Wrath of the Lemming-men Read Online Free PDF

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 Only three months out of date, too.’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