Cardinal Crimson

by Will McDermott

  Grondle’s day had turned out far better than he could have hoped after his late-night meeting with Guilder Tavis the evening before. The chain gangs worked harder than the paid labourers ever did, and all they expected in return was an occasional drink of water and fewer beatings than they received on the street.

  The mound of rubble was now half the size, and Ander, his Orlock goon of a crew chief, had rousted up two more gangs for the swing shift. With any luck, the debris pile that had haunted this construction job would be gone by morning.

  ‘Need any more workers, boss?’ asked Ander. ‘Me and the boys could recruit plenty tonight. The great thing about street people is they all sleep in the same burned-out holes after hours.’

  Grondle shook his head. ‘No. I just need you to keep these new gangs working through the night,’ he said. He pulled at a few stray hairs that had been sticking straight out from his bushy beard all afternoon and thought for a moment. ‘Maybe tomorrow night, though,’ he continued. ‘We’ll need a lot more workers for the next stage.’

  The two of them worked out arrangements for transporting and housing the chain gangs that were going off shift as Ander’s men supervised the shift change. A muffled boom made Grondle catch his breath and the flesh on the back of his neck tingle. ‘Oh no,’ he said and his attention snapped to the construction zone.

  The wall of the dome above the rock slide had erupted outward and a cloud of white powder billowed out from the gaping hole. But Grondle knew that was just the beginning.

  ‘Run!’ he called. ‘Get off the pile!’

  Ander’s men reacted immediately. They dropped the chains and sprinted down the hill amidst a sustained low rumble that grew louder and louder as they ran. One lurched forward and sprawled face first into the rubble. His mates ran past him. He rolled down the hill until he found his feet and stumbled on, well behind the others.

  The chain gangs tried to follow but were hampered by the manacles around their ankles and the chains stringing them all together. They had to move in unison, which was impossible to do quickly.

  As the cloud above the mound expanded, large chunks of debris emerged from the dust, raining down on the top of the rock slide. Several larger pieces, some as big as the men rushing down the pile, flew out the side of the cloud and plummeted toward the lower areas where the chain gangs had been standing – were still standing.

  The incoming shift had to turn around before they could descend. They were still trying to reverse direction when the outgoing gangs ran into them, knocking several workers to the ground. The chains connecting them all went taut causing a cascading collapse of bodies.

  Chunks of masonry and jagged pieces of metal crashed into the mass of bodies. Screams pierced the low rumble, echoing horribly in Grondle’s ears. He stood rooted to the spot as the weight of the debris began an avalanche that swept down the pile of rubble, burying the chain gangs and threatening to overtake Ander’s men.

  The man who had stumbled screamed as rocks and chunks of metal began to fly past him. Soon the surge of the avalanche overtook the man and carried him, tumbling and rolling the rest of the way down the hill.

  As the rumble began to die off, Ander and Grondle ran to the base of the rock slide. An arm and a leg stuck out at odd angles part way up. The two men yanked at the rubble and, with the help of the rest of Ander’s men, soon had the half-buried worker free. Blood covered his face and chest and streaks of red ran down his arms and legs, but he was alive.

  ‘You’re usually more sure-footed, Rafe,’ said Ander with a smile and a little laugh.

  Both seemed a bit forced to Grondle, but the injured man returned the smile and tried to laugh as well, which turned into a hacking cough. After the spasm, Rafe looked at Grondle. ‘Something hit me in the back of the head,’ he said. ‘While I was rolling I saw this and grabbed it.’

  He opened his hand. In his palm sat the charred remains of a small metal box with wires protruding from two sides.

  ‘That’s a detonator,’ said Grondle.

  ‘Helmawr’s rump,’ muttered Ander. ‘Sabotage?’

  Grondle plucked the detonator from Rafe’s hand. ‘Looks like it,’ he said, muttering a curse of his own under his breath. ‘And all this time we thought we were cursed.’

  ‘What do we do about it?’

  Grondle glared at the enlarged mound of rubble that had swallowed all four chain gangs and ruined another day of work. His gaze rose to the new gaping hole in the side of the dome, which would have to be patched. ‘Get more workers,’ he said. ‘I need to talk with our employer about providing some protection.’

  The assassin slipped into Glory Hole through a tunnel few knew existed. He was in a basement surrounded by kegs and shelves filled with dusty bottles. A twisted knot of pipes criss-crossed the low ceiling above him, and beyond the stairs could be seen a maze of larger conduits in a crawlspace.

  He shut the access panel behind him and moved a couple of empty kegs back in front of the secret entrance. The assassin cocked his head, as if listening to some faint or far away sound and then crept over to the corner at the foot of the stairs. A large, vertical conduit pipe set into the wall rose up through the ceiling and down through the floor. He reached out and released a hidden catch on the pipe, opening yet another secret hatch.

  The assassin crept inside the conduit and pulled the hatch closed behind him. Pressing his legs and hands against the sides of the pipe, he scampered up the pipe, climbing as easily as a spider. At the top, the pipe turned ninety degrees and he was able to crawl on all fours to the other end. After emerging, the assassin looked across the street at the building he had just exited – a local bar called Hagen’s Hole, usually populated by bounty hunters.

  He smiled and loped noiselessly across the roof, away from Hagen’s. As he ran, he pulled out a piece of parchment and read it. The note said simply ‘North corner of Glory Hole settlement, orange two storey’.

  After reading the note, the assassin popped it in his mouth, chewed it up, and…

  Jobe Francks awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. There was a terrible taste in his mouth, and he spat a wad of parchment into his hand. He’d seen it all – the assassin, the trip into Glory Hole, the note with the Universal Saviours’ address on it – and he might have convinced himself that it had all been a dream, except for the doughy wad of wet parchment in his hand.

  Another assassin had been sent to hunt him down, was probably inside the settlement already and coming his way. Jobe had no time to lose. It was time to move on again.

  5: IN THE CROSSHAIRS

  Francks stepped onto the roof of the Universal Saviours’ building. His hand shook as he closed the door. The vision of the assassin had been intense. He’d never experienced anything like that before. Sure, he sometimes relived the past through his cloudy eyes, but this was like seeing through someone else’s eyes. He’d been inside the assassin looking out, had known who he was and what he was doing. For a time, Jobe Francks had been the assassin.

  After the vision, he’d dressed, stopped to warn Breland and started to leave.

  When he’d put his hand on the front door, a feeling of dread came over him. Death lay in wait outside that door. He’d backed away, his eyes wide in fear and confusion. It was happening too fast.

  He wasn’t ready for the next stage of the Universe’s plan. Not yet. Not here. People would get hurt. Die. Perhaps not him. The Universe wasn’t quite done with him yet. But Breland and his gang – the reading juves and the all-too-tolerant Universals – they would pay the price for his fear. They would die for him, for his cause – if he let them. He had to find another way.

  And so, Jobe Francks found himself on the roof, skulking towards a gap between the buildings. It was important to be seen but not caught. The timing would be tricky. He ran toward the edge, trying to time his strides for the final leap but old age and the thick boots he’d only worn for a day tripped him up. He had to stutter step at the end and lost much of his momentum
.

  He jumped. He had no choice at this point. He sailed over the alley in a shallow arc. The brick wall came up at him fast. He wasn’t going to make it. Jobe pumped his legs, trying to run through the air, but it didn’t help. He reached out with his hands as he fell. His fingertips caught on the rough ledge. His body bounced against the wall. His fingers slid, scraping against the edge of the bricks. He could feel blood trickle down the inside of his palm to his wrist.

  But he held on. Francks glanced down at the shadowy pavement below. He’d break a leg at least if he let go. His legs scrabbled against the wall, trying to find some purchase. His arms began to ache but his toes finally caught in the grout between bricks and, with the adrenaline now pumping through his veins, he climbed the wall and then dropped on the roof.

  Francks lay there breathing for only a moment before pushing himself back to his feet and running across the roof. He kept low, trying not to be seen from below. He found the roof access and dropped into the building. It was dark, but his eyes adjusted quickly and he found his way down to the door.

  Now he could exit from the wrong building, giving the Universals some protection, but he still needed to find a way to get out of the settlement alive. Francks tried to reach out with his mind to the assassin. He could sense him nearby, on a building across the street. He sent a silent command, as he had done with the Righteous gang, but the assassin’s mind was too focused, too well trained. He’d have to find another way.

  Francks opened the door and stepped out. He had to hope the assassin wouldn’t shoot the first old man he saw. Professionals don’t like to make mistakes, and he was coming out of the wrong building. He walked down the street toward the intersection. As he turned the corner, right before he would be out of sight of the assassin, Jobe opened his mouth.

  ‘For I am the light and the way and the path to glory,’ he called out, preaching loud enough for the assassin to hear. ‘Hear the word of the Undying Emperor and be redeemed.’

  Reaching out with his mind again, Jobe felt the assassin moving from his position. He’d heard. He would follow him, away from the Universals. Now he only had to worry about his own safety. So he ran. Down the street and around another corner he ran.

  It would take the assassin a few moments to get out of the building. He didn’t have to rush. One building. Two buildings. The third was bombed out. He dashed through a hole in the wall and kept running. He could feel the assassin getting closer, padding down the street, weapon in hand. Perhaps night vision goggles on. He had little time.

  Jobe tripped over a loose pipe on the floor. He sprawled on the ground in a clatter. The assassin turned the corner. Had he heard? Francks couldn’t tell. He rolled away from the debris and found his feet again. He ran out the back of the building and down the street. He knew where he had to go. Had a vague idea of how to get there. He just needed to keep one street ahead of the assassin.

  He felt the assassin exit the burned-out building just as he turned another corner. His breath began to catch in his throat. His old lungs and legs were no match for the young assassin. He needed just a little more time. He was almost there. He reached out with his mind once again.

  ‘Trip,’ he commanded.

  He heard a clatter and a muffled yelp from behind him. ‘Got you,’ he said, and ran on.

  A few minutes later, Jobe found the place he’d been looking for. He turned one last corner and sprinted for the door. It opened just as he got there and he barrelled through, almost knocking down the armoured man coming out.

  ‘Watch it, old man,’ snarled the bounty hunter as he pushed Francks away and then continued out the door.

  Francks fought down the adrenaline-inspired impulse to punch the much bigger man, and simply bowed his head and walked over to the bar. ‘You must be Hagen,’ he said to the bartender, a large man with a round stomach just barely covered by a stained, white shirt.

  ‘Yeah. What of it?’ asked Hagen.

  ‘Snake me,’ said Francks, slamming a credit down on the bar. He looked around Hagen’s Hole and smiled. The place was filled with ratskin guides, mercenaries and bounty hunters – lots of bounty hunters. The back wall was plastered with wanted posters showing mutants, scavvies, renegade gangers and assassins. He was safe, for now.

  As he drank the Wildsnake Hagen handed him, Jobe Francks reached out with his mind once more and found the assassin, sitting on the roof of the building across the street and wondered how long he’d wait out there.

  He finished his drink, swallowing the snake hole, and headed for the back room. While the regulars played cards and drank their foul brown drinks, Jobe Francks slipped through the door to the basement. As he moved the barrels away from the hidden door, Francks thanked the Emperor for the vision of the secret exit.

  Kal tipped the bottle up to his lips and took a long draught of liquid breakfast. He looked at Scabbs sitting across from him. His partner was poking at his eggs. He lifted up the edge of the dull yellow mass with his knife and peered underneath. Kal wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw something move beneath the eggs.

  ‘I keep telling you,’ said Kal, ‘The only thing in the Sump Hole that you can swallow is the booze, and that’s only because it’s so vile it kills anything that might crawl inside.’

  Scabbs pushed the plate away and took a swig of his own drink. ‘Then why do we spend all our time here?’ he asked.

  Kal finished his Wildsnake and spun the bottle on the table. ‘Because it’s the best hole in the Underhive.’

  Scabbs humphed. ‘We need to find a better place to live.’

  ‘What and miss all this excitement?’ Kal smiled.

  ‘You mean like being ambushed by Goliaths who are still out for our blood?’ said Yolanda as she dropped into a chair. ‘Or do you mean dodging Crimson and Nemo just so we can get back the money we already earned? That the excitement you’re looking for, Jerico?’

  Kal’s smile didn’t diminish at all. ‘Yeah. Something like that,’ he said. ‘Have a bad day, honey?’

  Yolanda glared at him. ‘You call me “honey” again,’ she sneered, ‘and you’ll have to stand up to smile.’

  Kal leaned forward and put a serious look on his face. ‘I’m sorry, Yolanda,’ he said as sincerely as he could. ‘Here, have the rest of my eggs.’ He pushed Scabbs’s plate toward his female partner. Scabbs opened his mouth to say something, but Kal shot him a look, and he sat back.

  Yolanda dug into the eggs that Scabbs wouldn’t eat and described how Gonth and several members of the Grak gang had attacked her in the tunnels. ‘I don’t think they’re going to let this go, Jerico,’ she said after a while.

  Just then something black with lots of legs did crawl out from beneath the eggs and Yolanda skewered it with her knife. She pushed the plate away, grabbed Scabbs’s bottle, and took a long drink. ‘We’ll have to kill every last one of those Goliaths before this ends.’

  Kal waved her off. ‘I can’t worry about that now,’ he said. ‘We’ve got professional competition for our bounty. Seems someone is hiring assassins to go after this wandering prophet. One of them ended up dead near the Fresh Air.’

  ‘Wandering is right,’ said Yolanda. ‘According to the ’Cats, this guy was seen on the docks with one set of Cawdor two days ago and then over in Glory Hole with a gang called the Universal Saviours yesterday.’

  ‘Why is this guy so popular?’ asked Scabbs. He scratched at his arm, sending a flurry of dried skin floating down to the table. ‘You don’t suppose he’s the real deal, do you Kal? I mean why else would Nemo want him so bad?’

  Yolanda spoke around the food in her mouth. ‘The Wildcats did say that he’d used some weird powers in that battle and to get past a dock guard.’

  Kal shook his head. ‘Nah. He’s just some wyrd. And Nemo’s only interested in one thing – information. This guy must have some secrets.’

  Neither Scabbs nor Yolanda looked convinced. Scabbs opened his mouth, but Kal shook his head again, trying to shut down this line of
questioning. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what this Jobe character is or isn’t,’ he said. ‘He’s a bounty, that’s all that matters. Let’s just bring him in and let our enemies worry about him.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Yolanda, reluctantly. ‘I want to get our money back. What do we do next?’

  ‘We could question the dock guards or that first gang, but I think those leads have gone cold,’ said Kal. ‘If that dead assassin was after our guy, that might explain him heading to Glory Hole. We should look for him there first. Maybe check Hagen’s to see if anyone there has heard any…’

  ‘Kal?’ asked Scabbs.

  But Kal wasn’t listening. His attention had been drawn to the door of the Sump Hole. The debt collector in his shiny, pressed suit had just walked in. He pushed on the bridge of his glasses with a single finger to resettle them on his nose, and began scanning the room.

  Kal slid off his chair and sidled up against the wall. He pressed a finger against his pursed lips and made a shushing noise. ‘That little rodent of a debt collector is back,’ he said. He opened the door to the bathroom and slipped inside. Through the crack, he said, ‘Distract him while I get out of here. We’ll meet at Hagen’s Hole.’ With that, he closed the door.

  Scabbs turned around and saw the officious little man at the bar. The bartender pointed back toward their table. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t the ideas man. That was Kal’s job. Or Yolanda’s in a pinch.

  He looked to Yolanda, but she was still trying to wash the taste of bug out of her mouth with his bottle of Wild Snake. Then Scabbs got an idea. He grabbed the plate of half-eaten eggs and pulled the knife out of the table, making sure the dead bug stayed skewered on the tip. He turned and headed for the bar.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he yelled, waving the knife around in his right hand. The bug flopped a little on the tip as he shook his hand. ‘Snake in my bottle, okay. But bug in my eggs? That’s just gross.’