Havoc by Ann Aguirre Page B

they saw one, and they were capable of convincing their comrades, with a clenched first if necessary.
    He was less sanguine about the recruits they’d acquired from Grigor. While they had desperately needed the numbers—and that was the only reason he hadn’t protested Dred’s clemency with them—he suspected they wouldn’t quietly yield the unchecked violence they’d enjoyed under Grigor’s rule.
They didn’t in Queensland, either.
So far, the fresh meat had offered complete obedience, and he hadn’t caught any of them with contraband weapons, but he didn’t have the time to police them exhaustively. Sooner or later, that situation would explode, but the mercs made it impossible to turn his gaze inward; instead, all of his skill had to go toward ensuring their survival.
    Or all of your plans will go to shit.
    They might anyway, of course. For the moment, they were on hiatus, as the balance of power had shifted, not just with Jael’s arrival. The decimation of two territories and the advent of the mercs made prior plots no longer viable. Frustrating, maddening, even, but in a place like this, it was impossible to calculate the odds with complete precision, as things had a way of shifting by the day. As his mother had been fond of telling him,
That which cannot be changed must be borne.
    His sullied schemes certainly fell into that category, so he went to assess the new training program; this was Jael’s innovation, initiated after a planning session with Dred.
“If you want them to fight as a unit, you need to teach them how. You can’t expect a bunch of convicts used to fighting for their own lives suddenly to care about the assholes next to them.”
    Though Martine had come in a few minutes before, he wasn’t actively spying on her. Since he couldn’t collect information on the other zones, he could analyze the internal dynamics, so as to offer Dred the best advice when it came time to plot their next move. Tam stood by the door, watching the men spar. Training occurred without weapons, and Calypso, Mistress of the Ring, was in charge. There hadn’t been any death matches lately—too much real fighting for the men to build up rancor over grievances real or imagined—and she had been chafing over her lapse in personal prestige. So it made sense to give her this responsibility. She officiated the games because she was fierce enough to defeat any man in single combat, so if the fighters cheated or objected to her authority, she ended them. Before the coup, Calypso had served Artan, one of the few women who never shared the man’s bed. Tam recalled her efficient brutality when she performed an execution.
    Martine stood near the other woman, talking quietly. She was the last person he could’ve imagined being attracted to. Other men fantasized about the Dread Queen, but he’d never shared Einar’s infatuation, possibly because he’d played such a large role in her creation; it would be too much like onanism, fine as an outlet, but it seemed like a waste of time with a partner. Those factors aside, Dred didn’t share Tam’s interests, rendering her useless as a potential bed partner. Mary, it was difficult enough getting her to play the part in public; she was unlikely to take up the whip for fun.
    Before Perdition, he’d preferred a sort of icy elegance that masked a predilection for dominance, and gender was less important than other aspects of sexual compatibility. Martine was bold and brassy, not in the least elegant, but she had . . . something, a puzzle he lacked the time and opportunity to explore. As a man whose inner life was primarily intellectual, he could go turns without being drawn to a potential partner, and he didn’t mind the long gaps. In short, his libido had picked an odd time to come to life.
    Using the perimeter, he moved closer, hoping to overhear what had Calypso looking so