David Gunn - Death's head

Franc goes red, but Haze stares back with eyes that are almost hollow. I’ve no idea where he is, but it’s obviously not anywhere that the rest of us would recognize.

“I’m a weapon,” he says finally. “And so are you.”

I sigh. “Anyone got a knife? Anything useful at all?”

“What do you want?” asks Rachel.

“A gun,” I tell her. “But I’ll settle for a blade.”

She walks away without another word. Her red hair is simplicity itself to follow through the crowd as she heads toward a pair of Silver Fist. One of them turns to see who it is and smiles a particularly nasty smile. His arm reaches out to catch her, and Rachel allows herself to be caught.

“That’s the bastard who…”

“Yes,” says Shil, cutting short my outrage. “We know.”

Amber and Artifacts announces a sign above the men. As we watch, one of them tries a door behind him, finds it locked, and leads Rachel around to the side of the warehouse, although drags her might be a better description. The second Silver Fist stands watch, leaning against a wall.

About five minutes later he turns in response to something unseen and vanishes around the corner. When Rachel returns it’s from a different direction and her mouth is bleeding, but not enough to keep a smile from her lips.

“You okay?” asks Haze.

“Sure.”

“What happened?” he says, and then blushes.

“Nothing like that,” she replies.

Franc’s laugh is sour. “Don’t tell me. They got more than they expected?”

“Yeah,” says Rachel. “If rather less than they hoped.” Tucked under her jacket are a pistol, two knives, and an ID card made out in the name of Sergeant Zil Lanlyr.

There’s blood on the blade of one of the knives. I don’t know what the glance that passes between Shil and Rachel actually means, and I don’t want to. At the moment I’m just glad they’re both on my side.

Guards jostle prisoners up the gangway onto the first ship. When the lower levels have filled and even the deck is crowded, the gangplank is dragged along the jetty to the next ship, which fills just as swiftly.

And then the gangplank is dragged to the third and fourth ships. A group of Silver Fist begin cutting prisoners out of the crowd for the fifth ship and one of them reaches for me, only to be slapped down by his sergeant.

“Leave him.”

The trooper is that much rougher with the next few prisoners he cuts out of our dwindling crowd. When the fifth ship is full, the gangplank is moved again and most of what remains of the defeated is herded onto the ship after that. A corporal grabs at Rachel, who backs away as Haze steps between them.

The corporal looks shocked, obviously unsure which of the two to deal with first. Reaching around me, he chooses Rachel. So I grip his wrist, swing him around, and put him into the side of a crane. Only I keep hold of his wrist, so his shoulder dislocates with a wet sucking sound.

He howls.

One of the other guards is reaching for his own holster when an officer appears, his fists already clenched. His punch flattens the injured corporal, dropping him into the dirt, and then a pistol is in his hand and its muzzle is touching my forehead.

“Come on,” I tell him. “Pull the fucking trigger.”

Neen is moving forward but freezes at the shake of my head. This is a test and I’d better be right, because otherwise I’m dead.

“Well?” I say. “You got the guts?”

The lieutenant backs away, pistol still raised and pure hatred in his eyes. This man would kill me if he hadn’t been told that was somebody else’s job.

“These are the Aux, they’re with me, okay?” My gesture takes in Neen and the others, including Rachel, who looks terrified.

“Okay?”

He nods, not quite meeting my eyes.

“So we’re back in business?” says Franc.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “My own personal supply of cannon fodder.”

She grins, knowing it’s not a joke.

We’re about to be loaded onto the only ship out of the seven that is actually seaworthy. Haze and I are standing near the gangway, staring out at an oily swell of Mica Harbor with its local boats and old steamers and fishermen keeping well away from whatever the hell is going on along their quayside.

Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon, the sea swell is higher than when we first arrived, and waves are beginning to fray in the wind. It might be coincidence that brings us to this place tonight, or it might be perfect planning. Either way the Enlightened have what they need: A storm is about to roll right over us.

All soldiers believe in luck, which is just skill used wisely. And there are things I can and will do without even thinking about them to put luck back on our side, vicious and bloody things.

Only they’re not going to be enough on their own.

“Haze,” I say. “A question.”

His eyes go wide, and then his mouth goes tight. He knows he’s not going to like what I’m about to ask.

“How good are you really?”

He wants to pretend he doesn’t understand. Failing that, he wants to lie…Instead he changes the subject. “You still haven’t told the others what’s going to happen to you in Bhose.”

“Haven’t told you, either.”

A scowl crosses his face. “The arena,” Haze says. “Facing two ferox.”

“You can see the future?”

“Dreams,” he says, adding, “not mine…” And then Haze hesitates, wondering how to say what comes next. “There’s a three-braid around here somewhere. He’s been thinking about little else.”

“Fuck.”

Haze nods. “One other thing. The three-braid is scared. I couldn’t get away with staying shielded if he wasn’t. It’s that soft tech in your throat; he’s worried it’s going to reboot.”

“Doubt it,” I tell Haze. “My body fucks with implants.”

“It’s not your body that’s the problem.”

“What is it then?”

“Your mind,” Haze says. “Fix that and you won’t need my help.”

Deep in the belly of our ship the engines start, and the deck beneath our feet begins to shudder. One of the vessels ahead of us is having trouble. A dull thud announces that its engine is turning over but refuses to fire.

One of their officers says something to an NCO. We hear the engine start about three minutes later, and when the NCO returns he’s rubbing his fist.

“Belowdecks,” an enemy corporal tell us.

The others look at me.

“Do what he says.”

Behind me someone laughs, so I turn to face him. It’s a Death’s Head captain I don’t recognize, wearing full combat ribbons.

“Got a problem?”

“I outrank you,” he says.

“So fucking what?” asks Neen, and the others laugh.

Part of me is appalled; part of me knows it’s exactly the sort of thing I’d have said at Neen’s age, although my insubordination was confined to sergeants. Mind you, back then I still believed lieutenants were godlike.

Belowdecks the bulkhead is clean and the grating over which we’re led is freshly scrubbed. Inset lights indicate routes for escape and entry, and the crew move from job to job with cold efficiency. This is a military vessel. Probably armed to the teeth and undoubtedly crewed by professionals.

“In there,” orders the guard.

Seven clicks follow as electronic locks engage. It’s time to ask if anyone else has a weapon, and if the enemy are listening in on us, then that’s just too bad.

Blank faces greet my question.

“Come on,” I say. “Who’s carrying?”

At a nod from Neen, first Shil and then Franc put up their hands. He’s learning fast. As I told Shil way back, the boy’s a natural.

“What have you got?”