They Shoot Ponies, Don’t They?

‘Forward, noble steed!’ cried Carveth.

‘To battle, good sir knight!’ Celeste called.

They bounced across the rear lawn, over the ornamental bridge, towards the forest.

‘Our foe approaches!’ Celeste called.

Twenty yards ahead, a cardboard cutout of a Ghast drone awaited them. Carveth had borrowed it from a mouldering stash of shooting gear she had found in one of Mothkarak’s storerooms, probably not touched since the early 2500s. Now propped up with sticks, the caricatured face grimaced at the croquet mallet tucked under Carveth’s arm.

‘Attack!’ Celeste cried, and she cantered forward. Carveth swung the mallet into the head of the Ghast. The cardboard cutout fell backwards, and they both cheered.

‘A dolorous blow,’ Celeste said, slowing to a halt. ‘Come, noble sir, let us stop for tea and sugar lumps.’

Carveth swung herself down. The Equ’i was wearing the artificial unicorn horn and looked rather smart in it. Together they set off towards the pavilion.

‘It’s a bloody awful nuisance that there’s a war on,’ Celeste said. ‘I’ve been having the most super time with you.’

Carveth looked across the trees, at the great green expanse of the lawn and the house at the far end like the castle of a fairy kingdom. A dragonfly weaved through the air before them, its wings buzzing.

‘I suppose we’ve got to fight the lemming men, though,’ Celeste said. ‘Daddy thinks they’re awful. He says that they’ve nothing to offer the galaxy except fleas.’

‘Lies!’

Carveth whipped around. The bushes shook. A huge figure stepped out: filthy, hulking, covered in plate armour. Celeste gasped. For a moment it seemed impossible, a trick of the light that such a creature should be here. Then Carveth realised that she was looking at an officer of the Divine Amicable Army of Yullia.

‘Offworlder, you tell dirty lies.’

The lemming man swaggered out of the bushes, bits of shrubbery snagging on his armour. Others emerged around him, as if spawning from the forest itself. Branches seemed to turn to rifles and bayonets, moss to fur.

‘Oh bloody bugger,’ Celeste whispered.

The lemming stopped five yards away. He smiled. ‘Darhep, lesser mammals. My name is Colonel Prem. You are now under the protection of the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective. Congratulations.’

Fear hit Carveth like sickness. It ran down her limbs, weakening them. It turned her stomach.

The officer pointed at the mallet dangling from Carveth’s hand. ‘Playing at war, eh? Yes, your species does that. When I was young, my brother and I used to dress up in cardboard boxes and pretend to be warriors. Then my father beheaded him. Happy days.’

‘I’m – I’m a British citizen,’ Carveth said. ‘I’m the liaison officer here.’

‘That figures,’ said Colonel Prem. ‘I thought I could smell gin.’

His soldiers giggled. For a moment, fury rushed through Carveth. She was ready to leap forward, to swing the mallet and knock the smirk off his snout – and then it was gone, and she was nothing but afraid.

‘Colonel.’ One of the lemming men pointed to the cardboard cutout. ‘They have an insulting picture of a Ghast!’

‘Ah, our beloved allies. Well, we can’t have that. Discipline has to be maintained.’ He grinned.

‘I did it,’ Celeste said. ‘It’s mine, not hers.’

Prem looked at her. ‘Is it now? Well, we’ll have to have words, little horse.’

‘No,’ Carveth said. ‘You can’t.’

Prem turned. ‘Run along now, human. I think it is time for the British Space Empire to have its cocoa. Don’t worry about the ponies. We Yull know how to look after unrodents. We’ll take good care of them.’

An aide stepped forward. He held up a propaganda picture: it showed a smiling lemming on a throne, being supported by a range of other species, some of which were probably extinct by now. ‘Colonel, have we any nails with which to put the posters up?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Prem said. ‘I’ve got a deal going with the glue factory.’ He peered at Carveth. ‘Are you still here? I tell you what. Two minutes and then I’ll let the squol off their leads. Tell me, liaison officer: have you ever seen a squol leap through the air?’

‘Oh God,’ Carveth said. ‘No.’

‘Run, Polly,’ said Celeste. ‘Run as fast as your two small legs can carry you.’

* * *

Smith sat in the lounge on the howdah, feeling hungry and peculiar. The rocking of the ravnaphant’s back brought back memories thirty years suppressed: the Midwich Grammar School trip to Dieppe, where he had eaten a bad crepe and become convinced that he had contracted dysentery. He could almost hear the other schoolchildren, crowding round with a mixture of horror and glee, gabbling about his accident in the Pompidou Centre. He had never forgiven them, or France, for that.

‘It’s okay,’ Rhianna said, as she picked through the medikit. ‘Just take a few more of these pills…’

By the time they reached base camp, the fear had dissipated and been replaced with an urgent need to eat chocolate and sleep with his face in Rhianna’s cleavage. Somewhat warily, Smith joined the others at the railing.

‘I hear you tore it up back there,’ Susan said, as they manoeuvred parallel with the curtain wall. ‘Dead lemmings everywhere.’

‘Did I?’ His head still felt very hazy.

Susan was too professional to have been much affected by the smoke. ‘You went a bit mental, to be honest. You and Wainscott. He thinks he’s protecting Boadicea.’

The ramp dropped, and the Deepspace Operations Group disembarked from the howdah onto the walls of Mothkarak. Supply teams waited for them, medics and strategic advisors. A crane swung out and dropped a block of stone in front of the ravnaphant, which it began to eat. Brigadier Harthi appeared at the crow’s nest, shouting instructions to his crew. Wainscott wandered onto the drawbridge.

‘Mission accomplished!’ the major yelled at the guards. ‘The Britons attacked the camp of the enemy with slings and arrows. Next stop, Londinium!’

‘For God’s sake, he’s got his todger out,’ Susan muttered. ‘Someone fetch me that picnic rug! They don’t pay me enough for this.’

Rhianna helped Smith down the gangplank. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

‘Relaxed, thanks. Hello clouds. Hello sky.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ she said.

Two slim figures slipped through the soldiers on the wall: one was Suruk, as sleek and graceful as he was deadly; the other was W, grim-faced and lanky, a roll-up smouldering between his thin lips.

‘Mazuran,’ Suruk said, ‘Welcome back. I heard your assault on the Yull was successful.’

Smith nodded. ‘It was good. The lemmings have got real issues, though. They tried to give us hassle.’

‘I bring grave news. The temple of the hidden masters is overrun. Volgath the elder is dead.’

‘Crikey,’ Smith said, focussing on him with a little difficulty. ‘That’s bad.’

‘This man should muster our defences,’ Suruk added, gesturing at W. ‘He has told me of how he once slew a ravnaphant single-handed.’

Rhianna scowled. ‘And I suppose you’re proud of that?’

‘I had no choice,’ W replied. ‘It had gone berserk and was threatening the Colonial Club. And we were hungry.’

‘But there is more,’ Suruk said. ‘I know the location of the relics. As soon as Piglet returns from her equine frolics, we should fly off and seize them for our army.’

‘Um, righto,’ Smith replied. ‘You’ve not got any biscuits, have you? I’m really quite peckish.’

Rhianna said, ‘He inhaled a lot of smoke.’

W looked at Suruk. The spy frowned. ‘This man needs tea. Lots of tea.’

They led Smith indoors, to an elevenses vending machine. Behind the glass screen, freeze-dried tiffin turned on a three-tiered rotating cake tray. Suruk and W pooled their change, while Rhianna pressed her hand to Smith’s forehead. ‘He’s a bit, you know, confused.’

W stared out of the window at the battlements and the trees beyond them. ‘General Young will want to stand and fight,’ he said. ‘She’ll use our mobile units as the hammer, and leave the castle as the anvil.’

‘Mobile units?’ Suruk said. A cup dropped in the machine, and brown liquid poured into it from a brass spigot. ‘My brother rides with the Ravnavari Lancers.’

‘Will he be safe?’ Rhianna asked. ‘I mean, the lancers have a reputation for being pretty tough.’

‘No doubt he will inspire them to deeds of great violence. He has that effect on me.’

‘Here, Isambard,’ Rhianna said. ‘Tea.’

‘Tea,’ Smith replied drowsily. ‘Dig it, man.’ He took a sip. ‘Hmm.’ He took another. ‘Ah, that’s better. Right then, chaps, let’s get cracking.’

‘The lemmings approach,’ Suruk said.

‘Then, damn it, let’s give the blighters a damned good thrashing. I say, Rhianna, are you alright, old girl?’

‘Slightly disappointed,’ she replied, ‘but okay.’

A black spec appeared at the window, no larger than a fly. It turned, sank lower in the glass and grew as it did, taking on the familiar, dented lines of the John Pym. Ground crew hurried over, accompanied by refuelling wallahbots and two chefs from the catering corps, who seemed very interested in something that had smacked into the windscreen.

‘Ah,’ said Smith, ‘and here’s our pilot now.’ The ship touched down and, as the legs bent under its weight, the airlock dropped open and Carveth scrambled out. ‘And here she comes now: no doubt with important information in our fight against tyranny. Carveth!’ he called, striding forward.

Carveth rushed down the battlement, through the door, past Smith and, with a loud yowling sound, straight into Rhianna. For the next few seconds they all stood still, except Carveth, who was crying helplessly, and Rhianna, who put her arms around Carveth but continued to look slightly dazed.

‘I’m sensing some negativity here,’ Rhianna said.

‘They’ve got the ponies!’ Carveth cried. ‘We were riding round and they came out of the forest and crept up on us and made me run away and now they’ve got all the little horses and they’re going to murder them!’

‘Now wait a moment,’ Smith said. ‘There’s no need to think that the ponies are in danger. Just slow down and tell us what happened. First, who took the ponies?’

‘The lemming men!’

‘Yep, they’re in danger,’ Smith said, and Carveth howled into Rhianna’s chest.

Suruk croaked politely. ‘I have a suggestion. Friends, this is clearly a sensitive moment, ideal for the wisdom of the Slayer. Might I propose that we gather our allies and do battle with the lemming men, until their blood flows like water and the air is filled with the screams of the dying? It will make everyone feel much better. Except the lemming men.’

‘You’re right,’ Smith replied. ‘Suruk, that’s an excellent idea. Come on, chaps. We’ll collect the relics, then we’ll get a task force together, and give the Yull what for.’

Carveth looked round. ‘There’s no time for the relics! They’ll kill them!’

Smith put his hands on Carveth’s shoulders, which had the effect of reassuring her. Then he crouched down so that he could look her directly in the eye, which had the effect of making her seem like a nine-year-old. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I promise that as soon as we’ve found the relics we’ll get the Equ’i back. And then we’ll get the lemmings back, too.’

‘That’s not good enough!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you know what they could do to the ponies before then?’

‘Murder them all, I suppose,’ and as she let out a despairing howl Smith added, ‘Damn, I didn’t mean to say that. I know this is a difficult and emotional time for you,’ he added, reaching into his pocket. ‘It’s emotional for me as well, and therefore very difficult too. But Carveth, seriously, would you like a mint?’

‘Stick your mints up your bum!’ Carveth cried.

‘Anyone?’

Rhianna gave Smith a sharp look and came over to assist. ‘Polly doesn’t need a mint, Isambard. She just needs to rest while we figure out what to do.’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Carveth demanded. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you people that we need to get every weapon we’ve got and kill all the bloody lemming men?’

‘That occurs to me too,’ Suruk replied. ‘Every six minutes, in fact. When I’m awake, every three minutes.’

‘Stuff you all!’ Carveth cried. ‘I’m going and you can’t stop me!’

She turned and ran for the door. They watched her run down the battlement, towards the landing pad.

‘Oh, God,’ Smith said. His head suddenly seemed to be about to burst. The feeling of paranoid confusion caused by the burning weeds had returned, along with none of the sense of wellbeing. ‘Suruk, could you stop her, please?’ he said.

The alien leaned over to the mantelpiece and took down a small ornament. He walked to the door, weighing it up in his hand. ‘At this range? Easy.’

‘No! Just go and talk to her, alright? Tell her to have tea and get some sleep.’ He sighed. ‘I need to think.’

* * *

Suruk returned a few minutes later. ‘Piglet is in her cabin,’ he announced. ‘She said that she would rest.’

Smith said, ‘Thanks, old chap. I’m sure she’ll feel better if she goes to sleep. It always works for me.’

‘Me too,’ Suruk said. ‘Then I don’t have to listen to her.’

Rhianna sighed. ‘Did you give her any medicine?’

‘Indeed. She said she needed some tablets,’ Suruk said. ‘The white ones... it begins with A.’

‘Aspirin?’

‘Amphetamine. And Benzedrine. And about three pints of cherryade. She can really consume that stuff.’

For a moment, the room was silent. ‘She asked for those?’ Smith said.

‘Um,’ Rhianna said, ‘that’s bad. Really bad.’

‘Quick!’ Smith cried, ‘The ship!’

Suruk was much faster; he tore out onto the battlements, slipping past soldiers, scrambled up the steps to the airlock and disappeared into the John Pym.

Smith looked at Rhianna. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘Yeah, totally,’ she replied.

Suruk reappeared at the airlock door. He waved. ‘All is well, Mazuran! Fear not!’

Smith called back, ‘So she’s not trying to fly the ship?’

Suruk chuckled. ‘Hardly. In fact, she’s not even here!’

Rhianna cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Not there? Are you sure that’s a good thing?’

‘Of course! Actually,’ Suruk added, ‘maybe not at all.’

‘Oh God,’ Smith said, as Suruk made his way back, ‘where the hell is Carveth? Rhianna, if you were crazed on combat drugs and fizzy pop, what would you do?’

‘I’d do that,’ she replied, and she pointed into the courtyard.

Engines roared below them. A Hellfire fighter rose on shiny metal legs, jets blazing under it. Below, a man in a luminous jacket waved two glowing sticks, ushering it into the air.

‘Good God,’ Smith whispered. ‘You don’t mean that Carveth has stolen one of the Hellfires and gone to rescue the ponies by herself?’

Rhianna looked confused. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I meant that if I took a load of drugs and fizzy pop, I’d put on a reflective jacket and wave two glowsticks over my head. At least, that’s what happened last time. It went down well in Glastonbury,’ she added. ‘Less so in Gatwick.’

* * *

It was 8.22. Smith sat in one of the conservatories overlooking the launch pad, thinking about his mission here, and his duty to the Empire.

Rhianna sat cross-legged on the Ottoman. She shook one of the cushions and a mushroom cloud of dust rose towards the rafters.

The door opened and Suruk looked in. ‘I spoke to launch control,’ he said. ‘They confirmed that one of our Hellfires is missing. It bears the same serial number as the one the little woman used when she fought in the battle of Wellington Prime. Also, our boxed set of Space Confederates is missing a disk.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It is the episode called “Hoss Rustlers”, in which Mary-Lou, the diminutive-yet-plucky engineer, single-handedly foils a gang of intergalactic horse thieves. Just saying,’ he added, and he withdrew.

‘This bodes ill,’ Smith said. ‘You know what the root of this whole problem is?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘Abroad, that’s what. If we didn’t have abroad, none of this would ever have happened. Of course, we wouldn’t have anyone to civilise, or to take stuff from for the Empire. But bugger it, anyway.’

Rhianna stood up and slid over to the window, like a ghost. ‘I guess you just can’t expect people to give you their planets and do what you say because you’re British anymore.’

Smith nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a disgrace. The whole galaxy’s gone tits up.’ Realising that she might be offended by that, he added, ‘Sorry. Knockers up.’

‘I’ll be outside,’ she said, and she turned away. He heard the door click shut.

Smith tried to work it out. Carveth was in terrible danger, but the Empire needed the relics. If the Yull captured the relics and flaunted them, Ravnavar might stop taking orders from Earth. And without a unified front, the Yull would overrun Andor, slaughter its inhabitants and cram their cheeks with the fag-ends of a rotting empire.

He had to rescue Carveth. But orders are orders, he thought, and tried to remember where he’d heard that before.

A face came into view: red, scarred, one eye replaced by a glinting lens. The face was shadowed by the brim of its steel helmet. Antennae dangled over it like dead fronds. ‘Orders are orders,’ 462 rasped.

Gertie-talk! Bollocks to that!

Smith strode to the door. ‘Rhianna, we need to get the chaps –’ he said, and he stopped.

They were waiting in the corridor, all of them, fully armed. Suruk smiled. Susan checked the vents on her beam gun and, behind her, the Deepspace Operations Group passed a flask around.

‘The wallahbots are fuelling the John Pym,’ Rhianna said. ‘I can shield us with my powers.’

Dreckitt stood next to Wainscott. He stepped forward, his face grim. ‘I found these,’ he said, and he handed a box to Smith. ‘Cyanide. We bring ’em with us on dangerous capers, in case the lemmings shanghai us and give us the third degree. We’re missing a few tablets.’

Smith examined the box. The label said ‘Suicide pills – please take one’. Below it, someone had scribbled ‘No, not like that!’

‘You know,’ Dreckitt said, ‘I never thought I’d get screwy over a dame. But I got jealous of a little blue horse! I mean, what could a horse give her that I couldn’t? It never ends well when a tough guy gets too close to a pet, like Lucky Luigi did.’

‘What happened to Lucky Luigi?’ Smith asked.

‘He slept with the fishes. Come on, Smith. Somebody’s gotta walk down these dark streets – well, canter.’

‘Bloody right,’ Wainscott muttered. ‘We’ve got business in Ponyland.’

Susan frowned. ‘Don’t think you’re getting out of taking your medicine, Boss. And it’s still bath day.’

‘Easy, guys,’ Rhianna said. ‘We can do that when we get back.’

Susan glared at her. ‘What do you know about washing? Let’s get loaded up.’

Suruk chuckled. ‘Then let us depart! We shall rescue Piglet and delight our weapons with bloody deeds!’

Wainscott tapped Smith on the arm. ‘Got any high explosive?’

‘Not on me, no.’

The major nodded. ‘We may need some. Best not do this officially. We’ll head to the NAAFI. With the right gear, I can knock up a bucket or two of plastique.’

‘Right,’ said Smith. ‘Saddle up, everyone – we have horses to rescue!’

They turned in a clatter of armour and boots. As the others trooped out, Smith felt a sudden rush of emotion. He was very lucky to have friends who were so loyal – and so violent.

* * *

Wainscott led Smith down a winding staircase, past a row of mouldering banners, to a door marked with the insignia of the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes. ‘This won’t take a moment,’ Wainscott said. ‘Don’t say anything, and just agree with whatever I do, alright?’

‘Alright,’ said Smith, wondering whether the major was planning to purchase their equipment or just rob the shop.

Wainscott threw the door open and strode inside. Rows of gear stretched away from them: enough body armour to equip an entire army, and enough Biscuits, Brown to constipate it. The air was full of the smell of boot polish.

Behind the counter, a pallid young man watched them nervously. Wainscott strode to the counter and glared at him.

‘Evening,’ the major said. ‘How’s business?’

‘A little quiet, sir,’ said the lad.

‘Well, the sandwiches probably haven’t finished fermenting yet,’ Wainscott replied, and he emitted a hard, barking laugh. ‘Got any ciggies?’

‘No sir. We’re fresh out.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Evans, sir,’ said the man behind the counter.

‘Evans, I want your word as a British soldier and a gentleman that you will never, ever speak of what you are about to see.’

Evans looked troubled. ‘It’s not treason is it, sir?’

Wainscott glowered. ‘Certainly not. Do my friend and I look like degenerates to you?’

‘No sir. You look like irregulars.’

Wainscott glanced at Smith. ‘Let me know if you think of anything.’ Turning to Evans, he said, ‘My friend and I are hell-bent on manly adventure. We need a large tub of Vaseline, a candle about a foot long and two inches wide, a bottle of navy rum, two packets of rubber johnnies and about three pints of that fertiliser stuff they use on the vegetable gardens, Grow-Big or whatever it’s called.’

Evans looked at Wainscott, then at Smith. He appeared to be revising his view on degeneracy. Warily, he said, ‘You do know that Grow-Big only works on plants, right?’

‘Oh, and we’ll have mothballs.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Evans said.

‘Two packets.’

‘Right you are, gents.’

Wainscott patted the pockets of his shorts. Smith sighed and fished out a handful of loose change.

‘Nearly thought we didn’t have enough money for all this gear,’ the major said. ‘Now that would have been embarrassing!’

‘I’ll put your things in a bag,’ Evans said. ‘Brown paper?’

‘Splendid,’ Wainscott said. ‘Evans, you’ve done us proud. I like the cut of your jib, young man. If ever you want to get out of this place, and join us for some real action—’

‘Let’s just go,’ Smith said, and he steered the major towards the door.

* * *

The little river was still flowing. A mile from the edge of the estate, Carveth slung the shotgun across her back and crouched down by the waterside. Then, limb by limb, she climbed in.

The water flowed over her, warm as blood, and she pushed herself into the middle of the channel. The current caught her and pulled her downstream, towards Radcliffe Hall.

The Yull had already turned the gardens into something sinister. Fires burned on the lawns. Hulking figures lumbered around, swilling from bottles of dandelion wine. The statues of rearing horses looked terrified, not triumphant. For a moment, fear would have frozen Carveth, had not the river pulled her on.

I asked for a pony, she thought. And for my sins, they gave me one.

Past the Workers’ Windmill, past the Well of Ponyness, into the manor grounds. Carveth stopped under an ornamental bridge to figure out her angle of attack. Fire reflected on the dark water. Already, the surface looked oily.

Paws stomped on the bridge. She froze, feeling the current start to chill her body, and something tinkled on the water upstream. Above her, a Yullian trooper sighed. She moved on, quickly.

Voices, up ahead. A party moved out from the rear of the mansion, across the back lawns. Three lemming men were manhandling an Equ’i across the lawn. They were brutes, of course: they carried whips and clubs. One of the rodents, an officer, turned back to the house.

‘Now you learn,’ he yelled, ‘what happens to dirty animals that disobey!’

‘Remember me, my people!’ the Equ’i called. ‘Avenge me!’

It was King Chestnut. Rage welled up in Carveth, and all fear was gone. She slid out onto the bank.

She took out the shotgun. Lightning crackled across the sky, and she realised how she could kill these furry bastards and not lose the element of surprise.

They managed to knock King Chestnut to his knees. Carveth scurried across the lawn and dropped down behind a prancing stone stallion.

Thunder rumbled. The two minions struggled to keep Chestnut down. The officer puffed out his chest and drew his axe.

Lightning turned the sky into a negative. Carveth ran at them.

‘Yullai!’ the officer screeched, his face a mask of gleeful cruelty, and Carveth put the shotgun against his ear.

‘Die,’ she screamed, ‘you pony-murdering, cliff-jumping, nut-gobbling filth!’

The thunder boomed, and the officer hit the ground.

One of the minions saw her, howled something that was lost in the rain and Carveth worked the slide and blasted him full in the chest. Chestnut heaved himself upright. The third lemming man pulled his rifle up, and Chestnut kicked him in the snout.

‘Yes,’ Carveth said, with some satisfaction.

Chestnut stared at her. ‘Polly? Is that you? This is magic!’

Carveth shook her head. ‘Friendship,’ she said. ‘Same thing. Can you get your people out of here?’

‘Yes. Ride out of here with us –’

‘No.’ Carveth reloaded the shotgun. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

* * *

The cockpit rumbled around Smith’s body. He pointed the John Pym in the right direction and locked the controls.

Rhianna sat in the captain’s chair, eyes closed, hands palms-up in front of her. Smith knew better than to wake her, especially while they were over enemy airspace. The Yull had few fighters left, but plenty of anti-aircraft guns, bio-missiles shipped in from the Ghast Empire, and crazed glider pilots eager to take the big jump from the cliffs of destiny. But as he strode down the corridor and entered the hold, he felt the weight of her presence on him. He owed Rhianna as well as Carveth.

Pink Zeppelin blared from the hold’s speakers: Smith recognised the song as Long Tall Saruman. The Deepspace Operations Group had overturned the dining room table and taken cover behind it. Smith wondered why, and then saw that at the far end of the hold, Wainscott was making bombs, glaring at his creations like one of the forefathers of alchemy. He looked up, all wild eyes and beard, and continued to ladle what looked like toothpaste into a sock.

‘Ready to raise hell?’ he demanded, shaking the sock in the air.

‘Yes.’

‘We’re getting Polly Pilot back. But what about these little horse things?’

‘We’ll do everything we can to help them. We’re not much of an Empire if we can’t protect the people we rule.’

‘Right,’ Wainscott said. ‘Stick the kettle on, would you? Tea made me what I am today,’ he added, ‘a sexual tyrannosaur. Except with bigger arms.’

On the way back to the cockpit, Suruk put his head out of his room. ‘I found this in Piglet’s room.’ He held out a paper bag; white powder lay in the folds of the bag. ‘Is it a drug?’

‘Icing sugar. She’ll be berserk by now.’

‘I am missing one of my Zukari blades,’ Suruk added. ‘If I am forced to do battle with over thirty rodents at once, I may be forced to use my teeth.’

‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’

Suruk smiled. ‘It is perhaps fortunate that I packed a toothbrush.’ He stopped smiling. ‘Piglet is in grave danger. The Yull do not respect true bravery,’ he said. ‘They are, as you say on Earth, bollocks.’

* * *

Carveth found a broken window, knocked out the shards of glass and climbed inside. By now, King Chestnut would be discreetly leading his people into the forest. The stage was clear for her to teach the Yull a stern lesson about animal rights. All animals except lemmings, that was.

She was in some sort of pantry, the corridors enlarged for equine use. Bent almost double, Carveth crept to the door. Fear was beginning to well up in her and she needed to get going before she froze.

At the door, she heard lemming voices: an ugly revving, growling noise. Before, it would have made her afraid. Now, she felt a rush of fury. What if Chestnut hadn’t been able to save all of his people? The voices sounded cheerful, which meant that they were plotting some act of extreme cruelty. They also sounded numerous.

She moved on, down the corridor.

Nobody kicks me out of Ponyland, Carveth thought. Nobody.

The voices grew louder up ahead. She paused at the next doorway and peeked around.

A lemming man, probably a rank-and-file trooper, was putting delicate glasses on a tray. A large platter of cheese stood nearby.

The soldier looked intent on his task. Carveth felt a stab of satisfaction; she could creep up behind him and brain the bugger with the end of her shotgun. But where would that leave her? There were about a dozen glasses on the tray: that meant twelve vicious lunatics who would come looking for answers and vengeance the moment their drink was delayed. Taking them on would be suicide.

Suicide. She crouched by the door, grinning.

Carveth dug her hand into her pocket and came out with a handful of toffees. She raised her arm and tossed them across the room, past the lemming soldier. They clattered against the far wall.

‘Hwot?’ He spun around, and Carveth ducked back into cover. She heard him pick up his rifle and clump across the room, away from her, mumbling to himself.

She put her hand into her sleeve and found the little dispenser there. She opened the sealed packet and slid out her cyanide pill.

* * *

The wine was a few minutes late, and the soldier bringing it seemed to be chewing some sort of sweet. Major Botl Harpik considered punching him in the face in front of all the other officers, but decided to be lenient. After all, it had been a very good day for the Yull. He’d just wait until the soldier had left the room, and then punch him in the face.

‘I think you will find this a very pleasant vintage,’ Harpik announced. ‘It’s the best sort of wine – looted from someone else.’

His staff chuckled appreciatively.

‘But seriously,’ Harpik said, ‘Today, we have welcomed another wretched bunch of unrodent scum into our benevolent empire, and I’m sure you will join with me in thanking them for the kind gift of this wine, all their other property and their labour until they drop dead from exhaustion. Sometimes, I think that our slaves do not really appreciate how hard we noble Yull work for them.’

There was a rumble of agreement.

‘They will damn well appreciate it later,’ Harpik growled. ‘Today, we have done our empire proud. So I ask you to raise your glasses to our wise, kind, temperate, sophisticated and entirely non-genocidal forefathers. Gentlemen – those who have already leaped from the Cliffs of Destiny – the honoured dead!’

* * *

Carveth waited until the noises had stopped and looked in. The wine had done its work: less of a bouquet than a funeral wreath, she thought, surveying the carnage. One of the Yull wasn’t quite dead yet. She felt a bit sorry for him until she remembered that he was a horrible pony-hating scumbag. Then she bashed him on the head with the decanter.

The servant was still in the wine-room, preparing another round of drinks. Carveth took an axe from a dead lemming man. It was razor sharp. The axe would have been an excellent weapon for silent killing, had not Carveth been screaming ‘Die, you fluffy bastard!’ as she broke it over his head.

Yeah, she thought, that’s right. She was giddy with triumph now. She had saved the ponies and cleaned out a whole nest of lemmings. She’d wiped them out.

No, she realised, looking over the carnage. One of the Yull was missing. The one with the scar across his muzzle, Colonel Prem.

Night turned the kitchens into a dungeon. Saucepans became helmets, toasting forks and garlic presses instruments of torture. No wonder the lemming men liked it here.

She scurried forward, ducking behind the tables and cupboards.

A shadow moved on the far wall, black against moonlight, a magnified silhouette. She ducked down, froze like a mouse under the gaze of an owl, and remembered that she was actually pretty scared.

Colonel Prem muttered to himself. ‘Aha,’ he said, as if he had made an important discovery. ‘Propacap.’

The silhouette lifted massive paws to its head, and when it lowered them, it was wearing a chef’s hat. The lemming looked left and right. He wasn’t in the room, Carveth realised, but in some neighbouring part of the kitchen. The Colonel stepped out of the light, and the shadow was gone.

‘Hwhereat feki kopaketl?’ he growled.

Carveth crept towards the door. You couldn’t leave one of them alive – wasn’t that what they’d told her back at base? You had to clean them all out.

She lunged around the doorframe.

The room was empty. It looked as if a whirlwind had hit it: knives and cleavers scattered on a work-surface, a huge spit hauled in front of the fireplace, half a dozen trays under it to catch fat. They must have been planning a celebration feast. So much for that, she thought: they hadn’t made it past the aperitif.

A large book was propped against the sideboard. It showed the preparation of a huge joint of meat, but the words were in French, from the look of it. She closed the book. The title said La Cuisine Belge.

It was then that she saw the picture pinned to the wall, held in place by a couple of Yullian knives. For a second she didn’t realise its function, and then she looked closer, not doubting her eyes.

It was the outline of a pony, divided by half a dozen dotted lines.

No. Surely not. Surely nobody, not even the lemming men, could stoop so low. Yes, they tortured and sacrificed for their war god, but not this.

‘Darhep!’

Something smashed into the back of her legs and she dropped onto her knees. She twisted, trying to aim, but a huge hand shot out and yanked the shotgun out of her grip. It clattered beside the door and Prem backhanded her across the ear.

Carveth went sprawling. Paws grabbed her, lifted her clean off the ground and threw her into the wall. She fell in a crash of pots, saw a monstrous shape lumber forwards and scrambled onto all fours.

Prem bent down, yanked her up by her lapels and tossed her across the room. She fell into the corner, bounced off the wall and managed to stay upright, which in the circumstances felt like an achievement.

The colonel wore an officer’s sash and battleaxe. He looked her over with that pompous self-importance she’d seen in the Know Your Enemy films.

‘You again,’ he said.

‘You eat ponies!’ she shouted back.

The rodent nodded. ‘As the lesser races serve us, we shall serve them,’ it said. ‘With a salad.’

‘Bastard!’

Prem took a step forward. He was massive; his bulk swallowed up the room. His paws caught her under the chin, and without any apparent effort, he lifted her up by the throat.

‘You puzzle me,’ he said. ‘You must be a strong fighter to get past my guards, skilled in death. Yet you come here for the sake of... little horses? A true warrior despises the weak. Why do you shame yourself with pity?’

Carveth coughed. The colonel loosened his grip.

‘I got too close,’ she gasped.

‘Too close?’

‘Like you,’ she hissed, and she flicked out her hand, the first and last fingers extended, clenched her fist and punched him in the gut.

It was a feeble blow and her hand did very little. Twelve inches of spring-loaded Zukari steel, on the other hand, had the desired effect. Carveth tore her hand up and free and the officer staggered back, clutching his midriff. His eyes were huge and full of horror.

Carveth yanked the axe from Colonel Prem’s belt. She gave it an experimental swing through the air. Satisfactory.

‘You hurt ponies,’ she said. ‘Now ponies hurt you.’

‘Offworlder, what are you doing?’ the erstwhile gourmet gasped. ‘You cannot kill me. It is against your rules!’

‘Oh,’ said Carveth, a huge grin spreading across her face, ‘I’ll stick to the rules all right. I’ll even cut along the dotted lines!’

The lightning crackled around the house, and as she swung the weapon up over her head, Carveth’s laughter and the thunder became one.

* * *

The Yull had not posted many sentries: they had clearly not expected anyone to dare, or bother, to rescue the Equ’i. Dreckitt knocked out the first guard with a blackjack and Smith cut down the second. Smith wiped his sword on the lemming’s fur and they advanced through the trees, closer to the house.

‘It’ll be well fortified,’ Wainscott whispered. ‘All these big houses are the same: bars on the windows, padded walls –’

‘Only the ones you stay in,’ Susan said from behind. ‘The side door’s open. Maybe we’re too late.’

‘Nix, dragon lady,’ Dreckitt replied. ‘Let’s bust the joint.’

Smith nodded. ‘With me, chaps. For Britain, and for the very small horses!’

He sprinted out of cover, across the lawn. His boots thundered on the ornamental bridge. He raced towards the open door, sword raised.

A figure stepped out to meet him, axe in hand.

‘Hurrah!’ Smith bellowed, swinging the sword, and at the last moment he saw that it was no Yull before him. He stopped, just managing not to trip over, and his blade cut only air.

Carveth stepped out. She might not be a lemming, but she was covered in fur. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said.

They stood around the door, watching as she emerged. She held a battleaxe.

‘Hi, everyone,’ she said, and she gave them a broad, uneven smile. ‘Look what I’ve got. This is what happens to people who aren’t nice to their pets.’

She raised her left hand, and tossed something onto the wet grass. It rolled once and was still.

It was the severed head of Colonel Prem.

They stared at her as she stumbled forward, and nobody spoke.

Suruk pointed to the grisly head.

‘Then this was her work,’ he said, and slowly he looked up at Carveth. ‘Go Piglet! The job is a good one!’ He clapped, cheered, realised that nobody had joined in and said, ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

Smith gestured to Wainscott. The tranquiliser rifle gave a soft ‘Phut’, and Carveth looked thoughtfully at the feathered dart sticking out of her shoulder, as if not sure why she had put it there. ‘Ooh, a birdie,’ she observed, reaching towards the dart, and she toppled over onto her back.

Wainscott rushed forward, and as Dreckitt hurried to Carveth’s side, the Deepspace Operations Group ran into the house.

Suruk shook his head. ‘Shame on you, Wainscott, I have known this woman for four years. The first time she does anything remotely interesting, you shoot her with a dart.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Wainscott growled. ‘Being tranquilised never did me any harm.’

Susan and Wainscott walked back onto the lawn.

‘Something died in there,’ Susan said. ‘Probably a mammal. Beyond that, I reckon it’s fluff and dental records.’

Wainscott nodded. ‘She caught one of them in the kitchen and hacked him to pieces. A regular kukri lesson.’

‘Look!’ Rhianna said, and she pointed into the trees.

They turned, raising their guns in a quick clatter of weaponry, but it was not the lemming men that they faced. Quietly, the Equ’i walked out of the forest, their blue fur glistening like water.

The largest of the Equ’i approached. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, with a long nose and considerable forelock. ‘Greetings, people of Earth,’ he declared. ‘I am Chestnut, king of the Equ’i. I have heard much of you all, especially Suruk the Slayer.’ A smaller, lighter-coloured horse appeared at his side. ‘And this is Celeste, my daughter.’

Celeste hurried over to Dreckitt’s side. Dreckitt had rolled up his trenchcoat and put it under Carveth’s head. He rummaged in the medical kit. ‘Is she alright?’ Celeste asked.

‘She’ll be okay,’ Dreckitt said. ‘She took a Mickey Finn, and now she’s hopped up. That’s all.’

‘Indeed,’ said Suruk. ‘The little woman has never been better, in my opinion.’

‘But she’s covered in blood!’ Celeste replied.

Suruk shrugged. ‘Your friend was overcome by berserk rage and butchered every living thing in sight. So no need to worry.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ King Chestnut said. ‘Normally, anyone who rescues a princess would receive my daughter’s hoof in marriage, but... well, that would be a bit weird.’

‘I know, Daddy!’ Celeste exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you make Polly a princess too! Then we can both live in the magical kingdom for ever – and ever!’

Wainscott leaned over and whispered in Smith’s ear. ‘You know, I think these people are a bit rum.’

‘We can decide that later,’ Smith said. ‘The Yull are on the move. We all need to get away from here. Wainscott, you’ll be needed back at base. We’ll drop you chaps off and then go on to look for the relics. We’re not much ahead of the lemming men.’

‘No,’ said King Chestnut. ‘You should press on. We can take the major and his men. We’ll carry you.’

Wainscott rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I suppose…’ He looked at Susan. ‘What do you say?’

‘Me?’ Susan let go of the beam gun, clapped her hands and squealed. ‘Oh my goodness, pony ride! Just kidding,’ she added, heaving the gun into her arms again. ‘Yeah, it should work if nobody cocks up.’

‘Excellent,’ Smith replied. ‘Then I’ll see you soon. Suruk, would you give me a hand carrying Carveth into the ship? We have work to do!’