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  It was past time he did something about that. As soon as this meeting was over, Arun determined to confront Springer, to sit her down and convince her that none of her concerns mattered, explain how much she meant to him, how much he needed her, whatever her half-baked visions might say…

  A gentle knock at the door interrupted his train of thought. Perfect timing.

  Hortez waited for him outside. They exchanged a nodded greeting and set off.

  “All set?” Arun didn’t ask if he could count on Hortez’s support, he knew he could.

  “Yes,” the other man said. “To be clear, though, what exactly are you hoping to get from this meeting?”

  “Reassurance. Contingencies. Without a direct FTL comms link to Shepherd-Nurture 4 we’ve no idea what’s waiting for us there. The most up-to-date intel on the place Beowulf currently has is more than twenty-five years out of date. Has Shepherd-Nurture 4 stayed loyal, has it gone over to the rebels, or does it remain blissfully unaware of the ongoing conflict? We just don’t know, and nor will we until we arrive in system and Beowulf has the opportunity to update from the local net.”

  “And even then we can’t be certain of how reliable those updates are.”

  “Precisely. The intel could be false, deliberately intended to mislead. We need to be prepared to react to anything. We can’t afford to be caught flat-footed, dithering over what to do next. That’s the purpose of this meeting, to ensure we’ve allowed for every possible situation.”

  A thought of Janna reminded him of another matter. “Speaking of being prepared,” said Arun, “how is the Ancients’ training coming along?”

  “Pretty well,” Hortez said. “They’re used to discipline, and have greater experience in the field than we do. The main issue, as you know, is that they don’t have the wetware hooks we use to link with modern suit AIs, but the Navy freaks are working on that and seem confident. Otherwise, it’s just a matter of bringing them up to speed with modern equipment and getting them used to our tactics and procedures.”

  “Good… Good.” If anyone could solve the wetware problem then Furn and Finfth could. It was vital that when the Marines next went into action, which was inevitable, they did so as an integrated force, with everyone knowing what to expect from everyone else. A wrong assumption about how the soldier next to you was likely to react in the heat of combat could spell disaster.

  “In fact, I’ve never seen such ferocious fighters,” Hortez added.

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a savagery about them. They relish the act of fighting itself in a way that none of us ever have. Apparently they didn’t use combat meds in their day, did you know that? It doesn’t surprise me, mind you. Having seen them in training, I don’t suppose they need meds. Even Nhlappo’s impressed. The whole lot of them are frakking bonkers… But in a good way.

  “The thing that puzzles me, is that if they really are an earlier form of human – and you can see that in their physique: they’re slighter, less physically developed than us – but if that’s the case, why haven’t the White Knights ramped up our aggression, bred for it? I mean, they’ve pumped us up physically, you’d think they would have gone for a higher dose of the old blood lust as well. Instead, if the Ancients are anything to go by, they’ve dampened it down.”

  “Perhaps they reckoned a clearer head was more useful in a Marine than blind aggression,” Arun said. Though that didn’t sound like the White Knights and, if so, why develop combat meds? Then he had another thought. “Perhaps it’s not down to the White Knights.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well you know how hands off they are – none of us have ever even seen one of them. We’re so far down the food chain they don’t deign to interact with us directly, they leave that to lesser races. So perhaps one of these other races has been gradually reducing our violent tendencies over the generations, without the White Knights’ knowledge.”

  “Who? The Jotuns, you think?”

  “Maybe,” but Arun’s thoughts had turned to the memory of a midnight blue globule suspended inside a life-support tank beneath Beta City. He knew the Night Hummers planned for the long haul, but just how deep did their meddling go?

  They had been walking for some minutes without seeing another soul. Beowulf was a military ship. Everyone on board had their roster and duties – a proper place to be at any given time – and there was no reason for a person to be strolling aimlessly around the ship’s decks, but the fact that the vessel could be home to more than six hundred people and still feel so empty brought home just how big the Beowulf was.

  Maybe not that empty. Sounds of a commotion reached them from somewhere ahead – shouts, jeering, multiple voices animated and excited.

  “That sounds like a fight to me,” Hortez growled.

  They quickened their pace. Not for the first time, Arun regretted the need to maintain near-normal gravity on the ship during this phase of the Ancients’ training. In zero-g progress would have been much quicker. As it was, he itched to break into a run, but that would have been too undignified. Hortez alternated between long strides and a stumbling trot, clearly torn between the conflicting urges to hurry ahead and to stay with his commander.

  The noise grew louder as they approached a small assembly room. The place was packed. Ancients ringed the room, while two of their number faced off against each other at the center.

  The two combatants – it was pretty obvious that’s what they were – circled warily. Both were naked from the waist up, revealing healed scars and muscular torsos, and neither appeared to be armed, which was something at least. Arun recognized them both; they were NCOs.

  “Markowitz, Banner, what the hell is going on here?” he demanded from the doorway, his voice carrying over the hubbub, which quieted as the audience recognized who had found them.

  “Stay out of this, McEwan,” Banner growled, not even looking up, eyes remaining focused on his opponent. “It doesn’t concern you.”

  Markowitz tried to take advantage of the distraction, lunging forward to grapple with Banner, who met him with a punch to the kidneys while twisting out of reach. Not far, though. Banner moved in to catch the other man off balance and knock him to the floor. Markowitz rolled and came to his feet before Banner could pin him down.

  The renewed fighting broke the spell. Those around Arun shifted their focus back to the center of the room, closing in to partially block his view, and the cheers of encouragement started up again.

  “Get ’im, Banner!”

  “Come on Marky, smash the bastard!”

  As quickly as that the dynamic shifted and Arun felt his authority slip away.

  Somebody had to be monitoring this. Who was on duty in CIC? Not Indiya, she would be waiting for him at the meeting, and he couldn’t recall who else was on watch right now, but someone had to have noticed this.

  The shouts increased in volume, drawing his attention back to the fight as the pair grappled again, exchanging a series of blows that left Markowitz with a cut cheek and blood streaming from his nose, while Banner’s left eye had puffed up alarmingly.

  Amazingly, the two of them looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Arun began to realize the truth of Hortez’s earlier observations. Something primordial lurked in the two men’s eyes – Arun had never seen such ferocity, such a savage lust for violence. Nor was it confined to the combatants. Everyone in the room seemed affected; the air was electric and those looking on were swept up by the excitement. The scene brought to mind something Gupta had once told them, back in training. The tale of the Czech Legion wasn’t the only story of old Earth their sergeant shared. He had also spoken of berserkers: warriors who were deliberately driven into a frenzy before battle. Made ferocious and fearless by blood-lust, their very name became an instrument of terror. Yes, the concept seemed to fit these Ancients all too well. He had to put a stop to this before things got out of hand.

  “Don’t…” warned the woman immediately beside him, perhaps seeing him
tense, anticipating his intentions.

  He didn’t know her name. That was the problem with bringing in so many new faces so quickly, damn it! He hadn’t grown up with these men and women, hadn’t bunked with them, hadn’t graduated with them. He couldn’t bark out a command and make it specific to an individual by appending a name. He could only say, “Soldier,” which was about as impersonal as things could be, given present company.

  Perhaps Nhlappo had a point. Maybe it had been a mistake to wake up so many together, but it was too late for such concerns now. He had to deal with the situation as it stood. Nor could he afford to rely on someone else noticing that so many of the berserkers weren’t where they were supposed to be. This was down to him.

  He stepped forward, intent on forcing a way through the crowd, but hands grabbed him and he was suddenly surrounded.

  “Let me through! That’s an ord…”

  Someone punched him in the stomach – hard enough to wind him.

  “I told you to shut the feck up!” the same woman said.

  Beside him he was aware of Hortez struggling, similarly held.

  The fighting hadn’t stopped this time, hadn’t even paused. Markowitz had gained the upper hand and seemed assured of victory. He had hold of Banner from behind, right arm around his throat, choking him, while his left pinned the other man’s arms. Struggle as he might, Banner was clearly weakening, his face purple with exertion and the effort to breathe, body twisting ineffectually. Then he wilted, the fight draining from him. Markowitz’s grin of triumph proved premature, however. Banner flung his head back, hitting Markowitz’s face with an audible crack. He dug his elbow into his opponent’s stomach and pulled himself free of the weakening grip. Once, twice, he punched the other man hard in the face, causing him to collapse, first to his knees then all the way down. Banner hadn’t finished. He kicked Markowitz firmly enough for the man’s body to fold around his foot, leaving a smear on the floor where blood bubbled from multiple wounds to his face. And then he kicked him again for good measure.

  Markowitz stopped moving.

  The onlookers went mad, leaping up and down, cheering and whooping, the tumult masking any groans that might have escaped from the loser.

  Still held firmly, Arun and Hortez were propelled forward into the center, where Banner was wiping the blood and perspiration from his body with a towel. He flung the stained cloth to an onlooker and accepted shirt and tunic from another, pulling them on. The dazed and blooded Markowitz was sitting up now, supported by a pair of his fellows.

  “Now, ‘sir’,” the victor said as he finished dressing, “you were saying?”

  Arun had to tread carefully here. There was still no sign of any help arriving and he was acutely aware of the excitable crowd around him, but at the same time he had to seize the initiative, reassert his authority.

  “Banner, I’ve no idea what personal issues have just been settled here, and frankly I don’t care.” He shook himself free of the restraining hands and raised his voice to address the crowd. “You soldiers, the fun’s over. Go back to your assigned duties and we’ll say no more about this.” He turned back to Banner. “I’m afraid I can’t completely ignore this, though, not as far as you and Markowitz are concerned. There will be consequences.”

  “Oh, indeed there will,” Banner agreed.

  Without warning he stepped toward Hortez and punched him in the stomach. Arun was too stunned to react, and before he could think how to, he felt hands grab him once more. Two, no three pairs, pinning his arms, holding him firmly.

  Hortez’s face looked frozen in shock. Slowly he glanced down towards the point where Banner’s hand still rested against his stomach. Only then did Arun see the knife in Banner’s fist.

  “No!”

  He screamed the word but to no effect.

  Everyone else had gone quiet, the earlier hubbub forgotten.

  Banner glanced across at Arun and smiled, as if this was a performance for his benefit. He then tightened his grip on the knife’s handle and pulled sideways, an extravagant gesture that saw the blade rip through flesh and clothing, to exit Hortez’s body in an arc of blood.

  Hortez didn’t scream, he simply groaned. His legs buckled but the leering Ancients holding him kept him upright, with the result that the red gash the knife had cut across his belly pulled wider, venting blood and intestines. For a moment, Hortez’s gaze found his, and Arun watched them lose focus, looking on as his friend died.

  The soldiers holding Hortez let go, allowing his body to crumple to the floor.

  “Right,” said Banner, crouching to clean his blade on the dead man’s clothes before sheathing it. “CIC now, I think. That’s where they run this boat from, isn’t it?”

  CIC? Good luck with that, Arun thought. What were they up to, though? Was there more to the fight he had just witnessed than a simple personal grievance?

  Arun found himself frogmarched along the corridor, his arms held by an Ancient on either side with more surrounding him. One he could take, maybe two – he was bigger, stronger – but not this many.

  No, not Ancients, he told himself, berserkers. The word ancient suggested frailty. Maybe that was why he’d underestimated them. He decided to bide his time, wait for the right opportunity. One thing he was set on: come what may, Banner was going to pay for what had just happened.

  “You’ve done pretty well, all things considered,” Banner said as they walked. “For a bunch of kids, I mean – and that’s all you are, trust me. Barely graduated and you think you can tell us what to do? Each and every one of us has seen more combat than all of you put together, ’cept maybe for Nhlappo, and we’re through with taking orders. From the White Knights, from you, from anybody! From now on, we make our own decisions. The only thing that needed deciding was who would be in charge: me or Markowitz, and, as you just witnessed, that’s now been settled.

  “You did us a favor, stopping by when you did,” Banner continued. “Saved us the trouble of coming along and hauling you out of that meeting you were bound for.”

  They had reached CIC. As anticipated, the place was locked down, in citadel mode just as regulations required. Even with Captain Indiya called away to the same meeting Arun had been bound for, those on duty would have sealed the room immediately they saw the berserkers approaching.

  “Tell them to open up,” Banner said.

  Arun had no qualms about doing so; he knew how they would respond. He activated the console set into the bulkhead outside CIC. “This is McEwan,” he said. “Give me access.”

  “Sorry, sir, no can do,” came his reply.

  Banner prodded him.

  “I order you to open this door!” he said again, attempting to sound forceful while secretly delighted.

  “With respect, sir, it’s not your place to order us to do anything.”

  Arun looked at Banner and shrugged. “They’re Navy, I’m a Marine. We’re just passengers on their ship.”

  “Try again; for your sake and that of your friends elsewhere on the ship.”

  Arun stared at him.

  “Listen, boy,” Banner said, “I’m not a patient man, so I don’t intend to mess around.” The berserker leader came closer, until his face almost pressed against Arun’s. His left eye had almost completely closed now, but that didn’t seem to bother him. “Have you any idea how freakish you look to us, you future humans? Lumbering great brutes, like muscle-bound Neanderthals.

  “You might have strength on your side,” he continued, “but that’s all you’ve got. We, on the other hand, have cunning, and numbers. Right now, each of your Neanderthal friends has four or five of my friends for company. You saw what happened to Hortez. A word from me and your people start dying, one by one. And they’ll keep on dying until you get us into CIC. You see, what you have to ask yourself is this: how important is retaining control of this ship compared to the lives of your friends? All your friends. My advice is: be resourceful.”

  Arun stared at the man, trying to determine i
f he was bluffing. Somehow, he didn’t think so.

  “Remember Hortez…” Banner repeated, smiling.

  Arun’s mouth felt suddenly dry.

  “Listen,” he said to those behind the door, meaning the words for the first time, “I know this is irregular, but you have to let me in. This is a ship-wide emergency. Lives depend on it. Open this door!”

  “Sorry, Major. You know SOP. The door stays sealed.”

  Banner was shaking his head and tutting. “Such a shame. Now, who shall we kill first? Let me see… Tremayne, I think. Yes, Marine Phaedra Tremayne.”

  Springer.

  “To hell with your standing operating procedure,” Arun shouted, desperation spurring him on. “People will die if you don’t grant us access now. Open the frakking door!”

  To his amazement, and relief, the door slid open.

  The Ancients pushed inside, carrying Arun with them. Within, the watch crew stood in a huddle, their hands raised. Facing them and covering them with a gun stood a single figure in Navy uniform: Pilot Officer Columbine, the former traitor that Indiya had vouched for, had trusted.

  Banner glowered at her. “You could have done that earlier.”

  “What, and miss you torturing that little prick?” She glanced at Arun. “We could hear every word, you know.”

  “Speaking of our former ‘commander’,” the woman said, the one who had stood beside him during the fight, “now that we control CIC, we don’t need him anymore, do we.”

  Those holding Arun tightened their grip as the woman stepped forward, a knife in her hand. Arun stiffened, anticipating the blade’s strike. At that moment all he could feel was despair. After all he had been through, it was going to end like this. Not at the hands of the Hardits or the White Knights, but one of his own people.

  “Wait, Dermont!” Banner commanded.

  The woman hesitated.

  “Let’s not be too hasty here. The lad’s got spunk, I’ll give him that. To defy the White Knights with just a handful of troops, claim one of their ships, raid a planet… That takes guts, and from what I hear even the Jotuns think he’s important.”