But having the weapons alone would be enough to condemn him, Amethyst thought, grimly. If he were caught with any weapon, let alone so many ...
She made sure that the bag was hidden and then lay down on the bed, trying to get some sleep. It wasn't easy; she kept thinking of Jacqueline ... and of the moment where she’d seen something else lurking under Richard’s handsome features. And then the door opened.
“Grab your clothes,” Richard ordered, shortly. “We have to move.”
Amethyst blinked. “They’re coming for us?”
“I don’t think so,” Richard said. “We have a job to do.”
“Oh,” Amethyst said. “What sort of job?”
Richard’s face flickered – for a long chilling moment – with rage. “There is someone we have to find,” he said, as he caught her hand and pulled her to her feet effortlessly. Perhaps he wouldn't have any trouble with the bag at all. “Now, get dressed or I will have to ... encourage you.”
Amethyst hesitated, then obeyed before he could carry out his threat. Richard seemed more intense than usual, almost nervous ... what could be bothering him? She pulled on the clothes she’d obtained – the drab unimaginative outfit of a bureaucratic drone – as he opened his bag and removed one of the strange bars and a small pen-shaped device.
“We won’t be coming back here,” he said, unpleasantly. “They’ll track the room down eventually – and then they’ll be in for a shock.”
“Good,” Amethyst said. What were those bars? Greatly daring, she asked. “What are those things?”
“Explosive,” Richard said, without looking up. He missed the shock that passed across her face. “We can’t do much to the Reardon Cement that binds this place together, but we can sure mess up any investigators when they try to enter the apartment. Should make them a little more careful in future.”
He looked her up and down, then nodded slowly. “Take your bag,” he ordered, shortly. “Then you can wait outside.”
Amethyst nodded and obeyed, fighting down the urge to shake helplessly. What would have happened if she’d eaten one of the bars? Would it have exploded in her stomach? Outside, there was almost no one in the corridor; the worker drones had gone to work and most of their children would be in school. She pushed herself against the wall, wondering just what the other unmarked metal doors hid. It wasn't as if they’d had a chance to get to know their neighbours.
“Done,” Richard announced, as he pulled the door firmly closed. “The next person who opens that door is going to get a nasty surprise.”
He strode off down the corridor, forcing her to run to keep up. “Where are we going?”
“First, to meet up with the others,” Richard said. “And then ... we’re going to the Undercity. We have someone to find.”
Amethyst caught his arm, forcing him to turn and face her. “Who?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions today,” Richard observed, unpleasantly. He’d warned her that the less she knew, the better. What she didn't know she couldn't betray. “Is there a reason for that?”
“I’m worried about my friend,” Amethyst said. It was easy to look pitiful in the garment, her hair tied up into a bun. She was ruefully aware that she looked at least thirty years old. “Will this help her ...?”
“It might,” Richard said. His face twisted into an odd sneer. “The person we’re looking for is Prince Roland.”
He grinned at her expression, then turned and started to walk again. Amethyst stared after him in disbelief. Prince Roland? What was he doing in the Undercity?
“Come on,” Richard snapped, as he reached the stairwell. “We’re not the only ones looking for him.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
A further problem was that the bureaucrats (and many of the other workers) were locked into their positions. Failure to meet the Grand Senate’s wishes would result in personal disaster; they preferred to keep their jobs and pray that everything went well. Those who did realise that there was a problem were ordered to keep silent to avoid upsetting the situation further. The outcome was inevitable. Through selfish inaction – and moral cowardice – the bureaucrats condemned millions of people to death. They did not go quietly.
-Professor Leo Caesius, The End of Empire
“What the hell is this place?”
“Gang lair,” Belinda explained, quietly. They might have been on Earth, rather than Han or one of the other battlefields she’d seen, but the basic principles were universal. There would be a leader, who might be a subordinate of someone higher up, and a lieutenant who would serve as the principle enforcer. The others would jostle for their position, often stabbing their fellows in the back to gain an advantage. “Stay quiet.”
The gang lair wasn’t very elegant. Most of the gangsters seemed to sleep in a large room, their weapons by their sides. They eyed Belinda with some alarm; the gangster escorting them had explained to the guards that she’d knocked out his two friends and was clearly very dangerous. Belinda rolled her eyes, inwardly. The gangsters, knowing nothing of true discipline, would only knuckle under to a display of strength. Half of them seemed to be drugged up already, creating a potential nightmare. She pretended to be completely unconcerned as they led her deeper into the lair, all too aware that several gangsters were trying to block their line of retreat.
She refused to show any expression as they walked past a room where several naked girls lay, their eyes dull and hopeless. The gang’s women, protected from the Undercity, but forced to service the gangsters as they saw fit. It was always heartbreaking to see so much potential simply wasted, particularly on Earth; they could have been educated or even allowed to leave and head to a colony world. But they had no hope and never would. How was it just or right that being enslaved to the gang was perhaps the best thing that could happen to them?
But the universe is not just or right, nor is it fair, Doug’s voice whispered. Don’t you know that?
Belinda ignored it as they passed the girls. She wanted to do something to help them, but what? The Empire couldn't do anything to give them a better life; the Empire could barely take care of the citizens in the upper cities. Even if they tried, they wouldn't be able to reach more than a tiny percentage of the vulnerable population. The rest would just be given false hope. On other worlds, the Marines had managed to help some of the victims, if only by arranging for them to have a second chance at life. Earth’s population was too far gone.
She smiled humourlessly as she was shown into the gang leader’s office. Unsurprisingly, it was finer than the rest of the lair; the gang leader had to show off his wealth and power, just to remind everyone that he was in charge. It also provoked envy from his subordinates, who would certainly plot to kill him and take his place. If they succeeded, a new gang leader would arise.
“You’re a very strange person,” the gang leader said. He was trying to sound sophisticated, but not quite succeeding. “And you were trespassing in my territory.”
Belinda studied him for a long moment. Like many of his fellows, the leader looked to be the product of inbreeding, with a thick neck, slovenly face and dark eyes. His visible skin was covered in tattoos, each one an exercise in raw intimidation; in the Undercity, tattoos were administered without the benefit of anaesthetic. Just having so many testified to his ability to resist pain.
Bastard, Belinda thought, coldly. He might have been the product of his environment, but he was still a bastard. Besides, if he wanted to show he could handle pain, he should go through the Slaughterhouse. Except he’d probably never even complete Boot Camp.
“We’re not interested in your territory, or you,” Belinda said. She sensed the hidden relief in the gang leader’s stance and smiled inwardly. “Might I have the pleasure of knowing who I am talking to?”
The gang leader stared at her for a long cold moment. “You may call me Bat,” he said. “And why are you here, if you are not interested in my territory?”
Belinda had given the matter some thought. She
had no idea how the Undercity was structured; if she lied about where they came from, Bat might know it. There was no way that he would know anything about Belinda, but it was quite possible that he would have heard of Prince Roland, maybe even seen a picture. For all she knew, the Grand Senate was putting out alerts right now. And there would certainly be a hefty reward for Roland being captured and returned, alive.
But what kind of explanation could she give that wouldn't make them a different sort of target?
“We’re looking for new contacts,” she said, finally. It was a lousy explanation, but everything else was worse. “Do I assume that you might be interested in talking with us?”
Bat gave her a surprised look. “And there I was thinking that you might have something to do with the crashed shuttle,” he said, dryly. “Silly me.”
Belinda cursed, inwardly. They’d been caught in a lie.
“Quite a few odd things have happened,” Bat added. His eyes were scanning Belinda’s face, as if they were trying to sort truth from fiction. “Did you know that an armed team of Guardsmen followed the shuttle down, eventually. They don’t normally bother. And then they were withdrawn.”
“Oh,” Belinda said, mildly.
“So tell me,” Bat said, with a hand signal to his goons. “Just who are you? Because I’m sure that there are others up among the toffs who would be happy to pay for you ...”
He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively. The bastard was right, Belinda knew; the Grand Senator would happily pay a large ransom to have Roland handed over to him. But he wouldn't want Belinda herself, even if he still thought that she was just an aide hired more for her looks than experience. And if he knew who she was ...
“I think that we could pay you more to hide us,” she said, carefully. They could fight their way out, but that would send shockwaves through the entire city. She dared not assume that the Grand Senator’s hunting party – and she was sure that one would be dispatched – would be unprepared for her tricks. “And there might be other advantages.”
“Indeed?” Bat asked. He leered at her, his gaze leaving her no doubt what sort of advantages he had in mind. “And those would be ...”
Belinda looked up at Bat’s enforcer. He was a giant of a man, easy large enough to pass for an artilleryman; he wore nothing apart from a loincloth, the better to show off his muscles. Belinda would have mistaken him for a heavy-world genie if she hadn't been sure he came from Earth. What sort of genie would want to live on humanity’s ruined homeworld?
“This,” she said.
She lunged out with augmented strength and punched the enforcer in the throat, before he could even see her coming. Her fist went right through his skin and broke his neck, sending him tumbling to the ground as soon as she withdrew her fist and wiped it on her shirt. The gangsters stared at her, unable to quite wrap their minds around what they’d seen. They’d grown up in an environment where women were – at best – third-class citizens. Most of them would not expect a woman to be able to fight, let alone kill a man with a single blow ...
She’d seen it before, on several of the more traditional worlds. But it never ceased to amuse her. What sort of idiot lowered his guard just because he saw a pair of breasts?
“Hide us, help us get on our way and you will be rewarded,” Belinda said, smoothly. The gang leader hadn't shown any reaction at all, at least not to his men. Belinda could see his pulse rate increasing as he thought rapidly. “The alternative is ... death.”
She hoped that Bat saw sense. Unless he was completely stupid – or ignorant – he had to guess that she’d been augmented, even if he didn't know about the boost. Trying to drag her down would be costly – and Belinda knew that she could tear through most of his men before they could pile on her. Hell, given the nature of her augmentation, she might well survive fighting the whole gang. He had to be worried ... and yet she’d embarrassed him, perhaps humiliated him, in front of his men. His pride might not let him accept her offer.
“Very good,” Bat said, finally. “How much are you offering in exchange for our help?”
Belinda scowled, inwardly. She had access to some credit accounts run covertly by the Marine Corps, but she had no easy way of getting to them until they reached the Arena. Roland would have access to his own accounts, yet she would have been astonished if they hadn’t been blocked by now. Denying Roland access to money would be a simple way to control him.
“I can get you unmarked credit chips when we get to the Inner City,” she said, shortly. “Maybe around twenty thousand credits.”
Bat smiled. “Maybe so,” he said. “And we need someone to look at a puzzle. Solve it for us and you will have my aid.”
He stood up and led the way out of a different door, deeper into the complex. Belinda followed, aware that the other guards were keeping their distance. It wouldn't be long before the entire gang had heard that she’d killed their enforcer effortlessly – and they’d be too scared of her to cross her. Or so she hoped. She wouldn't put it past Bat to try to play both ends against the middle.
Roland looked pale, but stable, as they entered a long room. The smell was worse than in the lower levels, the stench of too many ill people in one room. She grimaced as she saw nineteen men and women lying on the floor, sweating and shivering; several of them had thrown up or lost control of their bowels. Roland stopped on the edge of the room and hung back. Belinda couldn't blame him, even as she adjusted her implants to filter out the smell. This would be a very poor time to show weakness.
Two girls were moving from person to person, working desperately to try to keep them alive. It was immediately obvious to Belinda that the girls either didn't know what they were doing or weren’t allowed to use what they knew. Even the Civil Guard wouldn't have kept its wounded in such a disgusting makeshift hospital.
“We don’t know what made them ill,” Bat said. “We suspect poisoning.”
“Or bad food,” Belinda said, coldly. The women were nude, their bodies clearly starved – and bruised badly. Given their condition, it would be months before they healed properly – if they were ever allowed to heal. It was much more likely that they’d simply be pushed out to die. “What were they eating?”
“Just ration bars,” one of the girls said. There was a pitiful look in her eye and she avoided looking directly at Bat. The scars on her legs told their own story. “And water, which we boiled.”
“Give them plenty of water to drink,” Belinda advised. “And clean this place up. Even if they don’t die of whatever it was they ate, they might catch something else from the filth.”
She looked over at the other girl. “Find me one of those ration bars,” she ordered. “And then some water.”
“I thought the bars were healthy,” Bat protested, crossly. “Are you saying that someone poisoned the ration bars and killed my bitches?”
Belinda had to fight down the urge to rip off his head. A single blow would kill him; she could take out the other guards and then ... cold logic and the dictates of survival asserted themselves. She might take out the entire gang, but they’d still have to find their way to the Arena. And even there, they might not find help. Absently, she triggered her implants and pinged for a processor node. Nothing responded.
“It's possible,” she said, tightly. One of the girls returned and thrust a ration bar into her hand. “Let’s have a look.”
The bar itself was unmarked, apart from a single line – STANDARD BAR: FOUR SERVINGS. Belinda shuddered, remembering her first experience with one of them, during a brief visit to a Civil Guard camp. The best that could be said of the bars had been that they only had to eat a little to keep themselves alive. She turned the bar over and over in her hand, looking for anything that might identify the source. But there was nothing.
She knew that something was wrong the moment she opened the bar. Normally, ration bars could last indefinitely, at least as long as they were left sealed. They were odourless, almost tasteless ... this one stank. She’d he
ard that the processing process ensured that the bars couldn't decay, but something had clearly gone wrong. And, judging from the dead bodies they’d seen earlier, the whole process might be lethal.
“The bars are decaying,” she said, out loud. “Anyone who ate some of the rotten food would get a stomach ache at the very least.”
“They came to us from the government,” Bat said. “Do you think they gave them to use deliberately?”
Belinda shrugged. She could easily see some of the Grand Senators shipping poisoned food into the Undercity, but they’d chosen a remarkably inefficient method. And, given that there was no visible difference between one set of bars and another, the bars might well make their way into the more important parts of the planet’s population. If poisoning had been intended, why not use something that took longer to take effect?
It isn't deliberate, she realised, in a flash of insight. The production system is breaking down.
“They put them out on the streets,” she realised, in horror. “They must have known that there was something wrong and they put them out anyway.”
She’d seen Logistics Officers standing by their rights and refusing to issue ammunition and supplies, even to hard-pressed military units, until all the paperwork was properly filed away. Why wouldn't the bureaucrats in charge of the production plants stop production when they couldn't be held responsible for the results? And, in fact, when they would be punished for doing the right thing?
The picture unfolded in her mind. Each plant produced millions of ration bars per day. The bars were all identical, without any clue on the wrapping about which plant they came from. If there was only one contaminated plant, the bars would still kill millions of people – and if there was more than one, that figure was going to rise sharply. And the ration bars were all that kept Earth fed. If people were dying now ...
The Empire's Corps: Book 03 - When The Bough Breaks Page 31