Skybreach (The Reach #3)

by Mark R. Healy

  Duran felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he promptly forgot about the target. Robson was chattering in his ear again, but he did not register a single word of what was said.

  Now that he was here, standing in front of the marketplace and looking at all the pieces laid out before him, he understood. The Enforcers, the consulate, the overabundance of janitors. The way they had all turned to watch the old woman as if waiting for some kind of cue. The facial recognition match. Children of Earth.

  This is it, he thought. This is the next attack. I’m standing at ground zero.

  “Robson,” he said, unable to keep his voice even, “we’ve got a problem–”

  The man in front of Duran turned and began to walk toward him, then stopped. The two of them stared at each other stupidly.

  Duran felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, and the world tilted sickeningly on its axis. Time and reality itself seemed to freeze, and everything else faded into obscurity. The consulate, the Enforcers, Children of Earth – they were suddenly nothing more than background noise, a barely perceptible shade of grey in Duran’s vision.

  The man before him was Knile Oberend.

  In the split second that followed, a dozen thoughts tumbled incoherently through Duran’s head.

  What’s he doing here?

  Is he somehow caught up in this mess?

  Is Knile part of Children of Earth?

  And then one thought that trampled its way through the others like a raging bull: Kill him.

  Somewhere nearby there was a scream, and Duran had a moment to savour the look of fear and dread that was plastered across Knile’s face. Duran pulled his .40 from its holster and began to bring it upward.

  Then the world exploded into fire and the floor bucked under their feet, and Duran slammed into something hard and unyielding.

  Duran’s vision began to clear, and he found himself lying on the ground near the wall of the marketplace as people ran past him. The marketplace had gone dark, lit now by a raging fire on one side that was so intense that Duran could feel the heat of it even from this distance. He could see the muzzle flashes as janitors moved forward with assault rifles, but he could not hear the reports. In fact, the only thing he could hear was a high-pitched whining sound that made him feel disorientated and nauseous.

  Just some temporary acoustic trauma. Get over it. He climbed to his feet, then suddenly remembered what had happened.

  Knile. He was here.

  But now he was gone. The space that Oberend had occupied a few moments before was now a bare patch of floor.

  Find him.

  Duran wheeled around. His .40 was gone as well, and, considering the carnage and confusion around him, he knew there was no point looking for it.

  As he raised his eyes, he spied Knile disappearing into a corridor on the edge of the marketplace not far away. His hearing was beginning to come back to him now, and as he set off in pursuit of Knile he heard screaming, cries of pain, and the sound of flames ravaging the far side of the marketplace. He heard gunfire as the assault on the consulate continued, and expected to hear the telltale sound of pulse rifles in return, indicating that the Redmen had joined the fray. However, this did not eventuate, and in moments he found himself in the darkened corridor into which Knile had disappeared not long before.

  The power to Level Fifty-Three had been cut, and as a result, the glow of the overhead lights had been extinguished, replaced by pale red emergency lamps set into the floors. Shadows danced as people fled in terror from the marketplace, and as their screams echoed throughout the narrow confines of Gaslight, Duran couldn’t help but feel that he had descended into Hell itself.

  Blood trickled down the side of his face as he ran, and his ankle shot lances of pain up his leg with every step, but he did not for one second consider slowing down. He pushed himself on through the pain barrier in pursuit of his quarry.

  Up ahead, a cluster of people were trying to squeeze through a narrow doorway, and Duran spotted Knile again, caught up in the throng as he attempted to flee. Duran’s heart leapt at the very real prospect of catching him, and he lengthened his stride, bearing down on his adversary with a savage grin on his face.

  Knile glanced over his shoulder and their eyes met, and Duran hoped to see fear in his opponent, desperation. He wanted Oberend to squirm like the cornered rat he was, to know that his time was up.

  Duran wanted him to suffer, for no reason other than to satisfy his thirst for retribution.

  And yet, the look in Knile’s eyes reflected no panic, no desperation. As he spotted Duran there was a sense of urgency about him, both in his expression and in the way he tried to force himself through the pack of people, but he did not seem discomforted by the sight of Duran closing in.

  Knile was infuriatingly calm. Self-assured.

  I’m going to wipe that smug look off your fucking face, Duran thought grimly. You better believe it.

  Duran reached the swarm of people crying and screaming as they forced their way through the doorway, and Knile remained just out of reach. Duran began to hurl people aside, uncaring of their safety in the midst of his rage, and his fingers brushed against Knile’s shirt for the briefest moment.

  “Come here, you bastard!” Duran yelled, but Knile slipped away again. Duran thrashed and elbowed his way forward like a madman, and then Knile tore free of the pack, stumbling through to the other side of the doorway. “Dammit, get out of the way!”

  Someone from behind Duran – possibly one of the disgruntled few he’d hurled aside – landed a haymaker on his cheekbone, connecting hard enough to make his whole eye socket throb. He lurched forward again, and suddenly he was through, bounding out onto the other side.

  He found himself in another open area which was around thirty metres squared, and which served as a juncture point for a series of interconnecting corridors. The emergency lights provided scant illumination in a place this large, and he had difficulty locating Knile immediately.

  Then he saw him entering an adjoining conduit not far to his right and set off after him.

  There were people everywhere, understandably panicked by what had happened, crossing haphazardly across Duran’s path like wailing red spectres in the splash of the emergency lights. Duran was almost knocked from his feet by one rotund woman who had built up a head of steam, screaming for someone named Peter as she grappled her way past him. In turn, Duran knocked over a teenage boy who cried out in dismay as his feet went out from under him. Duran paused for the barest moment to help him back to his feet, then continued after Knile.

  His target was still in sight.

  Duran increased his pace. He wasn’t sure if his ankle was loosening up or if he was simply filtering out the pain, but right now he felt no discomfort there. He felt good.

  This is happening, he thought, almost shocked at the realisation. Knile fucking Oberend has been delivered to me, gift wrapped with a bow on top.

  He let out a maniacal bark of laughter and Knile turned back to look at him again. It was too dark to see clearly, but Duran hoped that this time he wouldn’t be as calm as he had been earlier.

  This time he had to know that Duran wasn’t giving up.

  Knile exited the corridor and disappeared from view again, and Duran cursed inwardly. There were two women ahead of him, moving far more slowly than he, and he was forced to swerve around them, losing a valuable second or two in the process.

  Moments later he reached the end of the corridor and found himself staring at another junction filled with fearful people running this way and that.

  There was no sign of Knile.

  “Shhhit!” Duran hissed, scanning back and forth across the crowd. Like the previous juncture, there were multiple exits from this area, and if Knile had already made it to one of those–

  Then Duran saw him, over by the far wall. He was poised before what looked like a maintenance hatch, clipping a cable into the security panel next to it.

  Knile looked across th
e room at him, and this time Duran did see uncertainty there. He saw fear.

  A wolfish grin spread across Duran’s face and he began to run.

  Knile tapped furiously at his holophone, glancing across at Duran two or three times as he closed in, his motions frantic as he tried to bypass the lock on the door. Duran was almost laughing by now, giddy at having finally secured the target that had eluded him for so long.

  Duran reached instinctively for his holster, then remembered he had lost the .40. He would have to subdue Knile with his bare hands. That was probably for the best, he decided. It would feel good to–

  Another explosion rocked Gaslight, this one even more powerful than the first, and the shock wave swept across the juncture with such ferocity that those attempting to flee were thrown off their feet, Duran and Knile included. Duran pushed himself up onto his knees, but then he was flattened by a subsequent blast that was possibly the most devastating of them all. Large metallic slabs of roof panelling began to fall around Duran, and he was forced to roll to one side to avoid being crushed. Chunks of mortar rained down around him and his eyes filled with grit. He choked and coughed as dust clogged his lungs.

  Holy shit, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, imagining the power of the blast that must have caused this kind of destruction. With an arsenal like that, they don’t even need to make it inside the consulate. They can reduce it to rubble from outside.

  Hacking painfully through his dry throat, he waved at the swirling dust to clear his view. He took a moment to gather his bearings again, then staggered forward to where the security panel glowed dimly on the wall.

  How ironic it would be if that shithead ended up dead under a pile of rubble before I could get my hands on him, he thought. He made it to the hatch, then wheeled around in search of Oberend.

  Knile was already gone.

  16

  Charles Prazor sat in his high-backed executive chair, his elbows propped against the hand rests, his fingers linked under his chin as he stared at a blank spot on the wall. He’d been like this for almost ten minutes, since Sergeant Kendall had burst into his office, her cheeks flushed, to tell him about the attack on the consulate on Level Fifty-Three.

  Prazor had already felt the tremors from far below in Gaslight. He’d understood what they meant well before the sergeant had arrived breathlessly on his doorstep to convey the news.

  He’d stood there calmly and thanked her for the report, told her that he would handle it. The young sergeant had nodded uncertainly and withdrawn, and then Prazor had folded into his chair like a deflated balloon.

  Here he had stayed, waiting for the call.

  He caught sight of himself in the little desk mirror beside his terminal. He looked haggard and defeated, a hangdog expression plastered across his face.

  You were once a proud man, Charles. But what are you now?

  He should have stirred himself into action by now. He should have been mobilising a response team to investigate the attack. He should have been liaising with administration to ensure that the emergency crews had been deployed in a timely manner.

  But he was doing none of that. Instead, Prazor had simply delivered a message to Mrs. Appleby, telling her that he was not to be disturbed at any cost. Then he had leaned back and begun to wait.

  He could hear them outside now, the ones who had come looking for him. They were arguing amongst themselves in his absence. He recognised the voice of Superintendent Lang and a couple of inspectors, could see their silhouettes milling about through the frosted glass windows that had been set into the doors of his office.

  They wanted answers. They wanted direction.

  Commissioner Prazor had no intention of giving it to them.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, wishing there was some way he could speed up time, fast forward through this interminable wait. He wanted to be out of this office, packing his bags and making preparations to leave. If there–

  Prazor jumped as the call arrived, the terminal on his desk lighting up with the name of Administrator Valen. Despite his impatience of a moment ago, he hadn’t really expected the call to come in this early. He thought he’d have more time to formulate his approach to the conversation.

  He was unprepared. Hopelessly lost.

  Prazor’s eyes flicked to the mirror again.

  Keep up appearances, Charles. Right to the end.

  He reached out and accepted the call.

  Administrator Valen appeared on the screen, her hair neatly tied back and her face calm, projecting an outward air of composure and control. Prazor noted a look in her eye, however, a kind of disquiet that she was attempting to mask, and that was something he had never seen in her before.

  “Greetings, Administrator Valen.”

  Valen pursed her lips and made no attempt to respond politely.

  “This call is a courtesy, Commissioner. A notification. It is not an attempt to begin a discourse,” she said, her displeasure evident. “The time for that has passed.”

  Prazor gave a weak little smile and nodded his head. “I see.”

  Valen seemed perplexed by his attitude. Perhaps she had been expecting Prazor to start making excuses the moment he had answered the call.

  “I’ve lost another of my consulates,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Administrator. I received word a few moments ago.”

  “If there are any survivors, I want them transported to the Consortium Infirmary with the utmost haste.”

  “Of course.”

  She paused. “I don’t expect there are any, from the reports I’ve received.”

  “We will find them if they are there.”

  Valen frowned. “What’s wrong with you, Prazor? You’re even more vague than usual.”

  Prazor inclined his head. “I am appalled at this latest loss of life, Administrator. It distresses me greatly.”

  Valen stared at him doubtfully. “Yes. In any case, here’s what is going to happen. In a few minutes I will be sending out a broadcast to every available channel in the Reach. It will be brief and to the point. I will be advising the citizens of the Reach that the Consortium has been forced to temporarily close all operations, including off-world transport.” She waited for a reaction from Prazor, but when there was none, she went on. “This action will be undertaken immediately, and it is non-negotiable.”

  “A… a temporary closure?” Prazor said uncertainly.

  “There’s no need to create more panic than necessary, Commissioner. You and I know that this is the end, but they don’t.”

  Panic? Prazor thought numbly. Even the announcement of a temporary closure will be enough to tear the Reach apart.

  “The broadcast will be repeated every hour, on the hour, until the Consortium withdrawal is complete. Once that is done…” She spread her hands. “We will shut down the Wire forever. The Reach will be under the control of you and your administrators. You may do with it as you please.”

  “There will be nothing left,” Prazor said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “What?” Valen snapped. “Speak up.”

  Prazor cleared his throat noisily and tried to force himself out of his stupor.

  “We had an agreement, once. The two of us,” Prazor said. “By keeping things steady here, you would reward me with safe passage for myself and my–”

  Valen laughed, a high-pitched, incredulous sound that made Prazor’s words lodge in his throat.

  “Keeping things steady?” she mocked. “Is that what you call this?”

  Prazor felt anger begin to bubble through his stupefaction.

  “I have offered my diligent service for more than seven years–”

  “Safe passage?” Valen said, staring at Prazor as if he were crazy. “You old fool. Have you no shame?”

  Prazor’s anger evaporated as quickly as it had arrived when he realised his indignation would have no effect on her. He decided to try a different tactic.

  “Veronica, plea
se. You can’t leave me here.”

  Valen set her mouth and raised her eyebrows. “I have already conveyed orders to your subordinates on your behalf, Commissioner, since you seem to be incapable of acting of your own volition of late. Your Enforcers have already been set in motion. I suggest you watch the broadcast with the rest of your peers, Charles. You’re going to have a lot of work on your hands once the people hear what I have to say.”

  The call terminated and Valen disappeared from view. Prazor sat there, his back stiff for a moment longer, then slumped back in his chair.

  It was over. He had been utterly defeated.

  In the end, he hadn’t even succeeded in begging for his own life.

  He reached into the drawer under his desk and pulled out the ceremonial pistol, the single-action revolver with pearl grips. He rubbed his thumb across it idly, remembering the day it had been handed to him. The day he had been made commissioner. It had been a cool, breezy morning, and patches of azure sky had even glinted through the murk on the horizon. A good omen, he had thought.

  He realised that the pistol, once the symbol of his shining future, had now become the bringer of his own destruction.

  He raised the revolver to his temple and laid the mirror down flat on the desk, then got to his feet. The afterimage of the face he’d glimpsed in its reflection remained in his mind – that of a man who was spent, who had nothing left to give. A man who had seen his day and who now had to move on.

  Charles Prazor pulled the trigger and fell into the arms of oblivion.

  17

  Knile eased the door shut and leaned back wearily upon it, taking a moment to catch his breath. Safely back inside Skybreach headquarters, his nerves were still on edge, still raw. Some deep recess of his brain hadn’t left the war zone yet. It pumped adrenaline through his system as if he were still there at ground zero.

  As if that crazy bastard Duran were still hot on his heels.