‘And the rest,’ says General Tournier.
I glance over in surprise.
‘Combatants fight naked,’ he says. ‘It’s a tradition.’ Well, that settles it, obviously.
‘Yes, sir,’ I say.
The general raises his eyebrows. Maybe he hoped I’d protest. Mind you if I had his belly . . . Taking another gulp, General Tournier empties his glass, finishes a cold chicken breast and reaches for his glass a second after it is refilled. ‘Join me,’ he suggests, raising it.
‘With respect, sir . . . Not while I’m working.’
A hatch in the arena floor irises open, and conversations still as a platform rises. The crowd obviously know what to expect, because tonight’s event is running on well-oiled wheels. A half-dozen Death’s Head make for the heads, intending to piss or vomit enough space for the next round of drinking.
The general doesn’t bother.
He has a vast, and increasingly full, jeroboam of piss between his boots. Traitors or not, General Tournier and his regiment are busy living up to their reputation for hard drinking and wild parties. The kind of parties at which whole planets get trashed.
‘Sven,’ says the general, as I step out of my trousers, only to have the orderly grab them from the floor, ‘have fun.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And show us what you can do.’
Of course, sir, I’m about to say. But I’ve just seen who is on that platform. It’s the Vals, our mercenaries from the battle on the hillside. They are barefoot and naked under silver survival blankets.
Should have guessed.
‘Fuckwit,’ shouts one.
‘You don’t screw with the Vals,’ yells the other. They’re talking to the general, who grins. A lazy grin, meant for the five-braid and the officers around him. But I’m close enough to see his eyes.
The man is drunk, but not so drunk he doesn’t know the risk he’s taking. You mess with one Val and you mess with them all. It’s a lifelong commitment, staying alive when the Vals hold a grudge against you.
‘Girls,’ he says. ‘Meet your new challenger.’
As one, the Vals turn to glare at me. As one, their snarls falter.
‘What?’ demands General Tournier.
I’m stripped naked, and they’re twenty paces away. There is a blade in my hand, and a good chance I can kill one or the other before she reveals we’ve met. But I can’t silence both.
At least, not in time.
Something flicks across their faces.
And when the Vals turn back, there is a sneer on their lips. It’s meant for me, and the general and everyone else in that room.
They’re magnificent. I’ve always admired the Vals. That single-minded commitment to killing.
‘Fuck off,’ shouts the first. ‘We’re not fighting that.’ She jerks her chin towards me. ‘One arm, no brains . . . It’s a fucking insult.’
Now I’m scowling and the brigadier is laughing. Although he stops fast enough when I glare. See, told you he was one of life’s staff officers.
‘I’ll fight them both at once.’
‘With only one arm?’ General Tournier sounds tempted.
‘How hard can it be?’ I ask, sneering towards the Vals. ‘They’re just copies of each other.’ It’s the Vals’ turn to scowl. There are a couple of things you don’t say about the Vals and that is one of them.
‘Two of them?’ says the general. ‘At once?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Can I do it?
Of course I can fucking do it.
‘Get him a fighting arm,’ General Tournier demands.
His ADC scampers off, bumping into one of the tables in his hurry. It takes the boy a lot longer to return, probably because he is staggering under the weight of a vast metal prosthetic.
‘Any good?’ he asks.
It’s stained, made from beaten steel, with braided hoses and hydraulic rods to work the main joints. A row of blades runs from its wrist to the elbow, which ends in a vicious spike. The arm even tightens at the top with screws. A deep scratch says an enemy got in a good blow then died. Well, if the blood still crusted on the elbow spike is anything to go by.
Obviously enough, I love it.
Flexing my new fingers, I make a fist, and then swing my new arm from side to side a couple of times just for the pleasure of hearing the hydraulics hiss.
‘You approve?’ asks the general.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Here are the rules-’
‘Sir,’ I say.
General Tournier doesn’t like interruptions.
‘It’s just . . . Don’t the Vals need to know the rules as well?’
He does that dog-like bark that passes for his laugh. ‘Oh Sven,’ he says. ‘Believe me, the Vals know my rules already.’ Turning to his ADC, he asks, ‘How many of my officers have those bitches killed?’
‘I believe it’s five, sir.’
‘So this is going to be interesting,’ says the general, and his ADC nods. As do the brigadier, the major and every other officer at that table. A bunch of puppets the lot of them.
‘Those rules,’ I say. It’s worth it, just to see their shock.
‘Laser fencing,’ says the general. ‘For this bout,’ he says, ‘I think we’ll set it to the max. One knife per Val. You already have your arm. The fencing stays up until you or both Vals are dead . . . Anything else?’
He’s talking to his ADC.
‘No rounds, sir. No breaks.’
The general smiles. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I don’t think Colonel Tveskoeg will be expecting rounds or breaks. Will you, Sven?’
‘Waste of time, sir. Rather get this wrapped up.’
A pair of guards erects laser wire. The arena is going to be triangular. That is a new one on me. Don’t think I’ve ever seen an arena that wasn’t round or square. Since my new arm counts as my weapon, I leave my knife on the table. And it’s only as I head for the ring that General Tournier sees the scars on my back.
‘Sven,’ he says, calling me back. ‘What are those?’
The first thing he’s said in two hours that doesn’t drawl from his lips like the punchline to some joke.
‘Whipped,’ I say.
‘Who by?’
‘Someone who’s now dead.’
He laughs, and nods towards the Vals. ‘All yours,’ he says.
Chapter 44
Grabbing a chicken leg to chew on my way down, I take one last look round the vast dining room. Neen is with Rachel and the others. Emil is sober and scared, but also looking like a trooper, and that is enough for me. Shil’s clearing a table three tiers back.
If she sees me, she doesn’t let it show.
And Haze? He has been here all evening.
Sat right next to the five-braid. His own braids look longer and his face is thinner. He has his head tipped slightly to one side, and he is listening. When his gaze catches mine, he smiles. Having smiled, he offers five to one against. He’s betting on the Vals.
Great, I think.
The laser goes up the moment I enter the ring. Static lifting hairs on the back of my neck. Tossing a chicken bone over my shoulder produces a zap like one of those fancy insect killers. Roughly what I expect to happen.
The Vals are still wearing their silver blankets, although they lose these quickly enough, wrapping them round their left forearms. Makes sense: my arm is the most dangerous weapon in this ring.
As we circle, the Vals toss their knives from hand to hand.
But that is all they do. It’s a holding pattern, I realize. And that makes me realize something else. The Vals regard themselves as bound by our treaty. They won’t attack until I do, because of the vow they made when I set them free. In fact, they may not attack at all.
There are rules, fuck it.
Real rules.
I’ve known troopers ignore them. Lie, rape, and break vows in the name of expediency. Knew a fuckwit who machine-gunned a hospital ward full of civilians. Another who changed sides three times in the same war. Not like the Aux, conscripts who had no option but change sides.