Ann Aguirre - Havoc

“Buy you dinner?”

Amusement flickered deep in her green eyes. “Why not? Let me get my chains first.”

After she picked them up from Ike, they went to the common room, much emptier than it had been when he first arrived. As Jael headed for the meal station, he caught fragments of conversation.

“I’m telling you, it’s a mistake not to jump on this—”

“You’re a moron.” The smaller man thumped a fist to emphasize his impatience.

The bigger one shoved to his feet, eyes veined in red. He had a fiery bulb of a nose that said he was a drunkard and on his way to liver failure. His knuckles were scarred from turns of issuing brutal beatings. “Let’s settle this right now.”

Jael saw the moment when the other man realized things were about to escalate. “That’s exactly what that merc wants. You’re playing into his hands.”

Jael paused by their table, flattening a palm between them. At the interruption, they both turned with vicious looks that faded when they realized he was the Dread Queen’s champion. That was a new experience for him; usually when he scared the shit out of other men, it was wholly due to his own nature.

“There’s too much bullshit at this table and not enough eating,” he snapped. “You want some help with that spoon?”

There was a long silence, then the little one answered. “No, we’re good.”

The rest of the room took a hint from the exchange, and the arguing died down. He leveled a long look across bearded faces, thin and sallow ones, bloodshot eyes, and sunken cheeks. Once he was sure they’d taken his message, he caught up with Dred, who was talking to Cook. Or rather, talking at him.

Cook was a big man, tall as Einar had been but without the bulky muscles; he was burly and broad-shouldered, with pale skin and a bald head that gleamed as if no hair had ever grown on it. His hands and arms were scarred from multiple knife wounds, and a red tattoo snaked out from his sleeveless shirt. Jael studied the characters but couldn’t read the word. It wasn’t in universal, and his formal education didn’t offer a lot of variety.

“There are crates of organic in the storeroom,” Dred was saying. “If you need to restock the Kitchen-mate, talk to Tam.”

The chef’s eyes flickered. Smart of her not to mention that he and Martine had the code, also. “So what’s on the menu?” Jael asked.

The other raised both brows and gestured to the pot.

“I’ll take a bowl.” Because that was the only option.

Cook didn’t do special orders or substitutes. And he wasn’t fond of complaints either.

To nobody’s surprise, the meal of the day was vegetable goulash with synth-protein stirred in. Cook slopped it into his bowl, but Jael had been eating scraps for so long in the Bug prison that the smell was faintly appetizing. Dred took her serving and stood, looking for a free seat. Really, she should commandeer one, but he sensed that she was feeling too tired to carry the Dread Queen crap at the moment.

Vix stood up near the back wall and beckoned. Zediah glanced up to see who she was signaling, and he offered a fleeting smile. Jael touched Dred’s arm. “Over here.”

“You know them?” she asked.

“Slightly.”

“They’re not much for fighting. No idea how the hell they ended up here.”

That piqued his interest. “They came in together?”

“On the same transport.”

“Wonder if they committed their crimes together out there,” Jael whispered.

Dred frowned at him as they joined the other two. She set her bowl down and started eating at once. Jael winked at Vix as he took a seat.

Zediah said calmly, “Do that again, and I’ll pop your eye out.”

“He’s protective. Don’t mind him.”

Jael knew a fleeting moment of curiosity as to how far back their connection went. Zediah hardly looked old enough to be incarcerated here, but it was possible he’d taken enough Rejuvenex to make him look eerily young. That would mean the man came from money, however, and had a fetish for “older women,” but curious as he was, Jael respected the rules of Perdition, and he didn’t ask personal questions while he spooned down the grub.

“Tell me the truth,” Zediah said. “How long before the mercs kill us all? I’m not asking for false promises, mind you. Just an estimate of how long we’ve got.”

Vix nudged him hard with her elbow. “Stuff the attitude.”

Whatever Zediah might’ve said was forestalled by the alarm blaring throughout Queensland. “Incoming. Mungo’s mongrels closing fast!”

Dred raced for the nearest checkpoint. By the sound of it, they had incoming at three of the four checkpoints. She bit out a curse, and shouted, “Calypso, take some men to the east barricades but be careful of the turrets. They’ll fire through the scrap.”

“On it,” the other woman called back.

She opened her mouth to give orders to Jael, but he was already rounding up some Queenslanders. “I’ve got the west. You’re heading north?”

“That’s the plan. All right, new fish, today you get to fight!” Though she’d told the men who used to belong to Grigor that they’d be on manual labor, no weapons, for a full turn, this was a special circumstance.

If they were smarter, they’d wonder why I’m letting them arm up.

Truth was, they needed the battle fodder. The dumb brutes roared with approval and jogged after her. Their path took them past the armory, and they chose some blades, then she sent them toward the checkpoint ahead. Tam didn’t have to be right at her ear, whispering caution, for her to see potential traps and snares; now it was second nature to consider all the ways people could betray her. Shit way to live, but in some regards, each day was an unexpected bonus. If nothing else, Perdition had taught her to exist in the moment and make the most of each opportunity.

From all over the zone came the staccato fire of the turrets and shrieks of pain. She hoped the sentries had the sense not to get shot. If they ran out of ammo before Mungo ran out of bodies, however—eh, best not to predict the future. When Dred reached the barricades, she saw two guards standing well out of firing range and the towering wall of junk had holes blown through it, all the way to the opposite wall. Dodging the sting of live rounds, she sprinted up and snuck a peek through one of those rents to scope out the situation. Eight big lunks stood behind Mungo himself, eager to mix it up. He was a filthy, hirsute brute with red hair growing wild all over his body, and he bared his yellow, half-rotten teeth in challenge.

“Shut it down,” she shouted to the guards.

We need to conserve ammo.

In reply, the guns fell quiet and junk tumbled from the top of the blockade as Mungo and his crew shoved. Dred shouted orders, and the new fish stared at her blankly. Apparently, Grigor hadn’t specialized in strategy, just mayhem. Never mind, then. The wall came down with a final massive push, and the first of Mungo’s cannibals breached the perimeter. On the other side, bloody corpses assured Dred their measures had helped, but she couldn’t afford to waste bullets on Mungo. They would die easily compared to Silence’s killers or armed mercs.

As the cannibals charged, Dred slapped her chains into the opposite palm and fell into a fighting stance. The first three were injured so bad that they stumbled forward in a slick of blood and dropped to their knees. Their comrades paid them no heed, scrambling over their dying moans to rush at Dred and her comrades. Drool trickled from their mouths, as if they saw them not as an enemy to be conquered but a potential feast.

“Eat this,” one of the new recruits snarled and slammed a blade through the mongrel’s throat.