by Mark Ellis
A Magistrate is virtuous in the performance of his duty. The deeply ingrained phrase drifted through his mind. The duties and obligations that came with his badge and Sin Eater had been drilled into him these past twenty-plus years. The oath was a part of his every action and reaction, at once a justification and a reason to live, a psychological shield and a sword for the work he performed.
Living only for duty and service was all a matter of how you adjusted to it, Grant thought fleetingly. He had assumed that both he and Kane had adjusted perfectly, but now Kane was displaying signs of strain, of chafing under the strictures. He asked questions, which in itself was irritating enough, but his questions were good ones, which was downright unfortunate.
It was awkward business, being friends with a fellow Mag. Sometimes even Grant was surprised that two such contrasting personalities worked so well as a team. Teamwork was encouraged, but friendship was frowned upon.
Now Grant knew why. It was a hard thing to endure not to be on hand to help Kane deal with whatever he was battling. He tried to tell himself that Kane had brought it all upon himself—from not serving the termination warrant on Reeth, to lifting the comp disk and conducting his own independent investigation, then calling for backup only after Boon had been chilled.
Still, during the span of the twelve years they had partnered together, he had learned to rely on Kane’s instincts. As a point man, his senses were uncannily acute when something nasty was underfoot or lurking just around a corner. Try as he might to dismiss it, Grant was positive Kane’s instincts were on the mark this time around, as well.
The warble from the trans-comm unit on his desk was so unexpected, he jumped and swore. A quick glance at his wrist chron told him dawn was only an hour or so away. Only Kane would be so defiant to contact him after he had been ordered not to do so—but then he wasn’t stupid. Trans-comm frequencies were public, and he was absolutely sure Intel had a monitor on both his and Kane’s units. He let it warble several seconds before he picked it up and opened the circuit.
“Grant?” Salvo’s voice filtered from it.
“Yes, sir.” Grant sat down at the desk, leaning back against his coat draped over the chair.
“Hope I didn’t wake you. If I did, you can go back to sleep in a few minutes. I’ve gone over your statement. I regret to say I’m putting you on suspension until further notice.”
“Sir?” Grant felt tension coiling in his stomach like a length of slimy rope.
“Confine yourself to quarters. I’ll be sending around a couple of men to pick up your equipment. I realize this is a shock to you, especially with your record, but Abrams insisted on it. Protocol and all that, you know.”
Fingers clenching tight around the box of pressed metal and moulded plastic in his hand, Grant asked, “What about Kane?”
“He thinks you were the target,” Salvo replied, a faint hint of suspicion in his voice. “Not Boon.”
“Yes, I know. I suspect it, too.”
“Then the primary question is why you? Can you offer any clues?”
Grant groped for a response, then said, “No, I can’t. Perhaps Guana Teague can.”
“What does the Pit boss have against you personally?”
Grinding his teeth, Grant said, “I have no idea. Sir.”
“I have a few,” said Salvo. “The blaster recovered at the scene was one of two that disappeared from the armoury.”
“What?”
“Mags selling goods to Pit merchants isn’t without precedent, you know.”
“Something like that hasn’t happened in either of our lifetimes.” Grant’s voice rose. “Are you officially accusing—?”
“Not yet. Tell me, were you getting impatient for your administrative transfer to come through? Did you decide to cut a little jack on the side?”
Grant said nothing. His hands trembled in fury. He felt as if he were trapped in a burning building with every exit door locked.
“You’re not charged with anything,” Salvo went on, “and you may never be. But you’ll have to pull some pretty impressive moves to redeem yourself in my eyes.”
“Sir—”
“You have your orders. Out.”
The circuit closed with an arrogant click. Grant looked at the trans-comm unit in his hand, then hurled it the length of the room. It struck against the far wall, denting the dura-plast.
He sat motionless at the desk, wrestling with his rage, staring out of the window without seeing anything. A preNuke term floated through his mind, and though old, it was very appropriate. Scapegoated.
He was being scapegoated over this, while Kane, for whatever reason, was being haloed. He tried to wrap his mind around the possibility that Kane had rolled over on him to save his own ass. He couldn’t.
The concept of such a betrayal was too stunning, too nauseating, to dwell upon. The worst part was he couldn’t even call Kane to ask him about it.
He was about to get up when he heard the tinny voice of Kane reaching him from what seemed a light-year away.
“Grant?”
Grant shook his head. Terrific. Now he was suffering auditory hallucinations because of his overwrought nerves.
“Grant? Grant!”
Grant stiffened. The faint whisper wasn’t emanating from empty air or his brain. He turned and dragged his coat from the back of the chair. He drew out the pin mike from the lapel and brought the receiver button up to his ear.
“Damn it, Grant—”
“What the fuck are you doing?” he whispered fiercely into the mike.
“Don’t worry. This is a closed frequency, remember, not like the trans-comms. Listen, I’ve got something to tell you—”
“I’ve got something to tell you. I just heard from Salvo. He suspended me.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds of your statement,” Grant hissed furiously.
The receiver button accurately transmitted Kane’s half sighed “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit is right. He almost accused me of handing the blasters over to Teague. Said they were stolen from the armoury.”
Kane’s response was terse, tense. “There’s no way he could have known that unless he was the one who stole them.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Listen to me. You’ve got to get out of there.”
“You listen to me,” Grant growled. “For some reason, Salvo wants my ass on a platter”
“Shut up! Shut up and listen!” Kane’s tone was tight with fear, with worry. “Is someone coming around to collect your equipment?”
“Yeah, that’s standard after a suspension.”
“Get out of there, Grant! I can’t explain further, but I’ve learned some things.”
“What kind of things?”
“The kind of things that are getting people I’ve been in contact with very dead. So, stop asking me questions and go.”
Grant scowled at the mike. “Go where?”
“Tartarus. Remember that route we found down into the Pits a few years ago?”
Ransacking his memory, Grant replied, “Yeah, but it’s probably blocked off by now.”
“It’s your only chance to get out of the Enclaves undetected.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
Kane’s voice became more urgent, escalating in intensity. “Don’t you get it? Salvo’s sending a kill squad after you! You’re on suspension, you’re suspected of corruption, you decided to go out in a blaze of glory. That’s how the report will read!”
After a stunned moment, Grant asked, “Have you found another bottle of wine or what? Why would he do that? And how would you know that?”
“You stubborn bastard! It’s too complicated to explain. I’m asking you, Grant. I’m begging you—trust my instincts again and get the hell out of there. Hit the Pits, grab
Guana and squeeze him.”
“And then what am I supposed to do?”
Kane exhaled a long breath. Wearily he said, “I’m working on it. Now, will you please get your shit together and get?”
“All right!” Grant snapped. “I’m gettin’.”
“Good. I don’t want to risk calling you again. I’ll meet you at Guana’s place as soon as I can.”
“You’d fucking well better,” Grant snarled, but the circuit was closed.
Grant stared at the pin mike for a moment, and then released it, allowing it to zip back to its place in the coat’s lapel. Mentally he replayed the conversations of Salvo and Kane. Then he got up, strapped on his Sin Eater, shrugged into his coat and left his flat. His quarters were on the same level as Kane’s, but located considerably farther down on the central promenade.
He walked quickly, in the opposite direction from the entrance gate. There was no doubt at all about the way to Tartarus Kane had mentioned. The only problem was how to reach it swiftly without attracting attention. There was nothing he could do to avoid the spy-eye fixtures on the ceiling except to brazen it out. If what Kane said possessed even a gram of truth, leaving his quarters against orders wouldn’t be much of an infraction.
The double-facing row of flats ended after a hundred yards, right against a blank wall. Ferns and shrubbery were planted in a wide strip along the width of the wall to give it the illusion of a garden vista. Several years before, he and Kane had discovered that one section of the wall was a false facade, imitation rockcrete covering a service shaft. A maintenance tech on the premises explained that the opening extended down to a ventilation shaft, which then connected to the inner shell of the Administrative Monolith. For the hell of it, Grant and Kane had explored the shaft and discovered it reached far more than a ventilation shaft.
Grant pushed through the shrubbery, inspecting the rear wall. He found the panel easily enough, and the inch-thick, four-foot square of textured duraplast swung outward on hidden hinges. Staggered tie bars were just within reach. He put his feet on the first one, pulled the panel shut and fished his flashlight out of a pocket. He carefully climbed hand over hand, down to a square opening covered by a thick wire grille. That hadn’t been there the first time. Placing the flashlight between his teeth, wrapping his left arm around a tie bar, Grant crooked his fingers into the grille and tugged experimentally, then with all his strength. The mesh ripped loose from the metal frame, and he yanked and folded it to one side, letting it dangle by an upper corner. It required a few painful contortions to step from the tie bars into the square ventilation shaft. It wasn’t much wider than his shoulders, and he had to lie on his stomach and pull himself along the polished metal.
Fortunately, it was easy going, and this particular shaft was only a score of yards long. It ended at a maintenance walkway inside the Administrative Monolith, somewhere between D and E Levels. He pushed open another grille, climbed out and walked along the narrow catwalk until he reached the upper landing of a corkscrew staircase.
As quickly and as quietly as he could manage, he walked down the steps, the beam of his flashlight lighting the way. Pipes, conduits and ventilation ducts ran up and down the shaft all around the staircase. He went down, down, clinging to the handrail. The monolith’s levels could only be entered through the four Enclave complexes, and as far as anyone knew, the only way in or out of them was via the bank of public elevators. But his route led to one other exit, providing it hadn’t been discovered and sealed.
When he heard the muffled throb of machinery, he knew he neared the end of the staircase. The thin beam of his flashlight splashed white on a steel-braced lead door. He experienced a momentary disorientation. The door led to the manufacturing facility on E Level, and that appeared to be the only exit.
Recalling the path he and Kane had followed that day, he turned right at the foot of the staircase. He shone his flashlight up and down along the far wall. A gap was visible between a retaining wall and the foundation. It was barely large enough to admit him, and then only if he turned sideways.
He crab-walked into the gap, the beam from his light cutting through a grey mist of dust stirred up by his shuffling feet. Jagged edges caught at his coat and his stomach. He didn’t remember that happening the first time, and he realized, with a surge of annoyance, that he had probably become bulkier since then.
The narrow passage curved slightly, following the construction of the outer monolith wall. The ground beneath Grant’s feet suddenly fell away, and if he hadn’t been so tightly wedged, he would have fallen. His flashlight showed him earth-slanting downward beneath the foundations. Erosion had taken its toll in the years since he had last been here.
He continued inching along, bracing the toes of his boots against the opposing wall. He progressed only a few yards before chunks of rockcrete collapsed under the pressure of his feet. Grant managed to keep hold of his flashlight when he dropped, thrashing, into darkness. He didn’t fall far, nor was it as much a fall as a feet-first slide. Dust and grit rose in choking clouds as his body ploughed a trench through the slope of loose, ancient dirt.
Skidding to a slow stop on the seat of his pants, he shone the flashlight beam around, grunting in relief. He had reached his destination sooner than expected and by another method, but he had reached it. Cobaltville had been built upon the foundations an old preNuke military storage depot. Beneath the Enclave towers lay a chain of fuel cisterns, probably abandoned before the Nukeday. At one time, the ground around the Enclaves had been honeycombed with reinforced-concrete storage tanks. Even now, nearly two hundred years after Night Eternal, the faint, acrid odour of gasoline still clung to the cistern walls.
Grant waited until he got his bearings before moving again. He and Kane had entered the cistern area by another way, and he swept his surroundings with the flashlight until he found what he was looking for, only a few dozen yards away.
A series of staple-shaped ladder rungs was embedded in the curving wall of the cistern, leading up to an overhead metal hatch. The ceiling of the tunnel bore a spiderweb pattern of cracks through which dirt dribbled down. In another few years, the Administrative Monolith would experience serious foundation problems. The notion of the inestimable tons of rockcrete pressing down from above invoked a claustrophobic reaction, and Grant stood up, quickly walking down the centre of the cistern.
At the elliptical end of the storage tank, Grant leaned against the wall, looking up at the hatch. It was still sealed by a thick disk of iron. Grant scaled the rungs and pushed up on the metal plate, hoping it hadn’t been covered with stone or welded shut. He tried not to shove too hard, because he couldn’t guess who or what might lie immediately beyond.
The cover didn’t budge, so Grant pushed harder. He could only use one arm, having to keep the other hooked through a rung. Breathing heavily from the exertion, he shoved again, straining, and finally the metal disk shifted. Rust and dirt showered down from the rim. With a screech of iron against stone, he forced the hatch cover up several inches, held it there until he climbed another rung, then shouldered the heavy disk aside. Before he dragged himself up and out, he turned off the flashlight.
He found himself standing in the same alley he and Kane had climbed into years before. A draft carried the strong stench of rubbish and excrement. Looking up, he saw the sky was beginning to lighten with the approach of dawn.
“Tartarus at sunrise,” he whispered. “Somebody ought to sell tickets.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
GRANT KEPT TO the side lanes, avoiding the main thoroughfare just in case Salvo had indeed ordered a Pit sweep. Even his ingenuity would fail if he were stopped and questioned by a Mag.
It was either too early or too late for most of the Pit dwellers to be up and about. Grant saw only one person, an ancient woman with skin blackened and seamed, eyes perpetually lowered so she wouldn’t have to see the Enclaves or the Administrative Monol
ith. She pawed through a heap of stinking, fly-infested vegetable matter outside a food shop. Her voice was cracked but passable as she sang a snatch of an old song
He walked along a street that was little more than an alley of abandoned tar-paper shacks and shanties. Though he knew where he was going, he had to approach it by an unfamiliar route, and it cost him time. Dawn was breaking up the dark sky with scraps of yellow and orange when he sighted the corrugated metal warehouse.
It took him over fifteen minutes to make a slow, careful circuit of the warehouse and the squat, low-roofed, windowless building attached to it. At the end of that time, he had satisfied himself there were no trip wires or vid cams or even a sentry. It was possible Teague had pulled up stakes and either ducked into a bolt-hole or struck out for the Terra Infernus. Neither seemed likely, though it was common knowledge there were secret ways into and out of the barony, known to a select few Pit dwellers.
The only way into Teague’s home was through the warehouse. Grant walked briskly to the side door. Lifting it against its hinges by the shank of the handle, he turned the knob slowly, producing a single, almost inaudible squeak and faint metallic jingling. The door was held fast on the other side by a chain. Alert for any sounds from within, he leaned his entire weight against the door. The bracket holding the chain pulled out of the rotten frame. Wood creaked and tore, but the sound wasn’t loud, at least not loud enough to wake anyone from slumber.
As he stepped warily into the warehouse, Grant’s eyes swiftly took in the interior. There were boxes and crates stacked in helter-skelter fashion all over. The only attention to any kind of precision was a sprawling, tall pyramid of boxes, wooden pallets and square containers against the far wall.
The flagstone floor shone with moisture, and the bare ceiling rafters were festooned with cobwebs. The light illuminating the warehouse was daylight—pale, dirty daylight peeping in through a high, grilled window.
Grant sniffed the air experimentally and smelled nothing but mold, mildew and urine. He waited for some sound, but he heard nothing. All of his training and hard experience had instilled in him the ability to read the atmosphere of a place. There was no mistaking the aura of slaghole that hovered over the warehouse.