Wrath of the Lemming-men (27 page)

‘All hail Number One!’ 462 yelped.

Eight marked the page in his book with a spare death warrant and looked up. ‘Quite so. I understand that we draw near the enemy. I take it you intend to strike soon?’

‘Yes, Eight! Once we land, I will use the rodent imbeciles to distract any opposition. While they are busy being destroyed, our praetorians will be able to capture a specimen of the Vorl.’

‘Good. Once you have the Vorl, bring it to me in my ship. My science-drones are preparing the gene-splicing apparatus as we speak.’

‘I live to obey, Mighty Eight.’

‘You live to
succeed
, 462.’ Eight raised his book.

Assault Unit One bent down and came up with something between its teeth. It looked like a huge lobster claw, and it was still wearing the sleeve of a leather trenchcoat. The screen turned black.

It had been a bad morning for Hephuc, Colonel Vock’s servant. The Yull used the same word for
civilian
,
serf
and
kickable stress reliever
, and he had spent most of the day dodging the wads of damp sawdust that Vock threw when irritated. While the rest of the horde ran through a camouflage sheep-dip to dye their fur, Vock armed himself for close combat. Vock’s suit of armour was so elaborate that it took most of the night to put on: only helping with this saved Hephuc from being volunteered to test the sharpness of his master’s axe. Eventually Vock called a meeting of his soldiers and Hephuc gladly stood at the back of the room, munching seeds and reading a dirty parchment.

Vock was happy to be surrounded by warriors. His chest inflated, he swaggered across the hold in a clatter of armour plate.

‘Today,’ he proclaimed, his squeaky voice ringing around the bio-rafters, ‘you are very fortunate! Today, you are privileged to die fighting offworlder scum in the name of our friendly empire and our peace-loving war-god!’

There were cheers. Vock took out a bottle of dandelion wine and handed it to his standard-bearer. ‘Pass it round. One sip each, no cheek pouches.

‘Now, listen. For too long we Yull have been held back. For too long we have been forced to stand and watch as humans have crossed the galaxy, conquering and exploiting helpless native life wherever they go. Now, we must stand up and with one voice cry “We want a go at that!” And believe me, if anyone knows how to conquer and exploit, it is the Yull!’ He put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. ‘Remember, the noble, dignified house of Vock has been disgraced. You, the young generation, are fortunate enough to stand at the precipice of history. It is up to you to leap into action.’ He turned to the back of the room. ‘Step forward, Hephuc!’

Two hundred furry heads turned to the back of the room. The parchment fell out of Hephuc’s paws. He froze, seeds tumbling from his open mouth. ‘Me?’ he squeaked.

Vock smiled. ‘You, Hephuc. Your time has come.’

Hephuc gulped, suddenly aware how loud his pounding heart must sound to the vengeful god of war. Very slowly, he finished eating. His eyes flicked upward as if in prayer, looking for any high ledges from which he might be commanded to jump.

‘Look at my servant Hephuc,’ Vock barked. ‘For many years this cowering menial has served me, fetched and carried at my command, ducked when I have coughed fur-balls at him in rage. Look at him now. He stands ready for battle, with a heart full of pride and cheek-pouches full of sunflower seeds. He is an example to all of you. Today, Hephuc, I shall reward you for your loyalty!’

Hephuc said, ‘Re – reward?’

‘Of course! You are a faithful servant of the house of Vock. Your obedience is a lesson to all Yull. The Greater Galactic Happiness Collective could do with more loyal sons such as you!’

A slow, awkward grin pulled itself across Hephuc’s face. In stages, as if unfolding, he ceased to cringe. ‘Well,’ he managed, ‘I do try, you know. Thank you, sir, thank you!’

‘Not at all. Which is why, Hephuc, I promote you to the rank of squire and give you the honour of wielding the
Xapistic
against our foes.’

Vock slid a weapon from his belt and held it up for all to see. It was a length of metal pole about a yard long.

Duct tape was wound around one end to serve as a sort of handle. At the other end, welded on at right angles, was a large cannon shell.

‘This is for you, Hephuc,’ he said. ‘If you see an off-worlder tank, smite it with the Xapistic and blast yourself to heaven as its crew are blown to hell!’

The soldiers cheered as Vock thrust the stick-bomb into the air. ‘
Yullai!
’

Hephuc opened his hands to the heavens and began to cry. Vock placed the Xapistic into Hephuc’s palms and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Do not be afraid to weep, good serf. It is not every day one is privileged to wield the
Xapistic
. Once in a lifetime, you might say!’

Vock began to laugh.

‘And this,’ said Lloyd Leighton, ‘is where the fun begins!’

Smith glanced at Rhianna. She looked at Leighton and raised her eyebrows. Carveth tapped the side of her head.

‘Don’t be shy!’ Leighton called. ‘Come on in!’

They were in a long, open-plan office. Once, it had been a jolly place, but disuse made it sinister. Dust clung to the computer screens like snow. Pictures of Billy Beaver and Sally Squirrel stared from the walls like paintings in a Yullian haunted house. Carveth looked at a portrait of Andy Atom and shuddered. His neutrons seemed to follow her around the room.

‘Uh-oh,’ Carveth whispered.

‘Hey, less of the English reticence!’ Leighton laughed.

‘I’m just joshing. This, guys, is where the fun begins, where my legions of staff labour like Santa’s elves to make sure that everybody’s having a good time. You might call it the soul of Lloydland – or, Mrs Smith, perhaps you might see it as the sugar you use when you’re baking a pie, right?’

‘Um, it depends how you define soul. . .’ Rhianna began.

‘Look, Leighton,’ said Smith, ‘I need to talk to you. It’s a very serious matter.’

‘Of course, Sir.’ He leaned forward, and Smith suddenly caught a whiff of dust and hair pomade, and under that something stale. ‘Is it a member of staff?’ Leighton asked, quick and serious. ‘You need me to sack someone?’

Smith shook his head. ‘Where are all the guests, Mr Leighton?’

‘Well, it is the slow season—’

‘There’s nobody else here, is there?’

Leighton’s face froze for a moment – and there was no jollity there, just a sort of blank surprise. ‘Perhaps you’d best step into my office.’

He pointed down the corridor. Carveth shone her torch at a pair of wide walnut doors, inset with lacquered stripes. The doors depicted an ocean liner, over which soared a space rocket. One of the panels in the door had been smashed.

‘Now this,’ Leighton declared, cheerful again, ‘is the nerve centre of Lloydland. Who likes cookies? I bet you do, little lady.’

‘Are you calling me fat?’ Carveth demanded.

Leighton roared with laughter. ‘Would you check her out! Fat? Golly no. I’m just making a comparison, see?When your mom here makes cookies, what does she put in them?’

‘Marijuana,’ Carveth said.

‘That’s right, cookie dough! Well, this is where the dough gets baked. This office is where the dough of ideas rises in the oven of activity. Come on in!’

Leighton threw the doors open and Carveth walked past him. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said.

The office was big and empty. It looked to Smith as though someone had dumped a desk in the waiting room of a very prestigious railway. A painting of Andy Atom hung on the far wall. There were no lamps, or at least not in the conventional sense. Instead, four large, glowing objects threw coloured light across the walls. They looked like shapes cut from coloured ice, Smith thought, curving up like incomplete arches, their edges hard and sharp.

Rhianna gasped. ‘Crystals!’ she whispered.

‘Embrace nothing.’ Suruk tilted his head, wary. ‘This is the doing of the Vorl.’

‘You like my ornaments, huh?’ Leighton grinned. He rummaged in the desk, pulled out a cardboard box and passed it to Carveth. ‘You’ll love this!’

‘Is it Vorl stuff?’ she asked.

‘It’s a My Little Xenomorph gymkhana set!’ He turned, beaming, to Rhianna and Smith.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Carveth muttered. ‘Bloody crazy –ooh, there’s a horsebox and everything.’

‘Very impressive, Leighton.’ Smith leaned over to the others. ‘Listen,’ he whispered, ‘We have to find out what happened here. Leighton needs careful handling, men. I think I’d better—’

‘Deranged atom person!’ Suruk roared. ‘How did the workings of the Vorl come to be in your citadel of lunacy? Answer me, or I shall beat you to death with your own feet!’

Leighton stared, his eyes full of horror and surprise.

‘Oh my God,’ he whispered. ‘A talking dog!’

‘Where are the other guests? Did you devour them?’

‘Easy, Suruk,’ Smith said.

‘I – no – well, not
many
of them. I had no choice,’

Leighton said, and he sagged. He sighed, as if the life was escaping from him like a punctured balloon. Leighton’s shoulders drooped, and as the smile fell from his face his youth seemed to as well. He pulled out a seat and dropped into it. ‘I had no choice. They left us here.’

‘They?’

He nodded, woebegone. ‘We did a deal. We’d party out the war here – my guests and me – and they’d leave us alone. I mean, it didn’t matter, right? Whoever won, men or Ghasts, they’d still need entertainment, and we’d have enough money to get by no matter what, my guests and me. Right?’

‘Wrong,’ Smith said. ‘Ghasts don’t have leisure: they march. For one thing, I doubt they’d fit their arses in the rollercoasters, but that’s beside the point.’

‘They cheated us,’ Leighton said, talking to the opposite wall. ‘They told us they’d leave us alone. And they did –to starve! They didn’t bring us any food. All we had was haute cuisine. . . and that never lasts long. We looked for stores, for anything we could eat, and we found caves under the park. That’s where I found the crystals. Then the ghosts came. I guess they wanted their crystals back. But by then. . . the damn dirty ant-men sold us out!’

The light throbbed on Leighton’s face, striped it with shadow. Leighton was seeing the truth, Smith realised, perhaps for the first time. Smith saw it too, although, mercifully, he did not know the details.

‘They must have known what we might find – must have planned to take it back later when we’d gone. Some of us went into the caves – and they didn’t come back. By then, we’d split into little tribes, hunting each other through Ballad Point.’ Leighton shuddered. ‘I ate a fashion model. And then another. One wasn’t enough.’

‘It is understandable,’ Suruk said. ‘After all, they are quite small. In such circumstances, I am sure we would all do the same.’ He looked right, then left. ‘Anyone? Ah. Well, I seem to be in a minority.’

Carveth said, ‘Excuse me. Loo break.’

‘Down the corridor, on the right,’ Leighton said. He watched Carveth go.

‘And so the bourgeois, once isolated from the world, turned to savagery to relieve their boredom,’ Rhianna said. ‘You could write a book about that. Many books, in fact.’

Leighton turned to Smith, and he looked desperately weary. ‘You’re not a family, are you?’ he said. ‘And he’s not a small dog.’

‘Quite,’ Suruk observed.

‘My delusions dragged you out here,’ Leighton said. ‘You three and that poor little girl. And now—’

Feet thudded down the corridor. ‘Boss! Boss!’ Carveth ran into the room. ‘Boss, they’re here!’

‘The Vorl?’ Smith rushed to the door.

‘No,’ she said. ‘The Ghasts!’

They ran out of the office, ducking low as they scuttled to the window. ‘They’re down there,’ Carveth whispered. ‘Hundreds of them.’

Smith unfastened the rifle sight and stood at the side of the window, scanning the avenue below. Empty. ‘Where, exactly?’

‘The whole damn lot – Ghasts, Furries, all of them, up the far end of the road.’

‘Bollocks. Can’t see a thing. Are you sure you didn’t –wait a moment. That letter box just moved.’

‘What’s going on?’ Leighton stood beside them, jostling with Carveth for a position at the window. ‘What’s that red thing?’

Smith turned. ‘A lemming sentry, Leighton. I’m afraid the Ghasts are back, with help. They have the Yull with them.’

‘Yull?’ Leighton scowled. ‘Goddam it, I’ll have no talking rodents in my theme park!’

Figures scurried into the road, jogging beside the buildings: forage-caps flapping, the Yull were moving into position. Ghast support officers strutted among them, thin and scrawny by comparison, directing their advance.

Under a sign that read: ‘Tell your friends about us!’ a praetorian dipped its head and barked advice to an armoured lemming with a banner on its back. If Hell had theme parks, Carveth thought, their parades would look like this.

‘Mimco Vock!’ Suruk snarled. ‘That banner shows his ancestral sign. I shall descend and challenge him!’

‘No you bloody won’t!’ Carveth replied. Her eyes looked huge. ‘You’ll stay here, and protect. . . Rhianna. You’ll get killed down there!’

‘You doubt my skills, pixie? I am Suruk the Slayer, of the line of Urgar! I have the skill of dozens, the strength of ten—’

‘The mental age of four,’ Carveth said. ‘Boss, don’t let him go down there.’

‘Nobody is,’ Smith said. ‘If they want us, they can come up and get us. Maybe we can trap them on the stairs. Suruk, old friend, what do you think?’

The M’Lak frowned. ‘Well said. When outnumbered, it is best to choose the fighting-ground. Mazuran, put the seer in the room with the crystals. Perhaps she can speak with them. We four will guard the stairs. The Yull will crave a frontal assault: they will lose many soldiers before they reach us.’ He grinned, ready for battle. ‘You like this plan?’

Smith nodded. ‘It sounds good.’

‘We must make a barricade on the lower landing. Keep the seer back, Mazuran. Her powers will be of no use against axes.’ He turned and took a step towards the doors, then looked back. ‘The Yull will not retreat.’