by TW Iain
“Bribery,” Philack said.
“Or a sign of friendship. Take it however you want.” Rodin lowered his arms, was thankful that neither Barena nor Philack made any aggressive move. They both seemed more relaxed now. “You in?”
Barena nodded. Philack took a moment longer, but nodded too.
Rodin pulled out his screen. “You got proximity?” A couple more nods. They both produced screens, fast, right hands hovering by their hips.
Philack held his out first, and when it bleeped he looked at the glass and nodded. “Might take the long way round, check out the area.”
“Sensible,” Rodin said as the man moved off, stepping around Barena warily.
She held out her screen, and he sent the location. She glanced at the information, then jerked her head to the alley’s entrance.
“Whatever you’ve got planned, don’t like the chances of success if you’ve got people like that.”
“That tell you anything about how desperate the situation is?”
She tilted her head. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
She snorted, like she didn’t believe him—or she wanted him to see how tough she was. Then she looked him up and down again. “Not sure if I’m disappointed or impressed.”
Rodin raised his eyebrows. “That come with an explanation?”
“Stories I’ve heard, I thought you’d appear more intimidating.”
“Didn’t want us to get off on the wrong foot.”
“Fair enough. And thanks for not mentioning names of those we work for.”
Intriguing. “That important?”
She wobbled her head in place of a shrug. “Don’t like others knowing my business.”
“Might be a problem if we’re all working together.”
Another head wobble. “Said I don’t like it. Didn’t say it was a deal-breaker. I’ll reserve judgement for the moment.”
“Can’t expect anything more.”
Barena gave a nod and breezed past Rodin, slid from the alley.
Rodin paused, ran that conversation back through his mind. Why was Barena uncomfortable with others knowing who she worked for? That meant something—he was sure of it. But he had no idea what.
And he couldn’t figure it out now. He had a schedule to keep up.
He stowed his screen, brought to mind the next location, and jogged away.
- 45 -
“You wanted to talk?” Miolar said as he reached Genna. “Out here?”
She stood on the edge of a line of trees, in one of the open areas close to her towers. She had people watching, of course, and she knew Miolar would have protection too.
“Thought it would be good, out in the open.”
Was that too on the nose? Miolar didn’t show any discomfort, no indications that she might know his secret. If anything he seemed irritated.
“I have a great deal to attend to. As, I’m sure, do you. So how about you get to the point?”
She took a moment, studied him. His smile was soft, and his expression inoffensive—yet he was agitated.
Not for the first time, Genna wondered exactly what she was doing. She was making assumptions, based on…on her own impressions, along with the hints Vanya had dropped. And the warrior said Rodin seemed unsettled too.
She had to know the truth, though. She needed to know how things stood.
Genna took a breath. “Our people are in contact with your operatives,” she said. “Over to the west. But…there’s something we need to discuss.”
“Yes?” The man—whoever he really was—tilted his head, like he now knew exactly what this was all about.
“Yes,” she said. “Your people, Dephloren’s contacts. We also have assistance from Borinoff.”
“Ah.”
Wind rustled leaves in the trees. In the distance a shout echoed, too far away to be a sign of danger. But the hair on the back of Genna’s neck stood tall anyway.
Miolar—she might as well continue using that name until she knew otherwise—nodded slowly, head bowed. It said a lot that he didn’t meet her eyes.
“So it’s true,” she said.
He shrugged. “Truth is tricky. In any situation there are many truths.”
“I don’t want to play games.” The firmness in her voice surprised Genna. “Just tell me.”
“Do I need to?” He looked, up, met her gaze—and his eyes were cold and withdrawn. Hiding, still. “If you know already…”
“I said I’m not playing games! We’re fighting Authority. I have too many people out there putting their lives on the line. I need to know I can trust those around me.”
“Have I let you down yet?”
“Have you been honest with me?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Waiting for her to continue the conversation. But he looked away.
So close to breaking.
“I need to hear it from your lips,” she said.
He sighed. “Very well.” His mouth twitched, and he took a deep breath. “Your assumptions are correct. I speak for Dephloren because…because there is no Dephloren. Not in reality. That name is nothing more than an alias I use. As you’ve suspected for some time, yes?”
Genna nodded, but he wasn’t taking control of this conversation. “And Borinoff?”
The man took another deep breath. “We’re alike in many ways, Genna,” he said, speaking slowly but with words that sounded rehearsed. “We both understand how multi-faceted leadership is. To run a district requires one to care for the helpless while punishing those who would do us harm. It requires the strategy of a war-maker, a business mind, and the heart of a peace-maker. A leader must be strong as rock, yet subtle as reeds, steadfast as the earth and adaptable as the weather. You’re all these things, Genna, and somehow you make them all work for you. But this is something I’ve struggled with. When people look at me, they see an old man—strong enough to have survived through life, but not one who inspires great confidence.”
“And this is why you use different names.”
He smiled. “You understand, then. Dephloren is the leader, the one who makes decisions for the district. I made a firm point of never revealing his likeness, and when rumours started to spread that he was more than one person, I did nothing to quench them. But the survival of any district required funds and…and the kind of power that comes through connections. Dephloren was the wrong persona for this, but I already had…let’s call him another venture. I’d observed those with power, studied how they operated. Those who put themselves on show, who flaunted themselves, never lasted long. It was those who remained in the shadows, who built a loyal following even through short-term gain, who rewarded those who worked well and came down hard on those who failed—these were the ones to succeed. And this is the model I used in my early business ventures.”
He shrugged. “That persona worked well for me, and he…developed a life of his own. Borinoff—again, you’ve struck on the truth—makes the business decisions that keep Dephloren solvent. And Dephloren runs the district so that Borinoff remains in a commanding position. And the hidden nature of both these personalities has been something of a boon, I must say.”
It made sense, although the logistics must be a nightmare. But it also put Genna in a difficult situation.
“So what do I call you?” she asked—not the question she ultimately needed him to answer, but it would do for the moment.
“I’d prefer to stick to Miolar, if that’s alright with you. But tell me—what was it that finally tipped you off?”
“Hard to pinpoint. Probably the help they—you—offered. I pushed hard, couldn’t seem to get any assistance from either Dephloren or Borinoff, but once one agreed to help, so did the other.”
He nodded. “I did wonder.”
“And I have to wonder how much help you’ve given.”
His brow furrowed. “E
xplain, please.”
“I’m offered a number of mercenaries through Dephloren, and another number through Borinoff. But both men are you. So how many mercenaries are there to the west?”
He didn’t answer straight away, and Genna didn’t push. He gazed off, into the trees. They swayed in the wind, bending gently with the forces that hit them. Too much wind, and a single tree would be uprooted. But together, they protected one another. As a group of trees, the wind could do nothing.
“These are hard times,” Miolar said, still looking into the distance. “My contacts, through my various personas, are their own people, and I hold them under no contract. Some I know a great deal about, others remain elusive.”
“Dephloren promised roughly twenty-five,” Genna said, “as did Borinoff. For the safety of my people, I need to know—is this fifty overall, or half that number?”
Miolar pushed his shoulders back. “Another aspect of leadership, one that you’re no doubt familiar with,” he said. “The mark of an effective leader is often seen not in the decisions they make, but in the act of making those decisions. Often, there is not enough information to be certain, and there will naturally be times when hindsight reveals how different decisions may have been preferable.”
And that was as much of an apology Genna would get.
She nodded. “Appreciate the honesty. Perhaps we can have a little more in the future.”
If they had a future, she added in her head.
- 46 -
The tech went by the name of Phoren, and he kept to a small upper room in a derelict building an hour’s walk from The Galleon. The man disliked people, and didn’t socialise. Even when he took on clients, as he’d done with Cat, he was terse, and wont to dismiss anything others said. It had taken far too long for Cat to convince Phoren that the code he already had—the code he’d acquired around First Dome, and something Aleph would no doubt find very familiar—was all he purported it to be. All Phoren needed to do was amend it so that the worm would function properly.
But even the most unsociable of people communicate every now and then, and the man was a risk. At least, he was a loose end, something to be tied up—metaphorically speaking.
Cat approached the building slowly, waiting for a lone walker to disappear from view, some woman risking her life out at this time—although she most likely held weapons at her waist and knew how to use them. As the soft tread of her boots faded into the distance, Cat stepped up to the building.
He swiped the door screen, then tapped for Phoren’s room.
The screen flashed with a message. I’m busy. Leave a message.
Cat responded. Wanted to discuss your work.
I’ll give you a time/place. Through usual messaging system.
Cat nodded for the Eye, very conscious that Phoren would be watching, and would be waiting for Cat to walk away.
He tapped again. It’s urgent. I have funds.
Business, especially in the districts, was built on contacts, which put those who shut themselves away at a disadvantage. Phoren had a good reputation for his work, but that only went so far. The man might not have major outgoings, but more funds would give him access to more tech. For someone like Phoren, money was a very motivating factor.
The screen turned green as the door clicked. Cat pushed through, into the stuffy lobby.
At one time this would have been a grand entrance. There was ornate tiling underfoot and carved pillars stretched to the ceiling, the patterns up there faded and chipped. There was a long desk to the right, but now the dulled mirror behind only reflected a sense of abandonment, only hinted at what might have once been.
Cat strode through the space, the clump of his boots echoing off the peeling walls, and climbed the stairs. He’d only used the lift in this building once, and the shaking had not only induced nausea but also made him question the safety of the whole contraption. It felt one lurch away from giving up and sending him crashing to the basement.
The stairwell was surprisingly bright, strips at the top of the wall giving off a painful white glare that forced Cat’s eyes to his feet, to the smoothed edges of the stone steps. He ascended three storeys, then pushed through the final door, the roof sloping over his head.
A room in the eaves! There was something romantic about that idea, possibly because such rooms seemed hidden away, almost as if they shouldn’t exist. At least, that was how things appeared in the Domes. Here in the district attic rooms were more often dingy holes with low ceilings and doors that never quite worked properly. Only basement rooms were any cheaper, and that was purely down to the lack of natural light.
Phoren’s room was along a musty corridor, the carpet practically worn away in large swathes. The lighting was dim, with a blue tinge, and Cat knew this was Phoren’s doing, something to do with wavelengths that assisted the filters he’d installed on the Eyes.
Cat knocked on the man’s door—there were no screens up here—and then he stepped back to wait. He heard shuffling and muttering, and then the door opened.
Cat beamed. “Phoren! You’re looking well, my friend.” He opened his arms, as if about to give the man a hug, or at least take him by the shoulders, and Phoren jumped back. Cat followed him into the room.
The door closed by itself, and the lock engaged with a click.
“Got a job for me?” Phoren said. He’d already retreated to his desk, twisting in his chair as he poked one finger in his ear. His hair hung lank over his face, in need of a wash, and there were too many stains on his top for Cat to count. At least a few came from the remains of meals that dotted the room’s cluttered surfaces. “Better be good. I’m busy, yeah?”
“You always are.” Cat scanned the screens, both those on the walls and those on the desk. Most showed Eyes, some from the street but others looking into other rooms. At least three were focused on beds—unused at the moment, but Cat was in little doubt that would change as the night wore on.
“Well?” Phoren finished his exploration of his ear and studied the end of his finger. “What have you got for me?”
Cat smiled. “Only my apologies.”
He’d unsheathed the blade the moment he stepped into the room, and now he lunged, bringing his right arm round, knowing he wouldn’t meet any resistance. The metal tore through the tech’s throat. His eyes burst wide and his arms flapped in surprise. Cat grabbed the man, pulling him to the floor, twisting his head to open the wound wider. Dark blood gushed out, accompanied by frantic wheezing. Cat angled the man so that none of the noxious substance flowed his way, and waited.
When there was no more movement, and when the spray reduced to a flow, then a trickle, Cat stood, stretching his body. He grabbed a rag—it might have been an item of clothing—and wiped his blade before sheathing it.
Then he turned his attention to Phoren’s equipment.
Cat wouldn’t call himself an expert, but he knew enough about tech to know that it held secrets. Fortunately, he also knew ways to remove those secrets.
One screen stood out, both through its central position on the desk and the greasy finger-marks on its surface, and Cat knew this must be Phoren’s primary tool. It would also be connected to others in the room, a master to the slaves.
He connected his own screen and triggered a second routine. When the connection was secure he entered his instructions and waited.
Such routines had many names, but Cat liked to think of it as a Sweeper. It ran through data, pushing everything before it, leaving a blank slate. Of course the data still existed in a hidden form, which was where the next routine—the Incinerator— came into play.
The work would take a moment, and Cat surveyed the room. Like so many techs, Phoren lived for his virtual work, content to exist in physical squalor. The window was shielded, and Cat doubted if it even opened. The air was stuffy, thick with the miasma of sweat and cheap food.
Cat dimmed the room lighting and lifted the corner
of the window covering. It provided a view to the street to the front of the building, and Phoren had an Eye set up in one corner, angled to alert him of any suspicious activity.
A woman walked past. That was rare for this time of the night, but not unknown, and Cat watched with interest. Clearly female, she walked with a straight back, a confident pose.
Just like the woman who had passed by when he’d approached the building.
He glanced down at his screen, monitored the progress of the Sweeper and the Incinerator, and that triggered thoughts of the bunker. Images flashed in his memory, of Rodin racing across the barren landscape, of blood and chaos. Twice that man had escaped, with Cat’s assistance, the incidents sufficient to convince Authority to close the facility down. There were plans to destroy the bunker physically, even to seal up the entrance to the train tunnel, but the work wasn’t slated for another year at the minimum—it wasn’t considered urgent, clearly.
Authority didn’t rush. They planned, and they executed only when the plans were foolproof, after they’d approached the problem from every angle. For that, they called on analysts, as well as those skilled in unearthing data and information.
That had been Cat’s speciality. But he wasn’t the only one. He was far from unique. Throughout the districts, Authority’s agents scurried, reporting back on what they’d seen and heard, putting themselves in positions where they could observe without arousing suspicions.
The woman outside—was her role surveillance, or something more terminal?
Cat read his screen—the procedure was ninety percent complete.
The street was empty once more. The vantage from this window showed the building opposite—boarded windows and a sloping roof with many missing tiles. Once, so Cat believed, this place had been teeming with life. That was before the Domes, when there were vast cities across the land, connected by wide lanes and tracks, when boats travelled the waters and vehicles flew above. That was before the chaos, before everything imploded.
Nothing lasted forever. Individuals died, and institutions fell. But some, like Authority, lasted longer than others.
