Wrath of the Lemming-men Read Online Free

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.
‘What on Earth is he doing?’ Smith said, more to himself than anyone else, and the end of the nosecone fell off to reveal a plunger and a large red button. Howling something to its war god, the pilot leaned back and swung the mallet down, towards the button –
    ‘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