Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (16 page)

Trees curved over the river, meeting in the middle. The
Pym
slid into the tunnel they created, and suddenly the sun was gone. The forest was as hot and close as the throat of a giant beast.

Suruk took the first watch, squatting on top of the ship beside the dorsal hatch, scanning the banks for ambushes. They were still well inside Imperial territory – at least, in theory. The Yull were skilled infiltrators and, even this far back, it was possible that they had worked their way inside. Suruk peered at the overhanging trees. If the lemming men could choose any method of attack, in his long and gory experience, they would revert to instinct and drop down from above.

Smith sat with Carveth in the cockpit and made the tea while she steered the ship. Gerald the hamster scurried in his cage, oblivious to the larger rodents lurking among the trees. Despite the danger, Carveth seemed quite cheerful. Presumably war against genocidal maniacs wasn’t too bad compared with a cross-country run in the company of a sergeant-major.

Two hours in, Smith swapped with Suruk. Rifle by his side, he watched as they moved further upriver, into the foliage.

After a while, he took out W’s folder, and laid the papers out before him as if dealing a hand of solitaire.

Major Arwen Caratacus Peter Wainscott was forty-nine. He was born on Shropshire Secundus, on the edge of the Empire. Wainscott’s father had played lead clarinet for King Klezmer and the Wild Folk. His mother was a failed anthropologist, defrocked after falsifying six tribes north of Bogota. Wainscott had one sister, three years his junior, who from the photo in the file resembled the vengeful ghost of someone who had fallen down a well. Her name was Denethora.

Smith flicked on.

Wainscott had enjoyed a quiet childhood. To begin with, he kept himself to himself, but after reaching adulthood, he started to keep himself to anyone willing to take a look. His worried parents did the sensible thing and sent him to Officer Training College.

Wainscott had been a terrible soldier, to the extent that someone had scribbled ‘Does not play well with others’ across the top of the major’s military records. He would have been a disgrace to the uniform, had he ever been caught wearing it. He had hated everything about the army apart from the potential for destruction, at which he excelled.

Smith flicked through several photographs that he really hoped had been taken at a private function, and then paused at one of Wainscott staring down a rhinoceros. In the next picture, Wainscott and a group of M’Lak elders posed in front of a captured helicopter of the Sixth Edenite Air Cavalry.

Before the war had started for real, the Republic of New Eden had been trying to spread the word to the unbelievers, which largely meant shooting them and stealing their stuff. Wainscott was selected to smuggle weaponry to the M’Lak tribes on the grounds that, were he to be captured, nobody would believe a word that he said, truth or otherwise. As it was, Wainscott’s cunning and ferocity delighted the M’Lak, who tried to keep him as a pet.

‘Boss?’

Smith glanced up, and suddenly he was no longer inside Wainscott’s life. Carveth was half-out of the airlock, brandishing a mug at him. ‘Tea. What’re you reading?’

Smith showed her the title of the file. It said INTELLIGENCE, RESTRICTED.

‘That sounds like you,’ Carveth said. ‘I’d better get back to steering this ship,’ she added, and she disappeared through the hatch.

Wainscott would never be a proper hero; he was too mad for that. Any credit he had built up was lost during the visit of the President of Poland, when, during a military display, Wainscott had first field-stripped a laser cannon and then himself.

But it was the Warforge incident that brought Wainscott low. As a commando raid, it was flawless, an astonishing piece of high-quality mayhem. In one standard day, the major single-handedly destroyed the Ghast Empire’s entire Warforge Orbital Dock and, with it, a quarter of the Ghast navy. The only problem was that the Ghasts weren’t at war with Earth yet. Having got away from his enemies, Wainscott was put away by his friends.

And so Wainscott spent a year in his pyjamas, watching television and finding clever places to hide his medication. Smith read a short report detailing the major’s attempt to escape Sunnyvale Home for the Bewildered by clinging to the underside of the pills trolley. Wainscott amused himself by learning Urdu, Mandarin and Swahili, and writing angry letters to the
Daily Monolith
, explaining the dangers of Ghast rearmament. One day, the
Monolith
’s eccentric columnist, who had links to the Secret Service, wrote back, and included a metal file. Thus W recruited his first field agent. Nobody, not even Ghast Number One, had been happier than Wainscott when war broke out.

* * *

Smith heard voices. He put the file down beside him and picked up his rifle. They were too low for lemming men; it sounded like a crowd of humans. He crawled over to the hatch and looked down into the hold. ‘Suruk? Tell Carveth to slow down. There’s something up ahead.’

He lay down on his stomach and propped his rifle before him. Smith put his eye to the scope and saw that the light came from electric lamps, not fire. A metallic squelch blared from up ahead. It sounded like a speaker.

An attack boat slid up towards them. Two M’Lak crewed it, one holding a grappling hook like a weapon. The boat moved towards the bank to let them pass.

Hard white light flooded between tree trunks, as though a huge flare had been lit in the forest. Bunting hung between the trees. Union Jacks dangled over the water. All it needed was trestle tables and rain and it would have been like Elgar Day back home.

A soldier watched them from the riverbank. He was almost invisible against the trees. ‘What’s going on?’ Smith called.

‘CSE’s got a concert on,’ the man shouted back. ‘Jimmy Horlicks and Deep Uke. Here, aren’t you Space Corps?’

‘Yes, what of it?’

‘You’re a bit lost, mate.’ He pointed at the sky. ‘Space is that way.’

As Smith climbed back into the ship, he heard the distorted wail of a support act. He hurried into the cockpit. ‘Pull us into the bank, Carveth. We’ll see what all this is about.’

They gathered at the airlock. ‘You think we’ll find Wainscott here?’ Carveth asked.

‘I doubt it. But someone might know. It sounds like they’re having a bit of a jolly. Who is Jimmy Horlicks, anyhow? The name rings a bell.’

Rhianna ran her hands through her hair and made an attempt to tie it back. ‘He’s an English musician. Pretty far out, though. He’s one of the best ukulele players in space.’

‘It sounds dreadful from here.’

‘Come on,’ Carveth said. ‘The acoustics are all wrong. It’ll sound much better from inside the beer tent.’

They stepped ashore. A flat area about a hundred yards square had been levelled, and it was full of soldiers: mainly human, although a few intrigued aliens had joined them. A few guards watched the forest. Smith glimpsed a Sey tracker stalking between the tree trunks, beam gun strapped across its body. But the great majority faced the stage at the far end of the clearing, a red-curtained, gilt-sprayed lump of music hall torn up and set down in the forest.

‘Give me your beer coupons,’ Carveth said. ‘Suruk, give me a hand.’

Smith passed his coupons over. ‘Make mine a pint of Stalwart. And Suruk, stop her if she tries to run away with the beer.’

Suruk smiled. ‘She will not go far,’ and as Carveth protested her innocence, Smith and Rhianna entered the crowd.

Jangling, distorted sound tore out of the speakers, a tight, quick strumming amplified into a roar. The crowd cheered. Smith put his arm around Rhianna: partly out of affection and partly to stop her getting confused and wandering off. From what she had told him, festivals tended to have that effect on her.

A small man appeared on stage in a neat suit, holding a wired ukulele. ‘Eh up!’ he said, and the speakers turned his voice into a chipper, jolly bellow. ‘Thought I’d do a few tunes for you all. So then, what do the Empire’s finest lads and lasses want to hear?’

The man to Smith’s right cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Jimmy! Play
All Along the Whippet Track
!’

‘
Cross Town Tram Ride
!’ a woman yelled from behind. ‘Do
Cross Town Tram Ride
!’

The members of Deep Uke emerged from the wings to join Jimmy Horlicks. Rhianna leaned her head on Smith’s shoulder, and he felt very clever indeed.

‘This is a slower number,’ Horlicks announced. ‘It’s called
Eh, Joe
.’

As Deep Uke launched into a jangling song, Carveth slipped into view. Her right hand held a paper cup, and her left was locked around the wrist of a tall young officer. ‘I found this man!’ Carveth said.

‘Dammit, woman,’ the man protested, ‘I’ve got a wife and child – oh, who are you?’

‘Captain Isambard Smith. These are my colleagues.’

‘I see,’ said the man. He had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Major Dalston Pintle. I’m I/C of this station. Your pilot won’t let go of me.’

‘It happens sometimes,’ Smith replied.

Major Pintle shook himself free from Carveth and looked them over. ‘I heard there were some irregulars coming upriver. I didn’t realise you’d be quite this irregular, though.’

‘We’re looking for a group of commandos,’ Smith called back. On stage, James Horlicks was performing a complicated solo to
Turned Out Purple Again
.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Do you know the Deepspace Operations Group?’

‘I think I’ve got their first album.’

‘What about Major Wainscott? Smallish fellow, pale, with a beard.’

Pintle frowned. ‘Trousers?’

‘Probably not, I’m afraid.’

The major nodded. ‘There was a man, ’bout a month back. A bunch of soldiers brought him through. They looked like special forces types. I thought he’d got a bad dose of the sun and gone doolally. They headed north, following the river. Said something about blowing up a bridge. Bloody furries probably got him by now.’

‘Maybe. Thank you, Major.’

‘Happy to help.’

The song ended with a drawn out wail of vibrato. James Horlicks adjusted his tie and leaned into the microphone. ‘Thanks everyone, that’s grand. Now I’d like to play a new tune: I think of it as a new national anthem.’

Pintle glanced round as if he’d heard himself insulted. ‘A new national anthem? I won’t stand for it! Excuse me, everyone,’ he said, ‘got to keep order.’ He plunged into the crowd, indignantly shouldering his way towards the stage.

‘We should go,’ Suruk said. ‘Our quarry gains time on us.’

‘But what about the music?’ Rhianna said. ‘Come on, guys.’

‘We’ll leave the top airlock open,’ Smith replied. ‘That way we’ll be able to hear. And I know it’s nice here, but remember: the
John Pym
has cabins and a functional toilet.’

‘That does count for a lot,’ Carveth said. ‘Alright, back we go.’

The
Pym
pulled away from the bank as if under covering fire, the lights flooding the sky behind it. Rhianna sat on the roof with Smith, watching the crowd shrink and then disappear as the river curved and they were lost to view. She looked behind them for a while afterwards, as the twang of the ukulele still cut the air.

Well I’m standing next to the chip shop, a pint of mild in my hand.
Yes I’m standing next to the chip shop, a pint of mild in my hand.
The man says ‘Want a gherkin?’ and I say ‘That sounds grand!’
And I say ‘Howdo, child?’ Lord knows I say ‘Howdo, child!’

* * *

Smith was dozing on the sofa when Suruk prodded his shoulder. ‘Uh?’ Smith said, sitting up. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We have stopped at the bank,’ the alien replied. ‘Piglet wished to reconnoitre.’

‘Carveth? Reconnoitre?’

‘She told me that she had seen a creature that she needed to pursue. I thought such an interest in hunting was only to be encouraged.’

‘Hang on. You let Carveth go off to hunt things?
Alone?
’

Suruk looked a little hurt. ‘Oh no. I would never do that. She took Rhianna with her.’

‘What?’ Smith scrambled upright. The file slid off his lap, sending pictures of Wainscott sliding over the floor. ‘We’ve got to get them back. They’ll die out there.’

‘I told them to shriek if they were in danger. Oh, and Mazuran? I think we are being followed.’

Smith grabbed his rifle. ‘Let’s go.’

They clambered out of the roof hatch, into air as moist and hot as breath, and scrambled down the side of the ship. The wing creaked as Smith hurried along it and dropped down into the undergrowth. Something small and many-legged scurried away from his boot. He hoped Rhianna had her shoes on.

Roots crawled over the forest floor like veins: as they walked, the plants seemed to try to catch Smith’s legs. Something moved in the trees to the left: Smith swung his rifle up and saw a beaked lemur swinging from branch to branch, arm over arm.

If Suruk noticed it, he did not show it. He simply walked a little more cautiously than usual, occasionally glancing upwards or checking the ground. The alien put his hand out. ‘Here,’ he whispered, and he crouched down.

It took a moment to see what he meant. Rhianna’s tie-dyed shirt was surprisingly good camouflage against the lurid vegetation. Carveth stood beside her, half-concealed by a tree trunk. The foliage broke up the outline of the two women: a couple of fronds, a serrated leaf, and they had been almost lost to view. Smith wondered how close the lemming men could get.

‘Psst! Rhianna,’ Smith said. ‘Over here.’

She turned and put a finger to her lips. Suruk raised his eyebrows and then his spear. He advanced with high, careful steps, as though expecting the ground to give way.

Without turning around, Carveth whispered, ‘Look.’

She pointed. An animal slipped between the trees towards the water’s edge. The tree trunks blocking the way made it seem to flicker in and out of existence. It was large and four-legged, and at once Smith saw why Carveth had dared venture off the ship. The back was shorter than its Earth equivalent, the legs both thicker and more flexible, and the animal was bright blue, but there was no mistaking what it looked like, or the awe in Carveth’s voice.