by Oisin McGann
He spoke to Maslow as little as possible now, uncomfortable with what the man was but willing to use him for as long as he could. When he was growing up, Sol had always loved action films that featured elite special forces and expert assassins who, obviously, fought heroically for a noble cause. He understood how Maslow could have been drawn into it. But Sol realized now that you became an expert only through practice and training, and the kinds of organizations that required people to be killed on a regular basis were unlikely to be very noble.
Particularly in a city that had no foreign enemies.
Soldiers followed orders; they didn’t get to pick their causes. Maslow and the other Clockworkers became elite killers by letting themselves be used, and after a while, it probably didn’t even matter to them what they were killing for. That was murder, plain and simple, and it seemed that Maslow was a natural. Sol wondered how much of that he’d been born with and how much was the result of hanging around with people who thought murder was just part of the job.
It was part of the reason why Sol still found it hard to trust him. That and the certainty he felt that Maslow had still not told him the whole truth about Tommy Hyung and his involvement with the daylighters. Sol found it hard to believe that Harley and the others could have planned to kill his father. They were a tough bunch, but he just couldn’t see them as killers. Not like Maslow and his old crowd.
Maslow was dressed in a dark red ISS uniform, one of a dozen costumes he had in a wardrobe in one of his hide-aways. Sol wondered if they were dead men’s clothes. Probably not. The Clockworkers could no doubt get hold of whatever uniform or ID they needed. Maslow had given him a standard patrol officer’s uniform that was too big for him, but the illusion would not have to last long—they just had to get into the house. Sol was sure that once Ragnarsson had a gun pointed in his face, he’d tell them everything they wanted to know.
The car glided through the streets, and Sol let his gaze wander over the lavish architecture. With such an emphasis on function in everything that was built in Ash Harbor, attractive but useless design features were a declaration of wealth. The buildings here had decorative details: casts of animals on the tops of pillars, columns framing the front doors, smoked glass. And there were dozens of other quirks and devices he had to struggle to remember the names of: crazy paving through gravel yards, fountains, coats of arms embossed on walls, floral designs sand-blasted onto glass.
It was the gardens that really struck him. He had rolled down the window to catch the odors, and now, as they sped past spacious houses, he could see grass. Real grass. And flowers, a bewildering array of sweet scents. The kinds of things he had only ever seen in the public hydroponic gardens, with their security cameras and proximity alarms.
Ragnarsson’s house was surrounded by a genuine stone wall fronted by an antique cast-iron gate hung on massive pillars. The gate was operated from the house by remote control. Maslow rolled down the window and leaned out, pressing the buzzer. A voice answered.
“Yes?”
“ISS to see Mr. Armand Ragnarsson,” Maslow barked, holding a fake identification card in front of the scanner. Sol wondered how hard those were to make.
“Do you have an appointment?” the voice asked officiously, after the scanner had verified the false ID as genuine. A remote camera zoomed in on the car.
“Open the gate!” Maslow snapped back.
There was a pause while the security guard pondered over whether he wanted to argue with the ISS. Then the gate started to swing open.
Maslow winked at Sol. “If you’re going to bluff, you have to do it with attitude.”
The driveway was real gravel, and the gardens were professionally designed, the manicured lawn bordered with curving beds of flowers and rock gardens. Flowers, trees, and space said more about Ragnarsson’s status than anything else. In Ash Harbor, wealth smelled of a garden in bloom. They drove up and stopped in front of the porch.
“Stay out of my way until I’m done with the security,” Maslow said, straightening his cap and the pair of dark sunglasses he was wearing—a popular look for menacing ISS officers.
A stout, square-shouldered man in a tracksuit answered the door—off his guard as he took in Maslow’s uniform—and was hurled back down the hall when Maslow jammed an electrical stun gun against his chest. The former Clockworker stepped inside and pulled out his pistol, straddling the unconscious man and handcuffing his hands behind his back. A second bodyguard came striding briskly into the hall to investigate the noise, and Maslow shot him with the stun gun, the pins hitting his chest, the charge shooting out along the wires and sending his body into spasm. The man gasped and fell to the floor, twitching. His limp arms too were quickly cuffed.
Sol stood waiting in the hall as the Clockworker disappeared deeper into the huge house. Hands in his pockets, he gazed around at the luxuriant décor. Real wood furniture and wallpaper made from some kind of organic fabric. The floor was wood too. The second guard had hit his head against it when he fell, and blood was dripping from a cut above his ear. Sol wondered if it would leave a permanent stain on the wood.
He could see the attraction of this kind of work. Charging in to nail this hugely powerful businessman, this giant of industry. His influence and wealth couldn’t protect him now. All it had taken was two committed people who were willing to do what needed to be done.
Maslow’s voice came from the end of the hall. “Sol!” he shouted.
Sol put on a pair of synth-fiber gloves and followed the sound. He was not prepared for the scene that awaited him.
Ragnarsson, a handsome man in his late forties, was in the large, well-equipped kitchen, where he had obviously been having breakfast. There was the smell of meat, and a bowl of fresh fruit sat on the table: apples and oranges, pears and grapes. Worth more than a week’s wages for most people. A woman in a traditional maid’s outfit lay unconscious and bound on the floor.
Ragnarsson was in good shape, with a deep tan, corded muscle in his arms, a six-pack stomach, and toned legs. Sol imagined that he would have been quite the sportsman in his youth. The expensive styling of his hair was still apparent despite the mess it was in now. Sol’s stomach turned as he realized what Maslow was doing at his request. The industrialist was sitting on top of the stove as the Clockworker bound him in place with electrical cord. He perched there, trembling, wearing nothing but his underpants, the rest of his clothes lying in a heap on the floor. A blindfold covered his eyes, and he was looking around with his chin raised, trying fruitlessly to see under its edge. Maslow took off his cap and sunglasses, leaving on his ever-present gloves, and stood in front of their captive.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Ragnarsson asked in a controlled voice. “Is it money? Just tell me what you want.”
“We have some questions for you,” Maslow told him. “Answer them and we’ll leave here without any more trouble. If you don’t answer our questions, or if we think you’re lying…I turn on this stove. Do you understand?”
The man nodded; sweat was breaking out on his forehead, but otherwise he was keeping his composure. Sol glanced uneasily at Maslow and moved closer. This wasn’t what they had talked about. He had thought that they’d just question Ragnarsson at gunpoint and get the answers that way. There had been no mention of cooking anybody. He fervently hoped that Maslow was just trying to scare the man, but by now he knew the Clockworker too well. Sol had started this, he would just have to make sure Maslow didn’t finish it.
“What do you know about the crane wreck last month?” he asked in a gruff voice he hoped did not sound like his own.
“The crane wreck?” Ragnarsson frowned. “I…nothing. I don’t know anything about it—other than what was reported.”
“You didn’t know Francis Walden?”
“Yes,” Ragnarsson said hesitantly. “He was a former employee of mine. He quit, transferred to Schaeffer.”
“Did you have him killed?” Sol asked.
“What? Of course
not!” Ragnarsson responded indignantly.
Without warning, Maslow hit him hard on the nose. Sol jumped, taken aback by the suddenness of the blow.
“Did you have him killed?” The Clockworker repeated the question.
“Aaauggh…” Ragnarsson groaned, his mouth open, blood pouring from one nostril.
Sol raised his fingers to the bridge of his nose, where he’d been hit so long ago.
“Did you have him killed?” Maslow raised his fist to punch the man again, but Sol caught his arm.
“No!” Ragnarsson yelled. “No, I did not have him killed! What is this? Are you playing games with me? Who are you? Who sent you?”
“Who do you think we are?” Sol asked.
Ragnarsson scowled in his direction, but didn’t answer.
“Who do you think we are?” Sol asked again.
The businessman raised his chin, his jaw set with determined defiance. “Who do I think you are? I think you’re Clockworkers who’ve just crossed the line, that’s what I think. You’ve gone too far—way too far. Do you know who I am?”
“Who runs the Clockworkers?” Sol moved closer to him. “Do they take their orders from you? Did you order the death of a man named Gregor Wheat?”
Ragnarsson cast his head around, as if trying to see through the blindfold. His expression had changed from controlled fear to one of puzzlement.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Maslow reached between his knees and turned the dial that switched on one of the rings on the stove. Beneath Ragnarsson’s bare thigh, the ring started to heat up.
“Did you order the death of Gregor Wheat?” Maslow repeated.
“No! Jesus, no! I’ve never heard of the guy.” Ragnarsson’s composure slipped as he felt the heat under his leg. “Please, God. Turn it off. Please!”
Maslow turned on another ring.
“I don’t know who he is, I swear!” Ragnarsson was panicking, his teeth gritted as his leg started to burn. “I’ll give you anything, just please turn it off!”
“What about the fire in the apartment block?” Maslow persisted. “Did you order that too? What other operations have you ordered? How many teams are there? Who else gives the orders? Is there anybody over you? This doesn’t end until you start giving us some answers!”
Sol watched in horror. Maslow was serious; he was going to burn the guy. His face was set in an implacable glare. He was not trying to help Sol now; he just wanted to break Ragnarsson. Something hissed, and their captive started screaming. Sol was frozen, his mind back in that small gray room with a man lifting the bag over his head to show him a pair of pliers.
He darted forward, pushing Maslow out of the way, and switched off the rings of the stove. His stomach was heaving, but he kept the vomit down. He grabbed Maslow’s arm and pulled him away. Maslow shook his head, staring at him in confusion. Sol bared his teeth and dragged the bigger man with him. When they got to the hallway, Sol turned on him with a tight, hysterical whisper.
“Are you freakin’ insane? We didn’t come here to torture him!”
“Then why did we come here?” Maslow asked, looking genuinely puzzled.
Sol stared at him helplessly, wishing he could explain: how seeing Ragnarsson tortured sickened him, and he was afraid that if he saw enough torture, there might come a time when it didn’t sicken him; how it made them as bad as the killers who were after them; how it was unreliable, because anybody in pain would say anything to make the pain stop. Anything at all. But he could see from Maslow’s face that none of this would make any difference to him. To him it was just a job to be done.
“I’ve had enough,” Sol said at last. “Let’s get out of here.”
On the way to the library, Cleo told Ana about Sol, swearing her to secrecy but knowing that there was no way she could be sure the teacher wouldn’t go straight to the police. Ana told Cleo about her interrogation by Ponderosa and assured her student that as far as she was concerned, the police could go to hell. The library was nearly empty: three other people sat in front of webscreens; a fourth sat at a table reading a real book. The room was poorly lit, its cream and mauve décor worn and ageing, the furniture badly in need of recycling. Like most public services in the city, its maintenance budget had been cut to the bone. Cleo and Ana walked past the climate-controlled bookcases to the rows of web tables and sat down at a screen.
“Okay,” Ana began. “If the fire wasn’t an accident, then the purpose was either to kill a lot of people or destroy the building. Let’s assume for the moment that we’re not dealing with mass-murdering psychopaths. So why would someone want the building out of the way?”
“To build something else on the site?” Cleo suggested.
“Sol said he thinks it was the Clockworkers, and that they set up the crane accident too. And we think Ragnarsson ordered that.”
“Right, well, Sol’s hunch notwithstanding, let’s see who owned the building to start with—see if they’ve applied for planning permission or rezoning.”
The building was owned by Racine Developments. They sat, flicking through the city-planning web site, searching to see if the company had made any suspicious applications.
“What’s going on here?” Cleo murmured. “Why are so many of these files locked? This stuff is supposed to be public.”
“Corporate privacy,” Ana told her. “Corporations can keep their applications secret if they can prove it’s important for their business. Which they always can. We need to go through each company’s shareholder web site. We can buy a single share in a company for next to nothing, then get access to their sites.”
Cleo could feel herself getting bored already. This was too much like schoolwork; she wanted to do something active. Sol was out there somewhere, prowling the under-city, gun in hand, taking extreme measures. It sounded so much more dramatic—and she had to admit to herself that she found this new, dangerous side to him something of a turn-on. But he had a professional hit man to help him, whereas she had…a teacher. She reminded herself that she had spent too long talking the talk and not walking the walk. It was time to knuckle down and make herself useful. She pulled her chair over to the screen next to Ana’s and started searching for leads.
Section 17/24: ANGER
SOL HAD ARRANGED to catch up with Cleo on the fire escape at the hospital, but they weren’t to meet until seven—after dark—and it was only four thirty. So Sol sat on the cluttered rooftop of a nearby salt refinery, the air warm and humid from the huge distillers beneath, which removed the much-needed salt from seawater pumped in from the frozen coast for drinking water. There was a growing sense of emptiness inside him—the feeling that he was never going to see his father again. After the episode at Ragnarsson’s, it seemed as if he had run out of options. There was nothing left for him to do.
“I thought you were ready for that,” Maslow said from behind him. “You have that edge, I know you have—you just need to forget all the sentimental rubbish you’ve picked up in your old life. In the alley, when you shot that man, I knew you had it in you to do that. But I knew you’d hesitate with the woman. That’s why I took her first and left the man to you.”
Sol was barely listening. He had been having nightmares about the killings in the alley—more about the woman with her twisted neck, but also of the man with the hole in his face. The thought sent a shiver through him. But he could reconcile himself to that and deal with the nightmares, it had been self-defense: them or him. Not with Ragnarsson. At his instigation, they had broken into the man’s house and tortured him. Sol knew there would be people who would have no problem even with that. The end justified the means. It was how these things played out. It was what being hard was all about. But always there was the figure of his father, shaking his head, disgusted at what his son was becoming. Gregor, who was hard without being cruel, whose strength was tempered by decency. Sol needed to remember who he was doing this for.
Sol missed his dad. It had not really hit home until now h
ow much he needed him. Ever since his mother and Nattie had died, Gregor had been his rock. Sol realized that he had never shown enough appreciation of his father. Everything had been warmer, more fun, when Nattie was there to banter with and Mom would hug him or tousle his hair as if he were still a little kid. Mom, who always got emotional about silly little things. It used to bug him until she died, and then he found that it was what he missed most about her. But in his grief, he had closed up and stopped feeling much affection for his father. They had just got on with life. He supposed that Gregor knew his son loved him. But it had been a long time since Sol had shown it.
“It’s not enough to be a fighter,” Maslow went on. “It’s about doing whatever it takes, having the nerve to do what other people won’t. You know what I mean? Maybe you don’t yet, but after you’ve lived this life for a while—”
“This life?” Sol spat, turning to glare at him. “What life? My father’s missing—I’m starting to think he might even be dead. I’m hiding all the time, sneaking around like some…some rat; the police are after me…. I’m afraid to go anywhere without you—a professional murderer—to babysit me, in case the people you used to work with find me and kill me. I helped torture a man…. I’m supposed to be training for the boxing trials! I’m supposed to be taking exams; I’m supposed to be leaving school next year! I can’t sleep, I can barely eat, I’m so scared sometimes…. Nothing’s ever going to be normalagain…. This isn’t a life.”
He stared wearily at Maslow. “I’m not like you. I can’t live like this, and I can’t…hurt people like you do. I just can’t.”
Maslow regarded him in stony-faced silence. “What choice have you got?” he asked.
Sol was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Cleo and Ana down on the street. They were striding briskly toward the hospital entrance. Sol and Maslow clambered to a corner of the refinery roof that looked over the drive up to the hospital door, just in time to see the teacher and her student walk in.