Black Hole Sun (9 page)

Hell's Cross, Outpost Fisher Four
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 0. 00:00

“What's so sweet about this dump?” Jenkins grumbles.

After taking a quick look, I'm wondering the same thing. We wind our way through an area littered with junk, then reach a series of arches shaped like onions. Torn and faded, flags hang from the arches, and you can still make out the red Cross and Circle of the Orthocracy. Rusted razor wire covers all but one of the arches, the one we pass through onto a stone masonry circle. Ventilated wind blows guanite dust across the circle, piling up on the relic of a mining truck, a couple of garbage dumpers, and a hodgepodge of rotted baskets.

In the distance I hear the sound of grinding machinery. Like the echo of some kind of hammer. Something hinky's going on here. Are the miners still working the mine?

Ahead is a two-story square building, maize in color, with two octagonal towers. There are gun slits in the towers, which rise at least thirty meters into the air. I keep thinking
sky, instead of air, but when I look up, there's that soupy blackness, reminding me that we're a half click, maybe a whole kilometer, underground.

The towers do mean one thing: the square building was built to be defended. Finally, something we can sink our Regulator teeth into. There are three doors—two narrow ones to the left and right secured with iron bars, the third, the middle entrance, is twice as wide, with two doors made of heavy steel strapped together. The doors stand open, leading down a flat-roofed corridor littered with small crates.

“Welcome to the Cross,” Spiner says.

The ground is paved with girih tiles that form an intricate quasicrystal pattern. The tiles lead your eye to middle of the courtyard and a statue of Bishop Lyme, the first leader of the Orthocracy. The Great Poxer himself. Dressed in a frock, he holds a pickax in one hand and the
Book of Common Prayer
in the other. I've seen the statue in a dozen different places. It's always the same, except for him holding the pick. In New Eden, it's a pipe wrench. In the greenhouses at Tan Hauser Gates, it's a trowel. And in battle school, it's an armalite.

“The old zealot sure got around,” I say.

“‘Look on my Works, ye Mighty,'” Mimi says, “‘and despair.'”

“Byron?”

“Shelley.”

“Always get those two confused.”

“Byron had the clubbed foot.”

“Thought Oedipus had the clubbed foot.”

“I despair for you, cowboy.” Mimi makes a noise like a sigh. “It's a good thing you can shoot straight.”

Behind the statue alongside a high crane, I point out two minarets, tall spires with crowns shaped like onions to match the arches. I'm thinking there are two galleries at the top of the tower shafts. In the before days they probably were part of the temple. Now they'll make excellent nests for a sniper.

The rest of the building is nothing to cheer about. There are four entrances to the courtyard—one opposite this one, and two at the right and left. All of them lead to corridors like the one we entered from. A series of columns and onion-shaped arches create an arcade that runs the courtyard interior. I can see two dozen or so doors—the miners' quarters, I'm guessing—which means the rooms would be vulnerable if the enemy breached the courtyard.

The air smells stale and fecund. Like an old boot. With fungus growing in it. Wind whips left to right across the stone. More
chùsheng
dust. Funny, I thought being in a cave would make it less windy, but it's as bad as the surface. There's not much here otherwise. A few scaffoldings where the miners are making repairs on the masonry. More faded flags. These marked with the slogan of the revolution:
liberty, equality, justice.
None of that here. Sad to think—the miners helped overthrow the Orthocracy, and this place holds no evidence that they'd gotten anything in return.

“Show me upstairs,” I tell Spiner.

“This way.” He leads us up two short flights. “Here's where we sleep and eat.”

“What about the latrine?” Jenkins says.

“We dig a new one every month.”

“No plumbing?” I ask.

Spiner laughs. “The Orthocrats blew the sewer lines when they left. For drinking water we channel runoff from the tundra.”

“No plumbing!” Jenkins shouts. “Next thing you'll be saying you've got no toilet wipes.”

“Orthocracy took those with them, too,” Spiner says, scratching his stubble.

“Those bluey-blowing budgie smugglers!” he roars.

Fuse pats his shoulder. “That would be right, Jenks. Don't fret so. We'll find a lord high substitute. Or we can pack our bellies with amino gruel, and there'll be no problem needing the stuff, right?”

While Fuse consoles him, I do a quick bit of recon to confirm my assumptions. The arcade is about three meters wide, lit by a series of gas lamps. The structure could give us a good firing position, but there's only a string of arches and short columns and a rail for cover. Not a place for a firefight, that's for sure.

“Mimi,” I ask, “got this mapped out?”

“Does the bishop crap in the woods?”

“Anything I missed?”

“If you didn't see it, I didn't see it.”

“What about the eyes in the back of my head?”

“Your suit doesn't have that upgrade,” she teases.

“Okay,” I say to my davos. “Let's go meet the people we're rescuing.”

Hell's Cross, Outpost Fisher Four
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 0. 00:00

When the door swings open, the room is dark. Spiner clicks on his headlamp and sweeps the chamber, searching the four corners but only finding empty tables and benches. “The room's empty,” he says, confused, rubbing his neck. “There's nobody here.”

“Astute observation. Regulators, secure the area.” While they move to defensive positions, I quickly scan the arcade and the courtyard for signs of life. Hell's Cross is hushed as a graveyard. The hammering I noticed earlier has stopped.

Taking the stairs back down to the courtyard, I check for tracks on the tiled floors. None. But there should be, unless someone covered them. No other signs of an attack, either. The miners left willingly or they were never in the meeting room in the first place. For whatever reason, the people we've traveled a thousand kilometers to save are hiding from us.

“Mimi?” Then I check the entrances. Even though it's quiet, it could still be an ambush. “Any signatures?”

“None within a thirty-meter radius. That's as far as I can extend the telemetry in this space.”

Damn it. Where are they? Did the Dræu get to the miners before we did?

“Regulators! Expand the perimeter,” I call out, my voice echoing too much. “Mouths shut. Eyes and ears open.”

Ockham leaves his post to join me, Jean-Paul in tow. He points his armalite at the statue in the middle of the courtyard. “Maybe the bishop is hiding them.”

“It's not a time for jokes,” I snap, and step up on the dais. From this vantage point, I have clear line of sight on all the entrances, as well as the second-floor stairwells, which are lit with iridescent glow lights. It's going to take a while before my eyes adjust to the darkness that blankets the Cross.

“Vienne,” I say, “search the arcade. Use the right stairs. Jenkins, start searching from the left. Ockham, check out the corridor at twelve o'clock. Fuse at three o'clock. I'll take the one at nine.” They all acknowledge the order, although Ockham takes his time about it.

“What about me?” Jean-Paul asks, grabbing my empty holster.

Stay out of the way, kid. “You can guard Spiner.”

“But I have no weapon, chief.”

“Improvise.” And don't call me chief, I think. You're not a Regulator yet. I move into position. Kneel down and sweep the dimly lit corridor.

“Anything?” I ask Mimi.

“Not yet.”

“Open a vid link with the crew.” Vienne, Jenkins, and Fuse have found no hostiles. “Ockham? What's your status?” Then I realize that we're not communicating with Ockham. “Mimi, remind me to synch with the old fart at the next opportunity.”

“I'll put
old fart synching
on your to-do list.”

“Ha-ha.”

Vienne is the first to reply. Fuse is next, followed by Jenkins. All clear. So far. After a quick glance back at the statue—Jean-Paul is guarding Spiner with a length of rebar, and Spiner is scratching his head, befuddled by the whole production—I move deeper into the corridor. The light dims as I walk. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust because I don't want to use the helmet lamp and alert anyone.

Wish my bionic eye had heat vision.

“Me, too,” Mimi says.

No doors here. No windows or portals. Just a long stretch of corridor that leads into God knows what. If any of the fossickers are hiding here, they don't have a pulse, because Mimi would pick up their signatures.

“Regulators—” I say into the vid. But before anyone can respond, a siren sounds, and I clap my hands over my ears. “
W
kào!
What the hell?”

“A raid siren, cowboy,” Mimi says. “It's coming from the courtyard.”

I race back down the corridor and hit the courtyard at
full speed. Spiner is bent over, hands clasped over his ears. Jean-Paul is still guarding him.

“Vienne! Report!” I shout into the aural link.

Static. A quick visual of the arcade. It's Vienne, signaling okay from the left corner. She heads down the stairs. Fuse and Ockham reach the courtyard.

Without Jenkins.

Where is he? “Jenks, report!” I say, upset at the thought of losing a soldier. “Before I shoot you for desertion!”

With a laugh, Jenkins swings down from the arcade. Lands like an artillery shell on the paved stone ground. The sound of the siren begins to fade, and I realize by the self-satisfied grin on his face, he's the one who set it off.

“What is wrong with you, Regulator?” I ask as Jenkins swats the dust from his knees. “Why'd you pull that stunt?”

“Didn't feel like taking the stairs.” He shrugs. “What? It didn't hurt. Honest. My suit took the hit for me.”

“No, no, no.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. A lecture about the shortsightedness of abusing your symbiarmor isn't what I had in mind. “Why. Did. You. Soundtheairraidsiren?”

He grins. “To make them come running.”

“Who's
them
?”

“The mud puppies, chief,” he says, like it all makes perfect sense. Does he expect me to read his mind? Yes, as a matter of fact, he probably does.

“Cowboy,” Mimi interrupts, “my sweep is showing multiple signatures bearing down on this location.”

“Is it the miners?”

“Probably. They're human.”

“Probably human is better than probably Dræu.” So, Jenkins was making sense after all. Then I say aloud, “At ease, Regulators. Jenkins's little stunt might just work, and we don't want to accidentally shoot our hosts.” So the miners were hiding after all. Why would they do that? We're here to help them.

As they move out of the shadows and into the courtyard, I count heads. There are thirty to forty miners, almost sixty percent of them male, although the females wear the same brown coveralls and are streaked with just as much soot and grease. They eye us with a mix of contempt and fear and keep their heads half bowed, as if shielding their eyes. I recognize a familiar face among the men—Jurm, the other man with Áine and Spiner.

They begin forming a circle around us. We take position around the dais.

“These rusters ain't used to civilized folk,” Jenkins tells Fuse. “They act all proud about squatting in their black holes, like it makes them holy or something. They're always whining about how they got abandoned and how everybody hates them, but when a helping hand gets offered, they run and hide like babies.”

“Settle down,” I tell him.

Ockham steps forward. “Is it me, or are they giving us the stink eye?”

“It's just you,” I reply. But maybe it isn't. Something's missing from the equation here, and one quick look gives me the answer. There are maybe fifteen children, all under age-five. The rest of the miners are oldies, all of them well past age-twenty.

Vienne notices the same thing. “There are no young adults. How can we train children and oldies to fight the Dræu?”

Nodding, I bite my lip. “We'll get by. We always find a way to make it work.”

“More company,” Vienne says, pointing to the arcade. It's the area that Fuse searched. “Mimi, new item for my list: Speak to Fuse about doing a more thorough search next time.”

Two women stand at the railing, looking down on us. The younger of the two is Áine. I don't recognize the older woman, who has long silver hair and a face that looks as if it's been chiseled from sandstone. She's wearing a tan frock and robes the color of mud.

I glance at the circle of miners, who are carrying wrenches as long and heavy as their arms. They're squeezing us, drawing the circle tighter, dragging the wrenches on the ground so that they squeal. Fuse and Jenkins stand back-to-back, eyes darting around, looking to me for guidance. I shake my head no, even as their hands inch compulsively toward their armalites.

“Welcome, Regulators,” the older woman's voice rings out.

“Funny, I ain't feeling too damned welcome right now,” Ockham says, and draws his weapon, and my heart almost stops.

The miners all swing their wrenches up to their shoulders. Ockham responds by aiming the red dot from his laser sight right between the old woman's eyes. His finger's resting on the trigger. His free hand is hovering near the three light-mass grenades clipped to his belt. “How'd you want to play it, rusters?”

The circle closes like a noose tightening.

“Ockham,” I say, moving close to him. “Stand down. This isn't the way to start a job.”

“Tell that to the lynch mob,” Ockham says.

“I'm telling you!” I bark as the oldie moves the sights from the old woman to Áine and back again. He could be Vienne's twin, technique wise, but that's where the comparison ends. “Now stand down! I'm giving the orders here.”

He's about to argue when Spiner jumps up on the statue dais. “Hold on, Regulators. We don't get many visitors down under, except them that wants to rob us of our little bits of nothing, so our people ain't much on courtesy and the like. If they meant to do you harm, you'd be wandering the tunnels instead of standing here, I'd warrant you that.”

“That,” Vienne says, moving next to me, “was oddly reassuring.”

“I'm not sure
reassuring
is the word I'd use.” But still, I feel the tension drop a few decibels. Time to put this situation
to bed. Staring at the old woman, I hold my arms wide to show that I'm bearing no arms—other than my armalite, a sidearm, a combat knife in either boot, and a shiv tucked up a sleeve. “Me and mine came here in good faith for a fee that frankly isn't normal rate. But when we get here, you treat us like plague carriers. Where I come from, that's not copacetic.”

“My sincerest apology, Regulator,” the old woman says, her voice like the sound of a soft metal bell. “When we saw the man who threatened to kill Áine, we were worried.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

The old woman comes down to join us. She sticks out a boney hand. Her skin's so thin, the veins underneath look like bloodworms. When we shake, my own hand engulfs hers, and it feels like a gentle squeeze would crush her bones.

“Come upstairs,” she says.

We follow her and Áine through a metal door. It's supported by iron straps, and there's a heavy throw bolt on the inside. It's strong enough to keep out your average thief, but against a trained, determined enemy, it wouldn't last more than a minute. Maybe that's why the miners are so good at hiding. It's the only defense they've got.

“Where's the grub?” Jenkins asks. He takes a seat on a long bench next to a stone table.

“Give it a rest, right?” Fuse sits between him and Jean-Paul, with Ockham at the end. Vienne stands behind the bench, ostensibly waiting for me to sit, but she's actually sweeping the room for threats.

“Mimi?” I ask, just to make sure that Vienne hasn't missed anything. “All clear?”

“No new biosignatures,” she says. “And no boogeymen hiding in the closet.”

“Thanks, but I think
we're
the boogeymen in this room.”

“Excellent point,” Mimi says.

“About that grub,” Jenkins says, his mind still on the same track.

“We've some food to share later,” the old woman says.

“Not much,” Áine says quickly. “We miners ain't used to eating like you rich folk.”

“We understand,” I say, trying to keep to the subject at hand.

“Understand like blazes,” Jenkins blusters. “Them rusters out there, they looked fat enough to me. We come thousands of kilometers on TransPort, walk an hour through tunnels, and you ain't even decent enough to feed us? Don't cry poor to me. You got food hid, I know you do. Ain't like miners not to have something set back.”

“Poor thing,” Ockham interrupts. “His belly's empty, and he's at nobs end about it. Shame, no? Tell me, chief, do you have to change this boy when you're done feeding him? Or is wiping his own ass something he's capable of?”

Jenkins whips a combat knife out of his boot. “How's I wipe your ass with this, oldie?”

Ockham yawns.

“Stop it,” I say in a low voice that echoes off the rock walls. “Both of you.”

“You'll not be giving me orders, chief,” Ockham says. “It's not you paying my freight.”

“I'm in charge of this job,” I snap. “And I say no bickering. You don't like that? Find yourself different work. I don't care a whit who's paying your damned freight.”

“Is there a problem?” the woman asks. Beside her, Áine smiles coyly. Plays with a strand of brown hair.

“We're just cranky from the TransPort,” I say. “It's been a long ride.” I clear my throat and introduce my davos.

“Welcome, all of you,” she says. “You met Spiner, Jurm, and Áine before. I'm named Maeve, but the miners call me old woman.”

“It fits,” Jenkins says.

Fuse slaps him.

“Ow! Oy, I'm just speaking the truth.”

“Yes,” Maeve says, “he's right. It does fit. But we got off to a bad start. My apologies for the greeting you got. As I said, miners are wary folk by nature.”