In the early hours of the morning, with most of the city still ignorant of the horrors about to happen, I hear clattering downstairs and find Haze crouched over a bucket in the kitchen, vomiting.
“Alcohol,” he says.
He doesn’t want me to think it’s fear.
A towel is wrapped around his head, and when Haze comes down to breakfast he’s wearing his Death’s Head cap. He eats almost nothing, yet still looks bulkier than he did a week before. Also, he’s sweating.
“Hangover,” says Franc when she sees me watching.
Bread, cheese, and a cold chunk of goat are set out on the table. A coffeepot is bubbling over a fire built on what was meant to be an ornamental hearth. The engineers never did get the city’s power back.
“Eat,” says Maria. “And take food with you.” Her eyes are red; her fingers when she leaves the table brush Neen’s shoulder. When she returns with another jug of coffee, his hand covers hers as she pours him a second cup.
She follows us to the door to say good-bye.
“Lock it once we’re gone,” says Shil. She hugs the other girl, which comes as a surprise to all of us.
Dawn is a slash of pink on the far horizon when we meet Ion at the river gates. The militia are already gathered and shock is their dominant expression, because they’ve been ordered to hold the gates until sunset. Against the enemy, obviously, but also against us, should we try to retreat to the safety of the city.
Even Ion is rattled.
“Volunteers only,” I tell him. “Anyone who wants to stay on this side of the gates can. The rest of us hold until sunset or we die.”
“And anyone left alive gets to go off planet.”
“The first hundred,” I say.
He snorts; we both know the final figure is unlikely to be that high. Ion’s bought five hundred men, the ugliest, nastiest collection of moneygrubbing mercenaries you’ve ever seen, and I’m glad to see every one of them. All are armed to the teeth, mostly with pulse rifles. A couple of groups lug belt-feds between them, while a man built like a tank is dragging an eight-barreled rocket launcher by hand.
A slightly more sophisticated rocket launcher-well, one sophisticated enough to roll along under its own power-is being maneuvered through the gates by two women who seem identical from their cropped hair to their uniforms. When they meet our stare, it’s obvious their faces are identical as well.
“Twins?” Haze asks Ion.
“Vals 9 and 11,” he says. “Copies.”
“Of what?”
“Each other.” He says it as if it should be obvious.
“Does the original still exist?” I ask.
Ion shakes his head.
“So they’re copies of copies?” says Shil.
“Aren’t we all,” Ion says, turning his back on us. When I next see him, we’re through the gates and he’s telling Vals 9 and 11 where to place their rocket launcher. The glare all three shoot at Shil is undisguised contempt.
“Rules differ,” I tell her.
“Yes,” says Haze. “The U/Free use soldier bots to do this shit.” He nods at a group of militia who are delivering ammunition to the trenches they dug earlier. Mercenaries fight, but they don’t dig ditches.
“The Free have no army,” I tell him.
Haze looks like he wants to disagree.
“Believe me,” I say. “They don’t need one.”
“Why doesn’t OctoV have machines?” demands Shil.
“Because he doesn’t have Free technology and people are cheaper.”