Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (37 page)

‘Conquer everything,’ Smith said.

‘Well, yeah, but…’ She stood up and walked to the railing. The dawn seemed to catch light in her messy hair. ‘I’ve learned that sometimes, there is no choice. You have to fight, or you have to die, and if you die, innocents will die as well. Just like the ponies that Polly protected. You have to stand up for your friends, like Suruk did when he protected us at the lake, shortly before he, er, knocked me out. Or like you did, Isambard, when you went out to rescue W.’ She turned and looked across the trees. ‘The galaxy is a beautiful place, and we must protect it: whether you do so by fighting in the front line, or by working in the factories, or just using your psychic powers to make enormous monsters have unusual sex.’

‘It’s called the Doctrine of Just War,’ Smith said.

Suruk nodded. ‘Just War. An excellent idea.’

‘Just as in
justified
, not as in
only
.’

‘It will suffice anyway,’ Suruk said.

There was a moment’s silence. Then, from below, came the voice of the nanibot, prim, high-pitched and efficient. ‘Major Wainscott! Major Wainscott, this is quite intolerable! If you do not put your trousers back on this minute, I will put you across my knee – again!’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Carveth said. ‘Right now.’

* * *

‘
Good evening. I’m Lionel Markham, and this is
We Ask the Questions
. Tonight, we’ll be discussing the new proposals put forward by the Imperial Government for a Federated Empire, to represent the various planets of space and, I quote, “Civilise the Entire Galaxy, one hellhole at a time”.

‘
Today, Ravnavar formally received Dominion status, granting it full control over all aspects of policy apart from its membership of the Empire and capacity to declare war. In the fine tradition of democratic compromise, this has made nobody happy at all. Joining me in the studio are two prospective MPs, hoping to be elected in the upcoming Ravnavari by-election: for the fringe party, Popular Fist, Julia Chigley; and lancer and independent candidate Morgar, Architect of Doom.

‘
Also coming up is an interview with the Mechanical Maneater, who’ll be discussing his role in the film version of
Grimdall: a Life in Pieces of Other People
. First, though, we’re going live to Andor, recently freed from lemming occupation. Major Wainscott, can you hear me?’

‘
Good evening.’

‘
Can we pan the camera up a bit? I don’t think the viewers want to see that. Thanks. Major, I understand that you and the M’Lak Rifles are currently mopping up the remainder of the Yullian Army.’

‘
Ha! Mopping up’s the word – it’s a mop and bucket job. I’ve just got back from the Amargan Heights and it’s like a diving championship there. The Yull’re queuing ten-deep to jump off.’

‘
Is it true that there have been incidences of our soldiers co-operating with the enemy?’

‘
Absolutely right. Some of the lemmings get indecisive, so we give them a shove.’

‘
And your view on the conflict so far?’

‘
Brilliant. I have a statement here. One moment… it’s in poetry. I call this:
Epitaph for a Lemming Army:

From righteousness the lemmings swerved,

Lured by dreams of death and war.

I know not if they got what they deserved,

But I bloody gave them what they were asking for!’

‘
Thank you, Major. That’s quite enough.’

* * *

It took two months to finish off the Yull.

The lemmings were too angry to give in and too frenzied to retreat in good order, and so they died in droves. The Equ’i located the Yullian food reserves and commando units blew up the stores. Central Command sent a batch of new Cauteriser landships fresh off the production line and they followed Mildred the ravnaphant from one warren to the next. The ravnaphant broke the warrens open, the landships turned their heat rays on the contents and the infantry finished off whatever remained.

‘You know something?’ Wainscott said as they picked their way through what had once been a Yullian fort. Water dripped from the leaves above them, as warm as gravy. ‘I’m getting sick and tired of arseholes thinking that we’re weak because we’re nice.’

‘You’re
not
nice,’ Susan replied.

The fort looked like a rainy day in Hell. Everything had been roasted: cinders crunched underfoot.

Smith looked at the skeleton of a lemming man. War hadn’t turned out to be quite as easy, or as much fun, as the lemmings had thought. He wondered what had happened to General Wikwot. Presumably, he’d jumped off a cliff.

Wainscott stopped. ‘What day is it?’

Smith shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. I think it’s Saturday.’

‘Fry-up tomorrow,’ Wainscott said. ‘I love the smell of bacon in the morning. It smells like… breakfast. Someday, this war’s going to end,’ he added. ‘Bloody nuisance, that.’

‘There’s still the Ghasts,’ Smith replied.

‘So there is,’ the major replied, and, whistling, he continued.

* * *

Two days later, Rhianna was sitting in the castle gardens, close to the edge of the forest. The presence of the ravnaphants had resulted in a lot of fallen trees and she sat on one of them, having first checked that it was not one of the creatures’ enormous droppings.

It was a comparatively quiet day and an ideal time for her to improve her mind by emptying it of all thought. She perched on the log, vaguely aware of the world around her, contemplating the majesty of space by staring into it, when something rustled in the forest to her left.

She glanced round. A lemming man stumbled out of the undergrowth. It wore a crude cowl stitched out of what looked like a Yullian banner. It lurched forward, zombie-like, dragging its rifle behind it. The cheeks, once packed with nuts, were hollow. It stared at her.

‘Must... kill... slow...’ the lemming muttered. ‘War-god...’ Its nose twitched, and a violent shiver ran over its matted fur. ‘
Grubgrub
,’ it gasped.

‘Hey, little fella,’ Rhianna said. ‘Are you hungry?’

The lemming man, who was six feet two, dropped onto the far end of the log.

‘Okay,’ she said, reaching into her bag. ‘I’ve got a special cookie here. I baked them, so they’re quite strong. You’ve got to take it easy.’ She leaned over, holding the biscuit out at the end of her arm. The lemming man stared at her hand, eyes swimming. Then its paw flashed out and it grabbed the biscuit and crammed it into its mouth. ‘Whoa!’ Rhianna said. ‘That’s... a lot. Just chill, alright?’

The Yull chewed slowly. It swallowed. ‘Tastes of… herbs. Now I must kill you.’ It paused. ‘Got another? I feel strange.’

‘I’d feel strange if I ate a whole one,’ she replied. ‘Just ease down.’

‘No! Must… fight… kill offworlders for Popacapinyo… crisps would be nice now.’

Slowly, almost elegantly, the lemming man slid off the log and dropped with a soft crump into the undergrowth. It lay there for a while, giggling, and then fell asleep.

‘Crazy,’ Rhianna said, and got back to clearing her mind. Four seconds later, it was empty again.

* * *

Carveth had been busy. Her fame as Battle Girl had spread, even though her coronation as Honorary Princess of the Equ’i had been disrupted when she burst a blood vessel from an overload of glee. A foreign reporter came to interview General Young and spoke to Carveth as well. A week later, the post shuttle brought them an allied magazine called
Freedom Hell Yeah!
which featured her on its cover – to Smith’s surprise, with her clothes on.

Smith flicked through the pages, taking in the exciting stories and bizarre spelling, and found a mention of the Space Empire. ‘
Battle Girl, second cousin of the Queen of England, leads the Roaring Commandos, a team of heavily-armored –
Carveth,’ he said, lowering the magazine, ‘you are not Queen Kylie’s cousin. I hope you’ve not been making stuff up. That’s our allies’ job.’

She shrugged. ‘It sort of came out.’

He sighed. ‘You did a good job, Battle Girl.’

‘Cheers, Boss.’

‘Now stop making a fuss and put the kettle on.’

* * *

The call came in while Smith was sitting in the
John Pym
, cursing the effect of the Andorian climate on his model kits. Wainscott’s team were out in the forest demolishing a warren. Smith called Carveth and Suruk out of the hold and woke Rhianna from a trance. It was time to fly.

Their target had once been a pumping station and had changed hands several times. Most of the decoration had been chipped and blasted away. Only a brass lion still stood over the entrance, tarnished and dented.

Half a dozen Equ’i waited at the landing point. ‘He’s in here,’ said the guide, pointing with a hoof. ‘Good luck to you, Princess Polly.’

‘Actually,’ Smith replied, ‘
I’m
in charge here.’

‘You?’ The guide whinnied, which Smith hoped was not laughter. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain,’ Smith said and, ignoring their offers and pleas of assistance, he walked into the station and into the dark.

It smelled of death, droppings and dandelion wine. Smith entered without his rifle, his sword sheathed and pistol holstered.

In the shadows, something massive lay on a bench.

‘Wikwot,’ Smith said. He felt a sort of angry pride. Here was the monster who had led the murdering armies of the Yull, who had thought that he would butcher Smith’s friends at will.

Well, bollocks to you, you drunken old fart.

The shape moved. Smith felt Wikwot’s gaze on him. ‘So,’ Wikwot said. ‘This is the end.’

Smith nodded. ‘Watership downfall.’

‘Offworlder,’ said the general, ‘where are you from?’

‘Woking, originally.’

‘I always wanted to go there. Mainly to trash it, but I’ve heard some of the countryside is not bad. Nice place to live. Get a job, dig a warren, have kids… At the end of the day, it’s all about the money and the does.’

General Wikwot sat up slowly. He was huge, Smith saw. Defeat and bad living had not made him any less of a brute.

Wikwot put something in his mouth. A match flared. Wikwot’s cigarette – Lucky Foot brand – and his white, blind eye gave him a hellish quality.

Smith took another step forward. An empty bottle of dandelion wine clinked against his boot.

‘They will say that I was a maniac,’ said the alien. ‘That I let my men run amok… Lies. I never lost control.’

Smith said, ‘From the smell in here, I’d say you lost control a long while ago.’

There was silence. Wikwot shifted position.

‘About thirty miles north of here, the rivers converge,’ he said. ‘We Yull call the meeting point Botlnec. Sometimes, at high tide, the light catches the water, and all the fish come to the surface as it shimmers in the moonlight. It’s... actually, I’m not entirely sure where I’m going with this. Probably should have laid off the wine.’

‘Come on,’ Smith said. ‘It’s finished, Wikwot.’

‘Are you an assassin, then?’

‘No. I’m a spaceship captain. And I’d be a pretty rubbish assassin if I told you that I was.’

Wikwot drew on his cigarette. He sighed. ‘How did it come to this? Two great empires, fighting to the death over this wretched planet. So much death, so much sorrow. How did we end up this way?’

Smith shook his head. ‘Well, it’s difficult to explain, really. I suppose both of our empires wanted the same things: power, prestige, territory. And then there are the economic factors. But it chiefly stems from you being a colossal arsehole, and going on a crazy rampage with your huge army of colossal arseholes. That’s pretty much it.’

‘Ah,’ Wikwot said. ‘That.’

‘I’ll be having your axe, please.’

The general got to his feet. He looked down at Smith, and quietly slid the battleaxe from his belt. Something stirred deep in his eye, beneath the self-pity and drunkenness; a mean, sullen anger.

They looked at each other for a moment, man versus lemming. Smith looked down at the axe in Wikwot’s hands, and knew that the general could. And why not? Wikwot could cut Smith down and run out to meet his death, to die as brutally as he had lived.

‘I’ll accept your surrender now,’ Smith said, and he put the Bearing into his voice. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Wikwot stared at him.

‘With all due respect, I’ll be taking the axe.’

Wikwot’s eye narrowed.

Smith focussed the Bearing. ‘
If you’d be so kind, General
.’

Wikwot held out the axe. ‘Oh,
fecinec
,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Smith took it from him. They walked out into the light.

The smelly gloom of the pumping station fell away, and Smith felt the sun on his face. He grinned as he saw his friends. The battle against the Yull was as good as over, and he and his crew had not just survived, but won. They had helped to make the galaxy free and safe. The tyranny of the lemmings was no more.

Suruk clenched his fist. ‘Victory!’

‘Hooray!’ Carveth cried.

‘Awesome!’ Rhianna said.

‘Yes, jolly good,’ Smith replied. ‘Settle down, everyone. I know we saved the galaxy, but that’s quite enough emotion for now.’

‘Offworlders.’

Smith looked round. Wikwot stood a few feet behind him, thumbs hooked over his sash. Suruk scowled, and Smith wondered if the old monster had one last trick up his fluff-covered sleeve.

‘You people,’ Wikwot said, and he shook his head. ‘What strange creatures you are. You live like weaklings, but you fight like wild beasts. You conquer half the galaxy, but when people put cream in tea instead of milk, you call it obscene.’ He looked them over, one by one, and sighed. ‘Take it from me, as a warlord of the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective: you are all very,
very
weird.’

‘Weird?’ Smith replied. ‘Certainly not. You see, my good lemming, we can’t be weird. We’re British.’

Toby Frost studied law and was called to the bar in 2011. 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 Smith novels,
Space Captain Smith
, was published in 2008.