by Mark Ellis
Inside the door was an elevator shaft, just large enough to accommodate two men. He stepped onto the pancake-shaped disk and pulled the door shut behind him. Automatic lock solenoids snapped into place and the disk on which he stood shot upward.
Up. Way up, far above all the other levels.
The disk hissed to a pneumatic stop, and Salvo opened the door, striding quickly across the ramp and down into the baron’s suite. All the strings of power in the barony extended down from this level.
The foyer was magnificent, as was every room in the suite that Salvo had ever visited. Glittering light cast from many crystal chandeliers flooded every corner of the entrance hall.
He couldn’t help but smile wryly at the lavish evidence of power, especially when he occasionally received memos that the Intel section was fast using up its allotted monthly quota of electricity.
At the far end of the foyer, flanking huge, ivory-and-gold-inlaid double doors, stood two members of the elite Baronial Guard. Their polished black boots had walked no other surface than these equally polished floors; their white uniform jackets and red trousers had never been exposed to the elements of the Terra Infernus, let alone a hellzone. They gazed at him impassively, in his drab grey bodysuit, and inwardly he cursed them and Baron Cobalt for contriving such a situation to instil a sense of uncertainty and inferiority.
The guards opened the doors, and as Salvo walked between them he saw their faces twist, for the merest fraction of an instant, into sardonic smiles of superiority. Salvo ignored them. He had long ago filed their likenesses in the termination-pending section of his memory. If there should ever come a day when they found themselves within reach of his power, he would take great satisfaction in stripping them of their immaculate uniforms and dropping them naked from a Deathbird into a hellzone.
The doors shut behind him, and as he expected, he saw nothing but a deep, almost primal dark. Not black, because he could still make out dim shapes, but a dark that seemed soul deep, extending into an infinite void. Salvo kept walking forward, knowing where he was going. The baron’s level was the only one in the monolith without windows, and though he burned a great deal of electricity in the foyer, he always kept his living quarters a few shades lighter than obsidian.
One room led to another, through a wide, low arch. The succession of rooms went on, and Salvo always started to feel as though the rooms would never end, with yet one more lying beyond, then another, all illuminated by the grey glow from an unseen light source. But in the fifth and final room, Salvo stopped.
Eight men stood in a formal semicircle in the centre of the enormous Persian carpet that covered the floor. Several of the group were administrative members of the Magistrate Division, one was a high-ranking archivist and four were of Baron Cobalt’s personal staff. Though he knew all of their names, he didn’t know them personally.
Salvo managed to keep the surprise he felt from showing on his face. At most, he had expected two, maybe three of the baron’s staff to be present. He had no idea that the entire membership of the Trust had been summoned. Suddenly the reason for his audience with the baron was much more important than simply delivering a report about the Mesa Verde penetration.
None of the men spoke to him, nor did he speak to them. A meeting of the Trust was neither the time nor the place for social niceties. Every barony had its own version of the Trust. The organization, if it could be called that, was the only face-to-face contact allowed with the barons, and the barons were the only contacts permitted by the Archon Directorate.
The mission of the Trust revolved around a single theme—the presence of the Directorate must not be revealed to humanity. If their presence became known, if the technological marvels they had designed became accessible, if the Directorate’s history filtered down to the people, then potentially the Directorate would be forced to visit another apocalypse upon the face of the earth, simply as a measure of self-preservation.
And that capability was there, Salvo had been told upon his induction into the Trust. To prevent a second holocaust, maintaining the secrecy of the Directorate and their work was a sacred trust. It was a sworn and solemn duty, offered to very few.
Unfortunately, no secret as complex and as wide-ranging as this one could be completely hidden. Rumours abounded about the Directorate and Conception Infinitis even before the Nukeday, though they were relegated to the status of urban legends or contagious paranoia. During the century and a half following the Night Eternal, some of the secrets were discovered.
Humanity, what was left of it, was too scattered even for the Directorate to control. The near annihilation of the race hadn’t diminished the race’s inborn sense of curiosity, the drive to search in strange places for strange things.
Many of those strange places were penetrated, the strange things uncovered, but humankind was too concerned with day-to-day survival to reason out the why’s and wherefore’s behind them. It required only a generation to reduce the knowledge of strange places and things to mere rumours, and another generation to fanciful legends.
Salvo recalled that some thirty years before, a junior archivist in the Ragnahar barony found an old computer disk purporting to contain the journal of a Conception Infinitis scientist attached to a military project code-named Call Sign Cerberus. According to the journal, the scientist had been in suspended animation during the nuking and survived the Night Eternal to be revived over a century later.
The nameless scientist recorded his—or her— thoughts, observations and speculations regarding the post-Nukeday world, the Strongholds and the wonders they contained. A number of the extrapolations in the journal came too close to the truth.
The Trust suspected the Cerberus Codex as it came to be called, had been downloaded, copied and disseminated like a virus through the Historical Divisions of the entire baronial network. There was no solid proof of this, of course—only anxieties that gave rise to the fear of an elite group of historians/insurgents, labelled Preservationists by the Intel section, might know far more than the Trust or even the barons themselves.
At the measured tones of a gong Salvo cleared his mind of thoughts as all the men turned as one to face a patch of murk. In the gloom, a door slowly opened. Behind a filmy gauze curtain, a golden light, suffused in pastel hues, slanted down from above. The gong struck thirteen jubilant strokes, and the shaft of muted golden light became a glare. Right before the glare faded to its previous soft hue, a dark figure appeared within it.
The baron had arrived.
Salvo, in twenty-three years as a Magistrate and his five years as a member of the Trust, had never gotten a clear, unobstructed view of Baron Cobalt. With his eyes still recovering from the sudden glare, and with the figure drifting, always in nervous motion, pacing back and forth behind the golden filter, he received the same impression as always—a gaunt, hairless man under six feet tall, head bowed as if in intense concentration, one hand under the chin, the other behind his back. He appeared to be wearing a tailored bodysuit of dark gold with a short cape drifting from shoulder epaulets.
Although the baron walked in shadow, Salvo was able to glimpse a long, narrow face and a round, hairless skull that seemed just a bit too large. He had no idea of the colour or shape of the baron’s eyes.
“Milton Reeth.” The voice was pitched to a pleasant, musical contralto. Baron Cobalt himself spoke.
Salvo didn’t respond for a moment, and inwardly he cursed his hesitation as he stepped forward. “The termination warrant was served. By my own hand. I collected all the evidence of the arrangement.”
The slim figure of the Baron paced into the murk, and then it returned to be silhouetted by the golden light. “Regrettable. His merchandise was excellent in the beginning. Why he thought he could continue supplying such execrable, substandard substitutes remains a puzzle.”
“Greed,” said Abrams, the Magistrate administrator. “He was offered a unique
opportunity, we set him up to take full advantage of it, yet he desired more and he desired it more rapidly.”
“Yes,” Salvo declared a bit too loudly. He wanted to keep the Baron’s attention focused primarily on him. “He found it easier to attract Dregs with his promises of smuggling them into the barony. Healthy outrunners were sceptical of him, and the Dregs had nothing to lose.”
“Yes,” agreed Baron Cobalt contemplatively. “Greed. It’s a kind of sickness, a compulsion among your kind, isn’t it?”
No one answered.
“What of the men you chose to implement the termination? Did they see or hear anything that would arouse suspicion?”
“No, Baron,” replied Salvo stolidly. “Reeth was too frightened to reveal anything to them. He evidently thought a mistake had been made in administration, and it could be rectified if he spoke with me.”
“He was correct in a way, wasn’t he?” The baron’s laugh was the trilling of a bird.
Lakesh, the wizened senior archivist, asked gruffly, “What about that loose blaster of yours whom you took along?”
Salvo didn’t hide the irritation in his tone. “I have no such men under my command.”
“Come now, Salvo,” said Baron Cobalt. “Lakesh is being annoyingly oblique, but you know to whom he refers.”
Taking a breath, Salvo declared, “Kane saw nothing of importance. If he did, it was beyond his understanding. I spoke with him privately only a few minutes ago, and he accepted the cover story. If he is curious, I kept it in check.”
“Superficially, perhaps,” Abrams argued. “Curiosity runs very strong in the Kane line. We all remember his grandfather and father, possibly two of the best Magistrates in any division in any barony.”
“And,” intoned Guende, the small-statured staff member, “they suffered the same fate as the fabled cat. At least in the case of your predecessor, Salvo.”
The baron moved again, drifting gracefully toward the shadows, then back into the light. “The Dulce operation is a very critical one, as we know. The need for raw materials seems to increase exponentially, the closer the program comes to fruition. Therefore, Salvo, it’s been decided by the Trust, after a consultation with the Directorate, that you are instructed to take charge of the accruing, processing and transportation of the merchandise to Dulce.”
Salvo couldn’t help but smile. He had, always hoped, ever since being inducted into the Trust, that his efforts on its behalf would be rewarded with a position of authority.
“Thank you, Lord Baron, I will faithfully—”
Baron Cobalt cut him off with a gently admonishing hiss. “This is a particularly delicate operation, even in these late stages. Nukeday prevented it from achieving completion, and now finally it is within sight. It is a matter requiring careful planning and, therefore, absolutely no unforeseen variables to contend with. You must use your position in the Magistrate Division to carry out the edicts, and that means you will need help.”
“I’m sure the Trust is more than able to provide me with all the support I could possibly need—”
The baron interrupted him again. “No, Salvo. You misunderstand. You need a confidant, a pawn. With all the men under your command, surely there is one who would be of service to you in this undertaking.”
Salvo was silent a moment, then smiled coldly. “Only one, Lord Baron.”
“Yes.”
“Kane.”
A shocked murmur rippled among the members of the Trust. Abrams gave a stallion snort of derision. “Are you mad?” he demanded. “His father—”
“The division is Kane’s real father,” snapped Salvo. “He has no idea of what actually happened to the man. He probably thinks he’s still up here, pushing paper and filling out water-requisition reports. No, Kane is as hard and as bright as a blade. He has no use for slaggers or outrunners. With the proper inducement, I’m sure he would find my offer a very unique opportunity.”
“And so do you,” Lakesh said. “For cruel irony.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Salvo replied stiffly, “Kane is like his father only in his devotion to serving the baron.”
Abrams snorted again to indicate his disapproval.
“Yes, we believed the same of his father. To our sorrow. And your gain.”
Baron Cobalt laughed, a soft, lilting sound.
“The proposal has merit, on a number of points. If Kane refuses your offer, Salvo, an accident on duty can be easily arranged. Or like his father, he can be appointed to an administrative position and never be seen again. Yes, Salvo, I approve.”
Salvo nodded formally. “Thank you. You will find your confidence well placed.”
He was careful to strike the correct balance between expressing his gratitude and pride.
The golden light flickered, dimmed, and Baron Cobalt stepped back beneath the arch. The audience was over as quickly as it had begun.
The pudgy man named Horan wasted no time whirling on Salvo.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
Salvo smiled cheerfully. “Consider, then, that the advantage far outweighs the risk.”
“How can you possibly trust Kane?” Guende asked incredulously. “His father—”
“He’s a Magistrate first,” Salvo announced. “A Kane second.”
He left the other members of the Trust standing on the Persian carpet. Abrams caught up with him before he passed through the final arch. “A word, if you will.”
Abrams’s carriage was ramrod straight, despite his deeply seamed face, the iron grey in his hair and square-cut beard. Salvo nodded to him respectfully. Abrams was one of the old guard of the division, entering it at the very end of the first generation. Despite the fact he had served as an administrator longer than he had as a Magistrate, Salvo had to admit that Abrams’s performance in both positions was outstanding.
“Your plan seems ill conceived,” said Abrams softly, grimly. “Almost perverse.”
“It is not, Administrator, I assure you.” The deference in Salvo’s tone was genuine. “Why do you think so?”
“Because Kane has options. He is not alone, he is not isolated. He has a friend, and therefore an emotional centre. A grounding in an identity.”
Salvo nodded. “You mean Grant.”
“Grant. Though fraternization between Magistrates is discouraged, you have allowed those two to forge a bond.”
“Grant is due for administrative transfer. That will break the bond.”
Abrams shook his head. “It will weaken it, not shatter it. The bond must be broken as dramatically and traumatically as possible, so Kane will seek a substitute to fill the void.”
Abrams’s voice was like his hair—all iron. He took a deep breath and said, “As was done to me.”
Salvo suddenly understood. Abrams’s lover had been chilled by a self-styled Pit boss decades ago. He’d become cynical and morose, and therefore an excellent candidate for the Trust. Salvo also understood Abrams had accepted the likelihood that the murder had been ordered by the baron, not the Pit boss.
“Yes, Administrator,” Salvo said softly. “As was done to you.”
He turned and left the chambers. As he entered the brilliantly lit hall, he paused long enough to stare contemplatively at the two guards. They met his gaze impassively.
“Soon,” he said, and went on his way. His thoughts swarmed with speculations. He would make his new responsibility a spectacular success, and then neither the Baron nor the Directorate could deny him anything, even a whim. Nothing else mattered. Instant termination would be the immediate fate of anyone who opposed or even postponed that success.
Including, even if circumstances didn’t warrant it, the third Magistrate to bear the loathsome name of Kane.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KANE DIDN’T GO home. He hung out in the dayroom, taking a corner
table away from the door, blocked from the glances of passers-by in the corridor by people coming and going. The table was also out of the range of the vid spy-eye attached to the ceiling. He sipped at a cup of sub, and read over the daily Intel report transmitted along the baronial network.
Intel Level. Copies All Mag Divs
Harrierville, MN: After several incursions in the territory, a band of Roamers was apprehended and terminated. Sympathizers within barony also terminated.
Horusville, KS: Measures taken to degrade fighting ability among hostile Lakota group include introduction of nerve toxins into hunting grounds.
Eaglesnakeville, CA: Report of Squidoo clan settlement on Western Island investigated, no foundation for report.
The reports from the other five baronies s comprising the network were similar. Even by reading between the lines, there wasn’t even the vaguest hint of a rebellion brewing anywhere, much less the appearance of a charismatic warlord.
The territories controlled by the nine baronies were vast, so if anything as big and nasty as Salvo had described was brewing, some crumb of Intel should appear on the reports.
Though it was heresy to even think of it, Kane was certain Salvo was lying. The barbs about his father and grandfather had been aimed to prick his pride, make him question his doubts.
Kane held his two namesakes in high regard, and he felt that he, the third Kane to serve as a Magistrate, had to measure up to a level of duty established decades before.
The use of first names in the division had been taboo for three generations. The original drafters of the Program of Unification had believed that only surnames, family names, engendered a sense of obligation to the duties of their ancestors’ office, ensuring that subsequent generations never lost touch with their hereditary roles as enforcers. Last names became badges of social distinction, almost titles.
If nothing else, Kane thought a little sourly, it kept every man toeing the line so he wouldn’t tarnish the honour of his antecedents.
Kane had never met his grandfather. He had been chilled fifteen years before he was born in the retaking of the Pits from insurgents who believed baronial authority was completely arbitrary. That had been a bloodbath. Many Magistrates had been literally torn limb from limb by the rioting Pit dwellers.
