David Gunn - Death's head

The snipers glance at one another.

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course you fucking do. Now repeat them back to me.”

“Kill anything that looks like it’s wearing too much silver.”

“Then go do it,” I say, watching them lope away, rifles slung across their backs or carried cradled in their arms.

“A good sniper’s worth ten generals,” I say, repeating the old mantra.

“And a SIG diabolo’s worth fifteen snipers,” says a voice from my hip. “So I guess you just got lucky.”

“Incoming,” someone shouts behind me.

A batwing is headed in low.

“Mine,” yells a blond kid with a pulse rifle. It’s an impossible shot, only he’s too inexperienced to realize this and takes it out first go. I’d like to say that was me once, turning red and shaking off the praise of his friends, but I’d be lying. I never had that many friends.

Yanking the Obsidian Cross from my neck, I toss it to the boy. “Now do it again.”

He grins.

I’m walking down a run of steps when I see a sour-faced officer heading toward me. Captain Mye takes my salute as his due. “You’ve relayed my message?” he says.

“Yes, sir. The colonel notes your doubts about his strategy.” Obviously untrue, but worrying enough to make any officer pause. Captain Mye wants to hold some of our ammunition in reserve.

“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” he says.

“And if tomorrow never comes?”

He looks at me, so I stare back and my gun takes time out to remind us both there’s a war on.

We hold the Silver Fist until dusk, and then half our troops rest while the other half stand guard. Those who can’t sleep huddle in the shadow of the walls, warmed by fires made from old blankets, dead men’s shoes, and broken ammo boxes. Our food is gone and we’re reduced to scraping snow from the walls for water.

“Come on,” says Shil when she tracks me down.

“Where?”

“Out of the wind.”

I don’t realize how cold I am until she herds me toward a small fire and Neen puts a cup of black coffee into my hands.

“Where did this come from?”

“Been saving it,” says Franc. “Thought now might be a good time.” She nods toward a pot balanced precariously in the ashes. At her side rests a whetstone, plus a collection of blades. She’s been sharpening everyone’s knives for them.

That’s when I realize the Aux, at least, know what’s coming.

“Grind me an edge,” I tell her, extracting my Death’s Head dagger from its sheath.

She takes the blade, flipping it over in her hand approvingly. “Sweet,” she says.

“If I fall,” I say, “it’s yours…” And then, catching something in her eyes, I add, “But only if it’s the enemy that kills me.”

Franc smiles.

The days might be getting warmer but the nights are as cold as they ever were. A silver moon hangs above us, and thin clouds scud across a dark sky. Snipers on both sides break the silence, the crack of their shots more unnerving than the familiar bursts of automatic fire.

“Spy sat,” Haze says suddenly.

My eyes open with a start. “Where?”

“Up there,” he says, pointing to a purple speck overhead. It crosses the night sky like a windblown ember.

“Ours or theirs?”

“Neither,” says Haze. “It’s U/Free.” He checks his slab. “Guess they want to make sure we die according to the rules.”

The sour-faced captain arrives at dawn, dragging two senior lieutenants behind him, and it looks to me like the delegation it is.

“Captain,” I say, rising to my feet.

“Lieutenant,” he says, then cuts to what matters. “Please tell Colonel Nuevo that we need to see him as soon as possible. All I can get from his staff is, Come back tomorrow. ”

I’m still wondering how to handle this when a redheaded sniper rushes up, her hair blowing like banners in the wind. “Five-braid,” she says. “Under a flag of truce. Demands to speak to you, sir.”

Captain Mye’s eyes narrow. “Did it ask for Lieutenant Tveskoeg by name?”

It seems the five-braid did.

She’s old and simple in her augmentations. Her braids are less ornate and look more functional than those of any other silverhead I’ve seen. Also, she wears a uniform, which is unusual.

The silverhead is as tall as I am, and her boots are planted firmly on the dirt below her feet. The gate behind me is locked; a pulse rifle is trained on her head, its laser dot just visible in the early-morning light.

A dozen similar dots speckle my jacket; this is not a surprise. The surprise stands on either side of her. Two ferox, who watch me with sour grins. Their stink reminds me of the caves and tells me something about the silverhead. Either she’s not as fastidious as most of her kind, or she’s been around these beasts for long enough to be inured to their smell.

“That’s a prohibited weapon,” she says, nodding at the gun on my hip.

“So’s that,” I say, jerking my head toward the nearer ferox.

She smiles. “Five-braid Ison,” says the woman, introducing herself.

“Sven,” I say. “Lieutenant Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross second class.”

Her eyes look for the medal, fail to find it, and flick to the ribbon tucked into my second buttonhole. That’s interesting in itself.

“You killed General Lazlo?”

I nod. “Tough bastard,” I tell her. “Died well.”

Again that smile. “You can surrender to me,” she says. “And I’ll let the city stand. The alternative is I burn Ilseville to the ground.”

“Everyone else goes free?”

Perhaps it was impolitic to sound so surprised, but I needn’t be worried. The enemy general is laughing, and not pretend laughter, it’s real. As if what I’ve just said is the funniest thing she’s heard in a long time.

“No,” she says, drawing breath. “The others do not go free.”

“Then what do we gain?”

“We spare the city.”

I shrug, wondering why she thinks rubble and broken houses worth saving. It’s not even our planet, when you get down to it.

“The city stands and its people live…” Her eyes hold mine. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Reject my offer and we will slaughter every living person in Ilseville. Soldiers, civilians, children, even the animals. All this you can prevent.”

“And me?”

“You will die.”

That much is obvious. “Where,” I ask, “when, and how?” Not that it makes a difference.

“In the arena at Bhose. Before the eleven-braid.”

I blink and catch one of the ferox watching me; his eyes are as dark as pits, his teeth yellow, and his armor cracked across the front.

An eleven-braid.

“General Lazlo was her brother,” says the silverhead.

“I need three hours,” I say. “While I talk to the colonel and he talks to his other officers.”

“Our intelligence says Colonel Nuevo is dead.”

“Then your intelligence is wrong.” I look for some sign of doubt in the silverhead’s face, but she’s smiling again.

“You have thirty minutes,” she says.

We compromise on an hour.

CAPTAIN MYE IS waiting on the other side of the gate, and I can sense the exact second the prickle of laser sights on my back is replaced by an identical prickle on my chest as half a dozen snipers check no one has come through with me.

“Well?” the captain demands.

Flicking my gaze toward the two officers behind him, I shake my head. He’s meant to understand that what I have to say is not for them. Only they’re his officers and he’s unwilling to lose his audience.

“Tell me.”

“We lay down our arms,” I say. “Or face total annihilation. The Uplifted will burn this entire city, civilians and all. No one escapes.”