‘Close ranks,’ General Luc says.
The Wolf Brigade tighten their formation.
We could use their new focus to fight free. Colonel Vijay must know what I’m thinking, because he catches my gaze and shakes his head.
‘Boss,’ Neen says. ‘Can’t we ignore him?’
I’ve been wondering that myself. It’s not like we’re high clan ourselves, so why should we be bound by Vijay’s stupidity? Except the colonel was our CO on Hekati, and for all I know he’s the highest ranking Third Regiment officer alive on Farlight.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We can’t.’
But we can stop Sebastian Thomassi getting his hands on the man. I have the Aux fall in beside the Wolf Brigade. Colonel Vijay gave his word we wouldn’t fight General Luc’s men. He said nothing about not fighting anybody else.
Halting, the truck opens its doors and ten prison guards jump out. They’re everything you’d expect, from the guts hanging over their gun belts to the coffee stains on their flak jackets. They’ve even got cattle prods and extendable batons in little leather pouches at their sides.
I don’t like prison guards.
Given the number of prisons I’ve been in that’s understandable.
Stumbling to a halt, they only take formation when their NCO barks an order. The police officers look less happy than they did a few seconds before.
‘Sir,’ the older one says.
He is addressing Colonel Vijay.
Instead of being offended, General Luc laughs. And it occurs to me the officer only talks to Vijay because he’s afraid to talk direct to the Wolf.
‘I need your surrender for trial, sir.’
‘On what charges?’
‘Being a member of an illegal organization.’
‘A what?’
‘You’re a colonel in the Third Regiment. That regiment of the Death’s Head is now proscribed. All officers, NCOs and soldiers are to surrender immediately. Failure to surrender is punishable by death.’
He’s reciting from memory. Obviously enough.
‘Death?’ The Wolf looks interested.
‘Refusal to surrender constitutes treason to our newly elected leader Prince Thomassi.’
‘Who elected him?’ Leona demands.
The police officer ignores her.
‘And he’s not a prince,’ I add. ‘And he’s only a senator because his brother died.’
‘Sven,’ says Anton, ‘you’re not helping.’
That’s fine. I’m not interested in helping. I want the Wolf Brigade to attack the police and guards while we spectate. A little friendly fire, and the Wolf’s down and Colonel Vijay’s conscience is clear.
Unfortunately, the colonel is regretting he can’t oblige. He has surrendered already and it’s impossible to do so twice. He says this politely. Of course, should the Wolf decide he doesn’t want the colonel’s surrender . . .
General Luc’s lip curls.
The police officers go pale.
Nodding to his driver, the Wolf climbs into his scout car and we hear its engine start. He nods again. To Colonel Vijay, this time. I have no doubt that General Luc intends to cut out his captive’s heart. But he still offers him a ride.
High clans. Fucking insane, the lot of them.
Chapter 41
‘Sven . . .’
Yeah, I know. The road’s this way. Grabbing my bars, I blip the throttle and jump a ditch, missing a man who opens his mouth to swear. Only to shut it again at the sight of my face. Wise move. Although I’m too drunk to go back and kill him. So maybe he’s not in that much danger after all.
Given I’ve finished a bottle of cane spirit, it’s a miracle I can steer this thing. Mind you, it has three wheels and that probably helps. An Icefeld couldn’t cope with the state I’m in.
Someone got splashed the last time I vomited.
Shil probably, knowing my luck. Something else for her to get sour-faced and tight-lipped about. Luckily, I’ve got a second bottle in the pocket of my coat. So I don’t care that much.
We’re getting out of Farlight.
So is half the city from the look of it.
But we’re having a better time of it than they are.
A broken-down truck with an armchair tied to its flat-bed sits up ahead, guarded by an old doubter woman, who slumps on the chair, with a crying child on her lap. The child clutches a doll.
A hover taxi lies burnt-out in a ditch. Given its age and rust, and the patches of rot pocking its neoprene skirt, I’m surprised it made it this far. Gyrobikes wobble under the weight of two adults and more children than their riders can afford to feed.
The city obviously started emptying hours ago.
But we plough our way through the lot. General Luc doesn’t bother with sirens. Vehicles and people move out of our way or get driven off the road as the Wolf Brigade convoy roars by.
Three personnel carriers, five scout cars, sporting light machine guns. A pair of anti-tank missile launchers, with pintel mounts. Three transporters, loaded with food, water and ammunition . . .
The SIG gives me the list.
I tell it to shut up.
It tells me Aptitude was more fun than this.
Everyone in the Aux avoids me. Don’t blame them. Not their fault if I’m drunk. Apparently, Shil thought I was over behaving like this. Fuck knows where she got that idea. Don’t appreciate the SIG telling me either.
I blame Sergeant Leona. She landed me with the shit about thinking ahead, long games and people changing. Undoing my second bottle, I swear when the SIG says that’s a bad idea, and swap them around. The SIG-37 goes in my pocket and the bottle goes in my holster, an altogether better arrangement.
My combat trike is really just a fat-wheel with added light machine gun. I’m riding one. We’re all riding one. The bastards have even left the LMG’s belt in place. A clanking strip of 7.62 knitted with twists of ceramic. The LMG is automatic, gas-operated, belt-fed, air-cooled . . .
Our glorious leader’s usual shit. I wonder the Wolf is stupid enough to leave us loaded guns given the way I feel. The SIG tells me he’s not.
The pin has been shaved.
General Luc is up ahead. His vehicle identical to the one at Wildeside. Long snout, short back, weird turret. Painted grey, flying his flag. Still looks like a wolf’s skull on wheels.
‘Same one, fuckwit . . .’
Being in my pocket makes the SIG sound muffled.
The road we travel steams with early rain. The clouds have burnt away, and with them our protection from the early-after-noon sun. It will be worse later, when we hit the wastelands. Everyone rides in silence, staring ahead. No one knows what to say. And I’m not ready to say anything. Not yet.
So we wrestle with our fat-wheels, set our faces to the hot wind, wipe dust from our visors and head down Farlight’s slopes towards a gash through the wastes beyond.
Our route to the high plains.
There are seven of us and there should be nine.
Like I said, General Luc rides ahead. The personnel carriers ride behind. Four of the fat-wheels are used by Luc’s men. They act as our guards and as the Wolf’s outriders. Five hundred Wolf Brigade in all.
Drones fly overhead, all stubby wings and afterburners. They’re worked by a pale-faced girl who sits up front in a scout car, with a pad on her knee that she scratches with one nail as she flicks them round the sky. Not sure what she’s-
Oh, fuck it.
Upending the bottle, I swallow half in one go.
‘Sven,’ the gun says. ‘This isn’t helping.’ Shows what it knows.
The trucks are being loaded with supplies. The officers will travel separately from the men, and the NCOs separately from both. There’s even less mixing of ranks in the Wolf Brigade than in the Death’s Head, and there was little enough there.
Imagine it reflects General Luc’s tastes.
This is a memory, in case you didn’t realize. Not even the second bottle of cane spirit is enough to wash it away. So I guess I’ll be living with it for a while.
In my memory, we line up and the Wolf walks himself down our line.