by Mark Ellis
The baron didn’t speak. He waited and Brigid was slightly encouraged. So far, Baron Cobalt hadn’t mentioned that Kane had acted as an undercover operative to expose a suspected Preservationist.
“And to the charges of sedition and treason,” Brigid went on, “I plead innocent. As for the computer, I plead guilty and I throw myself on the mercy of the baron. I meant no wrong.”
Golden waves shimmered across the screen, and a ripple of genuinely amused laughter came from the speaker. “You are a clever dissembler. Very well, I will dismiss the charges of possessing the computer. I grant you mercy. However, the other charges remain intact and, as you know, are punishable by death.”
It was what she expected. Brigid bowed her head.
The baron said, “Brigid—I will call you that since this is such an intimate moment between us.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it, is there?” Brigid’s voice was dull and flat.
“No, there isn’t. You must understand I’m not sentencing you to death for these arbitrary reasons. Even if you are a Preservationist, that’s not what brought you here before me.”
“What did, then?”
“Knowledge,” Baron Cobalt answered. “It can lead to wisdom and thus to humility, true enough. But in this tortured period of humankind’s existence on earth, knowledge beyond what is needed to survive must also bring death.”
Lifting her head, she asked, “Why is that?”
The baron’s reply was soft, almost regretful. “Humanity stands on the threshold of a new genesis. It cannot pass over that threshold if collective knowledge expands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That is the entire point. If you understood, if humankind as a whole understood, the mad rush to mass destruction would begin again.” Baron Cobalt’s voice dropped to a half whisper. “Humanity lives inside its head. That is the seat of the soul. This is true subjectively, as well as objectively. If you control the soul, you control humanity.”
Brigid said nothing. Frozen, she only stared at the shifting pattern of light on the screen.
“The course of execution is set by expedience and custom,” the baron declared. “You will die quickly and painlessly, if that is of any comfort to you.”
As if responding to an invisible cue, the door opened. The baron said, “The sentence is to be carried out forthwith.”
The monitor screen dimmed immediately. The Magistrate prodded Brigid to her feet and removed her from the room. Only the one Mag accompanied her down the corridor, his Sin Eater drawn and aimed at her head. As she marched, she was desperately contemplating some outburst of violence, some assertion of the will to live, even while knowing that it could never succeed.
They entered an elevator, and the car dropped swiftly. She was too numb to count the levels. The descent halted, the door rolled aside and she and her guard were met by three armoured Mags. The trio surrounded her and conducted her down a long corridor, toward a square archway covered by a metal slab. One of the four Magistrates increased his pace and reached for a lever jutting out from the frame of the arch. He pulled it up, and the slab hissed upward, operated by a combination of hydraulics and pneumatics.
Beyond the arch, the overhead lights were an eye-searing blaze. Brigid squinted and made out a blank, featureless wall. No, not exactly featureless—it bore deep pockmarks and dark stains. A set of wrist and leg shackles hung from the wall by brackets. She wasn’t surprised that the mode of execution was a basic firing squad, but she did wonder what they would do with her body.
Brigid marched onward, forcing her head erect. She had no plan except to die without shaming herself. To weep and beg for mercy would not accomplish anything or delay the inevitable.
The Mag at the lever reached out and took her roughly by the arm, pulling her aside. To his companions, he said tersely, “Take your positions. Make sure your weapons are properly primed. We want no misfires.”
The three Magistrates hesitated, but responded to the tone of command. They stepped beneath the arch. Immediately the armoured man slapped at the lever, and the heavy metal panel rushed down, hitting the floor with a booming thud. Faintly, on the other side, came cries of astonishment and angry confusion.
“Don’t stand there gawking, Baptiste,” said Kane. “They’re locked in, but they can comm-call for help.”
Brigid dared hesitate only a second, then she started running beside Kane, who appeared to have no trouble jogging in the armour. She tried to think of something, anything to say. “I didn’t recognize you,” she finally said.
“You weren’t supposed to. Can you run any faster?”
Instead of increasing her speed, she came to a complete halt. Kane sprinted on for a few yards, realized she wasn’t beside him, slowed and whirled around, advancing on her angrily.
“Do you want to die?” he demanded.
“No,” she answered. “But I don’t want to participate in a Mag scam. How do I know this rescue isn’t a farce, a trick to lead you to a Preservationist hideout?”
Kane’s lips creased in a frown. “Is there one? Are you really a Preservationist?”
“Not exactly. Somebody claiming to represent them contacted me anonymously last year, but I never spoke to anyone or met anyone. As far as I know, the Preservationists are nothing more than a straw adversary, a front for a Mag op.”
“And as far as I know,” Kane said grimly, “I’m helping a traitor escape from a deserved death sentence.”
The man and woman regarded each other silently. Then Brigid gave Kane her smile. “Paranoia is such a subtle yet devastating weapon, isn’t it?”
“You’re not paranoid if they really are after you, Baptiste,” Kane shot back.
“There’s the conundrum. I don’t know if they really are after me.”
“Trust me on this. They really are.”
She sighed heavily. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m making it up as I go along. For the moment, we’re hitting the Pits.”
Brigid tried to consider his words dispassionately, realized she couldn’t, so she started running again. “Okay.”
Kane fell into step beside her. “What convinced you?”
“If this were a trick, you would have described a cunning and devious scheme, full of twistie-turnie strategies.”
“Because I’m flying by my ass, you have faith in me?”
“Sure,” she panted.
“Oh.”
They spoke no more, devoting their breath to running. They sprinted along the corridor, around corners, following bends, keeping close to the walls. Brigid followed Kane’s lead. He seemed to know where he was going. When she heard the steady throb of machinery, she realized they were on E Level, the manufacturing facility.
Coming to a stop at an L-junction, Kane gestured for her to keep back, and then peered around the left-hand corner. A moment later, he waved her forward.
A long vista of great machines opened up, arrayed in a number of extended lines. Mechs and techs wearing protective goggles and headgear operated the equipment. She saw drill presses, forges, smelters, crucibles. Their combined rattles, clanks and roars were nearly deafening. Some of the machines shot sparks, emitting the metallic odour of ozone, while others spit jets of steam. Chain conveyors rattled in jerks and starts. A forest of girders supported a trussed network of overhead catwalks.
She had never been here before, and she understood why.
The teeth-jarring racket, the sparks, the clouds of steam, gave it an aspect of a pocket-size hell on earth, populated by damned souls.
This was the level devoted to providing comfort to the Enclaves, producing and manufacturing, and in many instances, reproducing and re-manufacturing tools, weapons, engine parts and fixtures of all sorts.
Along one wall, protected by a heavy-gauge-wire-screened enclosure, she glimpsed a line of
humped nuclear generators, which provided the power. The wall behind them was studded with meters, dials and glass-encased readouts. She wondered if Kane intended to knock out the energy source, since it was such an obvious target. Instead, he pointed directly ahead.
“See that door on the far wall?” He spoke loudly to be heard over the incessant roar.
She narrowed her eyes, wishing she had her glasses on. She tried to follow his pointing finger, but her view was obscured by billows of steam and spark showers. “No.”
“Doesn’t matter. Follow me. Don’t look around. No matter what happens, just keep going.”
Kane started off, walking in brisk, long-legged strides. Brigid followed him. The noise, the smell, the heat—all were a physical assault. She felt her bones vibrating in rhythm with the crashing machinery. The air was stagnant, choked with the thick odours of grease and superheated metal.
She kept her eyes on Kane’s black-shelled back, trying to imitate his steady, measured tread. Several times she had to dodge a flurry of sparks and once she barely avoided being scalded by a hissing spurt of steam.
All of this old ironmongery was incongruous, she realized, powered as it was by atomic generators. She knew more-advanced equipment had existed before Nukeday. Then again, she chided herself, the more advanced the equipment, the more educated the people had to be in order to operate it.
But then, she remembered her recent presentencing exchange with the baron, and his views. In this tortured period of humankind’s existence on earth, knowledge must also bring death.
The few people in their path barely glanced at them. Once they saw Kane’s armoured figure looming out of the mist, they immediately directed their attention elsewhere. They probably feared a surprise inspection was under way.
Long before they reached the door, Brigid was perspiring and breathing heavily. The lead-shielded door bore an exclamatory warning in white paint Absolutely No Admittance Beyond This Point! No Exceptions!
The hasp was secured by a thick padlock, almost the size of her fist. Wiping at the sweat filming her face, she yelled in his ear, “Do you have the key?”
Kane nodded, lifting his right hand. The Sin Eater sprang into it, flame blooming from the barrel. Because of the background roar, the shot sounded no louder than a hand clap. The padlock jumped and broke apart. Kane ripped the shattered mass from the hasp and pushed open the door. It appeared to require quite a bit of effort He stepped through, looked around and indicated with a gesture that the way was clear.
After Brigid stepped through, he pulled the door closed, and the volume of the racket was reduced by half. The air was much cooler, and she couldn’t help but sigh in relief.
They stood in almost complete darkness, at the bottom of a high shaft. She could barely make out the contours of a corkscrew staircase, twisting up into the dimness.
“I can barely see,” she said, unconsciously lowering her voice to a whisper.
Kane tapped his visor. “I’ll see for both of us.”
“Where to now?”
“Like I said. Tartarus.”
“Feels like we’ve already been there,” she murmured.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WHEN THE GROUND collapsed beneath their feet, they tumbled down together. Kane did his best to cushion Brigid’s fall. It seemed only polite, since he was in the lead and holding her hand. The fall was completely unexpected, and he had to give the archivist credit, she didn’t cry out or curse the way he did.
They landed in a pile of soft dirt and half slid, half rolled to its base. Brigid ended up lying atop him. Pushing her hair out of her face, she said, “I thought you’d come this way before.”
“Years ago. There’s been some changes. Besides, we ended up where we wanted to be.”
By the light enhancer on his helmet, he saw her blink around and wrinkle her nose. “Smells like gasoline or something.”
As he looked up at her bright emerald eyes, the thought came to him unbidden that they were on the run, but it was her wild, dishevelled hair that looked like a fugitive sunset. He scoffed at himself as something stirred in him, but he found himself reluctant to push her away. “Old storage tanks for a fuel repository. A long, long time ago.”
Brigid climbed to her feet, standing ankle deep in dirt, brushing grit from her hair and clothes. Kane stood, scanning the area. He saw places where the soil had been disturbed and he silently heaved a sigh of relief. These were signs that Grant had come this way, and not too long before.
He took her hand and started to lead her, but Brigid dug in her heels, wresting herself away. “Wait.”
“Why?”
“Why are you doing this for me? You’re risking everything.”
Kane replied quietly, “Partly because I’m responsible. You were just doing your job, what a Magistrate told you to do.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
“No. I have to know what you learned, why it scared the shit out of Salvo.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“All he told me was that this Dulce place figures very prominently in the plans of the Trust.”
“The Trust?”
“Tell me what you know, and if we have the time, I’ll tell you what I know.”
Brigid talked, quickly and quietly. Kane listened without interjecting comments or questions, not even when she mentioned the Archon Directive, Conception Infinitis and the description of the teletransducer.
“It’s obvious that the seeds of the baronies were planted back in the twentieth century, long before the Nukeday,” Brigid said. “Conception Infinitis, the strongholds, even this so-called Archon Directive were components of a far-ranging plan.”
“And the nuking interrupted it,” Kane said.
“Or was the main component of it,” she retorted.
“I don’t understand.”
“Think about it. The population was reduced to a manageable level, to a point where concerted resistance against the unification program was utterly futile.”
Kane gazed at her, even though she couldn’t see him. He didn’t know what to say; he wasn’t even sure of his feelings. But the one emotion growing within him wasn’t fear. It was despair.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand again.
“What about your story?”
“Later. Someone is waiting for us.”
He led her down the hollow cylinder of the old fuel cistern. She stumbled over loose stones and chunks of concrete that had fallen from above. He should have been more observant about the obstacles in her way, but he was thinking about his beliefs, or more importantly, his disbeliefs.
After all, Kane hadn’t truly accepted what he’d been told by Baron Cobalt, Salvo or the members of the Trust. He swore at himself for his doubts and confusion. But in the final analysis, it really didn’t matter if everything or nothing at all he’d been told was true. What mattered was that he’d stayed alive, survived, eagerly eaten the crap he’d been handed and asked for more.
The issues now confronting him were of far greater importance than his life or the lives of Brigid, Grant or even his father. He’d allowed primitive fears and angers, and worse, curiosity—to motivate him. Baptiste had given him fair warning, though. She had said only two days ago, “You brought all this up. Curiosity always has its price, you know.”
He, Grant and Brigid had paid the price, and now all three of them were on their own and on the run. It was far too late to ask for a refund.
He found the rungs leading to the hatch and, bidding Brigid to remain motionless, he clambered up. The heavy iron cover moved fairly easily, proof again of Grant’s passage.
Sliding the metal disk to one side, Kane poked his head up and took a quick recon of the foul-smelling alleyway. He saw no one, and crawled out. Brigid followed a heartbeat later, blinking in the early morning sunlight, almost overw
helmed by the foul odours.
“Welcome to the Tartarus Pits,” he said, striving for a light tone. “The tour starts immediately.”
Brigid didn’t reply. She didn’t have to, because her face displayed her emotions. Kane checked the mouth of the alley, found the lane clear and gestured for her to join him. They moved only in shadows, working their way toward the east wall. They stepped over dead rats and Pit dwellers sleeping under blankets of garbage.
“Have you come up with a plan yet?” Brigid asked, not trying to disguise the disgust in her tone.
“More or less. I’m taking you to a man who can—if anyone can—smuggle you out of the barony.”
“To where?”
“The Terra Infernus, where else?”
“What makes you think I want to leave?” Fright caught at her voice. “I’d prefer the Pits to the Terra Infernus.”
Kane stopped, turning to face her. “We’re seizing the offensive here, Baptiste. I’m surprised we’ve gotten this far. But you can’t stay in the Pits. It’s the first place the Mags will search.”
“If I leave the barony, I’ll be an—” She bit back the word, unable to utter it.
Kane spoke it for her. “An outrunner. It’s better than being dead.”
“It’s not supposed to be.” Her lips trembled. “I’ve thrown my whole life away.”
Clumsily, he stroked her tangled, dirty hair, trying to soothe her. “No, Baptiste. You still have a life. It’ll be hard, but it will be life.”
“What kind of life can I have in the Terra Infernus?” Her voice was thin and small like a child’s. “I’m an archivist, not a survivalist. Where will I go?”
Kane was growing impatient, increasingly aware of the passing of precious minutes. “I don’t know. Unless you know of a Preservationist hideout or can find a secret portal to paradise, you don’t have many options. Neither of us do.”
Her eyes suddenly flashed brightly, overwhelming the fear in them. “Quantum Interphase Teletransducers.”
“What about them?”
“They were colloquially known as portals. I read about them, the strongholds, their locations. If we could find one—”