by TW Iain
Vanya’s job, at the moment, was to visit all these positions. Let them know they weren’t forgotten, Paskia said.
Keep them sweet. Keep them focused.
Some were going a fantastic job—she’d almost missed the watcher at Location 5, on the edge of the open land that sloped down to that foetid lake of blackened water, had only spotted the man when he’d turned his head, when the sun caught a metal fastening on his clothing. But others were less impressive. Some wandered in the open, eyes downcast. Others smoked, as if that wouldn’t give their positions away. One man was almost asleep when Vanya crept up on him, only jerking around when she laid a hand on his shoulder.
If she’d been with Authority, he’d be dead by now.
In her circuit, she’d seen a few locals—a couple of faces that pulled back from windows as she approached, a group of three women in an alley who shuffled behind a wall when Vanya spoke, only came out when they trusted she wasn’t going to harm them. There were sounds of movement further off, but nothing to directly indicate warriors.
But now, at the end of the row of disused stores to her left, Vanya caught sight of someone lurking in the gloom. No other word to describe it—they shuffled in the shadows, head whipping around as if they were looking for trouble.
Vanya slowed to a walk, then crept forward, sticking close to the buildings themselves. She hadn’t hidden herself up to this point, relying on speed to keep her from harm (and—a half-thought that scared the hell out of her—if the warriors spied her and gave chase, she’d be able to lead them away from the base). And there was no need to hide now—whoever was ahead would have had ample opportunity to see Vanya’s approach.
They hadn’t made a move on her, though. Cautious, waiting for the perfect moment to attack, or didn’t want to engage.
The store-fronts here were shielded my shades that protruded about a metre. Most of the shades were nothing but flimsy metal sheets, rusted and even missing in places, but by the alley was a concrete one, as solid as any walkway.
Vanya crouched, jumped, grabbed. She adjusted her balance and ran along the narrow ledge. As the entrance to the alley approached—only a couple of lolloping steps—she unsheathed a blade, then threw herself around the corner.
She passed over the figure, its head tilting back too slow. She hit the ground, knees bent, blade in her hand, and pounced.
One hand around his arm, blade at his throat, Vanya analysed the man. The pack on his back wasn’t large—it didn’t hinder her attack. His clothing and hair were a mess, and he stunk.
And she knew him.
“Not the welcome I was expecting,” he said, and his voice was strong, the hint of amusement rising to the fore, despite the metal against his throat.
Vanya stepped back, sheathed her blade. “Could’ve told us you were coming.” She gave him space to turn. “But good to see you again, Rannall.”
“Good to see you too. And our little communication problem scuppered any chance of warning you of my arrival.”
That told Vanya one thing. “You’ve come from Genna?”
He nodded, rotated to show his pack. “With gifts, too. Anywhere I can get a drink?”
Despite herself, Vanya smiled. “And a shower?”
He shrugged. “Might be better if I don’t offend too many people. Lead on, my friend.”
Whenever Rannall appeared, Paskia felt a rush of positivity. The man was easy company—once he’d showered and changed—but his appearance was a reminder that there was life beyond her own little world, that her problems weren’t everything.
“Ah, sweet Paskia,” the man said, pulling the towel from his head and reaching into his pack for a fresh top. She was thankful he’d put on trousers in the shower-room itself. “You’re looking well.”
“I’ve heard eyesight goes in old age.” It felt like the right thing to say.
“Didn’t you used to be polite once?” He pulled the shirt down, fastened the buttons. “Decent water pressure here, though. Always knew the Paternas Brothers were soft.”
“Only one left now.”
“So I understand. And I mean no disrespect. It’s tough, losing family.”
He kept his tone light, but Paskia still caught the pained undertow, reminded herself that he’d lost cousins and more, almost his whole family in a matter of months.
“Anyway,” he said, sitting down to pull on his boots, “I’ve got a few things with me. Rodin around?”
“Think he’s resting. Took an early-morning watch.”
“Ah! Vanya said you’re under organised surveillance. And our rogue is playing his part? You’re a good influence on him.”
She shrugged. “He has his moments.”
“Don’t we all.”
The door opened, and Paskia turned as the newcomer spoke.
“You know it’s rude to talk about someone behind their back?”
Rodin stepped into the room, approached Rannall, one hand out. Rannall grabbed it, then pulled Rodin in, slapped his other hand against Rodin’s back. Somewhat self-consciously, Rodin did the same to Rannall.
They parted, Rannall’s hands still on Rodin’s shoulders. “I’m sure you’ve lost weight.”
Rodin shrugged, looked away for a heartbeat. “Hard to get a decent meal round here. No Jimny’s”
“Very true. Treated myself to one of his breakfasts before I set off. But I shouldn’t depress you like that. Got something for you and Vanya.” He turned to his pack, opened the top and pulled out a package, about the size of his own hand.
Rodin took it and opened the wooden lid. “Control?”
“I brought a decent supply back from Ellya, and Genna said that Arish and the others had sufficient. Wasn’t sure how you and Vanya were doing.”
“Getting by, but more’s always welcome. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. And Paskia,” Rannall said, pulling a smaller box from his pack. “Aleph’s been hard at work.”
“Nothing strange in that, is there?” she said as Rannall laid the box on a table and rolled up his left sleeve.
“Harder than normal. To be honest, I think Genna’s worried about her health. Poor child looks paler every time I see her. She needs more sunlight, if you ask me. But I suppose she wouldn’t have come up with a temporary solution to our communication issues if she’d been gallivanting around the district, would she?”
The words washed over Paskia as she watched the man’s actions, first intrigued and then…queasy wasn’t quite the word, but it was close.
He opened the pack and brought out a wipe, and used this on his arm. He rubbed vigorously, and it looked like the wipe was falling to pieces, but then Paskia realised the flakes were from his arm itself. Eventually he dropped the wipe and pulled at a loose flap of skin, lifting a small section free.
Beneath was a flat surface, but it wasn’t white like bone. Nor was it red from blood either. It looked like the man’s skin—it even had the weathered appearance of his other arm—but it was too flat, too artificial-looking.
He pressed it, and the flat section popped up.
It was at this point that Paskia swallowed, and wanted to glance away. But Rodin watched her, and she knew that would be a failure somehow. This felt like a test.
And Rodin knew what was happening, didn’t he? He wasn’t bothered by the strangeness of it but was studying her reaction.
Paskia wasn’t sure what to make of that, and she returned her attention to Rannall. He pulled the hard flap up to reveal a space, from which he retrieved a small package, no larger than the tip of a small finger.
“Never knew you had a body pouch,” Rodin said.
Rannall put the package down, closed the flap, then pulled what looked like a sheet of transparent paper from his pack. “Had no need to know,” he said. “Don’t use it too often, but for something important, it makes sense.” He rubbed a fresh wipe over the artificial surface—what Paskia assum
ed was his body pouch—and placed the transparent sheet over the top. “You’ve seen pouches before, right?”
Rodin nodded. “Knew a woman had one in the back of her skull.”
Rannall pressed the sheet down and it grew darker, matching the colour of his flesh. “Skull? Tricky procedure. Go too deep, and you hit all kinds of problems. She have any side-effects?”
“Hard to say. Could’ve been deranged before. Doesn’t bother her any more, though.”
“Ah. Of course.” Rannall pressed harder on the sheet, then lifted his hand. “Contract?”
“Something like that.”
“Understood.” He held up his arm, twisted it to inspect his work.
It was incredible! The patch was indistinguishable from his flesh. The colour was blotchy, like his skin, and there were even hairs on it—at least, they looked like hairs from this distance. And as Rannall pulled his sleeve down, there was no indication that his arm was anything but normal.
“Your first time, Paskia?” he said.
She looked up. “Sorry. I was staring, wasn’t I?”
He smiled. “Quite all right. It’s not something you see every day. Not the most popular of procedures. Have to be careful who does the work—too many tales of botch jobs, some fatal. But pay enough, go to a reputable meditech, and it’s amazing what can be done with a body.” He shrugged. “But you know that, what with the warriors. Anyway, my little gift.” He lifted the item he’d removed from the pouch. “Well, Genna’s gift. Or maybe it’s from Aleph. Hard to tell.”
The item was a small container, and Rannall opened it to reveal a tiny chip, similar to the one Jerone had used for the worm—and she remembered again how Rodin had smuggled that into the Factory under that false flap of skin. She supposed that was only one step removed from a physical cavity within the body itself.
“Small but powerful,” he said, and then proceeded to talk about the routine that would combat the surveillance of their communication.
“It’s not perfect,” he said when he’d finished, “but it should enable us to stay in touch more often. And she’ll be refining the routines constantly, I’m sure.”
He held the chip in the flat of his outstretched hand, between both herself and Rodin.
“Reckon Uran would like to play with that,” Rodin said, and he raised his eyes.
Paskia nodded, and took the chip. Such a small thing, so fragile, yet it offered so much potential.
“Now,” Rannall said, slapping his hands together. “Who do I have to see about getting some food in this place?”
“I’m on it,” Rodin said as he turned. But not before he dipped his head and smiled.
Strange, to see him so relaxed.
“It’s obvious what he sees in you, my dear,” Rannall said. “When you smile like that, your face lights up the whole room.”
And only now did Paskia feel the pull on her face as her mouth turned up.
“Good to have something to smile about for a change,” she said.
- 52 -
Cat paused before the woman’s door, his hand hovering over the screen. There was a moment—another moment—when he questioned his decision, but he gave himself a mental slap, told himself that he needed to be strong.
He’d returned to the Dome a few hours ago, and had headed straight to his rooms. He’d been more conscious of those around him than normal, but spotted nothing to indicate surveillance. That wasn’t conclusive, though, and he would have felt more comfortable seeing someone on his tail. At least then he’d know this wasn’t all in his head.
But of course it wasn’t. Thoughts like that were merely his fears rising. He could conquer them, like he always did.
He pressed the door screen, then he stepped back and waited. He adjusted his cuffs as he surveyed the area. The last time he’d seen this woman, she’d had rooms in a far nicer area. She’d always kept a low profile, though—she garnered none of the plaudits her partner received, and she was perfectly content to be his invisible support, a role she played to perfection.
The screen buzzed, and Cat pushed the door open. Strange that she hadn’t responded verbally, though, and Cat derided himself for failing to call on her more frequently.
Her room was on the third floor, and the clank of the lift doors spoke of sub-standard maintenance. The corridor was scented, the lighting soft, but the carpet was threadbare in places.
It was sad to see how far she’d fallen. But at least Cat might offer her one last service.
Her door opened as he approached, and she waited beyond the threshold. She’d tied her hair back in haste, a few strands falling over her face, and she wore a simple sleeveless top and grey trousers. Her feet were bare, the toenails in need of a pedicure. But she stood straight, the strength he remembered still evident in her sharp eyes.
“My dear, you’re as stunning as ever,” he said.
“And your compliments are as transparent as ever. I suppose you’d better come in.”
She stepped aside, allowed him to enter, and sealed the door. Then she led him into the main living area.
It wasn’t much of a space, but it was functional, and Cat supposed it was all she required.
“You’ll have a drink,” she said, waving at the seating as she slid to the food prep.
Cat didn’t sit. “Please, allow me,” he said. “You still take your coffee with a touch of cardamom, yes?”
“You remember.” She sighed, and her shoulders rolled forward. “Of course you do. Fine. Play the charming host in my own house.”
She stepped to the easy chairs—only two, he noticed, and no sofa. She threw herself into the closest, releasing a cloud of dust.
“So what do I call you now?” she asked.
Cat placed a mug under the nozzle and adjusted the controls, the rich, fragrant liquid gurgling out. “You know you can call me anything you like, Leena,” he said. “I seem to recall you selecting some particular risqué names over one evening.”
“You never heard half the names I had for you. Not after what happened.”
“No. I suppose not.”
Cat removed the first mug and put the second, the one for Leena, under the nozzle. He shifted his body, turning his back on her for a moment.
She’d most likely take that as a sign of guilt. Better that, than suspect the truth. If she refused this drink, he’d have to resort to…other means.
“You know I had to do what I did,” he said as he prepared her special drink. “Believe me, if there had been any other way…”
She snorted. “Please! I’ve heard your excuses before. Every time it’s the same—how you would have done anything you could to save her, how you never intended to throw Graniff into such a depression, how you wished you could change what you did to us all.”
“I spoke no lies, my dear. I know I hurt all of you, and for that I am truly sorry.”
“Sorry? Like you’d know the meaning of the word.”
Cat brought the mugs over, placed them on the table and lowered himself into the second seat. It was comfortable enough, but she deserved better.
We don’t always get what we deserve, though, Cat thought. And it was true that he never wanted to harm Leena. He never wanted Graniff to suffer his breakdown either. And he never intended for their daughter to be taken by Authority.
“I’m not sure I can explain things any better now than I could back then,” he said. “The work I was called upon to undertake was not always of my choosing, and I’ve performed many acts of which I’m not proud. But I believe you can understand this—after all, your work required a similar detachment, did it not?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. She cradled her drink in her hands.
Cat took a sip from his mug. “Are you not drinking?” he asked. “You don’t want to spill it down yourself.”
Her chest rose and fell again—and Cat’s eyes were drawn to her low-cut top, sparking memories from a
decade ago—but she lifted her mug to her lips. Her throat bobbed, up and down, and the froth coated her upper lip when she lowered the mug.
Her tongue protruded and ran over her lip with a slowness that told Cat she hadn’t forgotten her old work. Of course, along with the detachment, there was a certain part of her that enjoyed the physical aspects. How could she have been an expert at such manipulation without a degree of genuine excitement?
And wasn’t that true of Cat himself? Didn’t he derive a certain pleasure from the clandestine, underhand nature of his various roles?
“You never enjoyed our…joint work, then,” she said, a statement rather than a question. Leena met his eyes, her own cold and hard now.
“Enjoyment can come from many angles, my dear,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I admit that I initially saw our encounters as business, and only derived a shallow, basic physical pleasure. But in retrospect there was a deeper emotion at work. I found you…relatable. You were, and remain, so much more to me than simply an accomplice in our constant fight.”
“And this is supposed to make me feel good?”
“It’s supposed to emphasise the effect you had on me, Leena. Please allow me to continue.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like I can physically remove you, is it? And you know I’m not going to call for help.” She looked down and took another sip of her drink.
“Thank you. But it was over that evening when I saw a familiar emptiness in your eyes, one that mirrored my own. It was there when you looked at me, but also when your gaze lit on Graniff. You stroked his stomach—I recall that clearly, your long digits entwined in his chest hair, the subtle way he leaned in closer. He enjoyed the sensation, and it triggered his feelings for you. But you, my dear Leena—you’d played your part, as you’d been instructed. And a part of you would always hate sharing him like that, would always hate the thought of him sharing you, even though I’m certain he always assured you that it meant nothing, that you meant more to him than mere physical pleasure.
