David Gunn - Day of the Damned

‘Almost there,’ Major Whipple says.

‘Cut carefully,’ General Luc warns him.

The Wolf knows his sappers can cut fast or carefully. Doesn’t stop him demanding they do both. There is a battle raging, he reminds them.

We know. Those barrier gates are slowing the tanks on the spiral. Halting them long enough for anti-tank weapons to rip off their tracks. But the last wave of gliders dropped infantry into the high valley just below the castle.

Those men are now climbing towards us.

They wear stealth camouflage, carry pulse rifles and move in tight formation. The only way we can see them is on screen, and we find them using a weird mix of radar, echo location and thermal tracking.

General Luc insists, and he may be right, that they are Octovian. Renegade Death’s Head or elite squads drawn from the cream of Farlight militia. But the metalheads targeting our courtyard are Silver Fist.

They drop, we kill them before they can land, they drop some more. Rachel’s doing her share. To be honest, she’s doing more than her share. The Wolf Brigade snipers aren’t happy with that, which works for me.

Maybe they’ll improve their aim.

‘Faster,’ General Luc barks.

His sappers keep cutting. Occasionally they glance my way, wanting to know why a Death’s Head lieutenant has their general’s attention. Why they’re ripping apart a hidden room while their oppos die on the walls.

When one of them hits metal, everyone freezes. The sapper steps back, as Major Whipple steps forward, then the major steps back for the general.

‘Sir,’ I say. ‘Let me.’

‘At last,’ the SIG says. ‘He does something useful.’

Pistons hiss and braided hoses flex as my fingers grip stone.

Mortar crumbles and a scab of wall breaks free to reveal honeycombed bomb-shielding. Whoever hid the gate wanted it safe from damage.

A second later, the rest of the shielding tears away, and then I’m staggering under its weight, sappers scattering as I turn to rest it against a wall. One of them tries to move it and fails, raising his eyebrows.

Not sure what I expect.

Gold chasing? Weird carving, fist-sized chunks of memory diamond maybe? What I get is a door-sized hexagon on a simple stand. As the Wolf wipes away dust, ceramic gleams like bone beneath.

‘Sir,’ I say. ‘We should get this upstairs.’

He looks round the little room, the rubble of its bricked door and the sheet of bombproofing against the wall. ‘We can fetch Vijay down.’

His lips twist into a smile.

‘I suppose Lady Aptitude goes too?’

‘And Senator Wildeside. Me, my team, you. Everyone . . . We all go,’ I add. ‘There’s no point otherwise.’

The Wolf sighs. ‘Why you?’ he asks.

That’s the question really bothering him.

Why did our glorious leader choose me? ‘Because I’m stupid enough to obey orders, sir.’

*

The feeds are full of events on Farlight. A glorious revolution is taking place. The corrupt regime of OctoV is crumbling as the poor and dispossessed rise against his brutal rule. The latest news is that OctoV has killed himself in his palace.

We see a vista of Farlight city.

A single shot is heard. They’ve given it too much echo. A real shot would be flatter, much more matter of fact. But the U/Free are keeping the news simple. We’re barbarians, after all. Subtle isn’t what they’re selling.

‘You’ve changed,’ Debro says, when I say this.

‘We all have.’

And we’re going to change more, she must know that.

According to the feed, Prince Thomassi has asked the Enlightened for help in quelling the last few outposts of resistance. That would be us. As is their way, the U/Free will send observers to ensure the rules of civilized warfare are obeyed.

A map on screen shows our planet.

We’re a tiny red dot. The rest of the planet is a peaceful blue. High over the Wolf’s Lair are comm sats and news drones. We’re being watched, and the viewing figures along the bottom say our audience is increasing.

Up on the walls General Luc has ten men. Some on belt-feds. Others fire rockets or mortars as fast as their launch mechanisms can handle. Needless to say, that’s one sergeant, one corporal, a lance jack and seven troopers.

They’re loaded for bear.

Pulse rifles across their backs, double holsters at their hips, knives in both boots, and grenades around their waists. Every semi AI and self-loading armament is up there. Doesn’t matter what they hit at this stage. So long as they make a noise and keep the enemy occupied.

‘Sven.’

‘Sir?’

Vijay sighs. ‘You don’t need to salute every time.’

‘You’re the emperor.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve been meaning to mention that.’ His face screws into a look of deep worry. ‘Is it true?’ he asks. ‘OctoV really said I was to replace him?’

‘Yes, sir. That was the plan.’

We stand in General Luc’s hall. Battle honours hang from the walls. Oil paintings of past campaigns mix with portraits of OctoV. In most, the emperor wears a green cavalry tunic.

In one, a Wolf Brigade jacket, with a pelt tossed over the shoulder.

I think I can see the faintest shadow of breasts. And then I decide I can’t. Although it’s hard to miss the softness of those hips.

Most of the Wolf Brigade have gone ahead to prepare for Vijay’s arrival. Marching in pairs to the gate, they vanish as they step through. Only Aptitude, Debro and the Aux remain with the new emperor.

Plus those troopers on the walls.

They’ll die, because that is their job. Make a noise, look like twenty times their number, make every rocket, grenade and round count and leave this world like men when the moment comes.

Turning to Neen, I ask, ‘You understand your duties?’

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

He recites the list back to me.

These are the new rules. ‘Protect the emperor first, Aptitude second, her mother third. Die if necessary.’

I slap him on the shoulder. Neen looks surprised, then steps back and grins.

For a second he’s the floppy-haired farm boy I met outside Ilseville. ‘Never thought we’d get this far, sir.’

‘Nor me. Thought I’d be replacing you months back.’

His grin widens.

Hugging his sister, he checks that Ajac’s clip is full, Iona carries medical supplies and food, and Rachel has her rifle ready. Then he salutes Vijay.

‘Sven goes first, sir. You go next. We follow . . .’

None of us knows what we’ll find on the other side. The hex has ten thousand settings, according to General Luc. Who knows which one Leona chose?

‘Youknow what a singularity is?’

Do I look like someone who knows what a singularity is? More to the point, do I look like someone that gives a fuck?

Pulling the pin from a grenade, I lob it high and hit the dirt, before rolling into a crater filled with stinking gas. Weak gravity hangs my grenade at the top of its arc, before dropping it over a broken wall. Regolith rains down in slow motion. Not sure there was anyone to kill. But the bang makes me feel better.

Choking on the gas, I crawl free and Leona’s voice follows. Of course it does, it comes from the SIG-37. OctoV’s avatar is making her final speech.

At least, I hope it’s final. It’s muddling as fuck to have your side arm switch personalities. Worse still, when everyone around you is being massacred.

‘Do something useful,’ I suggest.

‘Like what?’

‘Tell me where the fuck we are. Better still, tell me how to get to somewhere else . . .’

The bitch laughs.

‘Sven,’ she says. ‘Take a look around you. What do you see?’

What does it think I see? A violet sky and the ruined, ruptured surface of a planetoid mined half bare for the water frozen under its dirt.