‘She’s a woman.’
‘No, she’s a sergeant in the Farlight militia. A combat-hardened, fully trained specialist with two tours of duty behind her.’ This has nothing to do with gender. Although I know Aptitude won’t believe that.
‘I’m scared,’ she says.
‘Of course you are . . .’
A nicely brought up girl like her. How could she not be?
Aptitude shakes her head crossly.’ You don’t understand. I’m going to get you both killed.’
‘Me and Leona?’
‘No! You and Vijay. The two men I-’
Wisely, Aptitude doesn’t finish that sentence.
‘Sven,’ she says, ‘I’ve already got Vijay in trouble. And now . . .’
I don’t realize I’m gripping her shoulders until she whimpers. Then I step back and make myself step back again. Telling her she’s a stupid little idiot isn’t the answer. So that means I’ve got to apologize.
‘You stay at Wildeside.’
She still wants to object, so I give her reasons. ‘If the Wolf captures you, Vijay’s dead. You think he wouldn’t give himself up?’
The tears come.
Ignoring them, I take another look at the horizon. I have a better idea than Aptitude what’s out there. ‘Your dad told you about the furies? We need sex and food. Some of us need to fight . . .’
She’s looking at me strangely.
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned sex.
‘Furies need to kill. All their instincts are sewn up in one primal urge.’
‘They’re human?’
Maybe once, I think.
The definition of human is wide these days. Wide enough to include me, Anton and Debro, all three. But I’m not sure it can be pushed that far.
‘No,’ I say.
Better if Aptitude thinks of them as machines.
Unbuckling my gun belt, I wrap it around Aptitude’s waist.
‘Open the holster,’ I say.
Her fingers fumble with the catch.
‘And again. This time make it smoother.’
Aptitude’s second go is better. Her third better still. Slow healer, quick learner. Works for some people.
‘Now give me the gun,’ I say.
The correct term is a side arm or piece.
Actually, the correct term is SIG-37, with added Colt combat AI, up-rated memory chip and pulse-rifle capacity. Battle planning, forward projection, combat probabilities and one-minute certain. In U/Free territories the SIG would have voting rights.
One-minute certain means the SIG can tell you with 99.2 per cent accuracy what is going to happen in the next sixty seconds. (Combat situations only.) It’s a useful edge to have in battle.
Although it burns battery like nothing else.
I’ll take five minutes’ high probability, with some power left, over certainty any day. The other thing it does is tactics, targeting and three-level-deep identity.
If your enemy is running black flag it will tell you who they really are. And if that second identity is a lie, the SIG digs one level deeper.
I don’t bother Aptitude with any of this.
‘Keep it turned on,’ I tell her. ‘Keep it close. And do what it suggests, unless you have good reasons for thinking it’s wrong. Even then, check it’s not the other way round.’
‘You think the furies will attack?’
‘You’ve got food, you’ve got power. They can sense things like that. And the furies aren’t your only problem.’
She looks at me.
‘You heard the crowd. “Kill the doubter.”’
‘They were talking about Sergeant Leona.’
Aptitude’s right. But it won’t take the village long to transfer their hatred to Debro. She threw several families out of the compound when she reclaimed it. I know it’s hers. But they’re likely to look at it differently.
Chapter 10
Having woken, the Sig notices Aptitude is wearing its holster and lets fly with a string of insults about my character, parentage and cheap sexual habits. Most of which are true. Luckily it swears in machine code.
A language she doesn’t know.
‘Shut it.’
When the SIG ignores me, I walk it to the edge of a promontory and offer to let it take a close look at the valley floor.
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Try me.’
We waste a full minute discussing which is worse: being owned by me or rusting at the foot of a hill being shat on by goats, the SIG insisting that rust and goat shit could only be an improvement.
And then we get back to what matters.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You saw that crashed ship. How many furies were in there originally?’
The SIG doesn’t reply. All the same it’s listening.
‘That was Mum’s ship,’ Aptitude says. ‘With the markings painted out.’
‘So,’ I say. ‘How many?’
‘Lots,’ the SIG says.’ Lots plus. Your guess is as good as mine.’
This time when I hold it over the edge I use only two fingers. Diodes flash along the gun’s side. ‘Thirty-eight,’ it says finally.
‘You’re certain?’
‘No. Of course not. I just picked the first fucking-’ It stops. ‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘Ninety-three degrees. High probable.’ The SIG’s just realized why its holster hangs from Aptitude’s hip.
Doesn’t mean it likes it. But it’s beginning to understand.
There are still a dozen furies out there.
One can take down twenty militia in a concerted attack. Working on those sorts of figures, that means-
The SIG’s there already. ‘Serious shit.’
The sun is low and the horizon starting to go dark. We’re an hour from sunset, which is when I need to leave for Farlight. Two days’ ride, at least. Maybe three. And I have a couple of arguments to have first.
Starting with the SIG.
Only the SIG doesn’t want to argue.
It’s so reasonable I’m suspicious. Until I remember I took it from Aptitude’s bodyguard. So just maybe there’s Tezuka-Wildeside loyalty coded into its make-up somewhere.
‘You’ll do it?’
‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘For her.’
Walking across, I fold Aptitude’s fingers round its handle and hold them tight before the SIG has time to change its mind.
‘Ouch . . .’
The SIG’s already logging her genotype. Unravelling enough of Aptitude’s DNA to lock down her identity. ‘Human/Post human,’ it says. ‘High Clan 3, tailored for trade. Interesting mix . . .’
‘It’s yours until I take it back.’
She must know what parting with the SIG-37 is costing me. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let it show. ‘Keep the battery pack charged. Sleep with it under your pillow. And if you feel it shiver get yourself somewhere safe.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Sven,’ says the gun. ‘Tell me you’re not going to rely on . . .’ It’s dissing my sabre. The one Colonel Vijay sent. At least, I think so.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because it’s ugly, outdated and impractical.’
We’re definitely talking about the sabre.
‘If you must,’ says the gun, ‘I could always . . .’ It pauses, considers what it’s offering. ‘Upgrade it slightly? I mean, it’ll still be pig ugly, but less likely to get you killed.’
‘Hurry it up.’
Wouldn’t want the SIG thinking I was grateful.
‘Hold it out,’ the gun says.
So I unclip the sabre and flick on its blade.
Nothing much happens for a second, and then I realize the cutting edge is getting narrower. The blade is also less thick in cross-section. I think I’m imagining a silvery black sheen.
I’m not.
‘Almost there,’ the gun says.
A humming inside the handle changes its balance. The sabre now weighs twice what it did and pivots more slowly. In fact, it feels just like one of those pieces of junk I used to carry in the Legion.
Impossible, clearly.
Never ridden a horse in my life. Never even belonged to a cavalry regiment. But I’ve been carrying a sabre on parade from the age of twelve and it’s always felt just like this.
‘Stabilizing gyro,’ the SIG says. ‘Probably faulty for years.’
Flicking the sabre from side to side, I can feel its blade counterbalance the weight of the handle behind my wrist. Obviously, that’s impossible.