The Kalis Experiments

by R A Fisher

  The whole thing would need to look like a false alarm. Lees was already on edge, and if there was an incident in the vault that Ka’id kept his life in, he would hear about it long before Syrina had a chance to finish him. Any suspicious corpses or missing documents and Lees would vanish in a puff of self-entitled smoke. True, if he disappeared thoroughly enough, even Ormo might think he was dead. But if her Ma’is ever found Lees alive after she told him the job was done, Syrina would be as dead as Lees should have been, favorite pet or no.

  She wouldn’t be able to take anything out of the vault, but the stack of evidence from the audit was already damning enough to Lees. Syrina just needed the end of a string that would lead her to the High Merchant at the top of the pile.

  She did more digging, this time at the city planner’s office. The openings she’d found doubled as drainage. Air shafts went from angled to vertical about ten hands in to let water drain into the sewers. The vents to the vault continued two hands further down, set in the far wall of the shaft.

  When she was satisfied she’d learned everything she was going to, she traveled across town to the rickshaw depot near the District Gate, nicked a spare wheel and stashed it on the roof of the building across from one of the ducts.

  At the Stone Mason’s Quarry—not an actual quarry, but the part of Eheene outside the Foreigner’s District where they worked the raw marble and obsidian from Valez’Mui into blocks—she spent the next night gathering enough dust and marble tailings to fill a sack that weighed about as much as she did. She stashed it on the roof with the rickshaw wheel.

  In the morning, she went down to the dry docks, wearing the face of a ship builder’s apprentice, and with a half-day’s work carved into shape a long, narrow plank that curved into a dip on one end and was concave down the middle. After the shipyards had closed, she went back to get it and brought it to one of the shafts at the base of the Skalkaad Trade Union.

  It wasn’t too cold. A blanket of clouds had rolled in at sunset to seal in the faint warmth of the day and block whatever Eyelight might otherwise filter through. It was hard to see, but she still needed to interrupt her work to freeze in place a dozen times as mercenary patrols made their rounds. It wasn’t until the predawn light was graying the sky to the east that she’d maneuvered the long piece of wood inside the shaft the way she wanted it.

  Hoping it wouldn’t rain, she went back to the palace and slept a while before dressing as a rickshaw runner, strong and stooped, and jogged back to the depot. She selected one of the rickshaws enclosed by curtains instead of a convertible, and after a lengthy argument with the depot manager about the validity of her license and transfer documents, she was trotting back to the Palace district, rickshaw in tow.

  Less than an hour before the service curfew, a tiny scowling rickshaw runner hit a curb, breaking a wheel as he trotted his empty conveyance down the lane along the Skalkaad Trade Union. It was the most heavily patrolled district of Eheene, outside the Syndicate complex itself. The watch traveled in packs of four, and a group of them was on the little man before he could even ascertain the damage.

  The unit that confronted him was composed of three men and a woman. All four wore thick hoods of woven gray silk. The woman was the senior officer and carried herself with a dignified air of authority. She glared down her long nose at the man, who had turned away from their approach to frown at his rickshaw.

  “You need to move off,” she said.

  The three men stood around her, gloomy and rough, but the woman was calm and cold, her brow furrowed beneath the gray and auburn mane that bloomed from under her hood. Little clouds of her breath gathered in the air in front of her as she spoke.

  “That’s helpful,” the runner grunted, without turning to face her. He eyed the cracked wheel, scowl deepening as he rubbed his tan, leathery scalp.

  “Look, you’ve got ten minutes to get this thing out of the street. After that, your boss is fined and you’re going to jail.”

  That got his attention. He turned, wrinkled face angry and scared.

  “What do you want me to do? You going to lock me away because my goddamn wheel broke at the wrong time? You might as well. Ranaad gets fined and he’ll beat me to death anyway.”

  The woman pressed her lips together and looked at the wheel, over the runner’s shoulder. It was split down the center, right through the axle.

  “Look,” the runner sniveled, green eyes pleading, “help me push this thing against the wall out of the way, and I’ll be back here before first light with a fresh wheel so I can get it to the depot before Ranaad gets in. No beating or jail for me, no paperwork for you.”

  She thought a moment. “We’ll be back through here at the end of our shift, an hour after Eyeset. That thing is still here, we’ve got your license and your face, and we’re coming for you.”

  “Deal,” he smiled. “Thanks. I promise I’ll be long gone by then.”

  When it was dark, Syrina returned, naked and slathered in fish oil, which made her want to throw up but would cover her scent from any dogs. Of course, they’d notice the overpowering stench of fish—the dogs and everyone else—but she hoped they wouldn’t be able to smell a human intruder under the stink.

  The rickshaw was still where they’d pushed it against the wall in front of the vent. The board she’d banged out at the dry docks remained in place, protruding from the Trade Union building, three fingers out. As far as she could tell, it still reached over the sewer drain to the shaft on the other side.

  She climbed up to the roof, got the spare wheel, and repaired the rickshaw well enough to get her the short distance she’d need to go. Then she hid the broken wheel on the seat behind the curtain and went back up to the roof to get the bag of marble tailings.

  Hidden behind the repaired rickshaw, she began pouring the gravel and dust down the plank, slowly at first, so she could listen. There was a faint hiss and clatter as it flowed across the sewer shaft, and a distant rattle as it pelted through the vent into Vault Two. Syrina stabilized the board with a spare chip of wood from the broken wheel and began to dump the bag down the ramp.

  She was about two-thirds of the way through the sack when there was a deep thump from somewhere underneath the ground, a quick suction of air and a thick pop. A second later, a lone bell began to toll over Raymos Storage, and red smoke floated off from the roof, west over Eheene, under the soft purplish glow of the thinning clouds lit from above by the Eye.

  She yanked the plank from the vent, snapped it twice over her knee so she could fit it into the rickshaw, sprinted everything the two blocks to the nearest canal, and shoved it in. It smashed through the thin ice with a crack, and she watched long enough to make sure it disappeared beneath the oily water. Then she ran back to wait for security.

  Four mercenaries trotted up the steps to the double doors of Raymos Storage. They were all men. Their leader had a small crooked nose and a jagged yellow beard that hung in knots down to his chest. He banged on the knocker, and the door cracked open enough to let them in. Syrina slipped in behind them and skittered to the top of the thick stone door frame before it closed.

  The room was huge and cold and empty. Everything inside was cut from gleaming black obsidian except the long, narrow reception desk, which was one solid block of marble. She wondered how they’d gotten it inside.

  Two more hired swords—a boyish man and a middle-aged woman who could’ve been his mother—stood by the desk. Junior stood by the lever that opened and closed the outside door, and Mom held a leash connected to a hound that was bigger than Syrina. It growled and mumbled and looked Syrina’s way, but so far that was all. The only light came from an oil brazier suspended by brass chains above the desk, which glittered on the black stone walls without illuminating the room any more than starlight. The lamps that lined the walls every ten hands were unlit.

  “Crap, Lucaan, you just come from the docks?” the woman asked.

  “Gah, I smell it,” one of the newcomers stuck out his tongue
. “Was outside, too. Some monger must’ve spilled fish guts in the street.”

  “Let’s just get the damn door open,” the bearded one said.

  There was a mutter of agreement, and Beard and Mom tugged open the copper trapdoor which led down to the bank proper.

  “You been down there yet?” he asked her.

  “Yeah. Chelsen and Gav are still there. Waiting to go into the vault until you guys got here, just in case. Doors are all still sealed. Probably just a false alarm. Big-ass rat or something.”

  “Well, let’s go check it out,” Lucaan said.

  Syrina slapped her hand against the marble wall, and the hound, who’d been staring at her with pricked ears while growling deep in her throat, let loose with a torrent of barking and howling. White lather flew from her teeth like snowflakes.

  “Holy shit,” the woman said. “What is it, Gracy?”

  “I heard something, too,” one of the other men said. He was looking at the door. “It must’ve come from outside.”

  Junior pulled the lever that opened the front door, and he and Beard followed Gracy as the dog dragged Mom across the marble flagstones toward the entrance. The others were a few paces behind them. Everyone except Gracy focused on the open door. If anyone noticed the dog was looking at something above it, they only gave the spot a brief glance before turning their attention back outside.

  Syrina sprang over their heads, rolled twice, and came to her feet at a silent run. The dog leaped up, spinning to face back inside. Her barks grew high pitched and frantic.

  “Gracy! Gracy! Stop! Down!” The woman struggling with the leash yelled.

  Everyone else stared at the hound, backing away and cursing. No one followed Gracy’s gaze back toward the open trap door, where a shadow flickered for a moment and was gone.

  Syrina got to the base of the spiral stairs cut into the foundation. The iron portcullis to the lower lobby was open. The desk here was carved from the granite floor. Three massive, round steel doors behind it led to the vaults. Behind the slab of the downstairs desk, idling in front of the door to Vault Two, was another pair of guards, a squat dark-haired man with angry eyes, and a svelte redhead holding the leash of another dog. To Syrina’s right was another door, this one heavy wood reinforced with copper bands. It was closed, probably locked. Syrina scurried to the corner nearest to it, squatted and waited.

  A minute later, the four guards she’d followed inside came down the stairs. The pair with Gracy stayed above, as she’d hoped. No need for two dogs down here, not if one was acting crazy. The second dog whined and growled, though at Syrina or from an unfriendly disposition toward the newcomers she couldn’t tell, and everyone ignored it, in any case.

  “Let’s get this over with.” The bearded man headed toward the wood and copper door next to where Syrina squatted in the shadows, a ring of keys in his hand. “Gah. Stinks down here, too.” He scowled at the vault doors.

  “What’s your problem?” the dark-haired man asked.

  “You ever seen someone after they’ve been pulled from a vault that’s gone off?”

  “No. Have you?”

  Beard snapped the three locks open in quick succession, and the door squealed inward on copper hinges. It revealed a cramped room lined on one side with twelve ceramic and teak levers.

  “When there’s a controlled explosion in the naphtha chamber under the vault,” he said, “the fire sucks the vents, and the door closed and burns out all the air. Clever trick. Vacuum puts out the fire before it can spread.”

  “So? What’s your problem?”

  “Five, six years ago, a little kid, maybe five years old, got caught in Three. Playing around. Parents couldn’t find him, but no one knew he was in there. Never did figure out how he slipped in. Anyway, after closing time he set the plates off. We pulled him out a few hours later. His eyes’d burst, and his ears and nose had hemorrhaged all over the damn place. It’s a mess, is so. Still got the image of the poor kid stuck in my head like it was yesterday, and I don’t have any great desire to see it again. There, plates are off.”

  He pulled the four center levers back and headed toward the other soldiers, who had gathered around the door to Vault Two.

  Syrina waited.

  “Ready?” the redhead asked.

  “Yeah, do it,” Beard said.

  The redhead cranked a small wheel on the front of the door, off to the side and closer to the floor than the main handle. There was a pop, then a hiss of air, which died as pressure seeped back into the vault.

  Beard stepped up and dialed the combination. “Okay, ready?”

  When no one answered, he cranked the handle, and the huge round door swung outward. It clanged as it came to a stop after six hands, leaving an opening big enough for one person to file through at a time.

  “Let’s go to work,” he said. “Come on, Syfa. Sniff out whatever’s in there.”

  Syfa growled toward Syrina’s corner before reluctantly squeezing into the vault. Beard took the leash and followed the dog through. His three companions pushed in after him, while the redhead and the dark-haired man stayed outside.

  Syrina moved.

  “There’s a pile of sand or something in here,” she heard beard say, but then she was in the security room, pushing the levers back toward the wall.

  There was a dull boom from somewhere deep under her feet. Wind blew down the stairway for a second before the vault door sucked closed with a reverberating, heavy thud. Outside, the bell began to toll once more.

  The remaining pair had been standing in front of the vault, and either the sudden drop in air pressure or the giant metal door slamming closed right next to their heads had stunned them. Syrina glided over to where they leaned against the door, blinking, hands at their temples. She slapped first the man, then the redhead over their ears, hands cupped, as hard as she could, and jabbed them each in the nape with stiff fingers, crippling the connection between their lungs and their brain. They fell to the ground, flopped, and lay still. Then she closed the door to the security room, hopped up to the top of the door frame of Vault One, and waited more.

  It wasn’t long this time. She heard barking on the stairs, and a second later the woman from the lobby and Gracy appeared in the doorway. Sonny was nowhere to be seen. Syrina hoped he’d gone to get someone who could open the vault again.

  “Goddamn it, it stinks down here, too. Which one of… holy shit.” The woman emerged from the stairway and ran over to the two bodies, letting go of the dog’s leash.

  Gracy stood at the bottom of the stairs and continued to bark in Syrina’s direction, but the woman only gave the corner a cursory glance before turning her attention back to the corpses. In a few minutes, the son appeared with a corporate inspector and four more security in tow—the woman and three men who had harassed Syrina’s rickshaw runner earlier that evening.

  “What the hell happened here?” the inspector demanded.

  He was about fifty, thin, with dark bags under his eyes. His shaved head bore the spiral tattoo that marked his office.

  “I think… it looks like they forgot to lock the plates before they went in.” The woman’s voice shook.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The inspector scowled. “Mavis is no fresh pie. He knows the drill.”

  “I heard it go off again, too,” Sonny said.

  The inspector walked over to the security room and opened the door. “Shit. Door’s unlocked, but the plates are still set. That idiot.”

  He re-pulled the levers, and as the redhead had done, then evened the pressure in Vault Two with the valve. There were no theatrics this time. He rolled the combination in its cradle and swung the door open.

  In the next three hours, twenty people went in and out of Vault Two, removing bodies, taking samples from the pile of sand and grit that had built up against one wall, and taking inventory of the vault’s contents. No one noticed the naked woman who’d slipped in during the commotion and took up residence on a high shelf in the back cor
ner, though everyone complained that the place stank like fish.

  With not quite three hours left before opening, the whole thing was written off as a false alarm set off by a collapsed ventilation shaft in the Union building above, which had led to a tragedy caused by old-fashioned human error. Further investigations were planned, but everyone agreed the most viable course of action was to open as usual and reassure the clientele their deposits were secure. They locked the door behind them and set the plates again.

  Syrina finally had some alone time. There were thousands of files stacked in narrow aisles, but they were well-organized, and she spent the next three hours avoiding the floor while rifling through Ehrina Ka’id’s most confidential records. Syrina ignored most of it, taking mental pictures of everything that might lead to something solid about Lees’s funding. She kept the lamp she’d snagged from the hook on the inside of the vault door turned down to a tiny flicker, both to preserve her air and in case someone came back in.

  When the bank opened, no one noticed a naked woman flit up the stairs and out the front door, but she overheard several comments about the stench of rotting fish.

  13

  The Doctor Is In

  Lees had been even more paranoid than Syrina had given him credit for. He’d panicked at the first sign of a break-in, and according to the servants left behind, had vanished at first light. His home stood abandoned, his business in confusion. He’d skipped town with his wife before he’d even had a chance to find out it was a false alarm.

  Ormo wasn’t going to like that, but there was nothing Syrina could have done about it. Lees had fled an hour before she’d even slipped out of the vault.