God Emperor of Didcot (32 page)

‘Good luck with that,’ Smith said. The alien bounded into the crowd and was lost to view.

Smith sighed and glanced down at Carveth. ‘Thanks for looking out for me in the battle back there. You did a bloody good job, Carveth. I’m glad to see you back on form.’

She grinned and shrugged. ‘Well, you know me, I was born to raise hell. Oh look – cheese and pineapple sticks!’

W passed her a handful of sticks. ‘Come and join us,’ he said. ‘Smith and I were just discussing our next job. Now that the army has its tea again, I’m thinking of having a crack at the Yull. They’ve been building an empire they call the Galactic Friendship Project. We don’t like the sounds of it. Ah, and there’s Wainscott,’ he added, pointing towards the fire. ‘And Miss Mitchell.’

Smith turned back to the figures dancing in the light of the fire. Wainscott might have been a war hero and a fearless leader of men, but he danced like an uncle at a wedding. By contrast, Rhianna was modern and expressive, almost embarrassingly so. Carveth stood next to Smith for a while, watching Rhianna dance.

‘So, are you and Miss Wuthering Heights an item, then?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Smith said. ‘You know, I’ve not really had much chance to talk to her since the battle. It’s all been so hectic.’

Carveth nodded. ‘Well, you can’t hurry love, you know. Bide your time, wait for the right moment to tell her how you really feel, and then bone her.’

‘Thanks, Carveth.’

‘Happy to help.’

Two tall figures strode out of the shadow and hailed them. ‘Smith! Suruk! Anorak!’

‘Yes?’ Carveth said, immediately making a mental note not to answer to a name that meant ‘Piglet’ any more. It was Agshad and Morgar who had called. Morgar looked a little uneasy, but quite well, considering his injuries. The M’Lak healed quickly, and within a week he would be back to normal again. Now there were bandages on his hands, and bumps under his roll-neck sweater that must have been the dressings on his other wounds. He walked with a slight limp.

Agshad had his hands in the pockets of his Barbour jacket. There was a scarf wrapped tight around his neck.

‘Greetings, kin!’ Suruk said.

‘Hello all,’ replied Agshad. ‘We thought we’d best say goodbye before we go.’

‘You’re going?’ Smith said.

Morgar nodded. ‘Indeed. Our work here is done, and, to be honest, it’s not quite the sort of party I’m used to. It’s a bit, you know, busy. But thank you, anyway. It’s been a real education.’

‘Yes,’ Agshad said. ‘You know, Smith, when you offered us the chance to fight beside you, I thought you were an idiot, the kind of fool who thinks “astute” is a sort of weasel. But you have helped me get back in touch with my blood-sodden heritage, and you’ve taught me to be proud of both of my sons: my useful son Morgar, who brings home a wage, and my atavistic warrior son Suruk, who doesn’t. It’s been a really good holiday,’ he added. ‘I will be recommending war to all my friends back at the office. From taxman to axeman, one might say!’

Suruk bowed a little. ‘And I know my family is still honourable. Goodbye, father. Goodbye, Morgar.’

They did not embrace: the M’Lak disliked shows of emotion. Fair enough, thought Smith, watching them walk away. Soon he would have to talk to Rhianna. He did not know what to say. Somehow, in fact, sleeping with her had made it more awkward than before. Were they lovers, partners, sweethearts, or had she just made a terrible and naked mistake? Perhaps she didn’t want me at all, he thought. Perhaps she just got confused or some-thing. Confused? With what? Stop fannying around, he told himself. Get on with it.

Suruk chuckled beside him. ‘And I thought my father had no slight-of-hand. He managed to slip a brochure about law school into my back pocket.’

Smith was not really listening. Rhianna had stopped whirling around – jazz hands and AC/DC really did not go, he decided – and was approaching.

‘Hey, everyone!’ she called. ‘Over here! C’mon, guys!’

They joined her by the vegetarian barbecue. There were some picnic chairs laid out in a rough semicircle and Wainscott and his men were already there, working their way though a box of captured beer. Susan’s arm was in a sling. W sat down carefully and helped her open a beer bottle. Even Rick Dreckitt was there, at the far edge of the group, staring into a glass of whisky, the firelight catching on his stubble.

Once they had settled down, Rhianna switched off the radio. They could make out the distant music of other parties across the city, but their group was suddenly silent and intimate. They looked nervous.

‘Hey, guys,’ Rhianna said. ‘I think that it’s really im-portant, today of all days, that we express our feelings collectively. I feel that today we’ve shared something very important, and that we’ve demonstrated our opposition to oppressive tyranny, right?’

‘Yes, super, great,’ Wainscott said with evident relief, getting up.

‘I’m not finished yet,’ Rhianna said, and he scowled and sat down again. ‘Now then,’ she said, brushing a stray dreadlock out of the way, ‘We’ve had quite an adventure, all of us. And, as anyone who’s read the complete works of Tolkein as often as I have will know, an adventure often ends with a party – and a song.’

She reached behind her seat and took out an acoustic guitar. A rumble of unease ran through the group. ‘I wrote this myself.’

Smith grimaced. Much as he loved Rhianna, a dark part of his mind whispered ‘Folk music – till death do you part’. He found a cocktail sausage and broke it in half.

Rhianna fiddled with the strings and made a noise.

‘Oh my God, my wounds!’ Carveth cried, and she leaped up and staggered off, clutching her head. Rhianna struck a chord. Carveth came lurching back, grabbed Dreckitt by the arm and stumbled away, hauling him after her. ‘His wounds too!’ she called, and they disappeared into the night.

‘Right,’ said Rhianna. ‘I’ll begin. You can sing along with the chorus: singing’s always more. . .
real
if the audience joins in.’

Across the stars and all through space
 

One thing guides the human race,

Neither politics, nor belief,

Our future lies in the tea leaf.

Yet in our comfort we forgot

Alien eyes turned to Didcot.

The Ghasts invaded, Eden too

Which was a, like, bad thing to do

Hassling people with their hate
 

They imposed a theocratic state.

Galactic conquest was their plan - 

For they were working for the Man.

They took our land, our property

They tried to rewrite history

They held us down with tyranny

But they can never take our tea.

Folk of Urn were its defenders

Brave men and brave other genders:
 

Women fighting for their future,
 

M’Lak, who happen to be neuter

And in case there were some, keep in mind
 

People whose gender has been reassigned.

So we rose against their cruel regime
 

Destroyed their tanks and war machines
 

For with some people, I admit,

Non-violence just gets you hit.

And it’s hard to use the ways of Ghandi
 

When you’ve got a plasma cannon handy.

They took our land, our property
 

They tried to rewrite history

They held us down with tyranny

But they can never take our tea.

And the moral is that the tea shall flow

And – Guys? Where did everybody go?

As Rhianna looked around, Smith surreptitiously removed the two halves of the cocktail sausage from his ears. The Deepspace Operations Group had used their fearsome powers of stealth to slip into the night, no doubt in search of beer and rock music.

‘Just us, it seems,’ Smith said, and he got up and walked across to a chair nearer her and pulled it close. He sat down. ‘Righto,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Rhianna said, rather wistfully.

‘Right then. Mind if I, er—’

He leaned round, ready to kiss her, and she pulled back.

‘Isambard, we need to talk.’

‘Talk. Yes, of course.’ He leaned back in his picnic chair for a moment, thinking. This must be what they called ‘foreplay’. No doubt he was expected to say something to get her in the mood. ‘Jolly good song, that,’ he said.

Rhianna looked around at him and he was shocked to see that her face had acquired its sincerely-concerned look. Sudden fear gripped him. Something bad was about to happen, and it looked as if instead of rude stuff he could expect a tear-jerking monologue about why dolphins ought to be given the vote.

‘This isn’t going to work, Isambard,’ she said.

‘Nonsense,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve only had three pints. It’s like Carveth says: so long as you crank the handle, an old car can still be a goer.’

‘It’s not that,’ Rhianna replied. ‘It’s not you, Isambard. It’s me.’

‘You? If it’s about you being half-alien, I really don’t mind. It’s not like you’re Belgian or anything.’

‘Very soon you’ll have to go again,’ Rhianna said. ‘And I will have to stay here, with the government, learning how to use my powers. Isambard, no matter what, I won’t be anywhere near you. We should part as friends.’

‘But – but – what do you mean? We can’t just shake hands and go! We – you know – we
did
it. That matters, doesn’t it?’ Suddenly alarmed, he added, ‘That
was
doing it, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, that was doing it,’ she said sadly.

‘Besides, aren’t you into free love and all that? I mean, I’m as free as they come.’

‘Oh Isambard, if you weren’t so new to this, I wouldn’t say no. But I don’t want to hurt you. I know you have feelings for me, and I know they can’t come to anything. That has to end, for the good of both of us.’

‘Sod my feelings! I’m English, for God’s sake. I don’t do feelings. I hardly even have any. Rhianna, this isn’t fair. If I was a worse person, you’d be with me tonight. How does that make any sense at all?’

‘I guess it’s best for—’

‘Bloody women!’ Smith cried, standing up. ‘What is wrong with you people? One of you jumps under a race-horse and the whole world goes knockers-up! Well,’ he concluded, ‘I’ve had enough of this. You can do what you damned well like. I’m going to find someone who’s sane and decent and actually cares about doing the right thing instead of putting people down and messing around with their heads.’

‘Hello,’ Suruk the Slayer said, strolling over. ‘Anybody want anybody killed?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I have just had quite the most disgusting experience of my life. Bounty hunter Dreckitt is being awarded a portion on the kitchen table by the gnome Carveth.’ He scowled. ‘Several portions, actually. Sometimes, walking silently is not advantageous.’ He glanced at Rhianna. ‘She weeps, Smith. Not within my ambit.’ He turned and took a step away, then looked back. ‘Unless you want her killed?’

Smith looked: Rhianna was crying. ‘No, Suruk,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’

Suruk shrugged. ‘Merely a thought,’ and he sauntered into the dark, whistling cheerily through his mandibles.

Smith hurried back to his seat. Rhianna was weeping. A quiet, annoying sort of crying, like something that has sprung a slow leak. ‘Oh Rhianna,’ he said, stooping, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just, you know, it seems awfully—’

He did not get to finish. Quick as a Procturan Ripperspawn impregnating a host, she leaned over and kissed him. She stopped before he could black out, and looked at him and shook her head, as if with wonder.

Women, he thought, rum bunch. Distinctly rum.

‘Oh, Isambard,’ she said, ‘Do you really think we could make it work?’

‘Can’t see why not. I can make a spaceship work, pretty much, and you should see the dashboard.’

She smiled. ‘Hey, I’ve just had the best idea ever.’

‘Really?’

Rhianna leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘You know the water tank they’ve been using as an urn tonight? The bonfire’s almost out. The tea’ll still be warm.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Why?’

‘Want to go swimming, Isambard?’

‘But I haven’t got a bathing suit.’

She grinned. ‘Nor have I.’

‘Well, that won’t work. . . Oh my God, do you really mean—?’

‘Really.’

To his surprise, he did not pass out on the spot.

‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘Well, I mean to say, bloody hell. Tea’s up!’

This book would never have been written without the encouragement of my family and friends. In particular I’d like to thank everyone at Red Wave, Myrmidon and Verulam Writers’ Circle for all their help. Special thanks must also go to my long-suffering parents, and my friend Owen (even though he doesn’t like tea). I raise a cup to you all.

Toby Frost studied law and was called to the Bar in 2001.

Since then, he has worked as a private tutor, a court clerk and a legal advisor, amongst other things. He has also produced film reviews for the book
The DVD Stack
and articles for
Solander
magazine. The first of his Isambard novels,
Space Captain Smith
, was published in the spring of 2008.

Wrath of the Lemming Men!

From the depths of Space a new foe rises to do battle with mankind: the British Space Empire is threatened by the lemming-people of Yull, ruthless enemies who attack without mercy, fear or any concept of self-preservation. At the call of the war-god, the Yull have turned on the Empire, hell-bent on conquest and destruction in their rush towards the cliffs of destiny.

When the Yullian army is forced to retreat at the battle of the River Tam, the disgraced Colonel Vock swears revenge on the clan of Suruk the Slayer, Isambard Smith’s homicidal alien friend. Now Smith and his crew must defend the Empire and civilise the stuffing out of a horde of bloodthirsty lemming-men – which would be easy were it not for a sinister robotics company, a Ghast general with a fondness for genetic engineering and an ancient brotherhood of Morris Dancers – who may yet hold the key to victory. . .