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They hadn’t followed.
It was goddamned strange.
It would be obvious how I’d left the room, and I’d kept my gun cocked just in case; it was the only way out, but they hadn’t even opened the manhole cover, nevermind descended the ladder after me. I was alone. Alone. Traversing the pungent sewers of Space Station Delta with nothing but my gun, my wits and pain.
And no Regan.
Damn it, why did he have to die? Why had he died such a meaningless death?
Why?
And I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t save him.
Goddammit.
I was still covered in his blood, some of mine too, now dry from the heat of the sewers; it crisped my shirt and jacket and flaked along my skin. I’d wrapped my wrist injury with the lining of my suit jacket.
My memory remained fresh, even if the blood wasn’t.
The way his blood had kept pouring from his neck, the way his voice had been cracked and distant. It was still in the forefront of my mind. The way his life had faded from his body.
His last words.
“There’s no reason a fake cannot surpass the original.”
I didn’t know what he’d meant, and I couldn’t focus on it. Not yet. I couldn’t stop seeing him, seeing his body, laid out on the floor, covered in blood. Dead. Goddamned dead.
Damn it.
Whatever he’d meant, whatever those words meant, it would need to wait until I’d had a smoke and a drink, cleared my head. I had a vague memory of him saying something like it before... but my brain was foggy, muddled. I needed to get out of these damned sewers and back into the fresh air.
It stank.
Flavourful chemicals, with robust undertones of shit and piss; I hadn’t been able to appreciate the full spectrum of seasoning from the cellar, but now... oh god.
I stooped low, the curved ceiling almost on top of me, as I shuffled along the narrow walkway next to the fast-flowing and wide water way that was not just water. Mostly not water. I tried to ignore the ache in my thigh, the shooting pain in my shoulder, the agony of the knife wound in my torso. My cut and bruised wrist. My heart.
I had to be careful. Excrement gushed alongside me; falling in would be a nightmare. And even though acids and other mixtures had been pumped into the mess, giving a thick and heavy pungent aroma to the sewers, chemicals to break down the waste swimming within its depths, the thought of being dragged and drowned in those lumpy currents horrified me.
I threw up and I didn’t know whether it was because of the events back in the warehouse basement or whether it was from the acrid atmosphere, but I threw up, I vomited violently. Bile burned my throat. I tasted acid. My stomach retched and heaved. I added my own vile ingredients to the dirty soup gushing alongside me, a river of effluence, both mine and other people’s.
This place was damned vile.
I spat and tried to clear the taste of puke from my mouth, but it was to very little avail; a strong alcoholic drink or a cigarette would the only remedy. Damn. A cigarette would likely blow me to kingdom come, igniting the fumes that infested the air of the sewer.
I carried on, the dim blue glow from my SmartBoy lighting my way; it gave off barely enough illumination to see ahead, but it was sufficient for me to put one foot in front of the other. Just about. Combined with the narrow tunnel and the quashing fumes, the gloomy lack of light made this place claustrophobic and suffocating.
I had to get out of here.
At least I was safe; there was no sound or sign of anyone following me, which was strange and comforting at the same time. All I heard was the rush of the water. Partly water.
It felt like several hours had gone by since I started moving through the sewers, but from the clock on my SmartBoy, it was barely over one. I’d cried for most of that hour. My muscles ached more and more from my hunched movement and I wished for painkillers. Just to take the edge off. Otherwise, I’d settle for some fresh air, a cigarette and a drink. Was that too much to ask for? I just needed to find another ladder that led to the surface, and I’d be free and away from this repellent place.
I didn’t even know which way I was headed, I didn’t know whether I was heading clockwise, widdershins, inwards or outwards. All I knew was that I was heading away from the Church of the Third Encounter. Away from Regan.
Damn it.
All I had left of him was his SmartBoy, it was in my pocket, and I hoped it contained the proof he’d promised that would take down his mother and Tribeca. His death needed to mean something, damn it.
I couldn’t dwell on my grief. Not again. I tried to focus on the physical pain that tormented me, to distract from the black hole in my chest. I tried to use it to spur me on. To keep going. I couldn’t think about...
Goddammit, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
A shadow, cast by the blue light of my SmartBoy, caught in the peripheral of my eye. A ladder! I’d almost missed it, almost walked right passed it; I’d been so concerned with wallowing in my grief that I’d stopped paying attention to my surroundings.
It was time to escape this damned stink, finally emerge into the ‘fresh’ air and smoke a cigarette or two. I needed a goddamned drink.
I placed my SmartBoy in my mouth so I could climb the ladder illuminated and unhindered, and ascended. The pain remained, reminded me of everything that had happened, but I carried on. The metal rungs were rusted and rough beneath my palms; they scratched my skin. I’d forgotten how deep the sewers actually were. I needed to be careful not slip or fall to my death; knowing my luck, I’d end up drowned in the river of shit below.
I climbed for what felt like another hour, a stifling hour, embraced by the thick atmosphere that seemed to permeate up into the tunnel in which I crawled. This damned place was oppressive. I hadn’t become desensitised to the rancid perfume of the lower sections of Space Station Delta, and it made me feel sick to my stomach. I needed to get out of here.
Finally, I pushed against the metal sewer cover, lifted and moved it out of my way, and emerged into the basement of a building, an establishment of sorts, with crates of food and drink stored along shelves. I could tell from its general demeanour that it likely belonged to either Sector Six or Seven. I’d made it to my home sector. Or close to it. Close enough.
But that wasn’t my destination.
I needed to head to the nearest police station and... and report what happened to Regan. Damn it. Goddammit. And report Greene’s real identity. This was way above my remit; as much as I wanted to, I didn’t have the power to take on the Church of the Third Encounter alone.
I wondered if Greene’s obsession with me could be explained by his real identity. He’d been a little too interested in my accident when I’d first met him at the event in Flare. Why did he want to know? He was there, wasn’t he? He was the reason I was in that facility in the first place; he was part of the reason I’d fallen into the vortex.
Was he the Smith from my own universe? Or this one?
Damn it.
I was so exhausted.
I couldn’t think straight; I needed a long smoke, a strong drink and some deep sleep.
I slid the sewer cover back into place and thanked whatever gods were listening for the absence of that stench. It really had been disgusting. I inhaled deeply, taking in the stale air of this basement, and losing all remnants of the sewer. My palette was cleansed.
I looked around, using the blue light of my SmartBoy, and tried to find my way out. I spotted a staircase leading to whatever establishment was above me. It would be a nice change to do some breaking and leaving, instead of breaking and entering. I glanced at the time on my SmartBoy; it was the middle of the early morning. Too early. Especially for anyone to be up and about and this was confirmed when I heard nothing but silence from the rooms above. Leaving this place should be easy enough. Uncomplicated.
And the sooner I made it out into the street, the sooner I could light up.
The door at the top of the steps opened out into a kitchen and I realised that this was a restaurant; I heard the sound of rats scampering further into the shadows. I hurried through into the dining area. This wasn’t a place I recognised; Space Station Delta was a big place, and there was no way I could know every café and restaurant it held. I could barely afford to make my own meals, nevermind paying someone else to make them for me. Although that never stopped me from getting convenient, but very cheap, takeout. I skirted the tables and chairs and reached the glass fronted entrance. It was dark outside, lights powered down for the night to save on precious energy, a sign this wasn’t one of the richer sectors who would undoubtedly be fully illuminated. I was right about this being Sector Six or Seven.
The transparent door had a simple lock and I busted it open effortlessly. The mechanism crumbled. I felt a little guilty about leaving the restaurant exposed and open, but it couldn’t be helped, and at least the damned rats had a way out too.
I retrieved a cigarette from my jacket and lit up. I took a deep breath, enjoying and contemplating the taste and the addiction. It had been too long since my last. I exhaled, blowing out a cloud of smoke and took another drag almost instantly. I should’ve, should quit.
I started walking. The only way I’d work out my location was to find something recognisable, a landmark that would allow me to get my bearings. I was alone in the grimy streets and the blue hue from SmartBoy cast hideous shadows around me, monsters of the dark. It reminded me that one should never ask anyone for directions. Ever. I didn’t want to get shanked.
I turned a corner, moved through a rubbish strewn alley, and exited into another street. It was beginning to look a little familiar and, from the design of the buildings and the layout of the dirt, I started to get the impression that this was Sector Seven and not Six. I flicked the remains of my cigarette and lit another in its place. I looked overhead to try and get a sense of direction from the dome covering the station; I was definitely more central, closer to the middle than the rim. I was used to dealing with cases on the outskirts of Space Station Delta, the outskirts of my home sector and its sister. I needed to make my way outwards and I’d soon know where exactly I was.
Ducking in and out of alleys, between buildings and across roads, and burning through several cigarettes, I found myself in a street I found more recognisable. Sunlight had started to peek over the buildings as time ticked into the next day and I found I no longer needed to rely on the light from my SmartBoy. People were beginning to wake, but so far, I’d only seen one or two early workers and the streets were still empty and quiet. That wouldn’t last long.
It sickened me, just a little, that there were people climbing out of bed whilst I was desperate to fall into one. I was tired. I hurt. I could feel the bags under my eyes swelling with every weary step I took. My vision blurred. The nicotine from the multiple cigarettes had done little to perk me up, wake me up. Goddammit. I just wanted to crawl into a corner and cry myself to sleep.
I reached the fire door separating Sectors Seven and Six and passed over the threshold.
I was so very tired.
A shadow leapt at me, metal glinted, and the figure lunged. An arm swung, a machete gleamed, adrenaline surged through my veins, my attacker swung the blade at me; I dodged to the left and felt the whoosh as it cut through the air instead of my flesh. Goddammit! I pounced, keeping low, tackled the man. He grunted as I winded him and threw him to the floor. I was damned sick of this! Damned sick of all this goddamned drama! I fell on top of him and grabbed his wrist as he tried to swing his knife at me again. I screamed, roared, and slammed his hand to the ground, over and over and over. He grunted and cried out, keeping a tight grip on the machete. Damn it! His other hand tried to swing at me, but I caught it, swatted it away. He tried to wriggle free; I headbutted him. It hurt. But it hurt him more. Discombobulated, the shock of my skull hitting his, it was enough for me to finally free him of the blade. It clattered, liberated from his hand. He struggled against me, but I punched him, punched my attacker in the face as hard as I could. Blood splattered. I punched him again. Blood on my knuckles. I punched him. Blood. Again, and again.
His body went limp.
Another hitman. Unconscious.
Damn it.
I wasn’t in the mood for anymore of this shit.