Valley of Fires: A Conquered Earth Novel (The Conquered Earth Series) (15 page)

“It’s an arena,” Holt answered, “but you don’t fight other people, you fight the Nonagon.”

“It takes four?” Castor asked.

Holt nodded. “Usually they’re captured prisoners, but sometimes it’s Menagerie, people who’ve committed crimes against the city. They can choose to face the Nonagon instead of being executed, and if they survive it, they get life imprisonment. If they
beat
it … they’re freed, but no one ever beats the Nonagon.”

“How does it work?”

“Three rounds. Each has three different possible configurations. Supposedly they’re determined randomly, but I always assumed it’s rigged, like everything else here. See the banners above the different sections?”

Castor looked from one to the next, studying each, all nine of them. A tiger, a cobra, a harrier, each fluttering on their crimson banners in the hot, desert winds.

“Each one represents a configuration. The round before was Scorpion, steel spikes that shoot up from the ground, real nice. If you’d been sitting in the Scorpion section when it was picked you’d get a profit bonus. If Scorpion kills the four competitors, you get even
more,
while the other sections lose. If the team survives the configuration, you lose profit, the other sections gain.” None of that included all the ancillary gambling that took place during the matches. The pirates bet on everything, from which configurations would be chosen to which would be beaten or simply survived, to which items would be picked and used, and all of it was encouraged by the ruling body and Tiberius.

“But how do you
win
?” Castor was enraptured. He’d probably try and beat the thing by himself if he could.

“Each round is timed, nine minutes. You either survive in that nine minutes, or you disarm the configuration. Disarming is the only way to
win,
but very few teams ever do. It’s all most can do to just not get killed.” Holt had heard of only two teams that ever managed to disarm all three rounds, out of hundreds that had competed. It was virtually impossible, but that was the point. It kept Tiberius’s rowdy, unkempt, violent followers entertained, kept their focus off him, and prevented them from doing the kinds of things that Rogan West and his rebels were trying right now.

At the thought, Holt looked up at the Machine Works Pinnacle and its reversed Menagerie flag, and as he did, he noticed something odd. A group of boys were there, near where the Skydash lines connected from the Crux to the Pinnacle. Maybe two dozen. Even from here Holt could tell they were armed, and, as he watched, they leapt onto the cables of the Skydash and zipped downward toward the Crux. When they landed, some stayed, unstrapping rifles from their backs, while the others jumped onto new cables and slid toward the Commerce Pinnacle, one after the other.

“What’s this?” Castor asked hopefully next to him, watching the same thing. The answer quickly became obvious.

The Commerce Pinnacle was much less crowded than usual, due to the Nonagon match, and Holt figured that was the whole plan. Gunfire flashed from both the Crux and the kids slinging downward.

The pirates on the platform jumped for cover, most of them unarmed. The ones that were returned fire as best they could, but the snipers on the Crux were good shots.

Holt saw three Menagerie fall near him, saw Ravan and her men take cover behind one of the conveyors, but they weren’t prepared for an attack, they only had their sidearms. Holt didn’t even have that, but the truth was, even in all the chaos, he still had his strange detachment. It was like he was watching it happen to someone else, and he just stood and stared curiously as the bullets flew and people fell.

Castor grabbed him and shoved him behind the closest conveyor, staring at him in amusement. “Your reaction time could use some work.”

More bullets sparked around them, and the Menagerie nearby were firing back. Above them, on the Crux platform that hung over the Nonagon, the snipers kept their fire up, pinning everyone down. The main force, about a dozen, cut loose from the Skydash and hit the platform running, firing as they advanced. There was no way the rebels could take the Pinnacle with this small a force, they must have something else in mind.

Castor’s eyes were full of excitement. “What do we do?”

It took a moment for Holt to realize Castor was asking
him.
He had no real desire to do anything, but the truth was, Holt had an agenda, and these rebels were screwing it all up. As usual, he had no real choice.

“Can you handle the ones on the Crux?” Holt nodded upward. “There’s four, looks like.”

Castor studied the snipers there and his only answer was to nod in anticipation.

“Do it then,” Holt told him.

“Seek,” Castor intoned, pulling his mask up and grabbing the Lancet from his back. “And find.” Then he leapt upward in a flash of yellow, grabbing one of the Skydash cables and twirling around it like a gymnast, launched himself even higher.

The pops from Ravan’s sidearm were overwritten by the big bangs from the rebels’ shotguns and rifles, and Holt peered over the conveyor. The rebels were by the Pinnacle’s main gas line, which was mined and processed here at Faust along with the petroleum, and it was critical to the Handover Ward. The combustion engines that ran the conveyor and processing system were fueled by that gas.

Two of the rebels moved for the big, metal wheel that closed and opened the line’s main ball valve, while the others covered them. They turned the wheel and shut the valve … and the conveyors all around Holt sputtered and died.

One of the rebels lit a portable cutting torch, then started slicing the wheel at the base. Holt saw what they intended now. Cutting the wheel with the valve closed would cripple the Handover Ward’s processing system until the Menagerie could install a new one. It was a good plan, shutting down Tiberius’s ability to process and distribute profit to his crews would cause a big shake-up, and probably bring more pirates over to their side.

Above, Castor flipped up and off one of the cables and landed in the middle of the Crux, his Lancet a blur of blue light. The rebel snipers stopped firing and stared at the masked boy wielding a glowing, dual-edged weapon. It was their mistake.

It took about six seconds. Castor dodged their strikes and gunfire in flashes of purple light, sending them screaming over the railing and falling toward the Nonagon below. The match had abruptly stopped and Holt could see the crowds were emptying out of the different sections in a rush, but Holt knew they were going to be too late. It would take minutes for them to get here, and the rebels would be done long before then.

Bullets kept flying. Holt noticed the plunder bin next to him. Inside lay a row of things in separate containers of foam. Grenades. Several dozen. As he studied them, an idea occurred to him, an insane one, and he was surprised by how little aversion he felt toward it.

Holt grabbed two of the grenades, one in each hand. They felt cool and heavy. He peered out from behind the conveyor one last time … then simply stood and stepped out
into the open,
walking forward.

Bullets whizzed through the air, barely missing him. Holt didn’t even flinch.

“Holt!” It was Ravan’s yell, horrified, from behind him. The shout registered, just barely, but he ignored her, kept walking casually through the bullets screaming past.

Some of the rebels saw him. Their guns turned, flashed, but Holt felt nothing. What would happen would happen.

A few more steps and he was at the pipeline, where the two rebels were working with the torch. They stared up at him in shock. Holt dispatched the first with a grenade-laden fist to the head. The second he slammed into the pipe and watched as he fell to the ground.

Bullets sparked all around him, but he didn’t duck, he just reached for a smaller wheel on the big pipe, the line’s blow-off valve, used to bleed off excess gas in case of high pressure. He spun the wheel, and there was a loud hiss as white vapor shot into the air.

“Hold fire!” a young, masculine voice shouted, and the bullets from the rebels silenced instantly. Holt heard Ravan shout the same order. No one wanted to fire a bullet now, especially toward
him.
Igniting the gas spewing out of the massive pipe would set off the whole thing, and probably blow the entire Pinnacle to pieces.

Which was what made it all the more shocking when Holt pulled the pins from both grenades and casually stood on top of the pipe.

Everyone on the platform—rebels, Menagerie, Ravan—stared at him in dismay.

Holt hadn’t released the grenade handles, which meant they hadn’t primed. But if he were to drop them, say, from being shot …

“Doesn’t happen often,” a voice observed with slight amusement, “but I am at a loss for words.” It belonged to a hard-edged-looking kid, with long blond hair tied behind his back. He was covered in grease and grime, but Holt had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with the battle. Rogan West, Ravan had called him, the leader of this futile rebellion, but Holt didn’t recognize him. “I suppose the idea is if we shoot you, you drop the grenades … and
boom.
”

Holt just stared back, without emotion. There was a resourcefulness in Rogan’s eyes, charisma too. Holt could see why the others followed him, though it wouldn’t amount to much.

“That, of course, means you would be dead too,” Rogan continued. “That what you want?”

Holt shrugged. “It’s funny. Not really sure
what
I want anymore.”

Rogan stared back at him consideringly, like he were some riddle to figure out. Maybe he was, Holt thought, but the answer was simpler than the kid knew. There was just a lot of power in having nothing to lose.

“Holt Hawkins,” Rogan said. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Holt didn’t reply.

“You did this place one hell of a solid when you killed Archer Marseilles. You’re the last person I’d expect to help Tiberius, much less die for him.”

“I need him and the Menagerie intact, and you’re screwing that up.”

“Ah.” Rogan nodded, interested and skeptical at the same time. “So, it’s about
you,
not him.”

Holt was losing patience. He felt the cold orbs of the grenades in his hands.

“Call this scrub’s bluff,” one of Rogan’s men said next to him, gun aimed at Holt.

Rogan shook his head. “There’s no bluff to call, he’s pulled the pins. He’s committed. I like that. Not enough people really put their money where their mouth is anymore. Why don’t you come work for us? Make real change instead of just adding to Tiberius’s power base?”

The answer was simple. “Because you’re going to lose.”

The rebels tensed around Rogan, the guns shook in their hands, but their leader looked back without malice. If anything, he seemed more impressed.

“Straight shooter,” Rogan said. “I like that too. When you see Tiberius … tell him I said hi.”

Holt frowned. The rebels stood up and moved for their wounded, helping them to their feet. No one fired at them, because the blow-off valve was still venting. Seconds later, they were zipping away on the Skydash.

When they were gone, Holt shut off the valve, sealing away the gas stream. Menagerie reinforcements were swarming onto the platform now, weapons drawn, but there was no longer anything to fight. Castor landed next to Holt in a flash of cyan, and Holt noticed a broad, contented smile on his face.

White Helix …

Castor reached down and grabbed the pins Holt had let fall to the ground, and while Holt held the grenades, slipped them back into place, disarming them. They felt no different to Holt either way, he noticed strangely.

“What is your problem?” Ravan’s voice yelled from behind him. The look in her eyes as she advanced was pure fury. Clearly, she didn’t approve of what he’d done, even if it had pushed back the rebels.

“The Holt I know would never pull a stunt like that,” Ravan spat as she closed the distance, stopping in front of him. “Who the hell
are
you?”

Holt sighed. He just wanted this day to be over, the trade to be complete, and to be on his way. More than anything, he wanted to be alone, where he didn’t have to pretend to be something he wasn’t, where he didn’t have to be anything to anyone else. Ravan was angry because she cared about him, but it stirred nothing in him. It was just another burden.

“What do you want me to say, Ravan?”

“I don’t want you to
say
anything, I want you to screw your head on right, because what I just saw were not the actions of a rational person, especially not one with as much responsibility as you have. Do you even remember
why
you came here?”

Holt stared back at her absently. “Do
you
remember that you don’t believe in any of it?”

“You’re right,” she replied with fire. “I don’t believe in any of it, it’s insane and pointless, but
you
believe in it. Passionately. Or at least you used to.”

“What do you care what I believe?” There was an edge of ice in his own voice he’d never heard before. “You said it yourself: you don’t care, so why not just leave me the hell alone? We’d both be better off that way.”

Ravan looked at him scornfully, almost with disgust. She probably saw his ambivalence as weak, and there was nothing she hated more than weakness. She held his gaze and moved closer, punctuating her words. “She’s
gone,
Holt.”

It was the last thing he wanted to hear. Holt tried to move off, but she grabbed him and held him in place.

“She’s
gone.
It sucks. But you live with it.”

“You don’t think I know that, Ravan?”

“I know it hurts, but if you would just let me help you, if you would just see that—”

Holt grabbed her now and pulled her close, the anger inside him, the frustration at all the responsibility he was forced to bear, finally poured out. “I don’t
want
your help. I don’t want
anything.
Not from you, not from anyone. You need to think of me as someone who’s gone, because that’s how it is. You’re right, she is gone. And so am
I.
Got it?”