God Emperor of Didcot (15 page)

Instead he jogged into the shadow of the ship, towards the landing legs.

Now, which one was it? Left back, she’d said. He flexed his fingers in his gloves, trying to recall the best way to climb a pole. Smith realised he had not climbed anything since he had been eight, and all he could remember of it was rope-burn and the smell of socks. Well, he’d just have to try.

As he reached the leg, shouts came from the front of the ship. Smith peered into the storm and saw two figures approach, waving their arms.

‘Hey, kids!’ Carveth called. ‘We’ve got some stuff here for you!’

Smith looked at the leg and wondered whether the loose cabling would help him to climb up or fry him to a cinder.

Oh well. He tensed his muscles, jumped up, and caught hold of one of the struts used to raise the leg.

There was a scrape of metal on metal and the airlock door opened. Above Smith, a child’s voice called, ‘We told you to go away!’

‘We have food, brain-spawn,’ Suruk said.

‘What sort of food?’

Smith pulled himself up, teeth gritted. He sat on the strut, bracing himself for the next stage of the climb, listening to the wind as Carveth and Suruk made up their response.

‘Beer?’ Suruk said hopefully.

‘Beer tastes of wee and sick,’ said the child. ‘We don’t want your—’

‘Ginger ale!’ Carveth called. ‘And pies!’

‘Hmm. . .’ said the child. ‘How much ginger ale?’

‘Lashings, of course. Enough for a super picnic.’

‘Wait there.’

Smith heard the door close. He drew upright and climbed into the cavity where the leg retracted during flight. The noise of the storm lessened. It was a dark, bad-smelling hole, the sort of place popular with rats and hitchhiking aliens. He took his penknife out and opened the screwdriver, then got to work on the panel above his head.

Negotiations over the ginger ale had started again.

Carveth clearly knew how to talk to children on their own terms – probably, he reflected, because she was not unlike a child herself.

The panel came away in his hands and he dropped it.

The sound of it striking the ground was muffled by the wind. Smith was not worried about the children hearing him – it was them sensing him that he feared.

There were some more cables above him. He stuck his head through them, feeling like a meatball being pushed through spaghetti. His scalp impacted with the inner plating, and he readied the penknife again, this time using the Phillips head.

Smith worked quickly: not even a nine-year-old could talk about party food forever – although Carveth probably could. He took out one screw, then the second, then the third, and finally, the fourth dropped into his palm. He pocketed it and prepared his secret weapon.

There had been some emergency rations in the American buggy, and they had come in foil packages.

Smith removed his goggles and leather hat, unfolded two empty packages and put them on his head. He put the hat back on over them. He smelt of barbecue sauce, but if it stopped the children taking control of his brain, it was a small price to pay.

Smith pushed the plate up a fraction and peeked through the gap. He was looking into the hold. He glanced left and right, then listened: nobody. Quickly, he pushed the panel aside and climbed up. He was in.

He stood up and put the panel back. Smith knew how to move quietly. Legs bent, he advanced across the hold, towards the lounge.

He stopped, his breath loud in his ears, listening. Very carefully, he leaned around the door.

The lounge was empty. Smith stepped onto the rug and hurried across the room. The lounge led into a corridor, which in turn ran straight to the cockpit. The cabins branched off the corridor.

There were voices in the corridor. Small feet pattered on the metal floor.

‘Corks, that’s an awful lot of ginger beer,’ a child said.

‘Think of the picnic we could have with that!’

‘Huh,’ said a second. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. They’re trying to swiz us. That stinker captain probably wants his ship back. Besides, think of all the ginger beer we can have when we’re running Earth.’

Devil children, thought Smith. They needed a damn good talking to.

‘I just felt something,’ said a girl.

‘Maybe we should demand more ginger beer,’ said another.

‘Something nearby. . .’

Smith felt a mind turn on him like a spotlight, a sudden, penetrating beam of intellect tearing at his brain. He closed his eyes, tried to block it, and then they had him.

A child stood in the doorway, pointing. ‘Look, there he is! He’s got in!’

‘The blighter! Make him scram!’

‘No,’ said another child. ‘Make him die.’

And suddenly the beam was no longer a searchlight but a burning ray, a laser, cutting into Smith’s brain, slicing away the links between body and mind—

‘Make him shoot himself!’

Shoot myself, thought Smith. Now there’s an idea. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?

He looked down: he was surrounded by staring clones, hands on hips, glaring into his soul. His right hand came up and the Civiliser was in it. It rose in front of him like a cobra rearing to strike.

‘Do it! Shoot yourself!’

Smith put the cold barrel under his chin. No, that would make a terrible mess. He frowned, trying to remember the socially acceptable way of blowing out his brains. How would a gentleman do it? From the side, or barrel in the mouth?

From the side. His thumb cocked the hammer.

Somewhere, deep inside him, a little part of his mind said: Is this what I really want?

It wasn’t. Suddenly Smith realised that killing himself was a bad idea. But the gun would not go away. Under his hat and improvised brain shield he felt sweat crawl through his hair. The best he could do was not to fire; to put the Civiliser down was like moving a mountain. It seemed a cruel irony that he was about to Civilise himself.

From outside, he heard Carveth’s voice, as if through water. ‘Do you want this ginger beer or not? Because if you don’t, I’m taking it back to Smugglers’ Cove!’

‘An adventure with smugglers!’ a boy cried, and the beam weakened. Smith saw one of the children turn from him, shook his head and ran straight into the opposite wall. That woke him up a lot. Their grip was still strong, but he knew what he must do. He lurched across the room, into the kitchen area. His shaking hands dropped the gun, threw open the nearest cupboard, found the jar and tore off the lid.

They knew what he was doing now, and they were fighting him. He grabbed his wrist as if choking a snake, gritted his teeth and hauled his fist towards his mouth. He strained – hardly able to breathe – and rammed half a dozen teabags into his mouth. He bit down and pure, unstrained tea rushed into his system. Grabbing a carton from the counter, he gulped heavily on the milk. Moral fibre shot through his body. As if shaking a demon from his back, he roared and threw off their mental control, grabbed the Civiliser, pointed it at them and cried ‘Hunf ub!’

They stared at him, baffled.

Smith swallowed a wad of tea. ‘Hands up,’ he said. ‘That’s better.’

They put their hands up, slowly. ‘Are you a smuggler?’ said the nearest child.

Liquid trickled down Smith’s scalp. For a horrible moment he thought that his brain had actually melted, but then he realised that the foil tins on his head had not been quite as clean as he had thought. ‘Men!’ he called. ‘Get Rhianna in!’

Suruk and Carveth helped her through the door.

‘Golly!’ cried one of the children, spotting the alien. ‘It’s a real-live colonial!’

Smith coughed. His mouth was still packed with tea-grit, and the remnants of the teabags were proving quite hard to swallow. ‘Children!’ he declared. ‘I am very disappointed with you. Not only have you tried to steal my spacecraft and murdered a dozen allied soldiers, but you’ve been very disobedient when I asked you to give it back.
This will not do
.’

There was awkward shuffling among the children. One said, ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘That’s better.’

Rhianna sat down on the sofa, rubbing her head. A child peered at her. ‘Are you my mummy?’ it asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

Carveth looked around the room. ‘Are they going to use their powers again?’

Smith shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Have some tea. It seems to block them out.’

He paused. His head ached, and he glanced around the room to make sure that none of the children were trying their psychic tricks.

He blinked the thought away. ‘Well done, men,’ he said.

‘It was only you distracting them that saved me. They nearly escaped with our ship.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, ships don’t just repair themselves. I’d best get out there and sort us out. Don’t let Suruk eat anyone.’

Smith looked into the kitchen area. Suruk was surrounded by small figures. He looked puzzled. ‘Is it true that you eat people?’ a child demanded, intrigued by him.

‘No.’

‘Are you good at dancing?’

‘Only on the skulls of irritating children.’

‘Gosh, can we see? Do you have a big tail in your trousers? Steve Hyrax says that all greenies have great big tails.’

Suruk leaned over and picked the boy up by his jumper.

‘Say that again,’ he said.

The boy swallowed and looked into Suruk’s maw. ‘You have big tails, and you run round stark naked, chopping each other’s heads off—’

‘Who told you this?’

‘Steve Hyrax. He’s one of us, but Gertie came and took him away a year ago, and we’ve not seen him since—’

‘Mazuran,’ Suruk said. ‘Come here, now!’

‘So the Hyrax was one of them,’ Rhianna said half an hour later. ‘No wonder he could mesmerise the crowds like that.’

They sat in the lounge, drinking tea. Carveth was somewhere outside, checking her repairs. Smith leaned over and took a biscuit.

‘Quite,’ he said. ‘The Ghasts must have engineered those children, and once they got one that would do what they needed, they artificially aged him and sent him to Urn. A devilish plan.’

Rhianna nodded. ‘That’s. . . that’s really nasty,’ she said, and Smith felt the familiar urge to put his arm around her. ‘. . . Whoa.’

‘Against an enemy without moral fibre, it would be devastating,’ Smith said. ‘Their concerted mental energy almost had me. As it was, I was lucky that they were distracted long enough for me to eat raw tea.’ He picked a bit of grit out of his teeth. ‘Of course, I suppose the Ghasts didn’t expect the people of Urn to be such regular tea drinkers. Nor, I suppose, did they reckon on a UFS ship interrupting them.’

Suruk said, ‘So what of these spawn? Will they be destroyed?’

‘We’ll alter the transmission and warn Fleet Control to have this place quarantined.’ Smith nodded at the cupboards. ‘We can spare some food to tide them over. Perhaps, with the help of the Imperial code and regular tea, they can learn to lead normal lives.’

The airlock door opened, and Carveth returned, slamming it behind her. ‘Hello,’ she announced, stepping into the sitting room and pulling off her coat. ‘I’ve sent the kids back to the Ghast place. We’re done outside.’

‘Much damage?’ Smith asked.

She shook her head. ‘I had a lot of helpers. They’re good workers, those children. Little Julian looked out for Titty while she checked the hole in the
John Pym
, while I used a digital screwdriver to help Roger, Dick and Fanny. What’ll happen to them when we’re gone?’

‘Apparently, they will be given provisions,’ Suruk said. ‘It is no wonder humans are so weak. On my world, the young are left to fight among themselves, ensuring that the strong survive. It never did me any harm. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and polish my skull collection.’

It was great to be back in space. Smith swigged from his bottle of beer and crossed the sitting room to the drinks cabinet. The doors parted with a hydraulic whine, and he squatted down to see what was left inside. He peered at the bottles: gin from the Indian Empire, navy rum capable of standing in for bleach, a bottle of tequila from which Suruk had already removed the worm, some sort of self-mixing snowball canisters that Carveth had bought – ah, there it was. At the rear was the ship’s bottle of sherry. He fished it out and poured a double measure into an unfolding wine glass.

Suruk was in the hold, whirling his spear in what he called the Corrosive Panda style. Rhianna had retired to her room to meditate and Carveth was piloting the ship, or at least in the control room. The door was ajar and Smith could hear her singing along merrily to The Specials. He strolled down the corridor and joined her in the cockpit.

Carveth’s feet were up on the console, where the less important controls were, and she was reading a pastel-coloured book with a cartoon of a bride and a squid-headed monster on the front.

‘Hullo,’ said Smith. ‘What’s the book?’

‘It’s called
Love Craft
,’ she said. She turned it over and read from the back: ‘ “Sophie thought that Ben was the one – but was he an alien star god hell-bent on destroying Earth?” ’

‘Girl’s stuff, eh?’ Smith said. ‘Thought I’d bring you a drink.’ He passed it to her. ‘Cheers, Cap,’ she said, beaming. Carveth took a deep swig of sherry. ‘That’s good.’

‘It’s bad form to drink alone,’ Smith said, taking a sip of beer. ‘How’s the ship doing?’

‘Well, we’re still inside it, so we’ve not sprung any leaks. 
Journey time estimated at thirty-six hours standard. 
Provided they don’t eat us when we get there, we’ll be fine.’

‘Good.’ Smith looked over the control panel, past a row of polished dials, some brass switches that did something or other, and over to the map on the main monitor, where a dotted red line crawled across the screen, showing their progress through the system. ‘Been feeling a bit bad, actually,’ he said to the monitor. ‘Shouldn’t have sounded off at you earlier. You did a good job getting the ship back, you know.’

Carveth shrugged. ‘I probably shouldn’t have given it away. You know, if there’s one thing worse than fighting aliens, it’s not fighting aliens but bloody kids instead. One of Oscar Wilde’s, that.’

‘Really?’