Wrath of the Lemming-men (4 page)

‘Tea?’ enquired Smith.

They took tea in the living room, together with some scones they had picked up on Proxima Secundis. The radio played light music. Smith poured cups for Suruk and Carveth, then sat down.

‘Well done, men,’ he said. ‘We got everyone back intact, bagged loads of furries and got all those poor beetle people into good medical care. Excellent.’

‘With Rhianna and most of our drugs mysteriously gone, I ought to brush up on my first aid,’ Carveth said, taking a deep draught of tea. ‘I’ve not been in a medical facility since we refuelled at the Free States.’

Suruk snorted. ‘It said MASH on the roof and you thought it was a pie shop.’

‘Well, you don’t even have an anatomy. The day I entrust my health to someone with a face like a lobster bonking a pasty is the day—’

The Elgar on the radio suddenly broke off and was replaced by a military band playing ‘Lilliburlero’. Then a crisp voice declared: ‘We interrupt this programme to deliver an important message. News has reached us of victory on the world of Varanor! For the first time, Imperial troops have completely defeated the Yull!’

‘Excellent!’ Smith cried. ‘Turn it up!’

‘Yesterday afternoon the enemy attempted a full-scale assault, seeking to encircle and destroy the 112th Imperial Army. They were met with heroic resistance from human and Morlock forces fighting under the British flag, and their advance has been completely shattered in what is fast becoming known as the Battle of the Tam Valley.

Thousands of disgraced lemming men have flung themselves into the river. General Florence Young and Asrath the Vengeful, Commander of Colonial Beings, have pledged to take back Varanor and teach a stern lesson to the Yull. Forward the Empire!’

‘Good Lord!’ said Smith. ‘We’ve thrashed them!’

Suruk chuckled, which was always a bad sign for somebody.

‘Great!’ said Carveth. ‘How’s about I break out the Malibu? It’s naval Malibu,’ she added, pre-empting a disapproving look from Smith.

‘We’ll have a gin and tonic once we’ve engaged the autopilot,’ Smith said. ‘In the meantime, scones all round.’

Carveth took an extra scone, breaking off a piece for Gerald the hamster. She jogged up to the cockpit, and Smith leaned back in his seat and sighed.

So, the Yull were not as tough as they’d thought. The Empire had met them head on and bloodied their twitchy noses. This was victory, and perhaps the beginning of the end for the Galactic Happiness Collective. He felt proud of his Empire. If only Rhianna was here.

Stupid woman. Why couldn’t they stay together?

Why was the galaxy too much of a distance to keep their relationship going? They had been
right
together, had made each other happy. It had been a good week, and then she’d gone and spoilt it all by dumping him on Sunday afternoon. Should have got myself an Imperial girl, he thought glumly. Someone called Harriet with big thighs and a Labrador. It was too bad that Rhianna had opened his mind to more exotic things, with her herbal biscuits and her ‘Belly dance to fitness’ tape. That was too pleasant a memory to be entirely bitter.

On the far side of the table, Suruk scratched a mark into the handle of his spear. Smith felt a sudden twinge of envy. Suruk had no sex drive, felt no affection beyond comradeship, no need to feel the pain that seemed the inevitable result of falling for a girl. Against his better judgement, and the better judgement of the Empire, he wondered if the M’Lak might have got the whole evolution thing down pat.

‘Ah, sharp implements,’ Suruk said. ‘Brilliant, eh?’

Perhaps not, Smith decided.

The doorbell jangled and Smith strode to the airlock with his mug in hand. A man in blue and red stood on the threshold, a cap on his head and a satchel over one shoulder.

‘Captain I.D.W. Smith, Miss P.R. Carveth, Mr S.T.

Slayer?’ he said. ‘Post for you.’ He passed Smith a wad of envelopes and departed.

Smith closed the airlock and called Carveth down. ‘Postman’s just come,’ he said. ‘This one’s for you. And this is for you, Suruk,’ said Smith, handing the alien a letter, ‘and these are for me.’ He pressed his thumb onto the security seal and the postmark turned from red to green. Smith tore it open and read the note inside. By the time he had reached the bottom, the top had started to disintegrate.

‘Carveth,’ he declared, dropping the letter into the galley sink, ‘we’re having some time off. Set a course for Paragon on Albion Prime. We’re to meet W down there and have a couple of days leave. Normally, I’d be reluctant to take leave while there’s aliens to fight, but we’ve done well.’

Smith left Suruk in the living room and joined Carveth in the cockpit. He dropped into the captain’s chair just in time to see her disconnect the
Pym
from the
Edward
Stobart
. The grey flank of the
Stobart
seemed to slide off the left side of the windscreen as they pulled away. Swift and unarmed, the
John Pym
split from the fleet, Carveth humming the
Blue Danube
as they flew.

Once the course was locked into the helm, Carveth looked round. ‘So, what’s in your other package, then?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s an Airfix catalogue.’ Smith pulled out a dog-eared magazine and a video. ‘What’s this? There’s a note. . . it’s from my friend Carstairs, back home:

Dear Smith, sorry to hear about your funny bird
buggering off. This should keep your spirits up. Carstairs.

It must be an Airfix catalogue,’ he added, lifting up the magazine. ‘
Red Hot Fillies
,’ he read. Puzzled, he opened it up – ‘Ruddy hell,’ he said.

Smith glanced at the video, but too late – Carveth snatched it and, smirking, held it up to the light. ‘
Emma
and Verity’s Super Jolly Hardcore Pimms Party
,’ she read. ‘Tut-tut, Boss!’

‘I didn’t ask for this stuff, you know,’ Smith said, aware that he was turning red at the edges of his moustache. ‘I don’t find this at all amusing, Carveth. What did you get, anyway?’

‘Oh a letter from the manufacturers, checking my warranty. And they’ve sent me a birthday card. Too bad the Leighton-Wakazashi translation department’s seems to be on holiday.’

The card showed a happy robot under a rainbow emblazoned with the Leighton-Wakazashi logo. In sparkly letters the card read:
Birthday greetings synthetic friend – happy robotty love!

‘Nice of them to try,’ Carveth said. ‘The L-W offices are on one of New Albion’s outer moons; they must have sent it across from there. Only three months out of date, too.’

Suruk strolled into the room. ‘We are travelling to Albion Prime?’ he said.

‘Yep,’ Carveth said.

‘Good.’ He folded the spare seat down and crouched on it. ‘And is it a good place?’

‘God yeah,’ the android said. ‘It’s posh frock time down there. Party capital of Imperial Space. The English may take their pleasures sadly, but on Albion Prime they take them sadly and
big.
So, Suruk: I got a card, the captain got a fistful of smut – what did you get?’

‘News,’ Suruk said.

Smith peered through the dim light of the cockpit at his friend. The alien looked thoughtful rather than ferocious, less like a gargoyle than a crouching child. ‘Is something wrong, old chap?’

‘Indeed,’ Suruk said. ‘My father is slain.’

The airlock opened and a Ghast praetorian guard lumbered into the hall. Its antennae twitched as its tiny eyes surveyed the room.

‘462,’ it growled.

Thirty metres away, on the far side of the hall, was a tiny bench. Amidst the statues, speakers, screens, surveillance cameras and posters, holograms and busts of Number One, the bench looked like an afterthought.

A clock ticked. Somewhere outside, marching music played.

‘462!’ the praetorian roared.

The sole occupant of the bench lowered a copy of
Legions of Annihilation Weekly
, tossed it onto the table and stood up. Slowly, deliberately slowly, 462 pulled his trenchcoat tight around his meagre thorax and started across the room.

His limping steps rang across the polished marble floor.

As he drew close, his sole eye squinted at the praetorian.

‘
Commander
462,’ he said. ‘Your insolence is noted, Praetorian. Sleeve!’

The praetorian’s arm flicked out. Quick as a trap, 462 leaned forward and used the guard’s sleeve to polish the tiny camera that had replaced his right eye. ‘Sleeve done,’ he said, and the arm was whipped away. He lurched through the airlock and it closed behind him with a biotechnological squelch.

Two more praetorians stood guard inside. They led 462 down the corridor, opened a set of double doors and ushered him into the presence of the mighty Number Eight.

It had been a normal morning for Eight. He had risen at dawn, run twelve miles, composed a violin concerto and, while still weeping at the beauty of the music, strangled a pit-bull and fed it to his ant-hound, Assault Unit One. He then sent Number One a surveillance report on Number Two and Number Two a surveillance report on Number One.

Now, however, he was sitting behind a desk. As 462 entered he stood up, all six feet nine of him, and smiled as pleasantly as a Ghast could. He was a remarkably fine specimen, the stern perfection of his features marred only by a long scar on either cheek. For a prototype, he was quite impressive.

‘One moment,’ he said, nodding towards a seat.

462 sat down. On the vidscreen a minion was blathering excuses. ‘We will triple our efforts!’ the underling pleaded, ‘quadripple them!’

‘You had better,’ Eight said. ‘My superior, Number Two, is less. . . stable than I. I need two divisions hatched and subliminally indoctrinated by next Thursday.’ He flicked off the vidscreen and sat down. ‘So,’ he said, ‘462. Make yourself at home.’

There was a drinks machine in the corner. 462 leaned over and fixed himself a cup of pulped underling.

‘Now,’ said Eight. He opened a file on his desk and read from the top sheet. ‘
462 is a ruthless, vicious sociopath,
willing to sacrifice his minions in the name of efficiency
and entirely unencumbered by conscience, sanity or
remorse
. Quite a reference.’

‘Thank you,’ said 462.

‘I take it 157 was reluctant to part company with you, then?’

‘Indeed. But then nobody enjoys being sent to the Morlock Front, especially by their own adjutant.’

‘No doubt. I’m interested in having you in my legion, 462. I appreciate that you had problems on Urn, but they were vitiated by your recruitment of the Yull. Even now our degenerate, disposable allies are doing excellent work in depleting Earth’s supply of ammunition.’ He paused.

‘You know a lot about humans, don’t you? Humans took your eye, didn’t they? And gave you that limp and the scars. Or perhaps I should say. . . one human in particular.’

462’s scarred lip rose into a snarl. ‘Isambard Smith. That Earthlander scum-pig dogs my every move! I can hardly annex anything without seeing his stupid moustache in front of me!’ He shook his fist, a gesture he had picked up from Number One. ‘He must be utterly destroyed!’

‘Quite. If you work for me, 462, I guarantee you’ll have the opportunity to dispose of him in whatever unpleasant manner you choose.’

‘Truly? What must I do, mighty Eight?’

‘What I have to tell you is classified. It may strike you as. . . unconventional. But I can assure you that it is in the interest of the Ghast Empire.’

462 nodded. Whatever was said, he would be taking it in carefully. If it was useful, it could further his career. If it was subversive, he could shop Eight to the authorities and it would still further his career. Sometimes the Ghast Empire was an excellent employer.

There was a large portrait of Number One behind Eight’s desk. The Great One was in mid rant, arms flailing as if about to topple off a cliff. Eight stood up and turned the picture to the wall, disconnecting a listening device fastened to the back. He sat down again. ‘I have important information on the human race,’ he said. He pressed a button beside the desk, and the vidscreen flicked back into life. A planet appeared on it, three quarters blue and a quarter green: a fat, weak, juicy world, plump with resources, tasty with citizens.

‘Earth,’ said Number Eight. He pointed with one of his pincers. ‘Do you recognise that landmass there?’

462’s antennae twitched. ‘Europe, seat of the Franco- German Alliance.’

‘And this set of islands?’

‘Britain. Isambard Smith was created there in some sort of slackly-run breeding programme.’

‘Correct.’ Eight reclined in his biochair, and it crawled back from the desk. ‘It is no surprise to me that you have found Isambard Smith such a difficult opponent. He is the culmination of two thousand years of military training and pig-headed arrogance. While we dismissed them as weaklings, the humans hid their greatest military secret under a veil of soggy mediocrity. But my superior mind has uncovered the truth – the island we dismissed as a rainy little pisshole is in fact an ancient offshore facility for the breeding and indoctrination of humanity’s shock troops!’

If he had wanted a reaction, he hardly got one. 462 nodded. ‘I am not surprised,’ he said. ‘We need more soldiers.’

‘No. We need
better
soldiers.’

‘Well, we could shoot some officers. That tends to encourage them. Until you run out of officers,’ 462 added, recalling a nasty incident where he had nearly encouraged his troops by ordering them to make an example of himself. He had promoted a minion to lieutenant just in time.

The worst of it was that it really had perked his soldiers up.

‘No!’ Eight slapped the desk, sending a little trophy rocking. ‘Not that! I am suggesting an overhaul of the praetorian DNA structure.’

‘But their DNA is perfect. They are custom-engineered for fighting humanity. There’s no more DNA we could splice. . . none except the Vorl.’

Eight’s mouth split open in a huge smirk. There could be no doubting his praetorian heritage; rows of teeth gleamed. ‘My science-drones have been carrying out preliminary survey work at a laboratory hidden deep in Yullian territory. The pathetic drivel that makes up Yullian myth includes a number of references to the Vorl – most usefully, their location. The laboratory was destroyed a few days ago, but there is enough information to go on and I have plenty more science-drones. All we need is a little more work and it will be done.’