Quinn pulled the seatbelt on with one hand, keying in his destination on the central control column with the other. He transferred
the displayed fee from his bank disk and the little vehicle sped off along the street.
It all made a frightening amount of sense. He remembered the High Magus in New York; who obviously knew too much to risk being
possessed. And back in Edmonton when he’d been a junior acolyte; the way everyone on a sect gig had to tell their sergeant
acolyte all the crap that was going down on the street. It happened every single day. The sergeants would report to the senior
acolytes, who in turn reported to Banneth. An uncompromising routine, drilled in to Quinn along with all the others right
from their initiation. Information is the weapon which wins all wars. We need to know what the gangs are doing, what the police
patrols are doing, what the locals are doing. Every coven was the same, in every arcology. The sect knew the moves of every
downtown illegal on the whole planet.
“Perfect!” Quinn shouted. He thumped his fist into the seat cushion. “Fucking perfect.” The taxi was starting to rise up a
ramp to the elevated express-road. Vertical lines of blanked windows zipped past as they increased speed, then curved round
to a horizontal blur. Thousands of slumbering minds slipstreamed through his consciousness. Restful and content. Just as they
were supposed to be. As they had to be.
Arcologies were the social equivalents of nukes. Half a billion people crammed into a couple of hundred square kilometres;
an impossibility of human nature. The only society which could conceivably hang together in those circumstances was a total-control
dictatorship. Everything licensed and regulated with no tolerance of dissent or rebellion. Anarchy and libertarian freedoms
didn’t work here, because arcologies were machines. They had to keep working smoothly, and the same way. Everything interlocked.
If one unit fucked up, then every other unit would suffer. That couldn’t be allowed. Which was a paradox, because you couldn’t
keep the jackboot stamping down forever. However benign a dictatorship, some generation down the line will rebel. So somebody,
centuries ago, had worked out how to keep the lid screwed down tight. An old enough idea, never quite managed in practice.
Until now. A government department that quietly and secretly takes control of society’s lowest strata. Criminals and radical
insurgents actually working for the very people whose existence they threaten.
Quinn could feel his energistic power starting to boil up. His thoughts were so hot with fury he could barely contain the
power. “Gotta keep it in,” he spat through clenched teeth. One mistake now, and they’d have him. “Got to.” He pummelled his
hands against his head, the shock of the craziness helping to bring himself back under control. Deep breath, and he glanced
out of the cab’s window. Uptown’s layout was second nature, though he’d rarely experienced it from an elevated road before,
much less a cab. They’d be taking the down ramp soon, angling in to Macmillan Station. Minutes only.
His breathing evened out, though he was still outraged. The sect, the awesome gospel he’d given his very life to, was being
used as the front of some ultra-spook department. No wonder Banneth and Vientus could fix for an acolyte’s bail with the cops;
they
were
the fucking cops. Anyone with the slightest potential for danger was sucked in by the sect. And if they couldn’t be cowed
into dumb obedience and neutralized that way, then they were thrown to the cops and given an Involuntary Transportee sentence.
“That was me,” he whispered in pride. “Banneth couldn’t subdue me. Not even with all that shit she can do to bodies. Not me!”
So the cops had been told about the persona-sequestrator nanonics he was bringing into the arcology. He’d always wondered
who’d tipped them off, who the traitor was amongst his fellow devout. There probably had never even been any in the carton.
Banneth. Always fucking Banneth.
The taxi drew up in front of one of the hundreds of vehicle entrance bays to Macmillan Station. Quinn knew there and then
that he was in the deepest shit imaginable. He climbed out of the cab and walked slowly into the main concourse.
The giant arena of corporate urban architecture was almost as empty as the streets outside. There were no arrivals. No streams
of frantic passengers racing away from the tops of the escalators. Icons had evaporated from the informationals, which were
hanging motionless in the air. Stalls had been folded up and abandoned by their sellrats. A few clumps of listless people
stood under holoscreens, cases clutched tightly, staring up at the single red message that was repeated like a parallel mirror
image everywhere you looked across the station: ALL VAC-TRAIN SERVICES TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED. Even the scattering of ghosts
Quinn could see were wandering aimlessly about their haunt, their expressions even more glum and bewildered than usual.
A group of cops were standing together outside a closed BurrowBurger outlet, drinking from plastic cups, talking quietly among
themselves. The loud echo of his footsteps as he walked towards them stirred way too many memories inside Quinn’s skull. It
was the same concourse, same dark cop uniform. Then, there had been pounding feet, heart thudding hard in his chest. Screams
as people dived out of his way, shouted warnings. Alarms blaring. Brilliant light-bursts. The pain of the nervejam shot.
“Excuse me, officer; could you tell me what’s happening here? I have a connection to San Antonio in half an hour.” Quinn smiled
Erhard’s twitchy smile at the cops. It must have been a good copy; most of them sneered. Finally, the failed acolyte had performed
a useful service for God’s Brother.
“Check the station bulletin,” one of them said. “Christ’s sake.”
“I, a ha, I don’t have a set of neural nanonics. I qualify for the company loan scheme next year.”
“Okay… sir; what we have here is a vacuum breach. The tunnels were pressurizing, so the transit company had to activate the
emergency seals. There’s a repair crew down there now. Should be fixed in a day or so. Nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you.” Quinn walked back to the taxis.
I can’t get out, he realized. God’s Brother! The bastards have snared me here. Unless I can get to the other arcologies, His
work will remain incomplete. The Night may be held off. And that cannot be allowed. They are thwarting the Light Bringer Himself!
It was frightening, the way he’d been lulled into a false sense of security. He, of all people. Ever suspicious, ever mistrustful.
And he’d fallen into their trap. Yet they must be frightened of
him
to go to such elaborate lengths. Whoever they were.
He stood outside a taxi for a long time, working out where he should go. In the end, there wasn’t a lot of choice. He was
in Edmonton for one person. And only one person would be able to tell him who his real enemy was.
______
This was the part Billy-Joe didn’t like. He was holding a laser pistol in one hand, there was a heavy-calibre magnetic carbine
hanging on a strap round his left shoulder, fitted with a magazine of EE-tipped projectiles, a bag full of EE demolition charges
on his right shoulder, codebuster and ELINT blocks on his belt, and a slim omniview band worn like a tiara on his forehead
to boost his sight. It was enough hardware to start a war. Kicking the shit out of Courtney’s punters was Billy-Joe’s usual
gig. Fast, nasty, and personal. None of this commando shit, where security systems would shoot back at him if anybody in the
group screwed up.
But Quinn had wanted to stir things up in Edmonton, keep the cops busy and away from uptown. So Billy-Joe was sneaking down
a lightless alley at half past four in the morning with ten other acolytes from Duffy’s coven.
“This is the place,” said the possessed man who was leading them, and stopped at a blank section of the alley wall.
He gave Billy-Joe the creeps, maybe even more than Quinn. One of the five possessed which Duffy had let into the bodies of
snatched civilians. They all lived at the coven headquarters, treating the acolytes like shit and lording it up: the core
of what Quinn promised was to be the army of the Night. Billy-Joe wasn’t so sure about all that dark destiny stuff now, despite
all he’d seen Quinn do. From where he was, it was just replacing one bunch of turds for another. The sect never changed; he
always got dumped on no matter who was in charge.
The possessed rested his hands on the wall, tensing as if he was trying to push it over. He probably could, Billy-Joe acknowledged.
And that was without energistic power. He was at least thirty centimetres taller than Billy-Joe, and must have weighed half
as much again.
A door materialized in the wall, made of wooden planks with big black iron bolts and with a sturdy circular handle. It opened
silently, letting a wedge of bright light spill out into the fetid alley. There was a long hall of machinery on the other
side; bulky turbine casings half-submerged in the carbon-concrete floor. Billy-Joe was looking down on them from at least
sixty metres; the door had opened onto a high metal gantry running round the inside.
“In you go,” the possessed man ordered. His bass voice rumbled along the alley, agitating the rats.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to use your power,” Billy-Joe said. “The cops know how to look for it now.”
“They can only detect those fireballs we use,” the possessed said glibly. “Listen, kid; Quinn wants you to bugger up this
water station, he was real keen for you to do that. That’s why I’m here with you, so I can let you guys in quietly. Now, unless
you’d like to go in by the front gate, this is the way to do it.”
Three of the sensors perched along the top of the alley wall picked up the blasÉ assurance, relaying it to the intrigued supervisors
of North America and Western Europe. The big possessed man had been leaving a trail of glitched processors ever since the
little sabotage group emerged from the coven headquarters.
The ever-vigilant AI had datavised North America as soon as the first two were confirmed. A GISD covert tactical team had
been dispatched to shadow them within seconds. But the trail had been so ridiculously blatant that North America had alerted
Western Europe, and kept the tactical team a block away. Both of the B7 supervisors waited to see exactly where Billy-Joe
and the others were heading.
“I can’t let them damage the water station,” North America said. “Edmonton’s operating margins are becoming critical as it
is, thanks to Quinn’s vandalism.”
“I know,” Western Europe said. “And our big friend has to know that as well. Use the snipers to target the waster scum, but
don’t let them shoot this new possessed. I’ve become very curious about his attitude.”
“Haven’t we all.” North America issued his orders to the tactical team, who started to take up position inside the water station
hall.
Internal sensors showed the sabotage group sneaking in through the new door, glancing from side to side to make sure no one
was watching them, then stalking along the catwalk in an almost theatrical mime of caution. Nine of them went inside. Then
the possessed man grabbed Billy-Joe’s shoulder with a meaty hand and pulled him back just as he was about to slip through.
White fire spat from the fingertips of his free hand, soaring into the hall. A couple of balls struck an electrical junction
panel, detonating loudly.
“What the fuck?” Billy-Joe gasped. He struggled uselessly in that implacable grip as his colleagues shouted in panic. The
door slammed shut with a vociferous
bang
, and vanished. “You bastard!” Billy-Joe screamed. He swung his laser pistol round, and fired at the chuckling possessed at
point blank range. Nothing happened. The weapon’s electronics had crashed.
Several explosions sounded inside the hall, reverberating through the solid wall. Both supervisors watched with little interest
as the tactical team eliminated the saboteurs. Their attention was focused almost entirely on the small, intense drama unravelling
outside in the alley.
“Traitor!” Billy-Joe yelled recklessly. “You killed them, they’re dying in there.”
The possessed man’s grip tightened, lifting Billy-Joe off the floor, and bringing their faces close together. “Quinn’s gonna
chop you into rat bait,” Billy-Joe hissed in defiance.
“I spared you so you can deliver a message to him.”
“What? What… I—”
A palm slapped into Billy-Joe’s cheek. It was hard enough to make bones rattle. A red veil flashed up over Billy-Joe’s vision,
like someone had shot the omniview band with a targeting laser. He groaned, tasting blood. “Are you listening to me?” the
possessed purred.
“Yeah,” Billy-Joe whimpered miserably.
“You tell Quinn Dexter that the friends of Carter McBride are coming for him. We’re going to piss all over his crazy little
schemes, then we’re going to make him pay for what he’s done. Understand? The friends of Carter McBride.”
“Who are you?”
“I just told you, dickhead.”
Billy-Joe was dropped to stumble among the slippery bags of trash and fleeing rats. A boot kicked his ass with terrible force,
sending him flying. He hit the wall and rebounded, crying out at the pain stabbing through his buttocks.
“Now start running,” the possessed said. “I want you out of here before the cops start hunting us.”
“Keep the tactical team away from them,” Western Europe said. A shout had almost escaped from his lips, the revelation was
so astounding.
“Thank you for your insight,” North America said caustically. “They’ll stay clear.”
“My God, we’ve got an ally. A bona fide ally. A possessed at war with Quinn Dexter.”
“We won’t have him for very long, I suspect.”
The big possessed man was almost chasing a terrified Billy-Joe along the alley. They emerged onto a broad patch of wasteland,
cracked sheets of carbon-concrete with rows of severed metal support pillars sticking up all along the edges. Typical of that
area on the edge of dome, dominated by warehouses and shabby industrial buildings.