James Axler – Exile to Hell

His eyes behind the thick lenses sparkled. “Welcome to your exile. We may as well begin the indoctrination.”

He took a sideways step, and a half-dozen figures in white bodysuits emerged from the mouth of the corridor. They held pristine-condition SA80 subguns across their chests. The three men and three women were different as to skin color, height and build, but they were all sleek, fast and very efficient. They immediately took up position in a half circle facing the four people. They didn’t level their blasters, but they handled them so deftly, Kane knew they were experts in their use.

“You will turn over your weapons,” Lakesh said, “and accompany them to decam. Afterward, we will talk.”

Brigid swept her green eyes over the six armed people. “Will we be allowed to leave?”

Lakesh gave her a sad, cryptic smile. “Of course, Brigid. But you have nothing to leave for and no place to go. I, unfortunately, contributed to that.”

Grant and Kane exchanged a brief glance, then both of them handed over their side arms. Kane unsnapped his helmet’s jaw guard and tugged it off of his head with an audible sigh of relief. Brigid glanced at him, did a double take and said in an undertone, “You look terrible.”

“Good. First article of the Magistrate’s oath. Mind and body should always be in sync.”

Three of the people in white flanked them, and the other three closed up behind them. They walked back into the corridor and turned into the first door on the right. It opened up onto a wide, white-tiled shower room. Each stall was enclosed by shoulder-high partitions. Rad-counter gauges were affixed to the walls beneath the shower heads.

“Undress in there,” one of the women said. She was stocky of build, her skin a deep bronze, her eyes dark brown, her ash blond hair braided at the back of her head. “Your clothing will have to be decontaminated, too.”

Kane stepped into the cubicle, and the rad sensor read him. Though the needle stayed in the orange area, it wavered dangerously close to red. He shed his armor, piling it beneath the showerhead. A mixture of warm liquid disinfectant and cleansing fluid sprayed from the nozzle. He worked the decam stream into a lather and massaged it into his scalp and all over his body. He kept one eye on the rad counter. When the needle leaned over into the yellow zone, a jet of cold, clear water gushed down and rinsed him off.

After he stepped out of the stall, he felt much better. A man handed him a white bodysuit, and he pulled it on. It fit well, except for the boot socks, which were a tad too small.

Grant’s bullet wound was rebandaged and Domi’s ribs bound after she was diagnosed as having a cracked third rib. When everyone was similarly showered and attired, they were escorted back into the corridor, then into a room near the T-junction. Lakesh sat waiting behind a desk in a small, sparsely furnished office. Besides the desk and four chairs, the only other piece of furniture was a small computer console.

He waved them to the chairs, then extended a hand, offering Grant and Kane a pair of slim cigars. They looked at them suspiciously.

“Tobacco cleanses the heart and calms the spirit, or so the Native Americans believe,” Lakesh said. “Besides, I understand you two have developed a fondness for cigars. They’re real, not that homegrown domestic stuff you get in Tartarus.”

Kane and Grant took them and the big lighter Lakesh handed over. After they had set the cigars alight and sent gray wreaths curling, ceilingward, Lakesh said, “I wish I could indulge myself, but at my age and condition, it’s tempting fate. I’m on my second set of lungs as it is.”

Brigid’s hand, poised to fan smoke away from her face, halted in midmotion. “Sir?”

Lakesh interlaced his fingers on the desktop. “I have a great deal to tell you now that you’re outlanders. Does it bother you that I employ that term?”

“No,” stated Domi, matter-of-factly.

Lakesh smiled. “The mat-trans unit in this facility is the only one with no transit-feed connection to the others. Its jump lines are untraceable. This is a forgotten redoubt, considered long inactive by the barons and the Directorate. No one will ever find you.”