INI HQ
Wet mud flew from beneath an infantry carrier's churning tracks. Seroni hauled her jacket's collar over her ear and hunched her shoulder. Mud splattered her sleeve. Inside a porta-cabin on the other side of INI's front gate, a PDF trooper sat clacking away at a cogitator. Seroni's military ID lay at his elbow. "Madam!" The trooper swept the ID from the desk and held it in the air. "Zonooristas, kérem." Sentries raised the gate and waved Seroni through.
"My papers." Seroni tapped two fingers in her palm. "ID. Do you speak Gothic?"
"Ngh." The sentry pointed his rifle's muzzle at the porta-cabin. "Tamo."
"Hello?" Seroni climbed up the step and entered the cabin. "You have my papers?"
"Madam, I am afraid your papers were mistrusted." The trooper swivelled around in his seat. Seroni's ID lay open next to the cogitator. "Very bad."
"Mistrusted? What the hell do you mean, soldier?" The door slammed behind Seroni. A trooper twisted the lock. "My papers are perfectly in order."
"New stamp, just this morning." The trooper prodded a blank space between the older stamps dotting the B5-601. "No stamp, no entry."
"Where do I obtain this stamp?"
"You strip."
"Bullshit, is this how you address a major?" Seroni's eyes fixed on the window above the cogitator. The other trooper stood directly behind her.
"Take off your clothes, madam. We search."
"What?"
"WE SEARCH!" The Armsman's palm slammed down on the desk. "STRIP!"
Hands pinned Seroni's arms to her sides. I will make it far worse for you here than in the courtroom. No Urgraf ever let their own to shame. I am here to see Admiral Curzon, Vice Admiral Curzon.
"Admiral Curzon's niece is here to see him. She did not foresee a delay."
"Amiral Curzon?" The hands around Seroni's arms withdrew. "You?"
"Call up to his office, give your names, and the time of obstruction."
"Call—call him now?" The Armsman span back to his desk and snatched up a receiver and spun a dial.
"Now."
Air blasted from whirring cogitators lined up on rows of desks typists sat at. A pistol-armed naval provost led Seroni through the chattering machines and up a tight, iron staircase to the building's top floor. Fierce strip lighting bathed a tarnished, brown floor. Soundproofed office pods stood on stilts. A paler strip of brown on the floor led between the pods to a small office with glazed windows in the far corner. V. Adm L. Curzon.
"Ma'am." The provost indicated a row of leather couches outside the Admiral's office. "You'll be called."
"Thank you." Seroni draped her folded jacket over the arm and sat down. Air hissed from the cushion. Across from her, a secretary sat rigid before a cogitator. Tubes curled from the back of his head and ran down to the cogitator. Grey flesh sagged around a red ocular embedded in his eye socket. Cables connected to the cogitator ran up his sleeves. Bolts held his feet to the floor.
The digits on Seroni's chrono flicked around and struck the hour. She shifted sideways and settled herself on a cooler patch of leather. A pod door popped open and two naval officers stepped down to the floor. Neither looked Seroni's way. How do I hurt him? Seroni dug her nails in to her palm. By running and telling to papa.
After an hour had passed, Seroni approached the secretary. "I was informed I would be called. There is an urgency to my matter."
The secretary's neck cracked. Tubing tautened and the skin around his mouth stretched. A whine came from his throat, rising to a screech. Damp paper whirred from a toothless mouth. Ink shone. Admittance prohibited. The Emperor protects.
"I re—" The secretary's jaw popped. "I require an audience with Admiral Curzon on a matter of internal security. I have information for the Admiral's ears, please. Please."
Paper curled in the secretary's lap. Admittance prohibited. The Emperor protects.
"Okay." Seroni stooped and undid her laces and pulled the film roll out from her shoe. "It is very important this reaches the Adm—" The Admiral's office door opened. Seroni's breath caught in her throat. She dropped the film and brought her heel down on it.
"Oh! My, my, it's a surprise to see you here, Major." Beaming, Richard Sorge pulled the office door shut. "I am so pleased you are alright." Sorge laid his hands on Seroni's shoulders and kissed her cheek. "You are alright, aren't you, Hanin?" Spots stood out on Sorge's pallid face. Grey stubble dotted his jawline.
Don't you dare use my name with familiarity. Cords in Seroni'sneck tautened. She tilted her head away from Sorge. "Your concerns are flattering, Commander, but maybe pay a thought to those misfortunates in Gorev and Avramides. It isn't every day their homes are blasted to rubble."
"Mm, of course—" Sorge spun away and coughed in to the crook of his arm. "Ugh, excuse me. The bureau's thoughts to those affected. Abelino?" Sorge flipped the lid from a cigar case. "The last sight I'll ever see."
"I don't smoke, thank you." That'll be the rope at dawn, with luck.
"Was it a social call, by the way?" Sorge rolled a cigar between his fingers. "We've no on-site catering. I could have a sandwich rustled up if you're—"
"—Yes. Would you make me a sandwich?"
"I—I meant another would—"
"A sandwich, Commander."
Sorge stuck the Abelino between his teeth. "Very well. I will do it myself. Will you wait here?"
"Will you return?"
"Will you be smiling?" Sorge flicked his lighter. "I hate to see a woman in dismay."
"I will be, thank you." The film crackled beneath Seroni's sole. She nudged it behind her. We can smile at one another in court.
"Very good." Sorge swaggered off along the red line. Seroni dug a tissue out and wiped her cheek down. The secretary's mouth buzzed. Admittance approved. The Emperor protects.
"Know any other tunes?" Seroni scooped up the film and blew on it. God, I hope it isn't ruined.
A solitary Aquila occupied a barren wall. No carpet, desk, cogitator, or even chairs fitted the office. A short, white-haired man faced the Aquila. Wrinkled hands clasped in the small of the back. Gold trimmed his grey uniform and braid ran around his epaulettes.
"Admiral, sir, my apologies for the subterfuge, but I have a very serious matter regarding one of your officers that I wish to discuss—er, do you mind if explain?" Seroni unrolled the film and held it straight. "Corruption, embezzlement, and villainy sour this institution, sir. This is small evidence to the downfall of Orsolya, but it bears the perpetrator's signature. I am prepared to stand in the dock and swear this man's guilt to these crimes as well as others." The Admiral opened and closed his right hand and rolled his wrist. It cracked. "Admiral Curzon, in the name of justice, I—"
The Admiral's eyes left the Aquila. Bright blue, almost white eyes, lasered in to Seroni's. The irises dilated. A hand jutted forward, palm-up. Seroni dropped the film in to the Admiral's hand and backed away. Tiny lights within the Admiral's eyes glimmered. Film passed through his fingers and wound up tightly.
"If you are looking for a scapegoat, Admiral, you needn't bother. There is the architect of Orsolya's misery. All her woes lie with him, the very worst of men. Will you action this for me? I am prepared to apply my hand to a statement."
The Admiral drew the end of the film tight and slipped it in to a breast pocket on his tunic. He raised a finger to his temple and tapped twice. Seroni made the sign of the Aquila and retreated from the office.
Hotel Vekaria, Lower Gorev
Yellow notepaper lay atop a low cabinet next to a smooth cylinder running tubes in to the mask stuck to Izuru's face. Limp fingers slid over the cabinet's surface and brushed the curling edges. A shadow fell across her. "Iem fare ulerans oros Iem." Hands twisted a valve on the cylinder's neck and removed the mask. "Oros?" A male Zalilean tied the mask's loose ends around the clear plastic. "Oro?" Izuru turned on her side and reached for the note lying on the floor. "Mm, iam ill-tharet." The Zalilean backed through a gap in curtains and slid them across. Mattress springs dug in to Izuru's stomach. Her outstretched fingers patted the note.
Room 413, 1430, alone. Izuru crushed the note and stuffed it between the thin bedframe and mattress. Bandaged feet slid out from beneath the sheets and touched the floor. Izuru squeezed the bedframe, clenched her jaw, and straightened her knees. Needles danced across her feet. Her hand walked down the bed to the boilersuit draped over the frame and took it. Human blood coated the front. Izuru cast the heavy suit to the floor and toed it beneath the bed.
Wheeled screens formed corridors between makeshift wards housing Zalileans. Floor polish stunk. Overhead lights burned Izuru's ears. At the end of a passage, Izuru put her eye to a crack in the curtains and slipped in to a small space occupied by foldout bins packed with clothing. Footwear, military and civilian, filled racks and jackets hung from coat rails. Izuru dipped her hand in to a bin, scooped out a pair of combat trousers with built-in kneepads and sniffed.
Rubber-soled shoes, tied together by their laces, hung from Izuru's neck. A beaten-up, leather jacket covered a sports shirt and a peaked cap with earflaps shadowed her eyes. Izuru hovered beside the opening. Zalilean dialect carried over from the occupied bays. Feet clapped in the passageways outside. Izuru wet her lower lip and parted the curtains. A gap between the wall and the outermost screen allowed Izuru to skirt the Zalileans. Through narrow cracks Izuru spied Zalileans as well as humans, each in their separate wards, bloody and bandaged. Barbs pierced her stomach. There was a massacre.
Double doors creaked inwards. Stacked chairs and benches filled a storage room. Grey dust darkened the dressings around Izuru's feet. An encased fusebox screwed to the wall at head height drew her over. Eleven switches pointed upwards inside a transparent cover. Izuru flipped the cover up and ran her fingers along the switches, pressed a fingertip to the first then snapped it down. The other eleven followed, plunging the rooms in to darkness.
Humans and Zalileans cried out in unison. Children screamed. Izuru swung back to the fusebox and flipped the first two switches up. No, no. Izuru pressed the lid in place and limped away. Blue light shone from a tent standing near the hall's main doors. Inside, a human leaned over a cogitator. A lantern blazed at his elbow. "Yeah, it's probably a blown fuse. No, I'll go and check it myself." The human fitted a receiver in to a bracket on a vox unit and picked up the lantern. Izuru darted around the side of the tent and squeezed herself in to the gap. Shadows wheeled around the bobbing lantern for a moment until blackness returned. Izuru ducked through the tent, dangling shoes swinging around her neck.
Soft, crimson carpets tickled Izuru's feet. Marble statues balanced on plinths inside curving alcoves. A carved, wooden chronometer ticked softly. Izuru touched the glass front housing a swinging pendulum and put her nose to the face. Two ten.
Torchbeams sliced the statues. Heavy boots clomped past the plinth Izuru huddled behind. Voices grumbled. They are no Zalileans. Izuru crawled around the plinth and took a peep at the thick-necked human soldiers. A local dialect?
A wide staircase carried Izuru up to a floor lit by bright bulbs inside flared shades. Oh, Gods forsaken. Izuru hooked her hand through a balustrade and lifted her foot off the floor and rolled her ankle. She sucked air through her teeth and climbed gingerly up to the landing. A brass plaque read Room 103 on the closest door. A further three floors Izuru climbed until she found Room 400 and an unlit corridor stretching away from her. Izuru stooped and laid her shoes on the carpet then tapped a fingernail upon a dead bulb.
407, 409, 411. Izuru's hand froze before the keycard slot in 413. Her fingertips touched the smooth wood and pushed. Carpet swished beneath the unlocked door. Grey light seeped through narrow gaps in the tall curtains across from an untouched four-poster bed. Twin taps, rearing above a bathtub, glimmered. A shadow flitted across a full-length mirror standing in the far corner of the room.
"Hello?" An arm shot around Izuru's neck and clamped down on her windpipe. A fist sunk in to her back, propelling her face-first on to the four-poster. Smooth bedding crumpled beneath her. Face squidged in to the duvet, Izuru squirmed as rough hands ran along her arms and legs and around her waist.
"You can shout, scream abuse all you want." The same hand slammed down on Izuru's bun and pushed her face deeper in to the bed. "No-one is coming." Fingers peeled Izuru's cap off and rolled her on her back. Cold, blue eyes loomed over her. Scraggly, blond hairs curled over the human's thin mouth. A short blade glinted in his left hand. The human's knee swung sideways and knocked Izuru's legs apart.
"I know you voice—" The knife plunged downward and punched through the mattress. "Agh!" Izuru twisted her head away from the blade buried inches from her ear. The human bent over her. Uneven teeth bared.
"I want you to feel what I felt that day. Your body limp in my arms emptying my heart."
"Please." Izuru's jaw quivered.
"I mourned you, cried in silence for your memory. I reached out to your sons, spoke truths I daren't speak to any of my own kind. The truth about us. Lies strung along in to bigger lies."
"Rezin—" The knife whipped from the bed covers. Izuru screwed her eyes shut and clamped her teeth together. "Please."
"Open your eyes." A sharpened point hovered over Izuru's eye. "Hers were brighter."
"Upon the Pantheon, I swear we are one—"
"—On the lives of your sons." The point wavered. "Swear it."
"Upon the lives of my sons Ilic and Korsarro, I am who I claim, Izuru Numerial reincarnate, Exile of the Ynnari, Butcher of Lutufeyo, root of Orsolya's sorrow." Izuru lifted her arm from the covers. Her maimed hand slid over the human's cracked knuckles. Fingertips brushed the hairs on his arm. The human jerked the knife away and lurched off Izuru. "Rezin!" Izuru swung up from the punctured bed covers clutching her throat.
"All my sorrow." The human dragged the back of his hand across his nose. "You are the root of all my sorrow."
"I'm s—I'm sorry. All I ever remembered was awakening drenched in human blood. It's still there beneath my fingernails." Izuru held her clawed hand up to her eyes. "Have mercy."
"Not me you need beg." The human flipped the knife over and slid it in to a sheath taped to his combat vest. "Let Cyrano Semirechye's widow judge you. Ben Vantorout's too. There's a lot of widows you leave behind; orphans too. I hope you knew."
Izuru screwed a knuckle in to her upper lip, ran her fingers up her face, and dragged her nails through her scalp. "I didn't kill Ben. I didn't kill Ben."
"I liked him, you know. Misinformed and ignorant to the last but a decent sort, too decent for you."
"Rezin, please—"
"Don't bother!" The human threw up a hand. "There's nothing left but lies and deceit, the orphaned and the widowed speak for that." The human sat a cap on his head and slammed the door behind him. Izuru flinched at the bang and stuck her thumbnail between her teeth. She tipped sideways and curled up. Damp sheets stuck to her cheek.
Kazalak swinging at my hip, I thundered down the staircase. Blood thumped in my ears. Voices burbled from the 350 held at my hip. Rough stipples on the Kazalak's grip dug in to my palm. Down on the ground floor, I barged through a door marked Staff Only and swept across a tiled kitchen and in to a cold storage unit. Fog rolling from my nostrils, I pulled open a freezer lid and rootled through the ice. My numb fingers pried two cans out and slipped them in to empty grenade pouches. Outside the cold storage unit, I kicked the door shut. A timer trilled further in to the kitchen. Smoke rolled from an open oven a woman stooped beside. Thick mitts gripped a sizzling baking tray packed with a risen sponge cake. I tapped a can against a fire extinguisher standing in a bracket. The baking tray clanged on a hob.
"Gods, the deathly face!" Black hairs stuck out at all angles around the ambassador's drained face. Spots stood out on her cheeks and forehead. A bright red sports shirt several sizes too large hung almost to her knees.
"Commit yourself?" I wagged the can and set it next to the baking tin. "Stisma LightorIndicita Ale." I stood the other can next to its brother.
"Which is the ale?" The ambassador's hand closed around the Indicita.
"Gold top, yeah."
"Another sin to my name…" The seal popped and froth hissed.
"What are you doing here?"
The ambassador wiped at her mouth. "Trying something different."
"You experiment often?"
"This is special." The Indicita slid over the hob out of the way of a piping bag and two bowls; one filled with icing, the other tiny cherries.
"A friend?" I popped the seal on the Stisma.
"I have no friends, only the family standing by me today." The ambassador slipped a knife around the sponge and turned both layers out. "Would you like to help? I couldn't stand undivided observation whilst toiling."
"Mm, yeah. I could pipe for you if you'd wash up?"
"Very well." The ambassador carried dirty bowls, whisks, knives, and spoons over to a deep sink behind me and dumped them in. Water shrieked from two taps.
"Do you mind if I ask your name, ma'am?" I squeezed brown icing on to the bottom layer and laid it in rows.
"Setsiba." Taps squeaked. "And what does the deathly face hide?"
"James."
"I prefer deathly face. That or Quoos-Shlaereen."
"Try saying that when you're tight." I slid a cake slice across the icing, smoothing it over, and wiggled the top layer of sponge in to place.
"Tight? My Gothic falls…"
"Drunk."
"Drunk."
"Don't get me started on Cityspeak. I—Is this cake for you?"
A scrubber scratched. "This is Renisia's. On the morrow, Renisia Ruuni turns sixty-eight, her first steps towards adulthood."
"Sixty-eight! We're in our twilight years, grey and griping."
"We are blossoming."
"I'm twenty-two tomorrow. I've had this one coming a long time. First birthday I've had outside of prison since my eighteenth. Can't even remember what a cake smells like, let alone taste." I set the piping bag down on the worktop. "Setsiba?"
Setsiba's right elbow shunted backwards and forwards. Head bowed, she leaned over a mixing bowl half-filled with brown water rubbing a fresh scourer across the broken skin on her knuckles. Bright red crystals dripped in to the soapy water. "Ma'am. Setsiba?"
"She loved cherries." The scourer splashed inside the bowl. Setsiba gripped the sink's edges and laid her chin on her breast. "Her favourite."
"What you are doing is very brave. I wish my commander had your heart."
"Whether the organ beating within your chest or hanging between your legs bore the bitch here, I do not know." Setsiba's hands curled in to fists. The cuts wept harder. "But I know that the youthful are swift to infatuate, even swifter to spread their seed. Her coming heralded Avramides' destruction just as it will Vekaria. This place will become our tomb."
"She is sad and lonely. All she has are her sons Ilic and Korsarro. Why is it a human has to tell you this? I've seen the streets. The veterans thrown in to the gutter, kicked aside like strays."
"Warmth and understanding bled from my household. Nothing but for a cousin. Fault lay with her, not we."
"No, I don't think you understand."
"And you do, human? Will you be the one to save her?"
"That is up to Izuru, ma'am. She belongs with you. That must be."
"She ca…" Setsiba's head twitched. My 350 buzzed.
"Grey Kapla turning right—"
"Excuse me." I rushed over to my Kazalak leaning against a cold oven. "Tell your people to stay in their rooms."
"—Approaching the barrier." I twiddled the volume dial. "Two occupants."
"There may be a loud noise!" I bounded out of the kitchen.
Around a dozen PDF milled in the Vekaria's entrance hall laying in to each other in Cityspeak.
"James!" Ovi scampered over to me. The Stronica taken from the Spartacist earlier bounced against his hip.
"Perfect, you can translate." I thumped Ovi's shoulder and pointed at the front doors. "We're about to get contact."
"I know, that's what they are saying."
"Number one. How's your hearing?"
"Er, better, better now."
Drizzle edged down the Vekaria's front doors. Outside, troopers hunched behind rifles at firing ports in the hardbags stacked around the façade. A mortar crew in a closed-off emplacement in the carpark crouched around their weapon.
"Hup!" I flung a foot at a trooper dozing beside an IM stubber. "Get to feeding or get away!"
"Aw, don't bother." Ovi took hold of the dangling belt. "Can't even get off his ass to save himself."
"That'll do it, son." I worked plugs in to my ears then tucked my right hand beneath the IM's stock.
"Got any more of those?"
"Your ears will get used to it." I found the glowing reticle inside the optic and laid it on a grey civilian vehicle rolling down the four-hundred-yard-long causeway stretching from a distant victory column to the hotel.
"This is Gevers. I have a killshot."
"Youness. Killshot acquired."
"No-one fires unless fired upon," Phang said.
"Could be a suicider." Ovi's belt clinked. "Pack the insides with PT and point it where it needs to go."
"Then why send two men?"
"You think they are short of martyrs? God-Emperor knows why they aren't all lining up to bomb the xenos."
"This is Beran Two Seven. I will fire warnings at one-hundred yards then engage at fifty, copy?"
"This is Q. Good copy, Two Seven."
"Ah-ah." A white shirt tied to the end of a pole slid through a window. I squeezed my mic. "Q? Might want to hold off on the brass-up."
"Brass up?"
"If they want to talk, let's talk."
"Okay. Beran Two Seven, give them a warning burst."
"Roger, Q. Warning burst." A stubber stuttered. A bright pink tracer round zipped over the Kapla's roof. Tyres ground an S-pattern in the road and the Kapla lurched to a halt thirty yards before the mines. Both the front passenger and driver's door swung open and empty hands appeared. Two men wearing grey flight suits held their hands high. A maroon beret sat on one's head.
"I don't see any wires."
"Two Seven, order them in."
A megaphone rang out. "WALK TOWARDS THE WIRE." Both men walked towards the wire, stepped over the mines, and kept walking. "STOP. LAY DOWN." Knees bent and both men's stomachs touched the road. "LINK FINGERS BEHIND HEADS."
Troopers rushed the two captives through a gap in the wire and up to the PDF's firing positions. "Thought I'd find you in the middle of everything, James." The captive in the beret jerked his head up. Gwyn Ulman grinned at me. A trooper seized Ulman's head and shoved it back down.
"You know him?" Ovi let go of the linked belt.
"James." Phang rounded the hardbags. "Stand down. You're leaving."
"James, how do you know him?"
"You can hand me that three-fifty too." Phang peeled open the pouch holding my micro-vox and unhooked my mic.
"I can hand it—" I curled my finger around the wire and held on.
"What?" Phang thrust his nose at me. "Let go of the fucking cable."
"If I could hand it to you."
"This isn't your gun. This isn't even your assignment."
"Let me hand you the three-fifty." I coiled the cable around the mic and flung it at Phang. Ovi's eyes fell to the Kazalak resting against my thigh. "What? You want my brass too?"
Phang's eyes remained on me. "James, you are done here." He stuffed the 350 in to his thigh pocket and pushed past me.
"Ahh, you've been speaking to the commander…"
"He will want it from your mouth, not mine." Phang crossed the hall to cubicles lined up against the wall and lifted a receiver from its bracket. "Hello, operator, I need a line through to Brunzmann Stadium, please."
Den Ulman. I leaned against the plexiglass and crossed my ankles. He's not changed in three years. I patted the pouches on my vest. Where did my…? My hand slid down to my thigh pockets. Damn, the ambassador still has my lighter. What was her name again? Setsiba.
"Hello, can I be put through to Commander Richard Sorge, please? Warrant Officer Phang for him."
How is that cake coming along, I wonder? I caught the ocular of the man behind the front desk and nodded.
"Stay there!" Phang leaned out of the cubicle. His hand covered the receiver. "James, stay there—no, not you, sorry. Hello?"
"James." Ovi came in. "What is going on? You and that woman, now this man claims he knows you."
"Ssh." I laid a finger on my lips.
"What, when?" Phang threw a glance at Ovi and me. "W—why, why now? He is my direct superior." Phang pinched his nasal bridge. "Um…"
"Someone's watching us." Ovi scratched at a tear duct. "Top of the stairs."
"I know." I kept my eye on Phang. Of course, she is.
"Er… I—I require an immediate response. This is Warrant Officer Class Two Basam Phang at the Hotel Vekaria on commission for Commander Richard Sorge of Imperial Naval Intelligence requesting further orders."
Further orders? I worked a thumb beneath my Kazalak's sling and rubbed up and down.
"I see." Phang laid the receiver in its bracket. His head tipped forwards and touched the cubicle wall.
"Boet." I patted Phang's back.
"Was that all?" Ovi pinched curly black stubble on his jaw.
"Naval provosts showed up at the stadium and ordered the removal of Commander Sorge's ammunition." Phang took off his ceramite and let it dangle by the chinstrap. Shiny curls were plastered to his head. "They—they took him away." Phang's concave scar twitched. "He's gone."
"W—w—wait, what about us?" Ovi pinched his lower lip. "James, we're working for him, right?"
"Something else too." Thick ridges cut across Phang's forehead. "A representative of Shimago is coming here to assume operational control. Our mission is terminated."
"Number one."
"Er, please…?"
"Out of communication, all we have are orders to hold. They still stand."
"Our orders, James, not yours. And no, they do not still stand."
"Urgraf don't know that."
"Who?"
"Foreign mercenaries," Ovi said. "Death squads in bed with Shimago."
"Those two, they were—?"
"Yeah, one of them is a friend of mine, Den Ulman."
"Okay, how—how do we approach this?"
"Let me talk to him. Just me."
"Err…"
My hand shot at Phang and wrapped around his arm. "Do you want to go to Espiotis?"
"We're going either way. Sorge goes down, we are the collateral."
"Collateral?" Ovi scratched at dried blood in his ear.
"Look, you just convince Chief Gevers to get aboard. I'll handle Urgraf."
"You haven't even convinced me yet." Phang whirled his arm and shook my hand away.
"Q, I'm not leaving these people out in the rain, not with these death squads rolling in. Ovi, you with me, lad?"
"I lost friends to the death squads, Q. We can't roll over for them, not this time."
"He's right, Q, we're grunts. We don't fold."
Phang's hand clenched and unclenched around his 350's mic. "Ten minutes, James."
My fist crashed down on the plexiglass. I flung a finger at Ovi. "Get us one of those eight-packs."
Den Ulman sat alone in the conference suite on the first floor. Four troopers stood in each corner. "You've not changed much, Trabant." I shouldered open the door. An eight-pack of Stisma Light sloshed beneath my arm.
Den curled the lapel on his flightsuit. "Captain Ulman to you, Lieutenant."
"Ha-ha! Gone up in the world, 'ave we?" I set the eight-pack on the table and worked my knife through the packaging. "There's a contrast. We're staring at each other from opposite windows now, you the officer, me the sarn't." I twisted a can free and slid it along the polished wood to Den.
"Er, James…?" Den lowered his head to the table. The sliding Stisma smacked his chin. "Mmph… ow."
"Be some party trick, that. Catching cans in your teeth." I set an open can on the table and sliced my knife blade through Den's ties. "There, sir."
"Call me sir again, that can's coming right back at you." Den parted his Stisma's seal and sipped. "Mmm, I knew a trooper back in my ranger days who would smash whole glass bottles against his forehead—not a scratch on him after."
"Tough nut." I parked my backside on the chair closest to Den's and sat my Kazalak across my knees. "Death squads, Den. It's not good."
"Trust me, James, the situation in Orsolya would be a hundred times worse if we'd let those undesirables run riot. Many, many spies, saboteurs, and just general agitators have crept in to Orsolya after the invasion and the bombing. It's dirty business but there's nobody better suited than Urgraf."
"I know people that have lost friends to your lot."
Den threw up his hands. "I'm not in a position to comment. My orders are clear: I am assuming command of the PDF detachment at the Hotel Vekaria—"
"—Den, Den, there's been no word from Commander Sorge."
"Er, he's been arrested. Not sure why but he was relieved of his sidearm and escorted from the stadium, so I would assume something serious."
"Yeah, but in the absence of chain of command, our original orders still stand and only can they be countermanded by our superior's superior whom I assume is Admiral Curzon."
Den stroked his chin. "I see. Why the concern for these 'fugees? They're xenos, not even citizens."
"I was first through the breach in the Zalilean enclave. I didn't know a wraithbone wall could come down so easily. You could drive a tank through that gap and keep the paintwork on. Awfully efficient sap, that was. Shame there's not one brain among them so-called Spartacists or you'd be reeling off their names on that list of yours to the papers, a nice, comfy scapegoat. I know about the list, Den."
"All known dissidents in and around Orsolya, kindly provided us by the Administratum." Den bit a fingernail. "Old, young, male, female, rich, poor, civilian, military. It's endemic, this corruption."
"How many agitators does it take to bring the mob to boiling point? No joke, Den."
"Err, ten, twelve at hotspots. Kaluqa and Bouaziz Plaza, Brunzmann Stadium, anywhere in Lutufeyo."
"Really though, all it takes is one bloke tossing an incendiary or setting off a breaching charge, doesn't it? Pack that PT tight and kiss it goodnight. They never even had a chance to return fire, did they? Your death squads saw to that."
Den's thin lips pursed. "I am not in a position to comment on Avramides, James. The Obrist has a long memory and now the weight of Shimago behind him. I urge you to think of yourself and your charges before committing to folly." Den rested his forearm on the table and leaned over to me. "This will not be like the cruiser. I promise you this time we can save these people."
"He knew I wouldn't listen to anyone else, didn't he? What's got the Obrist so hard for the Zalileans, Den?"
"I'm not authorised to discuss—"
"—Humour me."
"Humour you?"
"We were friends once, Den. Please do me this."
"Okay. Certain individuals among the Zalilean consulate are of great interest to Shimago and the Obrist. That's it."
"The ambassador?"
"I've said too much."
"Den."
"No, no, I can't. I need your cooperation here, James. The Obrist and Madam Shimago await my reply. They're not accustomed to waiting."
"Twenty-four hours." I pressed my fingertip to the table's surface. "I'll have the admiral's orders."
"James, when Shimago say now, they do mean now."
"Twenty-four hours, Den. Swear to the Emperor, we're going nowhere in that time, not with the city locked down."
Den's fingernails danced upon the can's sides. "Okay, I'll report you would not cooperate without clearance from a higher authority. Playing it by the book and that. Should give you some time." Den drained his can and crushed it between his hands. "There was a Ranger I served with who could crush one of these between his cheeks."
"Cheeks?" I squeezed my own empty can.
"Not the ones you're thinking of."
"Tssss!" I rubbed the back of my hand across my mouth. "Heh-heh. Alright, lads, let's have Captain Ulman escorted off-site please. Treat him as an officer."
"Ah, better not." Den shook my hand. "They'll think you plied me with Stisma."
"Nah, I plied you with Frenkls." I pushed a cigarette packet at Den. "G'luck, Den."
"I don't sm—"
"Good luck, Den." I shoved the cigarette packet in to Den's hand and clasped my own hand around his. The four troopers formed an escort and led Den from the suite. The taut knot in my gut loosened. I slid the remaining six Stisma over and tucked them beneath my arm.
1600. The rangefinder mounted atop the magnified optic ticked down in increments of fifty. 1550. Thin crosshairs glassed the Kapla and followed it back along the drive. Captain Raymonde Ostapenko lay behind the slim, 49-inch-long Zsanett .338 sniper rifle on the top floor of Nitzana Tower, the tallest landmark in sight of the parkland surrounding the hotel. His knees and elbows dug in to the foam mat spread upon the floor.
"Obelisk, this is Uniform Five Niner, we are clear of the target building." The Kapla peeled past the tall spire at the western end of the drive and entered the cover of trees on an S-shaped descent to the park's gateway.
"Any joy?" Ostapenko squeezed the mic on his shoulder.
"Negative, Obelisk, they are playing it by the book. Orders for them to stand down must come from the next in the chain of command."
"The Admiral?" Ostapenko peeled paper away from a chewy sweet and bit. A sharp, citrous taste filled his mouth.
"Affirmative."
"Legion won't like that, nor will Shimago." Ostapenko folded up the paper and slipped it in a pocket.
"They've twenty-four hours."
"Dicey."
"You're not the one reporting in to Legion."
"I can call ahead if you like. Soften the blow…" Ostapenko unzipped the top compartment on a 349 vox carrier and keyed in.
"Sure, I'm also looking for a quick cashiering."
"Knew you'd hate officer life." Ostapenko peeped through his scope. "Legion, this is Obelisk."
"Obelisk, Legion. Send your traffic. Over."
"Get me the actual." Ostapenko's hand crept inside the open sweet packet inside his daysack.
"Roger, wait one." The line went dead.
"Mm-hm." The Zsanett's crosshairs roved over the PDF's firing ports at the roadblock behind the wire and mines and found two heads. Crack, crack, two, three, four, mist. Ostapenko peeled open a wrapper.
"Obelisk, Legion Actual. Send your report."
"Er, zero-zero on the handover, Actual. According to Uniform Five Niner, orders to stand down must come from their direct superior. Not exactly sure who that is at this time. Over."
"Leave that to me, Obelisk. Remain on-site for now. Send hourly reports."
"Wilco. Out." Ostapenko turned the 349 off and squeezed his mic. "ETA to base?"
"Forty minutes—er, make that an hour."
"Okay, roger. Stay safe." A wispy hair stuck to the sweet lying beneath the Zsanett's box magazine. Ostapenko peeled it off and popped the sweet in his mouth. Hello… His crosshairs settled on a figure in a cap and a skull mask flitting out of a workman's door in the north-facing wall. We have a runner. The figure vaulted over a wall, Kazalak in hand, and disappeared in to the woods.
Ninety-five minutes later, Den nursed his rattled body out of the Kapla's sunken passenger seat. "Eurgh, cheers for the ride, Jamie."
"Don't you want these Frenkls?" Jamie Marlantes picked a cigarette packet out from between the seats.
"They're empty, bin 'em."
Jamie shook the packet. "Err, not quite. Here."
"Funny." Den caught the packet against his chest. "Could've sworn…" Something rattled inside.
"You okay reporting in to the Obrist, Den?"
"I'll be fine. Park her up and check in with your team leader." Den shut the door and passed around the Kapla's boot lid. Mud launched from the spinning tyres at Den's flightsuit. "Jamie!" Den's hand flew over his face. The Kapla's rear bumper sagged in to the mud. "Jamie, sling it in reverse."
"What?" Jamie stuck his head out of his window.
"Sling it in reverse then in to first."
"Right." The Kapla rocked back and forth. Den heaved on the bumper. His heels sunk deeper in to the mud.
"Oh, just go, Den!" Jamie flung his arm out of the window. "Keeping the Obrist waiting, like."
"Damn it." Den pried his feet from the mud and slogged away from the rocking Kapla. What did you give me, James? A crumpled note dropped from the packet. Den picked the corners apart and held the note up to the light. Behind him, the Kapla surged free of the mud. "Jamie!" Den hared after the Kapla. Muddy water leaped up his legs. "Jamie!"
"Den?" Jamie planted his elbow on the door. "You forgot something?"
"Turn her around." Den banged his hand on the roof. "Jamie, turn around."
"I just drove through there now you want me going back?"
"Yep, you'll do it with a relish."
"Not with you inside, I won't." Jamie dug the Kapla in to reverse. "You push, I'll steer."
Burned rubber stunk out the lower-middle class residential blocks in Elek. Residents scurried away from the whining Kapla. Gangs loitered in alleyways. "Did you bring a gun?" Den eyed three military aged men perched on top of a wall. A glass bottled sailed from one's hand and shattered on the Kapla's roof.
"Just my knife." Jamie winced.
"Where is it, in your boot?"
"Not quite." Jamie scooped a pocket knife out of a slot in his door.
"Right, we're looking for number eighty-three on Rodos street." Den slipped the knife in to a breast pocket.
"So, this is more important than the Obrist then? Wandering off in to Elek on our own."
"You're old enough to be out at night, Jamie." The Kapla rolled past a hab block's entrance marked with faded, yellow paint on the outer wall. 73-B. "Okay, keep going."
"It's not the locale, it's the company I'm worried about. Dangerous Den."
"Always guaranteed to show you a good time." Den patted the Kapla's flank. "C'mon, peddle faster. We're losing the light."
"Any other remarks other than a street and number?"
"Nope. Eighty-three Rodos street."
"Can't be a hab then. What good is that without a room number?"
"No…" Den gripped the Kapla's frame and leaned out of the window. A tiled spire poked through treetops. "It's because it's a church!"
"Church?"
"Look." Den thrust his arm out at the habs they had driven past. "Seventy-seven, seventy-nine, eighty-one. That's the end of the row."
"Looks more like a chapel." Jamie crept the Kapla along an iron fence topped with spikes. Vine-choked headstones, dotted around a yard, listed in the earth. Shovels stood upright in fresh piles. Corpses, wrapped in shrouds, piled on top of one another.
"Nice thing about a graveyard at dusk is no-one bothers you." Den let himself out at the gate.
"Nobody living." Jamie made the Aquila. "Den, stay on the path."
Den's feet crunched up a short path to the chapel's door. An iron pull-ring twisted and hinges squeaked. Unlit candles filled multi-armed brackets. Empty pews, running up to a tomb on a dais, filled the chapel. On the far wall, a twenty-foot-long Aquila spread its wings above a screaming skull. Den approached the tomb and made the Aquila on his chest. Forgive my trespasses at this hour.
A passageway led behind the tomb to a crypt. On a stone inscription in the floor, a lamp shone. Den's shadow reared across the narrow pillars. "Drop your gun in the light, Den."
"I have no gun." Den's fingers slipped in to his pocket and brought out the knife. "Belongs to a friend." He laid it next to the lamp.
"D'you have many friends nearby?"
"Just my driver. The guy I came to the hotel with."
"Does he have a gun?"
"No."
"Does he have crypto?"
"No."
"Okay, walk towards me."
"I don't know where you are."
"Leave the knife, take the lamp in both hands. Kick the knife away."
Come on, James, why the secrecy? Den hoisted the lamp and kicked the knife across the floor. A second shadow glided across the pillars. Cotton whispered. "Where are you, James?"
"Here."
"Ugh!" Den jerked the lamp around. A masked man aiming a Kazalak stood at Den's shoulder. "God-Emperor, you're quiet." James wore no shoes, only socks.
"C'mon, she's waiting downstairs." The Kazalak's canted muzzle flicked.
A stone tablet ground sideways. Sunken bulbs, glowing bright blue, led down narrow stairs to a bulkhead door. "Two-two-five-one-seven, Den." James squatted on the stairs above Den and rested his Kazalak's body on one knee.
Den tapped out the code. "How fast can your brain tell your hand to move that change lever, James?"
"Faster than those boots can get you up those steps." James wiggled his toes inside his socks. "Non-slip, see?"
"Hah-hah." Den stabbed the number seven. "I almost forgot—well, I did forget." The bulkhead hissed and parted down the middle. "How did you and Susannah work out?"
"We didn't."
"I'm sorry. I knew you were close."
"We moved on." James slung his Kazalak and came down to Den. "Shall we?"
Crossed legs bridged a gap between two chairs standing inside a dim habitation unit. Empty glass bottles lay on the tiled floor around a woman. Her head squidged a cushion against the hab wall. James laid a palm on a flat panel in the wall. Lights hummed in to the hab.
"Seroni?" Den plucked his beret from his head. "Seroni?"
"There's coffee in the pot." James went behind an L-shaped worktop and reached in to overhead cupboards.
"Hey, Seroni." Den touched Seroni's shoulder. Beaten leather creaked.
"Mmm, Den?" Seroni peeled her cheek away from the cushion. "God, he actually kissed me."
"James, did you…?"
James thrust his hands over the worktop. "These wrists look fractured to you? You mess with Captain Bukharin, you mess with Urgraf." A foil packet flew at Den. "Battered snaps? There's peanuts too."
"Major." Seroni sat her cushion in her lap and wiped her cheek. "Major to you."
"Oh, congratulations, ma'am." Den pumped Seroni's hand. "I'm so happy you found a path away from Urgraf. Really, I am."
"Thank you, Den." Seroni's hand came down on Den's shoulders. She swooped at him and kissed his cheek. "Now, that was warranted." Seroni's hand touched Den's cheek.
"Who kissed you?" Den stroked Seroni's hand.
"Oh, that bastard Sorge." Seroni's lips thinned. "His hands on me."
"So it was you that—er, how did you do it?"
"The Admiral." Seroni grinned. "Better than any knife or bullet."
"Better than anything I could've done." James bore two full mugs around to a small table and set them down. "I want him in that courtroom, Den."
"Oh, I don't drink recaf, thank you, only tea." Den twirled his beret on his finger. "I kicked."
"I kicked smoking—er, trying to kick." James leaned his Kazalak against the worktop. "How 'bout you, Seroni, what are you kicking?"
"You unless you add milk." Seroni stood the two chairs at the table. "Two sucra too."
"Dunno what you're grinning at, Den." James brought a steaming mug over to Den. Loose laces trailed behind a pair of tan PDF boots he wore. "We need those Cyvox tapes back, the ones I borrowed on the cruiser. D'you think you can source them?"
"…I don't think I'll be seeing them again. They stayed with an ex-girlfriend. I'm not getting those back."
James thumped his thigh and muttered an oath under his breath. "I got a recording of Sorge telling me himself that he offed the Inquisitor's crew. That was on the blank tape, Den!" James's forehead fell in to his hand. "So, what else apart from the manifesto?"
"Just the manifesto." A spoon tinkled inside Seroni's mug. "All we can pray is they link it with the surge in small-arms ownership in Orsolya. Somebody has to ask the question."
"How did the Admiral take it?" Den munched on a flat chip.
"He—he listened which I assume is most of his job."
"So, we can count on him in court?"
"Let's hold everything tight for now, James. The courts can take months to organise a case. I know you want to see this through."
"To seeing it through." Seroni moved her mug in to the centre of the table.
"Hear-hear." James's mug tapped Seroni's. "Den?"
"To a smooth prosecution." Den's mug met the other two. "And to an end to violence."
"An end to violence," Seroni and James murmured.
A screen embedded in the wall next to the bulkhead lit up and a green icon flashed. "Don't worry, that's just my driver Jamie." Den pushed his chair back. "You remember Jamie Marlantes, don't you?"
"I remember everyone in Urgraf, Den."
"Is he on his own?" James pushed back his own chair.
"He is." Den's finger danced across the keypad.
"Armed?"
"He isn't." The bulkhead halves parted. A thin, metallic tube shoved through the widening gap at Den's face.
"Sit down—SIT!" Jamie's palm rested on a tube-gun's wide butt. "All of you, sit!"
"Jamie…" Den raised his hands and backed towards the table.
"Hello, Jamie." Seroni slid her mug away. "Nice to see you."
"So, this is it. Conspiring against the Obrist?" Jamie's tube-gun turned towards James. "I know you…"
James's fists rested on the table. He cocked his head and frowned up at Jamie. "Jamie, yeah? Must be short for James."
"Shuddup, boy. You were the one that caused all that trouble on the cruiser two years back."
"Three nearly."
"Why don't you draw up a chair, Jamie?" Seroni smiled at Jamie. "There's tea, recaf, biscuits. We've yet to start. You're welcome to join if you like."
"Can't believe it's you, ma'am. Captain Bukharin, conspiring with Captain Ulman and the boy against the Obrist."
"Conspiring against the Obrist." James's teeth ran over each other. "We four conspire against Commander Sorge. Ma'am?"
"Jamie, Sorge's arrest was not a freak occurrence. I passed material evidence to Admiral Curzon on illegal arms dealing undertaken by the commander. Look out on the street. Every man, woman, child bears some form of arms and it's all his doing." Seroni tapped two fingers on the table. "He's a war-profiteer, Jamie. You, the Obrist, you're just throw-aways to be dropped once he's finished with you." Seroni's hand slid across to Jamie. "Our goal—" Seroni pressed her balled fist to her lips.
"You'll have to explain yourself to the Obrist." Jamie swung the tube-gun away from Seroni and back to James. "And you. Most of all, you."
"You have one round, Jamie," Den said. "There are three of us."
"Two. Hand me that rifle, Den."
"I'd assume it's the Butcher Shimago and the Obrist are after hence the surveillance on the Vekaria." James tipped his mug back and drained it. "D'you want to meet her?"
"Meet her?"
"She's here."
"The Butcher's here?" Den gripped the table's edges. "Seroni, is she…?"
"Yes, Den. Jamie, we have the Butcher in this facility. If you wish to confirm for yourself…"
"Show me." The tube-gun's muzzle flicked. "Stand up, Den."
"Okay, Jamie." Den, his arms spread, stood. "D'you want that rifle?"
"Leave it. Move to the wall. Ma'am, you next. Then the boy."
"The clinic is the door behind us."
"Open it up please, ma'am. You two, turn around." Jamie tugged the Kazalak's sling on to his shoulder.
Seroni keyed in the code and pushed the door inwards. Sinks stood in the centre of a changing room. PPE filled lockers and transparent cases. "The next room across, Jamie." Seroni, Den, and James backed up against the sinks. "Over my shoulder."
"Yeah, I can see it." Jamie pulled the hab door shut. "Open it up, ma'am."
"Is that a bicycle pump?"
"Tube gun," Den muttered.
"Den!" Jamie flicked the tube gun. "After Captain Bukharin, please. And you, boy."
A white blanket covered a body sealed inside a transparent pod occupying the floorspace. "Okay, Jamie." Seroni unlocked the pod. "The Lutufeyo killer." Her gloved hand lifted the blanket away from a chalky face. Taught skin clung to the skull and the tip of a swollen tongue parted white lips. Dark marks covered the Butcher's cheeks and forehead. Fractured bone protruded from broken skin.
"Good God-Emperor!" Den brought his hand up to his eyes. "Wouldn't wish those last moments on anyone, serial killer or not."
"It—it—it could be anyone." Jamie shook the tube gun at Den. "I don't know what the Butcher looked like."
"I do." Den pinched his lower lip. "Around six in height, pale skin, brown hair, gold eyes. Currently without the first and second appendage on her right hand—may I?"
"Er, I'll…" Seroni held the blanket over the corpse's breasts and moved it away from the right arm. "It's her, Jamie."
"She's been dead for weeks." Jamie pressed the tube gun's body to his temple. "Why did he not…?"
"She's Sorge's political toy." Arms folded, James leaned against a worktop. His chin rose from his breast. "He's done with Vantorout as his martyr, now he's got the Butcher's body and his jumpstart in to politics."
"Had the Butcher's body." Jamie jerked the blanket over the corpse. Seroni and Den watched him from the other side of the pod. "Seal it up. You will all be explaining yourselves to the—" Jamie whipped the tube gun around and stabbed the base. James's palm punched the barrel upwards. The round cracked and pinged off the ceiling. James's arm swung in to Jamie's neck and hooked around it and hurled Jamie in to the pod's base. An elbow cracked Jamie's skull. He slid down the machine and lay on his side.
"God, James!" Seroni rushed around to Jamie. "You didn't…"
"Nope." James wrenched the tube-gun and the Kazalak off Jamie. "Filled his head with stones and gave it a good rattle."
"Well done, lad." Den clapped James's shoulder. "Sorry for all this. Should've checked first."
"'Ere." James brought Den's knife out and unfolded the blade. "Little trick I learned in Espi. If you don't want your enemy gripping a weapon, you cut him here." James pulled Jamie's arm out from beneath his body and spread his thumb and forefinger. The blade touched the webbing. "Cut 'em both."
"Don't." Seroni drew Jamie's hand away from the knife. "Abuse him, you are no better than Sorge. He did that to the Zalilean. Those marks are post-mortem. Den, take Jamie through to the sleeping chamber. It's through the changing room and behind the kitchen."
"Zalilean? You said Zalilean." Den hoisted Jamie's body over his shoulder. "Well?"
Seroni and James glanced at one another. "See to Jamie then we'll talk." Seroni switched off the lights above the pod and sealed it.
The three sat around the crumb-strewn table. James's left knee jiggled. Den's thumb stroked the side of his forefinger. Seroni's finger slid around the rim of a glass. "The Butcher is not a Zalilean is she, James?"
James's fingernails grated across his beard. "Don't need me telling you that. She's not dark like the Zalileans, any Urgraf could see that. I dunno where she's from. Nothing out her mouth you can take for truth."
"The body in there?" Den screwed his beret up. "Don't tell me it's a fake."
James's chin dipped. "You already know she's in the Vekaria so that plan's scuppered." James brought out a notepad from the combat vest hanging off the back of his chair. "Seroni, I'd like you to memorise this address then destroy it. You'll be laying low 'til Urgraf's and Shimago's erections are down." A pencil scribbled across the lined paper. "You're with the Obrist, Den."
"Of course. I'll do my damndest to dissuade him from direct action. Shimago may have his hands tied so there's that to bear in mind."
"Jamie?" Seroni brushed crumbs from the table in to her hand.
"Killed at a Spartacist roadblock. I'll find somewhere to dump the car and tab down to the stadium."
"Mm-hm." James tore off a piece of notepaper. "Seroni."
"Thank you."
"New codes for the doors as well, in case one of more of us goes down." James passed out five-digit codes to Den and Seroni. "These next twenty-four hours will be the most important of our lives. There will not be another execution of innocents as there was on the cruiser and in Avramides. Den, Seroni, we will save these people no matter the cost. Remember, they are not slant-ears, not sub-species, not even warriors, they are people."
"To people." Den slid his empty glass in to the centre of the table.
"To family." Seroni moved her glass inwards. James's glass touched Den's and Seroni's. He said nothing.
Hotel Vekaria
Taut chains squeaked above Setsiba's head. She crossed her feet and rocked the hanging chair. Rain pattered on the roof above her. Two little shadows flitted between the light cast by ground lamps in the garden beneath the veranda. Long hair streamed behind their shoulders.
"There may come a time when you find me in not such a convivial nature, human." Setsiba lifted her head from the chair's back cushion. A slight figure came down the staircase to Setsiba's right. Two cans of Indicita Ale knocked together. A pack bounced around his shoulders.
"You'll be long gone before then." James broke a seal and set a can on the chair's arm.
"Indicita?" Setsiba sniffed at the hissing liquid.
"Mm-hm." Chains jangled and the chair wobbled underneath James's weight. "Are they yours?" He broke his own can's seal. The children charged up a stone path towards the veranda and leaped over a pond.
"Saira and Sobura. Both very much their own being."
"Sisters?"
"Saira grew up orphaned before the exodus. Sobura is the youngest offspring of our A'ardaqa hai'b, eighth in line for the leadership of Zalilea. On her ascent to maidenhood, I bend my knee to her. For the time being, I consume cheap alcohol wearing a sports shirt three times my size, in the company of an uncouth human." Setsiba slurped her Indicita.
"They seem happy."
"Sobura asks me every day when her mother and father will arrive." Setsiba pressed the chilled can to her forehead. "She knows."
"I think Ilic and Korsarro are asking much the same about their mother wherever they are." James lifted his foot up on to his knee. "I'd want to fight the whole galaxy too if my family were lost out there."
"You have the entire Imperium at your back. We have nothing. You cannot possibly know what that feels like."
"I do." James looked sideways at Setsiba. Weary shadows circled his eyes. "I think Izuru does too."
Saira and Sobura, both in sodden sports clothes, bounded up to the veranda. Saira, a little taller than Sobura, stumbled on the top step. Behind Saira, Sobura touched Saira's shoulder.
"Look at you both." Setsiba placed her can on the decking. Saira laid her hand on Sobura's. "Well, what do you say to the gentleman?"
"Good evening," the girls mumbled. Neither looked at James.
"Hello." James shifted to the edge of the seat. "Your Gothic is very good."
"What do you say, girls?"
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
"I knew two brothers named Ilic and Korsarro once. I could never tell which one was which. They never stopped chasing each other either. Do you like boys?" Colour tinged Sobura's cheeks. Saira spun and hugged Sobura. "They could be sisters." James smiled at Setsiba. His foot dug beneath the bench and dragged a backpack out.
"We are all sisters, brothers too. As our numbers dwindle, our bonds only strengthen. Though we speak your tongue, don your attire, and consume your foods, we remember Zalilea."
"Ziem al-xamath." The girls chorused.
"May I give the girls something?" James dug inside his backpack. "About the only thing the Spartacists didn't loot from the arcade." He brought out two soft toys, one a fanged beast with a grey body and hunched shoulders, and the other a blue avian with bright orange feathers. "Here." James sat them on the seat between him and Setsiba. "Not the cutest couple…"
"Saira, Sobura?" Setsiba took the toys over. "Which one do you—?" Saira snatched the fanged beast. "Okay, Sobura, do you mind?" Sobura bounced the feathered toy in her arms and cuddled it. "What do you say?"
"Thank you," they said in unison.
"Off to bed with you now—and make sure you change out of those wet clothes!"
The girls' feet pattered away up the stairs. "Snatched that one right up, she did."
"Tired minds make for poor learning." Setsiba shook the last of the Indicita from her can.
"Sorge has been arrested."
Setsiba crushed the can in her fist. "I'd almost given up on a miracle occurring."
"You'd better keep hoping one turns up." James leaned over his knees and turned his can around in his hands. "Sorge's little detail here is the only thing protecting your people from Urgraf, Shimago, the Spartacists, anyone with a grudge against xenos which, right now, is everyone."
"What can I do?"
"You can have your people ready to move at a moment's notice. A cellar would be your best option in case we come under fire."
"Okay."
"I'll do what I can to keep the wolves away from the door. See what I can do about some transport too. Right now, we are waiting on Admiral Curzon, Sorge's superior. We either hold our positions here or we stand down and let Urgraf and Shimago take over. That's up to him. Let's pray there's still honour in the officer class." James swept his pack on to his shoulders and picked the empty cans up.
"Human?"
"Enjoy your cake, ma'am." Crumpled tin scraped together.
"James?"
"Yeah?"
"I have one more favour to ask." Setsiba rocked backwards. "This rift between Zalilea and Ulthwé cannot fester on. Our attitudes may have been blasé to a broken spirit. For that I must offer apologies and, again, Zalilean hospitality before it is too late."
"It's late."
Setsiba dug out the gunmetal lighter from her jacket pocket and flicked her wrist. "But not too late."
James caught the lighter. "Ta."
"I'll await her in the conference hall." Setsiba laid her hands in her lap and tilted her head back. "This will not be forgotten." She shut her eyes.
"I've heard that before. Didn't end up in a nice place after. Barred windows and locked doors."
"Enjoy your birthday." Setsiba dug her heels in to the decking and straightened her neck. "James?" Setsiba sat alone on the veranda.
Blackout curtains hung from the hotel's main doors. Dimmed bulbs softened the light inside the entrance hall. Youness, Heiding, Coortland, Chief Gevers, and Phang sat in armchairs around a grated fireplace. Two bearded men sat with them cradling steaming mugs. Wispy, grey hair hung down their shoulders. Bare toes poked through worn-out shoes held together by tape.
"James, meet our newest recruits." Youness raised his mug above his head. "All the way from Cadia Prime."
"Cadia stands. Glad to have the both of you."
"My friend…" One of the Cadians set his mug down on the arm of his chair. Wrinkles surrounded violet eyes. "Cadia is probably nothing but frazzled slag right now."
"Mmm." The other's beard bristled. "Tsivi Fosh."
"Matthew Sela."
"James. Do either of you know who it is you're protecting here?"
"James." Phang rose from his chair. "C'mon, let's have a wander."
Up the stairs and along the first-floor landings Phang led me. "Okay, first light tomorrow, you are driving Staff Sergeant Thamer down to Brunzmann. His wounds have re-opened. Make sense?"
"Yeah, makes sense. Still nothing doing, Q." I backed up to a wall and placed my sole against the plaster. "I'm waiting 'til the Admiral orders us out."
"James, everyone wants you gone. Youness wants it, I want it, and the ambassador most definitely wants it. Loay needs Surgical."
"I've spoken with the ambassador—"
"—Okay, you are forbidden from conversing with any slant-ear hereon. We had everything under control until you showed up with the asset."
"She has a name. Nunnit she deserves less than a life in naval custody."
"No, that's no longer your concern. You have exceeded your authority far beyond any acceptable limit bringing the asset here, endangering us, endangering Loay Thamer."
"They're all my concern. We're not rolling over for Urgraf and Shimago, Q, we've been through this. Two less triggerfingers here hurts us. Stop relying on the chain of command and think outside this!" I rapped my knuckles on my skull. "Am I reaching you?"
Phang's scar twitched. "Hand me your brass."
"Yeah?" I unlocked my Kazalak's magazine, flicked the change lever down, and cleared the chamber. Phang slung the rifle around his shoulder and pocketed the magazine and loose cartridge. My combat vest thumped at Phang's feet. "I'll have that thirty-eight you carry." I popped the clasp keeping a holstered Volg .38 Hammerless inside my waistband and passed it to Phang. "And the pack." Cans knocked together inside my pack. "You off somewhere, Sarn't?"
"Off to bed." I rubbed at the sore marks on my shoulders.
"Dawn. You're meeting Thamer in the entrance hall."
"It was his choice, y'know." I spread my arms and backed away from Phang. "No gun to his head. Same with Ovi. Just remember who's out there tonight, Q, 'cause this time tomorrow they'll be here, right where I'm standing. G'night."
Unburdened, I climbed the stairs to the fourth-floor landing. PDF bootprints stained the purple carpets. Pottery fragments surrounded a toppled column lying in the corridor. Thunder rumbled outside the building. My feet propelled shards across the carpet and around the corner to Room 412. My keycard. I patted my pockets. Must have left it with my kit. A thin gap split the frame from the door. I stretched my arm out and pushed. The door swung inwards. My turn now, is it? I twiddled the dial just inside the door. Shaded bulbs blazed above the untouched bedcovers and lit up the white tiles in the bathroom. I swept my hand beneath the bed, opened up the wardrobes, and looked behind the thick curtains.
A note embraced 412's keycard inside a chest of drawers. I scooped the card out and shook it free. My eyes roved across large, unconnected letters skewing across the paper in a shallow curve. I turned my back on the chest of drawers and leaned against the wood. A scribbled signature crowded the bottom corner. Can't be. I flattened the note on the bedcovers and leaned over it. I reached the name in the bottom corner and flipped the note over.
My arm dug in to the space beneath my bed and hauled out a shoebox and retrieved the old Moses from where I'd buried it inside the waxy paper. I brass-checked the handgun and tucked it in my waistband.
Clean, untrodden carpets led me up the wide staircase. Far beneath me, a door slammed. Hanging lights and shaded bulbs dimmed, flickered then cut out. I flicked my lighter open and held the wavering finger out. Rain slashed through open doorways leading on to the terrace and wet the carpet. Curtains billowed at me. The flame writhed and died. Outside, a figure stood with its back to me, one hand resting on the hanging seat's tall frame.
My boots pattered through puddles. Ripples spread and touched a pair of bare feet. "What are you doing out here?"
Izuru's chin swung over her shoulder. White paint caked her face. Thin, blue lines ran down the centre of her forehead, her nose, across her lips, and disappeared beneath her chin. A handprint stained each cheek. "Come to put the beast down?"
"What are you talking about?"
Izuru's took her hand away from the frame and turned it upwards. Drops splashed her palm. "This undeserved existence cannot whither on. This body is spent, spirit soiled." Dull eyes rose up my chest. Red ringed Izuru's irises. "No-one deserved you less than I." Izuru's arm dropped. Head bowed, shoulders sagging, she drifted beneath ivy-choked trellises and between empty tables.
"Izuru."
A loose tape barrier in front of a broken segment of wall whipped Izuru. Her toes curled over the crumbling edge. Long hair flapped in the wind. "My crimes against your people are unforgivable." Shining droplets ran down her face and dripped from her nose. "Help me move on."
"You're not moving on, you're moving away. It's only unanswered questions and more spilled blood you'll find at that next step, not peace." I perched against the edge of a table. Water soaked through the seat of my trousers. "I gave you up, made my peace, then sat in a cell for two years. It took me two years to move on from things some people keep for the rest of their lives. Leaving Cadia and you behind was the hardest thing I've ever done. But here you are now, alive, about to take the most important step of your life." I folded my arms and crossed my ankles. "Step forward, step back, that's your choice. Where I'm standing, it looks like a sad and lonely parent, not a beast. Are you lonely, Izuru?"
Izuru swayed forwards and backwards. "Yes." She tilted her head back. "Gods, I am so empty. I want to be filled with love again."
"I'm twenty-two tomorrow. Now, it's tradition where I come from that the person whose birthday it is gives something back too. You wouldn't turn me away if I had a gift to give you, would you? Nothing ruder than that in my book." I tugged my sodden cuff back from my chrono. 22:04. "Y'know, I've got one minute past midnight. Shall we celebrate?"
I moved away from the table. "There's a dance. It goes like this." I took two paces forward. "Forward, forward…" I moved a pace to the right. "Right and stop." I backed up. "Back, back. Left and stop." My feet returned to their starting position. "Forward, forward. Right, stop. Back, back. Left, stop." Grimy water leaped from beneath my trotting feet. "See? No matter where you go, you always end up back in the place you started. Just like us." I followed the steps through, mumbling incoherently. Water ran through my beard and dribbled inside my collar.
An arm flew across my chest and caught me mid-step. Wet hair landed on my shoulder and hands curled around my neck. I found Izuru's hip and slid my hand up her back. Freezing fingers caressed my knuckles. Fingertips drew paths across the skin. Izuru's nose tickled my ear. Together in a puddle, we swayed in a slow circle beneath the emptying clouds.