“Yes, sir.” I speak in unison with Z, Farah, and Xirol.
“Move out.”
Z splits from the rest of us, running across the yard in his bounding style, but he avoids the lights deftly, until I can no longer see him. Staying low, behind Xirol, I move down the box hedges toward the side of the house. Vel leads; every now and then, he pauses to listen, then presses forward again. Tension tightens my shoulders, but he’s good at what he does. Despite the rain and low visibility, we make it to the back door fast.
Still quiet.
Three minutes later, I’m starting to get worried. Z should be here by now—
And then he is. Breathless, he falls in behind Farah, big eyes looking to Vel for confirmation. The Ithtorian inclines his head. Zeeka presses a button on the remote in his hand, and the subsequent explosion rocks us. Inside, immediate commotion results; and then comes the sound of running footsteps and shouted questions.
“Our cue,” Vel says.
Because he’d never ask us to do anything he wouldn’t, he opens the back door and steps into the kitchens. Our camo can’t blend in a room that’s all white and silver; the paint isn’t formulated for interior environments. It matches rocks or trees, and it works best when we’re not moving. The pattern on our armor swirls, making me dizzy, so I look away.
And focus on the terrified La’heng servant opening her mouth to scream.
CHAPTER 31
Xirol’s on her in a blink, hand across her mouth. He whispers, “We’re resistance. Nod if you’ve heard of us.”
She’s plain, fine-featured but unexceptional. Her hair is a muddy brown, eyes hazel. The girl ducks her head just a little. I gather that means she’s heard of us, but since she works for a legate, none of it is good. She still looks terrified. I wonder what propaganda they’ve been spinning.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Farah whispers. “In fact, we can set you free, just as I am. Do you see my weapons? I was a slave once, too, just like you.”
“I’m going to take my hand away, if you promise not to scream. Do you?”
Another nod.
Xirol lowers his hand cautiously, but she doesn’t cry out. The girl eyes Farah with an equal measure of fear and fascination. “How can I be free? Who will take care of me?”
“I care for myself,” Farah answers. “And sometimes my friends, too.”
“Is there really a cure? Legate Flavius says it’s all lies.”
He won’t be saying anything, anymore. This doesn’t seem like the time to break the news to her. I wonder how much of the shinai-bond stems from turns of psychological dependence. They’ve been told, repeatedly, that they’ll die without protection. Is it possible for the mind to control physiological response when belief becomes so ingrained?
“Who do you think is fighting in the mountains?” Xirol asks.
“The legate says there are no free La’hengrin. That it’s all the work of foreign devils who want to steal us for themselves.”
My heart sinks at this news. Sadly, this has happened. The Conglomerate handed management of La’heng to Nicuan, as one of the tier worlds equipped to deal with slavery on such a scale; but prior to that, during Farwan’s reign, the Corp sold La’heng to the highest bidder, and disgruntled, defeated factions then used the planet as a staging ground for their grievances. They tried to take what they couldn’t buy—with varying degrees of success. The result was complete destruction of local infrastructure, and the conquerors determined what was rebuilt. Each time it occurred, things got worse and worse for the La’hengrin.
“Do you like working for the legate?” Zeeka asks.
If she’s loyal to her master, then we must tie her up and gag her. I hate the thought of treating a helpless female that way, but we can’t have her raising the alarm. Xirol gives me a look that says this is worse for him; he can’t bear it when one of his people has come to love the boot on her throat.
“No,” she says softly. “He hurts me.”
Those three short, simple words possess incredible power. Beside me, Vel curls his gloved claws, and I sense he wants to rip out the legate’s throat himself. If Xirol’s and Farah’s expressions are any clue to their feelings, he can get in line.
Z puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “If you help us, we can free you.”
“It’s true then?” Her small face shines.
Farah nods. “I have the treatment in my bag.”
I catch her eyes, brows raised, asking silently, I thought we were done?
But she doesn’t respond. Apparently, she and Loras have some hidden agenda. And that’s fine. A leader isn’t expected to share everything with his troops. I just need to shut up and follow orders. It sucks that I’m so bad at it.
“You’ll take me with you?” the girl asks.
Only Loras can make that promise, but Farah agrees. “Certainly. You can join the resistance in the capital.”
The girl takes a step back. “But I can’t fight. I only know how to clean and run the kitchen-mate.”
“Shhh,” Xirol says gently. “Easy, carenna. We’ll find a job for you.”
“Soldiers need to eat,” she murmurs, as if reassuring herself. “And a clean place to stay. It can’t be worse than here.” Visibly gathering her courage, she asks, “What do you need of me?”
Vel tells her, “Hide. Do not emerge until you hear us call the all clear.”
“What’s your name?” Farah asks.
“Tiana. You’re going to kill them, aren’t you?”
I’m a little afraid of how she’ll respond to the truth, but Xirol meets her gaze. “He deserves it. They all do.”
To my surprise, her brows come down in a fierce look. “I know.”
“Quickly now, we don’t have much time before they come back,” I say. “How many men are here?”
Tiana gives us an accurate count, a few less than I feared since some of the vehicles only carried two or three passengers, not the full four I’d estimated. And then she runs, scrambling for a hiding place.
“Move,” Vel orders.
He’s not being an ass. There’s no time to stand around chatting. The exchange with Tiana cost us precious moments from the distraction. Soon the centurions will figure out that it was a deliberate detonation, not a mechanical malfunction, and they’ll storm in looking for trouble. Before that happens, we must locate Loras and the rest of the squad.
We step out of the kitchen to search. Fortunately, they must’ve heard the explosion, so I spot Loras coming down the stairs. Before he can do more than offer an appreciative smile, the front door slams. Booted feet tromp across expensive natural flooring, and a high-pitched male voice whines about the destruction of his vehicles outside. This legate sure brought a lot of guards.
“Sorry, Legate,” a deeper tone replies.
“They’re here,” the legate says, growing more shrill. “I know they are.”
“We did a perimeter check after the explosion, Your Excellency. The rain makes it impossible to track, but as soon as it clears up, we’ll hunt the bastards down.” The centurion sounds so positive.
“Legate Flavius should have arrived already,” the other legate says fretfully. “He knows how great a risk I took in making the journey at all, especially now.”
That means they haven’t found the corpse, wherever Loras stashed it. Good news. But two legates at this gathering? How…interesting. Before we go, I need to poke around and see what conspiracies are brewing here. From March, I knew well that Nicuan nobles are never happy unless they’re intriguing—and it’s a bad idea to split focus when there’s a war on. That will work to our advantage.
Setting that aside for now, I glance at Loras for orders. Do we attack or wait for them to disperse? They clearly don’t know we’re inside the house. They think this is one of the resistance’s famous hit-and-runs, where we blow up property and disappear. Since that’s been the mainstay of the rebellion, I don’t blame them for leaping to that conclusion.
But the game’s about to change.
The odds aren’t great for a pitched battle; apart from Vel, none of us are commandos. We managed on the road because the centurions were distracted, staring at Farah’s half-naked body. Here, there are two of them for every one of us. It’s a tough call.
After an agonized moment of indecision, Loras signals. “Up the stairs. On my mark, we draw them.”
“Bottleneck,” Vel says. “And it is always good to fight on the high ground.”
What he doesn’t mention is that we might be screwed if any of them survive the initial run. The landing up above is narrow; it doesn’t provide much room for a melee. Yet maybe that’s an asset, too, since the centurions have turns of combat experience over us.
“Ready?” Loras asks.
The squad nods.
“Bring ’em, Jax.”
I scream at my utmost volume, infusing the sound with ululating terror. Centurions spring into motion while barking questions at each other. Their boots ring on the wood floor, announcing their approach. I bring up my weapon and drop to my knee. I can fire through the railing; I’m small enough. The angle is such that I’ll catch them before they hit the stairwell.
The first enemy pops into sight, but my hands are steady on the pistol. March and Sasha aren’t here to fill me with fear, so using the sight, I make a clean shot. Red light streaks toward him, and he tries to dodge, but the laser strikes his armor. Dammit. It didn’t get through. I fire again as he presses up, and this time, the chest plate explodes to expose the raw burn on his chest. Farah and Bannie, both shorter, drop so they can focus fire beside me. One more hit, and the centurion staggers, drops. Over us, the men lay down such a fierce line of fire that the centurions fear to cross. It’s insta-death right now, but we can’t keep it up. Our weapons click, the power packs overheating. We continue; somebody loses a hand. Or a face.
Finally, Loras says, “Rotate your shots, let your guns cool down.”
My unit in the Armada ran tighter than this with March at the helm, but he had turns of command experience. Loras is doing his best, but this is new to him, just like it’s new to so many La’hengrin. They’re not used to handling weapons. We should’ve planned better, but what the hell, we’re in it now.
CHAPTER 32
One of the centurions decides the quiet means it’s time to charge.
“Don’t,” another shouts. “It’s a trap.”
I didn’t know it was, but Vel did. He wasn’t firing along with the rest of us, so he nails the enemy with enough force to split his helmet. It’s not a kill shot, but the next one is. The enemy’s head explodes in a charred stew of splattering brain and bone.
“Hold,” the deep voice thunders. “They want you to charge, idiots. Don’t, unless you have a death wish.”
Shit. It sounds like the voice of experience is taking their strategy in hand. Soft and spoiled these centurions might be, now, but they didn’t survive ten turns on Nicuan by being terrible at their jobs. This will get a lot harder.
