* * *
The mule might be real, army-issue and clean, but the crates upon its back are fake. Every one of them is empty. I swear.
If not for them I would have fallen for it.
My blood is hot with liquor and adrenalin, head filled with their presence. The stun pistol is still in my hand, buzzing as it charges up. On the ground, one of the soldiers groans and rolls onto their side, blood dripping from their nose. When they reach for their weapon, I kick it away.
‘Talk,’ I order.
The soldier’s grey eyes are wide, roaming over their downed comrades.
‘I don’t… I don’t know anything, I swear. Garnet was in charge.’
I swing the medkit from my shoulder. For a second, the soldier looks relieved, until they see the syringe in my hand.
‘Talk,’ I tell them again.
‘We were given orders to terminate a medic known as Ten Low.’
‘Who gave the orders?’ For the first time in what feels like years, my head is clear. There’s no doubt, no hesitation. ‘Was it General Ortiz?’
‘General Ortiz is dead.’
‘Then who did I escort here? Who did I leave at your base not two hours ago?’
‘Commander said— Commander said she’s a decoy. The General’s decoy.’
I grip the syringe.
‘Please,’ the soldier’s voice trembles, ‘please, don’t kill me, you already have three deaths on your hands.’
‘You are out by thousands,’ I say, and plunge the needle into their neck.
I check their pulse, before pushing myself away. What if it’s true? That the General, my General, is nothing but a decoy? But she spoke of Tamane as if she had been there… I saw again the savage grief on her face as she stared at the dying ant, dragging the memory of thousands of souls behind it.
I could take the mule now and flee for the Barrens, supplies or no. I could leave her to her fate. Possibilities course through me, making my muscles twitch, my palm slick with sweat around the gun. I smile bitterly.
They know what I’m going to do. They know the tally demands it.
* * *
‘Halt!’
I bring the mule to a stop. The metal walls of the army base loom, gates firmly closed. I keep my face lowered, staring at the inches of wrist exposed by the too-small army jacket.
‘Sergeant Garnet?’ someone calls from the sentry box beside the gate. From the corner of my eye, I see a soldier emerge and move towards me, staring at the thick bandages wrapped about my neck. ‘What the hell happened? Shall I call the medic?’
‘No need.’
I fire the stun pistol.
The soldier falls back, straight into a second sentry who has come running. It’s the work of seconds to stun him too.
The gate – intimidating though it looks – is a cheap thing, card-operated. Either the base doesn’t have much to protect, or the Accord doesn’t think it worthwhile to invest in an outlying moon like this. More fools them. Within moments, I’m through the gate and into the compound.
As I ride I see a brightly lit parade ground, ringed by dust-battered buildings, the flag of the Accord flapping over it all. I swerve into the shadows.
Is the General still alive?
You are risking everything to find out.
A life is a life. And she is a child.
She is a murderer. At any other time, in any other place, she would kill you without remorse.
But we’re not in another place. We’re here.
You’ll die for a sick brat?
Who says anything about dying?
The clouds scud across the dark sky like oil on water. They want this, I tell the voice at the back of my mind, the woman from the past with no mercy. They will help me.
In the darkness, I listen. No alarms, no sounds of panic. That makes two things obvious: one, the base is understaffed and underequipped; and two, somewhere, something important is happening.
Where would she be? Bases like this come pre-fabricated, dropped from ships in the correct layout. The General is ill. That means the infirmary. I think back to the early days of FL training, though I don’t like to. Too many other things, down there in my memories: awful, clinging things that should never be dredged up.
A door slams, reverberating across the night, and I pull my mind from the sludge, opening my eyes in time to see a figure hurrying across the parade ground towards the gate I left open.
Time to move. I steal around the edge of the buildings, the stun pistol at my belt. I sense them at my heels, eager as dogs. Hungry for what’s to come.
A stretcher in the corridor confirms that the infirmary is where I expect it to be. The walls are pasted with faded posters warning of soil contaminants and parasites in edible insects and signs of yellowrot. The air is thick with the smell of sanitiser.
I’m halfway along the corridor, too far to turn back, when a pair of soldiers appear, hurrying towards me. For a second I freeze, expecting them to shout, but they’re absorbed in speaking to each other in low voices. I remember the uniform I’m wearing, the bandages that wrap my neck like a patient. I keep my head down as they pass, sneaking a glance at their insignia.
They’re members of the Air Fleet. What are the Accord’s finest doing, dirtying their boots on a moon like this? Quietly, I run down the corridor.
First, the wards. The FL trained me well; I could map this place with my eyes closed. Next, the surgery. The scanner. The storeroom. I stop, one hand on the wall, staring ahead. Voices echo from the examination room. One soft and anxious, the other unmistakable…
Pulling the stun pistol, I stride forwards and shove open the door.
Three people turn to stare: a medic in green uniform, syringe in hand, a heavy-set man in the uniform of a captain, and her.
Alive, clean and in full battle-dress with the sleeve of her shirt rolled up, there sits General Gabriella Ortiz. Her face drops into shock at the sight
