Brusquely, brutally, Bec told him what we had done. The fat man’s face went drawn and pale. At first he simply didn’t believe us. Bec invited him to check for himself. When he had done so he was shaking.
“You klugs!” he whispered, his voice shaking. “There are laws in this city. The police department will come down there and mash you into little pieces.”
“Sure, let them do that,” Bec said gaily. “Give them a call. But you can say goodbye to your protein nutrient. We’ll make sure that’s never usable again if the cops look like busting us.”
True, Bissey still had two thirds of his stock; but the loss of even one third was plainly a traumatic threat to him. Nothing like this had happened for generations.
“What do you want?” he hissed.
“Listen,” Bec told him, “and listen good. We want fifty per cent…. ”
He spoke on, his words punching like blows into the blind man’s flesh. By the time he had finished Bissey was beaten.
Becmath was riding high. He had everything going for him, and he knew it. For him it was a high spot in his life that looked even better because he thought it was only a beginning.
Bissey had capitulated. At first he had wanted the nutrient returned to his tank, but Bec had thought better of it and refused. So at great expense a little tank was set up in the Basement. It didn’t make eatable food, only raw protein that was shipped upstairs.
The alchemist was installed pretty good, too. Bec gave him a work-room — he called it a “laboratory” — in the system of garages and apartments where the gang operated from. Anything he wanted, he and Bec used to go upstairs together and get it somehow. The atomic furnace we were still working on.
Soon his “laboratory” was full of spluttering, flashing and buzzing and other noises and sights I wouldn’t really know how to describe. I didn’t like to go in there. Sometimes there were strange vibrations in the air that seemed to get right inside my mind and make me dizzy and give me peculiar feelings. But Bec used to talk to Harmen for hours at a time.
Bec used to go upstairs and see Blind Bissey sometimes, too. He was planning to move in the upper world of big power blocs, and he liked to sound Bissey out about it. The fat man hated us, of course, but he used to keep himself well under control, fondling his dog, his blind eyes staring into space.
We were on one of those visits when our plans collapsed around our ears.
That day I had wondered why Bissey seemed pleased to see us for once. He even smiled. And I didn’t like the smug look on his face when he said goodbye.
On the way back Bec wanted to stop off to buy something. He had a purchasing card now, one of those issued by the big manufacturing cartels, and he got a kick out of using it. So we stopped the car and went into a distributing outlet. Bec spent a long time choosing a metal belt with designs embossed on it.
When we came out, police sloops were sweeping past, heading for the Basement. A lot of them. Bec frowned, and I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” he said gruffly.
When the convoy had passed we made for home, taking a side route for safety’s sake.
Noise is something everyone in Klittmann gets used to from birth. Because it’s just one massive enclosed space, sound travels easily and long. We were scarcely within the region of the Basement before we heard the sound of gunfire and explosions.
It was the latter that frightened me. Explosives are almost never used in Klittmann except in tightly controlled conditions — certainly not in fighting. The danger of structural damage to the city is too great. That was why Bec’s use of a grenade at Klamer’s had taken me so much by surprise. Bec looked at me meaningfully. We went on a little further, then pulled up. We got out and went into a store owned by a trader named Klepp, usually a mine of information.
“What’s going on?” Bec demanded aggressively. “Have you heard anything?”
“Something big’s happening,” Klepp said warily. “The cops are here in force. Not only that but some kind of private armed militia. Not only that….” he trailed off.
“Come on, give!” Bec clenched his fist angrily, his eyes blazing.
“A lot of the old small outfits in the West Section have come to life and formed a consortium against you. It’s a rebellion, Bec. They’re coming at you from all sides.”
Bec growled a curse and strode from the shop.
We stood outside. “Bissey knew about this,” he said furiously. “He was just playing us along. Let’s go and see what’s happening at the garage.”
As we drew nearer the sounds of fighting grew louder. We approached cautiously. There was fighting elsewhere in the Basement, too — strangers from upstairs in unfamiliar uniforms were wandering about uncertainly and shooting into various buildings.
“I’ll bet those are Bissey’s own workers,” Bec said. “Armed just for the occasion, told they’re fighting for their rations. This thing has been well planned.”
We left the car about half a mile from the garage and went forward on foot to take a look. Police sloops were parked in the approach to the main frontage. The lid was down — the big slab of metal and concrete that we had grandiosely installed to keep out an army. Our own gun positions were silent and the sloops were firing Hacker shells at the lid to break it up.
“They’ll be through there before long,” Bec mused. “Come on, we’ll get in the back way.”
It didn’t take us long to work our way round and get into the complex by the hidden back entrance. Inside, it was organised desperation. They had put up makeshift barriers to hold off the cops when they broke through the lid. Half the mob had already sneaked off.
Grale and Reeth were running things. “We’ve been waiting for you,” Grale said thankfully when Bec appeared. “What do we do, fight or run?”
“Run?” Bec snarled. “Run where? Think you can hide in Klittmann all your life? There won’t be any Basement to go to after this.”
Reeth was looking at Bec sardonically. “You really did it, didn’t you? Thought you could take the whole city.” He shook his head, smiled ruefully.
“Shut up!” Bec roared, and hit him across the face.
Reeth didn’t seem perturbed or surprised. Bec was dialling on the vision phone, trying to get Bissey.
Eventually there came the hiss of the audio line but the paper screen remained a blank square of luminescence. This time Bissey wasn’t showing himself.
“Yes?” a grunting, whispering voice said.
“What’s the meaning of this, Bissey?” Bec demanded in hard tones. “This wasn’t in the deal.”
For answer there was only a dry laugh.
“I’ll ruin your organics!” Bec fumed. “You won’t get one pint of it back!”
“Stop kicking, little man,” the dry husky voice said distantly from the vision phone. “Me, I’m just a small-time tank owner. But there are some pretty big boys up in the pile. They didn’t like what you did. They wouldn’t even let me go through with it, when they heard about it. They’re making up the nutrient you stole. So enjoy yourself while you still got time.”
The line went dead.
Bec brooded.
So did I. Bissey’s whispering voice was still in my ears. It was an all too painful lesson in the power that resided in Klittmann, the power that Becmath had so badly underestimated.
The muffled explosions seemed to be getting louder and sharper. Shouts of consternation could be heard in the garages. Apparently the lid was cracking.
“I didn’t see our sloop out there,” Bec said at last. “Have you sent it out?”
“No, there didn’t seem any point against the fleet out there,” Reeth told him. “Anyway, we were waiting for you to get back.”