Down in the basin, a steel sailing barge lay grounded on the mud. It was an outstandingly neat little ship, one might describe it as prize-winningly neat. The hull was jet black above the waterline and red lead below it. The rigging was cloud white, the steel cables spiral-bound with dark tarred strip. Lawrence observed the hull was of welded steel plates. That meant it was a Public Era heirloom—no shipyard had built a welded hull since the Glorious Resolution, welding being a ‘lost technology’. Its fine condition belied a true age in excess of seventy years.
What did the observation tell him? This: those barges were what the outside world saw of the Value System. The outside world thus saw prosperity, which meant safety, which meant a powerful sovereign benefactor. Such impulses as curiosity or envy would be assuaged by the presentation of a fundamental respectability. The Value System would keep its secrets.
Up ahead, the lead ultramarines marched towards the barge by means of a wooden causeway across the mud. This instantly placed the location in Lawrence’s mind. This was of course was the very same barge that Pezzini, Gnevik and he had arrived on last night. The wooden causeway was a floating pier at high tide. Descending into the basin, he gained a feeling of sinking from the world; the wind died away, the air was close and thick with a primeval smell from the mud. On the sunny side of the barge waited a stocky, older man, who was bald apart from white flashes over the ears. His tag was Beta388, which meant he had been around a long time. His moniker was Tricky Fingers and he was the leader of Gang 4, Lawrence’s ultimate boss. He lifted his face and called out:
“Where are you Spiderman?”
“I’m getting there.”
A short man pushed past Lawrence. He was like an orangutan, great shoulders and long, powerful arms, a small round head and short little trotting legs like a boy’s. He had been around a long time too; his tag was Beta707.
“Up you go, Spiderman.”
Spiderman gripped the anchor chain of the barge and ambled arm over arm up and over the gunwale. He dropped a ladder and more value seethed up onto the deck where they got busy in what was obviously a practised operation. Lawrence gathered they were opening the hatches of the hold.
The carts arrived, including the one bearing Serial Sidney. Most of the gang hung about, watching the work up on deck, waiting.
“What’s the bloody hold-up?” Master Sergeant Ratty’s eyes glittered with anger at the delay. Lawrence guessed he was flustered by the presence of his boss, the ominous SMS London. That made this situation dangerous.
“Just loading up the first pallet now, Master Sergeant Ratty.” Tricky Fingers spotted Lawrence down below and beckoned him up on deck. “Get up here, Zeta729, you need to see this.”
Lawrence started up the ladder. It seemed the whole gang stopped their murmured conversations to watch him ascending, rung by rung. Those on deck were grouped towards the stern, around an open hatch, from which direction Lawrence caught wafts of a vague sewage smell. Spiderman waved one long arm to draw him.
“Get a look at this lot, Zeta729.”
Lawrence stooped over the coaming of the hatch. The floor of the hold was covered with bolts of fabric, some long and thin, some short and fat. They were soaking. Several value stepped amongst the bolts, which sluggishly shifted. Lawrence thought they might be sharks or seals wrapped in ice. One of the value looked up and called to hoist away, whereupon a winch turned by two value began to lift a loaded pallet out of the hold in a smooth ascension like a rising balloon. A couple of value on the deck pulled the boom across to swing the pallet out over the side of the barge. In the clear sunlight, Lawrence saw these were not bolts of fabric, nor sharks or seals wrapped in ice. They were corpses. Only the dead have that flattened, absolutely boneless settlement. The pallet descended onto one of the carts, hands reached over and unhooked the ropes, the corpses slid off as the pallet was winched away. Arms and legs and breasts broke out from the folds of sodden robes. The pallet was already diving back down into the hold to carry up another batch. Lawrence eased upright, having almost fainted over the coaming. He trembled all over.
“Give us your breakfast, Blondie,” Spiderman said, with a twisted smirk.
Lawrence spat in his face and turned away. Spiderman bellowed and caught Lawrence under the kidney with a terrific swipe from one of his long arms. Lawrence buckled a moment, then jabbed with the heel of his hand, catching a lucky mark on Spiderman’s cheek, knocking him off balance and for sure sending him over the gunwale had he not been caught by a couple of value. Lawrence sensed a sudden cold mood. The gang closed in. He took a fighter’s stance and waited. From out beyond the folded-in world of their fury came the familiar clack-clack of an automatic pistol being cocked. Down on the mud, Senior Master Sergeant London aimed his Browning Hi-Power at Lawrence’s chest.
“Value Zeta729, I would normally despatch you to the Beyond, but on this first day I’ll give you a chance—one chance. Shake hands with Spiderman.”
Lawrence dropped his fists.
“Yes, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
He offered his hand to Spiderman. They shook, on Spiderman’s face a thin, forced smile.
“No hard feelings.”
“None at all,” Spiderman said, with such an off-handed flippancy as to promise a stealthy retribution later in the day. Lawrence knew well enough he had been a fool to blow up—double bloody fool to do it with SMS London’s presence added to the tension. Now he had to get his head down and be the willing slave.
“Sit down and watch what happens,”
