James Axler – Exile to Hell

“I’m not saying shit,” grated Reeth. “Not till Salvo gets here.”

Grant suddenly stiffened, head cocked slightly to one side. He put a finger over the transceiver on his helmet and said, “Speaking of him, Salvo just ordered me to chill your slagging ass.”

Reeth’s lips curled in an attempt at a go-to-hell smirk. “Not my ass, sec boy. It’s sanctified.”

“Who sanctified it?” Kane demanded.

“Maybe old Salvo will let you know.”

The machine beeped. The screen went dark and the words “Downloading complete” glowed against the background. A symbol appeared on the screen, a red triangle bisected by three black vertical lines. The lines somewhat resembled stylized, round-hiked daggers. From the drive port popped a gleaming compact disk. Kane reached for it with his right hand.

“Don’t touch that!” Reeth shrieked.

Casually, not bothering to look at him, Kane raked the noise suppressor of the Copperhead across Reeth’s face. Blood sprang from a laceration above the bridge of his nose, nicking the blunt snout of the snake tattoo. Reeth squawked in stunned pain, clapping both hands to his face.

He staggered on rubbery legs. Grant shoved one boot behind the man’s ankles and kicked his feet out from under him. Reeth sat down heavily, grunting, fingers trying to catch the rivulets of blood streaming down his face.

During that brief diversion, Kane slipped the compact disk from the hard drive and stowed it in a compartment in his belt. He was sure Grant hadn’t seen him do it.

Chapter Four

“On your feet,” Kane commanded.

Groaning, Reeth stiffly climbed to his feet. He pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to staunch the flow of blood. With a fist against his back, Kane shoved the man toward the dark doorway.

“Prove to me there are no outlanders in here. Not that it’ll make any difference.”

With Reeth in front, they entered a narrow corridor. The stonework and metal girders were pocked and corroded with age. It was lit by a naked bulb shining from a ceiling fixture. It branched into a short T. On the left, the passageway ended at the base of a rock stairway.

Clumping down the stairs came the blastermen, lean and wiry outlanders. Their faces were tight masks of anger and resentmentnot an anger at being bested, but a resentment of ville authority that extended deep into past generations.

“Go to the control room,” Reeth said to them. “Wait for the sec men. Don’t resist. I’ll take care of you.”

Turning to the right, Reeth strode a few feet and stopped before a heavy wooden door on the left-hand wall. A few yards past it, the corridor debouched to the right. Behind the door, Kane heard the murmuring of voices and shuffling of feet.

He knew the voices and anxious feet belonged to outlanders, wanderers desperate to enter a ville, regardless of the risk or the price. Despite the fact they could aspire only to the Pits, there was electricity, real buildings for shelter, real food, even if it was the recycled and reconstituted scraps from the Enclaves. With forged ID chips, silicon granules injected subcutaneously in their forearms, they could receive regular immunity boosters to combat the insidious infections to which all outlanders seemed peculiarly susceptible.

Of course, they would be barred from the towers of the Enclaves, forced to perform slagwork in return for credit chips, but it was better than nomading across the Outlands. Their existences in the Pits would be marginal, but there was always the distant hope, the dream, that they could someday buy into citizenship.

Now that they were discovered, their dreams would be dashed and their fates infinitely worse. The best they could hope for was a Magistrate’s mercy, and that meant nothing more kind than being turned loose in this hellzone.

Kane pointed to the door. “Open it.”

Reeth fumbled with the metal locking bar. “Listen,” he said in a wheedling tone, “you got me good, okay? No need to go any further with this.”

“I’m curious about the quality of your merchandise, Milt,” Kane said gently. “As one connoisseur of outlanders to another. Extend me a professional courtesy.”

Taking a deep breath, Reeth lifted the bar from its braces. While he did so, Kane slipped his helmet back over his head, assuming the cell wasn’t lighted. Though he heard the comm-chat of the team approaching the Cliff Palace, Salvo wasn’t shouting at him to report or to follow orders.