Blade Through the Heart

Graff and his crew face a particularly nasty challenge – an opponent so low-tech they might just have the advantage in this fight.

Novelette | 7,860 words

The three of us perch on a ridiculous tower on an impregnable fortress on an inhospitable planet at the start of an unexpected war. Bombardments pound back and forth on the front lines some ten kilometers away, with primitive gunpowder-launched projectiles, the shit people used to mix up by hand and shove into iron tubes with sticks. It sounds like endless thunder.

“Is this a joke?” Xun asked when we reached the tower after our insertion a few kilometers back on the mountain and got our first look at the local infantry: maybe fifty guys in homespuns carrying spears and swords. We have stun pistols and plasma weapons. We could take over the whole region without effort.

“It’s feudalism,” Brown answered.

Xun huffed. “Yeah, but why?”

“Because when you have a planet like this with shitty conditions and not many resources, people band together for protection, and then one guy takes over everything, and…” He waved his hand at our surroundings, a wordless conclusion.

Except usually, you get a few guys trying to take over everything, and they start fighting with each other, and the Trade Guild medical outreach mission that was here trying to vaccinate children and teach about clean water gets caught in the middle and taken hostage. The Visigoth crew has a pretty specialized skill set, getting into and out of situations like this, both in space and on the ground. What’s upsetting is how busy we are. Modern civilization is supposed to be past shit like this.

Because of the regressive tech here I thought we’d be able to cut a hole in a wall of this place—a castle, an actual damned castle—and walk right in. That’ll teach me. The bulk of the structure is set halfway into a stone cliff. Granite everywhere. It would take a plasma drill to breach the walls. It must have been built during the planet’s early colonization phase, before the society devolved into medieval pastiche. Me being this wrong shouldn’t be that much of a problem. We just have to find another way in, right? It’s not like anyone’s been killed. Yet.

“Xun. Is something off-gassing up ahead?” My helmet and visor make my voice sound too close. There’s got to be some kind of ventilation system around here. She’s taken point and is able to see around the tower’s curve. If there’s a vent, her IR filter will see it.

Xun’s answer comes back over helmet comms. She’s small, wiry, tough, and always sounds a little bit angry. “You can’t see for yourself?”

“You’ve got the same IR filter I do,” I snipe back. “And you’re in front, I can’t see anything.”

“I thought you might have some kind of, I don’t know.”

“Some kind of what?”

“Optical enhancement? Do you even need an IR filter?”

And here it is. We finally come to the threads of tension and annoyance that are making this mission feel like a chore. “No? If I had my own optical enhancement why would I ask you to look?”

“I don’t know, trying to make me work harder?” She seems skeptical.

Brown snorts a cut-off laugh on the channel. The burly combat tech is leaning on the edge of a crenellation, clinging to the stone with his prosthetic right arm. His helmet visor is mirrored over, but I can imagine the smirk on his face.

“Just tell me what you see,” I nag. I’m definitely nagging. “Is there a vent?”

After a pause, she answers. “Yeah. A chimney? Red-hot, a whole plume of smoke.”

Any opening should indicate a weakness, and therefore an opportunity to break in.

“That’s our spot,” I answer, inching forward.

We creep along, clinging to stone that is half natural, half carved into a spikey tower that should have repelled any invaders, but we’ve got micro-grip treads on our boots and gloves, along with whole collections of clamps and pitons keeping us in place. Makes progress slow, but we’re not going to fall. We find a flattened part of the roof where an old-style clay chimney sticks out of a hole drilled into the rock, along with a set of newer steel piping bracketed in place, feeding from various sections of the fortress. Xun gives an analysis of what’s coming out of them: carbon dioxide and various waste from combustion, mostly old-fashioned coal and wood fires. Bits of ash float up on puffs of heated air.

The covers of the chimneys and pipes are rudimentary, just screwed together and lashed with wire. Prying them open exposes a shaft, half stone and half brick, patched in places, piping bracketed together with repairs that have taken place over decades. No obvious way to climb up and down, and I wonder how many maintenance workers have died trying to get up here. My opinion of this planet is getting even worse. I feel like we’re using lasers to invade an anthill. I shouldn’t get overconfident. A blade through the heart probably won’t actually kill me, but it’ll hurt like hell.

Without an obvious ladder, we’re going to have to rappel down. I start pulling ropes and anchors from my belt—and Xun takes them out of my hands.

“I can get that.” She secures the anchors, which is usually my job.

“I suppose you’ll take point, too?” I grouse.

“Yeah. We’ve got it, you keep a lookout.”

So I guess I’m just supposed to sit here. Nothing to see but a bleak, barely habitable landscape stretching in all directions, broken only by lines of crumbling ridges and cliffs. And billowing towers of smoke from the battle, which seem to be coming closer at a noticeable rate.

Xun and Brown prepare the lines, handing off and double-checking clips. As I hook in, Brown triple-checks mine. Then his mirrored visor looks right at mine. Two mirrors reflecting each other.

“You sure you’re okay for this, sir?” Somehow, the sir sounds placating. Condescending.

“I’m fine.”

Xun starts down, and Brown nods. “You next, sir.”

Putting me in the middle like I’m some noob. It’s like they don’t need me at all.

They’re screwing with our usual process. I suspect they’re talking together about me on a private channel. Discussing how to manage me. Whether they can trust me. So I hack into their comms. That is one of my enhancements, that Xun doesn’t even know to ask about.

And…no private channel. Their comms are only operating one channel, the one we’re all on. Trust issues all around, yeah. I’m a jerk.

I start rappelling down. Brown takes the rear and secures the panel behind us. Our helmet lamps light the way. The descent gives me time to stew. I can’t tell if Xun and Brown are worried that I’m not fit enough for the mission. Or if they’ve stopped trusting me entirely. If that’s the case, I can’t blame them. This is our first major ground operation since the crew of the Visigoth learned my secret, and my colleagues are looking at me like I’m not entirely human. Because. Well. I’m not entirely human.

I’m trying to act like everything’s normal, but nothing’s been normal since the accident that blew my guts open and revealed a whole lot of artificial augmentations that are supposed to be illegal in Trade Guild space. They’re not illegal where I come from. Not that that matters, when I’m not what anyone thought I was and my crew doesn’t trust me anymore. Nobody questions the reliability of Brown’s prosthetic arm—it’s a legal augment. Also, he never lied about it.

The accident happened four weeks ago, when an explosion in my runner blew out most of my midsection. Without my rapid-heal augmentations, I wouldn’t have survived to lead this increasingly frustrating hostage rescue. I can’t fault them for questioning everything about me now. I’ve been wondering if staying with the crew is a mistake. If I’ve destroyed the unit cohesion that makes us—made us—successful. Maybe I should have quit the Visigoth when the truth came out and saved everyone the trouble. I knew this was going to cause problems. I knew it would change everything. I just didn’t want to give it all up. That’s me all over, a selfish s.o.b. at heart. If I ever manage to save the world, maybe no one will notice I’m actually a jerk.

Twenty minutes into a hostage rescue is not the time to be regretting recent life choices. I can do that after we get the targets to safety. Talk to Captain Ransom and let him decide if I’m making a mistake by staying. Meanwhile, the larger Trade Guild expeditionary force is on its way, to attempt to contain the fighting. We have a deadline.

The thing about archaic fortresses built in stone is they roughly follow a similar floorplan, even across the centuries and light-years. They’re built along similar tactical and logistical philosophies. They’ll have defensive measures, storage areas, living quarters, and probably large and extraneous ceremonial spaces. There will be wells or springs carrying fresh water. Somewhere near that, we’ll find kitchens. Probably at the other end of some of these chimney pipes.

And somewhere, there will be prison cells where people are kept under lock. Alternatively, high-value prisoners like our hostages might be in regular living quarters. Treated well, as they say. Either way, we expect to find guards between us and them.

If this were a normal site on a normal mission, I could tap straight into the comms and computer networks to locate all the personnel and prisoners, and have any unusual movements nailed down in a second. Xun would ask if that little talent is part of my modifications and I would have to say yes. But the fortress has zero electronic or computerized infrastructure. They probably communicate with homing pigeons or messages tied to arrows.

The bottom of the chimney shaft is about two hundred meters down. A couple of times, explosions hit close enough and big enough to rattle dust and debris on us. We duck our heads and wait it out. At the bottom, Xun steadies the lines while Brown and I unclip. They trade a nod, a couple of hand signals—Xun indicating she’ll take point along the corridor. I put my gloved hand on her arm. She actually flinches.

“I’m still in command,” I whisper. Nothing outside our helmets can hear the comms. I whisper anyway. Reflex. And I maybe want to avoid yelling at them for insubordination.

“Of course,” Brown says, before Xun can spout off. “We’re just…you were flat on your back a couple of weeks ago. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t.” And because I can’t help poking, “You know, if you don’t trust me anymore maybe you should have said so before we landed.” Let’s just get it all out in the open, yeah?

“It’s not that,” Xun says. I expected that line from Brown. I can imagine her expression—screwed up, jaw tight. “It’s…” She trails off. Worse than the flinch.

“We should get moving,” Brown says. “You want point, sir?”

Yeah, I kind of do. I set out, and don’t glance back to see if they’re taking up their usual positions behind me.

Corridors built of stone blocks intersect here, with arched doorways and vaulted ceilings. Oil-lamp sconces light the way at intersections, but their fuel is running low, flames on the wicks sputtering. Our suits have sound-reducing baffling and stealth components; as long as we keep to the shadows, no one will see us. Voices echo ahead, along with pounding footsteps, the noises of anxious preparations, shouted commands and replies. The locals aren’t speaking Prime. Our comms have a translator module loaded with the local dialects, but the words aren’t clear enough to get anything but static.

We follow the pipes, and as I hope, the larger part of the corridor leads to a kitchen. Young men in brown tunics are moving back and forth through the far entrance. I’m guessing that leads to barracks or other living areas. I travel through a different archway, deeper into the fortress. For a time, quiet falls. I’m mapping the passageways as we go, storing our route in my processor for instant recall, for when we need to head back this way.

The shouts start back up; we get to a section of the fortress where guards stand at every archway and intersection, like they’re expecting to be invaded. Preparing for a defense. All men, the soldiers wear leather cuirasses and a variety of scavenged helmets. They’re carrying swords and spears.

We’re still in stealth mode, managing to keep out of sight. If the guards see a flicker of movement, they’ll think it’s a rat. We’ve seen several rats. The tunnel comes to an end up ahead at an archway three times wider than any of the others, and instead of torchlight, some actual natural lighting pours across the stone, from a courtyard or clerestory windows or the like. The light is red, the sun filtered through soot and ash, apocalyptic. A shouting voice echoes against the stone. We’re able to press right up to the archway to take a look.

In the middle of a large hall, half of it open to sky, a guy in a very impressive outfit is screaming at a bunch of kids in cobbled-together armor, carrying edged weapons. I have to pause and unpack the scene.

The screamer, the general or king or whatever, is big and burly looking. If I saw him blustering in a bar I’d probably decide to go somewhere else to drink. He’s wearing a big shaggy fur coat, like it came off a musk ox or woolly mammoth, oily and rough. He wears a pointed crown of bronze, nubbly and spikey. His boots are big and loud, and his grizzled beard has probably never been combed. The translator still can’t pull apart what he’s saying, but it’s pretty clear he’s unhappy and dressing down his minions.

The kids, his personal guard one assumes, aren’t really kids. They just seem like it because they’re smallish, undernourished, and they’re shaking. The swords in their hands are wobbling. They’re probably seventeen to twenty or so, which was the same age I was when I left home, so I understand that they’re looking for glory and honor and whatever their king has told them they would find here. But they should be doing anything other than standing here pissing themselves over this blowhard, who is trying to psych them up for battle. They hold decent swords, shining and sharpened. But it’s laughable. We could hit them all with our stunners and they’d never know what happened.

We don’t want them to know we’ve been here, that’s the goal on this one.

I tap my helmet camera to make sure it’s recording. Not that it’ll change anything or do any good. It’s not like Trade Guild has enough jurisdiction here to hold anyone accountable. But I feel like there ought to be a record.

Xun notices, tilting her head. “I thought you had an implanted camera. Like your eyes record whatever you see.”

And that’s only part of why my people keep what we are secret. Outsiders never understand. “That’s not how it works.”

“You told the captain you record everything—”

“I record my experiences. It’s subjective, not for making records, and I can’t share it.” At least not with unaugmented people from outside. “Look, it’s complicated.”

“If you say so.”

I hate this. We used to be a team. This isn’t the first hostage extraction the three of us have been on. The one before this one was extra complicated. Delightfully complicated. A couple of Trade Guild officers caught by pirates and stashed in a life pod floating in orbit above a minor asteroid around a minor star, waiting to either get ransomed or spaced for their trouble. No airlock or suits to get them out of the life pod. So we arrived and strapped a modified engine to the outside of the pod and steered them out of danger. The three of us were EVA for almost the whole thing. We needed stealth, engineering, speed, comms, the whole package, and we did it all without talking. Just knowing that we could do the job. Trusting.

That was a month before the accident. Now, I think when they look at me they see something else and I don’t know how to fix it.

Quietly, we move around the corner to the next corridor. When we reach a set of narrow stairs leading down, I know we’re in the right place. The cell block is two levels down, and we find the hostages in a stone room bounded with floor-to-ceiling steel bars. Three guards stand on alert.

Xun and Brown trade hand signals. They seem to glance at me as a courtesy, confirming the plan. Sure, why not, I nod back. Our usual jobs, then. The two of them come up behind the guards and place stun pistols on the backs of their necks. The third one gets out half a gasp before Brown takes care of him, too. The three men sink to the floor with sighs. My people haul the slumped-over guards out of the way. Clean, quiet.

Meanwhile I jimmy the cell lock and swing the door wide.

Twelve people are here, most of them resting against the walls or curled on their sides, on dirty straw. We’d been told there were five hostages, so already this is off plan. Those who are awake shake those who aren’t, and soon they’re all sitting up. Their clothes are bloody and torn, their bodies filthy. They all have that ashy sunken look of exhaustion and hunger that shows through no matter their skin colors.

One gets to her feet and approaches. She has tangled red hair held up by what looks like a broken stylus, and she puts herself between me and the group. I recognize her from the briefing: Dr. Avery, head of the medical mission. Just who I’ve been looking for.

Xun starts forward, like she’s going to take point on this too. But over comms I tell her, “I’ve got this.” And what do you know, she backs off.

I pop open my faceplate and try to look nonthreatening, even while I’m keyed up and stressed out and wearing a combat-grade hard-shell environment suit. Avery’s fists are closed, and she’s got this jaw-clenched expression of desperation, like she thinks she’s going to have to fight me, however useless that would be.

“I’m Commander Graff of the TGS Visigoth. This is your rescue.”

She breathes out a sigh and drops to her knees.

We don’t have enough water and ration bars for everyone, but we distribute what we have, just to get people woken up and on their feet. This many hostages changes our escape plan. I don’t think we can bring everyone back to the tower roof for extraction by shuttle. The bombardments are getting closer, and the periodic explosions rattling dust from the ceiling aren’t helping anyone’s mood.

I dig into my very good memory to review the schematic of the tunnel systems, various ingress and egress points, whatever reconnaissance could tell us. We’d skipped ground-level exits before, assuming they’d be too well guarded. I send Brown to scout ahead to find the path of least resistance, with instructions on where the likely exits are.

I tap Xun’s shoulder. “See, that right there is one of my enhancements. Detailed instant memory access? That’s artificial. You didn’t even ask.”

She stares. “I just always thought you had a really good memory.”

“I do.” I’m a little offended.

“Yeah, but not like artificially good.”

If I’ve had it my whole life, is it even artificial?

Avery explains the extra people. They folded a group of Trade Guild diplomatic observers into the medical unit when fighting broke out. They were two hours from a planned extraction when the fortress people captured them.

“I’ve got four injured,” she says, when I ask for a briefing. “Three ambulatory, but one has a broken leg. Stable now, but—”

“Right. It’s fine, this is just the kind of thing we do.” More complications. Wouldn’t want the job to get too easy, right? Kind of thrilling, facing a challenge I know we’re prepared for. Everything would have to go just right for us to pull this off. So we have to make sure it does.

“But there’s just three of you!” She sounds skeptical.

I’m really tired of skepticism just now. “You’ll have to trust me. We’ve done this before.”

“I’m just…depressed that this kind of thing happens that often.”

Yeah. “We need to work out a marching order.”

She’s the kind of person who does better when she has a job, so I’ll have to make sure I keep giving her one. With her help, Xun and I identify the strongest members of her team. These, we assign to helping the injured. We show them how to carry the non-ambulatory one in a sling made of their arms. They’ll switch out every couple of hundred meters, so no pair gets too tired.

At one point, Xun pulls me aside. “How are you holding up?”

I almost snap that I’m fine, I’m stronger than she is, in better shape, no sign of injury except to my pride. I manage to hold back and even smile a little. “I’m good.”

“Hey,” Brown announces over comms before he trots around the corner and we accidentally shoot him. “Stables,” he says brightly. “They’ve got horses and milk cows and shit. Actual shit—they haul it out of an access tunnel. No guards.”

“Hell yeah,” I say. And away we go. I make Brown point, string out the hostages behind him with Xun as escort. Avery and I take rear. I start to argue with her about it—I want to keep everyone else together. But she’s doing the same thing I am, making sure everyone sticks together and watching for stragglers. I don’t want to spend the energy on an argument about it.

Brown says the exit tunnel is a couple hundred meters away. It’s going to be a hell of a trek, and once we get out we still have to get distance between us and the fortress. Twelve people, a third of them injured, make a lot of noise. It’s making me twitch.

We pause the group at each intersection. They’re huffing and malnourished. I worry that one of these stops, we won’t be able to get them started again. Twice, we encounter fortress residents, but they’re unarmed and clearly terrified. Their clothing is rudimentary, shirts and trousers, tunics and skirts, hair braided and tucked up under hats. The first group sees Xun in her shadowy, insect-like black armor, pistol in hand, and they just turn and run. The second group appears to be two women, and they cling together and press themselves to a rough-hewn cave wall. The chicken one of them had been holding drops to the ground, squawking, and flaps away in a flurry of feathers.

This is all so ridiculous.

Xun puts up a calming hand, and I shuffle the hostages along quickly. The women stay frozen, and I wish I could explain that we’re not going to hurt them, but the translator still hasn’t figured out the dialect here. I’m going to have unkind feedback for the briefing files we got on this place.

One of those people, support crew or staff or whatever they are, is going to report us. We don’t have much time.

The floor under us goes wobbly. A full ten seconds of shaking knocks a couple of the group down. Someone screams, quickly cutting off the noise. That was an explosion, and an aftershock reverberates through the walls.

“That was close,” Xun says over the comm.

The fortress is coming under direct bombardment now. Another time crunch. But I don’t think we can move any faster than we are. At last, the tunnel widens. I hear something odd up ahead, some kind of guttural wail echoing against stone.

“What the hell was that?” I comm to Brown.

“Cow, sir.”

Huh. Okay.

We enter a room that’s lined with stalls, and sure enough, a handful of stout, flat-nosed creatures with bulging udders are milling around an enclosure. Across the way a row of smaller enclosures holds horses, much prettier than the cows and much more high-strung. The rumbling of explosions has them riled up. Huffing and snorting, they’re all but bouncing in their confined spaces, their hooves clomping on stone. It’s interesting, but I don’t have time to linger. A big arched doorway leads to the wide-open outdoors. We’re almost out.

Then my suit pings a proximity alert. People, on foot. If I hold my breath, my augmented senses can hear bootsteps on stone. If it’s very quiet, and I focus, I can hear heartbeats.

It’s not that quiet right now.

If we were in civilized space, I would ping whatever tablets and comms they’re using to get exact locations and movements. Hide, let them pass, sneak up behind them, stun them all without fuss. It’s ironic, that with zero tech, these guys have an advantage and don’t even know it.

“Xun, Brown. Take everyone outside.” I glare at Avery and muster all my authority. “You go with the rest, make sure they get out.”

“But—”

“Sir,” Xun replies. I deeply admire her for being able to convey so many different meanings with that single word.

“Opposition’s on the way. I’m running interference. Don’t argue.” My authority is pretty damn fierce when I want it to be.

It turns out we’re all too late for an escape, because a squad of the locals comes pouring in from the tunnel, shouting threats and holding bows and arrows. A few more circle around to our would-be escape route. They’re kids, playing with swords. They don’t act like kids. Their grips on the weapons, their stances—shoulders loose, strides swinging—show that they know what they’re doing. But they’re thin, gangly, not done muscling up. They can’t be more than twenty.

The translator still isn’t working but the tone of the ones shouting is clearly a demand to surrender. Xun and Brown set up a protective shield, hostages between them, their weapons out.

We could stun them all. In one scenario, Xun, Brown, and I just shoot them. Take them all down, no blood shed. That’s how I want to do this, clean and quiet. A couple of those arrows will probably get loosed, and I can gamble they won’t do fatal damage. I’d prefer no one get hurt, us or them. None of this is these guys’ fault.

Then Dr. Avery pushes past Xun. “Please. You have to let us go. Holding us will only hurt you.”

She must think she’s helping, negotiating from a place of desperation. “Doctor, please let me handle this.”

This is when the translator module decides to finally start working and spits out a tinny-sounding version of what I said in the local dialect.

The local soldiers flinch, eyes going buggy and fearful as they mutter among themselves. Like I’ve cast a magic spell. I wonder what I look like to them: something otherworldly, speaking with an artificial hiss. Or maybe I just look like a bad guy.

I take off my helmet. Show them I’m human, like them. Well, maybe not quite like them, but close enough. This gets an even bigger reaction. The guys with the bows and arrows are twitching. The ones with swords look like they want to charge me.

But they’re all looking at me now, and that was the goal.

One of them steps forward. He’s got some metal plates on, hand beaten, put together with leather straps. He might be a year or two older. The commander? Or the only one who’s lived long enough to carry forward any experience?

He speaks, and the translator stutters. “You! Surrender! In the name of Lord King!”

“I’m not doing that,” I say slowly, to give the translator time to process. A moment later the module answers for me.

He seems surprised when the words burble out, when he can understand them. Pleased for a moment, eyes lighting with understanding. “Ah! You will. You invade us. We stop you.”

I trust Xun and Brown to make the same calculations I am. That we can shoot. We can end this quickly. Quickly, but messily. I don’t dare look over at them to try to signal. I have to trust that they understand.

“Come,” the soldier says, determined. “You come. With me. Offerings to Lord King.”

Everything I learned about this Lord King in the briefing suggests he doesn’t deserve offerings. But he’s all this kid knows. What else is he supposed to do? If I make any move with my weapon, make any gesture, he’ll charge, and all his soldiers with him. A regular melee.

“You. My prisoners. Or I kill,” he says, hefting his sword.

I get an idea. Xun and Brown aren’t going to like it. But it’ll keep this from turning into an all-out battle.

“No. I challenge you.” I thump my chest. If I’m reading this guy, this whole culture right, this’ll work. “Single combat. Sword to sword.”

The locals get restless. A couple of them toss out comments—they’re talking over each other, the translator can’t sort them out. But the guy in front of me answers firmly. “Quiet! My choice alone.”

Ah, there it is. Fire, determination. What’s more impressive than bringing prisoners to Lord King? Defeating the hated enemy in single combat.

“You and I can settle this,” I say. “If I win, they go free.”

“You lose, they are prisoners.” He points to the hostages, to Xun and Brown.

“All right,” I say. Because I can’t lose. Right?

Xun pops her visor to tell me off. “Graff. The hell. You don’t have to be a freaking hero.”

“Yes I do.” I throw her my stupid grin. “You know I can’t get hurt.”

“That’s a lie,” she snorts. And, well, she’s right.

The locals clear a space in the middle of the aisle. The livestock are still rustling nervously, and the explosions are still punching the air intermittently.

“I need to borrow a sword,” I say, holding out my hand.

The guy, this kid, this brave stupid kid, steps forward and hands me his own, hilt first. I take it, nodding. One of his men passes over another one for him to use.

“Sir, I could just stun him,” Xun says.

“Don’t,” I order. “I want him to know that we’re people of our word. That we can be trusted.” The translator repeats this. My opponent narrows his gaze, uncertain. He’s got pale, windblown skin. Everyone here has a kind of permanent sunburn. His hair is dark, braided back. He’s one of the few here with a beard, rough and curly. So few of the fighters here have beards.

He nods at me. “You. Without shell. Make it fair.”

Ah, he recognizes it’s not a fair fight. Well, all right then. I take off my armor, which is a bit of a production, unsnapping releases and connectors. The guy seems fascinated, watching an ordinary-seeming man emerge from beetle-like plates. I have to acknowledge the aesthetic choices that went into designing our field suits, making them streamlined and otherworldly, dark and shining. We hit that old idea of the uncanny valley, simultaneously familiar and alien. It’s designed to scare people. I’m left in a matte black undersuit, fitted but wrinkled around the joints. I look undeniably human.

This time, I glare at Xun before she can complain, and she doesn’t speak.

The guy approaches, hefting his sword in an easy grip, grinning like he finally understands the situation. Ell would kill me if he knew I was doing this. Well, not really. The Visigoth’s doctor hasn’t killed anything in his life as far as I know. But he’d be very upset with me if he knew I was putting myself in danger. On purpose, I mean. I’m hard to kill, but I’m not indestructible. I’m in love with Ell, and I’m the luckiest jerk in the galaxy that he’s in love with me. Somehow, that survived me spilling my artificial guts out on his operating table.

He’ll never forgive me if, when, I actually die.

But I’m not going to die, not right now, like this. I’m sure of it. “Right, kid. Show me what you can do.”

“I’m not a kid!” the translator spits angrily.

And that’s the part of my brain that deals with morality and ethics breaking. Breaking a little more, rather. What I’m feeling now, how bad I’m feeling, it all goes into my processor. That’s what gets recorded. What I couldn’t explain to Xun. The rest is dry facts.

“I really don’t want to do this.”

He laughs. “You a coward.”

I’m way past a taunt like that having an impact. “Irrelevant,” I say.

Snarling, he gets ready to charge. “For the honor of Lord King!”

I get my sword up to block his wildly telegraphed attack. And we’re off, him swinging crazily, maybe hoping to overpower me. His men are cheering him on, shouting approval at each blow they think is going to land. I block every single blow, scooting back until I reach a wall and can’t anymore. He’s not faster than me; he’s not stronger than me. I could stand here blocking all day, he’ll never get inside my guard. He’ll tire out before I will. I just have to wait him out.

The thing is, he’s good. He’s putting crazy force and speed into his attack, trying to shock and overpower me before I can organize a response, but the blows are controlled, aimed. He’s choosing his lines. He fights like he’s been training his whole life. That makes me just as sad as the rest of it.

I hold my ground. He’s giving me a good enough fight that I can’t really take time to talk. We should be able to talk this out. I just want to leave with my charges alive and safe. But to him, that would represent failure. Compromise is extraordinarily difficult when two sides are operating on entirely different value systems.

I would bargain with his life, but he doesn’t seem to value it.

He’s getting tired, his steps stumbling. The pauses before he raises the weapon again are getting fractionally longer. I keep up my guard. I take him seriously because I don’t want him to think I’m mocking him. I just want him to stop.

When he’s gasping for breath, when sweat mats his hair to his face and he pauses to swipe a sleeve over his eyes, I rush him. Exhaustion has gotten him. He loses his footing.

I beat his sword away and fall on top of him, knee into his stomach, hand on his neck, my own sword threatening. “I win. Now, I need you to not come after me. Got it?” The translator is full of static, like it’s just as worn out as we are.

He writhes, struggling to break out of my grip—and then wrenching pain hits me.

That was the knife from his belt going into my belly. A good hit, and he doesn’t just stab; he twists and drags, a movement that will open my gut and pull out my innards. If I had the standard gut and innards.

If I back off, he’ll follow up with something worse. So I can’t move, can’t let him go, and he’s not letting up. The knife goes deeper, and blood is pouring. He’s already soaked in it, and I’m feeling wet and squishy. The local soldiers cheer wildly. They’re waiting for me to fall over.

I’m out of time. I need to get my people out of here. I squeeze his neck to cut off his blood supply. He chokes, bucking a couple of times, still trying to throw me off. At last, he passes out.

The chamber falls silent. A whole crowd, waiting to figure out who lost. I’m not sure myself.

I fall back, dizzy, angry, ugly with the mess of it. The knife is angled under my ribs, right up to the hilt. The skin around it is flapping open. My self-repair system is screaming, working to stem the flow of blood and put the pieces back together. It can’t do much about the pain right now—there’s just so much of it. If I could sit here for an hour or two, I’ll be fine. But I can’t.

The soldiers are jostling, as if they can’t figure out whether to rush me or flee. Still waiting for me to die. They must be so confused.

Xun’s the one who finally rushes to me, swearing. The visor of her helmet’s still open. Her expression is pursed with anguish. “Doctor! Get over here!” Avery starts toward us, before I wave her off.

“No,” I mutter. Avery’s a doctor, and she’ll try to doctor all over me, dammit. “No, I’m fine. Got it?”

Our gazes meet. For just a moment, Xun’s confused. She’s going to reflexively argue like always. But then she nods, settling into determination. This is a secret. She knows it’s a secret, and she understands. Finally.

I yank out the knife, throw it away, and cover the wound with my forearm as best I can. Laugh a little, but the sound comes out whiney. “Just a scratch. Seriously.” I’m sitting in a damned pool of blood. It’s not just a scratch.

“Graff, you’re always pulling shit like this,” Xun mutters, maybe a little too forcefully.

The kid should be sitting up by now, as blood hits his brain again. But he isn’t. He’s very quiet. I hold my breath a moment.

His heart isn’t beating. “Him,” I tell Avery. “Look at him, he needs help.”

She checks his neck, listens for breathing, and shakes her head.

“Then do something!” I say. “Chest compressions, something—”

“We need to go, Graff,” Xun calls.

Shit. Shit shit shit. “Okay. Xun, Brown, get them out of here. Here, get my armor.” I hand pieces to Avery, who gathers them up.

The soldiers stay put. Stay silent. They just stand there and watch us go, because that was the deal. I hold back a moment and retrieve the kid’s sword. Put it on his chest, touch his cheek. As much of a salute as I can manage. I study him. I’ll remember him forever.

Now let’s see if I can walk without letting on how bad it is. I succeed, nominally.

“You’re going to need surgery,” Avery says tightly. She looks like she wants to help, sling my arm over her shoulder and support me as I limp out of here. Fortunately, she can’t, because she’s got my armor.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

The local soldiers part and let us go.

Xun and Brown are waiting about a hundred meters outside the stable entrance, with the former hostages under their watch. The bombardment is now striking the next ridge over. The tower where we’d started this whole party is gone. Maybe the kid would have died anyway. We’re saving a few hostages because they’re ours. But we’re leaving a whole planet to burn.

I’ll think about it later.

Xun steps up to my side and doesn’t have any qualms about pulling my arm over her shoulder to haul me away. “Extraction point is under attack. The expedition regulars are here mounting a defense. It’s a mess.”

“But we got out,” I sigh. “Mission successful.”

“Yeah, yeah, saved all our asses, very nice. Hey, Graff? You okay?”

I scrub my eyes with the back of my hand. “I couldn’t think of anything else. The kid…I didn’t mean to. I didn’t.”

“I know, sir.”

A MilDiv shuttle belonging to the expeditionary force that is now blockading the planet has parked on a patched-together landing pad at the opening of a gully, as defensible as they can make it. An energy shield shimmers over the site, and a couple of gun placements lob shock blasts in the direction of the battle. Along with a couple dozen armored MilDiv troops, a couple hundred local soldiers are milling, and another hundred are laid out, bloody and injured. I can’t tell what side they’re from. Maybe both.

As we hobble up, Brown takes point and waves for help, but Avery preempts him. She thinks she’s in charge.

“Medic! I have wounded!”

Suddenly Ell is right in front of me. Well, not suddenly, he marches out of a collection of stretchers and busted-open medical kits, all business, all professional. I can’t help but smile, I love it when he’s working hard and being competent.

Avery pokes at me. “He’s wounded.”

“I’m running triage here,” Ell says tiredly. He’s got blood on his coveralls and a surgical mask hanging around his neck.

“And he’s a yellow! He needs help!”

Ell meets my gaze. I just want to kiss him silly, and I’m probably wearing a goofy grin, and we don’t have time for any of that, so I just say. “I’m green.”

“You’re gutted!” Avery says, horrified. “He’s got a ten-centimeter abdominal laceration with intestinal damage! I don’t know how he’s even walking!”

All right, so maybe I didn’t hide the injury as well as I thought I had. I suspect Ell wants to ask what exactly happened, but he doesn’t have time. I say, very calmly through the pain, “Green.”

“Right.”

“Ell,” I burst. It’s about to all come out. “I killed him. This kid. I didn’t mean to.”

He peels off a sterile glove and cups my cheek, which is scratchy with stubble. I feel all his concern in the touch. “We’ll talk later,” he says. Triage, right. I’m a green. I can wait. “Xun, Brown, take him over there, get some food and water into him.”

He points at a lean-to out of the way of the rest of the chaos, where a dozen people with cuts and abrasions and maybe a broken bone or two—all the greens—are slumped on the ground and on cots, waiting patiently. Most of the activity is around a tent under a sterilization field. A surgery unit.

Avery stares at Ell like he’s insane. “But—”

“Avery, right? You’re a doctor?” he asks firmly. “I could really use your help in surgery. This way.” He turns back to the tent.

“I’m fine,” I tell Avery, then shrug a little as I amend, “I’ll be fine.” The wound is already half healed. I don’t want to have to explain. She might be crying a little, when she goes after Ell.

I’m about to repeat to Xun and Brown that I’m fine, that I can get my own water, but without a word they haul my arms over their shoulders and walk me over.

At this point, all I really want to do is sit down. So I do, pulling away from them and sinking to the ground, leaning against an equipment case. The pair of them sink right along with me. We all lose our helmets and help each other peel out of our armor. The headband holding back Xun’s dark hair is damp, and Brown’s beard is dripping, sweat stains darkening spots on his undersuit. My face itches; I think there’s some blood drying on it.

“Well, that was fun,” Brown says, deadpan. We’re too tired to laugh at the bad joke.

Someone hands us bottles of water, and that’s really all I need, to get some fluids so my repair system has something to work with. It’ll go faster now that I’m still.

“Are you really okay?” Xun asks, and I almost shoot back a sarcastic question, asking if she really cares.

I reveal my midsection, the cut in my shirt that’s soaked in blood, and the skin underneath, already sporting a pinkish, peeling welt of a scar. It’ll be gone by the end of the day.

“Well. There you go,” she says flatly.

“That’s never not going to be weird,” Brown says.

We’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. They’re not looking at me in horror. It’s something.

“Fighting that guy was stupid,” Xun says.

I shrug. “Yeah. But no one else got hurt.”

“Okay, sure.”

I sigh. “I should probably go explain to Avery that I’m not dead before she tries to revoke Ell’s certification for screwing up a triage assessment.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She’s a crusader. She might.”

A box of ration bars appears. I devour three, and my insides stop feeling like goo.

Things calm down. The last blast shook the ground thirty-six minutes ago. We’re the last of the wounded to arrive. Maybe it’s over. I’m expecting Xun and Brown to get up and leave, go check in with Captain Ransom or help with the mopping up. But they stay close, and I’m grateful.

“Hey,” I say suddenly. “Preliminary debrief. Are we okay? I mean operationally. Other than me getting in an unnecessary fight, did everything go okay?”

Brown tilts his head thoughtfully. Xun opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, and tries again. “Here’s the thing. I have to reassess everything about you. Your memory, your reflexes, your strength. Every time you had a hand over a wound and insisted you were fine, you were hiding, weren’t you? Lying.”

I guess I do get hurt kind of a lot. I know I can take damage. It affects the risk assessment calculations. “Yeah.”

She shakes her head. “I always thought you were just a reckless bastard with a whole lot of luck.”

“You’re not wrong there. It’s also a whole lot of engineering.”

“You take unnecessary risks, sir.” This sir is an accusation.

“Sometimes they’re necessary.”

“I’d be more angry but you’re always putting yourself between the explosions and everyone else.”

It’s Brown who asks, “How much damage can you take before it kills you?”

I don’t really think about that. If I did, I might hesitate. “If something happens to my brain, crushed skull, that kind of thing, I’m done.” This is operational information. They need to know this. To help with risk assessment.

“Your augmented bits?” he asks.

“My processor—the memory storage—is tucked in behind my sternum. It’s a black box, designed to survive almost anything. So it can get back home.” The memories, the experience, back home to the archives. That’s the whole point.

“Huh,” he says. I have no idea what he’s thinking. He hands me another bottle of water.

Xun studies me, likely trying to imagine what it all looks like. She saw part of it—she was one of the people who pulled me out of my runner when it blew. It’s too weird. She finds it appalling. She’ll never look at me the same.

Then she pats my knee. “Well. Keep your helmet on, sir.”

I smile. “Plan to.”

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