Perdition (The Dred Chronicles) (22 page)

“How does it look?” she asked when Tam returned.

By her calculations, they were more than halfway to the target.

So far, so good.

The spymaster seemed elated. “No guards that I saw. No security immediately visible.”

Immediately, she wondered why. “Would he not have identified this as a viable target?”

“It’s possible he hasn’t,” Tam allowed. “Some men consider only the frontal assault. They lack the subtlety to envision the other ways the enemy can hurt them.”

Dred called to the others, “Let’s get this done quickly, in and out.”

As she approached the ladder, she said, “There’s a reason we need four people to make this work. Each of us must toggle the reset levers at the same time, then Tam will race to complete the programming.”

Which will include bad code for Grigor’s recyclers.

Dred climbed down as fast as the shaft allowed, then moved aside to make room for the others. She’d never been down to the recycling and sanitation chambers before. It was hotter down here, vents puffing steam into the room, so it felt damp on her skin. Much of the equipment was rusted, barely functional. Nobody had salvaged these rooms or stripped components; either they hadn’t thought of it, or it was much too difficult to reach with Priest’s fanatics butchering people in the corridors above.

But not anymore.

The computer that controlled the allotment of water was down here, protected by a number of fail-safes. Tam had a work-around for all of them, starting with the initial reset. She spotted the reset levers in each corner of the large room, impossible for less than four people to decide to work on the system. When it was a mining refinery, there had been that many people working down here easily, and a reset wouldn’t have been undertaken lightly.

“Get to your corners. I’ll count it down.” Dred jogged to the northeast side of the room. “Everyone in position? On one.” She checked and saw Tam, Einar, and Jael with hands on the power switches. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One!”

In sync, they clicked the levers down, and the computer powered down. This would result in a minor hiccup in the power above; hopefully, the others would think it was a docking supply ship and head to Shantytown, or they’d blame it on Perdition’s aging systems. Tam called out the count to thirty, then they powered the machine back on. As it ran through diagnostics, the spymaster sprinted for the console. He flipped the input pad out of the wall and went to work, fingers flying against the keys. Chains of code skimmed down the screen, errors flashing, then Tam swore, trying again.

“How we doing?” Einar asked.

Dred counted in her head, fifteen seconds left. Tam had no brain cells to spare for questions since he was racing the clock. If he didn’t get the commands accepted by the time the computer completed the restart, system defaults would kick in.
Five seconds.
The screen flashed red again, and the spymaster spat something so filthy that the big man looked impressed. Just when she thought they’d be locked out, the screen gleamed blue, and new words appeared:
NEW PROGRAM ACCEPTED
. She cheered along with everyone else, then loped over to congratulate Tam on his amazing work.

“I couldn’t cut off their water entirely,” Tam said. “So I programmed the system to apportion rations suitable for a much smaller population. And I turned off their filters, so when they use it—”

“It doesn’t get recycled. Comes back dirty.” That was clever and revolting, she thought.

“They’ll be sick as dogs before long,” Jael predicted.

Dred pushed out a relieved breath. “That’s the point. Grigor just has so many men . . . we have to weaken them before we take them on.”

“Hyena tactics,” he said.

She raised a brow. “You disapprove?”

“I support doing whatever’s necessary to win. But will it occur to them to check the system?”

Tam nodded. “Yes, they’ll come looking eventually. And Dred has a plan for dealing with them.”

She grinned at that. It was rare that she could honestly take credit for the ideas that created havoc for their enemies. But this was her brainchild, and she intended to make the most of it. “I think it will work.”

“Definitely,” Tam agreed. “Even if her plan fails, and they identify the problem, then reset the system, I doubt any of Grigor’s men have the skill to change my command parameters.”

“He tends to recruit brawn, not brain,” Einar agreed.

Dred asked the big man, “Then how did you end up in Queensland?”

“The Great Bear took one look at Einar and kept walking. I suspect he was afraid the big man wouldn’t be content to follow his orders.” Tam beckoned as he headed for the door.

She laughed. “He doesn’t follow
any
he doesn’t like. As long as you can work around that, it’s fine.”

“I’m
right
here,” Einar said in an aggrieved tone. He hefted his axe, following Tam out into the corridor.

Dred hurried after them. “Mission accomplished.”

Jael was the last to leave, and she wondered at his scrutiny of the console. Before she could quicken her step to catch up to the other two, he put a hand on her arm. “How do you know he changed the programming in the way he claims?”

First Ike, now Jael.

She pitched her voice low. “I don’t. But things have been a lot better for Tam since I removed Artan from power. People listen to him, and they treat him like he’s important, these days. Why would he jeopardize that, particularly in such a visible way? I mean, if
we
end up with a shortage or people get sick from drinking tainted water, I’ll know exactly who to blame, and Einar will cut his head off.”

“You make a compelling argument.” The flickering lights rendered his expression diabolical, slanting sparks across his skin.

She met his gaze. “Something’s bothering you about all this.”

“Yes. I just can’t put my finger on what. Silence has all these brilliant schemes, and she’s just handing them to you. Doesn’t that trouble you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I suspect there’s a knife hidden behind her back, but I have to play along until the game ends and hope I can dodge her final gambit.”

“Hope’s a bitch. Better to be prepared.”

Dred completely agreed.

36

Guerilla Warfare

Jael wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be pleased by this assignment. Two days ago, when Dred said she had a plan, Jael hadn’t realized
he
would be executing it. Maybe it was a little flattering, but mostly, it was boring as hell, hunkered down in a side corridor near the recycling center with Einar and thirteen other Queenslanders, along with water bottles and packets of paste.

He’d been a little jealous at seeing her touch Einar, but she was sensitive to it, at least. This sharing business really wouldn’t work if she was a bitch who got off on pitting her men against each other. Normally, he’d run at top speed in the other direction, faced with the prospect of sharing a woman, but Perdition had a way of eating into your resolve, making you willing to accept things you wouldn’t otherwise.

Which is why I’ve got to get out of here.

He cocked his head, listening, then whispered to the big man, “We’ve got a group of four, incoming. Don’t scare them off with your stench.”

Einar growled back, “I smell like angels at sunrise.”

“Dead ones,” a small man cracked.

The rest of them snickered and nudged each other. These guys were about like the mercs he’d served with, not a psychotic break among them. Other territories were full of face-eating maniacs, so far as he’d seen, so he reckoned the reading she’d given him helped weed out the worst of the new fish.

Someone was asking, “How does he know how man—” when another inmate silenced him by clamping a hand over his mouth.

Jael settled to wait. As their footsteps drew closer, he leaned out to get the first glimpse of the incoming patrol.
Einar wasn’t kidding when he said Grigor went for brawn.
These four men all stood taller than two meters, each as broad through chest and shoulders as the big man. Most had scars but few so colorful as the ones Einar possessed. Jael signaled to his team, but at least half of them looked totally blank regarding the hand signals. Fortunately, Einar understood, and he was confident the two of them could take these four, no matter how big they were, so long as the rest of his squad didn’t actively get in their way.

A deep voice said, “I thought I saw something move.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Might’ve been a rodent,” another said.

“I hate those fraggin’ things. They—”

But he didn’t get to finish his thought because Jael was on him. He went with a knife hand to the throat, followed by a clean takedown. Once he had the soldier on the ground, he rammed an elbow in his face. The blood from his smashed nose would disorient him. He took a couple of wild swings—and they were strong hits—but he’d been hurt much worse for much longer. He shook them off and finished the piker with a half-closed fist to the temple.

Einar had the sense not to swing his axe. Instead, he had a jagged blade in his hand, punching it rapidly into the smaller man’s sternum. The two closest Queenslanders laid into the remaining men and took them out; they were messy deaths, full of mob killing, with shoving and stomping and shivs slashing wildly. The corridor was a bloody smear by the time Grigor’s soldiers stopped moving.

“I’ll get this hauled away,” the big man said.

Jael turned to the others. “Head down to the recycling center, see if you can find a mop and bucket. We don’t want to leave any evidence for the next group.”

“How many more patrols will he send?” someone asked.

He shrugged. “Hard to say. I suspect one or two smaller groups, tops, before Grigor deploys a larger squad to wipe out whoever’s picking off his men. Hope you lot like paste because we’ll be here awhile.”

There was a collective groan, but most of the Queenslanders didn’t look too displeased with the mission. They got to lie in wait, and there was the chance of constant, queen-sanctioned violence. To men who had been locked up for being unable to control their base natures, that was a good day. As for him, if you swapped out this rusty, grim-lit corridor for a rocky hillside or a muddy field, he’d done this job countless times before.

While the men cleaned up the signs from the battle as best they could, he helped Einar lug away the corpses. Jael bent and slung a body over his shoulder, marveling at the deadweight. Corpses always felt heavier than any other burden, he thought, of the same relative size and weight. Then he grabbed another, before realizing he’d surprised the other Queenslanders. A few men whispered, as he didn’t
look
this strong. Ignoring them, Jael followed Einar, who always seemed to know where all the chutes were located.

“Keep this up, and I’ll start calling you the undertaker,” he joked.

“I could do worse.”

They dumped the bodies in front of the chute, then the big man stuffed them down. A pneumatic whir carried them away, one by one, leaving only a red smear on the floor. Einar rubbed at it with his boots until it was more grungy than distinct. Jael lifted his chin to indicate he thought it was enough.

“They’re not likely to be skilled investigators,” he observed on the return.

“They’re brain-dead shit birds.”

“You’ve a poetic nature, you know that? I rather like you, undertaker. Didn’t think I would . . . but here we are.”

“You’re not a complete wart on a toad’s arse, either,” the big man muttered.

“I feel a hug coming on. Should we?”

“I’d rather let you cut my face off with this axe.” Einar hefted the weapon hanging over his shoulder.

“Could do that, too, I suppose. That couldn’t make it worse.” He gestured to indicate the whole extreme ugliness Einar had going on.

Jael could’ve dodged the punch, but he reckoned he deserved it. So the hit landed on his ribs and rearranged some bones. They snapped back into place; sometimes there was a deep internal itch when the healing started. He stopped to let the work complete, then realized the other men were gaping at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nobody roughhouses with Einar, unless they’re looking for a broken neck.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” he said coldly. “There’s a reason the Dread Queen made me her champion.”

“No doubt,” another Queenslander said hastily.

He dragged the other man off to call him names in private, but Jael heard every word. “There’s something off about that one. Try not to be stupider than you can help, all right? I don’t want to find somebody else to watch my back while I’m asleep. Keep mouthing off to the queen’s man, though, and I’ll have to, won’t I?”

“Sorry, wasn’t thinking.”

That small exchange put a damper on everyone’s mood, so the team sat in silence while they waited for Grigor to realize there was a problem. Hours turned into watches, as the men wearied. Jael took the first shift; frankly, he would prefer
not
to sleep with so many inmates all around him. Somebody might take a mind to stick a knife between his ribs, and then, well. Best not to tempt fate.

By his calculations, it was ten hours before they sent a second party to figure out where the first group had gone. They must be thirsty up in Grigor’s territory, too. This time, there were eight soldiers, all big bruisers, like the first four. He counted their footfalls to calculate how far away they were, then he whispered the ETA to Einar.

“Ready for some action?” the big man asked the team.

“More than. I sit here any longer, my ass will be rooted to the floor.”

“Pair up,” Jael said. “I need you fighting together, no mob rules this time. Pick a target, take him down together.”

“But we outnumber them,” a Queenslander protested.

“They’re bigger. Don’t ever underestimate your opponent. That gives him the advantage from the jump, and it doesn’t always matter how many people you’ve got.”

Einar said, “Agreed. Look sharp. We have incoming in thirty seconds or so.”

Jael eyed the other man with surprised approval. When he’d given him the estimate, he didn’t realize he was still counting down. Soon, the rest of the men could hear the approaching combatants. They were moving fast, too, all but running, so their treads came in heavy thumps. He swung out fast enough to surprise the leader, landing a kick in the enemy’s chest.

This one had some combat experience, as he checked two of Jael’s blows, but he glimpsed the flash of pain that came on impact. He was strong enough that even a block delivered enough damage to fracture a forearm. Jael speeded up his strikes, hands becoming a blur as he went at the leader. The other man couldn’t keep up; and Jael snared his wrist. Pop and twist—the bone snapped clean in two as he wrenched it behind the brute’s back. He combined the move with another kick; this one rocked the other man’s legs out from under him. Jael ended the fight with a boot to the throat, crushing his enemy’s larynx. He was trying to avoid a bloody mess, but around him, other men didn’t share the same concern.

A Queenslander dropped, taking a knife in the kidneys; he wasn’t dead yet, but he might as well be.
No recovering from that.
Despite his orders, the men weren’t fighting in an organized or unified fashion. Not their fault, really; they’d never drilled.
These are prisoners, not soldiers. They’re used to mixing it up in riots, not orchestrating strategy.
Still, that lack was costing them.

Another Queenslander fell, and Einar pushed forward to fill the gap. Jael shoved forward beside him, scowling as blood spattered on him from someone else’s knife. He curled his fingers around his blade and punched forward, shoving the knife through his foe’s sternum. In an efficient motion, he pulled it back, kicked the man out of his way, and went for the next victim. He raked the blade across the man’s eyes, then stabbed him up through the chin.

“Wish I had room to move my axe,” Einar bitched, as he hauled back to deliver a killing blow. The weight of his fist crushed the man’s lip, more blood spewed out, along with a mess of teeth. Fortunately, he wouldn’t live to suffer the loss.

When the last body fell, they were down three men, better than Grigor’s men should’ve done, frankly. “This is a hell of a mess. Clean it up.”

“Why should we?”

His jaw clenched. “Because I’ll kill you if you say another word. Try me.”

“Sorry. I was just asking,” the man muttered.

Einar’s quick nod said he understood the point of sending them to dispose of their fellows; if shoving corpses down the chute didn’t make the idiots more cautious in the next engagement, then they were dumb enough to deserve to die.

“How long will we be here?” one of the men asked.

He glanced at Einar, wondering if he knew. “Until the Dread Queen calls us back.”

“What if she never does?” the man persisted.

Jael snapped, “Then we fight here until we die.”

“Until we’re overrun,” the big man agreed. “It’s not for us to question.”

He suspected it wouldn’t be much longer. If Dred was right, Grigor’s men would soon be too drunk or too dehydrated to find their way down to the recycling center. Rebellion would begin within his territory, and then—only then—would the Dread Queen strike. All told, it was a cunning plan, well crafted and layered. He looked forward to executing it, step by step, and seeing Dred’s enemies brought low. At some point, this damned microwar had become more important to him than scouting possible escape routes.

In time,
he told himself.

“I always wanted to hunt a Great Bear,” he told Einar conversationally.