The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [61]
“I mean deep sewers. Sewer workers seldom go below levels four or five, and they always wear a harness and rubber waders that come up to the crotch like yours. We don’t have waders.”
Her mind clouded with foreboding. “Deep?”
Henry nodded to her Metapad resting atop an upturned gallon can. “The map you carry covers only three levels and sections of another two deeper down. Those are the systems in service. A cross-section of central Washington has fifteen levels in places, plunging as deep as three thousand feet, and mostly uncharted.”
Questions jostled for priority in Laurel’s mind, but she chose the bliss of ignorance for what lay ahead and didn’t ask anything else.
Henry switched on his LAD flashlight. A bright circle of light appeared at his enormous rubber-boot-encased feet. “So, you know your roaches, yes?” He tilted his body and the light caught a glossy insect, almost black. “Here we have an illegal immigrant, Blatta orientalis, the oriental cockroach; this one must be lost, because they favor moist and warm places.” He stepped over it and a faint crunch followed a high-pitched hiss. “But there we have the locals.” His flashlight panned the floor and shapes scurried in all directions. “These are Periplaneta americana, our very own, and above all survivors, like all of us. Wonderfully designed scavengers. They need only warmth, water, and a little decaying matter to survive.” With the light coming from underneath, Henry’s face had gained a disturbing chiaroscuro of shifting shadows. “They’re excellent climbers, as people on the surface know too well. They climb up drains to kitchen sinks and counters with leftover food, where they feed, leaving in their wake hard, cylindrical droppings that resemble fragments of pencil lead.”
The bastard was doing it on purpose and enjoying himself.
Henry straightened and switched off his flashlight. “The males have wings and occasionally fly. But the best is … they can swim.”
Barandus neared with an armload of what seemed like folded cloth, but on closer inspection Laurel determined they were new backpacks. “A factory closed down,” he explained, “and we grabbed a few boxes. Have one.”
She darted a glance to Lukas, who had followed the roach lecture, his face tinged with an unhealthy green hue.
“I don’t understand why we should wear these.” She jerked the webbing tight around her waist with what she hoped would seem fearless certainty. “Surely we don’t have to be roped together like climbers.”
Henry cocked his head. “No, but it’s easier to drag a body out when there’s a harness to grab hold of.”
chapter 23
09:45
Bastien Compton. Born July 8, 2026, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Harvard Law School. Honors thesis. Graduated cum laude, class of 2050. Admitted to the bar in 2052. Two arrests for public disturbance, demonstrations. Militant League for a Transparent Government (LTG). Sentenced to two years for trying to steal explosives.
Nikola glanced at the tiny infrared laser tracking his eye movement from the screen’s frame and flicked his eyelids. LTG? What a waste of a talented young man. He scanned the résumés under the photographs of Laurel and Raul on separate screens. Same university, same years. No honors. With another blink of his eyelids, Nikola scrolled down Bastien’s file. Solid Presbyterian family. A large one, predating the two-child law. Two younger brothers, one studying business administration, the other medicine. An elder sister, Laura, doctorate in AI. Father a circuit judge. Clean. What a waste.
After a final sip of his already cold coffee, he scanned the other files. All three had been sentenced for the same crime, obviously staged to get them into the tank. Raul Osborne had one brother, also a lawyer. His father was a local government official; his mother, an ophthalmic surgeon. Clean. Laurel Cole. No brothers or sisters, father a gardener—He stopped reading, drew the cup to his lips, tipped it back, and, unrewarded, placed