David Gunn - Death's head

“We don’t,” says Maria. “She’s making it by hand.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

She grins at the look on my face. “You want coffee?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be in the study.”

The coffee is hot and strong and Maria makes enough for two. Realizing Lord Filipacchi’s ornate desk is buried under my open maps, she places her tray carefully on the floor. The maps are printouts showing Ilseville as it used to be, which is pretty much the same as it is now except for the newly flooded area and old warehouses where temples now stand.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking a few things.”

“I’ll be downstairs,” she says, picking up her mug. “If, you know…”

“If what?”

“You want me.”

Taking the mug from her hand, I put it on top of a map and turn Maria toward me, raising her face with one hand. “What’s to doubt?” Reaching for her dress, I undo the first two buttons.

“Not here, sir,” she says.

“Where then?”

I should be studying the map and working out my best route into that tower, but the truth is I’ll probably riff it anyway, because planning and I never got on that well to start with. Most battles are simple: The fastest and the nastiest group wins. Anyone tells you different probably has red tabs under his or her insignia and issues orders from several miles behind the front line.

Maria and I go to her room together.

Her body is as full as it was last time, and her nipples are still pale enough to be almost invisible, but I see things I didn’t notice then, like the neatly sewn track of a bullet scar above one hip. She’d been shot from behind, then given medical treatment by an outfit who obviously knew what they were doing.

“Long story,” she says.

I have enough sense not to ask.

We sleep and fuck and sleep some more, and dawn finds us in the bath, Maria behind me scrubbing my back with what seems to be the dried skin of a local slug. After a while I decide that I’m clean enough and we swap positions, although not much back scrubbing is done once I’m behind her.

I’ve just picked Maria up by the hips when there’s a tentative knock at the door.

“Sir…” It’s Neen.

Yesterday he’d have come straight into the bathroom; today he knows Maria’s in here with me. So does Shil, because her eyes refuse to catch mine when we meet on the stairs, both struggling into our jackets.

“Lieutenant Tveskoeg?”

The boy’s young, little older than Neen, but his uniform is immaculate and silver braid waterfalls from his left shoulder. The poor little shit’s even wearing a dress dagger, hung from a chain on his hip.

“You’re a new staff officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hope you last longer than the last one.”

He chews his lip. “The colonel requires you.”

“Be with you in a moment.”

“Sir…” He hesitates, not yet secure in Death’s Head arrogance and unused to borrowing the power of whomever sent the message. “He requires you now.”

“And I’ll be with you in a moment.”

My group dress in their new uniforms, which are Death’s Head issue with all the distinguishing marks cut away and skin patches sewn in their place. The boy blinks, opens his mouth, and shuts it again.

“What’s your name?”

“Benj…”

“Your other name.”

“Flypast, sir. Second Lieutenant Benj Flypast.”

I shake his hand, which he doesn’t expect, then introduce him to the group, which he expects even less. “And this is Haze,” I say. “Our expert on Uplifted and Enlightened.”

Both boys blush.

The colonel is waiting impatiently near the tower. Having flooded the area, the militia are now busy pumping the water out again. Apparently a number of enemy soldiers tried to escape on a homemade raft in the night, but they didn’t make it. A row of bodies provides evidence.

Our side has experts, real experts. Officers who trained on Death’s Head scholarships and intelligence analysts who’ve spent their entire lives studying the enemy. I’m not even sure why my group is here.

Pretty soon I find out.

“Enter the tower,” orders Colonel Nuevo. “Kill anything you like, except the Uplifted.”

Water has stained each room. Sometimes the water has risen to the ceiling; other times the positioning of windows means layers of air got trapped. This is made obvious by tide marks high up on a couple of walls. I begin to see why the colonel wants my groups to check the building first.

Just to make the job interesting, he’s landed me with Lieutenant Flypast, who needs bloodying. So now the boy hangs back and holds his pulse rifle as if it’s about to turn around and bite him.

“Report,” I tell Neen.

“Clear, sir.”

“Very good. Carry on.”

So far we’ve swept eleven floors, with only one kill. An old man huddled over a crude fire. He’d obviously hidden himself rather than be evacuated, not one of life’s better decisions.

It looks like there’s one, maybe two more floors to go, and logic tells me this is where anyone waiting to attack us will be.

“Right,” I tell Neen. “Take us up a level.”

He hits the stairs, rifle ported across his front. Shil follows, with Haze and Franc behind her. Benj trails after them and I bring up the rear. Neen is good at this, but he’s angry with me about Maria and it shows in the way he carries himself. His shoulders are locked and his movements overrapid.

Bollocking someone for not staying chilled is counterproductive, so I swallow my irritation.

“Hold it.” Neen’s instruction filters down the line.

A creak comes from overhead. It could be metal warming in what passes for this planet’s sunlight; alternatively, it could be someone with a gun. It’s Neen’s call and he has to be allowed to make it.

Our galaxy is rumored to be full of planets able to adjust their own weather, but most of these reside in the center and are owned by the United Free. The Enlightened have their Dyson habitat, also climate-controlled and endlessly enjoyable, but they keep that for themselves. As for our beloved leader…OctoV believes in traditional values, which is just as well, because he certainly can’t afford any new ones.

“Back…” Neen drops to a crouch, signaling for everyone to retreat. Shil hesitates and I grab her ankle, pulling her down a handful of stairs. She manages to take the bumps in silence.

“Wait,” Neen orders.

Edging forward, he vanishes almost from sight.

Neen’s call, I remind myself.

But that doesn’t stop me from getting impatient.

So I make myself listen to the noises inside and out while trying not to notice Shil’s hips, which are next to my face. Part of my irritation is at not being able to use my gun. Apparently the Uplifted are worse than the Enlightened for being able to read data patterns. Use my gun in here and I might as well climb the stairs shouting, Hi, it’s Sven, anyone home?

That the SIG’s version anyway. Of course, it might simply be sulking about Paper Osamu. Shifting pipes disturb the air around me. From outside comes the noise of a pump as engineers drain the last of the floodwater, and the five hundred militia who dug yesterday’s canal prepare to fill it in again. The air through an open window smells sour, because the flood has opened sewers and made latrines overspill their banks.

“Not yet,” I whisper when Shil starts to shift forward.

The sniper hiding in the room above gets bored before we do. A handle creaks and a face peers through a gap. He’s looking straight ahead when he should be looking down, and Neen’s shot takes him under the chin, painting the ceiling behind him with blood, skull, and brains.

“Move…”