Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires Read Online Free PDF Page A

pony-murderer!’ Carveth interjected.
    ‘– the tide of right-thinking opinion will turn against you. Nobody will invite your fascist tank regiment to a festival ever again. And no matter where they sit, nobody will ever pass them the duchy.’
    Smith, who considered passing the duchy to be the best way to get to Cornwall, thought that Rhianna was getting too emotionally involved. Board games and girls didn’t mix.
    ‘Pass the what?’ Felicity Fitzroy said. ‘Never heard of it.’ She made a grand gesture to illustrate her point, ending in a clatter of plastic as her sleeve snagged the main gun on one of Smith’s landships.
    ‘Easy!’ Smith exclaimed. ‘Really, Captain Fitzroy! The first rule of model kit assembly is not to touch another fellow’s turret without permission. I only stuck that on last night.’
    Fitzroy scowled. ‘Not my fault if you’ve got a wonky cannon, is it?’
    ‘How would you like it if I went round manhandling your materiel?’
    She gave him a challenging look. ‘Why don’t you try it and find out? I doubt you could put anything on the table that would impress me –’
    In the road outside, something banged. Smith looked round, as a great shadow fell across the front of the hall. ‘Everybody down!’ he called, and he leaped onto Rhianna.
    Carveth cowered under the table with the ease born of experience. ‘What’s going on?’ she cried.
    The windows exploded. The huge metal arm of an excavation robot reached inside. Its massive hand scooped up a table in a cascade of plastic soldiers and crushed it. The hand grabbed a model bunker and, as if inspired to do its own building work, ripped the roof off the hall.
    The players of Warro scattered. Half a dozen pulled guns from concealed pockets. Two long, perforated barrels flicked out from the front of the probe drone. The room erupted in a storm of lead and little plastic tanks.
    Captain Fitzroy was shouting into a wire in her jacket about an orbital strike, as if the key to stopping this outrage lay in giving a good dressing-down to her bra.
    Smith thrashed about on top of Rhianna, trying to pull out his Civiliser. ‘No time for love, Captain Smith,’ Suruk growled, heaving him upright.
    The construction robot stepped back from the building and beat its chest. ‘Freedom for Ravnavar!’ it bellowed. ‘Death to the British parasites!’
    Khan waved at Smith from the other side of the room. ‘My car!’ he shouted. ‘In the boot!’
    He lobbed a set of keys; Smith grabbed them as the robot reached back inside and began to smash the refreshments table. ‘I claim these soft drinks for the people of Ravnavar!’ it bellowed. ‘Liberate the squash!’
    ‘Cover me!’ Smith said, and dashed out the hall and into the car park. Khan’s car, a smart-looking Morton HV Tourer, sat shimmering like a beetle in the midday sun. The construction-bot lumbered around in the road like an angry drunk: already the Ravnavari drivers were beeping at it.
    Smith managed to get the keys in the lock and opened the boot of Khan’s car. Inside were a first-aid kit, a bottle of water and a pair of old shoes.
    ‘Bugger,’ he hissed. How the hell was any of this junk supposed to help? Then he noticed that the boot seemed rather shallow, and that there were strips of cloth at the sides.
    Smith pulled the cloth, and the floor of the boot came loose. He tossed the false bottom out of the way; under it were six passports, a large roll of banknotes, and a sub-machine gun. Smith wondered what effect the gun would have on the robot, which was currently trying to tear up the car park.
    Then he noticed another set of cloth straps in Khan’s boot. Smith grabbed hold and pulled, and the second false bottom came away in his hands.
    Underneath were five gold bars embossed with the face of Ghast Number One, a canister bearing at least three biohazard warnings, and a missile launcher. Much better. He hauled it out and cranked the handle at the side. The weapon made a