Make him wait or answer now? A quick check of my watch says Colonel Vijay needs another five minutes, which means we need a diversion.
It comes from somewhere unexpected.
A stamp of boots says others are joining the fun. Voices rise in the ballroom, then die abruptly as someone fires a side arm. Into the ceiling, from the sound of falling plaster and screams from the crowd.
‘Wow,’ says a voice. ‘Vulgar paintings, cheap marble, mirrors to disgrace a brothel. No wonder Sven feels at home.’
‘That’s enough.’
‘Enough nothing. You should have used incendiary.’
‘And destroy this place before we reach the boss?’
‘Serve him right.’ That gun’s got all the personality of a hung-over bouncer who’s been dumped by his girl, had the bailiffs repossess his apartment and is having a really bad attack of piles, but I’m still delighted it’s here. If only because I know the voice of the sergeant holding it.
Although I still want to know what took him so long.
‘Neen,’ I say. ‘Get your arse up here.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
‘And hurry it up.’
‘What about this lot, sir? Kill them?’
Voices rise and weapons cock. Seems we’re going to have to go to them after all. When Leona and I make the turn in the stairs, our hunting rifle and light machine gun turn a two-way stand-off into something more interesting.
The first thing I notice about my team, apart from the fact they’re in Death’s Head black, minus their shoulder patches, is that they wear ferox-skull armbands. The second thing is they’re splattered with blood.
Other people’s . . .
Guess that answers the question about what took them so long. Been fighting their way through Farlight and stealing armbands from the look of it. The final thing is that Rachel and Emil are missing.
So is Anton, but I’ll get to that later.
The militia have clocked their uniforms and armbands. Although it doesn’t impress their CO enough to have him make his troopers lower their weapons. They do, however, part to let Leona and me through.
‘Sir,’ says Neen. ‘Reporting for duty, sir.’
He snaps the words out and the Aux stiffen. They’d stand to attention but then they wouldn’t be able to cover the militia with their rifles.
‘Good to see you, Sergeant.’
Neen looks at me, trying to work out if I’m mocking him.
He’s clutching my SIG-37, and has a Kemzin 19 slung over his back. His sister stands beside him, with a scowl on her face. That’s fine. The day Shil turns up not looking sour is the day I start worrying. Obviously, I don’t need to start yet. Shil takes one look at Leona and scowls harder.
Standing behind her is a blond boy with broad shoulders and a wide smile. When he sees Leona, his smile gets wider. Ajac is the newest official member of the Aux. A survivor from the death of Hekati. Beside him stands Carl, with staples holding shut a gash in his skull.
‘You stole my coat,’ he says. ‘Want it back.’
It’s the girl on Neen’s other side who really raises my eyebrows. Curves overflowing in all the right places, sweet smile, puzzled eyes. Iona isn’t a member of the Aux at all, which explains why she’s not in uniform.
She is, however, Ajac’s cousin and Neen’s lover, much to Shil’s disgust. That’s nothing new, because pretty much everything is to Shil’s disgust. So we’ve got Iona who I don’t expect, but we’re still missing-
Neen nods upwards.
A strange little balcony overlooks us, fed from different stairs. It has a low balustrade with fat pillars. Between two of these I see a flash of red hair. And peeking from behind a pillar’s base is the muzzle of an 8.59 calibre Z93z long-range sniper rifle. The new model, the one with the adjustable cheek piece, ?3-?12-?50 spotting scope, laser sights and floating barrel.
No idea how Rachel managed to get up there.
But I’m impressed she did. Not going to tell her that, obviously. Rachel’s our sniper. As the saying goes, a good sniper is worth ten troopers. In Rachel’s case you can make that a hundred. Snipers are high-maintenance and so are redheads. Put them together . . .
Rachel’s as high-rent as all fuck.
The militia are watching us. Uncertain which side we’re really on. After all, we’re wearing official armbands. The crowd is watching the militia. Mobs need simplicity. Kill these people, sack that house, burn this building. Too much complexity muddles them.
‘Sven,’ Leona mutters. ‘You’re being cynical.’
‘No. It’s the truth.’
At the rear, someone mutters Colonel Vijay’s name and we’re back in business. Voices take up the mutter. And the voices get louder until they become a shout. The crowd has re-found its focus.
‘Give us Jaxx,’ someone shouts. ‘We know he’s up there.’
‘Death to Jaxx.’
They’re back in a place they understand.
‘Boss?’ says Neen.
It’s my call. Obviously it’s my call. We’re outnumbered, which means nothing. In battle experience this lot don’t come close. And we’re better armed. Although Neen still holds the SIG-37. He must realize that, because he holds it out.
‘About fucking time,’ the gun says loudly.
The militia and the crowd go suddenly quiet.
‘Aptitude OK?’ I ask.
‘You think I’d be here if she wasn’t?’ It scans the ballroom, doing a little dance with its diodes. ‘Fifteen Kemzins, three side arms, a shotgun (unloaded), assorted kitchenware, pry bars and bits of scaffolding . . .’
My gun sounds disappointed.
‘Hell,’ it says. ‘Hardly worth getting out of bed.’
‘Behave.’
‘Aptitude didn’t even let me kill rabbits.’
Carl’s grinning. ‘Debro sent it back. Think she thought it was a bad influence. Lent me her copter.’
Wondered how he got here so fast.
‘Jaxx,’ a voice says clearly.
A small man at the back, dressed in a filthy shirt and wearing a campesino hat. Doubt he’s ever lived in a favela, or would recognize a barrio if he got knifed in one. His skin is too fresh and he looks well fed.
He scowls when he sees I’ve spotted him.
I consider shooting the man with the campesino hat. But then we’d have a battle on our hands. So I weigh my other options. The thought stops me dead. This must be strategy. My old lieutenant used to talk about that.
Strategy is working out how high to bet on each hand.
‘You,’ I say. ‘Come here.’
The man looks behind him. Realizes I mean him and considers losing himself in the crowd. Only it’s not big enough. And Rachel’s already targeting him. I see it in the way the suppressor of her Z93z shifts. Those around him see it too. In the little red dot that blossoms right in the middle of his forehead.
‘Shit,’ someone says. ‘Sniper.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Juan . . .’
‘Bullshit,’ my gun says. ‘Try again.’
The man looks at the SIG. He wants to say that’s illegal technology and he’s right. Only how would a man in a campesino hat, who comes from the favelas, know what’s on the banned weapons list?
Unless he’s not from the favelas.
‘Well?’ I say.
He gives me a name.
Since the gun remains silent I guess it’s real.
‘So,’ I say. ‘You’re leading this group, right?’
The man’s not happy to be the centre of attention like this. And some of those around us, mostly militia, are scowling at him. They’re the ones who didn’t realize they were being led.
‘We’re all together,’ he says. ‘We want the same thing.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Vijay Jaxx . . .’
‘Why?’
He looks at me, eyes opening wider. Wondering whether to appeal to the militia CO, he glances from the officer’s face to us, and decides it’s a bad idea. So he answers my question instead.
‘He’s the general’s son.’
Indigo Jaxx is dead, his house burnt and his city in ruins. But his enemies still call him the general and stand a little bit straighter as they say it. Weird fucking place, Farlight.
Think I’ve said that before.