“Turn it off,” she called.
“Where?” On his knees, he peered at the thing, and the rest of the squad called out suggestions.
One man, however, sounded like he knew what he was doing, shouting above the others. “It’s on the base. Tip it forward—no, not like that. There you go. Now move it to static mode.”
The turret powered down, and cheers rang out from the surviving men. She shouted along with them because this was an incredible accomplishment, proving intellect and determination could win the day. In a place like this, that revelation felt an awful lot like hope.
“Nothing can stop us now!” a prisoner yelled.
“The Dread Queen’s coming for you!” That came from the small man who had disabled the turret; he stomped his feet in triumph, then punched the air.
Mary, sometimes they’re like children.
“Don’t celebrate too soon,” she cautioned. “If I know how Priest thinks, he’s got the bulk of his men waiting for us inside. There’s more room for an ambush, and these measures slowed us just enough to let him set it up.”
Collectively, their eyes dropped, and the men nodded. Ruining their good mood was a necessary evil. She needed them to focus a little longer. The ones who survived could dance and chant, taunt their fallen foes, and drink themselves into a stupor. But not just yet.
She went on, “I need someone who can scout.”
To her surprise, Tam slipped up from the back of the group. She hadn’t known he was in the vicinity though that was the spymaster’s specialty. Dred didn’t ask when he’d arrived, best to appear omniscient. That advice, too, came from Tameron. It went against Dred’s nature to take credit for his work, but Tam said he didn’t want the attention as it would make his work more difficult in the future.
Tam offered, “I’ll do it if you hold here for a few minutes.”
“Please,” she said, inviting him to check out the battlefield with a gesture.
Waiting was hard, but the death toll would be higher if they ran in without proper intel. Though she’d warned the men they wouldn’t all come back, it didn’t mean she was crazy as Priest or Silence—and without regard for those who lived in her territory. She didn’t like most of them, but she didn’t slaughter them for fun, either.
“What are our chances?” It was a good question.
And if she gave an honest answer, half of these men would run back to Queensland. So she paraphrased an ancient historical vid instead. “We will drive our enemies before us and hear the lamentations of their women.”
The surviving Queenslanders whooped, stomped the floor, and banged the walls. If they had been trying to sneak up on Priest, that would’ve put paid to the idea. But that wasn’t the strategy, so their noise didn’t affect the plan. If Silence was keeping her word, she’d be maneuvering her assassins into position while Priest worried about Dred’s people. Between their combined forces, he would be crushed like a bug.
Well. That’s the idea, anyway.
28
A Priest Walks into a Knife
We are so doomed.
The assault had gone off as Tam had foreseen, but so far, Priest’s people, who fought like madmen, woefully outnumbered them. Jael lashed out, slicing another throat. Of Silence’s crew there was no sign. Damn the bitch. Katur’s aliens were vicious despite their small number. The tentative alliance had held as they charged the main hall, only to be decimated by traps.
Since his crew was the first to hit the room, his people were decimated. Bodies hit the floor, severed at the torso, and the stench of blood overwhelmed him. Not just from the fight, either. This place was more of an abattoir than Entropy, where remains were preserved and stylized. Priest left bodies where they fell, evidence of his divinity and power. Some convicts lost their resolve when they saw what befell the men rushing ahead; Jael didn’t blame them for running though what he was supposed to tell Dred about this, he didn’t know.
I can’t kill them all. Sooner or later, somebody will get lucky and take my head.
Still, he battled with the same determined ferocity that had carried him out of the labs, so long ago. He was down to his last ten men when Einar arrived with an impressive boom; the big man took out a wall in doing so, and Jael had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. He wondered where the hell Dred was, too; she had taken the direct route, the most difficult one, too, reinforced with turrets and Mary only knew what else.
“Glad you could make it,” he shouted, as a fanatic slashed at him.
The blade whistled through the air as he dodged it, then Jael angled his palms and crushed the man’s throat. He dropped clean; another took his place. The room was pure chaos—so much screaming, cries of pain mingled with the sucking sounds of open wounds and the stink of urine and visceral terror. In the confusion, he couldn’t find the damned leader of Abaddon. Unlike Dred, he wasn’t in the forefront shouting orders. Probably the bastard was hiding, cowering even.
Einar called back, “Sorry, had to do a little remodeling first.”
“I saw.”
No more time for more talk; Jael’s position was overrun. If it had been a question of skill, he might’ve fought them off, but they charged and tackled as one, no dodging them all. He went down under five fanatics, one of whom seemed determined to cut out his heart and eat it. Yeah, I won’t survive that. Jael rolled despite their weight, so he took the blade between the ribs instead of in his chest. He jerked an elbow free and knocked into somebody’s face. Blood spurted from the broken nose, but pain only seemed to inspire them to greater violence.
What the hell.
He’d fought chem-junkies with more wisdom and a greater sense of self-preservation. Jael head-butted another and wrenched an arm out of its socket. The subsequent pop should’ve made a normal man scream. Priest’s follower was so far gone that he moaned, like he’d had his pleasure circuits rewired or something. Is that even possible? They get off on agony? His sporadic education had informed him about certain antiquated cults that practiced self-flagellation, but he’d thought that was for chastisement, not enjoyment. This religion was all kinds of fragged up.
The floor was slippery with blood, and he used it to slide partway out of the grappling hold one of them had on his leg. He took another stab wound to the leg, but he cursed through the pain and snatched one by the ear, then slammed the man’s head into the ground, hard enough to knock him out. He rolled and kicked, gouged with his fingers until they were slick and red; these men forced him to scrabble like an animal, and he loathed it. Even lifers shouldn’t be reduced to this.