The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (30 page)

The soldiers nudged them up the front steps and into the
lobby, whose slate floor was worn and scratched, and whose drop ceiling was
full of recessed fluorescent light fixtures missing countless panels and bulbs.
Daylight formed block patterns through the window bars, leaving the room dismal
with the smells of sweat and stale coffee. Most of the platoon stayed just
inside the door to escape the heat, while Tym and a dozen of his men brought
Raith and the others forward.

Four guards sat behind a long security counter, dressed much
the same as Sergeant Tym and his men except for the blue shields with silver
rims stitched onto their sleeves. Each soldier in Tym’s unit had a golden
lightning bolt embroidered within a crimson flame. It became clear to Raith
that the two units were cut from different cloths; if the lightning bolts were
as new and healthy as fresh-cooked food, the blue shields behind the desk were
week-old leftovers.
Escaping from this place will be no challenge
, Raith
concluded.

“Howdy, Sergeant,” said one of the blue shields, a short,
round man whose buttons were stretched tight across the bulge of his stomach.
His medium-length white hair crawled down his sideburns and melded into a thin
beard and mustache. He tapped his finger against the small white tablet that
lay on the counter.

“Lieutenant Algus,” Tym said. “How’s business?”

Algus gave him a bored shrug. “Eh.”

Tym handed the tablet to his aide, who laid it over his
chewed-up clipboard and began to scribble.

The aide placed the tablet on the counter when he was done. “Six
prisoners for booking. Transfer to the Hull at the Commissar’s convenience. Charges
are noted on the carbon.”

Lieutenant Algus looked back and forth between the tablet and
the prisoners. “This is a strange lot.” He looked up at Raith. “Where’d you
find this bruiser?”

Tym leaned over the counter. “If you can keep it to
yourselves, them’s what’s left of the dways from last night.”

“I heard they were nomads,” said one of the other blue
shields, a taller man with stiff brown hair and a face stretched like a drum.

The soldiers eyed Raith and his companions, murmuring amongst
themselves.

“Nah, they aren’t nomads—none like I’ve ever seen.”

“I dunno who they are, but those clothes are something
strange, huh?”

“The skin, too. It’s like they ain’t never seen the
light-star before. What’s with the soot stains all over their hands?”

The tight-skinned blue shield glowered at them. “Who are you,
huh? Thought you could get the best of us, did you?”

Rostand Beige started to reply, but Raith lifted a hand.

“Wax’ll get to the bottom of it,” said Tym. “There enough
room in here to give ‘em each their own cell?”

“Plenty,” said Lieutenant Algus.

“Good. Don’t want ‘em scheming together or nothin’.”

“We’ll take it from here, Sergeant.”

“So long, comrades.”

The shields clapped Raith and the others in steel handcuffs
while Sergeant Tym and his men made their exit. After a few minutes, an armed
escort arrived from down a side hallway—more men with the blue shield insignia.
The escort took them through a series of steel gates that stretched down the
long hallway behind the security counter. Lieutenant Algus locked each gate
behind them until they reached the cell block, a two-story hallway with dozens
of cells on either side.

As they were bringing Raith to his cell, one of the guards
stationed along the cell block caught his eye. Raith wouldn’t have noticed the
young man, but he looked so familiar it was uncanny. He was slightly
overweight, with a shaved head, a thick neck, and bitter gray eyes. More
importantly, each of his fingertips was wrapped in a pink-stained bandage. The
soldier was studying Raith with an intense curiosity, but when Raith opened his
mouth to speak, the young man set his jaw and turned away.

CHAPTER 28

The Prisoner

Merrick’s work assignments kept getting worse. If it
weren’t bad enough that Captain Curran, his former commanding officer, had no
power to rescue him from the Sentries, today he was confined to jailhouse duty.

The cell block was a desolate slab of steel and concrete that
gave off a sterile echo at the slightest sound. It was stuffy during the
daytime and unwelcoming at night, pungent with the body odor of its
inhabitants, and manned by the Sentry Division, which was full of comrades like
Merrick who were scraping by at the bottom of the barrel.

Merrick had gone to bed the night before without assurance
that the Fourth platoon had quelled the insurrection at the eastern outskirts.
That was cause for concern, but until he heard more about it he was determined
not to let it worry him. Commissar Wax punished most crimes by threat of death,
exile, dismemberment, or some combination of the three. Since he always
followed through with his threats, there was little likelihood of the jailhouse
becoming overcrowded. Thus, its only inhabitants were those Wax deemed too
valuable to kill and too dangerous to set free.

Merrick entered the jailhouse for only the second time in his
life and reported for duty. The first time was when he’d been checked in as a
prisoner to await his audience with Wax, after the incident in the cistern. He
remembered asking the guard several times to let him empty his bladder; the
toilets mounted in the cells were ancient and inoperable. The guard had ignored
him. The way the cell block smelled, Merrick doubted most prisoners had the
manners to ask. An escort had arrived to take him to the Commissar just as he
was working up the nerve to piss on the wall. They’d tied his hands before he’d
had a chance.

The Sentries at the front desk stared at the bandages on
Merrick’s fingers, but no one asked about them. He was relieved for that; he
was getting tired of all the questions.
I need to invest in a good pair of
gloves
, he decided.

Lieutenant Algus led him through the last of the gates and
pointed out the comrade he was replacing. “Good shift,” said the Lieutenant.

Merrick crossed to mid-cell block and came to attention
facing the soldier. Along with the smell of piss and sweat, there was the stale
copper-iron scent of blood, which he didn’t remember being so strong the last time
he was here. He and the guard switched places. When Lieutenant Algus slid the
gate closed behind them and the auto-latch clicked, Merrick began to feel
utterly alone, despite the other two guards posted at opposite ends of the cell
block. He could hear the
slam-click
of each successive gate as the Lieutenant
and the off-shift guard got further and further away. Soon they were gone, and the
occasional inmate’s cough or another distant noise from outside were the only
sounds that broke the silence. For the next ten hours, or until someone came to
replace him, this was Merrick’s life.

He settled in and began to observe his surroundings. Several
of the cells were occupied, and many of the prisoners inside them looked close
to death. One slouched motionless against the wall of his cell, draped in
shadow. His boots were sticking out into the light, and Merrick could see red
sand caked between the grooves in the soles.

Another man lay on his belly, his face pressed into the thin
pillow, one arm dangling to the floor. There was a puddle beneath his bed.
These
are the men who attacked the city last night
, Merrick realized. The arm
dangling from the bed was a mass of blistered pink flesh. It looked like a
mutie’s arm, but Merrick didn’t think he was a mutant. His skin was a lighter
shade than that of any above-worlder Merrick had ever seen.
He isn’t used to
the daylight. None of them are
. Then Merrick noticed the hand at the end of
that dangling arm. The skin on the fingertips was charcoal-black, and the
fingernails were missing.

Merrick looked down at his own bandaged hands. When he had
rewrapped them the night before, those tiny black circles had still been there
on the tips of his fingers, dry and charred like firewood. He thought again
about the glowing red orbs he’d seen these men make, and he wondered whether he
might be capable of doing the same thing.
Is this another one of Infernal’s
tricks?
he wondered.
Some new kind of mutation, different from the ones
we already know about? A phenomenon that’s just beginning?

If Merrick was becoming a mutant, there was only one thing he
knew for certain: he couldn’t tell anyone, or the consequences would be dire.
I’ll
have to wear gloves all the time
, he decided. His mind raced. He refused to
believe he was going mutie, but what other explanation was there?

Hours passed while Merrick puzzled out the implications of
his newfound dilemma. He studied the prisoners, longing to speak with them, but
fearing the other guards would hear. Some of the prisoners wore clothing and
hairstyles reminiscent of the savages, but others wore rare suits of nyleen and
synthtex that no nomad in his right mind would ever wear in the desert. Their
pale, damaged skin was the thing that made them stand out most of all.

There was a clamor at the front of the building. Voices echoed
down the hallway, as if a crowd had gathered in the lobby. Presently Merrick heard
the gates begin to open, one after another. Lieutenant Algus appeared first,
followed by a dozen Sentries surrounding another half dozen prisoners. There was
one among them who towered above the rest, a giant of a man with tangled gray
hair that wreathed his face like a bearded lizard’s spines.

More of the same
, Merrick thought.
More prisoners
from yesterday
. The comrades brought the prisoners into the cell block and
stood each one facing the door to his own empty cell. The big man and two of
the others had hands that were cracked and stained the color of dark stone.

When Merrick looked up at him, the colossal gray-haired man
was staring back. His deep blue eyes were hard, his face grim beneath skeins of
hair and beard. He was filthy, and his skin was as pink and blistered as that
of his companions. The man was handcuffed, and the guards had made him stand
only a few feet away from Merrick while they checked his cell and tested the
door. Merrick’s pulse quickened as the man’s eyes bored into him, until he
found he had to look away. When he’d found the nerve to look up again, the big man
was staring at his bandages. He gestured with his chin.

“What did you do to your hands?”

Merrick didn’t answer. He risked too much by speaking with
this prisoner while there were other comrades around. The man’s handcuffs
jangled as he lifted his arms. Merrick flinched, but the big man only smiled
and spread his fingers so Merrick could see them.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t you see? My hands are just like
yours.”

“Hey, keep your mouth shut,” said one of the guards. He took
the big man by his bonds and yanked him around to face the cell.

Merrick became aware that the other guards had been watching
the exchange. He felt their eyes on him, imagining what would happen if someone
deemed him worthy of punishment for fraternizing with the prisoners. He heard
the cell door clank shut behind him. The guards made the rounds, securing each
new prisoner in a cell of his own.

When they were gone, the big man spoke again. “My name is
Raithur.”

Merrick glanced from one end of the cell block to the other.
The comrades at either end were far enough away that if he whispered, they
might not overhear. He ignored Raithur for a few moments, then turned and
came toward him. Raithur was standing with his arms through the bars,
resting his forehead on the cinder block above the door. The size of his hands
made the painted steel bars look like toothpicks. Stranger still, he was
looking at Merrick as if he recognized him.

“Okay, I’m listening. I’m Merrick. I’m not supposed to talk
to prisoners. What do you want?”

“Have you ever heard of Decylum?”

That sounded vaguely familiar. Merrick said so.

“It’s a research facility. Well, it used to be. A secret
project set up by the Ministry.”

Merrick thought for a moment, frowning. “I have heard of
that, come to think of it. It’s a big hoax. Fodder for old conspiracy theorists
who were alive before the Heat and who think the Ministry still exists.”

Raithur shook his head. “The Ministry is dead and gone. It
collapsed a few years after the Heat. There are remnants of its existence
strewn about the Inner East, and Decylum is one of them. That’s where we’re
from.”

Merrick laughed, but not too loud. “No way. Nobody even knows
where Decylum is. If it did exist, it got shut down when the Ministry failed.
They say the power went out and everybody who worked there was trapped inside.
It’s been a tomb ever since.”

Raithur smiled. “That isn’t so. Decylum was constructed to
last through just about anything. When the Ministry sent word of its collapse
and of the havoc Infernal was wreaking outside, the people of Decylum sealed
themselves in by choice. Some decided to get out before the doors were sealed,
but I doubt they made it very far. The starwinds came even more frequently in
those days than they do now. Nobody else left for decades. I should know; I was
born a few years later. My parents and the other former employees of the Ministry
were all too afraid leave. We had plenty of resources to survive on. The only
thing we’d lost was our stream of communication. We had no way of knowing what
condition the above-world was in, so for years we hunkered down and stayed
alive. By the time I was in my twenties, some of us had worked up the nerve to
venture out and leave the confines of the facility. I don’t know how far any of
them got, though. There’s a friend of mine who’s about the only person I know
to leave Decylum and come back to tell about it. We’ve had some trade with the
nomads, and we’ve hunted wild animals for the past few years to supplement our
diets. Otherwise, we’ve been on our own.”

Merrick was astonished. “I can’t believe it. You’ve been out
there this whole time and nobody has found you?”

“Some have. Decylum is far removed from the common routes
people take through the desert from one settlement to another. It’s hard to get
there, from what I understand. Even harder to stumble across it by chance, and
harder still to know you’re there by sight alone. It was certainly a difficult
trek getting to Belmond. But we do see visitors from time to time. It happens
so rarely that it’s never been cause for concern.”

“Unbelievable. This is a hard thing to wrap my mind around.”

Raithur narrowed his eyes, but his face softened. “Take your
time. You don’t have to believe everything at once. I asked you about your
hands before. Let’s start there.”

“I guess you wouldn’t believe me if I said I’m just really
bad at closing doors.”

The rifle clacked as Merrick laid it against the concrete
pillar next to him and flattened his palms to let Raithur see. All the
hesitancy he’d felt about revealing the details of his condition seemed to flit
away under the big man’s gaze. He had to know if there was any connection
between himself and these people. He had to know if there was a way to stop
what was happening to him.

Raithur leaned over to get a better look through the bars.
When he grabbed Merrick’s hand, his skin was as cold as iron, as rough and hard
as stone. “This happened recently. There’s fresh blood on the bandages. Tell me
about what happened. How did it feel?”

“It was two days ago. I was at the bar, and some dway was
pissing me off. I remember getting really angry, and I looked down, and my
fingers were glowing. Melting.”

“And this is the first time anything like this has ever
happened to you.”

Merrick nodded.

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be twenty-four tomorrow. Oh, no. Shit. I forgot. Today.
It’s my birthday.”

Raithur smiled. “Twenty-four. The gift never ceases to
amaze.”

“The gift,” Merrick repeated, biting his lip. “You call this
bullshit a
gift
? My coffing hands are gonna burst into flames every time
I get pissed at somebody? That’s supposed to be a good thing?”

“It takes its toll. It has its limits. If you don’t know how
to handle it, it will kill you. We’ve seen it happen in Decylum more times than
I can count. If the woman your face reminds me of is who I think she is, your
gift may be very special indeed. Of the rarest kind. Did you ever know your
mother?”

“I knew my father. He was an asshole.”

Raithur smiled again, a warm, nostalgic smile. “Was he, now?
This is sounding more like her all the time. It’s uncommon for a child to have
more of his mother’s features than his father’s. And yet, you look so much like
her.”

That must be why dad liked hitting me so much
, Merrick
thought with disdain. “You’re saying this woman you know could be my mom? She’s
from Decylum, I’m guessing. Next you’re gonna tell me you’re my real dad,
right?”

Another smile. “Don’t you think you’d be taller if I were
your father? No, I’m sorry. I’ve never had a family. I’m a dangerous man—and I
don’t mean that in a boastful way. It took me a long time to understand what
this gift was all about. I’ve spent most of my life learning to harness its
power. It was never worth it to me to expose loved ones to that kind of danger,
the way I would if I had a family. But I do think this woman could have been
your mother. She was one of the ones who left Decylum. It would make sense,
since that was twenty-five years ago now. You have no recollection of her at
all?”

“Bits and pieces, but not really. Dad always used to say mom
left him before I took my first step. He never forgot her. He spent the rest of
his life hating himself, and hating me, and it was because of her. I don’t
think I’d want to meet her, even if she was still alive. I’d probably get angry
again and do something unintentionally nice.” Merrick looked at his hands in
contempt. “Tell me there’s a cure for this shit. I don’t want it. It coffing
hurts and it’s interfering with my job. I’d love it if this could be temporary
so I could get rid of it.”