Authors: David Gunn
A dozen militia watch me drag the revolver from my belt. Officers, NCOs and men. Only their colonel, the man General Jaxx called Guido, looks as if he might react. He doesn’t say anything, however, or issue orders. The light machine gun Sergeant Leona points at his guts sees to that.
Turning to where General Jaxx stands, I hold up the piece. I don’t give a fuck that he was intending to have me killed. Hell, I’d have had me killed if I were him.
‘Sir,’ I shout.
He almost stumbles under the gun’s weight.
‘Sven,’ he says, ‘what is this?’
‘An abattoir pistol.’
He breaks it open, counts the rounds and flicks it shut again. Then he stares round at the dead bodies, the burnt furies and the waiting crowd. ‘An abattoir pistol? How apt. And Sven . . .’
I wait.
‘It’s an abattoir pistol, sir.’
Who knows how the general thumbs the oversized hammer while ducking an attacking fury’s first blow? Maybe his muscles are boosted. Takes General Jaxx two shots to kill the leading fury. A single shot to kill the one behind. Two rounds left and three furies to kill. He lived a bastard and will die a hero.
He’ll be happy with that.
I don’t stop to watch it happen.
Chapter 32
DEATH TO GENERAL JAXX BECOMES DOWN WITH OCTOV.
Beginning raggedly, the chant gathers force. The crowd in the next square finds courage in its anger. All the militia units around them do is nod. Someone rips a picture of the emperor from a bar wall and that’s enough. The crowd turns from looting doubter houses to destroying posters and breaking statues.
As the window of a liquor store goes in, a boy clambers over brandy bottles to smash a figurine of OctoV in full uniform. When Leona steps forward, I grab her and swing her into a wall. ‘Get yourself killed in your own time. Until then, behave.’
The rumours start a few minutes later.
OctoV has been captured. He has been killed. He has taken refuge with our enemies the Enlightened. No, the Enlightened are our friends. OctoV’s on the run in Farlight. Then it is Vijay’s turn to drive the rumour.
The general’s son hides in a house on the next street. This is untrue, as we discover when we reach the building. He’s crossing the river. One of the rusted wrecks on the Emsworth landing fields is really a combat craft in disguise.
I don’t bother to follow the splinter group heading north.
The landing fields are a mountain of rust, broken spider bots and shacks. Anything in there that works was stolen years ago. And Per Olsen would have told me if anything strange was happening on his patch.
The crowd’s need to find Vijay is interesting.
Not so much what drives it.
As who drives it.
In twenty-nine years of life, most of those with the Legion, and one in the Death’s Head, I’ve seen my share of slaughter and looting. But something other than anger and alcohol is driving this crowd.
It goes one way, houses burn.
The crowd chooses another and a temple goes up in flames.
Bars are looted and shops destroyed, doubters d
ie.
Yet whole streets remain untouched. Some suffer only broken windows. And always, the cry false or true is what decides the crowd. At first Leona and I think there are a dozen voices making the call.
Then we realize there are only three or four.
Word comes that Vijay Jaxx is hiding in a hotel near the river. It has to be true, because sappers take apart roadblocks to allow us passage. The furies left don’t follow, being satiated and dazed with overfeeding.
Most are already in mobile cages, herded there by men holding those rags on sticks. Dropped from a zep, picked up on the ground. For all its seeming chaos, this night has had military planning from the beginning.
We’re jostling across an embankment. Well, Leona is. The crowd keeps its distance from me. Might be the blood on my coat, my height or the broadness of my shoulders. Might be the fact I punch the first jostler in skeleton clothes into unconsciousness before stamping on his ankle and tossing him into the water.
‘Sir,’ Leona says.
The rest of her sentence goes unsaid.
General Jaxx’s death leaves me sick in the gut. You can’t expect a general to be like other soldiers. And you can’t expect soldiers to be like other men. We’re different. Simply killing doesn’t make a soldier. We fight for what we believe. And if we forget what that is we fight until we remember.
The people around me will never be soldiers. You think I have contempt for this rabble in their carnival clothes? You’re right, I came from far worse. I can’t say I made good, but I made different.
‘Sir,’ Leona tries again. ‘Permission to—’
‘Get on with it.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To save Colonel Vijay’s hide.’
She shoots me a glance. ‘How will we do that, sir?’
How the fuck would I know? When I’ve got an answer, I’ll share. Then again, maybe I won’t. Must be something in the air, but I’m starting to mistrust Anton and Leona both. Don’t doubt myself though.
Armoured cars at the embankment end draw back to let us through. Militia officers sneer from open hatches. Makes me wonder what they think we’ve done that they haven’t. We’re not the ones who turn back doubters fleeing for safety.
‘Grim,’ says Leona, looking round.
Her first comment on the events of the night. Although night is the wrong word. Darkness is passing and I can see dawn shimmer on the distant slopes.
‘This way,’ someone shouts.
It’s always someone. We never see who.
But a voice shouts, and the crowd surges towards the old wrought-iron gates of a riverside mansion. Grabbing Leona, I drag her out of the crush and towards an alley. If people object, they keep it to themselves. And if they show any emotion, it’s to gaze sympathetically at Leona, who lets herself be dragged behind me.
I know this place . . .
A very grand hotel where Paper Osamu stayed when the U
Free were having their embassy redecorated. The thought makes me consider how little I’ve seen of the United Free tonight. Surprising in itself, since the U
Free pride themselves on their role as unbiased observers to the galaxy’s trouble spots.
I spit, and a smartly dressed man glares before turning away.
Can’t believe the idiot doesn’t recognize me. Mind you, seeing Federico Van Zill does wonders for my anger. He’s that ex-gangster Per Olsen mentioned. The one who went missing from the slums below Calinda Gap. For all his current aura of importance he was born a slimebag and will die one.
Preferably soon.
These days, it seems, he’s wearing suits and expensive shoes and working for . . .? Now there is a question.
Mind you, I know why Vijay’s here.
You don’t run black ops out of your regular base and this has U/Free written all over it. I thought OctoV was behind tonight until the crowd changed its chant. Now I know it’s Paper’s mob who are driving the slaughter. And since they’re not going to run this out of their embassy, and she or Morgan will want to be on site, this is the next best guess for their centre of operations.
Looks like Colonel Jaxx has been playing the guessing game too.
Chapter 33
A NAKED CHAMBERMAID CLUTCHES THE REMAINS OF HER uniform at the top of a flight of stairs. She has blood on her lips and between her thighs. A puddle of piss darkens the red carpet beneath her.
Three ex-guests, a slaughtered floor manager, and someone from security who has been kicked to death. Leona looks sicker by the second, which makes me wonder if I was wrong about her. She’s meant to be experienced.
We’ve gone in the back way and we’re ahead of the crowd. What does she expect us to find? This stuff can’t come as that much of a shock.
Next floor up a bellboy huddles over a gut wound. The terror in his face says he knows it’s going to kill him. He’s lost too much blood to lift his stolen gun for more than a second and his shot shatters plaster ten paces away.
Kneeling, I take the piece from his grip.
The knife I slide under his ribs topples him sideways.
‘You mean it, don’t you?’ Leona says, when I recite the soldier’s prayer over him. ‘You really believe there will be a better life next time.’
‘Can’t be worse.’
On the stairs to the next level, I catch her watching me. It’s not the look a militia sergeant gives an officer. Mind you, it’s not the look a woman gives a man. I’m not sure what it is. Other than strange. ‘What are we searching for?’ she asks.
‘I’ll tell you when we find it.’
The penthouse of this hotel can only be reached by a one-stop elevator that begins in the lobby way below us. Since the power in this city is out, and the emergency stairs don’t rise that high, we need another plan.
It’s rusting. But it’s waiting where I hoped it would be.
‘We’re going to use that?’ says Leona, then remembers to add sir.
‘Yeah. And you’re going first.’
Leona climbs out of the window, sighing as the grating creaks beneath her boots. The fire escape sways as she yanks a ladder down and paint flakes from its steps as she begins to climb.
She moves slowly.
Her stolen machine gun is ported across her chest and I get a good glimpse of her arse as she goes. The uniform looks standard issue. But since when is standard issue that well cut? Also, the rest of us are filthy but the dirt drops off her.
Cloth like that is expensive.
Filing that thought, I watch her go. It’s a day for doubt and darkness. These are not doubts I usually get. Because I don’t get doubts. Only, Farlight has changed me. The harsh simplicity of my life in the Legion is too far back for me to recover.
I find that thought shocking.
Not least, because it never occurred to me I’d want it back. Certainly not when I was living it. When Leona reaches the top, I slide myself through the corridor window and stand on the grating below her.
It protests under my weight, as does the ladder.
Leona offers her hand to help me onto the upper level, stepping back when I ignore it. We face a steel door, bolted from the other side. On the plus side, it’s old, with hinges that slot together.
All I’ve got to do is lift it off its hinges.
One-handed.
My arm locks and muscles tear as sinews pass popping point. Finally, it occurs to me that it’s not the weight that’s the problem. Rusty hinges make the door hard to move.
‘Scrape those down.’
She does, as silently as possible. And then I lift it free.
A scullery, complete with bucket and a mop that chirps happily to see us waits on the other side. It’s obviously been a while since anyone used the fire escape.
‘Wait here,’ I tell Leona.
She looks like she wants to protest.
‘Sir,’ she says.
‘Later.’
This corridor has marble tiles and expensive rugs. Oil paintings hang from the walls. A portrait of OctoV in cavalry uniform, his hand on the hilt of a sword. Beyond it is a cityscape of Farlight, as it must have been when first built. And beyond that, a seated nude. The nude is particularly tasteful. Little body hair, the slightest tint of nipple. Painted to give the minimum offence.
I’ve come to the correct place.
A desk by an elevator is where the receptionist sits. She’s probably only there when VIPs check in. Marble steps lead to double doors. One of the handles shows a man’s face. The other shows a woman.
Try to remember where I saw that before.
One of the double doors is slightly open. Comms noise comes from inside. The sound of AI chatter, the whirr of memory boxes, the beep of incoming calls. Remember, this is a city without power. So now I’m certain I’m in the correct place.
I’m right about one thing and wrong about another.
Paper Osamu’s husband Morgan has set up his HQ in the most expensive hotel in Farlight and filled it with enough machinery to run a war. He’s even had the door handles replaced with his and her faces to make himself feel at home.
‘Sven . . .’
Not sure which one is more shocked to see me.
Colonel Vijay Jaxx, who carries a blade of his own. Or Morgan, who is still wearing one of those flowing robes and looking tense. That’s because Vijay has his blade to the U/Free’s throat. Paper is nowhere in sight. Probably trying to avoid getting her hands dirty.
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ I say.
Morgan scowls. It’s instinct. He can’t help himself.
‘What are you doing here?’ Colonel Vijay demands.
‘Could ask you the same question, sir.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Thought that would be obvious, Sven. I’m following the U/Free example in making the world a better place.’
‘Sven,’ whispers Morgan. ‘I know we’ve had our—’
Differences? Vijay Jaxx draws his blade hard across Morgan’s throat. He does it fast, putting all his strength behind the cut. Blood spurts halfway across the chamber and redecorates a wall. Eventually, Morgan’s heart loses its battle and the spurt is reduced to a trickle that stains tiles and finally runs down his l
eg.
Morgan only falls when Colonel Vijay remembers to let go.
‘Fuck,’ the colonel says.
A handful of steps takes him to the bathroom and I hear him retch. The retching lasts longer than it should. Long after the colonel’s stomach has emptied. When Colonel Vijay returns, he’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘they killed Sergeant Hito.’
The old man’s pet assassin. He gave me a dagger that saved my life once. If I remember right, he was the man who taught Vijay unarmed combat.
‘Worse than that, sir. They got the general.’
He closes his eyes. Swallows. A tear squeezes from under a lid to remind me how young he is. Nineteen last birthday. That’s what he told me on Hekati.
‘Sir,’ I say. ‘You planning to destroy Morgan’s back-up?’
Colonel Vijay looks at the body.
Then he looks at the room, as if seeing it for the first time, with its blood splatters and stained tiles, and the inevitable puddle of piss, and the stink of shit from where our dead U/Free shat himself.
‘Or shall I do it, sir?’
‘If you would,’ he says.
Rolling Morgan onto his front, I steady my blade.
Morgan’s memory unit is at the back of his skull, just below the curve. It’s expensive, which I expect. The surgeon cut away bone to let the unit fit flat. This means the symbiont running the unit can access both brain and spine.
It twitches when I prod it.
And when I begin to saw, Morgan’s whole body begins to thrash. So I saw harder and listen to Colonel Vijay vomit. Doesn’t matter that he doesn’t reach the bathroom this time. There’s nothing in his gut to throw up.
‘If you’ll allow me, sir.’
Dropping the symbiont to the tiles, I crush it under my boot heel until the last tendril stops thrashing. There’s sourness in my gut, and a taste of vomit in my own mouth. The kyp in my throat feels Morgan’s symbiont d
ie.
It must do, because it convulses as I flush his next life down the pan where it belongs.
‘All done, sir.’
‘Sven . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’ll need a moment alone.’