by Rachel Caine
Cobra.
Jess involuntarily flinched and the cobra reacted, rearing up to eye level and flaring its hood wide around its sleek head. Black eyes glittered in golden light, and for an eerie moment the thing looked like a ghost of ancient pharaohs risen again. It swayed slightly, watching him.
From somewhere behind him, Wolfe whispered, "Don't move," and Jess didn't. He stayed as still as he could, exchanging stares with the reptile that swayed slowly in front of him. He didn't know much about snakes--there weren't many in England, and none like this deadly creature--but he knew sudden moves were a terrible idea, even if all he wanted to do was throw himself backward. Cobras, he remembered his friend Khalila telling him, could strike the length of their body, and this one looked as long as Jess was tall. At least Egyptian cobras didn't spit. He was remembering a surprising amount of information from new-minted Scholar Khalila Seif's lecture, to which he'd only half listened. Most critically, he remembered that the venom could easily be fatal without immediate treatment.
"Move back very slowly," Jess heard Wolfe say. The Scholar hadn't moved, thankfully. "Very deliberate movements. Native Egyptian cobras are not overly territorial; it wants escape, not confrontation. Give it a chance to go."
"It had a chance," Jess said. "It didn't go."
"It was attracted by her body heat. And stop talking and do as I say!"
Helva's eyes were fixed on him, too. Her face was a dirty gray, covered in sweat, and he didn't like the labored way she was breathing. The cobra continued to focus on Jess, which he supposed was the best outcome; if it turned on Helva again, she'd have no chance at all. I could try to shoot it, he thought. If he fired accurately, he might kill it. If he didn't, it could bite him or Helva, and shooting Helva even with half-strength rounds might kill her, anyway.
"Back away," Wolfe said again. "Do it, Brightwell!"
It was the snap of command in Wolfe's voice that made Jess finally comply. He'd grown so used to following the Scholar's orders as a student that before his forebrain could argue with the order, his hindbrain had already begun to move him backward, one slow scrape of his knees at a time. The snake shivered, as if considering a strike, but it held back and watched him shuffle in retreat.
The hood slowly deflated, and the snake--sleek and fast now--slid off of Helva and made for a darker corner of the room. Jess watched it without moving until he was certain it was set on escape, and then breathed a burning sigh of relief and lunged forward to Helva. She struggled to sit up, but he held her down. "How long?" he asked her. She gave him a weak, pale-lipped smile.
"A few minutes," she said. "I was afraid he'd bite me again, so I didn't dare call out. Thanks."
"For what? I didn't even kill the thing." I should have, he thought, looking down at his comrade's sweating, pallid face. He should have killed it. What if it came back?
The cobra had been shocking enough that he'd all but forgotten the shooting until he became aware it had stopped, and then alarm spread a net over his body, pricking every nerve to alert. He looked back to see Glain stepping through the broken window into the store. She kept her attention fixed on the street outside, but for the moment, at least, it was quiet.
"How is she?" she asked Jess without turning.
"Cobra bite," he said, which he knew would tell her everything. They should have had a Medica officer with them, if this had been a real mission, but for training all they had were basic first-aid kits, and nothing that would help against that venom. "We need to get her out of here."
"No," Glain said. She sounded calm but grim. "Jess, I need you to bring help. Get Santi. Bring back Medica for Helva and anybody else who needs it."
"You think we're under real attack."
Glain nodded sharply but he saw the set of her jaw, the line of her shoulders. She was angry. "Get to the gates," she said. "Get Santi here and not Feng. Watch your back. Go, Jess."
He didn't like leaving her here, all but alone to protect Wolfe, but, then again, there was no one he'd trust more with that job. And, he thought with a bitter spike of awareness, no one she would trust more to risk this. He'd grown up running books for his father through the mazelike, dangerous streets of London. She knew that.
"Here." Jess pitched her his weapon. "I won't need it, and it'll just slow me down."
Glain caught it one-handed and promptly handed it to Wolfe. When he tried to protest, she fixed him with a straight glare and said, "Take it. We're beyond all that now, I think." In Wolfe's hands, it looked entirely out of place, but Jess well knew the Scholar was no stranger to fighting or killing, if it came to it.
He cast one look down at Helva, who managed a smile. She was holding her own weapon now--a smaller sidearm--and said, "Run fast."
"Always," he said, and--mindful of the cobra lurking in the dark corner--moved to the closed back door. He opened it and checked. It seemed clear. The alleyway was bright after the dimness of the shop, and he took a breath to let his eyes adjust, then stepped out and turned to scan the roofs. No one in view, which meant he might have a chance.
Running for his life was a feeling that settled on him like old, familiar clothes. He wasn't frightened by it: he'd played keep-away with the local London Garda all his childhood, and running in that vast labyrinth of a city was much harder than in these straight lines and clean angles. It meant, though, that there was less cover, less chance to lose pursuers in blind corners and narrow passages. He'd have to make up for that with sheer speed.
Jess took in three deep, stomach-straining breaths, oriented himself by the sun and memories of how far they'd come from the entrance, and ran. At the next alley, he cut around to the main road--it was, as the centurion at the gate had warned, the only way out. No point in wasting time.
The first block was easy; he'd caught their attackers by surprise, and when he exited the back of the alley at a flat run, he was moving like a blur. He heard the shouts rise like smoke, and a scramble up on the roofs, but they were nowhere near the right position. Someone shot at him, but it went wild. Five steps farther down, there were more shots flung his way, but with the same lack of accuracy.
Someone up there made good time or was in a lucky spot, and he saw a bottle of Greek fire arc toward the ground two body lengths away from him. No good choices: if he swerved, he'd lose momentum, and there was no telling which way the fire would splash. Going through it wasn't an option. The thick goo would cling to skin and fabric and couldn't be wiped or washed away. He'd burn.
As the bottle hit the ground and the fire rushed to life, Jess ran straight at the nearest wall. He put more energy into his stride and ran two gravity-defying steps sideways on the wall, then pushed off hard and launched himself like an arrow past the roiling green blaze in the middle of the path. He landed hard on the cobbles on his shoulder, and close enough that the toxic smoke crawled hot into his lungs, but he coughed it out and rolled to his feet and kept running. Shots scattered behind him, but they all missed, and now the inferno behind him was also--usefully--cover.
Only another block to the exit gates, and Jess made the turn and poured on even more speed. His heart was pumping furiously now, his lungs rebelling from the effort and the smoke, but the goal was within sight.
That was when a shot hit him squarely in the back with enough force against the flexible armor beneath his Library coat to knock him off stride and stun his lungs into paralysis. Deprived of breath, blazing with pain, Jess tumbled to the ground, rolled helpless as a beached fish, and convulsed as he tried to pull in air. Right in the same spot Tariq hit me. He saw black and red spots, and the pain came in waves as hot as Greek fire. I'm going to die, he thought, and it seemed incomprehensible to him, because the gates were right there. Rescue for Wolfe, Glain, Helva--all of them. It depended on him.
He wasn't going to make it.
You will, he told himself over the screaming, mindless fear he felt. You have to! Get up. Get up! Do it!
His lungs released suddenly, and he sucked in a breath so fast
it burned, then coughed it out and tasted bloody copper. The pain didn't matter; he had air, and the pain couldn't stop him. Wouldn't stop him.
Jess crawled to his knees, then his feet. He was bitterly aware of seconds slipping by and pursuers catching up as he lunged forward. Half a block to go--hardly anything; just a few steps. Go. Just go.
Another half-strength bullet (he thought they must have been half-strength, or he wouldn't have been able to get up the first time) raced past him, so close he felt the heat of it score his cheek. The hot desert sand hissed up into his face as if the street itself tried to hold him back, but he plunged on, only half coordinated now, step after pounding, uncertain step. He was leaving a trail of bloody drops behind him, and for a panicked second he was back in the streets of London, worried about leaving a trail for the Library lions to follow . . .
Focus.
He put his head down and forced his muscles to ignore the pain and managed one last, desperate burst of speed.
He made it to the closed gate at the end of the street where they'd entered and collided with the wood. His fist pounded weakly on it, but his lungs still felt too traumatized to shout.
Exposed. Pinned like a bug to a board. This was his greatest moment of vulnerability; he was a perfect target for anyone who cared to aim a well-placed shot.
Jess pulled in a painful breath and shouted, "On the gate! Open! Open now!"
To his sweet and unexpected relief, it swung wide in the next few seconds. He nearly toppled out, but the centurion who'd let them in caught him. The man barked, "What in Ra's name is going on in there? Did you idiots start a war?"
"Santi," Jess gasped out. "Captain Santi. Get him. Now."
"Look, recruit, you don't request the presence of an elite captain of the High Garda just because--"
Jess grabbed the centurion's collar and yanked him close enough to smell his morning breakfast. "Get him! We have wounded, and our Scholar will be killed if you don't shift your arse right now!"
"Scholar? What Scholar? You don't give orders, you little--" The soldier stopped talking. Jess had pulled his utility knife and now it pressed gently on the man's abdomen, right where it could do its worst.
"Someone betrayed us," Jess said. "Tell me it wasn't you."
The centurion's face was hard to read, but he seemed more angry than guilty. "You'd better use that toy if you think I'd put baby soldiers at risk. Betrayed you how?"
"Greek fire. Real bullets. You heard it. That was no exercise."
The centurion's expression didn't change, but something did around the edges of Jess's awareness; a slight shift of his feet, tightness around his eyes. "Drop the knife, boy. Before my comrade gets upset."
Comrade. Jess felt the movement at his back and knew the other soldier was there, ready to shoot.
"Tell me you're not with them," Jess said quietly.
"I'm not." The centurion looked past him and nodded. "Stand down." His gaze locked back on Jess. "You, too."
There wasn't any other play to make. Jess stepped back and put his knife away. He said, more quietly, "I need cobra antivenin for one of our squad. Get that, too."
For a terrible second, the centurion didn't move, and then he looked at the soldier behind Jess. "Send a message. We need Captain Feng."
"Not Feng," Jess said. "Santi."
"Santi's not in charge of this--"
"Get Santi!"
The centurion might not have believed him, but he was willing to play along for now. Jess thought there would be plenty of reprimands in his immediate future, but he no longer cared. And that, most of all, must have gotten through to the centurion, who abruptly nodded. "Antivenin is in my pack. Let me get it."
"Don't move," Jess said. "I don't trust you."
"Boy, I could have got that knife from you like taking a toy from an infant," the man said. "I'm getting the pack."
With the pounding surge of adrenaline starting to recede, Jess figured the soldier probably could have taken him down easily, and he nodded. The soldier reached down, grabbed a field pack, and snugged it on. Then he took up his heavy black weapon--more powerful than Jess's, and not loaded half-strength, for certain.
"Well?" he said, when Jess stared back. "Go on, then. You're taking me inside. I need to assess the situation."
"I'll need a weapon."
"Where's yours?"
"I gave it to the Scholar."
The soldier gave him a sharp look, then took out his sidearm and handed it over. "Shoot me and I'll end you," he said. "I'm Centurion Thabani Botha, in case I die."
"Brightwell, sir."
"Good. Now we're mates. Move."
Jess was still winded and hurting, but he didn't protest; he just turned and led Botha back through the gates and watched the rooftops. It was eerily quiet now, no more shots coming their way, though the Greek fire still blazed away in a snapping fury. Looking at it now, Jess was shocked he'd managed to get around it, since it occupied all but a small strip of safety against the farthest wall. He and Botha squeezed past as quickly as possible. Once they were out, Botha said, with quiet grimness, "I wasn't told there'd be a Burner simulation along with your confiscation assignment."
"What if it wasn't a simulation? Could Burners get in here?"
Botha didn't answer. Maybe he didn't know, or maybe he just didn't want to say. But Jess doubted that the enemy who'd attacked them was really part of the Burner movement. This came from inside the High Garda itself, he thought. Tariq had turned on them, after all. There would be questions to be asked in the wake of this, hard ones.
Botha put up a fist and Jess came to an instant halt. They were just at the corner, and Botha looked around, then back at Jess. His eyes had gone narrow and cold. "How many out there?"
"I don't know. Just saw shadows on rooftops. Maybe ten?"
"Armed with Greek fire?"
"And guns," Jess added, though he knew Botha hadn't forgotten. He just felt a little defensive. He swallowed and said, "If you see any of my squad, watch them, too. I think some of them may be . . ." He trailed off, because he didn't want to come right out and say traitors, but the implication hung heavy in the air between them.
Botha shrugged. "I always keep an eye on recruits. They might shoot me in a panic."
Jess decided then that he liked the man. "Better follow me, then. I trust your aim, at least." He stepped out into the street. For a second, he felt dizzy, waiting for the inevitable bullet to hit, but nothing did. Silence, except for the hiss of sand stirring in the wind, and the roar of the fire behind. The blaze that had kicked off the whole mess was dying down in the middle of the street ahead, and Jess used that as a guide to look for Tariq. There he was, still lying where he'd fallen. Jess wanted to stop, but Glain, Wolfe, and Helva had to be his first priority. He'd find out the rest later.
Glain stepped out of the shadows of the broken window and pointed her weapon past Jess, at Botha. "Halt," she snapped, and Jess felt Botha coming to alert. "Drop it!"
"He's here to help," Jess said. "He's got antivenin for Helva, and Santi's on the way."
"You bring it in, Jess," Glain said. "I don't know that one."
Botha laughed. It sounded genuinely amused. "Smart," he said. His pack thumped the ground by Jess's feet. "Take it in, recruit."
Glain's posture stiffened just a little more. "Check the pack," she told Jess. He crouched down, opened the flaps, and looked in. Standard field equipment, with a full Medica kit inside. He looked back over his shoulder at the centurion.
"You're Medica?"
"Cross-trained," Botha said. "I do field medicine. You don't need me for this, though. Just give her the injection."
"Do it," Glain said. "Hurry."
Jess found the antivenin and eased by Glain, who kept a sharp watch on the centurion. He found Scholar Wolfe beside Helva, taking her pulse. Wolfe held up his hand without even looking up, and Jess handed the shot over and watched as Wolfe slid the needle in. The injector hissed a little as the gas capsule triggered, and
the clear liquid contents pushed into Helva's vein. She was still and quiet, and Jess would have thought his fellow soldier dead if not for the flutter of her pale eyelids. Her color was bad--as bad as it could get, Jess thought, without Anubis appearing to personally drag her to the underworld. "Is it too late?" Jess asked. He didn't want to care. He'd tried hard not to care about any of them.
"I don't think so," Wolfe said. He put his hand on the young woman's forehead and held it there for a moment--Not medically useful; just comfort, Jess thought. The action of a kind man, though Wolfe wouldn't like being thought of in that way. He went out of his way to be seen as a hard, uncaring bastard. "I've seen this stuff revive those worse off."
How often? Jess wanted to ask, but didn't. He didn't want to know. Instead he turned back to Glain, who was still aiming her weapon squarely at Botha. Botha was watching her with a smile, but had dead-serious eyes above the upturned lips. "I'm going to check the others," Jess said, and stepped through the broken window with a crush of glass under his boot. "Centurion, come with me. She probably won't shoot you in the back."
"Probably," Glain agreed, deadpan. She didn't relax her vigilance until he'd led the centurion away to Tariq.
Botha rolled the younger man over and checked his pulse. He sat back and shook his head. "He's gone," he said. It staggered Jess, but he steadied himself quickly. Tariq was aiming at the Scholar. I had to do it. I had to.
"They said we had half-strength rounds," Jess said, and that got a look from the other man. A pitying one.
"This wasn't you, recruit." Botha rolled Tariq's limp body over to the side, and Jess saw the red-rimmed hole in his ribs. "The shot punched straight through and came out the other side--armor-piercing. From the angle, this came from above while he was already slumped down. Definitely wasn't you." Botha, while he talked, kept his gaze up on the area above them. Jess looked up, too. Nothing but sky and blazing morning sun. "Decent shot from that angle. Your squad mate would have been gone in an instant, never knew what hit him. Come on. Let's find your other lost lambs."
Jess hoped they weren't, like Tariq, lambs to the slaughter.
They found one inside another storefront, well concealed and unhurt; the others were grouped together in a defensive position down the street. Unlike Tariq's, the worst wounds were bruises and cracked ribs from half-strength rounds. Tariq had been deliberately executed, Jess thought, for failing in his mission to kill Wolfe.