Four officers I don’t know guard the door to the old bank. They’ve all been awarded the Obsidian Cross third class. And I’m pretty sure that at least one of them was a corporal the last time our paths crossed.
Not good. In fact, so not good that I understand before I’m even through the door that we’re into the end days, and Colonel Nuevo expects to lose. So do I, but it’s the colonel’s job not to let it show.
The officers salute.
I salute.
My gun snorts.
I start to give my name and rank, but the four know it already. The youngest knocks on the door, three raps, followed by two, followed by another three. As a piece of code or security mechanism it’s worthless.
“The colonel will see you now.”
A girl stands at the top of the stairs. She’s beautiful; she’s also roughly the same age as Franc and speaks the local patois. The kid should be keeping her distance from us because most of the inner city will soon discover that their lives depend on swearing they hate us, have always hated us, and have never collaborated in any way. Even that may not be enough to save them.
“Pretty,” says my gun.
“The girl?” I ask, surprised.
“Her rig.”
Looking closely, I can see she’s wearing a neat little holster beneath her left arm; it obviously carries a very slim gun, because I’d missed it.
“Local?”
“Doubt it,” my gun says. “Not built like that. Way too foxy.”
It’s still talking about the weapon.
“Come in,” says a voice when I hammer on the colonel’s bunker door.
Colonel Nuevo wears full military uniform. A silver stripe runs down the side of his dress trousers. Medals hang in an imposing row across his heart, and braid cascades down his chest; chain-mail epaulets protect each shoulder.
His rank is declared by his collar badges, while his Obsidian Cross first class hangs on a black ribbon around his neck.
“Join me,” he says.
His first bottle is already empty, so the colonel pulls another from his desk. Someone’s used my glass before me-maybe two or three people, judging by the overlapping fingerprints. The spirit is bitter, clear as ice, and so strong that inhaling its fumes makes my throat tighten.
“Got a room full of this stuff,” he says. “I can spare you a few if you’d like. I mean”-Colonel Nuevo smiles almost happily-“it’s not as if I’m likely to have time to drink it all.”
On his desk is the same map as last time. Only it has significantly more glass stains and several more rows of crude blocking to indicate enemy rocket damage. We’re surrounded. That is, enemy reserves have crossed the river. The colonel is carefully shading in enemy mortar positions; there are dozens of the bastards.
“Silver Fist hacked my slab,” he says. “So now I use only this. Got to keep my plans secret.”
I wonder about the girl, how much she sees and hears, where she lives, and who, if anyone, she tells…Not that it’s going to make much difference. We’re obviously fucked anyway, mere hours from a full-on attack.
“You stirred up a real hornets’ nest,” he says, “slotting that seven-braid. I’d award you a first-class Obsidian, but we’re right out of those and you’ve already got a second.”
Putting down my glass, I wait for whatever it is Colonel Nuevo really wants to say. The man’s been sending messengers to my house for the best part of three weeks; there has to be more to this conversation than his current twittering.
“You kept me waiting.”
“Sorry, sir. I was injured, sir.”
Must be my tone that makes him look up. “Self-inflicted,” he says. “You know the penalty for self-inflicted wounds.” Pulling his pistol from its holster, he jacks the slide and checks the safety. Which is already off, or he wouldn’t be able to jack the slide in the first place.
Colonel Nuevo really is very drunk.
“Going up against a seven-braid,” he says, “sounds like a suicide attempt to me. Nothing brave about committing suicide.”
“Except,” I say, picking up my glass, “the seven-braid’s dead. And I’m here, enjoying a drink with my commanding officer.” The glass is cheap, which is good. It looks like it would break easily. Say, against the side of a desk or directly into an enemy’s face.
And then there’s my gun, which has unlocked without being asked and is doing its own version of a discreet vibrate against my hip. It sounds like a cheap tractor.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Colonel Nuevo. “Put down that glass and tell your bloody toy to go back to sleep. I haven’t got enough officers left to kill any more of you.”
We’re headed for the heart of his bitterness.
“You know what my orders are?”
“Death or glory?”
“Of course…” Putting down his pistol, he pulls a small cylinder from his pocket and flips up its lid. The button is red. I’d always thought that was just a rumor. “Unfortunately,” he says. “We’re right out of glory. Which just leaves this.”
Colonel Nuevo’s thumb hovers over DESTRUCT.
“That’s illegal technology,” I say.
He nods. “Pretty, isn’t it? Also effective…I can take the whole fucking city. Inside and outside, houses and temples, streets, boulevards, the lot.”
He puts a mocking stress on boulevards, as if Ilseville is too poor, insignificant, and out of the way to have streets that qualify for a label so grand. He’s right, of course. Maybe in a hundred or two hundred years it will have impressive buildings and smoked-glass palaces, but not yet.
“You want to do the job for me?”
I shake my head.
“Too bad,” he says. “Because you’re going to. That’s a direct order.” He puts the cylinder on his desk, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out an envelope. LAST DAYS, it says. I’m expecting code, something complicated that needs translating, but General Jaxx’s instructions are uncoded.
“See,” says Colonel Nuevo. “Hold the city or die.”
And then he says something that makes me realize this man hates me and has probably always hated me; all that shit about liking me was lies. “You could do it,” he says. “No problem. After all, you murdered Debro Wildeside’s daughter.”
I look at him.
“It was a test,” he says. “You passed.”
“Sir?”
The colonel shrugs. “If you can do that,” he says, tossing me the DESTRUCT button, “I’m sure you can use this.”
“Sven,” says my gun.
But it’s too late.
Opening his mouth, the colonel jams his own gun against its roof and yanks the trigger. Colonel Nuevo, leader of Octovian troops in Ilseville, has just shot himself rather than take it to the wire. He’s also just broken the arm of a chair and knocked over his vodka bottle on the way down.
“Idiot,” says the SIG.
Flicking my gun to flechette, I target the door and catch the first of the running guards in my sights.
“Explosive,” I tell him. “Burn you to a cinder.”
He stays exactly where he is.
“Come in,” I say. The three boys behind him enter without being told. All four line up against a wall on my order.
“We have a situation.”
Shock keeps their faces slack. These are meant to be Death’s Head officers, but I’ve seen better raw recruits.
“While drunk,” I tell them, “the colonel slipped and shot himself.”
“Fatally,” adds my gun.
“This information is confidential. Understand? You will behave exactly as if Colonel Nuevo is alive. I want you standing guard at his door. Anyone wants to see the colonel, you come in, ask if he wants to see them, and then tell whoever is waiting that the colonel says come back tomorrow.”
Four pairs of eyes watch me.
“You understand?”
All four boys nod.
“Good,” I say.
Sitting at the colonel’s desk, I fire up his slab and see that its power reserve is almost gone. So I keep the order brief. Each officer will prepare for the final attack, food is no longer to be hoarded, ammunition is to be shared, and all missing officers are to be replaced by NCOs. All missing NCOs will be replaced by promotion from the ranks. The battle for Ilseville’s heart will be bloody. Whatever happens, we will go down fighting to the last man.
I certainly hope the colonel’s pad has been hacked, because I want that order read by the Silver Head as much as I want it read by our own side.