Wrath of the Lemming-men Read Free Page B

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,