raindrops spit and burst on the road. The sound of the droplets dancing against concrete and banging a rhythm against corrugated iron had, at some point, become familiar almost to the point of being a comfort.
For a few moments the moon broke through its cover of cloud, bathing us in pale watery light, floating briefly in a sea of night sky.
Corg glanced back anxiously the way we had come, exposed suddenly in the weak moonlight. The whites of his eyes glowed in the gloom. Behind, the street lay empty and still though the swirling rain filled the night with shifting grey wraiths moving soundlessly in the dark.
"Come on," he whispered, squaring his shoulders as he turned back into the downpour, bald head floating like a buoy against the flow.
"It's not far now."
Quinn watched his men moving down the alley, the beams of their torches strafing and criss-crossing the street, with a sense of pride. They were still performing the job ahead of them with discipline and formation despite the knowledge that it was almost certainly a lost cause. He took some solace in the knowledge that he led a well trained team, but the thought soured his mind as he thought once again of the two members of his squad he had left cold and bloodied back in the apartment. They had been well trained too, he thought. For all the good it did them.
He couldn’t see the moon any more but at least the buildings on either side sheltered him from the worst of the weather. Dirty steam hissed loudly from a wall vent set in the crumbling brick to mix with the falling water.
This is fruitless, he thought. And yet he would continue searching, he knew, until the night was done and the first rosy pink fingers of dawn started to lighten the morning sky. It would be better, no matter what, than heading back to Control in failure. No, he thought, he would explore every alley between here and the docks, if necessary, before admitting defeat.
The thought of the narrow concrete corridors of Control, buried beneath its layers or protective earth, sent an involuntary shiver across his skin. Of late he had grown to hate the dry dark of that place; he slept badly every night, waking every morning bathed in sweat, dreams half-remembered and full of disquieting images haunting his long days.
There was a feeling within those confines, a tension that buzzed in the air and set his teeth grinding. It had been growing steadily of late but was at its worst when Wychelo was there, or that hulking scarred giant Rift that barked the orders from downstairs and spoke with Control’s voice. On the one occasion that he had been brought before Horst himself, in his cavernous immaculate office, Quinn had thought he would be sick under the pressure of the man’s dispassionate eyes.
That had been his first day at Control after his transfer, a direct result of coming top of his unit for tactical testing. He had been proud that day, had looked on his new home with something like satisfaction. But you couldn’t leave, as he had quickly learned. Apart from on manoeuvres, Quinn had not set foot outside of the underground fortress labyrinth since that day. At times it felt like a prison. Of course, he thought darkly, that was exactly what it was for some.
That was the other reason that he would not be hurrying back. This was the most freedom that Quinn had seen since his transfer. Paranoia and secrecy were the order of the day at Control and it felt good to taste fresh air once more. In a literal sense too, he thought with a wry smile. The recycled air under all that concrete tasted old and stale as dust.
Not that Quinn would ever voice any of these thoughts. Too many others had disappeared down those narrow stairs that led to the deepest levels for him to ever risk doing so. The walls were thick stone but even so sometimes you heard things, especially in the close dark of the night.
He wondered despondently what would happen to him if he came back empty handed. Doubtless he’d
For a few moments the moon broke through its cover of cloud, bathing us in pale watery light, floating briefly in a sea of night sky.
Corg glanced back anxiously the way we had come, exposed suddenly in the weak moonlight. The whites of his eyes glowed in the gloom. Behind, the street lay empty and still though the swirling rain filled the night with shifting grey wraiths moving soundlessly in the dark.
"Come on," he whispered, squaring his shoulders as he turned back into the downpour, bald head floating like a buoy against the flow.
"It's not far now."
Quinn watched his men moving down the alley, the beams of their torches strafing and criss-crossing the street, with a sense of pride. They were still performing the job ahead of them with discipline and formation despite the knowledge that it was almost certainly a lost cause. He took some solace in the knowledge that he led a well trained team, but the thought soured his mind as he thought once again of the two members of his squad he had left cold and bloodied back in the apartment. They had been well trained too, he thought. For all the good it did them.
He couldn’t see the moon any more but at least the buildings on either side sheltered him from the worst of the weather. Dirty steam hissed loudly from a wall vent set in the crumbling brick to mix with the falling water.
This is fruitless, he thought. And yet he would continue searching, he knew, until the night was done and the first rosy pink fingers of dawn started to lighten the morning sky. It would be better, no matter what, than heading back to Control in failure. No, he thought, he would explore every alley between here and the docks, if necessary, before admitting defeat.
The thought of the narrow concrete corridors of Control, buried beneath its layers or protective earth, sent an involuntary shiver across his skin. Of late he had grown to hate the dry dark of that place; he slept badly every night, waking every morning bathed in sweat, dreams half-remembered and full of disquieting images haunting his long days.
There was a feeling within those confines, a tension that buzzed in the air and set his teeth grinding. It had been growing steadily of late but was at its worst when Wychelo was there, or that hulking scarred giant Rift that barked the orders from downstairs and spoke with Control’s voice. On the one occasion that he had been brought before Horst himself, in his cavernous immaculate office, Quinn had thought he would be sick under the pressure of the man’s dispassionate eyes.
That had been his first day at Control after his transfer, a direct result of coming top of his unit for tactical testing. He had been proud that day, had looked on his new home with something like satisfaction. But you couldn’t leave, as he had quickly learned. Apart from on manoeuvres, Quinn had not set foot outside of the underground fortress labyrinth since that day. At times it felt like a prison. Of course, he thought darkly, that was exactly what it was for some.
That was the other reason that he would not be hurrying back. This was the most freedom that Quinn had seen since his transfer. Paranoia and secrecy were the order of the day at Control and it felt good to taste fresh air once more. In a literal sense too, he thought with a wry smile. The recycled air under all that concrete tasted old and stale as dust.
Not that Quinn would ever voice any of these thoughts. Too many others had disappeared down those narrow stairs that led to the deepest levels for him to ever risk doing so. The walls were thick stone but even so sometimes you heard things, especially in the close dark of the night.
He wondered despondently what would happen to him if he came back empty handed. Doubtless he’d
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