroom three, you’ll receive your uniform when we get to Lagrangia. Now, what have we here? How old are you, young lady? Is this little trooper a friend of yours?”

  “I’m of legal age,” said a voice from behind Beguiled, who twisted in shock. The recruiting sergeant beamed at the newcomer. “You’re very short for your age, soldier.” The newcomer looked back with deep blue eyes, framed by beautiful blonde hair that Beguiled had combed only that morning.

  “Leave her alone,” said Beguiled. “She’s not six kilodia old. Only-Begotten, go home. Mother will forgive you. Uncle Anchorite will forgive you. It was me. All me. You know this.”

  “Into the ship, trooper,” said the recruiting sergeant. “That’s twice I’ve had to tell you now. This young lady is about to be recruited as a tyro, first class in the—what was the name of this place?”

  “Mount Ararat,” said Only-Begotten.

  “The Mount Ararat Pals’ Battalion,” said the recruiting sergeant happily.

  “You won’t get a battalion out of this place,” said Beguiled. “You’ll be lucky if you get a section. That is if they don’t shoot you for stealing water.”

  The sergeant narrowed his eyes at Beguiled. “That,” he said, “Is a charge. For your information, mankind has just re-entered a state of war, and the captain of this vessel is authorized to requisition whatever water she wants. As for shooting, we’re well eq­uipped to shoot back, thank you. Shortly we will be going among the inhabitants of this settlement, which seems to be the largest here, and telling them the story of how New Earth’s ten largest cities were destroyed in a single night of thermonuclear fire. We will tell them how their friends and relatives died at the hands of enemies they never saw coming, of how the few survivors clog our hospitals with radioanaemia and nanovenom cases—”

  Beguiled’s eyes narrowed back. “Is this true?”

  The sergeant looked across at his colleagues to ensure Only-Begotten had already spoken her piece into the analyzer, then said: “What do I care if it is? The grinder needs meat, and that’s the way of it. But I’ll tell you one thing, young lady—you did the right thing today. War is coming to both those as want it and those as don’t, and those of us who are sitting behind radiation armour and point defence cannon when war arrives will be the better for it. Sticking by your little friend here will be the best thing you can do for her.”

  “She’s not my Little Friend,” said Beguiled, “she’s my sister. And if she’s hurt, you’ll regret the day you ever handed me a weapon.”

  “All the better.” The recruiting sergeant nodded to Only-Begotten. “Into the ship, report to wardroom three, you’ll get your uniform when we get to Lagrangia.” As Beguiled and Only-Begotten moved off into the ship, he spoke softly to his colleague:

  “Mark that one down as a squad leader. She’s a thinker and a killer.”

  *

  The government muster vessel King’s Shilling lifted off up the rings of Naphil as if motoring round a glittering bend into an unseen oncoming tomorrow. Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus watched it go, not caring that its main plasmadrive was engaged. Possible risk of skin cancer was a way of life to a farmer on Ararat.

  “No sign of Beguiled or Only-Begotten?” he said. God’s-Wound shook her head.

  “They could be hiding. I would be.”

  “And they could be dead. Given what they tried to do to the hermit, I know which I put my money on.”

  Shun-Company was still distraught, wringing an armour-piercing ammunition cartridge in her fists. Unity and Testament walked her out of the EVA rover towards the house.

  Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus pushed his way into the hall, clearly had no idea what to do with his weapon, eventually dropped it into the umbrella stand and called out to Apostle to let the rest of the family out of the Panic Cellar. Divesting himself of his lead-alloy raycheater, he walked into the kitchen, threw open the cupboard, and fetched out a tin of Real Tea.

  “Good evening, Hernan.”

  Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus nearly spooned tea down the front of his trousers in shock. He had not seen the hermit sittin
g at the table. Normally he was too polite to enter the house without permission. Yet here he now sat, lounging on a stool, his staff held out in front of him.

  “Good evening,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus.

  “I hear it’s God himself who has ensured the safety of this colony for so many years.” An emerald insect, its wings buzzing like razorblades, alighted on the hermit’s shoulder with mechanical precision.

  “The Maker provides,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus stiffly.

  “I provide,” said the Anchorite, raising his stick to point at Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’s chest. “Me. If it had not been for my activities, this colony would have been wiped out time and again by fake tax inspectors, Made loan sharks, and escaped murderers and telepaths.”

  “The Maker,” shrugged Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, “can act via the most surprising of intermediaries.”

  “And yet,” continued the hermit, his stick still levelled at Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’s chest, “this divine intermediary has been attacked. Plotted against. Threatened with death, by the very family he has been protecting all these years.”

  As if feeling heat on the back of his skull, he looked up to see Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus glaring at him from the doorway.

  “Madam,” he said with the utmost sincerity, “I had nothing to do with your son’s death.”

  “Was it not, then,” said Shun-Company, “your machine who killed him?”

  The hermit lowered his cane, and frowned for many seconds.

  “I will not try appealing to reason,” he said. “I feel I am no longer welcome in this house.”

  “Nor any other house,” said Shun-Company, “Your Excellency.”

  Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus stiffened as if swords had been drawn between his wife and the hermit. The hermit, meanwhile, only nodded. “Now there’s a title I’ve not been known by for a long while.” He frowned further. “The Dictator of Mankind, reduced to skulking like a dog.” He looked up at Shun-Company. “Don’t tell anyone, there’s a dear.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” said Apostle from his mother’s side, making the fact that he still held a loaded weapon very obvious. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you no longer have a servant.”

  “I have not forgotten your father’s deliberate complicity in that,” snapped the Anchorite. “Right now I am attempting not to let anger, rather than measured calculation, dictate my actions. Besides, I think you’ll find I still have more servants than you think.” He held up a hand, and a trio of emerald insecta flew onto it from various positions round the kitchen. “One of them, for example, has recently negotiated the loan of the Penitentiary’s most recent prisoner, whom I need for my own purposes.”

  “Christmas?” Apostle was thrown off balance. “What use could you have for him?”

  The hermit grinned without humour and licked his lips elaborately.

  “Live bait,” he said. “By the way, Apostle, you have something on your jacket.”

  Apostle turned and pawed at his chest. Despite his movement, a ruby red aiming pointer remained unerringly fixed to his heart. He jerked backwards, trying to shake the dot, which stayed with him regardless. Eventually, spluttering with simultaneous rage, fear and embarrassment, he stumbled to the window and drew the curtains before collapsing, panting, bent over the sideboard.

  “It seems to have gone now,” said the Anchorite. “Seems,” he added pointedly.

  He rose to his feet. Children were pouring from the Panic Cellar. One of them, Measure-of-Barley, ran to the Anchorite, yelling happily. The hermit reached down and patted her head, smiling. For the first time, a tear hung in the corner of his eye.

  “Bless you, child.”

  He walked on out of the house.

  “What’s wrong with Uncle Anchorite, mother? Why is he so sad?”

  “Because he knows he’s going to Hell,” said Shun-Company, and began to place her grandmother’s best china on the table for supper.

  “She’s coming out of it.”

  “Easy, now, we don’t know the transfer was successful.”

  “Don’t let her get up—she may try to punch through a wall or leap out of a high window. It will take a while for her to readjust.”

  The room was white as milk. Strange bright lights were shining down at her. The skin around her scalp itched. She moved to sit up, and felt pain as great as if one of Hades’ children had been chewing its way out of her from within.

  “Easy, Mizz Llewellyn-Revilla. You’ve been very badly injured. We’ve patched up the damage as best we can, though your father has promised it will be made good as new on your return to New Earth—”

  “Have I been wounded? I remember damage, extensive damage to my main power train,” she reflected, “whatever that is. Um, my name is not, ah, what you said,” she added.

  “We are aware of that. There are very good reasons,” said the kindly male voice, “why your name now has to be Llewellyn-Revilla. It helps you, and it helps us. If you remember, you were, um, brought back to life in a body you disliked. That body was then...damaged. We have had to find you another. As luck would have it, an unfortunate young lady suffered an accident at the hands of a bad, bad man very close by, and although that lady lost so much blood as to suffer permanent brain damage, we were able to rescue and clone up enough new neocortex to be able to successfully transfer your own personality into her body. You must preserve the pretence that you are her. We will teach you all you need to know about your new body, about its family, its friends, its meagre list of social and academic accomplishments. Its friends and family are not aware, we must stress, of the accident that befell this body, and we would really like to keep things that way. I’m afraid the alternative is death. Legally, you see, you have no right to life, and the body’s family would realize this very quickly...”

  She raised a hand—this was also painful, and she recoiled, curling foetally around the hand, which had downy white hairs on the back of its wrist.

  “My hand looks like it came off one of the keltoi,” she gasped. “Am I a slave?”

  “Far from it. You are in fact the closest living thing this world has to a princess.”

  She snapped her fingers urgently. “Mirror.” A mirror was brought, by women who unaccountably wore masks and gloves like desert dwellers.

  “Not bad,” she said cautiously. “I have often wondered whether it hurt the keltoi to have hair this colour. It seems not; I feel no pain.”

  The man with the kindly voice was also wearing a mask for some reason, and had the deep brown skin of an Upper Egyptian. “Your hair is actually quite a deep and lustrous black. It has been dyed. You could always grow the dye out. In actual fact, you can change virtually anything about your appearance. Princesses of this time and place can do so.”

  Her eyes widened like those of a small child given the most wonderful toy in the world. “Truly? Then this nose will have to go. Can I change the teeth and eyes? I want deep black mysterious eyes like Cassandras’s. And these lips make me look like I have some sort of vile kissing illness.”

  “It’s called collagen, Your Highness.”

  “And I want muscles like an Amazon. Though I think I’ll hold on to both breasts. Can you make me taller? Or perhaps shorter. What do you think?”

  “I think the future is a treasure-house of possibility, Highness. I have primed a hypnotic educator with the basic curriculum vitae of Madonnita Llewellyn-Revilla, the lady who you must henceforth pretend to be. It will be quite painless to take in—”

  “I’m going to be taught? Taught things? I’ve often thought it would be nice to be taught things like the boys. Am I going to be taught military skills? Wrestling, and such? The very best sources say no education is complete without them—”

  “Wrestling is not on today’s agenda, Highness, though there is nothing stopping you from completing your education with that discipline later. The first thing you must learn is that the world is round, you are being held to it by universal gravitation, the stars are not tiny lights in the sky but suns
as big and bright as the Sun you are familiar with, the Earth goes round the Sun rather than vice versa, the other suns mostly also have Earths going round them, and you are currently not on the Earth proper but on one of those other Earths. It’s a deal to take in, I’ll grant you. To begin with, look into the light. The light will move about. Follow it with your eyes. You are feeling very relaxed. I am going to count down from ten to one. When I reach one, you will become the most relaxed you have ever been, completely open to suggestion. Ten—nine—eight—seven—”

  *

  Mr. Christmas woke up. He was heavier than he should have been.

  The air smelt vilely, as if he had awoken in an anus, rather than a cavern bathed with soft white light from a tracery of filaments covering the ceiling overhead. Lichen covered the walls and rocks about him, but there was otherwise no sign of life, apart from the man.

  The man was sitting on a lichen-grown boulder close to the heavy concrete-set pressure door that led out of the cave, seemingly into dense undergrowth.

  “Good morning,” said the man, though Mr. Christmas saw no proof that it was morning. Already he was seeking to reorientate himself; after reorientation would come escape, if escape was necessary. “You recognize me, I take it. You have, I’m sure, seen me many times when you were hiding in that old abandoned ship. Waiting for your Twelve Days to begin. Counting down the days to yourself, more eagerly than any little boy. And then what? Unpleasantness. Blood and violence, meted out on those who are dear to me. But I bear you no personal malice. I have myself meted out a good deal of blood and violence in my time, and I realize that your mind is a broken thing. Bad things were done to you; terrible things, to you and to those dear to you.”