Free Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires by Toby Frost Page B

cause. For what is a panini but a cheese toastie with added bourgeois sentimentality? What is a cup-cake but a fairy cake that has appropriated too much icing?’
    Well, Smith thought, maybe she was a bit cranky.
    The door burst open. Light shot in, and a long shadow fell across the stage.
    The first speaker ran for the exit, reached the door, and flew back as if hit by a battering ram. He crashed against the side of the stage and flopped half across it, dead.
    A figure stalked into the hall. It was a humanoid robot, dressed like a dandy: red tailcoat, long cuffs, a walking cane in one gloved hand. The machine had one camera-eye – the other was painted onto the smooth metal of its face – and a moustache made from ornate clock hands. On top of its head sat what looked like a chimney-shaped top hat, and was in fact a small chimney.
    Policemen ran forward behind it, their blue uniforms like water poured into the room, but it was the robot that Smith looked at, and recognised. It was the dandy from the bank, the one who had gunned down the robber. Mark Twelve had called him the Ringleader.
    The police rushed in. Smith thought of his gun, but did not reach for it.
    The Ringleader shook his head sadly. ‘What a scene. What a scene! The sight of such uproarious treachery, here in our fair city…’ He waved a hand airily. ‘It saddens my patriotic soul. Officers, you know what to do. Knock ’em down and lock ’em up!’
    * * *
    ‘You know what the problem with this place is?’ the Ringleader inquired through the bars.
    Smith looked around the cell. The bench was occupied by Carveth and Rhianna, and so it was his turn to stand up. Sitting on the floor was not a pleasant alternative. In the background, he could hear the rumble of police work, as the officers put money in the drinks machine and filled out forms. It was swelteringly hot.
    ‘Well,’ Smith replied, ‘It’s got you in it.’
    The robot paused. He leaned in, close to the bars, and with a tiny mechanical whine, the tips of his moustache rose until they pointed to ten to two. ‘You’ve got a tongue on you, for now. Tell me something. What do you know of the great gangs of Ravnavar, my loquacious friend? The Jackhammers, the Two-Percenters, the Blueberries? Do you know what unites those deadly warriors?’
    ‘They’ve all got silly names?’
    ‘They fell to mine own hand.’ The Ringleader paused, then let out a hard, metallic laugh. ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got some fire to you. Perhaps, when this city is mine, you will sit beside me. You, though, and you,’ he added, pointing to Carveth and Rhianna, ‘I discard. You are tepid.’ He waved a hand eloquently, like an elderly royal greeting peasants.
    ‘I’ve got a friend who’d like to meet you,’ Smith said. ‘You’d inspire him.’
    ‘To glory?’
    ‘To violence. His name is Suruk.’
    ‘A Morlock ape. I don’t dally with savages.’
    ‘He could turn you to scrap.’
    ‘Then perhaps he will present himself.’ The Ringleader gestured grandly at the roof. ‘Great men are not born: they are forged. On the streets, in the heat of battle, or, like myself, in a two-part stainless steel mould. Such men deserve the lion’s share.’
    ‘Did you learn that being a ringmaster?’ Smith inquired. ‘When you were learning how to dress like a clown?’
    The Ringleader was silent for a moment. ‘I would… rend you limb from limb, shred you like gerbil bedding. But I will leave you here, with your view. So that when real warriors take over Ravnavar, when we take the lion’s share, you can watch it all burn. Farewell.’
    He turned. Rhianna said, ‘Hey.’
    The Ringleader paused and looked round. ‘You’ve got something to say to me?’
    ‘Yes, actually, I have.’ Rhianna stood up, lifting her skirts slightly, and strode to the bars. ‘Do they do vegan food here?’
    The Ringleader turned and walked away.
    ‘Well,’ Rhianna demanded, turning, ‘What do we do?’
    ‘I don’t