David Gunn - Death's head

“Stand back while I talk to my sergeant.”

People do as they’re told.

“If I go down,” I tell Neen. “You’re fucked.”

My own sergeant glares at me.

“But if that does happen,” I say, “you lead the Aux. Because you’re the best combat grunt in this room. Not that you have much competition. Apart from Franc, and she’s a basket case.”

A grin lifts his face.

“You take command and you take my rank.” I explain about the cameras, about how my trick with the lock is sleight of hand compared with the power Haze displays every time he throws up a mental wall.

“We’re going to win this,” I tell him.

“You really think so?”

“Too fucking right,” I say. “Even if we all get killed doing it.”

Neen laughs.

Everyone listens as I tell them about Neen taking my place if I go down, and though a scowl flicks across the face of a couple of militia officers no one objects. We’ve given these guys guns and jacked the door to what was their cell. And more to the point, we represent hope for them.

A stinking, badly dressed, and forlorn hope, but hope all the same.

“This is Haze,” I say, introducing him. “He’s got more shit in his head than you’ve got in your guts and he’s my intelligence officer. If you haven’t heard about people like him that’s because you’re a bunch of ignorant grunts.

“Haze,” I say. “Find out where we need to be.”

His face blanks for a second.

“This side,” he says. “Three levels up, a hundred paces forward. The ship’s on automatic.” He hesitates, and then he’s back. “There are thirteen people between here and the control center.”

“You heard the man,” I tell the Aux. “That’s where we’re going.”

“How many on the ship altogether?” asks Neen.

“Fifty-eight,” Haze says without vanishing. He obviously found this figure earlier. Glancing at me, he asks, “Do we do this noisy or silent?”

“Both.”

A knife takes the first guard in the back. It’s a clean kill as Neen rams his blade neatly between two ribs and shocks a man’s heart into silence. He kills two more in quick succession, both silently.

All’s going well, much too well. It doesn’t last.

We’re one level above where we were, and our next target is the set of steps when a three-braid suddenly appears.

“Fuck,” says Haze, sounding really upset with himself.

The braid shouts. He also hits a panic button, and Shil and Franc both fire, fingers hard on their triggers as they fry the braid back to a greasy shadow on the steps behind.

Unfortunately the siren keeps yowling.

Boots slapping, Neen reaches the steps first, firing from the hip. I want to be ahead of him, but things are unraveling too fast for me to get there in time. Five enemies down leaves eight out of thirteen. Except other doors are now opening and a Silver Fist is screaming orders somewhere nearby.

A hand grips my arm.

I punch Haze without thinking. I’m not angry with him, I don’t think he should have protected me better, I’m just ramped on violence and my reflexes are way ahead of my thoughts. It’s all I can do to pull the second blow.

“My mistake,” I say.

Climbing to his feet, Haze grabs me again. Tears mix with blood from his broken mouth, while his eyes flick in and out of focus as he tries to explain.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Leave it.”

“She uncloaked. I wasn’t ready.”

Grabbing him in my turn, I flip him around and realize he’s afraid of me. That’s fine, I’m afraid of me. He’s also afraid of where he finds himself, of whatever the fuck is going on inside his head and whoever just uncloaked. But he’s holding it. I mean, he’s unraveling in front of me, but he’s holding the wall.

“Who uncloaked?”

“She’s here,” says Haze. “On this ship.”

“Who is here?”

“Duza, the eleven-braid.”

I let Haze go and lean him against the bulkhead. There’s a firefight on the level above, but this needs saying. “Listen,” I tell him. “No one else could do what you’ve done.”

Without even realizing it Haze wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and something toughens in his voice. “Whatever it takes.”

Yeah. He’s got that right. “Get me to the control room.”

“If I do,” he says, “I’ll have to drop the shields on everybody else. Duza will know how many there are…and where they are.”

“Just do it.”

Pulse fire rages on the level above. Shil and the others have vanished; only a handful of militia remain at the foot of the steps. They’re armed but scared, and now that I’ve noticed them they’re more scared still.

“Get up there and die,” I tell them.

They do what they’re told.

When I hit the top of the stairs, I realize that the only thing we have in our favor is the sheer bloody-mindedness of Shil and Neen, who are flat on the floor, ripping pulse shots into any Silver Fist stupid enough to stick his head around a corner in the corridor.

Against us we’ve got numbers, training, and better armor.

At least we’ve got these against us right up to the point I unholster my pistol and tell it to max out its combat potential.

“You’re on.”

“About fucking time.” Scanning the corridor, the newly uprated SW SIG-37 runs through a dozen loading options in a split second, although my money’s on it choosing cinder maker.

I mean, why else would I be lugging three power packs?

One pack lasts seventy-six hours under normal combat conditions, or so it says on the label. My bet is we can burn our way through all three before this is over.

“Stay down.”

Fire sweeps the corridor above Neen’s head.

When I glance back, Rachel and Maria are kneeling behind me to fill in the gaps, only there aren’t any gaps because the SW SIG-37 spits a single line of plasma that melts metal and cuts ceramic as cleanly as a hot wire through butter.

The SW SIG-37 is practically singing to itself as it burns a hole in an armored steel wall for the hell of it, then rips out a section of ceiling.

“Move,” it tells me.

But I’m doing that already.

We hit the corner at a run, roll sideways, and burn the passage ahead, incinerating five or six guards. Luck is on our side, or maybe it’s simple insanity. Lenz above us are swiveling frantically and I take them out, then burn the luminex panels, throwing the area ahead into darkness.

“Fuck,” Shil says.

“Follow me.”

The SW SIG-37 lights our way. It also gives the Silver Fist something to aim at, but none of them comes close to getting off a shot.

“Five o’clock…”

“Four o’clock, low…”

“Twelve o’clock…”

My reactions are so fast I’m tearing my own muscles, though I’ve long since ceased to care. I’m happy to sacrifice every single person this side of the line, including myself, to take out an eleven-braid.

“Sniper on the roof,” someone shouts.

There is no roof, but old phrases die hard and a shot zaps from an air duct in the corridor beyond.

“Mine,” says the gun.

A burst of plasma drops a cindered body to the deck below. Molten ceiling sets in a splatter pattern around it.

“Maria’s down, sir.” The voice belongs to Shil.

“How bad?”

Her eyes flick to where Neen crouches beside his lover. He’s draped his jacket over Maria’s lower half, not a good sign. He has one of Maria’s hands folded into his own; in his other hand is a dagger.

“Cover me,” I tell Shil.

To Neen, I say, “You want me to do it?”

He shakes his head. “My job.”

As I turn back, Neen jabs the blade under her ribs and takes Maria through the heart. When he looks up there’s a blackness in his eyes.