To the Victor

by R Coots

  Syrus planted a knee in the man’s stomach. Then he sank his fist into the man’s jaw again. Something crunched, and the mandible shifted sideways by at least an inch or so.

  The man found enough breath to shout, and then to scream as the pain hit. One flailing hand caught Syrus in the shoulder, the other upside the head. Stars and sparklers went off behind his eyes and he snarled. Fucking bastard. Think he was going to take out his warlord? Think he could take down the man who’d been holding the Helm for three fucking years? Against the whole Fleet?

  Syrus pulled his fist back and took aim.

  And found himself caught, arms pinned in a grip he couldn’t break. No amount of straining or thrashing or well-used elbows could get him loose. Whoever it was lifted him to his feet and hauled him away from the fallen ralen. Syrus tried to throw his weight forward and then back, to overbalance whoever had hold of him. No good. He went for his captor’s instep. No luck.

  Milord! Milord, calm down!

  Syrus stopped lunge. He knew that voice. That voice never called him “milord.”

  “Milord?”

  That was the right voice. Not the woman who’d just been yelling in his ear, dead three years at least. What the hell?

  He looked down. Two of the beaten man’s aides were helping their superior up. Around him, he heard shouts. Screams. And weapons firing. He caught his balance as Quinn let him have his feet back, then turned to scan the crowd. They were trying to riot. The Fleet soldiers mowed them down like so much dead grass. Now that Syrus wasn’t so surprised, he could feel the electric fear and acid hate they were giving off.

  Or was that coming from inside?

  He shook himself hard to resettle the armor on his body, then looked at Quinn—who was as calm and collected as if he were always dragging his warlord off some victim or another. As if he felt nothing at all. How the hell did the man do it?

  Quinn would never tell. So instead of asking, Syrus said, “Well, that was interesting.”

  “Not quite the word I would use, milord.”

  Syrus snorted. So long as no one was screaming at him in a dead woman’s voice, he didn’t much care what they thought. He checked his thoughts, just to be sure, but she seemed to have dropped back into the sinkhole where he’d been keeping her. Along with all the combustible emotions he’d shoved down there with her. He stomped on the metaphorical lid, wedging it in a bit tighter, and sighed. It would figure that Quinn had come to lock his warlord down. Deciding who would take the Warlord’s Helm while the Fleet was still under Campaign law would have been a bitch.

  “Yargh!”

  “Sir, please, hold still!”

  “Yooar!”

  Syrus turned around. The anined, jaw still hanging oddly, had gotten free of his keepers and was coming back for round two. Syrus grabbed one of the man’s outstretched arms, yanked, twisted his hip, and let the man fly. Right into Quinn’s armored body.

  Quinn braced himself and the anined hit the gravel with another yell.

  “Well fuck,” Syrus muttered. He grabbed the man by the hair and planted one knee in his back. “You want to give this up already?” he asked. “Cause the guy you thrashed to win this place is still alive. We can always give it to him.”

  The anined groaned. Syrus thought he felt heat blisters forming under his gauntlets. “Yeah, yeah. I killed your toy. Guess what?” He slewed the man’s head around in the direction of the drop ship. The guards hadn’t forgotten their duty. They had the rard’s son on his knees, hands pinned behind his back and guns to the back of his head. “Now that his dad’s dead, that little shit gets the job. And you get to finish your ritual. Ok?”

  The anined growled.

  Syrus forced the man’s head up and down in a mockery of a nod, then let go and stood. “Ok. Quinn, tell the pilot to spin up the drives. He can finish without us.”

  “But milord.”

  Syrus glared at his second. “It’s a formality anyway. We all know it. We’re going to go get some real work done. Soon as we hit orbit around that planet, we’ll take an atmo down.”

  Quinn’s lips thinned, but he said nothing. Which was enough of an answer in itself. No. He didn’t want his warlord running off for a side trip. He wanted to get on with finding a populated planet to bomb down to dust. Because mass murder was how he got his rocks off. Or something like it. As long as Syrus did what Quinn wanted, they were golden. But the minute his warlord got the bit in his teeth, this motherfucker decided life wasn’t so good anymore.

  Syrus gave his second a flat stare and waited. After another moment or two, Quinn gave him a half bow and started speaking into his comm unit.

  Turning, Syrus climbed the short slope to where his throne perched on the rocks. He grabbed his helm, gold inlay and all, off the spike where he’d left it and slammed it over his head. Clean air filtered through the breathers built into the helmet and filled his lungs. His mind cleared slightly. Calm. Quiet. Just him and his demons.

  Syrus took another breath, just because he could, and headed for the dropship. The crowds kept trying to riot, but the soldiers had them fairly well subdued. Syrus shook his head. He should have this fucking bucket welded to his skull, like a crown. Maybe then he could be free of people messing with his emotions.

  But that wouldn’t work. Someone would try to take the damn thing away from him soon enough. Now that the Campaign was over, the fuckers had free rein to throw as many Challenges at him as they could before the next Campaign. And if he welded the Helm on, well. They’d just hollow out his skull and wear that instead.

  He smiled where none of them could see. They’d try.

  > Chapter Two

  Syrus

  Some say they are searching. Looking for a place to settle. Those people are sentimental fools. If they are looking for a home, there are plenty of empty planets free for the taking. No. What they want is to swallow the Galaxy whole.

  -unnamed survivor, Vakunesab

  Syrus cursed as he narrowly missed stepping in the blood on his way out of bed. One of the women still buried in blankets muttered sleepily and rolled over. He eased around the mess, wincing as the gash along his flank flared with pain.

  Three fucking weeks since they’d left Ludaf, and only two Challengers. Two men from so far down the ranks that killing them had been more like getting rid of sick animals. Instead of Challengers who could actually put up a fight, he was getting assassins.

  Syrus rubbed at the skin around the clumsy stitches set in by one of the concubines and scowled as the bandage came loose. Fuck. He didn’t get these things cut out in the next day or so, they’d grow over and he’d have to slice himself open all over again to keep them from festering. He sure as fuck wasn’t letting any of the med-techs near him again. Well, maybe Iira. But she’d be bitchy enough about the fact that he’d killed her Chief of Surgery. For all he knew, she might just finish the job the other woman had started. Syrus twisted his arm so he could look at the wound, but the skin pulled and pain flared a warning. He gave up. By the end of the day, he should be ok. He’d have to live with that.

  A few grav-tethered seats and tables took up space in the bottom of the onion-shaped bulb of the main room, surfaces shifting with patterns of light from the starscape that covered the ceiling and walls.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a light blinking. He turned. The alert along the edge of the table he used for troop deployments was silent, but bright enough to reach all the way to the ceiling. Well, now he knew why he was awake at—he checked the chrono in the wall next to his bed—way too fucking early. Why the fuck?

  Syrus padded over and thumbed in the receiver for the message. Too late, he slapped at the volume. “Milord,” said Quinn’s voice. “You wished to be notified when preparations for the drop were complete.”

  Behind him, someone rolled over and yelped as they fell out of bed. Surprise popped through the air and burst against his skin. Not enough to hurt though. Five more sleepy voices asked if the luckless woman was ok.
Syrus shook his head and turned back to Quinn’s message. The table rattled off the squad details and the hangar they’d be leaving from. In ten minutes, if their leader would be so kind. Syrus checked the hangar again and growled. Someone was fucking with him. Down three decks to starboard and almost a mile forward. Like fuck he’d get there in ten minutes. “You.” He snapped his fingers at the women behind him. “Let’s get armored up.”

  A woman came trotting over. Her shoulders and back were a lattice of old scars, partly covered by the honey-gold hair falling loose over her shoulders. Dark blood coated the side of her face and shone dully in the light from the table. Must have been the one who’d fallen off, then. Before Syrus could tell her to go clean up instead, she had his armor out of the repair box and was laying it out on a different table. “Milord,” she said quietly. He braced himself against the desire dripping off her like syrup and resigned himself to grabbing the slipsuit that went under his armor. Together they managed to get him encased in the breastplate, bracers, and other bits of metal. It wasn’t quick. With each piece, they had to wait for the edges to seal before they could let go. Why the Fleet didn’t make armor entirely out of living metal, he didn’t know. And except for when it came to putting the stuff on and off, he didn’t much care. As the last edge oozed into the decorative thorns of its companion piece, he caught the woman by the chin. A breath in, full of lust and anticipation. A breath out, to keep from acting on them. “Get that look off your face,” he growled at her.

  Her expression fell. What, she thought he’d fuck her now that he’d gotten all locked in? “And make sure the rest of the place gets cleaned too.”

  He let go and she staggered for balance. Her frustration picked at the exposed skin of his face with tiny hooks. He grabbed his helm off the table and turned to go. “Spotless,” he called over his shoulder. “Top to bottom.”

  There. That should be impossible enough to make her happy. Syrus beat Quinn and the recon team to the drop ship. It wasn’t by much, but every victory counted for something. The second swung into the cockpit and landed in his chair behind the pilot just as Syrus buckled in. The pilot, who’d only been edgy with her warlord parked in the copilot seat, went on high alert as Quinn got situated.

  Syrus threw up whatever shields he could manage and checked his side of the controls, just in case. Satisfied that his station was active and ready for use, he leaned over to the woman. “Remember. You fuck this up, I won’t have to punish you. Not interested in being debris in atmo or smearing my guts all over a mountaintop. Got it?”

  Wide eyes in a white face turned towards him. She blinked.

  He glowered. “You’re part of the Fleet. Act like it.”

  It was like he’d stuffed a metal rod up her ass. She went ramrod straight, indignation sizzling out to blanket the fear. Then she went blank. Sucked it all back in, set her jaw, and turned back to look out the forward viewpane. It was translucent right now. They didn’t need to know what the inside of the launch bays looked like. The material wouldn’t go clear until they were in space proper.

  Ten standard minutes later, they cleared the bay doors, flight control’s clearance still echoing in their ears. Syrus kept one eye on the heads-up display over the pilot’s chair and tapped his way through the data on his slate with the other half of his attention. The planet was a fair example of an Ajiri planet. Atmosphere breathable. Lots of carbon. Some silica. Respectable oceans. Enough fresh water on the continents to keep a decent-size population alive.

  He flipped through the pix. Flatland, mountains, desert, swamps. Coastlines pocked with bays and harbors. Rivers flattening out into deltas that merged into oceans. One sat had caught a pic of some tropical island. The water around it was clear enough to show bright pink and orange glimpses of coral.

  And here and there, about where you’d expect them to be, were settlements. Well, the remains of settlements. Larger along rivers. Larger still along the coast. Some were only a few houses clustered together on mountainsides. Other scans showed hollows in desert cliffs, too regular and closely set for animals. He flipped further. A day to the nearest body of water. Whoever left those particular ruins must have been well supported by tech or self-supported, in the highest sense of the word. He shrugged.

  All the buildings were worn. Falling in on themselves. How long did it take for silcrete and synthstone to degrade? Would it ever? Why had everyone left? If anyone had actively managed the plant life, the native vegetation had long since erased any signs of it. No industrial activity that he could see.

  No surprise there. Ajiri, or agricultural, planets like this were rare. A catastrophe, like losing their Barbican or solar collector, would have to happen before anyone so much as thought about starting a mineral operation. They had their Barb. And the solar collectors that powered the local Barb were still in orbit around the star. So why had everyone left?

  He kept flipping. Saw something. Stopped. Had to wait for the slate to catch up, then started skipping backwards. Overshot. Repeated the process. Fucking slate. They could fold space and anchor it in a Barbican no one could make a user interface that didn’t drive a person nuts.

  Sometimes he missed the days when all he had to worry about was where his next meal would come from. That and killing the first person who tried to take it from him.

  Finally, he found the image again. It looked like the top of a bunker built into the side of a mountain. Fallen trees leaned against it, obscuring the outline. But bunkers only came in so many shapes. A lifetime ago, he’d spent a lot of time figuring out how to crack them open. He zoomed out. Ah. There it was.

  The pix to either side of the bunker were clearer.

  Dens. Game trails. He zoomed out again. They disappeared completely where the mountainside gave way to snow and crevassed glaciers. Downhill of the bunker, they were hard to find under all the tree cover. But here and there he could see a beaten-down patch of dirt. These were old. Very old, considering.

  He handed the slate back to Quinn. “Tell me what you see.”

  The man took it and frowned, then started flipping the pix and frowned harder. While he waited, Syrus went back to watching the pilot work. She had a surprisingly easy hand on the yoke. These drop ships were designed to punch through all the gaseous layers over a planet and land a squad of Fleet troops on a target city in the middle of heavy enemy fire. They had the reaction time of a dead duck in flight and control yokes that needed more muscle than finesse to get moving. All the hull plating, he supposed.

  He didn’t know what planet the Fleet got the design from. It wasn’t Imperial, but whoever it was had probably expected men to be flying them. The fact that Fleet women had the same excess strength as their men, relative to body size, probably went a long way to helping them handle the flying bricks. The pilots also routinely fiddled with the drive collars and steerage jets, trying to make things work a little better. Mech-heads. Landbound, airborne, or space jockeys. He’d never met one who didn’t tinker.

  “Evidence of animal movement, milord.” Quinn interrupted Syrus’s train of thought as he handed the slate back. “What of them?”

  Syrus pushed the pic up onto the hull on his side of the cockpit, then tapped into the tracking monitor. “See the signal?” He tipped the slate so Quinn could see it. It was weak. A barely there pulse of manufactured energy.

  “Yes. Sir?”

  Syrus opened his mouth to explain. The g-forces hit, pushing him back into his seat. He snarled at the pilot and reached for his harness. Bitch. Just had to hit atmo at nearly the worst possible angle. No warning either. He hated sitting in the passenger seat with someone else flying.

  But her face was white and rigid. Her fear hit him hard enough that he nearly lost his breath. Accident, he realized. Muttering to himself, Syrus leaned forward, flipping the copilot HUD on and freeing the yoke from its latch against the console. Surprise and alarm lashed at him from the pilot’s side of the cockpit. He ignored it. She needed a second set of hands to manage all the al
arms and finicky bits; he might as well do his part to keep them all from dying.

  »»««

  The ship overshot the continent they’d been aiming for before Syrus and the pilot got the ship back in line. Syrus powered down his HUD and latched the yoke back in place, then unclipped his harness so he could turn to look at the pilot. Her hands were slack on the controls. The expression on her face hovered somewhere between awe and fear. The thrum of the first mixed with the acid of the second felt even more bizarre than it looked.

  He reached over, squeezed a hand around hers on the yoke, then pushed her jaw shut with one finger. Standing, he looked down at her. “You see you’re going to come in wrong, you ask for help. The second seat is there for a reason. Overconfidence gets everyone killed. Quinn, let’s go.”

  They made it out of the cockpit before her indignation and shame drowned him, but it was a close thing.

  Out in the jump bay, the soldiers were just unhooking their harnesses. Someone at the aft end had lost his lunch. His fellow soldiers laughed among themselves as he tried to scoop the mess into a disposal pan. One of the men in the forward seats saw the two standing in the hatch and jumped to his feet, barking, “Warlord!”

  Syrus tried not to wince. This man had a voice for parade grounds and flight decks, not small enclosed spaces.

  There was a general scramble as the rest of the men came to attention. Or tried to, depending on how tangled they were in the harnesses. The man cleaning up vomit got to his feet, slipped, and went straight back down again. Syrus decided he’d found the man who'd stay behind and guard the landing zone.

  “As you were,” he said. “All starboard.”

  The men moved over. Curiosity was thickest in the air, but he still felt the ever-present undercurrent of resentment and anger.

  “Here’s where we’re headed.” Syrus tapped the slate to wake it, then pushed the static image of the energy signature up onto the portside hull. Neither side of the hull had windows, but port didn’t have an exterior hatch, so that was the side with the display matting.