Endgame (22 page)

As I move out, the sky opens up. The promised rain spills
down over us in a liquid-silver curtain, cold enough that I feel it through my insulated armor.

I glance over at Zeeka. “Your gear holding up?”

I fret about him more than I should. Most days I tell myself it’s because he’s cold-blooded, so climates like this one can screw with his physiology. He’d be better off on a tropical world, far away from this war.

But Z nods, his eyes shining. “Warm as my bunk. I’m good, Jax. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” I mutter. Mine used to be wondering how I’d die.

It’s a mystery to me how Z isn’t crazy from grimspace deprivation, but unlike Argus, he took the training without any hint of addiction. That might mean Doc was right all along; the Mareq have the perfect ability to tolerate—and navigate—grimspace. If the Makers had anything to do with their engineering, that makes sense. If the Mareq are a servile race, created by the Makers, then they
would
have all the genetic markers necessary to make them useful.

As for me, I’m suffering, as always. Sometimes, when the
need gets too much, I consider eating some pills or powder, maybe a shot, but chem won’t solve my problem. It’ll just give me another addiction. So I strangle the feeling until it’s bearable, and I go on, because that’s my job. I lock the pain and the longing up with everything else I want and can’t have right now.

Like March.

“The estate is twenty-five klicks that way,” Vel says, pointing.

“Just a hop in the aircar.” But there’s no rancor in Xirol’s tone.

Loras chose his companions fairly, even when he wanted to take Farah with him. I have no complaints about the process though it left me marching in the rain. Farah pulls up her hood to keep out the damp, and the rest of us follow suit. Vel takes point with the rest of us in twos. Z ends up beside me, Xirol with Farah.

In this weather, I estimate four hours, but Vel sets a bruising clip. He’s almost running, like he knows something bad’s waiting for us, as if Loras and the others flew into a trap. I want to ask if his instincts have told him something, but I don’t want the others to overhear. Instead, I resolve to be ready.

My boots slip and slide over the cold, muddy ground.
This is what it was like for March on Nicuan,
I think,
except it was hot…and it went on for turns, until he snapped. No wonder he’s got a monster inside him.

Under Vel’s aegis, it only takes us three hours and change to make those klicks, and I’m exhausted when lights glimmer out of the darkness. They shouldn’t have had trouble with the number of centurions present. All should be well. But when Vel raises a hand to motion us to stillness, I press forward, trying to see what he does.

“What’s the holdup?” Xirol asks. “I’m ready to get out of the rain.”

In answer, Vel points to the number of aircars parked before the manor. There are five, one of which Loras arrived in, but I don’t see any sign of him. There are no sentries posted outside since it’s a miserable night, but they’re inside.

“It looks like a house party,” Farah says softly.

I nod. “Assuming four people per vehicle, that’s an extra sixteen men.”

“Plus the seven centurions,” Zeeka adds.

“Loras gave you command, Vel.” Xirol says. “What are our orders?”

He crouches beyond the range of the lights that illuminate the manor exterior, tapping his handheld. Then he shakes his head. “I cannot get a clear reading. There are devices inside, interfering with the energy emissions.”

“So we don’t know where they are,” Farah says, her voice taut.

For her, this must be doubly terrifying. Both her brother and lover have vanished this rainy night. They might be hostages; there might be more centurions on the way. If we’re caught here, it destroys the plan to sub Vel for the legate and makes this detour pointless.

Plus, we could all die; I’m glad I’m not in charge.

“If they were outside, they’d have spotted us,” I point out.

“We must do some recon,” Vel says. “I am the most qualified for the task. Remain here until I return. Stay out of sight.”

“Shit,” Xirol whispers.

I feel exactly the same way as Vel slips into the shadows. Intellectually, I know he’s a better hunter than any of us. He knows how to go unseen, how to snag his target, from all those turns as a bounty hunter. But it doesn’t help a lot when you’re squatting in the mud, rain pouring down, and you don’t know what’s going on.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Zeeka asks.

Pain twists through me, nearly making me cry out. Even the idea is devastating. Unthinkable. Somehow, I manage to reply, “Then we move out. We have our orders for the capital. We’ll divide up as directed and carry on.”

I’m not stupid. If Loras and the others are lost, if Vel doesn’t make it out, then the four of us have no hope of taking out all the centurions inside. Without Loras to drive the war effort—he’s the face of the revolution—I don’t know how it can go forward, but it has to. I won’t let all this work be for nothing. If I can’t do it with my friend, I’ll finish it
for
him.

“I have his contacts,” Farah says softly. “I can step in.”

Those words must feel like razors in her throat. Yet her
face remains set and determined, her delicate jaw firm. This woman is worthy of Loras. Mary, I hope he’s all right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end; he shouldn’t die a martyr for the cause.

I curl my hands into fists within my gloves. The minutes tick away slowly, feeling more like hours. At last Vel slips back into position, and I fight the urge to hug him.
Not appropriate, Jax.

“I suspect the others arrived after our men,” he reports. “I could find no sign of anything amiss, however, so I do not believe they have been detected.”

Farah exhales slowly. “So they’re hiding, trapped inside.”

“We don’t dare use the comm,” I whisper.

Vel nods, indicating it might give away their hiding spot and get them killed. I made that mistake once. It won’t happen again.
Sorry, Doc.

“We need a diversion,” Zeeka says.

“Good plan.” Xirol studies the aircars parked before the manor. “One of those would make a nice, big boom.”

If Sasha were here, we wouldn’t have to lay charges. But he’s just a kid. And when he’s old enough, when March gives him permission to fight, he won’t be on my team anyway. He’s going into the Special Forces unit.

“I’ll do it,” Zeeka offers.

Z feels about explosives as I do grimspace; for him, jumping is a job, an exciting one, but not an addiction. He’s lucky in that regard.

“Allow time for us to get out of sight before you trigger it,” Vel orders. “Set the charges to take out as many of the other vehicles as you can. Then meet us around back. We will enter through the kitchens as they come out to investigate.”

“What’s our priority inside?” Xirol asks. “Find our people or kill the enemy?”

As I knew he would, Vel says, “Rescue first. Once we reunite, and our numbers are restored, we can engage.”

“Yes, sir.” I speak in unison with Z, Farah, and Xirol.

“Move out.”

Z splits from the rest of us, running across the yard in his bounding style, but he avoids the lights deftly, until I can no longer see him. Staying low, behind Xirol, I move down the
box hedges toward the side of the house. Vel leads; every now and then, he pauses to listen, then presses forward again. Tension tightens my shoulders, but he’s good at what he does. Despite the rain and low visibility, we make it to the back door fast.

Still quiet.

Three minutes later, I’m starting to get worried. Z should be here by now—

And then he is. Breathless, he falls in behind Farah, big eyes looking to Vel for confirmation. The Ithtorian inclines his head. Zeeka presses a button on the remote in his hand, and the subsequent explosion rocks us. Inside, immediate commotion results; and then comes the sound of running footsteps and shouted questions.

“Our cue,” Vel says.

Because he’d never ask us to do anything he wouldn’t, he opens the back door and steps into the kitchens. Our camo can’t blend in a room that’s all white and silver; the paint isn’t formulated for interior environments. It matches rocks or trees, and it works best when we’re not moving. The pattern on our armor swirls, making me dizzy, so I look away.

And focus on the terrified La’heng servant opening her mouth to scream.

Xirol’s on her in a blink, hand across her mouth. He
whispers, “We’re resistance. Nod if you’ve heard of us.”

She’s plain, fine-featured but unexceptional. Her hair is a muddy brown, eyes hazel. The girl ducks her head just a little. I gather that means she’s heard of us, but since she works for a legate, none of it is good. She still looks terrified. I wonder what propaganda they’ve been spinning.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Farah whispers. “In fact, we can set you free, just as I am. Do you see my weapons? I was a slave once, too, just like you.”

“I’m going to take my hand away, if you promise not to scream. Do you?”

Another nod.

Xirol lowers his hand cautiously, but she doesn’t cry out. The girl eyes Farah with an equal measure of fear and fascination. “How can I be free? Who will take care of me?”

“I care for myself,” Farah answers. “And sometimes my friends, too.”

“Is there really a cure? Legate Flavius says it’s all lies.”

He won’t be saying anything, anymore.
This doesn’t seem like the time to break the news to her. I wonder how much of
the
shinai
-bond stems from turns of psychological dependence. They’ve been told, repeatedly, that they’ll die without protection. Is it possible for the mind to control physiological response when belief becomes so ingrained?

“Who do you think is fighting in the mountains?” Xirol asks.

“The legate says there are no free La’hengrin. That it’s all the work of foreign devils who want to steal us for themselves.”

My heart sinks at this news. Sadly, this
has
happened. The Conglomerate handed management of La’heng to Nicuan, as one of the tier worlds equipped to deal with slavery on such a scale; but prior to that, during Farwan’s reign, the Corp sold La’heng to the highest bidder, and disgruntled, defeated factions then used the planet as a staging ground for their grievances. They tried to take what they couldn’t buy—with varying degrees of success. The result was complete destruction of local infrastructure, and the conquerors determined what was rebuilt. Each time it occurred, things got worse and worse for the La’hengrin.

“Do you like working for the legate?” Zeeka asks.

If she’s loyal to her master, then we must tie her up and gag her. I hate the thought of treating a helpless female that way, but we can’t have her raising the alarm. Xirol gives me a look that says this is worse for him; he can’t bear it when one of his people has come to love the boot on her throat.

“No,” she says softly. “He hurts me.”

Those three short, simple words possess incredible power. Beside me, Vel curls his gloved claws, and I sense he wants to rip out the legate’s throat himself. If Xirol’s and Farah’s expressions are any clue to their feelings, he can get in line.

Z puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “If you help us, we can free you.”

“It’s true then?” Her small face shines.

Farah nods. “I have the treatment in my bag.”

I catch her eyes, brows raised, asking silently,
I thought we were done?

But she doesn’t respond. Apparently, she and Loras have some hidden agenda. And that’s fine. A leader isn’t expected to share everything with his troops. I just need to shut up and follow orders. It sucks that I’m so bad at it.

“You’ll take me with you?” the girl asks.

Only Loras can make that promise, but Farah agrees. “Certainly. You can join the resistance in the capital.”

The girl takes a step back. “But I can’t fight. I only know how to clean and run the kitchen-mate.”

“Shhh,” Xirol says gently. “Easy,
carenna
. We’ll find a job for you.”

“Soldiers need to eat,” she murmurs, as if reassuring herself. “And a clean place to stay. It can’t be worse than here.” Visibly gathering her courage, she asks, “What do you need of me?”

Vel tells her, “Hide. Do not emerge until you hear us call the all clear.”

“What’s your name?” Farah asks.

“Tiana. You’re going to kill them, aren’t you?”

I’m a little afraid of how she’ll respond to the truth, but Xirol meets her gaze. “He deserves it. They all do.”

To my surprise, her brows come down in a fierce look. “I know.”

“Quickly now, we don’t have much time before they come back,” I say. “How many men are here?”

Tiana gives us an accurate count, a few less than I feared since some of the vehicles only carried two or three passengers, not the full four I’d estimated. And then she runs, scrambling for a hiding place.

“Move,” Vel orders.

He’s not being an ass. There’s no time to stand around chatting. The exchange with Tiana cost us precious moments from the distraction. Soon the centurions will figure out that it was a deliberate detonation, not a mechanical malfunction, and they’ll storm in looking for trouble. Before that happens, we must locate Loras and the rest of the squad.

We step out of the kitchen to search. Fortunately, they must’ve heard the explosion, so I spot Loras coming down the stairs. Before he can do more than offer an appreciative smile, the front door slams. Booted feet tromp across expensive natural flooring, and a high-pitched male voice whines about the destruction of his vehicles outside. This legate sure brought a lot of guards.

“Sorry, Legate,” a deeper tone replies.

“They’re here,” the legate says, growing more shrill. “I know they are.”

“We did a perimeter check after the explosion, Your Excellency. The rain makes it impossible to track, but as soon as it clears up, we’ll hunt the bastards down.” The centurion sounds so positive.