God Emperor of Didcot (18 page)

‘Some went into underwriting.’

‘Underwriting? What is that?’ Suruk growled. ‘Surely some still remember the old ways. What about Hunar Blackblade, Margath the Despoiler, Azman the Vile?’

‘Despoiler Blackblade Vile? Solicitors.’

‘Orgak the Bone-Cruncher?’

‘You mean Orgak the Number-Cruncher. Accountant.

He works with Dad.’

‘Azranash the Pain-bringer?’

‘Dentistry.’

‘That is something, I suppose. Things certainly have changed. I remember when this room was decorated in wall-to-wall gore.’

Morgar began to mix the gin and tonic. Suruk watched him pour out the gin, then the tonic, into not three glasses, but six.

‘What are you doing!’ Suruk cried.

Morgar glanced around. He blinked. ‘Just making the drinks. Why?’

‘Morgar! You should know better than that!’ Suruk strode over and snatched the bottle from his hand. ‘This is human drink, not for the M’Lak! Mankind brought this with him to ruin braves. Surely you know that!’

Morgar stood there, confused, watching Suruk with a mixture of surprise and concern. ‘Suruk, it’s good. You should try some.’

‘No! Morgar, you have hidden your trophies, turned from the way of the warrior and dressed like a human, but no more shall you drink the pink man’s fizz-water! This I will not allow!’

He hurled the bottle of tonic at the ground. It bounced.

Suruk picked up the bottle. ‘I said, “This I will not allow!”’ he cried, and threw it at the floor again.

‘It’s a plastic bottle,’ Morgar said.

Suruk looked at the bottle for a moment, huffed, picked it up and passed it to Morgar. ‘Carbonated drink is the ruin of warriors,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

‘I’m not a warrior,’ Morgar said, and he shrugged and took in the drinks.

‘So, what brings you here?’ Agshad asked. ‘Have you persuaded Suruk to take up a profession?’

Smith shook his head. ‘No, sir. We have come to seek your help.’

Morgar set the tray down and passed the glasses around.

They sat round a long, highly-polished table. Suruk sat between the humans and his family, scowling more than usual. As Smith watched, the alien’s mandibles swung down into their fighting position, then back up again.

Agshad sipped his gin and tonic. ‘Of course. How can I assist?’

‘We need an army,’ Smith said.

Morgar and Agshad exchanged a glance.

‘The Ghast Empire has annexed Didcot 4, also known as Urn,’ Smith said. ‘They have cut off the British Empire’s supply of tea in a bid to weaken our armed forces. We were able to break out of their blockade, and came here on Suruk’s advice. He told us that we would be able to recruit an army here to liberate Urn.’

‘Oh,’ Morgar said. ‘. . . A fighting army?’

‘No, a ballroom dancing army,’ Suruk said. ‘Twit.’

Agshad raised a hand. ‘
Spawn, behave
. Captain Smith, you ask much. Were it a mere quarterly statement, or even the settling of some dubious petty cash, I would oblige you as a friend of my son. But this. . . our war-host has not gathered for many a fiscal year.’

‘Sir, it is vital,’ Smith replied. ‘The people of Urn are brave and tough, but they are too widely scattered to face the Ghasts properly. But with the help of an army such as yours, they would stand a fighting chance.’

‘And should Urn fall,’ Suruk added, ‘The British Empire will be without tea. Without tea, they will have no moral fibre, which will leave them greatly weakened. And should the British fall, no doubt the Ghasts would turn to us next. Join our quest, Father. It will be fun.’

‘This is madness!’ Morgar exclaimed. ‘We are civilised people, not savages. It’s all very well for you, running around saving the galaxy, but some of us have responsibilities. What do you think will happen if I don’t sort out the Gathrags’ summer house by the end of the week? Trouble, that’s what! Sorry to raise my voice, but
really
.’

Aghad took a deep sip of gin and tonic. ‘As the head of our household, it falls to me to balance these arguments, like entries in the same ledger. I understand the seriousness of what you say, but mindless violence is no longer our way.

‘Captain, I cannot promise you anything. But if you wish, I will call a meeting of the elders. Tomorrow we will gather at the Henge of Judgement, the traditional place where the elders would meet to discuss war. Perhaps fate will favour us if we gather at such a place, where once our ancestors stood.’ He brightened suddenly and a smile creased his scarred, aged face. ‘But enough of that. Who’d like risotto?’

*

It was night. The household slept. In slippers and pyjamas, Polly Carveth made her way through the darkness of the living room. Her shin hit a sharp-edged, modernistic coffee table and she stumbled and hopped about, cursing the stupid lust that had made her transfer the batteries from the torch to her Mark 9 Industrial Pulsatatron. Carveth took a step backwards, bumped against a doorway and fell into the kitchen.

Light opened above her and a wave of cold struck her body. Suruk stood beside the fridge, the door open. ‘Is that any help?’ he said.

‘Whoa!’ She got up and brushed her thighs down. ‘Just came in for a glass of water.’

‘Of course,’ the M’Lak said. ‘We have running water, now that we are proper people.’

He took a glass from the sideboard, filled it and passed it to her. She took a grateful swig. ‘Think I overdid it on the risotto.’

‘Ah.’ He slid out of the darkness, the light catching on his tusks, throwing the furrows of his face into hard relief.

It had never occurred to her that Suruk might be menacing. On the ship, she had always regarded him as an amusing piece of scenery: strange, naïve and dangerous, but ultimately a friend. Now, confronted with the knife-wielding monster close up, and wearing nothing more than loose trousers and a T-shirt that said ‘Little Princess’ across the front, she felt a flicker of uncertainty.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’ she said.

‘Indeed. I had a curious dream, perhaps a prophesy. I dreamt that there was a meadow full of little people like you outside my house. I stood in my home and let off a siren, and all of you little people came inside for dinner.’

‘You gave us dinner? That’s nice of you.’

‘Something like that.’ Suruk licked his lips and rummaged in the fridge. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you have met my kin.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They seem. . . nice. I suppose that’s not a good thing though, is it?’

Suruk shook his heavy head. ‘I doubt you would understand.’

‘I don’t have any relatives,’ she said, pouring another glass of water. Her voice grew thoughtful. ‘I suppose my closest family are the ship’s autopilot and my electric toothbrush: one’s a computer and I’ve slept with the other.’ She sighed. ‘You know, Suruk, if I’d have known your homecoming was going to be like this, I’d have put the stairs down for you when we landed.’

Suruk said, ‘If I had known my people had such little respect for random violence, I would not have used it upon you.’

Carveth thought for a moment. ‘That’s comparatively good of you,’ she said.

Suruk resumed his perusal of the fridge. ‘Balsamic vinegar, goat’s cheese – feeble. Even the lady’s fingers are fake. Have some olives,’ he said, holding out a plastic box. ‘They are green and oily – no wonder my brother likes them.’

Suruk put the olives back and closed the fridge door.

Suddenly the room was dim, and he was another grey shadow among the furniture. ‘You should rest,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’ In the dark she was a maroon blur of warmth.

Conventional vision was impossible, but his atrophied night-sight watched the blur step closer and reach out.

Carveth’s small hand took hold of his.

‘I’m sorry how it’s all worked out,’ she said, and she squeezed his hand.

‘Go to bed,’ he replied, not squeezing back.

She took her hand away and stepped back. ‘You don’t do touching, do you?’

‘No.’ He watched the blur wander to the door. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

The Henge of Judgement rose around Smith like a circle of grim-faced, disapproving guards, twenty feet high. The monoliths had been carved to represent great chieftains and victories of the past. Wind and ages had rubbed symbols and features smooth, wiping them clean.

As they walked towards the centre of the henge, Suruk pointed to the stones. ‘This one shows Azranath the Wise, who walked the land when death was but a dream. This, on the left, is King Lacrovan, who could throw his spear so far that it travelled all the way around the world and returned to his hand with six enemies impaled on it, like a kebab of scum.’

Rhianna said, ‘What an amazing culture.’

Carveth shuddered, feeling the eyes of the ancients on her.

‘This here is Tathrax, the warlord who led us against the British. Great ones, all of them. Now, speak only noble words, for we approach the Great Table.’

In the centre of the henge stood a mighty stone, flat on top but tapering below, like an inverted pyramid. On the flat surface, a picture had been cut into the rock: a M’Lak in stickman form, holding a spear and running through a landscape of skulls, waving a severed head and grinning insanely. Characters ran down the sides of the picture: one side in red, the other in blue, as was traditional. The other stones were old, but this was ancient beyond imagining –and as sacred as it was aged.

Suruk raised his spear so that its shadow fell across the picture. He saluted the image, drove the butt of the spear into the ground and stood at the edge of the table in silent reverence: head lowered, eyes closed.

‘Excuse me!’ a voice called. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen! Yes, you! Can’t you read?’

Suruk’s head flicked up. A M’Lak paced through the henge towards them, hands on hips, a cap on his head. He strode up to them, looked them up and down, and said,

‘Come on, back behind the fence.’

Suruk’s mandibles opened. ‘What?’

‘You heard, mate. Back behind the fence with the others.’

‘Foul one, you dare to interrupt my communion with the spirits, to tell
me
to leave this sacred place?’

The official nodded once, firmly. ‘Yes, sir, indeed I do. There’s a fence up, and it’s for a good purpose: to stop weirdos coming in and doing their funny stuff in the henge. Yes, sir, weirdos.’

His brutal head slowly turned to look at Rhianna.

‘Excuse me,’ Smith said, ‘but are you trying to insinuate something? That is a guest on my ship that you’re talking about, and I can tell you that she is not a “weirdo”.’

‘Then might I ask, sir, why she is embracing a rock?’

‘She’s not embracing it. She’s listening to it.’

‘Quite, sir. This is a site of archaeological significance, not some drop-in centre for people who smell of joss. Back behind the fence, or I shall have to order you to leave.’

Smith glanced at Suruk, who was beginning to froth.

‘Come along, I’ve not got all day,’ the official said. ‘Loonies,’ he added, quietly.

‘Excuse me.’ Morgar had appeared beside them. Smith had not seen him approach. The ability to creep up on the unsuspecting clearly ran in the family. ‘These people are with me. Morgar the Architect, pleased to meet you.’ He stuck out a hand and the official shook it. Morgar withdrew his hand rather slowly. ‘Perhaps we can come to an arrangement here.’

‘Go right ahead,’ the official said. He glanced at Rhianna. ‘But don’t make a mess, understand?’

‘Of course,’ Morgar said. ‘This way, all.’

They returned to the Great Table. As they walked, Carveth leaned over and whispered, ‘That ticket bloke was the toughest thing we’ve seen on this planet so far.’

Smith observed sourly, ‘I must say, I can hardly believe how decadent these people have got. Not only has Agshad’s mighty warhost gentrified itself, but I do believe I’ve just seen an officer of the National Trust taking a bribe. It’s like–’ he struggled for a word that would express his distaste sufficiently – ‘
France
.’

Figures approached the far end of the table, striding across the ground from the gift shop: aged M’Lak, no smaller than Suruk but with more pronounced, inhuman features. Among them was Agshad. Flanked by Morgar and Suruk, Smith stepped up to the Great Table. He stood there, uncertain whether he should introduce himself and begin.

Clearly the surroundings reminded the elders of their glory days. ‘So I cut off its head and dragged the monster’s body for eight miles, despite it biting off my hand,’ an elder with one tusk was saying.

‘Eight miles?’ another demanded. ‘Eight miles? You were lucky. I would get up, fight for honour all day, then stagger twenty miles home with both my arms in a plastic bag.’ ‘Luxury!’ said an elder with one eye. Agshad cleared his throat sacs, noisily. ‘Gentlemen!’ he growled. ‘Honoured business associates, pillars of the community, this is Captain Isambard Smith of the British Space Empire. He has come here to seek your help regarding a matter of great importance to his people. With him is my son Suruk, an antiquarian and friend of Captain Smith, who will vouch for him if needed. Gentlemen, I give you Captain Smith. There,’ he added quietly, as if to say,
I have fulfilled my
obligations
.

‘Let me make this clear, gentlemen. I do not come here seeking help in a war that has nothing to do with you. I come here to offer you assistance in fighting our common foe. Number One intends to conquer the galaxy, and to do so he has engineered an army far larger than anything you or I could produce on our own. Even together we will have a tough fight on our hands – but a fight we can win, and a fight that will bring us victory instead of certain death.’

Smith looked them over.

‘The Ghasts have no scruples. Their sole aim is to conquer the universe, and the only reason they would spare your lives is to use you all as slaves. The Empire offers you the chance to meet them head-on, with my people as your allies, and to stop their evil plan in its tracks. Because believe me, sirs, once we are defeated the Ghasts will turn on you.’

An ancient, scarred M’Lak fixed his eyes on Smith. ‘The Ghasts have offered us incentives to stay out of the fighting. They tell us that this war is between Earth and Selenia, and that we need not concern ourselves with it. In return, they have promised us distribution rights on a vast amount of canned food. What can the British offer us to match that?’