Read Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The maintenance corridor ran for two hundred meters, sloping gently downward, before connecting to the main arterial tunnel that linked Level Four to Level Three. Léon walked through the darkness, his headlamp casting a narrow cone of light that seemed to push against the blackness without quite dispelling it.

The tunnel walls here were covered in a century's worth of graffiti, layered over each other like geological strata. He could trace the history of the underground in those layers: the faded tags of the 2020s, when the catacombs had been a playground for urban explorers; the desperate scrawls of the evacuation years—"Attendez l'aide", "Marie, je t'aime", "Nous sommes au niveau trois"; and finally, the newer, more formal markings of the post-surface era—section numbers, directional arrows, the stern reminders of the Conseil des Profondeurs: "La coopération est notre survie." Cooperation is our survival.

He passed a group of children playing a game that involved jumping between the rusted rails of the old railway line. They fell silent as he approached, their faces cautious, then resumed their play when he passed. He was part of the infrastructure, like the pipes and the cables, necessary but not quite human.

The train tracks had been dead for years. The underground trains had stopped running when the power grid became too fragile to support both transportation and life support. Now the tracks served as walkways, and the old stations as public squares, markets, and meeting places.

Léon climbed the stairs to Level Three, stepping through the old turnstiles that had once regulated the flow of Métro passengers. Now they were frozen in place, their mechanical guts removed for spare parts. A security officer, recognizable by the yellow armband of the Garde Souterraine, watched him pass with the bored expression of a man whose authority was mostly theoretical.

Level Three was brighter than Level Four, the lights steadier, the air slightly less stale. It was a step up in the world, literally and figuratively. The residents here had access to the weekly markets, the district clinics, the community kitchens. They were poor, but they were visible.

Léon's quarters were in a former storage room off the old Vavin station, now known simply as Réseau Huit, Network Eight. The room was four meters by three, with a bed, a small desk, a hotplate, and a shelf of tools and books. A single vent in the ceiling provided air circulation. A single light strip provided illumination.

He closed the door behind him and sat on the bed, pulling out his datapad again. The maintenance interface was still open, the flicker still logged. He scrolled through the menu, navigating to the energy distribution overview for his sector.

The screen showed a complex network of nodes, cables, and transformers, overlaid on a simplified map of the underground complex. At this zoom level, he could see the entire power grid: the geothermal plants in the old quarries below Level Five, the distribution hubs in the central stations, the trunk lines running outward to the residential sections, the transformers that stepped down the voltage for individual apartments and facilities.

It was a closed system, self-contained, designed to operate at maximum efficiency. In theory, the geothermal plants produced enough energy to power the entire complex at full capacity. In practice, the energy never seemed to reach the lower levels at full strength. There were always losses: transmission inefficiencies, aging equipment, increased demand, the thousand small leaks that drained the system.

Léon had always accepted this. It was the natural state of things, like the damp in the walls and the rats in the tunnels. The underground was a place of scarcity. That was the way it had always been, the way it would always be.

But as he stared at the map, a small discrepancy caught his eye. The readout for the primary trunk line serving Level Four showed a current draw of 1,842 kilowatts. The expected draw, based on the connected loads, was 2,100. The difference—258 kilowatts—was unexplained.

He frowned. It wasn't unusual for the actual draw to deviate from the expected draw by a few percent. Loads changed, equipment operated at less than rated capacity, sections were shut down for maintenance. But 258 kilowatts was a 12 percent deviation. That was... odd.

He pulled up the historical data for that trunk line, scanning the daily averages. The deviation had been present for months, maybe years. It fluctuated but never disappeared. Sometimes it was 200 kilowatts, sometimes 300, but it was always there, like a constant drain.

He checked the other trunk lines. Level Three showed a 3 percent deviation. Level Two, 2 percent. Level One, less than 1 percent. The upper levels were operating within normal parameters. But Level Four—his level—was consistently underdelivering by 10 to 15 percent.

He sat back on his bed, his mind racing. It could be a metering error. The sensors on the Level Four trunk line could be miscalibrated, reporting lower numbers than the actual draw. That would be the simplest explanation. He made a note to check the sensors next time he was in the main power conduit.

But another thought crept in, unwelcome and insistent. What if the sensors weren't miscalibrated? What if the power was really being diverted somewhere, and the sensors were accurately reporting the deficit?

He pulled up the full-grid view, zooming out until he could see every trunk line, every substation, every generating plant. The geothermal plants in the deep quarries showed steady output, all operating within expected parameters. The transmission grid showed no obvious faults or interruptions. The distribution network showed no suspicious draw from any single node.

The numbers didn't add up. The plants were producing enough power. The upper levels were receiving their full allocation. But the lower levels were receiving less than they should. Where was the missing power going?

He checked the clock on his datapad. It was almost curfew. The Garde Souterraine would be patrolling the corridors, and he didn't have a curfew waiver for tonight. He should go to sleep. He should let this go.

But he couldn't. Not yet. Not with 258 kilowatts of missing power nagging at the back of his mind.

He opened a new document on his datapad and began to write:

Power discrepancy, Level Four trunk line. Expected: 2,100 kW. Actual: 1,842 kW. Deviation: 258 kW (12.3%). Duration: >180 days. Possible causes: sensor error, undocumented load shedding, unauthorized diversion. Requires investigation.

He saved the document, then hesitated. The log would be visible to his supervisors. If this was just a sensor error, they'd appreciate his diligence. If it was something else...

He deleted the document and started a new one, saving it in the personal folder that only he could access. Then he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

The light strip flickered once, twice, and then steadied.

Coincidence, he thought.

But he didn't believe it anymore.