by David Gunn
All of these are possible.
A week later he marches me into the desert.
That’s me, him and two dozen volunteers who’ve just completed three weeks’ basic training, max . . . He carries a camelback water carrier, dried meat and his Colt automatic. I carry a camelback, his spare clips, a compass and a sliver of mirror for signalling when the radio doesn’t work.
This is most of the time.
At first, I think he’s taking me out to finish off what he began five days earlier on another planet. But why take two dozen others with him? And why bother to swap one shit hole for another?
We march for a week.
After two days our camelbacks are empty.
The water hole we find on the third day is brackish.
That’s the term he uses. He means it’s almost black and stinks of death and tastes of corruption and salt. Vomiting and the bubbleshits keep us busy for the next two days. Between the vomiting and soiling ourselves we march south, headed for a horizon that always stays just out of reach.
The sun is hot.
But it’s the nights that kill.
The temperature drops so fast it seems impossible the heat in the sand beneath our boots can be squandered so easily. Blue skies turn black. And birds swirl briefly in the scarlet gap between the two and then disappear.
We don’t know where.
On the seventh day, Lieutenant Bonafont makes a joke about resting that no one else understands. He tells us that over the next dune is our fort. The furthest south of any fort the Légion Etrangčre has ever held on this planet. He was here more years ago than he wants to remember.
He’s right, there is a fort.
If you can call a mud-brick ruin, with cracked corner turrets and a broken double-pillared gate a fort. It needs rebuilding, Lieutenant Bonafont tells us. He’s sure we can see that for ourselves. To rebuild it, we’ll need bricks.
Does anyone know how to make bricks in the desert?
‘Piss,’ he says.
So we do. He has me work the sand with a shovel until the mix is wet enough to be slopped into a wooden form and tamped down. Shovel, form and tamp are not words I’ve heard before.
One form makes twelve bricks.
We have five forms but not enough piss.
We’ll make more tomorrow, he tells me. He’s wrong, of course. There is no tomorrow for most of us. As the moon crests a dune far to our east, a wailing cry breaks the silence.
A boom follows.
Our new bricks blow inwards, and damp sand scatters across our tiny parade ground. A grenade comes to rest in the open doorway of the stores. Our sergeant, wall-eyed and bald, grabs the grenade, tosses it inside and slams the door.
The quartermaster screams his fury but dies anyway.
As does Sergeant Nero, who falls back with a spike of door jutting from his belly. It’s the second splinter, the one through his eye, that kills him.
I see him die by the light of a flare our corporal desperately tries to stamp out. His boots spread phosphorus. Until the whole parade ground around him is lit with a sullen glow.
‘Where’s your fucking rifle?’ he screams.
Seems little point saying no one gave me one.
Anyway, a Kemzin lies at my feet, its owner killed when the wall blew in. So I grab it, and work its lever as I watched the corporal do that afternoon.
My first shot kills a tribal.
And has the corporal screaming treason.
Apparently, firing before the order is given is punishable by death. As he heads in my direction, I work the lever again and point the Kemzin at his gut.
He decides not to bother.
An army pours into our fort.
They wear black robes and have their faces hidden.
All wail that unearthly cry. Doesn’t matter that they’re badly armed, and used up their explosives in the first few minutes of the attack. There are more of them than there are of us, and they’ve fought before.
Most of those around me haven’t.
Swords slash; daggers find their way into guts. Every tribal we shoot is replaced by another, until they’re clambering over their own dead to get through our walls. And we’re being backed into a corner of the parade ground.
For raw recruits, we die well. When our clips are empty, our blades come out. In the end only two of us remain. I’m one. My Kemzin is empty, but its cheap plastic stock is slick with blood and brains.
The man next to me, the man who put his gun to my head, still holds that gun. The tribal leader opposite is trying to guess if it’s loaded. This matters, because this time round, the lieutenant has it pointed at his head. Their chief offers us a quick death in return for surrender.
My lieutenant refuses.
The sun is rising, its colour splashing the dunes beyond our wall. Looks pretty, I think. No idea why. I’m not the kind to notice things like that. It just does.
Their leader says something.
Everyone stops looking at the lieutenant’s gun.
They look at me instead.
A small man, who unwraps a layer of his cloak to reveal swirls tattooed onto his face, steps forward to translate a question.
‘Why are you smiling?’
I shrug, what else am I supposed to do?
When the tribal leader speaks again it’s into perfect silence. His words are deep and guttural, paced slowly and with gaps.
‘You are facing death,’ his translator tells me.
My grin surprises him. As if I need telling. Of course I’m facing death. I’ve faced it every day of my life. It’s what keeps me alive.
He translates my reply slowly.
Beside me, Lieutenant Bonafont nods. Sweat beads his face, dark patches disfigure his uniform. The heat rises with every fraction of an inch the sun climbs in the sky. And the lieutenant’s been holding his gun to their chief’s head for five minutes. But if he stinks of sweat and alcohol, he doesn’t stink of fear.
Their leader unwraps his face.
He has tattoos, like his translator, although their ink is fading. His beard has gone grey in places. Half of his teeth are missing when he grins. Those that remain are yellow enough to be old bones, and his breath smells sour.
‘How old?’ he demands.
The gun my lieutenant holds on him might as well not exist.
His translator relays the question. Just as he relays my answer.
I tell their leader his world is prettier than mine. He says that’s why he wants it back.
‘What happened then?’ Aptitude asks.
‘We leave at noon with a single camelback of water between us. It takes eight days to reach Fort Libidad, which was where we started. For the last three of those I’m supporting my lieutenant. For the last, I carry him on my back.’
‘Fuck,’ she says.
‘Aptitude.’ Debro’s voice is sharp.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I know. All the same . . .’
Anton reaches for his wine. Lunch hasn’t begun and his glass is almost empty. He’s soaking up the alcohol in his gut with hunks of bread torn from a fat loaf the size and shape of a small rock. Aptitude’s contribution to the meal.
‘This is good,’ Anton says.
Aptitude scowls.
We’re supposed to know it’s good. She made it.
A waft of garlic hits us the moment the door opens. An old woman whose name I don’t know carries in a serving dish, four plates and a bowl of water with petals floating in it.
‘Gathered these myself,’ she says, placing the dish on the table.
‘Aptitude,’ Debro says, ‘how many?’
The girl’s good manners fight her wish to say none.
‘What are they?’ I ask.
I mean, I know what they look like. But I’m assuming this is a bluff and the snail shells are stuffed with pine nuts or something fancy. It’s not a bluff, they really are snails.
Won’t be my first, of course.
But the last time I was starving and
my sister told me if I didn’t eat them I’d die of hunger anyway.
‘Sven?’ Debro says.
I hold out my plate. She has that effect on me.
I can kill without thinking. Run until my ankles are raw and my boots full of blood. And I can smash any barrier that pain tries to put in my way. But have Debro offer me snails . . .
‘What?’ Aptitude asks.
Anton’s grinning.
We’re halfway through the first course when the old woman returns to whisper in Debro’s ear. Debro glances at Anton, who follows both women out of the room.
‘Subtle,’ Aptitude says.
Her smile fades when they return. Must be the man behind them.
Tall and bearded, he’s older than Anton, who’s older than me. A scar runs down his right cheek. Since it would cost little to remove, choice obviously keeps it there. He’s wearing uniform with the purple flashes of a staff officer. The flashes are edged with pewter thread. A wolf skin is draped over one shoulder.
‘Shadow’s here in his official capacity.’
‘Although it’s always a pleasure . . .’ The words drawl from his lips. This man is high clan. One of the oldest families. People like him talk only to their own. I might as well be furniture.
‘He’s been asking about smugglers,’ Debro adds. ‘Apparently they might have crashed near here. Don’t suppose you’ve heard about it?’
‘No one’s said a thing,’ Aptitude says firmly.
Anton ignores the question. ‘General Luc,’ he says, ‘may I introduce Lieutenant Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross, Second Class.’
The man stares at me.
And I remember why his brigade is called the Grey-Eyed Boys.
They have their irises decoloured on joining. But it’s not the grey eyes, pewter buttons or the pelt across his shoulder that tells me who this is. It’s the bullet round his neck, where most officers wear an obsidian cross.
This is the Wolf.
Commander of the emperor’s guards.
That round is live, though dull with age. Letters and numbers are engraved up one side. SHADOW LUC, Z193XX79.
As a cadet, General Luc bought a .72 slug with his own name on it as a joke. When his luck held through the first of the Doubter riots and an attack on OctoV’s palace, he decided his charm worked.
So did his enemies, which was more important.
‘Death’s Head?’ he barks.
The Grey-Eyed Boys don’t like the Black Machine. That’s fine, we don’t like them either. Over-privileged and over-paid. Most of them have never faced a proper battle in their lives.
‘General Jaxx’s ADC,’ Anton says.
The Wolf sneers. As if he expects no better. Then he looks me up and down. Very obviously and very slowly. So I do the same, and he doesn’t like that.
Dumb insolence, you can’t beat it.
Well you can. A lead implant to the back of the skull tops dumb insolence any day.
We’re of equal height. But I’ve got a combat arm, minus its spikes. My hair’s cropped. My skull a little wider than most. Even out of uniform, in combats and singlet, it must be obvious what I do for a living.
Kill things.
He has thick hair, swept back in a grey mane, and grey-flecked eyes that examine me without blinking. The Wolf radiates privilege, money and power. He thinks he was born to rule. I think a strategically thrown grenade can improve most chains of command with the pull of a pin.
This is a man with little need of show.
An officer whose reputation for savagery is so extreme no one could have done even half the things he’s accused of doing. His anger is growing. Debro must feel it too, because she frowns.
And General Luc smiles.
‘Garlic snails,’ he says. ‘Always my favourite.’
Anton shoots his ex-wife a look and it’s hard to know what it is meant to say, except that it’s not kind. The woman who brought the finger bowl lays an extra place at the table. I ask Aptitude her name. It’s Katie, she’s the cook. Before that she was Aptitude’s nurse.
‘And then you got Sophie?’
Sophie was Aptitude’s bodyguard. She died the day I burnt Villa Thomassi to the ground and shot Aptitude’s husband.
When I look up, General Luc is staring at me.
I stare back and he refuses to look away. He doesn’t like my grin. But then I don’t like being stared at.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Tveskoeg.’
‘It’s an old Earth name.’
I’m only saying what Debro told me.
Until I met her I was Sven, nothing else. She gave me the other name. One day she’ll tell me what it means. The tightness that crosses his face is matched by a tightness in her own. Seems I’ve wandered into another minefield.
‘You believe in Earth Perfect?’
I shrug. Politics is dangerous enough without adding religion. Our enemies, the Uplifted, believe Earth never existed. It’s a myth, used by fools to explain why so many people in the galaxy look the same.
We believe it exists, however.
Well, most of us do. It’s still out there, perfect and waiting.
A few people, the doubters, believe it was destroyed. Earth existed, right enough. Just doesn’t any longer. It’s Earth’s memory we should keep perfect.
Debro’s one. Doubters live simpler lives than most. In Farlight there’s a community that still uses donkey carts rather than trucks or hovers. Not because they’re poor, but from choice. Sounds weird to me.
‘Never gave it much thought, sir.’
‘Maybe you should.’
I don’t like it when other people make Debro unhappy. And Debro’s sitting there, with a tight smile on her face and her fingers gripping her fork so tightly her knuckles must hurt. She doesn’t like it when people talk about Earth.
Aptitude’s noticed it too.
‘Snails,’ I say. ‘Did you develop your taste for them on Rogate, sir?’
Anton chokes on his wine.
The story’s famous. As a captain, trapped on a planet where winter lasts eighteen months, Shadow Luc and his troop survive without rations when their supply line is broken. A surprising number survive. The same isn’t true of civilians in the area. His report mentions a diet of roots dug from the frozen earth.
No one believes it.
Eating human flesh is one thing. Being reminded of it is another. At least where the high clans are concerned. And the Wolf heads one of the richest in the empire, shippers of spices and weapons to the planets along this edge of the spiral.
Also, suppliers of leaders to the imperial senate. And commanders to the Wolf Brigade. Only death can wipe my rudeness clean.
He glares. I smile. Earth is forgotten.
Leaning forward, Aptitude asks about his trip over.
She listens carefully as he replies, and spends the next five minutes asking questions that need answers. It’s like watching a child calm a dangerous animal.
The snails are replaced by rabbit. When that’s gone, Katie brings goat’s cheese and hard biscuits, which General Luc offers Aptitude, before loading five onto his own plate. Another high plains delicacy, obviously.
I’m not the only one noticing how much attention he pays her.
Anton and Debro keep glancing at each other. It’s not a cheerful glance. Since I can’t ask Debro what is wrong while he’s there, I wait until she begins to clear the table and then offer to help. An event so unlikely Aptitude pauses to watch me go.
‘Why’s he here?’ I ask, the moment we’re on the stairs.
‘Why do you think?’ Her voice is flat.
‘Aptitude?’
‘It’s complicated,’ she says. ‘I knew Shadow when I was a child.’ Hesitating on the edge of saying more, she decides to say it anyway. ‘My mother adored him. He and my father hunted together. We were engaged for a while.’
‘What happened?’
‘I broke it off.’
‘Why?’
Debro blushes. ‘His tast
es are interesting. Unfortunately, we own adjoining estates, and he’s lieutenant governor of this province, so our meeting occasionally is inevitable.’ She hesitates. ‘Sven, he’s dangerous.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘But I am. And you’re making matters worse.’
Catching herself, Debro sighs. ‘Look at those eyes,’ she says. ‘It’s like being watched by a rabid dog. He’s a killer.’
‘Debro—’
‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re not the same.’
I wonder which one of us she’s trying to reassure. She’s sweet, Debro. But she’s also wrong. The Sven she sees isn’t the one I take into battle.
Chapter 5
‘SO,’ SAYS DEBRO. ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK?’ SHE MEANS WHAT DO I think of her roof terrace, with its red tiles and low white wall and its view of a road that twists through the village towards the gates to her compound.
‘Good place for a belt-fed.’
Anton laughs. ‘She’s talking about the view.’
‘So am I.’
It would take two belt-feds. With a mortar behind them.
That would be enough to hold Wildeside for a while. In the long run, you want a place badly enough you can take it. Might be nothing left to take. That’s not the point. The owners don’t have it either.
‘Sven,’ Anton says. ‘Your lips are moving.’
‘He’s thinking,’ my gun says.
Maybe a couple of belt-feds. A mortar. A sniper behind the wall, firing through one of the squat drains that jut beyond the roof. Although God knows when it last rained around here. Some ground-to-airs to take out enemy batwings.
I know the sniper I’d choose. She’s three days from here. With the rest of my troop. There isn’t a single one of the Death’s Head auxiliaries who wouldn’t die at my order.
Give me the right battle and I’ll sacrifice the lot. Only, my quarrel with General Jaxx isn’t the right battle. So they’re in Farlight, keeping their heads down. And I’m out here on the high plains.
My attempt to keep them alive.
For later.
General Luc sits with Aptitude, under the shade of a striped awning, on one of those double seats that swings backwards and forwards from chains hooked to a bar overhead. He’s keeping the seat swinging with the lazy kick of one boot.
