David Gunn - Death's head

“Here,” he says, losing patience.

Black insects skim the surface of a tiny stream. Only the stream is the larger of the rivers and the insects are boats and we’re about a day away from the insects reaching the coin-sized circle that is Ilseville.

“Hex-Sevens,” he says.

I count fifty, and then give up. No sooner do I count than more fill the edge of the screen. It’s like kicking an ants’ nest and then trying to make sense of the reaction. “How many soldiers to a boat?”

“A hundred,” he says. “Maybe more.”

“You want me to go out there and see if I can stop them, sir?”

He stares at me, then smiles. “You’re insane,” he says. “That’s probably why I like you.” He dips his hand into a desk drawer and retrieves a handful of silver braid. “Fix this on,” he tells me. “And consider yourself promoted to staff officer.”

The colonel laughs, and I realize my face probably says it all.

“What do you know about politics?”

“Nothing.”

“Good,” he says. “And bad.”

It seems OctoV likes to cover his bets, so he spread-bets against himself and then covers the long odds with small sums that occasionally pay out and cost little if they’re lost. We’re one of those small sums. This is not the way Colonel Nuevo puts it, but it’s what he means.

This battle, which I thought key to OctoV’s planning, is a diversion for a diversion. And there are other layers that make our situation even more complicated. The late Lieutenant Uffingham was nephew to EmpireMinister Othman, who is currently in disgrace. Major Silva owed his position to General Jaxx, who has the ear of OctoV, making him dangerous as a patron and doubly dangerous as an enemy.

Colonel Nuevo asks if I follow so far.

It seems best to say yes, although I consider asking what an empireminister might be but decide I can work that out for myself. It’s someone important enough to be mentioned in the same breath as General Jaxx.

“We’re a sideshow,” the colonel says.

Looking from the screen to the river beyond his window, I consider asking if the sideshow is about to close early and decide I know the answer to that as well.

“Where’s the real battle, sir?”

The star system he names registers vaguely. All that can be said is that it is a very, very long way away. About halfway across the outer spiral if my memory is right.

“Attrition,” says Colonel Nuevo. “That’s what this comes down to. How many brigades can we tie up? How many of us can they kill…? Who can do it fastest?”

Pouring himself another drink, the colonel raises his glass.

“Make your choice,” he tells me. “Death or glory.”

I can’t work out if he’s joking.

Although his next comment answers that for me. “We’re ringed with ball busters. You know why they’re there?” The obvious answer is to destroy Enlightened ships. Only if the answer is that obvious, why ask the question?

“Mercenaries,” I say, “are sometimes known to abandon battles.”

The colonel laughs mirthlessly.

“So if I was the general, I might circle this planet with sats designed to kill unexpected traffic. Say for the next six weeks.”

“Try six months,” he says. “And it’s all traffic, unexpected or not.”

“Do the mercenaries know that, sir?”

“No,” he says. “But you’re going to tell them.”

There’s a Hot Bar Wild in every city on every planet at this end of the spiral. It might be illegal; it might advertise openly; it might be called something else…but it’s there. All you have to do is find it.

In Ilseville it’s down on the river dock, squatting in a patch of wasteland between two crumbling warehouses. IMPERIAL TRADING, reads one board, IMPORT / EXPORT.

The board is rotten, and the warehouse it advertises is empty.

Maybe such bars find scuzzy areas or maybe they blight the areas in which they’re set. Someone knows, but it’s not me.

Pushing my way through the door, I make for an empty table, beating a huge man with luminous tattoos, who swings his dreads from side to side and scowls. He’s meant to look like an Enlightened but it’s not even a good likeness.

“Mine,” he says.

I put my gun to his head.

The man leaves, still scowling and muttering threats.

“Bring it on,” says the SIG. “We’ll be waiting.”

I have to admit that I’m quietly impressed by Hot Bar Wild…Shil, on the other hand, is anything but. Two rather young gymnasts are performing on a low wooden stage, and they’re wearing nothing, not even body hair.

One of them is bent so far backward that her head protrudes from between her legs. As we watch, she uncoils faster than a spring, does the splits, and picks up a gold coin with her vulva.

Not to be outdone, her companion drops to the floor, rolls her legs over her head, and tucks them behind her arms. The next coin lands exactly where its owner intends it to land; a second later it vanishes.

A group of men by the bar begin to cheer. “Remind me why we’re here,” Shil says.

“You’re covering my back.” Turning to Haze, I raise my eyebrows.

“Nothing even comes close,” he tells me, checking his slab. And my gun preens itself in a run of flashing diodes. These guys have money, and when mercenaries aren’t spending their cash on alcohol, implants, or drugs, they’re buying weapons, the flashier and smarter the better. So it’s as well to know what we’re facing.

“Here,” I say, tossing Neen a money roll.

Neen catches it easily, breaks out twenty gold coins, and heads for the bar. I’m aiming to come out of here ahead of the money Colonel Nuevo staked us, but we need to spend some cash to get things rolling.

He pays with gold, because that’s what mercenaries use, and some customs are too ingrained for even OctoV to change. Neen must look convincing in his new uniform, because its lack of insignia is exciting interest.

I’m wearing something very similar: All my usual braid is gone from my chest and the lieutenant’s bars are missing from my collar. Pretty soon one of these guys is going to ask Neen or me which unit we’re with.

We’ve planned how this is going to go.

Someone is about to be taken down hard. It’s unfair, but it’s necessary, and fair isn’t a word that has much of a place in a bar like this.

Neen tells the bar girl to keep the change. And then, picking up the bottle he’s just bought and five shot glasses, he begins to return to our table. When it comes, his stumble is convincing. No alcohol is spilled, no one’s uniform gets wet, but someone’s chair gets joggled and respect needs reestablishing. At least, that’s what the squat man with the scarred face decides.

He taps Neen on the shoulder.

And goes down as Neen smashes the bottle into the side of his head. A kick to the gut lifts the man half off the floor and Neen follows up by stamping hard on the man’s wrist.

The whole bar hears bones break.

A friend of the injured man launches himself at Neen just as I put a shot through the ceiling, dropping plaster onto the crowd below. A woman screams from a cubicle above, but it’s fear, not injury. And the two contortionists freeze midmaneuver, giving their punters a prime-time view of all those sinuous moves previously denied them.

“Enough,” I say.

“Or what?” It’s the squat man’s friend.

His ear vanishes with just enough chopped meat decorating the table behind to make one of the contortionists projectile-vomit. She makes a nasty mess of herself.

“Good shot,” says my gun.

No one’s quite sure which event it means.

“Give my sergeant another bottle,” I tell the barkeeper.