Day of the Damned

by David Gunn

  She is, however, Ajac’s cousin and Neen’s lover, much to Shil’s disgust. That’s nothing new, because pretty much everything is to Shil’s disgust. So we’ve got Iona who I don’t expect, but we’re still missing—

  Neen nods upwards.

  A strange little balcony overlooks us, fed from different stairs. It has a low balustrade with fat pillars. Between two of these I see a flash of red hair. And peeking from behind a pillar’s base is the muzzle of an 8.59 calibre Z93z long-range sniper rifle. The new model, the one with the adjustable cheek piece, ×3–×12–×50 spotting scope, laser sights and floating barrel.

  No idea how Rachel managed to get up there.

  But I’m impressed she did. Not going to tell her that, obviously. Rachel’s our sniper. As the saying goes, a good sniper is worth ten troopers. In Rachel’s case you can make that a hundred. Snipers are high-maintenance and so are redheads. Put them together . . .

  Rachel’s as high-rent as all fuck.

  The militia are watching us. Uncertain which side we’re really on. After all, we’re wearing official armbands. The crowd is watching the militia. Mobs need simplicity. Kill these people, sack that house, burn this building. Too much complexity muddles them.

  ‘Sven,’ Leona mutters. ‘You’re being cynical.’

  ‘No. It’s the truth.’

  At the rear, someone mutters Colonel Vijay’s name and we’re back in business. Voices take up the mutter. And the voices get louder until they become a shout. The crowd has re-found its focus.

  ‘Give us Jaxx,’ someone shouts. ‘We know he’s up there.’

  ‘Death to Jaxx.’

  They’re back in a place they understand.

  ‘Boss?’ says Neen.

  It’s my call. Obviously it’s my call. We’re outnumbered, which means nothing. In battle experience this lot don’t come close. And we’re better armed. Although Neen still holds the SIG-37. He must realize that, because he holds it out.

  ‘About fucking time,’ the gun says loudly.

  The militia and the crowd go suddenly quiet.

  ‘Aptitude OK?’ I ask.

  ‘You think I’d be here if she wasn’t?’ It scans the ballroom, doing a little dance with its diodes. ‘Fifteen Kemzins, three side arms, a shotgun (unloaded), assorted kitchenware, pry bars and bits of scaffolding . . .’

  My gun sounds disappointed.

  ‘Hell,’ it says. ‘Hardly worth getting out of bed.’

  ‘Behave.’

  ‘Aptitude didn’t even let me kill rabbits.’

  Carl’s grinning. ‘Debro sent it back. Think she thought it was a bad influence. Lent me her copter.’

  Wondered how he got here so fast.

  ‘Jaxx,’ a voice says clearly.

  A small man at the back, dressed in a filthy shirt and wearing a campesino hat. Doubt he’s ever lived in a favela, or would recognize a barrio if he got knifed in one. His skin is too fresh and he looks well fed.

  He scowls when he sees I’ve spotted him.

  I consider shooting the man with the campesino hat. But then we’d have a battle on our hands. So I weigh my other options. The thought stops me dead. This must be strategy. My old lieutenant used to talk about that.

  Strategy is working out how high to bet on each hand.

  ‘You,’ I say. ‘Come here.’

  The man looks behind him. Realizes I mean him and considers losing himself in the crowd. Only it’s not big enough. And Rachel’s already targeting him. I see it in the way the suppressor of her Z93z shifts. Those around him see it too. In the little red dot that blossoms right in the middle of his forehead.

  ‘Shit,’ someone says. ‘Sniper.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Juan . . .’

  ‘Bullshit,’ my gun says. ‘Try again.’

  The man looks at the SIG. He wants to say that’s illegal technology and he’s right. Only how would a man in a campesino hat, who comes from the favelas, know what’s on the banned weapons list?

  Unless he’s not from the favelas.

  ‘Well?’ I say.

  He gives me a name.

  Since the gun remains silent I guess it’s real.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘You’re leading this group, right?’

  The man’s not happy to be the centre of attention like this. And some of those around us, mostly militia, are scowling at him. They’re the ones who didn’t realize they were being led.

  ‘We’re all together,’ he says. ‘We want the same thing.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Vijay Jaxx . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  He looks at me, eyes opening wider. Wondering whether to appeal to the militia CO, he glances from the officer’s face to us, and decides it’s a bad idea. So he answers my question instead.

  ‘He’s the general’s son.’

  Indigo Jaxx is dead, his house burnt and his city in ruins. But his enemies still call him the general and stand a little bit straighter as they say it. Weird fucking place, Farlight.

  Think I’ve said that before.

  Leona tries to catch my gaze. Who knows what those insane blue eyes are meant to be saying? Not me.

  ‘Sir,’ she says.

  Neen’s wondering if he’s got a rival. Those chevrons on her flak jacket have him worried. And I don’t imagine he’s missed the casually competent way she holds her light machine gun.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘Perhaps we should . . .’

  ‘Perhaps we should what?’

  ‘Negotiate, sir.’ She flicks her gaze towards the stairs. A smile crosses her face and she nods. Something’s going on inside that head. It would be good if she let me know what.

  ‘Neen,’ I say. ‘Anyone moves, kill them.’

  He snaps me a salute.

  Grabbing Leona by the arm, I march her out of the others’ hearing.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I’ll hurt you a fuck of a lot more if you don’t tell me what’s going on.’

  She really shouldn’t grin at a threat like that. ‘I believe you would,’ she says, sounding impressed.

  ‘Count on it,’ the gun tells her.

  She files that for later. ‘Colonel Vijay’s done. I felt the cores die. He’s making for a different fire ladder. I imagine he’s trying to reach the roof next door.’

  ‘You can sense that stuff?’

  ‘Jacked a couple of lenz.’

  I’ll take her word for it.

  We reach a simple deal with the militia CO. His troopers and the crowd will part to let us leave. And we let them live and make their way upstairs unhindered. It’s going to take them a while to reach the penthouse.

  When they do, Colonel Jaxx will be gone.

  The little man with the campesino hat grins. He thinks we’re cutting our losses rather than fight. From the look on Neen’s face, he thinks the same. Although he’s not grinning about it.

  Chapter 37

  ‘THIS IS SERGEANT LEONA,’ I TELL THEM. ‘SHE’S AUX UNTIL WE find someone better.’

  When Leona scowls, Shil shoots her a sympathetic glance, and I have one less problem on my hands.

  ‘Guess that makes you senior sergeant.’

  Neen finds his grin.

  ‘Shil, you’re the new corporal.’

  My old one died, twice . . . It’s a messy story.

  Rachel has removed the suppressor from her rifle, now she’s breaking the barrel from the stock. She slides the barrel into a long pocket in her jacket and slings the stock under one arm.

  The Aux are booted, suited and wearing helmets.

  But I’ve still got two problems.

  ‘Where’s Anton?’

  Neen looks at Shil, who glances at the dirt. Rachel decides to check her stock hangs correctly. And Ajac simply looks worried I might ask him. Only Iona’s dumb enough to speak. ‘He had things to do,’ she says. ‘Said he’d catch us later.’

  ‘Did he say how he’d find us?’

/>   Must hear something in my voice. Because her smile fades when she realizes the others are carefully not looking at her. ‘No, sir,’ she says. ‘Sorry, sir. Not that I heard . . .’

  ‘And where’s Emil?’

  Otherwise known as Emil Bonafont de Max Bonafont, Death’s Head captain and a traitor whose life we saved on Hekati. Although spared may be a better way of putting it. He was our newest recruit. Newer even than Iona and Ajac.

  ‘Missing, sir.’

  ‘Neen,’ I say. ‘Care to explain?’

  ‘My fault, sir. Should have been paying better attention.’

  He means Emil slipped into the crowd. The Ninth Death’s Head, Emil’s regiment, will be heroes now. Supporters of a glorious revolution that has finally arrived. Instead of the traitors they were yesterday.

  If I were Emil I might do the same. But I’m not and he must know I’ll kill him if we meet again.

  We’re outside the hotel now. The street is crowded, but less than it was. The air is hot and stinks of blood and shit and river. A faint wash of sunlight outlines the roofline behind us. As we look, a street light comes on, and a murmur breaks like a wave over the crowd as more and more lights come on around us.

  ‘Not good,’ Leona mutters.

  I can work that out for myself. You don’t withdraw troops or bring power back to a city until you’re certain you have it locked down. My helmet’s earpiece starts crackling as the semi AI built into its neck pad returns to life and begins scanning the emergency frequencies.

  Although it doesn’t matter which one it scans.

  They all say the same. An important announcement will be made shortly. From the way my team have their heads tipped to one side, their helmets are picking up the same promise.

  ‘You’re fucking dead.’

  That gets their attention.

  ‘All of you,’ I say. ‘A sniper could have shot the lot.’

  Neen wants to tell me it’s not true. Politely, obviously. But he knows it is and surprises me by apologizing. It’s been a long night for everyone, we’re not through this yet, and from the armbands they wear it’s obvious they did their share of killing on the way down.

  In our ears a voice is telling us that a new dawn has broken for the peoples of the so-called Octovian Empire. No longer will we be oppressed by evil members of the high clans and their leeches among the merchants. Prince Sebastian Thomassi promises this in person.

  ‘Prince,’ Leona says, sounding outraged.

  The others look at her.

  No longer will we be denied our potential. Uplifted technology will be made available to Farlight, and to all the other worlds newly freed from the evil grip of OctoV, self-styled emperor and stealer of hope. Those who wish to become Uplifted will be granted that priceless opportunity.

  ‘Uplifted,’ Neen says.

  Prince Sebastian Thomassi promises this in person too.

  I bet he does. There are no prizes for guessing where the furies came from and who financed this revolution. Our newest recruit looks stunned, all the colour draining from her face as she stumbles, then rocks backwards and forwards.

  Shil shoots me a glare when I wrap my arm round Leona. And an even filthier one when our new sergeant throws her arms round my neck and buries her face in my chest. ‘Wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ Leona sobs.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  Shaking her head, she whispers, ‘This isn’t what I agreed at all.’

  Chapter 38

  ‘SVEN . . . THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE HERE.’

  Carl goes missing between the hotel and where we are now. Maybe he figures he’s paid his debt. Maybe he simply disappears for a piss, loses track of us and can’t find his way back. I get to keep his coat; he gets to keep the ferox-skull armband, the side arm Neen gave him and the Kemzin he picked up on his way into the centre.

  Having lost Carl, we find Anton.

  It’s one of those nights.

  Or rather he finds us, standing in the early dawn, staring at what remains of the general’s house. Flames have gutted Jaxx’s mansion and reduced it to a smouldering shell. An impressive, five-storeyed shell, with half its roof in place, and a twist of marble stairs, seen through the hole that tank made below in the wall.

  But a shell all the same.

  We’re here because I’m worried Colonel Vijay will want one last look at where he grew up and his father died. Don’t know if the colonel knows about Sebastian Thomassi declaring himself a prince. Or the traitorous deal Clan Thomassi has agreed with the Uplifted. If he does, then the colonel knows he’s a dead man for sure. If he doesn’t, he must still suspect it.

  General Shadow Luc is no longer his worst enemy.

  When the UFree want you dead there’s nowhere in the galaxy to hide. I’m beginning to realize that. We need a plan. When you’re up against the UFree or the Uplifted and Enlightened it has to be a big plan. When you’re up against both together . . .

  Sweat sticks my shirt to my back, and the morning air is hot and static around me. Iona’s already vomited once. She now looks as if she’s about to do it again. Shil’s scowl has closed down to an empty blankness. Even Neen looks shocked by the carnage around us.

  ‘Fuck, sir . . .’

  He doesn’t bother to finish.

  The whole area south of the river stinks of death. Each new street is a makeshift abattoir. We stand, watching Jaxx’s house, with our backs to other houses that smell like open-doored butchers, and the stench is impossible to ignore. Walking up to Iona, I punch her lightly in the stomach.

  She vomits up the rest of last night’s food.

  ‘Find her some water,’ I tell Neen. It’s bad enough he brought Iona along without her having hysterics on us.

  Between drinking and squabbling, the civilians in the square wait for the mansion’s roof to fall in. As they do so, a scout car pushes through them, as if they were as much a part of the stench as the air itself.

  Obviously, it’s been a long wait. Most of the crowd are falling-down drunk. One man sits in the gutter, beating out a march on his naked belly. When he sees Leona look, he laughs, and laughs louder when she looks away.

  ‘Fuckwit,’ Rachel says.

  When the roof falls, the crowd cheers.

  Sweeping his field-glasses over the crowd, the man in the scout car ignores their noise. Seems the Wolf has the same idea as us.

  ‘Looking for Vijay,’ Anton mutters.

  Think that is what he says.

  Hard to tell, given the mess he’s in.

  Helmet missing, side arm minus its clip. Bottom lip split. Blood from a broken nose splashing his flak jacket’s urban camouflage. One of his eyes so badly bruised its lid is inside out.

  He’s sliced the bruising to release blood.

  Either that, or it burst.

  ‘Iona . . .’

  Neen’s squeeze hurries forward. Large breasts, generous hips. I must have been mad. Having someone this attractive in the unit is a shit idea.

  ‘Boss,’ she says.

  ‘It’s sir.’

  Iona looks from under her lashes. She’s checking if I’m still cross.

  ‘Boss when we’re off duty. Sir when we’re on duty. Got it?’

  She nods enthusiastically.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Sew up Anton’s cut eye.’

  Pulling thread from her pocket, she hesitates. Turns out, she’s deciding where to start. Her choice is good. Tacking the middle, she ties it off. You stand a better chance of getting a clean scar that way.

  A couple of loops close the cut.

  She sews the bridge of his nose without being told.

  When she’s done, Iona returns her thread to her pocket, puts the needle back in its case and risks a glance at Neen. He smiles and she smiles back. Shil sees me watch her watching her brother’s first serious lover and scowls. My sour grin only makes her own scowl fiercer.

  Leona looks on with interest.

  ‘He’s going,’ Anton says.

  Seen it already.
That tells me three facts. One, General Luc hasn’t seen us. Unless we’re not that important in his scheme of things. And two and three . . . Either the Wolf thinks he’s waited long enough, or he knows something we don’t. And the Wolf strikes me as a man who waits as long as it takes.

  ‘We’re moving out.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Neen says.

  ‘Want to tell me where you’ve been?’

  I wait till we’re moving before asking Anton my question. Leona and Rachel are far enough ahead to be out of hearing. Shil’s buried in her own thoughts five paces behind and Iona’s five paces behind that. She’s going to be our medic.

  The crowd lets us through without really knowing why. Neen takes point, with Ajac at the rear, because it’s time he started earning his place.

  ‘Went to get this.’

  Reaching into his pocket, Anton produces a small black disk. It lights when his thumb brushes the middle and he checks no one has seen.

  ‘Five million credits,’ he tells me.

  Must see the shock in my eyes, because he shrugs. ‘Debro’s escape fund. Figured I should collect it.’ Anton smiles sourly. ‘Only Debro,’ he says, ‘could glue it under the leg of a cousin’s chair for safety.’

  ‘It’s tied to her DNA?’

  ‘Unformatted,’ he tells me. ‘Totally open.’

  Fuck . . . I could kill him, lose myself in this crowd, talk my way off-planet and drink myself stupid, surrounded by the most beautiful whores five million credits can buy. A house the size of a city, a hot tub that can take ten, plus me.

  ‘Put it away,’ I say. ‘Before someone mugs you.’

  ‘Not likely,’ he says. ‘With you around.’

  Stupid bastard means it. Leaving Anton to his fortune, I push forward until I reach Neen’s side.

  ‘Copters,’ he says.

  The first we’ve seen since this began.

  Three black wasps hang over the river bank, door gunners hanging from open hatches, their long-magazine Kemzins tied with bungee cords to the sills above. One of the copters has an underslung thermal scanner sweeping the roofs. When three wasps become five, I know it’s serious.

  ‘Jaxx,’ says Neen, flicking frequencies. ‘They’ve got him cornered.’

  ‘Vijay?’ I say.

  Neen looks surprised at my question.