Hekati looks vast and we are still some way out. Our engines are almost dead, our life-support system critically compromised. The number of lights on our console falls every few minutes as something else takes itself off line.
The temperature in the crewpit reads way below zero. But my body is unsure if it’s hot or cold, and even the kyp in my throat is threatening a sullen shut-down, as if aware that making me vomit now would be a bad move.
Vijay slumps forward in his chair, barely moving.
I have a feeling Haze might be praying to legba uploaded to judge from the signs his right hand keeps making over and over again.
Put me in front of a man with a weapon and I will happily let the best man win. Because that will be me. And I’ve done it enough times to know that. But this, waiting for help and waiting for death, and not knowing which is going to arrive first, it’s teaching me things about myself.
And you know what?
Mostly, what it’s teaching me is that patience is overrated.
Between runs of its distress routine, the SIG takes read-outs direct from each of our suits. ‘Well,’ it tells me, ‘Rachel’s fucked.’ She has three hours. Neen has four. I have four ten. Franc has four twenty. As has Vijay. Haze has five. And Emil five thirty.
At the rate we’re drifting, it is going to total five hours before we hit.
‘You,’ I mouth, tapping Emil’s shoulder. ‘And you . . .’ Rachel looks round when I tap. ‘Swap tanks.’
I have to repeat it three times, before they eventually manage to read my lips in the grim half light around us. Taking a deep breath, Rachel turns so Emil can unclip her bottle. Seals close as her tank comes free, and then he takes a breath, turns and lets Rachel remove his own tank.
He clips his into place for her.
This is good, because she’s beginning to sway. And then she does the same for him. They work as a team and I’m impressed. He must know he is getting the worst of the deal.
Five minutes pass into ten, and then make twenty. No one is hailing us. In fact, no one is paying us any attention at all. As half an hour becomes an hour, and then two, and Hekati begins to look larger, I wonder if I have this wrong. It’s not a state of mind I’m prepared to accept for long.
Filing it under interesting, but avoidable, I go back to staring at the screen.
We run skeleton software, down to bare bones and beyond. The asteroid field is at our back and Hekati between the sun and us. So we approach in shadow. Against that, we have the SIG emergency-broadcasting our position.
What is our fall-back?
Die, I guess. But I’ve never been good at that.
Checking with the SIG for the read-out for each tank in turn, I discover the colonel has his mix turned so low it’s almost dangerous. At that level, he might make it. Of course, he’ll be brain-damaged, but maybe he doesn’t care.
Time for a change of plan.
Tapping the control pad on my glove, I put myself back on line. At a nod from me, Colonel Vijay does the same. It’s not as if I have much power left in my comms systems anyway. Might as well put it to good use. Haze is last, only putting himself on line when he realizes we’ve done so already.
‘Speed up,’ I tell the SIG.
Haze gapes, mouth open behind glass. ‘Sir,’ he whispers. ‘What about radio silence?’
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Do it.’
‘Do what?’ Haze is so bemused he speaks without thinking, then realizes what he has done.
‘Take us in faster.’
‘Can’t,’ he says. ‘Not enough power.’
‘Being scanned,’ announces the ship.
When the hell did that wake up? ‘What by?’
‘Sir,’ says Haze.
‘What?’ I demand.
Lights flicker along the edge of my gun. Something whirrs, and it flicks clips. Ceramic to explosive, then back. Always knew it did that for effect. ‘Machine code,’ says the SIG. ‘Local, slightly dated.’ That should piss them off.
‘Probably Enlightened,’ Haze finishes for it.
‘Fucking great,’ I say. ‘So where are we anyway?’
The SIG plays me the coordinates from our distress beacon, and recites them over and over, as our vessel drifts closer, changing the last few digits as it goes.
‘Very funny. What the fuck’s that thing over there?’
‘Hekati,’ it says. ‘Deserted habitat . . .’
‘Shouldn’t be here,’ Haze announces suddenly. As always, he’s a quick learner.
‘You want to go back?’ Colonel Vijay’s voice is harsh. He has my growl down to the last tee. In fact, it’s so perfect Haze flinches as if taking a lash.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘What?’ demands Colonel Vijay.
‘Shut it.’ My voice cuts through their babble. I’m not sure Vijay knows what’s going on yet. From the way he’s glaring at Haze, helmets almost touching, I doubt it.
‘Vijay,’ I say. ‘Enough.’
He gets excused his moment’s hesitation.
‘Makes no difference,’ I tell them. ‘We’re headed for that thing. No way of turning back and where the fuck do you think we’d go anyway?’ My glare swings round to include them all. Even Emil, who is watching with a sour smile on his face.
‘We’re Death’s Head.’
The Uplifted better be listening. I’m counting on it.
‘Well, we’re fucked for glory. And anyone who wants death can have it now, free. No need to turn back for that.’ Vijay’s laugh is bitter.
‘So . . .’ I tell the SIG. ‘Speed this crate up before we run out of air.’
A curve of habitat comes up to meet us. Can’t believe we’re not going to hit it, but between them, the SIG and Haze have this covered. We turn slightly, fire boosters and release something that would be a drag parachute if we weren’t in vacuum.
‘What’s that?’
‘Medusa bell,’ says the SIG. ‘Big about fifty years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘They didn’t work.’
So why fire it? Except whatever it is it must work slightly, because we slow and then twist sideways, scraping across the side of Hekati. I can see clouds and valleys through the glass as we pass, and what looks like a village far below.
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah,’ says the gun. ‘Imagine having to-’
It doesn’t get to finish its sentence, because something brings us to a sudden halt before we clear Hekati’s rim. Something being a harpoon that slams through the side of our vessel, spreads its tines and locks solid. What little air was left is sucked through the rip.
‘Asteroid drill,’ says my SIG.
And then we lurch sideways, as an unseen hawser jerks tight, slamming me into a bulkhead. Another two harpoons hit, another craft slams into us and our outer door blows. We are being boarded.
The first man fires a spread net that should lock down the crewpit. It fails to open, so I head for the ceiling, slamming my gravity glove against cheap mesh. Tiny hooks give me enough leverage to stamp on the faceplate of a Silver Fist. His head twists sideways, so I stamp again and something snaps.
‘Cheap shit,’ says my gun. It’s talking about his helmet.
Never fought in zero gravity before. It’s like swimming without the water. Also never fought with only one arm, zero gravity or not. A hell of a lot harder than swimming without water. For a start, I can’t hold on and fire anything at the same time.
The answer hits me a moment before a stun truncheon tries to do the same. Flipping sideways, I glue both boots to a wall and put a flechette into the helmet of a Silver Fist lieutenant in the doorway. He is low-ranking and it’s not as if they’ll really miss him.
Blood explodes in a thousand floating droplets.
‘Pretty,’ says my gun. The SIG is the only weapon working.
At least, the only one on our side. Neen is busy yanking the trigger of a ship’s pulse rifle. He’s done all the right things, like charge its precoil, but it still won’t fire. So he uses it as a club. A Silver Fist goes down clutching his faceplate.
‘How come-?’
‘Because I’m not cheap shit,’ the SIG tells me, not bothering to let me complete the question.
‘Switch back,’ I say.
‘No, hollow-point.’
‘Flechette.’
It switches clips with bad grace. I love flechette. You get minimum recoil, with maximum kinetic energy, and carbon darts fragment on impact. I drill a hole through a man behind Neen, and watch his suit suddenly become form-fitting. As the air goes out of it and vacuum begins sucking, blood flies through a tear.
A Taser bolt hits where I should be.
Only I’m somewhere else. Except it’s not where I should be, because I’ve forgotten my arm.
‘God, I love this.’
‘Now that’s fucked,’ says the SIG. ‘Only alive when you’re at risk of being dead.’
‘Telling me you don’t feel the same?’
It shuts up. And I’m still grinning, when I realize my last shot was explosive.
‘That was-’
‘Needed,’ insists the gun.
The SIG is right. A trooper in body armour has been unpacked into small pieces. But it has cost a large chunk of our bulkhead behind him.
‘Stop,’ demands a braid.
Flesh like leather, five braids swaying as it looks from side to side. No helmet, I realize suddenly. No suit. How the fuck . . . ? A stamp fixes my boots to the floor and I have my SIG to his head when my gun announces: ‘Shutting down.’
‘No, you fucking don’t . . .’
It shuts down anyway.
‘I said stop.’ The braid glares at me.
Everyone else is still, I realize. We’ve got Silver Fist all around us. A dozen of the bastards. They have proper gravity boots and working Tasers. We have sticky-soled suits and whatever we can swing as clubs.
‘You hear me?’ asks the five-braid.
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, reaching for my laser blade. ‘I hear you.’
Blue flame flickers and the knife comes to life in my hand.
‘Sir,’ says the five-braid. ‘That’s-’
What is it with everyone and this illegal technology shit? He’s standing in sub-zero airless vacuum, with his skull stuffed with metal and wriggly bits, tubes run from his ribs like badly designed machinery, and he’s objecting to my knife?
‘I’m going to kill you.’
The five-braid shakes its head. All those metal snakes waving like undersea weeds. ‘No, you’re not,’ he says, nodding behind us. ‘You’re going to put that knife down. Because if you don’t . . .’
I turn, taking care to move slowly. Half my attention is on the braid and the rest on a scene playing out in the crewpit. One of his men has a pistol to Haze’s helmet.
‘He’s a braid,’ I say. ‘Feel free.’
The five-braid glances between me and Haze, examining the boy’s bulky suit with interest. At a nod, the trooper drags Haze close and peers into the helmet, checking for himself.
‘Why . . . ?’ the five-braid demands, and then changes it to, ‘How?’
‘Captured him.’
Now’s when it might come unstuck.
‘Where?’ demands the braid.
‘Why, how, where . . .’ I toss the words back at him. ‘Got any other questions you want answered?’
Scowling at me, the braid says, ‘Turn that off.’
‘Fucking make me.’ For a glorious moment, it looks like the five-braid might. I’d be so lucky.
‘If you don’t,’ he says, ‘we’ll shoot this one instead.’ Pointing one finger, he indicates Vijay.
‘Go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘He’s a fucking useless little fuck anyway.’
The five-braid stares at me, reassessing. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sven,’ I tell him. ‘Colonel Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross, crown and oak leaves.’ My name means nothing to him. The only bit that interests him is my rank and the medal.
‘Colonel?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Death’s Head?’
My silence is my answer.
Nodding, he asks, ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Taking some well-deserved R amp;R.’ Gesturing around me, I ask: ‘What the fuck does it look like?’
‘Looks to me,’ says the braid, ‘like you’re running away.’
Fuck, he’s fast. My blade passes through where his neck should be and he laughs. It’s enough to make me like him. Well, almost. Only my attention is on a Colt SW cinder maker, the one with the flip-down wire stock and the short power pack.
A Death’s Head captain holds it.
Well, according to the patch on his chest: Captain Diski, Obsidian Cross, First Class, Death’s Head Ninth Regiment.
‘Move again,’ he says, ‘and I’ll burn you back to fucking ash.’
‘That’s burn you back to fucking ash, sir.’
He grins, and glances at the five-braid, who nods. A second later, his gun is lowered. ‘Introduce me,’ says the braid.
So I point out my team. ‘Lieutenant Vijay, Sergeant Neen, Trooper Emil, Trooper Franc, Sniper Rachel, plus our prisoner. Don’t know what his name is. He doesn’t say much.’
Haze gazes back, his face impassive behind glass.
‘Where did you say you captured him?’
‘Didn’t,’ I tell him. ‘But it was outside Ilseville . . .’ My voice is sour. ‘We were leaving at the time.’
When the city doesn’t register, I name the planet and that gets a slight flicker of recognition. Luckily, he doesn’t know how far away it is. It is easy to forget how campaigns that seem all-important to those fighting them mean nothing to everyone else. We were one of OctoV’s little side bets. One that shouldn’t have come off, almost didn’t come off . . .
And then did.
‘It’s over then?’ says the braid. ‘We took it back?’
I shake my head. ‘We held it, you took it. We tried to take it back.’ My shrug is slight. ‘Too many mercenaries, not enough professionals.’
The braid nods, despite itself. The Enlightened have firm opinions on mercenaries and those opinions are not kind.