But beyond the loss of a life path, something else weighed so heavily on him that he wondered if it were possible for a Magistrate to weep. That was a strange concept, for he had never thought of shedding tears since he entered the division as a child.
A deep ache came over him for all the terrible things mankind had endured and for the darkness or extinction even yet to come.
He was sick in every cell of his being. He lay down on the bed and allowed the waves of sleep to crash over him.
He slept, deeply and dreamlessly.
When he woke, he was fit, rested and grimly determined. His wrist chron told him he had slept for over fourteen hours.
In the bathroom, he showered. Next he crossed the suite to his armor and inspected every piece of it, then field-stripped the Sin Eater, meticulously cleaned it and reassembled it.
He donned the ebony exoskeleton with deliberation, taking great care to firmly snap together the joints and secure all the seals. Since this could very well be the last time he would ever put it on, he paid strict attention to every nuance of the procedure. Each snap, click and clack of the pieces joining together held a new, special significance.
When he was armored up, the Sin Eater holstered in place, the helmet under his arm, he did something he hadn’t done in years, not since the first couple of months after receiving his duty badge. He examined his reflection in the mirror.
He liked everything he saw, except for the eyes staring back at him. They looked strange, different, almost unfamiliar. Slowly it dawned on him they were the eyes of a man who fully expected to die that day.
He turned smartly on his heel and left the suite. Out in the corridor, he looked straight ahead as he marched, wishing distantly that the alloyed floor didn’t possess such sound-absorbing properties. The echo of his measured boot treads would have made a nice accompaniment during his walk to the armory.
Once inside, he took a Copperhead from its case, made sure all its moving parts were oiled and attached it to his belt. He slid half a dozen clips of ammo into his belt compartments, three for his Sin Eater, three for the subgun. Lifting the lid of a crate full of grens, he examined them in their foam cushions. He was eyeballing an incendiary, like a shopper studying an egg at market, when Grant stalked in.
“What are you armored up for?”
“I’m out of here,” Kane replied brusquely. “No talking, no hand-wringing. I’m out of here.”
“To where?”
“Dulce.”
“I’m with you.”
“No. I’m going alone. I’ve ruined your life, Grant. I don’t want to be the one responsible for you losing it altogether.”
“That no longer applies, knowing what I do now. How could I want it back? Besides, if I’m not going,” Grant said, “then you’re not going.”
“Don’t screw around with me on this. Please. If you were ever my friend, you won’t interfere with me and you won’t go with me.”
Grant jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “You’ve gone simple on me, Kane. There are protocols here, and it’s got nothing to do with friendship or sentiment. Hell, half the time, I don’t even like you. But it so happens that we’re partners, and partners walk the hellfire trail together.”
Kane turned his back on him, still going through the grens. “We’re not Mags anymore. The partnership is dissolved.”
Grant stared at him speechless. Then he swore, whirled and stalked toward the door.
Kane didn’t look at him or try to call him back. Grant stopped before he went through the doorway. His faked anger hadn’t fooled either of them.
“All right,” said Grant in an uninflected, unemotional voice. “No games. No horseshit. You can run off, looking for the truth, wanting to die in a blaze of glory when you find it. I don’t blame you. I want to try to even up the score just as much as you do. But as long as you still wear that badge, we’re partners. So here’s how the stick’s gonna float-we’ll both go or neither of us will go.”