Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (31 page)

‘All the more reason to keep them under lock and key.’

‘And if we end up keeping them, it’ll look as if we’re holding onto them to spite the M’Lak. The M’Lak need to be able to see them for themselves. They need to know that the relics are part of Ravnavar.’

‘Well, of course they’ll know that. The labelling at the British Museum is second to none.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Do you know,’ he added, ‘some of the best labels in the galaxy are British. Look at Bovril Beef Extract. That label could only have come from Britain. You know why?’

‘Because nobody else thinks that it’s food, Isambard.’

Suruk looked around the door. ‘We are ready,’ he said. ‘But I do not think that you will like this.’

They climbed down. Smith closed the airlock behind them.

Hotels and restaurants stretched off in an arc along the waterside. A row of pedalloes lay on the shore. Automated bathing machines stood like siege engines on the waterside, painted in jolly colours. One had been blown apart, leaving only the tracks and gears.

‘Look,’ Suruk said, and he tossed an oblong tin onto the ground. Wires trailed from the box, along with a long wire aerial. ‘That was fastened to the fuselage.’

Carveth bent down, but did not touch it. ‘Bollocks,’ she said. ‘It’s a tracking device.’ She sighed. ‘The Yull must have attached it. You think they know where we are?’

Smith nodded. ‘I expect the lemmings will follow us as if we were – well, other lemmings. We’d best get moving.’

They set off towards the waterside, past torn striped awnings and the remains of wicker chairs. A big sign beside the water showed a family at play, all bathing costumes and merry smiles. Scrawled across it, in what Smith hoped was red paint, were the words ‘All Offworlders Die’.

‘There,’ Suruk said, pointing across the lake.

A tiny island stuck out of the water, empty except for a coating of moss and a fallen parasol. Smith thought that it looked rather like an olive stuck with a cocktail umbrella.

‘Where is everybody?’ Carveth said.

Suruk scowled. ‘Do not look up,’ he replied, and, naturally, everyone did.

The bathers were still here, strung up dead among the trees. Smith broke out the mints.

‘Why?’ Rhianna said. ‘Why do that?’

Smith put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said.

‘Because it is their way,’ Suruk said. ‘Perhaps once it was not. Who knows?’

Carveth pulled her shotgun up. ‘They’re evil because they like being evil,’ she said. ‘So let’s find this relic thing, get back to the others and kill every last stinking lemming on the planet.’

She stomped off down the shore. Suruk glanced at Smith. ‘Fear the wrath of Battle Girl,’ he said, and he followed her.

Smith shielded his eyes and looked at the little island. It was too small to accommodate the ship and, after their earlier adventure looking for Wainscott, he didn’t fancy putting the
John Pym
in the water in case it had sprung some new leaks.

Rhianna called out. ‘Guys? We need to find a boat.’

Suruk turned on the shore and pointed. ‘Boats we have! Forward the pedalloes!’

Smith looked around, saw nothing better, and reflected that dignity had never been his strong point anyhow. ‘Let’s go. Rhianna, Carveth, you’re together. Try not to fall behind. Or in.’

Smith and Suruk heaved the little boats into the water and splashed in after them. The pedals creaked as the boats began to creep across the water.

Smith held his rifle across his lap, and watched the trees on the far side of the lake. Maybe the Yull were already there.

‘Rhianna,’ he called. ‘Can you sense anything?’

Rhianna stopped pedalling and closed her eyes, and by the time she spoke, Carveth had almost spun their boat round in a circle.

‘Nothing –’ she said.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘Except death,’ Rhianna added.

The tiny island was only a few yards away. Smith looked down and tried to see through the murky water. He thought that they were travelling over a shelf of flat grey rock, but it was hard to tell.

The end of the little boat bumped against the island. Smith climbed out and Suruk heaved the boat onto the ground. The air was warm and still, the sky empty. The shore seemed a long way off.

The second boat stopped and Rhianna emerged, holding her skirt up as she waded ashore. She helped Carveth out, and the four of them stood beside the fallen parasol while Suruk took Volgath’s photograph out of his pocket.

‘This is it,’ the M’Lak said.

Carveth turned around slowly, staring across the water. ‘So what now, Robinson Crusoe?’

Smith said, ‘We dig.’

‘What with?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe if we broke the parasol up, we could improvise a sort of shovel.’

Rhianna crouched down and pressed her hands to the ground. ‘Why don’t we all reach out and touch the earth? Maybe if we show proper respect to nature, the earth itself will show us the way.’

Carveth scowled. ‘And I thought she was getting better.’

‘Come on, Polly. What about you, Isambard? You respect nature. We call upon mother nature to open the way to our goal –’ Rhianna said, and she shot forward, suddenly on her front, her arms disappearing up to the shoulders. ‘It’s dirt,’ she cried. ‘I’ve found dirt!’

‘Yay, dirt,’ Carveth replied. ‘I know you love that stuff, but –’

Rhianna shook her head. ‘Wait. I’ve found something else. I think it’s a door.’

* * *

General Wikwot stomped into the main entrance of Mothkarak with a cigarette still smouldering in the corner of his muzzle, his honour guard holding the flag of parley. He looked around. The first thing that struck him, apart from the sheer size of the place, was the odd smell: a mixture of dust and that unnatural absence-of-fur that characterised the other sentient races. Disgusting.

Statues of great humans stood in niches in the wall, twice Wikwot’s size. The nearest one was, according to a brass plaque, Oliver Cromwell. He looked soft. Wikwot spat his cigarette out and advanced.

Puny soldiers stood around with large knives and guns. For a moment he felt a twinge of sympathy towards them: it must be terrible, he reflected, to grow up knowing that you would never be a rodent. Timid, mangy, devoid of lemming spirit – no wonder they looked so angry as they looked at him.

General Young waited in a side room. She sat across a large table, her staff seated around her. A small dish in the centre contained some sort of human food.

To show he meant business, Wikwot thrust his paw into the dish, took out a large scoop, put the stuff in his mouth and spat it onto the floor. ‘Offworlder food is dirty and contemptible!’ he announced.

‘That was the pot pourri,’ said Florence Young. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘I shall take a seat,’ Wikwot replied, ‘and soon I shall take everything else!’ A ripple of polite laughter came from his minions. He yanked out a chair and dropped into it. ‘Now, unrodents, we shall discuss your surrender. No doubt you have heard entirely untrue stories that we Yull are a horde of genocidal lunatics. These are lies, and anyone repeating them will be skinned alive! It’s well known that we Yull are lovely and would not hurt a flea.’

‘Fly,’ one of General Young’s people said. His name-plate stated that he was Colonel Butt.

‘Do you doubt me?’ Wikwot felt the familiar urge to bash someone in the face. ‘Where I come from, it is flea!’

‘Figures,’ said Colonel Butt.

‘Stupid fat people,’ Wikwot said, ‘I have great respect for your empire. You have conquered vast tracts of space, made many planets your own. But, sometimes, a great warlord becomes… old. His grip on his axe weakens. He swings it less often. He gets soft.’

‘Meaning?’

The android butler appeared, carrying tea. He set the tray down and retreated out of sight.

‘That it is time for him to let the axe go. To pass the duty to care for his cattle to younger, more able hands. Because, believe me, we Yull know how to take care of those we rule.’

Florence Young raised an eyebrow. ‘And the old warrior in your analogy? What happens to him?’

‘Oh, we hack his head off.’ Wikwot yawned. ‘Trust me, offworlders, once you have been welcomed to the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective you will be treated with all the kindness and respect that you deserve. Now then, my minions have the paperwork –’

‘General Wikwot,’ said General Young, as the android butler began to pour the tea.

‘
Hwot?
’

‘I’m afraid that every scrap of evidence points towards you wanting to conquer this planet, torture and massacre its inhabitants, and do exactly the same to every other planet you can find. No?’ she said, quite mildly. ‘I’m afraid I won’t let that happen.’

For a moment, Wikwot was completely still. Then he let out a little snort. ‘Humans, I was made to rule. I was born into a noble family. As soon as I could lick my own fur, I was schooled in the way of combat. I slept for half an hour a day. When I smiled, I was beaten. When I failed, I was beaten. When I succeeded, I was beaten even harder so I would remember the moment of victory. At the age of twelve, I had a psychotic breakdown and murdered eight serfs with a propelling pencil. Only then was I found worthy of an army commission. I, and those I lead, are proud members of that warrior tradition. We Yull are committed to our cause – more than lazy Earth people could ever understand.’

General Young frowned. She spoke carefully. ‘I see. When I came here, General,’ she replied, ‘people asked me how you could fight an enemy devoid of sanity, mercy or any sense of self-preservation.’

Wikwot nodded, but his jaw was clenched. ‘A sensible question.’

‘The answer is hard, General Wikwot. One fights somebody like that very, very hard. Which, by a happy coincidence, is exactly what my soldiers are. This has gone far enough, Wikwot. Your rampage across space is over. Those of your army who choose to surrender will be treated decently. Those who fight will be killed.’

A low growl came from Wikwot, like a machine powering up.

Lorvoth the Bloody-Handed leaned across the table, opened his mandibles and smiled horribly. ‘The buck stops here, Wikwot. Or the doe – whichever you happen to be.’

Wikwot leaped to his feet. His chair clattered behind him. ‘You!’ he cried. He threw out his arm accusingly and glowered across the table, like a bad actor playing Banquo’s ghost. ‘You stupid, mangy, unrodent, flat-faced monkey-pigs are all the same! Racists, the lot of you! You only hate us because we are furry and superior!’ He glared at the tabletop, decided against jumping over it, and paused, breathing heavily, the same low panting growl coming from his open mouth.

‘You will all die,’ he said. ‘All weak things will suffer and die. You will beg for mercy, and then for death, but there will be no mercy for cowards like you. Great Popacapinyo has decreed that this world will fall to the Divine Migration. And you, General,’ he added, glaring at Florence Young, ‘will be the last to die, so that you may see what your arrogance has cost your men.’

He turned and strode to the door. General Wikwot looked back. ‘When the Yull rule,’ he said, ‘this place will burn.’

‘I very much doubt it,’ General Young replied. ‘For one thing, it’s made of stone. Now,’ she added, glancing towards the door, ‘if you don’t mind, I’ve got an army to lead.’

* * *

They hauled the dirt out by the handful. At the bottom of the hole, they found a circular hatch.

‘Wow,’ Rhianna said. ‘I wonder where it goes?’

‘The sewer?’ Carveth suggested. ‘I know a manhole when I see one.’ She sighed. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve been dropped right in the crap.’

‘This is no sewer,’ Suruk said. ‘Look! There are M’Lak characters on the edge. He climbed into the hole and crouched down. ‘Let me see what I can find.’

He traced the symbols with his finger. ‘The sign for caution. And this one means an entrance or opening. Strange,’ he added. ‘This is the symbol for “innards”.’

‘Caution, opens innards?’ Smith said. ‘What the devil does that mean?’

The hatch fell open. Suruk roared and dropped out of view. For a moment they stood in silence, and then a set of percussive noises indicated that something solid had stopped Suruk’s fall.

‘My mistake!’ he called up from below. ‘It said “inwards”, not “innards”. Oh, and there is a ladder here too. I wish I had known about that three seconds ago. I am beginning to see why you humans evolved buttocks.’

They climbed down, feet clanging on metal rungs. The air was still and old. The ground felt like rubber. There was a slight chemical smell.

As Carveth reached the bottom, lights blossomed in the floor. They stood in a corridor. Signs on the walls displayed the M’Lak symbol for
Exit
.

This is it, Smith thought. It must be!

‘Follow me,’ he said.

They walked on.

‘It’s like a huge tube,’ Rhianna observed.

‘Reminds me of a picture I once saw,’ Smith said, his voice echoing against the metal walls. ‘Hundreds of years ago, the French dug a tunnel to Britain.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure. It came up under London. I think they were trying to steal Nelson’s Column.’ He scratched his head. There was a large part of history that didn’t interest him very much, in between Britain losing control of the world and gaining control of the galaxy.

Suruk pointed. ‘An airlock.’

At the end of the tunnel, a dozen curved plates had interlocked like a contracted iris. M’Lak symbols ringed the door. White markings on the plates had closed together to form a skull.

‘I don’t know,’ Carveth said. ‘It’s got a skull on.’

Suruk sighed. ‘Piglet,’ he replied, ‘I think you are going to have to get used to that.’

He hit the control pad. The door hissed. Steam blasted into the roof. The sections slid back into the walls with a greasy scraping sound, and the iris-lock opened. Lights boomed behind it, and they saw what lay beyond.

Shelves filled the walls. On them, rows of skulls of half a dozen sorts. A thing like a typewriter, or perhaps a cash machine, stood on a plinth. Spears protruded from a bucket like bamboo sticks. On the walls, there hung pictures of a M’Lak warrior riding a huge mechanical beast.