Wrath of the Lemming-men (24 page)

‘What?’ Smith paused, shocked. ‘My aura is quite well balanced, thank you,’ he replied. ‘And as for my third eye, I don’t think that’s any—’

Carveth elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Magic talk,’ she whispered. ‘Digging a hole, boss.’

‘Ah, I see. Well,’ he continued, ‘in that case my magic parts are fine. Which reminds me: I think we all ought to thank you for stopping that dessicator beam back outside the museum. Had you not done so, I suspect we all would have bought it.’

‘It was nothing,’ Rhianna said. ‘I’d have done it for any-one.’

‘Oh.’ Somewhat disappointed, Smith brought the teapot to the table and sat down. Suruk strolled in and they shared out the biscuits.

‘Right,’ said Smith, as the alien squatted down on a chair, ‘I’m pleased to say that we are in a good position. Carveth here has set a course for Lloydland, and once we arrive we can start to search for the Vorl. We seem to have lost the enemy for now, so I can only presume that we have the lead.’

‘Which means that we have lost Colonel Vock,’ Suruk growled.

‘For now, yes.’

‘Then this is folly!’ Suruk snarled. Rhianna blinked as if awoken. ‘Mazuran, I promised my brother that I would singe the fur of the lemming. If we do not face Vock, I shall have broken that promise. I know the pixie here regrets us leaving the soldiers of Jones the Laser behind. Think then how much greater is my regret, living with the knowledge that my father was dishonoured by a rodent! You are a friend, and one I would never harm, but if Vock escapes me my rage will know no bounds. I will have vengeance, or I will have kittens!’

‘I understand, Suruk,’ Smith said. ‘Carveth, I know you’re not overly pleased—’

‘I know we had to go,’ she said. She stared into her tea.

‘It’s just the thought of leaving all those men behind. All those officers and privates left down there. . . stop looking at me like that. I mean it.’

‘No doubt you do,’ Suruk observed.

Rhianna was watching, engrossed, slowly twirling a strand of hair around her finger. ‘I’m sensing a lot of negative feelings in the room,’ she began.

‘Amazing powers of perception you’ve got there,’ Carveth said.

‘Shush,’ Smith said. ‘Were you going to say some stuff, Rhianna?’

Rhianna looked down at the tabletop, as if trying to discern a meaning from the tea stains and dents. She looked at Smith, as if to say something, sighed and said, ‘No, nothing. It’s terrible about New Luton, but the time for peaceful protest there is over. I can help most by opening communications with the Vorl. I have to go on.’

‘You already do,’ Carveth said.

‘Good,’ Smith said, although he felt that something was up with Rhianna. Perhaps it was some strange feminine business, or wind. ‘Now,’ he said, addressing the whole table, ‘pay attention, men. I have listened to your concerns, and I will promise you this: once this mission is complete, or as complete as we can get it without dying, we will return to New Luton. There we will do everything we can to help the troops, whether than involves shuttling them to the battlefield or assisting with evacuation. And while we are there, Suruk, please feel free to resume your quest to defeat Colonel Vock. For it is there that the trail goes cold, and there, if the Yullian mind is what I think it is – i.e. small and nasty – where he will want to stay in order to sate his bloodlust.

‘But until then we will carry on. We will keep on going, partly because the freedom of the galaxy depends on us, but more importantly, because we’re British, or at least two and a half of us are, and not giving in is what being British is all about. I ask you: did Cromwell, or Nelson chuck it all in? Did Barnes Wallis stop giving a damn? Never!’ Full of enthusiasm, mug in hand, he sprang to his feet. ‘We will go forward, men, united in our mission to seek out the mysterious being that got Rhianna’s mother in the family way. Then, and only then, we will return to the Empire and put our new knowledge to deadly effect! Any questions, men?’

Carveth raised a hand. ‘Are you aware that none of us actually
are
men?’

‘Not by birth, no. But by extension!’

‘What did I extend to become a bloke?’

‘He means it as an allegory, Polly,’ Rhianna explained.

‘Do I have one of those?’ Suruk asked.

‘We all do!’ Smith cried, eyes wild. ‘You may not be men, true, but you’re doing pretty damned well considering. And with that,’ he declared, ‘who’ll join me in a game of cricket?’

462 sat in his chair on the bridge of the
Systematic
Destruction
, admiring his reflection in his newly-polished helmet. Minions scurried around him, suitably busy and afraid. This, he reflected, was the life.

Being Number Eight’s chief underling had brought a wide range of benefits. Not least was his new command seat, which reclined and played classic highlights from Number One’s speeches. He flicked a control and from speakers in the headrest a voice yelped ‘Crush! Smash! Lightning! Ruthless!’ 462 settled back, put his pincer arms behind his head and folded his hands over his thorax. ‘Complete annihilation of mammalian life!’ bellowed his chair.

Heels banged together at the side of his seat.

‘Commander!’

462 opened his sole, beady eye. ‘What?’

An orderly looked down at him. ‘Request from. . .’ it shuddered, ‘—Number Eight’s personal ship. He seeks information as to our next move.’

‘I see. Tell his pilot to keep back and follow us. Our enemy will lead us to the prize.’

The orderly saluted. ‘Puny human craft
John Pym
is on course for Lloydland, a human planet. Lloydland has one main settlement: a “theme park”.’ It scrutinised its clip-board, perplexed.

‘A pathetic source of amusement for decadent weaklings,’ 462 explained. ‘True amusement comes from unity, strength and standing in lines shouting!’

‘Freedom is unity! Peace is shouting!’ the orderly quoted. ‘Glorious commander, sensors have picked up traces of what may be another craft, entering the system on a tangental approach.’

‘I see. Can you confirm its identity?’

‘No, Commander.’

‘Proceed with our mission. Continue to monitor.

Dismissed.’

The orderly saluted, spun round and strode away. 462 activated the screen on his armchair and flicked through the various spy cameras on the ship. In their quarters the Yull were watching a propaganda film. This film was of caged Guinea-pigs which, the voice-over claimed, were Yullian infants that the British intended to ship to the Andes and feed to ravening pan-pipe musicians. The Yull were nearly berserk, eyes bulging as they screeched promises of mayhem and butchery at the screen. 462 chuckled, reflecting that the Yullian government would say anything to keep its moronic lackeys sufficiently enraged.

462 flicked the switch and saw Colonel Vock staring at his suit of polished red armour, apparently in a trance. His axes lay on his lap and there was a cruel smirk across his snout. No doubt he was contemplating the tortures he intended to inflict on Suruk the Slayer and his allies. Vock reached into a bag and stuffed a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.

462 switched off the camera.

So, the reckoning would happen on Lloydland. With the disposable allied troops and the specially-equipped praetorians delegated to him by Eight, there would be no stopping him. He would capture the Vorl, but far more importantly than that, he would have Isambard Smith.

His scarred face smiled back at him, reflected in his helmet. An eye for an eye, as the Earthlanders said. How very true.

Smith strolled across the hold with a self-mixing gin and tonic in one hand and a cricket bat in the other. Rhianna and Carveth watched him from the sitting room door.

Suruk had climbed onto the walkway that ran around the edge of the hold.

The hold contained the remnants of several expeditions.

Around its edges were boxes and chests holding a wide range of useless items: a gun-case with no guns, a scanner stand made out of a ravnaphant’s leg and a stained, padlocked crate plastered with biohazard stickers, on which Suruk had written ‘Imerjency rashuns’.

Smith whirled the bat around cheerfully, rubbing a tennis ball against his thigh. Carveth leaned over to Rhianna. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t slightly concussed,’ she whispered.

‘I think his chakras may be out of alignment,’ Rhianna replied.

‘Pay attention, everyone,’ Smith announced. ‘French cricket, as the name suggests, is much like British cricket except not as good. However, having no stumps, pads, teams or a scorer, this will have to suffice. The aim of the game is to get the batsman out by hitting him on the legs—’

‘Simple,’ Suruk said.

‘—with the tennis ball. For Rhianna’s benefit, it’s a little like the traditional American game of rounders—’

An alarm sounded from the cockpit, a miserable howl.

‘Spaceship’s broken,’ Carveth announced. ‘See you later!’ She ran from the room with evident relief.

Rhianna slipped off her sandals. ‘Which one of us is the hitter?’

‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘there’s a batsman, and a bowler. Let’s see: why don’t you bowl, Suruk, and Rhianna, you can bat. Now, come and stand over here. . .’

In a swish of hair and skirt she skipped across to join him by the bay doors. ‘Okay, what do I do?’

Suddenly she was close up, and he could smell hair and joss. ‘Right,’ he said, assuming an appropriate stance, ‘you stand like this, and Suruk tries to hit you on the legs with the tennis ball. Suruk: no maiming, understand?’

The alien dropped down from the roof. ‘I see we play French cricket the beginner’s way.’

Smith passed Rhianna the bat and sat down on the bio-hazard case. Rhianna undid one of the bits of grubby string on her wrist and began to pull her hair back, like a fisherman hauling in his thrashing net. This struck Smith as deeply erotic. Her body was as sleek and graceful as a ’cello, but with better boobs. Desire made him light-headed, or perhaps it was cranial damage.

‘Boss!’

Smith looked round: Carveth stood in the doorway.

‘Borrow you for a minute, boss?’ she said, and she disappeared from view.

Smith followed her through to the cockpit. ‘Listen to this,’ Carveth said, prodding the radio controls. ‘I’ve picked up a signal coming from Lloydland.’

Smith leaned towards the speaker. ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you sure Suruk didn’t scalp you by mistake? You want to be careful – your brain’ll fall out of a wound like that.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing much.’

‘All the more reason to hang on to it.’ She closed the door behind them and flicked on the radio. ‘This is on continual replay. I’ve downloaded a map from the digital signal.’

A woman’s voice came out of the speaker, a perky voice with a Free States twang, somehow enthusiastic even though it brought no good news.

‘Hi! You are now within transmit distance of Lloydland, where the fun never ends. We are sorry to announce that Funland is currently closed for the duration of the Galactic War. Don’t forget to call back as soon as one side has surrendered, for the adventure of a lifetime! Funland: bringing you—’

The radio cut with an ugly screech. Hiss filled the air.

‘Weird,’ Carveth said, ‘it didn’t do this last time.’

And then a voice rose out of the hiss, nothing like the previous speaker. It sounded more like some strange anomaly that by coincidence resembled words, more like wind rushing through pipes than the product of vocal chords. The speakers buzzed with suppressed power behind which was the crackle of raw electricity.

‘Do not venture into the realm of the damned! If you value your life or your reason, keep away! Keep away!’

A blast of static and the radio was silent. Smith turned to look at Carveth. Her face was white in the dim cockpit, her eyes wide. ‘Maybe they’ve got a ghost train,’ he said.

The radio burst: the front of the speakers fell off and sparks rained over them. Carveth squealed and flinched.

Smith stood up, hand shielding his face. The door flew open and Suruk strode in, holding a tennis ball. He tore the radio from the console, threw it onto the floor and stamped on it several times. It gave one long, sorrowful moan like a dying cow and fell silent.

‘There,’ said Suruk. ‘Order is restored. All is well.’

‘All is
not
well!’ Carveth cried. ‘You just trashed the radio!’

‘Victory!’

Smith looked at the smashed radio, now a jumble of wires and shattered ferro-bakelite casing.

‘We can’t ring for help,’ Carveth said. Her voice seemed very small.

‘There’ll be a transmitter on the planet,’ Smith replied.

‘We’re going down there? Are you mental? We’ve just had a phone call from the Devil and you want to pitch up in his back garden?’

‘It was the Vorl,’ Rhianna said. They looked round: she stood in the doorway looking concerned. ‘It was them warning us, wasn’t it?’

Smith looked out the window, at the growing spec in the centre of the screen – Lloydland.

‘So what now?’ Carveth said.

‘Carry on,’ Smith replied. ‘We complete the mission.’

‘Are you mad?’

His voice was quiet and cold. ‘If we turn back we acknowledge failure, and we really
will
leave New Luton to its fate. We can’t call for help, so I can’t see what else we can do. We’ll land as soon as you can bring us into orbit.’

His eyes roved over them. ‘I want everyone ready to move out at first light tomorrow morning. I want weapons loaded and equipment stowed half an hour before we make planetfall. Look lively, everyone. No larking around.’

‘Sandwiches?’ Rhianna asked.

‘Yes please.’

The
John Pym
made the final descent with uncharacteristic grace. Smith peered through the dirty green airlock window, watching fire lick the nosecone as they sank into the atmosphere of Lloydland. The ship thrummed and shuddered. In the corridor, dials clicked and whirred.

Rhianna was making sandwiches in the galley. Smith wandered over, the floor rocking a little underfoot.

Something in the shelves rattled.

‘Making something nice?’ he asked.

‘Cheese,’ she said. ‘I’d usually have issues with dairy produce, but I doubt this has ever been near a cow.’