Dark Run (22 page)

The train slowed to a final halt on the south shore of Brooklyn. Drift secured his rebreather mask in place as a precaution against the polluted air which sometimes washed over the city, nicknamed ‘Staten smog’ after its usual origin, and forced a somewhat reluctant sliding door aside to step out onto the platform with Micah and Apirana in tow. They found themselves on a steel grid platform some fifty feet above the ground, wire mesh surrounding them on all sides with an enclosed staircase down to street level at one end and a somewhat ramshackle-looking elevator at the other. The train pulled away and waist-height barriers automatically swung down across the holes in the mesh which lined up with the train’s doors, the general notion being that if you were stupid enough to fall out of an obstructed hole fifty feet above the ground then you deserved what you got.

They took a second to inspect the elevator and then headed for the stairs by unspoken agreement. It was early March and there were mounds of dirty slurry at the side of the streets, the remnants of the most recent snowfall. The air was bitterly cold despite the amount of heat generated by Old New York’s sheer presence, and Drift was glad he’d raided the
Jonah
’s clothing lockers for a thermojacket which he wore zipped up over his armavest. Micah had dug out his old combat fatigues, a temperatureregulating outfit effective against extremes of climate up to fifty degrees Celsius either side of freezing. With the regimental patches ripped off and his hair in thin dreadlocks instead of a military crew cut, the former FDU soldier looked like anyone else who’d picked up a bargain at an army surplus store, although the heavy automatic pistol holstered at his hip hinted at his violent past. Apirana, meanwhile, had disdained any form of thermal clothing and was simply wearing a hooded top over his utilitarian jumpsuit. With his hood up and rebreather mask on, his tattoos were mainly hidden and he was only conspicuous for his size, and for once Drift didn’t feel like he was walking around next to a flashing beacon.

There was a thrumming buzz overhead and they looked up to see a police flyer, decked out in white and blue with reflective chevrons, its twin rotor blades blurring in the centre of each stubby wing. One or two of the locals shrank back into the shadows cast by the towering hab blocks, five or six storeys of concrete and plastic, but most kept on as normal. This wasn’t Manhattan, where the rich and well-todo lived and worked behind a twenty-foot wall that encircled the island to keep out swimmers, and where the police were prominent and vigilant. As New York had expanded westwards and southwards, Brooklyn and Queens had been abandoned like a waste product with the residents largely left to their own devices, be that for good or ill. It would take something more akin to a riot for the NYPD to set foot on the ground here, which Drift found both comforting and worrying in almost equal measure.

The flyer banked away west, heading towards Jamaica Bay, and Drift took a moment to assess the state of the street once its shadow had gone. The locals who’d ducked away reappeared, but no one seemed to be taking too much of an interest in the trio of newcomers. He looked up at a street sign barely visible past a bird’s nest of wires, where the residents had decided to take an enterprising approach to getting power by simply tapping the existing supply directly, and pointed ahead of them. ‘The nearest metro’s this way.’

Old New York’s subway system was dilapidated and suffered from the sort of issues you’d expect in an often-subterranean transport system that had been in near-constant use for centuries, but it still more or less ran. It was certainly the best way to get into the heart of Old New York from the southern edge of Brooklyn, but when they disembarked from their rattling carriage at Tremont Avenue they didn’t take the stairs up to the street. Instead they took a left at the Presbyterian Mission which occupied one corner, exchanged too-casual glances with two men lurking just past it whom Drift was convinced were going to try to sell them something narcotic until they caught a glare from a now de-masked Apirana, and headed for an elevator which only went downwards.

The moons of Carmella were far from the only places in the galaxy where humanity had started to dig in search of living space, although in the cities on Old Earth – even the badly polluted inner areas – it wasn’t for fear of an unbreathable atmosphere so much as crippling ground rent costs. The newer tunnels, plazas and living spaces under the sprawling metropolis of ONYC were known as The Warrens, and demonstrated the usual disparity of good supply networks and plentiful transport links in the Uppers to the isolation and deprivation of the Lowers.

The elevator doors opened onto Level 17 of the Lower North Warrens and revealed a tunnel which reeked of damp, stale air, boasting intermittent lighting and, given how far they were beneath the water table, a slightly worrying leak in the ceiling.

‘Looks homely,’ Apirana rumbled quietly. Drift had found that he was still a little apprehensive about any sudden movements and was aware of Apirana’s size in a way he hadn’t been in years, despite the almost painful care the big Maori was taking not to appear threatening. Still, he’d given his terms for Apirana’s continued presence on the
Keiko
’s crew and Apirana had accepted them, so he felt that he owed it to the big man to treat him accordingly unless and until Apirana broke those terms.

‘You’re
sure
this is the right place?’ Micah asked. The Dutch mercenary hadn’t been keen on this jaunt but Drift had talked him into it, partially so he didn’t have to be alone with Apirana but mainly because right at this moment Drift didn’t fully trust him not to sneak out of Star’s End and find some way of selling them all out for a profit.

‘So Alex told me,’ Drift replied, aware once more of exactly how much trust he was placing in a man who he knew had never liked him and who currently saw him as a potentially dangerous liability. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’

As it turned out, their destination was hardly elusive. Most of the doors were boarded over, and the ones which weren’t were gaping black holes leading into cramped habs with not even a stick of furniture remaining. The central plaza, however, was another matter.

‘The hell is this?’ Apirana muttered as they caught sight of an entrance. The hollow silence of the tunnels was replaced with an indistinct mutter of noise through the steel-framed glass doors, the bass thud of music intermingling with the sound of many, many voices, and lights which cast long shadows from within.

‘The way I heard it, the lady we need to speak to basically moved in and set up shop here,’ Drift explained. ‘Took over the businesses, took over the black market, took over everything. Everywhere below Level 10 in the North Warrens is hers, but she bought most of it legally and doesn’t cause any major problems so the Justices leave her be.’

‘And someone all the way down
here
is the best off-Spine source in North America, and can tell us where Nicolas Kelsier is?’ Micah said. ‘That takes some believing.’

‘She’s clearly got connections,’ Drift shrugged, ‘and rumour is that she often takes payment for information in information. What goes around comes around, I guess.’ He worked his shoulders, adjusted the scarf he’d tied around his neck to hide the bruises left by Apirana’s fingers, and marched up to the doors.

They opened easily with a push, affording him a view into what had once been the communal space of North-east Level 17. In truth, it still was, but the promenades and shopping booths had been remodelled into a more organic, chaotic space. There were still businesses, but hammocks swung from above their heads, the air conditioning whined as it sucked in smoke from firepits built into the floor, and cheers and jeers sounded from around what looked like a fighting cage.

And above it all, sitting in a heavily upholstered chair on a platform held aloft by the massive hydraulic arm of what had at one point been a maintenance vehicle, was Nana Bastard.

Drift closed his natural left eye and dialled up the zoom on his mechanical. Nana Bastard looked to be in her seventies, age-repellent drugs notwithstanding, and had two fat braids of silvery hair twisting down from either side of her head. She was approaching plump, her features were wrinkled and leathery, and something about the shape of them combined with the beadwork and fringes on her clothes suggested she might have some First Nations blood in her somewhere. What struck Drift instantly, though, were her eyes: dark and sharp, with no visible white from this distance, they reminded him of a predatory bird’s as they darted here and there across the crowd of people packed into the plaza. A second after he’d focused on her, those eyes flashed up to him, he saw her press something on the arm of her chair and her lips moved inaudibly.

‘Cap?’ Apirana muttered, nudging him. He returned his right eye’s vision to normal and opened his left, and instantly saw figures in the dark blue of what had once been plaza security uniforms pushing through the throng towards them.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ he replied, ‘we’re here to get an audience, after all.’ He focused on the closest man, who appeared to consist mainly of an ambulatory chest, and pitched his smile between ‘polite’ and ‘friendly’. ‘Morning.’

‘Morning,’ the man replied automatically, his eyes flicking over them. He and his two companions, one male and one female, had clearly customised their uniforms: badges and patches sewn onto them presumably hinted at some sort of family, tribe or gang alliance, the sleeves had been removed to show well-muscled arms adorned with tattoos, and the epaulettes on the shoulders of the speaker had been replaced with a row of steel spikes an inch high. Each one had a shockstick tucked into their belt and a comm in their ear, but they didn’t have the swaggering arrogance of any number of gangland enforcers Drift had dealt with in the past. Despite their appearance, they almost seemed . . . professional. ‘Do you have business here?’

‘I’d like to speak with Nana,’ Drift said, hoping the title was the correct one to give. ‘Ms Bastard’ certainly didn’t seem like the one to go with, no matter what name this extraordinary old woman had taken for herself.

‘Nana’s not taking new audiences until next week,’ the woman spoke up. She had a tattoo under one eye, a swirling pattern which might have been tribal or could have been simply something she’d liked the look of. ‘You can come back then, or you’re welcome to make yourselves at home in the meantime.’

Drift masked his surprise with a cough.
Definitely
not your standard gangland enforcer, who usually revelled in making your life difficult. Phrases like ‘you’re welcome’ were rarer than hen’s teeth out of their mouths, unless flavoured with heavy sarcasm. Was this another surprising twist of Nana Bastard’s regime?
No, I think I know exactly who’s behind this.

He played his hunch. ‘Then I would like to speak to your commander. Maiha Takahara, unless I’m mistaken?’

The first speaker didn’t even blink. ‘Captain Takahara doesn’t give audiences to members of the public.’

And here we are again
, Drift thought wryly,
trying to get through bureaucracy to speak to the person I want. God, but this was simpler when we were all outlaws.
‘How many ask for one?’ he countered. ‘Besides, my business with Nana is business, but Miss Takahara is an old friend and this would be a social call. I’d be grateful if you could pass on a message that Gabriel would like to see her. Of course, I’ll understand if work has to take priority for the moment.’

He deliberated for second.
Come on
, Drift urged silently,
you’ve been professional so far . . .

‘Hawkins to Control,’ the man said, raising a finger to his comm. ‘Is Captain Takahara available?’ There was a pause for a few more seconds. ‘Captain, this is Hawkins. We have three newcomers at the South Gate. One of them requested an audience with Nana, but has now asked to speak to you. He says he’s an old friend of yours, and that his name is Gabriel.’

Drift waited as Hawkins nodded in response to whatever was being said into his ear. He hadn’t wanted to mention his old name, but it wasn’t like Hawkins would twig; there were many Gabriels in the galaxy who’d never had the second name Drake. Besides, it couldn’t be helped, as Maiha Takahara was unlikely to have the first clue who Ichabod Drift was. Of course, this would mean letting another person know that he was still alive, but Rourke and Jenna would be in Europa waiting for the green light by now and he didn’t have a week to waste on an old lady’s schedule.

Hawkins looked up at him and his hand dropped from his comm.
Something’s wrong
, Drift thought, seeing the man’s eyes, an instant before Hawkins drew his shockstick. His two companions followed suit a second later, thumbing the activation studs to send blue light crackling up and down the batons’ lengths.

‘Gentlemen,’ Hawkins said firmly, holding up a pair of cuffs, ‘I need you to come with me, please.’

Drift sat on a cold, bare steel chair, hands pulled back behind him and cuffed to the rod which curved up from under the seat to support the back. His shoulders were already starting to ache, and the cuffs had so far proved resistant to everything Rourke had ever taught him about slipping out of such restraints.

There’d been no question of fighting, of course: one hit from a shockstick could drop a man, and two would do even for Apirana. If he’d pulled a gun then he’d have likely had to shoot all three guards dead, and he’d had enough of shooting security personnel for doing their job. Besides, any stray shots into the crowd could have sparked a riot which would have sealed their death warrant, quite apart from any injuries or fatalities they might inflict.

Most importantly, though, he had to speak to Nana Bastard, and he had a greater chance of doing that as an obliging prisoner than he did either dead or having killed three of her guards.

The ‘Capt. Takahara’ nameplate on the desk in front of him stared at him mockingly. So he’d been captured by Alex Cruz’s old first mate and handcuffed to a chair in her office, with its tidy bookshelf and modern-looking terminal and other things which generally seemed quite incongruous this far below ground in Old New York City . . . but where was she, if she’d ordered this? People were always more pliable than steel cuffs, and he rated his chances higher with dialogue than with escapology.