Havoc (7 page)

“Not happening,” she said cheerfully. “I owe you, was my fault we ended up like that. And if I get how these things work, we were on the verge of an understanding, yeah?”

He choked out a gasp of a laugh. “It would be my pleasure.”

*   *   *

VOST
strode through the command center, inspecting the facilities. The station was shot to shit, not worth the time it took to clean it out, but the payday had been too much for him to refuse.
Resistance has been heavier than we were led to expect, too.
But that was nearly always the case with bureaucratic assholes; they drew up mission parameters without regard for real-world conditions. They drew up charts, graphs, and budgets, then expected a miracle from their hired grunts.

He deployed the drone cams to keep track of the patrols. He watched a bizarre three-way battle, and he saw two of the combatants break free and bolt. The fact that they dropped from above told him that they weren't run-of-the-mill convicts; they had the brains to try and avoid his patrols, but something told him that wasn't their main motivation. Vost noted their faces as best he could and watched the fight for a few seconds before ascertaining that his men were wiping out the savages armed with blades and spears. A few of the prisoners seemed to be trying to attack with their damned teeth, useless against heavy armor.

Which means they're completely insane.

Shaking his head, he checked on the mainframe/handheld connection. This room had antiquated equipment, but he plugged in his own gear, interfacing where necessary to update the 'ware. Before he finished the job, his second-in-command, Casto, strode up. He was a tall man with mud brown hair and deep-set eyes. Not even his mother would call him attractive, but he was dogged and persistent, and he didn't break in battle, no matter how many assholes were coming at him. Vost admired those nerves of steel though he also wondered if the man was slightly brain-damaged. Fear was a normal response, one a soldier had to learn to overcome, hut Casto didn't seem to experience it. However, he also had a strong sense of self-preservation, and he didn't take stupid risks. That was part of why Vost had chosen him as his second. He wasn't likely to risk the men in some misguided desire to be a hero. No, Casto was too selfish for that. Given the option, the man would always choose to live and fight another day.

The lieutenant wore a frown and a thoughtful expression. While the former looked natural on him, the latter did not. “I'm not sure dividing the men so soon was the best idea. These assholes are more aggressive and more organized than they said.”

Vost nodded. Well enough, he remembered the meeting with the Conglomerate drone in his expensive suit and his smooth Rejuvenex face.
“They've probably devolved into an animal state by now. It won't be a normal black op. It'll be easier, I imagine. Just like shooting a bunch of rabid dogs.”
Then he'd made an offer so astronomical that Vost hadn't asked any more questions; he'd simply rallied his men the next day.

But he couldn't reveal misgivings this early in the engagement. “We'll clear this place. It'll just take a little longer than we thought.”

Casto lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “If you say so. Then, shall I take the rest and see how many I can kill?”

Inspiration struck. This initiative would counter the unwelcome surprise that the job might take weeks instead of days. “Sometimes I think you're smarter than you look, Casto. I've already got the morons mowing each other down. Now I need to motivate our guys.”

“What?” Casto was young to be second-in-command of a highly paid merc outfit, and subtlety wasn't his forte.

But Vost wasn't talking to him anymore. He put on his helmet and activated the internal communication system. “Attention, all units. I hope you're keeping track of your kills. Use the helmet cam to document and the one with the highest body count will receive a 25 percent bonus on top of his usual cut.”

An excited, collective “Yes, sir” came back to him, then he cut the comm connection, not wanting to distract the men hunting with wondering if he was listening in. Sometimes he did, of course, but they never knew about it. And he'd go on patrol next time personally, once all the equipment was set up. He couldn't lead these men if he wasn't as good at killing as they were. Better in some cases.

“You can go ahead and transfer that into my account,” Casto said with a cocky grin. Then he whipped a quick salute and spun in tight posture to find his squad.

“And then there was one,” Vost muttered.

He hated this part of an op, but since he was the best with the gear—and the mission would suffer from lack of reliable intel—he completed the installation and made sure all tech was shaking hands and playing nice. He whizzed through activating the drone cams and sent them out to map the facility. A few early missteps before they found the tech lab had shown him that the schematics he'd been given were hopelessly outdated. The cons had been inventive in making the station their own; there were traps and hidden defenses all over the place, and if it hadn't been for the damned expensive armor, he would've already been a man down just in setting up the command outpost.

One by one, his screens lit up with preliminary footage from his bots. They showed about what he expected, then he sent out a warning to Bravo team. “There's mooks on the move, twenty of them. No weapons that can penetrate your armor. Continue as you are, and you'll be on them in approximately 150 meters.”

“Copy that,” Bravo leader came back. “I can taste those extra credits already.”

He watched as the unit engaged, and the battle was clean, surgical, even. Whoops rang over the comm as the last fell, then the men moved on. He watched as more images came in and wondered why he felt unsettled.
Probably because that Conglomerate asshole made this job sound too good to be true.

Things that seemed that way usually were.

6

Best-Laid Plans

Mungo's crew wasn't quite to the west barricades yet. They came in, lurching drunkenly toward the wall, activating the turrets. From his vantage on the other side, Jael watched as the guns mowed them down, but there were enough bodies that they used the death of their mates to push forward. The wall of junk teetered as the brutes scrambled toward the other side, bullets drilling them from the back. Jael was taking a risk by defending close up; his men stood to the rear, waiting for him to kill the enemy or for the cannibals to leave the turret's range. One mongrel managed to ram his head through the gap, and Jael was waiting with a blade. He shanked the brute in the neck and left his corpse to block the way.

From behind, another of the brute's cohorts shoved until the body fell and he took his place. The screams of the dying men echoed until Jael's ears rang with them. The pressure eased as the rounds slammed into the enemy trying to breach their defenses. Jael killed a couple more who made it to the top and yanked them through so he could keep fighting, but the last one died on the floor in a spray of ammunition. The turrets fell silent.

He risked another look, and the hall was clear.
Must've been more of them on the other side.
In the corridor, there were fourteen bodies blown full of holes in various poses, starting from the beginning of the sensor activation all the way to the wall. Then they were piled high enough that he couldn't see for sure how many there were. Nothing for it but to climb over, haul the corpses, and start rebuilding the barricade.

“How many dead over there?” Dred asked, striding up.

Her checkpoint must've held. In here, good news was rare enough that he'd take this as a victory. But he was damned tired of the stench of blood and bodily functions, weary of the endless carnage. Before, it was only a job. Now he wanted out with a ferocity that made the recycled air taste coppery and thin, too tainted for breathing.

Jael lifted a shoulder. “We'll have to take inventory as we deal with the bodies.”

“The barricades helped, at least.” What she didn't say was how fast Mungo's men crawled over them . . . and how determined they were. Nothing deterred them. “I've got Grigor's louts tidying up on the north side. I'll send them over here when they finish.”

“I'll get the work started,” Jael said.

They had been hauling corpses for a while when Martine stumbled back toward the checkpoint. Jael saw her coming, dropped the dead mongrel he was carrying, and powered down the turrets. Tam was pale and sweaty, his jaw clenched with the effort of moving on an injured leg.

“A little help?” she shouted.

Jael ran toward them and lifted the other man without asking for permission. “I'll take you to Dred's quarters, and we'll see how bad it is.”

Dred nodded. “Bunk there until you feel better, no arguments. It's the cleanest place in Queensland.”

“Thanks,” the man said hoarsely.

An hour later, it was clear Tam wouldn't be going on recon missions anytime soon.
We didn't count on this.
There was no telling how long the spymaster would be out of commission. He was resting at the moment, with Martine looking after him, but his injuries meant they couldn't include him in any plans for a while. Since his skill set was hard to replace, it put them in a hell of a bind.

Dred met him in the hallway. “We'll bed down in the barracks tonight.”

“Understood.”

He didn't sleep well, mostly because he wasn't used to being surrounded by other people. Though the room was sparsely populated, there were too many lungs pushing air in and out, too many hearts thumping away. He felt like shit when he rolled out of the bunk, and he definitely missed the private shower. The public facilities had a dank, yeasty smell.

“I think I've come up with a workable solution,” Dred said after breakfast.

She filled him in. After he learned what she had in mind, Jael wondered if Vix and Zediah could really sub in for Tam and Martine. He'd never done field work with them, never seen them do anything at all outside the garden. Yet Queensland needed every advantage it could muster, and timing was critical.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

Dred nodded. “I asked a few key questions. They're both smart, the most technical-minded I could find on short notice.”

“Then I can't wait to watch them work.”

“Is everyone ready to go?” Dred asked.

“As we'll ever be,” Vix murmured.

Despite her scars, she radiated a peculiarly peaceful air. She didn't seem like a woman who had done something so violent, so repugnant, that she ended up dumped in Perdition to keep her from repeating the offense. Zediah was harder for Jael to read; he maintained a perpetually opaque expression, and his vital signs seldom responded to normal stimuli. Either he was stoic beyond measure, or there was something . . . off about him.

No surprise in a place like this.

“Let's do it,” Jael said.

This run was likely to be dangerous. While turrets might cut through the merc armor, the ones who scrambled over the wall like the mongrels had done wouldn't go down so easy, and they could probably take out the Peacemaker with collective effort. Then the personnel would be defenseless.
We need better odds.

And there was only one way to make that happen.

“We set up in the main corridor leading to Queensland. There's no guarantee the mercs will make their approach this way, but the chances are good.” She spoke as she ran, keeping the RC unit ahead of her.

Since it was quiet, that meant the bot didn't detect any life signs. Urgency pounded in his blood, an echo of his heartbeat. He'd already crushed a drone cam that the mercs had sent to spy on their territory. Dashing it against the wall had felt pretty fragging good, but it also meant he had to keep a sharp eye out for more. If Vost saw what they were planning, he'd warn his troops.

And then it's game over.

Jael was conscious that their time was limited, and he had no idea how well Vix and Zediah could perform under pressure. Each of them carried a bundle of parts necessary for the plan to succeed, and he was watching the whole time they moved—for mongrels, assassins, and mercs. At last, Dred stopped, surveyed the hallway, and nodded.

“Here. Zediah, hand me the cord.”

With everyone working in concert, it became clear to him why Zediah and Vix had been included. They might not be on Ike's level of cleverness, but they both had some engineering aptitude. What had been a rough sketch on a dirty wall came to life with their efforts. Jael did the heavy lifting, hoisting the thing, then he helped Dred hide the tripwire. Triggering would bring the trap down from the ceiling; primitive, but it might disorient the mercs long enough for their primary aim to succeed.

“The ceiling won't hold indefinitely,” Zediah said, replacing the last panel.

They'd chosen this stretch intentionally, as some parts of the station had solid metal overhead instead of panels, but here, there was maintenance access, a space just wide enough for someone to crawl up to perform repairs. Which meant they'd wedged their trap above and run the line down the wall. If the mercs were paying attention, they'd spot it. Sweat beaded on his brow as he swung down, careful not to touch the wire.

Vix beckoned from the T intersection; they needed to hole up in the bot-charging alcove. If the plan failed, they only needed to retreat and haul ass for Queensland. It would sting to come back empty-handed but better that than injured—at least as far as the others were concerned. He'd noticed after the last battle, however, that his injuries weren't healing as fast as they used to. They still sealed, but it took twice as long, and the scar lingered before vanishing into seamless skin. He didn't care to ponder what it meant.

“Mary, I hope it's not Mungo's idiots who bring that down,” Vix whispered.

Jael nodded, folding into a crouch. They wouldn't be able to see the enemy from here, but with his hearing, he'd be able to tell when they were approaching. It was likely smell would give them away, too. Mungo's mongrels reeked in a particular way, different from the necrotic rot that wafted from Silence's killers. She never seemed to require them to bathe, and since they lived with dead things, the decomp stench had sunk into their skin. So mercs should smell clean and sharp by contrast, all durasteel and oiled weapons.

In the end, the boots gave them away before he could smell them. The clomp was distinctive, unlike any footwear crafted inside. A guy in Queensland made boots out of rodent skin, but they were light and soft, no noise at all. Dred touched his arm, asking the question with her eyes. It was insanity how well she read him; he hadn't realized he had shown any sign, but she'd picked up . . . something. In answer, he nodded. The marching cadence came closer, until the others could hear it as well.

He leaned close to Dred, his voice little more than a breath in her ear. “Definitely them. Be ready to move.”

“Quiet so far. No mooks sighted.” As the merc made the report, he must've tripped the line. Cursing filled the air, and there was a huge clatter.

“Go, go, go!” Dred shouted.

They charged at top speed into a group of ten mercs entangled in the webbing and pinned down by the junk that had dropped on them. But they were slicing at the cords with utility knives. It wouldn't be long before they were on their feet. Jael snapped a kick at an armored hand; it was strong enough to bounce the rifle away. Vix grabbed it and sprinted back toward Queensland. Another merc brought up his weapon and opened fire. The rest followed suit, and Zediah ran.

Jael shoved Dred toward the others. “Get out of here.”

Using his preternatural speed, he bounded between them, causing confusion. A couple of mercs actually shot each other while aiming at him, leaving scorch marks on their chest plates. He swiftly calculated the odds of stealing another weapon and decided he'd probably die instead. So he bounded after Dred. He took a hit in the back, and the merc who'd shot him exclaimed a startled curse.

“What the frag? Who runs away from a full shot?”

But he didn't wait around to hear what the rest of the unit would say. The others were well ahead of him, so he didn't see them, but halfway to Queensland, he spotted another drone cam. It tried to hover up out of his reach, doubtless in response to Vost's orders, but Jael used a wall to launch and snagged the thing in the air. He pushed his face up against it with an awful smile, and said, “I'm coming for you.”

Then he dashed it against the wall until it was nothing but pieces on the ground. He pulled the screen and the processor out of the wreckage in case Ike could use them for something else. To his surprise, the burn on his back hurt like a bitch. Normally, it'd be gone by now, but he could feel the seared skin, throbbing with each thump of his heart. He rolled his shoulder blades, but that didn't help.

Get a move on. The mercs won't be far behind.

The turrets sat up at his approach, but since he was wearing a magnetic bracelet, they lost interest immediately. It hurt scrambling over the wall, but Dred was waiting on the other side. Vix was parading around the common with the laser rifle. Since it was the first modern weapon they'd seen in turns, Queensland roared with triumph. The men threw Vix up on their shoulders, and she rode the crowd like a pro while Zediah gazed on with flat eyes.

Something about that kid gives me the creeps.

Dred vaulted onto the seat of the scrap-metal throne and signaled to Vix, who thumped on a man's shoulders until he delivered her—and the rifle—to the Dread Queen. The other woman slid down, evidently sensing that her moment had passed. Dred turned the gun over in her hands; Jael came up to stand at her shoulder with a military posture, inspecting it along with her. Automatic sighting, improved heat flow, larger battery pack to expand firing capacity. The rifle was a definite improvement from what had been on the market when he was a merc, forty turns or so ago now.