God Emperor of Didcot (3 page)

‘Excellent,’ said Smith.

Hattie glanced round at Smith. ‘All defences optimal,’ she said. ‘All regular units are diverted to the sector rim. Citizen Guard units are being trained to take up local defence in the event of unrest.’

W nodded. ‘Unit strength of Citizen Guard?’

‘Fully trained,’ she replied.

‘Well, that sounds splendid,’ said Smith. ‘Should Gertie put his big red arse over the border, we’ll easily get him on the rim.’

W said, ‘But this mobilisation leaves our internal defences weakened. Were a major fifth-columnist move-ment to arise, we could well find ourselves without the manpower to put it down.’

‘Fifth columnists!’ cried Smith. ‘Those dirty traitors! Where?’

W raised a hand and coughed. ‘All in good time, Smith.

But first, a question. Our Empire hasn’t lost a major war since the Imperial Revolution and the fall of the Over-empire. Despite being civilised and amenable, we have a reputation for military success unrivalled among the Great Powers. So, what makes the Empire so good at fighting?’

Smith frowned. ‘Well, I’d say it was either a combination of superior equipment and training, or not being made up of foreigners.’

W stood up and poured the tea. ‘Close, but not so.’ He pushed their cups across the table, along with an extra one for Mr Hebblethwaite. ‘Look at what’s in your hands, and you will see the answer.’

‘China?’ Carveth suggested. ‘Is it Chinese people?’

‘No!’ W’s big hand slapped the tabletop. ‘It’s the tea! The tea is what makes us strong!’

There was a brief, not-wholly-comfortable pause.

‘Are you
sure
it’s not superior training?’ said Smith.

‘Watch,’ said W. ‘You, girlie. Turn the projector on, would you?’

‘I knew there was a reason I got my pilot’s licence,’ Carveth said grumpily, and as a projector descended from the ceiling on an arm, she pressed the switch. The room lights dimmed.

Elgar played. In the centre of the wall, a Union Jack fluttered. The words ‘Public Information Film – Private’

appeared across the flag. W pointed at the centre of the image. ‘Pay attention, everyone.’

The image of the flag cut to a desk: the desk in this room, in fact. W stood behind the desk. ‘Pay attention, everyone,’ he said. ‘This is a film about tea, sponsored by the Combined Horticultural Amenities Regulator and the Factual Information Bureau. Many of you may be wondering why you are watching a film about tea.’

The picture cut to a street on what might have been Ajax Minoris. A reporter thrust a coffin-shaped micro-phone at an old man. ‘What’s all this about tea?’ the old man said.

The film cut back to W behind his desk, lighting a roll-up. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Today, I intend to tell you about the importance of tea to our culture and its role in defeating our alien enemies. But first, a little history. Tea was discovered by Chinese people many years ago.’

‘See?’ said Carveth. ‘Chinese people.’

A picture of some ancient Chinese appeared on the screen. ‘Soon afterward, tea began to be grown in what is now modern Indastan. In the seventeenth century, tea was acquired by British colonists and taken back to England. It was not long before the custom of adding milk to tea was developed, shortly before the spread of British naval power across the Earth. This is no coincidence.’ The screen now depicted Nelson and his officers sipping tea on the quarterdeck of HMS Victory while, behind them, a rather disorientated cow was being winched aboard.

Scientists appeared on the screen, working in a cavernous laboratory. ‘These are
boffins
. Boffins such as these have proven, through science, that the addition of cow’s milk to tea causes a chemical synthesis, producing enzymes conducive to high levels of moral fibre. And we all know how essential moral fibre is in strengthening the morale, wisdom, bravery and downright decency of citizens everywhere.

‘Following the discovery of the proper way of drinking tea, the First Empire remained unbeatable in battle, conquering a wide range of scoundrels, despots and foreigners with the help of unlimited tea. However, the golden age of tea was not to last.’

The music became sombre, and the screen now depicted a group of feeble-looking aesthetes sipping some sort of cream-topped, sprinkle-spattered drink, like an anaemic dropping in a cup. On the edge of the picture, a pot-bellied lout swilled pop from a can.

‘During the period of decline leading to the tyranny of the World Government, tea was discouraged in what historians now see as a concerted and malign effort to poison the resolve of the Imperial People. Insidious corporations foisted unnatural drinks made of coffee and syrup on the demoralised populace. For that dark period the future of man was decided by others, until the Imperial Revolution and the fall of the Over-Empire. Now, we may rest assured that the strong arm of the honest tea drinker will never again be made skinny by the latte of foreign oppressors.’

The music changed again, this time to brisk Walton. A pair of citizens, a woman and a man, ran through a meadow hand in hand. ‘This is the future,’ W’s voice said. ‘Your future. The Empire lies in the hands of citizens like you, people ready to fight to defend democracy and decency from alien aggression.’ The man and woman had climbed a small hill, now dawn broke over them. The woman was pointing at something out of shot, while the man poured from a teapot. ‘We shall go forward and face our foes with weapons in one hand, mugs in the other. Let those who seek to oppress us remember that a storm is brewing.’

‘Jerusalem’ played, and the flag reappeared on the screen. Smith stood up instinctively, realised that no one else was standing and sat down. The lights came up.

‘Stirring stuff,’ said Smith.

‘It’s consumption of tea that makes t’army strong,’ Hebblethwaite said. ‘And, I may say, what makes your British worker the finest int’ Empire, if not int’ whole galaxy.’

Hattie nodded. ‘Statistical analysis of historical data indicates that moral fibre raises the efficacy of combat troops between twenty-four and sixty percent. Moral fibre is estimated as thirty percent more effective than numerical superiority, selective breeding, honour codes, religious fanaticism, and so forth.’ Her calm, dead eyes fixed on Smith. ‘The most effective factor in the development of elite troops is moral fibre.’

‘And moral fibre comes from tea,’ said W.

‘Good lord. Well, I’ll remember to have more of the stuff,’ Smith said, uncertain how he could do this without wiring himself up to a drip. ‘But where do we come into this?’

‘You need to see how tea production is managed on a galactic scale,’ W said, rooting about on his desk. ‘We need to look at the Empire as a whole. There should be a holographic projector here somewhere. . . and I put a map under it. Here we are.’

He tugged out an Ordnance Survey map of Known Space and opened it up. ‘Now, this large pink area in the middle is the Empire. At present, the main battlefront is down here, along these systems. Here, from Cerberus to Pleides, is where the main attack is expected to come, and where we’ve sent most of our heavy ships ready to meet the Ghasts head-on.’

‘Splendid,’ said Smith. He was familiar with the battlefront.

‘And here, near the border, is the Didcot System.’

Smith was particularly familiar with this dot: Rhianna was stationed there. He knew the distance from Didcot to a variety of other places, just in case he was going past and could find an excuse to divert a few billion miles from his course and drop round to say hello. He found himself smiling at the prospect of being able to look her up. Unfortunately, he had no idea of where in the system she was stationed.

W frowned. ‘The Didcot system has two settled planets: Didcot 6, which is used by Morlock settlers and, more importantly, Didcot 4. On Didcot 4, sixty percent of the Empire’s tea is grown.’

‘Can’t say I know the place,’ Smith said, surprised.

‘You may know it by its other name. People call it Urn.’

‘Urn,’ Smith repeated. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of Urn alright. Is that a force field around it?’

‘No, that’s where I was using the map as a coaster. Urn is a self-governing British Protected Dependency. It has a permanent contract to supply the Empire with tea. In return, we have supplied it with a missile grid to deal with orbital threats and have promised to protect its integrity.’

‘Good.’

‘It was indeed good,’ W said. ‘Perhaps too good to last. Recently, a rabble-rouser calling himself the Grand Hyrax seems to have appeared from nowhere. He’s already gained considerable support on Urn. He’s a cultist, probably a lunatic, and he claims to represent the Brotherhood of the New Eden.’

‘Wait a moment,’ Smith said, ‘isn’t that the same funny church they have on – oh, New Eden?’

‘Quite. The same thing.’

‘Gilead,’ said Carveth.

New Eden was a league of human worlds allied to the Ghast Empire. They worshipped a god of their own design called the Grand Annihilator, a delinquent amalgam of the worst features of several of Earth’s old gods. Smith had run up against the Edenites before, when the brutal, stupid Captain Gilead had tried to capture Rhianna, believing her to be an angel who could be forced to fight on his side. There weren’t many people who could make the Ghasts look sane, but the Edenites were making a good job of it.

‘The Grand Hyrax is a maniac,’ W explained. ‘His version of Edenism is even more extreme than the sort practised by Edenite High Command. He has amassed a horde of fanatical followers known as the Crusadist Cult, who have pledged to overthrow the democratic governor and make the Hyrax their divine emperor. We believe that, if this happens, the Crusadists will ally openly with New Eden and halt the export of tea. And you realise now what would happen to the armies of the Empire were they to be deprived of tea.’

‘By God!’ cried Smith. ‘What an evil plan! We can’t just sit here and let a man like that plot against the Empire! We should fly to Didcot this minute, settle his goose and cook his hash!’

‘Sort of,’ said Carveth.

Suruk had been sitting quietly, listening to the humans discuss a lot of stuff that did not greatly interest him. Now, however, the talk was taking a more appealing turn. He made a rattling noise at the back of his throat. ‘Then, tea-makers, I will be glad to assist. My humans here will transport me to the world of Urn, and I shall confront this fool and chop off his head.’

‘No,’ said W. ‘If the Grand Hyrax is to be stopped, it must be done with subtlety. The potential for civil unrest is too great.’

‘I could creep up on him first,’ Suruk suggested. ‘Then chop his head off. How about that?’

‘You’re to fly straight to Urn,’ W said. ‘There you will meet up with our chief – and only – secret agent there. He’s been instructed to make contacts with the Teasmen, the local settlers. From the amount of money he’s been asking for, he should have built up some strong contacts by now. I will reach Urn a few days later, undercover as a journalist. I’ll claim to be researching a story for the
Daily
Monolith
. Together we’ll work out what to do, and together we’ll put a stop to this conspiracy against the common people of the Empire. For a plot against tea is a plot against the liberty of the human race.’

‘Well said,’ Hebblethwaite declared. ‘Grand sentiments!’

From the side came the creak of wheels. Smith had forgotten about the Grandmaster of the Collective Union of Plantation Production Associates, as much as one could forget about a man who lived in a gigantic vat of tea. He looked around at the Grandmaster, and saw his own face reflected in the smudged, dented metal above the little tap: a mask of determination with a well-kept moustache.

‘The tea
must
brew,’ the Grandmaster said.

‘We will go at once,’ Smith promised. ‘We will prepare for all eventualities and, if needs be, we will destroy this man. But we need to do this the Imperial way. First, before we kill him and take this planet for ourselves, we shall see if he will listen to reason.’

‘Crusade! Crusade! Butcher the unbelievers! Wade in their blood! Rejoice in the lamentation of their women and drive their children before you like lambs to the slaughter! Crusade!’

‘So much for reasonable,’ said Isambard Smith.

They stood at the back of a crowd that spread for a hundred yards in every direction from the front of the ex-warehouse that was now the Church of the Grand Annhilator. Above them, the sun of Urn had reached its peak, and the heat was remorseless. The combination of sun and shouting made Carveth slightly queasy and she felt grateful for her hat and ice cream.

On the balcony of the church, the Grand Hyrax was a flailing mass of beard, hair and wide sleeves. He looked like a battered wizard trying to summon up spirits.

‘What do we want? Crusade! When do we want it? Now!’

‘What’s he doing?’ Carveth demanded, jumping up and down. The crowd roared approval, a wave of sound.

‘Not quite sure,’ Smith said, struggling to lean around the tall man in front of him. The fellow wore a collapsible wire frame on his head, with a piece of cloth stretched over it to form a sun-shade. ‘The tea-towel this chap’s got on his head is spoiling my view.’

Carveth elbowed him. ‘You can’t say that!’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘That’s, I dunno, racist or something? Rhianna’d have your knackers if she heard you going on like that.’

‘Excuse me?’ The man in front turned around. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. This
is
a tea towel, actually,’ he said, gesturing to his headwear. ‘It’s traditional on Urn: it bears the symbol of the collective plantation where I work. We Teasmen are a proud bunch, you see. Also,’ he added, pulling the ends of the tea towel over his ears, ‘it’s good for blocking out all the noise made by that colossal tit up there.’

Behind the Hyrax, a row of robed, wild-looking men ran out like a chorus line and started battering themselves industriously with sticks. ‘You’ve got to admit, he knows how to put on a show,’ Smith observed. ‘He’s even got his own flagellants.’

‘Indeed.’ Suruk nodded. ‘He seems full of hot air.’

‘Flatulence, Suruk,’ Smith said. ‘Different business.’