Judgment Plague

by James Axler

  * * *

  IN THE HANGAR BAY, Kane and Brigid turned as twelve riled-up magistrates came bounding through the flame-damaged doors from the reception area. The smoke was thick in the room, thick enough that it was hard to tell just who was who.

  “Everybody freeze!” the lead mag yelled.

  Kane stepped across to the doorway where Brigid had appeared, glancing at her hopefully. “There’s no time for this, Baptiste,” he whispered.

  “Then go,” she instructed. “I’ll hold them.”

  “What about the ’birds?”

  “Just go, dammit,” Brigid hissed.

  Kane bolted, darting from the hangar into the same side lobby that she had emerged from, the place where DePaul had disappeared five minutes before.

  The magistrates paced warily into the room, six of them training their blasters on Brigid, while the others scanned the hangar for possible attack. She raised her hands in surrender.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m supposed to be here.”

  The leader stomped over to her, staring down at her through the tinted visor of his helmet. “Who are you? What happened here?”

  “Medic,” Brigid explained, waving her hands just a little in defeat.

  “Medic?” the mag repeated, as his colleagues checked the room. It was littered with burning embers and ruined Deathbirds. “What kind of medic wears a blaster like that?”

  Brigid winced. “I was bringing it in for checking when the explosion hit,” she told him. “Found it in the Tartarus Pits. A Magistrate Lakesh has my report already, if you care to check.”

  She banked on the mag not bothering to verify her story right now, not in the middle of the chaos that had gripped the whole of Cappa Level.

  One of the mag’s colleagues disarmed Brigid, removing the TP-9 pistol and the hip holster where she wore it. “Nice piece of hardware,” he commented as he checked the weapon’s safety.

  More mags were appearing in the hangar, trotting through the reception room to see what had happened. Several had blood on the exposed parts of their faces.

  “So, you just happened to be here,” the magistrate interviewing Brigid said, clearly dubious, “when the explosions went off. And no doubt, you didn’t see anyone or anything.”

  “Look, buddy,” Brigid spit, adopting a more challenging attitude—which wasn’t easy with her hands up in the surrender position. “I just arrived, and when I heard the explosions I figured maybe you and your people would appreciate the assistance of a medical professional. You want to check my story, contact Colin Phillips. He’s a roaming doctor on call to this level.”

  “And you are?” the mag asked, still not certain of her story.

  “His assistant, Lexa,” she said, trying her best to sound convincing. She had to get out of here ASAP and get a message through to Cerberus about the escaped Deathbirds. Time was wasting. She only hoped Kane was having more success.

  * * *

  THE ELEVATOR HAD not been waiting for Kane, but it was too risky to wait, with all those mags poised to charge him with wanton destruction of property. So he had slipped into the emergency stairwell. Probably the smart thing to do, anyway, he reasoned—after all, the explosions that had ripped through the hangar had most likely caused structural damage to the tower.

  He clambered up the steps, his footsteps echoing on their hard surfaces. Alpha Level—that’s where his quarry would head, most probably. The guy had one hell of a grudge against Cobaltville, and anyone with that kind of drive, planning and—let’s face it—lunacy, would have to go for the head honcho himself to really make his point.

  So long as Brigid could handle the other stuff, Kane thought, he might have a chance of stopping the big bad himself.

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Kane muttered as he slipped from the stairwell into the level above the magistrate quarters.

  * * *

  ON ALPHA LEVEL, three magistrates watched warily, ready for attack, as the doors to the restricted freight elevator opened once again. One of them was already wounded, having taken two shots to the chest. His armor had protected him from the full impact, but he had two cracked ribs and was now bent over, wheezing for breath.

  The inside of the elevator was ruined, the walls pockmarked with bullets, a whole litter of shell casings strewn across the once immaculate floor. But there was no sign of the gunman.

  “He’s gone...?” the investigating mag said, peering into the car with his sin eater nosing before him. “He’s not in here.”

  He took a wary step inside the empty elevator cage. As he did so, he noticed the missing tile in the ceiling above—but by then it was too late. A sin eater muzzle poked through and blasted off a single shot, shattering the man’s visor as he looked up to check what he had seen. The visor split into shards, and the first bullet was followed by a second that shattered the magistrate’s nose before burrowing into his face.

  “He’s in the roof hatch,” one of the remaining mags cried out as his colleague sank to the ground in an explosion of broken visor and blood.

  DePaul dropped through the hatch then, his pistol blasting again and again, shattering both kneecaps of the onrushing magistrate who struggled to return fire. Bullets flew, several striking DePaul’s armored coat and mask.

  Then he was out of the elevator and running toward the last mag standing, even as his colleague dropped to the floor, screaming from the agony of his ruined knees. DePaul blasted the man again, but this time sent a jet of ice-cold virus into him as he howled in pain.

  Then DePaul was standing before the last remaining magistrate, the one who had already taken two bullets to the chest.

  “Who...are you?” the mag asked between painful breaths. “What...are you...doing here?”

  “I’m here to dispense judgment,” DePaul told him as he raised his sin eater and pulled the trigger, sending a burst of bullets into his surprised face. The magistrate slunk to the floor in an eruption of blood.

  DePaul bent down then, scanning the lobby area for any further threats. He reached forward, blasting the nearest two magistrates with a burst of final judgment, the liquid contained in the hoses hidden in his sleeves. His supply was coming to an end. As he stood up again, familiar black tears marked the faces of the magistrates—final judgment made on them at last.

  Chapter 32

  Brigid waited impatiently in the holding room on Cappa Level while a magistrate administrator called Albrecht contacted Colin Phillips to confirm her story. Showing outstanding quick-thinking, Phillips backed every word, and even added to “Lexa’s” story, explaining that she was returning from a mercy mission for one of the most senior administrators.

  Her gun had been removed and taken as evidence, along with its holster. There was no point arguing; she knew she had been lucky not to get shot then and there for carrying the thing.

  Brigid spent the whole time watching the clock. Time was of the essence now. Cobaltville mags were still trying to piece things together, and they hadn’t even begun to think to chase the rogue Deathbirds that were operating via artificial pilot.

  Eventually—five minutes after Brigid had been escorted to the holding room—the administrator was satisfied enough to let her go on her way. “They’re going to need all hands at the hangar,” he reminded her. “They say someone planted a bomb there.”

  Not a bomb, Brigid thought bitterly, just Kane’s usual subtle way of dealing with things. But to his credit it had worked—well, almost.

  She marched from the holding room, past an open-plan office area where magistrates were trying to come to grips with what had happened. She overheard conversations about a massacre on Beta Level—her old level, where archivists operated. It made her wonder just how large scale the attack had been.

  Brigid turned into an emergency stairwell the very moment she wa
s sure she was unobserved, scampering down the stairs and triggering the commtact hidden beneath her skin.

  “Mother, this is Lexa,” she said. “Are you there?”

  * * *

  THE OPERATIONS ROOM in the Cerberus redoubt had been quiet for what seemed a long time. Once the liaising with Phillips had been completed and Kane and Brigid were away, there was nothing they could do but wait. Grant was still recovering from his first bout of radiation therapy, leaving everyone waiting on tenterhooks.

  Brewster Philboyd was just having a spot of breakfast—one of the canteen’s pastries with a smearing of fruit preserve—when the communications deck he was monitoring came to life with Brigid’s voice.

  “Mother, this is Lexa,” she said. “Are you there?”

  “I read you, loud and clear,” he responded. “What’s happening?”

  “Target made it to Cappa Level,” Brigid said, sounding breathless as she spoke. “Used A.I. to launch a squadron of Deathbird choppers that we suspect are transporting live virus. Kane managed to stop some, but two got away.”

  “Crap on a cracker,” Philboyd spit, shaking his head. “Deathbirds, you said?”

  “That’s right. Two got away, Cerberus,” Brigid stated over the commtact frequency. “I can’t do anything from my end. Can you track?”

  “Tracking,” Philboyd said, the hint of a quaver in his voice. As he spoke, he jabbed a button on his display and brought up a satellite feed. With a few keystrokes of manipulation, he brought up a distant overhead view of Cobaltville. He adjusted the gain, and on his screen, the display brought the outskirts of Cobaltville into sharp relief, showing where two Deathbirds were roaring through the skies.

  “They’re fast and armored,” Brigid stated, “and we suspect they’re heading for other villes.”

  “Which ones?” Brewster asked as he adjusted the image. Behind him, Lakesh and Edwards were hurrying over, aware that something significant was playing out at his desk.

  “Don’t know,” Brigid admitted over the comm. “But you need to stop them before that junk hits another major ville.”

  Philboyd breathed a heavy sigh as he watched the drone Deathbirds peel away from one another. As they did, the image on the screen split, tracking each one separately, identifying it with a red circle. “We’re going to need firepower,” he said. “A lot of firepower.”

  * * *

  GRANT WAS ALONE as he lay in the recovery suite. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness over the last thirty minutes or so, and had spoken briefly with Shizuka when he woke up, asking her to get him some breakfast. He was ravenous from the radiation treatment. While she was gone, he switched on his commtact and listened in on the general frequency, merely to keep the boredom and silence at bay. Thus he heard the hurried exchange between Brigid and Brewster Philboyd over his commtact. While the request had not been intended for him, he had little else to occupy his time while he lay in bed, hooked up to nutrient feeds. When he heard Brigid speak about the escaped Deathbirds, Grant muttered a curse under his breath. If those things were filled with the same crap that had poisoned his system, then the danger was very high.

  “Someone’s got to do something,” he muttered, shaking his head. And he knew just who it needed to be.

  * * *

  IN THE CERBERUS ops room, Lakesh was already putting together a plan.

  “Two Deathbirds, top speed 180 mph,” he explained to his gathered teammates. “We can track them via satellite and send out something to meet them.”

  “How long will that take?” asked Sela Sinclair.

  Lakesh shook his head, clearly worried. “Too long,” he admitted. “In situations like this, it’s always too long. All we can do is pray we reach the helicopters before they reach their targets.”

  “That will take some fancy piloting,” Edwards said, “and those pilots are going to need something fast if they’re to catch up.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Edwards,” Lakesh said, addressing the shaven-headed ex-mag. “We have two Mantas on site.” Mantas were vehicles of ancient, alien design designed for transatmospheric flight. They were fast as lightning, but took a pilot of incredible skill to operate. ”They are being prepped as we speak.”

  Edwards was shaking his head. “That’s great, chief, but I can fly only one of them.” For once, this was not bravado on Edwards’s part; he really was one of a very select few who could actually pilot the incredible machines.

  “We do have other options, but we must remain hopeful that Kane can return in time to take the other one into the air,” Lakesh said. “Otherwise...” He trailed off, grim foreboding in his tone.

  Cobaltville

  BRIGID SLIPPED OUT of the staircase on Delta Level and made her way through the bustling crowds, trotting hurriedly to the nearest elevator and the fastest route out of there.

  Magistrate presence was high here, no doubt in light of the attack on Cappa Level, and Brigid kept her head down, wishing there was something she could do to disguise her vividly colored hair.

  “Next time, it’s hair dye,” she told herself as she turned into an adjacent corridor and checked the nearest wall map for the location of the elevators, searching for one that would take her down to the Tartarus Pits.

  As she walked, she wondered how Kane was faring. But before she could hail him via her commtact, a magistrate appeared in front of her, blocking her path.

  The man pointed to her face. “Hey!” he began. “You shouldn’t be here!”

  Damn, Brigid thought, he’s recognized me.

  Beta Level

  EMERGENCY LIGHTING WAS in effect on Beta Level, and magistrates were marching in squadrons down the wide corridors, tending to the wounded and instructing people not to panic.

  Kane slipped out of the stairwell and weaved between the crowds. Numerous archivists had come out from their desk jobs and were milling in the corridors, where there was less risk of falling debris. They hung about, awaiting instructions from the magistrates that it was safe to return to their desks. Almost all of them wore the small, square-framed glasses that marked their status as archivists.

  Like sheep, Kane thought as he looked at the crowds. Not a single one of them smart enough to run away, even when the sky really was falling.

  He had never planned this return to Cobaltville, and it surprised him now how disenchanted he had become with the place. The regimented living, caging people not with bars and walls but with rules and routine—but it all amounted to the same thing. They were all prisoners in the system, held in place where the baron—or whoever had claimed that role in the wake of the barons’ collective desertion of their fiefdoms—wanted them, never to strive, never to know true freedom.

  Your freedom is an illusion, Kane thought as he reached for the call button on the elevator bank. Your safety is only enslavement by another name. And even the magistrates were fooled by the system—all of them except for himself and Grant, who had broken the shackles and moved away from the rigid system of passing sentence and executing the guilty for meaningless crimes.

  The elevator pinged a dull note as it arrived, the doors sliding back with an unpleasant squeak where the runners had become warped by the explosions below. Kane stepped inside.

  Cerberus

  GRANT WAS HALFWAY out of bed when Shizuka came striding back into his room. She was balancing two paper cups of herbal tea and a plate of plain toast in her hands, and her brows arched in almost comical shock when she saw Grant sitting up with the covers thrown back.

  “Grant-san, what is it that you think you are doing?” she asked, her words coming out in a hurried tumble.

  He looked at her, a grim expression on his face. “Problems at Cobaltville,” he said. “Cerberus needs backup.”

  “Grant, no,” Shizuka cried. “You’re not well enough to—”

  He held up
a hand to stop her. “Shizuka, love, we need pilots to get out there and track some deadly virus. With Kane in the field, I’m the best pilot on site just now. I need to do this.”

  She looked thoughtful as she tried to recall the names of the Cerberus personnel. “What about Edwards? He’s an ex-mag, he can—”

  “From what I overheard, I think there are two targets, splitting up and heading in maybe opposite directions,” Grant said. He was reaching for his clothes, which had been folded neatly in an unlocked cabinet beside the bed.

  Shizuka nodded solemnly. “I understand, Grant-san,” she said. “The clarion call of the warrior is powerful, drawing those who can to receive its benevolence. But I will help you, Grant-san. No arguments.”

  He smiled as he gave the petite samurai warrior an up-from-under look. “Me? Argue with you? Not in this lifetime.”

  Shizuka stroked his head as he reached for his pants and boots. “I’ll be with you,” she promised. “We’ll do this together.”

  * * *

  EDWARDS PACED THE ops room as Lakesh briefed him on the mission, along with two other pilots, including Sela Sinclair, who would handle Cerberus’s slower contingent of Deathbird choppers.

  Lakesh ran through a projected analysis of the targets for the two Deathbirds, bringing up the information on a large screen for all to see.

  “The trajectory on target A brings it in line with Ragnarville, though fuel range may be a factor to consider,” Lakesh said, pointing to the proposed location. “Best case is that we neutralize the threat before it reaches its target. Reba?”

  Standing propped against a desk close by, Reba DeFore stood up straight and answered the chief’s prompt. “This is a highly infectious virus,” she said. “Having it released anywhere is cause for alarm. Our wisest precaution is to destroy it before it reaches any site of human habitation.”

  “Got it,” Edwards acknowledged with a nod.

  Sitting beside him, Sela Sinclair piped up. “So, what about the other hostile?”