Death’s Head

by David Gunn

  Putting down my glass, I wait for whatever it is Colonel Nuevo really wants to say. The man’s been sending messengers to my house for the best part of three weeks; there has to be more to this conversation than his current twittering.

  “You kept me waiting.”

  “Sorry, sir. I was injured, sir.”

  Must be my tone that makes him look up. “Self-inflicted,” he says. “You know the penalty for self-inflicted wounds.” Pulling his pistol from its holster, he jacks the slide and checks the safety. Which is already off, or he wouldn’t be able to jack the slide in the first place.

  Colonel Nuevo really is very drunk.

  “Going up against a seven-braid,” he says, “sounds like a suicide attempt to me. Nothing brave about committing suicide.”

  “Except,” I say, picking up my glass, “the seven-braid’s dead. And I’m here, enjoying a drink with my commanding officer.” The glass is cheap, which is good. It looks like it would break easily. Say, against the side of a desk or directly into an enemy’s face.

  And then there’s my gun, which has unlocked without being asked and is doing its own version of a discreet vibrate against my hip. It sounds like a cheap tractor.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Colonel Nuevo. “Put down that glass and tell your bloody toy to go back to sleep. I haven’t got enough officers left to kill any more of you.”

  We’re headed for the heart of his bitterness.

  “You know what my orders are?”

  “Death or glory?”

  “Of course…” Putting down his pistol, he pulls a small cylinder from his pocket and flips up its lid. The button is red. I’d always thought that was just a rumor. “Unfortunately,” he says. “We’re right out of glory. Which just leaves this.”

  Colonel Nuevo’s thumb hovers over DESTRUCT.

  “That’s illegal technology,” I say.

  He nods. “Pretty, isn’t it? Also effective…I can take the whole fucking city. Inside and outside, houses and temples, streets, boulevards, the lot.”

  He puts a mocking stress on boulevards, as if Ilseville is too poor, insignificant, and out of the way to have streets that qualify for a label so grand. He’s right, of course. Maybe in a hundred or two hundred years it will have impressive buildings and smoked-glass palaces, but not yet.

  “You want to do the job for me?”

  I shake my head.

  “Too bad,” he says. “Because you’re going to. That’s a direct order.” He puts the cylinder on his desk, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out an envelope. LAST DAYS, it says. I’m expecting code, something complicated that needs translating, but General Jaxx’s instructions are uncoded.

  “See,” says Colonel Nuevo. “Hold the city or die.”

  And then he says something that makes me realize this man hates me and has probably always hated me; all that shit about liking me was lies. “You could do it,” he says. “No problem. After all, you murdered Debro Wildeside’s daughter.”

  I look at him.

  “It was a test,” he says. “You passed.”

  “Sir?”

  The colonel shrugs. “If you can do that,” he says, tossing me the DESTRUCT button, “I’m sure you can use this.”

  “Sven,” says my gun.

  But it’s too late.

  Opening his mouth, the colonel jams his own gun against its roof and yanks the trigger. Colonel Nuevo, leader of Octovian troops in Ilseville, has just shot himself rather than take it to the wire. He’s also just broken the arm of a chair and knocked over his vodka bottle on the way down.

  “Idiot,” says the SIG.

  Flicking my gun to fléchette, I target the door and catch the first of the running guards in my sights.

  “Explosive,” I tell him. “Burn you to a cinder.”

  He stays exactly where he is.

  “Come in,” I say. The three boys behind him enter without being told. All four line up against a wall on my order.

  “We have a situation.”

  Shock keeps their faces slack. These are meant to be Death’s Head officers, but I’ve seen better raw recruits.

  “While drunk,” I tell them, “the colonel slipped and shot himself.”

  “Fatally,” adds my gun.

  “This information is confidential. Understand? You will behave exactly as if Colonel Nuevo is alive. I want you standing guard at his door. Anyone wants to see the colonel, you come in, ask if he wants to see them, and then tell whoever is waiting that the colonel says come back tomorrow.”

  Four pairs of eyes watch me.

  “You understand?”

  All four boys nod.

  “Good,” I say.

  Sitting at the colonel’s desk, I fire up his slab and see that its power reserve is almost gone. So I keep the order brief. Each officer will prepare for the final attack, food is no longer to be hoarded, ammunition is to be shared, and all missing officers are to be replaced by NCOs. All missing NCOs will be replaced by promotion from the ranks. The battle for Ilseville’s heart will be bloody. Whatever happens, we will go down fighting to the last man.

  I certainly hope the colonel’s pad has been hacked, because I want that order read by the Silver Head as much as I want it read by our own side.

  CHAPTER 44

  EVERY BELT-FED we own is up here on the city walls, with a thousand ammo belts waiting in open boxes. We have pulse rifles, pistols, and a handful of hunting crossbows. We even have fifteen rockets, although we’ll probably fire those in the first ten minutes.

  The attack comes at dawn, and I’m right about the rockets.

  “Hostiles, two o clock…”

  Behind me someone coughs. It’s a gunnery officer, a second lieutenant twice my age and with probably three times my experience. Most of the Death’s Head officers treat him as an irritating fool.

  “Sir, is your man ready?”

  “He’d better be,” I say, casting a glance at Haze.

  The boy nods, his head wrapped in a bloody towel. We’ve told everyone he’s taken a head wound that won’t stop bleeding; it’s easier than trying to explain about the new-grown braids.

  “Target and fire,” the gunnery officer shouts.

  A high fighter goes down, flames billowing as it hits marshland, and its fuel tanks burn up in one go. Two of our rockets miss other planes, and their targets withdraw.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” Haze wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sips sugar water. He’s pale as paper, and his eyes are washed-out ghosts of what they used to be. Shil, Neen, and Franc stand guard around him, which works for me and is better than having them trail me as I set off along the wall to check how things are going.

  I’m Colonel Nuevo’s eyes and ears, that’s the official story. So far most officers seem to accept it. And the high fighter we’ve just downed goes a long way toward explaining the determination I find on most faces. A handful of women wait up on the walls, ready to be deployed as necessary.

  “You know your orders?”

  The snipers glance at one another.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course you fucking do. Now repeat them back to me.”

  “Kill anything that looks like it’s wearing too much silver.”

  “Then go do it,” I say, watching them lope away, rifles slung across their backs or carried cradled in their arms.

  “A good sniper’s worth ten generals,” I say, repeating the old mantra.

  “And a SIG diabolo’s worth fifteen snipers,” says a voice from my hip. “So I guess you just got lucky.”

  “Incoming,” someone shouts behind me.

  A batwing is headed in low.

  “Mine,” yells a blond kid with a pulse rifle. It’s an impossible shot, only he’s too inexperienced to realize this and takes it out first go. I’d like to say that was me once, turning red and shaking off the praise of his friends, but I’d be lying. I never had that many friends.

  Yanking the Obsidian Cross from my neck, I toss
it to the boy. “Now do it again.”

  He grins.

  I’m walking down a run of steps when I see a sour-faced officer heading toward me. Captain Mye takes my salute as his due. “You’ve relayed my message?” he says.

  “Yes, sir. The colonel notes your doubts about his strategy.” Obviously untrue, but worrying enough to make any officer pause. Captain Mye wants to hold some of our ammunition in reserve.

  “I’m thinking about tomorrow,” he says.

  “And if tomorrow never comes?”

  He looks at me, so I stare back and my gun takes time out to remind us both there’s a war on.

  We hold the Silver Fist until dusk, and then half our troops rest while the other half stand guard. Those who can’t sleep huddle in the shadow of the walls, warmed by fires made from old blankets, dead men’s shoes, and broken ammo boxes. Our food is gone and we’re reduced to scraping snow from the walls for water.

  “Come on,” says Shil when she tracks me down.

  “Where?”

  “Out of the wind.”

  I don’t realize how cold I am until she herds me toward a small fire and Neen puts a cup of black coffee into my hands.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “Been saving it,” says Franc. “Thought now might be a good time.” She nods toward a pot balanced precariously in the ashes. At her side rests a whetstone, plus a collection of blades. She’s been sharpening everyone’s knives for them.

  That’s when I realize the Aux, at least, know what’s coming.

  “Grind me an edge,” I tell her, extracting my Death’s Head dagger from its sheath.

  She takes the blade, flipping it over in her hand approvingly. “Sweet,” she says.

  “If I fall,” I say, “it’s yours…” And then, catching something in her eyes, I add, “But only if it’s the enemy that kills me.”

  Franc smiles.

  The days might be getting warmer but the nights are as cold as they ever were. A silver moon hangs above us, and thin clouds scud across a dark sky. Snipers on both sides break the silence, the crack of their shots more unnerving than the familiar bursts of automatic fire.

  “Spy sat,” Haze says suddenly.

  My eyes open with a start. “Where?”

  “Up there,” he says, pointing to a purple speck overhead. It crosses the night sky like a windblown ember.

  “Ours or theirs?”

  “Neither,” says Haze. “It’s U/Free.” He checks his slab. “Guess they want to make sure we die according to the rules.”

  THE SOUR-FACED CAPTAIN arrives at dawn, dragging two senior lieutenants behind him, and it looks to me like the delegation it is.

  “Captain,” I say, rising to my feet.

  “Lieutenant,” he says, then cuts to what matters. “Please tell Colonel Nuevo that we need to see him as soon as possible. All I can get from his staff is, Come back tomorrow.”

  I’m still wondering how to handle this when a redheaded sniper rushes up, her hair blowing like banners in the wind. “Five-braid,” she says. “Under a flag of truce. Demands to speak to you, sir.”

  Captain Mye’s eyes narrow. “Did it ask for Lieutenant Tveskoeg by name?”

  It seems the five-braid did.

  She’s old and simple in her augmentations. Her braids are less ornate and look more functional than those of any other silverhead I’ve seen. Also, she wears a uniform, which is unusual.

  The silverhead is as tall as I am, and her boots are planted firmly on the dirt below her feet. The gate behind me is locked; a pulse rifle is trained on her head, its laser dot just visible in the early-morning light.

  A dozen similar dots speckle my jacket; this is not a surprise. The surprise stands on either side of her. Two ferox, who watch me with sour grins. Their stink reminds me of the caves and tells me something about the silverhead. Either she’s not as fastidious as most of her kind, or she’s been around these beasts for long enough to be inured to their smell.

  “That’s a prohibited weapon,” she says, nodding at the gun on my hip.

  “So’s that,” I say, jerking my head toward the nearer ferox.

  She smiles. “Five-braid Ison,” says the woman, introducing herself.

  “Sven,” I say. “Lieutenant Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross second class.”

  Her eyes look for the medal, fail to find it, and flick to the ribbon tucked into my second buttonhole. That’s interesting in itself.

  “You killed General Lazlo?”

  I nod. “Tough bastard,” I tell her. “Died well.”

  Again that smile. “You can surrender to me,” she says. “And I’ll let the city stand. The alternative is I burn Ilseville to the ground.”

  “Everyone else goes free?”

  Perhaps it was impolitic to sound so surprised, but I needn’t be worried. The enemy general is laughing, and not pretend laughter, it’s real. As if what I’ve just said is the funniest thing she’s heard in a long time.

  “No,” she says, drawing breath. “The others do not go free.”

  “Then what do we gain?”

  “We spare the city.”

  I shrug, wondering why she thinks rubble and broken houses worth saving. It’s not even our planet, when you get down to it.

  “The city stands and its people live…” Her eyes hold mine. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Reject my offer and we will slaughter every living person in Ilseville. Soldiers, civilians, children, even the animals. All this you can prevent.”

  “And me?”

  “You will die.”

  That much is obvious. “Where,” I ask, “when, and how?” Not that it makes a difference.

  “In the arena at Bhose. Before the eleven-braid.”

  I blink and catch one of the ferox watching me; his eyes are as dark as pits, his teeth yellow, and his armor cracked across the front.

  An eleven-braid.

  “General Lazlo was her brother,” says the silverhead.

  “I need three hours,” I say. “While I talk to the colonel and he talks to his other officers.”

  “Our intelligence says Colonel Nuevo is dead.”

  “Then your intelligence is wrong.” I look for some sign of doubt in the silverhead’s face, but she’s smiling again.

  “You have thirty minutes,” she says.

  We compromise on an hour.

  CAPTAIN MYE IS waiting on the other side of the gate, and I can sense the exact second the prickle of laser sights on my back is replaced by an identical prickle on my chest as half a dozen snipers check no one has come through with me.

  “Well?” the captain demands.

  Flicking my gaze toward the two officers behind him, I shake my head. He’s meant to understand that what I have to say is not for them. Only they’re his officers and he’s unwilling to lose his audience.

  “Tell me.”

  “We lay down our arms,” I say. “Or face total annihilation. The Uplifted will burn this entire city, civilians and all. No one escapes.”

  “The colonel will never accept it.”

  “Let’s ask him,” I suggest.

  At the captain’s side one of his lieutenants nods.

  CHAPTER 45

  TAKING A demand for surrender to a ranking officer can be regarded as a bad career move for anyone hoping for a long-term military career. Such a point obviously occurs to Captain Mye, because he stops just before we reach the colonel’s HQ and turns to me, his face serious.

  “As his ADC,” says the captain, “it’s your job to tell Colonel Nuevo. Particularly since you were the one to negotiate with the silverhead.”

  So now it’s a negotiation. I smile to show my understanding. “You’ll be coming in with me, of course?”

  Captain Mye decides this is acceptable.

  The four guards on the door to the old bank are down to three. I consider asking what happened to the other one but let it go.

  “Is the colonel busy?”

  All three nod. The guards lo
ok scared and tired and so far out of their depth that they’re drowning without even knowing it in a cesspit of betrayal and politics.

  “You’re relieved,” I tell them.

  It takes a moment for my words to sink in.

  “Lose your medals and badges of rank, find a pulse rifle, and get yourself up to the walls. Mix with the others; go back to being ordinary soldiers. Steal a militia uniform if you can. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Their relief is obvious.

  Inside Colonel Nuevo’s HQ the pretty blond girl is gone and so are the colonel’s cook, his maid, and all the food in his kitchen. Someone’s let the fire go out in the boilers. So the captain and I go down to the strong room alone.

  “Colonel?”

  Pretending to hear an answer, I nod to myself and slide my way through a half-open door. “Shouldn’t take long,” I tell Captain Mye.

  The stink inside is appalling. Shit stains the colonel’s trousers, and what is left of his brains has liquefied and glued itself to the carpet. His watch cuts into a bloated wrist, and a rat has been chewing at his fingers.

  I’d vomit, but I’m used to it.

  On the table lies the canister with its lid still open and its red button waiting for my finger. I can return to five-braid Ison and blow her, the ferox, and most of her bloody army into small pieces. Of course, doing so will kill the Aux, what’s left of our army, and every family still left in Ilseville, but that’s war…

  Or maybe it’s politics.

  As if one isn’t just the flip side of the other.

  Shutting the top, I twist a band that locks the lid into place and unscrew the base. A needle-thin hydrogen trigger drops onto the desk. I pocket it and reach deeper into the cylinder, hooking out the core with my bare fingers, and then I sit at the table, pull a piece of folded paper from my jacket, and write my own orders. After that there’s only one more thing I need to do.

  The single bullet I put into the ceiling ricochets off the strong room’s underlying steel and damn near kills me.

  “That was intelligent,” says my gun.

  What I say isn’t for repeating.