Shadowboxer (34 page)

“Good.”

“Don’t know about your friends, though. Where are they?”

“Who?” Boomer blinked at the word. “Oh, those gleebs aren't with me. They may pretend to be pirates, but I have no idea who or what they really are. Hard data. I strongly suggest you hunt the jimps like rabid devil rats and slit ’em into chum. Especially the mage.”

“M-m-mage?”

“Def. A shaman, sings for Cat. However, I will be happy to give you a full physical description, along with their names, weapons, and known abilities.” Boomer could also have told the city stars how to track the Jym suits using their internal security systems, but that would reveal way too much of what IronHell knew about the dometown defenses.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “That is, I’ll download once I’m safely away from here and those fragging killer Snowballs out there.” He gestured with a thumb.

Drawing his weapon, the guard pulled the trigger. The triple barrels rotated up to speed with a whine, and a stuttering stream of highvelocity rounds violently slammed the pirate back against the wall of the chem reactor, tearing his body into bloody chunks. After reloading, the badge waited until the decapitated head messily exploded, then grabbed his handset and hit Transmit.

“Hello, Central? I just killed the pirate. Had to. He said a forbidden word. Yeah, that one. He also said the other invaders aren’t pirates, which makes it a cybernetic lock they are. We better twig those yobos double pronto.”

Nervously, the guard glanced around at the catwalks above this level, the laser spot of his tribarrel searching for any movements in the shadows. “And one of them is a mage” he added softly with a shudder.

* * *

Less than an hour later, a group of workers in bright orange Gunderson Corporation Jym suits waddled out from Low Dome on their regular duty schedule. Heading for the sea-going equivalent of tractors and combines, nine of the suits carried the regulation two tanks of compressed air on their backs. But one of the group carried the unusual number of three. As the group chatted with each other over their short-range Gertrudes, one suit went casually off by itself into the tall deep weed beds. A moment later, there was a brief flurry of motion as something small and metallic streaked away over the lush farmland, moving toward the distant mountains at an incredible velocity. When the Jym suit returned, it was carrying only two tanks of air.

Nobody seemed to notice.

* * *

Unrolling a bolt of red carpet over the perforated steel flooring on the dome, the orange-uniformed crew cycled down a ladder attached to the ceiling, and one technician climbed up quickly. Checking the validity of the magnetic seal, he released the mechanical lock and spun the wheel on the top hatch. The circular slab of metal swung off on a silent pivot flange. Set within a recessed area a good meter in height was another hatch with a similar locking wheel, both moist with sea water. Rapping three times, then three times more, on the second hatch, the technician undid the second mechanical lock and spun the wheel, undogging the smaller hatch. This one swung upward, exposing a sternfaced Emile standing like a statue on the other side, pack on his back, wand in hand and Grand glowering from a shoulder. Dumbfounded, the norm was unable to speak for awhile. Emile was not surprised at his reaction.

“Hello, sir,” said the norm, swallowing hard. “Please follow me, sir.” And he quickly descended to clear the way.

Primly exiting the bathysphere, Emile climbed down to the red carpet. Wide-eyed stares greeted his appearance, and Grand chittered unhappily as his eyes darted about. Emile was standing in a small undersea dome, its flat ceiling dotted with six pressure hatches identical with the one he had just used. The curved walls were ringed with thick portholes, clusters of air tanks, and puncture repair kits every two meters. The strip of carpet underfoot led to a half-circle tunnel extending off into the distance. A group of people were standing in the mouth of the well-lit tube; a norm male in a standard business suit, a norm female in a severe business dress, no jewelry, and three hulking trolls in full combat armor and sporting Mossberg SMGs with grenade launchers. Two of the metahumans had chromed eyes, the third was wearing darkly tinted wraparound glasses of unknown function. But Emile suspected they were of military origin.

“W-welcome to Old Dome, Monsieur Ceccion,” said the suit, giving a stiff bow from the waist. His pronunciation wasn’t bad:
Ses-shun,
he said firmly. “I am Dan Robinson, executive vice president of Gunderson Oceanographic Industries. A pleasure, sir. A real pleasure.”

Emile said nothing, concentrating on his breathing. The noise filled his ears like gusting thunder. Yes, this place was near the source of his feelings of suffocation and nightmares. Very near.

As the staff began unloading the luggage and equipment boxes, Robinson gave a forced smile. “And this is my assistant, Rebecca Thomas.”

“We’ve heard so much about you, Monsieur Ceccion,” said the female, sweat trickling down her face. “I certainly hope you will enjoy your stay here.”

Again Emile did not respond, but thumped the flooring with his wand as if to test its solidity. The grilled metal tanged musically and Grand hissed at the noise. The orange jumpsuits paused in the unloading, but Thomas brusquely motioned them back to work. “Ms. Harvin sends her regrets that she is not able to greet you personally,” said Robinson, his artificial smile weakening. “But she asked me to communicate her regards. I trust your trip went well?”

“Survival was achieved,” said Emile, feeling as if he was only linked to this plane of existence by the sheer force of his will.

The norm assumed a quizzical expression. “Come again, please?”

Ignoring the breeder, Emile walked to a porthole and looked outside. The stupendous bubblecity was visible beyond the lush hexacres of green farm land, with jagged mountains faintly discernible in the far distance. Beyond the rocky sentinels was the ultimate blackness, darker than even interstellar space where a trillion blazing stars tried to banish the eternal night. Down here, there was no light, except for the rare phosphorescence of exotic tubers from the depths and what Substitute suns humanity brought along with them.

“You did not kill them here,” Emile said quietly, turning away from the vista. “Not here, no.”

The suits exchanged nervous looks, smiles gone completely.

Wetting his lips, Robinson hurried over. “Please, sir, accompany me to the elevators and we will discuss this in private,” he whispered, stern and quick.

“No.” Emile walked away from the annoyance. Long tail lashing, Grand growled unhappily as they entered the tunnel
and found the slidewalk. As they stepped onto the ribbed
matting, the endless belt activated at their weight and started to move slowly off, gently accelerating to a casual speed.

The tunnel all around Emile was very well illuminated by indirect lighting. Sitting on the surface of the seabed, the tunnel was forged of steelloy rings thicker than an ork, with titanium-reinforced ceramic sheets in quadruple layers. Only the visible interior was of standard macroplas, gaily painted in murals depicting the wonders and delights of the sea. Emile did not know how he was aware of these details, not yet anyway, but he sensed that the answer, and many more answers to questions unasked, lay ahead of him, deep within the bubblecity.

A manicured hand roughly jerked him around, and Emile found himself face to face with the suit again.

“What are you on, drugs? Chips?” demanded Robinson hotly. “This is outrageous behavior! Mr. Harvin himself sent you, mage, and this is how you arrive? Fried like a gutterkin?”

“Be quiet,” Emile commanded, gesturing with his vine-covered wand. The length of the wood seemed to glow for a tick.

Curling a lip, Robinson moved his mouth and lips in pantomime but not a sound came out. Not a squeak. Recoiling, the norm gave a silent scream and backed away from the elf, the motion of the slidewalk carrying them quickly apart.

“Guards, stay with our guest,” ordered Thomas, stepping between Emile and the Gunderson executive, holding up her briefcase as if was some kind of protective shield. “I’ll take care of Mr. Robinson.”

“Understood, m’am,” answered the troll with sunglasses, and the armored trio briskly walked alongside the slidewalk as it whisked Emile along. He did not mind their company, as he sensed these soldiers had nothing to do with the slaughter.

Overhead, a neon script sign hanging from the ceiling proclaimed that it was two klicks till the city customs inspection. Listening and watching, Emile saw that every quarter-klick he passed a band of discoloration spanning the entire floor. He knew those to be the tops of pressure bulkheads, veined barriers of thick resilient materials that would automatically activate if the tunnel lost pressure or became punctured. For an industrial installation, purely interested in the peaceful exploitation of the natural resources of the ocean depths, the dometown certainly seemed to be armored for war.

Shifting his backpack, Emile stepped off the slidewalk at Immigration, and breezed past Customs as if their guards and fences were merely decorations. Stunned faces were everywhere and nobody made a move to stop him. Walking through a lobby, he bypassed the elevators going to Old Dome and proceeded onto a bare promenade. The Low Dome spread out before him, and Emile was forced to blink away his distorted vision. But that didn't help it as it had before. He still saw the world as mixed images, a dozen facets of the shifting skyline, the moving buildings, the shifting dome overhead.

“Not here either,” he said to himself and to the others not with him, but present still. Walking to the railing, he stared out at the bubblecity. It was a desolate place, a place of machines and enslavement and despair. Everybody he saw was either in a hurry or frowning. Most were both.

“Out there,” Emile told his familiar, pointing with his staff. “They all died out there ... somewhere .. . near ... a wall?”

Grand growled in response, as if already aware of the truth.

“Come,” said Emile to the trolls, moving toward the exit doors. The few people about rapidly cleared a path for them. “If Barbara Harvin wants me so bad, she will know where to find me.”

29

Watching the world go by, they stood in the mouth of an alleyway.

“I want to know when the hell it will get dark,” grumbled Moonfeather.

“I don’t think it does,” Delphia said, gesturing. “Observe the street corners. Note the configuration of the store signs.” Her eyes widened. “No lights. There’s no fragging street lights, no neon. They must never turn off that blasted dome!”

“No shadows, no night,” grumbled Thumbs. “A chummer could go crazy here!”

“Hey, zone this,” said Moonfeather, watching the street. “Have you noticed that there’s no cars, no bikes, nothing with a chemical exhaust that might pollute the air.”

A squat City Guard squad car hummed by, its angular sides bristling with gunbarrels.

“Electric,” Thumbs noted, hulking lower.

“And well-armed,” corrected Delphia. “But I’m sure nobody else is.”

Thumbs nodded. “Yeah. They might have knives or drek like that, but no projectile weapons. It’s like—”

“Not
like
,” said Moonfeather. “This
is
a prison and they’re freaking slaves.”

“Well?” asked Delphia softly as Silver rejoined them. She’d been snooping around for a way to jack into the city’s grid. “Anything?”

“Yeah,” reported Silver. “I found a busted telecom, wired up a port, and jacked in. Security was poor and my can openers and mimic utilities cut through easy. I don’t think they’ve got many deckers here.”

“Great. Download us.”

She took a breath. “Well, for one thing, we’re not going to be able to get ourselves a bolthole down here.”

“Why not?” Delphia asked.

“They call this section Low Dome. It’s where the workers live. Whenever a batch of newbies arrive from the surface, a doss is assigned to each one. And worse—”

“Worse?”

“Our credsticks won’t work here either. The Gunderson Corporation owns this ant farm, and every stone, stick, and thing in it—everything! They flat out own it all. It’s a company town. The workers get paid with a company-issue credsticic.”

“Ruthless,” said Delphia.

“And it means we’re broke,” added Thumbs. “Our sticks are worthless down here.”

“Zero sweat,” Moonfeather said. “All we gotta do is mug some slag and snatch his stick.”

Silver frowned and leaned against the rough brick wall, her arms crossed. “TGC also owns every sub, every Jym suit—drek, they own the air! Nobody ever gets back up to the surface.” She paused and shivered. “Ever.”

“We’re trapped here?”

“Seems so.”

Delphia waved that aside. “Merely an inconvenience. We have our own Jym suits, and once recharged we can leave whenever we wish.”

“And go where? Walk to fragging Miami?” exploded Thumbs. “We’d run out of air long before we covered the hundreds of klicks.”

“The goal I have in mind is much closer.” Delphia patted Thumbs on the shoulder. “Trust me,
omae
. We can blow whenever we wish.”

Silver gave a bone-cracking yawn. “I don’t know about you chummers, but I say we still gotta find a place to ice for a bit. I’m dragging hoop.”