time. They swiftly developed a system: In each room packed with laboratory equipment or thrumming vats, Gadren and Brand set explosives while Namir and Roach watched for reinforcements. When each room was rigged, they moved together to the next. Brand kept her mask in place, but no one bothered wearing the hazard gloves or rebreathers Quartermaster Hober had provided before planetfall; if the Distillery’s toxins were loosed, half measures wouldn’t do much good.
Midway through the second bunker, Namir and Roach entered a stockroom together. The neutralizer gas was too thick for visibility, but a cry of alarm made it obvious the room was occupied. Before Namir could locate the source, Roach turned and fired; five shots, one sending a vague silhouette crumbling to the floor and the others sparking against a containment tank. Namir pressed himself against a wall, listened for footsteps, and hurried to confirm Roach’s kill when he heard nothing more.
On the floor was a middle-aged human man dressed in a laborer’s uniform. The gas had already extinguished the fire wrought by Roach’s blaster, leaving two charred holes in his torso. He carried no weapon, no vial of toxins ready to be tossed at an intruder. He was an Imperial, however, and he was dead.
“We’re clear,” Namir called out. “Keep working.”
Namir didn’t stop Roach from approaching the body herself. She didn’t kneel to inspect her work. She bounced slightly on her knees a meter away, twisting her hands around her rifle as if she were trying to strangle it, staring at the man’s face. Namir gave her a few moments and then snapped, “Stay on watch. We’re not done yet.”
Roach didn’t move. Brand was watching her. Namir started to march toward her, but Brand was at her side faster, touching her shoulder to guide her away.
The squad was half a kilometer out when the compound blew with the sound of a thunderclap. Brand had sworn they were being followed, but Namir gave his team a moment to turn and watch dark smoke rise into the sky. Anyone in pursuit would pause, too. Then, together, they pressed on into the uplands. Only Gadren seemed uplifted by their triumph; the others kept their heads low and said nothing, as if they’d proven themselves fools caught in Governor Chalis’s trap.
There hadn’t
been
any trap. They might have just saved countless soldiers from bleeding out their ears or watching their skin drop off their bones, or whatever Imperial bioweapons were primed for. So why, Namir wondered, did they all feel like they’d been beaten?
The climb took them above the jungle canopy onto an escalating series of rocky plateaus covered in thinner vegetation. Their orders were to rendezvous in the evening with a drop ship that would return them to either the front lines or the
Thunderstrike
, depending on the campaign’s progress. Namir found himself hoping for the latter as he fought off a headache tumescing behind his eyes. Maybe the humidity was getting to him, he thought, or maybe the change in altitude had come too quickly.
Twice, Namir caught Roach lagging behind, bouncing on her knees to an inaudible beat, hands clenching her rifle. The first time, he lost his temper. “
You stay with your team
,” he yelled, after a lengthy series of obscenities. “I don’t care if you’re picking flowers or having a cry over some dead man—you keep up until your soles are bleeding, and then you crawl. Understood?”
Roach nodded jerkily and rejoined the line.
The second time she fell behind, Namir felt ire rise in his gut again, more powerful than before, but he didn’t have the strength to scream. Instead, he waved the group to a rest.
Let them catch us
, he thought, as he sipped from his canteen.
Can’t get any worse.
Then he looked at his companions.
Brand’s forehead glistened with sweat and she was breathing heavily. Her nostrils flared with every breath. She sat on the ground, legs outstretched, adjusting her boot on her
Midway through the second bunker, Namir and Roach entered a stockroom together. The neutralizer gas was too thick for visibility, but a cry of alarm made it obvious the room was occupied. Before Namir could locate the source, Roach turned and fired; five shots, one sending a vague silhouette crumbling to the floor and the others sparking against a containment tank. Namir pressed himself against a wall, listened for footsteps, and hurried to confirm Roach’s kill when he heard nothing more.
On the floor was a middle-aged human man dressed in a laborer’s uniform. The gas had already extinguished the fire wrought by Roach’s blaster, leaving two charred holes in his torso. He carried no weapon, no vial of toxins ready to be tossed at an intruder. He was an Imperial, however, and he was dead.
“We’re clear,” Namir called out. “Keep working.”
Namir didn’t stop Roach from approaching the body herself. She didn’t kneel to inspect her work. She bounced slightly on her knees a meter away, twisting her hands around her rifle as if she were trying to strangle it, staring at the man’s face. Namir gave her a few moments and then snapped, “Stay on watch. We’re not done yet.”
Roach didn’t move. Brand was watching her. Namir started to march toward her, but Brand was at her side faster, touching her shoulder to guide her away.
The squad was half a kilometer out when the compound blew with the sound of a thunderclap. Brand had sworn they were being followed, but Namir gave his team a moment to turn and watch dark smoke rise into the sky. Anyone in pursuit would pause, too. Then, together, they pressed on into the uplands. Only Gadren seemed uplifted by their triumph; the others kept their heads low and said nothing, as if they’d proven themselves fools caught in Governor Chalis’s trap.
There hadn’t
been
any trap. They might have just saved countless soldiers from bleeding out their ears or watching their skin drop off their bones, or whatever Imperial bioweapons were primed for. So why, Namir wondered, did they all feel like they’d been beaten?
The climb took them above the jungle canopy onto an escalating series of rocky plateaus covered in thinner vegetation. Their orders were to rendezvous in the evening with a drop ship that would return them to either the front lines or the
Thunderstrike
, depending on the campaign’s progress. Namir found himself hoping for the latter as he fought off a headache tumescing behind his eyes. Maybe the humidity was getting to him, he thought, or maybe the change in altitude had come too quickly.
Twice, Namir caught Roach lagging behind, bouncing on her knees to an inaudible beat, hands clenching her rifle. The first time, he lost his temper. “
You stay with your team
,” he yelled, after a lengthy series of obscenities. “I don’t care if you’re picking flowers or having a cry over some dead man—you keep up until your soles are bleeding, and then you crawl. Understood?”
Roach nodded jerkily and rejoined the line.
The second time she fell behind, Namir felt ire rise in his gut again, more powerful than before, but he didn’t have the strength to scream. Instead, he waved the group to a rest.
Let them catch us
, he thought, as he sipped from his canteen.
Can’t get any worse.
Then he looked at his companions.
Brand’s forehead glistened with sweat and she was breathing heavily. Her nostrils flared with every breath. She sat on the ground, legs outstretched, adjusting her boot on her
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