by Ilsa J. Bick
No one moved for a moment. No one spoke. Then Alzubadai said, “Look, okay, we can work with this. I can tell you who gave the orders.”
Tormark’s stare was ice. “I already know.”
“But we can deal.”
“I don’t deal.”
“But you can’t just kill me,” Alzubadai said.
Katana Tormark smiled—and that, too, was ice. “I don’t see why not,” she said.
And pulled the trigger.
48
0415 hours
From their earlier trek from a hover bay, Katana knew only four buildings lay between them and their ride, all unguarded except for the two guards outside. Easing out of Alzubadai’s office and into an empty corridor, they moved fast, silently. Katana led with her needler. Kamikuro followed right behind, then Ito, his rifle holstered, laser pistol at the ready. At a T-corridor, they hung a left, and Katana called a halt just shy of the front door.
Looking over at Kamikuro, Katana whispered, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to be a prisoner just a bit longer.” She holstered her needler and lifted her hands. “Me, too.”
“As long as I am in such good company,” he said, putting up his hands. Black seams of dried blood creased his palms. “It is very good to see you, Tormark-san.”
The guard on her immediate right turned as Kamikuro and then Katana stepped through. The building’s front was illuminated, and as Kamikuro moved into a puddle of white light, the guard’s head swiveled round. “Hey,” he said. “Where’s . . . ?”
Katana and Kamikuro ducked as Ito straight-armed the pistol, killing the guard with a single, quick green dart of ionized energy right between the eyes. Pivoting, he caught the other just as the guard’s mouth opened to shout. Ito fired. Laser fire spat into the guard’s mouth, flash-frying his tongue, then licked air as the bolt drilled through flesh and bone.
The compound was situated on a rocky shelf, like a small mesa, and scalloped all around where rock met sand. Their hover was exactly where they’d left it: slotted in a rectangular metal bay with a bare rock floor behind four Tamerlane strike sleds. For a split second, Katana thought about taking a Tamerlane. That medium laser looked inviting, and a mini-rack of SRMs wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Plus, the Tamerlane was faster. Their sled was essentially a flatbed with two seats, little cover, and no weapons. But they’d have to figure a way to bypass the control console’s computer lockout. If someone found Alzubadai . . .
As if some malevolent spirit had read her mind, the first growl of an alarm rolled through the compound. “Go,” she said to Ito. When they were past, she took out the skirts of one Tamerlane with the needler, the flechettes shredding rubber. Drew the Glock and shredded another skirt. Two down. That should help. Then she sprinted after Ito and Kamikuro.
As Ito cranked their sled, Katana pulled up her sleeve, clicked her microcomm, and shouted: “Viki, you copy? This is Katana. Do you . . . ?”
* * *
“Copy that. Out.” Viki clicked off. “Time to go. She’s calling it.” Viki was amazed how calm she sounded. Her insides were jumping like they were wound around pogo sticks.
“Then we are outta here,” Lance said. He and Ito’s three men had spent the time trussing up Alzubadai’s lookout team, figuring that it was better to be safe than sorry. Now Lance scooped up his weapon and jogged after Ito’s men and Viki, who was already clattering down the stairs as fast as she could manage while shouting orders into her comm: “You got a fix? . . . Copy that! On my mark . . . Mark! Five minutes to let us get clear, five minutes! Then fire, no matter what, do not abort! Do not . . . !”
* * *
The wind roared in her ears like something alive, and they were going so fast the mountains scrolled by in a blur. Still, peering back the way they’d come, Katana made out two bullet-shapes rocketing in pursuit.
“Here they come,” Katana warned. She’d slung down her rifle locked and loaded to hip fire. To her left, Kamikuro was sighting down Ito’s laser rifle. She saw at once that while she had better range with the rifle, they were either going to have to outrun the sleds or slow down to close the distance. She peered through her night-vision scope. The closest of the two sleds was fully loaded with two men, one to pilot, the other to fire. Only it looked like the gunner held something long, like a tube . . . What was that?
She watched as the nearest sled gobbled up distance. Weight’s slowing us down. Katana read the distance her scope flashed in bloodred letters. She was so busy worrying about her distance that what the gunner was pointing in their direction didn’t click until the very last second: when the long barrel spat out a tiny puff of white exhaust.
Oh, shit! And then she was screaming: “Ito! M-73, incendiary grenades! Right on our tails! Look out!”
* * *
Viki could hear the alarm rolling across the sand, echoing into the bay, banging against rock like an ululating chorus of bugles. She saw in an instant that they were too many for one sled, but Viki wasn’t leaving anyone behind. “Come on, move, move!” she shouted, clambering aboard. “We’ve got less than three minutes!”
“I’m on it!” Lance was already revving the sled, and as he disengaged the stand, the sudden jolt sent Viki staggering left. Lance’s hand flashed for her forearm to reel her in while he tried urging the sled forward with the other hand. “Hang on, kid, hang on!”
Viki grabbed hold of the sled’s console as the hover bucked in a fitful, jerky, hesitant lurch that threw Ito’s three men against one another like passengers in a packed bus that was standing room only. The sled canted left as the men tumbled and rolled.
If they couldn’t shed some weight, they weren’t going anywhere. They’d flip right here, right now, and by the time they managed to right the sled, it would be too late. But what to jettison? Viki looked around wildly, but there was nothing. Her thoughts broke apart as the hover tipped like a yacht about to capsize, yawing into a death roll. Crying out, Viki threw up her hands as the rock wall rushed for her face. “Lance!”
“I’ve got it, I’m on it!” Cursing, Lance wrestled the sled horizontal then cycled up its compressor. A fresh burst of air pummeled the rock beneath the sled’s skirts. The cords bulged in Lance’s neck as he jammed the throttle, pushing the shuddering vehicle for all it was worth. “Goddamn it, move, you lousy piece of shit, move!”
The sled hesitated. Skipped. Jerked forward. And that’s when Viki went for broke. Whirling on her heel, she grabbed her rifle and jumped.
“Hey!” one of Ito’s men shouted. “Hey!”
She fell. The drop wasn’t far, maybe a meter and a half, but her bum right hip picked that moment to seize up. She slammed into the rock hard enough to knock the wind out of her lungs.
“Viki!” Lance screamed, but the sled was moving away, picking up speed, and he barely turned back in enough time to avoid ramming the sled into rock. As the sled raced for the entrance, Lance spared a look over his shoulder. His face was a mask of anguish and disbelief, and he was shouting. She heard his words even over the tortured whine of the sled’s engine and the wild throbbing of her heart: “What the hell are you doing, Viki? What the hell are you DOING?”
Giving you a chance, you idiot! “Go!” Her lungs burned as she reeled in air. “Lance, you’ve got two minutes. Go, go!”
* * *
At Katana’s scream, Ito jammed the sled to full throttle. The sled leapt forward, and then, as Ito cut right, Katana caught a glimpse of the grenade eating up air, arcing down . . . “Look out! Ito, look out!” she shrieked. Whipping round, she flung herself at Kamikuro, tackling him, bringing them crashing to the deck.
The grenade hit. The night bloomed with a bright, angry billow of orange flame that seared her retinas. The air cracked, ruptured wide open with a deafening, hellish roar. Hot gases roiled over the sled, heat licking at the exposed skin of her arms, singing her hair. Sand rained, and above the ringing in her ears, Katana heard Ito’s scream as gases boiled over his body.
No parka, he’
s got more exposed skin, hair . . . Oh, my God . . .
The same superheated gust of air pitched the sled thirty degrees. Air spilled from beneath its skirt, and for an instant, their speed dropped enough that Katana easily could’ve rolled right off. For a split second, she considered it, wondered if maybe taking up a firing position to take out the oncoming sleds might not help . . . and then rejected it as the sled slammed back to horizontal. But they were out of control; she could feel it in the wild yaw of the sled slipping from side to side on its long axis. Blinking against purple afterimages, she swung her head toward the pilot’s chair.
The yakuza’s limp body slumped over the controls. She could make out irregular patches that looked like cooked flesh along his arms. She rolled off Kamikuro, battled her way to her hands and knees and started for Ito. Her skin was tingling. . . . Was she hurt? Then a restraining hand clamped over her wrist.
“I will pilot,” the oyabun said. Sand glazed his hair and face. “You are a better shot than I.”
She didn’t argue. As Kamikuro hauled the unconscious Ito from the controls, she scooped up her rifle, sighted down her scope, checked her distance. Her skin burned, and it felt as if maybe she’d been cut.
She focused. The sleds had veered right and left as she expected, but they’d gone very far out. They’d lost precious time, let them regain a bit of a lead. But why?
As she waited for the sleds to loop back, her mind raced over a puzzle she couldn’t resolve. Why incendiary grenades? They were easy-enough pickings for a missile. She rubbed absently at her hand. Burning like hell. Maybe the question was what was different about a grenade than an SRM? She thought back to that roiling billow of superheated gases. Designed to upend the sled. That might kill them, but the sand would cushion . . .
She registered in the next half-second that her hand was wet. Startled, she looked down, saw that the back of her hand was starting to ooze. Her gaze skipped to Ito’s body, picked out black patches on his arms: blood.
The tumblers clicked into place in her mind even as she saw their pursuers had joined up.
Oh, my God! It’s not sand!
* * *
As they rocketed out of the bay, Lance debated for a half second about turning right around. But turning back was suicide. They were moving because Viki was no longer aboard. She’d bought their lives with her own. In less than two minutes, if she couldn’t find shelter that wasn’t a tunnel, Viki would be dead.
Then that pillar of flame torched the sand ahead, dazzled his vision. He made out two Tamerlanes peeling away, and then that smaller hover. Lance’s determination firmed. Viki stayed behind, gave up her life, and he’d be damned if she was going to die for nothing!
“You guys want to save your boss?” Lance roared. He pushed their sled as fast as it would go. The sled’s variable thrust propellers bellowed as their speed inched up. “Then let her rip!”
* * *
Got to get out into the open, out of the tunnel! Viki scrambled over rocks using her hands to pull her along. Then she was out. She was maybe a meter above the sand, and she thought about simply dropping, then sprinting as fast as she could to put down distance. But her leg would slow her down. Besides, all she had to do was take cover—with breathing room.
Literally: When those thermobaric bombs detonate, the pressure wave’ll suck the air right out of everything and everyone in these tunnels.
Her eyes ticked to her digital readout: thirty seconds and counting.
* * *
Kamikuro jammed the sled left, jagging in a wild arc as another grenade flashed past, then detonated on impact: BOOM! Screaming, thrown off balance, Katana caromed off the edge of the passenger’s seat. Her rifle and the laser went spinning away. She slammed to the deck, slid toward the sled’s lip. Ito’s body plowed into her but, at the last second, her blood-slicked hand snagged the passenger’s seat bolted to the deck. For the moment, she and Ito were safe . . . But only for a moment.
The sand was eating them alive. They were going so fast the mountains whirred in a blur. She couldn’t move, couldn’t let go of the much heavier and bulkier Ito, not without sacrificing him to the sand. They were almost out of time, and yet it seemed an age since she’d screamed for Viki to call in a strike. And where the hell were the thermobarics? She craned her neck and looked forward. Somehow, miraculously, Kamikuro—bloodied, his clothes in tatters—was still on his feet, still urging the sled into a series of darting, jagged evasive maneuvers to throw off their adversaries.
Then, as the mountains loomed before them, she saw another sled heading their way.
Viki, Lance, they’re out, and that means the thermobarics are . . .
“Brake!” she screamed. “Kamikuro, brake!”
* * *
Clinging to her rocky perch, Viki watched the drama playing itself out on the sand even as the seconds bled away. She saw Katana’s sled speeding for the mountains and knew instantly what her tai-shu hoped would happen. And she cheered her on, she shouted herself hoarse. As much as she feared what would come next, Viki urged the time to pass faster, faster!
Ten seconds, nine . . . Hang on, Katana, hang on! . . . six seconds . . . She saw Katana’s sled suddenly brake, and her pursuers rush past, veering to avoid a collision, and now they were careering toward the rocky slopes!
And then she heard Death coming. Raising her face to the heavens, Viki spied the missiles, like shooting stars, hurtling to earth, screaming through air, arcing to the four points of the compass . . .
Two seconds . . . one!
The very air shattered. The night blew apart into a hail of rock and fire. Into the very picture of Hell.
PART SIX
Hamete: Trick Play
49
Armitage, Ancha
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
8 November 3136
Loveland sat across from the ME in his basement office. The office was adjacent to the autopsy suite and perfumed with a lemony disinfectant that couldn’t quite cover the stink of rotted meat.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Loveland felt like he’d taken a sucker punch to the gut. “Please tell me this is a mistake.”
“No mistake,” the ME said. He eyed Thereon who sat to Loveland’s right. “I would never have caught this. What tipped you off?”
“Our unsub likes playing games. That K, for instance. He’s familiar with investigative techniques. It just felt obvious. All those cold hits, I started to wonder if there was something about cold we’d missed.”
Loveland still couldn’t believe it. “Why didn’t this turn up before now?”
“Because a DNA match doesn’t hinge upon intact or fresh specimens. You get blood or skin cells or whatever, and then you extract the DNA, which means you bust up the cells. No one would study the cells themselves unless there was some reason to, which I just did on Jane Doe. There’s no mistake. All these cold hits from skin and blood?” The ME shook his head. “Every single specimen had been frozen ahead of time.”
“Meaning that our unsub is planting someone else’s blood and skin, and that person’s not in ISDIS,” Thereon said. “And if they’re not in the InterSphere DNA Index System, then it’s some victim we haven’t identified, or a new unsub we’ve never run across. My money’s on the former, but either way, that means—”
“End of the line.” Loveland sagged back with a sigh. “Shit.”
* * *
The restaurant had a pianist playing tinkly jazz. His martini was dry and so icy Loveland’s teeth hurt. He sighed. “Fell on our asses.”
Thereon nursed a vodka tonic. “We went as far as we could.”
“You mean, as far as he let us go.”
“He’s not God, and he’s not invincible. Remember, the one cold hit we’ve got that doesn’t match the frozen samples came from that prostitute on Proserpina. The one who turned up January, two years ago. I think that’s our guy. He slipped up. Things got out of control. He’ll lose it again.”
“
Great. Wait around for him to kill someone else so we can catch him.” Loveland sipped vodka flavored with a whisper of vermouth. “So, what’ll you do now?”
“Same ol’, same ol’. Go back to the office, do the paperwork. Wait. You?”
“I’ll go back to being a detective-detective. But I’m going to put in for some time first. Maybe go see my kid.”
“Must be nice to have a family,” Thereon said.
“Not when you got to shuttle between cities, but it could’ve been worse. Since the HPGs were down, judge wouldn’t let my second wife go off-planet. Pissed her off so bad I thought her hair was gonna catch on fire.”
They laughed. Loveland tongued an olive off a swizzle stick and figured he’d had his greens for the day. Thereon shook ice into his mouth. “Never been married,” Thereon said around ice. “My dad’s on Misery, though. Time off wouldn’t be a bad thing. He’s due a visit.”
“Misery? Thought you came from Devil’s Rock.”
“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” Thereon said easily. “Besides, everyone knows: Misery loves company.”
Loveland groaned. “Man, that’s so lame.”
50
Siang Reactor Complex, Biham
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
11 November 3136
2230 hours
Justin Pierpont drove northwest, easing his hover up a series of bluffs that led to the reactor facility. The heater was going full-blast, but Pierpont was freezing. His stomach was tied in knots. He slipped his right hand into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim, gurgling flask. Steering with his knees, he untwisted the cap and tossed back a mouthful of scotch. The liquor went off in his stomach like napalm: a nice, hot glow.
He shouldn’t drink. If his boss smelled booze, he’d be canned in a second. If everything went according to plan, though, this was the last shift he’d ever pull because then he’d get the hell off this rock, and go be with his wife and kid, and then get his ass planted someplace where they didn’t have booze or cards or men like Tony Yamada.
