sound of it. Anton and I are halfway down the stairs when the knocking is replaced by the sound of a sledgehammer.
Chapter 8
THE MEN CROWDING DEBRO’S STEPS WEAR RAGS. THEY HAVE the faces of those who fight the land for food and lose. Their hair is lank, their scowls weathered to the roughness of new leather. Dirt pocks their skin like powder burn.
I grew up around people like these.
That was on another planet.
General Luc’s scout car is now parked across the square, its gull-wing doors wide open. The Wolf is leaning against the hood, looking amused. He smokes a cigar with a lazy arrogance that probably took years to achieve.
Unless he was born with it.
‘Lock Wildeside down,’ Anton says.
Not sure what took him so long.
As steel bars fall into place behind us, blocking all access to the compound, the man holding the sledgehammer steps back. Maybe he wasn’t expecting someone holding a gun to answer the door.
‘What?’ I demand.
He mutters something.
Just not loud enough to be heard.
So I start shutting the door and his scowl gets darker.
A man raises an ancient rifle. A few brandish cheap cavalry swords, stamped from sheet metal and sharpened on a wheel. Only one man worries me, and even he doesn’t worry me that much. He holds a distress pistol.
When he raises it, I can see the orange point of a flare.
‘Lower your weapon,’ Anton tells him.
The man doesn’t. ‘Give us the heretic.’
‘The what?’
‘We know he’s a doubter.’
It’s a long time since I’ve heard that word in public. I’ve known troopers who believed life was once simpler, that there was only one kind of human. Personally, I believe there are as many types of human as there are star systems.
I’m just not sure why it matters.
‘Who said he was a doubter?’ Anton demands.
‘They did.’ The man jerks his thumb towards the village police, who are watching from a distance. Behind them, the Wolf lights another cigar.
He smiles when he sees me notice.
‘Look . . .’ Anton says.
Wrong approach. He shouldn’t be arguing. He should be telling that man to lower his pistol or d ie. Situations like this need to be kept simple.
‘You have to give him up.’
‘Why?’
Gesturing at his companions, the man makes them stand back so we can see the three silent gyrobikes and two dead riders lying in the dirt.
‘See,’ he says. ‘That’s a crime.’
When Anton opens his mouth to reply it occurs to me that it’s time to end this conversation. ‘The messenger didn’t kill them. I did.’
The man looks at me.
‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t lower that pistol.’
‘Dangerous words.’
General Luc is flanked by his ADC and his driver. Both wear full combat gear, with their visors down. Maybe the Wolf thinks he’s bullet-proof. Our eyes lock, and he doesn’t like it when I grin.
Why does he think I do it?
‘So,’ I say. ‘Getting others to do your fighting?’
The Wolf’s face tightens.
As if on cue, two more bikes roll into the dusty square and the crowd decides to fall back some more. Slowly, the riders climb from their bikes. What they don’t do is unholster their shotguns.
That tells me they’re amateurs.
A bunch of dirt farmers wearing what was once uniform.
Don’t get me wrong. Where I came from dirt farmers are aristocracy. And I’ve worn enough rags in my time. I’m just saying I wouldn’t want this lot guarding my back. For a start, their bikes block each other. So it’s impossible for them to move out swiftly.
See what I mean?
Anton’s holding his hunting rifle with one hand. He’s holding it lightly. So lightly it looks as if it might slip from his fingers at any moment.
No one’s fooled.
That rifle is expensive. Made by a famous maker. The Wolf undoubtedly has one like it. He knows who’ll be taking the first bullet.
‘Your call,’ Anton says.
Anton began in the palace guard. He married a senator, one of the richest women in Farlight. She might be a doubter, and
Chapter 8
THE MEN CROWDING DEBRO’S STEPS WEAR RAGS. THEY HAVE the faces of those who fight the land for food and lose. Their hair is lank, their scowls weathered to the roughness of new leather. Dirt pocks their skin like powder burn.
I grew up around people like these.
That was on another planet.
General Luc’s scout car is now parked across the square, its gull-wing doors wide open. The Wolf is leaning against the hood, looking amused. He smokes a cigar with a lazy arrogance that probably took years to achieve.
Unless he was born with it.
‘Lock Wildeside down,’ Anton says.
Not sure what took him so long.
As steel bars fall into place behind us, blocking all access to the compound, the man holding the sledgehammer steps back. Maybe he wasn’t expecting someone holding a gun to answer the door.
‘What?’ I demand.
He mutters something.
Just not loud enough to be heard.
So I start shutting the door and his scowl gets darker.
A man raises an ancient rifle. A few brandish cheap cavalry swords, stamped from sheet metal and sharpened on a wheel. Only one man worries me, and even he doesn’t worry me that much. He holds a distress pistol.
When he raises it, I can see the orange point of a flare.
‘Lower your weapon,’ Anton tells him.
The man doesn’t. ‘Give us the heretic.’
‘The what?’
‘We know he’s a doubter.’
It’s a long time since I’ve heard that word in public. I’ve known troopers who believed life was once simpler, that there was only one kind of human. Personally, I believe there are as many types of human as there are star systems.
I’m just not sure why it matters.
‘Who said he was a doubter?’ Anton demands.
‘They did.’ The man jerks his thumb towards the village police, who are watching from a distance. Behind them, the Wolf lights another cigar.
He smiles when he sees me notice.
‘Look . . .’ Anton says.
Wrong approach. He shouldn’t be arguing. He should be telling that man to lower his pistol or d ie. Situations like this need to be kept simple.
‘You have to give him up.’
‘Why?’
Gesturing at his companions, the man makes them stand back so we can see the three silent gyrobikes and two dead riders lying in the dirt.
‘See,’ he says. ‘That’s a crime.’
When Anton opens his mouth to reply it occurs to me that it’s time to end this conversation. ‘The messenger didn’t kill them. I did.’
The man looks at me.
‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t lower that pistol.’
‘Dangerous words.’
General Luc is flanked by his ADC and his driver. Both wear full combat gear, with their visors down. Maybe the Wolf thinks he’s bullet-proof. Our eyes lock, and he doesn’t like it when I grin.
Why does he think I do it?
‘So,’ I say. ‘Getting others to do your fighting?’
The Wolf’s face tightens.
As if on cue, two more bikes roll into the dusty square and the crowd decides to fall back some more. Slowly, the riders climb from their bikes. What they don’t do is unholster their shotguns.
That tells me they’re amateurs.
A bunch of dirt farmers wearing what was once uniform.
Don’t get me wrong. Where I came from dirt farmers are aristocracy. And I’ve worn enough rags in my time. I’m just saying I wouldn’t want this lot guarding my back. For a start, their bikes block each other. So it’s impossible for them to move out swiftly.
See what I mean?
Anton’s holding his hunting rifle with one hand. He’s holding it lightly. So lightly it looks as if it might slip from his fingers at any moment.
No one’s fooled.
That rifle is expensive. Made by a famous maker. The Wolf undoubtedly has one like it. He knows who’ll be taking the first bullet.
‘Your call,’ Anton says.
Anton began in the palace guard. He married a senator, one of the richest women in Farlight. She might be a doubter, and
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