The Hounds of Helghan (10)
Armin was the only member of the Metrac family who kept in touch with Runa. She woke up early, as everyone in the army did, because suiting up before leaving home was by far the longest part of the morning routine. She woke up on one chilly, overcast morning to a notice from her brother. She got ready for the day like she had never read it. After washing her face, she looked up at the mirror and ran a palm down the back of her head. Her hair used to be much longer, almost down to her hips. The last time she had it long was the last time she ever saw her mother. She searched her own face for any sign that the news sent by her brother impacted her in any way. She found nothing. Her face was the blank slate beaten into her by the army. Runa arrived promptly to the academy and Radec's office, as she always did, to be briefed on the latest mission.
Instead, from behind his desk, he said, "General Metrac had informed me of your mother's passing this morning. My condolences."
Standing to attention before him, Runa merely nodded. It was a long time coming, she almost said. Her mother, Vera Metrac, was in her seventies and had ovarian cancer.
"I will have you take off for the next few days so you can attend the funeral services."
She drew in a breath and cleared her throat before she went on, "If I may, sir, I'd would like to take on a new assignment this week."
The visor was kept over the colonel's eyes, so his face (or lack of) told her nothing, but he made the slightest tilt of his head. "You want to keep working?"
"I've already talked to the general about not attending our mother's funeral. He would be fine with wherever you order me to go."
"You've worked hard on the last couple of missions. Surely you'd like some time off to rest and mourn."
Runa tried to put her foot down as carefully yet firmly as she could. "I appreciate your concern, Colonel, but I implore you to give me something to do this week. The assignment doesn't have to be anything too dangerous or high stakes. Whatever it is, I'd like to be kept busy."
Radec considered her reply for a moment, and instead of punishing her for insubordination, he gave in. "Very well, Lieutenant. If you insist." He paused in his response to her as he studied his screen display, which showed all manners of activity in Pyrrhus. "Police are having trouble containing riots in the eighth sector, near Corinth River. I could send you and a few men there to assist them." His voice tightened as he kept reading the report hovering before him. "Drone footage shows that armed civilians have been sniping policemen. Find them, Lieutenant, and eliminate them, before they become too much of a nuisance."
"Very good, sir."
As Runa saluted him and left his office, her helmet and brisk stride hid her relief that the colonel didn't insist that she attend the funeral. In other words, suffer through the farce of high society. Radec didn't pry into her family business, and for that she was grateful. She had abandoned her duty to her family long ago. Her duty was to the military now, and perhaps out of respect for her choice, he let her proceed with this mission.
Radec sent a squad of LMG troopers and a pair of Heavies to accompany her. The Heavies in particular, with their substantial bulk, could provide cover from sniper fire as well as intimidation to subdue rioting civilians. A convenient combination. They arrived at the police station of the eighth sector later that day.
The first police officer who noticed the squad said, "Huh. So the cavalry came after all."
"Nice to see you too," an LMG trooper countered with equal sarcasm.
The policeman folded his arms over his vest-padded chest. "We don't need military intervention. We've got this under control."
"If that's the case, then why are more of you getting picked off by sniper fire every day?" At Runa's question, the police officer fell silent. He must be fuming behind his respirator. "Don't be stupid," she went on. "The police are too busy facing the civilians to fend them off, and while you're at it, you leave your backs wide open. Colonel Radec sent us here to cover your backs. So if you have a problem with us, you've got one with him."
The Heavy behind her took a step forward with a weighty clunk and, from the sound of it, cocked the chaingun across his chest. Runa couldn't help smirking behind her helmet. An unnecessary gesture of support, but an appreciated one.
The policeman said nothing more to her, and instead turned away to snap at his comrades about following the army's lead from here on out. He must be their captain. The two groups remained distinctly separate inside the station while they double-checked the functions of their weapons and armor.
"Bloody police," an LMG trooper muttered. "Think they own the streets."
"Think their balls are so big swaggering up and down here," another trooper said, "but they'd rather shoot them off than ask the army for help."
A Heavy rumbled out scornful laughter. "The only good they ever do is hand out speeding tickets and fines for breaking curfew."
Runa interrupted the squad's police roast. "All right, men, that's enough. Cover their six at the sector square. I'll go locate the snipers."
She was left to herself, her knives, her sniper rifle, and her own thoughts as she embarked on her search. She had comms open to both her squad and the police channels, so exchanges from the radio kept her ears from being stuffed in complete, isolated silence. Drone footage and a holo-map guided her through one of the poorest sectors in Pyrrhus.
Smoke stacks from the wastewater treatment plant billowed in the distance. On the other side of the river were looming cranes from the ship channel. Somewhere in between were the slums, where workers and their families were packed in like sardines in a can. Runa couldn't quite tell where the smoke ended and the clouds began. The thick grayness of it all blotted out much of the sun, so that it could have been a waning evening, instead of an early afternoon, if she hadn't known any better. Even with the red-tinted vision of her goggles, she could tell that grimy rust coated nearly every inch of wall and fence like a systemic disease. Rubbish crunched under her boots, and the breeze picked up a few scraps that glanced off her legs before tumbling away.
This was the side of Helghan that her family didn't want her to see. The side of Helghan that felt strange and foreign, like a whole other world, even though she never set foot off the planet. All she knew of Helghan was the luxurious comfort of the family estate—until she turned eight, that is, when she snuck out to find that not everyone, hardly anyone, wore fine suits and dresses, and lived in sparkling, spotless homes. On what she thought would be a daring adventure, one of the first things she saw was a family cooking and eating their own dog. Seeing the majority living in such squalor startled and disgusted her enough that she still remembered that dog, browning and turning on the spit, with a shudder. Her father had given her quite the beating when he caught her. He had forbidden her from ever wandering back to the slums. She had to turn her head the other way, as if the poor didn't exist. Yet here she was, in a trash heap of a sector, and for all the ugliness and dreariness of the place, she'd rather be here than at her mother's funeral.
The deep voice of a Heavy crackled through the comms, breaking her chain of thought. "Lieutenant, we have visual on the citizens. We're on standby and prepared to engage."
"Copy that," she replied.
She picked her way through narrow, dingy alleys to stay out of sight as residents streamed out of their homes to protest at the square. Ever since Visari publicized plans to invade Vekta, as looming wartime incited a surge in industry and production, dissent sparked among the foolish and the few who dared to complain about the new working conditions.
Military access override could get Runa through the tallest buildings overlooking the square, where snipers found their ideal roost for picking off unsuspecting policemen. And as she climbed the stairwell of one of those buildings, she caught glimpses of Helghast letters, large and bold, stamped on handmade signs waved aloft in the crowd. Respirators obscured many faces, so the signs expressed their anger for them. She unsheathed a knife, ready for any resistance she might meet on the way up.
At the topmost floor, situated at the window facing the square, she sighted a hooded figure aiming his rifle downward. The reinforcing wall formed by Heavies and LMG troopers kept him from getting an easy sight on any policeman. Runa dived in for the kill, like a wolf on a sheep. Her blade slit open his throat before he could even turn to see who ambushed him. The man crumpled onto the floor. She studied his body as she pulled the rifle from his lifeless hands. He was hooded but not cloaked, and spent longer than necessary to aim before firing. Definitely a civilian, not military-trained. The rifle, however, was military standard, a proper VC32 sniper rifle. She frowned down at the logo of Visari Corporation, but pushed the question aside as quickly as it had come up. Act now, ask questions later. She took over the dead man's position, with his rifle braced in her hands. She had brought her own rifle just in case, but she wouldn't need it, after all. She had planned on neutralizing one of the snipers, then taking his place to pick off the others roosting nearby.
"I'm taking fire at my three and five o'clock," a Heavy reported. "You see where they're coming from?"
"They're in my sights," Runa said as she peered through the scope. Three other snipers, each stationed in his or her own building. She made quick work of taking them out, quicker than the snipers could figure out that their positions have been compromised. Deadly high-powered headshots made their necks snap back on impact. She was proficient, but certainly no expert marksman. Her skill lay more with knives than firearms. Then again, she didn't need to be an expert marksman to successfully kill untrained civilians.
Troopers and policemen alike fired rounds into the air to frighten and disperse the crowd, and turned their guns at the stubborn ones who refused to back down. Runa watched in grim silence at the chaos below, with a sour taste in her mouth that came with becoming the clear, easy victor.
With the army involved, the protestors were quickly subdued. Doubling curfew enforcement sent them off the streets, like cadaver beetles scuttling back into hiding.
Runa brought the dead man's rifle with her to the academy, presenting it before Radec. "Eliminating the targets was not the problem, sir," she said to wrap up her report. "The problem is that they've been in possession of weapons like this rifle."
"Indeed," the colonel agreed. "Civilians face severe punishment for concealing and owning firearms reserved for the military. We must look into who could be arming them." He stared down at the confiscated rifle laid out on his desk, as if expecting to find answers in it.
He looked up at her and went on, "Good work, Lieutenant, though hardly a challenge for you, I assume." He paused. "You're sure that you don't want to take the rest of the week off?"
"I'm quite sure, sir."
Radec leveled his gaze with Runa, his red lenses matching hers, and she wondered if this was when he'd question her work ethic, maybe ask why she was weirdly adamant about not attending the funeral. Instead he said, "At least unwind a bit before I send you out on another assignment. I value a hard-working soldier, but I've never met one so eager to throw him- or herself into more work so eagerly."
The slightest note of amusement tinged his voice. Was he teasing her? Was the strict, no-nonsense colonel even capable of teasing?
A long sigh rattled through his rebreather as he leaned into his chair to flex his back and roll his shoulders. "You're tense, I can tell. I feel it myself, after bending over my desk doing paperwork all day. Nothing like a bout of knife throwing to cure the tension, don't you agree, Lieutenant? After I review these last few papers I might join you shortly, if the shooting range is where you're headed."
She smiled behind her helmet. Radec could read her like an open book. Knife-throwing was her favorite pastime. The targets for knife-throwing were not as occupied as the targets for shooting, so Runa usually had no problem picking up a spot to practice.
Standing several meters before the target, its black, flat surface devoid of all features except for concentric rings drawn out by chalk, she could easily imagine her mother standing in its place. She could see the curl of her mother's blood-red lips, the sneer that persisted through heavy layers of makeup applied in vain to cover lines, blemishes, and pallor.
You're no soldier, she could hear her mother hiss in her ear. You're just playing pretend.
Runa hurled a knife right where between the eyes would be.
You're no daughter of mine, but a disgrace.
Runa sent another knife through the neck, but that failed to cut the vocal chords of the venomous voice sliding into her thoughts.
You can make men drop dead, but you can't even come say good-bye. You're a coward. You ran away when I needed you.
You didn't even want me, Runa almost slipped out through gritted teeth. She remembered being six years old, standing beside her mother, bathed in the light of the dressing room. Servants had helped them into corsets for a ball, and when they tightened it about her torso Runa remembered gasping in pain, and she remembered her mother snapping.
"Don't you dare make a peep of complaint. You're thin and pretty. You better enjoy that while it lasts." Vera grabbed at rolls of fat over her own midriff, deflecting the servant who was going to fit the corset over her. "Look at what you've done to me, Runa. You've ruined me. I can't go back to being beautiful again after having you, no matter how hard I've tried. It's like I gave it all to you." Vera grimaced as the servant moved in to put on the corset, then pointed down at Runa. "You need to put that to good use and make up for all the damage you've done."
"Yes, Mother, I will," six year-old Runa had said meekly, but twenty-one years later, she replied with the fling of a knife straight into the target's midriff.
From another corner in the basement of memories she'd rather forget: "No, I will do her hair myself." That was her mother dismissing the servants, insisting that she'd do the only thing she enjoyed when it came to her daughter.
"So much hair, such lovely hair," came the broken record of her mother's voice. "Even at the peak of my youth I didn't have this much. And now I have none."
Vera was diagnosed with ovarian cancer around the same time that eighteen year-old Runa had to prepare for her debutante ball. Chemotherapy only strengthened Vera's resentment and envy as it leeched out the weight she had wanted so badly to lose, but also the hair she wished she could keep.
"I can give my hair to you, Mother," she offered.
"No. Keep it. Long hair makes you highly desirable. Helghast men find long hair very attractive. Have you already forgotten what I've been teaching you all these years?" Vera shook her head as her fingers worked deftly through long blonde locks. "I will do everything in my power to make all the well-bred men want you. That's what mothers do for their daughters. Marry well to keep our family in good standing, Runa. Do you hear? That's all I ask. At least you're smart; this shouldn't be a challenge for you."
But it was. The debutante ball was a living nightmare. She had to stand around in a dress weighed down by lace and frills, in a dress too tight around her waist to accentuate her bust. Curtsying before partygoers, being forced to accept offers to dance, only drew the trap of her dress tighter about her. The smiles she faked hid her urge to scream. The swirling, flitting press of the crowd, the horde of men she had to woo and impress, made her want to retreat into a shell, like those Terran turtles she had read about. The night ended with bachelors clamoring for her hand. Her parents, tipsy from champagne and elated by the interest in their daughter, stayed up late with other parents of those men for lively discussion of arranged marriage and family alliances. Runa had no say in any of it. Her only job that night was to look pretty and let men flock around her like moths to a light. The ball was an auction, and she was paraded around like something fated to be sold to the highest bidder.
"You look stunning tonight, Runa," her mother said, and she actually smiled without sneering. No snide remarks followed, like "My hard work over your hair paid off," or "You ought to thank me. I'm waiting." Maybe it was the champagne that loosened her lips. Still, this was the nicest thing her mother had ever said to her.
Yet that left Runa feeling crushed, and that made her want to cry. This was what a woman in high society could look forward to for the rest of her life, what to expect as the highest honor, the greatest praise: being told how pretty she looked. And when she'd grow too old to be pretty, she would have to channel all her lost glory into daughters of her own.
Runa had decided the next day that she wanted no more part to play in this show. She found that her way of bowing out had been raised alongside her all this time. Armin, who rose quickly in the ranks and had the decorations to prove it, had needed no permission to join the military. Runa didn't bother to ask, because she knew that she had no right, and she knew what the answer would be. So she enlisted behind her parents' back. Thinking of her mother's upcoming round of chemo, Runa hacked off much of her hair to leave it behind in a clear plastic bag, as a parting gift and her way of farewell.
She slipped away from home without alerting anyone, not even the staff. She didn't want to stick around to witness her family's reaction. She entered the training program for elite shock troopers without looking back, and while her father professed disowning her shortly after her leave, she hadn't heard a word from her mother since she left. Vera took that silence with her to her death. Or so Runa had thought.
As with most Helghast, she didn't believe in the afterlife, but now Vera seemed to taunt her from beyond the grave she'd rest in this week. Despite the strength and precision of her throws, she could still hear her mother's voice poisoning her thoughts.
Show me how good you are, Runa. You've cut me out of your life before. It should be easier the second time. Come on. I know you can do it.
The mock encouragement ringing from her mother made Runa's grip on the knife go white-knuckled. Her throwing arm was a whipped blur in the air. The knife struck the target's head, her mother's head, dead center. Blade entirely sunk in, up to the hilt, just below the first knife. To Runa's relief, her mother fell silent. And to her surprise, tears dotted the corners of her eyes.