David Gunn - Maximum Offence

‘Listen-’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ says the SIG. ‘I know, you’re fucking invincible . . .’ It hesitates, and I am shocked, because the SIG never hesitates. ‘You going to tell the colonel what Pavel said about snakeheads?’

‘After last time?’

The SIG sees my point. ‘What about those ghosts?’

‘Stealth camouflage.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Obvious.’

The SIG goes silent. When I next check it’s whirring to itself. A little while later, it shuts down and goes back to sleep. Behind me, Shil’s watching Racta preen and prance on his little horse. Not that I’m jealous or anything.

Me, I usually buy my women.

That way, there’s no misunderstanding. You make conversation, you fuck, you make a little more conversation, and then you fuck again. Everyone is happy. I don’t see any sense in running around with my tongue out. Although, watching Shil, I don’t think there’s any doubt who has her tongue out, and who knows he’s-

‘ Down .’

Five Aux hit the dirt. I don’t need to turn round to know it has happened. Wish I could say the same for Colonel Vijay.

‘Sir,’ I say.

He stares at me.

‘If you could get down?’

A hawk, a rodent fifty paces away, a flock of crows above a slope that leads to a silver ribbon of stream far below. Racta’s leaving tracks a blind man could follow. And I have no trouble finding him up ahead.

A single wave of my hand brings the others forward. They take cover behind rocks and clumps of rough grass without being told. I’m impressed, although I’m not about to tell them that. Colonel Vijay joins me last, takes a long look at the horizon and wants to know what he is missing.

‘Watchers, sir.’

‘Where?’

That’s my problem.

Sun glints from a thousand rocks. Whatever makes up the slopes ahead reflects light in all directions. Not all of it, obviously, otherwise we’d be looking at a mountain made entirely of glass; but enough shiny black rock juts through red earth to blind anyone who looks for too long.

‘Sir,’ says Shil.

Racta has vanished from sight.

Digging in his heels, Racta waves his rifle above his head and gallops his pony towards us, yelling at the top of his voice. God knows what he’s yelling, because he is too excited to make sense. When the little brat gets within twenty paces, I realize the obvious. He hasn’t worked out we’ve taken cover.

‘Up,’ I say.

We rise as one. And Racta’s pony shies.

As we watch, the boy flies over its neck and twists in the air, trying for a clean landing. He almost makes it, but he’s moving too fast. A stumble takes him sideways and dumps him on his arse.

Colonel Vijay chuckles.

Since he’s nearest, maybe it’s funnier close up.

A second later, one of the O’Cruz joins in. Racta is not happy. I’ve seen faces like his before and always hated the men owning them. Slowly Racta straightens up, walks over to collect his rifle and jacks a bullet into the breech.

‘No,’ I say.

He gives no sign of having heard me, but as I step towards him, he tosses the weapon aside. Shil looks at Rachel, who twists her mouth. Shil’s shocked at the sudden change in his temper.

Such innocence.

‘You.’

The man who laughed runs across, and Racta backhands him hard. This guy is my age with scars that impress even me. He just stands there. None of the trackers will meet his eye when he returns to them.

‘And you,’ says Racta.

‘What’s he saying?’ Colonel Vijay asks me.

‘He thinks you owe him an apology for laughing . . .’

Outrage fills the colonel’s face. It vanishes almost as quickly. He’s too inexperienced to know his own mind. I have seen it before, but never in a Death’s Head officer.

‘All right,’ he says.

‘No way,’ I tell Racta. ‘My caudillo never apologizes.’

We have a short discussion about when Racta gets to kill me. He wants to fight now and grows sullen when I tell him to come back when he’s grown up. At his age, I had killed more men than I could count. Mind you, that wasn’t very high. And there are other differences: Racta’s soft and I was never that. And he’s handsome, and I was never that either.

‘All done?’ asks Colonel Vijay.

‘Yes, sir. All done . . .’

The colonel smiles at Racta, who stares at him and then grins back. That is when I know he’s dangerous.

The sea that runs around the inside of Hekati’s shell is wide, sluggish and carpeted with patches of foul-smelling scum. An island in the distance looks strange, until I realize it’s because that’s where a huge mirrored spoke descends from the glass ceiling miles above. Mirroring on the spoke blends it into the side wall beyond. Climb that spoke and you will reach the hub. Of course, by then you will be in space, and the ring will be a glass-roofed monstrosity beneath and above you.

We came down one spoke, and when we find our U/Free, we will go back the same way. After that, we just need to board our plane to get home again. Colonel Vijay knows the number needed to make that happen.

It’s a good enough reason to keep him alive.

We’re hot, dust has turned our camouflage to dirt, and sweat paints patches under our arms and between our shoulder blades. Meanwhile, boats slide like insects across the sea’s surface. There are wharfs, down there. Wharfs and warehouses and probably brothels, because shorelines and brothels go together.

Well, in my experience.

Travelling by water would be easy. All we need do is descend a valley, cut through the shacks that grow along the coast and find ourselves a boat. One after the other the Aux suggest it to Neen.

And Neen finally mentions it to me.

I’m glad, because our colonel has spent most of the day looking longingly at towns he would dismiss as slums in any other situation. Telling Neen he’s an idiot is easier than telling the colonel.

‘Neen,’ I say, knowing Colonel Vijay’s listening. ‘Tell me why it’s a shit idea.’

My sergeant thinks about it.

In the time this takes, we climb a hill, pass through the ruins of an old farm and crest a high ridge that drops to a narrow valley beyond. The wind smells of hot stones and wild grass, like good vodka. ‘Time’s up,’ I say. ‘Tell me.’

‘We’re looking for the Azari.’

He hopes I’ll nod, so I don’t.

Neen shouldn’t need me to teach him this.

‘That’s one,’ I say. ‘We’re stuck with that Racta, that’s two. And three, we’re not meant to be here at all.’

Neen still doesn’t get it.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I say. ‘We can kill the O’Cruz if needs be. But every new person who knows we’re here doubles the danger.’

‘Sven.’ That’s the colonel, obviously. He’s working his way round to behaving as if nothing happened up in the mirror hub. ‘We can’t,’ he says. ‘I mean . . .’

‘Believe me, sir,’ I say, ‘we may have to.’

A dozen people drag a cart along the dry bed of what was once a stream. The cart has spoked wheels and fretted sides. It has been painted grey so it doesn’t reflect the sun. The men pulling it wear camouflage so cheap I only hope it came free. Mostly it matches whatever its owner was standing on a few seconds earlier.

The women, all three of them, wear rags. These are so filthy they provide better camouflage than the suits worn by the men.

Every twenty paces, the group stop and twist a stick into the ground. After a few seconds, one of the men shakes his head. So they drag the cart another twenty paces and start again.

‘Prospectors.’ Rachel is certain of this.

‘They’d have better equipment,’ says Colonel Vijay.