Grimspace (5 page)

“Jax,” March hisses. “Loras can't fight, Saul won't. Are
you crazy?”

That leaves me, Mair, Dina, and March, if he'll weigh in. Keri is a nonfactor, as she's still sniveling.

So yeah, I guess I am. After all this time, you would think I'd have earned a better death, but at least I'm going out swinging. I test the weight of the shockstick in my hand, and the Gunnars share a look among themselves, like some hive-mind critter, before they burst out laughing. I'm pretty sure these assholes are related, too. What is it with this fragging backwater planet?

“Oh, Ms. Jax, do be reasonable—” Carl says, as I sprint for him, duck a half-assed grab from one of his goons, open-hand-smash the bridge of No-chin's nose, then come down hard on the backswing upside meatwad's head.
Yeah, asshole,
that's
how it's done.
I smell the faint scent of sizzling skin as he crumples, the shockstick throwing blue sparks. Its live hum in my hands proves to the other five that I'm dead serious, and suddenly they realize they've got a fight on their hands.

It's a mistake people have made before. Because I'm small, they assume I'm also spineless, that I won't have the guts to back up the shit I talk. Carl shrieks like a woman, his nose spurting like I've cut his jugular or something.

“He's bleeding.” Keri moans. “Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, what have you
done
?”

Everyone sort of freezes and shares a look of unilateral horror. And I don't understand. It's just a damned bloody nose. I've got one, too. What's the big deal? But I use the time to make myself scarce, as his men rally, swinging slow because they're so big. They connect, and I'm going down, not in a good way. I don't have the strength to go one-on-one with any of these guys, but I'm betting my brain against theirs. These nulls don't know
how
to fight women; it's a different game, believe me.

As I dive between the legs of a big Gunnar, I see Mair wind up and slam her shockstick hard as she can between the V of another guy's thighs. Falling, he makes a noise that I can't say I've heard a human utter before, sort of like I imagine a puppy would sound being put through a juicer. He curls up on his side, covering those extra-crispy genitals with his palm, then she's after No-chin Carl. Guess a broken nose isn't satisfactory recompense for her loss. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes—that's for damn sure. And huh…for some reason the remaining Gunnars don't want to mess with Mair—they leave Carl to take his thrashing—and that has them hounding me. I evade a clumsy grab with a feint left, then I sprint for the rover.

Just like that, we've got a fair fight on our hands.

I'm not sure they want me alive anymore, but that's all right because they've got to catch me first. I use the rover, rounding it, then doubling back. If they think I'm going to stand still and take my beating, they're the crazy ones. It's a childish tactic, but it buys me some time as March shakes his head, glares at me, and throws a sloppy roundhouse. He gets stomach-slugged twice in rapid succession and doesn't even stumble. Making a second lap, I decide he's one tough son of a bitch and make a mental note never to gut-punch him. I'll go for the eyes instead.

Midfight, March glares at me, and for that sin, takes a solid uppercut to the jaw. I laugh out loud, starting to enjoy this. Shit, the two behemoths have figured out my little game, and this time, they anticipated my turn. My timing's off, but I dive between them, roll, and come up behind Saul, who regards me pleadingly. Don't know what he's asking, no breath to inquire because I've still got them on me and no way to shake them.

March can hold his own, but I have to deal with this somehow—

But not alone.
Leaping from atop the rover, Dina drops down on one of the flagella tailing me. She isn't a huge woman but she's muscular, and seventy kilos, landing hard, will flatten even a big guy if he's not braced. Her shockstick hums as she clubs him efficiently, although one hit really would've done it. Still, I can't help admire her artistry; he's going to have quite a nice pattern in minor burns, assuming he's not brain damaged by the time she's done.

I turn just in time to see March land the telling blow. The other guy's head snaps round, flecks of blood and spit spewing from his open, rubber-lipped mouth. They did it the old-fashioned way: no shocksticks, no finesse, just slug it out until someone falls over. In a one-on-one fight, I'm guessing that's rarely March. And probably because he's bleeding from a split lip and has what looks to be a nice shiner swelling on his left eye, March sinks his boot into the guy's ribs, hard enough that even
I
wince.

That leaves just one standing, against all of us, so I figure it's safe for me to stop running. He seems to realize that around the same time, nearly collides with me, then raises his hands, palms up, in a symbol of peaceable intentions.

“Truce?” he asks, and I realize it's the first time I've heard one of them speak. “The Gunnar clan would like to step back from this particular investment. It seemed like a good opportunity but the start-up costs”—he gestures at the fallen—“are prohibitive.”

“They killed my boy.” Mair finally rises, stiff and weary, from the broken body of her former financial advisor. Although I'm not a medical officer, I'm pretty sure Carl's not getting up. Ever. “I want them
all
executed, March. Here. Now. Every last one.”

“The gas is nontoxic!” The Gunnar defends himself, sounding desperate. “He must've experienced an allergic reaction. Swear it's nonlethal, the rest of you are fine.”

The doc hovers nearby, not quite wringing his hands in dismay, but it's close. I wonder if March surrounds himself with pacifists and untried boys for a reason. Make himself look better by comparison, maybe? I smirk as he narrows his eyes on me. God help me, but I love the fact that I can taunt him silently, even with this shit going on.

“Thank you,” I say softly to Dina, while the rest wait to hear what March is going to say. I know he's thinking things over, weighing factors of which I, in my almighty ignorance, am unaware.

She shrugs. “You got balls, bitch, even if you're dumber than a bag of hammers. We'll be lucky if we don't die today.”

Have to laugh at that, and damn me if I'm not starting to like her, even if she hates my guts. I'm glad she's on my side. Sort of.

“No.” Saul speaks into the silence. He's been circling among the bodies or soon-to-be-bodies, administering treatment. “Carl Zelaco betrayed an honorable contract with clan Dahlgren for the hope of financial gain. While clan Gunnar pursued this investment”—he glances at me as if I'm a walking, talking stock certificate—“with regrettable vehemence, they intended no harm to clan Dahlgren, save financial embarrassment. A life for a life; it is fair frontier justice.”

March surprises me by nodding—I guess Saul functions as his conscience. God knows I didn't sense anything like one while we were jacked in together. Mair hisses, and I half expect her to fly at Saul. I even step in front of him, although honestly I don't want to take this old woman on. She is fragging
scary
. But then Keri surprises me with a firmness I hadn't expected of her:

“He's right,” she states. “Let's go. We still have business to discuss.” Right now, there's a resemblance to Jor in the set of her mouth, and her red-rimmed eyes shine with a hard light, although that may be the way the setting sun reflects in her pupils.

“I will
not
forget you,” the Gunnar clansman says. And yeah, he's looking at me.

I give him my best grin. “Nobody ever does.”

All this time, Loras has been staring up at the sky, as if he lives in a world the rest of us simply cannot perceive. He's dreamy-vague, golden curls and sapphire eyes, a fey, graven look that gives his features an inexplicable purity. Now that I study him closer, I realize he's not young so much as ageless, his face untouched by time or worry. There's a certain kind of madness in his face, as if he cannot care for anything enough to be moved by it, and I have to look away. But he draws my eyes back as he speaks.

“We should go,” he says quietly, expressionlessly. Studying the angle of the sun. “If we hope to reach the compound by nightfall. They're coming.”

“Shit.” For once, March seems to speak for all of us.

“They
who
?”

It's like the tenth time I've asked, but no one's answering me. Instead they're rushing to and fro trying to get all the wounded loaded into the Gunnar Landcruiser. The dead have already been dumped unceremoniously into the cargo space in back, and it shakes me down to my bones, the way Keri accepts that.

If she knows she can't afford to indulge in grief, moan and whimper and sob on March's shoulder, it can only be because she knows something really bad is coming, something that will require all of us, functioning at our peak, to survive it. My breath puffs out smoky like a devil's sigh, and I'm shivering all over. Their silence is frightening me more than anything I've ever known.

“We've done everything we can here,” March says finally. “All aboard, we've got to make tracks.”

“We'll never stay ahead of them,” Keri answers in a monotone. “There isn't a land vehicle fast enough, and they can pry off armored plating—”

I realize it's not resolve buoying her up. She's numb with despair, and I know this is my fault even if I don't understand what's happening entirely. But the others are too accustomed to listening to March to heed the girl's objections. One by one, they climb inside, and the Gunnar takes his place at the wheel. It's close, not meant to carry this many, and so I wind up on someone's lap. Not surprisingly, March holds Keri, carefully although not possessively. I'm figuring out she's like a little sister to him. Maybe if I had a brother, he'd treat me like that, too.

I glance down at Dina, who rolls her eyes. “You're so not my type,” she tells me, although she does wind her arms about my waist, probably to keep me from hitting my head. “Scrawny little bitch.”

“Dahlgren compound is closest,” the Gunnar murmurs, presumably laying in the course as his fingers fly across the consoles. “We'll make for it and pray.”

Loras pauses in his low chanting. “Already on it.”

“Would someone please tell me what's coming?”

“You called them,” Keri tells me, pale green eyes eerie in the half-light. “With the blood. They live in the caves and only come above to feed, they'll descend in hordes…”

Before I can erupt and start pulling her hair out in sheer frustration, Saul elaborates. “They're a native Lachion life-form, one of the few things that seems to have thrived here—” He gestures, and glancing between the miniscule gap in the plated panels at the barren plain, I can see why survival might be difficult. “Largely because the creatures eat anything that moves…”

“Or doesn't move,” Mair adds, cheerful as a death's-head.

Saul continues as if he hasn't been interrupted, as if he's giving a lecture, and we ought to have holo-recorders fixed on him, lest we forget something important later. “In some regards they are akin to
Nyctosaurus gracilis
, from the Upper Cretaceous of western Kansas. That was part of Old Terra,” he adds, seeming to notice that some of his audience look blank.

“There used to be great herds on Lachion,” the old woman tells me. “Bison. We cloned and raised 'em here. We didn't know about the Teras then. Didn't know why nobody had developed this world. It seemed like hard work but doable.”

“But you can't see them coming,” Keri says in a reed-thin voice. I see March rubbing her back, his expression as soft as I've seen it. “Just hear their wings.”

Now I've got this image of these flying things, mouths full of jagged teeth to rend, talons to pry the metal off the Landcruiser, and leathery wings that carry them faster than anything can move on the ground. Plus, you can't see them coming. And
this
is better than my cell, better than Psych Officer Newel? Maybe. Despite myself I shudder, but Dina doesn't stroke my back comfortingly.

Instead she says, “And you called them down on us, dumb-ass.”

“Er, yes.” The doc looks discomfited. “The Teras are natural hunters, and they've evolved a very complex camouflage mechanism that approximates invisibility. True invisibility is impossible, naturally, but—”

“Quiet.” March holds up a hand, and everyone in the vehicle stops breathing. Or damn near. Over the rumble of the Landcruiser, I'm pretty sure I can make out the faint sound of wings. To make that kind of noise, there must be—“Hundreds,” he says, after a moment. “And closing fast. Will this heap go any faster?”

The Gunnar shakes his head. “Got her wide-open right now. I've got their heat signatures on-screen, and I figure our paths are going to intersect a good ten minutes before we reach the compound.”

“They'll be on us in less than four minutes,” Loras informs us. Nobody asks him how he knows that or how he was able to sense the Teras stirring in the first place. I'm sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.

“Powering up the shock fields.” March flips a few switches, and I can hear a new hum in addition to the engines and the ominous rush of wings growing ever closer. Through the seams between panels I can see that the light is going, and I wish that didn't fill me with such inexorable dread.

“That'll deter them a little while.” The Gunnar's knuckles gleam white where he's gripping the steering console a little too tightly.

His brothers are starting to come around, some of them. The one Mair whacked in the jimmy asks, “What the hell are we doing with Dahlgrens, bro?” Then pauses, registering the sound: “Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, we got Teras incoming?” He levels angry blue eyes on me. “You're a hex, lady, dark luck, powerful bad juju, ken?”

“Only to people who try to kidnap me,” I tell him sweetly, and March snorts, so I feel obliged to add, “Or rescue me…” And then Dina makes a
pfft
sound. “Or who travel with me…” My gaze sweeps around the darkened interior, trying to find an ally, but nobody will hold my eyes more than two seconds, it seems. “Fine, frag you all, I'm dark juju, bad luck, and you're all doomed.”

“I don't think you're bad luck,” Saul says, touching my shoulder lightly. “I think you're the best hope we've had since the Corp bought out and shut down Clericon Stellar twenty turns ago.”

Before I can ask what the hell he means, something thumps hard against the roof, slinging the Landcruiser sideways. I almost hear something, just above the range of human hearing, but Loras flinches, trembling visibly, and I can see a thin trickle of blood seeping from his nostrils. Something…sonic about these Teras, and poor Loras with his hypersenses, their screams hurt him? Well frag me, that's…really…not good.

The shock fields hiss as bodies hit them, and I smell the obscene odor of frying meat. But each time the power surges, the engines splutter, and the Gunnar finally says, “Turn 'em off, March. We're going to stall out. There's just too many of them, and they're overloading the systems.”

Mair says softly, in praise, “You bought us some time.”

“It'll be enough.” Keri lifts her head from his shoulder long enough to deliver this vote of confidence. “March never lets us down.”

There's always the first time,
I think sourly, and am rewarded with a glare.

“Hard part's going to be getting from the Landcruiser into the compound,” the Gunnar says, fighting with the steering column now. I can tell that only his raw physical strength is keeping the 'cruiser from being towed off course. But he's tiring; I can tell that, too. “Unless you've remodeled according to my recommendations since the last time I was there.”

Mair's expression seems to indicate she didn't want to take advice from a Gunnar, a fact that we're all going to regret before much longer. But I'm distracted by the way Loras covers his ears, shaking uncontrollably. Once I'd have thought he was weak, terrified, maybe having a seizure, but now I know it's agony, pure and simple. He isn't human. I'm suddenly positive of it. He's more than a savant, and people are treating him like he's furniture, subhuman, not worthy of their regard. Even the doc, who by certain sworn oaths,
should
give a shit, doesn't seem to.

Kneeing Dina in the chest, I crawl over the seat, pushing my way back between Gunnar brothers until I reach Loras. He regards me, eyes wide and blank, tuned to the frequency that seems to be liquefying his brain. It's not just their screams of pain; he can hear everything, their calls to one another, their rage. Hunger. What it must be like, experiencing that, I cannot begin to imagine, but it makes him like me, alien in his way.

And for that I want to help him.