by TW Iain
He eased forward. He raised his hand, readied his lance, focused on the warrior’s neck. Would a double dose be enough? It had to be—a single could incapacitate any normal person, even one who was strong. Maybe it would be too much—hadn’t Ellya said something about warriors’ blood pumping faster? Maybe he only needed half a dose.
Rodin shook his head to push the distractions away. The warrior eased the door open wider, the light falling on her muddy boots and loose-fitting trousers, the cuffs stained and damp. She wore a sleeveless top, her upper arms inked with intricate patterns.
Then she flung the door back and pounced into the room.
Rodin leapt forward.
In a heartbeat he analysed, took in the scene, processed it. A screen by the window, glass glowing but showing no image. A discarded food bar wrapper. And cold night air seeping in from the open hatch.
The warrior’s head tilted, and the screen’s light twisted her mouth into an evil grin.
Rodin pounced.
The aim was perfect, the lanced stabbing toward the left side of her neck. Rodin started to press down with his thumb, easing the drug along the syringe. A moment of pressure, razor-sharp tip piercing skin.
A blur of motion, and Rodin spun, hard. For a moment he was airborne, then the wall slammed into his back.
He gasped for breath, brought a hand over a stomach filled with white-hot pain, flares of light strobing across his eyes.
A shadow appeared. The warrior, stepping toward him.
Rodin tightened his fist, and only then realised that the lance hung from the warrior’s shoulder. The plunger was still raised.
She must have noticed it then, because she reached round and yanked it from her flesh. She regarded the tool for a moment, turning it in her hand, and then she pressed the plunger, sending an arc of the drug shooting through the air, a double dose falling to the floor.
Rodin pulled his feet up, and winced, cried out, knew he had at least a couple of ribs broken. It hurt to pull in air.
The warrior stepped closer and lifted her hand. She held a blade. Rodin braced his back against the wall, tried to stand. He cried out again as the agony in his stomach spasmed through his legs.
There was nothing he could do. But at least Paskia had escaped. Yes, this warrior might follow, but Paskia had a head-start, and there were still friends around here. She’d be fine.
She had to be.
The warrior tossed the blade, always catching it by the handle. Showboating, making Rodin feel inferior. Enjoying her victory over him.
He kept his eyes open. She wouldn’t get the benefit of seeing him cower, Rodin told himself. He’d go out strong, silent and stoic.
And then her head exploded, showering Rodin in gore. A wet coppery stench smothered him, and the warrior toppled then fell, crashing to the floor beside Rodin.
- 55 -
There were always holes. In any plan, there were areas overlooked. In any structure, there were ways to move through seemingly solid walls. And in any Dome, there were ways to pass through the glass.
The instructions from Viper arrived in the early evening, and Kharem read them thoroughly. They were solid, giving no possibility of misinterpretation, but still Kharem interrogated them. He searched for errors, for ‘certainties’ that might prove otherwise. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go along with this plan. Rather, he wanted to ensure it worked—his part, at least.
An attack on two fronts. Kharem had the main force, and to the south Viper commanded the secondary infiltration—that was the terminology in the message, and Kharem reckoned Viper had come up with that phrase.
Kharem organised his warriors. The instructions said to abandon the camp, but Kharem didn’t want to leave any record of their presence here. Anything not going with them was taken away and destroyed or buried, and the buildings they’d bunked down in were put back to their original state. In most cases this meant upturning and breaking furniture, even destroying a few more walls.
Kharem had other warriors scout the route, following the supplied maps, testing the first sections of tunnel. According to the instructions most of the security in the tunnels would be removed remotely, but there were a few more physical traps—covered pits and the like, crude but effective. Kharem hand-picked the scouts, selected those who would best diffuse any problems. He told them to use their initiative, and they all returned a couple of hours later, reported that the way was prepared.
This was confirmed by the smaller group Kharem had sent out. Hornet hadn’t liked the idea of warriors spying on other warriors, but Kharem argued that he needed to be sure.
“This going to work?” Hornet asked when they finally left the camp an hour before dawn.
“No reason why it won’t.” They walked in front of the main group, and both kept their voices low, so there was no risk of being overheard.
“Too reliant on others, though. Sure we can trust them?”
“Them?”
“You know who I mean.”
Viper would never have accepted a response like that, not from Kharem and definitely not from one of the warriors. But if it highlighted Hornet’s worries, it told Kharem that others were worried too.
“Hope you’re not backing out,” he said.
“Just being wary.”
“Our instructions haven’t led us wrong yet,” Kharem said.
“First time for everything.”
And that reminded Kharem of Garrick, how the man had relied so much on Authority’s warriors—a handful, but devastatingly effective against Genna and her guards. Garrick had believed the relationship between himself and Authority—Kharem never met the man’s direct contact—was equitable.
That had been his downfall. Kharem was under no such illusion. Yes, Kharem had entered this arrangement because of what he’d gain, but he knew who was in charge.
“Sensible to have doubts,” he said. “Stay alert to stay alive. But we follow the instructions.”
Hornet nodded. “Not like we have another option, is it?”
“You understand, then.”
But there were always options.
They walked toward the Dome, the hemisphere of glass that protected its inhabitants. The word glass was a misnomer, though. Two layers, from what Kharem understood, each super-tough, each with its own strengths. There was, according to everything he’d read and heard, no way to break the glass. The Dome, as it reared up into the sky, was impenetrable.
But there were always holes.
- 56 -
It wasn’t the hole in the back of the woman’s head that turned Paskia’s stomach, nor the missing half of her skull. No, what drained the colour from Paskia’s cheeks and forced bile into her throat was the sight of the gore splattered across Rodin’s pained face.
She dropped from the hatch and approached, hands steady on the gun. That was important, as Cali had stressed. Guns had no minds of their own, so the shooter had to retain control at all times, regardless of emotions.
She aimed the gun at the woman, even though there were no signs of life.
“That’s one way of stopping them,” Rodin said.
Paskia swallowed, couldn’t dislodge the coppery taste of the air.
“Thanks,” she managed to say.
He shuffled, winced, hands clutching his stomach. “Just helping out. Smart, using the hatch.”
“Seemed logical. Had to trust you’d stay out of trouble, though.” Her body shook, torn between remaining in control and rushing to his side. “Watched her approach, thought she’d walk past. Then you appeared, just as she turned to the house. Guess that means we can’t use this place again.”
He nodded, and shuffled again, trying to rise to his feet. “We need to get to the base,” he said.
Paskia lowered the gun, stepped to his side. It was easy to support his weight, even though his jacket was warm and damp, and the stench made her want to gag.
“You’re in no state to go a
nywhere,” she said. “Sit back down, I’ll take a look.”
He shook his head, and she thought that was a slight at first, thought he was about to make some comment about her not being medically trained.
But he simply said, “The base,” then coughed, doubling over, pulling against Paskia’s arms.
She held him as he shook. He groaned as he straightened his back. When he stood tall his face was a red mask of sweat.
“Need to warn them,” he said. “More warriors.”
“Only saw one, even in the further Eyes.”
“Eight of them. Walked right past my post.”
His post? Yes—he’d been on a shift, a few streets over. But he was here now, not there. Which meant…
“They attacked your station?” She looked over his body, searching for more wounds.
Rodin shook his head. “Walked past. Eight. They stopped, took bearings. One of them headed this way.” He looked at her, and the pain in his face wasn’t only from his stomach. “We have to warn them.”
“Them?”
“Base. Before the warriors get there.”
And that was when realisation dropped, when her mind fractured, when she couldn’t decide if this man was a hero or an idiot.
But another part of her mind calculated.
“How long ago?” she asked.
“Fifteen minutes. Twenty.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and muttered something, sounded like he was cursing himself.
“Could be setting up positions,” she said. “Maybe they were heading somewhere else.”
He shook his head, and Paskia knew she was only finding excuses.
And she made her decision.
She holstered her gun and shuffled her arm around Rodin’s back. “Let’s go, then.”
Rodin sighed, and she thought he was going to tell her to stay, or tell her she’d get there quicker on her own. But then he nodded.
It took five minutes to get down the stairs and into the street, but by then Rodin was walking taller, not wincing with every step. Whatever that warrior had done to his insides had either shifted into a less uncomfortable position, or Rodin was overcoming the pain.
Neither would be good long-term. Rodin needed to be examined, by an expert. Not someone field-trained, but a professional meditech. Someone like Ellya.
They didn’t speak as they walked along the street, and his weight lifted with each step, until he was walking unaided by her side. She still held an arm round him for a while, though. Even with the stink of blood and whatever else had showered him, it was still a comfort to be this close.
When was the last time they’d embraced? Not like this, not the mutual support of the traumatised, but an honest hug? It must have been back in Ross, before…before Authority had come down. How long ago was that? Fifteen years maybe?
Fifteen years apart. And when they finally get back together, the two of them were still fighting Authority, only not in Ross but in the districts, in constant danger. And others depended on them doing the right thing. Friends, like Uran, Gorrin and Irazette. Vanya, and everyone else back at the base.
She shuddered—the warriors would be there by now. They might be waiting, or they might have attacked. And there was nothing Paskia or Rodin could do about it.
“There’s other security,” he said, as if reading her mind.
She nodded.
“Eyes. And traps.” His words erupted between breaths, and she knew talking was a struggle, but he needed to get these thoughts out, so Paskia nodded again and let him continue.
“Split base—more than one building, spreading the target. And there’s an escape plan. Vanya worked it out, with Jornas and the others. A way to get out to safety should things look…untenable.”
Untenable. Not a word Paskia heard out here, either in the districts or in the Factory. Unless it was spoken by Daventree. It was a Dome word.
“Uran’ll run at the first sign of trouble,” she said. “Irazette is sensible, and Gorrin won’t hang around. Vanya knows what she’s doing, too.”
“She’ll look after them.”
His voice was flat, not what Paskia expected. They had a history, Rodin and Vanya. Different to the history she shared with him, Paskia told herself. Vanya was another mercenary. Their relationship—friendship?—was based on their work.
Thoughts rose, ones she didn’t want to deal with—at least, not while so much else was happening. She shook them from her mind, said, “Not too far,” even though they’d been walking for ten minutes already and weren’t even half way yet.
“Not too far,” he repeated.
She didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.
They walked on in silence, and it must have been getting early because there was a warmth in the sky, the start of a glow. It was over to the east, directly ahead. Soon, Paskia would be able to see those first rays of sunlight reflecting from the Dome itself.
And then Rodin stopped. He lifted his head and sniffed the air.
“Fire,” he said, more a breath than a word.
“Where?”
“Come on.”
He strode away, his face contorting with each step, one hand resting on his stomach. Paskia hurried to his side.
And in the distance the light in the sky flickered like it was dancing. It wasn’t the soft, muted colours of dawn but an angry red, shrouded in black clouds that billowed into the sky.
The warriors had attacked.
- 57 -
Shae had never seen the gardens around the Council buildings so busy, nor so full of smiles and expectation.
Even though her official invite had granted her access through a different entrance than the main one, where queues even now stretched far down the street, Shae had still been required to wait, surrounded by a sea of excited chatter. The security check had been relatively thorough, although not as intensive as the searches carried out on randomly selected individuals at the main entrance.
Shae moved through the throngs of party-goers, some of whom had started their personal celebrations earlier in the morning, and were already sloshing their drinks over their hands as they slurred their words. It wouldn’t surprise Shae if many required a sharp-drink later, to stave off the urge to close their eyes and succumb to a dry-mouthed slumber.
For her part, she sipped from a flute a male server—attractive, but barely an adult in years—had offered her from the tray he balanced on one hand. The sparkling wine was fruity, a touch too sweet for her tastes, but had the subtle after-taste that spoke of exclusivity. Of course, only those arriving through the guest entrance were offered such drinks, and only the single flute each. After that, there were the many bars and cafes that dotted the grounds, amongst the other attractions.
It all served to calm Shae’s mind, especially after the conversation with those two…thugs she’d hired. They’d met in a small cafe over toward the eastern side of the Dome, not the best area by any stretch of the imagination, an early-evening rendezvous that she could—if questioned—chalk up to research. The two men’s profiles on the Dome’s system showed them to be in the physical trades, some of the masses who ensured the Dome’s buildings and infrastructure remained in good order. They’d travelled from Kern Dome, adding to the workforce involved in the extension to the Giorian Galleries.
Of course, this was a fabrication—the men were from the districts, or so Shae believed, and were there to do a very different kind of job. Shae had followed all the leads she could, and had supplied the men with a list of five names, along with addresses and other sundry information. When the pair had left the cafe, Shae’s drink had grown cold, and the food on her plate tasteless.
There were many who wished to talk with Shae, and she slipped into her various personae with practised ease. She nodded and smiled when Councillors such as Porello bent her ear, and she leaned in close when some of the more edgy artists spoke of their various pointless problems. And she spent
a long time in conversation with Sertio.
The artist had suffered greatly, of course, but he’d made an effort for the day’s activities—there was none of the recent stubble on his head, and he wore new clothes. He even managed to smile for much of the time—although that was probably down to the way Shae steered the conversation toward his pieces that were scattered throughout the gardens, and away from the girl he still referred to as her ‘poor, sweet niece’.
She mingled, screen never far from her hand. Some people simply begged for their words to be recorded for posterity, as if their utterances had any importance, while others would only talk once the screen was in a pocket. Of course, her pendant hung around her neck, and she’d ensured the memory banks were unencumbered with previous files.
Events like these were always draining, and when Shae spied Erinya she let out a contented sigh—a conversation that had no ulterior motives would be refreshing indeed.
“Ah, Shae,” said Erinya as Shae approached, turning side-on to the pair of gentlemen she’d been conversing with. They both wore business suits, and Shae suspected they were here in a formal capacity rather than as guests. Quite possibly they were providing security, and Shae shuddered.
“Councillor Erinya,” Shae said, accepting the usual brief embrace. “I must say, this event has surpassed my expectations so far.”
“Considering the countless hours of organisation, it had better be special!” She dropped her arms, and then glanced at the two men, giving them some signal. As she leaned in to Shae, the pair walked off without a word. “But, at the risk of spoiling such an occasion, I feel I should mention something that has recently come to my attention.”
The Councillor led Shae away, onto one of the few large areas of open ground. The music playing around the central plaza faded into the background, and with the attractions elsewhere Erinya’s intentions were clear—she wished to converse in some form of privacy.
