At last Aarons shook his head slowly. “Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”
Lochlan laughed, surprised. “Honestly,” he echoed, and believed that it was. He supposed that Aarons had no reason to not be honest. “How did it happen?”
“Bomb went off just a little too close to my face.” Aarons smiled thinly. “I was good at what I did. Really good. Counterterrorism. Translated well into detective work after they couldn’t let me keep my old job. Was never sure about the reason for that, either. I think maybe they were hiding me, but I dunno. It never mattered.”
“You had a lot of trouble with terrorism, then?”
Aarons gave him a hard look. “You know what the Protectorate is. Funny how it’s called that, given how and what they protect. The term is supposed to apply to space under the control of Terra, but I don’t know how much Terra even matters anymore.”
He turned his face away again, moody. “The Terran part is just a word. There’s only the Protectorate now. The people who used to be in charge, who presided over some of its greatest days … They’re barely even human anymore. They don’t remember why they’re alive, only that they want to stay that way more than anything. That’s what the Protectorate is, Bideshi. It’s a dying thing that won’t lie down and die, and it’s getting its own people killed instead. I’m not the first one to notice that, and I’m sure as fuck not the only one out there who’s angry about it. So yeah, we have trouble with terrorism. Not that anyone likes to talk about it.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s why they’re so scared of Yuga. Someone somewhere knows what he is, what he means. This whole thing is ready to come down. All it needs is a push in just the right place.”
Lochlan nodded. This was all making sense. An entity as sprawlingly powerful as the Protectorate could only ever be a top-heavy, blundering, blind animal operating on pure instinct; it was one of the reasons why the Bideshi kept themselves scattered in small groups, nimble and quick and responsive to a changing environment. He looked at the Protectorate as a small, agile creature regards a lumbering beast and found the idea of toppling something so large attractive, the part of him that reveled in chaos delighting in the prospect of watching it fall apart.
But Adam.
“You want him to push. That’s why you’re here.”
“Boy, I don’t think he needs to do any more pushing than he’s already done.” Aarons pointed at the camp, the stirring that filled it. “If he died now, what he’s started wouldn’t stop. It might not go as far, it might not have as much fire under its ass, but you give people a taste of what they were missing and they’ll run you over to get more.” He smiled again. “You don’t have to lead a revolution in order to start one.”
“I don’t want to see him hurt,” Lochlan said softly. “I don’t … Not again. I don’t know if I even care about anything else.”
Aarons nodded, lowering a hand to trace lines in a dry, dusty patch of ground. “Y’know, you and him could probably take off, once we get free. Leave this all to the rest of us and find yourselves a quiet spot somewhere. Settle down. Raise a family or whatever.” He grinned suddenly, and it was a grin with a sharp edge. “But you won’t. He won’t. You can’t let yourselves. You’re both in it to the end, now.”
“You guys talking about me?”
Lochlan glanced over his shoulder and saw Adam standing in the doorway, yawning and scrubbing at his face. He was still pale, deep pits under his eyes, but it would have to do. There was work to be done.
“Talking about what’s next,” Lochlan said.
“Ah.” Adam leaned over and pressed a kiss to Lochlan’s bare shoulder. “I feel good. I know I shouldn’t, every fucking part of me hurts, but … I do.”
“Well, that’s one of us.” Aarons pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and dusted off his hands. “Bideshi, when you’re ready, come meet the rest of us in the center of the camp. We need to go over the plan of attack.” He tipped an imaginary cap, gave them both a sardonic smile, and walked away.
“I’m coming with you,” Adam said, staring at Aarons’s retreating back.
Lochlan had been thinking about this, thinking hard, and all at once he was decided. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Lock, what— Come on, we talked about this. I’m not letting you go in there without me.” Adam’s mouth was drawn into a thin, stubborn line: familiar and well loathed. “You knew I wouldn’t, Lock. I already said, don’t fuck around.”
“Khara, no. I don’t care what you said. I’ve been thinking about this since then. You’re not a fighter. You have no training at all. And your perfections got stripped away when you fixed yourself on the Plain. Maybe you were cured then, but all those perfect little cells of yours are in tatters, all jumbled up and messy. I don’t know for sure, I can’t know, but I’d be willing to bet the healing is worse for you because you’re the source. You’re the conduit. The roots. You’ll get yourself killed.” Lochlan took a breath—this felt cruel, a stab into a weak, raw spot, but it also felt true. “You’ll get other people killed.”
Adam fell silent, jaw set and eyes narrowed, looking mutinous. More than that, stung, and again a wave of guilt swept over Lochlan. But he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t so. Not even out of kindness. Sometimes kindness could be the worst decision.
“Chusile.” Lochlan laid a hand against Adam’s cheek; Adam stiffened but didn’t move. “They need you here. You need to help organize the rush once we get the gate open. I’m not just saying that. You don’t always have to be the one in front. Sometimes that’s not where you do the most good. You see?”
After seconds that stretched out like minutes, Adam seemed to loosen, and he nodded, eyes lowering. “If something happens to you,” he said quietly, “I can’t stand the idea that I … could’ve been there. That I could’ve done something.”
“Mitr, you can’t save everyone. You know that.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” Adam sighed, then reached up and covered Lochlan’s hand with his. “All right. Shit, I … I don’t want to fight about it. But you better come back in one piece. Or I’ll pull the rest of the pieces off and hit you with them.”
“How can I say no to a deal like that?”
Adam laughed, though it was a bit thin, and everything lightened, eased. If only a little. Lochlan leaned forward and nodded their mouths together, which was all he could think to do now, and around them the world spun on toward the dark and whatever came after.
When the fleet arrived, the part of the planet that housed the camp had already swung into night. Sinder stood on the bridge, freshly washed and pressed and perfect, staring out at the dusty ball, which appeared as a pale crescent, spinning in the dark. The crescent was expanding as they slid into orbit and away from the camp, and the fleet was dispersing around the planet, forming a sensor net. They would see everything.
They wouldn’t lose what they had come for.
Sinder took a place beside Captain Alkor, who had been quiet ever since he’d briefed her on the nature of the camp. Sinder had omitted the details of the illness, saying that it was a disease that was manifesting in a tiny percentage of the population from one particular system, that it wasn’t yet well understood, but it didn’t seem to be contagious via air or bodily contact.
She had seemed to believe it. But she clearly hadn’t liked it.
Well, she didn’t have to. As long as she did her job.
“Give the order to launch the landers,” Alkor said, consulting a readout on the screen in front of her chair. “ETA?”
“About three hours, ma’am.” The crewmember she’d addressed glanced up. “We just got word that there’s a hardware problem with the guidance syncing. Fleet-wide. We have multiple repair crews working on it, but we can’t launch until it’s fixed.”
Alkor muttered a curse. “Fast as you can, then, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sinder felt a prickle of alarm. They had been surprised by one traitor already. “A hardwar
e problem, Captain? Is something like this—”
Alkor waved a hand. “I wish it was unusual. Been an issue with a number of classes of ships ever since they overhauled the designs. It’s been a while since it happened; I thought maybe the last round of repairs dealt with it, but …” She let out a growl. “You’d think we could get something this small right on the first try.”
“If you’re sure,” Sinder said evenly. His suspicions weren’t completely done away with … But the explanation was enough. For the moment. “There’s no reason to get so upset. Not if what you’re telling me is true. They’re penned in; all we have to do is go in and get them. Now, three hours from now, it makes no difference.” He smiled. “We’ve waited this long. We can wait a bit longer.”
In truth, inside—under his carefully maintained composure—he was jittery, a walking ball of nervous energy. Yuga, so close and yet still out of reach. But he wasn’t going to appear more eager than he could help. It was unbecoming. It was also useless.
Alkor looked up from her display. “Hail the base down there.”
There were a few seconds of static as the channel opened. Then an impatient, disembodied male voice said, “Yes?”
“This is Captain Amanda Alkor of the PSS Excelsior. I’m contacting you in regards to—”
“I know why you’re contacting us.” Still impatient, but now resigned as well. “We’ve already heard. We’re to allow you unfettered access.” A pause, the cause of which was unclear. Then, “Come on down, then. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you’re out of our hair.”
“We’d love nothing more,” Alkor said dryly. “Unfortunately, we’ve been delayed due to a technical problem. Our best estimates put us at about three hours from reaching you. However, perhaps in the meantime you could—”
“Captain,” Sinder cut in. “A word.”
Alkor shot him a scowl. “Please excuse us for one moment,” she said, motioning to the comm officer to mute. “What is it?”
“I suspect you were about to suggest that they conduct a preliminary search for us. Is that correct?”
Alkor arched a brow. “Yes …”
“Let me request that you not do so.”
“And why not?” Alkor’s voice rose slightly, pitch higher.
“Because they might well alert him to our intentions before we’re on the ground, and that’s risky.” Sinder meant what he said, but there was more. He wanted it. The satisfaction. The credit. It should be his alone.
And Alkor’s, of course.
“I thought you said he was penned in, that all we had to do was collect him.”
“Provided he doesn’t see us coming. But you’ll forgive me, Captain, if I’m reluctant to place my faith in anyone but you and your people.” He smiled.
Alkor frowned, but she appeared to be giving the matter real consideration, and finally she nodded. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. But before we go in, I want my people briefed by the facility guards. We can’t hunt blind.”
“Obviously.” Sinder inclined his head in thanks. “I appreciate your commitment to doing this right, Captain.”
Alkor turned back to the comms officer, nodding, and the channel was unmuted. “Belay that,” she said. “We don’t need anything from you at this time. We’ll contact you when we have a more definite arrival time. In the meantime, we appreciate you standing by.”
“Yes, Captain,” the voice said—he had never given a name or a rank; clearly these were rough, unmannered people—and the channel clicked off.
Alkor sat back with a sigh. “I’ll be honest: I can’t wait for this to be over.”
“Soon, Captain.” Sinder folded his hands between his knees and took a breath. Hours. If nothing else, the wait would heighten the anticipation. “Very soon.”
Ten people crouched in the shadows by the fence. They were armed, such as they could be: makeshift cudgels and clubs, wood and plastic and metal and various combinations of all three. Lochlan recognized how little of an edge the weapons gave, but it was better than nothing.
If everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t need them for long. Might, in fact, not have to use them at all.
Beside him, Adam pressed close and squeezed his shoulder. “I want you to appreciate how hard this is for me,” he said under his breath.
Lochlan pressed briefly back against the touch, then shrugged him off. “I’ll meet you outside the gate.”
“Right.” He both heard and felt Adam moving away, felt his barely suppressed fear as if it were Lochlan’s own. And he was afraid, however much he was trying not to be. Then again, maybe fear was good. Fear, Kae had said more than once—echoing the hard-edged old woman who had first trained them in fighting with the jambia—made you keen, alert, ready to fight to stay alive. Fear kept you alive. People who could no longer feel fear didn’t feel much of anything for long.
Ahead of him, Aarons raised a hand—and then dropped it. As one they slid onto their bellies and began to crawl forward toward the trench under the fence.
It wasn’t deep. It didn’t need to be. Whether through a simple lack of imagination or because of a conclusion that it wasn’t necessary, the electrified wire barely extended below ground level. One by one, they wriggled into it, heads down to avoid the fence. As he crawled in, Lochlan found himself taking little gasps instead of real breaths, fearful of touching the wire.
And then he was through.
The ones who had gone before him were already up and crouched, their weapons at the ready. They were still in that blessed patch of deep shadow, deepened further by cloud, and no patrols were in evidence. If the guards kept to their schedule, the team had fifteen minutes or so to get across the space between them and the cover of the closest building.
Aarons made a hard, horizontal slashing motion in front of his mouth. Silent. Then pointed and chopped his hand down. Move.
The stretch of ground between them and the building couldn’t have been more than fifty yards, but it felt more like five hundred. He clutched his metal bar as he crept, fast and as silent as he could, hardly daring to breathe.
Then they were there, and just in time: a few hundred yards away, a guard was approaching, whistling something low and tuneless. “No movement,” Aarons breathed, and no one did.
The guard passed, never glancing their way. Aarons nodded to them and started around the side of the structure, avoiding the periodic pools of light and heading for the next building over—before the armory, which they had gathered was a set of general offices. Lochlan was one of the last three to go, and as he did he checked the fence. A form crouched there, watching him, one hand raised, blond hair silver in what little of the spotlight’s glare touched him.
Lochlan blinked and there was nothing. Pulling in a huge breath, he followed Aarons and the others.
It was surprising how few guards were about, though it had been established most would have bedded down in the barracks by now. When they reached the next building, they edged close to the outer fence, where the lights were dimmer and no one seemed to patrol regularly. They were still within sight of some of the guard towers, but they kept to the shadows and behind what little cover they could find—crates, a set of barrels, a small ATV.
The armory rose in front of them. It was small and low, and a guard leaned beside the main door, rifle in hand, but head down and shoulders relaxed, possibly in a doze. Aarons held the team back, scanning the space in front of them.
There was no rear door, not that they could spot. In that, their luck wasn’t holding.
“We’ll have to take ’em out,” Aarons hissed. “And then move fast, because odds are we’ll be spotted.” He pointed to a young man and an equally young women crouched close to him. “Mell, Farrow. Like we talked about. Get whatever you can find in the way of long-range precision weapons and use them. Then remember: four of us to the front gate and four to the inner one. Everyone stay down and make your shots count.”
They all nodded. Aarons swept a hand forw
ard, and moving in close and swift, they went for the door.
The guard’s head jerked up and he said, “What—” when the burly man to Lochlan’s right broke the man’s jaw with his club. The club was spiked, and the spikes stabbed deep into the man’s throat; he went down with a pained gurgle, twitching and bleeding. Aarons dropped over him, going through his pockets. Smiling grimly, he produced an access card on a chain. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
There were already shouts of alarm as Aarons got the door open, and they pushed inside. Shots rang out, and a whine sliced through the air above him. There was a pained hiss behind him, and he reached back, grabbing someone by the arm and pulling them through the door after him. Someone else pushed it shut and—with the help of another—braced it closed with their backs.
“This isn’t going to hold,” one of them grunted. “Move fast.”
The room Lochlan found himself in was as small as the building itself: gray and unadorned and harshly lit. There were other rooms beyond, but his team probably wouldn’t need to do much exploring, because the far wall was taken up entirely by a rack of rifles, sidearms, body armor, helmets. Even—
“Holy shit,” Mell said, raking a hand through her short hair. “Are those grenades?”
Aarons headed for the crate, bent and pulled out a shining sphere the size of an apple. His face twisted into a pleased smile. “Yeah. They are.” He tossed it to Mell, who caught it automatically, and then turned to the others. “Gear up. Use the armor. It might confuse them, make ’em unsure about who’s who on first glance.”
On first glance, yes. Lochlan seized one of the armored vests and a helmet, then added a rifle to the ensemble. On second glance, not so much—dirty, skinny people with ragged clothing couldn’t really pass for well-fed Protectorate peacekeepers. But it was dark, and the guards would be confused, and that could only help their chances.
Someone was pounding at the door, and the two braced against it strained to keep it closed. They were both tossed rifles and vests of their own and managed to catch them, glancing at the team and gritting their teeth.
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