Havoc (12 page)

12

The Wounded Queen

Jael had been pacing for hours.

You matter,
he said in his head. But it would sound like bullshit if he ever said it out loud, especially when they were at war. They had to live in the moment, even if each one thrummed with the bittersweet resonance of mourning drums. He drew in a breath, as if he could hold her in his lungs, as if he could keep her with him always. But she always felt like starlight in his palms, dazzling but ephemeral. Anxiety welled up, haloed in fear. He understood now what she'd meant when she said,
I care, and I don't want to. It makes me sick to my stomach.
Just then he felt like puking.
Imagine how bad this would be if she hadn't talked it over with me first.

So when Dred came tumbling over the barrier and violence exploded on the other side, he was torn in his impulses. He wanted to kill the bastards chasing her, but he also wanted to squeeze her until she couldn't breathe. One was more urgent than the other, so he bounded to the top of the scrap wall, found a place to brace his rifle, and opened fire. The merc commander shouted furiously at his men to disengage, but one of them had been badly wounded by the junk bomb. His helmet was scattered around in him several pieces, his scalp gushing blood. His comrades made several runs to try to save him—brave, loyal bastards—but the turrets pushed them back. While they hovered just outside the kill zone, Jael took aim and finished what Dred had started. The downed soldier's face sizzled and burned while his mates looked on, roaring with murderous rage.

Jael called, “Come on in! Don't let the turrets stop you.”

He peered down at the body.
Damn.
The armor was too damaged from the explosion to be used though Ike might be able to jury-rig something from it. He couldn't see the man in charge until one merc edged forward as if trying to retrieve the body. Jael took aim, and the soldier dove for cover, swearing so he could hear it even over the firing turrets.
I know that voice. That's Vost. Kudos for trying not to leave a man behind.

“Time to cut our losses and regroup.” The merc commander seemed to be making sure Jael could hear him, too.

He respected the man for keeping his temper in the face of provocation. It was easy to blow off steam and rant threats you had no means of carrying out. The fact that Vost hadn't done that, had instead calculated the odds and chosen to fall back, didn't bode well for Queensland long term. It meant he was a smart leader, one who plotted his battles and achieved success through patience and planning.

“Help me,” he said to the sentry, once he was sure the mercs were gone.

The man went over the barricades with him, no questions, and together, they hauled the fallen merc and his gear over to the Queensland side. Close up, the armor was beaten to shit, helmet worthless, but his squad hadn't been able to retrieve his rifle. Jael turned to Dred and lifted the second rifle in a triumphant gesture. She leaned against the wall, one arm crooked as if it pained her, but he knew better than to draw attention to the injury.

“How'd you do?” he asked, loud enough for others to hear.

“Took out eight mercs and around twenty of Mungo's men.”

“No fragging way.” The sentry actually took a step back.

Martine shoved the guard from behind. “Why do you think they were
chasing
her, genius? To chat?”

“Backup squad?” Jael guessed.

Dred nodded. “They showed just as the fight was ending, tried to run me down. Too bad. Five minutes more, and I'd have come back loaded down with presents.”

Instead of shot up and pale with pain.

But it was more than that, actually. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them, and her lips were dry and cracked. She
looked
as if she'd been in the wilderness for a week with little food and water.
Is that what your power does, love? Burns you out like a branch alight at both ends?
Small tremors shook her from head to toe; at this point, she seemed to be standing more through will than strength.

“Why didn't you just kill them, too?” the guard asked.

It was a good question. If the sentry believed she'd taken out eight mercs, plus twenty brutes, and had barely a scratch on her, what was ten more mercs in heavy armor? They need to scotch those inquiries, or the men would argue that Dred should go out alone and kill the enemies herself. Sometimes a legend swelled so big, it became unwieldy.

“She's not a machine,” Ike said testily, bending to examine the armor. “Just look at her, she's exhausted. You would be too if you'd fought that hard.”

The guard seemed to come to the same conclusion after a quick inspection. “No, I'd be dead,” he said with what Jael judged to be impressive self-awareness.

“Exactly, so stop bitching that she didn't kill
all
the mercs in one go, you moron.” Any other Queenslander, himself included, would be guaranteed a fight with those words, but Ike had apparently earned some respect due to his longevity.

“Sorry,” the sentry said.

But Ike wasn't paying attention; he was already stripping the armor off the body, probably to see what he could do with it. Nothing went to waste in here. With everyone else occupied watching the old man, Jael turned to Dred and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, making sure it was a casual gesture. He also took care to stay on her uninjured side.

“Let's get these rifles to the armory,” he said.

As soon as they left the common room, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed the hell out of her. Her lashes fluttered shut, and he listened to the thrum of her galloping heart. For the first time, it moved him knowing he could make somebody else feel that way. Before, he'd always used it as a tool for gauging potential success or failure of emotional manipulation. Then she shoved him away, and he saw stark terror in her green eyes.

“It's a good thing the mercs don't know how little ammo we have left for the turrets. Or they'd have stayed and baited them until we ran out. Then they storm the place.”

His satisfaction in her success died a lonely death. If she'd taken out eight, and he'd dropped two, that only equaled one squad. There were still forty mercs on station, and they wouldn't go out easy. Vost would make sure of it. He'd learn from his mistakes and fight smarter, going forward. Jael also suspected he'd be able to predict their strikes better. An experienced commander was gifted at assessing his enemy's tactics and extrapolating.

It only gets harder from here.

“How bad are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Just a laser bolt. I'll live.”

He'd never heard anyone shrug off injuries like he did, and in a strange way, it made him feel less alone. No longer was he the solitary monster. Maybe he should feel bad about doing that to her, but instead he wanted to swing her around until they were both dizzy. But there was no time be playful, hardly even a moment to breathe. Life was a constant state of crisis—without any of the small pleasures that Perdition had previously allowed—like downing a drink with some mates over a bowl of Cook's goulash.

“Can you move your arm?”

She showed him. “Hurts, but I can.”

“It'll burn like a bitch for about two days if my back is anything to judge by. Then you should be all right.”

Dred gave him a fleeting smile. “Let's hope for a couple of quiet days then. It would be nice if Mungo and Silence kept the mercs away for a while.”

“They won't do it on purpose, that's for sure.”

“No, I've been failing at diplomacy lately. Not that Mungo ever
sent
envoys.”

“And from what I hear, he'd eat any that you dispatched.”

“I saw him a while back, before he turned into such a beast.”

“Yeah?” Jael invited her to elaborate with the question in his tone.

Her tone was cool and remote, as if she were relaying events she'd heard about long ago. “Artan had taken me to the neutral zone to recruit . . . always attracted more men by putting me on display. Back then, he kept me shackled to him by a five-meter chain, and he held the end of my leash.”

“Ownership,” he said, hoping his voice didn't give away his utter rage.

“Precisely. That day, Mungo came to recruit in person though that's probably the wrong word. He had half a dozen bruisers with him and they carried off ten men. Didn't talk to them, just claimed them like slabs of meat.” She paused, gazing inward at that memory. “I remember thinking he had dead eyes, even more than Artan. It was the first and only time I was ever glad I let him take me.”

“You can choose not to answer, but . . . why do you wear the chains? If Artan—”

She took a step forward, reaching for weights that weren't there. The gesture told Jael more than she likely realized. “After he died, I made them mine, so they're not a mark of how he owned me anymore. They're the way I kill anyone who tries.”

“I understand.” He did, probably better than she realized.

“These rifles won't store themselves.” She moved around him and headed for the room now serving as the armory.

Though he wanted to, he didn't offer to help her. She maneuvered the weapon with one arm and keyed in the code to unlock the door, then stowed the gear with stilted movements that told him more clearly than any complaint how much pain she was in. Times past, he could've offered her a wide variety of chem to dull it, but those days were long gone.

“Why is there a still, but nobody's taken to manufacturing pharmaceuticals in here?”

“Short version? No skilled chemists have washed up in Queensland. Silence might have product, but she's not one for free trade.”

“Probably just as well. Chem brings its own share of problems,” Jael said. “Wonder what Ike's decided about the armor.”

Dred brightened. “I'd love if he could patch it together somehow.”

“I wouldn't rule it out. He's a clever devil.”

“If I know him, he'll say, ‘Quit bothering me, you're in my light, I'll tell you when I know something and not a minute before.'” Dred deepened her voice, adopting a gruff tone that actually resulted in a fair imitation of the old man. “Still, I have to make the effort. I need to have an accurate picture of our resources.”

“You
are
the Dread Queen after all.” But the words didn't come out teasing, as he intended. To his chagrin, Jael heard a sort of reverence instead.

Fortunately, Dred was too preoccupied to notice. It was better if she never realized how close she was to holding his heart in her hands. They went to the supply closet where Ike did his best work and found him already tinkering. The old man was on his knees beside the armor, cursing it roundly as he failed to mend it with a scrap of metal.

“Need a damned soldering kit. Might find one down in the repair bay . . .” Ike glanced up from beneath bushy white brows. “What do you want?”

“To know whether we'll be using that gear in any capacity.”

“How am I supposed to know? I just got started on it.” He made a shooing motion. “It's too small for all three of us in here. If one of you wants to stay to lend me a hand, have at it. Otherwise, scuttle.”

“I might prove useful,” Jael said.

By Dred's expression, she knew he'd offered so she had an excuse to rest. “Thanks. Keep me posted.”

“Always do, your highness.” Ike was already back to work, barking orders.

It took all of Jael's self-control not to watch her go.

13

Immigration

The next morning, the burn on Dred's arm was red instead of black. It still hurt, but she could manage it.
No weakness allowed. You're damn near invincible. So go prove yourself.
It had been late when Jael slipped into the bunk, after long hours he'd spent working with Ike, and they didn't talk. He was gone when she woke up.

She was about to go spar with the men when a commotion at the eastern barricade demanded her intervention. The sentry was shouting his head off, so she went at a run, expecting to find an invasion force at the very least. But to her astonishment, she found the guard spinning wildly, trying to defend against the bulk of Katur's aliens.

She had
no
idea how they'd gotten past the barricades, but they must know of secret secondary passages from time spent exploring the station. Dred spotted Katur and Keelah standing toward the back, guarded by a couple of Rodeisians. There were only three or four of the oversized species left alive; there had been more before Grigor went hunting. Counting quickly, she tallied twenty-two bodies. Some were small and furry; others were slim and scaled, and there was an alien with tentacles on its head, each one moving with the hypnotic grace she associated with sea creatures. There was even an Ithtorian among them. In vids, they had been popular even on the backwater colony where she'd grown up, something to do with a famous Ithtorian bounty hunter turned war hero. Her grasp of history, particularly as related to the Morgut War, wasn't all that it should be.

“Stand down,” she told the agitated guard. “I've got this.”

“I greet you in peace,” Keelah said courteously.

Dred returned the words, studying Katur. His whiskers twitched in what she took for alarm. On second glance, she noted that some of the aliens were wounded, leaning on one another for support.
Whatever's going on, this definitely isn't an attack.
When she met its bulging eyes, the tentacled alien bowed low, an unquestionable sign of respect in any culture.

“When I suggested we rescind our KOS policy, I didn't know you'd bring the village for a visit,” Dred said to Katur.

He inclined his head. “I have a story to tell, Dread Queen, and a request to make.”

She didn't want the guard eavesdropping, and it seemed like a bad idea to march so many aliens into the common room. There was a space behind the hydroponics garden, once dedicated to R&D but now mostly full of cobwebs and dust. It wasn't the most impressive place to host a summit, but it offered privacy, at least.

So she beckoned the group and led them to where she could entertain Katur's petition.

“I'm listening.”

“After the mercenary leader left Queensland, I suspect he needed blood to reassure his soldiers of their superiority and put the heart back into them. Since there aren't many of us, the mercenaries marched on the Warren.”

“Shit.” Dred thought she knew where this was headed.

Katur went on, “Since you'd warned us, we had an escape plan, but we didn't have the numbers or munitions to fight the mercenaries.”

“How many did you lose?” she asked.

“Twenty-six.” Keelah gave the number with a hitch in her breath. Her furred hands twisted together in a small pantomime of grief. “We're all that's left.”

Regret went through her like a blade. “I'm sorry. What's your request?”

Keelah and Katur exchanged a look, and then the female spoke. “Sanctuary. In return, we will teach you what we've learned of the station's hidden places. Some of us are crafters. Others are technicians. We can help. We won't be deadweight.”

They didn't accuse her, but Dred bore a portion of responsibility for what had happened in the Warren. She'd enraged Commander Vost, and he'd gone on a killing spree, seeking the softest targets to restore his unit's nerve. The aliens had been caught in the cross fire, and she couldn't let them be wiped out. With the losses she'd taken in the conflict with Grigor and Priest, she had room for twenty more.

And then some.

Dred didn't need to consult with anyone else to know the right answer. “You can stay. Welcome to Queensland. There are a few rules. No fighting, unless it's a sanctioned grudge match . . . I'll tell you more about the games later. They've been suspended indefinitely for the moment. No stealing. Sleep with whomever you please as long as he or she is willing. Follow the work roster, complete tasks as assigned, and practice decent hygiene.”

“That's all?” the Ithtorian asked.

Since she'd heard their native tongue in vids, he must have a vocalizer implanted. “Yeah, why?”

Katur explained, “There were a lot more rules in the Warren, mostly to do with respecting each other's culture.”

Briefly, Dred wished she'd thrown in with the aliens rather than taking Artan's bait. It sounded like life had been much better down there.
But
if
I had, they would've had no place to go, as Artan's realm wouldn't have lasted long against the mercs.
So she hoped that maybe things happened for a reason even though she suspected that belief in a benevolent power was the last refuge of a lazy mind.

She answered apologetically, “You won't find that here. Many of these convicts are left from Artan's days, and they're brutes.”

“So they're likely to pummel us for praying?” Katur asked.

“If they catch you? Count on it.”

She wasn't sure how anyone could hold on to faith in a place like this, but maybe this was where a man needed it most. A long-forgotten memory bubbled up—usually she tried not to remember her parents, to wonder if they were alive or dead, or how ashamed they must be—but she remembered her mother's murmuring over the evening meal a litany of thanks to Mary and pleas for the health and comfort of her loved ones.
Hail Mary, full of grace. Thy spirit is with me. Blessed are we among all people, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, this world. Holy Mary, Mother Goddess, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
It seemed she could recall the words in their entirety; but then, her mother had spoken them each night before bed, murmuring beside Dred's bunk.

They must be old now. If the Science Corp hasn't tracked my dad down. If they're still alive out there.
But framing the mental question hurt so much, she had to stop. Most days, it was best to consider Perdition the beginning and the end of the universe, as reminders that it used to be so much bigger and more beautiful could kill her with the longing.

With effort, Dred put aside the unusual introspection and beckoned to the newcomers. “It'll be best if I introduce you right away.”

“Thank you,” Katur said.

She didn't kid herself that this would be a smooth and seamless integration. Nonetheless, she strode into the common room with the aliens in her wake. Men froze, then scrambled to their feet; most had weapons in their hands before she could speak. So she vaulted onto the nearest table and let out a bloodcurdling war cry. The shock stilled the Queenslanders for a few moments, then she unwound the chains from her arms and slammed them three times against the tabletop, chipping off bits of resin.

“Are you listening, men? I'm in no mood to repeat myself.”

“Yes, my queen!” The reply didn't come as neat in unison as it ordinarily did, but since no combat had broken out, she'd call it adequate.

“Today, you join me in welcoming new warriors to Queensland. You will
not
judge them by their skins. You will treat them as any other comrade. Is that clear?”

“Filthy alien-loving bitch!” From her vantage, she couldn't identify the malcontent, but Tam and Martine tag-teamed him, dragging him out of the crowd.

Jael followed them, but he didn't intervene.
Just as well.
The rest of the men needed to see she had support from people she wasn't sleeping with.

With a sharp smile, Martine kicked him in the gut, and the scrubby man bent double. He was almost as old as Ike but less prepossessing, with greasy iron gray hair and a matted beard. From the way his mouth had sunken in, Dred didn't imagine he had many teeth, and his cheeks were veined from years of hard drinking. His small eyes shone with hatred over being asked to cooperate and cohabitate with nonhumans.

So many years after the Morgut War, after aliens saved us, and we still hate like this.

Though she could scarcely afford to lose a single man, Dred had to make an example of him. “You're saying you'd rather die than follow my edict?”

She scanned the crowd to see how they were taking this, and they seemed more interested in the prospect of a sudden execution than the arrival of a few aliens. That was good. The spectacle would probably grind the edge off their xenophobia. She wouldn't goad someone to this point, but this Queenslander seemed to have a death wish.

“Damn straight.” He screwed his mouth up as if to spit on her, and Tam backhanded him so hard, the old man hit the ground with a spatter of blood.

When he climbed to his knees, practically snarling, his lips were split and stained against his gums. Dred didn't let pity move her. Yes, he was decrepit, but he could also sow hatred and rebellion among her people.
It can't stand.

So she merely nodded, and said to Tam and Martine, “Hold him.”

They complied, one on each arm, and she could tell that Martine in particular enjoyed keeping the captive on his knees. She kicked him as he fought to rise. The severity of his situation didn't seem to have sunk in yet. While she ran a less bloody regime than Artan, it didn't mean she was the forgiving sort.

She turned to Cook, who was standing nearby with his chopping knife. “Get Einar's axe, please.”

They kept it hanging in a place of honor on the wall, so the chef jogged across the room. The axe was a huge weapon, crafted especially for the big man who had fallen just before the battle with Grigor, out of scrap metal and honed to razor sharpness. The steel haft had leather wrapped around it to make it easier to hold, and it was stained dark from so much blood. She suspected the cost of rebellion must be sinking in when the old man pissed his pants.

Cook made a production of the retrieval, pulling it off the wall with great ceremony, then he lofted it a few times, just so the spectators had a sense of how bloody huge the thing was. Dred took it without revealing how much the weight pulled at her injured arm.
Hope I've got enough range of motion to see this through.
She'd lose credibility if she had to summon someone to perform executions, now that Einar was gone.

Miss the big guy.

“Hold him for me,” she instructed Cook.

In reply, Cook forced the old man down and shoved a chair under his cheek to serve as the chopping block. Dred took a couple of practice swings and then cut clean through the old devil's neck in one slam. The head bounced away in a red streak while his neck jetted blood all over the floor. She kicked the body down, then raised the weapon.

“Anyone else want to debate immigration policy with me?”