P Deutermann - Darkside

He fished the can of black spray paint out and went to work. He painted a large circle around the entire shark design, then drew a diagonal black line through it. A no-shark zone here. Then he drew in a crude fishhook that impaled the body of the shark at the midpoint, and tied that to a line leading to his own signature, an elaborate HMC. He’d spelled it out the last time, so this guy ought to know who was messing with him. He stood back to admire his handiwork. Two drip lines appeared to spoil his work. Not up to the unknown artist’s ability, but the message was pretty clear. He restowed the paint can and then let himself through the metal fire door.

The city tunnel was not modern, as befitted a Colonial town old enough to have been the infant nation’s capital city. The walls and arched ceiling were lined with oversized brick, and some of it didn’t look all that substantial. With close to four hundred years of history, the Annapolis utility tunnels were a hodgepodge of sewer, water, and gas lines that bent down from the statehouse hill. Jim had not been into them except to locate the two most evident rising points for runners from the Academy. At least the Academy tunnels were reasonably dry; these were not, and he was careful where he put his feet. There was a distinct odor of sewage, and when he stopped to listen, he could actually hear the trickle of falling water somewhere, accompanied by the scrabble of little clawed feet in the darkness. He made his way carefully, trying to avoid contact with the badly rusted high-voltage cable cages on either side. He had to use his big flashlight, as there were overhead lights only at intersections.

When he got to the grating access under the St. John’s College campus, he found that the lock on the access door had been rendered useless by a wad of putty in the bolt receiver slot. Technically, he had no right to be here, as this was the city’s jurisdiction. But if this was a midshipman’s doing, he had every right to interfere. He pushed through the door to examine the grating pit, which was very much like the one back behind Mahan Hall. He tested the grating and found a padlock. He twisted the hasp and discovered that it, too, had been jammed open with what looked like some more putty. He then went back behind the access door and removed the wad of goop, pocketing it, while allowing the door to lock behind him. If whoever had taped it open had a master key and was out in town, he would have no problem getting back into the tunnels. If he did not, and he was a mid, he was now in for an interesting evening. There was every possibility that the lock had been gummed open years ago, depending on how often the mysterious runners were operating and how frequently the city crews came through.

He retraced his steps into the Hanover Street tunnel and then back into the Academy precincts. He closed the fire door between the town and government tunnel, making no attempt to be quiet now, as there was no one down here. Then the overhead lights went out.

He immediately dropped down on one knee to reduce his silhouette against the lights, however dim, that were still on in the city tunnel behind him. He had looked down the tunnel all the way through the junction with the Decatur Road leg, and it had been empty. So whoever had just switched off the lights had done it when he’d heard the city tunnel’s door clanging shut. He scuttled forward, staying low, until he came to a small alcove on the right side, which led to an electrical junction panel. The alcove was set back into the tunnel wall about three feet, offering enough room for him to squeeze his tall frame under the panel. He wanted to get his body out of the line of sight of anyone looking around the corner, which was about a hundred feet down the tunnel. He felt the comforting lump of the Glock pressing into the small of his back, but then he snorted softly. If this was a midshipman, he wasn’t likely to be packing. Remember, this tunnel shit’s a game, he told himself. But what if it isn’t? his edgy mind asked.

He waited until his legs began to cramp, but there were no identifiable sounds coming from the tunnel system. Just the occasional clinking of the steam pipes, and the periodic rush of water in the lines beneath the steel deck plates. A large vehicle rumbled overhead out on the city side, reminding him that he was most definitely underground. And not alone. He tried to remember where the lighting switch box was for this branch of the tunnel, but he didn’t know the layout that well. It had never occurred to him that he might have to operate the lighting system. He decided to remain where he was. Whoever had heard him close that door would have a decision to make. He could keep coming, on the assumption that the door closer had gone out into town, or he’d go back to Bancroft Hall if he suspected someone was waiting for him. He adjusted his legs to a more comfortable position and waited. After twenty minutes, he had about decided to get up and head down the tunnel with flashlight in hand, when he saw a red laser beam probing the tunnel in front of his face.

He froze and blinked his eyes several times. The beam was intermittent but unmistakable. Then he realized that the beam was only visible because of the light mist in the tunnel atmosphere. Otherwise, he would never have seen it.

Them, not it. There were two beams, flashing red lines like he’d once seen at a rock concert. Then suddenly, the beams disappeared. And then they came back, still probing, hitting the top, bottom, and sides of the tunnel, refracting occasionally off the edges of cable brackets or the bright, shiny surfaces of the cable-identifier tags. His own face was only inches from the edge of the alcove, and he could almost feel the cool lances of light when they flashed along his side of the tunnel. He didn’t dare look around the corner without knowing the type and power of the laser. Some of those things could blind you with a direct hit in the eye. And yet, whoever was out there had to be visible now, with at least his head and one hand sticking out into the tunnel from the dogleg turn down the slope. He longed to snatch out the Glock and pop a round down the tunnel. See how long the laser stayed on. But this was almost certainly a mid, not a serious bad guy. Some upperclassman who’d lifted a couple laser pointers from the lecture hall, or built them as a project in the physics lab. And as long as he did not move, the mid would have to come up the tunnel to find out if he was alone.

The beams disappeared again, and Jim felt his breathing relax. It’s just a harmless, pretty light, he told himself, but it had been uncomfortable to have those ruby red beams probing the misty darkness in the tunnel. Especially since one other possible explanation was that they had come from the laser pointer on a handgun. But a mid with a gun? No way. Get a grip, James. Mids run the tunnel in search of after-hours booze and late-night women. Just like you used to do. The lasers are just toys-some guy playing at Star Wars.

No, he decided. Stay put, see if he comes up the tunnel, and then scare the living shit out of him. He settled back against the wall and waited, focusing his brain to listen for any sounds of movement down the tunnel, and trying not to dwell on the other possibility, that this wasn’t a midshipman.

What he finally heard was the sound of steam. Just a light hiss at first, then a steadier pressure, sounding like a distant jet passing at altitude. Now what the hell? he thought. The noise didn’t increase, but it didn’t decrease, either. He’s cracked open a drain valve on one of the steam lines. He could picture the valve arrangement: The decals on the pipes indicated a hundred psi in the line. There were drain lines under every valve and at major junctions in the pipes to allow for condensed water to be removed from the lines after any service evolution. Two valves on each drain line: one isolation, one for operation. The big cutoff valves had been chained and locked in their open position, but the drain valves were not locked.