by Holly Barbo
Quin shook his head. “I would probably pass you on the street and not recognize you.”
M’nacht nodded.
“Here are the rest of your clothes. You need to return with me tonight. I’ll pass on the rest of the news that Dylan told me while you change.” When Kes stepped out of the room, Jordan relayed the information about the contributors to the newspapers and the Council. “This tends to agree with your theory about Chemedco, but I have to expand on Dylan’s findings. As you know, service people are often invisible to the bourgeois who hire them. Bartenders, maids and chauffeurs hear and see things. It isn’t just gifts of kronots. Sexual favors, the use of vacation villas, jewelry and lavish dinners are just some of the currency of persuasion. Once Dylan and his team come up with names he thinks are clean or at least not heavily influenced, I’d like to hear it and cross reference it with what my people have told me.” He pointed at M’nacht. “That is where you can use your skills to counter-punch. Eventually, you can come out of hiding, but you don’t need to wait for that. I have complete faith in your abilities.”
Kes emerged from the other room. The clothes fit, but he looked far from tailored. The pants were of sturdy cloth but stained and frayed. An old pair of scuffed and scratched leather suspenders held them up. The shirt, which had once been a soft blue, was more grey, with worn tattered edges, and the stained vest was patched. Serviceable boots and an old set of goggles completed the picture. Both had seen better days, probably several years ago.
Jordan grinned. “Now add sweat and grime and you will be completely invisible,” he paused for just a heartbeat, “and will blend with the disenfranchised folk that are lingering on the streets of Therad, particularly after dark.”
“You are unrecognizable as my dear 21-year-old son. Really, I wouldn’t know you! Remarkable!” M’nacht tore his gaze from Kes and looked at Jordan. “What is his job?”
“Maintenance, repair and janitorial duties at the old science building in the Four Corners. I assume he knows basic stuff like fixing aether lamps. It will keep him busy and he can go anywhere in the building. After hours, he can shack up with other unmarried laborers at a place a few blocks away. With that in mind, he should go through his backpack and leave most of the contents with you. Everything has to fit with his new identity. He’s now Rus.” He looked at Kes with a questioning raised eyebrow.
“Sounds good.” The young man began emptying the battered leather pack. “You can fill me in on any other details on the trip back to Therad.”
Quin brought out a plate of sandwiches. “Eat up. I imagine you won’t have hearty meals for a while. I’ll take care of your car, Jordan. You need to fuel your body, too.”
As both men attacked the food with enthusiasm, M’nacht worked out communication details. Most information would pass through Jordan via arranged meetings. It was just safer that way—for now. Their time would come when they would reemerge from the shadows for the final fight.
The Winding Pinion
Dylan was working late at the office. The place was quiet and locked for the night. Only the aether lamp by his desk broke the shadows. He was poring over the reports from the team. They hadn’t quite finished the research following the contributor trail, but it was enough to know the main players were just a handful of wealthy citizens. Most of the Council of Elders was compromised but there was no way of knowing if the damage was irreversible. The newspapers offered a bit more optimism. If only they could get hard evidence, there might be some reporters they could feed it to.
He ran his hands through his hair in distraction. Earlier in the evening, when he’d stepped away from his desk to lock up, Mikla had tried to reach him. She was preparing to leave for Tempest Point, the last archive building on her list, but stopped to use the dash-key where she was. Dylan always kept a message bot at his dash-key and it’d recorded the message. He’d heard its whistle upon his return to his office. Rewinding the little thing, he’d set it to translate and, after whirring a bit, the bot spoke in its tinny voice. Upon hearing Mikla’s identifying code, he’d slipped a waxed cylinder in the dictaphone.
“Chief. Almost finished with research. Have discovered several crises through history that were miraculously resolved at the last possible moment. Found interesting references to three different focal points… locations… from which averting actions radiated. Like reasonableness rippling out in waves… or something. Can’t explain but several documents at different locations corroborated. Copied statements verbatim but left originals in place. Just one more place to check. Getting an uneasy feeling, as if I’m being followed. Going to Tempest Point now instead of morning, just in case. Storing notes in cobalt tube magnetically attached inside boiler of car. Secure there. Want to get back to office. Should be there midafternoon tomorrow. Signing off. Mikla.”
Dylan didn’t like the sound of that. He’d been worried about her traveling alone ever since the unrest had escalated. The last time he’d communicated with her he’d relayed the news of the riots. She reported the countryside peaceful and felt she’d be safe until she neared Therad.
He got up and paced his office. A half hour later, he came to realize the pointlessness of staying. Mikla wouldn’t get to another dash-key until Tempest Point. Shutting off the aether lamp, he let himself out of the building, locking each door behind him.
The four-hour trip back to Therad had been informative. Jordan had filled in the information gaps of the situation in the capital city, and Kes’s face was grim with the knowledge of the deteriorating conditions. By the time they had reached the outskirts, Kes had developed a cover story for his new identity of Rus.
A couple of blocks away from the workers’ dormitory in the corner of a rundown warehouse, Jordan pulled over to the curb. Kes grabbed his leather pack and hopped out. In case there were unseen observers, he touched his fingertips to his forehead and bobbed his head to the older man. “Thanks for the lift,” he called as the steam car chuffed away. Kes trudged down the street from shadow to aether lamp and back into pools of darkness. The edge of the district was a little seedy, with refuse spilling out of trash bins and the occasional boarded-up window. The area had a grubby patina. Kes idly wondered how long it had been since anyone had paid for street sweepers.
There were milling groups of people dressed as shabbily as he was. As he passed them, he’d smile and touch his forehead in friendly acknowledgement, but didn’t stop. Kes didn’t feel any threat from the small clusters of people but was prudent to build camaraderie. It was late when he made it to the workers’ hostel and found a bunk. Rolling onto the stained mattress, he closed his eyes and within minutes was asleep.
Less than six hours later, he awoke to the shrill call of the steam whistle. There were several men getting up and trudging out the door to the latrine. He could hear the cries of bread, sausage and kris carts hawking their wares and searched his pocket for a coin. There were a few more in his pack, but no one knew that, and it wasn’t something he was going to reveal. Slipping the leather strap over one shoulder, he purchased a roll and made his way to the service door of the science building, chewing the tough pastry as he went. The foreman of the building gruffly let him in. The grizzled man spared him little of his valuable time and in clipped sentences told him the tasks that were expected of him. He was granted a locker to secure his pack and was handed gloves and a key to the janitorial closet.
With a touch to his forehead and a nod, Kes began his new job.
In late afternoon, a farmer bringing produce to Therad saw an abandoned steam car off the road and at a strange angle ahead of him. As he got closer and was able to make out details, he realized there was something very wrong. Baggage, papers and bits of fabric were strewn about the area, caught in weeds and blowing onto the road in the light breeze. Concerned, he slipped the brake on his steam-powered wagon and jumped out. As he approached the car, he began to pick up the stuff littering the ground. When he got to the far side of the car, sheltered from view of the road, he fou
nd the body of a young woman behind some rocks. Crying out in horror, he stood there in shock. She had thick brunette hair, which was now matted with blood, and may have been pretty at one time, but her face was so battered it was hard to tell. Her clothes had been torn away and she was covered in oozing cuts and bruises. Not wanting to leave her there for the scavengers, he returned with a tarp, which he always kept under his seat. As he knelt to wrap the unfortunate woman’s body to take to the police station, he heard a whisper of a moan. Startled, the toil-hardened man placed his hand on her throat, praying to the Goddess for a sign of life. There was a weak flutter. With all the care he could muster, he slid his arms under her and lifted. Nestling her between the vegetables and the baskets of yarn his wife had spun, he jumped back into his lorry and, watching the boiler pressure gauge, slipped the farm truck into gear, making all speed to Paramount Hospital.
Tension on the Mainspring
It was midmorning when Dylan looked up to see a security officer enter and stop at Oshe’s desk. His researcher pointed in his boss’s direction and, as the uniformed man turned, Oshe stood, uneasy with the unprecedented visit.
Dylan met the man halfway to his office and the two conferred. As Oshe watched, Dylan’s face became ashen. He rushed to his boss as the older man began to collapse. At Oshe’s sudden movement, Ran and Frea looked up, startled, and jumped to their feet. The security officer and the researcher were able to get Dylan back to his office and into a chair. Oshe poured a mug of kris and held it to the older man’s lips before turning to the stranger.
“What did you say to him?” he demanded.
At Dylan’s nod of permission, the security man turned to the three individuals clustered in the office doorway, near the desk. “A severely injured young woman was brought to Paramount Hospital early this morning. She’d been found by a farmer bringing his goods to Therad. He gave the location where he’d found her and we’ve retrieved the steam car and her belongings from there. The car was registered to this office and, from the appearance of the contents, she was employed here. She died of her injuries fifteen minutes ago.”
There was a confusion of sounds; dismay and grief overlapped and interrupted his words. Oshe shouted, “No! There must be some mistake!” He searched the security officer’s resolute face for denial. Dylan caught his eye and shook his head. The black-haired researcher crumpled into his chair, his eyes going blank in shock.
Frea clenched her hands on the edge of her desk in an effort to stay upright and focus on the news. She was unaware that she was shaking her head in denial and that tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Yelling, Ran surged forward toward the security man, wanting to shove the fellow and his lies out of the office. Speaking low, Dylan stepped in front of his employee, blocking the young man’s access to the officer. At last, his boss’s words penetrated his mind and he quieted—his expression still reflecting his disbelief.
The uniformed man waited a moment before continuing. “The medical staff did everything they could. For the most part she was unconscious, but at one point, just before she died, she spoke. It was difficult to make out the words because of the injuries to her face.” He drew out a small notebook from his shirt pocket, flipped it open and scanned the page before looking up. “I understand this is M’nacht’s research center?”
Dylan met his eyes and nodded.
“What the nurse transcribed was: Asking about M’nacht. Where? Don’t know. Didn’t believe me. What was I doing? Told them. Sunspot records. Hit me. Stone. Four men. Bare. Hurt.” He closed his notebook. “We’re investigating the possible connection between this and the home invasion and beating of M’nacht. Do you know where he is?”
They all shook their heads but Dylan spoke. “We’re just continuing the work he had assigned to us before… he disappeared. Mikla was great at deciphering the old records. When she left, ten days ago, the unrest and riots hadn’t begun. We… I thought it was safe for a single woman to travel alone to other towns and science installations. Now she’s dead.” He looked up at the officer and there was a hard glint to his eyes. “What were her injuries? What’d they do to her?”
The security man’s lips thinned in regret. This question always came up and was never easy. “It was an isolated stretch of road. She was badly beaten and raped. She had multiple broken bones: face, hands and ribs. There were knife cuts and bruises all over her body. We think, because of her statement, it was possible that some of the injuries were because they pelted her with rocks, probably at the beginning. Due to her connection with M’nacht and the fact that he was also beaten and sustained broken bones, we are assuming this was an interrogation. They must have thought she was dead. Too bad she couldn’t identify them, but we were lucky she was able to say anything. Since you have provided her name, I’ll be leaving to break the news to her family.”
With abruptness, Dylan stood. “If you can wait a minute, outside, I’d like to be there with you when you speak to them. I’ll take the other company car and guide you to their home.”
The officer nodded. “I’d appreciate that. It helps when there is someone they know present. I’ll be in my city car watching for you.”
When the door closed behind him, Dylan turned to his remaining researchers and gave them a hug. Holding his voice low, he said, “Give me five minutes to be out of the area, then drive her car into the garage. Make sure no one is around. Gather her belongings and when the boiler is cool enough, retrieve the cobalt tube magnetically attached to the inside wall. The research she died for is in it. For her sake and ours, we can’t lose it! We need to be very careful. Stick together. I’ll talk to you more when I return.”
They nodded and returned to their desk. Frea set her clockwork timer for five minutes before she gave into the tears, laying her head down on the desktop and sobbing into her arms. Mikla was dead! Had M’nacht and Kes been killed too?
Kes had put in a full day. The regular maintenance staff had been cut in half due to The Blight, and because the Council had reduced the science department allotment, they couldn’t replace everybody. There was more than enough work to go around. He had no trouble locating the glyph and did manage to slip both of his Sunstones into their subtle pressure plate hollows for a brief moment, but since there was not even the slightest vibration, Kes assumed the third host had yet to show up. When his shift ended, in late afternoon, he was hungry and dirty. He needed to put something in his growling stomach, but the grubby patina would help him blend with the street people he’d seen the night before.
Keeping his leather pack on one shoulder, Kes stopped by a street vender. He chose his selections making the most of the little money he had and soon was leaning against the stone column of a building, chewing the fare. There was a bustling of activity as offices emptied and closed their doors for the day. Though many people were catching the trolley or walking out of the area to go home for the night, a number of workers were milling in clusters and talking with degrees of agitation.
After a while, a balding man walked up to him. His wire-frame spectacles and self-trimmed hair were a little incongruous with his mismatched clothing. The man looked like a professor who had fallen on hard times. “Make sure you get enough to drink. In order to digest the stuff, you need fluids. I don’t trust the water, though. Maybe it’s where it’s stored, but it has an aftertaste.” The man’s lips twitched. “I always look for bottles with remnants of kris, ruby ales or wine. I hesitate when it looks like piss.” He held out a big calloused paw. “I’m Thom. I’m a gleaner. Been at it a long time and know just about all the people you see here in the evenings. You’re new here.”
Kes shook the man’s hand, grateful for the calluses he had on his own hands. “Name is Rus. Got in last night from the outlying areas. My family is gone and there wasn’t enough work. Caught a lift. Lucked out at the old science building. They’d just lost some to The Blight. I’m doing everything from cleaning toilets to fixing aether lamps. If it keeps me employed, I don’t real
ly care.” He studied the man before him. “Most of the gleaners back home go through the fields after harvest. Somehow, I think you don’t fit that job description.”
Thom guffawed. “You just didn’t see them picking through the garbage and at the town’s garbage sort yard.” He grinned at Kes’s look of disbelief. “All the garbage is collected. Some goes to the high temperature vents. The burnable stuff is dumped into the vents. The heat and smoke fuel some new generators. I was told it’s the energy source of the future.
“Organic waste is taken and composted in layers. Stinks to Shacir and back. Whew! Also attracts scavengers. Gleaners and pickers try to get the food and good stuff out before they have to fight the teeth, talon and claws of the hunter beasts.
“The metal scraps are scrounged and hoarded until there is enough to sell to the scrap men. The trick is to find a safe place to hoard it until you have enough to exchange it for kronots. Gleaners are basically the same everywhere. Here in Therad, we go through garbage bins. You’d be surprised what people throw away.”
Kes held out half of his roll to Thom and the friendliness melted off the older man’s face. “Don’t insult me, boy. I don’t need your charity! I’ve supported myself for years this way and I’m not about to accept pity and gifts from a pup like you!”
