Greenaway didn’t expect to die. Even if the odds were hopeless, he wasn’t a last-stand hero. Special forces soldiers rarely are. Their job is to survive to fight another day. Far too much money has been spent on training them for acts of comic-book bravado.
Unless there was no choice, when he’d take the bastards with him.
The house AI appeared to have missed or weathered the signal from space. Far from showing any awkward individuality, it was almost obsequious and very pleased to see him. Greenaway disabled it as soon as he could.
< Typical artist’s AI, Greenaway’s own AI said. < Trained to say everything a human says or does is absolutely wonderful.
> You need to stay off the radar. Bad guys will pick up even the faintest electromag radiation. Just tell me when and where Kara gets back.
And so for only the second time in over thirty years, Anson Greenaway knew life without an AI. The first a few months ago, when it had been killed by renegade scientists, and his life had been saved by Kara... when he’d seen Kara operate as a spec ops specialist, both admiring and a little nervous at her sheer ruthless proficiency, having to admit that even in his prime she’d have taken him, no problem.
At least he’d got to see a different side of her. The first time, greedy, inventive, uninhibited. The second, loving with a near childlike joy. He wondered how they’d greet each other when they met again. Formal or relaxed? Or would they meet on the battlefield where all dead soldiers go, where victory is always in sight but never achieved?
Greenaway snarled at himself for being sentimental and set about arming the house. It fronted on to a narrow road – he remembered driving along it when he’d come to recruit Marc Keislack, almost a year ago. Marc had been unwilling until shown that he had little or no choice... and by the time he’d learned as much of the truth as Greenaway or Tse would tell him, it was too late to back out. It had always been too late, as it was for Tatia, Kara, Tse and Greenaway himself. Their lives had been seen, their roles established a very long time ago.
There were thick hedges with small trees on both sides. At the back the land sloped down to the Severn. Greenaway sowed the front approach with anti-personnel mines the size of his thumbnail, set to activate after dark and triggered by the weight of a human or by radio signal. More mines in the hedges and trees, with waist-high trip wires thin as spider silk, or also triggered by signals. There were no wild deer in the area. A fox or badger would have to jump up and down, and on tiptoe, to trigger one. The only possible problem would be low-flying bats and owls. Sonics would take care of that, broadcasting on a frequency that would make owl and bat feel extremely air-sick. Greenaway hoped he was right about the deer.
More mines at the rear of the house.
Of course, the mercs could have dropped off a scout who was currently observing from a distant hide. Or simply decide – once they were sure he was inside the house – to forget a firefight and just blow the damn thing up.
Except they’d want a body. Perhaps honour would demand – no, not honour but subsequent bragging rights – that the head of GalDiv was killed face to face. That was the thing about so many mercenaries: failed romantics who loved to party. But in this case, people who’d see a contract through to the end. If they didn’t their own kind would kill them. Standards had to be maintained.
Mines all sown, guns all mounted, Greenaway let loose hundreds of surveillance drones the size of a large bee to form a cordon around the house. And that was it, he could do no more. He needed to kill all six mercenaries and would only have this one shot. Even if GalDiv was restored to glory, he’d still be a target.
That which brought life may also bring death.
What the hell had Twist meant?
Sex brought life and it sure as hell could also bring death. As could the sun. Water. The sea. The river...
The image of two bodies turned inside out flashed into his mind. Thugs from Glasgow who’d upset the entity that lived by Jeff’s lake, and seemed to have a bond with Marc. And the lights that had danced over the Severn only the previous night, as he and Kara had coupled on the river bank. When her eyes had glowed like netherspace. His hadn’t. He didn’t belong.
He went into the house and set a decoy that mimicked his bodily warmth, vital signs and the signature of his AI. Put on a full camouflage suit and waited for dark.
And be thankful there was no moon.
The first scout slipped silently along the hedge as his AI reported the telemetry scan. One human on the ground floor. No other life.
He felt the gossamer touch of a cobweb, thought how much he hated spiders and died as a thumbnail-sized charge blew a hole in his head.
The second scout stepped on a mini-mine that took off three toes. She toppled over, already reaching for a pain suppressant, and hit the ground hard. Three mines exploded. She died as her AI signalled desperately for help.
* * *
“Why do they call it Plan A?” one of the remaining mercs asked in bemusement. “Why not the Plan That Always Fucks Up? Damn, I’ll miss those two. Their money split four ways, right?” She looked at the
