Endgame (38 page)

“True enough.”

I raise up to fill in when March’s gun goes hot. Around me, the others are doing the same, switching fire. We learned from the mess at Legate Flavius’s estate, at least. Lately, our raids have been surgical; turns of teamwork are paying off.

Five minutes later, a boom rocks the ground. Even from here, I can see the fireball spiraling up from the building down below. Another follows immediately, then another, and another, until all five warehouses have been leveled, leaving only smoking craters. A ragged cheer rings out from our crew.

Farah says, “Z really knows his explosions.”

Elsewhere, it’s pandemonium, with a few crazed centurions staggering around, hands over their ears. I feel almost guilty about gunning them down.

Almost.

By the time my team and SpecForce finishes mopping up, there’s nothing moving down below. I should feel…something at this colossal loss of human life, but I’m happy. Triumphant, even. I don’t like what this war is turning me into; before, I worried I was becoming a monster because I had so much technology inside me, but that’s not what determines your humanity. It’s the capacity for empathy, caring about other people.

And I’m losing mine, millimeters at a time.

I can’t fret about it now, however, as I’m worried about Vel and Z. No celebration until I see them clear the rise, weary but whole. I run to him, and March is right behind me. To my surprise, we end up in a kind of group hug. Vel seems taken aback by this new development, but he doesn’t recoil.

“It went well?” I ask.

“A few close calls, but we handled them.” Which means there was fighting.

I check him out visually, but I detect no damage. Then I make my way over to Z, who is surrounded by a congratulatory mob. “You did it. How does it feel?”

“Wonderful,” he answers gravely. “And terrible.”

I know exactly what he means.

We can’t celebrate long, however. This victory is critical, but there’s more work to be done. So we join up with Loras and SpecForce, then march ten klicks before the commander stops us. Over a quick meal, he has some new orders for us.

Loras stands in the center of the makeshift camp, arms folded. “I won’t lie to you. I never have. There’s still a long campaign ahead, but we’re winning. I’ve laid out some new targets. As we head for Jineba, we’ll be taking out key Nicuan personnel.” He outlines the strategy—where but not who or why.

“Legates?” I guess.

“And their families,” Loras answers. “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

I remember that pit full of children…and say nothing. Beside me, Deven shakes his head; his pain is oceanic, hidden behind his devotion to the cause. “I lost three children to the Nicuan, two in this war. Why should theirs get to live?”

There’s no answer to that. I pack my things and fall in with the others. There’s a long way to go before our next op.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

It’s been a long turn full of skirmishes, near misses, hunger, exhaustion, dirt, and bivouacking in hostile environments. We’re buying time. Keeping them after us while the medical teams circulate wider and wider, deploying the cure. The waiting game feels like it has no end, but as long as we keep the Imperials snapping at us in the provinces, they won’t notice that the cities are slowly attaining their freedom. They won’t realize how few La’hengrin are required to obey, as they’ll continue to serve until they receive orders to rise up.

Today, though, Loras has decided to do something terrible; he’s waited a full turn for his retaliation for the destruction of the base. Kayro is a smaller city, sparsely populated with La’hengrin. There’s no way to evacuate all of them. Loras is unconcerned; he says if they knew what was coming, they would gladly give their lives for the cause. But he’s taking the choice away from them.

It doesn’t matter what I think. He programs the coordinates into the targeting array, then he launches the MO himself. It streaks away, deceptively small for the devastation that
will ensue when it detonates. We have four more bombs like this, enough to strike terror into Imperials’ hearts. And that’s the point.

I walk away. Out of camp and into the quiet silence of the surrounding forest. A dangerous risk, but I need some distance. I’m tempted to keep walking. Loras has become someone I don’t recognize, like the push for freedom is burning away his compassion. But I’m not his moral compass. If Farah couldn’t talk him out of this—I don’t even know if she tried…because she’s changed, too; the war has made her cold, occasionally cruel—and, well, I need to stop thinking about it.

Feels like forever since I’ve been clean.

We’re nomads.

Hunting and killing on the move. We’ve raided so many estates in the provinces. Executed nobles and centurions alike. Each life we take weakens their resolve, wears at their certainty that this is a winnable conflict. The strikes also damage Nicuan hierarchy and infrastructure. But it doesn’t feel good when you burst into someone’s home.

At night, Loras pores over field reports, assets seized, casualty lists. As time wears on, we’ve become more organized, perfecting a coded system of passing messages cell to cell. It’s simple to decode if you have the key, and it’s always changing. I know the Imperials are frustrated because they can’t crack the cryptography.
Why won’t they leave?

La’heng doesn’t belong to you. Admit defeat and go home.

I hope Loras doesn’t make us watch the news, reporting on how many died in Kayro. I don’t need to see the number to know it’s millions, many of them La’hengrin. In any city, they outnumber those they serve. Not all Nicuan on world are combatants; there are office workers and domestics, traveling in the nobles’ entourages. They die just like everyone else.

I’m tired of bloodshed, tired of ruthless destruction. I’m afraid Loras is becoming as much a monster as the Nicuan. When, early on, he said he would do anything to free his people, I couldn’t have credited this.

Footfalls sound behind me, then I hear Vel’s voice. “It is horrendous.”

“Yes,” I choke out.

Annihilation on that scale cannot help but offend the soul unless you’re dead inside. He draws me to him in patient motions, stroking his talons through my hair. I listen to him breathe, counting the differences between us. The exercise is soothing; it calms me.

“The Nicuan nobles cannot last against such opposition,” Vel says eventually. “The La’hengrin have no comparable targets for escalation. The legates could strike another city, but if they evacuated their own people beforehand, word would certainly get out.”

“You don’t think the Imperator would sacrifice nobles for victory?”

Vel cants his head, pensive. “He might. But the moment he did so, the surviving princes would remove him from office. He would triumph only at the cost of his career.”

“Most Nicuan are too selfish for that.”

“Precisely. So they have no means to match Loras, no way to hurt him as greatly. Though it was a regrettable decision, it will end the war.”

“You know more about this stuff than I do.” It’s not comforting, exactly, but if he’s right, then I’ll live with my participation in this, as I do everything else. By blocking it off and refusing to feel it.

“Jax,” Zeeka calls. “We’re moving out.”

“Roger that.”

When Vel and I get back to camp, the stealth shuttle’s already loaded. Since we travel with the MO and launching platform, we can’t move like the other cells do. I guess this is a benefit of traveling with the commander in chief of La’hengrin forces. I’m the last to board, after Vel. March is already waiting, strapped in and looking worried. He comes into my head with a sweet familiarity.

I let Vel take this one.
It’s a big step for him, bigger than it sounds, but after our conversation in Tarn and Leviter’s flat, I’m not wholly surprised; this is March’s way of showing me he means what he says.
You okay?

Not really. But I’ll deal. There’s no choice.

It was the right call at the right time. It’s been long enough since they took out the base that they can’t mistake this for wrath. It was a calculated maneuver, and that will scare them
even more. Anyone can push a button in anger. It takes particular strength to do so when your head is cool.

I’m not sure I’d call it strength.

Resolve, then.

Hearing validation of the strike from both March and Vel doesn’t erase my pain at the loss of life. I glance over at Zeeka, wondering how he keeps his spirits high. The Mareq seems cheerful all the time—happy to be here, happy to be included, happy to be fighting, learning—pretty much anything that’s going on, he’s glad about it. His people were like that, as I recall. When we landed on Marakeq to bring back Baby-Z2, instead of responding to the unknown with fear, hostility, and aggression, they acted like we were a joyous surprise.

Finally, I ask Z what I’ve wondered for turns. “Why doesn’t anything get you down? After what we just did, so many people died—”

His wide mouth falls into amused lines. “Everything dies. There’s no way to stop that tide. In the end, all we have is the pleasure we take from life. For my people, it’s not long. I can spend my time crying or I can
live
. I can seek wonder. Haven’t you ever noticed that people tend to find what they’re looking for, my friend?”

The truth of his words takes my breath away. How unexpectedly profound. I suspect I’ll learn so much from him in the thirty turns he has left. I suspect they won’t be nearly long enough. Tears prickle in my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I don’t want Z to think I misunderstood.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I don’t know when I ever needed a lesson more.”

He’s puzzled, but glad. He turns to speak with Ceepak, not realizing what an impact he’s had on me, this Mareq who once took nourishment from my bare skin.

“He is wise,” Vel observes. “I lived a great many turns before I internalized that particular lesson.”

“I wonder if the Mareq have genetic memory, so they remember things their ancestors learned. To make up for such short lives?”

Vel says, “It would explain much.”

Before I can reply, the shuttle puts down three klicks from our next target. It’s another estate raid. You’d think the nobles
would stay out of the provinces, but even in wartime, they think they’re above commonsense precautions. Who would dare attack Legate Whoever in his own home, right?

We would, obviously.

“Ceepak, stay with the shuttle,” Loras orders.

That makes sense because he’ll hear anybody coming. He has to guard the MO at all costs. Without it, we become toothless hounds.

He adds, “The rest of you, move out.”

Another battle, another scar. He was right, the one who first said
War is hell
.

The battles blur together.

Death. Blood. Dirt. Mud. Pain.

Last night, Deven executed an entire noble family on Loras’s orders. The commander was adamant that we send a message to Imperial forces. And so it went out on our next signal-jack broadcast. They must believe we have the will to do what is necessary, and nothing frightens civilians more than the death of children.

In truth, I’m losing heart. It’s been two turns since we left Jineba, two turns of wearing the wrong face and living a life I loathe.

When will it end?

The provinces are battlefields, but we must take the cities if we hope to dig the Nicuan out of here. Otherwise, this war never ends. Loras is prepared to bomb four more cities; we have the capacity, which would severely cripple Nicuan nobility. It would also significantly reduce the La’hengrin population. I don’t want him to do that; once was enough. There has to be another way.

“This is the shittiest sixteenth birthday ever,” Sasha says, breaking into my thoughts.

He’s been fighting for an eighth of his life. That’s so wrong. But no question, he’s strong and brave, a credit to March. Few young men his age have the same grasp of suffering and sacrifice. I’m just not sure that’s a good thing.

“Hey,” Ceepak protests. “This is the finest mudhole credits can buy.”

The kid has a point, I admit. We’re entrenched fifty klicks outside the city. Other cells have joined us. Since the Imperials have lost all their heavy installations, they can’t target us. The fighting is limited to waves of centurions who push, then fall back, trying to keep us out of the capital. It doesn’t matter, though.

The enemy’s already behind the lines. By my calculations, the cure has just about saturated the populace. Everyone has had a chance to take it…or decline. Some have; they fear freedom and self-reliance, or else they fear death. They’ll wait for a version of the vaccine that’s one hundred percent effective. But those La’hengrin are the minority.