God Emperor of Didcot (7 page)

‘462,’ Smith whispered. ‘My God. I thought I’d killed him.’

‘Resistance will not be tolerated! All opposing us will be shot!’ His face broke into a hideous smirk. ‘Remember, people of Urn, anyone who co-operates and donates his more nutritious relatives to the new order will be spared. Anyone who resists us will die, for we are infallible, and the triumph of our legions shall be proof of our infallibilinessity! All glory to Number One!’

462 saluted with his pincers and antennae, and he faded from the screen. In his place the emblem of the praetorians filled the screen like a pirate flag: a stylised Ghast skull with antennae.

‘Dirty aliens!’ Smith exclaimed. ‘This is British soil! Or it would have been in a couple of months.’ He frowned. ‘Six divisions, eh? There’s a rifle in the car. Follow me, everyone – we’re going to stop them dead in their tracks!’

The night sky was alive with lights. From the undersides of a dozen ray-shaped craft, searchlights swept the ground. Over the rush of thrusters, Ghast loudspeakers bellowed anything they could: ranting speeches from Number One; unfeasible promises of comfort under the Ghast Empire; crazy threats and jumbled insults.

All through the journey W sat in the back next to Suruk, talking on the fob-phone to his colleague Wainscott. Suruk wound down the window and stuck his head out to get a better view, and the smell of burning rushed into the car with the warm night air.

‘This is a terrible idea,’ Carveth said. ‘I mean, haven’t you noticed that we’re actually going
towards
the enemy? Four people can’t defeat six divisions, especially if a quarter of them are hiding. It’s like mooning people at light speed: it just won’t work. At a guess.’

A jeep swung across the road in front of them. Smith braked hard, and a man jumped down and ran over.

Smith pulled back his jacket and slid his hand onto the Civiliser. ‘One moment,’ W said, and he got out and paced across to the jeep.

The newcomer wore big shorts and a khaki shirt. At this distance he looked like a bearded, oversized boy scout. For a moment they exchanged words, then W turned back to Smith. ‘The spaceport’s taken!’ he called. ‘They’ve got the ships. We’re trapped here.’

‘Oh hell,’ Carveth said.

W strode back to the car, coughing into his hand. ‘They’re unloading biotanks, Edenite battlesuits, the whole bloody lot. The place is overrun: the cultists are going crazy in the city. There’s no way we can outfight this many. Even Wainscott thinks we’re in trouble.’

The spy stood in the dark outside the car, fires and searchlights lighting the night behind him, the headlamps turning his face into a crumpled mess of lines. For a moment he seemed confused. ‘Listen, Smith. We’re trying to get everyone out of the city that we can.

Forty miles east of here is a plantation called Chartham. We’ll meet at the bar there and plan our next move.’

‘Wait,’ said Smith. ‘Where’s Rhianna?’

‘This is an emergency, Smith,’ W said. ‘I think—’

‘It’s an emergency for her, too. You know the Ghasts have always wanted her for her powers, and now they’ve got the chance. More than anyone, she’s in danger right now. Gertie must be dribbling at the thought of getting hold of her. I would – if I were Gertie, of course. She needs a helping hand more than any of us right now, and I propose to give her one.’

W nodded. ‘You’re right. We can’t have them taking her alive. Have you got a map?’

‘Here.’ Smith passed him the road map and W drew a cross on it.

‘Here, at the edge of the city. St Carmilla the Tactile’s school for Ladies of Unusual Talent. Once you’ve got her, meet us at Rick’s Bar, Chartham plantation just as soon as you can. Understood?’

‘Right,’ said Smith. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good luck.’

W strode over to the jeep. Smith spun the car in the road and they drove away from the flames into the night.

They took the back streets; the Ghast attack was swift and unexpected, but already people were pouring out of the city, fleeing to the great tea plantations and the townships that serviced them. Smith drove through the industrial district to avoid the traffic, past the hulking shadows of warehouses and packaging plants, beneath the smiling billboards. He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw a huge face holding up a cup beneath a moustache as wide as a bus. ‘Tea – for vigour and regularity!’ the slogan said.

Far behind the picture, lasers flashed in the city.

‘Bloody hell,’ Smith said.

‘Look on the bright side,’ Carveth replied. ‘At least we’re driving away from the Ghasts.’

‘And also from our own ship,’ Smith said grimly.

‘They’ll have the
Pym
impounded by now.’

‘We should return,’ Suruk growled from the back. ‘I hunger for blood, and this car is making me travel-sick.’

‘You’d better not puke on the hamster,’ Carveth said. ‘If you hurt Gerald there’ll be trouble. I empathise with him.’

‘Because he stuffs himself with food and his cheeks grow wide?’

‘Captain, I think he just called me fa—’

‘Will you pipe down!’ cried Smith. ‘Just. . . be quiet, everyone.’ He stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel, sympathising with them too much to argue any more. She’s afraid, he thought, and who wouldn’t be? And Suruk: he must be frustrated to be going away from the fight. God knows I’d like a chance to bag Gertie Ghast right now, especially with that rotten bugger, 462, still dragging his big red arse around. He should be dead! I shot him in the eye!

‘It’s not easy for me either,’ he said. ‘I don’t like running away like this. Part of me wants to be back in the city, giving those dirty aliens a prime consignment of lead – but there’s a part of me that wants to be with Rhianna too.’

‘I can guess which part that is,’ Carveth muttered, and Smith pretended that he didn’t hear. A dial rattled on the dashboard and a huge, gabled building loomed out of the night before them. The car rolled under gates wide enough for a castle and they pulled up to St Carmilla’s.

Even this far from the General Government, the influence of Imperial London was strong. The school was a foreboding slab of Victorian High Gothic, riddled with carvings as if infested with artistic termites.

At the front of the school it was chaos: a swarm of young ladies was loading luggage onto buses, preparing to escape. Smith stopped the car and they stepped out into a sea of uniforms.

‘That is a lot of fishnet, even by my standards,’ Suruk said.

‘Over a thousand eighteen-year-old girls, and they all need protection,’ Carveth added. ‘It’s a hard old life, isn’t it, Boss?’

‘Follow me, men!’ Smith said, and, brushing down his fleet jacket, he strode up the stairs to the front doors.

A thin, refined-looking woman stood side-on at the top of the stairs. She lifted her chin and looked over her nose as they approached. ‘Good evening. Amelia Cleaver, Miss. How may I help you?’

‘We’re looking for Rhianna Mitchell,’ Smith explained. ‘It’s an important matter.’

Miss Cleaver frowned. ‘I see. Regrettably, Mr—’

‘Smith, Captain Smith.’

‘Regrettably, Mr Captain Smith, we have no-one of that name here.’ Something in the distance exploded. Miss Cleaver looked around with distain. ‘Really, some people,’ she said.

‘It’s urgent,’ Carveth said, her eyes flicking nervously in the direction of the sound. ‘We have to rescue her before they blow this place up!’

‘I very much doubt they shall, young lady,’ Miss Cleaver replied. ‘This is a respectable institution. We do
not
tolerate alien invasions at St Carmilla’s.’

‘Look,’ said Smith, ‘we were sent by an agent of the Parliament: we know him as W. He’s a tall man who works on the
Daily Monolith
. He has a friend called Wainscott.’

‘You had better come inside, then,’ said Miss Cleaver.

She turned and led them into the hall: a cool, vaulted room of laser-etched red brick, lit by globes at its corners.

Down the length of the hall ran a great skylight, and from it came ominous flickers of the city and the raiding ships.

Two girls hurried towards the exit.

‘Ow!’ Smith winced as they passed him. ‘That girl pinched me!’ He rubbed his bottom sadly. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much, if that swine Featherstone hadn’t burned me earlier this evening.’

‘You were lucky I was tooled up,’ Carveth said. ‘He wouldn’t have stopped beating your arse if I hadn’t pulled your piece on him.’

‘What an interesting time you spacemen have,’ Miss Cleaver said. ‘Follow me, please. Now, at St Carmilla’s we believe in turning out a better quality of psychically-trained young lady. Along with our more normal protégées, the Empire sends us its ladies of unusual talent and we try to instil some discipline in them before they turn their classmates into toast.’

‘Do you actually believe any of that stuff?’ Carveth said. ‘People being psychic and all?’

‘It depends how you define it,’ Miss Cleaver explained. ‘The ability to influence others is a subtle business.’

‘Well,’ said Carveth, ‘I’ve seen no evidence to prove that psychic powers exist.’ She blinked and scratched her head.

‘I myself – wait,’ Suruk said. His nasal holes twitched. ‘Enemies.’

Carveth looked around. ‘Where?’ she said, but she drew her service revolver all the same.

Smith raised the Civiliser and stepped in front of the women. ‘What is it?’

‘Wait,’ Suruk replied. He pulled out one of his larger knives, stepped back and threw it at the roof.

Half a second before the knife hit the glass, the skylight exploded. Smith spun and threw Carveth and Miss Cleaver to the ground as plastiglass rained around them.

He looked up, cocking his pistol. Tendrils dropped through the roof, and there were forms on them: helmet-wearing, insectoid things, black coats flapping around them like wings as they slid down the ropes.

One of them did not slide. A Ghast thumped into the ground at Suruk’s feet and he bent down and pulled his knife out of its body. The Civiliser roared in Smith’s hand and the chamber spun, and a second Ghast shrieked and fell like a dead bat. ‘Run!’ he cried.

There were more Ghasts at the skylight, clustered on the roof. Carveth stared numbly at them, repulsed. Dimly, she realised that these were drones, not praetorians, and that the invaders considered them disposable.

Then one landed on its hooves beside her, and she spun around, her arm flicked up and she shot the thing four times.

Miss Cleaver was at a side door. ‘Come along!’ she called back to them. ‘This way, everyone!’ Suruk jumped up and sliced off the last eight feet of one of the ropes, and bounded through the door. Smith followed, and Carveth ran after him. ‘Do get a move on, young lady!’ Miss Cleaver called and, as Carveth ran inside, she slammed the door and bolted it.

Something heavy hit the door. Alien voices chattered and barked.

‘You don’t have long,’ Miss Cleaver said.

Smith opened his gun and tipped out the empty shells. He fished one of the speedloaders from his pocket and dropped a new set of bullets into the Civiliser. ‘We need to know where Rhianna is. Pass me your gun, Carveth.’

The scratching of claws on the door stopped. For a moment Carveth wondered if the Ghasts had gone away, and then they charged the door together. The door shook. Brick dust trickled from the edges of the lock.

Smith reloaded Carveth’s gun and handed it back to her.

‘Any thoughts, anyone?’ Miss Cleaver sniffed. ‘Some of the girls – the more talented ones – were getting out the back way. I’ve told Rhianna to stay and wait for you there.’

‘How?’ Carveth said.

‘It doesn’t matter. Take the back way – careful on the stairs, don’t run – and take the corridor on the left. She’ll be waiting at the end.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’ Carveth said.

‘I can hold them,’ Miss Cleaver said. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said Smith.

‘Yes!’ Suruk snarled. ‘I will take their heads!’

‘No you will
not
. I have invested far too much time and energy in Miss Mitchell’s development to have it wasted in some galactic war. You will help her out of here. Well, Captain Smith?’

Smith paused. He looked at her and saw something like himself: a determination as great as his own, if not greater, and a strength of will that made him at once envy and pity her. ‘As you wish,’ he said grimly.

Thump
. The door shook. A screw fell onto the carpet.

‘Run along now,’ Miss Cleaver said. ‘Thank you for visiting our school, Captain Smith.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Come on, both of you. We’ve got work to do.’

‘Indeed.’ Suruk drew two knives. He turned to Miss Cleaver. ‘Good hunting, shaman,’ he said, and jogged after the others.

‘It cuts deep, leaving a woman behind like this,’ Smith said between his teeth as they strode down the corridor. ‘Very deep.’

The corridor was whitewashed and looked like the inside of a submarine. Pipes ran along the ceiling, lino squeaked underfoot and the smell of cabbage was thick in the air. It made him think of junior school, where he had been bottom of the class, and the memory made him afraid, which made him ready to fight.

The children had mocked him then, but there had been something prescient in their ridicule: they’d called him ‘spaceman’. He couldn’t remember why: he hadn’t been listening at the time.

They were twenty yards further away when the Ghasts broke down the door. The sound rang down the corridor and, like voices wafting up from hell, the barking of Ghastish followed it.

‘What on Earth is the meaning of this?’ Smith heard Miss Cleaver demand. ‘Simply barging in here—’

‘We seek two enemies of the Ghast Empire. You will—’

‘I will do as I please, thank you!’

‘Silence, human scum—’

‘
Mind your language
,’ she said, and the sheer force implicit in the words ran through them like an electric charge, like a tidal wave of polite indignation. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? I am a British citizen. You will watch your mouth, young insect-man.’

‘Very well. We seek—’

‘Be quiet and stop making a fuss. What’s all this nonsense about? Shouting and carrying on like this –it’s an absolute disgrace. I’ve a good mind to report you to your senior officer. You at the back there – pay attention.’