13: Back to the Lion's Den

In the past few weeks, I had been through a lot, and I had cheated death in many different ways. Though I remained highly skeptical, I was beginning to think that the Outcasts' faith might be based on more than simple mythology; one coincidence was one thing, but it seemed suddenly as though everything in my life had been leading up to this period of time. I was beginning to see the possibility that perhaps my injury, and my mission were not by accident, but part of a plan. And if that had been planned, then it had also been planned that I would seek out Hunterwraith, and that I would find that vault and analyze the objects within, and that I would be found by these humble people in the nether, only to be the first person ever to escape that dark place.

There was nobody else on Earth who could have done the things that I had done, or seen the things that I had seen, or survived the things I had survived. There was, in truth, nobody else alive who would have known what to do with the information that had been imparted to me. Everything from my past, my physical abilities, and my profession had worked together in order for me to intercept this message, this code transmitted through the ages. My rage had not lessened, but it had begun to be tempered by the realization that I was a part of something bigger than simple revenge – maybe even the most important discovery of all time. Why I felt this, I did not know.

What I did know was that it was high time I got home. The Codex's database awaited, and there was nothing now to stop me but time. I knew that at the end of my journey, Hunterwraith would be there too.

* * *

The next several hours were spent deep in the planning; being exiled from New Babylon was the easy part, and the administrators (or their personal police force) did all of the hard work. Getting back in would be much more difficult, if it was possible at all. Of course, Nigel and the others did not bother worrying about the what-ifs; their underlying faith did not allow for anything but an upbeat confidence that whatever plan they decided on, the way would be opened when they got there. Noal found himself slipping into their way of thinking more and more as time wore on, not realizing until afterwards just how infectious their brand of optimism really was.

More than anything else, he wanted to see Naomy again. Something had changed inside him, and he felt like something had been freed. In any case, his fear of loving her seemed to have gone, and he looked forward to the possibilities that might present themselves. Second to that, and a burning urgency even by comparison, was his desire to get back home and start working his way through his notes. Something big involving the shift was in there, he knew – maybe he would even solve the age-old mystery of its causes. In fact, he felt confident of that, however he also had a sensing that he was onto something even bigger than that. It was a truly daunting proposition. There was also the matter of Hunterwraith's note, and the data-disk he had left behind. There was something important there too, Noal was sure.

First things had to come first though; he wasn't back in New Babylon just yet.

“...so I'm afraid that just won't work,” Layla was saying, “There is no way to open the under-works door from the outside!”

“Surely there is a way,” Ryron cut in, “There is a keypad on the door – I have seen it with my own eyes! Why would there be a keypad if there was no code to enter into it?”

“I've seen that keypad myself,” Layla replied, “But there is no code! I was an under-director in New Babylon for three years, and you don't think I'd have been told about something like that?”

“Yes... unless it was only known by the senior administrators,” suggested Zail.

“Well if that is the case then it does us very little good,” Layla rebutted.

Nigel stood up, the mark of an idea on his face, “Perhaps more good than you think,” he said, “I'll be right back.” Nigel headed over the ridge and into the Outcast tent-city, returning several minutes later with another, dour-looking man in tow.

“You all know Jarvis,” said Nigel, bringing his companion into the circle, “except you, Noal.” The rest of his advisors nodded in-turn, with something less than enthusiasm; evidently Jarvis was nobody's favourite person, and Noal soon found out why.

“Oh my, thank for the lovely greeting,” said the weasely man, his tone managing sound both sarcastic and whiny at the same time, “I suppose, though, I should feel privileged to be called upon by the auspicious Head of our beautiful little society.”

Noal nearly groaned audibly, but caught himself at the last moment, managing to only groan inwardly, instead.

“And how is he supposed to help?” inquired Lata, contemptuously.

“Perhaps if you would bother to hold your tongue and listen, you would find out that I happen to know a great deal about things that you, yourself, could never know, such as—“

Lata bounded to her feet, her eyes filled with violent thoughts, “Such as how to cower in the dark and sob like a little girl, perhaps? You know all about that, don't you Jarvis?”

“That's enough, Lata,” Nigel barked, “There's no time for this, now. Sit down.” Lata did as she was told, though she was clearly reluctant about it. “I realize that Jarvis here is nobody’s particular favourite person,” Jarvis glowered at that, “He has had a, shall we say, more difficult time than most adjusting to life in the nether. We’ve all put it down to his being relatively new here – we found him a little over two and a half years ago – but there may be another reason that you are not all aware of.” The advisors all looked at Jarvis, curiously, as Nigel explained further. “It seems that Jarvis, here, was Senior Administrator before being cast out.”

The circle erupted into chaos.

“..Administrator!”

“Must have done something really bad—“

“..No wonder he’s such a whiny a—“

Nigel had to get everyone’s attention once again. “People! This is neither the time nor place for this. Yes, his former-position is significant, but it might also prove very helpful to us right now. Now then, somebody had a question about the administrator’s access, didn’t they?”

Ryron reiterated his question from before, “Is there a way into the city from the refuse pit door? A code to open it?”

Jarvis’ eyes lit up momentarily as he thought about his answer, “A code? For the refuse door? I—oh! That door! The one in sector seven; that code is—that is to say, er, no longer functioning. Yes – been quite inoperable for some time I’m afraid.”

“Well that leaves us back at square one, then,” sighed Marke.

“Not quite,” put in Jarvis, “There may be another way in, if you’re interested.”

“Please go on,” said Nigel.

“Yes, well, as those of you who have been to the refuse door will recall, there is a garbage chute not far away—“

“Yes, a garbage incinerator chute!” Rouel interrupted.

“If you will simply let me finish,” Jarvis said, impatiently, “I happen to have been the director of waste management for nearly five years, during my tenure as administrator, and as such I was privy to many of the more technical aspects of their refuse delivery system.”

“So you’re the one who allowed them to start dumping all of New Babylons garbage down here?” asked Layla, “They wanted to do that back when I was involved, but I always managed to stop them. But I guess we aren’t all gifted with the same convictions.”

Jarvis gave a twisted smile, “Whatever you may think of my decision, it shall be our saving grace, now, as you would see if you would all stop interrupting me!” He waited for the rest to quiet down. “As I was saying, I happen to be privy to some of the technical workings of New Babylon's waste management processes, including that incineration chute, and I happen to know that there is a pause in the firing mechanism that might allow someone to get through.”

“And you have an intimate knowledge of the timing?” someone asked.

“I could write you a detailed schedule, yes.”

“Good,” said Nigel, “Do it.”

“Very well,” Jarvis replies, “Of course we are still left with the problem of actually traversing ninety feet of vertical chute in around twenty seconds, if one wants to avoid being crisped alive.” He smirked. “I'd like to see that.”

“Ninety feet straight up, in a metal shaft, all in under twenty seconds?” Lata shouted, “This plan is useless! Nobody can do that!”

“It sounds okay to me,” said Noal, nonchalantly, a sly grin on his face. The others – aside from Nigel – looked at him as though he had fallen right off of the deep end. He just smiled and rolled up his pant-leg, rapping on the cold steel to produce a metallic clank, much to everyone's astonishment. “Courtesy of your dark-stalker,” he said, “I climbed from level one up to level three on the sides of buildings for the most part; I can climb up your garbage chute, I think.”

Layla laughed, “So you’re telling us that you need to get out of the nether, in order to, as we believe, fulfill a prophetic mandate from the almighty, and it just so happens that you are the only person in the world for whom it would be possible to do that, due entirely to those legs, which were given to you by the same person who brought you down here to begin with, also the person you are sworn to hunt down.”

“I guess that pretty much sums it up,” Noal replied.

“Sounds like prophecy to me,” said Zail.

“Or good planning,” said Noal.

Jarvis laughed acidly, “You people and your prophecies! There’s no higher power looking out for you! And someday, the New Babylon administrators are going to tire of leaving you down here to your own devices, and they will sweep the nether clean of all of us! When that day comes, I’ll show you where your god is!”

Nigel glowered briefly at Jarvis, and then addressed the group, “Well, I guess we’re decided. We’re leaving in two hours, so everyone be ready to go by then.” Those around the circle stood to go make preparations.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to come along, as well?” said Jarvis.

“Are you volunteering?” asked Nigel.

“Yes, yes, I suppose I am. No love lost between my former compatriots and myself, in any case. I suppose I hate them more than I hate all of you, when it comes down to it.”

Nigel’s expression said he was worried. “I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Jarvis.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you should thank your god-thing for small miracles, then.”

They left two hours later, as Nigel had said, the ten advisors, plus Nigel, Noal, and Jarvis, wandering into the darkness on a path that Noal could only hope somebody could see; he certainly couldn’t. The only light came from the oddly bright, two-headed torches, whose construction had not been explained to Noal, tethered to a pair of the outcasts’ odd pack beasts, and carried by a few of the advisors. The encroaching darkness was a cavernous thing; there was no natural light whatsoever in the nether, just simple, absolute darkness. Though they had told him that nothing lived in the nether besides themselves and their livestock, Noal felt better to have his zweihander strapped to his back once again. He had been worried that the big sword had been lost when he woke up in the outcast camp without it, but it turned out they had been holding onto it for him. They had also given him a proper sack to carry all of his notes in; he hoped it would make it up the garbage chute alright.

Having left late in whatever the outcasts considered ‘day’, the group stopped to set up camp, still several hours march from the New Babylon refuse pit. Everyone ate around a low fire, except for Jarvis, who took his warm stew and sat apart from the others, refusing to join in their conversation and plans. Noal had a funny feeling that Jarvis was going to cause trouble before he had seen the last of the sour man. As he lay himself down to sleep, his mind wouldn’t stop whirling with all manner of dark possibilities.

He woke to Mik starting the morning fire for breakfast and got up slowly from the surprisingly soft ground he’d been sleeping on. Breakfast among the outcasts consisted of some kind of ground cereal (delicious despite being absent of sugars or artificial flavourings), and cuts of succulent meat from their livestock. There was also a flavourful vegetable broth made from a variety of different things grown in their ‘stretch’. Noal still could not believe that such things could grow in a place like the nether; perhaps it really had been a miracle.

“Have either of you seen Jarvis?” asked Nigel, walking out of the dark corner, away from the camp, designated as a lavatory pit. “He wasn’t in his bedroll when I woke the rest up. Hopefully he hasn’t wandered off and fallen into a hole or something.” Mik just shrugged; apparently he hadn’t seen Jarvis either. Noal’s internal danger-sense was whirling again. When a brief search of the area failed to turn up anything, Nigel decided to move on. “We'll pray for Jarvis' safety. And our own.” Apparently Noal wasn't the only one who didn't trust the man.

They reached the outer wall of New Babylon a few hours later. It was a towering steel construct, all cold steel and completely devoid of any welcome. Sprawled out before it was a massive field of garbage and debris; it stunk like nothing Noal had ever smelled before. “How can they do this?” he asked, “Just dumping all of this down here like this?”

“I'd tell you ask Jarvis..” Ryron quipped.

At the base of the wall, near the origin of the refuse-pit, a large gateway could be seen. Despite Jarvis' assurances to the contrary, it appeared to have been used recently, though it was soundly locked tight now. The danger sense whirred.

“So where is this garbage chute?” asked Noal?

Nigel gestured along the wall, left from the doors, “It's around this way,” he said, leading the way there. A short walk brought them to a large, round hatch in the wall, shut for the time being. “If Jarvis was telling the truth, this should open at least once every--” The hatch opened, suddenly, revealing an opening that led away into blackness beyond. Noal had the urge to jump into and start climbing, but Nigel held him back. “Best go better prepared,” he said, as the aperture started to close. “It should open again in about ten minutes.”

Noal back away, making sure his zweihander and the other bag were securely secured to his body, then began saying his goodbyes. “I can't thank you all enough for saving my life, and for helping me here. If there is a god looking out for you all, I have a feeling that he will not be content to leave you down here much longer. Your time is coming.”

“For one who does not believe in prophecy, you have just spoken one quite eloquently,” said Lata.

“We will meditate on what you say, and pray that our paths meet again, someday,” Marke offered.

“And may it not be from you being left half-dead in the stretch the second time 'round!” Mik put in.

More words followed from the rest of the advisors, until Nigel interrupted them, “It is time Noal, the chute will open shortly!” Noal wasted no time in climbing up the wall to the edge of the hatch, his feet-spurs faithfully gripping the steel. Nigel shouted up to him, “Your presence among us, however short, has been a blessing, Noal Silver! Godspeed!”

The hatch opened, and Noal started climbing, letting his prosthesis do as much of the work as he could. In less than twenty seconds the entire chute would ignite, and he hoped his swaggering attitude from the day before had not been simple arrogance, on his part. He made it to the ignition chamber in about fifteen seconds, and from there it was a short hop into the tube that would take him inside the city. As he begin his final ascent, the burners began to rumble, then shot flames out into the chute in all directions. Noal could feel the heat as he neared the top, and flames followed him on his way out, and into level one waste disposal.

Dusting himself off, Noal got to his feet to search out the Steampunk Culture Club, where he hoped Naomy and Sal were waiting for him. He hadn't walked a step when two black-clad men with gun drawn stepped out in front of him, a third, familiar figure safely behind them.

“It seems you were right, Director Jarvis,” the lead enforcer commented to the man behind him. “Your efforts in infiltrating the Nether Outcasts have finally proven productive.”

Jarvis stepped forward, triumphantly, “Thank you, captain. I'm sure the high-administrator will find Mister Silver here well worth my reward.”

The captain smirked behind Jarvis, “His value will be ascertained quickly, I'm sure. As for your reward, the high administrator feels you have now outlived your usefulness as a spy, thus I have been sent with your payment.” Jarvis turned around, eagerly, and received his reward from the business end of the captain's pistol. His lifeless body fell, tumbling into the garbage chute like any other bit of refuse.

“Now them, Mister Silver, your presence is 'requested' by my superiors,” said the captain, pulling out a long club-like object, along with his partner, “These shock-sticks have been known to cause permanent damage, though not to anything you'll need in questioning.”

Noal reached behind his back, and the other man laughed, “Forget about it, partner, a firearm suppressor is active, your guns are useless!”

“Good thing I don't use guns!” Noal shouted, pulling the zweihander from its sheathe and relieving the subordinate enforcer of the hand wielding his shock-stick. The captain moved in, receiving a flurry of iron-hard kicks from Noal's metal legs, the last of which casting him down the garbage chute, to follow Jarvis.

The subordinate knelt on the ground, screaming “You cut off my hand! Oh god, you cut off my hand!”

Noal rested the zweihander’s tip against the enforcer’s crotch, “You’d better run, before I start cutting off other things.” The black-clad man did as he was told.

* * *

“…how much longer are we gonna wait for him, Nae?” a large Italian-descended man shouted, in the tiny rented room he had been sharing with the diminutive Persian woman he was now having a loud debate with.

“As long as we have to!” Naomy insisted, tears welling up in her eyes, “He’ll come back – I know he will. You just have to trust me.”

“We’ve been in this dump for over a week now, Naomy,” Sal answered, “I think we need to face the fact that Noal may not be coming back at all. The last time we saw him he was jumping through a fifth storey window on the side of another building. God only knows what happened to him!”

“He’s alive, Sal,” Naomy wasn’t budging.

“You don’t know that, Nae. Just because you had a dream…”

“It was just any dream! It was real – he was there!” She was sobbing now. Sal looked at his feet, miserably.

“I…I’m sorry, Nae. This is hard for the both of us, but more so on you, I know.” He sat on the single bed, putting his head in his hands. Though he hated to admit it, he had cried more than once in the past week.

Without warning, the door handle began to rattle; someone was trying to get in.

“Get down, Nae – we’ll handle this Sal style.”

* * *

Noal made his way out of the waste management area and onto the first level street – more of a slum than anything else – wandering in one direction, asking those he came across how to get to the Steampunk. Eventually he found someone who gave him proper directions, and ten minutes later he was trudging through the front doors, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the Gravedigger still parked out front, and into the back area where he seemed to recall his room being. He tried the door and found it locked, so he decided to break in, figuring it would be better than knocking and potentially alerting any watchers that he was alive.

After jimmying the lock, he made his way inside and found the room pitch black. They must be out he thought, closing the door behind him. Suddenly the lights came on and something that felt like a cannonball hit him square in the face, knocking him to the ground. “Stay down, or I’ll blow your frickin head off—“ Sal’s voice roared, as a shotgun barrel pressed up against Noal’s head. “—waitaminute – Noal?”

“Noal!” Naomy squealed – it had been her first hitting him in the face, he realized – and fell on top of him, smothering him with kisses she somehow knew would be welcome. He reciprocated for as long as he felt acceptable, before pulling himself to his feet. “We were so worried about you!” said Naomy, tears, now of joy, running down her cheeks.

“Yeah man, where the hell have you been?” Sal said, trying to sound upset.

Noal just shook his head, “It’s a long story – the short of being we’re leaving, right now – I’ll tell you the rest in the ‘digger.”

“Where are we going?” asked Naomy.

“Back to the Codex – I’ve got work to do.”

“The Codex? Why back there?” put in Sal.

“Not now – in the ‘digger!” Noal replied, anxiously. “They’ll be after me soon; we have to go!”

The crew packed up their belongings as quickly as possible and headed for the Gravedigger. Noal left a hefty amount for Erik, the owner, on his way out the door. Back in the Gravedigger, Noal felt a measure of anxiety melt away; he was no longer at anyone’s mercy but his own, and he intended it to stay that way for the foreseeable future.

Noal drove up the main ramp, out the level one gates and around past level two, then stopped at level three, turning into the guard station there for entry access.

“Do you have level three clearance, sir?” asked a guard at a booth.

“Password dryad,” Noal answered.

“Very well sir, have a good day.” The gate opened and Noal drove inside.

“I thought you said we had to leave,” said Sal.

“Just a little unfinished business to attend to first.” Noal drove around until he saw the bright glow of the Heaven & Hell Nightclub sign, and pulled the Gravedigger up beside it. Naomy and Sal followed him into the bar, where he scanned the room for familiar faces. A man was tending bar this time, instead of the woman who had tricked him before, but he did see one other person that he knew.

“Hey baby,” said a clearly startled, and still scantily clad Mileena, “You’re back! Wow!”

Noal didn’t bother wasting time on small talk, instead grabbing the overly-made up tart by the throat and pushing her up against the wall. “How much did he pay you Mileena? Where is he, now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear!” she gasped.

“I’ll crush your bloody windpipe if you don’t smarten up, Mileena. Try again!” Noal sounded really serious, even Sal and Naomy looked uncomfortable.

“Okay!” she cried, “I don’t know much – he just gave me some money and told me if I saw a Noal Silver from the Codex, to have him get me an abominable snowman from the bar – that’s it!”

“That’s all you know?” he asked, angrily.

“That’s it, I swear!” Noal let her back down gently, “But listen, Noal, I wasn’t making up what I said about men in uniform you know. Maybe I could make it up to you, ya know? My place is just around the corn—“

“And I suppose he’s hiding inside! What kind of a moron do you take me for, Mileena?” Noal roared, “How were you going to contact him?”

“I wasn’t! Shit! He just knows, okay, I don’t know how.” She started to cry, “That’s all I know, okay? I’m sorry.”

Noal blew air through his teeth, furiously, “You’d better be grateful to fate that I’m not a cold-blooded killer like that god-damned Hunter,” he said, turning on his heel to walk out of the club.

“And just who in the hell was that?” asked Naomy, incredulously.

“Not now!” yelled Noal, “In the ‘digger!”

* * *

A white shape approached Mileena from behind, caressing her cheek with it’s cold-suited hand.

“So what did you do to piss that guy off, eh?” Mileena asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Hunterwraith’s metallic voice, “I just killed his wife, and his two best friends, and left him half-frozen, with no legs.” The voice laughed, if it could be called that.

“Oh…”

The white hand wrapped around her neck to the other cheek, gripping it ever so gently. “You have been very helpful Mileena. Unfortunately, you now know too much.” The white hand whipped Mileena’s face in an unnatural direction with a muted snap.

He was gone by the time her body hit the ground.