David Gunn - Day of the Damned

I make myself stand there.

‘Fuck,’ she says, and then blushes. ‘Was that the ferox . . .?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘That was people.’

‘You were tortured?’

‘Whipped,’ I tell her. ‘In the Legion. Usually it kills.’

Aptitude digests this. Handing me the beer, she sits herself on a rock and stares into the distance. Takes me a moment to realize it’s because my chest is bare. Since she’s just taken a good look at the scars on my back that doesn’t make any sense at all. But then I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl and I’m not high clan.

Refitting my arm, I tighten the grips that hold it in place. Pistons hiss and braided hoses flex as my fingers come back to life. The fighting arm is a work of art. It’s just a work of art made to fit someone else.

‘Our house medical AI-’

‘Aptitude.’

She stops talking.

‘It’s like that because I want it like that. Some lessons you need to remember.’ I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before.

Not sure why we’re having it again.

‘But you remember it anyway.’

‘Without the scars I’d forget.’

We both know we’re not here to talk about my scars. And I’m pretty certain Aptitude didn’t leave Wildeside’s air-conditioning just to bring me a beer.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Spit it out.’

She flushes. Takes another long look at the horizon.

Smoke drifting from the rift at one edge and the line of hills that form the boundary to the Wolf’s estates at the other. Not much out there she’d want to look at. So I figure she’s taking care not to look at me.

But I don’t need to see her face to know she’s desperate. That’s obvious from the way she clenches her fists.

‘Sven . . .’

‘I don’t break my promises.’

She laughs, unhappily.’ You think I don’t know that? If anyone can protect Vijay from General Luc-’

‘So what’s this about?’

‘I want to go too.’

‘You can’t.’

Flipping round, she starts to protest and shuts up when I scowl. She looks as if she’s about to cry. And Aptitude doesn’t.

Not usually.

‘You’re taking Leona,’ she protests.

‘So?’

‘She’s a woman.’

‘No, she’s a sergeant in the Farlight militia. A combat-hardened, fully trained specialist with two tours of duty behind her.’ This has nothing to do with gender. Although I know Aptitude won’t believe that.

‘I’m scared,’ she says.

‘Of course you are . . .’

A nicely brought up girl like her. How could she not be?

Aptitude shakes her head crossly.’ You don’t understand. I’m going to get you both killed.’

‘Me and Leona?’

‘No! You and Vijay. The two men I-’

Wisely, Aptitude doesn’t finish that sentence.

‘Sven,’ she says, ‘I’ve already got Vijay in trouble. And now . . .’

I don’t realize I’m gripping her shoulders until she whimpers. Then I step back and make myself step back again. Telling her she’s a stupid little idiot isn’t the answer. So that means I’ve got to apologize.

‘You stay at Wildeside.’

She still wants to object, so I give her reasons. ‘If the Wolf captures you, Vijay’s dead. You think he wouldn’t give himself up?’

The tears come.

Ignoring them, I take another look at the horizon. I have a better idea than Aptitude what’s out there. ‘Your dad told you about the furies? We need sex and food. Some of us need to fight . . .’

She’s looking at me strangely.

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned sex.

‘Furies need to kill. All their instincts are sewn up in one primal urge.’

‘They’re human?’

Maybe once, I think.

The definition of human is wide these days. Wide enough to include me, Anton and Debro, all three. But I’m not sure it can be pushed that far.

‘No,’ I say.

Better if Aptitude thinks of them as machines.

Unbuckling my gun belt, I wrap it around Aptitude’s waist.

‘Open the holster,’ I say.

Her fingers fumble with the catch.

‘And again. This time make it smoother.’

Aptitude’s second go is better. Her third better still. Slow healer, quick learner. Works for some people.

‘Now give me the gun,’ I say.

The correct term is a side arm or piece.

Actually, the correct term is SIG-37, with added Colt combat AI, up-rated memory chip and pulse-rifle capacity. Battle planning, forward projection, combat probabilities and one-minute certain. In U/Free territories the SIG would have voting rights.

One-minute certain means the SIG can tell you with 99.2 per cent accuracy what is going to happen in the next sixty seconds. (Combat situations only.) It’s a useful edge to have in battle.

Although it burns battery like nothing else.

I’ll take five minutes’ high probability, with some power left, over certainty any day. The other thing it does is tactics, targeting and three-level-deep identity.

If your enemy is running black flag it will tell you who they really are. And if that second identity is a lie, the SIG digs one level deeper.

I don’t bother Aptitude with any of this.

‘Keep it turned on,’ I tell her. ‘Keep it close. And do what it suggests, unless you have good reasons for thinking it’s wrong. Even then, check it’s not the other way round.’

‘You think the furies will attack?’

‘You’ve got food, you’ve got power. They can sense things like that. And the furies aren’t your only problem.’

She looks at me.

‘You heard the crowd. “Kill the doubter.”’

‘They were talking about Sergeant Leona.’

Aptitude’s right. But it won’t take the village long to transfer their hatred to Debro. She threw several families out of the compound when she reclaimed it. I know it’s hers. But they’re likely to look at it differently.

Having woken, the Sig notices Aptitude is wearing its holster and lets fly with a string of insults about my character, parentage and cheap sexual habits. Most of which are true. Luckily it swears in machine code.

A language she doesn’t know.

‘Shut it.’

When the SIG ignores me, I walk it to the edge of a promontory and offer to let it take a close look at the valley floor.

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Try me.’

We waste a full minute discussing which is worse: being owned by me or rusting at the foot of a hill being shat on by goats, the SIG insisting that rust and goat shit could only be an improvement.

And then we get back to what matters.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘You saw that crashed ship. How many furies were in there originally?’

The SIG doesn’t reply. All the same it’s listening.

‘That was Mum’s ship,’ Aptitude says. ‘With the markings painted out.’

‘So,’ I say. ‘How many?’

‘Lots,’ the SIG says.’ Lots plus. Your guess is as good as mine.’

This time when I hold it over the edge I use only two fingers. Diodes flash along the gun’s side. ‘Thirty-eight,’ it says finally.

‘You’re certain?’

‘No. Of course not. I just picked the first fucking-’ It stops. ‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘Ninety-three degrees. High probable.’ The SIG’s just realized why its holster hangs from Aptitude’s hip.

Doesn’t mean it likes it. But it’s beginning to understand.

There are still a dozen furies out there.

One can take down twenty militia in a concerted attack. Working on those sorts of figures, that means-

The SIG’s there already. ‘Serious shit.’

The sun is low and the horizon starting to go dark. We’re an hour from sunset, which is when I need to leave for Farlight. Two days’ ride, at least. Maybe three. And I have a couple of arguments to have first.