Free God Emperor of Didcot by Toby Frost Page B

ever forget this moment.’
    ‘Just because you can see Rhianna’s pants,’ she said.
    ‘I meant the alien invasion, Carveth.’
    ‘Oh, that,’ she replied. She sighed. ‘I’m trying not to think about that.’

4 The Rebellion Begins
    Smith woke up at eight in a white, sunny room. Clear, clean light streamed in through the window. It was too nice a sky for anything evil to happen under it.
    He washed at the sink in his room and dressed. He hid his rifle between the mattress and the frame of the bed and strapped the Civiliser to his side. This place was supposed to be safe, but there was no point taking chances.
    On the landing he met Carveth. She was in her pyjamas, woolly slippers and dressing gown, and did not look like a key player in the struggle against alien tyranny. ‘Ugh, Boss,’ she muttered as she closed the bathroom door.
    ‘Morning, Carveth. Bad night?’
    ‘I had that nightmare about the electric sheep again. Hardly slept.’
    ‘Well, best get ready. Today is the day we start the war against Gertie.’
    ‘If I knew there was a war I’d’ve had a lie-in,’ she said weakly, and she stomped off up the corridor, toothbrush in hand.
    Smith went downstairs. The rear of the building was cramped and scruffy, cluttered with equipment for the bar at the front. At the bottom of the stairs he heard voices.
    One was hard and a little wheezy and could only belong to W.
    ‘Dammit, are you mad?’ W rasped. ‘You can’t go back, man. It’s insane.’
    ‘I’ll do what I want!’ the second voice barked. ‘You’re mired in tradition. What we need is to bring it to the heat, right now!’
    Smith opened the door. He was looking into the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Discussing battle plans?’
    W glanced around. ‘Smith, tell this damned fool that he’s wrong. You take the pot to the kettle, not the kettle to the pot!’
    ‘Rubbish,’ said the other man. ‘You may as well entrust the tea to a savage.’
    Suruk strolled in. ‘Greetings!’
    ‘This hothead is Major Wainscott,’ W said.
    ‘Wainscott, Deepspace Operations Group,’ said the man. ‘Wasn’t here, don’t exist, pleased to meet you.’ He put out a hand and Smith shook it. Wainscott was bearded, quick-eyed and quite small, and wore the largest pair of shorts Smith had ever seen. He was slightly dusty and made Smith think of a geography teacher and a tramp, things he did not usually connect with military prowess. ‘Glad to meet you, Smith. Dar urgai vashuk min ,’ he added to Suruk, making a stabbing gesture.
    Suruk laughed. ‘ Ungak mar shalad ,’ he said running a finger across his throat.
    ‘Likewise, sir,’ Wainscott said, and bowed. ‘I have great respect for your people. You are fierce fighters.’ Still bowed over, he tapped a scar that ran through his hair, from the front to the back of his head. He straightened up.
    ‘Major Wainscott is a master of unconventional warfare,’ W added.
    ‘Absolutely,’ Wainscott said. ‘Conventional military doctrine enables the opposition to predict one’s plan of attack. Me, I pull ‘em down, wave ‘em round my head and go in with the old chap flapping in the breeze like the banner of Ghengis Khan. Scares the hell out of the enemy, every time.’
    ‘I’m sure it does,’ said Smith. He looked around the kitchen, uncertain how to follow this. Perhaps some of Wainscott’s brain might have fallen out when he acquired that scar. ‘Are those the tea fields out there?’
    ‘Indeed,’ W said. ‘Pure, unpicked tea.’
    Smith crossed to the window and looked out. Having arrived in the small hours, he had not realised the scale of the plantation outside. The deep green of the tea plants stretched on and on from the window to the horizon: pure life, pure tea.
    ‘The blood of the Empire,’ he said to himself.
    ‘Which the Ghasts intend to stop,’ W said. ‘As we talk, the great plantations are harvesting as much tea as they can and hiding it. A second front has been formed, and