Havoc (Dred Chronicles 2)

Corridors closest to Queensland were clear, and the going was slow because RC-17 kept stopping to scrub at bits of grime it encountered along the way. In stop-and-go fashion, they moved in a pattern created by some long-ago tech. It seemed to take forever—and she was cognizant of how impatient Jael must be—but halfway to Silence’s territory, RC-17 beeped in sequence, then it went on cleaning. She was far enough behind that she heard only muffled signs of battle, but that was her to cue to make her approach. It didn’t matter if they saw her because seconds after she deployed, they wouldn’t be thinking rationally.

Dred took a deep breath and strode toward the shots fired. Rounding the corner, she interrupted a firefight between ten mercs and twenty mongrels. They all turned toward her, but seeing a lone woman, they didn’t disengage. Nobody fired on her. The mercs went back to decimating Mungo’s guys while she unleashed the rage she kept coiled in a diamond-hard ball. It crackled outward, tingeing the whole world; the power felt like the detonation of a bomb she’d swallowed long ago. Though she couldn’t see it, the effects were visible at once.

One of Mungo’s mongrels let out a demented roar and turned on the man next to him. He went for his eyes with hands curved into claws. The mercs took longer to sink into the bloodlust, but when they started tossing down their weapons and pulling off their helmets, she knew it was working. Men in the throes of her dark empathy wanted the hot rush of blood on their skin. If it went on long enough, they’d feast on the dead. The power blazed out of her until her eyes burned, and her hands curled into tight fights. If she stopped projecting, they’d recover their senses and come for her, so she’d hold until the fight ended.

Doing this repeatedly had gotten her kicked out of the ultramax prison on New Terra. Oh, the authorities hadn’t known for sure what she was doing or how, but they had connected her to the riots. Back then, she hadn’t cared if she lived or died; it was enough that she could take some murderous bastards with her. But mad as it was, she had a place here and people to protect. I’ve got Jael, pacing the floor, waiting for me to come back.

A few of the mercs fought the madness, gouging at their own heads instead of attacking, but that only meant their comrades killed them faster. They used hands and teeth, ripping at each other with brutal glee. As she held the onslaught, emotion slamming from her head in waves, the mercs tore off their armor.

Just a little longer.

Once the last died, she’d loot the bodies and haul as much as she could carry back to Queensland. But as the final two squared off, RC-17 beeped. No, not now. The unit had moved on, cleaning past the mob brawl, and it was unmistakably telling her she had more bodies incoming. From the other side of the intersection, the merc commander shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

His timing was uncanny. She bolted as another unit crashed onto the scene. Vost fired on her, shots pinging off the walls and singeing the tips of her hair. Dred sprinted around the corner, listening for the sound of pursuit. It came at once, several pairs of boots thumping in cadence. Shouts rang out behind her as she came into the straightaway.

“Take her alive,” Vost ordered in ringing tones. “I want to know how one woman reduced my men to that.”

Since she wasn’t broadcasting anymore, they’d regain their senses soon. Didn’t get any gear, but I killed eight mercs. That’s almost a whole unit, added to the one merc Jael took out. She mapped the corridors ahead, trying to figure out how she could get back to Queensland without being captured or shot. The answer came when she glimpsed one of the missing ceiling panels; as the mercs closed the gap behind her, she took a running start and grabbed onto the bare metal, slicing open both palms. The blood made it slick and tricky, but she swung upward and landed above the ceiling. It wasn’t the ducts, and this extra space might end sooner rather than later, but she could run for a while up here, and she didn’t think their rifles would shoot through metal with one blast.

“She went up,” Vost said.

Damn him.

“Listen, she’s on the move, sir.”

“Do you want us to go after her?” another of his men asked.

“No telling what’s up there. We’ll track her from the ground and take her when she emerges.”

In answer, Dred let out a mocking laugh, which echoed a lot more than she realized it would. She could tell they were keeping pace. Maybe it hadn’t been smart to come up here because she couldn’t run as fast, but there had been no cover at all down below. She would’ve ended up shot in the back and chained up in their command post while they opened up her brain to see if they could figure out how she made their men go nuts.

Dred rounded a corner, hunched low, and came up against a solid wall. No way to continue up here, so she went for it and dove with all of her strength, hit the ground in a tuck and roll amid a flurry of laser fire. She took a shot in the shoulder, and she was thankful for it because even though her arm was on fire, she was able to scramble to her feet and keep running. It felt like they were almost close enough to grab her.

“She’s tough as hell,” one of the soldiers said.

“They have to be in here.” That was Vost.

She was close now, but they just kept coming. Dred had almost made peace with the idea that this mission was a failure when she skidded into the home stretch. As she popped into the mined and turreted hallway, she dodged their defenses, then dove on her belly, sliding all the way to the barricade. Vost’s mercs gave chase even as he was shouting at them to fall back.

As she scrambled over the blockade, a shrapnel mine exploded, and the turrets came to life.

12

The Wounded Queen

Jael had been pacing for hours.

You matter, he said in his head. But it would sound like bullshit if he ever said it out loud, especially when they were at war. They had to live in the moment, even if each one thrummed with the bittersweet resonance of mourning drums. He drew in a breath, as if he could hold her in his lungs, as if he could keep her with him always. But she always felt like starlight in his palms, dazzling but ephemeral. Anxiety welled up, haloed in fear. He understood now what she’d meant when she said, I care, and I don’t want to. It makes me sick to my stomach. Just then he felt like puking. Imagine how bad this would be if she hadn’t talked it over with me first.

So when Dred came tumbling over the barrier and violence exploded on the other side, he was torn in his impulses. He wanted to kill the bastards chasing her, but he also wanted to squeeze her until she couldn’t breathe. One was more urgent than the other, so he bounded to the top of the scrap wall, found a place to brace his rifle, and opened fire. The merc commander shouted furiously at his men to disengage, but one of them had been badly wounded by the junk bomb. His helmet was scattered around in him several pieces, his scalp gushing blood. His comrades made several runs to try to save him—brave, loyal bastards—but the turrets pushed them back. While they hovered just outside the kill zone, Jael took aim and finished what Dred had started. The downed soldier’s face sizzled and burned while his mates looked on, roaring with murderous rage.