David Gunn - Day of the Damned

Starting with the SIG.

Only the SIG doesn’t want to argue.

It’s so reasonable I’m suspicious. Until I remember I took it from Aptitude’s bodyguard. So just maybe there’s Tezuka-Wildeside loyalty coded into its make-up somewhere.

‘You’ll do it?’

‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘For her.’

Walking across, I fold Aptitude’s fingers round its handle and hold them tight before the SIG has time to change its mind.

‘Ouch . . .’

The SIG’s already logging her genotype. Unravelling enough of Aptitude’s DNA to lock down her identity. ‘Human/Post human,’ it says. ‘High Clan 3, tailored for trade. Interesting mix . . .’

‘It’s yours until I take it back.’

She must know what parting with the SIG-37 is costing me. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let it show. ‘Keep the battery pack charged. Sleep with it under your pillow. And if you feel it shiver get yourself somewhere safe.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Sven,’ says the gun. ‘Tell me you’re not going to rely on . . .’ It’s dissing my sabre. The one Colonel Vijay sent. At least, I think so.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Because it’s ugly, outdated and impractical.’

We’re definitely talking about the sabre.

‘If you must,’ says the gun, ‘I could always . . .’ It pauses, considers what it’s offering. ‘Upgrade it slightly? I mean, it’ll still be pig ugly, but less likely to get you killed.’

‘Hurry it up.’

Wouldn’t want the SIG thinking I was grateful.

‘Hold it out,’ the gun says.

So I unclip the sabre and flick on its blade.

Nothing much happens for a second, and then I realize the cutting edge is getting narrower. The blade is also less thick in cross-section. I think I’m imagining a silvery black sheen.

I’m not.

‘Almost there,’ the gun says.

A humming inside the handle changes its balance. The sabre now weighs twice what it did and pivots more slowly. In fact, it feels just like one of those pieces of junk I used to carry in the Legion.

Impossible, clearly.

Never ridden a horse in my life. Never even belonged to a cavalry regiment. But I’ve been carrying a sabre on parade from the age of twelve and it’s always felt just like this.

‘Stabilizing gyro,’ the SIG says. ‘Probably faulty for years.’

Flicking the sabre from side to side, I can feel its blade counterbalance the weight of the handle behind my wrist. Obviously, that’s impossible.

I choose point and tell Anton to take rear. Leona will ride in the middle. Goodbyes from Aptitude and Debro are all that stand between us and our leaving the village. Aptitude throws her arms round my waist and looks upset when I pull away.

‘Take care of the SIG.’

‘Will do.’

She’s decided I don’t want to get emotional.

Emotional? It’s having her pressed against me that set my reflexes on edge. Debro simply leans her head against my chest and cries.

Not sure how fierce her quarrell with Anton was. Pretty bad, I reckon. He was meant to be helping me, not setting up a bike for himself. Debro barely looks at him as he straddles the Icefeld and flicks it into life.

Leaving Wildeside’s borders breaks his parole.

The punishment is death. That’s no surprise. Doesn’t mean Debro approves of the risk he’s taking.

As the gyro fires, his bike’s instrument panel glows and his headlight comes up. Sergeant Leona has masked the panels and taped our lights. The beams now show a narrow strip of dirt directly in front of us. The roads between here and Farlight are too poor to ride with no lights at all.

Aptitude doesn’t want her father to leave.

But she wants Colonel Vijay saved. She believes Sergeant Leona, her father and I stand a better chance of pulling that off if we go together. Of course, her best chance of getting Vijay back alive involves me going alone.

But I don’t say that.

It was obvious her father intended to join us the moment he began removing fairings, replacing optic and stripping pistols from his own armoury. I could almost taste his hunger for excitement.

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘He’ll be fine.’

Debro glares at me, before deciding it’s not my fault. ‘He’s being selfish.’ She’s big on people not being selfish.

‘He’s protecting the man your daughter wants to marry.’

‘Apt said that?’ Debro sounds shocked.

‘Does she need to?’

Shrugging away my question, Debro says, ‘Well, he should be protecting-’ We’ve got to the heart of her anger.

‘Trust the gun. Keep Aptitude close. And don’t let strangers into the compound. We’ll be back inside a week.’

Her gaze asks what it is I’m not saying.

So I lean over and kiss her on both cheeks, the way I’ve learnt to do. Click my own bike into life and feel the gyro wobble before it steadies.

‘Go away,’ she says. ‘All of you.’

As close as she’s getting to telling Anton goodbye. Weird relationship, those two. Live in the same house. Sleep in the same bed. Shared prison, and now share exile. But are divorced because they can’t stand being married.

Aptitude’s tried to explain it. Told her it wasn’t my business.

People watch us leave. Mostly they watch from behind wooden shutters. A bottle is thrown from an upper window and misses my bike by a finger’s breadth to shatter against someone’s front step.

I’m tempted to kick down the door of the house responsible and make my feelings known. Only Debro’s still watching and I’m trying to be good. So I simply memorize its position and decide to deal with it on my return.

The road spools out ahead.

A strip of crumbling blacktop. It runs through a desert that flickers with shards of light as the moon above us reflects from broken rock and skims the surface of dry lakes that wear their salt like icing.

I remember this landscape as a blur beneath the copter that dropped me at Wildeside. Now it’s vast and impressive. A lot more rugged than it looked from up there. Of course, it’s also perfect cover for anyone out there with a night sight and a decent rifle.

But the sabre handle is silent. And I trust the SIG when it says I’ll get warning of danger.

An hour turns into two and two into three. The road still unravels as straight as ever and I can feel my focus drift. Physically I’m good for another hour, maybe another two or three. But my edge is fading.

I know stopping is the right decision when Anton gets off his bike and falls over as his legs give way beneath him.

‘Cramp,’ he says.

We’ve worked that out for ourselves.

Killing the gyro on my bike, I wait for Sergeant Leona to do the same.

‘Everything OK, sir?’

‘Yeah . . .’ I stare out at the blackness.

The moon’s position says it’s nearly midnight. This means we’ve been riding for longer than I thought. The bike’s tyre is hot and almost sticky, despite the night wind that has been whipping across the salt lakes towards us.

‘Sven,’ says Anton.

I turn back to him.

‘What do you think is out there?’

Furies, smugglers, Horse Hito . . .

It’s anyone’s guess.

A holster is visible under the open flap of Anton’s coat.

He’s let his hair grow out after his buzz cut on Paradise. And his face is filling, and he’s got one of those small beards the high clans favour. But you can see he’s more than a rich woman’s husband from the way he holds himself as he stares into the darkness.

It’s a combat stance.

And he’s fallen into it without noticing.

Sergeant Leona notices it though. She thought he was just another trade lord. Now she’s wondering what an ex-soldier is doing married to a senator. I’m the wrong person to ask. Not that she would.