by David Gunn
The colonel is down in a valley with the rest of the Aux.
I have told them he’s eighteen and not here from choice. They are to cut him the slack due any new recruit. Enough to stop him killing himself; not enough to get them killed instead. In the meantime, they are to salute him, feed him and obey his orders wherever possible. As for the Jaxx thing, they’d be stupid not to work that out for themselves.
‘Sir,’ says Franc. ‘When you’re ready.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Steady yourself.’
Reaching out, I grip one bare hip and drag my knife from one side of her abdomen to the other. Franc gasps, swallows the pain and stands straighter. I am impressed. Not least that she keeps her hands to her sides to leave herself open for the next slash.
Instinct is a bitch to fight.
My second cut is slightly higher than the first, and my third higher still. There’s a fourth and a fifth. Until blood trickles down Franc’s inner thigh like piss.
‘Don’t move,’ I tell her.
Kneeling to scoop up grit, I rub it into the cuts. Dirt will raise the edges of the wounds, make sure they never fade. She has her scars back, and with them will come her edge. Or so she believes.
Stepping back, she salutes. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘My pleasure.’
A few months back someone offered to remove the whip marks from my shoulders. I refused, because some lessons need remembering. Scars make us what we are, people like Franc and me. She nods when I say this, pleased that I understand.
Now’s the moment to ask my question.
‘Franc,’ I say. Must be something in my voice because she goes still.
‘Sir?’
‘You were trained. Weren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She nods. ‘We all were. We were Uplift militia, before . . .’ Before they were captured, told to change sides and became cannon fodder for the glorious Octovian army instead.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Before that.’
She looks at me. ‘From birth,’ she says finally. ‘That’s the way it works.’
‘To be Haze’s bodyguard?’
‘His lover, his bodyguard, his servant, his possession, until death . . .’ Her mouth twists. Her eyes are bleak. ‘He rejected me.’
‘Franc.’
In short bitter sentences she describes Haze running away from home. She follows, because her training drives her to. Only when she catches up, Haze tells her she is free. Her life is her own.
So she’s here. Because here is where Haze is.
‘You’re here,’ I say, ‘because you’re in the Aux.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she says. ‘That too.’
As she turns, I see the dagger sheath between her shoulders and realize why she never takes it off. Unbuckling it probably makes her vomit. Knives keep Franc happy and make her secure. It’s called imprinting, and hers is an extreme version of what we do to new recruits.
Sounds like she has had it for ever.
Reaching for her singlet, Franc hesitates. Probably nothing, I tell myself. But I catch her sideways glance. Her blood’s on my hands and my shirt is in the dirt, because it’s filthy enough as it is. And she’s already naked . . .
Meet a woman you like, make conversation.
Can’t remember who told me that. Either my old lieutenant or a whore. Make conversation. It convinces women you’re not only interested in one thing, even if you are.
‘You know something?’
‘No, sir,’ says Franc. She waits, singlet in her hand.
‘Can’t remember my first fuck,’ I tell her. ‘Can’t remember my first kiss or my first drink. But I sure as hell remember my first knife.’
Franc smiles, and for a second looks like someone else. ‘Really, you can’t remember your first . . . ?’
‘Happened the same night as my first drink.’
She laughs.
‘You make that blade?’ I ask.
Sliding the dagger from its sheath between her shoulders, Franc finds its balance without even looking. ‘Stole it,’ she says.
It’s my turn to smile.
‘Sir,’ says Franc. ‘Permission to speak freely?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You think our time’s come?’
Standing up, I walk her to the edge of a drop. It falls for a hundred paces onto jagged rock. If I said jump, she would jump. No doubt about it. ‘When I was a child,’ I say, ‘an officer put a pistol to my head. It misfired, so he kept me as his orderly.’
‘That was your time?’
‘Everything since is extra.’
‘Those scars,’ says Franc. ‘They were my time.’ She hesitates, and then shrugs, mostly to herself. ‘Killed my uncle, my three brothers and a cousin. They thought I’d just let them do what they wanted.’
‘They tried to rape you?’
‘Tried to stab Haze.’
My surprise must be obvious.
‘If he dies I go free,’ she explains. ‘They thought they were helping. Not a single one of them believed I’d protect Haze against my family if that was what it took.’
———
She weighs next to nothing. Our kiss only ends when I bite her lip hard enough to draw blood. She bites back, and then she’s tugging at the buckle on my belt and fumbling the fastening on my trousers.
‘Oh my God,’ she says. So I put the rest in.
This time when she bites, she means it. A second later, she’s spitting and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Could have warned me.’
Bad blood. What, she couldn’t work that out for herself?
Wrapping my prosthetic fingers into the webbing across her back, I grab her buttocks with my other hand and yank her against me, feeling her legs twist behind mine to bring her closer. We are standing naked on the edge of a drop, with a rising wind buffeting us. A dirt path to one side and certain death to the other. I’m not going to move unless she asks me, and she is not going to ask me.
Licking my fingers, I reach under her.
Franc yelps.
When I persist, she sinks her teeth into my chest.
This time round she wipes her mouth against the unbroken skin of my shoulder. Then she decides to live with what my hand is doing and locks her legs tighter. A second later, they’re locked tighter still and she’s raking bloody lines down my back.
I’ve met better-behaved wildcats . . .
‘Don’t laugh,’ says Franc eventually. That’s when she can say anything at all. ‘Take next watch,’ I say, lifting her off me.
She nods gratefully. Replacing Shil on guard is going to be easier than returning to the fire and the knowing glances of the others. They’ll have heard us. It would be impossible for them not to . . .
‘And you, sir?’
‘I’m staying up here for a while.’
Chapter 22
SOMEWHERE IN THE DARKNESS IS WHAT WE ARE HERE FOR . . . Unless the U/Free have it wrong? I consider that for a moment then reject it. If the U/Free say their observer is here, then he’s here. But if he is here why can’t I find him?
Sucking my teeth, I dig into my pockets for a smoke.
Cigars are illegal in Letogratz. You can change sex, kill yourself repeatedly, have four tits, knock a hundred years off your age and become someone else, but you can’t light up . . .
Weird people the U/Free.
I fold my fingers round my lighter to hide its flame. Sucking deep, I release smoke into the coldness of the night. The wind’s switched directions, the stars are high and the temperature up here is still dropping.
It’s the silence I like.
The silence and the night noises. I knew them all in the desert. The scuttle of lizards and the rattle of snakes. The high call of raptors, the almost hidden padding of wildcats as they creep towards sand hoppers.
When a twig breaks on a path, I free the catch on my holster.
I know where Franc is. She’s a hundred paces below, to the right of my rocky outcrop.
The others are sleeping in a hut so close I could walk three paces and drop spit on its roof. A ruined vegetable garden slopes up to the hut. A wall encloses the garden and Franc stands watch by its gate.
Neen chose the position earlier. It’s his job to do stuff like that.
‘Show yourself . . .’ When no one answers, I say it again, louder.
A few seconds later Colonel Vijay stumbles out of the darkness. And stands blinking in the moonlight. Sleepy, I think, until I realize he’s embarrassed. Seems he heard Franc yowling. Although he is far too polite to mention it.
‘Sven . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I wanted . . .’ He stops, gazes at my cigar.
‘You like one, sir?’
Colonel Vijay takes my last cigar, folds his fingers round the flame of my lighter. A second later, he’s coughing his guts out. ‘Sorry,’ he says, although I’m not sure why he’s apologizing. ‘They’re . . .’
‘Cheap, sir.’
‘I was going to say, stronger than I’m used to.’
‘Also cheap.’
His smile is uncertain. ‘Thought I might stand watch in your place,’ he says. ‘If you think that’s a good idea.’
It’s a bloody stupid idea. Colonel Vijay standing watch means we’ll need two guards, Vijay himself, and someone to watch over him.
‘That’s a kind offer, sir.’
‘But a useless one?’
‘Not exactly. More . . .’
He sighs.
We walk downhill together.
My temper holds as long as it takes us to reach the gate.
Franc’s there all right, a knife in the dirt at her feet for easy reach, her rifle ported across her chest. She’s crouched low and watching the treeline intently. Hearing steps, she spins round to see me. It’s not Colonel Vijay’s presence that knocks the grin from her face. My scowl is enough.
‘What’s that?’
I know what it is. It’s a fucking Kemzin 19 pulse rifle leaning against a wall.
A pair of boots sits below it. They are rotten with sweat and bloody round the ankle. But all our boots are rotten with sweat and bloody round the ankle. What gives these ones away is the fact they’re clean. Only Shil washes her boots each evening.
‘Tell me she didn’t . . .’
‘Sir,’ says Franc. I take that to mean she did.
‘How long ago?’ asks Colonel Vijay.
Don’t know why he’s asking. Each watch lasts two hours. If we’re here and her rifle’s there, then it’s two hours exactly. Unless she hung around first talking to Franc. And there are reasons why that is unlikely.
‘Why?’ I demand.
Franc doesn’t answer. Perhaps she can’t?
‘You quarrelled?’
‘Yes,’ says Franc, before changing it to, ‘No, sir.’
Other ranks loyalty. The army runs on it.
‘About . . . ?’ demands Colonel Vijay, and then shuts up. It’s obvious.
‘Sir,’ says Franc. ‘Shil’s only been gone a few minutes. She wanted a walk and the only thing out there is foxes, sir. I’m sure . . .’
‘You’ve seen them?’ asks Colonel Vijay.
‘Sir?’
‘You saw these foxes?’
‘No, sir,’ she says. ‘But I’ve heard them.’
‘Where?’ I say.
She points to three different places in the treeline below.
The SIG-37 is out of my holster before I realize it. Jacking the slide, I engage night vision and pick flechette. The tightness to my gut has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with what is about to happen.
‘Wake everyone,’ I tell Franc. To Colonel Vijay, I say, ‘I need you to hold this position, sir. Stay back, keep low . . .’
He nods, already setting the sights on his own pistol.
When Franc hesitates, words still unspoken, I drag her from her crouch and push her in the direction of the hut. A second later, she’s gone.
Chapter 23
SOMETIMES YOU DON’T RECOGNIZE DEATH UNTIL IT BEATS THE door down. Others, you know it’s out there before it arrives. You can taste death on the wind. That is what they say in the Legion. It can take whole forts, the taste of death.
Once conscripts go flat-eyed and sullen you might as well kill them anyway, because they are going to die. It’s never happened on my watch and it’s never going to. But standing where two paths cross beyond the gate, I can taste death on the night wind, and it tastes metallic, like blood and blades.
‘Situation?’
‘Pincer movement,’ says the SIG. ‘Three hostiles left, three right, both groups closing on a target. Another four hostiles ten seconds behind.’
‘Highly probable?’
‘Certain,’ it says. Certainty burns battery.
In this case, I can live with it.
‘And their target?’
‘Tiring . . .’
‘Cover me,’ I shout over my shoulder.
Colonel Vijay makes the signal for understood.
The slope gives me enough speed to turn a stumble into a roll that takes me under the enemy’s opening shot. Coming up, I find myself half kneeling and sight my gun.
An ejército goes down, tripping the man behind.
The man who trips turns back to see what happened and dies. Flechette is silent, that is what makes it so effective. ‘Only twelve to go.’ The SIG’s voice is sour.
A pistol shot comes from the gate above.
‘Eleven,’ I say.
A hostile spots me and fires. Throwing myself sideways, I get off two shots before taking cover half a dozen paces away. We are down to ten attackers, their quarry and me.
The Aux have just opened up. So has an enemy sharpshooter.
‘Sniper on the roof,’ warns the gun.
‘Take him.’
An oak tree explodes, and he falls to earth like a cheap firework. The sight of his overcooked body is too much for one of our attackers. He dies on his knees with a mouth full of vomit, and one of Rachel’s moly-coated specials in his throat. Dropping out a clip, I slam a new one into place.
Someone’s shouting at Shil to run and it sounds like Colonel Vijay. She’s five steps ahead of the first man chasing her. Nine steps after I kill him. Fifteen paces when Rachel kills the man behind that. Only six ejército left. It is enough to make the others hesitate.
‘Run faster,’ someone shouts. I realize it’s me.
I put a flechette into a runner and roll sideways in time to see grit explode from where I’d been. ‘Night sights,’ says the gun.
Night sights? These are ejército.
A second incendiary takes it down to four as a second sniper drops to his death rather than burn alive. I blip away a clip of hollow-point, drop it out and insert another.
‘Sven?’ It’s Colonel Vijay. Out of position.
‘Back to the fucking wall.’
He stares at me, looks at Shil and retreats. When I glance round, he’s keeping low and weaving frantically. Obviously works, because he makes it without taking a hit. Bloody idiot.
Shil is clearly visible in the moonlight. So I stand up and free fire as she staggers past. Her stumbling is made worse by bleeding feet and that afternoon’s forced march. Her face has enough thorn cuts to need stitching.
‘Earth to Sven,’ says my gun. ‘Anybody in?’
‘Wait.’
An ejército breaks from the right. He is firing as fast as he can jack the slide on his . . . single-shot rifle?
Brains splatter the bush behind him.
It’s a good shot by Rachel, but I want one of these bastards alive. I have questions, like snipers? rifles? flak jackets? The last time I saw them, these men were riding ponies and waving swords.
‘Come on,’ says my gun. ‘We’re being outflanked.’
Yeah, I can hear them.
As I begin my retreat, with the SIG held low, a man rises from a ditch beside me. He is carrying the blade I expected them all to be carrying. Ducking l
ow, he goes for my guts. So I spin away, blocking his jab on my arm.
The ejército knows what he is doing. He knows a knife is as good as a gun in a fight this close. He just doesn’t expect me to agree.
‘Sven,’ says the SIG. ‘You’re not—’ It sighs. ‘Fuck,’ it says. ‘You are.’
———
Dropping the gun, I rip free a blade. I’d like to say it’s old, that it has saved my life in back alleys and bars. But it’s militia standard issue. A double-edged blade with a blood runnel to ease suction. The man grins, because my knife is half the size of his.
‘You die,’ he says.
Shaking my head, I grin back.
What with not having marched bloody miles and fought two battles already, he is fresher than I am. Also, broad-shouldered and muscled. In addition, he is fast. At least, he’s fast for his size. But he’s not me.
So when he stabs, I take the blow in my side. And watch his eyes widen as I grab his fist to hold the blade in place. He is too flustered to see me rear back my head. Slamming my forehead into his nose ends the fight. Although he’s not dead until I rip free his blade, and return it deep into his own throat.
‘Sven,’ Shil shouts a warning.
‘That’s sir,’ I say, without thinking.
Then I’m on my knees. When I try to straighten, something slows me. No one has a grip on my shoulders, but I’m slow, way too slow . . . Someone is screaming, but I don’t think it’s me.
There is a hole below my chest. Silvery coils slide out of my fingers as I try to stop them falling. Some bits of me are missing. I know this, because a length of fat gut lies at my feet, covered in grass and grit.
‘Sir.’
‘Should have kept going,’ I say.
Dropping to her knees Shil stares into my face.
‘Man down,’ she shouts, turning back. ‘Man down.’ Should have guessed from all that yelling earlier.
‘Don’t die,’ she says.
It’s a fucking stupid thing to say.
I apologize, because I didn’t mean to say that aloud. ‘Back to the wall,’ I tell her. ‘Now . . .’
Grabbing my arm, she tries to lift me.
‘Shil,’ I say, ‘just fucking go.’ Doubt floods her eyes, then awareness. She glances at my wound, probably doesn’t even know she has done it. She recognizes a killing shot when she sees one. ‘I’ve got morphine,’ she says.
