“Stay low!” he orders.
The rest of us comply. It takes sixteen seconds to disable the simple analog lock; and then I follow the others through the compound toward the building. Using the machines as cover, though that’s probably unnecessary, I climb the stairs behind Vel. Zeeka is behind me, weapon in hand, and Loras brings up the rear. Bannie has point, and I crouch as she kicks the door open, then drops. The first half of the team strides in.
Xirol nails the guy sitting before the comm before he has time to raise his hand. His head splatters. I drop to one knee to steady my aim and take out the man I gauge to be the commander. Chest shot, no fancy shooting for me. The burn forms immediately, the stink of charred meat in the air, and the surviving centurions dive for their weapons, but they’re middle-aged and slow, plus they don’t even keep their sidearms nearby. It’s been that long since they had to fight.
The attack, if you could even call it that, doesn’t take long. It’s more like an execution. Afterward, Timmon and Rikir haul the bodies outside, so we have room to work. Zeeka’s vocalizer has the mimic function, so he finds the comm, plays the log, then makes a call to central that will prevent them from sending a team.
“This is Montrose. We’re having some trouble with the emitter array. I’m going to take it down while we make repairs.”
It’s a little eerie to hear a dead man’s voice coming from Zeeka’s helmet. The comm crackles. They’ve restored planetary communications since the bombing, but because Leviter’s gambit has come to fruition, their messages won’t be bounced off world via satellite. La’heng is now in lockdown, coded red. Nobody’s coming to help them. The Imperials just don’t realize how dire the situation is, yet.
“Acknowledged, Montrose, keep us posted. Central out.” The centurion on the other end sounds bored.
And why wouldn’t he be? There’s no reason to fear that the La’hengrin may rise up. They’re helpless and subservient, bound to follow orders.
Vel gets up on the roof to disconnect the array to keep the story consistent, which buys us some time. We’ll plug it back in later to make regular bogus reports from Montrose. Old comm logs should give us a better idea what they expect from this station.
Afterward, I help the rest of the squad haul the other bodies beyond the gated perimeter. Mountain beasts should drag them off. If not, the elements will claim them. It’s not like anybody is coming to look for them so long as Zeeka plays his part.
Then it’s a forced march back to the shuttle. So far, so good. I swing into the back with the others while Loras runs up front with Vel. Xirol and Timmon are jokers, cracking wise about how soft the centurions are. Rikir is quiet, along with Farah. Bannie’s talking to Zeeka about his implant.
I lean over, watching the ground rush toward us as Vel maneuvers the craft for a landing just outside the village. From our preliminary intel, there’s reason to believe they’ll welcome us here. As I leap out of the shuttle—I’m the fifth to disembark—the La’hengrin come out of their houses to greet us. Despite the darkness, lit only by flickering torches, I’m not afraid.
Loras steps forward, pulling off his helmet so they can see his face. “Do any of you recognize me?”
One of the miners, still filthy from his shift, steps forward and lifts his hand in affirmation. “Your broadcast came on when I was in the rec room up at the mine. I told everyone…I’m not sure they believed me.”
“What’s your name?” Loras asks.
“I’m Deven.”
“Loras.” His clear gaze skims the crowd. “On the mountain above, your captors lie dead. Liberation starts here. If I must, I will go quietly, town by town, offering the cure. I won’t lie to you. There’s a chance you won’t survive it. But for me, it was better to risk death than to continue living as a slave.”
A chill ripples over me. In ten villages around the world, just like this one, cell leaders are speaking these exact same words. Maybe they don’t all have Loras’s charisma, but they do share his conviction. The crowd murmurs, then a woman whispers in Deven’s ear.
“Tell us about this cure.”
Loras glances over. “Vel?”
He’s the most qualified, scientifically, to lay it out thoroughly yet in layman’s terms. So in simple language, he explains how Dr. Carvati perfected the cure, using data found in the Maker records; they’re ones who build the technology we use to navigate grimspace—and without our trip to the other ’verse, liberation wouldn’t be possible now. Vel elaborates on how the treatment works, step by step, how long it takes, and, finally, the risks.
He concludes, “Currently, the failure rate is 5 percent. For every hundred who take the treatments, five will perish.”
We’re not trying to trick them. The audience rumbles more, confused, uncertain. In some ways, it must sound too good to be true but also terrifying. Because who wants to gamble with his life that way?
A woman raises her hand. “How will it affect our children? Will our babies be born free?” Clearly, this is a mother’s concern in taking the risk.
Fortunately, Vel has the answer. “Yes, due to La’hengrin adaptive physiology.”
That makes sense. Just as RC-12 caused their children to be enslaved, Carvati’s Cure will undo the damage. If I had kids, I’d want this for them. Nobody should be forced to live as the La’hengrin do, devoid of agency and free will.
Finally, Deven says, “We’ll hold a meeting in the morning and decide what’s to be done. There’s a cottage where you can stay tonight.”