CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There is no subtle way to deploy an IP vessel across half a planet. So we didn’t try.

Mandrake booked us a priority launch and landing parabola with the Cartel’s suborbital traffic arm, and we flew out to an anonymous landing field on the outskirts of Landfall just as the heat was leaching out of the afternoon. There was a shiny new Lockheed Mitoma IP assault ship dug into the concrete, looking like nothing so much as a smoked glass scorpion someone had ripped the fighting claws off. Ameli Vongsavath grunted in approval when she saw it.

“Omega series,” she said to me, mainly because I happened to be standing next to her when we climbed out of the cruiser. She was fixing her hair reflexively as she spoke, twisting the thick black strands up and clear of the flight symbiote sockets at her nape, pegging the loosely gathered bun in place with static clips. “You could fly that baby right down Incorporation Boulevard and not even scorch the trees. Put plasma torpedoes through the front door of the Senate House, stand on your tail and be in orbit before they blew.”

“For example,” I said dryly. “Of course, with those mission objectives, you’d be a Kempist, which means you’d be flying some beaten-up piece of shit like a Mowai Ten. Right, Schneider?”

Schneider grinned. “Yeah, doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“What doesn’t bear thinking about?” Yvette Cruickshank wanted to know. “Being a Kempist?”

“No, flying a Mowai,” Schneider told her, eyes flickering up and down the frame of her Maori combat sleeve. “Being a Kempist’s not so bad. Well, apart from all the pledge singing.”

Cruickshank blinked. “You were really a Kempist?”

“He’s joking,” I said, with a warning glance at Schneider. There was no political officer along this time, but Jiang Jianping at least seemed to have strong feelings about Kemp, and there was no telling how many other members of the team might share them. Stirring up potential animosities just to impress well-shaped women didn’t strike me as all that smart.

Then again, Schneider hadn’t had his hormones wrung out in virtual that morning, so maybe I was just being unduly balanced about the whole thing.

One of the Lock Mit’s loading hatches hinged up. A moment later Hand appeared in the entrance in neatly pressed combat chameleochrome, now smoky grey against the prevalent hue of the assault ship. The change from his usual corporate attire was so complete it jarred, for all that everyone else was similarly dressed.

“Welcome to the fucking cruise,” muttered Hansen.

We cleared for dust-off five minutes before Mandrake’s authorised launch envelope opened. Ameli Vongsavath put the flight plan to bed in the Lock Mit’s datacore, powered up the systems and then to all appearances went to sleep. Jacked in at nape and cheekbone, eyes shuttered down, she lay back in her borrowed Maori flesh like the cryocapped princess in some obscure Settlement Years fairytale. She’d scored perhaps the darkest, slimmest built of the sleeves, and the data cables stood out against her skin like pale worms.

Sidelined in the co-pilot’s seat, Schneider cast longing glances at the helm.

“You’ll get your chance,” I told him.

“Yeah, when?”

“When you’re a millionaire on Latimer.”

He shot me a resentful glance and put one booted foot up on the console in front of him.

“Ha fucking ha.”

Below her closed eyes, Ameli Vongsavath’s mouth quirked. It must have sounded like an elaborate way of saying not in a million years. None of the Dangrek crew knew about the deal with Mandrake. Hand had introduced us as consultants, and left it at that.

“You think it’ll go through the gate?” I asked Schneider, trying to extract him from his sulk.

He didn’t look up at me. “How the hell would I know?”

“Just w—”

“Gentlemen,” Ameli Vongsavath had still not opened her eyes. “Do you think I could have a little pre-swim quiet in here please?”

“Yeah, shut up Kovacs,” said Schneider maliciously. “Why don’t you get back with the passengers?”

Back in the main cabin, the seats on either side of Wardani were taken by Hand and Sun Liping, so I crossed to the opposing side and dropped into the space next to Luc Deprez. He gave me a curious glance and then went back to examining his new hands.

“Like it?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “It has a certain splendour. But I am not used to being so bulky, you know.”

“You’ll settle into it. Sleeping helps.”

The curious look again. “You know this for certain then. What kind of consultant are you exactly?”

“Ex-Envoy.”

“Really?” He shifted in the seat. “That’s a surprise. You will have to tell me about this.”

I caught echoes of his movement from other seats, where I’d been overheard. Instant notoriety. Just like being back in the Wedge.

“Long story. And not very interesting.”

“We are now one minute from launch,” Ameli Vongsavath’s voice came through the intercom, sardonic, “I’d like to take this opportunity to officially welcome you aboard the fast assault launch Nagini and to warn you that if you are not now secured to a seat, I cannot guarantee your physical integrity for the next fifteen minutes.”

There was a scrabble of activity along the two lines of seats. Grins broke out among those who had already webbed in.

“I think she exaggerates,” remarked Deprez, smoothing the webbing bond tabs unhurriedly into unity on the harness’s chest plate. “These vessels have good compensators.”

“Well, you never know. Might catch some orbital fire on the way through.”

“That’s right, Kovacs.” Hansen grinned across at me. “Look on the positive side.”

“Just thinking ahead.”

“Are you afraid?” asked Jiang suddenly.

“Regularly. You?”

“Fear is an inconvenience. You must learn to suppress it. That is what it is to be a committed soldier. To abandon fear.”

“No, Jiang,” said Sun Liping gravely. “That is what it is to be dead.”

The assault ship tilted suddenly, and weight smashed down on my guts and chest. Blood-drained limbs. Crushed-out breath.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Ole Hansen through his teeth.

It slacked off, presumably when we got orbital and some of the power Ameli Vongsavath had rammed into the lifters was allowed back into the onboard grav system. I rolled my head sideways to look at Deprez.

“Exaggerates, huh?”

He spotted blood from his bitten tongue onto his knuckle and looked at it critically. “I would call that exaggeration, yes.”

“Orbital status attained,” Vongsavath’s voice confirmed. “We have approximately six minutes of safe transit under the Landfall High Orbit Geosynch Umbrella. After that we’re exposed, and I’ll be throwing some evasive curves, so keep those tongues tucked up safe.”

Deprez nodded glumly and held up his blood-spotted knuckle. Laughter down the gangway.

“Hey, Hand,” said Yvette Cruickshank. “How come the Cartel doesn’t just put up five, six of those HOGs, wide-spaced, and finish this war?”

Further down the opposite row, Markus Sutjiadi smiled very slightly, but said nothing. His eyes flickered towards Ole Hansen.

“Hey, Cruickshank.” The demolitions expert could have been speaking on Sutjiadi’s cue. His tone was withering. “Can you even spell marauder? You got any idea what kind of target a HOG makes from shallow space?”

“Yeah.” Cruickshank came back stubborn. “But most of Kemp’s marauders are on the ground now, and with the geosynchs in place…”

“Try telling that to the inhabitants of Sauberville,” Wardani told her, and the comment dragged a comet tail of quiet across the discussion. Glances shuttled back and forth up the gangway like slug-thrower shells chambering.

“That attack was ground launched, Mistress Wardani,” said Jiang finally.

“Was it?”