Drums up the River

The John Pym slid away from the shore, using its thrusters on their lowest setting to manoeuvre. Steam rose from the back of the ship as Carveth flicked the engines, and then they were pushing quietly through the water, leaving Lake Trondo behind.

Trees curved over the river, meeting in the middle. The Pym slid into the tunnel they created, and suddenly the sun was gone. The forest was as hot and close as the throat of a giant beast.

Suruk took the first watch, squatting on top of the ship beside the dorsal hatch, scanning the banks for ambushes. They were still well inside Imperial territory – at least, in theory. The Yull were skilled infiltrators and, even this far back, it was possible that they had worked their way inside. Suruk peered at the overhanging trees. If the lemming men could choose any method of attack, in his long and gory experience, they would revert to instinct and drop down from above.

Smith sat with Carveth in the cockpit and made the tea while she steered the ship. Gerald the hamster scurried in his cage, oblivious to the larger rodents lurking among the trees. Despite the danger, Carveth seemed quite cheerful. Presumably war against genocidal maniacs wasn’t too bad compared with a cross-country run in the company of a sergeant-major.

Two hours in, Smith swapped with Suruk. Rifle by his side, he watched as they moved further upriver, into the foliage.

After a while, he took out W’s folder, and laid the papers out before him as if dealing a hand of solitaire.

Major Arwen Caratacus Peter Wainscott was forty-nine. He was born on Shropshire Secundus, on the edge of the Empire. Wainscott’s father had played lead clarinet for King Klezmer and the Wild Folk. His mother was a failed anthropologist, defrocked after falsifying six tribes north of Bogota. Wainscott had one sister, three years his junior, who from the photo in the file resembled the vengeful ghost of someone who had fallen down a well. Her name was Denethora.

Smith flicked on.

Wainscott had enjoyed a quiet childhood. To begin with, he kept himself to himself, but after reaching adulthood, he started to keep himself to anyone willing to take a look. His worried parents did the sensible thing and sent him to Officer Training College.

Wainscott had been a terrible soldier, to the extent that someone had scribbled ‘Does not play well with others’ across the top of the major’s military records. He would have been a disgrace to the uniform, had he ever been caught wearing it. He had hated everything about the army apart from the potential for destruction, at which he excelled.

Smith flicked through several photographs that he really hoped had been taken at a private function, and then paused at one of Wainscott staring down a rhinoceros. In the next picture, Wainscott and a group of M’Lak elders posed in front of a captured helicopter of the Sixth Edenite Air Cavalry.

Before the war had started for real, the Republic of New Eden had been trying to spread the word to the unbelievers, which largely meant shooting them and stealing their stuff. Wainscott was selected to smuggle weaponry to the M’Lak tribes on the grounds that, were he to be captured, nobody would believe a word that he said, truth or otherwise. As it was, Wainscott’s cunning and ferocity delighted the M’Lak, who tried to keep him as a pet.

‘Boss?’

Smith glanced up, and suddenly he was no longer inside Wainscott’s life. Carveth was half-out of the airlock, brandishing a mug at him. ‘Tea. What’re you reading?’

Smith showed her the title of the file. It said INTELLIGENCE, RESTRICTED.

‘That sounds like you,’ Carveth said. ‘I’d better get back to steering this ship,’ she added, and she disappeared through the hatch.

Wainscott would never be a proper hero; he was too mad for that. Any credit he had built up was lost during the visit of the President of Poland, when, during a military display, Wainscott had first field-stripped a laser cannon and then himself.

But it was the Warforge incident that brought Wainscott low. As a commando raid, it was flawless, an astonishing piece of high-quality mayhem. In one standard day, the major single-handedly destroyed the Ghast Empire’s entire Warforge Orbital Dock and, with it, a quarter of the Ghast navy. The only problem was that the Ghasts weren’t at war with Earth yet. Having got away from his enemies, Wainscott was put away by his friends.

And so Wainscott spent a year in his pyjamas, watching television and finding clever places to hide his medication. Smith read a short report detailing the major’s attempt to escape Sunnyvale Home for the Bewildered by clinging to the underside of the pills trolley. Wainscott amused himself by learning Urdu, Mandarin and Swahili, and writing angry letters to the Daily Monolith, explaining the dangers of Ghast rearmament. One day, the Monolith’s eccentric columnist, who had links to the Secret Service, wrote back, and included a metal file. Thus W recruited his first field agent. Nobody, not even Ghast Number One, had been happier than Wainscott when war broke out.

* * *

Smith heard voices. He put the file down beside him and picked up his rifle. They were too low for lemming men; it sounded like a crowd of humans. He crawled over to the hatch and looked down into the hold. ‘Suruk? Tell Carveth to slow down. There’s something up ahead.’

He lay down on his stomach and propped his rifle before him. Smith put his eye to the scope and saw that the light came from electric lamps, not fire. A metallic squelch blared from up ahead. It sounded like a speaker.

An attack boat slid up towards them. Two M’Lak crewed it, one holding a grappling hook like a weapon. The boat moved towards the bank to let them pass.

Hard white light flooded between tree trunks, as though a huge flare had been lit in the forest. Bunting hung between the trees. Union Jacks dangled over the water. All it needed was trestle tables and rain and it would have been like Elgar Day back home.

A soldier watched them from the riverbank. He was almost invisible against the trees. ‘What’s going on?’ Smith called.

‘CSE’s got a concert on,’ the man shouted back. ‘Jimmy Horlicks and Deep Uke. Here, aren’t you Space Corps?’

‘Yes, what of it?’

‘You’re a bit lost, mate.’ He pointed at the sky. ‘Space is that way.’

As Smith climbed back into the ship, he heard the distorted wail of a support act. He hurried into the cockpit. ‘Pull us into the bank, Carveth. We’ll see what all this is about.’

They gathered at the airlock. ‘You think we’ll find Wainscott here?’ Carveth asked.

‘I doubt it. But someone might know. It sounds like they’re having a bit of a jolly. Who is Jimmy Horlicks, anyhow? The name rings a bell.’

Rhianna ran her hands through her hair and made an attempt to tie it back. ‘He’s an English musician. Pretty far out, though. He’s one of the best ukulele players in space.’

‘It sounds dreadful from here.’

‘Come on,’ Carveth said. ‘The acoustics are all wrong. It’ll sound much better from inside the beer tent.’

They stepped ashore. A flat area about a hundred yards square had been levelled, and it was full of soldiers: mainly human, although a few intrigued aliens had joined them. A few guards watched the forest. Smith glimpsed a Sey tracker stalking between the tree trunks, beam gun strapped across its body. But the great majority faced the stage at the far end of the clearing, a red-curtained, gilt-sprayed lump of music hall torn up and set down in the forest.

‘Give me your beer coupons,’ Carveth said. ‘Suruk, give me a hand.’

Smith passed his coupons over. ‘Make mine a pint of Stalwart. And Suruk, stop her if she tries to run away with the beer.’

Suruk smiled. ‘She will not go far,’ and as Carveth protested her innocence, Smith and Rhianna entered the crowd.

Jangling, distorted sound tore out of the speakers, a tight, quick strumming amplified into a roar. The crowd cheered. Smith put his arm around Rhianna: partly out of affection and partly to stop her getting confused and wandering off. From what she had told him, festivals tended to have that effect on her.

A small man appeared on stage in a neat suit, holding a wired ukulele. ‘Eh up!’ he said, and the speakers turned his voice into a chipper, jolly bellow. ‘Thought I’d do a few tunes for you all. So then, what do the Empire’s finest lads and lasses want to hear?’

The man to Smith’s right cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Jimmy! Play All Along the Whippet Track!’

‘Cross Town Tram Ride!’ a woman yelled from behind. ‘Do Cross Town Tram Ride!’

The members of Deep Uke emerged from the wings to join Jimmy Horlicks. Rhianna leaned her head on Smith’s shoulder, and he felt very clever indeed.

‘This is a slower number,’ Horlicks announced. ‘It’s called Eh, Joe.’

As Deep Uke launched into a jangling song, Carveth slipped into view. Her right hand held a paper cup, and her left was locked around the wrist of a tall young officer. ‘I found this man!’ Carveth said.

‘Dammit, woman,’ the man protested, ‘I’ve got a wife and child – oh, who are you?’

‘Captain Isambard Smith. These are my colleagues.’

‘I see,’ said the man. He had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Major Dalston Pintle. I’m I/C of this station. Your pilot won’t let go of me.’

‘It happens sometimes,’ Smith replied.

Major Pintle shook himself free from Carveth and looked them over. ‘I heard there were some irregulars coming upriver. I didn’t realise you’d be quite this irregular, though.’

‘We’re looking for a group of commandos,’ Smith called back. On stage, James Horlicks was performing a complicated solo to Turned Out Purple Again.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Do you know the Deepspace Operations Group?’

‘I think I’ve got their first album.’

‘What about Major Wainscott? Smallish fellow, pale, with a beard.’

Pintle frowned. ‘Trousers?’

‘Probably not, I’m afraid.’

The major nodded. ‘There was a man, ’bout a month back. A bunch of soldiers brought him through. They looked like special forces types. I thought he’d got a bad dose of the sun and gone doolally. They headed north, following the river. Said something about blowing up a bridge. Bloody furries probably got him by now.’

‘Maybe. Thank you, Major.’

‘Happy to help.’

The song ended with a drawn out wail of vibrato. James Horlicks adjusted his tie and leaned into the microphone. ‘Thanks everyone, that’s grand. Now I’d like to play a new tune: I think of it as a new national anthem.’

Pintle glanced round as if he’d heard himself insulted. ‘A new national anthem? I won’t stand for it! Excuse me, everyone,’ he said, ‘got to keep order.’ He plunged into the crowd, indignantly shouldering his way towards the stage.

‘We should go,’ Suruk said. ‘Our quarry gains time on us.’

‘But what about the music?’ Rhianna said. ‘Come on, guys.’

‘We’ll leave the top airlock open,’ Smith replied. ‘That way we’ll be able to hear. And I know it’s nice here, but remember: the John Pym has cabins and a functional toilet.’

‘That does count for a lot,’ Carveth said. ‘Alright, back we go.’

The Pym pulled away from the bank as if under covering fire, the lights flooding the sky behind it. Rhianna sat on the roof with Smith, watching the crowd shrink and then disappear as the river curved and they were lost to view. She looked behind them for a while afterwards, as the twang of the ukulele still cut the air.

Well I’m standing next to the chip shop, a pint of mild in my hand.
Yes I’m standing next to the chip shop, a pint of mild in my hand.
The man says ‘Want a gherkin?’ and I say ‘That sounds grand!’
And I say ‘Howdo, child?’ Lord knows I say ‘Howdo, child!’

* * *

Smith was dozing on the sofa when Suruk prodded his shoulder. ‘Uh?’ Smith said, sitting up. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We have stopped at the bank,’ the alien replied. ‘Piglet wished to reconnoitre.’

‘Carveth? Reconnoitre?’

‘She told me that she had seen a creature that she needed to pursue. I thought such an interest in hunting was only to be encouraged.’

‘Hang on. You let Carveth go off to hunt things? Alone?’

Suruk looked a little hurt. ‘Oh no. I would never do that. She took Rhianna with her.’

‘What?’ Smith scrambled upright. The file slid off his lap, sending pictures of Wainscott sliding over the floor. ‘We’ve got to get them back. They’ll die out there.’

‘I told them to shriek if they were in danger. Oh, and Mazuran? I think we are being followed.’

Smith grabbed his rifle. ‘Let’s go.’

They clambered out of the roof hatch, into air as moist and hot as breath, and scrambled down the side of the ship. The wing creaked as Smith hurried along it and dropped down into the undergrowth. Something small and many-legged scurried away from his boot. He hoped Rhianna had her shoes on.

Roots crawled over the forest floor like veins: as they walked, the plants seemed to try to catch Smith’s legs. Something moved in the trees to the left: Smith swung his rifle up and saw a beaked lemur swinging from branch to branch, arm over arm.

If Suruk noticed it, he did not show it. He simply walked a little more cautiously than usual, occasionally glancing upwards or checking the ground. The alien put his hand out. ‘Here,’ he whispered, and he crouched down.

It took a moment to see what he meant. Rhianna’s tie-dyed shirt was surprisingly good camouflage against the lurid vegetation. Carveth stood beside her, half-concealed by a tree trunk. The foliage broke up the outline of the two women: a couple of fronds, a serrated leaf, and they had been almost lost to view. Smith wondered how close the lemming men could get.

‘Psst! Rhianna,’ Smith said. ‘Over here.’

She turned and put a finger to her lips. Suruk raised his eyebrows and then his spear. He advanced with high, careful steps, as though expecting the ground to give way.

Without turning around, Carveth whispered, ‘Look.’

She pointed. An animal slipped between the trees towards the water’s edge. The tree trunks blocking the way made it seem to flicker in and out of existence. It was large and four-legged, and at once Smith saw why Carveth had dared venture off the ship. The back was shorter than its Earth equivalent, the legs both thicker and more flexible, and the animal was bright blue, but there was no mistaking what it looked like, or the awe in Carveth’s voice.

‘It’s a pony!’

They peered through the bushes. The blue pony walked slowly towards the waterside, leaning back on the slope. It knew something was wrong, Smith saw. He looked at Rhianna and found that she was frowning in concentration, fingertips pressed to her temples.

Smith’s calf muscle began to ache and he shifted position. A branch crunched under his heel.

The pony glanced around, mane flapping, its wide eyes alarmed. Carveth said, ‘No, don’t –’ but it whirled and rushed into the undergrowth. Leaves fell behind it like a curtain, and it was gone.

‘You scared him away!’ Carveth exclaimed. She turned, and looked Smith in the eye. ‘Don’t ever scare ponies.’

Her intensity surprised him. Smith replied, ‘No I didn’t.’

Suruk gave a polite little cough, and pointed.

The jungle burst open before them. An enormous tusked head pushed through the branches, followed by a body the size of a rhino’s. The skin flickered, as if poorly tuned-in, and became paler as the creature emerged. Its eyes, mounted on stereoscopic cones, swivelled like gun turrets.

A moment later, a voice came from its back.

‘Frote! Frote, stop that at once!’ The rider, who had been knocked prone along its spine, sat up and blinked behind his spectacles. He smoothed his jacket, and adjusted his helmet. ‘Hello?’

Suruk stared up at the rider, at once astonished and appalled. ‘Morgar? What are you doing here? And do the Ravnavari Lancers know that you are impersonating them?’

‘Suruk? Good lord.’ Morgar took his glasses off, stared at the lenses, and slipped them back on. ‘Well, fancy that. Whatever brings you here?’

‘Bringing deadly vengeance to the scum of Yullia, of course. But why are you in that uniform?’ Suruk demanded. ‘The last time we met, brother, you spoke at great lengths about under-floor heating. Is there great demand for warm towel-rails in the jungles of Andor?’

‘Actually, I am a Ravnavari Lancer.’ Morgar peered down disapprovingly, like an old schoolteacher dealing with an irritating question. ‘I was commissioned to design a new restroom suite. As such, I ride with the lancers.’

‘Bah!’ Suruk said. ‘I have never heard of such nonsense.’

Morgar gathered the reins and sat up. ‘Well, stranger things have happened in the army. Our medical orderly used to be a professor of French literature. He told the colonel that he liked looking at Balsac and they had him checking the squaddies for bollock-rot.’

Suruk shook his head. ‘They must have asked for warriors used to sitting in command. You thought they said “commode” and signed up.’

A smallish dragonfly, no longer than a man’s arm, flew past. Frote opened his maw. There was a wet crack, and his tongue flicked out, hit the insect and whipped it into his mouth. Frote crunched it happily, while Carveth pulled a face.

Morgar folded his arms. ‘And what have you done, then?’

‘I?’ Suruk said. ‘Well, I slew many lemming men, took many skulls, and joined the great quest to rid this planet of the conniving Yull. Oh, I also had children, but I got better. Perhaps I could leave some of my spawn in one of your charming bidets.’

Morgar adjusted his glasses. ‘Suruk, do I detect a whiff of jealousy?’

Smith thought that Suruk was being rather sniffy about it all. The old warrior had always regarded his brother as somewhat effete. Perhaps Morgar was turning over a new, bloodstained, leaf. ‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘good on you, Morgar. It’s not many who get to ride with the Lancers. On which subject,’ he added, ‘shouldn’t they be with you?’

‘What?’ Morgar twisted round, looking behind him. ‘We’re out on patrol. The others must have – oh, bugger! Frote, get after them.’ He yanked the reins, and the shadar lumbered round. ‘Quickly, Frote!’

The beast rushed at the nearest tree, and in a moment had swarmed up the trunk. Morgar yelped, apparently as surprised by this as the onlookers, and Frote bounded upwards, incredibly nimble for a creature of its size. The shadar bounced out, suspended in the air for a moment and, as it grabbed a new tree, its skin flickered into a deep, striped green. ‘I’ll send you a postcard!’ Morgar cried from somewhere high above them, and he was gone.

‘I worry about him,’ Suruk said.

‘I’ve got to admit,’ Smith said, ‘he’s not the most obvious person I’d imagine joining the Ravnavari Lancers.’

Rhianna shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s good that Morgar’s pursuing an alternative career choice – even if it is in a constricting patriarchal hierarchy dedicated to the preservation of the imperialist hegemony.’

‘I saw a pony,’ Carveth said. ‘Hey – Morgar had better not be chasing them or anything, because he’ll have me to answer to.’

* * *

They pushed on upriver, drawing ever closer to the source. Smith picked over the files as they advanced and the journey seemed to blur with the data, as if the further into the jungle Smith was, the closer he got to Wainscott’s brain. Which, to judge from the twists of the river, put them somewhere in his colon.

Rhianna meditated, and fortified her psychic powers by listening to a lot of Pink Zeppelin. Carveth moved from her bedroom to the cockpit and no further. Suruk retreated to the hold when he was not on watch, practising with his spear.

They passed a shuttle wing, jutting out of the water like the fin of an enormous shark. A family of wholks lumbered through the shallows, sifting the water for nutrients and squirting it out of the holes in their tails. A four-winged razorbird landed on the roof and was promptly slain by Suruk. It began to rain.

Smith entered the cockpit and sat down next to Carveth. She was almost invisible under a duvet. In the hamster cage, Gerald’s wheel rattled.

‘Everything alright?’ Smith asked.

The duvet moved slightly. ‘Okay. Can we eat Wainscott’s cake, please?’

‘No. I can take over if you want some air.’

‘God no. Never get off the boat, that’s what I say. Except for ponies.’ She looked round. ‘Hey, what’s that?’

Smith took out the binoculars. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘No, listen.’

Smith paused, straining to hear anything over the rumble of the engines and the squeak of Gerald’s wheel. But there was something – very faint, but something like music.

‘I’ll check,’ he said.

He strode to the hold, climbed the ladder and opened the hatch. Suruk crouched on top of the ship, motionless in the hot air.

‘I heard –’ Smith began, but Suruk raised a hand. The alien looked up, at the forest canopy and the sky above them.

‘Jets, Mazuran,’ he said. ‘Jets and Gustav Holst.’

And suddenly ships roared above them, tearing out of the sky like meteors, twisting in flight. There were three of them, British fighters, Hellfires, and over the sound of thrusters there roared Mars, Bringer of War.

The fighters sank down in the sky, and the lead vessel dropped below the treeline, into the gap over the river. Blue fire flared on its undercarriage. The river slopped and rippled from the jets, as though huge creatures thrashed beneath the surface.

The music was almost deafening. Someone had stripped the missile pods off the wings and replaced them with enormous curling funnels, like gramophone horns. Smith could feel it: the Planets Suite played at such volume that the sound seemed to push through his flesh, into his bones.

The volume sank to a bearable level, and a voice barked out of the speakers.

‘What ho! Thought I recognised that crate. What happened, your ship fall out the sky or something?’

Smith looked at Suruk, and they both realised who they were addressing. It was the Hellfire of Wing Commander Shuttleswade, the one that Carveth had piloted at the battle of Wellington Prime. They were speaking to its onboard computer. In the cockpit, Shuttleswade raised a hand and waved.

‘Been blasting the lemmings,’ the ship explained. Its landing gear unfolded, glistening chrome against the drab fuselage. ‘Look at this. They rigged me up new landing legs. Should be able to kick a few furry arses with these! So, where’s the girlie?’

‘Carveth? She’s driving. Look, we’re supposed to be on a secret mission –’

‘Ah, say no more! I’ll let the chaps know.’

‘No, it’s a secret.’

‘Right you are. We’re out strafing the Yull. They’re gathering their chaps, you know. We’ll buzz them a bit, slow them down and all that. Like the music? It irritates the hell out of the furries! You heading that way?’

‘Yes,’ Smith called.

‘Watch yourself. The forest’s crawling with lemmings. Good hunting, chaps!’

The thrusters roared, and the ship rose into the air. It turned and shot off to the southwest, music parping from its sides. Smith was pretty sure that he could hear the autopilot humming along.

Rhianna stood blinking at the bottom of the ladder, a roll-up smouldering in her hand. ‘Thought I heard something,’ she said vaguely. ‘Is it raining?’

* * *

Up ahead, a scout-walker lay in the shallows like a giant metal chicken. The Union Jack stencilled on the side had started to fade. The exposed cogs were clogged with silt. One of the legs had been twisted at the ankle by an explosion. The pilot lay on the bank, in an advanced state of deadness.

‘He must have trodden on a mine,’ Smith said. ‘Or a lemming.’

They passed the walker very slowly, as though shuffling past a coffin. Carveth said, ‘The Empire’s stuffed, isn’t it?’

‘Certainly not! Whatever gives you that idea?’

She said, ‘I don’t know. I just… well, I wonder if we’re going to win.’

‘Of course we’re going to win. We’re British, for God’s sake. We have the finest soldiers in the galaxy. We never surrender and never give up.’

‘The Yull won’t give up, either.’

‘That’s because they’re stupid lunatics. We’ll just have to shoot them all. No loss there, as Suruk would say. We have moral fibre, you know.’

‘They have lemming spirit.’

‘Humans.’ Smith looked around. Suruk stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘Is that a skull up ahead?’

‘Probably,’ Carveth said grimly, and turned. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, leaning into the windscreen, ‘what is that?’

As they turned the river bend, a huge white ball appeared. It was around twelve feet tall, slightly embedded in the ground. Smith saw dents in the front of it.

‘Is that something’s skull?’ Suruk asked. ‘And does it have any friends we could fight?’

Smith said, ‘Slow us down, Carveth.’

‘Gladly.’ The engines rumbled down.

Smith adjusted the binoculars. He saw features on the front of the ball: a crude shelf that formed scowling eyebrows, and two glaring holes under it. As he took in the grinning mouth and the beard the size of a cow-catcher on a western train, he realised what it looked like: a mask from ancient Greek comedy, grinning over the waterfront.

‘It’s a sculpture,’ Smith said. ‘I think it’s meant to be Wainscott.’

Carveth sighed. ‘Really? That? I think I need a drink.’

‘I remember him being somewhat smaller than that,’ Suruk observed. ‘And less cheerful.’

‘I suppose he’s been having fun,’ Smith said, and he could not keep the apprehension out of his voice. He swallowed. ‘Bring us in,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’m going to get the weapons. And the gin.’

* * *

Suruk opened the hatch and hot, smelly air flooded the hold as if they had unsealed a box of rotten fruit. Smith climbed out, already feeling the prickling of sweat on his back, and helped Rhianna out. She wore an unusually practical outfit: ancient combat trousers, with a green poncho over the top. She resembled the sort of person who might have given spiritual advice to the Picts.

The stone head looked like a vast snowball. They walked along the spine of the John Pym, climbed down the wing, and stepped onto damp, soggy land.

‘Is this a vine, or a snake that’s asleep?’ Carveth asked, pointing.

Suruk prodded it with his spear. ‘Vine.’

At the top of the river bank, where the trees became really thick, the sculpture of Wainscott grinned down at them like a drunken giant. Something about it made Smith uncomfortable – no, he decided, that was not quite right. Everything about it made him uncomfortable.

Suruk made a clicking noise. Smith glanced round. ‘Mazuran,’ said the M’Lak. ‘Company.’

His beady eyes flicked right. Smith looked, and saw a row of beetle people, each the size of a bull, about fifty feet away. They stood further downriver in a motionless row.

‘Do you think they’ve seen us?’ Carveth whispered.

‘I’d expect so,’ Smith replied. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘You there, beetle people! Hello!’ He looked back to his crew. ‘Wave, everyone.’

They all waved. The beetle people didn’t respond. Smith put that down to them not having hands.

He pointed at the sculpture. ‘Jolly good, this! Well done! Very, er, naïve.’ He turned to the others. ‘Who’s the chap who makes those blobs?’

Rhianna said, ‘Henry Moore?’

‘Moore!’ Smith shouted, pointing. ‘Moore!’

As one, the beetle people turned and slipped into the forest.

Carveth watched them go. ‘Either they’ve taken offence, or they’ve gone to make you another one. Assuming that they made it.’

‘I think it’s amazing,’ Rhianna said. ‘The simple alien people, producing this authentic art.’

‘Actually,’ Smith replied, ‘I think Wainscott might have made it himself,’ Smith replied.

‘Oh. Well, in that case, it’s kind of creepy.’

A man stepped out from the trees – not as if he had been hiding there, but as though he had just stumbled upon them all.

He wore a Panama hat and combat gear. An enormous pistol was strapped to his right thigh, and a flat-sided bottle of whisky to the left. It was empty. Bizarrely, he had drawn a tie and lapels onto his breastplate, and it was that and the stubble that made Smith recognise him.

‘Dreckitt,’ he said.

‘Rick!’ Carveth exclaimed.

Dreckitt looked them over for a moment, as if they stirred a dim memory. Then he said, ‘Yeah, sure. Good to see you fellers. You especially, lady,’ he added to Carveth. His voice seemed to firm up as he spoke, as if he was coming round.

‘How are you?’ Carveth asked.

‘Me? Good as I can be, stuck out here and full of no rye. Wainscott, now, that’s the question. He’s something else.’ Dreckitt turned and gestured to the giant stone head. ‘I know – I guess this must look bad, but you’ve got to understand: things are different out here. The rules change, pal. Wainscott’s – how can I put this? – he’s a mystic. He sees things other people don’t. He’s the last of the warrior poets. He transcends mere – aw, who am I kidding? The guy’s nuts.’

He walked forward, and Carveth ran up and threw her arms around him. ‘Hey, little lady,’ Dreckitt said. ‘I missed you. We got everything out here, ’cept for dames. And decent sanitation.’

Carveth hugged him a little less tightly. ‘It’s great to hear your voice,’ she said. ‘I almost know what you’re on about, too.’

‘When Wainscott’s boys skipped town,’ Dreckitt said, ‘the big boss put me on the case, to either parley with him or cheese his command and snatch the guy. Thing is, I’ve got more chance of winning a craps game against Nick the Greek than I’ve got slipping Major Wainscott a Mickey Finn. He’s pretty much immune to dope: he’s had more drugs go through him than a hophead with reefer madness. You want to knock Wainscott out, you’ll need tablets bigger than the ones Moses carries around, and you’ll need to break ’em over his head.’

‘Can’t say I’d recommend that,’ a voice said from the foliage. The barrel of a laser support weapon slid through the greenery, funnel first. Susan followed the gun, her left hand resting on the power pack, her right at the trigger. As ever, she looked astonishingly smart – even this far out: the beam gun was neatly-kept, her sleeves rolled up in the regulation style, her auburn plaits carefully arranged under a broad bush hat. ‘Nice to see you all,’ she said. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Alright,’ Carveth replied. ‘How about you?’

Susan glanced around at the greenery. She lowered her voice. ‘I suppose you’re here to tell Wainscott that it’s home time. I’ll give you a hand, within reason.’

‘Thanks,’ Smith said. He’d known that he could count on Susan: she might lack the ‘inspired’ leadership of her boss, but she was utterly professional.

‘I’ve been out here so long they’ve given me a nickname,’ she said, squinting up into the trees. ‘Sane Susan, they call me.’

‘Why?’

She nodded towards the giant stone head. ‘It’s relative.’

A man stood on the head as if it sprouted him as a horn. He wore boots, underpants and a pith helmet, and a wide range of scabbards and holsters. His body was striped with dirt, as though he had tried to disguise himself as a tiger. For once, Smith reflected, Wainscott had a good reason for looking as if he had spent the last few weeks under a park bench.

Wainscott jumped down, brushed his hands together, and strode over with a large smile across his grimy, bearded face. ‘Isambard Smith, I presume!’ The major stuck out a hand and they shook. ‘Welcome to my abode. What do you think?’

‘Well –’

‘It’s very… er… natural,’ Rhianna said.

‘Spot on,’ Wainscott replied. ‘We’re in harmony with nature here. It helps us creep up on the lemming men,’ he added, smirking. ‘You know what they call me, the Yull?’

‘The Ghost That Walks In Shorts,’ Smith said, not wanting to encourage him.

‘Not anymore. I’m The Ghost Who Needs No Shorts. They fear us, Smith. We’ve gone behind their lines, sneaked up on them, beaten them at their own game.’

It occurred to Smith that there was probably a lot of truth in that. Wainscott was a decent fellow, in his own way, but he’d probably killed more lemmings than gravity.

‘We thought we might be being followed,’ Smith said.

‘Following you?’ Wainscott said. ‘Oh no. The lemmings were lying in wait for you. Thing is, we were lying in wait for them.’ He pulled back a thick branch, dragging with it a curtain of leaves. Behind it, three Yull lay in an untidy pile. Their fur had been dyed green, their bayonets blackened with soot and dung. One of the Sey crouched beside the bodies, rooting through their gear. It raised its long neck like a cobra rearing to strike. ‘Don’t forget to check their cheeks,’ Wainscott said. The Sey grimaced, and he added, ‘On their faces!’ and let the branch swing back.

‘You’re safe for now,’ Susan said. ‘But we’ll post a guard on your ship.’

Wainscott pointed towards the great white head. ‘Like the sculpture?’ he demanded. ‘It looks like stone, but actually the beetle people did it for me. Well, they didn’t really do it so much as roll it, but it’s the thought that counts, eh? We saved a bunch of them from the lemming men. The Yull had abducted a village of them and wanted to pull their legs off, one by one. Mark my words, Smith: we are dealing with sick and demented people here.’ He yanked his underpants up and began to climb up the riverbank. ‘We’ll have a bit of a do, now you’re here. Tell me, Smith,’ he added, looking round, ‘What do you think of owls?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Owls. Like ’em? Trust ’em?’

‘Well, I suppose they’re alright –’

‘Excellent! You see, Susan? I told you he was husband material.’

Wainscott strode off. Susan shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the pills,’ she added, and she strode after him.

Camp consisted of several folding chairs, a number of well-disguised tents and some hollow logs. Smith was not sure of the extent of it: figures moved between the trees further out, half-hidden by undergrowth and he wondered exactly what the scale of Wainscott’s operation might be. ‘Brew up, Craig,’ the major said to a wiry, fair-haired man, and at once the tea was made.

‘We brought you a gift,’ Smith said. ‘It’s a birthday cake. Compliments of High Command.’ He turned to Carveth. ‘Cake, please.’

Horror and fury flashed across her face. ‘Not the precious cake!’ she hissed, and a moment later, she recovered herself. ‘’Course. Feel free to eat all the cake that I’ve been lugging round the jungle. Go ahead.’

They sat around, drinking and eating. The canopy hid the worst of the sun but the air was uncomfortably warm. The smell of tea at least took away some of the stink of rotting vegetation.

‘We’ve been raising hell with the lemmings,’ Wainscott said. ‘In truth, this terrain’s ours as much as theirs. It’s never quite safe, though.’

‘How many chaps have you got?’

‘Fighters? Just over a hundred. Humans, forty-six. Sey, twenty-three. M’Lak, eight. Then there’s the beetle people, but they mainly carry stuff.’

Smith wondered how far he would get if he walked into the forest. Would the animals kill him, or the Yull, or even the plants? He’d probably die some embarrassing death, murdered by a gang of orchids.

‘Wainscott,’ he asked, ‘can I have a word? Privately?’

* * *

‘Dinner is served!’ Susan announced. ‘Tonight at the Manoir de Merde, we begin with an old favourite: Biscuits, Brown. Guaranteed to stave off not just hunger but digestion itself, these delightful items can be welded together to make a blackboard or just used as individual rooftiles. Then, for the meat course, we have… er, meat. From a tin can. Eight out of ten cats love this stuff. And finally, a special treat in the form of Biscuits, Brown (Fruit), which have either bits of raisin or dead insects imbedded in them. I’m not sure which.’

One of the Sey approached, carrying plates with what Carveth hoped was food. At least, the stuff was steaming.

She had not really seen the Sey properly before: they were shy, had no important resources, and lived at a low technological level. Their main skill was in tracking, and, having proved themselves against the Yull at Kwala Gorge, they had found a new niche in the Imperial Army.

Lucky them, she thought. Seen up close, the Sey looked like a mixture of dinosaur, emu and gazelle. They wore bootees and hats, along with camouflaged cloaks strapped across their backs like the blankets horses wore in cold weather. This particular Sey had a ruff of red feathers at the top of its neck, like the frill on an exotic lizard.

‘Here,’ it said. There was a little speaker mounted to its shoulder: it helped with the words that the Sey could not pronounce. ‘Grub’s up, mate.’

Carveth took the plate. ‘Thanks.’

‘Most kind,’ Suruk said, accepting his helping. ‘Is this food?’

‘Word to the wise,’ the scout replied. ‘See those little biscuits, with the purple bits in them? They’re not flies at all. They’re some kind of fruit. Bloody army’s too cheap to put real flies in.’ The alien dipped its head like a swan. ‘’Scuse my manners,’ it said, ‘but my hands don’t reach my mouth.’ It scooped up a beakfull of sludge, looked up and tipped it down its gullet. ‘So, you’re taking the major back, are you?’

Carveth nodded. ‘I hope so.’

‘Wainscott’s alright. He’s a bit… er…’ it tried to tap the side of its head but couldn’t reach, ‘…bonkers, but he gives a fellow a fair go. He’s honest, too. He doesn’t keep anything back.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Carveth said, thinking of Wainscott’s pants. She didn’t feel very hungry.

She glanced left and saw that Susan, her dinner finished, had pulled out a paperback and was reading it intensely. To Carveth’s surprise, the cover showed a highwayman embracing a woman who was only just in her bodice. The title read Stand and Deliver Your Love.

‘Listen, mate,’ said the Sey, ‘when you go back, you couldn’t leave us Susan, could you? Can’t have a tribe without a matriarch.’

‘I think we’re all going back.’

‘Really?’ It raised its head and stared into the trees for a few seconds, then looked back at her. ‘After a while, in a place like this, you learn that there’s ways to survive. You use the Spirit Path, if you know what I mean.’

‘Indeed.’ Suruk had been watching the tracker with interest.

‘You know what I’m talking about,’ the Sey added. ‘You travel the mystic path. The hunting way. You run out of bullets, you go old-style and make yourself a spear. That’s how we beat them at Kwala Gorge.’

‘I never had any bullets,’ Suruk said.

‘Bloody cheapo army,’ the Sey replied. ‘They could’ve at least given you a gun, mate.’ It stood up. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’

‘You too,’ Carveth said. She was not sure whether to put her hand out to shake, but the scout beat her to it. ‘Mr –’

The alien’s head drew back. ‘Ms,’ it said. ‘Arik, Second Huntress.’

‘Polly Carveth.’

She watched the alien take its plate to a bulky, dangerous-looking man who was doing the washing-up. When Carveth looked around, Rhianna was beside her, as if she had formed from the air. ‘I think it’s good to see such equality,’ Rhianna said.

‘I don’t,’ Carveth replied. ‘They’re all as mental as each other.’

* * *

Wainscott led Smith about ten yards into the forest, and suddenly the others were gone – or at any rate, Smith couldn’t see them.

‘I’ve seen lemmings hide out so long, lichen starts to grow on them,’ Wainscott said. ‘Burrs get stuck in their fur. Before long, it’s like fighting a thistle bush.’ He folded his arms. ‘I’m not going back, Smith.’

‘Look here,’ Smith said, ‘you’re coming back and that’s that. I’m instructed to tell you that you can’t go playing silly buggers out here. It’s not cricket.’

‘Well, I like that,’ the major replied. ‘I’m actually getting something done out here and HQ has the gall to tell me to go home. All they’re good for is slowing me down. Out here, I wear the trousers.’ He looked down and added, ‘That’s a metaphor, obviously.’

‘That’s not on, old chap. I’ve seen what they’re doing back at base camp. For you to say that they’re all mouth and no trousers shows a lot of gall, frankly.’

‘Does it?’ Wainscott twisted around to look at the back of his own legs. He gestured grandly at the forest. ‘I’ve got the lemmings running scared. I’ve got them bending over backwards to stop me. And now HQ wants me to pull out and roll over so they can do the driving? Never! I am my own man and so are all my men! They’re all their own man. Each man, obviously. Except for the women and aliens. You know what I mean.’

‘That won’t do,’ Smith replied. ‘You’re needed, Wainscott. We all are. The lemmings are out for blood, and if we’re to beat them off, we all have to pull together.’

The major’s eyes, which managed to be squinty and wild at the same time, narrowed. ‘You know what you are, Smith? You’re like one of those boys that fellows rent out to do their dirty stuff –’

‘I hope you mean a paper boy.’

‘An errand boy, that’s it.’ Wainscott looked back to the forest and the anger faded from his face. ‘I don’t want to go home,’ he said. ‘I like it here.’

‘I know. I heard the messages you sent back.’

‘Ah.’ For once, Wainscott looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t put too much weight on those. I was experimenting with the medicinal properties of some of the local plants at the time. I was rather... medicated.’

‘Come on, Wainscott. HQ needs you.’

The major sighed. ‘Smith, I’m not any good at home. All those bloody orders and things. I can’t do normal people stuff. Women won’t go near me, for some strange reason. Every time I go on leave, the place I return to has changed so much that it’s unrecognisable. I tried to go and visit my sister in Dorset a while ago. I didn’t recognise anything.’

‘The file said you crash-landed in the Yemen.’

‘Really?’ The major looked round. ‘Is that what it was? Well, thank goodness for that.’

Smith wondered how a man whose whole existence had been devoted to causing mayhem would return to civilian life. How would Wainscott deal with returning a library book, say, without throttling the librarian and blowing the building up? How would he make friends with anyone who wasn’t Suruk?

Smith suddenly felt very sorry for Wainscott. He had never expected to feel much sympathy towards a violent madman clothed only in underpants and mud. ‘Look, if you come back, I’ll do everything I can to make sure they give you the freedom to blow up whatever you like, provided it doesn’t belong to the Empire.’

‘You’ll help with tomorrow’s raid? Promise?’

‘Promise. But you’ve got to come back.’

‘Well, alright, then. If they need me, you have my word.’ Wainscott said. ‘Tomorrow, we hit the Yull – hard. Then it’s back home. Come on,’ he added, turning back to camp. ‘We’ll be needed to help out with dinner. Breaking those biscuits in half is a two-man job.’

* * *

Smith lay in his tent, watching the shadows of insects on the roof. Even at night, the forest was noisy with croaks and birdcalls. Something barked in the darkness: it sounded like a fox. Rhianna lay beside and partially on top of him, almost asleep.

Tents, he thought, were always a disappointment. They smelt funny, for one thing, and the excitement of having her pressed against him was turning into the realisation that she was actually quite heavy. Also, he had almost knocked the thing over while putting his pyjamas on.

From somewhere to the right, something cried ‘Wahoo!’

Rhianna raised her head and blinked. ‘What was that?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Smith replied. ‘A wild bird. A mating cry, perhaps. Or maybe just Carveth. Poor old Dreckitt’s got some catching up to do. I hope they keep the noise down, though,’ he added. ‘I don’t want everyone having to stand to just because she’s here.’

Rhianna moved her hand. ‘You’re standing to as it is,’ she said.

‘That’s because you’re here.’