by Reese Hogan
“I’m coming in, Andrew, like it or not!” Blackwood pulled a key from her pocket and let herself in. The door thumped closed behind her. Klara Yana slowly stood, looking again at that number twenty-three an arm’s-length above her head. No. Not twenty-three. Now that she was looking, she saw the flecks of black paint that had once turned the three into an eight; the pale shape of the missing number was still visible from up close. Brow furrowed, Klara Yana felt the bricks beneath it. And sure enough, there was a loose one by her elbow. She wriggled it out and saw nothing but darkness behind it. She slid it back in, her mind racing.
It doesn’t mean anything. It was just a convenient place for Cu Zanthus to leave his messages. The contact he’s staying with… She searched her memory for what she knew. It wasn’t much. A longtime friend, he’d said, and she’d heard genuine warmth in his voice when he talked about catching up. A willing collaborator – Cu Zanthus had told her to ask for him by name on the WiCorr, after all. The only other thing she knew about his contact was that he or she somehow had access to the submarine records, at least enough to know when a spot opened up for Cu Zanthus to slip his partner into. Klara Yana had assumed it was someone who worked at naval headquarters, or maybe dealt with fatality reports.
Never, in her wildest imaginings, had she pictured it being an officer’s kid sibling.
Why couldn’t you go? Klara Yana had asked Cu Zanthus, as he drove her through the Belzene countryside just before the mission. If you’ve already had the naval training–
No, he’d answered. There are complications with this one.
And Blackwood, to Deckman Vin on the submarine:
A Dhavnak family used to live in our neighborhood. My little brother was friends with their kid.
Probably when Cu Zanthus was around the tender age of fourteen.
“Bitu Lan’s balls,” she said under her breath. She didn’t know which was worse: that her commander’s teenage brother was a Dhavnak collaborator, or that Blackwood would recognize Cu Zanthus if he was in there.
She glanced anxiously at the front door. There was no sound from within. She crept forward, putting a foot on the first step. Then a pair of people materialized at the end of the block, heading toward her.
Cu Zanthus. She could tell by his height, his casual gait. She thought about running out to him and his companion, and warning them that Blackwood was inside. But she knew instantly that was a bad idea. Speculate as she might, she had no real inkling of the situation here. Approaching him now would blow his cover wide open if she was wrong. So instead, she crouched and ran to the side of the house. She sat with her back to the brick wall, turning her face to look around the corner.
Cu Zanthus stopped in front of the steps, one hand on the boy’s shoulder. And he was a boy. The cap on his head was tipped back, revealing wisps of dark hair hanging into eyes sunken with fatigue or dehydration. He was painfully thin, as if he’d been battling illness and losing. But he looked at Cu Zanthus with pure trust, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Klara Yana watched, heart pounding, as her partner leaned down and kissed him, long and deep.
Vo Hina, help me. I’ve misjudged this entire situation.
She turned away, hands around her knees. How could he seduce someone so young? So obviously vulnerable? Wasn’t there some limit on how juvenile their marks could be?
If Blackwood’s brother had grown up in Dhavnakir, she reflected, this would never have worked out. His ama would have stayed home with him. If something had happened to her, his older sister and her husband would have raised him to adulthood. And even if they hadn’t, other women would have been there to take him in. That network of connections was what made their community so solid. But in Belzen, he’d been left alone, as if a child of their future meant nothing to them. And here was her own partner, taking advantage of this failing in Belzene society. It didn’t sit right with her that Dhavnakir would use a kid this way, no matter how young an agent they sent. It had to have been for those notes – the same ones Blackwood was going through right that moment.
“Head on in,” Cu Zanthus said. “I have somewhere to be. But I’ll be back by tonight. I’ll make us dinner.”
“OK,” Andrew said. “I’ll be here.”
She heard the scrape of his feet against the concrete steps, then the opening and closing of the door. Klara Yana dared to peer around the base of the house again. Cu Zanthus was pulling the brick at the front of the house free, so carefully it didn’t make a sound. He stuck a piece of paper behind it before reinserting it.
She ought to say something, let him know she was down there. But she knew what would happen if she did. Not only would he be furious she’d seen the kiss, but he’d know straightaway that Blackwood was inside. He’d go in after Andrew. And Blackwood would be killed. We might still need her. I can’t blow this operation yet. So Klara Yana stayed quiet, hoping he’d leave without checking on Andrew again.
Cu Zanthus muttered something under his breath – Klara Yana was almost sure she heard her own name, ‘Keiller Yano,’ in there – then her partner headed back to the street and disappeared within moments toward the west. She wondered if he was planning to find her. If whatever he’d left was important enough, he might not want to risk her missing it.
Klara Yana came out from her cover, diving toward the loose brick. She wriggled it out and snatched the folded piece of paper inside, put the brick back, and ducked down again to read the note. The message was scrawled in fine cursive:
Leuftkernel Lyanirus to meet with Agent Hollanelea. Underneath L.T. Karlan Theater. Tonight.
Lyanirus? She choked on her next breath. She’d never met Larin Vron Lyanirus in person, but his name was famous in the Dhavnak military. The rumors said he’d failed to father a child after three wives, and that he’d become convinced it was due to a gradual progression toward liberalism that was corrupting the entire gender. It was assumed he’d murdered those three wives. It was assumed he’d murdered others. The men she worked with spoke of it with horror – the wasting of those future generations, the lack of faith in one mate, even the levels of his hatred and violence.
He was an operative, like her, but as far as Klara Yana knew, he worked in much higher circles – embassies, security councils, trade associations, armament foundations. What was he doing here, in Belzen?
A sick feeling formed in her gut as comprehension dawned. Dhavnakir was on the brink of taking Belzen, and Klara Yana was the agent with the very information that could make that possible. The whole reason she’d requested Belzen was that she’d known information on their shrouding missions would lead to that promotion. She just hadn’t stopped to consider who she’d have to report to in order to get it.
Klara Yana put a hand to her mouth, that sick feeling giving way to full-blown nausea. Not showing up wasn’t an option, especially after her last mission; she’d be hunted and killed as a traitor. But if Leuftkernel Lyanirus got even a hint that she was a woman, she’d never walk out of that meeting alive.
Chapter 9
BLACKWOOD’S CONFRONTATION
Blackwood walked into a quiet house. Drawn shutters cast the inside into semi-darkness. The family room opened up on her right. A blue sofa stood against the back wall and a cold fireplace adorned the far right corner. A half-full bottle of red alcohol stood on the small table before the couch, along with a pair of mugs. Blackwood’s brow furrowed at the label. Coinavini? Since when… Her gaze fell on a yellow duffel at the other side of the sofa, against the wall. Her lips parted and she took a couple steps forward, noticing the two folded blankets on a cushion. She blinked, having trouble processing the information.
Someone staying with her brother? It made no sense. Andrew was the most hostile person she’d ever met. Who on Mirrix would stay with him? Who would he let stay with him? Andrew loved his space. He resented every second she was home; she was surprised he hadn’t changed the locks.
A lover? He was seventeen, after all, and probably starting to look. But
even if he’d met someone, wouldn’t he or she be sleeping on his bed, instead of the couch? Blackwood’s eyes fell again on the alcohol. She tried to picture Andrew drinking with another person, laughing, kissing. All she could envision was him scowling and looking away the second he was asked about himself. Small wonder there are blankets on the couch.
She admonished herself the moment she thought it. Of course Andrew showed a different side of himself to others. Having company was a good thing. Maybe he was finally opening up. Maybe, someday, she’d see that side of him again herself.
Whatever it meant, Andrew was out of the house now, which was much better than she’d anticipated. She had no intention of robbing Andrew of whatever new romance or friendship he was developing. She’d find a bag, grab the notes, and leave him alone. Clean and easy. No fights, no obligations, no hurt feelings. He probably wouldn’t even notice the notes were gone.
She jogged past the family room and through the hallway, to the broken door at the end. The two boxes of notes were still on the floor of the closet, exactly as she remembered. The skin on her right arm started crawling again. A finger of cold passed through her. She looked at the ceiling, half-expecting lightning to strike again, as if a simple chill would cause it. It was in her bones now; the cold, the tingling, the fear. At least the weakness seemed to have passed. Nevertheless, she felt the dekatite eating into her skin like a timed explosive.
She knelt and picked up the first several papers in the closer box. There was some typeset on them, but a majority of what she saw was handwritten, words crowded between and around the typed words in both her mother’s and father’s hands. Each page was so crammed, it was hard to know where to look first. She glanced through the first few anyway, hoping something would jump out – lightning or Dhavnak or Onosylvani. Shrouding wouldn’t be used yet, that term had come later. But the things Zurlig had mentioned…
Something caught her eye, near the end of the top page. “…dekatite mines in north central Ellemko not to be used. The risk to civilians, should the borders be breached, is too high.” The mines referenced here had been closed down five years earlier, and the FCB built on top of them. It had happened after her parents died – and therefore, after this note had been written. Clearly the dekatite veins were used now, for research and development, if nothing else. Were they no longer worried about the risk to civilians? Blackwood wondered. Or had the need simply outweighed the danger since then? And exactly what risk were they referring to here? Dhavvies? Monsters? Or something else? This happened before, Zurlig had said. Your parents… the factory…
“So you’ll come by for the research, but not for me?” said a voice to her right.
Blackwood jerked her head up. She’d forgotten how quietly her brother moved. Andrew stood in the doorway, dressed in their father’s old coat and hat. The belted coat was huge on his slender frame. Blackwood didn’t know if it was the contrast that made him look so frail, or if he’d gotten worse since the last time she saw him. Did he even eat when she wasn’t home? She put the notes down and rose to her feet.
“Andrew. I was just looking through these while I waited for you. Where have you been? Were you out with someone?”
He ignored the questions, his eyes tracking down to the notes. “Trying to get rid of them again?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Why are you dressed that way?”
She looked down at her infantry uniform, and back again. “Told you. Working at the FCB now. Do you want to head back to the kitchen? I can make us lunch.” It was a challenge to keep her tone so casual, but if she brought up needing the notes now, he might start screaming again. She took a step toward him, one hand out. “What would you like me to make?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
She sighed through her teeth. “Then maybe we can sit on the couch? Catch up?”
“Why are you here?”
“To see you.”
“You never wear a uniform when you’re off duty. Try again.”
She took a moment to choose her words. “I need to look through Mother and Father’s notes. It’s for work. I’m not going to destroy them. Just look at them.”
His shoulders straightened, his eyes widening. “They want them? Now? Why now?”
“It’s nothing. I promise. It’s not even about the research. There was an old colleague they worked with; I’m just looking for a name. It’s low priority – busy work really – until they find something better for me to do.”
“They need a name?” he said, his voice hard. “What name?”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“How big of a secret can it be? I’ve read the notes!”
Small surprise there, after the way he’d acted last time. But the thought still made her tense. “That’s not the point. You don’t work for the government. You don’t have the authorization to–”
“To what? Know about them experimenting on civilians? Against their will?”
The words she’d been preparing froze in her throat. “What do you know about that?” she said slowly.
“What I know,” he said, his eyes boring into hers, “is that you all make such a big deal about the Dhavnaks being monsters while our own government is treating them like animals. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Erasing the evidence?”
Her breath hitched. “Xeil’s grace, Andrew, you should not have read that!”
His eyes narrowed. “You knew?”
“Not exactly, but–”
“So that is why you tried to take them!”
“No!” she shot back. “I told you, I have no intention of destroying the notes.”
He pulled the bedroom door open and stood pointedly to the side. “Get out.”
Blackwood gritted her teeth. He was impossible to talk to. Stay calm. Deep breath. “Andrew. What I’m doing is more important than…” Laying around at home all day. Sleeping. Reading. Drinking, “…than you realize. I need these notes. Either you let me and my associate stay here and look at these, or I will take them. Am I clear?”
Andrew’s face darkened. But before he could answer, a low-pitched wail sounded from all around them – a continuous tone, rising and falling at regular intervals. Blackwood’s gaze shot to the shuttered sandpane.
Air raid siren.
She cursed and turned back toward the closet, looking into the dark corners. No bag. She strode past Andrew and threw open the door across the hallway, sticking her head into the bedroom that used to be hers. Nothing in that closet but a small handbag, suitable for no more than draftnotes and coins.
“What are you doing?” Andrew yelled.
She came back out to the hallway, snarling her answer as she headed into his room. “Looking for a pack.”
“You’re not taking the notes!” he answered.
His room was a mess. Red-stained floor, collapsing piles of books against the walls, blankets bunched at the foot of the bed, glass bottles… everywhere. It smelled strongly of alcohol, and faintly of mold. She tore open his closet door. Mostly empty, except for holes in the back wall and piles of trash. She slammed the door again in disgust. The drone of the air raid siren cut into her skull like a cleaver. She hated it. She’d forgotten how much. It made it hard to think straight. She marched back into the hallway. Andrew was still standing in the doorway of their parents’ room, like he thought he could keep her out.
“Don’t you have a bomb shelter to get to?” she growled.
“Where are you going?” he retorted.
“Holland and I have to get back on base. What do you think?” Not likely, but she wasn’t about to tell Andrew that.
It hit her. Andrew’s friend’s bag. She turned and dashed back to the main room.
“Wait. Who?” Andrew called sharply.
“I told you, I’m here with a colleague,” she said, raising her voice over the siren. “Are you gonna make me stuff you in a bunker on my way out? I’m not leaving without those notes, so you’re wasting your ti
me staying.”
She leaned over the couch to grab the duffel from behind it, then ripped the straps from the clasps. Andrew skidded to a halt just inside the family room, his expression stunned. He started to say something, then noticed what she was doing.
“No! Not–”
She grabbed the bag by the bottom seams and upended the whole thing. A tightly netted bag of clothing thumped from the couch to the floor. A couple books followed, along with a palm-sized star of some kind, dark and heavy. A single piece of paper fluttered out last, drifting to the other side of the couch.
For a moment, the air raid siren was a distant drone, barely touching her. She stared at the paperback on the couch, at the curling black cover with silver-embossed letters. Caertoas An Ugdanarian Rin TaSarrah. The star laying next to it… a sun, its rays fragile and spindly. A sun made of dekatite.
She looked up at Andrew, her breath catching. “A Dhavvie’s staying here?”
Andrew didn’t answer. He was staring down at the paper on the couch. It looked to be a graphite drawing, rough and amateur, of a man with fire instead of hair, wielding a lightning bolt over his head. Their god, she realized with a chill. The Marshal.
Pieces started clicking into place, and she didn’t like the way they were falling. She grabbed the book and flipped through it, stopping on the last page. And there was the name she remembered from four years before, written in black ballpoint. Cu Zanthus Ayaterossi. Stamped underneath it was a square of hands, each one grasping the wrist of the next, and the words Arm Naa Bratheann. She’d seen that logo on uniforms before. On equipment. Army of the Brotherhood. It wasn’t just a Dhavnak book. It was a military-issue Dhavnak book. Her mouth went dry.
“Andrew!” she said.
His head shot up, his eyes wide and panicked. She stepped closer so he could hear her over the siren.
“What is he doing here? What is Cu Zanthus doing here?”
“He’s hiding from his draft,” he managed. “It’s just till the war’s over.”