Wrath of the Lemming-men (15 page)

‘Suruk,’ he said, ‘would you mind accompanying Rhianna and Carveth? This place is full of disreputable men.’

‘I shall protect them from her,’ Suruk promised. ‘Perhaps I shall pick up some fishnets in the process.’

‘You’ve got half an hour, alright? And I mean it. I’ll be in there,’ he added, pointing to the pub beside Crazy Shane’s. It had once been the main office of the research platform. On the door was a sign:
The Villainous Hive
welcomes you. No flamethrowers, automatic weapons or
dogs. Except guide dogs
.

Smith took a deep breath and stepped inside.

A warm wave of smoke, argument and staleness hit his face. He walked down a dingy set of stairs, stepped over what was either a draft excluder or a severed arm and looked around the room.

About fifty people were packed into the bar: the low ceiling made it seem as if there were many more. A free-lancer captain in a long coat was arm-wrestling a man in biker leathers whose jacket was missing a sleeve. In one corner, a brutal-looking trio were banging out jazz on clarinets that had clearly been used to break heads. Three shabby M’Lak were swilling Irn Bru and guffawing madly, addicts of the pink man’s fizzwater.

Smith took a step forward and a muscled man with a goatee loomed out of the shadows. ‘Not so fast, friend. You looking for something?’

‘A drink?’ Smith said.

The man snorted. ‘You don’t look like – hey, I’d know that coat anywhere! You were at the Battle of Barbour Ridge! C’mon in, pal!’

‘Battle? Er, yes, so I was,’ Smith said, wondering what this might be. Something between the United Free States irregulars and the Republic of Eden? ‘Of course. Battle. I always find it interesting to note that we, er. . .’

‘Interesting? Terrible, more like! Worst damn tragedy there’s ever been!’

‘Lost. Shame that. Listen, old chap, do you know anything about Leighton-Wakazashi being here? On the. . .ah, sly. . . so to speak?’

‘I ain’t the man to ask,’ said the bouncer, and he leaned back into the dark. ‘But there’s plenty who would. Lot of these guys run stuff on the quiet for the Company. Maybe if you buy a few drinks, people’ll start talking. Understand?’ He patted Smith on the back. ‘Drink one for me, pal.’

‘I certainly shall,’ said Smith, and, pleased by his cunning but a little ashamed for stealing someone else’s credit, he walked to the bar.

‘. . .but they both loved their old mum,’ said the aging barmaid, and she turned to Smith. ‘’Allo luv, what can I get yer?’

‘Pint, please,’ he said, and he glanced around as she poured it. An old man was staring at him from the corner of the room. He seemed to be wearing a dressing gown and a bowler hat. Smith looked away. Now, he thought, what next? From the bouncer’s comments, it sounded as if some of these rogues would be open to bribery. Quite where to start was another matter. He would need tact and subtlety—

‘Hello boss!’ Carveth called.

‘Good Lord,’ he replied.

With a creak of leather she walked into the room, the buckles on her boots clattering. Scarred, bearded heads turned. She wore armoured trousers and a red bodice under a jacket with metal shoulder-plates. Overall, he reflected, she looked like the cycle courier of the living dead.

‘Hi there,’ she said, joining him.

‘Why on Earth are you dressed like that?’

‘It was a sale,’ she explained. ‘Besides, when in Rome. . .’

Smith shook his head. Behind Carveth, the others had entered. Rhianna had acquired a new shapeless cardigan: this one, unusually, was able to cover both of her shoulders at once. Suruk might have obtained new clothes; it was quite hard to tell. Smith looked back to Carveth who was fiddling with the metal plate down the front of her left boot. ‘You look like Suruk’s wife,’ he said.

‘Bleargh!’ Suruk observed.

‘Besides, I hope you’ve got a receipt for all that. We need cash. If we’re going to get any information here, we’re going to have to buy it.’

Carveth took a step back. ‘Oh no. This stuff stays. After all the effort I spent cramming myself into this corset top, I am not going back just to take it off again. In fact, I may never be able to take it off at all.’

‘I would not worry,’ Suruk said. ‘You are already half out of it now –’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Smith, wishing that Suruk had not made him aware of Carveth’s frightening, prow-like décolletage, ‘but we still need money. Pool resources, men.’

They opened their pockets.

‘Two Ollies and a George,’ said Carveth. ‘Twenty-five quid. It might buy us directions to the exit door, but otherwise we’re stuffed.’

‘Bugger!’ Smith looked around. The band launched into a jaunty cover of ‘Hello Mabel’. He scratched his head, lowered his arm, and his elbow nudged something.

A hand grabbed his upper arm. He looked round: a small man stood beside him holding a shotgun sawn down to pistol size. He had a sour, crinkled face, as if someone had sewn weights into a prune, dragging its creases towards the floor. ‘Oi! Don’t you elbow me in my manor! Who the hell’re you?’

‘I’m Isambard Smith. Pleased to—’

‘I’m ’Arry the ’Ammer McAdam, that’s what they used to call me. And I’ve got no time for Space Fleet ponces what mess around in my gaff. I’m drinking ’ere, and I don’t like you. Naff off!’

‘One moment, if you would,’ Suruk said. ‘Perhaps I may assist.’ Smith shot him a look. Suruk leaned close.

‘Fear not, Mazuran. I understand his type. I am wise in the ways of the Ancient East End.’

‘And who’re you? What’s your game, you green slag?’

Suruk threw open his arms. ‘I am Henry the Eighth, I am, son of my old man, who is a dustbin! Slayer of wives, King of Pearly, lover of a duck! My crew are deadly warriors, yet nice boys what would not hurt a fly. Be afeared, or I shall slay any man that regards my pint within the sound of Bow Bells!’

Harry the Hammer looked back with eyes like scraps of coal. ‘Are you telling me,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re some kind of Cockney?’

Suruk looked down at his legs. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘That is just the way my trousers hang. They are cor blimey trousers, you see.’

‘Oh, I see alright,’ said the wrinkled face. Smith’s hand moved to his waist, where the Civiliser waited. Suruk smiled. As the band began
The Watermelon Song
, Harry McAdam cocked his gun.

Carveth had wandered off, drink in hand, followed by Rhianna. She looked the part. Her leather jacket would keep her warm and her boots, solid and flat-soled, would be ideal for running away from danger shortly after kicking it in the shin.

Rhianna took a rolled cigarette. ‘At least no one here will hassle me for lighting up.’

‘We need cash,’ Carveth said. ‘How about we sell some of your grass?’

‘No!’ Rhianna froze mid-toke, horrified. ‘That would be immoral. Maybe we could bet on something.’

Carveth nodded at a table against the wall. Two men sat on battered chairs surrounded by empty glasses and creased, filthy notes. Seven or eight others stood around the drinkers, encouraging them and throwing money onto the table. Slowly one of the contestants, a huge bearded fellow, rolled back his eyes, dropped his half empty glass and slid under the table, comatose. His opponent started to gather up the money.

‘That’s two hundred pound you owe me,’ the winner said. A horrible gargling sound came from under the table. ‘And a pair of new boots.’

‘I’ve got a plan,’ Carveth said. ‘Stay back; it might get messy.’

Rhianna took a deep drag on her rollup. ‘I’m not sure you’ve got the karma for gambling, Polly. Maybe I should—’

But she was too late. Carveth strode to the table and tossed twenty pounds onto the chipped formica. ‘Any of you boys want to make a bet?’

The bouncer from the door had wandered over to watch. ‘What’s the game?’

Carveth put her hands on her hips and scowled.

‘It’s a drinking game.’ She looked from one tough face to another. ‘I’ll challenge any man to match me.’

‘You’re on,’ the man at the table said. ‘Hell, I’ve got money to spare.’

Carveth nodded. ‘Good. It’s a simple game. It’s called ‘Downing a pint’.’

There were chuckles around the table. ‘Go on, luv,’ someone called. ‘Tell us the rules!’

‘Very well. You drink a pint of beer in one sip. No breaths. If you can beat me, there’s twenty pounds in it for you. And a spaceship. And this dancing girl.’

The joint fell out of Rhianna’s mouth.

‘So, who’ll take me on?’

Rhianna tugged at Carveth’s sleeve. ‘Polly, this is getting really heavy! If you lose –’

‘I won’t. I was built for a purpose, remember.’

A lank-haired thug like a grubby Viking thumped two pints of lager down on the table. ‘You’re on,’ he said. ‘I could drink twice that much without taking a breath.’

‘Excellent,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ll go first. Place your bets.’

She reached to her back pocket. ‘One breath. The whole pint downed.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.’

‘Of course.’ She took two long, thin objects from her pocket and dropped one into each drink. ‘One breath, one pint.’

‘The hell’s that supposed to be?’ her opponent growled.

‘A straw.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you put that down.’

It was a rich voice, smooth and dignified. Smith looked round, and saw the small man in the dressing gown who had been watching him.

McAdam snorted. ‘Yeah. Perhaps it would be better if I put it down.’ He laid the shotgun on the bartop and the barmaid broke it open, took out the cartridges and removed the gun from view. ‘Erm, I think I was gonna. . .spill some claret, or something?’

‘You were going to
order
some claret,’ the little man said. As McAdam turned to the barmaid, he put out a hand. ‘Captain Smith, I believe?’

‘Yes. And you are?’

‘George. George Benson. I have, shall we say, interests similar to your own. I believe we share an acquaintance in intelligence circles.’

Smith looked at the place on the bar where the gun had been. ‘I saw what you did there,’ he said. ‘You made him put that gun away. You have the Bearing.’

Benson chuckled. ‘Oh, surely not. I’m just an old fellow, pottering through life with the help of his psychic powers.’

‘So,’ Smith said, ‘you know the Shau Teng trick too.’

‘Trick? One should not treat such powers lightly. Half of mild, please,’ he added to the barmaid. ‘Why don’t you just put it on the tab?’

‘Why don’t I just put it on the tab, dear?’ she replied, pushing the glass across.

Suruk had been staring across the bar, watching Carveth drink. Smith leaned over to him. ‘Everything alright, Suruk?’

‘I think so. The little woman is drinking a pint of beer through a straw. She has powerful lungs, Mazuran; no doubt she would be well suited to playing the euphemism.’

‘You mean euphonium.’

‘I am not sure I do,’ Suruk said.

Benson leaned closer. ‘I know that you seek the Vorl, and I know that the Ghasts do too. If you wish, we can pool our resources. My knowledge and your urgent need for more knowledge. How does that sound?’

Smith glanced at Suruk. The alien nodded. In Asur’a he said, ‘He seems truthful, Mazuran.’

‘Indeed,’ Smith replied. ‘He will assist us.’ He turned to Benson and said in English he said, ‘My friend likes you. I like you too. It’s a deal.’

Carveth’s eyes had become huge, her cheeks close to meeting in the middle of her face. The straw suddenly sucked on air, and she let go, panting. Slowly she turned the pint glass upside down. ‘Anyone?’

Uproar at the table. Palms slapped the formica, and men laughed and argued as they snatched up their winnings. The man opposite snorted and shoved a pile of money to Carveth. She reached over and picked the pile up as coolly as she could.

The bouncer had watched the contest, scowling in concentration as she put the straw away. ‘Now that ain’t natural,’ he growled. ‘You doin’ anything on Friday night?’

Carveth’s opponent turned away, muttering.

The man whose leather jacket was missing a sleeve pushed the onlookers back. He had made money on the bet; suddenly he was Carveth’s friend. ‘Easy, mates!’ he called. ‘Give the lady space! Life’s too short to argue, right?’ He clapped Carveth on the back. ‘Ignore them, miss. There’s too much intolerance and bigotry in the world as it is. I blame the dirty Swiss for that,’ he added, and he held out his glass to her. ‘Have a drink.’

Carveth reached out and the man in the leather jacket froze, grunted and flopped across the table. For a moment she saw the skull painted on the back of his jacket split in two by a throwing-axe, and then the table tipped up and he pitched onto the floor, beer and ashtrays fell after him.

She whipped around. In the doorway stood the first Yull she had seen close-up: slightly bigger than a man, wearing a breastplate and huge shoulder-plates, holding a two-handed axe. She had expected a monstrous rat, but it was no beast: the head was blunter than she had thought, the eyes big and round, the teeth more like incisors than yellow fangs, the whiskers starched into a moustache. It’s almost cute, she thought, and then the Yull buried its axe in the bouncer’s chest and screamed ‘Now you die, offworlders, nice and slow!’

‘Eat lead, squeaky!’

Carveth looked round. Smith stood against the bar, pistol aimed.

The pistol roared and the lemming man stumbled into the back wall. It slid down the wall, clawing at the picture of dogs playing poker. For a moment Carveth stood frozen, and then a scream came from outside.

Rhianna grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘Come on!’

The patrons rushed for the exit. People struggled past each other towards the door. Guards and customers drew guns and ran up the stairs. Smith forced his way through the crowd, wading against the current of panic, Benson and Suruk behind him.

‘It’s a raid!’ Smith yelled over the chaos. ‘We’ve got to go!’

‘Wait,’ Benson said. ‘There’s a back way.’

Smith shoved through to Rhianna and Carveth. ‘Are you alright?’

‘We’re okay,’ Rhianna said. Carveth nodded.

Benson gave them a deep nod, almost a bow. ‘Miss Carveth, Miss Mitchell. Pleased to meet you. We had best leave.’ He looked frail and pink, like something prised from its shell. ‘Shall we?’