God Emperor of Didcot (17 page)

‘Earth gravity, 22 hour day cycle, silicated carbon base, fully breathable, no serious native diseases, radiation tolerable, expansive duty free. I can see why Suruk’s clan moved here.’

‘Yes.’ Smith stood behind her, watching the yellow-green ball spin before them. He was only half listening. ‘It’s been a long while since I saw his family,’ he said. ‘I first met them back on Avalon Prime on the other side of the Empire, while I was on holiday.’

‘Oh yeah? Nice bunch, are they?’

Smith recalled his first glimpse of House Agshad, as they hurdled the parapet and charged bellowing into the fort. ‘Not exactly, no.’

‘So what happened?’ Carveth asked, and she immediately started rooting round under the main console. ‘Oh look, there’s some chocolate down here.’

Smith had been travelling the Empire before training as a space captain. Part of the Grand Astrotour had involved a trip to Avalon Prime see how the colonials lived.

Shortly after Smith arrived, everything went wrong. It had all started when a M’Lak called Ergar the Eviscerator took a stroll along the cliffs overlooking the Beach of Dalgath, a noted beauty spot. On the way, he met a family of British tourists, who asked him to show them the quickest way down to the beach. Being a logical and helpful sort, Ergar pushed them off the cliff.

Three days later, a dreadnought shelled Avalon Prime from orbit, and the M’Lak declared open season on mankind. The British drew back to their regional garrisons and prepared to resist the alien horde, but they were badly outnumbered. The aliens were thrown back as they tried to storm the fort, but Imperial soldiers fell too.

As losses rose, every able-bodied man was pressed into service.

‘And before I knew what was going on, I was in the armoured trousers of an Imperial marine,’ Smith explained.

Carveth shrugged. ‘People need companionship at a time like that. Don’t blame yourself.’

‘No, the marine was out of the trousers when I put them on. He’d been killed earlier. You’re not listening, are you?’

‘Of course I am. Go on.’ She came up from behind the console with half a chocolate bar.

‘Well, the Morlocks were savage enemies: fierce and determined. Though they only carried spears and knives –they don’t much like fighting at range – they swarmed up the walls faster than we could manage. Eventually, we ran out of ammunition, and it was our swords against theirs. I must have bagged three or four of them like that, and then I came up against Suruk. He was a terrible foe to face.’

‘I thought he was supposed to be hard.’

‘Terrible from my point of view.’

‘Gotcha.’

‘Anyhow, I did what I could while the others primed the base reactor. We were overrun before we could blow ourselves up – which was for the best, I suppose. The Morlocks said they hadn’t had such fun for ages, and they let us go.’ Smith blinked, as if waking from a dream.

‘And you were best of friends ever since?’

He shook his head. ‘No. We parted company as warriors of different tribes, enemies by circumstance, but comrades in battle. I became a space captain, and Suruk’s people moved here, to Didcot 6. It was three years before fate threw Suruk and I together again, in Debenhams. But that’s a different story.’ Smith moved away and shrugged. ‘Well, bring us in to land, Carveth.’

‘Right away,’ she said.

In his room, surrounded by trophies, Suruk crouched on his stool. He needed to save his strength for meeting his family.

The skulls stared at him with sightless eyes. Ghasts, Humans, Yull, Croatoan, Procturan Ripperspawn – all worthy enemies. But Suruk had promised to return to his people at the head of a mighty army, and these humans did not count as such. Smith was a bold fighter, but Carveth was a coward, and the only time Suruk had seen Rhianna wield a pair of blades was when she had cut up tofu with scissors. They were not the warlords he had promised to bring back to his family.

And besides, there were only three of them.

And when his family knew that he had broken his word, and returned in failure, things were likely to get serious. There would be violence, which was fine, but also disgrace. For what good was a warrior who went back on his word?

Suruk’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Gan Uteki, sacred spear of his forefathers. If he was called out, the sacred spear would slay its own kin. That was bad, very bad indeed.

The landing pad was wide, empty and surprisingly neat. A skinny figure waited at one side, its outline wavering in the hot air. It was a hundred and nine degrees.

‘Most of the buildings are underground,’ Suruk said as the ship touched down. ‘It keeps the atmosphere moist and makes them easier to defend if we are raided by the scumbag Yull.’

‘The Yull?’ Carveth said. ‘The human sacrifice Yull?’

Suruk’s fingers tightened around his spear. He was dressed for the occasion, festooned with trophies and knives. ‘Indeed. They claim we blaspheme against their gods. The Yull are shameful and vicious – worthy enemies for a warrior. A tiny pixie like you would stand no chance.’ Suruk flexed his mandibles. ‘Now, come. I shall speak for you, lest you are found wanting.’

Carveth stood up. ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling sweetly.

The four of them walked out to the airlock and Carveth spun the wheel and pulled the door open. Heat and sunshine flooded the ship.

‘Follow,’ Suruk said, and he stepped out the door and dropped out of sight. There was a soft thud below.

‘That’s for the tea-tray,’ Carveth said, throwing the switch to extend the steps.

They walked into the sun, shoes clanging on the metal steps as they entered M’Lak territory. Suruk waited at the bottom of the steps, dusty and slightly more angry-looking than before.

Rhianna wore a big floppy hat. Shading her eyes, she said, ‘He’s coming over here.’

The alien approached with the characteristic gait of the M’Lak: light and elegant, loping slightly. As it came closer, Smith saw that it wore a shirt and dark trousers. A jacket was draped over its arm. The alien’s boots reached only to its ankles, without the armour plating Suruk wore. It looked strangely dapper.

Suruk stepped forward. ‘
Jaizeh!
’ he cried, raising his spear in salute. ‘
Uth Suruk, Agshad moshak, Urgar
sushar!
’

‘Hello, Suruk,’ the M’Lak said brightly. ‘Nice of you to drop by.’

Suruk turned. ‘He speaks English to honour you,’ he hissed. ‘You are favoured.’

‘Oh, we speak English all the time,’ the M’Lak said. ‘It saves bother. I’m Suruk’s father, by the way. Agshad.’

‘Agshad Nine-Swords, who took sixty heads at the Battle of Arthak Gorge,’ Suruk explained. ‘A king among warriors and a credit to the line of my ancestors.’

‘Oh, go on,’ Agshad said. ‘You’ll make me embarrassed. Now, Suruk, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?’

Suruk stepped to one side and pointed to them in turn.

‘This is Isambard Smith, who I named Mazuran, a travelling warrior who I am proud to call friend. This here is Rhianna Mitchell, a seer much favoured of Smith, with whom he craves to spawn. And this is Carveth, an item of little importance. Yet it is she who steers the iron beast in which we came, which in the human tongue is called: “Space Ship”.’

‘Sheffield class, isn’t it?’ Agshad said.

‘Yes,’ Carveth said, pleased.

‘Nippy, but bad on corners, I’m told,’ Agshad said. He smiled behind his tusks, which were shiny and white. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you all.’

‘Father, I bring you a gift,’ Suruk declared. ‘This skull I cut from a praetorian, an elite soldier of the Ghast Empire. With no respect for the rules of war this monster assaulted us not four days ago, and with my blade I cleaved its head from its shoulders in honourable combat. This gift I make as proof of my prowess and to honour our ancestors.’ He bowed and passed the skull to Agshad.

‘Thank you,’ Agshad said. ‘Here. I got you a gift too.’ He passed Suruk a plastic bag.

Suruk lifted something out of the bag.

‘Hey,’ Rhianna said. ‘He’s got you a jersey.’

‘The receipt’s in the bag, just in case,’ Agshad said.

‘So from whom did you acquire this thing?’ Suruk asked.

‘John Lewis,’ Agshad said.

Suruk peered into the jumper, found the label and said, ‘It says “Pringle”. I have never fought one of those.’

‘It’s for golf,’ Agshad explained.

Suruk smiled. ‘Ah, golf. It has been many years since I swung a club. Perhaps this visit I may try again.’

‘Indeed?’ Agshad said. ‘You do know it’s a non-contact sport now, don’t you?’ He turned to the humans. ‘Well, welcome to Didcot 6. I hope you’ll have a pleasant stay. The ground-car’s that way.’

The car smelt of newness and M’Lak. Suruk’s room had always had a faint scent of ammonia; now the smell was unmistakable. Smith sat in the back beside the window and watched the town open up around them.

The buildings were underground, and the shops were advertised by signs; Smith was surprised how many estate agents and cafes there seemed to be. Perhaps the M’Lak had become a little more refined: it depended how you interpreted the delicatessen signs that read “Fresh meat here – proud to serve the community”.

Low domes protruded from the ground: air filters for the houses below. The M’Lak were not very gregarious, and their homes tended to be fortified to protect them from raiders, not just from space, but from neighbours using any pretence to start a fight. Imperial Beverages had once run a successful advertising campaign aimed at the M’Lak in which a new tenant sought to borrow a cup of sugar from the flat above, and began a twenty-year feud in doing so.

Carveth nudged Smith. He leaned over. ‘Suruk’s dad seems alright, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, not too bad. But be careful, Carveth.’

The car rolled off the road and down a slope. Shadow enveloped it, and they slid into a garage. Agshad halted the vehicle and helped them out. He stepped over to a door and typed a number into the keypad. The door swung open and they walked into the ancestral home of the line of Urgar the Miffed.

The hall was large, white and empty. The walls were smooth, and the sparse furniture was chrome and glass.

The only colour came from the subtle glow of soft lights and an abstract painting on the far wall. Slightly awed, they stopped just inside the door and looked around. It was at once poised and casual, artless and carefully designed.

‘Where are we?’ Suruk said.

‘The old hall,’ Agshad replied. ‘We did a bit of decorating. Your brother worked out the design. He’s ever so clever.’

‘But – the trophies,’ Suruk said.

‘Trophies?’ Agshad frowned. ‘Oh, those? In the attic. They don’t really fit with the concept your brother was going for. Besides, all those skulls everywhere. . . it’s a bit morbid, isn’t it?’

‘Morbid? Father, those are symbols of our honour!’

‘Of course. And they’re still here, don’t worry. Ah, here’s Morgar.’

Another M’Lak entered the room from a side door, shutting it neatly behind him. He wore a black roll-neck jumper, dark trousers and glasses, and his mane was drawn into a neat pony-tail.

‘Suruk!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good to see you, little guy!’

‘Morgar. I greet you with honour, sibling.’

‘Yes, of course. Honour to you too, right?’

‘These are my comrades,’ Suruk said, indicating the others.

Morgar nodded. ‘In partnership, eh? Well, take seats, everyone. Make yourselves at home.’ He dropped onto the sofa with a swoosh of leather, sitting on it rather than crouching, and yawned. ‘All the cut and thrust gets tiring, you know.’

‘True,’ Suruk replied, ‘but battle is its own reward.’

‘Battle?’ Morgar opened his mandibles and laughed.

His laugh was lighter than Suruk’s. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean literally. I mean at the office. The pen is mightier than the sword, and all that.’

‘That depends very much where you ram it,’ Suruk observed sourly. He sat down in the human fashion, to which he was not accustomed. Not having buttocks, he grimaced.

‘Morgar has made a killing in the city,’ Agshad said. ‘I’m very proud of him.’

‘Blood feud?’ Suruk asked, hopefully.

‘Architect,’ Morgar replied. ‘Ursath, Morgar and Brown, although Brown’s very much a silent partner. Dad here’s gone into accountancy.’

‘Accountancy?’

‘Absolutely,’ Agshad said. ‘There’ll always be books to balance. It’s interesting stuff. So, what do you do these days, Son?’

‘I quest for honour!’ Suruk declared. ‘I hunt the deadliest prey in the galaxy and do battle with them in the name of Suruk the Slayer and the glory of our tribe!’

‘Oh,’ Agshad said. He exchanged a look with Morgar. ‘So, you haven’t enrolled for law school, then.’

Suruk stared at them. Smith, Carveth and Rhianna looked at Suruk. Everyone looked blank.

‘We were hoping you’d become a doctor, or a lawyer,’ Agshad explained. ‘This family hasn’t had a doctor yet.’

‘But I am a warrior!’ Suruk retorted. ‘My trade is war!’ He paused, and a new emotion crept into his remorseless eyes. ‘This hall. . . the trophies. . . You’re. . . not warriors any more, are you?’

‘Well, times change,’ Morgar said. ‘Now, can I offer your friends a G&T?’

Suruk and Morgar left to prepare the drinks while Agshad went off to find some photographs of his holiday to Nigellus Prime. Carveth glanced at Smith. ‘So much for getting our limbs pulled off,’ she said.

Smith said, ‘This is a little worrying.’

‘I think it’s terrible,’ Rhianna said. ‘These poor indigenous people have been forced to accept Western values. Our cultural imperialism has burdened them with comfort and sanitation. Their standard of living must actually be similar to our own. Terrible.’

Carveth scowled. ‘Well, there goes the mighty army –less battle-scarred than battle-scared. Unless we decide to smash the Ghast Empire with a massive VAT fraud, I’d say we’re stuffed.’

In the chrome kitchen, Suruk watched as Morgar took things out of the fridge. ‘So what of my old comrades?’ he asked. ‘Are they all. . . architects like you?’

Morgar shook his head. ‘Oh, heavens no.’

‘Ancestors be praised.’