Takeshi Kovacs - Broken Angels Part 44

Before that, other worlds. Other pain, most of it not mine. Death and Envoy deceit.

Before that, Harlan's World and the gradual emotional maiming of childhood in the Newpest slums. The life-saving leap into the cheerful brutality of the Protectorate Marines. Days of enforcement.

Strung-out lives, lived in the sludge of human misery. Pain suppressed, packed down, stored stored for an inventory that never came. for an inventory that never came.

Overhead the Martians circled and screamed their grief. I could feel my own scream building, welling up inside, and knew it was going to rip me apart coming out.

And then discharge.

And then the dark.

I tumbled into it, thankful, hoping that the ghosts of the unavenged dead might pa.s.s me in the darkness unseeing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

It's cold down by the sh.o.r.eline, and there's a storm coming in. Black flecks of fallout mingle with flurries of dirty snow, and the wind lifts splatters of spray off the rumpled sea. Reluctant waves dump themselves on sand turned muddy green beneath the glowering sky. I hunch my shoulders inside my jacket, hands jammed into pockets, face closed like a fist against the weather.

Further up the curve of the beach, a fire casts orange-red light at the sky. A solitary figure sits on the landward side of the flames, huddled in a blanket. Though I don't want to, I start in that direction. Whatever else, the fire looks warm, and there's nowhere else to go.

The gate is closed.

That sounds wrong, something I know, for some reason, isn't true.

Still...

As I get closer, my disquiet grows. The huddled figure doesn't move or acknowledge my approach. Before I was worried that it might be someone hostile, but now that misgiving shrivels up to make s.p.a.ce for the fear that this is someone I know, and that they're dead- Like everyone else I know.

Behind the figure at the fire, I see there's a structure rising from the sand, a huge skeletal cross with something bound loosely to it. The driving wind and the needle-thin sleet it carries won't let me look up far enough to see clearly what the object is.

The wind is keening now, like something I once heard and was afraid of.

I reach the fire and feel the blast of warmth across my face. I take my hands from my pockets and hold them out.

The figure stirs. I try not to notice. I don't want this.

"Ah-the penitent."

Semetaire. The sardonic tone has gone; maybe he thinks he doesn't need it any more. Instead there's something approaching compa.s.sion. The magnanimous warmth of someone who's won a game whose outcome they never had that much doubt about.

"I'm sorry?"

He laughs. "Very droll. Why don't you kneel at the fire, it's warmer that way."

"I'm not that cold," I say, s.h.i.+vering, and risk a look at his face. His eyes glitter in the firelight. He knows.

"It's taken you a long time to get here, Wedge Wolf," he says kindly. "We can wait a little longer."

I stare through my splayed fingers at the flames. "What do you want from me, Semetaire?"

"Oh, come now. What do I want? You know what I want." He shrugs off the blanket and rises gracefully to his feet. He is taller than I remember, elegantly menacing in his ragged black coat. He fits the top hat on his head at a rakish angle. "I want the same as all the others."

"And what's that?" I nod up at the thing crucified behind him.

"That?" For the first time, he seems off balance. A little embarra.s.sed, maybe. "That's, well. Let's say that's an alternative. An alternative for you, that is, but I really don't think you want to-"

I look up at the looming structure, and suddenly it's easier to see through the wind and sleet and fallout.

It's me.

Pinned in place with swathes of netting, dead grey flesh pressing into the s.p.a.ces between the cord, body sagging away from the rigid structure of the scaffold, head sunk forward on the neck. The gulls have been at my face. The eyesockets are empty and the cheeks tattered. Bone shows through in patches across my forehead.

It must, I think distantly, be cold up there.

"I did warn you." A trace of the old mockery is creeping back into his voice. He's getting impatient. "It's an alternative, but I think you'll agree it's a lot more comfortable down here by the fire. And there is this."

He opens one gnarled hand and shows me the cortical stack, fresh blood and tissue still clinging to it in specks. I slap a hand to the back of my neck and find a ragged hole there, a gaping s.p.a.ce at the base of my skull into which my fingers slip with horrifying ease. Through on the other side of the damage, I can feel the slick, spongy weight of my own cerebral tissue.

"See," he says, almost regretfully.

I pull my fingers loose again. "Where did you get that, Semetaire?"

"Oh, these are not hard to come by. Especially on Sanction IV."

"You got Cruickshank's?" I ask him, with a sudden surge of hope.

He hesitates fractionally. "But of course. They all come to me, sooner or later." He nods to himself. "Sooner or later."

The repet.i.tion sounds forced. Like he's trying to convince. I feel the hope die down again, guttering out.

"Later then," I tell him, holding my hands out to the fire one more time. The wind buffets at my back.

"What are you talking about?" The laugh tagged on the end of it is forced as well. I smile fractionally. Edged with old pain, but there's a strange comfort to the way it hurts.

"I'm going now. There's nothing for me here."

"Go?" His voice turns abruptly ugly. He holds up the stack between thumb and forefinger, red glinting in the firelight. "You're not going anywhere, my wolf-pack puppy. You're staying here with me. We've got some accounts to process."

This time, I'm the one that laughs.

"Get the f.u.c.k out of my head, Semetaire."

"You. Will." One hand reaching crooked across the fire for me. "Stay."

And the Kalashnikov is in my hand, the gun heavy with a full clip of antipersonnel rounds. Well, wouldn't you know it.

"Got to go," I say. "I'll tell Hand you said h.e.l.lo."

He looms, grasping, eyes gleaming.

I level the gun.

"You were warned, Semetaire."

I shoot into the s.p.a.ce below the hatbrim. Three shots, tight-s.p.a.ced.

It kicks him back, dropping him in the sand a full three metres beyond the fire. I wait for a moment to see if he'll get up, but he's gone. The flames dampen down visibly with his departure.

I look up and see that the cruciform structure is empty, whatever that means. I remember the dead face it held up before and squat by the fire, warming myself until it gutters down to embers.

In the glowing ash, I spot the cortical stack, burnt clean and metallic s.h.i.+ny amidst the last charred fragments of wood, I reach in amongst the ashes and lift it out between finger and thumb, holding it the way Semetaire did.

It scorches a little, but that's OK.

I stow it and the Kalashnikov, thrust my rapidly chilling hands back into the pockets of my jacket and straighten up, looking around.

It's cold, but somewhere there's got to be a way off this f.u.c.king beach.

PART V: DIVIDED LOYALTIES.

Face the facts. Then act on them. It's the only mantra I know, the only doctrine I have to offer you, and it's harder than you'd think, because I swear humans seem hardwired to do anything but. Face the facts. Don't pray, don't wish, don't buy into centuries-old dogma and dead rhetoric. Don't give in to your conditioning or your visions or your f.u.c.ked-up sense of... whatever. FACE THE FACTS. THEN act.

QUELLCRIST FALCONER.

Speech before the a.s.sault on Millsport

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Night sky starscape, piercingly clear.

I looked at it dully for a while, watching a peculiarly fragmented red glow creep up over it from the left edge of my vision, then retreat again.

This ought to mean something to you, Tak.

Like some kind of code, webbed into the way the glow shattered across the rim of my vision, something designed in the way it levered itself up and then sank down again by fractions.

Like glyphs. Like numerals.

And then it did mean something to me, and I felt a cold wave of sweat break across my entire body as I realised where I was.

The red glow was a head-up display, printing out across the bowl of the s.p.a.cesuit faceplate I was lying trapped beneath.

This is no f.u.c.king night sky, Tak.

I was outside.

And then the weight of recall, of personality and past came cras.h.i.+ng in on me, like a micrometeorite punching through the thin seal of transparency that was keeping my life in.

I flailed my arms and found I couldn't move from the wrists up. My fingers groped around a rigid framework under my back, the faint thrum of a motor system. I reached around, twisting my head.

"Hey, he's coming out of it."

It was a familiar voice, even through the thin metallic straining of the suit's comsystem. Someone else chuckled tinnily.

"Are you f.u.c.king surprised, man?"

Proximity sense gave me movement at my right side. Above me, I saw another helmet lean in, faceplate darkened to an impenetrable black.

"Hey, lieutenant." Another voice I knew. "You just won me fifty bucks UN. I told these f.u.c.king suitfarts you'd pull through faster than anyone else."

"Tony?" I managed faintly.

"Hey, no cerebral damage either. Key another one in for 391 platoon, guys. We are f.u.c.king f.u.c.king immortal." immortal."

They brought us back from the Martian dreadnought like a vacuum commando funeral procession. Seven bodies on powered stretchers, four a.s.sault bugs and a twenty-five strong honour guard in full hard s.p.a.ce combat rig. Carrera had been taking no chances when he finally deployed to the other side of the gate.

Tony Loemanako took us back through in immaculate style, as if Martian gate-beachheads were something he'd been doing all his professional life. He sent two bugs through first, followed with the stretchers and infantry, commandos peeling off in matched pairs on left and right, and closed it out with the last two bugs retreating through backwards. Suit, stretcher and bug drives all powered up to full grav-lift hover the second they hit Sanction IV's gravity field and when they grounded a couple of seconds after that, it was unified, on a single raise-and-clench command from Loemanako's suited fist.

Carrera's Wedge.

Propped up on the stretcher to the extent that the webbing allowed, I watched the whole thing and tried to damp down the sense of pride and belonging the wolf gene splice wanted me to feel.

"Welcome to base camp, lieutenant," said Loemanako, dropping his fist to knock gently on my suit's breastplate. "You're going to be fine now. Everything's going to be fine."

His voice lifted in the comsystem. "Alright, people, let's move. Mitch.e.l.l and Kwok, stay suited and keep two of the bugs at standby. The rest of you, hit the shower-we're done swimming for now. Tan, Sabyrov and Munharto, I want you back here in fifteen, wear what you like but tooled up to keep Kwok and Mitch.e.l.l company. Everyone else, stand down. Chandra control, could we get some medical attention down here today today, please."

Laughter, rattling through the comset. There was a general loosening of stance around me, visible even through the bulk of vacuum combat gear and the non-reflective black polalloy suits beneath. Weapons went away, folded down, disconnected or simply sheathed. The bug riders climbed off their mounts with the precision of mechanical dolls and followed the general flow of suited bodies away down the beach. Waiting for them at water's edge, the Wedge battlewagon Angin Chandra's Virtue Angin Chandra's Virtue bulked on a.s.sault landing claws like some prehistoric cross between crocodile and turtle. Her heavily armoured chameleochrome hull shone turquoise to match the beach in the pale afternoon sunlight. bulked on a.s.sault landing claws like some prehistoric cross between crocodile and turtle. Her heavily armoured chameleochrome hull shone turquoise to match the beach in the pale afternoon sunlight.