Wrath of the Lemming-men (31 page)

‘Not so fast, Captain Smith!’

He turned: 462 stood on the stairs, grinning through his facial scars. His metal eye glinted as he took a lurching step forward. There was a gun in his hand.

‘Shoot him, 462!’ Eight barked from the ground.

‘All in good time, my glorious master,’ 462 said, and his smirk widened. ‘So, here are both of the great leaders, unarmed. No doubt you both had some romantic notion of a duel to the death: warrior on warrior, champions of either side.’

‘Not really,’ Smith said.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Eight yelled. ‘Kill him!’

‘You see, Number Eight, I made a little alteration to the machinery. Oh, the Ghast-Vorl crossbreeds that result will be the fruit of your abdomen, have no fear. But they will be programmed to be loyal only to me. A legion of perfect warriors at my command, and all I need do to restart the process is to remove this sword – like this!’

462 grabbed the pommel of the sword – and screamed.

He frothed as the current ran through him, his collar and antennae standing up on end. Smoke rose up from his palm. 462 staggered back clutching his hand, turned and fled down the stairs, coat and stercorium flapping behind him.

‘Super,’ said Smith, and Eight stood up.

The Ghast cracked its knuckles. ‘To the death, then?’ it said.

‘Right!’ Smith replied, and he drove a neat punch straight into Eight’s nostrils. Eight blinked. Smith waited, and he began to suspect that something was not working here as it should. When Eight tossed him one-handed across the mezzanine, he realised that his suspicions were indeed correct.

The world froze. Vock towered over Suruk, ready to strike, and Suruk gazed up at him, unable to move.

A shadow stepped into view. It was a silhouette, a misty outline the same shape as a M’Lak, but made of darkness.

Two eyes were holes in its head. Black mandibles opened from its jawline, and it spoke.

‘Come, Suruk. It is over.’

Suruk said, ‘Are you. . .? You are no Vorl, are you?’

‘No. I am the Dark One, come to lead you from this world to the hunting-ground of the ancients. Come with me. It is finished.’

‘No!’ Suruk cried. ‘Vock was mine!’

The Dark One sighed. ‘He is about to strike the blow that will murder you. Better that you come with me now and avoid the pain he longs to inflict. Come, Suruk. The light in your eyes no longer shines so brightly. Run with me to Ethrethor.’

‘Curse you!’ Suruk growled. ‘I will not leave my father unavenged!’

‘There is no choice,’ the Dark One hissed, and his arm shot out. As it did, a hand slapped down on his shoulder and dragged him back. A second ghost stood beside it, a broomstick in its free hand.

‘Hello, Suruk,’ Agshad said.

‘Father?’ Suruk glanced left, then right. He lay before a semicircle of his ancestors, those who had wielded the spear before him and, now that it had been broken, had been freed from within: Agshad Nine-Swords, Urgar the Miffed, Brehan the Blessed, King Lacrovan. . .

‘Unhand me!’ the Dark One snarled as Agshad pulled him backwards. ‘This warrior is dead!’

‘Dead?’ Brehan the Blessed chortled. ‘Suruk’s alive!’

Agshad opened his mandibles and smiled. The Dark One thrashed in his grip. ‘Promise me one thing, son.’

‘Name it, father.’

‘Go and get a proper job, would you?’

He vanished. Vock screeched in triumph as Suruk sprang into a crouch. The axe whipped down and he darted under the blade and caught the shaft in his left hand. For a moment they stood there straining, strength against strength, and then Suruk drove his right fist up and punched Vock in the jaw.

Vock was lifted clean off his paws, tossed ten feet and dropped in a clattering heap of armour plate. His limbs flailed and he whirled upright into a fighting stance, paused, frowned, and patted the end of his snout. Alarm spread across his face.

Suruk raised his right fist. Wedged in the back of his hand were two long teeth. ‘You seek these, rodent?’

‘Bathtard!’ Vock screamed. ‘Dirty offworlder bathtard! Die!’

Suruk felt no fear as Vock sprang. He leapt to meet him, the axe flew past, and Suruk hit Vock’s breastplate –grabbed it – turned him upside down and drove him head first through the lid of a wheelybin.

Suruk landed in a crouch and rose slowly to face the wheelybin. Vock’s legs protruded from the top of the bin, kicking furiously. Arms pinned to his sides, he could do nothing but howl with rage into his echoing plastic prison.

‘Let me go, offworlder! I am the dignified and honourable Mimco Vock! You shame me with your cowardith!’

Suruk chuckled. As he strolled over, he cracked his knuckles. ‘Greetings, Colonel.’

‘Offworlder, you die slow! You will beg for merthy—’

‘I think not. Now, Colonel, you are my prisoner. Listen and understand. Your war is over, as it shall soon be for all the Yull. I shall take this bin to my people and, when they crave your skull, I will plead clemency, so that you may remember this moment for as long as you live, when I drew your teeth and – what is the phrase? – dropped you into the shit. Not for you a death in battle, but a life of captivity and shame. This I do in honour of my father, whom you murdered like the coward you are when he bested your men. This, however, I do for fun,’ he said, and he punched Vock in the groin. Vock’s head made loud contact with the bottom of the bin. Suruk smiled

Eight bent down and lifted Smith up by the collar. ‘So,’ he said, ‘to the death. How amusing. Tell me, Space Captain Smith, what gave you the impression that you could defeat me? I am
most
intrigued.’

Smith drove the side of his hand into Eight’s temple, a blow that would have floored a praetorian. ‘What do you say to that?’

Eight frowned. ‘What’s that? Oh, I
see
– you were try-ing to slap me across the face.’ He raised his pincer arms.

‘Amateurs. Believe me, Smith’ – and his arm flicked out and knocked Smith’s head to one side – ‘when it comes to slapping people across the face – I – wrote – the – book! And – the – appendix!’

As if batting aside flies, Eight whacked Smith’s head left, right, left and right again. Then he tossed him onto the ground: Smith slid along the floor and into the wall.

Eight sighed.‘It is too bad that I will not be able to listen to some opera while I rip you apart, Captain Smith. Then this moment would be almost as perfect as myself.’ He brushed a spec of dirt from his lapel. ‘Why do you people bother? Tell me, captain, can you wrestle an ant-wolf? Plan an invasion? Write a piano sonata –
before
breakfast? I don’t think so. You humans are utterly outclassed. I mean, is there
anything
you have that I don’t?’

Smith hauled himself upright. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. ‘I have a nose, you alien bastard,’ he snarled. ‘Beat that.’

‘Not quite what –’ Eight began, but Smith roared and charged straight into him. His shoulder slammed into the massive Ghast, he snatched something from Eight’s belt while his left hand shot up and grabbed Eight’s singed antennae. He yanked them forward and with his right fist he punched the monster once – twice – three times in the jaw. He pulled back his arm for a fourth massive blow –and Eight opened his mouth. It was a mantrap, a tunnel lined with fangs, and Smith’s hand disappeared into it.

Eight slammed his jaws together, bit down and shook his head like a terrier killing a rat. His head tore free in a bloody flurry and Smith staggered back, clutching the half of his right arm that remained.

Eight tossed his head back and, gannet-like, swallowed Smith’s hand. He drew himself up and struck a pose suitable for a raconteur. ‘As I was saying,’ he began, smoothing his trenchcoat. He paused and looked down at his belt. ‘Odd. Where’s that grenade gone?’

Smith’s face was white. The world lurched and flickered before him like a badly-tuned television screen. Eight’s question only just reached him, but he smiled nonetheless.

‘It was in my hand,’ he said.

‘What?’ Eight’s eyes widened: his mouth fell open. Like a toddler he thrust his fists into his mouth, stumbling around as he tried to reach his gullet. ‘
What?
No, no!’

Eight bellowed around his hands. ‘You can’t do this! I’m better than you!’

With the last strength left to him, Smith raised his left arm. Slowly he folded his fingers, and gave Eight the ancient gesture his people had bestowed upon invaders for a thousand years.

Eight burst like a dropped egg: strange organs and leather scraps spattered the ceiling and the walls.

‘Pillock,’ Smith said, and he passed out.

Smith woke up in his bed on board the
Pym
. His room was quiet and dark, and the model spaceships hanging from the ceiling looked as tranquil as soaring birds. He felt numb and a little sleepy.

The last thing he could recall was giving that big Ghast the V-sign. He smiled. Yes, he’d shown that bugger. He could remember the thing bragging about its genius. Not anymore, he thought. Eight wouldn’t even be able to play the spoons, let alone write a sonata.

Smith paused, vaguely sure that there was some fly in the ointment of victory. Nope, it was gone. He yawned and stretched, and noticed that he was not stretching quite as far as he’d expected.

‘Balls,’ he muttered, remembering. ‘He bit off my arm.’

The right arm of his pyjamas was neatly folded and pinned just above the elbow. Or the place where the elbow would have been. A drip stood beside the bed, wired to Smith’s other arm.

Suruk stepped out of the corner of the room.

‘Wainscott’s medicine woman fixed you to that tube,’ he said. ‘I assisted as best I could, but your biology is strange to me. Besides, I dislike needles almost as much as I dislike bees.’

‘Thanks. Damned nuisance, this. Rhianna and Carveth – how are they?’

‘Bizarre and futile, respectively. They are well.’

‘And yourself? Did you. . . ?’

Suruk smiled. ‘I did indeed. My father is avenged. The warlord Vock lingers in the hold, pinioned within a plastic bin. Now we take him back as our prisoner, for trial.’

‘Good work, old chap! Excellent stuff.’

Smith realised that he could hear the hum of engines.

An, ugly crunching noise from the cockpit told him that the
John Pym
had just gone up a gear. ‘We’re moving,’ he said.

‘We travel to New Luton with our new comrades. Major Wainscott follows us in his craft, warlike and probably nude. I like him. The Ghast vessel and its spawning factory are no more. Now we shall conclude our mission.’ The alien frowned. ‘As your medic, I advise you to rest. Your arm is growing back much too slowly.’

‘I see. Look, I know the Yull are bastards, but I don’t want you roughing Vock up too much, or the prisoner—’

‘I shall not injure the prisoner; there would be no challenge to it. Besides, for Vock a long life in captivity will be far more satisfying. In the meantime I shall do nothing more cruel than play him
Les Fleurs
– several hundred times. Per day.’

‘Well, as long as we don’t have to listen to him banging on about his honour all the time—’

‘I doubt it,’ Suruk said. ‘Sooner or later he will either go mad or hibernate.’

‘I ought to check on things,’ Smith said. ‘Could you help me get dressed?’

‘Gladly.’ Suruk bent down and came up with Smith’s trousers. ‘Tell me, which side do you dress on – front or back?’

Carveth opened the airlock and they stepped out into chaos. The black sky throbbed with explosions and laser-beams: gunfire hid the roars and cries of Ghasts and men.

Aresian walkers were tearing down the barricades at the edges of the Imperial compound. Praetorians swarmed around their legs like piranhas. Yet Jones’ men fought on, hard and disciplined, the railgun teams covering each other, the fire from small arms and landships holding the waves of attackers at bay.

Smith heard C’neth’s nasal voice behind him, ‘Gawd, what a dreadful place. You could have at least taken us somewhere nice, not this crap’ole.’

Jones ran up to meet them. ‘Alright, Smith! God, what happened to you, man?’

‘I had a run-in with Ghast Number Eight. Turns out he bit off more than he could chew.’

‘Good – bloody hell, man! What’s that?’

‘Oh, and this must be the charming local welcome,’ C’neth observed.

‘This is C’neth of the Vorl,’ Smith replied. ‘Good to see you, Jones.’

‘You too, mate. So you found a Vorl to take back, eh? Rescue party, is it? I’ll give orders to fall back by squads: there’s too many Ghasts to stay here.’

‘Nobody’s falling back. We’ve brought reinforcements.’

Smith looked over his shoulder, at his friends. Suruk was twirling the two pieces of his spear. Carveth was preparing to advance behind Dreckitt. Rhianna was smiling vaguely. Behind them, loading up a fresh magazine, Wainscott stood grinning and fully clothed. His men checked their weapons, looking like dangerousness made flesh. And behind them all, the great ranks of the Vorl rolled out of the two spaceships like a bank of mist, their faces grim and deathly, tendrils of smoke stroking the air like the scarves of a thousand Morris men.

‘Bloody hell,’ Jones whispered. ‘This is a turn up for the books. I wasn’t expecting this!’

‘
You’re
surprised?’ C’neth said. ‘You’re not the one who’s just found out he’s got a daughter – and she’s solid!’

‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘only one thing for it. Could some-one help me draw my sword, please?’

Carveth helped.

Smith lifted the sword above his head. ‘Right then,’ he called, ‘you all know what to do. Ladies, gentlemen, Suruk, Jones, Morgar, strange ghost people and Rhianna’s dad – for the Empire,
charge!
’

*

‘And that’s how the battle of New Luton was won,’ Carveth finished up. ‘Or at least the bits I saw. I was hiding under a table for quite a lot of it.’

‘How. . . er. . . very interesting,’ King Victor replied.

He gave Carveth a short bow, and she responded with a curtsey that nearly put her on the floor like a broken deckchair. Smith held his breath and forced himself to remain calm as the king moved down the line.