David Gunn - Death's head

Behind me, Debro sighs. “I think you’ll find he means it,” she says, looking at the man, who climbs out of his coat in sullen silence. A second later the woman does the same.

We collect up spare clothes among us-Debro, Anton, Phibs, the girl, and I. Her name is Rebecca, but I only discover that when we’ve finished sorting the jackets and coats by size. She’s nervous around me, maybe because she heard me suggest swapping her for food.

And then, once Debro has found something to go across the door, which turns out to be the rag we found at the start, I leave her redistributing clothing according to need and wander over to the pile of frozen shit, making myself vomit and catching the laser blade before it hits the floor.

A quick flick of its handle and my blade appears. The m3x has a default set to cobalt blue, which lets the user see what he’s doing. At its purest setting the blade is entirely invisible and all the more frightening for being so.

“Holy fuck,” someone says.

But by then I’m working.

Sandstone, ice, or carbon, there’s little difference among them as building materials and they’re all better than piss-stinking adobe. I cut block after block from the ice until I have enough bricks to build a wall. The ragged curtain provides camouflage, hiding my work from anyone outside.

Waving the others back, I slash the cave entrance into a square, giving myself a surface to which the ice bricks will bond. And then I carry my blocks, three at a time, and lay them in place. It’s quicker than having to show someone else how to do it.

When this is finished we have a doorway narrow enough to be guarded by one or two people, if they keep their nerve.

“We’ll be attacked tonight.”

“By whom?” asks Debro.

I shrug. “Whoever gets here first.”

The new walls keep in the heat and the cloth across the narrow entrance keeps out the worst of the cold and within an hour we have a temperature in which humans can live. My laser blade, jammed handle-first into one wall, provides light.

“You and you stand guard.” I choose two people at random. “Then you two. You take the next watch.”

“And you?” asks Anton.

“I’ll stay awake the whole night.”

“Because tonight is the most dangerous?”

I nod.

“Then I’ll stand with you.” He catches my look and smiles. “I can fight,” he tells me. “I used to do it for a living.”

“Militia?”

“Palace guard. Believe me, the training was tough. And before you ask what happened, I met Debro…Her family were furious.”

Yeah, I think. I bet.

In the early hours of the morning Phibs raises his head, like a rat questing. “Outside,” he whispers, “a lot of people.” Before Anton or I can reply, Phibs puts up his hand, stilling us and the two of our group currently standing guard.

“A dozen,” he announces finally. “Two groups, different captains.”

He must have seen my doubt.

“Aural augmentation,” he says. “Very useful in my business.”

Printing? I want to say, but have other things to worry about. “I’ll go,” I say, moving toward the curtain.

“Take your blade,” suggests Phibs.

“No.” Anton shakes his head. “It’s too early to show our hand.”

“Then take mine,” says Phibs, handing over a crude blade with rounded handle and rounded sheath, ideal for swallowing or shitting. “Not as impressive as yours,” he adds, glancing toward where my blade still burns in the wall. “But still effective.”

It’s Ladro, with four others, all wearing warm-looking jackets. Half a dozen hangers-on crowd behind, dressed in rags.

“Impressive,” he says, nodding at my knife. “Although I’d have bluffed with that and kept the other. It’s got real balance.” He’s holding my stolen Death’s Head knife, lightly and very professionally, between his first finger and thumb. Ladro’s right about the sweet point. He’s got it exactly, from the look of things.

“Glad you like it,” I say.

“And I’ll take the girl while I’m at it,” Ladro says. “Hand her over and you can walk away from here unhurt.” He’s very sure of himself, a man so used to getting what he wants that it’s obviously never occurred to him things can change.

“Afraid not,” I say. “We’re keeping her.”

Someone sniggers.

So I move out from the doorway and feel Anton and Phibs slide out behind me. With the two guards inside we should be able to hold out for quite a while.

“I’m going to take her anyway,” says Ladro. “Give her up now and we’ll treat her well.”

Again, that snigger.

“Hold out,” he says, “and we’ll make her pay.”

“You don’t get it,” I tell him. “We’re not giving her up.”

He comes in then, fast and dirty. The knife in his hand, my knife, slicks toward my throat and I spin away. It’s a feint and he goes for his real move, which involves trying to kick out my right knee. There are a dozen ways the outcome can go and each offers a slightly different outcome for our group.

I decide on quick and dirty myself-knowing, as I make my choice, that Debro will not approve and wondering why I care.

Twisting, I let his kick go past me and take his blade in my shoulder. As Ladro grins, I spin my own knife-well, Phibs’s knife-so my blade juts to the right of my fist and tear its edge hard and fast across Ladro’s throat.

He jerks back, and I rotate my blade, dragging upward from scrotum to breastbone, releasing his guts. The hot stink of shit fills our corridor.

I take down two others. A vicious slash at one severs his jugular. The other I kill by grabbing his head and twisting until bones break. Both of them are from the ragged brigade. We store up less long-term trouble for ourselves that way.

“Go,” I tell the rest.

Hostile eyes watch us. A flaming torch is held high, as if someone is trying to get a better view.

“They’re dead,” says Anton. “And so will you be if you don’t fuck off.” His voice is raw, his customary politeness discarded. This is the Anton that Debro must have met, the one who worked for the palace guard.

“We’ll be back.”

“And we’ll be waiting,” Anton tells the voice.

They leave with threats and curses, dragging Ladro’s body and the bodies of the ragged behind them.

“Was that necessary?” Debro asks.

No, I want to say. It wasn’t…We could have given the girl up as I suggested.

“We made our choice,” says Anton. “Now we live with it.” Which is his version of the same.

Debro wants to say something but turns away. The next time I see her she’s comforting Rebecca, who is in tears and protesting that it’s all her fault.

“No,” I hear Debro say. “It’s men.”

Anton sighs.

“We’ve lost Phibs,” he says, about five minutes later; something I’ve already noticed.

“Give him time,” I say. “He’ll be back.”

And he is, dragging food and flammable rubbish wrapped in a stolen blanket. “I thought,” he tells us, “while they were busy I’d see what I could find.”

“Who?” asks Anton.

“The next lot in.” He glances at me. “They’re already talking about another attack. Revenge for their dead.”

“What’s their camp like?” I ask.

He smiles. “Warmer than this,” he says. “It’s inside the worm. Well, it joins the worm through a hole in the skin. Maybe twice this size. They’ve even got a mattress.”

“We take it tomorrow night.”

Anton scowls at me.

“It’s warmer, that’s one. And if we don’t attack them, they’ll attack us, that’s two. As for three,” I say, “we started this and they’ll slaughter us if we back down now.”