Some are in hiding . . .
I’m on extended leave. It’s the same thing.
The ground is hard, the grass sparse. Water is rare as hen’s teeth. Sixty miles from where we sit it pisses oil instead of rain. A pall of smoke hangs to the north of us and drifts from the roiling flames that rise from the rift floor. A hundred fires, a thousand fires. No one knows or cares. The rift is just somewhere to avoid if you have sense.
A geoforming malfunction, Debro says.
No idea what that means.
There is a deadly beauty to the hills around us. The heat will bake you, and the cloudless nights freeze your flesh to your bones. False paths wait to tip you down ravines. Sour water poisons those who drink unwisely. And that’s before you meet the snakes, wild dogs and mountain cats. And wolves.
Anton is an ex-captain of the palace guard, ex-husband to Senator Debro Wildeside, one of the richest women in the empire, and an ex-inmate on Paradise, a prison planet on the other edge of the spiral arm.
Me, I’m ex-Legion.
Think I might have mentioned that.
He’s told Debro we’re here to shoot a rogue wolf.
I know better. Anton wants to talk. You’d think, out in the desert, that he’s trying to avoid the spies of our glorious leader. But since our glorious leader hears everything, I assume he wants to avoid being heard by Debro.
Anton grins when I say this. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘Adaptive,’ I tell him. ‘That’s me.’
His eyes widen. Adaptive isn’t a word I use.
‘Said so in my last psych report.’
‘The one they shredded?’
Yeah, that one.
‘So,’ I ask, ‘what’s this about?’
The last time Anton and I talked was on Paradise. I was keeping him and Debro alive. Times change. I get the feeling he’s trying to repay his debt.
‘Sven,’ he says, ‘if you need money . . .’
‘I don’t.’
Anton sighs. ‘We know you’re in trouble.’
That is one way of putting it. Dig two friends out of prison.
Blow up an enemy mother ship. Protect some snot-nosed colonel from his own stupidity. Get my general promoted. Win praises from our glorious leader. And end up with a list of enemies longer than I can count, starting with General Jaxx himself.
Welcome to the Octovian Empire.
Anton won’t let me shake off his thanks.
That tells me how things have changed. In prison I’d simply punch him into silence. Now we’re on his ex-wife’s land, with his buggy parked behind us, and he owns the hunting rifle I’m using. It’s a beauty, too. Perfect balance, a custom stock and a telescopic sight so true that looking through it feels like being there. The round’s 7.62, full metal jacket. Anton’s old-fashioned like that.
‘We couldn’t believe it,’ he says.
He hesitates.
‘No.’ The man corrects himself.’ I couldn’t believe it. Debro always said you’d come through. But when the guards arrived . . .’
Memory chokes his voice.
‘Leave it.’
Being freed isn’t the first thing on anybody’s mind when the guards turn up. Being taken for questioning. Being shot. But freed?
Time to change this conversation.
‘You really think a wolf’s out there?’
Anton squints towards the goat we’ve tethered to a post. The animal has sunk into an exhausted silence. Its tugs against the rope are weaker than they were an hour ago.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Then we’ll give it another five minutes.’
‘After that?’
‘We go looking.’
His laugh is a bark. ‘Believe you would.’
What’s to believe? Temperature’s dropping and night’s coming in. There are tacos and cold beers waiting for us at Wildeside. The sooner the wolf is dead, the sooner I get a drink.
‘Sven . . .’
Seems I won’t have to go looking after all.
The wolf is huge. Grizzled and grey around its muzzle. It’s also limping, and has a gash on its haunches that looks fresh. As it crests a boulder, the beast stops to look back. Neck out, head held awkwardly.
‘Clear shot,’ Anton says.
I can see that. Hell, I’ve rarely had an easier target. The animal’s backlit by twilight. My line of sight is clear. And the animal so close the scope is a luxury.
So what stops me?
That gut feeling I get before shit goes bad.
‘Sven . . .’
‘Not yet.’
Anton scowls, but he waits in silence. So does the wolf. The goat, however, goes berserk. All the more so because the wolf is ignoring it. When the SIG-37 shivers out of standby, I know we’re in trouble.
‘Arid wastes,’ it says. ‘Pitiless sun. Poisonous water. A million miles from the nearest decent bar. Remember how you said we’d be safe here?’
Not sure I put it like that.
‘Guess what? You were wrong.’
Very slowly, I hand Anton back his rifle.
‘Go,’ I tell him. ‘Get back to the buggy.’
The idiot shakes his head.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I didn’t bring you back to get you killed. Leave. I’ll keep you covered.’
‘Sven,’ he says, ‘I can’t-’
‘Just do it.’
‘Guys,’ my gun says. ‘Focus on what’s out there.’
Chapter 2
I can put a name to the danger. Sergeant Horse Hito, killer by appointment to Indigo Jaxx, general of the Death’s Head. Now Hito is a man I regard with respect; I just didn’t expect him to find me so fast.
Torn between its prey and the person coming up behind, the wolf hesitates. Probably thinks Sergeant Hito wants its supper.
‘Just Hito?’ I ask.
My SIG does that whirring thing. ‘No,’ it says. ‘Two . . .’ It hesitates, flicks a few diodes.’ Three . . . Four,’ it confirms finally. ‘The first has broken away. He’s heading towards us.’
Doesn’t sound right to me. ‘Stealth camouflage?’
‘No . . . Yes.’ The SIG sounds puzzled. ‘Maybe.’
‘Fucking great.’
‘Not my fault,’ it says. ‘It’s-’ I ignore whatever else my gun wants to say. Because the trouble is here.
‘Sven,’ Anton says.
Yeah. Seen it.
Fuck knows what it is. But it’s not General Jaxx’s assassin. Even Horse Hito at his ugliest doesn’t look this rough.
Triangular face, sunken red eyes, needle-like teeth. When the wind changes direction we smell its stink. Like vinegar. The weirdest thing is its skin. Silver and leathery.
Anton fires.
Picking itself up, the creature gazes towards us and then turns to the wolf, which finally breaks its silence with a long low growl.
‘It’s a fury,’ Anton says.
I’ll take his word for it. ‘Hollow-point,’ I tell my gun.
Flechette’s too specialized and I don’t plan to light the night sky with incendiary, which would simply advertise my position to anyone else out there. Like the real Horse Hito.
Hollow-points spread. That’s why I use them. These slugs keep 99.8 per cent of their mass and achieve a 300 per cent spread on a typical torso shot, and I fire three in quick succession. Turns out to be as pointless as shooting holes in a wet paper bag.
‘Wait,’ Anton shouts.
So I hold off going after it with a knife.
As the fury advances, the wolf tips back on its haunches. And then it springs. That’s when something strange happens. Instead of dodging, the fury slams its fist into the wolf’s ribs.
We hear bones break.
Gripping the wolf’s scruff with one hand, the creature rams the fingers of its other hand into the animal’s chest. The wolf howls. Obviously. Blood runs down the fury’s wrist, but it also drips from the wounds we punched in its gut.
‘Fuck,’ I say.
Anton nods. ‘Drinks through its fingers.’
‘Blood?’
‘Only blood.’
I can see why he’s worried.
Now the wolf’s dead there’s no prize for guessing the next target. Unless we were the target all along. Mind you, there’s always the goat. Ripping free my knife, I flip it round and throw.
Bleating turns to a scream of pain.