Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (22 page)

‘She must have just come back from a mission,’ a second man said. He had a long pink scar across his forehead. ‘No more running, eh? Sock it to ’em!’

‘I think we had best go inside,’ Smith replied.

Carveth looked at the people waving at her, swallowed hard and said, ‘Bloody right we should. Let’s hide in the cellar.’

The courtyard was big enough to accommodate a row of Hellfires and a full repair bay. On the far side of the yard, a firing range had been set up and, next to that, a M’Lak rifleman was instructing a dozen human soldiers in close combat. Cranes protruded from the windows above them, lifting equipment to storerooms in the city-fortress.

‘It’s not fair,’ Carveth muttered, accelerating towards the nearest set of doors. ‘People are staring at me, and I haven’t even got drunk yet.’

The entrance hall was dark, cool and the size of a spaceship hangar. Under a vaulted ceiling, dozens of logistics personnel consulted computers, plans and charts. Robots pushed markers across maps with precision tools specially converted from broomsticks. Printouts of Yullian officers glowered down from a board. Several had been marked with red crosses.

Behind the stained glass window, a Hellfire rose on its thrusters and turned south towards the forest.

A bald man stepped out of the shadows. He wore evening dress, and carried a tray of drinks. ‘Welcome, Captain Smith,’ he said, and gave them a small, thin smile. ‘Ladies. The management has been most keen to meet you all. Perhaps if you’d follow me...’ said the man, and he turned and walked away.

Smith frowned, and followed. ‘Do you work here?’ he asked.

The balding man looked at him. ‘Oh indeed, sir. I’m the butler.’

‘Butler?’

‘Of course, sir. A building such as this requires its own staff as a matter of course. This way.’

Rhianna touched Smith’s arm. ‘Is he an android?’

The butler led them into a second hall. Once, Smith saw, it had been a ballroom, with a bar at one end and a stage at the other. Light jazz still seeped from speakers high in the roof; the place had the acoustics of a swimming pool. Now camp beds ran down the length of the dancefloor, and someone had pinned a picture of a girl in a corset to the back of the stage.

‘We did have a housekeeper,’ the butler explained, ‘but she malfunctioned and tried to burn the building down. Regrettable.’ He frowned. ‘We appear to have mislaid the nanibot.’

‘Is that a very small robot?’ Smith asked.

There was a sudden soft thump behind them. Smith turned, and saw a woman of about thirty rising from a crouching position on the carpet. She brushed down her dark skirt, adjusted her umbrella and approached.

‘She looks after the children,’ the butler said.

‘And here I am,’ she announced, with a sort of cheery firmness.

‘How did you get here?’ Smith asked.

‘Trade secret.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘Hello to you all. I do hope you have a lovely stay here.’

‘I think you’d best get along, sirs,’ the butler added. ‘The caretaker is awaiting you.’

Smith said, ‘Caretaker? I thought you said that you were all the staff.’

‘Oh, there’s
always
been a caretaker, sir,’ the butler replied, and he gestured along the hall.

W stood in a doorway, teacup in hand, almost smiling. ‘May I have a word?’

* * *

The press office was on the fifth floor of the castle, halfway up a tower the colour of brie. French windows opened onto a verandah the size of a squash court.

About a quarter of the verandah was taken up by a massive tea urn, a dented, grimy thing that reflected their faces like a funhouse mirror. Rhianna and Carveth took the only two chairs, Smith leaned against the wall, and Suruk lurked beside the door.

‘Well done in bringing Wainscott back,’ said W. ‘General Young will be debriefing him as we speak.’

‘Rather her than me.’

‘The official story is that Wainscott lost his mind and decided to throw a bit of a jolly in his underpants. That’s only partly true. Wainscott has been gathering information on Yullian excavation sites over a hundred-mile radius.’

Smith remembered the scaffolding and the drilling apparatus.

‘The Yull naturally build warrens, of course.’ W filled the cups. ‘But they’ve been using proper drilling gear. They’re looking for something buried underground.’

They paused to distribute the tea.

‘Back on Ravnavar, the Yull tried to set the various factions of the city against one another – robots, humans and M’Lak. They are trying to do the same thing here. As one unit, with General Young at the helm, we are formidable. But divided, we would simply fall apart.’

Suruk rubbed his mandibles together thoughtfully. ‘Proceed.’

‘I think you know what I’m going to say,’ W said, looking at the alien.

Suruk nodded. ‘Andor is said to be the resting place of Grimdall the Rebel. Some believe that he fled here to escape the Space Empire and recuperate. The story goes that his relics and his weapons are still here. Clearly the Yull believe it.’

Carveth raised a hand. ‘Um, what are these relics? Are they like guns and stuff, or just a big heap of skulls like Suruk has in his room?’

Rhianna shook her head. ‘The relics of Grimdall are of vital importance to the M’Lak people, Polly. They’re irreplaceable cultural artefacts.’

‘Indeed,’ Suruk said. ‘A very big pile of skulls.
And
weapons.’

‘Something for all the family,’ Carveth replied, pulling a face. ‘Well, Suruk’s family.’

W took a tobacco tin out of his jacket pocket. ‘It’s a matter of politics,’ he said. ‘Now that the rest of Earth is in the war, it’s very important that everyone is seen to be pulling their weight.’

‘Absolutely,’ Smith replied. ‘Can’t have these foreign types slacking off, you know.’

‘Which is why they have been keeping a close eye on us.’

‘What?’ Smith cried. ‘How dare they? That’s outrageous!’

‘There are some who think that the lemming men have us on the back foot,’ the spy explained. ‘That since the Yull have caught us with our trousers down, our response has been half-arsed.’

‘Outrageous. An imbecile could tell you that it’s been fully arsed.’

‘We’re our own worst enemies,’ the spy said. ‘Our allies don’t think we’re doing enough, because we’re not making enough of a fuss. We have to make noise every so often to show them that we’re still here. And,’ he added, turning to look at Carveth, ‘your pilot here made some very encouraging noises indeed.’

He turned to a bank of monitors and twiddled the knobs. The screens burst into life, and Carveth’s face was on all of them. ‘
I don’t care how many lemming men I have to fight,
’ she shrilled at the camera. ‘
I’ll fight every single one of them. But no running – no more running!
’

‘Oh no,’ Carveth said.

The figure on the screen changed to a dark-haired man in civilian dress. ‘
Top brass may not want to give anything away, but that’s the news from the troops on the ground – no more running. The Yull may be coming for the 112
^th
Army, but it’s fighting spirit like that they’ll have to face –
’

The image froze. W said, ‘This went out on
We Ask the Questions
last Tuesday. I’m sure you recognise Lionel Markham.’ He looked at Carveth. ‘They call you Battle Girl,’ he added. ‘You’re quite a hit on the Ethernet.’

Suruk frowned. ‘Although this amuses me, I am concerned. Not only will this risk Piglet being mistaken for a mighty warrior, thus putting her at risk, but it will steal the glory of combat from, er, persons more deserving.’

Smith looked at the screen. Carveth’s face, frozen in a desperate grimace, shone down upon them like the Cheshire Cat.

‘Actually, quite the opposite is true,’ W said. He stood up, tugging his jacket into shape. ‘You see, we need someone to speak for this army – to be our voice on the Yullian Front, so to speak. And who better than Carveth?’

‘Me!’ Suruk growled. ‘What does this toffee-gobbling gremlin know of the arts of war? No offence intended, puny woman.’

Smith turned away from the screen. ‘Actually, sir, it’s a fair point. Suruk or I could take the helm. Carveth’s much better suited to a long-range cover-based support role.’

Suruk nodded. ‘She hides under things, a long way off.’

W shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. The job I’m thinking of won’t involve any fighting. It’s just a matter of looking the part. Going to gala luncheons, kissing babies, talking to reporters.’

‘Reporters often talk about me,’ Suruk said. ‘Would that suffice?’

‘People talk to reporters about you,’ Carveth put in. ‘And as for kissing babies... I’ll do it. Of course, I’d
much
rather be in the forest with a bunch of psychotic rodents, but if my country wants me to eat free food, then maybe I can make the sacrifice.’ She looked at Smith and Rhianna and, seeing their faces, added, ‘I could always bring you back some Twiglets. How about that?’

‘So what about these relics?’ Smith asked.

W sipped his tea. ‘Speed is of the essence. Wainscott’s data suggests three possible locations for the resting-place of Grimdall. First, the Yullian excavations about fifty miles southeast of here. They’re heavily defended. Brigadier Harthi, commander of the ravnaphant, Mildred, has offered to launch an assault on the Yullian defences. Smith, Rhianna, I’d like you to accompany him.’

‘Righto,’ Smith said.

W refilled their cups. On the far side of the courtyard, a Hellfire rose up on jets. The nanibot watched it from a balcony, parasol over her shoulder. Swing music filtered out of an open window.

‘The second possibility lies with the M’Lak – specifically, the hidden masters of the Temple of Goron. The masters are notoriously secretive. It would take an expert to even find the place, let alone impress the ancient warriors there with a display of combat prowess. So: hunting, martial arts, probably extreme violence – anyone know anybody suitable?’

‘I do,’ Carveth said, and she smiled and raised a hand.

Suruk glared at her. ‘Put your hand down, fool!
I
will take this mission!’

‘Good chap,’ said W. ‘Now, the third option. If anyone knows where the resting place of Grimdall might be, it’s the natives. The local tribe are a group of blue fellows called the Equ’i.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I won’t lie to you. They’re primitive, and they’ve only recently been exposed to civilisation. We built them a castle about five years ago. Our previous administrator, a fellow called Hargreaves, is leaving soon, so it’s a good time to try a fresh approach. We can send you out to Radcliffe Hall tomorrow. Let’s see,’ he added, and he leaned round to the computer behind him. His bony fingers clattered on the keys, and he cranked the lever to set its processors going. ‘I should have a scanned image somewhere...’

A figure appeared on the screen, and slowly rotated. ‘As you can see,’ W said, ‘despite the blue colouring, they’re fundamentally a species of diminutive equines. We’d need someone to go in, spend some time with them, learn their ways, feed them some sugar lumps –’

Carveth fell off her seat.

‘Is she all right?’ the spy asked.

Suruk took the opportunity to revive Carveth with a cup of tea, by pouring it over her face.

‘Oh my God,’ she squeaked from the floor. ‘They’re
ponies
.’

The
John Pym
touched down at a landing pad just short of the home of the ruling family of the Equ’i. Smith, Rhianna and Carveth walked down the steps into the sunlight.

A man and woman waited at the bottom. They wore matching khaki, and had similar expressions of glum disapproval.

‘I’m Hargreaves,’ said the man as they approached. ‘The Empire sent us here to talk some sense into the locals.’ He scowled. ‘Maybe you’ll have more luck than we did. It’s the attitude that counts,’ he added. ‘When it comes to horses, you’ve got to take the right tack.’

‘That’s alright,’ Carveth said. ‘I like ponies.’

‘Of course,’ Hargreaves said, tucking his shirt into his shorts, ‘they’re bare-arsed savages. Pig-ignorant, too. Or should I say horse-ignorant!’ He laughed bitterly, and added, ‘They share all their resources for the common good, they’ve got absolutely no concept of aggressive warfare and when they’re not eating their wild oats they’re sowing them. Marjorie and I have had a hell of a job telling them what to do, haven’t we?’

‘Yes, dear,’ said Marjorie.

‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told them to put some clothes on, look serious and start behaving like God-fearing creatures. You’d think they didn’t want to. I also have it on good authority that they commit acts of beastliness. And I don’t need to tell you what
that
involves.’

‘Don’t, dear,’ Marjorie said. ‘You’ll only set your condition off.’

‘It’s a disgrace. And their so-called royal family are the worst of the lot. The king and queen are bad enough, but the daughter – the most precocious, obnoxious creature you can imagine. I made her read
The Pilgrim’s Progress
and you know what she did? She told me the plot was linear and she wanted something by Daphne du Maurier. I told her I didn’t own any French books. I mean to say, do I look like a pornographer to you?’

‘No, dear,’ said Marjorie. ‘You don’t.’

‘Is there anything I need to know?’ Carveth asked.

Hargreaves shook his head. ‘Not much. In order to win their confidence, we built an artificial body – a sort of disguise – to enable the Liaison Officer to look like one of them. You’re welcome to use it. Only thing is, you’ll need someone to go in the back half.’

‘It’s rather uncomfortable,’ Marjorie added.

‘I’ll be alright on my own,’ Carveth said.

‘Well then, good luck. Is this our ship?’ Hargreaves demanded. ‘Will we make it back alright in that?’

‘Only if you don’t fall out the airlock,’ Smith replied. He disliked Hargreaves’ manner, and the assumption that the
John Pym
was dangerous, while accurate, was irritating. ‘We’ll pick you up later,’ he told Carveth. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘I’ll have a nice time with the ponies – I mean, I’ll civilise these benighted savages.’