Havoc (Dred Chronicles 2)

“How many did you lose?” she asked.

“Twenty-six.” Keelah gave the number with a hitch in her breath. Her furred hands twisted together in a small pantomime of grief. “We’re all that’s left.”

Regret went through her like a blade. “I’m sorry. What’s your request?”

Keelah and Katur exchanged a look, and then the female spoke. “Sanctuary. In return, we will teach you what we’ve learned of the station’s hidden places. Some of us are crafters. Others are technicians. We can help. We won’t be deadweight.”

They didn’t accuse her, but Dred bore a portion of responsibility for what had happened in the Warren. She’d enraged Commander Vost, and he’d gone on a killing spree, seeking the softest targets to restore his unit’s nerve. The aliens had been caught in the cross fire, and she couldn’t let them be wiped out. With the losses she’d taken in the conflict with Grigor and Priest, she had room for twenty more.

And then some.

Dred didn’t need to consult with anyone else to know the right answer. “You can stay. Welcome to Queensland. There are a few rules. No fighting, unless it’s a sanctioned grudge match . . . I’ll tell you more about the games later. They’ve been suspended indefinitely for the moment. No stealing. Sleep with whomever you please as long as he or she is willing. Follow the work roster, complete tasks as assigned, and practice decent hygiene.”

“That’s all?” the Ithtorian asked.

Since she’d heard their native tongue in vids, he must have a vocalizer implanted. “Yeah, why?”

Katur explained, “There were a lot more rules in the Warren, mostly to do with respecting each other’s culture.”

Briefly, Dred wished she’d thrown in with the aliens rather than taking Artan’s bait. It sounded like life had been much better down there. But if I had, they would’ve had no place to go, as Artan’s realm wouldn’t have lasted long against the mercs. So she hoped that maybe things happened for a reason even though she suspected that belief in a benevolent power was the last refuge of a lazy mind.

She answered apologetically, “You won’t find that here. Many of these convicts are left from Artan’s days, and they’re brutes.”

“So they’re likely to pummel us for praying?” Katur asked.

“If they catch you? Count on it.”

She wasn’t sure how anyone could hold on to faith in a place like this, but maybe this was where a man needed it most. A long-forgotten memory bubbled up—usually she tried not to remember her parents, to wonder if they were alive or dead, or how ashamed they must be—but she remembered her mother’s murmuring over the evening meal a litany of thanks to Mary and pleas for the health and comfort of her loved ones. Hail Mary, full of grace. Thy spirit is with me. Blessed are we among all people, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, this world. Holy Mary, Mother Goddess, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. It seemed she could recall the words in their entirety; but then, her mother had spoken them each night before bed, murmuring beside Dred’s bunk.

They must be old now. If the Science Corp hasn’t tracked my dad down. If they’re still alive out there. But framing the mental question hurt so much, she had to stop. Most days, it was best to consider Perdition the beginning and the end of the universe, as reminders that it used to be so much bigger and more beautiful could kill her with the longing.

With effort, Dred put aside the unusual introspection and beckoned to the newcomers. “It’ll be best if I introduce you right away.”

“Thank you,” Katur said.

She didn’t kid herself that this would be a smooth and seamless integration. Nonetheless, she strode into the common room with the aliens in her wake. Men froze, then scrambled to their feet; most had weapons in their hands before she could speak. So she vaulted onto the nearest table and let out a bloodcurdling war cry. The shock stilled the Queenslanders for a few moments, then she unwound the chains from her arms and slammed them three times against the tabletop, chipping off bits of resin.

“Are you listening, men? I’m in no mood to repeat myself.”

“Yes, my queen!” The reply didn’t come as neat in unison as it ordinarily did, but since no combat had broken out, she’d call it adequate.

“Today, you join me in welcoming new warriors to Queensland. You will not judge them by their skins. You will treat them as any other comrade. Is that clear?”

“Filthy alien-loving bitch!” From her vantage, she couldn’t identify the malcontent, but Tam and Martine tag-teamed him, dragging him out of the crowd.

Jael followed them, but he didn’t intervene. Just as well. The rest of the men needed to see she had support from people she wasn’t sleeping with.

With a sharp smile, Martine kicked him in the gut, and the scrubby man bent double. He was almost as old as Ike but less prepossessing, with greasy iron gray hair and a matted beard. From the way his mouth had sunken in, Dred didn’t imagine he had many teeth, and his cheeks were veined from years of hard drinking. His small eyes shone with hatred over being asked to cooperate and cohabitate with nonhumans.

So many years after the Morgut War, after aliens saved us, and we still hate like this.

Though she could scarcely afford to lose a single man, Dred had to make an example of him. “You’re saying you’d rather die than follow my edict?”

She scanned the crowd to see how they were taking this, and they seemed more interested in the prospect of a sudden execution than the arrival of a few aliens. That was good. The spectacle would probably grind the edge off their xenophobia. She wouldn’t goad someone to this point, but this Queenslander seemed to have a death wish.

“Damn straight.” He screwed his mouth up as if to spit on her, and Tam backhanded him so hard, the old man hit the ground with a spatter of blood.

When he climbed to his knees, practically snarling, his lips were split and stained against his gums. Dred didn’t let pity move her. Yes, he was decrepit, but he could also sow hatred and rebellion among her people. It can’t stand.

So she merely nodded, and said to Tam and Martine, “Hold him.”

They complied, one on each arm, and she could tell that Martine in particular enjoyed keeping the captive on his knees. She kicked him as he fought to rise. The severity of his situation didn’t seem to have sunk in yet. While she ran a less bloody regime than Artan, it didn’t mean she was the forgiving sort.