There was no room to dodge this time. I made my decision in a split-second, turned, and leapt at Crash feet first.
The wind that had been checking me became my ally, and my feet slammed into Crash’s stomach, throwing him nearly head over heels. He slammed back onto the roof, scrabbling for purchase, only barely stopping himself from rolling off the edge. I fell a little more gracefully and hauled myself up as Crash rose to face me. He looked pissed off but there was a wariness in his eyes now, and as he advanced his stance showed more respect.
We roared through Stratford station, passing the Westfield shopping centre to the north, a wide pedestrian bridge rolling past overhead. Shocked faces looked up at us from the platforms as we flashed by. Why the hell is this train still moving? I asked November as Crash edged forward. You have access?
Of a sort . . .
Crash jabbed at me. He’d taken a kickboxing stance, and I shifted instinctively to counter as he tried more jabs followed by a cross. I stepped back, deliberately staying just within range for the spinning kick he’d tried before. A move like that would make him an easy target on the shifting train, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead he shifted his hands into a guard that I’d seen used by military special forces types. I switched to a Krav Maga stance, hands loose. The driver’s board should be lit up like a Christmas tree. Why hasn’t he stopped?
But that was what I was trying to tell you, November said. Crash struck at my eyes; I twitched aside and hit him in the shoulder to no effect. It’s Barrayar. He’s overridden jurisdiction from the Metropolitan Police and he’s ordered the driver to maintain speed while they call in a response team.
Crash kept attacking, his movements tight and aggressive. His force magic made his blows faster than they should have been, not just on the strike but also on the recovery, giving me few openings. His toughness and his lack of reaction to hits reminded me of Caldera, but Crash was faster. The wind roared as we traded kicks and punches.
Crash moved in, striking low, and this time I had to jump back. I could hear the clattering of rotors off to my side, but couldn’t afford to take my eyes off the adept. What did you say about a response team? I asked November.
Well, can you see a helicopter in the area?
What do you mean, a—? I began, then looked left.
A black-and-yellow helicopter with POLICE written along its side was flying parallel to the train a short distance away. It was close enough that I could see the pilot through the canopy, his face hidden by a helmet, looking straight ahead as he controlled the machine. The side doors on the helicopter were open, one man holding the doorframe, and a second crouched in the centre of the helicopter, aiming some kind of mounted weapon. I could see bipod legs, an ammo box, and a long metal barrel. It looked like a light machine gun.
As it turned out, it was.
The weapon opened up with an echoing duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. Futures of violent death flashed on my precognition; I snatched ones that I needed and twisted aside, bullets zipping by my head with an eerie whickering sound. I caught a glimpse of Crash jumping backwards. The gunner kept firing, his touch controlled and professional, short aimed bursts. Chips of metal flew from the roof as bullets tore holes at my feet.
A green beam flashed past, and I spared a glance to see that Rachel was back. She was up on the roof three carriages down, trying to snipe me with a disintegration ray. I didn’t have time to think about it: it was just one more variable in a set of futures already crowded with images of my own death. I saw myself die singly and in clusters, to bullets and disintegration and the train’s racing wheels, jagged flashes of blood and pain fading to darkness. My focus narrowed to the next five seconds, the fateweaver and my divination working together to keep me alive. With the fateweaver I chose attack patterns that were easier to dodge, then with my divination I matched my movements to images of safety. I stepped back to avoid a beam, left to dodge a volley of shots, then back again, my movements quick and erratic, forcing the gunner to guess at where to aim next. All of my focus was on surviving five seconds more, then another five after that.
Then suddenly the helicopter was climbing, the machine gun falling silent. A forest of gantries was coming up, followed by a pair of road bridges. Farther down, Rachel stopped firing and started to advance, struggling to keep her balance on the swaying train.
Crash was hesitating. I saw him glance at Rachel, then at me; he looked like he was calculating the chances of Rachel shooting him in the back and not liking the answer. The first bridge flashed overhead, and the helicopter vanished from sight. Cinder, I said through the dreamstone, it would be really nice if you could—
Cinder landed in front of me with a wham, the train roof denting under his weight. He’d jumped from the bridge, fiery wings slowing his fall. He straightened and his eyes locked onto Crash.
Crash took in the new odds instantly, and through the futures, I saw him make a snap decision. Mercenaries don’t usually fight to the death; for them, the big question is “Are we getting paid enough?” and for Crash, the answer had just become no. He leapt from the train, hitting the ballast beside the tracks and rolling, falling out of sight.
“You took your time,” I called.
Cinder didn’t turn around. “Stay out of this.”
The second bridge flashed by and Rachel appeared from its shadow one carriage down. She saw Cinder and went dead still. She shouted something, her voice whirled away by the wind.
Cinder held out a hand towards her, palm up.
Rachel’s face twisted. A disintegration beam shot out, aimed to burn through Cinder and hit me.
Cinder’s shield flared. Fire met water with a deafening crack, but Cinder didn’t move. He sent a fireball straight back at Rachel. She disappeared in a roar of dark red flame, the smoke blowing away almost instantly to reveal her standing unharmed.
Again Cinder held out his hand.
The futures forked, zigzagging. I’d never seen a pattern like that, and even with everything that was happening, I couldn’t help but be fascinated. It was as if two different futures were meeting within Rachel’s mind, both trying to overwhelm the other. She swayed with the moving train, eyes flicking from behind the domino mask from Cinder to me.
Off to our left, the helicopter swept down in a shallow dive to match the train’s speed, and again the machine gun stuttered. Without looking, Cinder held out one arm: the gauntlet on it glowed with power, the gems on the blue scale gleaming, and the bullets sparked off an invisible barrier.
“Del,” Cinder called.
Some indecipherable emotion convulsed Rachel’s face. She turned and ran, fleeing down the train at lightning speed. She dropped down the hole she’d opened up into the carriage and was gone.
Cinder took a step after her, but had to halt as another burst of machine gun fire sparked off his shield. “She’s gating,” I called.
“Stop her!”
Metal gantries flashed by overhead. “I try, I might kill her.”
Cinder swore. “Ten seconds,” I said. I could sense the gate forming, far faster than was safe. It wouldn’t take much to twist the futures, cause a cascade failure . . . assuming I didn’t care what happened to Rachel.
Cinder didn’t reply. Seconds ticked, and the gate opened, then closed. “She’s gone,” I said.