When I first fled Refuge and come up here, the upper arc of the dome had seemed thin, practically invisible. That’s definitely not the case now. The churning surface is milky and clotted, long jagged lines splintering across the sky.
From deep below ground, in that tiny patch of the barrier that bisected the tunnel and adjacent room they’d started in, Cadence’s work had seemed incremental. She had been destroying it a few inches at a time.
At that rate, and given how quickly her energy had flagged, it ought to take her weeks, months—even years, maybe—to cover the whole surface. But the relatively miniscule damage she has inflicted at the barrier’s base is clearly having massively wide-scale results. At this rate, it might not be long at all until the sky caves in on us—and lets the monsters out.
I need to hurry.
Though neither Fluffy nor I have any discernable physical form in the waking world, I still sense its concerned wriggle of agreement.
I take one last look at the damaged dome of the Mara’s prison and sink below the rooftop to scour the next highest floor. And then the one below that.
The upper levels of the tower are nearly as sparsely populated as the lowest. There’s little beyond a few growing spaces along the perimeter, where original window-walls have been left uncovered to take advantage of the light that used to filter through.
None of the cultivation workers are familiar to me. The occasional enforcer wanders through to intimidate the drones, but Haynfyv is the only member of Refuge Force I’m willing to risk trying to contact, and there’s no sign of him so far.
I drop through Maryam’s opulent suite to the floor below without pausing, catching only a quick glimpse in passing of Cadence yawning through yet another audience.
Maryam’s floor is buffered by more empty space, including the under-populated superiors’ apartments where division heads, supervisors, and other supposed leaders enjoy a level of comfort and luxury unknown to the drones below.
But that’s the end of the easy part. The search will probably slow down from here on. There could be someone useful concealed among the workers, and there are several floors’ worth of various work divisions and living areas to scout. The drones’ hooded and masked uniforms make it impossible to identify familiar faces by design, though I can check the ID codes printed on their uniforms to speed things up. Assuming the codes haven’t been tampered with.
The retraining floor is swamped with prisoners, so I can only hope Maryam hasn’t had time to start wiping people’s identities. And, of course, once I do find someone who might be useful, there’s the problem of how to reach them.
I make it through the production zones, the clerical floors—including the abandoned wreck of my old surveillance division—and two residential floors before I find him on Floor 9.
Haynfyv has been busy.
He also appears to have gone insane.
The walls are covered with overlapping layers of scribbled notes—and just plain scribbles, where he either ran out of paper or stopped caring. In one corner, they’ve migrated to the ceiling. Bits of string and tape trail across the whole mess, in some cases sagging across most of the room like a spiders’ web after being hit-and-run by a squirrel.
I pop over to inspect his neighbours’ workspaces to make sure this isn’t just standard procedure among enforcers. Who knows, maybe they’re all trained into insanity?
But the adjacent rooms are bland, if a little grimy. There’s a touch more personality in Refuge Force workspaces than most divisions’, if only because they seem to have been skimming seized goods for their own use—or as prizes. The walled-in private spaces would also mean they’re under less scrutiny than most workers.
Very few rooms are occupied. Most of the force must be out on patrol or holed up in their sleeping quarters on another floor. Maybe that’s why Haynfyv is passed out in a corner right now—he just came off duty? But that hardly explains the state of his room.
He moans in his sleep and rolls onto his back. He can’t be comfortable on that floor. Why would he sleep here in the first place?
His scribbles are almost illegible—not much in the way of clues there. Anyway, it’s hard to concentrate when he’s just lying there sleeping without a mask or goggles or anything to cover that devastatingly familiar face.
Maybe I’m just imagining he looks so much like his brother. I didn’t know Cass that well, or for that long. He’s been dead longer now than I knew him alive. So it’s probably just the guilt getting to me.
But what right do I have to risk Cass’s brother’s life? Of all people, why would I think this agent of Maryam’s twisted regime would be a good ally? And how on earth would I even go about communicating with him?
He groans, shifts, and kind of tucks his head into the crook of one arm. For such a big guy, it’s an oddly cute gesture. Like a kid or a small animal snuggling in place. Fluffy wriggles, annoyed at the comparison.
“You’re not an animal. And you’re definitely not cute.”
It huffs and gives me the cold shoulder. I go back to peering at Haynfyv’s face. Maybe there are fewer lines on it? He was Cass’s younger brother, after all. Is his lower lip fuller, or is that just the way his arm presses his cheek? Are his cheekbones a little softer? His nose broader, his chin longer?
If he were wearing one of Cass’s masks, would I be able to tell the difference? I definitely can’t picture Haynfyv in the flamboyantly excessive costumes of Freedom. He doesn’t seem like the type with a sense of fun at all. Cass, on the other hand, he could pull a blank face when he needed to. But put Ange in the same room and he could hardly contain himself.
One of the advantages of ghostliness—I can get as close as I want, hover at whatever weird angle it takes to get a good look at the enforcer, no matter how he tosses or turns, with zero risk of embarrassment when he wakes up. In theory.
In practice, the moment he starts to stir, a wave of irrational panic has me flailing for cover—which is how I accidentally find myself invading Refuge Force Inspector 09-Hayne-05’s dreams.
Chapter 14: Dreaming
There’s a moment of whirling disorientation. The waking world fades, darkness sweeping in . . . and then it’s back. Only everything’s a little messier than before.
Scratch that—a lot messier. Chaos has taken over. The air is filled with rustling notes and a thick web of coloured strings. I can barely move without getting tangled.
I drop to the ground and crawl. If I can just reach the nearest wall and get my back to something solid, I’ll—
Wait, crawl? Since when did I have a body to manoeuvre around obstacles? I rap on the floor, producing a hollow sound and bruising my knuckles. I try to stand and get snarled in the trailing strings, setting the notes swaying and fluttering.
Then I dismiss them with a snap of my fingers, sweeping the clutter from the room to reveal bare walls and a very confused looking Haynfyv in the midst of his newly scoured personal dreamscape.
He looks from the note in his hand to the suddenly clear patch in front of him, shrugs, and pins it up anyway.
“Seriously, why?” I step closer to peer at the note. “See? Completely illegible. Meaningless scribbles.”
“Illiteracy is no excuse for rudeness. Also—” He clears his throat. “You’re a tad close.”
“You—you can see me?”
He blinks, once, slowly. “Of course?”
“You can hear me too?”
He frowns, putting a hand to my forehead. It’s warm. His hand, not my forehead. And big.
I stumble back, trip on literally nothing, and end up sprawled on the floor staring up at the enforcer. Maybe clearing the room out was a bad idea after all. Now there’s nothing to hide behind.
Haynfyv follows my progress with a concerned look. “Are you unwell?”
“Are you serious? Things start vanishing in front of you, some random stranger pops up, and your first thought is I’m the one who’s sick?”
“You are not a strange
r. You are her worship’s apprentice. 18-Cole-, though you seem to have taken on the moniker Cadence since your elevation. May I help you?”
So either he is super weird, or he hasn’t figured out he’s dreaming right now. Probably both, but I might as well test and see.
I put Fluffy down and give it a nudge. It tucks and rolls like an ordinary ball of wood at first, then ruffles itself and scuttles back, nudging my hand as if it’s a game.
Haynfyv swallows hard but stands firm. From the ashen undertone to his dark, Noosh-greyed skin and the way his eyes are bugging out, he might just be starting to notice something is a little off after all. That is a good sign—maybe he still has some grip on reality.
But then he gets down on his knees and reaches out to poke Fluffy. When it bristles and backs away, he makes a grab for it, juggling with both hands to try to hold onto the rippling, twisting knot.
“Shh, easy there.” His hands blur trying to keep hold of the animate tree-spawn. “It is very well made. Did you fabricate it?”
“How many machines have you seen that can move like that?”
Apparently, Fluffy is over being startled and has moved on to being playful. It unwinds several tendrils and latches onto Haynfyv. He switches over from trying to hold onto it to trying to shake it off.
I reach over and rescue him. “As much fun as this all is, I’m kind of on a deadline here.”
He can hardly tear his eyes away from Fluffy long enough to frown at me. Fluffy extends a couple tendrils in his direction. He starts to reach back before catching my glare.
“Emphasis on dead,” I say reprovingly. “Enough playing around. Here’s the deal: you’re dreaming. Which means we’re in something called a dreamscape. Everything is only as real as you want it to be. Or, rather, as I want it to be—because you’re just a human.”
“What else would I be?” He raps the floor. “Solid, if you’ll observe. Entirely concrete. Also, literally.”
I vanish the floor under his knuckles on the next rap. He pokes his whole hand into the hole and feels around, so I fill it with glitter. He rotates his wrist, watching the tiny specks catch the light.
His imperturbable curiosity is a little freaky. If I were in his place I would be . . . actually, I’d probably be desperately trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. Maybe I am making more progress with him than he’s letting on? “Let me recap: nothing is real here, which means I can make anything I want happen.”
I snap my fingers and the glitter peels itself from his skin and flaps around his head on jewelled wings. “Problem is, despite my awesome, limitless power in here, I currently have practically zero ability to affect the waking world. Which is where you come in. You’re human. You’re alive. That means you can act on the other side. And you’re with Refuge Force, so you even have some freedom of movement.”
Haynfyv rubs a hand over his face and mumbles.
“What was that?”
He scratches the back of his head. “Not with them.”
“Who’s not with who now?”
“Refuge Force. I am not currently in their employ, precisely.”
“. . . Is that all you have to say?”
He shrugs. “It is a complicated situation. That—earlier—in the southwest sewer channel.” He’s referring to the Refuge-sanctioned slaughter of the refugees Ravel and I were trying to smuggle away.
“I departed,” he says. As I recall it was more like fled. “I have not formally returned to my position since.”
“You’re literally sleeping in your office right now.”
“I—pardon?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t think you’re getting this. You. Are. Asleep. I’m in your dream. I’ll probably be around when you wake up, too, but you won’t be able to hear me on the other side. So I need you to listen to me now. Got it?”
“Hmm?” He’s staring at Fluffy again. “Ah. Would you be so kind as to return my notes? I was in the middle of a particularly sensitive strain . . .”
I throw my hands up. “Fine. Sure. Have the mess back. I’m done wasting time here. This was a mistake.”
I twitch the chaotic tangle of string and scribbles back into place and watch Haynfyv shuffle through the layers. So much for my plan. Maybe the sight of mass slaughter in the tunnel near the barrier broke him. Or maybe he was crazy all along.
Come to think of it, this might all be my fault to begin with. There was that time in Freedom with the Mara . . . make that two times. One of which involved his long-lost brother getting killed before his eyes. Saving me.
“Hey.” I duck and squirm my way through the webbing to tap Haynfyv on the shoulder.
He peers back at me. “Hmm?”
“Just . . . Sorry. You know, if I’m, uh . . . If what I did hurt you, or whatever. And about Cass. I’m really sorry about that. I wish . . . If I could go back, if I could change it, I would. Really. He was a great guy.”
His absentminded gaze sharpens. He whips around and snatches at a note, dragging a skein of string and paper free with it. “Cass . . .”
“Right. Cass. Your brother. He died, remember?”
He shoves the slip into my hand and dashes off, shouldering trailing masses out of his way. “Cass and Jer’s presence preceded my arrival in the lower reaches of the complex.”
“. . . Jer?” The spiky scrawl on the note doesn’t clarify things any.
“My elder brother. He is deceased. They all are. No connection to your concerns, as it happens.”
“But Cass—”
He reaches out and taps the top-most note of a wavering stack. “Cass and Ange, Jer and Amy. Brothers and twin sisters, if the records are correct. There were rumours of an infant—”
Amy? Is he saying Lily’s dad was Cass’s brother? “You’re talking about Ange’s sister’s kid? Lily?”
“It is true, then? I have a—a—”
“The word you’re looking for is niece, if she’s really your brother’s.”
“Where is the child? Is she in a secure location?”
I start to answer and catch myself just in time. He’s finally focused and tracking with me. Family seems to be the key to getting his attention. If I can just frame what I need from him through that lens . . . “As far as I know, she’s safe—for now.”
He peers at me through a snarl of threads, tracing one absentmindedly. He plucks a note from its far end and shoves it at me.
“You. Why do so many of these lead to you?” he murmurs, looking back to the looping, interwoven tangles.
It is oddly like dreamweaving, now I think of it. If I let my eyes drift off focus as I turn in place, the notes clump together in patches like people, strung together with the threads of connection and longing, desire and aspiration, hate and lust and all the other dreams.
If I could read Haynfyv’s scrawl, what would these clusters of notes tell me? But maybe I don’t need to read them to find out.
“Hey.” I wave in his direction, setting off a bouncing, fluttering chain reaction. “What’s with the notes? And the strings? In your, uh, office, or whatever. That room where you’re sleeping right now. You covered it in notes and string too. Why?”
He runs a hand along one of the strings and raises his eyebrows. “Is it not evident?”
“. . . Sure.”
“Then why did you enquire?”
“I was being sarcastic. Obviously.”
He laughs as if this is somehow clever. Infuriating man.
“It is a component in my investigative procedure. You know, very few of the force’s inspectors do any genuine investigation in the course of their duties. But in my research, I was fortunate to come across many traditional techniques that are no longer covered in training. While consoles and surveillance feeds have their uses, the tactile nature of this”—he twangs a string—“is invaluable for mapping relationships and possibilities, as well as established evidence. Though, ordinarily, there is no need for such a complex web. You said ‘for now.’”
&nb
sp; “Huh?”
“You said my niece was safe ‘for now.’ That implies that she will not remain safe. Explain.”
Ah. There it is. I duck my head to hide a satisfied smirk. “That’s why I’m here. I need your help.”
He nods impatiently. “You already stated that. Your explanation is inadequate. Elaborate.”
It is going to be a lot for him to take in. Maybe I should break it down, ease him into it.
On the other hand, time is limited. “The barrier around the city has been keeping the Mara contained for generations. Maryam is working with Cadence to destroy it. I can’t let that happen. But since I can’t actually do anything in the waking world, I need you to stop her.”
He raises a finger. “Two questions. One: you are Cadence, are you not? Personnel code 18-Cole-, intake registration Cadence Cole, progeny of unregistered and presumed unaffiliated adult male and female posthumously coded as XF-Cole- and XM-Cole-. And two: how does this affect my niece?”
Fluffy wriggles out of my grasp and goes tumbling off into the tangled threads. My arms are too light in its absence. Empty. Is it terrible that I don’t actually know Cadence’s parents’ full names? It doesn’t feel terrible. Just . . . hollow. “Not Cadence. Just call me Cole. And if you don’t help me stop the Mara from getting unleashed, Lily is going to die. Everyone is going to die.”
“‘Just Cole’ in the manner in which I could be referred to as ‘just Hayne?’”
“Huh?” I just said the world is ending and he’s puzzling out naming conventions? “What about ‘Lily is going to die?’—and you are too—isn’t connecting?”
He shrugs. “Precision in language is vital.”
“I’m not playing word games with you here. I’m Cole. We’ve met—you keep getting in my way. I’m trying to save the world. Things happened, and now I can only talk to you when you’re asleep. Cadence is the one collaborating with Maryam. She’s got issues. You know what—just forget about her. She’s not important right now. Focus on Maryam. She’s trying to destroy the barrier around the city. If she does, the Mara escape. If the Mara escape, their food supply will no longer be limited to this city. The more they eat, the stronger they get and the more they need to eat. That is not going to end well. You will die. Your dead brother’s kid will die. Everyone will die. So you are going to stop Maryam.”
Burn the Skies Page 9