Or all of your plans will go to shit.
They might anyway, of course. For the moment, they were on hiatus, as the balance of power had shifted, not just with Jael’s arrival. The decimation of two territories and the advent of the mercs made prior plots no longer viable. Frustrating, maddening, even, but in a place like this, it was impossible to calculate the odds with complete precision, as things had a way of shifting by the day. As his mother had been fond of telling him, That which cannot be changed must be borne.
His sullied schemes certainly fell into that category, so he went to assess the new training program; this was Jael’s innovation, initiated after a planning session with Dred. “If you want them to fight as a unit, you need to teach them how. You can’t expect a bunch of convicts used to fighting for their own lives suddenly to care about the assholes next to them.”
Though Martine had come in a few minutes before, he wasn’t actively spying on her. Since he couldn’t collect information on the other zones, he could analyze the internal dynamics, so as to offer Dred the best advice when it came time to plot their next move. Tam stood by the door, watching the men spar. Training occurred without weapons, and Calypso, Mistress of the Ring, was in charge. There hadn’t been any death matches lately—too much real fighting for the men to build up rancor over grievances real or imagined—and she had been chafing over her lapse in personal prestige. So it made sense to give her this responsibility. She officiated the games because she was fierce enough to defeat any man in single combat, so if the fighters cheated or objected to her authority, she ended them. Before the coup, Calypso had served Artan, one of the few women who never shared the man’s bed. Tam recalled her efficient brutality when she performed an execution.
Martine stood near the other woman, talking quietly. She was the last person he could’ve imagined being attracted to. Other men fantasized about the Dread Queen, but he’d never shared Einar’s infatuation, possibly because he’d played such a large role in her creation; it would be too much like onanism, fine as an outlet, but it seemed like a waste of time with a partner. Those factors aside, Dred didn’t share Tam’s interests, rendering her useless as a potential bed partner. Mary, it was difficult enough getting her to play the part in public; she was unlikely to take up the whip for fun.
Before Perdition, he’d preferred a sort of icy elegance that masked a predilection for dominance, and gender was less important than other aspects of sexual compatibility. Martine was bold and brassy, not in the least elegant, but she had . . . something, a puzzle he lacked the time and opportunity to explore. As a man whose inner life was primarily intellectual, he could go turns without being drawn to a potential partner, and he didn’t mind the long gaps. In short, his libido had picked an odd time to come to life.
Using the perimeter, he moved closer, hoping to overhear what had Calypso looking so pensive. Martine was still speaking earnestly, her hands moving with a fluid grace. You could tell a lot by a person’s hands, whether they had passion or restraint, what sort of work they’d done or crimes committed. The lack of scars on Martine’s told an interesting tale.
“. . . don’t think that’s a good idea,” the smaller woman was saying.
“Of course you don’t,” Calypso answered. “You’ve thrown in with the little man and the would-be queen.”
Tam froze, wondering if he was about to hear the mistress of the ring propose what amounted to sedition. The tall woman called out a few suggestions regarding the form of the men sparring nearby. The pairs she singled out redoubled their efforts, likely hoping to impress her. Then Calypso glanced at Martine. Her face in profile was lovely and stern, like a woman laser-etched from dark marble.
“That’s not why,” Martine argued.
“Yeah, you say so. But I say it’s time to break away from big groups. We could wait out the fighting, just the two of us.”
“That’s not a permanent solution. The mercs need to die, end of story.”
“I can tell you never lived through a war, my sweet. The first thing you learn is to get out of populated areas. They take the most damage in a firefight.”
From what Tam could extrapolate, Calypso wanted to leave, not stir up a rebellion, and Martine didn’t think that was a smart plan. Hiding wasn’t a bad strategy in the short term, but it didn’t resolve the core problem. With any luck, Martine could convince the mistress of the ring to stay, as the training program would suffer without her.
The tall woman turned, pinning Tam with a mordant stare. “Did you overhear anything good, little man?”
“Not for us,” he said honestly. “You’ll be missed if you go.”
“But you won’t beg me to stay or try to convince me I’m wrong?” Calypso raised a brow, her dark eyes glittering with suppressed emotion.
“That sounds unproductive. While I’ll be sorry to lose your expertise, I would never force a person to act against his or her conscience.”
“Does he ever take that stick out of his ass?” Calypso asked Martine.
“Oh, lamb, you know I never kiss and tell.” She snapped her teeth playfully at the other woman, and the heated expression on Calypso’s face made Tam relatively sure they had been lovers at some point.
“You trust them to get us through this?” Calypso asked quietly.
Martine nodded. “I’m not the gullible sort. The outlook’s bleak, but with this lot, I reckon we’ll take out a fair number of those sodding mercs before they get us.”
Calypso straightened as if she’d come to a decision. “Then I’ll fight with you until the end.” Then she moved to instruct the men training nearby.
Tam had the awful feeling that he was holding the sword these women would die on.
“EVERYTHING all right, boss?” Redmond was a grizzled veteran with a lazy eye and a lazier nature, but he had impressive patience and a good sense of humor. Both skills often proved invaluable on extended ops.
“The guys are ready to blow this place to particle dust over Gerardo.”
The other man nodded. “I’ve heard the chatter. He was Casto’s pal.”
“Is he heading up the complaints?” Vost asked, low.
“Are you asking me to inform on my mates?” Redmond was grinning.
“Asshole.” He waited two beats before tapping his foot.
“Yeah, Casto’s talking the most shit. He says it’s your fault the scumbags got the drop on the patrol, therefore Gerardo’s death is on you.” Redmond shook his head with a scornful twist of his mouth. “If they’re too dumb to search for snipers without being expressly ordered to do so, well . . .”
Vost tended to agree, but he couldn’t side with one grunt over another. “That was a solid tactical strike. I’m guessing the shooter set up hours before our men arrived. That takes patience, plus he had to be able to predict that we’d eventually pass through. And he had some skill to make the shot at that distance.”
Redmond inclined his head. “Two hits, both in the same place. Sounds like an opponent we need to worry about.”
Vost nodded and stepped out of the command post, where his men were waiting. “Stay with me, double time,” he called.
He was glad to be out and seeing some action; monitoring the fights wouldn’t get the job done. The Conglomerate wanted the place purged with facilities and equipment intact. Mr. Suit and Tie hadn’t told him what the place would be used for going forward, but they needed the criminals out yesterday. I’ll do my best, you colossal twat.