Perdition

by Ann Aguirre

  Jael stopped admiring her ferocious technique and joined the melee in earnest. He’d learned a bastard blend of martial arts from various mercs over the course of his career, and it served him well. They might confiscate your weapons, but they can’t take away your skills. Some commander he’d served had told him that once, cautioning him never to rely on equipment or even other people. Ironically, the old man had been knifed by a prostitute, which served as a particularly eloquent culmination to his tutelage.

  Four enemies broke away from Dred’s chains to engage; he suspected they thought he’d be an easier fight despite the ease with which he’d dispatched their comrade. But every man in here believes he’s special, the exception to the rules. They all rushed at once, and he took the initial hits. It wasn’t that he was too slow to dodge, but sometimes it was worth the pain when they realized a killing blow wasn’t sufficient to stop him. Jael ended the onslaught with three knives in him. The wounds burned, but he was used to agony; and in his darkest moments, it was better than nothing, better than numbness, because he’d never known true pleasure. Pain was the next best thing.

  He offered a smile. “Is that all?”

  One of them sucked in a shocked breath, but that was the last sound he ever made. Jael ended him with a closed fist to the temple. He fell heavily to the decking, and Jael guessed he’d go down the chutes Dred had mentioned the day before. The other three backed away, their shock and horror overwhelming.

  Another whispered, “What is he?”

  “Cyborg, maybe. Or augment.”

  Jael had heard stories about new experiments, blends of mankind and technology, but no. He was a different flavor of monster. It was odd that other creations had taken his place in the limelight. These days, it was possible for him to tell someone what he was and receive only a blank stare because the Ideal Genome Experiment was a footnote in the history of a failed corporation. The horror had lost its meaning to the general populace, but his genesis remained fresh in his mind—perfect recall of the horrors he’d endured was his cross to bear, along with his strength, speed, and ability to heal. To most, those wouldn’t sound like curses, but they hadn’t spent twenty years trying to die, either.

  It was time to play. “The fastest of you maggots gets to live. Return to your master and tell him that Queensland has a new champion. Now run.”

  Jael laughed as a small, wiry man launched into motion. He went like lightning, leaving the rest to die. They hardly realized they’d lost the race when he killed them. There was no pleasure to be found in other people’s pain, so he made it quick. Farther along the checkpoint, Dred had beaten her opponents into submission. She finished three of them with quick, efficient jabs of her knife, but the last man, she left alive.

  “Take him,” she ordered.

  Is she talking to me?

  Oddly, he didn’t offer a clever reply. He’d served as a grunt before, answering to a commander’s whims. When the pay had been right, he could be obedient. There was no pay here, but perhaps there would be fringe benefits if he played his cards right. He wondered if she didn’t notice the blades in his side; most people reacted the first time they saw his difference. Even forewarned, they couldn’t help the instinctive revulsion. Her brusque manner made for a welcome change.

  Jael stepped forward and bent to lift the prisoner. Each movement sent slashes of raw anguish through him. Though he could heal the damage, he still felt all the pain. He still slung the man over his shoulder and turned to follow Dred back toward the main hall of the compound. Einar and Tameron met them at the first checkpoint; he expected some challenge from the big, scarred man, but he was waiting for a sign from his queen.

  Interesting. Even the alpha males defer to her. There would be no territorial pissing here. He wondered how she managed that.

  She gestured. “Bring him for questioning.”

  Jael obeyed, mostly because he was curious to watch her in action. From all over the compound, her men encircled the proceedings. They were silent, watchful, and it was a little unnerving from so many undisciplined killers. He didn’t understand the dynamics here, and such lack of insight made him nervous. He had to figure out the hold she had, how she manipulated the rest. She didn’t dominate through pure physical strength; that much was certain.

  “I killed a scout recently,” she told the man on the floor. “Now Grigor’s sent a full hunting party. It wasn’t enough to take back territory, so why don’t you tell me what he’s after?”

  “I’ll die before I talk.” The prisoner spat, baring yellow teeth.

  “You’ll die regardless. But I get the choice of whether it’s quick or slow. I can make it last days. We have medicine to heal you, just so I can start all over again.”

  Color leached from the captive’s cheeks. “You wouldn’t waste supplies on me.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” she asked the big, scarred man beside her.

  “You’ve done it before. Can I have him to play with for a bit? If you’re finished.”

  5

  True Intentions

  “I don’t imagine you need me for this,” Tam said.

  Mindful of appearances, he waited for Dred’s nod of dismissal. Though he didn’t consider her his superior, it mattered that the men perceive his role as subordinate. He’d always preferred working behind the scenes. That way, if things went catastrophically wrong, it was somebody else’s head on the chopping block.

  He avoided a couple of conversations with men who wanted to press him for information on whether Dred was ready to choose a consort. They saw Einar and himself as bodyguards, not serious contenders for a place in her bed. Einar would like to change that status, but Tam’s tastes ran in other directions. He slipped out of the hall with minimal fuss and negotiated the borders without the sentries seeing him. There was a certain risk in what he was doing, as Dred didn’t know of his excursions. He told himself she’d approve them if he mentioned it, but it was best to maintain plausible deniability. If he was caught behind enemy lines, she could honestly claim she knew nothing of his mission and cut him loose. Tam thought well enough of his skills that he was willing to risk it.

  The lights were spotty in this part of the corridor; many had been stolen, the rest burned out, and it allowed him to scramble into the ducts. Baby rodents scurried ahead of him, and he made a face as he crawled past their droppings. The adult creatures didn’t fit up here, but the beasts made a nice addition to the stewpot when they caught them. Unfortunately, the things preferred the bowels of the ship, so the aliens enjoyed more fresh meat than any other sector.

  Tam had long since memorized the twists and turns that would carry him above Grigor’s meeting room. If he hurried, he might catch the end of the messenger’s report. As he’d understood it, the new fish, Jael, had sent a runner back with a message. Grigor might reveal something of his plans, which would permit Tam to develop a counterstrategy.

  Grigor, who was also known as the Great Bear, had a booming voice, audible even at a distance—and right then, he was shouting at the top of his lungs. Tam moved closer, enough that he could make out the words, even when the Bear regained some self-control.

  “You dare to return to me on your knees?” he was raging. “Carrying word from some new fish who calls himself a champion?”

  “I thought you’d want to know about the danger, Grigor. When I came to warn you, he had three knives in him, and he was smiling.” Tam wouldn’t have gone that route, as brutes like the Great Bear didn’t appreciate any intimation that they might be bested, especially in combat.

  There was a wet sound and a fleshy pop, confirming Tam’s appraisal. For a few seconds, silence reigned, then Grigor’s heavy boots thundered against the floor. Pacing in a fit of rage . . . that’s a good sign. Angry men made irrational decisions, yielding the tactical advantage.

  “Not a single survivor,” the Great Bear snarled, “apart from this coward.” The thump made Tam think Grigor had kicked the corpse. “So we learn nothing about her defenses, not
hing about her numbers, nothing about her response time. That was pointless.”

  Grigor wasn’t the smartest leader in Perdition if he thought sending ten men would yield significant insight. It would’ve been more productive to send one man, skilled in stealth, to prowl around and slip out without being seen. But the Great Bear did not specialize in subtlety; he was all boom and bluster, snarling mouth and roaring wind. He also tended to kill men who counseled him otherwise, which hamstrung him in a battle of wits. Yet he didn’t lack for numbers; he conscripted all the mindless brutes and those with a yen for blood.

  Tam could’ve pointed out that if the Bear hadn’t killed his sole survivor, the man might have told him something, like the fact that Queensland had shrapnel guns. Which was more than he knew before. Tam held still, listening to the enraged pacing.

  A deep voice offered, “We could send two teams next time. Strike at two points. The surprise might be enough to net some intel.”

  The thrill of discovery rolled through him, and Tam smiled. This was why he endured the danger and the darkness, the pleasure of unearthing information he wasn’t supposed to possess. It was a comedown for the former spymaster of Tarnus, but a man must take his pleasures where he found them. In Perdition, they were few and far between.

  He listened as the enemy laid out their plans, rudimentary as they were. When the celebration commenced, Tam slipped away, retracing his steps. Likely, he should mention the ducts as a potential weakness to Dred, but as long as she discussed strategy in her quarters, there should be no risk of being overheard. The ventilation in the living spaces was smaller, insufficient to hold an eavesdropper. Tam had wondered if other sectors sent men like him to watch the hall, but he’d never found anyone—and not for lack of looking.

  With his customary ease, he returned to Queensland, avoiding the sentries adroitly. There was a spectacle ongoing, the sort that many convicts found irresistible. Tam didn’t share their fascination with violence, but this display served a purpose. They had lashed the enemy to a metal framework, left over from Artan’s day. He had often flayed his own people for imagined offenses, whispered conspiracies audible only to his own ears. The man’s limbs were pinned up, spread-eagle, and he was naked apart from the covering of blood.

  Einar held the title of master torturer for a reason. He knew just how to hurt a man, how to read his deepest fears. For some, sheer physical pain wasn’t enough. Sometimes it required fear and tension, waiting matched with small anguish. While he had been gone, the captive’s body had been transformed into a canvas, and Einar was currently creating a chef d’oeuvre.

  Tam knew better than to interrupt. Dred moved to his side, her quiet way of showing support and solidarity. He understood that she felt beholden to him, as he’d put her on the throne the day Artan died, but Tam wasn’t interested in gratitude. No, his plans for the Dread Queen were bigger and more long-ranging. Not that he’d shared them with her. Better to build, step by step, conditioning her to accept his advice. One day, the day would come when she couldn’t imagine making any important decision without consulting him; and she wouldn’t question when he presented his plan for the endgame, either. But in a game such as this, the final moves might be turns away. Just as I like it. Perdition might not possess the challenge he’d thrived on within the palace, but there were moves to be made, pawns to play, and a queen to maneuver.

  * * *

  THE bound prisoner radiated terror.

  Once Einar finished, Dred closed her eyes to read the captive—and it was awful, a burst of necrotic color. Like biting into rancid fruit, the taste was cloying and unmistakable. This one had a pathology familiar to her, his whole being raddled with mingled lust and deviance. He thrived on domination and control, driven by darker urges to disfigure his lovers and eventually kill them when they failed to satisfy his longings. To her mind’s eye, he was like a house riddled with rot, so putrescent as to teeter on the verge of collapse. Prison had not improved him. Here, he had free reign to do as he would, and the Great Bear had done nothing to quell his leanings.

  When she opened her eyes, she felt dirty, as there was no way to remove his filth from inside her head. For nights to come, in dreams, she would see what he’d shown her. This connection was what started her down this road, long ago. Back then, it had gotten to the point where she couldn’t know such things and take no action. At first, she’d tried telling the authorities, but they never believed her, and it was worse to have concrete surety that people committed atrocities with impunity.

  As Einar stepped forward, as if to return to work, the prisoner wet himself. So many killers were cowards at the bone. It took only five seconds for him to begin babbling, “Grigor means to take the hydroponics garden. The one your champion sent back will report on your response time as well as carrying the message.”

  My champion. Yes, I’ll need to address that at some point. But she wasn’t ready yet.

  “So you came at me, knowing you were expendable,” she said. “How does that feel?”

  A whimper escaped the man at her feet. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

  “You pissed him off, then. What did you do?”

  “Killed a girl before he was through playing with her.” Horrific as that sounded, Dred had heard things were worse in Mungo’s realm. Only his favorites could sleep the night through, and she pitied the fish who went unknowingly with his recruiters. He always sent reasonable-sounding men who had deceit down to a fine art.

  She shook her head. “Denying Grigor his desires doesn’t sound like a way to ensure longevity. Do you have a death wish?”

  To her surprise, the man nodded. “It’s the only way out of here. And I’m ready.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t execute you on the spot.” The idea that Grigor was capable of restraining his urge toward carnage, capable of planning, disquieted her.

  You can defeat him, hold your ground. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. This time, however, it felt different. She was so tired.

  “Do you think there’s more he could tell us?” she asked Tameron.

  Tam answered, “I’d wager he’s tapped out. Grigor wouldn’t share the specifics of his attack strategy with a worm like this. And I have more to tell you, once he’s dead.”

  Somehow, he always did. “At least we learned his target and can shore up defenses accordingly. So kill him,” she told Einar.

  He was her chosen executioner, not just because he was good at it, but because he had a terrifying aspect as well. Men knew dread and despair when they gazed on him, so she kept him close. In a place like this, those were constant companions, best tamed to hand. Einar complied, though he used a blade instead of his bare hands this time. The moment of death carried peculiar resonance, as all the decay and darkness drained away, leaving an inert form. No unholy echoes, no more wicked design.

  There was a certain purity in endings.

  “Circulate among the men,” she said to Tameron. “Find out if they’ve heard anything.”

  “We’ll have a great deal to discuss tonight,” he replied.

  Sometimes prison gossip offered valuable insights; she wouldn’t overlook Tam’s importance to keeping her boots planted firmly on top. He might look unimposing, but he had a whip-smart mind and uncanny ability to predict enemy movements. His skill at going unnoticed was excellent as well. She had sent him more than once to reconnoiter inside enemy territory, and the secrets he uncovered were always invaluable. He had told her that he’d been a spymaster on his homeworld, and that they sent him here when the ruling lord—his former employer—was deposed in an enemy coup. She didn’t know if that was true as inmates were notorious liars, but his skill supported the story.

  She nodded a thank-you to Einar. “Dispose of the body.”

  All around, the rest of the prisoners went back to whatever had been occupying them before. Which left her standing next to the newcomer. He seemed to be proving some point about his toughness by leaving those knives in his side. Any
other man would be unconscious. Not that she cared. Dred only required loyalty.

  She fought the urge to offer to tend him herself, but that wasn’t how she did things. “Get patched up. The doctor’s over there.”

  “He doesn’t have a name?”

  “Not that he’s willing to give. I have his prisoner identification number if it matters.”

  “Not at all. And I don’t need medical attention.” He held her gaze as if willing her not to look away as he drew the shivs from his flesh, one by one.

  And she didn’t. Dred had seen worse during her imprisonment. She’d seen men flayed alive, men hung on gibbets, men burned beyond recognition. But it was somehow worse when they sickened and died of natural ailments that could be corrected through modern medicine. Here, though, none of it could be mended. They had so little.

  As the last knife clattered to the floor between them, Jael pushed out a breath. Blood stained his Conglomerate-issue shirt in three places, but not as fast as it should. His pretty face was drawn taut, etched in the agony he’d endured in some private ritual. It wasn’t her business if he was into self-flagellation, and yet she said, “You’re fast enough to dodge, skilled enough to destroy them. You took those wounds on purpose. What’s the point?”

  “The pain is the point,” he answered. “But it also established my reputation. The one who got away will tell others that I’m unkillable. That’s how places like this function.”

  “There are no places like this.”

  “Which makes me curious what you did to end up here.”

  “The same thing as everyone else. I killed a lot of people.”