Outside the vehicle, Carl talks quietly with the Gunnars, smiling. I realize he wasn’t being stupid earlier; he was boasting. He’s wearing a rebreather and a mildly apologetic expression.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he tells me, as if my luggage has been misplaced on an interstellar voyage. “The Gunnars pay substantially better, and I think, given all the statistical data, you’ll agree with my assessment. It’s the best possible outcome for you to sign on with them.”
Doing what?
It seems as if there isn’t going to be fight. The gas has thoroughly demoralized the Dahlgrens—but I don’t know; I feel like busting some heads on principle. I’m bloody tired of being dragged around, here to there, without a word of explanation. And it’s been like that a long damn time, nothing’s been right since Kai died, and I am sick of it.
Mair chooses that moment to stagger from the vehicle; she stumbles, falls, eyes livid with grief. But as she pushes herself upright, more will than strength, she growls to Carl, “Better to die on your feet than live on your knees. You spineless sack of shit.”
I somehow know that Jor’s not coming out of the rover under his own power. Maybe the gas affected him different than the rest of us. But whatever, why ever, he’s gone, and Keri weeps against March’s shoulder. Mair, with her wild eyes, looks like the living embodiment of the old Furies, come to reap a man’s soul. I’m a little afraid of her, and everyone falls back, as she surges toward the Gunnars. For a moment, I think she’ll rend them limb from limb single-handedly.
Carl glances to me in appeal, as if I have some power in this insane tableau. Then I realize I do.
“Frag you.” I answer his look in Keri’s time-for-tea tone.
And it takes him a moment to process the disparity of the words from the sweetness in my voice. The Gunnars look like killers, all of them. Big men, hard-eyed, well geared, and ready to throw down. That’s fine.
So am I.
I’m Sirantha Jax, and I have had enough.
CHAPTER 8
“Jax,” March hisses. “Loras can’t fight, Saul won’t. Are you crazy?”
That leaves me, Mair, Dina, and March, if he’ll weigh in. Keri is a nonfactor, as she’s still sniveling.
So yeah, I guess I am. After all this time, you would think I’d have earned a better death, but at least I’m going out swinging. I test the weight of the shockstick in my hand, and the Gunnars share a look among themselves, like some hive-mind critter, before they burst out laughing. I’m pretty sure these assholes are related, too. What is it with this fragging backwater planet?
“Oh, Ms. Jax, do be reasonable—” Carl says, as I sprint for him, duck a half-assed grab from one of his goons, open-hand-smash the bridge of No-chin’s nose, then come down hard on the backswing upside meatwad’s head. Yeah, asshole, that’s how it’s done. I smell the faint scent of sizzling skin as he crumples, the shockstick throwing blue sparks. Its live hum in my hands proves to the other five that I’m dead serious, and suddenly they realize they’ve got a fight on their hands.
It’s a mistake people have made before. Because I’m small, they assume I’m also spineless, that I won’t have the guts to back up the shit I talk. Carl shrieks like a woman, his nose spurting like I’ve cut his jugular or something.
“He’s bleeding.” Keri moans. “Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, what have you done?”
Everyone sort of freezes and shares a look of unilateral horror. And I don’t understand. It’s just a damned bloody nose. I’ve got one, too. What’s the big deal? But I use the time to make myself scarce, as his men rally, swinging slow because they’re so big. They connect, and I’m going down, not in a good way. I don’t have the strength to go one-on-one with any of these guys, but I’m betting my brain against theirs. These nulls don’t know how to fight women; it’s a different game, believe me.
As I dive between the legs of a big Gunnar, I see Mair wind up and slam her shockstick hard as she can between the V of another guy’s thighs. Falling, he makes a noise that I can’t say I’ve heard a human utter before, sort of like I imagine a puppy would sound being put through a juicer. He curls up on his side, covering those extra-crispy genitals with his palm, then she’s after No-chin Carl. Guess a broken nose isn’t satisfactory recompense for her loss. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes—that’s for damn sure. And huh…for some reason the remaining Gunnars don’t want to mess with Mair—they leave Carl to take his thrashing—and that has them hounding me. I evade a clumsy grab with a feint left, then I sprint for the rover.
Just like that, we’ve got a fair fight on our hands.
I’m not sure they want me alive anymore, but that’s all right because they’ve got to catch me first. I use the rover, rounding it, then doubling back. If they think I’m going to stand still and take my beating, they’re the crazy ones. It’s a childish tactic, but it buys me some time as March shakes his head, glares at me, and throws a sloppy roundhouse. He gets stomach-slugged twice in rapid succession and doesn’t even stumble. Making a second lap, I decide he’s one tough son of a bitch and make a mental note never to gut-punch him. I’ll go for the eyes instead.
Midfight, March glares at me, and for that sin, takes a solid uppercut to the jaw. I laugh out loud, starting to enjoy this. Shit, the two behemoths have figured out my little game, and this time, they anticipated my turn. My timing’s off, but I dive between them, roll, and come up behind Saul, who regards me pleadingly. Don’t know what he’s asking, no breath to inquire because I’ve still got them on me and no way to shake them.
March can hold his own, but I have to deal with this somehow—
But not alone. Leaping from atop the rover, Dina drops down on one of the flagella tailing me. She isn’t a huge woman but she’s muscular, and seventy kilos, landing hard, will flatten even a big guy if he’s not braced. Her shockstick hums as she clubs him efficiently, although one hit really would’ve done it. Still, I can’t help admire her artistry; he’s going to have quite a nice pattern in minor burns, assuming he’s not brain damaged by the time she’s done.
I turn just in time to see March land the telling blow. The other guy’s head snaps round, flecks of blood and spit spewing from his open, rubber-lipped mouth. They did it the old-fashioned way: no shocksticks, no finesse, just slug it out until someone falls over. In a one-on-one fight, I’m guessing that’s rarely March. And probably because he’s bleeding from a split lip and has what looks to be a nice shiner swelling on his left eye, March sinks his boot into the guy’s ribs, hard enough that even I wince.
That leaves just one standing, against all of us, so I figure it’s safe for me to stop running. He seems to realize that around the same time, nearly collides with me, then raises his hands, palms up, in a symbol of peaceable intentions.
“Truce?” he asks, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard one of them speak. “The Gunnar clan would like to step back from this particular investment. It seemed like a good opportunity but the start-up costs”—he gestures at the fallen—“are prohibitive.”
“They killed my boy.” Mair finally rises, stiff and weary, from the broken body of her former financial advisor. Although I’m not a medical officer, I’m pretty sure Carl’s not getting up. Ever. “I want them all executed, March. Here. Now. Every last one.”
“The gas is nontoxic!” The Gunnar defends himself, sounding desperate. “He must’ve experienced an allergic reaction. Swear it’s nonlethal, the rest of you are fine.”
The doc hovers nearby, not quite wringing his hands in dismay, but it’s close. I wonder if March surrounds himself with pacifists and untried boys for a reason. Make himself look better by comparison, maybe? I smirk as he narrows his eyes on me. God help me, but I love the fact that I can taunt him silently, even with this shit going on.
“Thank you,” I say softly to Dina, while the rest wait to hear what March is going to say. I know he’s thinking things over, weighing factors of which I, in my almighty ignorance, am unaware.
She shrugs. “You got balls, bitch, even if you’re dumber than a bag of hammers. We’ll be lucky if we don’t die today.”
Have to laugh at that, and damn me if I’m not starting to like her, even if she hates my guts. I’m glad she’s on my side. Sort of.
“No.” Saul speaks into the silence. He’s been circling among the bodies or soon-to-be-bodies, administering treatment. “Carl Zelaco betrayed an honorable contract with clan Dahlgren for the hope of financial gain. While clan Gunnar pursued this investment”—he glances at me as if I’m a walking, talking stock certificate—“with regrettable vehemence, they intended no harm to clan Dahlgren, save financial embarrassment. A life for a life; it is fair frontier justice.”
March surprises me by nodding—I guess Saul functions as his conscience. God knows I didn’t sense anything like one while we were jacked in together. Mair hisses, and I half expect her to fly at Saul. I even step in front of him, although honestly I don’t want to take this old woman on. She is fragging scary. But then Keri surprises me with a firmness I hadn’t expected of her:
“He’s right,” she states. “Let’s go. We still have business to discuss.” Right now, there’s a resemblance to Jor in the set of her mouth, and her red-rimmed eyes shine with a hard light, although that may be the way the setting sun reflects in her pupils.
“I will not forget you,” the Gunnar clansman says. And yeah, he’s looking at me.
I give him my best grin. “Nobody ever does.”
All this time, Loras has been staring up at the sky, as if he lives in a world the rest of us simply cannot perceive. He’s dreamy-vague, golden curls and sapphire eyes, a fey, graven look that gives his features an inexplicable purity. Now that I study him closer, I realize he’s not young so much as ageless, his face untouched by time or worry. There’s a certain kind of madness in his face, as if he cannot care for anything enough to be moved by it, and I have to look away. But he draws my eyes back as he speaks.
“We should go,” he says quietly, expressionlessly. Studying the angle of the sun. “If we hope to reach the compound by nightfall. They’re coming.”
“Shit.” For once, March seems to speak for all of us.
CHAPTER 9
“They who?”
It’s like the tenth time I’ve asked, but no one’s answering me. Instead they’re rushing to and fro trying to get all the wounded loaded into the Gunnar Landcruiser. The dead have already been dumped unceremoniously into the cargo space in back, and it shakes me down to my bones, the way Keri accepts that.
If she knows she can’t afford to indulge in grief, moan and whimper and sob on March’s shoulder, it can only be because she knows something really bad is coming, something that will require all of us, functioning at our peak, to survive it. My breath puffs out smoky like a devil’s sigh, and I’m shivering all over. Their silence is frightening me more than anything I’ve ever known.