‘Sven,’ says the general, leaning forward. realizing his commander wants to talk to me, a brigadier stands up and politely offers me his seat.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say.
He nods, but he is glad to swap places. I can see it in his eyes.
‘So,’ the general says. It’s a tic of his. Most of his sentences start that way. ‘Tell me how you lost your arm.’ His gaze is on the empty sleeve pinned to my chest.
‘Got it bitten off, sir.’
The general checks I’m not mocking him. Which I’m not; there’s a time and place for such things and this isn’t it.
‘What by?’
A ferox, I almost say.
A bloody great sand-hued monster, with a bone crest down his skull and claws that can tear ceramic. A ferox saved my life once. It cut me down from a whipping post, gave me a girl to fuck and a cave in which to live. Of course, it later ate the girl, and the Death’s Head took back the cave and I came close to dying. But you can’t have everything.
‘Cold-water crocodile,’ I tell him. ‘A lagarto.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
I shrug. ‘Shouldn’t have got bitten in the first place. And it’s not a problem, I mend fast.’
He nods. ‘So you can still fight?’
The table goes still. It’s an insult, wrapped in a smile. They want to know how I’ll react. The brigadier whose chair I’m using shoots me a glance. A warning, only about what? Everything, I guess.
‘Sven? ‘ The general’s waiting for my answer.
At least two officers at the table hide their smiles when I glance up. The general’s not smiling. In fact, his scowl deepens. ‘Oh yes,’ I tell him. ‘I can still fight.’
‘Good,’ says the general, his voice smooth. ‘In that case you can provide tonight’s entertainment.’
A clap of his hands brings an ADC running. The boy is young, probably too young to shave. Yet he has a waterfall of silver braid and a little black dagger hanging from his hip and he’s wearing that shoulder patch. He’s probably the age I was when Lieutenant Bonafonte swore me into the Legion. Although my uniform was sweat-rotted battledress, and my dagger stolen from a market stall.
‘Sir?’ he says, saluting.
‘Get the prisoners.’
The second lieutenant scampers away.
Bet his family didn’t know he was going to end up a traitor on the wrong side of the spiral arm. Mind you, they probably think he’s dead. A life joyfully given for our beloved empire. It’s always joyfully given. And the empire is always beloved. Our glorious leader wouldn’t want anyone dying for him unwillingly.
‘Have another drink, sir,’ suggests a major on my other side. He pushes across a brandy decanter without waiting for my answer.
It tastes sour. Everything about tonight tastes sour.
Fifty Death’s Head officers, 120 NCOs and 540 troopers sharing a dining hall with 1,500 Silver Fist troopers and their braids. We’re looking at the entire Ninth. A full regiment of fucking traitors. And there is something else: at least a third of the officers around me are growing braids of their own. It’s hard to describe how that feels. To be a traitor is bad enough. That these bastards want to advertise the fact turns my gut.
‘One bout,’ explains the major. ‘No breaks . . .’
‘To the death?’
His look says, what do you think?
‘Fine with me,’ I say. ‘Never was good at pulling punches. What’s the ruling on weapons?’
‘No guns,’ he says. ‘Otherwise, anything goes.’
The general is listening with a grim smile. Unbuckling my holster, I drop it to the ground and feel glad the SIG has enough sense to stay locked down. And then I take off my jacket. I am about to drape this over the back of a chair when an orderly rushes forward to take it from my hand. He waits, looking nervous.
‘And the rest,’ says General Tournier.
I glance over in surprise.
‘Combatants fight naked,’ he says. ‘It’s a tradition.’ Well, that settles it, obviously.
‘Yes, sir,’ I say.
The general raises his eyebrows. Maybe he hoped I’d protest. Mind you if I had his belly . . . Taking another gulp, General Tournier empties his glass, finishes a cold chicken breast and reaches for his glass a second after it is refilled. ‘Join me,’ he suggests, raising it.
‘With respect, sir . . . Not while I’m working.’
A hatch in the arena floor irises open, and conversations still as a platform rises. The crowd obviously know what to expect, because tonight’s event is running on well-oiled wheels. A half-dozen Death’s Head make for the heads, intending to piss or vomit enough space for the next round of drinking.
The general doesn’t bother.
He has a vast, and increasingly full, jeroboam of piss between his boots. Traitors or not, General Tournier and his regiment are busy living up to their reputation for hard drinking and wild parties. The kind of parties at which whole planets get trashed.
‘Sven,’ says the general, as I step out of my trousers, only to have the orderly grab them from the floor, ‘have fun.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And show us what you can do.’
Of course, sir, I’m about to say. But I’ve just seen who is on that platform. It’s the Vals, our mercenaries from the battle on the hillside. They are barefoot and naked under silver survival blankets.
Should have guessed.
‘Fuckwit,’ shouts one.
‘You don’t screw with the Vals,’ yells the other. They’re talking to the general, who grins. A lazy grin, meant for the five-braid and the officers around him. But I’m close enough to see his eyes.
The man is drunk, but not so drunk he doesn’t know the risk he’s taking. You mess with one Val and you mess with them all. It’s a lifelong commitment, staying alive when the Vals hold a grudge against you.
‘Girls,’ he says. ‘Meet your new challenger.’
As one, the Vals turn to glare at me. As one, their snarls falter.
‘What?’ demands General Tournier.
I’m stripped naked, and they’re twenty paces away. There is a blade in my hand, and a good chance I can kill one or the other before she reveals we’ve met. But I can’t silence both.
At least, not in time.
Something flicks across their faces.
And when the Vals turn back, there is a sneer on their lips. It’s meant for me, and the general and everyone else in that room.
They’re magnificent. I’ve always admired the Vals. That single-minded commitment to killing.
‘Fuck off,’ shouts the first. ‘We’re not fighting that.’ She jerks her chin towards me. ‘One arm, no brains . . . It’s a fucking insult.’
Now I’m scowling and the brigadier is laughing. Although he stops fast enough when I glare. See, told you he was one of life’s staff officers.
‘I’ll fight them both at once.’
‘With only one arm?’ General Tournier sounds tempted.
‘How hard can it be?’ I ask, sneering towards the Vals. ‘They’re just copies of each other.’ It’s the Vals’ turn to scowl. There are a couple of things you don’t say about the Vals and that is one of them.
‘Two of them?’ says the general. ‘At once?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Can I do it?
Of course I can fucking do it.
‘Get him a fighting arm,’ General Tournier demands.
His ADC scampers off, bumping into one of the tables in his hurry. It takes the boy a lot longer to return, probably because he is staggering under the weight of a vast metal prosthetic.
‘Any good?’ he asks.
It’s stained, made from beaten steel, with braided hoses and hydraulic rods to work the main joints. A row of blades runs from its wrist to the elbow, which ends in a vicious spike. The arm even tightens at the top with screws. A deep scratch says an enemy got in a good blow then died. Well, if the blood still crusted on the elbow spike is anything to go by.
Obviously enough, I love it.
Flexing my new fingers, I make a fist, and then swing my new arm from side to side a couple of times just for the pleasure of hearing the hydraulics hiss.
‘You approve?’ asks the general.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Here are the rules-’
‘Sir,’ I say.
General Tournier doesn’t like interruptions.
‘It’s just . . . Don’t the Vals need to know the rules as well?’
He does that dog-like bark that passes for his laugh. ‘Oh Sven,’ he says. ‘Believe me, the Vals know my rules already.’ Turning to his ADC, he asks, ‘How many of my officers have those bitches killed?’
‘I believe it’s five, sir.’
‘So this is going to be interesting,’ says the general, and his ADC nods. As do the brigadier, the major and every other officer at that table. A bunch of puppets the lot of them.
‘Those rules,’ I say. It’s worth it, just to see their shock.
‘Laser fencing,’ says the general. ‘For this bout,’ he says, ‘I think we’ll set it to the max. One knife per Val. You already have your arm. The fencing stays up until you or both Vals are dead . . . Anything else?’
He’s talking to his ADC.
‘No rounds, sir. No breaks.’
The general smiles. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I don’t think Colonel Tveskoeg will be expecting rounds or breaks. Will you, Sven?’
‘Waste of time, sir. Rather get this wrapped up.’
A pair of guards erects laser wire. The arena is going to be triangular. That is a new one on me. Don’t think I’ve ever seen an arena that wasn’t round or square. Since my new arm counts as my weapon, I leave my knife on the table. And it’s only as I head for the ring that General Tournier sees the scars on my back.
‘Sven,’ he says, calling me back. ‘What are those?’
The first thing he’s said in two hours that doesn’t drawl from his lips like the punchline to some joke.
‘Whipped,’ I say.
‘Who by?’
‘Someone who’s now dead.’
He laughs, and nods towards the Vals. ‘All yours,’ he says.