Broken Angels, Page 43

  And closed my fist.

  For just a moment, I thought my luck had run out. Luck that had seen me through removing the monofilament without major vascular damage, that had let me get to the interface plate without severing any useful tendons. Luck that had no one watching Lamont’s screens. Luck like that had to run dry at some point and as the inhib unit shifted under my blood-slippery grip, I felt the whole teetering structure of Envoy control start to come down.

  Fuck.

  The interface plate—user-locked, hostile to any uncoded circuitry in direct contact—bucked in my ripped palm and something shorted out behind my head.

  The inhibitor died with a short electronic squeal.

  I grunted, then let the pain come up through gritted teeth as I reached back with my damaged arm and began to unflex the thing’s grip on my neck. Reaction was setting in now, a muted trembling racing up my limbs and a spreading numbness in my wounds.

  “Vongsavath,” I said as I worked the inhibitor loose. “I want you to go out there, find Tony Loemanako.”

  “Who?”

  “The noncom who came to collect us last night.” There was no longer any need to suppress emotion, but I found that Envoy systems were doing it anyway. Even while Sutjiadi’s colossal agony scraped and raked along my nerve endings, I seemed to have discovered an inhuman depth of patience to balance against it. “His name is Loemanako. You’ll probably find him down by the execution slab. Tell him I need to talk to him. No, wait. Better just tell him I said I need him. Those words exactly. No reasons, just that. I need him right now. That should bring him.”

  Vongsavath looked to the closed flap of the bubblefab. It barely muffled Sutjiadi’s uncontrolled shrieking.

  “Out there,” she said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” I finally got the inhib unit off. “I’d go myself, but it’d be harder to sell that way. And you’re still wearing one of these.”

  I examined the carapace of the inhibitor. There was no outward sign of the damage the interface plate’s counterintrusion systems had done, but the unit was inert, tentacles spasmed stiff and clawed.

  The pilot officer got up unsteadily. “All right. I’m going.”

  “And Vongsavath.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take it easy out there.” I held up the murdered inhibitor. “Try not to get excited about anything.”

  It appeared I was smiling again. Vongsavath stared at me for a moment, then fled. Sutjiadi’s screams blistered through in her wake for a moment, and then the flap fell back again.

  I turned my attention to the drugs in front of me.

  • • •

  Loemanako came at speed. He ducked through the flap ahead of Vongsavath—another momentary lift in Sutjiadi’s agony—and strode down the center aisle of the bubblefab to where I lay curled up on the end bed, shivering.

  “Sorry about the noise,” he said, leaning over me. One hand touched my shoulder gently. “Lieutenant, are you—”

  I struck upward, into the exposed throat.

  Five rapid-dump dermals of tetrameth from the strip my right hand had stolen the previous night, laid directly across major blood vessels. If I’d been wearing an unconditioned sleeve, I’d be cramped up and dying now. If I’d had less conditioning of my own, I’d be cramped up and dying now.

  I hadn’t dared dose myself with less.

  The blow ripped open Loemanako’s windpipe and tore it across. Blood gushed, warm over the back of my hand. He staggered backward, face working, eyes childlike with disbelieving hurt. I came off the bed after him—

  —something in the wolf splice weeps in me at the betrayal—

  —and finished it.

  He toppled and lay still.

  I stood over the corpse, thrumming inside with the pulse of the tetrameth. My feet shifted unsteadily under me. Muscle tremors skipped down one side of my face.

  Outside, Sutjiadi’s screams modulated upward into something new and worse.

  “Get the mobility suit off him,” I said harshly.

  No response. I glanced around and realized I was talking to myself. Deprez and Wardani were both slumped against their beds, stunned. Vongsavath was struggling to rise, but could not coordinate her limbs. Too much excitement—the inhibitors had tasted it in their blood and bitten accordingly.

  “Fuck.”

  I moved between them, clenching my mutilated hand around the spider units and tearing them loose as they spasmed. Against the shift and slide of the tetrameth, it was almost impossible to be more gentle. Deprez and Wardani both grunted with shock as their inhibitors died. Vongsavath’s went harder, sparking sharply and scorching my opened palm. The pilot vomited bile and thrashed. I knelt beside her and got fingers into her throat, pinning her tongue until the spasm passed.

  “You o—”

  Sutjiadi shrieked across it.

  “—kay?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “Then help me get this mob suit off. We don’t have a lot of time till he’s missed.”

  Loemanako was armed with an interface pistol of his own, a standard blaster, and the vibroknife he’d loaned to Carrera the night before. I cut his clothes off and went to work on the mob suit beneath. It was combat spec—it powered down and peeled at battlefield speed. Fifteen seconds and Vongsavath’s shaky assistance were enough to shut off the dorsal and limb drives and unzip the frame. Loemanako’s corpse lay throat open, limbs spread, outlined in an array of upward-jutting flex-alloy fiber spines that reminded me fleetingly of bottleback corpses butchered and half filleted for barbecue meat on Hirata Beach.

  “Help me roll him out of—”

  Behind me, someone retched. I glanced back and saw Deprez propping himself upright. He blinked a couple of times and managed to focus on me.

  “Kovacs. Did you—” His gaze fell on Loemanako. “That’s good. Now, do you want to share your plans for a change?”

  I gave Loemanako’s corpse a final shove and rolled it clear of the unwrapped mob suit. “Plan’s simple, Luc. I’m going to kill Sutjiadi and everyone else out there. While that’s going on, I need you to get inside the Chandra and check for crew or conscientious objectors to the entertainment. Probably be a few of each. Here, take this.” I kicked the blaster across to him. “Think you’ll need anything else?”

  He shook his head muzzily. “You spare the knife? And drugs. Where are those fucking tetrameth?”

  “My bed. Under the quilt.” I lay on the suit without bothering to undress and began to pull the support struts closed across my chest and stomach. Not ideal, but I didn’t have the time. Ought to be okay—Loemanako was bigger-framed than my sleeve, and the servoamp uptake pads are supposed to work through clothing at a push. “We’ll go together—I figure it’s worth the risk of a run to the polalloy shed before we start.”

  “I’m coming,” Vongsavath said grimly.

  “No, you’re fucking not.” I closed the last of the body struts and started on the arms. “I need you in one piece; you’re the only person who can fly the battlewagon. Don’t argue, it’s the only way any of us get out of here. Your job is to stay here and stay alive. Get the legs.”

  Sutjiadi’s screams had damped down to semiconscious moans. I felt a scribble of alarm run up my spine. If the machine saw fit to back off and leave its victim to recover for any length of time, those in the back rows of the audience might start to drift away for an interval cigarette. I hit the drives while Vongsavath was still fastening the last of the ankle joint struts and felt more than heard the servos murmur to life. I flexed my arms—jag of unwatched pain in the broken elbow, twinges in the ruined hand—and felt the power.

  Hospital mob suits are designed and programmed to approximate normal human strength and motion while cushioning areas of trauma and ensuring that no part of the body is strained beyond its convalescent limits. In most cases the parameters are hardwired in to stop stupid little fucks from overriding what’s good for them.

  Military custom doesn’t work like that.<
br />
  I tensed my body and the suit got me to my feet. I thought a kick to groin height and the suit lashed out with speed and strength to dent steel. A left-handed back-fist long strike. The suit put it there like neurachem. I crouched and flexed, and knew the servos would put me five meters into the air on demand. I reached out with machined precision and picked up Loemanako’s interface gun left-handed. Digits scrambled along the display as it recognized the Wedge codes in my undamaged palm. Red gleam of the load light, and I knew through the prickling in my palm what the magazine carried. The vacuum commando’s standby. Jacketed slugs, short-fused plasma core. Demolition load.

  Outside, the machine somehow licked Sutjiadi back up into screaming. Hoarse now, his voice was shredding. A deeper groundswell rose behind the shrieks. Audience cheers.

  “Get the knife,” I told Deprez.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Outside, it was a beautiful day.

  The sun was warm on my skin and glinting off the hull of the battlewagon. There was a slight breeze coming in off the sea, scuffing whitecaps. Sutjiadi screamed his agony at a careless blue sky.

  Glancing down to the shoreline, I saw they’d erected metal-framed banks of seats around the anatomizer. Only the top of the machine showed above the heads of the spectators. Neurachem reeled in a tighter view—a sense of heads and shoulders tensed in fascination at what was happening on the slab, and then suddenly a glimpse of something flapping, membrane-thin and blood-streaked, torn loose from Sutjiadi’s body by pincers and caught by the breeze. A fresh shriek floated up in its wake. I turned away.

  You patched and evacuated Jimmy de Soto while he screamed and tried to claw out his own eyes. You can do this.

  Functionality!

  “Polalloy shed,” I muttered to Deprez, and we moved down the beach to the far end of the Angin Chandra’s Virtue as rapidly as seemed safe without tripping some Wedge veteran’s combat-amped peripheral vision. There’s an art to it they teach you in covert ops—breathe shallow, move smoothly. Minimize anything that might trigger the enemy’s proximity senses. Half a minute of itching exposure was all it took, and then we were shielded from the seat banks by the swell of the Chandra’s hull.

  On the far side of the shed, we came across a young Wedge uniform, braced on the structure and vomiting his guts up in the sand. He looked up out of a sweat-beaded face as we rounded the corner, features twisted in misery.

  Deprez killed him with the knife.

  I kicked open the door with mob suit strength and swung inside, eyes flexed out to total scan in the sudden gloom.

  Lockers stood tidily against one wall. A corner table held an assortment of helmet frames. Wall racks offered boot bases and breathing apparatus. The hatch to the showers was open. A Wedge noncom looked around from a datacoil at another desk, face haggard and angry.

  “I’ve already fucking told Artola I’m not—” She spotted the mob suit and peered, getting up. “Loemanako? What are you—”

  The knife skipped through the air like a dark bird off my shoulder. It buried itself in the noncom’s neck, just above the collarbone, and she jerked in shock, came a wavering step toward me, still peering, and then collapsed.

  Deprez stepped past me, knelt to check his handiwork, and then withdrew the knife. There was a clean economy of motion in his movements that belied the state of his radiation-blasted cells.

  He stood up and caught me looking at him.

  “Something?”

  I nodded at the corpse he’d just made. “Not bad for a dying man, Luc.”

  He shrugged. “Tetrameth. Maori sleeve. I have been worse equipped.”

  I dumped the interface gun on the table, picked up a pair of helmet frames, and tossed one to him. “You done this before?”

  “No. I’m not a spaceman.”

  “Okay. Put this on. Hold the struts, don’t smudge the faceplate.” I gathered boot bases and breathing sets at tetrameth speed. “The air intake fits through here, like this. The pack straps over your chest.”

  “We don’t nee—”

  “I know, but it’s quicker this way. And it means you can keep the faceplate down. Might save your life. Now stamp down on the boot bases, they’ll stick in place. I’ve got to power this thing up.”

  The shower systems were set into the wall next to the hatch. I got one unit running, then nodded at Deprez to follow me and went through into the shower section. The hatch cycled closed behind us, and I caught the thick solvent odor of the polalloy pouring in the confined space. The operational unit’s lamps flashed orange in the low-light surroundings, glinting off the dozens of twisting threads of polalloy where they ran down from the showerheads and spread like oil on the angled floor of the cubicle.

  I stepped in.

  It’s an eerie feeling the first time you do it, like being buried alive in mud. The polalloy lands on you in a thin coating that quickly builds to a sliding sludge. It masses on the dome of cross-netting at the top of the helmet frame, then topples and pours down around your head, stinging your throat and nostrils even through your locked breathing. Molecular repulsion keeps it off the surface of the faceplate, but the rest of the helmet is sheathed in twenty seconds. The rest of your body, right down to the boot bases, takes about half as long again. You try to keep it away from open wounds or raw flesh; it stings before it dries.

  Fffffffuuuuck—

  It’s airtight, watertight, utterly sealed, and it’ll stop a high-velocity slug like battlewagon armor. At a distance, it even reflects Sunjet fire.

  I stepped down and felt through the polalloy for the breathing set controls. Thumbed the vent control. Air hissed under my jaw, filling the suit and popping it loose around my body. I killed the air and chinned the faceplate control. The plate hinged silently up.

  “Now you. Don’t forget to hold your breath.”

  Somewhere outside, Sutjiadi was still screaming. The tetrameth scratched at me. I almost yanked Deprez out of the shower, punched the air supply, and watched as his suit popped.

  “Okay, that’s it.” I dialed down to intake standard. “Keep the plate down. Anyone challenges you, give them this signal. No, thumb crooked like this. It means the suit’s malfunctioning. Might buy you the time you need to get close. Give me three minutes, then go. And stay away from the stern.”

  The helmeted head nodded ponderously. I could not see his face through the darkened faceplate. I hesitated a moment, then clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Try to stay alive, Luc.”

  I chinned the faceplate closed again. Then I gave the tetrameth its head, collected the interface gun left-handed on my way through the locker room, and let the momentum carry me back outside into the screaming.

  It took me one of my three minutes to circle wide around the back of the polalloy shed and then the hospital bubblefab. The position gave me line-of-sight on the gate and the minimal security Carrera had left there. The same as last night: five strong guards, two suited, and one powered-up bug. Looked like Kwok’s hunched, cross-legged stance in one suit. Well, she’d never been a big fan of the anatomizer sessions. The other, I couldn’t identify.

  Machine support. The mobile ultravibe cannon and a couple of other chunks of automated firepower, but all turned the wrong way now, watching the darkness beyond the gate. I breathed out once and started up the beach.

  They spotted me at twenty meters—I wasn’t hiding. I waved the interface gun cheerily over my head, and gave the malfunction gesture with my other hand. The ragged hole in my right palm ached.

  At fifteen meters, they knew something was wrong. I saw Kwok tense and used the only card I had left to play. I chinned the faceplate and waited twelve meters off for it to hinge up. Her face registered shock as she saw me, mingled pleasure, confusion, and concern. She unfolded and got to her feet.

  “Lieutenant?”

  I shot her first. A single shot, in through the opened faceplate. The detonating plasma core blew the helmet apart as I ran forward.

  —aching thro
atful of wolf loyalty, rubbed raw—

  The second suit was moving when I got to him, a single leap in the mob suit and a midair kick that slammed him back against the carapace of the bug. He bounced off, one hand reaching to slap his faceplate closed. I grabbed the arm, crushed it at the wrist, and fired down into his yelling mouth.

  Something hammered me in the chest, threw me on my back in the sand. I saw an unsuited figure stalking toward me, gun hand flung out. The interface gun dragged my arm up a handbreadth and I shot his legs out from under him. Finally, a scream to compete with Sutjiadi, and time running out. I chinned my faceplate closed and flexed my legs. The mob suit threw me to my feet again. A Sunjet blast lashed the sand where I had been. I tracked around and snapped off a shot. The Sunjet wielder spun about with the impact and red glinting fragments of spine exploded out of his back as the shell detonated.

  The last one tried to close with me, blocking my gun arm upward and stamping down at my knee. Against an unarmored man, it was a good move, but he hadn’t been paying attention. The edge of his foot bounced off the mob suit and he staggered. I twisted and snapped out a roundhouse kick with all the balanced force the suit would give me.

  It broke his back.

  Something banged off the front of the bug. I looked down the beach and saw figures spilling from the makeshift amphitheater, weapons leveling. I snapped a shot off in reflex, then got a grip on my ’meth-scrambled thought processes and straddled the bug.

  The systems awoke at a slap to the ignition pad—nights and dataflow in the hooded and heavily armored instrument panels. I powered up, lifted a quarter turn about to face the advancing Wedge, selected weaponry, and—

  —howl, howl, HOWL—

  some kind of snarling grin made it to my face as the launchers cut loose.