Day of the Damned dh-2 Read online

  Actually, the correct term is SIG-37, with added Colt combat AI, up-rated memory chip and pulse-rifle capacity. Battle planning, forward projection, combat probabilities and one-minute certain. In U/Free territories the SIG would have voting rights.

  One-minute certain means the SIG can tell you with 99.2 per cent accuracy what is going to happen in the next sixty seconds. (Combat situations only.) It’s a useful edge to have in battle.

  Although it burns battery like nothing else.

  I’ll take five minutes’ high probability, with some power left, over certainty any day. The other thing it does is tactics, targeting and three-level-deep identity.

  If your enemy is running black flag it will tell you who they really are. And if that second identity is a lie, the SIG digs one level deeper.

  I don’t bother Aptitude with any of this.

  ‘Keep it turned on,’ I tell her. ‘Keep it close. And do what it suggests, unless you have good reasons for thinking it’s wrong. Even then, check it’s not the other way round.’

  ‘You think the furies will attack?’

  ‘You’ve got food, you’ve got power. They can sense things like that. And the furies aren’t your only problem.’

  She looks at me.

  ‘You heard the crowd. “Kill the doubter.”’

  ‘They were talking about Sergeant Leona.’

  Aptitude’s right. But it won’t take the village long to transfer their hatred to Debro. She threw several families out of the compound when she reclaimed it. I know it’s hers. But they’re likely to look at it differently.

  Chapter 10

  Having woken, the Sig notices Aptitude is wearing its holster and lets fly with a string of insults about my character, parentage and cheap sexual habits. Most of which are true. Luckily it swears in machine code.

  A language she doesn’t know.

  ‘Shut it.’

  When the SIG ignores me, I walk it to the edge of a promontory and offer to let it take a close look at the valley floor.

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Try me.’

  We waste a full minute discussing which is worse: being owned by me or rusting at the foot of a hill being shat on by goats, the SIG insisting that rust and goat shit could only be an improvement.

  And then we get back to what matters.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘You saw that crashed ship. How many furies were in there originally?’

  The SIG doesn’t reply. All the same it’s listening.

  ‘That was Mum’s ship,’ Aptitude says. ‘With the markings painted out.’

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘How many?’

  ‘Lots,’ the SIG says.’ Lots plus. Your guess is as good as mine.’

  This time when I hold it over the edge I use only two fingers. Diodes flash along the gun’s side. ‘Thirty-eight,’ it says finally.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I just picked the first fucking-’ It stops. ‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘Ninety-three degrees. High probable.’ The SIG’s just realized why its holster hangs from Aptitude’s hip.

  Doesn’t mean it likes it. But it’s beginning to understand.

  There are still a dozen furies out there.

  One can take down twenty militia in a concerted attack. Working on those sorts of figures, that means-

  The SIG’s there already. ‘Serious shit.’

  The sun is low and the horizon starting to go dark. We’re an hour from sunset, which is when I need to leave for Farlight. Two days’ ride, at least. Maybe three. And I have a couple of arguments to have first.

  Starting with the SIG.

  Only the SIG doesn’t want to argue.

  It’s so reasonable I’m suspicious. Until I remember I took it from Aptitude’s bodyguard. So just maybe there’s Tezuka-Wildeside loyalty coded into its make-up somewhere.

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘For her.’

  Walking across, I fold Aptitude’s fingers round its handle and hold them tight before the SIG has time to change its mind.

  ‘Ouch . . .’

  The SIG’s already logging her genotype. Unravelling enough of Aptitude’s DNA to lock down her identity. ‘Human/Post human,’ it says. ‘High Clan 3, tailored for trade. Interesting mix . . .’

  ‘It’s yours until I take it back.’

  She must know what parting with the SIG-37 is costing me. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let it show. ‘Keep the battery pack charged. Sleep with it under your pillow. And if you feel it shiver get yourself somewhere safe.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sven,’ says the gun. ‘Tell me you’re not going to rely on . . .’ It’s dissing my sabre. The one Colonel Vijay sent. At least, I think so.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because it’s ugly, outdated and impractical.’

  We’re definitely talking about the sabre.

  ‘If you must,’ says the gun, ‘I could always . . .’ It pauses, considers what it’s offering. ‘Upgrade it slightly? I mean, it’ll still be pig ugly, but less likely to get you killed.’

  ‘Hurry it up.’

  Wouldn’t want the SIG thinking I was grateful.

  ‘Hold it out,’ the gun says.

  So I unclip the sabre and flick on its blade.

  Nothing much happens for a second, and then I realize the cutting edge is getting narrower. The blade is also less thick in cross-section. I think I’m imagining a silvery black sheen.

  I’m not.

  ‘Almost there,’ the gun says.

  A humming inside the handle changes its balance. The sabre now weighs twice what it did and pivots more slowly. In fact, it feels just like one of those pieces of junk I used to carry in the Legion.

  Impossible, clearly.

  Never ridden a horse in my life. Never even belonged to a cavalry regiment. But I’ve been carrying a sabre on parade from the age of twelve and it’s always felt just like this.

  ‘Stabilizing gyro,’ the SIG says. ‘Probably faulty for years.’

  Flicking the sabre from side to side, I can feel its blade counterbalance the weight of the handle behind my wrist. Obviously, that’s impossible.

  Chapter 11

  I choose point and tell Anton to take rear. Leona will ride in the middle. Goodbyes from Aptitude and Debro are all that stand between us and our leaving the village. Aptitude throws her arms round my waist and looks upset when I pull away.

  ‘Take care of the SIG.’

  ‘Will do.’

  She’s decided I don’t want to get emotional.

  Emotional? It’s having her pressed against me that set my reflexes on edge. Debro simply leans her head against my chest and cries.

  Not sure how fierce her quarrell with Anton was. Pretty bad, I reckon. He was meant to be helping me, not setting up a bike for himself. Debro barely looks at him as he straddles the Icefeld and flicks it into life.

  Leaving Wildeside’s borders breaks his parole.

  The punishment is death. That’s no surprise. Doesn’t mean Debro approves of the risk he’s taking.

  As the gyro fires, his bike’s instrument panel glows and his headlight comes up. Sergeant Leona has masked the panels and taped our lights. The beams now show a narrow strip of dirt directly in front of us. The roads between here and Farlight are too poor to ride with no lights at all.

  Aptitude doesn’t want her father to leave.

  But she wants Colonel Vijay saved. She believes Sergeant Leona, her father and I stand a better chance of pulling that off if we go together. Of course, her best chance of getting Vijay back alive involves me going alone.

  But I don’t say that.

  It was obvious her father intended to join us the moment he began removing fairings, replacing optic and stripping pistols from his own armoury. I could almost taste his hunger for excitement.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  Debro glares at me, b
efore deciding it’s not my fault. ‘He’s being selfish.’ She’s big on people not being selfish.

  ‘He’s protecting the man your daughter wants to marry.’

  ‘Apt said that?’ Debro sounds shocked.

  ‘Does she need to?’

  Shrugging away my question, Debro says, ‘Well, he should be protecting-’ We’ve got to the heart of her anger.

  ‘Trust the gun. Keep Aptitude close. And don’t let strangers into the compound. We’ll be back inside a week.’

  Her gaze asks what it is I’m not saying.

  So I lean over and kiss her on both cheeks, the way I’ve learnt to do. Click my own bike into life and feel the gyro wobble before it steadies.

  ‘Go away,’ she says. ‘All of you.’

  As close as she’s getting to telling Anton goodbye. Weird relationship, those two. Live in the same house. Sleep in the same bed. Shared prison, and now share exile. But are divorced because they can’t stand being married.

  Aptitude’s tried to explain it. Told her it wasn’t my business.

  People watch us leave. Mostly they watch from behind wooden shutters. A bottle is thrown from an upper window and misses my bike by a finger’s breadth to shatter against someone’s front step.

  I’m tempted to kick down the door of the house responsible and make my feelings known. Only Debro’s still watching and I’m trying to be good. So I simply memorize its position and decide to deal with it on my return.

  The road spools out ahead.

  A strip of crumbling blacktop. It runs through a desert that flickers with shards of light as the moon above us reflects from broken rock and skims the surface of dry lakes that wear their salt like icing.

  I remember this landscape as a blur beneath the copter that dropped me at Wildeside. Now it’s vast and impressive. A lot more rugged than it looked from up there. Of course, it’s also perfect cover for anyone out there with a night sight and a decent rifle.

  But the sabre handle is silent. And I trust the SIG when it says I’ll get warning of danger.

  An hour turns into two and two into three. The road still unravels as straight as ever and I can feel my focus drift. Physically I’m good for another hour, maybe another two or three. But my edge is fading.

  I know stopping is the right decision when Anton gets off his bike and falls over as his legs give way beneath him.

  ‘Cramp,’ he says.

  We’ve worked that out for ourselves.

  Killing the gyro on my bike, I wait for Sergeant Leona to do the same.

  ‘Everything OK, sir?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ I stare out at the blackness.

  The moon’s position says it’s nearly midnight. This means we’ve been riding for longer than I thought. The bike’s tyre is hot and almost sticky, despite the night wind that has been whipping across the salt lakes towards us.

  ‘Sven,’ says Anton.

  I turn back to him.

  ‘What do you think is out there?’

  Furies, smugglers, Horse Hito . . .

  It’s anyone’s guess.

  A holster is visible under the open flap of Anton’s coat.

  He’s let his hair grow out after his buzz cut on Paradise. And his face is filling, and he’s got one of those small beards the high clans favour. But you can see he’s more than a rich woman’s husband from the way he holds himself as he stares into the darkness.

  It’s a combat stance.

  And he’s fallen into it without noticing.

  Sergeant Leona notices it though. She thought he was just another trade lord. Now she’s wondering what an ex-soldier is doing married to a senator. I’m the wrong person to ask. Not that she would.

  ‘Well?’ Anton demands.

  Not sure I like his tone. That’s half the problem. Neither of us is sure where we stand. ‘Horse Hito? Half a dozen furies?’ I shrug, already missing my gun. ‘I’ve just got a sense of . . .’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of being watched.’

  At a gesture from Anton, Sergeant Leona steps back.

  Although she checks with me first. ‘You know,’ he says quietly, ‘if there’s anything you want to . . .’ He’s picking his words carefully. Uncertain where to take them. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘We should get going again.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘About getting going?’

  Anton shakes his head crossly. ‘About helping Vijay.’

  Coming to stand beside me, he joins me in scanning the invisible horizon. For all I know we’re being watched from high sat, three little blips of heat on a cold road, and everything we say is being recorded and kept in evidence against us.

  Nothing would surprise me.

  ‘Say it,’ I tell him.

  ‘If you did nothing and Vijay died,’ Anton avoids my gaze, ‘his father would be too busy hunting down General Luc to worry about you. In fact, he’d probably want your help.’

  ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘And then there’s Aptitude. I know how you-’

  ‘Anton,’ I say. ‘Enough.’

  Colonel Vijay Jaxx was with us when Hekati died.

  Holed up in a scuzzy little mining tug lashed to an asteroid. He didn’t belong there. All right, we didn’t belong there either. But Vijay really didn’t belong there. The boy was scared but he came through.

  You go into battle beside someone and it binds you. You don’t have to like them or want to spend time with them. But you’ll go drinking and stand shoulder to shoulder in a bar fight. If it comes down to it, you’ll save their life.

  It’s come down to it.

  Anton must know that.

  I’ve been a loner for as long as I can remember. Wouldn’t have it any other way. But I take my debts seriously, and Colonel Vijay Jaxx was my commanding officer. A pretty shit one, admittedly.

  ‘He’s Aux.’

  Anton’s jaw drops. ‘He’s a colonel in the Death’s Head, for fuck’s sake. He’s the general’s son. He’d sacrifice your entire group without thinking about it.’

  ‘Maybe so. But he’s still Aux.’

  Anton sighs.

  Chapter 12

  We pass through a small town half an hour later. Shuttered windows stare as we slow to a crawl. A glow shows beneath one door. That’s it. The main street is deserted. Without even dogs, cats or rats.

  We’re running three-way encrypted comms.

  Anyone who likes can listen in. The theory is they won’t understand a word we say. Mind you, this is militia crypt we’re using. So a passing child could probably break it. Anton says he’s never seen a village without animals.

  ‘Eaten,’ I say.

  He’s genuinely shocked.

  ‘It’s the drought, sir,’ Sergeant Leona tells him. ‘Emergency food deliveries never make it this far out. Last year’s riots were the worst ever.’

  Riots on Farlight?

  That’s the first I’ve heard of it.

  ‘We had food at Wildeside,’ Anton says. ‘Almost all was stolen while we were in prison.’ He shrugs. ‘There’s enough left to feed us for six months. After that . . .’

  Anton faces twenty years’ exile. After which he’s free to return to Farlight. That leaves nineteen years of shipping food north. And, obviously enough, he’s already broken his parole just leaving Wildeside’s boundaries.

  If he’s discovered, OctoV won’t be satisfied with just executing him. Our glorious leader will undoubtedly double Debro’s exile. If he doesn’t simply return her to Paradise, or decide to execute her and her daughter as well.

  It’s easy to see what made Debro so cross.

  ‘Anton,’ I say. ‘About that cargo carrier.’

  A second later, he’s alongside and flipping up his visor. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have using militia crypt. ‘Not ours,’ he says. ‘Well, Debro’s.’

  ‘It had Wildeside down the side . . .’

  Stencilled, and then painted out.

  No black box.
No recognition beacon. All the crew in uniforms with their patches cut off. I’d ask Carl, the cargo captain I dragged from the wreck. But he’s back at Wildeside with half his skull still stove in.

  ‘Debro’s being set up,’ Anton insists.

  ‘That’s one possibility. There are others.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘You lost any ships recently?’

  His gaze slides off mine and settles on the road. The village is behind us, the moon a little higher in the sky. Anton’s supposed to be bringing up the rear, but Sergeant Leona drops back to take that position the moment she’s realized he’s abandoned it. She’s a good man to have around.

  ‘Well?’ I say.

  ‘Three,’ he admits. ‘Wrecked in a meteor storm.’

  ‘All together?’

  ‘No. First one, then two others. Four-month gap.’

  ‘How many have you lost in the last ten years?’

  ‘Three,’ says Anton. ‘And yes, it was those three . . .’

  He seems to be reconsidering. But I know Anton. He’ll have considered it already. If he’s rejected the obvious conclusion, I want to know why.

  ‘We got salvage,’ he explains. ‘Plus eighty-five per cent partial for cargo saved.’

  ‘You got scrap on the wreckage? Plus most of what was raised selling the cargo?’

  ‘Debro’s insurance paid the difference.’

  ‘Nice touch.’

  Anton glances across.

  ‘Scrap, and partial on the salvage.’

  Used to know card sharps like that in Karbonne. Three-cup men and dice-rollers. They’d buy you drinks in some scuzzy back-street bar. Let you examine both sides of their cards and win every game.

  They’d even buy you beers to show there were no hard feelings. Introduce you to their favourite whores, with necklines so low you never bothered to notice the hardness in their eyes.

  Next morning you wake minus their money, your own pay and anything else you might have had worth stealing. If you wake at all.

  The second time someone tried that I broke his arm. There wasn’t a third. It helps people to know where they stand.

  ‘You think it’s a con?’ Anton asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘A good one.’

  The village we hit a couple of hours later used to be something else. A cargo depot? The control buildings for an old mine? Why else would it sit on the side of a hill, miles from water and without any defences?