Windswept (22 page)

The pipe was half full and too fast-moving to get decent footing, but we could brake a little by digging our heels into the bottom. The soles of the exposure suits were textured rubber mixed with ground up palm-crab shell for grip. We passed more glowing arrows, and I wondered how hard getting out would be. Banks and I could probably muscle our way upstream, but we’d have to lend Jilly a hand. Bloombeck would have to find his own way home.

We eventually found Bloombeck at a T-junction. He was tying off another line when we skidded into view. I tried yelling at him, but all I only got static in return. He tapped the side of his head, and a text popped up on my pai:
Voice can’t carry down here. Text only.
Then, ten seconds later:
This going to cost you
.

I held onto an overhead fitting with one hand and gave him the finger with the other.
I’m pretty sure we’re back into You Owing Me territory
, I texted back.
If anything, you’ve owed
me
ever since we first met.

How?
Bloombeck replied.
I helped you out when you first Breached. I showed you the ropes.

You showed me where the toilets were, and then you tried to bum five yuan off me.

That was for Mrs Powazek’s birthday party!

Which never happened, because you kept all the cash for yourself
. I laughed.
Your first scam. How much you’ve grown up since then.

This isn’t a scam!

No, it’s a legitimate investigation into corporate shenanigans,
I replied.
They’ll write songs about it, I’m sure.
I grabbed the line from his trembling fingers and cinched a tight knot around another fitting.

how much farther?
pinged Banks to both of us.

50 meters,
replied Bloombeck.

Banks texted back:
good. think i can hold off puking for that long
.

And what more could I possibly owe you?
I texted Bloombeck, hooking another carabiner up to his harness before locking it around the new line.

Brought info about WalWa setting you up
, he replied.
That was deal
.

You brought me a handful of paper flakes
, I sent, tying off Banks.
You really think that’s worth the same as me helping you with a land scam?

Your going to help me then?
Even though the murk, I could see his face light up.

Just get us there
, I sent. I gave Jilly another glance; she just nodded, her face a little green, though it could have been her helmet’s internal lights. We headed farther into the shit, twisting and turning until we started to climb up enough that there was an air gap between the effluent and the top of the pipe.

Above us was an access hatch, one that was slightly ajar. We pushed our way up and out into a maze of spraying, hissing pipework. We cleaned ourselves in what I hoped was water, then followed Bloombeck and the trail of glowing Xs until we came to a door marked INCINERATOR. He thumped it a few times, then cracked his helmet. We followed suit.

“Is this the part when you explain how you’ve suddenly become fireproof?” I said.

“It’s not on all the time,” said Bloombeck. “Jimney told me they only fire it up every two weeks. Saves on gas.”

“But this leads to the paper dump?” said Banks.

Bloombeck nodded. “We just send the kid through the feeder grate, and you’ll see.”

“We’ll see you go first,” I said. “Again.”

“Fine,” said Bloombeck, and he swung the door open. An avalanche of cinders spilled out, followed by a bundle of charred sticks. The air smelled like ash with hints of burned meat. Bloombeck fell backwards on his ass, then shrieked when he picked up one of the sticks and saw it was a bone. A human skull landed on top of his head; he saw it roll away, then turned to puke. I spun Jilly away, then slammed my helmet shut to block the smell, but too late.

Banks squatted down next to the skull, its toothy mouth open in one last scream. He looked at the bones, then pulled something out of the ash: a metal rectangle as long as his finger. He swiped away at the grime, and the word POTTS appeared out of the carbon. “You think he fell?” asked Banks.

“Probably,” I said, aiming my lamp at the skull, “but I think anyone would after getting shot in the head.”

Banks aimed his own headlamp at the single black hole right between the body’s empty eyesockets. “I thought you said there were no guns here.”

“In theory, there aren’t,” I said, undoing my helmet. “But there’s always someone who tries to get around the Ban.” I hunkered down next to Banks and shook my head. “Poor Jimney.”

I pulled off a glove and held my fingers over the nametag; it was cool, so the body had been here for a while. “When were you down here, Bloomie?”

“I had nothing to do with this,” he said, his voice thick and wet. “Jimney was alive when he pushed me out.”

“Bloomie, you’re capable of a lot of crap, but not a murder,” I said. “Now, how long? Was the sun still up when you got out?”

He thought, then nodded.

“And were they still serving two-for-one at the Stoneways Lounge?”

He nodded without thinking.

“Three hours,” I said. “We were on the way back from the bars.” I blinked a few pictures, debated sending them to Soni. This far under, there probably wasn’t any signal. That also meant she couldn’t track me, but I’d probably have a hell of a time explaining why I’d disappeared for a bit.

Banks blinked a few pictures of his own. “You still think this was Saarien?”

“Not anymore,” I said. “I think it’s Ghosts.”

Banks straightened up. “Here?”

“It’s the only thing that fits,” I said. “At first, I thought the weirdness in Steelcase was Saarien trying to scare me off, but then he and a bunch of people turn up dead.” I nodded at Jimney’s corpse. “This seals it for me. Ghosts are meant for sending messages, and there’s no stronger message than a bullet to the head, even if it’s just for a small time stoner like Jimney.” I sucked at my teeth. “I just wish I knew what it is that got their attention.”

Banks
hmm
ed. “Maybe it’s you.”

I snorted. “You know, as much as I like to think WalWa’s Board of Directors has me on some Most Wanted list, I think it’s something bigger. Sending a Ghost Squad just to slap me around? If anyone would have their attention, it would’ve been Saarien. His headcount is…
was
a lot higher than mine. Plus, he never failed to miss an opportunity to get on the air about the Struggle, about how the Union was going to smash our corporate overlords and liberate humanity from Indenture and servitude.” I shook my head. “Too bad he was such an asshole.”

I walked up to the incinerator grate and saw a space in there big enough for Jilly to snake through. “We need to see what’s in there. Might help us figure out what’s got WalWa so riled up.”

“You’re not going to send Jilly in there,” said Banks.

“You’re right,” I said. “I should just call WalWa and tell them to come down here and investigate the body in their incinerator. Which we found by breaking into their facility. Maybe their Ghosts will come down here and invite us up for tea and biscuits.”

“It was just a suggestion,” said Banks.

“I’m game,” said Jilly, giving the burned skeleton a wayward eye. “Just to get me away from… that.”

I handed her the caneplas bags and watched her shimmy up the ladder and into the incinerator room.

The designers had been safety-minded enough to install ladder rungs out of the pit. I climbed to the top to peek into the burn room and marvel at the monument to bureaucratic waste. Waist-high drifts of paper shreds surrounded Jilly, and more flakes floated down from a dozen vents. I held out a hand and caught the remnants of some WalWa report, no two shreds alike.

The floor was tilted toward the grate – not so steep Jilly was in danger of falling back in, but just enough for her to work. She hustled back and forth, bringing us flakes until Banks declared a pile worth scooping up. She stuffed as much into a bag, then flipped it back to us.

“This is a gold mine,” said Banks as he whipped open one of the fifty-liter bags. “Evidence reconstruction always fascinated me in law school. Peeling bits off dead hard drives, finding data veins in dried-out organic DBs – and the paper,
man
. Even when paper shreds are burned, you can pick up all sorts of ink and pen impressions – stuff that’s still legible.”

“So, what, you’re going to sift through all of these and do that little trick with your pai?”

“Sure,” he said, “This kind of thing is relaxing.”

I shook my head as I caught another bag. “What makes you think you’re going to find anything good?” I said.

Banks picked up two handfuls of paper, blinked, then dumped them on the ground. He went through the pile for a minute, then showed me three fragments, all with WalWa executive chops next to Evanrute Saarien’s name.

“So WalWa
was
gunning for Saarien?” I said.

Banks shrugged. “We’d have to go through a whole lot more to find out for sure.”

“Then let’s grab all we can,” I said. “I can hand all this over to Soni, and maybe it’ll be enough to clear me.”

Jilly jammed the executive pile into six bags and stuffed them down the chute. Jimney’s skull was still there, smiling away, and I made a note to add it to my statement as soon as we were safe in Brushhead. Soni would be pissed about my little excursion, but, technically, she didn’t say anything about underground trips violating my bail bond. I clipped up to the line and thought about how all this would be worth it in a few months’ time, right after the first batches of my rum sat nestled in their racks, hidden away from prying eyes and greedy hands. I would banish The Fear for the rest of my life, and then spend my days selling Old Windswept all over Santee, hell, all over Occupied Space. It was a sweet thought: all this work paying off faster than my Indenture ever could have, and with better food, booze, and sex to boot. I could feel the breeze wafting through my Chino Cove lanai already, the quick air of the sea rushing past my face–

–or was that someone shooting at us again?

A pipe burst with a clang as a dozen blasts drove me to the deck. I stole a peek above me, only to duck as I spotted four figures in environment suits aiming honest-to-Buddha submachine guns. Bullets danced off the ductwork, clanging around until they came to a halt. I rolled to the open sewage pipe.

Banks, Jilly, and Bloombeck joined me. “The price just went up!” yelled Bloombeck, clipping himself to the line. “You’re buying me
two
cane farms!”

“Then you can kiss my ass twice,” I said, snapping a carabiner through my belt. The shots rang off the pipe, a few actually piercing the rusting metal. “You got the bags?”

“Are you kidding?” yelled Banks. I looked through the access hatch: our piles of evidence still sat by the door to the incinerator. “Leave ’em!”

“No!” I yelled back. “I have gone through too much bullshit today only to get stopped because someone wants me dead!” I unclipped from the line, fought my way over Banks and Jilly, and rolled back out of the pipe.

Wave after wave of bullets zinged past me as I crawled to the bags. The door was completely exposed, and the shooters knew it: a small forest of holes grew right where I had to go.

I wondered what the chances were of them scoring a lethal hit. Maybe they’d only pierce a leg, and I’d be able to drag myself through the sewers and home before sepsis sank in. I crouched, ready to sprint, when a bullet clanged into the bulkhead I was cowering behind.

Then there was a muffled roar, and the thud of hobnailed boots. I looked behind and saw a squad of armored WalWa goons kick their way through the grate and leap down the incinerator shaft. One of them got through the door before a bullet to the chest knocked him off his feet. The rest of the goons answered with cries of “Freeze!” and a volley of riot foam. The rounds splatted against the piping, turning into frothy stalactites. It was enough to spook the shooters, who ducked behind a junction box and popped the muzzles of their guns over the top to fire blind.

I grabbed the bags of paper scraps and scrawled giant Xs on them with the glow marker, figuring if we lost hold of the things in the line, at least we’d see where they were going. “Get these back to the Hall!” I yelled to Banks and Jilly as I threw the bags at them.

“What about you?”

A spurt of foam hit my arm, and I flicked it away before it could expand and harden. “I’ll get home somehow! Just get this out of here!”

There was a fresh volley of bullets, enough to drive the goons back to the burn room. The shooters leaped out of their hideyholes and bolted for the other side of the room toward an open access port. “Oy!” I yelled, my helmet’s speakers crackling, “assholes!”

One of the shooters turned, and my headlamp light bounced off his helmet. But then he turned his body so the glare vanished, and I could have sworn the shooter wore an eyepatch. The shooter looked at me, and I saw a criss-cross of angry scars and faded ink on his – no,
her
face.

Holy crap: it was One-Eye.

I roared and threw the glow marker, since it was the only thing I had available. It bounced off her shoulder but left a spatter of ink. She fired another volley, then leaped into the access port.

I leaped over the pipes, dodging a fresh round of foam shots. As I crawled toward the access port One-Eye had used, I saw Banks fighting his way toward me. “Get back to the Hall!” I yelled.

“And go with Bloombeck? No way,” he said, hunkering down next to me.

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” I said.

Jilly hunched behind Banks, bags strapped to her belt. “I would like to go home, now!”

“Me, too,” I said, grabbing the front of her suit and clipping her to the line around my belt.

“But what about the tide?” yelled Banks. “Bloombeck said the currents get too strong, and–”

Riot foam crackled overhead, and he ducked. I clacked a carabiner around Banks, then grabbed them both by their arms and hauled them in. The current grabbed us, and we hurled into the darkness.