Nova War by Gary Gibson

humans, all apparently intent on killing each other in the most volatile environment possible.
    Remembrance spun his shotgun back around, training it once more on Bourdain, who rolled his eyes and shook his head at the same time. ‘I think I made it clear I wasn’t going to do anything of the kind.’
    ‘Be sensible, Remembrance, and surrender your weapon. Pull that trigger and there’s a good chance we’ll all wind up dead.’
    ‘And if I don’t, what? You’ll shoot me?’ The situation was patently ridiculous. ‘And how exactly is that any better?’
    Bourdain stood up, the smile vanished from his face. He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Nobody said anything about shooting you or anyone else. We just want to talk, perhaps come to an agreement of some kind – one that benefits us all.’
    ‘That would be nice,’ Remembrance replied drily, ‘but unfortunately, your reputation rather precedes you. We both know I’m dead the instant I put this shotgun down.’
    He lowered the barrel of his shotgun until it was poking down between two slats and at the floor formed by the maul-worm’s gullet. He made sure they could all see his finger was ready on the trigger. ‘You just can’t take the chance I might come after you again, if I’m allowed to live. Better to have me die in a place like this, somewhere that’s inherently accident-prone. And the last thing Honey dew wants is for himself to be exposed as being linked to a high-tech smuggling operation. So, no, I really don’t think I want to put this shotgun down.’
    ‘Wait.’ Bourdain stepped around the table. ‘Just wait a goddamn minute. There are ways and means to sort this out, so nobody move and remember where we are. Nobody. Move. An inch.’
    Remembrance pushed the barrel of his shotgun down into the moist surface of the worm’s gullet, as hard as he could. His earlier terror had temporarily abandoned him, replaced by a kind of mania he could neither understand nor identify.
    Almost at once, a breathy moan emerged from deep inside the cave, accompanied by a low rumbling they all felt more than heard. Honeydew’s wings spasmed involuntarily, as if they wished to carry him somewhere far away. Kapur and Mazower looked like they were both on the verge of fleeing.
    It occurred to Remembrance that in all the intelligent species he had so far encountered, the one universal trait they shared was a deep aversion to being eaten alive by something bigger than themselves.
    ‘Stop right there,’ came a voice from directly behind Remembrance.
    ‘Hugh Moss,’ said Remembrance, recalling the cadaverous shadow he’d glimpsed through a screen. He cursed himself for letting his attention slip. ‘I had a feeling it was you. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?’
    ‘I am dead,’ came the voice, sounding as lifeless as dry and brittle bones. ‘I died and was reborn. Let go your weapon, little fly, before I cut off your wings.’
    Remembrance turned to see Moss standing there. Like a graveyard ghoul come to life, a Consortium agent had once described the man.
    Remembrance had not known what a ghoul was, and had never been in a graveyard, so he’d had to research the phrase before he understood the agent’s meaning. But Moss now looked far ghastlier than on any previous encounter: his face was discoloured and heavily scarred, showing all the signs of recent violence. More pertinently, he was holding a long, curved knife close to the ligature of one of Remembrance’s wings.
    The knife gleamed wickedly in the dim light of the glow-globes. It was, Remembrance knew, no ordinary weapon. Rapid vibrations rolled through the blade at the touch of an unseen switch, vastly increasing its capacity to maim and kill. Moss had demonstrated its use once, by slicing a deep groove into a stone wall with apparently very little effort. Remembrance fingered the shotgun’s trigger, tight under one long, narrow finger. The tiniest motion would send a bullet pumping into