The
man with the binoculars is still standing in the hangar entryway,
waiting. He won't have to wait much longer. The dust storm is
growing bigger every second, a vast, billowing, choking auburn cloud
of sand and grit swept up from the northern wastes. But right now
he's focused on the Palace, waiting for the signal, tension riding
his spine. And then – a flicker, another, and the lights go out,
and he grins ferociously.
“All
right, lads and lasses! Let's move!”
And
thirty seconds later the crawler pulls out of the hangar, towards the
Urban Palace.
-
- - - - - - -
This
is it. Mara is standing just outside the door to MuniPrin Lee's
rooms. The hall is dark, lit only by a handful of emergency lights.
She and Fir have taken the pistols out of their bags, all pretense
of disguise discarded. They're ninety seconds behind schedule, and
she realizes, to her own surprise, that she is terrified. It has
been six years since the MuniDef raided the Observatory, six long
years since she saw the man who inspired her to become what she has
become, to do what she has done, and inchoate fears rise within her
as she raises her hand to the door, and knocks.
Silence,
and Mara spends a desperate second wondering if he's not even here,
he's been moved, and this has all been wasted-
And
then: “Hello?” And the door opens.
MuniPrin
Lee looks older then she remembered. His fur has grayed, his back
is slightly stooped, in ways that six short years should not be able
to explain. But his expression is still as clear and calm and hard
as she remembered. He sees her and Fir, and the pistols in their
hands, and his eyes widen. He doesn't recognize her, she realizes.
“MuniPrin?”
she says softly. “It's me, Mara.” And then he does know her,
and smiles, and she knows at the core of her being that it's all been
worth it.
“It's
been a long time, Mara,” he says softly. “A very long time. I
take it this is a rescue? I suppose we had better get moving then,
hadn't we?”
-
- - - - - - -
Fifty
meters away, the backup reactor's turbine is still smoking, molten
metal pooling on the floor next to the casing. The reactor is
designed to shut down immediately in the event of fire, and so far it
has behaved as it is supposed to. But there are limits to the
foresight of engineers, and one of them has been reached now. Heat
from the fire is leaking into the turbine's lubricant reservoir
through a manufacturing defect in its fire-proof casing – and as it
heats up, the pressure in the reservoir grows, until it bursts,
spraying lubricating oil through the generator room, hot oil bursting
into flame as it touches air. The fire detectors in the ceiling
register the new outbreak – but the suppressors had activated when
the thermite detonated, and there's no more left in the tanks.
Some
of the burning oil lands on top of a backup battery stack. A stack
whose casing has already been breached by the force of the first
explosion. A stack filled with highly explosive lithium. It takes
thirty seconds for the oil to reach the interior of the batteries.
The
second explosion guts the room, scatters flaming lithium powder into
the adjacent corridors, and breaches the remaining battery stacks.
More explosions follow quickly, as the halls of the Urban Palace fill
with smoke.
-
- - - - - - -
Iskander
Iskandrus has killed before. He has killed before, and killing
again should not bother him. There is absolutely no reason
he should be troubled by having bludgeoned a woman to death against a
stone wall. No reason whatsoever. He is trying his best to
remember this, as his shaking hands pour the acid into the hole in
the safe's case.
Fumes
rise from the safe, and the air fills with an acrid stink. He pulls
the latch on the safe's cover, and it swings open. The inside is
empty, except for a single book, bound in anonymous black leather,
and immensely old. He picks it up gently, almost lovingly. Yes.
Yes, this was worth a woman's life. Cheap at the price.
Iskander
Iskandrus is leaving the study, the last remaining copy of the
Necronomicon of Abd Al-Azrad tucked under his arms, as the
sirens begin to wail.
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