David Gunn - Day of the Damned

‘Say it, sir,’ she whispers.

‘You get your wish.’

‘I what . . .?’

‘You’re out of the Aux. Soon as this is over.’

She’s meant to be happy about that. Not spend the rest of the night slumped in the opposite corner, with her legs pulled up and her arms holding them in place and her head buried in her knees, crying.

Outside our window the nail gun falls silent. Colonel Vijay’s scaffold is bolted together, the boards now form its floor. A strip of railing secures the back and runs along both edges, but the front is open.

Makes the execution easier to see.

A second platform sits in front of the first. It’s longer and lower, with newly built wooden benches to either side of two ornate chairs. I was wondering what kept the nail gunner so busy.

Do I have a plan?

I have several. Unfortunately, I don’t know which is right. Although Leona’s comment about the long game won’t leave my head. And her strange silver key feels heavy next to the dog tags and planet buster around my neck.

The long game.

What does a key usually open?

I think I’ve left it too late to learn to play chess. Coming to stand at my shoulder, Rachel sees the scaffolding outside and her face tightens.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s getting an audience.’

‘Bastards.’

We both look at Colonel Vijay at the same time. He’s still curled in the dawn light like a baby, head on his arm. Makes me wonder if he’s really sleeping, or just being kind to the rest of us. Wouldn’t put that past him either. A few minutes later, the colonel stretches and yawns.

‘Breakfast, sir?’ Iona asks.

He takes the fig she offers, and peels it carefully, lifting first one sliver of skin and then another with his fingernail. Don’t think I knew people peeled figs. Only when he has eaten and wiped his fingers does he climb to his feet and walk to the window.

‘Interesting,’ he says.

‘Sir?’

‘Those seats . . .’

Before the colonel can explain his interest, an ADC knocks at our door.

The boy is barely wide enough at the shoulder for the wolf skin General Luc’s officers wear. His boots have thick heels as if the extra height will make a difference. ‘If I could trouble you, sir?’

Colonel Vijay turns from the window.

‘I meant your lieutenant, sir.’

Wolf Brigade troopers watch as I stalk through their base.

Some meet my eye, and others glance away. A few stare. An old lieutenant in a uniform jacket frayed at the cuffs nods, as if he recognizes me. Or maybe he simply recognizes the type. He’s me, twenty years down the line. If I’m lucky enough to live that long.

I return his nod.

A sergeant, I decide. Up through the ranks.

Not rich and not well-born, but good in a scrap and forgiven his filthy jacket, poorly cut hair and greying moustache for battles fought and victories won. He would know the answer to the question occupying my mind.

‘Parole?’ I say.

He stops, stares at me.

The ADC keeps walking, only to stop in his turn. Looking back, he sees something in the lieutenant’s face that makes him stay where he is.

‘You spoke?’

The lieutenant’s voice is rough. His accent as raw as mine. We speak traveller, because that’s what people on Farlight use. Something says it’s not his natural tongue either.

‘How does it work? Parole?’

‘The generality?’

‘What does it mean?’

‘You don’t know?’ The lieutenant considers this. His slow nod says he approves of my ignorance. ‘One officer gives another his word not to fight or try to escape. In return, the officer is treated as a guest and not as a prisoner.’

‘Invited to dine? Doors left unlocked?’

The man nods.

‘That’s it?’

Another nod. The ADC is getting worried. Which means whoever sent him outranks this officer. He’s worried enough to start shuffling his feet.

‘When does it run out?’ The only question to matter.

The lieutenant grins. ‘When you take it back.’

‘What if I didn’t give it myself?’

‘Your colonel?’ He obviously knows about us. I guess everyone in the Wolf’s Lair does. Even those who didn’t make the retreat when we did.

‘Sir,’ the ADC sounds anxious.

‘Wait,’ the man demands.

The ADC does.

‘Interesting question.’ I have his attention back. ‘Until his death, certainly. After that? Keeping parole would show respect.’

‘But personally . . .?’

He shrugs, turns to go. Then looks back. ‘Personally, we both know it’s a crock of horseshit. It ends when you decide so.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s what I thought.’

He returns my salute with a smile.

Our boots ring on the stairs as we go up a level. Officers that outrank me move aside. Must be the glare on my face and the urgency with which the ADC leads me across a lobby and towards a new flight of stairs. He’s on the general’s staff, that much is obvious.

Those who don’t watch me, watch him pass, and mutter.

We’re in a long corridor.

Huge portraits of Wolf Brigade COs line both walls, with gilded frames and brass plaques giving each a name and his dates. These are counted in the years then ruled by OctoV, the glorious, victorious and undisputed.

Doesn’t say undisputed what.

The wolf skin begins five commanders ago, the grey jacket lined with leather three COs before that. The brigade’s first two commanders wear no uniform. The ADC stops when I stop, and hesitates, too nervous to tell me to hurry.

He opens his mouth to protest when I tap the final picture.

It’s life-size, with a flat and shiny surface, like a news screen that has frozen or a holo cube that has lost its ability to rotate.

The man in the picture wears a bulky suit, like OctoV’s in that statue at the Emsworth landing fields. He even has the same bubble helmet. What he doesn’t have is OctoV’s ship.

‘What’s that?’

‘Wolf’s landing.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘That weird shape behind him . . .’

‘A hexagram, sir.’

That’s the shape of the handle of Leona’s key. See, I knew he was the kind of ADC who would know stuff like that.

‘Actually, sir, it’s probably a hexatope.’

‘A what?’

‘Reroutes reality through six dimensions.’ He blushes. ‘Well, that’s what we’re taught at the Academy.’

‘And the man next to it?’

‘Major Wolf,’ the ADC says softly. He could be talking about a saint.

‘Major?’

‘Before he became a general.’

‘He went from major to general? That’s some promotion.’

The ADC stares at me, to see if I’m mocking him. He’s afraid to tell me to hurry up, but not so afraid that he won’t defend Major Wolf’s reputation. A man dead seven hundred years, or six or five, or however long it is.

‘I mean it,’ I tell the boy. ‘I’m impressed.’

His nod says that’s natural and we pass a door I remember leading to General Luc’s study and head for another flight of steps. There’s daylight at the top, and a huge H painted on the deck to say I was right, the round tower doubles as a copter pad.

‘Sir,’ the ADC says. ‘I’ve got Lieutenant Tvesko eg. ’

When Colonel Nswor is sure I’ve registered his glare, he returns to scanning the horizon. The H-pad has an inbuilt ground-to-air defence system, but a trooper still sets up a belt-fed on the parapet to face the courtyard. Beyond him, a corporal manoeuvres a rocket launcher into place, using handheld controls.

Hydraulics are meant to damp the recoil and prevent the launcher from skidding, but the way he double-checks wires used to shackle the unit suggests they’re less than successful.

The launcher has four barrels, like goat tits, fed from a single magazine holding eight rockets. A dozen magazines sit on a trolley. The launcher faces outwards, which is interesting, but not as interesting as the fact other launchers are appearing.