God Emperor of Didcot by Toby Frost Page A

offspring of an octopus and a rat, but in a good way. She was very beautiful, he thought, if slightly grubby.
    ‘Hullo Rhianna. How’d you know it was me?’
    ‘I recognised your footsteps. Beautiful here, isn’t it? The colours are so bright. It reminds me of a picture Gauguin painted of Tahiti.’
    Smith did not know much about art, but knew enough not to say that he knew what he liked. ‘Well, I never knew that,’ he said. ‘I suppose he deserved a holiday, after all that cosmonaut business.’
    Rhianna gave him an odd look. They walked through the tea together, talking.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s things? Still psychic?’
    ‘I’m good, thank you. And yes, I have been working on improving my talents. I learned a lot at St Carmilla’s.
    These days, I focus on my chakras, and I can feel. . .positive energy, flowing through me.’
    Smith frowned, unsure what this meant. He had forgotten how difficult it could be to talk to Rhianna. A voice at the back of his mind told him that if he focused on Rhianna’s chakras he too would feel positively energised. He decided that he had been spending too much time around Carveth.
    ‘Well, that’s jolly good. Don’t suppose you can blow things up with your mind yet, by any chance?’
    Rhianna frowned. Damn, he thought, I did it again. It could be very frustrating trying to date a pacifist while the galaxy crawled with creatures that needed a damn good kick. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
    ‘I understand,’ Rhianna said. ‘It must be difficult to embrace peace when you come from a culture inherently steeped in latent violence.’
    ‘What, England?’
    ‘The British Empire, Isambard.’ A gentle wind stirred the tea leaves, taking a little of the humidity out of the air.
    On the horizon, a sun dragon turned lazily, soaking the heat up on its wings, charging itself. It must be huge, Smith thought: perhaps eighty feet across the wings.
    ‘Well, we’re nowhere near as bad as the Ghasts,’ Smith replied, annoyed. ‘Or bloody Gilead’s lot, imposing their gibberish on us all.’
    ‘That’s really heavy.’ She sighed. ‘Why can’t we all be friends, and enjoy freedom of religion?’
    ‘Damn right. This Eden cult should be banned. We need to resist these bastards until there’s not one of them left. Passively, of course. Thing is, I could do with your help.’
    She stopped walking and looked at him. ‘Really?’
    ‘Definitely. Alright, you can’t blow up tanks yet, but you do have skills and, well, you know. I’d be worried about you otherwise.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you, Isambard. I’ll think about it.’
    She smiled, and he smiled back. For the first time in their conversation, he felt that he was reaching her.
    ‘I worry about you,’ he said. ‘The enemy might come here, looking for you. They’re not like normal people: they have no concept of decency. I’d be afraid in case you did something dippy.’
    Rhianna smiled slightly less. ‘Like I said, I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Just give me time to meditate on it. But don’t hassle me, Isambard. That’s what The Man does, remember.’
    ‘I won’t, I promise. We’re having a meeting inside later. You’d be welcome to come and listen to us.’
    Rhianna said, ‘I think I’d better help out. With all those Imperialists in there, you could do with someone to help dialogue’ – she made her weighing-out gesture – ‘flow. I suppose there won’t be anyone else to represent the voice of enlightened woman.’
    ‘Well, we’ve got Carveth.’
    ‘I’ll be there.’
    The television was on in the bar. A semicircle of big wicker chairs stood around it, and ten people were watching a long-bearded man on the screen, addressing the camera like a hermit explaining his avoidance of civilisation.
    ‘This is showing every twenty minutes on every channel,’ W said.
    The Hyrax sat back in his throne and smoothed his beard.
    ‘Citizens of Urn. Greetings in the name of the most gentle god, the