But we carve granite. Statues. Buildings. Gravestones. Doesn’t even take modern technology, because I’ve seen pictures of those monuments in Kashkur, thousands of years old. Why the hell do we think we’re going to be safe forever on this plateau? Can’t the grubs do what we can?
Well, it had worked for the best part of fourteen years, and there was nowhere else to run, so it was academic. He waded out of the psych wing with his jar of water and trudged up the steps to the ground floor. He had to take the jar all the way out to the front door and hold it up to the sunlight to get a good look at what he’d collected.
It looked pretty clean to him.
He sniffed it like a wine expert getting a whiff of a vintage. It didn’t smell of anything in particular: definitely not sewage, then. The water was clear except for some specks of debris in it that could have been anything from dirt on the floor to grit being washed up from below. It could even have been from a spring. That kind of stuff happened even in granite, although he’d never known there were any springs around here. Well, there was no pumping it out, and no need to, so he ruled out the prospect of dysentery or something spreading through the jail. He tipped the water out onto the path.
When he went back inside, Parmenter was sweeping dead leaves out of the hallway. The windows were never going to be fixed. With every storm, more debris blew in through the broken panes.
“Asshole,” Parmenter muttered, not looking up from the broom.
“Up yours,” Niko sighed. Parmenter was never going to forgive him for shooting the dogs. “How long are you going to keep this up? For fuck’s sake, we’ve got to work together.”
Parmenter didn’t answer. Niko found himself missing Gallego and even Ospen, because he was stuck here with a dog nut who thought he was a murderer, and Campbell, who’d been a decent guy and reasonable company to work with until he’d lost his son. It was like working in a hostile morgue for ten hours a day, one where the corpses sat up to bitch and whine at you. If the Slab hadn’t had so many places to get away from people, Niko was sure he would have gone nuts.
Damn, the inmates were better company these days. He still didn’t feel safe walking through the security gates even carrying his rifle and sidearm, but he could have sensible conversations with Merino and sometimes even with Marcus. He leaned over the gallery and watched him for a while.
Marcus was sitting at the table on his own, jacket collar turned up, playing some game of solitaire with the cards. That was unusual in itself. Normally he spent most of his time outside or in his cell, never in the kitchens where the majority of the guys hung out, and even Reeve gave him plenty more space lately. He’d always been the kind that lived in his head but now he’d retreated inside it. And it wasn’t in a passive kind of way, either. He looked like he was seething, building up a real head of steam about something.
Now he sat with his arms folded tightly across his chest, back to the gallery and facing the main doors, looking like he was trying to work out why he was stuck with a lot of cards left and nowhere to lay them. He moved them around. Then he sat back and pulled something out of his inside pocket.
It was a creased envelope. Niko didn’t need to see what it was because he knew it had to be the letter that Prescott had handed him at the end of the summer, the one from Anya what’s-her-name that the Chairman had made a show of delivering personally. Loyal? That’s what Prescott had called her, loyal. Well, she’d called the other day for the first time in all those years, but Marcus wouldn’t take the call.
Maybe she’d called because of whatever he’d written back. He’d handed Niko his letter ages ago, and Niko had to admit that he’d been waiting to see a reply come in, but until the phone call there’d been nothing.
I can piece this together. She tells him she’s still crazy about him, it upsets him, he writes back to say it’s all over, so she tries to talk to him direct, to beg him to stay in touch. Which is why he won’t take the call. Ah, shit. He’s right, I know, but … goddamn, after the woman’s waited years? Yeah. Loyal.
Marcus had definitely reacted badly when Prescott gave the letter to him, and hadn’t even spoken to Reeve for two weeks after he read it. Reeve was still a useful informant. He was also pretty protective of Marcus, still treating him like a big dumb older brother he wanted to keep out of fights.
Marcus was now reading the letter again. He held it in both hands in his lap, below the level of the table, as if he didn’t want to be caught looking at it if anyone else walked up to him from the main doors. Eventually he lifted one hand and leaned his head on it. He still had the letter in his right hand. Then he raked his fingers through his hair and just sat there with his forehead resting on the heel of his hand. It seemed like a gesture of despair. He obviously hadn’t heard Niko walk onto the gallery.
He wouldn’t appreciate being watched like that. Niko backed up a little, then moved along the gallery making enough noise to get his attention.
“Hey, Fenix,” he called. “What’s the water like in the carp pond?”
The letter had been sharply creased and re-folded so often over the weeks that Marcus could fold it one-handed. He slid it into his jacket like a man who was used to hiding stuff, and that wasn’t a habit he’d learned in here. He turned and looked over his shoulder.
“It’s wet,” he said helpfully.
“I mean is it contaminated. The water’s topped up from a buried pipe, right?”
“Kind of hard to spot contamination when we feed the carp on shit.”
“Yeah, point taken. I was just checking out the flooding in the psych wing. Clean water. Like a spring.”
“What did you really want to ask me?”
“What’s pissed you off these last few months?”
“Let me ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
Marcus hesitated as if he was trying to find the right word. “Anya,” he said. Now there was a word he had trouble with. Most guys would have said “my girl” or something. He didn’t seem to know what to call her. “She says she wrote every week since I was jailed and never got anything back from me. And I wrote to her after Prescott visited. So what’s happened to my fucking mail?”
It’s that spotty little bastard in the JD’s office. Can’t be assed to deal with the inmates’ mail because he’s got to fill in forms. It’s probably sitting there in his filing tray.
There was no easy way to tell Marcus that. Niko didn’t plan to, not yet. “Why wouldn’t you talk to her on the phone?”
“What the hell could I say to her? We’ve been here before, Officer Jarvi, remember?”
Niko tried to imagine how fucked up things would need to be before he couldn’t face talking to Maura. If he knew he’d never see her again—well, maybe that would tip the balance. A phone call could be worse than nothing at all. Maybe Marcus had a point, but even if he didn’t, it was about what he could live with and still stay sane in here.
“I’ll go check on your mail,” Niko said. “But why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because you’re the guy I hand my mail to.”
“And I put it in the internal mail. I damn well do, Marcus. It’s not me.”
Marcus stared at the cards again and nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
Niko walked back to the office and wondered if the letters had gone the way of all the goddamn requisition forms he’d put in for maintenance, equipment, and consumables over the last few years. He was seriously thinking of paying the JD’s clerk a personal visit and teaching the little shit a lesson. It was going to be a pointless argument on the phone anyway.
Maura would tell him not to get involved. It wasn’t that simple in here. Patients came and went, but inmates were neighbors, as much a part of a warder’s human landscape as family, no matter how crazy or violent or weird they were. Niko stared at the rosters and memos stuck on the wall in front of his desk and wondered what would finish this place first: the grubs, the building collapsing, or the COG deciding to draft him and h
is two miserable staff and shutting down the place completely.
And then what would they do with the inmates? Prescott could come and shoot them himself. It had been bad enough putting down the dogs and there’d been a life-or-death reason for that. It wasn’t some noble moral stance, just a sense that he’d had enough and that was as far as he was ever going to go.
“You still here?” Campbell wandered into the office with a handful of fly-blown lightbulbs that rattled when he shook them. They hadn’t made that type of bulb for years. “Thought you were checking the psych wing.”
“Done that.” Well, this was the guy to ask. “Hey, you do the mail drop. What happens to it at Sovereigns?”
“I put it in the JD pigeonhole and check if we’ve got anything in ours,” Campbell said. “Why?”
“You don’t see the clerk personally.”
“No. What’s he done?”
“I want to know what happened to Fenix’s mail after he got the first couple of letters.”
Campbell just looked at him for a few moments.
“It makes good kindling,” he said calmly. “You’ve warmed your hands on it once or twice. I saved it up for a while, then I thought—why should he have that?”
“You what?”
“I burned the lot. Mostly incoming, mostly from that woman, some from someone else. But he sent a few out, and I tossed them too.”
Niko was rarely shocked. He’d expected shit from Ospen and even Gallego, but not Campbell. But then Campbell had really taken against Marcus: Niko hadn’t forgotten how he’d laid into him with his baton. But dumping Marcus’s mail seemed too small, too petty, too sly for a regular guy like Campbell.
“You bastard,” Niko said at last. “That’s a fucking high school revenge, isn’t it? You came that close to beating him to death, and the best you can think of is burning his girlfriend’s letters?”
“Yeah, actually. Because he gets a buzz out of being the hard man who can’t be knocked down. But when he thought his girl had abandoned him, that hurt a hell of a lot more and for a lot longer than breaking a few bones. You know it did.”
Niko struggled to understand it. Lashing out was one thing, but the slow, calculated effort needed to keep up something like that was beyond him. He didn’t know Campbell at all. He should have realized that a long time ago.
“What’s the point?” he asked. “You think he’s having a great vacation here? Why not just beat the shit out of him again and have done with it?”
Campbell jabbed his forefinger at Niko. “He’s alive and the guys he abandoned aren’t. He’s alive and my son isn’t. He’s alive because his dad was rich. And I’ll bet he’ll be out of here and treated like some frigging hero when it all blows over. But he’s had a taste of what it feels like to be alone and lose everyone he cares about, and that’s going to have to be enough for me.”
“I never realized how your goddamn sick brain works, buddy. You know what? I’m going to tell him.”
Campbell turned to the door and walked off. “I’ll do it myself. I’ve waited years to see the look on his face.”
“And he’ll break your goddamn neck the first chance he gets,” Niko called after him. “What’s he got left to lose?”
It was stupid shit, all of it. The guys banged up in here were the worst criminals the COG had, men who even slaughtered each other without turning a hair, and now the fight of the day was going to be over some letters. Niko went after Campbell, more worried about the effect on the relative calm that Merino had managed to maintain through some pretty difficult periods. Niko wanted a quiet life.
When he got to the gallery, he couldn’t see Campbell. He thought he might have chickened out or just gone for a leak on the way, but then he heard the big main doors swing open on the floor below and saw the stupid bastard heading for the cells.
A dozen heads popped out of doorways. They knew what was coming. “Where’s Fenix?” Campbell demanded.
Niko leaned over the rail. “Campbell, get up here. Now.” He checked to see if Campbell was armed for a change, but he was only carrying his baton. “Just give it a rest, will you?”
Merino appeared from the direction of the kitchens. Campbell was casting around, working himself up for a showdown. Niko had to decide whether to risk going down there and intervening. If he didn’t, then Campbell would have to face not only Marcus but the rest of the inmates. But he never got the chance. Marcus came out of his cell and walked slowly up to Campbell, arms at his side but not at all relaxed.
“You wanted to see me?” he said.
“Hey, you two, don’t start it,” Niko yelled. “Just grow the fuck up, will you?”
Campbell didn’t even blink. He was right up in Marcus’s face now. “Your mail,” he said. “The letters your bitch sent you. I burned the goddamn lot. And the ones you sent her. I just wanted you to know that. I did it because you’re a cowardly piece of shit.”
The whole floor was silent, breath held. Niko could only see Marcus’s back, not his reaction, but he could see the looks on the faces of the guys watching him.
Marcus did that very slow head shake. Then he just threw a punch, a really savage right hook that landed with a loud crack: not a word, not a shove to kick things off, nothing. He just knocked Campbell flat on the floor and jumped on him. Everyone started yelling and cheering. Merino gestured at them to stay back. Niko yelled but nobody could hear him. If he went down there now he’d be too late to stop Campbell getting creamed anyway.
Campbell got in a punch or two, but Marcus was much bigger and a hell of a lot angrier. He laid into Campbell so hard that Niko thought he was going to carry on until he killed him. Maybe it wasn’t all about his girlfriend. Then he stopped dead as if an inner voice had said That’s enough, Marcus. He dragged Campbell to his feet and shoved him back across the table, pinning him one-handed by his throat.
“That’s for her,” he said. “You say one more word about her and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Niko thought Marcus was going to start on Campbell all over again, but he stepped back and looked up at the gallery. Campbell struggled off the table, barely able to stand but still refusing to call it a day. Merino and Reeve stepped in and pinned his arms before he restarted something he really couldn’t finish.
“Okay,” Marcus called. “Do what you’ve got to do, Officer Jarvi.”
Niko knew Marcus would now walk quietly into solitary but that wasn’t the point. Prison discipline had ceased to exist a long time ago. This was just two heartbroken, damaged guys slugging it out over a personal grievance. There was no riot waiting to kick off. If there were any sides and lines drawn now, it was between the world within these walls and what was waiting for humanity outside.
But Niko had accidentally created some new social order in the Slab. Shit, how did he handle that now? Two of the worst gangland thugs that Tyrus had ever jailed were suddenly playing by Ephyra Yacht Club rules to stop two members indulging in fisticuffs in the lounge. It was bizarre.
“You think it’s over, Fenix, but it’s not.” Campbell was mumbling through split lips, but he knew he’d done the damage he’d set out to do. If anything, he looked pleased with himself. “Your rich buddies can’t watch your back forever.”
Reeve and Merino, playing gentlemen, steered Campbell away to the security door. Marcus was still looking up, waiting for Niko to say something.
“Next time, take the goddamn call if she rings again,” Niko said. “Count yourself lucky I’m not sticking you in the psych wing, flooding or no flooding. Now get back to work.”
Niko didn’t stop to watch Marcus’s reaction, but he didn’t hear any of the usual backchat from the other guys as he walked away. He hadn’t joined the prison service to rehabilitate criminals and give them a second chance. He didn’t get a kick out of brutalizing prisoners. He hadn’t even chosen to work here. But somehow, through desperation, fear, and disinterest, he’d managed to make the Slab a little less savage than it had been in Ossining’s day. r />
It wouldn’t last, though. If the inmates were released now, the only one who’d become a useful member of society again was poor damn Marcus Fenix. But for the time being, that didn’t matter at all. The Slab was under control.
Even if it’s not under mine.
The prison’s time was running out, and chaos was the last thing anyone in here needed.
COG RESEARCH STATION AZURA: GALE, 14 A.E.
“You’ve never been trained to use a hypodermic, have you?” Bakos asked. Her voice was muffled by the surgical mask. “It’s a miracle you’ve never given yourself an air embolism. Let me do it.”
Adam was as used to the procedure now as an addict. He could apply a tourniquet, angle the needle correctly, aspirate to check he’d hit the blood vessel, and release the pressure in a relatively smooth procedure that had once made him shake and come close to fainting. He wasn’t accustomed to doing it in front of someone else, though. The vial filled with dark red blood.
“You’re not a physician,” he said. “Putting needles in rats doesn’t count. You can’t pinch my scruff.”
“Very funny.”
“Anyway, I was trained. All Gears had to know basic battlefield medicine.”
“You never thought it through. Dose, method, any of it.”
“Imagine I’m a large but charmless rat. Would you say I’m infected now?”
“Oh yes. Even if it appears to be dormant in you. You’re a carrier if nothing else.”
“Well then, objective achieved.” He withdrew the needle, laid the vial on a sterile sheet of plastic, and clenched a wad of cotton wool in the crook of his arm. Bakos, gloved and masked, took the sample, wrote ALVA, W. on the label, and sealed it into a plastic bag. “Sloppy physicist though I am, I achieved the desired result. All I ever tried to do was to reproduce the conditions of exposure in the Locust tunnels. You tend to forget that the Locust had investigated much of this themselves.”