‘So,’ I say. ‘How did they find us?’
‘Tracked me,’ says Haze.
‘Did you know?’
‘Of course not, sir. If I’d known . . .’
‘What?’
‘I’d have asked to be left behind.’
There is no answer to that, so I go to see how Neen’s doing with the mercenaries.
The answer to this is not so well. Armour opens from the inside, obviously enough. And our two captives aren’t playing. Franc has their wrists bound behind their backs, their ankles lashed and rags tied over their visors.
‘Sven,’ says Colonel Vijay.
He’s carefully not looking at Franc, who is busy ignoring him. My guess is the colonel panicked again in the first few minutes of the attack. Now he’s wondering how to live it down.
‘Be with you in a moment, sir . . .’
He flushes.
‘Problems?’ I ask Franc.
She grins sourly. ‘Can’t get them open, sir.’
Well, it is a bit like asking a crab to peel itself for dinner.
I can kill one to encourage the other. Waste a clip or two of explosive rounds. Drop large rocks until the internal bruising gets too bad. There are dozens of ways, but sometimes the old ones are best.
‘Make a fire,’ I say. The Aux scatter, looking for kindling.
‘Bigger,’ I tell Shil, when she comes back with twigs.
She scowls at me, but the next time I see her she is dragging a bloody great branch behind her. The time after that, I notice that Franc is cutting the branch into usable lengths. I don’t even want to ask where she got the axe.
Neen prepares a fire of kindling, logs and dry goat droppings.
Breaking apart an incendiary bullet, he extracts the slug from its case and the charge from the slug without losing his fingers. Although we’re all careful to stand back when he tips flakes of thermite, phosphorus and whatever it is onto smouldering leaves.
A minute later, we have our fire.
‘Call me when it’s down to coals.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The mercenaries have to realize what’s about to happen. They are struggling hard enough.
‘You ready to open up?’
Two shakes of the head.
So I get Neen to help me roll them onto the glowing coals. Good battle armour can be very good indeed. But no one expects the armour to handle these levels of heat. At least, not for as long as I’m prepared to leave them both broiling.
‘Sven . . .‘
‘Sir?’ My gaze flicks from the fire to Colonel Vijay.
‘Is this necessary?’
There is none of his usual arrogance. It seems to be what it is, a simple question. Looking at him, I spot vomit on his trousers.
‘We could just kill them, sir.’
‘But we should question them first?’
‘I think so, sir.’
Actually, my gun thinks so. But there’s no way I’m going to tell Colonel Vijay that. ‘Sir,’ I say. ‘Can I ask a question in return?’
When he nods, I step away from the fire and he follows. I want to know why we’re here. I want to know why he’s leading a mission that should be mine. I want to know why we’ve gone right round Hekati and found no trace of his fucking U/Free observer. But I ask him something else instead.
That’s called subtlety.
‘How old are you, sir?’
He blushes. ‘Nineteen next week.’
Oh shit.
You don’t get to be a colonel at eighteen without insane amounts of influence behind you. A lieutenant, yes. Maybe a captain by twenty-one, if your family are senators. But a colonel . . .
‘Sir,’ I say. ‘Did you volunteer for this?’
The answer is in his eyes. So I tell Colonel Vijay I have been that kind of volunteer, and move to my next question. The one that’s meant to get me to the questions that matter. Only his answer makes them meaningless.
‘Do I know the general? ‘ His smile is bleak. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘General Jaxx is my father.’
‘Your father volunteered you for this?’
‘Oh, no,’ says Colonel Vijay Jaxx, eyes bleaker still. ‘That was OctoV, our glorious leader himself.’
The ceramic skin of the mercenaries’ armour is crazed and metal fittings glow when I get back to the fire. The rags around each helmet and the ropes tying their wrists and ankles together are long since ash.
They are too tired to keep trying to crawl free. The few times they do attempt it, Neen just pushes them back into the fire using a stick.
‘Either of you willing to talk?’
One of them nods.
‘If you’re lying,’ I say, ‘I’ll throw you back.’
I am tempted to leave the other one in there. Only Colonel Vijay is watching and I’m on my best behaviour. So I have Neen drag both from the coals. Filling a water bottle from the spring, he prepares to cool the armour.
‘Don’t . . .‘
It’s the first thing either mercenary has said since being captured. Although what interests me is that the voice is female. More than that, it’s familiar.
‘Unlock,’ I tell her.
She does.
A switch is obviously hit, because a seam runs up her breast-plate. Steam rises as it opens. When Neen reaches down, the woman inside shakes her helmet. I can see the problem. Straps hold her in place.
One after another, these slide back.
Clicking a cuff, the woman shakes a glove free. And reaching up, swears as the skin on her hand sears. It seems a throat guard must fold away before her helmet can lift free from its shoulder guards.
An interesting idea.
A rag hides the woman’s skull. Originally red, it’s now sweat-stained. An implant behind one ear is missing its top. She wears a sodden green singlet. Now here’s someone who didn’t expect to be undressing in public.
As her thigh pieces open, the mercenary rolls to her knees and lets the plate armour fall away to reveal plumbing. One pipe enters her buttocks, another coils beneath her thong.
She rips free the fatter.
Behind her, the second mercenary does the same. They are twins, indistinguishable if you ignore green and blue vests. The same broad shoulders and flat guts, the muscled arms and cropped skulls.
The first one sees me watching and grins sourly. She thinks I’ve never seen someone like her before. It’s a fair assumption. Not many people get to see the Vals and live.
You fight them, you die.
And if you fight alongside the Vals, then you’re definitely going to die. Because the Vals are patron saints of the Last Stand.
‘We’ve met,’ I say.
The nearer Val stares at me. I’m not in any memory bank she’s accessing.
‘And we’re sorry,’ says Neen. ‘About Vals 9 and 11 . . .’
She looks surprised. Why would anyone be sad about a Val dying? It is what they exist to do. A couple of sentences bring her up to speed on Ilseville and what happened to her sisters. Blue singlet gets it immediately. Vals 9 and 11 are dead. We saved their implants; only an explosion destroyed those as well.
‘You were comrades?’ She sounds doubtful.
‘No,’ says a voice behind me. ‘We were friends . . .’ Haze wears a singlet of his own, equally filthy. A rag is wrapped round his head and a water bottle is gripped in his shaking hand. Glancing at me, he takes my silence for permission.
‘Here,’ he says, offering the first Val water. She sips, and then passes it behind her.
After a sip of her own, the second Val passes it back. They finish the flask between them a sip at a time, their actions impressively disciplined. I’ve known heat-struck troopers gulp water fast enough to choke.
‘Friends?’ A corner of green singlet’s mouth twitches.
She knows how absurd a comment that is. The Vals are copies; they protect their own and hunt in pairs. They’ve been chipped, spliced, and augmented to the edge of insanity, and they are proud of it. No one makes friends with a Val. Everyone works at staying alive when they’re around.
‘Yes,’ says Haze.