by Mark Ellis
The pair of great upslanting eyes were like fathomless black pools, the lipless mouth barely a tight slash. The expression on the face was inscrutable, yet somehow conveyed both anger and a soul-deep sadness in equal measure.
Brigid felt as if her entire mind were immersed in soggy cotton wadding. Intellectually she could conceive of alien life-forms, but emotionally she felt a visceral, xenophobic cringing. She wanted to blank out the screen, to convince herself that what she read was part of an elaborate preNuke fantasy, or better yet, a hoax. It was too late for that; the text and image was imprinted indelibly within her eidetic memory. For as long as she lived, no matter how hard she tried, she would never forget it.
A plaintive wail echoed from deep within her mind. Kane, what have you stumbled into? What have I stumbled into?
She pushed the keys to begin the copying sequence, her hands moving with a numb slowness that dismayed her. And then as if from far away, she heard someone speak. “There. There she is.”
Brigid gradually turned her head in the direction of the voice. In the archway stood Lakesh. For a long heartbeat, she couldn’t understand why he looked so sad, so desperately old, so crushed by the weight of his years. Then her eyes swept over the three black-coated men with him, and her near paralyzed thought processes identified them. They were Magistrates, and Lakesh pointed her out to them.
Fear flowed through her like a floodtide of icy water, stimulating her reflexes. She quickly broke the data link, or tried to do so. The incriminating text still glowed on the screen, white against amber. The copying process continued without interruption.
Terror was pushed aside by a sudden onslaught of nausea, of the sickening realization she had been found out, that Kane had used her for the sole purpose of betraying her. The taste of the realization was so bitter she nearly gagged. She had been manipulated into breaking the cardinal rule of life in the baronies: trust no one.
A man suddenly loomed over her, a flat-faced, thin-lipped man with short, dark hair. Brigid looked up at him.
His eyes, masked by dark glasses, were unfathomable, but she saw her own face dimly reflected in the lenses. She smiled at her face, a small smile of resignation and defiance.
The man tilted his head slightly, toward the screen and the information glowing there. He smiled, too.
Then, with a clenched gloved fist, he struck her in the face.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TWO MAGS FROM Intel sat in the bare-walled room, saying nothing and trying to keep awake. Kane occupied a chair at a table across from them, waiting for Salvo to arrive to take his statement. He tried to believe that a statement would make a difference. His head wound, treated at the scene by a medic, felt like a tire with multiple ruptures. A thin, flesh-coloured film covered the bullet graze, adhering tightly to his forehead. The liquid bandage contained nutrients and antibiotics, and since its chemical composition was very similar to real epidermal tissue, his body would absorb it as the injury healed.
Boon would never heal. He was the first Mag in decades to be killed while on a Pit patrol, and Kane hadn’t likewise killed all the killers or even called for backup.
It was hours past his off-shift time. Upon returning to the division, Grant and Kane were immediately separated. Since then, he had been sitting, waiting and wondering how long it would take Salvo to arrive and how bad things would become.
On the table lay Dos’ mini-Uzi, retrieved from the wreckage of the squat. That and the strong-arm’s body were the only pieces of evidence incriminating Guana Teague as the mastermind. Except Kane didn’t and couldn’t accept the concept of Teague as the master of anything, even his own soul.
Pollard suddenly lumbered into the room. He smiled blandly and said, “Kane.”
“Pollard. Where’s Salvo?”
“On an op. I’m the watch commander, so you’ll have to talk to me.”
“And Grant?”
“Got his story already. Let’s hear yours and mix and match ’em.”
Kane told him what had occurred during the PPP, not leaving out or embellishing a single detail.
“Marvellous,” Pollard grunted, his snub-nosed face drawn in a scowl. “There are holes in your story big enough to drive a goddamn Sandcat through. You’re about a millimetre from finding your ass in front of a tribunal.”
“What are the holes?” challenged Kane. “You talked to Grant already, so he told you the same thing.”
“According to him, you believe it was a contract kill and Boon got in the way.”
“That’s how I read it. Why else did Uno ice Dos?”
“You tell me.”
Impatiently Kane snapped, “To keep him from fingering Guana.”
Pollard’s scowl deepened. “Maybe, yes. Maybe no. Grant has some serious problems with your theory.”
Kane forced a derisive laugh, part snort, part sigh. “Don’t play that mouldy old game with me, Polly.”
Pollard slammed the flat on his hand down on the table. “Don’t call me Polly, you arrogant bastard!”
Kane came up out of his chair so fast that it clattered over backward. Watching the action, unmoved and unmoving, the other two Mags were as quiet as a pair of statues.
Clenching his fists so hard his knuckles began to ache, Kane said in a low, deadly monotone, “You want to make this personal, you overstuffed dipshit? We’re both heeled, right?”
Pollard raised his right hand, slightly curling the fingers. His eyes impaled Kane with twin shafts of anger. “Don’t be crazy.”
“We’ve worked together for years. If you’re so stupid you don’t remember I have no patience for games, I’ll jog your memory. Here and now. Make your move.”
Pollard heaved a gusty sigh and relaxed his fingers. “Sit down, Kane. Forget it. I didn’t mean to lean on you. Boon is dead, and all of us are shook up over it.”
Kane didn’t budge. “You talked to Grant.”
“Yeah. His story was substantially the same as yours.”
“Then why are we sitting here stepping on each other’s dicks? Let’s assemble a sweep squad and step on Guana’s.”
Pollard lifted the broad yoke of his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Like I said, Salvo ain’t here. Only he can authorize a Pit sweep.”
He stared at Kane keenly. “And don’t even think of going back down there on your own initiative. Your unilateral decision not to call for backup buried both you and Grant neck deep in shit. You go down to the Pits again, you better just stay there.”
Kane didn’t respond to Pollard’s words. “Where’s Grant now?”
“Home, probably. I suggest you go to your own and wait for Salvo’s call. I’ve already told Grant this, so now I’m telling you—you’re under orders not to contact each other until a final determination about this incident is reached.”
“We’re suspended?”
“No, but you’re being assigned to work different shifts until further notice.”
“Whatever you say.” Kane turned toward the door.
“Hey.”
Kane turned back. Pollard nudged the mini-Uzi across the table toward him with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. “Drop this off in the evidence room on your way out.”
Kane didn’t move.
Pollard added lamely, “Please.”
Kane picked up the blaster and strode out of the room. He debated with himself on whether to slam the door behind him or simply ease it shut. He opted to close it with an easy, relaxed click.
He stalked down the main corridor in such an obvious anger that no one he passed dared speak to him. The evidence room was adjacent to the armoury. It was located there for a number of reasons, primarily so if any weapons of value came into Mag hands, they could be simply transferred over to the barony’s arsenal.
Kane tapped in his badge number on the keypad affixed to the wall beside the do
or. Lock solenoids snapped aside and allowed him to enter. The windowless room was always dimly lit, a perpetual twilight. Behind a wire-screen enclosure was the storage facility, mainly a double row of tall metal shelves. The air was hot, stale and motionless.
Russo, the attendant, looked up from filling out an invoice and squinted toward him. Perched on a stool behind the screen, and he exuded a stale, sweaty odour from his sparse blond hair and his wrinkled grey bodysuit. Kane could smell him, and it wasn’t pleasant. Neither was Russo’s attitude.
“Whatcha got there?”
Kane hefted the mini-Uzi. “A blaster, lifted from the Pits.”
Russo peered through the screen. “An Uzi, huh?”
“Close. A mini.”
“Kind of rare. Had a matched set in here a while back. Pristine condition. Museum quality.”
It took a second for Russo’s comment to register.
“How long a while back?” Kane asked.
“A year, maybe two. Longer than that, maybe.”
“What happened to them?”
“Transferred ’em to the armoury, what the hell else?”
Kane stepped closer to the man, extending the blaster for his inspection. “Does this look like one of them?”
Russo eyed it and answered petulantly. “No, the ones I saw were green and had moustaches. Of course, it looks like ’em. A mini-Uzi is a mini-Uzi.”
Kane’s icy eyes bored into his, and Russo added nervously, “Hell, Kane, there’s got to be fifty Uzis in the armoury. Maybe even half a dozen of those mini-jobs.”
He pointed with his pencil to Kane’s right. “Put it on the table. I’ll tag it later.”
The table in the corner was cluttered with recent acquisitions, most of it useless salvage, like home-forged single-shot pistols, knives and even a crude crossbow. Kane cleared a space and laid down the blaster. Squatting on one end of the table he saw a computer console, a DDC. He glanced at it, glanced away, then looked again. An old manual model, he had seen it a little less than twenty-four hours ago. He knew for certain, because of the fine cracks just next to the screen.
He didn’t quite know why, but the floor seemed to split under his feet, leaving him hanging on a crumbling edge by his fingernails.
He spun toward Russo, feeling cold perspiration break out on his forehead. Forcing a nonchalance he didn’t feel, he asked, “When did that comp come in?”
“An hour, hour and a half ago. Why?”
“Who brought it?”
Russo consulted his log. “Let’s see—that guy from Intel.”
“Intel?”
“Yeah, you know—the dark-complected guy.”
“Morales.”
“That’s him. Why, what’s up with it?”
Kane didn’t answer. Stomach muscles quivering in adrenaline-induced spasms, he whirled and flung open the door.
“Hey! Kane!” Russo shouted after him. “What’s up?”
Kane jogged down the corridor and entered Intel. His eyes swept the room, and when they didn’t spy Morales, he approached the nearest tech.
“Morales is supposed to be on duty,” he said. “Where is he?”
The tech, a pock-faced, sleepy-eyed man, blinked at him owlishly. “Salvo put him on another detail. Something about historical.”
Kane darted back into the corridor and ran full out for the elevator. A clerk stood before the opening door panel, arms laden with file folders. Kane shouldered him roughly aside amid a flurry of paper and savagely punched the button for B Level. The door shut in the tech’s angry face.
The ascent took no longer than fifteen seconds, but to Kane it felt like an eternity, stretched out like a rubber band of infinite length. The elevator hissed to a stop, and Kane whipped out of it before the panel had fully rolled aside. He sprinted through the many archways, knowing his badge was attuned to the photoelectric field sensors.
He raced past doorway after doorway, past room after room filled with all the pride and glory and foolishness of the preNuke dead. Kane had eyes only for the living, and for the quartet of figures coming toward him beneath the final archway. They were Salvo, Morales, Waylon and a female figure— Brigid Baptiste.
His shocked eyes registered that her arms were held behind her at unnatural angles, bound with the standard-issue plastic riot cuffs. Her hair was dishevelled and her glasses were missing. The only colour about her white, stark face was from the crimson threads streaming from her nostrils, over her lips and across her chin.
Waylon, in the lead, saw him first and he increased the length of his stride to intercept him. He held out his left hand, palm up. “Kane! Stop!”
He didn’t stop, but he slowed down just enough to slap Waylon’s hand aside and deliver an elbow thrust into his throat. Shoving the choking man out of his path, he stormed on.
“Kane!” barked Salvo. “I order you to halt!”
Kane didn’t even look at him. He had eyes only for Baptiste and her pale, blood-streaked face. Distantly he was aware of his lips peeling back from his teeth in a silent snarl.
“I’ll shoot if you don’t stop, Kane!” There was a click from Salvo’s sleeve, and the Sin Eater filled his hand.
Kane slowed to a walk. He saw the fear and the anger in Salvo’s face, and it required a great effort to keep from filling his own hand.
“What are you doing with that woman?” he demanded, his voice ragged with thinly disguised fury.
Morales sneered. “What’s it look like? Placing a Preservationist bitch under arrest. What’s it to you?”
Kane’s blow landed like a steam-driven piston. Mewling, Morales folded over and clutched his stomach, then was hammered face-first to the floor by a side-handed smash to the back of his exposed neck.
Locking eyes with Salvo, Kane said, “What’s it to me? This archivist was following up a legal line of inquiry at my request.”
“Who authorized it?” Salvo shot back. Though his gun was in his hand, he didn’t raise it.
“I did.”
“Then it wasn’t exactly legal, was it?”
Kane’s eyes met Baptiste’s. Though fear still swam in those clear green depths, relief gleamed there, too.
“Who struck you, Baptiste?”
“She resisted apprehension,” Salvo growled. “Only the minimum force required to subdue her was employed. Damn it, have you fused out completely? She’s a Preservationist. Do you understand that? A fucking Preservationist!”
Kane took a long, deep breath. By degrees, the flame of fury in his eyes was contained.
Salvo noticed, and some of the tension left his posture, but he didn’t holster the Sin Eater. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” he said grimly.
Waylon staggered back to his feet, still gasping, and he weaved toward Kane on unsteady legs, clutching his throat with his left hand. His right hand gripped his Sin Eater. He croaked, “You went too far this time—”
Salvo gestured to him. “Stand down.”
Baptiste side-kicked at Salvo, but he grabbed her right arm and twisted it up in a painful hammerlock. She cried out. Kane shifted position, but stopped moving when Salvo cast a hard glance in his direction. Kane assessed the situation more coolly now, looking critically at Baptiste, Waylon, Salvo and the pair of blasters. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk. If he finished what he had started, both he and Brigid Baptiste would die.
Salvo smiled coldly. “You lifted a comp disk from Reeth’s slaghole, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Kane admitted, his tone cold and hard enough to match Salvo’s smile. “The disk had a data lockout that defied the Syne.”
“And that aroused your curiosity.”
Kane pointed accusingly at the moaning Morales. “I acted on that pissant’s suggestion to consult historical.”
“And you blundered into an ongoing op.”
&
nbsp; Kane quirked an eyebrow. “What kind of op?”
“Remember what I mentioned to you last night?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve suspected this bitch was a spy for quite some time, that she was feeding crucial barony Intel to the warlord’s army.”
“That’s a lie,” Baptiste said sternly. “I was following a Magistrate Division request.”
“Shut up.” Salvo pursed his lips. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss it further. Morales and Waylon, escort this traitor to detention now.”
Kane stepped closer. “Wait—”
“Face it, Kane. You were used. You fucked up. Fortunately, it helped us to nail her, otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here—you’d be on your way to a disciplinary tribunal.”
Waylon helped Morales to his feet and Salvo pushed Baptiste at them. “Take her. And Kane—you and me are going to have a talk.”
Baptiste was led away, looking lost and slender between the black-coated Magistrates. She didn’t look back, for which Kane was both grateful and sad.
“I heard about the ambush,” Salvo said quietly. “About Boon. I’m taking into consideration that’s one reason you’re behaving like a wired-out jolt-walker.”
“Big-hearted of you,” Kane replied, with unconcealed contempt. “I want to be in on the woman’s interrogation.”
“What makes you think there’s going to be one?” Salvo made an exaggerated show of leathering his Sin Eater. “Anyway, we’ll see. After our talk.”
“I thought we just had it. Sir.”
“By no means, Kane. By absolutely no bloody means. Follow me.”
Kane fell into step, and they walked down the musty-smelling hallway. Just inside the archway stood a very old man, one of the oldest Kane had ever seen outside of the Pits. His blue eyes were so watery, he looked as if he was preparing to weep.
As Salvo came abreast of the man, he said imperiously, “You’re in on this, too, Lakesh. Alert the others.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
KANE AND SALVO returned to C Level. By the time the elevator deposited them on the division floor, Brigid Baptiste had already been escorted to detention, at the far end of the operation suites.