The first thing Smith saw of Andor was the barrier net. Tiny satellites dotted the windscreen like brass buttons on a velvet shirt, and between them, tens of miles wide, hung impact nets made of cable.
It made sense, as much as anything on the Lemming Front made sense: a spaceship hitting the wire at speed would be sliced apart before it could get through to the planet beyond. Given the Yullian love of driving into things, it was a very sensible precaution.
‘Fishnet,’ Suruk said from the back of the cockpit. ‘I approve.’
They slipped past the net, into the atmosphere, sinking through layers of sodden cloud. The surface of Andor was covered in a thick layer of vapour. ‘It’s the planet breathing,’ Rhianna said, but to Smith it looked more like sweat.
‘It’s a bloody pressure-cooker,’ Carveth said, and she put the windscreen wipers on. They filled the cockpit with their creaking.
Down below, something moved through the forest, leaving a trail of brown devastation behind it like an exhaust. Smith lifted the binoculars. It was a wild ravnaphant, a fairly small one, shovelling trees into its maw. Someone long ago had introduced the beasts to Andor, and they had fitted in well – given that the rest of the native life was lethal, it was hardly surprising.
Base Camp lay at the edge of Lake Trondo, at the bottom of a hole blasted through the forest canopy. It spread out beneath them, a picnic rug on a mass of green, and as they sank down half a dozen missile pods tracked their descent. Most of the buildings below were temporary, put up by the army or dropped in from transport shuttles, but a few dated back to happier days. All had been reinforced with sandbags. Automated guns turned slowly on their turrets, scanning the forest for enemies, their clockwork already starting to rust in the hot, thick air. The Union Jack had been braced with a crosspiece to stop it drooping: this low down, there was almost no wind.
The John Pym touched down on all four legs at once, which was a good omen. They collected their gear and gathered at the airlock. ‘Ready?’ Smith asked.
‘Okay,’ Rhianna said. She was in her version of practical clothing: a headband and shapeless, floor-length dress that made her look like a tie-dyed chess piece. It made Smith feel queasy with lust. It was as though she gave off some aphrodisiac, or perhaps it was just the cloud of fragrant smoke that tended to follow her around.
The door swung open. Outside, men and M’Lak carried boxes of food and ammunition between them. A column of soldiers jogged past in body armour, dripping sweat. A sergeant-major with a face like a moustachioed beetroot ran bellowing behind them. Troopers piled cases of rockets as if they were logs and, beside the pile, a Sey tracker crossed off items on a clipboard. It looked like a cross between an ostrich and a small dinosaur.
Smith walked out first, and a curtain of heat met him. For a moment he stood at the bottom of the steps, getting used to the warm, airless air, and then a woman stepped out and saluted.
‘Jaizeh, chaps! Captain Smith, I presume?’ She was in her late forties, wiry and intellectual-looking. She wore army uniform, but no armour. ‘Captain Selena Harrison.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Captain Harrison.’ Something was wrong here, Smith thought: among all the chaos, something was missing.
A tiny brass wiper flicked across the lenses of Captain Harrison’s glasses. ‘It’s a pleasure. Welcome to Andor. This way.’
They started off from the John Pym, across the prefab landing pad, and Smith realised what was not there. He couldn’t hear machinery. Everything was being moved by hand; there were no autoloaders, no wallahbots to do the heavy work.
‘We’ll outfit you for forest fighting,’ Harrison explained. ‘You’ll need to go geared up all the time, I’m afraid. You never know when the furries will try it on.’ Captain Harrison gave Rhianna a suspicious look. ‘You’re not really equipped for fighting here,’ she said. ‘For one thing, the lemmings will hear your flip-flops.’
‘Oh,’ Rhianna said. She thought for a moment, bent down and kicked her sandals off. ‘Is that better?’
‘Yeah, perfect.’ Harrison glared at Smith, who couldn’t see why she looked so annoyed, and quickened the pace. ‘Captain Smith, General Young wants to talk to you in person. You’re a lucky man.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She’s the reason we’re still alive,’ Harrison said. ‘The rest of you chaps are welcome to make yourselves at home. Now, once you’ve been certified fit for action, we can get you armed up.’
One of the automated guns gave a burst of fire. Smith froze, hand half extended to his rifle. A creature about the size of an albatross dropped out of the sky. It landed with a loose thud about twenty yards away.
‘Mosquito,’ Harrison said.
Smith followed her up the path towards the most heavily fortified of the older buildings. It looked like something from a western: the white façade was chipped and the plaster that had not been blasted away was cracked like dried greasepaint.
We’re falling apart, he thought suddenly, and the thought startled him.
‘You first,’ Harrison said, and she swept her arm out towards the door.
The inside was dark and cool. Smith stood in an entrance hall. At the far end, an argument was reaching its conclusion. A tall man with an angular face stood under a tiny camera-blimp like a thought-bubble, ignoring a soldier who seemed to be trying to send him away.
‘Come on, come on!’ the tall man said. He wore a breastplate under his suit jacket. ‘It’s a simple question. Ah!’ he exclaimed, noticing Smith, and he strode across the hall.
‘Wait a moment,’ Captain Harrison began, but the tall man ignored her.
‘Lionel Markham, We Ask the Questions,’ the man said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m Lionel Markham. I present We Ask the Questions, the Space Empire’s toughest current affairs programme.’
‘Oh really? I’m Captain Isambard Smith. Pleased to mee –’
‘So, Captain Smith, what’s really going on here? Who’s in charge here, that’s what I know that people want to know.’
‘Well, General Young, I suppose.’
‘So you’re not sure?’
Harrison stepped forward. ‘Come on, that’s enough. He’s only just got here.’
Markham nodded. ‘So you’ve only just got here and you don’t know for sure what’s going on. What does that say to the rest of the Empire?’
‘I –’
‘Come on, come on! It’s a simple question, yes or no.’
‘What?’
‘Yes or no? Yes or no? Yes or no?’
Smith opened his mouth, Harrison advanced, hand raised to grab the camera-drone, but Markham turned on the spot and directly addressed the machine. ‘So there you have it. The world asks: “Is the Yullian war still a runner, or is the whole front about to collapse?” The Imperial Army is meant to be standing sentry, but is it too sedentiary to prevent a lemming entry this century? You’ve been watching We Ask the Questions. I’m Lionel Markham, being clever so you don’t have to.’
Harrison motioned Smith towards the doors at the far end of the hall. ‘This way, Captain Smith,’ she said. ‘And bugger off, Lionel, there’s a good chap.’
Smith walked into the room. It was large and, by the standards of the Yullian Front, luxurious. Five people – four humans and a M’Lak – sat around a collapsible table on wicker chairs, drinking gin. Smith recognised one of them: the woman at the head of the table, her hat on the formica before her, was General Florence Young, scourge of the lemmings and victor of the Battle of the River Tam. General Young was at least seventy-five and very small. Had it not been for her skill, the whole front would have been overrun the previous year, when the Yull had launched their most frenzied assault on the Space Empire yet. To the men, Florence Young was a friendly, great-aunt-like figure: to the lemming men, she was a demon in wrinkly, lavender-scented human form.
‘Captain Smith,’ said General Young. ‘Do come in. Tea or gin?’
Smith took a seat. ‘Tea, please.’
‘These are my colleagues,’ General Young said, gesturing down the table. ‘Colonels Hopkirk, Butt and Frobisher. And this is Lorvoth the Bloody-Handed, High Warlord of Zhukar.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the M’Lak.
A man loomed out of the shadows. Smith paused a moment, surprised: it was W, the spymaster. He wore his usual tweed jacket and smelled of mothballs as well as tobacco. W strode over, tall and gawky, and lowered himself into an empty seat.
‘Have you ever seen this man before?’ General Young inquired.
‘Oh yes,’ Smith replied. ‘Loads of times.’
W shook his head quickly.
‘Oh, him? No, never seen him. I must’ve meant someone else.’
W rubbed at his pencil moustache. He looked weary: shadows attached themselves to his face like dirt.
General Young nodded. ‘And if you had worked for him, possibly in a top secret capacity, would you have been responsible for a number of secret operations, including the assassination of Ghast Number Eight and the recovery of the Dodgson Drive, neither of which officially occurred?’
‘Um,’ Smith replied. ‘Probably. Both. Not?’
Captain Harrison brought the tea. ‘You’re I/C distribution, Harrison,’ said Young. ‘From now on in this operation you will be known as “mother”. Percolate and circulate.’
Harrison poured out the tea.
‘You have an impressive record for disinformation, Captain Smith,’ the general said. ‘Your reputation for counter-intelligence is quite remarkable.’
‘I’m not dim, you know,’ Smith replied, hurt.
‘That’s not what “counter-intelligence” means.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Captain Smith, the war against the lemming men started badly. We massively underestimated the Yull. When I first arrived here, several of my staff actually believed them to be a sort of house-trained beaver. This is completely untrue: the Yull are a disciplined and organised enemy, and they piss everywhere. How’s the tea?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Good. Now, you need to understand how things work here. This planet, this war, is not like anything you’ve seen. Tanks can’t fit between the trees. Warbots seize up. The canopy’s so thick that if you drop a bomb on it, it’ll bounce right back into the plane. Try scanning for hostile life forms on Andor and the needle will probably fly off the dial. This is the kind of war that’s won with knives, not spaceships.
‘I understand you have fought the Yull before, and you know the debased level on which they operate. I would like to say that the lemming men are savages, although that’s not really fair. I’ve met some perfectly decent savages in my time.’
‘Quite so, Florence,’ said Lorvoth the Bloody-Handed. ‘More tea, anyone?’
‘Murder, torture, cannibalism, human sacrifice...’ said General Young, ‘all of these are a spot of fun to the lemming man. They stand as a warning of the depravity awaiting those who stray away from tea, basic decency and self-preservation. And they all have nits.’
An odd change had come over General Young’s face. Her eyes seemed to have slid back in their sockets and her lower jaw had come forward. She no longer looked like someone’s granny, but a very determined person in the early stages of turning into a bulldog, or perhaps a locomotive.
‘The Yull call this their Divine Migration. In truth, it’s a holy war. Holy wars are all the same, Captain. The aim of the war is war itself, the purpose of killing is killing. Because of that, I have come to realise that the lemming men cannot be stopped, at least in any normal way. They have to be destroyed. Captain Smith, when my people are finished here, there will be nothing even remotely resembling the Yullian army left. My soldiers are going to tear the Divine Amicable Army to bits. The Yull will beg their war-god to let them forget the day they ever dared cross us. Biscuit?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Do you know a man named Major Wainscott?’
‘Er, possibly.’
‘He’s an expert in irregular warfare. About 5’9’, bearded, very wiry, mad as a bag of ferrets. Three months ago, Major Wainscott and his team were sent into the Andorian forest to demolish a certain bridge. They have not returned. Instead, the Major has taken to sending us weekly updates on his progress. To begin with, they were quite satisfactory, but of late the quality has... changed, if you would.’
Harrison activated the panmelodiatron. The curling horn swung round to face Smith. The voice that came out was distant, strangely detached, but undoubtedly Wainscott’s.
‘They talk about morality,’ it said. ‘The hypocrites sit in their comfortable offices, passing judgment as they pass the biscuits round. They tell me it’s alright to kill lemming men by the dozen... with guns, bombs, knives, shoelaces... especially shoelaces... but try to walk down the street with your old chap au naturelle and what do you get then? The funny farm, that’s what!’
Smith looked at W. The spy took a large swig of tea.
‘Last Thursday we hid out in a village called Krakora,’ Wainscott said. ‘We rigged a roadblock. The Yull came down in wagons, looking to kill the villagers. We hit them from the sides, grenades and lasers. Most of them died before they got out of their lorries. This one lemming soldier saw me – he looked into my eyes, and – hey, I’m not wearing any trousers! Well I never! Hey, Susan, get an eyeful of this –’
General Young reached out and flicked a switch. The recorder fell silent. ‘That was one of his more stable messages,’ she said. ‘Can we skip on a bit?’
The recorder jumped forward.
‘My unit has been infiltrated by an individual known only as the egg-man. This whole mission was a white elephant from the start... or a white rabbit... or a pink elephant, on parade. My God... they set the controls for the heart of the sun, they sent us two thousand light years from home, dropped out of orbit eight miles high... like a squid, fast and bulbous! They’re coming to take me away!’
Harrison lifted the laser needle. The silence was broken only by the chink of cups and saucers.
‘You see, Smith,’ the general said, ‘there’s a conflict in every human heart, between the rational and the irrational. And sometimes, it is not good that triumphs, but stark bollock lunacy. The British Army cannot allow a madman to operate on its fringes, especially when there’s valuable work he could be doing back here.’
Captain Harrison spoke. ‘Your mission is to proceed up-continent and compel Major Wainscott to return to base.’
General Young said, ‘He’s out there, operating without any control, any decent restraint, any kind of undergarments. Bring him back, Smith.’
Smith sipped his tea. ‘Is there anything I can offer him? Some kind of incentive?’
Colonel Butt pushed a file across the table. ‘This may help. It contains data on Wainscott. Next week it’s his birthday. You could tell him that we’re throwing a party.’
Colonel Frobisher added, ‘If he comes back in time, we could all celebrate.’
There was another pause.
W took a long drag on his cigarette. He turned to look at Smith. ‘Celebrate,’ he said, ‘with extreme prejudice.’
* * *
W ushered Smith outside, teacup still in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He squinted into the sunshine, a hard, gawky man in tweed, like a scarecrow made out of schoolteacher’s clothes. ‘Good to see you,’ he said after a while.
‘You too,’ Smith replied.
W sipped his tea. ‘Wainscott’s got something big,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the details yet, but it’s more than just blowing up some bridge, I’ll wager.’
‘I see.’
‘Your ship floats, doesn’t it?’ W put down his bag.
‘Provided we open the right airlocks, yes.’
‘Good. They want to stick you on some boat, but you’re better in the ship. Head upriver, find Wainscott and bring him back. I can lend you some kit. The service gave me a tranquiliser rifle, and I’ve got a ravnaphant gun.’
‘I didn’t know you hunted ravnaphants.’
‘Only once. And it was a long time ago. Long story,’ he said, as he lit a cigarette. ‘Here,’ he added, and he took a packet of pills from his jacket. ‘If all else fails, slip some of these into Wainscott’s dinner and stick him on the ship while he’s out of action.’
Smith took the box and turned it over in his hand. ‘These are contraceptives, sir.’
‘Of course. First, they’ll give him a headache, and then he’ll roll over and go to sleep. While he’s out, shanghai the bleeder and bring him back.’
‘Righto.’
‘Keep on the water until you find Wainscott. You’ll go in under the forest canopy. Once you’ve got him, fly on to Mothkarak Castle. The general’s heading there soon to get closer to the front.’ He raised a knobbly hand and pointed. ‘Is that your pilot over there?’
Smith looked and saw Carveth and, in front of her, the crimson-faced sergeant-major he’d glimpsed earlier.
‘Uh-oh,’ he said, and he strode down to meet them.
‘You’ll follow orders, missy,’ the sergeant-major declared. He had a deep, rich voice that had been made for light opera. ‘You, my girl, are in the army now. No more of this spacefleet nonsense for you – you’ve downloaded the king’s shilling.’ His eyes took on a crazy glint. ‘Which means you’ll be working with me – all of you – forever.’
Carveth glanced back, saw Smith and cried, ‘Boss, help! They’re trying to make me do PE!’
Smith approached, aware that W was following. That was embarrassing.
‘I’ve followed you halfway across the galaxy,’ Carveth said. ‘I’ve fought the most vicious, crazy monsters in the universe, and now you want to turn me into a… jogger? No! There are some things I will not do!’ She turned away and strode off up the hill as fast as her small legs would carry her. Ten yards off, she stopped and turned, possibly to catch her breath.
‘I don’t care how many lemming men I have to fight. I’ll fight every single one of them. But no running – no more running!’
A few yards away, a camera drone turned its focus from Carveth to the sombre man in the dark suit. Lionel Markham stared back into the camera, and spoke to the nation.
‘Top brass may not want to give anything away, but that’s the news from the troops on the ground – no more running! The Yull may be coming for the 112th Army, but it’s fighting spirit like that they’ll have to face. I’m Lionel Markham and it’s on that note we end this edition of We Ask the Questions, as one young woman puts the challenge to the entire lemming empire. No more running. Thank you, and goodnight.’
* * *
‘Yullian warrior!’ the radio barked. ‘Why do you disgrace yourself with two bottles in the shower? Use new Head & Pelt, for body, shine and martial glory!’
It was true, General Wikwot reflected: his fur certainly did have new levels of volume. Of course, he had ended up using two bottles, but that was because he had a very large surface area. And there had been a lot of blood to wash off.
Since he had strolled back into camp, an axe in either hand, he had killed forty-two challengers. Given that he had allowed himself to be captured alive, some of the Yull had been reluctant to take him back as general, but most of them changed their minds once the disembowelling began.
He finished brushing his pelt and flicked a seed off his shoulder. The human prison had not been brutal – itself a clear indication of the puniness of mankind – but it had lacked proper grooming facilities. He wanted to look his best when they dragged the offworlder general to him in chains and he ripped out her heart.
Wikwot had set up his headquarters in what had once been a set of holiday chalets: partially for logistical reasons, but mainly for the liquor cabinets. Although he had been able to make some booze of his own whilst in prison, dandelion wine tasted much better when it had not passed through a radiator.
One of the sentries poked his snout into the room. ‘Dar huphep!’
Wikwot waved a hand. ‘Huphep, serf. What is it?’
‘Noble General, the Master of Assassins is here to speak to you. He… asked me to deliver this knife as a token of his… good wishes.’
‘Which knife?’
Like a tree cut for lumber, the sentry fell onto his front. ‘This – knife –’ he gasped, and Wikwot saw it protruding from the sentry’s back.
‘Huh?’ he muttered, and someone coughed behind him.
Wikwot spun, reaching for the axe in his belt. A lemming man stepped out from behind the curtains.
The newcomer saluted. ‘Xiploc Cots,’ he said. ‘Master of Assassins and acting colonel of the secret police. Sorry about your serf, but one has to keep one’s hand in.’
Wikwot shrugged. ‘I have others. So, Colonel… have you come to judge me?’
Cots shook his head. His fur was black. The torture implements on his belt, a source of pride for any Yullian officer, were darkened with soot. ‘Not at all. I am here to congratulate you. Your escape from Ravnavar was remarkable.’
‘I used the ancient way of our people: burrowing.’ Wikwot gestured to the cabinet. ‘Dandelion wine?’
‘Thank you, but no. My pouches are still full from lunch. I am here to discuss special operations against the offworlder pig-monkeys and their minions. I bring with me twelve experts from the Dark Lantern Co-Operative, skilled in espionage and assassination.’ He gestured at the doorway: figures waited outside. The air seemed to blur around them, as if from the heat. ‘Welcome back, General,’ Cots said. ‘I have been sent here to pass on your new orders.’
Wikwot poured himself a large shot of whisky. ‘Yes?’
Cots drew himself up and coughed into his paw. ‘The High Command of the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective greets General Wikwot joyfully and is delighted to pass on instructions for the furtherance of our amiable plan to bring the entire galaxy under our wise and kindly guidance. You are warmly encouraged to butcher everything. Men, women, children, pets. All un-rodents must die, and die slow. Attack the offworlders with frenzied vigour. Overrun their positions, tear their flesh and devour their hearts to make yourself strong. All settlements are to be levelled. All captives are to be tortured to death. Any soldier showing pity, mercy or lack of enthusiasm in our holy task is to be force-fed his own spleen.’
Wikwot nodded. ‘Is that all?’
The assassin glanced over his shoulder. ‘There is something else.’
‘Well?’
‘Our enemies are not a single force. Lacking our manpower and lemming spirit, they pay the slave races to fight with them. I refer to the M’Lak, the Sey and other ludicrous talking animals.’
Ah, thought Wikwot, this is the meat of it.
Cots said, ‘We are close to locating the Relics of Grimdall, General. The Dark Lantern Co-Operative is at your service.’
‘Excellent. I will let you know when your skills are required.’
Cots moved towards the door, paused and sniffed. ‘Just one more thing, General.’
Wikwot lowered his glass. ‘Yes?’
‘Is that Head and Pelt?’
‘Of course.’
Cots nodded. ‘I thought I recognised the glossiness. I dye my fur black for assassination work. The roots keep coming back, though.’
* * *
In the end, W pulled some strings, and Carveth escaped from P.E. They were not technically army personnel, he explained, and so out of the direct chain of command. Sergeant-Major Williams turned maroon and looked as if he was about to boil. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said darkly. ‘I’ll let the appropriate people know.’
W stared out at the John Pym. ‘Watch yourself, Smith,’ he said. ‘Watch your crew, your ship, the forest, Wainscott, the lemming men – watch out for bloody everything. And remember, the chaps out here – human, Morlock, whatever – are the only thing between the lemming men and a bloodbath. Best of luck, eh?’
‘Thanks,’ Smith replied, and reflected that sometimes the spy carried the principle of being up-front with his men a bit too far.
‘Oh,’ W added, pulling a tin from his backpack, ‘take this. It’s Wainscott’s birthday cake. If all else fails, you could lure him back with it.’