Wrath of the Lemming-men (14 page)

‘All is well, floaty woman. This enemy executive was calling reinforcements on his mobile telephone when he was cut off. Or at least his head was.’ He sighed, deeply contented. ‘I could get used to corporate headhunting.’

‘I don’t see what good this is supposed to do,’ Carveth said, unfastening Emily’s bonnet. ‘She’s a complete nutcase.’

They stood in the sitting room of the
John Pym
: Emily had been laid out on the dinner table. Outside, policemen in long blue coats were carrying boxes and personnel out of the company buildings. The Empire had the evidence it needed.

‘She may have information vital to our cause,’ Smith explained. ‘The company has been trading information to the Ghasts. We just need to know how. Initiate her startup sequence.’

Carveth picked up a mug of water and tipped it over Emily’s head.

Emily awoke with a start, twitched, coughed and sat up. ‘I seem to have fainted.’ She looked around, alarmed. ‘What manner of iniquity is this? Unhand me at once!’

‘It’s alright,’ said Smith. ‘You’re quite safe.’

‘Who are you dreadful people?’

Suruk stepped closer: Emily recoiled. ‘Suruk the Slayer, trophy displayer,’ he announced.

‘Polly Carveth. You tried to murder me with a pen.’

‘Ah yes,’ Emily said. ‘I do seem to recall your face. No hard feelings?’

‘
No, you tried to murder me with a pen
.’

‘Well, you broke a bottle of salad cream over my head. Do you have any notion how long that will take to wash out?’

Rhianna smiled and said, ‘Rhianna Mitchell.
Namaste
.’

‘
You
clearly wouldn’t,’ Emily said, peering at Rhianna. ‘Talking to you about washing would be as worthwhile as trying to explain “exciting” to a Belgian. Well, if you want me to talk, you can forget it. As if I would spill the beans to a stumpy android, an unwashed colonial and an alien! I can assure you that I shall inform you of absolutely nothing.’ She folded her arms and cocked her head back as if preparing to fire something out of her nose.

Dreckitt was sitting on the other side of the room. ‘Reckon you’d better sing, Florence Nightingale. Squeak like a rusty mouse.’

‘Now look here,’ said Smith, stepping closer to the table. ‘You are under arrest for facilitating the diversion of materiel to the enemy. You’re in a tight spot and no mistake.’

‘Well!’ said Emily. ‘And who are you to say so?’

‘I am an officer in His Majesty’s merchant space fleet,’ said Smith. He opened his coat, revealing his red jacket and insignia.

‘Oh I
say
,’ Emily said. Her eyes widened, and to Smith’s surprise there was a smile forming on her prim features: a rather large smile, similar to the one Suruk made in times of war. ‘Well, that is a smart uniform. A real fleet officer?’

‘Yes,’ said Smith.

Her voice was a little breathless. ‘Good gracious. Well now, I think I might be able to divest myself for a smart fellow like you. I’ve always loved to hear about dashing young men in uniform.’ She turned to him and leaned forward, displaying her décolletage. ‘So tell me, Captain Smith: do you enjoy
Hornblower
?’

Twenty frightening minutes later, Smith knew all he needed to know, and more. In four hours, an unmarked company ship would deliver information and technology to the enemy. They would meet at the high-altitude research platform Tranquility Falls, a known rendezvous for pirates and criminals.

Smith sat in the cockpit, drinking tea. Carveth was making some last-minute checks on the ship before they left. Smith suspected that this involved counting the number of engines to make sure none had fallen off.

Dreckitt stood outside, smoking. Rhianna was guarding Emily in the sitting room.

Carveth strolled into the room and dropped into the pilot’s seat. ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s it like turning down a shag?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Austen-bot back there. She couldn’t get more eager unless she stuffed you up her petticoats. With us, she was all “Ooh, I’m too much of a lady”, but as soon as she sees you, there’s more snow-white frontage on view than a Harrods Christmas display. Her bosom really heaved.’

‘So did my stomach. She’s patently insane –’ he began, and Dreckitt wandered in.

‘Looks like we’ve enough dirt to kick the Leighton- Wakazashi highbinders in the can,’ he declared. ‘You’d better haul this boiler to Tranquility as soon as you’re able. I’ve got the co-ordinates,’ he added, passing Carveth a scrap of paper. ‘Me, I’m staying put till the boss man can get a shuttle down from the fleet.’

Smith nodded. ‘Righto.’

‘You’re not coming, then?’ Carveth said.

‘Nix,’ Dreckitt said from the door. ‘So long, lady. But I’ll be back.’

Smith stood up. ‘Will you be taking Emily?’

‘Yeah. The company boys programmed her to go section eight. Once we’ve sorted her noodle she’ll be on the square again.’ He looked at Smith and grinned. ‘She wants to say goodbye.’

Smith strolled down the corridor, past the cabins, to the lounge door. Behind the glass, Emily and Rhianna were engaged in animated conversation. He put his head round the doorframe.

‘Then more fool you,’ Emily said, jabbing a finger at Rhianna. ‘You’ll get to thirty-five, and then what?Darning, crochet and endless misery!’

‘It’s not like that!’ Rhianna retorted. ‘It’s not practical –oh, hi, Isambard. We were just talking about. . . um. . .the notion of marriage as fundamentally gender-oppressive.’

‘You’ve got a point,’ said Smith. ‘There’re some dreadful old girls out there.’

Emily was sitting at the table now, instead of lying on it. There was a mug of some herbal-smelling stuff in front of her. ‘We were discussing the possibility of one of us netting her man before she gets left on the shelf.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find somebody, Emily. No need to be downhearted. Now, we need to get moving. Would you mind joining the others at the airlock?’

In a rustle of skirt, Emily stood up. ‘Of course,’ she said, shaking her bodice into place. ‘You just can’t talk sense to some people,’ she added, and she stalked out of the room. Smith heard the others leave, and the door clang shut behind them.

‘What was all that about?’ Smith asked.

‘Nothing.’ Rhianna sighed and pinched her brow. ‘Nothing.’

Dreckitt closed the airlock behind him and pushed his hat down low against the wind. Up ahead, Emily was making her way towards the rail terminal, assisted by a policeman. Two officers helped Chairman Gecko into a blue police shuttle, his braces drooping in disgrace.

Dreckitt was halfway down the steps when Carveth caught up with him.

‘Hey!’ she called. ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye?’

He turned. ‘Sister, I
said
goodbye.’

‘Then say it again,’ Carveth said, ‘and this time, take your cigarette out.’ She kissed him. ‘And no messing with Emily’s noodle, alright? You let the science people do that.’

‘Sure. Damn, it’s too cold out here to pitch woo. Here,’ he said, and he passed her his hip flask. ‘Look after it.’

Dreckitt pulled up the collar of his trenchcoat, turned to Carveth and looked into her eyes. ‘Now get on the damn ship, Polly. If you don’t go now you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but – hands! Easy with the hands!’

‘It should be straight ahead.’ Carveth consulted the controls. ‘Looks like the atmosphere thins out about half a mile up from here. Wait a moment. . . there it is!’

Smith took out the binoculars and peered through them. In the centre of the chilly-blue sky, a speck was taking shape. There it was indeed: a cross between an oil-rig and a zeppelin, a flat platform hanging under half a dozen immense balloons. Small spacecraft clustered around Tranquility, moored in tiers to its sides. As he watched, a new ship docked with the platform and another balloon blossomed out of the rigging to compensate for the shuttle’s weight.

Smith looked at Dreckitt’s scribbled notes.

‘
Tranquility Falls metrological research station
,’ he read out. ‘
Operating staff of a hundred and twelve. Technically
abandoned
.’

‘It doesn’t look very abandoned from here,’ Carveth said. ‘Looks like it’s full of crims.’

Smith nodded. ‘No doubt Leighton-Wakazashi use it to further their less legitimate ends. They could finance a place like this, yet disown it if they needed to. Take us in, Carveth. Dock us on the third tier down, out of the way.’

‘Aye aye,’ she replied, a little grimly. With a minimum of creaking, the
Pym
swung into the final approach.

‘What’re those ships with all the red paint?’

‘M’Lak,’ Suruk said from the back of the room. Smith glanced around: both Suruk and Rhianna were watching.

He had not heard either of them enter the room. Both were good at moving quietly: Suruk from hunting; Rhianna from a lack of shoes. ‘Warriors like myself, perhaps. Or worse.’

‘Worse?’ The bad lighting made Carveth look severe.

‘How?’

Suruk frowned behind his mandibles. ‘Sometimes M’Lak go bad. They take up the human’s vices: gambling, using guns, drinking carbonated drinks. It is very rare, but. . . I have said enough. We shall have to go carefully.’

‘That goes for everyone,’ Smith added. ‘Carveth, bring us in. If they ask, we’re civilian. I’ll get the guns.’

The
John Pym
was smaller than most of the other ships, but otherwise it was in good, battered, rusty company. It docked with the side of Tranquility, above a M’Lak ship festooned with skeletons and under an anonymous lump that might have been a cargo box before someone stuck an engine up its back end. In the next berth men in furs shambled out of a gunship bearing the double eagle of the mad Czar of Russia: the Russian navy had gone entirely renegade at the start of the war and was currently busy fighting itself.

‘Mercenaries,’ Smith said, looking out the windscreen. ‘Hired dross.’ He slung his rifle over his shoulder and fastened his coat. ‘Everyone stay close and be careful. Suruk, if there’s any trouble—’

‘There will not be,’ Suruk said, slipping another knife into his belt. ‘Not for long.’

Smith turned to Rhianna. ‘Tell me if you. . . er. . . sense anything.’

She nodded. ‘Okay. I can do that.’

Carveth checked her revolver and tightened the strap that held the
Pym
’s shotgun across her back. ‘Can’t I stay here? I could lock myself in the loo—’

‘No,’ said Smith. ‘Now, come along. Stick close, and let me do the talking.’

He turned the wheel and pulled the airlock open. They walked out onto a gantry of perforated steel and creaking wires. Wind threw Smith’s coat against his legs and set Rhianna’s skirt flapping like a pennant. Smith glanced down: under the metal lattice of the walkway there was sky and cloud. He suppressed a shiver and pulled his scarf tight around his neck.

The platform was eighty yards square and buildings were dotted around its edges. Between the buildings stood stalls, kiosks and animal-pens, big upright cages and machines. People moved between the stands; rogues, mercenaries and traders from a dozen empires come to buy and sell. Everyone was armed.

Massive ropes rose from the platform like the trunks of twisted trees. At the top of the ropes were the great balloons that kept Tranquility in the sky, shifting in the wind like tethered clouds.

A thug in overalls watched the four newcomers, tapping a wrench against his palm. He was leaning on a sign that said:
Tranquility Falls
. Under it, someone had written:
Or
was it pushed?

‘Well, here we are,’ Smith said. ‘Let’s have a look around, shall we? Where shall we start?’

‘Anywhere warm,’ Carveth replied, wishing that she had not left Dreckitt’s hip flask in the ship. ‘It’s freezing!’

‘Indeed,’ Suruk said. ‘Monkeys of brass.’ He reached into his thigh pocket and pulled out a small bottle. ‘Here. This will lessen the chill.’

‘Thanks!’ she said. ‘
Royal Lady?
Hey, this is mine! And it’s perfume!’

The bazaar smelt of smoke and greasy meat. A tired-looking man was testing the weight of a shotgun at one stall. ‘
Achetez!
’ a vendor cried, brandishing a kebab that looked much like mud on a stick. Smith advanced with the calm, alert expression of an explorer pushing through undergrowth. Behind him came Rhianna, intrigued by the local customs, then Carveth, her face a mask of trepidation, and Suruk – biding his time.

Something grabbed Smith’s elbow: he looked down and saw Carveth, her eyes bulging, her free hand pointing to a building on the far side of the platform. ‘Look! Look!’

‘What is it?’ Smith’s hand flicked to his Civiliser.

‘There’s a sale on!’

Smith gazed across the square. Carveth was pointing to a squat, long-fronted building like an army surplus store.

Grinding music seeped from the doors, and the sign over them read CRAZY SHANE MAXWELL’S. With the seductive grace of the contractually obliged, a girl twirled in the window in camouflage hotpants – not British army issue, those, Smith noted.

A loudspeaker squelched and squealed from the shop roof. An Australian voice called: ‘Are you a smart man?Then you’d better be a quick man too, and get down to Crazy Shane’s Outland Emporium as fast as your ute’ll take you! Twenty percent off all clothes, goggles and tyre irons. You’d be a flamin’ galah to miss it!’

‘Come on, boss,’ Carveth said. ‘Sales save us money.’

‘Certainly not. We have a job to do.’

‘He’s right, Polly,’ Rhianna said gently. ‘It’s just cheap indulgence. Real meaning comes from. . .’ She made a vague gesture at her midriff. ‘. . .within.’

Carveth raised her hands. ‘When’ve I indulged cheaply? Besides, you can come with me. It’s alternative clothes. They’ll have things made of hemp and all.’

At the word
hemp
a sort of light flared up in Rhianna’s eyes. ‘Well, if it’s really alternative I guess it can’t do any harm, right?’

Smith looked at his watch: an hour to go. Bloody ridiculous. Typical women, turning his stake-out into a shopping trip. No sense of purpose. He decided to go to the pub.