Wrath of the Lemming-men (16 page)

Smith booted open the back door of the bar and they were on the edge of the platform, the wind howling round them. Smith slipped and Suruk pulled him upright.

‘Thanks, old chap,’ he said. ‘Follow me, everyone. Stick close.’

The market was full of running, shouting bodies: some scattering to their ships, others snatching up goods too precious to be left behind, others loading weapons and taking up positions.

‘Someone at the company must’ve put out a message,’

Smith said. ‘They must’ve been waiting for—’

Shrieks in the crowd ahead: people scattered like startled fish. A drumming sound over the voices – disruptor fire. And then, between the fleeing traders, Smith glimpsed a wide-eyed monster with an axe in its hand, snarling as it hurdled one of the stalls.

‘Lemmings!’ he cried, pulling his rifle into his hands.

A hatch had opened on the far side of the platform and they were swarming out of it like a tide of fur, howling their battle-cry.

Smith raised his rifle and a grinning Yull appeared in the sights, its jaw flecked with froth. He fired and saw the thing fall: ‘This way, men!’ he called, and they ducked behind a row of market stalls.

Behind the Yull came Ghasts, as coldly ruthless as their allies were berserk. A praetorian kicked down the door to the manager’s office and tossed in a bio-grenade. Another picked up a mercenary and pitched him over the side.

Stray bullets hit one of the support balloons and it started to deflate. Tranquility shuddered.

Smith led the others down a narrow corridor of battered stalls and scattering outlaws. One of the stalls fell apart with a splintering crash as a Ghast overturned it, sending sizzling meat hissing across the ground. Smith shot the thing with his rifle and it dropped onto the barbecued food like a giant prawn. Rhianna called out ‘Over here!’ and as Smith spotted the ramp that led to the ships, Suruk took hold of his arm.

‘How long will it take to ready the craft, Mazuran?’

‘A couple of minutes. Are you alright, old chap?’

‘I am very well.’ The alien looked calm, oddly detached from the anarchy around them. ‘I will return presently.’

Smith stopped and looked hard at Suruk. His friend smiled gently, as if he had realised the answer to a question that had been troubling him. ‘Make sure you do, alright?’ Smith said.

Carveth realised what was happening. ‘Are you bloody mad? We have to get out of here!’

‘We will,’ Smith replied. ‘Let’s go.’

Suruk vaulted one of the stalls and ran into the crowd, slipping between the panicking outlaws like a wolf through a stampeding herd. ‘Come along!’ Smith called, and he motioned towards the stairs. ‘Quick!’

Their boots clanged on the rungs. The platform groaned and shook. Wind whipped around them. A red glow stretched around the edge of Tranquility; it had caught fire.

‘There it is!’ Carveth said, pointing to the
Pym
. ‘We made—’

A lemming man stepped out in front of them, a grenade smoking in its hand.

‘You there!’ Smith called, settling his voice in the stern tones of the Shau Teng style, the mystic Bearing of Command. ‘Step aside!’

The Yull chuckled. ‘No ordering me around, off-worlders. I take divine orders from Popacapinyo!’ It held up the grenade and smirked. ‘No pin. See? I let go and
boom!
You kill me and I let go and still
boom!
Win-win for the war god!’

‘Umm. . .’ Rhianna hummed, readying her powers like an orchestra tuning up.

‘No tricks, witch lady!’ the Yull yelled.

Smith tensed his muscles, ready to shoot.

‘Wait.’ Benson took a step forward. ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ the spy purred. ‘It’d be a waste to blow yourself up, surely, after coming so far. All this way up off the ground. So
very
high off the ground.
Higher than a cliff. A nice,
big, tall cliff—
’

‘Cliff!’ the Yull shouted, and it turned, sprang to the edge and swarmed up the railings. ‘Goodbye, stupid offworlders!’ it yelled, and it reverted to instinct and leaped into the void. ‘
Yullaiiii.
. .’

Far below, the Yull exploded.

‘Well done sir!’ Smith exclaimed. ‘Now, to the ship!’

They ran to the airlock, tore it open and raced inside.

Smith slammed the door behind them and spun the wheel.

‘But Suruk!’ Carveth said, surprised by the worry in her voice. ‘He—’

‘He’ll come back,’ Smith replied. ‘Start the engines.’

Suruk ducked under a fallen sign, slipped past a thug with a shotgun who seemed to be firing at anything that moved and was suddenly in the centre of the market. The floor shook beneath him, a girder moaned as it stretched.

Tranquility was breaking apart.

A group of Yull were looting an overturned stall, stuffing bottles of dandelion wine into a sack. An officer watched approvingly, barking orders and occasionally whacking his soldiers with his stick. Suruk know him at once: partly from his appearance and partly from the aura of arrogance that surrounded him like mist.

‘Vock!’

Colonel Vock looked around and saw Suruk. Vock wore a polished red breastplate and his fur was flecked with blood. There was an axe in his hand. ‘Too stupid to run, M’Lak scum?’

Quietly, Suruk said, ‘I am Suruk the Slayer, son of Agshad Nine-Swords, whom you murdered at the River Tam. My father sends me to do justice unto you. Or at least parts of you. Be afraid, soft furry one, for I shall rip your kapok out.’

‘
Hwot?
You insult me, savage!’

‘You seek a fight, Vock? Then you must fight me. We shall see then whether you are man or mouse – or some unnatural offspring of the two.’

Vock snarled. ‘How dare you! By Tictocikloc, your time has come! Yullai!’ he shrieked, and charged.

Vock was so quick that Suruk only just blocked his swing in time. Then the lemming was leaping and slicing, springing forward, every step accompanied with a neat, vicious slash.

Suruk ducked, knocked Vock’s legs out with the butt of the spear and swung the point down at him. Vock rolled aside and came up cutting. Suruk sprang back, heard the
vwum
of the axe as it whipped past his mandibles. Vock screamed something and Suruk jumped onto a poultry stall to dodge his next blow, sprang off and the axe smashed the stall apart like a bomb.

Splinters, dirt and frightened chickens flew into the air.

Vock stood in the debris in a fighting stance, listening for footsteps above the sounds of panic and destruction. His nose twitched as he sniffed: the M’Lak was gone. The flat-faced savage had fled.

‘Pah!’ he said, and he spat on the ground, and the spear-blade whipped past his muzzle and sliced several of his whiskers off. He dived headlong, heard the blade hit the ground where he had just been and swiped with his axe from the floor. The M’Lak jumped back, a sort of reverse pounce, and Vock felt his axe cut through something thicker than mere air.

Suruk crouched ten yards away. His spear was in his right hand. His left was pressed to a dripping wound in his thigh. Vock grinned.

Colonel Vock took a step forward and raised the axe above his head.

‘So, frog-scum,’ he said, ‘you are weak too. None can stand before the blade of Mimco Vock. Now I kill you in the ancient way of our people:
very slowly
.’

Vock ran forward, calling to Popacapinyo, and Suruk stepped off the platform.

Vock walked to the edge. The wind howled around his fur, and he felt the inevitable temptation to jump after his foe. Not today, he thought. ‘So, you died properly,’ he said into the wind. ‘Send my regards to your father.’

Ships pulled away from the platform down below. Vock watched as a dark-blue shuttle struggled to break free, the crew wrestling with a broken docking clamp. He smiled at their panic. Stupid offworlders, too weak to welcome the drop into infinity.

Suruk stepped out from behind the ship’s main radar dish and gave the Yull a cheery wave. Vock tensed his legs, roared and sprang down onto the ship.

The crewmen scattered as Vock thumped onto the hull.

He ignored them and charged at Suruk. The M’Lak side-stepped and flicked one of the radio antennae with his spear – the aerial whacked Vock across the muzzle and he stumbled back, rubbing his throbbing snout. Suruk jabbed and Vock blocked him with an inch to spare. The lemming man jumped aside, remembered he was on the back of a shuttle and dropped off. He landed on the wing and Suruk leaped after him and, the wind tearing at their bodies, they fought on.

Carveth dropped into the pilot’s seat and flipped up half a dozen switches. Smith ran in behind her. Around them, the
John Pym
was coming to life: needles quivered in dials, light flickered from a hundred diodes. The walls and floor rattled and a steady bass hum rose up, spluttered and rose again.

‘Check the main engines, would you?’ Carveth called.

‘Main engines, main engines. . .’ Smith glanced around his quarter of the cockpit. A note had been sellotaped to one of the consoles. It said:
Main Engine Stuff
. ‘One minute to full power!’ he called back.

‘One minute?’ Carveth cried. ‘That’s ages! And where the hell is Suruk? If that boar-faced git isn’t back in ten seconds time, I’ll go without him!’

Something on the platform exploded above them.

Girders warped and screeched.

‘He’ll come back,’ Smith said.

‘Let’s just calm down, okay?’ Rhianna said from the doorway. ‘Deep breath everyone, and. . . calm.’ She smiled beatifically. ‘There. Isn’t that better?’

A figure dropped onto the nose-cone. Carveth yelped and flailed at the controls. Smith gasped. Rhianna said, ‘Oh, no!. That’s really bad!’

It was Suruk. He was bloody and battered, and falling out of the sky had not helped. Carveth gestured frantically. ‘Get in! Get in!’

Misunderstanding, Suruk waved back.

‘Go!’ Smith said. Carveth pulled away, and fire burst from the side of the platform. The
Pym
shook. A smell of burning filled the cockpit. Smith strode into the corridor.

Benson was in the lounge, engrossed in a paperback.

‘Everything alright there?’ he inquired as Smith ran into the hold. The ship lurched, one of the cupboards opened and the vacuum cleaner rolled after Smith like a vengeful robot. Smith reached the ladder and clambered onto the balcony that ran around the inside of the hold. He wrenched the roof airlock open and stuck his head into the sky as they tore towards space.

‘Suruk?’

‘Greetings!’ The alien scrambled into view. ‘I can see the Ghasts from up here!’

‘Get in, dammit!’

Suruk ran over and dropped into the hold. Together they hurried into the living room and slammed the door behind them.

Smith found that he was panting. ‘It was Vock, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get him?’

‘No, but he is hurt.’

And so was Suruk, Smith saw; his friend was wounded in half a dozen places. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I need merely rest. Vock escaped me. The ship onto which I sprang moved too fast for him to follow.’ He pulled a chair back from the dining room table and hopped up on it. ‘I thought a foolish Ghast tried to follow me, but it must have had the sense to flee.’ He scowled. ‘For now, though, the lemming runs free.’

Rhianna entered the room, carrying a plastic box.

‘Okay, Suruk, I’ve got some things here for your wounds. You’ve obviously experienced a lot of stress. This,’ she said, taking out an ornate bottle, ‘is a holistic oil to relieve tension and restore
ki
. You put it in the bath.’

Suruk picked it up, unscrewed the top and took a swig. ‘I can bathe later.’

‘Oh-kay, this candle here is for your joints, and this
is
a joint. That’ll help provide balance and energy. We just put the candle in your ear, like this—’

‘Keep away, Hippocratic oaf!’ Suruk snarled, and Rhianna flinched and drew back.

‘Suruk!’ Smith said. ‘I know you’re injured, but that’s a woman you’re talking to.’

‘Give me only a needle and thread,’ Suruk said. ‘I have acquired holes.’

Rhianna gave him a sad, remonstrating look. ‘Now, Suruk. I appreciate that you have your own tribal culture, which I respect, but don’t you think it’s a little bit patronising to expect a woman to produce sewing equipment?’

‘It
is
the medical kit,’ Suruk replied coldly. He sighed. ‘I appreciate your attempts to help, but your medicine is weak. I shall be in my room, stitching myself together.’ He started to climb down from the chair. Smith moved to help him, but he raised a hand. ‘Thank you, Mazuran, I am fine.’

Suruk’s door slammed shut. Smith looked at Rhianna.

‘Well, I tried,’ she began.

‘I know you did,’ Smith said. ‘He’s in a bad way. It’s best to give him a wide berth for a bit. He won’t want to talk about feelings or anything.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘He’s like you.’ She caught his eye and added, ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to hassle you.’

‘Oh, that’s no problem. I. . . ah. . . dig.’ She shook her head, smiling. She looked best when she laughed, Smith realised. He liked her much less when she was serious, but behind all that disapproval, she was beautiful. ‘I miss you,’ he said.

Suddenly he was aware of the inappropriateness of what he’d just done, as if he’d farted in the Space Fleet lifts.

Rhianna looked at him. The room was full of escaped sincerity. ‘I know,’ she said.

‘Captain Smith?’ He glanced around; Benson stood at the door in his coat and bowler hat. ‘I’m afraid you’re needed in the cockpit.’

Rhianna said, ‘Maybe we ought to talk later.’

‘Alright,’ Smith said, his soul deflating at the thought of it. He ducked under the doorframe and walked up to the cockpit.

‘You’ve met the Cap,’ Carveth was saying, ‘and in this cage you can see Gerald – at least you could if he’d not been burrowing.’

Benson peered into the hamster cage. ‘Gerald is a mole?’

‘Hamster. The Space Navy’s too cheap to give us a cat.’

‘I see. Where are we going, Captain Smith?’

Smith glanced at Carveth. She said, ‘Um. . . as far from Tranquility as we can?’

‘Wise,’ Benson replied. ‘More wise than you can imagine. May I?’ He pulled down one of the emergency seats and lowered himself into it. Benson took off his glasses and cleaned them on his tie. ‘Those were no ordinary praetorians we saw back there. Those were the personal bodyguard of Number Eight, the seventh most powerful Ghast after Number One. Miss Mitchell’s talents have attracted some very serious attention.’