Maximum Offence dh-2 Read online

  Maximum Offence

  ( Death's head - 2 )

  David Gunn

  David Gunn

  Maximum Offence

  Prologue

  Flicking dust from his sleeve, general Indigo Jaxx adjusts a dagger at his hip and then ruins everything by tugging at the collar of his uniform. He is a general in the Death’s Head, for heaven’s sake.

  No, Indigo Jaxx shakes his head.

  He’s the general.

  His regiment is the emperor’s chosen force. Empire ministers fall silent at his approach. Colonels sacrifice entire brigades to win his approval. Men offer their wives, so their sons might find places on his staff.

  It is absurd to be nervous, but he is. OctoV has that effect on him.

  The beloved leader has that effect on everyone. Stiffening to attention, General Jaxx waits for his emperor to appear in a swirl of static, with words that will scour the inside of his skull like a hot desert wind.

  Come on, thinks General Jaxx. Please. Get this over with.

  As he prepares for his mind to be invaded, someone opens the office door behind him and the general turns, cold fury on his lips.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  The questioner is in his early teens. He wears a green cavalry uniform with a jewelled sword and has ringlets falling to his shoulders. His hair is blond, but it is his eyes that people notice. They are the blue of deep space and just as empty.

  Indigo Jaxx blinks.

  ‘I said . . .’

  ‘No, sir,’ says the general, standing straighter. ‘Absolutely not.’

  OctoV smiles. ‘I’m so glad,’ he says. ‘I wanted to congratulate you.’

  The general goes still.

  ‘Really,’ says OctoV. ‘Producing victory from defeat . . . Having produced defeat from victory. That’s subtle, even for me.’ He nods towards the general’s Obsidian Cross. ‘I’d give you another medal, but clearly you’ve got them all. What is it now?’

  ‘Imperial knight, grand master, sir. With extra palm leaves and bar.’

  ‘Very impressive.’

  General Jaxx is being mocked. Given the other choices, he is happy to get off that lightly.

  ‘Well,’ says OctoV. ‘I must go.’

  Now it comes, thinks the general, as he watches the boy head for the door. He tries not to tense as OctoV turns back.

  ‘By the way,’ OctoV says. ‘What’s he doing now?’

  Who? The general thinks desperately. What is who doing now? ‘Do you mean Sven, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ says OctoV. ‘Of course I do. What is Sven doing now?’

  The general swallows. ‘We’re lending him to the U/Free.’

  His imperial highness OctoV, glorious leader, the undefeated, eternal ruler of more worlds than can be counted, laughs. It strips General Jaxx’s skull and reduces his self-control to tatters. Around him, the walls of his office begin to spin.

  ‘You have the best ideas,’ says his emperor. ‘Keep me up to date.’

  Indigo Jaxx wants to say, Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But he is on his knees vomiting. So OctoV walks through the nearest wall with the general’s words unspoken.

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  The man spins round, knife already drawn, and hesitates. It’s not his fight. Anyway, he’s only in Farlight for OctoV’s birthday, unloading luxuries from a cargo ship on the edge of a landing site. And his knife is new, bought that afternoon from a stall in the road behind Golden Memories.

  He doesn’t feel ready to use it yet.

  A wise choice. Someone is about to get hurt and it doesn’t have to be him. That someone is standing in my doorway. And half of my bar door swings from a rusted hinge, while the rest lies at his feet.

  ‘Quiet,’ I say.

  A girl next to me shuts up.

  I am not sure she knows she screamed.

  This is my bar, but it is Aptitude’s home and she’s family. At least she is until her mother and father get out of prison.

  ‘Sven,’ she says.

  ‘Later . . .’ My gaze flicks across the room and settles on a wiry young man with a pointed face, floppy hair and narrow shoulders. He’s reaching into his jacket. At a shake of my head, he lets go his revolver.

  Neen’s nineteen.

  In the field, he’s my sergeant, but we’re not in the field, we’re on leave. So he’s running security for a bar I own on the outskirts of this city.

  Raising his glass, Neen grins. He, for one, obviously intends to enjoy tonight’s show. As we watch, the man in my doorway jacks the slide on an oversized pistol, and takes a slow look round to check we’ve noticed.

  ‘Sven.’

  Aptitude is getting nervous.

  I smile, but it is at another girl entirely. Wandering over, she sits on my lap and snuggles up to me. Aptitude scowls to see me slide my hand up Lisa’s skirt. What she doesn’t see is the knife I take from Lisa’s garter.

  ‘Subtle,’ says a voice. ‘Understated, anything but obvious.’

  The intruder believes my gun is talking about him. He has pegged my corner of the room for the comment, but he can’t work out who to blame. As the man lumbers over, Lady Aptitude Tezuka Wildeside leans back in her chair.

  ‘You,’ he says. ‘Got something to say?’

  She shakes her head frantically.

  Satisfied, the man starts to turn away. Big mistake. Turfing Lisa off my lap, I pick up my own chair and smash it over the back of his skull. He drops, but only to his knees.

  ‘Finish it,’ says Aptitude.

  ‘Not yet. I’m enjoying myself.’

  ‘Sven.’

  Clambering to his feet, the thug stares at me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m Sven Tveskoeg.’ How many seven-foot tall ex-Legionnaires can he see in this bar?

  Behind the man stands another. Federico Van Zill, provider of protection to half the bars and brothels edging the landing fields below Calinda Gap. A rumour says the war against the Uplifted will be over soon.

  That is bad for Van Zill.

  As long as we’re at war, there’s a chance I’ll be killed and my troopers with me. An end to the war would mean Van Zill gets some permanent competition. Peace isn’t going to happen, of course. And it’s disloyal, unwise, and probably treasonous to suggest otherwise. However, Federico Van Zill is an idiot. So I’ve been expecting this visit.

  When Van Zill’s thug pulls a knife, I laugh.

  It’s huge, with slots cut into the back of the blade. The slots are meant to say this is a man ready to drag his enemy’s entrails through an open gut wound. You can tell a lot about a man from the knife he chooses.

  You can tell a lot about a woman too.

  The blade I take from Lisa’s garter is a third of the size. It lacks teeth, blood channels and other finery but it’s razor-sharp and made from glass.

  All you have to do is stab once, then snap it off at the handle. You can buy ten for the price of the shiny toy in the hands of the man opposite.

  When Neen flashes five fingers, a boy behind the bar breaks the news to the punters crowding round him. The odds on our fat friend have just halved.

  ‘Come on,’ I say.

  Watching my blade, he fails to spot that I’m watching his eyes. This is a man used to getting his own way and that is a weakness. In addition, he’s impatient. So he stabs and leaves himself open, only not open enough.

  I block.

  And go back to circling.

  Neen’s seen me kill swiftly. All of my troopers have. But catching Neen’s puzzled face in the crowd I realize he has never seen me bide my time. Kill early, kill often . . . It’s our unofficial motto.

  This is different.

  I’ve never gutted someone in front of Aptitude. She�
�s a well-brought-up kid, and I’m trying to keep it that way. One of the reasons this man’s made me angry. He’s still watching my blade and I’m still watching his eyes.

  Soon everyone is waiting on what will happen next. And their expectation makes my attacker clumsy. He jabs so obviously it has to be a feint. As his gaze flicks right, I know what’s going to happen.

  He waits for me to begin a block before switching hands, smiling at his own brilliance. Then his brain is playing catch-up, because Lisa’s knife is deep in his belly and I’m dragging it upwards. A single rip opens him from groin to breastbone and a tumble of guts slides to the floor.

  Aptitude screams.

  Lisa’s more practical. She opens a window.

  You can say what you like about the girls from the barrio below Calinda Gap but they’ve seen it all before, and probably twice. Tossing a blanket over the twitching corpse, my bar manager Angelique nods to a boy behind the counter. He can drag it out later.

  ‘Boss,’ says my sergeant. ‘What about rat face?’

  Van Zill looks less smug with Neen’s revolver to his head.

  ‘Take rat face outside,’ I say. ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘Sven . . . ! ‘

  No need to ask who that is.

  ‘A week ago,’ I tell Aptitude, ‘a man refused to pay protection to this piece of shit. What do you think happened to his twelve-year-old daughter?’

  Aptitude is fifteen.

  She doesn’t like my question.

  Turning back to Neen, I say, ‘Take him outside. Make sure he knows what happens if he ever comes back.’

  Our glorious capital is built in the caldera of an old volcano, and smog traps heat and makes the air hard to breathe. Corpses rot quickly here and large ones rot faster than small ones. Don’t know why, but it’s true. Lisa ends up helping the boy behind the bar to drag the body out back. Then fetches ice to keep it fresh until Angelique can arrange collection.

  ‘Do I close up?’ Angelique asks.

  ‘No way.’ I shake my head. ‘We stay open.’

  The music goes back on. We offer a round of cold beers for everyone on the house. A couple of cargo captains who were going to call it a night change their minds and head upstairs with three of the local girls.

  A technician watches them go, summons up his courage and follows. He has two blondes in tow, and I’m not sure he looked closely before grabbing their wrists. No doubt he’ll discover soon enough that one is a boy.

  ‘Chill some cachaca,’ I tell Lisa. ‘Make sure our customers have a night to remember.’

  Drunks talk.

  That thug will become a giant, his knife a razor-edged sabre, my own moves unstoppable and insanely vicious . . . Our reputation will grow. That’s good, because tomorrow sees me, my sergeant and the rest of the Aux present ourselves for duty. I need that reputation to keep Aptitude safe until we get home.

  ‘All done,’ says Neen, rubbing his fists.

  ‘Good. Anything I should know?’

  Neen hesitates.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Told the little shit to pay us from now on.’

  I grin. It’s a good call.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty per cent,’ says Neen. ‘Straight off the top, no deductions. Last day of each month. No exceptions, no excuses . . .’

  This is a farm boy, an ex-militia conscript who should have been dead months back. Would have been if I hadn’t taken over his troop. I wonder where he got the idea. Then I see his sister behind him and know exactly where she thinks he did. Shil is scowling, but that’s nothing new. Shil’s always scowling. We have history.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘No, sir,’ says Shil.

  ‘Good . . .’ I look round the bar. ‘Get drunk,’ I tell Neen. ‘Get laid. Acquire a hangover. We ship out tomorrow.’

  Neen grins. ‘It that an order, sir?’

  His sister sighs.

  Chapter 2

  Hinges Creek and Angelique pokes her head round the door.

  ‘Sven,’ she says and disappears. Might be the fact I’m standing naked in the middle of my bedroom. Must be the gun in my hand.

  ‘What?’

  Reappearing, she nods as a towel goes round my waist and the SIG-37 goes back in its holster. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘but she won’t . . .’ Who won’t is obvious, because a girl slides past Angelique and looks around.

  ‘Pre-fab construction,’ she says. ‘Early-Octovian. Original walls and door. Original electrics from the look of it . . . You do realize,’ she says, ‘this building was only meant to last five years?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘You would.’

  Her nose wrinkles at the smell, but she catches herself quickly. And when she brushes past me to the open window, it could be to examine its sash cords. Because that is what she does.

  ‘Original fittings,’ she says.

  Maybe she catches my irritation.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ she says.

  ‘Of course not.’

  If she hears an edge to my voice, she doesn’t let it show. Anyway, going to the window doesn’t help with the smell because the air beyond the window stinks of dog shit, burning rubber and hydrocarbons from the landing fields outside. Where does she think the stench came from in the first place?

  ‘You really like it here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Angelique is looking between us. ‘You know each other?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says the girl. ‘Didn’t I say?’

  ‘No,’ Angelique says flatly. ‘You didn’t.’

  Angelique might be blonde, generously built, free with her body, but she has the temper of a redhead, and it’s coming to the boil. I don’t need the argument, and I don’t need the complications an argument will bring.

  ‘Ms Osamu,’ I say, ‘may I introduce Angelique, my bar manager?’

  They glare at each other.

  ‘Angelique, this is Paper Osamu, ambassador for the United Free to the Octovian Empire. Ms Osamu has full plenipotentiary status for this edge of the spiral arm.’

  Angelique doesn’t know what it means either, but has enough brains to recognize it as trouble and best avoided. ‘She’s U/Free?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She’s U/Free.’

  Paper Osamu smiles.

  ‘But . . .’ says Angelique, and gets no further.

  My visitor looks a good year or two younger than Angelique, who is nineteen at most. Paper’s also wearing rags. They are undoubtedly expensive rags. Probably ripped from exotic silk by a famous U/Free artist and sewn together with strands of web from a spider that has been taught to shit silver. But they still look like rags to me. And if they look like rags to me, then they’re going to look like rags to Angelique, only more so . . .

  The furthest she’s been from home is Maurizio Junction.

  That’s eight streets away.

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ says Ms Osamu. She is looking at Angelique as she says this.

  ‘You’ll find it downstairs.’

  Angelique shuts my door with enough of a slam to make the windows rattle and the U/Free ambassador laugh. ‘Are all your women so jealous?’

  ‘She’s not my women.’

  ‘Really?’ Paper Osamu looks at me.

  ‘All right. But only the once.’

  ‘You’re such children-’ Ms Osamu catches herself, apologizes. The U/Free are big on not being rude about others. They have laws about such things. Me? As far as I’m concerned, if you think someone’s a crawling heap of shit, you’re allowed to say so. Just don’t be surprised if they pull a knife on you.

  Taking a piece of card from her pocket, Paper Osamu says, ‘Look . . . The general’s invited you to a breakfast he’s giving in my honour.’

  I check both sides of the invitation.

  ‘Want me to read it?’

  ‘I can manage. My old lieutenant taught me.’

  ‘Bonafonte deMax?’

  It’s my turn to stare.
r />   ‘I checked him out,’ she says. ‘At the general’s suggestion.’

  We live in a city full of generals, empire ministers and senators. Also heads of the high clans, distant cousins of the emperor and trade lords. However, round here, if someone says the general they mean General Indigo Jaxx, commander of the Death’s Head and my ultimate boss.

  ‘And call me Paper,’ she adds. ‘We’re friends.’

  First I’ve heard of it.

  Walking over to my wardrobe, Paper finds my uniform. The jacket has been cleaned since she last saw it and the blood’s come out. My boots are also clean, which must be Angelique’s work, because I don’t remember scrubbing them.

  There’s a waterfall of silver braid tucked inside one of the boots, a holster over the back of a chair and a dagger’s sheath on the mantel over the fireplace. The dagger itself keeps the sash window from sliding shut.

  ‘Antique,’ says Paper, looking at the blade. ‘You steal this?’

  ‘General Jaxx gave it to me.’

  ‘So,’ Paper says, ‘I guess that means he stole it.’

  ‘Paper . . .’

  ‘The blade’s old Earth,’ she tells me. ‘All old Earth artefacts are protected under United Free legislation. No trading, no selling, no transfer between systems without a licence.’

  ‘Could have been in his family for generations.’

  ‘We’ll make a diplomat of you yet.’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘I’m a diplomat,’ she points out.

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  Arranging my uniform on the floor, Paper stands back and looks expectant. She’s medium height, athletic without being muscled, just enough hips to grip, a tight rear and high breasts, which are full without being large. She’s also black-haired, but that means nothing. Last time we met her hair was chestnut and her eyes were blue. Today they are green.

  ‘Sven,’ she says. ‘You need to dress.’

  ‘Then get out.’

  ‘I’ve seen naked men before.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you have.’ Dropping the towel, I stamp over to the shower. It’s a real one, the kind that uses water. Unfortunately, its sides are made of clear glass. Paper walks round it slowly, taking a good look.