The Exodus Towers (67 page)

Darwin, Australia

24.FEB.2285

T
HE INVITATION ARRIVED
during the night.

Samantha woke to a soft rap at her door. Her head swam from the lingering effects of alcohol and a sudden powerful sensation of déjà vu. An attempt to tell whoever knocked to fuck off came out as a dry croak, and she fumbled about in the dark for her canteen. She found it, drank, and threw it at the door.

“Fuck off!” she said. No one had woken her in the middle of the night like this since Grillo’s blitz on the last holdout neighborhood in Darwin. She didn’t need another night like that. Not tonight, not ever.

“It’s Skadz, Sammy. Open up.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sat up. Sweat-soaked sheets fell away from her, the result of a blisteringly hot night and her body’s attempt to discharge the liquor by any means available. She smelled her armpit and winced. “What the hell do you want?”

“I need you to come with me.”

She growled and stumbled to the door of her tiny room. She pulled the door open a crack and looked at her old friend. His eyes were like twin moons against his dark skin, and the dark hangar beyond. “Shouldn’t you be as wasted as me? God, I’ve never seen you drink like you did last night.”

It had been a celebration, of sorts. Grillo’s position as head of the Jacobite Church cemented, along with official admission of his rule over Darwin and the space elevator. The story went that Platz Station had suffered a full and sudden
depressurization and loss of spin. All hands lost, the station scuttled due to damage during the event.

Blackfield, dead.

Sam suspected bullshit from the start but couldn’t bring herself to call Grillo out on it. What difference would it make? The man had played his cards and won, and now everyone knew.

The Nightcliff guards stationed at the airport had given everyone a respite from the alcohol ban, and even joined in the forced revelry. The four who shared the hangar with her were all still asleep at the card table below.

Things had gotten … a bit wild, even by Sam’s lofty standards. She had a vague recollection of diving naked from the catwalk onto a pile of couch cushions below, part of a game to see who could land the farthest from the raised walkway. The loser had to remove an item of clothing. It made sense at the time.

At least she hadn’t woken with one of the Nightcliff goons in her bed. Or worse, Skadz.

Sam’s head pounded. She felt like she’d been run over by a truck. Skadz, on the other hand, looked alert. Energized. It infuriated her.

“I was drinking water,” he said.

“Huh?”

“All night. Water. I tried to tell you to do the same but you had a head start.”

She laughed in his face. “Why would I want to drink water?” she asked, and took a sip from her canteen.

“Because we have a meeting to attend. Like I said, I tried to tell you.”

“A meeting? Where?”

“In the city.”

Samantha laughed again, and tapped her skull. “You go. I’m still wandering the fun house up here. Besides, I suspect you’re just going to try to convince me to bug out with you and leave the city behind.” He’d broached the idea a few times since Grillo took the city. Parts of it appealed to her, parts didn’t. Mostly, she found that if she ignored anything happening beyond the fence that surrounded the airport, things
weren’t all bad. The missions were boring, sure, but it beat a life of hiking around and living off the land.

“That’s not it at all,” he said. “It’s about Skyler.”

They slipped out through a loose section of the fence on the airport’s north side, avoiding the still-guarded main gate.

Skadz ushered her along at a brisk walk. The pace, the fresh air, helped clear Samantha’s head enough that soon she didn’t need to lean on her friend. Her clothes still clung to her like a clumsy lover, damp with sweat and the hot sticky air of Darwin’s slums. She could smell herself and felt vaguely embarrassed at how disgusting she must be, but the worry vanished when Skadz led her into the thick press of the Maze.

The stench of the place hit her like a wall. Shit and piss, incense and hookah, fresh rain and stagnant murky puddles all blended together in the cauldron of a district. Whatever odor she brought to the mix would be a marked improvement.

“I’m gonna be sick,” she said just in time to release the meager contents of her stomach onto a brick wall. Skadz held her wet strands of blond hair out of her face, and stood watch while she retched a second time.

Even at this hour, people were wandering by. Not many, though; not like before. The bustle and energy of the Maze seemed gone, and not due to the time of night. The people Sam saw were huddled, dark shapes. Heads down and shoulders slumped, their gaze never wavering from the ground in front of them.

Skadz matched their hunkered, depressed posture and guided her through the twisted mess of alleys. Twice she smacked her forehead on low pipes before she got the hint and bent over.

Three Vietnamese men in soiled clothes came from a doorway and said something to Skadz. A threat of some sort, too quick for Sam to follow. Skadz didn’t break stride. A gun appeared in his hand in response, and they retreated back into the shadow.

“That kinda shit hardly ever happens here anymore,” he muttered a few sharp turns later. “The Jakes have this place locked down.”

“Don’t call them the Jakes,” Sam said. She’d heard the slang and chastised Skadz twice already for using it. To Sam it tarnished the memory of her sniper, her friend. The term might be widespread and unstoppable, but that didn’t mean she had to hear it from friends.

“Hell. Sorry,” Skadz said.

After another dizzying set of turns they stumbled into a wide merger of alleys. Wide by the Maze’s standards. Sam recognized it. The café, Clarke’s, where Prumble had paid them for the Japan mission, stood at one corner, dark and uninviting.

Skadz walked up to the door and rapped it twice. Seconds later they heard a steel gate behind the door retract. Then the latch made a series of clicks and the door swung open. He said something in a language Sam didn’t know, and the old woman within responded in kind with a motherly tone. She ushered the two of them in and pointed at a stairwell half-hidden behind an ornate drape that hung from the wall next to her shop counter.

Skadz went through and Samantha followed him. The stairwell was pitch-black, the narrow steps precarious. At the top a candle lit the hallway. Wood floors creaked under their feet as Skadz strolled calmly to a door. He entered without knocking.

Inside, two men sat on a faded Afghan carpet. One was gaunt, with stringy gray hair and a thin face that seemed stretched across the skull below. He looked vaguely familiar.

The other man was Prumble.

Her hug turned into something of a tackle. Prumble laughed as they fell back against the wall, his girth just enough to save him from toppling over under her affectionate assault.

“Sammy, Sammy,” he said, and clapped her on the back.

She released him and put her hands on her hips. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Right here,” he said. “Lying low, gone to ground. The shadow, the snake.”

A giggle escaped her lips. “Stealth has never been your strong suit.”

“I have a strong suit?”

“You tell me.”

Prumble looked up at the ceiling. “Hmm. I have a purple suit with yellow pinstripes. That’s pretty strong.”

“Seriously, where have you been? You couldn’t say hello?”

“Here,” he said, the mirth not entirely gone from his pudgy face. “I became an investor in this scraper’s rooftop garden, and in the café below. Honestly I haven’t left in almost two years, Sam. Haven’t spoken to anyone until these two sought me out. I’m still a wanted man, though that particular attribute seems to be waning.”

The thin, sickly man next to him shuffled slightly.

“Who’s this?” Sam asked.

“Meet Kip Osmak,” Prumble said. “Communications officer in Nightcliff Control, former assistant to Russell Blackfield, and longtime supplier of Orbital wish lists to myself.”

“Hello,” the man said.

Sam looked him up and down, reassessing her opinion. “Nightcliff comm, huh? Must be interesting work.”

“I hear many things,” Kip said, as if this was a curse. “Interesting things.”

“Which brings us,” Skadz said, “to the reason for this little reunion. Tell her what you told us, Kip.”

Before the slight man could speak, the old woman from downstairs came in with a fresh pot of Darjeeling tea and a plate of pasty white buns dappled with spice. She placed them in the center of the small room and left without a word.

“Many thanks, Renuka,” Prumble said as the door clicked closed. “Sit, everyone.”

Sam took a cushion near the door, next to Skadz. Prumble sat opposite them, with Kip sandwiched between the giant man and the wall.

“Damn that tea smells good,” Skadz said, pouring a cup.

“Good enough to mask my flatulence,” Prumble said. He winked at Samantha. “Kip, speak. I’ll sample these buns for dangerous poisons while you tell your tale.”

“As Mr. Prumble said,” Kip began, “I have a position in the control tower within Nightcliff, and thus access to—”

Prumble held up his hand and Kip went silent. “Christ, man, skip to the good part.”

Kip gave a shy nod, his eyes downcast. “Of course. Well, you see, after the schism between Mr. Blackfield and Neil Platz, I—”

“Skyler’s alive,” Prumble said over the man. “There’s a new space elevator over in Brazil, and Skyler’s there. They’re all there, the runaways, the traitors.”

“I … holy shit,” Sam said. She’d known somehow, but it had always felt more like a childish hope than firm conviction, like a kid who clings to the idea of Santa Claus long after the other children have accepted reality and moved on.

“It gets better,” Skadz said. “Well, it gets crazier.”

“Oh?”

Kip looked to Prumble, as if seeking permission to speak. This time Prumble nodded at him and sat back.

“Blackfield is there, too,” Kip said. “He took Platz Station and joined up with the colony, along with everyone aboard, after the Jakes tried and failed to take over the station.”

He let the words sink in for a moment, and Sam felt the reality Grillo and his people had crafted shatter and fall away. For all of Grillo’s supposed virtue, he wasn’t above a little propaganda to suit his cause. But Skyler and Blackfield, together? On the same side? That she found impossible to believe.

“That ain’t the crazy bit,” Skadz said.

“It’s pretty fucking crazy,” Sam said.

“Well, it ain’t it.”

“In a few days,” Kip said, “Grillo and his people will begin something called ‘Project Sanctify.’ ”

Samantha stared at him. “I don’t like it already.”

“Grillo, his followers, see the Darwin Elevator as a gift from God,” Kip said. “They’re now aware of the Elevator in Brazil, and as you can probably guess they’re not thrilled with the idea.”

“Suddenly our Elevator ain’t so special,” Skadz said. “Bible didn’t say ‘Jacob’s
Ladders,’
yeah?”

Prumble leaned in. “Grillo went to all this trouble to steal
the Darwin Elevator from Blackfield, to purify it, you could say, only to find the job’s only half-done.”

“Fuck,” Sam said.

“Indeed.”

“So Grillo’s going to try to capture that one, as well.”

“No,” Kip said. “From what I hear, Project Sanctify is about eliminating the colony, and the other Elevator.”

“Seems they think it’s the devil’s work,” Skadz said. “Or some shit. The Anti-Elevator.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “You’re right. That’s officially crazy.”

“Well, Sammy, Kip has even more than that,” Skadz said.

An apologetic look crossed the thin man’s face when Sam turned her full attention to him.

“Tell her the rest,” Prumble said to him.

Kip nodded. “Sanctify is bigger than that. Arrangements are being made to transfer personnel on Darwin’s stations down here. Soon only the Jacobite faithful will be allowed in orbit. Anything else is considered blasphemous, apparently.” Before Sam could say anything, Kip went on, gaining his voice the more he spoke. “And in the coming weeks, decrees will be announced. Laws to govern Darwin, the city. All of us.”

“Jacobite laws,” Prumble said. “You can imagine how liberal they are.”

Skadz plucked a white bun from the plate. “We’re going to go from anarchy to religious fascism. Extreme to bloody fucking extreme, Sammy.”

She felt a weight begin to press on her shoulders. A burden of guilt, and unspoken accusation. She’d been complicit in Grillo’s rise. She’d helped him deliver on his vision of a prosperous Darwin, and had closed her eyes to what that would mean in the end. Theocracy. Russell Blackfield was no doubt ruthless and dictatorial, but for the most part he’d let people go about their lives. As long as nothing threatened the Elevator, he’d left Darwin to its own devices. It was a shitty way to run the last bastion of humanity, but the idea of living under a totalitarian cult of religious freaks held even less appeal.

The three men were staring at her, waiting. None of them
needed to voice the question; she could see it on all three faces. Kip she couldn’t care less about, but to see that accusation on Prumble’s face, on Skadz’s, cut like a knife.

“I’m on your side,” she said. “I’ve been an idiot, yes, but I’m on your side.”

Prumble and Skadz exchanged a glance. “Happy to hear you say that, Sammy,” Skadz said.

“So,” she said, “I assume we’re not just here to gossip. What’s the plan? Run for Brazil? Try to stop Grillo?”

“Whoa, now hang on,” Skadz said. “Kip isn’t done. There’s more.”

“Goddamn, guys. I don’t know if I can handle more,” she said.

Now Kip leaned in. His expression changed. He glanced at each of them with sudden familiarity, as if he’d gone from outsider to conspirator. Near enough the truth, Sam realized.

“I still have contact with Platz Station,” he said. “A friend there. Our messages are relayed through … it doesn’t matter, the point is that exchanging information is difficult. Sporadic, terse.”

Prumble cut in again. “It’s the Builders, Samantha. They’re back.”