Wrath of the Lemming-men (11 page)

‘He threw a party for the top brass and paid for the bar.’ Smith sighed. ‘Good old Binky. I think he captains a dreadnought now. How about you? Any good stories?’ He opened another beer.

Rhianna peered into her own can and shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve not really had as many adventures as you. We had some pretty crazy times, back in the day, though. There were nine of us in this modern dance group called Starship Troupers – doing spoken poetry, movement, kind of a holistic thing. We used to play whale music in the interval, until they translated whale song. We put our stuff through a translator: it turned out to be a sea shanty called
Right Up the Blowhole
.’ Rhianna burst into laughter. ‘You should have heard it!’ she exclaimed, and she coughed and spilt her beer in a frothy mess.

At the far end of the table, Suruk said ‘Holistic!’ and chuckled to himself.

Rhianna had the giggles. Smith watched her, intrigued.

Suddenly she slipped off her chair, landed awkwardly on one foot and then fell onto him.

He caught her instinctively, and she lay there across his lap for a moment, grinning. He smiled back at her. Their eyes met. Rhianna stopped smiling and hauled herself upright. ‘I ought to get to bed,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ said Smith. The spell was broken, if ever it had been there. ‘Well then – are you alright to walk?’

‘I’m fine.’ She rubbed her head. ‘Fine. Night, everyone. Nod bless.’ She padded out of the room, a little more uneven than usual. Smith heard the door to her room close.

‘Bollocks,’ said Smith. He looked at the far wall, feeling empty. ‘Suruk?’ he said after a while. ‘How’re you going to find Colonel Vock?’

‘I will manage,’ Suruk said.

‘You’ll need someone to fly you to wherever he is.’

The alien shrugged. ‘I will seek passage with other M’Lak. Much as I like this craft, I miss the ships of my people. They have their own ambience. . . and aroma.’ He opened another can. ‘Fear not. I will bring you back a postcard.’

‘Thanks,’ said Smith.

‘She makes you sad,’ Suruk remarked. He had mastered the art of using his mandibles to hold his can, freeing his hands to gesticulate. ‘You are angry that your end has not got away with the magic woman. You wish to donate her one, and it grieves you that you cannot.’

Smith nodded. He felt defeated. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘We should find you another with which to spawn. I have an idea! We will advertise, placing cards in telephone boxes. I have seen it done.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Then, we could interview those seeking to apply. And if they are not good enough, they will die by my hand! This will discourage time-wasters.’

‘Thanks, old chap.’ He sighed. ‘I wish it were that easy, Suruk, I really do. Nice of you to try to help.’

‘I enjoy a challenge.’

Smith sighed and stood up. It was time to feed the hamster and go to sleep. ‘Goodnight, Suruk,’ he said.

‘Goodnight,’ the alien replied.

Smith put on his pyjamas and brushed his teeth. At the door to his room he switched off the corridor lights. The living room was empty, and in the hold, Suruk was practising his martial arts again.

Smith watched the alien leap, duck, cut and roll. He could not help but be impressed, and in an odd way envious. How much easier life would be without the curse of a sex drive, where the solution to any problem was decapitation! There was an elegant lack of complexity, a simple precision to the M’Lak mind that humans lacked. He would never admit it, but sometimes Smith wondered if mankind could learn from the M’Lak. Something crashed in the hold, followed by wild laughter. Maybe not.

It was snowing outside. Around them, Leighton- Wakazashi was keeping its secrets. And further away were Colonel Vock and 462, plotting their evil against Earth.

An onslaught against mankind on two fronts. Without help from the rest of the galaxy, the other empires would soon collapse under such an assault. Even Britain might find winning a bit tricky. Troubled, Smith went to bed.

Carveth woke early and prepared for command. She zipped up her utility waistcoat, pulled her hair back into a functional ponytail and looked at herself in the mirror.

‘’Ow the ’ell am I going to do this?’ she asked her reflection.

Then, ‘
’Ow? ’Ell?
When did I stop saying haitch?’

She realised that the programme was running. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she needed to do but, in her subconscious, she was a sergeant major.

On the way she bought a company newspaper and rolled it into a narrow tube. With one end jammed under her arm, her hand on the other, she strode onto the training ground.

The androids were chatting, waiting for the course to begin. They were a mixed bunch, from a variety of lines: in once glance Carveth saw a prim, dark-haired girl in a thick fur coat, an acrobat with a stripe of makeup across her eyes, an artificial company wife in a flowery dress and floppy hat, muttering something about a recipe – even an ancient Metropole-class, gold-finished and expressionless.

They looked quite reasonable from here, she thought, but the training programme thought otherwise.

‘Hatten-shun!’ she bellowed. ‘Get in a line! Now!’

The androids shuffled into a row. Slightly astonished, and already slightly hoarse, Carveth glanced around the room. The training area doubled as a sports centre for the company executives and the lady androids stood along the baseline of a badminton court.

‘Right then!’ Carveth said, approaching the end of the line. She dipped her head slightly, shoved her jaw out, narrowed one eye and widened the other. ‘You ’orrible crew,’ she began. ‘You ’orrible bunch of mummies’ bots, fresh out the server room.’ She took the paper from under her arm and prodded the first android in the chest with it.

‘You! What’s your name?’

‘My name is Emily Hallsworth,’ the android said. She was wearing a long dress and a bonnet. ‘I am pleased to make your aquain—’

‘I didn’t ask for the bleedin’ Doomsday Book! What’s that on your ’ed?’

‘It is known as a bonnet,’ Emily replied. ‘All ladies of—’

‘Where’re you from?’

‘I have of late been residing at the Jane Austen Experience, on New Bath. My calling is to entertain the visitors with polite discourse and the pianoforte.’

Carveth was finding that being in charge of an infantry unit was actually quite easy, once you got into the swing of it. ‘Ooh, New Bath, is it? La dee bleedin’ dah. Well, this is basic training now, girl. Get that bloody radar dish off your ’ed! Nah then,’ she muttered, moving on, ‘let’s see what else they’ve given me – oh my God, what’s wrong with your eyes?’

The next android in the line wore a white shirt, pleated skirt and long socks, which was odd enough, but her features were even more bizarre. She had a tiny mouth and nose, and vast, round, watery eyes like something that had evolved in a cave. They stared at Carveth for a moment, and the girl gave an idiotic giggle. ‘Hi!’ she said, ‘I’m Robot Pilot Yoshimi! Let’s have fun!’

Thrown, Carveth stared back. Yoshimi certainly didn’t look like any android she’d ever met – or indeed any person at all. Emily leaned over and whispered disapprovingly, ‘Manga specifications, I believe.’

The program recovered Carveth’s composure. ‘What the bloody ’ell are you on about? Don’t give me this
fun
bollocks, my girl!’

Yoshimi looked dismayed. Her huge eyes blinked. She sniffed.

‘Don’t get soft with me!’ Carveth bellowed. ‘What are you, a bloody schoolgirl?’

‘Yes!’ Yoshimi said, and she burst into tears.

‘Oh. Sorry,’ Carveth said. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ Feeling that this was all going wrong, she stepped away and surveyed her charges. ‘Now, listen. My name is Polly and I will be equipping you to deal with the modern battlefield. The world out there is a tough, dangerous place. You may not like that. You may want to duck out, to run back to your motherboards. Well, there’ll be none of that here! You must learn to be as tough and dangerous as anything it can throw at you if you want to survive, understand? – Can somebody give her a tissue, please? – I said,
Do you understand
?’

There was a mumble of assent.

‘What was that?’ she barked.

‘Yes, Polly!’

‘That’s more like it!’ She strolled down the line, and since there were only ten of them, soon strolled back.

‘Right, you lot! Hatten-shun!’ She jammed the newspaper under her arm and squinted. ‘Now, listen! It’s a hard world out there, and if you want to survive, you’ll ’ave to get wise! And Polly will make you wise! Now, first up, I’ve made a couple of little changes to your training programme. Today’s mud wrestling is off. Instead, we will be learning about the Ensign rapid-fire laser rifle, following which I will be continuing your moral education down the pub. But first, which one of you babies knows anything about Von Clausewitz’s dialectical approach to military analysis?’

‘The Chairman will see you now,’ the intercom said, and the Deputy Director opened the office door and stepped inside.

Chairman Brett Gecko was at his desk, adjusting his braces.
Club Tropicana
was playing on the stereo: as the Deputy Director entered, the music stopped.

‘Tell me Patrick,’ the Chairman asked, ‘have you ever considered the profundity of the early works of Wham?’

He put his feet up on the desk and pointed at his minion with both hands, the thumbs cocked up like gun hammers. ‘I’m a busy man, so shoot.’

‘You wanted to talk to me about the robot girls, sir. Is there a problem?’

‘Course not. Problems are for wimps. There’s no such thing as problems in this company, only solutions to problems. Who solves problems?
Tigers
solve problems. And at Leighton-Wakazashi, we separate the tigers from the boys. Yes, Patrick, there’s a problem.’

‘Really, Sir? You need me to—’

The Chairman scowled. ‘Hold that thought – call coming in.’ He lifted the phone and barked into it, ‘Hey, Carter, how’s the space-haulage game? An entire ship? Only one survivor? A woman, you say? That’s terrible. Can we get hold of a specimen for the science division?’ He put the comlink down. ‘Now, Patrick, do you remember Paul Devrin?’

‘He was your predecessor, until his C5 transport unit exploded. . .’

‘Damn right. He had a sexbot built, a custom job. I happened to be watching the girl androids doing their physical training today, by coincidence, and I noticed there are. . . similarities between her and the new trainer.’

‘They may just be built to the same basic pattern, sir.’

‘Get with the programme, Patrick, because this train waits for nobody! This smells like trouble to me. You know we don’t need any trouble now, what with our grey-market sales at Tranquility Falls. The ants pay well for info, and the last thing the company needs is some renegade custom-job getting in the way. I’m making an informal executive order here: wait a moment. . .’

The Chairman leaned over and spun the needle on his executive toy. It teetered on
Play a round of golf
, rocked, and stopped at
Order an assassination
. He sat up, tightened his red braces and squared his padded shoulders. ‘Put the sleeper on standby,’ he said.

The Deputy Chairman swallowed. ‘Sir, isn’t that a bit, well, excessive?’

‘This
is
the age of excess!’ the Director barked. ‘Get wise, Patrick. Out there, it’s a jungle, a corporate jungle full of fat cats and wolves in suits. And you know what sort animals rule the jungle? Damn right you do.
Sharks
. You’ve got to be a shark – a tiger shark – to ride this train. That’s why I’m sitting here, swimming in my own jungle, and you’re standing in front of that desk, whining like a little girl. Hey, am I right or am I right?’

‘Yes sir.’

He clicked his fingers. ‘I like the way you think, Patrick. You’ll go far. But you can’t win the rat race if you can’t walk the walk – because it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and if you can’t stand eating dogs, it’s time to get back in the kitchen. Understand?’

‘Right,’ said the Deputy Director.

‘Watch this new trainer to the max. Watch her like a hawk, and if she starts poking her nose around – freeze her assets for good.’ He leaned back and put his feet back up. ‘Later.
Ciao
.’

‘Then,’ Emily said, delicately sipping her drink, ‘Lord Hampton looked down and said, “Madam, I said that the Honourable Member needed the persuasion of a lady to stand at
election
.” Most embarrassing, I can assure you.’

‘What did you do?’ Carveth asked.

‘Do? I merely rose from my knees and vacated the drawing room. One has to keep some dignity.’

They sat around a table in one of the company bars.

This one was for lower-ranking workers, non-executives, and was called Norm’s. It had wooden fittings and stools – unlike Spritzers, the choice for more important company men, which had no seats and served only wine.

‘Well,’ said the artificial wife, ‘it is a woman’s purpose to make her husband happy, after all.’

‘
No
,’ Carveth replied firmly, raising a finger. All thought of being a sergeant-major had vanished now: her mind was too busy concentrating on staying upright. Her finger meandered in her vision, and she tracked it with an effort.

‘No,’ she reasserted. ‘You do not have to do anything unless you want to. You get him to do it instead. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got to listen,’ she added, her voice rising, ‘because this is feminism, right? You have a duty to great feminists like Emily Pankhurst and, um. . . Gloria Gaynor to get ahead. Because if a woman’s place is in the kitchen, a man’s place is on the kitchen table – on his back. I speak from experience here.’

‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’ Emily added, ‘that all men are bastards.’ She paused and finished her Tia Maria and coke. ‘Would anyone care for a choral interlude?’

Carveth looked over her shoulder at the small stage at the back of the bar where Yoshimi was belting out ‘Carwash’ on the singalongatron. ‘Job well done,’ Carveth said to the bottles on the tabletop.

‘So,’ she added, sitting up, ‘I hope you’ve learned something today, because I intend to teach you useful stuff for the real world. You there, Rachel! What’ve you learned today?’