Beyond the arch, the overhead lights were an eye-searing blaze. Brigid squinted and made out a blank, featureless wall. No, not exactly featurelessit bore deep pockmarks and dark stains. A set of wrist and leg shackles hung from the wall by brackets. She wasn’t surprised that the mode of execution was a basic firing squad, but she did wonder what they would do with her body.
Brigid marched onward, forcing her head erect. She had no plan except to die without shaming herself. To weep and beg for mercy would not accomplish anything or delay the inevitable.
The Mag at the lever reached out and took her roughly by the arm, pulling her aside. To his companions, he said tersely, “Take your positions. Make sure your weapons are properly primed. We want no misfires.”
The three Magistrates hesitated, but responded to the tone of command. They stepped beneath the arch. Immediately the armored man slapped at the lever, and the heavy metal panel rushed down, hitting the floor with a booming thud. Faintly, on the other side, came cries of astonishment and angry confusion.
“Don’t stand there gawking, Baptiste,” said Kane. “They’re locked in, but they can comm-call for help.”
Brigid dared hesitate only a second, then she started running beside Kane, who appeared to have no trouble jogging in the armor. She tried to think of something, anything to say. “I didn’t recognize you,” she finally said.
“You weren’t supposed to. Can you run any faster?”
Instead of increasing her speed, she came to a complete halt. Kane sprinted on for a few yards, realized she wasn’t beside him, slowed and whirled around, advancing on her angrily.
“Do you want to die?” he demanded.
“No,” she answered. “But I don’t want to participate in a Mag scam. How do I know this rescue isn’t a farce, a trick to lead you to a Preservationist hideout?”
Kane’s lips creased in a frown. “Is there one? Are you really a Preservationist?”
“Not exactly. Somebody claiming to represent them contacted me anonymously last year, but I never spoke to anyone or met anyone. As far as I know, the Preservationists are nothing more than a straw adversary, a front for a Mag op.”
“And as far as I know,” Kane said grimly, “I’m helping a traitor escape from a deserved death sentence.”
The man and woman regarded each other silently. Then Brigid gave Kane her smile. “Paranoia is such a subtle yet devastating weapon, isn’t it?”
“You’re not paranoid if they really are after you, Baptiste,” Kane shot back.
“There’s the conundrum. I don’t know if they really are after me.”
“Trust me on this. They are.”
She sighed heavily. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m making it up as I go along. For the moment, we’re hitting the Pits.”
Brigid tried to consider his words dispassionately, realized she couldn’t, so she started running again. “Okay.”
Kane fell into step beside her. “What convinced you?”
“If this were a trick, you would have described a cunning and devious scheme, full of twistie-turnie strategies.”
“Because I’m flying by my ass, you have faith in me?”
“Sure,” she panted.
“Oh.”
They spoke no more, devoting their breath to running. They sprinted along the corridor, around corners, following bends, keeping close to the walls. Brigid followed Kane’s lead. He seemed to know where he was going. When she heard the steady throb of machinery, she realized they were on E Level, the manufacturing facility.
Coming to a stop at an L-junction, Kane gestured for her to keep back, then peered around the left-hand corner. A moment later, he waved her forward.
A long vista of great machines opened up, arrayed in a number of extended lines. Mechs and techs wearing protective goggles and headgear operated the equipment. She saw drill presses, forges, smelters, crucibles. The combined rattles, clanks and roars were nearly deafening. Some of the machines shot sparks, emitting the metallic odor of ozone, while others spit jets of steam. Chain conveyors rattled in jerks and starts. A forest of girders supported a trussed network of overhead catwalks.
She had never been here before, and she understood why.
The teeth-jarring racket, the sparks, the clouds of steam, gave it an aspect of a pocket-size hell on earth, populated by damned souls.
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