I froze, my face as impassive as a Dromoni protege, my mind turning to ice-rage. No wonder the Syndicate didn't advertise the hunting on Remba. Deathworlds didn't belong in civilized society. They didn't belong in any society.

  I'd know. I'd been to one. Two, now.

  This was the reason for the guard detail. To see if we'd balk.

  Crudmucking, void-loving Syndicates.

  I kept watching the pile of supplies, hoping that Talain had the presence of mind not to react, possible scenarios going through my mind. Talain would balk, and the grunts would shoot us. Someone would make a run for the supplies, and the Syndic sniper would shoot them. That would start a firefight in the bunker. I wouldn't let some civ get shot because I didn't do something.

  Voidmucking Syndics.

  Talain didn't say anything. The sandy grass plain stayed empty.

  Who did they hunt? Not volunteers, for certain. Sanctioned death games didn't use hunters’ blinds and long-range rifles. Gladiators fought close in, often hand-to-hand. They were crudmungers to throw away their lives, but volunteers. If they wanted to die, it was their problem.

  Not here. This was a pile of goods for someone who was starving, who didn't have basics like water.

  Who'd be lured in by candy.

  My ice started to crack, shattering like a badly engraved ward, my rage boiling like rocket fuel in a fusion chamber.

  I swept my binoculars away from the supplies, focusing on the horizon, breathing, thinking. Eight hundred meters to the supplies. Close enough that even the crudmucking Syndic could hit a man-sized target.

  My teeth hurt. I commanded my jaw muscles to loosen, forced myself to smack my lips. Impassive. Ice. It would save our lives.

  I'd need to keep Hao away from binoculars. Her self-control was crud. She'd boil, get us all killed. Talain seemed to be handling it. She hadn't moved, hadn't shown any reaction. Good trooper.

  I had a razor ward in my bag. If I could get it out.

  No. It would shred everyone in the bunker, including us. Crud. Voidmunging crud.

  Motion caught my eye in the binoculars. I focused on it, zoomed in. A horse?

  Nothing. A figment of my imagination. I was seeing things. Zoom out, see the broad picture.

  We'd have to fight. The Syndics would wait until we spotted someone trying to get the supplies. If we failed to shoot then, they'd kill us, that was the reason for the guard detail. I wasn't going to shoot an innocent, and if Talain would, I'd skin her alive.

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  No, she was one of Riina's Kylians. She wouldn't shoot, either.

  The Syndic sniper would. I had to kill him.

  Motion again. I focused on it, seeing nothing.

  Crudmunger. Stop using your eyes. Think.

  I was acting like a grunt, a gun, not a warder and mage. To the void with this whole deathworld crud. Think.

  My breath came short and rapid. Bad sign, it would give me away. Count it. Slow it. Nothing in the binoculars, faded green grass, tan sand, dun skies. Dells, gullies, short scraggly bushes without leaves. No motion. Breathe. Focus.

  Use what you're good at.

  I conjured a thread of force, incongruously warm in my mind, drawn from the planet as much as the void. Eight hundred meters to the bait, nine hundred, maybe nine-fifty to where I'd spotted the motion. Less than a kilometer. Five minutes running. I could send a thread a kilometer in my voidmunging sleep.

  The thread flowed out, cold sand, cold rock, cool grass. Shifting shapes and hard wind in my mind.

  My eyes unfocused, letting my mind see, searching, sensing.

  Hot life.

  One, two, five, eleven spots. Nothing in the binoculars. Hidden, camouflaged.

  Made sense. Anyone surviving on a deathworld would need to think like prey, like an outnumbered deep-infiltration squad. Disperse, hide, sneak. Being seen meant getting killed. Crudmunging Syndics.

  A twitch of motion, from where I'd felt the life. A small bump in the sand shifting.

  Someone sneaking closer to the goods. They didn't know we were here. Or hoped we weren't. Civilians, or desperate. They'd make a grab for the supplies.

  We'd have to kill all eight grunts, and fast. The sergeant had a long-distance com. To report our initiation, or death, and call the transport back. But he'd said we'd walk to the next blind if we didn't find anything here. Meaning that there was another bunker within walking distance. Hopefully an empty one, or we'd be facing another Syndicate party, perhaps one with a real, paying hunter who'd have a retinue.

  No, we'd need to kill them here, and fast, before they could call for help.

  The sniper beside me wasn't a threat. He was set up, hanging on the rough concrete of the embrasure, his bipod deployed. Leaning in, aiming at the bait, waiting for someone to show. No pistol on his hip. He couldn't twist his rifle fast enough to be a threat.

  The sergeant and the five close-in grunts. I pulled back my thread of force, shifted it around in the bunker. Seven Syndics behind us, two of them sitting on the hard concrete benches. Another leaning against the wall. Four alert. I couldn't make out which one was the sergeant. Not familiar enough with them.

  Hao, behind and to the left of me, between the Syndics and Geir. Good. Her magearmor wasn't as good as mine, merely a warded jacket, but I had done it myself. It would stop a machine gun for a short while. Geir's was a few plates sewn into his regular armor. Hao's would cover him.

  Talain, leaning on the embrasure, but lightly, not sprawling out the way the Syndic sniper was. Her heartbeat rapid, breath shallow. She knew, held still. No protection if the Syndic grunts fired, no armor, only a few warded plates covering her vitals. Crud.

  Crud, crud, crud.

  Another motion in the binoculars, a tiny shifting of sand and shadow. Zoom in, my fingers turning stiff and sluggish in the cold wind. Crudmucking wind, crudmucking Syndics. I whipped my thread around, snaking it into the sand, a headache building behind my brow.

  Heat. Life.

  They were heading for the supplies. They had to know we were here. Why else drop supplies?

  Except we were dealing with men, not beasts. People would figure to stay away from supplies if they always got shot. No, the Syndics would have to keep dropping supplies at regular intervals, keep feeding their prey. The bar of candy swam into focus, a garish red-and-blue berry dancing on the wrapper, big bulging eyes, a wide munger grin, hands above its round body-head.

  Motion, not thirty meters away from the pile. A small form, beneath some kind of camo-mat. The Syndic sniper shifted, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Crud.

  My heart went into overdrive, bashing against my chest, the taste of iron and bile in my throat. I could feel the seven grunts behind us, my thread of force touching their lives.

  A twist of an idea formed in my head.