by S. Cushaway
“House Precaius was the inspiration for that one,” Mother had said more than once. “Because we were instrumental in crushing the eastern Shurin and Druen resistance. Remember it, and always uphold the honor of your name.”
Am I doing that now, Mother? Standing in this town, waiting to either negotiate a new deal with Karraetu and Niles, or waiting to kill them? Is this the Precaius legacy?
The town gates opened with a high squeal. Neiro forgot about the music and his long-dead mother as his heart surged with savage pride. Viyr strode down the street, tall and pale, Excerii-Draid armor picking up the neon glow of the Neuro-Cyth. His eyes beamed through the swirling dust, cold as Synth. Everyone watched his approach in complete silence.
He was a god, and he’s still a god. A dead one. And if Niles thinks he can take this town, I’ll have him stuffed and mounted atop that threk in my office.
Slight though it was, the weight of the Cyth pistol at his belt made Neiro uncomfortable as he walked to meet Viyr. It had been too many years since he’d held a weapon in his hand; he’d not used a gun since the early days of Dogton, when bandits and Sulari loyalists had posed a threat.
“Did you pick up their signal?”
Viyr halted in his tracks. “Yes. The Veraleid signal I picked up last night is from Romano Vargas’s Draggin. The signature is the same. I was able to access it and record their coordinates.”
“How far out?”
“Less than three miles. They will be here in approximately fifteen minutes.”
“Orin!”
The Enforcer captain trotted toward him. “It’s time, then?”
“Yes. I want your Enforcers in position and ready to open fire when they come near those gates,” Neiro said. “If they come through, Viyr will be here with the Peg, but keep them out there as long as you can. I suspect they’ll try to ram through rather than climb over. It’s the only way they’ll have in.”
The music drifting from the warehouse cut into a waltz.
“No Firebrand,” he went on, ignoring the stately melody. “Not unless it’s an absolute sure shot. You know what would happen if a stray Firebrand hit a wagon or the stables without me telling you. Use your revolvers and rifles. Does Garv have those shells ready?”
Orin nodded. “She does, and the launcher. The pipe’s got some surface rust, but she said that won’t matter much.” His leathery face twisted into sour skepticism. “I don’t hold much weight with them damned shell pipes, but I suppose she knows what she’s about. I’ll go tell the others to get ready.”
Vore lifted his hand and called from the scaffolding, “Dust comin’ this way, big cloud of it!”
Here we go.
Orin moved off, brushing by N’jian Printz with a stiff nod as he went to give orders to his Enforcers. Printz inclined his head at the gunslinger, then fixed his yellow stare ahead. The commander’s erect posture and tilted chin reminded Neiro of the way some of the Sulari had left their manses, arrogant even in their exile.
“Karraetu will try to contact you before he gives any orders to take the town,” Printz declared. “He is a talker, and will want to give an ultimatum. An unreasonable one, of course, so he can say he’s offering a fair chance.” A cold smile flashed across the commander’s handsome face. “And it won’t matter if you agree or refuse, because he will kill if and when it pleases him.”
That smile irritated Neiro even more than the man’s arrogance. “Why the hell did you ever let him climb the ranks?”
“He’s ruthless and cruel, but smart. The Syndicate recommended him, but I made a mistake, and it has cost me the dream of Pirahj. Even if we win, Neiro, and even if I live through this, the Scrappers will never be mine again. The majority do not want what I had to offer; that’s clear now. The few that may be loyal, like Mal-eyio, had no choice but to follow Karraetu or risk death.”
“You lost something you never had. But I may lose the only thing I have left.” Neiro turned to Viyr. “Cut the signal on that damned radio and switch the frequency to contact Niles and Karraetu. They’ll be in Vargas’s Draggin, I have no doubt, and I’ll not give them the pleasure of first contact.”
The points on the Neuro-Cyth pulsed more brightly as the Mechinae moved several yards toward the warehouse. The waltz blaring from Hubert’s radio dimmed into a static whine. A humming drone wound through the white noise, so low it might have been part of the wind.
Toros. Even all the way here, you can hear it. There’s a Bloom going on out in the Belt for sure, then.
The radio squealed suddenly. Neiro winced. He cleared his throat and spoke, directing his words at Viyr to relay through the Neuro-Cyth. “This is Neiro Precaius, governor of the Avaeliis province of the Shy’war-Anquai, mayor of Dogton, and leader of the Border Coalition. Are you there, Niles?”
Atop Viyr’s pale brow, the crown flickered as the circuitry along the spires lit, transmitting. The squealing grew louder, and then a voice cut through.
“Precaius, old man, this is Niles. I’d hoped to keep this visit a surprise, but I guess we don’t always get everything we want.”
Neiro’s lips pulled from his teeth in a sneer. “You really thought I wouldn’t find out, some way or other? I already suspected it was a matter of time before you tried something.”
“Guess you didn’t ferret it out fast enough.” Niles’s voice echoed over the town from the small, rattling speaker. “But let’s not fuck around, Precaius. I want Dogton. I want the water. Hell, I want that fancy desk you sit at all day. Do you think Avaeliis is gonna care who is out here, so long as they get what they want?”
“The Syndicate would grind you between its teeth in a month, Niles. Do you even know—”
“I know that you’ve held all the water long enough, and I’m sick of you doling out a few barrels whenever you feel good and generous. I know that most decent folks are sick of you lettin’ Toros tainted fuckups walk around our towns. This isn’t your desert, Precaius. Our families have been out here longer than you, some of us for four or five generations now. Even the Sulari treated the Estarians with a bit more respect than this.”
“Is that what you think?” Heat crept up his face even as his blood turned to ice. “Tell you what. You come through the gates, and I’ll see to it personally that you die. But not before I let Viyr get inside your mind a moment.”
Another voice cut in, stronger and more clipped than Niles’s. Printz’s head jerked at the sound of it, and Neiro knew who it was speaking then—Karraetu.
“We can do this without violence. Printz standin’ there next to you, Neiro?”
The use of his given name and the tone of familiarity rankled. “Yes, he is, but you’re speaking to me, Karraetu, not N’jian Printz. As to ‘without violence,’ the only way I see that happening is if you hand over Evrik Niles, turn around, and go back to Pirahj.”
“Negative on that,” Karraetu replied. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t. I’m not as far up the shit heap as you think, Neiro, and it’s dog-eat-dog. If you hand the town over, we can arrange a safe passage back to Avaeliis for you in . . . oh, how’s two weeks sound?”
Nyia.
His pulse beat in his ears so loud everything else went dead silent.
She did know about this. Ordered it, probably. Wants my pie, just like the damned Shurin said.
A very old pain tightened his chest, so decrepit he’d almost forgotten it. A dim memory came with it, more than fifty years gone—he and his twin sister, Nyia, playing and laughing together. Four or five years old, brother and sister. Before the Syndicate schooling and the dog-eat-dog had been drilled into them, breaking them apart forever and setting them on one another like hungry curs.
“Precaius? You there, old man?” Niles’s drawl broke through the static, lifting over the low buildings through the old radio. “What do you say to—”
“You want Dogton? Come and take it from me, you fucking worm.” His lips parted in the devouring Syndicate grin. “Let’s see which dog eats the other. Viyr, c
ut the transmission.”
The static whine ceased, but the low, eerie drone continued on briefly. Then, a female opera singer blared out of the speaker, her voice clear and high. Hubert belted out the words in his raspy, brass tone.
In the early morn, when the winds blow o’er
We wake to roam the wild, along the cold shores
Arise, sweet love
Arise, and hold,
One last embrace as grim Death walks among our ranks
A low rumble shook the ground, growing steadily louder. Eli Vorensi unholstered a massive revolver from his belt, then slid from the scaffolding and trotted to join Orin. Neiro studied the weapon. Queen, Vore had named it; powerful enough to take down a sand hog, or blow a man’s head from his shoulders at two-hundred yards. The lanky Enforcer adjusted the shooting brace on his right hand as the Bin door opened. Two men darted out, one short and squat, carrying a heavy shotgun, the other small and lean, armed with a nilaj bow.
Sokepta and Anaz’dalo. So they’re going to fight, too. I hope Sokepta doesn’t get himself shot. We’ll need him to tend the wounded once this is over.
N’jian Printz waved Mal-eyio toward the water shed, where they took cover and waited. Zres Corrin darted around the warehouse while Vore shimmied up to the tannery roof. Garv and Mi’et made for the barracks. The town fell still as the roar of the Scrapper fleet filled the air. The noise of individual engines—Romano’s Draggin especially—became audible. Viyr stood awaiting orders, wind stirring his pale hair where the Neuro-Cyth didn’t hold it down. Even Hubert killed the radio before lowering himself down onto his belly.
“Get the Peg ready, Viyr.”
Viyr held his left forearm up and flicked his wrist. A small device slid from the Excerii meshing—a Peg barrel, four inches long and as sleek and black as the rest of Viyr’s attire, fitted with two dozen small pins along its length. Temporary Shelf implants glowed at the end of the pins, each no larger than a child’s fingertip.
“I am ready. Please, stay behind me during the encounter. It would be advisable you retreat to your office. This engagement may prove fatal.”
“No. I’ll not cower in my office. I’m a Precaius. We do not hide, Viyr.” Neiro pulled the Cyth pistol from its holster and checked the charge. Unlike Firebrand, his gun did not hum in the on position, though he could feel the cell power flowing from the weapon into his fingertips. “I’m going to take Niles out personally, and then you can Peg him. I’ll make him run laps around Dogton while we all throw mule shit at him. Him and Karraetu both.”
“The gates won’t hold long with three or four rovers plowing into it,” Orin called from where he crouched behind a caravaneer's wagon, parked near the Bin. “You’d better not be in their path when they come through, or that’s the end of it.”
Neiro moved, faster than he’d had in years. Sweat already soaked his back and shirt; for once, he paid it no mind. He squatted next to Orin, followed by Viyr. Neiro peeked from around the wagon bed.
“Like the old days,” the captain said. “Except now we’re ancient and gray, and gonna feel it tomorrow mornin’.”
“I’d rather be taking out Gemmin and Sulari,” Neiro replied, his gaze fixed on the gates. “But I’ll settle for Niles’s head. Here they come. I see the dust over the gates . . . yes, that must be Vargas’s Draggin. We know why we lost contact with him and the others now, I suppose.”
Orin’s voice was grim as he spoke. “Yes, I guess we do at that. And I’m gonna enjoy killin’ a few of these sons a bitches for it, too.” His hands tightened on his rifle. “Here we go, Neiro. One last hurrah for us old farts.”
Big and fast, Romano's Draggin didn’t slow as it approached the terminal-locked front gates. It plowed into the wire and sheet metal with a loud bang, engine shrieking. Behind it, two more rovers—lighter vehicles without the power and weight of the big Draggin—hit the gates at weaker points. The vehicles slid sideways against the barriers, tires spinning as the metal posts holding the fence together groaned from the impact. The sand bikes trailing the rovers skidded to a halt.
There’s more than three dozen Scrappers there, and probably a few sliding around the back gates.
Neiro smiled.
Let them come.
A pipe shell whistled overhead, fired from near the barracks. It smashed into one of the sand bikes and a body flew, hitting the sand as a shower of shrapnel from the ruined vehicle cut the air. The Scrappers nearby ducked and ran, but Karraetu—piloting the big Draggin—did not stop his assault on the gates. Nor did the other two rovers relent. The gate groaned again as it began to buckle. A volley of gunfire rang overhead, answered by Queen’s booming retort. Another Scrapper fell in the dust near the fence.
How did Vorensi hit him from—
Loud as a cannon, the Pumer let loose from the warehouse roof. Then, everything became a blur and Neiro lost track of who was firing and where the shots were coming from. The high crack of pistol-and-rifle fire filled the town as the Scrappers pushed their assault, boldly taking aim at whatever they could. One bullet smashed into the side of the Bin, ripping a big hole in the wall.
A young whore—Peaches, Neiro guessed—screamed in terror from within the cantina. “They’re gonna shoot us all!”
“Let’s all get down on our knees,” Moad answered, his sonorous voice clear even through the building’s slat walls. “And pray to Mary for salvation. Lucy, will you lead us in prayer?”
Neiro wished the Harper had sent his Soulmaker out with the rest of the fighting men instead of having Opert Reeth guard those hiding in the Bin.
Can’t be helped now. Damned Harpers.
A metallic squeal brought his attention back to the fighting. One section of the wire fencing finally gave way, coming down on top of the Draggin with a sharp bang that slowed the vehicle for a moment. It lurched forward as Karraetu stomped the accelerator and spun the wheel. Orin ducked from behind the caravaneer’s wagon, took aim at Karraetu, and fired. The shot zinged off the Draggin’s frame as the vehicle sped by, sand bikes and Scrappers swarming behind it.
Other rovers backed away from their less successful attempts and roared in through the breach. One broke left toward the far gate in an obvious attempt to flank around. Neiro fired the Cyth-pistol as the rover tore past. The heat-seeking shot streaked through the air in a blur of light, hitting the driver's chest. The man toppled from the vehicle as his companion grabbed at the wheel, wide-eyed. Fishtailing wildly, the rover almost rolled into the water shed before sliding to a halt fifteen yards down the road.
“Viyr!”
The Mechinae moved toward the fallen Scrapper, aimed the Peg at the base of his skull, and sent the temporary Shelf deep into the spinal cord. Heedless of the shots firing around him, heedless of another shell whistling overhead, Viyr waited patiently as the Scrapper rose, tottering. Blood leaked down the dead man’s chest where the Cyth shot had sliced his heart. With a mechanical motion, he plucked the pistol from his belt and aimed it at the man scrambling from the rover. The bullet took the Scrapper in the back of the head, leaving a gaping hole there, where bits of skull and brain painted his neck and back.
“Get that fucking Zippy!”
Niles.
Viyr moved toward the next Scrapper with quick, fluid grace even a Shyiine would have been hard pressed to match. He Pegged the body and that Scrapper, too, rose from death. Turning their weapons on their still-living companions, both Pegs lumbered after the Mechinae. Their eyes burned a neon blue, but there was no thought in them—only programming installed by the Shelfing, all controlled by Viyr.
A ripple of panic began to sear through the ranks of mercenaries when they realized what was happening.
“Take him out! He’s got another one Pegged!” someone yelled.
“He’s got some sort of deflection on that fuckin’ thing on his head,” another called back. “I just shot right at him and it didn’t do anything!”
Neiro laughed, wild joy filling his heart. He took a shot at
a brown-clad man running alongside the merchant stalls. The Cyth shot seared through the side of a grain wagon, leaving a neat little hole the size of a dime; dried corn kernels spilled onto the ground. All the noise blended together in a relentless din of chaos. Gun smoke fogged the street with an acrid, blue haze. More screams came from the Bin, many high and feminine, some low and male. Men in brown fatigues crawled from every corner, every scant shadow of the buildings, every wagon and stall.
Moad’s deep voice called, louder than before. “Be calm! Be still! Mary will protect us!”
No, you fucking git. She won’t. I will.
Mal-eyio crumpled in the dust near a mud-brick adobe, and Neiro heard N’jian Printz’s angry cursing as he took a shot at Karraetu. Karraetu ducked behind a line of water drums, a manic grin on his face as he returned fire.
Keeping low, Neiro edged from behind the wagon toward a small storage shack near the merchant stalls. A bullet whizzed by, not a foot from his head, shattering a shop window. He dove behind the shack, peeked out, and raised his gun at a Scrapper bolting across the dusty street. He hit his target low in the belly, and the Scrapper fell at a dead run as he clutched his gut, screaming. Neiro pulled the trigger again, and the screaming stopped.
Several yards away, another Scrapper toppled, an arrow in his throat. Somewhere near the vicinity of his office—all the way across town—he heard Vore shouting and Queen’s resounding boom, crowned by the sharp crack of an Enforcer’s offhand pistol. A Scrapper appeared, darting from the alley between a fence and the chop shop. A shotgun blast followed, spraying the man’s chest and tearing it open. He staggered and fell in the street. When Neiro turned to see who had fired, Sokepta peeked out from the back of his own wagon, grinned briefly, and ducked down again.
And I always heard Drahgur never fight. Learn something new every day.
“Precaius, you fat son of a bitch, I see you!”
Through the smoke and dust, Neiro caught a glimpse of Niles. The younger man held a big, Foundry-made shotgun in his hands—one that Neiro thought he ought to recognize. Before he could take aim, Niles sprinted toward the tannery and around the corner.