Marauder (29 page)

Some instinct drew them all towards the relative shelter of a canopy tree that stood half a kilometre or so from the highway. Its trunk soared eighty metres above their heads, with multiple
layers of veined shrouds spreading out from its highest branches like an umbrella. The air here was fractionally warmer because the thermal energy the canopy trees tapped via their deep roots,
combined with their sheer size, allowed them to engender their own microclimate with its own unique flora and fauna.

They gathered in their dozens amongst the tree’s blade-like roots, many clinging to each other out of terror or, more likely, the need to stay warm. From there could be heard the distant
boom and hiss of artillery, and the thunder of orbital energy weapons discharging into the foothills a hundred kilometres away.

An hour passed, and then another, and her coat’s heating elements began to run out of juice, the cold slowly digging deeper and deeper into Dakota’s unprotected flesh. She heard
someone sobbing loudly, and glanced over to see a shadowy form crouching over another that lay ominously still and silent.

Unless help came very soon, she realized, a lot of these people were going to die.

After another couple of hours, the fighting seemed to become more sporadic, until finally there was only the hiss of the sleeting rain blown under the tree’s canopy.

Some hours after dawn had broken, a dropship with Accord markings finally settled onto the hard soil just outside the tree’s protective canopy. It wasn’t until Dakota heard excited
cries from the people around her that she felt convinced it was not a hallucination.

From the dropship emerged figures in armour that flickered and shifted, so that those wearing it immediately faded into the surrounding landscape. She heard them calling to each other, though
their voices were rendered identical by the processors built into their helmets. Soon they began moving amongst the pilgrims, some equipped with stretchers, while others wrapped the shivering
survivors in sheets of reflective material before guiding them towards the waiting dropship.

One of the peacekeepers eventually approached Dakota and helped her get to her feet. He pushed up the faceplate of his environment-skinned helmet, leaving only the lower half of his face hidden
behind a partial breather mask.

This man had the gentlest eyes Megan had ever seen, though his protective gear did little to hide the fact he possessed the body of a well-muscled bear.

‘What’s your name, honey?’ he asked, his voice as warm and deep as a river despite the electronic distortion of his breather.

‘Megan,’ she replied.

He nodded and unravelled a strip of foil from the long roll he carried, before carefully wrapping it around her shoulders.

The woollen cap slipped from her head and she swore, reaching down to fetch it back. She looked up again at her rescuer and froze in alarm, knowing what he was seeing: the tell-tale furrows and
all-too-regular patterns of bumps beneath her recently shaven scalp.

‘You’re a machine-head,’ he observed quietly. ‘I never heard of Uchidan machine-heads.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s not what it is. It’s . . . it’s a kind of faith implant. All Uchidans have them, didn’t you know?’

‘Don’t bullshit me,’ he said, though sounding not in the least angry. ‘I know a machine-head when I see one.’

Reaching up, he fiddled with the clasps on his helmet and lifted it off. Megan saw how his hair was cut close to the skull, revealing a scalp covered with identical subcutaneous patterns: a
machine-head.

‘Who are you
really
, girl?’ he asked her, tilting his head quizzically.

‘I already told you my name,’ she said, defiance creeping into her voice. But he laughed and shook his head, as he replaced his helmet.

‘You running away from something, Megan?’ he asked softly. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.’

Tears began rolling down her filth-streaked cheeks, and she ground her fingernails into her palms. ‘Please don’t take me back there,’ she begged him. ‘Please.
They’ll kill me. They’ll . . .’

‘Hey, now,’ he said, gripping her by the shoulder and leading her back towards the dropship. ‘Ain’t nobody going to hurt you now.’

‘You say that,’ she half whispered, ‘but you can’t possibly know.’

He looked beyond her, past the canopy tree and back towards the direction of the city, in silent thought.

‘Baby,’ he said finally, returning his gaze to her face, ‘if there’s one thing to be said about old Bash, it’s that he
always
keeps his word.’

2763 (the present)

After they disembarked from the dropship that had brought them back down from orbit, and after she was loaded into a truck driven by Freeholders, Gabrielle had spent long hours
staring out at the Montos de Frenezo as the vehicle made its way amidst endless foothills, followed by a convoy of other trucks.

Tarrant had long since made his way through from the rear compartment to talk to the two Freeholders sitting up in the front cabin, and Gabrielle had gradually dozed off, until a sudden increase
in speed jolted her awake. When she glanced outside again, it was to see a narrow trail of greasy smoke rising high into the sky.

The truck had changed direction, clearly headed towards the same smoke trail. When she had looked out through the rear, she could see the other trucks still following them. The terrain became
rougher, requiring numerous detours to avoid scree and scattered boulders.

After another hour or so, they had passed over a low hill when the truck accelerated again. It bounced violently over stony ground, although they were still nowhere near the source of the
smoke.

At that moment, she pressed her face to the glass in time to see someone running as if pursued by all the demons of hell. Black shapes – drones of some kind – darted through the air,
rapidly converging on the figure before it collapsed. Gabrielle wondered if a ship might have crashed, and this was a survivor struggling to avoid capture by the Freehold. Perhaps, she thought
hopefully, the Accord had already begun a counter-attack.

The truck came to a halt not far from where the figure lay. At first Gabrielle thought it was dead, then saw the figure’s limbs moving weakly. Despite the bulky clothing, instinct made her
sure it was a woman. A drone hovered directly before the figure, its recording lenses focused on her.

She heard Tarrant’s voice clearly from the cabin up front. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he exclaimed.

Then there was a sound like the slamming of a fist against the ceiling of the truck.

‘Son of a
bitch
!’ he repeated, louder this time.

As he made his way back through, he looked to Gabrielle like someone who’d just seen a ghost. She watched him unlock the two rear doors of the truck, freezing air rushing inside as they
swung open.

The two Freeholders quickly followed him outside, without either of them giving her so much as a glance. Gabrielle adjusted the seal on her mask and followed them out of the truck, curious
despite herself.

As their eyes met, the other woman had stared at Gabrielle with an expression of bleak despair mixed with astonishment. Gabrielle had the strangest feeling that she knew this
woman from somewhere, yet she felt sure she had never set eyes on her before.

Before long the new prisoner was lifted up and bundled into the back of one of the other trucks, while Gabrielle was guided back to her own. Soon they had caught up with the rest of the convoy,
Tarrant again choosing to ride in the company of the Freeholders.

Some time later, the trucks had traversed a wide expanse of flat ground to reach the steep hills surrounding the base of a mountain, much of its bulk hidden behind clouds. They continued onwards
until they came to a high cliff, in front of which sat what appeared to be a dropship hidden beneath a shroud the colour of the surrounding landscape. The trucks kept going, entering the mouth of a
long, sloping passageway at the base of the cliff that appeared to extend deep beneath the mountain. This, she guessed, must be one of the Freehold bases that Tarrant had supposedly been so skilled
at smoking out on behalf of the Demarchy.

The truck turned through a series of side-passages before stopping briefly to let Tarrant disembark, then continued on, finally coming to a halt outside a row of prefab buildings lined up
against a sloping cave wall. The two Freeholders led Gabrielle inside one of these buildings, before locking her inside a room furnished only with a cot and a chemical toilet. The cot smelled of
sour sweat and unchanged sheets.

She peered out through the single barred window in time to see the truck disappearing back the way it had come.

Without sight of the sun or any hint of the world outside, the following hours seemed to stretch into an eternity. There was little for her to do but stare out of the window, watching
pallet-laden trucks drive past from time to time, which reminded her of something said during Tarrant’s conversation with Cuyàs, about the Freehold preparing for a full-scale invasion
of the Demarchy.

Perhaps, she thought, they were getting ready to abandon this complex.

She soon gave up avoiding the malodorous cot, which at least offered the advantage of not being quite as freezing cold as the cell floor. To begin with, she pulled one sleeve of her jacket
across her mouth and nose, in an attempt to block out the stink, but when that didn’t work she tried sleeping with her breather mask pulled on.

Long hours later she woke with the uncanny sense that she was being watched. She sat up with a start, her heart thudding, at the suspicion that she might no longer be alone in that locked and
silent room. Yet a glance confirmed she was mistaken, while the great cave beyond the window was silent.

She could see nothing from the barred window, and it suddenly occurred to her that the complex might already have been abandoned, leaving her here to die alone beneath the mountain . . .

She gasped and stared wildly around, one hand still gripping a bar of the window. There was no one there, and yet she
knew
she had heard a voice.

It took her another moment to work out that the voice was coming through her implants. Someone was trying to communicate with her remotely, and was managing to do so despite the device Tarrant
had injected into her neck. The voice was male, with a deep and resonant warmth to it that somehow soothed her jangled nerves. It certainly did not sound like the voice of someone intent on doing
her harm.

‘Who are you?’ she spoke tentatively into the air.

said the voice.

Gabrielle hesitated, then did as she was instructed. The door had no visible handle of any type, and she had already tried pushing it open, to no avail. The lock was clearly electronic.

To her amazement, it swung quietly open at her approach. She stared outside at the far wall of the cave in astonishment.

‘How did you do that?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you?’

said the voice. to hurry.>

Gabrielle swallowed hard, and stepped out onto the sloping floor of the cave. When no one challenged her, she scanned up and down the length of the cave, seeing that it was entirely deserted.
Downslope lay only darkness.

‘What if someone sees me?’ she whispered.

She pushed her breather mask into one pocket of her coat and headed upwards to where the cave accessed a tunnel drilled out of the rock. Overhead lights shone down on rows of parked trucks and
racks of equipment.

She halted. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who the hell you are,’ she whispered loudly. ‘How do I know you’re not working for Tarrant? And just where are
you sending me?’

said the voice.

She held her ground, even though her heart was hammering in her chest. ‘That isn’t enough,’ she said. ‘
Why
are you helping me like this?’

, said Bash. Wanderer’s been hiding all this time.>

‘What war?’ she hissed, peering ahead of herself as she proceeded further along the tunnel.
And what the hell is the Wanderer?
Up ahead she could see what looked like the
entrance to another cavern. ‘Are you talking about the Freehold?’

said the voice.

‘Who? Who’s Meg . . . ?’

The voice – and the presence – faded at the same moment that a sliver of knowledge suddenly materialized in the back of Gabrielle’s mind, as if it had always been there.
Somehow she
knew
where to find Megan – whoever she was.

An increasing sense of excitement gripped her. Was this the same woman she had seen knocked down by a drone? She wanted to know who this person was, and how she had so badly disturbed Tarrant.
Gabrielle had an intuition that the woman might even be able to answer some of her questions about the man she had once known as Karl Petrova.

She found herself at the mouth of a cavern, its walls speckled with green and blue light emanating from some kind of fungi. Towards the centre of the cavern lay clustered a number of buildings.
Megan, she felt sure, was inside one of them.

Gabrielle walked as quietly and quickly as she could towards them, keeping a watchful eye out. On her right tarpaulin-covered stacks of machinery rose far above her head, while on her left stood
a row of partially disembowelled trucks.

She heard the sound of footsteps, reverberating from the cavern ceiling, and approaching from somewhere on the other side of the stacks. She crept on towards the last truck in the row, before
crouching in the narrow space between one of its treads and the cavern wall.