Day of the Damned

by David Gunn

  Old buildings. Mostly broken.

  A truck without wheels. An upturned bath riddled with bullet holes. An Icefeld, three models older than this one, with razor vine round its rotted wheel. A sign advertising a tavern that wind, age and vandalism have scrubbed back to a floor plan.

  ‘Fuck,’ Anton says. ‘What a dump.’

  Sergeant Leona agrees.

  Kicking his side stand into place, Anton kills his ignition and sets the security on his bike. This activates a capacitor that blasts a high-voltage, low-amp shock through anyone stupid enough to try to hotwire the gyro.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Let’s grab some sleep.’

  That’s the way we’re going to make this trip. Ride by night and sleep by day. A light under a door leads us to the only bar in town.

  ‘Closed,’ says a voice, before we have time to knock.

  A lenz over the door links to a speaker behind a broken grille. Someone’s punched a dent in the mesh and then ripped it open. It’s not necessary. We get the picture. This place stinks.

  Anton knocks anyway.

  When that doesn’t produce results, he kicks.

  The sergeant is looking at me. She knows there’s going to be trouble. Wants to know what she’s meant to do about it.

  ‘Sir?’ she says.

  ‘Take your lead from me.’

  She grins and I decide I like her.

  ‘He’s shut,’ someone announces. Not, We’re shut or I’m shut. He’s shut. Tells me he doesn’t own the place. Doesn’t even work here.

  Just likes interfering.

  ‘Stand back.’

  It’s a cheap door with poor-quality hinges. After I kick it out of the frame, it’s a broken door with poor-quality hinges. And the weapons-detection system built into its frame is fucked. Either that, or it has the sense to keep quiet. Not a peep comes from it as I stamp my way into the room, side arm in hand.

  My kick sent the man behind reeling. And door and man obviously hit the floor together. Something cracks when I climb over them.

  Sounds like ribs to me.

  ‘Don’t want any trouble,’ says a weasel-faced man serving beer.

  ‘We don’t start it,’ I say.

  Sergeant Leona grins. ‘No,’ she says. ‘We finish it.’

  Definitely a girl after my own heart.

  Chapter 13

  THE TAVERN’S NOT THAT BAD REALLY. MUSIC BLARES FROM A juke box. The air stinks of cigar smoke, beer, unwashed men and cheap brandy. For a second, I feel almost at home. The smoke hugs a yellowed ceiling like low-lying cloud.

  A dozen men at the bar check out we’re not the law, the bailiffs or the husbands of women they’ve been screwing and most relax. I take note of the ones who don’t. One of them is field-stripping his Colt. The barrel sits in a puddle of beer. The gun is only semi AI, but still has enough smarts to complain.

  Still swearing, a man crawls from under the door.

  He’s clutching his side and swaying slightly. Could be pain, but it looks like drunkenness to me. When he lurches towards me, Leona’s boot finds its way in front of his. Probably bad luck she treads on his trigger finger as she walks past.

  A dozen men stare.

  Most have the eyes of those who’ve seen combat.

  The rest have mirror shades. Whose reflection has seen villages burn, boys gunned down, and women offer themselves and see their daughters taken anyway. It’s two hours to dawn. Makes me wonder what they’re doing up this early.

  Apart from playing cards, obviously.

  A man with his back to me holds an emperor, two generals and a sniper. Unless the scar-faced man opposite plans to cheat he’s already lost.

  A pile of coins sits between them.

  It’s a large pile. Mostly silver, some bronze. A gold Octo glints in the lamplight. A few of the bigger coins look off-world. One is metalhead. I can see the medusa head of Gareisis, their hundred-braid, bug-eyed in the half light.

  Only these two are still in the game.

  It’s a large pot for the man with his back to me to win.

  Makes me wonder if he’s going to see dawn at all. Or whether one of his colleagues will find him with his dick out, his throat cut and his pockets empty. And the village whore nowhere to be seen. Of course, she’ll turn up in a ditch, with her own throat cut, a few days later. When scar-face has left the area.

  Old story. I’ve seen it happen.

  Haven’t we all.

  ‘Food,’ I demand.

  The weasel-faced man behind the bar shakes his head. He’s a slow learner.

  ‘And a room, three beds.’

  He begins to tell me his inn is full and the kitchens closed and none of the rooms has three beds anyway, even if they weren’t all taken. His words trail into silence when it occurs to him I’m not listening.

  The scar-faced man gets up from the table.

  ‘This is a private party.’

  He’s definitely losing. Has to be. The speed he ditches his hand, tossing four cards onto the table so they slide into the discarded pile, makes that final hand impossible to call.

  His coat is like mine.

  Mesh-lined and double-stitched, with thin armour over the heart and wrapped round the kidneys. A pulse pistol juts from a belt that is studded with turquoise and fixed with a vast buckle that reads Let God sort them out.

  The motto suggests he’s a mercenary.

  His stance says he’s regular. And his side arm isn’t fancy enough for a mercenary. What with their pearl handles and ruby sights, you can usually see them a thousand yards off. Even on a dark day.

  ‘You hear me?’ He’s talking to Leona, thinks she’s the softest target.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘You say something?’

  Someone at the bar laughs.

  The eyes of the man hassling her tighten. ‘This place is closed.’

  ‘Not any longer.’

  ‘I don’t think you heard me.’ He frees the flap on his holster.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘we heard you, all right. It’s just we don’t give a fuck.’

  Very ostentatiously, the man puts his hand on his revolver. ‘One last time,’ he says. ‘The door’s behind you.’

  Leona points. ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s over there.’

  That’s the second time someone at the bar laughs. As the man’s cheek twitches, I realize his position in this group isn’t secure. A corporal, a freshly made sergeant? Maybe not that battle-hardened despite his scar. It’s hard to gauge his age through cheap lighting and a haze of cigar smoke.

  ‘We’re taking a room,’ I tell him. ‘Get your men to bunk up.’

  ‘You’re not—’

  A step takes me within reach and the palm of my hand connects with his chin, snapping his jaw shut hard enough to crack bone. As I hook back my elbow to drive it into his throat, Anton steps forward.

  ‘Sven.’

  I knee the man instead.

  Stepping over him, I bundle Anton outside.

  Outrage floods his face, but it’s mixed with fear. I make myself unclench my fist. ‘What,’ I say, ‘is the fucking point of being in disguise if you’re going to shout my name all over the place?’

  ‘You were going to kill him.’

  ‘So?’

  Anton looks at me.

  ‘He might have lived,’ I say.

  In the darkness someone snorts. A flame flares, and a bald headed man touches a match to the end of a cigarillo. Smoke seeps slowly from between his lips. He’s leaning against the wall, staring at the sky.

  The collar of his leather coat is turned up against the cold.

  ‘Want one?’ he asks, twitching his smoke.

  Anton says no.

  I accept.

  The match he uses to light me is military issue. Well used and rubbed back to base metal where it’s been hung from a belt. He sees me look and nods approvingly.

  ‘NCO?’ he asks.

  ‘Ex-sergeant.’ That much is true.

  ‘What happened?’
>
  Punched an officer.’

  His eyebrows rise in the glow from his cigarillo. No one gets away with hitting an officer. I can see him wondering if I’m taking the piss.

  ‘No witnesses?’ he asks.

  ‘None . . . My lieutenant decided not to press charges.’

  ‘All the same,’ says the man, ‘I’m surprised you mention it.’

  ‘The lieutenant’s dead and I’m out of the Legion. So it’s just my boast against a dead man and no one gives a fuck anyway.’

  Dragging deep, I let smoke trickle into the starlit sky. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a desert, but I hate city skies. I need to be able to see the constellations, like now. High above me are the howitzer, the whore and the frying pan.

  Of course, on Farlight they look different.

  I’m used to them looking sharper.

  ‘Off-planet?’ asks the man. Maybe he sees my surprise, because he nods towards the howitzer and smiles. ‘Always strange, when the sky’s not your own.’

  His name is Toro, he’s ex-Legion. Invalided out after a battle I’ve never heard of, on a planet that means even less. He worked his way in-Spiral, before ending in Farlight. These days he’s sergeant major for a militia regiment in the capital. I ask him if he’s with the men inside and watch him try not to be offended.

  That’s what I thought.

  ‘You were here before them?’

  That’s as close as I’m coming to asking him what the fuck he’s doing in a dump like this. I mean, there are one-horse towns and there are no-horse towns. And this one’s missing its horse and most of the town.

  ‘Hunting’s good round here.’

  So we have a brief conversation about freshwater crocodiles and that leads on to my arm. Ripped off by a ferox sounds too unlikely. So I tell him it’s a battle injury. And I’m still waiting for compensation to get it fixed.

  We both know how likely that is to happen.

  ‘Where you heading?’

  Anton shoots me a glance. Not sure what it’s intended to say.

  ‘Farlight. We’re looking for a friend. Well, my boss is.’ My nod points out Anton. ‘He’s been out of the city for a while.’

  ‘Anyone I might know?’

  ‘Not unless you’re friends with the new duke.’

  The sergeant whistles. ‘The old bastard himself? I heard he was off-planet. Leading our glorious troops to certain victory.’ Toro says this with a straight face. Since to doubt a single word of it is treason, that’s probably wise. He’s intending to say more but drops his hand to his side arm instead.

  Maybe because the card-player I kneed earlier is in the doorway and clutching a pulse pistol. When I step towards him, he backs away and lifts his side arm a little higher. Seems he’s brought it to defend himself from another beating.

  ‘Call me if you need help . . .’ Sergeant Toro’s gaze sweeps over my combat arm and ends at the weapon in my hand. Its muzzle now rests under the chin of the man who’s come looking for me. Leona stands behind him. The only reason her gun isn’t at his head is mine got there first.

  ‘Not that it seems likely,’ he adds.

  Chapter 14

  ‘MYBOSSWANTSTOSEEYOU.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sir,’ Leona says. ‘You might want—’

  I lower my pistol enough to let the man talk.

  ‘My boss wants to see you.’

  ‘Who’s your boss?’ Anton demands.

  ‘He’ll tell you himself.’ The card-player seems happier now Anton’s involved. ‘His room’s at the top of the stairs. He asked if you’d join him.’

  Anton nods, as if to say of course . . .

  The man with the cigarillo drags a lungful of smoke and lets it out slowly. ‘I’ll still be out here,’ he tells me.’ When you’re done. If you fancy a drink . . .’ He smiles sourly. ‘For old times’ sake?’

  Once in the Legion, always in the Legion.

  I nod, noticing the coldness between him and the man holding the gun. Anton’s already heading indoors. You would think being in prison would have sharpened his edge. Instead the relief of being free has blunted it altogether.

  ‘Me first,’ I say. ‘May as well try to keep you alive.’

  Outside, the man with the cigar laughs.

  *

  A small man, simply dressed, looks up from a table and then glances back at a map unrolled in front of him. A tumbler and a bottle hold it flat at the edges. Both are filled with water. A quick pass of his hand hides whatever it is he doesn’t want us to see.

  ‘You’re travelling alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anton says.

  ‘The roads are dangerous. The whole world is dangerous these days.’

  Sounds scripted to me. As if it is phrase and counter phrase. If it is, he’s disappointed because Anton stays silent.

  The small man gives Anton a steady stare and then nods to himself. His jacket is black and looks expensive to me. He’s high clan. Maybe even a trade lord, to judge from the quality of the ring on his finger.

  Not long ago I’d have missed that clue.

  He wears a shoulder holster, and has a coat hung over the back of his chair. Standing, he leans across the table and offers his hand to Anton.

  The two men shake.

  ‘Your bodyguard?’ he asks.

  Anton nods and I take my position by the wall.

  The stranger watches me check the door and the windows to confirm I have enough space to act if necessary and smiles approvingly. Makes me wonder exactly what’s going on around here.

  ‘I’m Senator Cos.’

  ‘Anton Tezuka. Travelling to the city.’

  ‘Tezuka. Isn’t that . . .’ Senator Cos hesitates, on the edge of saying something careless. Like, Aren’t you meant to be in exile? Unless he’s simply worried about being rude.

  Reaching for the water bottle, he fills a second tumbler. The senator is careful to take a sip from his own first.’ To a safe journey.’

  ‘And safe roads,’ Anton answers. ‘For everyone.’

  ‘You’re . . .?’

  ‘My wife,’ says Anton, ‘is Lady Debro Wildeside.’

  He finishes the water in a single gulp and replaces the tumbler on the table. Then he bows slightly, looking surprised when I step forward to open the door.

  ‘You could travel with us,’ the senator says. ‘In fact, you would be welcome.’

  Anton considers this. ‘I have business in Farlight,’ he says finally, ‘that makes it better for me to travel alone.’

  ‘Then travel safely,’ Senator Cos says.

  ‘And you,’ says Anton, shutting the door behind him.

  We make it halfway down the darkened stairs before I round on Anton. ‘You want to tell me what the fuck that was about? All the safe journey crap?’

  Glancing behind him, Anton checks the door is shut, and I let him steer me to a window. A flare of flame lights the face of the sergeant we met earlier. He’s lighting another cigarillo and staring at our window. It’s as dark in here as it is out there. So I doubt if he sees anything.

  The noise from the bar is muted. As if the senator’s men are aware we’ve halted on the stairs and are worried we might be listening.

  ‘Senator Cos is a doubter . . .’

  I get that bit. The water, the simple black jacket. They’re clues.

  Anton scowls when I say this. ‘He’s rich,’ he says. ‘And he’s close to the Jaxx. He’s been their banker. It doesn’t hurt to be careful.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Later,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk about it later.’

  ‘Don’t leave it too long.’

  All this sloping around in disguise is getting to me.

  A dozen faces stare at us and then slide away. I’m not sure what the senator told his men before we went up, but a room is ours. Anton asks me which watch I want to take. Way I’m feeling, the answer’s easy . . .

  ‘I’ll take them all.’

  Sleep is fine, but I need less than oth
ers and I want to clear my head. Grabbing a bottle of beer from the bar to help that process, I button my coat against the wind and head for the door.

  ‘Sir,’ says the owner.

  He lets go my arm the moment he sees my face.

  ‘You don’t need to keep watch. I lock the courtyard every night and your bikes will be safe . . .’

  ‘Bring me food,’ I say. ‘In about two hours.’

  My order means he’ll have to stay awake or risk my anger. And he’s seen what I did to the man who didn’t open his door.

  ‘On second thoughts, send her.’

  He follows my gaze to a girl collecting plates by the far wall. Large hips and full breasts, with dirty blonde hair tied back into a sloppy ponytail. She’s doing a good job of avoiding sly hands and slyer comments.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘My wife’s niece.’

  Thought he was taking it better than expected.

  ‘Stew,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid that’s what we’ve got.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ It’s all anywhere like this ever has.

  I’ve eaten stew on three different planets, and in five different cities and half a dozen scuzzy little garrison towns, and it’s always that week’s leftovers, diced small and boiled to a tasteless pulp that even chillies do little to improve.

  ‘And send out more beer at the same time.’

  He nods, glances at me and goes to tell his niece the bad news.

  Leona heads inside with my warning in her ears. She’s ex-militia if anyone asks. Invalided out. I’m her boss and Anton’s my boss. That’s all she’s allowed to say. No one in that bar is really going to believe her.

  But then we don’t believe they’re mercenaries either.

  Senator Cos’s own little private army, is my guess. This prompts several questions. Like why does he think he needs an army firstly? And what is it Anton’s not telling me?

  The Icefelds are where we left them.

  Sergeant Leona’s armed all their security systems. So I stand these down and go over each bike. No new bugs that I can see. No little transponders telling anyone where we are. The clips are full. Our batteries are charged. The gyros work perfectly. We’ve even got the right pressure in the tyres.

  ‘Haven’t seen one of those for a while,’ says a voice. ‘Didn’t know that model was still in service.’ Sergeant Toro drops to a crouch beside me, and runs his hands over a fusion unit.