by Rachel Caine
Half-strength rounds were not normal. These would leave real, lasting damage, and if they hit in the right places outside of armor, could even break bones, damage organs. Why use them today? Another piece that didn't fit in place. The assigned job was too easy, the location too remote, the ammunition too odd. There was something not right about this, and though Glain had an excellent, impassive mask of a face, he could see the tension in the sharp way she moved. She knew something she wasn't sharing. He was tempted to confront her, but he knew better; here, in front of the rest of the squad, she'd just slap him down.
He silently checked his weapon and nodded readiness, and once the others signaled, the squad moved to the door. The centurion creaked it open, and a puff of sand blew out in a smothering wave. It's not real, he told himself. Just a mock-up of a street, some actors thrown in for color and sound. It's safe enough. But he'd never been in this particular standing-exercise set before. He didn't know what it would be like, and it made him itch all over to have it as a final challenge.
"You have thirty minutes to complete the assignment," the centurion said. "This is your only exit, so remember where it is. Heads on a swivel, and good luck."
He seems a good enough sort, Jess thought. More than that, he seemed competent. He had another, more silent and nondescript comrade standing in the shadows. A skeleton crew, Jess thought, and wondered what resources they had in case something went wrong. Not many, he thought.
Another wrong piece to an unreadable puzzle.
He didn't have time to try to put it together, because his squad was moving into danger.
"All right, it's simple enough," Glain told them as the door creaked shut behind them. "I want perfection. Watch yourselves. Assume nothing is safe. Understood?"
Jess always assumed the world was dangerous, however it appeared, because . . . well, it was. He knew that very well, had from the time he was old enough to be sent running across London with a contraband book strapped to his chest. Why would she bother to remind any of them? They weren't careless. When the instructors had taken away points, it had been for small things--form, speed--never lack of awareness. She must be as nervous as he was.
If I were any more paranoid, I'd never function, he thought. The amusement tasted bitter and strange on his tongue, like metal, and he swallowed hard and followed Glain into the barren, twisting streets.
The exercise set wasn't at all what he'd expected. These were not Alexandrian streets--which were wide, clean, and beautifully planned--but architecture that spoke more, to Jess, of England. Weathered, cramped buildings. Shadows and rubble. Shopwindows filmed with grime, and what he glimpsed behind them seemed chaotic and cheap. A rail-thin dog with ribs showing under fur stood like an automaton in the shade of a narrow alley, and Jess felt a pang of pity for the poor creature. Was it supposed to be here? If this hadn't been a serious test, he'd have stopped to toss it a bit of food, but even as he thought of it, the dog flinched and silently turned to run into darkness.
He didn't see any actors playing parts here. He didn't see anyone at all.
Glain, on point, was methodically checking the stops and doorways, while Jess and the young woman on his right, Helva, watched the dark windows that overlooked the street. There was no need to assign the jobs; each of their squad understood their roles in this action. They proceeded smoothly and quietly down the street, and at the end of it, Jess saw a lone figure standing at the corner. The man wore a sand-colored Library Scholar's robe that floated on the harsh wind, and beneath, practical clothing showed black. Shoulder-length hair blew in a tangled mix of black and gray, and even before they got close enough to make out features, Jess knew who was waiting for them.
Scholar Christopher Wolfe.
Jess read the sudden tension in Glain's body as she processed this new information; no one, he sensed, had warned her that they'd have a Scholar to escort, and certainly not that it would be Wolfe. The man was supposed to be lying low somewhere. After all, the Library's highest levels wanted Scholar Wolfe gone or dead, and for Wolfe to put himself out in public like this, in a training exercise . . . Yet another thing that felt madly wrong.
The reason three of their class of thirty had died, Jess remembered, had been because the Library so earnestly wanted Christopher Wolfe silenced. It wasn't a comfortable memory. Well, perhaps even Wolfe hadn't had a choice in this. There had been no sign of his partner, Captain Santi, today on the parade grounds. Where was he? A threat to Santi's safety would make Wolfe do a great many things. It had before.
If Wolfe was here under duress, it didn't show. He presented nothing but bitter strength to the world, just as he always did, as demonstrated by the dismissive look he swept over them. Even Jess and Glain.
"You move like you're strolling down the boulevard," Wolfe said to Glain, who nodded to him as if that was a normal greeting. "I thought you were meant to be High Garda soldiers. Are they training you to walk elderly ladies across busy streets?"
"Better safe than dead, sir," she said. "As you well know."
"Do I?" His face, Jess thought, looked more set and grim than ever, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes that hadn't been there before. He looked thin and haunted. "Well, then. Do try to keep me alive, and let's finish your mission, Corpse Squad."
Jess shot a look right and saw Helva flinch at the words. She wasn't used to Wolfe's humor, which verged on cruel; new recruits were commonly called Corpse Squads by the veterans, but it was never said to their faces. Trust Wolfe to flick it at them like a lash, to keep them on their toes.
"You're in no danger, Scholar. Stay behind me, and between Brightwell and Svensdotter." Glain, if disturbed by his jibe, didn't show it a bit. She's learned much since her early days, Jess thought. There was even a glint of humor in her eyes, but it died in a second as she turned to scan the street. Wolfe pushed in between Jess and Helva. Jess cast a quick look at him and verified that not only was the Scholar unarmed, but he was also without armor beneath that silk robe. If he took even a half-round straight on, he'd go down hard and risk serious injury, even death. Why hadn't they kitted him out with the same gear the squad was wearing?
This isn't right, he thought again, but he couldn't fire questions at Wolfe, not the ones he wanted to ask, like Who ordered you to do this? and Did you have a choice? Because as a soldier, it wasn't his place to demand that information. He had a job. He simply had to do it perfectly. There was no margin for error.
Glain led them down the street at a steady, calm pace, checking doorways and shops. Jess and Helva watched the upper stories and rooftops, and, thus far, except for the skinny, starving dog, the place seemed deserted. Nothing moved except cloth whipped by the wind and sand over cobbles. The place smelled dead and deserted.
It startled Jess when Wolfe said, "The house is on the right, the third on the block. That's where we'll find your prizes. The faster we finish this, the better, I think." Jess had an almost irresistible urge to turn and look where Wolfe indicated, but instead he kept his gaze locked high and let the others do the gawking. "There's likely to be some resistance to your confiscation." His tone was so dry it nearly evaporated on the air. Of course there would be resistance. Original books were highly illegal. Coveted, traded, sold, and smuggled, nevertheless. People rarely let them go with a shrug.
This was one of Jess's least favorite High Garda duties: taking books out of the hands of those who loved them--unless, of course, they were perverted ink-lickers, who delighted in consuming rare and original works in some orgy of possession. In that case, he was happy to slap them in restraints and haul them off to the Library's prison cells. Confiscation was the aspect of the Library that Jess felt the most uneasy about in general, the lengths to which the Library went to ensure all knowledge, all learning flowed through its doorways. It was not a sign of confidence to him. Nor of a pure heart.
Wolfe went quietly, and Jess wondered if he'd been told more than they had. As little as the Library trusted him these days, perhaps he'd been
given the exact same information they had. He was used to thinking of Wolfe as the holder of secrets, but for all his confidence and ability to seem all knowing, Wolfe operated at just as much of a disadvantage as Jess, and likely always had. Seeing Wolfe as merely human was an unpleasant reminder of just how fragile all their safety could be.
They proceeded down the street, and though she might not have realized it, Glain quickened the pace; she'd not been told that they'd have Wolfe to protect--he could see that in the increased tension in her shoulders. She didn't like the silence of these streets any more than Jess did.
When the attack came, it came very fast and from above. Jess almost missed it; the attacking force had positioned itself very cannily to take advantage of the morning glare, and he registered only a telltale flicker of movement that might have been a bird but in his gut he knew was not, before he shouted, "On our left!" at the same moment that he heard Helva ring out, "On our right!" just as the first shots rained down at them. Both of them began firing up at the shadows on top of the rooftops, the clattering noise of bullets drowning out any other shouts.
Someone grabbed Jess by the back of his uniform coat and yanked him hard enough to make him stumble three steps; his aim went wild, but the action saved his life. From the new angle, he saw a glass bottle tumbling toward them, catching the light in a flash of green liquid inside.
The bottle shattered on the street as they scattered, with Glain herself covering Wolfe and shoving him toward a doorway as she fired upward. Jess felt the sudden, strange feeling of an indrawn breath on the back of his sweating neck, and then the thick, clinging substance known as Greek fire that had been contained within the bottle ignited with a hissing roar. The heat flashed over him, and for a moment he feared he was caught in the flames, but when he turned to look he saw a huge, burning column rising to the sky.
This is not a test. That was not half-strength. A million questions raced through Jess's mind, but all useless now. Surely Santi couldn't have known and hadn't agreed to this. Wolfe wouldn't have, if he'd been able to refuse.
Didn't matter. The force on the roof had weapons of their own, besides the shock tactic of Greek fire. That attack seemed to have missed all of them, and now Jess's squad had taken the meager shelter available in doorways, and bullets--not half-strength, either--shattered holes in the bricks near them. Glain broke the dirty glass of a wide shopwindow and ordered Helva through to check the room while she covered Wolfe, who crouched to present a smaller target. He looked, as always, focused. Tense. Ready.
Unarmed and completely vulnerable.
Jess tried to control his shaking. Though he knew he ought to be frightened, his trembles were more from adrenaline, eagerness to take the fight to the enemy. He was angry, he realized. Angry that he'd been dumped, once again, into a situation beyond his control, and with utter disregard for his survival. Angry that Glain, Wolfe, and these comrades he'd tried so hard not to care about might pay the price again.
He saw a target on the rooftop, aimed, and fired, and saw the impact. Someone went down, just a dim shape against the glare. Good. He aimed again, fired, and missed, but got a hit on the next shadow that appeared.
He cast a quick glance toward Glain and Wolfe, just to be certain they were still secure; Glain was in perfect form, face calm, eyes bright as she aimed and fired, and every shot counted. The sheen of the greenish Greek fire against her skin made her look almost like an automaton herself . . . except for the slight contented smile on her face.
Glain had found her perfect moment, it seemed.
Jess ignored Tariq's movement from his post nearby at first, thinking his comrade was looking for a better firing angle up. But he watched him, anyway, out of instinct and the sense memory of getting shot in the back. Tariq wasn't looking up at their attackers, he realized after a second. His squad mate was staring straight at Glain and Wolfe, and the steps he took from cover were angled to put him clear of Glain and give him an open shot on Wolfe's unprotected body.
Jess didn't believe it, not instantly. He comprehended, but belief came a second later, as Tariq raised his weapon. Wolfe, without armor, without protection, wouldn't be as lucky as Jess had been in the same situation--and this was no shock-weapons exercise. Half-strength rounds could maim and kill . . . If Tariq was armed with half-strength at all. Somehow, Jess knew in a flash that he wasn't.
Tariq had been ordered to kill Wolfe.
Jess felt it in his gut, a conviction so strong he didn't question where it came from. Tariq, who'd been given orders to fire on his own squad before, might not even know what he was doing was wrong. He might be completely innocent.
He would still be the instrument of a Scholar's death.
Jess realized he didn't have enough time to reach Tariq and warn him or spoil his shot. There were no good options.
He raised his weapon, aimed, and fired before Tariq pulled his own trigger.
His squad mate, his friend, collapsed against the wall with his mouth a dark O of surprise, and the weapon slid out of his hands to crash on the cobbles.
Then Tariq sagged down to a sitting position, hunched and breathless from the shot Jess had placed right in the center of his chest, and his face turned a terrible creamy shade just as his eyes fluttered shut. Not dead. Please, God, don't let him be dead. If the Greek fire was real, maybe all the ammunition was real as well. But he'd put it into armor, not flesh. Jess didn't see blood, which was one small mercy. I didn't have a choice. It was either Tariq or Wolfe.
Jess scrambled from his position to Tariq's side and pressed his fingers to the young man's neck. He found a pulse, and pulled the young man to the shelter of a doorway before taking a zigzag pattern toward Glain and Wolfe.
Glain had seen the whole thing, and she swung the barrel of her gun toward him as he neared. "Stop!"
"I saved Wolfe's life, you idiot!" he shouted back, and ignored her to hug the wall beside the Scholar. Jess faced out, blocking Wolfe from any more possible friendly fire from that angle. "This isn't just an exercise!"
"Really?" Glain snapped. She sounded lightly annoyed, as if someone had taken the last croissant from the tray at breakfast before she could reach it. "I saw what happened. Tariq was aiming straight for Wolfe. Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Good. Then he can answer questions and get a taste of my boot." She sounded extraordinarily good-natured about it, which was a little chilling. She cast a lightning-quick look over her shoulder into the darkened interior of the shop and called, "Helva! Is it clear in there?" No answer. She glanced at Jess, then said, "Take him in. Carefully."
"You're sure?"
"Whatever's in there, it's safer than here. They're moving to new positions. They'll have us soon."
Two of their comrades--not counting Tariq, who might not be part of their squad at all--were down, not moving, and as he scanned the rooftop opposite, Jess realized she was right: the firing from up there had stopped, though they'd thrown another container of Greek fire that was belching gouts of flames and toxic smoke toward the cloudless sky. Distraction, while the attackers gained new firing positions. Inside the shop was safer.
Jess grabbed Wolfe's shoulder, but the older man shook himself free with an acidic look Jess remembered all too well from classes. "I'm fine, Brightwell," he said.
Jess drew his small sidearm and handed it over. Wolfe looked at the weapon with what Jess was almost sure was longing, then shook his head. "If I'm not armed, my death's much harder to explain," he said. He turned and scrambled lithely through the broken window, avoiding the sharp edges, and dropped inside. Jess cursed under his breath and shoved the hand weapon back in place before following. He didn't manage to avoid all the shards, and felt the hot kiss of a cut along one cheek as he plunged after Wolfe.
He found Wolfe only a step inside, standing very still, and Wolfe's arm went up to block his path when he would have pushed forward. "No," he said quietly. "Wait."
"Why?" Jess was acutely aware that his back, Wolfe'
s back, was to the open street, and took a step slightly toward the man, to try to block a shot if one was coming. "Get to cover!"
"Listen."
Jess heard it then: the soft moan of someone in pain. It had been Helva who'd come in here, he remembered; he hadn't heard her signal clear. "Get down!" Jess barked, and shoved Wolfe behind the fragile shelter of an overturned table. "Stay there! Glain, Helva's down!"
Glain's voice from outside sounded clipped and calm. "Secure the Scholar first."
"Secured," he said, and fixed Wolfe with a look. "Stay that way. Sir."
Jess took out a small sealed bottle, twisted the cap, and shook it, and a soft yellow glow formed inside as chemicals mixed. A milder version of Greek fire--a reaction that produced light but not explosion. He held it up and off to the side, in case someone should be aiming at the glow, but though a few bullets still flew outside, nothing came his way.
He saw Helva down near the back of the small, cluttered room. Her eyes were open and she was still breathing; he could see the rise and fall of her chest. "Helva!" She didn't move, not even to turn her head toward him, though he thought her gaze shifted his way. Whatever was wrong with her, it was serious. Jess pointed at Wolfe. "Stay here."
Wolfe nodded. Jess moved carefully through the clutter in the way--broken, dusty furniture; bolts of rotten cloth; unidentifiable bits of shattered lives that had been dumped here for show and to make their job harder. He didn't see any enemies lurking; there wasn't room for them. One door at the back, still closed, though he supposed someone might have shot Helva through it, then shut it again. He rattled it, to be thorough. It was securely locked.
He knelt down next to her, put the light down, and checked her for signs of trauma. No blood. No, wait--a small trickle of it running down her hand . . .
Something moved in the crook of Helva's arm, and for a bizarre, insane moment Jess thought she'd grown a third arm, until some screaming, instinctive wisdom in the back of his mind recognized the sinuous way the thing moved as it glided over her chest.