The Great Guildhall of the Imperial General Union was vast, ornate, covered in statues and surprisingly hard to find, mainly because it looked like most other public buildings in the Space Empire. Only at close range was it clear that the statues carried hammers and toolkits instead of swords and trumpets, and that in place of haloes, they wore pencils behind their ears.
Smith trotted up the steps to the guildhall. Scrolls were sculpted over the doorway, bearing the names of great reformers.
He stepped in, and at once the heat of the morning was gone. Inside, the guildhall resembled a cathedral, and he stood at the entrance to the nave. In alcoves, stone angels held up spanners and cogs. Goggled cherubs swung mallets and hauled stone chains. In the centre of the hall, a huge marble figure raised its hand like Hamlet with Yorick’s skull. The skull had been replaced by Ravnavar itself, and Hamlet wore a cloth cap instead of a ruff.
Smith felt somewhat awed. Technically, he was entitled to be there, as a low-ranking member of the Space Pilots and Captains’ Egalitarian Department, but as he looked around the mighty hall he felt the familiar worry that someone would spot him and throw him out. He advanced down the nave, through shafts of light and the motes that spun in them, past statues of the Empire’s great guildsmen, to the wooden booth by the entrance to the gift shop.
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!’
Ram stomped down the hall, flexing his fingers. Rom swiped at Smith, who sidestepped and fired. The bullet sparked off Rom’s belly armour. ‘Hur hur hur,’ said Rom.
Weirdly graceful, a television mini-blimp sailed through the doorway like a cloud. It floated down the hall, rotors puffing, as if it was carrying extra weight.
Smith shot Rom in the leg, which had no effect beyond reminding Rom that he was still there. The robot turned, Smith lined up a shot and his rifle clicked empty.
He tore the Civiliser from his jacket. Carveth darted out from the ruined statue, skipped up behind Rom and blasted him in the back of the knee.
Rom stumbled. ‘Gotcha!’ Carveth cried, and a huge shape loomed up behind her.
‘Look out!’ Smith yelled, but too late. Ram Crane’s hand dropped onto Carveth, swallowed her up, and lifted her into the air.
‘I got his tart!’ Ram bellowed. ‘I got his tart!’
Smith glared at Ram and focussed his moral fibre. ‘Unhand her,’ he barked. ‘Stop that this instant!’
The Bearing would have worked on a machine with a larger brain. Ram called, ‘Rom, catch!’
Smith aimed the Civiliser and blew three holes into Ram’s head, with no result. Carveth screamed. The camera-drone swung low. Ram hurled Carveth at the far end of the hall.
Smith said nothing as Carveth sailed through the air. She moved agonisingly slowly, limbs outstretched like the arms of a starfish. He could hear her, far away as if underwater, but there was nothing he could do.
Rhianna stepped out of the shadows and raised her hand. Carveth still flew, end over end, but she shot towards Carveth, as if sucked into a vacuum, and as she did, the android slowed, righted herself, and landed beside her.
Carveth said, ‘Cool.’
Ram looked at his hand. ‘That does not bleedin’ compute,’ he said. ‘Oh well. Just have to smash your head in.’ He lumbered round to face Smith, and the camera-blimp sailed overhead.
Suruk dropped off the underside of the blimp, onto Ram’s shoulders. The M’Lak raised a strange device, like a kind of mechanical pitchfork. It looked weirdly familiar.
Ram noticed Suruk and whirled, trying to throw him off, but the alien was far too agile to be troubled by that. As Ram clanked and bellowed below him, Suruk activated the laser cutter and a beam flickered into life between its prongs. It came down on Ram’s neck like a guillotine.
His head fell off. Ram Crane took a step forward, one oversized hand groping at his collar, and then he collapsed piecemeal, the joints buckling one by one. He crashed onto his knees, and as Suruk jumped down, flopped onto his front.
At the far end of the hall, Carveth cheered. Smith looked at Suruk, and smiled.
‘Hands up!’
Smith looked around, and the Ringleader lurched into view.
‘Show’s over,’ the robot said. He held Carveth’s shotgun. His moustaches were bent, stuck at five minutes to three o’clock. Pistons wheezing, he took a step forward. It was remarkable, Smith thought, how much more dangerous the shotgun looked when Carveth wasn’t wielding it.
‘Rom,’ the Ringleader said, ‘A little advice. I am sorely minded to annihilate these excretions, to metaphorically scrape them off my boot. Does that seem a wise course of action to you?’
Rom shook his small head. ‘Nah. You should just kill ’em.’
Smith looked at the robot. In theory, Rhianna could use her powers to slow the shotgun pellets, perhaps even stop them – but she looked exhausted. Catching Carveth had weakened her. Carveth might not be very big, but she was clearly as dense as Suruk had always claimed.
‘Any last words?’ the Ringleader demanded.
Smith was out of protection, caught off-guard by enemies that even the Bearing could not defeat. He took a step forward. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘any moment now the police will be here. You’ll be linked with the lemmings, and that’s not just crime – that’s treason. They’ll melt you down for that. If you don’t drop that gun, you’ll be living out the rest of your life as a towel-rack.’
‘Good try. Rom, spill their claret.’
‘Yeah!’ Rom growled, and he advanced.
Suruk stepped up beside Smith. ‘On the plus side,’ he observed, ‘at least it will not be the lemming men killing us.’ He fired up the laser cutter as Smith drew his sword.
A side door burst open. A figure in overalls hurled a tube into the room. The tube hit the floor, bounced, bounced again and stopped beside Rom’s massive foot.
‘Get down!’ Smith cried.
Rom picked the tube up, as everyone else flinched away. ‘Er, where should I put this?’ he asked.
Miss Chigley made a vehement gesture with her fist. ‘Up the Fist!’ she cried, and Rom exploded.
* * *
The world was grey. A high-pitched sound rang through the air. It was like watching the test card on television, Smith thought. ‘Rhianna?’ he called. ‘Carveth?’ and immediately began coughing.
A massive shape blundered through the dust. Rom moved jerkily: sparks burst from the back of his head. ‘Lovely mum, what loved their boys…’ the robot grunted. ‘Took care of our own… times was hard then… wouldn’t hurt a door… you could leave your flies unlocked…’
A figure slid out of the dust from behind him like a furred Grim Reaper. In one movement it stepped forward and swung an ornate, long-handled axe over its head. As Smith saw the one white eye of General Wikwot, glistening in the dust-cloud like a pearl in dirt, the axe sliced Rom’s head off.
Wikwot stepped back, grinning, and the dust swallowed him. He seemed to fade with it; Smith saw other figures moving in the cloud and that none of them was the general.
‘Rhianna? Carveth?’
They were alive, thank God, all of them. A piece of masonry had gashed Suruk’s forearm and Carveth was unsteady on her feet, but that was it. As Smith wandered forward, trying to work out in which direction the exit lay, he saw the members of Popular Fist emerging from the basement as if from a bomb shelter.
A thin figure stalked towards them in motorcycle gear, scowling under his visor. ‘If any of you people are still breathing, me and this gun are bringing you in,’ Kallarn the Enforcer snarled.
Smith put his arm around Rhianna. ‘Everything’s under control, Inspector. You won’t need the riot squad.’
‘I never do,’ the inspector growled back. ‘You don’t assign me to hard cases. I am one.’
There was a gift at the exit. The Ringleader sat by the doors, back against the doorframe, legs sticking out in front of him. His head lay in his lap.
‘He failed the Yull,’ Suruk said.
‘That’s horrible,’ Carveth replied. ‘Killing your own people like that. I mean, what’s the point?’
‘For the lemming men,’ Suruk replied, ‘cruelty is its own point. Their hatred of honour is as long as their rancid whiskers.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said the Ringleader’s head. ‘You, Smith! Quick: I’m on auxiliary power here.’
‘What is it?’ Smith asked.
‘He’ll have gone to the old funfair: there’s a rocket there. By now he’ll be halfway to Andor. Tell your people to find that backstabbing, urinacious, one-eyed rodent for me. Flatten him – flay him – turn his pelt into a rug. Listen to me – the Yull are looking for Grimdall. Remember that. Grimdall. And with that,’ the robot declared, ‘the show’s over.’
His eye-lens unfocused.
A fresh camera-drone hovered above the door. As Smith walked out, he heard Julia Chigley address it. ‘We of the Popular Fist, having heard reports that unpatriotic enemies had planted a bomb in our beloved guildhall, decided to risk life and limb in defusing it. We rushed here and, despite the efforts of the city’s worst criminals, were able to prevent the bomb taking effect.’
‘Hey,’ Rhianna said. ‘That’s not true. She’s just gone in front of the camera, claimed all the credit and made up a load of rubbish off the top of her head!’
‘That can only mean one thing,’ Smith replied. ‘She’s entered mainstream politics.’
‘Well,’ Carveth said, ‘I suppose we can go down the pub now.’
‘Not so fast, young lady android. Remember what we came here for? Chaps,’ Smith announced, ‘we have a game to win.’
* * *
Morgar had been invited to the Monthly Grand Dinner of the Ravnavari Lancers, and tried to arrive as late as possible. He had expected it to be a tedious and stuffy affair, where various insanely loyal old warriors got slowly and deeply drunk on carbonated water and reminisced about the time when they had levelled some city of the beetle people so that humans could build a sewage plant on the remains. It was, however, far worse.
The dining hall was utter chaos – nobody was dangling from the chandelier, but then it wasn’t time for pudding yet. Everyone spoke over everyone else: the main way of getting the attention of a diner out of arm’s reach was to throw food at their head. Two lancers were either demonstrating a swordfighting technique or trying to murder each other in earnest on the top table. Their combat was largely ignored, except for cheers of encouragement and the occasional shout of reproach when one of them stamped on somebody’s dinner.
Morgar took his seat, and at once a heaped plate of animal flesh was put before him, cooked to varying degrees. An enormous amount of meat was being consumed – the lancers had declared pork to be an honorary vegetable sixty years ago, so as to avoid ruining their appetites with anything green. Somebody filled up all of his glasses: two of fizzy water, and one of wine to help soak up some of the bubbles.
‘The Admiral approaches port!’ someone cried.
What looked like a brown basin full of dirty water was pushed down the table: it was in fact a vast Yorkshire pudding, full of gravy, on which floated a paper napkin folded into the shape of a boat. A toy soldier had been wedged into the folds of the paper boat. As it passed by, each diner stood up and toasted the soldier, then refilled his glass and shoved the pudding onwards.
Four places from Morgar, the Yorkshire pudding disintegrated, prompting uproar, hilarity and more drinking. The admiral’s soggy boat wriggled up the table at the head of a tributary of gravy, and bumped against Morgar’s plate.
‘Does anyone want this?’ Morgar asked, holding up the toy soldier, and the answering roar told him that he had made a very bad mistake.
‘He’s docked!’ Colonel Pargarek exclaimed. He pointed at Morgar. ‘Let the harbour-master lead the drinking!’
A wallahbot approached, carrying an ancient green bottle in its pincers.
Morgar didn’t like the look of this: drinking wine was no problem, provided that it was not fizzy, – CO2 bubbles were highly intoxicating to the M’lak race but he was not certain that this new drink was wine at all.
‘Chateau Perrier, 1987,’ Captain Bargath announced. ‘It was a very good year for carbonated water. We keep a cellar, you know.’
The wallahbot unscrewed the cap and some of the water fizzed out, which pleased the lancers. By now, a sizeable group had gathered to watch the fulfilment of the ritual; even the two fighters had forgotten their duel and were standing on the top table, reverent in their silence.
‘Now then,’ Bargath said, picking up an alarmingly large glass, ‘the correct formation of the first five toasts –’
A horn blasted. Morgar looked around, wondering what grim new aspect of the ceremony it entailed. It took a moment to realise that the others were as puzzled as he.
A lancer stood at the end of the hall. He cupped his hands around his mandibles and roared, ‘Brothers!’
‘Uh?’ Pargarek grunted as if woken from sleep. ‘What’s this?’
‘I bring news from the Parliament,’ the new arrival called. ‘A full offensive is to be launched against the lemming men within the month. We are to make ready to join the fleet heading to Andor. Where others have failed, the Ravnavari Lancers will take the war to the bestial Yull and show them how real soldiers fight. Gentlemen, we are going to war!’
The bellow that answered him threatened to break the rafters. ‘Thrash the filthy rodents!’ Bargath yelled. ‘Teach ’em who owns this galaxy!’
‘Ride on!’ cried Pargarek. ‘Ride on to victory!’
‘Thank the ancestors,’ Morgar muttered. The lancers roared, overcome by the prospects of dishing out a self-righteous walloping. Morgar seemed to be in the eye of the storm. They’ll all go, he thought. It’ll be me and the wallahbots. I’ll be able to design the new restroom facility without one of these lunatics vomiting all over it every twenty minutes. ‘Brilliant!’ he shouted. ‘Go, lancers!’
A hand dropped onto his shoulder. He looked around.
‘Good lad,’ Bargarth said. ‘I knew you were the chap for the job. I knew there was more to you than all that arty-farty nonsense. General mobilisation! You’re got steel, my lad! We’ll ride out together, you and I. We’ll cover the walls in trophies!’
Bargath slapped Morgar on the back, as if to encourage an infant to cough up a foreign body.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Morgar replied.
* * *
‘How do you mean, a game to win?’ Captain Fitzroy sat, or rather lay, in an enormous wicker armchair in the dockside Colonial Club. In the chair opposite, her colleague and occasional paramour, Wing Commander Shuttleswade, was unconscious. ‘It’s all done and dusted, Smitty. And guess who won? I’ll give you a clue – she had the same name as me.’
It hadn’t been hard to find Captain Fitzroy: her bar bill was almost visible from orbit, and the trail of exhausted young men made her even easier to locate.
‘The games ended ages ago. We thought you’d gone off to…’ she glanced at Rhianna, and back at Smith ‘… see the sights. Anyhow, we found a new venue. A young men’s rugby club, as chance would have it. Forty-eight young men, eighteen to twenty-two, so gauche, and yet so charmingly naïve. I’ve been schooling them in the ways of righteousness. Pull up a chair.’ She smiled at Carveth. ‘You too, short stuff.’
On the far side of the club, a M’Lak in the uniform of the 6th Colonial Hussars burst out laughing. Ten years ago, people would have looked down their noses at such conduct, knowing that the M’Lak did not have noses down which to respond. Now, Suruk’s people were needed, and anyone crazy enough to want to fight the Yull was valuable indeed.
‘We had some problems with gangsters,’ Smith said. ‘But we’ve cleared them up.’
The bodies of Rom and Ram Crane had ended up with Nalgath the Scrapper and Mark Twelve, and would provide enough raw materials to replace the cutlery-limbs of hundreds of scrapbots.
‘Smashing,’ Captain Fitzroy replied, gesturing at a wallahbot for more drinks. At the window behind her, a shuttle rose from its pad into the cloudless sky and was lost against the setting sun. No doubt it was carrying a platoon to the ships in orbit.
‘We’re shipping chaps over to Andor, twenty thousand at a time,’ she said. ‘Fancy using the Chimera as a troop carrier! It’s positively demeaning. Still, we’ll be getting a crack at the Yull at last. High Command wants everyone out there. The lemmings are restless, it seems.’
A frigate hung in the sky, half a dozen service-blimps pressed against it like piglets at a sow. Rockets rose from the city, as if the towers of the M’Lak quarter were launching into space. Knowing the Morlocks, Smith thought, it was quite likely that they actually were.
‘This is it, isn’t it?’ said Captain Fitzroy. ‘Our empire against theirs, to the death. They’ve got the numbers, and they’ll never stop coming. The question is whether we’ve got the men and the skill to stop them.’ She sighed, and suddenly she looked like an old teacher instead of a head girl who had raided the liquor cabinet. ‘It’s going to be the end of an empire, no matter what. Best get your booze and bonking in while you still can. On which note,’ she added, brightening, and she leaned over and prodded Shuttlesworth. ‘Shuttles, we need to make use of the map table. I need you to show me where your Big Dipper is.’
Shuttlesworth opened his eyes, and for a moment he looked pleadingly around the room, like a man about to mount the scaffold. Then he said, ‘Right, Felicity.’
‘Good stuff. Best not keep the captain waiting.’ She stood up and straightened her jacket. ‘Adieu, Smitty and Co!’
‘I know I should look out for the sisterhood or whatever,’ Carveth said, ‘and I realise her interests overlap somewhat with mine, but my God that woman scares me.’
Suruk pulled chairs over and Smith fetched the drinks. The waiterbot, a spidery, multi-limbed machine, reminded him of Mark Twelve. Smith turned, glasses in hand, and seeing his crew made him afraid. Soon they would be fighting the cruellest, most demented creatures in the galaxy. Captain Fitzroy had been right, he thought: no matter what, an empire was going to fall.