Urbis

Spring came to the city, watery sunshine breaking through the tedious clouds, and spirits began to lift among the troglodytes of the Underground. As if emerging from hibernation, they would venture out, blinking and blowing on chilly hands. Recent convocations had seen more strident calls for rebellion, for a blow to be struck against the ruling elite, and Dolores Brophy had found she could ignore them no longer. A tied vote on direct guerrilla action against sector one resulted in bitter wrangling between those whose patience was exhausted and those who still had some in reserve. Dolores made the casting vote, and the motion was carried: “That if intelligence or other circumstances indicate the possibility of a successful strike against Sector One, the combined forces of the Underground will be mobilised. If time is too short an individual sector may take sole responsibility for an action.”

Crispin did not cease to marvel at the many and varied ways in which secret information was distributed. A visit to a strip club in the company of Josie had resulted in him coming home with an edible bra stuffed in his pocket. A stripper named Kelly had launched it in his direction during her routine. There was a message written on the strap.

Back in the labyrinth, Lyall slipped the bra strap into an antiquated microfiche reader.

He read aloud: “Delivery of office furniture to Assistant Secretary Johnson, Sector One Security Commission Building, departing Distinguished Office Suppliers, 2202, North 25th St., Sec. 4, tomorrow 1700 hours. Driver Da Souza has security clearance. For access Distinguished yard contact Frechmann, foreman neighbouring construction site. Love, Kelly.”

“1700 hours,” said Charlie. “That gives us no time to confer with Dolores and the convocation.”

“No,” said Lyall. “I think we’re on our own in this. It would be risky in the extreme, but if we could get a reconnaissance team into sector one to have a look around, it could be extremely useful.”

The jib of a crane circled silently over the yard of Distinguished Office Suppliers, carrying a platform on which stood four men armed with blasters set to full power: Ron, Neil, Marlon and Crispin.

All able-bodied members of the Underground were presumed to be volunteers for raiding parties. Selection was generally by means of names drawn from a hat, unless people with specific skills were being sought. Marlon had made a special request to be included, and Lyall had at first been inclined to specifically exclude him from the draw on account of the extreme danger of the operation, and his youth, but he recognised that Marlon had an urgent need to atone for what he perceived as his betrayal. He had piled on the pressure, and Lyall had reluctantly caved in to his importunate pleas.

Unbeknown to Crispin, meanwhile, Josie had been equally impassioned in begging Lyall to exempt Crispin.

“Come on, Josie,” he had said. “You know the rules. If I exempt one person on the grounds of... emotional ties, it’s unfair to all the rest.”

Josie had called Lyall a stony hearted bastard and left. She had squeezed Crispin and kissed him with ferocity, told him she loved him madly, and left. He had stood there, bewildered, tasting the salt of her tears on his lips. It was only then that he had realised that he was going into immense danger, and saw how much Josie had come to mean to him. And he had felt desperately afraid.

The platform deposited the four men in the yard and swung away again into the neighbouring construction site. Two men emerged from the back of a van, into which they had just loaded an executive desk.

“Hi,” said Ron.

The two men spun round. Ron and Neil fired their blasters at the men’s heads, in order not to damage their uniforms, and they fell in a heap.

“Come on,” said Neil, “there’s no time to lose.”

They humped the two bodies into the office of Distinguished Office Supplies.

“Was it necessary to kill them?” said Crispin, as they began stripping off the men’s overalls.

“’Fraid so,” said Neil. “Otherwise they’d be likely to raise the alarm when they came round. And we want as much time as we can to look around sector one. Everyone got their own set of van keys?”

The others all held up their keys.

Ron and Crispin were the closest in build to the two Distinguished men, so they donned the men’s overalls. Ron, the closest in appearance to driver Da Souza, took on his identity, pocketing his documentation and sector one security pass. They shut Neil and Marlon inside a large cabinet already loaded on the van, put on board the last items on the inventory, closed the van and set off into the traffic.

It was the end of a working day, and the bulk of the traffic on the bridge was travelling in the opposite direction.

As the seemingly impregnable bastion of sector one loomed large in the windscreen, Crispin glanced nervously at the power indicator of his blaster.

“My blaster power pack is only registering half charge,” he said anxiously.

“What?” yelled Ron, and glanced across at the power pack in Crispin’s lap. “You’re right. Check mine.”

Crispin pulled Ron’s power pack out from under his seat, and saw that that too only indicated half a charge.

“Shit a brick,” said Ron. “That means we’ve only got stun power. And those guys back at the yard are probably still alive. We’re going to have to work fast, or we’re mincemeat.”

Crispin’s face retained its grim expression, but he felt silent relief that two innocent men had not died. Even if their survival meant the likely deaths of the four raiders.

The security guard in his booth at the entry to sector one was watching `Zap The Rat’, a TV game show in which contestants won big prizes if they could blast a rat with a zap gun as it made its way round a maze. As the Distinguished van drew up beside the window, Mrs Esther Larsen of Sector Eight was about to win a Luxon turbocruiser convertible if she could blast a rodent into oblivion before it passed the first stage of its maze.

Ron handed over his security pass. The guard gave it the most fleeting of glances and waved the van on, turning his attention back to Esther as she prepared to take aim.

The van stopped a short way into Sector One.

“Guns at the ready,” said Ron.

He hitched the power pack of his blaster to his belt, underneath his overall, and thrust the blaster itself into a capacious breast pocket. Crispin did likewise.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Crispin wiped his clammy palms on his overall and took the strain of the enormously heavy cabinet. Together, he and Ron manoeuvered it out of the back of the van, muttering apologies and reassurances to its two occupants as they lowered it onto a waiting trolley.

Ron and Crispin had already taken a desk and two chairs up to Assistant Secretary Johnson’s office, and he had welcomed them gleefully. Now the matching cabinet was coming, all part of the long-awaited revamp of his office, which he took as a sign that he was in favour with his superiors, and might possibly expect a promotion in the near future.

They rolled the trolley into the elevator and Ron inserted his security pass into the control panel. The pass would ensure that they emerged only at the designated level, in this instance the 68th. The doors slid shut. Ron shot a fleeting glance at the camera set into the roof panel.

“Geez,” he said loudly to Crispin, “this is tiring work.” He leaned his forearm against the side of the cabinet and rested his forehead against it, lowering his head to conceal from the camera his moving lips as he whispered into the cabinet. “Camera in the elevator. Don’t make a sound.”

The doors opened. Ron pressed the hold button. Crispin glanced to left and right along the passage outside, then trundled out the cabinet.

Ron followed after him. “The coast is clear,” he hissed. “C’mon out, boys.”

Warily, Neil and Marlon emerged.

“Okay, listen up,” said Ron. “The van’s in the basement. We’ll try and meet up back there in an hour, but if there’s trouble, we may have to make a run for it. If we are separated, hopefully at least one of us will be able to make it back with some information. Now get lost, you two.”

Neil and Marlon scurried away, while Ron and Crispin pulled the trolley with the cabinet, now mercifully lightened, towards the office suite of the Assistant Secretary.

As they did so, they heard shouts and challenges, and then gunfire.

“Bugger,” said Ron. “Those blokes at Distinguished must have come round already and raised the alarm. Quick! Into the cabinet.”

He and Crispin ducked into the cabinet, standing conspicuously on its trolley in the corridor, and closed the doors behind them. Both men drew their blasters.

They heard the approach of running feet, one or two pairs, which stopped in front of the cabinet. After a moment’s pause, Ron slammed the doors open, sending the two men outside reeling. Blasts from Ron’s and Crispin’s weapons left them slumped on the floor.

They were about to head back towards the elevators when several Security men appeared, running from that direction. Crispin bolted for a corner, with Ron behind him giving covering fire. As Crispin turned the corner, he heard a shot. Ron cried out in pain, and Crispin looked back to see him sprawling, lifeless.