Havoc (Dred Chronicles 2)
Page 47* * *
THINGS had gone better since Vost stopped dividing his forces.
They fought and won four consecutive battles, a boost to morale, and subsequently decimated the fetid-smelling humanoids. The men were much bolstered by uncomplicated killing. Vost knew better than to trust a sudden change of fortune, however; luck could be a fickle bitch, loving one day and kicking you in the junk the next. So he was wary as he led the men on patrol. He didn’t like leaving the command post unattended, but he couldn’t assign a man to keep an eye on the gear, either. After a successful enemy incursion, it was critical to prevent additional loss of life. If he lost too many men, the mission objective would become impossible.
As it was, he’d caught Casto shooting him furtive looks as he went around talking to the men, just out of Vost’s earshot. They always shut up the minute he approached and insisted they were talking about nothing, which always added up to trouble. There was precious little Vost could do about it, however. The terms came down from the high-ups in the Conglomerate—that they go in and clean house without alerting any outsiders as to what was going on in Perdition. The tragedy would be “uncovered” later, and the story would be disseminated that the inmates had fought each other to the death, freeing the facility to be repurposed after it underwent a thorough sanitizing.
If we take off before the job’s done, we don’t get paid.
He couldn’t permit that failure.
Vost fought down the memories, knowing they weakened him and lessened his concentration. In here, he needed to be on point all the time. He stopped at the four-way and held up a hand. His helmet had sense-boosting capabilities, and he heard something at fifty meters out, a good number of targets, moving fast. Casto shoved forward, likely to say something, and Vost slammed a palm up, demanding silence. Then he signaled for the men to move in quietly—or as near as they could manage. The heavy suits weren’t designed for stealth. There was gear that helped with it, but it didn’t offer as much protection, and they’d gone in with the intent of resisting primitive blunt and bladed weapons.
“Looks like we caught a battle under way,” he said, low. “Let’s get in and mop up.”
Casto hefted his rifle. “Fragging brilliant. It’s about time we got to shoot some fish in a barrel.”
“Enough chatter. Get ready.” Vost led the charge down the hall, which bore sharp right and opened into a wider room.
The scene puzzled the shit out of him. A group of the filthy humans was fighting a better-equipped team; the latter was badly outnumbered, but they were carrying Vost’s own damn rifles. That burned him even as he stared at all the barrels of chem stashed around. That’s why they’re not shooting. He couldn’t be sure what was in them, but a stray shot might light up the world, depending on what they contained.
“Melee only,” he ordered.
“You heard the man,” Casto shouted.
A frisson of unease skated down his back. Since when do I need backup from him to get the guys to follow my lead? But he couldn’t pause to ponder the implications. That would come later in the postbattle analysis. His men rushed in, laying about with knives and clubs they’d fashioned from station salvage.
A small, dark-skinned man glared at him from across the room. “Mary curse you for being everywhere I don’t want you.”
That sounded oddly personal to Vost, as if he’d thwarted some critical scheme. Best news I’ve had all day. He sank a blade into a filthy belly, yanked it back out with a burble of blood. Some of the targets attacked with teeth or bare hands; that was how far they’d fallen. For all their savagery, however, it was easy to take out men who lacked the sense to swing a length of pipe at your head.
There’s a reason we started using tools, ass**les. We lack the natural weaponry of, say, that Ithtorian.
It was almost like a wary truce, as they fought the primitive convicts together while he kept an eye on the smaller force. It wouldn’t take long to mow them down once the rest were dealt with. But as if the small man anticipated his plan, he turned his rifle on the barrel nearest to him, as Vost’s men killed the last cannibal.
“You withdraw, or I blow us all to bits.” The man had an educated voice, with a hint of accent that Vost couldn’t immediately place, but he knew he’d been there.
“You’re bluffing.”
The other man smiled. “You can’t afford to take that chance. We have nothing to lose. We expect to die here, and I’d enjoy taking you with me. Your mercs, on the other hand, are already looking squirrelly. They think they’re going home. Who’s right, Commander?”
Before he could reply, Casto said, “Let’s go.”
And the rest of the soldiers followed him. Redmond and Duran took a long look at him first, but they went, too, and it was a blow since they’d served with him the longest. Vost was left scrambling to follow, as if it were his decision, but deep in his gut, a kernel of emotion popped to life.
Dread.
26
In the twenty-four hours since Tam had returned with the chemicals, with Dred’s help, Jael had finished the upstairs laboratory. Once apportioned for dorm use, so many Queenslanders had died—and no more coming in—that they didn’t need the space anymore. The aliens had their own quarters now, better for keeping the peace. A lot of the men were stupid brutes, and out of sight, out of mind worked on them. It was shitty for the refugees in the sense of fair and equitable treatment, but it was better for them to be safe.
“How much experience do you have with explosives?” Tam asked as he stepped into the new lab.
“I’ve used plenty.”
“But no background in building them?”
“Bombs more than grenades,” Jael admitted. “But I’ve steady hands.”
“That should do. First we have to make the shells.” Tam sighed. “This would be a lot easier if Ike were still around.”
“So many things would be.”
“Truer words. But we’ll make do. I’ve jury-rigged a smelter . . . since I’ve done this before, it’s best if I handle melting down the scrap and pouring in the molds.”