It was not by accident that the tunnel network honeycombing Grennow's crust was called the Devil's Basement. By no imaginable standards was it a hospitable place to live. In the vast, labyrinthine maze of rail tunnels, mine shafts, maintenance access tunnels, and natural caves, it was easy to get lost forever without a proper map. Outside the stations, it was a desert. Stations had everything a human or zene could need to survive: light, plants, breathable air, living quarters, food, water. What they lacked in blue skies, they tried to make up for in green parks, but Grennow's suicide rate remained at what would be considered a horrific high anywhere else due to depression from a lack of sunlight.

Beyond was endless darkness. Only some fungus, moss, and other things that don't require light could grow—and that only sparsely, as the soil was so lifeless even the most basic of things found it almost impossible to survive. Animals could occasionally be found, usually small mammals, lizards, and snakes. Spending generations in the pitch blackness had turned their skin and fur white while they lost their eyesight completely. Grennow did, surprisingly, have a few natural aquifers, some of which ran through the Devil's Basement filling underground lakes. Such lakes could be dangerous, as some of them contained tunnel dragons—otherwise known as crocodiles—and were oases in the desert, teeming with life.

* * *

Through one of the Devil's Basement's many small secondary and tertiary tunnels that branched off the main tunnels sped a small train with two cars. The only lights were the train's own headlights and running lights.

“How long have you been driving trains?” Kyanite asked the driver, Amber,

“Oh, since I was twelve.”

“Wow. Where are you from?”

“Ragnarok. But my grandparents were from the Sister of Grace.” Explained Amber,

“Did they tell you what it was like?” Asked Kyanite excitedly; she loved hearing about the Sisters of Grace and Beauty;

“They said birds chirped in the trees. Everything was wide open, not like down here. Trees and flowers grew anywhere without needing a sunlamp or specially fertilised soil. Above was a huge expanse of empty air called the sky. People drove what they called 'cars;' they were smaller than a train and the wheels had rubber tires on them so they could drive anywhere.”

“What's rubber?” Kyanite asked blankly,

“I don't know.” Replied Amber just as blankly,

“Sounds agoraphobia-inducing. Hey, how did all the humans end up on Grennow? I mean, I've heard they were expelled, but growing up in a tiny station two hours' drive from anywhere without even a telephradio line linking it outside, I never heard the full story.”

“Never heard the full story?!” Amber was incredulous, “Well, strap yourself in, you're about to get a history lesson!

“Grennow used to export its raw materials outside Zadabakar's Pride and import food, medicine, and industrial products. Big robotic diggers did all the heavy lifting back then. But then the Great War started and the Providence Empire started raiding shipping lanes behind enemy lines, so Grennow couldn't get parts for its mining machines anymore. It could build them either, so the machines started breaking down. The solution was to expel all the humans in the solar system here so they could do the heavy lifting instead.”

“They were used as slave labour?”

“Yes, we were. My family were forced to work in the mines too.”

“How did you end up becoming a train driver?”

“I was on the crew of one of the earliest armoured trains during the First Line War.”

“You took part in the Great Uprising?”

“Hell yeah! Those fucking jelly-brains worked my sister to death! I was on the crew of the Thirty-Two Nineteen, one of the earliest armoured trains of the war. It was my job to make sure the thing was always oiled, fueled, and that all the little gauges, switches, and lights worked like they were supposed to. One time, our driver and commander were killed during a battle, so I took over and I've been in the driver's seat ever since.

“After the Second Line War, a lot of soldiers stayed on to man the Armistice Line, but I was demobilised so I've been drifting from job to job and here I am.”

“Hey,” spoke up Gifrag, leader of the expedition, “it's the lights of the first outpost.”

“So it is.” Amber agreed, nodding at the lights in the distance,

“Now you two,” Gifrag addressed Kyanite and OC-1, “be on your best behaviour. These military types don't tolerate any funny business.”

“Of course.” Nodded OC-1,

“I can behave when I want to.” Kyanite chided, wagging a finger at Gifrag.

At the end of the tunnel was a sealed door so solid any explosion next to it was likely to collapse the tunnel before breaking through if it wasn't a directed explosive. On the other side was the outpost. On this side were two sandbag nests occupied by a railgun each with several crew members manning them. All the soldiers were zene, like most Unionist soldiers. One soldier, leaning casually against the sandbags, straightened, stepped onto the tracks and held up a hand.

“Stop! State your name and business.”

“Gifrag Berylbraids.” Responded Gifrag as the train slowed to a halt, “We're here to replace some ventilation equipment.

“Gifrag? It's been a while.” The soldier seemed to recognise Gifrag as he stepped off the train and toward the barricade, “Identification please.” The mechanic handed over his identification.

“Who else is on the there?”

“My driver and my assistants.” The soldier checked the identifications of the others.

“Moonlet, Kyanite. Life support mechanic. From... never heard of that place. Fine.” The soldier moved to Amber. “Trussguard, Amber. Train engineer. Ragnarok. Okay.” The soldier looked at OC-1. “Where are your papers?”

“I'm Operational Cyborg One. I'm not a citizen of any station, so I have no papers.”

“An Anarchist, eh?” He was only partially joking; the Anarchists rejected the notion of identification papers and had banned them years ago. “This is a military installation. You expect us to let just anyone in? No papers, no admittance.”

“Wait,” Gifrag rushed over, “OC-1 is a valuable member of our team. He has many, uh, talents. I'll personally vouch for his trustworthiness.”

The soldier paused at this, glanced back at OC-1 then at Gifrag again. “Alright. Fine. Identification papers don't prove all that much anyway. If the Reds really wanted in here they could find a way around some ink and paper. But I'm warning you,” He added in a dangerous tone, reaching his eyes toward Gifrag and straightening his head (a zene expression of absolute seriousness) “we've got our eyes on him. Anything happens and I'll tear your tongue out with a pair of vice-grips. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” The soldier waved at one of the other soldiers, who whispered into an intercom next to the door. They heard the rumble of an engine, then the grinding of gears and the door swung open.

“See you next time.” Waved Gifrag;

“I hope not.” Grumbled the soldier as the four boarded the train once more. Amber took them into the station and halted at the platform next to an armoured train. The outpost occupied an important junction of several tertiary tunnels, as well as the site of a train elevator that went down into one of the most remote mining zones within Ragnarok's economic sphere. Unlike the population centres of the Devil's Basement, a military base like this had no greenery; just dull grey of concrete platforms, steel girders above, and ubiquitous yellow dirt. Around the platform were clustered barracks, a small mechanic's shop for passing trains, a mess hall, an infirmary, and a command centre.

Gifrag headed to the command centre right away to talk to the base commander, leaving the other three with the train. He soon returned and they unloaded the equipment they needed, taking it to the room inside the command centre which housed the outpost's carbon dioxide recycling plant and air quality monitoring equipment. Amber stayed with the train. When Kyanite asked whether she was coming, Amber sarcastically replied; “What do you think I am, some kind of mechanic?” before proceeding to slouch down in the driver's seat, put her feet on the dash, and read a book.

* * *

As soon as the witness was done speaking, Rook hightailed it back to the director's office, whereupon he demanded to see the mine's maintenance logs. The director was visiting the wounded, so his secretary handed over a thick binder and Rook made himself scarce in a corner of one of the miners' shower rooms. Perfect place to get away from Lieutenant Bluescales.

Looking through the log, Rook found the very last entry that had been made: two employees of a conglomerate called Ragnarok Habitational Services (RHS: three letters, like the witness had said, Rook mused) had arrived the day of the bombing to do some work on the ventilation in the tunnels. They clocked out and left on a train just fifteen minutes before the bomb went off. However, the log appeared to be incomplete as it didn't list either one's name. There were so many other details, the omittance of the workers' names was inconceivable. Everyone else's names were recorded: how had they gotten their names omitted from the log? They must have had someone working on the inside.

Rook closed the binder and headed back to the director's office, where he found Bluescales waiting for him.

“Ah,” Bluescales looked up, “I assume that's the binder I'm looking for.”

Rook nodded. “Two employees of RHS did maintenance work in the tunnels yesterday and clocked out fifteen minutes before the bomb went off.”

“Who were they?”

“It doesn't give their names.”

“What?! Give me that.” Rook opened the binder to the appropriate location and handed it to Bluescales. “By the Almighty, you're right!” The lieutenant looked up at the secretary, whose nose still seemed to be buried in some apparently important paperwork. “Hey you!” Her head straightened at this rude interruption,

“Whaddya want?” She asked, equally rudely,

“Who's responsible for keeping the work logs in order around here?”

“The duty officer assigns everyone's tasks. His secretary keeps the books, but I haven't seen her since before the bombing.”

“Convenient.” Remarked the police lieutenant, turning his eyes back to Rook; “What do you say we help each other out a little? Like old times.”

Rook narrowed his eyes, “Go on.”

“Look, the train you came in on is leaving soon to take a batch of the injured back to Ragnarok for longer-term care. I'll see if I can track down this duty officer's secretary and find out whatever else I can down here. You take the train and look into Ragnarok Habitational Services. I'll bet their mechanics wear coveralls with three letters on the back.”

“Ah,” Rook stroked his chin with a coy expression, “You want me to investigate RHS. As in, you won't touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

“Damn straight I wouldn't. RHS is one of the most powerful conglomerates inside the 1st Ring, and they're based out of the 1st Ring Cooperative. They're also on the Financial Advisory Board. We can't just start a police investigation on them, we need to approach this with more tact. We need someone with more...”

“Plausible deniability.” Grunted Rook,

“Exactly.” Bluescales admitted without hesitation;

“And what are you offering me to investigate for you? Private investigators don't work for free.”

“Aren't you on a job already?”

“Yes, but why should I share anything I learn with you?”

The lieutenant stepped closer and lowered his eyes level with Rook's; “I'll share whatever I learn with you, of course. And we'll have your back if you find anything. You think a private investigator bringing evidence to court alone is going to faze a conglomerate like RHS? And if you get caught doing anything... less than legal, I'll see what I can do to get you off the hook.”

“That's not very reassuring.”

“If they come for you, I'll make sure you get a one-way ticket to Carnelian Hall, Windsphere—hell, even Dweller's Lodge, anywhere you want. And if you do find something connecting RHS to the Red Wolves, we will, of course, show our appreciation in cold, hard cash too.”

Getting outside the 1st Ring sounded like a good idea to Rook. “Alright. Count me in.”