Terminal White

by James Axler

  —From the journal of Citizen 619F.

  Chapter 13

  Kane stopped in his tracks, watching as the electric trolleybus glided past on the far side of the covered street.

  Brigid wore a peaked gray cap over her head, pushing her hair back behind her ears, but she was immediately recognizable, despite the uncharacteristic way she slumped against the window glass of the trolleybus. Kane could not see much more of her, only her head and neck, but he detected a hint of gray collar there and presumed she was wearing the same gray overalls that many of the women he had seen here were wearing. Gray or white seemed to be the only colors here.

  Behind Kane, the door to the residential block swung open and Grant appeared, lumbering after his teammate with a look of vexation on his dull-eyed face.

  Kane turned, pondering Grant and their altercation, a dozen thoughts rushing through his mind. He couldn’t get into something out here with Grant—that was just asking for trouble. Plus, who knew where Brigid was headed—without Cerberus to back him up with the satellite telemetry, he needed to keep track of her, tell her what had happened to Grant.

  There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when Kane thought that. He knew there was a chance that Brigid would be in the same irrational state as Grant now—especially if they had entered Ioville together.

  Decision made, Kane sprinted after the trolley, hurrying down the middle of the thoroughfare and outpacing Grant in a few seconds. Grant watched him go, his expression unreadable.

  The trolley took a turn down another narrow thoroughfare of white-walled residential blocks before pulling to a halt with a whine of its electric motor.

  Kane waited at the corner of one of the residential blocks. Like the one where he had found Grant, these, too, were painted a kind of washed-out, lifeless white, as were their doors and the lampposts that lined the street. The streetlamps were on, casting a low, yellowish glow that made the whole area look drab.

  Brigid Baptiste filed off the bus along with two other women, and all three made their way toward one of the residential blocks. Kane followed, glancing behind him to see if Grant was still on his trail. He could not see him, but there was a gathering crowd of gray-garbed people back there and Kane worried that maybe Grant was recruiting reinforcements, that word of Kane’s unlawful appearance in the ville was spreading. He needed to get off the street, out of the open.

  A little way along the street, the trolleybus was just pulling away as Brigid and her two companions disappeared into one of the residential blocks. Kane jogged along the walkway in pursuit, ducking into the block’s lobby a few seconds later.

  The lobby was almost identical to the one in Grant’s building—poorly illuminated gray walls, this time with six doors rather than eight. A door to Kane’s left was just closing, and he guessed that this was where Brigid and her companions had gone. Kane followed, glancing back just once to check no one was following him, before he pushed the door to the apartment open.

  This apartment was smaller than Grant’s, and it was crowded by the three women within. There was a single, understuffed couch propped against one wall and a walk-in wardrobe that was empty apart from a few hangers and a bag of toiletries on the floor. A closed door beside the wardrobe led to the bathroom, Kane guessed.

  As Kane stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him, Brigid and the other women looked up at him with dull comprehension. Kane hurried forward, ignoring the women and addressing Brigid.

  “Baptiste, you gotta come with me,” he urged. “I think Grant’s in trouble and—”

  “Step away from her.” One of the women broke into Kane’s speech. She was dark-skinned and in her early thirties, Kane guessed, with a halo of black hair framing her face beneath the gray cap she wore. Her overalls were the standard gray, unzipped just enough to reveal a white undershirt beneath. “Who are you? What’s your citizen number?”

  “I’m an old friend of Brigid’s,” Kane told the woman before dismissing her and turning his attention back to his Cerberus colleague.

  Brigid looked at Kane with something akin to confusion on her pale face, before recognition finally seemed to dawn. “Kane...?” she asked, drawling the word slowly and with what appeared to be some effort.

  “Yeah—it’s Kane,” Kane replied, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her. “You know me. What’s the game, Baptiste?”

  “Game?” Brigid repeated, sounding just as confused as when she had uttered Kane’s name.

  One of the other women in the room—a brunette in her early twenties with a wide jaw that made it seem she was about to break into a smile—tapped Kane on the upper arm. “This is a women-only block,” she said with grave earnestness. “You must not be in here.”

  Kane shot her a withering look. “Butt out. I’m talking with my friend here.”

  “Is this correct?” the brunette asked Brigid. “Do you know this man?”

  Brigid looked confused, her emerald eyes searching Kane’s face with barely a flicker of their usual luster. “It’s Kane,” she said at last. “Yes, I think I know him. I must.”

  “Okay, Baptiste,” Kane growled, “this just ceased to be funny.”

  But before he could continue, the apartment door swung open and four Magistrates came striding in. Kane turned and saw the familiar uniforms—the very uniform he used to wear back in Cobaltville—only instead of jet-black leathers they wore slush-gray, and the bright red insignia that Kane had worn over his left breast had been replaced by a white letter I over a circle—Io.

  “Step away from the woman and explain your purpose,” the lead Magistrate requested.

  Kane let go of Brigid, not following the directive but rather to keep his hands free. He didn’t much relish taking on four Mags, wasn’t sure if he could take them alone like this. Maybe with Grant, maybe with Brigid—but not alone.

  As he thought those words, Kane spotted other figures waiting behind the Mags—more of the gray-clad residents of this block, presumably, blocking the only exit. And among them stood Grant, dull eyed and standing limply as Kane was challenged by the local Magistrates. Kane could only guess that Grant had had a hand in bringing them—but if he was right it confirmed that something was seriously wrong here.

  Slowly—reluctantly—Kane raised his hands above his head and nodded in surrender. “I guess you boys don’t take kindly to seeing a rooster in the ol’ hen house, huh?” he said.

  * * *

  A MAN HAD to know when to fight and when to watch, Kane reasoned, and just then it had been the time to watch and conserve his energies for later. Something wacky was going on here, and Kane figured that in surrendering himself to the authorities he stood the best chance of discovering just what that something was.

  Two things worried him as he was disarmed by the Magistrates outside the residential block: first, that Brigid gave no reaction to his capture, and second, the evidence that Grant had possibly been at the root of it. Neither was in keeping with his allies’ methods, and had they intended him to be captured—perhaps as some bluff to get inside the system—the three of them knew one another well enough to have passed Kane some kind of signal no matter who was observing.

  Once he had been disarmed, Kane was escorted to an access tunnel hidden by an unobtrusive door between residential blocks, accompanied by the four-man foot patrol.

  “So,” Kane began as they walked through the unmarked door, “where are we headed?”

  None of the Mags replied—which was protocol for dealing with a prisoner.

  * * *

  UNDER ARMED GUARD, Kane was taken to a service elevator and from there he ascended to Cappa Level, where the Magistrates were based. When the elevator doors parted, Kane had that strange sense of déjà vu once again. It was a Magistrate area just like the one he had worked from, but there was something subtly different about
it—the walls were painted in that same dirty white that covered the residential buildings and the access walkway he had first emerged on when he had exited the garage.

  The Mags, too, were subtly different, working at desks or drinking water from a cooler, dressed in a dull gray interpretation of the Magistrate uniform. It felt to Kane as if all the color had been drained from this ville.

  He held his hands loosely at his sides as he took everything in, eyes darting left and right and making a note of possible exits, number of personnel on shift, location of unguarded weapons and the armory. He did not want to start a fight here, as there were too many Mags on shift and Kane abhorred hurting Magistrates, despite the action sometimes proving necessary. But in case it came to it, he mapped out an efficient route to get him armed and out of here with as little interference as possible. It would be risky.

  Kane was taken to a medical room where a sample of his blood and skin was taken by a white-haired woman while the Magistrates waited, the whole performance conducted in absolute silence with Kane standing the whole time. A small adhesive bandage was placed over the wound after she had taken the samples, and Kane was made to wait while his tissue and blood was run through a spectroanalysis.

  “You want me to pee in a cup, too?” Kane asked cheerfully.

  The woman ignored him, never saying a word.

  After a little wait, the analysis data appeared on the woman’s computer terminal and she read through it and printed out a copy, which she filed efficiently in a cabinet behind her. Once that was done, she nodded to the Magistrates who had remained to guard Kane and said a single word: “Proceed.”

  Kane was made to turn and was then escorted from the room. He was marched along a white-walled corridor to the supervisor’s office, a room he associated with his old boss Salvo, even after all these years. The room had a lone occupant who was standing with his back to Kane, gazing out the window at the impressive view of the snow-capped towers of the ville. The man was tall and clad in a tight gray uniform like the other Magistrates, though its tightness suggested a little paunch around his middle. His hair was long and gray, tied back in a thin ponytail that stretched halfway down his spine.

  As Kane entered the man let out a loud breath. “Sit,” he instructed.

  The accompanying Magistrates—just two now, but both of them armed—guided Kane into one of three empty chairs that waited on the near side of the desk. Kane tried to make himself comfortable as he waited for the man to acknowledge him.

  “Magistrates, you may leave,” the supervisor said, his back still facing the room.

  The Magistrates stood up straighter and clicked their heels before marching out of the supervisor’s office in silence.

  Alone now with the super, Kane waited, eyeing the items on the man’s desk, weighing their merits as makeshift weapons in his mind. There were paperweights and a letter opener that might conceivably double as a knife, as well as the usual selection of computer, filing cabinets, in-and out-trays, and piled reports that appeared not to have been opened.

  “Kane,” the man at the window said, finally breaking the silence as he turned to face him. The man had a craggy old face with blue eyes the color of the ocean off the West Coast, and a thin scar running just above his left temple that showed white on his already pale skin. “Cobaltville Magistrate, retired in disgrace, expelled from the ville in 220—”

  “Yeah, I know this story already,” Kane interrupted sourly. “Care to tell me who you are?”

  The gray-haired man nodded as if to accept Kane’s point. “DNA analysis provides a good insight into a man’s history,” he explained, removing a small electrical device that had been hooked over his left ear, unseen by Kane until now. “And you have a lot of history, ex-Mag Kane.”

  “It’s just Kane,” Kane told him. “I dropped the Mag thing pretty much the same time Cobalt dropped me.”

  The gray-haired man sat down behind the desk opposite Kane and steepled his fingers, smiling indulgently. “Yes, your file says you were a troublemaker with no time for authority. I can quite believe it.”

  Kane glared at him. “Is this going somewhere, ponytail, or are we just shooting the breeze? ’Cause I’ve got other places to be and other breezes to shoot.”

  “I’m sure you have,” the man agreed, inclining his head in a slight nod. “I am Supreme Magistrate Webb. I run this ville.”

  Kane stared at the man, hiding his disbelief. “Supreme Mag? I don’t recall hearing that rank before.”

  The man called Webb nodded demurely. “There have been very few of us,” he explained. “It is a rank conferred only where there is no baron present.”

  “So this place,” Kane asked, “Ioville—doesn’t have a baron?”

  “At this moment in time, no,” Webb confirmed.

  Kane knew of other villes that operated without a baron, but they had only done so once their baron had departed in the great changing that had heralded the reemergence of the Annunaki. Never had a ville been established without a baron to rule it, not to his knowledge anyway.

  “You seem surprised, Kane,” Webb said after a few moments of silence.

  “Me? No,” Kane replied. “Just trying to work out how a place this big gets set up without a baron pulling the strings.”

  Webb locked eyes with Kane as if trying to warn the ex-Mag not to press his luck. “‘Pulling the strings’ is a very weighted phrase, though not entirely unexpected seeing that it comes from a man who has a history with rebelling against authority.”

  Kane held the man’s gaze, the challenge clear in his own. This discussion was getting him nowhere—it was time to tip his hand and see how Supreme Magistrate Webb reacted. “So, this is all a part of Terminal White, is that right?”

  Webb said nothing, but Kane saw the recognition flash behind his eyes.

  “Three barons collaborating to build a ville, hidden out of the way in an artificial snowstorm,” Kane continued. “Who was it? Cobalt, Ragnar and Snakefish?” He counted the names off on his fingers. “Did I leave anyone out?”

  “You’ve done your research before coming here,” Webb responded. “I’m impressed. Who are you working for these days, Kane?”

  “No one in particular,” Kane lied easily. “A freelance agent can still get a lot of data if he pays the right information brokers.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Webb gloated. “It’s been a long time since I last had cause to step outside the security of these walls.”

  “So what is this? A prison or a ville?” Kane asked.

  “This?” Webb responded. “Why, this here is the future, Kane. The future of the whole human race.”

  Designated Task #014: Education

  All children in Ioville must be educated. My role in this education process is admittedly minor but it gives me access to the body of historical facts that are deemed appropriate for children. These facts are quite dense, and include full histories of the nine walled villes that are located to the south of Ioville.

  While my charges work quietly at their set exercises, I scan the facts with vigor, searching for information about the ventilation systems used by each ville. There is scant information, but what exists gives no indication that there has ever been a problem with ville ventilation, and certainly not one that would warrant the filtration and constant monitoring of air intake.

  The question is “why?” but questions are discouraged and frequently go unanswered in Ioville. To control air is to control breathing—could this be the reason that it is monitored so keenly?

  —From the journal of Citizen 619F.

  Chapter 14

  “It began as a collaboration between three barons,” Supreme Magistrate Webb explained from behind his desk. “Barons Ragnar, Cobalt and Snakefish. They were concerned with the potential for humankind to turn on itself, just as it had after the n
ukecaust when the whole world had seemingly gone feral in the era we now know as the Deathlands Age.

  “Mankind’s civilization, they reasoned, was fragile—it fell apart easily. Recent history had shown how one small change had been like removing the kingpin, causing the whole of civilized society to implode.”

  Kane nodded. The Historical Division in Cobaltville and elsewhere had been tasked with making the past more palatable and had hidden many of the excesses that had occurred in those dark days after the nuclear war. But, prior to her position at Cerberus, Brigid Baptiste had been an archivist in the Historical Division, and she had told Kane many horror stories of what had really happened then. Cannibalism had been rife, inhuman mutations running wild and the whole dog-eat-dog world had taken on a terrible new level as the survivors of the nukecaust had strived to go on living.

  “The barons set about searching for a way to iron out mankind’s propensity to kill itself,” Webb continued, “at first separately, later combining their research into one grand study once they learned of the others’ programs.

  “I cannot tell you how many years they researched this, only what the culmination of that research produced. And that was Terminal White, as you’ve already surmised. Terminal White was an experimental way to control mankind’s emotional extremes, such as fear, jealousy and anger, to make humans more...stable. It functioned through well-known psychological principles, utilising environmental factors to keep people in an acceptable emotional state.”

  “Drugging people?” Kane asked.

  “Not at all,” Webb told him. “Terminal White is far more convenient than that. It uses spatial structures to affect a subject’s emotional state, through the principles of curved air.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Kane admitted.