Ann Aguirre - Havoc

“Cook was always too quiet for anyone to know what was going on in his head,” Martine put in. She sounded breathless from the run, and her blade was slick and red with blood. The drops spattered on the dented floor as the other woman dragged it against the wall to scrape it clean.

“Keep the hall clear if you can,” Dred said.

There was no point in assigning blame. It was possible Cook had always been crazy—or at least desperate to escape—he just didn’t communicate his feelings. She ran off down the hall, leaving Jael to stand watch with Tam and Martine. She lost precious seconds keying in the security code on her door; she’d taken to locking it while she was out, mostly because she kept spare weapons and ammo in here.

Along with the remote for the Peacemaker.

Without Ike to maintain it, if the thing was damaged in this firefight, Dred wasn’t sure if anyone could put it back together again. But that’s a risk I have to take. There was no other way to shut down the riot fast enough. The Peacemaker delivered shock and awe along with heavy ballistic rounds. When it stomped into a room, men took notice.

Vost’s voice came over the loudspeakers, as if he knew about the riot. When a drone cam zoomed by, Dred realized he probably did. “My offer’s still open. When your numbers dwindle to five, I’ll take you with me.”

Cheers rang out, then Cook shouted, “See? We made it to the final round. Now it’s time for sudden death.”

“Lying bastard,” Jael bit out.

“Which one?” Tam asked.

Dred understood the question. Did Cook really believe the bullshit he was peddling? There was no question that Vost was stirring things up, hoping more convicts would kill each other, so he stood a better chance of getting out of this alive.

Got news for you, asshole. Nobody else has so far.

Jael ignored the spymaster’s question. “Look there, he’s with Pietro. I knew there was something off about him—”

“Who the hell is that?” Dred demanded.

“One of Grigor’s. He’s been slipping around, stirring the pot. I had an . . . odd encounter with him, but there was so much other shit happening, I didn’t think to mention it.”

She bit back the urge to swear. It was certainly understandable that Jael might’ve had other shit on his mind . . . or maybe he hadn’t realized just what Pietro was up to. Either way, they had a hell of a situation to handle. It only needed this.

Someone shouted, “They’re breaking into the armory.”

“I’m on it,” Martine said.

The dark-haired woman shouldered her rifle and took off at a dead run, leaving Tam and Jael waiting for orders. She made a snap decision. “Back in the common room. Get me to the throne. I need people to see me send in the Peacemaker.”

Tam nodded. “Remind them who the queen is.”

Theoretically, it shouldn’t be too tough, but there were only three of them amid a roiling mass of bodies. Jael shoved toward the large, scrap-metal chair, but men quickly surrounded them, makeshift weapons in hand. Dred thought for a few terrible seconds that she could make them turn away, tear into each other with mindless violence, but—

I can’t do that to my own people. If I do, I truly am the monster everyone said I was back on New Terra.

“Defensive posture,” she ordered. “Ready weapons, but try not to kill any of our men.” She cut a look at Jael. “If you say ‘I was born ready,’ I’ll shoot you.”

“We don’t have time for sex-pain games right now, love.”

Tam made an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat. “How are we supposed to know which ones are still loyal?”

“They’ll be the ones not trying to pull our heads off,” Jael replied cheerfully.

She drew her laser pistol but before she had to fire it, loyalists attacked the men facing her and the circle faltered. “Go,” one of them yelled. “Get clear!”

It wasn’t a question of whether she could win the fight, only that some of these men still believed in her right to lead. That had to be enough. Quickly, Dred scanned the room. They had to fight to the throne without killing or maiming too many loyal Queenslanders. Just as she was trying to figure out how to make that happen, Jael grabbed her gloved hand and towed her toward the throne. The remote felt heavy in her palm; this would probably be a massacre, one that could be laid directly at her door.

What kind of person are you if you can lose track of how many you’ve killed?

Jael and Tam laid down fire behind them, keeping the men from pushing too close. The warning shots were effective, as most people couldn’t absorb a laser blast—one shot, and the target went into shock. It was rare for a victim to die of the burns.

A man lurched into her path, and she tried to move around him, but he lunged at her eyes with a knife. No helmet. Damn. She pistol whipped him in the face, then kicked him back so she could shoot him. She unloaded while taking hits from behind. Jael tried to block for her, but she shouted at him over her shoulder.

“I’m wearing armor, you idiot.”

“Ah, your words of love and dulcet tones never fail to enchant me.”

Tam’s voice was dry. “Should I leave you two alone?”

A hard shove rocked her, and she stumbled forward. “Please don’t.”

Before her loomed a man with broken yellow teeth and a mad look in his eyes. He looked strong enough to snap her neck, so when Jael called out, “Get down,” she dropped without hesitation, giving him a clean shot, and he took the bastard through the head.

Bodies shoved against her, and she tried not to think how many of them were trying to kill her. She just had to press forward until she got to the throne. Someone had started a fire somewhere—that always seemed to happen during a riot, and if the station emergency system didn’t kick in soon, they’d all asphyxiate. Her eyes burned from the chemical fumes wafting in lazy spirals, but she couldn’t spare the time to dash away the tears. They collected on her chin, dripping down to her armored chest. Four wounds burned in a low, constant throb: shoulder, left arm, thigh, right flank, but she could feel a tickling tingle from where they were starting to heal.

Thanks, Jael. Leg still hurts like a bitch.

She lashed out with a kick to clear the rest of the way—so close now—but her weak leg buckled. She went down hard. Somehow, she held on to the remote, even with three enraged Queenslanders who were ready to rip her apart attacking, so she popped the closest one with her laser pistol. The red power meter on the side said she had fewer than five shots left. As Jael and Tam took aim at the other two, one of them cracked her in the head. The blow made her head wink black spangled with the old gold of ancient stars interspersed with white-hot sparks.

She kept the pistol in her hand, even on the ground. Dred swept with her good leg and knocked one of them down. Prone, the enemy was clumsy, buying her time to shoot. He died writhing like a worm on his back. The other lunged, and she rolled, then crawled toward the scrap-metal throne.

Jael shot the Queenslander chasing Dred.

The common area swarmed with men. At this moment, Jael missed Einar. The big man could clear some space with a few, casual swings. Without him, the battle was tighter and more chaotic. Most of their best fighters had gone down in other sorties, so at least he wasn’t squared off against pure talent. These were desperate men with nothing to lose. Or so they thought.

The situation can always get worse.

He flashed to days on Nicu Tertius, thigh deep in mud and walking on the corpses of his comrades as their bodies built a bridge the survivors used to scramble to higher ground. To this day, he couldn’t stand in the rain with soft ground under his feet without imagining that the earth was churning with the bones of the dead. With effort, he fixed his vision on the melee all around him. The distraction cost him a slice across his ribs, another invisible scar.