CHAPTER 15
Hell’s Cross, Outpost Fisher Four
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 4. 0. 00:00
“What’s so sweet about this dump?” Jenkins grumbles.
After taking a quick look, I’m wondering the same thing. We wind our way through an area littered with junk, then reach a series of arches shaped like onions. Torn and faded, flags hang from the arches, and you can still make out the red Cross and Circle of the Orthocracy. Rusted razor wire covers all but one of the arches, the one we pass through onto a stone masonry circle. Ventilated wind blows guanite dust across the circle, piling up on the relic of a mining truck, a couple of garbage dumpers, and a hodgepodge of rotted baskets.
In the distance I hear the sound of grinding machinery. Like the echo of some kind of hammer. Something hinky’s going on here. Are the miners still working the mine?
Ahead is a two-story square building, maize in color, with two octagonal towers. There are gun slits in the towers, which rise at least thirty meters into the air. I keep thinking sky, instead of air, but when I look up, there’s that soupy blackness, reminding me that we’re a half click, maybe a whole kilometer, underground.
The towers do mean one thing: the square building was built to be defended. Finally, something we can sink our Regulator teeth into. There are three doors—two narrow ones to the left and right secured with iron bars, the third, the middle entrance, is twice as wide, with two doors made of heavy steel strapped together. The doors stand open, leading down a flat-roofed corridor littered with small crates.
“Welcome to the Cross,” Spiner says.
The ground is paved with girih tiles that form an intricate quasicrystal pattern. The tiles lead your eye to middle of the courtyard and a statue of Bishop Lyme, the first leader of the Orthocracy. The Great Poxer himself. Dressed in a frock, he holds a pickax in one hand and the Book of Common Prayer in the other. I’ve seen the statue in a dozen different places. It’s always the same, except for him holding the pick. In New Eden, it’s a pipe wrench. In the greenhouses at Tan Hauser Gates, it’s a trowel. And in battle school, it’s an armalite.
“The old zealot sure got around,” I say.
“‘Look on my Works, ye Mighty,’” Mimi says, “‘and despair.’”
“Byron?”
“Shelley.”
“Always get those two confused.”
“Byron had the clubbed foot.”
“Thought Oedipus had the clubbed foot.”
“I despair for you, cowboy.” Mimi makes a noise like a sigh. “It’s a good thing you can shoot straight.”
Behind the statue alongside a high crane, I point out two minarets, tall spires with crowns shaped like onions to match the arches. I’m thinking there are two galleries at the top of the tower shafts. In the before days they probably were part of the temple. Now they’ll make excellent nests for a sniper.
The rest of the building is nothing to cheer about. There are four entrances to the courtyard—one opposite this one, and two at the right and left. All of them lead to corridors like the one we entered from. A series of columns and onion-shaped arches create an arcade that runs the courtyard interior. I can see two dozen or so doors—the miners’ quarters, I’m guessing—which means the rooms would be vulnerable if the enemy breached the courtyard.
The air smells stale and fecund. Like an old boot. With fungus growing in it. Wind whips left to right across the stone. More chùsheng dust. Funny, I thought being in a cave would make it less windy, but it’s as bad as the surface. There’s not much here otherwise. A few scaffoldings where the miners are making repairs on the masonry. More faded flags. These marked with the slogan of the revolution: liberty, equality, justice. None of that here. Sad to think—the miners helped overthrow the Orthocracy, and this place holds no evidence that they’d gotten anything in return.
“Show me upstairs,” I tell Spiner.
“This way.” He leads us up two short flights. “Here’s where we sleep and eat.”
“What about the latrine?” Jenkins says.
“We dig a new one every month.”
“No plumbing?” I ask.
Spiner laughs. “The Orthocrats blew the sewer lines when they left. For drinking water we channel runoff from the tundra.”
“No plumbing!” Jenkins shouts. “Next thing you’ll be saying you’ve got no toilet wipes.”
“Orthocracy took those with them, too,” Spiner says, scratching his stubble.
“Those bluey-blowing budgie smugglers!” he roars.
Fuse pats his shoulder. “That would be right, Jenks. Don’t fret so. We’ll find a lord high substitute. Or we can pack our bellies with amino gruel, and there’ll be no problem needing the stuff, right?”
While Fuse consoles him, I do a quick bit of recon to confirm my assumptions. The arcade is about three meters wide, lit by a series of gas lamps. The structure could give us a good firing position, but there’s only a string of arches and short columns and a rail for cover. Not a place for a firefight, that’s for sure.
“Mimi,” I ask, “got this mapped out?”
“Does the bishop crap in the woods?”
“Anything I missed?”
“If you didn’t see it, I didn’t see it.”
“What about the eyes in the back of my head?”
“Your suit doesn’t have that upgrade,” she teases.
“Okay,” I say to my davos. “Let’s go meet the people we’re rescuing.”