Free Wrath of the Lemming-men by Toby Frost

growled. ‘How dare he call Carveth a monkey-frog? Only I may do that!’
    ‘Um. . . do we know this guy?’ Rhianna said.
    ‘Know him?’ Smith replied. ‘Not personally, but I know his type well enough. . . a Ghastist: a traitor not just to mankind but to the British Space Empire, a person willing to kiss the stercorium of Number One in exchange for the chance to bully his fellow man. The Ghasts are filthy enough, but a man who’d willingly do their dirty work is beyond despicable. I’d gladly shoot the bugger myself – but he has a woman captive and we must rescue her. Then we can fix him, good and proper.’
    ‘Call me a cynic, but does this look like an obvious trap?’ Carveth said.
    Smith opened the weapons locker and took out his Civiliser. ‘It may be, but ask yourself this: can we leave a woman to die at the hands of Ghastist thugs?’
    ‘Maybe?’ Carveth said. ‘Just a thought.’
    Smith passed her a pistol. ‘Let’s go.’
    It was raining heavily. Rhianna put her umbrella up.
    Behind them, the city smoked and steamed.
    Carveth looked up at the gates. ‘Well, I’ll stay here then, shall I? You might need a rear guard.’
    ‘And I shall wait with you, Piglet,’ Suruk said. ‘To make sure the rear guard does something other than guarding its rear. Ten minutes and I will advance from the road. I shall be taking heads.’
    Smith and Rhianna passed under open gates, into a compound. The automated station stretched away from them, its greenhouse roof disappearing down the tracks.
    The night turned its windows black, winking like polished steel where the moonlight caught them.
    ‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘we have to go inside.’ He looked at Rhianna and felt tenderness towards her, which irritated him. ‘Be careful,’ he said.
    ‘Okay,’ Rhianna said, and Smith opened the door and they walked in.
    The roof was made of glass panels: the moon caught the frame and threw slanting bars across the floor. They stood on the platform, in the pitch dark just outside the moonlight. Wallahbots rested against the walls. In daylight they would load pallets onto the trains, their boilers and cogs polished and gleaming – now they looked thuggish and hunched.
    A locomotive waited at the platform. It was only the engine, but even that was huge: three times man-height, its funnel the size of a castle tower, a monocorn-catcher jutting chin-like from the front. It looked like the helmet of a gigantic knight.
    Rhianna ran to the edge of the platform, skirt flapping, and pointed. On the tracks in front of the train was a figure, unconscious and bound.
    ‘Look!’ she gasped. ‘There’s a woman tied to the train tracks! That’s terrible – oppressive gender stereotyping at its worst!’
    ‘It’s Lily Tuppence, the Nightingale of Mars!’ said Smith, and a light flicked on before them.
    There was a bridge across the train line, and on it stood a man in black. His hair was harshly parted and gelled down flat: he had a hard jaw and a devious moustache. It was the man from the music hall.
    ‘Ah, Captain Smith!’ he cried, and he flung out his arms as if about to introduce a show. He turned to Rhianna.
    ‘And our new ally, the lovely lady.’
    ‘She’s not your ally and she’s not lovely!’ Smith barked back, immediately regretting it.
    The man laughed. ‘I am Egbert Tench, supreme leader of the League of Ghastists and future Dictator of Earth.’
    ‘You’ll let that woman go, or there’ll be trouble,’ Smith said.
    Tench tutted and raised his hand: he held a small metal box. ‘I have only to press this button and the engine springs to life. Of course, I’d rather not see blood spilled. I happen to be vegetarian, you know. All the best dictators are.’
    Rhianna was glaring at Tench, quietly boiling with righteous fury. As Smith was opened his mouth to reply, she called out, ‘Vegetarian? I’m a vegan and I love nature, so up yours, buddy!’ She raised a finger at Tench.
    ‘Rhianna!’ Smith