Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (13 page)

Ram stomped down the hall, flexing his fingers. Rom swiped at Smith, who sidestepped and fired. The bullet sparked off Rom’s belly armour. ‘Hur hur hur,’ said Rom.

Weirdly graceful, a television mini-blimp sailed through the doorway like a cloud. It floated down the hall, rotors puffing, as if it was carrying extra weight.

Smith shot Rom in the leg, which had no effect beyond reminding Rom that he was still there. The robot turned, Smith lined up a shot and his rifle clicked empty.

He tore the Civiliser from his jacket. Carveth darted out from the ruined statue, skipped up behind Rom and blasted him in the back of the knee.

Rom stumbled. ‘Gotcha!’ Carveth cried, and a huge shape loomed up behind her.

‘Look out!’ Smith yelled, but too late. Ram Crane’s hand dropped onto Carveth, swallowed her up, and lifted her into the air.

‘I got his tart!’ Ram bellowed. ‘I got his tart!’

Smith glared at Ram and focussed his moral fibre. ‘Unhand her,’ he barked. ‘Stop that this instant!’

The Bearing would have worked on a machine with a larger brain. Ram called, ‘Rom, catch!’

Smith aimed the Civiliser and blew three holes into Ram’s head, with no result. Carveth screamed. The camera-drone swung low. Ram hurled Carveth at the far end of the hall.

Smith said nothing as Carveth sailed through the air. She moved agonisingly slowly, limbs outstretched like the arms of a starfish. He could hear her, far away as if underwater, but there was nothing he could do.

Rhianna stepped out of the shadows and raised her hand. Carveth still flew, end over end, but she shot towards Carveth, as if sucked into a vacuum, and as she did, the android slowed, righted herself, and landed beside her.

Carveth said, ‘Cool.’

Ram looked at his hand. ‘That does not bleedin’ compute,’ he said. ‘Oh well. Just have to smash your head in.’ He lumbered round to face Smith, and the camera-blimp sailed overhead.

Suruk dropped off the underside of the blimp, onto Ram’s shoulders. The M’Lak raised a strange device, like a kind of mechanical pitchfork. It looked weirdly familiar.

Ram noticed Suruk and whirled, trying to throw him off, but the alien was far too agile to be troubled by that. As Ram clanked and bellowed below him, Suruk activated the laser cutter and a beam flickered into life between its prongs. It came down on Ram’s neck like a guillotine.

His head fell off. Ram Crane took a step forward, one oversized hand groping at his collar, and then he collapsed piecemeal, the joints buckling one by one. He crashed onto his knees, and as Suruk jumped down, flopped onto his front.

At the far end of the hall, Carveth cheered. Smith looked at Suruk, and smiled.

‘Hands up!’

Smith looked around, and the Ringleader lurched into view.

‘Show’s over,’ the robot said. He held Carveth’s shotgun. His moustaches were bent, stuck at five minutes to three o’clock. Pistons wheezing, he took a step forward. It was remarkable, Smith thought, how much more dangerous the shotgun looked when Carveth wasn’t wielding it.

‘Rom,’ the Ringleader said, ‘A little advice. I am sorely minded to annihilate these excretions, to metaphorically scrape them off my boot. Does that seem a wise course of action to you?’

Rom shook his small head. ‘Nah. You should just kill ’em.’

Smith looked at the robot. In theory, Rhianna could use her powers to slow the shotgun pellets, perhaps even stop them – but she looked exhausted. Catching Carveth had weakened her. Carveth might not be very big, but she was clearly as dense as Suruk had always claimed.

‘Any last words?’ the Ringleader demanded.

Smith was out of protection, caught off-guard by enemies that even the Bearing could not defeat. He took a step forward. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘any moment now the police will be here. You’ll be linked with the lemmings, and that’s not just crime – that’s treason. They’ll melt you down for that. If you don’t drop that gun, you’ll be living out the rest of your life as a towel-rack.’

‘Good try. Rom, spill their claret.’

‘Yeah!’ Rom growled, and he advanced.

Suruk stepped up beside Smith. ‘On the plus side,’ he observed, ‘at least it will not be the lemming men killing us.’ He fired up the laser cutter as Smith drew his sword.

A side door burst open. A figure in overalls hurled a tube into the room. The tube hit the floor, bounced, bounced again and stopped beside Rom’s massive foot.

‘Get down!’ Smith cried.

Rom picked the tube up, as everyone else flinched away. ‘Er, where should I put this?’ he asked.

Miss Chigley made a vehement gesture with her fist. ‘Up the Fist!’ she cried, and Rom exploded.

* * *

The world was grey. A high-pitched sound rang through the air. It was like watching the test card on television, Smith thought. ‘Rhianna?’ he called. ‘Carveth?’ and immediately began coughing.

A massive shape blundered through the dust. Rom moved jerkily: sparks burst from the back of his head. ‘Lovely mum, what loved their boys…’ the robot grunted. ‘Took care of our own… times was hard then… wouldn’t hurt a door… you could leave your flies unlocked…’

A figure slid out of the dust from behind him like a furred Grim Reaper. In one movement it stepped forward and swung an ornate, long-handled axe over its head. As Smith saw the one white eye of General Wikwot, glistening in the dust-cloud like a pearl in dirt, the axe sliced Rom’s head off.

Wikwot stepped back, grinning, and the dust swallowed him. He seemed to fade with it; Smith saw other figures moving in the cloud and that none of them was the general.

‘Rhianna? Carveth?’

They were alive, thank God, all of them. A piece of masonry had gashed Suruk’s forearm and Carveth was unsteady on her feet, but that was it. As Smith wandered forward, trying to work out in which direction the exit lay, he saw the members of Popular Fist emerging from the basement as if from a bomb shelter.

A thin figure stalked towards them in motorcycle gear, scowling under his visor. ‘If any of you people are still breathing, me and this gun are bringing you in,’ Kallarn the Enforcer snarled.

Smith put his arm around Rhianna. ‘Everything’s under control, Inspector. You won’t need the riot squad.’

‘I never do,’ the inspector growled back. ‘You don’t assign me to hard cases. I am one.’

There was a gift at the exit. The Ringleader sat by the doors, back against the doorframe, legs sticking out in front of him. His head lay in his lap.

‘He failed the Yull,’ Suruk said.

‘That’s horrible,’ Carveth replied. ‘Killing your own people like that. I mean, what’s the point?’

‘For the lemming men,’ Suruk replied, ‘cruelty is its own point. Their hatred of honour is as long as their rancid whiskers.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said the Ringleader’s head. ‘You, Smith! Quick: I’m on auxiliary power here.’

‘What is it?’ Smith asked.

‘He’ll have gone to the old funfair: there’s a rocket there. By now he’ll be halfway to Andor. Tell your people to find that backstabbing, urinacious, one-eyed rodent for me. Flatten him – flay him – turn his pelt into a rug. Listen to me – the Yull are looking for Grimdall. Remember that.
Grimdall
. And with that,’ the robot declared, ‘the show’s over.’

His eye-lens unfocused.

A fresh camera-drone hovered above the door. As Smith walked out, he heard Julia Chigley address it. ‘We of the Popular Fist, having heard reports that unpatriotic enemies had planted a bomb in our beloved guildhall, decided to risk life and limb in defusing it. We rushed here and, despite the efforts of the city’s worst criminals, were able to prevent the bomb taking effect.’

‘Hey,’ Rhianna said. ‘That’s not true. She’s just gone in front of the camera, claimed all the credit and made up a load of rubbish off the top of her head!’

‘That can only mean one thing,’ Smith replied. ‘She’s entered mainstream politics.’

‘Well,’ Carveth said, ‘I suppose we can go down the pub now.’

‘Not so fast, young lady android. Remember what we came here for? Chaps,’ Smith announced, ‘we have a game to win.’

* * *

Morgar had been invited to the Monthly Grand Dinner of the Ravnavari Lancers, and tried to arrive as late as possible. He had expected it to be a tedious and stuffy affair, where various insanely loyal old warriors got slowly and deeply drunk on carbonated water and reminisced about the time when they had levelled some city of the beetle people so that humans could build a sewage plant on the remains. It was, however, far worse.

The dining hall was utter chaos – nobody was dangling from the chandelier, but then it wasn’t time for pudding yet. Everyone spoke over everyone else: the main way of getting the attention of a diner out of arm’s reach was to throw food at their head. Two lancers were either demonstrating a swordfighting technique or trying to murder each other in earnest on the top table. Their combat was largely ignored, except for cheers of encouragement and the occasional shout of reproach when one of them stamped on somebody’s dinner.

Morgar took his seat, and at once a heaped plate of animal flesh was put before him, cooked to varying degrees. An enormous amount of meat was being consumed – the lancers had declared pork to be an honorary vegetable sixty years ago, so as to avoid ruining their appetites with anything green. Somebody filled up all of his glasses: two of fizzy water, and one of wine to help soak up some of the bubbles.

‘The Admiral approaches port!’ someone cried.

What looked like a brown basin full of dirty water was pushed down the table: it was in fact a vast Yorkshire pudding, full of gravy, on which floated a paper napkin folded into the shape of a boat. A toy soldier had been wedged into the folds of the paper boat. As it passed by, each diner stood up and toasted the soldier, then refilled his glass and shoved the pudding onwards.

Four places from Morgar, the Yorkshire pudding disintegrated, prompting uproar, hilarity and more drinking. The admiral’s soggy boat wriggled up the table at the head of a tributary of gravy, and bumped against Morgar’s plate.

‘Does anyone want this?’ Morgar asked, holding up the toy soldier, and the answering roar told him that he had made a very bad mistake.

‘He’s docked!’ Colonel Pargarek exclaimed. He pointed at Morgar. ‘Let the harbour-master lead the drinking!’

A wallahbot approached, carrying an ancient green bottle in its pincers.

Morgar didn’t like the look of this: drinking wine was no problem, provided that it was not fizzy, – CO2 bubbles were highly intoxicating to the M’lak race but he was not certain that this new drink was wine at all.

‘Chateau Perrier, 1987,’ Captain Bargath announced. ‘It was a very good year for carbonated water. We keep a cellar, you know.’

The wallahbot unscrewed the cap and some of the water fizzed out, which pleased the lancers. By now, a sizeable group had gathered to watch the fulfilment of the ritual; even the two fighters had forgotten their duel and were standing on the top table, reverent in their silence.

‘Now then,’ Bargath said, picking up an alarmingly large glass, ‘the correct formation of the first five toasts –’

A horn blasted. Morgar looked around, wondering what grim new aspect of the ceremony it entailed. It took a moment to realise that the others were as puzzled as he.

A lancer stood at the end of the hall. He cupped his hands around his mandibles and roared, ‘Brothers!’

‘Uh?’ Pargarek grunted as if woken from sleep. ‘What’s this?’

‘I bring news from the Parliament,’ the new arrival called. ‘A full offensive is to be launched against the lemming men within the month. We are to make ready to join the fleet heading to Andor. Where others have failed, the Ravnavari Lancers will take the war to the bestial Yull and show them how real soldiers fight. Gentlemen, we are going to war!’

The bellow that answered him threatened to break the rafters. ‘Thrash the filthy rodents!’ Bargath yelled. ‘Teach ’em who owns this galaxy!’

‘Ride on!’ cried Pargarek. ‘Ride on to victory!’

‘Thank the ancestors,’ Morgar muttered. The lancers roared, overcome by the prospects of dishing out a self-righteous walloping. Morgar seemed to be in the eye of the storm. They’ll all go, he thought. It’ll be me and the wallahbots. I’ll be able to design the new restroom facility without one of these lunatics vomiting all over it every twenty minutes. ‘Brilliant!’ he shouted. ‘Go, lancers!’

A hand dropped onto his shoulder. He looked around.

‘Good lad,’ Bargarth said. ‘I knew you were the chap for the job. I knew there was more to you than all that arty-farty nonsense. General mobilisation! You’re got steel, my lad! We’ll ride out together, you and I. We’ll cover the walls in trophies!’

Bargath slapped Morgar on the back, as if to encourage an infant to cough up a foreign body.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Morgar replied.

* * *

‘How do you mean, a game to win?’ Captain Fitzroy sat, or rather lay, in an enormous wicker armchair in the dockside Colonial Club. In the chair opposite, her colleague and occasional paramour, Wing Commander Shuttleswade, was unconscious. ‘It’s all done and dusted, Smitty. And guess who won? I’ll give you a clue – she had the same name as me.’

It hadn’t been hard to find Captain Fitzroy: her bar bill was almost visible from orbit, and the trail of exhausted young men made her even easier to locate.

‘The games ended ages ago. We thought you’d gone off to…’ she glanced at Rhianna, and back at Smith ‘… see the sights. Anyhow, we found a new venue. A young men’s rugby club, as chance would have it. Forty-eight young men, eighteen to twenty-two, so gauche, and yet so charmingly naïve. I’ve been schooling them in the ways of righteousness. Pull up a chair.’ She smiled at Carveth. ‘You too, short stuff.’

On the far side of the club, a M’Lak in the uniform of the 6
^th
Colonial Hussars burst out laughing. Ten years ago, people would have looked down their noses at such conduct, knowing that the M’Lak did not have noses down which to respond. Now, Suruk’s people were needed, and anyone crazy enough to want to fight the Yull was valuable indeed.

‘We had some problems with gangsters,’ Smith said. ‘But we’ve cleared them up.’