Day of the Damned

by David Gunn

  ‘Jaxx is my great-uncle,’ he says. ‘And you won’t—’

  Captain Vard smirks. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Believe me. We will.’

  Dragging this Vijay through the crowd around me, I bundle him up the stairs and park him next to the front door. He stays put without being told while I fetch the others.

  ‘We’re out of here.’

  Anton takes one look at our captive, and opens his mouth. So I jab him in the ribs with my elbow. He’s still trying to draw breath when I push past.

  ‘Sir?’ Sergeant Brandon asks.

  ‘Get that boat prepared. I want it fuelled, and ready to cast off. I want Kemzins if you’ve got nothing better, helmets, and ammo and flak jackets.’

  He salutes.

  The major is approaching.

  ‘Sir,’ he says, then regrets it. His gaze stiffens. ‘I need to know where you’re taking my prisoner.’

  Reaching across, I remove his pistol from its holster.

  ‘Believe me,’ I say, jacking its slide. ‘You don’t.’

  Two shots crack the night. From habit, I slip the discarded shells into my pocket.

  Vijay and Sef are looking aghast.

  Think that is the right word. Anyone else, I’d say they were scared shitless. Must be because I had Sergeant Leona march them round the corner into a narrow side street. Where I put two bullets into the wall beside their heads.

  Throwing both arms round the boy’s neck, Sef twists one foot behind his leg like she’s a piece of ivy and bursts into tears. We don’t have time for this.

  Wrapping my hand into her hair, I pull.

  She unpeels easily.

  The boy glares.

  ‘Don’t,’ Leona tells him. ‘He’ll kill you.’

  ‘Right,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s start with who you really are.’

  Turns out this Vijay Jaxx is the first cousin once removed of my Vijay Jaxx, and they’re both variously removed to another two Vijays in the Jaxx clan. I wonder if I knew about the eldest born of each clan branch sharing the same name and decide I did.

  A captain in the Death’s Head told me. At the time I was trying to blow up an enemy mother ship. So I probably didn’t pay enough attention.

  ‘We must save the others,’ the boy says.

  ‘What others?’

  ‘The other prisoners.’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘No,’ he says, and then stops. Understanding what I mean.

  ‘Maybe it’s a mistake,’ Sef says. ‘And they’ll be released later . . .’ No one bothers to correct her.

  ‘Spend tonight somewhere safe. Then get the fuck out of this city.’

  The boy’s eyes are wide. His glance at a dark doorway tells me he thinks we need a private conversation. Ordering Anton and Leona to cover the street, I walk the boy somewhere private.

  ‘Is that true?’ he demands. ‘General Jaxx has been arrested?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They said.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘That captain said Jaxx was arrested earlier this evening. But one of the prisoners said the general was ordered to surrender but is refusing and no one dares arrest him.’

  ‘Who’s meant to take his surrender? The Wolf?’

  ‘Apparently he refuses to be part of this . . .’ The boy hesitates. ‘And Sef says . . . She says Simone offered to help you find me?’

  ‘Why? What of it?’

  ‘Simone had me arrested.’

  ‘Shit. Sure it was her?’

  He nods. ‘I was in a café, with a friend. Simone turns up wanting Sef. I say she’s with Lady Isadora. As she leaves, Simone points me out to a girl.’

  ‘Describe her.’

  He does. Young, pretty, strangely dressed.

  It’s Paper Osamu.

  The boy can’t work out how Paper can order militia around. That’s because it hasn’t occurred to him she’s U/Free. And Simone’s a snake. All that fretting as Morgan tells her Vijay is trapped south of the river, and she knows he’s here all along.

  I have one last question. Although I know the answer already. ‘The other prisoners. Who are they?’

  They all have one thing in common.

  Obvious, really . . . They’re supporters of General Jaxx, hangers-on to his family, senators who have taken the new duke’s side against the Thomassi. This hasn’t occurred to the boy before, probably because he inhabits a world where the idea of not supporting the general is absurd.

  ‘That ring,’ he asks. ‘Can I see it?’

  His face falls and something bleak enters his eyes as he turns the ring over in his hand and squints at its jewelled ferox skull.

  ‘So it’s true,’ he says. ‘The Senate plan to ruin us, because of the murder of that Thomassi . . .’ He stares at me. ‘You know the one. He married Senator Wildeside’s daughter. But we weren’t behind his killing. The general swore an oath to that.’

  Did he now?

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Leave, and don’t come back until it’s safe.’

  ‘What if it’s never safe?’

  ‘Then you never come back.’

  He wonders if I understand what I’m saying. Then he nods and walks to where Serafina stands, and puts one arm round her shoulders. Whatever he says, it’s enough to make her follow without complaint.

  Chapter 28

  OCTOV WAS THE FIRST PERSON TO SET FOOT ON THIS PLANET. Every child in the empire knows this. He crashed onto its surface in a tiny one-man plane named Polygon and lived in a cave while the seeds he planted turned to cities and trees and oxygen and rivers.

  It was a bad seed that created the oil rain in the rift. And a good seed that grew Farlight, although a bad seed almost melted it before our glorious leader blew on the stone to make it cool again.

  Everything exists because OctoV grew it.

  As other planets were seeded so his garden grew. Until it spanned a quarter of the galaxy. But a snake-headed thief stole some of his stars. OctoV has been fighting since then to get them back.

  This is the story I was told as a child.

  Until I met Debro, I thought it true. When she realized how upset I was, she told me it wasn’t that it wasn’t true. It simply wasn’t true in the sense of happening. That’s Debro for you. It’s a creation myth. A post-singularity attempt to simplify something or other. I give up listening after the myth bit.

  *

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Anton demands.

  I nod. We need to get out of Farlight, but first we have to save the real Vijay. Saving a pretend one doesn’t count. I reckon Simone was right without knowing it – he’s on the south side of the river.

  Anton is unhappy with my plan. Mind you, he’s unhappy with everything. He’s been sulking since Serafina walked away without looking back, and that makes me think of something else.

  ‘Why didn’t you say there were other Vijays?’

  ‘Thought they were all off-planet.’

  Something feels wrong about that. Maybe Anton doesn’t want Vijay found, that’s what his behaviour says to me. But Aptitude dotes on General Jaxx’s son, and Debro seems to approve. So why would . . .?

  ‘We’re crossing that river.’

  ‘Sven . . .’

  ‘It’s not up for argument.’

  Catching my scowl, Leona glances away. Anton trails after us in silence as we head for the stone steps down to the jetty. Sergeant Brandon’s loaded everything on my list into the largest of the boats.

  Except a radio.

  ‘No radios, sir,’ he says. ‘Orders from above.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No point anyway. System’s down.’

  Taking a step back when I glare, he catches himself and adopts a combat stance instead. When I grin, the tension goes out of his eyes.

  OK, no radio it is.

  He has found us three standard-issue Kemzins, some ragged-looking flak jackets and a jumble of ready-loaded clips. We’ve even got a square of cheese, some dry tacos and a big bottle of beer.

  ‘Sir,’ he
says, stepping closer. ‘You think it’s true, sir? About . . .’ He hesitates. I don’t blame him. My brain won’t process the idea either.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘General Jaxx is my general.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Stepping back, he salutes. Then he unties our line and tosses it into the belly of our boat.

  ‘Take point . . .’

  Leona does, a rifle ported across her chest. Anton sits in the middle, still sulking. And I take the small tiller. The boat’s lights are taped. Not sure if Sergeant Brandon did that or if it was done anyway.

  We’re running the fusion unit from a truck, bolted crudely into place and too big for the cavity allowed. It’s a replacement for whatever was there before. A diesel motor from the look of the piping left over.

  The river is sluggish around us and smells stale.

  We have the whole stretch of dark water to ourselves. There are no other craft on its surface at all. Not even one of the police launches that usually plough the river at night.

  ‘Sir . . .’

  Troop trucks are gathering at the northern end of one bridge. As we watch, a light tank rolls along the embankment behind us to join them.

  Tracks clattering in the night.

  Looks like an AX 31.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Leona. ‘That’s . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’

  Other trucks begin blocking off the northern end of the next bridge along. A rumble of tracks says other tanks are on the move. As we watch, a scout car flicks on its searchlight and a beam stabs the sky.

  ‘Sven,’ says Anton. ‘This is a shit idea.’

  ‘Got a better one?’

  ‘Almost anything is better than this one.’

  ‘Sir,’ Leona says. She’s pointing at the sky. Locked in the beam of the searchlight is a vast cigar-shape, blocking off a hundred stars. It’s black, slung with a cargo pod, and running without lights. Largest zep I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Leona says.

  One side drops from the pod, and spins briefly, before crashing into a house on the side of the river we’re approaching. The figures who follow it spreadeagle to slow their fall.

  They jump without parachutes, wings or power packs.

  As a siren breaks the night and the bells of Farlight cathedral start ringing behind us, I expect the tanks to open fire, but they’re silent.

  ‘Sergeant,’ I say. ‘Concentrate on the South bank.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Leona unports her rifle as the embankment approaches and I steer for a flight of steps. There’s too much noise for anyone to hear our engine, and far too much going on in the sky for anyone to bother with the river. Leaping ashore, Leona drags us in and ties our rope.

  ‘Take these,’ I tell her.

  She catches an extra three clips, one after another. Ceramic hollow-point. The standard issue for militia everywhere. She thrusts them into her belt, then drops out her clip and checks it’s fully loaded.

  Should have done that already.

  Anton catches the weapon I toss him.

  Jacketing up, Leona velcros the tags at the side and pulls down the ceramic skirt to protect her thighs. Anton joins her. There is no way I’m going to fit into the flak jacket that Sergeant Brandon found me, so I leave mine behind.

  I’m glad the real Vijay Jaxx doesn’t plan to marry Sef. Apart from the fact she’s a brain-dead idiot, it would be a waste to rescue him, only to have to rip his heart out myself.

  Anton’s staring at the zep again.

  ‘Silver Fist?’ he asks.

  That was my first thought. But even assuming an elite force of the Enlightened are suicidal enough to attack OctoV in his capital, how could they get this far in-system, and why has no intelligence reached Farlight of their coming?

  Chapter 29

  ANTON’S NEXT GUESS IS MERCENARIES. HE’S WRONG. THERE are a dozen reasons but I don’t have time to list them all. Although top of the list is that mercenaries are mercenary. If you’re in it for the money, you don’t throw yourself out of zeps without a parachute, even low-flying zeps.

  Mercenaries don’t want to face death. They want other people to face death. They like living. That’s the only way you get to bank the gold.

  ‘Up here . . .’

  We climb steps from the water’s edge. Knives in our belts and Kemzins in our hands. Soldiers are meant to like K19s. But they’re cheap cookie-cutter shit. If those were mercenaries, we could kill a couple and arm ourselves with something better.

  Bells are still ringing in the cathedral across the river.

  Don’t know yet if it’s a warning or a signal.

  Sergeant Brandon told me most of the Death’s Head are off-planet. And everyone knows the Legion aren’t allowed near Farlight anyway. Plus, half the militia are on a training exercise outside the city boundaries. The rest are here.

  So, some are on an exercise. Others aren’t.

  Anyone can see that’s bad.

  A square waits up ahead. With a church on its northern edge, and a decaying colonnade around the other three sides. Uplights usually pick out the clock tower but the whole square is in darkness.

  The little statue of OctoV looks weird unlit.

  No light either on a statue under the colonnade, of a young girl with a cryptic smile and perfect breasts. She’s nude. Most statues in this city are. This one looks like Aptitude. That’s no surprise, the model was her great-grandmother.

  Didn’t know more than one had been made.

  I touch its arse for luck. Me, and a thousand men before. Most of her is a greasy green. But her right buttock is shiny enough to have been cast yesterday.

  ‘Friend of yours, sir?’ Leona asks.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Our glorious leader never told me to betray General Jaxx. He did, however, order me not to tell the general – or anyone else – that I was working for him. That he, our glorious leader, was my boss. Of course OctoV is everybody’s boss. He just doesn’t talk to everybody.

  He talks to me.

  ‘Sir?’ Leona says.

  ‘Thinking,’ I tell her.

  ‘About what the fuck we’re doing here?’ Anton asks.

  ‘No. Why the fuck this is happening.’

  Nothing political occurs on Farlight without OctoV’s approval. The laws that underwrite this city don’t come more basic than that.

  ‘Not mercenaries?’ Anton checks.

  Sergeant Leona and I shake our heads together. Not mercenaries. Not Silver Fist, or any of the Uplifted and Enlightened’s shock troops. Every time the list gets shorter, it gets nastier. And when we run into the only choice left, it gets very nasty indeed.

  ‘Sir,’ says Leona. ‘Three o’clock.’

  When a figure slinks under the arch on the far side of the square I’m beyond surprise. Leona’s not. Flicking down her visor, she stares in disbelief.

  Silver skin, hollow chest, a face like someone slit its nostrils and hacked off its ears. The one we faced at Wildeside was obviously half grown. This one really stinks. Even from here we can smell its vinegary stench.

  ‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Let me go and ask.’

  Anton scowls. ‘It’s a fury. Go for the guts. Don’t let it get close.’

  She glances at him.

  ‘Feeds through its fingers.’

  Leona shivers.

  The fury is focused on a man a hundred paces away. The poor bastard hasn’t seen it yet. When he does, he tries to run.

  You can’t outrun furies. Well, maybe I could, given a head start. He doesn’t stand a chance. Closing the gap in easy strides, the creature slams its fist into the man’s back, breaking his ribs and dropping him to his knees. The second strike uses straight fingers that split flesh and displace bone as they reach for his heart.

  We hear him scream from where we stand.

  Leona’s first shot kills the man and the fury steps back, puzzled.

  Her se
cond, third and fourth shots release what blood it has swallowed from the fury’s gut. Although it’s hard to tell if the creature even notices. All Leona does is attract its attention.

  ‘Don’t waste your ammunition.’

  ‘Sven,’ Anton says.

  ‘I mean it.’ Nodding towards the creature, which now waits like a coiled spring, while it decides whether to attack us or a group of civilians pretending to be invisible against a far wall, I say, ‘Does it look injured to you?’

  To me it just looks irritated.

  We win the contest of who it wants to kill next.

  ‘Behind me,’ I order. Anton decides the order applies to him as well.

  The creature racing towards me is used to its prey running, so it doesn’t expect me to step forward, and stops when it should attack.

  Bizarrely, that’s bad, because now I’m off its list of targets.

  It wants Leona instead. Trying to move round me, it sidesteps, as Leona takes bigger ones to stay behind me. Fighting one-armed is hard. Doing so against a fury should qualify as suicide.

  Well, for anyone but me.

  But, like I said, the fury doesn’t want to fight me. All it wants is for me to get the fuck out of its way so it can kill Leona. As it tries to push past, I side-stamp its knee. Anything without steel joints would be down, but it keeps standing. So I slam the Kemzin into its throat and hear the rifle’s plastic stock break.

  The damn thing barely rocks on its heels.

  Been a while since I fought anything my size. And the lack of my combat arm leaves me feeling . . . lopsided. That thought just has time to flick through my head before the fury decides it’s facing an enemy after all.

  Bemusement turns to . . .

  Anger is the wrong word. It’s colder than that.

  I watch it happen and – a split second ahead of it happening – watch the fury’s red eyes flick to the rag round my upper arm. That is what’s holding it off. Not my stepping forward, not my size.

  ‘Sven . . .’

  ‘It’s sir,’ I say.

  Sergeant Leona’s holding out the rusting abattoir pistol. Damn thing’s so large she can barely lift it with both hands.

  ‘Let me get back to you.’