Wrath of the Lemming-men (26 page)

Warily, lest something dead turn out to be under the sheets, she climbed into bed. The bed was clean and the sheets cool.

‘Sit forward,’ Suruk said. He took the pillow out and, spinning, smashed it into the wall as if to dash out its brains. Then he put it behind her. She settled back.

Suruk opened the chest of drawers – Carveth kept her socks in her own equivalent – and took out a machete. ‘A human gave me this,’ he said, placing it on the bedside table. ‘It may be of use, if an enemy attacks. Now, would you care for some music to assist you in sleeping?’ Suruk pulled out a handful of records from the shelf. ‘Let us see. . . Beethoven’s Ninth, Shostakovitch Moods, Stockhausen’s Greatest Melodies . . .’

‘Haven’t you got anything a bit less classical?’

‘I have Anthrax.’

‘Thanks for sharing. What about your Minnie Ripperton records?’

Suruk raised an eyebrow-ridge. ‘You listen to war music in bed? No wonder you are so strange.’

‘Cheers,’ said Carveth, ‘I’ll be alright without.’

‘As you wish.’ Suruk reach out and turned off the lamp.

In the dim light Carveth saw him spring up onto his stool, crouch down and close his eyes. His hand rested lightly on a blade on his belt.

Suruk’s mandibles opened and he yawned, revealing his shining teeth, before his mouth closed up again like a castle gate. Squatting on the stool he looked like a cross between something from the deep ocean and a roosting bat. Behind him, rows of skulls grinned at Carveth, taken from the most evil and savage creatures of the galaxy, a legion of dead monsters drawn up into ranks.

‘Sleep well,’ Suruk said.

‘Thanks,’ Carveth said, and she closed her eyes gingerly.

She did not dream. In the morning she awoke to find herself under a heap of soft toys and cushions, that Suruk had fetched from her room.

Smith finished loading his rifle and propped it against the wall. He opened the Civiliser, tipped out the shells and looked down the barrel. Then he pushed six big bullets into the chamber and dropped two speedloaders into his coat pocket before turning to Carveth’s guns.

Carveth laid pieces of printout on the far end of the kitchen table as if dealing out huge playing cards. She pushed them together and stood back, admiring the effect.

‘It’s the best I could do,’ she said. ‘I blew up the free map from the radio signal.’

Smith loaded cartridges into the shotgun. ‘It looks fine.’

Rhianna brought the sandwiches from the galley and looked over Carveth’s shoulder. ‘Hey, guys.’

The airlock creaked open, then slammed shut. Suruk’s boots clanged on the metal floor.

‘Find anything?’ Smith called, not looking round.

‘Only this,’ Suruk said, and he dumped something on the table.

It was about two feet long and had a body like a lobster, but much longer legs. Tentacles sprouted from its back, dribbling gluey fluid.

‘It’s the thing I saw last night,’ Carveth said.

‘Indeed,’ Suruk said. ‘I caught it trying to climb onto the ship.’

‘Whoa,’ Rhianna observed. ‘Nature round here looks. . . kind’ve unnatural.’ Smith caught her eye. She smiled, and he smiled back, feeling himself flush.

‘It’s Ghast biotech,’ Smith replied. ‘Look.’ He took out his penknife, and with the tweezers unfolded a long, thin stem from the creature’s small head. ‘Extendable antennae. I’m afraid to say this is a bug.’

Carveth shrugged. ‘Well, yeah.’

‘An engineered bugging device. Somehow the Ghasts stuck this thing on the ship. It must have happened back at Tranquility. Men, I’m afraid they know where we are.’

Carveth seemed to deflate slightly.

‘Oh, no,’ Rhianna said. ‘That’s, like, really bad.’

‘Excellent!’ Suruk chuckled behind his mandibles. ‘Then they are coming. Our old enemy 462 and with him Mimco Vock. The ghosts of legend shall return, and the rides of Funland shall run red with villainous blood! This theme park shall be ours, and the theme will be doom! I shall battle my enemy in the shadow of the rollercoaster and spear him in the Tunnel of Love!’

‘Ouch,’ Carveth said.

‘Easy, old chap,’ Smith put in. ‘First things first. We need to move the ship. We’ll dump this monstrosity in the heather. Then we need to get inside as quickly as possible. The Ghasts can’t be far behind.’

Seen from the air, Lloydland was sleeping. Few lights shone up from the various domes and landing pads; no vehicles moved around the perimeter. It was the size of a small town, its rides, hotels, theatres and entertainment domes waiting for the call that would bring them back to merry, gaudy life.

Up close, its beauty faded. Lloydland was sliding into decrepitude. Lichen gathered on the windows of the domes. There was dirt in the corners of the great embossed signs. Soft rain fell onto long grass.

A small robot had stopped in the middle of the main street. Carveth opened a panel in its front and took out a soggy map. ‘Place is dead,’ she said, opening the map. ‘If you were a psychic ghost,’ she added, ‘would you go to Medieval Mountain or the Buccaneers of the Ivory Coast?’

Smith frowned. Droplets pattered onto the map. ‘Seeing as the place seems disused,’ he said, ‘the best place to start looking would be the colony records. The main admin buildings are all in the centre, here: Madrigal Mews, Chanson Court – ah, this looks promising. The big building in the middle – Ballad Point.’

Carveth squinted at the damp paper. ‘Looks like some sort of high-rise. Offices and luxury hotel, from the looks of it. We should be able to cut through the dome up ahead.’

‘Right,’ Smith said. ‘We’ll try there. Keep an eye out, everyone.’

Carveth nodded, shotgun in hand. They set off across the wide, empty street, the wind tossing thin rain into their faces. Smith wondered if Rhianna would like to hold hands; she did not look very happy.

‘Alright there?’ he asked.

‘It’s this place,’ she replied. ‘It’s… really terrible.’

‘Oh, it’s not too bad,’ he said, trying to jolly her along. ‘Reminds me of going to theme parks back in England.’ They trudged past a dripping sign that read ‘Ride Closed’.

‘My parents used to take me to places like this when I was young. I once went to the Imperial People’s theme park,’ he added.
Funfair For The Common Man
, it was called. It was good, but the children’s farm was closed. Some trouble with the animals, apparently.’

‘Children’s farm?’ Suruk licked his thin lips.

‘Not like that.’ Smith pointed. ‘We’ll go in there, up ahead.’

They approached a set of grand, airlocked doors, decorated with geometric designs and swirling lilies.

Smith looked back at Rhianna. ‘Well, here we go.’

He took up a position on one side of the door, Suruk on the other. Carveth stepped back and reached for the controls. Rhianna reached out and briefly squeezed Smith’s hand.

Carveth pressed the button.

The doors slid open.

It was the scene of a riot. Vases had been smashed, statues of Andy Atom overturned, libellous comments about Sally Squirrel scrawled on the walls. Two huge busts stood on either side of the hall: smooth, stylised male torsos nine feet high. There were no corpses.

Someone had taken them away.

‘Looks like they’re closed,’ Carveth said. ‘Don’t suppose we could go home, by any chance?’

‘Something terrible happened here,’ Rhianna said.

‘Wow,’ Carveth said, ‘you really are psychic!’

Suruk tilted his head back and sniffed. ‘It smells of blood, and evil, and parties.’ He bent down and came up with a jumble of wood and wire in his hand, like the strings of a smashed marionette. ‘A trap,’ he said, looking across the room at a steel spike embedded in the opposite wall. ‘We must go carefully, lest we find more.’

‘Hell of a party,’ Carveth said. She stood in the middle of the room, as far away from everything as she could manage, her muscles tensed ready to cower and duck. She took a step towards Suruk, and he raised a hand.

She stopped.

‘Shush,’ Suruk growled. ‘Do you hear that?’

Smith was close to Rhianna, in case she triggered something. He paused, closed his eyes for a moment, and then he too could hear it: ghostly and distant, the sound of echoing music.

‘The Vorl?’ Rhianna said.

Suruk shook his head. ‘Stephane Grappelli. That way.’

Slowly, like a drifting gas, ‘Blue Moon’ seeped into the hall. It sounded as if it had come up from the underworld, from a vault or the bottom of a well. Smith had an image of pale couples in tattered evening dress, dead but waltzing. He shook his head and it was gone. Blue Moon, he thought: Lloyd Leighton’s old company.

Smith swallowed and readied the rifle. He bent his legs and, as if stalking an animal, he started down the corridor towards the sound.

Suruk said, ‘One thing, Mazuran.’

‘Yes?’

‘Let us try to take Stephane Grappelli alive.’

‘You like him?’

The alien flexed his mandibles. ‘Not as much as Django Reinhardt. But I give him honour.’

‘Loony,’ Carveth muttered from behind.

Smith crept down the corridor. Little chandeliers winked down at him. Scraps of glass crackled underfoot.

With each step his boots sank into the thick carpet. Suruk flanked him, spear readied; Rhianna and Carveth followed, Carveth watching the rear.

Smith stopped beside a long photograph on the wall. It showed a hundred rich, dapper partygoers in evening dress. At the front of the picture stood Lloyd Leighton.

On his left was a wolfish, heavy-browed fellow in a checked shirt – the caretaker, perhaps. On Leighton’s right was Number Two.

The party, Smith thought, the picture he’d found on Benson. There stood Two, an elaborate cocktail in his thin hand, bridling at the camera flash as if the woman behind had just goosed his large red arse. Smith wished he could have traded places with the woman. Two seconds with a cocktail stirrer and Number Two would never have marched again.

‘The music grows louder,’ Suruk said.

To the left was a pair of large, open doors. Music seeped out from within. Smith looked back and nodded to the others. Slowly, his rifle ready, he looked around the doors.

The room was a dancehall, strewn with the detritus of a party that had never been cleared away. A banner hung across the hall. It said, ‘Welcome Ghast Empire! Jive With The Hive!’ Streamers lay across the floor like bits of a dead rainbow. The air smelt faintly of ash.

There was a bar at the far end, manned by a mechanical tender. A man in a crumpled suit sat on a high stool opposite the automaton, head so slumped that his chin nearly rested on the bar.

‘Another highball, would you kindly?’ he said.

Smith coughed. ‘Excuse me?’

The man sat up as if jabbed, whirled round and hopped down from the stool. Smith’s hands tensed around the rifle, but the drinker was unarmed. The man beamed and raised a hand in greeting, his eyes suddenly bright as if lights had been switched on behind them.

‘Well, hello there! I’m Lloyd Leighton, and I’d like to welcome you to Lloydland!’

Leighton was tall and moustached, friendly but strong-looking and masculine. He wore a double-breasted brown suit, cut loosely in the Free States style. Leighton’s age was hard to tell; his face looked about fifty, but there was a twinkle in his eye that suggested that his mind was much younger than that.

‘How’re we doing?’ he beamed, advancing. Smith met Suruk’s eye and the M’Lak stepped aside, lowering his spear.

Leighton stuck out a hand. ‘Sir, pleased to meet you.’ Smith shook his hand; its grip was strong and hard. ‘Great to see you, Sir. We ought to hit the links sometime. Madam,’ Leighton said, turning to Rhianna with sudden seriousness. ‘I sincerely hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. At Lloydland we take fun seriously, for the
whole
family. And on that subject – hey, little sister!’ Abruptly he hitched up his trousers and squatted down in front of Carveth. ‘What’s
your
name?’

‘Er, Polly,’ she said, keeping both hands on her gun. ‘Why?’

‘Polly,’ said Leighton. ‘That’s a nice name. So, who’re you most looking forward to seeing here? Andy Atom?Sally Squirrel?’

‘The Vorl, I think,’ Carveth said.

The smile dropped off Leighton’s face. Then, as if a dark cloud had passed, he grinned again. ‘Not sure I can help you there. But hey – who’s this little guy?’

Standing upright again, Leighton looked left. Carveth followed his gaze. ‘That’s Suruk.’

‘Suruk, eh?’ To Smith’s horror, Leighton reached out and patted the alien on the head. This was not easy: Suruk was several inches taller than him. Suruk opened his mandibles and snarled and Leighton whipped his hand away. ‘Whoa, he’s a feisty puppy! I don’t recognise the breed. What is he, a cross?’

‘Enraged,’ Suruk said. ‘I will have no dealings with you, demented one.’

‘In which case,’ Leighton declared, ‘how’s about I give all you guys your own tour, eh?’

Rhianna leaned over to Smith and whispered, ‘I think he’s a little – you know – special.’

‘He’s bloody doo-lally,’ Smith replied. ‘Best play along for now, though. He may know more than he’s letting on.’

Raising his voice, he said, ‘That would be excellent, Mr Leighton. Perhaps you could tell us a little about how Lloydland is run?’

‘Sure!’ Leighton clapped his hands. ‘Okay! Who wants to see where we make ice cream?’

‘Me, me!’ Carveth cried. She glanced at Smith. ‘Keeping up the charade, Boss. Honestly.’

*

The
Systematic Destruction
swung into orbit. 462 listened to the transmission coming up from Lloydland, and a minute later received an order for an audience with Number Eight.

462 folded his command chair to the upright position, polished his metal eye, cleaned the propaganda posters and found three particularly evil-looking praetorians to pack into the camera’s field of view. After some deliberation he decided to wear his second-newest black trenchcoat and ordered a terrified drone to buff it until it shone like oil. He was saving the newest for his final run-in with Isambard Smith.

The screen squelched into life. Eight was sitting in a massive chair, reading a book that did not appear to have been written by Number One: a privilege of rank. A marble phrenology bust of a drone’s head sat on his desk, marked out with the various parts of the Ghast brain: instinct, will and, taking up eighty percent of the mind, orders. Assault Unit One stuck its brutal head into the bottom of the screen and growled at 462.