Under A Dark Sky E-Book

Johan M. Dahlgren

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

On rebel planet Elysium, a man is executed on live video streamed by religious extremists. Nothing terribly original so far for Elysium.

Only this time, the man doesn't die.

When security expert Asher Perez is sent to find him, dark secrets about the rebel colony are exposed. Something dark is stirring in the shadows.

Something that has been watching humanity since the dawn of history.

Leseprobe

Under A Dark Sky

Worldburner book 1

Johan M. Dahlgren

Copyright (C) 2016 Johan M. Dahlgren

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Johan M. Dahlgren

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

I am Alpha and Omega

All around me the angels are falling.

One by one they burst silently into flame as we fall to Earth.

Blinding pain, searing heat and I'm burning too.

I scream myself awake.

* * *

The wall of light is cold and wet against my cheek as I lean against it.

I blink and the world tilts, the wall becomes an ocean, and with the return of smell the ocean becomes a glittering pool of vomit reflecting the flickering streetlights overhead.

Nice work, Perez. Real classy.

An early morning rainstorm batters the city, black clouds under a dark sky. Badly animated holo-signs cast dancing shadows over the alley where I'm lying. Fuck. Someone should tell me I have a drinking problem.

But this time I have a good reason to get drunk. A damn good reason.

Most of us would drink to forget seeing a helpless man murdered in cold blood. The rest would reach screaming for the bottle when they saw what the victim did to his captors afterwards.

A man in a dark coat watches me from the mouth of the alley. I can't see his face, but the way his coat flaps in the wind like a shroud draping a corpse reminds me of someone. There's something familiar about him that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I've seen too many shrouded corpses in my life to be intimidated.

“What? Never seen a guy pass out in the rain before?” I rasp, my throat raw from too much cheap whisky.

Never again, I promise myself, feeling the asphalt grind against my cheek. I swallow and then instantly regret the action when my stomach turns over and I heave up sour bile and what feels like the major part of my guts all over again. Then I have to smile at the self-delusion. Who am I kidding? This is not the first time I've passed out after a night of drinking with Wagner, and it won't be the last.

At least I had the decency to do it outside this time. I roll over on my back and let the warm rain wash the filth from my face. A raving appetite rumbles my insides. How long have I been out? I don't have the foggiest, but it can't be that long, or Wagner would have come looking for me. Come to think of it, I have no idea how we ended up at this place at all. There's a hole the size of a headshot exit wound in my recollection of the night and I've got a headache to match. Not a first either.

In the sky above, the bright band of the Ring slices the sky in two, glittering like a frosted scimitar in the light from our not-yet-risen twin suns. To the east, a peach tint above the skyline heralds the birth of yet another dreary morning. Fuck this. It's time to get back to work.

I roll back on my side and the guy on the corner is gone. Either satisfied I wasn't going to ruin his karma by choking to death on his watch, or he figured I was not worth robbing. Either way, I guess he decided I was someone else's problem.

O tempora o fucking mores, huh?

* * *

When I finally scrape my ass off the ground and stumble back into the thundering noise inside the bar, Wagner is sitting in a corner booth, nursing a bleeding fist and a full pint. He sees me come in and I give him a nod, quietly impressed that he has managed to get into a fight while I was gone. Perhaps I was out longer than I thought. My giant Norse friend just gives me the evil eye and downs his beer in one long swallow.

I head for the bar through the rowdy crowd. My usual cure for a hangover like this is a stiff whisky or two, but my stomach is not up for it. Too bad. I could really use a dram right now because my hands are shaking and there's a dull ache in my back. Week-old bullet holes tend to do that to you.

Working as head of security for the largest corporation in the system has its perks, but the downside is you tend to get shot a lot. Somewhere out there I know there is a bullet with my name on it, but so far I've had the fortune to only get shot with nameless ones. Getting old in this business is not an option and I know it's only a matter of time before I get painfully acquainted with that bullet. Unfortunately, this job is the only thing I know how to do, so quitting is not an option. Talk about a bum deal. With my luck I would probably get killed by a speeding bus on my first day as a civilian anyway. I'm such a bloody cliché.

I squeeze in next to a noisy teen threesome snogging against the counter and wave to the bartender. “Water. On the rocks. Make it a double.” I have to shout and use sign language to make myself heard over the rumbling dysFunk basslines shaking the foundations of the building.

An unusual order, judging by the time it takes the barman to whip it up. That gives me time to think about some things I'd rather not think about. Like why we are here.

Not in the philosophical sense, but why Gray has sent for Wagner and had him meet me here in this illegal bar on the Rim of Southern Masada.

We're here because Gray wants us to find a guy and bring him in. At first it sounded like your average, easy-in, easy-out, smash-and-grab assignment, but then I saw the video.

* * *

The camera points dead ahead, showing a concrete wall hung with a grim-looking banner bearing the crossed swords and stylised supernova of a Redeemer battle flag. A man in an expensive-looking black silk shirt kneels on the floor in front of it. His dark hair falls almost to the floor and a well-trimmed beard adorns his chin. He's a handsome man, and the blood running down his forehead from the deep wounds beneath the spiked metal crown is almost too much. You couldn't have created a more perfect rendition of the suffering of Christ if you'd commissioned Michelangelo. His hands are tied behind his back.

Head bowed in submission, tilted slightly sideways, he gazes one-eyed into the camera from beneath dripping brows. Where the other eye should be is only a red, gaping hole. He breathes heavily through flaring nostrils and it's obvious he's struggling to keep his calm.

From stage left comes another man into the frame. He wears the long, loose dress and headgear of a holy warrior. The vicious knife in his hand and the dark beard on his chin complete the picture. He walks behind the kneeling man and is joined by two similarly dressed men, one on each side.

You know what's coming.

The stage is set, and the scene is no different from a thousand such plays from the bloody repertoire of religious terror. The speech is no different either. Neither is the final gasp of fear and denial as a rough hand grabs hair, pulling back and to the side, and neither is the cruel climax. The knife does its grisly work on his throat with the frightening precision of a skilled butcher. God is great.

The head flops forward and the body sags, one bent leg twitching, a dark glistening spot of bodily fluids spreading beneath the kneeling form.

Looking steadily into the camera, the executioner declares this to be the inevitable end facing all false prophets, and then he starts counting off the political prisoners they want released. There are always prisoners they want released.

A wet bubbling sound comes from the corpse as air escapes from collapsing lungs.

The list of prisoners goes on and on and this is usually the place where the major news feeds cut to the inevitable government press-conference. Outraged officials denounce all forms of extremism. Promises are made of increased persecution of innocent civilians. You know the drill. Everybody knows they will not catch the people responsible for the slaying, but they want to keep their jobs, so what else can they do?

But this video is not on any of the major feeds. Not yet. On the underground channels they don't cut, they don't fade. Instead the video rolls on, and this is where things start to get really interesting.

As the list is being read, a sudden movement in the lower part of the frame draws the eye. The head of the corpse is moving.

Slowly lifting from the bloody chest, the head pulls back, blood still running feebly from the wide gash. Even to my untrained layman's eye the amount of blood looks remarkably small and his long hair barely sticks to the gore. As I watch transfixed, the blood flow stops completely.

The three men notice the movement and stare in silent disbelief. Any self-respecting executioner with an ounce of pride in his work would now start to wonder if he's losing his touch. This guy certainly is, judging by the look on his face. One of the other would-be executioners is crying ecstatically. He has pissed himself.

The solitary eye of the murdered man is once again level with the camera, and he's smiling, but it's not a smile you'd expect to find on the face of Christ. This smile is ancient and dark and filthy. It's the smile of death and decay and the suffering of little children. It's the smile of all the atrocities committed in the name of religion and a promise of nothing but more of the same.

He flexes his arms and his hands are no longer bound behind his back and he preaches to the camera like a first-rate televangelist. His single eye locks on mine beneath the bloodied brow, the iris an almost unearthly light blue. “… I am the Lord resurrected, I am the word retold. I am Alpha and Omega. Mine is the kingdom of God, and mine is the vengeance. Bow down before me and worship, for the day of judgement is nigh and the time for repentance is over. To each his just end, to the righteous, as to those weighed and found wanting. Rejoice, and let this be a message of unity for the lambs of the true flock. The man-god has once more been slain, and once again he stands resurrected. The armies of the Goat are approaching but a new kingdom is rising to stand against them, and this time there will be no forgiveness for the enemies of God.”

He gets up from the floor in a single fluid move, like a trained dancer or a martial artist and turns on his captors. The camera is knocked over, the lens cracks and the image freezes, but the sound plays on.

It's the stuff nightmares are made of.

* * *

Something tells me this is not going to be a rescue operation. Why the hell does Gray want this guy? And why do I get the feeling we might all be heading for a very exciting future?

The Scars to Show for it

When I rejoin Wagner in the booth by the bar, he's already halfway down another beer, now left neglected by his tattooed elbow along with the glass corpse of its predecessor. He doesn't look up as I slide into the seat across from him.

The table's weak sound-screen is doing its damnedest to filter out the ridiculously loud music and the noise of the punters in the club. It's failing miserably.

“Vere ze fuck haf you been, Perez?” he says in his thick Norse accent, hunched over the table. He's busy carving what looks like a wolf's head in the white laminate table-top with a knife as long as my forearm. Not a bad likeness, considering Wagner's complete lack of artistic skills. Not something you would pay money to have on your living-room wall perhaps, but then bas-relief carving is not the reason Nero Gray employs Wagner. Neither are my art-critic skills the reason I'm Gray Industries' head of security. Even though knife-work is featured prominently in both mine and Wagner's CVs, our talents lie in another direction altogether. But we do tend to get rather creative sometimes.

“I've been out,” I reply as I look at the giant across the table, frowning slightly at the blood on his knuckles. He's all cut up. I think I can even see a couple of glass splinters in the blood. Maybe I was gone longer than I thought? Then again, it doesn't take long for Wagner to get into a fight. Some people just have to challenge the biggest guy on the block. On most blocks, that guy is Thorfinn the Skullfucker, son of Ragnvald of house Wagner, heir to the Throne of Shields and captain of the Einherjar. 'The Skullfucker?' I hear you ask. Don't. I just call him Wagner.

I've known him for close to twelve years and still it never fails to amaze me how big a Goliath really is when you get up close and personal with one. Standing two metres tall at the shoulder, wide as a barn door and weighing in at an impressive quarter tonne, Thorfinn Wagner is a monster and he's not even big among his kind. He's not only a monster, but a crazy one at that. He's also the closest thing to a friend I've got. I really need to get out more.

“Just getting some air and enjoying the scenery. The usual.” I shrug, looking around the place at the rowdy Friday-night crowd. “Look at all these assholes. Young, rich, pretty and spoilt, and nothing better to do than drink their parents' money away.” I shake my head at the spectacle. Places like these make me lose faith in humanity. I'm not at all envious of their carefree lives.

“Is good place.” Wagner shrugs, his grammar impeccable as always.

He's right though. The proximity to the Rim – four hundred metres of vertical rock to the jungle far below the city – means people can easily go missing out here. People tend to be very careful of who they mingle with in this part of town, making it the perfect place for famous people like Wagner to get away from both fans and authorities. Life in a militant theocracy is no fun at all, but if you keep a low profile, chances are the authorities will leave you alone. Besides, with Wagner being as big as a house, and me no dwarf either, and more than forty years of combat experience between us and the scars to show for it, they would think twice before trying anything.

“You were gone a long time. Did you puke your guts out in the rain again?” Wagner asks. He's not quite as stupid as he looks, which in his case is a very good thing. My soaked clothes, coupled with the smell of sour vomit is a dead give-away, though. I must not give the man too much credit.

I fake searching for the barman. “You got me there, buddy.” A quick drum-roll of my fingers on the edge of the table and I turn back to my giant friend. Only now do I notice his beard is slowly dripping water onto the NoClean tabletop. The drops roll away over the no-stick surface like diamond marbles with a life of their own and fall to the sticky floor. It's hot in here but not hot enough for him to sweat like that. He smells like a wet dog.

“Did you go looking for me?” I can't hide the tone of surprise in my voice.

“Perhaps.”

His long, blond hair lies plastered against his skull, tracing his swirling facial tattoos. He won't meet my eyes and continues to stare down at his carving, obviously engrossed in his work. His knife scratches another deep groove in the supposedly indestructible NoClean surface.

“Oi, da Vinci, stop that before the barman calls the cops.” I try to make myself heard over the pounding music breaking through the sound-suppression. I grab his great, bloodied knife-hand across the table but it's only a ploy to get his attention and he knows it. His knuckles are still wet and sticky with blood and I can feel the prick of a glass splinter against my palm. He doesn't move a muscle to betray if he feels any pain.

“Jake knows I work for Gray,” Wagner says with a dangerous glare at the barman.

“He wouldn't dare.” He sounds almost disappointed.

The barman eyes us while he talks to one of the clients at the bar. I guess he's uncomfortable having someone of Wagner's kind in here, and no wonder. A Goliath with clearance to the inner planets is invariably here to do violence. Having someone like Thorfinn Wagner performing violence in your bar is potentially lethal to everyone in the building.

Wagner finally looks up, a dangerous glint in his deep-set eyes. “I wish he'd call them. I need the kills.”

“Still on about that Breeder crap, Finn? Drop it. It's not your thing, you know that.”

“Is great honour for my people. Honour lives forever.”

“Come on. You're not even interested in women.”

“It is the work of Frey. It pleases the gods.”

He only needs ten more kills and he will be a Breeder, spending the rest of his days under the fur covers with the Valkyries on Nifelheim. I really need to keep an eye on him or he will run off on some high-score killing-spree.

“Anyways, we're the good guys now, Finn. We don't kill cops.” I lean back against the hard sofa, sliding my arm out along the top of the seat to take the weight off my bullet-riddled back. “Fuck, that feels weird.” And the bastard got away too.

Still, it's not as bad as it was when I woke up in the rain. There's a strange tingling in my back, and I hope it's not getting infected.

Wagner rolls up his lips into something resembling a smile. “Still sore, huh?” He doesn't even pretend to empathize. Getting shot in the back outside my own apartment by a simple robber is not the way to impress anybody. Especially not a Goliath.

“Like a whore in a cheap brothel.” Had I been Nero Praetorius Gray, I would just have fired my sorry ass and most definitely not paid for the expensive patch-up job in that fancy clinic. In his own way, I guess Gray is an OK guy – for a capitalist oligarch bastard.

Wagner just laughs. I give him the finger.

“Thanks for the empathy, brother. Relax, Finn. I just had a couple of whiskies too many, that's all. I'm starving. Let's bring up a menu and forget about this crap, OK? Gray doesn't have to know. If you don't tell him, you will save him a spot of high blood pressure and everybody wins. He is an old man. Leave him alone and he might live a few years yet. Come on Finn, cheer up. I'm buying.”

Wagner looks far from convinced, but when I tap the table's menu section and display the gastronomic treasures on offer in cheap, flickering holo, he grumpily orders a one-kilo steak. As always, he ticks the box for 'Bloody as Hell'. There must be a wolf somewhere not too far down Wagner's family tree. He's far too fond of garlic to be a vampire.

Feeding has never failed to put my big friend in a better mood, and if the food tastes half as good as it looks on the menu, this should have him purring like a kitten in no time. When our order finally arrives, we realize the pictures were probably stolen from some fancy uptown joint.

The food that gets dumped on our table by a busty waitress – aged past the point where make-up and push-up can hide the influence of even Elysium's weak gravity – looks like shit. After the recent crackdowns by the health department, most places have shaped up their hygiene standards and you will probably not die from a meal in a licensed restaurant in the city state of Masada any more.

In a place like this though, I'm not so sure, but my stomach is running on vapours and grumbling like crazy.

Hoka Hey. We take the leap of faith and dig in.

* * *

“So, what's the plan?” Wagner asks after crushing a cleaned steak bone between his teeth and noisily sucking marrow from the inside. Leave no food behind, that's the Norse for you. Living on that frigid ice world of theirs probably does that to a man.

He licks the bloody juices from his fingers and wipes his hands on his old army jacket. Me, I finished ages ago. The food actually didn't taste half bad. I'm still hungry, but I'm feeling better than I have in a long time. Are they putting something in the water again?

Behind Wagner, TV screens show flickering images from a news report of army forces moving off into the jungle on some major surprise exercise. It looks like the whole damn army, and I can understand them. You need some serious firepower to survive in the Elysian jungle.

“First of all, we need to get our hands on some new toys.” I drain my third large glass of water and wave for a waitress to refill it. I'm thirsty as hell. That whisky must have been unusually bad, even for a joint like this. Oh, what sad times we live in. “That limpet bunker is one tough nut and we won't crack it without some serious hardware.”

It was pretty obvious from the Redeemer banner in the video who was responsible for the failed execution. When the world lost contact with one of their limpet bunker hideouts a couple of days later, our suspicions were confirmed and we had our target. Now all we need to do is get in there, and that could turn out to be a bit tricky.

“Remember, these guys are the seriously inbred grandchildren of the people who broke the back of the Terran invasion back in the '50s. I have a feeling they will not be in Kumbaya mode when we get there. I think we need to go see Winger.”

A short pause from Wagner. “Whatever.”

He turns to practicalities. Things he can understand. “Air assault or stealth op?” He uses a finger-long splinter from the steak-bone as a toothpick as he looms over the table. On the table between us is a heavy-duty com-pad showing the rudimentary bunker schematics Gray's techs managed to dredge up for us. The woods are littered with such abandoned relics from the war, and it seems every one of them now houses a renegade sect. All of them worshipping their own marginally differentiated version of the Almighty, praying for the destruction of the Infidel – that's you, me and everybody else outside their circle elect – and the coming of their particular flavour of saviour.

I don't care about the battle for the souls of Elysium, and as long as they don't bother me, I don't bother them, but now that our paths are about to cross, I intend to take every opportunity I get to kick some fanatic behind. I never could stand those bloody Christian fundamentalists.

“Going in guns blazing would be a sure way to write ourselves into the hall of fame of Grandly Stupid Suicide Charges. I want my fifteen minutes of fame as much as the next guy, but I believe the pick-up factor of being on that particular list is pretty close to zero, so I think we'll go for door number two.”

Wagner leers at me.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, focus, Finn.”

For privacy, I've turned off the holo and we have to make do with a stylish but very boring, old-fashioned and two-dimensional display. I zoom out from the blueprints, trying to get a feel for the place. The bunker sits like a giant fossilised crustacean in the middle of the four hundred metres of ancient vertical rock isolating the southern of the twin cities of Masada from the jungle below. It's no more than a kilometre to the south of where we're sitting now. Practically spitting distance.

“How are your climbing skills these days, Finn?”

One of her Many Endearing Qualities

I press the call button on the ancient intercom beside the corroded metal door of Winger's place. It's raining again, only this time we're deep underground.

It takes a couple of hours for the rain to filter down through the cultural layers and detritus of the sky-scraping needle that is the megacity of Southern Masada. The humidity down in the Bottoms is not so very different from the rain forest climate uptown. The only difference is that down here, the sun never shines and the rain is blood-red with rust.

After a short while a tinny, metallic voice answers from the rusty grille, heavy with static.

“Who the fuck is it, and what the hell do you want?”

Winger is an unfriendly bastard at the best of times, and lucky for us, this seems to be one of them. With the surveillance camera above the door smashed since who knows when and the reputation of this neighbourhood I can understand if Winger is a bit touchy.

“Asher Perez,” I reply. “I called earlier.” A short pause and the locks disengage, motors struggle and the reek of burnt electronics tastes like nosebleed in the air. The huge door rumbles inward on creaking hinges, revealing a red-lit tunnel, sloping down into the underworld. Cue spooky music and you've got yourself a textbook entrance to hell. Like most places down here in the Bottoms, the smell is more septic tank than sepulchre though.

Wagner stoops low to enter the doorway ahead of me. Like all abnormally tall people he goes through life hunched over like a boxer, ready to take one in the face from life, but he needs to really bend over to get through the doorway.

As we walk down the damp concrete tunnel, randomly lit by weak light-panels behind rusty metal cages, the air grows noticeably colder and less breathable. Written on the wall in graffiti two metres tall is the age-old admonition that “Here be Dragons”. The inference is clear; Abandon hope all ye who enter this shit hole.

Winger has always been a sucker for theatrics, but I'm too old in this business to be creeped out by a creative arms dealer. Even one as well equipped in the arms department as Winger.

* * *

We reach the end of the tunnel where another massive door bars our way. This time there's working surveillance gear tracking us as we approach. We stop in plain view of the cameras, allowing the scanners to read us. The door slides open, this time without a sound; a sure sign of expensive tech. Like I said, Winger is the best.

Despite its decrepit appearance, the outer door would probably shrug off a direct hit from a cruise missile and this bulkhead would keep you safe for the rest of the war. It's always good to know someone as paranoid as Winger when The War comes. In my experience, it's the paranoids who get the last laugh.

As we step through the door and into the state-of-the-art airlock behind it, the door behind us slides closed again. Our ears pop from a sudden change in air-pressure and we are hosed down with some kind of sharp-smelling disinfectant.

Winger is chronically suspicious of germs and viruses. For good reasons.

The airlock completes its cycle, and a door opens up in front of us, this time on a huge, dimly lit hangar filled with crates. In places they're stacked to the high ceiling, packed with the coolest kit you've ever seen. Men fall in love with the place at first sight. Women just shrug and wonder what all the fuss is about.

In the centre of the room, four banks of spotlights hang from aluminium trusswork bridges suspended from the ceiling on chains.

A massive industrial fan, stylishly backlit in morphine yellow, rotates slowly in the far wall. The rest of the room is unlit, the occasional twinkle reflecting off well-oiled technology the only indication there is anything out there in the darkness at all.

We walk down a canyon between the wooden crates and our footfalls echo around the large chamber. I run my fingers over the rough surface of the wood. Not a single speck of dust. There are no obvious security systems, but I know they are out there. We wouldn't get far if we were here to rob the place. We reach the central work area and there is Winger, bent over a work-table, her back to us.

She's wearing an oil-stained sleeveless top displaying her slenderly muscled arms and shoulders to great effect. The short top also reveals her dimpled lower back over the black leather pants which are not doing a very good job of hiding her long shapely legs.

The legs are the first thing you notice about Winger.

She straightens at the sound of our footsteps and turns to face us, stretching her back and showing off her ample assets in the harsh light. The cynic in me knows it's all a show to get better prices for her gear, but the romantic in me wants it to be all for me.

The second thing you notice about Winger is her strong but stunningly beautiful face, framed by a swell of curly dark hair. She's the kind of woman wars are fought over and poems written about.

The third thing you notice about Winger is Christine.

The small parasitic Siamese twin growing out of the side of her abdomen never fails to get people's attention.

At the moment Christine's asleep, and Winger has covered her in a soft blanket. If I didn't know better, I'd say she had a baby propped on her hip. Had they been born a decade later to a wealthy family, they could easily have been separated at birth and new organs grown for Christine, but they were not. When the price of the procedure had finally come within reach of ordinary people like Winger's folks, she and Christine had grown inseparable, if you'll pardon the pun.

They say a guy once fell in love with Winger and convinced her that her sister was not going to be a problem. Everything went alright for a while, and then the guy stabbed Christine in the face with a knife when Winger was asleep, hoping to force her to have Christine removed. The guy was never seen again, but ever since then, Winger wears a necklace of gold-plated teeth around her neck. They are much too big to be her milk teeth.

“Hey, Finn,” she greets the giant. “Back so soon? Did you get to fight the Sumerian yet?”

“No, not yet.” Wagner is unusually uncomfortable around Winger, and he keeps fidgeting with his belt buckle. He has never been very good with women.

Me, I've had a crush on Winger since I first met her a couple of years ago, and coming here always gets me in a good mood. I'm not one of her regular customers, but I try to find excuses to come see her every now and then. It's just too bad she's already taken. Her lover is a very lucky girl.

Her lover is also a psycho biker dyke, and I don't much fancy being the subject of her male-hating rage, so I keep my hands off. For now.

“And who the hell are you?” Her question smacks me in the face like a gutted cod and brings me out of my reverie. She's looking at me like she half remembers my face but can't decide if I'm a celebrity, unrecognisable out of makeup, or if I'm the guy from the sushi stand, unrecognisable out of context.

“Cut the crap, Winger. I called an hour ago.” That doesn't seem to ring any bells, so I try again. “Hello? Perez, remember?” Still nothing. “What have you been smoking, girl?” I ask her, my good mood starting to evaporate.

She frowns, and then what I take to be recognition trickles in like cold water down a spine. She always was a bit absent-minded. That's just one of her many endearing qualities.

“Right. Sorry, man. No need to get grumpy. You're just not the Perez I was expecting, but since you're here let's see what I can do for you.” A quick smile that could melt the ices of Nifelheim and she walks over to another desk, the light glinting off her leather pants, highlighting her smoothly rounded curves.

She picks up her com-pad and Wagner lets out a long breath I never knew he held. Funny that such a big man can be scared of a woman a fraction of his weight. He could lift her with one hand, easy. The image of it in my mind's eye brings a crooked smile to my face.

“There you go.” Winger smiles back. “You're not half bad looking when you smile. You should try it more often. Might stop people from trying to kill you just to put you out of your misery.”

I know it's all show and a calculated greasing of a customer, but her words still make me feel all fuzzy inside. Is it just me, or did it get hot in here?

“Cute, Winger, cute. Now, cut the crap and let's get down to business.”

She leans back against the worktable, cradling Christine with one arm, balancing the pad on her hip with the other. “Aw, come on.” She pouts at me. Damn, she's hot.

What's the matter with me today? I feel like a bloody teenager at the prom. I really need to get myself laid, and soon.

Then she's back in sales mode.

“OK, so, what do you need, mister?”

What I really need would probably make even her blush, so instead I count our shopping-list off my fingers.

“We need climbing gear. Four hundred metres of carbon line, spikes, hooks, the lot, and some chameleo-suits. Binoculars, and a good momo-blade.”

“Mountaineering, huh?”

I shrug.

“Not my business, got it. Anything else?”

“Grenades, SMGs, handguns and a few cans of VX if you have it.”

She just looks at me, her lips drawn back in a skeptical sneer and one eyebrow raised incredulously in a 'come on, are you for real?' look.

I spread my arms. “What?”

“Nothing.” She puts the pad down on the desk so she can type in my order. “So, grenades check. Rifles check. Guns check,” She ticks them off with a slender but dirty finger on the pad, then looks up. “No can do on the VX, I'm afraid. Nerve-gas was banned a couple of hundred years ago, you know. Crimes against humanity and all that.”

“Always worth a shot. OK, lose the VX. Give us a lot of bullets instead. Same result, just more job for us.” I play the macho card. She doesn't even pretend to know how to play that particular game.

“Lots… of… bullets.” She reads the words out loud as she types them, slow and clear as if to a child or a total idiot. I really like this girl. “Is that all?”

“Yes. No, there's one other thing. Parachutes. And a chopper pickup.”

Winger whistles through her teeth, reluctantly impressed. “Jumping into the jungle are you? With that hardware, I'd say you were raiding one of the limpets. Grave robbing, huh?”

“I hope not.”

“Not my business, I know,” she holds up a placating hand, “but you certainly know how to tickle a girl's interest.” A pretty smile flashes across her face before Winger the hard-ass saleswoman comes back. “I hope you've got a load of cash secreted somewhere around your body because this shit is going to cost you.”

“Not a problem. Send the bill to this address.” I beam her the invoice address of a clean, twice-removed Gray Industries subsidiary from my wrist-pad. “They're good for it.”

“I normally deal in cash, Mr, but if your credit is as good as you say I might make an exception. I need the money.”

“The credit's good. Trust me. Can we take the stuff with us now?”

“The knife and the handguns you can have right away.” She throws me a folded momo from the desk. I catch it and flick open the short blade with its mono-molecular edge. The sharpest thing in the universe. I like the weight of it. “The chopper will be there when you call. You got a ride?”

“Parked around the corner.” I wave a thumb over my shoulder as I fold the knife back up.

She closes her eyes and inhales slowly, then sighs. “What kind of dream-world do you live in, man? If you're fucking lucky and it's still there and still in something even remotely resembling working condition when you get out, you can take it round the back and we'll load the gear. If not, you will have to carry that shit out of here, and don't even think about leaving it here for later. Good thing you brought Wagner along to carry it for you.” She nods in the giant's direction. “You run with anybody these days, don't you, big guy? I hope the pay is good.”

Wagner just shrugs.

“The car will be there.” I have faith in no god, but I do have faith in the hardware of Gray Industries. No one will touch that car.

I hope.

Winger shrugs. “It's your money.” At that moment her pad chimes. I'm guessing her trace of the decoy company completed with satisfactory results. Impressively fast. She really is the best.

She doesn't even look at her pad, probably able to tell from the tone of the chime that the company is good for the credit. I hoped she would do a trace, which is why I chose that particular company to front the deal. Hard to trace to the real owner, but not impossible. Childish, I know, but I wanted to impress her. I've never told her who I work for, and I don't know why I decided to share now, but there it is.

“Come see me again sometime.” She smiles at me. “If you need anything else.” She adds it casually as she puts the pad down on the desk again, and I'm not sure if the implied invitation is there or if it's only in my head. I linger a little longer than necessary to catch the look on her face when she sees the result of the trace. I'm not disappointed.

She looks up from her pad and just blinks at me, for once speechless.

As I turn my back on her, Christine pushes the blanket from her face and looks at me with a strange glitter in her shrunken eyes.

We go to get the car.

The General

The general steps down onto the ramp as it lowers from the back of his troop carrier. The scent of the jungle is strong in his nostrils, contrasted by the electric smell of smoking steel from the still scorching hull of the dropship. These are the smells of victory.

An insect the size of his hand buzzes too close to the red-hot surface of the ship and is singed to a crisp in the shimmering heat. General Caspar Batista Meridian smiles at its sad demise. He is no stranger to death. The rays of the setting sun paint the inside of the ship blood-red.

Taking a deep breath, he strides down the ramp in his powered armour, helmet under his arm, and steps onto the surface of the jungle-moon. In the clear evening sky above, Arcadia burns.

It is done, and tonight he will celebrate with his troops. They deserve the best. They've earned it.

Far overhead a few straggling Arcadian fighters streak through the moon's atmosphere chased by the Elysian air force. The Terrans have nowhere to run anymore, and they know it. Peace will come.

Major Amon Solana, his second in command, jumps down next to him, the servos of his armoured suit whirring to soften the impact. Solana removes his helmet and draws a deep breath of the rich atmosphere, so very different from the recycled air they've been breathing for so long. Space is their second home, but nothing compares to the full experience of filling your lungs with the smells of life and death of a natural habitat.

There's a smile on the major's handsome face, and he salutes his general.

“The men are ready to move on your command, sir.”

The general smiles back. He sees himself in the major's face. Maybe a little younger and a lot more idealistic, but he sees himself there. In fact, he sees himself in all his men. That is why they work so well together.

“Excellent, Major. Dress uniform and side arms only. This is a triumph, not a strike op. We're celebrating.”

“Yes sir.” Solana lifts the helmet to his face and barks a few quick orders into the command module.

The war is won and Gray will pay his general handsomely for it. The Terran Commonwealth is beaten, already accelerating their remaining starships back to Earth. This is an hour of celebration for the free people of the Hope system, unburdened at long last of the yoke of Earth.

Even at close to light speed it will be forty years before the Terrans return for the next round, and finally the general can relax. There is no one left to fight and he is tired. The day of reckoning has come and gone and now a new world is rising. He does not yet know if there is a place for him in that world. He has no skills in demand in a world of peace, but with his special talents there must be something he can do. He is not worried. Those who serve will be rewarded.

Besides, if there is anything he has learnt over the years, it is that humanity will always need someone to do their violence, even in peacetime.

“Come Major. Let's lose the armour and bring the boys out.”

“Sir.”

He takes a final breath of fresh air before striding up the ramp again. At last he is content.

* * *

His men march down the ramp, splendid in the evening light in their white dress uniforms, the rays of the dying sun reflecting off the golden decorations on their chests. The least recognised man in his company carries more medals than the war heroes flaunted on the feeds by the church government. His men will never appear in those feeds. They operate too far from the eyes of the sensitive general public. If their missions became public knowledge, the government would lose face and heads would have to roll. Theirs is not a public part. They are the knife in the dark, carrying out the less noble but ever so important work that the leaders of the rebellion can never acknowledge. Without them the war would still be raging. The enemy has been destroyed and the children of Hope need die in the trenches no longer. General Meridian and his precious Cherubim played the game one final time, and this time they played for keeps.

The men stand at parade rest, smiles on hard faces, as proud as their general of what they have done. They are the peacemakers, and they know it.

Meridian gives a quick nod to Solana. The major calls the men to attention and Meridian addresses his men. “You know what to do, and I expect you to do it well. I know you are tired, but shape up and put on a good show, and tonight we will celebrate. You have earned it.”

It fills him with a pride stronger than love to be the leader of such men. He has no children of his own and he never will. Gray saw to that. But he has his men, and they are dearer to him than mere biological offspring could ever be. That is why they work so well together. They have fought and bled side by side, many of them have lost their lives along the road. Every death has pounded and forged the survivors closer together until now they are as perfectly balanced and deadly as a samurai's sword. An unbending force, powerful as a ramstrike, with the precision of a mono-molecular scalpel in the hands of an expert surgeon. Never in the history of mankind has there been a finer strike force. They know it and they take immense pride in it. It saddens his heart that they will never be recognised for it, but that is a sacrifice they are all willing to make. In the battle for the future of humanity, theirs is a small burden to bear.

“Major?”

“Then men are yours, General. I'll lock up and join you in a little while.”

“Very well, Major.” He salutes his second in command who returns the salute, crisp and faithful as always.

Meridian gives the marching order and they all set out along the jungle trail.

* * *

As they emerge from the jungle Meridian spots the welcoming party at the other end of the field. Gray is there, standing in his white linen suit in the centre of a half-circle of security operatives. The mercenaries look cold and hostile in their dark Gray Industries coveralls, heavy weapons at parade rest. Behind them the fliers they arrived in, dark, powerful birds of prey, stand with their jet engines idly turning, aimed at the ground. It looks like the meeting will be brief.

The sun is setting behind the mountains on the opposite side of the wide valley. Its last rays catch the spray from the waterfall plunging from the plateau to the valley floor a hundred metres below. All around them, colourful, birdlike creatures wheel and dive, chasing insects in the golden mist. Their eerie calls provide a haunting soundtrack to the scene. It's a spectacular sight.

As Meridian and his men approach, Gray's guards start to look uneasy. Being in the presence of soldiers who take lives for a living tends to do that to lesser men. That's the difference between hired muscle and professional soldiers, Meridian muses. Men tempered in combat have a natural ease about them. They have learnt to live with the inevitability of death and it no longer holds any fear for them, and that makes them relaxed and ready for any eventuality. These mercenaries have probably seen their fair share of death, but never on the scale of true soldiers as Meridian's men have done. These mercenaries don't trust each other like brothers and therefore they are frightened in the presence of such men. It's only to be expected.

Meridian walks up to Gray, who stands relaxed and immaculate. The linen suit hangs off him like an old jacket on a scarecrow, but the old man never looked better. This is his victory too, and he can sleep well tonight.

Maybe today Meridian will get to shake the hand of the man he has been serving all these years. Gray has never given him that honour. It would be nice.

“Welcome, General. Congratulations on a job well done.” Gray extends a hand and Meridian takes it, proudly. It's warm and dry. “We're all very grateful for what you have done.”

“Thank you, sir.” Meridian shakes Gray's hand. “The mission was a total success. The victory was absolute.”

Gray shakes his hand back, not letting go. Gray's hand is unusually warm. Not the usual corpse temperature of ordinary humans. “As always, General, your results far exceed my expectations…”

“You are far too kind, sir.”

“… which is why, in this case, we have a problem,” Gray continues.

“A problem sir? How so?” A shiver of unease runs down the general's spine. Something is not right. Gray's hand is almost burning hot in his own. It's almost as hot as the general's own skin.

The pieces fall into place.

Gray is like him. He is no more human than the general is. That's why Gray never shook his hand before. If he does it now that can only mean one thing.

“I know your orders were to win the war at any cost, General, so semantically you have done nothing wrong, but I'm afraid that this time you have overstepped your authority, general.”

“I won you the war as I promised. How could that displease you?” The general takes in the twitching fingers of Gray's men and now their anxiety makes a chilling kind of sense.

“Yes, you won the war, and you did it most spectacularly.” Gray looks to the burning disc above them that is Arcadia, a smile on his thin lips. “But you realise I could never afford to have this mission connected to myself.” His gaze returns to the general. “That just would not do.”

Meridian untangles from Gray's hot grasp and clenches his calloused hand into a fist over his heart, swearing wordless, unending loyalty to Gray and the cause.

“I can assure you that my men will never say a word about this, Gray. They are not stupid. They understand their complicity in this. We are all aware of the Beijing Convention.”

“I have no doubt whatsoever in your sincerity or that of your men, General, but I'm afraid I would not trust my life on either of them. I didn't get where I am today – and I have come a very long way,” a small smile at the corner of his mouth, " – by trusting people."

Meridian looks deep into Gray's eyes. How did it come to this? Was this the way Gray planned it from the beginning? There is no light in the old man's eyes. None at all.

As Meridian lowers his fist from his chest he quickly opens and clenches it again, signalling to his captain, instructing him to alert the crew back at the ship and have them bring in the dropship to provide fire support. This is going to get messy. Fast. A quick nod from the captain informs him the order has been relayed.

Gray continues. “You see, I consider myself something of a surgeon, General, working to keep a dear patient alive. When a cancer runs rampant and threatens the patient's life, or maybe even has the potential to infect the physician himself, it is the physician's duty to weed out that cancer. If the physician dies, there's no one to take care of the patient any more, and this patient must live. You see, I consider this whole system my child, and a father must always see to the good of his children. I know you see the reason in this, General.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Gray?” Meridian is stalling to win time for the ship to warm up and come to their aid. “We are all on the same side here, fighting the same enemy. We always have. Always will.”

“Yes, we are, and we have. But you see, the difference between you and me is that I see the bigger picture. You have never been anything but a pawn, General. A useful pawn, I'll be the first to admit that, but a pawn nevertheless. After what you did to Arcadia, the threat of being associated with you now far outweighs your usefulness. Oh, how you have fallen from grace, General.” A sad shake of Gray's head.

So that's it. The carte blanche is revoked, their actions denounced. The general looks out across the valley, nodding slowly. There are worse places to die. But the ship is on its way and there is still a chance. The cannons on the dropship will turn Gray and his men into pink mist from two kilometres away.

Gray must have seen the flicker of hope in his eyes.