Since we're in the field, there's no entertainment suite, just Vel's handheld, but it's top-of-the-line. With some tinkering, he tunes in, and the vid comes up. The Nicuan presenter rambles about some upcoming party, who's wearing what this season, and who was spotted on whose arm last night. Just as I'm about to click it off in disgust, Vel stops me. Different music plays, heralding a shift in the tone of the broadcast.

"Yesterday evening, the first cohort deployed massive ordnance against a hidden base filled with terrorists. They encountered little resistance, and the operation went off without a hitch, demonstrating the bravery and skill of our military. They have since released footage..." She discusses the location of the base and how things went before cutting to the canned feed.

It's grainy, low-quality, but I recognize the landscape. I've flown over that ground many times. The drone-cam hovers well out of the blast radius, waiting. I hear the missile before I see it, a rumble-whine that zings past, arrowing toward its target. Death should be more dramatic; there should be a rush of flames, but when it hits, the mountain trembles, then collapses inward. I can't see the force that killed so many of our brave soldiers, most of whom hardly had a taste of hard-won freedom.

"Is there a chance anybody survived?" Zeeka asks.

Farah answers, "Unlikely. I'm sorry."

The Special Forces guys huddle up, whispering. They're making plans for revenge, whatever Loras decides. This won't go unanswered. Sasha might kill himself teaching the Imperials a lesson, and March would never forgive me for that.

"Take a breath." I put a hand on Sasha's shoulder.

Over the turns, I've come to care about this kid. I don't want him to go out in a blaze of glory. His gift could kill him if he doesn't manage it, and I fight the impulse to lecture him. But then, he's not a child anymore. This life has seen to that.

"It's not right," he chokes out. "Those people, they never saw it coming. You should have a chance, you know? You should be able to fight."

And what the hell do I say to that? Because he's right. The shine to his eyes makes mine worse, and I open my arms, because I'm here, and he could use a hug. I figure he might tell me to frag off because he doesn't want to look soft in front of his buddies. Instead, he takes a couple of steps toward me and hugs me hard, digging his face into my shoulder. Sasha pats my back and makes comforting noises, like he's doing this for me. I don't dispute it because maybe he is. Maybe I do need him.

I can't see for Sasha's shoulder; he's taller than I am. But I hear other soldiers fighting back their own tears. This is so fragging hard because we don't know who to mark MIA. There are no records. No names on a list. I wish there were.

A few minutes later, Sasha asks, "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

When I step back, he's got his grief under control. So do I. March watches with his customary stoicism. He's lost men before, sometimes his whole company. Now I understand on a visceral level why he hates Nicuan nobles, and I admire him all the more because he put aside that loathing to do what was best for Sasha.

"What's the plan?" I ask.

We've been camped here, outside the city, waiting for word, but Loras plays his cards close to the vest. When he hears whatever he needs to, then we move. And then maybe he'll confide his strategy.

"Let's eat and get some sleep," Farah says.

"Excellent," Hammond mutters. "More paste."

Angrily, his squad-mates remind him he has nothing to bitch about, especially compared to those who were inside the base. That does shut him up, and he subsides into a low simmer while we all suck down packets of tasteless goo. But it'll keep us alive until something better comes along.

Who knows how long that will be?

Warmth in my head signals March's arrival. I glance at him sitting quietly beside me. You all right?

I nod. We have to retaliate, don't we?

Sooner or later. There's no way to win this without proving the resistance is willing to do whatever it takes.

That includes merciless slaughter. It's not a question.

It does. Nicuan has never been known for its compassion or restraint. Their vendettas are legendary.

I'll kill your family, friends, and anybody who ever had kaf with you?

Pretty much.

Dull pain throbs behind my ears. I hate this. We were just starting to get to a place where they had to take us seriously. Now the cities will be buzzing with how the centurions are kicking resistance ass.

March lifts a shoulder. It's all propaganda, love. This isn't a permanent victory. It's a setback.

A setback, he calls it. This is fragging catastrophic. Now we have no way to coordinate troop movements, no central intelligence. The best we can do is pass messages on the short-range bounce and hope they reach the intended parties. This is a crippling blow.

Do you even care that Constance is gone? I'm sorry as soon as I think it. I expect him to withdraw from the sharpness of it, but he doesn't.

I do. She was special. We wouldn't have survived the Morgut War without her.

Yeah. People would think it's weird to mourn an AI, wouldn't they?

He brushes a gentle hand across my hair. Who gives a shit what people think?

At that, I turn into his arms, and I don't move away until first light.

In the morning, there are hard decisions to be made. Farah and Loras argue in low tones until he summons the rest of us. I guess she was opposed to whatever he intends to do, but there's a new hardness in his eyes now, like he's stepped out onto this ledge with both feet, and he will do whatever it takes to win this war-to free his people-even if it means drowning this world in blood. Unlike the rest of us, his grief hasn't hit him as pain; in Loras, it has become undiluted rage. The force burns in his blue gaze like twin, white-hot flames.

"There's only one way we can prove they haven't broken us," he says. "We take out a high-profile target in immediate retaliation. Farah has convinced me not to use the MO, for now, but I'm afraid the day will come when it's unavoidable. For now, this is the new mission."

"What?" Zeeka asks.

"The governor of Jineba must die."

CHAPTER 49.

This op is risky, and Vel took all the chances.

He crafted a new face and slipped into Jineba to get within short-range wireless bounce so we could coordinate with Tarn for our escape, once the mission's done. It felt like I couldn't breathe, the whole time Vel was gone. Even with scramblers, there's no guarantee of privacy. I hope Tarn and Leviter have been boring enough not to draw suspicion.

They're our only hope of getting out of this alive.

Now March and I are on a rooftop, preparing to assassinate the governor.

I peer through the scope and check the calibrations. It looks fine to me, but this isn't my area of expertise. Then I step back, smiling my thanks for the glimpse at a skill set I don't possess. It's so odd to stare at someone who's so far away, but I can see the lines in his lips, the size of his pores, and the hair in his nose. There's no clear shot at this point, however. The governor is half standing behind one of his aides, chatting with some well-built brunette.

Of us all, March has the most experience with the silent kill. He's equally proficient at distance or close-up. This time, it must be the former. Silently, I back away; today, I'm guarding roof access. Nobody can slide in behind him, screwing up this day's work, because I'm here to kill them if they try.

At camp, we argued over who was best qualified, but in the end, Vel conceded he has more experience capturing men. He seemed a little worried about sending me off with March, as he and I haven't worked together as much as Vel and I. But then, March took him aside and asked him to keep an eye on Sasha. That gave me an odd, warm twinge, as if we're truly a family, a strange one, to be sure, but we're learning to function as a unit.

This mission has to be foolproof. In armor, with my helmet on, there's not enough of my face showing for anyone to recognize me. And besides, if they see me, I kill them. That's my mandate.

So I station myself beside the door while March studies his angle and compensates for other factors, such as wind speed. The irony is that this rifle came from the cache we stole earlier. Down below, the people scurry like insects. It's cold enough that I can see my breath, but I don't shift to warm up. The crowd's already assembling for the governor's speech. At precisely noon, he intends to tell them in ringing evangelical tones how the rebellion will soon be over, because of their decisive victory in destroying our hidden base.

Really, there should be centurions guarding every possible sniper's nest, and I spot a few of them on distant rooftops. I guess it's been so long since they left active service that they've forgotten how to spot the best vantage. Their rusty observational skills work in our favor, so I'm not complaining. I check my weapons. No pistol, just knife and shock-stick. If I kill somebody up here, it'll be quiet.

Music strikes up below us. The strains sound like a muffled ping of a child's music box at this altitude, but it means the program is about to commence. I face away from the edge, watching the door with full attention. March doesn't need my scrutiny to perform.

The floor rumbles, which means the lift is arriving. Damn. I dismissed the centurions as careless too soon. They're not total idiots; they're just running late. I fall into a fighting crouch, hoping there aren't too many. March can't miss his shot.

There are four of them when the door swings open. Surprise on my side, I take one quickly, a result of the live shock-stick. While he spasms, the others go for their comms. Shit, no, I can't have that. I lunge and knock the tech out of their hands and then stomp them for good measure. But the maneuver gives them time to regroup. Their hands edge toward their guns. I'm armored, but if the three of them concentrate fire, I'm done.

March's shot rings out. A single burst, clean and true, I hope. My hope bears fruit when the crowd below shrieks. Pandemonium breaks out, audible even up here.

I glance around for cover; there's a ventilation unit I can use. As they shoot, I dive. This is a problem because I don't have a gun. Laser shots slam into the metal, sparking and sizzling; the scent of hot steel scents the air. Fortunately, they can't get at March for the unit that's keeping me from certain death. The chaos below covers the noise as they loose a second volley. But I hear one of them moving as the other two lay down cover fire.

March slips up beside me, and I've never been gladder to see him. "How many?"

"Four total. One won't be getting up for a while."

"Shock-stick?"

I nod. "So three to deal with before we can use the maintenance stairs."

"Small arms?"

"Yeah, just pistols. We've got one incoming to our position, but I don't think he knows I've got company back here."

"You kept them from reporting in?"

"That was the one thing I did accomplish."

"Good work, Jax." As he says that, the centurion swings around the ventilation hub.

I swing the shock-stick as March slams the butt of the rifle into the man's helmet. The timing is spot on, as the headgear bounces up enough for me to make contact with bare skin. Immediately, neural shock sets in, and he convulses on the ground. His comrades don't slow their fire, however.

One of them calls out, "Report! Hostile terminated?"

March replies, "All clear."

If they're dumb enough to come check it out, they deserve to die. On the one hand, I understand why they haven't retreated to request backup. They saw what appeared to be one small La'hengrin female. They have no reason to think four armed centurions can't handle the situation, and I've smashed their comms, so they don't know we just shot the governor. For all they know, the furor down below is because of a parade.

Yet when the next one comes to "take me into custody," I choke off a laugh. March lashes out with a field knife. Clean, cut throat. He's good at that, it gives me chills, because I know how many people he's killed. And how much it hurt him. I hate that I've brought him to that place again, but please, Mary, let this be the last time.

After La'heng, grant us peace.

That leaves us one.

March and I charge him, through a barrage of fire. I take a couple of hits. One doesn't breach my armor; the other does. I've been shot so often at this point that the agony, followed by the cauterized numbness, is familiar to me. I stumble, but I don't fall. I lay into the final centurion with my shock-stick, as March does the same. He fights with such brutal power that he cracks the man's chest piece, and then he's mine. Seizures set in. Ruthlessly, we finish off the ones who are in spasm, leaving no witnesses. This is how it has to be.

Quickly, March packs his gear. Then we step over the corpses and make for the maintenance stairs. They'll lock the lift down once they pinpoint the trajectory of the shot that killed the governor.

Now we just have to get out of here-and that's the hard part.

A full-out sprint carries me down forty flights of stairs. Fortunately, I'm in top shape, and it doesn't leave me winded because we still have a lot of work to do. I check the exit, but the centurions haven't locked it down yet. Their response times are sluggish, even now, when they should be on high alert.

Four streets from the assassination site, Tarn picks us up in an aircar, as agreed. He's crucial to the next step. He doesn't make conversation until we're well away from the plaza. Seconds matter because, closer to the crime scene, they're impounding all the vehicles.

"Good to see you," Tarn says, when it becomes clear we made it.

I nod. "Even under these circumstances. Did you get the equipment we need?"

"It wasn't easy, but yes. Edun is waiting to bounce the feed as you requested."

"Thanks. We need to lie low for a day or two, until the search slacks off."

"Understood. And I've prepared suitable quarters for you. Don't worry, our flat is bigger than it looks."

Since I've never gotten the full tour, I can't argue that. I just nod, glad I can't feel how bad I'm wounded. Shock would've killed anyone else. I can't get the centurion's astonishment out of my head. I saw his utter horror at how inhuman I've become. Normal people fall down and don't get up when they're shot in the gut.

Fragging nanites.

Since Tarn and Leviter pay top dollar for their flat, they have a landing pad on the roof. It eliminates questions about what-or who-they're bringing into the building. On the way to their apartment, we pass nobody, and Tarn takes care of the security with a few taps on the panel outside; and then he escorts us in.

March says softly, "I'll tend your wound, Jax."

He knows he doesn't need to. The nanites will fix me. They'll fight infection. I don't demur because it's something tangible he can offer as an apology for my pain. Not that I need one. The tiny tech is why Loras chose me to guard March's back. I'm not the best fighter, but I am the most durable; I can take the most damage without dying.

Tarn finds a med kit, then greets Leviter with a kiss. The other man seems distracted, fiddling with a wide array of chips and wires hooked into his comm system, but he pauses to cup Tarn's cheek, before returning to his work.

"Can they trace the bounce back here?" I ask, while March coats the charred flesh on my stomach with antibacterial gel.

Leviter replies, "Minimal risk. It's worth it."

As I understand it, he's creating a necessary link for Loras to hijack the local news feeds, as he's done regularly for the recruitment profiles, always on a different channel, so they can't track him. This message will be different, however.

The vid screen flickers, and the presenter disappears. Loras fills the screen, his jaw set, eyes burning with ferocious rage. "Your governors are pretenders. They will die. Appoint another...I'll have him killed. And his sons. His wife. His friends. Kill one of us, Imperial Pigs, and ten shall take his place. The enemy is all around you. We are 1 billion strong. Heed me, your days are numbered."

Then the message ends in a black screen filled with the LLA logo. Damn. That's powerful stuff. Even I have chills.

CHAPTER 50.