Wrath of the Lemming-men (22 page)

‘Whoa,’ Rhianna said.

‘This is ancient indeed,’ Suruk declared. ‘I can read ideas – notions – but I am shamed to say that the exact meaning is lost to me. It tells of the days before time, that I know, but otherwise it is as clear as a Scotsman’s mist.’

‘Me too,’ said the Archivist. ‘Not really my area, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps I may help.’ They looked around: Morgar stood behind them, cleaning his glasses on his clan colours. ‘There is one amongst us who understands ancient things. Tormak!’ he called. ‘Come here a moment, would you?’

From the troops stepped a slight, rather refined-looking warrior. He ran a hand through his thick mane, looked up at the stone and said, ‘Ah, yes, well, yes. . .
quite
.’

‘This is my old friend Tormak,’ Morgar said. ‘Listen closely, for he’s a clever chap.’

Suruk turned to the newcomer. ‘You are a speaker of runes, friend?’

‘Fine art and antiquities, actually,’ Tormak replied. ‘Not really my field, this, but still. . .’ For a while he scrutinised the stone. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is definitely the Tablet of Aravash. As you no doubt know, it is written that if the Tablet ever sees the light of day, Armageddon will begin. Which
would
be a problem, were Armageddon not going on right now.’

‘Oh,’ said Morgar, ‘I suppose galactic war does rather count. I never thought of it like that. . .’

‘So there is nothing to fear from the Tablet,’ Suruk observed. ‘Let us shed some light upon it.’

Smith turned to the Archivist. ‘Could we move the tablet?’

‘Oh no,’ she replied, ‘we can do much better than that.’

She reached up and pulled a cord, and a lamp flicked on above the stone.

‘Daylight bulb,’ she explained.

With a soft crackle, the tablet began to fall apart. Dust trickled from the blank rock, rolled down the face of the stone, piled itself into a heap at the base. The sand fell in thin sheets over the rock, and where it had been there were little marks, channels cut into the stone. Like the breaking of a mould or the stamping of a coin, images appeared in the smooth face of the tablet.

There were two figures repeated several times on the stone: one could have been Suruk as drawn by a six-year-old, or by Suruk himself. Smith found the other unsettling.

It was a M’Lak, no doubt, but a sort of upright shadow with huge holes instead of eyes, leaping over the horizon.

‘Shall I read?’ Tormak asked.

‘Go ahead,’ said Smith.

‘Proceed,’ Suruk replied.

Tormak pointed to the top right of the stone. ‘Well, I’d say this stone depicts several scenes involving the afterlife. Up here is a pair of stock figures, you see: a warrior and, next to him, this rather sinister stylised person. He repre-sents death. He is the Dark One, who leads warriors from this life to the next. The pictures show the warrior’s journey in a sequence, rather like the
Beano
.’

Tormak moved his hand across the stone.

‘In this picture here, the writing reads:
Suddenly, the
warrior’s bright eyes burn dim. How can this be?
The answer is that the Dark One has come to take him. In this next picture, we see them passing through the Ways of the Dead, until finally they arrive at Ethrethor, the hunting-ground of the dead. The last picture reads
The Dark One
leads the warrior to the ancestors. The ancestors hail the
noble hunter and they all have a party
.’ Tormak stepped back and rubbed his chin. ‘Interesting. Now that
is
unusual.’

‘Go on,’ Smith said.

Tormak indicated a set of runes. ‘These are very peculiar. They give a location for Ethrethor. It says:
They
shall meet where the day never ends and laughing
they shall ride the very lightning
.’

They looked at the stone, staring at the symbols as if the force of their gaze could draw meaning from the rock.

‘I know not,’ Suruk said.

‘It’s really interesting,’ Rhianna said, ‘but no.’

‘So we draw a blank,’ Smith observed.

‘Maybe not.’ He looked round. It was Carveth. She glanced nervously from face to face, as if surprised to find that she had spoken. ‘Chances are I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life. But that’s what the adverts say for Lloydland:
There’s so much fun the day never ends
.’

‘But what of the lightning?’ Rhianna asked. ‘Surely that’s a reference to the respect for the power of nature held by indigenous peoples.’

‘Nah, it’s a ride at Lloydland.’

Smith turned from the stone to Carveth. ‘How do you know all this?’

The android shrugged. ‘They send me offers sometimes. I get discounts from being in the Pony Fan Club.’ She folded her arms, suddenly defensive. ‘I can join the Pony Fan Club if I want. I’m only two.’

Smith looked back at the tablet. ‘So it’s some sort of prophesy, you say? I’m not entirely convinced. I’ve never heard of a prophesy advertising a theme park before.’

‘Well, not a prophesy as such. But if Lloyd Leighton owned the land, why not stick a theme park there anyway?’

‘Hey, yeah,’ Rhianna said. ‘And Leighton was well-acquainted with Number Two. Maybe there is more to Lloydland than we thought. . .’

‘So Lloydland is where Leighton went to research the Vorl,’ Smith said quietly. ‘And that’s where he disappeared. And, from the looks of it, where we will find the Vorl.’

Carveth nodded. ‘And by a happy coincidence, it has rides and ice cream. Everybody wins.’

Boots clanged on the stairs behind them. A soldier jogged into the hall, gun swinging against his hip as he ran. ‘Captain Smith? Orders from the Grocer to get you topside, sir. Gertie’s here.’

They hurried back up the steps into the museum. Green was waiting for them. At the doors, Smith turned back.

‘Thank you, madam,’ he said. ‘Your assistance has been invaluable. It may have saved the universe.’

‘It’s always nice to have visitors,’ the Archivist replied.

‘Toodle-oo. Oh, Captain Smith?’

‘Yes?’

She held out her hand. ‘Souvenir pencil and eraser. Do come again.’

The door swung shut, and she disappeared back into her realm. The dust settled, and the hall was empty and derelict again, as if she had never been there. ‘Most obliged,’ Smith said.

Rhianna sighed. ‘It’s a collection of looted artefacts, taken from helpless—’

Suruk raised a hand. ‘Be still. Our foes are close.’

They crept down the hall, weapons ready.

A squad of praetorians was busy in the atrium. Two had pulled down a statue of Athene and were kicking it.

Another pair had mistaken the ticket booth for an item of historical significance and were tearing it apart with pincers and teeth. A scrawny lieutenant looked on approvingly.

Smith aimed his rifle at the lieutenant. ‘You there! Get your hands off my culture!’

As he said
culture
it reached for its gun. The rifle-shell slammed into its chest and it flopped twitching into the back wall. Smith cranked the handguard and Green’s silenced Stanford tore the two praetorians at the ticket booth apart. Frantic movement at the statue. Smith put the crosshairs on one monster, blew its head off, lined up the other as it lifted its disruptor and shot it through the neck.

‘And
that’s
why they tell you not to touch the exhibits,’ he said.

Only gunsmoke moved in the atrium. They advanced, the soldiers spreading out to cover the staircase and doors.

Tormak took a fact-sheet from a dispenser and slipped it into his back pocket.

Smith glanced at Suruk. ‘Hear anything?’

The alien shook his head. ‘Not even a sausage.’

Green motioned to the main doors and his troops took up covering positions. A bearded soldier drew the bolts back and opened the door.

New Luton was silent. The ruins were oddly peaceful, as if the city was still being constructed and the builders had gone home for the night. A fire glowed in the distance, an ember in a scene of grey and blue.

‘Looks clear,’ Green said. He took a step towards the door. ‘Alright, let’s go.’

‘Wait!’ Rhianna hissed. Green looked round as she rubbed her temples. ‘Everyone, look out!’

Green said, ‘What?’ and above them, something creaked.

Spikes drove through the ceiling, twisted into tentacles and ripped the roof away in a scream of girders. Suddenly the cold sky was above them, studded with stars. Lights swung into the aperture and a dreadful howl filled the hall.

‘Marty!’ Green called. ‘Get down!’

A dessicator-beam punched through the roof, turned a joist to rust, clipped a soldier and blasted her to particles.

The war-machine honked and whined. A metal tentacle snatched a soldier into the air and squeezed him in two.

‘Plasma, now!’ Green bellowed.

‘Behind us!’ Carveth cried.

Smith spun round: a figure ran into the corridor behind them, leather coat flapping, backside bobbing behind it.

‘Ghasts!’ he called, and he fired from the hip, missed and the Ghast threw itself down, aiming its disruptor. There was a loud flat boom and the alien slumped like a puppet without strings. Carveth stood there, panting, the shotgun smoking in her hands.

Behind it, two more Ghasts ran into view, carrying a heavy disruptor between them. Smith fired again and one collapsed. Suruk hurled a knife into the other’s throat.

From the hall came the roar of plasma-fire and a sudden glow as if a furnace door had been thrown open. The war-machine bellowed.

‘Back!’ Green shouted. ‘Back to the boats!’

Ghasts poured into the corridor. Disruptor fire rang around the hall.

Rhianna was motionless, eyes closed, concentrating, using her powers to shield herself. All very well, thought Smith, but soon the Ghasts would be within striking range and what good would her skills be then?

He grabbed her arm. ‘Rhianna? We have to—’

Something hit him hard, as if God had punched him in the chest. The world swung up and he felt his back strike the floor. A scream, and then voices shouting ‘Boss! Boss!’ and ‘Isambard!’

Hands grabbed him and pulled him up. He was hauled out of the corridor, across the chaos of the atrium, his head spinning. A woman was yelling something. The arm holding him up smelt of ammonia. Suruk, he realised. His crew – where were they?

‘Rhianna?’ He thought he saw her and reached out.

‘No time for love, Captain Smith,’ Suruk growled, and he was dragged through the doors, felt the night air on his face and shook his head like a dog shaking water off its chops.

‘I need a bit of a sit-down,’ he said.

The world was going dim. He slipped out of Suruk’s grip and sat down on the museum steps. Men were running around him, shooting and firing. A weird mechanical yodelling was going on nearby. Something like a metal mosquito was striding through the street, bits of the museum roof still clutched in its tentacles. A rocket spiralled through the sky and burst prettily against its shields. Something huge and lithe slipped between two houses on the waterside, half a boat in its mouth.

Carveth hopped from foot to foot, making agitated sounds. ‘Get up!’ she shouted. ‘We have to go!’

‘Um,’ Smith replied, rubbing his skull. He felt wetness there: blood. ‘Bit of an achey head, I’m afraid.’

Rhianna knelt down in front of him. He smiled at her.

‘Hullo, girlie.’

She took his hands in hers. ‘Isambard? Look at me.’

He lifted his head, aware of how tired he was and how pretty she looked. It would be so easy to close his eyes, to topple forward and bury his head between the soft pillows of her benevolence. He let himself fall, feeling only drowsiness and the softness of her hands – and sound rushed through his brain like a tidal wave. Suddenly he heard gunfire, explosions, shouts and the whine of machinery.

Morgar was in the middle of Green’s men, directing their fire. To the right, Suruk whipped his spear round and sliced a praetorian in half.

Smith scrambled to his feet, sharp pain jabbing at the back of his head.

‘We have to go!’ Rhianna called. ‘Any longer here and we’re herstory!’

‘Too late!’ Carveth yelled. ‘Look!’

The war-machine turned and the blinding glare of its spotlights swallowed them up. Their shadows stretched in the light as if trying to pull free from their bodies. The walker hooted in triumph, and as Smith lifted his rifle, it fired its dessicator.

The beam tore open the concrete on which they stood, cracked the pavement apart, turned a tree behind them to confetti. They were silhouettes in the light, statues trapped in a bubble of roaring sound. Carveth was flinching, Suruk hurling his spear. And before Smith, hair streaming around her like a goddess, Rhianna shielded them all.

The beam flicked off. Suruk’s spear sailed out and hit a Ghast in the chest. Carveth peeked between her hands.

The war machine lifted the dessicator to its main portal and gave the gun a good shake.

Rhianna smiled at them all. In a circle around them, the pavement was unbroken. The crack in the earth stopped just before her sandals.

Carveth turned to Smith. ‘I
told
you she was weird.’

The walker took a step towards them and its cockpit exploded, its pilot bursting like a dropped blancmange.

The legs buckled and collapsed.

A landship rolled around the corner of the museum, a clanking, puffing castle on tracks. A great ramp dropped open in its prow. Half a dozen turrets swung to cover the road, and a figure appeared at the battlements on the main tower, waving down to them.

‘Mayhem, is it?’ Jones the Laser called. ‘You’d better get inside. I would let you have your boat, but the death-otter’s eaten it, see?’

The landship creaked and shuddered to a halt in the Imperial sector and the soldiers ran out into hard, slanting rain. Smith jogged behind Green’s men, wincing as the night air chilled the back of his head. He had spent the last forty minutes in the landship’s medical bay, drinking tea and sitting still as a surgical wallahbot stitched his scalp together, and his head was stiff with anaesthetic and surgical Brylcreem.

‘A successful mission, I think,’ he said, and a bioshell exploded twenty yards away.