Cargo Cult (38 page)

"Silence!" The bellowed command
came from a monster who wore more decoration than the others and
had the swaggery, self-important air that only mid-ranking trolls
and human middle managers seemed to possess. "I am Kraal Frogmouth
the Third, platoon commander of the Imperial Household Guard. Which
of you is the leader of your group?"

Sam, Barraclough, John and Drukk
each stepped forward and said, "I am." Wayne stayed where he was,
confused.

"I am!" insisted Sam and Drukk,
more loudly. They faced each other angrily.

"If you'll forgive me saying," Sam
told the Vinggan through gritted teeth. "You haven't exactly
demonstrated a lot of gumption lately."

"And you," Drukk said firmly, “have
demonstrated nothing but recklessness and stupidity." Sam blinked
at him in astonishment but Drukk went on. "The Spirit knows I don't
know much about what is going on here or how to get things back to
normal but compared to my ignorance, your own utter cluelessness
makes me look profoundly knowledgeable. On top of which, none of
you primitives has ever dealt with an alien before and, even though
I haven't either, at least I was trained by the Space Corps in what
to do." He reached into his shoulder bag and felt the comforting
smoothness of his blaster. Best not to tell anyone that his Space
Corps training in first-contact etiquette was conducted on the
Academy firing range.

“Primitives?" Sam spluttered. Even
though she agreed that Drukk probably did know a little bit more
about all this than she did, she had not yet been impressed with
the Vinggan's leadership qualities. "If you think..."

“Make your minds up!" the troll
shouted. "We haven't got all day."

Sam stamped her foot in
frustration. "I'm the leader!"

Grim-faced, Drukk pulled out his
blaster and blew a three-metre-wide hole in the side of the
building. Everyone, including the trolls, flinched away from the
exploding rubble.

As the dust settled, Kraal
Frogmouth looked around, nervously. "OK," she said slowly, her eyes
coming to rest on Drukk. "You're the leader."

"I am Drukk. I wear the orange
clothing."

"Er, right," the troll agreed. "If
you'd all like to follow me."

-oOo-

"Are they out of their minds?"
Chuwar wanted to know.

“Possibly," conceded Werpot.

The mighty warlord and his vizier
had withdrawn a little so that they could converse in private.

"They want to convert my empire to
pebble-worship or whatever the hell they were going on about?"

"They worship a deity called the
Great Spirit, Sire. Their religious order is called the Pebbles of
the New Dawn."

"It's madness!"

"Yes, Sire."

"So why shouldn't I just tell them
to get stuffed?" This had been exactly what Chuwar had been about
to do when Werpot had caught his eye and dragged him off for this
private conference.

"They, em, are a bit fanatical
about these things. I know that to sane, sophisticated people like
us..." Werpot somehow managed to say this with a straight face.
“...all this talk of gods and mystical beings seems childish and,
well, insane, but many species of quite sentient beings all over
the galaxy have these remnant beliefs from before they became
civilised. Some of the more stupid ones still practice their
religions quite fervently. Sadly, there are a few that also want
everyone else to practice them and are willing to use force if
necessary to spread the teachings of their beloved deities."

“Force?" At last, Chuwar was
beginning to see where this was leading.

"Of course, it wouldn't really hurt
if the Mozbacs were made to worship this Great Spirit of theirs
would it, Sire? I mean, before you came and conquered them, they
had their own quaint little religion, you know. Worshipped some
kind of big snake thing, I believe."

“Really?" Chuwar didn't much care
what the little green slaves had done before he had arrived. “But
what good would it do me if they were off worshipping this Great
Pebble thing?"

Werpot sighed but did not correct
him. "None whatsoever, Sire. In fact, it would reduce the available
manpower by the amount of time the Mozbacs spent at their
devotions. It would also create divided loyalties and..." Here he
paused for dramatic effect. “...it might mean having Vinggan
religious leaders and their armies posted here in the Meisos
Dominions to oversee the indoctrination of the masses."

"Then I should tell them to get
stuffed, right?"

Werpot couldn't suppress a pained
expression. It was such hard work being vizier to a moron. "You
have to remember, Sire, that the Vinggans want this very much. As
mad as it sounds to us, they view it as extremely important that
everybody spends their whole life praising these fictional
deities."

Chuwar grinned. "Aliens, eh?"

“Quite. But if it is so important
to them, then they would be willing to give a lot for it to
happen."

"Give?"

"Yes, Sire. Give. And freely. And
copiously."

"So, I tell the Vinggans I don't
give a toss if the Mozbacs worship any old rubbish they care to
make up just so long as the Vinggans compensate me for all the
labour and loyalty I will lose?"

So close and yet so far. But
patience was something the vizier had had a lot of practice at.
"Not quite, Sire. You tell the Vinggans it is absolutely out of the
question." Chuwar looked shocked and Werpot forced his eyes not to
roll. "Then you let me haggle for a good price – and to keep their
armies out of the system. We might have to let in a few thousand
religious leaders."

Chuwar thought about it. "They're
pretty ugly," he grumbled.

"Yes, Sire, but think what you'll
gain. The weapons. The ships. A proper, modern palace, with proper
plumbing and decent communications. We could employ an
orchestra..."

"We've got an orchestra."

Werpot shuddered at the thought of
that gaggle of tone-deaf Mozbacs they rounded up for state
occasions, tootling on their various pipes and slapping at their
hollow logs. "Of course, Sire. So, we are agreed?"

Chuwar still had one more question.
"And we don't just tell them to get stuffed because...?"

-oOo-

"Where are they taking us?" Sam
wanted to know. They had been marching along in the company of the
Palace Guard for almost twenty minutes and she was getting
tired.

"I've told you," Drukk said, once
more. "I don't know."

"Where are you taking us?" Sam
shouted at the head troll. The troll ignored her. "Hey, frog face,
where are you taking us?"

The lead troll raised an arm and
the company came to a halt. Kraal Frogmouth marched up to Drukk and
stared at him angrily. "You should keep your servants in
order."

"They're not my..."

"Where I come from," the troll went
on, speaking over him. "Any transgressions by subordinates are
dealt with by punishing the leader."

Drukk assumed the
dignified-personage-affronted-by-insubordinate-minion posture,
which was interpreted by his new body as a narrowing of the eyes, a
thrusting forward of the head, and a pursing of the lips. "I am a
member of the armed services of the most powerful empire in the
Known Galaxy," he said. "One more threat from you and I will have
you hung by your – whatever that thing is – until your – whatever
those things are – drop off."

The troll drew itself up to its
full height, towering a good meter-and-a-half above Drukk. "And I
am a platoon commander in the Mighty Chuwar's Imperial Household
Guard. My Aunt Horrgarr Fisheyes is Vice Admiral of the Third
Fleet. I should crush you into pulp for your insolence!" She
reached for her belt, where a huge, ugly club hung. Drukk, in turn,
reached for his blaster, making all the other trolls reach for
their weapons.

Frantically waving her arms, Sam
rushed forward to stand between Drukk and his adversary. "No! Wait!
It's all a misunderstanding. I didn't mean to be rude. I just get a
bit impatient." The troll glared down at her. She hurried on. "We
don't need to start crushing people to pulp now, do we? I'm
dreadfully sorry if I was a bit, you know, pushy or something but
I'm just like that. I get a bit antsy when I'm being marched
half-way around the bloody planet by a bunch of giant, armed,
whatever-the-hell-you-ares and I didn't even want to be here in the
first place and..."

"Sam," said Wayne, interrupting her
flow. "You were apologising to the nice lady, remember?"

Sam blinked. "Oh yes. Right.
Apologising. So, there you are. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset
anyone. All right now?"

The troll didn't look particularly
mollified. She turned her massive head to glare at Drukk again.
"Just keep them under control," she snarled. "And this one..." She
snapped her glare back at Sam, who flinched away from it. "This one
needs psychiatric help if you ask me."

Wayne, sensing danger, rushed
forward and grabbed his sister, pulling her away from the platoon
commander as fast as he could.

“Bloody cheek!" Sam spluttered.
"Who the hell does she think she is?" But her complaints went
unheard or ignored as the troop clattered back into motion and the
long march continued.

They trudged uphill for a further
ten minutes then passed through a high, mud wall into a bustling
paved area surrounded by more mud buildings. The humans gazed about
them in amazement. Green Mozbacs were everywhere, busily going
about their inexplicable lives. A market seemed to occupy part of
the space between the wall and the buildings and the scene was an
odd mixture of Medieval and Futuristic with odd Heath-Robinson
machinery sitting on wood-and-thatch stalls, hovering ground-cars
moving among what were clearly dirt-poor peasants, and, above all
the mud buildings, the gleaming spires of a massive palace straight
out of a Flash Gordon movie.

A pair of Mozbacs passed them, each
carrying what looked for all the world like plastic cups of a hot,
brown drink. Beyond the range of the translation field, they could
hear the clacking, squeaking sounds of the alien language being
shouted by stall-holders. There was also an odd, whistling, tooting
noise that came from loudspeakers standing on boxes or hung from
the beams of the stalls. Wayne pricked his ears, realising he was
listening to some kind of alien music. He wanted to stay a while
and untangle the complicated rhythms and the discordant
counterpoint but the trolls kept them moving towards the
palace.

He felt his heart beating faster.
Alien music! In a daze, he stumbled after the others, trying to
hear and remember as much as he could.

They reached a doorway set in the
palace wall. The wall seemed to be of smooth, stainless steel,
reaching up as high as they could see. The door itself was at least
twenty metres wide and almost as high, faced with wood, banded with
steel and studded with bolts each as big as a person's head and
each carved with a different, grimacing face. Kraal Frogmouth took
her massive club and smashed it against the gigantic door three
times.

Barraclough watched the performance
cynically. "Like they couldn't just have a doorbell," he
commented.

"Who would enter?" a troll-voice
from inside demanded.

The platoon commander rattled off
her credentials.

"Enter loyal servants of the Mighty
Chuwar," the voice told them.

"What is this, the Wizard of Oz?"
Barraclough grumbled.

With much further ado and ceremony,
the great doors were opened – just enough to let the party
enter.

"I think I already don't like this
Chuwar guy," said Barraclough.

“Bit up himself," suggested
John.

"All the way up, mate. All the
way."

At the bottom of a deep pit, many
light-years away, Shorty looked at her gang. They were muttering
and grumbling, some rubbing sore heads or limbs. The Vinggan force
shields were great at saving you from weapons fire but not so great
at preventing knocks and bruises as you tumbled into a
four-metre-deep hole in the ground. She looked up at the bright
blue rectangle of sky overhead. Somewhere up there, those damned
humans must be cheering and laughing and thinking what fine fellows
they were. The thought made her jump and squirm with fury.

"It's no good, Boss," said Fats
regretfully. "You'll never jump high enough to get out of
here."

Shorty spun around and boxed his
ears. "Of course I can't, you moron! Do you think I'm as stupid as
one of you rabbit-brained idiots?"

"So how we gonna get out, Boss?"
someone else asked.

Shorty scowled at him for a moment,
considering his punishment for being so thick. Then she had an
idea. "We dig our way out."

"Dig?" wailed Fats. "Ain't we
already in deep enough?"

"Yeah, Boss," another complained.
"These little paws ain't much use for nothin', let alone
digging!"

Shorty shook her head, sadly. "Why
am I the only one who ever has an idea around here? Why am I the
one who always has to get you dopes out of trouble? Why doesn't
anyone else ever figure anything out for themselves?"

Fats was confused. "Well... 'Cos
you're the boss, Shorty."

Shorty heaved a sigh and tried to
pull herself together. Getting caught by a bunch of primitive
savages had rattled her self-confidence. She counted to ten. Then
she counted to ten again. The other roos waited patiently, familiar
with the process.

"OK, you dummies," she told them at
last, in something like her old snarl. "We use these." She held up
her blaster. "We pick a spot half-way down that end wall over there
and we start blasting at it until it all falls down. Then we run up
the slope and out of here. Got it?"

"Er, boss?"

"Yes, Fats?"

"Er, won't the wall, you know, sort
of fall on us and, you know, like bury us?"