Zenith Rising

by Gavin Zanker

  ZENITH RISING

  GAVIN ZANKER

  Dedication

  For Tiana,

  who I need more than she knows.

  Contents

  Title Page • Dedication

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 • 39 • 40 • 41 • 42 • 43 • 44 • 45 • 46 • 47 • 48 • 49 • 50 • 51 • 52 • 53 • 54 • 55 • 56 • 57 • 58 • 59 • 59 • 60 • 61 • 62 • 63 • 64 • 65 • 66 • 67 • 68 • 69 • 70 • Epilogue

  Newsletter • Reviews • About the Author • Preview • Bibliography • Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  DARKNESS HAD ALREADY fallen when Aiden left the antiquated radio station behind and wound his way between the crowded, multi-tiered lodgings of the Rust district. The metal sidings and snaking ducts enclosing the undulating paths were covered with the remains of posters, most long since ripped away leaving only scraps of yellowed paper. The electric street-lamps cast pools of light here and there, but struggled to pierce the fog that had descended on the canyon city.

  Coming to a wall stencilled with graffiti, Aiden stopped as he recognised the icon of the Dawnists: simple lines depicting a sun rising over the horizon. Below, some words were scrawled in severe red capitals.

  REPENT. THEY ARE COMING.

  He hurried on, passing more of the same graffiti scattered in alcoves and behind ladders. He sensed someone watching him, but scanning the nooks and alleyways he saw no figures in the gloom. A shiver ran down his back, and he pulled the collar of his olive-coloured field jacket up around his neck. He emerged from the Rusts and stepped onto one of the oldest and most patched walkways that connected the north and south side of the canyon. It was known by the locals as the Cowards Gap, either because of the extreme vertigo it induced, or how popular it was with jumpers; with the only sound being the thudding of his boots on the damp, slippery metal, Aiden imagined it was probably both. The canyon floor, where the prison and city generators were housed, wasn’t visible through the thick cloud of fog settling below.

  He reached the end of the walkway and stepped off into Oldtown: the open market district at the heart of the city where the Mayor’s residence was located. Usually busy, even at this time of night, now only inky shadows glided through the fog in the distance. Aiden instinctively rested his hand on the Glock 17 at his belt, his expensive but dependable firearm of choice. He jumped as a sheet of newspaper blew past, rustling against his ankle before cartwheeling away into an alley. He cursed himself for being so twitchy and strode along the edge of the market, careful to keep away from any light sources that might illuminate him against the darkness.

  Once he passed the silent market and through another patchwork of walkways, he arrived at his destination: the Brentford Casino, a four-story building set back into the northern cliff-face of the canyon. Two armed bouncers stood in a brightly-lit alcove ready to turn away any trouble from the doors, while above them a neon tube sign flashed the establishment’s name, creating a halo of garish, blue light in the fog. The muted sound of a bass line drifted out from inside. It was one of the more popular spots in the city where people came to drink and gamble, but Aiden wasn’t here to indulge in either. This was the headquarters of the Syndicate, one of the most powerful organisations in the Rim. They were notorious for feuding with the other local powers, and he was banking on them hating the Dawnists as much as he did.

  Across from the Brentford was a walkway that offered an unobstructed view of the opposite side of the canyon. Aiden stepped up, grasping the corroded, iron guard rail as he squinted through the fog at the south side of the city, at his reason for being in the city again: the Dawnist compound. He could feel the pull of the compound’s gravity, whispering like an inner voice that urges you to step off a cliff, just to taste oblivion. The place had been silent for years; even now there was no activity inside and no lights shining from the buildings that rose up behind the perimeter wall. The Dawnists had retreated back through the Zenith Gate and into their underground facility years ago. And yet, despite having no presence in the city, the compound gates were still guarded by armed, hard-faced men who refused entry to all.

  If what Blanc had told Aiden before she died inside the Project Solace bunker was true, then his wife, Kate, was still alive and somewhere inside that place; somewhere past the ominous Zenith Gate built into the canyon wall. Despite staking out the compound for the better part of a week now, Aiden had been unable to find a way inside. And so, his desperation had led him here to the Syndicate headquarters. If Kate really was still alive then he would find her. Whatever it took, he would find her and bring her back home.

  A window slammed shut behind him somewhere, tearing him from his thoughts. He twisted to see sack curtains jerking in one of the nearby residences. Lingering outside here wasn’t safe, but he doubted the bouncers would let him inside the casino, considering his chequered past with the Syndicate.

  A drunk stumbled out of the Brentford then, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the ground amid a string of slurred curses. The two bouncers shared a bored look before stepping down and carrying the almost-unconscious man away from the entrance. Aiden took the opportunity to slip past them unnoticed.

  The interior of the casino was a stark contrast to the darkness and muting fog outside; blindingly lit and swarming with warm bodies, entering was like thumping your head against a wall of sound. The air was laden with the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke. Rows of slot machines sang and rattled, flashing their colourful lights as a young woman danced around a pole on stage in the middle of it all. Everyone in here was just looking for a good time, even if that meant numbing themselves for a while.

  Aiden ignored the entertainment and found an empty stool at the bar as he adjusted to the assault on his senses. He clicked a token down on the counter and the barman switched it for a glass of something that almost looked like beer. Aiden grasped it, noticing a spot of blood on the side of his thumb. He must have been unconsciously picking at it with his nail.

  ‘You want a pasty?’ the bartender asked. ‘Chicken and mushroom. Only three tokens.’

  Aiden shook his head and swivelled on the stool to study the casino. He noted the location of the exits, the card tables and lines of slot machines that could offer cover, as well as the routes of the patrolling Syndicate guards in their distinctive jet-black clothing. As the night wore on, people began drifting out of the casino, heading home to sleep off the night’s distractions. Aiden sat unmoving, just watching.

  ‘Hey pal, we’re closing up soon,’ the barman said as he wiped down the bar with a questionably stained rag.

  Aiden put his untouched glass of beer back on the bar. ‘I’d like to see Julian Caldwell,’ he said, recalling the name of the Syndicate man who often spoke for the organisation in public.

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, I’d like to take Fiona over there home with me,’ the barman pointed at the half-naked dancer on stage, ‘but some things just ain’t on the cards are they, pal?’

  Aiden glanced at the skinny girl with the angular hipbones collecting her plastic, neon-orange clothes from the floor. He returned his stare to the barman.

  ‘Do I need to turf you out?’ the barman asked with a sigh.

  ‘I’d like to see Julian Caldwell,’ Aiden repeated. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Right, I’m getting security. There’s always one, isn’t there? Every bloody night,’ the barman muttered to himself as he walked down the bar and picked up a phone. ‘Hello? Yeah, I’ve got a stubborn one here. Mind giving me a hand? Right, yeah I know.’ The barman
replaced the receiver and turned back around. ‘Now then—’

  But he was talking to an empty seat.

  CHAPTER 2

  AIDEN CLICKED SHUT the door marked NO ENTRY and slipped into the private corridors of the Brentford. A rich, heavy scent of seasoned wood perfumed the air. Framed paintings hung on walls painted a dark green, and a patterned carpet stretched out underfoot. Julian Caldwell would be here somewhere; if anyone could offer support in infiltrating the Dawnist compound, it was him. As Aiden traversed the hallways he found no one to stop or question his presence. The place was large, much larger than he expected, and he struggled to find Julian’s office. Contrary to outside appearances, the Brentford extended deep underground into the cliff.

  A suited man appeared at the end of one of the corridors. Aiden stopped and turned, drawing his pistol and concealing it in his jacket pocket in one smooth motion. He turned, studying a nearby painting in an effort to hide his face. It was an oil painting, faded from age, depicting a battle in an ancient, crumbling amphitheatre, much like the Grand Arena above the city. An unarmed slave clutched his wounded chest as he faced down two masked gladiators wielding spears and shields.

  As the stranger drew nearer, Aiden felt eyes burning into the back of his head. The man stopped behind him and coughed. Aiden turned to find a serious-faced man peering at him through a pair of large, plastic-rimmed spectacles. With his faded pinstripe suit and scant, grey hair, he looked more like an academic than a Syndicate goon.

  ‘Good evening, Aiden,’ he said, brushing a piece of dust from his sleeve. His eyes flicked to the painting. ‘I’ve never enjoyed that piece. It’s a little amateurish. The brutality takes away from any beauty the artist might have achieved.’

  ‘We’ve met before?’ Aiden asked, turning his head slightly as he studied the older man’s face.

  ‘A few months prior. At the city’s radio station I believe. I am Malcolm Turner.’

  Aiden nodded as he recalled the meeting. Julian had been there, debating something on the air with Catherine Reinhold, the Mayor’s wife. Malcolm had taken a liking to Leigh at the time and spoken of his own daughter. He had seemed harmless enough, though perhaps stuck in a pattern of etiquette that didn’t have much use anymore. Not that manners were a bad thing. ‘It’s nice to meet you again,’ Aiden said.

  ‘I assume you’re here to speak with Mr Caldwell?’

  ‘Er, yes that’s right,’ Aiden said, raising an eyebrow, unsure why the man was being helpful and not escorting him out.

  ‘An appointment is standard protocol,’ Malcolm said disapprovingly, ‘but in this case I’m sure an exception can be made. Follow me, if you would.’ He pivoted on the heel of his polished shoe and walked away at a surprisingly pace for his age.

  ‘It seems like you were expecting me,’ Aiden said, shaking off his surprise as he jogged to catch up.

  ‘If something happens in the Rim, someone is usually paying attention,’ Malcolm said. ‘It pays to stay informed. I must say you picked a strange time to come back to the city though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Aiden asked, remembering the eerie atmosphere that had pervaded the city on his way here.

  ‘You will find out soon enough, no doubt.’

  They walked without conversation for while until Malcolm came to a stop beside a panelled door. He rapped on the dark wood and a voice called from within. He opened the door, gesturing for Aiden to enter. Stepping through, Aiden found himself in an untidy office with overflowing filing cabinets crammed up against the whitewashed walls. He recognised the man behind the desk by the trimmed goatee and slick, dark hair brushed back over his head. Julian Caldwell. The faint scars on his cheeks and the way he carried his broad shoulders made it obvious he could handle himself, though the flecks of grey at his temples betrayed him being past his prime.

  ‘Aiden Fielding is here to see you, Mr Caldwell,’ Malcolm said from the doorway. ‘Also, I removed the rowdy group of bachelors in the casino.’

  ‘You took care of them already?’ Julian asked without looking up, his tone almost singsong with amusement as his pen scrawled across some papers.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother security on such a busy night. I explained in intimate detail what would happen to their genitals if they continued to disrespect the staff.’

  A grin spread across Julian’s face as he looked up. ‘I’m just glad you’re on our side, old man.’

  Malcolm turned and wordlessly clicked the door shut behind him. His footsteps faded away down the carpeted hallway.

  ‘So,’ Julian said, throwing his pen down on the desk, ‘Aiden Fielding. The man himself. I have to say, after the rumours I was expecting someone a little… taller, perhaps?’ If the Syndicate spokesman was worried then he didn’t show it. ‘Well, you’d best take a seat. Unless you’re here to try and kill me?’

  ‘I’m not here to kill you,’ Aiden said, reversing the chair opposite the desk to keep the backrest between himself and the Syndicate spokesman before sitting astride it. ‘I’m here because I need your help.’

  ‘Good. I don’t need to get blood all over my office then.’ Julian raised one of his hands from below the desk to reveal a revolver. He dropped it into a drawer.

  ‘A smart decision,’ Aiden said, pulling his Glock from his jacket pocket and slipping it into the holster at his belt. It was an intimidating pre-Dawn weapon: black polymer and hard steel giving it a clean, professional look. Nothing like the frankenstein firearms you saw these days, all mismatched parts glued and bolted together.

  ‘Nice piece,’ Julian said, impressed. ‘It seems we’re both careful men. Although sneaking into this place? That’s a risky move. Almost seems like the actions of a desperate man.’ Julian left the statement hanging in the air.

  Knowing he was being scrutinised, Aiden worded his answer carefully. ‘Or just someone with ability and a good enough reason.’

  Julian leaned forward over his desk and pushed aside some papers. ‘You’ve become quite infamous around the city these days, did you know that?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I had a reputation.’

  ‘Maybe not a public reputation, but the Syndicate has been following you with interest for some time. It seems every time you appear in the city, there are some interesting developments. Almost without fail. And that’s not to speak of the animosity between yourself and the ruling powers.’

  ‘Apart from a few run-ins with some of your gang members in prison years ago, I’ve never had anything against the Syndicate,’ Aiden said, his tone guarded.

  ‘Oh, I’m not talking about us. And they’re not really our gangs,’ Julian explained. ‘We just keep them busy, stop them getting too out of hand. No, I was actually referring to the slippery Dawnists and, of course, everybody’s favourite corpulent fascist, the Mayor. You seem to have a habit of irritating powerful people.’ He paused and smiled, causing his goatee to curve up his face. ‘So I’m inclined to like you already.’

  ‘Is this where you tell me that the Syndicate doesn’t cooperate with its enemies?’

  Julian pushed out his lower lip. ‘We do what we must to survive. Hostility between the Syndicate and the Dawnists goes back a long way though. Even before the loss of the old city, Antousa, we quarrelled over territory and ethics. Their leader is a stubborn man, though I’m sure you’re aware of that. And as for Reinhold?’ Julian flicked his wrist through the air dismissively. ‘The less said about the Mayor and his abuse of the position the better.’

  ‘I had heard the Syndicate and city police don’t get along so well lately,’ Aiden said with a nod, ‘but it’s your relationship with the Dawnists that brings me here today.’

  ‘Oh? Well, colour me intrigued then. What is it you think I can do for you?’

  ‘I need to get inside the Dawnist compound. Past the Zenith Door,’ Aiden said, not wanting to skirt the issue. ‘And seeing how we both share a contempt for Travis Kendrick and his cult, I thought you might be inclined to help me.’

  ‘Inside
the compound,’ Julian repeated. ‘You know that facility has been in lock-down for years? The only people that come and go are Travis and a handful of his guards every now and then.’

  ‘You’re telling me that the Syndicate aren’t powerful enough to help me?’

  Julian wagged his finger. ‘You won’t manipulate me that easily.’ He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Tell me this before we go any further — why do you have such a burning desire to get inside that place? Surely there’s nothing but an ant farm of Dawnists.’

  ‘There’s… something of value to me in there,’ Aiden said, meeting Julian’s piercing stare and seeing a strong intelligence behind the charismatic front. ‘I’ll stop at nothing to get inside. That’s as much as I’m willing to tell you.’

  ‘So presumably your intention would be to… harm Travis? Some revenge perhaps?’

  Aiden shook his head. ‘That’s not it; though if I found him I wouldn’t rule it out, he has plenty to answer for.’

  Julian nodded slowly and stroked his goatee. ‘You play your cards close to your chest. What could you offer if we were to help you with your problem?’

  Aiden gazed around the office for a moment before returning to look the Syndicate spokesman in the eye. ‘What do you need?’

  Julian slapped the table and laughed, the booming sound filling the small office. ‘Damn if I don’t like you, Aiden. Some would take that as arrogance, but I see the truth — you’re a competent man, and I can see why you get on the wrong side of so many people around here.’ He snapped open a metal case on the desk and offered Aiden a cigarette. Aiden took one and nodded his thanks. ‘On your way here,’ Julian continued, ‘you will have no doubt seen the “repent” graffiti all over the city?’

  ‘I did,’ Aiden said, slipping the cigarette behind his ear for later. ‘I’m surprised no one removed it.’