Wrath of the Lemming-men (23 page)

The compound was under siege. Ghasts lay around the perimeter in heaps. Soldiers manned the concrete barricades in two-man railgun teams. A sergeant stood in the middle of them, directing their shooting at a pack of hovertanks. ‘Front rank, fire! Second rank, fire!’

A sudden flash of metal between two buildings; a damaged walker lurched across the road with a warbot clinging to its leg. Two beetle-people scurried out of what had once been a fire station, hauling a Gatling cannon between them. Injured men and prisoners were dragged away. Fresh soldiers ran through the ruined houses in a half-crouch and dropped into the battle line. The night stank of fire and dust.

Jones waited for them a little further on. ‘This way!’ he called, pointing, and they headed for the main HQ, Smith slowing so as not to leave the women behind.

Now he could hear Ghasts, yapping and snarling on the right. Someone screamed, and gunfire rattled off to the south.

Yet it was no panic. The men were ferocious and disciplined. This was their ground, the Empire’s ground, and they would fight for it. A wave of giddiness struck Smith and, with it, deep respect for the common people who had come here to fight.

Morgar caught up with them at the entrance to the command building. ‘Hello again!’ he called. ‘And how are we all?’

‘Pissed,’ said Carveth. She too had availed herself of the landship’s medicinal facilities, and consequentially smelt of brandy.

‘We’re holding rather well,’ Morgar said. ‘We’ve drawn back to the second perimeter and we’re keeping them at bay. The landships have held the museum and are linked up with us. The beetle-people are reinforcing our defences with – well, you can guess what with.’

‘Good stuff,’ said Jones. ‘Tell the beetles that the defences need as much extra armour as they can manage.’

‘I’m sure they’ll work something out.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’ Smith asked.

There was a little pause. Two men ran past, carrying an empty stretcher.

Morgar said, ‘You should go.’

Jones nodded. ‘He’s right. You’ve got a job to do and it’s not here. It may be a fool’s errand, maybe not, but good luck anyway.’

‘I suppose so,’ Smith said. ‘Even if it’s a fool’s errand, we’re still best qualified to do it.’

Morgar led them down the road, and at the far end they started up the ramp towards the landing pads. ‘You should be able to break atmosphere without trouble,’ he said.

Men were hauling the camouflage tarpaulins off the
John Pym
. Suruk glanced at Smith. ‘You should wake its engines,’ he said, gesturing to the ship with a mandible. ‘I will follow you presently.’

Smith nodded. ‘Carveth, go and fire the ship up.

Rhianna, you ought to get inside. Jones, could I have a word?’

‘Course.’

They took a long step away from Suruk and Morgar. Smith watched the two women climb the ramp to the launch pads. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Er, there’s an awful lot of Ghasts out there. I mean, I don’t know if the fleet can help, but if you’d like me to put a good word in—’

‘We put a good word in about three months ago,’ Jones replied. ‘It was
Help
. The fleet’s about as useful out here as an Australian in a whispering contest. Listen, you can tell HQ that I’m not wasting good people for nothing. You’ve seen how our soldiers fight here, and that’s all the more reason not to leave them on their own. We’ll fight to the last if needs be, but I won’t waste men, see?’

‘Yes,’ said Smith, impressed. ‘I see.’ He held out his hand, and they shook. ‘Good luck, Jones. You’re a decent chap.’

‘Thanks. You too. Now, bugger off and let me get on with this.’

Morgar took off his glasses and wiped the rain off the lenses with his clan colours. When he put them back on, Suruk was smiling. ‘I am pleased, brother.’

Morgar said, ‘Oh yes? What with?’

‘You.’

‘Really?’

‘Indeed. You have applied yourself well to the ways of war. You fought boldly at the museum. Of course, I would rather that you used a proper blade than a puny Earth-gun, but there is no denying that you have behaved honourably.’

Morgar pushed his glasses up. Since he had no nose as such, they slid down again. ‘Gosh,’ he said.

Suruk looked around, ‘Perhaps now I should learn the law, to equal you in a profession. It is as Father would have wished.’

Morgar shook his head. ‘He would have wanted you to protect your friends. Right now the galaxy doesn’t need more lawyers: it needs a maniac with a sacred stick.’ He glanced up at the
Pym
, watched steam rise from its hatches, listened to its engines cough. ‘I can take care of things here. You’d best go before the elders find some other idiot for you to get engaged in battle with.’

‘Well said,’ Suruk replied. He lifted Gan Uteki, consecrated spear of the ancestors, as if to brandish it at the whole of New Luton. ‘I will stay fast and cunning. No enemy will slow me now, no elder force me into unholy acrimony. To you I say these words: Mimco Vock shall fall by my hand!’

‘And to you, Suruk, I say these words: have a nice trip. And if you see General Vock – pull his whiskers for me.’

Suruk turned and jogged up to the ship. At the airlock he raised his spear. ‘Good hunting, brother!’ he bellowed over the roar of the engines, and Morgar waved back.

Major Wainscott’s pod dropped open as it hit the ground and he jumped out into the snow, slapping a fresh magazine into the side of his Stanford gun. He was confronted by a depressing lack of hostile fire, so he threw himself clear of the pod, anticipating an ambush. Nothing happened.

‘Hiding, are you?’ Wainscott muttered into his beard, setting his backpack cogitator to scan for life as he studied the landing zone through his gunsight. Up ahead, the Leighton-Wakazashi headquarters loomed like a frosted cliff, the tinted windows glistening like black ice.

His Portable Information Transmitter Headset crackled. ‘Boss?’ Susan said. ‘Any contact?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘They’re definitely hiding. Spread out and move up, thirty yard intervals. See any moon-men, do them over. Over.’

Ducking low, he ran across the landing pad. A Ghast shuttle lay beside the company ships, its narrow black nose pointing at the company buildings like a mangled, accusing finger. Nelson was crouched beside its front leg.

‘Anything, Nelson?’

The technician shook his head. ‘Looks like Gertie headed North.’

‘Towards the company buildings, eh? Alright, let’s go.’

They ran towards the rail terminal. Halfway there, Wainscott dropped down and prodded something half-buried in the snow. It was a dead Ghast, its coat frozen stiff like beaten lead, body twisted and teeth bared in rage or pain, or both. ‘Dead drone here,’ he told the intercom.

‘Got a few here,’ Susan’s voice crackled back. ‘Someone made a tidy job of their landing party. Small-arms fire, mainly. There’s not a lot left by the looks of it.’

‘Bugger!’ Wainscott replied. ‘Meet me up by the main entrance. There may be some inside.’

He ducked behind a battered sign beside the executive offices. It read:
Welcome to Leighton-Wakazashi, bringing
you tomorrow’s future today! Access for paupers at side
entrance only
.

Wainscott lay down and waited, the snow hiding his outline, Nelson watching his back. Susan, Brian and Craig jogged up beside him and he rose to a crouch. ‘If Gertie’s here, he’s in there,’ Wainscott said, nodding at the doors ahead. ‘I’ll take the doors. Brian, Craig, flanking. Watch our back, Susan. Nelson, would you be so good as to bypass the door controls?’

They ran to their positions. Wainscott nodded to Nelson, and he pressed a device against the doors. A counter spun on Nelson’s machine, the lock whined, and the doors slid apart.

A dozen people stood behind the doors: policemen, mainly, and with them a line of young women, all of them armed. A man in a long brown coat stepped forward to greet the Deepspace Operations Group.

‘Wainscott?’ he said.

‘Dreckitt?’ Wainscott lowered his Stanford gun. ‘What’s all this, then?’

Dreckitt holstered his pistol inside his coat. ‘The ants sent a mob of gunsels down here. We managed to hold them off. We thought we’d lay low and wait for you.’

‘You killed them all?’

‘Yep.’

The wide-eyed girl beside Dreckitt gave Wainscott a victory sign. ‘Yay! Go ultra robot lady team!’

Wainscott looked them over, sighed and turned to his men. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing here to kill. Bloody mission’s a write-off. Come along Susan, we’re going home.’ He stepped back into the snow.

‘Wait!’

Wainscott glanced round. ‘Well?’

Dreckitt said, ‘Major, if you’re looking for the enemy, I can help. W’s taken a slug and that leaves you and me running this case. Polly Carveth, my squeeze, taught these dames how to pack a piece. She’s out there with Isambard Smith, looking for the Vorl. If you want to go help them, I’d be first to ride your running board.’

Wainscott looked at Susan and grimaced. She shrugged.

A tall, elegant android in a long dress and bonnet stepped forward and curtseyed as she reached the door, as if about to welcome them into her home. ‘I am Miss Emily Hallsworth, formerly of Mansfield Theme Park. Major, I believe Mr Dreckitt is making you an offer of assistance. He has certain information as to the whereabouts of your colleague – and, I should add, Miss Polly Carveth. Despite his uncouth manner, I would suggest that you accept Mr Dreckitt’s aid and head forthwith to assist Captain Smith.’

‘Yeah,’ Dreckitt added, ‘you said it, sister.’

‘Sister? I certainly hope not, Mr Dreckitt.’ Emily smiled at Wainscott. ‘So, Major, it would seem prudent for you to relieve us of Mr Dreckitt’s rather working-class presence. But before you leave—’ and her eyes gleamed – ‘that’s a rather splendid uniform you happen to be wearing, isn’t it?’

The
John Pym
rose amid a flurry of flares, decoys and pre-emptive missiles, as if in the centre of a fireworks display.

Carveth sat at the controls, following the progress of the counters and dials. A flare burst near them, throwing a green glow onto the brasswork. Below, New Luton was a blur, red flowers blossoming and fading against the blue-grey buildings. It seemed an incongruously cheerful way to leave.

Carveth heard boots behind her. ‘Bloody hell, boss,’ she said, watching the city. ‘What a place. They’re knackered down there, aren’t they?’

‘Most probably,’ Suruk said.

She glanced round. ‘Oh, it’s you – Sorry, I thought you were—’

‘Isambard Smith rests in his room. He must be careful with a wound to his head, lest his liver fall out.’

‘What? You have your liver in your head?’

‘Only my spare one. Most of the space is taken up by my digestive and excretory organs.’

‘Weird.’

‘We are, you might say, opposites: I excrete from my voicebox, whereas you speak from—’

‘Alright, point made. I’m sorry you overheard me just then. I didn’t mean—’

‘You are correct, though. Most likely they are doomed.’ Suruk stood beside her, leaning up close to the glass. ‘They will fight bravely, but they will be overwhelmed.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘There are worse ways to die.’ Suruk looked round. ‘A question, small woman. . . can you imagine me in a court of law?’

‘Easily, provided the police could catch you first.’

Suruk looked into Gerald’s cage and gave his water bottle a thoughtful squeeze. ‘I meant as a speaker of law. I would stand before the elder with the ears of a spaniel—’

‘The judge.’

‘Before him, and say “This man is guilty! Slay him now!” Everybody would wish to employ me then. Do you think I could be a criminal lawyer?’

‘Well, you’re halfway there already.’ She turned to the navigational computer, wondering what had brought on this strange flight of fancy.

‘I could execute wills!’ Suruk enthused, and Carveth shuddered.

‘I’m going to check on the captain,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch the controls – or the hamster.’

She walked down the hallway and knocked on the door to Smith’s room.

‘Come in!’

He sat at the little table, which was supposed to be for typing vital reports but was covered in Airfix kits and glue. ‘Hyperspace Hellfire,’ he said, holding up an indeterminate plastic item.

‘How’s the head?’ Carveth asked.

‘Right as rain.’

She peered at the model. ‘Should the wheels come out of the cockpit like that?’

‘Do they? Ah, yes. Whoops.’

Carveth stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her. ‘Suruk reckons we’re going to lose New Luton.’

Smith did not say anything. After a few seconds he nodded. ‘It’s possible, yes.’

‘That means Morgar and the rest. . .’

‘Quite.’

‘Bloody hell. What a waste.’ She sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed. ‘I quite liked that Jones the Laser.’

‘I doubt Rick Dreckitt would have approved. You
are
taken, you know.’

‘Only roughly.’ Carveth frowned. ‘It’s bad about New Luton, though.’

Smith stood up, slow and weary. She looked small, deflated somehow. ‘Come on,’ he said, tapping her on the arm. ‘Let’s have some tea. We might have some good biscuits left.’

Rhianna was meditating in the living room, making a sound like an old fridge. Her eyes opened at they entered.

‘Hey guys,’ she said. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine,’ Carveth said.

‘Fine,’ said Smith. There was an unspoken agreement between them never to discuss anything emotional in front of Rhianna, who would only make them miserable by forcing them to talk about their feelings. Smith put the kettle on.

‘Is your head okay?’ Rhianna asked.

‘Should be alright,’ Smith replied.

‘It’s just that I was worried back there. The treatment you received – well, it just didn’t seem very holistic.’

‘Holistic?’

Rhianna made her spreading-hands gesture. ‘Incorporating the totality of the body,’ she explained.

Smith dropped four teabags into the pot. ‘Well, only my head got hit,’ he replied, irritated by her slowness. ‘In total I’m fine.’

‘Yes, but you could have put your aura out of balance, or blinded your third eye.’