by David Gunn
Well, it does according to Haze.
‘Let them come,’ I tell Rachel.
Saluting, she turns to go and freezes as I tell her to stop.
‘You’re wearing a helmet.’
‘Sir?’
‘Next time use its comms system.’
One of the strangers is taller than the rest, muscled across the shoulders and carries two knives to everyone else’s one. An ancient rifle is slung across his broad back. He might have white hair, cropped tight to his skull, and wear a stinking goatskin jacket, but he’s clear-eyed, and he counts our tents as he comes into the camp.
I watch him do it. Not hard to work out who’s boss.
‘Get Colonel Vijay,’ I tell Neen.
Whatever Neen says works because the colonel crawls from his tent, zips it carefully behind him and sits by the fire. All right, he refuses to look at the rest of us and he keeps his arms wrapped tightly round his knees, but at least he is here.
‘Our leader,’ my sergeant says.
He might as well be speaking gibberish. So I try city tongue and that doesn’t work either. On my orders, Haze tries machine cult. When the man still looks blank, I try traveller because it is the oldest language of all.
The man nods. ‘I am Pavel,’ he says. ‘Caudillo of the O’Cruz.’
It seems five armies, ejércitox in his terms, came together to defeat another thirteen and created a force that took on all comers, until one caudillo ruled a quarter of the habitat. Doesn’t matter the average size of an ejércitox seems to be less than fifty men. This group are the O’Cruz Itcific. It means O’Cruz unbeaten. They have remained unbeaten for three centuries. Having nodded, to show I am impressed by this history lesson, I introduce myself.
‘I’m Sven,’ I tell him. ‘Sub-caudillo of the Aux.’ Maybe my height convinces Pavel of my claim. Unless it’s the glint of my arm in the firelight.
‘Tell him who I am,’ whispers Colonel Vijay.
Nodding at the colonel, I say, ‘Our caudillo.’
‘He looks weak.’
Unfortunately, that is true.
‘His family are very important.’ That is also true. No one gets to be a colonel in the Death’s Head at his age without serious backing. Back in Farlight, backing translates as money or political power.
‘Ahh,’ says Pavel.
Families have meaning for the O’Cruz. A fact I file away. Know a people’s strength and know their weaknesses. And, most important of all, know how to turn one into the other.
‘Where are his guards?’ Pavel asks, looking puzzled.
I gesture at the Aux.
‘Women,’ he says. ‘Children.’
‘Who have slaughtered thousands between them.’
Pavel’s eyes widen.
To Neen, I say, ‘Hand him your cup.’ And to Rachel, who is out in the darkness, ‘You’re on.’
A shot spills Neen’s coffee onto the dirt.
To make the hit, Rachel has to slide her shot between Pavel’s elbow and his stinking jacket. We let the O’Cruz caudillo glare round him, scowling as he tries to work out if the bullet came from an outcrop above. That is twice the distance his weapon can manage. Jerking his chin towards Rachel’s hiding place, Pavel says: ‘From there. Yes?’
I nod. And that’s when it all goes wrong.
As Rachel yells a warning through our helmet speakers, Neen scrambles to his feet. Jacking the bolt on his rifle, he flicks on his searchlight. Shil and Franc are doing the same. It’s one of those moments when everyone knows there’s danger, but no one knows where from.
‘Incoming,’ says my gun.
‘Where . . . ? ‘
Doesn’t matter. The incomer is here.
As we watch, a bare-chested boy tramples our fire and turns his horse in a tight circle. Sparks fly from beneath its hooves. A leather thong ties back the boy’s black hair. He’s holding the reins in one hand. His other hand is holding a rifle.
He’s shouting what sounds like a battle cry.
‘Fuck,’ says Shil. ‘Will you look at that.’ She’s not talking about the horse either.
Caught in the cold brightness of her searchlight, the boy throws up his arm, realizes it’s not enough to shield his eyes and aims his rifle. I have time to knock up Shil’s muzzle. But not enough time to stop the boy from pulling his own trigger.
In the silence that follows, everyone freezes except for the bloody pony. So I punch it to the ground.
Dragging the boy from beneath his animal, I throw him against a rock. My foot’s on his throat and I am treading down when Pavel unslings his own rifle and his fighters draw their blades.
So I tread down harder.
‘Sven,’ whispers Colonel Vijay. ‘Not again.’
I take my foot off the boy’s throat.
As the boy clambers to his feet, he tells me who he is. He’s Racta, and he’s the old man’s grandson. Sorry, that is Don Racta, heir to Pavel, caudillo of the O’Cruz. He’s not happy with his grandfather or me.
‘Shut it,’ I tell the boy.
When he doesn’t, I kick his feet from under him. And when half a dozen ejército, as members of an ejércitox seem to be called, step forward, I put my foot back on his throat.
‘Sven . . .‘
‘He’s negotiating,’ says Haze.
Colonel Vijay stares at him.
‘Seen it before, sir. Best to leave him to it.’
That’s no way for a trooper to talk to an officer; never mind talk to a colonel. Soon Colonel Vijay is going to wonder why Haze never takes his helmet off. But there is stuff I need to do and the SIG has just come up with a good reason why I should do it sooner rather than later.
‘See that blood,’ it says. ‘It’s yours.’
Neen finds a slug against my rib, flattened from where it ricocheted off my arm. Extracting the misshapen lump of copper he walks over to where Racta kneels, still gasping and clutching his neck, and tosses it at his feet.
‘Do that again,’ says Neen, ‘and he’ll cut your throat.’
Turns out, we couldn’t have chosen a better way to reach a deal. As the old man looks on approvingly, Shil stitches the edges of my wound shut. She’s done it before and her needle-work’s good.
Colonel Vijay has some questions.
Has Pavel seen anything odd recently?
‘Just ask it,’ he says, when I look surprised.
So I do, and get a long rambling answer that I don’t bother to translate.
‘What did he say?’
‘Life’s strange.’
The colonel’s lips tighten. ‘I ask a question, you translate exactly. Do you understand?’
Shil’s wondering how I’m going to answer.
‘Of course, sir.’ ‘Ask him about people dressed like us.’
‘Like us?’
‘Yes,’ says the colonel. ‘Like us.’
Sounds as if we’re not the first Death’s Head mission to this place. Pavel doesn’t know anything. At least, not directly. He’s heard from someone in another tribe. Of course, the other tribe lies. They lie like . . . well, Azari, which is what they are. Anyway . . .
‘What happened?’
Well, the Azari say the ghosts took them, but they’re superstitious fools, and not to be trusted. Because everyone knows women lead them. Unlike the O’Cruz, who . . . See, I told Colonel Vijay he didn’t need me to translate every word.
‘Tell him,’ says the colonel, ‘anyone who helps us will also get gold.’
Pavel wants to see it.
As we watch, Colonel Vijay reaches into his jacket and removes a roll of coins heavy enough to make his hand tremble. The man is an idiot, he might as well have drawn a line around his throat and written cut here.
‘What?’ demands the colonel.
He asks because Neen has jacked the slide on his rifle.
When Pavel looks at me, his eyes are amused. ‘So young,’ he says. ‘So stupid . . .’ He shrugs. ‘Undoubtedly, he will get himself killed.’
&nb
sp; ‘But not tonight,’ I say. ‘Because I’m here to keep him alive.’
Pavel considers this.
‘Five gold coins,’ he says.
I’m not sure if that is his price for helping us, or for not trying to cut Colonel Vijay’s throat on the spot.
———
The caudillo shows me a horse he wants to sell Colonel Vijay. It’s cheap, only ten gold pieces. He laughs when I refuse without bothering to check with the colonel first. The five gold pieces in his pocket have made us allies, apparently.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Yours . . . No cost.’
The leather flask is filled with wine that tastes like vinegar.
‘Our finest,’ he announces.
We are about to move out when the caudillo makes a final offer. I’ve told him about the missing U/Free observer. Although I tell Pavel the missing man is a friend of my caudillo, who may have been captured or fallen.
‘A weak man?’ Pavel asks.
He means, weak like your caudillo?
I shrug. It’s possible. The U/Free don’t strike me as physically strong.
‘Could have fallen,’ Pavel admits. ‘These mountains are treacherous . . . You need to be tough.’
His offer is simple. The gang’s best trackers will go with us. They know all the high paths. That is when he says something interesting. Bad things have come to these mountains.
Ghosts and snakeheads, Pavel calls them.
Maybe he sees a flicker of interest in my eyes. Because his grin says he knows he’s got a deal. The O’Cruz are going to take us right round Hekati in five days. All it will cost, he says, is another twenty gold coins.
‘Five,’ I say.
Pavel shakes his head. ‘Fifteen.’
‘Ten, but only if we find my caudillo’s missing friend.’
‘Five now,’ says Pavel. ‘Five then.’
I take his offer to Colonel Vijay, since he is the one with the gold. Even at the ten gold coins I tell him it will cost, five for us and five for Pavel, the colonel thinks it’s a bargain. So do I, until I discover the Itcific trackers are to answer to Racta, who is still clutching his rifle. The boy’s bare-chested, his skin is oiled and his hair is twisted into a long plait.
When he grins at Shil, she actually smiles back.
‘See,’ whispers Colonel Vijay. ‘Dialogue helps.’
Neen takes rear and I take point, with the colonel behind me. The rest of the Aux slot into their usual positions, with the trackers riding ahead. It’s early morning by the time we move out and the sun is just over the mountain. Well, it is bouncing off a mirror at an angle chosen to give that impression. Haze is busy telling Rachel how the mirror hub works. She sounds interested. Maybe she is.
Snipers are strange.
As Racta rides, his men run behind, heavy knives stuck in their belts and their heads protected against the sun by caps with flaps that hang down their necks. The trackers look tough, made fit by living on these slopes. Much more running, though, and they will be useless before mid morning.
‘Crap horse, shitty little tribal prince, treacherous ravines . . .’ My gun sighs. ‘You could get slaughtered out here and I wouldn’t be found for a thousand years.’
‘You’re on silent.’
‘So,’ it says, ‘I adjusted myself.’
‘You can’t—’
‘Emergency override.’
‘What’s the emergency?’
‘That little idiot,’ says the gun. ‘He’s going to get you killed.’ Takes me a second to realize he means Racta and not the colonel.
‘Listen—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says the SIG. ‘I know, you’re fucking invincible . . .’ It hesitates, and I am shocked, because the SIG never hesitates. ‘You going to tell the colonel what Pavel said about snakeheads?’
‘After last time?’
The SIG sees my point. ‘What about those ghosts?’
‘Stealth camouflage.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Obvious.’
The SIG goes silent. When I next check it’s whirring to itself. A little while later, it shuts down and goes back to sleep. Behind me, Shil’s watching Racta preen and prance on his little horse. Not that I’m jealous or anything.
Me, I usually buy my women.
That way, there’s no misunderstanding. You make conversation, you fuck, you make a little more conversation, and then you fuck again. Everyone is happy. I don’t see any sense in running around with my tongue out. Although, watching Shil, I don’t think there’s any doubt who has her tongue out, and who knows he’s—
‘Down.’
Five Aux hit the dirt. I don’t need to turn round to know it has happened. Wish I could say the same for Colonel Vijay.
‘Sir,’ I say.
He stares at me.
‘If you could get down?’
A hawk, a rodent fifty paces away, a flock of crows above a slope that leads to a silver ribbon of stream far below. Racta’s leaving tracks a blind man could follow. And I have no trouble finding him up ahead.
A single wave of my hand brings the others forward. They take cover behind rocks and clumps of rough grass without being told. I’m impressed, although I’m not about to tell them that. Colonel Vijay joins me last, takes a long look at the horizon and wants to know what he is missing.
‘Watchers, sir.’
‘Where?’
That’s my problem.
Sun glints from a thousand rocks. Whatever makes up the slopes ahead reflects light in all directions. Not all of it, obviously, otherwise we’d be looking at a mountain made entirely of glass; but enough shiny black rock juts through red earth to blind anyone who looks for too long.
‘Sir,’ says Shil.
Racta has vanished from sight.
Chapter 13
DIGGING IN HIS HEELS, RACTA WAVES HIS RIFLE ABOVE HIS HEAD and gallops his pony towards us, yelling at the top of his voice. God knows what he’s yelling, because he is too excited to make sense. When the little brat gets within twenty paces, I realize the obvious. He hasn’t worked out we’ve taken cover.
‘Up,’ I say.
We rise as one. And Racta’s pony shies.
As we watch, the boy flies over its neck and twists in the air, trying for a clean landing. He almost makes it, but he’s moving too fast. A stumble takes him sideways and dumps him on his arse.
Colonel Vijay chuckles.
Since he’s nearest, maybe it’s funnier close up.
A second later, one of the O’Cruz joins in. Racta is not happy. I’ve seen faces like his before and always hated the men owning them. Slowly Racta straightens up, walks over to collect his rifle and jacks a bullet into the breech.
‘No,’ I say.
He gives no sign of having heard me, but as I step towards him, he tosses the weapon aside. Shil looks at Rachel, who twists her mouth. Shil’s shocked at the sudden change in his temper.
Such innocence.
‘You.’
The man who laughed runs across, and Racta backhands him hard. This guy is my age with scars that impress even me. He just stands there. None of the trackers will meet his eye when he returns to them.
‘And you,’ says Racta.
‘What’s he saying?’ Colonel Vijay asks me.
‘He thinks you owe him an apology for laughing . . .’
Outrage fills the colonel’s face. It vanishes almost as quickly. He’s too inexperienced to know his own mind. I have seen it before, but never in a Death’s Head officer.
‘All right,’ he says.
‘No way,’ I tell Racta. ‘My caudillo never apologizes.’
We have a short discussion about when Racta gets to kill me. He wants to fight now and grows sullen when I tell him to come back when he’s grown up. At his age, I had killed more men than I could count. Mind you, that wasn’t very high. And there are other differences: Racta’s soft and I was never that. And he’s handsome, and I was never that either.
‘All done?’ asks Co
lonel Vijay.
‘Yes, sir. All done . . .’
The colonel smiles at Racta, who stares at him and then grins back. That is when I know he’s dangerous.
———
The sea that runs around the inside of Hekati’s shell is wide, sluggish and carpeted with patches of foul-smelling scum. An island in the distance looks strange, until I realize it’s because that’s where a huge mirrored spoke descends from the glass ceiling miles above. Mirroring on the spoke blends it into the side wall beyond. Climb that spoke and you will reach the hub. Of course, by then you will be in space, and the ring will be a glass-roofed monstrosity beneath and above you.
We came down one spoke, and when we find our U/Free, we will go back the same way. After that, we just need to board our plane to get home again. Colonel Vijay knows the number needed to make that happen.
It’s a good enough reason to keep him alive.
We’re hot, dust has turned our camouflage to dirt, and sweat paints patches under our arms and between our shoulder blades. Meanwhile, boats slide like insects across the sea’s surface. There are wharfs, down there. Wharfs and warehouses and probably brothels, because shorelines and brothels go together.
Well, in my experience.
Travelling by water would be easy. All we need do is descend a valley, cut through the shacks that grow along the coast and find ourselves a boat. One after the other the Aux suggest it to Neen.
And Neen finally mentions it to me.
I’m glad, because our colonel has spent most of the day looking longingly at towns he would dismiss as slums in any other situation. Telling Neen he’s an idiot is easier than telling the colonel.
‘Neen,’ I say, knowing Colonel Vijay’s listening. ‘Tell me why it’s a shit idea.’
My sergeant thinks about it.
In the time this takes, we climb a hill, pass through the ruins of an old farm and crest a high ridge that drops to a narrow valley beyond. The wind smells of hot stones and wild grass, like good vodka. ‘Time’s up,’ I say. ‘Tell me.’
‘We’re looking for the Azari.’
He hopes I’ll nod, so I don’t.
Neen shouldn’t need me to teach him this.
‘That’s one,’ I say. ‘We’re stuck with that Racta, that’s two. And three, we’re not meant to be here at all.’