Memento Mori

4.10 - THE PROFESSIONAL

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THE GUARDS ARE STILL CONVULSING by the time we make it to the cellblock. Three of them, a skeleton crew of thugs who were taking bets on live streams from the front lines in the Vents, now pissing themselves on the floor. I stand above the bodies on overwatch while Matthias gets to work on the door, pulse pistol trained on the rest of the barren lobby, three bullets lighter. Trigger finger twitching in response to every small electronic beep that comes from behind me, every faint rush of air from the climate control vents. Paranoia runs rampant through my nerves. Magnetically accelerated rounds don't make much noise, but their sound is unmistakable. And it's a wide open straightaway between us and the lift plaza. We're totally exposed. A single glance at a security stream would instantly spot us. Any moment someone could turn the intersection and see the bodies.

For the fifth time, Matthias rises from psionically probing one of the twitching guards and returns to the reception desk, crouching behind a JOYless projector screen that holds the door controls. Isolated systems like these are always used in prisons. They're one of the few things that's completely Innovator proof- valuable thing to have, when there's a class that can hijack any technology except a JOY. But the isolation is a two-edged knife that works in our favor this time, as it means no notifications about a half-dozen failed attempts to open the door will be passed to the rest of the Orange's security mainframe.

"I can't believe this," Matthias grumbles at the projector screen. "Five, two, five... eight?" Red flash, angry beep from the display. "Gage's virtues, how do none of them even know the code to their own prison?"

I lean over his shoulder, running my eyes down the screen. Dates and names fill the space behind a prompt for the door's four-digit code. A list of inmates by order of incarceration. People with names like Iris, Fallow, Mobiak, and all the way at the top, Volt. Cell fifty. Matthias throws an uneasy glance towards the intersection, then notes how close we are in the corner of his eye. Remembering my place, I blow a couple strands of reddish hair away from my face and reach down to flip over the keyboard. There's a diginote on the other side.

"Five two nine eight," I snort.

"Oh." Four key clicks later, the insulated blast doors releases a very satisfying clunk. "That was easy."

After struggling to pull the bodies behind the desk- they're pretty heavy, I'm the opposite- I take the lead and motion for Matthias to follow with two fingers. Two hands on the pulse pistol, barrel aimed forty-five degrees down, eyes sweeping the short metal tunnel on the other side of the bulkhead, gunslinging instincts ready for the slightest stimuli. Another set of interwoven blast doors blocks the way, this one with a physical lever keeping it closed. I kick my sandals into a corner and yank the lever down. The full metal door groans open. Silent and smooth and swift from then on. Drifting down a hexagonal hallway, bare feet padding atop the grated floor, quiet as a mouse. We're so deep now that they don't even bother with an illusion of glamor. Cells set in the angled walls line the path on both sides, their entrances sheened over by blistering orange repulsorfields. The black silk loincloth swishes between my legs. Sleeves on the robe get annoying real quick now that I'm running, so I rip it off and toss it into an empty cell. Freckles and goosebumps stipple my shoulders. I move faster.

I can feel the clock ticking, even if there's no alarms sounding yet. It's only a matter of time before someone finds those bodies. When they do...

My eyes dart over the cells we pass. Sleeping prisoners of the syndicate lay curled up on flat benches in barren wombs of black metal. Most are bruised and beaten, harmed in ways both material and non. A boy with missing ears huddles near the repulsorfield of his cell. Matthias' eyes fill with a pity I'll never truly understand the depths of, but it doesn't slow him. The most dangerous inmates already felt the subtle vibrations of our feet and glower up through the orange barriers with hateful eyes as they watch us pass. Doesn't take an expert to realize something's not right with the two of us, but even if they were to scream and hammer at the walls, no one would hear them through a repulsorfield. Those things are used to contain fights at the Metro Blockhouse. At full strength, I've seen them eat back-to-back terajoule ki blasts and barely even flicker. A little yelling isn't going to make it through that level of insulation.