To the Victor

by R Coots

  “You check out, Mechute,” said the man who’d gone to test his blood for matching nanites.

  Syrus made his lip uncurl, then reached up behind himself and found the knob of his third cervical vertebra. A slip and a push, and the lights went out. He pulled his shirt back on as he turned around. The men still had their guns trained on the three of them, but not with the same air of high alert.

  “You know, sir, you could have just sent the confirmation over the ship-to-ship,” the man said. He’d come up out of the shadows holding a screen in one hand.

  The glyphs and shields on the man’s rank belt made him a vundate. If Syrus had been anyone or anywhere else, the man would have just set himself up for disciplinary action. Using that tone of voice on a superior officer would have landed him in whatever degree of trouble the officer wanted to hand out. But he’d get away with it because of what Syrus was, and they all knew it.

  “Took damage on the way out,” Syrus replied. “Half my communications array got wiped out. C’mon you two, turn around.”

  The women looked at him.

  “How long were you stuck with those bastards, anyway?” He went over and put a hand on Jossa’s shoulder. She was slightly less likely than Del to blow this whole thing by taking a bite out of him. “They need to check your maruste.”

  If he dropped any bigger hints, he might as well start broadcasting clues from satellites.

  He ended up turning the girls as a unit, but at least they straightened and quit clinging to each other. The sheer-backed shirts Iira had brought him in the go bag were meant for just this sort of thing. Display of the maruste. There were advantages to raiding Imperial storage lockers to clothe his women.

  The soldier with the activator eased forward. Syrus backed off. Jossa’s eyes went wide and she clamped down on Delfi’s hand, but the read off both of them was still fear and unease. He was starting to wonder if it wasn’t real after all.

  The maruste of two of his concubines back on the Fleet lit the air over their backs. He’d stripped the code of all the garble their nanites had tried to parse from the Seed virus and Brander’s influence. Then added just enough of Jossa and Delfi’s true glyphs that if either one of them started spouting crazy shit, they should have an excuse. Considering how often they babbled stuff that could break a man’s brain, he deserved a pat on the back for managing to do that without corrupting the programming. So long as his work held up to scrutiny. He was more than a bit out of practice.

  “Gabala,” said the man with the screen. “Isn’t that one of the Edge systems that went dark a few years back?”

  It was. Three Barbicans before Syrus had caught up with the Fleet.

  “Yes sir,” Jossa murmured, ducking her head.

  And just like that, the air shifted. His cover story was being taken as truth; at least for now. The soldiers would still treat him like shit because of where he’d been born, but the girls had gotten him in. He was useful now, and not just for having made it off a planet under siege.

  “And you, ma’am?” The guy was thorough. Not that it’d help him with Delfi. “When did you get taken out of Ejkeka?”

  She looked at him, all wide blue eyes in a pale terrified face. And babbled at him in He’la. Jossa choked. Her mask slipped slightly. Not much, but enough for Syrus to tell that it really was a mask. He would’ve worried about the calculation he felt under the humor that oozed out around the fear, but if she didn’t get hold of herself, she’d infect them all with mirth.

  What the hell had Delfi said?

  It didn’t matter, really. Now the soldiers had gone from suspicion to awe. As well they should. They kept their positions, but the muzzles of their weapons dropped another inch or two. Idiots.

  Delfi gabbled again and cringed away from the man with the activator. Jossa caught her before she could do anything catastrophic. Syrus went to hover over both of them. “You done scaring them now? I barely got them settled down to begin with.”

  “Y-yes.” The man with the screen stepped back and waved them towards the hatch of the intercept vessel. “Right this way, sir.” Now there was respect in his voice. Fucker. “Ma’am, if I may.” He laid a hand on Jossa’s arm. She flinched away and nearly ran right into Syrus. He steadied her, frowning. That hadn’t been acting. The jolts of alarm firing up his nerves felt too real to be a front. What the?

  “Are you her translator?” the soldier asked her.

  Jossa shook her head furiously. “She keeps talking like that. Has ever since—” She stopped, gulped, and looked up at Syrus. He watched her back. If she blew this whole thing now, he’d kill her. Fuck the plan.

  “She got hit, when we ran. Then he found us.” Jossa ducked her head. “I don’t know what any of it means.”

  The man shrugged. “Pity. Maybe one of the other refugees will be able to match with her. Would be nice to know what those fikeknuog are going to do next. Hate to have to stick such a pretty lady in cold storage just ’cause we couldn’t find you a Translator.”

  That last bit was aimed at Delfi. She frowned and barked something else. Something bad, if Syrus had any guess. He was starting to recognize insults. Jossa’s shoulder shook under his hand as humor bubbled through his skin.

  “Think it’s a fair bet they plan to kill everyone in the system. Won’t need to worry about cold storage then. Speaking of, can we get going? Now that everyone’s who they say they are?”

  It was like throwing a switch. Just like that, the scorn was back. “Yes sir,” the man said. “If you’ll follow me. Koalski! Go get Rali.” One of the soldiers peeled off and headed back into the ship ahead of them. “Alivte Rali will take your ship back to base. You three will ride with us.”

  Syrus swallowed a sigh and nudged Jossa forward into the airlock of the other ship.

  >Chapter Thirty

  Jossa

  Hadra’s Net isn’t a transit hub. It’s a series of defensive watch posts meant to hold the enemy and give the military time to retaliate. If we let the civilians dictate its design, we’ll be overrun within years, if not months.

  -Isloste Kuskik, in conversation with the fuerrus

  Two full squads of Navlad soldiers were waiting when they emerged from the patrol ship into the hangar of what must be the base guarding the shadow Barbican. High, high ceilings gave incoming and outgoing ships clearance to move freely, though they still followed the little guide carts along the white lines painted on the deck plates, each to their assigned slot.

  Other ships sat waiting, some battered military craft, some sleek civilian skimmers. Scooter bots shuttled around underneath the vessels as mechanics tore open engine compartments, shouted at each other over repairs, and scratched their heads as they puzzled over botched upgrades of past services.

  The air shimmered with waves of determination and fear. It looked like your average orbital hangar, albeit in military form. It felt like a pressure-plate bomb, waiting for the next piece of bad news to set it off. Jossa closed her eyes and looked for something else to focus her sai, something that didn’t inundate her brain with images of dead bodies. The men in front of her weren’t afraid. Despite, or maybe in defiance of, the atmosphere in the hangar, the soldiers were quiet, wrapped in watchful anticipation. Not eager. Just ready.

  Looking from the guns pointed in her direction to the blank face of Syrus next to her, Jossa decided that, given the chance, she would happily kill the warlord.

  She’d been taught better than to end up a hostage. She was supposed to use her brain, not give in to her feelings. If she’d come up with an escape plan sooner—if she’d realized the implication of having a member of the Imperial bloodline in arm’s reach. She should have been able to keep herself in operating condition after Del woke up.

  Instead of jumping headfirst into a roomful of soldiers, she could have gone for his heart. Ancestors, she’d stood there on the bridge of the ship and let him talk her into complacency! If Delfi hadn’t made her move, he might have talked her right back into those shac
kles. She should have bashed his skull in instead of listening to a word he said. Velis tukov! From the minute she’d woken up, she’d had a multitude of chances. Every time he’d touched her, she’d had an opportunity to flatten him. Why hadn’t she done so? The day in the bathing room, she could have used her grief to overload his mental circuits. Instead, she’d turned into a wailing child. And again, after he’d knocked Delfi out.

  She could have taken out the crew of the scout ship. She could have even overwhelmed the warlord, if she’d worked fast enough. He was unnaturally fast in the physical sense. His shields were strong enough to keep all but the faintest of surface emotions from leaking through. But being able to keep something in and keep something out were two different things.

  On top of all that, Syrus was a man. He didn’t have the natural defenses a sai did. He’d be far more susceptible than Chethalin had been, all those years ago. She and Del could have taken the ship and his cooling blood and used them to get through the Barbican on their own. Without ever worrying about the base. Two women or trillions of people? She could guess which the invaders would worry about most.

  But she hadn’t. She’d been too slow to come up with the plan for escape. Too slow in putting the pieces together. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  The hangar around her was built on familiar lines. All square corners and oblique angles. It should have been comforting. But it wasn’t the Skatasi. It wasn’t her ship, with her crew and her husband. The architecture may not have changed. People were still people. But this wasn’t her home. There was no comfort here.

  It was time to put her mind back to work. Too late to think of should haves. They could still escape. They had a plan, such as it was. She and Del would very likely be taken for questioning. Away from Syrus. All she had to do was pick her moment. The emotions they’d been faking were already sinking into her, becoming real. If she could keep them from consuming her, she could turn them on the guards.

  Delfi stumbled on the edge of the boarding ramp. The soldier nearest her put out a hand to steady her. Jossa braced her sister from the other side. Not difficult, considering the fact that Del was clinging like a limpet. Necessary even, because if her sousi went down, Joss would go down too.

  Then she started to overbalance, and she realized that the soldier wasn’t just supporting Delfi against a fall. He was trying to separate her from Jossa.

  Unfortunately, the ship dropped down to an idle just as Delfi started to shriek. Jossa clapped a hand over her sister’s mouth. ::Be afraid,:: she snapped over the mind bond. ::Little fool!::

  The soldier kept pulling. Delfi’s cry of anger turned to one of fear. Huge tears spilled out her eyes. She cringed away from the man, waving her arms and shaking. Same as she had the last two times the soldiers had tried to separate them.

  Tension poured off the men waiting on the deck. Jossa could almost hear them getting ready to shoot her. She tried not to cringe, but the fear wasn’t a façade anymore. It was very real.

  A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, bringing with it amusement and irritation. Jossa jumped and looked up at Syrus, who watched her with something like a smile pulling on his mouth. She managed to keep her snarl internal, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. He’d moved on to talking at the soldier instead. Just as well. Whatever was about to come out of her mouth right now couldn’t be good.

  In fact, considering the mess he’d just landed them in, she should probably stop planning ways to infect the soldiers’ emotions and start figuring out how she’d keep them from killing her out of hand.

  How had she not seen this coming?

  She knew. She just couldn’t admit it. The gun barrels she was looking at were proof enough. They’d walked into this open eyed and blind. She and Del both. Arrogant in their self-assurance and clinging to their illogical assumption that past knowledge of the military meant they could expect the same behavior of it now.

  ::Dummy,:: Del whispered in her mind, her voice ragged and strained by the tightest shielding she could manage. Jossa would have kicked her if it wouldn’t have given them away. ::We’ll do it the first way if we need to.::

  Because emotional assassination had worked so perfectly when they’d attacked the fuerrus datevataf. Trying it on an entire squad of soldiers and their commander would make things so much better. Yes. Of course.

  Jossa dug her fingers into Delfi’s shoulder and hugged her a little tighter. That was in character. Any civilian surrounded by this much firepower would be cowering and praying that their Ancestors would welcome them in the afterlife. The fear settled its hooks deeper into her skin, raising goosebumps and sending her heart racing. Jossa cursed herself. She was out of practice. Too long in cryo. Too long with the crown on.

  Del tucked her head up under Jossa’s chin and squeezed her fingers a little harder, siphoning some of that paralyzing uncertainty out of Jossa’s side of the bond in the process. Whatever Syrus said must have convinced the men to halt their attempts to split the sisters. Now the soldiers guarded them as a unit, letting the two of them shuffle along behind the warlord at their own pace.

  Jossa shoved a bit more fear over for Del to take care of and tried to get a read on the men around them. None of them were wearing much in the way of sai shielding. All of them were confident in their actions. In the soldiers’ eyes, neither of the women was a threat to life, limb, or mind.

  In front of them, the warlord had his hands out at his sides. Facing him was a man with the blown-out nebula of a kemvate on his neck, lights under his skin shifting in time with his pulse. His rank belt had more flourishes and medals than Jossa owned jewelry as a concubine. He was shirtless. Muscles bulged and flexed under spacer-pale skin, obviously the result of conducting all his business from a weight room.

  She tamped down the disgust and kept herself from making a face only by the barest of margins. This sort. Setting the example of a perfect officer. Always ready for inspection. His shields were too strong to get much of a read on his emotions, but she could tell what he was just by the way he stood and the expression he wore.

  If Warlord Syrus was an arrogant, manipulative achek who believed he could twist the universe to his liking, this man was a belligerent ox who just plain forced it in the direction he wanted it to go. There was no compromise or bargain here.

  If the weight of impending doom had been bad before, it was nearly suffocating now.

  Derision seeped through the bond and settled into her bones like slow-acting acid. With it came an image. They were still in the hangar, weren’t they? Not twenty feet from the ship that had brought them in. Play panic, get inside, run.

  Del’s plans always did cut down to the bare bones of things.

  But it didn’t make her feel any better. There was still something. Sitting there on the edge of her consciousness. Telling her it was a hopeless cause. How could they ever make it beyond the military’s sphere of influence? The minute they ran, there’d be pursuit.

  ::Not if we play it right. Not if we do it when the warlord makes his move.::

  Jossa blinked at the square grid of the deck plates, wondering how Del could be so confident that Syrus would take risks so soon. His maruste was real. The way the scouts treated him, the fact that there was a high-ranking officer waiting to meet them. It all spoke to a level of authenticity that two Border women didn’t rate. They’d bring him in and he’d be safe to go with them. Whatever tests they ran on him, whatever questioning they had for him, he’d be in the clear. Because he had truth on his side. They didn’t.

  “Well now, Mechute lis Tovaf Mitachte.”

  Jossa shot a glance in Syrus’s direction, and the sigil on the side of his neck seemed to glow. The military had rearranged ranks and imagery at some point, if a kemvate was coming to greet a mechute-ranked soldier.

  The kemvate kept talking, oblivious to the workings of Jossa’s mind. “Most men don’t look as fresh and juicy as you after being dead almost twenty years.” His voice was dry.

  The warlord d
idn’t move. Jossa would have been more impressed if she hadn’t just sagged against Delfi. Twenty years? How long had he been on the Fleet? He didn’t look old enough to have been anywhere for twenty years, unless the military was taking trainees at ten.

  Who knew? Maybe they were.

  An alarm blatted overhead. The soldiers went from alert to high alert. The kemvate’s hand came up to his ear in the unconscious gesture of everyone who’d ever worn an implant.

  ::Odapekek.::

  For one panicked second, Jossa thought she’d slipped. Scrambling with metaphysical hands, she checked her shields and the layer of false fear that had grafted itself into her bones. Had the sai sentries heard her? Had she leaked anything?

  ::Don’t you dare,:: Del snarled as she straightened and stepped in front of her sister. Just as the kemvate looked over at them.

  No. Not at them. Past them. At the grav-shielded entrance to the hangar bay itself.

  Jossa gulped and turned to look, but from her angle all she could see was the aft tailfin of the patrol ship and the flash of alarm lights set in the walls around the hangar.

  ::Joss, get ahold of yourself!::

  But she’d held on to the fear for too long. It had taken root in her mind, and she hadn’t shifted enough of it over to Del. Now something had happened. Was happening. And here she was, crippled. She couldn’t pull her own weight anymore. She was useless. Always useless! They were trapped. Trapped on this Ancestors-be-damned base on the edge of a system about to get eaten alive by the Kuchen Fleet. Svis Konanuog. Those who devoured the stars. The bloated faces of the dead walking into the twisted ships. Fodder for their sick appetites. Why should they fight? Why run?

  They were going to die. All going to die. They were all . . .

  Oh no.

  Here it came again. Someone fired a weapon nearby. People shouted. The alarm blared its staccato pattern of one two, one two. Perimeter breach.

  Pain exploded in her head. She shrieked and clawed at whatever had hold of her hair. Rage and frustration seared their way through her scalp and threatened to boil the blood right out of her veins, leaving after images of weapons and dead bodies covering the ground. Her foot connected with something solid, but pushing only made her head hurt more.