God Emperor of Didcot (29 page)

‘Not in public, anyway,’ Carveth muttered. Smith ignored her. She was clearly sulking at the prospect of imminent death.

Rhianna smiled. ‘
Namaste
, Isambard. Go in peace.’

He cocked his rifle. ‘Will do. Follow me, Carveth! To victory!’

From that point on, the battle became a blur to Carveth.

They ran into the streets, ducking between houses, a wave of scurrying figures. She ran from one piece of cover to the next, always glancing behind her, always ducking down.

At some point someone gave her a plasma gun to carry and then disappeared, so she hauled it behind her like luggage. She could smell dust and burning and the air was full of shots and bangs, crackling gunfire and the creak of machines.

There were incidents that stood out: a car came tearing down the street to give them a message from W that the north side of the city had risen up; Suruk and Morgar spotted an Edenite gunner at a third-floor window and split from the others to creep inside, with the intention of pitching the man out; a soldier at the corner of her vision was struck by some kind of Ghast heavy weapon and turned to red mist. Blinking in surprise, Carveth was very nearly hit by half a dozen disruptor rounds and Smith had to pull her along after him.

They ducked into a narrow street and suddenly everything was as quiet as Sunday afternoon. Carveth half expected wallahbots to roll out of the houses and start scrubbing the front steps. Something loud was going on in the distance. It could have been building work.

‘Have a seat,’ Smith told her. ‘You look like you need a rest.’

‘Right, Boss,’ she said numbly.

‘Back in a minute,’ he said, and he patted her on the sleeve and jogged back to the war.

Carveth sat down on the porch and tried to recover some of her composure. She took off her oversized helmet and vaguely considered puking in it, then reflected that knowing her luck she would only need it afterwards. If dying in battle wasn’t bad enough, dying in battle wearing a hat full of sick was probably even worse.

Wainscott emerged from the house opposite, a biscuit tin under his arm and a rolled-up magazine in his hand.

‘Hello, girlie,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ Carveth felt herself say.

Wainscott held out the biscuit tin. ‘Rich tea?’

Carveth said, ‘Have you got anything stronger?’

‘Hmm. Custard cream?’ Wainscott shook the box up.

Shocked to find herself doing so, she waved the tin away.

Wainscott looked down at her with a surprising amount of sympathy. ‘First battle, is it? Not having any fun?’

She nodded.

‘Fair enough. That’s understandable.’ He shrugged.

‘Bad thing, war. I just killed a Ghast with a copy of
Autocar
!’ he added, holding out the magazine. ‘Ran out of ammo. First time for everything. That said, I once rendered a man unconscious with an issue of
Practical
Caravanning
. I made him read it! Cover to cover! Haha!’

Wainscott ducked back into the house, then thought better of it and leaned around the doorframe. ‘Erm, couldn’t lend us some ammo, could you?’

‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Hell, you might as well have the bloody gun too.’

‘You’re a decent sort,’ Wainscott said, relieving her of her Stanford gun. ‘Well, can’t stay here chopsing all day. Good luck!’

He plunged back into the building, box still under one arm, leaving her with the magazine. The front cover showed a car driving through countryside, millions of miles away. She got to her feet and picked up the plasma gun. It reminded her of a French horn case.

Sudden movement in the alleyway. Her hand twitched to her service revolver, then she saw that it was Smith.

‘Carveth! Plasma gun, quick!’

She bent down and tried to undo the catches on the box. Smith ran over and tried to help her, which resulted in them fighting over the plasma gun. They fumbled wildly in the street as it rolled over and over in its box, their hands scrabbling as if trying to pin down an angry midget. A catch opened, and gleeful with relief they got hold of the weapon inside.

Printed inside the lid were the words:
Leighton-
Wakizashi Corp – Plasma, Infantry, Anti-Tank
. Smith slung the gun up onto his shoulder. Carveth took out the instruction booklet from the case.

Smith turned and looked at her. ‘Instructions,’ he said.

Carveth realised that neither of them knew how to work the thing. A new noise had appeared above the sounds of small-arms fire: the droning of a hover-tank.

‘ “All please loading shell A,” ’ she read out. ‘ “Connecting plasma shell A to main tube D, rewiring C and B as per diagram 6. Make firing pin sad for primer.” What?’

Smith thought. ‘Depress firing pin to prime!’ he exclaimed.

Carveth found a plasma shell – there were three in the case – activated it and Smith bent down so she could push it into the tube. ‘It won’t go!’ she cried. The shell began to smoke alarmingly.

Smith turned the shell around. ‘Try that.’

The shell dropped into place. ‘Bring up the others, Carveth,’ he said.

The alleyway opened into a broad road. Sliding across it, sleek and malevolent as a cobra, came a Ghast hover-tank.

It looked like a colossal steam iron, with a turret where the handle would be. The air wavered under it, and as it approached it gave out a low thrum that made Carveth grit her teeth.

Where was everyone? The road was deserted; the others must have run on ahead. Carveth glanced left and right, increasingly desperate. The tank was swinging round, the skull painted on the front turning to grin at her, and in a moment the turret would be facing them—

‘Shoot it!’ she cried. ‘Bloody shoot it!’

Smith fired. The plasma shell streaked straight into the side of the machine and cracked it open. Carveth threw herself down, felt a great boot of force kick her in the backside, and suddenly she was face-down in the dirt several yards away. Steam hissed in the air. Scraps of armour jutted from the ground like mis-formed, unnatural plants.

The tank was wreckage. Pink fluid coursed from a hole in what might have been its engine.

Smith lay on his front. Carveth ran over to him, felt his pulse and saw blood leaking from a gash in his scalp. He was unconscious but alive.

The blast had blackened Smith’s jacket and emptied his pockets over the surrounding area. His rifle and Civiliser lay a little way off. Carveth said, ‘Bloody hell,’ and there was a metallic squeak from behind and she turned to see a hatch opening on the stricken tank.

Something hideous in goggles was climbing out.

Without thinking, she tore the revolver from her side and fired all six shots into it, disgusted, making the same noise she made when hitting spiders with the heel of her slipper.

The Ghast fell out of the hatch and flopped onto the ground, made a rattling sound and rolled over, dead.

‘Ha!’ Carveth said, suddenly very proud. ‘Ha! Not so tough now, are you? Haha!’ She approached the Ghast and was prodding it with her boot when a long shadow fell over her.

Carveth turned around. ‘Oh, heck,’ she said.

It was the biggest Ghast she had ever seen. The thing was easily six feet eight. Insignia glittered on its lapels; the flapping coat made her think of Dracula’s cape. It clambered from the main turret, shoving the wreckage aside. The face, a mass of scars, twisted into a kind of smile. ‘Isambard Smith,’ it hissed.

Smith did not move.

The beast took a step out of the wreckage and looked down at Smith. ‘You broke my tank, Captain Smith,’ it said. ‘Now I break you.’

Carveth stepped into the way, raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
Click
.

The Master of Armour turned to her. ‘You, pygmy,’ it rasped. ‘Step aside.’

Carveth stood there, shaking with fear and anger. She could not move, but nor could she fight back. The Master of Armour took a step closer. It smelt like something that had died behind a leather settee.

‘Did you not hear, little man?’ The creature pointed at Smith and laughed. ‘As if any mere man could stop me now.’

Carveth’s helmet had slipped to one side, and she was not quite sure what it was saying. She unclipped the bothersome thing and it fell onto the road.

But lo! Downly did her self-dyed tresses fall, and lone and blonde she stood before the Ghast, and full ticked off and full of wrath was she.

‘Then know now,’ she cried, ‘that Isambard Smith is no man! Wait – no mere man! I’m a girl,’ she added. ‘Um. . .’

The praetorian swatted her out the way and she fell onto the pavement.

‘
Aah
,’ it said, baring its teeth, and Carveth grabbed Smith’s penknife, pulled open a random blade and drove it into the monster’s back.

The praetorian screeched. It stood there, reaching for the tool for cleaning horses’ hooves that was now wedged in its spine, and Carveth kicked it in the stercorium.

The Master of Armour whirled around and Carveth darted away. Her hands seized a bent rod, some piece of the hover-tank. The Ghast stumbled aside and Carveth grabbed a handful of leather coat and bashed the monster’s back end with the rod like a Mexican child hitting a piñata.

The Master of Armour lurched across the road, screeching and flailing. With a massive effort it shrugged all its limbs at once and the coat fell off, and Carveth fell with it. She hit the ground, rolled over, looked up and it was standing over her with a pistol in its hand.

‘Enough!’ it snarled, and shot her.

Carveth fell back and the Master of Armour holstered its gun, satisfied. It took a step towards her, grimaced and stopped to rub its throbbing stercorium. ‘
Ak! Smakt
natsak!
’

With a sound like thunder, sunlight blasted through its body from behind. A second thunderclap and half its head disappeared. It dropped to one side in a tumble of limbs.

Carveth could just about see. A man stood over her wearing body armour under a trenchcoat. An enormous pistol was in his hand. It was Rick Dreckitt.

Typical, Carveth thought. I finally meet a decent man and I’ve got a severe bullet wound. Isn’t that always the way?

‘Sister,’ Dreckitt said, ‘you’re hurt.’ Then he turned and yelled, ‘Hey, medic!’ He dropped onto one knee. ‘Hang on, lady. You’ll be alright once the meat wagon arrives.’

Carveth doubted it.

Smith was woken by a Ghast loudspeaker. ‘– hopeless! We shall ruthlessly crush all opposition! You cannot hope to escape! Your only hope of survival is to completely surren—’

The voice rose into a gabbling squeal and died. Smith sat up. Behind him was a wrecked alien tank, steaming. Its driver lay next to it. To his right was a huge, dead praetorian, its leather coat beside it. Officer caste, he realised, and he got up.

A familiar figure stood nearby: Susan, the beam gunner from the Deepspace Operations Group. She nodded at him and strolled over. ‘Got a nasty cut there, mate. Doesn’t look too deep. Better get it sealed up.’

‘What happened?’

Susan shrugged. ‘Well, your Morlock chums ran off to do over some Goddies, you shot a tank from a stupid range and it knocked you flat, your pilot saved your life by bashing the Ghast headman in the knackers when he was about to shoot you and the enemy are falling back. Um. . . that’s about it.’

‘Saved my life?’ he muttered. ‘Bashing the headman?

How long have I been out for?’

She scratched her head. ‘Five minutes.’

‘Where’s Carveth?’

‘Your pilot? She took a hit. Easy, mate – she’s with the medics. She’ll be fine.’

‘Good.’ Smith reached down and picked up his rifle. ‘Well, I’d best make myself useful.’ Wincing, he meandered down the street and round the corner, towards the Ghast line.

As Smith turned the corner a flapping leather coat disappeared down the road and out of view, followed by a bobbing rear. The praetorians were retreating. Three or four bodies lay in the road: Ghasts, a man and an ant-hound. Another Ghast hung halfway out of an upstairs window.

There were billboards along the street bearing the Hyrax’s propaganda, and the jubilant Teasmen were pulling them down. One showed the Hyrax smiling through his beard and giving a thumbs-up, and read:
Beat
your wife – she’s probably a heretic
. The soldiers were not actually dancing, but they were not far off it.

A figure stumbled out of an office to Smith’s right. He whipped around, gun raised – and saw that it was Suruk.

The warrior was badly cut and covered in plaster. In his arms he carried another M’Lak, one that Smith at once recognised: only Morgar could have worn such a horrible golfing jumper.

‘Bloody hell,’ Susan said from Smith’s side. ‘That’s your fellow, isn’t it? He’s carrying one of his heavies.’

‘He is not a heavy,’ Suruk growled. ‘He is my brother.’

He stooped and laid Morgar down on the ground. Smith saw holes in the architect’s chest, four or five of them.

Morgar had lost a lot of blood. It looked grim, Smith thought. About the best thing that could be said of the situation was that Morgar’s awful sweater was ruined.

‘I am dying,’ Morgar said.

‘Not true, brother,’ Suruk replied. He glanced up, and for a moment he looked almost apologetic. ‘Gilead’s fools ambushed us. I dodged their shots, but Morgar was not so quick, and the cowards shot him many times before I could slay them all.’

‘Forgive me,’ Morgar rasped. ‘I grow weak, Suruk. I have devoured my last canapé, run my final whist drive. I am an architect, not a warrior.’ He smiled weakly behind his mandibles. ‘I fear I will never go back to the drawing board now.’

‘No,’ Suruk replied. ‘You always were a warrior. You merely took an extended career break. I gather it is often done in the modern workplace.’

‘Really?’

‘Indeed,’ Suruk said, crossing several fingers behind his back. ‘On my honour.’

‘Then I shall live!’ Morgar wheezed. ‘I am a warrior of the tribe again! Has anyone seen my glasses?’

Suruk stood up. ‘Guard my brother,’ he announced. ‘Fetch healers for his wounds!’

Other men were pouring in to join them. Smith looked across the square, at the tank he had bagged and the dead Ghasts around it. He felt extremely proud, both of himself and his men. Then he remembered Morgar and Carveth, and he felt guilty for being proud. He looked down at the Master of Armour and a little of the pride returned. Its many limbs guaranteed it a future as an excellent hat stand.