by Mark Ellis
Following the standard procedure after a foray into a hellzone, the team filed into a cubicle and removed their armour, handing the pieces to techs who stood by for that purpose. Then, naked, each man waited his turn to enter the Medisterile Unit.
Kane was the first to step inside the man-size, bullet-shaped chamber. Dozens of nozzles studded the tiled walls.
When the door sealed behind him, high-pressure jets of warm disinfectant sprayed from the nozzles. The streams of fluid covered him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Kane worked the decontamination spray into his body to help penetration into every pore. The monthly immunity boosters all legal barony residents received weren’t powerful enough to protect them from long exposure to hellzone levels of ambient radiation.
Outside, in another cubicle, the techs washed down his armour and ordnance with a similar decontaminate. He wasn’t worried about one of them rifling through the compartments of his belt and finding the compact disk. They were Pit dwellers, outrunners hoping for citizenship, and such a brazen act of disrespect would never occur to them.
The spray ceased, warm air whipped around him and dried him completely. When he stepped through the far door of the chamber, into the ready room, his decontaminated armour and weapons were neatly stacked in his locker.
Kane removed his duty uniform from where it hung and quickly slipped into the pearl grey, high-collared bodysuit. He was tugging on his black calf-high boots when Grant emerged from the Medisterile Unit.
“Just heard,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “We can go off duty.”
“What do you mean? When’s the debrief?”
Shrugging his broad shoulders, Grant opened his locker and took out his own bodysuit. “Don’t know, but it’s not scheduled for tonight.”
“Why not?”
“How do I know?” he asked peevishly. “I’m just glad to go home. I’m beat down to my arches.”
Kane frowned. A debrief was SOP, especially after a deep zone penetration. Even after completing a routine Pit sweep, a debrief was always required.
He opened his mouth to mention it, but Pollard and MacMurphy entered the ready room. Pollard was about Kane’s age, MacMurphy a little older. Of all the men on the team, Grant was the oldest, a year away from a mandatory administrative transfer. “How’s Carthew?” Kane asked.
“Blind in one eye and can’t see shit out of the other,” Pollard replied in his booming voice. A black-and-purple bruise showed on the side of his right knee.
“The medics have him in surgery already,” MacMurphy offered. “They can maybe save one of his eyes.”
Kane grimaced in sympathy, but it wasn’t as if the man had a family to support. Magistrates were allowed to marry and produce legitimate offspring only when they held an administrative post. For Carthew, even if he made a full recovery, such a transfer was at least two decades away.
Becoming an administrator in the division wasn’t a promotion exactly, nor was it completely based on age, though that was certainly a factor. The quality of service was the most important consideration—supposedly.
However, in the past fifteen years of his active duty, Kane had seen a number of men, admittedly only a few, with less experience and younger than he, assume administrative posts. He wasn’t annoyed by it, only vaguely curious.
While the other men were busy dressing themselves, Kane quickly removed the compact disk from his belt and slipped it inside the pocket of his black, ankle-length, Kevlar-weave overcoat. He shouldered into it, a little uncomfortable as always with its weight. The right sleeve was just a bit larger than the left to accommodate the Sin Eater and holster he strapped to his forearm. After attaching his red badge to the coat’s lapel, tugging the fingerless black glove over his right hand and slipping on the prerequisite night vision glasses, he was ready to go off duty, though he didn’t look like it. Even without the body armour and visored helmet, the Magistrate mystique, foreboding and not a little sinister, had to be maintained, especially during his downtime.
It wasn’t all for show. The optical lenses of the glasses allowed him to see clearly in deep shadow, and the overcoat could turn anything from a knife to a .38-caliber round. The glove allowed a secure grip on the butt of the Sin Eater.
A shrill whistle cut through the ready room. Salvo’s voice, filtered over the com, said, “Kane. Report to my office.”
“My, don’t he sound happy,” commented Pollard. “I expect he wants to discuss that comment you made back in the zone.”
“What comment?” Kane asked.
“You remember—when you made a passing reference to his canine lineage?”
Kane sighed. “Oh. That.”
Grant said, “No matter what he says, keep your fuse unsparked.”
That was Grant’s way of warning Kane to watch his temper. Kane appreciated the sentiment behind it, though he didn’t need the reminder. He walked past the rows of lockers, through a swing set of double doors and into the communal day room. People hustled around him, most of them wearing the grey bodysuits. They were arguing about duty rosters, scanning hard copies of daily reports, forcing down steaming cups of coffee sub. There were no women, not even filling support positions. He stayed only long enough to swallow a cup of straight sub. He desperately wished something stronger was available.
Out in the corridor, he strode quickly toward the office suites. Taking disciplinary action against a baronial enforcer was a rare occurrence, since a man had to be supremely disciplined to be awarded a duty badge. Generally, the worst penalty for an infraction was to be assigned a guard station at the bottom level of an Enclave tower, in the Pits.
The most severe punishment, outside of termination, was to be stripped of citizenship, barred from all the baronies, reclassified as an outrunner. It had never happened in Kane’s lifetime, and even before he was born, barely a handful of citizens were reclassified. It only required a few examples to make everyone else tread the ace on the line.
Salvo’s office was shaped like a small oval with one end chopped off. He sat behind a desk, likewise an oval. At his back was a broad window framing the moonlit towers of the Enclaves. He thumbed through a sheaf of papers and didn’t bother to look up when Kane entered.
“You may sit, Kane.”
He gestured to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Take off the shades.”
Kane restrained a sneer. Salvo wanted to assess his every eye-flick. Doing as he was told, he sat down in the hard, wooden chair, crossing one leg over the other, resting his left ankle on his right knee.
Salvo continued to consult the papers. “Yes. Your behaviour tonight is compatible with your bloodline.”
Something like anger and shame rushed heat prickles to the back of his neck. “What do you mean? Sir.”
“Your father and grandfather occasionally pushed the envelope of discipline. Your grandfather in particular, but then he was a first-generation Magistrate, and all the parameters of duty had yet to be established.”
A haunting of second-hand, misted memories of his grandfather drifted through Kane’s mind. “He was highly decorated. His service record is still held up as an inspiration to recruits. Sir.”
Salvo stopped leafing through the stack of papers, lifted his head and stared unblinkingly. Kane met that stare. Salvo was six or seven years older than himself. He had a flat, sallow face that was almost round, and his eyes were a deep, dark brown like swirling pools of muddy water. His grey-threaded hair was cut very short, and in places, the scalp showed through. He wasn’t very big, but he was big enough.
“I don’t want to discuss your family tree or its accomplishments,” he said dryly. “You and I had problems in the zone tonight. Why?”
Kane shifted in the chair. “Permission to speak freely?”
Salvo shrugged. “This is liberty hall.”
Kane pushed out a dee
p breath. “It was a triple-assed mission. No preliminary recon, no adequate Intel. The team was undermanned, underprepared. It should not have gone down the way it did. We were lucky to have gotten out with only one casualty.”
Salvo’s thin lips pursed. “I see. And you hold me responsible.”
“As commander,” Kane said tightly, “it doesn’t matter if I hold you responsible or not. You are responsible.”
Linking his fingers together, Salvo said genially, “Indeed. Why do you think I kept the team to a bare minimum, chose the men I chose and didn’t hold a debrief? Simply a whim on my part?”
Kane frowned. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”
“Are you interested in hearing them?”
Kane moved uncomfortably in his seat. “I am. Sir.”
“Would you agree that the welfare of the baronies is entrusted to our care? That we have dedicated our lives to check the spread of poison?”
“Poison?”
Salvo nodded. “Poison like slaggers, jolt-walkers, Roamers. By and large, we’ve been successful. Now, though, the poison is growing in virulence and spreading from the Terra Infernus, tainting the baronial territories. Do you understand me?”
“You’re talking about another rebellion?” Kane’s tone of voice was sceptical. Every so often, rumours would float from the outlands about the formation of an army of the disenfranchised, preparing to stage a revolt against the cushioned tyranny imposed by the barons.
Nine times out of ten, the rumours were simply that. And in the vanishingly small percentage of instances when there was a germ of truth to the rumours, the rebel militia turned out to be a ragbag gang of Roamers, outlaw wanderers of the Terra Infernus, justifying their robberies and murders by paying lip service to a political cause.
“It isn’t a rebellion, not precisely,” Salvo replied. “It’s something bigger and nastier than that. The baron himself doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. You know what the outland settlements are like, especially the ones near hellzones—no ’forcer or barony spy can last a minute in them. So, all we get are the rumours.”
“Rumours of what?”
Salvo shook his head. “Fantastic stuff about a self-styled warlord holding ancient preNuke tech secrets. Military materiel, supposedly. Nerve gas, maybe. Or even more advanced than that.”
Kane gave a slight start. Salvo noticed and smiled. “See anything like that in Reeth’s place?”
Kane managed to keep his face impassive. “Beyond the computers, the gun turret and the electrical generator, no. Damn hard stuff to get, but nothing too unusual about it.”
Pausing meaningfully, he added, “Of course, there’s still no explanation how Reeth got the stuff or how he seemed to know you. Sir.”
Salvo’s response was smooth and relaxed. “And you wanted that explanation and so you disobeyed my order to serve an on-sight termination warrant. You questioned him, I assume. What did he tell you?”
“Very little,” Kane admitted. “He refused to speak unless you were present. Of course, when you were present, you didn’t allow him to speak.”
“True enough. I was following orders, as you should have done.” Salvo lifted a hand as if to wave away an objection that wasn’t forthcoming. “Don’t worry. I’m not contemplating disciplinary action against you.”
“May I ask why?”
“Tonight’s circumstances were unique, but I chose you, Grant, Pollard, MacMurphy and young Carthew because all of you have special qualities. You think fast, you move fast and, though there’s a downside to it, you also can be independent. And all of you can be trusted to keep secrets.”
Kane smiled wryly. “What kind of secrets?”
“That’s still classified, but if the information will ease your mind, I’ll tell you this much—tonight’s penetration was part of an ongoing covert op, so covert it won’t even show up on the reports. Only the baron and his immediate staff will know about it.”
Kane’s mind wheeled and extrapolated. It was possible Baron Cobalt had authorized a black penetration, and it was also possible that Milton Reeth had been part of some type of sting, a link to the warlord rumours. All of it was possible, Kane conceded, but damn little of it was very likely, for a variety of reasons. The chain of command protocols was always observed and respected in the division. By invoking the baron, Salvo didn’t have to justify why he broke the chain, and that seemed very convenient.
“I still find these rumours a little hard to swallow,” Kane said noncommittally. “I mean, how many times over the years have we heard similar ones? The outrunners are too divided, too concerned with survival, to ever make a concerted effort to overthrow the baronies.”
“Think of it this way, Kane,” Salvo declared. “A long time ago, fearful of atomic war, the major governments played a game called the ’balance of terror.’ It should have been obvious, even to the most idiotic of them, that it was a matter of playing the odds, and sooner or later the balance would be tipped in the wrong direction. It finally happened, and we had a planet that came very close to being destroyed. What we have now is a complete about-face from the preNuke lunacy. There can never be another balance of terror, with two or more factions holding blasters to each other’s head, while everybody else sits on their thumbs, wondering who’ll be the first to pull the trigger. We’ve got to make goddamn sure only one faction has a blaster. We can’t afford to ignore any hint that somebody else is trying to achieve another balance. Even if it turns out to be only another wild outland rumour. Do you understand?”
Kane said quietly, “Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. I hope I’ve alleviated some of the doubts from your mind. And that’s it for now.”
Kane rose and started for the door.
“Kane?”
He paused, half turning. “Sir?”
Salvo held a short stack of slip-sleeved computer disks between his hands. Idly he fanned them out on the desktop, like a pack of cards. “You didn’t happen to pick up anything from Reeth’s place tonight, did you?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like anything.”
Kane slipped his night-vision glasses on over his eyes. “No. Why do you ask?”
Salvo clucked his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Just routine. I’ll be asking the same question of every member of the team.”
“I see.” Kane turned back to the doorway. “Good night. Sir.”
CHAPTER SIX
AS HE WALKED past the armoury, Salvo’s stomach muscles clenched tightly. They always did when he approached the huge storage facility that occupied nearly a quarter of C Level.
A pair of grey-clad men, eyes masked by dark glasses, stood guard before the recessed, massive herculanium alloy sec door. They held full-auto Commando Arms carbines across their chests and they didn’t acknowledge Salvo’s approach or passing with so much as a nod, even though technically he was their superior officer. The protocol of armoury sentries was very simple—kill anyone who tried to gain entrance, regardless of rank or social standing. Only a direct voice authorization from the baron was good for admittance.
The knowledge that even he was a legitimate target when around the arsenal always turned the pomp of Salvo’s high rank to tinsel. It seemed disrespectful. Oh, he understood the reasons for the strict regulations—the walls of the huge chamber were lined with rack after rack of assorted weaponry, everything from rifles and shotguns to pistols, mortars and rocket launchers. Crates of ammunition were stacked up to the ceiling. Armoured assault vehicles were also parked there, the Hussar Hotspurs and the AMACs, not to mention disassembled Deathbirds.
Almost all of it was original issue, dating from right before Night Eternal. The planners of the old COG, or Continuity of Government, programs had prudently recognized that unlike food, medicine and clothing, technology—particularly weapons—if kept sheltered could endure the test of ti
me and last generation after generation. Arms and equipment of every sort had been stockpiled in underground locations all over the United States.
Unfortunately, the COG planners hadn’t foreseen how the Nukeday would be such a colossal overkill that the very people the Stockpiles had been intended for mostly perished, like the rest of the population. Some survivors of the nuking and their descendants carved out lucrative careers looting and trading the contents of the Stockpiles. Hordes of exceptionally well-armed people once rampaged across the length and breadth of the Terra Infernus.
When the Program of Unification was instituted during the Council of Front Royal, one of the fundamental agreements was that the people must be disarmed and the remaining Stockpiles secured. Of course, to institute this action, the barons and their security forces not only had to be better armed than the outland hordes, but they also had to know the locations of the Stockpiles. The barons were provided with both of these requisites, and far more.
The early years of the program were very violent and bloody, and Salvo missed those glory days as though he had participated in them. When he was young, he had met a few doddering oldsters who claimed to have been in the thick of things, sweeping across the continent, driving the anarchist scum and so-called baron blasters into the sea.
Salvo shook his head to clear it of mental meanderings. Now that he was well past the armoury, he relaxed a bit. He didn’t want to appear tense or distracted during his audience with Baron Cobalt.
A dozen yards beyond the guards and the sec door, he turned to the right, down a tight, windowless passage. The passage dead-ended at a service accessway, a locked door that supposedly led down to a generator room. Salvo inserted a key into the lock and clicked it open.