Six Ghast fighters screamed over the horizon as the last of the transport shuttles came in to land. The AA lasers opened fire and men and aliens ran for cover. To the West an Aresian deathwalker trained its dessicator on a missile battery. Rockets corkscrewed up from the ground and popped against the walker’s force-fields, overloading them, and then the seventh rocket slipped through and blew the walker’s canopy apart. It staggered into a factory chimney with a yowl of tortured machinery, collapsing in a shower of shattered bricks.
Doors dropped open in the transport shuttles and a horde of beetle-people scurried out. NCOs with loud-hailers awaited them.
‘Citizens! The British Space Empire has rescued your species from lives blighted by idleness and free love! This is your chance to pay back that debt! This city was built as a symbol of our future. Today you join the gallant defenders who unite to say: This is enough! This is where we turn the Ghasts, no matter what the cost! Bloody hell! Duck! ’
The John Pym touched fifty yards further down the landing pad. A medical team jogged over to collect Benson, pushing a stretcher between them like a battering-ram. The air was thick with the drone of gatling guns.
M’Lak braves strolled out of the next craft down, bundles of weapons under their arms. A M’Lak was waiting for them in a red coat. ‘Greetings campers! Welcome to the city of fun!’
‘Ah,’ Suruk said. ‘Package holidays.’
Soldiers were unloading food from the shuttles. Cranes swung out, men shouted to one another over coughing lorry engines. To the right, Smith glimpsed a clanking warbot stride between the shells of two houses, steam pouring from its chimneys.
Smith took a deep breath of the damp night air. It smelt of burning and wet dust.
The four of them hurried from the ship and a ground crew ran in and threw camouflage netting over the Pym. Smith glanced back. With the camouflage the Pym reminded him of a rusty tin overgrown by weeds.
‘Come along, men,’ he said, and they jogged through the gates of the landing pad and into the city itself.
New Luton was in ruins. The Western Sector was in enemy hands: between that and the Imperial camp were six miles of broken masonry and wrecked vehicles. This place had once been the City of the Future, and battered statues of heroes still protruded from the chaos as if drowning in a sea of stones.
Suruk stopped and looked into a crater beside the road.
He stared at his reflection in the stagnant water, his shrewd eyes a little distant behind the stern complexity of his face.
Beside him Carveth said, ‘You alright?’
The alien glanced round. ‘Yes, I am fine. I was just thinking. . . one day I shall spawn into a pool like this.’
‘Spawn?’
‘Create offspring.’ Somewhere far off, a shell whined. ‘Continue the line of Agshad.’
‘You mean – have babies?’
‘I would merely cough up a special pellet full of spores into the water. In time, some of the spores might become adult M’Lak. Most would not.’
Carveth nodded. ‘I can’t imagine you bringing up children. Unless you ate them too quickly, that is. But you – a mum!’
‘I am not a “mum”, nor am I female. We are asexual, but for reasons unknown to me we tend to be described as male. Now, enough of this emotional talk. Let us find some warfare.’ Suruk belched and walked on, scratching the place where his backside would have been.
Rhianna was quiet. Smith tried not to mind. He had stopped thinking about the moments that she had seemed to feel something towards him. He had been deluding himself. He stepped over a fallen signpost and glanced back to make sure that Rhianna’s insubstantial footwear could deal with it. She smiled and he looked away.
A figure rounded the corner and trotted towards them.
It was a M’Lak, even slimmer than usual, in a strange mix of clothes: tough army trousers and boots, traditional M’Lak armour and a roll-neck sweater. Smith watched the alien approach, finding the combination of soldier, savage and jazz fan curiously familiar.
‘Morgar?’ Suruk said.
‘Hello Suruk!’ the alien called. ‘Captain Smith!’
‘It’s you!’ said Smith. ‘Hello there!’
Morgar ran to meet them, putting on his glasses as he approached. ‘Welcome everyone! Captain Smith, Miss Mitchell, yes? And Polly Anorak.’ He put out a hand and shook with each in turn. ‘And, most of all, welcome, Suruk.’
‘ Jaizeh, Morgar,’ Suruk said. ‘What brings you here, my brother?’
‘My architectural experience got me posted here as alien liaison officer with the Royal Offworld Engineers. Their fortifications have a fascinating blocky style – naïve, you might say.’ He paused. ‘I heard about Father, Suruk.’
‘Indeed. We must speak of this,’ Suruk said.
‘We will. But first, let’s get inside. Look, Suruk, clan colours,’ he added proudly, pointing to a cloth in his belt. ‘I use it to polish my specs.’
The headquarters were underground, in what had once been the spaceport hotel. It pulsed with energy, movement and sound: people hurried back and forth with wads of papers, pointing to screens and relaying orders. Voices –human, M’Lak and even the odd Kaldathrian beetle-person – rang around the halls.
Morgar led them down a great departure lounge. Once it had been luxurious: now the red striped wallpaper was peeling, the carpet ruined by army boots and fallen plaster. But it was still busy, for technicians now worked on the leather settees and the gilt-edged monitors flashed up information about the war outside. It smelt of synthetic bacon and solder. At a table a row of people were assembling small mechanical cats.
‘Kitten bombs,’ Morgar explained as they passed. ‘The bomb has a core of TNT with a sodium fuse. We leave them out next to a bucket of water: the Ghasts can’t resist dunking them out of spite. This way, if you would.’
At the rear of the hall was a waiting room equipped with three battered armchairs and a coffee table. The display board said: All flights delayed owing to leaves on landing pad and galactic war.
Suruk looked down to the end of the hall at a small group of M’Lak. ‘I see that the elders of our tribe are here.’
Morgar grimaced. ‘You can never get away from the elders,’ he said glumly. ‘We evacuated the civilians, but unfortunately they count as military personnel.’ He brightened up. ‘I’ll fetch the major for you – back in a mo. Cricic!’ he called down the hall, ‘could you fetch our guests some drinks?’
A Kaldathrian turned from its work and lumbered over. It was the size of a shire horse and looked like a cross between a stag beetle and the contents of a cutlery drawer.
‘Welcome, honoured guests,’ it buzzed. ‘Please, accept some dung as a token of our hospitality.’ It passed Smith a neat ball about the size of an orange. ‘I rolled it myself,’ it said, proudly.
Rhianna reached into her satchel. ‘Here,’ she said, hold-ing out a cigarette. ‘I rolled this myself.’
Smith bowed. ‘Thank you for the dung, beetle-fellow. I’m afraid we can’t return the favour right now, but we’ll see if we can turn something out later.’
The Kaldathrian peered at the cigarette. ‘Most kind,’ it said. ‘So. . . who likes lemonade?’
‘Haven’t you got any tea?’ Smith asked.
‘Of course. I forgot. Our section commander doesn’t drink it.’
‘No tea? Is he ill, or just foreign?’
‘Depends on how you define “foreign”,’ said a voice.
Smith looked around. A man in battledress and field armour stood at the end of the sofa, helmet in his left hand. ‘Gareth Lloyd Jones,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m in charge of this lot.’
Smith stood up. Jones was two inches taller than him and considerably more solid. His head was shaved and, had he not been smiling, he would have looked like a tough customer. ‘You’re not Jones the Laser, are you?’ Smith asked.
‘Yep, that’s me. Straight out of Cardiff.’
‘Cardiff, Wales?’ Rhianna exclaimed, slightly awed. ‘That must be incredible, living beside Stonehenge.’
‘Um, right,’ Jones replied. ‘Stonehenge is in the county of Wiltshire – in England, see?’
‘Oh, okay. So which county is Wales in?’
Jones sighed. ‘Walescestershire. Happy?’
‘Perhaps I’d better handle this,’ said Smith. ‘These are my men, Major.’ He introduced the crew. ‘We’re on an important mission and we need all the help we can get.’
Jones nodded. ‘So I see. You’ve already got one man in the sick bay. Alright then, what can I do?’
‘Excuse me,’ Suruk said. ‘My brother calls.’
He stood up and crossed the room. Morgar waited by the wall, under a battered map of the city underground. ‘I was sorry to hear about Father, Suruk. He died bravely.’
‘Indeed. But he was killed by a trick, struck down from behind. The human master-spy, W, told us this. He was murdered with treachery, not defeated in battle.’
‘Murdered?’ Appalled, Morgar’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. Then his mandibles closed and his brows lowered, as if his features were setting hard. ‘Who did this?’
‘Mimco Vock, a colonel of the Yull.’
‘ Urushet! Suruk, we must find this furball!’
‘Fear not, Morgar. Our quest brings me close to him. If you help me consecrate my spear, we can add Father’s skill to the spirits of the ancestors that live within it. Vock will not escape.’
‘Consecrate? That old ritual? But Suruk, that’s. . .alright, we’ll do it. But – oh dammit, here come the elders.’
Three ancient M’Lak approached, veterans of the family homeworld. They were careful and slow, but not weak: any of them would have been a match for a young human. They dressed like Suruk, but carried more trophies. The elders were trainers of the young, advisors to armies and caretakers of the tribe and, from the look of them, they knew it.
‘Suruk the Slayer!’ the elder with one eye said, pointing at him. ‘Is it you?’
‘It is, venerable ones. I have come to fight beside my brother here and honour the name of Agshad, son of Urghar. Now, I seek your help in calling on my father to bless my spear.’
The elders nodded thoughtfully. ‘Hasn’t he grown!’ said the second elder. He was missing a tusk. ‘How old are you now?’
‘One hundred and six.’
The elders slowly exchanged a look, then, as one, they turned back to Suruk. ‘Suruk,’ said one-eye, ‘you travel from place to place, making one swift kill after another, always moving on to the next. This is fine in a young warrior, but you are no longer a youth. It is time you stopped slaying around and found yourself an arch enemy, someone with whom you can share a lifetime of mutual hate.’
Behind them, Morgar sighed and shook his head.
‘Take your brother Morgar here. He is a successful architect and is well regarded in the British Army. You should get yourself established, like him. But do not worry, Suruk! For we, your elders, are here to help.’
The third elder, who so far had remained silent, took a picture from his pocket and held it up. ‘This is Azrogar the Foul. He is from Clan Oreod and he commands many warriors. Were you to choose him as a nemesis, Suruk, our houses would be linked by fifty years of vendetta. Think of the battles we could all have!’
‘He is a vile boy,’ one-tusk added, nodding.
‘No,’ Suruk growled, ‘I do not want your arranged carnage! No, elders, I have found a nemesis of my own. His name is Colonel Vock, a noble of the Yull.’
There was a pause. ‘Isn’t he a bit out of your league?’ one-tusk said.
‘Not so. I will take revenge on Vock for the death of our father, while Morgar here leads our kin to victory on the battlefield. In the meantime, you will assist me in performing the rituals needed to add my father’s strength to that of the ancestors already in my spear, and I shall face Vock in the traditional manner of our people.’
The elders frowned and glanced away. Suruk was right: this was a matter of clan honour and they could not avoid their obligation to assist. For a strained moment they did not reply, and then the elder with one eye said, ‘Yes, we will help you. In this era of mechanised warfare it is easy to forget the time-honoured beauty of ramming a spear through someone’s head.’
Suruk smiled. ‘Good! A reckoning with Vock is long due. As they say on Earth: he is cruising for a bruising, if not actually aiming for a maiming. We shall speak later, elders. You too, Morgar.’
He slipped from the conversation and crossed to the settees, where Smith was outlining his plan to Jones.
‘So,’ said Smith, ‘what I would require is guidance to the British Museum, and enough men and equipment to raid it and transport what we need back to our own lines. I expect the mission would take a few hours at most. It would be best done before dawn. What do you say, Major Jones?’
Jones frowned in thought. ‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘Yes, no. No as in, this plan is insane, and you are a special mentalist for suggesting it. Sorry, but no.’
‘Why not?’
Jones shrugged. ‘Well, to start with, you’ve not told me what you’re looking for in there. It could be a little piece of paper or some great big statue. You’ve not told me what it’s needed for either. For all I know you could be planning to break in just to do a bit of brass rubbing.’
‘Actually—’ said Carveth, and Smith nudged her.
Jones said, ‘Look, mate, I don’t want to come across unfriendly here. But I won’t start sending my people off on weird missions that make no sense just because I’m told it’s classified. My men are a good bunch. I’m not having them getting shot up for no good reason. Sorry,’ he added, getting up, ‘but that’s how it is. Did you want some lemonade?’
‘No,’ said Smith. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’d better get back,’ Jones said. ‘Got to see a man about a beetle. Good to meet you, and I hope it works out alright.’ He shook Smith’s hand and gave them a quick, cheery salute, then strode back into the busyness at the far end of the room.
‘Well!’ said Smith. ‘So much for keeping a welcome in the bloody valleys. I can’t believe he thought it was a bad idea!’
‘I dunno,’ Carveth said. ‘At least he’s looking out for his men. I’d be happy to be under an officer like that. Don’t even bother,’ she added, as Suruk opened his mouth.
‘Perhaps he needs to consult his gods,’ Rhianna said. ‘They do that in Walescestershire, right?’
Smith got up. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said.
He pulled his coat around him and walked down the hall. Something boomed far away and dust trickled from the roof like thin snow. Towards the rear of the hall a door was open, and inside a small room Jones was conversing with his staff.
‘. . .landship brewed up in the North Sector,’ a woman was telling him.
‘Warn O’Donahue down in Sector Six. Make sure our own chaps are ready.’
‘Major Jones? Am I interrupting?’
Jones looked round. ‘Yes, you are. Hello again, Smith.’
‘Look here,’ Smith said. ‘You’re right: you’ve got a right to know what we’re here for.’
‘Alright then, what are you here for?’
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘it’s quite simple really. The lady back there – the one who smells of joss – is actually descended from a race of mystic ghosts, who taught mankind the art of Morris dancing hundreds of years ago. We have to find them before the enemy does. To do this, we have to study an ancient stone tablet that my alien friend back there donated to the British Museum. Once we have broken into the museum we need to take a brass rubbing of the tablet, which we will then use as a map to locate the Vorl according to the teachings of a secret society of drunkards whose last leader was possibly Lloyd Leighton, who built Lloydland and may well have been giving one to Parity Wickworth. After that, we’ll probably go home.’
‘I see. I see. . .’ Jones rubbed his chin. ‘Alright then –that sounds tidy!’
It was dark. Across the city, distant fires burned. The great guns were firing in another sector. As Smith watched, some low building popped in a sudden blossom of flame.
A factory had half-collapsed beside the street, its original function unguessable now. Girders stuck out of the ruins like the stems of dead plants. Crouched on one of them, still as a resting stork, Suruk the Slayer watched the city.
Smith slogged up a pile of rubbish, detritus crackling under his boots. The smell of greasy food filtered up from the camp below and his stomach rumbled. He looked up at his friend.
The alien did not move. He gazed out across the great battlefield of New Luton, once the perfect city, now a place of death. Smith wondered what must be going through his mind as he surveyed the folly of the human race. Did he despair of mankind, fear them, or merely think of them as fools?
‘Tell me this, Mazuran,’ Suruk said, ‘if the Pope’s head happened to come off, and someone nearby offered to do the Poping instead, would he become Pope?’
‘No,’ said Smith.
‘Huh.’ Suruk hopped down. ‘Soon it will be time to perform the Rites of the Blade. I will need Morgar for that.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘As long as my father’s spirit needs. Once we are done, and Agshad’s power is added to the spirits within Gan Uteki, I shall be ready to join you.’
‘Well, Jones is calling a meeting in two hours’ time. You don’t have all that long. There’s food down here, you know.’
‘Thank you, but I will not eat. I need to turn my mind to noble thoughts, in preparation for the ritual I must perform.’
‘Of course. I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’
‘Thank you.’
Smith turned to leave.
‘One thing more, Mazuran. What about the Chief Rabbi?’
‘Same thing, I’m afraid,’ Smith said. He climbed back down. Across the road a canteen had been set up in the municipal scout hall. Men sat in the ruined gardens, eating out of plastic tubs.
Carveth and Rhianna sat at a bench, prodding their food warily. Smith sat down beside them. Morgar strolled over, tub in hand, smiling. Smith was struck by his similarity to Suruk. Of course, Smith thought, aliens all looked much the same, but there was undoubtedly a family resemblance.
‘Hello,’ Morgar said. ‘You’re just in time for food.’ He opened his tub and took out a long, brown, dangly steaming thing. ‘Homage?’
‘Sorry?’ said Smith. His stomach twitched at the sight of the item Morgar was holding up; possibly from hunger, but possibly from disgust.
‘Homage,’ Morgar explained. ‘It’s a synthetic sausage made from Sham. Surprisingly tasty.’
‘I wouldn’t risk it,’ Carveth said from the bench. ‘Bad news.’
Smith frowned. ‘I thought you liked Sham, Carveth? You used to swear by it.’
‘I used to swear at it. Seriously, stick with the artificial bacon.’ She held up a sheet of facon, which looked like the insole of a shoe.
Morgar grimaced. ‘I’d best be off. Wouldn’t want to be late for the spirits. Toodle-oo.’ He turned and sauntered across the road. In the broken windows of a tall, narrow building, a coal fire throbbed. As Morgar reached the doorway, Suruk stepped out of the shadows and joined him and the two M’Lak disappeared from view.
‘Oh, sod it,’ said Smith, reaching for the facon, ‘let’s give it a go.’
‘It works best with brown sauce,’ Carveth said, passing him the bottle. ‘Practice safe eating – use a condiment.’
She watched as Smith cautiously lowered the facon onto a plate and started to douse its flavour with brown sauce.
‘It must be strange to be in a family,’ Carveth mused. ‘How can two brothers be so different?’
‘It’s often the way,’ Smith said. ‘Take the Marx brothers – one a comedian, the other the inventor of Communism. But still family.’
The M’Lak had made the New Luton postal depot into their own private domain. Humans were allowed to visit but they seldom did; the place looked more like a mausoleum than a mess. A fire burned in the centre of the main sorting room, the flames tinted green in the traditional manner. From racks on the walls, the wide sockets of dozens of skulls gaped at the five warriors, as if with awe.
‘Now,’ declared the one-eyed elder, ‘now the stars are right. Now the spirits are aligned. Now the fire burns high, and in its heart past and future meet. Sons of Agshad, call upon your father!’
Suruk drove out his arm and held his spear above the flames. ‘This is Gan Uteki, weapon of the ancients! Since Agshad Nine-Swords consecrated this blade with the spirit of his own father, Urgar the Miffed, a thousand foes have fallen to its wrath. And so, as Agshad son of Urgar called upon his father’s skill, Suruk son of Agshad calls upon his father’s skill. Agshad, honoured warrior, Suruk seeks your blessing on this blade!’
The elders nodded sagely. The flames danced around the tip of Gan Uteki.
‘Well spoken, Suruk the Slayer,’ said the one-tusked elder. ‘Your words are noble.’
The assembled company turned their gaze to Morgar.
‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘Me too, please.’ He caught Suruk’s eye and added, ‘What? I said it was good, didn’t I?’
‘You are calling on our father’s soul,’ Suruk said, ‘not offering him a biscuit.’
‘Oh.’ Morgar fiddled with his glasses. ‘Right then. Er. . .Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate the union of our dad Agshad and. . . well. . . this spear. We wish the spear of the ancients all the best. . . and hope that with Agshad’s help it brings many years of trouble-free slaughter. Erm. . .’
He looked at Suruk hopefully. Suruk motioned for his brother to continue. Morgar took a deep breath.
‘Well, General Vock murdered Agshad, and I guess that’s what this is all about. I’m needed here as liaison officer for our clan, and I suppose even if I took Vock on I wouldn’t win. But Suruk here’s good. He knows his stuff. And if you help him, father, he’ll pay Vock back. And to mark that, here’s the broom of Pillbox 218, Fort Tambridge.’ He raised an army standard broom and held it aloft above the flames. ‘This is the broom with which Agshad struck the first blow in his final battle. So, Dad, help Suruk find the furry bastard and rip his knackers off! How’s that?’
Suruk opened his mandibles and smiled. ‘And who speaks it?’
‘Well, I do, Morgar the Architect – of Doom!’ Wind swept into the room. The flames leaped up, roaring around Suruk’s spear. Through the fire, Morgar saw Suruk, his face a grin of exhultation. ‘A sign!’ cried the one-eyed elder, ‘Agshad has sent us a sign!’
Awed, Morgar glanced from one M’Lak to the next.
Finally, he found his voice. ‘Suruk, the broom’s on fire! Help, please?’
At one-thirty Jones the Laser called a meeting in the hotel billiard room. Chairs were hauled up in a rough semicircle and Jones waited until the room was full before he began. He nodded to a man standing at the back, and the lights dimmed. Jones reached to his side and held out a box to the front row. ‘Tiffin slices. Pass ’em round.
‘Right, in the absence of anyone coming up with anything better, here’s the plan. Fifty of us – ten Morlocks and forty humans – will be going up in boats along the main canal to Lock Four, here, by Branwell’s Tea Shoppe. At the shop, you’ll leave the boats and enter the museum by the rear gates. Morgar the Architect will be in charge of the Morlock contingent and the whole force will be led by Captain Green here.’
A small man with a targeting monocle gave Jones a brisk, causal salute.
‘Captain Smith, who you see back there, will be joining the raiding party. He will be able to point us to the artefacts we need to recover.
‘Once the Ghasts discover that we’re this far forward, they are certain to try to take advantage and cut the raiding party off. So, as soon as you lot let up a flare, I will counter-attack with our Leviathans and provide cover while the raiding group pulls back. Any questions so far?’
A hand rose.
‘Vargath?’
A M’Lak stood up. ‘You mention the canal. It seems that we would be heading north. That way will lead us into the hunting ground of the great beast.’
Carveth glanced at Smith. ‘Great beast?’
‘Indeed.’ Vargath turned to them both. ‘A fell beast guards the river, as fierce as a praetorian and more vicious than any Yull. Not a week passes that it does not feast on the flesh of Ghast, M’Lak or man, dragging them to its watery lair. I know not from whence it comes, but in our speech it is called Tar’khar – in yours, the Death Otter.’
A rumble ran through the room. Men whispered to one another, M’Lak growled and croaked. Cricic’s six knees shook.
Jones stood up. ‘I’ll need the raiding party ready to go at four.’ He glanced around the room. ‘And about this Death Otter. . . It won’t be a problem. Remember, we got our name from taking care of business. Let’s get going, men.’
The meeting broke up and the chairs were pushed back, the soldiers suddenly busy and alert.
Carveth said, ‘What is their unit’s name?’
Smith replied, ‘The Shopkeepers.’
‘Don’t worry, Polly,’ Rhianna said. ‘I’m sure I can deal with this otter they’re talking about. I was fine with the sun dragons back on Urn. Otters are much smaller.’
‘Well, just be careful,’ Smith replied. ‘I wouldn’t want you getting hurt, Rhianna. A normal otter can give you a pretty nasty nip, so I dread to think what a Death Otter could dish out—’
‘Death?’ Carveth suggested, and Smith turned and scowled at her.
Rhianna yawned. ‘I need to chill out for a while, guys. I’ll see you later, okay?’
They watched her go. Soldiers talked around them, chairs scraping the floor as they were rearranged, and Carveth had to raise her voice a little. ‘Look, Boss, I wanted to talk to you.’
‘What is it?’
‘This might get pretty hairy, from the sounds of it. If –well, if things go wrong or something, I’d like you to have this.’ She took a slim book from her thigh pocket.
‘What is it?’
‘My war diaries. If I ever don’t make it, I want you to get it published. With the money from the sales, I’d like a charitable fund to be set up aimed at bringing me back to life.’
Smith looked at the volume. Carveth had drawn a flower on the front, in correcting fluid. The book was entitled ‘Adventures in the Pollyverse’. He opened it at random and encountered a picture of a horse executed in biro.
‘Don’t read it!’ Carveth cried.
‘Sorry.’ He put the diary into his coat. ‘Don’t worry, Carveth, you’ll come back. We all will.’
The Systematic Destruction tracked the John Pym to New Luton and touched down safely behind Ghast lines. It had not been standing on the landing pad for ten minutes before a hard-faced squad of praetorians arrived to take 462 and Colonel Vock to Number Eight.
Things were grim in Ghast territory. The first wave of attackers had been convinced that they could sweep through New Luton like a hurricane, but their advance had been slowed by ferocious defenders and unpleasant local diseases. Without proper food or medical supplies, the drones had developed a painful condition of the stercorium known as slaksak, which was only halted when the praetorians ate them all.
But reinforcements were flooding in and each day more Aresian battle-walkers strode through the wreckage of the city like vast wading birds, plucking men from the streets like herons seizing fish. They disembarked from transport ships by the half-dozen, spindly and strangely coltish as they paced towards the battleline.
The hovercar stopped before a sleek black ship on the other side of the landing field. An airlock opened with a wet squelch and a lift whisked Vock and 462 into the presence of Number Eight.
Eight stood at a railing, looking down into a pit. He was reading the Origin of Species with one hand and beating time to piped Bruckner with the other. As 462 approached he glanced round and smirked.
‘All hail, mighty Eight!’ 462 cried.
‘Hail.’ Eight twitched his antennae. ‘And this is the Yullian warlord, I assume. Primitive. I am pleased to make your flea-ridden, degenerate acquaintance, Colonel.’
‘ Hup-hup, offworlder coward,’ Vock said graciously. ‘I am barely ashamed to be in your soul-tainting presence.’
‘Good.’ Eight put his book down. ‘You are no doubt surprised to see me here, 462; I secreted a tracking device in the hold of your ship.’
‘Your secretions are always welcome in my hold, great one.’ 462 glanced away, making a mental note to have his personal security team investigated by his other personal security team.
Eight continued: ‘I intend to be present for the capture of the Vorl. Now, where is this Captain Smith and his associated rabble?’
‘On the other side of the city, Eight. We will know if they try to leave the planet.’
Eight nodded and turned to the pit. ‘It disgusts me that so few of them could cause us so much trouble. Perhaps this Captain Smith should be thrown to the ant-wolf. Assault Unit One likes mammals, but the all-doberman diet tires him.’
Vock grimaced, although whether he was disgusted by the concept of keeping pets or worried that he might be mistaken for an unusually mobile chew-toy was hard to tell.
‘I believe that the value of a culture can be gauged from the size of its attack dogs,’ Eight observed. ‘Good boy, Assault Unit One.’
462 looked down into the pit. Assault Unit One crouched in a heap of doberman bones, chewing. It spat out a spiked collar.
Vock puffed his chest out. ‘I have questions!’
Eight peered down at him and smiled, bearing slightly more fangs than necessary. ‘Yes?’
‘Why has this planet not been overrun yet? When will we close with the enemy and offer up their hearts? And why have I not been given my own spacecraft?’
Eight scowled and licked his thin lips. ‘Simple, my furry ally. First, this planet has not yet been conquered because of the deranged efforts of the Earth-scum in resisting our inevitable success. Second, we will destroy the enemy when it is most effective to do so, without unnecessary waste. And third, you are travelling on a Ghast ship because if you had your own vessel you would drive it into the ground.’
‘Only ground with offworlders on it. Ground occupied by Suruk the Slayer and his disgraceful minions!’
‘Precisely why your revenge will have to wait.’
‘Wait?’ Vock looked around the room and sneered, a gesture 462 was growing to despise. ‘And who are you to tell me what to do? Your warriors die without victory. Death is no excuse for failure! You dare tell me to wait, offworlders? Popacapinyo does not wait, insect! You do not speak to Mimco Vock like that! You will show respect, lobster-men!’ he yelled, voice rising to a neurotic scream, ‘Because I am Yull and I have lots of honour and important and am very very very dignity!”
Vock stopped, panting, hand on his axe, his muzzle dripping with froth. The Ghasts studied him with quiet contempt.
Eight sighed. ‘You have a choice, rat-thing. You can complete this mission intact, in which case you will have the opportunity to murder your enemies in whichever sick manner your tiny mind prefers, or you can complete it as an amusing novelty rug. Now, I have assumed temporary control of our forces here and have had the previous commander shot. The troops are on high alert: as soon as Smith has completed his orders here – whatever they are –we shall capture and interrogate him and his crew as to the location of the Vorl. Then, and only then, he will be utterly destroyed. I understand 462 will deal with Smith himself. His comrades will be yours to annihilate, Colonel Vock.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, Colonel Vock.’
‘Good.’ Vock rubbed his paws together. ‘Kill all,’ he whispered. ‘Kill all, nice and slow!’
‘We will conquer as one!’ 462 cried. ‘Surely this brilliant plan calls for laughter, Eight!’
‘Yes,’ said Eight, ‘yes!’ He threw his head back and cackled with insane merriment. 462, who had been practising his own laugh, waited politely and then joined in. Vock squealed with evil glee. The guards chuckled and, as if to answer them all, a tight-jawed snigger came from the pit.