by Mark Ellis
The platform bumped to a stop. Boon stumbled forward, his face almost slamming against the door panel. It slid aside, and he froze as the air of the Tartarus Pits filtered into his nostrils. Kane and Grant exchanged grins. With a hearty back slap that pushed the young man out of the car, Kane announced, “Let’s be careful out there. The price of balls may have gone up.”
A walled compound made of six-foot thick rockcrete completely enclosed the base of the Administrative Monolith. The twenty-foot-high walls were rigged with proximity alarms. The sun, at its zenith, glinted from the sharp points of the coils of razor wire stretched out over the tops of the walls. The massive sec door was made of vanadium alloy and powered by a buried hydraulic system.
The impregnable perimeter hadn’t been built simply to protect the tower from invasion by outraged Pit dwellers. Far below, in a sublevel, rested the primary output station that supplied the barony’s electricity. Supposedly an underground artery of the Kanab River generated the power, but there were stories that indicated old atomic generators were the true source of Cobaltville’s electricity.
A Magistrate guard, in full body armour, stood beside the sec-door controls, lovingly cradling his Copperhead in his arms. When he saw them approach, he keyed in the code numbers and pulled up the control lever. The gate rumbled and squeaked, opening like an accordion, folding to one side. It was so heavy it took nearly a minute for the sec door to open just enough to allow them to step outside of the compound.
“Now,” declared Grant, “the fun begins.”
“Does it ever,” Kane intoned flatly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GUANA TEAGUE HELD the weekly auction in the deepest part of the Pits, in a warehouse that backed into the foot of the barony’s wall. Not only was it hidden from casual Mag glances, but theoretically lay close to the Terra Infernus. At least, that was the way Teague had it figured, even if technically the nearest hellzone border was fifty miles away.
In his middle fifties, Guana Teague was an enormous man with the physique of a very fleshy grizzly bear. His massive belly bulged out and down in folds. His hair was still black, as was the small goatee embracing his triple chins. A greenish cast to his pale skin made it look as if it were faintly scaled, though it wasn’t. It was an odd epidermal pattern called skin-tags, but coupled with heavy brows jutting over dark-rimmed eyes, it lent him a reptilian appearance and the derivation of his nickname from the lizard iguana.
Teague knew a lot of Pitters suspected he was a reptilicus, but he didn’t give a damn about their suspicions. He was the Pit boss, and anyone who thought he was a mutant didn’t dare voice that opinion within his range of hearing.
Being a Pit boss didn’t mean much to the high-towers or the Mags or the admins, but Teague had a mind to change all of that. Early in his life, he discovered he possessed a gift for ingratiating himself with others, particularly those in positions of authority. Despite his appearance, or maybe because of it, Teague rapidly climbed the short success ladder of the Cobaltville Pit. He’d been pit boss longer than anyone else, primarily because he provided unique items and services both to those above and below him. One of those services was the weekly auction.
The items he sold to the highest—and sometimes the lowest—bidder were salvaged from trash hatches or smuggled in from the Terra Infernus. Everything from scrap metal to machine parts to farm implements filled packing crates on the crude podium on which he stood. Most of the stuff was utterly worthless to the hightowers—otherwise they wouldn’t have discarded it—but a few Pit dwellers had the facility to jury-rig some useful tech. They in turn sold their creations to others or used them to make their bleak lives a little easier to endure.
Though most of the Pits had electrical power, it was limited to fourteen hours a day out of twenty-four. Only a few places had running water, and folks had to queue up with buckets and containers in order to receive their daily requirement. Therefore, leak-proof containers were always at a premium and the most popular pieces at the auctions.
Teague was careful to never start the bidding at exorbitant prices for necessities. Though the presence of his strong-arms, Uno and Dos, kept his customers from objecting too strenuously to his prices, he had come close to sparking more than one mini-riot.
Very few Pit dwellers possessed hard jack to pay for the items, except those who worked in the towers as custodians or cooks. Almost everything was taken out in trade, either with other pieces or terms of service. The service could be anything from a week’s worth of slagwork, or in the instance of fairly young, fairly attractive females, sex slavery.
Holding up a corroded circuit board, he announced, “Open bidding, folks. Place ’em.”
“On what?” demanded a man in the crowd. “It’s just another piece of shit.”
Teague did his best to smile. “A gifted somebody could build themselves a right nice data-infeed circuit with this piece of shit. Tap into the comp bank.”
“And bring the Mags down us,” somebody else shouted. “You gotta do better than that.”
Teague spread his hands. “What can I say? Times are hard.”
“Times are always hard,” said a small woman standing at the front of the podium. “They ain’t likely to get any better, neither. But hard times or good times, a piece of shit is still a piece of shit.”
A wave of appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd.
Teague wasn’t offended, but he behaved as if he were. He tossed the circuit board back into the crate and announced petulantly, “Ho-kay, you ungrateful sonsofbitches. Auction is over.”
A few people clapped and whistled in sarcastic appreciation as the obese Pit boss lumbered off the podium, followed by Uno and Dos. His quarters were attached to the warehouse, a boxlike structure made of plyboard, corrugated metal and walls of rockcrete. It had no windows, and his strong-arms took up position outside the closed door.
Uno and Dos looked very much alike, twins almost, though neither claimed to be related to the other. They were tall, rangy men, born and bred in the Pits. They were dressed identically in baggy bodysuits, scuffed combat boots and pseudo-leather brown jackets a size too small to accentuate the length of their arms. Sheathed at their hips were foot-long knives. Their dark blond hair was swept and greased back with the same homemade pomade. Since its primary ingredient was lard, clouds of gnats were their constant companions.
Inside his one-room home, Teague turned on the overhead light, and its naked blaze fell on a flagstone floor, four whitewashed walls, a table, two chairs and a daybed. The small girl stretched out on the daybed looked up quickly, shielding her eyes from the sudden glare.
She wore a pair of bright red stockings on her slender legs and little else. Her hips were generously proportioned, and her bone white hair was a ragged mop. A pair of crimson eyes, as red as cut rubies, contrasted sharply with porcelain-pale skin. Those eyes, adjusting to the light, gave Teague a glance edged with resentment and fear.
Pleasantly he said, “How very decorative you look, Domi.”
“Fuck off,” replied Domi sullenly. “You paid off already, I want to leave.”
Teague wagged his head from side to side and eased his bulk into a chair. It creaked beneath his ponderous weight. “No, sweetheart, I don’t think so. I’m not tired of you yet.”
One of the genetic quirks of the Nukeday aftermath was a rise in albinism of people born near hellzones. Albinos weren’t exactly rare anywhere else, but they were hardly commonplace. Teague found Domi particularly unique and enchanting, though her personality fell somewhat short of inviting.
She was a relative newcomer to the barony. After spying her during one of his periodic forays into the outland, he smuggled her into the Pits with a forged ID chip. In exchange, she reluctantly agreed to give him six months of personal service. Now seven months had passed.
“Your main function,” continued the Pit boss, “is to ple
ase me. You haven’t always pleased me, so as I told you before, I’ve extended your term until I’m completely pleased.”
Red rage flared in her eyes, and she sprang to her feet. “I run away!”
“To where and to what, sweetheart?” He still maintained his pleasant, reasonable tone. “The Pits are not that large. You may hide, but you can’t run. And your striking appearance will prevent you from blending in even in the deep squats. Besides, isn’t this place better than wandering the Terra Infernus?”
Domi nibbled her lower lip. “Turn you in, I could. Turn you in to Mags.”
Teague chuckled. “You, with a bogus ID chip in your arm? I don’t think even you are that impulsive—or foolish.”
He sighed wearily. “Haven’t I been kind to you? Haven’t I provided for your every comfort?”
Domi’s face twisted in angry contempt. “You disgusting. Green skin, scales. Body like giant sack of horse-shit. Lizard tail between your legs. Make me sick.”
“No abuse, please, my darling. It causes hot blood to rise in me, and you are aware of what happens then.”
It was impossible for Domi to turn pale, but she cast her eyes downward.
“Besides,” the big man went on smoothly, “since we are of a kind—epidermally unique—one would think you’d be only too glad to enjoy the company of someone who is a kindred spirit.”
Domi sank back to the edge of the daybed, hands pressed together in her lap, shoulders slumping in despair.
“So, is that settled, then?”
Domi inclined her head a fraction of an inch in a nod, and then slid off the daybed. On all fours, back arched in the way Teague had instructed her, she slowly crawled across the floor. The Pit boss smiled tolerantly and spread his legs, lifting a slab of flab so he could loosen the drawstring that held up his pants.
Then he heard a sound, a rapid electronic trilling. He had heard that rising and falling tone only three times during his stint as Pit boss. Adrenaline rushed through him, speeding up his heartbeat, even causing the short hairs on his scalp to tingle. He bounded to his feet so quickly the chair fell over backward and he nearly trod on one of Domi’s hands. She scuttled sideways out of his path as he made a shambling rush for the far wall.
His fingers scrabbled over the whitewashed surface, nails digging into a thread-thin crack where a piece of board joined with a rockcrete block. He pulled the small wooden panel aside. Behind it, resting in a shallow niche, was a small square box made of moulded plastic and pressed metal.
Hurriedly he plucked the trilling trans-comm from the niche and put on the headset, struggling to align the mouthpiece properly and plug the receiver into his ear. He paid no attention to Domi, gazing up at him from the floor.
Thumbing a stud on the side of the trans-comm, he opened the channel and waited through the squawks and crackles of the unscrambling circuit. Then a voice whispered in his ear, a man’s voice he had heard three times before.
“Mags on their way. A PPP.”
“Who?”
“Two you know, Kane and Grant. A cherry named Boon. Kill Grant, and kill Boon if you have to. Leave Kane. Kill Grant. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Repeat—Grant is your target. Make it messy. Make it ugly. Do it in front of Kane. Very important. Again, kill Grant in front of Kane. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged.”
His ear filled with a hash of static. With trembling hands, Teague stripped off the headset and replaced the trans-comm unit in the niche. His bowels felt loose, and his heart hammered painfully within his chest.
Five years ago, he had been hauled in for questioning. He’d been detained for days, or at least it felt like it. He wasn’t given food or water, nor had there been any light in his detention cell. Then a Mag in full armour had opened the door. He had expected to be chilled on the spot. Instead of pulling a Sin Eater, the Mag had pulled the trans-comm unit, shoved it in his hands and told him he was free to go.
That very night, Teague received the first signal, and he heard that cold voice, sounding as if it were whispering across the dark gulfs of space. The voice had curtly told him that if he wished to continue as Pit boss, if he wished to continue to live, he would do what he was ordered. Guana Teague obeyed and he had continued to live as the Pit boss.
He didn’t have an idea to whom the voice belonged, and he was afraid to even speculate. Whoever he was, Teague was allowed to operate without serious Mag interference in his business—as long as he did as he was commanded.
The three prior assignments had been simple and easy to perform—provide the names of jolt-cookers, alert the Mags if unusually advanced tech came in from the outlands and supply the name of the best smuggler.
The last had been the easiest, requiring no research or expenditure of energy. Milton Reeth was the best, the most resourceful, the cleverest. He had reported Reeth’s name more than a year ago, and had heard nothing of the man since.
Now he was ordered to arrange a murder, and not just any murder, but a veteran Magistrate’s. Grant was known and feared in the Pits, as well as in the Terra Infernus. Kane’s rep was just as fearsome. Only last year, a gaggle of jolt-walkers tried to pull an ambush on a Mag squad led by Kane and Grant.
Teague shut the panel, muttering, “Oh, fuck me, fuck me” like a litany. Sweat slid down his jowls as he lumbered to the east corner of the room. He suddenly exuded a raw, animal stench of fear. From her place on the floor, Domi watched him with wide eyes, wrinkling her nose at the odour.
Grunting, the Pit boss squatted down and levered up a loose flagstone. From a recess dug into the dirt and reinforced with strips of tin, he pulled out a flat black case. Straightening up, he carried it over to the tabletop. Undoing the latches, he opened the top of the case. A pair of automatic hand- blasters rested within hollowed-out foam cushions.
He had found the matched set of mint-condition mini-Uzi submachine guns waiting for him in his quarters one night last year. He assumed his faceless benefactor/commander arranged the delivery.
Strapped on the underside of the lid were four full-capacity box magazines. Each magazine held twenty-five 9 mm rounds.
The weapons were worth a fortune, especially to Roamers, but Teague knew better than to sell them or even think seriously about it. Gun possession in the Pits was a mandatory death sentence, even home-forged muzzle loaders that fell apart on first usage.
Domi laughed from behind him, a musical sound of wicked delight. He turned slightly. She climbed to her feet and stood there with her hands on her flaring hips, red-sheathed legs wide apart. Mildly he asked, “What do you find funny, sweetheart?”
“You,” she said. “Turn me in, huh? Me with bogus chip, you with high-tower tech and blasters. Mags find out, you get big-time dead, Pit finds out, even bigger-time dead. You’re Mag spy first, I betcha. Pit boss second. Term of my service over, lizard dick! Term of your service starts now!”
Teague put his hand over one of the Uzis. “This isn’t the time to renegotiate our agreement, darling.”
She laughed again scornfully. “Time is so right. So, pucker up and kiss my lily-white ass.”
Teague moved. He whipped the frame of the blaster across the side of Domi’s head. She didn’t cry out, but she careened across the room, slammed into the wall, bounced from it and fell to the floor in a flailing tangle of arms and legs. She managed to catch herself with her hands, but she hung her head, blood streaming from a laceration in her scalp. The crimson flow stood out starkly against her white skin.
Stepping over to her, the Pit boss gripped her by the hair and hauled her to her knees, yanking her head back at a painful angle. Dazed but still conscious, she didn’t resist when he inserted the short barrel of the Uzi into her mouth.
“Do you want to end your service right now?” he hissed. Spittle strings drooled from his lips. “Tell me, you goddamn bleach
ed-out gaudy slut. Tell me!”
Domi shook her head—at least as much as his cruel grip allowed.
“Then you’ll do what I tell you to, won’t you?”
Domi tried to nod, her front teeth clinking on the metal of the blaster’s barrel.
Teague abruptly released her, and she sagged to the floor, hand pressing against the wound on her head. Blood oozed slowly between her fingers.
Teague wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand, then realized his pants were about to slip down his hips. He had forgotten that he’d untied the drawstring. Holding them up with one hand, he gestured with the mini-Uzi in the other. “Get up. Clean yourself up.” He paused and whispered, “Sweetheart.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
KANE EXHALED A wreath of smoke. “They used to call places like this ‘pestholes.’”
“What do they call them now?” Boon was eager to know.
“Pestholes,” answered Grant, allowing the smoke to dribble out of his nostrils in fitful spurts.
One of the first things Kane and Grant had done upon leaving the walled perimeter was to seek out a wandering tobacconist and buy several cigars. Buy wasn’t accurate, since the merchant hadn’t requested jack. Nor had the Magistrates offered it.
Hardly anyone but outrunners had used tobacco in any form for a long time. There were mild drugs available that were much safer, less offensive to others and with just as much power to even out moods or focus the mind. Smoking was certainly forbidden in the monolith and the Enclaves, but in the Pits, the use of anything that might lower life expectancy was encouraged.
Both Kane and Grant had learned to appreciate a good cigar during their many Pit patrols, and having the opportunity to puff on a few was the only bright spot in an otherwise drab tour of duty.
Kane, Grant and Boon picked their way through the muddy streets, among the narrow, twisting alleys between ramshackle buildings, past hovel and shack and tent. There were no main avenues, only lanes that zagged in one direction, then zigged in the other. The damp breeze had the smell of smoke and spice and old blood in it.