Daylight Runner (15 page)

 

Cleo was helping her younger sister with her homework, but Vicky was resisting her attempts to impart knowledge.
They were in the living room, where the webscreen was playing pop music softly because Vicky couldn't study without it. Their parents were having one of their rare nights out, leaving Cleo to apply her feeble academic skills to her sister's first foray into algebra. Cleo hated algebra.

“Right, let's do this next one,” she said. “If x plus y plus z equals sixteen and x equals four and y equals seven—”

“It's ‘Devil's Jukebox.'” Vicky squealed as the first bars of her favorite song came over the webscreen's speakers.

Jumping to her feet, she dragged her sister out of her chair. Cleo shook her off in exasperation and left her younger sister to dance around the room. It was late, and she badly needed a smoke, so Cleo picked up her jacket and left their apartment, making her way up the four flights of stairs to the roof. It was dark up there, her path lit only by the ethereal glow of the city, reflected off the bottoms of the sun-platforms, the crane grid, and the glass of the dome itself. Stepping over the vents and low walls of pipes that ran across the rooftop, she settled in her favorite place: in the shadow of an air-conditioner-plant housing that throbbed dully all through the night. The wall of the plant was always warm from the motors inside. Reaching up to a hollow under the lip of the plant's roof, she found the tin box that held her stash, and after taking it down, she sat on the ledge and looked out at the lights of Ash Harbor while she skinned up a joint.

She licked the feathery rice-paper roll to seal it, dried it with her lighter, and then put it between her lips and fired it up. She drew in the smoke with a soft sigh, feeling its rough heat in her lungs. The gentle lifting sensation at the back of her skull brought a content smile to her face, and she rolled her head around to bring on that delicious dizziness. There was a sound of footsteps behind her, and she looked worriedly around the corner of the wall, a drug-induced paranoia rising within her. She became sure that somebody was watching her. Holding the joint hidden down by her leg, she peered across the dark roof, searching for the source of the sound.

A woman wearing a cap and dark overalls and carrying a toolbox strode out from behind the structure that housed the winch for the elevator that hardly ever worked. Waving a small flashlight around, the stranger knelt by one of the large pipes that snaked over the roof, turning the wheel on what looked like a valve of some kind. She moved on, bending once more to do the same on a pipe farther away. The woman disappeared from sight around the corner of the stairwell. Cleo let out a wheezy breath and stuck the joint back in her mouth.

As she sat there smoking, a faint sense of foreboding came over her. For some reason, her mind went back to the day in the sub-levels when she had seen the three people dumping the body. And the man she might have
killed. His scream still came to her in quiet moments when she was in a funk.

She hardly ever saw work crews on the roof at night. In fact, her parents were always complaining about how hard it was to get anybody in to fix anything in the building. And when they did come up, they used bright lamps, not sneaky little flashlights. And they made a big fuss, so that everybody would see that they'd shown up. And they wore the maintenance contractors' light green overalls with the logo on the back. Cleo stubbed out the half-finished joint and put it in her jacket pocket, carefully replacing the tin box back in its hiding place. She headed for the door to the stairwell, wondering if the drug was playing with her mind.

Sauntering down the stairs, she was struck again by the feeling that something was wrong. She stopped at the bottom of the flight, still two stories up from their apartment. Stepping into the corridor, she stood there silently, trying to figure out what was disturbing her. The diode clusters that lit the corridor were dim, and some had failed completely, but that was quite normal. All around were the small noises of the building settling in the night—clicks and taps and creaks—again, all normal.

There was the soft, undercurrent hum of the air-conditioning system, which channeled “fresh” air through the living quarters packed into the apartment block like the cells of a vast hive. Vents in the ceiling panels of the
corridor showed where the duct ran along above, feeding the apartments on either side. People would have the vents in the apartments closed in the evening; the air fed in could be very chilly at night, and the recycled breeze tended to give everyone colds and coughs. The gas-fired heating system used different ducts.

There was the hint of a strange odor. Standing under the nearest vent, she sniffed the air. Two years of smoking stem had deadened her sense of smell, but she was definitely getting a whiff of something. Cleo walked farther down the corridor, inhaling the air from another vent. The odor was stronger here, and her eyes opened wide with alarm as she recognized what it was. She knocked on the nearest door, and a sleepy-faced man looked out.

“There's a gas leak!” she told him. “Call the…the caretakers or somebody.”

He was about to retort, but instead he waved a hand in front of his face and drew in a breath through his nose. His expression changed to one of urgency. “I'll make the call,” he told her. “Let other people know, will you?”

Cleo started knocking on more doors, calling out to alert people. The smell was getting stronger in the corridor, but it still hadn't reached into the apartments. She came upon the sealed box that set off the fire alarm and stared at it, hesitating. Was it that urgent? They'd had gas leaks before, and there had been no evacuation. And the alarm system was electric; could it ignite the gas? To hell
with it, she'd always wanted to do this; she smashed the face of the box with her elbow, and jumped as the alarm went off.

Suddenly she thought of her sister and started running. There had been too many false alarms in the block; people were moving too slowly. Nobody was taking it very seriously—there were even people complaining about the noise. The stink of gas filled the stairwell; it was definitely coming through the air-conditioning system. It could be filtering through the whole building, whisked on by the fans. She bounded down the steps, swinging around the rail as the stairs cornered, descending at a breakneck pace. She slammed through the door onto her floor and raced down the corridor. Residents were milling around, wondering at the alarm. Some were already hurrying toward the stairs. They could smell the gas too.

We're two stories down, Cleo thought, and I can still smell it. Vicky was leaning out of the apartment door, looking around in confusion. Cleo waved her arms at her sister.

“It's right through the—” she started to yell, and then there was a deafening boom, and a hot blast of air lifted her off her feet and sent her sprawling along the corridor floor.

The ceiling was exploding. Fire burst through the flimsy ceiling panels, exposing the utility rigging of wires and pipes above. In the aluminum air-conditioning ducts,
there was a rumbling, roaring sound as the ignited gas chased the oxygen along the metal channel, seeking out places to breathe as it burned up the air, searching for more food to feed the growing blaze. The ducting burst all the way down the corridor, releasing gouts of flame. People were screaming and running for the stairs.

Cleo felt a numb pounding in her ears, and scrambled to her feet as a breeze started to blow down the corridor. Smoke was already making it difficult to breathe, and she coughed, putting a hand over her nose and mouth to keep out the flecks of burned debris that filled the air. Vicky was lying in the doorway, blood staining her blond hair. The blast must have thrown her against the jamb of the door. Cleo called for help, but everyone was rushing for the stairs. She gazed down the corridor in despair: flames were creeping down the walls, eating the paint, the fixtures; the ceiling panels, supposedly fireproof, were blazing in pieces across the floor. Smoke formed an impenetrable cloud that billowed toward her, driven by the fire's breath.

Grabbing her sister's arms, Cleo pulled her into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind her. The explosion had burst through the duct in one wall, and the flames were creeping their way down the couch toward the floor. It was made of the same hardened linoleum as the ceiling panels. The floor shook as other explosions erupted through the building.

She dragged her sister across the smoky apartment to the living room window, and she quickly unlatched it. There was a fire escape outside. She was already exhausted, her lungs catching on the gritty fumes, making her cough and choke. As she opened the window, the draft of air gave new life to the blaze in the apartment, and it clawed across the ceiling. Cleo cried as she struggled to lift her sister's inert body through the window. Vicky flopped like an unfeasibly heavy rag doll, flimsy and awkward, but in a final heave, Cleo fell backward through the window, pulling her sister with her. They landed hard on the denceramic grille of the walkway.

From somewhere inside the building, she heard a monster roar, and fire exploded through the windows two stories above them, showering them with glass and burned fragments of people's homes. Cleo cowered over her sister's head and shoulders, screaming in terror. They were three stories up, and the only way down from the fire escape was by a sloping series of ladders. Despite being more than three years younger, Vicky was almost the same size as her big sister. Cleo doubted she would be able to carry her down a ladder.

“Vicky!” she cried, gently slapping the younger girl's face. “Vicky, you have to wake up! C'mon! Wake up!”

Vicky's eyes opened, but remained glazed over. She did not even lift her head. Cleo coughed and cursed, ducking down as flames came through their living room win
dow. Hauling her sister along the fire escape toward the ladder, she frantically tried to work out a way down. She was vaguely aware of sirens but was enveloped by smoke. There was just her, Vicky, the fire escape, and the blaze. Another explosion ripped through the building above her, and she flinched, waiting for more glass, or even a wall to collapse over her. With no strength to carry Vicky down the ladder, Cleo climbed on herself, and pulled her sister's body after her. They fell heavily, but Cleo was able to hold on long enough to take the full force of Vicky's weight before she dropped onto the lower walkway. Vicky's left hand was bent back at an impossible angle: the fall had broken her wrist.

Cleo was breathing in heaving coughs—she had no more air left in her lungs. The world spun around her head as she crawled toward the next ladder, gripping her sister's other wrist. She gagged as she leaned over the edge, and lifting herself onto her knees, she finally blacked out, teetering forward over the three-meter drop toward the ladder, and falling headfirst into the arms of a firefighter.

A
NA
K
IROA EMERGED
from the ISS headquarters feeling cold and hollow. After three hours of being grilled by Inspector Ponderosa, she wanted to go home and have a shower, to clean the stain of this place from her body. It wasn't supposed to be like this. These men were enforcing the law, protecting innocent people from the criminals. Sol and his father were wanted in connection with murders, but every name, every piece of information Ana had given to the police to help find the fugitives had felt like an act of betrayal. Held in a small room with Ponderosa and his bullying henchmen standing over her asking the same questions over and over again, shouting at her, making vague threats, she had wanted to stand her ground, to show that they didn't intimidate her. But the
only thing that stopped her from breaking down in tears as she walked out was the desire to be clean and to be wrapped up in Julio's warm embrace.

“Ms. Kiroa?” a voice called after her, and she looked around, fearful that they were going to call her back.

It was Mercier, walking up behind her, his overcoat folded over his arm. He had not taken part in the interrogation; Ponderosa had sent him on his way as if he were some lowly patrol officer.

“Can I give you a lift home?”

She wanted to tell him to get lost, but it was a long tram ride back, and a car would get her there faster. She shrugged. He waved to a nearby car and it drew up; that sergeant, Baiev, sat behind the wheel. Ana let Mercier open the door for her.

“We'll have you back in no time,” he told her.

Ana was about to make an acidic remark about his being Ponderosa's delivery boy, but the cowed expression on his face as he spoke stopped her short. He climbed into the front, and Baiev pulled out into the traffic. The police radio crackled with abbreviated messages every few seconds.

“I'm sorry if Inspector Ponderosa seemed a bit hard on you back there,” Mercier said from the passenger seat, glancing around. “He's a dogged investigator, one of the most respected men on the force, but his methods can be somewhat…insensitive at times.”

“Aren't you capable of handling this case on your own?” Ana asked. “How many inspectors do they need to run things?”

Mercier did not answer immediately, staring out at the road through the windscreen. She could see his doughy white hands resting on his knees, the nails neatly clipped. In his nondescript suit, with his officious manner, she was struck again with the image of the police officer as a bureaucrat, a career paper shuffler. He looked back at her again, his flabby chin folding into wrinkles.

“The ISS has taken the lead role in this investigation. It's our job to help it where we can,” he said, but there was a petty tone in his voice. “And we are happy to oblige. Isn't that right, Sergeant?”

Baiev nodded. Ana wondered if the man ever spoke at all.

“Might I ask”—Mercier looked back at her again—“did the inspector put any questions to you about the crane accident at all?”

Ana frowned. With everything else that was going on, she'd almost forgotten about the horrific day of the school tour.

“No. Why would he ask me about that?”

“It's just that he's investigating that case as well. It's nothing; I was just curious. I'm sure your witness statement from the time had everything he needed.”

There was a peculiar orange glow against the dome's
glass over to the south, and Ana raised her head to try to get a better view. She could hear sirens as they approached the Third Quadrant.

“What is that?” she asked hesitantly. “What's going on?”

“There's a fire on Halske Street,” Mercier replied.

“Spartan Hall. There was a large gas explosion. Terrible business.”

“Spartan Hall!” Ana started. “Some of my students live there! Take me there, please!”

“I'm sure there will be more than enough people obstructing the emergency services as it is, Ms. Kiroa. I think it would be better if we just—”

“Please! I have to see if they're all right!”

Mercier gave a resigned sigh and nodded slightly to Baiev. They steered in the direction of the fire, and soon they could see a massive pillar of smoke, lit from beneath by the flames that were devouring the apartment block's insides. Ana leaned forward between the front seats, stunned by the scale of the inferno. As it rose into sight above the roofs of the other buildings, they could see that Spartan Hall had been devastated. Jets of water from the hoses of fire crews arced over the blaze, but there was little of the building to save. The car drew up just short of Halske Street, prevented from getting any closer by the police cordon and the crowds of shell-shocked people staring aghast at the gutted remains of their homes.

 

Sol stood on the walkway above the piston well where Tommy Hyung had died and watched Cleo's apartment block burn. Baffled by what he had learned from Cortez, he had gone back to tracing his father's last movements. Unsure of Gregor's route to this point, he had picked the shortest path from the depot to this walkway, searching all along the way for clues to his father's whereabouts. But he could find nothing. Gazing down at the eight pistons pumping, each one the length of a tram and almost as heavy, ramming down to within centimeters of the floor of the well, he imagined what would happen to a body that fell in there. The noise was rhythmic, harsh, and overpowering.

He had not mentioned seeing the Third Quadrant crane to Maslow, unsure of its significance. He only had a hunch and a weak one at that; Maslow's patience was already wearing thin, and Sol was acutely aware of his protector's warnings that he was putting them in danger. And now Cleo's home was on fire.

The pillar of dense, black smoke could be seen from all over the city, and Sol had soon located the source of it. He could only pray that Cleo had got out.

Fire was doubly hazardous in Ash Harbor, particularly one that produced such a massive column of smoke. With nowhere for the smoke to go, it had to be pumped out by the ventilators. And they weren't exactly at the top of their game at the moment. The smoke would stain the dome
and settle on the city. It would clog the carbon-dioxide filters, and most of the toxic particles and fumes would stay in the air for days, the ash settling all over the area like thick dust. Long after the inferno was put out, it would still be affecting people's health.

At first, he had asked himself if this could be his fault. He had asked her to help, and the Clockworkers had set fire to her home to silence her. But it couldn't be; nobody would burn down an apartment block just to kill one schoolgirl—that would be insanity. And then he had started thinking about what Maslow had said earlier.

“You said ‘not today'!” Sol shouted.

“What?”

Sol swiveled to glare over at the other man, who stood farther along the walkway.

“‘Not today,' you said. As in, ‘We can't go and see Cleo
today
.' ‘Maybe tomorrow.' That's what you said.”

Maslow was leaning on the railing, sharpening a knife on a whetstone. He didn't look up. “So?”

“So why not today, Maslow? Have I been really freakin' blind or what? You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?”

Maslow didn't reply; he just continued honing his knife.

“And you knew it was going to happen because it was no accident, am I right? Somebody set this up. This is what the Clockworkers do, isn't it? They make accidents
happen. This is how the city works, isn't it, huh? So how did you know that they were going to be doing it tonight? How did you know?” Sol stared across, irritated by his silence. “Maslow…are you a Clockworker?”

The knife paused on the whetstone, and Maslow finally met Sol's gaze. He came nearer to save himself from shouting over the noise of the pistons.

“Yeah, I'm a Clockworker. Or at least I was. Now I'm out in the cold. As soon as they figure out it's me who's helping you, I'll be put on the wet list.”

He pointed with his knife at the distant blaze. “That was to be our next operation. The two men who nabbed you off the street, the ones I saved you from, were my crew—or part of it. There are three others still out there. Come on; let's get away from this noise.”

“What about the other two, with Smith, in the alley?” Sol asked as they left the pounding machinery behind them.

“Another team. I didn't know them.”

“How many of you are there?”

“I don't know.” Maslow glided the stone in smooth swipes down the edge of the blade, cleaning off the burrs.

“A lot. None of the teams are supposed to know each other, although I've crossed paths with a few; we work in independent cells. Everything's secret.”

Sol moved closer to him, his mind filled with questions, all remaining trust in this enigmatic, violent man shaken by what he was hearing.

“But…what's it all for? I mean, you destroy things. You
kill
people. What for?”

Maslow stopped to slide the knife back into its sheath on his ankle and tucked the whetstone into a pocket.

“I started out as a cop, in a special tactics unit in the ISS. But I didn't have the book smarts to be a detective, and I couldn't play the politics, so I was never going to get up through the ranks. About three years in, they did these psych evaluations on us…all kinds of weird crap. Anyway, I must have passed or whatever, because they said there was a position for me in a special unit, outside of normal police duties. It was covert, and they warned me that some of it would be on the wrong side of the law, and once I was in, I couldn't get out. But it would mean more action, and action was what I'd joined for.

“So I signed on. The only guy I knew above me was the captain who'd got me in, and the rest of my team. We were supplied with all the money and resources we needed. It was nothin' to do with police work—it was more like the old-style army special forces back when there were armies. Sabotage, kidnapping, assassination, blackmail—hell, even forgery, faking signatures on contracts and whatnot. We did it all. Our job was to do whatever needed doing, any way we could. We lost a few people in actions over the years, and I eventually made it to sergeant, took over the unit. Still, in twenty-two years, I've met maybe twelve, thirteen guys outside of my team,
but there's a lot more and not all of them cops either. We were all operating for the same reason, though: to keep the city running like clockwork. Hard-core solutions for hard-core problems. We took out anybody who interfered with the Machine.”

Sol gaped in abject amazement.

“You didn't even know who you were working for? And you murdered people?”

“We were working for the
city
.”

“How do you
know
?” Sol shouted. “You could have been working for the mob or anybody, for God's sake! And you…you just…murdered people? Don't you…Can't you…Don't you have any problem with that?”

Maslow regarded him with equanimity and even a slightly puzzled expression. “Why are you getting all worked up?” he asked evenly. “I told you, I was in it for the action. I was given a job to do and I did it. That's all there is to it.”

It was only then that Sol saw Maslow for what he really was: a cold-blooded psychopath. Not one of the psychotic types Sol heard about on the news, the madmen who ran around killing indiscriminately. Maslow just didn't care. Human beings meant nothing to him.

“Why are you helping me?” Sol asked weakly. “What happened to my dad?”

There was a long, hollow silence.

“The daylighters were forming a union, led by your
dad's supervisor, Harley Wasserstein,” Maslow said at last. “Gregor was against it—knew the damage a strike could cause. Leave the dome covered, and we lose all the power from the solar panels in the dome—over the whole
city
—not to mention the emotional effect that would have on the people here. So he went to the police, turned informer. Somebody there put him onto us, and I became his control, his contact.

“But the daylighters found out. The day he disappeared, they were planning to kill him out on the dome, make it look like an accident.”

Sol frowned at that. He had known some of these daylighters for years. He would have trusted them, and he was sure his father would too. Could he have been so wrong?

“Gregor got wise to them somehow and escaped,” Maslow continued. “But they went after him, and Tommy Hyung finally caught him out here on the walkway; they fought, and your father knocked him over the railing into the pistons.”

Sol felt a cold shudder run through him. So Gregor had killed someone too. It must have been in self-defense—it had to be. His father was no murderer. At least no more than Sol was.

“I saw it happen, got hold of Gregor and told him to lie low. He made me promise to look after you until he could get to you himself.

“And I had to do it. You see, Sol, I was the one who blew his cover. He always said never to contact him at the depot, but I was impatient, and one day I came looking for him. Hyung overheard us. I screwed up, and Gregor got made. I nearly got him killed, so now I'm protecting you. I owe him that much.”

“But he was working for you.” Sol shook his head.

“Why are the Clockworkers after him?”

“He's been marked for a hit—he's no use anymore, and he knows too much. But that's just the half of it.” Maslow smiled ruefully. “We didn't know, y'see? Everything's on a need-to-know basis. Tommy Hyung was working under-cover for another unit. He was a Clockworker too.”

 

Cleo sat by her sister's side in the hospital corridor. There were not enough beds for all the casualties from the fire, so anybody who wasn't critical had been laid out on gurneys in the hallways. Vicky had been semiconscious when she was brought in, and then she had been put on oxygen and sedated before her arm was put in a cast. So now Cleo sat and waited for her to wake up. Their parents leaned listlessly against the wall by the end of the trolley, having given Cleo the only chair available. They were all exhausted; it was after four in the morning, and none of them had slept. For the moment, all their concerns were centered around Vicky; they were unable to face the fact that they had nowhere to go home to once she recovered.
Ana Kiroa had shown up earlier to offer some comfort. Many of the students from their school had lived at Spartan Hall.