‘Why didn’t you say there were other Vijays?’
‘Thought they were all off-planet.’
Something feels wrong about that. Maybe Anton doesn’t want Vijay found, that’s what his behaviour says to me. But Aptitude dotes on General Jaxx’s son, and Debro seems to approve. So why would . . .?
‘We’re crossing that river.’
‘Sven . . .’
‘It’s not up for argument.’
Catching my scowl, Leona glances away. Anton trails after us in silence as we head for the stone steps down to the jetty. Sergeant Brandon’s loaded everything on my list into the largest of the boats.
Except a radio.
‘No radios, sir,’ he says. ‘Orders from above.’
‘What?’
‘No point anyway. System’s down.’
Taking a step back when I glare, he catches himself and adopts a combat stance instead. When I grin, the tension goes out of his eyes.
OK, no radio it is.
He has found us three standard-issue Kemzins, some ragged-looking flak jackets and a jumble of ready-loaded clips. We’ve even got a square of cheese, some dry tacos and a big bottle of beer.
‘Sir,’ he says, stepping closer. ‘You think it’s true, sir? About . . .’ He hesitates. I don’t blame him. My brain won’t process the idea either.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘General Jaxx is my general.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stepping back, he salutes. Then he unties our line and tosses it into the belly of our boat.
‘Take point . . .’
Leona does, a rifle ported across her chest. Anton sits in the middle, still sulking. And I take the small tiller. The boat’s lights are taped. Not sure if Sergeant Brandon did that or if it was done anyway.
We’re running the fusion unit from a truck, bolted crudely into place and too big for the cavity allowed. It’s a replacement for whatever was there before. A diesel motor from the look of the piping left over.
The river is sluggish around us and smells stale.
We have the whole stretch of dark water to ourselves. There are no other craft on its surface at all. Not even one of the police launches that usually plough the river at night.
‘Sir . . .’
Troop trucks are gathering at the northern end of one bridge. As we watch, a light tank rolls along the embankment behind us to join them.
Tracks clattering in the night.
Looks like an AX 31.
‘Fuck,’ says Leona. ‘That’s . . .’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’
Other trucks begin blocking off the northern end of the next bridge along. A rumble of tracks says other tanks are on the move. As we watch, a scout car flicks on its searchlight and a beam stabs the sky.
‘Sven,’ says Anton. ‘This is a shit idea.’
‘Got a better one?’
‘Almost anything is better than this one.’
‘Sir,’ Leona says. She’s pointing at the sky. Locked in the beam of the searchlight is a vast cigar-shape, blocking off a hundred stars. It’s black, slung with a cargo pod, and running without lights. Largest zep I’ve ever seen.
‘Oh shit,’ Leona says.
One side drops from the pod, and spins briefly, before crashing into a house on the side of the river we’re approaching. The figures who follow it spreadeagle to slow their fall.
They jump without parachutes, wings or power packs.
As a siren breaks the night and the bells of Farlight cathedral start ringing behind us, I expect the tanks to open fire, but they’re silent.
‘Sergeant,’ I say. ‘Concentrate on the South bank.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Leona unports her rifle as the embankment approaches and I steer for a flight of steps. There’s too much noise for anyone to hear our engine, and far too much going on in the sky for anyone to bother with the river. Leaping ashore, Leona drags us in and ties our rope.
‘Take these,’ I tell her.
She catches an extra three clips, one after another. Ceramic hollow-point. The standard issue for militia everywhere. She thrusts them into her belt, then drops out her clip and checks it’s fully loaded.
Should have done that already.
Anton catches the weapon I toss him.
Jacketing up, Leona velcros the tags at the side and pulls down the ceramic skirt to protect her thighs. Anton joins her. There is no way I’m going to fit into the flak jacket that Sergeant Brandon found me, so I leave mine behind.
I’m glad the real Vijay Jaxx doesn’t plan to marry Sef. Apart from the fact she’s a brain-dead idiot, it would be a waste to rescue him, only to have to rip his heart out myself.
Anton’s staring at the zep again.
‘Silver Fist?’ he asks.
That was my first thought. But even assuming an elite force of the Enlightened are suicidal enough to attack OctoV in his capital, how could they get this far in-system, and why has no intelligence reached Farlight of their coming?
Chapter 29
Anton’s next guess is mercenaries. He’s wrong. There are a dozen reasons but I don’t have time to list them all. Although top of the list is that mercenaries are mercenary. If you’re in it for the money, you don’t throw yourself out of zeps without a parachute, even low-flying zeps.
Mercenaries don’t want to face death. They want other people to face death. They like living. That’s the only way you get to bank the gold.
‘Up here . . .’
We climb steps from the water’s edge. Knives in our belts and Kemzins in our hands. Soldiers are meant to like K19s. But they’re cheap cookie-cutter shit. If those were mercenaries, we could kill a couple and arm ourselves with something better.
Bells are still ringing in the cathedral across the river.
Don’t know yet if it’s a warning or a signal.
Sergeant Brandon told me most of the Death’s Head are off-planet. And everyone knows the Legion aren’t allowed near Farlight anyway. Plus, half the militia are on a training exercise outside the city boundaries. The rest are here.
So, some are on an exercise. Others aren’t.
Anyone can see that’s bad.
A square waits up ahead. With a church on its northern edge, and a decaying colonnade around the other three sides. Uplights usually pick out the clock tower but the whole square is in darkness.
The little statue of OctoV looks weird unlit.
No light either on a statue under the colonnade, of a young girl with a cryptic smile and perfect breasts. She’s nude. Most statues in this city are. This one looks like Aptitude. That’s no surprise, the model was her great-grandmother.
Didn’t know more than one had been made.
I touch its arse for luck. Me, and a thousand men before. Most of her is a greasy green. But her right buttock is shiny enough to have been cast yesterday.
‘Friend of yours, sir?’ Leona asks.
‘Something like that.’
Our glorious leader never told me to betray General Jaxx. He did, however, order me not to tell the general – or anyone else – that I was working for him. That he, our glorious leader, was my boss. Of course OctoV is everybody’s boss. He just doesn’t talk to everybody.
He talks to me.
‘Sir?’ Leona says.
‘Thinking,’ I tell her.
‘About what the fuck we’re doing here?’ Anton asks.
‘No. Why the fuck this is happening.’
Nothing political occurs on Farlight without OctoV’s approval. The laws that underwrite this city don’t come more basic than that.
‘Not mercenaries?’ Anton checks.
Sergeant Leona and I shake our heads together. Not mercenaries. Not Silver Fist, or any of the Uplifted and Enlightened’s shock troops. Every time the list gets shorter, it gets nastier. And when we run into the only choice left, it gets very nasty indeed.
‘Sir,’ says Leona. ‘Three o’clock.’
When a figure slinks under the arch on the far side of the square I’m beyond surprise. Leona’s not. Flicking down her visor, she stares in disbelief.