by TW Iain
He let his hands drop and sat back. “I’m interested in your opinion,” Don continued. “I’ll return your attention to Machivelle’s Factory. Yes, the attempted rebellion was thwarted in good time—but news has a tendency to spread, despite our efforts to curtail unwanted communication. Ideas of dissension work like a virus, infecting those they come into contact with. If word of even a failed rebellion were to reach workers in other Factories, seeds would be planted. I’m sure you can appreciate how damaging that could be.”
“Which is why we run assessments on all the Factories,” Cat said. “I believe the local facility was visited only a few months ago.”
“Indeed it was. And I’m sure you’ve perused the report, yes?”
Cat nodded—of course he had. “There are areas for improvement, as is to be expected, but nothing to warrant undue concern at this time.” Then he pushed. “At least, on the workfloors and in the administration departments.”
Something shone in Don’s eyes, impossible for Cat to interpret.
“An interesting addendum,” Don said. “But we both know that there are more to Factories than the workfloors, don’t we?”
An opening, then. Cat took it. “And there is a feeling that the more clandestine functions of this particular Factory might warrant further investigation?”
Don smiled, and Cat returned the expression. Now that they’d reached the point of mutual aims he could afford to relax a touch. And it was always easy to appeal to Don’s conspiratorial nature. It had been that way from the start, back when Cat first recruited the man.
“We’d need a finely-qualified agent for such an inspection, though,” Don said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“One who understands much of our work that is…obscured to many others.”
“And those who understand the importance of the work going on beneath the workfloors.”
Don nodded, smiling. “You know, I believe I can name some agents who fit that bill. In fact, there’s one not a million miles away from me.”
Cat allowed his face to drop in confusion, for his eyes to narrow then widen as understanding hit.
“You think I’d be suitable for this role?”
Don nodded again.
“I’m honoured, obviously. But why me? I might know a lot about the districts, but I’ve only entered a few Factories, and others have a far more detailed understanding of the places.”
“Oh, there are others, clearly. But you have the right kind of mind for the more covert nature of these inspections. I think you’re ideal, and I’d encourage you to accept this honour.”
“I…This is something of a surprise. But of course I’ll accept.”
Cat allowed his smile to surface.
Sometimes, it was far too easy to manipulate people. Especially when they believed that they were the ones doing the manipulating.
- 5 -
Rodin had always welcomed the rain. It washed the streets, and there was refreshment in the moisture dripping down his face. But most of all, rain cast a shroud over the districts, and it was easy to believe that Rodin’s whole world was a few steps wide, all that he could see. Anything beyond could be pushed aside, be that the depressing nature of the streets he walked, the desperate individuals who hung back in the shadows of doorways, or the ever-present arc of the Dome above the buildings.
At least, he used to be able to push the Dome from his mind. But no longer. As he strode into the gloom he knew it lay ahead, just the other side of Red.
Genna had suggested he travel via Dephloren’s district, possibly liaise with Miolar. But that would mean too much talking. Better to walk in solitude. Besides, there was no clear intel on Red. It never hurt to find out more.
Kharem’s district now. But he was being used by Authority, so Red was their domain.
The buildings around Rodin—ragged two-storey affairs set back from the street by weed-strewn paving—were covered in shadow, the storm turning early afternoon to dusk. Blades of light crept round window shutters, and any sounds lay submerged under the constant downpour, muffled by walls.
Rodin scanned his surroundings, saw nobody observing, no obvious Eyes, and ducked into the next alley.
The rotten meat stink was unmistakable, and as Rodin’s eyes adjusted to the dimness he could see the open wounds left to fester, the twisted limbs, the face whose features had been battered into a bloody pulp.
Every body told a story. Rodin paused, examined. Female, small, good muscle tone. No sign of sexual assault, but a deep slice across her throat, a gash to her left side. Robbery, most likely. Or a vendetta.
Not his concern, though. He stood, listened. The rain ricocheted off the metal barrier, but there was a shout, a second. Metal creaked.
Rodin trotted to the end of the alley. He pulled out his screen, attached a micro-Eye, adjusted for low light. The image was monochrome but a few alterations brought it into sharper focus, and Rodin looked on the barrier that sealed in District Red.
Impressive, what a hundred slaves could achieve. Especially ones as strong as the warriors.
The barrier was a metal structure, two storeys high, topped with razor-sharp edges. At certain points along its length observation posts protruded from the top, and there were rumours that they were manned every minute of the day.
Then there were the gates, like the one Rodin focused on now. He could see the huge hinges, could make out the thin gap where the two opening sections met.
And as he watched, metal groaned. The gate opened.
The process was slow, and Rodin counted ten thumps of his heart before a crash told him the gate was fully open. He didn’t move, watched the rain-smeared screen as figures emerged.
They wore long coats, some with hoods pulled up but many with their heads exposed. Stubble on their scalps, harsh expressions on their faces. They moved in lines, not strictly regimented. They didn’t saunter, but moved with easy confidence.
Rodin counted. Five abreast, fifteen lines. Seventy-five.
Warriors. Had to be.
And one more figure appeared, just as the metal gate creaked closed. Long coat again, but more hair on his—definitely male, this one—exposed head. His collar was pulled up, but he appeared unaffected by the weather.
Kharem! And he was taking the majority of the warriors out of Red.
Rodin pulled his screen back, fired a message off to Genna, described what he’d seen.
A group that size would be easy to track. It wasn’t as if they were keeping quiet—Rodin heard no voices, but the tread of their boots echoed around the buildings. The path they took led them away from Red, toward Dephloren’s district. But there were many other streets, many junctions.
His screen vibrated with Genna’s reply—faster than he’d anticipated. It scrolled across the rain-speckled glass.
Thoughts?
He had too many, let his fingers type out the most pertinent.
This far round Red, doubt they’re heading toward you. Maybe top of Dephloren or back to the Factory. If K is with them, who’s left in charge?
The clomp of boots grew dim, and Rodin rose, stretched to relieve the tightness in his thighs. Must be the damp making them ache.
Good question. Your intentions?
Rodin had his mission. And Paskia was out there somewhere. But the appearance of the warriors was a concern.
We need to know more.
Agreed. Others have been alerted.
That was quick. Rodin wondered if this communication was being patched through to these ‘others’, or if Genna had another screen running.
He eased his head around the corner. The barrier was silent, but there would be Eyes watching. Safer to head back along the alley.
You want me to trail them? he asked, and a tingle of adrenaline surged through his body.
You’re in a good position, Genna replied.
That wasn’t a definite answer, and Rodin understood—�
��she was leaving it to him. And he was in an ideal position. He knew how to track, knew how to move without being observed. Even though the warriors had heightened senses, he could stay far enough away, follow the sounds of their mass movement.
He reached the end of the alley, turned right, heard the soft tread of boots ahead. Rodin settled into their rhythm as he followed. This was his original direction anyway, so it wasn’t as if he had to make a decision yet.
There was a major junction a short way ahead. When he reached it Rodin paused, listening, studying the ground. Then he looked up, orientated himself.
If the warriors had continued straight on, they’d be heading toward Dephloren’s district, possibly the Factory. But they’d turned to the right, taking a street that ran parallel to Red.
Rodin followed. At each junction he checked, saw clear signs of their passage, and trailed after them. Soon, he was close enough to see their forms in the distance.
Not close enough to make out details, though. And he couldn’t tell if Kharem was still at the back. Rodin couldn’t imagine the man leading from there—he’d be either at the front or protected in the middle.
Unless he had other orders from Authority.
No way of knowing, though. And that was the problem—there was so much unknown at the moment.
Like where were the warriors headed? Red was narrow here, and so in effect the group tracked the edge of the Dome. This close, the rain on the glass glistened in what little light of the day remained, a constantly shifting mirage, as if the whole monstrous structure was alive.
Rodin shuddered, shook his head to push the thoughts aside. He needed to concentrate.
He didn’t know how far the Paternas Brothers’ influence stretched, what constituted their district, but he had to be at the edge of it now. If he continued following the warriors, he’d leave them and the Factory behind, turning his back on his mission.
He pulled out his screen, sent off a message.
Warriors heading north. Others in place?
He could still hear them, but the sounds were further away now. And the heavy clouds didn’t have to block out as much sunlight now—true dusk was fast approaching. In a couple of hours, Rodin would be struggling through both rain and night.
Following as best we can, Genna replied. Tell me what you know.
Whatever they’re doing, doesn’t involve the Brothers. No additional risk to the original plan.
The message cursor blinked, and Rodin looked up, took in the area. No lights leaking from windows, no sounds beyond the warriors. Turning his back on the Dome, old buildings faded into the rain.
You don’t take orders from me, Genna sent. Do whatever you think best.
Kharem’s warrior army faded into the hammering of the rain. But Genna had people everywhere. So did Dephloren. And there were spies around the northern Factory, keeping a lookout on the local area. It would be hard for an army to carry on unobserved.
But Paskia was out there somewhere, further to the west.
Rodin turned, leaving the warriors behind, and did what he needed to do.
- 6 -
The rain eased as night thickened, one shroud exchanged for another.
There were more signs of life—normal life—as Rodin headed west, veering to the south when he could. Lights appeared in windows, and faces peered out of alleys. Rodin kept to the middle of streets, let his hands hover over his hips but drew no weapons. Not a threat, but ready to protect himself.
His surroundings became familiar—locations from old contracts, places he’d stayed, bars and cafes he’d used. People around here weren’t friendly, but treat them right and they were okay. Wouldn’t always stab you in the back, might even help you if there was something in it for them. Normal people, doing whatever it took to survive.
Of course, there were always those who took things too far. And with experience it was easy to spot them.
The trio up ahead huddled by a building that might have once been a store, or maybe an eatery. Three males, all with padded jackets and harsh eyes that studied Rodin as he walked by. Youthfully arrogant, didn’t trust their elders.
Rodin made no eye contact, didn’t register their presence. He kept his back straight, walked as if he had every right to be there.
And they followed.
They made no pretence at subtlety, muttering to themselves—so no open threats yet. As Rodin turned into a wider street, then into an alley, they followed. The clomp of their boots echoed from the walls. There was a pile of rubbish to Rodin’s right, a vegetable smell that hid something chemical, surrounding puddles coated in an oily film. Rodin trudged through, making a mental note to give his boots a decent clean when he got the chance.
The trio didn’t make their move in the alley, or in the next street. But when Rodin entered an area with large industrial buildings—facades of metal, few windows, large expanses of concrete broken by weeds—they closed the gap. They spread out, one either side and one still behind.
Rodin kept to the middle of the street. Hammering came from a building, hard to tell which one, interspersed with loud cursing and laughter. Steam escaped from a vent, and the air filled with the smell of hot steel. The thugs to either side of Rodin closed in, the light catching metal in their hands.
The one behind wasn’t close enough to be of immediate concern. Not yet. Rodin held his hands off his hips, but his fingers twitched in readiness.
As the street arced to the left the two to either side took a couple of fast steps, moved past Rodin, and then they angled in. At the same time the trailing thug sped up.
Rodin slowed, then stopped. It was what they wanted.
A lone streetlight burned an intense yellow that reflected from the slick tarmac. The moon was hidden by clouds, and Rodin couldn’t make out details. But he could see enough.
The figure to Rodin’s right was tall, lank hair merging with a thick beard. He held his blade by his side. His partner to the left was stocky, looked tough. Long hair again, but no beard. He chewed, lips smacking softly as he breathed out a stink of tobacco.
Rodin didn’t turn to the one behind, but he knew they were only a couple of paces away, could hear their heavy breathing.
Chewy snorted, then said, “Whatcha up to?”
“Walking. That a problem?”
“Mebbe. Where ya walking?”
“Forwards.”
The man sucked up a line of drool, then turned to his bearded colleague. “Hear that? Funny bugger, this one.”
“No. Nobody laughing.” Beardy’s voice was low and rough. “Where you from?”
“Does it matter?”
Chewy snorted again, “Does it matter? Stranger walking round our place at night like a drenched rat? Course it matters. We wouldn’t ask otherwise, would we?” His head twitched—hard to see the eye-roll, but Rodin knew it would be there.
Amateurs. They went for intimidation over action. Beardy stood too steady, with legs straight as rods. Chewy’s audible sneer told Rodin all he needed to know about the man’s attitude.
But the one to Rodin’s rear was still an unknown. At least this trio understood distractions.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Rodin said. “But I am looking for a couple of people. Reckon they run this place.”
Chewy’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and he looked around—taking his eyes off Rodin. Could have been the moment to counter, but Rodin stood firm.
“Reckon they run this place,” Chewy said. “Right. Like anyone tells us what to do.”
Rodin shrugged. “Never said they were doing a good job. Gotta say, things look pretty desperate here. Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have business, you know what I’m saying?”
The taunt worked. Chewy leaned in. “You saying our place ain’t good enough for you?”
“I’ve been in worse.” Rodin let the implications hang in the air.
“You disparaging us?” Chewy puf
fed himself up, proud of using such a big word. “You puttin’ us down? Three of us, and you’re on your lonesome. Getting on a bit, too. Old bugger like you, need to show a bit of respect. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Haven’t gone deaf yet.”
Beardy still hadn’t moved, but the one behind had shifted closer, enough that Rodin caught the pungent smell of sweat beneath the heavy breathing. A boot splashed in a puddle as the unseen member of this trio steadied their stance.
“But you ain’t thinking straight. Walkin’ round here all alone. Stupid, right?” Chewy glanced to Beardy, got the laugh he sought. “Maybe you need to be taught a lesson.”
Rodin saw the glance, knew this was the moment. He side-stepped as the breathing from behind became a grunt. He turned, grabbed the approaching arm, gripped the wrist, and twisted.
It only took a second.
Rodin held a small, wiry man, pulled him back so that he was off-balance, held him up so that he couldn’t get a decent purchase on the ground. The man lashed out, but Rodin ignored the kicks to his legs.
He tightened his grip and pressed the blade against the man’s throat. The man’s blade, still in his own hand, but now controlled by the grip Rodin had on it.
The man stopped kicking.
Beardy hadn’t moved, blade still by his hip. Chewy held his blade high, stood side-on, but his arm shook.
“Not a bad ploy,” Rodin said, knowing he needed to play this just right. “Your friend here’s fast, I’ll give him that. Smart, too—knows what could happen. Good blade. Nice and sharp.”
The wiry man swallowed.
“We don’t want trouble,” Chewy said. Rodin waited. “Just lookin’ out for ourselves, weren’t we? Area like this, we can’t be too careful.”
“You were being careful?” Rodin tilted the man’s blade, enough to act as a reminder. It hadn’t broken skin yet, but it wouldn’t take much.
“Yeah, well, usually works.”
Not this time.”
Chewy nodded, as did Beardy. The one in Rodin’s grip didn’t move. Sensible.
“So,” Rodin said, keeping his tone light, “how do we resolve this?”
