Wrath of the Lemming-men (17 page)

Carveth glanced at Smith and raised her eyebrows.

Benson said: ‘We believe that your old adversary, 462, has acquired the patronage of Number Eight. Captain Smith, Eight is unique among the Ghast leadership for not being either physically deformed or extremely fat. He is cunning, powerful and highly ambitious. Eight has initiated a top-secret project that will enable him to harness the power of the Vorl, strengthen his own soldiers and become the new Number Two. From there, his path to control of the entire Ghast Empire will be clear.’

‘I see,’ said Smith.

‘So to sum up,’ Carveth said, ‘Eight intends to squeeze out Number Two, and once he’s pushed Number Two out, the way will be clear for him to pass Number One. Very devious,’ she added. ‘And no doubt, once he has sat on the throne and seized the chain of command, he’ll follow through with a savage purge. But how does this affect us?’

Benson rubbed his glasses on his tie. ‘Well, you see, the connecting link to all of this isn’t the Ghasts, or the Yull. It’s the company. The former director of Leighton- Wakazashi was a man called Lloyd Leighton. He went missing around the start of the war, presumed dead. But we suspect otherwise. It was following up a lead on his disappearance that brought me to Tranquility—’

A light flashed on the dashboard. One of the control panels let out a thin, annoying beep. Smith waited for Carveth to say something; that sort of fine detail was her area.

‘We’ve got a problem with the pressure,’ she said. ‘Did someone leave the back door open?’

‘That must have been when we got Suruk back in,’ Smith replied. ‘We must have been too concerned about getting him inside.’

‘Fair enough,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ll use the emergency switch.’ Distantly, from the hold, there came a dull clang.

‘Hope Rhianna wasn’t having a look out the sunroof,’ Carveth added, ‘because if she was, I’ve just chopped her head off. . .’

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Benson said, getting up. ‘All that excitement back there. . . not good for an old fellow, if you see what I mean.’

He left the room. Smith looked out the window and watched the atmosphere thin into black as the
John Pym
entered space. So, the Ghasts had joined forces with this Colonel Vock, had they? 462 must have gathered his cronies and started working for Number Eight. What an opportunity! If he could stop them, what a blessing for the Empire that would be, and what an excellent set of trophies for the sitting-room!

‘Boss?’

He glanced round.

Carveth said, ‘I’m picking up a transmission. Says there’s fighting going on around Tranquility.’

‘The enemy must’ve had air support to land troops there. Alright. Plot a course back to Paragon on Albion Prime. We’ll put Benson’s information before Thomas the Difference Engine to find out what he thinks.’

‘Will do.’

She began dialling in the co-ordinates. Suddenly, Rhianna ran in. ‘I found this in the corridor,’ she said, holding out Benson’s bowler hat and gown. ‘He’s. . . dematerialised!’

‘He’s in the crapper,’ Carveth replied, not looking round.

‘Oh,’ she said, a little disappointed. ‘So, what’s going on, guys?’

‘We’re heading back to Albion Prime,’ Smith said.

Rhianna nodded. She stood there, eyes half-closed, as if savouring a taste. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said. ‘I can feel it.’

‘Are you sure?’ Smith replied. This looked like Flighty Woman Stuff. ‘It might be the stress of getting out of that Tranquility place. Don’t worry yourself about it.’

‘No, no. There’s something in the ship, Isambard.
Really
.’

‘I can’t think of what. Maybe you’ve got a headache, or you ate something funny? Drugs, perhaps?’

‘No!’

Smith stared back at her over his shoulder, shocked by the force in her voice. ‘I’m telling you, Isambard.’

Carveth said, ‘Look, Boss. . .’

Smith got up. ‘Alright. Carveth, lock the cockpit door.’

He stepped into the corridor, Rhianna following. ‘Any idea where this is coming from?’

‘No. It’s kind of. . .’ She made a swirling gesture. ‘. . .All around, you know?’

‘I see.’ He knocked on the toilet door. ‘Hello? Sorry to interrupt. All right in there?’

Nothing. He looked at Rhianna. Her face was close. He could smell the joss on her.

‘Try again,’ she said.

‘Benson? Are you alright?’

The door flew open and hit him in the nose. Smith stumbled back, cursing, and Benson was thrust into the corridor, his brogues kicking an inch above the ground. As he looked up Smith saw a thick red pincer around Benson’s neck. Slowly, a Ghast followed the spy out of the lavatory, its disruptor pressed to the back of Benson’s head.

‘Hands up,’ it rasped, ‘or I shoot.’

‘Don’t listen to him!’ Benson gasped. ‘You’re in trouble, you bloody insect! Strike me down, and I will become more ticked-off than you could ever imagine!’

The praetorian smirked. ‘You will surrender at once, or the old man will be shot.’

Smith slid his hand to his holster. The Ghast had the drop on them – but if he could lure its gun away from Benson’s head, he would stand a good chance of firing first.

Suruk crept into the corridor.

‘You will drop your weapons and pilot this craft to Tranquility orbital platform,’ the Ghast continued, rubbing its antennae together. ‘And you will bring me the hamster at once. I am hungry.’

The cockpit door burst open. ‘Bastard!’ Carveth yelled. ‘Touch my hamster and I’ll rip off your arse!’

Benson struggled in its grip. ‘Dammit, Smith, shoot him!’

The Ghast laughed. ‘He will not shoot. His puny altruism prevents him.’

Yes I will, Smith thought, just give me the chance. . .

‘How feeble your Earth-biology is! I captured this old fool while he was at his weakest. Human bladders are puny and inefficient. We Ghasts are able to store waste for months. My stercorium is a model of genetic perfection. It is much like me—’

‘Because it’s full of crap?’

‘That is enough, scum!’ The Ghast tossed Benson into the far wall and whirled at Smith, raising its gun – and Smith shot it in the side. It stumbled and Smith closed one eye, aimed and fired twice more.

The shots rang around the corridor. Smoke rose from torn leather. Smith kicked the Ghast’s gun away and hurried to Benson’s side.

Rhianna crouched beside the old spy. His glasses were broken and a thin trickle of blood ran from a gash in his forehead. ‘He’s alive,’ she said. ‘It knocked him out.’

Carveth glowered at the dead Ghast, screwdriver in hand. ‘Nobody eats my hamster,’ she said, and she ducked back into the cockpit.

‘It is dead,’ Suruk said, prodding the corpse.

‘Right,’ Smith said, getting up, ‘Benson’s out of the running. Let’s get him to the medical bay.’

‘We don’t have a medical bay,’ Rhianna replied. ‘We could use the kitchen table, I guess. . .’

‘Good plan. We can eat off trays for now. Can you and Suruk get him down to the kitchen?’

‘Easily,’ Suruk said. ‘The seer here can lift his legs and I will take his head. . . not like that.’

‘Thanks,’ said Smith. ‘Good chap. Carveth,’ he called, ‘set a course for Paragon Docks, Albion Prime.’

The simulant called back, ‘No can do, Cap.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘Well, there’s a space battle in the way.’

Smith thought: I am in a nightmare.

‘
What?
’ he cried, and he ran into the cockpit. Far off, in the very centre of the screen, lights flashed. It looked like a strange mix of neon and flame: lasers and burning ships.

Smith dialled up the scanner. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘Carveth, keep on course. We’ll need to help out.’

She whirled around in her seat. ‘Are you mad
and
stupid? Boss, we’ve got no guns! They’ll fry us alive!’

Smith frowned. ‘I don’t care, Carveth; we have to help defend the Empire.’

‘But—’

‘Now, look: if we’re to have any chance of getting out of this mess, I need your complete co-operation. You’ll have to forget about your inherent cowardice for a moment. Remember, Carveth, there’s no ‘I’ in teamwork.’

‘Yeah, but there’s a messed-up “me”. Cap, this isn’t just stupid, it’s – wait a moment, incoming message.’

The radio crackled. ‘Smith? That you?’

‘W!’

‘Where are you, Smith?’

‘In orbit. Bloody enemy raided Tranquility. We got out just in time.’

‘Did you find Benson?’

‘Sir, yes. A dirty Ghast jumped him in the loo.’

W spluttered with fury. ‘Bollocks!’

‘He’s still alive, but out cold. We’re headed for Albion Prime right now. If you’ve got a medical team—’

‘Keep away!’ W barked. ‘For God’s sake, Smith, the Ghasts and Yull have raided the system. There must be two dozen warships up against us. Albion Prime is under siege. We’re holding them back, but there’s no chance of getting anything past them.

‘They want you, Smith; they want Rhianna Mitchell!

We’re holding them as best as we can, but we’ve lost the 
Frobisher
and the
Staines
. I don’t know how long we can hold them back.’

Fuzz rose up and swallowed W’s voice. There was a muffled, distorted explosion on the far end of the line.

Voices yelled and screamed; flame roared.

‘Sir!’ Smith called. ‘W! Dammit, man, what’s happening? What do you need us to do?’

The voice that came back was little more than a croak, a whisper at the bottom of a well. ‘Your ship can still fly, can’t it?’ W gasped. ‘Then fly it, you fools!’

‘Of course, you could never understand.’ Colonel Vock tightened the bandage on his arm and prodded himself in the chest with a drunken finger. ‘
I
follow a code, the ancient teachings of the god of war. This gives me dignity.’

He took a deep swig from the neck of a bottle of dandelion wine and let out a raucous burp.

‘Fascinating.’ 462 sat on the other side of the little room, watching as Vock stuffed his cheek pouches with sunflower seeds, storing them for the campaign. Vock’s binging disgusted him. Any Ghast soldier doing that would be shot for wasting materiel. 462 thought back to his own diet of pulped minions and Ghastibix and reflected that he could not recall asking for a second helping in his life.

The Yull were quartered in one of the auxiliary holds of the
Systematic Destruction
, 462’s own ship. Vock’s tastes were frugal: apart from a heap of malodorous sawdust in the corner, his only addition to his room was a painting of one of his illustrious forefathers, standing on a cliff-top and glowering.

‘Your problem stems from being descended from insects,’ the lemming man explained. ‘Ridiculous little animals.’ He jabbed a finger at 462. ‘And while you are here, I want to make it clear that the conduct of your soldiers is a disgrace. Your refusal to take prisoners is shameful. If you continue with this tactic, I will have no option but to sacrifice my own soldiers to the war god instead. Sacrifices bring us victory!’

‘And yet the beast, Suruk, nearly bettered you.’ 462 was tired of Vock already. These mouse-men lacked discipline, 462 thought: once Vock was of no further use, he would let the praetorians cook and eat him. Indeed, the colonel’s breastplate would make a passable frying pan.

Hephoc, Vock’s civilian servant, slipped in and placed some more wine on the table, then scurried away before Vock could steal his spectacles and hit him on the head.

‘He did not better me,’ Vock said. ‘No scum-frog can better a Yull! Victory was stolen from me by chance. The next time we meet, I shall finish him.’

462 grimaced as Vock took a deep swig from the bottle of wine. Drink did not agree with the Yull – it made them lustful and reckless. Recently, General Rimm had been stripped of his honour after the sacking of Neustadt: not for butchering its inhabitants, but for being found nude and bleeding the next morning in Neustadt Zoo, having attempted to perform an act in the beaver enclosure that dared not squeak its name. 462 scowled and flexed his antennae.

‘I expect to make the first attack on the offworlders,’ Vock said. ‘At close quarters none can survive the ferocity of our assault. It will be my pleasure to destroy the offworlder devils where I can see the terror in their eyes.’

‘By all means. Your willingness to deplete enemy ammunition supplies is commendable. But you will leave Captain Isambard Smith alive. I will deal with him personally,’ 462 added, rising from his seat. He pulled his trenchcoat close around him and limped to the door.

‘Remember, Smith is mine!’ 462 barked, and he lurched into the corridor.

A Ghast captain waited outside. ‘Strength in unity, great one! We have found no trace of the psychic human Rhianna Mitchell among the dead. We believe. . .’ It paused nervously, perhaps wondering how the war was going on the M’Lak Front. ‘. . .that the
John Pym
escaped us.’

462 nodded. ‘And the assault fleet?’

‘They have made good progress against the British system, but the defences of Albion Prime are holding. There is no possibility of assistance being sent to Isambard Smith. It is regrettable that my minions have not located him yet.’

‘So, Smith is alone.’ 462 chuckled. ‘Excellent! Here is something that will perk up your antennae: before the attack I gave one of the storm teams a suicide order to plant a tracker on the
John Pym
. They appear to have succeeded.’

The captain snarled. ‘Then we must strike fast and eliminate them!’

462 smiled around his scars. ‘Not yet, Captain. We will bide our time. We shall follow the Earthlanders. They will lead us right to the Vorl and, when the moment comes, we will crush and smash them all!’

‘A brilliant plan, great leader!’ the captain replied, and they shared a few moments of cackling laughter. ‘I must get on,’ the captain said. ‘Things to do, underlings to slap.’

462 stayed in the corridor, watching the captain’s stercorium bobbing as he strode away. He looked at the poster in the passage, one of a series designed to boost productivity.
Denounce a minion and you could win a
staff-car!

462’s thin hand closed around the tracking device in the pocket of his trenchcoat. Nobody else could track the
John Pym
, not even Eight. He did not need to win anything. The winning ticket was already in his hand. He had only to cash it in.