Endgame

I slow enough for one of them to get a look at my back. A shout goes up from the centurion, and he fires. I slide around the corner of a building as chaos escalates. Breaking cover, Loras and Vel shoot back, but clumsily, permitting the two centurions to close. They think this fight will be over quickly.

And it will—for them.

As the centurions round the corner, I launch myself at one on the left and take out his kneecap with a ferocious kick. The patella pops, and his leg won’t hold him. I’m on him in a second. But then, if I meant to kill him, he’d already be dead.

I jab the hypo into his neck. Bastard. I hope it hurts.

Within seconds, it’s lights out. Vel subdues the other one, then doses him. He hefts one; Loras shoulders the other, and I cut a path through the alley to where our shuttle awaits. Once Vel chucks his hostage in back, he slides into the pilot chair. He passed the pilot-training course. As of now, he has the credentials to fly any class of ship from shuttle all the way to M, which I secretly think stands for massive. The centurions are key to the next step in our plan: infiltration.

I tap the comm. “Mission accomplished. Red team Alpha, meet us at base.”

Before the attack commenced, we packed up and moved on. They’ll find no sign of where we’ve gone should they find the house. From here on out, we work from the hidden ops center or in the field.

“Acknowledged.” Zeeka’s voice is unmistakable, mostly because I picked out the tone of his vocalizer.

“You got away clean?” I ask.

I can’t help mothering him a little. I didn’t want to send him with the crew to plant the charges, but he feels like he has something to prove. Everyone else has been with me longer; they’ve done more. We have history, he says, like that’s a bad thing. But I guess you can expect that attitude from a young male of any species.

Zeeka replies, “No witnesses. RTA out.”

I glance back, checking on Loras and the prisoners. “They’re still unconscious?”

He inclines his head. “Should be for a while yet.”

As Vel powers up the shuttle, he says, “Strap in, Sirantha. Drones have locked on with instructions to prevent any air traffic by any means necessary.”

I comply, then flick a switch to take control of the guns. This is a sweet ride; without Dina, it took longer to whip it into shape, but Vel did a good job, and Zeeka was eager to learn. Vel finished it up last week, with Sasha and Z assisting.

“On ’em.”

Behind me, a captive whimpers, trapped in narcotic dreams. I don’t feel sorry for him. He made his choices. We all do.

From conversation with March, I recall that most Nicuan centurions start as mercs. After ten turns in service to the same noble, they receive a permanent assignment, a rank, and a retirement fund. That’s rarer than it sounds because so many soldiers die on Nicuan; they don’t survive long enough to become centurions, let alone get a cushy post on one of the colonies. In all official documents, they call this colony by its Imperial name, Nicu Quintus.

Which enrages the La’heng. But they can’t show it. Instead, they follow orders and hoard their hatred. When we work out the kinks in the cure’s delivery system, the planet will rise up behind us.

Until then, it’s up to us.

But then, isn’t it always?

CHAPTER 9

After takeoff, I focus on the drones.

Four of them bear down on us, nearly in weapons range. Shuttles don’t usually have offensive capability, but Vel retrofitted this little beauty with some guns from a junked skiff. We have other vehicles for air travel as well, but none quite so nice.

It feels odd to fire from the console instead of a proper gun pit, but there’s no room in a ship this size. I tap furiously, lining up my shots. The shuttle’s size means I can feel each swivel of the lasers. When I have one square in my sights, I loose the first shot. I have to be fast. If these drones have a chance to bounce any visual footage to the satellite, Imperial forces will know what they’re looking for, and we’ll have to scrap the shuttle. Our resources are finite, not due to lack of credits, but because we’re limited as to what we can buy on world without attracting attention.

Red zings through the sky, outside my line of sight, but I catch the echoed light in my periphery as I line up the next shot. Boom. One down. My hands are steady even as Vel angles the throttle, delivering more altitude to evade the onslaught coming from the remaining three drones. I clip the second, and it careens into its cousin. They explode in a shower of sparks.

One left.

“Looking good,” Loras says. “Finish it before we get adds.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’m too busy to make a rude gesture or sketch a mocking salute. His laughter tells me we’re really friends, and he’s forgiven me at last. I feel a little lighter as I take the last shot, and more metal rains down on the centurions below.

Vel takes us up, zooming away from the scene into a cloud bank. We use that to confound anyone tracking us from the ground. He stays at that altitude until we reach the base, located in the mountains four hundred klicks outside the city.

At this altitude, the flora is evergreen, like that found at the frost line on more temperate worlds. Which means it’s thick, green, and prickly. And it offers great cover as Vel descends with a skill that belies how short a time he’s been flying. Light snow dusts down on us, melting beneath the thrusters, as he maneuvers us into a shallow cave. Any significant surface installation would be reported to the Nicuan overseers—and that’s why we built into the mountain itself. Using quiet laser drillers and the natural tunnels already in place, we’ve constructed an impressive base of operations in the last six months, projecting that our final appeal would fail. Sometimes it pays to be a pessimist. The doors seal behind us, hiding energy emissions that would let them track us.

As I step into the shuttle bay, I marvel that it doesn’t look at all cavelike. Instead, the walls have been finished, and it looks like any other building, provided you can forget you’re buried beneath several tons of rock. It gives me a little trouble, but as long as I concentrate on other things, I get past it. I tell myself that it’ll pass, anyway, once I get used to the place.

Right now, I’ve got to unload the prisoners. There are one hundred of us at the base, which I feel is a decent start, given how long we’ve been under way. Loras has compelling skill in convincing the La’heng to join our ranks, but he can only reach them in limited numbers. That’s why it was so vital to take down Imperial comms.

That changes tonight.

“I want our message on the air in ten minutes,” I say, as Vel and Loras haul the two centurions from the back of the shuttle.

They’re stirring, so I dose them again, just to be safe. Best not to delay our plans with complications that could’ve been avoided. The Nicuan government can’t censor our message this time. That surgical strike removed their ability to deny or approve what comes in on satellite. If we time it right, in the next nine minutes, all the La’heng who have access to public comms will know what we’re fighting for—what’s at stake.

Two liberated La’heng stride toward us. With fine features, the La’heng are more attractive than the average human, a hint of extra elegance and refinement. Yet that beauty masks a savage nature. A few have died taking Carvati’s Cure; they succumb to the bloodlust and have to be put down. So far, our casualty rate is holding steady at 5 percent.

Loras accounts it tolerable, considering what’s at stake. I wish I could do better, but over the turns, I’ve accepted that perfection is a dream. In the end, there’s mud and blood, and you can only hope you can live with the stains when all’s said and done. I wouldn’t be able to stand myself if I didn’t try, here.

The first rebel is taller than his companion. I remember Zhan because he has a red streak in his hair. He added it after he survived the cure. First thing, he picked a fight. It breaks your heart to watch them roughhouse just because they can, throwing punches like flowers, joyous laughter ringing out.

Right now, I can’t remember the other one’s name; it doesn’t matter. There’s no time for chat. With hands raised in greeting, they carry the two centurions out of the bay to be dealt with later. Vel nods, staying with the shuttle to check it over—as Dina would have—and Loras jogs toward the communications suite.

I follow because this was my idea, and I’m playing cameraman. Well, at least, I’m programming the cam for him. I unlock the door with my code to be sure nothing’s been touched, and Loras stands in front of the flag, a blue background with a red circle and the old La’heng coat of arms, which had been printed on everything from art to flags to money, before we changed them.

This is a new flag for an independent La’heng. We spent hours designing it, just as we did the Conglomerate uniforms, and I’m positive we got it right. It also provides the perfect backdrop for our opening salvo.

Quickly, he changes from his black-ops gear into less sinister, more neutral attire. “How do I look?”

“Like the perfect spokesman for the rebellion.”

He frowns at me. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“What if I screw this up?”

“You won’t. You’ve practiced the speech a hundred times, a thousand even. Now you’re going to say it with more conviction than you ever have, knowing that in a few hours, people all over La’heng will be hearing you…and seeing what you can do.”

“That’s not helping.”

Oh, shit, stage fright?

“Take a breath, then, and pretend you’re talking only to me.”

Loras relaxes visibly. “Better.”

“Camera’s recording in three…two…” I hold up one finger so my voice doesn’t wind up on the sound track, and the red light comes on.

“This is the first communiqué from the La’heng Liberation Army,” Loras says, gazing directly at his audience—or at least, that’s how they’re going to feel, five hours from now. I wonder if they’ll have shivers, too, like I do.

“Humanity has stolen everything from us: our self-sufficiency, our pride, our cultural heritage. They have enslaved us. Oh, they call it by benevolent names, but in truth, they have turned us into helpless children. But there is a solution, called Carvati’s Cure. I’ve taken the treatment, and I say to you, my brothers and sisters, be slaves no longer. I will show you the way. I will show you proof.”

That’s my cue. I splice in the clip of his fight with Hon, courtesy of Dr. Carvati on Gehenna, and then training clips later on. It’s indisputably Loras, fighting, impossible for a La’heng. Yet, he’s kicking the dread pirate’s ass.

I imagine the impact this footage will have on the rest of La’heng.

And then it gets better.

Zhan steps into the room, his face in shadow. This is scripted, but the audience won’t know that. They throw a few punches, live and streaming; there’s a distinctive watermark on a live broadcast so the audience knows there’s no special effects involved.