Kane saw Grant’s intent to serve the termination warrant. Despite his promise, his Magistrate’s pride was wounded. Kane quickly pushed himself in front of Grant. Sliding the Sin Eater back into its holster, he placed one finger over his helmet transceiver and asked, “How many blastermen outside?”
“Seven,” Reeth answered in a voice tight with pain. “Not counting the one that got chilled. That’s all. I swear.”
Reeth’s threat to outflank the Magistrates in the courtyard had been an empty bluff. Kane wasn’t too surprised. Gathering a handful of lace collar, Kane pulled Reeth away from Grant. He dragged him toward the collection of electronic equipment.
“Call them off. Tell them to throw their guns down into the canyon.” He had removed his finger from the transceiver.
As he expected, Salvo’s voice crackled immediately inside his helmet. “Kane? Kane! Who are you talking to? Report!”
Reeth’s trembling hands fumbled among the collection of gear on the table and came up with an old hand-held microphone, connected by a curling cord to a public-address system. He said shakily into it, “Lay down your weapons. Throw them over the ledge.”
On the vid screen, Kane watched the blastermen stare disconcertedly at each other, hefting their guns. They hesitated. He planted the bore of his Copperhead against the side of Reeth’s head.
“Do it!” yelled Reeth wildly.
His order also carried to the Magistrates down below. Salvo’s voice demanded angrily, “Kane! Report!”
Kane didn’t reply until he saw the blastermen begin pitching their guns over the lip of the ledge. He said crisply, “Zone secured. Move the team in.”
“You’ve got Reeth.” Salvo made it sound like an accusation. “Serve the warrant.”
“Walk along the bottom edge of the palace,” Kane said. “You’ll find an entrance on the right.”
“Kane! Follow your orders!”
Lips compressed in a tight white line, Kane unsnapped the chin lock and pulled his helmet off. By his reckoning, it would take Salvo and the team about fifteen minutes to reach them. He didn’t want the man to hear what he had to say, nor did he want to be distracted by orders shouted in his ear. Grant could tolerate their commander’s voice easier than he could.
Without the aid of his light enhancer, the room was very dim. The glow from the computer screen cast wavering, eerie shadows across Reeth’s face. Kane gestured to the worktable and said casually, “Impressive setup, Milt. Gun turrets, comps, electricity. All the comforts. Only one thing is missing.”
Reeth’s response was a gravelly whisper. “What’s that?”
“The equipment to forge ID chips.”
“Why would I want one of those?”
“Word has it you’re smuggling outlanders into Cobaltville. Can’t smuggle without providing the outlanders with ID chips. You should know that.”
Reeth tried to smile, lips twisting. “If you don’t see a forger, then I guess I’m not smuggling outies. Simple enough conclusion to reach.”
“Your blastermen are all outlanders,” Grant said. “Except for the ones who are muties.” The last word dripped with contempt, with revulsion.
“So? We’re in a hellzone. Who else would work in a hellzone but outlanders? ‘Sides, you got no jurisdiction here.”
Both Kane and Grant laughed mirthlessly. “It’s part of Baron Cobalt’s legally ceded territory, from the old Nelson hierarchy,” Kane replied. “You should know that, too.”
An electronic beep came from the computer console. Kane eyed it appraisingly. The machines in the ville, in the Enclaves, were restricted to a very few. Even Kane didn’t have unsupervised access to the computers employed by the Magistrate Division. Archivists enjoyed fairly unlimited use of them, primarily to keep the historical data bases current.
Though he was vaguely aware that Beforetimers had in the three decades preceding skydark relied heavily on the machines, the barons had long ago agreed to prevent a repetition of such technological dependence. Still, Kane recognized the computer as a current DDC type, the same direct-digital-control model as those in the Intel section of his division. As such, it was impossible for private citizens, even the ultraelite of the Enclavers to own one.
“Where did you get this?” he asked. Data still scrolled across the monitor. He poked at the stack of slip-sleeved CD disks on the table.
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