It was a photograph of a young woman, taken in holo-type. She was in her early thirties, pretty, slim, with a vague, pleasant smile. She wore a short top that exposed her tanned midriff, and a cloth band across her forehead to pull her dreadlocks back. She was up to her waist in tea plants. As Isambard Smith rocked the picture back and forth in his hands, the girl waved: she was making the sign for a victory, or for peace.
The picture made Smith tired, then angry. No point keeping the bloody thing. He tried to rip it: the photo did not tear but stretched, and the plastic at the top of the picture warped and whitened above Rhianna Mitchell’s head.
‘Bollocks,’ Smith said. He’d been trying to forget the girl; now he’d given her a halo. He tossed the picture onto the desk, turned it face down and Rhianna disappeared. I wonder where she is now? he thought. Probably with some bloody man, some smart fellow, doing something more important and exciting than she’d ever do with me.
‘Well, better get on with this commando raid,’ he said, getting up.
He picked up the .48 Markham and Briggs Civiliser and holstered it. He checked his sword and put on his coat.
Then he took his rifle from behind the door and left the room, bumping his head on a model Hampden bomber hanging from the ceiling as he stepped into the corridor.
Polly Carveth was in the cockpit, leafing through a copy of Custom Model, the fashion magazine for androids.
‘Alright there?’ she said as he entered, not looking up. She leaned over and consulted a brass-edged dial fixed to the dashboard by screws and tape. ‘We’ll be in drop range in. . . oh, two minutes.’
‘Good work, Carveth. Keep us steady.’
She looked around. The light from the consoles tinted her face a sickly green. ‘Still going with the others?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know, when I want to forget my troubles, I just go shopping.’
‘I told Wainscott I would, Carveth.’
‘Well, don’t cock up. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, boss: you’ve always been. . . well, not bad.’
‘Thanks, Carveth. I appreciate that.’
‘Not a prob. I’ll see you off once we’re in position.’ She turned to the controls again: a counter, which for all Smith knew might have been removed from a fruit machine, had begun to spin. He left her to it.
The Deepspace Operations Group waited in the hold.
There were five of them, armed with grenades, pistols, knives and Stanford machine-guns. Major Wainscott, the commander of the group, was demonstrating something to Susan, the team’s beam gun operator.
‘So I snapped it in two and rammed one end up his nose, straight into the brainpan,’ Wainscott said, making a vicious thrusting gesture. ‘Killed him stone dead.’
Susan nodded. ‘And the rest of the Kit-kat?’
‘I ate that for elevenses. Ah, Smith. Still going down with me, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good man.’ Wainscott was scruffy, slight, clever and quick, and probably the bravest and most dangerous man that Smith had ever met. He was also, according to rumour, a former resident of the Sunnyvale Home for the Psychologically Uneven. ‘Now, men: here’s the state of play. The filthy lemmings have fifty Kaldathrian beetle-people down there, and they’ve promised to start pulling their legs off the moment they detect any ships in orbit –hence we’re using assault pods to slip through the radar. We need to rescue these fellows before our main force goes in and plasters the fluffy bastards from on high.
‘The captives are spread between three forts, each with its own codename. We will be dealing with the first fort, codenamed Theodore. Two commando teams from the Indastan army will be taking the other two forts, Simon and Alvin. The Kaldathrians are too big to get on board, so we’ve got a medical shuttle set to follow us down once it’s safe. What’s the word from Polly Pilot, Smith?’
‘We’re lined straight up with the drop zone,’ Smith said.
‘From the looks of it we’ll land in the courtyard of this fort of theirs. The lemmings haven’t detected us, but as soon as they know we’re there, I gather they can be relied upon to go absolutely bananas.’
‘Exactly,’ said Wainscott. ‘So, priority one is to find our people and secure the area so the medic ship can put down and get them away. Priority two is to smash the place up. Wreck it.’ Wainscott grinned. ‘Plus, there’s a bonus. General Wikwot himself is believed to be in one of the forts, probably on a visit to do over the prisoners in person. If he’s down there, we Shanghai the fat sod and drag him back for trial. Understood?’
There were nods of assent from the Deepspace Operations Group.
‘Everything you’ve heard about the lemming men is true. These are the cruellest and most depraved creatures in the galaxy. You are to expect demented resistance. Now, I know the Kaldathrians may not be British citizens, or even human, but its time the Yull learned that nobody messes with the beetle people. They belong to us!’ He nodded towards the row of long sealed boxes at the far end of the hold. Each was the size of a telephone booth, held in a cradle ready for launch. ‘Ever use an assault pod before, Smith?’
‘No,’ said Smith.
‘How about a khazi?’
‘Many times.’
‘Very similar principle,’ Wainscott explained, ‘except this time it’s the ship that drops its load, not you.’ His laugh was hard and barking; arguably indicative of the man as a whole.
From the doorway Carveth said, ‘We’re in stable orbit, ready to go. So just sit tight and wait for the movement to stop.’
‘Good. Now, where’s that alien chap of yours?’
Suruk the Slayer dropped from the rafters, landing with a soft thump between them, like a kitten.
The resemblance stopped there. He stood up, and his mandibles opened to reveal a large, hungry grin. He wore his armoured vest, and there were knives strapped to his belt, arms and boots. Suruk wore a couple of his favourite skulls and the sacred spear of his ancestors was strapped across his back. ‘Greetings, friends,’ he said. ‘Not long now until our blades run red with lemming blood. We shall accost them on their doorstep like the carol singers of doom!’
They climbed into the pods. Inside Smith’s cubicle it was small and smelt of plastic. There were a few controls: a dispenser to his right would print out copies of the mission objective and landing zone; at his shoulder, a chain controlled the emergency door release.
Carveth looked into the pod. ‘I’ll be waiting up here. Good luck,’ she said. She slammed the door and Smith was suddenly alone. He leaned back against the padded seat and strapped himself in.
He felt grimly nervous, like a man with bladder trouble at the start of a rollercoaster ride. The pod shook and fell onto its side, ready to be shot out of the back of the ship – or else Carveth had pushed him over for a laugh. If she has, he thought, there’ll be hell to – and then suddenly the hold sprang open and the assault pods flew out like pips from a squashed fruit.
He was in space, hurtling towards the landing zone.
Bloody hell, he thought, what am I doing? The Empire’s work, he assured himself. Bashing the Furries. He flicked on the radio, hoping to pick up the others, or at least the Light Programme.
‘. . . have to break contact until we hit the ground,’ Wainscott was saying. ‘Remember: if you can’t get back, make sure they don’t take you alive. Use your pills. Or better still, a grenade. Hello Smith. Raring to go, are we?’
‘Something like that,’ said Smith. ‘Has anyone heard from Suruk?’
‘I am here, friends,’ Suruk growled over the intercom. ‘I was indulging in a brief slumber prior to slaughtering our foes. Are we nearly there yet?’
‘’Absolutely!’ Wainscott said. ‘Now, listen: we’ll cut radio once we hit the upper atmosphere. As soon as we hit ground the comms’ll come back on. Everyone work towards each other and regroup. And keep an eye out for those captives as you do. They’re about the size of a horse, so they shouldn’t be too hard to find. Remember: if you see anything with whiskers and a twitchy nose, kill it. Got me?’
The Deepspace Operations Group understood.
‘Loud and clear,’ said Smith.
‘Best of luck,’ Wainscott said, and the radio went dead.
Smith sat in the rocking, rattling pod, the window too high to look out of. A counter under the door lock began to roll, clicking down. Not long, he thought. The pod lurched and white fire licked at the window.
He closed his eyes and leaned back. It’s just a khazi, he told himself. Just a khazi in a hurricane. And besides, who else is here to do this, if not me?
It was no time to be afraid. The lemming-men didn’t know fear: for them, the only sin was self-preservation.
The Yull were not afraid of coward humans.
‘I’ll show them cowards,’ Smith said. Something at the side of the pod went clunk – decoys being launched, hopefully, and not the steering vanes falling off – and it shook more than before. Smith checked his rifle again. He felt a little sick.
The counter was whizzing now, too fast for the eye to take in. Smith thought about Rhianna, a billion miles away, working with the secret service’s psychic department and gone for good from him. Then about the DKR Clauswitz, the vast UE troop carrier that the Yull had rammed to announce their entry into the war. And then the city of Neustadt: overrun and burned to the ground in the same night. The lemming men had rushed headlong from their forest homeworld deep into human space. They called it the Divine Migration: to everyone else, it was merciless war.
‘Final descent commenced,’ said the pod.
The Marshall of the fort was strutting across the courtyard, axe swinging at his side, when the Ghast advisory officer strode over to meet him.
‘ Hup-hup,’ said the Ghast, out of courtesy.
‘ Ak nak!’ the Marshall replied. They switched to English, each finding the other’s language difficult to pronounce.
‘I hear that you wish to bring the prisoners into the courtyard,’ the Ghast said, rubbing its antennae together.
‘Yes!’ the Marshall puffed out his chest. ‘The General wishes to test his axe. Perhaps he will sacrifice some of the beetle people. Most amusing!’
The Ghast scowled. The left side of its jaw had been badly burned during the street fighting on New Luton.
Behind the scars, its malevolent eyes studied the Yullian Marshall with contempt. ‘Your petty sadism is inefficient. Drawing attention to this base with a massacre will result in our secrecy being compromised, and that will not be tolerated. Were the humans to attack—’
‘Humans, attack? Ant-soldier, you speak rubbish! They would be stupid enough to want to rescue the captives, but they would not dare try. Offworlders are too cowardly to protect their own, let alone these dung-rolling Kaldathrians. Hahaha! We noble Yull will slaughter all stupid talking insects – er, present company excluded, of course.’
‘Foolish. Do not say that you were not warned.’ The Ghast pulled its coat tight around its body, stamped and turned on its heel, rear end bobbing behind it in time with its steps.
Even they are cowards, the Marshall thought. When Earth is enslaved and the M’Lak dead, we shall turn on the Ghast Empire. They may be mighty, but none can stop the Yu—
An armoured telephone box dropped out of the sky onto his head, bursting him like a water-bomb. The box fell open and Wainscott sprang from it like a showgirl popping out of a novelty cake, a machine gun blazing in either hand.
‘I am a khazi in a hurricane,’ Smith told himself, and the bottom of the pod smacked into something, rocked, stopped, shot straight down ten feet and stopped again.
He sighed. Well, that hadn’t been too bad. He’d had worse journeys on British Monorail. The window exploded and a spear shot through like a bolt of light.
Smith threw himself down as it slammed into the head-rest. He yanked the chain and the wall in front of him flew off and hurled the lemming man behind it into a pile of crates. It squeaked feebly and died.
Smith looked around him. He had landed in a bunkroom, crudely hacked out of the rock. Sunflower seeds lay in a pile on the floor; pictures of what looked like dormice in suggestive poses were pinned up beside the bunks. The drop-pod stood in a shaft of light where it had crashed through the roof, as if sent down from heaven.
Shadow flicked over the light and a figure dropped onto him. Six feet of rodent hit him in the chest with a ragged screech and Smith staggered back, sprang forward and shouldered the Yull as it fumbled for its axe. Its slim, hard paws swiped at his face – he dodged and the two of them were scrabbling at one another in the dim room, knocking each other’s blows aside.
The Yull stank of sawdust and pee. ‘Filthy offworlder!’ it snarled, which struck Smith as pretty rich. ‘Now you die!’ It tried to gouge his eyes, he twisted aside and claws raked his cheek. Smith knew Fighto: he dropped his weight and knocked its legs aside, and as it lost balance he grabbed it round the neck and drove it head-first into the wall. It fell and he brained it with his riflebutt.
Now what? He paused, listened, and checked the console strapped to his wrist. No signal. ‘Damn,’ he said, and he started down the tunnel.
He reached the end of the passage and peered around the corner: crude striplights turned the corridor into a patchwork of shadow and stark light. There was a doorway up ahead, and in it a Yullian officer holding a club stood with its back to him.
‘All into the courtyard!’ he barked, addressing someone in the room behind. ‘Move, scum!’
The sword made almost no sound as Smith drew it. He ran and thrusted, the needle-thin tip slipped through the officer’s back. Smith twisted the blade and pulled it free, and the lemmingoid gargled and dropped into a heap of dead fur, like a stack of pelts.
He stepped into the room. Like jewels in dirt, dozens of huge eyes stared back at him. A beetle-person lurched out of the dark; its six legs wobbling, its carapace scorched and grimy. Slowly, as if remembering something from long ago, it looked down at Smith, raised a limb and saluted.
Smith saluted back. ‘Hello,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘Isambard Smith, pleased to meet you. I’m here to get you people out of here.’
‘The army?’ a voice buzzed from the floor. ‘The army’s come!’
‘Well, not the whole army,’ said Smith. ‘There’s only seven of us. But don’t worry, it’s enough. Now, can you all walk?’
‘Some cannot,’ said a third Kaldathrian, clambering upright. ‘Those monsters beat us and stole our dung to stop us from rolling it – and they call us savages!’
‘Don’t worry, old chap, we’re fixing them. Are there any more guards?’
‘There is a room just down the corridor,’ the beetle who had saluted said. ‘It is where they lurk and plot.’
‘Stay here,’ said Smith. ‘Lock yourselves in. I’ll be back in a moment.’
He stepped back into the corridor and nearly walked into Suruk the Slayer. ‘Blimey! You scared me there, Suruk!’
The M’Lak carried his spear in one hand, and was pulling a laden trolley with the other, draped in a cloth.
‘What’s on the trolley?’ Smith said.
‘Heads,’ Suruk said, lifting the cloth. ‘My pod landed in their mess-room, an appropriately-named location.’
Smith outlined the situation and together they strode up the corridor. There was a large metal door ahead. Smith cocked his Civiliser and Suruk turned the handle and gently pushed the door.
They looked into a laboratory. Machinery lined the walls, both human computers and alien biotech. Ghast science officers fussed over ceiling-high stasis tanks, dictating into bio-transcribers. A pair of Yullian guards watched sullenly. There was a table in the middle of it all, and beside the table was a man dressed like a chauffeur: in boots, black jacket and a cap with false antennae protruding from the brim.
‘A Ghastist!’ Smith cried. ‘Gertie-loving traitor!’
He fired and the Ghastist fell across the table. The Yull moved: Smith blasted one and Suruk’s spear flew into the other’s chest. One of the Ghast scientists reached into its lab-coat for a pistol and Suruk hurled a machete, hitting it right between the eyes. Smith shot the second Ghast.
Suruk grabbed the third and threw it through the glass of the nearest tank, then dragged it out and repeated the process to make sure.
‘Good lord,’ Smith said, looking around. ‘They must have been researching something really important here –no wonder HQ didn’t want us to bomb it.’
‘Top secret, it seems,’ Suruk said, readying his spear.
‘Now the smashing begins!’
Something moved behind them and Smith turned, gun ready, to recognise one of Wainscott’s men. ‘Craig?’
Craig was slim and pale, the Deepspace Operations Group’s disguise expert. At the moment he looked like himself. ‘Careful, Captain! You could have my eye out with that.’
‘Sorry,’ said Smith. ‘I’ve found the prisoners; they’re down the corridor. They’re pretty roughed-up. How’s things up top?’
‘Busy. Listen: we need to be away in five minutes. I’ll get the beetles out; you give us a hand clearing the courtyard topside.’
‘Righto,’ Smith nodded, and Craig jogged out of the room. ‘Just coming.’
Smith would never know what made him reach over the dead Ghastist and pick up the man’s leverarch file.
Perhaps it was providence, or destiny, or just that the file had shiny metal bits on the front. But he had only flicked through a couple of pages before he knew that he was dealing with something very serious indeed. ‘Good God,’ he whispered.
‘What have you found, Mazuran?’ Suruk demanded.
‘I’m not sure. . . it’s in Ghastish. Let’s see. . . Hak natsak – that means surgery of the reproductive organs – smak Vorlak – attacking the Vorl?’ He looked up. ‘Suruk, this is vital information. We have to get it to W at once.
This lever-arch file could contain the destiny of the universe!’
Suruk looked doubtful. ‘A small, flat destiny, it seems.’
Major Wainscott ran through the warren with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, killing all before him.
He booted a door open, saw a Ghast advisor getting up and shot it as it drew its pistol. A Yullian soldier leaped out of nowhere: Wainscott dodged its axe, sprang in and sank his knife into the rodent’s throat.
The lemmings were fighting to the death. Good, he thought: he’d never liked them anyway.
He searched the room but there was nothing to destroy or kill. Wainscott sighed, somewhat disappointed, and stepped back into the corridor to come face-to-face with the biggest rodent he had ever seen.
It was a mound of solid fat on solid muscle that blocked off the passage as if poured into it. There were black circles around the eyes; the brute’s left pupil was dead and white. The beast shook its chops.
‘General Wikwot,’ Wainscott said.
The general snarled. He raised his huge paws; steel hooks were strapped to his fists. His voice was coarse and hard. ‘Well, well, the offworlder bigwig. But are you big enough to fight me, eh?’ Wikwot took a step closer, teeth bared. ‘This warren is mine!’
Smith emerged into smoke and dazzling light. The courtyard was empty and burning: black fumes billowed from a row of Yullian ramships standing against the far wall.
The guards, at least forty of them, lay across the yard as if scattered by a sower’s hand. The air was full of fluff.
Susan and Nelson had set up the beam gun behind a pile of sacks. Smith strode forward to meet them, Suruk by his side, pushing the trolley – and a figure jumped out from the battlements. Smith whirled, raising his pistol, but the Yull had already fallen into two pieces, neatly bisected. Susan lowered the beam gun.
Something moved on one of the ramships. An explosion had cracked its wing, and its pilot ran down the length of the fuselage, straddled the nose and began to unscrew the nosecone.
No one seemed to have noticed. Puzzled, Smith watched the pilot as it took a small mallet from its jacket.
‘Bloody hell!’ cried Smith as he flicked up his pistol.
The gun kicked in Smith’s hands and the Yull shrieked, stiffened and slid off the nose. The courtyard was suddenly quiet.
A side door burst open and a crowd of beetle-people scuttled out. Wainscott struggled into the courtyard after them, dragging what looked like a pile of fur coats behind him. His knuckles were bloody and split. ‘Good work, Smith!’ he said, dropping his burden on the ground.
‘Here’s the General – and a fat bugger he is too. Rather a successful trip so far, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, very good. Looks like we cleaned out the whole fort.’
A grappling hook sailed over the wall. Smith raised his rifle, looked down the sights and waited for the furry head to appear – and thirty more hooks followed it. ‘Oh hell,’ Smith said. ‘They’re climbing the wall!’
A howl of mingled rage and glee rose up from a thousand voices outside the fort. ‘Bugger,’ Wainscott said.
‘Everyone take places and prepare to hold!’
The first Yull appeared in Smith’s sights. He fired: it squeaked and fell out of view. Beside it two more lemming men popped up, and then the Yull were swarming over the wall, clambering onto the battlements. Smith glanced left, then right, then behind, and saw furry bodies scrambling over the wall on all sides.
Guns rattled and cracked from the courtyard. The Yull leaped at them from the battlements, unable to resist the urge to jump. ‘That’s a lot of lemmings!’ Wainscott called over the stuttering roar of his gun.
Smith shouted into the radio. ‘Carveth! Where the devil are you, woman?’
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ her voice crackled back. ‘You know what a bugger this ship is to park.’
Smith had a sudden uncharitable mental image of her, boots up on the console, leafing through Custom Model, reading ‘My boyfriend ran off with my RAM upgrade’.
Howling war cries and waving axes the Yull poured in from all sides. Smith aimed his pistol and put one down at twenty yards; the next got five yards closer before he dropped it, the third reached ten. . .
‘Soon they will be upon us!’ Suruk declared, twirling his spear.
‘Smith,’ Wainscott called, ‘where’s our transport gone?’
‘Up there!’ Smith said, pointing, and in a rush of engines the John Pym dropped down as if from the sun itself, the hold door open. Behind it, a medical ship, specially armed.
Lemming men rained down around them from the walls. Suruk killed two with his spear.
The Pym landed, legs creaking under its weight, and Carveth ran down the ramp.
‘Did you find them?’ she shouted over the engines.
‘Yes,’ Smith shouted back. The beetle people were climbing into the medical ship, supporting one another.
He saw that several were missing legs and fury rushed through him like an electric charge. ‘Bastards,’ he snarled, and he raised the rifle to shoot another lemming dead.
Wainscott’s men were pulling back to the ships, closing in as they neared the ramp. The Yull fell like a breaking wave, covering the courtyard in fur. But they kept coming.
Carveth yanked Smith’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get the sodding hell out of here!’
‘Are you deranged?’ Suruk demanded as he bounded up the ramp, pulling his trolley behind him. ‘They have hardly reached us yet!’
Three minutes later, the Empire sent in a formation of Hornet light bombers and blew Fortress Theodore to bits.
An hour and a half after that the John Pym reached the Fifteenth Fleet, slipped between the great dreadnoughts and docked with the transport ship Edward Stobart. It took half an hour before they were cleared to open the hatches, allegedly owing to bioweapon quarantine procedures but really, Smith suspected, because the dockers had lost the paperwork.
Smith leaned back in the captain’s chair, sipping his tea as he watched the warships drifting round the Pym like sleeping whales. He had hoped to see some Hellfires dart between them, but only a post shuttle trundled from one craft to another. After a while the boarding light turned green and at the airlock they said goodbye to the Deepspace Operations Group.
‘That was damned good work,’ Wainscott said, leaning back against the wall. Behind him Susan and Craig carried the unconscious General Wikwot, who looked like a bear in a breastplate. ‘Easy in, easy out. Well done, Smith.’
Wainscott leaned in and ruffled Carveth’s hair. ‘You too, pilot girlie.’ He glanced at Suruk, clearly considering whether it was wise to ruffle his mane. ‘And you,’ Wainscott added, deciding against it.
‘All in a day’s work,’ Carveth said, hooking her thumbs over her belt. Glory did not often come her way. She pulled what she imagined was the sort of face tough, competent pilots had. ‘Whatever the mission, you know we’re big enough to take it on.’
‘Which is exactly why I’ll be using you next time,’ Wainscott said, and the smile faded somewhat from Carveth’s face.
‘Next time?’ she squeaked, and Wainscott turned to Smith, oblivious.
‘Cheerio, Smith.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking, but where’s that floaty bird who used to be with you? Funny sort, smelt of herbal tea?’
‘Rhianna,’ Smith said. ‘She – well, she doesn’t work for us anymore. I – well, I suppose she had trouble being sufficiently committed.’
‘I’ve had trouble with commitment myself,’ Wainscott said, and his eyes widened. ‘I’m not going back in there. You can’t make me!’
Susan tapped him on the arm. ‘That’s committal. It’s alright, Boss.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Wainscott shrugged. ‘Well, bad luck about that. Still, she never seemed quite right, you know? Anyway, can’t stand here making jaw forever. Come along Susan, we’ve got a war to win.’
‘Us too,’ Smith said, and he turned the wheel and the airlock swung open with a sharp, rusty creak. Wainscott gave them a little wave and wandered out into the trans-port ship, his men chaperoning him like students around an elderly don.
‘Tea?’ enquired Smith.
They took tea in the living room, together with some scones they had picked up on Proxima Secundis. The radio played light music. Smith poured cups for Suruk and Carveth, then sat down.
‘Well done, men,’ he said. ‘We got everyone back intact, bagged loads of furries and got all those poor beetle people into good medical care. Excellent.’
‘With Rhianna and most of our drugs mysteriously gone, I ought to brush up on my first aid,’ Carveth said, taking a deep draught of tea. ‘I’ve not been in a medical facility since we refuelled at the Free States.’
Suruk snorted. ‘It said MASH on the roof and you thought it was a pie shop.’
‘Well, you don’t even have an anatomy. The day I entrust my health to someone with a face like a lobster bonking a pasty is the day—’
The Elgar on the radio suddenly broke off and was replaced by a military band playing ‘Lilliburlero’. Then a crisp voice declared: ‘We interrupt this programme to deliver an important message. News has reached us of victory on the world of Varanor! For the first time, Imperial troops have completely defeated the Yull!’
‘Excellent!’ Smith cried. ‘Turn it up!’
‘Yesterday afternoon the enemy attempted a full-scale assault, seeking to encircle and destroy the 112th Imperial Army. They were met with heroic resistance from human and Morlock forces fighting under the British flag, and their advance has been completely shattered in what is fast becoming known as the Battle of the Tam Valley.
Thousands of disgraced lemming men have flung themselves into the river. General Florence Young and Asrath the Vengeful, Commander of Colonial Beings, have pledged to take back Varanor and teach a stern lesson to the Yull. Forward the Empire!’
‘Good Lord!’ said Smith. ‘We’ve thrashed them!’
Suruk chuckled, which was always a bad sign for somebody.
‘Great!’ said Carveth. ‘How’s about I break out the Malibu? It’s naval Malibu,’ she added, pre-empting a disapproving look from Smith.
‘We’ll have a gin and tonic once we’ve engaged the autopilot,’ Smith said. ‘In the meantime, scones all round.’
Carveth took an extra scone, breaking off a piece for Gerald the hamster. She jogged up to the cockpit, and Smith leaned back in his seat and sighed.
So, the Yull were not as tough as they’d thought. The Empire had met them head on and bloodied their twitchy noses. This was victory, and perhaps the beginning of the end for the Galactic Happiness Collective. He felt proud of his Empire. If only Rhianna was here.
Stupid woman. Why couldn’t they stay together?
Why was the galaxy too much of a distance to keep their relationship going? They had been right together, had made each other happy. It had been a good week, and then she’d gone and spoilt it all by dumping him on Sunday afternoon. Should have got myself an Imperial girl, he thought glumly. Someone called Harriet with big thighs and a Labrador. It was too bad that Rhianna had opened his mind to more exotic things, with her herbal biscuits and her ‘Belly dance to fitness’ tape. That was too pleasant a memory to be entirely bitter.
On the far side of the table, Suruk scratched a mark into the handle of his spear. Smith felt a sudden twinge of envy. Suruk had no sex drive, felt no affection beyond comradeship, no need to feel the pain that seemed the inevitable result of falling for a girl. Against his better judgement, and the better judgement of the Empire, he wondered if the M’Lak might have got the whole evolution thing down pat.
‘Ah, sharp implements,’ Suruk said. ‘Brilliant, eh?’
Perhaps not, Smith decided.
The doorbell jangled and Smith strode to the airlock with his mug in hand. A man in blue and red stood on the threshold, a cap on his head and a satchel over one shoulder.
‘Captain I.D.W. Smith, Miss P.R. Carveth, Mr S.T.
Slayer?’ he said. ‘Post for you.’ He passed Smith a wad of envelopes and departed.
Smith closed the airlock and called Carveth down. ‘Postman’s just come,’ he said. ‘This one’s for you. And this is for you, Suruk,’ said Smith, handing the alien a letter, ‘and these are for me.’ He pressed his thumb onto the security seal and the postmark turned from red to green. Smith tore it open and read the note inside. By the time he had reached the bottom, the top had started to disintegrate.
‘Carveth,’ he declared, dropping the letter into the galley sink, ‘we’re having some time off. Set a course for Paragon on Albion Prime. We’re to meet W down there and have a couple of days leave. Normally, I’d be reluctant to take leave while there’s aliens to fight, but we’ve done well.’
Smith left Suruk in the living room and joined Carveth in the cockpit. He dropped into the captain’s chair just in time to see her disconnect the Pym from the Edward Stobart. The grey flank of the Stobart seemed to slide off the left side of the windscreen as they pulled away. Swift and unarmed, the John Pym split from the fleet, Carveth humming the Blue Danube as they flew.
Once the course was locked into the helm, Carveth looked round. ‘So, what’s in your other package, then?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s an Airfix catalogue.’ Smith pulled out a dog-eared magazine and a video. ‘What’s this? There’s a note. . . it’s from my friend Carstairs, back home:
Dear Smith, sorry to hear about your funny bird buggering off. This should keep your spirits up. Carstairs.
It must be an Airfix catalogue,’ he added, lifting up the magazine. ‘ Red Hot Fillies,’ he read. Puzzled, he opened it up – ‘Ruddy hell,’ he said.
Smith glanced at the video, but too late – Carveth snatched it and, smirking, held it up to the light. ‘ Emma and Verity’s Super Jolly Hardcore Pimms Party,’ she read. ‘Tut-tut, Boss!’
‘I didn’t ask for this stuff, you know,’ Smith said, aware that he was turning red at the edges of his moustache. ‘I don’t find this at all amusing, Carveth. What did you get, anyway?’
‘Oh a letter from the manufacturers, checking my warranty. And they’ve sent me a birthday card. Too bad the Leighton-Wakazashi translation department’s seems to be on holiday.’
The card showed a happy robot under a rainbow emblazoned with the Leighton-Wakazashi logo. In sparkly letters the card read: Birthday greetings synthetic friend – happy robotty love!
‘Nice of them to try,’ Carveth said. ‘The L-W offices are on one of New Albion’s outer moons; they must have sent it across from there. Only three months out of date, too.’
Suruk strolled into the room. ‘We are travelling to Albion Prime?’ he said.
‘Yep,’ Carveth said.
‘Good.’ He folded the spare seat down and crouched on it. ‘And is it a good place?’
‘God yeah,’ the android said. ‘It’s posh frock time down there. Party capital of Imperial Space. The English may take their pleasures sadly, but on Albion Prime they take them sadly and big. So, Suruk: I got a card, the captain got a fistful of smut – what did you get?’
‘News,’ Suruk said.
Smith peered through the dim light of the cockpit at his friend. The alien looked thoughtful rather than ferocious, less like a gargoyle than a crouching child. ‘Is something wrong, old chap?’
‘Indeed,’ Suruk said. ‘My father is slain.’
The airlock opened and a Ghast praetorian guard lumbered into the hall. Its antennae twitched as its tiny eyes surveyed the room.
‘462,’ it growled.
Thirty metres away, on the far side of the hall, was a tiny bench. Amidst the statues, speakers, screens, surveillance cameras and posters, holograms and busts of Number One, the bench looked like an afterthought.
A clock ticked. Somewhere outside, marching music played.
‘462!’ the praetorian roared.
The sole occupant of the bench lowered a copy of Legions of Annihilation Weekly, tossed it onto the table and stood up. Slowly, deliberately slowly, 462 pulled his trenchcoat tight around his meagre thorax and started across the room.
His limping steps rang across the polished marble floor.
As he drew close, his sole eye squinted at the praetorian.
‘ Commander 462,’ he said. ‘Your insolence is noted, Praetorian. Sleeve!’
The praetorian’s arm flicked out. Quick as a trap, 462 leaned forward and used the guard’s sleeve to polish the tiny camera that had replaced his right eye. ‘Sleeve done,’ he said, and the arm was whipped away. He lurched through the airlock and it closed behind him with a biotechnological squelch.
Two more praetorians stood guard inside. They led 462 down the corridor, opened a set of double doors and ushered him into the presence of the mighty Number Eight.
It had been a normal morning for Eight. He had risen at dawn, run twelve miles, composed a violin concerto and, while still weeping at the beauty of the music, strangled a pit-bull and fed it to his ant-hound, Assault Unit One. He then sent Number One a surveillance report on Number Two and Number Two a surveillance report on Number One.
Now, however, he was sitting behind a desk. As 462 entered he stood up, all six feet nine of him, and smiled as pleasantly as a Ghast could. He was a remarkably fine specimen, the stern perfection of his features marred only by a long scar on either cheek. For a prototype, he was quite impressive.
‘One moment,’ he said, nodding towards a seat.
462 sat down. On the vidscreen a minion was blathering excuses. ‘We will triple our efforts!’ the underling pleaded, ‘quadripple them!’
‘You had better,’ Eight said. ‘My superior, Number Two, is less. . . stable than I. I need two divisions hatched and subliminally indoctrinated by next Thursday.’ He flicked off the vidscreen and sat down. ‘So,’ he said, ‘462. Make yourself at home.’
There was a drinks machine in the corner. 462 leaned over and fixed himself a cup of pulped underling.
‘Now,’ said Eight. He opened a file on his desk and read from the top sheet. ‘ 462 is a ruthless, vicious sociopath, willing to sacrifice his minions in the name of efficiency and entirely unencumbered by conscience, sanity or remorse. Quite a reference.’
‘Thank you,’ said 462.
‘I take it 157 was reluctant to part company with you, then?’
‘Indeed. But then nobody enjoys being sent to the Morlock Front, especially by their own adjutant.’
‘No doubt. I’m interested in having you in my legion, 462. I appreciate that you had problems on Urn, but they were vitiated by your recruitment of the Yull. Even now our degenerate, disposable allies are doing excellent work in depleting Earth’s supply of ammunition.’ He paused.
‘You know a lot about humans, don’t you? Humans took your eye, didn’t they? And gave you that limp and the scars. Or perhaps I should say. . . one human in particular.’
462’s scarred lip rose into a snarl. ‘Isambard Smith. That Earthlander scum-pig dogs my every move! I can hardly annex anything without seeing his stupid moustache in front of me!’ He shook his fist, a gesture he had picked up from Number One. ‘He must be utterly destroyed!’
‘Quite. If you work for me, 462, I guarantee you’ll have the opportunity to dispose of him in whatever unpleasant manner you choose.’
‘Truly? What must I do, mighty Eight?’
‘What I have to tell you is classified. It may strike you as. . . unconventional. But I can assure you that it is in the interest of the Ghast Empire.’
462 nodded. Whatever was said, he would be taking it in carefully. If it was useful, it could further his career. If it was subversive, he could shop Eight to the authorities and it would still further his career. Sometimes the Ghast Empire was an excellent employer.
There was a large portrait of Number One behind Eight’s desk. The Great One was in mid rant, arms flailing as if about to topple off a cliff. Eight stood up and turned the picture to the wall, disconnecting a listening device fastened to the back. He sat down again. ‘I have important information on the human race,’ he said. He pressed a button beside the desk, and the vidscreen flicked back into life. A planet appeared on it, three quarters blue and a quarter green: a fat, weak, juicy world, plump with resources, tasty with citizens.
‘Earth,’ said Number Eight. He pointed with one of his pincers. ‘Do you recognise that landmass there?’
462’s antennae twitched. ‘Europe, seat of the Franco- German Alliance.’
‘And this set of islands?’
‘Britain. Isambard Smith was created there in some sort of slackly-run breeding programme.’
‘Correct.’ Eight reclined in his biochair, and it crawled back from the desk. ‘It is no surprise to me that you have found Isambard Smith such a difficult opponent. He is the culmination of two thousand years of military training and pig-headed arrogance. While we dismissed them as weaklings, the humans hid their greatest military secret under a veil of soggy mediocrity. But my superior mind has uncovered the truth – the island we dismissed as a rainy little pisshole is in fact an ancient offshore facility for the breeding and indoctrination of humanity’s shock troops!’
If he had wanted a reaction, he hardly got one. 462 nodded. ‘I am not surprised,’ he said. ‘We need more soldiers.’
‘No. We need better soldiers.’
‘Well, we could shoot some officers. That tends to encourage them. Until you run out of officers,’ 462 added, recalling a nasty incident where he had nearly encouraged his troops by ordering them to make an example of himself. He had promoted a minion to lieutenant just in time.
The worst of it was that it really had perked his soldiers up.
‘No!’ Eight slapped the desk, sending a little trophy rocking. ‘Not that! I am suggesting an overhaul of the praetorian DNA structure.’
‘But their DNA is perfect. They are custom-engineered for fighting humanity. There’s no more DNA we could splice. . . none except the Vorl.’
Eight’s mouth split open in a huge smirk. There could be no doubting his praetorian heritage; rows of teeth gleamed. ‘My science-drones have been carrying out preliminary survey work at a laboratory hidden deep in Yullian territory. The pathetic drivel that makes up Yullian myth includes a number of references to the Vorl – most usefully, their location. The laboratory was destroyed a few days ago, but there is enough information to go on and I have plenty more science-drones. All we need is a little more work and it will be done.’
‘How may I obey?’ 462 inquired.
Eight put his fingertips together, and then his pincertips. ‘You are the only ranking officer to encounter the Vorl and survive. I gather your last target – one Rhianna Mitchell – turned out to be less an all-conquering superhuman than an amateur folk-musician with a hemp fixation – but do not worry: this time, you will not be looking for an individual but an entire planet.’
‘You wish me to find the home world of the Vorl?’
‘Yes. All indications suggest the edge of Known Space, where our territory overlaps with that of the lemming men. Which is why you will travelling with the Yull.’
462 shuddered. ‘The Yull? Those savages? But, Glorious Eight, they are idiots! The Yull are worthy of a freak show,’ he added, crossing his legs around his stercorium. ‘I see no reason why a Ghast officer should have anything to do with a bunch of arrogant little animals who have learned how to talk!’ He ran a hand over his antennae. ‘Must I lower myself to working with creatures like that again?’
‘You brokered the deal with them.’
‘Only so we could break it, Mighty Eight. The Yull are imbeciles and barbarians. And they will make my spaceship smell.’
‘Your contact will be a Yull with a name to get back –one disgraced in recent combat with Earth. A Yullian officer would eat its own litter to gain status with its miserable kind.’
462 thought about it. He had no love for the lemming men: the Yull were wretched beings, continually jostling to improve their position in their worthless society. On the other hand, Eight might give him a promotion for this.
Eight said, ‘Once the enemy find out our plan, they will make every effort to beat us to the Vorl. They may even send Isambard Smith against you. He has already given you facial scars and a serious limp – who knows what he may do this time?’
462 shuddered.
‘Our species must be refined.’ Eight struck an orator’s pose, his vicious little eyes squinting into space. ‘Through genetic engineering we have become the galaxy’s most effective fighting force: by removing our ability to breed we have orchestrated ourselves entirely.’
462 nodded keenly. Eight seemed to be talking about music, which he regarded as human frippery, but it was important to look enthusiastic.
‘Each of us is fitted for his role,’ Eight continued, ‘much like an instrument in the concerto I was writing shortly before you arrived. The drones are our percussion, the praetorians our horns, we commanders the wind section. But now we must move in harmony, if you will, each of us a muscle in the body politic, each of us straining his utmost to further our species’ mighty movement!’ He paused. ‘We are the instruments of destiny, you see: I am the conductor, and you are—’
‘All aboard!’ 462 barked, throwing a swift salute.
Eight winced. ‘Yes exactly. 462, here are your orders: you will be provided with a mixed team of Yullian warriors and modified praetorians, custom-rigged for maximum ruthlessness. You will allow nothing to stand in your way. You will hunt down the Vorl and we will make their psychic power ours. And once we have the Vorl – we shall have Earth!’
‘Oh my God, Suruk, I’m so sorry,’ Carveth said. ‘Oh my God.’
‘I’m really very sorry to hear that, old chap,’ said Smith.
‘He was a good sort. Did he, ah, go properly?’
‘He died well,’ Suruk replied. In the bad light of the cockpit he had to peer at the letter. Smith swung the map light down on its arm and flicked it on. ‘He fell fighting our old enemies, the disgraceful Yull. Forty-six foes fell to his broom, and many more leaped to their deaths rather than face his rage. He held up the Yull advance, it says, buying time for the army to prepare a counter-attack and stall their ambush.’
‘Forty-six?’ Carveth stared at Suruk.
The alien nodded. ‘Let me see. . . outstanding bravery, it says.’ Suruk chuckled. ‘So, my father died well! I am honoured to be the spawn of so great a warrior.’
He hopped down from his seat, passed the letter to Smith and strode to the front of the cockpit. Carveth glanced at Smith, about to offer Suruk a tissue: he shook his head quickly, and she stayed still.
His mandibles parted and, smiling, Suruk pushed his nostrils against the glass. ‘Out there, among the stars, Agshad dines in the halls of my ancestors. Even now my father exchanges noble stories with Aramar the Wise, and punches with Gob-Gob the Less Wise. I shall miss him, but I am proud. I wanted him to be a warrior as well as a sophisticate, and he heeded my words.’ Suruk looked around. Some of the fierceness faded from his eyes. ‘And yet he always wished me to be a professional: a lawyer, or a doctor perhaps.’ He moved towards the door and Smith handed him the letter as he went. ‘I must think,’ Suruk said. . . and then he was gone.