Death's Head: Maximum Offence

by David Gunn

  ‘That was—’

  ‘Needed,’ insists the gun.

  The SIG is right. A trooper in body armour has been unpacked into small pieces. But it has cost a large chunk of our bulkhead behind him.

  ‘Stop,’ demands a braid.

  Flesh like leather, five braids swaying as it looks from side to side. No helmet, I realize suddenly. No suit. How the fuck . . . ? A stamp fixes my boots to the floor and I have my SIG to his head when my gun announces: ‘Shutting down.’

  ‘No, you fucking don’t . . .’

  It shuts down anyway.

  ‘I said stop.’ The braid glares at me.

  Everyone else is still, I realize. We’ve got Silver Fist all around us. A dozen of the bastards. They have proper gravity boots and working Tasers. We have sticky-soled suits and whatever we can swing as clubs.

  ‘You hear me?’ asks the five-braid.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, reaching for my laser blade. ‘I hear you.’

  Blue flame flickers and the knife comes to life in my hand.

  ‘Sir,’ says the five-braid. ‘That’s—’

  What is it with everyone and this illegal technology shit? He’s standing in sub-zero airless vacuum, with his skull stuffed with metal and wriggly bits, tubes run from his ribs like badly designed machinery, and he’s objecting to my knife?

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  The five-braid shakes its head. All those metal snakes waving like undersea weeds. ‘No, you’re not,’ he says, nodding behind us. ‘You’re going to put that knife down. Because if you don’t . . .’

  I turn, taking care to move slowly. Half my attention is on the braid and the rest on a scene playing out in the crewpit. One of his men has a pistol to Haze’s helmet.

  ‘He’s a braid,’ I say. ‘Feel free.’

  The five-braid glances between me and Haze, examining the boy’s bulky suit with interest. At a nod, the trooper drags Haze close and peers into the helmet, checking for himself.

  ‘Why . . . ?’ the five-braid demands, and then changes it to, ‘How?’

  ‘Captured him.’

  Now’s when it might come unstuck.

  ‘Where?’ demands the braid.

  ‘Why, how, where . . .’ I toss the words back at him. ‘Got any other questions you want answered?’

  Scowling at me, the braid says, ‘Turn that off.’

  ‘Fucking make me.’ For a glorious moment, it looks like the five-braid might. I’d be so lucky.

  ‘If you don’t,’ he says, ‘we’ll shoot this one instead.’ Pointing one finger, he indicates Vijay.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘He’s a fucking useless little fuck anyway.’

  The five-braid stares at me, reassessing. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sven,’ I tell him. ‘Colonel Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross, crown and oak leaves.’ My name means nothing to him. The only bit that interests him is my rank and the medal.

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Death’s Head?’

  My silence is my answer.

  Nodding, he asks, ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Taking some well-deserved R&R.’ Gesturing around me, I ask: ‘What the fuck does it look like?’

  ‘Looks to me,’ says the braid, ‘like you’re running away.’

  Fuck, he’s fast. My blade passes through where his neck should be and he laughs. It’s enough to make me like him. Well, almost. Only my attention is on a Colt SW cinder maker, the one with the flip-down wire stock and the short power pack.

  A Death’s Head captain holds it.

  Well, according to the patch on his chest: Captain Diski, Obsidian Cross, First Class, Death’s Head Ninth Regiment.

  ‘Move again,’ he says, ‘and I’ll burn you back to fucking ash.’

  ‘That’s burn you back to fucking ash, sir.’

  He grins, and glances at the five-braid, who nods. A second later, his gun is lowered. ‘Introduce me,’ says the braid.

  So I point out my team. ‘Lieutenant Vijay, Sergeant Neen, Trooper Emil, Trooper Franc, Sniper Rachel, plus our prisoner. Don’t know what his name is. He doesn’t say much.’

  Haze gazes back, his face impassive behind glass.

  ‘Where did you say you captured him?’

  ‘Didn’t,’ I tell him. ‘But it was outside Ilseville . . .’ My voice is sour. ‘We were leaving at the time.’

  When the city doesn’t register, I name the planet and that gets a slight flicker of recognition. Luckily, he doesn’t know how far away it is. It is easy to forget how campaigns that seem all-important to those fighting them mean nothing to everyone else. We were one of OctoV’s little side bets. One that shouldn’t have come off, almost didn’t come off . . .

  And then did.

  ‘It’s over then?’ says the braid. ‘We took it back?’

  I shake my head. ‘We held it, you took it. We tried to take it back.’ My shrug is slight. ‘Too many mercenaries, not enough professionals.’

  The braid nods, despite itself. The Enlightened have firm opinions on mercenaries and those opinions are not kind.

  Chapter 41

  STEPPING THROUGH A DOOR, EXPECTING A SECOND AIRLOCK, I find myself in the hold of a combat carrier. Benches run down both sides of a hangar. Maybe two hundred seats either side. The deck between them is metal, studded to stop boots sliding. Flip-up rings litter the floor. The craft obviously carries cargo as well as troops.

  ‘You can unsuit,’ says the five-braid.

  When no one does, he barks an order to the Death’s Head captain. All that happens is the captain releases the fastenings on his own suit, drops it to the floor and steps out of it.

  Colonel Vijay watches me, so I give him the nod.

  ‘You trust them?’ he asks, tapping his audio button and using up most of what remains of his battery pack.

  ‘Not sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s suck it and see.’

  The five-braid smiles. This tells me two things. He’s listening in on our audio channel, and he doesn’t expect us to be a problem. I’m happy with both of those. Although I can see from the expression on Colonel Vijay’s face that he doesn’t understand why.

  ‘Could have done with some of these.’

  The colonel glances at me.

  ‘Combat carriers. At Ilseville.’

  He nods, doubtfully. We make the rest of the trip in silence.

  It’s not a long trip, more a hop. Although the braid flicks dimensions and returns, saying he’s fixing our greeting party. Showing off, I guess. Letting the enemy see they’re outgunned. Any minute now, he is going to make his offer.

  You can bet on it.

  Glad I don’t, because he is more subtle than that. He just runs us over the hump of Hekati’s ring and down the outside. And guess what, I can do subtle too. The braid thinks we’re expecting an airlock into Hekati. He doesn’t know we already know about their ship. So, as our craft skims the far edge of Hekati and rolls lazily on its approach, I’m planning to be surprised, but not too surprised . . .

  Fuck that.

  We are a minnow.

  And the vessel we approach is a shark.

  As the Uplift mother ship comes into view, the shock tries to rip breath from my body and I have to bite down to stop myself being impressed. The others are slower to get a grip and Rachel actually points. We’re not even fleas on a dog cocking its leg against their post.

  Take a vessel larger than the entire Bosworth landing fields and glue it to one of the smaller ring worlds. I’m not surprised Hekati is hurting. The Silver Fist ship is gripping her like some rapist.

  This is what it is.

  An air tube, fat as a motorway, penetrates Hekati through a gash sealed with stonefoam. The ship and habitat are fucking, that is what it looks like. Water pipes pulse as the ship takes what it needs. The Uplift even have their gravity generators off, each rotation of the habitat giving gravity to their ship as well.

  Just how vast the Upli
ft vessel is I discover as an iris opens and our craft rises through the opening, then flips itself over and touches down on a deck large enough to swallow any city on Hekati. It is a five-minute walk to the edge of the field.

  Welcome to Victory First Last and Always, says a voice. Flagship of the Third Uplifted Legion.

  When Neen puts his hands to his head, I realize the sound isn’t just inside my skull. Whatever speaks doesn’t sound human to me. I’m still thinking this, when Rachel sobs, and I turn to find Haze trying to catch his own vomit. A second later, he’s on his knees and not bothering about catching anything much. Blood runs from both nostrils. A dark stain says he’s pissed himself.

  ‘What’s happening? ‘ demands Vijay.

  It’s the five-braid who answers, though he takes time out to glare at me first. ‘Formatting,’ he says. ‘Always tough.’ And then gets to his question. ‘How did you know he was Enlightened?’

  ‘His hair fell out, his scalp started bleeding.’

  ‘So he definitely didn’t have braids when you captured him?’

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘Those are new.’

  The braid considers this. Obviously decides it’s possible. At his nod, two guards break from a squad by the wall to carry away Haze between them. Given he’s pissed himself and drips vomit they treat him well. But then he is Enlightened. Only now, he’s an Enlightened who just formatted, and that doesn’t sound good to me.

  ‘And us?’ I demand.

  ‘Oh,’ says the five-braid. ‘We’ll get to you later.’ I struggle to keep my temper, which amuses him. It doesn’t come easy. Vijay and Neen stand beside me, and Emil stands a step behind them, flanked by Rachel and Franc. So far, he has kept his mouth shut. A bit of me wonders if having given his parole really means that much to him. The other bit assumes he knows I’ll cut his throat before he gets out more than one word.

  Chapter 42

  VICTORY FIRST LAST AND ALWAYS runs to digital time, a hundred kiloseconds to a d/M, which translates as 1.125 standard days, or the time it takes light to travel 29,139,826,917,600 metres in a vacuum. Not sure what is wrong with miles and hours myself.

  The mother ship’s mostly shut down. It is still giving off an infrared trace, the SIG tells me. How obvious this is against Hekati’s own signature is another matter. Maybe that’s the point. The Victory First is certainly busy bleeding the habitat dry.

  Oxygen and power are taken freely. Piggybacking the habitat’s spin to give the mother ship gravity puts an intolerable strain on Hekati. But everything the Enlightened steal is one less thing they need to produce for themselves. One less clue for anyone hunting heat signatures or electromagnetic traces.

  It’s not the U/Free from whom the Silver Fist hide.

  It’s our glorious leader. I work this out for myself and feel smug about it. Thinking isn’t so hard when you get the hang of it.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ I tell my gun. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh,’ it says, ‘I’m registering a headache.’

  It shuts down ungracefully, then flicks back to life to check I really did want it to shut down. Maybe it’s tied tighter to my limbic system than I imagine, because I am not sure I do.

  Someone knocks at the cell door. Now, that’s not what you expect as prisoners. Colonel Vijay glances at me, and then glances at Emil. Rachel just waits for my nod, then goes to the door and tries the handle. Someone has released the lock.

  ‘You’re the sniper, right?’

  She nods at the Death Head’s captain we met earlier. Out of his armour, he’s young and handsome, with dark hair that flops over one side of his face. A scar decorates the other side. It is a very elegant scar. Probably had it put there himself.

  ‘Any good?’ he demands.

  ‘Try me,’ she says.

  ‘Oh,’ says the captain, ‘I’m going to.’ And he grins when she flushes. No, I didn’t think he was talking about rifles either.

  Seeing me, he comes to attention.

  His uniform is standard, except for a shoulder patch I don’t recognize. But the real surprise comes as he turns to look at our cell. Three tiny braids hang down his scalp, and they are the real thing, because they move on their own. ‘Sorry about the cell, sir. We’ll find you proper rooms later.’

  ‘We’re prisoners?’

  ‘Guests, sir.’

  ‘Of that metalhead?’

  He’s smooth, this boy. But not smooth enough to keep anger out of his eyes. ‘No, sir,’ he says. ‘Of General Tournier. Who wants to see all of you.’

  Turning on his heel, he makes for the door.

  After a second, I lead the others out of our room. Fifty paces to a bank of elevators, a seventeen-floor drop and three hundred paces straight down a corridor. On Jaxx’s mother ship, this would be the entertainment district. Turns out, it’s the entertainment district on this ship. General Tournier’s Uplift friends just go in for a different kind of entertainment.

  Bots have stripped back the walls of an area twice the size of Golden Memories, and they’ve eaten away the ceiling above to create a double-height arena. The new space is edged on all four sides with tiers that rise well beyond where the old ceiling used to be.

  The Silver Fist are obviously professional at enjoying themselves. Because instead of endless banks of seats, each tier features dining tables, covered with white cloths and laden with cutlery.

  A thousand people? I wonder. Two thousand . . . ? Three thousand . . . ?

  Colonel Vijay and I are being led towards the biggest table on the lowest tier, and there are half a dozen knives and forks, plus assorted spoons and seven different wine glasses for each setting.

  Assholes, I think.

  The five-braid glances up, and I wonder what he sees on my face.

  Unless he is working at a deeper level. As I watch, Neen, Rachel and Franc head for a higher table, eight rows back. They sit together which is good. That way they can keep an eye on Emil. Although the longer Emil remains silent, the harder it becomes for him to betray us, since the Ninth would regard him as having betrayed them with his silence already. As my ADC, Vijay doesn’t get to sit at all. He stands at my shoulder.

  ‘General,’ says the five-braid. ‘Let me introduce Colonel Sven Tveskoeg.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘Never heard of you, either.’

  Around me, half a dozen officers hold their breath.

  His laugh is abrupt, sharp as the bark on a dog. At least half the officers release their breath, and when General Tournier nods to me, the rest of them decide to do the same.

  ‘Kill him now,’ Colonel Vijay whispers.

  It’s all I can do not to punch him. Hell, he’s meant to be the one who understands strategy. Also, what is he doing speaking to me without being spoken to first . . . ?

  ‘So,’ says the general. ‘Tell me how you got here.’

  ‘Stole a cargo cruiser from Ilseville. Got out just before the city fell.’

  That is as near an admission of treason as he’s ever heard. Only it’s a lot better than telling him the truth. And when General Tournier asks his next question, I know we’re OK. At least for now.

  ‘I heard the landing fields were bombed. Have I got that wrong?’

  Whatever you do, never contradict a general, especially not in front of his own staff. All those prissy little idiots with silver braid and red patches behind their collar bars are watching. ‘Must have been after we left, sir.’

  He nods.

  There is no landing field at Ilseville. It’s a river port, in the middle of barren marshland. A depot for alligator skins and rare furs, a place you go once and vow never to return. Probably still is, those bits of it left.

  ‘Eat,’ he says. ‘Drink . . . We can discuss Ilseville later.’

  Plates come and go, carried by a steady stream of orderlies, servants and waitresses. A woman begins to replace my glass and stops. When I look round, I discover it’s Shil, her face frozen with the shock of seei
ng me.

  That’s when I realize she thought I was dead. Probably thought it was only a matter of time before she joined me. And here I am, staring at her with just a little too much attention for an officer to be paying a servant.

  She has a black eye.

  ‘What?’ demands the general, glancing across.

  Reaching for the glass, I hold it to the light and then thrust it at Shil. ‘Disgusting,’ I snarl. ‘You think I want your filthy fingerprints? Find me another.’

  She bobs her head and hurries away.

  The woman who brings me a replacement is older, less nervous. Not sure what Shil’s said to her, but she keeps her eyes on the floor and leaves quickly. Twisting away from the grasping hand of a man further down the table, she laughs.

  It’s an art, not offending those with power over you. Watching her tells me something about those around me. Nothing I couldn’t have guessed. Their servants tread carefully around them.

  ‘Sven,’ says the general, and I realize I’m being offered a plate.

  The chicken is fresh and well cooked. Its sauce deep and rich. I’d rather have a beer with a cane-spirit chaser; but the men around me are sniffing glasses of wine and talking about good and bad vintages. After a while, the conversation turns to battles fought and villages burnt.

  Murderers with manners.

  It is amazing what you can get away with if you have breeding.

  A woman passes, and I slap her arse, hard. When I look up, I realize it’s Shil, and her face is bleaker than ever. A second later, it goes blank and the lieutenant next to me laughs.

  ‘Tried her, sir,’ he tells me. ‘Sour as lemon.’

  He has tiny braids growing from his skull and the skin around his wrists has mottled. I can just see three cuts where the Uplift virus was rubbed into his flesh. Simply looking at the side effects of the virus makes me want to vomit. ‘You gave her those bruises?’

  The man grins.

  We introduce ourselves, and I wonder if he realizes I intend to kill him as soon as I get the chance. Guess not, because Lieutenant Hamblin tells me how he knocks Shil out by accident and ruins his own evening. Seems he likes his women to know what they’re getting.