The Sightless City

by Noah Lemelson

  “No,” Kayip said, “I made some progress with the old mayor of Huile. Then I woke up to discover he was no longer the mayor, and I was a criminal. Such are Roache’s politics, or perhaps just politics.”

  “Hmm.” Marcel seemed to think on this. Then he shook his head and checked a pocket watch. “It should be late enough. I mean if there are any really ambitious bureaucrats working long hours… No, I don’t think we need to worry about that.” He glanced up at Sylvaine. “So can you… blow a hole in that? Or something?”

  “That would be both wasteful and a pretty big giveaway. An engineer can be considerably more precise,” Sylvaine said, as she breathed, focused, and silently hoped she wasn’t about to accidentally blow a large hole in the wall. She traced out an elongated circle in her mind, a simple cleavage of the bonds of metal. Then with a spark and a push, a roughly human-sized oval of the wall fell forward.

  “See—” she started. Steam blasted out, buffeting her, from some suddenly sliced-open pipe. “Damn it!”

  “Quiet!” Marcel said.

  Sylvaine jumped into the basement and turned to the cleaved machine whose dismembered limb had been gripping the hewn wall.

  “I got this.” She tore out a chuck of metal from the wall with one burst of æthericity, and then reformed it into the cut piping with another. She patted the metal to double check her jury-rigged repairs were secure, then whipped the hot condensation off her forehead and arms.

  “Good as new?” Marcel asked, as he walked through.

  She nodded, though she was, at best, only 70% percent sure she had fixed the machine, instead of just temporarily clogging it. Still, at least it hadn’t exploded.

  “Are you sure you do not want me to join you?” Kayip asked from the far side of the wall.

  Marcel propped the metal oval up. “I can handle this, Kayip. Don’t worry.”

  “Let’s go,” Sylvaine whispered.

  * * *

  Marcel led her up the stairs at the far end of the basement. She focused herself for the subtle task of lock-cutting, but found the door completely unlocked. This led into some back hallway, rows of wooden doors and brass nameplates. The lights were out, but Sylvaine waved for Marcel to turn off his handtorch. Instead she turned on her own, custom-made, and set it to a low glow.

  “Is that even on?” Marcel asked. “Still can’t see a thing.”

  “Then tell me where to go and follow my lead.”

  They skulked around the corners, Sylvaine having to describe the names over the doors to her night-blind partner. She kept her ears attuned to any noises and stopped only once.

  “Footsteps. Some coughing,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Other side of the building. By the echo sounds like a large room.”

  “The atrium?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you think it’s the atrium?” he asked again. She started to nod, realized her mistake and then just said, “probably.”

  Though they moved slow, and Marcel mixed up his memory of the place a couple times, they finally made it to main records room, which was indeed locked. Sylvaine grasped the knob and focused. A quick morph, a turn, and the door swung open.

  Fortunately, the room lacked windows, and even more fortunately it didn’t contain any lingering bureaucrats, so Marcel was able to turn on his handtorch. It was a medium-sized space, taking up the length of several personal offices, lined with rows of metal files cabinets, each unsurprisingly locked.

  “Let’s start with…” Marcel’s light wandered. “Here.”

  He pointed at a seemingly random cabinet, without explaining his reason. Sylvaine lifted her glove to the lock, focused, felt for the bolt, and disconnected it. She pulled it open, and Marcel looked through the files.

  Five minutes later he shook his head. “Not this one.”

  Sylvaine pushed it back, focused and reconnected the lock. No one would notice the change, unless they disassembled it entirely and inspected the mechanism with an unusually keen eye.

  Marcel pointed to another cabinet, and as she worked he jogged to the back of the room. He came back with a binder and checked the numbers on the cabinet.

  “My mistake,” he said, “no, it should be this one.”

  She kept back a curse, re-fused the cabinet, and opened the one to its right. Marcel checked its contents, and came up empty handed. The man pointed down the row, and they repeated this process.

  Nothing.

  Then again. The precision was exhausting.

  After the seventh time she shook her head. “I can’t,” she panted. “I just need a minute.”

  “Is it difficult?” Marcel whispered.

  “It’s tiring,” she said. In truth, she was quite certain that if she pushed herself further, she’d end up with a smoldering melted knot of metal as opposed to an unlocked cabinet.

  Marcel leaned back and thumbed through the binder. “It’s not under G, for Gall, nor F for Fareau. Not L, Lazacorp. I would think it’d be categorized as old evidence, or if not that, confiscated material.” He checked through the book, squinted at a far cabinet.

  Sylvaine closed her eyes and massaged the side of her forehead. The work had hazed up her mind, and she fought back the thought that the simplest way to clear the haze would be slickdust. She heard Marcel whisper something.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Hmm? I didn’t say anything.” He flipped through some pages.

  More whispers.

  “Turn off your light, someone’s out there,” Sylvaine said, waving the man back. They ran back, choosing to hide behind twin sets of file cabinets. Light leaked in from the bottom of the door, and Sylvaine could make the sound of two male voices.

  “Sorry again for getting you up. Just foolishness on my part,” said the first, soft and weary.

  The second voice laughed. “Part of my job, sir. In here?”

  “Hopefully.”

  There was a jingling of keys, just outside the door. Then the handle turned.

  “Huh, wasn’t locked,” came the second voice.

  A rotund man entered. “Ah well,” he said, speaking with the soft voice. “Someone is lax at their work.”

  The second man, in a police uniform, waved his a handtorch about and shook his head. “That’s Alson’s job, locking up. I can assure you I’ll be on his ass for this.”

  The first man laughed. “Ah well, set the light, will you? It must be in here somewhere.”

  Sylvaine glanced at Marcel. The man held the binder but did not go for his pistol. So he was set on talking his way out. Could he explain her presence if it came to that? Or would he not even try, leave the ferral to fend to herself? The thought sat bitter in her mind.

  The bulbs hummed and came alive, setting the room ablaze in white. Sylvaine blinked out the light-blindness.

  “Now where would I have left them…?” The fatter man started to walk down. Were their shadows noticeable? Sylvaine held her breath. If it came to it she would fight and run. She could let Marcel explain that.

  “Stupid of me, I must have left my keys here after the meeting,” the man continued.

  “Meeting?” the policeman asked.

  “Yes,” said the bureaucrat, walking forward. “The Opuday financial one. Terribly dull. And guess who is always thrust the notes to file away.”

  They were close. A spark could slam the cabinet against them, and then hopefully she could make it to the door before the gunshots started. She sucked in and focused, as the footsteps approached.

  “But it’s Finday,” said the policeman.

  The soft-voiced man stopped, a few metres down. “Is it? No… yes, yes you’re right. Then I… No I wouldn’t have come down here today… Ah, Simone’s office. Yes, that’d be the place I left.”

  He turned and walked back towards the door. The policeman shut off the light.

  “Apologies,” the bureaucrat said, “clearly my mind is taking a w
alk tonight.”

  “Don’t think of it,” the policeman laughed. “No harm done.”

  The door shut. Sylvaine and Marcel released their breath simultaneously.

  “Well, good news,” Marcel said, putting down the binder. “I have a new theory.”

  * * *

  Sylvaine followed Marcel’s instructions and in turn led Marcel down a few darkened hallways and a set of stairs until they reached a door with the nameplate: Minister of Justice Lambert Henra.

  “If Roache is desperate to keep the notes from Verus,” he said as she worked the door, “well he wouldn’t have it shoved in some public space where one might easily slip it away while claiming to search for some records or other nonsense.”

  The inside of the room was overly-decorated, cabinets pushed out of the way into corners to make room for paintings, Phenian-style stained-glass floor-lamps, and even a small bronze statuette of a soldier, bayonet raised. She moved back to inspect to one of the metal cabinets, but Marcel tapped her shoulder and pointed to the giant oak desk.

  “Try his personal notes. In here.”

  She stared at the desk. On its side, near the arm of a leather chair, was indeed a drawer. She pulled on it, locked. She sensed some metal inside, maybe a pen? Not enough to work with.

  “It’s a wooden lock,” she said.

  Marcel nodded. Then, when he noticed she wasn’t trying to open it: “Is that a problem?”

  “Wood resonates mostly with natural æthers, even crafted wood-products have largely unworkable frequencies, and interact poorly with mechanical æthers.” Sylvaine explained. The man stared blank. “I can’t do anything to wood,” she simplified.

  “Oh.” Marcel turned his stare to the drawer. “Well, then.”

  He pulled on it a few times, and then paced around. Finally he sighed and pulled out a flickknife from his belt, and started to cut at it. Sylvaine stood by the door, listening in, occasionally shushing Marcel as he grunted.

  It took a good long while, splinters of wood piling on the floor to mark the minutes, a soft drizzle on the shuttered window slowly growing into full rainfall, but finally Marcel whispered “done.” Sylvaine walked over, and Marcel pulled out the drawer, with some difficulty. Inside, lit by Marcel’s handtorch, was a beige folder, thick with documents.

  “That’s—” Marcel began. A sudden snap, somewhere under the desk interrupted him. Then, a quarter of a second later, a bell at the upper corner of the room started hammering. Then warning bells rang down the hallways, dozens of them, a horrible symphony in honor of their mistake.

  “He trip-wired it,” Marcel said.

  “Run!” Sylvaine said.

  They dashed down the hallway, lights now flickering to a blindingly bright from some unseen switch. They turned down a bend, the stairs to the basement to their left, when Marcel threw out his arm.

  He opened the folder, and started leafing through it in a frenzy. “This. And this one. Any others that are important? Take them, and them only. Quickly.” He thrust several pages from into Sylvaine’s hands, diagrams, schematics and pages of notes.

  “What?” she stammered out, but dutifully grabbed the most vital of the papers. Why didn’t he just run, they had more than a head start?

  “I have to… I just have to try. I’ve got a plan here, trust me,” he said, eyes still ripping through the pages, until he grabbed a last handful, and thrust them to Sylvaine. “Go. Go!”

  She could hear footsteps. Not far off now.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I’ll meet you. I just have to… I won’t tell them about you or any of it. If I fail, they won’t know. Just go!”

  Arms full of papers and plans, head swimming in panic, she went.

  Chapter 25

  Marcel straightened his coat as he listened for Sylvaine’s footsteps to dissipate, which they did, moments before the policemen reached the end of the hallway. Good, he had done his duty, to her, to the mutants, to Desct. If this went to shit they still had their notes, had their chance at revolution. But revolt meant violence, death, bodies on the streets of Blackwood Row. No doubt Roache had corrupted some of City Hall, but there were many in the government who had fought to free Huile. These were soldiers of a just cause, if the veil was flung on of Lazacorp’s brutality, if the light of truth shone down upon Roache’s hypocrisy, no doubt these soldiers would burn with the same indignation that Marcel had, display the same horror-tinged resolve for justice. Blood might not be as inevitable as Desct or Kayip assumed, if there was any chance to peacefully defuse this clockbomb before it was set, to purify Huile from the top down, Marcel had to take it.

  He spent his last seconds neatening his collar and trying to calm his breathing. It would be difficult to present an air of professional ease when caught breaking into a municipal office, but Marcel would try his darndest.

  Two policemen turned the corner, one older, short-cut graying hair, holding a rifle, the other younger, freckled, his pistol out in his shaking hand. They stopped as they saw Marcel.

  “Working late, gentlemen?” Marcel smiled as best as he could manage. “It’s fortunate I found you, there’s something urgent I need to discuss with Lambert.”

  The younger policemen glanced at the older, who glanced down at the thick file in Marcel’s hand. He took a few cautious steps forward, then jammed the butt of his rifle into Marcel’s stomach.

  Pain rushed through Marcel as Gall’s papers spilled over the floor. He doubled over, knees knocking onto the ground, groaning as the policeman tossed aside his rifle and began to cuff Marcel’s hands behind his back.

  “Call Mr. Henra,” the older policeman commanded his partner.

  Marcel sucked in his lost breath, and held back an urge to vomit, before muttering out a weak “Thanks.”

  The policeman turned to him, then shook his head and chuckled.

  * * *

  The pair kept Marcel locked to a chair in the cramped, brick-lined interrogation room for the better part of an hour. He tried to initiate conversation, but the night guards ignored him. They weren’t outright contemptuous, instead wary, unsure of what to make of the private investigator. At times Marcel thought of insulting them, or otherwise egging them to conversation, something to break the monotonous silence, but decided against risking another rifle thrust to the gut. The only sound to distract his thoughts was the patter of rain on the shuttered window, which grew alongside his anxieties.

  Finally the younger policeman opened the door to let in a very tired looking Lambert, coat misbuttoned, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

  “Normally you call first,” Lambert said.

  Marcel forced a weak laugh. “I’ll admit, I was trying for some independent research.”

  Lambert nodded and sipped. “Glad to hear ‘independent.’ Seemed unlike you to be stealing government documents on Verus’s behalf.”

  “Is that what you thought?” Marcel turned his head, smirking. “Yes, I could see how it could be confusing, with all the effusive praise I’ve thrown upon that man.”

  Lambert laughed. “No, no. I was just puzzling out all possible theories, even the outlandish ones. You must admit Marcel this is… aberrant behavior for you. I don’t recall ever giving you a warrant to break into my office.”

  Despite the loose humor, Marcel could sense something behind Lambert’s words. Fear? Anger? Disappointment? The man was holding his cards close.

  The Justice Minister skimmed the loosely reorganized pile of Gall’s notes. “If you’re still concerned about the Gall case, Marcel, I can assure you these are all mere technical documents. I did go through them. Just architectural plans and mechanical schematics, nothing interesting, unless you have recently taken up a study of filtration engineering.”

  “But you kept them locked, specifically in your office, trip-wired.”

  Lambert watched Marcel’s stare, and then tilted his head, acquiescing the point. “A favor to Lazarus Roa
che. We did expect some possibility of robbery, though we had predicted, if it did come, that it would come from Verus’s men, not from you.”

  He lifted up his tea and took a long sip.

  “Politics, Marcel. I know you have no handle on politics, and I’ve done my best to keep you out of them. I have never asked for thanks, but I will admit it is a gratitude-worthy job. From your own, admittedly helpful, corner, you don’t see even a tenth of what happens in this city, but there has been considerable conflict between the two partners of Lazacorp. Quite disruptive, particularly in the last half-year. Now, one of those partners is a law-abiding citizen who has donated much to the Resurgence cause and saved this city from utter ruin, the other is, well, Verus. The details of why Roache can’t just rid himself of his foreman are, admittedly, even beyond me, but occasionally we do a little here to safeguard the man’s enterprises, many of which benefit our own city.”

  “But there must be a line, Lambert, right?” Marcel said. “The Confederacy serves its citizens, not Lazacorp. Don’t you ever worry that that line has become too eroded?”

  Lambert paused a moment. “Funny for you, of all people, to make such an accusation, Marcel.” He pulled his chair forward. “Now I don’t wish to be impolite to a good friend, but I must remind you that I am sitting in the interrogator’s chair, and you the suspect’s. So I ask, if not for Verus, then why?”

  Marcel leaned in. “Do you know what goes on in Blackwood Row?”

  “Marcel,” Lambert spoke with more than some frustration, “I know everything that goes on in this city. It is part of my job description.”

  “I saw pictures,” Marcel whispered. “Of the mutant workers in Blackwood Row, I saw deprivations and—”

  “You saw Desct’s photographs,” Lambert cut in. Marcel sucked in a gasp. He steadied himself against the table and nodded.

  Lambert smiled, and even let out a soft laugh. “Ah. I see, I see. Well, perhaps this misunderstanding was in part my own fault. Yes, I had spoken to Desct several times before his death. He had become… somewhat delirious in his sickened state. Bought some photographs, forgeries, from some wasteland traveler, and in his illness had taken them to be real, kept going on about it. I even showed him the truth in person, but well, the man was too far-gone. I was planning on getting him institutionalized down in Phenia, but then the source of his illness, and madness I suspect, made itself known, and he passed rather quickly. I’m sorry I never mentioned this to you, Marcel, but I thought it would have been distressing.”