Ann Aguirre - Havoc

With effort, Dred put aside the unusual introspection and beckoned to the newcomers. “It’ll be best if I introduce you right away.”

“Thank you,” Katur said.

She didn’t kid herself that this would be a smooth and seamless integration. Nonetheless, she strode into the common room with the aliens in her wake. Men froze, then scrambled to their feet; most had weapons in their hands before she could speak. So she vaulted onto the nearest table and let out a bloodcurdling war cry. The shock stilled the Queenslanders for a few moments, then she unwound the chains from her arms and slammed them three times against the tabletop, chipping off bits of resin.

“Are you listening, men? I’m in no mood to repeat myself.”

“Yes, my queen!” The reply didn’t come as neat in unison as it ordinarily did, but since no combat had broken out, she’d call it adequate.

“Today, you join me in welcoming new warriors to Queensland. You will not judge them by their skins. You will treat them as any other comrade. Is that clear?”

“Filthy alien-loving bitch!” From her vantage, she couldn’t identify the malcontent, but Tam and Martine tag-teamed him, dragging him out of the crowd.

Jael followed them, but he didn’t intervene. Just as well. The rest of the men needed to see she had support from people she wasn’t sleeping with.

With a sharp smile, Martine kicked him in the gut, and the scrubby man bent double. He was almost as old as Ike but less prepossessing, with greasy iron gray hair and a matted beard. From the way his mouth had sunken in, Dred didn’t imagine he had many teeth, and his cheeks were veined from years of hard drinking. His small eyes shone with hatred over being asked to cooperate and cohabitate with nonhumans.

So many years after the Morgut War, after aliens saved us, and we still hate like this.

Though she could scarcely afford to lose a single man, Dred had to make an example of him. “You’re saying you’d rather die than follow my edict?”

She scanned the crowd to see how they were taking this, and they seemed more interested in the prospect of a sudden execution than the arrival of a few aliens. That was good. The spectacle would probably grind the edge off their xenophobia. She wouldn’t goad someone to this point, but this Queenslander seemed to have a death wish.

“Damn straight.” He screwed his mouth up as if to spit on her, and Tam backhanded him so hard, the old man hit the ground with a spatter of blood.

When he climbed to his knees, practically snarling, his lips were split and stained against his gums. Dred didn’t let pity move her. Yes, he was decrepit, but he could also sow hatred and rebellion among her people. It can’t stand.

So she merely nodded, and said to Tam and Martine, “Hold him.”

They complied, one on each arm, and she could tell that Martine in particular enjoyed keeping the captive on his knees. She kicked him as he fought to rise. The severity of his situation didn’t seem to have sunk in yet. While she ran a less bloody regime than Artan, it didn’t mean she was the forgiving sort.

She turned to Cook, who was standing nearby with his chopping knife. “Get Einar’s axe, please.”

They kept it hanging in a place of honor on the wall, so the chef jogged across the room. The axe was a huge weapon, crafted especially for the big man who had fallen just before the battle with Grigor, out of scrap metal and honed to razor sharpness. The steel haft had leather wrapped around it to make it easier to hold, and it was stained dark from so much blood. She suspected the cost of rebellion must be sinking in when the old man pissed his pants.

Cook made a production of the retrieval, pulling it off the wall with great ceremony, then he lofted it a few times, just so the spectators had a sense of how bloody huge the thing was. Dred took it without revealing how much the weight pulled at her injured arm. Hope I’ve got enough range of motion to see this through. She’d lose credibility if she had to summon someone to perform executions, now that Einar was gone.

Miss the big guy.

“Hold him for me,” she instructed Cook.

In reply, Cook forced the old man down and shoved a chair under his cheek to serve as the chopping block. Dred took a couple of practice swings and then cut clean through the old devil’s neck in one slam. The head bounced away in a red streak while his neck jetted blood all over the floor. She kicked the body down, then raised the weapon.

“Anyone else want to debate immigration policy with me?”

After leaving Ike and Cook in charge, Dred convened a meeting. Jael, Martine, and Tam followed her to the training room, currently unoccupied. That was likely a good call, as four aliens came with them. Her quarters weren’t big enough to comfortably accommodate everyone, and circumstances had changed. The room smelled like sweat, but it was reasonably clean; Calypso insisted.

Jael closed the door after them. There was no lock, but he doubted anyone would be crazy enough to snoop so soon after the execution. In fact, that was all anyone could talk about as they left the common room. They’d set a few of Cook’s assistants to cleaning up the blood and disposing of the body. With luck, it would be done before the late meal.

“Let me introduce my lieutenants,” Katur said. “You can trust them.” He gestured to the tall Ithtorian with a speckled mud carapace and triangular head with a notched mandible. Jael noted the particular scarring on the thorax, as if it had survived a bombardment, or fought in numerous battles at bleak odds. “This is Brahmel Il-Charis, my first.”

For the first time, Jael stared directly at the Ithtorian, nearly drowning in a wash of revulsion. For so many turns, he’d heard nothing but the chitter and hiss of their native tongue, known nothing but the company of Bugs, if it could even be called that, given they were all confined to separate caves. He fought off the tide of memory, rooting himself in the present instead. Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t fair to dislike Brahmel Il-Charis strictly on the basis of his species, but Jael did not have fond memories of Ithiss-Tor.

“Just Brahm,” the Ithtorian corrected. “I’m not permitted to use my father’s name.”

Jael frowned, wondering where he’d heard the name “Charis” before, but he dismissed the curiosity as Katur went on, indicating the Rodeisian female on his other side. “This is Alaireli. She’s our best warrior and my second.”

“You can call me Ali,” the female said in a deep rumble of a voice.

“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure,” Dred said, “but under the circumstances . . .”

Keelah inclined her head. “We feel the same. This isn’t how we’d have chosen to deepen our acquaintance.”

“How long ago did you leave the Warren?” Jael cut in.

There was a reason for his question. If it hadn’t been too long, the merc unit might still be exploring down there, checking for hidden resources or survivors in hiding. With a quick enough reaction, it was possible they could retaliate before Vost saw it coming.

Katur answered, “A few hours, give or take. We fled when it became clear we couldn’t win, but they couldn’t tell how to follow us.”

“Who wants to see if we can do some damage?” Dred asked.

“Me,” Ali said at once.

Brahm inclined his head. Both Katur and Keelah took a step back, so Jael guessed it was too soon for them to return to the Warren—too many dead bodies, too many memories. Tam and Martine both nodded, and the spymaster was healed up enough that he shouldn’t slow them down. Dred’s burned arm would have been an issue for anyone else, but by today, she should be sound enough to fight.