Today, a tangler who hoped to work on a reputable, licensed research team was expected to have several degrees and be a member in good standing with the Society of Para-Archaeologists.
Tanglers like Bertha who had never had the opportunity to attend college, let alone get into the Society, often took up a career on the shady side of the ruin trade. They made their livings by slipping in and out of the tunnels through hidden holes-in-the-walls and staking out their territories in uncharted areas of the catacombs. They cleared the illusion traps on their own and did their best to avoid the occasional ghosts, all in hopes of finding a few relics and artifacts that could be sold to private collectors.
Ruin rats as a rule preferred to avoid contact with others in the catacombs. Bertha was no exception. She was willing to overlook the occasional stash of loot that had been hidden by a burglar. When she had come across a bag of stolen credit cards last month she had quietly disposed of them without going to the trouble of reporting the incident to the authorities. The last thing she wanted was a bunch of cops running around the sector of the catacombs that she considered her private preserve.
But she had a particular dislike of those who dealt in illegal Pharmaceuticals. Years ago she had nearly lost her daughter to an overdose. Sandra had eventually recovered, gone into therapy, and was now leading a normal life. But the memory of that terrible time still haunted Bertha's dreams.
She got out of the sled, checking the dimly glowing corridor in both directions to be sure there was no sign of the lab's owner. She also listened hard for the soft whine of a sled motor or voices, although she knew better than to depend on her hearing down here in the catacombs. The green quartz that the aliens had used to construct the vast network of tunnels and rooms underground possessed a number of odd properties, one of which was that it distorted sound waves.
Satisfied that there was no one around, she went to stand at the entrance of the green chamber. The interior was lit, like every other room and corridor underground, by the pale, eerie glow of the luminous quartz that the aliens had used to construct their surviving structures and artifacts.
The lab was furnished with a variety of what looked like commercial-grade chemistry apparatus. Glassware, a series of stills and burners, and an assortment of implements littered the surfaces of two collapsible stainless steel workbenches.
Across the room there was another opening in the wall. She could see a portion of an antechamber.
Giving the corridor another quick survey, she went past the workbenches to peer into the second room.
A number of bulging burlap sacks were heaped inside. A strong, faintly medicinal aroma came from the sacks.
She did not recognize the smell, but it made her think of some of the scents that greeted her whenever she walked into Elly St. Clair's herb shop.
Bertha went to the nearest sack and quickly untied it. Inside was a large quantity of dried plant leaves. She scooped up a handful of the brittle material and sniffed cautiously. The acrid tang hit her nostrils with unexpected force. An instant later she felt a disturbing tingle through her paranormal senses. The chamber started to change shape.
Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she stepped back quickly and breathed deeply. The room returned to its former proportions.
When her head cleared, she took another breath, held it, and went back to the sack. Reaching inside, she grasped a small handful of the dried leaves and dropped them into one of the several pockets that decorated her trousers.
A strong sense of urgency enveloped her. Her years underground had taught her not to ignore that primal warning. Hastily she retied the sack.
She had the evidence she needed, she thought, patting the pocket that contained the leaves. She would lock the coordinates of the room into the amber-rez locator of the sled. When she returned to the surface, she would turn over the strange herbs along with the location of the chamber to the Cadence City cops, anonymously, of course. They could take it from there. Maybe that good-looking flashy dresser, Detective DeWitt, who was getting all the media attention these days, would handle the raid.
She sensed the presence in the doorway behind her and swung around, fighting a wave of raw panic.
But her fear metamorphosed into fury when she recognized the person hovering there.
"Well, shit," she said. "Don't tell me this is your lab?"
"You shouldn't be here, Bertha."
She stalked across the still room, waving a hand at the apparatus on the workbenches. "You're dealing drugs, aren't you? Is this that new crap I've been reading about in the papers? Enchantment dust, or whatever the hell they call it?"
"Stay away from me." The figure in the doorway edged back nervously. "This is none of your business, Bertha."
"People are dying from this stuff."
"It's not my fault if the users fail to take the drug responsibly."
"There is no responsible way to take it. They say it's hugely addictive."
The figure retreated farther into the hallway. "I'm warning you, don't come any closer."
"You're scum. Murdering, drug-dealing scum." Memories of how close she had come to losing Sandra flashed through her brain, inciting a kind of fever. "People like you deserve to rot in green hell."
With a low roar, she broke into a run, charging the rest of the way across the lab room. Hands made rough and powerful from years of tunnel work were outstretched in front of her.
"No." The figure in the doorway yelped in fear, turned, and fled down the hall to the left.
Bertha reached the opening and rushed out into the dimly glowing corridor. The drug maker had already vanished into the nearby six-way intersection.
Still in the grip of her fury, she ran several more feet before common sense returned.
She knew better than most just how futile it would be to search any farther without having a fix on the dealer's personal amber. The corridors that branched off in all directions were each lined with an endless array of chambers, antechambers, and connecting passageways. Her quarry could be hiding anywhere.
This wasn't her job, she reminded herself. Let the cops handle it.
Breathing heavily, she turned to trudge back toward the utility sled.
Perhaps it was because her heart was still pounding from rage and her recent exertion, or maybe because she was now obsessed with getting back to the sled so that she could contact the police. Whatever the reason, she did not hear the faint shuffle of footsteps on quartz behind her until it was too late.
She half turned, but the drug maker had already burst out of a nearby chamber. She caught a glimpse of the large chunk of green quartz that he clutched a fraction of an instant before the stone slammed against the side of her head.
Pain flooded her senses. And then she was falling through waves of darkness.
*****
FOR A FEW SECONDS THE DRUG MAKER STOOD OVER THE fallen woman, heart pounding. Bertha Newell was still breathing.
I should hit her again, just to be certain. But the thought of inflicting another blow made him queasy. There was already so much blood on the floor.
It wasn't his job to take care of this kind of problem, he reminded himself. He was the chemist, not hired muscle. He had been given a number to call in the event of an emergency such as this.
Unfortunately, personal phones, like so many other high-tech devices such as guns, did not work properly down here in the catacombs. Something to do with the heavy psi energy that emanated from the green quartz.
He would have to go back to the surface to place the call.
He turned to make his way toward his secret hole-in-the-wall, but caution made him hesitate. He had a feeling that he should secure his victim in some fashion, just in case she recovered consciousness before security arrived. But he had nothing to use to tie her hands and feet.