by Toby Frost
‘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 emb
arrassing.
‘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.’
Drums up the River
The John Pym slid away from the shore, using its thrusters on their lowest setting to manoeuvre. Steam rose from the back of the ship as Carveth flicked the engines, and then they were pushing quietly through the water, leaving Lake Trondo behind.
Trees curved over the river, meeting in the middle. The Pym slid into the tunnel they created, and suddenly the sun was gone. The forest was as hot and close as the throat of a giant beast.
Suruk took the first watch, squatting on top of the ship beside the dorsal hatch, scanning the banks for ambushes. They were still well inside Imperial territory – at least, in theory. The Yull were skilled infiltrators and, even this far back, it was possible that they had worked their way inside. Suruk peered at the overhanging trees. If the lemming men could choose any method of attack, in his long and gory experience, they would revert to instinct and drop down from above.
Smith sat with Carveth in the cockpit and made the tea while she steered the ship. Gerald the hamster scurried in his cage, oblivious to the larger rodents lurking among the trees. Despite the danger, Carveth seemed quite cheerful. Presumably war against genocidal maniacs wasn’t too bad compared with a cross-country run in the company of a sergeant-major.
Two hours in, Smith swapped with Suruk. Rifle by his side, he watched as they moved further upriver, into
the foliage.
After a while, he took out W’s folder, and laid the papers out before him as if dealing a hand of solitaire.
Major Arwen Caratacus Peter Wainscott was forty-nine. He was born on Shropshire Secundus, on the edge of the Empire. Wainscott’s father had played lead clarinet for King Klezmer and the Wild Folk. His mother was a failed anthropologist, defrocked after falsifying six tribes north of Bogota. Wainscott had one sister, three years his junior, who from the photo in the file resembled the vengeful ghost of someone who had fallen down a well. Her name was Denethora.
Smith flicked on.
Wainscott had enjoyed a quiet childhood. To begin with, he kept himself to himself, but after reaching adulthood, he started to keep himself to anyone willing to take a look. His worried parents did the sensible thing and sent him to Officer Training College.
Wainscott had been a terrible soldier, to the extent that someone had scribbled ‘Does not play well with others’ across the top of the major’s military records. He would have been a disgrace to the uniform, had he ever been caught wearing it. He had hated everything about the army apart from the potential for destruction, at which he excelled.
Smith flicked through several photographs that he really hoped had been taken at a private function, and then paused at one of Wainscott staring down a rhinoceros. In the next picture, Wainscott and a group of M’Lak elders posed in front of a captured helicopter of the Sixth Edenite Air Cavalry.
Before the war had started for real, the Republic of New Eden had been trying to spread the word to the unbelievers, which largely meant shooting them and stealing their stuff. Wainscott was selected to smuggle weaponry to the M’Lak tribes on the grounds that, were he to be captured, nobody would believe a word that he said, truth or otherwise. As it was, Wainscott’s cunning and ferocity delighted the M’Lak, who tried to keep him as a pet.
‘Boss?’
Smith glanced up, and suddenly he was no longer inside Wainscott’s life. Carveth was half-out of the airlock, brandishing a mug at him. ‘Tea. What’re you reading?’
Smith showed her the title of the file. It said INTELLIGENCE, RESTRICTED.
