The Exodus Towers (61 page)

“No,” Russell admitted. The informants he’d sent across had been frustratingly, unnervingly quiet. Gone native, maybe, or discovered. A mix of both. “But it makes sense.”

“I always plan for the things that don’t make sense,” Alex said. “Unless, of course, a bloodbath is what you want.”

“My men don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”
Grillo’s men, I mean, but you don’t need to know that
. Of course Russell would be there, too, and a few handpicked squad leaders from his own pool of mercenaries. They could hang back, though. Give orders. Let the blood flow and clean up the mess afterward, should it even go down like that.

Alex Warthen shrugged. “Seems okay to me, then. I’m sure we can get the rest of the council to buy off on the plan, too.”

The comment made Russell want to push his fingers into his ears and press until they punctured his brain. He hoped he kept his disgust hidden as Alex continued to study the projected model on the table. “I look forward to the vote,” Russell said, confident he’d imparted minimal sarcasm. Alex expected some, and Russell couldn’t disappoint him. That would have been a dead giveaway. “Perhaps we can call it via comm this afternoon? My people will be ready to go by dinner.”

“That soon?” Alex asked.

“Yes. If the geeks still on Anchor are right, the Builders will be back in March. Time is running out. I want that shit over there in our hands before the aliens try to rape us again.”

Alex, amazingly, nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at his slate. “I’ve got to get down to the port and board my climber. Heading up to Midway Station for a meeting with all the upper-station captains. I’ll set the vote for three
P.M
. if the climber has a comm.”

“Perfect,” Russell said.

“Nice plan, Blackfield. Good luck.”

“Walk you out?”

“I’m fine,” Alex said, and departed.

When the door clicked closed behind the security chief, Russell realized his “bloodbath” plan might have won approval simply because he’d be putting himself in harm’s
way. Alex probably liked the odds that the council’s problem child wouldn’t return. “On the contrary, asshole,” Russell said to the empty room, “I’ll have two Elevators, then, and Tania Sharma chained to my bedpost.”

Russell tapped the comm on his desk and selected the group contact he’d created, the one marked “the Dog Pound,” which would transmit his voice to the cabin of every grunt he commanded on Platz Station.

“Listen up, wags,” he said when the connection showed green. “I want each and every one of you in the central dock in twenty minutes. Full gear. Our comrades from the surface, the ones who took over your shitty jobs after you ascended, are coming up to take part in a joint combat operation.”

Russell gave a second for the words to settle in.

“I want to show them what a real bunch of hard-ass skullcracking motherfuckers look like, let you guys boss them around a bit. We’ll take them to the gymnasium, where squads will be assigned.…” He rattled off a plan from the top of his head. He intended to change it all, anyway, so it didn’t matter much. The only part that mattered was getting Grillo’s holy warriors into the transport tubs and ushered off to Tania’s empire.

Finished, Russell clicked off and jogged to his quarters. Neil Platz’s old flat. The place looked like a high-end hotel penthouse, as large and polished as the old goat’s ego had been.

Just inside the wide double doors he began to undress, leaving a trail of clothing behind him as he wound through the apartments toward the opulent bathroom. A woman in his bed mumbled something as he passed. He couldn’t tell who it was, exactly, with just a creamy thigh and toned calf exposed. He only slowed slightly, enticed by the sight of flesh and enthused by his own state of nudity, but he knew time was running short. The woman would have to wait. He strode on, ignoring her mumbled invitation, and entered the bathroom.

Russell stood under the showerhead, alternating the water from scalding hot to ice cold every few minutes until he felt his mind begin to clear. He kept his eyes open despite the
rivulets of water that poured down his face, and stared at an imagined point somewhere far beyond the marble wall of the shower.

Brazil.
Brazil
.

Twenty-five minutes later Russell floated in front of his assembled troops.

“All right, lads, thirty seconds!” he called out.

The lack of significant gravity in the cargo bay made it difficult to put on a suitable show of his military might. His soldiers had been training, though, for a long time, thanks to Grillo’s constant delays. Compared to that first time, when they’d entered Gateway like a school of drunken fish, they were as dexterous as gymnasts now. If they had anything to show off compared to Grillo’s altar boys, it was that.

Somehow they’d managed to form a line, or rather a ring, around the airlock doors where the Jacobites would exit. He felt a twang of pride. They’d borrowed or improvised magnetic-toed boots in order to keep themselves planted on the deck. The boots didn’t have that combat feel, though, and since each commando had to keep one toe pointed down at the floor, in a line together they looked a bit like a chain of Irish dancers. Russell fought to hold in a laugh at that thought and floated into place just in front of the line. An airlock door marked “1” loomed directly in front of him as the clock counted down.

“Take your time guiding them to the outer ring,” Russell said, his voice raised for everyone in the expansive bay to hear. “Let ’em flop around a bit, yeah?”

He saw grins behind him. The smiles turned to pure confidence as the timer reached zero. Russell turned to face the door and used a rubber loop on the floor to steady himself. Sometime he’d have to see about a pair of those magnetic-tipped boots.

A series of deep metallic clangs announced the arrival of the climber even before the chime indicated the countdown had ended.

Russell heard a brief hiss as the air inside the climber cars was matched to the pressure within the bay. A light on the airlock door went from red, to yellow, to green. Then it slid up.

He found himself looking down a half-dozen gun barrels.

Shit—

Gunfire cut off the thought. Russell did the only thing he could think to do, and pushed off the floor hard. He hurled toward the ceiling. A searing pain flared from his left calf, and he felt the warm wetness of blood begin to soak his pant leg there. Droplets of red were left in his wake as he vaulted upward.

The deafening chatter of indoor gunfire erupted from all around the bay.

Russell hit the ceiling hard and spun around. Flashes of yellow light pulsed from inside the climber cars. His soldiers were scrambling for cover, to ready their weapons—anything but remain in the line of fire. Already he could see some of his soldiers, the ones who’d been right in front of the doors, swaying from their planted toes like seaweed on the ocean floor.

His troops had been in full gear but had not readied their weapons. That would have been rude. Some had been quicker than others and were beginning to shoot back. A full half of his garrison turned, pushing for the exits. He wanted to scream at them for their cowardice.

A nearby rattling sound forced him to curl into a ball. Sparks flew from all around him as someone below tried to finish him off. The exit suddenly seemed like a damn good idea. Russell pushed toward one and the burning in his leg turned into nuclear fire. He screamed, pulled his handgun, and fired as he rotated around in an uncontrolled spiral. He managed to unload half a clip on the first spin, the other half on the second. Some of his bullets even went into the maw of the nearest climber car airlock.

Below him, battle raged. A rotating blur of gunfire, hand-to-hand combat, and death. Bodies floated all over the bay, some in perfect stillness, some careening around like mannequins with disjointed limbs. Marble-sized globes of blood drifted around the scene as if someone had fired up a macabre bubble machine.

Another spray of gunfire prattled against the ceiling above Russell. He heard the hiss as one round passed within centimeters
of his ear, and he tucked into a ball again on pure instinct. His leg burned, each movement as if a knife twisted there. A serrated knife coated with rusty barbed wire heated until it glowed. The pain flooded his mind like an orgasm without the release of pleasure.

Still curled in a ball, Russell collided with something—someone—and then a floor. He opened his eyes and groaned. Soldiers hung on the walls around him, their hands pulling him away from the bay door.

“Seal it,” Russell hissed. “Seal that fucking room.”

“We still have people in there,” someone said against a background of screams and gunshots.

“
I
still have people in there,” Russell corrected. “
You
have an order. Fucking do it.”

In answer the thick door began to close. Someone on the other side shouted, “Wait!” just before the metallic clang signaled the cargo bay had sealed.

“Vent the air,” Russell said. “No one better question that. Vent the air.”

“Sir?” someone said.

A question. Russell looked around but found his vision clouded with tears. He squinted.

“Sir,” the same voice went on, “comm says they came in through the passenger ports down on A. They’re taking prisoners.”

“Then seal that level, too,” he said. “Vent it.”

“There’s innocent—”

“Don’t start. No room for goddamn debate here. Vent the air. We can’t let these bastards gain any more ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

Russell heard a faint whoosh, and a creaking sound that lasted half a heartbeat. The air, sucked out of the cargo bay into space. A fire prevention technique.

The men and women in the room would be suffocating now. Russell wondered how many had made it into the three exits before the doors were closed, and if any of the survivors were on the enemy side.

The enemy. Grillo, you two-faced cunt, I will cut your heart out for this
.

“Someone help me get to station ops,” he said. He felt lightheaded. Blood still seeped from his calf in little red spheres.

The operations room on Platz Station looked just like the other suites of cubicle offices that plagued the complex.

Russell entered on one leg, his arm over the shoulder of a guard who smelled like old socks.

“Report,” Russell said as he took a chair. Then he looked at the guard. “Find me a medic. And vodka.”

“Mr. Blackfield,” said the operations lead on duty, a pouty woman with classic Australian features and drawl. “Level A is at zero atmosphere, and the doors are sealed.”

“Good news,” he said. “Did they get farther than that?”

“Reports of sporadic fighting on B, but it seems to be under control now.”

Russell nodded. The woman seemed remarkably detached from the situation. Cool under fire; he liked that. Rational ideas and prudent tactics fought to gain attention in his mind, all eclipsed by the raw thirst for revenge.
We have to go down to Darwin now, before he entrenches himself further
. He toyed with the idea of rigging a climber to fall uncontrolled on Nightcliff. Fill the thing with fifty tons of old scrap metal and broken parts and it’ll take out the entire fortress. He filed the idea for the moment, knowing Grillo spent more than half his time out in Lyons, or at that bloody stadium.

“Hey,” he said to the woman. “Your name?”

“Jenny,” she said.

“Jenny. Can we do that thing, like Dr. Sharma did? Detach a farm platform?”

“I don’t see what that would—”

“Just answer, please.”

She grimaced, nodded. “All stations have a separation gap capability, so they can move away from the cord and reposition.”

“I love you, Jenny. Pick one and start the process. Someone find me a map of Darwin.”

Naked horror flashed across her face as she realized what
he intended to do. She visibly gulped, studied her screens for a moment, then set to work.

A nurse came in, dropped a case of supplies on the floor next to Russell, and began to examine his leg. The man worked quickly, unconcerned if his probing caused pain, or perhaps hoping it would to know where the damage was. He used a pair of scissors to cut the pant leg away, revealing two red holes on either side of the calf muscle.

“Get me Alex Warthen on the comm,” Russell said.

Jenny turned to her screen and began to tap in commands. “Um,” she said. “Getting a lot of chatter here.”

Before Russell could speak, she turned to face him, one finger pressing a headset into her ear. “Reports coming in from the other stations. Anchor Station is overrun. Gateway is under heavy assault.”

The rage within Russell Blackfield transformed into a block of ice. He thought back to the day Grillo had offered warriors to aid in his assault on Tania’s colony. Months of excuses and delays. Then, suddenly, he had the men, plus the nerve to ask if Jacobite delegations could begin visits to Anchor. Pilgrimages to their holy site, he’d had the gall to say.

“Hab-Six is reporting casualties,” Jenny went on. “Hab-Five. Midway.”

“Enough,” Russell said.
Grillo, you bloody snake
. The nurse sprayed his wound with something that made his leg go cold and numb, then began to wrap gauze around his calf.

“Incoming climbers,” another station operator said. A young man with a nasal voice.

“They won’t get far,” Russell said. “The first wave are still docked.”

“From above and below,” he added.

Stupid
, Russell thought.
They’ll just clog the cord waiting for an opening. Unless …
“Blockade,” Russell said aloud. “They’re going to pen us in here. Starve us until we give in.”

“I don’t think so. They’re not slowing.”

Everyone went silent. Russell knew they were looking at him. Climbers speeding toward the station meant one thing: total destruction. Plan fucking B for the Jacobites and their holy slumlord.

“How long?” Russell asked.

The young man glanced at his display. “Sixteen minutes.”

“Okay,” Russell said. “New orders. How long … fuck, doesn’t even matter how long … Detach Platz Station from the cord, right now.”