by TW Iain
The Councillor smiled, and there was warmth in the expression.
“Don’t get yourself involved, though,” Shae said. “I don’t want to lose a good friend. Besides, Millarov would be lost without you.”
“And I’d be lost without you, my dear. Thank you.”
It felt strange to realise that Erinya genuinely meant those words, and that Shae felt the same way. For all their independence, Shae suddenly understood how they were both connected.
As she stood and accepted the friendly hug from Erinya, Shae felt a new warmth inside, something she hadn’t experienced for…for longer than she cared to remember. But the warmth was tinged with ice, with the very real fear of losing a friend.
- 40 -
Kharem had taken to walking the streets shortly after Garrick’s ousting of Genna. If he was honest, it was initially a way of finding some space, of removing himself from the man’s presence. But it had grown to be one of the few things he genuinely looked forward to. Even the knowledge that this was something Rodin did wasn’t enough to put Kharem off.
There was danger in being outside the compound, of course, and Kharem was careful to vary both his route and the time of day or night he headed out. And while he preferred to wander in solitude, there were times, such as now, when he requested an accomplice.
Hornet wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so it was unusual when he did communicate.
“Rain coming in later,” the warrior said as they passed through the barrier around their compound, the hastily-constructed fence surrounding the buildings Authority had earmarked. The area was quiet—only the desperate and the lonely settled down to the north of the Dome, especially with the concrete tube of the tunnel so close.
“Always bad weather on the way,” Kharem said.
“Just have to be in the right place when the lightning strikes.”
Yes, Kharem liked the easy company of this man. A sharp mind, with a great deal happening beneath the surface.
They walked for five minutes, through deserted, overgrown streets, neither uttering a word. Kharem’s boots pushed through the weeds, his thickened trousers protecting his legs from whatever might sting or scratch—minor inconveniences, true, but inconveniences all the same. Branches cracked under his boots a few times, and the occasional puddle squelched, sending foul stenches into the air. He’d have to clean them when he returned.
That was something he’d do himself. Garrick would have thrown them to an underling, expected them to be spotless in an instant. Viper most likely had others to clean up after him—and wasn’t Kharem himself in that category?—but Kharem knew the importance of remaining connected with reality.
Maybe he was similar to Rodin in that respect. As much as Kharem disliked the mercenary—or was he an ex-mercenary now?—the man had his head screwed on straight. Apparently rich, he still lived a meagre lifestyle, still relied on himself for everything he could. The killer had survived across the districts and in the wilds—and, if rumours were true, even within the Dome—and Kharem believed this was because he kept his real self hidden, got on with whatever needed doing.
One who demanded respect, and Kharem knew Viper was wrong to discount the man’s ability to cause trouble.
“You know we’ve been followed here, don’t you?” Kharem said as they skirted along the edge of a wasteland, the concrete of the tunnel a cold barrier to their right.
Hornet nodded. “Different people, working together. Organised. Still watching us.”
“Us, or the compound?”
A shrug. “Does it make a difference?”
Probably not. Genna had them under surveillance, and there were probably others too—Dephloren, some of the more organised groups of locals in this district. Kharem wouldn’t put it past Viper to hire a few mercenaries himself, just to keep tabs on his operation, tell him what Kharem might forget to report.
They trod along another street, turned to the south. The glass of the Dome stretched over the buildings ahead, weak sunlight shining from the surface. Nothing to see inside from this angle, though. Even where the glass reached the ground, the material was clouded. And Viper had mentioned walls inside, preventing the Dome’s residents from gazing into the districts.
“Impressive,” Kharem said, leaving space for Hornet’s comments.
The warrior nodded. “Almost intimidating.”
“Almost?”
“Nothing’s perfect.”
Kharem let the words stand for a few paces, then said, “You saying the Dome can be breached?”
“Been done before, right?”
“True. But the majority who try end up dead.”
“Only because they don’t look properly.” Hornet pulled in breath, waved a hand at the glass structure. “Too many see a hemisphere, think they can crawl underneath. Don’t realise that the only reason we can’t see the rest of the thing is because it’s underground.”
Interesting comment. “You reckon it’s a whole glass sphere?”
“Not literally. Tunnels, right? Riddle the whole area. But those who built the Dome weren’t stupid. They set up protection beneath themselves too.”
Of course they did. The Domes might predate Authority, but they were still secure. Authority had added more layers of protection, though, and had tightened security on any passages across the glass.
“Still holed though,” Kharem said, probing.
“Got to be. River inside, right? Water has to come from somewhere, then flows out through the estuary. Has to be air inside. And supplies from the Factories. Loads of holes.”
The man was smart.
Kharem let that conversation drop, led Hornet along another street. This one was edged with what had once been stores, but now the windows were gaping holes, the open spaces beyond gutted. Many were soot-darkened, with roofing missing.
“You never told me your history, Hornet.”
The warrior shrugged. “Not much to tell.”
“But a story will pass the time.”
It wasn’t an order, but Hornet wouldn’t want to displease his boss.
“You want to know why I’m a warrior?”
“Always good to understand those you work with.”
The lad was smart—he’d notice how Kharem had said ‘work with’, would understand the implications. Wouldn’t believe they were totally on the level, of course, but it was an acknowledgement of Hornet’s importance, something he could feel good about.
“Volunteered.”
Kharem looked at the warrior. “Volunteered? Just like that?”
“Bit more involved.”
“Why don’t you tell me the story.”
“Story. Right. Has to have a beginning, then.”
“Most do.”
“Not much of one in this case. Dragged up round the Dome—different one. Kern. Did whatever I needed to, made a bit of a name for myself. Then made a mistake, got dragged into the Factory.”
“Happens a lot.”
“Too often.”
“But you survived.”
“I survived. Made the best of a bad decision. Didn’t fight the situation, but worked with it. Made myself useful. Not proud of everything I did, but you have to look after number one, right? And when I heard about some secret project, something about building up an army, I let it be known that I was interested.”
“And they thought it would be easier to train someone self-motivated than some poor kid they’d dragged in from the districts.”
“Pretty much, yeah. That, and I knew too much. Easier to keep my silence if I was involved.”
So he’d accepted the possibility of death, knew how ruthless those who controlled him could be. “And you’re still making the best of things.”
Kharem watched Hornet process those words, decipher the possible implications. His face showed nothing, and he nodded.
“Not much else to do, situation like this.”
“And if the si
tuation changes?”
“The situation always changes.”
Kharem nodded, knew he couldn’t trust this man’s loyalty. Of course he couldn’t. Loyalty had to serve one person above all else. Just as Kharem went along with Viper because his apparent loyalty served his own interests, so Hornet was loyal to Kharem only because he was safer that way for the moment.
It was a dangerous game to play, keeping alive through the pretence of loyalty. Every move had to be finely calculated, every expression of intent studied.
Viper was the conduit for Authority’s instructions, and they had Kharem to the north of the Dome, with an army of warriors. Soon, Viper would issue the orders from those above, and Kharem believed he knew what those orders would entail. And he planned, saw what he should do, which loyalties he should preserve and which he would need to abandon if he were to survive.
They turned, their backs now to the Dome, heading toward the compound. The sky had darkened, the sun hidden by clouds, and the air held a chill. Maybe the rain was coming sooner than Hornet expected.
“You’re right,” Kharem said. “Situations always change.”
And when they did, Kharem would be ready.
- 41 -
Rodin took a reconnaissance trip in the early hours, ignoring Paskia’s comments about his need to rest. His arm didn’t ache as much now, nor did his thigh. There was a tightness in his guts—those ready meals were never as good as proper food.
He made a mental note to heat up something decent when he returned. An hour or so more outside first, though, observe a few more warriors if he could. The hypothesis was still vague.
It had been Paskia who spotted the pattern, realised the warriors weren’t heading directly for the Brothers’ base. She’d pointed out how the attacks were starting to arc around the edges of the district, as if they were working on sealing it off.
Rodin had passed the intelligence on to Genna, but not Jornas—no need to let him think he was in the clear. The man needed to stay alert.
There were signs of movement in the street ahead, trails that led through the undergrowth that spilt over the buildings’ front yards. Not warriors—these trails were too wide, were made by groups rather than pairs of people. Could have meant anything, though. People had been leaving this district for years, from before the Paternas Brothers became a presence, and they were still leaving. Rodin wished them luck—they might get out before Authority sealed the district.
And once they’d done that, they’d go after Jornas.
Rodin took a break, using an abandoned property as shelter. He leaned against a wall and pulled out his screen, scanned through the database of contacts Uran had put together, of their combined forces.
It made depressing reading. Those from outside the district would be well-trained, survivors, but they wouldn’t be loyal—if things got bad, they’d go to cover, or walk away. And despite Jornas’ assurances, Rodin couldn’t trust the names he’d put forward.
He scanned the separate lists. Interesting that the lists from Dephloren and Borinoff were similar sizes. It was as if they’d come to some arrangement, neither wanting to look more or less generous than the other.
Rodin read through the details, such as they were. Names were meaningless, only labels. It was always possible that one individual could appear on both lists. Why not? Hadn’t Rodin once flipped between contracts for the Brothers and Borinoff? You did whatever worked best, whatever it took to survive.
The other information in the database was next to useless. There were contact details, of course, but most of those would be via routed signals, possibly dummy details that would trigger an alert elsewhere.
Frustrating, how little information they had. How could they mount any kind of opposition with this?
He left the building, continued his surveillance. Well, continued walking the streets. There was little of interest to see. But walking was a comfort, so he paced for another hour, returned to the base once his thighs started to tighten.
The access code Uran had given Rodin opened the door. The place was quiet, nobody else in the main room. All the bedding was in the second room now, and when Rodin approached that door he could hear soft breathing, on the edge of snoring.
He eased the door open, peered into the gloom. Three bulges on roll-mats. He recognised Paskia in the bed-roll just inside the door, took a minute or so to recognise Gorrin and Uran.
Vanya and Irazette must be out, then.
His screen vibrated with an incoming message, and he scanned the data-line. Genna.
Rodin checked the time—early, but she had a lot going on. And Authority didn’t sleep.
She deserved a break.
He called the message up and read.
Tech found an issue. System is compromised in your location. Working on a solution, but until then suggest total blackout.
That was it. No sign-off, no uplifting little comment.
He pulled up the transmit data, saw that she’d sent the same message to others, recognised Vanya’s details, saw another set that could well be Paskia’s, or maybe Jornas’.
Rodin took a deep breath, let the message sit in his mind.
The system was compromised. Authority monitored messages in this district. And if they had access to communications, they could—in theory—dive deeper into individual screens.
He toggled his screen’s connectivity, cutting it off from any surrounding systems. But there were other screens in the building—a couple over by the food-prep, three more on the table amongst Uran’s clutter. And those sleeping would have their own.
They had to know.
Rodin opened the door again, not bothering to deaden the noise. He gave his eyes a couple of seconds to adjust, saw Paskia’s head peeking out from her bedroll, mouth open a fraction, eyes closed.
He swallowed, reached down, shook her.
Her eyes snapped open, and she lay stock still. Training kicking in, then.
“Paskia?”
She turned to look at him. “What?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
- 42 -
Shae didn’t contact Parren again—why should she listen to his delusions and become frustrated when he repeatedly refused to listen to reason? And there was no response from Eriya, at least not for the rest of the day.
She had other appointments, though. She interviewed Head-of-Council Layman, who spouted the expected pre-planned words on the upcoming celebration, especially the wonderful—his own word—opening event that would be held in the Council gardens. Shae paid attention—it was what her job involved, after all—but it was all so rote, so predictable.
There would also be art, Layman said. He listed new pieces, commissioned for the celebration, and also made mention of a retrospective of the great Sertio’s work, with his sculptures placed at strategic positions throughout the garden, there to entertain and surprise. Sertio was, according to the Head-of-Council, a wonderful (that word again!) example of what it meant to be a resident and citizen of the Dome.
Shae had to hold back her reaction. So someone who chose to display a clearly unhealthy body image, who retreated into his art so much that he required constant care for the things most others regarded as normal activities (such as cleaning and preparing food), who existed seemingly only to bathe in the plaudits of others while making a transparent show of feeling undeserving of such praise—this was what everyone in the Dome should aspire to?
And this was the quality of material she had to work with. No wonder this report was stretching across the hours.
When Erinya’s message came through, Shae was thankful for the interruption.
This is a short note to keep you informed regarding our recent communication, the message read, as formal and standard as could be. I have studied the matter you raised, and have made relevant enquiries, but as of the time of writing this message, I am sorry to say that I have not made any he
adway. I will make a fresh attempt in the morning, but I have to be honest with you and say that I don’t hold out much hope. I apologise once more for not bringing you the news you so desired.
The message was signed with Erinya’s Council stamp, making the whole thing official, and Shae understood the necessity of this. Shae’s presence in the Councillor’s office would have been noted, and this message justified that as official Council business.
But there was nothing Erinya could do. There was no hidden message Shae could see—Erinya had tried uncovering more information on the plot to open the gates, but had come up with nothing.
So it was left to Shae. But what further resources did she have at her disposal?
She glanced back at her report, the words now nothing but black marks on the screen, devoid of meaning. It brought to mind those peculiar monochrome art pieces that were popular a few years ago, the ones that hinted at messages but, on closer inspection, contained no discernible letters. Something about the elusive nature of language, from what she understood—not that this understanding made the pieces any less pointless.
The same could be said of Sertio’s sculptures, especially his more recent works. Oh, Shae could grasp the concept—how bodies were rendered in the amorphous blobs of clay, how they were designed to show emotions through the physical, or some such nonsense. But the supposed messaged they contained were self-evident to anyone with half a mind. Take that last piece, the one based on the modelling of Paskia and that assassin. It was supposed to be an insight into dichotomies present in everyone, how actions and words and even thoughts could have more than one meaning. All well and good, but why look at a blob of clay to understand such an obvious message? One only had to look around the Dome, and it was clear to all.
Her thoughts most naturally turned to that assassin, one minute a villain intent on ending Leopold’s life, the next a hero who had subverted Authority’s intent and was, if she understood Leopold’s communications thoroughly, now a firm fixture in the rebellion against Authority’s move into the districts. The man was a dichotomy himself, both good and evil at the same time, a bringer of death who saved the lives of others.
