Spellhacke- M. K. England Page 0,49

newfound power. Remi was radiantly happy to have access to maz outside school again, and their weaving became more creative and powerful than ever.

The whole thing was my idea, a discovery made during one of my insomniac hacking sessions. It was right after Davon got hired at Maz Management, ironically. I thought I’d test the waters, see how good this IT department he was joining really was. I dove deep, deeper than I thought possible, and what started as a fun exercise to distract my exhausted brain led to the discovery of one little bit of code. The bit that opened the pressure release valves from inside the system instead of outside. That gave precise control and didn’t set off any internal alarms. Way more subtle than most of the other siphoning teams out there. I did the first hack by myself, getting a few vials for Remi’s sixteenth birthday, of all things. It was foolish. Risky. But I had my reasons.

And it worked.

Then it led us here.

Finally I have to fill the silence as we walk, so I explain our usual siphoning procedures. We’re obviously never going to pull another job again, and Davon, at least, is in a position to make sure something like this can’t happen again in the future, that the system will be protected from people like me. I tell him everything, from how we chose which jobs to take to picking our access point and the exact techniques I used to crack the digital security on the hatches and tap points. He mostly listens, making disgusted noises once in a while as we slosh through the sewers, picking our way closer and closer to the junction station. We’ll get as close as we can, right up to the inevitable contamination barrier. I just hope we can get close enough to find what we’re looking for.

Davon asks a few technical questions here and there, obviously taking mental notes for work. Good. If it turns out my job offer is officially off the table, at least I can help somehow. The deeper we get into the tunnels and the more I outline our tried-and-true process, though, the more my frustration rises to the surface, speeding my steps and locking my jaw in a permanent clench.

What happened here? We’re good, really good, at what we do. There’s no logical explanation.

I pull up a diagnostic app on my lenses and look over the mechanical workings of the MMC infrastructure as we proceed farther down, stopping to examine each pressure valve along the way. I need something, anything. The pipes were damaged, or someone was lazy in their maintenance. Some accident that triggered the explosion. Something.

The closer we get, the more the walls around us show evidence of scorching from recent fire. Nothing else.

Did we actually cause the explosion? Did the pressure backup from farther up the pipe affect this area? Did some firaz get forced out and meet with some sort of combustible?

My steps slow, then stop, as we turn a final corner and find ourselves face-to-face with the faint thready glow of a barrier ward just beyond the final valve, marking the border of the contaminated area. This tap point is our last chance. I close my eyes and breathe in . . . out . . . until the hot pressure behind my eyes recedes. There’s still a chance. This one, tiny, final chance.

“Diz, look,” Davon says. His voice sounds odd.

My eyes fly open, and I see it.

Something that wasn’t there on the last tap point, or on any of the points we’ve hit in the past.

It’s like a small box wired directly into the pressure management system, its casing shiny and unscathed, other than the signs of the recent explosion. A new installation, then. What is it, some kind of upgrade? A new augmentation for the system, something to help it better regulate the maz-15? Is it more unstable than the other strains?

I slow as we approach, cautious around the wreckage. It’s eerily quiet; the faint sound of maz flowing through pipes mingling with trickling water and the occasional scurrying rat feet is the typical soundtrack for our jobs. Now, all that remains is the water. Even the rats are unlikely to have survived the blast, and the system of maz pipes sounds . . . empty. Maybe they diverted the flow while they make repairs. I turn to Davon with pursed lips.

“This maintenance point is the kind of place we’d normally tap. We have