Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (12 page)

A small man sat in the booth, filling in a coupon. ‘Morning, brother. Sisters,’ he added, nodding to Rhianna and Carveth. ‘Thing,’ he said to Suruk. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes,’ Smith said. ‘I’m here on a matter of great urgency.’

‘Urgency,’ the man replied, in the tone of someone leafing through a dictionary to find an unfamiliar term.

‘I need to search –’

‘Can I stop you there? Is that a matter of dire urgency, or moderate urgency? Because if it’s dire urgency, I’ll have to ask you to fill in a form.’

‘What?’

‘Moderate emergency is two forms.’ The clerk reached under his desk and pulled out a sheet of blue paper. ‘This is a URF/290/C, requesting immediate relocation to the front of the queue. Now, your name goes here, and your countersigning officer –’

‘But there isn’t a queue.’ Smith gestured to the empty hall around him. ‘These people are with me.’

The clerk took off his spectacles and peered at them. ‘Not
now
there isn’t. But what if some other guildsmen came along with an equally important request? We’d need to know who to let go to the front of the queue. Very important form that,’ he added, tapping the paper. ‘There’s not many people get to fill in a URF/290/C. There’s people that’d queue all day just to see one of those.’

‘They’d queue all day to see a form that let them go to the front of the queue? But they’d only see it when they got to the front of the queue. So why would they want to queue up?’ A sharp pain in the forehead told Smith that it was time to think about something else. ‘Look, just give me the form –’

‘There’s a bomb!’ Carveth yelled.

A moment’s silence followed. Slowly, the clerk looked round at her. ‘Sister,’ he said, ‘we are all equal here. So wait your turn. If you want to go before this man here, you’ll have to have the right documentation. And you need to get in line for that.’

‘There’s a great big bomb under here,’ Carveth said. ‘And I’m with him. We’re all in this together –’

‘Indeed we are,’ said the clerk. He leaned back in his chair and looked wistfully over their heads at a statue of miners on an asteroid. ‘Indeed we are.’

Smith drew his pistol. ‘Right, that’s it!’ he declared. ‘We are taking over this building in the name of Popular Fist.’ The clerk’s eyes, suddenly wide, were locked on the barrel of the Civiliser. ‘A bomb has been planted by enemies of – well, of the people, actually, and we mean to find it. Now please –’

With a hiss of greased steel, a shutter dropped down in front of the booth. Someone had stencilled a message on the metal:
Back in 5 Mins
.

Smith leaned in and battered the metal with the butt of his gun. ‘Damn it, open up! What’s going on in there?’

A voice, muffled by armour, came back. ‘I’m on lunch.’

Smith turned round. ‘Bugger. It looks like we’re on our own here, men.’

Carveth sighed. ‘I thought there’d be someone to help us. I mean, where are all these workers, anyway?’

‘At work, I suppose.’

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I could really use half a dozen burly men right now. I mean, we could.’

Doors creaked open at the far end of the hall. Smith turned, covering the nave with his pistol. Half a dozen people approached, carrying toolboxes and portable scanners. At their head was a dark-haired woman in blue overalls.

‘Heard you needed a photocopier fixed,’ she called, ‘Wait – it’s you.’

‘Miss Chigley,’ Smith said. ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly. We’ve got to work fast, I’m afraid.’

‘Not a problem. I brought some of the lads to help.’ A rumble of greeting came from her comrades. ‘Er, what’s with the big gun?’

‘Well, I’ve captured this place in the name of Popular Fist. I thought it’d give us some space to work.’

Her mouth fell open, as if a puppeteer had forgotten to operate it. ‘You did what? You’ll make us look like mentalists!’

‘Well, you are a revolutionary fringe party.’

‘Not like that! We want to reform the post office, not start holding up buildings.’

‘Well, we have shared enemies. You know what to do.’

She grimaced. ‘Looks like I do. Alright, lads, let’s get the gear up. You owe me, Captain Smith. I hope you realise the mess we’re all in.’

‘Carveth,’ Smith said, ‘help Miss Chigley. Suruk, you and I will bar the doors. Rhianna, could you get on the tannoy and ask everyone to leave? Tell them there’s been a problem with the drains or something.’

‘That should flush ’em out,’ Carveth added.

‘Just get on with it,’ Smith replied, and as he holstered his pistol, he wondered whether starting a revolution in the middle of the city had been all that wise.

* * *

‘The trouble with this war,’ Bargath observed, ‘is that it’s full of damned foreigners.’

Half a dozen lancers sat in one of the Palace’s many common rooms, resting after lunch and mutually disapproving of the television. The morning had been as hearty as the meal: Morgar was not sure whether his stomach hurt more than the wounds he had acquired whilst tumbling off Frote’s back. He was not a natural jouster.

‘They should bloody well stop their nonsense.’ Colonel Pargarek had sunk so low in his armchair that Morgar had taken him to be asleep. Now the colonel struggled to sit up, as if crawling out of quicksand. ‘All these Ghasts and Yull. Bloody lemmings, pissing everywhere. It’s a disgrace.’

‘I hear the M’Lak Rifles are dealing with the Yull,’ Morgar ventured.

‘Oiks,’ said Pargarek. ‘One kills from the saddle, with a sabre, not running about with these silly arm-blades of theirs. Like this,’ he added, swishing his fist around.

A woman appeared on the television screen. She was good-looking, in human terms, Morgar realised, although dishevelled. He gestured for the wallahbot to turn the volume up: the girl seemed curiously familiar. Colonel Pargarek had fallen asleep, and was drooling on his mandibles.

‘…
which is like, totally, bad?’
she was saying.
‘I mean, I’m really opposed to interfering with other people’s lives, but there’s like a bomb here, so you should, you know, go outside or something.’

‘Who’s this dullard?’ Bargath said, without malice. ‘I do wish they’d keep these people indoors.’

‘
Now might be a really good time to re-evaluate your life, actually. Because you never know when you might, you know, explode.’

Morgar heard himself say ‘I think I’ve met her.’

‘Really, old boy? She sounds like a prize arse.’ Bargath braced himself, inflated his throat and let out an extended, rippling belch.

The woman on the screen was abruptly pushed aside. A M’Lak warrior replaced her: he wore a traditional mesh shirt under a dark green breastplate, chipped from battle and decorated with M’Lak characters. The warrior had a curious expression, at once proud, stern and rather pleased with himself.

‘Now that’s better,’ Bargath said. ‘This fellow looks like he might talk some sense, even if he’s a tad uncouth.’

Morgar groaned. ‘No he won’t.’

‘
Greetings, Ravnavar! It is I, Suruk the Slayer, who occupies your television. Do not adjust your set, or I will destroy you all! As of yet, we have this guildhall in our possession, as well as a bomb. Remain calm, for those opposing me will die, and their skulls shall be taken. And on that reassuring note, I shall depart.’

The image flicked back to the newsroom: fighting on the M’Lak self-governing worlds was at its peak; the King’s Own Orbital Dragoons had thrown back Praetorian Legion ‘Relentless Slaughter’ on New Manchester.

Morgar stared at the television, hardly noticing. His brother seemed to be burned into the screen. Something was going to go wrong.

* * *

‘Here,’ said Miss Chigley. She held up a foot-long cylinder. ‘One bomb. We found it jammed in the back of a model of the Tolpuddle Martyrs.’ She glanced at her comrades, who were packing up the rest of the scanning equipment on the far side of the hall. ‘Now, Captain, I’d be bloody grateful if you’d let us all go back to work. I’ve had enough revolution for one day, thanks.’

‘Of course. Carveth? We need to open the doors. It seems our work here is done. All we need is to call the police and have this Ringleader fellow arrested.’

She emerged from the shadows around the doorway, looking more worried than usual. ‘About that, Boss. The police are already on the way. There’s a news-drone here, too.’

‘Really?’

‘And Rhianna and Suruk are talking to it. And by talking, I mean issuing demands.’

A weight dropped from the bottom of Smith’s ribcage into the base of his stomach, like a rock dropped down a well. ‘What? Suruk is on television? Why?’

Carveth folded her arms. ‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but, after demolishing a police station, we went on the run, armed ourselves and took over the Guildhall to start a revolution. These things tend to get you noticed. In fact, short of using their hats as a commode, I’m not sure how we could make the police more interested.’

‘Ah. I see what you mean, now. One moment, everyone.’ Smith turned and ran down the length of the hall, towards the doors. ‘Suruk, where are you? Say nothing! Get away from the camera!’

He stopped at the doors. They were locked. Suruk and Rhianna had to be upstairs, in one of the many galleries. He turned to the staircase, a graceful sweep of stone, and noticed something move behind the window.

A spindly figure was advancing on the guildhall, striding across the courtyard. As Smith watched, it raised a hand and touched the brim of its tall metal hat.

‘Rhianna? Suruk?’ he called up the stairs. ‘Get back to the nave!’ He rushed back towards the others. ‘Miss Chigley, we’ve got a problem. I think you need to get out of sight.’

As the Popular Fist ran for cover, Smith loaded his rifle. A camera drone hovered outside the window, watching him.

Carveth sighed. ‘That’ll look good on the news.’

Smith grimaced. ‘It’s all right. We just have to stay here, and wait for the police to arrive. Then we can straighten everything out –’

‘
Ladies and gentlemen!
’ The voice was like a bomber flying overhead. Smith cocked his rifle. Carveth ducked. ‘Robots, humans, citizens of Ravnavar, roll up and roll out as we delight and entertain you with a demonstration of how we keep our city clean! Ravnavar needs order, and who better to provide it than I?’

Smith scurried down the length of the hall, bent low to hide his shape.

‘Regrettably, our audience from the Ravnavari Constabulary has been delayed. But the show must go on. Our first act: Captain Isambard Smith and his ship of fools. Time to fall down, clowns!’

The window nearest the door burst. The muzzle of a Maxim cannon was thrust into the gap. ‘Down!’ Smith yelled, and the roar of gunfire filled the room.

Bullets tore the air; chips of stone burst from the statues and the walls. Carveth raced yelling into a niche. The collected members of the Popular Fist ran to the basement stairs.

‘Suruk, get down here!’ Smith cried.

Another blast of fire tore down the hall. Smith ducked behind the statue of the worker holding up Ravnavar. The gunfire stopped. He saw Carveth peek out, shotgun in hand. Something heavy crashed against the doors.

Carveth rushed out and dropped down beside Smith. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ she panted. ‘All I wanted was a quiet life and a pony.’

The doors flew open, and the Ringleader was silhouetted in the aperture. He looked like an automated Uncle Sam, all tailcoat and top hat. As the robot limped into the hall, tossing aside his empty gun, Smith saw the rips in his outfit, now patched with masking tape, and the gobbets of solder on his chest and moustache. An encounter with a territorially-enraged bear had done him no good.

The Ringleader reached into the back of his tailcoat, and produced a length of industrial chain and a walking stick made from a length of park railing. ‘Nobody runs away
from
the circus!’ he bellowed, and he flicked the chain like a whip. ‘Come one, come all, and observe as I exsanguinate this tuppenny meatsack!’

Smith looked at Carveth. ‘It’s all right. I can take him. I just need to shoot out his hinges.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘And why don’t you pull the key out of his back while you’re at it?’

Smith stepped out and fired. The rifle kicked against his shoulder and the Ringleader stumbled back. Smith worked the lever, fired again, and the robot staggered, lost his footing, managed not to fall over and stood up just in time for Smith to line the crosshairs on his rifle with the Ringleader’s head.

The shot blew the Ringleader onto his back. He lay in the doorway, all chipped armour and spindly limbs, and with a creak of metal sat upright.

‘And now,’ he cried, ‘those two renowned strongmen, Ram and Rom Crane!’

One of the brothers lumbered into the rear of the hall. It was Rom, Smith realised, largely because he had written it in chalk across his forehead. The robot hunched over like an ape, metal fists almost brushing the linoleum. Someone, possibly a small child or the other Crane brother, had ineptly spray-painted a suit jacket onto Rom’s chest.

‘This used to be a nice neighbourhood,’ Rom growled. ‘You could leave your front door unlocked and all. But now I’m in it.’ His tiny head, almost an afterthought, slowly scanned the room. ‘Times was hard, but people used to take care of each uvver,’ he snarled. ‘And now I’m gonna take care of you.’

Rom lurched forward, his thick little legs picking up speed. He clanked and squeaked like tank tracks. As he rushed forward he seemed to grow – he widened, accelerated, turned from noisy to deafening – and then he sprang.

Rom’s fist swung out on his boom of an arm. Smith ducked, heard stone shatter overhead and was running, Carveth before him, as the remains of the heroic worker collapsed in an avalanche of shards.

‘This is my manor now,’ Rom bellowed.

Smith raised his rifle, and an identical voice roared, ‘Oi, Rom! This manor’s mine!’

He looked round: Ram Crane stood at the far end of the hall, whirring and clanking. He had garlanded himself with an open doorway, torn out of a wall, no doubt by ramming his own head through it. For a moment the two thugs stood apart, and Smith wondered whether they were going to turn on one another, but then the Ringleader snarled: ‘Butcher them! Festoon the rafters with their glistening innards!’