Endgame (34 page)

“Might come in handy for transporting the MO,” Xirol adds.

It’s a risk. They can track it. They know the serial number and the emission signature. But maybe we can use that to our advantage. By Loras’s thoughtful expression, he thinks the same thing. There are only twelve of us, so it should hold the whole squad, plus the weapons.

Then he nods. “Let’s do it. We’ll draw them into ambush. The more we kill out here, the less there will be to face us in the capital.”

“Good plan,” March says.

Loras turns to Zeeka. “Collect the undetonated mines. We’ll use them again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jax, take the rest of the men down to finish cleaning out the cache.”

“Roger that.”

There are dollies down below that make my job easier. With help, I soon have the remaining gear ready for transport. I glance around one more time, seeing only bare walls and dusty floors. There’s no telling when the Imperials built this installation. And there are others out there, waiting for us to plunder them.

“Take it up,” I say.

Vel checks that we don’t exceed the lift’s weight limit, then he hits the button. The platform jolts into motion, slow as anything. On the surface, the men are edgy, and Ceepak has his eyes closed, listening in his head for more incoming. I help with loading the shuttle, then swing aboard.

Loras is saying, “We have two pilots…who wants the helm?”

“March can fly,” Vel says, sitting beside me.

I strap in because the harness reminds me of a proper ship, and my repressed longing for grimspace hits me like a foot in the ribs. Several long, deep breaths restore my equilibrium, then the comm crackles. We all freeze.

“Bravo unit, respond. Did you encounter hostiles? I need a sit-rep.”

This has to be the base that deployed these men. March glances at Loras in the cockpit beside him. “How do you want to play this?”

He turns the options over in his head while the rest of
us wait in tense silence. Ambush or full-frontal assault? The problem is, if we don’t respond, they’ll know they’re walking into a trap when they come looking for the shuttle. So they’ll armor up and bring more ordnance and centurions.

“Answer,” Loras says. “We take the fight to them.”

There’s no way to know how many soldiers will be there or what kind of equipment they’ll have. Our one advantage is that they won’t be ready for battle when we land. They’ll be drinking, screwing off, and watching porn.

March taps the comm. “Threat neutralized. We’re on our way back, but the shuttle’s comm was damaged in the firefight. I can barely read you.”

Obligingly, Loras screws with the settings so base camp gets nothing but static and feedback from us. They don’t have a chance to ask for passwords before the feed goes out. Mary, the centurions will be surprised when we arrive.

March examines the controls for a few seconds, then says, “I’ve found them on the nav log. We just need to follow this course back the way they came.”

“Get us in the air,” Loras orders.

Other ships shouldn’t bother us because we have the necessary permissions and registrations. The proper crew just doesn’t man the ship anymore. Other shuttles in the air won’t be able to tell that from a distance. And La’heng has precious little air traffic, pretty much just VIPs en route from one city to the next. Imperials won’t be caught dead in the provinces if they have a choice.

March complies with an easy grace that makes me wonder if he’s missed flying the way I miss grimspace. A warm little ping in my head says he’s here, as well as flying the ship, and he responds,
Of course. I only ever wanted to fly. Everything I did, all the mistakes I made, were because I wanted my own ship.

You do seem to have trouble keeping them,
I tease.

Not the next one,
he promises.
The next ship I get, I’m keeping. No more drama. No more explosions.

You sure you can guarantee that? We seem to lead interesting lives.

He pokes back,
Well, you don’t look like Sirantha Jax anymore. That should greatly reduce our risk.

Are you saying I bring the chaos?

Maybe.

You might have a point.
I laugh, drawing looks from the guys around me. I just shrug.

Sasha explains, “She’s talking to my dad.”

Among this crew, that’s enough. We have enough special skills among our number that they don’t blink at mental conversations. Ceepak is doing his
shut up, don’t bother me
thing, checking for possible problems heading our way, and Shelby examines the immediate future, eyeballs rolling behind his lids like he’s in REM sleep. He’d warn us if it looked like this attacked ended in our bloody destruction. Well, if he could see it, he would. Precog’s imperfect, as I understand it. He can only get glimpses of possible futures, as they’re always in motion, and each little choice ripples the water a little more, changing course from what it was a few seconds before.

“What kind of weapons are we packing?” Xirol asks. “On the ship I mean.”

“Standard-issue guns,” March replies.

“We need to talk strategy,” Loras says. “Is it better to open fire and take out as many buildings as we can, go for big collateral damage, or should we aim for a surgical strike?”

Most of us don’t have enough experience to consult in this regard, maybe only March and Vel. The rest of the team is La’hengrin, with no prior military history, and many of them are specialists as well. I keep quiet, along with everyone else.

After a thoughtful pause, Vel answers, “It is impossible to know until I see the fortifications. Some structures may prove impervious to the shuttle’s guns.”

Loras glances at March. “Thoughts, Commander?”

“Don’t call me that. You’re in charge.”

“But I’m asking for your expert opinion.”

If Vel’s unwilling to guess without more data, then it will come down to March’s best judgment. Mary grant he’s right, whatever he decides.

The ship comes in with guns hot.

March decided the base probably doesn’t have heavy fortifications, so we’ll do more damage quick and hard with the onboard guns. From above, they look like insects running around, mowed down by the barrage of incoming fire. It’s hard enough to buckle buildings, and Sasha has the power to bring the death from above, too. With a nod from Loras, he joins his uncle in wreaking havoc.

First, we take out the comm tower, then the rail guns mounted at either side of the base. Next, Loras disables the other ships. They’re all dead metal, no engines, by the time we put down. There are only a few survivors after the initial assault, and they’re bloody, soot-stained, wild-eyed. Most aren’t even geared up; their armor’s half on, weapons discarded in their flight for cover. As I think we’ve annihilated them without their firing a shot, forty more centurions break from a building across the field. They’re locked and loaded, sober and ready for combat. From the colors on their armor, they are elite, and we’re in serious trouble.

“How come you didn’t warn us?” Loras shouts at Shelby as I dive.

“Frag me, I told you it’s not perfect!” the soldier yells back.

“They specialize in hand-to-hand,” March says in my ear. “They usually work as bodyguards to high-ranking nobles.”

“Are you good enough to be elite?”

He nods. “If I were crazy enough to serve the same house for ten turns.”

“There is that,” I mutter.

“My point is, we can’t let them close. Only Vel and I have the necessary skill to hold our own one-on-one, and they outnumber us.”

I don’t take offense. Though I have melee training, I’m not the strongest, certainly not enough to disable a man who’s wearing such thick armor. My only hope is to nail them on bare skin and short out their nervous system with my shock-stick. But the armor covers everything but their cheekbones, and the elite have their helmets sealed. Unlike most centurions, these men look like bona fide badasses.

“Cover fire!” Loras calls. “Shift work, you know the drill.”

I lay it down, quick and tight, so there’s a bright barrage sizzling against the churned ground. Not enough to kill an armored foe if he stumbles, but the elite are canny, not committing to the battle until they assess our ability. Their commander watches for a moment, then he signals his men.

I cup my hands to carry over the weapons. “They’re flanking! Watch the rear.”

“Dammit,” March swears. “There’s too much ground to cover. We can’t—”

“I got it,” Sasha shouts.

He slams the corrugated metal from a few ruined buildings into place behind us, creating a field picket and walling off our vulnerable flank. I wonder why he doesn’t just kill them all when March answers in my head.
He’s already used his gift a lot today. The more he uses it, the more it takes out of him. There’s an energy exchange, and he could go into cardiac arrest if he pushes too hard.

That makes sense.
Otherwise, he could just smash and kill everything without need for rest or recovery. The human body does have limits.

He frowns at Sasha.
Even as a TK-9, he probably shouldn’t
have done that…but inanimate objects are easier to move than people. They don’t thrash or resist.

On closer examination, I see that Sasha looks pale, almost green, and he’s sweating like mad. Yeah, no more TK for him. He catches his uncle’s eye, nods, then grins. I can read the visual exchange.

March:
Cut it out.

Sasha:
Fine. I won’t be a hero anymore.
Grin.
Today.

“Get out there, Z. Hurry!”

In reply, the Mareq springs forward, mines in hand. His webbed fingers are a blur as he sets them. “I need you all at least five meters back, or you’ll get caught in the blast radius.”

Then he bounds back to us, arms flapping as he urges us back toward the makeshift wall. At least my weapon has cooled down while the enemy commander leads his men back around the way they came. With the path blocked, they have to come straight at us, and we’ll make them earn every step. As they burst into sight, charging, Loras gives the order.

A few of the elite fire as they run, wild shots, because it’s hard to aim on the move. It’s an acquired skill, in fact. Some soldiers I know have taken multiple training courses to perfect the knack; it’s not something I can do. Though I’m competent, shooting’s not in my blood like grimspace. I work with March, and we take the same target, using penetration fire to burn through the armor. His next shot kills. It’s a sweetly hypnotic bob and weave. Vel unleashes an EMP burst, taken from the cache earlier, and fries the computer components on their laser rifles.

Their guns spark in their hands, then go inert. No electronic firing mechanisms, no computer-aided targeting. But since they specialize in hand-to-hand, they don’t seem overly troubled. Firing in pairs, we take out ten before they cross the yard. And then they’re on us, thirty to twelve.

I vault into a fighting crouch, discarding my gun. Knife and shock-stick in hand, I brace for the charge. Adrenaline pounds through me like a second pulse in my ears. Vel is nearby; so is March. They’ve flanked me to keep the bigger centurions from surrounding me. I appreciate that, even as I swing into the fight.

The shock-stick hums in my hand, but it’s not going to
be sufficient. I can’t kill them on my own. Fortunately, Vel’s hand-knives are sharp enough to tear chunks out of their armor, and he’s strong enough to knock them the hell away from me. I want to help, but I don’t mean to be stupid about it. So I defend as best I can, a distraction if not an ass-kicker of men in armor.

I wait for opportunities. When March cracks a centurion’s helmet off, I slip into the opening and lay my shock-stick upside his head. When he drops in convulsions, I take a knee, ducking a blow aimed at my head, and cut his throat. There’s a centurion running at me while the melee rages, and I wheel low, taking his legs out from under him. What I know about combat amounts to making my size and speed work for me. When he hits the ground, he loses sight of me because helmets limit your peripheral vision. I jam my knife into the gap between armor and helmet. Twist, and the sharp stink of copper scents the air.

Another down.

Xirol cries out. He’s got three on him, and he’s La’heng, not a former merc or a bounty hunter. I hurdle a corpse without thinking. Then another. The SpecForce Pyro tries to help him, but his control isn’t the best, and he sometimes cooks things he isn’t trying to, so he doesn’t dare light everything up, or we might all go boom.

Xirol’s uniform is already bloodstained when I get there. He falls, but I can’t tell how badly he’s injured. The three elite turn on me, thinking I’m more of a threat than I am. Just out of range, I stop and beckon them on.
Come on, you bastards. Leave him alone.
Through the visors, I can see they’re amused at my challenge. Compared to three hardened veterans, I look laughable, wearing Mishani’s pretty face with her doe eyes.

“I think I’ll keep this one,” the first growls. “For a little while at least.”

“Until you break her,” another laughs.

The Pyro lays down a line of fire between us. I cut a glance at him, half-impressed, half-worried. Like Sasha, his face is clammy-pale, and sickness swirls in his eyes. Mary, I’m glad I have the grimspace gene. It would suck to be Psi.

“Come get me,” I yell, backing off.

As long as I get them away from Xirol, it’ll be—

Deliberately, the biggest one turns, grabs his knife, and jabs it into Xirol’s chest. I scream because the flames are now my enemy. If he wasn’t dead before, he is now, and I want to kill these bastards with my bare hands, to peel their skin from their muscles, and break their bones. It was such an evil, calculated cruelty.

Part of me says,
It’s no different than what you do with your knife, finishing those you drop with the shock-stick
, but I don’t want to think about all the ways I’m like these centurions. They are the enemy. They are the monsters. They have to be, or I can’t do what I must. By the time the centurions skirt the flames, Vel and March are beside me again.