Wrath of the Lemming-men Read Free

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